In this dream I was playing Harry Potter (looking like Dan Radcliffe in move #2). Ron, Hermione, and I were leaving a grocery store by way of a maze the staff had created for us. At the exit/checkout they told me/Harry that I needed a bag–they held up a plastic grocery bag and indicated that it needed to contain a pile of shit, like dog shit, but presumably my shit. Unable to exit, the three of us returned to the center of the maze to see Snape (calm down, girls). The idea was that I had ducked out on a caning from him, but if I took the caning, he would apply some magic purple goo to the cane marks afterwards and this would produce the shit I needed to exit the maze. Snape would Win the encounter because he would get to cane me, which he considered I richly deserved, but I would accept it because then I’d be able to get out of the maze.

We approached him in the dim place at the center of the maze. He was high above us on a dias. The darkness was  illuminated by a big, hot stage spotlight, which someone was adjusting to focus on me. I uttered a humble submission, but he couldn’t hear me (or pretended not to) up there. I mumbled something else. Same problem. Finally I said: Sir, I’m willing to accept the whack now. He came down and proceeded to deal with me, surprisingly not acting scornful or gloating or condescending or sneering, but formal and perhaps underneath it–through his ceremony and care–a bit respectful. He touched my robe and indicated that I should remove it. I handed it to Ron and Hermione. Now I was wearing a red tartan skirt, jumper, and knee-socks (and at this point the character sort of mixed with casey).

Snape gestured for me to bend over so that my friends and the spotlight were behind me. I bent over, nervous now, and suddenly shy of exposing myself. Sir, I said meekly, does Hermione have to…? He ignored my modesty and lifted up my skirt, embarrassing me further that Hermione would see my pants. I was bent over, hands on knees/toes, scared, very scared. I collected myself and practiced the detachment necessary, even recalling to myself advice some of my characters had given each other. I heard the swish and inhaled.

It hurt, and shocked me. I tried not to clench. The second one came shortly, and to my surprise didn’t hurt as much. The third, less still. What was he playing at? This was supposed to be an epic, revenge whacking and take me to my absolute limit or beyond. Strokes 4, 5, and 6 came all together, like light taps. But then the kicker: through Snape’s magic, they began to burn intensely.

Ah, this was where the suffering would begin! He had only been lulling me into a false sense of security. He might even begin to narrate the rest of the whacking with his loathing, ironic voice: You see, Potter, your confidence has been misplaced. It is false, in this and everything. You do not control the pain allocated to you, and your mental machinations are nothing but vanity–whack–vanity.

This didn’t happen, however. After the six, he let me up, not even especially sore. He treated me with that restrained, unspoken affection, that deep and powerful if unexpressed love that a teacher can have for a student, the gentleness beneath the severity, the paternal longing, the ultimate benevolence beneath the temporary sternness, the loving father beneath the stern God of Israel.

A few points of reflection: 1) the blending of me with Harry Potter; 2) the logic of the dream, that to be allowed out of the maze, you need a bag of your own shit, to be produced by the process of taking the cane; 3) Snape’s multifaceted personality, ranging from hostile authority to benevolent mentor; 4) the mildness of the whacking itself.

On an immediate level, this dream appeared to be about writing, though I suppose you could extrapolate beyond that. What is required to escape the maze? Shit. Your own shit. And entwined with this is the act of submitting to a hostile authority, one you had escaped previously by your own wits. Now, though, you must return to the dark center of the maze and voluntarily submit to that which you had evaded. Submit to an enemy. Submit, perhaps, to boredom, bad writing, meaningless, even death itself. You have to let Snape do what he will with you, even if your clever friends can see your underpants. All this in the service not of something beautiful, but in a bag of excrement, which is the only exit fee accepted here.

This dream also suggests that the hostile authority is only hostile because of my arrogance and evasion, and when I at last submit to him, confessing that I deserve his chastisement, he doesn’t hurt me so very much. In fact, he radiates a secret and unspoken love for me.

Finally, in this dream I am playing not myself or casey or even Hermione, with whom I generally identify, but Harry, the hero, the one who winds up doing great things even though he is very flawed and very human.

I guess we are all the main actors of our own stories. Excrement and suffering are certainly needed to exit the maze of a creative venture. And Snape, I know for a fact that I am not alone in saying I would submit to his hostile authority any day. Any day! If only writing were as simple as all that.