Friday, April 13, 2012
My dreams were scantily populated, and their spaces were wide. I was in a tall office building, looking for the men’s room, but there were few people to ask, and I preferred to look for myself. So I found myself descending an echoing staircase. Three floors down, I found the men’s room. Someone was in there. It’s a place where men don’t speak to strangers, an unspoken rule, though I understand it’s quite different in the ladies’ room, where they chatter uninhibitedly. When we were well clear, the man going down the stairs and I going back up, I called to him: “Would you like to see something?” Without waiting for a reply, I took a leap down the stairwell to a lower level, in a gentle parabolic trajectory. Landing lightly, I bounced halfway back up, and without any effort hovered in the air, at eye-level with the man. It was a good feeling, vanity of course, but as it seemed to me, I was being generous to take such a risk, and show something beautiful to a fellow human being. I have done a similar thing in real life, on a smaller scale. It was in a bookshop in Great Missenden. I performed a Balducci levitation for the benefit of the assistant, then left the scene before he recovered to ask questions (see this post), just as I now did in the dream.
In another scene—I wasn’t conscious of a chronological sequence or cause-effect relationship—we were on the Thames waterfront to get to Crystal Palace. The roads were almost empty of traffic, and there were few pedestrians. The skyline was dimly visible because some buildings were outlined in neon lights, but all the street lights were out nearby and we were enveloped in a blue-black gloom. How could we find our way back? No public transport, no taxis, no landmarks to help us walk in the right direction.previous post), which changes its colours to dark blues and greens for the night hours; thus impressing upon me the theme and colour scheme for this dream-scene. Oddly, I never connected my trick on the pylon with the subsequent power outage over part of London.
In the final scene it is bright day, and I’m at the edge of a village green, approaching a booth selling sweets of several kinds. I pick up a wrapped candy and see that it has a web address which I can’t quite make out, because the ends are twisted. The woman selling them, educated and precise in manner, starts to ask me a number of searching questions. I form the opinion that she is a psychiatrist, touting for business. The candy is a lure. As soon as you take an interest, she does a rapid personality analysis and tries to sign you up for a course of treatment. This is a bit much, think I. And then I wake.
The night is still, the bed is comfortable, I don’t want to move. It’s enough to lie here, but I don’t want to stay awake. How can I get back to that dream-world, where anything is possible, and I’m not oppressed by thoughts? With no conscious effort, I find myself focusing on the act of breathing. The more I try not to, the more it happens. It was my main religious practice for thirty years. The purpose of religious beliefs is to prop up the practice, and vice versa. Now I have repudiated both. You’d think, after this, I could come back with a traveller’s tale; or if not, I could give an opinion on breath meditation, to praise or condemn. But, in this moment, I’m ambivalent. It’s powerful but then so is modern technology, including weaponry. Perhaps I’ll write about it in my next, and then you will judge for yourself.
Posted by Vincent at 10:07 pm