Sleep paralysis. Lying on my back in the bed. Alarmed. Hearing my dog on one side of the bed, then the other, just the small noises that a small dog makes, his collar's faint clinking. Open my eyes. Am I dreaming. Is this a false awakening. Then I see my man's form to the right of me. He's standing. Nude, indistinct. That field of fear still holds me. Some impulse towards things must be normal prompts me to say, Hi baby. I say it, and as soon as I give that greeting, he slides forward. It takes less than a second. He slides forward. He inclines over me. His face is next to my face. His face slips into mine. His chest into mine. His body into mine. It takes less than a second. His body or spirit is now inside me. How will this narrative go. He's dreaming of me. Or, his spirit is possessing me. Or, in the night he wants to be with me.



Junior the dragonfly on my hand. He's a small, tan bug, with unremarkable wings, but in the shape of a dragonfly. I toss a cube of bread on the floor and he dives on it. A dream companion comes in. Gentle, elliptic conversation about the level of interaction one has with a friendly insect. But to start with, need to clear up my companion's mistaken assumption. He asks if Junior is this bug, opening a box the size of a shoebox on a low shelf or table. The bug is a handsome one, an inch and a half long, with striking black shell. But this racy looking black bug is not built for aerodynamic grace like Junior. I manage to find the easily camouflaged Junior near the bread on the floor and point him out.



Which apartment we'll stay in, since we're here for the short term. The tour of the communal apartment building begins with the first floor, with its expanse of solid, old wooden tables. There must be an industrial sized kitchen where many people spend hours every day on the other side of the first floor. I'm given the explanation of the community cooking that happens for every meal. They both seek whole ingredients, such as whole wheat flour to make bread, and also must take whatever is given, like a food bank, they spurn nothing, not even processed and packaged foods. For every meal, they work together so that everyone can have a plate of food.

But we're staying in this apartment. Baroquely packed with lush indoor plants and treasures. Must remember how beautiful it is to have the space filled with greenery and found objects. Walking through a downstairs lobby, more of a chamber, really. This is the second time I've seen poodle-like dogs, shaggy, tan, on the small side, in this interior. They're hanging out like they belong here. I'll see another pair of them a little later. There behind those plants and bench, that really is a rectangular, pale yellow stone basin filled with clear, still water, the length of a tall person, even. What an assortment of decorating and functional elements. How long this must have been accumulating, how long the residents must have been here.

Walking up the stairs to the apartment where we're staying. An exterior, concrete stairway, dotted with planters. Along come some other people, residents of the building. Their presence makes me nervous, not wanting to reveal that I'm not truly sure of which floor I belong on. So I go all the way up to the roof garden. One woman gives me the eyebrows concerned aside about how the area is so risky and low-rent. Puzzling, since I've seen large, character-filled living spaces, with many plants and even antiques in common areas. From here I can look down and see the common dining area tables of the building where the poor people live. Some of the tables spill outside. They not only help each other to be fed, they also eat their meals in an open air setting. How can she feel threatened by being near such a cooperative group? I don't see any evidence of crime or neglect anywhere.



In the antique apparatus filled room, we're acting out the capture and evil genius murder. I'm in the role of the captive in distress. The genius, with his flyaway hair and thick glasses, tells me to sit here, put my hands into these manacles. He fires a cannon of dissolving rays at me. He nearly misses, twice. It's like that in the script. He's menacing, yet bumbling. But things build, as they tend to in these scenarios. And ultimately, after he's ordered me to a cramped seat lodged between two big cabinets or trunks, he's firing the really powerful cannon at me. It looks like it's aimed straight at me, this time. And when I see the smoke wisping off of it, and he makes the striking motion with his arm, I can't help it. I cringe and close my eyes. Darn, I missed it. I ask him if he'll rewind. He looks a little discomfited, but agrees. I get settled again in my captive perch. Now a few people come in to watch. I'm thinking I look pretty good. These images might start a surprise acting career for me.


~~~~~~~~~

Poking around the current Wikipedia entry on sleep paralysis, I found this passage. I love the idea of the conflict between the earthly spouse and a spiritual spouse. Such conflicts must always be occurring, in the long tale of integration between what we marry on earth and what we marry in spirit. Perhaps I have eaten my spiritual spouse, in my dream of him dissolving into me. Perhaps he nourishes me and gives me strength.

"Ogun Oru is a traditional explanation for nocturnal disturbances among the Yoruba of Southwest Nigeria; ogun oru (nocturnal warfare) involves an acute night-time disturbance that is culturally attributed to demonic infiltration of the body and psyche during dreaming. Ogun oru is characterized by its occurrence, a female preponderance, the perception of an underlying feud between the sufferer's earthly spouse and a 'spiritual' spouse, and the event of bewitchment through eating while dreaming. The condition is believed to be treatable through Christian prayers or elaborate traditional rituals designed to exorcise the imbibed demonic elements.[19]"

1.  Aina OF, Famuyiwa OO (2007). "Ogun Oru: a traditional explanation for nocturnal neuropsychiatric disturbances among the Yoruba of Southwest Nigeria". Transcultural psychiatry 44 (1): 44–54. doi:10.1177/1363461507074968. PMID 17379609.

The Cape Lookout beach. No sun. No source of light. Grey above and below. Dark and light shades of grey. I can't see the ocean. Under my feet, packed, flat sand. Ridges of pebbles and rocks. I hear the ocean over an incline. There is nothing but shadowy air, dark coarse sand, ribbons of small and large stones, the sound of the ocean. No seaweed, no plants, no garbage, no objects.

Was that where the sandy cliff and grasses were when I camped here for my birthday last summer? The winter storms hadn't yet washed the land barrier away. There was a cliff face then. I stood on it and looked down at the beach full of people. I walked down the steep walkway to the warm sand.

In this absence of light, I see a group of four or five people walking. One woman has a bandanna on her head, like in an old photograph of my mother on a windy beach in the early sixties. She's part of a group walking towards the water. Far ahead and far behind them are other groups.

I get closer, to the top of the low incline. The ocean is on the other side. It is wearing down everything. It has worn down everything. The land barrier was once here. Dark sand, dark pebbles, black rocks. The ocean churns. I walk north, in the direction we walked on our real world visit in the winter. The campground has all been worn away. The ocean has poured down night tides. The ocean has flowed over this small ridge. The ocean has flooded what was the campground.

I don't think I've seen it like this in sunlight and now it's all dark. I don't think it is night. It is neither night nor day. All is darkening. All is shading into black. Shiny black rocks rolling in the surf, smaller black rocks above that, coarse sand above that.

I walk along the surf. What I can see becomes thick, until the greyness everywhere is almost opaque. There is almost no difference between what would be the sky, if sky existed, and what would be ocean and land.



I wake up within the dream. there is a part of me that is very strong, very cold, very decisive, who says this is not a good idea. This is too strong, this is too cold. This is too dark. I am deciding to end this. It is not right. The iron will grey stone strength inside me is worried about my safety, but I don't worry because I am strong, I extend everywhere, I am relentless. An identity is surfacing from me. This will happen. It is this strong part of me. The stone grey part of me. That says: no.



I open one eye in the dream and see my bedroom in black and white. It is different, my visual perspective is not from where I am sleeping on the bed. A shade is open and some light comes through a curtain. My dream self sees my room in black and white from outside my body.



I woke up enough to know I had an alarm set to go off in twenty minutes. I went back to sleep. And I think then was when I had this following dream.




I am someone who might be someone like me or someone like la artista, walking along a small ledge along a stone wall or incline and above a river. I walk along what starts out as a pathway three times. Each time the path grows more and more narrow and then disappears into the stone wall. The third time, I look up and see that the real path is at the top of the wall on my right. I get it that I chose the low road, the easy path, not wanting to go up the hill, but that to continue along the river I have to go back once again and take the high road.



~~~~~~~~~

Death, loss, depression, and the strength that comes from having experienced sadness and grief. The ability to explore the underworld. The strength to look into the dark, to inhabit the dark. A gift to bring back to the world of light.