The Stone Casket, and other Dreams

stood to the left of a large, withered tree. Its leaveless branches reaching towards a moonless, gray sky, and down toward a colorless stone coffin. The sound of crackling wind filled the air, but there was no sense of motion in the empty surroundings.

The land seemed familiar, reminding me of a distant castle and perhaps a road from another time. However, I could see nothing beyond the tree and raised stone casket. A fog seemed to permeate the distance, blending the horizon with the twilight sky.

While the casket was closed before, the lid was now shifted aside, and a dessicated corpse laid on it's side in the upper portion of the vast interior. I was no longer outside, but laying inside this open casket next to the occupant, but at its feet. My mother stood outside, looking in. I could sense no emotion from her.

I stand next to my mother, and my younger brother Christopher lays where I once did inside the casket. My mother is very disappointed, both with my brothers choice, and with me for letting him climb in.

We stand silently observing my brother lying in the casket next to the dried corpse. Christopher is laughing.

_____

What I found most disturbing, and entrancing about this dream was its visual style. While the people appeared flesh and blood, the surroundings and atmosphere were distinctly Edward Gorey. Most people would know this look from the animated introduction to PBS "Mystery".

The presence of my younger brother, Christopher was interesting. I've come to believe dreams are shadow cast by memory. As your mind puts away all the objects, events and issues it deals with during the waking day, they each briefly pass before a metaphorical light projector, casting distored images of light and shadow.

For the past few months, I've dealt with some family matters concerning my brother which I don't let myself think about. Somehow, they found expression in an Edward Gorey vignette. No matter what he does, in a way I'll always feel responsible for him. Perhaps this sequence was a subtle way of reminding myself of that.

Now, for your reading pleasure, here's a two-page comic on Edward Gorey I found online.

Page 1: Alphabets, Bearded Gentlemen, Cats, Hapless Children, Nonsense, Po-Faces and more.

Page 2: A question of sorts.

It was a different world. What I suspected was gray ash, but looked like snow drifted peacefully over the tree line near an old castle. Traveling in a car near twilight, I watched as the countryside passed by.

I'm at my house. I'm offered a form of group therapy with my younger brother. This involves the opening of a very large vertical trunk. Unfolding it's self on hidden hinges, what emerges is a traveling museum trunk, filled with strange and interesting objects. Some hang and slowly pinwheel, others play music, while most sit idlely by.

My brother sits in front of the trunk at eye level. I can see him through the various hanging objects inside it from the other side. The therapist just wants my brother and I to take photos of any thing in the trunk-gallery that interests us. She doesn't specify any limit on how many pictures we can take. I'm handed a strange camera: when closed it's the shape of a thick wallet. The camera opens into a trapezoid-shape, and has one large orange shutter button. It is unlike anything I've ever seen.

She gestures to the box. I begin to look at all the objects arranged within. After a time, the only one that catches my eye is a photo hanging on the inside right side. It is a black and white photo of a room containing a full-wall mirror, with the reflection of a man standing in it. However, in the room the mirror reflects, there is no one there.

I never took the picture, but I looked at that image for some time.

* * *
I was standing outside on a blustery day with the sound of a strong wind crackling around the corners of a large Victorian house.
An immaculately dressed Ian and Gabrielle entered the house, as it was in fact a large curio shop fill with all sorts of oddities.

As I walked up the stairs, I could hear the tapping of Ian's cane on the landing above me. Dressed in a Victorian suit and bowler hat, he stood amidst a cluttered, yet ordered loft space. I could see dust in the air as it drifted past ceiling window panes. Gabby was examining a series of old ties hung over top of an old clock. Near a large mirror, was a box filled with turn of the century children's toys. Inside the box was a hypercube, which I picked up. It was made of light, and cast a soft light on its surroundings. Not unlike the expanding/contracting "Hoberman Sphere" toys that expands into a large lattice-work version of its self - my hypercube expanded into a fourth dimensional, multigonal version of its self in my hands.

I could see and understand for that brief moment shapes that don't really exist - math that lacks form in our world. This was both frightening and fantastic. In the back of my mind, I remember being very concerned that my hypercube was knocking over antiques over when it expanded. Gabby and Ian were not pleased.

Standing in an apartment, I hold two shopping bags. The kitchen sink, dishwasher and other appliances are afixed on a 90 degree angle to the wall behind me. Ward and June from "Leave it to Beaver" sat on separate chairs. Ward was reading a paper.

A sequence of events occurred, ending with standing under an overcast sky on a dark city street, talking to a person wearing a pink t-shirt.

After walking through a doorway, I entered the same apartment. Ward is sitting in a slightly different place. We have a conversation about my day, when I notice I only have a backpack instead of shopping bags.

* * *
I realize after seven variations of the same scene are played out that every time I walk out that door, I walk into a different version of my life. Slightly different, but close enough to cause doubt about my memories.

For the first time, I look out the window. Outside is the blue fog.

More of the dream exists, but only as feelings and disjointed images that defy transcription.

___
This fog has reappeared in a few dreams that I can remember, and seems to exists only in my most brain warping mind-adventures.

The fog seems to represent both the distortion of time and memory, while signifying the unseen limit of my inner dreamworld. Every time I've consciously decided in-dream to cross it, I wake up.

I was in a spare bedroom in my parents home. There was a wardrobe dresser that had a large, oval mirror mounted on top of it.

I look at my reflection in the mirror, and vividly see someone else. A beautiful girl, somewhere in her teens or early 20s with reddish hair and freckles. She stares back at me. Every facial expression and subtle movement of my body is reflected by the person in the mirror.

I look at my body, and see that I'm still myself- only the mirrors reflection is the girl.

I blink, and my reflection is added to the mirror. Both figures reflect my movements like puppets, moving in unison. I put my left arm around the girl, and in doing so, she puts her left arm on top of mine.

I study the scene inside this mirror closley, and find it facinating.

My sister comes into the room with her friend. They begin playing with a blanket on her bed and laughing. I try and explain the mirror phenomenon to her, but she just giggles.

The clock says 2:00am, and there's music coming from the downstairs vent. It sounds like a trumpet practicing musical scales. I wonder why my brother is practicing music so late at night.

I look again at the mirror, but now I am the only figure there. I'm slightly confused why I now wear a suitjacket with wide lapels.The world turns a shade of gray, and begins to shift and contort.

I stumbled away from the mirror, and fall backwards on to vacant bed nearby. My sister and her friend are jumping on their bed, still giggiling.