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Which One of Us Is Watching?

March 31, 2010

Played piano on my own, the melancholy visible through the movement of my hands. Although the room was small I had an exceptional view of the city. Only a glass wall separated us.

For a moment, I wondered if I was the one watching the city, or the one being watched?
Continue dream…


Myself When I Am Real

March 30, 2010

It’s fascinating how memory works. I thought I had remembered every dream from last night. Alas, another dream memory was triggered. I’m listening to Mingus on Piano, specifically the first track, Myself When I Am Real. As soon as it starts I perceive a vision of a handsome stranger playing my piano.
Continue dream…

Crashing Planes and Subduing Lust

March 30, 2010

I boarded an averaged sized plane with yellow wings and white tail. A man welcomed me onto the plane after kissing a woman goodbye. The seats were yellow and covered in dust. I was the only passenger and felt reluctant to sit down in such filth. Distrust was growing.

The pilot told me to buckle up. I looked down at an unknown city as the plane took off. I noticed we were flying too close to the rooftops.
Continue dream…

Battling Demons in a Spanish Countryside

March 29, 2010

Sketch of Ciarkaos, 2010

An old medieval church, empty except for a man, woman, a ghastly demon named Ciarkaos and me. Stood in a circle Ciarkaos said it was time to perform the ritual. The young man shuttered at those words. The woman asked me who I was. I told her my name. But she didn’t believe me and pointed to the mark on the ground. The letters carved into the wood read: M A E K O S

Ciarkaos stomped his hoof to get our attention.

“I will handle the adversary himself,” he declared. “You will perform the ritual and hide yourselves in the basement.”

The human duo nodded. At that moment, being lucid was daunting. All of it felt too real. I wanted to run away or shift into another dream.

“Stop having cowardly thoughts,” said Ciarkaos. “This place will be filled with hundreds of demons the moment they complete the ceremony. You need to move quickly and kill as many of them as you can. They are the source of his power.”

“I don’t want to kill anyone, Ciarkaos.”

“Are you not a manipulator of matter?”

“Yes, but I’m not up for killing,” I said.

Our argument didn’t last long. The duo had finished the ritual. I saw them escape through a secret door. As soon as the door clamped shut an unseen force struck me. I landed on my back, street side. The world outside the church continued, unable to see the madness within. A child suddenly ran past me. I knew she could see the terrifying thing chasing her. I swept past the demon and carried the girl in my arms. I headed toward the church in an effort to keep it contained. If it proceeded to move through the streets everyone would eventually see it.

I met a blunt force upon entering the church. The girl fell through the pews, got up and ran to the secret door. I moved her with my mind and sealed the door. After recovering from a series of thrashings, I waved my hand over the demons closest to me and tied them into a knot. I looked into their eyes. Not empty. Nor dark. But foaming in milky white streams. They gnashed their teeth and hissed. I willed them into vapors, moving to the ones near Ciarkaos.

He was fighting mid-air with a murky shadow. I slipped outside briefly and took flowers from a woman in a market stall. I handed her a large bill and fled. Fresh daisies made of thin electrical wires. A very futuristic looking flower. The woman dropped to the floor. A demon must have passed through her.

I willed a cross bow into my hands and fired the daisies across the church walls. The malevolent spirits formed into a colossal blockage and charged toward me. A voice said, “Do you expect to kill us with such a concoction?”

But I knew it would work, killing demons with an amalgamation of nature and technology.

They became flesh, solid and strong, yet restricted to the laws of gravity. I was faster and more agile. At one point they cornered me and fired their own arrow made of fire. The fire died when it touched my skin.  I willed a blade and began an unavoidable massacre over this assembly of demons. If only I could forget the mess I made. The pews were broken, bathed in a white liquid, and demons parts scattered about. I had done the unthinkable.

Was Ciarkaos dead? The adversary stood before me, held out his hand and clasped it over my throat. I stopped breathing and concentrated on maintaining lucidity. It remained intact because my blade had turned into an illuminated sword that veered across the chalky neck of the adversary. A clean cut.

I was filled with sorrow in those final moments. Why had Satan seemed so human?

Ciarkaos took the silvery head and placed it in his sack. It would burn in a sacred fire where it would no longer be able to attached itself to a body.

The human duo and I jumped into a burgundy Chrysler convertible and drove through a Spanish countryside. They were students of medieval literature at the local university. The man was driving too fast and I had to intervene a few times to avoid a crash. When we’d reach the city he began to drive backwards, accelerating at an unsafe speed. The woman said we had to return the book used for the ritual. They’d stolen it from the museum.

Gunshots were fired. I caught the bullets and created a shield over the car. We pulled over and ran on foot. The man and I carried some potions in our bags. The woman concealed the book in her cloak. We made it safely to an alley near a cafe. As I stood talking to the duo, I fine tuned my vision until every detail appeared highly defined. Their faces glowed. His smile was warm, her hands sinewy and youthful.

“Where will you go now?” the woman asked.

“Back to my waking life. I think it’s almost time to wake up.”

“Is it a good place?”

“Most of the time,” I said. “But I can’t do this.” I floated into the air slowly and they laughed. I glided over the city’s gray buildings and lost myself in the skies above.

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Lucid in London

March 26, 2010

Under moonlit streets my waking life and dream world were harmonized. Total lucidity came swiftly with the memories of a distant childhood.

Two cousins turned the corner, attempting to take flight without success. I showed them how to fly with speed and precision. We chased one another through old neighborhoods passing liquor stores and the houses of old friends. I glided past the route my uncle used to drive us to and from school. I laughed over the knowledge that my physical body was asleep and unmoving while my mental self was soaring at an improbable rate.

I could be anywhere in the world. Yet, I chose to see the past. A sweet memory tinged with black and blue hues.

Dream shift.

Stopped by mother’s old house for a short visit. She made coffee and cookies. The Fox showed up with party favors and a suitcase. Always the traveller. I gave her aspirin for the headache, clearly counting out four pills. Two each. But when I looked at my hand there were seven pills. She made a couple of cocktails and organized her belongings.

We were going to Europe. My sisters would join us.

Dream shift.

Tower of London, 2009

England. We stood near the London Eye and laughed. The Thames was made of glass.

The Thames from Tower Bridge, 2009

It was the London of my dreams, not the real one. My dreamy London had false architectural features. Modern sized skyscrapers made of wood. The Tower of London stood as it did in the 11th century. I haven’t entered this version of the Tower for fear of seeing the spirits of dead prisoners roaming about in the gardens. Everywhere the streets were cobbled. Houses were framed in timber and whitewashed in lime. No cars were seen. There were market stalls along the Thames where people shouted sales pitches. But who wants to buy armor and shields? The scent of a pig roasting. Fish hooked on spears. The stench of human sweat.

At the Gates of the Tower, 2009

Absolute elation. Still lucid, I sat watching the water as Fox and my sisters walked around the Tower. Although I knew it was all a dream, I reveled in the thought of time travel. By what other means can you take family to medieval London?

Always, through dreams…

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Memory is Everything

March 23, 2010

I don’t remember anything about last night’s dreams. Strangely enough I also can’t remember the last time this happened to me. And the dream task I had every intention to complete? It didn’t fail because I couldn’t imagine the fictitious desert the story’s characters inhabit. Or the leftover scraps they use as a table in which to play cards. Or their faces, hands and ears, all distinct and well defined.

Memory is the culprit. It collapses and modifies itself until nothing is left. Until my mind is an unwritten canvas, indifferent to the experience of waking as it is to sleeping.

My mind is fuzzy with vague sensations. This usually means I’ll remember dreams much later in the day, but what if I don’t? It’s one night without dreams, right?

Ah, but this is a moment of distinction. I arose in darkness this morning and found myself distressed to wake in such a fog. Not even a half-light of recollection. People always tell me about the dreams they remember, few and far apart, and I listen with great curiosity. I guess I’m doing something similar. I’m telling you about the night I didn’t have a dream.

I didn’t experience any dream because I cannot remember it. This feels peculiar and off pace. Over the last two months I’ve fallen asleep and immediately entered the dream world, wide awake and open to the lucid dream experience. I’ve studied the environment and memorized its interiors, exteriors and every contour in the face of a dream figure. I know them well. Yet they constantly surprise me with their knowledge and willingness to help me explore the many facets of my mind.

My oldest companions, the dead, were the ones who originally initiated me into the lucid experience. The wild dogs and giant forest creatures followed. I learned how to fly and observe the world from above. I learned how to train my mind to maintain a stability of awareness of both of my lives.

Without my dreams, I feel that something is missing.

Maybe William Burroughs was right when he said, “Am I an alien? Alien from what exactly? Perhaps my home is the dream city, more real than my so-called waking life precisely because it has no relation to waking life.”

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Walking Through Dream Shifts

March 22, 2010

Hotel. Large rooms with high ceilings and wide doors. Anne and I stayed in the room with a street view. She stared out the window as I unpacked my suitcase.

“Where are we?” I asked.

“A tropical island,” she said.

She picked up a yellow dress and handed it to me. It slipped on easily. When I turned around Anne was gone. In my mind I heard her say she’d be downstairs near the marketplace.

When I exited the building the heat smothered my face in powerful waves. I stood for a moment, allowing the humidity to consume my body. I passed an endless array of stalls where people were selling handcrafted boxes and necklaces. A woman carrying a basket with petals stopped in front of me, placing a hand over my shoulder. She whispered a prayer and smiled and continued to throw petals over the crowd.

The markets stalls seemed to coil around an immense stage. On the stage a man was balancing his body on two fingers. Next to him, a child with milky hair was juggling fruit.

I found Anne standing alone in an alley. She was smoking a cigar.

Dream shift.

I’m walking along a residential street and gradually recognized my cousin T’s neighborhood. No one answered after I rung the doorbell. I noticed the driveway was covered in dirt and the semblance of stone path forming at the garden’s entrance. T was sulking in her car. She said her boyfriend wanted to see other people. She didn’t seem surprised.

I asked her about the unfinished garden path. She said she needed to keep busy. I felt the same way, so I picked up a nearby rock and went to work.

Tonight’s dream task: Find myself in a desert with the characters of the new story I’m working on. Hopefully, they will teach me how to play poker like a soldier.

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