Cricketing dreams... and an unusual literary theory.

Note: The following were both 'Block A' dreams: drawn straight from the depths of REM sleep. I retired at around 0400, and awoke at 0630, transcribing both dreams (or the two parts of the one dream) immediately afterwards. Once again, there may well have been a whole preceding 'unit' which I have been unable to recall... The very deepest dreams, I find, are almost impossible to remember, and operate at (and on) the unconscious. Of very great interest is the fact that the 'cricket club', just like the night club or late-night bar I described a couple of days ago, is another recurring dream image: part of the coherent, internal geography of my personal dreamscape.

I find myself in a store- a store which sells security items, I dimly recall, but which later turns out to be a synagogue. I am with a woman, a slightly mad woman, who used to date the manager. As she bitches about him, his image on the CCTV monitor pixellates, as if protecting his identity. Another woman, possibly black, is also with us; I have been pestering her for days to read The Stand. I share with my theory on why the book is so easy to visualise, a theory I had not consciously formulated in my waking life. It's all down, I tell her, to the countless millions who have imagined the characters and incidents that Stephen King writes about: the collective force of all those readers' imaginations has somehow built a mini-reality for the novel to inhabit; it's so much easier for the reader to 'slide into' the story, because the inner plane that the story exists upon has already been constructed. The reader is not obliged to construct that edifice himself.

This theory- I realise- applies to all great and time-honoured stories, and explains why classics such as Alice in Wonderland (and the Bible!) have such hypnotic force.

The black woman agrees to read it, and I promise to buy her a copy for Christmas.

Then Joanna Masters- a girl I knew from church about fifteen years ago- enters the store, dressed 'pneumatically' in a black leather dress which displays to great effect her artficially inflated bust. Her mother, who is with her, seems pleased that I notice... and makes sure that Joanna notices me noticing.

'Have you had them done?' I ask. Apparently she's now back to her natural size (or slightly bigger) following a regrettable breast reduction a few years ago.

The owner of the store, or synagogue, finally gets tired of us and politely asks us to leave. I reassure him his former partner has not divulged his identity.

*

I then find myself watching cricket in my back garden. England are playing Sri Lanka, and England are taking a bit of a pasting. I seem to be both spectator and a part of the action, though not an integral one. It starts raining but play continues.

At the end of the session, with Sri Lanka well in control, I shelter from the rain underneath a tree at the far end of the garden. Its pouring hard, the outfield is soaked, and several fielders- myself included- are covered in grass stains and mud.

As I finally make my way back into the pavilion (my parents' house), I notice that the rain has brought a large and growing number of slugs to the surface- fat slugs of various sizes and hues- one of my worst childhood fears. I want to get off the field but the rain keeps pouring down, the slugs keep multiplying in number, and now the water level is getting so high that I won't be able to reach the house without sloshing ankle-deep through a puddle of rain and slugs.

The thought evokes a gale of nauseated hilarity and terror... and I wake up.

Strange Carroll-esque dreams...

Note: There was a whole dream story preceding this first 'Block A' dream, the details of which evaporated very quickly after waking at around 0400. The second dream is from 'Block B.' ('Block C' dreams, due to their trivial content, I rarely bother recording.)

I find myself in a car park at twilight, with the semi-deserted feeling of a suburban magical grove. I am transcribing into my files a story about a journalist who vigorously rejects the Big Brother society and gets implanted by the Illuminati by means of punishment. Why I am up so late- as night turns slowly to morning- I have no idea. At the end of a narrow path through a crisscross wire fence, the pub is still open. A small crowd of young people, all dressed up, wander in and out; some of them passing through the gate to the garden-cum-parking area where I am. Inside the pub an exercise class seems to be finishing up, or perhaps it's a televised recording of the same- it's hard to tell for certain. The few women scattered around the pub terrace are alluringly dressed; but so few in number that I decide not to join the party. (Interestingly, however, I feel I have been inside this pub or late-night club in many other dreams...)

As I walk back to my vehicle, I encounter a group of girls from the office where I used to work: Lauren Melly, Lauren Armstrong, Marianne, etc. I pretend to be stoned and drunk, a slightly masochistic act because I am fully aware that such behaviour will make me the butt of work gossip for weeks to come. My act, culminating in a long drawn out, rather creepy stoned giggle- is so convincing I can feel the fear building in my audience. I break character to reassure the girls I was kidding around.

'I'm a bit pissed and stoned,' I say, 'but nothing as bad as that!' They go into hysterics; and whilst laughing another girl- a prettier version of another one of my former colleagues- returns to the group, leans forward, and rests her arm on my knee. It's a nice feeling, and at that point I awaken.

*

I am back at Ellis Taylor's house, and he's showing me photographs and songs taken (and composed) over the course of his various imaginary careers. Shots from a space shuttle flight I later discover he's never been on. A photograph of himself as a young boy and a friend... The friend is wearing a long, almost gondola-shaped 'thing' on his head. ET attempts to pluck at my heartstrings claiming that some hospital or other has launched an appeal to locate the boy in the hat; or perhaps- the details are hazy- that it has the gondola-shaped thing in its possession and is holding it until evidence emerges as to the identity of its true owner. This strikes me as unseasonably sad and I want to help out. Later, his story changes: apparently it was never that gondola exactly... and I never said it was, he implies... I am enraged by Ellis's palpable untrustworthiness, and his pathological need to engage people in his fantasies.

Back in my parents' house, I'm listening (appropriately) to Lyin' Eyes by the Eagles, on a tape I think ET may well have left with me. A very strange experience: the middle of the night, rain is pouring outside... and there are all these new, never-before-heard harmonies and voices emerging from the speakers. Outside a procession of cars- one every few minutes- turns in our driveway, sometimes missing the walls by very narrow margins. Thoroughly spooked, I switch ET's tape off and listen instead to a phone-in on BBC Radio Five. The caller is drunk. The host plays along, laughing; and later edits together some of his more insane drunken moments into a kind of radio montage that he uses to spice up the instrumental introductions to various popular songs.

I go outside and to my surprise several large pot plants adorn the outside of the property, growing rapidly in the rainy conditions. I look down and there, at my feet, a whole tray full of tiny pot plants has swerved up the drive and is attempting to execute a labourious three-point turn.

'Are you alright?' I ask, solicitiously, but the foliage does not seem grateful for my intervention.

Later, a man in a large SUV-type vehicle pulls up... and begins drawing petrol from a pump that has sprung up in the driveway. He observes the now-yellowing pot plants growing from the windows and urges me to take them indoors before the rain spoils them. As I make to do so, one hand fumbles on something sharp on the inner rim of one of the posts... which falls to the ground, but does not smash. I look down.

There, to my disgust, is a large praying mantis.

'What would have happened if that thing had bitten me?' I ask the well-dressed man, who I now recognise to be Simon Cowell.

'You'd have been paying for a taxi to the hospital,' he says.

'You mean with all your money you wouldn't have put your hand in your pocket on my behalf then?' I ask... but Cowell just laughs, amusedly.

Dreams of Warne...

I'm at a children's party at a farm somewhere. My mother has bought me a new suit for the occasion: a 'gentleman farmer's' outfit, rather smart: a very traditional brown plaid jacket with bow tie. My Auntie Tricia is there; I'm discussing Fatima-type apparitions with a sweet little boy who is also present. There's a 'lady ghost' who haunts the barn- she's very beautiful, he says- who the little boy has seen on several occasions. 'She's not frightening,' he tells me, 'she's beautiful.' He shows me how tall he thinks she is, and my heart sinks a little because she's much taller (in his imagination) than I had been led to believe a 'real' apparition would be. Jack, my brother, is also at the party, and I shoot him a slightly knowing look, as if to say, 'Yeah, the kid's making it up, but he's a sweet kid, so let's not worry.'

At some later point, the group forms a circle, holding hands and begins moving round the room in a clockwise direction. My childhood friend Lewis is present, looking every inch the 'gentleman farmer', with a dickie tie even bigger than my own. He's clearly here in the hope of finding an eligible partner, despite being a young boy of about nine; I find myself admiring his front and confidence. Auntie Tricia lets go off my hand as the group spins, and part of the circle collapses, but I'm left standing.

Soon afterwards (the legendary Australian cricketer) Shane Warne makes an appearance, see here. We know each other... We're very pleased to see one another again. He has beautiful, deep blue eyes, hair the colour of straw, and a healthy, sun-kissed complexion. I am about to tell him (the real-life) story of a porn star I met once at a swingers' party, who had claimed she slept with Warne in exchange for money; but before I can do that, I wake up.

He's BAAAACK!

I am at a rock concert with my father. On-stage, a bland-looking man performs 'Kids in America' at extreme volume. I'm standing to his left, gazing out as though from the wings. There are other people behind me, including (I realise, as he breaks into a new song) my old University friend, Danny Jones. The song is slow and mournful, and after a few bars I realise what it is. Now My Heart Is Full by Morrissey. Danny and I sing along.

Now finding myself out front with the rest of the crowd, shortly afterwards Morrissey himself takes the stage. He seems shorter than usual, is dressed rather badly, and has a beer-gut; but it's still him, and after a couple of songs a cordon breaks and a large section of the audience surge forward. I hold back, disappointedly reflecting that had I only stayed where I was I would be perfectly placed to receive a handshake, or more, from the man himself. But in the next breath I find myself sat on stage with him, in the company of a small group of fellow superfans, closer than I have ever been before. Unusually, Moz is accompanying himself on the guitar as well as singing.

Amongst the superfans are a couple of girls I have my eye on. One of them reads my website and, as Morrissey sings, we talk a little about that. Some pretty poorly-constructed joints are passed around; a guy sat directly in front of Moz takes a hit, then exhales the smoke in the singer's face. Morrissey grimaces. 'Are you alright, Moz?' I ask, to little response. At the end of the song Morrissey launches into a speech which deterioates into a stoned ramble. I lean over to a girl on my right and say, 'I'm a little bit worried about Moz at the moment.' 'You should be,' she replies, laughing.

Finishing up the set, Morrissey comes over to me and begins razzing me about the girls I've been intending to seduce. 'He's always doing that, aren't you son?' he says, humourously (but rather maliciously) exposing me in front of the others. 'Yes dad,' I reply, smiling, playing along with the joke but duly chastened. The girls drift off; I didn't score.

On the way to the next act, descending a set of stairs to another auditorium, I hear some people behind me sarcastically proclaiming: 'Erris Taylor! Erris Taylor!', in a put-on oriental voice.

There's gonna be some trouble...

Dreams of Zion

I am in Israel, studying sociology under a highly charismatic Jewish teacher. We are both in some public place, either a shopping centre or a train, dressed in ceremonial robes (his white, mine black.) Above our heads, a bank of monitors relays our conversation to other shoppers, and vice versa. A loud American woman, mistaking me for an Arab, opines that it would be best for non-religious Israelis if the two tribes (Jew and Muslim) simply destroyed each other; my teacher interjects, cutting her argument down with calm incision that fills me with something like awe.

I had failed to understand the content of my first lecture on Israeli soil and I am beginning to feel completely out of my depth. Until, that is, a video-simulation is shown to me, which illustrates the lecturer's point brilliantly. Watching it, I am filled with a rising sense of destiny; suddenly I know why I am here.

On the screen, water laps against a shore line, depicted as a pulsing red line. A short distance away from it, following the same contours, there flows a second line... After a while I realise that these are the historical and present borders of the land of Israel, and I am watching the waters of the Mediterranean Sea, sweeping in and out. The realisation that the borders of the present align so closely with those of the Bible is extremely moving. The throbbing line of the land, filled with its blood-like cargo, seems heavy with symbolic resonance.

My teacher and I then head to a synagogue. Immediately upon entering, my teacher, a priest, anoints his hands with blood; I am expected to wash mine also. I ask him whether I too should use the blood, and he looks at me very strangely. The blood is the sole preserve of the priest; I must use oil. He shows me how.

To reach my next destination I have to use an underground train. Being in Israel, and using the (imaginary) Metro is very frightening to me. There is another platform directly in front of the one I am standing at; I can already see, as the car rushes in, perilously close to my feet that the train I need to catch is already standing there and I am going to miss my connection. Avoiding the onrushing train, I sprint to the opposite side... Where, miraculously, somebody has pressed a stop button, giving me just enough time to enter the carriage before it departs.

The interior is cavernous... I find myself in a hangar-like space, more like an airport than a Metro train. Cockney voices ring out; a young, slightly retarded man wearing a McDonald's uniform introduces himself to me. A little overfriendly, I move on quickly; I have to find my colleagues before the train pulls in or I will lose them forever. A few carriages down and I reach a large empty hall. There is a bar and a stage, and a small flight of stairs leading down to a cellar. Descending, I am elated to find my friends, including the charismatic teacher who greets me with no sense of surprise. Beautiful, hypnotic music plays in the background; we talk about modern classical music, and I realise that I would gladly live (and die) for Israel...

Mind control from the BBC?

Just posted this at The Daily Behemoth, but I thought it warranted its own special place here too. I could write a whole article on this, but it speaks eloquently enough itself.

Black Mountain- Update

I didn't pick up on this immediately, but the Black Mountain dream dovetails perfectly with our discussions from last week, and poses several new questions of its own. I had forgotten, when I saw this, that the climax to Strieber's novel Black Magic- click here- is set in the Black Hills of South Dakota. This, due to the proximity of Ellsworth AFB, is where a rogue group of Islamists set up their ELF base, with the aim of remotely influencing the US to launch nuclear missles at Russia, and thus trigger Armageddon. (Strieber was rather forward-thinking in this respect.) Interestingly enough, although Minuteman-III missiles are no longer held at Ellsworth, it has been at the centre of an important Ufological controversy after Linda Moulton Howe claimed to have seen documents proving the existence of recovered disks at the base (see here), continuing the tradition of Ufological incidents 'clustering' around nuclear bases (eg, Roswell, Rendlesham Forest, etc.)

I find it interesting that you must have had this Black Mountain dream on or very close to the same night that I was reading the above passage. Also interesting is this mural, which I found on Wikipedia: allegedly painted on a wall shaft of the launching facility at Warren AFB, Colorado. Check it out:


The Black Hills are also home to what may eventually be the world's largest sculpture: the Crazy Horse Memorial. I'm reaching a little bit here- OK, a lot- but I couldn't help but recall our conversation about the Osmonds when I read this! (See here.)

The Black Mountains themselves, however, seem even more significant. (Like, for example, the name of its highest point- Mount Mitchell (MM)- which is also the highest peak in the whole of the Appalachians.) The key to this does indeed seem to be Black Mountain College, of which I had not previously heard, but which bears close resemblance to the Byrdcliffe Arts Colony (founded 1902) which I wrote about in this BTB post from last November. A regular guest at Byrdcliffe was the educator John Dewey, whose 'pioneering' ideas were central to the curriculum of Black Mountain College. Believing that education must serve 'a social motive', Dewey was instrumental in the gradual erosion of traditional subjects, thus preparing the way for the 'experiential' (and entirely ineffectual) methods exemplified by programmes such as Goals 2000, and 'child-centred learning.' (See here.)

I speculated in the above article that the residual energy of Byrdcliffe (based in Woodstock, New York) was the catalyst for the Woodstock festival of 1969, 'An Aquarian Exposition' and stargate event; a process to which Black Mountain College also contributed. Counterculture guru Buckminster Fuller was a former pupil; and through Allen Ginsberg, the school forged a close association with the Beat Movement, as you say, and the American avant-garde generally, devoted as much to the expansion of consciousness- and the creation of a new aeon- as much as the production of art. (John Cage was also educated at the school, which opened its doors in the esoterically-significant date of 1933.)

In summary, then, a very important place.

As to why it turned up in your dream, I think the fact that we were discussing the Beats is obviously a factor, though I prefer to think it may have been intelligently implanted- by something- to spur further study and thought. Perhaps the Mountains or College will turn up in some undisclosed way in a future investigation... I wouldn't be surprised if you had some incarnational relationship to the School either; whether in the sense of a past life, or perhaps in symbolic form, as an idealised 'Secret School'. Perhaps a visit to the Mountains could be a good idea for you? (Just a thought.)

One last point... When I think of the Appalachians, I always think of Dylan, and one song in particular: The Girl from the North Country (North Carolina?), the very song (from Nashville Skyline) we had been discussing a few days before this dream. Could this have triggered the dreamtime vision?

There is a medical procedure...

comparable to one or two of your dream experiences in an early novel by Mr Strieber, Black Magic. Although written before his first consciously-remembered 'abduction', much of the imagery (and themes) are suggestive of screen memories, raising the possibility of direct ET involvement in the work. I will be posting a more complete review on The Daily Behemoth shortly, but as this passage seemed similar to your dreams of men in white coats forcing back your head, etc, I decided to put down a few early thoughts here too. (For a similar review of The Wolfen, comparing the themes of that novel to the Communion cycle, click here.) In this case, the abductors are KGB agents.

'There were people looming forward now, gathering around the table, men and women, creatures at their feast, eyes upon her, complicated, frozen faces- and hands pushing, pulling- a hand in my hair! 'Aaahh!' Back, lie back: and now the black straps strapped, cold across belly, arms and legs.

'Please!' I don't want them to scar me. There are so many, so very many. Six, seven. It's like some kind of crazy dance the way they keep coming and going... Catherine tried to raise her head enough to see them, but somebody was behind her and pulled her hair again. Next a thick band was yanked around her forehead. Now she was really stuck, straps and bands keeping her absolutely still.'

Your description of the 'medics' as being 'machine-like' (ie, possessed), is conveyed pretty effectively in the above, I feel.

Realm Breach dream

I think I was waiting at a bus stop when I was picked up by a group of Mormons whom I knew from my time in the church. They are friendly enough but I am aware, because I haven't been in touch with them (or their religion) for many months, that I am regarded with a certain suspicion. We are due to participate in a reality TV-style singing contest, which seems to have enlisted the entire country. Cut to centre court at Wimbledon, and scenes of melee inspired by this show... (and host Bruce Forsyth, suave and don-like, in the eye of the storm.) Arriving at the concert hall where the contest is being filmed, we are greeted by a scene of all-out pandemonium. Boys, all in crisp white shirts, are bundling into every door, entrance and window of the building, which is designed like a multi-level car park (or Tower of Babel.) The energy is wild and very threatening; I am due to room with the artist Banksy, but when we get to his dormitory we find it has been raided by the swarming hordes. A mocking letter from the thieves thanks Banksy for the free Radiohead CDs, amongst other items stolen. I find a degree of comfort and solitude in the basement gym, though when I catch my reflection in the tall mirrors that completely cover one wall I look terrible: my hair is long, greasy and threadbare; and a large black eye covers one half of my face.

So two dreams in two nights about reality TV. A precognitive register, possibly, of this very important story from today's Daily Mail, perhaps?

http://the-daily-behemoth.blogspot.com/2008/11/truman-syndrome.html

NY Woman dream

NY Woman and I are playing badminton. She is considerably better than I; I manage to return the shuttlecock most points, but when I do she is usually well-positioned to stick it away in a far corner of the court. Eventually I get a little tired of this slightly bullying treatment, and I say to her: 'Do you even like me?' NY Woman takes a deep breath, pauses for long enough for me to already know the answer, and says, 'Well, you are a bit loud.'

Later on I dream of her again. We are both living (or staying) in a small town in a place I take to be Devon, but separately. I hear from somewhere that she is intending to stand for election as a local councillor; so my brother (Tom) and I decide to attend the public hustings with an eye to wrecking her chances. We arrive, and watch a few hopefuls make brief speeches; none of them are very impressive. There is a small group of judges at the back of the small hall scoring each contestant after the manner of a reality TV show. To my great disappointment, I notice that Simone's name has already been written up, along with her (very high) score.

I approach one of the judges. 'Did you know this contestant has a full-time job with the Governor of New York?' I ask him, expecting that this fact should immediately disqualify her from standing in a local British election; but he doesn't seem interested. In fact, judging from his cagey answers, he rates Simone as an excellent prospect. After a brief exchange with one of his colleagues- a woman, considerably more responsive- I return to my brother, heartbroken that I have missed my opportunity to see her again. 'She'll turn up in the future, mate,' he says, reassuringly. 'But I need her now,' I say, sadly.

Minor fandango

This situation was clearly signalled in a dream I had last night, or early this morning. It was another of those 'realm breach' dreams- like the famous 'Oxford Bullingdon' dream from recently. In this particular case I was back on one of the Crusader holidays I used to attend for a couple of weeks during the summer as a kid: Christian events, with plenty of wholesome activities laid on in a pleasant semi-rural setting somewhere. In the dream I was 'camping' (or sleeping in sleeping bags) in a large dormitory room in a group of about fifteen, amongst whose number was a breathakingly beautiful Carissa C. Tom was present- in the background but definitely part of the group; and the intense sexual chemistry between myself and Carissa was causing me great concern. Eventually it got to the stage where I had to act; and for about three or four intensely pleasurable strokes, Carissa and I were making love inside my sleeping bag. It was probably the shag of my life, and to wrench myself away from her due to the skulking figure of TM was an awful disappointment. There was another woman in the dream- the 'mad blogger' woman who you know about- and I compensated for the loss of Carissa, to some extent, by hitting on her... becoming more and more aware as I did so that the energy in the room was turning very hostile towards me. (A very common theme in my dreams.) Threats of a dark nature were issued, and I knew I would be leaving the camp in the morning, that I couldn't spend another night there.

Obama assassination plot dream...

This one was very vivid, and contained many more elements than I have recorded here. I either 'was', or was very close to, Barack Obama during the early days of his presidency. (Part of the time I seemed to be following the action on a giant telescreen, beamed into some sort of military or NASA-style bunker; at other times I was involved in the action, either as an observer of, or participant in, the First Family.) Then there was a major security alert, an attempted assassination or worse, which required Obama/me to be bundled into a small room by several burly Secret Service operatives. Inside this room- more like a nuclear fallout shelter- was ensconced the whole of the cabinet and the higher-ups of the Washington political apparatus... and bombs were falling outside. As Obama, I realised that a single strike on our location would not only wipe out my family, but the entire leadership of the American nation. Fortunately, acting against the wishes of his Secret Service handlers, through courage and diplomacy Obama averted the crisis.

Returning to the...

... subject of the relationship between imagination and pre-cognition, and other non-ordinary states of mind, I uncovered an interesting quotation from the psychologist Robert Baker yesterday, from a book by Jane Goldman. On hypnosis and false memory, Goldman writes:

'Psychologist Robert Baker's 'Lost In A Shopping Mall' study showed that childhood memories could be implanted by the power of suggestion. Patients who had never been lost as children were asked if they could remember such an incident and eventually 'recalled' it clearly, chattering away with details. Baker says hypnosis simply enhances suggestability. 'Hypnosis is nothing but the turning on of the human imagination. And that can be turned on best by getting them in a relaxed state and providing them with suggestions.' [My emphasis.]

It strikes me as intuitively correct that hypnosis activates the imagination; and that imagination, in turn, can activate faculties which are ordinarily dormant. What really interests me, however, is the connection between hypnosis, fantasy and disocciation- as mentioned here. If hypnosis activates imagation, and imagination is the key to non-ordinary experience, then what is hypnosis? From my experience, the light trance (or dissociation) induced in hypnosis is an ordinary state of consciousness which varies only slightly from the waking mind. Indeed, for some people, experiencers in particular, a light trance is almost continual.

If this is the case, those spaces between cognition- the dissociative breaks which may occur several times a minute in some people- are vital for the development and stimulation of the imagination, and possibly for the higher psychic functions too. There are countless examples of intuitive breakthroughs occuring when the recipient is defocused, perhaps engaged in deliberate distraction intended to 'power up' the greater pool of unconscious awareness; and a study by researchers at the University of Stirling confirms that children who 'daydream' actually perform better in class than those who pay closer attention to the teacher- click here.

But what actually happens whilst our unconscious is being activated in these frequent 'away trips' into disocciation? A developing theory of mine is that it is during these cognitive breaks that the real 'abduction phenomenon' occurs; as well as during the more substantial hypnotic bloc experienced as sleep. According to a correspondent on the Open Minds Forum, PKD believed that contact, far from being rare, was a phenomenon which involved all of us at one level or another, most of the time. Could it be that the trance, or dissociative, state is the switch between the ordinary and higher circuits of our minds; that everytime we flip into 'daydream mode' we are actually- in places unseen- in contact with alien forces? There is certainly an anecdotal relationship between dissociation and the imagination; this is why poets and writers are often considered 'away with the fairies', whilst the near absence of any fantasy life at all may be a perverse source of pride amongst highly-functioning professionals in business, law or science. It is also the case that one of the early ('prodomal') symptoms of schizophrenic psychosis is the long, blank stare; and that in many cases, schizophrenics develop very complicated mythologies which often bear a close resemblance to channelled texts. Could the long, blank stare be the mechanism which permits the receipt of such information; and the worst symptoms of this debilitating condition be the result of excessive immersion in alien worlds?

I am aware I sound a little 'schizoid' myself... Are you grokking me?

Tomorrow I'll write something about the deep hypnotic blocks which nearly always descend whenever I attempt to convey thoughts like the above... and what they might signify.

Adding to the Sutton Place intrigue...

... is the fact that, at the time Strieber was writing The Hunger (the early 1980s) the then-occupant of the office of Secretary-General of the United Nations was one Kurt Waldheim, a former Nazi Stormtrooper. Whilst I am aware this is not a 'research blog', forgive me if I mention, if only in passing, the parallels between vampire mythology and National Socialism. Both place very high status on 'blood' and racial purity; have a close affinity with occult traditions; and exhort a creed of violence, tempered by a certain nobility. The iconography of both have been absorbed into popular culture, and imbued with sexual glamour.

Whilst I doubt Strieber had any of these associations in mind, the fictional location of his vampire den is highly appropriate. It is interesting, too, that Mr Waldheim's successor in Sutton Place was Javier Perez de Cueller, UN Secretary-General from 1982 to 1992. His career entwined with Strieber's, if very tangentially, when he was named (unofficially, by Budd Hopkins) as the high-ranking politician who witnessed the abduction by aliens of Linda Napolitano (aka Linda Cortile) in 1989. This, the so-called 'Brooklyn Bridge Abduction', is probably the most sensational case of its type, and would certainly have been very well known to Strieber, whose initial regressions were conducted by Hopkins, and whose famous memoir, Communion was published just two years before the Cortile case came to light.

There is a very good article about the Cortile abduction here:

http://www.philipcoppens.com/cortile.html

By the way, most of my pre-cog moments are to do with pop culture too. I had one this morning, in fact: for no apparent reason, or none at all, a memory entered my mind a couple of days ago about a TV quiz show I used to watch on occasional afternoons when not at school. The memory in question concerned the irritating catch-phrase of the host of the show, one Matthew Kelly, who used to describe contestants lagging behind as 'playing catch-up.' Neither the host nor the phrase are staple components of the culture in Britain; and, as with your Michael J Fox synch- who, by the way, I also thought about last night apropos of nowt- I am not aware of having read or seen anything regarding in the hours or days before. Then, this morning, I wander into a local greasy spoon cafe for my habitual fry-up, and happen to notice that the television is tuned to a semi-obscure satellite channel. On the screen is the revived Going For Gold, the same show whose host (and catch-phrase) I had thought about so recently, only now in a revamped format including a younger female presenter.

Actually, I wish my pre-cog was tuned in to events a little higher on the frequency band, like current affairs, geopolitics, or lottery numbers... Any thoughts about how we could put these talents to greater use?

The RV experiment... and another Fortean codewode.

... was more successful than you think, in my opinion. You got the hair and the age right; and his 'older fashion' style, which was quite precise. Where you began losing it a little it was, as you noticed, when your imagination started riffing on the images conjured up by his vampiric-sounding name and title; and his admitted pre-cog abilities. This is a typical dilemma for anyone with psychic abilities or potential; the imagination is the key to psychic perception, but, unchecked, it can so easily impair the quality of the 'transmission.' That the ability to glimpse 'beyond the veil' is a gift related to the capacity to imagine is one of the reasons why attempting to discern fact from fiction in the testimonies of experiencers is often very difficult. There is, in addition, a proven relationship between disocciation- often very pronounced in experiencers- and fantasy, which complicates things even further.

Now, those Sutton sightings. Looking at the can of Red Bull in front of me, I can confirm that the London address of this company is 12 Sutton Row. The Lincolnshire town in which 'celebrity abductees' Ann and Jason Andrews live in is Long Sutton; and reading The Hunger by Whitley Strieber, I saw that the name of the vampire's New York domicile is Sutton Place. The latter is a real neighbourhood located near Midtown and the Upper East Side; former residents have included Marilyn Monroe, rather tellingly, and the famous Illuminati architect, I M Pei, who still lives there. According to Wikipedia: 'The official residence of the United Nations Secretary-General is a five-story townhouse in Sutton Place. The townhouse was built for Anne Morgan, daughter of financier J. P. Morgan, in 1921, and donated as a gift to the United Nations in 1972.'

Saturn-Sutton strikes again, non?

And finally, the Oxford-Bullingdon synchs continue. A point made often on BTB is the frequency with which ideas or events, having penetrated the global consciousness, provoke echoes (or copycat events) whose appearance can not be explained by coincidence (or media contagion) alone. Pre-cogs like us seem to anticipate the arrival of these memes, and be a little more sensitive to them than the rest. My Oxford dream, for example, occurred just a couple of days before two stories appeared, both of which specifically referenced either the University or the notorious Bullingdon club itself. Now in today's Daily Mail we read:

'Four students pose glassy-eyed, blacked up and semi-naked in loincloths for an Africa theme party.

The extreme political incorrectness of the picture will horrify the Oxford University authorities.

Particularly since at least two of the students are members of the university's under-21 rugby squad, which is already under investigation for alleged anti-Semitism after inviting players to bring 'attractive Jewish girls' to a dinner last week.'

Full story here.

Considering the attention I have paid to Oxford in the past, either via Ellis Taylor or my own 'Goddess Trail' articles, and the fact that the cousin (and foxy girlfriend) I met at Tom's wedding the other day hail from the city, perhaps these synchs are a reminder from the uber-mind to keep on investigating.

Pre-cog strikes again...

Following my post last week, about the 'Bullingdon toffs' who crashed my parents' home in the dream state, I was not particularly surprised to read this in today's Mail on Sunday:

'As the officer overseeing the training of Prince William in the Household Cavalry, Major General Sir Sebastian Roberts might have been expected to have had an unblemished record.

But it has been revealed he was a member of Oxford University’s notorious Bullingdon Club and his excessive quaffing of champagne once led to the abandonment of a university shooting match after he was ‘sent off’ for recklessly waving his gun.'

Full story here.

This is a good example of the sort of short-term, apparently insignificant sort of precognition that follows me about everywhere. Pertinently, this was a favourite obsession of Philip K Dick- one of several. In The World That Jones Made, a NWO-type society is disrupted by the emergence of a young visionary whose political skill rests on his ability to see a full year into the future. In The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch, 'pre-fash' consultants are used to divine whether or not a particular product will turn in a profit; and in Time Out of Joint the protagonist Ragle Gumm becomes a local celebrity due to his unerring success in predicting the results of a daily newspaper contest.

I'll try and keep you posted on pre-cog developments of my own this week.

Recurring dream weirdness

This happened a couple of nights back, though the basic form of the dream is one which I experience regularly. I was back in Cambridge, where I went to university for three years from 1994. I was in my rooms in college, or possibly an amalgam of those rooms and my parents' house in Bromley. There is a disturbance downstairs, and looking out the window I see a group of well-dressed young revellers in evening wear, making a lot of noise and lording it up in typical Brideshead/Bullingdon Club style. (For a recent example, click here.) As I look, I am aware of a small contingent coming through the door behind me. Once in one of them begins bossing me imperiously. I submit initially, but quickly start resisting. The leader of the group then grabs me by the neck; thwarting this unwanted psychic intrusion causes me to jerk awake, with a residual pressure on my throat.

These themes- breaking and entering, bad people 'on the threshold'- are a very regular part of my dream-life. Usually the venue is my parents' house, and the amassed crowds represent every kind of minor delinquent or influence that I was dilligently shielded from in my infancy. The 'realm breach' is always successful; and I nearly always wake with feelings of fear, sadness, and a sense of something pending down the pike.

The fact that this dream preceded the above news story (see link) by two or three days is something I find very significant. With unfailing regularity I find myself precognitively anticipating (often very minor) cultural and personal developments, either in my dream life or simply amidst the usual word-soup of daily existence. To demonstrate what I mean, I will attempt to record the process here as and when it happens next.

11:11

11/11: a very auspicious date to begin a blog dedicated to the subjects of mind control, and military/alien abductions. I will start by sharing a new link I discovered recently, containing a massive number of articles on similar subjects, with a particular emphasis on organized stalking (aka, gangstalking) and 'street theatre.'

http://www.raven1.net/ravindex.htm