My love for you is like a summer day: a deep blue diamond canvasing the dome of the universe. My love for you is like a blue sky with an occasional cloud hanging by; and, then it is the march of a wall of doom, gray: thunderheads gritting teeth; every drop seeking to dig under dirt; thunderbolts seeking vengeance, declaring it must needs be union: absolute drench even upon its undoing; and, my love is like a summer day.
-
Grit
–––––––
-
By your armor, I’m taken, wondering: your eyes gleaming, unmasked, your body dancing, unencumbered and light. { your sword nicked my knee; the spilling of blood grants me brethren see — and thou still war? Oh, go wounded and stay wounded wherefore I, bad in war and in peace, may nurse you. }Glimpses
–––––––
-
I stand on a sunlit hill in a park or a resort. I converse with a gentleman who has an air of aristocracy.
We discuss a young lady aristocrat. I have feelings for her; the gentleman informs me she is already betrothed. I am despondent.
Then there is a diving competition between me and her betrothed, who is young, strong, and confident.
He dives with success; I am still despondent. I dive un-energetically. The judges are outraged at my lack of form.
Lackluster Diving
–––––––
-
I typically make a point not to post dreams with people I know; still, in some ways, all the people I know who appear in my dreams are metaphors for psychological and emotional components inside me, especially parents.
Up till now everybody has been convinced that the idea “my father,” “my mother,” etc., is nothing but a faithful reflection of the real parent, corresponding in every detail to the original, so that when someone says “my father” he means no more and no less than what his father is in reality. This is actually what he supposes he does mean, but a supposition of identity by no means brings that identity about. This is where the fallacy of the enkekalymmenos (‘the veiled one’) comes in. If one includes in the psychological equation X’s picture of his father, which he takes for the real father, the equation will not work out, because the unknown quantity he has introduced does not tally with reality. X has overlooked the fact that his idea of a person consists, in the first place, of the possibly very incomplete picture he has received of the real person and, in the second place, of the subjective modifications he has imposed upon this picture. X’s idea of his father is a complex quantity for which the real father is only in part responsible, an indefinitely large share falling to the son. So true is this that every time he criticizes or praises his father he is unconsciously hitting back at himself, thereby bringing about those psychic consequences that overtake people who habitually disparage or overpraise themselves. If, however, X carefully compares his reactions with reality, he stands a chance of noticing that he has miscalculated somewhere by not realizing long ago from his father’s behaviour that the picture he has of him is a false one. But as a rule X is convinced that he is right, and if anybody is wrong it must be the other fellow.
— Jung: Aion http://www.scribd.com/doc/24072747/Jung-Aion p. 18 ¶ 37.
A Note on dad Dreams
–––––––
-
I’m in my father’s basement, in is workroom. I haven’t even told him anything about my latest life ventures, including leaving work, I guess.
I’m stuttering to talk to him. I have trouble seeing him. I collapse into a chair and he helps me sit down in it.
At some point in this our terse conversation, Dad pins me back against the wall with a cabinet so I am forced to look at him.
He shines the light directly in my face. He has amazing solid brown eyes; it’s like the first time I see his eyes; I’m excited at how beautiful they are. I try to tell him this and he doesn’t hear.
He interrupts me with curt criticism.
I confess to quiting work.
“I haven’t been working for 6 months,” I say, “except for a pity side-project. I work in therapy.”
He criticizes my calling it gossip.
Did I say gossip? I don’t remember well enough — perhaps I did; “I meant therapy.”
Maybe he’s going to find a job for me in his office — but, I’m not going to accept that.
He lights candles to increase the intensity of the light until he accidently lights a Chinese firecracker than ignites and burns down to a whistle; the whistle blows loud and steady into my awakening.
Interrogating Light
–––––––
-
You loosen my strings. You unravel each one. You remove them from the frets. I suppose I'm done playing, now. Then, you return. You bring back to me my music: fit as a fiddle — and strum.
Muse
–––––––
-
I buy tickets to go to Oregon. Mom and I talk over the phone and it’s a good talk and we plan on going. I buy 2 others, one for Brian and one for another person just in case.
The plane leaves at 3:30. I get to the airport an hour early. There is a sense of well-being and relaxed agency.
Then, mom doesn’t show up. In what seems a matter of minutes, instead of being an hour early, I’m am an hour late. The tickets are no good. I’m driving out of the airport.
Are there eight tickets or four? I finger through four folds of tickets with two studs per fold. No, the tickets are in two parts each; so, there are four tickets. That’s good, because I’d be even more upset if I ended up wasting eight tickets.
I think briefly about going back to the airport and asking for a refund. It’s a brief thought and it actually seems quite possible.
I drive out of the airport in a fog of emotional upset and quickly arrive into the pleasant offsetting quiet of the suburbs. The children see me speeding down the hill. A police car follows me.
They shrill “ticket, ticket…” all the way down the street. I’m sour-lipped with fear of being punished.
The police car purposively stops in the middle of the T intersection, blocking traffic. I wait a number of minutes looking at the cop car until I realize the radio is broadcasting a bust going on in the house the diagonal right of me and in the street left of me.
I was just scared and guilty for missing the flight; the cop wasn’t after me but focused on the bust. It’s time to get going. I take a right, away from the cop car, onwards.
Missed Plane, Moving Along
–––––––
-
Dad talks with another landowner about the reflecting pool’s rising a number of inches to near the top of the pool. He tells him he plans to sell it once it’s rose to its peak. They both agree to this as sensible, both planning to do it as a studied matter of course.
Dad dives into the iced-over lake/pool. I wonder “won’t this hurt his body, especially his heart with its condition? How can he even swim amid the ice?”
I myself can barely move, kneeled down in an iced-over love-seat recess embedded in the pool’s edge.
Then my weight breaks the ice open: it splits down the center of the lake, right where dad is swimming.
I stay kneeling in shock, unable to move. Eventually, I start scooping out watery snow around my knees; I’m almost clear; still, I can’t move my legs; I’m so tired; I was tired even before the ice broke.
Then, Dad yells for my help from the icy center. I worry at the moral dilemma of trying to save him. I don’t have to — the risk; besides, I can’t even move, and I’m so tired.
The Icy Reflection Pool
–––––––
-
My heart sits atop anvil, in furnace, eager for the hammer to bend down and squash it repeatedly, for its tendrils to grab hold and embrace hammer and anvil into one amorphous pounding.
Beat My Heart
–––––––
-
I know I may only drive one at a time. Oh, dear, you’ve started all 10 of my automobiles.
Jump Start
–––––––