It is morning and I am trying to tell my partner a dream. He is lying on the black satin sheets with his back towards me, photo shopping a picture of a warty troll on the laptop. The dog is lying with him, belly-up, pretty paws dancing, eyes on her prize. His fingers play over her silky belly. My dream talk does not galvanize his attention. I am staring at the warty troll image, trying to hang on to the fleeting wisps of my dream, disappearing like water in sand in the ordinariness of the morning. He sighs and turns, pushing his art project aside. Dream stories are often part of our personal parlance. We send each other off to sleep with instruction of ridiculous situations and characters to dream about.This morning finds me with one I just have to capture and examine as I grasp anxiously at the melting images. The problem was laying it out in stark day light, competing with trolls and dogs. I valiantly soldier on. My tale starts out unpromising as I struggle for words. I have to tell it in sequence, as it unfolded, frame by frame. I have not yet fully understood it and it's meaning is hard to confront.
I become aware of being myself as I drift towards awakening. I wake but I am still in the dream. I am aware. Instead of floating through the images without recognition or judgment, I all of a sudden SEE what I am looking at. I have awoken in the middle of the dream but did not get ejected from it. Those that are showing me the pictures are not aware that I am fully present. I stay totally still and the dream continues. I stay quiet in my hidden awareness and pay close attention. I see what I am not supposed to know.
It's somewhat like a patient having awakened in the middle of his own operation, and seeing what is going on, yet remaining quiet, just listening and watching. I am a spy in my own dream. In the dream, reality reveals itself uncensored and flaunts all its Incredibles. Without judgment or shock I watch. I am not yet constrained by my current life's reality.
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THE DREAM
I am floating along the left side of a two-story building made of grey, square rough-hewn granite stone blocks, sort of like a rustic country house in a colder climate. I hear myself talking:
"NO I don't want to be down there in the basement, maybe upstairs…"
I see through dark windows into the cellar and I don't like it. I wake up mid-sentence in the dream, and see where I am. I float on the back wall of the country house and see the forest floor below, covered with brown, huge, crunchy leaves. I remain motionless and just look around.There are vines growing like black snakes out of the ground and back into it. Black bare, bendy branches and sticks. Tree trunks disappearing up towards the high forest canopy. An old European forest. I look down and see the side of the back wall – rough stones end in leathery brown leaves, sunlight streams down in the distance, through tall trees, up in front, the hill with black snake branches, arching out of the ground -- arching back into the ground.
I stare at it, can't look away. What am I looking for? I expand my sight outwards to see more and wait.The scene remains, and fills in with detail. I see an arm, pulling out a wooden, long drawer in the dark basement. It is made of old wood, rough, rustily nailed together. In it I see packets of paper, some very old, brown, crumbly, like Egyptian papyrus, some newer, in glassine wraps. That's from the time before plastic. Crackly and semi-opaque. I see a man's hand pull some packets out and put some back in. I hear a deep voice, unheeding of my presence; unaware of me being awake.
I surround his head like a helmet, feel his thoughts and see what he sees. I am startled. He feels huge and limitless. His thoughts are like solid things, like giant falling objects, smashing things. He is old, ancient. He has knowledge stored up over many Millennia, fully accessible, and knows he is an Immortal. I see no restraint or mercy within this Being. He does not think like a human. He thinks a thought so loud it is like shouting. He knows with absolute certainty that what he thinks becomes Reality. Nothing can stop him. I feel his booming voice and huge thoughts, devoid of any human considerations. I feel his impatience. He is totally outside of common reality, yet operates within it.
He pulls out some of the envelopes and looks at the documents. They are all records of killings – of families that have been wiped out, totally, down to the last child. Individual families, murdered, but no one knows the truth as to why or by whom. Their genetic and familial lines are extinguished. Pulled like a wayward thread from the fabric of life. I feel his thoughts and hear him talk to himself in his mind.These are records of murders from all over the planet, documented here in this box. The events are dispersed through time and space, but here are records of everything. The only true records in existence. Some are ancient and the papyrus is black and broken. Some are in wood bark packets, with blood markings; some in leather, or brittle parchment. Some are newer, on real paper and in plastic bags. They contain incidents, some with pictures, names, places, dates, secret notes and some newspaper clippings of their deaths.
I try to see what country this is, but as I rise above to get a bird's eye view, I zoom upwards in weightless vertigo, and I know if I keep rising further the treetops will close over the stone lodge like a green sea and I will never find this place again in time and space. So I stop the ascent and pull myself back down. Grudgingly, the trees part and let me slide back into the secret clearing. This project has been going on for Millennia. There is no known connection between all these Reapings. I see pale faces, faded, eyes like dots. Pictures of ordinary looking people, men, women --children. So many children. No mercy for children; they are the future.
All murdered, some were made to look like suicides, some like a fathers madness, some like the result of a mother's mental breakdown. Some like a son's killing rage. Families imploding, no one to blame. Some were just bald mass murders, not covered by attempts to mislead. They are all dead, murdered. No one knows that there is a plan, a connection, a common thread; someone who is doing this on a grand scale, for reasons outside the understanding of accepted human agreements and beliefs. They were killed – why? I am trying to get the concept; it is too alien for me to grasp. Vaguely I feel they were adjudged to be carriers of a lineage or of DNA with content not allowed, of potential that is forbidden, not desirable -- to someone.
What abilities and dormant talents are being excised? What future convergence of events is being sabotaged? what was it, adjudged to be too good or too dangerous to someone to be allowed to grow within the human strain? I do not comprehend any of these significances, they are meaningless to me. The agenda is incomprehensible. I know it is about Absolute Power; inconceivably focused and above all human and Universal law. It is an old agenda and one not questioned by those who continue its actions today.
The old man's thoughts boom in my head with one-pointed, infinite intention lacking all restriction and constraint. Madness. He personally knows all the Dead from centuries ago – he was there doing the killing, in other bodies, other lives. I try to see if this Being is physically immortal, but no, all I see a is powerfully built, white haired old man with longish hair, bent a ways by age, of subtly simian demeanor. Strong arms, powerful huge head and face, terrible eyes, fury and coldness. Heavy lids, which he uses to hide them, but only sometimes. His body will die on him like any other human. He may die, but he always returns in another body, fully aware of himself and of the Agenda he serves. His thoughts are uncensored and shout at me of eons of killing freely anyone he chooses. There is not guilt or pity, no mercy or humanity.
His secret agenda of global planned killings makes the world look like a different dimension.
I look at the faded faces of the dead in the pictures and hear him think how well he is succeeding in the Prime Directive of his group. He is the Reaper, he cuts out what is unwanted. He terminates potential streams of billions of events culminating in -- what? I cannot see it.
He fondles the envelopes, pulls some of the families pictures out, and puts some back . His photo album of memories. Except today he has a watcher. His vanity to keep records has left a trace and lets me pull the string to this other place and time. A monster operating outside of time keeps a record here in this old basement, of something no mortal knows about. Except now me. A potential synchronicity of events unknown and unimagined, outside of time and space, excised deliberately, futures that would never be. He hunches in the old basement, exposed in the Waking of my Dream, unguarded and alone in his thoughts. No one knows about him and no one imagines this could be. What is this world really about?
Now I see why I am here in the dream, why I have a right to be here, why this is my place and time. Why I find myself stuck to this rocky wall, staring out at the hill of leaves in front of me; I see it is my grave. Murdered by this man along with my whole family. We are all here, in one of the envelopes, and I have a right to see this. I now remember myself as I once was, in this place at another time, a 12 year old girl, jumping rope in the upstairs library, the rope going round and round, and I am singing a silly song. My mother, pale and pretty, with her 1920's dress. My father, slim, a mustache, someone's well-born son. My little brother, maybe 2 years old on the floor, playing near me. Blond curls, suspenders crossed at the back of his shorts. A piano. I see the tops of the huge oak trees outside the windows. The sun pours in, we are above the dank dark floor of the forest. I sing.
We are visiting – a relative? Is he my grandfather? I am not sure. Somehow I don't think we are related. An uncle by declaration -- no one really knew. The old man is in the house, but not upstairs. I see the jump rope go round and round and hear my voice, a child's voice, singing a repetitive tune as the sun's rays break through the oak trees and make patters on the floor. Now I am dead and buried there under those leaves somewhere -- where is my body -- under the leaves, but where? In the back of the house, under the black snake vines. I am clinging to the stone wall, looking straight at my grave. I can't see exactly where my body lies. I have been here a long time now. Seasons have passed. I know my mother is dead. I know my father is dead. I know most definitely my brother is dead. I feel like a child, trying to figure this out.
It was about him most of all, that killing. But we all had to go, we were his family. He was not supposed to grow up. What was it about him that had to be excised from the human race? The reasons lie back in the Dawn of Time.I see the old man put our pictures back into the brittle, transparent bag and file us away again. I still hear his booming thoughts about the killing agenda. We supposedly left for America. So we were ones that got a cover story. Not everyone does.
I watch time pass. Within a short while, the old man wraps up his lifetime, glorying in his limitless power. His huge killing power; unrestrained. He disposes of his body dispassionately and goes impatiently into hibernation while his new one grows to maturity. One day he will open his eyes and know exactly who he was and what is expected of him. He will be found and put to work again cutting his bloody swath through time and space, sideways, obliquely – bleeding and culling innocents – cutting away the future eventuality of undesired events caused by the hated Blood."
DREAM WITH YOUR EYES OPEN, IF YOU DARE.
CURRENT READING: "Realm of the Ring Lords: The Myth and Magic of the Grail Quest" By Laurence Gardner
Release date: January, 2003
Posted by KALIMA SARASWATI at 2:48 AM
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Hey gorgeous I'm in! Now I'll go read. ;)
ReplyDeleteA very intricate dream. Still, not the kind I'm used to. Oh what am I saying? It's rare that I reach the sleep of dreams lately. I awake to the sounds of the oxygen pumping into Dad's lungs, and even though I'm upstairs, like a mother a caregiver listens even while her eyelids are glued shut.
ReplyDeleteI find the fact that you saw so many dead, and that this man returned to be a part of so many of those families intriguing. Also, the way you were able to see and put together what happened is great, as so many of us would be awake before ever being able to look in this man's book of memories and know what it all meant.
Brava first blog on this new blogger site. I'm so glad to read you again!
xoxox d