March 8, 2013
I enter an expensive store run by two women. I’m familiar with the place. I walk right up to the counter and use their sample, blue-edged trimmer to cut one or more of my overly long fingernails. They watch me, and I know they’re going to want me to buy the trimmer, or charge me for using it. They seem aware I don’t have any money on me. I ask, “How much is the whole kit? $9.50, correct? I’ll take it.” I leave, go somewhere to retrieve my purse, and return. As I set the small, loose bag on the counter and open it, I intend for there to be a bunch of cash inside, and as I shuffle through it to produce large denomination bills, which it does, and immediately I realize—This is a dream, I’m dreaming. Naturally I’m thrilled but remain calm as I produce a $10 bill. The women bag my purchase, which is a beauty set of some kind, complete with a silver lined mirror. Holding the bag in one hand and my purse in the other, I walk out of the store with a clear, calm presence of mind that is gratifyingly reflected by the stability and clarity of the dream.
Out on the sidewalk of a city’s pleasant commercial district it is early evening. I walk along trying to remember some vague intent I was considering before bed in addition to my main quest, but it eludes me, and I know it’s because it didn’t really interest me. But what to do with my bag and purse? I don’t want them to drag me down. I notice a corner where two brick walls meet at right angles. A male DC in black is seated on the bench. I ignore him as I stash my belongings beneath an adjoining bench. They are clearly visible, but I fully intend for them to be safe until I return for them. To that end, I make up a brief rhyming spell of protection. I don’t recall the exact words, only that I thought it was clever I managed to spontaneously rhyme in a LD, and I had no doubt my little spell would be one-hundred percent effective—Protect my property, invisible it will be so no one will see. (It was much better in the dream, didn’t sound so much like Yoda).
I cross the street, heading for a tree-lined park and away from the loud noise of a city, specifically what sounds like an industrial air conditioning vent. On the other side it’s much more quiet and I reach for X’s key casually, knowing it will be in my right pocket as always. I do indeed produce it and am not troubled by the fact that it’s smaller, barely half it’s usual size. I chant—Take me to the rocks by the water where X waits for me. I’m pleased I remember the words exactly. And as I repeat them, an invisible chair of wind slips beneath me and off I go, accelerating like a plane taking off on arunway, up between two full leafy trees and then straight ahead, parallel to the ground, moving at a blurring speed so all I can see is that eternal twilight of so many LDs, featureless during my fast travel. I become aware of a gauntlet of trees in a small woodland and an open space beyond it and a rock that fits the description of the forest approach to my target beach. And is that the silhouette of a man standing next to the rock?! But this vision is faint and abruptly I’m flying over a very real looking city-town just above red brick buildings. Here again?! I know this place. Every time I try and reach X at the rock I end up here. Why? Not again! I’m so close, why does the initial powerful and so promising wave of my wind travel always wash me up here? I can see an expressway of sorts and a green sign and feel it leads to my destination.
Almost on the ground now, I resign myself to finding a door to use the key on hoping it will lead directly to the beach, but I’m not happy with that. I do the usual thing of trying to find a way through the buildings by climbing through a window and looking for an exit in the direction I want to go, but I have no patience for this anymore. Exasperated, I head back outside, sensing that gravity has become more realistic and that just flying away isn’t really an option for some reason. I perch on the thick, braided shiny dark-green “rope” of a traffic signal and walk across it like a tightrope holding on to X’s key, which transforms, shedding two smaller keys and becoming the correct shape and color but easily three times bigger than in waking reality. This seems odd but somehow promising.
The traffic signal “tightrope” leads me into the thick, broad off-white branches of a tree. The city feels different around me, more quaint and residential. The tree is a barrier to my desire to move on to my destination and yet its intricate, twisted, ascending limbs are an irresistible obstacle coarse. I make my way up it and am intrigued to find that it leads to a white door looming just above me to the right. The door is partially covered by the roots of a tree so vast, they are all I can see of it, and they have grown around the door, clutching it rather like a cut gem is held in a ring’s setting. It looks as if I won’t be able to open this door even if I can manage to unlock it, but I’m compelled to investigate. The keyhole is much too small for X’s super large key so I simply produce a golden key chain from which hang a small variety of keys. I study the assortment, honing in on a slender golden key with a delicate smooth round head. I slip-thrust it into the lock, working it in, and turn it to the right. So gratifying when I feel the movement and hear the deep “click” that means I’ve succeeded.
I push open the door and look inside. Below me, as though I’m viewing it from an open upstairs foyer, I two see small gas lamps, delicate antiques, their glass tops gently beveled and a soft white, very distinct. They are part of a similarly elegant but subdued decor, clearly a woman’s house or apartment. The modest living area opens onto a kitchen in which I can just make out a woman’s figure to the far left apparently working over the stove. She says as she turns and walks into the living area—Come in, dear. You’ve cooked dinner for me… I know she means that what I’ve done for her gives me the right to be there. I am seriously intrigued. She’s an older woman with white hair, a little stout, wearing a long white dress simply cut, and she’s really there, not a vague dream character. She’s totally nice and welcoming, and I distinctly sense something important going on here. I ask—Who are you? She replies—Fabriela, 1873. Wow! I’ve stumbled upon a past life! This white door clutched in the roots of the proverbial Tree of Life has led me straight to a previous incarnation. I become aware of another more slender and much younger woman in the room who comes to stand beside the older lady, smiling shyly up at me. Her hair is full and dark framing her face in an old-fashioned style.I ask—And who are you? She doesn’t respond, and I address the white-haired woman again—You did say 1873? She confirms it while handling a white rectangular object, perhaps the top frame of a clock? I say to the younger woman—And I assume you are also Fabriela? Again she simply smiles up at me without replying and I phase out of the dream.
Dream Notes: The vague intent I couldn’t remember was chanting a word from Ed Kellogg’s list, Khepher (KHE-fer).
I wish I had accepted Fabriela’s invitation and entered the apartment. In the dream I knew they were the same person, perhaps as she looked when she died and at the height of her life. It makes sense she was more present in old age than as a shy innocent girl. They were both dressed in white. It was all very white.
Why do I always end up in a familiar looking city when I go searching for my target beach?!