A Vision

This is the best I could recount a dream I had last night, remaining faithful to my thinking while dreaming it and immediately upon waking. I wrote it down in this unrefined form 1) to preserve its memory for my own future creative refinement 2) in hopes that it might vivify others’ experiences or even inspire artistic creativity, and 3) in hopes that it will inspire someone to cultivate his or her dreaming. I have been remiss artistically, but the gateway back is cultivating dreaming. Take up this faith and sometimes the most magical things happen…



The guide, mere tour-guide.

 The fear he aVoids to make his living

Pro-vokes you… Return to the dark room.

More than this velvet cordon you fear. Step over it. Kneel near.

Put your ear to the quizzical cup –

Two fluted ends (filigreed with golden vines, here spiraling round each other to branch out perpendicularly,

And here inarched into an ear-shaped orifice… Intuit its ends.

The earshaped end to your own, one open end against the earth, and the third – to the face of the dark shrine … Strange cup, to hold in emptiness  – but listen! … Like the sea for a child in a shell, so true that sound!  Hear that the space is not empty.

 A Voice! The voice you feared in advance of returning here!

 “Emptiness. It’s everywhere. It is the true nature of all objects. Sure there’s fancy – make-believe. But in the end, in truth, there’s silence. I, Vest Ibul’s my name, speak truth alone. And you, in thinking more of me than fancy, are insane. You rightly fear, because here is silence and dead reverberations in a glass, and besides that, yourself, beside yourself – ha, ha!”

 A devil inhabits this place. No demon, sad misnomer, but a devil – a dam.

 However, a confidence kindles in you, and is growing to a soft sun that casts a deepening glow upon the shrine. And you even feel sympathy for this old spirit. His crescent time is through; he can live now merely in persistence, and one can hardly be blamed for trying to live on. Only on the overworn lacquer of things can he dwell, and beneath that cannot see: he’s lacquered over gold. The fullness of things is approaching, so send him off sweetly, so that even he comes to understand: His reign was just, as all that is, is just, but it’s time to relinquish his hold to the emergent spring. The space is growing rotund with meaning before you, and from its womb the baroque, the purple age is yearning to be born.

 He understands now: the fear and the spell has been broken. He says, “To die fully is nothing other than to live fully,” and goes willingly with the dwindling darkness, and the shrine’s idols peal back like a purple curtain, the scene falls away piecemeal, and there – rolling on the face of the deep, is Vishnu!

 Vishnu’s thousand “blind” heads writhe in their individual directions. Each seems to advance in growth. The writhing heads fork into two main groups parted around the serpent’s one, true, opaline eye – like twin waves and clouds of sea-spray parting around a projecting rock. She archs backwards and upwards – like blinding sunbeams from a thundercloud – up from the cosmic, holographic waters – and rolls forth on the cosmic waters that mark an end of you and your symbolic understanding, but not her – not it. She (or he or it) IS the waters as well. But despite her awesome presence you’re not afraid, because you know this is the power that grew in your heart and banished the devil. Her back is green with growth. Her belly golden with eternity. And her forked body branches around her one, true, opal-like eye –  branches as the twin hemispheres before you, encompassing you in countless writhing heads. These are the countless, branching dualities of you in time– thus they branch and are of the same trunk of time past (and this trunk itself is one of infinite branches rolling on the waters that ARE everywhere both branches and trunk. And the one true opal eye – the you and I, masculine and feminine, this and that, left and right –  sees all as one. This is what the true eye sees.


Now, how far westward, and futureward are we of Job – poor Job and his dwarfed vision of the Leviathan –  when we come to see this purple and this unity in the so long abject object  – so long opposed?


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