February 12, 2011
I find myself at the entrance to what feels like a cave, dark and neutral, that opens onto the ocean. I get the impression I’ve come there to get away from something, to be by myself. The view is beautiful, isolated. The sea stretches out before me and around me, but there’s a dark rocky promontory of sorts a few “miles” directly before me. I know I’m dreaming, and as I stand at the cave’s mouth I’m permitting myself to become aroused by the presence of a large black-and-white dog with a long pointed snout that’s curled up asleep in the water to my right. He’s floating there like a natural formation and is much larger than life. I become fully lucid as I accept how I feel about dogs—I love them, I love their straightforward, uncomplicated honesty. I get the sense of a man, my husband, asleep on the dark bulk of the “island” before me that’s far enough away for where I am now to be private. I figure I may as well go all the way now and I seat myself at the entrance with my legs bent and spread open before me, fully exposing my sex to the natural world. The water is golden, the gently choppy waves a perfect balance of light and dark, faintly tinged, I think, with orange. The far away sky is a pure blue. Almost directly below me, parallel to the dog, rests a huge gray-black seal or walrus, also just peacefully keeping me company.
My totally exposed and proffered sex is now essentially another entrance like the one I’m sitting in. I’m lucid but don’t feel compelled to do anything. Then what I can only describe as the silhouette of a rabble evocative of Medieval peasants holding make-shift weapons materializes on top of the promontory across the water from me. They’re “yelling” to me, taunting me, daring me to fly over to them and get what I deserve. They call me “My Queen!” Their amused hostility feels threatening for only an instant, because I know nothing can really hurt me in a lucid dream. I have know I have no choice but to confront them. With a “what the hell” sort of attitude, I stand up, proud rather than embarrassed I had blatantly assumed the posture of a sexual goddess. I step out over the water after only the ghost of a concern I won’t be able to fly. I deliberately don’t assume the Super Man position but rather approach the island at a sedate, perfectly controlled pace with my body only slightly angled forward, my arms at my sides. The derisively cheering crowd eagerly awaits my arrival, but I have absolutely no fear about landing right in their armed midst, in fact, I’m a little excited about what might happen.
Just as I’m about to reach shore, however, the silhouette of a rabble disperses and fade and I find myself floating over an almost empty promontory, not stopping because there’s no point now. The dream begins going gray at that point and I raise both my hands in front of me, desperately trying to hold onto it, but I can’t see my hands at all. Yet I keep trying, not wanting to wake up; wanting to stay lucid in the dream. Suddenly, I’m aware of darkness before then all around me and of a painful, frightening pressure around my right hand which makes me fear I’m in the grip of a hostile force. I remember another technique or action possible in a lucid dream and cry out, “Hapuseneb!” the name I’ve given my Spirit Guide, the High Priest of Amun in Truth is the Soul of the Sun my novel of Hatshepsut-Maatkare. At once the excruciating grip on my hand loosens to one of reassuring firmness and I glimpse a man’s countenance, an extraordinarily handsome, beautiful face as I hear him say, “Yes.”
I want so much to be with him, to be lucid of being with him, that I find myself clinging to him. I can’t see him anymore at all, but I can distinctly feel a man’s naked body against mine, the contours of his chest and hips and legs all familiar yet new, as we “fly” through a series of “scenes” that bloom and fade to our left. The only clear one is the final one—the interior of what feels like a Victorian House and a man (me, in another incarnation?) quickly hurrying outside with something in his hand and muttering, “The world is going to hell in a hand basket!” The dream ends.