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THE DREAM JOURNAL
OF L. CARUANA


DARK PRIESTESS, WHITE SAGE
Toronto, Oct 28, 1990

      I am working for a television station similar to CITY-TV here in Toronto. The lay-out of the sudios is very open, though some studios are enclosed by glass walls. I'm having a disagreement with my girlfriend, because she's been seeing four or five other men - some of which I can see on the other side of the glass partition - and has even admitted to me that the child she'd had recently was fathered by one of them. I can see this in the child's lack of resemblance to me.
      Then, a team of cameramen and reporters come rushing in. They have been working on a documentary about the leader of a primitive tribe, who was trying to negotiate peace with another tribe. Before he left, the leader had left behind
his ceremonial wings - which appear to me in the dream: a beautiful silver creation that manifest an undeniable power.
      Now the leader has returned from the dangerous negotiations. Or rather,
his spirit in the form of a lion has returned. The lion has a large, gaping hole in its neck, from which much blood has been drawn. Apparently the blood was used as part of a bonding ceremony. The lion is unconscious and near to death. Then the dream shifts.
      A number of us from the primitive tribe (I am now one of them) gathers around the dying lion.
A large black woman with lots of beads and talismans - who is clearly the shaman-healer - and I start rubbing our hands over the lion's body in a rhythmic motion. She has a brush attached to one hand, and a wooden instrument in the other. She brushes the fur rhythmically, then slaps the brush with the wooden instrument. Meanwhile, I rub my bare hands over the lion in time with her rhythm.
      Together, she and I enter into
the journey of the leader's spirit to the underworld. I start to make screaching noises, like the sound of a raven. But the sound I make over her rhythmic stroking becomes the calls of the vultures and crows in the underworld. I can see them circling in the dark cloudy skies above us.
      The shaman-healer then turns to me, offering me the brush and other instrument, and says,
"White sage, you may continue."
      The dream ends.

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