The following is an actual dream included in my dream journal, and does not describe actual facts
Dream of:20 September 1996 "Hands Like Swords"
a beautiful destiny awaits those who obediently wield the power to create beauty
I could recall what had happened so well that it seemed as if a gothic memory of the episode had played out over and over in my mind, so well that I always knew the ending before it even happened. The whole episode had been set inside a black renaissance cathedral whose ebony walls I could visualize towering into an inky night, a cathedral composed of massive black stones, housing labyrinthine halls.
There in a hallway directly behind the cathedral's altar, a hallway with high spacious ceilings and cold black walls, a young man dressed in black, like some medieval would-be knight, dared to confront me. I had expected him and I had tried to avoid this meeting, even though I knew it was inevitable; I already knew the outcome. And yet, even knowing the urgency of fate, I beseeched the young man to let it pass. I didn't feign that I was afraid, for I wasn't. I didn't seek to muster my confidence, for I was abundantly self-confident. I merely tried forthrightly to persuade him to withdraw from his attack upon me. My only real feeling was pity, and I sought only to extend mercy.
But he would have none of it. Full of his blustery strength and youthful foolishness, he rushed upon me in frontal attack, determined to down me. There was no contest. With foreordained ease, with my bare hands as strong asswords, in an instant I decapitated him, and walked away from his bloody headless body.
Still walking through the somber halls, I now carried a large book which I had picked up at a book store inside the cathedral. I was also carrying ten long thin stiff blue ribbons which I had also taken from the bookstore. I hadn't paid for either the book or the ribbons, and I now contemplated leaving the cathedral without paying. What did another peccadillo matter to one such as I, whose destiny was as dark as the black vestments which now adorned me? I knew that the price of the book and the ribbons would be added to the total of my not inconsiderable wealth, wealth strong enough to impede even the church from challenging my leaving without paying.
The ribbons I needed, although they might be considered tawdry, and even difficult for me to explain to myself. I knew that the young would-be knight was the first whom I had slain, and that a ribbon placed in the book would be a sign of this battle and its consequence. More such battles must now follow, and I would add a ribbon after each one. I would also remember my first slain foe by his name: "Sylvan".
My attention was drawn to two people standing and talking by the wall of the hallway. I recognized them immediately. The woman dressed in black mourning was Sylvan's mother. On her head she wore a black medieval hat shaped like a cone, perhaps 30 centimeters high, from which fell pendent a black veil which covered her face. She was talking to an official of the church, a man dressed in black, probably a priest. She implored the priest to take her to me, so she could speak to me in person. I tried to hurry along; I certainly had no desire to speak with the mother of the man whom I had killed. But my step was tardy, and before I could pass her, she stood in front of me, pulling back her veil to look me straight in the face. My eyes met a beautiful visage, the image of a black-haired Sophia Loren in her prime.
This story was becoming twisted. I wasn't sure of her intentions, but I rather imagined that now that I had killed her son, she wanted to take up with me, to be my lover. But maybe not. Perhaps she hated me for having killed her son. I tried to see how the story would end. Could I envision the mother of the dead son going on together with me?
Not clearly. What I could imagine however was that this whole episode would be wrongly interpreted. The name "Sylvan" was very similar to the name "Silvio" and I knew that "Silvio" was a nick name for John Jacobs (a young fellow in his early 20s who had been a member of a dream group with whom I had been exchanging dreams on the Internet). I also knew that Silvio was no longer a member of our group. Since I knew that the entire episode in the cathedral would be written down and that many people would read it, it was possible that some people would misinterpret what had happened and would conclude that "Sylvan" had been "Silvio". I thought it was further possible that the episode could be misinterpreted by reaching the conclusion that the mother was Donna Griffiths (a woman in her late 20s who was also a member of the dream group). This possible misinterpretation concerned me because I of course knew that Donna wasn't Silvio's mother.
Since I didn't think that this episode had anything to do with anyone in my dream group, I didn't want anyone to misinterpret it as being involved with the dream group.
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