Dream journal
Jul. 21st, 2003 12:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tcpipI thought a couple of times about whether I should post this and decided that I would. Heck, it's my journal and I'll post what I damn well want and if it's something as insightful as a dream that's still got me thinking several hours later, then so be it.
Not too much point going into interpretation, the meanings are fairly clear. W. in the story is a former partner of mine, who evidently still features in my subconscious even though I have had no contact with her for almost a year. Enjoy.
The dream began with teaching some Timorese school kids a maths problem - using the example of a man sleeping on a park bench covered with a sheet of plastic (it rained last night) calculations were made on what percentage of their surface area was getting wet and what part wasn't.
I called up my friend W. in Australia to help in the education process which she enthusiastically responded to and arrived soon afterwards (this is a dream reality after all). We joked about matters concerning numbers, which was often our want. I suggested if ordinals could represent characteristics (as they do in roleplaying games) she would have a INT of 15 (i.e., damn smart), a CON of 14 (healthy and with the beauty of youth), but a CHA of 10 (when it comes to communication, leadership and self-expression she's a bit of dullard).
We spent some time engaging in maths education and then went to the local markets to catch a mikrolet (mini-bus). This particular one was a tour bus to the glorious Islamic Republic of Iran. Evidently in the dreamscape catching a bus from Dili to Tehran, despite the Indian Ocean being in the way, isn't much of a problem.
A tour guide, a young woman with an open faced burqah, showed us through the hot, dusty and thoroughly crowded and depressing streets of Tehran. We were taken to what was described as "the Street of Secular Artists". This was basically death row. Militia with assault rifles paraded along the street and coffins and bodies were stacked up high along with blood-splattered walls, grim reminders of people who developed material which the mullahs had found offensive.
At the final house in the street we were introduced to a person described as "a democratic poet, who writes about human rights" and who had been condemned to be executed. He looked a little like a cross between Walter Benjamin and Salmon Rushdie. With an attempted air of dignity he was hurridly writing what was seemed to be a last testament. Just as he finished it, the air took it from his desk and it blew away. He watched his paper blow away with tears in his eyes.
Then our tour guide ordered his guards to drag the poet outside, whereupon she pulled out a 9mm pistol and shot him in the head, in front of all those on the tour. With a sadistic, thin-lipped smile she said to the corpse and those assembled: "Allah has decreed that you are old and I am too young to die". I muttered under my breath "We could test that" and the scowl on her face indicated that she'd heard what I said.
At this point I decided that discretion was the better part of valour, so I found W. in the crowd, took her by the arm and suggested that we should leave. I recounted what I had said to the tour guide. W. said that she had told her the work that she did and her pay [nota bene: W. has been involved in some of the more libertine aspects of aesthetic production - something that she is quite open about]. "She said that this would not be allowed in Iran because it would cause 'disquiet in the villages'." "At the very least", I responded. "You're lucky to be alive".
We went through some of the back streets of Tehran in search of a minibus back to Dili. After taking an elevator(!) we found ourselves at a bus station and promptly caught the next bus. Except, instead of Dili this bus ended up taking up to Perth, Karyinup Shopping Centre to be precise. At the bus station I lost track of W., and started searching for her. A young woman asked me if I was looking for W. When I responded in the affirmative she said she'd gone back to Tehran to persuade the authorities there - using moral reasoning no less - of the error of their ways.
I feared the worst and attempts to 'phone her resulted in no response. I decided to take the next bus to Tehran (these buses get around!). Lo and behold it was our fiendish tour company again. Witnessing an opportunity I stole the handgun from the busdriver and commandeered the vehicle. Most of the people on the bus were entirely indifferent - heads down, eyes averted, not wanting to get involved. The busdriver shrugged and continued driving. The only person that was visibly upset was the tour guide, who I disarmed.
Working on my suspicions I took the bus to the 'Street of Secular Artists', where all the people on the bus exited. I forced the tour guide to the house where W. was kept and made the guide command the guards to release her. As I expected, she had been found guilty of "corruption upon the earth" as was due to be executed. We re-embarked on the bus and made the tour guide drive us back to Dili. Upon reaching Dili we got off the bus. I turned to the tour guide who remained standing on the final step of the bus red with fury and said:
"That's the difference between you and me. You need bullets to enforce your beliefs whereas I..." - and here I lobbed the handgun to her feet revealing an empty clip - "...I have the protection of Allah".
And that's when I woke up.
Not too much point going into interpretation, the meanings are fairly clear. W. in the story is a former partner of mine, who evidently still features in my subconscious even though I have had no contact with her for almost a year. Enjoy.
The dream began with teaching some Timorese school kids a maths problem - using the example of a man sleeping on a park bench covered with a sheet of plastic (it rained last night) calculations were made on what percentage of their surface area was getting wet and what part wasn't.
I called up my friend W. in Australia to help in the education process which she enthusiastically responded to and arrived soon afterwards (this is a dream reality after all). We joked about matters concerning numbers, which was often our want. I suggested if ordinals could represent characteristics (as they do in roleplaying games) she would have a INT of 15 (i.e., damn smart), a CON of 14 (healthy and with the beauty of youth), but a CHA of 10 (when it comes to communication, leadership and self-expression she's a bit of dullard).
We spent some time engaging in maths education and then went to the local markets to catch a mikrolet (mini-bus). This particular one was a tour bus to the glorious Islamic Republic of Iran. Evidently in the dreamscape catching a bus from Dili to Tehran, despite the Indian Ocean being in the way, isn't much of a problem.
A tour guide, a young woman with an open faced burqah, showed us through the hot, dusty and thoroughly crowded and depressing streets of Tehran. We were taken to what was described as "the Street of Secular Artists". This was basically death row. Militia with assault rifles paraded along the street and coffins and bodies were stacked up high along with blood-splattered walls, grim reminders of people who developed material which the mullahs had found offensive.
At the final house in the street we were introduced to a person described as "a democratic poet, who writes about human rights" and who had been condemned to be executed. He looked a little like a cross between Walter Benjamin and Salmon Rushdie. With an attempted air of dignity he was hurridly writing what was seemed to be a last testament. Just as he finished it, the air took it from his desk and it blew away. He watched his paper blow away with tears in his eyes.
Then our tour guide ordered his guards to drag the poet outside, whereupon she pulled out a 9mm pistol and shot him in the head, in front of all those on the tour. With a sadistic, thin-lipped smile she said to the corpse and those assembled: "Allah has decreed that you are old and I am too young to die". I muttered under my breath "We could test that" and the scowl on her face indicated that she'd heard what I said.
At this point I decided that discretion was the better part of valour, so I found W. in the crowd, took her by the arm and suggested that we should leave. I recounted what I had said to the tour guide. W. said that she had told her the work that she did and her pay [nota bene: W. has been involved in some of the more libertine aspects of aesthetic production - something that she is quite open about]. "She said that this would not be allowed in Iran because it would cause 'disquiet in the villages'." "At the very least", I responded. "You're lucky to be alive".
We went through some of the back streets of Tehran in search of a minibus back to Dili. After taking an elevator(!) we found ourselves at a bus station and promptly caught the next bus. Except, instead of Dili this bus ended up taking up to Perth, Karyinup Shopping Centre to be precise. At the bus station I lost track of W., and started searching for her. A young woman asked me if I was looking for W. When I responded in the affirmative she said she'd gone back to Tehran to persuade the authorities there - using moral reasoning no less - of the error of their ways.
I feared the worst and attempts to 'phone her resulted in no response. I decided to take the next bus to Tehran (these buses get around!). Lo and behold it was our fiendish tour company again. Witnessing an opportunity I stole the handgun from the busdriver and commandeered the vehicle. Most of the people on the bus were entirely indifferent - heads down, eyes averted, not wanting to get involved. The busdriver shrugged and continued driving. The only person that was visibly upset was the tour guide, who I disarmed.
Working on my suspicions I took the bus to the 'Street of Secular Artists', where all the people on the bus exited. I forced the tour guide to the house where W. was kept and made the guide command the guards to release her. As I expected, she had been found guilty of "corruption upon the earth" as was due to be executed. We re-embarked on the bus and made the tour guide drive us back to Dili. Upon reaching Dili we got off the bus. I turned to the tour guide who remained standing on the final step of the bus red with fury and said:
"That's the difference between you and me. You need bullets to enforce your beliefs whereas I..." - and here I lobbed the handgun to her feet revealing an empty clip - "...I have the protection of Allah".
And that's when I woke up.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
"For the road to Jan'ah is rocky, and the journey seems awfully long."
Date: 2003-07-21 12:35 am (UTC)Don't I?
According to the Mutazilites (my favourite Muslim sect) Allah was "merely" a being of pure form and spirit, without will or features (for will and features were an indication of the imperfect and Allah is perfect).
I think throwing down the unloaded gun at the end of the dream was a very good example of this sort of "protection". No bullets needed. Just spirit.