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cremainsI dreamt that I was Gaius Baltar in a giant, crowded stadium that was located in the stratosphere, with long staircases all the way down to the earth and all the way up to various space stations. A film that was playing for the crowd had just been interrupted for a public announcement that there was some sort of shooting going on. I knew that it was the Cylon invasion, which was my fault, although the dream was not too clear on in what way.
People began rioting and crowding for the stairs downwards, but prophesy told me that the Cylons were in the stairwells shooting huge masses of people as they tried to flee. I went with a handful of other people running up the staircases to the space ships, where I knew one of them would take me safely away. The guilt and fear were completely crippling.
Note: I saw maybe part of the first season of Battlestar Galactica many years ago.
Things are difficult, but not uniformly so. After all this time I still can't get over how frightening it is to be seriously poor. I'm working on a ketubah, writing, listening again to Astral Weeks. Also reading many times again "The Ballad of Reading Gaol," feeling depressed and worried, and I wonder if in some way it fed into my Baltar dream.
the poem
I had an LJ friend once who painted Oscar Wilde in greyscale, with a background of purple. I said something like how Wilde is often portrayed the opposite way, as a breath of colour in a dull world. She became rightfully annoyed and said no, the more important thing for her to express was his role as a lonely voice of real and felt morality in a world of superfluous shit.
People began rioting and crowding for the stairs downwards, but prophesy told me that the Cylons were in the stairwells shooting huge masses of people as they tried to flee. I went with a handful of other people running up the staircases to the space ships, where I knew one of them would take me safely away. The guilt and fear were completely crippling.
Note: I saw maybe part of the first season of Battlestar Galactica many years ago.
Things are difficult, but not uniformly so. After all this time I still can't get over how frightening it is to be seriously poor. I'm working on a ketubah, writing, listening again to Astral Weeks. Also reading many times again "The Ballad of Reading Gaol," feeling depressed and worried, and I wonder if in some way it fed into my Baltar dream.
the poem
I had an LJ friend once who painted Oscar Wilde in greyscale, with a background of purple. I said something like how Wilde is often portrayed the opposite way, as a breath of colour in a dull world. She became rightfully annoyed and said no, the more important thing for her to express was his role as a lonely voice of real and felt morality in a world of superfluous shit.
