Dream: The Golden Circuits

Dream 20040119, 5:00 AM:

I’m out cleaning the Studio. There is sawdust on everything, and it is a disorganized mess. It seems more like a living space, though, than a storage space. I find a large rectangle of gooey black stuff on the floor; I can see the remnants of portraits in it, as if a bunch of different pictures had been painted on the spot, and the black stuff had oozed through them. I realize that it’s from where Deborah had been painting, and because it’s still wet, it must be recent. I think that she’s been getting into the Studio again, which annoys me [note: in real life, she moved out about 6 years ago].

Deborah comes over, and wants my help. Apparently there are a couple of Lesbians on some board – parks? that want to get Deborah’s house declared a nuisance. She wants me to speak up; apparently, as a gay man, I’d have some cache’ with the Lesbians. “They’d will hate you, though,” she says… I don’t think that it seems like a worthwhile deal, getting on the wrong side of the Lesbians.

A man brings in some wooden two-by-four framing. It is painted black, and shaped like a trapezoid. It fits into the arch of the Studio’s ceiling, and there is a space on it where apparently things will hang from it. I’m very touched; it obviously took a lot of work, and it was very considerate of him to make it for me.

A group of older women show up at the door, brandishing Bibles. I explain to them that this house is not a church, never has been, although for some reason a few years ago some church used it for a mailing address, and I’ve been getting random visits from evangelists ever since. They come here thinking it’s a church.

Then, I’m hosting a coven meeting. It’s back out in the Studio. There are several people here. One man explains that we’re going to have a new Order of Ritual. He demonstrates it, and in one point a young boy, probably four years old, is carried around in a basket, looking like a sacrifice. Nothing is done to harm him, but it seems wrong somehow. I tell the man that we can’t do this with a child as a ritual prop, but he says that we have to. I ask why, and he takes out several shapes made out of golden wire. They look like circuitry with the boards dissolved; lots of parallel lines of wire and little circles. He hangs them in mid-air, where they spin and flash with light. Bright circles of light surround them, and the whole circle fills with a pale golden opaque luminescence. It has a flashing pattern to it. Then, it fades out, and he says, “THAT is why we have to do this.” I explain that we need to vote; I will certainly vote to be impressed with the whole thing, but I won’t vote for a ritual with a child as a prop. All this time, the boy has been quietly playing in the corner. At the sound of all the arguing, he grows upset, and climbs into a sack on the floor; it reminds me of a chrysalis. There is a brownish thin sack, made of some kind of membranous stuff, inside of a heavier blue cloth sack. He is rocking back and forth, clearly distraught.

It seems like time has passed, several days or maybe weeks. A woman is explaining that the boy had been living down a tunnel in the earth, and that he had been getting high levels of lead down there. She shows me a little twisted piece of metal; it looks like some of the drippings from a soldering project. She has a whole bunch of them laid out on a board, and seeing them all together, I realize that they are letters boy has been bringing them to me one at a time, slowly sharing a message. I have an amazing Eureka moment, realizing this.

The woman explains that the boy has been channeling some kind of alien intelligence, and that we need to help him do it because the message isn’t coming through enough people. One after another, several of our group help out; it makes us feel light-hearted and serene to do the channeling, but it also makes it difficult for us to do anything else. It seems that when we do it, we are beatifically happy but so absorbed in the process that we can’t speak or function. We all have to learn to channel the light like the little boy does.