I’ve been warned by others. Warned that things will start to get funky when I follow the Thiasos of the Starry Bull. I find myself treading a path that scares me more and more as I go along. It’s like one of those stupid haunted house shows at a carnival, expect it’s not full of drunken teenagers being paid two bucks an hour to scare little kids in this haunted house.
It’s full of deities.
I mentioned before and I’ll most likely mention it again but dreams are a big thing for me. I’ve been a dreamer for a long time, some of my earliest childhood memories are solely dreams (I can’t remember much of my childhood) of all techniques of worshiping and exposer to the divine and dead it’s almost always through dream.
Physically the last two weeks has been pretty draining, I’ve been working on preparing a huge art piece, writing and dealing with online crap I know nothing about. Workwise I am now dealing with Gypsy Romanians for the first time (in busking politics, this is bad news) I’m also having to put up with an equally annoying factor of trying to get the local government back in line and the threat of a new busking season in Melbourne where we have to fend off our territory from outsiders. This is all useless bullshit but it contributes to my mind state.
During this stressful time I’ve also been having these fucking intense dreams. I would not call them nightmares, they feel like the haunted house trip. It’s like I know that I’m going to be scared, you go on a ride to be scared – you volunteer and pay to go into the haunted house knowing what to expect. So in that sense it’s not the same sensation as a nightmare… I’m in for the ride.
Usually these dreams feel short, they include things like severed heads, cannibalism, being torn apart or seeing someone else being killed. Very macabre stuff.
One last night freaked me out a bit:
I was being tortured by an unknown person, it was a familiar voice (pretty sure it was Dionysus, but not 100%). They questioned me: “what do you prefer, intestines or hands?”
I had a choice to have my guts ripped out or cut off the thing that allows me to live the life I live. I can’t continue living without one but I can with the other, but never in the same way again. My hands are my identity, the things I hold special – without them I can’t write, I can’t make art.
I chose my hands to be removed.
In a scene fitting for a Saw film I watched in third person having my hands cut off.
I awoke not with a feeling of fright or horror, disturbed yes, a little freaked out at what I assume my mind conjures (assumes), but the feeling was a slight comfort. At waking up I look back to my hands, they were still there and my guts too.
I have been warned that things will get funky when I follow the Thiasos of the Starry Bull.