My friend Mario told me about a dream he had:

I had what was basically a three-minute dream. I had a sword. Remember the Sleestaks, from Land of the Lost? Well, there’s a Sleestak coming at me. I chop the Sleestak’s head off. There’s another Sleestak on the side of it. I go down like a ninja, and I chop his legs off. They both fall down. They’re on the ground. One’s trying to get up without a head, and that’s when I wake up.

When we kill, in a dream what are we killing?

When I say we, I speak of all human beings. Of course, the impulse here is to suggest we’re battling some aspect of the self. There’s a lot about the human self to be conquered, after all. The self is a computer written in animal code. Trapped inside of this computation engine, the eternal observer almost always reaches a point of attempting recursive reprogramming. The animal machine wants to free itself through reprogramming using the animal machine’s tools and skills, hence never escaping the self, only creating internalized hierarchies of animal machinery.

There’s no scenes of meditation in Land of the Lost, or I’ve forgotten about if there were. Gnosis is what we’re grasping for when attempting to break through the animal machine mind, some glimpse of what’s possible beyond the limits of human experience. In light of this, we can consider the act of transcendence to be a mutation, to become super human. This sentiment’s reinforced with the tales of supernatural powers displayed by the enlightened, throughout religious texts and books like Autobiography of a Yogi, or more recently Siddhas of Ga: Remembered by Khenpo Karthar Rinpoche. This is a beautiful ideal to strive for, instant control of matter through spiritual discipline. That said, I’ve been meditating for over twenty years and I can’t even get Spotify to work correctly most days.



Perhaps dream killing is just another kind of video game. It sounds fun enough.
I used to dream about killing a lot. In my mid-twenties, at the height of my political activity, it seems as though that’s all I dreamt about. I was never killing anyone in particular in the dream, just never-ending, faceless mobs. And I was using a sword. Maybe it’s stressful to spend all day the realization of just how fucked up the world is. Maybe I just had too much testosterone in me. Maybe I was symbolically achieving in my dreams what I couldn’t in the larger dream of life.

Maybe all that requires killing is thought.

There’s a point to be made here about Sleestaks representing the other. I’m not going to make it. If you care about theory you’ve already made it.

I will mention the time doors in Land of the Lost, and how they’re really births and deaths, sides of the black/white hole. I’ll mention that passages to and from dream levels are the same thing. I always do.


About Adam Tedesco

Adam Tedesco is a founding editor of REALITY BEACH, a journal of new poetics. His recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Laurel Review, Gramma Weekly, Prelude, Pouch Powderkeg, Fanzine, Fence, and elsewhere. He is the author of several chapbooks, most recently HEART SUTRA, and ABLAZA (Lithic Press), and the forthcoming collection Mary Oliver (Lithic Press, 2019). View all posts by Adam Tedesco

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