The ceiling split and crumbled away in defiance of gravity as the light solidified and fell as dust on my waking face. I mumbled something akin to “da fuq” as a figure shrouded with the darkness that scares underbed monsters descended to hover over me.
It lifted its face revealing a time stained skull devoid of any flesh and yet from the cavernous dry sockets came some sensation of observation. Continue reading “Dream Journal: 2017-05-31.01”
Once upon a Christian faith, I was the hand-drummer for the church band. Couldn’t swing a drumstick without hitting myself in the eye, but I could make a djembe weep. The church band did not seek adding a hand drum as part of the permanent set, viewing such instruments with a barely concealed suspicion. (It didn’t help that the former hand-drummer floated an ego about her skill that make the djembe look small.) But faith moves mountains, the congos and djembe moved people, and the pastors were quick to capitalize on that. Continue reading “Dream Journal: The Drum Waits”
Last week, I spent 80 minutes sitting fifteen feet away from where a man spent the last four days of his life in agonizing, painful, and humiliating misery and excrement before dying two weeks to the day before my visit, and the room was as peaceful as a clean slate is bare. There wasn’t anything there to sense, and there was no lack of anything to sense. Continue reading “Spirit Journal: 2016-07-09.01”