Lately I’ve been going through some deep struggles of an inner sort. This has mainly come about as a result of a combination of medical ordeals, and the latest news with regards to hate and bullying, which has served to bring up quite a cocktail of repressed memories and thoughts with regards to my own unpleasant and severe experiences with bullying and abuse in childhood and adulthood. Migraines have been running rampant due to this sort of emotional stress, as well as physical stress from work, and financial concern.
It is during these periods that I tend to experience a profound degree of heightened Awareness. Everything tends to take on a surreal sort of air to it. The reality of the physical and the otherworldly bleeds over into itself. Part of it could easily be explained by the time of year, as October approaches into November, and the nonphysical folk of the otherworlds begin making their rounds. This is something else as well. Something that plays upon the chords of my sanity and my sense of reality and, by contagion, that of those closest to me, to an extent.
One morning I sit downstairs to watch television, early in the morning. I have a terrible migraine, and the auras I’m experiencing are already giving the landscape around me a surreal quality. I am deeply aware of presences that aren’t the other dwellers of the household, or the cats. Something else, bigger, breathing down my neck, engulfing me. I turn on the TV to watch a nature program, and see something that pierces into my mind. Lions killing a giraffe–immediately an image floods my mind of me, as a small child of the age of 7, drawing a picture of a pride of lions eating a giraffe, and presenting it to the teacher who is horrified. I remember this clearly due to the horror expressed by the teacher. But there it is, this time in flesh and blood, real life, on the screen. The large male giraffe kicks and fights, but it is inevitable. They take him down, they strangle him, tear him open, feast. Childhood memories flash through my mind. The scrawled lions on plain cardboard paper hover in my memory.
Then the show shifts to another segment. A coalition of male cheetahs (females are solitary, males are social), probably brothers. They come to rest under a tree. One standing, the other laying down. From the cover of a bush, a female lion bursts forth. The cheetah brother standing lunges back and screams in terror as his brother, frozen in fear under the tree, is seized, brutalized, strangled to death. I’ve never seen one so brutalized and killed before. My heart breaks at this–cheetahs hold a very sentimental as well as sacred position in my heart. I see myself as the cheetah sometimes (or, the leopard–although I realize they aren’t related, their symbolism overlaps in many ancient mythologies), but I also see the lioness as Sekhmet. The lioness killing the cheetah opens up floodgates in my mind. The little male dying at the hands of the large female. My gender struggles. My body warring against me. More childhood memories come pouring in.
The scene shifts again. A lioness is then eaten, overwhelmed by a pack of hyenas and devoured alive. It is a very brutal scene, you can see the agony plain on her face. Hyenas are in-between creatures, sacred to many who are transgendered, as hyenas are creatures of in-between gender. More symbolism floats into my head. The defined lioness taken down by the undefined hyena. Visions and dreams of solar eclipses and suns burning and plunging into the earth fill my mind.
I am still awaiting the dawn.
The beach I was standing on was dry, sandy and very white. The sun was high up in the sky and shining brightly, and the ocean was somewhere in the distance, I could hear it sighing softly. I heard seagulls calling too, and somehow they made me feel melancholy, reminded me of a time I was spending with my partner, probably in Ocean City or thereabouts. I look all around me and half-buried in the sand are gigantic, dried-out skeletons. I look down and see a skull laying on its side, half-buried. It looks almost like the skull of some sort of gigantic seafaring creature, like a prehistoric whale. I see conical teeth, and molars in the back. The skull is huge, and I’m thinking I could climb down inside of it, through the eye-socket maybe, and have enough room to spare to make it into a little dwelling in the ground. As I was peering through the eye-socket, I began to hear a voice. It was a very loud voice, and it didn’t seem to issue from anywhere in particular–in fact, it seemed to issue from all over, from the huge primal skeletons themselves. The voice sounded very masculine, and very very old. It also echoed, as if reverberating from some vast cavern underground. The voice echoed, simply and yet powerfully: “We are the Cathedrals of the Dead.”
The voice continued to echo and reverberate in my mind as I slowly began to wake up. I checked the time on the alarm, about 45 minutes before it was supposed to go off. I switched the timer off and got up to put on a pot of coffee. The echoing voice gave me chills, and also a profound sense of sheer antiquity that it seemed to carry along, an age that goes beyond my understanding. This was one of those dreams that aren’t easily forgotten, ones that grip you firmly and stay with you long after you enter the waking world, and continue to haunt you when you least expect it.
I am now left with a profound sense of awe, and in a state of deep contemplation.