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Sorb Truce

dreamed 2008/9/1 by Wayan.

I stand under violet sky. A dry-grass plain. A few scattered walkers, each alone-- or so they seem. But these folk can absorb your mind, suborn your skills and turn your I to their own. So each lone figure on the prairie holds a humanoid bestiary caged in bone. This power's in an organ called a sorb rising on a stalk above the brow, like a crab's eye-orb but tipped with a Venus trap, or anglerfish's lure. If it aims at you, dear fly, beware! Better: stay far. A Sorb girl nears me. I yell "I'm foreign! Not here to fight!" She smiles in scorn, aims her sorb. Though I lack a dish, I push right back-- use my will to block hers. To my shock I can--with pain. I just need to bind her sorb-assaults on me. Yet can I stand aside if she sorbs Sorbs? It is their way;

If I clip all her claws, what of self-defense? Won't other Sorbians see fair game if she's lost her juice? Ethics of half-slavery? Beyond me! So I say: "I'll unbind you fully. Let's just agree on truce! Let my mind alone, and I'll leave yours!" Walk side by side, no mental leash? To her, a mad mystery. Among the rocks, more Sorbians. I cry my truce in the simplest slogan I can frame: "Freedom, not mastery." For I just want to wander in their sun. I hike the crags and canyons, shouting peace at everyone. I make some inroads, too: slowly truce becomes exotic but not rare; people now (alert, aware) convene for fun! No choice before, but now they know that war can be forgone. I think "Not true peace, but I did some good! A ceasefire in sorb hell." I wake up proud. Hard shamanic work (some pay would help): the best I could.

NOTES

• Sorb: from A Voyage To Arcturus by David Lindsay, a very Blakean book of a pilgrim in a bizarre world, changing his body with each new day, trying on ways of life like clothes... Harold Bloom's Flight to Lucifer is a rip-off of it (oh, sorry, an uncredited tribute.)
• freedom not mastery: The first Arcturian people David Lindsay postulates are quite Gandhian, in a state of, not innocence, but conscious maintenance of peace. Lindsay dismisses these New Age folk as children blind to evil (unknowing, they worship the devil); even the brutal sorbs know more. My dream disagrees: sees sorb life as so limited that only baby steps out of their pit can be hoped for.
• The dream also comments on Blake's states of Innocence and Experience (I scanned two Blake dream-poems today, Lost Ant and The Angel). It even more strongly echoes his poem "The Mental Traveler", a parable on a desert where the lifecycle's cruel--archetypal, symbolic, but so abusive it hurts to read.
• What's the dream mean? Maybe the sorbs are layers of my own mind repressing and exploiting other layers. Maybe. But after hundreds of predictive and clairvoyant dreams, I can't assume dreams like Sorb Truce are symbolic at all. Maybe I was a shaman simply doing volunteer work--saving lives somewhere.
• On the other hand, maybe the sorbs were the ids of the Bush Administration, acting out their lovely neocon vision. Nah, can't be! Their desert has oil.
• This is Dreamverse #20. Every day, a dream-poem--usually. But a few nights back I had SIX vivid dreams. Whew! This is the third and last one I'll present as a Dreamverse.

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