by Ed “Digger” Dement
The Dream:
In a big field of tall grass framed by mountains on the horizon there existed a theater with the setting sun commanding the playhouse lights that opening night. Three large canvases framed the stage, the hat of a hexagon. They were twenty feet high painted with a mid-century city-scape; deep browns and blues, hollowed out windows and painted shut doors; remote buildings gave dimension to the set and peeled away towards the distance. The canvasses did not billow, as I would have expected, from the open air. Even from my remote view, I could only see a push of the wind in straight lines pulling at the taut fabric.
Supporting the three-paneled backdrop was scaffolding made of wood panels. Along these, at each painted window opening, stood writers and poets hooting aloud and waving their hands while beneath, at ground level, lay the actors of the performance stricken with plague. Some were writhing in animal skin sleeping bags or propped up against luggage and trunks; ox-drawn carriages and covered wagons housed a host of moans and cries. I could see one woman upright, on her feet but very still; the rest were in half-stages of either sitting or standing and all crippled by discomfort.
A lady, her belly bloated in full pregnancy, limped along the stage below as a poet slammed down her words and spittle, one story above. The other windows were punctuated by similar acts of anger. The pregnant woman fell slowly—catching herself with an arm, before it snapped—and then her dress cascaded in a circle around her torso. The dust flew around the impact and she settled into the ground face down.
My eyes climbed behind the fallen woman to her adversary, the poet of the painted canvas, and I could make out a gesture of self-satisfaction, a ringed finger pointing at her with punch. This poet then gripped the window sill with tangled fingers and pulled herself in and out of its frame. It was odd to me because somehow I could also see her legs and feet planted on the other side, on the platform of the scaffolding behind the window, behind the canvas, behind the painted set. I could discern the entire gesture of her body wracking itself. Her skirt and hair the only indication of her sex, for the body was thick and the breasts flat. In other windows spotted along the three faces of the twenty-foot backdrop others leaned out of window-holes. They shook fists and books, laughed with ache in their spines, and spat and cursed on the area below.
The Interpretation:
I look into this dreamer’s description and see intelligence and beauty juxtaposed with the trials of our flawed world. The scene is illuminated at close range by the yellow Sun. Desecration creeps about the stage but is framed by the epitome of human effort and ingenuity, represented by the modern city. The action is balanced by a green field, nutrient-rich, and a resource not yet fodder for the dreamer. The players toil in their own strife and lash out at subordinates. Is this what our dreamer is giving to himself? This is where I would go and seek clarity. This forum may be dramatizing what the dreamer is doing with his creative spirit.
In the way this dream is described I sense the dreamer is thoughtful and has a world of ideas and impressions about modern life. But from the characters’ dispositions and sorry state, the dreamer may fear his own art’s validity. Or it may be the dreamer’s not yet ready to share what he sees. Tsk, tsk!
To the dreamer: Go back to bed and into these characters and breathe life. This dream is like an abrasive scratch at your ankle by a cat wanting to be fed. These are not static characters, afflicted with plague or doomed to debauchery. They are acting out what they are gaining from you. Love them and want them to grow beyond the tempest upon the stage. Let them venture into the nourishing green field. Your Sun will give them warmth and light. Ensconced by both mountains and city, the eternal continuum of nature and the creative genius of humanity guide you. You are the deranged poet and effete lady standing still, waiting for her next line. Accept your station as a creative force and offer your insight to this troubled world. Whether as a playwright, a politician, a parent or a physician, get out there—we need your wisdom.
Send your dreams to digger@agendanation.net for analysis.
