kagablog

I’m dreaming that there’s a ship sinking offshore. I’m on the beach and I can see there are many people who will drown when the stricken ship finally sinks. But the sea is a tossing torment of seething grey. I want to dive in but I’m too weak, too sick. If I am not whole and healthy, if I can’t save myself, how can I save others?

I’m dreaming that I’m on holiday somewhere in South America. Somehow I get caught up in a civil war … I’m thrown into a makeshift prison created from bombed-out houses, along with thousands of locals who were on the ‘wrong side’. Women are raped, the non-morality of war, men’s worst demons, are loosed. They revel in their freedom.
The war lines shift, and we are forced into a massive boat, which is to take us to another prison. After a time, this ship also begins to sink, and we have to swim to shore.
One of our fellows is falling behind. I turn back to fetch him. So does another guy. The two of us swim, using one arm each, holding the poor chap with our other arms. Later, when we look back, he has died. We debate bringing the corpse with us, as a decoy for the sharks. But we decide that if we release him when a shark arrives, his blood will summon other sharks. So we let him go, hoping that when the sharks that find him, he will be far away.

Some of us make it to the shore, days later. More rubble, more bombed out buildings. One of the locals is able to converse with a soldier, who gives him a packet of biscuits. He returns to share the packet. I haven’t eaten for so long that as I attempt to swallow, I’m simultaneously drooling and trying not to puke. My stomach doesn’t know what food is anymore. It’s a tiny, shrivelled nut. I heave and swallow, swallow and heave.
I’m dreaming that my comfortable bourgous world, with its DVD player, hot bath and heater has been shattered by a cold, stormy sea. By a world short of energy, food, water and ideas. We don’t know how to live with each other. Our leaders have grabbed it all for themselves, they are gangsters, they have failed us. The money I hold in my hand feels taut and stretched. There is so much need attached to it. Later, it’s not worth a damn thing.

Then in my dreaming I meet a woman, who tells me of a land where honour still exists. Where the desperation of tiny resources just brings people closer together, instead of bickering over the scraps. Where the old are revered, not victims. Where children eat first, or, if the rations are short that day, they are the only ones to eat. Where foreigners are guests and welcomed into homes. Where the consciousness of animals, trees, objects … even utensils … is acknowledged.

I awake. I’m hoping that the first part of this dream is only a dream, not a premonition. I will strive to make the last bit of this dream - finding this community - a reality.