Last Updated On September 1, 2017

 

And all I need now is intellectual intercourse A soul to dig the hole much deeper And I have no concept of time other than it is flying If only I could kill the killer -Alanis Morissette

 

 

In my dream last night, I took my dog out and was confronted by a massive yellow snake.
Yellow like fear.
Yellow like the third chakra.
Devouring.
The snake was not a natural phenomenon, it was sent.
Everywhere I looked, I saw aspects of it throbbing and gliding, undulating with the contours of the landscape. Pouring in and out of holes, skirting the concrete foundation, a head nor tail in sight.
It was mesmerizing in the way that snakes are rumored to be.

My dog became alarmed, running and yipping and eventually becoming ensnared in loops and loops of muscle over his broad brindle form. It is said that struggle is futile, and my dog epitomized this notion, becoming still as stone. As he does when he is coveting table scraps or wedged between us on the couch. I sense this need to not challenge the constricting parts directly.
That they will only become agitated, tighter.
So with focus and outrage I locate what I believe is the snake’s throat and squeeze with both hands sending the head comically sailing through the air. But even this suspected terminal blow did not affect it.

In my hands, I found my dog’s collar. It looked different. I knew within it held a piece of my dog. Inviolate. Almost a horcrux. But a pure one. My dream logic informed me that somehow it could be joined to others, but the details are lost to mist. The collar was more than a momento.
It held the essence, the relationship, the experience, the spirit, the unsaid.
As real as real is.

I don’t even want to address it but the question is pushing up against the roof of my mouth, “Will the dog be OK?”.
Stop asking that.
Please stop asking that.
I need to stop asking that.
We are in a state of OK and not OK all the time.
We are the dog and we are the snake.

The dream has no ending. Endings aren’t real. Humans create them, they wouldn’t exist otherwise.

But it occurs to me,
(both of us, dreaming and awake)
that love is pain- real or imagined.
Loss is an indivisible ingredient of love.
Love wouldn’t be love without it.
I’m pretty sure I’ve known this at different times. Its almost cliche’. We’ve all heard this in song, in lament, in moments. But its one of those things that we just can’t walk around remembering all the time. It slips through our fingers like forgotten labor pains between births.

I am enchanted by the idea that we are only a veil away from love everlasting and kingdom without end- unseen but sustaining like the air we breathe. Maybe the world is littered with horcruxes and the streets overrun with loving paw prints through time and space but in our woefully and wonderfully human forms we just don’t have the vision to access them. Just like we can’t see heat signatures or electromagnetic fields. Perhaps we can only catch glimpses in dreamscapes and from the trembling tips of serpents’ tongues.

 

Last Updated On September 1, 2017

 

And all I need now is intellectual intercourse A soul to dig the hole much deeper And I have no concept of time other than it is flying If only I could kill the killer -Alanis Morissette

 

In my dream last night, I took my dog out and was confronted by a massive yellow snake.
Yellow like fear.
Yellow like the third chakra.
Devouring.
The snake was not a natural phenomenon, it was sent.
Everywhere I looked, I saw aspects of it throbbing and gliding, undulating with the contours of the landscape. Pouring in and out of holes, skirting the concrete foundation, a head nor tail in sight.
It was mesmerizing in the way that snakes are rumored to be.

My dog became alarmed, running and yipping and eventually becoming ensnared in loops and loops of muscle over his broad brindle form. It is said that struggle is futile, and my dog epitomized this notion, becoming still as stone. As he does when he is coveting table scraps or wedged between us on the couch. I sense this need to not challenge the constricting parts directly.
That they will only become agitated, tighter.
So with focus and outrage I locate what I believe is the snake’s throat and squeeze with both hands sending the head comically sailing through the air. But even this suspected terminal blow did not affect it.

In my hands, I found my dog’s collar. It looked different. I knew within it held a piece of my dog. Inviolate. Almost a horcrux. But a pure one. My dream logic informed me that somehow it could be joined to others, but the details are lost to mist. The collar was more than a momento.
It held the essence, the relationship, the experience, the spirit, the unsaid.
As real as real is.

I don’t even want to address it but the question is pushing up against the roof of my mouth, “Will the dog be OK?”.
Stop asking that.
Please stop asking that.
I need to stop asking that.
We are in a state of OK and not OK all the time.
We are the dog and we are the snake.

The dream has no ending. Endings aren’t real. Humans create them, they wouldn’t exist otherwise.

But it occurs to me,
(both of us, dreaming and awake)
that love is pain- real or imagined.
Loss is an indivisible ingredient of love.
Love wouldn’t be love without it.
I’m pretty sure I’ve known this at different times. Its almost cliche’. We’ve all heard this in song, in lament, in moments. But its one of those things that we just can’t walk around remembering all the time. It slips through our fingers like forgotten labor pains between births.

I am enchanted by the idea that we are only a veil away from love everlasting and kingdom without end- unseen but sustaining like the air we breathe. Maybe the world is littered with horcruxes and the streets overrun with loving paw prints through time and space but in our woefully and wonderfully human forms we just don’t have the vision to access them. Just like we can’t see heat signatures or electromagnetic fields. Perhaps we can only catch glimpses in dreamscapes and from the trembling tips of serpents’ tongues.

Last Updated On September 1, 2017

And all I need now is intellectual intercourse A soul to dig the hole much deeper And I have no concept of time other than it is flying If only I could kill the killer -Alanis Morissette

In my dream last night, I took my dog out and was confronted by a massive yellow snake.
Yellow like fear.
Yellow like the third chakra.
Devouring.
The snake was not a natural phenomenon, it was sent.
Everywhere I looked, I saw aspects of it throbbing and gliding, undulating with the contours of the landscape. Pouring in and out of holes, skirting the concrete foundation, a head nor tail in sight.
It was mesmerizing in the way that snakes are rumored to be.

My dog became alarmed, running and yipping and eventually becoming ensnared in loops and loops of muscle over his broad brindle form. It is said that struggle is futile, and my dog epitomized this notion, becoming still as stone. As he does when he is coveting table scraps or wedged between us on the couch. I sense this need to not challenge the constricting parts directly.
That they will only become agitated, tighter.
So with focus and outrage I locate what I believe is the snake’s throat and squeeze with both hands sending the head comically sailing through the air. But even this suspected terminal blow did not affect it.

In my hands, I found my dog’s collar. It looked different. I knew within it held a piece of my dog. Inviolate. Almost a horcrux. But a pure one. My dream logic informed me that somehow it could be joined to others, but the details are lost to mist. The collar was more than a momento.
It held the essence, the relationship, the experience, the spirit, the unsaid.
As real as real is.

I don’t even want to address it but the question is pushing up against the roof of my mouth, “Will the dog be OK?”.
Stop asking that.
Please stop asking that.
I need to stop asking that.
We are in a state of OK and not OK all the time.
We are the dog and we are the snake.

The dream has no ending. Endings aren’t real. Humans create them, they wouldn’t exist otherwise.

But it occurs to me,
(both of us, dreaming and awake)
that love is pain- real or imagined.
Loss is an indivisible ingredient of love.
Love wouldn’t be love without it.
I’m pretty sure I’ve known this at different times. Its almost cliche’. We’ve all heard this in song, in lament, in moments. But its one of those things that we just can’t walk around remembering all the time. It slips through our fingers like forgotten labor pains between births.

I am enchanted by the idea that we are only a veil away from love everlasting and kingdom without end- unseen but sustaining like the air we breathe. Maybe the world is littered with horcruxes and the streets overrun with loving paw prints through time and space but in our woefully and wonderfully human forms we just don’t have the vision to access them. Just like we can’t see heat signatures or electromagnetic fields. Perhaps we can only catch glimpses in dreamscapes and from the trembling tips of serpents’ tongues.