Market As Metaphor

How many times have I dreamt of being in a flea market?

Many, many times. These dreams often seem to be the ones most imbued with deeper meaning.

Interestingly, I never dream of being in a normal shop, and never, never in a mall.Outside of one, in the parking lot, but never inside one.

Last night, as the moon and sun met up in deep, watery Cancer, I dreamt that I was in a flea market in England. I had a certain amount of pounds sterling on me and had to be careful with it.

The first stall I came to was run by a husband and wife team of African-Muslim extraction.Their hand crafted wares were very fine indeed, but the lady directed my attention to a little model of a clay hut with prison bars in the only window, and a white-faced, black-haired woman peering out from between them.

I made that especially with you in mind the lady stall holder said.I looked more closely and saw a second clay hut inside the first structure, and felt that yes, she was right -this had been made for me.

The price quoted was, I felt, too high, and I moved on to explore the rest of the market.

After laughing uproariously at a stand of cheesy Wiccan books, I bought two stuffed serpents, one purple and one blue, from another stand. A third serpent, green in colour, adhered to the pair I actually purchased.

Yet another stall - this one of larger, more glamorous proportions - advertised itself as Mary Wilson's. At first I thought they had a heap of stuff I wanted - until I looked more closely and found the exotic ware was mostly made of polystyrene. Ugh. An assistant tried to sell me some robes by pronouncing sonorous words in Latin - but I brushed him off as not impressive at all.

Finally, I found myself back at the first stall, looking at the wares, and deciding to buy, after all.A dream missive from Peter Strange and Keith Saynor hung before my mind's eye then, and I understood much, and forgave all.

Art from the vaults of Erowid