|22 Jun 2008 @ 15:15, by John Ashbaugh|
I guess with the solstice and the full moon and Venus newly emerging from superior conjunction into the evening star, one might be inclined to some mental configuration.
One starry night a long time ago on this green planet,
some Cro-Magnon or some such person started connecting the dots up in the sky. Then he saw something that reminded him of something else, like finding the shapes of animals in the clouds, and somewhere else along the way, there had to be a story, and language began. There are various theories are out there about how sounds became associated with objects and movements. I think of the beginning of language as the beginning of story telling.
I imagine the ancient Vedic peoples sitting and standing around their fires in the forests of Central Asia or wherever they were, creating the Sanskrit language. Between starlight and firelight searching for the cadence that was music to our ears. If we can notice that the planets are moving around in rhythmic cycles, why not pay attention, follow those movements, and let them become a part of how we think? Here is a pattern for our dreaming to follow. Here is a dream from a couple of night ago. Just a personal thing.
A very old, very large, deep-ceilinged room, a vast library reading room with many rows of reading tables in all directions from wall to wall to wall to wall, and way up at the top around the perimeter where the walls meet the ceiling is a large wooden baroque ornamentation and I am swinging by my arms from fixture to fixture like an ape in the forest to get around from one side where I entered from a tunnel to the other side where the tunnel continues. An interim room that I must pass through unnoticed by anyone on the floor below. I am anonymous, the secret traveler. How many other places do I need to go through in this dream? Quite a few actually. There are serious dangers along the way. Encounters with evil spirits who threaten my life. I need to fight for my life with twelve inch bladed knives, and even after thrusting my knife into the body of one evil spirit, it continues to live and continues to fight me, knife blade clashing against knife blade, ringing like bells, and sparking like fire. When I realized that I couldn’t kill it with my weapon, fighting became a matter of continually fending off this anthropomorphized emotion. Whatever brought it up, here it was for me to know in all of its fury.
The whole thing kind of evaporates. There is no sense of losing, but the sense of successfully fighting off the evil spirit is more a sense of simple relief and exhaustion than victory. The kind of exhaustion that is rejuvenating like after a workout at the gym.
There is an amazement that I carry into the morning that I made it through that labyrinth of challenging and mysterious places. The evil spirits were in the images of persons whom I have known in the past whose effects on my thoughts even today have been challenging. I can reason my frustrations into infinity, but the feeling of the fight well fought and won works best for affective impact. It was a varied and winding path, this dream through rooms, and tunnels, and landscapes, and cityscapes. These are places I’ve been through before, and some new ones. It’s not exactly like I think I know where I might be going. There is no clear image of destination; simply continuation