We are walking through a house. It is a small, sturdy house, as though everything is bolted down. But the ceiling is low in places where the roof slants through. Where there are windows they are small. The walls are thick and covered in white plaster. It reminds me of the Hamilton�s abode in Deep River, and also a particular out-patient clinic I frequented some years ago. Gently, it has the residual grief of a sanitarium. I feel cautious�and just then�as we round a corner, I find myself in a different place.
We arrive at a gatehouse, where we pass into a pasture. It seems we are on a field-trip for the talented and gifted. We have left the main road which winds around the mass of a gray building that resembles a stone keep. It appears that we are awaiting an audience with some personage. We resemble young groupies who have found a temporary guru.
One of our number, a short, balding older man with a wiry mystical look to him, informs us that we will have our audience. We all head up a short dirt road that somehow seems to exist inside the castle, as though it had a ceiling, or the outdoors aspect were only an illusion. We veer off to the left as we are lead into a courtyard with slate tile flooring. The castle is of the same color, and very near. Then we seat ourselves at round shoddy tables resembling very much those found in a middle-school cafeteria. Our host appears, or more accurately, he calls attention to himself�for he is the same man of our number who lead us up the hill. I feel disappointed�I came here for something new.
The short man, whose hair I notice is floating somewhat, calls attention to one of our members. The young man is sitting at a table by himself. He seems somewhat angry internally, but is projecting an aura of calm. I can feel that he is channeling energy for some purpose. Without a word the young man begins to float in his chair, rising higher and higher until he overshadows the tables. He begins to spin in mid-air, but there is only a hint of a smile on his face. Then he returns to the ground precisely where he took off. Our guru has merited our attention now. �But,� he says �there is an even more amazing genius than this!� Emphatically, he turns on the television.
This �amazing genius� has the face of a warthog. The television shows that he has a large hole in the back of his head, and he is missing a brain. Furthermore, he appears leprous, and is covered in large white maggot grubs that are eating his flesh and suckling the inside of his skull. His genius appears to be that he is still alive, for verily we can hear through the television a savage growling, as though a three-headed dog is clearing its throat. The warthog is preparing to speak. But he has no brain, and maggots are feeding on him. This is when I woke up. Presumably the miracle that follows is not for mortal eyes. �July 11, 2005
Dream Stories Main
The preceding, as well as all other parts of Nathan's Philosophy and Writing are pending copyright (c) 2006, Nathan Coppedge