Egyptian Dreams, Conclusion

April 14, 2001


I do not know why this sacrifice needed to be made. 
I do not know why, once again, there is a nothing. I had defeated the nothing, 
many times ago. 

It is a riddle and a conundrum, but the fact is that 
there is no nothing.

There are only empty places where something once was.
Some empty places remain so, even when they are crowded into smaller 
and smaller holes, they are still holes. They still exist, even if 
unseen and outshouted and beyond the grasp of words.

 
I go on, hoping that what was will be again. 

I gave in once to the desolation, and I myself became NOT. 

For a time. 

t is my hope that this, too, is such a time, and that one day, that which was will be 

again, and the empty spaces occupied anew. 

Again, I wait.

Egyptian Dreams Part 2

April  14, 2001

Time passes, but it is of no importance now. I have achieved it.
Time is but part of the Unity, the Wholeness. It is a concept, an
expression. It has no existence of itself.
I have achieved what I set out to do. I have found my way into the
Oneness, my way to you. Never again will we be separated for long.
When we are apart, I can meld myself into your place of being. We
are One part of a One, and as such are aware of one another.
I did it, myself, with your example but without your help.

We are together now, many whens and many wheres. Fleeting memories I
have; dark woods in dark dresses, with baying dogs and muskets,
golden moonlight and white sand beaches, looking down on billowing
clouds, looking into the heart of a fire, looking out from the heart
of the fire.
Sometimes we are together, physically, clothed in flesh and bone,
experiencing the joyful unity that dissolves our earthbound bonds.
Sometimes our minds and hearts touch on some ephemeral plane, in non
touching ways.
Sometimes we oppose one another, sometimes we agree, sometimes both,
sometimes neither.
But we share it all; me with you; you with me.
The dissolution, as we fade into our surroundings, is no longer
frightening. We know, I know, that it is the end of nothing. That
there is no end, and no nothing. It is only waiting.

Time is peculiar here in the Unity. There is no past, no future.
Every moment is "now". Our adventures take us everywhen, and in no
particular order. Sometimes we live in the "Modern Era". Sometimes
we are in the "Stone Age". We go from flivvers to feet to flight.
Where we are is when we are. There is no when; there is only where,
and that where is our lives touch.

We have been together in many places, in many `times', in many
bodies. We have lived, you and I.
We have LIVED.

We have lived, and now we will go beyond that. We are to have a
child. Not a child of our bodies – we've done that before and
before – but a child of our spirit, our oneness. Something, someone
(in Unity, thing and one ARE one thing) created uniquely from our
coming together.
It is a boy child, and he is definitely of our spirit. He learns, or
is born knowing, how to dissolve into Oneness. While he is such a
young soul, I must stay with him as best I can. It is not always
easy, this staying. Sometimes your needs must separate us as my
needs are for him, but this you know, and understand, perhaps better
than I do. His time will come.

A knowing comes to us. Where it comes from, I do not know, but it is
there. We know, you and I, that there must be a sacrifice. A giving
up, a turning away, a giving back. Why, we do not know, nor what
purpose it will serve, but it must be done. We must make a sacrifice
of value.
In a modern era, I take the child on an elevator. You are with me,
but the sacrifice is mine. In a high place, you leave us, and I take
the child to privacy. It is a stark room, white and silver, with
graceful curves and crisp angles, and I place the child on a shelf.
The shelf itself is of bright silver metal, and covered in puffs of
white.
He coos with delight, this child of ours, and I watch as he begins
the melting process. I watch him as I once watched you, with horror
and grief and fear. His flesh melts into the sheets, his bones
meld into the building itself, and he is gone from us, from me.
This time, this terrible time, there will be no coming back.
And he is no longer. He does not exist. My heart can't find him, my
soul can't feel him. There is nothing where there was once a child.
Our child.
The sacrifice has been made.

Egyptian Dreams

April 14, 2001. This dream came in sections, with dream 'commercials' in between, and also a dream domestic argument over how to spend $28,000.00.

I lay back, replete. Our lovemaking has been complete. It 
was more then a joining of two bodies into one, more than a union of 
two spirits together. When we made love, we became one with the 
universe, a part of everything. There was no us, no them, no 
anything. The merging was complete and all-inclusive.
I prop myself up on an elbow and look down at you. My long 
brown hair trails across your shining chest. Did you feel it, too?
You smile at me.
"Don't be alarmed," you say, and I laugh the laugh of lovers. What 
is there to be alarmed about?
As I look at you, you begin to blur. Sweat in my eyes, or maybe 
tears. Perfection will do that to a person.
"It's okay," you say.
As you begin to fade away. The flesh of your arms sinks into, blends 
in with the pale bed sheets. Melting. You are melting away from me. 
The heat of our passion is causing you to dissolve. As we were one 
with the universe, you are becoming one with the bed, the room, the 
building, the world.
The bed absorbs you, your flesh, your muscle, your bone. You are 
leaving me.
No, I cry, within myself. This cannot be happening. It's too bizarre.
You continue to dissolve before my eyes.
You are gone.

Yet you are there. You do not leave me comfortless. "It's always 
been this way for us," your spirit whispers to my soul. 
And I remember.
I remember bleak winters from the days before fire, when we fit 
ourselves ever closer for warmth, away from the damp rocks that 
sheltered us. I remember places green and hot and torrid, but we 
could not stay apart. I remember straw on the floor of smelly inns, 
and a hammock high in a tree, and a string of gray and grimy motels. 
I remember, with a splash of red skirts and headbands, the many 
shades of tan and the warmth of the Egyptian sun and sand, and 
sitting with you as the people babble past.
Yes, I remember.
It has always been this way for us.
We love, and then you go on.
You go on, and I come after.

But I don't know the way anymore. I don't know how to follow you, to 
become a part of the places the way you do. I can no longer follow 
you.
I can no longer hear you.
I cannot feel you.
You are gone.
I am alone.

I am alone and wandering, and there are many things in this modern 
world, but none of them is you. I cannot find you anywhere. I cannot 
feel you anywhere. You are not in the noise or the silence. You 
speak neither in the gale nor the breeze. The pollution robs me of 
the scent of your lovingness. There is no hint of your caress, in 
the pool or in the deluge. You are gone.
You are gone, and I am left to wander this life – these many 
lifetimes – alone.


It is too much for me. Without you, I have no will, no desire. I 
want only to go where you have gone, to call upon the long 
unremembered skills that once allowed me to follow you.
I wander through a cemetery. Here is a place for people who have 
gone. Here is a place where people go to become one again with the 
earth that made them. It is a good place, a quiet place, and I sit 
to rest and wait.

The wind blows. Green leaves turn gold, then brown, and pile at my 
feet. I am glad for their warmth. their cover. Grass grows and dies, 
and the chaff joins the leaves, mixed in with the leaves, and there 
are little rocks, too. Bits of sand, perhaps, or skin peeling off as 
I am becoming. Crystal tears are carried by the blizzard wind, and 
still I sit. All is harmony here, and, for me, where there is 
harmony, where there is unity, there is you.
A child passes by, holding his mothers hand. "That's a big rock, 
Mommy," he says. "I want to sit in its lap."
"It's a monument," says Mommy, "and that would be rude."
Time passes.

This is a very old dream, from the late 70s or early 80s. One I wrote into story form because it was so vivid.

The Hall of the Dead
A dream



He told me to come here, I know it, but I know not how I came by this knowledge. 

I know only that He, my love, my soul-mate (in the terms of those earth-bound and limited to words) wanted me to come here, and I came, seeking him out, in my party dress of azure blue
(or is it aquamarine?) and my tiny dress shoes.

But He is not here, and I must make my way through this
crowded room of somberly clad people.
I must cross this room, and then, only then, will I be able
to find Him.
He is waiting for me, just beyond my vision. He is smiling, because He knows that I have come to seek Him out.

Does He know how truly I seek for Him, or is this yet another ordeal I must pass through to find myself merely a bit closer to Him?
Only the thought that it will at least make me closer makes it bearable for me.

They look at me, these people in browns and blacks, with their loved ones tucked protectively against their bodies. Thus will He hold me, once I reach him, and even now his arm curves in anticipation

He raises a hand to her in encouragement, and smiles, but his eyes are troubled. Yes, this is but another ordeal for her, for the girl, but he knows she will pass it, if she perseveres; if she does not lose sight of her goal, however long it takes her

I step forward, faltering, unwelcome here, but somehow not unexpected. Some of These, They are Watchers. I, too, was once a Watcher, but He came to me and said, "Come, I will show you; I wilTeach you, All of Be-ing. Come."
So it is that I left the safe and somber life of Watching,
 I put on my blue party dress, and came to Seek Him Out. 

But He is not here.
They look, and somewhere someone speaks - a jest - and the listeners laugh, and there is movement, for the Dance is about to begin.

I can see them now, these solemn dancers. They form in rings, and the circles are complete, each alone, but also interlocking. They can change circles in the dance; they can change partners; the partners can take other partners and become Protectors.
The Watchers are in the center; trapped, helpless. They must move where the Dance goes, or they will be LEFT OUT. 

When the music starts, they move with the Dance, because they are of it. Wheels in
wheels, gears in cogs, lock-step, lock-step. The Dance goes on.

I move forward again, winding between the circles, not yet caught up in the Dance. I bump into a dancer, a man whose face I do not know, but whose Self I do. He wears a vest of brown, and a long-sleeved black shirt, and She-Who-He-Protects wears a vivid red, and glows with Life. 

I touch his arm, gently, and apologize, but he averts his face and hurries Her away, where I will not See.

But it is too late; I have known him. He is the father of my best friend, dead many years before I knew her, and She is the one he protects.

I press on, now outside the Dance, searching for my One, taking care not to be caught up in this Dance of the Dead.

Or is it the Dance of Those Left Behind?

Is it, simply, the Dance?