Brutish tricks and candlesticks
Some nights ago I had a dream of being in a museum and donning a light-blue coat which filled me with a sense of power and strength.
I was a man. I stumbled onto a beach, sank away in treacherous quicksand with every step and struggled to get out.
A native woman approached on a horse, throwing spears at me while I struggled to get out of the quicksand of the beach. Fearing for my life - one of the spears might hit me at any time - I stretched out my arms to her and screamed, pleaded for help.
The next thing I know is that she has sportingly pulled me out of my hazardous position and I pulled her towards me in an abrupt fashion. She fell face down on the sand, after which I relieved her of her strange, curved sword, which was oddly thin and therefore remarkably sharp.
I lifted it high and struck at the base of the neck with all my force. When I stepped back I saw that I had not succeeded in severing her head from her spine. Others gathered and studied also the near-decapitation. The only thing I feel is disappointment.
Other than that, I feel nothing.
This is how battles are won. I must admit I am a shrewd man and well versed in the ways of war. No pity or mercy can be allowed to penetrate the shield of a warrior. How else will battles be won and new lands be conquered?
She was a fine warrior but that was her weakness. She pitied me and I did not return the favour, therefore I was the victor. I write history.
The next image is of me walking into a room which is being prepared for a feast, a celebration of some kind. The floor is of a dark-brown wood, shiny and warm, and furniture has been placed near the walls. Perhaps to shine the floor?
A ridiculous amount of copper candlesticks has been placed on tables, cabinets, mantel, everything with a surface. Then I realise that electricity is not of this age and understand, the candelabra must also be filled with candles.
Later I see the outlay of a decorating plan for this room, with apple-green velvet and black lace and even though I am a man I can appreciate the pleasing combination of colours and materials.
The morning after the dream I cried. Feeling too much - feeling nothing.
Consciously closing my heart because I care too much about other people's suffering - doing the unspeakable without remorse.
Feeling nothing.
I cried with the image of the woman before me, face down in the sand after she had reached out to her enemy.
And even in that life as a brute there was a sense of aesthetics.
I searched the web for hours, looking for pictures depicting the kind of weapons I had seen in my dream. It doesn't matter I guess.
I also looked at pictures of candlesticks and the first three I picked out - the ones most resembling those I saw - were all from the 1700's, where I had felt this dream/life took place.
The next day I read something in the foreword of "Strength to Love" that hit home.
"[...] in the struggle for human dignity, the oppressed people of the world must not succumb to the temptation of becoming bitter or indulging in hate campaigns. To retaliate in kind would do nothing but intensify the existence of hate in the universe." - MLK.
The temptation of becoming bitter. It ìs a temptation, and I have succumbed to it long ago. Cynicism, sarcasm, spite, bitterness. Defiance. I suddenly saw it.
We have all been victims, we have all been perpetrators.
I can't reproduce the clarity of insight here, or how the dream was followed up so organically by the right words at the right time, but it happened.I saw the grudges I have held for decades, the bitterness, the smug righteousness.
It needs to be seen, then it can dissolve by itself. No further action required.
I was a man. I stumbled onto a beach, sank away in treacherous quicksand with every step and struggled to get out.
A native woman approached on a horse, throwing spears at me while I struggled to get out of the quicksand of the beach. Fearing for my life - one of the spears might hit me at any time - I stretched out my arms to her and screamed, pleaded for help.
The next thing I know is that she has sportingly pulled me out of my hazardous position and I pulled her towards me in an abrupt fashion. She fell face down on the sand, after which I relieved her of her strange, curved sword, which was oddly thin and therefore remarkably sharp.
I lifted it high and struck at the base of the neck with all my force. When I stepped back I saw that I had not succeeded in severing her head from her spine. Others gathered and studied also the near-decapitation. The only thing I feel is disappointment.
Other than that, I feel nothing.
This is how battles are won. I must admit I am a shrewd man and well versed in the ways of war. No pity or mercy can be allowed to penetrate the shield of a warrior. How else will battles be won and new lands be conquered?
She was a fine warrior but that was her weakness. She pitied me and I did not return the favour, therefore I was the victor. I write history.
The next image is of me walking into a room which is being prepared for a feast, a celebration of some kind. The floor is of a dark-brown wood, shiny and warm, and furniture has been placed near the walls. Perhaps to shine the floor?
A ridiculous amount of copper candlesticks has been placed on tables, cabinets, mantel, everything with a surface. Then I realise that electricity is not of this age and understand, the candelabra must also be filled with candles.
Later I see the outlay of a decorating plan for this room, with apple-green velvet and black lace and even though I am a man I can appreciate the pleasing combination of colours and materials.
The morning after the dream I cried. Feeling too much - feeling nothing.
Consciously closing my heart because I care too much about other people's suffering - doing the unspeakable without remorse.
Feeling nothing.
I cried with the image of the woman before me, face down in the sand after she had reached out to her enemy.
And even in that life as a brute there was a sense of aesthetics.
I searched the web for hours, looking for pictures depicting the kind of weapons I had seen in my dream. It doesn't matter I guess.
I also looked at pictures of candlesticks and the first three I picked out - the ones most resembling those I saw - were all from the 1700's, where I had felt this dream/life took place.
The next day I read something in the foreword of "Strength to Love" that hit home.
"[...] in the struggle for human dignity, the oppressed people of the world must not succumb to the temptation of becoming bitter or indulging in hate campaigns. To retaliate in kind would do nothing but intensify the existence of hate in the universe." - MLK.
The temptation of becoming bitter. It ìs a temptation, and I have succumbed to it long ago. Cynicism, sarcasm, spite, bitterness. Defiance. I suddenly saw it.
We have all been victims, we have all been perpetrators.
I can't reproduce the clarity of insight here, or how the dream was followed up so organically by the right words at the right time, but it happened.I saw the grudges I have held for decades, the bitterness, the smug righteousness.
It needs to be seen, then it can dissolve by itself. No further action required.
posted by M. at 3:18 PM
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