I see that I’m not the only one having bad dreams. My hunch is that it isn’t always bad to have them. Whenever I’ve gone through long stretches where I dream of nothing but rainbows, unicorns, and happy clouds, my life is stagnant. With that in mind, assuming you’re not in the middle of a war or something horrible, turbulent dreams can be a good sign indicating great changes and growth.
Yesterday, I meditated. I’ve been doing a daily meditation practice for a while. The room was dark and my eyes closed. A pure black spot formed amidst the fiery clouds, webs, Buddhas, geometric primitives, mandalas, and exploding lights that had been displayed behind my eyelids. At first, it was tiny spot, maybe the size of a drop of black ink. It grew, like black oil spreading across water. Its blackness absorbed the sketchy images and inchoate scenes that had been around it. It grew until it covered most of my visual field, and then it stabilized. It now looked like a blacked out window.
The black window opened to reveal a lively scene in another room. it was like spying through a window into somebody’s house.
A woman was walking down a stairway which opened into a living room. I watched her walk. Her movement down the stairs was smooth and graceful, as though she had trained to descend stairs with a stack of books balanced on her head at a ballet academy. Her face was exotic, like that of a mythological Aztec deity. Her hair was black. Her dress was woven with phosphorescent red, green, and brown geometric patterns.
Suddenly, she stopped, turned to face me, and her eyes looked directly into mine. There was recognition in her eyes. She knew I could see her. She smiled. There was a mischievous look in her eyes. It was a look like what someone gives you when they catch you looking at them when you didn’t think they could see you, and they think it's funny or a game, and your surprise amuses them.
“I can see you sitting there looking at me.” She laughed and stepped forward as though to try to climb through the window into the room where I was meditating. I felt her in my room in my flat with me. It was a realistic and convincing feeling of presence like when someone is next to you.
I got up and searched my flat thinking someone had quietly come in while I was meditating.
Yesterday, I went out late to a café to have a glass of wine with my girlfriend. It was 2 am, and a Gypsy beggar man and a little girl, perhaps 5, walked past us and asked for money.
“No money.”
They left.
Later that night after we went to bed, i dreamed about the gypsies. The beggar man held the little girl captive in a hovel. He had kidnapped her or bought her from a child trafficking ring and used her as a begging prop.
I was also a captive. I was a little kid. He and his band of gypsies caught us and smuggled us to his house which was in a remote part of Mexico. Also captive was my secret swimsuit model girlfriend Krana Maria. Krana Maria was a girl I was with for three or four months. I can’t remember if I wrote about Krana Maria. I didn't want to sound like I was bragging, but it was the first time in my life when I had finally begun to have a love life. Now that I was in a country where the women would not treat me like shit but actually wanted to spend time with me, I was a bit overwhelmed. Also, I was in a fragile mental state at the time, and it was hard to write about her. She was one of the girls I met at the Paris Fashion Week parties I used to go to.
The little girl became Krana Maria. She was now her own age in real life, 23, and I was my real age. The gypsy slaver had marked Krana on the inside of her wrist with a scar. It was a jagged circular scar like a stigmata. The location was the wrist, the place the Romans put the nail during crucifixion. It was a mark of ownership.
Krana Maria and I were in love, boyfriend and girlfriend. It felt exactly how it had felt in real life. I couldn’t stand to see him treat her this way. The storyline of the dream changed. We were no longer captives, but were to be initiated into an outlaw motorcycle gang. We would live a life together, having adventures with an outlaw gypsy motorcycle gang in Mexico
The scars on the wrist represented membership or belonging to the gang. To get the mark, Krana Maria and I had to run the gauntlet on a motorcycle. Once we successfully ran through the gauntlet, someone put a spike through our wrists and then removed it. It was quick and didn’t hurt. We had matching jagged stigmata scars, the scars forming finger-sized rings, like wedding bands, running through our wrists.
Yesterday, I meditated. I’ve been doing a daily meditation practice for a while. The room was dark and my eyes closed. A pure black spot formed amidst the fiery clouds, webs, Buddhas, geometric primitives, mandalas, and exploding lights that had been displayed behind my eyelids. At first, it was tiny spot, maybe the size of a drop of black ink. It grew, like black oil spreading across water. Its blackness absorbed the sketchy images and inchoate scenes that had been around it. It grew until it covered most of my visual field, and then it stabilized. It now looked like a blacked out window.
The black window opened to reveal a lively scene in another room. it was like spying through a window into somebody’s house.
A woman was walking down a stairway which opened into a living room. I watched her walk. Her movement down the stairs was smooth and graceful, as though she had trained to descend stairs with a stack of books balanced on her head at a ballet academy. Her face was exotic, like that of a mythological Aztec deity. Her hair was black. Her dress was woven with phosphorescent red, green, and brown geometric patterns.
Suddenly, she stopped, turned to face me, and her eyes looked directly into mine. There was recognition in her eyes. She knew I could see her. She smiled. There was a mischievous look in her eyes. It was a look like what someone gives you when they catch you looking at them when you didn’t think they could see you, and they think it's funny or a game, and your surprise amuses them.
“I can see you sitting there looking at me.” She laughed and stepped forward as though to try to climb through the window into the room where I was meditating. I felt her in my room in my flat with me. It was a realistic and convincing feeling of presence like when someone is next to you.
I got up and searched my flat thinking someone had quietly come in while I was meditating.
Yesterday, I went out late to a café to have a glass of wine with my girlfriend. It was 2 am, and a Gypsy beggar man and a little girl, perhaps 5, walked past us and asked for money.
“No money.”
They left.
Later that night after we went to bed, i dreamed about the gypsies. The beggar man held the little girl captive in a hovel. He had kidnapped her or bought her from a child trafficking ring and used her as a begging prop.
I was also a captive. I was a little kid. He and his band of gypsies caught us and smuggled us to his house which was in a remote part of Mexico. Also captive was my secret swimsuit model girlfriend Krana Maria. Krana Maria was a girl I was with for three or four months. I can’t remember if I wrote about Krana Maria. I didn't want to sound like I was bragging, but it was the first time in my life when I had finally begun to have a love life. Now that I was in a country where the women would not treat me like shit but actually wanted to spend time with me, I was a bit overwhelmed. Also, I was in a fragile mental state at the time, and it was hard to write about her. She was one of the girls I met at the Paris Fashion Week parties I used to go to.
The little girl became Krana Maria. She was now her own age in real life, 23, and I was my real age. The gypsy slaver had marked Krana on the inside of her wrist with a scar. It was a jagged circular scar like a stigmata. The location was the wrist, the place the Romans put the nail during crucifixion. It was a mark of ownership.
Krana Maria and I were in love, boyfriend and girlfriend. It felt exactly how it had felt in real life. I couldn’t stand to see him treat her this way. The storyline of the dream changed. We were no longer captives, but were to be initiated into an outlaw motorcycle gang. We would live a life together, having adventures with an outlaw gypsy motorcycle gang in Mexico
The scars on the wrist represented membership or belonging to the gang. To get the mark, Krana Maria and I had to run the gauntlet on a motorcycle. Once we successfully ran through the gauntlet, someone put a spike through our wrists and then removed it. It was quick and didn’t hurt. We had matching jagged stigmata scars, the scars forming finger-sized rings, like wedding bands, running through our wrists.
