Anagogy: And the blind eye creates

The source of dreams is unknowable. Always beyond our understanding. We want to say: deeper than our understanding (emptying phrase). The dreams seem to arise out of some Ur- foundation of our being, primal, ineffable, defiant of the limitations of language and, to a lesser extent, imagining itself. Dreams emerge into consciousnes out of shadow and depth.

Our consciousness sits trembling, a poor beast on the threshold, safely housed within our conception of self. The dream resolves out of the Dark Wilderness in increments of wonder. The bonds of sleep hold us to our vision, Odysseus tied to the mast before the Sirens. We cannot look away,  whether this be through fear or fascination - or a charmed mixture of both.

There is no actual sensation. All arises from within. The fabric of our vision has been woven by ourselves alone. This is the inward perception, shadows dancing on the cave walls of our skull. All too quickly, we conceive the story, the narrative, imposing meaning on mystery. The rags and poor vestments of our imagination are fitted quickly upon, instantaneously giving substance to, the shadows of the dream. There is a stage now. There is an actor. And another. Dialogue. The ancient drama unfolds before us, now the audience. All of this in a quicksilver shimmer. It is a great mystery of our being.

And so the writing down of dreams is always suspect. The tendency to gloss over, to amend lacunae, shape into narratives - transforming nonsense into sense. Still, even through this, the mystery remains. Often it is that aspect of the dream we thought insignificant, that one detail we almost neglected to include. Nevertheless, by writing down dreams we subject them to a reduction, a Procrustian process of interpretive (pornographic) writing. These symbols in argument with each other upon the fire-lit stage of our interior cavern, this drama will not confine itself to even the broadest of linguistic mis-prisons.

But we want to remember. We want to understand what this nightly drama is trying to tell us. But who says it is for us to know what dramas engage our archetypal beings? Who amongst us can translate the thunder and the lightning? But we want to remember. A sad prayer whispered into the wind by the monk desolate in the Desert. Oh God, please speak to me. And so, he dreams.

The unknowable cannot be written. And once the Dream is aware that we are sitting out there in the audience with pen and paper, scribbling feverishly before the Mystery, then the Dream changes, refigures itself to fit our sorry horde of words, as the radiant king removes his robes and takes on the rags of the lowliest beggar. Greek tragedy becomes a banal television sitcom. More insidious, the Dream takes on the attitude of the ally, the friend, the helpful guide when it it actually the adversary. Satan, Mephistopheles, Iago, Kaa, Gollum. This is the dreadful masquerade. They encourage and strengthen our resolve to penetrate the mystery of the Dream. Always there with the helpful word or phrase at hand, whispering poisonous instructions to our attention, hand on elbow, false Vergils, leading us into the pit of mis-understanding.

We cannot trust ourselves: we, who rationalize and lie and in every moment or our daily lives drain our words of all their blood. And so, what are we left with?

What remains is war. There is no trust in words anymore. We must use them as tools to immediately discard, knowing that to use a tool found within the illusion only strengthens the baseless fabric of that illusion. Long ago: faith was broken. The words can dance before us on the page, a thousand mirrors full of our reflected hopes, each letter a cage within which sings a tiny fragment of our soul, singing only because it is imprisoned. Keats' nightingale forever trapped in its melodious plot of beechen green and shadows numberless.

What also remains is the Dream. For it is everything. And however mindlessly we spend our time, we must pay attention to it. For in this dark and empty world, it is the one of the only lights we regularly are able to find. Every night, we sit in the cave of ourself and stare into its fires, watching the drama of our Self unfolding....

But we must be careful what we say...

Although I do not hope to turn again
Although I do not hope
Although I do not hope to turn

Wavering between the profit and the loss
In this brief transit where the dreams cross
The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying
(Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things
From the wide window towards the granite shore
The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying
Unbroken wings

And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices
In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices
And the weak spirit quickens to rebel
For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell
Quickens to recover
The cry of quail and the whirling plover
And the blind eye creates
The empty forms between the ivory gates
And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth

This is the time of tension between dying and birth
The place of solitude where three dreams cross
Between blue rocks
But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away
Let the other yew be shaken and reply.

Blessed sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit of the garden,
Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated

And let my cry come unto Thee.

- T. S. Eliot, Ash Wednesday (fragment)