Of a Dream

Hurried off the bus I did, in such a rush to get to the next one that I forgot a bag on the first. Upon the realization that I had lost something I hurried back on, calling out to the driver. “Just gotta get my bag, sorry!”

 

Dreamwork is not static. It is a conversation and the dream itself is poetry. Part entertainment, part art, part message.

 

The door shut behind me as I got on. The driver put the bus into gear and started going. “No wait!” I called out. “I’m getting off! Was just getting my bag!”

 

The first step to learning how to ‘read’ dreams is not terribly different from learning to analyze a poem. Identifying the difference between symbolism and meaningless chatter. Seeing how those symbols work together to shape contents underneath the surface.

 

As I shouted the bus driver turned her face towards me. She wasn’t stopping the bus. “There is a lesson for you in this,” she said. I protested as any upset passenger would. Of course I did, I could not understand. Not while still being in the dream. Almost crying with anger I turned to another passenger and complained of what was happening, telling them how unreasonable the driver was and how badly I needed to get off. The one I was speaking to showed no signs of sympathy, her face blank as that of a doll.

The fellow passenger spoke, repeating words already spoken by another: “There is a lesson in this.”

 

 

 

The Race Thing Again

Mind if I bang my head against the wall?

 

I was just reading a blog post written by a fellow heathen, that I’m not going to name. It was an interesting piece and I greatly enjoyed it! Until, all of a sudden, the writer started talking race. Started talking about Whites and how we are under attack by the big bad multicultural world. How we’ll go extinct if we don’t fight back. Of how the Norse gods belong to us Whites. And I just. Want. To. Scream.

 

So let me just make this statement, for anyone who has stumbled in here with the impression that Heathens are racists, white supremacists. Some are. Yes. Absolutely. But lots and lots are not. Please, please know this.

 

I do not give a fuck what the colour of your skin is, and I do not believe the Gods do either.

 

Forget White. Forget Black. It’s just melanin, folks. It doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t.

 

Edit: Since some seem confused as to what I mean with this post, let me make it overly clear. I believe us all to be equal regardless of skin colour. No race is superior to another, and I am NOT in any way saying that you matter less depending on the concentration of melanin in your skin. In fact it’s precisely the opposite I am saying – black or white (or brown or pink or whatever you identify your skin as) we are all equal. If you do not agree that we are all of equal value regardless of skin colour, well then I would hope you will just fuck off and leave me alone. Clear enough?

What it looks like

Yesterday I pulled a couple of poems out of my bag, and actually showed them to someone.

 

She stared at the words on paper, stared and slowly nodded.

“This… sure looks like poetry to me,” she said. ” I mean I don’t know anything about poetry, but this looks like it.”

 

Hardly high praise, but it’s enough. Considering what pieces I chose a perfectly valid response could have been “This is gibberish” or “What have you been smoking?”, so that it’s even recognizable as poetry is a bit of a victory.

The words fall short, though. To call the pieces ‘poems’ feels entirely inadequate. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that few would understand them either, though a sad fact it is. Regardless of what you think of the result, I need to keep writing.

 

Words of mine, though not my own. They are important.

 

 

 

Dreamwork

Lately I have felt that it is time I took a more serious approach to Dreamwork. It has always been a talent of mine, one that includes both precognitive and telepathic dreams, but it has generally surfaced spontaneously rather than as a result of intentional practice. That I believe should change. I am to learn more of how to use this talent, intentionally.

So this I wish to say, to you who might be reading: I hereby offer my services as a Dreamworker in training. Eventually I might be in such control that I might actively seek out certain Dreams in order to answer questions, but for now I only speak of interpretations. So, if you wish feedback on what message might lay within your dreams, please do not hesitate to contact me. Just send a message to contactfny@gmail.com and I will respond as soon as I can. Anything you say is of course fully confidential.

 

 

Rambling

I have not been posting often lately, but do not think I am gone. I’m here, still climbing up from this well of misery the latest failed ivf-attempt brought.

 

It’s silly really, how thin-skinned I get. A single word of critique or insult has me breaking down in tears. The slightest bit of stress makes my heart pound at double speed. I’m fragile, so damned fragile.

 

I hate being fragile.

 

I hate a great many things about me, really, but that’s one of the aspects that causes me the most trouble.

 

See now, this post wasn’t meant to be about such things, but here I am anyway. Falling right back into the well of self-pity that I detest so much.

 

Bloody hell.

 

 

 

Actually I meant to write something about faith, and of the path I am called to walk down. I meant to tell you more of She that is the Night Sky, of what She has taught me, of what I see in Her. But I can’t. As I sit down by the computer to write I feel it with overwhelming clarity: This I am not to speak of. You learn it yourself, or you don’t.

 

It’s surprisingly difficult not to speak of. I suppose there is still a childish part of me that wants to run up to mum and shout “look what I found!” It’s the same impulse now, only in a more adult context. Wanting to share what I’ve seen and learned.

 

But no.

 

Ghraourgh.  Enough. It is time for bed, the dreams await. Good night!