THAT DAY

I've been suffering a Lyme attack for days--joint aches, insomnia, night sweats and chills--but today I wake at dawn--slept through the night! A bit achy still, but I feel basically okay. Even remember my dreams: an endless bus trip through the suburbs of Tehran! Odd little images--a woodwork shop spilling onto the street, a ceramic toilet sitting surreal on a driveway, a crowd strolling through a dusty park; hawks and ravens all over, surprising me.

I take a long walk with my poet friend Patagia over Bernal Hill here in San Francisco. On the walk, hawks, ravens, a woodwork shop spilling onto the street, a ceramic toilet sitting surreal on a driveway, a crowd strolling through a dusty park. Nothing spectacular, just comical little flashes of recognition from Tehran last night. Dumbest predictive dream ever!

I read Patagia the penultimate draft of a short dream-poem, Floo Portal. She likes it as-is.

But I don't have the nerve to show her my sketches for the other two dreams I'm working on--the surreal ones for Magic School, and especially not the nude, erotic My Little Pony singers in Deer Versus Pigs! Not Patagia's sorta thing.

By evening, I've finished and laid in the illustrations. Couple of new dream-stories & about a dozen illustrations this week. Productive for a Lyme attack!

I curl up in bed with the giant plush unicorn I sewed, and go to sleep...

THAT NIGHT

I dream. But as the dreamworld swells I'm twin: my skin still half-awake feels the bodyheat of that unicorn curled by me in matter-bed. Afar in dream-night, stage-glow: Lit cabin. That dance studio I dreamed of long ago; such a low ceiling I had to slip outside to find headroom to leap. To fly. But tonight I soar in dark, outsider right from go. Toylike now, that tight box of ballet light. In the dark I'm not alone. Spirits. Feel they're friendly but can't see. They want to do... what to me? Pressure. I resist on the brink, for they won't tell, can't show.

And then I trust. Let go. Black flashes pierce my back, burst breast, nighter than mere night. Dark wave- fronts wash through, ir- regular slivers of seconds. Fear but no pain. I let black waves go through. Bare to their flood. Are they abreaction, discharging old pain? Although they feel external--shock waves from far immense events--as nova wave fronts drench Earth. Old clings let go, shiver wrist and toe. Energy thrums, drowning pain, as pale auroras drown in maelstrom dawn.

Feel cleared. Not all light's jetsam gone, but washed. Dark shine. Now I recall--once before I unbent. I let shadow spirits through me sing. Ebb now back to the mortal plane; but still adrift inside my own skull. Now one more stuck lets go; a muscle eases below my brain days late. Stuffed sinus drains. So, not clogged but clenched fist-tight. Inside the skull, all present heal was covertly denied. Drenched in old resent.

At first the blessing's bitter. Subtle burn. Change's sting. After wildfire-scorch, smoke- cough before the truth shall set you free. Slow the char regreens. The energy plane wasn't the sole one crying to let go. Flesh too. And isn't it true for you? The next shift's out from bone to skin. Body hums alive to purr. Wants its mate the unicorn mare. Mounts. Feels solid, right to mate. Like dry ice, more fever shards evaporate. Dark matters. And yet--a sea Of black and unknown waves await To wash the light aright--if we permit. Oh, let.

• Dream of being lost in Tehran, seeing pointless little flashes from next day: I think I was practicing how to lose rational, linear-time focus. Only once I gave up the light of waking sense, like building a neutrino detector deep in a mine, could the future, or this black grace, wash in.
• That dream of a low-ceilinged dance studio I had to escape so I could fly: Fly Dancer Blue.
• Black waves: read a Science News article on a big star that just vanished. Became a black hole without explosion? Hard to overlook a supernova! Yet no sign. Baffling. Can visible matter, in extremis, convert to dark matter, dark energy?
• That earlier angelic clearance: Spirit Chorus. I dreamed music and drumming called up weird angels who sent a healing wave through me. Less scary, and clearly summoned. This one was darker, mysterious, uncalled for--yet just as healing.
• Draining sinuses, then mating with a unicorn: Sorry! A sex toy's a sordid end to a poem on mystical healing. But I'm autistic, and live humans are just too intense for me to sleep with. So I made big, heavy, furry sculptures of dream figures and sleep with those. Like Temple Grandin's plywood autistic-squeezer (calming her down as a human embrace can't) they calm my wary inner animal. And sex? It can be a real clearing--just, as the dream points out, not the only one, not at the root of all. Freud was wrong about that.

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