Location: Southeastern, United States

Tuesday, July 05, 2005

One's dreams are never as interesting to other people as to oneself.

Two nights ago, I dreamed that I was some sort of environmentalist research scientist, living with my beloved other scientists in a research post on top of a rock on top of a jungle mountain over a green sea where we swam every day. (The water was warm, if two-dimensional, and full of - dolphins? seals? Some mammal.) Orders came from on high that we would be moved, fo some typical evil purpose - we'd published results someone didn't like, or they wanted to build a military base on the jungle mountain, or something. We refused to go, we went down into a bunker - strangely like a spartan beach condo - in the heart of the mountain, the last place the - fire - would reach. They were going to come after us, bomb us, kill us, and I was the one who decided - though I was not the leader - to turn us in. I decided that the people around me, these seven other scientists who I loved, should stay alive to fight the next battle, should be alive blockading nuclear submarines and chaining themselves to bulldozers and sailing the world in tie-dyed t-shirts forty years from now. So I opened the door, and went up to the command post, and I saw my friends hauled off in handcuffs - but still alive, I said to myself. I opened the door, and we all lived.

Last night I dreamed that I was a middle-aged black woman, an activist, with a tiny daughter. I lived in a city in a situation of constant struggle - tear gas, police helicopters, the whole bit. A wealthy industrialist killed my daughter and ate her. And yet somehow I ended up his hostage, me and a handful of other people, and I guess the Stockholm Syndrome set in, because I started siding with this guy, seeing things from his point of view, even though he'd killed my beloved child, even though he - who in my dream wore very nice suits and flashy jewelry - was the enemy. I think in my dream, again, I was negotiating to keep my friends alive, but this time the emotional stakes were a lot higher. In the end I was running, running somewhere, and molotov cocktails were being thrown all around me, at me, and I wondered if maybe they were right to target me, if I was now part of the enemy, if I had betrayed everything.

Today I was emailed the new Zapatista declaration. (word doc). It's all fairy tales; it makes my heart hurt to think the door might be open, the possibility might exist, especially because I know now what revolution looks like, at least more than I used to. I am afraid, my friends, but/and my subconcious thinks I'm a sellout.



Blogger Dale said...

Oh, dear.

Have you read War and Peace, by any chance? I don't know, it doesn't have any answers, but it stopped dreams like this for me.



10:10 PM  

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