“…. you are slowly going into a state of deep relaxation. Slowly and surely, your entire body and mind are relaxing, relaxing, relaxing. you are going deeper and deeper and deeper, into a state of deep relaxation. each and every muscle of your body is now relaxing. everything is so peaceful and quiet. now, counting backwards from 10, you will descend a small staircase…. 10…. 9…. 8………………..5……………….. …………. ………………..”
the voice of the self-hypnotist tails off into the night. a new night. a new year. the voice, now distant, fades into obscurity. into oblivion.
i lie in the dim of my chamber with the weight of the night, and gravity of the new year, pressing upon me. my mind is swirling in the crush and chaos, like Betelgeuse, on the verge of explosion. i can feel the night creep in and saturate the familiarity of my furnishings and turning them into oddities and unrecognisable shapes. all is quiet. the flickering street light, right outside my window, casts shadows across the walls and ceiling; just as my mind casts aspersions as to what this new year, 2017, will bring. this new year is barely four hours old and already i am judging her and making assumptions.
[why do we do that?]
it is these early hours of a new year that bring a manic panic and wild sense of urgency.
[calm… focus on that voice, Kathryn…]
through my open window, i see that the stars are still in their correct places – no need for adjustment; the sea continues to roll in and out just as it did in the old year. another night of constant tides, and glad tidings. the still and almost silent night is punctuated by the odd yelp or peal of laughter from drunks as they stagger home like the walking wounded… or the waking dead. the last of the NYE party people. all i can hear now is the gentle hum of distant traffic, the drone of the self-hypnotist’s voice and the yelp of an urban fox. the blackness of the sky, like a shark’s eye, is murky in my blindness. the walls of this chamber are illuminated by that lonely failing street lamp outside, casting sparks like a beacon of hope for the lost, the lonely and the fucked up.
Alf, my cat lies, sprawled by my side, on his back with his furry flank exposed in complete trust. on occasion, he stretches out his paw and pads gently at my hand. no claws. just a tender acknowledgement of our mutual affection. i lean in and kiss his stomach. he does not flinch nor fight. he just sighs, softly. in this light, he looks as though he may be smiling.
i lay back beneath the blanket of night and close my eyes.
there is no colour in the desert. no colour and no sun. only a clock, where the sun once hung, high in a sky that once was blue. now everything is monochrome.
with hands on hips, parched lips and bare feet, i look around me. the air is strange. where am i? am i still on Earth? the soft, warm breeze whips up a fine salty dust and carries it across the desert valley floor. the sky is vast and humbling. large white clouds billow and gather pace. the breeze sucks them together. i watch, in awe, as they amass and form a canopy up and beyond me. why there is no colour is beyond me. the sky is black. the clouds continue to change shape and quicken, as if to summon uncertainty. this reality is in time-lapse. everything is moving fast, it is only i who remains still. the clock’s long arms and broken hands spin around and around and around, faster, faster, faster… day becomes night becomes day. clouds continue to feed my imagination with the flight of dragon-like formations. what does this mean? and i am thirsty. i am so thirsty.
dawn breaks and the clock disappears. a new sun begins to rise, feverish, in a purple sky. in time-lapse, shadows lengthen and spread across the desert floor. i feel the sun warm my skin and realise i am more than thirsty.
with this new sun, comes a new dimension. i look to my right and there is an office. an office with a door but no walls; an office with a desk and chair, a chaise-longue and standard lamp, but no ceiling. on the desk there is an aspidistra, a tall glass of water and a notepad and pencil. they are placed in position, with near poetic precision, by a wiry and bent old man in a dark grey polyester suit. his hair is wild; long and grey and his beard is unfurled before him, like a long and winding road. sensing my presence, he turns to me and fixes himself, pulling down his sleeves, straightening his tie and hurriedly brushing off one or two loose hairs and specks of dandruff from his sloping shoulders.
standing upright, i see that he is a tall and thin man with a large bony nose and sunken cheekbones. his round steel-framed spectacles hang off the end of his nose. the lenses are thick yellow and make his eyes look cartoon-like and massively oversized for his gaunt face. he beckons to me, and gestures to me to recline on the brown chaise-longue. and so, i do…
the man takes the glass of water and drinks it all down. my lips are parched and i feel dry. thirsty. for water, and for knowledge? but what of that?
he tells me to look up at the hole in the sky. i relax in the chaise-longue, nestling into its comfort and warmth, and look up at the sky. he is correct. there is a hole in the sky. a small puncture wound. i focus on its torn edges as if it were ragged wallpaper and begin to imagine what i would see if i were to continue peeling it away. what would i expose? what would i find behind this beautiful illusion.
the man stands over me. he smells like paper. he then, silently, anoints my forehead with oil, fragrant like turquoise. i feel myself levitate. his fingers connect with my soul and i feel a stream of information ‘download’ from his fingertips through my pineal gland and down into my solar plexus.
i feel tethered to his knowledge and yet, strangely, free. suddenly, i am no longer thirsty and i find myself crying at the beauty and simplicity of it all.
he tells me all about the birth of the universe. he explains the many paradoxes and paradigms that have both puzzled and defined us. he tells me all the secrets: he shows me star maps, new colours, code… he tells me the truth about ‘God’. he explains the matrices of our existence, and our co-existences in the universes of our past, present and future lives. he explains why. he explains how.
he instructs me not to tell anyone about what he has shared with me. there are many forces in existence, he tells me.
he tells me there is much to learn.
he tells me that the human race will not be on this earth in 500 years.
the old man then, taking my hands, leads me into a mirrored-glass pyramid. inside, he claps his hands, like a flamenco dancer, and a holographic screen appears. immediately, it scrolls through hundreds of names of other human beings, from all over the world. it is a barrage of information. hundreds of faces flash before my eyes. instantly i look for familiar faces… my own face, my lover’s face, my mother, my friends…
the old man stands in front of me, commanding my full attention and tells me that in exchange for my newfound knowledge i must make an offering.
as the names of these humans scroll across thin air in front of me, he tells me that i must select 5 human beings to die.
take your time, he says. choose wisely…
the urgency in his voice, stokes my morbid curiosity and i ask him why.
why? i say, as i scroll through the names and faces of many, many humans. ordinary humans, with ordinary lives.
you will not know any of these people, he says, but choose carefully as these people are all, to some degree, intrinsic to your very own existence. what fate you decide for them will shape who you are today, tomorrow and who you were yesterday… choose wisely, or you may cease to exist.
the human mind is an unfathomable entity but i guess the lesson here, in this dream, is: while it is great to have a thirst for knowledge, know this: with great knowledge comes great responsibility.
(c) Kat McDonald 2017
i awoke from this lucid dream wishing i could recall the secrets i was told. it was all too real, but perhaps i am not ready… perhaps we humans are not ready to know the absolute truth…