Dream a Little

Recreating (and advancing) pk’s censored domains:
Knatz.com / Personal / pk /

Dream a little dream of me.
Dream a little dream of mean.

I’ve loved my dreams, all my life. I love my sleep, my dreams, and my waking. I even love my nightmares. I suspect however that I’ve had relatively few nightmares in my life. I suspect that has to do with my (insane?) determination to speak my mind, to say, to write (to dream, to dream out loud, in public) what I mean. I had a nightmare last week that I’ll try to share here. I think it’s significant.
I was in bed, had been sleeping a fair while: more than enough sleep by some people’s standards, but not by mine. My hypnopompic time is precious to me: that’s when I dream write sleep write.

I was aware that it was daylight, well past dawn: 7:00 or 7:30, judging by the strength of the light.
I heard a noise. Someone was in the house! There was more than one intruder. I opened an eye, ever so slightly. Big guys were coming into the bedroom. Now they were making no attempt at stealth. The lead guy slowed a bit, letting more big guys behind him catch up, get through the door way, enter the bedroom. They looked at my horizontal form. They carried lead pipes, blunt instruments: they beat the pipes against their palms, anticipating.

That was the dream. My home was invaded by guys intent on harming me: grievously, maybe mortally.
Well, I’m ready. I’ve long been ready. I was ready when the sheriff and FBI ganged up to arrest me. They came at me by the dozen, dozen and a half. They came from behind buildings, from behind my loquat tree, from behind the bottle brush tree: maybe from up in the loquat tree, maybe from my roof. They were armored, carried assault weapons, dangled cuffs, restraints, manacles …

What did I do? against the FBI? as they came into my house? (at least I had shorts on, had been working for hours) as they put me face down on my floor and cuffed me behind my back? Same thing I did in this dream: nothing. Nothing at all. I fight with ideas, with words, with my imagination, my critical facilities, not with my fists, or my teeth (I don’t got no teeth no more), not with guns or knives or bombs. Not with fire, with ideas.

Who were these guys? in the dream. I don’t know. I’d never seen any of them before, to my knowledge. Hostile readers? More likely they were guys hired (or instigated by) hostile readers: could be any body in the world.

Bill Peterson, the Knatz.com fan who introduced himself to me in jail, told me that he’d discovered Knatz.com on an internet list of the ten most evil web sites to be avoided at all costs: like the Church’s “Index”: goading Roman Catholics to themselves censor their thoughts, their knowledge, their reading …

Had the thugs in my dream understood any part of what I said at K.? They don’t need to. All they need is to see (the obvious) that I am not one of them! That I do not respect them! That I do not swallow their society, their culture, their laws, their vaunted history … as legitimate, as true, as valid, as sustainable …
Did Pilat or Herod or Caiaphas understand what Jesus had said? or done? All they needed to see in order to silence him, arrest him, torture, murder him was that he was not under but over their laws, their customs … their frauds.

I see that I haven’t yet resurrected K.’s Dream Stories: I will, now, soon. I’ll illustrate nightmares that I loved in childhood: family members participants.

The above will be twice as true in the near future as I critique the dance clubs around Highlands Country, especially if I use real names. (I may not: not yet.)

Stories by Age by Theme by Others

About pk

Seems to me that some modicum of honesty is requisite to intelligence. If we look in the mirror and see not kleptocrats but Christians, we’re still in the same old trouble.
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