Tag: priest

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Dream Journal

New Country and Surprise Splash

There is a joining of two countries, one in Africa one in French-speaking Europe, a new country beginning with B — Besquiod? Bitsiarritz? Bandofou? Bismillahi? Here, countries are different than how I’m familiar. They are more of a choice of affiliation and a decision of what agency you have to interact with other people. Maybe it’s the future.

Inside a confined space (like a lighthouse or a cargo ship in port), someone has sprayed a wall with droplets — maybe as art, maybe as prank. Over a long exchange inside the lighthouse, a woman becomes mad after she realizes she has essentially been tricked into depriving her pastor. This goes against her morals, she claims.

Riding Splash mountain. I have somehow forgotten that this ride has a gigantic drop at the end, only remembering as it happens. I experience it fresh and find it extra exhilarating. (On waking reflection, I wonder what might’ve been happening in the room or my body that might have contributed to the sudden feeling of weightlessness that I dreamt of as this log ride.)

When I get off on Splash Mountain, two women begin to fight about selling. Someone immediately warns me “[Mrs.] Acuna is here” and so I attempt to block the line of sight — no luck. They fight on a lawn and knock down roses, meanwhile I’m trying to separate them and remind them they’re adults. I manage to pull one of them away, urging them to cross a line of railroad tracks before a train comes so she’ll be physically seperated. She doesn’t make it as she’s not even trying; like she’s not even listening.

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Dream Journal

A Timeless Dream, Rotating Like a Clock

Non-linear, a dream in many parts yet all the same part. A place that could be called a wonderland.

A walk up a long ramp, a balding Bartolomeo de Las Casas or Samuel Tonsure is there among rough-hewn and brightly painted railings, tables, chairs, like being in cuckoo clock made in Mexico. He is St. Jerome, as far as I know, but his bald head and toga remind me of Aeschylus. Though he is an old teacher, because of the strange non-linear nature of this dream (all is happening at once, or can be re-ordered) I’m able to provide learning to him. It is settled at some point that we are something like the same person, if time-dislocated… I am to become him, or him me.

South Park kids are in this dream too. Perhaps they are leading a philosophical insurrection, or turning the hands of a clock that does not itself move, but moves all the time around it. This is the pivot, and the story returns to St. Jerome, who through further work is now a glossy porcelain dinner tray. His venerable cranium emerges from a moat, a bit like a well-heeled origami boat.

It was a late night and I slept between my wife and a friend. Something like a distillation of beliefs, some out-of-bounds experience, a timeless time travel, suffused this dream. When I awoke I knew exactly what it meant (I still do) but not any words to describe or reflect its true structure. I had to wait for the opportunity to write it down, which was after I’d slipped unexpectedly into a fitful, hot nap in a replica Arctic hermit’s hut. On the undersized fur-covered bed, my foot jerked and kicked over a glass kerosene lamp, which shattered on the dusty floor. I cleaned it though, had the will to pay for it too. I’m suspicious enough to wonder about a subconscious motive for such an action…