It was multi-layered, like most dreams, with diverging story lines, unfinished sub-plots, and a distracted observer. At one point I entered the new home of my father: a dilapidated Victorian mansion imursed in urban decay. There was a grand foyer with sweeping staircase, and underground rooms hidden under their clutter of dusty, sickly color furniture. After ascending the stair, there somehow was revealed a vastly tall room, which my father had landscaped a spiral terrace of elderberries, which bloomed and bore fruit simultaneously. He told me that he had prepared a special slide-show presentation for me of paintings I had never done in real life, and had invited my dear friends from high school. They began to arrive, embarrassingly dressed in suits, ties and dresses, smiling sheepishly and apparently caught off guard by the meaning they found in the occasion. We proceeded up the gently-sloping stair, and into a great, medieval-looking hall. I don't remember the slide-show, just returning down the stair with my old friends. They were smiling and loosing ties and walking with the relaxed air of having revealed themselves of the stuffiness formal clothing brings at first. I embraced them, and let gush forth sentiments that I wasn't able to find words for back then, feelings that I was subconsciously aware they didn't reciprocate. Except now they did. Now my deep feelings were reflected back to me, returned and changed by my friends own unique natures. I remembered the moment in real life when I discovered that they didn't really understand me, and in the dream I chose to forget it. The alarm clock ripped me away from basking in the feelings, and now that I'm reflecting on them, I'm beginning to doubt the wisdom of my assumptive moment over seven years ago. Did I shut down because I became scared by the trust I invested in them? Was I simply arrogant enough to assume that my mode of being, of understanding, and of expression was all that was real? Most likely, yes. We all get what we ask for, and the trick seems to be to learn to ask for that which is good, and that time, I don't think I did. I think I was wrong.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Seeing the full face
Last night, just before falling asleep, I scrambled out of comfort to write down "Be careful what you wish for, because you might get exactly what you want, and forget exactly who you are, which revealed itself in the struggle against that which wasn’t quite right." Then sleep took me, and I embarked on a restless journey, ending a genuine full-moon dream.
It was multi-layered, like most dreams, with diverging story lines, unfinished sub-plots, and a distracted observer. At one point I entered the new home of my father: a dilapidated Victorian mansion imursed in urban decay. There was a grand foyer with sweeping staircase, and underground rooms hidden under their clutter of dusty, sickly color furniture. After ascending the stair, there somehow was revealed a vastly tall room, which my father had landscaped a spiral terrace of elderberries, which bloomed and bore fruit simultaneously. He told me that he had prepared a special slide-show presentation for me of paintings I had never done in real life, and had invited my dear friends from high school. They began to arrive, embarrassingly dressed in suits, ties and dresses, smiling sheepishly and apparently caught off guard by the meaning they found in the occasion. We proceeded up the gently-sloping stair, and into a great, medieval-looking hall. I don't remember the slide-show, just returning down the stair with my old friends. They were smiling and loosing ties and walking with the relaxed air of having revealed themselves of the stuffiness formal clothing brings at first. I embraced them, and let gush forth sentiments that I wasn't able to find words for back then, feelings that I was subconsciously aware they didn't reciprocate. Except now they did. Now my deep feelings were reflected back to me, returned and changed by my friends own unique natures. I remembered the moment in real life when I discovered that they didn't really understand me, and in the dream I chose to forget it. The alarm clock ripped me away from basking in the feelings, and now that I'm reflecting on them, I'm beginning to doubt the wisdom of my assumptive moment over seven years ago. Did I shut down because I became scared by the trust I invested in them? Was I simply arrogant enough to assume that my mode of being, of understanding, and of expression was all that was real? Most likely, yes. We all get what we ask for, and the trick seems to be to learn to ask for that which is good, and that time, I don't think I did. I think I was wrong.
It was multi-layered, like most dreams, with diverging story lines, unfinished sub-plots, and a distracted observer. At one point I entered the new home of my father: a dilapidated Victorian mansion imursed in urban decay. There was a grand foyer with sweeping staircase, and underground rooms hidden under their clutter of dusty, sickly color furniture. After ascending the stair, there somehow was revealed a vastly tall room, which my father had landscaped a spiral terrace of elderberries, which bloomed and bore fruit simultaneously. He told me that he had prepared a special slide-show presentation for me of paintings I had never done in real life, and had invited my dear friends from high school. They began to arrive, embarrassingly dressed in suits, ties and dresses, smiling sheepishly and apparently caught off guard by the meaning they found in the occasion. We proceeded up the gently-sloping stair, and into a great, medieval-looking hall. I don't remember the slide-show, just returning down the stair with my old friends. They were smiling and loosing ties and walking with the relaxed air of having revealed themselves of the stuffiness formal clothing brings at first. I embraced them, and let gush forth sentiments that I wasn't able to find words for back then, feelings that I was subconsciously aware they didn't reciprocate. Except now they did. Now my deep feelings were reflected back to me, returned and changed by my friends own unique natures. I remembered the moment in real life when I discovered that they didn't really understand me, and in the dream I chose to forget it. The alarm clock ripped me away from basking in the feelings, and now that I'm reflecting on them, I'm beginning to doubt the wisdom of my assumptive moment over seven years ago. Did I shut down because I became scared by the trust I invested in them? Was I simply arrogant enough to assume that my mode of being, of understanding, and of expression was all that was real? Most likely, yes. We all get what we ask for, and the trick seems to be to learn to ask for that which is good, and that time, I don't think I did. I think I was wrong.
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