I feel that in dreams we explore the private world away from the waking, public world. We close the front door of the daylight house and step off of the back porch, as it were, the back porch which is always in darkness, lit by one porch light, and take a walk out into the darkness beyond our conscious light, out into the surrounding darkness to see what the unknown might reveal. Our spirit wanders abroad at night and comes back to tell us what it saw. I think I should start listening again, because when I stopped listening the messenger gave up speaking to me.
Being said, I have begun once again to keep a dream diary after a long period of neglect. Here is this morning’s entry:
I’m speaking to two or three middle aged people saying that Ontario Premier Doug Ford has said that no politician, including himself, could publicly disagree with his Chief Medical Officer regarding Covid measures because it would be political suicide [which is true in real life] and his Chief Medical Officer, Dr David Williams and Associate Chief Medical Officer, Dr Barbara Yaffe, have said they only read from the script written for them [also true] and I conclude that the script is written in foreign parts by people who mean us no good. These people all laugh at me and scorn me as a fool.
I’m sitting at a table beside a young man whom I am assisting to hand out doses of medicine to a line of young people, university age. The medicine is a preventative against symptoms of Covid. It consists of a thick, pink, porridge-like mixture that smells like artificial mint or candy and is lumpy and uneven, disgusting. My partner pours it into a paper cup and I hand that to each kid in turn. We have been provided with only one paper cup plus a few extras which my partner never uses. So these kids are drinking this goo all from the same paper cup. I think but do not say how unsanitary this is, how likely to spread disease if there is any disease.
Commentary:
This almost needs no commentary, or so I thought at first. It is a sad dream. I feel all alone. A Casandra, not even a Jeremiah, so I thought at first.
Like Cassandra I warn of destruction but I am not believed. Like Jeremiah I do foretell the destruction of my people for their apathy, smugness and complaisance, neglecting to know and honour the ethical and cultural heritage that could have given them strength and purpose. Foreign degenerates are being given dominion over my people and they refuse to see it. We will be exiled in our own land. I am exiled in my own land.
Jeremiah prophesied of a new Covenant written not on stone but on the blood of the heart so that they who take the cup of the new communion shall be as united with the kingdom of God as is nature, the universe, heaven and earth, time and eternity, the very body of God. In the dream I am the despised prophet and then there is the second scene, a parody of Christian Communion.
I am handing out the cup of a satanic communion, a parody of the communion with Christ, which is a communion with the spirit of truth. This is a communion of sickness and submission to lies. I submit to lies and say nothing. I hand out the cup of sickness to the young.
