I was so sorry to hear about Frances. I’ve been thinking about her lots lately. Coincidentally, my uncle is also dying of lung cancer. He’s chosen chemotherapy so we don’t know how long he has. Oddly enough, the night before the eclipse, it was around midnight—I’d just fallen asleep—when some presence with a green glow came through the door. I awoke screaming, as usual, but thought I recognized something familiar about her.
Most definitely female, short in stature, old, and at peace—I thought perhaps it was my grandmother, I knew it wasn’t my uncle. The energy wasn’t right. But as your know, I seem to only have these “dreams” when someone is dying or newly dead—not from someone who is four years dead. I haven’t really had any major memorable death dreams since San Cristobal de las Casas—the harmonic convergence, remember? So, as usual, I’ve been berating myself, saying “oh it’s just a dream” while deep down inside I was waiting for the news.
I am so pleased you are doing oral history with Frances. Oddly enough, I was reading of German woman photographer Handsel Hagel, aka Meith, of Mark West Springs, who worked for both Time and Life magazines. She got a grant to put her photos in order–and thinking of Frances, I’m sure Frances knows her—her work is nearly as famous as Dorthea Lang’s, and she seemed to have had progressive leanings in the ‘40s.
I was just writing about it yesterday when your letter came. It was vaguely familiar, as if I’d already dreamed of receiving it. I always knew I’d get the letter of Frances’s eventual death, linked with poor old Raineycat. But these images stay hidden in the shadow world and thankfully, I remember very little until something sparks off a memory. Sometimes I am able to record them in my dream journal, sometimes I’m only left with a fleeting impression of something not quite seen as if beyond the range of the corner of the eye.
Since I’ve been back, I’ve had a whole series of disturbing death dreams—and I didn’t know if I was dreaming of my own, or of someone else’s death. Housesitting seemed to help ease the burden, so I just chalked it up to stress—until I got the urge to call a friend. As it turned out, right before I called, she was debating to call me, thinking I was still in Hawaii—the next day was her mother’s memorial service and wake.
Since I’ve been back, I’ve had a whole series of disturbing death dreams—and I didn’t know if I was dreaming of my own, or of someone else’s death. Housesitting seemed to help ease the burden, so I just chalked it up to stress—until I got the urge to call a friend. As it turned out, right before I called, she was debating to call me, thinking I was still in Hawaii—the next day was her mother’s memorial service and wake.
I guess the reason why I sent you the postcard early in July is because I was plagued with the notion that I must call you, and I was resisting the impulse. And three nights ago, I had a long narrative dream. It seemed there were at least two shadowy figures—pale blue transparencies—making ready for someone who was dying. They were unaware of me—working madly at the foot of my bed.
I thought it odd (how rude!), but it looked like they wanted to use my Mac—as if they were putting together a book or something. It was as if I were awakened by their commotion—though the were silent. One of them couldn’t find something, so I interjected a statement—I can’t remember what, probably something inane like where the gluestick was—but then my own voice woke me, and I felt stupid giving instructions to an empty room.
For the first time, I had no fear of these dream beings—probably because I wasn’t the center of attention. Usually when the green presence comes, it most definitely comes for me and I cannot handle the intensity of it—that’s why I scream—to make it stop. I always awaken, screaming, shaken and out of breath. It seems, if they’re going to find me, they will—it really doesn’t matter where I am: Switzerland, Mexico, Hawaii. It’s too easy to dismiss them as nightmares—my fears manifesting in a pale green shape in the form of a human torso. It takes more guts to explore the possibility that they’re NOT dream beings conjured up by my psyche because it opens up a whole new realm of possibilities:1). I’m crazy, or 2). They really exist.
Our literature and oral tradition around the world points to the presence of other beings—whether in the shape of gods or ghosts—though modern science and psychiatry prefers the tangible, testable world. I love the analogy in “The Gods Must be Crazy” where the little Bushman maintains his belief in the gods. His task—as Campbell would say, the hero’s journey, and his belief are unswerving right to the end where he throws the offending coke bottle off the edge of the world—in spite of co-existing in the white man’s explainable 20th century world. It’s not the little Bushman, but the gods themselves who are crazy! Of course, in the movie, we “civilized white folks” seem a little crazy too.
Then there’s the notion that if you believe in one kind of reality, you will find substance to support your beliefs. Think of the rivalry between the clergy struggling to maintain one world view contradicted by the scientific and philosophical notions of Galileo, Copernicus, and Descartes. Sometimes I think we’ve come too far in the opposite direction—that of scientific logic verses belief. (Odd hidden pun in the very word logic, logos, the Word/belief.)
Our literature and oral tradition around the world points to the presence of other beings—whether in the shape of gods or ghosts—though modern science and psychiatry prefers the tangible, testable world. I love the analogy in “The Gods Must be Crazy” where the little Bushman maintains his belief in the gods. His task—as Campbell would say, the hero’s journey, and his belief are unswerving right to the end where he throws the offending coke bottle off the edge of the world—in spite of co-existing in the white man’s explainable 20th century world. It’s not the little Bushman, but the gods themselves who are crazy! Of course, in the movie, we “civilized white folks” seem a little crazy too.
Then there’s the notion that if you believe in one kind of reality, you will find substance to support your beliefs. Think of the rivalry between the clergy struggling to maintain one world view contradicted by the scientific and philosophical notions of Galileo, Copernicus, and Descartes. Sometimes I think we’ve come too far in the opposite direction—that of scientific logic verses belief. (Odd hidden pun in the very word logic, logos, the Word/belief.)
The Bushman knew the coke bottle was an evil object because it disrupted the harmony of the tribe. He doesn’t change his world view but the journey and trials serve to test his “belief.” He returns home the hero. Who are we to destroy his belief with our 20th century notions of facts?
Myth is the expression of spirituality and our western gods are dead. There are no more quests, no hero’s journeys to take; we cannot live if we don’t feed the psyche. Perhaps the dream world is the only thing that’s really ours—and even that world has become “polluted” by the technology of a given era. I’m thinking of the decoding process of the metaphor.
A hunter-gatherer certainly wouldn’t dream of driving a car. Maybe a horse or a bison. Think of the quantum leap when someone first dreamt of riding a horse. Was it before the domestication of the species? Probably, it was the dog-wolves, the first domesticated animals, who led us into the tecnological era when they pulled the dogsleds. I’m not too sure where I’m going with all this. . . That’s it, blame Man’s best friend for our lack of faith—or our belief in ghosts!
I am so pleased you are doing oral history with Frances. Oddly enough, I was reading of German woman photographer Handsel Hagel, aka Meith, of Mark West Springs, who worked for both Time and Life magazines. She got a grant to put her photos in order–and thinking of Frances, I’m sure Frances knows her—her work is nearly as famous as Dorthea Lang’s, and she seemed to have had progressive leanings in the ‘40s.
I’m so sorry I wasn’t up to the task of taking more notes—better yet, audio tapes of my grandmother. I didn’t yet have the skills or the strength. Maybe you should also (video)tape her. Just to have her voice again. That’s one of the things I miss most. Please keep me informed. Give her my love and greetings. Tell her I’ve been thinking of her a lot, and am so pleased to have known her for those three short years. She’s a very special lady. I admire her fire and guts. Is it appropriate for me to write or come and visit?
Maureen
P.S. Joseph Campbell waited for an auspicious day, Oct. 31, to pass on, and my grandmother very nearly made it to All Soul’s Eve. It seems that even while facing the ultimate deadline, death, there are still choices to be made.
Maureen
P.S. Joseph Campbell waited for an auspicious day, Oct. 31, to pass on, and my grandmother very nearly made it to All Soul’s Eve. It seems that even while facing the ultimate deadline, death, there are still choices to be made.
No comments:
Post a Comment