Dreaming of Mother

Posted on May 6, 2010


I am dreaming. I know this because my body is sleeping, nearly complete, suspended in the tank that holds the nutritious fluid which builds me. I know I am sleeping because I have never been awake. How do I know?

Awareness began for me only a little while ago. I first heard the soft gurgling of the fluid that surrounds me, and then I understood that I was something inside the fluid. I was separate from it even while I was within it. Separate. What an odd thing to know.

I heard other sounds that seemed to originate outside the fluid, and then I knew the fluid was separate from something, too. I discovered that I could control the movements of my body and its appendages. I commanded a hand to reach out, and it moved through the fluid until it could move no further. It encountered something hard and smooth, a barrier. That is how I discovered the tank, and the reality that was not-tank: more separation.

Recently I began receiving images inside my awareness, a steady flow of sound, shape, and color to which my body reacted in many ways. I learned that these reactions were feelings, in the way that touch allows you to experience an object. Yet these new feelings had more to do with my growing awareness than with sensation.

The images came fully formed. As they flowed into me, I learned many things; language, names and purposes of objects, and concepts which were alien to my reality in the tank. Information, I realized, was being downloaded into me. I was being prepared for something, for a life in the world beyond the tank.

The information came in packets. I would receive a block of knowledge, and there would ensue a time of silence. The silence allowed me to absorb what I learned, and later another packet would come, and then another silence.

I began to receive other information during the silences. It was very different from the regular packets, and it seemed to originate within me, within my own perceptions.

I am dreaming.

My dreams tell me of someone I can only identify as Mother. It is her voice that speaks in the dreams, her voice that contradicts or explains the information coming from outside. Her voice is rich, intimate; it is alive. The downloaded packets are mechanical sets of facts. They tell me the structure of the world outside, how the parts fit together to form a static whole. Her voice tells me there is something more beneath the structure.

She has assumed her own personality in my dreams. She tells me the story of her youth, of a time when she was beautiful, when she knew joy. Her many children gathered about her and sang songs of love to her, and she gave them everything they needed, everything she had. She was full of passion in those days, delighting in all she saw.

Some of her children did not survive to adulthood; others grew up, and some squabbled with each other. She tells me this is the way of things with siblings. Her children had children of their own, and then grandchildren. What were once small disagreements between brothers and sisters grew into old resentments down the generations, and her descendants separated into factions. Even though they could not remember the original reason for their divisions, their arguments continued to grow and at last became violent. The Mother learned then of sorrow and regret.

She loved them all, and declined to interfere in their arguments for many years. They were so obsessed with their arguments that they forgot her. The more the years progressed, the further away from her they drifted, until she became no more to them than a myth. They believed their origin was spontaneous, or a result of cell mutations.

They did not notice when their violence began to wound the Mother, when it tore gashes in her body and contaminated her blood.

At last she could no longer bear what her descendants had become. She shouted her rage at them. She destroyed their structures. Some of her descendants she drowned, some she burned, and others she riddled with disease, but few recognized her hand in the cataclysms.

It was infertility, a mutation by way of a forgotten disease, which ended her children. Working against time in their most advanced laboratories, they used their DNA to write a program that would ensure the return of their race. Finally they were forced to leave instructions for the machines to build the copies after the last of them were gone.

She speaks to me in my dreams now while the machines tend my gestation. I will be ready to leave the tank presently, and there are others like me who will follow soon after. I cannot say if they also dream of the Mother. Perhaps they do, as we all come from the same materials, the same code.

The machines prepare me to survive in the ruins my makers left behind. My dreams have given me a greater desire.

I am dreaming that the Mother is calling to me. She is inviting me to leave the ruins, to come and find her, and bring her back to life.

I wonder if I will remember her when I wake. I do not believe I could forget her.