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~ Ion Nocalov and the Girl of Fire ~

Morning of January 21, 2014. Tuesday.

I think I am in the same apartment as the manticore dream, but the layout is different and seemingly a bit bigger. Burl Ives is a chubby version of Sigmund Freud. Whatever next? Well, I guess this is my “celebrity year” after all. Somehow, though, he is also a Russian man named Ion Nocalov. None of this makes any sense, of course, but why should it? In my mind, I can easily see Sigmund Freud and Burl Ives as the “same person” for several reasons. Both are sort of a “doubting Thomas”. In the case of Burl Ives, he denied Magnus - but came to know the truth. In the case of Sigmund Freud, I can say with a good degree of certainty that I do not agree with a single thing he has ever written on anything. And as for Ion Nocalov…well…I do not know who that is. He seems to be getting ready to leave and has a cigar stuck in his face and is putting on a shabby burlap-bag-like coat over his pristine white suit. He pauses, looks at his waistcoat watch, and writes some notes on a yellow pad on his desk. I get the impression it is my desk and my apartment, and he seems to be imposing in astounding ways, but I do not say a word. For a moment, I hear ocean waves, so we may not be on Third Street in La Crosse, even though I am almost certain.

A fire nymph runs around the room. I am astounded. Burl does not notice. I point. He looks. She is gone - how annoying. After a time, I notice that there is a Scrabble tile holder on the desk, with Scrabble letters that spell out “Sigmund Fraud”. I am amused that Ion/Sigmund/Burl has not noticed this blatant error.

I put my hand into the fire upon the next appearance via the “abdomen”. It does not burn. Burl aka Ion is talking on the phone. He keeps saying “what?” I thought he had been responding to me as I am speaking but this is not the case. For a moment, I think he catches a glimpse of the girl of fire from the corner of his eye. “I’m calling the fire department,” he says loudly. I can hear the old-style rotary noises as if he is dialing about twenty numbers or more - which is quite ridiculous, as emergency numbers are of less digits, not a lot more.

The fire nymph grabs a TV remote and turns on a very large television. Assuming it is the La Crosse apartment, it is the southern wall. “My name is Mok, thanks a lot” sings an animated “Lou Reed” (I recall a precognitive dream of his death on October 27, 2013). I have not thought of this “song” at all in at least twenty years or more? IMDb reports it is from “Rock & Rule” from 1983. The IMDb plot summary (errors corrected) is “Angel, a member of a punk rock band in the apocalyptic future, is kidnapped by Mok, a legendary super-rocker. Obsessed with a dark experiment, Mok plans to use Angel’s voice to summon a demon from another dimension. The rest of the band follows Mok to Nuke York in an attempt to get her back.” (“Nuke York”? Oh brother.) I can honestly say that I saw this at least once over twenty years ago but have not thought about it at all since I saw it. In fact, I think I forgot all about it for the most part (except for that annoying “song”) an hour after I saw it.

“What’s this sh—?” asks Burl aka Sigmund aka Ion. “I don’t know,” I say with my jaw hanging open. “Mok doesn’t even rhyme with lot.”

“Well, that’s really stupid,” he replies, talking through his cigar, and turns off the television.

Suddenly, the west wall (an internal division) explodes outward and the fire girl is on a black horse, sort of swaying as if listening to a slower song, with the horse breathing misty tendrils. “F—k me!” says Burl. He sounds almost like plaster “speaking”…or what plaster would sound like if it could talk. There is a roaring and a “quivering” in the environment that is not quite right, like being inside of a can someone is shaking. “Dragon! Dragon!” he yells, leaving the room. “It’s not a dragon, it’s a horse,” I say calmly, but he is gone. I decide to risk it and walk into the imagery. It is almost like feeling my way around in a dark room as I am not oriented to the environment “correctly” somehow - more like the top part of my body and the lower part of my body are in two different frames of reference.

I find myself on the horse behind the nymph. We fly over pools of beautiful glowing lava and “lava falls”, forest fires, arctic regions, blizzards, the ocean, both stormy and calm, including the rolling waves at El Jobean, and lakes glowing orange from reflected sunlight as the sun is setting. It goes on and on. It reminds me vaguely of other dreams where there is a clear physical awareness, yet at the same time, the world is moving when the body is mostly in one point in space.

I am back at North Monroe street as a boy (Florida). It seems very odd to move about, taking longer to get somewhere with shorter legs. I look over the small stack of comic books on the tank in the bathroom. There was “The Cowsills”, the “Hot Stuff” one where he is shooting at a three-headed ogre (apple on each head?) with his trident, a Walt Disney one with Magica De Spell and something about hiding inside a brick fence or wall, I think, and a Bugs Bunny one with Daffy Duck.

My older brother Jim (deceased) is smiling and sitting on the couch along the south wall in the living room when I tell him of the great Russian psychologist, Ion Nocalov, who thought that all horses were dragons.

Then the dream changes a little as he tries to copy the name I say, acting as if it is a clever invention. “Vola Con Noi! We can fly!”

Added note: If it was not for this quite vivid dream, I would have surely lived the rest of my life without ever thinking of “Rock & Rule” again. Funny how things can be “hidden” like that, yet remembered to some extent with “cues”. This is actually one of the only movies presently that I had “forgotten” so much of this way in my lifetime. I wonder what that says about the movie.

The mashed up image is with other fairly recent entries, was going to use it in an additional notes entry, but will include it with this one.

Important additional note: One of the most absurd things I have ever read regarding Freud was how a particular person apparently did not have a “wish fulfillment” dream (according to that dreamer’s view) and this was determined by Freud to be a “wish fulfillment” dream anyway, because it was the “wish” of the dreamer to prove that not all dreams were wish fulfillment relative to Freud’s theory. This was so pathetic and absurd that it instantly (in my mind) demoted Sigmund Freud to the level of a cartoon character. It is probably one of the most absurd things I have read on dreams.

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