I promise to stop thinking about pink elephants just as soon as I can. Seriously--if I could do a brain dump and replace all this crap instantly, I would. But it's a slow process. I do know how to limit and sometimes stops unwanted thoughts, but when they force themselves on you in dreams there's not a lot you can do about it. And I assure you that except for these past few days, my head's been a lot clearer and cleaner than in the recent past. Clarity,
Office 17622,
PO Box 6945,
London.
W1A 6US
United Kingdom
Phone/ Voicemail:
+44 (0)20 3287 3053 (UK)
+1 (561) 459-4758 (US).
I've had a few bad dreams about Baldy, most of them lately, but the one that woke me this morning was one of my all-time most horrible dreams. Baldy was running a shady industrial enterprise in a shady industrial area. His shop wasn't on a street but on a muddy alley lined with other small industrial operations of questionable use and repute. Everything in this alley was rusty, dingy, and muddy, and the alley itself was disused. Its atmosphere was that of a place you'd go mainly when you needed to dispose of a body that had suddenly and inconveniently appeared in, say, your parlor, for reasons that outside parties might question.
I had come to this place with Baldy, and though I stood in the mud outside his shop he had opened the doors and shutters so I could see what he was doing inside. First he pulled a lever, opening a chute that dumped gallons and gallons of oil into a vat. I continued to stand and watch, thinking he was going to boil me in the oil, but he seemed to have forgotten I was there. Instead turned his attention to two dogs. He brought out a white Afghan hound that obediently lay down in an open doorway, again in my full view. He then brought out a pit bull, and the Afghan lay passively while the pit bull first stripped off its skin and then systematically stripped away and ate every muscle from its bones and every one of its organs until there was nothing left of the Afghan but a skeleton. The Afghan had never made a move to defend itself. I left the alleyway then. Baldy didn't seem to notice or care, so intent was he on going about his day's work of destroying. On the way out of the alley I saw 7 or 8 high heeled shoes lying in mud puddles, and I knew that these had belonged to women he'd let the pit bull eat. While I was walking away, I saw a station wagon full of young, slightly anxious and slightly eager women being brought to him. I woke up then.
There's at least one quick and obvious interpretation of this dream, although a good analyst could do a lot more with it than I can. Nor do I have the words to convey how gut-stoppingly horrible the dream was. When I woke up, I wasn't anxious, crying, or otherwise agitated--just sick from horror: The pit bull devouring the passive Afghan in a systematic and workmanlike way; the shoes of other victims strewn about in mud puddles; and the car full of fresh victims being brought to him. I've not been at my jauntiest and most to-hell-with-him the past two or three days, and this dream left me in a real funk.
Today, then, was one of those rare days that I cast 2 hexes.
Q: What am I to think of how I'm feeling?
A: 48.5-->46.
Good. Further encouragement, and confirmation that I've done the right thing.
Q: What am I to make of my ambivalance and--let's be honest here--my unhappiness about his apparent ability to move on?
A: 60.0.
With apologies to Kubler-Ross, grief doesn't run in a straight line. It spirals upward. The diameter of the spiral shrinks a little with each revolution, but the line repeatedly passes through the same zones. So I guess have set proper limitations and need to maintain them. (No worries on that account, at least not with Baldy; but who can say what rare treasure I'll turn up next?) Now, says the Yi, I must limit my expectations for an instant feel-good cure. Other thoughts? Besides wishing me a good night's sleep.
I had come to this place with Baldy, and though I stood in the mud outside his shop he had opened the doors and shutters so I could see what he was doing inside. First he pulled a lever, opening a chute that dumped gallons and gallons of oil into a vat. I continued to stand and watch, thinking he was going to boil me in the oil, but he seemed to have forgotten I was there. Instead turned his attention to two dogs. He brought out a white Afghan hound that obediently lay down in an open doorway, again in my full view. He then brought out a pit bull, and the Afghan lay passively while the pit bull first stripped off its skin and then systematically stripped away and ate every muscle from its bones and every one of its organs until there was nothing left of the Afghan but a skeleton. The Afghan had never made a move to defend itself. I left the alleyway then. Baldy didn't seem to notice or care, so intent was he on going about his day's work of destroying. On the way out of the alley I saw 7 or 8 high heeled shoes lying in mud puddles, and I knew that these had belonged to women he'd let the pit bull eat. While I was walking away, I saw a station wagon full of young, slightly anxious and slightly eager women being brought to him. I woke up then.
There's at least one quick and obvious interpretation of this dream, although a good analyst could do a lot more with it than I can. Nor do I have the words to convey how gut-stoppingly horrible the dream was. When I woke up, I wasn't anxious, crying, or otherwise agitated--just sick from horror: The pit bull devouring the passive Afghan in a systematic and workmanlike way; the shoes of other victims strewn about in mud puddles; and the car full of fresh victims being brought to him. I've not been at my jauntiest and most to-hell-with-him the past two or three days, and this dream left me in a real funk.
Today, then, was one of those rare days that I cast 2 hexes.
Q: What am I to think of how I'm feeling?
A: 48.5-->46.
Good. Further encouragement, and confirmation that I've done the right thing.
Q: What am I to make of my ambivalance and--let's be honest here--my unhappiness about his apparent ability to move on?
A: 60.0.
With apologies to Kubler-Ross, grief doesn't run in a straight line. It spirals upward. The diameter of the spiral shrinks a little with each revolution, but the line repeatedly passes through the same zones. So I guess have set proper limitations and need to maintain them. (No worries on that account, at least not with Baldy; but who can say what rare treasure I'll turn up next?) Now, says the Yi, I must limit my expectations for an instant feel-good cure. Other thoughts? Besides wishing me a good night's sleep.