Dream May 4, 2002

I have this 'champion', this person who is representing me in this tournament playing this game.

The game is beautiful to watch, it is played on a glittering, raised multilevel glass board with glass pieces.  The board is set with brass, or gold, edging and inlays.  The movement of the pieces is vaguely similar to chess or checkers, but the game lends itself to incredible complexity and skill in the right hands.

Anyway this person plays on my behalf.  I take the same pride in his masterful play of the game as I would if I were playing it myself.  The lad is a genius, poetry in motion to behold.

This is some kind of tournament, and he is easily wiping the boards with all comers.  His play is transcendental, the work of a genius.  There's no contest here, but watching him is a joy; especially so as he represents me here.

A new challenger sits.

He is not, strictly speaking, part of the tournament, but has simply taken this opportunity to sit in and challenge the champion.

It's Sean Connery.

At this point, I know we're fucked.

I hear a litany of the newcomer's skills.  He is a master of this game.  He is a master of chess, of checkers, of ping-pong (evidently also a big item in this place);  of every game we would master.

The challenger (Sean) is talking about his skills, and speaks contemptously of the other contenders, many of whom are lacking skill and honor.  Some of them are so low (so says Sean) to try to throw the game by cheaply resorting to WRESTLING, of all things.  (I.e., as they are playing the jump the other player with wrestling moves, hoping to win that way.)

As he says this, I feel a wrestling attack, somebody attacking me and throwing a check against my left hip.

I wake up to find the cat has just leapt up on my left hip and is looking at me curiously.

Well, as if cats ever look at you any other way