Massage / Balance

“Dan, I like you and all, but I have to be honest. That massage was not at all relaxing.”

That’s a quote following a recent trade session I did with a new massage friend.

Shit, I guess my massages are more stimulating than average, that’s all I can muster. Stimulating, energizing, irreverent, blurring the line between therapy and entertainment, I’m not sure.

In contrast was a new client I worked on two weeks ago. At one point as I stood on the arch of his foot he jerked up with alarming urgency and said “You are God.”

Less flattering once again was my stint working at a spa in San Francisco. It wasn’t even one of the pink, powdery luxury spas but a more down-to-earth affair in the Mission District. Still the average client was a savvy, discerning businesswoman. Every session was to include some work with hot stones. They always burned my hands.

Me checking in with client: “How are you so far?”

Client: “Fine.”

Few terms make me recoil like the word “fine.” It’s about as warm as a slice of bologna between a pile of bricks on a Minneapolis winter afternoon.

It’s all about perspective. Like do I spend my time praying for a certain tangerine-hued ape to be bluntly assassinated, or am I thankful that he clearly defines the feces-encrusted low point of human scope so well that I can love everyone else that much more?

Perspective.

The Santa Rosa fires last month destroyed so much for so many. Like the family home of my love Rafael Tiffany. Architectural quirk, photos, records, and world-class plants grown from smuggled exotic seeds. Now all dust.

I had a dream last night, also about a fire. It woke me up at 4AM, my heart pounding and/or confused.

My family home was to be burned, but somehow on purpose.

I pitched my brilliant plan to my family. “Hey everyone, I’ll set a timer for 10 minutes. Let’s spend that time grabbing things we want to keep.” I started weeping to commence the procession.

My entire ten minutes was taken by my mom asking me to make sure thousands of files made it into a shopping cart. They were scattered, pissing me off, and my sister came to the rescue.

I cheated, added an additional two minutes to the timer, and went through my bedroom.

What a treasure trove! Plants, love notes, avant garde art pieces, two signed 8X10 portraits of uncut penises with pierced frenulums.

I started pulling out drawers frantically, throwing them across the room. My brother Adam yelled, “you are a fucking badass right now!”

The only thing I grabbed was a jacket of Cure CDs. Hundreds of CDs, each the size of a nickel.

I don’t know what this dream means. But as meaning is meaningless, I am open to whatever may follow.