My friend Kristoph sent me this dream.
Moon steps, sacred dance, Brandon, oranges, colorful building with cardboard children, a stage, and place for the sea. 28 day calendar, mom in robes as entrances’ saved from some room. Ritual ritual ritual, not quite understanding, kodon, circle of telling I used to be magic, want to be holy, foreign tongues, huge leafy backs wrapped like sage, one blow dart left that I thought was for me water and a faded coastline, shot in the neck next thing I know I am swimming. Jen in my ear. Cult. Old pictures with real people and children, afterwards in a room preparing for something. Everybody is peeing (4 women, one standing, one sittingish smoking pink shirt black curly hair, one squats with one leg out, another over the sink white and blue amber hair), old master is talking, watching, waiting. Brendan Kelly? Two strangers enter, young couple, he dark hair she blonde long both white and shy claim to have tickets and want to meet us but he just runs into the bathroom, skepticism. I wake up.
This dream is like a miniature life like our lives are like tiny fragments of the one universal thought pervading this realm. Realm seems like a holy word, like age, because they imply bardo, or kalpa, or yuga, or baktun. Maybe it’s just the otherness of these words that elevates our perception of their gravity. They’re all a way of describing time.
Is time holy? I don’t know, but probably only exists inside of the perception of reality that’s blinkered by the human brain. The less human we become, the less time exists. This isn’t a good or bad thing. It just is.
We can peak around our blinders, get fucked up, meditate ourselves away, but it’s a huge boulder to move, removing them. What this takes is your humanity. Are you willing to give up being human? Do you have faith in the idea that there is something greater to be?
Will you exchange your travelling shape for the water? It sounds like a cultish question to ask, but isn’t hanging onto what you are a kind of cult also?
It’s relatively easy to drop out for eight hours at a time, knowing you’re coming back, but the prospect of letting go forever is the scariest thing there is. I’m not talking about suicide, but it sounds like it, and this speaks to the cult of the individual that we’re stuck in.
We think we’re radical because of an idea, but no ideas is the most real radical. Being everywhere at once is radical. Formlessness is the radical ideal. A collection of tchotchkes is not. It may be aesthetically pleasing, and that feels good, but it’s still just noise. Almost everything is.
Noise bends light from other dimensions into time. All of our thousands of limbs become slices and so we think we look the way we do. Thinking otherwise can be scary, but necessary. The tardigrade heart of life demands it when the veil is lifted.
When we think about a dream we say dream logic to explain what’s lost in translation, what causal connections we can’t make between the facts. I think what’s lost here is so much smaller than what’s lost between the real and this dream we’re walking through now. We live in a holy place with no name. Seeing it requires expanding beyond the walls of your body.
Now wake yourself.