“And so, Dr. Hornsby, here is a detailed layout of Baltazar’s intercropping system.” Hornsby waved her off.
“Sleep, you well . . . careful what you see in your dreams,” he said softly. Standing up, he paced about the tented shelter to pontificate.
“Must continue to purify our understanding of the dialect of these people. Dream interpretation for the Lacandon is a unique blend of paradoxical metaphysics. Jack has written that the Lacandon seemed to be only concerned about negative dreams, as they are premonitory in nature. Who needs to know about a kismet?” Hornsby said, throwing up his arms in the air.
He was acting as animated as Baltazar had when telling me about the airplane incident.
“Life is basically good. They interpret unpleasant dreams to avoid impending misfortune. My sense of it is that Baltazar’s last comment to you was an allusion.”
“Que, socaste, Jules?” Cassarina said in an indifferent tone of voice. By now she had accepted Hornsby’s full attention with my report.
“Yes, Jules. Have you had any dreams?” Hornsby stopped dead in his pacing tracks and looked directly at me, eyes bulging, keyed up with intense interest.
I shook my head.
“No. None that I can recall.” I dutifully gathered up my journal, audiotapes and canisters of exposed film, putting them into Hornsby’s pack that lay on the table next to us.
“But you’re so bloody, Jungian. How could you not have any interest in your dreamscape?” Cassarina moved over to the research table collecting her materials as well.
“None,” I said.
“Well, you’ll be sure to write any down,” Hornsby concluded. “I can pass on your dreams to Garthwaite for interpretation by chief Chan K’in Viejo at the Naha settlement.”
“Yes, of course.” I was slow to answer, avoiding eye contact. I could palpate the weight of their stares on me. The tension came to a head. “I think that would be a waste of time, Dr. Hornsby.”
Hornsby was surprised. “Why?”
“How can you expect Chan K’in to relate to our Western symbol-drenched images like Noah’s Ark or a winged Nordic helmet? These things would have a different meaning to the Lacandon,” I reasoned.
“But there are similarities. Water represents human tears, which is emotional purging in Western description,” Hornsby offered.
“I can only agree that dreams are the bridge between the waking and sleeping life. What they represent can be entirely individual with some common occurrences foretelling future events. However, there is a striking parallel between modern psychiatry and Chan K’in’s general classifications.” I related to Hornsby and Cassarina what had been deciphered about Chan K’in’s dream interpretation.
What I was getting at was the first aspect of Freudian psychiatry dream interpretation known as “reversal” or in Lacandon ba’ik u tus . . . a kind of lie. The second Freudian based principal was “metaphor” or in Lacandon u k’in . . . its prophecy. The third aspect was “direct representation” or in Lacandon hach u pixan . . . its soul.
I wanted to illustrate the disadvantages to fixed symbolic dream elucidations as a diversion to conceal my own nightmarish dream.
“Dream images are too ambiguous of representations for self-referencing. The self referentially recognizes the information provided, but it can’t be conceptualized properly in our consciousness. Co-mingling an occidental’s dream with an indigenous paradigm only makes for a cinematic diversion. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy in a visual and verbal context.” I spoke with finality.
I knew that what I said was so much nonsense that it nonplussed Hornsby into silence. I was postulating with the expert on the phenomenology of aboriginal dreamtime. I could feel the stir of air from his heated breath against my cheek.
“It’s late, I must get an early start,” the professor solemnly remarked.
Dr. Hornsby was insulted by my earnestness in resisting his sincere inquiry. He quickly picked up his pack and left the tent not saying a word more in response to my rebuff. I wanted to say something, but was immobilized by the way Hornsby’s piercing eyes sized me up.
“You’ve overlooked something,” Hornsby said, turning away in haste.
The moment Hornsby was out of sight, Cassarina turned to me with a look of disdain.
“Was that necessary? Such bloody rigmarole.”
“You think so?” I said.
“Without a doubt.” Cassarina left me standing alone in the tent without saying good night.
The night ended on a sour note. I had thoughtlessly forgotten that this man had survived far more in the essential desolate wonderings of his beliefs for decades. Gallantly, by virtue of his pure spirit, he was dispatched to take the greatest possible risks in the spirit of adventure that were inconceivable to me in my youth. Hornsby was consumed by such modesty that you would forget that standing before you, this man had survived near fatalistic events. He had ascended the fears of civilized man to venture into the unknown wilderness of the indigenous world no matter how remote it would be.
I stood in the open night air of Metzabok, deep in the jungle. The magnificence of the whole celestial arch of the Milky Way made me feel like a pitiful spec on the windshield of life. I cursed myself for having allowed such intercourse to come between us. Hornsby was right; there was another aspect to dream analysis that I had overlooked -- dreamtime.
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