artists' house

I drove to the other side of the mountain and parked in the street outside a house. Although I had no idea who lived there, I felt drawn to visit. I walked up the stoney drive to the old, rambling house. In the front yard, hidden from the road by tall trees, were perhaps a dozen men in their thirties and forties, all handsome. Each of them seemed engaged in an industrious, creative endeavour - painting, sculpting, building, drawing, making. I entered a large room and looked around at the paintings and art pieces, some finished, some in the making. All were very good. I was particularly taken by the beginnings of a portrait of a young woman - really just a sketch on stretched canvas, with a reddish undercoat. The women of the house entered - again, about a dozen young women in their thirties and forties, all beautiful - and each took up whatever pursuit she had temporarily left. One woman resumed working on the portrait and there was no doubt it was in her likeness. She asked to see photos of my dog, so I walked to the car to retrieve my phone on which they are stored. She spied my red car and seemed, surprisingly, impressed, though the car is modest. I searched for the photos but, pressing all the wrong icons, she took my phone and somehow made the photos appear on pieces of paper that, once viewed, fluttered to the ground. It was time to go. I drove back home but, compelled, I later returned. This time the house was more like an old, stately apartment building, the apartments all on one floor. I walked up the drive, into the building and found myself in a large foyer. The dark brown wooden door of each apartment opened to the foyer, so I walked around the space, peering through each one. Although each apartment was unique, they shared a similar aesthetic and creative beauty. I could see most bedrooms were furnished with deep red curtains and the beds were dressed in sumptuous cream or ivory antique lace quilts and pillowslips. Rather than assuaging my curiosity, it was piqued. I felt drawn, almost envious of the inhabitants, feeling they had found a lifestyle I longed for. Again, it was time to go. Later, I visited a third time. This time the community was gathered for a celebration in a hall beside the house. It was night and most of them had already arrived and were seated inside, while some milled outside, greeting one another. Standing outside, I could see through the window to the candlelit room. Beautiful people laughed and talked. Music played. Platters of food adorned long tables. A woman outside began to tell me a story from her life, but one of the men insisted on catching my attention. He stood next to me with his young son and also began talking. I tried to concentrate on the woman's story, but was distracted by the man. We talked for a while and, although I enjoyed his company, I became aware our conversation was arousing jealousy and gathered this man was the leader of the group, perhaps sought after by the other women. Deciding it was time to go, I drove back across the mountain to my home, where I lived alone in an old apartment. I opened the door, flicked on the light and opened another door to let my dog in. She wasn't there, but five young puppies of various breeds spilled out of the enclosure, into the room and ran outside. Although I was concerned for the pups, I was more worried about the whereabouts of my dog. I looked around the room - my furniture and belongings were disheveled and leftover roasted pumpkin wedges with feta cheese lay discarded on plates on the table. The lights blew and I was in darkness. I felt my way down the hall and opened the door to my bedroom where I found my mother and sister sleeping with my dog safely resting at the foot of the bed. Relieved, I ran into the garden to find the puppies. I tried to catch them as they scampered about, but, as I captured each one, it turned into a small bird and, opening my hands, I let each fly away, until all were gone.

a time of passing

In a church, waiting for a show to begin. I sat in the front row, wearing a long purple dress. Purple flowers in a bouquet rested on the pew beside me. It became evident the ceremony was to be about me. Was I getting married or witnessing my funeral? I looked around the crowd and, apart from my family, I could not see a familiar face. I lay down on the pew and someone placed my niece and nephew on my chest. Although in waking life they are adults, they were smaller versions of themselves - the size of newborn babes. I cradled them against me. After a moment, some music began and my niece and nephew became my sister and my brother, who, resuming their actual size, climbed off me and, together, we ventured over to where a small audience was gathered around the musicians. My brother immediately went into the fenced area to sit on the floor and listen. My sister stood outside for a moment and then followed him in. I wanted to join them, but, not liking the music, I instead walked up the aisle and out of the church. A larger crowd again milled around the church grounds and beyond. I found a sandy park and, there, I threw a ball, back and forth, to my dog. Slowly, people gathered in the park, mostly doing their own thing. A man caught my ball and used it to perform magic tricks. He spun the ball around in his hands, threw it in the air and caught it on the tips of his fingers, moved it through the air without touching it, using the electrical power emanating from his hands. I was mesmerised for a while and then, suddenly, I felt urgent about finding my friend. I ran out of the park, asking people had they seen her, and ran through a festival with hundreds of stalls selling food and trinkets. I searched the rows of stalls, my urgency growing. I saw another friend minding a stall: she called to me, but, in my haste, I waved and ran on, hoping she would not mind. Running past the church, I wondered about my brother and sister, but felt that no matter where we were, even should we pass on from this life, we were connected. So I ran on, across a road and into a huge stadium. Hundreds of people lined the curving walls, applauding the finale of a show. I tore through the crowd and, as I went, I called my friend's name, my voice echoing against the emptying stadium walls. I could not find her.

spots, fever, layers, song and shower

In the late afternoon, in the family home of my teenage years, I noticed a ring of raised red skin on my forehead, and another on my chest below my collar bone. I went to my father, who was sitting in his chair in the lounge room, to show him. We found a few more and I was a little perplexed. I needed to be somewhere in about half an hour (a class?) and I noticed I was wearing a green tailored suit, not at all suitable for where I was going. I thought I'd race upstairs and leave the jacket on but swap the pants for jeans; however, in the process of dressing, I realised I was thoroughly saturated with perspiration. I needed to have a shower and quickly. In the bathroom, with the door locked, I began to undress and, while I did, I sang. The acoustics of the bathroom were wonderful and I played with pitch, high and low, devising the song as I went. My clothes, soaked through, were difficult to peel away, and I seemed to remove layer upon layer. Jumpers, tops and more tops. Pants under pants under pants. Even when I finally made it down to my underwear, I found I was wearing several bras and layers of underpants. People - not family - began to queue at the door, waiting to use the bathroom, and I knew I was running late. After discovering yet another layer of underwear, I decided that I would shower regardless. I closed the glass door behind me and washed away the sweat, all the while singing a lilting, lovely song. Upon finishing, the door opened and two old women wandered in. I tried, kindly, to usher them out, encouraging them to wait just a few more minutes while I dressed.

something taken and falling into hole

I walked home from the shop having bought some nuts. I placed them in a bowl and set the bowl aside while I briefly climbed the stairs to my apartment, which was very much like a treehouse. Upon returning, the nuts had been eaten and I knew who had eaten them. I thought about what to do and decided to get some money from my wallet and give it to the girl who had eaten my nuts, so she could walk to the shop and buy some more for me. Although I was a little angry, and now that the nuts were gone, I thought this may resolve the matter without unnecessary drama, and may teach the girl the value of not taking what was not given to her. Coins in hand, I went to speak with the girl, but a giant pile of bark mulch with a cavernous hole in the centre of the pile stood between me and the girl. I somehow gravitated to the pile and fell down the hole, perhaps twenty feet into the dug-out earth. I was terrified as I knew at any moment the mulch could fall into the hole and bury me alive. I called to the girl and begged her to get help and fast. Moments later some circus performers appeared at the mouth of the hole and one, a man I know, tied a rope around his torso and somersaulted into the hole, tethered me to him, and the other performers pulled us out. I was grateful to be saved, thanks to the performers and the girl.

mistrust

I was with two people - one, a close friend, the other, a woman I have recently befriended. The woman led us into her nursery, a kind of greenhouse full of shade plants, cool and inviting. I felt, however, cautious and stayed by the door, on guard and ready to retreat. The woman moved a few pots and pointed out her hothouse flowers. Long tendrils curled out and gripped the stems of other plants; the air was damp and sweet. I looked about anxiously, fearing snakes were hiding amidst the green. And then I saw one: a pale grey snake with large chocolate eyes - quite beautiful, really - lying quietly on a table between the plants. The woman saw it and, instead of removing it calmly or leaving it be, grabbed it by the neck, held its face to hers and started hissing at it. Initially placid, the snake became increasingly agitated until it opened its jaws wide and hissed back at the woman, furious. I didn't go, but watched horrified, realising I did not trust this woman.

psychic energy

An argument. A woman stood perhaps fifty feet away, near an old grey wooden fence. She yelled at me and I felt incensed; I felt righteous and justified. Instead of words, I hurled my intention at her and, instantly, a ceramic plate that had been leaning against the fence smashed into pieces. She was alarmed and continued to rant, and I was surprised at the power of energy. Pleased, I again directed my anger into thought and sent it her way, another plate cracking down the middle, pieces falling to the ground.

passing through danger

I was driving a sturdy white van down a steep mountain. The winding road narrowed as I traced the cliff's edge, until the road became a snaking path, barely wide enough to allow passage. The path twisted and kinked around sharp rocks and the traffic slowed to walking pace; some cars turned back. Two people appeared - a man and a woman - at the most perilous point, carefully directing people around a hairpin bend. I drove tentatively onward, listening to the instructions and following them carefully. As I passed the man, I looked in his eyes and thanked him. Again, as I passed the woman, I made eye contact and thanked her. In both their eyes, I saw light reflected and something more - spirit, energy, soul.