The Dream
It was late December, the drifts were piling up in collusion against the rails of the porch. Little could be discerned above the sound of the wind, wrapping itself around the northeast corner of the house. Restless, it continued to bully what remained of the brittle branches of last summer's honeysuckle, a loose shutter, and my grandmother's wind chimes. In the midst of this late afternoon concert, the sun was descending unnoticed toward its mountain crypt. Already the sky was filtering the light with its angular sieve suggesting the beginnings of the golden hour. Soon it would lend itself to blazing oranges and finally a pastel pink adieu. In that moment of silence, when the wind stops to take an in breath, I stirred. As I rallied myself from the daybed, throwing my coverlet aside, I grabbed the poker in hopes of being able to stir up the starving fire a little longer before an inevitable trip to the mud room. Arming myself with boots, gloves, and coat, I would soon enough be staggering out toward a chaotic woodpile in order to replenish the famished fire. My thoughts were still troubled. Clouded and confused. The images, rich with texture, numinous with meaning, a
"It is fine. You are releasing trapped energy. You must stay with it. You are a cultural and political prisoner of all that you were born into. Breathe now. Just breathe. I have not put up with Freud, gotten thrown out of several countries, and continued with my theories in the face of so many small minded beaurocrats for nothing. I know what I am doing. Continue." Is there any brandy in the pantry? Perhaps a hot toddy and some cookies as I enjoy the night. Yes. Here we are. Soon as this kettle whistles I can take these goodies back to my wonderful fire. "Dr. Freud, I am feeling uncomfortable telling you this dream. I feel as if you are judging me." "And now, will you please be the withered rosebud." And then I noticed it wasn't a silence at all. Imperceptible at first, I realized it was a sort of hum. A hum that seemed to carry both silence and sound. Light and darkness. Something so numinous and mysterious that it took me into itself and carried me further in. Further back. Back to visions of cave paintings with shadows of men dancing like animals. Dancing in the firelight before these magnificent ancient paintings. Pulsing, beating sounds. Drums. Pulsing. Pulsing. Pulsing... It wasn't long before my hands were stiff with the cold and my nose running as I made my pilgrimage repeatedly from pile to door. "Why did I let my stash get so low? LAZY!! LAZY!" I found myself flagellating my wonton lack of strategic thinking during this winter vacation...... ffronting my conscious sensibilities. Between worlds, as if stepping on the edge of a great secret, I found the strength to twist an aberrant piece of wood back on itself to re-inspire the licking heat out of tired smoking embers. How long had I been sleeping? Years.... or minutes? The sounds of branches against glass beckoned my attention outward.
Some common words found in the essay are:
Dr Jung, Sahna Carmona, Fritz Perls, Ah Goot, Standing Singing, Yes Yes, Yes Relax, Carl Rogers, Yes Actually, LAZY LAZY, garden hose, da voman, singed hair, voman da voman, carl rogers, voman da, notice yourself, wet garden, dr lowen, don't remember, wet garden hose, da voman da, grass green,
Approximate Word count = 5011
Approximate Pages = 20 (250 words per page double spaced)
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