Posted January 2nd, 2001
THE DREAM
It was a dream from my journal, dated Feb. 7th, 1999. It demonstrates just how important the journal was; I would have never remembered this. I hadn't. I was totally shocked to read it.
"So I had awesome dreams again all of last night. I'm always having awesome dreams these nights. Last night, I can barely remember, but I was with Michael Stipe; we were before a lot of people but it wasn't a stage. I was sitting near him but my features were changed; they were considerably prettier. I had an unnatural, deep rose blush at the height of my cheeks, a longer narrower face, and the starkness was amplified; I was Snow White, in white, with jet ebony shining hair in long curls and pale, pale skin. I had an arch-typical name, I was his Sister Rose, and he was going to tell them about me finally, now that he'd met me."
"with all i'd asked
and all i'd pray
the last rose of summer would stay"
Speed Kills (Corgan, 2000)
Now I know you can hardly believe I had that dream, if you even take dreams as having merit. But it is in my journal, and that section of the journal is un-modified since April 1999. It hasn't been touched since then. The "last modification date" is there to prove it.
The thing is that in reading the dream, I realized that feature wise I had looked more like Yelena in the video, than I had looked like myself, petite, heavily made up, I'd been done up in the same costume. I practically doubled over in shock at the recall.
THE PSYCHIC
The Psychic who roams the streets of Dublin is a very brave man. The reason I say this is because he lives in deliberate poverty, his chosen condition, like Francis of Assisi might. He does this to retain his sense of identity with the poor and homeless. He rides this edge very closely. But I believe it is his choice of lifestyle. Which makes him much braver than myself, for my chosen condition is within the realms of common comfort. It is very ironic to be told by such a one that you are the salt of the earth, earth's suffering met in your tears. For he suffers much more than you ever would. Remember that some choose. They choose their level of living rather than aspire. They do this because that way they will not be contaminated by the society they were born into. In this the psychic and I had common identity.
It is time to meet your "Bullet with Butterfly Wings". The bullet with butterfly wings is exactly true. Meet my protagonist, Aoreth, my wee fairy femme, her of my little story. The one who felt into him, entered an unspoken troth. She's a sylph that's been transmuted into a human. Her wings, when she had them, were gossamer, akin to a butterfly's.
Let me take you to my third encounter with the psychic, on the streets in Temple Bar. The psychic is dancing and mad tonight, traipsing about to the buskers with his cane. Said he hoped to see me today, he'd found me a gift, knew he would see me. He danced up to my eyes with the disclaimer, "You have a light there, a special one. Where'd you get that light? And don't tell me it came from your parents!" He chortled.
"No, it didn't."
"I'm going to tell you about your love."
"How do you know about my love?"
"You told me with your eyes that night in the Square." (I knew the moment. I had. They'd shot clean through with the pain. That was after Christmas.)
"You will be with him. God wants you to be with him. God wants you to be happy!"
"Really." (At this point I doubt it.) "So, if you know him, tell me his name." (It was a real question.)
"What! Do you want me to pop right into a belly button!" More waltzing on the cobbles in accompaniment to his cane. More people looking askance wondering if he's mad. I'm right in my element. But not. Nothing has changed much. Affirmation in common reality comes from the fringe, when I am not really the fringe.
"He needs you more than you need him. He wants you more." Cha-ching!
"That's not true. I know why he thinks that, but it's not true. I need him just as much."
"You will have to wait for him to come to you." Boom! -He ends every statement with an exclamatory as if he's making hits in a game of Battleship. It was amusing...
"I know that. That's all I can do." (The delivery had happened in London.)
"You will get a postcard from him next week." I told him, bluntly, that this was impossible, (wrong medium), besides he didn't know I was here, in Dublin. At least I didn't think he did. It was still the wrong medium. It turned out he was right, if not on the missive; it was the video, "Stand Inside Your Love", that came the next week.
"He wants to come here." I retorted that was impossible. The last of the reasons he was coming, purportedly (there were three, and I forgot two), was "to be with his lady love."
The other thing he added was,
"You have wings. You should make yourself a pair of wings and wear them out, all the time. But they're not feathers; they're like a butterfly's."
"Of course," I answered. They're Aoreth's wings, my wee fairy femme's. I'd designed them myself.
There was one last thing, he said, "Your lucky number is four."
-No shit? I already knew that, and it wasn't just the four proofs I'd handed to Bono, or the fourth one. Four just kept coming up and up.
Oh, yes, he speculated I'd be the first female pope. I told him no way.
Even a blooming psychic just tells me things I already know.
What he gave me was a key chain. It had the name "Pamela" on it. Pamela means "all honey". "She is a true lady; soothing, lovely, engaging, both sweet tempered and explosive. A parcel of dynamite." That is what it said. I laughed uproariously. "Honey's Dead", I thought. So the psychic said for my pseudonym I should call myself Pamela. I responded Pamela Williams.
Aoreth [was] in MACHINA MYSTERY 3.
