World Dream Bank: Clay and Hop

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Clay and Hop

dreamed 2009/10/30 by Wayan.

I'm reading the Tarot
for a woman I know--
one of Alder's pudgy Wiccan friends.
Pebbles gleam wet in an altar-bowl
where the soul she molded stands:
blocky as pueblos, her dollsoul.
Water nurses clay: the effigy's damp
base is split: pull her legs unstuck!
Only then can you touch
her mummified organ, hid
among the understones.
Her clit? Her shriveled heart? No,
her cancered breast,
cut years ago.
Alder handled it, but as I touch,
the molder flinches. She mistrusts
all men. Oops! Too late now. I blurt
"Don't worry over strange men
you let open your legs. Your
soul is ageless clay from Earth's
birth. Damp, you can remold
forever! New dolls; old soul."
Sketch of a dream by Wayan: a blocky clay figurine of a woman with one breast stands on an island of pebbles in a bowl of water.
No. Cold comfort for a witch.
She wants warm. She wants flesh.
So, a happy hopping Foole,
round her room I sing:
"I played God, I touched your soul.
Play and hop, clay and hop.
At least I know to play!
A playful, goofy God--
now ain't I nicer than
that wrathful, jealous God?
Don't panic! Happy gods like me
are harmless, harmless. Well,
mostly harmless."
Bouncy clown, but I'm unsure
my foolgod fully solaces her.
Especially the hop. No scripture
goes for hopping gods, except
the Alice cult of Roo (she Springs!)
and those Orinocan rainfolk
Godding that frog. Oh well,
you can't soothe every witch.
But in my mostly harmless heart
still beats hop
Sketch of a dream by Wayan: a goofy-looking man with a halo, hopping

WAKING NOTES

Alder's friend, doll: Alder showed me a teak doll who cracks nuts between her thighs. Sexy, funny. Sort of a mascot for Alder's women's group.
The pudgy woman: seemed oddly generic--a mishmash of Alder's friends.
Molded clay: I resculpted part of Tharn today and planned to sculpt some dream figures.
Mummified body parts: just before bed I saw a BBC mystery. A scary madwoman kept her lover mummified in a locked room.
Cancer/soul: Yow! Alarming no matter how you read it:
1. Alder's friends (some? all?) mistrust men--they've centered their lives on old illness/trauma.
2. I'm literally contracting cancer.
3. Breast cancer's a symbol for nursing/caretaking others till you're used up!
4. I died of breast cancer... or from losing love. So I came back a man, a breastless restless clown, to ensure that won't happen again! Won't let my soul be touched.
I break into song: My conscious wants dream poems? OK! My dream whips up a song for me. Good Sméagol, alwayss helpsss.
Opening your legs can't wear out your clay: since a big romantic drama blew up last year I've felt used up. I think the dream says "Romantic burnout is just moping. Think you used up your LNR? [Lifetime Nookie Ration]... Genitals don't wear out."
Bowl-goddess vs. hop-god: the goddess is very Earth & Water; the hopper's Air and Fire. Tragedy vs. comedy? Pessimism vs. optimism? Neither's false; they complement.
"Don't panic" and "Mostly harmless" are key phrases in Douglas Adams's Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.
Alice cult of Roo: an Alice Springs group praying to the baby kangaroo in Winnie the Pooh. Why not? All you wish for pops out that marsupial pocket! What orofice did Jesus pull those fish from? Eww. I'll take the pouch.
Puns: witch/itch, hope/hop etc: deeper than they seem. Clowning did foster hope. So does sober maturity foster illness and despair?
ACTION:
1. Keep hopping, er, hoping. I'm not used up, just sick. Seek a cure--that woman survived her cancer. Play heals me. Maturity doesn't.
2. Stay wet! Drink more fluids. Or, um... share them.
This is Dreamverse #63. Every week, a dream-poem!

LISTS AND LINKS: Wicca - sculpture - breasts & genitals - sex - tricksters - song & dance - puns - I'm Just Not Myself Today! - God - two related mastectomy dreams: The Breast Bandit & Beryl's Dog Days - health advice in dreams - gender - the four Jungian functions: earth, water, fire & air - humor & pessimism - dream poetry - the Dreamverses project - the next Dreamverse: Ship of Jade

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I'm reading the Tarot for a woman I know-- one of Alder's pudgy Wiccan friends. Pebbles gleam wet in an altar-bowl where the soul she molded stands: blocky as pueblos, her dollsoul. Water nurses clay: the effigy's damp base is split: pull her legs unstuck! Only then can you touch her mummified organ, hid among the understones.	Her clit? Her shriveled heart? No, her cancered breast, cut years ago. Alder handled it, but as I touch, the molder flinches. She mistrusts all men. Oops! Too late now. I blurt "Don't worry over strange men you let open your legs. Your soul is ageless clay from Earth's birth. Damp, you can remold forever! New dolls; old soul."

No. Cold comfort for a witch. She wants warm. She wants flesh. So, a happy hopping Foole, round her room I sing: "I played God, I touched your soul. Play and hop, clay and hop. At least I know to play! A playful, goofy God-- now ain't I nicer than that wrathful, jealous God? Don't panic! Happy gods like me are harmless, harmless. Well, mostly harmless." Bouncy clown, but I'm unsure my foolgod fully solaces her. Especially the hop. No scripture goes for hopping gods, except the Alice cult of Roo (she Springs!) and those Orinocan rainfolk Godding that frog. Oh well, you can't soothe every witch. But in my mostly harmless heart still beats hop