The Artist’s Wife

March 21, 2013

I’m in a room, maybe a gallery, with a man who stands very close to me on the right but is mainly a felt presence. I see through a doorway into a living room and the portrait of a woman. Who is she? I really want to know. But the opening through which I perceived the portrait is gone, replaced by a huge pile of square sheets of paper twice as broad as a person and almost as tall. I’m vaguely aware now this is probably a dream and I have an opportunity. I peel off the top one, laying it face down, and proceed to go through the rest of the stack in this fashion. They are all original paintings of people, mostly close-ups of their upper bodies and several figures together, done by the same artist, interspersed with minimalist black-and-white sketches. The colors are brooding, dark-blues predominating, with occasionally a vivid dark-green which in one instance takes the form of a bird-like mask worn by a woman who stands out from the other figures. I pause on this one, my search for the portrait of the woman having turned into a curious appreciation for this mountain of work. I sense they are the work of the male presence on my right. A woman, one of a handful, on my left, is taken by the work, as we all are, but she remarks that she won’t consider buying any of the pieces until the artist begins using acid-free paper. I find this comment foolish in the extreme. “Oh come on,” I say, “this is a dream!” How silly to worry about acid-free paper on the Other Side.

I become aware of my dead father. He leads me left, away from the stack of unframed paintings. He tells me that the artist, when he visited once briefly, was quite taken with my comments on his work, and urges me to get in touch with him. He begins writing down his address. Watching, I realize the artist has already left for his home in Europe, so I wonder what’s the point, since obviously we won’t be seeing each other. I watch Papi writing and distinctly see a three character combination such as 2KR or 2NL and to its right an upper case U, which clues me into the fact the man lives in Europe, maybe Germany. I wake.

When I went back to sleep, I still remembered the artist and was busy working at a black old-fashioned typewriter with “gold” rimmed keys, beginning to tell his story. It opens with a carriage on which rides a woman in a long blue-black gown carrying the ashes of her late husband, on the way to the funeral ceremony. She is speaking rapidly and I can’t possibly keep up with all the information she is imparting. I catch only the fact that the container she holds in her arms is not all ashes, several bones have been left intact and rimmed with gold. I press the Rewind button, trying to get back to the beginning, and meanwhile become aware that I need more honey to power the typewriter. I collect a large jar and pour it into the even bigger container beside my desk. As I do so, I’m aware of having written only one colorful paragraph, but it doesn’t matter; the important thing is I’m writing, being creative, whether what I produce is fabulous and read by millions or not. But I’m having an issue with honey overflowing even after I empty the jar, pouring off a shelf beneath my desk, and I quickly catch it in my empty jar all in one gush, and it’s so dense and abundant and heavy it’s impressive I can hold onto it. Nevertheless, there’s honey soaking the dark-gray-black rugs beneath my desk reminiscent of car rugs, and a young light-haired man kneeling beneath it is critical of my efforts to contain the flow while trying ineffectually to help. I ignore his hopelessness and drag the rugs outside to soak in the wet earth and dry in the sun. But I realize this is not a sustainable way to write, just one page of typing uses up an entire huge jar of honey, and I wish I could have my computer back.

Dream Notes: This has the markings of a past life dream. It required a huge amount of honey to type only a few moments of a single scene of a past life. There was also too much honey, impossible to contain. I feel this way about the seeming past life memories that have been flooding my dreams for four nights—too much too fast and yet also too little information.

Honey: Immortality; initiation; rebirth; the sustenance of the gods. In astrology, honey is associated with the moon and thus with increase and growth. And the moon is associated with physical incarnation.

Magical Key Chain

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?!

My Mansion of Many Rooms

Between 5:30 & 6:00:

I’m aware of a very special friend come to visit me before sunrise. I’m up, out of bed, very happy to see her. As I walk down an unlit corridor of my home, I suddenly see Sara G sitting in a dark corner. Sara? Sara! She’s wearing a hat, as she often did, and perhaps an elegant long-sleeved white shirt over a long skirt, dressed as eclectically as she did when she was alive. I’m surprised to see her; it’s been a long time since we even spoke, and I wonder, now, how I could have let so much time pass before calling her; before checking on her. (In the dream, I don’t remember that she’s dead.) But it’s totally wonderful that she’s come to see me of her own accord, that she just decided to show up, and I’m filled with happiness as we slip arms around each others waists and continue walking hip-to-hip down the corridor. I ask her what she’s been up to and receive a communication about a job she’s been given. She’s been working, in her condition? No matter, she seems in perfect health and we’re together and it’s a good thing that she’s got a job she doesn’t seem to mind. (I woke feeling it has something to do with me and my growing “dream walking” abilities.)

My cup is running over this morning—my two best friends suddenly showing up for a visit! It’s unfortunate they arrived before sunrise because it means that if X planned to LD this morning, I won’t be asleep and able to meet him. I’m thinking this as Sara and my other unseen friend, who is nothing more than a presence, enter a more well lit space that feels public, like a cross between a post office and the glass & metal walls of a small airport. X is there. He looks wide awake because of some pressing situation that has come up at work. He speaks to me but he can’t stay; he has to get to work to deal with the issue. I watch him go relieved to know he was also awoken early so that my friends arriving and waking me before sunrise didn’t disrupt a possible shared dream.

I’m walking side-by-side with Sara again. She is completely present and smiling at me happily, and yet also perhaps a touch ruefully, as I tell her eagerly, wondering why on earth I didn’t make this invitation before, “There are countless rooms in my house, it’s vast, endless, it really is! Later we’ll go exploring and you can choose whichever room you like and you can stay there whenever you come to visit me!” implying there won’t be any reason for her not to come much more often if she can stay in a luxurious beautiful guest room of her own choosing. This sense of living in a vast, endless house is a recurring dream of mine, and combined with Sara’s presence I’m filled with so much joy and excitement I can scarcely contain myself. I sense a very specific area to this house, a door or gateway leading into even deeper levels of my already magnificent home, and I want very much to make sure it’s really there and explore it, once and for all. But Sara and my other friend and I are planning an outing first and so it will have to wait until evening.

We enter a room, a sample bedroom. I see the furnishings very clearly, lots of plain but quality wooden pieces, antiques, old-fashioned, and I explain this room probably belonged to a servant. Seeing no bed, and judging by its spacious dimensions, I add that it might have bee a relaxation room for the servants. We linger there and now it’s much larger as I sense the presence of other women without seeing them, but I hear them attempting to determine the square footage. My other featureless, there-but-not- there, best friend is leading the discussion and she estimates 500 square feet. I look around me, assessing the space in relation to the few objects in it, and remark that it looks more like 250 sf to me because I used to live in a town house that was 500 sf. I’ve become aware of a glass display case on the far left of the room and walk over to it. It’s filled with antique dress hats and gloves, I’m thinking 1930’s or 1920’s. I remember dark-blue, and tastefully silver highlights. They all belonged, I somehow know, to one woman, the room’s former occupant, and I wonder why she departed, and left everything here, as I enjoy studying the collection, moving from left to right. I pick up a hat with a buckle, and maybe a beak-like front, and try it on but, naturally, it’s much too small for me. I think at this point I begin waking up, because I don’t remember anymore about Sara’s visit.

4 vivid hypnagogic scenes:

An elephant, large, with somewhat hairy ears, facing me, and I somehow know that elephant is me, and perhaps an invisible male presence on my right tells me it is, or confirms this impression, which is strange because the elephant looks male and I’m female. (Elephants are associated with long, far, memories.)

A man abruptly enters my house through the sun room door. I’m not frightened even though I don’t recognize him; it’s sudden but okay.

A man, perhaps the same dark-haired man that entered the house earlier, picks up several boxes of different sizes, balancing them in his arms as I try ineffectually to help him. He tells me firmly, as I sit passively before him, that I needn’t do anything with the boxes until he tells me to.

I am told my name, Mirabel or Meradin? I remembered it clearly when I woke, but after falling asleep and another vivid hypnagogic scene, it slipped away and left only the certainty of “M” and “b”.

Rat on a Rosary Leash

December 15, 2012

I am a well known woman, not myself. I am part of a procession of women who all pause across from a large, church-like building. At the top of the steps is a prominent woman who is playing a key part in an important event. She is wearing a long gown with a wide golden skirt, and a form-fitting black bodice that shows off her well preserved figure as she addresses the assembled company. She is the highest ranking person there, but then she sees me, and immediately walks over to me. I notice that despite all her efforts, her figure is inevitably succumbing to gravity. She seems overjoyed to see me as hugs me, then grasps my upper arms. I smile up at her innocently, and she declares, “Just look at you! Your skin is clear as a river in Spring, showing hardly any trace of the passing year’s sediments!” I am pleased by her compliment, and I know that she speaks the truth, both of us know, Maria and the woman I am in the dream; we do have excellent, luminous skin, and a matching smile, and scarcely any visible wrinkles despite being half-a-century old. And, of course, this has to do with purity of heart. Then abruptly this woman appears to rise over me as she looks over in the direction of the church and yells dramatically so everyone can hear, “And, indeed, I am now witnessing your first sign!” I don’t remember what else she said, but I knew she was publicly announcing the first sign of my saintliness.

In the next scene of this vivid dream, I’m walking on church grounds deeper into the structure, along a spacious corridor with gilded stone walls. I am pondering the thought that people need to understand that all man-made institutions are imperfect, corrupt in some respects, but that the concept of God’s church, is pure and good. As I near the end of the corridor, I suddenly find myself holding an incredibly long necklace of dark, circular and semi-glossy beads that stretches for several yards in front of me, and there is a rat on the other end of this strange rosary-leash walking swiftly around the church onto public streets. I hurry after it, urgently gathering the rosary-leash in an effort to close the distance between us. I’m afraid the rat will bite people, I know it will, if I don’t keep it in check. I manage to shorten the leash enough to maintain a tight grip on it just before it reaches a little boy who steps up to greet me. The rat is full of dreadful energy, and all I can do is hurry along behind it as it pulls me along. It is a constant struggle to prevent it from biting people. Then I come to the end of a long line of people, two to three deep, all waiting to get into what I perceive as an opera house. I stop there as the rat weaves itself around me as I continue struggling to keep it in check. It occurs to me then that I do not fear it will bite me, as though I’m immune to its hostile energy.

At the same instant the lines of people, all shadowy silhouettes, begin moving into the building, and they vanish… I am inside now myself, but confused as to which direction to take in order to reach my assigned place. I wonder if I really want to sit in the dark during the whole long performance with a deadly rat in my lap? But it seems the creature has finally run out of energy because it lies down on a couch near the entrance. It is now dressed in a yellow coat and dark breaches. It tries to get up, but then collapses again. I’m relieved, but not happy, and as it lays there, not alive but not dead either, I turn to leave in the grip of a terrible sadness. I tell the rat that I am no stranger to loss and grief, inevitable side-effects of physical existence. Turning right, I descend some steps before it occurs to me that I don’t know if I have my ticket with me. I suspect that I don’t, but an elegantly uniformed young man I identify as a caretaker will hopefully recognize me, and let me into the formal feast about to commence. He is indeed very nice to me, but he instructs me to go in the opposite direction, toward the bowels of the theater, where the audience is already sitting expectantly in the dark, waiting. I suffer a feeling of confusion, not knowing where to go… Abruptly, I’m sitting at a table in a sunny room where a young woman in Medieval dress is spooning food into a bowl before me. She has dark hair and is smiling kindly at me, but I’m stunned by the sudden change of scene. I fear I might be losing my mind, and someone, a man, remarks this was inevitable. I get the sense that I’m extremely old, and that they want me to believe I’m suffering from some kind of dementia. But I don’t believe it, I know what is really happening—I am being slowly poisoned so it will appear as though I’m losing my mind. I want desperately to get away from these cynical, and falsely solicitous people.

Dream Notes:

When I woke up, I isolated the key elements in this dream and they fit with what I distinctly feel I was remembering—a lifetime as a nun during a time of plague. The work of tending the sick was long and hard, but I seemed to have no fear of catching the disease myself. I lived to see the end of the infestation, but I was was old and frail by then, and perhaps suffering from a form of dementia. The opera house filled with people sitting in the dark strikes me as symbolic of a “place” where souls wait to be born again. I wanted to die, but was forced to endure more time in my physical body, which was no longer strong enough to care for itself. But I was vain, and perhaps aspired to a sainthood I did not deserve, which is why, in the end, I didn’t have the keys to the Kingdom and was turned away toward the darkness of Purgatory and rebirth. 

“Glory, glory Hallelujah!”

Final, vivid, memory-like dream of the night. A rather bleak city scene, overcast, cold, Eastern European feel, an open concrete expanse leading into a large train station with many doors in the plain facade. I’m a man wearing a dark suit walking with deliberate casualness, so as not to attract attention. I’m watching a woman walking a few yards ahead of me, suspecting that she, too, is moving with a deliberate air of unconcern. I’m an agent of some kind and the country is a totalitarian regime with a Nazi Germany kind of dread permeating the atmosphere. As I watch the woman, I become her for a few moments as she struggles not to break out into a run, barely able to contain herself. Inside, the terminal is crowded to bursting with people. I clearly see young white German looking soldiers sitting in rows of two in the train that pulls in, their black suitcases perched on the outside of the train because there would have been no room for them inside the train, which is more the size of cars in an amusement park ride. I see the uniformed soldier’s faces very clearly. I quickly board the emptying train, claiming one of the small compartment seats for myself. Hundreds of people are left waiting on the platform. A young woman seems very distressed at not having caught this train and I watch her as she sits down on the platform with a look of despair, close to tears. I see her very clearly, lucidly for a few seconds, her 1940’s hairstyle and clothing, which has the look of a uniform, not a nurse’s, but some other female organization involved in the war effort. I think about how selfish I, and others, are being, concerned only with claiming a seat and getting the hell out of there, but that’s the way life is now. I don’t consider giving the woman, or anyone else, my seat. I know she’s afraid, like everyone else, but my assessment is that she has no dangerous secrets to keep, no secret mission, as I do, and that she’ll safely catch the next train. We pull out of the station but we’re heading straight down, and I cry out in surprise and fear as some powerful complicated industrial mechanism clicks into place, opening and laying rails just in time for the train to catch them, and the whole time music is playing loudly, a male chorus singing, “Glory, glory Hallelujah!”

Dream Notes: This dream felt very much like a past life-probable self experience because I was someone else entirely, a man, and that young woman on the platform was there, I saw her, her clothes, her hair, her face, they were real, and part of me was aware of this for a lucid instant. The same was true when I saw the set faces of the young soldiers, each one unique and alive with suppressed emotions. The chorus “Glory, glory Hallelujah!” appears in 2 songs, so I discovered when I Googled it, having of course heard it before years ago somewhere: Glory, Glory (Lay My Burden Down) and The Battle Hymn of the Republic, the latter having been written by Julia Howe to “link the judgment of the wicked at the end of time (New Testament) with the American Civil War.”