Dream Weaver Quotes

They're similar to the human idea of the sandman. They used to help people sleep. Now they're more prone to creating nightmares that end in death." Lucky's description of the dream weavers.

Our dream of happiness is waiting for another universe to collide with our own, and change what we ourselves cannot.

I am a teller of stories...a weaver of dreams. I can dance, sing, and in the right weather stand on my head. I know seven words of Latin. I have a little magic and a trick or two. I know the proper way to meet a dragon, can fight dirty but not fair, and once swallowed thirty oysters in a minute. I am not domestic. I am a luxury, and in that sense, necessary.

But the greatest dream of all is to know God and to know what he has intended for your life.

The Land of Dreams, that mystical realm, where the oddest of visions appear, come wander through scenes of joyful peace, or stampeded through nightmares of fear. Dare we open those secret doors, down dusty paths of mind, in long-forgotten corners, what memories we'll find. Who rules o'er the Kingdom of Night, where all is not what it seems? 'Tis I, the Weaver of Tales, for I am the Dreamer of Dreams!

Dare to dream, for in the daring there is defiance to live beyond your circumstances

When the weaver bird flies, nobody talks; when the busy bee flies, no one will make comments... But when a human being begins to fly, you begin to hear talks in the town such as "abomination!... where did he get the wings from?". Never mind! Your dreams are your wings, so decide to fly!

Library events scare me, as they provide refuge for local historians, fabulists, tellers of tall tales, historical reenactors, and even dream weavers. Not to mention the single most feared creature on the planet: the self-published poet

There are things in this comedy of Pyramus and Thisby that will never please. First, Pyramus must draw a sword to kill himself; which the ladies cannot abide. How answer you that? SNOUT By'r lakin, a parlous fear. STARVELING I believe we must leave the killing out, when all is done. BOTTOM Not a whit: I have a device to make all well. Write me a prologue; and let the prologue seem to say, we will do no harm with our swords, and that Pyramus is not killed indeed; and, for the more better assurance, tell them that I, Pyramus, am not Pyramus, but Bottom the weaver: this will put them out of fear. QUINCE Well, we will have such a prologue; and it shall be written in eight and six. BOTTOM No, make it two more; let it be written in eight and eight.

*You have learned well,* Dragon said. *But heed me, little one. You must guard the webs you weave that make dreams into flesh. Many beings will cherish those webs because they are spun out of magic that lives in the heart. But there will be others who will want to destroy that heart-magic before it can touch the world. Guard the webs . . . Weaver of Dreams.* Dragon’s breath came out in a long sigh . . . and then there was silence.

Take it!" he snarled, hurling the diamond necklace across the table at his opponent. "And may you rot in hell with it!" "I should not dream of intruding upon you there," replied Mr Brundy, bowing deeply from the waist.

I am the weaver of hope, searching shadows for silver strands of stars. I make light out of darkness. I make dreams out of scars.

Luckily for me, I loved books. Books can enlighten but can also benight, but at least one can play one off against another.

Love can end. It isn’t permanent by nature, whatever the weavers of fairy tales want to suggest. Forever takes hard work, and is destroyed by lies.

More than anything else, prayer enables you to see your own heart and brings you into alignment with God’s heart. Prayer is not a monologue in which we imagine ourselves to be communing with God. Rather, it is a dialogue through which God fashions your heart and makes his dream of you a reality. It is truly the treasured gift of the Christian that through direct answers and not-so-direct answers, the follower of Jesus begins to love God for who he is, not for what he may get out of him.

Vivian’s first impression of Solidago was that she had travelled back in time, but not to a time where architecture had been invented. All houses were twisted out of shape, to say the least. Windows either too large to open or too small to make a difference peppered the city in places one would never dream of having one. The walls were mostly cast in brickwork by the kind of stonemason whose day job was financial advising. Skewed walls with more bricks than mortar, knotted chimneys keeping the smoke inside and cupping rooftops whose main purpose was to gather rainwater – Solidago had it all and more. As the oldest civilization of the cosmos, Alarians might have been excellent at healing, philosophizing and weaving into the fabric of reality, but they were very poor city builders.

The marks life leaves on everything it touches transform perfection into wholeness. Older, wiser cultures choose to claim this wholeness in the things that they create. In Japan, Zen gardeners purposefully leave a fat dandelion in the midst of the exquisite, ritually precise patterns of the meditation garden. In Iran, even the most skilled of rug weavers includes an intentional error, the “Persian Flaw,” in the magnificence of a Tabriz or Qashqai carpet…and Native Americans wove a broken bead, the “spirit bead,” into every beaded masterpiece. Nothing that has a soul is perfect. When life weaves a spirit bead into your very fabric, you may stumble upon a wholeness greater than you had dreamed possible before.

When Ronan was young and didn’t know any better, he thought everyone was like him. He made rules for humanity based upon observation, his idea of the truth only as broad as his world was. Everyone must sleep and eat. Everyone has hands, feet. Everyone’s skin is sensitive; no one’s hair is. Everyone whispers to hide and shouts to be heard. Everyone has pale skin and blue eyes, every man has long dark hair, every woman has long golden hair. Every child knows the stories of Irish heroes, every mother knows songs about weaver women and lonely boatmen. Every house is surrounded by secret fields and ancient barns, every pasture is watched by blue mountains, every narrow drive leads to a hidden world. Everyone sometimes wakes with their dreams still gripped in their hands. Then he crept out of childhood, and suddenly the uniqueness of experience unveiled itself. Not all fathers are wild, charming schemers, wiry, far-eyed gods; and not all mothers are dulcet, soft-spoken friends, patient as buds in spring. There are people who don’t care about cars and there are people who like to live in cities. Some families do not have older and younger brothers; some families don’t have brothers at all. Most men do not go to Mass every Sunday and most men do not fall in love with other men. And no one brings dreams to life. No one brings dreams to life. No one brings dreams to life.

Leaving your dreams and living someone's dreams is like dipping a pole into a pool to catch a weaver bird alive! It doesn't work that way... Pursue what God sent you for!

Knowing the dark doesn't make you a monster. It's what you do in the darkness-and how you rise to overcome it-that matters.

Often the stories we tell ourselves are all we have to hold on to. Perhaps I should’ve let her go on dreaming.

Sloane bleeds into every thought. When we’re apart, her absence is an entity. I worry for her. I dream of her. And yesterday, I almost lost her.

Have you ever seen a man carry a burden when there were woman's shoulders near enough to shift it to?

Three things I have longed to see," murmured Miss Cynthia, pointedly. "The sea serpent, a white rhinoceros, and an unselfish man.

For I, too, am a mythmaker, a weaver of nightmares and dreams

A man says: "I love you - will you marry me?" What he really means is: "Will you come to look after my house, do my mending, bear my children, bring them up, cook for me when necessary, and see that the plumbing is in perfect order? I shall give you board and clothes, though you may have to speak several times about the clothes, and an occasional pat on the cheek.

If you’ve ever had a dream or goal that you’ve aspired to accomplish, never give up on it. If you have the perseverance and determination to follow your passion, then you can see it come into fruition. Surround yourself with positive people, keep your eyes on the prize and big doors will open. Be ready to step into them because once you do, there’s no turning back.

An introspective person seeks to attain a pure state of consciousness by merging finitude in infinity and by expressing the rapture of the soul through the contemplation and adoration of beauty. In this brief interlude of time, I surrender to becoming a cog in the roadway, an insentient time traveler, a ward of eternity, a day-tripper, a nighttime dream weaver, a blip in the cosmos, a freebase glob of energy, an imaginable disk of bundled vitality that wants for nothing.

When we’re apart, her absence is an entity. I worry for her. I dream of her. And yesterday, I almost lost her. Killing bound us together, and it’s a compulsion neither of us can live without. This need, and now this game between us, consumes me as much as she does.

By day we may deal with the airy superstructure of our emotions, but, at three in the morning, we get down to the foundation. At night the soul claims the right to stand face to face with itself, as before some mirror placed in a pitiless light and, with unsparing eyes, seek the truth.

Language is now my trade, boy, because I have become a skald.’ ‘A skald?’ ‘A scop, you would call me. A poet, a weaver of dreams, a man who makes glory from nothing and dazzles you with its making. And my job now is to tell this day’s tale in such a way that men will never forget our great deeds.

I’m never satisfied. I need stronger and stronger stimulation. But I’m a coward and a lazybones, so for the most part nothing happens beyond my imagining some excitement. I’m a speculator of the metaphysical. An adventurer only in my mind. A navigator within the reading room. In other words, I’m an insignificant dream-weaver.

Andrej’s mind, like any sane human’s, … or other sentient being's, was a constantly convulsing dialectical unity of consciousness and subconsciousness, the battening down and channelling of dreams and desires, the recurring re-creation of the subliminal by the contradictory, the rational-capricious ego. And vice versa. The interaction of levels of consciousness into an unstable and permanently self-renewing whole. Anrej's mind was not like the cold ratiocination of the Council, nor the poetic dream conciousness of the Weaver ... but with underlying structure and subconcious flow, with calculating rationality and impulsive fancy, self-maximizing analysis and emotional flow, it was [the combination thereof].

In the blackness of the midnight sleep world, immunized from the harsh glare of daytime reality, the active imagination of the soul dances in the mind of a dream weaver. Safely shrouded in the all-encompassing blanket of darkness supplied by nighttime sleep, our secret wishes speak to us by channeling the collective mythology of the primordial mind. During the wee hours of night, right before first light, we summon our personal muse to tell us in operatic fashion what it means to be human. If we listen carefully, our muse’s heart songs shares with us what it means to experience both the tragedy and comedy of life, and encourages us to unreservedly embrace in a moral manner the banality, brutality, beauty, and splendor of nature that occurs eternally in the cosmic world that swaddles us.

You're the only rag dolls I've seen in Dream Town," I comment, seeing myself reflected back in the features of their faces--something I've never known until now. The seams of Albert's mouth lift into a half smile. "There are a few others. Rag dolls like us, and also several Teddy Bears and Floppy-Eared Rabbits. They are all sleep-weavers, but they spend most of their time in the human world, helping lull children to sleep.

To make matters worse, the culture is a minefield of distraction. Over-stimulated at every turn, we find that our ideas of the good life often organize around fruitless gratifications and (in)convenient fictions fed to us by corporate dream weavers, preying on the uncentered consumer to further their own ends. Hooked in and worn down, we fall dead asleep on the bed of the marketplace, unknowingly inviting it to creep into our dreamscapes and organize our thinking. There are enemies of the sacred everywhere. Of course, the outer influences are only the tip of the soulberg. We wouldn’t be so easily manipulated by the marketplace if we were at peace with ourselves inside. We worry so much about our future only because we are living in the pain of the past. If you have one foot in the past and one foot in the future, you are pissing on the present.

Their blue blood was a myth, and perhaps in the secret places of their souls they knew it and suffered accordingly, thus bringing a little grain of bitterness into the conversation from time to time; and it was all very unnecessary, could they but have realised that it was simple honest bourgeois blood that made the best stock in the long run, giving to its descendants a capacity for work and achievement and straight thinking, whereas the other turned to water and produced the idler, the shirker, the weaver of sterile dreams.

All mammals dream. All mammals share the same neural structures that are important in sleeping and dreaming. If a person loses the ability to dream, they will die. Entering into a restorative dream world, our cells replenish themselves. In our dreams, we can engage in playacting without undertaking actual risks. Dreaming is an aesthetic activity, a creative act of communing with oneself in code. Dreams allow for the rehearsal of our participation in nerve-racking scenarios, dreaming enables a person to simulate reality in order to better prepare for real-life threats. The Platonic dualism of physical courage and spiritual courage can tryout roles in our dreams. The dream world allows us to explore acrobatic thrills and confront our personal house of horrors. Ministering dreams allow lingering anxieties to take form of objects and images of other people, aiding us confront our fears playacted in nighttime theater with morning courage. Without lifelike dreams, we would encounter difficulties dealing with exterior reality. Dreams assisting human beings emotionally process latent suspicions, doubts, uncertainties, and unrequited desires.

Bali High is not a real island, you know. It's imaginary." When Amelia saw him smiling at her, she quickly defended herself. "Don't make fun of me. To me, it's real. Besides, that movie has a message that really makes sense. Such as? he encouraged. "Well, it teaches us how wrong it is to be prejudiced and that we should accept each other no matter the differences. It also talks about the importance of having a dream. Dreams are important to everyone. "When she saw his brow crease in confusion, she sang, "'You gotta have a dream, if you don't have a dream, How you gonna have a dream come true?

I will not mention the name (and what bits of it I happen to give here appear in decorous disguise) of that man, that Franco-Hungarian writer... I would rather not dwell upon him at all, but I cannot help it— he is surging up from under my pen. Today one does not hear much about him; and this is good, for it proves that I was right in resisting his evil spell, right in experiencing a creepy chill down my spine whenever this or that new book of his touched my hand. The fame of his likes circulates briskly but soon grows heavy and stale; and as for history it will limit his life story to the dash between two dates. Lean and arrogant, with some poisonous pun ever ready to fork out and quiver at you, and with a strange look of expectancy in his dull brown veiled eyes, this false wag had, I daresay, an irresistible effect on small rodents. Having mastered the art of verbal invention to perfection, he particularly prided himself on being a weaver of words, a title he valued higher than that of a writer; personally, I never could understand what was the good of thinking up books, of penning things that had not really happened in some way or other; and I remember once saying to him as I braved the mockery of his encouraging nods that, were I a writer, I should allow only my heart to have imagination, and for the rest rely upon memory, that long-drawn sunset shadow of one’s personal truth. I had known his books before I knew him; a faint disgust was already replacing the aesthetic pleasure which I had suffered his first novel to give me. At the beginning of his career, it had been possible perhaps to distinguish some human landscape, some old garden, some dream- familiar disposition of trees through the stained glass of his prodigious prose... but with every new book the tints grew still more dense, the gules and purpure still more ominous; and today one can no longer see anything at all through that blazoned, ghastly rich glass, and it seems that were one to break it, nothing but a perfectly black void would face one’s shivering soul. But how dangerous he was in his prime, what venom he squirted, with what whips he lashed when provoked! The tornado of his passing satire left a barren waste where felled oaks lay in a row, and the dust still twisted, and the unfortunate author of some adverse review, howling with pain, spun like a top in the dust.

With the two sides entrenched, each began a campaign for public sympathy. The focus was wages. How much did Lawrence textile workers really earn? Ettor told the press that the average mill wage was $6 a week; mill owners countered that it was $9.71 The difference depended on who did the math, and how. Ettor was using a mathematical mean, dividing the mills’ $150,000 weekly payroll by twenty-five thousand workers.72 Mill owners relied on what statisticians call the median. Taking a weaver’s average wage of $13 a week and a doffer’s average of $4.50, they found the midpoint, then rounded up. Strikers protested. For every weaver, they pointed out, there were dozens of doffers, sweepers, and bobbin boys earning $4.50 a week or less. Mill owners countered that such low pay was earned only by the least skilled workers, few in number and not prime wage earners. But neither weekly wage figure factored in the several weeks each year that work was slow and thousands were laid off.

A Lancashire Weaver This place might be haunted the ghost hunter said 'Midst the dust and the grime walk the feet of the dead. The machines now stand idle Looms clatter no more There's a stack of old bobbins piled up by the door. I remember my Mam she worked here, so she said A Lancashire weaver but now she is dead Along with this mill and along with the dreams of working mill lasses and their jobs, so it seems We once wove the best cotton cloth in the world But now that's all gone on the scrap heap been hurled The clatter of clogs on the old cobbled street the humdrum staccato from thousands of feet. Tough work and much hardship and many a care Folks they got by for brass, it was rare but still we had pride By Christ, did we ever! Will it ever come back The answer is NEVER This place might be haunted the ghost hunter said 'Midst the dust and the grime walk the feet of the dead. I'm glad that my Mam never saw it this way Out in all weathers came here every day When this closed down she had already died Perhaps just as well She'd have bloody well cried.

He had backed her every dream, loved her every flaw, and seen their marriage as a story unfolding.

He was the sort of don whose fondest dream is a student both intelligent enough and spineless enough to write three hundred pages on the significance of the blank page in Tristram Shandy.

I am the Sandman, the Dream Weaver, the Enticer of Slumber. The night is mine. The darkness is my cloak and obeys my commands. If I do not want to be seen, I can prevent it.

Let us see how the threads of your hopes, your dreams, and your calling come into place spiritually, practically, and intellectually.

Richard M. Weaver was born on March 3, 1910 and died on April 1, 1963. He was a scholar and author whose work remains relevant today. Had he lived to the the end of the Cold War, he would not have congratulated America on its supposed victory. Communism, he knew, was part of a deeper problem; that is, a philosophical and moral problem. The West was sliding into decadence. It was spiritually disintegrating. “Every man participating in a culture has three levels of conscious reflection,” noted Weaver: “his specific ideas about things, his general beliefs or convictions, and his metaphysical dream of the world.

I’m not sure whether there is any new information. As Phil suggested, I have taken pictures of the pages that refer to Mercia and I will read them more carefully when I have them on my computer screen at home.’ He paused. She was peeling potatoes, rhythmically dropping them one by one into a bowl on the table. ‘I can’t thank you enough for letting me see this treasure. The feeling of actually

Mark slept at once; she used to tease him about the sleep of the righteous as night after night he was snoring almost as soon as his head hit the pillow while she would lie awake, worrying about the day gone by and the day to come, Anna and Petra, the parish and, from time to time, the people who had come to her with their problems from another world and another time. And now, as she lay beside him, she couldn’t get the vision of the horse rearing above her out of her head, the man in the saddle, leaning forward, dragging the horse’s head sideways so it would avoid hitting her with its hooves. He wore no head covering, she realised now as she pictured him behind her closing eyes, his hair blowing across his face, dressed in dark clothes, a cloak of some kind streaming behind him, caught at the shoulder with a round silver disc.

The girl of his dreams,” Moretti said. “But Weaver, you do realize that actually telling her you like her would be a better idea than putting her picture in a tackle box you’re going to bury in the dirt?

was the most powerful ruler in the western

Yesterday, she said, referring to the collective past of her tribe, the people of these forests knew the secret. They made the finest silk thread from the cocoon of a beautiful sleeping butterfly. The women reeled the silk thread on the spinning wheel, slowly and gently. Such delicate work it was, that the silk remembered, at last, the moth which had created it. And the women were awed at the silver shine of the silk produced. If the silk is so divine, they thought, what must be the beauty of the butterfly waiting to be born? They stopped breaking the cocoons and looked for the crimson wings of the butterflies emerging from the torn nests of raw silk. The sight took them aback. They became sages and storytellers. My mother’s mother was one of them.

Therefore, it is not off the point if, along with the forgotten feminine principles, there are no longer good carpets at the kings court and they need one, for they have again to find the pattern in of life. In this way the story tells us that the subtlety of the inventions of the unconscious and the secret design woven into a human life are infinitely more intelligent than human consciousness and more subtle and superior than man could invent. One is again and again overwhelmed by the genius of that unknown mysterious something in our psyche which is the inventor of our dreams, It picks elements from day impressions, from something the dreamer has read the evening before in the paper, or from a childhood memory, and makes a nice kind of potpourri out of it, and only when you have interpreted its meaning do you see the subtlety and the genius of each dream composition. Every night we have that carpet weaver at work within us, who makes those fantastically subtle patterns, so subtle that, unfortunately often after an hour's attempt to interpret them, we are unable to find out the meaning. We are just too clumsy and stupid to follow up the genius of that unknown spirit of the unconscious which invents dreams. But we can understand that this carpet is more subtly woven than any human could ever achieve.

Not all of the men went into the restaurant business, and not all of them left York, Pennsylvania. Yang You Yi, the detainee who first folded a paper pineapple in prison, had run a weaving company in China, using old looms to manufacture mosquito nets. Through Joan Maruskin and Sterling Showers, he was introduced to a local man named David Kline, a gentle weaver with an Amish-style

beard who had worked in mills most of his life and operated a company, Family Heir Loom Weavers, in a small town near York called Red Lion. Kline agreed to meet with Yang and said he could offer him work. “How much will you pay?” Yang wondered. “Seven dollars an hour,” Kline replied. As they were talking, Yang knelt down and picked up a length of thread from the floor. He toyed with it for a moment, then skillfully tied a weaver’s knot. “Okay,” Kline said. “Eight dollars an hour.” In the coming years, Kline and his family essentially adopted Yang, allowing him to live rent-free in a room in an old cigar factory that they had converted into a weaving mill. Yang worked sixty hours a week at nine

I saw the dagger—it was halfway inside me…was it? Because I felt the heat of the blood, but the pain was barely there, and I realized the dream weaver was trying to twist it around, push it deeper inside of me, but it wouldn’t go. The leather of my vest wouldn’t let it.

The nightmares haunted me worse than the dream weaver. So many of them, so many different times, different people, different voices—but they all told me the same thing: do not use your magic. Do not ever use your magic, child. Whatever you do, stay as far away from them as you can.

When we're apart, her absence is an entity. I worry for her. I dream of her.

do, I will ignore it.’ ‘How

The following journal articles and books helped me to understand different aspects of traditional Chinese medicine, with an emphasis on women: “Dispersing the Foetal Toxin of the Body: Conceptions of Smallpox Aetiology in Pre-modern China” and “Variolation” by Chia-feng Chang; A Flourishing Yin: Gender in China’s Medical History, 960–1665 by Charlotte Furth; Thinking with Cases edited by Charlotte Furth, Judith T. Zeitlin, and Ping-chen Hsiung; The Web That Has No Weaver by Ted J. Kaptchuk; The Expressiveness of Body and the Divergence of Greek and Chinese Medicine by Shigehisa Kuriyama; “Women Practicing Medicine in Premodern China” by Angela Ki Che Leung, who also served as editor of Medicine for Women in Imperial China; Oriental Materia Medica by Hong-yen Hsu et al.; “Between Passion and Repression: Medical Views of Demon Dreams, Demonic Fetuses, and Female Sexual Madness in Late Imperial China” by Hsiu-fen Chen; “The Leisure Life of Women in the Ming Dynasty” by Zhao Cuili; and “Female Medical Workers in Ancient China” by Jin-sheng Zheng.

I fell. Wildly. Relentlessly. My hands clenched around wet, slimy things. Cold mud. Decaying leaves. I was a doll, a stone—useless, useless—slamming into branches and the sharp underside of tree roots.

Selfishness is the opposite of love. Love is giving for the benefit of another. Selfishness is demanding that others meet my needs. Two demanding people—two selfish people—will never have the marriage of which they dreamed. The attitude of love is the foundation upon which a healthy marriage is built. When both husband and wife are seeking the well-being of the other, they will build the marriage they have always wanted. This

Maybe we should stay another night," said Amelia... Rick nodded. "You're right. Sounds good to me." He then winked at her and said with a teasing glint in his eyes, "We can both sleep in this bed to save money." He then patted the space beside him. Amelia laughed and shook her head. "In your dreams!" Rick chuckled. "Yeah. In my dreams is right.

You can sit down and think of everything a woman ought to be - even write it out, if you choose, and when you get through you'll discover that you've written an accurate description of Judith Sylvester. Sometimes I wonder whether she's merely human, like the rest of us, or a saint temporarily come to earth to make us think better of a world that has her in it.

How old is she?" "Sixty, by her hair - thirty-five or forty by her face." "And how old by her mind and soul?" "I don't know," laughed Margery. "How many ages are there for the same person?" "Three - one of the body, one of the mind, and one of the soul. Sometimes a soul of six and a mind of fifteen are shut up in a body of thirty or more, and again, in a body of twenty there'll be a mind of about the same age and a very old soul. You see all sorts of queer combinations. This is what makes life so unfailingly interesting. We can measure the age of the body by years, but not the others.

...by knowing a few people well, I know the whole world, for human nature is the same the world over and does not change. Having only a drop of water, a microscope, and a dream, I fashion from it the sea. I know it, perhaps, as he does not, who only crosses it in a ship.

He'd learned long ago misplaced humor was the best way to let others know you felt very deeply about something but didn't feel comfortable opening up.

I’d rather reach 10 percent of my dreams but live approved by God than fulfill 90 percent of my passions in resistance to my husband’s leadership and, therefore, outside God’s favor.

Have you been travelling, my young friend? Come in out of the darkness and rain. Sit by the fire, eat, drink and rest yourself. Life is one long journey from beginning to end, you know. We all walk different roads, both with our bodies and our minds. Some of us lose heart and fall by the wayside, whilst others go on to realise their dreams and desires. Let me tell you a story of travellers, and the paths they followed. Of young ones, like yourself, sometimes uncertain of their direction, and often reluctant to listen to the voices of sense and wisdom. Of a mighty warrior, set on a course of destiny and vengeance, unstoppable in his resolve. Of an evil one and his crew, cruel and ruthless, bound on a march of destruction and conquest. Of a simple maid and her friends, homebodies whose only aims were peace and well-being for all. Of wicked, foolish wanderers, chasing fantasies and fables, consumed by their own greed. Of small babes who dreamed small dreams, not knowing what the future held in store for them. And, finally, of two friends, faithful and true, who had roamed many highways and together chose their own way. The lives I will tell you of are intertwined by fate—good and evil bringing their just rewards to each, as they merited them. Listen whilst I relate this story. For am I not the Teller of Tales, the Weaver of Dreams!

Don’t shoot,” Tom cautioned again. “That brave in the lead has a crooked lance with a white flag. Whatever it is they’re wantin’, it ain’t a fight. You speak any Comanch’?” “Not a word,” Henry replied. “I don’t know much. If they do a lot of tradin’, they can probably talk English, but if they don’t--all we can do is hope my Injun will get us by.” Tom spat a glob of chew onto Rachel’s bleached floor. Then he bellowed, “What do you want?” Loretta’s nerves were strung so taut, she leaped. Nausea surged into her throat as the brown tobacco juice soaked into the floor. Was she losing her mind? Who cared if the puncheon got stained? Before this was over, the house might be burned to the ground. She heard Rachel crying, a soft, irregular whimpering. Terror. The metallic taste of it shriveled her tongue. “What brings you here?” Tom cried again. “Hites!” a deep voice called back. “We come as friends, White-Eyes.” The lead warrior moved some twenty feet in front of his comrades, holding the crooked lance high so the dusty white rag was clearly visible. He sat proudly on his black stallion, gleaming brown shoulders straight, leather-sheathed legs pressed snugly to his mount. A rush of wind lifted his mahogany hair, wisping it across his bronzed, sharply chiseled face. Loretta’s first thought when she saw him was that he seemed different from the others. A closer look told her why. He was unquestionably a half-breed, taller on horseback than the rest, lighter-skinned. If not for his sun-darkened complexion and long hair, he might have passed for a white man. Everything else about him was savage, though, from the cruel sneer on his mouth to the expert way he balanced on his horse, as if he and the animal were one entity. Tom Weaver stiffened. “Son of a--Henry, you know who that is?” “I was hopin’ I was wrong.” Loretta inched closer to get a better look. Then it hit her. Hunter. She had heard his name whispered with dread, heard tales. But until this moment she hadn’t believed he existed. A blue-eyed half-breed, one of the most cunning and treacherous adversaries the U.S. Army had run across. Now that the war had pitted North against South, the homesteaders had no cavalry to keep Hunter and his marauders at bay, and his raiders struck ever deeper into settled country, advancing east. Some claimed he was far more dangerous than a full-blooded Comanche because he had a white man’s intelligence. As vicious as he was, there were stories that he spared women and children. Whether that was coincidence, design, or a lie some Indian lover had dreamed up, no one knew. Loretta opted for the latter.

Weaver never published his ideas. His memorandum lay unnoticed in the archives of the foundation, now stored underground on one of the Rockefeller estates. And his dream of reworking photosynthesis would be almost forgotten for sixty years, until it was revived by the descendants of the molecular biologists whom Weaver had funded and the successor to Rockefeller as the world’s biggest charitable foundation.

It is not in my nature to see what is not there. I've never felt like I could create a new reality—I was too busy trying to make the pieces I had been given fit together. It didn't occur to me that I could walk away and start from scratch. To create takes more than imagination. There is an audacity to creation, whether you are designing a new house, a new life, or a new garden bed. There must be an overriding belief in your own worth—and in a world benevolent enough to make room for your vision. To be able to create, you need to have faith. I do not come from people who have faith. I come from people who expect to be wiped out in a freak snowstorm in July. And yet, looking around this bedraggled side yard, I tried to imagine what it might look like. I mustered up all I had, and I began to dream and make plans.

The present is born of the power plays of the past.

- Titania wak'd, and straightway lov'd an ass.” –William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream Perhaps Shakespeare’s fanciful tale was more of a prophecy than a play, warning us that those who are distracted by fabricated fears, irrationality, and intoxicating potions become harmed by senseless things, and may even fall in love with a political party represented by a donkey.  Regrettably, the weavers of “progressive” stories

Fundamental to the dream, of course, is the dogma of progress, with its postulate of the endlessness of becoming. The habit of judging all things by their departure from the things of yesterday is reflected in most journalistic interpretation.

And it is entirely certain that if we leave them to the sort of education obtainable today from extra-scholastic sources, the great majority will be schooled in the two vices of sentimentality and brutality. Now great poetry, rightly interpreted, is the surest antidote to both of these. In contrast with journalists and others, the great poets relate the events of history to a pure or noble metaphysical dream, which our students will have all their lives as a protecting arch over their system of values. Of course, a great deal will depend on the character and quality of the instruction.

I surface from the murk of memory and dreams that never let go.