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Mortal Mist

Dreamed 2010/10/19 by Wayan


I've always had magical dreams. But they cast a shadow: since I get most of the joys of lucidity for free, I lack the motivation to learn the discipline of lucid dreaming. But lately I've been exploring Mortal Mist, my favorite website for lucid dreamers, in depth--plowing through hundreds of lucid dreams. Most are dull, mere exercises, but today I found three transcendent dreams in which lucidity was the catalyst--they couldn't have been dreamt without it. Can I get up the courage to ask these three dreamers if I can post their work as examples on the World Dream Bank? I feel rather shy with them. Peers. Mentors? Potential friends?


I drive my friend Cory to the class she's teaching on chakras--energy centers, auras, healing. (I sense auras, so mock all you like; you're like a tone-deaf guy claiming music is a myth.) In exchange for the ride, I sit in free. Feel shy around strangers though, get an upset stomach. But bizarre, fascinating people, and fun talks coming and going... worth fighting my shyness.

THAT NIGHT Sketch of a dream by Chris Wayan: silhouette of a flier using a jacket as stubby wings, in a dim predawn sky.

Cold night. A broad, unlit stone plaza. Shivering, I scurry across to the east side, to my friend Rob's apartment. Stone, no windows on the plaza at all--a sunken bunker of a place.

Though Rob invited me over, he seems awkward with me. Then his friend Stefan comes in. He isn't awkward; he frankly announces "We've never gotten along. Let's not try." I'm surprised; we have little in common, but I've always made an effort to be friendly since he's part of Rob's circle.

In a way, it's a relief to hear him say we're not friends. I can just avoid him now. I say so. He's fine with that. Better than trying...

I go out into the night. Brr. My coat has a warm tight fuzzy hood. Not a parka--too thin, and fake fur. I loosen it--hate the tunnel vision, and worse yet, the half-deafness and lack of sonar when it muffles my ears. I navigate a lot by sound, especially at night. Loose is cold but it beats disorientation.

Crossing the black plaza, I'm reminded of lifelong dreams of flight in a coat like this. Stubby cloth deltawings I had to flap hard, at the limit of my strength. Of course this isn't a dream. On the other hand, flapping costs nothing--so why not indulge the whim? I run, leap, beat my pathetic little wings... and hover. And rise. Dreaming all along, and I was sure it wasn't! Logic 1, intuition 0!

Lucid, I rise above the plaza's quad, into a dim blue predawn sky... and wake.


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