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?
Yesterday, the same day I came back from my trip home, I dreamt I was back in the manor I grew up in.
It is an old bunglow with old walls thick enough to beat a canon. I am in my parents room, old white paint lathered on crumbling and thick walls, dusty windows covered with stickers I put up twenty years ago. Water damage and cracks sneak along the corners but are never enough to bring anything down. The walls have been flaking and crumbling for years but the walls are deep enough to take a hundred more years of decay.
My parents aren’t in the room, because it’s a makeshift classroom. The are tables from my college and my English department too. I see a water-can in the corner filled with white pebbles and glittering deco. I reach it, examine it while I turn it over. A woman is talking about lost papers.
A professor, one who looks like a hippie met a gorilla with a personality that made him a few feet taller, is near by. Sitting on a bench close to the window with the thick iron bars. My grandmother is next to him reading the veins on his hands and praising the wisdom of the ancients.
I put the water-can back but I can’t get it back to the way it was. After I’ve examined it, it’s shaky and to my surprise twice as small. My grandmother is done devining disease and fortune from veins. She hands me a green paper box to place over the water can. The paper is a beautiful aged emerald green, with golden threads running under its thin and discolored spots.
It’s edges have sleeves, and when I examine it I find four smaller wood coloured papers tucked delicately on one side. It cannot be placed back, it doesn’t make sense that it was ever there in the first place. The 4 papers have fifteenth century Japanese art on it, painted with golden ink ingrained in the paper.
It’s not the kind of art you’d expect, fifteen century Japanese art was very close to Chinese styles, the more familiar variety comes after the Edo period. It shows the Buddha and his deciples being promised Buddhahood and Indian mythology probably the Ramayana. That was where the dream ended or where my memory fails me.
Bringing his paw down on my chest with all his weight behind it, his wide eyed stare and desperate mews informing me he needs a midnight snack.
He’s got a flare for the dramatic, mewing and howling while he darts between my legs. He pauses so we can make eye contact, then turns to the shelf where the cat food is kept, then back to my face and then to his reflection mewing at it. This is his little ritual, his foolproof method of making sure the humans understand what he wants.
He seems to know when I’m dreaming, his mews cutting through whatever absurd scenario I’m caught in. The scene pauses and everyone in the dream looks around till I realise I have to feed my cat. I smile apologetically while I leave the dream and rush to the cabinet.
Without my glasses he’s just a drowsy white blur in darkness. I’m quick to go back to sleep after petting him while he chows down greedily. As I slip back into sleep, I have him besides me looking for whatever it was I was dreaming.
These rituals always help me remember my dreams in the morning, the stories I recall begin with my pet mewing.
I dreamt we walked the paddy fields
Amidst the shells of yellow cars
Silver inscriptions from their authors
Glinting but dulling, with the dipping sun
I break from my travel companions
Pushing forward, caring not to look back
The rainwater has washed the path away
I skip and leap, through I know
My shoes are gone
Down by the wooden grain store
Under its cold wooden rafters, I felt
Trapped on a pillar, the breeze pushing
The only thing holding me down
Your shaded eyes
Dreamt of a dog I used to have, Honey, who looked like a really short Sheepdog . I couldn’t tell you if she was long lived or short, it’s hard to time someone’s whose been a part of your early life, but she was beloved like all dogs you dream about.
I hadn’t thought of her in a while; I ran my hand through her fur and felt it like 10 years ago, like time stood still to let me meet an old friend. I awoke and realized I couldn’t remember how or when she died and felt a little surprised she was no longer alive.
I mentioned it and a lecturer offered a little Freud. I was the dog, a symbol of loyalty, a trait my friends vouched for. What I didn’t say was that I had had another dream the night before, one where I met a friend I hadn’t spoken to in a while.
So there you have it, two dreams of mine talking to each other, telling me to wait patiently for my friend. Of course if you’re careful there’s a lot to read between these few lines but this is just the surface not the whole Freud.