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The Chaparral of Time
Dreamed 2008/10/21 by Wayan
Achy back, popping noises. 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. 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!
I'm drifting slowly futureward,
over the Reefs of Time.
The coralheads aren't hard, but brush--
I swim above rich time-heads,
fragrant monster brains,
trucksize indigo cauliflower mounds.
Lower now I fin,
seek a landing strip. My goal's
just a timenook with
trouble a shaman like me can fix.
Hey! A time of myth
full of creatures bred for long
life and hands and brains.
A fairytech world of talking beasts,
Not cute to all. New Nazis bred,
loathing animal ways.
Citizenship? Outrageous! Not
for these furry Jews.
The Führer kidnaps a puppy;
weeks old, still dumb.
Neodogs grow fast, but still
literacy takes time.
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.
Baby. Whatever you call
the tender sprout of a citizen with
or without a tail.
But what I hit as I angle o'er
a final lilac head
to nestle in the Age of Fur,
is old rock stars instead!
They hunker in blue ceanothus brush,
a hulking barrier reef! Their
My airfield's Suzi Quatro--
Oof! Her neck is tense.
So I ask "Would you like a massage?"
And as I pluck, she sings!
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!
My time-swim's a joke.
But at least I found right work at last.
Quatroing, I woke.
- Mounds of lilac: When I was a kid, our yard had a mound of ceanothus brush like a dry-land coral-head. Hidden in the mound's heart was a tiny hiding-place. Sweet scent, masses of lavender-blue flowers.
- Chaparral of time: Behind our house was a canyon full of chaparral--poison oak and rattlesnakes. I loved it. It gave me Lyme.
- Neo-Nazi leader: on that Bertie and Jeeves video I saw before bed, an English Nazi leader kept whacking Bertie on the head. Ironic, since Bertie's author, PG Wodehouse, was accused of Nazi sympathies.
- Nazis oppress talking animals: my workaholism oppresses my body and heart
- Quatro, tense: I don't know Suzi Quatro's music at all, so "quatro tense" is probably an ironic dream-pun on "quattrocento"--Botticelli's era. Graceful art unlike the American eighties--the Reagan years.
- Rock, Quatro/4 pun: my friend Mark does admire 1980 punk's simple spontaneity: the Freedom of Ugly. I suggest "Your new band could try making songs by taking four random chords and looping. You don't need a punk movement to use punk techniques."
- ACTION: make time for animal needs. Not just rest and food--touch, play, fun, sex, friends. No need to voyage through time, looking for good deeds to do. Start with your own sore, overworked neck!
- This is Dreamverse #36. Every week, a dream-poem! Not every day. Don't push that puppy.
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