I dreamt of a man who was held prisoner under the sea for twenty years for crimes he did not commit. He lived deep in the water, where all was hued in murky greens and browns with dim, black, empty expanses all round. All surfaces covered in slimy-slick green growth, and the soft silt underfoot disturbed at the slightest movement. I do not know whether he was able to breathe with some sort of apparatus, or if he grew gills, or utilized some magical means. He was tall and strong and quiet, and had a missing leg taken by some toothy sea creature.
I took him to places of the earth. I took him to fields of sunlight, fields of wildflowers and grass. We leant against huge, ancient trees on firm ground, grasping one another solidly. His sense of time was that of the depths, still and unchanging, and we could spend long hours this way. I would concentrate upon him, kissing and caressing, as if with love I could acclimate him to the surface, assure him, make up for lost time, I don’t know.
I have not seen many episodes of Doctor Who. But I dreamt of him last night. He was a conglomerate of Eccleston/Tennant and, for some reason, Malcolm McDowell. There was an atmosphere of adventure, but it was not fun or quirky. It was all stress, intrigue, and more stress. The Doctor revealed himself to me as an agent for MI5, and that set the tone for the story, the specifics of which I can’t recall except there were elements of time travel, an assassination plot, and forced impregnation on myself (I was supposed to give birth to someone who we would travel into the future to assassinate— since no one came along to do the job of knocking me up, the Doctor took the task upon himself, as politely and methodically as he could manage). The TARDIS was very shabby, as well, a lot of old laundry lying about, which we lay upon to do the necessary. It was distinctly uncomfortable for us both, but it wasn’t a pleasure operation.
Oh, he’s around. A different face, perhaps (though not so very different in the eyes), a different name, but it’s him. I was sad in the dream because I was away from him, but I awoke knowing that such separation does not last for the likes of us.
I was a girl again walking along the sidewalk of my hometown in the afternoon when it’s lovely and quiet and no one much is about, but I was very sad and lonely, and felt I had lost something, and I was crying. And then from across the road I saw a strange man sitting all in a bundle, and I knew he would say something to me, and I bent my head demurely in anticipation, hiding my face in my long hair. And then he called to me, and I knew he could see my tears and detect my sadness. So I crossed to him.
He was a small, bent fellow, dirty clothes and hair and skin, looked like he was in hard times. He was not so very old, but his hands were very knotted and arthritic. He had a lot of wild, curly black hair, matted in places. His skin was brown with some wrinkles, almost that sort of wrinkled appleskin type face. Wise and sly, kind and cunning. Sort of a Tom Bombadil + a caveman + Charles Manson + a faun (somewhere midway between a randy satyr and Mr. Tumnus) in looks and demeanor. I sat with him, right there by the sidewalk, and then my younger siblings approached from around the corner and sat near him as well, like in a painting of a saint. His hands pained him, and his pain made me want to weep. He had a little flute which he played, and as he played it I rested my brow against his, and listened to his breath beneath the music, and it calmed me. My siblings thought me mad. He asked me to rub his aching legs, which I did; they were skinny and tough, and I tried to fill my hands with warmth to soothe him.
I was simultaneously able to enter the consciousness of a policeman who was watching us from an unmarked car parked across the street, and sense how through some prescient authority he was able to suspect something untoward was going on, identify us, and upon learning our names receive the knowledge that he was Mr. B- and I was Mrs. B- (I cannot remember what name it was, only the B), his legal wife, and we had been long separated and were now reuniting in a bizarre, predestined ritual. Now I knew the strange man to be my husband, and it was as if I had known it all along, and we were only playing at strangers for the zest of it. And then I helped him stand, and I wasn’t a girl anymore, or even in the same body at all, I had a totally different appearance, and was much older. I was taller than he and his gait was peculiar— a slow, beastly caper. And we walked to my home, and I was elated, for now I knew we had been apart sixteen years. And I was immersed in love for him, but he was still strange, and wild, and not made for ordinary life, and there were difficulties. But I tried my best. But oh, how strange he was.
A few others: jotunn in the mountain pass; myself as a man with a group of four others robbing and terrorizing a Chinese restaurant; flipping out in a department store.
It was J and I in the woods, in a small, clear area. He sat on a fallen log and I upon the ground. A large black bird swooped down in the opening of the trees, and we watched with surprise as it landed on J’s thigh. It had the general appearance of a crow, but larger, and there was something buzzardish about it. The bird cawed clearly, grabbed J’s wrist with its claws, and drew its beak in a straight line across his hand, as if to convey a message which we could not understand. More birds began flying down. I stood up, startled, and turned as if to flee, and the first bird flew from J and landed heavily on my shoulders, and I felt its beak sink into the back of my neck as it tore away a hunk of flesh. I knew, in dream knowledge, that it had ripped away something significant, some bit of brain or spine or who knows what, and that I was no longer the same.
I dreamt I was cultivating orchids, but they grew much too quickly, proliferating like weeds.
Card of the Day:
The Bouquet - Aesthetics, loveliness, a gift.
Card of the day:
The Tower - Detachment, isolation, observation, plotting.
Looking down from my tower. Story of my life.
I couldn’t sleep last night, and caught only shallow, passing snatches in the morning.
It was Midgard. Many images, shifting too quickly to focus, all faded, bleached, none joyful, I let them pass. Burning whiteness, but it must have been colder than cold; I was beyond feeling it. There was only kith and kin to eat. But there was mead, there was ale, there was wine, but none of us knew from whence it flowed. Drunken hunger, death. And then some of us ate.
I had a dream, a few years ago, of Krishna. It was unlike most dreams I have, ordinary dreams, mundane dreams, where I am viewing the scene from the outside, an observer, like watching a film, experiencing what’s happening but seeing myself separately as I go about it. In this dream I viewed everything through my own eyes, as in life, from myself, as myself. It is difficult to describe how it was; it was so different from waking perception. The colors were different— not more vibrant as one might expect, but more muted in a sense, sort of subdued, subtler, but sensual in a way they are not in this world, caressing shades, shadowy-rich, like velvet, like the texture of flower petals; you could almost feel the colors with your eyes. The light was clear but soft, soft as twilight, as moonlight, as the light before dawn, but it was not dim, and I could see perfectly.
We were in a natural bower, wild with verdure, fragrant with unchecked bloom. His limbs were beautiful, his arms and hands and shins, his skin darkly luminescent, greyish-black, like clouds hovering round the moon. The tilt of his face. Slow, slow glances. The turn of his lips. We were playing with one another’s hair. First he with mine, then I with his. Young fingers, by turns clumsy and shy, bold and sure, deft and artful. Long strands of my hair twined round his fingers. He laughs. My fingers reaching for a curl by his cheek, capturing it gently, timidly. All is quiet. His eyelashes. His eyes. More play. Laughter, and silence. The delicious tingle in my scalp at the gentle tugs of his attentions. The feel, the indescribable texture, and oh, the warmth, of his locks as I play with them.
Waking was a.. regretful experience, in a way. But I was grateful, ooh to be sure, for the night’s sweetness.
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