The Chaparral of Time
Dreamed 2008/10/21 by Wayan
THAT DAY
My back aches and loudly pops. Inflamed from overwork.
My fellow dreamworker Xanthe calls. She's joined a group that visualizes their heart's desire. Xanthe's: to draw again, learn to paint, dream intensely, yoga and tai chi--to feel good in her body. That's all! No ambition out in the world.
Xanthe asks something peculiar. "Don't you ever wish, or visualize, or use your will? I've known you decades and never seen you do it." She's right. I won't. Careful not to. I will not to use my will! Like fasting--abstaining from volition! Why?
Next, my OTHER shamanic colleague calls--Mark. He's forming a band! And then HE TOO says (unprompted, out of the blue--a spooky synchronicity!) "You never wish or will anything, do you? Your restraint is extraordinary. No one else I know..."
I'm still wary to use my will. I tried last month, first time in years--I demanded health and committed to whatever that took. What a backlash! Immediately got sicker than I have been in years.
How CAN I use will safely? Some things work--artistic determination is safe. So's asking questions in dreams--to pin down & confront & question dream figures. That I could do more! Need to question that arrogant writer who ordered me in a dream "Go to grad school or my goons will hafta beat you up."
I go over the last months' dreams to see what's brewing. Feel I'm missing the obvious...
In the evening, watch Fry & Laurie play Wooster and Jeeves... Whew. NOT healthy rolemodels!
THAT NIGHT
I'm drifting slowly futureward,
over the Reefs of Time. The coralheads aren't hard, but brush-- flowering chaparral. I swim above rich time-heads,
seek a landing strip. My goal's
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Full of creatures bred for long
life and hands and brains. A fairytech world of talking beasts, animadorable kin! Not cute to all. New Nazis bred,
The Führer kidnaps a puppy;
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The Führer's fiendish plan is to test
Pup to show that dogs can't read! Yet newborn humans just gurgle, flap their legs. Unfair! So I'm here to save the pup.
But what I hit as I angle o'er
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They hunker in blue ceanothus brush,
Eighties shoulderpads; a hulking barrier reef! Their mohawks filterfeed. My airfield's Suzi Quatro--
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Her throat and collarbone thrum sweet,
but laterals are tight and her back's piano wire. "Too much?" "No, stretch more! That's right!" Garble snorkel decade mash!
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