The Phantom roar of an ancient ocean tide
A storm raging on the sun,
Annihilation a billion light years away
Roaring Helios, Titan unfettered, alien and distant
Unfathomable might, reins past mortal mind
Cestial symphony, groaning giant
If you spoke shattered sound would echo
Over the nine fixed powers,
A turn of your face-
Apollo, light bringer, purifier of rituals
Prophet, appear before closed eyes
Drawing down revaluations
Silver thread in the dreamy path
Float past the dark unknown
Quiet and unmoving figure in shadowy sanctuary
Heavy in cement, garish colours and mass produced worship
Your arms wide, open and embracing the slums and towers
The misery, noisy and desperate incantations- calculus for virtue
Hungry in extravagant prayer, furious in all encompassing faith
Harder and colder in steely indifference, gold hearted over empty stomachs
Adorned, lavished, ancient and praised amongst aching limbs and inner torment
Before you we fearfully fold in submission, for you may be muted,
But the devil’s voice is always echoed, among spectral nations and monstrous profit
Blood drinking machines and ciphers in our souls
Oracle class cancelled, for foreseen circumstances
A day of autumn
The river one dark line
How free the wind
Like my last dream with a statue of Apollo, which I wrote about, last nights’ dream has left me with a riddle.
This time with two Wiccan/Hermetic Godheads, which came after a day of research, just like last time. This dream however was a more bit esoteric than the last one.
The dream takes place in my room. I lay down on my bed with four things next to me, on the windowsill. The four things included my glasses, my phone, a snail and a mystery object I can’t recall. The snail took on the role of an alarm clock. Something like a ‘to do list’ for the day, except it literally controlled what I would do the next day.
The four objects were hidden once I drew down my curtain. When I woke up, I drew the curtain back, now marked with a single snail trail across it. I touch the snail on the windowsill and I see a single dark log of wood, upright and marked with a single faintly white circle. In the dream I reason that this is the sign of the Wiccan Horned God.
Immediately, the dream shifts to a colleague of mine in the same setting. Expect she gets a lecture from her sister before she goes to bed, and she relates this lecture to her husband before going to sleep herself. The same four objects are behind the curtain. In real life she has no glasses and no husband.
She draws the curtain back, touches the snail and sees one upright log resting on a horizontal log. The logs are covered in leather and something about this configuration resembles a scorpion. The upright log has three circles on it, naturally I think, a sign of the Wiccan Triple Goddess.
Now this dream, doesn’t have any Chechovian weapons or sheilds like the last one, but I have the same question- what, my dear readers, could this mean?
A week or so ago, when the year just began, I was doing some reading on the Orphic mysteries and Gnosticism.
Soon after I dreamt of Apollo. Invoked in marble, I approached the statues’ base and he gave me two bronze arrowheads and a buckler sheild, circular with a semi-circular boss in the middle. The bronze was aged, a green bronze, beautiful like no other metal exposed to the elements can be. It occurred to me the size of the sheild could also change.
The figure of Apollo was thought to be dual natured, sometimes Helios, the sun god. What’s important to us is that he was know as a prophet, an Oracle besides the usually connection he has to messages.
It seems to me that I’ve been given a riddle. So my readers, do you know what I could do with two arrowheads and a sheild?
Old winter cold
Goes to sleep
In bird cries
Dewdrop pearls in the night
My shadow falls against the leaves of the temple wall
Sorrounded by towering branches, shaky forms shudder
Under the nightly breeze
And against the temples lights, burning through all the year,
My shadow joins, facing away in a dark alcove
There’s a iron hum hitting my mind like the explosive sound of water dripping one excruciating droplet at a time. How, how could anyone have taken any joy in a day at home? The stillness of life resembles my balcony and everything beneath it. There are flashes of curiosity but everything turns to the unnatural emptiness of everyone staying at home. Soon and always the twitching crows, distant bird calls, rats fighting over bird feed is all that’s certain. Every crow is the same- glossy, suspicious with keen unseeing eyes and calling unheard inquiries. There are no ravens on my mantle and the only phantoms are the days rushing by.
There’s a soft seriousness about astrology, one that you should never really examine in its adherents. It’s the same no matter if it’s young women reading magazines or middle aged cranks visiting frauds who advertise on street posters.
I don’t doubt it’s effectiveness, having your fate in the stars must be a kind of liberation in the passive lives of its patrons. Maybe that’s why they worshipped planets in the first place, mercury is in retrograde and you have a one in twelve chance you share some common ground with the more fortunate.
Of course I know better than to take literally everything people take seriously. I’ve got my own crank theory I’m working on, based on the idea of the bicaramel mind and a bit of Jungianism. Julian Jaymes believed that the history of language predates that of conscious thought. So every now and then early man would hear a voice that guided him though crisis and he mistook it for the voice of Gods and Goddesses.
I’m not sure what I’ll do with my conspiracy yet, maybe cut down on day dreams or even try and cut off that inner monologue. Why shouldn’t I? There are people who never had anything at all in their minds and seem to get by just fine. Or maybe I’ll listen to that inner voice like it’s some trapped divinity mindlessly yammering about my life.