Three Vivid, Clear, Lucid Dreams In One: Lost in Paris, During The French Revolution
By Ion Saliu, Revolutionary Dreamer At-Large
Authored on September 29, 2007.
I knew I was in Paris because I was compelled to accept the invitation to an international conference on freedom. I was part of a delegation who looked very young. I mean we, the participants, were of the age of college students. Unfortunately, the conference terminated too soon. I don't know if planned, or because of some mishaps or misunderstandings based on various nationalities, and credos.
The conference was held at the hotel where we lived. Curiously, I didn't even bother to remember the name of the hotel. Nor did I see the name of the street. The organizers did everything for us, the participants. We didn't need to leave the place. We ate there, we slept there — and we debated there. Then, suddenly, we were announced it was the end of the gathering. We were asked to pack up and line up in front of the hotel. From there, we were to be taken by bus (the same way we came in) to the famed railway station Gare du Nord de Paris.
Our suitcases were deposited in the spacious conference room. We sat at assigned desks, with our names on them. Our luggage sat under the respective desk. Soon after the announcement, every participant was running out with their own luggage. I was unable to find my suitcase. “Where did they put the baggage?” I asked two lady participants.
"They moved away your desk,"” they informed me. Indeed, there was an empty place where my desk used to be. They also moved my suitcase in the operation.
I looked around like dizzy. I could not see my suitcase anywhere in the large conference room. I was not aware how long my search took. Finally, I saw a pile of suitcases in the far right corner. My suitcase was right there, the first object on the left. I exhaled in relief. I picked up my luggage and hurried to the reception hall.
Nobody was there. The concierge told me that all participants had left for the railway station long ago. I felt the aftertaste of desperation in my mouth. It conflicted strongly with the taste of good wine we were treated with during the conference.
I walked quickly to my right. I figured out it was a bus station. I thought I would get a bus to Gare du Nord in a short time. I kept walking for minutes, without getting to a bus stop. There were no bus stops on that broad street. I saw an open gate to a garden. The garden was leading to a street where I could see heavy traffic, including buses.
My passage stopped in front of a picnic table that resembled United States, not France. Anyway, I asked in English and I received an answer in some form of English. “I just wanted to go to the bus station that could take me to Gare du Nord,” I explained to the hosts.
“I'll take you to the bus stop,” the man of the house promised.
We crossed their garden and found myself right in a bus stop. The bus station had benches. My guide lied down on the bench as if it were a sofa.
“A bus will be here soon,” he fueled my hopes. Indeed, a bus just arrived. It read “Line 490”. I asked the bus driver if the bus would take me to the North railway station. For the life of me, he could not understand a word I spoke! I tried English, then French again — to no avail.
A man got down the bus #490. He spoke in a language that sounded Balkan.
“Can you speak English?” He answered me in…Spanish! I understood that I needed to take bus line 470. “Lina 470 por Gara de Nord,” he informed me in that kind of strange language. 'Gara de Nord' was in Bucharest! I remembered that very clearly! Gara de Nord in Bucuresti was a place with significance in my life. But, now, I wanted Gare du Nord de Paris!
My guide — the host of the place where I had trespassed to innocently — said he had to leave. Dinner was ready at his place, and I understood him. I realized that I made a mistake by choosing to go to a bus station. Instead, I should have waited at the hotel reception. I should have asked the hotel receptionists to call the delegation at the railway station. The delegation should have sent somebody back to the hotel and pick me up in a taxi. I decided to go back to the hotel immediately.
I walked to my left, with the intent to get back to the hotel. I walked by the place where I had trespassed some time ago. I saw the family having a barbecue picnic. I didn't envy them or anything else. I only thought of getting back to the hotel as soon as possible. Then, once at my hotel, ask the conference organizers to pick me up in time. It was late afternoon. I remembered our train was to leave at 8 o'clock that evening.
What a jungle I fell into! For the life of me, I could not find my way back to the conference hotel. I could not see a street name! Worse, I didn't even know what street our conference hotel was located on! All the buildings looked the same. I knew for sure that the hotel was an impressive baroque building. But every building in that area was baroque — and quite impressive as well.
I realized I needed help. Swallow your pride, young chap. I needed to ask for help. I experienced one of worst feelings in my life. I did NOT know the name of the hotel! “Please, help me!” I appealed to a small group of pedestrians. “I need to go back to my hotel, but I don't know its name! I was here to that international conference, yea know. We didn't need to know the hotel's name…they told us…”
My French was no longer good…I realized that with some sadness. I tried my English. Sadly, my interlocutors' English was not what I expected. I was kind of bamboozled. The way they spoke sounded a lot like a language spoken in the Balkans. Didn't matter what language — I can't speak any Balkan language or dialect.
I spoke one or two language…my interlocutors spoke one language … unknown to me … Yet, they were able to understand me. Reminded me of my life as a refugee in former Yugoslavia (still a beloved place in my heart). Some twenty years ago, I was a refugee there, in the Balkans. I didn't speak the local language. But, by some miracle of Mother Nature, I understood almost everything that was going on around me. The locals also understood me quite well. They and I mixed a variety of linguistic flavors: English, Serbian (a Balkan language), French, Spanish, Italian…even Fowuru.
A few Parisian pedestrians took me to a hotel — a building close to my description. It was baroque alright…and impressive. I thanked my guides. I entered the reception hall. I asked the hotel managers and others about the international conference. They bluntly informed me that they had not hosted any conference in a long time. Again, I was unable to tell them the conference hotel name. Problem was, nobody remembered me. It was clear that I had never entered that hotel before.
The main entrance led to the … back entrance of another hotel. The two buildings looked very much alike: Baroque and impressive. The next hotel was between the next street and me. I entered the back entrance and found my way to the reception. It was a hall only, however. No reception desk, or anything alike. A sign pointed to the basement. Apparently, the reception was located underground!
I took the stairs to the lower level. The downward stairs took me inside the restaurant. A rock band was playing. The floor was crowded with dancers. Most customers were dancing on the floor. I did like the music. I thought it was from my music collection. 'In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida' sounded really beautiful! I found myself in dancers' way. I apologized as loudly as I could. I told people I wanted to go back to my hotel — but I didn't know which hotel. To my crazy surprise, a lady stopped from dancing. “I'll show you where your hotel is,” she promised to me in a very serious manner.
I followed her out the restaurant and into the street. She was kidding with other pedestrians. Something like: “Hey, gals, don't you interfere with my baby!” She was winking generously. We crossed another restaurant. It was an outdoor terrace, serving sausages, fresh wine, and coffee. I started to enjoy my journey. I didn't care that much if I was to miss my train from Gare de Nord de Paris. I was following my beautiful guide with joy. If all fails, I encouraged myself, I will ask for asylum…what the heck…”
The beautiful lady, who voluntarily served as my guide, showed me an impressive baroque building some 100 meters away.
“This is your hotel. Hotel Intercontinental…” she educated me. She turned back swiftly, probably going back to the dancing floor. I wanted to fly to the reception. The entrance appeared to be so far away! I felt a curious anomaly of physics. If I would run at a speed of 10 meters per second, I should have reached the hotel entrance in about 10 seconds. Yet, after 10 seconds, the distance would appear to be 90 meters! Then, after 10 more seconds, the distance would be like 89 meters!
I closed my eyes and tried to fly-jump my way to the destination. Flying always feels wonderful! I remembered a thought of Marcel Guénard: Humans would trade life for flying. That's why humans look in awe at birds. Humans worship birds, Marcel reminded us. Humans even made a sport to honor the flying creatures. They named it 'birdie' (also known as golf). I was smiling while flying and remembering Marcel Guénard's words.
I opened my eyes after my soft landing. I entered the 'Intercontinental Hotel'. That was the real place! I remembered the reception hall very well. That was the hotel I was looking for! Things looked strange, though. The hotel manager was dressed as a monk! He was dressed in a poverty-brown robe, like some monks I don't remember what. The monk stood in front of the desk, slightly supporting his butt against the desk. It looked like he was feared in earnest. A group of poorly dressed servants were furiously cleaning up windows, doors, and the floor. When the monk asked the servants to leave — they disappeared. That's how fast they ran away, immediately after bowing and saying “Yes, Torquemada!”
The name sounded familiar. I asked in good faith, as it were: “Do I know you, somehow?” Torquemada only answered by questioning me: “Why are you here, in the first place?” I reminded him about the international conference. “They left, but you are still here,” he remarked.
My next answer sounded like a fabrication. “I spent time in the library looking for Marcel Guénard's book.”
“You still read books?” Torquemada asked me. “What book were you looking for?”
“Le parisien de la riposte,” I replied. “I find profound truth in one of the sentences — Gambling is the lost art of cynical hope…”
“I find that sentence just interesting,” Torquemada replied. “I dunno about truthfulness… Anyway, it's Vic-Vilarius Chaufleque who coined the phrase.”
I went on to make an argument in front of Torquemada. My argument was meant to justify my lost time in the Parisian bibliothèque. The main character of 'Le parisien de la riposte' ('The Parisian Of Swift Response') was Vic-Vilarius Chaufleque. Recently, there has been strong belief that Vic-Vilarius Chaufleque was not fiction, but a real person. And what a person he was during the French Revolution!
Marcel Guénard compellingly presents a real-life character named Vic-Vilarius Chaufleque. Vic-Vilarius Chaufleque appears to have played an important role in the French Revolution. He might have created Jean-Pierre Marat, the resentful chief revolutionary who caused the death of many French men and women. Marat even brought under the guillotine the neck of a true luminary: Lavoisier. Such a magnificent truth Lavoisier coined: “In nature, nothing is created, nothing gets lost — it all transforms.”
Vic-Vilarius Chaufleque organized the first sui generis lottery of the French Revolution. Sine dubio, they had known of lottery. But they had expected prizes such farming lots, food, wine, even money. Not life, however. No, it didn't mean that winning a lottery prize would add years to a winner's life. The winner would win rights over someone else's life.
There were three prizes in Vic-Vilarius Chaufleque's lottery. The first prize's winner had the right to choose 1000 citizens whose lives would be sacrificed for the benefit of the revolution. The second prize's winner would select 100 lives to be sacrificed. The third prize's winner would select just ten humans as offertory to the guillotines of the revolution.
Was Vic-Vilarius Chaufleque entirely removed from all records because of his diabolical game? Why isn't there any historical record of his? After all, Jean-Pierre Marat is still in history. Many believe that Vic-Vilarius Chaufleque rigged his revolutionary lottery so that Marat would be the first prize's winner. Because of his luck, Marat was able to select Lavoisier as one of his 1000 'unit prize'. As insane as they might have been, most revolutionaries opposed the execution of the true luminary, Lavoisier.
“Why did Vic-Vilarius Chaufleque disappear from history…totally?” I asked Torquemada.
“Well, you don't know everything…but I guess that's why you searched the library for…” Torquemada replied with a randomly steely stare. “Si fecisti nega!” he continued.
“If you did it, deny it!” Vic-Vilarius Chaufleque didn't want to be blamed for the Lavoisier debacle — so he didn't leave written records.
“Vic-Vilarius Chaufleque realized the tragedy he created to himself. He realized too late that by making Jean-Pierre Marat the winner, he, Vic-Vilarius Chaufleque, would be one of the sacrifice prizes. Marat would have had all the incentives in the world to feed his long-time revenge and kill Lavoisier. Then, kill Vic-Vilarius Chaufleque and shift the blame for Lavoisier's execution back on Vic-Vilarius Chaufleque!”
It is a no-brainer! Vic-Vilarius Chaufleque realized — but too late — that his scheme to rig the lottery in favor of Marat would backfire tragically! Lavoisier was atop the prize list of Marat. Lavoisier was executed accordingly — first, that is. Then Marat prize winning went on, executing about 100 and some “enemies of the revolution”. Number '100 and some' happened to be a prostitute who had advanced to the prized title of 'Mother Whore Of The Revolution'. Unfortunately, she was also one of many of Vic-Vilarius Chaufleque's illegitimate wives.
“Time was ripe for Vic-Vilarius Chaufleque to launch a preemptive strike,” Torquemada continued with that terrible poverty-brown steely stare. “So, Vic-Vilarius Chaufleque made it appear that he had paid another whore from his wife's cohorts to entice Marat in a bathtub. But the woman was none other than the talented painter David in disguise. So easy for a painter to disguise! Jacques-Louis David himself feared he was on the lottery prize-winning list of Marat…”
I knew a thing or two about Jacques-Louis David, the official painter of the French Revolution (later, Napoleon's painter, too). David made Marat look like the most beautiful of Christs in “La mort de Marat”.
“I don't think David had the stuff to be a killer,” I told Torquemada. “He seemed to be a coward.”
“The cowards are the most dangerous killers,” Torquemada allowed his full qualifications flow towards my ears. “But you right and I give you credit for it. David was another plot by Vic-Vilarius Chaufleque. He simply added a second layer of safety. Yea know, if the whore plot would fail, chances were great that the David plot would succeed…”
“You must leave soon,” from Torquemada sounded like a severe warning. “Now, if you didn't find, and if you will never find, records regarding Vic-Vilarius Chaufleque…” he paused like those who want to instill some fear in his interlocutors. “Well…I tell you that Vic-Vilarius Chaufleque killed Jean-Pierre Marat. Then he called David to paint the scene. Vic-Vilarius Chaufleque did blackmail David…yea know…David being on Marat's sacrifice list…” Torquemada paused again, in the manner of that supreme chief who speaks at his party rally.
“When I realized what happened, I immediately decided to kill Vic-Vilarius Chaufleque. Then I erased all possible records of his existence. That's the way I work. Now, for the last time, you must leave immediately. The Gare du Nord is that way…”
Torquemada pointed to my left. I looked in that direction. The railway station looked amazingly close by. I could have spitted and my phlegm could have reached some locomotive bowel parked in the Gare du Nord. There was something I couldn't understand, though. The railway station was very well lit. It was blindingly shining.
“C'mon, Torquemada,” I shouted. “There can't be that much electricity around to blind people…”
I woke up in a hype. My semi-opened eyes were filled with shiny sunlight. My bedroom was filled with shiny light. I was surprised, because we had had a strong thunderstorm before I went to bed. But that was then. The alarm clock showed the current time to be 10:25 AM, the morning that followed the stormy night of September 27, 2007.
That was the mother of all dreams! You might say I am a dream master — but not like that. Three clear or vivid dreams in one night! Vivid dreams are very rare. If you have half a dozen clear dreams a year you should consider yourself lucky. I mean, you should be happy about it. Again, it is just one vivid dream a night — towards wake-up time.
Here are the circumstances leading to my three-in-one clear dreams. It happened on September 27, 2007. My week was busy with the completion of all-matters lexicographical. I succeeded to bring closure to the theory and software dealing with lexicographical order. The topic is presented in detail on this page:
Lexicographical Order: Lotto, Powerball, Mega Millions, Euromillions
I uploaded all necessary pages and software to my web site. It was late in the evening. There were signs that a strong thunderstorm was approaching. I hurried to the max to finalize the pages and upload them to my website. It was clear that the storm was quite violent. Lightning was frightening. One big bang punctuated the conclusion of my Internet activity. I barely had time to turn my system off. The lightening was fearsome, but I was happy I had gotten the job done.
September of 2004 and September of 2005 (the aftermath of Katrina) were also violent in my area. We had tornadoes. So, I took the remote control to my safe-closet. I turned the TV on. In 2004 and 2005 the local TV stations had tornado warnings and special weather programs. At least, the TV stations post severe weather warnings. This time around, yesterday, there were no warnings on TV. They posted them hours later, but that's beyond the point of this story.
Meanwhile, I needed to cook! So, it was somehow scary. Luckily, we didn't lose power. I was able to cook and eat and watch TV. The violent storm didn't last a full hour. The thing I watched on TV was also impressive. It showed the Nazi bombardment of London during the night of December 29, 1940. I went to bed close to midnight, that September 27, 2007. That's when my vivid dreams occurred.
I had first a shorter vivid (clear) dream of being lost in a city. That first clear dream took place in Beograd, the capital of former Yugoslavia. I walked the streets until I lost my way to the street where my car was parked. A group of pedestrians offered to help me find my car. Again, I didn't know the name of the street. Matter of fact, the streets had no names! The group was speaking a kind of English. They talked about soccer. I told them that my favorite Yugoslav soccer team was Red Star. That was a real team in Belgrade. The true fact is that the Red Star (Crvena Zvesda) club allowed me to attend freely their games in Beograd, while I was a refugee! That meant so much to me! A group of Red Star fans came to know who I was — they always saluted me when I appeared in the stands! We only lost one game that season — to Hajduk Split…1-3… Incredible how our memory works…
I was very happy in my dream being lost in Belgrade. We had decided to stop in an outdoor restaurant before searching for my unnamed street. Something put an end to the dream. I woke up — I think it was the thunder. It might have also been the sound of rain beating up on the roof. I had a beer as I was thirsty, then I peed like it was a flash flood in effect. I went back to bed thinking of that wonderful dream.
This is factual. We wake up after an impressive dream. We go back to sleep while thinking about that dream. Sometimes the previous dream triggers dreams on a common subject and in a like manner.
The two dreams I had (being lost in Paris) are more closely related to a post in my forums and…Jorge Luis Borjes. One member of my forums contacted me regarding a French academician, Marcel Boll, who was the first to show the equation of the Fundamental Formula of Gambling (FFG). I constructed an author and a book based on Marcel and the member's name. I posted in a manner established by Jorge Luis Borjes. Borjes would create compelling names of authors and literary works — fictitious, more often than not. I love that literary style. I have the utmost admiration and respect for Jorge Luis Borjes. He died in the 1980's. Jorge Luis Borjes is the greatest writer to never receive the Nobel Prize. Jorge Luis Borjes is the main reason why I regard the Nobel Prizes very lowly. The Nobel Prize does not reflect merit, as much as it represents politics. Jorge Luis Borjes greatly influenced modern literature, including greats such as Mario Vargas Llosa, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Asdrubal Leon Torrealba, Unaldo Beor, etc.
So, the name of Marcel Guénard was not the creation of my dream. Furthermore, the book “Le parisien de la riposte,” is not the creation of my dream. I had fictionalized them à la Borjes in my forum. The character Vic-Vilarius Chaufleque, however, is the creation of my vivid dreaming. I had similar dreams in which I created persons, characters — names, that is. The sentence I had posted in my forum occurred unchanged in my dream. That also happens in most cases of clear dreaming:
Gambling is the lost art of cynical hope.
The French Revolution in my dream might look out of place. Since my TV watching was about the bombardment of London, I should have dreamed of being lost in London. Or something about the American Revolution and the war against the Brits.
I had a stronger experience nonetheless. They showed a documentary on TV regarding the French painter Jacques-Louis David. David made an impressive painting of Jean-Pierre Marat, the butcher of the French Revolution. The TV documentary showed “La mort de Marat” many times, from many angles. It is a formidable experience. Marat looks like the most beautiful of Christs, indeed. But Marat was a despicable killer, in the same league with Hitler, Tojo, Stalin, Mao — mass-murderers for a revolutionary cause.
The revolutionary lottery was also the creation of my dreaming. Such form of gambling had never crossed my mind before those vivid dreams — ever! Yet, symbolically, every revolution organizes such forms of life-death lotteries.
La Gare du Nord — the North Railway Station — sprouts to life an old experience of mine. I was a first-time college student in Bucuresti, Romania. The brilliant student that I was didn't get the recognition that he deserved. I realized many years after that if you were too brilliant it might cause you to fall abruptly. Many a professor of mine would feel resentful towards my intelligence and my uncanny ideas. Meanwhile, I would not accept in humility the childish behavior of my grown-up educators. In truth now, after decades, I would tell you that I considered plans of killing some of the bastards! But how, I asked myself? Then, why, I asked myself? And I said forget about it, crocodilule! You gonna live the life of a great guy!
Point is, there were problems with my enrolment. The college (Academy Of Economic Studies) could not provide me with a room to sleep. The universities were government-owned, the dormitories were government-owned…and so on. I couldn't get a place to sleep! So, I ended up in Gara de Nord, Bucharest. I thought of buying tickets on local trains just to sleep overnite. There was a standup restaurant in the big railway station. I ate and had a draft beer or two. Then, I played one gambling game. The gambling was government-owned as well.
One game was named 'loz-in-plic'. There was a small envelope. You would tear it up and read the prize. (90% of the envelopes were 'non-winning'). They never printed “losing'. They said 'ne-castigator'. I hit a small but positive prize. I was approached by two men and a woman. They offered to play together with me. I accepted but I asked them to be patient. I presented to them my gambling theory in a nutshell. Let's wait and see the results of other players. I thought that they spread the prizes fairly, not randomly. Since Gara de Nord was a place frequented by very many people, I expected a higher percentage of good 'loz-in-plic' prizes. We played a few tickets ('envelopes') and then we won a good prize — something like a month worth of wages.
Well, that brought me into trouble. The guys I played with were vagabonds, with no homes. One was a gypsy, who brought to the team another gypsy. They didn't allow me to leave. We drank all day in all kinds of medieval-like pubs. We would sleep in the infamous Bucharest streetcars (tramways). I was unable to find a reasonable way to “escape” for a week or so. We won a good prize again. We had a big party, or so they thought. I looked like being very, very drunk. They were drunk, while I was only tipsy! I left with a little sadism. I could only hear the gang chief crying behind me: “Nicule! Nicule!” That was my false name. The guys that I hit quite badly while I left, stayed alive, for sure. I saw them after months, while showing my story to my college colleagues.
It was some dreaming experience! No wonder I woke up at 10:25 AM on September 28, 2007! Ten hours of sleep! My main goal today was to write about my oneiric experience. I also wanted to post it before midnite, September 28. I am almost there (but not quite!) This page looks like a fiction story. It is truthful, though. I just made an effort to make it good writing. So, the style is literary, but the content is scientific.
The whys of the dreams are left for another time. It might be that my subconscious responded to messages from a number of people who have urged me to publish my work. Of course, I will publish it all…but when…dunno… it is the stuff dreams are made of.
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