October 31, 2005

11:31 p.m.

The Fox as Sorrow

Saturday night I had two dreams. In the first, I was trying to kill a fox. The fox was a danger to me, and I knew I had to kill it; every time I got close enough to stab at it with my knife, it lunged at me and tried to ravage me with its teeth. I kept looking for openings, stabbing at its feet, it's head; gradually I began to wear it down, to weaken it. It no longer retaliated. I was winning.

But the more I injured it, the more I felt its suffering and the less I wanted to kill it. And yet, there was never any option of not killing it. There was some precedent; this is what was done. I had to finish what I'd started. So finally, when I saw my opening, I raised the knife in both hands, pointed down, to plunge it into the fox's heart. It saw the final blow coming and turned its head away, so as not to see. I paused and said, "I love you; I'm sorry." It looked back at me then, hearing what I said, and I was afraid it wouldn't die soon enough, but would keep suffering. And I was filled to the brim with remorse as I plunged the knife deep into its ribs (actually below the heart somewhat) to finish it off. I pulled the knife back out and the fox was expiring as I awoke.

Needless to say this was very disturbing.

In the second dream I had picked up what looked vaguely like a white rose, or rose-like thing, that seemed made of some kind of soft icing. It was frilly like a carnation, and initially shaped like something else I can't remember (a butterfly? an angel? a bird?) but was on a stem. I thought I should leave it somewhere in particular (don't remember where) as a token, like an offering, but I was sorrowful at the thought of parting with it. But I thought I probably would; probably should. Then I woke up.

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In Salem yesterday I went to a psychic who purportedly was good at dream interp, but he had nothing to say that really shed any light on these dreams. I continue to try on ideas, none of which seem to click. For once I am completely baffled as to their meaning. Is the fox me, is it someone else? Is it my sorrow that I'm reluctant to release? Is this about transformation, or am I really hurting someone?

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Dar and I had a good, though overstimulating, time in Salem. We saw a reenactment of the arrest and pretrial examination of Bridget Bishop, the first person hanged for witchcraft. We lit candles at the memorial stones of the 19 -- eighteen hanged, one pressed to death with heavy stones. Their final words are inscribed in stones in front of the memorial courtyard: "God knows that I am innocent." "For God's sake, I am not guilty!" And Giles Corey, the one pressed to death: "More weight!"

When Judge Hawthorne's wife was cried out as a witch, thirteen months after the trials began, he mysteriously closed the tribunal and ceased his investigations into the matter. The five children, who had been given to fits brought on by the spectres and familiars of those accused, repeated their performances every Sunday at meeting, until people became tired of them and simply stopped going to church. Gradually things subsided and, several years later, Mary Warren wrote a letter of apology saying that it was all made up, and she was very sorry people had been hanged by mistake.

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In spite of the campiness of most of it, I liked Salem, its shops, its glitz. There were so many people on the walking street it was sometimes hard to move. We bought fantastic hats with tentacles that lit up. At one point I said to Dar, "This is just like New Orleans, only without all the vomiting."

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He also bought me a T-shirt and several single-terminated quartz crystals that I picked out. We had Thai appetizers and walked along eating kettle corn, and found some excellent pumpkin ice cream near the wharf, where there was a motorcycle convention of some kind. I took movies of little kids (and big kids) in costume; one tiny Japanese waif in a ladybug costume took our hearts in a moment.

I got in late, after a train ride back to North Station, a car ride to the Riverside MBTA parking lot, and then driving myself the hour and a half home.

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I slept in this morning. Today brought cleaning of apartment; I have my Reiki table back, and my Total Gym; I cooked, went on errands, read a lot. Went to TJ Maxx looking for Christmas presents, and instead found a clock to use for Reiki sessions, some Belgian chocolates, and the complete, originally illustrated collection of Sherlock Holmes for $6. Talked tonight to Steve, during which we compared weird dreams and he encouraged me to meditate more. Well, to meditate, since I basically don't.

Also spoke with Dar, who heard on BBC radio tonight that they finally have recorded proof that mice sing. It's supersonic; the males sing to the females. They lowered it four octaves and it sounds like birds chirping. They tested 48 mice and got 48 different songs, meaning that the mice are actually riffing. I think there will be a sound clip on the BBC radio website but it isn't there yet. Needless to say this is very exciting news for us rodentophiles.

With those encouraging tidbits I wish you good night, and good dreams.