Aleister Crowley & Dreaming in Transgender
I was planning on writing some Hallowe’en appropriate flash fiction for today’s Bobtober blog, but, well, after what went down last night, I believe something else is in order…
As I’m sure most of you have become aware, I have many a strange and vivid dream.
Last night’s was one for the ages.Of course, with dreams being little more than so much effluvium upon waking, this one is quickly slipping away from me.
I’ll recall what I can.
First off, as the dream began I was a woman. Attractive by anyone’s standards. I was thin, tall, with flowing red hair, wearing a blazer, jeans, and knee-high boots with a low heel. I believe I was either an investigative reporter or some form of international special agent.
But I was me. Yes, I know…weird, but it seemed perfectly natural in dreamland.
I was in some sort of command center with high-tech screens that were doing satellite surveillance on some European country. My friend Dan Chaplin was manning the controls and my wife was there. She was my partner in the investigation.
Dan zoomed in and the viewscreen revealed an urban center with a river bisecting the city. Over the river was a castle/dam. Dan made note that these were week old shots, then changed the view to show the current location. Next to the castle was a modern tower. We had a target and we were going in.
Then the scene changed and I was the male me, riding in a compact car with Rodney Carlstrom and some young woman I didn’t know. They had a flat tire but only had a donut spare. The three of us walked into some sort of mall and into a BF Goodrich store where I negotiated getting them a new tire for their vehicle.
I changed the tire and was placing the bad tire back in the trunk when, as the trunk lid closed, I realized I was the redhead again and this was a different car and my wife and I were outside the office building, the castle/dam structure a few blocks away.
Kim and I entered the building and approached a guard beside the elevator. He asked for a password and I responded, “Cornelius”. He replied, “Jerry. Hello.” like Uncle Leo from Seinfeld.
We took an elevator up to the offices of an international law firm. Stepping off the elevator, I nodded to the secretary, noticing two framed Thoth Tarot cards on the wall behind her. On an adjoining wall was a framed print of the interior fold-out art from Led Zeppelin’s Houses of the Holy.
Moving down the hall, we passed several meeting rooms, filled with business men and women arguing. The hallway had bookshelves lining the walls adorned with works written by Aleister Crowley and Phyllis Seckler. A photograph of Grady McMurtry sat on a corner table atop a stack of ancient books, grimoires obviously. A spider was crawling on the glass.
My wife and I continued down the hall and I picked the lock on a door at the end. Inside was an office with a massive executive desk, wood paneled walls, and framed Aleister Crowley art and photographs.
I approached one and took it down from the wall. It was a page torn from a Rolling Stone article on Crowley in an elaborate and very expensive gold frame.
I turned to my wife and said, “You can never truly know the depths of someone’s obsession until they’ve done something like this.”
Then a door appeared in the wall where there wasn’t one before and dark suited men came pouring into the room armed with semi-automatic handguns. My wife and I ran, escaping to the elevator, dodging bullets all the way. We raced across the main lobby and out onto the street, jumping into our car, the old brown K-Car I drove back in the late 80s, and we sped away.
I turned to look behind us and saw that Alan Moore and Matt Ryan were in the backseat. “Best get a move on,” Moore said. “Why bother?” Ryan as Constantine asked, but he sounded like George Harrison. “Because dead is dead, wherever it happens,” Moore answered.
We were now in a high speed chase, assuredly pursued by agents of the OTO, Moore explained. I turned onto the road that went over the dam/through the castle, and that’s when we got t-boned by an armored truck and the scene suddenly shifted.
I was myself again, sitting on a carpeted floor with my son. We were playing with toy versions of the car and truck. We were inside a ring of over-turned couches with cardboard buildings set up all around and a blue sheet folded up and snaking across the carpet simulating the river.
Connor was discussing the scene and wondering if the people in the car would have died from the collision. I explained that that was for the author to decide.
Then I woke up.