July 29, 2009

Who's directing my dreams? David Lynch?

One of my weirdo dreams last night. God’s wife goes to his room to tell him that dinner is ready. This semi-dark room is filled with musty air, and nearly empty but for a high, circular pedestal placed in the middle. And God—a naked, bent old man with Whitmanesque gray beard— is standing on the pedestal, busily playing with some strings attached to his finger tips. He couldn’t hear it at first. So she shouts this time: ‘Dinner is ready!’ Disturbed, He angrily turns towards her and shouts back, ‘Never ever call me from my pedestal when I am playing with my puppets. Okay!’

She winces, and muttering some blasphemy (for it is God she is muttering it at), goes back through the corridor to the kitchen. And so ends the dream.

Hey you, Freud, what are you hiding from? Come on out and face up the challenge!

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