Carabas

I came across a mirror lying on the floor, remembered the TOTM and went lucid. The mirror's rather small for this - I take hold of the edges and pull it wide enough to stretch out on top of it. Initially, unusually, the mirror showed me my reflection - I focus on the background behind it, and it goes black. I briefly imagine stars in that blackness, but don't actually see them; that acts as a trigger, and I sink into the mirror as if it's liquid.

On the other side, I'm walking out of an apartment building into an alley. I have a thought that this is supposed to represent somewhere in Wyoming; but looking around at the buildings, the vending machines, this definitely looks like Japan. I wonder if that's just my mind filling in the setting with familiar memories, or if this is actually meant to be Japan; I keep walking, figuring it'll work itself out, and I had no particular goal here anyway.

I cut through a shopping area where people are eating, listening to them talk, no one saying anything particularly interesting to listen in on. I'm uncertain whether I'm visible to others; my initial impression had been that they couldn't see me, which is how I preferred it, but there do seem to be a few people here and there who notice.

Out of the shopping area and onto a main street, there are Christmas lights in the trees here. I cross the street and find the sidewalk's lined with little garden plots, blocked off by ropes - some kind of display, or some kind of competition maybe. One such plot holds a tree that fascinates me - it's white, not much taller than I am, gnarled, no leaves, and covered here and there in pale green moss with small blue flowers. Very beautiful.

I'm in a garden, speaking in Russian with a very old human man in a wheelchair. We have an arrangement. I'm to kill him, but as he puts it, without ugliness. That he wants his death to be smooth, I have no problem with, but this ugliness he's referring to isn't about his own death, it's about preserving his image of me, or rather what I represent to him. He says I'm a man who should understand this, unlike that brother of mine - he uses a word that my dream doesn't bother to translate aside from noting that it's uncomplimentary. The old man wants to believe in the existence of a creature that's above all the things he dislikes in humanity, an embodiment of death without ugliness. I'm disgusted and feel illogically betrayed by hearing this from him, a man more intimately acquainted with violence than any human I've ever known - he of all people shouldn't have any illusions about this. It's hypocrisy.

As he talks we move indoors, to a dimly-lit room that's kept very cold. He has a selection of alcohol lined up before a mirror, and I go to pour him a glass; as I do so I see a small portrait of a blonde woman, which I pick up. A woman who works for him, who's been pushing his wheelchair, urgently asks me to be careful with that. I recognize the image as his granddaughter - she's how I met him in the first place, years back. He laughs and corrects me, and he says this in English: "Vivian. Her mother." This startles me, and I examine the portrait again - I would never have guessed they weren't the same person. Her mother had died before I met her.

(Woke up. Back to sleep.)

While using a spell to pull out some relevant books and scrolls from a collection, one of the books that comes to me is titled "The Unbeauty of Life," by a Japanese author.

I'm running up several flights of stairs, spiraling upward through a ruined building, piles of rubble around; I should have fled the building with the others when I reached the first floor but instead I kept going upward, thinking of the woman I'd originally come here to track down. As I reach the upper levels I find her laboratory, with her books scattered on the floor, sarcophagi in rows. The next level above that is devoted to "the theatrical vampire," complete with red stage curtains hanging on the wall, full of what I think of as romanticized images from stage and screen, and as I look at it I remember the sound of her laughing. There's one more floor above this.

I've been following something in the form of a child through a place that reminds me of the Flavian Amphitheatre, though I'm aware this isn't Rome or any other physical place; I'm climbing a spiraling staircase along the outer wall, with the arena far below to my left, and arches to my right looking out onto water, and I've just gone lucid in order to focus on remembering what I'm seeing through those arches. The sky is dazzlingly bright.

As I climb higher, the water is replaced by images of another place. I'm seeing an opera house sometime in the early 20th century, but at impossible angles - I see the audience in their boxes, a row of tables outside the theatre proper, a strip of grass and hedges from the little garden outside the building, all at the same time. The effect is something like looking through a faceted gem or a kaleidoscope, with images from different angles jammed right next to each other. Instead of seeing the walls, I see mirrors reflecting nothing, just bright, shining glass. I spot a man I think of as me, though he looks nothing like me - a young man with white hair, sitting at one of the tables outside the theatre proper and smoking. And as I continue climbing, my perspective moving along the audience, there's a woman in one of the boxes who catches my attention - a young black woman with her hair pulled back tight into a bun, in a pale purple gown. It strikes me as very important that I'm seeing her here in the audience, not on the stage.

I looked around for text in order to get some context, but while I found plenty of writing, it refused to cooperate, even swirling into spiraling shapes before my eyes. I don't normally have trouble reading while dreaming, lucid or not, so I thought of this as being deliberately evasive.

I'm walking in the garden, mentally composing a letter. When I'm ready to start putting it down, I go to where I've left my portable writing desk. There are a few bees hovering around it, interested in the vine I left it under. I'm thinking about moving it somewhere I won't disturb the bees, but then I see an envelope that's been left on top of it.

The letter inside is written in classical Chinese. I have no difficulty understanding it, but rather than actually reading the letter, I'm thinking about the woman who sent it - even without seeing her name, there's only one person who writes to me in this language. I'm seeing a mental image of the two of us walking through a rough stone tunnel next to water, with light reflecting off the water, rippling patterns reflected on our faces.

That was a memory, but the next image I see is the present, through her eyes, something that can sometimes happen when I'm thinking about her. She's looking at a painting of a woman I think of as a saint, with an image of a dragon behind her; then her vision moves up to the ceiling, as if she's falling back. I see an image of a pile of roses turning to ash, and my connection to her is gone - not just this vision, but the connection of our blood is gone. She's dead.

(Woke up. Back to sleep.)

There's a man who's been sent back in time, and now several other people who've gone back to rescue him. He'd been involved with the woman leading the rescue team. They've just met up now, and very nearly attacked each other - both of them sneaking around a fortress, trying to avoid being seen. Having sorted it out, it seems he's working together on a mission with a woman from this era, and fallen in love, and has no interest in going back to his original time period. He's just broken her out of a cell in this fortress. The woman who came back to rescue him is thinking it was foolish to chase his spirit into the past when she had his (something) in the present.

The scene transitions to a modern-day park; that man was brought back to the present against his wishes, but so was that woman from the past. They're spending time in the park with their infant son, distracted and unhappy.

My attention shifts to other people in the park, a group discussing magic, specifically one man mentioning a "listen and learn" spell with leaves, as a second step for those just starting to work with trees. He describes trees in general as "a bit froggy, though."

(Woke up. Back to sleep.)

A private performance of a show based on Frankenstein. The 'bride' character speaks beautifully; the 'creation' character is silent, and his hands are bent backwards at the wrist as if they've been broken. When he'd been alive, he'd been the doctor's student or lover or something close.

I'm walking in a garden with a young woman who's essentially an adopted daughter for legal purposes, but I think of her more as a student. I've just brought a woman into the household after finally convincing her to leave the increasingly dangerous situation in her own territory, and I'm explaining to my 'daughter' why this woman won't be staying in the women's quarters with her other two 'mothers' - two women who are legally my wives but who I've never had any kind of relationship with, sexual or otherwise; I just needed a legal way to allow them to stay in this household. She'll be relaying what I say to the other women, I'm aware.

I'm explaining that this third wife's faith compels her to spend her days in isolation until the (some word that means evening prayers - the point is that this story will explain why she's never seen in daylight). It's a custom that's not uncommon among her people, I claim. I'm thinking that the way religions dominate this place and time is as convenient as it is inconvenient.

The daughter finds this ridiculous, but she won't question that faith is the reason for it. She's not pleased with the situation in general though. I'm telling her that although this third wife won't be living in the women's quarters, nonetheless you must treat her as another mother - in other words, though she's new to the household she outranks the daughter. This is apparently the last straw for her - she says, "Oh, I am in the mountains of madness!"

(Woke up. Back to sleep.)

As Rumpelstiltskin, I've been watching without saying anything while Belle had a sort of confrontation with a woman I'd been working with. I've got plans involving this woman, and Belle knows them, and she's just made it clear she won't be standing with me in this. She's leaving now, and as she turns away my perception changes - I see the three of us as we were in the other world. Seeing her like this, Belle's wearing this white hooded cloak lined in fur, a symbol of the Snow Queen. Several reactions to that - first, a sort of bitter sense of humor that of course the wife of the Dark One could only be the Snow Queen. But I also think of this as a reminder that she's not to be taken lightly.

However, the woman I'd been working with has just asked something to the effect of 'who are you,' and Belle's response is, "I'm the maid." This is, again, a way of stating that she's not my partner in this situation, she's not on my side; but it's also a rejection of the way I'm seeing her right now. By choosing to define herself as a maid rather than a queen, it should be as if she's giving up power, but instead I think of this as power that I admire - her ability to choose her own path and demand that others see her as she chooses.

(Woke up. Back to sleep.)

There's this massive tower of ice - a cylinder reaching up into the sky and down to the earth as far as I can see as I float in front of it, intensely detailed jagged edges much like a frozen waterfall. I/Rumpelstiltskin see an image of Belle standing with one arm raised as if she's holding something up, associated with this pillar, and I'm convinced the role of the queen is a burden she took on because of me - or if not because of me directly, it's a situation she wouldn't have been put in if it hadn't been for my involvement. I hate knowing that this will continue to affect her even in the other world.

After going lucid and abandoning the storyline I'd been in, I'm walking to a simple full-length mirror leaning against a wall. I focus on my intended destination - the rose garden, a meeting place. As I place my hands through the glass, I lose all visuals. My hands sink into the glass as far as my wrists, but no further. The 'hole' beyond the surface of the mirror that acts as a portal isn't open enough. I can feel jagged edges against my right wrist, as opposed to the heavy liquid-like feeling of the portal. It's like I've broken open a hole in a frozen lake. I stay focused on the destination and mentally dig at those edges until they give.

I can feel a wall of thorns all around me so that I can't move. I still have no visuals, I think of this as between scenes. I'm annoyed at myself - this is the barrier around the garden, I shouldn't have had to deal with this at all. It was an error in focus, thinking about roses and sharp edges. I try to correct my focus but find myself waking up. (Though it wound up being a false awakening. Visuals returned when I 'woke up.')

England in the 1940s or so, I'm disembodied and watching a man and a woman singing a duet in a garden. Both of them are thinking about a man named Dyson. They were friends when they were younger, but he left the country years ago and they haven't heard from him since; in their memories, he's a sort of ideal. I'm thinking how disappointed they would be if they were to see him now.

When their song's over, they talk with the people who'd been listening. The woman who'd been singing is speaking to a particular man, very wealthy, and hinting that she's expecting him to invite her along to a particular event. But although they clearly have some kind of history, he finds this suggestion laughable - he hardly even thinks of her as a woman. I'm surprised, since I'd just been thinking about how beautiful she is - the dream image had zoomed in on her profile as she was talking to him, and I'd been admiring the curve of her nose, the softness of her hair. Very beautiful. But the man walks off with most of the others - they're heading back toward the house. The man she'd been singing with comes up to her and says he saw her talking to that wealthy guy, and how they seem to get along well. She says, "Sure do."

My POV turns around, not following them - I'm focusing on the opposite direction. On a hill overlooking the garden, there's a man who'd been hiding among the trees and bushes, watching them. This is Dyson.

Two middle-aged spinsters are visiting Rumpelstiltskin/Gold just before attending some event, but he's busy with a delivery of some sort. The room where they wait for him holds a collection of various objects behind glass, and as they look around, one of them says, "Richer than the (some family name beginning with A) brothers!" The objects behind the glass are personal mementos from over the centuries, arranged and displayed in such a way as to look like a collection of history - playbills and tickets, a photo from a political protest that changed history, old forms of currency, all neatly labeled with places and dates and short descriptions. But I'm looking at the objects as a disembodied observer with Rumpelstiltskin's mindset, with fond memories of the actress depicted on that playbill, and a woman at that protest, and the profit I made when that country changed currencies. (Although I'm thinking of it as a collection of memories that stretches back centuries, the oldest items I actually see are only from the 1800s.) I think to myself, 'and I could sell it, if I chose.' As if convincing myself that I could part with it all, if I had to.

(Woke up. Back to sleep.)

Fragments - someone involved in some industry that's often glamorized in movies, intelligence or organized crime, mentally contrasting his actual day to day life with the ridiculous movies. A rich and powerful woman who's sleeping with the hired killer who works for her. Overdue library books, a trilogy by an author who's written 156 books, these ones with covers showing caves with stalactites that remind me of fangs. Rumpelstiltskin again, spending a summer at a country estate belonging to a brother and sister he knows, looking out the window and feeling someone's suffering, the potential for a deal; following it, and finding someone in the garden, reading a journal that had belonged to Belle.