Tag Archives: dreaming

Dreams, Part 2: Darker than Dark


He sits upon a swinging bench, a son of dreams too far to reach. He confesses dreams of purest heart and haunting fears that tie him to the deepest dark.

“I am scared.”

Long-time friends of two souls sit together under cover of darkness and beer-bottled coals. Embers spark of light and dark dreams of yesterday and tomorrow. On furlough are the daytime discretions of accepted conversation and sociable aspiration.

“I think I am scared of my own success.”

A dark veil hangs in the air at this dark hour. The air is cool and the grass is wet from a morning shower. No clouds in sky, but puffs of cotton balls hang and drift in the air.

“Who isn’t? Everyone has those fears. If we didn’t, we’d all be celebrated.”

His friend’s words give him guidance. In the air, sparkles of light dance from a neighbor’s yard. For a moment, the talisman wards off the evil spirits that hide and follow in his shadow, and they dissolve into the night and allow for new sight.


The cold reprieve of beer and cool night air give fair thought to what is near. Words of wisdom does his friend speak, but are there ears of wisdom present for them to meet? This he asks himself.

Silence comes in on a breeze and the two souls are quiet among the waving dark leaves of day-bright floras around. The silence spreads and the two souls become separated by the sound. To find his way back, he who sits in the swinging bench, a son of dreams to far to reach, crawls back on the ground, seeking more of what his friend has to teach.

The Alchemist is Named


Third-Party Observer

There is a thermostat-controlled heater in my bedroom that I use to regulate the room’s temperature independently from the apartment furnace, so I can have the room as cool or warm as I like. It typically runs for about five minutes or less when I first turn it on for the night. My first dream falls within this time frame.

A woman is telling another woman all about her socioeconomic success gained by her marriage to her husband. This all takes place in a horse-drawn carriage somewhere, presumably Britain because of the accents, and the era must be mid to late 1800s given the attire and vocabulary.

My view is from the carriage driver seat, however I am not driving, someone else is. In their respective seats, the interviewer has her back to me (facing rearward), while the interviewee has her face visible to me (facing forward).

Time of day is late morning to mid afternoon, sunny with only a few summer clouds.

Everything is normal: animals are going on about their business like they should be; carriage behavior is as expected in real life; everything is as expected as though it were happening in the lower physical world (as described by Robert Bosnak in Tracks in the Wilderness of Dreaming).

All of this “normalcy” combined with the fact that I am a third-party observer should have tipped me off, but I was oblivious to it all at first, until it was too late.

The interviewer turned in her seat and faced me. Her voice and questions continued as though tape recorded and separate from her actions; the proud woman answering questions never flinched nor took notice to any queer behavior. All other things, as well, go on normally without incident. She makes eye contact. Despite my eye-level being that of a stone on the driver’s bench, she faces me and makes eye contact. Moreover, her face is pale white, her gender becomes nondescript, scar tissue resembling some symbols and a dead language litter the face, her eyes are completely white, and her bonnet serves as hood over her head and frames her face.

I am immediately terrified. I am familiar not with the physical of this entity, but the “psychic signature.” It looks like a demon, it behaves like a demon, and I pretty much accept it as a demon. It is in all of my nightmares, and it always seems genderless, or at least taking whichever/whatever persona it wishes. What I do in my dream equates to a physical leap backward in response to fear and surprise. Even though I am, for all intents and purposes, invisible to the dream occupants/participants, I still occupy a space. And, to avoid physical contact, or to create space in response to a flight or fight reaction, I “jump back.” It is an overwhelming fear that I feel. I literally feel everything good and warm, every bit of courage and strength, drain right out of me in the face of It.

It is happy to see me, the time has been so long since we last met. It is smiling at me, entertained and enjoying our “social gathering.”

I feel, for Dream Log sake, that I should refer to it by something other than “it,” or its description, or its title [of demon]. Perhaps, my Jungian Shadow? I will use the pseudonym, the alchemist. It seems both crude/primitive and intertwined with its natural environment (the dreamscape). I have both respect and fear for this entity, the latter being more prevailing than the former. So, back to the eye contact.

Robert Bosnac writes about thinking and feeling the same thoughts and feelings of an other in the dream by taking, as I call it, residence in the other’s physical shape or body. In my personal notes I commented on this, and I will repeat it here for reader’s sake.


Tom B. lent me Tracks in the Wilderness of Dreaming by Robert Bosnak.

Robert Bosnak comments that we should try to “transit” (transition into another) to help us understand [other’s perspective in] our dreams. He explains “pathways” and helpful practices. But, I need only to touch or make eye contact to feel an other’s thoughts or emotions. This ability is more pronounced in dream and less pronounced in wake.

At a young age, before puberty, I found I could enter objects, bodies, and even other people’s dreams. When my Korean grandmother learned I had entered my sister’s dream, she cautioned me, as I may find others, less honorable others, who can do the same or be very interested in my talents. A month or two later, I entered a body and found a very sinister cohabitant inside. It scared my deeply. I then recalled, upon awakening, persons who seem to follow me night after night. They were not of the same physical description, but of the same thoughts, emotions, and intentions. I have not entered another body since, and Robert Bosnak recommends it. I wonder if he knows of any experiences similar to mine.

Again, back to the eye contact.

The alchemist and I are in eye contact. As a result, I have a very profound connection with it. It is sinister – pure evil. It is not a mockery of my good intentions, but a pure, unadulterated, uninhibited, concentrated form of all emotions and all distinguishes of evil – a singularity in time, space, and emotion. It desires only my suffering and descent into an eternally self-destructive and excruciatingly painful torture of self-combustion, burning my self for all eternity, and for the alchemist’s pleasure, as well.

The Shoshone Indians believed that self-immolation was spiritually cleansing. Is this applicable for me?

The alchemist is always very surprisingly aware. It seems very much a sentient being unto itself.

Telepathically, as is always our conversations, the alchemist challenges me. “Put this in your dream log, [expletive].” I use the term “expletive” only because I do not recall the exact curse word. In fact, as I type this, I question the precise words expressed to me. It crosses my mind that perhaps the alchemist spoke in another language and that my mind automatically translated it. I say this because the expletive was not in any modern language I recognize, and it has a relative comparison to the English word “motherfucker.” Nonetheless, I do recall the alchemist challenging me to record the encounter in my Dream Log. And, yes, the words “dream log” were expressly used by the alchemist.

I open my eyes. After I had leaped backward, I could not do anything else. Although I can typically control everything in a dream, the alchemist often prevents me. My only recourse, versus staying in the dream, was to break the connection by opening my eyes.

The thermostat-controlled heater in my room which typically operates for five minutes or less is still running. The image of the alchemist’s riddled face and white eyes linger upon my retinas like its words upon my ears, a bell struck once who’s sound lingers in the ears beyond its ring.

I take solace of being back in my bed, back in the lower physical world and no longer in the middle imagery world (again, as described by Robert Bosnac in Tracks in the Wilderness of Dreams), and no longer in a place where the alchemist can reach me. In the immediate seconds when dream world fades to the wake world, the alchemist feels my relief and sees an image of my bedroom through my eyes. I know it because I feel it in the alchemist. And then, the alchemist feels a playful banter with my escape, like a cat playing with a mouse before it kills the morsel. The alchemist knows I escaped back to the wake world by opening my eyes. The alchemist expresses all of this as it watches my dream persona fade from the dream world. Smiling as though it is only a matter of time because I have not fully escaped, and enjoying the interactions we have in the mean time.

The alchemist and I have battled (metaphorically) on many occasions.

I keep my eyes open until the heater shuts off, which is a few minutes later. I take a few more minutes to calm my self a bit more, letting the adrenaline fade from my blood flow and allowing my calmed heart rate to have a few minutes rest.

A learned response not to show fear or panic, my breathing does not always increase despite the adrenaline and increased heart rate in response to a flight or fight stimulus. For this dream, my breathing never changed except when I calmed my self with a few deep, controlled breaths.

I shut my eyes, tired and ready to return to sleeping before I have to wake for work.

Bam! Like a capacitor discharging its last voltages all at once, the alchemist has connected with me as soon as I shut my eyes. Again, pale face, white eyes, the smile. The foreign letters on its face have changed. However, this time, I take more notice of the symbol on its forehead. The alchemist seems naked with these characters showing on its face. It is some kind of symbol, unknown to me, within a circle on the alchemists forehead. I am not confident I would be able to identify this symbol if shown to me.

The alchemist has the same cocky smile, and continues to dare me to enter this dream in my Dream Log. However, these seem to be more like a resonant memory that the alchemist has used, as though to trigger my own memory to complete the imagery and emotion, much like sending an electronic compressed message. The real impression the alchemist wanted to send was the fact that it could reconnect with me at its choice, spanning worlds (dream world and wake world) and time (from the 1800s to present). That it can do so even at the moment I shut my eyes, even before I entered the dream world. The alchemist seems proud, and wishes to show off, more so now than before, since it has an audience, the Dream Log and its readers.

That is it. There is nothing more. It was nothing more than a flash, and then it was gone.

I wonder if it is a mistake keeping a Dream Log. I feared something like this might happen. I had only thought there would be more time before the alchemist learned of my activity.

To Make Me Happy

When ever you are near, I want to tear your skin off. I want to take a small knife, cut tiny slits in your arm or chest, and peel off long strips of your skin by pulling it off with a pair of pliers. I want it to hurt. I want it to be agonizingly painful for you. I want you to be in so much excruciating pain that you pass out from watching me pull your skin off, so I can slap you back to consciousness. I hear the skin peels off like Velcro.

I want to take a long pin, like a sewing needle, and gently push one… two… under your nails. I will be very careful and push them in very slowly because I do not want to hurt you too badly. I will begin with your toenails, first, then do your fingernails. The pins are long enough that after I have inserted them into your fingers that they will bounce and vibrate when I touch them with a tuning fork. You will be my symphony and I will be your conductor. Together, we will play great classical music, the music that makes humans… human.

If you refuse me, struggle against me, annoy me, or answer wrongly a question I ask about you and me, I will snap a finger. And, I will snap a finger each time. If you are so dumb or defiant that you cause me to run out of fingers, I will break your ribs. I will rest a ball-peen hammer on your rib and strike it with a rubber mallet. Pay attention, be nice, and answer my questions rightly.

For your ears, I have a special pair of headphones for you. They seal around your ears and pressurize salt water into your ear canals. When it begins to bother you, I will stop and bleed off the pressure. And then, I will do it, again, making it hurt just a little more each time until your eardrums burst.

I will have you for a while, so I have to figure out something for you to eat. I will give you all of your favorite dishes. And the next day, I will feed you ipecac. All of your consecutive meals for the day will consist of what you regurgitate. On even days, we will dine graciously on your favorite dishes. On odd days, you will suffer on your gluttonous selfishness.

Using whatever tools I can find in the garage, I will remove each of your teeth. I have never done this before, so I will have to experiment with what tools and methods are most effective—for your torture.

I may want to take a day or two off and enjoy some time away; every couple does, Honey. On those days, you can rest, too. It would be pretty selfish of me to expect you to work. So, for entertainment, I have these really tiny bugs that burrow under your skin, reproduce by the hundreds, and, when the eggs hatch, the babies in-turn burrow and breed, too. When they burrow in your skin, their bodies irritate your skin. It causes itching so terrible and so incessant you will tear own skin off to make it stop. The bugs are in the socks I just put on your feet, Sweetie.

Since every couple has sex, I guess we will, too. I can rub your genitals with pulverized glass that I have taken the painstaking time to crush, recrush, and recrush. I love you, Baby.

When I am finished with you, I want to sew all of your orifices shut. I would hate to let your corrupted bodily fluids infect the rest of us or the world. No silly, you will still be alive to know that I have sealed you in your own body. You’re so funny.

Death will come to you, and you will know him. But, death will come to you only after you have lived through your greatest joy, first, because you said you would do anything to make me happy.



What does it mean to dream? Who are we when we dream? Is dreamscape the reality, or is wakescape the reality? What is the power of the dream? How do we connect?


Moon Shine

The night is beginning. The date is July 4, 1998. I am at an Independence Day celebration on base at Fort Leonardwood, MO. My cycle of Basic Combat Training is taking a short break in observance of our national holiday. It is about the time when the day and the night get mixed up in dream-like ways. Day oceans of bright blue swirl with night oceans of deep plum. The moon has risen enough to be seen over the trees, the stars are waking and twinkling, and the sun is going down to bed. I sit on metal bleachers, absorbing the moods and emotions in the cool summer air filled with corn dogs, flashing roller-coaster lights, cotton candy, rock music, screaming girls, laughing children, bargaining parents, and the scent of silent remorse on pine.

I sit on metal bleachers, in silent remorse, missing a girl I want to spend the rest of my life with. Letters take days. The telephone is a miss at best. I miss her, now. I want her, now. I am cold at my side where she would normally sit, holding my big arm like a personal heater on cool nights, her head on my shoulder. It may be a decade later, but I still feel the same sense of wanting and sorrow that young boy felt for that girl. He loved her wholly and lustfully, perhaps the best a teen boy can do. In the end, it was not enough.

In that moment I spent looking up at the moon, she was looking at the moon, too. I felt that connection instantly. I knew she was looking because there, in the round of the moon, was her smiling face. There was laughter, there was her hand on mine, there was the scent of her perfume, and the perfume of her lustful young body. In that moment, I was not just connected with her, I was physically with her. I remember that lonely boy’s eyes tearing in lonely love for her, wishing he was not so god-forsaken far away.

Was it a dream I had while gazing into the hollows of the moon? Was it a dream that I was out that night? Was it a dream that I was even in the Army? Or, was it a dream that the young boy and young girl were ever in love?

I still look up at the moon. And, although the young girl’s face is no longer there, that young boy always comes back, climbs up onto those metal bleachers, and reaches out for the moon, longing for a connection with love.

To Another World
The window to the playground is a windscreen to a galactic spaceship on expedition to the Nolana System. Outside, enemy fighters dart back and forth in the front of the spaceship’s commander – he must keep his course! Some of them are black, others are brown, and a few are brightly colored in reds, yellows, and even blues. The colors are a mystery, but they must serve some purpose. Uh oh, the B.I.R.D.S. are dive bombing the patrol teams! Called Doggs, the patrol teams operate via a tether.

“Choo,” one missile away. “Choo. Choo,” two more missiles away. “Switch to guns!” Maverick yells over the radio. The machine guns fire as fast as they can. “Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch!”

Suddenly, the windscreen is blocked and all visibility is lost. The pilot scrambles to see. He squirms back and forth in his desk to regain visibility, but the teacher blocks all.

“To the principles office, young man.”

The young boy sulks and walks out into the hallway mumbling.

Suddenly, the engines fire and the pilot is back in to evasive maneuvers!

Plan A
I once dreamed of being nothing more and nothing less than a combat soldier. Whether Special Forces, infantry, or a tanker… it did not matter. I just wanted to kick down doors, bust some heads, and blow shit up. If that failed, Plan B was to become a successful businessman. Forget about fame, I just wanted to be rich and own the town. Both failed. Everything had to be rethought. Plan C had to be discovered, conceived, and born.

Wheat Fields
Plato once said, “At the touch of love, everyone becomes a poet.”

How my bitter lips turn and drip with honey at the utterance of your name. Sweet like candy on my eye, the animal of myself imprisons your portrait in my mind. With a love like angels for their brothers and sisters, I wish to set you free into my arms.

Desire can take a mind of its own when it becomes full and engorged. My passion is lustful to embrace you, touch you, discover your mysteries, and gaze onto your waking face in the morning bright. Who will rise with more radiance? The new-day sun, or the girl of yester night? Let me kiss the winner.

Like the wheat in the field, when our days turn gold and our hair turns silver, what harvest shall our memories smile upon? I want to smile upon the wheat of the wheat of our field.

If I come call and woo the woman of my love, will it be you who comes to see me?

The Dash
Sick and tired of being sick and tired of this freaking rat race we call work and life and the whole fat bitch smothering me away, I accept an offer that will change my life. Anyway, I hope and want it to change my life. Have you ever bet all-in for the opportunity to get back out the rabbit hole you have fallen down? I did.

Wow, I thought, can this really be happening? Two people really believe I am capable of achieving a goal as opening my own brick-and-mortar office. For reasons not entirely known to me, I have always desired (and almost need) to be socially recognized for my prosperous achievements, to feel constituted in the community. And, yet, I do not feel constituted in the community and I rarely receive any kind of positive recognition, at least not enough to fill a need that has developed. So, with the potential of an opportunity to step out of this rat race and set my self up for a great retirement, I jumped on it full-tilt.

For the week it took for my application to be reviewed, I daydreamed how my life would change over the next five to ten years. I would continue to live in the cheapest place I could find, here, in my current town while I continue to work my full-time job. Essentially, nothing would change, and the extra earned money would be banked or reinvested to increase my sales. Once the income to my full-time job would be equaled or surpassed for eight consecutive months, I would then switch employers for my full-time income.

I imagined renting in the new town with my new office until I could afford to build the house I dream about with its impacted-earth walls, wrap-around covered porch, and the ten acres I require as personal space. Overtime, my second-hand items would get replaced with new items that I have been patiently waiting for. My life would become one of daily physical fitness, daily conversations and play time with my son, daily success, and daily happiness and self-content. That is what I wanted, anyway.

It was the day dream.

And then, the dash. I got a phone call informing me that I am not a suitable candidate at this time.

The end.

The Dream of the Lion
The dream of the lion. House is filled with everyone I have ever cared about in my life. I see the lion outside and we all close and lock the windows and doors. I see the lion outside the front door. Next, it appears inside the house in front of the door. This “teleportation” into my domain (the house) tells me the lion is somehow a part of me. My heart races in response to the lion’s entry; I prepare for battle. Ready to charge the lion, he turns and walks down another hall. We walk parallel down our respective halls. I am scared for the people in the house. We walk faster. Faster. Faster. An object obstructs my view of the lion. I move back and forth in my hallway trying to find the lion in his hallway. The lion has disappeared. Suddenly, I am stricken with paralyzing fear and panic. I can feel my physical body reacting despite the fact I am asleep. The different people scream from all over the house as the lion attacks them omnipresently and simultaneously. Despite my fear and hesitation, I pursue the lion in all places at once. He is always escaping and outside my reach, yet still pursuing and killing my people. I end the dream to end the killings. I am yelling, “The lion is in the house!” I wake up yelling, “The lion is in the house!”


Missing Her
I had a serious crush on women like Nichelle Nichols who played Lieutenant Uhura from Star Trek, Molly Ringwald who played Claire Standish from Breakfast Club, Jennifer Connelly (Natalie Becker) and Maddie Corman (Polly Franklin) from Seven Minutes in Heaven, Miriam Bialik who played Blossom on the television series Blossom, and of course the Fly Girls from In Living Color. However, in my eyes, all of these women were still mainstream, like mainstream America, no different than white America. There were no women I could relate to and felt totally attracted to because they did not understand the duality of my upbringing, the twin cultures of my house. It can be confusing at times. Not only because of the American and Korean cultures, but also because of the military and civilian cultures.

The 1990s were tumultuous in many ways, some good and some bad. But, besides puberty and my teenage years, junior high, high school, my own short military career, Civil Air Patrol, love, fun, and adventure, I met Selena, and fell in love with someone who understood a duality in upbringing, and twin cultures in the house. She understood suffering and the ascension through cultural, economic, social, familial, and personal barriers. And, all from the mixed-ethnic background. I bought her CDs and listened to them almost every day. I learned as much as I could about her. But, as usual, no one else had even heard about her. That did not matter, though, because she was the first other interracial with a mutual understanding. My best moment with Selena was when I spoke with her on the phone. It lasted seconds, really, or just a minute or two, but it seemed much longer. She said I sounded cute, and it made me blush. I could not say thank you because of my insecurity, but I could only chuckle anxiously.

When Selena was shot and killed, it was like my JFK assassination, my Elvis Presley, my Marilyn Monroe, or my Martin Luther King, Jr. I was in class at my high school when I seen the news on a program called Channel 1. I could not express my flooding emotions there at school, but I left at the end of the day and found a private place to let go. I cried. I was scared, I was lost, I was right back in the storm of turmoil.

Because I never felt fully accepted by my full-blooded counterparts, I never felt assimilated with my community, or any community except one – the military community. And then, I was introduced to a multicultural retreat hosted by a community college an hour away. My high school principle wanted to send me because he knew I was mixed. When I told him that he could send a white kid, too, to the multicultural event, and I emphasized “multicultural,” he became angry about my comment. He did not see things the same way as me. He saw it as an opportunity to do behavior correction on me, and I saw it as an opportunity for one sub-culture to gain exposure to another sub-culture. I was tired of the pressures, the prejudices, the antagonists, and the negativity directed at me by both teens and adults in my high school and community.

A young lady and my self was sent from my high school to attend the multicultural retreat. I think it was eye-opening for both of us. Where I was an outcast and she always sat with the other kids, the retreat was an absolute role reversal. We started with all the white kids segregated from everyone else. Although my colleague was mixed, just as I, she appeared Caucasian, and was sorted into the respective group. The group was then removed, and we, the “minority group,” was made the “majority group.” We were told of the correct procedures to follow during lunch, and instructed to correct anyone who did not follow procedure. If I were to tell you that the Caucasian group was not told of the correct procedures, can you surmise how lunch developed? We then shared our personal accounts of prejudices and harassment. This was the first time I was not told it was “all in my head,” and that something like that “could not possibly happen.”

That night, we partied at the motel. This was definitely not part of the program, but the adult chaperones were all gone. Later, we learned they went to a bar for their own party. Everyone partied together. In my experience, the Midwest harbors and perpetuates their own stereotypes. That night, all the walls were gone. It was amazing to be friends with dozens of people, practically overnight and of all ages and backgrounds. I was not the most popular, but I was accepted as one of the group. Nobody made fun of me, I danced with almost every girl, and shared drinks with all the guys. I felt I had finally arrived. I felt constituted in this community. I think it goes without saying, yet necessary to say, that we could not return to our respective circles with this same inhibitions. The real world outside our retreat did not operate on the same terms.

I have only felt such integration and value in a community as when I was at the multicultural retreat, in the Army, and, surprisingly, in college. Everywhere else, I just feel pushed to the outer boundaries of the group.

“Do we not all spend the greater part of our lives under the shadow of an event that has not yet come to pass?” — Maurice Maeterlinck

At the multicultural retreat, I also met someone. Although I was in a relationship with another woman at that time, I fell in love with a kindred spirit. After the retreat, I remember how we used to talk for hours almost every day after school. My parents were furious with me for all the long-distance calls billed to their phone, but it was more than worth the punishments.

She was beautiful like Zoe Saldana, equally fun and flirtatious as me, a straight-A student, a little quirky and nerdy, too, and shared a mutual attraction. She was on her way to Yale or Harvard, while I was on my way to the Army. We kept in touch through Basic Combat Training, but lost touch after that. My letters and phone calls to her house were not, of course, accepted. Unfortunately, with Susan, I am constantly left thinking, What if…

When it is time, it will happen, is all I can tell myself, but it is no consolation.