Only a Dream Away

Losing my shoes at the Indian dance

The flood of dreams has returned, after a dearth brought about by too much study and stress. The past few nights I have dreamed almost all night long, different scenarios flowing seamlessly into the next, dozens of them in a night, so many I can't remember all but a few aspects the following morning.

The night before last, a few snippets remain: looking at Dulac-style children's book illustrations, woodcuts maybe, and reading some illuminated caption about bees, which had to do with the illustration. The more I tried to focus on what I was reading as the words appeared before me, the more I tried to be lucid so as to remember it, the more the words would slip away. It turns out Dulac did an illustration for Shakespeare's the Tempest called "Ariel and the Bee" and also did woodcuts for Yeats' "A Vision,"(see left) neither of which I knew about before (consciously anyway). Interestingly, just before bed that night I was meditating in a milk and honey bath about Yeats' gyres and the lemniscate of the Mellisae tradition.

All I remember from last night was going to an East Indian party. When I arrived, dozens and dozens of women were outside and had arranged themselves to a do a complicated dance. They were all wearing saris but not the sort that were glamorous or of very high quality; it seemed to be a village folk dance, and they were common women gathering for a festival. I looked down at myself and was dressed similarly. I took off my shoes and put them with the others off to the side. We were in a semi-enclosed stone courtyard. It was daylight and warm. Yes, probably in India. Some of the women looked at me like I didn't belong, and I felt like I didn't quite belong either, but they went on with their dancing. 

I went inside where there was food and some friends of mine (whom I do not recognize) were helping to set up and keep the food coming out. I was in a large 'kitchen' -- nothing indicated that it was a kitchen except for a large refrigerator which wouldn't always close properly. I remember volunteering to take some things out of the freezer to help it seal. The room was sunny, lots of big windows, warm, not air-conditioned, and was carpeted. The main party was going on in some other place but I never went there.

At the end of the evening I went back to retrieve my low-heeled shoes -- which were a curious yellow color, not something I'd ever wear, and I couldn't find them. There was one pair of shoes left that resembled mine but I was entirely sure they were mine. I put them on, and they did fit, so I took them.

Russia, India: tenderness when things are not quite right

Last night:

I am a man, and I understand that I am in Russia and I am a prisoner of war. I am being led out of a dark room into another room where people are assembled -- men and women, but they are relaxed. I'm scared, and I'm standing in a doorway. I know I'm going to some kind of judgment.

Before I can cross the room to the waiting people, I have to go by several tables on which are arranged baskets of herbs, baskets of bottles, beakers, burners and other lab/medicine-making supplies. I walk forward from the people who are holding me and run my fingers over the herbs, look at the assortment of amber bottles and jars, and other instruments I do not understand. What are they doing here? I feel a tenderness for these plants, and I am drawn to the table almost desperately, like remembering something long forgotten but suddenly and profoundly remembered.

My captors, who had let me walk freely in my sadness toward the tables, take hold of me again and lead me to the group of people who are seated in chairs by some windows. They don't look like a judgment committee at all. Many of them are corpulent women, who look like grade school teachers, just chatting. I am confused. The unseen people who are handling me push me down and make me sit on the floor. 

I feel something small and wet on my partially bare lower leg (I'm wearing tatters). I turn and see what looks like a paintbrush just leaving a bluish viscous daub of something there. I suddenly notice that I am not alone -- there are many other prisoners also on the floor, and they have all been touched with the swab. I ask what is going on and they tell me: "This solution is poison. Slowly, your heart and breathing will stop and you will be dead."

It flickers through my mind that that is probably what they have been preparing with the plants. This seems perverse and grotesque, because my memory of plants is that they are used to heal, not to kill.

I begin to launch toward panic for a few seconds but I know there is nothing I can do. I calm down and consider trying something -- anything -- magic, meditation -- to stop the absorption of the deadly poison into my system, but I give up even on that. 

I don't know what to do with my last few moments. I get up and walk into another room. They do not stop me. It is a small apothecary. I look at the bottles and jars and begin to feel a tremendous sadness over the doom I am helpless to prevent.

I begin to walk out of the apothecary when a small, thin woman with short dark hair and sharp features appears in the doorway. I don't know if she seems short because I am a tall man or of she is really short. Somehow I know this is my real-life teacher Althea. We look at each other for a moment and I begin to cry. We embrace tightly and both of us are wracked with sobs.

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Here is my dream from June 18, the night of some uncommonly strong storms in my area. It is about a man whom I have never met in person:

There is no vision, no kinetic sense or physicality to the first section of this dream. It is just a 'knowing.'

I know that am with my friend M, and we are listening to ragas, reading and writing Sanskrit. This part of the dream seems to go on not for just hours, but for years; probably lifetimes. There is a cyclic sense to it. Just unending learning and activity, very safe, sheltered even. I can hear the music, I have a sense of the mystery and the meditation of it, there is a strange sense of very relaxed yet focused and continuous study. There is also a youthful sense to it, many childhoods and young adulthoods, and a feeling of "this is just what you do," no desire for anything else or any other experience. Like we didn't know there was anything else to life.

There is a color: It is a light gold/pink. There is a sense of sunlight. There is a sense of deeply dyed Gujarati mirrored fabrics. But no forms whatsoever.

Most pronounced is an aroma: Sandalwood and saffron incense. Very heady and very strong throughout the whole dream.

Just the sound, the 'knowing,' the color and the scent, and the years rolling by -- that's all there was to this section, and it is the first time I've ever had a dream like that.

But then all of a sudden, I feel that I have a form -- I am curled in a fetal position, sleeping. I awaken and when I open my eyes, there is M, in the same position, next to me, facing me. His eyes are closed. We seemed to be in some kind of womb-like enclosure. The gold/pink light was still there but had shifted to a pinker hue, darker.

And when I awoke in the dream, I had a sense that something had gone 'wrong' -- that our interpretation of the scripture and music had bifurcated. To my mind, M had begun interpreting our time and our texts as something personally romantic (I'm not sure how else to put it here), and it seemed to detract from the Work I thought we were doing. I told him this was not right, that this was not what I wanted. His eyes stayed closed, though he responded that he understood and that he could hear me.

I wondered why he did not open his eyes.

Then the aroma of the sandalwood and saffron changed -- it became sickly sweet, almost overwhelmingly so. And I looked at M and somehow knew he was sick, or getting sick, and I immediately felt horrible for admonishing him. I was thinking how bad I felt, and what to say next, when --

A peal of thunder and flash of lightning woke me up for real. I jumped out of bed and ran around closing all the windows in the house as the rain blew in, all the while feeling quite distressed about the dream.

Back in time, Matthew, petroglyphs, strange manuscripts

I really wish I would have gotten this down sooner; the day has worn on and now the details have lost a lot of their vividness. Here goes. This is from last night.

I am waiting at a bus stop. I do not recognize where I am but it does not seem to be in the United States. The bus arrives, seems to be going a little too fast, but it stops. There are many people with me at the bus stop. The bus' front and side doors open, and it is set up to admit passengers from both doors, which surprises me. It makes the boarding faster and more efficient. I think to go on the side door since it is closer, but run up to the front anyway. The bus is red. The city street I am on is not busy. It is an overcast day but springlike, the way I remember Wales in May.

The bus lets me off somewhere -- I just remember there being a cul-de-sac feeling to it.  Not close or crowded, but the presence of a curved, tall stone wall, or perhaps a place where the road curved into a narrower lane. Houses. The sun was out. It was mild in temperature. I alight from the bus and I see my university boyfriend, Matthew, approaching me.

His hair is long and curly and unkempt the way it was all those years ago. He is thin, tall, lanky, fluid, blue eyes beautiful under that brow I loved so much. All of a sudden I understand that he is there to pick me up, and he acts like everything is normal -- that is, that we are still as we were in college and no time has gone by. I can't remember clearly now but he seems to be receiving me in a shawl or blanket of some sort, wrapping me in it. I remember shades of chartreuse and cantaloupe. He greets me affectionately. I say, "Matthew? You're here to pick me up?" And he looks at me funny, as if I am asking a dumb question -- of COURSE he's here to pick me up, this is what we have arranged. "Just tell me one thing," I say, as we walk arm in arm down the brick-laid street. "What year is this?"

I asked this at least twice but I don't remember if he ever answered.

All of a sudden we are out of a European landscape and walking toward sort of tiki hut bar on some Pacific island. It is not by the ocean, it is roadside, in a dusty, somewhat desolate area. Once inside, I see several of his friends from film school all seated at a long table. They're casual, dressed like beach bums. They all look as they did in college. I am still trying to reconcile this reality with the fact that I am actually 31 now, but, when in Rome (or Wales or Hawaii, whatever)...

The sun is shining through the open door of the bar. There is a window across from the front door, at the end of the long table. Over it hangs a curtain. On the curtain are columns of what look like some kind of petroglyphs, painted in blue onto the linen-like fabric. Either he or one of his friends -- I can't remember which -- gesture to them and indicate somehow that they are being decoded. I feel in awe of these mysterious cartoonish little symbols. One resembles a flying saucer -- or was it a boat, or a rocket? In any case, something having to do with transportation. In the dream I gather that they were copied from somewhere on the island. They hold my interest, looking and feeling very important as the sun shines through them, even though they are displayed in such a mundane location.

Matthew and I sit down. He hands me a book. It has pages falling out of it; it seems old, and if not, then certainly well-worn. It is open to a particular page he wants me to read. Unfortunately now I can't remember what it was that was on that page. I start to flip through the book, not really that impressed with whatever it was he wanted me to look at, or at least it wasn't interesting enough to me to not flip through. "Who wrote this book anyway?" I ask him. He closes the book in my hands and turns it so the cover is facing up. "I did," he says. The title indicates that the book is in three parts: something about science, the next about Freud, the next about literature. Underneath the three-part title is his name. Whatever it was that I was reading didn't reflect the title at all. (Typing this now I think, "Don't judge a book by its interior?") Immediately impressed, I climb on his lap and say, "Oh my God, I think we should start making babies right now!" It is comical but affectionate and sincere. My semi-lucid dream editor rolls her eyes -- this is something I have never said and probably would never say, to anyone, past or present, in real life.

Then, the dream shifts abruptly to a quiet, sparse indoor space,  no longer with the island vibe. I'm not even sure if it is day or night anymore because this part of the dream is lit artificially. I am seated at a desk or a counter, flowing almost seamlessly in this respect from the last part of the dream. All of a sudden, it's Matthew's mother, Romayne, who is there (an artist and writer whom I very much respect and admire) and she has handed me a tabloid-sized piece of parchment with printing on it; it appears to be two pages from a large manuscript, printed in a very old style -- not as crowded as 17th century books; maybe 18th century. It reminds me of one of those old children's primers, but without pictures. I begin to read it and it appears to be a list of my herb school friends, each with a little rhyme or description about them. I only remember part of one -- my EastWest friend Sarah being described as a 'snow leopard.'

I notice that the printing is somewhat irregular, though I marvel at the beauty of the letters. Compelled to look closely because of the slight irregularities, I notice: this is not printed, it's hand-rendered, in pencil! Looking even CLOSER at the sheet, I see that it is not even parchment, it has been painstakingly sketched to resemble the mottled look of parchment! There are even fake 'tea stains' and other discolorations and tears drawn on. It looked so real and as a supposed real document it was impressive, but to find out it was handmade to look old was an unbelievable surprise! I look up at Romayne and wonder: Why would you do something like this? But still thinking it was beautiful. I don't remember her having any reaction.

Walking through van Gogh's Wheatfields, Water...

This is from Tuesday (Oct. 14) night:

Someone is showing me an illustration of Jesus leading two children across a threatening looking landscape. (Much like the traditional 'guardian angel leading children across a bridge' type of Catholic prayer card art.) Suddenly I am in the artwork (it feels odd to admit, I think I am in Jesus' body at this point in the dream, holding the children's hands), and it has morphed into van Gogh's "Wheatfields with Crows Overhead." It is as if his painting has come to life; I am literally dragging my feet through his rough and wild brushstrokes. It's windy and raining and dark. I keep my eyes on my bare feet, tucking my head down from the wind. The woody stalks get caught between my toes and tangle around my ankles.

I am trudging through the gold and the brown, and all of a sudden the wheat transforms into water. Am I walking on water? I can't see how deep it is, and my feet don't feel a solid bottom. But then the water suddenly calms and begins to take on a blue-green hue. It is daytime, warm, sunny, windless, and abruptly I see a circular flat plane of concrete in front of me. It has a scrolled edge. Relieved, I lunge for it, and then realize as I look up that I am standing in a shallow reflecting pool fed by a fountain.

The pool is rectangular, tiled all around with a simple square mosaic design, and I see that the concrete slab is ornamental; perhaps where one would have placed a statue (but the slab is bare). There are mothers and children all around, but the grounds are large with a fine yellowish gravel walkways and it is remarkably silent (considering the number of children). It looks like I am in the courtyard of an old Spanish mission in California, but I sense that it has been transformed into a grade school. I get out of the pool, feeling a little self-conscious, but no one seems to notice. I can see an arch that leads into another area of the compound. Plants and trees grow harmoniously alongside the architecture.

Many of the children and their mothers are gathered around one end of the pool, where the edge is covered in larger tiles. I come closer and see several of these ornamental tiles, maybe five inches wide by eight inches tall. They shine in the sun, a little beveled. They have a religious theme but not religious images. They might have been made by children, but seem too polished for that. Simple designs, often of plants, with religious script; perhaps memorials.

A strange request, Paul Newman

ACT I

I am living in a house unknown to me, and my roommates are three Japanese-American men of varying ages, from early twenties to early thirties. Even though these are strangers to me, in the dream as roommates we generally stay out of each other's way and the energy is comfortable. It appears that I am a new addition to their already established household.

Also in the house is Althea's grandson and his mother, who are working at an art project at a dining room table. I stop to say hello to them and make the little boy laugh.

Two other people -- women, strangers -- are working at the table, creating interesting pieces of art using those colored pencil-to-watercolor sticks. The art depicts the black silhouettes of many people spread against a periwinkle/white background, with purple and red accents around the edges.

I am in my bedroom getting ready to watch a movie. The eldest of my roommates walks in, fresh from the shower. He looks clearly agitated about something. I ask him if everything is all right. Fidgeting, annoyed, he says, "I'm fine, but these damn hemorrhoids! They're so itchy!" I stare at him for a moment in his towel, shocked that he'd be so frank. "Well, have you put any cream on them?" I ask, trying to be helpful. He says no, he doesn't have any. He just kind of stands there, looking vexed, so I say, "I think I have some lavender essential oil in my backpack. Maybe that will help." I go digging around in my bag. Meanwhile, he drops his towel and turns around, assuming that I will apply the oil! I excuse myself from the room and go out into the hall.

The youngest roommate is in the hall, looking preoccupied with something, as though he's about to go to a club. He notices the bewildered look on my face and asks what's wrong. I tell him, "(Your roommate) needs some help. Why don't you go in there and put this on his hemorrhoids?" I try to give him the tiny bottle of lavender. He backs away with his hands up. "No thanks, you're on your own!" I am left considering whether or how I should do this.

ACT II

I am in the subway, on a train, and next to me is Paul Newman. He's young, maybe 35, wearing a dark suit and a hat. He's relaxed, with the newspaper crossword on his lap and his legs crossed. We're riding under the city, the dim lights of the tunnel speeding by. He's talking to me about the subway system, and about another train that he sometimes rides, which he describes as 'much nicer.' We're about to get off the train (or maybe it's just him) and he says, "Here, you can have my crossword puzzle." I say, "No thanks, I'm good."