A temple Built from Unity and a Temple built for Light

Dream Friday morning, March 7th-8th:


I found myself getting ready for a dress rehearsal
of the play "Music Man"--it was the same play
I performed when I was 14, the golden-patches and
thick air conditioned evenings of the summer of 92
the summer of meaningful kisses and three hour
teen-toddling phone conversations--the summer in life
when the opposite sex becomes an orchard of wished of scent
blossoming petals of lips sweet and innocuous
The summer I found myself on stage, the conic eclipse of a stage
light imprisoning my every gesture in a bubble of light.
The play was being directed by the same director as it was
half-my lifetime ago the impeccable Miss Pamela-tucker White
who during rehearsal, would cackle out loud
and laugh at the scenes when no one
else would laugh at--The vivacious beautiful lanky Swiss
telaborone flesh of Pam White whose belief that I could make something
of myself has lead me to relentlessly devote a vocation of a life
in the arts. In the dream the theatre is dank and gloomy and I
am told that I am given another opportunity to portray charlie
the anvil salesman. I am nervous because I cannot find my
script to memorize my lines. While looking around the womb
of the dressing room (which in the dream was in the front of
the building, the area normally associated with the lobby) I saw
the first born son of my Muse and he beckoned me to follow
him up a ladder. As I did I found myself in my muses house
only the house was one apartment bedizened with day glow
colors on the wall (like splotches of finger paint) that were
cocooned shaped and toppling. I gave my muse a long
elongated embrace, sprinkled with the confetti of cosmic
energy and light that is the mystery of the universe.
Her son wished for me to follow him into
his mothers closet and even though she didn't seem to mind
thinking it uncouth I refused, and descended the ladder
back into the dressing room where my fellow actors were
doubting my Thespian ability to perform my role. I was
worried because I couldn't find the script. Pam then came
up to me and gave me a one-armed wrap around wing
hug, informing me not to worry, that I will be fine
performing my roll. I still lurched around the back
seeking my script when a dirty-rag muffin haired
toddler no older than four whispered to me

"Pssssssssst." She gestured. I walked over to her
and she handed me a copy of the book I have been writing
for the last 8 year. My 1200 single space overweight
eight year old mediation on the human condition phynchonian
progeny titled "Yellow Monkey Bars and Unbidden erections:
A failed Campaign."

As I looked inside my own book I saw the script for which I have been seeking.






I simultaneously grappled the script and ran
up to the front of the stage where the scene I was suppose
to be was being portrayed by a portly actor with a black
beard and glasses.

"You're not ready to perform so I'm taking your role."

The pirate-like actor informed just as I leapt onto the
wooden cleft lip of the stage and pushed the actor who was replacing
me aside. Just as I began to emphatically recite my roll
I found myself being baptized in a swath of regal burgundy
flavored stage curtains--the lower limbs of my anatomy
folding under my torso in a yogi-like posture
as my entire body began to spin around
and I watched through the silhouette of the stage
curtains as the bearded actor deemed to replace me
took my place and the show invariably
went on without me.

****

Later that morning I found myself stumbling through the arid
pause looking for a refuge where I could dry out (drinking too much)
I then found myself in front of this building, only it was dream like and maybe a thousand times
larger.

As I went inside I was the man dressed in all white seated on a thrown and the bald headed man was next to him, it was the same scene I experience and eternally blogged about two months ago, The out of body mediation where I find myself in reverence in a throne room telling an escort of God that I cannot bow before him alone if the person I feel one with at all times is not saddled next to me, bowing, worshiping, smiling in spiritual deference as well.

As I bowed in front of the Master he told me very acutely to, "Build a temple of Unity and of Light." When I told him that I was not an architect he told me very simply to, "Try."

I then was escorted to a vector of the shrine where I could "dry out" and put my decadent destructive drinking days behind me.

As I was drying out I had a dream where for the first time in two years, I say the Psychic Uncle Mike. I ran up with joy and elation to give him a hug and to thank him for teaching me about the faith, but he brushed me aside and rather sternly responded to the dimensions of my arms by uttering a sole monosyllabic curse:

"SIT." Was all he said to me in a gruff voice.

Later on that morning (it's the weekend so I dream late) I was in a semi-truck with my best friend Hale. The truck was huge and the traffic was intense and the day was bleak early depressing December weather sans the Christmas garland and it was snowing. My friend Hale offered to take over at the helm of the wheel but I insisted on driving, even though traffic was stagnant and our cargo was precious. We then stopped to help a fellow trucker who had skidded off the road. We parked our car on the lip of the highway and the fellow trucker began to cry. He was clean gut, bran shoulders and clad in flannel. He said it was a hard life and he cried even more when he talked about his young daughter who he never got a chance to see anymore. I thought about the young child from my dream a day before who had whispered "psssssst's" and showed me where my script was located. Hale and I then hooked the truck drivers semi up to our own vehicle and got him out of the ditch he was stuck in.

Later in the dream our cargo came across a tight tunnel. It was small and both Hale and myself thought that there was no way we could ever get through. Eventually, through the taxing darkness, we persisted and found ourselves at the other end, our vessel completely unscathed.

In my dream I can feel the syllables of her breath as the moist quill
of her tongue enters my left ear and brushes across the side of my neck
before her entire dream sonnet buoys in my mouth, even though
in the dream I am engaged to an African American woman--even
though in the dream the friend whose body I find myself
wading into like a pond is my friend Nellie, who speaks 8 different
languages and likes Ethan Hawke, whose hair is the refulgent color
leaves cast in late-Autumn reflecting a clean sheets of timeless invisible
sunlight--Nellie who I once kissed two summers ago in the quad
by the ribbed-cage monument known throughout campus as the
Silver Vagina because we were embracing in the whistle
clean lavender dusk of magic realism of early June, which she pulled
back, laughing, saying, "I can't believe you just kissed my mouth!!"
Which made me laugh, even though I felt more for her at the time.
Back pedal two hours earlier in the night and you will find a shirtless
author writhing alone on the altar of his mattress, bathing in a
fountain of random images, his eyelids REM'ing out of control as
he finds himself in Wrigley field of all places, blessed to be accompanied
by the buoyant spiritual silhouette of my father to my left, to my
right the son of the woman who inspires me to no end,
batting his curious ingenue-eyelids in the direction of the field
wanting to know if he could have a hamburger.....back pedal
two more hours in a cushion of sleep and I find myself
moving into my friends Tim Flanagan's old house on
Sherman---it was the house my dream muse first
visited me with a heap of books and a dilapidated car
four years earlier and I now found msyelf moving
from the front porch, into the basement
toy guts were splattered every where like
mascot intestines and in the room a man bejeweled in
white perhaps beckoned me to proceed.....

(morning March 18th)

weekend dreams, mornings of March first, second, and third, and fourth (respectively)

There was the dream over the weekend where I was with my adoptive mocha- skinned brother who I had never seen before this dream and we had decided to "fuck all" and eschew the manacles of work and society and go for a bike ride into a very Bob Dylanesque "North Country" milieu. For over a decade now dreams of Wisconsin and Minnesota and Canada arrive to me in a vernal topography quilted in many distinct pastures of green. My adoptive brother and myself continued to pedal our tandem bicycle-like contraption over the lushest variegated dales and northern hills of the coniferous pasture until we arrived to a Norwegian like city which could best be described as pastel Saturday-evening- post- miniature-Christmas-village- with-innocuous-train-hooting through townish like. When we arrived to this innocent hamlet we debarked off the arabesque seat of our shared bicycle and looked into a map. By his calculations was only a few miles up the road and that he would go on ahead while I spent the night in this town. He pocketed the map and continued forward, into the diaphanous nectarine planks of a streaking sun. When I arrived in town I made the acquaintance of Two voluptuous inn keepers Their bed and breakfast was an abandoned stationary locomotive-engine train car that had been refurbished into a bed and breakfast. The stationed vehicle had quite a bit of significance to the tourists who kept snapping pictures of the vessel. The inn keeper seemed to take a liking to me and I inquired if I could have a tour of the facility. She then shepherded me into the basement of the locomotive where my "bedroom" was waiting for me. The room was small and mangy, and coated in an emerald green. The bad was about four feet long and the ceiling was maybe five feet high. What looked like pointed guitar string-stalactites dripped from the top of the ceiling and scathed my flesh.

I looked into the cleavage of my hospitable Virgil when she told me that this was my room and that it was the best room in the house.


Morning of March second.

I slept entwined in the limbs of my seasonal bride The dual glens of my She woke up and allowed me to sleep for four extra hours- The magic eight ball of my skull then waded into the stage lightening of the unconscious. I found myself seated in the balcony of the Lutheran church were I was confirmed. In the front of the alter JZ Knight (below) was giving a lecture for the congregation about following the mystical chord of bliss and unity burrowed within the sleeves of our own unique skin.






During the sermon a lady in front of me in the balcony that was dressed in a long denim skirt and a skull cap rag top brazenly stood up directly in front of me and vehemently denounced everything she was saying as blasphemy. The congregation as a whole remained seated during her two minute long diatribe with the exception of a disciple who floated from below, up to balcony, hovering in the air, politely informing the ranting apostolic Christan to refrain in her histrionics, beckoning not to doubt what is unknown.

I then found a foreign coin in my hand,

round yet chiseled with triangular groves
some sort of celestial token, a currency
which I could use to mete out just how far I had come in the
psyche of this lifetime.

Later that same morning I had a dream where my lover and myself
went to burger king, ordered all sort of RAW MEAT
before leaving are package at the fast food restaurant
and going to the community college I once attended--
the college shaped like an over head parabolic ash tray
In the dream I told my nocturnal companion
that I once met the man who was the architect
of this building, which was true, only in the dream
I told her that I said to him,
"What the fuck were you thinking?"


Morning of March the third:




I found myself in my mothers garage, the same house that belonged to my
grandmother, the house where a week before in the stitched
canvas of my dream world I witnessed a Holiday celebration
with my muse. In this dream I found myself lying in a
supine position on the hood of my Unlce's vintage 64 dodge
the hood was littered with vacant cheap beer cans
like white trash confetti and I was lying next to my
former cross country coach. Mr. Ricca. In the dream

I tried to thank Coach for everything he taught me and tried to tell him that I was sorry for disappointing him senior year when I was the captain of the team and quit, devoting my senior year to scribing maudlin passages of juvenile heartaches--I tried to evince my gratitude to Coach Ricca in the dream only I couldn't--instead I asked for his e-mail so that I could send him a link to my blogg--when wrote out the e-mail the letters blurred and floated

across the sea of my unconscious periphery

There was the dream on the morning of March the fourth

where i was with my mother driving up North

to see a dear friend of mine who is leaving the country.

We stopped at a giant gorge and deeply peered into the
sylvan dells below there was a chestnut ice socket
below that looked like a wounded giant eye
a mandala, a welt into the soil of the flesh of the planet
as if staring into the orifice of the earth and
seeking for something that would one day
sprout and bloom.


Mom then pointed to a sign. Apparently this
opening was an anomaly of nature
and would be gone and in the spring,
the sign said.

"On an Apparent Intention in the Fate of the Individual," points out that when you reach an advanced age and look back over your lifetime, it can seem to have had a consistent order and plan, as though composed by some novelist. Events that when they occurred had seemed accidental and of little moment turn out to have been indispensable factors in the composition of a consistent plot. So who composed that plot? Schopenhauer suggests that just as your dreams are composed by an aspect of yourself of which your consciousness is unaware, so, too, your whole life is composed by the will within you. And just as people whom you will have met apparently by mere chance became leading agents in the structuring of your life, so, too, will you have served unknowingly as an agent, giving meaning to the lives of others, The whole thing gears together like one big symphony, with everything unconsciously structuring everything else. And Schopenhauer concludes that it is as though our lives were the features of the one great dream of a single dreamer in which all the dream characters dream, too; so that everything links to everything else, moved by the one will to life which is the universal will in nature."

-joseph campbell