fileg (fileg) wrote,

Dream Journaling

I have been subject to that winter thing lately - that anti-hibernating thing. Not just that I prefer estivation to hibernation -- the one where I simply never feel the urge to sleep. It would be great if I remained sharp, as I did when I was young - but nowadays I am really only good for about 2 days of it. The third day can be ok if I have simple tasks to do - sorting graphics, making spaghetti sauce -

This is the first year I have been intensively writing anything but journals. (It will be a year soon - Henneth Annun has Finduilas, my first Denethor poem, dated as 03/20/03). And so it is the first year I have been observant of the fact that the longer I stay up, the more vivid the pictures in my brain are, and the more formed and intriguing my dreams are -- but I am too scattered to write them down. But if I sleep (when I can sleep) I remove myself from whatever staying up is doing to the brain. It is very strange.

I have been reading my old journals (I am reading 1967 at the moment) with an eye to typing what I want to keep (or scanning, in some cases) and throwing away that which I know I would be mortified to have any of you reading, even if I wasn't here. (you really don't need a recap of every episode of Star Trek or The Monkees, what Leonard Nimoy wore on a talk show or if I put off writing that report one more day.)

I am surprised both by how much utter trash I was capable of writing down as important, (in those days, it was just important to move the pen against the page - I think it was my version of sex) and by how much of what I wrote when I was WRITING is actually pretty good.

Because of this, I have been thinking about my early life quite a lot.

It is amusing to me to see how many times I wrote that I wanted to be *R* when I grew up, now that I have met him and feel that I can call him my friend.

And how many times the name "Faramir" is written in a margin, usually quite alone, since I never wrote down the sort of thing I might have been thinking about him.

There is a lot of poetry, some of which is pretentious as only that age can allow you to be, but some with a line contained in it that makes my eyes fill (my only test for words)

My politics are still recognizable, and my taste in music runs to more, more, more of the same.

And it is interesting to see the repeating dreams repeat - they come much closer together this way than they do in the "meat" world.

When I was very small, (sometime around 7, when I first began to write things down, I already knew there was a pattern to them) I had two recurring dreams. The first was a nightmare which haunted me for years, of standing quite still, terrified to move, while insects (mostly moths) brushed their wings against my face. They never hurt me, but it was a terrible, fearful experience for me. I have never understood where it originally came from, but I am terrified of insects, and of things flying at my face. Insects will go out of their way to fly at my eyes, as anyone who has ever been in a canoe with me has been convinced of.

The second is a dream about being born.

I am floating free in space when the dream starts, and I can hear my mother calling to me. I am quite anxious to bond with her, and she has fallen in love with the planet she has chosen and is drawing me to her here. The world stretches out beneath me like a luminous ball, all blue and green. It is so beautiful, and I am glad to be called. And then I realize I am going to be put into a body, and I am overwhelmed by a feeling of panic, but it is too late- I have made a promise and taken a bond.

As I am pulled toward the planet, I can see bright spots of light across the globe and they seem to calm me. I know they are souls which will be able to transform my life, but they are so scattered I will never be able to find them all. I summon my light and I go forth to connect with as many as I can reach in the time I have, hoping to exchange with them a signal of some kind that will let me recognize them later, waking.

Some of the spots are symbols for souls that are yet to be born, and I leave small pieces of my light as a marker. Some are already here, and I try to reach out to them, intruding as gently as I can into their lives to let them know I am coming and I need them. (Yes, I recognize that as selfish, but infants are all about selfishness - like Buddha, all babies cry "I am God" when they are born. And I never leave a mark where I don't leave part of myself as the price.)

Then I see a light so bright I almost lose the urge to be born, I want so badly to stay with it. I feel a deep wild green forest, northern hardwoods, and the light within it so bright I whisper "Lucifer" and my soul corrects me, saying "No. Lugh."

The need to belong here is so great I try to touch it, to make actual physical contact. There is so much light and such a deep loneliness. But as I reach out, I am pulled down the tunnel to the light, just like dying, except that the tunnel is my mother and I am being born. I am pulled violently away from the source of the light, and I feel my "hand" leaving a mark; a mark like a comet. I scream, begging him to let me stay, to be his student. He is so brilliant, and I know if I am to stay on this planet I need to learn to love the light the way I have always loved the deep darkness of space.

Then, the bright soul reaches after me, catching at what will be my leg and trying to keep me there. But I am pulled away to my mother, somewhere else on this bluegreen planet, and his light leaves a mark on my leg; a mark like a half moon.

I wonder now if I used this dream to explain the scar on my leg to my unconscious in some symbolic way, symbols being almost all I understood then. But I may have had this dream even before the accident, and when I was small the scar was less well defined and took up most of my leg. Now, of course, it is shaped like a half moon, and is about the right size for a child’s hand to have grasped it. And I have, in my life, experienced "recognition" with several people, and connected with many points of light who have lit up my life like a crown of stars, like neurons in a net, but I have never been sure that I have found who it is that bears the mark like a comet.

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