There was a service you could call. They would scare you by sending you strange messages on your phone and then order KFC to your door. How did they know your address? Before the KFC home delivery – for me – there were police cars and ambulances outside my home blocking the road. Something had hit Glenn’s home from a great height. From space. It had hit his roof. I saw workmen repairing the roof.
Then I was at a school-like camp till Monday. I met many new friends. I was having a really nice time. My roommate at the camp was a black guy. We had a good time. We came back on a train.
I said to the black guy, ‘see you tomorrow since we’ll be at school tomorrow.’
I got confused walking down the train platform. A saw an oncoming train.
‘Get off the tracks,’ someone yelled.
I did. It was a close call. I jumped into the gap.
Later; I was in the lab. I was teaching. There was a tall guy who was struggling with the process. I helped him calm down – not that I was a good teacher but I knew the system. The lab was chaotic like a crowded supermarket. My PhD Supervisor Max passed by. He said to me, ‘you can start writing papers next week. Come and see me when you’re finished talking with this guy.’
‘But I don’t have time,’ I replied.
‘I can do your teaching so next week you can start,’ Max said and then walked off.
I didn’t want to write papers, or do the teaching, so I wandered around and came across a group of artists. They were making drawings with coloured chalk on a blackboard way up near the top of a huge shelf. The blackboard was really high up. I stared at these drawings …
This transferred me to a NAZI execution centre. They had a system. They put the noose around the neck of the victim, the noose tied to what I speculated must be a central boulder, with the river carrying the victim on a raft along a creek until it reached the waterfall, where off the raft went and the victim was hanged. It was interesting to watch. The victims, all men, were well dressed, wearing suits. They were then turned into a liquid that was then used as fertilizer for the execution park.
Tibetan dream yoga. Well not really. By coincidence I captured a four-part dream sequence punctuated by a half time waking episode. I can’t be sure I obeyed the prerequisite sleeping patterns because I’m a lazy bastard and as with all things habits are near impossible to change unless by want of extraordinary will. I may have gone to sleep on my right side because after having tried it thanks to reading Wangyal’s book (August 2020) I find it rather comfortable.
So that’s good enough for me …
The first dream was preceded by a vision of the strange Christmas tree lights I saw last night before I walked up the stairs to bed. Those lights made me feel weird. Then KCF was delivered to my door. Does that make KCF my definition of bliss?
The telephone service that scares you recalls the film ‘The Game.’ I don’t know why I dreamt about this. I haven’t seen the film in years, however, the film can be associated to one of my Cornforth lab friends who liked the film and recommended it to me (October 2020).
So let’s blame that on Nixon …
The meteorite from space crashing into Glenn’s home comes from the Google autofill on my phone. Every day on the drop down menu I see the meteor is approaching, it’s a near miss, the end nigh 2023. Has Google picked up on an unexpressed death wish of mine? I don’t wish Glenn any ill will rather it’s those stars that shine so bright over his home at night.
And now that Nixon’s gone don’t we blame EVERYTHING on Google?
What can be said of clarity and the oncoming train? That train comes from an investor I follow on twitter. He always posts a photo of a train coming round the bend before the market tanks. So are we near the end? I hope so since I’m set to make a ton when the market tanks. That’s me, always waiting, waiting, ready to strike it big, then at the last minute jumping off the trade. Those new friends were nice. I could do with some. Especially the black guy, he’s the part of me that remains unacknowledged in shadowy darkness. Is he saying, stay on that train, don’t get scared and jump off into the mindless gap?
Then we have the Nixon Overflow (October 2020). Since Nixon was the President why wouldn’t this fragment represent power? I’m still reading his damn memoirs, which shifts my unconscious back to student days. If this fragment is about power then it’s done a crap job reprising feelings of mine akin to banging my head against the wall ad infinitum. Writing pointless papers and the teaching nonsense are things I’d rather leave behind. I once made a writing-teaching deal with Max. Saying that Max also told me about Woodward’s lectures where he’d start with four pieces of coloured chalk and an empty wall of blackboards. According to Wikipedia Woodward won the Nobel Prize “for his outstanding achievements in the art of organic synthesis.” I once felt that art in science but progressively it was killed off by a computerised zeitgeist that dictated my terms of engagement. I was working for the machine, for its systemised values, rather than for what I thought was beautiful and neat. One day they’ll see computers killed science.
So yes Nixon stands for power since I read Six Crises when the student me was a practitioner of art …
From which the logical step is obviously to the NAZI execution park. Burroughs’ hangman strikes again. He’s big on stringing up older guys (September and November 2019). Does this mean I need to be fearless when it comes to tackling the burdens of the father?
Does it?
Or does it mean I goad my Austrian mum every Sunday night for SBS NAZI hour. I get her nice and comfy then out those black and white bombs come falling down. Sometimes I wonder why WE the collective like watching people die? Burroughs made obeisance of its visceral appeal (May 2019). It’s that human failing otherwise known as taking pleasure from the agony of others. I once read about the NAZI chief executioner Johann Reichhart. I often wonder what he dreamed at night? If he was anything like the collective I bet you it was fields of daisies.
It’s of such things that Huxley extrapolates. Only recently I read Brave New World. Like Nixon’s memoirs this book too remained unread in my study. In it the cut off age was 60 after which you were turned into fertilizer …
And why not
Some Soylent Green
For the daisies
Of human need
Wasn’t it Bukowski who said, ‘beware of those who are always reading books?’ This may explain the sinking feeling I have that something bad will come because of the corona? That meteor, it’s coming …
AND
P.S.
Biden came a-knocking (March 2020) …
thejourneyofdreams 