The Furious Spinner

Through the cane field come a lullaby
Say a prayer for the lost and the broken down
It don't matter where you come from
You will end up being from the wrong town
—Randall Bramblett, "Queen of England"

Dreamed of birds last night. The day had been a cocoon of depression. Trouble breathing. Took lots of drugs. They probably caused the depression. Or the worry caused it. Breathing is so basic for our lives. It is terrifying when it is obstructed. Metaphorically trouble breathing is supposed to be about fear. Whenever I read something like that, I think, "Yeah, I'm fearful because I can't fucking breathe!" Felt myself falling all day, until finally, I could not talk. Curled up next to Mario, and he held me in his big ol' bear arms.

I used to dream about bears all the time. They chased me and Mario in dream after dream. In one dream, I looked down at my own huge grizzly claws: I was a grizzly bear. That felt quite powerful. In another dream, this bear was wreaking havoc on the neighborhood. He broke the window to our house and was about to come in and kill us all. So I turned and faced him. I offered to make love to him if he would leave everyone else alone. From the sidelines, my friends shouted, "No, no, you don't have to sacrifice yourself! Don't do it!" But I did, and the bear calmed down.

Once I dreamed I went into a cave and an elder taught me for a long while. When I was finished with my lessons, I went into a museum where they were celebrating something. An old woman came up to me, hugged me, and said, "Good-bye, Ursula." I knew it was time to go out into the world. Ursula means "she-bear." After that dream, I wrote Her Frozen Wild which is all about bears and the shape-shifting People.

In most cultures, bears are venerated. They are often seen as our revered ancestors: we are descended from bears. In Siberia, elaborate ceremonies are associated with hunting the bear. The bear is not called by its true name. "Grandfather, grandfather, please forgive us. We do not mean to kill you. Grandfather, grandfather, come out and save us."

I was deeply honored to be named Ursula in my dream. But it didn't seem to make a difference in my life. If I truly had bear medicine, wouldn't I be healed?

But I wasn't healed. After I finished writing Her Frozen Wild, the bear dreams stopped.

Before I went to sleep last night, I thought, "All have deserted me. I don't even dream any more."

I had a dream
it didn't make no sense
I saw myself tangled up in a barbed wire fence
—Randall Bramblett, "Queen of England"

I am the Queen of Dreams. At least I used to be. I could have twenty dreams a night and remember them all. I can remember my first nightmare. I was four. My young sister sat rocking in a chair, and her head was empty, and my grandmother was a witch chasing us. Typical kid dream. I had nightmares nearly every night of my life until I was about twenty-six. For many years, nightly, I dreamed someone was trying to kill me. When I was little, my parents couldn't get me to go to sleep. I would hide—and rant and rave about how unfair it was that I had to sleep. I don't think I ever told them why I didn't want to go to bed.

Because of these dreams (I suppose) when I entered a room, I'd always check for exits. In case the stalker from my dreams was a real life character who found me, I needed to have a way out. I did this well into my thirties. Once, my college roommate dreamed she opened the door to my bedroom and saw all these horrible things happening. She said, "Geez, Kim has vivid dreams." Then she closed the door again.

When I married Mario and moved out West, the nightly nightmares diminished. They became more populated with animals than with psychopaths. I often dreamed of wounded deer. Once I was in love with a Frog Prince. I dreamed of people shapeshifting into animals and vice versa. Can you imagine if that were possible? How wonderful! How healing. I often dream of cougars. And birds. Once I dreamed I was an eagle trapped inside my car. I let myself out (there were two of me), then I headed away from me, in the opposite direction of home, stripping off my clothes as I went.

Last night, the birds returned. An owl (I think) was teaching her owlets how to fly. I peeked through the blinds to watch them as they practiced from a huge old oak in my parents' yard. I like that the birds have returned to my dreamscape. I awakened feeling almost refreshed. Perhaps I dreamed of birds because I heard yesterday that the swans have returned to Franz Lake. I can hardly wait to go see them. Being near them is like being part of a real life fairy tale—a good one.

We went flying down a two lane
God knows why we didn't see the bridge out
She went down in yellow water
Now it's all in the world I can think about
—Randall Bramblett, "Queen of England"

I don't know what dreams are. Mario thinks they are meaningless, just random firings of neurons in our brains. Perhaps they mean different things to different people. I have had dreams which I believe saved my life. I attempted suicide when I was in college. I was in a fog for a long while afterward, and I wasn't sure I was going to make it. I knew I was going to be all right when I dreamed that a forest nymph came to me and made love to me all night long. I knew in the dream (and then in real life) that I was loved and that I deserved a life. But I have had many more dreams where I was raped, molested, murdered, and told I was dying.

A couple of years ago, I compiled some of my dreams. I thought if I read all my dreams I would figure out what I was all about—figure out how to be a whole healthy individual. After I typed up about a third of the dreams I had written down over a twenty year period, I did keyword searching to see what I dreamed about.

Animals figured prominently, although I was surprised to find I dreamed mostly about dogs and horses. Birds, cougars, and bears came next. I dreamed a great deal about asthma, doctors, and health and/or healing. I had an amazing amount of dreams about the goddess, my father, children, Mother (as opposed to Mom), Native Americans, and my high school boyfriend. Of course, I dreamed about Mario more than anyone. Many of my dreams took place in churches (which surprised me) or in the mountains. I was often on the road, often in a car.

I had lots dreams which I dreamed dozens of times, typical dreams: trying to have sex and being interrupted, being naked in public, being chased by dogs, etc. I had many many dreams of Mario or old boyfriends deciding they didn't love me any more. But what was amazing was that I had hundreds—more likely thousands; I stopped counting—of dreams about murder and/or rape. When I finished this little dream project, I wondered how someone with that much violence occurring in their night time could actually be a sane person. I thought, "Maybe I don't need to know this much about myself." And I put the dreams away.

The clouds are starting to lift across the river, and I can see sunshine and snow in the cliffs. It is morning. Time to put away my dreaming. Time for breakfast and then a visit with the swans.

Everything gonna be all right
And the sun's gonna shine tonight
Everybody gonna come my way
And we'll understand it all one day
—Randall Bramblett, "Queen of England"

Here's a chapter from my novel Her Frozen Wild where they are hunting bear. The hunting part and how the men behave with the bear is true to life (since I took much of it from my research and then fictionalized it).

Chapter Two

Altai, Siberia ca. 1930

Asya hurried to catch up with the men, but the October snow was deep, each flake a tiny mirror reflecting the sun into her eyes. The landscape quivered. She wondered when they would find the bear. They had already passed one timeless cave, but they had not stopped, and somehow the men had gotten ahead of her. She followed the map their footprints made in the snow. In the distance the white hills wavered, as if they were part of a giant heat mirage.

Suddenly Asya heard the cries of the men, “Come out, Old One! The sun is warm enough for you to come out now!” She ran until she saw the men and boys from her village, dark figures on a plain of white standing in front of a snow-covered cave, its opening matching the darkness of the men. Asya walked closer to them. She no longer cared if they saw her. The men continued to chant and pound their spears on the icy ground in front of the cave.

The bear did not come out.

Two men—one of them Asya’s brother—stepped away from the group and ducked into the cave. The others stood quietly, their foggy breath steaming the cold. Asya heard drums and looked around for the kam, but he was not there—it was only her own heart she heard.

Then a rumble came from the cave. Or the ground shook. Something cried out: a baby’s wail? The men raised their spears all at once, as if they were one being with many arms. Asya’s brother and the other man rushed out of the cave. A dark blond darkness followed. The darkness roared, a sound that shook the snow mirrors and cleared Asya’s vision. The men stepped back from the bear.

“Old man!” someone called. “We are sorry. We are not the ones who do this to you!”

The bear tipped forward. Blood matted his chest. His mouth opened, and they fell upon him, plunging their spears into his flesh easily, as if he were a Christmas duck and their spears were forks and they were all fighting for the best piece.

Asya felt dizzy. The landscape was moving. She stared at the steam rising from the bear’s gaping wounds and wondered why her father and brother were killing this man. Why were the villagers carving up an old man for their next meal?

The air stank of sweet sticky blood.

Asya screamed.

The men stopped, shaken from their blood lust, and saw Asya for the first time.

She ran toward them, slipping on the bloody melting ice.

“How can you!” she cried. “Daddy! Why are you killing this man?” She dropped to the ground and cradled the bear’s head in her lap. She leaned closer and tasted his breath; as he died, he whispered secrets to her.

Her father pulled her up; the bearman’s head thudded against the frozen ground.

Blood soaked Asya’s clothes.

“She’s the bear's wife,” one man said.

“You told me we didn’t kill the People,” Asya said.

“We didn’t know,” her father said.

“It’s only a bear,” another man said. “Take her home. She will soon forget.”

Her brother reached for her, but Asya turned and ran. Her feet deftly took her over the icy snow; she heard someone behind her trying to catch up, but he kept falling through the snow. She ran until she reached the edge of the birch tree forest, her tears mixing with the bear’s blood. Her chest hurt too much from the cold air to go on. She hung on to a birch and tucked her chin into her coat until she breathed air warmed by her own body. A magpie stood on a branch above her, watching. Asya, the magpie, and the forest breathed together until she grew calm.

Then a breeze whispered to her, bringing the smell of bear. She looked up. Amongst the trees, a thick tall yellow-brown figure walked. The slender white trees almost looked like the bars of a cage, only this being was not contained. Asya blinked. It was a woman striding through the forest, wrapped in fur, walking on the ice-snow without slipping.

A woman who was not caged or contained.

Asya glanced back in the direction of the men hunting and then over her shoulder at the hill which hid her village from view. Then she looked through the trees again. The woman watched her.

Asya released the birch from her embrace and followed the woman deeper still into the wild.

All photographs and written material copyright © 2003-2008 by Kim Antieau unless otherwise indicated. May not be used without permission.