OneiroMare

 A note to the dream about spider The Night was in a gray backyard, cocooned with the palisade of tenement houses, with the entrance through the one of those gates dressed in scrabrous walls with plaster putti in tondi, chimeras with breasts chipping off, dragons with holes instead of scales and a subtle scent of urine evaporating in the morning light. There, where the remains of the broken stained glass windows in the setting sun may take an unwary wanderer to an inescapable epiphany, and there, behind the entrance barred like a warehouse at the back of second hand shop, there was the Night.   1am had passed long ago, in the middle of the fumy room a couple of boys with their heads over the heels in love were swaying to the rhythm of the night radio, vodka smuggled under winter overcoats began to circulate in room's blood under the tables, there was a fierce dispute between Depeche Mode and Metallica fans in the corner next to the entrance, her interlocutor, who talked ...

 Dream about Some Man and the Spider There was a man, who during his sleep had swallowed the spider, and this spider lived in his mouth since then and when the man opens his mouth, the spider could catching flies.  *** Sen o pewnym mężczyźnie i pająku Był sobie pewien mężczyzna, który połknął pająka podczas snu i od tamtego czasu, ten pająk mieszkał w jego ustach i kiedy mężczyzna otwierał buzię, pająk mógł łapać myszy. 

 [Polish below] My name is Chaos and I dream a lot. Once, I dreamed of an endless Dawn-and-Dusk melting into the one blaze on a horizon, I looked at it in awe, like on a divine gargantuan furnace. The crystalline flux was oozing from and where it flooded, there birds and vegetation blossomed.  I was standing on that dried, cracked soil, and behind me, in the background, it was shifting, wobbling, veering and flickering like a candle flame, a swirling pillar of dust, debris, stones, particles from wastelands, which we-humans creates in our earthy furnaces. The closer it was, the clearer its timeless and nameless face seemed to be, and the crystal of water reached  already my feet and I felt, that it's the last day of humans on this tormented area.  -What's your name?  - I asked, feeling the blessed end of the Earth I used to known. - Call me Astaroth- the column of rising dust has answered - I am the Messenger of the Living. My name is Chaos, I am the ...

 Note to the Dream No 1   About The Map of Dreams. Part 1  "We were. We are. We are one flesh with the night." Paul Celan *** [Polish below] Come here and stroke me please, let's draw the map, I will open the door for you.  You may trace right here, around that little hollow that looks like a closed eye. Grandma told me that there was a woman once, whose navel had opened and she saw herself from the inside, but because you can't stand face to face without any preparation with a hidden self like that, so the woman has never looked in the mirror again after all.  This is a holy place, kshetram.  It is like a whale of my belly, a center of gravity with a mass, that pulls into every waves of my skin, I imagine, that one day it will breathe me whole in, and then I'll be stuck inside like in some forgotten waiting room, in a whale purgatory, or like Jonas the Wanderer waiting for the next shore and when the time comes, I will be blown out as the fountain of...

 The Map of Dreams [Polish below]This is not atlas of whole world of dreams,  but rather its tiny part, a narrow, local map of the area, fixed points of my dreamy orientation, something like a mantra: "From this grove begins the road to every other cemetery and always to the same cemetery, I do not go there when I have a weaker moments, because it usually ends as a nightmare, but every road within a few miles pulls in that direction ", or " Behind that little village which houses I've never seen, but I know they exists right there, behind it, there is a meadow with the view on the road towards my familiar landscape, I felt happy there, it's a good place, but it's hard to get here. "  As a cartographer of my dreaming world, I read in this dreaming that I could trace the map much, much larger than my own boundaries with the help of the Rule of Overflowing Time. Of course, I don't remember anything about this rule. ***  Nie jest to atlas sennego świata,...

 [Polish below]  What, if with every change in our lives another sequent petal of autonomous inner space is unveiling? And this space, which is existing within ourselves, hides behind the next unveiling petal with each vibration of our inner butterfly wings. In each of these worlds with their own set of possibilities, we cultivate different lives and sometimes these lives cover our dreams, demand of memory puncturing into Freudian mistakes, slowly slipping into the matter of imagination. We are peculiar flowers of impossible events, composed of billions of misinterpretations of our own duplicates.  "But death must come to them differently, so close to the beginning. As though they had always been blind and weightless. Therefore the rest is dreamed, the lamp, the good white cloth that covered the table, their bodies." *Louise  Glück, from The Drowned Children I miss hats with ostrich feathers and with a veil, which would hide my lost face, I don't have my dresses, th...