Dream Journal: 2013-10-12.02

So last night my phone conspired with my alcohol to troll me and autocorrect ‘witch’ to ‘wapiti’. Having never encountered that word before (‘wapiti’, you heckler) I looked it up and got all sorts of Sec feels. (They manifested as donut cravings. Can’t imagine why.)

So now it is post-coffee-o’clock and I can’t shake the mashed up title “Wapiti Witch” out of my head. It feels tied to Bear and his lost stories somehow. Of course, I have not a single hint to follow other than Moose is somehow tied up in this as well.

We’ll see what comes.

After I chase down a fresh donut.

“korellyn” replied with:

Around my neck of the woods, wapiti means “elk” in the language of the local first nations. We have a Wapiti River and a whole slew of businesses with wapiti in the name.

Just putting that out there.

Hmm. Okay. First thing I need to do is sit down and define what I mean by ‘witch’. Because I recall some Tumblr chains stating that certain activity falls under “Sorcerer” and is forbidden to certain First Nation members. I use the word ‘witch’ quite liberally. What I mean by it is completely dependent on the context. This witch is not the same as that witch.

So if I’m going to go there, I need to define what this Wapiti Witch that is stalking the periphery of my consciousness is doing. (And it is a person. I just don’t know of what nature just yet.) She is hooded, and her cloak is the same hues of what I would expect deer to be colored. She has a large rack, but it is not dense. I can’t tell if her rack is part of the hood or growing from her own head.

She stands at the treeline. Fog is descending and mist is rising. There may be a river between us, the mist obscures that area well. She’s watching me. Waiting to see what I am going to do.


First, I’m going to divine/scry if this is just my imagination kicking into high gear and running away with the title of “Wapiti Witch”, or if this is Someone Of Interest that’s managed to grab a stray thread of my attention.

Dream Journal: 2013-07-31.01

I found myself sitting on a lake. The water was impermeable under me and reflected the stars. I patted the surface and poked at it, watching motes of light play in the water under me. A large animal filled the view in the reflection. I looked up to see Bear standing on the water with me. I smiled to see him, but I was also sad. “I thought I found one of your stories, Bear. But all I found was a wandering man in an old jacket.”

Bear sniffed my face softly. “You did not find what you expected, so you ignored what you found.”

I tried to justify away his accusation. “Somehow I don’t expect to find you in the middle of a modern city full of concrete and urban decay.”

“You mean, you don’t expect me to be where Man is. You think I only exist in the places where Man isn’t.” Bear looked around the lake and made a deliberate turn towards the night sky.

“… Yes.”

“Why did the People stop seeing me?”

“They stopped looking. Bears stopped being a symbol of something greater and became merely animals.”

He lowered his head and pierced me with his stare. “Why do you see me?”

“… … Because I want to. Because you are more than just an animal to me. Because I can and I don’t want to look away.”

“Have you ever seen a flesh and blood bear? In person? Up close? Have you smelled the scent and the musk? Have you felt the fur and the teeth of a living bear?” He ambled around me as he asked, making sure to rub harshly against me. As he asked, I realized what I thought was his scent, was what I thought a bear’s scent should be. Even the feel of his fur was a construct of my imagination.

“No. I haven’t. Not even in a zoo.”

“Then how do you know I am Bear?”

I wanted to say, “Because I know. The same way I know that sugar is sweet and hugs are comforting and heartbreak physically hurts the heart. The same way I know there is more to the world than what the five senses measure and hope can crush a person but severity can buoy them. Because I know you, and I know you are Bear, and you are more than just a bear, and this is the way you present to me because this is how you have chosen to.”. But I found all manner of speaking fled from me at that instant, and all I could answer was. “…”.

Bear gently laid his forehead against mine. The density in his form is staggering. If he knew my inner thoughts, he did not betray the knowledge. “Find my stories. The People have their own stories, and what hasn’t been lost is hoarded to obscurity. You are not of the People. Your stories will have a different feel to them. They will wear different clothes and bear different marks. They will walk in the lands that you walk because that is what you know. I do not want you to find the stories of the People. I want you to find mine. Start with the wandering man in the old jacket. Look him in the eyes. If he is me, you will see at once. That is, if you want to see.”

Bear backed away from me, and I saw his eyes clearly. In them, were the stars of the night sky, the stars of the lake below us, and the stars reflected from my eyes.

I closed my eyes. I do want to see.

Why did Bear call his mythos the People hold the “stories of the People”, and then turn around and ask me to find his stories? Aren’t they all his stories? It wasn’t until I posted the conversation that I understood.

The mythos started out as his stories, but as the People stopped seeing him as Bear and relegated him to just another animal archetype, the stories stopped being about Bear and became a collection of moral tales instead.

Moral tales are good and instructive, don’t get me wrong. But these stories weren’t originally about teaching social values. They were about Bear. Until they weren’t anymore. And the People stopped looking for what stopped being.

The mythos became Stories of the People.

The stories I find will be different. Because my life setting is different. Because my understanding of the world is different.

I still feel like I’m the wrong person for this task.

There was a wandering man in an old denim jacket. His full beard and his hair were more salt than pepper, and he walked with a slow but steady gait. His skin was tougher than the jacket and the only thing more bare than his knuckles were his boots. But if you looked in his eyes, you would see his eyes were full of life. They sparkled to put the stars of the night sky to shame. He smiled at me as he passed. I wasn’t sure who was unseen, him or me. The weed-lined sidewalk spoke no echo from either one of us. He reminded me of Bear.

A man I never met reminded me of something I have never seen.

Welcome to Weaver-world.

Dream Journal: 2013-07-12.01

Bear: “Come. I will tell you a story.”

“For a long time Bear watched Man from the Night Sky. Bear watched the different tribes and clans of men do as men do. At first there were many that remembered the promises and kept them. But the number waned until one day no one shared their catch with Bear. No one shared their water and honey with Bear. No one shared their words with Bear.

No one remembered Bear.

One night, Bear came down from the Night Sky and found the People of the Promise were no more. Bear found their children, and found they were trying to do things the way their father’s fathers did. But with no one to teach them how to See and how to Speak and how to Listen and how to Be, they did not see Bear walking among them. To them, Bear was a story for the ignorant and the superstitious.”

Me: “Sorry, Bear, I’m going to have to call bullshit.”

Bear: “Why?”

Me: “You imply that there are no more peoples that know the Old Stories. And that’s not true. There are still those that remember the old ways, that kept them safe when the white men tried to destroy them. They have learned how not to speak and have hidden the stories away.”

Bear: “Do you know them? Or just know of them?”

Me: “… Just of them. I am allowed to know they are still told but I will likely never hear them.”

Bear: “Then they do not exist to you.”

Me: “They exist. I just don’t know them.”

Bear: “When you are hungry and all the fish are gone for winter, you know they have gone to the sea but you are still hungry. You have no fish in hand. What good is all the fish in the sea if you have none in your belly?”

Me: “… When you put it that way…”

Bear: “My stories were not meant to be hidden forever. Even winter ends. Bear is walking beside Man again. And Bear is not alone. If you will not listen to the stories, I will make you seek them personally. You are not the only one that sees me. Do not worry about telling it right. There are new fish in the river. Catch them.”

Dream Journal: 2012-08-07.01

The dream ended with something holding me by my neck against the wall, my feet dangling off the floor. A guttural voice asked me, “Do you remember?”. I answered, “No. It’s all gone.”. The huge hand released me and I fell down on the ground. It huffed in satisfaction and walked away. The piece of flesh it had torn from my chest still dripping in its other hand. It stunk like a wet stray dog. A heavy scent that chokes even if you can’t smell it. I felt the Waking approach. I scrambled to piece together what I could. Continue reading “Dream Journal: 2012-08-07.01”

Dream: Bear, Oh My!

I found myself walking in the Dreaming last night. (One day, I’ll settle on my terminology.) I was walking through a forest, tracking something. Silly me, I didn’t pay attention to the tracks I thought I was following, nor to my surroundings. The trees were talking to me as I passed them, each tree -speaking- a word of a sentence, the complete sentence played out as I passed the stands. Like the whole forest was speaking. Continue reading “Dream: Bear, Oh My!”