It's now night and I'm in my mother's house with my friend,
Thomas. I'm still in a flying mood so I take Thomas out in
the backyard so we can practice. Out there we find my friend,
Mario, sitting alone under the porch light. I get the feeling
that he wants to be alone but I convince him to try a little flight with
us. We start small by taking jumps from the ground to the roof of a
gazebo-like structure that isn't there in waking reality. We work up to
swooping from the gazebo roof to the roof of my house. I note that I've never been on my roof before (in waking life) and it looks a lot larger and Victorian than I'd thought. Mario's heart isn't in it so he just perches on the roof edge like a gargoyle while Thomas and I keep practicing. Between tries I sit on the gazebo admiring the nighttime view of the neighborhood--all lit up with the amber gold of sodium street lights. I also chat with Thomas about dreams since by this point I'm having an extremely lucid dream. It's perhaps
the best environment for a metaphysical discussion of reality with
your friend because you can say things like, "Ok Tom, how can you give the
waking world any kind of ontological priority when we're sitting
here, in a place that is indistinguishable from that world to your every sense? Look at that streetlight diffusing into the mist; listen to the sound of distant cars and the TV set next door; smell the wet grass; feel the texture of your clothes, your gurgling stomach and your palpitating heart--and yet this is a greater reality because it includes far more possibilities like human flight and this
oh-so-wonderful self-realization? Obviously, this reality can
include the waking reality while maintaining the verity of both.
The same can't be said for vice-versa, which is why they say a dream
isn't 'real'." Thomas catches my drift. Believe me, in that environment
it's a faultless argument.
I continue my practice, working my way higher and higher, leaping from the roof of my house and swooping down and up over the cul de sac in front. At some point, Thomas gives up and goes inside. Mario is nowhere to be seen. As I practice I re-learn a lesson which I've been taught in countless other lucid dreams from my past: thought is the sole determiner of what is possible and what is impossible. That is, sometimes when I'm about to leap into the air, a doubt enters my mind about my ability to fly. Invariably I will fail in that case. Only when my thoughts are purest confidence in my capability do I succeed. This is subtler and more difficult than it sounds because I might, just before jumping, have the thought: "Uh oh, I won't be able to fly if I have any doubts. What if I doubt?!" Again I will fail.
The long practice comes to a climax as I painstakingly mold my consciousness into a figure of concentration and confidence, pure of intention, free of doubt. It feels like my graduation moment and I will myself into the air, rising straightly vertical high above my house and neighborhood. The landscape of streetlights spreads out beneath me like an inverted starscape. Rivulets of streaming headlights & brakelights show the boulevards and highways. White halos hover above little league fields and the downtown mall. My mind thirsts for an ever-greater altitude, an ever-wider field of view. But suddenly a tiny doubt breaks through my defenses and I fall back into the town, back down into the field of lights to a strange street corner and a bar with music and the sound of raucous laughter emanating from within. Curious, I walk slowly through the open door and past the intoxicated patrons gathered around wooden counters along the wall. Everyone has brightly colored dyed hair and beards, where appropriate--flame red and vibrant blue are the most common. But the strangest thing about them is their faces: porcine snouts and thick steel ring piercings through nostrils, eyebrows, ears and septums. They aren't beasts or demons--just friendly men and women with pig faces having a good time. Some smile as I pass and I make my way through the crowd to the other exit. I walk out onto the porch and, with one last look to the bar, leap into the air and finish what I'd started.
Up and up, I return to the cool silence of the atmosphere. Up and up, the surrounding towns become visible and I'm so high now that the city below looks like a solid sheet of dully glowing copper. Up and up, until the distant ocean's presence becomes apparent by its matte black occultation of the shimmering night landscape. Above me the stars are brighter and more numerous than I have ever seen while awake. And I go higher still, until there is no world and I go higher--up to Heaven.