September 22, 2013
Surprised and pleased to be lucid tonight, I begin walking down the sidewalk of what is definitely a foreign city, with a cold, just slightly run down, or very old, atmosphere. The dream is very stable. In mid stride, I decide to turn and ask a rather short man who is walking behind me wearing a long coat of some dull color, “Where am I?” He seems pleasant enough but gives me a look like he’s wondering if I’m really wasted, and I say, “It’s okay, I’m not drunk. I just want to know where I am.” He informs me that I am in, “Pappen Stade.” Excited, I echo, “Pappen Stade! Pappen Stade! Okay.” I touch his arm and say, “Thank you. I’m really okay.” I’m now walking in the direction from which I came as I ask the dream, “Is this lifetime important?” I think it must be because I feel so very present in this obviously foreign city. Wondering in what form I might find the answer, I see a little boy and girl ahead of me and consider assigning “yes” and “no” to each one and having them respond. That doesn’t make sense, so I decide to try a method I’ve used twice before: finding my answer in a newspaper headline. To that end, I turn left down a side street as I spot what looks like a general store. Entering, I briefly see my reflection in the glass door. I’m wearing a dark-green bodice, that looks quite worn, beneath an open dull dark coat like everyone else in the city. I spot a newsstand to the left and go stand before it. I can clearly read the headlines for an instant before they shift out of focus, enough to discern that the words “yes” and “no” are not part of them. As I head outside again, I realize I’m probably not getting an answer because the question was unnecessary. Obviously this lifetime is important because I’m here.
I begin retracing my steps, but the side street is more narrow and suddenly it has a ceiling; I’m beginning to get confined. I think maybe I should just leave this scene by flying through the barrier, but as I rise into it, the sensation of substance resisting my efforts is so realistic that I immediately change my mind. I’m in no mood for that tonight and, besides, I feel there’s a reason I’m here so I should stay. I return to the main road and keep walking in the initial direction I had taken before stopping to question the man. I think I might as well try calling James even though I know he’s not planning to LD tonight, so I dial the letters of his name on my left palm and crook my right hand to my right ear. I hear the ring tone and after a moment the click of a response followed by some elevator music that clearly indicates James is not available right now, so I cut the call. Soon I come to what feels like a pedestrian tunnel. I’m loosely surrounded by other people heading in the same direction. I am alone, however, when I stop before a little boy dressed all in off-black leaning against the left wall of the tunnel just before it opens up onto the other side, I ask him, “Is the answer yes or no?” He replies, “As long as it’s limp.”
Exiting the tunnel into clear daylight again, I see there is what appears to be a very old cemetery to the left. It looks like a very intriguing cemetery. Instead of white tombstones the graves are marked by modest statues made a of a dark stone with a deep greenish hue. They are exquisitely done and suddenly I decide I’m going to experiment with my dream senses in this cemetery! It seems like a really good idea and an ideal place for it. I enter the cemetery, looking appreciatively at the tombstones carved in the shape of different animals, which I see clearly at the time but can now not define exactly what animals they were. My attention is snagged by a bush growing before or between two stones, leafless in the apparent winter weather, its stems covered, or consisting of, very fine short thorns. Tentatively, knowing it’s going to hurt just like in waking reality, I prick a finger on one, and it does indeed feel very realistic. But I persist, and then begin pricking all of my fingertips on the thorns, because as in all lucid dreams the sharp pain becomes indistinguishable from pleasure. My actions attract the attention of a woman who kneels beside me as though she too might try what I’m doing. She’s wearing a coat like everyone else and a short round hat, her short hair curling out of it in an old-fashioned style. Desiring a little more privacy, I move aside and am suddenly inspired to prick one of my nipples. I do so and it bleeds, a delicate but generous flow of blood. My dream tongue is able to reach and lick it and and it tastes like blood! Somehow this is wonderful that I’m daring to taste my own blood, which has a dark, complex flavor. I phase out of the dream.
I’m a disembodied awareness observing a woman though the window of a brick apartment building. She lives on the third floor and she’s hanging some laundry in a window across the room because it’s summer now. I know this scene relates to the lucid dream I just had and that this is the woman from Pappen Stade. I “download” a succinct summary of her life as she talks to someone, telling him how in the winters she used to live in the city, but that was never really her life either. I think she had/has a daughter but now she has to leave everything behind and her sadness, how she was never truly fulfilled, flows through me; I experience what it is/was like to be her, the frustration of wanting more from life, of trying to find it in the city, even while she enjoyed the simple pleasures of her country apartment, but there was an emptiness that was never filled. I can feel being her even as I never lose site of being MIP.
In another dream, I’m in a building at closing time. I can sense how outside it’s night and that the people leaving are all heading for a nearby metro station. But I don’t really know where I’m going or how to get there, so I head down the shadowy corridor in the opposite direction. I enter a space that is a cross between a small messy house and an office in which two or three dark-haired women are sitting at their desks. I ask one of them if she can help me navigate the Metro and she hands me an off-white beat up looking box the size audio book CD’s with three folders inside. I thank her and start out but then turn back thinking to ask her, “Is this in English?” She answers, “No” with a rather snide small that sparks my answer as I demand, “Well then, what good is it to me?” I hand it back to her before turning away again. But now there’s a bunch of stuff blocking the doorway and I demand, “What is it with doors getting blocked by all this stuff?” The women are making fun of my grand gesture of returning the box and I explain, “I gave it back to you because I can’t understand that language and why waste a copy?” They get up to leave for the day, donning coats and scarves, and I say, “I’m going to follow you.” They hurry away, clearly not wanting me to tail them, but I do, increasingly annoyed.
All this time I’ve been semi lucid, aware that, if I wanted to, I could end this frustration, and that I was simply indulging this storm of emotion. But now, seeing blue sky through the door the women open, I say to myself, “Maria, just turn this into a lucid dream.” And up I go! The building I’m flying up through is akin to a museum, with high glass walls, slightly curved, and a vaulted glass ceiling. I soar up and up and begin to see bubbles around me as though I’m underwater. That’s fine, it’s all the same, blue sky, blue water, I’m in a dream and can “breathe” anything. I make a movement and swiftly descend to the floor again. As I land, I understand that here movement is accomplished by the most subtle gesture of intent. All I did was point my foot down, and down I went. I rise up again and floating in place think about a lucid dreamer on Mortal Mist James mentioned who experimented with being a mermaid. I look down to the left at my legs and feet, and am pleased to see my sparkling white house shoes. My form-fitting slacks are only slightly darker. I don’t need to imagine a tail, I can just put my legs together. Raising my hands, I see that I’m wearing sparkling white gloves as well. I’m aware of a smaller darker lower level facing the open, spacious one I’m floating in, and as I begin to deliberately experiment with controlled motion, the people lined up on this shadowy platform all imitate me like I’m some kind of dream body instructor. I ignore them. It feels just like being in my physical body but without any gravity. I bend my legs, do gentle twirls, deliberately rest horizontal to the floor, then lift my legs slightly, feeling the resistance in my abs. I’m exercising my dream body, amazed by how real it feels as I repel against a wall. It’s just like being in my physical body in zero gravity. Once again, I soar up and up, only this time the ceiling is an embroidered white substance and as I push up and up against it I create a pyramid effect as I fail to penetrate it. Enough of this! These barriers are artificial. I grab hold of its thick cloth-like texture, yank it down with me as I descend, and then fling the whole ceiling away like a huge blue-white bedspread. And there’s the open blue sky again. I think—Excellent technique. I’m going to remember this! I phase out of the dream at 6:40.
Regarding the answer given to me at the end of the tunnel, “limp” can mean not stiff or rigid and “limpid” means clear and simple, absolutely serene and untroubled.
Stade is a real place in Germany, and according to a German friend, Pappen is a family name common to the area. The cemetery, the woman who knelt beside me in front of a grave in old-fashioned attire, how I tasted my own blood, the disembodied way in which I observed a woman’s life in Stade, and other obvious details, seem to indicate that my consciousness merged with the consciousness of another woman for some mysterious reason I cannot, for the moment, explain.
I am pleased to be continuing the theme of exercising my dream body (see Dream Warrior).