A Dream of Ethnography

The dream was fluent last week. A catalonan invited me up to the mountain (2). I was audience (3) to his art. Maybe I was the only one in front of him, for there were points in the dream when it felt this way. We sat cross-legged. It was a cave, I'm sure, but I remember the sun overhead.

His concept was to deliver the summary of his homeland through a whole experience. That is, he did not merely show things (8) or chant songs. He fed me (10) from two pockets carved from the soil before him: one contained a fluid, the other rice. These were tasteless, and I remember mulling on the tastelessness while he proceeded with the performance. He used his bare hands to feed me. Many other scenes came after that, but I must keep at least two of these paragraphs.

There, hidden.

The horror show was not over. The purging was painful. I gave birth to a flaming orb (26).

Notes:
2–A role played by someone I know. But C– was no catalonan in truth.
3–The word 'audience' does not fit. 'Participant', maybe, but the word has been worn thin by corporations and anthropologists the world over.
8–A moving tattoo, for one.
10–Was this the only dream where I don't wake up the moment before I eat?
26–Red, with a faded gold cross wrapped around it. Maybe my father still keeps that little Sto. Niño with a missing hand.