Round 2, the second lucha that I’ve been to in the last month.  This time, the capstone to almost 48 hours of back-to-back shooting.  Hard to believe that that morning I woke up under an open sky, way up in the mountains inside a sleeping bag that was just a little too light for the late summer nights.  Curled up, I was cold for the first part of the darkness, caught in that semi-sleep that you get when your body is not quite comfortable enough to fall off into a deep sleep.  I stayed that way until a lucid vision stole away the frigid air.  Someone walked in out of the darkness, quietly covering me in a blanket.  I could feel the weight of the heavy fabric wrap me tight against the ground.  Wool.  Thick and heavy with the smell of my grandmother’s basement, the way that linens feel after decades of sitting neatly folded in a chest or on a closet shelf.  And then there was a warmth that started in my lungs, spreading out through my limbs, steam moving through pipes.  The night was no longer cold and the dream gave way to sleep until the purple hues of morning and the chill of the dew that had settled on my face woke me to a new day. 

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