Myths are public dreams. Dreams are private myths. 

-Joseph Campbell

Watery Winter Field

there was a man on a boat a while back that looked like a person I used to know long before. and, much later, a woman sitting by a window with her husband in an eatery that looked like my kind and departed aunt. there was another man standing that strongly resembled my high school Latin teacher. This person looked like that person. I remembered that I read somewhere Joseph Campbell said or wrote that over thirty, everyone can kind of reminded you of someone else. Campbell was saying it neutrally. I found it sad for some reason. 

The funny thing to me was that though I look as different than Joseph Campbell as much as anything,- I started to notice that he reminded me of someone. I couldn’t place it at first. Then I realized he looked and spoke like my maternal grandfather. If someone said, ‘These two are brothers,’ there is nobody that would question that. 

I was soon in a field and wore the wrong shoes. Though it was saturated with water in most parts,- I somehow managed not to get too wet. But there was no hawk or anything of much interest. Hmm,- I thought, ~There is simply nothing going on.~ I wished that it was an old summer, or a new one, or any summer, if it had flowers and the warm earth, some verdant scenes, and blue skies. I could even be riding a horse somewhere, and at that place there would be tree branches providing moments of shade, a respite from the sun when it became too bright.

And the branches that cast shadows would be so interesting as they looked like the arms of forest creatures benevolent gesturing, so animated as they were having great conversations about the history of the woodlands whimsical and wild but maybe even,- who is to say?- loquacious talk about the history of the whole world? I thought briefly of a soul that reminded me of the beauty of the moon. The moon does not have cheekbones or beautiful dark eyes, clean long hair that shines, so this makes no sense,- but- the soul’s energetic countenance reminded one of the good senses of the moon. and I thought that in the far past, when I stood on a sand shore by the sea and the dusk dimmed the world, that it was interesting to experience that. 

I remembered a dream but didn’t understand the meaning. Inside the dream a person sat to my left. I knew them a very little bit in the dream. I did not recognize them at all from real life. I guessed something about them correctly. 

‘I am making the guess that you are a Libra.’

‘I am.’

‘Wow. I guessed right.’

‘Yes. How did you know?’

‘I don’t know how I knew. But it’s pretty good because if there are ten signs it would be a ten percent chance at guessing correctly. Since there are twelve signs, the chance of guessing is less than ten percent.’ 

I didn’t dislike Libras. or really like them. I wondered why it couldn’t be a Leo or Aries, or even Virgo. something like that. Libra? Libra didn’t mean much to me. I would have to think about the dream. Something about fairness and balance?-or justice?- I didn’t know. I put my right hand in real life,- while pausing in the watery winter field, on the back of my neck. to help prevent a headache. my neck was cold. I was tired. Looking around whilst I did this, I did see a bird atop a tree. I don’t know what kind of bird it was, but it was looking at me. It remained still. I liked this bird. A loner bird. I looked on. It looked on. then I began my way back home at least having seen something.