Dream of Entering a Swimming Pool to Retrieve a Soccer Ball after which I was Unable to Swim Back to the Surface

Peter my dad’s former tenant was building two extra bedrooms on a new level that was currently the roof of his home. He had the building plans. Dad and I looked at the plans. There was no difference in cost for either an old or new home. This surprised me. The price was the price. I went to the pool in Peter’s backyard. A soccer ball had fallen into the pool. I entered the pool to retrieve the soccer ball. I swam down to the bottom of the pool. I was fine down there 13 metres below the surface. I had no oxygen tanks. I could breathe underwater. Then I started to worry about coming back up to the surface. I asked mum to call my friend Pete. I thought I’d need his strength to help me out of the pool because I’d been in the water for so long. Dad didn’t have his phone number. Call my sister I said. Mum was becoming concerned. I didn’t want dad to look at my phone because I had phone secrets. No decision was being made. Mum wondered if I’d get the bends coming back to the surface. Should I just come up to the surface by myself? The problem was there was only floating tables etcetera at the water’s surface. There was nothing of weight I could pull against to get out of the pool.

I was at Pete and Christine’s place last night. Via name association my friend Pete led to Peter my dad’s former tenant. More on that later. Pete spoke about the home he wants to build. For a one bedroom home he was quoted one million dollars. I was staggered. He needs more bedrooms than that. Old or new there’s no difference in price. It’s a government sanctioned racket (August 2023). While making plans with Pete I played my magical powers game with his kids, Alex and Sam. They use the powers I grant to battle each another like power rangers. Sam doesn’t stand a chance. He’s three and his brother’s six. But he loves playing dead. At one point Sam picked up a semi-deflated soccer ball. I used my magical powers to turn that soccer ball into a bomb.

That’s how the soccer ball entered my dream.

I swam down 13 metres to retrieve that soccer ball. 1 + 3 = 4. This is yet another quateranic depiction of wholeness and totality (August 2021). The soccer ball fits in nicely with those dimensions because it’s spherical making it a totality marker much like Jung’s UFOs (May 2018 and September 2021). As such the soccer ball represents the treasure that is me that I found via my exploration of dreams.

I was fine down there in the depths. I could breathe underwater. After diving deep for more than 10 years now I’m sure-footed in the unconscious. I know thyself. The question now is one of re-integration. See it’s time. I have to return to waking world.

Only I don’t see an easy way back.

The waking world places zero value on psychical wholeness. In fact it wants the opposite. It wants polarisation, dualism, the self off-balanced and us against them, the mass unhinged (March 2022).

They’re easier to control that way.

I’ve reached the point where I just feel sorry for people.

Then there’s the issue of what modality my return will take. Pete and Christine are material reductionists. There’s nothing wrong with that. To each his own.

I won’t be going back to that.

I’ve seen the light (January 2023).

My parents also impede my return. The covid fiasco aged them (February 2023). I have responsibilities now. I call them burdens but really they’re blessings because I’m learning about what it means to grow old.

Then there’s my secret life. We all have one. The shadow writ large recorded on our so-called smartphones. Christine made me watch a Black Mirror episode on Netflix last night. I don’t do Netflix I don’t stream she had to pin me down to watch it. The episode was called Joan is Awful. It starred Salma Hayek. Lowbrow toilet Sci-Fi drama. Disgusting stuff. In it there was guy being cheated on by his fiancée. He said to his fiancée, ‘show me your phone.’

That’s how phone anxiety entered the dream.

When I beat it I won’t be taking my phone. I don’t want my mind corrupted by the life I leave behind. I want to exercise my hands and eyes.

To live beyond the mainframe

For a while.

The floating table is the coffee table in my bay window. It’s the warmest place in my house on sunny mornings. I like to draw my dreams on this table. When drawing I kneel down like a Japanese master. Seiza style. I can sit like that for hours. Karate conditioned me for that. At this table I make the unconscious conscious. The table functioned as such in this dream. If I could reach the table and pull myself up against its weight I would transition from watery unconscious to terrestrial conscious.

Only the table lacks sufficient weight. I need more than that. I need Pete the Adonis of the deep. He swims up and down Maroubra Beach battling 3 metre swells. The last time I ventured underwater it was because of Pete (September 2019). But Pete’s unpredictable. He likes his knives. Also he’s past his prime. He eats too much.

So I’ll have to pull myself out some other way …

Name association was not the only reason why the dream was centred at Peter my dad’s former tenant’s home. Peter’s 94 years old. I’m worried about him. He’s very dear to me. A few weeks after I had this dream he was admitted to hospital. Soon after his admission I received a strange late night phone call from him. He was incoherent. He was rambling on about a dream. A few days later I went to the hospital. I considered it a sacred duty. Peter wanted to talk to me about his dream. In his dream he was driving to a national park with his deceased wife. The national park was a zoological park. There were all sorts of animals in the park. They stayed there overnight. When he woke in the morning he was confused as to whether he was at home or at the zoological park. The animals refer to one’s primal essence. To the base level of being. The deep unconscious. His wife appeared to aid his transition into the unconscious realm. But he only spent the night. That Peter’s getting used to the other side. The experience felt real because the unconscious wanted him to pay attention to this dream.

I discussed the dream with Peter saying pretty much what I said above. I told him not to worry. It was a nice dream. I said call me when he sees an entity sitting on his bed telling him it’s time.

Dream of Kathrin Sitting at a Table with a Red Umbrella Over her Head then Peter the Café and a Rock Crystal Mine: The Downside of Tibetan Dream Yoga

I arranged to meet Kathrin on the top floor of a tower-like structure. For coffee. She was in town. I took my sister. Kathrin was seated somewhere inside the cafeteria. My sister got a table in the first room. It was a busy place. When my sister got up to go to the toilet I decided to look for Kathrin. I found her in the second room sitting at a table back to the wall with a red umbrella opened over her head. She was about to leave.

‘What are you doing here?’ I asked.

She had to leave soon –

Later with Peter the Café at a restaurant. When he left he forgot his cape. Judd collected the cape and would return it to him later. I then drove Judd home via a short cut from Iain’s place through a mine. White crystal rocks were being mined there. Before the mine started there was a community of small fibro homes.

‘Are these homes cheap?’ I asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Are they protected?’

‘No.’

‘I’d buy several and build a nice home,’ I said.

But when I saw the mine I saw why this place was an undesirable place to live.

Somehow this led to walking the remainder of the distance. Old-fashioned pubs beyond a wall etcetera. Empty streets.

Later still in a room with Bruna. She said I was a lildide. She wanted $4500 for the whole night. 

Now I know where I am. Back on that rock crystal ledge (March 2023). I know where that path leads. Repeat. Repeat.

Starting backwards Bruna is Brazilian. That means Lori the archetypes are in play (October 2015). 4 and 5. Standing whole against the demiurge. I lost my fear with Bruna. She was my last recommendation. After that I wrote no more letters. That burden was too much for me. I wish her well. No idea what a lildide is. Google autocorrected it to Lil Dude. Thanks Bruna. Somehow there’s power in letting go coz I know those empty streets the old-fashioned pubs down that road I’ve walked before. To clarity knowing and being with Peter the Café in a dream. The gang went out for dinner last night. Peter the Café was the star of the show. He entered like the caped crusader. He told us the fun bus had burnt to the ground on a farm. I pictured a bushwhacked dump with fibro shacks and made it so. Judd said he had a piece of clothing that belonged to him. Iain was there at dinner too. After dinner I drove Judd home. A few weeks back Judd asked me about the archetypes in film. Also house prices they only go up up up is that all we little dudes ever talk about (August 2023)? To paths end Kathrin and unintended bliss. See I did not anticipate the implication of my intention (April 2023). Too much overflow. I need protection from the watery unconscious. I bought that red umbrella when I visited her in Munich. It became my travelling umbrella. It fit perfectly inside my travel bag. It kept me dry for years. I left it behind in Holland when lockdown zombieland set in which where it stays waiting for me. Will I return? I haven’t left Australia since then. I have a feeling I won’t be going back.

To my sister. To the point.

Soon after the Antigone dream (April 2023) I had a thought: my sister’s on to me about the blockages in her dreams (March 2023 and April 2023) if I turn my attention on to her I reckon I can do the same and see the archetype in play.

Only when the implication of the Antigone dream sank in I cooled on the idea. Frankly another dream like that would kill me. It’s too hard. Too heavy. I was rather flippant with the Kathrin blockage question. I didn’t expect a complex answer.

Actually I didn’t expect any answer

Which is why it may have worked.

Tibetan Dream Yoga is what got me to this juncture. (March 2021) Before Wangyal I associated lucid dreaming to dirty hippies and assorted sex freaks. I dismissed it. I thought lucidity would corrupt the clarity of my dreams. Then came Wangyal. His book changed my life. He confirmed my growing suspicion that as you think so shall you dream. I could see that my attention to specific dream themes expanded them in subsequent dreams. The inference of that observation was that I make the dreams and if I make the dreams then that means I can control them. Wangyal’s end goal is nirvana. In order to get there one must tame the karmic forces that assail the illusory self. That taming appealed me to me because my dreams are forever trying to reconcile those karmic forces. Unfortunately I lack something called consistency. I put that down to shoddy practice. My body cannot adopt some of the sleeping positions described in Wangyal’s book. Cultivating that non-egoic dreamlike sense of being was difficult too. That part of me dies whenever I open my mouth to speak. I had to use a mantra meditation to help control that sense of death.

At root though I think the problem is philosophical. In the West we see yoga as a great workout whereas in the East it’s as much a spiritual practice as it is a physical practice. It’s a craft that’s been honed for over a thousand years. For instance Wangyal writes of opening chakras to allow prana, the vital energy that constitutes the vitality of the body and consciousness, to flow unimpeded through energy channels in the body.

Which brings the practitioner one step closer to the ultimate reality.

To the infinite.

In the West we used to call that infinite God. Our materialist ideologies turned that infinite into a cold dark place. To the materialists chakras and invisible energy fields are nonsciene.

They believe in measurements.

So,

In the West we stripped away the deeper meaning of yogic practice. We focus on form and feeling not meaning. With that mindset is it any wonder then that I lack consistency?

I’m up against my prison cell playing God fanning flames

Thinking I can make my dreams come true.

But then I crossed the line. I opened Pandora’s box. With the Antigone dream I saw what’s inside that box (April 2023). When I met Lori it was unintentional. Apollo came to me as a shock (October 2015). This time it was different. The interaction with Antigone was intentioned, structured and meaningful. These archetypes are autonomous. They are in me but not of me. Wangyal writes of this. The unconscious entities. Often divine they act as guides. Mine are Greek (July 2023). You see the infinite knows my interests. It found a symbolic language I could read.

These whatever you want to call them things are pulling me in. They want more of me. They want all of me. They promise me lucid dreaming can transcend everything. I can enter minds, travel in time, fly to Mars, go anywhere I want. If dreams are limitless then lucidity knows no bounds.

But there’s a price.

With every interaction a little piece of me dies.

And without my coveted 20’s something complexes who am I?

Nothing.

A hollow man

An empty shell

With nowhere to run to

And no place to hide.

I understood that that transcendence required my submission to the feminine unconscious.

I thought submission meant something metaphysical.

No.

It means everything.

All of me

Until nothing’s left.

I know what would happen if I turned my attention on to my sister. That wrecking ball of submission would come crashing down on me again. Another projection would be revealed that is as much a creation of my mind as it is of her reality. Only her symbolic language would be different. What a pineapple means to her is not what a pineapple means to me (October 2022). No one speaks the same language. There can be no communion with anyone. It would be impossible for me to communicate my meaning to her. I would be left to carry the burden of my knowing alone.

So do your own potty training. And give me back my umbrella. I’m out of here. I need a break. A long break.

Stop. I hear the telephone.

Something’s calling.

Dream of the University Library Display for Nixon and Rosenberg where I Attended a Dinner and Opera Screening Seated at Number 600

I was in a university library checking out the Nixon and Rosenberg display. In an adjacent room there was a dinner and televised opera screening at 6 pm. Then at 8 pm I had to go to the opera house in town.

I delayed lining up for dinner. Next thing there was a massive line. I joined the queue. By luck I ended up behind Robert from school. I said to Robert I’d sit with his group. Not necessarily, Robert said. I fell behind. A group of women cut in front of me.

I then entered the dining room. The dining table was massive and arranged in a hollow square formation. The seating was numbered. I was meant to sit at seat 600. That was the number on my ticket. I looked for 600 on the place cards. My seat was located at the bottom right side of the square. Giant television screens faced each side of the square.

Stevie C was there talking about us visiting his place. I said I had to leave in an hour at 7 pm. That Asian girl from biochemistry was there too.

I’m scraping the bottom of the barrel here. I’m all dreamed out. Reduced to filler. Seriously there’s nothing to learn here. Don’t read this.

Nixon’s a friend to this blog (April 2017 and October 2020). His political memoirs are the only political memoirs I’ve read. I also visited his presidential library at Yorba Linda. But Nixon ain’t no friend. They’re ALL crooks. Pick your ism; communism, fascism, capitalism, socialism, materialism, spiritualism, scientism, operatism. That Übermensch up on the stage had to climb over a lot of dead bodies to get there, most metaphorical, some, like Nixon, literal. Nixon made his name pursuing Alger Hiss and his fishy pumpkin. He rode the red wave. That wave crashed on the Rosenbergs. I can guarantee you Nixon didn’t lose any sleep over that. He moved on to bigger fish like bombing Cambodia. Kids still die in Cambodia TODAY stepping on Nixon’s bombs.

Shameful.

I could never be a Nixon. I reject all isms. They breed ideologues. When an ideologue has you in his sights RUN. You can’t bargain with an ideologue. At best their barometer is some greater utilitarian goal. In that case they’ll just cut you loose. At worst they’ll kill you or anyone else standing in the way of that aforementioned stage.

RUN.

Nixon washed up in my dreams because I read about his alleged involvement in the toppling of the Whitlam Government. Bogus hearsay history why do I waste my time online they never blame Whitlam.

And who cares anyway

The nations no longer rage

They’ve been obliterated.

So I might as well take a seat and enjoy dinner. Greg went out for afternoon drinks with former work colleagues the day before I had this dream. Among them was Robert the ringmaster from school. Greg called me later that afternoon at 2.24 pm. I missed the call. I guess he had Robert on the line. I therefore lost Robert in the dream. The numerological time of the call (2 + 2 + 4 = 8) aligns with the 8 pm appointment at the opera house. I saw the ancient opera Giustino with my friend Richard (not Richard Nixon) the week before I had this dream. I was expecting an embellished portrayal of the life and times of the Byzantine Emperor Justin I. It turned out to be a typical opera love story with all wrongs being righted. That only happens in opera. Ask Nixon. I’ve always wanted to see Adams’ opera Nixon in China. I’ve said as much to Richard. But he loves his bel canto he’s not down for Mao like me (October 2018). They’ll never show Adams here in Sydney. Maybe his Doctor Atomic now that it’s been immortalised in film.

Is it me or are we being primed for World War III?

The number six was played about. Six Crises. Richard Nixon’s first memoir. Was that the seed? Six is too far for me. I’m a four a best (August 2021). Struggling with five (September 2022). I thought six was a feminine number (March 2022). They did cut in. Let’s see …

I attribute the table to Xi Jinping (July 2023). Nixon’s trip to China was the seed. The same hollow square configuration and once again I was seated at the bottom side this time a little to the right. The square is a symbol of totality (August 2021). The bottom side represents the unconscious. A little to the right means I’m trying to find a way back to consciousness. The hollow centre must be the self the all and nothing of being. Designated opera seats are also a recurrent theme (September 2022).

Where do I belong?

As my life slides off the stage.

I had after work drinks with former work colleagues among them Stevie C the week before I had this dream. We agreed to meet at 7 pm. Stevie C said he’d invite us to his home for dinner.

Greg also seeded the Asian girl from biochemistry. Not Greg per se but his namesake Professor Greg. I undertook a student project with Professor Greg in my final year. He never told me he was dying. I remember that Asian girl bursting into tears. I don’t know what happened. Professor Greg was quick. He took charge and drove her home in his UW Beetle. He was a gentle man. He died the following year.

So Richard not Nixon and I went to see Giustino fall then rise like Nixon did in China where Xi currently presides beyond six crises, meetings at seven and operas at eight, when Greg not the professor and Robert called, while the Professor, a true gentleman, cared for a biochemical damsel in distress.

Name associations and events dear boy events, nothing else –

If you’ve read this far

I apologise.

Dream of Effie Wanting Me to Help Her Buy a Cheap Micro House and then Late for Chemistry Assessments

I went on a walk with Effie. She was lovely. I walked with her to a relative’s funeral. That was when I said we might as well go separate ways coz she was appropriately dressed in black whereas I wore shorts and colour. Then Effie asked me to quickly come with her to look at a property she was asked to inspect. It turned out she was going to buy the property. It was a tiny micro house along with an outdoor demountable storage house in a complex of similar homes. $80,000. Cash only. So cheap. I said I wasn’t interested because my goal is millions. She thought I could help her buy it. Then I had to rush back to the university. I forgot about chemistry assessments, easy ones, I needed to pass coz my repeat course wasn’t going well. I wasn’t studying and was a borderline pass. One assessment was a swimming exercise and the other was a laboratory test. It was 3 pm. The assessment was meant to have started at 1 pm. I went to the swimming supervisor. I told him my story – after telling the course coordinator who wasn’t interested – that my car had broken down.

‘Just give me $500 and I’ll fix it for you,’ he said.

‘No,’ I said. I wanted to do the test.

The swimming supervisor laughed and walked off.

I was so angry. I’d report him. My friend Daniel may have been with me. I was so upset. No help to be found anywhere at 4.10 am.

This time it was Effie and not the idea of Effie (May 2022). She was my teacher. Not Max.  I lost her when I needed her most. She left a hole I could not fix. I called her from Austria. She said I would never hear from her again. I said I don’t believe you but she was right she disappeared. Rumours abounded, the most popular being she joined a nunnery in Greece.

That was long ago.

But now she’s back,

Leading me to a family funeral and cash for sale micro home investments.

Effie wore black. She always wore black. And I never wear shorts in public. I couldn’t go to a funeral dressed like that. That was my excuse. An unconscious out. I’m avoiding that spectre. Death. I don’t want to go there (April 2018 and May 2023). Therefore Effie reoriented and moved on to safer ground the cost of housing. Effie solved that problem. She bought a home soon after completing her degree back when homes were cheap. I’ve always resisted that path. Home ownership, the apogee of the professional middle class, always seemed to me so petty and so small. I’d rather have millions. With money one has flexibility. With a house you’re stuck in one place paying bills and taxes.

The house suits Dr. Benway and the Masters of Mankind just fine.

I know their plan.

It was formulated during the great depression (August 2015). The masters realised the downside of agglomerating their subjugated workers in inner city tenements. Times were tough. They were worried their workers, housed in close proximity to one another, might get to talking about Marx. That was when they hit upon the idea of suburbia. The intention was to give the workers a small but meaningless stake in the economic order thus making them less likely to rebel. The suburban structure itself was designed to encourage conformity, since people naturally adhere to peer group pressure meaning they’ll construct clone-like homes and mow their lawns just to keep in line with the Joneses, and separation, thanks to fences and private backyards. The added benefit came post World War II when the masters realised the suburban structure also allowed for the survival of a rump population in the event of nuclear war. They could use the survivors to rebuild.

Like Wacko said they don’t really care about us.

That aforementioned flexibility is a male thing. Women don’t want that. They want a nest. The masters therefore turned to underwriting. The banks then tapped that feminine urge. You see it on TV ads. There’s a couple. The woman is proactive. She’s using her phone to hunt down a home. Sometimes there’s a child in tow. Sometimes the child appears after the home has been purchased. In contrast the man functions more like a bystander. Hapless and ancillary he occasionally smiles but ordinarily looks bemused as if resigned to his collateral role.

Which he is quite literally.

Before banking regulation banks used to consider the salary of only one income earner per household when determining the size of a mortgage loan. That single income, which back then ordinarily belonged to a man, was the collateral the banks banked on. Factoring in less income too meant loan sizes were much smaller than today. And I know this is an unpopular opinion but the price of a home has nothing to do with supply and demand, immigration, the law of the land, or economic growth for that matter, at root it’s worth is determined by how much money a bank is prepared to lend towards the purchase of said home. Gone are the days of cash settlements. Very few people have a million dollars in the bank. It’s the banks creating money that’s enabled the real estate racket to continue on its wrecking ball course.

And the system is wrecked, globally.

When banks started lending against two incomes banks created money like never before. The combined income of professional couples led the charge. In Australia 30 year million dollar mortgages became the norm, the mass being tricked into thinking indentured slavery is a worthy goal. Places deemed desirable for bringing up children, because remember its women who command household finances, went up in price to the moon and beyond. That’s what happened to my home. When my parents bought our family home no one wanted to live at Little Bay. In the 80s the city beachside suburbs were dumps. Exclusively populated by bums, housos, itinerates and immigrants, what these denizens didn’t scare away the North Bondi and Malabar sewerage works did. The beaches stank like shit. My parents paid something like $65,000 for our home. Today the average price for a home in Little Bay is $3,000,000. That’s all those zeros after the number 8. It’s the madness of a crowd gone insane. That return on capital is on par with investment returns generated from the NASDAQ, from tech companies that actually increase the productive capacity of the economy. A residential home in contrast is a dead asset. It does not increase the productive capacity of the economy. In fact it acts as a net drain on the economy. It destroys money by way of insurance, taxes, mortgage repayments and investor deductions. Furthermore overinvestment in real estate has led to malinvesment, the crowding out of productive investments and urban congestion. Repairs and renovations are a net gain to GDP but that’s throwing good money after bad because that money eventually ends up down the depreciation drain.

So,

Marketing to primal urges in part because yes that’s only a minor part (because truth be told I’m being deliberately provocative here) – the major part being energy constraints leading to deindustrialisation of the West which then doubled down on Keynesian Economics with housing becoming Maynard’s hypothesised pyramids to create a multi-decade mortgage token Ponzi scheme that made governments and a select few very rich just to keep the system going – though the mass don’t see things that way they’re too busy locked in an inner sea of indentured psychodrama comparing themselves to neighbours they don’t really like whilst keeping their children safe too busy to notice the good doctor and his friends dusting off that doomsday machine (January 2023).

How the global real estate racket ends AND IT WILL END will be the stuff of textbooks and future lore.

I wonder if that lore will have something to do with Stein’s Law. If something cannot go on forever, it will stop.

I think we’ll be turning Japanese. Their bubble popped in 1989 and never recovered. So sorry Effie I understand your feminine need but even for $80,000 I cannot help you. I don’t want no micro home or storage shed. My male mind wants millions. I’ve done it once. I can do it again. I see a trade. A big trade. It’s just sitting there. And like before there’s no need to rush. Just pick it up piece by piece nice and slow then all at once.

And I’m not going to tell you what it is.

So please don’t ask.

I’ve always run afoul of women when discussing this topic. I remember once speaking about all this at a pub with friends, about the master plan, indentured slavery and the insanity of the crowd. The wife of a friend of mine retorted venomously you are a loser who lives at home with your parents no woman will never want you. This criticism stung because it’s true. At a collective level post-industrial women have been captured by this model. Men go along with it just to get a woman. There is no place for someone like me in this construct. But I do fulfill a role. You see my friend’s wife knows I’m right. The ferocity of her retort was the tell. My words had pricked her unconscious knowing. I can guarantee you she hates her neighbours she knows she’s locked inside the prison that’s our system and when she sees me the loser driving a broken car she sees the cost of disobedience.

I should have hit back. Quoted Orwell’s 1984 … it was always the women, and above all the young ones, who were the most bigoted adherents of the party, the swallowers of slogans, the amateur spies and nosers …

Only her husband would have killed me.

See everyone’s a loser here …

Me too.

So I better change tact. Express all this in a more uplifting way, like to my friend’s wife you are worth more than your job the letters that surround your name more than what a bank says your house is worth or what digits they say they hold on your account more than your kids their hopes and dreams your true worth is latent it hides within it is ineffable there are no words or human constructs that can express its fundamental reality you will see it the briefest glimpse of it when you look inside and see your dreams …

But I know that deal.

Mention dreams and you’re consigned to the madhouse purpose built by the good doctor and his friends. They’ve stigmatised dreams. Deliberately. They don’t want anyone getting unsanctioned ideas.

You can’t win.

Unless you take Effie’s path.

I hope she joined that fabled monastery. In doing so she checked out of our insane system. Of course I understand that this was no clean out. She exchanged one system for another. We’re all human. We need a system of control otherwise its chaos. And with every system there are universals. Effie still has to cook and clean. But her thoughts wow I cannot image a mind today uncorrupted by the techonarcissistic age.

I wonder what Effie sees when she dreams …

I don’t know why Effie has returned. She said you’ll remember me when the four horsemen of the apocalypse appear (May 2022). It could be that the encroaching war is casting a shadow on my psyche. There’s also that unresolved conflict between the numinous unconscious and scientific consciousness (June 2023). When I last saw the idea of Effie holographic fish were being generated inside a laboratory tank. This time the swimming pool represented the contained unconscious. I was due at 1 but I was late and it was 3. Together they make 4 the totality of being. It seems my psyche is trying to figure out a way to reconcile science to the watery unconscious. Only my car has broken down. I quit science. There’s no going back. Also restricted mobility. Parental burdens (February 2023). Effie says let them go. The swimming coordinator suggested a short cut. Pay $500 and he’d let me pass. That’s the well-trodden path. Level 5 that step too far (June 2022). Daniel quit. So did I. I won’t suffer from imposter syndrome anymore (March 2021). NO. This time I want to ascend from the bottom up. Recorded at 4.10 am. 4 +1 = 5. Even the time I dreamt this dream falls within these bounds.

In other words this is another 3, 4 and 5 dream. I’ve had several now (March 2022, July 2022 and September 2022). The problem’s kind of getting clearer, I guess. Materialism is the crutch. It’s getting in the way of what I need to do.

But the good doctor’s convinced me I need another million. Maybe two.

What’ll I do.