Saturday, May 15, 2010


The Priest: When you mention to them that you only look forward to sleeping because you dream, and you only wake in order to tire yourself in order to sleep again uninterrupted, to allow the organism to crest on the dwindling wave of the small hours, the black tide rolling in towards morning, then what "look" do they give you?


"How can you say this? How can you say you only live in your dreams? What about the wide world, all the opportunities it allows you?"

What opportunities?

"Will you still dream when all hope is gone?"

The Acolyte: As far as I know I was born with the seed of an unfinished idea planted deep within my mind, an idea, an opinion that framed the world in colors I could understand, and a desire to blend myself into the world - the entire experience of reality - and let the seed sprout, the plant to bloom. Was I born with it or was it implanted within me when I was young? Was it placed inside of my head later on, and the memories of the time before its breeding erased - or written over, so that they were tinted by the perception of the seed-laden? The seed to search, to seek, to never find...

The Novice: Now, at this time in my life, all of my experiences carry the shadow of this seed and this search. Whatever I experience in the waking world is transformed into the silver coin of true meaning within my dreams - it sheds its base animal nature, the events that transpire before me in the world step free of their flesh and become symbols - and I can understand everything so clearly, so instinctively, so effortlessly. All events and actions, all bodies, objects, motions - all experience is a book that I lean over in the bright light of dreams and read with a trembling finger halting over the individual words. Pausing, I spell out the inner meaning of everything that could not escape my notice during the day...everything that submerged itself within my subconscious [that deep internal ocean, the Absu, rolling black and roaring ever inwards] drifts towards the white shores of the conscious world...or rather: the conscious as it is represented in the unconscious, in dreams. Time is halted, reversed, moved forward, I scrub back and forth over individual happening and items of experience as a master editor, searching, piercing, picking out details, examining minutely at a microscopic level. The clarity is is the clarity and easy peace of uninterrupted investigation, the power of rootless, animated, unfettered freedom of movement, the liberty of instinct and pure desire translated almost instantly into the dialogue of experience and deduction. I learn from my dreams.

Oh most Sovereign Father: This clarity is of course an illusion.

The Cleric: How many things have I dreamed of that some part of me wishes so fervently, so eagerly, to find? A part that I am not supposed to admit the existence of, as if I have to shut away and hide away in deep dark spaces everything which makes me feel alive, natural, in harmony with experience and existence itself? The inner intuition that connects me to the larger world, that interprets reality and the link between it and my internal life, that enables me to live onwards year after year as all my hopes die and everything I have ever loved is taken from me? What is left but dreams? The love that one can find in dreams?

Dull days in, dull days out, grey and weary, one more automaton automated. One more living death. One more dreamless sleep. One last night on the edge of an abyss. Always "one more, one more" in an endless chain onwards into infinity.

And the end never comes.

The Prodigal: Here I am coming down, once again, from the hills that surround that sole citadel, the city on the mountain, pacing ever downward, feeling the pavement beneath my feet once again, these paths that I have walked so many times before. One would think of my weary way leaving a trace but there isn't anything to remember myself by, no smooth trail worn through the concrete as it seemingly doesn't have a memory for human times, in human time, and my life before did not leave a mark on its surface. The only scars are in my own mind and in my own memories. I am thankful that this world has not changed so much that I can not recognize what has come before, and I am grateful that vestiges of the world before, the realm that my memories tell me I loved before, still exists to measure myself against. Is it a fault if I find the person of the past wanting, deficient in so many ways and yet still beautiful?

"Not the person, no...I am not allowed to say that. Rather...what happened to that person, the experiences he had, that self that the present One wants to recapture, reclaim. What happened to the loves of the past?"

"What happened to me?"

The Dead: The past and the present join seamlessly at certain moments. When I am walking I turn and look across a horizon or particular view that opens a memory, the contents of the memory join with what I am presently gazing at, and the boundaries are erased...I can no longer feel my body (who would want that?), I am not the present or the past or all those tired dreams of the future and what was possible, no, there is only a nothingness, the blue or gray sky, the sounds of the wind, the feeling of cement and asphalt beneath me slowly humming. Cityscapes are my favorite because their loneliness seems almost like something out of a dream. I never meet anyone else on my walks throughout this city and if I did one day meet someone I would not talk with them. I wouldn't know what to say. My lips would be sealed by so much sun, so much silence, so much concrete and glass. So many reflections, so many miles paced with my head down, my thoughts always somewhere else, and when I am home my thoughts are there again, in that world...

U. Amtey
26 February 2004