Amputated (Dream)


You can’t do that! I cry out in fear,

watching the woman laid bare on the bed.

A blade presses gently against her arm, 

trailing an invisible line across her skin. 

And then once more further down, 

across the thigh above the knee.

It is diseased, you say. 

All between the lines you see.

There is no other way. 


I cry, I fear, I panic and think

that woman will die.

For how could she not?


You listen not to me.

Your hand is steady, 

you cut and reshape

the flesh that remains. 


It is with great relief I see

the woman stand

alive and free of pain,

free of all that was. 

So much, cut away, 

she’s now no taller than a child

but still alive.


Yes, I see her walking.

Through painful loss,

and frightful aid,

a brand new life.

Not Without Risk (dream)


The wilderness passes by at a slow pace, to the clop-clop-clop sound of hooves. It is not a horse I ride, not even a pony. Just a donkey, so small that my feet nearly touch the ground. 

Clop-clop-clop-clop, on we go.

Something catches my eye beside the road, something moving between trees and bushes. A blurr of colour, orange or yellow, swiftly gone. To see it better I take the spyglass from my side and raise it to my eye, seeing through the tube a picture only somewhat clearer. 

A tiger. Slowly stalking through the edge of the forest, slowly coming closer. I lower the glass, the animal has come close enough for me to clearly see it even without such tools. It has its eyes on me. It is coming.

Clop-clop-clop-clop I urge the donkey on along the road. We are too slow, all I can do is hope the attack never comes. 





It is early morning. My body feels numb and my mind is still wrapped up in what I just saw, what I just dreamed.


Birds, the largest I’ve ever seen. Intensely black and blue in colour, like nothing native to this land. In fact I can not recall them being native anywhere. 

I look out the window to see them, and in amazement call out for the others. Come see! 

But looking out the other windows, looking out on the other side of the house, the others see nothing out of the ordinary. White birds, like swans or perhaps storks. Large yes, but not unusually so.

In confusion I look both ways. Through one window I see creatures of a rare beauty, black and blue. Through the other window I look up and see what everyone else sees, simple white birds, nothing out of the ordinary. Hidden, their qualities are hidden.

Water, the blue of the ocean, with a surface gently rippled by wind. I see it above, stretching over the sky. A reflection of the water below. I see it below, water covering the ground. Covering the roads and fields, covering all. A reflection of the ocean above.

“How did you become a leader?” a girl asks. 

I frown and shake my head, the question is strange. 

“It wasn’t planned,” I say. “I am no priest, just… There was no one else. No, no. I am no leader. Not like that.”

“Why do they have many arms?” the girl asks. 

“To… open many doors,” I answer. Uncertain not of the answer but of how to word what language does not cover. “To simultaneously reach for many things, ready to open many doors, many possibilities all at once.”



Chance brought them together. Two girls, friends by accident. They study different paths, come from different traditions, honour different gods. Different but the same. They welcome me as a third.





I want to speak/Shedding skin

I want to speak of dreams. Those of you who follow this blog might have noticed that now and then I offer up a dream, setting out into the light that which otherwise would be locked inside my sleepy head. What my purpose is to posting dreams I am not quite sure of myself – surely dreams are a personal matter and not of interest to the rest of the world?

Still, I want to speak of them. Since I was a child, dreams have been an important part of my life. Of my identity and understanding of my own consciousness, and sometimes of the beyond.

Sometimes I get the urge to write more seriously about dreams too, explain what I have learned over years of studying my own. There is so much to say, I barely know where to begin.

Perhaps I should start with that which I woke up from this morning.



Few knew what had happened. Few remembered the violent, near cataclysmic breakdown of reality that had occurred that night. Much had been at stake, perhaps even everything, but we had survived. By the skin of our teeth, a morning had come. 

Those who did not possess the ability to see were oblivious. People woke up, went outside, went to work, not knowing what we had just lived through. I staggered out through a door, came out onto the street, exhausted. The struggle, the fight of last night, it had been all too real. 

Two women stood there, speaking casually over a bicycle. One of them glanced at me, and I remembered her. Knew that she knew. The other woman was oblivious, she chattered happily of nothing of importance. The one who remembered, I wished to speak to her. My mind was overflowing with impressions, memories, experiences. 

She was as shook up as I was, I could tell. A little pale, a little weak, exhausted and perhaps terrified. But to her friend, the one who was unable to remember, she said nothing. 

I looked down at my hands. The skin was melting away, exposing muscles, blood vessels, bones. It didn’t hurt. A glance at the others around, and I saw the same was happening to them. Slowly, one by one, they started to notice. It should have been unsettling, but it wasn’t. After all that had happened, we were shedding our skin. New would come. 

Just a Dream -Inked Hands

Just a dream


I felt weak. Cold and weak, I could not tell why. I laid down to rest but it didn’t help, it kept getting harder to focus my gaze and I wondered, had I fallen ill?

My hands felt cold, and they were tingling. I reached out for those around, touched their skin, asked if they could feel it, how strangely cold I was?

As I looked at my hands, they changed. Were those veins, turning black underneath the skin? Dark, lines were appearing, fading into existence. Not veins, I soon saw. Not veins, but swirling symbols, lines and dots, covering my hands.

They faded again, but my hands were still tingling. I could still feel it. When I looked closely I could see the faintest trace returning, those dark lines were still there, barely visible. I took a deep breath and set my mind to bringing them back. There they were, appearing again, as clear as day.

My concentration wavered and they started to fade, I could not hold it for long and soon my hands looked normal. The symbols were still there though, I could feel them.



I awoke, with a strange tingling sensation in my hands. Not painful, not unpleasant, merely strange. It still hasn’t passed.



My dreams are back

All throughout childhood I enjoyed a great and varied dream-life. Going to sleep was a joy, full as it was of intriguing and exciting dreams. Dreams were adventures. They were inspiring and sometimes even educational. If I woke up and remembered only one dream I would almost be a bit disappointed, for it was more common with three or four separate ones, different and interesting in their own ways.

This continued through my teenage years and into my twenties. For a while I kept a strict dream journal, I filled more than one book with detailed descriptions of every dream I could remember, sometimes along with drawings where words failed to properly portray what I had seen. I read all I could find about dreams, from the wildest faith based ideas to the most dry scientific theories, and found interesting scraps of information on both sides of the fact fence. I swiftly reached the conclusion that one can never fully describe and understand the all-encompassing concept of dreams. No dream dictionary carries the simple truth, no theory comes even close to explaining the whole. And this because dreams are so deeply tied to the individual, to who we are, what we have experienced, where we are going, what we feel. Theoretically one would need one unique dream dictionary per person. Each may have parts that are similar but none are exactly the same, because we are not the same.

With this in mind I set out to try and unravel how my own dream-system worked. That dream diary wasn’t just a curious memory exercise, it was the process where I strived to learn my own inner language. It was a fascinating venture.

Times changed. I circled down into depressions, and with that darkness most of my dreams disappeared. For years I barely dreamt anything. Sleeping became pleasant but dull.

My dreams are back now. Since I have come back up from the dark and regained more and more of myself – the healthier self – the dreams have returned. Just thinking about it makes me slightly teary eyed. I missed them.


sleepy cat

A bizarre dream

In the middle of the night I prodded the sleeping husband and whispered: “If I have trouble remembering the dream, remind me of the toilet.”

I didn’t have trouble remembering, as it turned out. This bizarre dream is such a good example of dream symbolism that I just have to share it with you.

I was preparing a present. It was an old book, a pretty thing from the 19th century, and a very ornate and decorative pen. A present. What do we do with presents? I brought the book and pen with me to the house where the celebrations were going on, and I went to the bathroom. Stuffed book and pen down into the toilet, and sat down to pee and poop on top of it. Somehow the toilet actually allowed flushing the whole thing down into the pipes.

Happy with the deed I went out to join the celebrations. In the dream world, this was completely normal behaviour!

Somehow the present was recovered from the toilet. Obviously it was ICKY as hell, and I helped to carefully try and wipe if clean. The book was moist and smelly, the pen as well. “I hope you… like it?”

Do I even need comment on the symbolism here? I’m treating my writing as though it’s crap. Pissing on my “gift”. Well thank you, Subconscious! Couldn’t have told me in a more obvious way!