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Let Go the Safe

Dreamed 2014/2/6 by Wayan


Feel tired and a bit faint whenever I get up. On the edge of illness? So I stay in, do little, wary of triggering worse. Work on my lifesize, furry cat-centaur. Sculpt the head: insert plastic foam (packing material) for a skull, inside foam rubber from an old mattress. Trim and pad till it fits.

Yellowish foamrubber armature for a centaur 1.5 m tall; dream sculpture by Wayan. Click to enlarge
Half-built centaur 1.5 m tall; dream sculpture by Wayan. Click to enlarge.

At last I cover it all with pantyhose, then a kid's hoodie to smooth & unify the new head. Eventually, a furry pelt will tighten and strengthen the figure. But enough to make her stand firmly? Still wobbly so far.

Like me. Patience! Progress.


BBC Mysteries: Inspector Lewis. A shy fragile Oxford teacher tried a singles site, but her video's pirated onto a cruel humor site. Gets a torrent of mockery and hate mail. She kills herself. Or did she? When gorgeous Shakespeare student Briony does a little digging, she's found dead too. And not a suicide. Bludgeoned!

I push a safe off the roof of a Berkely frat house, then hover mid-air, realizing it's a dream; dream sketch by Wayan. I'm raven-perched atop a cupola on
a Victorian mansion in Berkeley. Dawn.
Rococo trim and psychedelic paint.
No wonder Berkelean politics are odd:
they live like mice in weddingcakes--
drag-queen cakes the size of God.

I'm pondering rare dream-types. And some
so vivid they're not "real as waking life" but
realer. I suspect this scene is one--
So feverish the carve. Though one black matte

bruise in the floral stands out: on roof-brink
leans a heavy cast-iron safe! Unsafe. About
to swim into abyss. Iron eager to cast itself.

Public hazard. And to raise that black lump here
had to bruise a brawny team of frats; no mere
accident waiting to happen. A weapon
cocked as a raven-slouch. Weapon set to fire.

The Berkeley streets are empty. Safe to test if I'm
dreaming, and safely safen the unsafe. I lean
shoulder hard on the black cube. Yes. A dream!
Too tipsy for a waking anvil. Groans o'er
the brink! The raven iron (safe nevermore!)
leaps ten meters to crater the street concrete...

...pulling me over the scrimshaw brink!
A flailing comet tail. And as I trail, I shriek
"LET GO THE SAFE!" My hands obey, let go,
let caution plummet and smash below.
Freed, I will my meteor fall to slow
until I hover effortless as ghost, mid-air. No
physics-paradox: no Berkeley's here to stare.

So I float, heart pounding hard. Well, well!
Guess I only half-believed, or as I fell
I'd feel no fear at all. But is this really fear?
What if a bout of tachycardia'd begun
(I get adrenaline rushes; cause unclear)
and my sly sleeping shaman-brain
whipped up a weakmare to explain
my already-drumming heart AND lack of fear?

I wake to find it's true. A dawn attack. Clear
source of the dream? Well, no; all that baroque
from a mere heart-pound? And yet... "Let go
the SAFE!" roared loud indeed. The warning clear.


LISTS AND LINKS: sculpture - centaurs - architecture - climbing - tossing pianos off the roof in The Sea-Hag Riot - falling and flight - lucid dreams - puns - dream humor - chronic illness - health advice and dream advice in general - transcendent dreams - more Berkeleyan dreaming: What You Imagine Happens - 6 months later the same dreamer bombards again, in Peak Portal

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