I had a dream
that I was
cremating myself.
My body was there,
lying there,
on the unlit pyre,
in the way
the Native Americans
and the ancient Greeks
used to do it
or so I believed.
But I didn’t know
if anyone
had ever
cremated themselves
before.
We were on ancient family land,
and my father was there, and
my whole family was there.
But nobody was really paying much
attention.
Because this seemed
like the (“the” here sounds like “thee”)
most natural thing in the
world.
And I wasn’t scared.
I wasn’t scared – at all.
(Nobody was scared).
I remember/ed what Jesus
said.
He said:
“The one they crucified –
it wasn’t me.
It was me, but it wasn’t
‘ME.’ It wasn’t
The Real Me, Myself.
Because the real me, myself
can never be killed!
He can never be killed
and certainly not
by them.”
I remembered his words.
And I knew this was what I should do
now.
I stepped back and threw
the flames
down
onto my body
and it was okay.
Because I
was finally free.
And I watched
what doesn’t matter
burn
away.
And it burned
it burned
it burned
without pain
away.
And I couldn’t believe
(but I could believe, too)
that I was still
here, there,
nowhere,
and everywhere,
too.
Still here!
Still here!
The Drifter
Saragun Springs 
Dale, your eerie dream, as portrayed in your verse, was very self-revealing, psychologically. However, having just a BS in psych, I am only a shithouse psychologist. So maybe you should take my remarks with a grain or two of salt. Regarding your thoughts of cremating yourself, you’re likely aware, from old newsreels, of the practice of self-immolation as exercised by Buddhist monks in S. Vietnam in the tumultuous 1960s. They were protesting Roman Catholic Diem’s brutally censorious oppression of their faith. Even today, individuals taking leave of their senses or seeking to make a lethal point will douse themselves in a flammable liquid and set themselves ablaze. If cremation is in fact the burning of only a cadaver then of course no one could ignite themself as a corpse. Your poem brought to mind various tunes. Paul Simon’s haunting “For Emily, Wherever I May Find Her,” which begins with, “What a dream I had…” And Johnny Cash’s “Burn, burn, burn…” in his “Ring of Fire.” Thanks for the poem, Dale, it made my think, which maybe I don’t do enough of.
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Hi Bill!
Thanks so much for your astute commentary and for your continuing involvement in the Springs as both commentator and fiction creator.
The difference between “me” in this dream poem and a Buddhist monk or anyone else who sets themselves on fire in reality is that, in the dream, I was not setting myself on fire from within myself as a still-living person.
In the dream, I had already left my body BEFORE all the action occurs.
This poem was inspired by the great Salvador Dali in the sense that what I tried to do here was tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, about the dream.
Obviously I do believe in the significance of dreams, too, or I wouldn’t be bothering. At the very least, I believe them to be messages from our subconscious or unconscious, i.e. the deepest, oldest, truest part/s of ourselves.
Thanks for grappling with this poem! The fact that you care at all means the world to me, and your commentary is intelligent, and interesting.
Dale
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Hi Drifter
Bill’s Ring of Fire mention strikes me too. Reminds me of Hamlet’s Ghost father saying he had to suffer flames by day til his soul was purified. He had been dead for at least a month, that’s a lot of impurities.
The family being there but at the same time distracted is a key thing here–think can be close but we all die alone–never maybe it is the transfer to a different belonging and just is alone at the surface. One way to find out–no need to push that button.
Another thoughtful post.
Leila
And happy Mother’s Day to all–the all that means a little reminder for some
And…be sure to read DWB’s latest today at Literally Stories UK
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Hi Leila
Like I said to Bill, today’s column was inspired by the great Salvador Dali in the sense that what I tried to do here was tell the truth about a real dream. People used to ask Dali what the hell his paintings were really about and the answer was always: they are about my dream/s. One of the weirdest parts of this dream was that I had already left my body and was floating around, free of my body, before I set my dead body on fire. Why I was still required to set the body on fire even though I was already dead shall probably remain an eternal mystery – or maybe I will know later (and hopefully much later). The separation of my body and my spirit in the dream was a truly eerie and weird, yet non-scary, and very natural, feeling. Then again, I am a truly weird person who’s always believed I’ve been here before (in this world), meaning: reincarnated. Your Hamlet reference is also brilliant! Thank you!
Dale
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Ah Dali is an inspiration! I have a couple prints of his work on the wall. George Orwell was not a fan of him as a person!
And I truly appreciate your comments about my work!
Leila
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LA
Agree w/ ya about Dali!
George Orwell was a genius writer who could also be a nitpicking moralist! He got mad at every writer and artist who wouldn’t pick up a gun and follow him into the fray in Spain. Dali, like James Joyce, would have made a very poor soldier. I admire soldiers but we also need people who refuse. Hard to say which is more dangerous.
Dali did a lot of things I probably wouldn’t like in any other person but I make an exception for him in all cases!
I really do think that, in the end, he was probably greater than Picasso.
His influence is everywhere, if often invisible!
Thank you about Dali, LA!
DB
PS
…I also think lots of folks (the mob) cast stones at people like Dali while utterly forgetting to look in the mirror first (or ever)…
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You are right!
I don’t think a fella with a pet Ocelot is soldier material. Dali’s Swans Reflecting Elephants, is the main print in my office. There is something forlornly autumnal about it although Catalonia is always sunny. Something about the sky.
George had no real whimsy, yet he had a great imagination. Many times you can place two people together and just study their vast differences.
Leila
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Thank you, LA!
I am gonna check out that painting you cited…
It was also hilarious when they asked Dali if he took drugs and he said: “I AM DRUGS” (even though he did take drugs sometimes, especially later in life).
DB
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To All Readers:
For a better treatment of a similar kind of topic than I have been able to offer here, I recommend that Readers turn to the short story “My Fair Wiccan” by Leila Allison, as well as her “Feeble Fables of the Fantasmagorical,” all of which are readily available on the internet. These pieces represent the spirit world BETTER THAN ANYTHING ELSE I HAVE EVER READ, as well as being deeply, symbolically secular and psychologically penetrating at the same time. Madame Blavatsky could never have said it better, and did not say it better.
D
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…hi Mom!…
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Dali:
You were a staggering genius, probably even greater than Picasso, just like you always said.
D
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…The author photos are not Dale, they are “The Drifter,” always taken (made) in the same week the column was written (with very, very few exceptions)….
As Dali always said, personality is more important than art, but it’s art that makes the personality! Which is utterly true for everyone in the world!
Dale
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Hi DWB
I think about cremation more than I probably should. I like the idea of it. In some places they compost the dead. I’m all for the environment but that’s not for me–rotting with the turnips.
This is really mysterious how you are there in this ancient land of your father. I like how Jesus came into the poem. There is a sense of the everlasting and the shucking…
Strong images and precise writing–love how you can create so much with a minimal amount of words.
“like the (“the” here sounds like “thee”)” This went well with the theme.
Great writing!
CJA
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Hi CJA
Yes, the Drifter posts are usually about something that happened that week (I realized) partly in honor of Mike Royko who wrote five columns per week for over thirty-five years in Chicago; I meant him one time in a bar in downtown Chicago. We were both smoking and drinking (and drunk), shook hands and talked for about two minutes. I approached him when I saw him sitting at the bar and he was cool with it. The conversation was brief but we were in the same room for about an hour. Folks like him have a presence about them.
And as stated previously, this post also has a lot to do with DALI. The things on YT about him are amazing, I mean the film of him directly, etc., and some of the biographical/documentaries.
I recently started studying (again) how DALI used Freud (who was fascinated by Dali) and then I had this weird dream.
I have a fear of being buried in the ground. No way! Please, cremation. I think this fear really, truly does come from reading Mr. Edgar Allan Poe when I was young, like 13 and up. Thanks Eddie!
One thing Dali says is that when you take out a nightingale’s eyes and stick it in a cage, it sings better; much, much better! A grisly and beautiful image that tells the whole truth about humans.
Thanks again for always getting what I’m trying to get at!
D
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