Sunday, March 23, 2008


Yet another dream

Last night I had a dream about men. There were no women in the dream. Even I was a man. The setting was in a distant past. I, along with many other men, was being buried into an underground tomb, a sacrifice to some god. I was both participant and observer. I could see my own terrified eyes as the tomb was covered. I was a handsome man, muscular, tanned, bearded. Several of us decided we would dig ourselves out. We walked from the burial chamber to a vast underground room, beautifully decorated with gold. We dug and dug. We dug until we got out. But we were discovered and hunted down. Our strategy was to don the clothes or our captors and hide among them. And this worked. We lay down with our enemies to sleep at night, and they never even knew we were there.

I can't be sure, but I think the dream has something to do with a quote I added last night to my Facebook profile before I went to bed:

Indirect tactics, efficiently applied, are inexhaustible as Heaven and Earth, unending as the flow of rivers and streams; like the sun and moon, they end but to begin anew; like the four seasons, they pass away to return once more.

The Art of War by Sun Tzu
Chapter V: Energy

1 comment:

ggw07 said...

Brilliant rich dream! Is this a metaphor for what a woman needs to do to survive? Especially a female writer?



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Northwest Ohio, United States
"I was no better than dust, yet you cannot replace me. . . Take the soft dust in your hand--does it stir: does it sing? Has it lips and a heart? Does it open its eyes to the sun? Does it run, does it dream, does it burn with a secret, or tremble In terror of death? Or ache with tremendous decisions?. . ." --Conrad Aiken


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Fave Painting: Eden

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The Secret of Hurricanes : That article in the Waterville Scout said it was Shake- spearean, all that fatalism that guides the Kennedys' lives. The likelihood of untimely death. Recently, another one died in his prime, John-John in an airplane. Not long before that, Bobby's boy. While playing football at high speeds on snow skis. Those Kennedys take some crazy chances. I prefer my own easy ways. Which isn't to say my life hasn't been Shake-spearean. By the time I was sixteen, my life was like the darkened stage at the end of Hamlet or Macbeth. All littered with corpses and treachery.

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