Dreams, Democrats, Greeks & Trojans ....

"…. he lived
Through that which had been death to many men,
And made him friends of mountains; with the stars
And the quick Spirit of the Universe
He held his dialogues: and they did teach
To him the magic of their mysteries;
To him the book of Night was opened wide,
And voices from the deep abyss revealed
A marvel and a secret. — Be it so."

Lord Byron
Some lines from: "The Dream"

A dream ends; a building never does ....

Before I meander away from the notion of reincarnation and transmigration of souls, I want to touch on a thought residing just on the other side of that doorway: The implications of reoccurring dreams. Ever have one?

If I've ever read any material regarding reoccurring dreams, it has passed from my memory. But, I have experienced one, as well as another, shall we say, odd, sort of series of dreams.

The reoccurrent dream: When I was around 11 or 12, I began to have a dream that I was rolling and rolling on the ground while being shot at by a man in a military uniform. I could see him clearly, distinctly, his face, his weapon. I could see the landscape between the two of us, and behind him. I always woke as the rounds seemed about to catch up with me.

I had the dream probably once or twice a year for several years. Possibly, I had seen one too many "war movies" as a boy but, for whatever reason, I never had that dream again after my time with the Marine Corps.

The odd dream: I cannot count the number of times that I have had a variety of dreams that all take place in the same building. The building is an absolutely huge, log structure, in the style of a house, with three stories. But, the settings and the scenarios of the dreams differ vastly.

This building has been on "main street." I have been living on the second floor, while there has been a newspaper office on the first floor. People from both my past (some now dead) and my present, have been there working. We have discussed work and personal matters.

This building has been located in a bog and woodland area, such as one might see in northern Minnesota, where it was my residence. I was moving about on both the first and the second floors, preparing to defend myself against a "home invasion." The door was being battered. There was a woman also present. I knew her, but never saw her face, and now no longer recall who it might have been.

This building has been a hotel with a beach setting, and I have been a guest occupying the second floor, with the lobby being the first floor. Adjacent to the lobby is a bar (of course), where I have engaged in conversations with a number of people, some known to me in actual life, some not.

Those are a few of the "odd dreams" I recall. The building does not look like any I ever have seen, and never have I been to the third floor of the structure. The only elements always consistent in these dreams are the physical appearance of the building when looking at it from the outside, and inside on the second floor. Any dream interpreters out there?

No doubt, liberals rule the media ....

I spotted a newspaper poll yesterday in which readers were asked to pick the "best" president in the history of the U.S. The newspaper included three choices from among the four who are on Mount Rushmore: George Washington, Abraham Lincoln and Theodore Roosevelt. The other four presidents nominated by the newspaper to select from were all 20th Century Democrats, only two of whom even merit an ounce of objective consideration.

Even petty things such as that cause people to lose faith in journalistic integrity.

Missolonghi, Heraklion & where was that place?

Any recommendations for places to hang out in Greece? I'm really beginning to get my head turned in that direction for a "scout," a "recon," an "inspection tour" this summer. I do want to visit Missolonghi, where the poet Lord Byron died and which has a museum commemorating his one-time presence there, and Heraklion, the grave site of writer Nikos Kazantzakis. Other than that, I'm only thinking wind, water and sun. Such is my mantra.

Exit Trojans, enter Vikings ....

I'll stir Trojans and Vikings into my mix today. I recall reading a supposition a few years back that the "Old Trojans" became the "Old Vikings." Seriously. The article was published in "Archaeology" magazine. It offered evidence that after the destruction of Troy by the Greeks around 1200 BCE, the survivors from the region began a journey that lasted a few hundred years, migrating north and west.

Some stayed in what today is Germany. Others gradually continued on to modern-day Denmark, eventually going on into Sweden, and finally into Norway. Evidence cited was based on linguistics, religious patterns and a variety of other elements. Maybe my great-grandpa and great-grandma to the 100th power (please, do not check my math) witnessed the clash between Achilles and Hector. Where are your roots?

Music Note: Listening to Roy Orbison ....
Specifically, "The All-Time Greatest Hits" ....
(Dream Baby & In Dreams)

Does earth end before the right arm fails?

"The sun turns black, earth sinks in the sea,
The hot stars down from heaven are whirled;
Fierce grows the steam and the life-feeding flame,
Till fire leaps high about heaven itself."

From the book: "Poetic Edda"
Specifically, from the poem: "Voluspo"
"The Wise-Woman’s Prophecy"

My arrival at the end of the earth ….

I have not attempted to write a single line of poetry since I was a "college boy."

The mother of a young lady I knew back then gave me that designation when her husband yelled from far inside the house to ask her who she was talking to in the hallway.

"It’s just Cindy, Harold," the mother shouted back to her husband. "She brought home a college boy!"

I think Cindy's father had visions of me mowing his yard while I was waiting for her to change clothes, while Cindy's mother, I am almost certain, immediately began planning a menu for the wedding reception. (All right, all right. I'll get back on topic.)

Don't panic and turn the page. I'm not quite ready to start composing sonnets yet, but reading the poetry of others has gotten me to thinking about it. Thinking about it led to consideration of possible events or milestones in my life that gave me pause, that stirred my emotions, that I might wish to memorialize.

Riding the prow of a ship, an event that I wrote about a few days ago, consisted of around 10 minutes that branded themselves into my mind forever. (It really was an actual event, believe it or not.) Maybe I'll try a poetic effort about those minutes. Or, possibly, I'll attempt putting to verse another event that occurred a few days later. Allow me to test the concept.

Imagine, if you would, Moses parting the Red Sea. (Surely, you've heard of that or, at least, seen Charlton Heston do it.) Transfer that image to fog instead of water: A ship is slowly cruising dead center through a "channel" of calm, blue-green water which is glistening in bright sunlight. The channel is, at most, a quarter-mile wide because on either side is a bank of thick fog which hides the vast ocean. Get the image? Instead of a path of land with water on either side, we have a path of calm, listless water with thick fog, perhaps extending a few hundred feet in height, on either side, hiding the endless sea.

Our protagonist (me), comes up on deck from breakfast below, lights his cigarette and walks to the prow of the ship (his prow, now; he has laid territorial claim to it, as males often tend to do). Since it is the light of day, he knows better than to duck beneath the guard chain, so he stands before it.

Abruptly, probably a half-mile ahead, a nuclear-powered submarine emerges from the fog, cutting across the channel of clear, calm water at about a 45-degree angle from the ship. About the time the first submarine reaches the midpoint of the channel, a second submarine breaks free of the fog, following directly in the wake of the first. Our protagonist (yep, me) watches the black creatures in absolute awe as they silently slide through the sunlit sea, end-of-the-earth predators stalking an unknowing target.

The images are locked forever in our protagonist's mind (still me). Within a few minutes, the first submarine has crossed the clear, serene channel and disappears into the bank of fog on the other side. A few moments later, the second submarine has trailed its companion into invisibility.

Our protagonist (yes, still me) knows he truly has arrived at the end of the earth, in time to be a part of the gathering storm which will erupt into the end of everything. It is the eve of Ragnarok, and he will be player in it. (He is a romantic, you see, and prefers the mythology of the Old Norse to the apocalyptic vision in the Old Testament.) Incidentally, did you notice that "end of the earth" can be interpreted at least two ways?

Whatever, I've been wondering how to translate that experience into poetry. It would make a good painting, too, except I cannot paint.

I believe in the strength of my own right arm ….

A visitor here a few days ago, Inanna, brought up the subject of reincarnation in relation to an 1883 pocket watch I purchased. A primary reason for buying that particular watch was because I felt an inexplicable attraction toward a woman whose photograph was contained inside the case.

Inanna said that if I believed in reincarnation, my attraction could be explained easily. The explanation being, I had known this woman in a previous life. I replied that I neither believed nor disbelieved in reincarnation. I said that sometimes it seemed to me I had an opinion on just about everything, but was convinced about very few things. Skeptical about everything; discounting nothing. I said a story told about a priest attempting to convert a Viking to Christianity might explain the structure of my personal system of belief.

I tried, but cannot recall the source of the tale, and have too many books to spend any amount of time looking for it but, in substance, this is the story:

A priest was attempting to convince a Viking to renounce the "old (pagan) gods" and to accept Christianity. After much discussion, the Viking still stubbornly refused to accept baptism.

The priest then asked the Viking what it was about the "old gods" that led him to believe in them.

To which, the Viking replied that while he did accept the role of the "old gods" in his society, he did not, himself, believe in their existence.

The priest next asked the Viking, "In what, then, do you believe?"

To which, the Viking replied, "I believe in the strength of my own right arm."

The story seemed clear to me. The man believed in what he knew with absolute certainty to exist, with what had been personally proven to him to be real -- something he could see and feel and test. Rather a nihilistic point of view. This might be considered a "primitive" position to hold today in the 21st Century, considering the "advancement of knowledge" during the last 1,000 years.

However, when one enters the realm of the "unknown," it seems to me that an individual basically has two choices. He must either choose between faith in an abstract concept or in acknowledgement of what is provable. A third alternative, when circumstances are applicable, is to be an agnostic and to admit you simply do not know the answer. You might have an opinion, but you do not know the answer. Possibly you will know some day, but you do not know right at this moment. I am agnostic about many things, not just religion. I do not know why so many people have a difficult time saying those words: "I do not know."

For me, one of the more enjoyable ways to spend leisure time is discussing personal beliefs with another individual. Generally speaking, people do less and less of this when they move out of the educational system and into the world of career employment. Too busy, they say. Sure, that is true, but more often, I think, too frightened or too narrow-minded. No wonder so many people end up alone.

The last couple of paragraphs of this segment turned out sort of klutzy, but what the heck.

Music Note: Currently listening to Pearl Jam ....
Specifically, "Ten" ....
(Not really a fan, but some of their stuff is good)