I dreamed that my mother and I went to some sort of retreat held in a rickety old house and led by a woman best described as an old sorceress or witch.  The majority of her regular followers were female children (though there were dozens of adults at this retreat as well), and her retreats involved starving yourself for six days in the dead of winter, the only heat derived from huddling together.  I said to one of the girls, "I imagine that the fasting gets easier as it goes along," and she replied that it gets worse until it's over.  The girls were all very skinny, and I remarked to myself how frequent six-day fasts were likely to stunt a child's growth.  One of the participants was a celebrity that Mom and I quickly recognized: the man who played the father on the American t.v. sitcom "Diff'rent Strokes."  Mom jumped up and said to him, "You need to give me a hug."  At first he didn't seem to hear her and started to sit down, but then her words registered in his ear and he jumped back up to embrace her.  Then he saw me, and while he gave me a hug I was aware that he was smelling my hair.  He seemed so delighted by our hug that he gave me a second one, again smelling my hair.  I assumed that the shampoo I had used still smelled good.  Mom whispered to me, "Tell him about Stig Helmer."  I realized that he bore an uncanny resemblance to the actor who played Stig Helmer in the Danish television series "The Kingdom."  I wasn't sure what anecdote Mom wanted me to share, so I stammered for a few moments about Stig Helmer being one of my favorite characters in film and how this actor looked just like him.  (The actor who played Stig Helmer passed away recently, but I failed to mention that fact.)  The next thing I remember, the witch is calling everyone together to go to sleep.  I realize that I haven't brought a blanket or pillow, so I scramble around the house looking for a quilt to lie on.  I finally find a blanket and join the group, imagining how hard the floor is going to feel.  The witch walks around the room singing an eerie song to initiate sleep.  I think her lyrics are masterful.  Rather than lulling us into dark oblivion, she calls upon us to actively see through closed eyes the light of the dream world.  I am lying on my side, with my head cradled on my bent arms.  As the witch continues to roam the room and sing, I hear her kneeling down by my head to touch each of my palms with a finger and spread them apart slightly.  I somehow know that this is another aspect of her sleep technique.  However, I have a bit of trouble falling asleep.  After the song ends and the witch leaves, the room is not quiet.  Clearly, there are others who have not fallen asleep either.  I open my eyes to see several people up and moving about.  One man sits at an elaborate desk decorated with all sorts of statues and carvings.  He is typing on a computer keyboard, and with each strike of a key one of the statues animates, turning its head or moving its mouth as if to talk or sing.  I realize that I am lying next to the "Diff'rent Strokes" actor.  We snuggle for warmth, and he rests his hand between my legs.  The next thing I know, everyone in the room is standing up, bumping and grinding, and giving each other haircuts with electric clippers.  I realize that virtually everyone had had long, hippie-style hair, and now everyone is sporting buzz cuts.  People come up to one another and, in disbelief of the transformation, say, "So and so, is that really you?"  When the witch comes into the room alerted by the hubbub, I expect her to be upset, but she doesn't seem to be.  I get the feeling that the retreat is over, and I look around a bit for my toothbrush to freshen my sour mouth before leaving (though I never can find it).  As I leave, I walk past the witch's room.  I see her lying in bed, and I bow to her, feeling remarkably free and happy.  She says, "Don't you know who I am?" over and over again, like an echo in which each repeated phrase is quieter than the last.  Then I realize that the witch is dead, and has actually been dead for quite some time.  And then I realize that I have been looking at a photograph of her all along.  On the drive away from the retreat, we pass by an enormous Hindu shrine which is conducting a huge celebration and parade with hundreds of costumed singers, dancers, elephants.  They are singing and playing their music in a modern techno style which sounds marvelous to me, making me feel downright euphoric.  We drive on, though the music doesn't diminish as we gain distance, and I wish that our driver would pull over so we could walk back to the celebration.  The next thing I know, Mom and I are sitting in one of the rooms of the shrine.  They are passing out instruments to everyone in our long row of people.  People who had participated in the celebration many times are being called to perform special roles in the parade.  We are content to sit where we are.  A large crowd has formed outside the shrine to hear us play.  I tell Mom that I had earlier tried to call my aunt dying of cancer, to thank her for these instruments.

Am suffering from constant nightmares.  I dream I am an ellipsis, coming at the end of a long short story (or possibly a short long story) by a famous author, possibly Borges.  The story is also a single sentence.  I always wake up, yelling hysterically, and crying; wondering what is to come next.

I was in the most dangerous part of town you could imagine.  It reminded me of the most hellish neighborhood in the Australian Outback.  A large woman with a dark complexion came out of a building (which I associated with a prison) and asked me to do her a favor.  She said she needed help pushing a tissue through a slot across the street.  The tissue was draped over the end of a tool, presumably a screwdriver.  The task sounded simple enough, and she was pushy enough that I obliged.  She walked behind me, thrusting me forward rather gruffly, and I told myself not to take her behavior the wrong way.  I imagined that she had many children and was experienced in having to shove them around to keep them in line.  Up ahead I saw our destination, and it filled me with fear.  It was like a solitary phone booth, but it was a cage with prison bars, and it was virtually bursting with menace.  I suspected that someone criminally insane was inside that cell.  "What's going to happen?" I asked my companion.  "I don't know" was all she said, though we were both thinking that those bars could give way any moment.  When we got up to the cage, I saw that it was swarming with many people inside, all either criminally insane or hopelessly deformed monstrosities.  I couldn't help but wonder whether or not there were better ways to deal with these people than this outdoor cage --  weren't there advances in plastic surgery that could help?  Or were their grotesque deformities evidence of a twisted energy present at the time of reincarnation?  And should we be suspicious of dwarves?  The woman ushered me toward the bars, and I cautiously inched the screwdriver toward the bars until the tissue fell off and was grabbed by one of the crouching inmates.  Then the woman and I fled as fast as we could, lest the little prison cell break loose like a Pandora's Box and subject us to the fallout.  Later in the dream, I was telling this experience to my mother, and I recalled more details.  I remembered feeling that something had to be resolved regarding this prison.  I went back to it, and this time the inmates were quiet, calmly studying me.  I looked at my hand, then realized what to do.  The cage now inexplicably half full of water, I dipped the screwdriver into the water so as to drip some of the water onto my palm.  The water was thick and opaque and looked like semen.  I knew that I had to cut myself and allow the water to mix with my blood.  I knew that this water was from the River Styx, and that instead of poisoning me it would give me immortality.  I pushed the screwdriver (which I now noticed to be barbed) all the way through my palm without pain.