Dream Log: January 1, 2002

(Working at night, sleeping the days may mean I don't know where to put my day logs anymore, but at least I know where the dream logs go...)

I was in an AOL chat room. This guy (someone I had met awake awhile back) was listing all these links to categories about him in the Open Directory Project.

I don't know what that was supposed to mean.

• I'm sitting in the last row of bleachers, surrounded by mostly middle-aged women. The speakers standing on the gymnasium floor are as well and I'm really not quite sure why I'm here. There is no wall behind me but instead I have an elevated view of a small department store--salepeople and customers weave among the wares below me and I watch half-consciously, bored with the speakers. To my left I notice a bald-headed man, perhaps thirty-five years of age, watching me calmly. He must have just arrived since I didn't see him before. He slides closer to me and his face is eerily familiar, though I am sure this is our first meeting. Right from the beginning of our interaction he acts as comfortably and informally as if we're close friends of many years. "So you're really bored and not sure what you're doing here, huh?" I tell him he's right, mentally impressed at how perceptive he is. "Oh I just know how to pay attention to people." Our further conversation betrays the fact that this man is reading my every thought. Not only that, his comments subtley reveal a deep knowledge of my nature: my past, my habits, interests, virtues and character flaws. This becomes apparent when he starts anticipating my reactions to him even before I form them. He pokes a nerve cluster in my leg with his finger as if to satirize my patterned responses to him. At first I'm a little uncomfortable at his intimacy but I quickly understand that he doesn't bind himself with cultural conventions as most "civilized" people today do; furthermore, he's not bothering to censor himself just because I initially react with discomfort--he knows as well as I that I'm reacting out of habit, not out of any true discomfiture. It is soon made obvious that I am in the presence of a Master, an awakened Buddha. His behavior--an amazing mixture of piercing intellect, desocialized eccentricity, and childlike playfulness--only confirm him as the ideal trickster guru. Something clicks and I realize I am sitting face to face with my own Guru, the teacher whose unconditional love and unflinching honesty will point me the way back to the One. I've seen his smooth and legendary head in visions during this life but never before have I shared words with him or felt his physical touch. In awed reverence, I ask for his name so that I may come one step closer to reuniting with him in the waking world. He tells me, "For now you can just call me Yogin."