Geometric dreams.  Vivid dreams that are staying with me.  I go through dry patches where nothing dreamt survives into daylight.  Now (had to stop then.  The theme from Lawrence of Arabia on the radio.  Great sweeping panoramic exotic sounds.  Music so aligned with the breath.  Had I been holding my breath? for I took a huge deep clearing one at the start, like a breath of release or relief.  Music is such a powerful medium, because it moves through time and is not static like art?  The written word moves through time too and has changed the course of history repeatedly.  But music!  I think if we could saturate war zones with Debussy's Syrinx or Williams soundtrack to Schindler's list, soldiers would put down their weapons and weep with the sheer beauty.  But then I am constantly arrogantly amazed that people don't think like I do.  Like litter.  Walking the dogs I am forever picking up litter.  This 5km dead end road is bordered by giant gum trees, green hills, brigalow scrub, wattles and is quite simply, very beautiful.  So why am I picking up soft drink cans, KFC containers, cigarette packs and other common detritus of modern society?  A few days ago while riding I saw from my higher vantage point someone had flung a bag of garbage into the undergrowth.  Haven't picked it up yet as I need Richard with me to hold the dogs - and to help carry it back.  The point of this is not to have a whinge per se, although whinging does satisfy, but to illustrate that naturally people don't think like I do or they would never litter).

Which is a long seque from dreams.  I don't know why I'm remembering dreams again.  The first dream had our road transplanted to a caldera.  On the opposite side, on the rise leading to the lip was another collection of buildings.  The next night I dreamed of a flood, traced it to a neighbours dam, blue and half filled with water.  The dam was shaped like a roasting pan.  Last night, no dams or calderas but a bathroom with long louvered doors, a former vet nurse, a man tied at the wrists and the rope looped over a coat hook, horses, children underfoot, changing clothes, perfume and guests having a party on the verandah on the other side of the louvered doors.  Complicated and untranslateable. Why do we dream?  The unanswerable question.  The mind entertaining itself while the interfering conscious self sleeps? 

I would like to know the meaning of my dreams but find, as in reading Tarot for myself, that I am unable.  There is no eureka moment, only frustration and confusion.  Despite this I still like to write them down.

A (Dream) Affair to Regret

So cold my fingers can hardly type. Winter's last hurrah? I hope.

Two nights ago I awoke from a nightmare in which I discovered Richard had a mistress. Last night I awoke from a nightmare in which I almost had sex with another man and I had to tell his wife ("what will happen if I tell her?" "It will ruin everything") and Richard (ditto). Have no idea what these mean. Why him and then me? At least having a scary nightmare is straightforward. You're being chased or attacked or, in the case of my recurring childhood nightmare, smothered. These adult nightmares fraught with grief and guilt are much worse.

Worse too was the exposure. We were in a busy restaurant. The windows were darkened and as the man was unconcerned about all the people dining on the far side of this long cavernous room, I assumed there was some kind of two way mirror separating us. Then the maitre d' came over and asked him just what was he supposed to do (my ersatz lover was the owner) and customers were getting up from their tables in anger, children in tow. I cowered under the covers until someone brought me a sarong. Then his wife came home early, bubbly and too too bright. She had to know. She was my friend. How could I not confess?

One strange aspect which I caught as I was waking was the emotions and actions somehow became fused into colours and shapes which my conscious mind grabbed as a possible painting. The images aren't clear now; swirling vortexes of black red, orange and brown. Not very exciting when within the dream they were vivid and spoke volumes about the emotional context of the dream.

Often with the purchase of Yoga Australia magazine a CD of music or meditations will be attached. Found one I'd pulled off and hadn't listened to and put it on. Listening to song 6, Garuda by Pravana (Eastern Meditation) was one of those moments when it is confirmed yet again that although we may have forgotten, we are gods. What is one definition of God. The Creator. We create every day with every breath, thought and deed. Some of us create for themselves and others; composers, writers, musicians, artists, poets to name a few. Of the arts, music is one of the most sublime, perhaps because it is creation of a thing over time and space that ceases yet leaves an image after it is gone. Garuda was one of those moments. With the first few notes I was transported. The composer had tapped into something which spoke directly to my heart. Would other listeners feel the same? Perhaps not. But the creative instinct within us is as diverse and varied as we ourselves are.

Through some of the darkest times of my life, Debussy was the lifeline to which I clung. An unbreakable connection from darkness to light.