Last night I dreamt of Kali. Or Mahakali, actually, the greatest aspect of Kali. When I woke up my hands were shaking. I’ve been drinking coffee with whiskey ever since. It’s Saint Patrick’s Day, after all, and I’m Irish. Nobody’s going to expect me to get through the day sober.
I only remember bits and pieces of the dream now. I tried to write down some notes when I woke up, but my hands were shaking so much that I couldn’t hold the pencil. Not that the dreams was that bad, exactly. It just seemed… overwhelming. It felt real. When I woke up I didn’t feel like I had just woken from a dream. I felt like I had just returned from being somewhere else. That’s hard to put into words, really.
I remember standing over a valley. Somehow I knew that I was in Kashmir. I expected to be there. Below me, armies were battling. It was a bloodbath. Think of the old-fashioned hand-to-hand combat you see in war movies, only with automatic weapons and bayonets. But in the midst of the chaos seemed to be a moving wave, like you’re looking down on a field of wheat and something is moving through it. Wherever that wave went, it left behind it dismembered bodies and a trail of blood. It’s impossible to express the carnage.
In that detached way you have in dreams, though, I wasn’t repulsed. Just the opposite. I was exhilarated. And I watched as that wave of horror washed through and across the bodies of the soldiers and, in a meandering way, worked its way toward me. I remember stepping back and stumbling to the ground, and suddenly there was a rush of energy – a palpable force of will and existence which took my breath away.
It was the presence of Mahakali herself. She stood over me. Beautiful and terrifying. She was naked. Her blue skin was drenched in blood. In each of her arms she held long blades which were distinct and yet somehow a part of her, like extensions of her arms. I closed my eyes and opened my arms to embrace my death, but instead felt only a sudden rush of warmth against me and Mahakali’s breath upon my neck. She kissed me and caressed my breasts and began making love to me. With all of her hands upon me, she kissed her way down my belly and between my legs, and she began to devour me.
What happened next is hard to describe. It’s the only reason I’ve mentioned the sexual aspect of it instead of just brushing over the expected “we did it in the dirt”. Her spirit entered me with all the warm, throbbing physicality of a penis, and yet at the same time I realized that she was literally consuming me, first with small bits of flesh, and then with great bites and chunks. Each bite was incredibly painful, but indescribably orgasmic. Each bite was a release. And with each bite I felt myself becoming more and more a part of Mahakali herself. She was entering me, and I was entering her, and we were both becoming the other, one and the same. It was bloody and terrifying, pain I cannot express and yet it also felt so good. Literally agony and ecstasy.
And then in that next moment I found myself squatting on that ridge-line overlooking the valley, marveling at my many arms, licking my own blood from my wrists, and looking down at the evil ones below. I had become Mahakali and she had become me. The soldiers made me angry. The fighting enraged me. In a great roar I found myself leaping down into the melee, my hands become swords like long fingers, and I felt the warmth of flesh being rent from bone as if my blades were a part of my body. I cut through hundreds, or even thousands, of soldiers, awash in their blood and gore, and cut a swath through them toward the center of the battle where there seemed to emanate a strange, white light.
Suddenly I stumbled from the press of bodies into a wide, clear circle. While the battle still raged all around me, no one ventured into that circle. In the middle of it knelt a small, naked girl with incredible blue eyes, shimmering blonde hair and a serene expression upon her face. She beckoned me, smiling, and I went to her. She reached up and touched my face. As she did my rage dissipated. I found myself weak-kneed and sank to the ground before her. She just smiled.
“It is not the time,” she said.
Just like that, I was awake and sitting on the side of the bed. I could still feel the blood and gore upon my skin. I could still feel the warmth of the bodies where my long fingers had sliced deep into the flesh. I could still hear the screamed of the dying. And yet what had horrified me so was a few words from a little girl.
I can still hear her voice.
“It is not the time.”
I wish I knew how to summarize this experience. It was just a dream, perhaps. Nothing to be overly obsessed about. And yet as I’ve walked around the house today everything seems different. It is as if Mahakali is still a part of me. Tam hugged me earlier and all I could think about was the beating of her heart and her pulse in her neck as I lay my head upon her shoulder. I feel as if I am between worlds somehow. And yet no special messages have come to me. No revelations. I simply see the world through different eyes. I am me, and yet I am not, and everything is different. The same, but different. Like waking up in your own house and realizing that you are from somewhere else. You are someone else.
Tam knows I am in an odd way today and is keeping her distance. I’ve been arguing with some of the well-meaning souls on the PaganCentric web site, trying to get back to normal by sparring over Saint Patrick’s Day. Yet it all seems so meaningless. I’m trying to live out a normal day in an ordinary life, and yet at the same time I feel as if something profound as just happened in Kashmir, and I am the only human being in North American who knows about it.
With that in mind, we need things from the supermarket, and I’ve been elected for the trip. It’s my turn. Maybe that’s what I need to get back to normal; a trip into suburbia. Or maybe I’ll get as for as the bread aisle and find that without meaning to I have brought Mahakali down upon the unsuspecting hordes in Asheville.