simply seizing the power to create beauty is a battle in itself

Even though I didn't have many soldiers on my side, I was their leader, and we had already captured a large number of soldiers from the other side. The captured soldiers were standing nearby and when I saw a couple captured soldiers with swords, I ordered that the swords be turned over to our soldiers. After one prisoner threw down his sword on the ground, I walked over and picked up the sword which seemed like a long white plastic sword. When I walked toward the prisoner who had thrown down the sword, one of the captured leaders was scolding the prisoner for having disgracefully thrown down his sword.

One boy picked up a piece of wood and approached me as if he had a sword. I also picked up a piece of wood and prepared to defend myself. But we didn't carry out the action, and I sat down on the ground, surrounded by the wooden stalks of some kind of dead plant. It didn't bother me to be sitting there amidst the stalks, even though I figured I would probably get dirty. I reflected about how when one grew up, one was less likely to sit down in a place like this.

if lost, the power to create beauty must be regained

I was the leader of a large army which was about to be attacked by an opposing army. My men had congregated on a beach to fend off the attackers. Gradually all my men (except for two men and myself) managed to climb some enclosed stairs to our fortification. Remaining alone on the beach with my two companions, I suddenly realized I was in a predicament when I saw that the huge opposing army had arrived on the beach only a few meters from me. The enemy soldiers towered above me. Dressed in medieval garb, they appeared to have swords and shields, but no firearms.

though the power of lust be stronger, the power to create beauty shall prevail

After my black-haired Salvadoran-American wife Carolina and I had arrived in my old home town of Portsmouth, we headed to a place on Gallia Street (just east of Gay Street) where we were living in an upstairs apartment. Before reaching the apartment, we stopped at a little store on the corner. When we entered, I recognized a couple women working in the store and I walked over to one woman (about 30 years old, rather obese) and lay down next to her. The woman put her hand on my leg, barely touching my penis. At first I didn't think she knew her hand was touching my penis, but then I realized she knew what she was doing. Finally she moved her hand and rubbed it right across my penis. Nobody but she and I saw what was going on. She acted as if she weren't doing anything, but obviously she was.

I stood up, walked over to the second woman (probably in her mid 20s) and began talking with her. She kept moving closer and closer to me, until finally one of her breasts was right in my face. Carolina, who was standing behind the woman and watching what was going on, wanted the woman to stop and hollered out, "Hold on!"

Only as the woman backed away did I realize she had been too close to me. I continued talking with the woman and I asked her if she knew anything about Beverly Hazlett (a black-haired girl with whom I had experienced one of my earliest sexual encounters when I was 14 or 15 years old). I thought that Hazlett lived nearby, but the woman told me that Hazlett had apparently moved, and that she didn't know where Hazlett presently was.

I asked if anything else new was going on. Although Carolina and I had been staying in Portsmouth, we had been away for two weeks. The woman pointed out that two grocery stores (one on each side of the street where we were) had closed down since we had been absent. Apparently things were really changing fast around the area.

When Carolina and I finally walked out of the store, I looked on the other side of the street at an old gigantic dark-brown church with large windows separated by columns. Obviously the church had been on fire - all the doors had been burned. I could see the church's interior which had been blackened by the fire.

I recalled that this church had never been opened to the public, that it had always been closed. I stopped in my tracks, walked back into the store and asked the women what had happened to the church, but they didn't know anything except that it had burned.

Looking back at the church again, I could see through one of its windows and I thought I saw people inside. When I again turned to the women and asked them about the people in the church, one woman told me that some parts of the church were now open and that people could go inside and look around. Carolina and I immediately decided to walk over to the church and venture inside to see what was there.

We crossed the street and walked through one of the church's doors. I first noticed how old and how beautiful the church was inside. Thinking that monks lived in the church, I became somewhat angry that the monks had lived in the church for so long without opening it up to the public. It had taken a fire to force the monks to open up a church which should have been opened long ago.

The walls of the church appeared to be constructed of rocks piled on top of each other. Timber was interspersed among the rocks, and some of the timber had been burned, but nothing looked as if it had been burned so badly that it couldn't be replaced. Carolina and I walked down a narrow passageway which was damaged at one point where the roof had fallen down, so we had to lie down on our stomachs and crawl along. I was somewhat concerned the whole edifice might cave in on us.

When we were finally able to stand up again, we continued along another passageway. The whole church seemed to have filled up with garbage and dirt over the years and obviously needed to be cleaned out.

We emerged into a large room with many people milling about. It seemed as if we were up high, perhaps on the third floor. I first noticed things sitting all around, such as might be found in a flea market. It didn't appear as if anything was for sale, but as if the items had simply been piled there. I had a feeling, however, that everything was going to be sold at an auction at some point.

A barrel was filed with walking canes, some of which displayed intricately carved handles. Of particular note was one cane's carved horse's head with a purple feather emerging from the top.

A couple old typewriters were sitting on a nearby table. A fellow walked up, picked up a typewriter, and after examining it, set it back down. When the fellow walked away, Carolina and I walked over to the typewriter and I looked at it more closely. I had never seen one like it. It was all black and about 60 centimeters tall. It had a small keyboard which would slide up inside the typewriter, then slide back out again. The keyboard wasn't made of individual letters, but of a line of letters which could be tapped. I thought the typewriter was well over 100 years old. Although the second typewriter was just a typical typewriter, the one I was looking at was quite extraordinary; I would love to have it. Carolina could immediately see I wanted the typewriter, but we weren't even sure yet it was actually going to be sold.

We walked over to another area, where I saw a slender box about 60 centimeters long. I picked it up, opened it, and found some long knives inside with blades the length of the box. I thought the monks who lived in the church used the knives, but I was unsure for what -- perhaps for cooking. I picked up one and swung it around over my head. Although clearly only a knife, it did seem somewhat like a sword. I laid it back down.

Carolina and I discussed the probability of an auction taking place. When I told her that I didn't want to miss the auction, she said we might miss it if we didn't find out when it was going to occur. I told her that the town was so small, we would be able to easily find out when the auction would take place. I said, "This is your home town."

What I meant was that Carolina should could call Portsmouth her "home town" since she didn't really have a home town and since we would always be returning here.

wielding the power to create beauty requires prolonged effort

the power to create beauty is subservient to moral law

wielding the power to create beauty depends on the will of the creator

Dream of: 07 August 1995 "Battlefield Swords"

Before me lay an open book with a picture of a large painting spread across both pages. The painting showed a medieval battlefield; two awesome armies with thousands of cavalry and infantry clashed against each other. The scale of battle was so immense, I seemed to be scrutinizing an expansive mural instead of a picture in a book.

A slender attractive woman in her mid 30s walked up on my left. She resembled Victoria de Anda (whom I had seen on television in the Dallas area in her role as a hostess for a Spanish talk-show). She also began examining the picture. Then my black-haired Salvadoran-American wife Carolina stepped up and joined in the scrutiny of the picture. Carolina, however, wasn't as interested in the picture as Victoria, who seemed determined to discover the identity of the combatants as well as the date of the battle. Victoria exuded an air of authority over Carolina and me which compelled me to closely scrutinize the picture to comply with Victoria's wishes.

Victoria also began referring to one side as "Welfs" and to the other side as "Guelphs." I pointed out, however, that the name "Lancaster" was printed at the top of the painting on one side, while the name "York" was printed at the top of the other side. Having seen the names, I began to understand who the combatants were: this was obviously a scene from a battle in the War of the Roses in which the houses of York and Lancaster had fought in England against each other. I also noticed that helmets were depicted directly under the name Lancaster, and other helmets directly under the name York. Each helmet had a design painted on it. The helmets of one army had the design of a rat, while the helmets of the other army simply had a design of an actual helmet painted on them.

Now that I knew what war was being fought, I tried to recall the date of the War of the Roses. I knew one of the houses had first been in power, and then the other house had risen to power. I also knew the names of the kings involved were Henrys, but I couldn't recall exactly which Henrys those particular kings had been. I concentrated more, trying to bring to memory the exact time when the War of the Roses had been waged.

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 as swords, 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.

Dream of: 12 November 1996 "Grandfather's Sword"

the power to create beauty is transferred from artist to artist

I was in the home of a man who had been my grandfather and who had just died. I pictured him as a dignified elderly southern gentleman. His body had been carried off to a nearby building where it lay in state. I didn't know much about the deceased except that he had once been a great writer, even though I had never really been aware of his history as a writer while he had been alive. In his later years when I had known him, he had given up writing, and his story-telling skills had been reduced to telling fairy tells and fables to children. I had always appreciated the little stories he had told, but only now did I begin to suspect their inherent power; the stories had had a disproportionate impact on the people who had heard them.

As I held the sword in my right hand, I seemed to have a vague recollection of having seen it before. Perhaps I had seen my grandfather with it, or perhaps I had even once held it. All I knew now was that I liked it, that in fact I loved it. There was no question in my mind that this sword was mine and that my grandfather had wanted me to possess it. I held the sword out in front of me and examined it more. The blade was about a meter long, and very thin. It was so thin that when I swung the sword in front of me, the blade actually bent from the pressure, and I had to bend the blade back. Obviously the blade wasn't strong, and I doubted the sword could be used in combat; it was more of a novelty piece, but I loved it all the same.

Continuing to examine the blade, I became cognizant that the woman had stopped talking in the background, and slowly I realized the sound hadn't been coming from the woman at all: it had originated from a tape player. I also made other realizations. The voice on the tape player had been telling the very story of what was happening to me right now, about my grandfather's death and all. At the same time that the story was being narrated, I was actually taking part in the story. I also realized what story was playing: Light in August by William Faulkner. That surprised me somewhat, for I was familiar with that story, and what was happening now didn't seem to me anything like Light In August.

I walked over to the tape player, opened it and saw that the tape had come to an end. Since I was right in the middle of the story, however, I didn't want to stop there; I wanted to continue. Unfortunately I didn't see any more tapes. Then I remembered that I had the entire book Light in August on tape. The book was one of many which I had on tape and to which I had listened. I knew exactly where the tape was – on a bottom shelf of my large walk-in closet in my bedroom. I had just seen the tape the previous day when I had been rearranging some things in the closet. Without delay I turned, walked to the closet to retrieve the tape, and returned to the tape machine.

When I took the tape which had been playing out of the tape player, I saw that the chapters on the tape were listed on the tape's case and that they didn't match up exactly with the tape which I had brought from the closet. I saw that I would have to begin the new tape from the closet at a chapter which had already played on the old tape. I didn't mind; rehearing would simply refresh my memory.

As I inserted the new tape, I saw that the tape was unusual and that it didn't look like a regular tape. It was about the size of a compact disk, and had only one circle of tape, unlike a regular two-circle cassette tape. Nevertheless, the tape fit snugly into the player. I turned on the tape player and the story began again.

I sat back and listened, once again picturing my grandfather lying in state, a man who I now realized had an uncanny resemblance to William Faulkner.

the power to create beauty can transform imagination into reality

I awoke from a long complicated dream which I was trying to remember so I could write it. The details were sketchy, however, and I couldn't seem to recall some of the most important elements. I knew the central theme of the dream had involved moving to Russia, learning the Russian language, and immersing myself in Russian literature. More specifically, in the dream, I had resolved to read and thoroughly understand Tolstoy's War and Peace. I had previously read War and Peace, but the novel was vague in my mind. When I studied it this time, I was resolved to completely understand everything in the book.

In the dream I had felt as if I would read and thoroughly study quite a few other novels besides War and Peace. I had seemed to be searching for a niche in life, and I thought I had found that niche in the world of novels. I wouldn't merely read the novels, but I would immerse myself in them, becoming familiar with all their characters. I had realized that such an immersion would be a peculiar concentration of my efforts. However I had recently met a man who had made an occupation of studying light, and mastering the many distinctions of light and shadow. Surely studying the characters in novels would be no more peculiar than that.

In the dream, a textbook which described some Russian novels had been in front of me The book was peppered with pictures of Russian art, and one picture in particular caught my eye: a tall white marble statue of a man holding a sword. Although the statue was in the section of the book dealing with Russian literature, and the statue had been created by a Russian sculptor named David, the statue itself portrayed a figure from Moslem history. The picture of the statue remained firm in my mind as I thought back on my dream and tried to remember the dream's details.

I felt as if the dream had been trying to tell me something. I knew that I had been emerging from a rather dark period in my life, and that lately I had been having a number of dreams suggesting a new direction which I should take. It occurred to me that perhaps the dream was suggesting I should actually travel to Russia and take up a new life there. I recalled that I used to dream about Russia quite a bit, but that I hadn't had any dreams of Russia in a long time.

I thought about John Jacobs, a young fellow with whom I had once exchanged dreams on the internet. Jacobs had once written me about Russia's being an element in so many of my dreams. I had forgotten about Russia being in so many dreams. I had never understood why I dreamed about Russia anyway, but I was happy that Russia now seemed to be calling me again.

I was still lying in bed next to my young Salvadoran-American wife Carolina. Finally I stood up so I could write the dream. Once on my feet, however, instead of writing the dream, I walked over to the door and stepped outside of the room. I was fully dressed in heavy clothes and a cumbersome dark coat. Snow covered the ground. As I looked around at the landscape, I tried to remember where I was. It seemed as if we were at a small roadside inn where Carolina and I had stopped to spend the night, a temporary place to lodge on our way to Russia.

Since we were off the beaten path, I was surprised when my first wife, Bonnie, walked past me, right in front of the inn. I hadn't seen or talked to Bonnie for so long, her being out here in the middle of nowhere seemed strange. Along with her was a whole troop of probably 20-30 men and women who obviously worked for Bonnie in her law office. They were all dressed like peasants in dull heavy clothes.

I immediately wanted to talk with Bonnie. Although I hadn't considered it much before, it now occurred to me that I thought about her every day. Since we no longer spoke with each other, however, I was never able to say anything to her. As she passed, I opened my mouth and asked her if she would talk with me for a few moments. She paused and indicated she would, although she seemed in a hurry and disinclined to afford me much time. She looked quite beautiful with her black hair and rosy cheeks. I wanted to talk to her alone, but talking was difficult with all her workers there. One woman in particular stayed close to her. Finally I simply said, "How ya been?"

She seemed a bit sad. I had the feeling that her present marriage hadn't worked out well and that she was having trouble with her husband. I just wished that she and I could at least be friends, and that we could talk to each other - but she seemed so distant. I regretted that connecting with her was almost impossible.

Finally I began telling her a little about my present life. I knew that she, like I, had worked as a bankruptcy attorney. I told her that I had handled over 1,000 bankruptcy cases, but that I only had 31 cases left to finish, and 10 of those were ready to end. When those 31 cases were finished, I would be free from practicing law, and I would be able to travel to Russia. I thought Bonnie would be impressed with the idea of my being free of the law practice, but she merely held up her hand and waved a mock good-bye, as if wherever I went didn't make any difference to her.

As Bonnie and I had been talking, I had noticed that I seemed to recognize one man in her troop. I stepped away from Bonnie for a moment and I began talking to him. I now recalled that I had met this man once before and that he had been a Russian. When I asked him where he lived and he told me that he lived in the slums of Fort Worth, I told him I didn't want to know where he lived now, but where he had lived when he had resided in Russia. Unfortunately he didn't seem to understand what I meant. I finally gave up and walked back toward Bonnie.

Although she seemed impatient to leave, she ran toward me and almost slipped on the ice. I caught her in my arms. Holding her felt good, even for a second. Even though I knew nothing was left between us, I still regretted that we couldn't be close in some way. After she stood back up on her feet, we both stood in silence about a meter from each other. There was so much that I would like to be able to say to her, to tell her about my life and to find out about hers. I would especially like to tell her about my dreams and about my writing. Our inability to even talk was painful. Suddenly, however, as if a revelation, I realized that that was just the way it was, and that there was no hope of changing it. In fact, I only needed to do one thing: I needed to write my dream.

I turned from Bonnie and walked away without saying anything else to her. I headed back inside, wondering whether any paper was inside the inn, paper on which I could write my dream. Maybe someday if I ever wrote a successful book of dreams, maybe then Bonnie would want to talk with me. But for now there was no hope, and I only needed to focus on writing.

imagining the beauty to be created ignites the power to create beauty

My young Salvadoran-American wife Carolina and I had recently moved into a new habitation. Although the building was a spacious complex of interconnected apartments and shops, it retained the atmosphere of a single-dwelling abode. At the moment, Carolina and I were on the back porch, which had a cozy homey feel, but at the same time was crowded with other people coming and going, or just standing around.

While Carolina sat in a chair on the back porch and watched a movie on a television, I stood and stared at the television screen a few minutes, tying to figure out what movie was playing. Dozens of dinosaurs - standing up straight about the height of a man were running across the screen with their small fore legs in the air. I was surprised when I finally realized Carolina must be watching the movie Jurassic Park, even though I hadn't thought Jurassic Park had yet premiered on television. I reflected that I generally enjoyed movies by Steven Spielberg, who I knew had directed Jurassic Park.

I looked out over the area surrounding our building. We were obviously located atop a hill, allowing me to gaze down on the small neatly-arranged homes spread out in all directions below us. I noticed several tall office buildings and one in particular attracted my attention. Atop the building, on the top five or six floors, were perhaps a dozen young women climbing around outside on the ledges and windows. They appeared to be doing acrobatics. The women provided a fascinating sight, but their acrobatics looked frighteningly dangerous. Questions rolled through my mind. What would falling from such a height be like? Would falling and landing on one's feet or side make a difference? I asked someone standing near me what he thought, but he didn't seem to have an opinion. I concluded that landing on the side or on the feet would make no difference, that the person would die no matter in what position she fell.

Carolina spoke up and mentioned that she might like to go to a fair being held nearby. It seemed as if other people in the building might also want to accompany us. I, however didn't want to go. I didn't like fairs, and besides, I thought they were a waste of money. I would rather spend the money on something tangible, something I could keep, rather than on some transitory entertainment like a fair. For example, I would prefer to spend the money on something like old record albums.

It just so happened that right next to the porch was a shop which handled old record albums. I could clearly see two young black-haired women stationed behind the shop counter (right next to where I was standing). Most intriguing was a tall stack of 78 rpm records sitting next to the counter. I walked over to the shop and looked through the records in the stack. When I noticed dark maroon labels which I thought I recognized, I realized that these records were all mine. Questioning the women, I discovered that for some reason, Carolina had brought the records down to the shop and had simply left them there. Apparently Carolina had intended for the shop to sell the albums for us.

One of the women behind the counter told me she had already sold one album for $10 to Sussie Schultz. I hadn't seen Sussie in years, and I was surprised to hear her name. (I had only been 15 years old when I had first met Sussie, and I had dated her several times. She had been a pretty blonde, a couple years younger than I.) I found it curious that Sussie should have been the one to buy one of my old record albums. In fact I was surprised that anyone would have bought the albums, because I didn't think they were worth much. All the albums seemed part of a huge compilation of popular music from the early 1900s. I knew I had an interest in hit records from the first part of the century, but since these records weren't the originals, only simply part of a later compilation, I hadn't thought they would be particularly valuable.

The women behind the counter, however, seemed to think otherwise. They thought I could probably sell the records for about $2. I thought maybe the women were right, especially if they had already sold one for $10. Maybe I would let them try to sell the rest.

The women put one record on a record player and the music began. The music was an Italian aria which I found fascinating. I recalled that in the early days of recorded music in the United States, some of the most popular recordings had been Italian arias. I knew I had some of the original records from that period, and I found it fascinating to listen to that kind of music which had once been so popular, but had long ago faded from the public mind. When I tried to remember the names of some of the arias which had been popular, I couldn't recall any. Nevertheless, I treasured the music.

I continued looking through the records, still uncertain I wanted to sell them. Some albums looked as if they might be warped, and I was concerned they might be ruined. The women were friendly and offered me some paper sleeves in which to place the albums so they wouldn't scratch. They said I could simply store the records there with them if I wanted.

I realized that another stack of more modern record albums sitting on the counter were also mine. I was surprised to see those albums because most of the album covers were badly damaged, and I had previously considered them to be junk. Several of the albums were by country and western artists and one was by the rock group "Quicksilver Messenger Service." One woman at the counter told me that although I was welcome to bring more 78 rpm's to them, she didn't want me to bring in any more "sodbuster" music. At first I didn't know what she was talking about, but then I realized she was referring to country and western music.

When I finally scrutinized my surroundings more, I began to realize that this establishment wasn't just a record store, but in fact was an antique shop. An elegant lady with a thick French accent had now entered the shop and was talking to one of the black-haired women who had been behind the counter. The French lady had found something she liked. At first the objects which she was examining appeared to me to be two antique swords. When I looked closer, however, I saw that the objects were actually candle-lighters, the long metal kind that are used in religious services, with a little wick for lighting candles, and a little cup-like device for extinguishing them.

There were two candle-lighters. The French lady offered $1,000 for one, and $2,000 for the other. The black-haired woman immediately accepted and walked away to prepare the transaction. Obviously the French lady now feared she had offered too much because the black-haired lady had accepted so quickly. So when the second black-haired woman stepped up to the French lady, the French lady asked her if she would take $1,500 for the piece for which had originally offered $2,000. The second black-haired woman said she would accept the $1,500. Upon hearing this, the French lady was still concerned she had offered too much, but she decided not to make any more offers, and to simply proceed and pay the $1,500 for the second candle-lighter.

Meanwhile the Italian music was still playing, and I was still listening to it. I could see the album rotating on an old record player which had an exceedingly curious construction: it looked like a chair – a hard-backed chair with a lavender velvet seat. The record player was constructed into the top part of the chair, about the point where a person's head would be. But the record player portion didn't stay in one place – it would move up and down the back of the chair, and even move out over the seat of the chair. Once, when the record player slid out, the music stopped, as if the record player had malfunctioned, but then started again. The device was all the more remarkable because it was obviously so old and still in excellent working condition.

A man standing next to the record player had already decided to buy it. I asked him if it was still possible for someone to sit in the chair, even though it was a record player, and he explained to me a little about the way it functioned. I asked the man if everything on the record player worked, and he said it did.

As I was talking, another man stepped up close to me. I was bothered by his presence, and I had the presentiment that he might be gay. When he wouldn't leave me alone, in frustration, I grabbed him and threw him over a small waist-high wall next to me. I hadn't realized that the wall was a railing next to a stair well. I had thrown the man down a considerable height. I quickly ran around to where the man was and found him lying on the ground. What I saw was gruesome. The man had hit the floor with such an impact, that as I ran toward him, I could see part of his innards smashed on the ground. When I finally reached the man, I saw that I had actually been looking at his head – or rather the insides of his head. His entire skull had been torn off, like pulling off a mask. All that was left on his shoulders was the inside of his skull. But the most peculiar part was the appearance of this mass. It didn't look like a brain. It wasn't even gray. It was a slimy light-green color. It resembled the head of an insect, like a fly, only the size of a man.

Realizing the man was obviously dying, I was immediately concerned about what would happen to me. Several other men had seen what had happened, but they hadn't liked the man, and they seemed to indicate they would cover for me. I felt guilty about what I had done, but I definitely didn't want to become incriminated. So I saw no reason to admit anything when the police came.

Dream of: 27 December 1997 "Sword Of Brilliant Splendor"

the power to create beauty is part of a larger riddle

Another fellow and I were in a spacious room with a light-brown hardwood floor, reminiscent of a gymnasium. This room, however, was definitely not being employed as a gym. It had more the feel of a religious sanctuary or meditation hall. Although I wasn't particularly concerned about the nature of the room, I was intrigued by some of the items which I encountered therein. At one end of the room I had found a couple objects which had been placed there as a riddle. Examining the objects, I was able to quickly solve the riddle, and move on.

I turned my attention back to the shelves of objects in front of me, laid the sword aside, and began picking up the other objects one by one and setting them down on the hardwood floor. As I carefully placed the 20-30 objects on the floor, I became convinced that all the objects, as diverse as they were, were somehow connected. Each object was a clue to the solving of the riddle presented by the objects. But this riddle was far more complicated than the first riddle which I had solved which had contained only two objects. Indeed, this riddle was so complex, I began to fret that it might be unsolvable.

My companion picked up one object, about the size of a small apple, and handed it to me. Made of thick paper, it seemed to contain something inside. Turning the object over in my hand, I noticed the word "bombeo" written on it. I thought that the word was Spanish and that it indicated that the object was some kind of fireworks. The object had a short string which could apparently be pulled to set it off. I thought of pulling the string, but decided doing so wouldn't be best just yet.

My companion then showed me another item which I had already laid down on the floor. I had thought the object was simply a long piece of rolled-up thick blue paper, but the fellow unrolled the paper to reveal a movie poster inside. On the front of the poster was a colorful picture which showed a hot air balloon. The title of the picture was "Around the World in 90111 Days." The movie apparently told the story of a girl who took a lengthy hot air balloon trip around the world. Some of her destinations were listed in a time-line, the most prominent of which was England.

As I examined the objects, I noticed that a black man dressed in a robe had stepped up near me. I had the feeling that he must live or work in this building, and when I told him that I was trying to play the game of solving the riddle of the objects, he replied with a smile, "Its no game," and he walked away.

There was something just a little scary about what the fellow had said. I had the feeling that he was correct, that I wasn't playing a game, and that something quite serious was transpiring. I still felt as if danger was lying in wait in the background, but the diverse objects seemed so unrelated, I didn't fathom how I was going to be able to ever figure out this riddle. Suddenly it occurred to me that the answer might be that there was no answer. Perhaps these objects were merely a distraction from the real puzzle, and the solution was not to try to solve the riddle at all. Perhaps I should ignore the objects and return my attention to this strangely fascinating room.

the call to exercise the power to create beauty is unmistakable

A fearsome army of medieval-looking soldiers had gathered to march off to war. Most men were dressed in tawny leather and buckskin, carrying gleaming swords and bucklers. Standing beside their war horses, the men ranged off in long lines, each line forming a fighting group.

I had been appointed as the leader of one line. As I stood in front of my line of men, facing them, I thought we could best prepare ourselves for the coming battle by shouting together. If we could scream, perhaps we could strike fear into the enemy. I also sensed that my line of men was in competition with the other lines of soldiers, and that if we could produce the most intimidating shout, we would win the competition. Directing my men, I began with a low muffled groan to get them started. Gradually I intended to raise the groan to a piercing shriek, but suddenly I thought of a better sound, and I changed my groan into a low hum. As the men began humming along with me, I hummed out an old religious hymn which I had often heard in my youth. I recalled the words to the hymn as I hummed along, but I didn't sing them out loud. I just kept humming, louder and louder, as my men did the same. The intensity of our humming grew until it became painfully loud. Even I was amazed at the potency of our hymn and I thought the hymn was just the right sound to terrify the enemy.

Abruptly I had to stop. Someone had walked up to me and had handed me a single page of white paper with writing on it. I was immediately deflated as I read the paper. I had been ordered to stay behind and not march off with the army. It appeared that I would be needed to take care of my mother and my father, who were ill.

***

I was standing in a stables between some horses. It was almost time for my men to march off to war. I had decided that despite the orders to remain behind with my father and mother, I was going to try to go to war anyway. My intention was to conceal myself between two horses. As my line of men would march by, I would simply join the line and march off with my men. Hopefully, when my departure was finally discovered, it would be too late to send me back, and I would be able to take part in the battle with the others.

Dream of: 28 February 1999 "Sword Held High"

Obviously this man on the horse had lived long after Muhammad, and was apparently an adherent of Islam - a Moslem warrior. The idea that the man had lived so much later than I had thought threw me off for a moment, but I quickly adjusted to the time period. I knew that the term "16^th century" meant that the time was in the 1500s. All I had to do was think of something with which I was familiar during that time period, and I would be able to place the time of the action.

I first thought of the fall of Constantinople to the Moslems, which I was thinking had occurred in 1492. But then I thought of someone whom I knew even better: Machiavelli, who I knew had lived and written during the early 1500s. I was fairly familiar with Machiavelli and the world which he had described. So, I decided to use Machiavelli as my reference point to better understand the time period of this movie.

Dream of: 23 October 2002 "Lord Of The Sword"

I was at a big party being held outdoors in a garden area which seemed to be part of the grounds of a palace. As people mingled all around me, I noticed my ex-wife Bonnie (about 30 years old) in the crowd. She looked intoxicated on alcohol. I walked over to her, invoked her attention, and began talking with her. After we began hugging, I pulled her close to me and finally we lay down on the ground next to each other. I liked being with her.

When she said something about my shirt, I admitted to her that I was wearing her shirt. I knew that I only owned three shirts, and that all three belonged to Bonnie. When I noticed that the black leather pants I was wearing also belonged to Bonnie, I wondered if everything I was wearing belonged to her. Even though we hadn't seen each other in a long time, I had somehow obtained her clothes and was wearing them. 

I closed my eyes and continued lying next to her until someone suddenly grabbed me and pulled me away. As I struggled with the person (clearly bigger than I), I soon realized the person was Bonnie's husband, Vernon. Obviously he was trying to pull Bonnie and me apart. Even though it was so dark that I could barely see him, I was ready to fight. 

When it suddenly seemed as if someone was trying to separate Vernon and me, I looked down on the ground and saw a small body lying on the ground right in front of us. I immediately recognized the body as an Orc, just as I had seen depicted in the movie Lord of the Rings. Looking to my side, I saw that five or six more Orcs had invaded the party. Other people at the party also noticed the Orcs, and an intense tone of anguish and worry passed through the group. Since no one seemed to know what to do, I hollered out, "We have to fight them!"

I knew that in a few moments Orcs would swarm in from all sides. They would kill us all if we didn't do anything. People protested that we couldn't fight them, that we didn't even have any weapons, but I noticed near me an umbrella stand with some swords in it. I pulled out one sword and hollered out that we had swords, that people should look around them for the swords. As other people began grabbing up swords, I told them we would fight with anything we had. 

After everyone had grabbed a sword, I noticed one particularly long sword which had not been seized. I was still holding my sturdy sword in my hand, but I handed it to someone and I picked up the other sword (silver, double-bladed, and almost two meters long). The sword was so heavy, however, I could barely lift it. 

Suddenly, I saw a man (over two meters tall) standing near me. I recognized him as the comic book hero, Thor. When I carried the long sword over to him and handed it to him, he took the sword in his hand, obviously able to wield it. I now knew we had a strong person on our side who could mow down the Orcs when they again began swarming. I turned around to look again for the first sword which I had handed away - but it wasn't there. Someone handed me a little sword (about a half meter long) with a triangular shape which reminded me of a Christmas tree. The sword was light and I didn't like it, but it was all I had now. 

Since everyone was still mingling around as if they didn't know what to do, I hollered, "We need a plan! To the perimeter!"

Everyone swarmed to the wall which surrounded the area. Obviously these people didn't know how to fight, but I could see they were courageous. They mounted the walls, which seemed built for defense. It looked as if we were soon going to have a great battle.  

Dream of: 23 September 2003 "Rats With Swords"

the power to create beauty can be used for evil purposes

I walked into the front living room of the House in Patriot (the home of my maternal grandparents when I was a child). I had been staying in the House and had set up a computer along the wall between the living room and the dining room. My computer was sitting on a small table in front of a wooden bookcase which covered the wall. I had earlier been trading stock and the computer was on.

My mother was also in the House, sporadically passing through the room. My first cousin Alan (a man of questionable character, the son of my mother's brother) was in the room busily cleaning up the area on the floor (around my computer) which was cluttered with all kinds of junk, mostly small toys which I had drug in a while ago. I didn't particularly want Alan to be handling my things – he appeared to be throwing most of it away – but I didn't say anything to him because I felt a little guilty about having left the junk piled up there for so long. I even joined in and began helping.

I pulled out a couple blankets which were mixed in with the piles of toys. Then I found some small action figures a few centimeters tall which I wanted to keep. I found a large plastic gray figure – about 20 centimeters long – of a rat-like creature riding a horse. The rat-creature looked like something from a cartoon, with a long out-of-proportion snout. The creature was carrying a sword and dressed in a long coat. A second plastic black figure – only smaller – of the same type of rat-character, was standing and holding a sword in the air. I thought the two figures might be part of a set of militant rat-characters.

I laid the larger figure – the one with the horse – on the back of a gray leather chair which belonged to Alan. Lying on the chair, the figure resembled a lizard. I pointed it out to Alan, who seemed a bit uncertain of the significance of what I was doing.

While I had been picking up junk, I had also been checking the screen on my computer, which showed the prices of stocks I had been trading. The prices had been fluctuating markedly. I knew I had sold shares of eBay short, and I had bought shares of Intel, but I couldn't tell for certain whether I was losing or gaining. At one point Alan unplugged the machine, causing the screen to go blank, but he quickly plugged it back in, and the figures on the screen reappeared.

The room began to look much better; it was remarkable how much better the place looked when clean. I decided that from now on I would try to keep the place tidier. I thought I might now put my computer on the book shelf on a place designed to hold a computer, but I didn't know if there was enough room.

I was sitting in a spacious room which seemed to be inside a college library. I was attending law school and I was debating whether to go to class today. I had two classes scheduled for today, Friday, and I didn't want to go to either. I wasn't prepared for my constitutional law class which would begin in about ten minutes. I hadn't read the assignment and I was worried that professor Guinn would call on me. When I reflected, however, I realized that Guinn hardly ever called on anyone. Nevertheless, I still didn't want to go to class.

A fellow studying at a desk near me had a pile of comics sitting on his desk. I managed to pick up one and I leafed through it, but I didn't I find it interesting and I laid it back down.

Time was running out. Even though I didn't want to go to class, I finally stood up. I still had five minutes to make it. I walked across the room and out the door, entered a hallway, walked to the stairs at the end of the hall, and began descending. A stick about a meter long was hanging from my belt on my left side, a bit like a wooden sword. I thought people might ridicule the stick if I went into class with it, but I didn't mind because I liked the stick.

I still had time. I decided to go to class after all. At least then I would then know what was going on in the class.

Dream of: 13 July 2004 "Soldiers Wielding Swords"

I was living in a fabled age with a small band of people in the forest. Since we feared we would soon be attacked by a powerful tribe which neighbored our area, we decided to attack the other tribe first. About 20 of us rode our horses through the woods to the encampment of our enemies and gazed down on their white tents from a high ridge. Since the enemy far outnumbered us, we decided on a surprise attack, and at the signal, we all shot a round of arrows into the tents. When we shot a second round, this time with the arrows on fire, `the tents began to burn.

We fled before the attackers could reach us (although one or two of our party appeared to have been caught). We rode and rode back through the woods, successfully escaping. Finally we stopped to camp. One of our members (a fellow about 30 years old) said he intended to go ahead back to our home ahead of the rest us to see if any problems had arisen. As soon as he rode off, a small boy with us followed him, heading up over the mountain at whose base we were camped.

Suddenly, something strange began to happen. Some of our members seemed to become thin and weak, right before our eyes. I myself felt disoriented. Then I noticed that some short figures had entered our camp. They were little people, only about a meter tall, all wearing colorful masks and colorful Asiatic-appearing robes.

My mind was definitely not functioning well and I quickly concluded that these little people had cast a spell over us. I thought if I could simply find the leader (whom I assumed was a woman), I could reason with her and she would lift the spell. I went from one to the other of the little people, saying, "You're the one."

None, however, would even acknowledge me, and I had no power in my body to pull off their masks. At least they didn't appear to want to harm us. As weak as we were, they could have done anything they wanted. I thought about what a powerful team we could make if the little people were to join forces with us and fight our enemy. If I could only persuade the little masked people to join us with their magic powers, we could defeat the enemy.

For quite some time I had taken part in sword fights in a city park. All the fights had been to the death, and I had always killed my opponent (who had usually been oriental). Sometimes I had fought as many as three times a day.

Finally, I had decided to give up the fights, and I had decided to give my sword to my nephew Steven. As he stood in front of me and I handed the sword to him, I told him he didn't have to fight, and I even tried to dissuade him from fighting. I told him that in any given fight, he only had a 50 % chance of winning, and if he lost, he would die. I told him I had given up the fight, and I felt fine about doing so.

if the power to create beauty is temporarily lost, it may sometimes be recaptured by the worthy

emulation of sense impressions sharpens the power to create beauty

wisdom comes to those who faithfully wield the power to create beauty

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