Waiting in our bodies, too bold for the waking world are the seeds of vision, messages from the unborn, reminders from the ancestors, analog long distance virtual reality experiences some call “dreams”.
This is a space to share your dreams. If you have a dream that you want to share (anonymously or with your name) comment here or email firstname.lastname@example.org.
May 13, 2009 (Lex)
The dream was a poem. We were in Palestine, but we were also in a pool. Witnessing and processing underwater. We wanted to be clear with each other. We were not tourists or voyeurs. We were also not on a service trip. We were struggling with what solidarity means. What does it mean to witness the complexity of genocide first hand. All of this…underwater. And there are typewritten words behind us and happening.
Each stanza is a tragedy. And we are complicit and everyone is complicit. No death, no loss stands alone.
The stanza that stands
is a warning and a threat
and a resignation
the speaker is giving in
and giving up
and giving his life
I can see the shape of the stanza in my mind right now
and feel the shrug of the speaker
and the result of the stanza is the death of at least two children.
As the dream ends the children are born into water, and around the corner of the pool are baby turtles rising up.
July 21, 2008 (Lex)
(one of those second chance-woke-up-early-and-went-back-to-sleep-again dream sets)
It’s like a black lesbian soul plane. We’re there (in the air) but we’re not in charge. We’re being screened and separated, searched for sex toys, walking past the (not even metaphorical) cock-pit and walking to the back of the back of the back. This plane is too wide to be aeronautically sound. It’s more like a movie theatre, but we’re in the movie. I’m sitting in the last row, next to someone I don’t know, but am connected to in dreamtime. Reluctantly though…I don’t think my relationship to this person (lots of make up, bright dark skin, curled dreadlocks) is reciprocal. Maybe that’s why I’m panicked.
In front of us…like a show. There is something bright and colorful going wrong. Like hip-hop masculinist fireworks, with lots of smoke. Dangerous (because it’s exploding…and we’re on an airplane!) because it’s distracting us from the real issue, because it’s flashy expensive disrespect. The seatbelt sign is on. We have to sit there and watch it.
Now I’m “home” in an unfamiliar place, on land. I drove. The streets were wide and new but the houses were old. And one house belonged to my blood family, and some chosen family members were there too.
In one particularly vivid scene I was walking up a crowded stairway, spiraling above a kitchen table pressed against older and older light skinned women (who i understand to be my mother’s father’s matrilineal ancestors). They were moving to make room for me, they were helping me up. There were so many of them, each one older than the last, and they barely had room to stand, against the banister, in the rafters. I don’t know their names.