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Monsters, Monsters, Everywhere – A Dream

(Confession — I had this dream in mid-July. I don’t recall what was occupying my mind at that time, but it seems appropriate to post it on the platform-booted heels of Halloween.)

We have been warned — we deviate from the path at our peril. There is no other guarantee of safe passage through the graveyard. Night and gloaming surround. Elongated shadows arch themselves over hillocks of drifting snow, but I easily find the sinuous depression winding through that indicates safety. I tell my son and husband to remain close, and then push through the frosted crust, breaking a trail. No sooner have we begun, than my husband has stumbled off the trail into deep snow. Alarmed, I call out, my voice hissing, and although he returns quickly, it’s too late. A distant howl of pursuit echoes, hollow and eerie, growing ever closer. The zombies are deceived neither by speed nor misstep.

With increased determination, I push through the snow. The path leads past neatly arranged headstones and down a cleft. Walls of snow rise up on either side of us as we descend steps hewn from ice-rimed stone. At the staircase’s bottom, a large chamber opens before us — at its far end is a scaffold beneath which spills an enormous quantity of foam peanuts and lint-like packing materials. I instruct that we must bury ourselves from sight within them, so the zombies will not scent us. My son and I are successful, but my husband does not sufficiently bury himself — his right elbow and side remain exposed. The zombies drag him out. I cannot see, but I hear all.

In the chaos, my son and I escape. We swim beneath the sea of packing peanuts and emerge in a narrow, worked-stone hallway which opens into another rectangular chamber. One third of this room’s length is galleried, raised several feet higher than the rest. In the gallery, poised over a large cauldron and gesturing dramatically, is a wild-haired mad-scientist. I warn my son to look away, that he must not linger, must not approach the mad scientist, but I am distracted. To my elation, my husband has returned and appears remarkably unaltered by his zombie encounter. Meanwhile, my son is unable to overcome the mad-scientist’s compulsion and has stepped up into the gallery. He is immediately transformed into a vampire. Rushing forth from the gallery, he vaults the stone railing to attack a woman — my sister?! — at the chamber’s far end. They collapse in a heap on the floor near a low dais upon which rests a closed, black coffin. My son-turned-vampire attempts, inexpertly, to bite. I must do something…must act…but I cannot. I cannot strike out because the vampire is my son, whom I love. The scene plays out like bad fiction until my surroundings slowly begin to tilt and revolve around me.

Created with Nokia Smart Cam — “Monsters, Monsters, Everywhere” — C.Birde, 7/15

dreams writing

Tradition — A Dream

I peer through a square pane of glass, smudged at the corners with grit. This lends the scene below an antique character — curving, cobbled streets, damp from a passing shower; tall, sun-washed buildings leaning shoulder to shoulder. I realize I am in Pamplona, and an image in sepia tones appears before my mind’s eye, crowding out all else — a photo that has not yet been taken, of a bull being speared. The great creature’s body has been captured as it rears up, front hooves churning air, head and horns twisting leftward. A long, black lance-like spear thrusts from the bull’s right side body.

For a moment, I wonder how the photographer could manage to take the photo without being trampled himself. I speculate as to a structure that might be placed in the street’s center to protect the photographer on three sides when the runners and the bull arrive, and thus divert the tide of violence to pass around while affording an incredible view of the spectacle.

Suddenly, all is noise and chaos. I press my cheek to the glass. Surrounded by waves of people, the very bull I had foreseen in the photo runs past my cropped, squared-off view. Mud rises from the street in clots. Feet and hooves pound. The bull bellows, the men shout. From my vantage, I see a man below and to the right — he pauses at the fringe of commotion. In his hands is a great, black lance decorated lavishly with twists and coils vining from the hand guard down the lance’s length and diminishing upon reaching the weapon’s smooth, elongated tip. The man hefts the lance, draws his arm back in an impossible arc, and hurls the lance forward. It strikes first the cobbled street at an acute angle, sending up glittering sparks, then ricochets up to impale the charging bull squarely beneath its right front shoulder. The bull bellows rage and pain as the lance wags against its side body.

I find myself whisked from my lofty vantage and planted in the middle of the street behind the final wave of berserking humans who are thrilled at the sight of the bull’s shed blood. Within me, I feel a great pressure building from the soles of my feet, rushing upward to fill my lungs, until I am shouting. My voice is huge: “I don’t care if it’s tradition. I HATE it.” I do not feel as though any one has heard me.

Submerged — A Dream

Sleep. Heavy as guilt, heavy as duty. It swamps. It suffocates. It rests like a great weight, pressing upon me so that I cannot think, rise, lift an eyelid. I see myself on the narrow bed, in the small cabin I share with several friends, with my boyfriend. They tried to wake me, and I struggled to oblige but could not force my way to waking. The effort had me rolling off the bed, falling to the floor in a tangle of sheets and blanket, where I remain, submerged in sleep.

My friends move about the cramped cabin space gathering objects — towels, buckets, hats. They are concerned for me, but the ship has reached port and docked. They have places to go, things to do; they are eager to go ashore. I cannot tell them it’s okay, leave me; I’ll simply sleep. Out of a sense of guilt or responsibility, one of them calls the ship’s physician, who arrives promptly. Instead of examining me, however, the doctor proceeds to massage my boyfriend. I see all through the narrowest slit of my eyelids, through the lattice of eyelashes. He lies face down on the bed opposite me, and she has straddled his back, leaned in close, hands upon his shoulders, head dipped low enough to whisper in his ear. What does she say? He smiles, oblivious to her aims, to my neglect. I cannot voice my upset.

They leave — my boyfriend and the others. As the door closes softly on their exit, I realize one friend remains. She elects to stay behind with me, to watch over me. In my heap of blankets and inert limbs on the floor, I am overwhelmed with silent gratitude. My friend can’t lift me, so she grasps the tangle of blankets, drags me to the cabin’s center. She talks to me, encourages me to wake, demands that I wake. She shakes my shoulders, gently at first, then with increasing agitation and insistence. She slaps me. It stings. I want her to stop, to leave me alone. In frustration, she looks away…and must recall the fairy tale of “Sleeping Beauty”. Slowly, she turns and regards me for a long moment. I see decisiveness flicker in her eyes. Even in my sleep-slurred state, I feel a prick of alarm. She unbuttons her blouse, puckers her lips, and leans over me…and, to our mutual surprise, I manage to emerge from labyrinthine slumber before she can kiss me. I’m uncertain if she is as relieved as I.

Although I am now awake, I am far from alert — a fog fills me, edges my peripheries. My dutiful friend begins to neaten the cabin. She gathers the drift of linens from the floor, remakes beds, straightens dressers, table and chairs. Kneeling on the floor together, we pick up tiny pieces of Lego and return them to rigid plastic bins. Neither of us speaks.

dreams writing

Autumn Reservoir — An Image

“Autumn Reservoir” — C.Birde, 10/16/15

Slowly, the Reservoir refills,

its shoreline diminishing,

as a narrow ribbon of water twists

and dashes around worn-smooth stones

ordinarily submerged.

–C.Birde

Nature photo poetry trees

Melodrama — A Dream

If I stand very still, if I do not move, I can see back over the spill of decades, over lifetimes to this specific scene. A grand foyer, Victorian in style, seen as if through a hole in…time? The scene’s edges darken, obscured by shadow. But at the center, the view is bright and clear — a staircase sweeps upward on the left, with heavily ornamented wrought-iron railing; straight ahead, a carved and paneled entry stands with double doors flung wide, opening onto a sunlit two-story chamber. Everything — every nook and cranny, the walls and ceiling — is highly decorated…carved, painted, flocked, tiled, gilt. The opulence is striking. The staircase, thickly carpeted, leads upward, down a hall. A railing on the right overlooks the large, two-story chamber; doors line the left wall. Each door is heavy and dark with a polished brass knob and key-hole — and, disturbingly, a small barred window is inset upon each door’s face. I realize I am viewing an antique hospital; perhaps, an asylum.

Movement catches my attention — the opaque form of a woman. A ghost. Slowly, she drifts toward the stairs. My view narrows, focuses upon her vaporous shape and follows her closely. Up. Along the balconied hall. Past one door, then another, and another. She is grief-stricken, clutching diffuse hands to her sternum, weeping silently. Her sad history unfolds within me. She — young, naive, trusting; he — older, wealthy, arrogant. His gifts and flattery and promises of security — so persistent, so calculated. Over time, her resolve eroded. When their child was born, he had her locked away in this very hospital; he took the baby. Ultimately, she lost all.

Over and done. Swept into the dust of time’s passage. The young woman never recovered from her grief. The man died old and unrepentant, protected by his wealth and stature. What I cannot see, as I stand here, viewing this place and this scene, its history and edges obscured by grit and shadow — is what became of the child.

dreams ghosts writing

The Tarn Trail (Kane Path) — A Truth

Boulders for stepping stones pressed

against the Tarn’s edge;

Smooth waters dimpled and pocked

with browned lily pads and

rusted grasses rippled

by insistent breeze;

Break upon woodland

of lump-barked ashes,

rough maples and fine-needled pines

lit by fleet, dappled light;

Rock- and root-strewn path

of hard-packed earth

carpeted with fallen leaves

undulating, wave-like;

The air, wildflower scented —

asters, goldenrods, and hawkweed;

Leopard frog amidst the leaf mould;

All sounds of humanity,

except our own,

fallen away.

–C.Birde

Nature photographs poetry trees

Follow-Up to Wrong Number, Wrong Location — A Nightmare Dissected

Last night, I discussed the dream in my previous post with a dear friend of mine. She is familiar with Jungian Dream Analysis and knows me well enough to apply her ability and insights to my zany dreams. Having her objective viewpoint to help decode my dreams has been a real gift over past years. I tend to get so caught up in a dream’s narrative and detail, I’m often unable to see its symbolic language, which was particularly true in this instance.

My friend pointed out that during our recent conversations, I had said specifically that I felt “cut off” from my son. In mid-August, he began his sophomore year of college, and for numerous reasons, I thought it would be easier to adapt to his absence this year than last. Having a year under our belts and being familiar with the terrain now has overall decreased any anxiety we previously had experienced. He is a good fit for his college of choice, and all that that entails, including the friendships he’s made there. I had assumed, since there were fewer unknowns this year, that the transition would be easier. But ease is no replacement for presence. I miss him.

Seen from this perspective, my dream’s symbology makes much more sense. It was populated exclusively by women — a small group of nurses, and many other female patients who were grieving and pained, having had whole or partial mastectomies. Women nurse their children at the breast. These women had been literally cut off — precisely the phrase I have been using when I describe how I miss my son.

I still miss my son, but now the dream’s disturbing imagery has been diluted and translated into something I can understand. I am grateful to my friend for her keen perception. And I am very grateful to my husband, who suggested the tonic to help alleviate my sense of distance and disconnect — FaceTime.

Wrong Number, Wrong Location — A Nightmare

White-tiled floors, white-walled corridors. I push through the Hospital’s double doors and arrive at a busy nurses’ station. All the women behind the counter are dressed in blue scrubs, and one harried individual looks up at me. I tell her I’m here for my mammogram appointment. For a moment, all activity stops as the women stare. One checks a clipboard for my name, and doubtfully asks when I made my appointment. My answer doesn’t suit the question; I tell her I’m overdue and found the number in the phone book. She is surprised to find my name on the list, calls one of the other nurses to take me to my room.

My guide leads me briskly through another double door that swings shut behind us as we enter a large, dim area. There are rows of beds here, lined up against the curving walls, and each bed is curtained off in the same dull, flat blue of the nurses’ scrubs. I must hurry, or the nurse will outpace me, but I notice that in each bed we speed by lies a sobbing woman. Many of them clutch pillows to themselves in obvious pain. Most, if not all, wear dressing gowns soaked through with blood. The aisle we hurry down is haphazardly cluttered with tables, each of which contains a shallow, aged-white vessel that resembles a large, elongated marrow bone. The vessels vary slightly in shape and size, but each holds a dusky-pink liquid that bubbles and pops like thickened mud.

In an instant, I realize all these women have had mastectomies, full or partial. When I looked up the phone number to make my appointment, I must inadvertently have dialed the breast cancer unit. I’m stunned. So much pain and suffering. Why is no one helping with the patients’ pain? Why haven’t proper sterilization protocols been used? I do not belong here.

The nurse stops in front of an occupied bed — a woman lies in the fetal position, hugging a pillow to herself. She registers our presence through her pain and tears, and gingerly crawls from the bed. Her look at me is poisonous. The nurse tells me I must wait here, in this rumpled bed with its tangle of blood-stained linens. She hands me a lead-lined wrap to protect me when I am eventually x-rayed. On the back of the wrap, written hastily in clumsy block letters, is the word “maggot”.