Lucid Triptych

October 18, 2013

I: Lunar Lovemaking

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m lucid and aware of lying in a bedroom on a bed and of a man sitting in a chair before one of the several windows. Everything is tinged a blue-white as though bathed in moonlight. There is a soft white light outside the windows that also seems part of the room. I reach out to him as he gets up. He is turning away as though preparing to fly out the window. “No, come here, please!” I beg, and the act of him walking back toward the bed roots me in the dream and lucidity. He says, “You know he can’t” and I feel he’s talking about one of my Guides, who can’t be with me like this. I understand, and also somehow know that he can be with me in place of my Guide. I’m still holding my arms out to him, pleading with him to come to me. I need him to make love to me. He is a slender attractive man with a distinct look to him. His hair and face are both pale in the light from the windows. Looking intently at me, he quickly walks around the foot of the bed toward me as he warns, “I’m not going to be gentle.” He looks serious but of course I’m not frightened, and deep down I think he might be teasing me because he knows I have liked it rough in the past. I look down, very aware of my breasts, smooth and round as they swell partially out of a bodice as he kisses them both ardently and admires them, saying something like, “Oh, look at these…”

My memory of what follows is broken up into vivid highlights punctuating a flowing sense of sensual contact and gradually deepening in intimacy… We prepare to kiss, our faces very close, but at the last moment I seem to shy away… We’re sitting together on the edge of the bed. He’s no longer wearing a shirt and I’m curiously fingering his necklace. It consists of two long, thin, and somewhat stiff cords that somehow relate to what he’s telling me: He has no memory of the different lives he has lived, of the different people he has been, as though he’s been wiped clean. I sympathize; this is quite terrible. “But aren’t we our memories?” I ask, because memory is everything. He seems to be enduring a penance imposed on him for some reason. And yet I know he is a also somehow a soul worthy of working with, or for, one of my Guides. His slender pale chest contrasts with the dark and sharp, almost like barbed wire, or fine thorns, of his “necklace”. He rises and walks over toward a couch. I get up and follow him as he sits down and watches me approach. I wonder how excited he really is about making love to an older woman, but of course, I remind myself, I’m in my dream body, which has the power to look as lovely as I feel. I’m very aware of wearing only a skimpy top as, beneath his unwavering regard, I embrace the knowledge that my attractive powers are never diminished except by my own thinking. I get on the couch with him and he lies back across it, his eyes never leaving me. I obligingly pull off his sand-colored pants and, kneeling over him, study is long lean pale naked body. His shoulders, chest, waist and hips are nearly all the same width, as though he is not fully formed, and yet at the same time his extreme slenderness is proportional and pleasing to look at. He obviously wants me to ride him but this has never been my favorite sexual position. So of course it makes sense this is what he is making me do. I straddle him and position him to slip him inside me, but his desire seems to be slackening as I do so, and I’m afraid I’m not turning him on. At that moment it hits me, as he smiles up at me, that this whole experience is a series of tests in which to pass I have to confront and overcome all my various insecurities. It all feels perfectly real as I begin phasing out of the dream.

Dream Notes:

I think perhaps the thorny nature of the necklace worn by my dream lover relates to the crown of thorns placed on Christ’s head by those who crucified him. I was having many thoughts before I went to sleep, and one of them was about Christ and how the image of him hanging on the cross was created centuries after his death by the church and is at odds with the spirit of his words and resurrection. A lifetime is akin to a rose that blooms and dies and the pains, the sorrows we suffer in it are the thorns. Our Inner Self/Consciousness wears all our earthly incarnations like a necklace against Its heart.

I have reason to believe the man in my dreams is a real person I am acquainted with in waking reality and that I interacted with a piece of his consciousness. I may even have pulled part of him to me, for in the beginning of the dream I begged him to stay in my room, in my dream space. He does not remember the encounter and yet he possessed a presence my experience with dream sharing has taught me indicates he was not a projection of my mind.

II: Lion Love

I get ready to exit a building with broad corridors. Wide double doors open as I approach them. It’s night outside but I’m still able to discern a lioness reclining in the darkness on a low stone wall only a few feet away. I immediately turn around and hurry back inside. I turn left around the corner as I warn someone, “Don’t go outside, there’s a lion out there!” I worry that the doors stay open behind me for several moments before finally closing. I enter a dark room that feels like it belongs to me. It isn’t a bedroom or an office, but I’m not really aware of the furnishings because my attention is all on the lioness I can see still reclining on the ledge outside. And I know she can also see me through the long glass window. I also know now that this is a dream and that I’m not going to run because I have to face her. I know she can’t really hurt me even though I can’t stop her from entering the room. So I just stand there as she jumps onto the window ledge and passes through the glass barrier as though it isn’t even there. She comes to stand beside me in the dark space and I put my hand on her head. “I love you,” I tell her, and she slinks around me in a warm, friendly manner as I declare, “You’re so beautiful!” at which point she falls onto her back like an ecstatic dog or kitten. Now it’s a male lion and I bend down to scratch its silky, furry belly and caress its mane, repeating, “You’re so beautiful! So beautiful!” We’re shamelessly wallowing in appreciation of each other, filled with a joyful, scarcely containable energy. And as I pet this big gorgeous lion, I wonder what it would be like to be a lion myself. Even as I consider trying to assume the form of a lion, I seem to see and feel my hands transforming into large, fluffy paws as our mutual ardor increases. Now it’s almost like I’m having sex with him as a lioness, only we’re doing it human style, facing each other, although all I feel is a glowing and arousing friction against my sex.

Abruptly, there is more light and I realize there is a man below me now who is screaming at the top of his lungs, his face red with exertion as he looks away from me toward whatever invisible aggressor is tormenting him. The tendons in his neck are extended as though he’s in terrible pain or suffering some kind of horrible torture. His fear and agony have nothing to do with me; he doesn’t even seem aware of me. I ask, “What’s wrong with you?” and notice my surroundings along with two other men hovering nearby. We’re all in some kind of normally lit apartment and I hear what sounds like a radio station, and a male voice I clearly distinguish talking about “double agents” and what can be done about them. I know I will clearly remember the term “double agent” when I wake up, and that it relates to dream characters or people who appear to be one thing and then another. There is a general air of confusion that almost amounts to chaos as the two men urgently tell me to call a train for them. I get up and clap my hands loudly two or three times. “Okay, everybody out of here!” I command. They look at me oddly, as though taken aback, but I’ve lost all patience. “You’re the most frustrating dream characters ever,” I tell them, conscious that I sound a little like a petulant teenager. “Just go away!” I shoo them out of there and slowly lose the dream.

Dream Notes: 

 

My encounter with the lioness-lion evokes the Tarot Card entitled Strength:

Self-confidence, the power of conviction, patience, wisdom, courage, gentleness, and harnessing instinctive desires. Empowerment by way of faith in yourself. 

I see the lioness as an expression of my inner Self, full of Divine love and power and always hunting for everything it desires and needs to thrive and grow.

 

III: An Attack

I’m walking down a crowded city street in broad daylight when I see a man in black robes running straight toward me, his arms stretched urgently out before him. “Help me! Help me!” he begs. “You can heal me! You can heal me! You’re my healer!” I already know I’m dreaming and, hurrying over to him, I slip a supportive arm around his shoulders. I become rooted in the dream scene as I help him walk quickly in the direction he had been running. I’m trying to understand what happened to him… I lead him to temporary refuge against a wall. He’s now wearing a thin hospital robe as he crouches down, weak and helpless. He’s confused; he can’t seem to understand where his pants went. I leave him there in search of something, perhaps his possessions. I seem to be walking on rocky, sandy cliffs.I remain conscious of being in a dream, and yet I also act as though I’ve woken up and am telling someone about this lucid dream, broadcasting what I’m seeing as though communicating via a hidden microphone. I tell my contact how real everything looks, that it’s like watching a huge screen TV, but not really because everything is in 3D and absolutely true to life.

I watch troops climb and assemble on the upper level of a metal structure protecting a large compound. They’re all lining up there in preparation for something, overlooking the open white concrete of what might be the tarmac of a large airbase or simply desert. I inform my invisible audience, “It’s so realistic! I can’t see their faces because the sun is behind them.” The troops are in full uniform, and suddenly I know it’s wrong to call them troops because they don’t look like American military uniforms. Their uniforms are slightly different; they look and feel foreign to me, and there is a distinct circular dark-green patch on their sleeves. Many of the men are holding rifles, and they are all wearing caps of some kind.

Dream Notes:

After waking from my final lucid of the night, I Googled key words and found a breaking news story about Afghan insurgents attacking a residential foreign compound. The International Security Assistance Force was called in and their uniforms, logo patches and caps exactly matched the ones of the troops I saw in my dream.

As I was leading away the man in the black robe, taking him somewhere, ostensibly to safety, I was suddenly alone, without any sense of my own body, observing the scene. I feel he may have been one of the two fatalities cited in the news report. I have read, and believe this to be true, that when people die abruptly and violently, they don’t always realize they are dead, out of their physical body, and dreamers are sometimes “called” to assist them, or they just mysteriously happen to be around. It’s not the first time I’ve had a similar experience in a lucid dream. It’s curious the victim recognized me as someone who might be able to help him.

A dreamer on the forum Mortal Mist, where I post my dreams, commented, “Could be the fact that you’ve had a similar experience made him recognize you as a healer/helper” which I think is an interesting possibility.

Dreaming Dervish

August 22, 2013

In the midst of “daily residue” dreams, this transcendent scene:

Fotolia_12888881_XS

I’m standing on a stone ledge overlooking a large square shadowy chamber entirely filled with women who line the walls all around. My bare arms are extended before me, like a Spanish dancer holding castanets poised to begin the performance, only what I’m holding are two pieces of very fine gray cloth approximately two inches long. There is an air of expectation in the chamber, and semi-lucidly grasping what I’m supposed to do, I begin flapping these strange pieces of papery cloth up and down, up and down, so that they make a loud snapping/clicking sound. The center of attention, I fall into a steady rhythm that gradually picks up momentum, and there is no question what I’m meant to do next. I leap gracefully down into the center of the open space the female congregation is facing, and begin spinning in place, all the while maintaining the rhythmic beat of the ethereal “castanets”. My skirt billows around me but it is no ordinary earthly skirt, it is a transparent gold dotted with darkly shining red circles like rubies. I spin in place faster and faster, like a female dervish, until my momentum becomes such that I begin rising slowly off the stone floor. All around me the women may be clicking/clapping in rhythm, I can’t be sure because my thoughts are dissolving in this twirling motion indistinguishable from worship which is inexorably escalating and intensifying. Still spinning and completely naked now, I arch my back as though over an invisible bar, spread my arms and legs as wide as I can, and surrender myself, opening myself up completely to the Powers that Be, which take the form of a fine yet almost searing ecstasy rising straight up through my body. I begin climaxing so intensely, I wake in the throes of an orgasm, my right hand just barely touching myself. The pleasure was generated in the dream space and overflowed into my flesh.

Transitions

June 9, 2013

Margot Fontayne & rRudolf NureyevIt begins with a ballet. I’m observing a reunion performance between two great dancers, one male, one female. They are performing on stage. A voice is describing what is happening. Then, as though from distant balcony seats, I watch as the heroine falls, or is thrown by her partner, off the stage, descending parallel to a sheer wall of some gray-blue iridescent material evocative of subterranean stone. Her partner dives after her, and as they meet in mid air, a male voice explains, in a clear firm voice, it is not actually happening because “This is a dream.” Next thing I know, I’m sitting with Mami at what looks and feels like a very fine mahogany bar, but the dimly lit space is my rec room. The bar runs along the wall my dream door is in. We’re studying the album cover of the ballet and I’m informing her the male dancer was Rudolf Nureyev dancing with his long time partner Margot Fontayne. As I talk, I become aware of a man standing a few feet away beside the open rec room door. I focus on him, he’s really there, and instantly become lucid when I recognize my father. The joyful cry, “Papi!” wells up in my throat but is oddly constricted; I can’t seem to speak. But he’s so close and so absolutely present! Somehow, I find my voice and say urgently, “Papi!” He turns his head and looks at me, and I know full well that he sees me. “Es Maribel!” I’m lucid and feel we could actually have a conversation! But he looks away, jutting out his lower lip in a characteristic gesture he sometimes made when there was something he wanted to say but couldn’t find the words, or felt it was not the right time or situation to say it in. I feel myself losing the dream.

Now begin a series of intense, vivid and urgent False Awakenings. I can barely keep track of them and their order. But first, after the ballet dream, I had a brief yet important lucid I really don’t want to forget, I want to write both dreams down to make sure I remember them. At one point, I was in a small basement bedroom that is not part of my present home. The walls and floor look new and fashioned of a somewhat cheap-feeling linoleum designed to look like polished blonde wood.

I’m lying in bed, just awoken from my lucid dreams, when my husband barges in. I can see right away he wants to have some sexual fun because he’s holding a bottle of wine and two glasses and he has a determined, almost grimly smiling look on his face. I’m really confused. “But it’s 4:00 in the morning,” I protest. “You can’t start drinking wine in the middle of the night.” He looks drunk already and spills some white zinfandel at the foot of the bed as he stumbles, but soberly acknowledges that I have a point as he packs up and leaves. (In reality, we both hate white zinfandel.) I call after him, “But you can’t go! Now that you’ve been here, I’ll miss you and be scared all alone down here.” But he’s gone, and the most important thing is to write my dreams down. I believe I’m doing just that on a small notepad, but suddenly I wake up in the dream (false awakenings nestled within each other like Chinese boxes) and discover I’ve scrawled barely visible or legible sentences across a dark-brown pillow resting on my lap.

Now I’m watching a video on my iPod of me and my brother talking together in a private library, facing each other where we stand on one side of a long wooden table. It’s a very nice room. In waking reality, I use my iPod to record my dreams.

Pile of books

As I watch the film it dawns on me that I somehow managed to record one of my dreams! Or somehow the dream recorded itself.  I’m thrilled beyond belief. It’s clearly a dream, and I seem to witness the moment we both become lucid, at which point a powerful wind begins blowing through the room, ruffling the pages of some of the books and maybe some loose papers on the shelves. The wind feels like a manifestation of our elation.

I find myself lucidly walking back down to that basement bedroom. (Although it doesn’t look like it per se, its place as part of the basement harkens back to childhood and the room Papi built for my brother down in the rec room, essentially using up a chunk of the basement.) I follow a pyramid-like staircase down. The space is dark and unfamiliar and almost annoying in its ordinariness. I walk in and command, “Let there be light!” impatiently stomping my foot on the floor. Nothing happens. “What?” I demand, exasperated. “Do I have to turn on a lamp just like in real life even though it won’t even work?” I illustrate my point by striding over to the dresser on my left and switching on a tall slender lamp that does, indeed, remain dark. Fed up, I walk straight toward the far end of the room and escape it, I don’t remember how, I just go!

Oh yes! I’m flying about a quarter of the mile off the ground through the dusky night. Below me, I distinctly make out a wide creek or a shallow river bed. I see the water flowing over the rocks. There’s color in the darkness and I clearly see the muted golds and reds of some of the smooth smallish rocks. Very deliberately, I drop the wine bottle and wine glass I’m holding. Down, down they go as I wait to hear the sound of their impact. I’m immensely gratified when I distinctly hear the splash of water and the clink of glass hitting stone. Then one of my intents enters my mind and I really feel that tonight I can actually make it up to the moon. Up and up I go, and when a roof materializes above me, I refuse to acknowledge it and keep flying even as more identical roofs appear above me in layers, but I pass through them as though they are insubstantial clouds, making it up to what I somehow know is clear, unobstructed space. And there it is, the New Moon, a black sphere just barely discernible through a misty bank of clouds. I then become aware of a group of people gathered below me who are also looking at the moon.

I immediately fly down and spread myself on my back at the feet of the front row of lunar spectators, quickly removing my clothing, piece by piece. Now I’m naked and everyone else is demurely clad in pajamas. I say, “What?” as they all look at me almost like people in waking reality might react. “It’s a moon celebration, isn’t it?” meaning a sensual rite is in order and I’m the willing “sacrifice”. The front row, about six or eight chairs, is dominated by men. The chairs have that cheap wood institutional feel, the kind you find in nursing homes and hospital bedrooms. There are two dark-haired, handsome and likely candidates seated side-by-side. One grins at me, the other one looks at me with a more shy interest. I focus on him even though his very nice blue pajama suit is spotted here and there with little white strips of some encrusted material. He joins me on the ground, lying on top of me. We embrace, and prepare to kiss, but instead just look at each other a bit awkwardly. It doesn’t feel right, and I’m just a little disgusted by the stains on his pajama, which look suspiciously like dried snot. We both feel this isn’t working and get up. The men in the front row are all in the prime of their life, and yet they seem as passive as extremely old men. I still want to get to the moon, and back up in the sky, I intend to close my eyes (risking waking up) so that when I open them again I will be on the moon’s surface. I try this twice, but it doesn’t work.

A final false awakening. I’m in a dark room by myself talking to my brother and my mother on the phone at the same time. Mami is talking and talking and distracting me as I try to write my dreams down and remember that second one (which of course I have completely forgotten) when suddenly I hear Mario say in a voice thick with shock, awe and emotion, “Papi!” He quickly hangs up the phone. My heart swells with excitement as I realize Papi has gone to visit him, and that it’s about me, and how I saw him earlier in the evening, because he wants Mario to be aware of it all. I really want to call Mario right then and there to make sure it really happened, but if it didn’t, I’ll end up waking him in the middle of the night. I finally wake for real a little after 4:30. (I fell back to sleep a little before 3:30.)

Dream Notes: Before bed, lay awake working through some anxiety and sadness. I thought of the last time I saw Abuela sitting in a nursing home and of how when I kissed her goodbye from deep within her unfocused self rose the words, “Hasta luego, mi amor.” (“Good bye, my love.”) Then I remembered her dead body in the hospital and her open mouth that looked so much like the painting “The Scream”.  I thought of Mario and our differing views and ways of being.

It is so important that I became lucid, and for a very long time, back in my lucid dreaming room after making the decision to obey my “Major Professor” Guide and not do Galantamine. I’ve lost count, I think it’s 7 out of 9 times I’ve become lucid there since I began using that room, but since then I’ve had two lucid dreams in my bedroom where I found myself in the rec room, so that’s effectively 10 out of 10 for the space itself. As my dream partner James pointed out, I associate it with lucidity now.

When we visit an older person whose mind is “gone” we see only the shell of their physical self with its autonomic reactions and needs. Whatever they’re seeing and experiencing in Mind Space is invisible to us. Last night I feel as though I entered the Mind Space of some such individuals with front row seats to the mysterious beauty and power of the New Moon—the death of the old and the birth of a new phase and yet neither one, a timeless space. Fascinating how physical decrepitude was so delicately hinted at by the lovely white excretions on his fine blue pajamas I had to mentally associate with dried snot because they looked more like fragments of ocean coral. He, and others like him, were sitting beneath the New Moon in their dreams while their bodies lay in nursing homes or hospital bedrooms?

My husband having brought a bottle of white zinfandel into the room is a major red flag, because he would never drink that wine. Message—Don’t make the mistake of pretending to know exactly what someone else is thinking, because that route leads, more often than not, to underestimating them by filtering their Being through the prejudices of your own ego. The only way to relate to people, especially those you love, is as Being to Being, respecting each others path and responding to what they actually do and say, not to what you think they’re thinking.

In the library, my brother and I were on the same side of the great table even though in our discussions we may appear to be on opposite sides. He has always played a part in my dreams, but ever since he had his first real lucid dream recently, he is ever more present. The wind that blew through the library, so invigorating—the joy that gusts through you when you realize you’re dreaming—I want very much for him to experience, so that hopefully in the future he can join me sometimes in Mind Space. The fact that I found myself in a room very reminiscent of his childhood bedroom, where I sometimes spent the night on the bottom bunk, reflects this desire of mine, and perhaps also perhaps how I feel we’re recovering some of the closeness we once shared.

The theme of dancing has appeared recently in James’ dreams. My first lucid was about two great, legendary dancers from two different countries (interestingly the man was a Russian who claimed political asylum while on tour to free himself from the oppressive regime) who came together on stage and wowed audiences with their performance for years, if not decades. When the male dancer tossed his partner off the stage and dove after her, it reflects the plunge of leaving the physical stage and going out of body, where falling/flying is exhilarating instead of dangerous or fatal. The fact that he reached her and caught her I would like to see as a sign that James and I will have that complete mutual lucid dream one night, against seemingly impossible odds. This hopeful interpretation is strengthened by Papi’s appearance as I showed Mami the album cover of the performance. He was absolutely present, I saw and felt him as I did in waking reality whenever he walked into a room, and at the end of the night, he seems to have let me know he was visiting Mario in his dreams, whether or not my brother remembers. He is helping both of us. Mami is, of course, the womb Mario and I both entered physical incarnation through, the proverbial Goddess, whose nature is both material and spiritual, the conduit of Divine energy-creativity.

 

 

 

Quantum Touch, Goddesses & Sex Demon

September 11, 2012
I’m in what feels like a cart riding with Stinger, returning to a city (from the earlier lucid dream?) but at a busy intersection we come to the attention of a police officer, as though we’ve broken some invisible rule. The cop is after me so, already lucid, I rise up into the sky to get away from him. It’s a sunny day and as I go up and up at a leisurely pace, not sure how high up I have to get to shake pursuit, I see blue buildings with gold trim to my left and around me, pretty, terracotta feel, maybe, but still I wonder where the heck they’ll come to an end and I’ll reach open sky. I’ve shaken the law but unfortunately I’ve lost Stinger. I’m alone in this dream city. I descend gradually, and recline across a yellow and orange striped awning for a moment, looking around curiously. The atmosphere is bright, pleasant, and I realize the awning belongs to an ice cream shop! I descend and walk into the shady establishment, intending to fulfill the intent of experimenting with taste in a lucid dream. Happily I ask for chocolate ice cream and the female owner promptly hands me a stick or wand of solid chocolate wreathed with vanilla ice cream staying put in defiance of gravity. Okay, this will do! I walk out licking it and can definitely taste it but the experience is not as vivid and sensual as in waking reality.

I don’t remember how I end up in a small, shadowy classroom surrounded by other women and facing our female instructor. She’s asking if anyone can tell her the nature or meaning of the double female deity Atem and Atheim. I somehow know they are the two principle goddesses of the city I was just in with the blue buildings. I can see in my mind’s eye two ancient looking terracotta or stone figurines, simply carved, a little stiff, a tan-gold-brown color, with Atem on the left and right next to her Atheim, two separate figures but really one goddess. I know the answer and am eager to give it and my knowing is somehow related to my lucidity; the other women look absolutely clueless. The instructor lets me give the answer: “It’s about one, a person who, through the physical body (Atem), accesses the divine (Atheim).” I know there’s no other way, that Atheim and Atem are a process of consciousness, that without going through Atem, Atheim cannot be attained or realized. The instructor tells the class, “That’s the best definition of Atem and Atheim I’ve ever heard” and counsels everyone to remember it.

I’m in a cart riding with Stinger again telling him about Atem and Atheim and he gets really upset with me, moving up to the front of the cart, tears in his eyes, because I believe he doesn’t understand; that I don’t give him credit for also knowing the meaning. I realize he’s right, that because he’s a scientist I don’t give him enough credit for comprehending-feeling mystical truth.

I’m inside a building, in a narrow room or corridor, sitting and talking to a woman, maybe Mami. I’m perfectly lucid. I know this dream has gone on for a long time so there will probably be holes in the action when I try to remember it in waking reality, but that’s a small price to pay for how wonderful it is to be so lucid for so long. I can’t remember what we were talking about, unfortunately. I notice a stray brown dog approaching along the white corridor and decide to go (back) to the more open area beyond it. I pick up two cow tendon chew bones and open the door. Mami follows me. The room is large, with a slightly elevated area to the right looking down on the rest of the space, and yet it’s all white, hard to describe, as though it really has no fixed dimensions. There are more women there and also a whole pack of those small stray brown feral-looking dogs. I find it amusing we left our private corridor because of two dogs only to be surrounded by them. One latches onto my arm as I hand out the two chew bones, which aren’t enough, of course, but I’m not in the least bit afraid.

Shaking my arm free, I rise calmly into the air and hover above the pack. Idly, I point my right index finger at one dog and intend a glimmering ray of offensive energy toward it, which works in that the creature appears affected by it and backs off slightly, but suddenly I know that’s not the right approach, not what I truly want to do. I take a deep breath beginning in my belly and rising up to the base of my throat, practicing the breathing technique of Quantum Touch. I do this three times feeling myself filling up with an energy I see as a blue “force” rising up into me and flowing down into the palms of my hands that are already warm; I distinctly feel how warm my palms are. Holding my hands palm down I “broadcast” a blue-white-shimmering-light-energy down at the dogs and everyone in the room. Of course it doesn’t hurt the animals or the people, on the contrary; they’re all “bathing” in it happily. I do it again, and again, thrilled with the act of spreading healing energy freely over everyone because, of course, there’s no end to it as its flow so freely through me. I have to remind myself to direct a little of it back into my own body even though it doesn’t feel necessary; I’m already filled with it.

I return to the other smaller space. I’m feeling aroused. Standing in the center of the room, I ask for the lead singer of Filter, as he was in his prime, careful to be as detailed as possible in my conjuration. I’m intending him to take form there before me, dressed all in black. “Are you there?” I ask even as I don’t see anything but I can seem to feel him. I lean against a window and imagine being taken from behind. There is pleasure and sensation but it’s all too much my imagination. Then I look at the reflection and behind me discern a coalescing darkness, a silhouette forming. I’m thrilled my conjuration appears to be working! Then I distinctly feel something grip my right hip, a real sensation as opposed to the ones I was imagining. My elation is short lived as it occurs to me that I invited a shady character into my dream; gave a hostile force an opening by selfishly attempting to fashion a dream lover. Sure enough, I appear to be in the grips of a black “demon” with a young man’s handsome face but black tentacles that are growing in definition and strength. There seems no way to escape the encroaching darkness trapping me in it but I remain perfectly calm. I look the thing in the face and say, “I could wake up now” (as a means of escape) “but I’m proving a point here.” I fill myself with the blue-white energy of Quantum Touch and it effortlessly rids me of the clinging, threatening blackness. It stumbles weakly away in the form of a brown-skinned man who appears stunned. “Get out of here,” I command. “Go on, out with you!” We’re standing next to a window, but he can’t seem to coordinate his limbs so I raise the window and, with a bit of effort, hoist him out of the room. Watching him fall several stories and hit the pavement, I wonder if his physical body died in waking reality when his dream form made impact. I hope not, and think it probably didn’t.

Still in a room of that place. Mami or some other woman asks me what time my plane leaves for Paris and abruptly I realize I’ve been having so much fun thinking about everything I’ve done in my lucid dreams, how meaningful it all is, that I barely have time to make it to the airport in time. My plane leaves at 6:00 and it’s already 5:20! I run out of there, encountering odd vehicles directly outside the building, none of which is the cab I seek. I end up sitting on a bench waiting for a cab until I wake.

Dream Note: This dream speaks for itself. Awesome. And, of course, I live in Paris, Virginia. I seemed to have been sensing it was time to wake up. Maybe if I’d deliberately woken myself up sooner, I would have remembered a few more sections of this incredibly long lucid dream.

Father and Daughter

January 23, 2010

Rich in smells and textures unlike “normal” dreams:

I’m in a room with my father, we’re reclining and talking together on the bed. I don’t feel threatened but there’s something strange going on. I’m very aware of his half naked body. I can smell it and I clearly see and feel the sweat on his light-brown skin. He remarks on my moles and I stand up to show him how they’re fading and remind him that I got them from him—his skin is covered in moles and mottled brown spots and there’s a large, irregular birth mark near his groin on his thigh. I’m very young and meek. He seems perfectly gentle, until I resist what, with a sickening sensation, I know is coming, and when I continue to resist he mentions punishment. He wants me to suck his penis but I don’t want to. I know what it’s like and the smell sickens me. I know I have done it many times before and that I’m going to do it again but in the dream I rebel. I say I will go out and tell mother. I leave the room and a woman I know is my mother sees me emerge. I wonder that she isn’t suspicious of what was going on in there. I say there’s something I really need to tell her but she will think me unclean. Father comes out of the room, dressed now in Indian-style clothing, a loose shirt beneath an orange vest of sorts, and suddenly the story wraps up in a third-person narrator sort of way and I know all my fears were confirmed, I was banished and it all ended badly for me somehow.

Making Love With a Winged Man

November 26, 2011

I’m standing outside at night in a circle of women. I’m the first one to rise up slightly off the ground in defiance of gravity, my arms open but not raised to my sides; my hands are at hip level. I assume what I think of as a Christ position and remain floating there. The feeling I experience, the peace of this pose, dovetails with providing an example to the others in the circle, to showing them it can be done. I come down gently and cup both my hands together. I tell everyone, “Make fire” and I see flowers of fire blooming on their palms even as I concentrate on producing my own fire blossom. It’s important to do it with your palms and not your fingertips. Then I step forward toward the center of the circle and quickly touch my flame to the kindling of the large fire we’re building. I slip into other dreams…

…It’s early night or late dusk. I’m outside in an open field with other people walking toward a fence. As I reach it, it becomes an electric wire fence like the one we have around our vegetable garden. I slip between two wires (rather like the deer I saw do that once.) I’m part of a planned demonstration/protest to prove it’s possible to go through, to conquer, barriers. It’s related to the environment, and not being cruel to animals, and generally to everything that has to do with the earth. Without thinking about it, I rise straight up into the sky as people watch. I know they expect me to fall and die, and for a second I wander if that’s exactly what’s going to happen, because what I’m doing is physically impossible. But I decide I’m not going to fall, that I’ll show them. I twirl in place and remain airborne, showing everyone it’s possible. This is all in the service of an important, vital cause. Then I let myself rise up higher and higher, surrendering to the upward pull, ascending freely, without fear or effort. Eventually, I realize that yes, this is a dream, and I just sweep forward. I see stars above me as I let myself go, flying backward in a reclining posture, not seeking any control.

I don’t remember how I end up in a man’s arms. We’re both soaring/floating in the night sky. I’m lying on my back, but we’re in the dark sky. I arch my back and see my breasts as he kisses them, one after the other. I wonder what I look like but only briefly because I’m in my dream body so, naturally, I’m beautiful; it doesn’t really matter. We’re making love and I’m experiencing an easy and deep sexual pleasure. He’s inside me and I feel myself coming to a climax. I can see his broad bare shoulders and dark hair, which seems to frame his face, and there are what appear to be white wings rising from between his shoulder blades, not very large and resting in a closed position now. He looks down at me, looking me straight in the eyes. I’m staring directly at his face very close above mine and I don’t know him; he’s a total stranger and he looks very serious. He’s also very handsome, with pale skin and even, well defined features beneath deep, dark eyes. I’m thinking, wow, I don’t know this man and yet we’re making love. We don’t speak. I’ll never forget looking directly at his serious, intent, and yet also mysteriously expressionless face, although that’s not the right word because there definitely was an expression on it. Thinking about it now, the expression on his face seemed to be one of utter peaceful indifference perfectly combined with intense and profound emotion, a synthesis of the two.

As I embrace his powerful body, I think of asking him his name, but for some reason I hesitate to do so, and end up not asking him. I almost, almost climax, before I slip into a normal dream…

Sex on a Balcony

June 14, 2012
I’m lying in bed remembering/seeing this open air brick corridor that looks and feels totally familiar, as though I’ve been there before in dreams. I’m viewing it from just beyond it, looking north, the balcony on the right, the rooms on the left. It’s a hypnagogic image, my mind is still awake and I see a man I was attracted to once in waking reality standing by a door before walking toward me and disappearing. I know I’ve been here at least twice in dreams, but I don’t even like this man anymore, much less desire him. I want to walk up onto that corridor-balcony made of red bricks but the man I meet needs to be different.

Suddenly I’m aware of my body again. I’m lying in bed on my stomach, my right cheek on the pillow, a new position that felt so comfortable I couldn’t resist it even though all my lucid dreams have happened when I was sleeping either on my right or left side. I believe I’ve been awoken by my cat Whispers scratching insistently at something just beyond me at the foot of the bed. I also hear a strange noise. The feeling is sinister and I realize I’m dreaming. I have no desire to explore the creepy situation and easily will myself to wake up.

I wake up in the exact position, determined to enter a dream again. Already I’m seeing that brick balcony again, the hypnagogic image clear as day, and then I’m standing on it, the doorway near me on my left, the transition seamless. I’m looking out across a vast open landscape just beyond the balcony, at one sunlit area far to the north-west, while everything else is pitch black. Then that scene also winks out and there’s nothing but an absolute darkness beyond this open air corridor. It’s not frightening, however; it seems normal, and as I continue gazing out, the scene to the north-west reappears in stunning depth and clarity, perhaps a castle/mansion-like structure with a reddish brown pyramid-style roof the focal point.

There are about four other people there with me, male and female, and all of us are looking out at the vast open space beyond the balcony. The man I want to meet/conjure is not one of them; I’m barely aware of anything about them except their presence. Then I feel a leg pressing against my left leg even though there’s nothing but darkness beside me, followed by the sensation of a hand resting on, gently grasping, my left thigh. For an instant I wonder if I should be frightened or concerned, but I quickly decide it’s okay, that I’m helping shape, or bring forth, a man who will please me. Some measureless amount of time passes and a man steps out of the darkness on my left, perfectly real and independent of me, tall, solidly built, with a handsome face over short dark hair. He’s dressed as all my Guardian Lords are, in dark slacks, and his short-sleeved shirt is a fog-like gray. His features are even and firm, and I somehow recognize him, I know him, although he looks different from the blond Guardian Lord I’m most familiar with. I call him a Guardian Lord because he doesn’t feel like a dream character; he has a presence, an aura of command, of lucidity, most dream characters don’t.

He speaks to me, and I find myself leaning against the balcony now, facing inward. I understand he’s chiding me, in a serious yet not urgent or angry way, for being too clothed, even wearing boots. I understand he wants to see more flesh, which makes sense, because what I want from him is sex. That’s what we’re here for. Faster even than in the blink of an eye, I’m naked and his touch on the right side of my pelvis awakens desire in me, I distinctly feel it’s warmth, its sensation, and marvel at it, because I no longer experience it with such pure intensity in waking reality. I want him so much I can scarcely wait for it, and when he enters me I notice two or three other male-female couples engaging in the act around us. I see a blonde woman very clearly before me and slightly to my left, the whole scene as sharp as waking reality. It’s all very tasteful and graceful, utterly enjoyable. I can feel the pleasure but there isn’t enough pressure or friction, not enough motion, just a glowing physical ecstasy. I begin moving my hips aggressively back and forth. My partner is no longer wearing a shirt. I see his face and distinctly perceive and feel his bare chest (there’s a slight dark mark on it) the sparse hairs on his flesh textured, real; I can almost smell it. I feel his strokes now but our pleasure is motionless because it’s one—I experience his pleasure at the same time I feel my pleasure, a pure pleasure without borders. His expression is at once slightly smiling, serious and inscrutable, knowing and yet not at all judgmental, pleased yet detached. If I have to define it, I would describe it as the look of a man performing a service, and more than happy to do it, like some sort of dream world gigolo. And yet we are also involved in a deeper way, we somehow know each other, and the nature of our relationship on the Other Side makes him the right person for this particular scenario.