Blue_Opossum

Morning of November 2, 2013. Saturday.



This is my long flying dream, which becomes vivider in La Crosse at sister Marilyn’s house, having flown around after leaving the King Street boarding house. I had been homeless, living on Goose Island, having lived in treetops and now and then a rooftop. I had not done much walking but my shoes are worn out though I end up refreshing myself at one point as well as getting new shoes from my wife (wife-to-be in my dream).

This younger version of my wife had been going to the first year of a university course (University of Wisconsin in La Crosse). We embrace and kiss a few times, but she is apparently not ready to enter into marriage. We fly together under my power. I tell her that I can teach her to fly on her own with her own cloak and explain how my cloak works. My cloak is used for steering while flying. I explain how a certain part should gather and be tied about a foot or more up from the feet to prevent it from billowing out more. It seems to look and work similar to the wings of a flying fox. At one point, I demonstrate how to sleep while hanging upside-down like a bat. In the majority of my recent flying dreams, I have flown in a black cloak or in some cases a blue bed sheet that moves around me in various ribbon-like ways (similar to the Cloak comic book character from Marvel), more to protect my skin from twigs and such rather than a modesty issue.

Several events transpire. At one point, another person does not understand how I am able to fly and I explain that everyone has this ability. I try to teach them in steps, starting by saying that you just need to let yourself rise and hover while ignoring the force of gravity (as if one could), thus allowing yourself to float upwards. They try but fail. In the first part of my dream, I mostly fly about in either a standing or forty-five degree position. Horizontal flying (as with Superman) does not seem to feel right.

At one point, someone has a set of weapons and another joins him near the corner of a house (Gillette street; perhaps a play on getting cut or a “close shave”). (The weapon looks like the throwing star from “Krull” from 1983, a movie I saw in-dream prior to seeing it in reality without having known a thing about it and unexpectedly having someone else take me to see it on the same evening). Each star has either six or eight arms instead of the five, though. The two other people first seem to be playing around, yet do not like my flying. I get very angry, as the weapons are deadly, yet they play around with them like toys. Still, I dodge each one thrown at me but get more and more annoyed. As a result, I develop the concept that in order for a person to be allowed to use a weapon, he should be injured with it at least a few times before being allowed to use it. Taking this faux rule or law into consideration (without realizing my act is hypocritical as I had not been injured by them), I catch, over a short time as I am flying at about thirty degrees, three of the throwing stars (about three-fourths the size of a lawn-mower blade) and swing them back to the closest male while I am in mid-flight while doing a fancy maneuver. Two slice through each side of his body to the opposite side, one about a foot lower than the other, another going right through his abdomen (above the other two) expanding the cut to each side. I “explain” the upholding of the “rule”, which does not matter anyway, as the person falls apart into four pieces. I casually explain (to someone who appears and mourns the sudden loss of their husband) why that was the right thing to do. The other male stands there in a daze.

I eventually find myself flying around Southern Rhodesia in an isolated (or earlier in time?) area of Salisbury. (Possibly, it is an association with Salisbury steak which I ate in my youth in TV dinners; quite possibly the least palatable meal I have ever eaten.) I go to an even more isolated area after a few people seem either annoyed or frightened by my flying above them. I go into a herb shop (that is more like a rickety “house”) and an African male wants to learn how to fly with me. However, he then decides he will give me a lot of money if I bring back a small amount of Entada rheedii (African Dream Herb, of which I have never seen in real life to my knowledge) to sell for retail at his small shop. I go off on an adventure flying fairly low, deep in jungles, gliding over tall grasses and between trees. I am soon annoyed by large mosquitoes now and then and first worry about getting chikungunya. I clearly hear the loud, annoying buzzing in only my right ear at times. (This was specifically precognitive as I had not seen or heard anything on this for a long time. I thought it was a reference to a much older time period within my dream). I finish my task and move on, as I silently worked out in my mind that there was some sort of invisible barrier so the mosquitoes could not actually bite me. At this point, there are Blue Pearl events where the sphere seems to be almost external and moving at about my speed at a close distance. It seems to communicate with me and move ahead out of my range of vision.

I am, for some reason later on, near the main inlet of Rio de Janeiro. I also fly close to some hotels near Ipanema though a few people become angry at my act and wave their fists. There is talk of a new law to restrict my flying space. I adjust my dark cloak to steer through more populated areas and those areas with more potentially hazardous architecture. Although many people seem annoyed, some seem friendly and cheerfully wave. A short and fat mostly bald businessman in a dark suit waves at me and motions for me to land. A very gentle bossa nova (with a lot of higher string riffs) plays on the breeze (from several cheap outdoor radios at once, including from hotel balconies) with a gentle female chorus with amazing harmonies, which is like “The Girl From Ipanema”, but is like a parody of the song I saw many years ago. The gentle “Garota de Ipanema” song carries on the breeze (with different lyrics):

“Short and fat and bald and ug-a-ly,
the guy from Ipanema needs to fly with me,
to get back to his hotel across the bay…”

I am able to lift the heavy man and he smells of cheap cigar. He “flies” closely to my left, hanging on tightly, which annoys me, but I do not say anything. Still, it is very refreshing to look down over the water and boats from high above. Now and then, over the seemingly long journey (I guess I am flying more slowly at this point - it almost seems we are not moving at times - but this is likely how it would appear in real life from a small plane going at a reasonable speed) I have vague thoughts a couple times of dropping him into the water far below (by which he probably would not survive). There is also a slight concern that I will not get him across and I will instead end up dropping him midway anyway. Still, I feel I need to do this task so as to have “larger, friendlier energies more on my side”(?) After the long flight, I finally see the opportunity to land softly and he is grateful that he had not been late for the convention. I have apparently made a “new friend”.

LINK:

http://www.abc.net.au/news/2013-10-2...-virus/5051210

Morning of November 1, 2013. Friday.



I am in a non-lucid dream and near the Cubitis kitchenette, where I have not been (in real life) since 1978. I start to wonder about what I had been doing or was going to do, as my memory is not viable. I decide to lie down in bed to relax, becoming somewhat aware of where I really am (at our present address) but I am soon annoyed by a sound I have never heard before; a mix of high-pitched buzzing and squealing with fuzzy dynamics. I hear it three times, about four feet away from our bed but at slightly different heights each time. It is apparently not a noise from our fan, as it is on the other side. I feel I am nearing sleep, so I assume I am hearing hypnagogic sounds.

Several minutes pass. I am near an oversized snowmobile that is covered in snow and unlikely to go anywhere, as the skis and tracks seem frozen below ground level. I start to move the snow away. It seems to be a reasonable task as if I am somehow engaged in some sort of advanced photo projection and instead of just feeling and examining all of the environment, I am actually more immersed in it and mentally manipulating it. I move a lot of snow away but wonder how I will get the snowmobile out. I see that it is not a snowmobile at all but John’s Martian tank (from the Cowsills Harvey comic book). After a time I start to wonder why I am bothering as it will probably never run again anyway, and had been abandoned by the owner.

I “wake up” but I am still in the dream state, though it is not like a typical false awakening. I am sitting at a computer in the living room, near the kitchenette, in Cubitis. My computer is displaying an error window that moves across the screen. I try to read it, as I become semi-lucid and I want to see what my dream is “saying”, so I study the imagery as closely as possible. However, the letters keep changing as I watch (as is usually the case in dreams) and the error window still moves about in random ways, although I almost think I see all the letters of the pattern, “You can’t catch me, I’m the gingerbread man!” from a book from my childhood (and get an image from another window that appears to be on an Internet recipe page for cakes and cookies).

The size of the error window changes a few times. I get an illogical idea that I should fix the problem in my dream and it will change the real-life situation (though my computer was not on in real life and never displayed such an error). I look around the room, amazed at the clearness of my perception and how alive I feel. I start to question if I am still dreaming or somehow woke up and went to my computer without realizing it (yet illogically without the understanding that I could not possibly be back in Cubitis).

I walk down a hall, realizing I am now at our old address on Barolin Street. Knowing I am dreaming, I decide to have a sensual interlude with Zsuzsanna. It is afternoon and a few random dream characters are present in the house. Zsuzsanna and I are soon together and I turn around, mentally willing the door to close.

I loudly say “Lock!” and hear a loud metallic sound from exactly where I expect it within the doorknob, and so our door is locked. I could have done it manually, but my dream obeyed me and I get the sense that not only did the door lock, but created an impenetrable seal along the door frame itself.

Later, my dream begins to lose cohesion as I focus on the illogical thought of where my real body is or what it may be doing. In some lucid dream types I have a concern about where my sleeping body is and what position my head is in, and whether or not a pillow is too close to my mouth or even if I am absentmindedly wandering around in the middle of the street while in my lucid dream.

I “wake up” into another lucid dream (which is only a continuation of the same dream sequence, though at another level of unconsciousness, closer to waking consciousness), thinking about how real it seems. However, I see that I am back near the Cubitis kitchenette again as in the first part of this sequence. I cannot believe how real it feels, with augmented physicality.

I decide to go and see my beautiful wife for the second time, ending up at our present address. However, Earl (an older half-brother on my mother’s side who had died in real life in 2007) seems concerned about me when I say how my dream seems so real. I consider that it is “too real” to be a dream, but then I notice that our widescreen television looks different and is sitting on the wrong furniture. Curiously, Earl being alive does not convince me it is a dream. I wonder if he has something interesting or intelligent to say, but he continues to watch television. I see another widescreen television sitting atop a tall narrow bookcase, and curiously, this is what confirms for me that it has to be a dream.

I decide to be with Zsuzsanna again. This time though, Zsuzsanna and parts of the environment become somewhat transparent, so I decide to let it go and wake.

---

Way back when I was about nine years old and before I learned easier ways to learn things in a so-called paranormal sense, I did try to understand whatever I read at a few levels. Regarding such things, there are always at least three or four layered elements which can be directly validated (thus eliminating chance for coincidence or “unintended” synchronicity) much like checking the product to a multiplication problem with division. Technically, even only one layer of my experiences and work would have been enough, but this, as I have said in the past, is an entire strata of fixed aspects, how the web is woven. And so, not only are there several visible links to everything that exists in a person’s life (for them to “unravel” it as they see fit), there are also several more sparse, more hidden links (perhaps even infinite), so much so, you could have probably called me “Face-Palm Boy” when it took me so long to “get” certain things, or perhaps more like “Slap-Forehead Boy” when I learned something I should have known already.

At least one ancestor of the non-native lines was of the Vaudois - also known as the Waldensians. This group used various codes and watermarks which developed into some forms of modern cryptography and even formation of the modern English language. Over the years, time and time again, I was completely baffled by the “veil” over people’s eyes that prevented them from understanding something as simple as the alphabet or letter frequency, and why people did not use the system to more often win games like Hangman and to solve cryptograms - people were actually getting angry with me when I almost always won Hangman, saying I was “cheating” (simply by understanding the English language alphabet and the patterns of letter usage), for some inexplicable reason, preferring to wallow in negativity than enhance their understanding of practically anything at all.

The earliest Vaudois code was in one of the earliest editions of the Bible (1535 - known as the Olivetan), which had a secret decryption: “Les Vaudois, peuple evangelique, ont mis ce thresor en publique”. Down through history, even the name “JESUS” was partially of a next consonant/next vowel code (jesus, kitat, LOVEV at row TWO, the additional V in part representing Vaudois (22 citations sur Vaudois), and the bottom half of the “heart gate” or “love gate” or whatever you want to call it) and do not forget “V” is the 22nd letter creating yet an additional “fold” over an already fixed pattern (two mirrored to two being the heart on the plane and yet again, from which V emerges from THAT pattern - it goes on and on continuously). Of course, twos mirrored bottom to bottom also make the start of the Fleur-de-lys (or a swan mirrored to its bottom and rotated).

Eventually, for a time, my dreams focused on the puzzle of the “K SEAL”, mostly because of it being in my first name (as previously shown, in the SIXTH row): claude, dmeafi, fniego, gpoihu, hquoja, jrquke, kseali. I wondered if it was about Claudius, which my father said was the one who “started” it all. After all, why would the Vaudois write about me long before I was born…that was until I learned that all patterns are fixed and repetitive and there is not much people can do to distract you from truth-seeking if you really want bliss and love in your life (and basically whatever you want) for as long as you live.

My dreams focused on a very large number of K Seal “explanations” (or “K Seal I” - I being the ninth letter and validating the pattern as genuine in this case). I will go over only a few of them here.

The most obvious one has a few layers. My first and middle name finally resolves to GPO I HUG PO VIRGO (the “K Seal” being central to slight alteration of the two last vowels from “vurgu”). Thus, my bride is met via the Post Office (GPO stands for General Post Office as well, which was the first term I saw when going out when my family moved to Florida). Virgo is the sixth sign to my ninth (Yin and Yang). (This is not astrology, but logistics in related patterns - I do not believe in astrology itself - it is apparently a distraction to hide truth from those who wish to attain the “real answers” through real consciousness rather than following a false “system”.) There is a cluster after that (The K Seal row) which resolves to “The key is VI”, VI being Roman numerals for six (and you probably already know about the “nine in six”, the IX of six being Roman for nine, with the S being another Yin/Yang form). My initials in Roman Numerals resolve to 250, and interestingly enough K is also said to represent 250. These patterns always perfectly “fold in on themselves” several times over, unlike single coincidental patterns that only have one layer.

And so, the song “Sealed With a Kiss” by Brian Hyland entered my dreams (Most of the music I hear rarely has an influence in this way). Coincidentally, he also did “Gypsy Woman” - but I no longer care much for the term “gypsy” from learning that many real Roma do not like this term, although my wife is neutral about it. Regarding “sealed with a kiss”, this is what you say when you write a letter to one you love, but also can be written as an “X”, which represents St. Andrew’s cross. Thus, I figured that the “K Seal”, other than standing for kiss, was meant to be a reference to the St. Andrew’s cross (Crux decussata), for a time (in a spiritual sense).

Over time, I found all kinds of funny patterns relating to the “K Seal”. The letter “K” itself when placed with “3” makes the rotated “heart on the plane” symbol and “K” itself being half the master number (being the eleventh letter). Not only that, it also forms the suggestion of a shape of an envelope when rotated ninety degrees to the left (and you seal an envelope). Sure enough, I saw that the “Do K3” was designed by one Claude (Claudius) Dornier - thus he found his own higher path in life - literally, I guess. I never found a single thing that did not fit, even from several layers outward - something to this day I still appreciate.

The real K seal turns out to not be letter “k” at all, but to be a combination of I and C in such a way as it makes a “k” - this being from an old watermark. The seal is for “Iesous Christos”, interestingly enough. So, the “K seal” watermark is another symbol for Christ (I am not Christian).

Regardless of the hilarious fact that “K-Seal” has been “demoted” to a type of car leak repair (supposedly the best in this region) - my dreams were quite hilarious on this one, I simply heard the Beatles song “Fixing a Hole”. Thanks for reading.

Morning of October 29, 2013. Tuesday.



For some reason, my wife is a person who works in real estate (in my dream only), apparently, and is also a girl I had never met to that point. She seems as she did about ten years ago or so.

My wife and I walk around looking at buildings. At one point she points out a supposed girl ghost in the second floor of an old building for sale. I agree with her viewpoint and add that there is an additional ghost girl near the other one (which seems to be true).

Near the end of my dream, I am asking about it being okay if we see more of each other and she says “I’d like that,” and I say “I’d like that too,” (which is odd, as I do not use “too” - I have mostly only ever said “as well”) and we embrace and kiss. This seems almost a surprise as I am amazed that such a beautiful woman who has her own business wants to be my companion - and very strangely, it all seems new as if I had never had a female companion before, which frankly, I do not even know how such a perception is possible at this stage in my life - but there it is - proving that dream awareness can be anything from any time, almost temporarily “wiping out” conscious memory even when semi-lucid to make it all seem “new” again.

Morning of October 27, 2013. Sunday



Scenes from this dream have recurred hundreds of times over the years.

Beginning - St. Andrew and Caledonia Streets - La Crosse, Wisconsin, USA; walking into the Amtrak station from the sidewalk (for me train stations represent a desire to go into deeper areas of the dream state and/or communicate with either higher entities or orphaned tulpas). I had not been there in real life since February of 1994. There is a life-sized bronze statue of Nike near the area that is not there in reality. It is early evening. The Nike statue has about ten percent of the surface covered with verdigris (for me statues represent powerful spiritual energies which are beginning to surface - as it has the verdigris it likely means I need to focus on more meditation in real life lately to increase mental focus). Nike is the Greek goddess of victory and guardian of my connection to supraconsciousness, as V stands for victory and V is the twenty-second letter of the English alphabet (as well as the bottom half of the heart symbol - also half the Yin/Yang totality).

I go inside the Amtrak building. It is somewhat different than in reality in that it has a large public bar and an area with a pool table. A couple men of around forty years of age, in bluejeans and work shirts, are playing darts. The dartboard, instead of the bull’s-eye pattern, has the number twenty-two (dark blue on white) covering a fairly high percentage of the dartboard in surface area, yet it has never been hit before as there are no puncture marks from the points of darts on or near the area. There are far more puncture marks on the wall than the dartboard (from real-life - a north wall of my apartment in the King Street mansion was like this from the previous tenant). The men ask me if I want to join in on the next game and I do. They seem somewhat patronizing, apparently viewing me as of less intelligence, and hand me a dart. I casually throw it with my right hand and it hits the center of the dartboard, causing the entire wall to crack open (recurring), simultaneously all the way to the top and bottom, with small blue bolts of static electricity going everywhere outwards from it. Everyone starts running around, as parts of the ceiling are falling in. I am not that concerned, but walk outside as a precaution.

Hundreds of meteors, some with larger fiery “tails”, are moving across the sky and hitting the ground. The explosions are not that loud or damaging it seems, but are certainly causing chaos for the local residents. The eyes of the Nike statue “do a Jennie Haniver” (usually meaning, personally, a tulpa gaining real life via the thread of a real person it is not yet known to represent - the eyes glowing brightly and flashing briefly) as a man yells “Oh my God” and seems to be killed, falling backwards, by something she is holding, perhaps a dagger or just her touch, as her wings flap over him, creating an unusual metallic “groaning” sound, almost like the distant roar of a lion (from real-life - when I was the only one who recognized a lion’s roar at a fair distance when everyone else was trying to tell me it was the groaning of a bridge in the wind). This scene represents any Western ignorance my mind may be holding as being extinguished.

I walk to the east (going east, unless it is a specific place you are thinking of going, just as on a number line and the orientation of a compass rose, represents progress or expectation/reception of foresight/precognition as well as “rehearsing” potential future events). The living Nike statue is following me, but I am not alarmed. However, I am not quite sure if I want to face this entity. (Audio replay of “Solid Tin Coyote” from “The Roadrunner Show”, first seen on Saturday, February 17th, 1966 from 12:00 PM).

I turn my head to look back for the fourth time and see that the Nike statue is now Barbara Steele (just as her “wings” are folding behind her in a flawless static-electricity-like cascade effect) as she appeared many years ago and in the costume that always reminded me of an old-fashioned wedding outfit. (Barbara Steele represents both the totality of sensual energy from my youth as well as, in present symbolism, the real-life unfolding of marrying my tulpa or “dream girl” of unearthly beauty in real life). There are still meteors falling, but not in the immediate area other than when one hits a car, causing it to fill with fire, so that a skeletal hand is then hanging out the driver’s side (representing the elimination of any potential influence of Western or mainstream ignorance - as I am not the driver in control). Eventually, she seems to be holding something out to me, smiling lovingly.

I tentatively take it from her as she says, “In bocca al lupo…” (“Good luck”, although in this case, “good luck” literally means “in the mouth of the wolf”). I see that it is a large golden key which also looks much like a miniature branding iron (a personal symbol for identifying and then limiting or eliminating any modern Western or mainstream influences or energies).

I walk back to the Amtrak station and although it is mostly destroyed, there is one section of an outer wall with a large keyhole. Three elderly men are sitting about near the ruins, two carving something, one hammering a small object. They are wearing dingy greenish berets. (Darker green berets represent a tentative but ready mental attitude in moving forward with a goal - due to being on the head, being somewhat round, and from the traffic light symbolism.) “I’m going in,” I tell them. Only one, the nearest, glances at me without emotion and goes back to his work of whittling.

The keyhole, which is on a short cylindrical base about an inch out from the wall’s surface, matches the construct of the key I have. The recess is shaped like a large letter “S”, with the forward “C” and the reverse “C” in smaller detail within the “S” - representing the English alphabet form of the Yin/Yang gateway or threads between primarily Asian or ancient cultures and English communication at the supraconscious level. I put the key in and it actually glows like a miniature branding iron and sizzles and sparks. I start to turn it ninety degrees to the left (turning to the left represents the act of loosening or revealing something as with real-life screws, lids, and such, as well as reviewing memories or “turning time back”). Within the sizzling sounds, it clicks when it is at the implied nine (leftmost number on a clock). I turn it another ninety degrees (down to an implied six, the bottommost number on a clock) and it clicks again, the six and nine being the numerical construct of the Yin/Yang form. As the cylindrical keyhole pad recedes into the wall, it transforms into the Yin/Yang symbol by way of the hundreds of tiny metal rods adjusting to the geometric form.

I do not see a door, but the wall itself somehow develops horizontal equidistant recesses and then opens like a jalousie window with all “slats” stopping at ninety degrees. I then see another keyhole I had not noticed before. This one is of two question marks, one facing the other, the question mark being a representation of separation from the supraconsciousness and the separation from the “two”, symbolized by the vertical stem (the mundane mind pulling it down) and the point (isolation from Universal Mind) and aiding in maintaining ignorance at the physical level. I softly rotate (to the left) a torus-shaped dial just below the bow of the key and six small rods emerge from near the middle, somewhat like miniature umbrella ribs in the form of a Star of David with very small bolts of static electricity, and with a barely audible electronic hum, rising to a very subtle higher pitch (around the 9,000 Hz range) the six parts move around the tip of the key, and merge together in one shape, replacing the original implied shoulder stops. The keyhole pattern changes as the key enters, the stem of the question marks each rotate ninety degrees away from the middle with a veneer-like surface receding back and the implied isolated recess actually being a section that slides to the new “stem” each forming the number two (one of them mirrored). The mirrored twos then move more into the wall, receding enough to bring out a hidden plate that is heart-shaped. The heart-shape then glows - and the “slats” of the jalousie-window-like wall start dropping downwards fairly fast until there is an open entrance to walk through.

There is now something that looks like a small white control panel for a home alarm when I am inside, the brand name embossed as “initium” and another version of the “dartboard” from the earlier scene, but as a functioning keypad. I press my initials on the arc-shaped keys, C…C…L… and the display lights up as 250 (CCL in Roman numerals). The “2” looks like a “Z” in the display, and the “5” looks like an “S”. The 0 spins and forms a Yin/Yang icon and moves to the right (moving to the right, as on a number-line, implies progress or moving into the future). It (the “25” of 250 to “ZS”) forms ZSUZSANNA, my wife’s first name. However, it then displays “KSEAL?” which I take to mean “Sealed with a KISS” or the letter “X” (between Z and C on a normal keyboard) or “St. Andrew’s cross of X” or “Crux decussata” (note the street name above of St. Andrew), but is also the next consonant/next vowel pattern in a localized area supposedly encoded into my name by Nike, (for example the pattern being claude, dmeafi, fniego, gpoihu, hquoja, jrauke, kseali) - a source having said “This unusual abbreviation’s origin (referring to "K”) is unknown; it has also been said to stand for 250". K is the eleventh letter (11 + 11 = 22), as well as being half the symbol (but rotated ninety degrees) of the “heart on a plane” and I ponder whether to press “K” or “X” and decide to just press the center of the keypad, which seems to work as a door opens in front of me and I walk out onto the porch of a house on Avon street I had been to in the distant past. It is “still” nighttime from that point.

I see a fireball rolling along the ground, but it turns out to be a candle-lit jack-o’-lantern, which somehow sets fire to the grass after falling from the porch wall next-door and apparently causing something else on the porch to fall. “Stupid cats!” someone yells from inside - so I am thinking the meteor shower is over. I see a blur of white and am thinking it is Snowball, a cat from my childhood. It is not a cat, but a white swan that comes to me. I sense another presence. A black (Australian) swan emerges from the darkness and sits on the porch wall at the same time a young version of my wife walks up the porch steps carrying a hollow plastic jack-o’-lantern with a black handle to collect candy in (not wearing a costume but dressed as she was in an older photograph with a red top and yellow shorts). “Oh…hello…” she says timidly (as if seeing me for the first time). I take her lower right arm (whispering “Yin” in gratitude) to guide her away from the front of the porch, as the explosions start up and grow louder again.

Two obnoxious, meandering drunks walking by, of about twenty years old, yell out “Trick or Treat”, one holding up a can of Budweiser beer and the other saying (to my wife) “Where’s your Costume, Cinderella? Where’s your pumpkin coach, Cinderella?”- but both are hit by fireballs (that ironically turn out to be flaming pumpkins), setting them on fire, causing them to fall and die, screaming and pounding the ground and writhing.

A car is hit by a fireball and crashes into the corner of the house (from a real-life event when a car crashed into our house, into the porch steps and I thought I had lost my wife but it missed her by possibly a minute as she was walking home from the store - across the street when it happened). We move into the doorway as static electricity starts shooting from our skin. My wife’s hair is standing on end. She starts giggling, trying to pat it down, turning in circles and engaging in some sort of funny little dance. I soon actually see our “pumpkin coach” near the opposite side of the porch from where the car crashed and is still burning, but it is a Romani caravan.

Barbara Steele is watching the house, halfway between the sidewalk and the porch with her arm extended to indicate we should get into the pumpkin-shaped Romani caravan as soon as possible.

“Are they all to die?” I say with an unexpected sorrow watching the trails of “jack-o’-lantern meteors” blazing across the sky, crashing everywhere, leaving piles of pumpkin pulp all over the streets and houses (from a real-life event in November of 1993, when I was the maintenance person for a childcare center for WWTC and a very large pumpkin in a Thanksgiving setup had exploded just a few minutes prior to my walking in - the horrid-smelling pulp went all over the main area for a fair distance, even breaking a couple fluorescent lights, and taking a long time to clean up).

Barbara Steele’s visage is now of a teal-colored skull (but seemingly darker in the shadowy porch environment), lighting up slightly from the inside, and she is pointing to me with her left teal-colored skeletal finger but starting to revert to the Nike statue, now nearing the porch steps and holding a blue flaming sword with her right hand, saying something (with a voice of at least six or seven layers of different pitches, like a chorus) much like…“Essi sono sul filo sfilacciato della vita. Tu sei il punto dell'universo, della sua fonte di vibrazione”. (“They are on the frayed thread of life. You are the point of the universe, its source of vibration”.) (This scene and theme is modeled somewhat after “Tonight the Sky Will Fall” by Daniel F. Galouye from Imagination magazine 1952 where one man/being is all that exists and all else is a dream.)

We get into the caravan, my wife being very passive and going in first. There are two horses which neigh nervously at the streaks of fire in the sky. There are streaks of light and vibrations and it is airborne into outer space (the outside view going by so fast that it is like cards being flipped - similar to the view from a jet window when taking off in real life), leaving the Earth forever, as we gaze at the Eagle nebula (“Pillars of Creation” area) just outside the small round window…as I wake I try to hold and focus on the pure bliss.

Night of October 26, 2013. Saturday.



I and a few others are connecting pipes, seemingly in a very large underground area; at times, mausoleum-like, yet with soft walls (some of possibly velvet or velvet-like texture - although in afterthought it may more realistically be mold) and a couple smaller hallways, possibly under a private residence. I get a strong impression that it is the house of a rock singer from the past, such as a younger David Essex or Rick Springfield. It actually turns out to be the residence of Lou Reed (supposedly quite reclusive in my dream), and his recording “Like a Possum” is relevant to my tribal name and nickname. I had not actually listened to him that much in my life, though.

At one point, a large mass of hair is taken out of the pipe so that the water then starts flowing from it. We then attach it to the pipe it was originally meant to be connected to, as it had somehow disconnected and fallen way. At another point, there are two pipes coming out from one larger one that have somehow fallen away from the connecting pipes lower to the floor (being in a Y-shape pattern). The letter “Y” implies a question mark, as well as the top being “V” (twenty-second letter) over “I” (ninth letter) being a symbol of “I” being under the power of love (or possibly victory) but also somehow reminds me that mortal man is “less than” the universal (since it is a “less than” implication in pointing down from the expanse of the greater) - or possibly acceptance of the greater (a person with his arms up and out in appreciation of the sky above). We are successful in our clearing out and reconnecting of all the pipes over about seven or eight events.

Pipes can refer to other things, such as singing voice, organs (which also have reeds), and pipes that people smoke. Symbolically, it can relate to the digestive system, the liver (also a kind of organ), and also the circulatory system.

(Original) Update: This dream was the night before and into the morning (October 27) of hearing that Lou Reed died, so I think there is an obvious precognitive layer - the connections being Lou Reed, “underground” (regarding his “Velvet Underground”). However, in my dream the (plumbing) “operation was successful” though he died in real life. The majority of my more detailed precognitive dreams are usually more precise (in a literal sense) at several levels (even when mixing events or imagery), so this is only a minor connection regardless of the layers that fold over each other with multiple meanings. I still classify it as at least loosely, though convincingly precognitive.

Morning of October 26, 2013. Saturday.



I am on a concrete footpath near a metal railing high over a river and across from where I am is a beautiful waterfall. It might also be a part of a one-lane road. It is vibrant, with water splashing perfectly. To my right is a version of my wife. We seem to be in Brazil. Mostly, I am focusing on the waterfall and various aspects change over time. It is very peaceful. The sound of the waterfall is vivid and softly stimulating. At times it appears smaller rocks crumble from near the top and fall down into the river. Sometimes it seems like they reappear, or more like they “bounce” back up to their prior position in slow motion. Sometimes it seems as if I can will the waterfall to move in reverse, and it seems that I do. At times, it appears there is no water, only mud, but it starts flowing again. I am slowly learning what affirmation to indirectly think of to cause each of the changes.

I think of going around for a better view. I walk around, I think to the south (my right) and go down some rickety, ridiculously unsuitable wooden steps. Sometimes boards or entire steps fall out from under my feet and I just have to walk on the air. I feel a bit bad for people who will not be able to use the staircase at all when it has finished falling into the foamy river. The waterfall is much louder. Well, that seems rather weird for a dream. I walk around to a few locations testing this concept, and it seems to work. This has happened before and is quite extraordinary. Sometimes it even works with perceived electrical energy. It has something to do with muscles in the neck moving a certain way, perhaps, as I can cause ringing in my ears (with various pitches) by stretching my neck certain ways, especially noticeable when there is white noise in the environment (such as a computer tower with the side open and with a loud CPU fan).

Well, I go around the edge of an embankment a bit down from the road and walk along to the waterfall (about the middle area relative to top to bottom) and instead of a waterfall it is a beaded curtain. Now what? I am fairly certain I was watching a waterfall all that time and not a large beaded curtain hiding a cave. The girl/wife follows me in and I sort of, for some strange reason, revert to my childhood. After moving past the beaded curtain, there are a couple hippies sitting in the semi-darkness of the cave. Strangely, these are the “hippies” from a comic book cover I have not seen since comic books were twelve cents. Can you believe it? Now they can be twelve DOLLARS or so. What in the world have these people been doing in this small cave behind a fake waterfall all these years?

I feign fear and run out as if it is part of a comedic movie. “Argh! Oh no! Hippies!" I yell. It is a farce, like a cheap stage show with a small audience, perhaps. My hat will not fly into the air to create the comic effect, so I get annoyed and pull it off and clumsily throw it and it barely goes two feet. Ruined scene but the director (where?) did not yell "cut”. I start to walk straight up the side of the rock-face. Not with my body horizontal as is sometimes the case, but upright, the toes of my shoes barely making contact with the protruding parts of rocks and dirt clumps. I make it to the top. A dark-haired female is doing a combination of martial arts and ballet but is wearing mostly white martial arts clothes. There is the position where one leg and much of the body is exactly horizontal and facing downwards with only the one leg for stance and balance.

“Missed the bzzzzzz…”

“Hey?” I say to someone else(?) behind me. No one there. “Pardon? What did you say?”

I try again. “I missed the BUS?" Pause. "The bus?" Pause. "I missed the buzz?" Pause.

I continue trying to voice the question as…"missed the bus”, “missed the boss”, “missed the buzz”, “missed the buds”, “missed the box”, “missed the bucks”, “missed the bugs”, and even “missed the Boz” with a brief flash of the singer Boz Scaggs. I mostly try to stay on “bus”, though.

I go near the railing and the martial arts girl mostly ignores me but still seems friendly in facial expressions. The immediate area seems somewhat like a semi-circular parking lot for visitors to the park. However, I get impressions of weight moving towards me like a sort of dream within the dream, and sort of like some kind of telepathic dodgem game. I casually touch the railing…and the entire section falls down, clattering down the high rocky embankment. Pieces tumble down end over end and cause an explosion far below, I think in a park utility building. Oh well.

A weight moves against me but it is my wife and I hardly have time to say “Oh!” before I am airborne (there is a strange vocal impression - a bubbly cheerful phrase I do not quite get or maybe just gibberish - and a blissful mood from the movie “Oliver” - “Who Will Buy?”). I land quickly on my back and look up. Everything is tiny. I am fascinated by the “tall” pine trees moving like small soft feathers when I touch them. Now I am as high as the very high embankment. Eventually, I see that I am looking over a very large part of the world; large rivers, a long bridge, all very small; boats, ships, hundreds of tiny buildings, and eventually seeing nearly twenty percent of the entire world for a time. Then…

Pure bliss. Breathtaking. I am lying on my back. Breathing seems frozen in time yet still correct. I watch the clouds moving at a moderate speed overhead, looking straight up. Small, somewhat narrow purplish clouds, all at about the same distance from each other, with hues of gold and silver against the fairly dark sky, which is growing lighter (it seems to be early in the morning now). There is sort of a rustling energy from somewhere. There are no words to describe the soft blissful feelings. I turn my head slightly to the side and see my wife’s profile in the distance, but it is actually the shape of a mountain…but then…we are in a mountainous region, almost forgot…

“Who will buy
This wonderful morning?
Such a sky
You never did see!
Who will tie
It up with a ribbon
And put it in a BOX for me?”

(from “Oliver”)

Morning of October 25, 2013. Friday.



This lucid “full-body” experience starts by entering a hypnagogic portal (after about three hours of being in “state”). I keep hearing music that I am fairly certain has not been recorded, somewhat like old-school dub reggae, but more modern - the fact that we have the fan on near our bed in real life adds greatly to this state because of the level of white noise and the ambient “masking” effect. It does not seem to be a track I have worked on regarding my real-life work. There are no stronger (involuntary telepathic) vocal pulses by this point except maybe a few meandering “orphan” ones from somewhere in the neighborhood that do not relate to me or my focus (I get far less than I did years ago at any rate - it takes time). It is very hard to sleep without the environmental noises being filtered to at least some extent and it also helps when being in deep state - as if it is “too quiet” - the slightest sound (even a leaf falling outside) causes extreme physical pain (or at least the seeming experience of such), almost like my skin being torn away.

One of the scenes from the first Rascals dream on here was not included but I will include it here with this entry. When we leave the mansion on King Street and start to walk out to engage in our adventure, I check my head and find I am wearing a baseball cap. This makes me extraordinarily angry and I immediately change it into a darker-colored cowboy hat with a Montana crease before anyone notices my “blunder”.

This other related dream reminds me very slightly of a few dreams I had many years ago. I was the one in “training” (with my fifth grade class) though (not the fictional Pearl as in this one). I was sort of running and leaping into the air in an attempt to fly but I kept crashing to the ground quite heavily. Over time, I learned that in dreams, at least for me, I can just let myself rise - as if there was no gravity. In many such dreams I had been in a diagonal (or even a standing) position rather than the strictly “Superman-like” way of flying, which I never particularly cared for.

Meanwhile, prior to the action, there is a part of the Key I want to enhance the workings of. I want to more precisely work out the entropy rate of its potential continuity to get “answers” in a quicker, more viable fashion. In the past, I used dividing sources that were written years ago. I later began to understand it had to be a newer, “present” written source such as a fresh entry on a dream journal (or several different entries for integration) or a recent set of news articles - or the answers would be from “another time” so to speak. I try to do the algorithm in my head which I am sometimes able to do after going over it several times. I know from one source table that the “apex” letter E represents 12.7 percent and bottom value Z represents only point one (0.1) percent. This means that the entropy rate is very high, but not high enough to prevent the answer forming coherently from the so-called Akashic records (although this may not be a good term to use considering all the nonsensical misinformation in the mainstream).

I am “awakened” (in-dream) by Eddie K, who is apparently teaching Pearl how to use the knowledge of the conscious mind to work at deeper levels of consciousness. I reflect on the irony. Most people in life use their dreams to enhance reality, when people such as myself use reality to enhance dreams! What an intriguing giggle for humanity’s sake! I almost start laughing too hard, which causes me to shift my awareness.

Pearl is trying to work in a similar manner as I have in the past, using a pure, viable knowledge of phasing and thought interpolation. She has the task of causing two walls to interpolate with polarity reversal so that both walls disappear (as with the construct of identical sound waves with one inverted over the other at the same time and placement) and instead, when the walls come together, they create a new wall in the target location with a perfect checkerboard pattern (instead of completely phasing out) and Eddie keeps laughing.

Suddenly, unrelated to the scene, there is a breakthrough idea when I catch a bit of thought interpolation between pulses of the dream-related energy. Recently I was going to write about a new trend - regarding why I have been seeing maize flour, yeast, and similar (including the recent dream with the supposed larger cloud of fingerprinting powder and the Etch-a-Sketch-like powder on the floor) in several of my recent dreams. I “catch” a sound pulse forming the term “healing powder” (instead of the phrase “healing power”)! I then suddenly am aware (although I have always known this - but not with this particular transition) of how the mind changes the meaning of affirmations, perhaps through unintended entropy - which dreams do quite often. (For example, when I was much younger - the sound pulse “girls” - without viable photo projection involved - often triggered shorter lucid dreams where squirrels appeared instead - kind of hilarious in a pitiful sort of way.)

Pearl is “trying to get it”.

“You need to meditate on ZERO PAIRS and related concepts for a few hours,” says Eddie. I can almost see her mind at work. She is thinking of a positive five and a negative five, and bringing them together (the negative five on her left, the positive five on her right, looking ahead and seeing a big fat “goose-egg” floating in the air).

“Start with black and white to gray,” says Eddie, “It’s easier. Black to your left, white to your right…now look forward and see gray…” Pearl fades out completely and doesn’t come back. Eddie K rolls his eyes with arms akimbo…“Quiet delight…benchmark…”

Morning of October 24, 2013. Thursday.



This dream starts out where I and at least three others including my wife are in my old apartment on King Street. The ages are not right (my wife would be about eight years younger by comparison) as we are all seemingly around eighteen, but become younger in later scenes. Firstly the room we are in is an alternate universe that is embedded within this one. There is some sort of setup where if a normal human being is in the area, it changes back into how the room should look to them, including all the various possessions we have then going into an invisible, phased state. It only becomes as it is now (automatically) when one of us wants to rest or stay there for a time. At least one of the others is Eddie K, a Christian-Slater-like tulpa from dreams from many years back (one of the only other males in dreams that ever had special abilities), and an unknown female (named Pearl).

Around this time, there is also activity in another room - apparently somewhat normal people but those who know of us - but who are a bit mixed up, “challenged”, and “slow” and not a threat of any kind (one may be based on the pinhead I knew in real life at that time). There is something about seeing my family name in the newspaper. I go to show the newspaper to a normal human female for some reason and the pinhead accidentally moves his arm around and knocks it out of my hand because he wants to mostly only live his life as a dog(?) but also sometimes mutters gibberish and gets very angry when people read newspapers. I get sort of angry at him (not intense) and when I gather the pages together I see that the newspaper print is mostly all misaligned all over the page with words and sentences flowing into other words. It seems then to be in the future even though we are much younger. Humans (and human society) have reached such a state of “decay” that newspapers are mostly made up of only erroneous lines of text that move at various lesser angles over nearby sentences, but which reveal clusters of print that only we can read in a beneficial way. This apparently is caused by the paper going through the printers incorrectly, such as at angles or with localized folds. In other words, we are moving into a sort of natural entropy regarding the human race and almost all of their inventions and activity.

I get somewhat annoyed (especially at the “dog person”) and make the choice that we will not associate with humans anymore, as it seems to serve no purpose. All they do is meander around, entertain themselves with almost anything, much of it destructive to the body and mind, and cause trouble with invented stories about people they do not like. Eddie seems to agree and we eventually all agree and go back to the “pocket universe” for a time until the property owner returns. From this point my wife and I are intimate for what seems a long time, but on a sofa aligned south to north (our heads to the south). The television is on but it seems like mostly random pieces of different newscasts and short scenes of people in violent confrontations and yelling gibberish. Later, it seems we decide to go out and enjoy the night air. I have several pairs of shoes at that location, most extremely expensive, but the first pair I put on are from a cheap local store. Even though they are brand new, the outer plastic-like thin layer of the shoe on top and around the toes cracks and flakes off like old paint within seconds, with me deciding to peel off the larger pieces. Eddie smiles and asks me why I would attempt to wear modern human-made shoes when they only last for about thirty seconds when first worn. I am soon wearing shoes that are somewhat like fancy tennis shoes, but which also have hiking boot properties.

We go downstairs and see that the property owners (who live in the same building) have their door open but are not near the vestibule. We go out and it seems late at night, possibly near midnight. As we walk down the street, I remember all the hundreds of dreams where I was on my own and enjoying the beautiful evening while flying swiftly (about ten to twenty feet at various times) over the streets, staying mostly directly above the street itself to avoid the trees and higher buildings on each side (but still able to fly up and beyond when I wished to). These dreams of flying, which have recurred throughout my life, have always felt like the most enjoyable, peaceful scenes, and I am often wrapped in a cloak or use it to maneuver (somewhat like a bat but not with flapping, just gliding). It is how I often travel, often on my own, but sometimes with others. Often, there are no other people or cars anywhere. It is timeless and perfect.

My wife and I begin to float and walk at the same time, walking up invisible “steps” (recurring) and then flying in a face down position for a time, lightly holding hands, and like two people steering the same vessel. It is blissful, like a frozen moment in the so-called dead of night.

Eventually, there are more of us, about six or seven. We land and walk through a common type of building in my dreams, which is somewhat like a very large empty garage, sometimes with small and sparse factory areas or commercial auto-repair features and sometimes in rarer cases, seemingly a storage area for older appliances or restaurant equipment (which is often between two larger buildings). We are now only about sixteen years old or younger, although I think the ages are now more varied. It seems that I am the oldest of the group now. (I guess we can change our ages at will.)

As we near the opening of the “garage” to the east, which has a column through the middle of the entryway, there are a few people around, most of them late-shift workers and about three police officers. One says my first name in a very friendly but respectful way. I guess there is a curfew and we are too young to be out at night. “Don’t you read the newspapers?” says another officer. “This is a dangerous place to be, especially so late at night”. Apparently there are several criminals that go around attacking people at this time, but we had not seen anyone else until then.

“We’ll just be on our way,” I say somewhat defiantly as we all keep walking, but they seem reluctant to let us into the more open area of the city and tell us that we should go home. The town is called “Pittsville” - which I only found out was a real name tonight (and in fact, is even supposedly the geographic center of Wisconsin) - as the name was used for years as a slang name for any town that was “boring” to live in (a play on a place being “the pitts”). La Crosse and other towns were called “Pittsville” in real life when there were no “exciting” events going on.

“We’ll be fine,” I say, “I have a weapon, a wristwatch that uses satellites to focus lasers and which can destroy anything in any area." One man wants to see it in operation and I ponder that there may be trouble if the local government realizes what we can do, though it does not seem a direct concern. I still pull back my sleeve to expose the device which is about twice the size of a normal wristwatch. The man who wanted to see it in operation tells me to destroy a very large old tree (possibly based on the Tree of Knowledge from Florida when I was young) including the large roots. I tell him that people would be angry and that I should focus on a better test target, which, oddly enough, may be one palm tree in a row of palm trees (there being no palm trees as such in the area of Wisconsin we are supposedly in). There also seems to be other plants in the area, almost prehistoric in their appearance, like ancient forms of palmetto or some such.

I adjust the small dials on the device which works by showing a real satellite view of the entire area with a superimposed grid and it is easy to move a small cross-hairs icon over the lines, operating somewhat like an Etch-a-Sketch. Soon, I push a small button when the cross-hairs are over the tree in the satellite view and a bright laser comes from somewhere, but seemingly up from the ground instead of down from the sky. However, it is some sort of targeting beacon of which there are thousands hidden all over the world at near ground-level for extra precision. A larger laser comes straight down from the sky and destroys the larger palm tree. From there, we walk about freely as people back away from us.

Morning of October 23, 2013. Wednesday.



In a dream that seems somewhat age-angst-relevant (concerned about getting older I suppose, not “old”, just older), I am back in school, but it is not any school I ever went to and my classmates are all unfamiliar. There are about seven or eight students (at least three females and a few males) and my mother (who died years ago) is also there. It almost seems to be a music studio in my home in Cubitis as well as my mother’s last room in Wisconsin at a sister’s house before moving into the Manor. A taller dark-haired female (completely unfamiliar in all ways) who seems to be someone important to me talks with me. Later, just as the school day is an hour from ending, I start to get annoyed for some reason, wondering what I am doing there. My mother asks a different taller dark-haired girl (who has her back to me and looking at a computer, as are most of the others - with about five or six computers in the room, which I never saw growing up in reality) about something in a way that seems to imply she is trying to be a “matchmaker” somehow and mistaking her for the other girl - asking her something about an e-mail address or something, I think. I am rather annoyed and shaking my head and trying to get her attention away from her and make subtle hints about it being the other girl (which really makes no sense at all from my perspective) without anyone knowing the person has (or could have) a connection to me.

I get more and more annoyed, the most annoyed being from a cassette tape that I had recorded a lot of music on and it (the tape itself) turns into tangled yellow felt inside the cassette case (which makes no sense - I have had brand new “dud” tapes in real life but not like this - I also have had tapes get “eaten” in real life years ago, but it has not been a concern for about fifteen years or so - and why would I try to record on felt anyway - I have worked with felt and wonder why people ever bother to use it - it is extremely fragile and very short-lasting). I get the feeling, that, even though it seems I have two or three years of school left that I am “never going back” (which I say in my dream) and am “done with it all” as well as the seeming two weeks for the particular “class” I am in at the time. It seems rather final and even positive in some ways (but considering it also seems to be at my own house, it makes no sense). After a time, as I am waking, I realize I am not a young teenager, but am fairly “old” and feel quite strange as if I had moved briskly through time. Not really a regret, just wondering what had happened.

“Red tape” is the idiom that refers to excessive regulation or rigid conformity to formal rules considered redundant or bureaucratic though there may be a subtle association with the “yellow tape” - possibly also a subtle relevance to “yellow pages” and communication. Felt may relate to feeling as in human feeling or feeling healing (though again, I see it as fragile and very short-lasting).

Morning of October 22, 2013. Tuesday.



This is a highly unusual and very long dream. It starts out almost like a somewhat vague origin story in a comic book (with some sort of unknown “powers” growing in me), but there is no even transition between my first to second “place” in the movie-length events. I seem myself at first, although there are unusual moods and images - I do not even look like myself for the rest of my dream (after I become the agent).

I am in Wisconsin again and am in the backyard near a small metal fence between houses. I think it is a garden area, but there are not that many larger plants. Right near the bottom of the fence itself, in an area of mostly only dirt, are what looks like a couple of bones, still with some of the fur and sinew on. I soon discover that one is the front-right leg of a cat with a small bit of fur with tiger stripes. I find some other pieces, including a skull, and it feels a bit strange and sad. I set them to my left in an area just off from the garden. After a short time, the pile of bones, fur, and sinew seems to rise and lower as if in breathing motions. Oddly, I see now that it is a living cat (which is now more like a black and white one than a tiger or tabby) that was injured badly but is now doing a bit better (as I had put the parts together) so that he is able to get up but still has a large gaping hole on his left side through which the lungs can be seen moving. He gets up and I am concerned about him wandering off in that condition. He goes into a shed (which then seems to be the rabbit farm as it was in Florida) and jumps high up onto the narrow ledge on the top of a window. Over time, I get him to come down by calling to him and then pet him for awhile and he starts purring.

A little later I am with my wife and an unknown girl on the porch. The girl is talking about some strange things that scientists are supposedly doing, including sterilization of animals (such as predators) that eat only meat. There are a few different militant groups involved in civil disturbances and such and the world seems more unsafe than ever - and the public more uneducated than ever before regardless of all the online courses (many freely available or at least in demo stages) in everything from biology to civics and economics. Not caring if I am believed or not, I start talking about how the cat “became a cat” when it had not been a full, living cat (almost like describing mitosis in extensive detail - prophase, metaphase, anaphase, and telophase - which almost seems to be something relating to how the world is changing as well). The girl looks at me oddly but does not comment. From that point, everything starts to change, and I am an “agent” of some kind, wearing an extremely expensive suit and carrying a gun.

The first mission is to secure a three-storey laboratory where there are a large number of people, male and female, of various ages (from ages twenty to about sixty), all in white lab robes, involved in a project to sterilize all cats in the world - with cats eventually becoming extinct. Cats are carnivores, and come just prior to the planned world-sterilization of wild feline carnivores, then onto dogs (as dogs are supposedly omnivores, although one credible website states that “dogs have a natural and undeniable carnivorous bias”). In real life, I have seen cats eat grass and vegetable matter, but the act usually makes them vomit (they lack the necessary enzymes to break down vegetable matter), which is supposedly beneficial. I am not sure of what the overall missions are, but I always follow orders and go where I am supposed to. In this case, I am supposed to guard one door - with a gun and with two other agents with me - so that people do not get out - and am also clearly aware that I am immune to the gas that is to be released from the non-lethal bombs. Eventually, there is an announcement over the entire intercom system that everyone involved in the sterilization of animals will, instead, be sterilized themselves. This comes as a shock to people and they start racing around in an attempt to get out of the building before the mechanisms/non-lethal bombs go off. Something goes wrong, chaos ensues, and people fall or jump out of windows from the third floor (as well as the lower windows).

There are explosions as I am just outside the building and most of the lab workers are shot when they near the circular scrimmage line about ten feet out at the shortest distance from the building. Somehow, hundreds of people are killed (including an agent or two) and only three civilians escape, each with an agent escort. The younger man with me is annoyed that he had been sterilized and I tell him about the “cure” - which simply involves extended foreplay and he then seems a bit more positive in getting away from the area - which now involves military action between two new forces coming in, neither being us (relating to some sort of strategical trick to reduce the number of “enemy agents” and military forces worldwide).

After this, there are other acts such as apparent espionage, but we are supposedly the “good guys” in every case. Sometimes I am recognized as an agent (often due to the extremely expensive and supposedly stylish suit I am wearing) but easily shoot my way out. There also seem to be double agents, but these are dealt with severely.

At one point, there is an attempt to stop a row of at least six missiles from being launched. Something goes wrong and the missiles somehow fall over but still activate. They “launch” downwards at about a twenty degree angle (at first) into the ground (but eventually somehow tip directly down into the deeper and deeper holes caused by vibrations and explosions - none of this seems all that realistic in a technical sense), causing a localized earthquake; huge plumes of dust and debris are moving straight up, evenly into the sky in a squarish form, almost like an “elevator of debris”, but also causing the field to grow higher and higher while somehow leaving the column of debris, almost as if it is like a slowly manifesting “tall building” of some kind. This goes on for several minutes as people scatter about, a few being killed, apparently. I, being one of the only ones left, am able to finally get away when the ground stops moving. The “ghost building” implied by the previous debris column is no longer there, though.

Eventually, I am on an airplane with a few more inexperienced agents (dressed in less expensive outfits and some without weapons) to help them somehow. One of them, a female, turns around in her seat and asks me if I know when “his” anniversary is. I am not sure what or who she means and just sort of randomly say “January 7th” (oldest son’s birthday) and she smiles triumphantly, saying that it is actually February seventh. She had been talking about an older man sitting a couple seats in front of her (and nearest the aisle) who seems to suffer from some sort of disorder (causing him to be mentally “slow”) as well as possibly being a prisoner rather than an agent.

Eventually, when on another (longer) airplane trip with many civilians, we land near a potentially dangerous area, although it is reported that many of the enemy had been killed. However, there still may be a double agent or two or a few members of paramilitary groups left in certain areas near the airport. There are still paramilitary groups planning to kill all wild cats (even those that are on the endangered list), followed by other meat-eating animals.

I somehow miss my perfectly-timed cue to leave the airplane in a slow “perfect” way as other agents leave in a planned one-at-a-time progression, so, in order to keep all the other agents safe in their present location, I must remain on the airplane as only civilians now board, being the only agent left on the airplane. This does not bother me all that much, as it is possible I will be the only living agent left in the region if anything goes wrong. Many of the passengers are female and of various ages.

One of them looks at me directly, asking “Who are you?” and smiles happily. She seems like an average person, quite naive, yet very good-natured and friendly. I hear a few other people asking about me in other seats on the airplane, mostly as “who is he” or “who is that”.

“He is our Protector,” says another girl (and I then wonder if I am supposed to be recognized as an agent by the general public). She says it like pro-TECH-tore (dramatically rhyming with “ore” rather than “her”). I feel a bit strange. I feel a sense of universality; that is, I feel as if my mind is “all mind”/“the only mind” for awhile. It is not a lonely feeling as a whole - as there are always other energies, yet all of them are “my” energies (at least on the airplane) as if I am “everything” and always have been “everything”. I ponder this awareness for several minutes, but I look down and notice bread crumbs on my suit and begin to brush them off. More and more bread crumbs gather on the floor of the airplane near my feet and I sort of feel a bit embarrassed by this (I do not even remember having eaten anything - perhaps it was quite some time ago, perhaps a sandwich or two from a vending machine at or near a gas/petrol station). An older lady, who is standing for a time (unlike most of the other passengers), starts talking about many people being “hamsters” with a comment about how they “stink” in some locations of the world (even certain restaurants), yet it is not in a cruel way, just sort of comedic - and almost feels as if she is sharing a recipe (yet in getting certain ingredients from restaurants - does not make sense) with some of the other people. More and more bread piles up near my feet until some “crumbs” are as big as an entire loaf of bread. This is bound to draw too much attention, but I do not say anything, and anyway, the airplane is about to take off. I am a consciousness that will remain here until I am elsewhere - “the last agent”.

“The living bread is with us,” comments another person, “We are safe for now”. I am not sure what is going to happen; I feel a growing sense of infinity. I wait for the airplane to take off (it seems to grow larger and larger and I seem to be in a seat in the first row - but the directional orientation seems to have changed from before) but I slowly wake up instead.

The scholastic “mitosis” acronym, PMAT (Prophase Metaphase Anaphase Telophase) can also stand for:

Political-Military Action Team (PMAT)

It includes things like “Coordinate military operations with the National Joint Operations and Intelligence Center (NJOIC), geographic combatant command centers, and the Department Operations Center.” and “Process diplomatic aircraft and ship clearance applications or amendments – and handle related interagency inquiries – on nights, weekends, & holidays.”

Night of October 21, 2013. Monday.



There are two sections of my dream that seem directly connected, yet are also highly incongruous from one event to the next - and the level of vividness and awareness changes to near-lucidity. Firstly, there seems to be a large, valuable, mostly green frog statue (part of an old water fountain?) of about half the size of a person and in an upright position. I believe it is near the kitchen entrance on a chest-of-drawers. Somehow it falls over (my fault? unsure) and is lying on the floor. I first think it is undamaged, but notice more and more sections, as I lift it up from having been face-down on the floor, where a larger, thinner piece was chipped off, each of which I pick up and align back on the statue (having turned it over on its back). The areas from where the pieces were chipped off are white and somewhat powdery, similar to how certain cheap, already damaged knickknacks look in bargain retail stores. However, if I set the statue upright again, the pieces, although all aligned, would likely not stay on, so I think of using some sort of glue that I see nearby, the container about the size of a milk bottle…

Scene shift to…the bottle of “glue” turns out to be body-paint. I am part of a scenario that seems to be when my wife and I were much younger, possibly a few years before we met, although we are both at my sister’s house in Wisconsin. Her unearthly beauty radiates as she uses the paint to cover her face and entire body in a “poetic” ritual-like way. The paint shines on her in a glossy bluish-black as she walks around (unclothed) in various rooms, but primarily the kitchen. There is also the awareness that it is actually the future, where it is a trend (especially with older teenagers) to use body-paint at social venues, including this shiny black, purple, and an unusual sort of very dark coppery tone. She is almost like a tulpa template, but without the glow from the inside going out, rather a silvery sheen on the outside of her skin at times.

In the next scene, I am on the porch - but it is not clear what porch this was - as it almost seems like the one of someone I knew years ago - but could also be at the same (sister’s) house as the previous events. It also feels like our last address somewhat. Using logic, it mostly seems like a composite of our last home’s porch and a sister’s due to the (unknown) man in my dream walking from around the right side, outside, which would have been our driveway in real life, or, relating to my sister’s house, a sidewalk going to the upstairs entrance at the side.

The young blonde man of about twenty seems to be a backpacker, possibly from the Netherlands (this is possibly an altered replay of a real-life event when, thanks to a sign the council put up on our fence prior to our moving, various people thought the house was vacant - even throwing rocks at the windows - the police, as usual, showing a cheerful total disinterest - and a pair of Netherlands backpackers were even planning on climbing over the fence and trying to find a way in). I think he is walking to the front of the house due to the other person not being home (which would seem to be an unknown person or persons living upstairs - the “upstairs” only existing at my sister’s house and not ours in Australia - even though it feels a little more like our last address in this part of my dream). He stops just outside the front door of the porch, but is able to reach through the porch windows (in real life, we had jalousie windows around the porch and this would have been very difficult, and impossible with the large cardboard box he had).

I am caught up in a role of mistaken identification but showing total patience (recurring). He hands me a large cardboard box which he received in the mail, saying that the diorama had been “revoked” for some reason as if I am supposed to easily solve his problem somehow. I have no idea what the issue is, but play along. I am not sure if I am supposed to give him his money back, replace it with a different one, or just take it and perhaps give it to someone else. I am also not sure of why it was “revoked”. Perhaps it is not an authentic model or something, or not an authentic portrayal, historically. Perhaps he even entered it in a contest and was blackballed from entering anymore contests. When he hands me the box, he moves his hand away from under one corner, and, not knowing a flap was missing at the bottom, I take the box and some of the contents fall all over the floor through the bottom - this being several miniature soldiers and some other items. Looking down into the box, I see that about fifty percent of the diorama is glued into place, including other toy soldiers still in position.

I apologize to him and pick up all the small pieces and figures (of which there are at least ten or so) to put them back onto the platform of the model, which is a battle scene (a “skirmish”) with a few tanks and soldiers and other features. My mistaken role causes no concern or anger on my part. I look closely at the platform of the model and see what looks like a very small order form or record table with the word “Google” on it, as well as the word “revoked” appearing a few times in red. I am still not sure what the whole thing means even as I wake - and just as I wake, I feel a bit sad at not being able to resolve his issue (recurring) even though I was not the person he was looking for - and even knowing it was a dream.

---

Morning of October 20, 2013. Sunday.



I am in a mostly empty room which seems to be a store of some kind, possibly one that only sells hats, because I am thinking of a talking-animals story I did as an educational task a few years ago (for second or third-grade level) - not sure as I have been extensively through tens of thousands of stories at various grade levels, or perhaps it was related to only a reading session for a younger son. Now that I think about it a bit more, it (the real-life children’s story) might have only been mostly an umbrella store. At any rate, my dream presents the store as empty and I am somewhat concerned or rather puzzled.

“About hats?” I sort of speak aloud to an empty hat-rack near the main public entrance which has a sort of Art Deco appearance. “About hats?” echoes a voice behind the apparent counter and room-focus of the store. I see my shadow and realize, as I swing my arms, it was only a “real” echo and no one else is there, apparently. People are walking by the windows of the store as if in an informal parade. I wonder where my hat is. Of course I am wearing one, but it seems illogical to be wearing a hat in an empty hat shop.

“You’re missing the end of the world,” someone cheerfully calls through the partly open door from outside after dinging a small copper bell when he opens it.

“I can’t find my hat,” I affirm, even though I know I am wearing one. An entire series of dreams sort of comes back to me from when I was three years of age. Many of my dreams I had during one time period at age three involved people walking along the side of the road carrying heavy (wicker?) baskets and in some cases, carts or “primitive” wheelbarrows, as well as a small horse and carriage. The fruit and vegetables they had gathered were bright and colorful (some also had several rabbits from a hunt or collections of fish) and it seemed that even though they had little money, the experience of simple day to day gardening or farming or hunting made them as fully aware and as enriched as possible. I marveled at their friendliness. I am not sure what my place was. I had been walking about outside, and from a child’s perspective I almost felt at home, even though they were “not my people”. When I look back, I get the impression of somewhere in Eastern Europe, perhaps Croatia(?) However, it also seemed to be a different time period, perhaps the 1920s or earlier. This dream within a dream comes back to where I am.

I peek through another door in the back of the shop and it is a small library or possibly an area that sells second-hand books. There are books of various colors of binding, but many of red and blue. A girl (unknown) seems to be confused on what book she is holding as well as looking at other areas on the shelf. “This library is wrong,” she says in a matter-of-fact way. I look at a page from a book and see that all of the letters are symmetrical mirror images from their end width and cut off at where the middle would be. For example, an “A” looks like a “V” with a short horizontal line on each side, a capital “H” looks like a lowercase “t” and so on.

I place my left hand on the large mahogany bookshelf and at first it seems to quickly grow ice everywhere along every row, all around the entire room. It makes a very pleasing, blissful “tinkling” sound, like coins falling on a soft metallic or perhaps glass surface and spinning or rolling very gently. However, the books seem to shift somehow, a sort of a wavy impression in the eyes.

“It reads well,” she nods. “Thank you. I wanted to enjoy a book while the humans are celebrating the end of the world yet again. There are so many there. Some of them never leave…they are all LEMMINGS,” she whispers loudly, her eyes creating a vibrating “ripple of the surface of a pond” effect. All light, too bright to see, then normal.

“What is your name?”

“Hattie…”

“Oh that’s real funny,” I say cheerfully (relating to the play on “hat”). “…real funny,” echoes the shadow from the front room of the shop. (Perhaps unintended or unrelated by my dream’s character, but “Blackwater Hattie” - also written as “Haddie” is the name of a witch from one of my favorite songs, Jim Stafford’s “Swamp Witch”, from my youth - with a fantastic message - one of the best I had ever heard - about mainstream ignorance and hypocrisy.)

http://www.lyricsmode.com/lyrics/j/j...amp_witch.html

Morning of October 18, 2013. Friday.



There was a longer series of dreams with a lot of facets, but I will try to summarize one without taking up several pages in detail and isolating the clearer, stronger events of this particular longer one and work with another three or four in a different entry.

In one setting, we are living in a composite of the house we lived in in Wavell Heights (Queensland, Australia) and my old Cubitis home (Florida, USA). It is probably about ninety percent Wavell Heights, including most of the outside and yard area, and about ten percent Cubitis, although the directional orientation I will use is relevant to the feeling of Cubitis. In one scene, I am lying on the floor on my side near the entrance of the kitchenette, my head to the south and my body facing west. My wife is at a table close by and working on a computer. In real life, even when younger, I spent time lying on the floor to stay cooler, especially in this extreme heat. The kitchenette is different in that the south wall seems to be part of a corner of the house and has a smaller jalousie window above the sink and between the taller wooden wall cupboards (which in real life was just a solid wall on the opposite side of the bathroom). A neighbor (unknown dark-haired young woman of about twenty-five) moves one of the middle jalousie panes thus opening the entire window to peer through. Apparently she thinks we are intruders and although I think of calling the police, we do not, as the other person (who seems to be with someone) is also planning to call the police.

In another scene, outside, there is a very large white opossum that is able to jump from a tree farther back in the backyard (near the implied alley) all the way to the treeline in front, on the boulevard, in one leap. There are a total of about four fairly active opossums. This amazing act is mentioned by a few people including myself and it recurs a few times, including with a couple of the others. However, another person a few houses down plans to call the police and firefighters (to get them down from the trees) because of the “dangerous wildlife” in the area, which is also supposedly a disruption to urban life. There is then a false-memory-flashback of a newspaper story of how a baby opossum (now the largest and the one that does the biggest jumps) was taken care of by a few people on a farm and raised by humans (which clarifies the idea that it should never be harmed or taken elsewhere, as it is “now” almost like a well-known city mascot or living symbol) - although my wife had raised an Australian opossum in real life prior to our first contact. This had a precognitive layer, as my wife just now told me of a local fire on a pig farm and the news announcer saying that the workers had to have counseling - as they raised the pigs from babies and most or all of the pigs were killed in the fire (although one account said that one had to be shot). Opossum is usually said to mean “smiling white pig”. This seems quite strange to both of us - as the pigs are killed for food anyway - so it was not like they were solely “pets”.

In another unusual scene, a large Florida black panther is in the area (the last time I saw one in real life was years ago in the swamp where my family lived, but my wife had seen one much more recently here at a show in Australia - and still has a poster from the event), which also prompts someone (possibly the same one who called about the opossums) to call the police and firefighters (so that is three potential police calls thus far in my dream - although you would think there would be an “animal control” team by that point). However, in a highly unlikely confrontation, a small black domestic cat comes up face to face with the panther and hisses and the panther seems terrified and runs away, leaving the neighborhood.

In another scene, some neighbors are at our house, mostly men as they would be dressed on a camping or hunting trip, about five or six other people - all of them Caucasian and Australian (and likely of Brisbane). We seem to be planning to go on a longer camping trip or perhaps just a fishing trip. One (unknown) man of about forty is patronizing me (to the point of insult, it seems) by first seeming to be miming the act of fishing - with casting and reeling motions and such - which apparently becomes an act of miming the swinging or throwing of a tomahawk and he even uses the word “tomahawk” as he finishes his routine. I am annoyed but do not seem to show it. (In real life as a boy I had a toy tomahawk with a wooden handle and a rubber blade, but never owned a real one.) We are in different areas of the room about six feet apart, both of us sitting in smaller wooden chairs. Most of the other men in the room are oriented in a sparse arrangement, some sitting on the vinyl couch, one or two standing. The “gag” seems to be that someone such as myself would throw a tomahawk at the fish to get it rather than catch it and reel it in “normally” as a “proper” fisherman (read westerner).

Later on, there seems to be two monophonic country songs playing at the same time (on an older tape deck which I no longer have), of a style I do not particularly care for. Each track is on one of the two stereo channels. This is actually a trick which an older brother used in real life to archive a larger number of monophonic recordings onto CDs for different relatives in different parts of the world - several done by myself as a boy, some being with my father. In my dream, instead of a balance dial, there are two volume dials - one for each stereo channel, left and right, a fictional feature on each side of the tape deck (which is otherwise only slightly different to the real-life one). I turn one dial down to zero, but the music still seems mixed up with two songs playing, so I mess around adjusting each dial in different ways, trying to work out levels (sixty/forty, etc.) wondering if it is mid-side encoded rather than stereo, which would require a very precise value for each dial to only bring out the one monophonic recording, or so it seems in my dream. I experiment a bit, getting a bit annoyed by the music. Eventually it seems there is only one song playing (a less annoying one by George Strait - “Love is Everything” I think), but there is still a mono copy in each channel which are of slightly different microsecond timing so that there is a figure-eight phasing, causing the sound to seem to move about and swirl in different areas of the room. At that point, my dream becomes less focused. There is yet another person mentioning something about calling the police (fourth instance) related to teenagers loitering near other people’s houses and a litter of puppies and dogs causing noise and irritation (perhaps not the same person who called about the “dangerous wildlife”, not sure as there are a few people walking about in the area, some going on a picnic or school event, I think).

There is one final scene where I (relative to the expectations of a few other people regarding a fight at another location in addition to all the other calls - thus the fifth instance of police-calling in one dream) seem to be waiting for the police, but they never arrive. This seems to be some sort of well-known fact. If the police get calls related to more than one complaint or event in a particular area - it is far beyond their ability to deal with and so they ignore it completely, being only able to mentally and physically focus on one issue in a particular time period in the region. Meanwhile, I get the sense that they (two officers in a police car) are fairly far away waiting for a call in which only one issue is manifesting over a longer time period…

Night of October 18, 2013. Friday.



I am sitting and relaxing during a work break at night at a small motel I worked at with a maintenance crew in real life over twenty years ago. There is a smaller analogue television in the corner which, at first, is receiving the broadcast of a news report. A little later, there is mostly only snow and static, but soon, the song “Spanish Harlem” (Ben E. King version) starts playing over and over, audio only, with occasional additional video glitches such as horizontal wavy lines and such. However, the song had been altered and distorted (partly relative to the signal - which may be the result of a nearby storm) to where it seems certain frequency bands have been stripped and replaced almost flawlessly so that almost all of the vocals are gone and particular instruments come and go sort of like a dub reggae mix.

Every now and then, the original vocal line “IN…my GAR..den…” is heard abruptly, sometimes causing the other maintenance workers on the longer break to look up or seem confused or annoyed. At these points, there is sometimes also the brief fuzzy video transmission (only about a second or two at different times) of a shadowy female figure (in a cloak?) standing on the outside of a beginning garden, sometimes the “snow” (video term) becoming actual snow relative to the scene, but it mostly seems like a sunny region where the scene takes place. The song transforms into the Herb Alpert’s Tijuana Brass version, at times seeming like overly loud and overly-compressed-sounding tones coming from old squarish loudspeakers at a bullfight. I enjoy the song, though (one of my older favorites which I also played on the piano fairly often). I am not sure where the broadcast is coming from, or if it is some sort of mix-up of television and radio broadcasts as I have seen in real life in the past from either medium. There is a very slight association with the “Prince of Darkness” movie from 1987. The “broadcast” as at the end of the movie is perhaps coming from my wife thirty or forty years from now, in the future, through some sort of advanced technology sending “broadcasts” directly into my mind (again, as in the movie but in a far more viable and positive light) to give me clues about the present (as it sometimes seemed in dreams when I was very young and as a young adult).