My latest exploration into digital publishing is collection of dreams put together as HTML, for it's interactive and multi-media possibilities. It can be found at: http://dreamlog.businesscatalyst.com/
117-A Dream of Peace—The moralizing in this document reflects the underlying sense of conflict in the dream rather than an accurate recounting of some sort of didactic voiceover from within the dream itself. It definitely tells what I’d been reading in that period.
11-17-94 approximately 5:40 AM
I was in a club, sort of an open air place with black wooden beams and columns. The focal point was a stage for “exotic” dancers, the renowned Tit Revue, entertainers extraordinaire. On the periphery, tucked under lean-to roofs, games galore; a bar and kitchen; and, stashed away in a corner, a table of pornographic magazines for sale.
I browsed the magazines, which were not shrink wrapped, in search of beautiful photos, beautiful Kodak moments. It was the usual stuff, the usual bad sex and ridiculous poses. Absolutely the usual: no feeling, no sensuality, no passion, no emotional communion—nothing but a checklist of types and scenarios, the rote performance of mandatory moves like an Olympic skating program that’s lost its purpose.
Then the dancers started. The first was a young and slender Nordic-looking woman in a slate blue sweater. She massaged her breasts through the sweater, but never took it off or raised it to expose her skin.
Other dancers quickly went through their acts.
The place was lively, joyous even. Men and women kept coming in, laughing, almost skipping into the room. Happy men and women with toothy smiles greeted everyone at the door, waving them in like it was a college kegger.
A troop of dancers entered. A busty young woman in a fantastical pagan costume and body paint led, surrounded by very small men and women pretending to be children. Her children or her diminutive acolytes, it wasn’t clear. The dance was ceremonial. But the audience was outside, glowing in the bright sun shine. You could see them running on the grass, playing chase and tackle games. The woman said, “A little shake of the pink will have them all in”, meaning a jiggle of her breasts, not her crotch.
Unlike before, the place filled with just men. Not facing the stage, they seemed to know that something else was about to begin. They sat looking in all directions, no longer the union of interest that the show commanded, but careful not to look at each other or the dancers radiating from the back stage doors. All shapes and sizes of women were filing out, one for each man.
Amidst the most painfully beautiful women, the most exquisite of them approached me. So young and so very beautiful, I was in trance. Quietly and steadily she came toward me, as though I was the purpose of her life; and when she was next to me she laid her head on my shoulder. Her face was wide and square, pale, even luminous, surrounded by straight, black hair. She looked up at me as though waiting for something, as though I knew why she’d be there, her mouth and eyes silently calling to me to make my decision. For a moment she stepped back for me to see and admire her large, very large, firm breasts, the slight quiver of them as she moved, then stepped toward me, her eyes on mine, waiting.
She was on my lap, side saddle. As she leaned closer my shirt was gone and I could feel the warmth of her side, the coolness of one breast, the heat of her embracing arms. I was nearly unconscious with pleasure, nearly drowning in expectation.
The buzzer of my alarm clock disturbed the dream, but did not end it.
She offered whatever I wanted, mildly suggesting fellatio. She sat on my lap, facing me now, stroking my erect penis. I could do anything to her I wanted. I could ask her to do anything. No charge, she wasn’t a prostitute. Nor a decoy for some crime. Right now. Forever. Whenever I wanted. Whatever I wanted. She was mine. Like some adolescent dream of heaven, she was all mine.
Before I could begin to enjoy myself, it began to dawn on me that there was, in fact, a price. I could have her, have her as a thing, but I could never know her. I could say whatever I liked, emptying myself of every secret, but I would never know hers. She could tell me stories, create lives for herself, entertain me in any way I pleased. But her innermost self would always remain part of the untouchable fine print of the contract.
She was to be my reward for joining the club, for maintaining the conspiracy of all the members. I could be a man among men, a beneficiary of club privilege. And she was my reward. If not her some other unknowable woman. Any size or shape or peculiarity I could desire, any woman or any number of women, exchanged at my discretion, used and discarded as I wished. She could be my lovely toy but never my beloved. Never my loving friend.
The price was loneliness, an unknown and unfulfilled self, a life devoid of real challenge, real contact, real intimacy. A graceful, precious object for my amusement, the most delicious plaything ever to be held, yet never a part of me. With no barriers broken down, with no meeting on the same plane, there could only be alienation. The illusion of possession. A life titillated by beauty. A life never opening up to the pain of recognition in another self.
The illusion of this woman would be my reward.
All day this dream haunted me. Like the beautiful people in fashion magazines, like those in movies, like pornography and television, there’s temptation to succumb to the image. What else is there but an image. You’re promised this gorgeous person and this wonderful life, your heart lifts and beats faster with the illusion, and then all you have is a rolled up magazine in your hand or a sore backside and full bladder after your two hours in the dark. You walk away with a little sadness and betrayal that will grow a little larger every year, as, every year, you lose the ability to see behind the illusion and, bit by bit, you lose your capacity for real love with a real person. The image was there, now it’s gone and you’re left with nothing. The promise was empty and you really didn’t deserve it anyway. You’re still lonely. The feelings that rose up in you and reached out to another person fall back, unreturned. You’ve emptied yourself into a little prayer only to find that the god of affection, love, romance, beauty is either deaf or dead.
The woman in the dream was as real and as unreal as the people in films and magazines because she was unknowable. Object or image, she could never be companion or friend. I think to have friends outside the narrow margins defined in childhood you have to break the contract. Androcentrism is one of many contracts made to kill your being, an abrasive to wear down your humanity. Society, every society, every culture, every language is laden with such contracts. Always a loyalty to an abstraction. Always a step away from humanity. Always a little patch to protect some small vulnerability while elsewhere the whole human essence drains out, unnoticed and unmissed.