I had another strange dream last night.
I was lying in bed in a whorehouse, down to my underwear. A doctor came
in. Evidently this particular establishment took good care of its girls. God
only knows what kind of shady background the doctor came from. The doctor
asked me a few questions about my health and sexual history. Then he noticed
a colored patch on my thigh. I was too embarrassed to tell him it was from
an implanted device. So I told him it was from a tattoo that had been removed.
The doctor left. I waited. Suddenly, I decided that I didn't want to go through
with all of it. I got out of bed and started to dress. Then I checked my wallet.
Even though I hadn't used their services, I knew I was going to have to pay. I
figured that one-hundred dollars plus a twenty-dollar tip would be sufficient.
But when I counted my money I found only eighty dollars. I remembered that
I had stopped someplace and spent twenty earlier in the evening. The situation
was serious, of course, not being able to pay. I was wondering whether I could
put forty dollars on my card and pay the rest in cash — when I woke up.
As I have mentioned before, I think that my dreams these days are simply
the wanderings of the still earth-bound Ba. Meaningless, for the most part.
I can see that the part about the implanted device, even though it was in
my leg, was yet more negativity about my health. Which is hardly revelatory.
I didn't need some spill-over from my unconscious mind to make me aware of
Well, at least it didn't cost me any real money.
Yes, it was a dream. On the other hand, it was a part of the same universe
as my waking world. Nothing is unrelated.
Yesterday I got an e-mail from a very old friend of mine, Richard Marsh.
Richard is a painter and pianist, and in the letter he told me a little bit
about the world he encountered in Prague a decade back…
"When I traveled to Prague the first time in 1995 I was amazed at the
number of people that would be crowding the coffee shops. There were
many people from the former East who were engineers and scientists,
teachers and economic experts who were dangling by a thread literally.
A long story short, their college or professional degrees were no longer
applicable nor even valid to the society, i.e. Moscow University…
ironic but true. These people found themselves in a Brave New World
having to cope with a totally different environmental and regulatory
issue of sudden change in a new world. [Also] artists, all crowded
together and talking about everything, throwing chairs when necessary.
Dynamic, yes. But it came to a point where I was learning about things
I had no idea of, the world through their eyes and the changes that
effected them. I became a listener."
Reading Richard's letter, I was reminded of my own difficulties with
school when my illness hit. And I was reminded yet again that it is
more about the process in this life than the product. It's all just
paintings on a tomb wall. The universe progresses without our complete
knowledge. And in a way that it would be impossible to catch in a dream.