For several nights running at the end of January, I had a disturbing dream. I’m sitting in a fairly dark room at a desk (not my regular desk, in a house I’ve never lived in). From behind me, over my shoulder, comes an arrow bearing a piece of paper, and it lands on my desk. Then another. Then another.
Most of the arrows are thin: blowdarts. Occasionally they are metal, two-pronged and wicked-looking, with a shiny, brushed aluminum exterior. Its heaviness makes me think it’s an alloy of some kind.
The arrows always pierce the paper through, like a spindle, and they pin the paper to my desk. I never seem to read the messages, but I’m not sure why—maybe they fade before I can grab them, maybe I get distracted by the mode of transport, maybe the whole idea frightens me.
After the last dream, I sat down with Wolf and asked him what was going on. He told me that “paleolithic life” has calling to me, and that I’ve been running away from it. Continue reading