The Visual8

Smells of animal sweat, aging garbage, and wet stone, find your nose long before your foot finds cobblestone.

You press forward into town. The sky deepens.

People look down as they pass. Silent in their evening march.

Conversations elsewhere decorate the breeze. Cressets illuminate the main street.

You stop a woman in a long skirt. Her head is covered. She shoulders a leather satchel.

You ask for directions to the Crown and Serpent. She speaks slowly. You move in the direction of her raised finger.

Your eyes move from left to right and back again. Aware of your own strangeness.

Many yards away, a large tavern sign appears. Two round circles intersect like links in a chain. One circle is a faded, gold crown. The other an ivy-colored serpent biting it’s tail. You move closer towards the infinity symbol.

The smell of sandalwood, gardenias, and beeswax disrupts your attention. Your head swivels right.

Down a narrow street, another shingle shows the silhouette of a man’s head with an extraordinarily long nose. The profile wears a cap with a large ostrich feather.

“The Dreamer” is painted underneath as if it were smile. It’s general shape mirroring the brim of the hat.

Curiosity pulls you closer. Candlelight flickers behind hand-blown glass next to the door. You reach for the handle to open.

Inside, a man writes behind a desk. The small bald spot on the top of his head faces you. 

Smells ricochets off the walls. Cedar at first. Then rose. Warm tea. More beeswax.

The Dreamer lifts his head. The skin on his face toned in deep olive. Smile lines frame his face.

You note his tight, green velvet vest and ruffled white shirt. An amulet hangs from his neck. It is in the shape of a valentine the size of Persian lime. It is decorated with the Nordic Tree of Life.

His actual nose is covered by a costume nose you might find in a stage rendition of Cyrano de Bergerac. Strings tied around his head keep it afloat.

“Welcome,” says the Dreamer.

“Your scent says that you are not from here. That today’s journey was met with a hot sun.”

“Please come in and look around. We sell candles, soap, and hand-made paper. Only the finest!”

“Maybe a gift for a loved one!”

You raise your hand to slow his enthusiasm.

“Actually, I was on my way to the Crown and Serpent. The fragrance of your shop lured me in,” you say.

A smile blooms on his face. Rising, he straightens the vest.

“Tell me, Stranger. What is the hurry? The ale will continue to flow long into the evening.”

You explain your need to be home.

“Your expression tells me that there is more to this story,” says the Dreamer. “And I love a good story.”

“Please sit with me so that I may find some satisfaction on this day. There have been no shoppers and my heart aches for company.”

He gestures to the wooden stool in front of the desk. You comply.

He asks how you came to this town. You rewind your memory of the adventure. Of the conversations with the Materialist and with the Witness.

He lets out a small sigh.

“Yes. Those are interesting points on consciousness. Ask yourself how you felt in those moments.”

Silence yawns as you attempt to remember.

“Was there no warmth in your chest?! No tingling in your fingers? No butterflies in the belly?”

His tone lightens. “Remember a time when your young hands presented a gift to your mother. What was she feeling?”

“Well, she cried. But I knew that those were tears of joy, not pain,” you say.

“Exactly!” says the Dreamer.

“Becoming aware of how another person FEELS is consciousness, too. It is the foundation for empathy, dinner table manners, and skilled leadership,” he says. The tempo of his speech now hastening.

“You don’t originate the feeling, you mirror it.”

“Isn’t wonderful?!” he says.

“Recall a sporting match where a player is injured. Are there not gasps from the spectators? They are not injured and yet they react.”

The room floods with the smell of orange blossoms. Your attention sharpens.

“Oh, the power of consciousness moves further still!” says the Dreamer.

“When you walked into my shop, did you not sense that my goal was to flatter your appetite with my wares? That I hoped to sell you a treasure you could not live without?”

“Or maybe when your neighbor spoke insult, you kept calm.”

“This is awareness of someone’s intention. A man judges a stranger by what they say. A man judges a friend by what they intend,” says the Dreamer.

“This is a second, deeper dimension of consciousness.”

“Come with me,” says the Dreamer.

You walk to framed picture. The etching depicts a young king sitting in a throne with a sword dangling from a wire overhead. The king wrests his head in his hands, deep in thought.

“What does this mean to you?” says the Dreamer.

“This is the story of Damocles. Doom awaits those who seek power. Or is just a small snip way,” you say.

“How does it make you FEEL?” he says.

“Well. Both sadness and aversion. I sense how terrible responsibility might become. And that my desire is not to wield power but to live as I wish,” you say.

“Bravo. You are far ahead of others your age. When we have awareness of what the heart truly seeks, we attain a level of consciousness few realize.”

“When people seek wealth, what they really seek is abundance. The desire for vacation is no more than proxy for freedom. And chasing fame is a cry for feeling honored. All of these can be achieved with a shift in mindset not a shift in circumstance.”

“So what do you truly want?” asks the Dreamer. “What lives in your dreams?”

You scan your thoughts. Too many things crowd your mind.

A moment passes.

“I have a gift for you,” says the Dreamer.

He walks back to the desk and opens a drawer. A whiff of parchment escapes.

“Take this paper and pencil. On your journey home, write a letter to your younger self. Reflect on the choices you made 10 years ago that have delivered benefit to you now. Offer appreciation for that which is realized. Write with an open heart, free from judgement.”

He slips the materials into an envelope. Then ties it with a string. He walks closer. You smell his age.

You tuck the gift under your arm. He lays his right hand on your left shoulder. Your eyes stare down the barrel of the prosthetic nose to his brown eyes.

“One more thing,” he says. “I have shared three types of consciousness with you. But there is one more which is greater still.”

“Many live in a cage of their own making with the keys in hand. They feel destined to suffer. They forget they have the means to escape the box.”

“When you find yourself in lack, train your awareness on infinite possibilities. We are artists of the future. Our masterpiece lives on the canvas of who we become.”

His hand drops.

You thank him in the best way you know how, but feel that the words do not live up to his generosity.

You make your way to the door and out to the cool night air.