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September 7th 2009

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    Last night I had a dream of hens.  They were large, their feathers soft and ruffled and brown.  Outside it was cold, so they had struggled their way through the cat flap, climbed the stairs to the room where I sleep.  I woke to find them staring at me in a most accusing way.   Then, as so often in dreams, matters deteriorated into jumble.  But I could smell sawdust and grass and Lavender, and I might even have drifted into a chicken coop.

    It was a regular enough dream on a night when the moon has begun to wane, but Jungians would leap at this.  They would say that clearly I have hen husbandry anxiety.  And this in confluence with a failure of early August Lavender cuttings.

    Jungians have this nutty notion of the "unconscious".  It stems I suppose from an idea that somehow we are not actually real, something else is.  For them the real is hidden beneath layers of pretend, and occasionally to prevent mental breakdown it is necessary to unearth the real by digging into the place they call the "unconscious".

 

    And what a joy when "unconscious" flows.  This because the real is healing, I suppose.  A trueness to self.  A constant contentment.  But there again how often has this been promised, and always it costs.

    Better to look for those mathematical constructs that emerge from the circle as framework within which to conceptualize the condition of 'being conscious'.  Within circles defense is possible, so dreams that rouse a person from sleeping smoothly, can be revisited with sword in hand and discomfort decapitated as Saint George might have decapitated his dragon.   And here my circles appear to be decreasing in magnitude.  Smaller and smaller they become so it is hens rather than tyrants that emerge to torment the less wakeful hours.

     There was one hen, quite obviously the lead hen, who stayed with my imagination well into a second cup of coffee.  She had that largeness of bossiness that promotes an image of one who is always correct.  Next time I see her in my sleep there will be barbeque, perhaps.

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tim candler

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