A novel adventure for NanNoWriMo November 2013. Unedited.
Thank you for sharing this journey.
Releasing DreamTimeTales
#EarthStarLight #DreamTimeTales #1000Dreams #WorldsWithoutEnd
30 November 2013, 50,885 words later, I am pleased I persevered. At least half of it is coherent; I am still making sense of the next half. They form a certain undercurrent for the base storyline. I have to put in more work to tie them up together for an epic tale.
I started writing the Dreamweaver stories on 01 November 2013 as a challenge for NaNoWriMo. These tales are mostly based on dreams that I have had. Today is 22 November and I am randomly working with Experiment #91. Last night I had a very vivid dream - I knew I was in a dream and was consciously participating in a classroom with yellow sunlit walls so I observed as many details as I could. It occurred to me today to place the remaining DreamTimeTales in various experiments and weave them through the primary plot of the two characters' journey through the DreamTime. Let's see how this goes. Shall we begin?
Dreamweaver – age 11
We are on an island, a stretch of creamy sands off turquoise waters.
This is our holiday; this is our exploration. Three boys accompany me as we run
around the shadows cast by slender trees. A couple of cats join in our play. We
chase each other some more before it is time to wash up. We trot back to a
large wooden shack built on coastal rocks, nestled between palm trees of sorts.
The cats follow us, intent on breaking into the place. No, I say, you
stay outside. They try to run pass me, I barricade a few of them with my feet
and two smart kittens seize the opportunity to slip past us as I close the
door. They quickly make themselves at home and are soon asleep in corners.
My hands are cold. Thank you for bringing us to see this other side of
the island, says one of the boys, R. H is feeling warm in the house so he
decides to go outside where he thinks it is cooler. Another boy, P, appears
from his quick shower dressed in formal clothes. He looks very presentable and
seems ready to go somewhere else. He borrows a wallet and fills it with cash
from his pockets. I observe that he takes really good care of things entrusted
to him.
H returns from outside and brushes pass me on his way to his turn at
the bathroom. He stops to take a second look at me and puts his hands on mine.
You are cold, he puzzled. His warm hands sandwich mine and he rubs briskly
while looking at me. I shrug, it is normal, I guess.
We have to get going soon, says the other boy, R who is also dressed sharply
and ready to depart. I feel better with the warmth of H’s hands passing through
my fingers. He takes his leave to shower and change. I still do not know where
we are going next. The boys seem to know.
We walked into the forest path behind the wooden hut. H in front of me,
P behind me and R at our backs. The leaves seem to peel back away from us as we
follow the mushroom lined pathway. I can hear birds in the trees singing
complex tunes in musical layers that give an almost magical feel to our walk through.
I can smell the colour green in so many shades. It calms me and makes me light
headed. H offers me his hand but I politely decline.
There is a clearing. In the middle is a big green rock smoothed by
weather and time. A monk in yellow robes sits on top. I know him. He is
familiar to me. I call him Phra. We chat respectfully. So sorry, Phra, I do not
even recall your name; ma jak surat
tee nai ka? Thurian, he says, like Bhutan
or Nepal.
We converse in a different language.
He brings me and the boys into his humble home which is built under the
rock he sits on. We have to crawl through a tight opening between the stone and
the earth for the first three metres but that space pans out into a cavernous area
with many rooms. There are other monks inside who greet us welcome. They are
really kind to me and help me to get into the new space.
There is statue of a serene lady in robes. She has six fingers on her
right hand. H is beside me. He looks regal like an emperor of a realm and
offered his arm to walk me through this place. Each room is full of memories,
he explains. Each of our lives stored in these little spaces.
In one room, there is an emperor who walks with a lady under soft
willow trees. They seem happy and I wish they will get married soon so that I
may go visit them. They are surrounded by courtiers and nine dragons. There is
an ivory badge of power that hangs in the room. It moves and turns within
itself like an animated object.
In another room, children are hidden in fake cupboards and frames with
false bottoms leading to underground places. I find myself drawn to a little
girl of about two years and her brother, a toddler of a year or so. They are
holding hands. The little girl seems to be running a fever, so from the doorway
where I stand with H, I send her my heartfelt wishes that she gets better soon.
I ask H if I may let the children out. Not yet, he says. The baby boy notices
me and holds out his other hand to me. Not yet, I spoke to him in my mind,
sleep now my darling boy, and in the morning you can come out to play. He is
such a sweet child and obeys with such profound trust.
In the next room, two girls are travelling to a place with a view of
the oceans and mountains. The waves are monumental and crash into the rocks
near them yet both seem unaffected and unafraid of the power as they traverse
along the coastlines.
One more room, H says, then we have to go back. In this classroom where
students are participating in a geographical quiz. Teams speed their answers to
random pictures of old memories – photos of themselves as babies in
environments that they may or may not recall.
\\ She thought of babies that day. She was on her way to visit orphaned
children in the makeshift shelters. Most of them would probably never see their
families again since the disaster claimed so many lives on the coastal islands.
She prayed she could help even if just for a little while.
We work together to save lives caught in a churning water wheel that is smashing and crushing people. Blood is everywhere and runs like a river to the west. We try to save this girl. The combined strength of everybody present was needed to pull her out, we have to do this together. I could do this; I could help. I had an idea and at the last possible moment, I did. The games have begun.
The seers are blind and the deaf hear all. It is not the creators but the conductors that make the connections and the weavers that make the patterns obvious. The three weavers are thus bound – aged 8, 38 and 68. No other weaver knows how they weave the patterns except those with their ancestry. They resemble family but nobody asks about them or after them. It is a kind of spell that they weave, a spell of assumptions unbroken until the end.
Love. Not the way we dramatize it. Just soft, quiet love. Strength. Kindness. Patience. It is strange to trigger memories of a dream structure as clearly as a regular memory but only without mutual conscious awareness of another life’s time. I see the dream story from a distance. Is this the experiment of wisdom to help others? I teach the younger ones about the worlds. There are seven minimum dimensions to this world and I am dizzied by it.
A foofy, scrawny white cat with big bulging eyes watches on. They hold their hands together, linked in a circle – five pairs of hands thus conjoined, brings to life a vortex spinning in the middle. A fifth figure with shifting shapes and personas opposite me guides them, guides us. I extend the link of the circle – the sixth pair. The experience is integrated as we spin through space and are amazed by the information bits that pours through. We break the circle as the knowledge surges; we are not yet wise enough to wield the power of the vortex. We shall train. Again.
An Italian guy who is sweet on me. We share food and music. There is a plant. There is a minute here – a minute to watch a flower bud and bloom. There are rocks and crystals. There is a lady who tries to modify the look of the pieces. I do not appreciate her presumptuous manners in handling the fragile stones. She seems indignant that I disapprove and leaves. The stones heal and are magic in my hands. I apologise to her; I am sorry that I cannot share whole heartedly. Thank you for understanding.
I thank you for caring about me when I do not take care of myself. I choose not to continue any further exploration with you. Let it go, let it fall and fade. I am tired and I have loved. I love him and he is the commanding officer. I shall protect his reputation. I could have snuck out and pretended to have just arrived. One of his men is unsettled by my life like appearance; I look too real but I am a puppet and they dare not disturb their commanding officer with such petty thoughts. They think I am a mannequin prop. They choose to ignore me and leave to get supplies. There is a war approaching.
My country is in shambles and then it is rebuilt to soon after be submerged in sea water. The old scenes of past times are superimposed on new and newer landscapes of futures to come. Maps of a water city. I see the old city interlaced with smaller buildings and houses with fields of crop; a new city with massive towers and structures; the sea is interspersed between. A ship is docked under a building. There are numbers in another language on the maps.
There is a meeting with the admiral. We sit down for a meal which reminds him of his mother’s cooking so he finishes it very quickly. It reminds him of his last meal with his mother who has passed away; he did not finish his meal then. I listen with empathy; I am sorry, sir, that you have no one to share it with. He gives me a quick kiss on my left cheek to thank me. I do not wear a uniform like two other senior officers.
The admiral’s eyes are kind, friendly and wise. They hold so much responsibility and he seems so tired. I am touched by his simplicity, honesty, gentleness; here is a powerful man with a heart. He wears a suit. We wear uniforms. They ask if I can help them with some drawing for an event. I am dreaming of and in so many scenes. All these scenes and memories, imagined or real have to possess a source. Where do they originate or trail? They are not mine yet they are in me. Wisdom in so many ways.
Draw us what you see, he says. A crowded place of people draped in cloth seated on cushions that pulsed with a frequency that changes their cellular structure physically. It activates signals in those chosen to be communicators. An activation of memories with three different combinations required before they can be unlocked. We can figure out the souls, each one filtered through to what purpose I do not yet know. These are sounds of space speeds and spaced seeds.
I can fly, but I do not tell of such a skill or they will put me in a box. It seems so natural to me and so amazing to those who glimpse. I perched atop a roof to observe them covertly. I open doors and secrets for the admiral. There is something else brewing. The war is only a gloss to reflect and distract. It takes only one jump of consciousness. It takes only one breath of knowing.
Dreamweaver – age 8
We work together to save lives caught in a churning water wheel that is smashing and crushing people. Blood is everywhere and runs like a river to the west. We try to save this girl. The combined strength of everybody present was needed to pull her out, we have to do this together. I could do this; I could help. I had an idea and at the last possible moment, I did. The games have begun.
The seers are blind and the deaf hear all. It is not the creators but the conductors that make the connections and the weavers that make the patterns obvious. The three weavers are thus bound – aged 8, 38 and 68. No other weaver knows how they weave the patterns except those with their ancestry. They resemble family but nobody asks about them or after them. It is a kind of spell that they weave, a spell of assumptions unbroken until the end.
Love. Not the way we dramatize it. Just soft, quiet love. Strength. Kindness. Patience. It is strange to trigger memories of a dream structure as clearly as a regular memory but only without mutual conscious awareness of another life’s time. I see the dream story from a distance. Is this the experiment of wisdom to help others? I teach the younger ones about the worlds. There are seven minimum dimensions to this world and I am dizzied by it.
A foofy, scrawny white cat with big bulging eyes watches on. They hold their hands together, linked in a circle – five pairs of hands thus conjoined, brings to life a vortex spinning in the middle. A fifth figure with shifting shapes and personas opposite me guides them, guides us. I extend the link of the circle – the sixth pair. The experience is integrated as we spin through space and are amazed by the information bits that pours through. We break the circle as the knowledge surges; we are not yet wise enough to wield the power of the vortex. We shall train. Again.
An Italian guy who is sweet on me. We share food and music. There is a plant. There is a minute here – a minute to watch a flower bud and bloom. There are rocks and crystals. There is a lady who tries to modify the look of the pieces. I do not appreciate her presumptuous manners in handling the fragile stones. She seems indignant that I disapprove and leaves. The stones heal and are magic in my hands. I apologise to her; I am sorry that I cannot share whole heartedly. Thank you for understanding.
I thank you for caring about me when I do not take care of myself. I choose not to continue any further exploration with you. Let it go, let it fall and fade. I am tired and I have loved. I love him and he is the commanding officer. I shall protect his reputation. I could have snuck out and pretended to have just arrived. One of his men is unsettled by my life like appearance; I look too real but I am a puppet and they dare not disturb their commanding officer with such petty thoughts. They think I am a mannequin prop. They choose to ignore me and leave to get supplies. There is a war approaching.
My country is in shambles and then it is rebuilt to soon after be submerged in sea water. The old scenes of past times are superimposed on new and newer landscapes of futures to come. Maps of a water city. I see the old city interlaced with smaller buildings and houses with fields of crop; a new city with massive towers and structures; the sea is interspersed between. A ship is docked under a building. There are numbers in another language on the maps.
There is a meeting with the admiral. We sit down for a meal which reminds him of his mother’s cooking so he finishes it very quickly. It reminds him of his last meal with his mother who has passed away; he did not finish his meal then. I listen with empathy; I am sorry, sir, that you have no one to share it with. He gives me a quick kiss on my left cheek to thank me. I do not wear a uniform like two other senior officers.
The admiral’s eyes are kind, friendly and wise. They hold so much responsibility and he seems so tired. I am touched by his simplicity, honesty, gentleness; here is a powerful man with a heart. He wears a suit. We wear uniforms. They ask if I can help them with some drawing for an event. I am dreaming of and in so many scenes. All these scenes and memories, imagined or real have to possess a source. Where do they originate or trail? They are not mine yet they are in me. Wisdom in so many ways.
Draw us what you see, he says. A crowded place of people draped in cloth seated on cushions that pulsed with a frequency that changes their cellular structure physically. It activates signals in those chosen to be communicators. An activation of memories with three different combinations required before they can be unlocked. We can figure out the souls, each one filtered through to what purpose I do not yet know. These are sounds of space speeds and spaced seeds.
I can fly, but I do not tell of such a skill or they will put me in a box. It seems so natural to me and so amazing to those who glimpse. I perched atop a roof to observe them covertly. I open doors and secrets for the admiral. There is something else brewing. The war is only a gloss to reflect and distract. It takes only one jump of consciousness. It takes only one breath of knowing.
Read more here at DreamTimeTales
