As always, he listens impassively, letting me say my piece while looking slightly sad and hurt.

When finished, it is his turn. He says that he is here, or has come to see me, to give me this proclamation which describes how wonderful I am in his eyes. The magistrate nods her approval.

When the reading is over, he and the magistrate get up and leave. Out from a slot in the table, just like getting a ticket in the movie theatre, comes a 12 inch long grocery receipt itemizing the points of his proclamation. It is torn in half down the long direction. The half with the prices is missing.

I take the receipt, fully aware of how paltry this consolation is, to the clerk who tells me that I must pay $45 for the proclamation and an additional $25 for an amendment to the proclamation which was in continuation of my praises.

A man is working on his old mountain bike. He has it shiny and tuned-up. There is abundant lub oil all over the deck he is working on. For some reason, I must walk through the mist of oil spray. It gets in my eyes and stings.

Last night I asked that my dream reveal the pressure I feel behind my eyes and the weight of goo on top of my head.
It's a physical sensation. It feels heavy. Sometimes it's worse than at other times. When I am sad, or nervous about big crowds it is worse. I feel like I could be smarter and more alert if it were gone.

There is a large gathering of people around a fire or pit among redwoods. Many are rough, crude people.
I am one of these people. We are the Iron Johns, the wild people. The people outside of social conventions. We live the intuitive, earthy shadow world of the unconsciousness revealed. but we are outcasts here, unwanted, unaccepted, feared. Cultural lepers.

In a small room, I sit in the chair. My dad is behind the glass.
This room is like a Catholic confessional or the room where a prisoner talks to his lawyer. I am the one behind the bars. My dad is the inquisitor.

Sitting next to him is a magistrate or my mother.
She is the keeper of the laws. The magistrate holds nothing real but the law. In my mother's case, the law decrees that all shall put on a happy face and be pleasant people. There is no recognition or validation of the heart in the law.

I tell him how I wanted to apologize to him for pushing him away but realized that he doesn't care and so have never bothered to apologize.
A few months ago, I had the urge to write my father and apologize for not speaking with him on friendly terms these last two years. I wanted to propiate. I felt bad that I was hurting him when all he wanted was for me to be nice to him, for us to get along, for me to stop making him think about the brutality he used in rearing me.

After pondering this apology for a few days, it struck me that he doesn't care that I have pushed him away. He is determined to not be affected by my emotions. He is strong. It's not his issue. This helps him feel secure that the things I accuse him of are untrue and helps him maintain his sense of self-righteousness.

But now, I am apologizing.
In the dream, I am in the wild man's jail, like rehab—the wild man's rehab. Here I decide (without considering) to give the apology I rejected in real life. I want to tell him,

I'm sorry I'm a wild man. I'm sorry my shadow side keeps poking up and that I keep showing it to you. I'm sorry that I ask you to take responsibility for my pain. I know that you want nothing to do with my pain or with yours.

What was to be a reasoned discussion of my past feelings quickly deteriorates to the rageful accusations against him that 'he doesn't care about me'
I intended to apologize without the pain in the apology. I intended to be like him: to deny myself, to put on the mask of civility. I meant to be well behaved, emotions controlled, in fact non-existent. I intended to conform, to show that the rage was gone. I can be like them now. Please take me back. I'll be good.

But I can't do it. The rage comes back in full force. I was lying to myself. The rage has never left me. A deeper part of me, an unconcsious part, but more truely me part, made a decision I was unaware of. It decided that I will not conform, I will not plead to be accepted by the unconscious law giver and her Inquisitioner.

As always, he listens impassively, letting me say my piece while looking slightly sad and hurt.
He doesn't let his shadow come out even when he is attacked. He steadfastly refuses to feel any emotion that does not follow the Law (Thou shalt Smile and Be Happy.) The more emotion that is thrown in his face, the more he will react with the well-controled behavior of a model citizen.

He affects (what he thinks is) an enlightened and helpful posture which will see him through the turmoil and preserve his righteousness: he lets me rage as if it isn't there, all the while feeling vaguely consoling.

When finished, it is his turn. He says that he is here, or has come to see me,
Good people take turns in Smiley culture.

He has come to visit me like visiting a child in drug rehab.

to give me this proclamation which describes how wonderful I am in his eyes.
Despite all my shadow rage, wild man manners, etc. he still "loves" me. He sees in me the son that he always wanted. He sees the son that follows the laws of Smiley Culture.

He doesn't see me at all. He gives his proclamation to an imaginary son.

He has come to appease his guilt. His shadow is lurking. This visit is trying to reinforce the fantasy of the Smiley son. He needs a smiley son so that the truth that his son has a shadow, rage and pain, and worse that he, himself, has a shadow will not become apparent or revealed.

The magistrate nods her approval.
She has the same problem as the inquisitor—"Don't make me look at my shadow. Please be the son I need to keep my purity safe. Don't make me see your pain, else I will have to look at myself."

When the reading is over, he and the magistrate get up and leave.
I am left alone in the world of wild men and shadows. They came to pretend that everything is fine, and leave before they see the dirt under my nails and the bugs in my clothes and before they see the other wild people roaming around.

Out from a slot in the table, just like getting a ticket in the movie theatre, comes a 12 inch long grocery receipt itemizing the points of his proclamation. It is torn in half down the long direction. The half with the prices is missing.
It is all very mechanical, clerical and ordered. A machine creates and gives me the bill. The judge and magistrate were machine-like. The proclamation is to be paid for, but the receipt doesn't say how much the items are worth. The items are my Dad's love, admiration, support, trust and respect. I must pay for them. All that he gives is itemized, descreet and calculated.

I take the receipt, fully aware of how paltry this consolation is, to the clerk who tells me that I must pay $45 for the proclamation and an additional $25 for an amendment to the proclamation which was in continuation of my praises.
The proclamation itself is paltry and hardly consolment for being a wild man in a world where no one wants a wild man. Since it wasn't addressed to Me, but to their fantasized me, the socialized son, it's not for Me at all. The proclamation is of no value to Me. A paltry gift that I didn't want. Like one of those christmas gifts you didn't ask for and don't like; they give it to you thinking you must love it.

When I took the receipt from the machine, I hadn't realized that I would have to pay for the privelege of receiving this proclamation that I didn't want that isn't for me. That took me by surprise. Surprise becomes sadness, and rage, when I learn that I must pay an additional premium, $25, for more stuff I don't want.

I am riding my bicycle down the hill.
Back to civilization. Out of the forest. Down from the mountain. Leave the wild men behind. I suppose I have graduated Wild Man rehab.

As an avid mountain biker in the hills of Marin, biking in the forest is a spiritual and exhilarating adventure for me. It is 'get back to nature", connect with this body. It is freedom. An exhilarating bike ride is like returning to my true home. It is being the wild man in the fullest and most whole and integrated person. There is no issue of being a bad wild man on a bike in the forest. Out there, the forest calls welcomes wild man.

Friends have gone on ahead.
These friends must be like my friends in real life: good people accepting of my wild man, but not fully living the wild man spirit themselves. At least now I have friends.

But they have gone on ahead, towards civilization. It is for me to catch up.

I come to the last steep pitch before the road, it is loose rock from the many previous riders skidding on it. I see my wallet laying on a rock.
My precious self, what I hold in highest esteem, is laying on the rocks at the edge of the forest. It was lost while I was in the forest, and here, no the edge of the forest, I have discovered it again. Perhaps the wallet represents my acceptance into civilization—identification, money = approval and belonging.

I grab my brakes, go over the handle bars,
Typical somehow. I am out of control. I can't slow down. The force of gravity, of inertia, moves me. The rocks are bumpy and dangerous. Getting out of the flow of the ride, I crash.

Stopping the bike means stopping the wild man to recover the civilize part. One conflicts the other.

but don't get hurt.
I am resilient. The troubles of life are only apparent. Nothing can hurt me. I disagree with the common agreements about the realities of life. The wild man wins out, even in civilization.

A man is working on his old mountain bike.
He is someone who has been through all of this before. He is a wild man (he has a bike). It is old: he is experienced.

He has it shiny and tuned-up.
The wounded healer returns from his own inner turmoil and travails to successfully navigate the world.

There is abundant lub oil all over the deck he is working on.
Danger of slipping in the wild man goo.

For some reason, I must walk through the mist of oil spray.
Walk though like a baptism or initiation.

It gets in my eyes and stings.
It doesn't seem to be a nice thing. Perhaps the mountain biker is part of Culture and his ways will hurt me.