The language of dreams you have heard before * * . Everybody has nightmares, and everybody speaks the language of dreams. It is a universal language. The ancients in the past, and mystics today, suggest that our dreams can foretell the future. This you can argue for or against. We do know that dreams speak of our mind reordering memories of the past, and searching for order in our present. You cannot argue against that. The setting for your nightmare is drawn from your memories, and the value of your memories reflects on the values your subconscious is attempting to communicate. It could be a warning. As a hypnotist, people tell me their nightmares; and I try to help.
Archive for the ‘authoritarianism’ Category
The best year for nightmares is 1945. There is such a rich library of images that your subconscious can use, and paint them with the language of dreams. You wake up with your chest damp with sweat, your hands shaking, and a feeling that you are waking from your own grave. For too many moments, you believe you are in your afterworld; refusing to believe that you are in reality; that you have left reality and are now in the dream. No, you have awoken from a nightmare. The best nightmares are set in 1945, in a world at war, with ruthless powers drunk with victory; the losers rabid with blood lust and plotting of the next empire in the next life; and sleepy democracies planning industrial expansion and profits. For you, you are but an expendable pawn. Nobody much cares. What a nightmare.
When you have a nightmare set in 1945, the wardrobe and cast of characters is well known. The weapons, the food, the weather, all well seeded in your mind from movies, books you have read, and stories from old people. You know this. This nightmare comes from a friend, he shared it with me. It starts in darkness, and he did not know if it was night, or just smoke that blotted out the light.
It was dark, it was hard to see in the gloom. There were shapes moving in the sky, but they could have been clouds, or billows of smoke. I could not see very far, maybe fifty feet. I was in a shallow trench, maybe three feet deep. The earth was dry and crumbly. I was in charge of a metal box, around the size of a bucket. It had some dials on it.
I saw two other soldiers. They were looking up into the dark. They saw something and dodged under a some logs that had been fashioned into a roof. These logs were, how can I say, telephone poles. They had the scores and splinters on them from someone that used those spiky boots to climb them. They were scarred from other things. Burn marks and burrs with finger sized splinters. Then I saw what they were sheltering from: steel darts.
They fell in a mass; they were eight inches long. I could hear them after I first saw them. I realized that is why the various shelters had been constructed: to provide overhead cover. I had none, just an open to the sky hole, grave sized. The darts did not fall where I was.
Nice nightmare. Perceiving destruction without the release of annihiliation. Which gives rise to the adrenaline rush and the primates rush to safety. The psychology is well known, as is the physiology: this is the genetic memory of the monkey falling in a tree: the practiced arms lashing out to grab a branch. In this case, it is death from above. As it is 1945, it is steel darts; in other times it would be a jaguar falling on its prey. My friend started up another smoke (having found that chain smoking gives some small comfort to the beating fear in his veins) and continued.
I took my steel bucket, it was not very heavy. I just had to carry it; that was my job. I ran away from the where the first rain of steel darts fell. I ran over the dry earth. Nothing was growing there. Like a field after a grass fire. I ran into the darkness.
The first shelter I came to had been ripped open by some force. There was overhead protection, but there were gaps as wide as the beams, the telephone poles. I could not guess the trajectory of the next rain of steel darts, so I kept on running.
The second shelter I came to already had two soldiers in it. They were under a collection of steel slabs. It looked like three, say, manhole covers, over top of more of those telephone poles laid flat. There was not room for me to shelter from the falling death. I looked into their eyes. I was more than welcome to take my chances. They were both wearing gas masks. One touched the first aid bag he had around his shoulder. Actually, I could not tell much about them; I could only see their eyes. I ran on.
Nice images here. This is some sort of journey of inner discovery, by way of fear. With hypnosis, and some drugs maybe, we could explore the deeper meanings of the steel darts, the futile structures of protection, and the cold blooded calculus of death and mutilation. This steel bucket, the apparatus or device he is carrying, it must have some meaning, but this is not apparent.
I saw an embankment in the gloom. I could hear another rain of steel darts fall to my rear. A thwap thwap thwap as they skewered into the dry earth and a whunk whunk whunk as they impaled into the wood. There was a clang and one ricocheted off some steel and it sang its way past me off to my left. I ran towards the embankment.
It was a train, half buried by dirt thrown up around shallow craters. There was broken glass in the dirt; it crunched under my feet. There were steel darts sticking out of the roof; it reminded me of those things they put up to keep pigeons away. The metal of the railway car was buckled and the paint had flaked off were the metal had bent under the various stresses put upon it. The car had been shifted and sat uneven, but still level. I went inside, through one of the doors at the end of the carridge.
The place stank of death. It was dark. I wasn’t walking on dirt or broken glass anymore, but something squishy; like carpet. The place stank of urine, stale, stale urine; mildew, mold, and rotten meat. I only went in as far as I had to to put some steel between me and death from the sky.
There were some flashes of light. Not explosions, bursts of light. Pure white, verging on that blue light you get from a welding arc. I could see there were many holes in the roof, but most of the light came in through the squished windows. There were bodies stacked up inside. Six of them. Black stains spread out from them. Bodies liquify, even if the clothes and boots still give some resemblance of the human form. There were bugs crawling around on the corpses. Black beetles, and white maggots. The bones that peaked through the clothes were white too, like keys on a piano.
After the light faded, the steel darts fell. They seemed to fall all at once. The whanged through the metal roof, but did not push all the way through. They all appeared at once, and all pointed the same way. Even in the darkness I could see a faint red radiance from them: and then I felt the heat of their violent penetration through the roof of the railway car.
Then, I woke up. I sat straight up in my bed, staring out the window at the street.
I told my friend to have a cup of tea. He just needed to calm down. He had to go to work the next morning, and I attempted to point out the positive aspects of his nightmare. He did find a place of sanctuary, and the corpse eating insects do point to a green friendly future with recycling. I did not get around to mentioning that, actually, but instead tried to get him to tell me what the number six meant to him, as in, why six corpses. I lost his attention, as he retired to the washroom to vomit up his tea.
The subconscious communicates with us using the language of dreams. Sometimes they are reflections of our present reality, sometimes rearrangements of events from the past. Mystics will say that they are foreshadows of the future. I will talk to my friend again about his nightmare. Maybe he will have more, and there will be more material to work with. I am Fenris Badwulf, and I care.
The best year for nightmares in 1945. When you wake up with a jolt, bathed in sweat, your hands trembling with remembered fear, if you think about it, you will think that 1945 is the best setting for your nightmare. Did you lose bladder control, is there a puddle of piss in your lap, from your dream state fear? That nightmare, it was set in 1945, for sure. There are other years, some scholars would argue are as bad, even worse. I do not think so.
When you have a nightmare set in 1945 it does not matter which side of the war you find yourself in. The losing side knows it is losing, sure. The sociopaths, those that like the killing, have good jobs behind the lines, doing a job they love. Authority is breaking down. Officers are thinking of running off with their loot. Sergeants have seen too much death to care about yours anymore. The fanatics are thinking of winning the next war. There are plenty of corpses to keep any zombie in brains; and vampires are struggling with obesity. The secret weapons from the laboratories are at the front, where you are. Flesh eating ants? Plasma weapons? Rabid dogs?
When your nightmare is set in 1945 being on the winning side can just make it worse. The hunger for victory has been slaked, really, the leaders and watchful people are thinking of after the war, and not the last few weeks where you are at. Those strange phenomena, which were interesting to the boffins back in ‘42 because victory was in doubt, are so much war fatigue prattle now. If you see the dead crawl out of the grave, strange lights in the sky, or the corporal is acting like a werewolf, well, you are just barmy. Have a cup of tea. Take a box of grenades with you when you march back to your trench.
This nightmare, which I share with you, comes from a friend. It begins in the snow, somewhere in 1945:
I was standing in a trench, but it was just snow all around. I could just see over the top. I was sick in the guts with fear. There were black stains in the snow: I knew that was from sharpnel. Snow does not stop much. I thought about laying down flat, but that would mean I would get buried and suffocated in the snow. The barrage would bury me alive, and I could still get sliced up from the flying fragments. I looked around, and saw nobody to the front; to the rear was the building we were protecting. It was concrete. I got out of my snow hole and ran back there.
Nice nightmare. My friend had called me on the phone with his voice trembling to tell me just as much. Being a caring person, we met later and he told me the clear details, which I share with you. Having a nightmare involving being buried alive in the snow, even while facing a greater peril, is a very Canadian experience; running away from danger is more a Toronto thing.
It was a clear sunny day, and I made it back to the entrance of the building we were guarding. I could not even see my position that I had fled. I went inside.
Nobody noticed me. It was like I was invisible. They ignored me like I was a new kid at school.
The sirens started. Nurses appeared, carrying papers and briefcases. Men, too. They ran out the entrance into the snow where cars appeared. As the cars arrived and filled up, more people came out of the building. Men, women, carrying documents.
I did not know where they were going; and I could tell that they would not take me with them.
Seems a little alienating, this nightmare. ‘Nurses’ are traditionally caring individuals, but the dreamer here is waking up to the reality that they really are self serving paper based bureaucrats. The background of mystery: the sirens, all this rushing around, these busy people rather too close to the front without some important purpose, suggests that the dreamer is at the edge where the conscious mind meets the subconscious. Of course, the twist comes next…
I was standing watching the people flee when I noticed a Captain walk out of view, behind a wall, his body language was that of a man opening a door and going through it. But there was no door there. He reappeared in a bit, and came back the way he came in. There was more fleeing nurses and scientists. Then the Captain appeared again; I watched him closely this time. I wanted to shout at him, but the sirens were too loud. You could not talk they were so loud. Again he seemed to disappear into a wall, and again he reappeared. Then he too left the building. I went over to where the mystery was…
The inability to speak, here in the language of dreams manifested with the excuse of the noisy sirens, is of more use to a hypnotist if he can interact with the dreamer in real time. This Captain now, a more clear individual (all before are ‘nurses’ or ‘men’; more vague than ‘captain’) is the person to follow. The subconscious is leading the conscious mind to where if wants it to go, eh what?
There was no door there. Just a wall. I compared the dimensions of the rooms, and there was a dead space. Everyone had gone. I was deaf from the siren anyway, and shouting for help. I looked at the space and saw that there had was a door hidden as a wall.
My jaded audience was expecting that. The person having the nightmare, was not. I watched him as his hands shook as he drank some water I offered him. The ice cubes were ding-dinging against the side of the glass. In the language of dreams, the hidden door leading down to a place of safety and a resolution of the mystery is nothing unusual. As to what my nightmarish friend found at the bottom of the hidden stairs, I will not trouble you. We live in a country without free speech, and prophetic dreams that criticize the ability challenged powers that be are not to tolerated in the name of toleration. The persecuted religion of the Christians told us to be wary in dealing with the powers of the subconscious, but these little snippets of insight in the hands of the followers of Set, the Snake God are, well, the best place they could be kept. I think so. I care.
For those of you having a similar nightmare right around the first week after the full moon, do give me a ring or email. I know how to make your nightmares stop; and for that matter, how to make other people have more.
What better way to prove the accuracy of Astrology than to use the example of the birthday boy, Fenris Badwulf? His late mother would be proud of him; and his late father filled with happiness. His horoscope is filled with good news for the Republic, and for your estate. You can click to enlarge if you are not just cruising for one of the Mayor’s sex posts.
George Will the Third, that pretentious twit with the twee little bow ties, is among the crowd of Palin haters. This quasi-Republican is spending the last days of the campaign slagging the Republican ticket, with that smug “I’m smarter than you but I’ll talk in comparatively small syllables so cretins like you can see how much smarter I am than you” tone of his: (more…)
You can’t say you weren’t warned!
As Keyser’s loyal readers are no doubt already aware, Keyser made a passing comment about the dopey song “Tie a Yellow Ribbon” that riled someone belonging to an organization that had heretofore escaped Keyser’s attention, namely Tony’s Storm Troopers. Keyser made a somewhat derisive post about this, but being a man of peace (runner up for the 1993 Nobel Peace Prize, but as a humble man Keyser doesn’t make too much of this) Keyser decided to try to make nice to the Yellow Shirts by stating:
So, to all you Tony Troopers who have wandered over to the Lair, welcome! TONY ORLANDO is undoubtedly a fine human being, even if Keyser does adhere to the characterization of his Megahit “Tie a Yellow Ribbon” as dopey. It is a sign of international tolerance and liberty that we can disagree about fundamental issues like this and still remain friends.
[G]reen thinking — with its shrill intolerance of dissenting views, its deep distaste for free movement and free choice, and its view of individuals, not as history-makers, but as filthy polluters — poses a more profound threat to liberty even than the government’s paranoid anti-terrorist agenda.
Environmentalists are innately hostile to freedom of speech. Last month James Hansen, one of the world’s leading climate change scientists, said the CEOs of oil companies should be tried for crimes against humanity and nature. They have been “putting out misinformation”, he said, and “I think that’s a crime”. This follows green writer Mark Lynas’s insistence that there should be “international criminal tribunals” for climate change deniers, who will be “partially but directly responsible for millions of deaths”. They will “have to answer for their crimes”, he says. The American eco-magazine Grist recently published an article on deniers that called for “war crimes trials for these bastards… some sort of climate Nuremberg.”
It is the mark of shrieking authoritarianism to look upon dissenting views not simply as wrong or foolish, but as criminal. Throughout history inquisitors and censors have sought to silence sections of society by labelling their words as “dangerous” and a threat to safety and stability; now environmentalists are doing the same. Their demonisation of sceptics as “deniers” has had a chilling effect on public debate. .
But perhaps the main way that environmentalism undermines the culture of freedom is by its ceaseless promotion of guilt. In the environmentalist era, we are no longer really free citizens, so much as potential polluters. We are continually told — by government, by commentators, by radical activists – that everything we do, from wearing disposable nappies to using deodorant to allowing ourselves to be cremated, is harmful to our surroundings.
Liberty –- true liberty -– requires that people see themselves as self-respecting, self-determining subjects, capable of making free choices and pursuing the “good life” as they see fit. Today, by contrast, we are warned that we are toxic, loaded, dangerous specimens, who must always restrain our instincts and aspire to austerity. This is not conducive to a culture of liberty; indeed, it represents a dangerous historic shift. . .
~ Sisyphus, cross-posted at The Sisyphus Files.