Marilyn Monroe Of My Dreams
I've started to have dreams again, or least dreams that I've been able to capture in some form. In fact, they've been coming so fast and furious, and are seemingly all so rich, that my weekly session with Dr. Jung is not enough time to process all of them. This is a good development, and perhaps means that I've moving in the direction of less avoidance in general.
I am on a bus, a school bus, that is driving on a road carved into a cliff along the edge of the ocean (much like Highway 1 for you CA folks). The driver is speeding along, too quickly, and I say out loud to no one in particular that she is going too fast. The others on the bus are children, but it is unclear whether I am a child or adult.
Soon, however, the driver stops the bus because the road ends. Ahead the pavement becomes broken apart, step-like, leading down the hill to a tunnel at the base of a mountain. I walk alone down the broken road to the tunnel's entrance. It is dark outside, and even darker inside the tunnel where the road becomes a river that I know flows through to the other side. And that's where home is, on the other side of the tunnel. To get there I know I must enter, must go through the tunnel alone, and I am scared. It feels dangerous in there.
I look up at the mountain above. It is composed entirely of huge boulders that are intricately fit together like a puzzle, and I am entranced by the pattern they make in the moonlight. But then they feel precarious, and I think I should get out from underneath.
Walking back up the broken road, the driver of the bus has disappeared, as have all the children, and I begin to gather together the bodies washing up onto the shore of the beach. And I want to get to my home, myself, my core, but cannot enter the tunnel that lies waiting for me. I look again at the mountain of rocks, and think that maybe there is one like that in France.
I wake up, write down a skeletal outline of the tunnel dream and then fall back asleep and dream about my daughter getting her hair cut. I wake up again and write these words: Haircut, Rosie. Marilyn Monroe is dead. I don't remember writing this until I look back in the notebook later in the day. Marilyn Monroe is dead. I've my own thoughts about where that might come from, but I'd like to hear what this phrase might bring to mind for anyone who's willing to share.
I am on a bus, a school bus, that is driving on a road carved into a cliff along the edge of the ocean (much like Highway 1 for you CA folks). The driver is speeding along, too quickly, and I say out loud to no one in particular that she is going too fast. The others on the bus are children, but it is unclear whether I am a child or adult.
Soon, however, the driver stops the bus because the road ends. Ahead the pavement becomes broken apart, step-like, leading down the hill to a tunnel at the base of a mountain. I walk alone down the broken road to the tunnel's entrance. It is dark outside, and even darker inside the tunnel where the road becomes a river that I know flows through to the other side. And that's where home is, on the other side of the tunnel. To get there I know I must enter, must go through the tunnel alone, and I am scared. It feels dangerous in there.
I look up at the mountain above. It is composed entirely of huge boulders that are intricately fit together like a puzzle, and I am entranced by the pattern they make in the moonlight. But then they feel precarious, and I think I should get out from underneath.
Walking back up the broken road, the driver of the bus has disappeared, as have all the children, and I begin to gather together the bodies washing up onto the shore of the beach. And I want to get to my home, myself, my core, but cannot enter the tunnel that lies waiting for me. I look again at the mountain of rocks, and think that maybe there is one like that in France.
I wake up, write down a skeletal outline of the tunnel dream and then fall back asleep and dream about my daughter getting her hair cut. I wake up again and write these words: Haircut, Rosie. Marilyn Monroe is dead. I don't remember writing this until I look back in the notebook later in the day. Marilyn Monroe is dead. I've my own thoughts about where that might come from, but I'd like to hear what this phrase might bring to mind for anyone who's willing to share.