Thursday, July 30, 2009

The Flowing River of Liquid Light

I am on a boat. No. I am on a ship. I'm still me, but the clothing I wear, the ship I'm sailing in, my surroundings, are all telling me that I've been taken back to the late 15th Century. I am wearing a heavy cloak of hides and furs, but I feel like an impostor in this "costume". The ship is similar to the Santa Maria. As soon as I begin to say this to myself in my dream, I catch myself. "No. It is the Santa Maria." But Columbus is nowhere in sight. Instead, there is a haggard looking man wearing an unbuttoned, loose-fitting shirt and ragged pants. He seems to have suffered greatly, and although he has not said so, I know that his spirit is broken. The ship is rocking gently, and I look over the side to see the waves lapping against the hull. The waves look unreal, almost cartoonish, like the waves depicted on antique maps of the world. The sky is lead-gray and pregnant with clouds. When I return my attention to the man, he is looking at me, but I am not surprised, and I do not feel threatened. But I do feel irritated. And all of a sudden, I am impatient with him. I want him to disappear, to go away, to never have been there in the first place. As if in answer to my wish, a woman appears in the distance. She is also on the ship, and I wonder to myself where she has been this whole time. But before I can consider the possibilities, the man turns around, as if he has sensed her presence, and runs toward the woman. He has a knife in his hand - a very large knife. The blade is glowing violently, throwing its reflections at the darkening sky. The waves have become choppy, and are now rocking the ship viciously. I am afraid, but not for me. I am afraid for the woman, who seems to be bolted to her spot. She is not moving. And there is no sign that she will do anything to remove herself from impending danger. Her face is like a mask. Her body, like a marble statue. I am anxious, I do not know why. I know neither the man nor the woman. Neither person means anything to me. So why should I bother with what is about to happen? But my anxiety is so overwhelming, I run toward the man and fling myself at him, reaching for the hand wielding the knife. "I hate you," I tell him, with what is now anger making my voice tremble. "If you do anything to hurt this woman, I will throw you overboard for the sharks." Anguish washes across his face. And misery. And desperation. He raises the knife over his head and stabs himself repeatedly in the chest, making gaping holes across his naked torso. Every hole in his chest is a perfect circle, and out of every circle pours a flowing river of liquid light. I remove my cloak, with almost mechanical gestures, and slide it over the man's chest, perhaps to stifle the blinding flow of light. And then, I stand in my place and watch. No screams. No tears. No emotion.

The dream ends.


  1. I wonder who the man and woman represent. Dreams, I feel, are our subconscious and concious becoming the superconscious, and how many of them are full of lives past? It would be interesting indeed to see the results of you going through a past life regression. You are such an old soul.
    Your work defies definition, description! I adore your work and I can't get enough of it. Thank you again, Nevine, for sharing your gift with us. God bless you.
    Much Love,

  2. Deborah, I often wonder about that very same question: How many of those people I encounter in my dreams just might be me from a past life? Or somebody else I know from a past life? Or just a dimension of myself in the present life that I'm choosing to ignore? All questions that I don't know I'll ever be able to answer. But that's what makes life so mysteriously worth living, don't you think? Thank you for always making me feel like a million bucks, Deborah!


Your thoughts are deeply appreciated.