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Pool of Truth
Dreamed 1983/10/1 by Katherine Metcalf Nelson
"Anything capable of being imagined is an image of truth"--William Blake
POOL OF TRUTH
It is late at night. Police lights flash in darkness around a massive accident
at an intersection. Naked bodies are strewn across the road.
I think of Gericault's Raft of the Medusa, a wreck at sea that reduced
political idealism to cannibalism. Destruction and pain. Nausea floods me
as I turn in the opposite direction, sickened by this devastating confusion
of gas, blood, steel, and flesh.
Descending spiral stairs to a ground-level patio, I meet mothers and daughters
who talk about charity and friendship. I wish I could believe this
Mormon sermon of "good-sister" values, but I feel uneasy in this space.
We are handed round cakes and told, "Throw a piece into the pool of truth
and ask a question." My three friends ask questions about life and love,
but I cannot. I throw my cake into the pool and suddenly out pops,
"Should I paint?"
Below me, stairs covered with skins of white bears lead to a lower level.
As I go down, I feel a sharp biting pain in my left hand. Taking my hand
off the rail, I step carefully over the sleeping polar bears.
Source: Katherine Metcalf Nelson's Night Fishing, 1997, p.74
This dream is three-leveled. Not interpretively--literally.
Most of my three-level dreams go up--I find and climb secret stairs to unexpected floors, attics, roofgardens. KMN is Jungian, though. She goes down into the primal underworld far deeper than mere platitudes and scriptural one-size-fits-all truth. It's clearly a shamanic journey; that last descent involves real pain, real cost.
- Ground-level car crash. Deaths.
- Nausea as descend a spiral stair, to...
- Mormon platitudes. Pool of truth? No answers.
- Pain as descend the polar-bear stair, to...
- Unknown depths.
I know that cost. The same night KMN dreamt this, I dreamed I died--and then had to fight for Dead Rights.
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