Day 3 of 2010, the blog, & the cleanse...
I mostly just did a lot of chores today and went on a "recovery run" after my long, master cleanse-aided run from yesterday. You could call it a recovery run since it was only an hour long, but the course was very hilly. I continue to feel very energized while on this cleanse.
I'll just have to develop T.H.G.O.P. more in this space as time allows. For now I'm content to keep posting my dreams, as I've been very disciplined about getting them written down whenever I can remember them. So, here's the one from last night:
1/3/10
8:55 am
Notes from a dream in which several scenes take place inside a large house/building –
Walking from room to room in a large, multi-story house. Warren might be there. I walk into a room on the second floor. There is an upright piano and I go and sit down on the bench and place my fingers on the minor keys that begin the song I’ve recently written that I play all the time when I’m at a piano. But Warren’s sister Beth appears from behind the piano, reaching over with a washcloth and cleaning around the keyboard. She asks that I check out the downstairs area of the place, so that she can clean this room.
The whole upstairs area is very clean and the furniture is made of good, dark wood that is nicely polished. Everything is elegant and old-fashioned.
Downstairs, I am at first in a little entry room just inside the front door, but then find myself in a different room. This floor appears to be where I live. There is a main hallway that is clean enough, but all along this hall are open doors leading to rooms littered with notebooks, clothing and other items that just about completely cover the floor.
I enter one such room and begin collecting and stacking all the notebooks and binders (no doubt filled with years-worth of my stream-of-consciousness poetry and stoned ramblings), and this quickly makes a dent in the mess. Then I start picking up clothing, jackets, and pants to hang in closets. There is an event or activity happening on this floor and several people mill about.
Craig comes in to help me tidy up. He picks up a rug and shakes it out. The floor is now visible; no longer littered and messy.
Through the doorway I look out into the hall where, just a few feet away, Crispin Glover is asking Craig about a movie that was being projected on one of the walls and just ended. He thought that there was going to be some extra footage or a directors cut after the end of the film. Craig says that he doesn’t know anything about that, but that the show is over. Crispin, speaking slowly but with a twangy, high-pitched, concertedly-mellow insistence, starts to get in Craig’s face a little bit, and Craig's body language and expression become a mixture of amusement and authoritativeness.
Like an impish child, Crispin seems to rather enjoy antagonizing Craig and starts to poke at him a bit, playfully. Craig, in turn, takes on the mocking countenance of a big brother who is about to take Crispin down. I’m watching Craig with admiration, thinking that he is handling the situation with patience and firmness; but I also hope that he doesn’t lose his patience and hit Crispin Glover or anything because I think I remember reading somewhere that he is a black belt in some obscure martial art.
Walking down some stairs with Gabrielle. It feels like a flight of stairs in a mall. A large crowd of people are descending the stairs with us. One flight down from where we started, a security guard checks us all out as we pass. I think he made us all show him some ID. He announces that there may not be any doors open down here.
Inside a room with rows of seating (as in a movie theatre), I sit down in one of the stadium-seats. My brother Brock is sitting to my right. Slides of photographs are being projected onto the wall on the left side of the theatre – most are of beautiful homes built into hills and cliffs. Many look like seaside Mediterranean villas. I guess the idea is that everyone in the theatre will choose one of the photographs.
Suddenly, the pictures come into clearer focus and are being shown in “high definition.” They had already been beautiful images but now the colors are much brighter, there is more depth and dimension, and the shots are zoomed in a little closer. In one, a superimposed squirrel–sized mammal or rodent with raccoon-like fur patterns/colors appears and starts moving around within the image. Some people in the theatre – including my brother – recognize this animal and refer to it by its' name. The guy in the row behind us starts talking to his wife about the animal – they were behind Gabrielle and I coming down the stairs. The animal must be the star of some nature documentary or Animal Planet TV show.
Outside now, I’m on a massage-table/bed that I’ve been assigned to; it seems like we are at a spa or something. The table/bed is outside and the sun is shining brightly. I am wearing a white robe. I lie there on the bed/table, feeling quite relaxed. The hotel key-sized card that I am holding has an agenda written on it explaining that I’ll be heading off to some activity at 10am. I think Gabrielle expects me to meet her for that. But it is only 9:30 now so I may take a nap.
On a wall built along a walkway near my bed/table, I see a poster-sized photograph featuring the faces of four actors/celebrities who follow the diet that is promoted here. I think it is a specific kind of raw food diet. I see their faces and read their names, which are listed underneath the photographs. I vaguely recognize all of them, but none are “A-list” celebrities.
Now I’m tidying up another room on the first floor back at the house. Once again, I start by collecting and stacking all the notebooks and binders. It feels great to be cleaning up this place. As messy as it is, the process moves quickly so long as I use this simple system of starting with one thing – the notebooks - then moving on to clothing, etc. I am also amazed with just how many notebooks that I have found. There were already so many but I just keep finding more and more.
Now there is a large dining table in the room I'm cleaning and I sit down to a meal with a family there. The Mom, who cooked the meal, is at the head of the table and I am at the far-end of one side... to the Mom’s left and with two others between us. No one is seated on the other side of the table. It seems odd that we are all on one side of the table like this.
I think that the two people between the Mom and me are her children. The child next to me is a teenaged girl and looks a little like Beth (from earlier in the dream).
The girl makes some annoyed comment about having to eat dinner as a family and I interrupt, saying that the tuna steak is great and that I love these Friday night family meals.
9:43 am
Monday, January 4, 2010
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Day 2 of 2010, this blog, and my Master Cleanse
Revelations on Day 2 of the Master Cleanse.
1/2/10
1:33pm
While sitting on the toilet (something one does often following the Saltwater Flush-portion of the Master Cleanse) a few minutes ago my mind began to wander, and that old fear of violence and repressed-anger started to manifest. These are recurring themes for me.
My thoughts had drifted to a destination that was rather common only a couple of years ago, but which I now visit with less frequency; an apocalyptic scenario in which I see myself wandering around a post-war (or post-peak-oil, or post-climate disaster, or post-economic collapse... pick a post-) world.
How would I deal with details like the erosion of my clothing? Surely when one is forced into a nomadic lifestyle one isn’t able to carry around a lot of extra clothes. What clothing would be necessary? One would probably start with jeans and a T-shirt, and carry extra layers for when it got cold. Maybe a sweater, a jacket, and hopefully a couple of extra pairs of socks and underwear. How would one keep them clean and from falling apart when they are worn every day? Would people go back to washing their clothes in streams? Would new clothing be found or scavenged from time to time?
On the heels of this type of anxious, detail-oriented speculation follows the fear-based fantasies of violence. Roving packs of gangs wander the wasteland, stealing resources from people wandering alone or in smaller groups. I picture my cats being killed for their meat by desperately hungry hunters. My body tenses and a familiar feeling of suppressed, impotent rage radiates from within this tension.
A distant memory bubbles up. My brother and I are walking our little black mutt, Cash, at the Little League baseball fields near the house where we grew up. We are Elementary school-age, and we run into a kid in his early teens who starts harassing us and throwing rocks and dirt clods at our dog. We yell at him to stop, but he just laughs and continues to throw things at Cash.
The memory of that impotent rage manifests and becomes real anger in the present moment. I start to visualize some kind of wish-fulfillment scenario in which my brother and I decide that, between the two of us, we can take on this older kid. We will chase him down and get ahold of him and beat him up; and while we do it we will let him know that this is what it feels like to be a helpless dog, pelted with rocks. He will feel the pain that he has caused and - although he will be angry at first - it will eventually sink in that he brought this upon himself. He will understand the error of his ways and change his perspective.
At certain moments while cleansing, I seem to gain a heightened ability to consciously observe phantoms that arise from the psyche; phantoms that usually remain just below the surface, leaving a residual discomfort like the feeling of "waking up on the wrong side of the bed" because of a troubling dream that you don't even realize you've had. Normally I forget about these daydreams as quickly as they bubble up and pop. Perhaps this forgetfulness is actually a habit forged from repeatedly choosing to turn away from the ugly face of fear and anger.
Sitting here upon my porcelain lay z boy, it occurs to me that there is a connection between the apocalyptic fantasies that began my daydreaming and the memory that it ended with, and that the connection goes beyond the theme of harm being inflicted upon pets. Rather, the harm being done to my pets stands for the feeling it evokes – impotence, or a lack of control. I don’t speak of sexual impotence, but rather powerlessness. And this seems to be a common theme in my dreams and daydreams of disaster-scenarios. There is always violence, or else the threat of violence. And it always seems beyond my ability to make it stop. Beyond my ability to control. And the inability to act creates a feeling of powerlessness, which gives way to an impotent rage. Impotent because it is a rage that, if acted upon, can only result in my demise.
After considering this, I think about what must be my most bizarre, and seemingly uncontrollable, neurosis: my inability to focus when brushing my teeth, which causes me to brush for at least 10 minutes and often up to 20 or even more. I have also gone through stretches of time where I’ll have regular dreams about my teeth rotting or falling out.
Over the years, I’ve read different interpretations of the significance of this theme in dreams, and the one that seems to be universal is that teeth that are rotting or falling out represent control-issues.
I guess I’ve long known that I have control issues; but just don’t know what to do about them.
The idea of a connection between the fear of violence that births impotent rage and issues of control is new to me, however. Now that it has occurred to me, it really seems to make sense, though: my fear of violence is a fear of situations in which my fate and the fate of those whom I love is beyond my control. In truth, much of what happens in life is beyond our control. One certainly can set one’s intentions and be prepared, to some extent, for certain situations; but like all other pairs of opposites in our dualistic perception of life, there is a balance between chaos and control. In order to resolve this issue, I will have to know the balance as an experience.
It seems incredible that I am only now beginning to notice and understand some of these issues, in my early 30s. One major reason: from my late teenage years and up through the present, marijuana has been an effective way for me to avoid such difficult reflection on a conscious level. Perhaps the fact that I haven’t smoked pot for two weeks now (a new job-opening may require a drug test), coupled with a weeklong raw-food diet leading up to my cleanse, has fostered some clarity, allowing me to look these issues in the face.
Marijuana is an issue unto itself. I definitely see value in The Pot and haven’t yet decided to cut it off from my life. In fact, another quote that I read recently from Joseph Campbell (I’ve been reading a book that compiles a bunch of his lectures and sayings) had somewhat changed the negative view I'd been taking towards weed since around the time that I turned 30. He writes:
Don’t quit your vices
Make them work for you.
Simply put; but it resonated. Campbell's words made me realize that for the last two or three years my vice has remained the same while my perspective regarding it has become more negative. Questioning the usefulness of a vice is one thing if the questioning leads to some change in action. If pot truly has no value in my life, I should just stop partaking in it. However, as long as I choose to continue smoking, why should I feel guilty or turn it into a negative experience?
This is a complicated thing, because – and this probably shouldn’t surprise me considering my control issues – my pot use is something that I rarely have under control. When there is weed in my home, I am smoking it. Oftentimes this is the case even on weekday mornings, before I go to work. Pot tends to shift perspectives and priorities and bring relaxation. When I'm high, I find that things that seemed to warrant urgent attention in sobriety - such as chores and exercise - become unimportant, or things that can be attended to later. So, if I am going to continue to have pot in my life, I must learn how to “make it work for me.” This means having the discipline to only do it when it is useful – namely, to gain access to the creative source.
Not that the creative source is inaccessible without it. But, as someone who is so self-conscious, marijuana certainly aids in things like playing the piano and accessing creativity rather than worrying about the fact that I don’t necessarily “know how to play.”
Anyway, this has been a useful “session” here, I think. I’m starting to see that perhaps if I can just confront this one issue, face it, and figure out how to transcend it, many things will fall into place for me.
2:43pm
Note (3/19/12): Two years, two months, and 17 days have passed since I originally posted this to a blog that was meant for my eyes only. Tonight - with just over a day left before I embark on 9 months of traveling that will serve as the material for the blog that this one has become - I edited the heck out of this post. Not sure if it was even worth including; but the control-issues that I was considering at the beginning of 2010 are interesting to revisit, because learning to "relinquish control" will be a key challenge in the travels ahead. In order to live a story that will serve as an example of how life can be a dream-led adventure rather than a series of conscious choices and decisive actions, I will have to become quite good at letting go and trusting the wisdom of intuition.
1/2/10
1:33pm
While sitting on the toilet (something one does often following the Saltwater Flush-portion of the Master Cleanse) a few minutes ago my mind began to wander, and that old fear of violence and repressed-anger started to manifest. These are recurring themes for me.
My thoughts had drifted to a destination that was rather common only a couple of years ago, but which I now visit with less frequency; an apocalyptic scenario in which I see myself wandering around a post-war (or post-peak-oil, or post-climate disaster, or post-economic collapse... pick a post-) world.
How would I deal with details like the erosion of my clothing? Surely when one is forced into a nomadic lifestyle one isn’t able to carry around a lot of extra clothes. What clothing would be necessary? One would probably start with jeans and a T-shirt, and carry extra layers for when it got cold. Maybe a sweater, a jacket, and hopefully a couple of extra pairs of socks and underwear. How would one keep them clean and from falling apart when they are worn every day? Would people go back to washing their clothes in streams? Would new clothing be found or scavenged from time to time?
On the heels of this type of anxious, detail-oriented speculation follows the fear-based fantasies of violence. Roving packs of gangs wander the wasteland, stealing resources from people wandering alone or in smaller groups. I picture my cats being killed for their meat by desperately hungry hunters. My body tenses and a familiar feeling of suppressed, impotent rage radiates from within this tension.
A distant memory bubbles up. My brother and I are walking our little black mutt, Cash, at the Little League baseball fields near the house where we grew up. We are Elementary school-age, and we run into a kid in his early teens who starts harassing us and throwing rocks and dirt clods at our dog. We yell at him to stop, but he just laughs and continues to throw things at Cash.
The memory of that impotent rage manifests and becomes real anger in the present moment. I start to visualize some kind of wish-fulfillment scenario in which my brother and I decide that, between the two of us, we can take on this older kid. We will chase him down and get ahold of him and beat him up; and while we do it we will let him know that this is what it feels like to be a helpless dog, pelted with rocks. He will feel the pain that he has caused and - although he will be angry at first - it will eventually sink in that he brought this upon himself. He will understand the error of his ways and change his perspective.
At certain moments while cleansing, I seem to gain a heightened ability to consciously observe phantoms that arise from the psyche; phantoms that usually remain just below the surface, leaving a residual discomfort like the feeling of "waking up on the wrong side of the bed" because of a troubling dream that you don't even realize you've had. Normally I forget about these daydreams as quickly as they bubble up and pop. Perhaps this forgetfulness is actually a habit forged from repeatedly choosing to turn away from the ugly face of fear and anger.
Sitting here upon my porcelain lay z boy, it occurs to me that there is a connection between the apocalyptic fantasies that began my daydreaming and the memory that it ended with, and that the connection goes beyond the theme of harm being inflicted upon pets. Rather, the harm being done to my pets stands for the feeling it evokes – impotence, or a lack of control. I don’t speak of sexual impotence, but rather powerlessness. And this seems to be a common theme in my dreams and daydreams of disaster-scenarios. There is always violence, or else the threat of violence. And it always seems beyond my ability to make it stop. Beyond my ability to control. And the inability to act creates a feeling of powerlessness, which gives way to an impotent rage. Impotent because it is a rage that, if acted upon, can only result in my demise.
After considering this, I think about what must be my most bizarre, and seemingly uncontrollable, neurosis: my inability to focus when brushing my teeth, which causes me to brush for at least 10 minutes and often up to 20 or even more. I have also gone through stretches of time where I’ll have regular dreams about my teeth rotting or falling out.
Over the years, I’ve read different interpretations of the significance of this theme in dreams, and the one that seems to be universal is that teeth that are rotting or falling out represent control-issues.
I guess I’ve long known that I have control issues; but just don’t know what to do about them.
The idea of a connection between the fear of violence that births impotent rage and issues of control is new to me, however. Now that it has occurred to me, it really seems to make sense, though: my fear of violence is a fear of situations in which my fate and the fate of those whom I love is beyond my control. In truth, much of what happens in life is beyond our control. One certainly can set one’s intentions and be prepared, to some extent, for certain situations; but like all other pairs of opposites in our dualistic perception of life, there is a balance between chaos and control. In order to resolve this issue, I will have to know the balance as an experience.
It seems incredible that I am only now beginning to notice and understand some of these issues, in my early 30s. One major reason: from my late teenage years and up through the present, marijuana has been an effective way for me to avoid such difficult reflection on a conscious level. Perhaps the fact that I haven’t smoked pot for two weeks now (a new job-opening may require a drug test), coupled with a weeklong raw-food diet leading up to my cleanse, has fostered some clarity, allowing me to look these issues in the face.
Marijuana is an issue unto itself. I definitely see value in The Pot and haven’t yet decided to cut it off from my life. In fact, another quote that I read recently from Joseph Campbell (I’ve been reading a book that compiles a bunch of his lectures and sayings) had somewhat changed the negative view I'd been taking towards weed since around the time that I turned 30. He writes:
Don’t quit your vices
Make them work for you.
Simply put; but it resonated. Campbell's words made me realize that for the last two or three years my vice has remained the same while my perspective regarding it has become more negative. Questioning the usefulness of a vice is one thing if the questioning leads to some change in action. If pot truly has no value in my life, I should just stop partaking in it. However, as long as I choose to continue smoking, why should I feel guilty or turn it into a negative experience?
This is a complicated thing, because – and this probably shouldn’t surprise me considering my control issues – my pot use is something that I rarely have under control. When there is weed in my home, I am smoking it. Oftentimes this is the case even on weekday mornings, before I go to work. Pot tends to shift perspectives and priorities and bring relaxation. When I'm high, I find that things that seemed to warrant urgent attention in sobriety - such as chores and exercise - become unimportant, or things that can be attended to later. So, if I am going to continue to have pot in my life, I must learn how to “make it work for me.” This means having the discipline to only do it when it is useful – namely, to gain access to the creative source.
Not that the creative source is inaccessible without it. But, as someone who is so self-conscious, marijuana certainly aids in things like playing the piano and accessing creativity rather than worrying about the fact that I don’t necessarily “know how to play.”
Anyway, this has been a useful “session” here, I think. I’m starting to see that perhaps if I can just confront this one issue, face it, and figure out how to transcend it, many things will fall into place for me.
2:43pm
Note (3/19/12): Two years, two months, and 17 days have passed since I originally posted this to a blog that was meant for my eyes only. Tonight - with just over a day left before I embark on 9 months of traveling that will serve as the material for the blog that this one has become - I edited the heck out of this post. Not sure if it was even worth including; but the control-issues that I was considering at the beginning of 2010 are interesting to revisit, because learning to "relinquish control" will be a key challenge in the travels ahead. In order to live a story that will serve as an example of how life can be a dream-led adventure rather than a series of conscious choices and decisive actions, I will have to become quite good at letting go and trusting the wisdom of intuition.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Introduction, 1/1/2010: Om - The Call to Adventure
Hello, and welcome. I am a human and my name is… well, I’m going to be calling myself Gene Om. I picked this name because of its allusion to both the human gene and the sound that some say emanates from that very life source. To quote Joseph Campbell:
“If you want to hear AUM, just cover your ears and you’ll hear it. Of course, what you are hearing is the blood in the capillaries, but it’s AUM: Ah—waking consciousness; ou—dream consciousness; and then, mmm—the realm of deep, dreamless sleep. AUM is the sound of the radiance of God. This is the most mysterious and important thing to understand, but once you get the idea, it’s very simple.”
And so, this human who will be calling himself Gene Om is beginning a project... and here it is: the very words that you are reading. There's much more to it than just these words, but that will all start to take shape soon enough.
Back to the title of this thing, though - not bad, huh? I certainly was full of pride for my cleverness when I thought up this pun-ny double-entendre. And that was before I’d even read the Campbell quote. I’m being a little bit self-mocking here, but in all seriousness the name of this blog feels like the name that I’d been waiting for before I could move forward with a lot of things. Hopefully, that will make more sense as this all progresses.
So today is the first day of 2010 and, like every other day, the first day of the rest of our lives. However, I don't think that old phrase has ever felt more real to me than it does today. Over the last three weeks I've been developing an idea for what I want to do with my life; an idea that will require me to sacrifice the safety and stability of a life of relative comfort in order to manifest a life of uncertainly and adventure.
And this is where it all begins, with these words.
I've already quoted Joseph Campbell, and not for nothing: My intention is put an end to living in submission: spending forty hours of every week doing something that I choose to do only so that I can make ends meet. I resolve to break free of this kind of life. I resolve to remake my life into The Hero's Journey.
This is not just a New Year's Resolution but my own Ultimate Resolution. I have many resolutions this New Year, and they all lead to this ultimate goal.
Making resolutions for the new year was never something that I really took seriously up until last year. Towards the end of 2008, a relationship that I had been in with a woman for eight years came to an end. Suddenly, the "we" perspective that had dominated my consciousness for so long was shed, and I was an "I" again.
As sad as it was, in many ways, to let go of something that had been so good for so long, I was also enormously excited to think of all the possibilities that lay before me. So, as 2009 approached, I began to make plans for what I wanted to do with myself in the new year.
While I didn't necessarily accomplish everything that I had hoped to in 2009, I definitely experienced a lot of growth and gathered some momentum. Before moving on into really describing what The Human Gene Om Project is all about, I do want to reflect upon the specifics of what I resolved to do last year and all that was done.
Alas, this will have to wait until the second day of this new year. As much as I had hoped to avoid vagueness with this first post, one of the practices that I adopted with my last set of New Year's Resolutions has got me feeling a little too tired for details at this late-ish hour. I'm speaking of the Master Cleanse. Today marked not only the beginning of the new year but also, for me, the beginning of a third consecutive seasonal cleanse.
I intend to continue this cleanse for at least 10 days, during which time my first priority will be to use this blog/diary (which is completely private, for now) to describe my plans in detail.
So, this vague introduction will have to suffice for now before we get into the meat-and-bones. But, I will mention one aspect of the plan now, because it is something that I need to set in motion as quickly as possible. While this is a blog, it is essentially a diary for the time being. A place for me to concretize my plan of action that will lead me from a life of stagnant comfort into a life of adventure.
However, I don't want my plans to be a total secret. An apprentice needs a master.
I've twice already mentioned Joseph Campbell, and so it won't come as a surprise to those familiar with him that I am hugely influenced by the theories and works of Carl Gustav Jung. As such, the first order of business for me is to find a Jungian psychologist who can analyze my plan, my dreams, and my neuroses (more on that later, believe me!)in order to help me get from where I am to where I intend to be.
In order to try to rope one in - because I have more in mind for my future analyst than simple analysis; finding someone who will collaborate in The Project is the real goal - I will move beyond the vagueness and include some meat in the form of a description of a series of dreams that I had a few nights ago. After all, dreams are meat for Jungian analysts - they are the marrow of consciousness. And, what's more, I'm fairly confident that the first of the three dreams that I documented is an example of what Jung would call a "big dream."
So, to close my first post, here it is:
12/30/09
6:00 am
Our car is parked at the side of a dirt road in a vast desert. I start to walk off the road and into the desert. Looking down at the ground, I see patterns – little patches of powdery yellow triangles (pollen?) evenly distributed across the dirt. Looking closer, I note that they are like a crumbly yellow foam-insulation type-thing*, and the ground looks sort of like an artificial surface – like a desert-floor version of Astroturf.
I look back at the car, which is maybe 50 yards away now. A couple of the others in my group (I believe my friend Leonard may be one of them) are still at the car and are about to join me in setting out into the desert. One or two others have already set out like I have, but they are a little ways away from me.
This desert is enormously vast. Looking in all directions, there is nothing one can see besides desert plains (and the road that our car is parked on), surrounded in the far distance by hills and mountains on all sides. Being in the middle of this beautiful, vast desert plain feels good – peaceful and relaxing. The sun is bright in a clear blue sky and there is nothing to obstruct the view in any direction.
A vulture flies towards us from a distance away and begins to circle around. I am not worried because I know that we are not in danger of dying – whether the bird thinks so or not. I shout to my friends by the car and point out the vulture. I joke about how it must be thinking that we are much worse-off than we really are.
Walking deeper into the desert, straight away from the car, I’m accompanied by perhaps three companions. I begin to throat-sing as we walk, but only keep it up briefly (It was in the Joshua Tree desert in late 2000 that I first stumbled upon my rough ability to throat-sing). One of the people walking in our group listens with interest – I think it is my friend Rhonda. Rhonda has a friend walking next to her who, she says, can also throat-sing. The friend is a girl, and when she starts to do it I am very impressed because it occurs to me that I don’t think I’ve ever heard a girl throat-singing before.
There is an albino owl in the sky now, circling above us; it seems to take an interest in us as we progress. At one point it positions itself right above our heads and starts to swoop down toward us. I jump up and down and start flailing my arms around to scare it off. The owl and I make eye contact and I can actually register, in its eyes, the fact that it is startled by my flailing. It swoops back upward and moves on. Throughout the time we are walking we occasionally see vultures and albino owls, but the mood remains peaceful and relaxed in this wide-open desert plain.
Eventually, we pass through some tall brush and there is a dirt road on the other side. Looking back at the brush, I encourage the others to stop for a minute. “How will we recognize what part of the brush we passed through in order to find our way back to the car?” I ask. We think about it for a moment (I think Leonard is part of the group again at this point), and then another guy who is with us says “Well, all we have to do is take the road all the way back around.” I notice that he has a British accent (He might be Nick, a guy from England - or was it New Zealand? – who I briefly knew in NYC. Nick had short, blond hair like the dream character did.). I also realize that he is right, that this is the same road that our car is parked on. Although taking the road will be a more circular route, it will get us back to where we started.
To my surprise, the desert is much more populated by humans here on the other side of the brush. While we were the only people in all of the vast openness of the desert before passing through the brush, there are all sorts of people power-walking and jogging on this part of the road – many of them in pairs. The power-walkers wear tracksuits, sunglasses, and white caps. The runners wear the standard lightweight shirts and short running shorts. They look like urbanites out for some exercise rather than people visiting nature.
Back on the other side of the brush, nearing where the car was parked, there is an encounter between two groups of people (I’m no longer with my original group – and although I am physically near these two groups of people I feel like I’m sort of outside of the situation). It seems that one group - having emerged from the road - are visitors to the desert while the other group – approaching the road from the dessert – are an indigenous tribe.
At first, the tribal group is stereotypically “tribal” in appearance, with spears and homemade clothing. This appearance may have returned sporadically, although I can’t quite remember. Most of the time, though, they basically look like the “visitors,” wearing t-shirts and pants. There is a moment of tension and anxiety between the two groups, but then it appears to dissipate in some unspoken understanding.
Members of the “tribe” begin to advance towards a young woman in the group of visitors. I wonder if they are going to rape her but everyone seems to be acting like whatever is happening is okay, and as a few of the tribal men put her on the ground she does not seem to be resisting. One of the men lies down on top of her. Clearly, one or more of the tribal men intends to have sex with her.
Then, the tribal group separates itself from one of their own - an attractive young woman who appears to be Aboriginal (as with the tribal people in general, her appearance vacillates between tribal and “ethnic” at times and more like the Caucasian “visitors” at other times). I realize that one of us (I am now with the “visitors”) is supposed to have sex with her now. This is why the other members of her tribe have all backed away from her.
Since I am attracted to her, I move towards her without hesitation so that no one else “beats me to” this experience. She looks happy that I have come to her without hesitation. I am glad that as I lay her down on the dessert floor she is not resisting. I want to be gentle and take care of this young girl and go slowly, so I begin by kissing her belly. She smiles and squirms in anticipation. But then a couple of the other “visitor” men tear off her shirt, and I realize that I am supposed to just have sex with her without a lot of delay.
We begin to have sex, and a lot of people are watching us but I realize that it doesn’t bother me. I sense from the other tribal members that she is a virgin, and that I am going to have to break her hymen. I believe that I even said to one of the tribal members “She is a virgin?” Then, I think, the tribal member nodded and I thought to myself something along the lines of “Oh, so I guess I have to go hard at first.”
So I knew that I was going to have to cause at least some pain for this girl. I began to thrust hard, and she seemed to be feeling both pleasure and pain. Finally, the “goal” was accomplished and after some painful moments for her we returned to our bliss. Then, for perhaps half of a minute, I became aware of my pelvic movements and aware that I was in bed, and that my two cats were sleeping next to me. Halfway in the dream and halfway awake, I continued my movements but managed not to wake up.
The next thing that I remember upon returning to the dream state was a different dream, but I’m going to be late for work so I’ll have to continue with that dream (with the aid of a few notes I jotted down) at work.
6:46am
9:00am (continued)
I’m in a large, dark room with the Etheric Bovine Arkestra and we are setting up to play a show.
I’m figuring out where to place my amplifier in my spot in the back of the room.
I try putting it on a low shelf that is part of some sort of wooden furniture-piece that has different levels, but there is not enough height in the space for it to fit. I decide to put it on top of the piece of furniture, which involves kind of heaving the amp up over my shoulders.
I’m not sure what transpired next, but when I return to my spot the amp is gone. I look all over the room for it and there are amps everywhere but none of them are mine. When I am sure that I have looked everywhere in the room and the amp is still missing, I go to talk to Christopher. He is at the front of the room, near the door, crouched down talking to some people who are sitting on the floor in what is the makeshift “audience” area. He is facing them, while the musicians set up their equipment behind him. The crowd will be just to the right against the wall if you are in the doorway facing the room, and most of the room will be taken up by the band and their instruments, which will be to the left; which goes back pretty deep, maybe 20 yards or so.
Anyway, I crouch down next to Christopher, who is busy talking. I say his name once to try to interrupt, but he is still having his conversation. I don’t want to be rude, so I wait for the conversation to finish. After he keeps talking for a minute, though, I decide that my amp-issue needs to be addressed. When I say his name and once again he does not reply, I tap him on the arm and he looks at me – showing slight annoyance at my persistent interruptions. I tell him that my amp is missing and we go out of the room to look into it.
We walk through a hallway into another room. The whole place is dark - or else painted black (or both) - and the building appears to be a large Warehouse of the kind you might find artists living in east of Downtown Los Angeles.
We start looking for my amp in this room. Christopher talks to some people who he thinks may have needed to move it for some reason, but we have no luck finding it. We need to get the show started, so I tell him that I will just do my throat-singing without amplification. I tell him that I probably won’t be heard but, what with all the other instruments (the Arkestra is quite large) and the other throat singer (Billy), it really shouldn’t make that much of a difference.
When we walk back into the first room, the performance has already started. The music starts out very minimally, but with Billy’s throat-singing being featured. I listen his throat-singing, trying to determine whether or not he is achieving the multi-toning that I think I may have heard him doing during our 2nd live-scoring of “Faust” and which I haven't yet accomplished. I am relieved (due to envy) to not hear multiple tones in his throat-singing, but both impressed and slightly disappointed when I realize that he is sustaining his notes for much longer than I am generally able – meaning that he must have really gotten good at the circular-breathing technique. I continue listening to Billy’s throat singing, feeling a complicated mix of envy and appreciation for his skill.
The next thing I can remember:
I’m running on a concrete path toward the beach. Although I’m getting tired and consider heading back before the intended halfway mark (the beach), I know that I am getting very close. I am still well-above sea-level, but soon the ocean comes into sight on the horizon and I know that I can make it to the intended mark.
I reach the end of the concrete path and jog down a flight of concrete stairs. The stairs lead to a street that ends at the beach just a few yards to my right once I am down from the stairs. To my left, the street slopes up steeply.
There are quite a few people gathered in small groups in a large area between the beach, the top of the hill, and the two sides of the street. Some of them are beach-bum-looking guys: stubbly-faced with long, stringy, dirty-looking hair. They are sitting in front of the bike path to the right, facing the hill. There are also a bunch of people seated on the concrete and asphalt on the slopes of the hill.
Everyone is facing a guy on the opposite side of the street from where I have descended – some sort of a crazy street-preacher. I’m not sure whether any of these people are buying into what he is preaching, but they are all watching him. I get the feeling that they all suspect that he is crazy although no one is being outwardly derisive towards him or trying to interrupt. He looks like he is probably homeless and is wearing some sort of white, lightweight robe.
I walk up the slope to my left – across the street from the preacher – where there is a tall girl with short, dark hair. An uncovered litter box is next to her feet. We start talking about the litter box. We decide that she will come back with me to my place – something to do with the litter and maybe my cats or something. I think that this might be a date, although I’m not really thinking about it too much. This whole last bit is very abstract compared to most of the rest of this three-dream sequence, which has been very clearly defined and realistic for the most part.
Upon waking, I realize that this girl who I was speaking with at the end of the last dream is Farrah – a friend of Rhonda’s (who was in the first part of the dream) from her Humboldt State days, and whom she now lives with in the Northwest. I saw the two of them in June while visiting my brother up there on a road trip (and while I was doing my first seasonal Master Cleanse… I’m about to start my 3rd tomorrow).
I lay in bed, knowing that I had just had some powerful dreams and trying to recall the details. Once I could remember most of what happened in the three dreams, I considered whether or not to get out of my warm bed and into the cold to type them into my computer.
I decided to just get up and jot down a few notes to assist me in writing the complete version later. After that, I returned to bed with the hope of either falling back to sleep or remembering more details of the dreams by lying down in the same position that I had been dreaming in.
I mostly had the image of the first dream in my mind - specifically the beginning of the dream with that awe-inspiring, vast desert plain and bright blue sky that was so clear and beautiful in the unobstructed sunshine. With my mind wandering in this image, I entered a hypnogogic state and saw the character of Jim from the Office at one end of the sky, speaking about his relationship to Pam, and how great it was. It was as if this talk of a good, healthy relationship was being juxtaposed with the good, healthy, happy feeling of the vast desert of my dream (I really need to take a trip to Joshua Tree or Niland again soon). It occurred to me that this first part of the first dream might represent in some way my relationship with Gabrielle – the majority of which was good, healthy, and happy.
Then I thought of the owls and the vultures. Both in dreams and in life, vultures symbolize death. The vultures and the owls were acknowledged, but not feared, in that first dream. In fact - and as mentioned – I had even gone so far as to jump in the air and flail my arms around to scare off the owl.
As I lay there thinking about these dream-birds, I remembered that strange mystical night that I spent hanging out with my old friend Elgin (Brad was also there...Lewis too?) about 12 years ago during which we climbed atop a building adjacent to the Wayfarer’s Chapel (AKA “The Glass Church”) in Palos Verdes. I had managed to reach into a window that was above, and behind, the alter and grab a long, white flower of some sort. As we started to leave – but while still up on another part of the roof - we saw an albino owl perched in a nearby tree. Upon seeing us, he lit up into the sky, showing his impressive wingspan and remarkable white plumage.
Driving back from the church, down PV Boulevard and a couple of miles away from where this all had taken place,I suddenly had to slow down due to the fact that an albino owl had landed in the middle of the street and was effectively blocking the car. As we were coming to a halt, the owl flew away once again. Before it did, I distinctly remember that it made eye-contact with me – just as the albino owl in the dream did when I was flailing my arms to scare it off.
We were convinced that the owl in the street had to be the same owl from the tree by the church – how many albino owls could be in that area? – and half-joked that it was trying to reclaim the white flower that we had stolen.
Later in the night, after recording ourselves singing and playing percussion on the park equipment at Rocketship Park, we drove past a dead raccoon in the road and decided to turn around and have a memorial for it there in the street in the middle of the night. Brad and Elgin and I (and Lewis?) took turns speaking in honor of the raccoon and connecting the events of the night to this last one in whatever way we understood it at the time.
When we left, some people who had driven past us in a large pickup truck while we were memorializing the raccoon followed us through the streets for awhile. We joked that they had probably seen us speaking over the dead raccoon and thought that we were performing some sort of Satanic ritual. Quite a strange night.
Anyway, I wasn't recalling this entire story as I lay there thinking of the albino owl from my dream. What I did think about was Elgin – who was schizophrenic and committed suicide a few months after that night by hanging himself in a drainage pipe beneath the streets of the Colorado city he was residing in at the time. There is another really unsettling connection between that night and his suicide, but all I was thinking about as I lay there was the white owl and Elgin. Clearly it would not be a stretch – considering this autobiographical tidbit – to think that the albino owl in my dream would represent death every bit as much as the vulture.
So, as I think about it now, I ponder the idea of death hovering overhead during every moment of life – even happy times such as during a thriving romantic relationship. Maybe the dream was saying that during such times the fear of death is eliminated… it hovers above you and you are aware of it, but you jump in the air flapping your arms and shouting “Go away, you dumb bird, I am ALIVE and you don’t scare me!”
Just a thought.
Lying there, however, I was thinking of it all more literally… thinking about the people in my dream like Leonard and Rhonda and Farrah and having some mild concern that the images of death were some sort of a portent. I doubt it though. It seems more likely that my current philosophy – or something along those lines - was being reflected back to me. My dreams rarely seem to echo the future much, at least in my current understanding of them. Usually at least, they seem to just be messages about the archetypal energies that are informing my life at the moment.
*(2pm): I kept trying to remember where, in real-life, I had seen this crumbly, powdery yellow foam-like substance before. It seemed like something from childhood. I think that it was the foam that was inside the vinyl booths that surrounded the kitchen table in my parents place when I grew up. There had been some holes in the vinyl that I think may have revealed this substance, but I can’t remember for sure if this is it. And, if that is what I saw in my dream, I have no idea what the significance would be.
**One more note: The dream image of a sloped-street near a beach is starting to become a familiar theme in my dreams. I can only specifically think of one other dream that contained this location - a powerful dream involving Tabitha’s Mom and a Godhead in the sky that absorbed me into it - from early-on in my Summer cleanse, but I feel like it may have appeared in more than just these two dreams. In both dreams the hill and the beach made it resemble the hill leading down to the plaza on Pier Ave. in Hermosa Beach – a place where I spent a lot of time in my late teens through my move to NYC at the age of 22. I’ll have to take note to see if this dream-environment starts to reoccur.
After having these dreams, taking the time to lie in bed and remember as many details as I could, and writing them all down completely and with as much clarity as I could, I went through the rest of the day feeling empowered and whole.
In the days leading up to these dreams, I had spent much of my time thinking about, and working out the details of, The Human Gene Om Project; So I can't help but think that this "big dream" has something to do with the project. I am really looking forward to finding out how it all ties together as this adventure begins.
“If you want to hear AUM, just cover your ears and you’ll hear it. Of course, what you are hearing is the blood in the capillaries, but it’s AUM: Ah—waking consciousness; ou—dream consciousness; and then, mmm—the realm of deep, dreamless sleep. AUM is the sound of the radiance of God. This is the most mysterious and important thing to understand, but once you get the idea, it’s very simple.”
And so, this human who will be calling himself Gene Om is beginning a project... and here it is: the very words that you are reading. There's much more to it than just these words, but that will all start to take shape soon enough.
Back to the title of this thing, though - not bad, huh? I certainly was full of pride for my cleverness when I thought up this pun-ny double-entendre. And that was before I’d even read the Campbell quote. I’m being a little bit self-mocking here, but in all seriousness the name of this blog feels like the name that I’d been waiting for before I could move forward with a lot of things. Hopefully, that will make more sense as this all progresses.
So today is the first day of 2010 and, like every other day, the first day of the rest of our lives. However, I don't think that old phrase has ever felt more real to me than it does today. Over the last three weeks I've been developing an idea for what I want to do with my life; an idea that will require me to sacrifice the safety and stability of a life of relative comfort in order to manifest a life of uncertainly and adventure.
And this is where it all begins, with these words.
I've already quoted Joseph Campbell, and not for nothing: My intention is put an end to living in submission: spending forty hours of every week doing something that I choose to do only so that I can make ends meet. I resolve to break free of this kind of life. I resolve to remake my life into The Hero's Journey.
This is not just a New Year's Resolution but my own Ultimate Resolution. I have many resolutions this New Year, and they all lead to this ultimate goal.
Making resolutions for the new year was never something that I really took seriously up until last year. Towards the end of 2008, a relationship that I had been in with a woman for eight years came to an end. Suddenly, the "we" perspective that had dominated my consciousness for so long was shed, and I was an "I" again.
As sad as it was, in many ways, to let go of something that had been so good for so long, I was also enormously excited to think of all the possibilities that lay before me. So, as 2009 approached, I began to make plans for what I wanted to do with myself in the new year.
While I didn't necessarily accomplish everything that I had hoped to in 2009, I definitely experienced a lot of growth and gathered some momentum. Before moving on into really describing what The Human Gene Om Project is all about, I do want to reflect upon the specifics of what I resolved to do last year and all that was done.
Alas, this will have to wait until the second day of this new year. As much as I had hoped to avoid vagueness with this first post, one of the practices that I adopted with my last set of New Year's Resolutions has got me feeling a little too tired for details at this late-ish hour. I'm speaking of the Master Cleanse. Today marked not only the beginning of the new year but also, for me, the beginning of a third consecutive seasonal cleanse.
I intend to continue this cleanse for at least 10 days, during which time my first priority will be to use this blog/diary (which is completely private, for now) to describe my plans in detail.
So, this vague introduction will have to suffice for now before we get into the meat-and-bones. But, I will mention one aspect of the plan now, because it is something that I need to set in motion as quickly as possible. While this is a blog, it is essentially a diary for the time being. A place for me to concretize my plan of action that will lead me from a life of stagnant comfort into a life of adventure.
However, I don't want my plans to be a total secret. An apprentice needs a master.
I've twice already mentioned Joseph Campbell, and so it won't come as a surprise to those familiar with him that I am hugely influenced by the theories and works of Carl Gustav Jung. As such, the first order of business for me is to find a Jungian psychologist who can analyze my plan, my dreams, and my neuroses (more on that later, believe me!)in order to help me get from where I am to where I intend to be.
In order to try to rope one in - because I have more in mind for my future analyst than simple analysis; finding someone who will collaborate in The Project is the real goal - I will move beyond the vagueness and include some meat in the form of a description of a series of dreams that I had a few nights ago. After all, dreams are meat for Jungian analysts - they are the marrow of consciousness. And, what's more, I'm fairly confident that the first of the three dreams that I documented is an example of what Jung would call a "big dream."
So, to close my first post, here it is:
12/30/09
6:00 am
Our car is parked at the side of a dirt road in a vast desert. I start to walk off the road and into the desert. Looking down at the ground, I see patterns – little patches of powdery yellow triangles (pollen?) evenly distributed across the dirt. Looking closer, I note that they are like a crumbly yellow foam-insulation type-thing*, and the ground looks sort of like an artificial surface – like a desert-floor version of Astroturf.
I look back at the car, which is maybe 50 yards away now. A couple of the others in my group (I believe my friend Leonard may be one of them) are still at the car and are about to join me in setting out into the desert. One or two others have already set out like I have, but they are a little ways away from me.
This desert is enormously vast. Looking in all directions, there is nothing one can see besides desert plains (and the road that our car is parked on), surrounded in the far distance by hills and mountains on all sides. Being in the middle of this beautiful, vast desert plain feels good – peaceful and relaxing. The sun is bright in a clear blue sky and there is nothing to obstruct the view in any direction.
A vulture flies towards us from a distance away and begins to circle around. I am not worried because I know that we are not in danger of dying – whether the bird thinks so or not. I shout to my friends by the car and point out the vulture. I joke about how it must be thinking that we are much worse-off than we really are.
Walking deeper into the desert, straight away from the car, I’m accompanied by perhaps three companions. I begin to throat-sing as we walk, but only keep it up briefly (It was in the Joshua Tree desert in late 2000 that I first stumbled upon my rough ability to throat-sing). One of the people walking in our group listens with interest – I think it is my friend Rhonda. Rhonda has a friend walking next to her who, she says, can also throat-sing. The friend is a girl, and when she starts to do it I am very impressed because it occurs to me that I don’t think I’ve ever heard a girl throat-singing before.
There is an albino owl in the sky now, circling above us; it seems to take an interest in us as we progress. At one point it positions itself right above our heads and starts to swoop down toward us. I jump up and down and start flailing my arms around to scare it off. The owl and I make eye contact and I can actually register, in its eyes, the fact that it is startled by my flailing. It swoops back upward and moves on. Throughout the time we are walking we occasionally see vultures and albino owls, but the mood remains peaceful and relaxed in this wide-open desert plain.
Eventually, we pass through some tall brush and there is a dirt road on the other side. Looking back at the brush, I encourage the others to stop for a minute. “How will we recognize what part of the brush we passed through in order to find our way back to the car?” I ask. We think about it for a moment (I think Leonard is part of the group again at this point), and then another guy who is with us says “Well, all we have to do is take the road all the way back around.” I notice that he has a British accent (He might be Nick, a guy from England - or was it New Zealand? – who I briefly knew in NYC. Nick had short, blond hair like the dream character did.). I also realize that he is right, that this is the same road that our car is parked on. Although taking the road will be a more circular route, it will get us back to where we started.
To my surprise, the desert is much more populated by humans here on the other side of the brush. While we were the only people in all of the vast openness of the desert before passing through the brush, there are all sorts of people power-walking and jogging on this part of the road – many of them in pairs. The power-walkers wear tracksuits, sunglasses, and white caps. The runners wear the standard lightweight shirts and short running shorts. They look like urbanites out for some exercise rather than people visiting nature.
Back on the other side of the brush, nearing where the car was parked, there is an encounter between two groups of people (I’m no longer with my original group – and although I am physically near these two groups of people I feel like I’m sort of outside of the situation). It seems that one group - having emerged from the road - are visitors to the desert while the other group – approaching the road from the dessert – are an indigenous tribe.
At first, the tribal group is stereotypically “tribal” in appearance, with spears and homemade clothing. This appearance may have returned sporadically, although I can’t quite remember. Most of the time, though, they basically look like the “visitors,” wearing t-shirts and pants. There is a moment of tension and anxiety between the two groups, but then it appears to dissipate in some unspoken understanding.
Members of the “tribe” begin to advance towards a young woman in the group of visitors. I wonder if they are going to rape her but everyone seems to be acting like whatever is happening is okay, and as a few of the tribal men put her on the ground she does not seem to be resisting. One of the men lies down on top of her. Clearly, one or more of the tribal men intends to have sex with her.
Then, the tribal group separates itself from one of their own - an attractive young woman who appears to be Aboriginal (as with the tribal people in general, her appearance vacillates between tribal and “ethnic” at times and more like the Caucasian “visitors” at other times). I realize that one of us (I am now with the “visitors”) is supposed to have sex with her now. This is why the other members of her tribe have all backed away from her.
Since I am attracted to her, I move towards her without hesitation so that no one else “beats me to” this experience. She looks happy that I have come to her without hesitation. I am glad that as I lay her down on the dessert floor she is not resisting. I want to be gentle and take care of this young girl and go slowly, so I begin by kissing her belly. She smiles and squirms in anticipation. But then a couple of the other “visitor” men tear off her shirt, and I realize that I am supposed to just have sex with her without a lot of delay.
We begin to have sex, and a lot of people are watching us but I realize that it doesn’t bother me. I sense from the other tribal members that she is a virgin, and that I am going to have to break her hymen. I believe that I even said to one of the tribal members “She is a virgin?” Then, I think, the tribal member nodded and I thought to myself something along the lines of “Oh, so I guess I have to go hard at first.”
So I knew that I was going to have to cause at least some pain for this girl. I began to thrust hard, and she seemed to be feeling both pleasure and pain. Finally, the “goal” was accomplished and after some painful moments for her we returned to our bliss. Then, for perhaps half of a minute, I became aware of my pelvic movements and aware that I was in bed, and that my two cats were sleeping next to me. Halfway in the dream and halfway awake, I continued my movements but managed not to wake up.
The next thing that I remember upon returning to the dream state was a different dream, but I’m going to be late for work so I’ll have to continue with that dream (with the aid of a few notes I jotted down) at work.
6:46am
9:00am (continued)
I’m in a large, dark room with the Etheric Bovine Arkestra and we are setting up to play a show.
I’m figuring out where to place my amplifier in my spot in the back of the room.
I try putting it on a low shelf that is part of some sort of wooden furniture-piece that has different levels, but there is not enough height in the space for it to fit. I decide to put it on top of the piece of furniture, which involves kind of heaving the amp up over my shoulders.
I’m not sure what transpired next, but when I return to my spot the amp is gone. I look all over the room for it and there are amps everywhere but none of them are mine. When I am sure that I have looked everywhere in the room and the amp is still missing, I go to talk to Christopher. He is at the front of the room, near the door, crouched down talking to some people who are sitting on the floor in what is the makeshift “audience” area. He is facing them, while the musicians set up their equipment behind him. The crowd will be just to the right against the wall if you are in the doorway facing the room, and most of the room will be taken up by the band and their instruments, which will be to the left; which goes back pretty deep, maybe 20 yards or so.
Anyway, I crouch down next to Christopher, who is busy talking. I say his name once to try to interrupt, but he is still having his conversation. I don’t want to be rude, so I wait for the conversation to finish. After he keeps talking for a minute, though, I decide that my amp-issue needs to be addressed. When I say his name and once again he does not reply, I tap him on the arm and he looks at me – showing slight annoyance at my persistent interruptions. I tell him that my amp is missing and we go out of the room to look into it.
We walk through a hallway into another room. The whole place is dark - or else painted black (or both) - and the building appears to be a large Warehouse of the kind you might find artists living in east of Downtown Los Angeles.
We start looking for my amp in this room. Christopher talks to some people who he thinks may have needed to move it for some reason, but we have no luck finding it. We need to get the show started, so I tell him that I will just do my throat-singing without amplification. I tell him that I probably won’t be heard but, what with all the other instruments (the Arkestra is quite large) and the other throat singer (Billy), it really shouldn’t make that much of a difference.
When we walk back into the first room, the performance has already started. The music starts out very minimally, but with Billy’s throat-singing being featured. I listen his throat-singing, trying to determine whether or not he is achieving the multi-toning that I think I may have heard him doing during our 2nd live-scoring of “Faust” and which I haven't yet accomplished. I am relieved (due to envy) to not hear multiple tones in his throat-singing, but both impressed and slightly disappointed when I realize that he is sustaining his notes for much longer than I am generally able – meaning that he must have really gotten good at the circular-breathing technique. I continue listening to Billy’s throat singing, feeling a complicated mix of envy and appreciation for his skill.
The next thing I can remember:
I’m running on a concrete path toward the beach. Although I’m getting tired and consider heading back before the intended halfway mark (the beach), I know that I am getting very close. I am still well-above sea-level, but soon the ocean comes into sight on the horizon and I know that I can make it to the intended mark.
I reach the end of the concrete path and jog down a flight of concrete stairs. The stairs lead to a street that ends at the beach just a few yards to my right once I am down from the stairs. To my left, the street slopes up steeply.
There are quite a few people gathered in small groups in a large area between the beach, the top of the hill, and the two sides of the street. Some of them are beach-bum-looking guys: stubbly-faced with long, stringy, dirty-looking hair. They are sitting in front of the bike path to the right, facing the hill. There are also a bunch of people seated on the concrete and asphalt on the slopes of the hill.
Everyone is facing a guy on the opposite side of the street from where I have descended – some sort of a crazy street-preacher. I’m not sure whether any of these people are buying into what he is preaching, but they are all watching him. I get the feeling that they all suspect that he is crazy although no one is being outwardly derisive towards him or trying to interrupt. He looks like he is probably homeless and is wearing some sort of white, lightweight robe.
I walk up the slope to my left – across the street from the preacher – where there is a tall girl with short, dark hair. An uncovered litter box is next to her feet. We start talking about the litter box. We decide that she will come back with me to my place – something to do with the litter and maybe my cats or something. I think that this might be a date, although I’m not really thinking about it too much. This whole last bit is very abstract compared to most of the rest of this three-dream sequence, which has been very clearly defined and realistic for the most part.
Upon waking, I realize that this girl who I was speaking with at the end of the last dream is Farrah – a friend of Rhonda’s (who was in the first part of the dream) from her Humboldt State days, and whom she now lives with in the Northwest. I saw the two of them in June while visiting my brother up there on a road trip (and while I was doing my first seasonal Master Cleanse… I’m about to start my 3rd tomorrow).
I lay in bed, knowing that I had just had some powerful dreams and trying to recall the details. Once I could remember most of what happened in the three dreams, I considered whether or not to get out of my warm bed and into the cold to type them into my computer.
I decided to just get up and jot down a few notes to assist me in writing the complete version later. After that, I returned to bed with the hope of either falling back to sleep or remembering more details of the dreams by lying down in the same position that I had been dreaming in.
I mostly had the image of the first dream in my mind - specifically the beginning of the dream with that awe-inspiring, vast desert plain and bright blue sky that was so clear and beautiful in the unobstructed sunshine. With my mind wandering in this image, I entered a hypnogogic state and saw the character of Jim from the Office at one end of the sky, speaking about his relationship to Pam, and how great it was. It was as if this talk of a good, healthy relationship was being juxtaposed with the good, healthy, happy feeling of the vast desert of my dream (I really need to take a trip to Joshua Tree or Niland again soon). It occurred to me that this first part of the first dream might represent in some way my relationship with Gabrielle – the majority of which was good, healthy, and happy.
Then I thought of the owls and the vultures. Both in dreams and in life, vultures symbolize death. The vultures and the owls were acknowledged, but not feared, in that first dream. In fact - and as mentioned – I had even gone so far as to jump in the air and flail my arms around to scare off the owl.
As I lay there thinking about these dream-birds, I remembered that strange mystical night that I spent hanging out with my old friend Elgin (Brad was also there...Lewis too?) about 12 years ago during which we climbed atop a building adjacent to the Wayfarer’s Chapel (AKA “The Glass Church”) in Palos Verdes. I had managed to reach into a window that was above, and behind, the alter and grab a long, white flower of some sort. As we started to leave – but while still up on another part of the roof - we saw an albino owl perched in a nearby tree. Upon seeing us, he lit up into the sky, showing his impressive wingspan and remarkable white plumage.
Driving back from the church, down PV Boulevard and a couple of miles away from where this all had taken place,I suddenly had to slow down due to the fact that an albino owl had landed in the middle of the street and was effectively blocking the car. As we were coming to a halt, the owl flew away once again. Before it did, I distinctly remember that it made eye-contact with me – just as the albino owl in the dream did when I was flailing my arms to scare it off.
We were convinced that the owl in the street had to be the same owl from the tree by the church – how many albino owls could be in that area? – and half-joked that it was trying to reclaim the white flower that we had stolen.
Later in the night, after recording ourselves singing and playing percussion on the park equipment at Rocketship Park, we drove past a dead raccoon in the road and decided to turn around and have a memorial for it there in the street in the middle of the night. Brad and Elgin and I (and Lewis?) took turns speaking in honor of the raccoon and connecting the events of the night to this last one in whatever way we understood it at the time.
When we left, some people who had driven past us in a large pickup truck while we were memorializing the raccoon followed us through the streets for awhile. We joked that they had probably seen us speaking over the dead raccoon and thought that we were performing some sort of Satanic ritual. Quite a strange night.
Anyway, I wasn't recalling this entire story as I lay there thinking of the albino owl from my dream. What I did think about was Elgin – who was schizophrenic and committed suicide a few months after that night by hanging himself in a drainage pipe beneath the streets of the Colorado city he was residing in at the time. There is another really unsettling connection between that night and his suicide, but all I was thinking about as I lay there was the white owl and Elgin. Clearly it would not be a stretch – considering this autobiographical tidbit – to think that the albino owl in my dream would represent death every bit as much as the vulture.
So, as I think about it now, I ponder the idea of death hovering overhead during every moment of life – even happy times such as during a thriving romantic relationship. Maybe the dream was saying that during such times the fear of death is eliminated… it hovers above you and you are aware of it, but you jump in the air flapping your arms and shouting “Go away, you dumb bird, I am ALIVE and you don’t scare me!”
Just a thought.
Lying there, however, I was thinking of it all more literally… thinking about the people in my dream like Leonard and Rhonda and Farrah and having some mild concern that the images of death were some sort of a portent. I doubt it though. It seems more likely that my current philosophy – or something along those lines - was being reflected back to me. My dreams rarely seem to echo the future much, at least in my current understanding of them. Usually at least, they seem to just be messages about the archetypal energies that are informing my life at the moment.
*(2pm): I kept trying to remember where, in real-life, I had seen this crumbly, powdery yellow foam-like substance before. It seemed like something from childhood. I think that it was the foam that was inside the vinyl booths that surrounded the kitchen table in my parents place when I grew up. There had been some holes in the vinyl that I think may have revealed this substance, but I can’t remember for sure if this is it. And, if that is what I saw in my dream, I have no idea what the significance would be.
**One more note: The dream image of a sloped-street near a beach is starting to become a familiar theme in my dreams. I can only specifically think of one other dream that contained this location - a powerful dream involving Tabitha’s Mom and a Godhead in the sky that absorbed me into it - from early-on in my Summer cleanse, but I feel like it may have appeared in more than just these two dreams. In both dreams the hill and the beach made it resemble the hill leading down to the plaza on Pier Ave. in Hermosa Beach – a place where I spent a lot of time in my late teens through my move to NYC at the age of 22. I’ll have to take note to see if this dream-environment starts to reoccur.
After having these dreams, taking the time to lie in bed and remember as many details as I could, and writing them all down completely and with as much clarity as I could, I went through the rest of the day feeling empowered and whole.
In the days leading up to these dreams, I had spent much of my time thinking about, and working out the details of, The Human Gene Om Project; So I can't help but think that this "big dream" has something to do with the project. I am really looking forward to finding out how it all ties together as this adventure begins.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
