one tin soldier rides away

I've been dreaming about monsters a lot lately.

The one that really messed with my head was one I had on Saturday morning. A four-legged animal with over-articulated limbs and the head of a blond child. It spoke in a woman's voice and then darted out a long barbed tongue that tapped directly into it's victim's spine, drinking the spinal fluid while the man under it's feet screamed and writhed in agony. It left the paralyzed body to be set upon by gangs of men with identical faces of glowing red eyes and rictis grins. They drank the blood and packs of wild dogs with blue eyes and human hands finished off the rest.

I don't usually get spooked by dreams but this one had me jumping at every creak of my house as I got ready to leave for work. I just couldn't shake the image of that cherubic face.

The streets were still dark and wet with mist. There was an owl hooting as I walked towards the bus and a couple of bats darted above my head. Nothing feels right, it's just too damn warm for December. Maybe that's what has me so freaked out.

There is a house near me that has been sporting an American Indian Movement flag for the last year or so. It also had a "For Sale" sign on it. More than once I've passed by while the tenants were barring frustrated-looking real estate agents from entering with prospective buyers, and the sign had been torn up and throw into the street. I think they finally lost their battle though. The house looked dark and the front yard and sidewalk were covered with piles of discarded household items set out for the trash.

I don't mind working Saturdays except for the hours. For all my being there are ridiculous-o-clock, it was pretty slack-tastic. Then I hooked up with bcholmes. We ate things with tentacles and went and saw Blood Diamond.

It was a reasonably good movie - pretty standard Hollywood fare, complete with the Brave Native, Intrepid Reporter and the Loveable Ruffian Who Is Reformed By Friendship And The Love Of A Good Woman. But the backdrop can't help but be powerful simply because of what it portrays.

I ended up having a discussion with B.C. afterwards about the information in the movie and it still leaves me troubled. I mean, it's all old news - isn't it? Everybody knows about the child soldiers, about all the people with their hands chopped off, the millions upon millions of refugees. That's the most common of knowledge. Everybody knows that De Beers has vaults full of fucking diamonds so that the market stays falsely elevated, that if you don't build super-precise drills a diamond is about as valuable an investment as a hunk of aluminum.

Don't they?

How much do people know about what is done in their name or for their convenience? How much do people in the western world think about things like modern slave traffic, or the overthrow of Aristide in Haiti or what's happening in Dafur? About the conditions that bring you that cup of coffee. That cotton t-shirt. The gas for your car. That cheap... whatever.

The slaughter in Rawanda drove Roméo Dallaire mad. He couldn't stop it, even though everybody knew what was going on. Because nobody knew. Even though everybody knew.

Oddly enough it's the first night in weeks where I had untroubled sleep. I think my subconscious realized just how outclassed it really is - I can't dream up anything like close to what the real world has to offer.

And I just realized as I'm about to hit "post" - this is Xmas eve. Not very cheerful fare I've just given you to read, is it? Sorry about that.

This is my wish to you for Christmas.

Peace On Earth. Good will towards men