EVERYTHING

I wrote this short letter with a particular individual in mind, but realized shortly thereafter that I have written a letter also to you and to myself. For an interesting exercise, read this as though you had written it to yourself:

This morning, I feel that I AM love.

And it urges me to write this; compels me to celebrate an expanding affection for [all of] us in our Oneness; that truth that dissolves all notions of separateness and border. It is perhaps also through my relationship to you that I am most quickly learning to realize this connectedness of all beings; that we are each an individual finger on the hand of the whole.

The more “time” I spend with you, the happier I become for our growing relationship; for the potential to experience the whole of myself through you, illuminating all seven chakras. Come explore the future with me in all capacities for as long as our individual paths provide that our footsteps should sometimes occupy the same earthly soil!

Potential is just that. Shared, there is perhaps something else to be experienced: the pure giving and receiving permitted by openness, vulnerability, pridelessness, and egoic dissolution (we could perhaps afford ourselves these freedoms in all facets of life). Be not worried or fearful of permanence or expectation–my love need not be earned or returned; only received.

In giving you my love I give my love to all, and receive it from myself. Through my individual actions, the universe shall be galvanized–what is “good” and “bad” for the one is just so for the whole :o)

I am confident and creative in this notion!

citrus

I went to the downtown farmer’s market yesterday–it was a citrus symphony! I came home with four satsumas, four sunshine tangerines, one minneola tangelo, a chinese honey and a blood navel.

Mmm…a slice of my own personal heaven-on-earth!

couch

I am preparing to go on stage…apparently filling in for Jimmy Page whose whereabouts are unknown to me, and nor is this explained. It would seem that I am to deliver more than just the music–that I should be the rock-star equivalent of a “stunt double”. Why I have been selected as a suitable alternative perplexes me–I don’t look like him, I am unfamiliar with his music, let alone how to play it, let alone how to play guitar! But there are no consequences for my participation, and I go with the flow. On stage the lighting is dim in most places, like you might see at any concert, with contrasting bursts of color pointed in just the right places. The venue is smaller and contained like The House of Blues versus a large open arena and the air is correspondingly smoky and musty from years of non-ventilation. The stage sits at the patrons’ shoulder-height and there is an ocean of them vibrating to sounds–either the house system is invoking everyone’s groove, or the rest of the band is already summoning rhythms. I keep my eyes just ahead of closed to avoid the stare-lock of expectant fans to minimize my perception of their reactions–which, if bad, would swiss-cheese my confidence and thereby destroy any semblance of plausibility for my substitution.

I’m playing nothing–just making hand movements and singing a melody that seems to match, but keeping back from the microphone and muddling my words. And with this I hope to fool the audience into believing that the imperceptibility of the vocals is a consequence of an inadequate sound system versus my lyrical ignorance.

A stage hand helps me swap guitars between songs–and in my mental discourse I note what a stark contrast this is from my own days on stage where I did everything for myself. This second guitar is a solid-body electric–I think the first was a hollow body electric/acoustic. It occurs to me to check, and sure enough the volume knob is down so I turn it up. But then I wonder why I’ve taken this action as I certainly don’t want this instrument to make any sound.

Toward the end of this song the rhythm guitarist and I face each other, standing close in a sort of comraderatic display of flamboyant guitar virtuosity, and I finally strum a bit, adding a fullness to the overall sound that has been missing!

After the show I’m wandering around backstage, which is a series of hallways and rooms not unlike a house, with a bathroom off of one wall near the back. One of the larger rooms has tables full of food, but it looks as though many people have been through here and most of the platters are almost picked clean. Largely untouched, however, is a tupperware bowl of sliced avocado which I sample–mmm! Its yummy. Spinning around I notice there is a cash register and someone attending it–and I realize these things are not free. I’m thinking how nonsensical this is, and don’t feel too bad about my transgression.

I wake up on the couch where I had fallen asleep. Its well into the morning–the room is well lit even though my white roman shade has not been pulled. My denim jeans are inexplicably folded and tucked halfway underneath my body whereas I clearly remember having them on when I fell asleep on the furniture. Tabitha (the cat) wanders out from the back of the house and I’m a bit confused/wondering why she’s here but call to her with teasing fingers and “here sweety”s. Looking back toward the guest room I see Shwi-Shwi on the floor curled up with a nearly-empty black duffle bag which I presume belongs to the person wrapped up in the guest bed sheets (Vyki?). She gets up (it is Vyki!) dressed thematically for a masquerade ball. Walking out into the living room she explains she was at the Haddon House party last night which I know to frequently host these bizarre gatherings–everyone goes to them, and nobody leaves disappointed. But I don’t recall having heard about this one. Looking into my email account, I see it–cordoned off in some rarely-visited corner by a creative collection of filters is the message detailing last night’s festivities.

And then I wake up.

–

Its rare that my “house” in my dreams is the same pile of blocks that I actually live in, but in this case, the similarity was more than “good” or “striking”–it was exact! Right down to the various bits of life that I had strewn around the room–shoes, cell phone, receipts from the day’s purchases, etc.–this astral dwelling, and the events that transpired within it–made for a confusing morning. As I slumber around my house, I am still perplexed about the jeans (especially since I was actually wearing gray pants rather than jeans…) and the presence of the cats (which are not actually here). I have never heard of any place called the “Haddon House”. It takes a heavy shake of head to differentiate between dream and not.

Perhaps I need another heavy shake of head…

desecration

I am at my own house which as grown a second story. It is either very late in the evening or very early in the morning but likely the latter; in either case the outside lighting is a very dim dusk-y or dawn-y, and things are consequently difficult to see. I am moving around my bedroom which is on the second floor and I keep hearing these odd rocky-clunking-scraping noises(?) I can’t identify the source of these sounds except that they are coming from outside the house, and finally it occurs to me to glimpse out the curtain-covered window to the street below. I see four (or more?) men clumsily carrying a stone or concrete sarcophagus past my house on Northwest 11th Street, stopping every few feet to realign themselves or rest for the next few moves; this is the source of the disturbing sound.

The sarcophagus is rectangular in proportion to the containment of a human body; the sides are undecorated, but the relatively flat lid is embossed with an image–the outline of a featureless, wrapped body represents presumably the actual one lying underneath it. Sun-like rays emanate from the head to the outer edge which is adorned with small widget-y symbols.

Drawing conclusions, I presume this vessel comes from the cemetery just North of my neighborhood (which doesn’t exist in reality) while the cemetery to the South has gone uninvaded by these ill-plotting deviants. And because of their apparent vandalism I become empathetic to those who might suffer the desecration of these resting places–and place a call to 911.

A male operator with a shade of a British accent answers my call and gives me an opportunity to state my needs. I’m describing what I’ve just seen and insisting that a patrol car should arrive post-haste! But the response I get is fairly lackluster, as though the other end of the phone just doesn’t believe what I’ve relayed. He repeatedly returns my own statements in question form and begins inquiring about who I am…? Between pleads for police intervention I tell him things like “I’m 30 years old” and “I’m a homeowner” and I feel immediately embarrassed that I’ve chosen these arbitrary indicators to establish my credibility. Honestly–age? Land ownership? Perhaps these things do provide some degree of information about myself, but crazy people are found as easily in the boardrooms of our most mono-culturalistic corporations as they are in any mental ward.

I’m still on the phone, now strolling into my front yard for a look up Northwest 30th Avenue to the East where I see more coffins, piles of dirt and large chunks of cracked sarcophagi. I’m repeating my urgent request for aid to the man on the other end of the line while my feet start moving up the street. I don’t want to go toward this situation, but I don’t appear to have much choice!

Now closing in on these piles of dirt I am near a dirty vehicle or two–pickup trucks–when the same men who carried the sarcophagus realize my presence, and take an offensive stance. They reach to grab me and I’m backing off, avoiding their grasps and dropping my phone. Picking it up, I’m walking backwards quickly, blocking their swings and taking a few of my own, each designed to scare them rather than actually connect and harm them. In fact I don’t think they really want to hurt me; I am perhaps not part of their escapade…but they are fearful for having been discovered and are acting from that rather than any focused desire to harm me. Time seems to be moving a bit slow.

I am back at my house, apparently having eluded them and a black Toyota SUV skids to a halt in my front yard while an attractive woman spills from the driver’s seat with a look of business on her face. She is taller than me with longish dark brown hair. Her antique white sweater has a very tight weave that fits her body well and a silvery necklace dangles a few trinkets near the bottom of the curve it makes around her neck–otherwise she wears no jewelry. Her quality black pants are clean and pressed, and would fit in any office environment. Shoes to match.

She identifies herself as an investigator but shows me neither badge nor sidearm but seems determined to discover this scene down the street. We start moving that way–I am a bit worried that those men will be trouble.

–

This dream reminds me of a recent conversation I had about the word desecration. When a tomb, grave or any holy site is vandalized, it is often said to have been “desecrated”. But I think it may be important to clarify that the act invoked by the criminal is vandalism instead. I’m drawing this distinction because I believe that, should I declare something sacred to myself, nobody save myself has the power to remove that attribute. Certainly they may vandalize something which I hold sacred, but after that act has been committed, it will be my choice, and my choice alone, as to whether that item/place/monument/etc. shall be desecrated.