Fetish Affection

If you want a list of the items, activities or beliefs to which I am unreasonably devoted, my family can oblige. A sneak peek at that list: tea, super-spicy gingersnaps, the conspiracy theory podcast I subscribe to...but these things just aren't all that interesting as fetishes go. And there's a fine line, when it comes to something like my tea, between fetish and addiction.

Here's the interesting bit. Fetishes as stand-ins for something else. I have a niece. I've known her since the day she was born. Early in her life, I got to spend plenty of time with her and build a relationship that sadly faded as she started school and her family's lives filled up with activity and drama. We didn't get to see one another much. But at one point, her mother called me to confide that the girl was having nightmares. Terrible, uncontrollable nightmares. I offered a few suggestions, but afterward, I went up to my room - my office/religious space/guest room. I cast my circle, called my quarters, invoked Deity and consecrated thread to my purpose. I braided the threads while reciting something I'd written for the occassion. I'd created a nightmare bind for my niece. She was to wear it as a bracelet or anklelet. It would allow only good dreams reach her. I gave it to her mother and that was the last I heard. To this day, I have no idea whether it had any impact whatsoever. In regard to the nightmares at any rate.

A few years later, I had evidence that little fetish I'd created had indeed made an impression. I had to undergo surgery. The first I'd ever had that required I be cut open. I was nervous. The day before I checked into the hospital, my sister-in-law came to see me. She pressed a length of yarn into my hand and said, "The girl wanted you to have this. She made it."
"What is it?" I asked.
"A bracelet. Like you gave her. So you'll be okay," she said.
I put it on and wore it right into the hospital where the nurse informed me that I couldn't possibly wear it into the operating room. If I did, I'd lose it. The doctor would cut it off and throw it away. So I took off the gift, but I wrapped it around the wrist of my other fetish where it has remained for the eleven years since.

Phantasmagorical Morphing Phobias -- They're Dreamy

by KAK

Popular theory holds that we are most vulnerable when we dream, for our minds have forsaken our bodies. Popular theory also says that dreams aren't important, useful, or worth measuring.

Pffft

On Sunday, Jeffe contended that REM sleep is more than a reboot of neurons. On Monday, Laura shared how her subconscious resolves problems overnight.

Being the Word-Whore that I am, I’d like to introduce you to the three men with whom I spend quite a bit of time…dream-time, that is. Paranormal fans might recognize them as leaders of the Oneiroi. Mythology students might debate them as the sons of Nyx (Goddess of Night) or Hypnos (God of Sleep). They are the brothers and/or nephews of Thanatos (God of Death) and Geras (God of Aging). However the family tree may or may not fork, the mythical masculine Greek deities to whom I am referring are: 

Morpheus, Phantasos, and Phobetor

Morpheus: “Matrix” fans will recognize the name; some may grasp the deeper relevance of Laurence Fishburne’s character. Morpheus is large and dark, faceless and winged. He is the manipulator of humanoids within our dreams. His late-night stories are clear to the dreamer, vivid and comprehensible. He is rumored to visit kings and heroes. (That those we envy and emulate are slow-witted, impatient, or have stifled the art of imagination, is a tragedy to debate some other time.)

Phantasos: Artists, addicts, and inventors rejoice! Phantasos is the dream-god of fantasy. His theatre troop is rife with the inanimate. His landscapes are surreal, his stories highly symbolic. From his name the word “phantasmagorical” is derived. Shrinks may define it as, “a shifting medley of real or imagined figures.” Filmmakers use it to describe, “a sequence of pictures made to vary in size rapidly while remaining in focus.” Folks seeking the “unique” and “unexpected” should feel free to embarrass themselves with the Snoopy Dance or the Cabbage Patch should Phantasos guide their dreams.

Phobetor: If anyone wondered which poor maligned deity gave rise to the term “phobia,” allow me to introduce Phobetor. Strange how a god given to using animals to animate his dreams is also given the duty of delivering nightmares. Those with pet-hair allergies may begin cackling wildly now. 

I subject every story I write to the review of the three brothers, for their influence shapes the tale into a plot arc:

• Phobetor trains the protagonist to manage fear
• Morpheus teaches the protagonist to manage success
• Phantasos guides the protagonist away from all the stresses to escape into pleasures unimaginable

Admittedly, my tales tend to linger under Phobetor’s influence. How about you? Does your heart race when the hero/heroine is fighting the hellish? Do you gloat when the goal is finally achieved or do you fret about how fleeting it may be? Does escaping the constraints of reality hold the greatest appeal?

Sweet Dreams Are Made of This

by Jeffe Kennedy

Night falls.

The world changes. The familiar disappears under cover of darkness. Predators roam and the wise hide indoors, tucked into their beds, safe asleep and dreaming of day.

A prevailing theory among physiologists is that sleep evolved as a way to make us stay put during those times we were most likely to get killed. Animals who do best at night sleep during the day. Those best adapted to daylight sleep all night. It keeps us from getting bored, trotting out and getting munched by the first better-adapted critter that walks by.

Then, because our bodies spent this time essentially suspended, the rest of our physiology began to take advantage of the down time. Sleep became a clean-up function. Run the blood through the liver. Purge the digestive system. Build and repair tissues. Make up new batches of hormones and neurotransmitters.

Our brains particularly use sleep to purge and reboot. The bizarre, flickering images of our dreams come from the waves of neural firing that never occurs while we're awake. (Well, except during REM intrusion, when you're so deprived of dreaming sleep that you actually start dreaming while awake. I understand it's worse than hallucinating.) The brainstem locks down messages to the muscles to keep us still while our brains run tests of all systems.

Many neuroscientists believe that our dreams are just so much junk. Just the flotsam and jetsam of cluttered brains, with no more significance than the clusters of garbage we haul off to the dump.

This is presupposing that we are solely biological machines, however.

And no, I don't believe that, which annoys the other neuroscientists. This is one of the reasons I wasn't all that good at it.

I believe in the unquantifiable.

That the part of ourselves that isn't a conglomeration of fatty acids and chemicals speaks to us when we're quiet. When we're not busily trotting about the world. Race memory, whispers of the universe, they send us messages, spelling them out in the neural outpouring of our souls.

Listen.

Every one of my stories has started from a dream. Some piece will wrap me up and speak so loudly that it's like being handed a golden egg. Treasure it. Break it open and listen to the story. Passionate, disturbing, sexy, questing, frightening, exalting - they all tell me something.

Like a gold miner, I'm panning for nuggets in the detritus. You'll know them by their gleam.

Listen to your dreams.