A Dream in August

The August God drew the blade from its sheath and moved towards the wolves. The man who was Wàngjì found himself breathing very heavily. To weep in front of the God-King was to show weakness in the presence of the highest order. He did not avert his eyes.

There were throngs of people on the hill; senators, retainers, priests, their robes flowing in the breeze, their jewels shining in the golden sun. No one spoke. The blade flashed and the first of the wolves fell. The remaining two sat on the grass, panting. They had not seen, or did not understand. The hand of the God showed neither mercy nor hatred, for he was beyond men. When the three wolves lay motionless, he turned to the man on the hill. The man was shaking. He was tall, and heavily muscled, and his hair was long. He was a fine specimen of man, but there was a great fear in his eyes. He bowed his head.

The blade flashed, slicing off the top of the man’s scalp, sparing the brain. There was a short silence, and then the man jerked back with a scream. He would not have a quick death. Quickly the August God moved, catching the man’s face in his hand, carving off his lips and nose with the blade. The screams were constant now, and blood began to run down the hill. The man who was Wàngjì felt his stomach turn, his heart pound in his chest. Slowly he rose to his feet, gathering his robes.

Truth

Last night I dreamed of the first city. It was no city of man; it was the city before men, before the world, before dreams, though it was all of those things. It was the first true city, the city before time, the city for which all of existence to follow would be but a poor reflection of its vision, and yet it was not the silver city, nor was it Avalon or Atlantis, though men would speak of them and in truth would speak of this city (and would not know it). Its houses were built from stones of purest alabaster, their roofs decked in gold and opal, its streets paved in of blood and onyx. Yet its streets were silent, its windows empty.

There had once been a thousand times a thousand inhabitants here; creatures of myth and legend, dream and un-dream, avatars of the elements and the aspects (the Oneros, the ruby avatars of desire, after whose kiss one could seek only them, until one met one’s true love) and they had walked its streets in multitudes, and the city rang with their voices. But it was late in the age of the first city. It sat on the edge of a western sea whose waters were a thousand turning sapphires, upon whose edges glinted the rays of setting suns (for it was summer’s twilight now, in the first city). In its bay stood twin monoliths, from whose rock would be carved the pillars of the world, from whose stone would spring the infant Gods. And the waters reached as far as the eye could see, and farther still, and there were no ships upon the waves, nor land at its end (for there was no end).

And in the east were the mountains, the walls of night, great fortresses rolling towards the city now in their shadow, for it was from these mountains that the world of men would be born, and the age of men was close at hand. And in my dream I read from a book that held the true name of the first city, and was told its true name, but it was lost upon waking, as the book was lost, and the city was lost as well, for it is now the age of men, and the ages of dream are long behind us.

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See also:

A Dream in August

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Eric Whitacre – Sleep (as performed by Polyphony, cond. Stephen Layton) || 2006/Cloudburst and Other Choral Works

Seventeen Dreams & Nightmares

Lorca in that same poem said that the iguana will bite those who do not dream. And as one realizes that one is a dream figure in another person’s dream, that is self awareness.

-Timothy “Speed” Levitch

He had no idea how he’d gotten to the party naked, but was afraid people would notice.

The aliens came at them with tools, and she knew it was going to hurt.

He looked at the sun and said “shrink,” and the sun shrank.

She was in a library. Her feet brushed an old globe as she floated over it; people stared.

When they came for him he tried to run, but his feet stuck to the floor.

She knew she was in Venice, even though it was India, and she hadn’t been to either.

He shot the man; his body fell off the roof of the building, spinning off into the air.

The floor was tilting and he was sliding towards the dark corner of the room. He tried to scream; only a hoarse whisper emerged. His parents continued to drink coffee, oblivious.