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MAELSTROM AND BORE

Dreamed 1985/1/23 by Chris Wayan.

The maelstrom at low tide
Mudly hides my heart:
Shy, eluding
Peekabooing
My friend the Research Bird

Who cranes on rocking logs offshore
And sounds the black-oil water for
That murk-hid core!
Moraylike, that crater
Acoil below this gentle Heron's harbor.

Soon the maelstrom's ally, Tidal Bore,
Swept me and Crane and Audience all,
Up the riprap wall!
Salt-blind, at rocks I claw,
Near-drowned by a spiral

Heart-secret hoarder.

Dream: a sentient whirlpool in a harbor attacks a marine scientist who's a flamingo.

THE NEXT EVENING

My housemate Jamie turns on the TV and finds a show called THE DOLPHIN TOUCH, on the bay in Western Australia where wild dolphins come to be petted. I immediately recognize the scene as the source of my dream--a crowd thigh-deep in the shallow water, the powerful entities in the water...

But my dream turned it dark cold and murky, with hostile not friendly minds in the water. Why?

Jamie changes channels. She stumbles on Saturday Night Fever--a scene where a guy hangs by his hands from a bridge. My claw-hands, as the tidal bore tried to pull me down!

I think the grim tone of the dream was due to Jamie's confession yesterday--how a teacher had once come on to her, and when she didn't respond, he told a counselor she had sociability and attitude problems. Her story woke old feminist fears in me: that all males are just plain bad, so I must be bad too. And something more personal: I'm attracted to Jamie myself, so maybe I am like that teacher. I want to pet Jamie, not a dolphin.

Was that what the Malestrom, excuse me Maelstrom, was hiding?

NOTE ADDED 2000

This dream had small precognitive flashes, but because of the painful feelings it raised, I didn't focus on the hints of ESP. If you don't record mundane things (what your friends said, what TV shows you saw), you can miss small psychic hits entirely, even be fooled into thinking ESP is a myth, or rare and dramatic--avoiding plane crashes, not sailing on the Titanic. When most of mine have been quiet little things like this, eclipsed by strong feelings.

Like the night sky, full of bright blue-white stars, passionate, volatile, explosive... when the vast majority of stars are quiet little lamps of gold, orange and red. They live much longer, too--but they're hardly noticeable amid those big blue drama queens.

And when a maelstrom of guilt gets going, I'm afraid ESP gets drowned in the murk.



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