The Shrinking Pope
Dreamed 2005/4/1 by "Sorcha"
I am outside the church I attended as a child--a gothic-style cathedral with huge glass windows portraying grisly Stations of the Cross. The Pope (his addiction for kissing airport tarmacs temporarily sated) is within, and everywhere there are cars, TV vans, press vultures and hulking security guards who look like they feed on raw meat.
Only I (a Geena Davis clone in black leather) am aware of a plot to kill the Pope. I am filled with a sense of urgency: I must get inside and save him. (Which is seriously, boil-the-bunny crazy, because I abhor all things Catholic. But hey! dream, right?)
I am inside the church and it is mobbed with people. In my Jane Bond persona, I realize that the only way to get to the Pope in time is to head for the balcony, which runs around three walls of the church in a U shape. Reaching the end, I grab a banner and swing down.
Now this is where it gets weird. Every time I have glanced at the altar to check on the Pope, he looks smaller and smaller. When I finally reach him, he is just a little baby Pope in little baby Pope clothes. He still looks old enough to have come over with Columbus, but he is baby-sized. I scoop him up into my arms and run out of the side door of the church, which lets out on to the parking lot. In spite of the mobs of people inside, there are no longer any cars in the parking lot. How can I make my dramatic getaway?
Wait, there IS one vehicle: a firetruck.
A firetruck completely filled with cement.
AMATEUR HOUR INTERPRETATION
The Pope: likely represents my gradual realization that the Catholic Church is a misogynist, money-grubbing, hypocritical conglomerate of men with serious father issues. Some part of me cannot root it all out--certainly the sexual guilt they laid on females as the "occasions of sin." You, with the breasts and vagina!! How dare you tempt me!
The firetruck: what're you, new? It's all about the hoses, baby! THAT'S why they wouldn't let you be an altar boy...
ABOUT THE DREAMER
"Sorcha" is a recovering Roman Catholic Jane Bond full of sexual frustration. Not wet cement. Just frustration.
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