THAT DAY

I'm reading Emanuel Swedenborg's 1744 dream journal. For such an early dreamworker he's remarkably openminded about interpretation, though he's awfully hard on himself--he wants to emulate Jesus, become a saint. On the other hand he sort of achieved it.

He reminds me a bit of the modern writer Caroline Myss (Defy Gravity and Invisible Acts of Power): if you have rare gifts they come from God, so you must be godly--serve others selflessly. Fulltime. Certainly a psychic's only career option is sainthood.

Hmm. Only?

THAT NIGHT

At dinner with friends in a cafe. A strange beggar comes in and pesters us. He's just 60-70 cm tall, looks like a cubical robot on four wobbly legs. A talkative robot, and it's all directed at me. He thinks he's a saint or Christ figure who's come to tell me to drop my nonsense of indulging my creative whims and projects--art is selfish!--and take up my spiritual calling to help others--starting, apparently, with him.

I am not amused. Soon I can't even stay polite. He's not just demanding donations but claiming the right to rule my life! Persistent too. I lay out just why I'm mad at him--"You smile and talk of Christian humility while you order me around! I might have listened if you'd shown a scrap of genuine holiness but all I see is a power game. I decline to play. Get out. NOW!" By the end, I'm yelling.

He leaves only when I cause a scene.

Half an hour later the robot nag comes back in a humanoid body. Tall, white, bearded. A proper Old Testament prophet this time! But the same aura, the same spiel, and he doesn't hide it's him again.

Old whine in a new bottle!

This time it gets physical. He orders me around, and won't leave. At last I fight him--wrestle, throw him down--he bangs his head. I pick him up by his scruffy robe and pitch him out the door like an unruly drunk. "AND STAY OUT!"

Wake. It's 4 AM. I'm a little embarrassed--fistfights with saints?--but not much. I didn't start the bar fight; I just ended it.

NOTES IN THE MORNING

• Sainthood as a club to bully me with:
  1. Swedenborg and Caroline Myss: serve, serve, serve! Sorry, I'm not letting you wannabe-saints dictate my life to me. You like that, you go do it, great! But I decide for me. Not even all those in a Christian tradition went so far: Tolstoy sure aspired to sainthood but gave himself time to write, and even Swedenborg kept up his scientific work! So don't tell me I can't write and draw and sing my childish dreams, while mobs of you play your grownup games--whether saint or killer. You don't need one more.
  2. This nagging-style is familiar. My ex Kay used to manipulate me with feminist guilt-tripping. Utterly different ideology, but the same underlying assumption: "Submit to my superior wisdom."
  3. Freud's wrong about a lot, but right that it often goes back to childhood. What was toxic about my parents' values wasn't their specific ideology, which was fairly humane; it was that they taught principles get to trample feelings. So any sophist could guilt-trip me!
• At least I can answer such manipulators now: "I don't care how noble you are. You want to decide for me. But I'm not your kid or dog or robot or slave." Saying that's progress, but I'm still not free. When people pull this, I get derailed by rage, pulled into a fight I didn't ask for! Instead of just saying "I don't owe you a thing" and just ignoring them.

World Dream Bank homepage - Art gallery - New stuff - Introductory sampler, best dreams, best art - On dreamwork - Books
Indexes: Subject - Author - Date - Names - Places - Art media/styles
Titles: A - B - C - D - E - F - G - H - IJ - KL - M - NO - PQ - R - Sa-Sh - Si-Sz - T - UV - WXYZ
Email: wdreamb@yahoo.com - Catalog of art, books, CDs - Behind the Curtain: FAQs, bio, site map - Kindred sites