1294 shopping days until 184.108.40.206.0 4 Ahau 3 K’ank’in.
Sometimes, a fish needs a bicycle.
Last night I dreamt of riding my bike to see a woman I know at her house in a mostly abandoned suburb–in a college town where she does not live; a suburb that is not abandoned in the waking world. Her husband is home but she is not. In the house is a new and curious sculpture made of various bits of scrap iron welded together. It depicts a cat balancing on its ass with its legs and tail up in the air. When pushed, it rocks back and forth like a rocking chair, and returns to its original point of balance. She doesn’t like cats and the sculpture is not her sort of thing at all.
Her husband reminds me she had agreed to meet me at a cyclists’ coffee house. She doesn’t drink coffee or own a bike. In the dream, there very few automobiles, almost everyone rides a bicycle. I ride to the campus shopping district where the coffee house is located; the coffee house is very crowded with young, trendy cyclists, but she’s not there. Somehow, I have an “Aha!” moment in which I intuit that she has a hideout somewhere in the countryside between the college town and a larger city to the north. I ride out on the unmaintained and empty highway, and like a hunting dog, sniff my way to a dilapidated farmhouse. About this time, I notice that the sky is orange with large cream colored, sans serif letters floating around, not like clouds; more like looking up an abstract, post-modernist version of alphabet soup.
I hear movement inside the farmhouse, and I try the doorknob of the front door. It’s unlocked and I go in. My friend is not there, but there are signs that someone had just left–a fresh pot of coffee, for instance (again, my friend does not drink coffee in the waking world). The interior of the house is untidy in a way that is very uncharacteristic of my friend, who is a compulsive and fairly meticulous housekeeper in waking life, tho’ she has lots of chotkas. I start to look around for a back door, and I see a cat, a live cat, balancing on its ass in exactly the same way as the scrap iron cat sculpture I saw earlier. Then I fall awake. It’s 7 in the morning. I feel a strong urge to phone my friend to see if she’s alright, to warn her–of what?
Yesterday, I “got the wind up” and went cold for a couple of hours, by which I mean I felt physically chilled in a room at a temperature at which I would normally feel too warm—a little like a fever chill, but I am not sick. This was one of my episodes of “blind premonition,” a sort of panic attack I experience which usually has nothing to do with anything and which often come to nothing. However, the last time I had an episode of blind premonition was the day before the bridge fell into the Mississippi at Minneapolis. As I wrote at the time:
Tuesday evening, on my own commute from workplace to home, I ‘got the wind up,’ pulled into a parking lot, and just sat there for a minute. I experienced what I call the flashbulb effect. The whole world lights up and I’m the filament of the flash bulb. My hindbrain began broadcasting a familiar biochemical alert to my whole body: “Something is happening. Pay attention. The earth is shifting under your feet.” I called Mrs. Dr. Omed, and asked “Are you alright, is anything weird happening on the news? No,” she said, “I’m fine.” I told her, “Be careful on your way home.”
I experienced what most people would call a premonition. The trouble with this and other feelings of oceanic grandiosity I experience is that whatever insight that my unconscious has integrated, it has no practical use, except in terms of art. The trouble with this feeling of premonition is that it is only a feeling, and if my ‘getting the wind up’ has any connection to the future, I don’t see the future, I feel it, like a man groping in pitch dark. So I’m on alert, paying attention—but the truth is ‘Something’ is always happening, and the ground is always moving.
We want something discrete when it’s all indiscretion as far as Fred aka the Collective Unconscious is concerned. Fear is regret for the future; regret is fear of the past. I don’t fear the past, for the most part. I do regret the future on occasion, whether I will or no, or as it is liturgically phrased, not by my will…but by that which has no will and no intention.
I feel the future/past dreaming itself down my bones, like the cold, delicious thrill that ran down my legs and arms when I was willing the lizard in my brain to let go and jump from the top of an old truss bridge into the river, down into the swimming hole. Ah. After the letting go, stepping into air from the superstructure of the bridge falling through the summer sunlight forever. I’m falling still. The water stinging my feet like a million bees, plunging into sun shafted warm water passing the thermocline into cold dark murk, buzzing feet sucking themselves into the silky chill mud of the riverbottom. A long moment, toes exploring, and kicking free, rising towards air and light. I’m rising still, too.