Dream of Playing Abortive Tennis with Pete and then the Botany Bay Boat Trip with my Sister en route to Sacred Land

My aunt had a boat. My sister was piloting it. She picked me up after I played abortive tennis with Pete. We played tennis on the street alongside my house. Pete would serve with too much force and I could not return his serve. Pete would run all the way down the street to collect the tennis ball. His serve would have been a fault on a tennis court. And when I tried to serve I’d miss the tennis ball. I had to remember to point at the ball when throwing it up in the air. Then to the boat. My sister and I took the boat about Botany Bay to Bare Island. Dad’s diesel taxi was being towed out back. At Bare Island we couldn’t dock. It cost $110. The man at the dock said it was not worth it that we were better off taking the boat over to the other side of Conwong Bay then after that head back home. He said look out for the men looking at the land and not the sea. What are they doing, I asked. Sacred land, he said. It’s my sacred land too, I thought. Do I do that too? Mum was with us too.

My aunt is the source (February 2022). The trauma point. My sister was towing dad’s car the diesel Japanese taxi in the water (March 2023). Seems we’re carrying him trying to keep him afloat. Psychically. Interestingly a month after I had this dream my dad’s car broke down at my sister’s home and we had to get it towed back to my home by the sea. This morning I was on autopilot. I got up. Did what I had to do. I had to take dad to his final post-op appointment. Hang on I just used a word I dreamt about. Pilot. Interesting. As you dream so shall you think. My sister is busy navigating her unconscious sea (November 2023) but alas I need her help I can’t keep on a-piloting dad alone. Same goes for mum. My sister helped me out a lot last week. I had a break. Though it seems I’m captive to the will of others. Like Pete. He messaged me the other day. Did I want to buy his mountain bike? A bike is a Dutchman’s modality of being (February 2021 and September 2021). Only I’m not Dutch. My modality requires a car (December 2018 and August 2021). Pete didn’t stand a chance. So what about tennis, the only sport for which I’ve won a trophy? The tête-à-tête. I couldn’t hit the ball back. Sometimes I find it hard to speak to Pete. He lives too much inside his head. The tennis court is of course the Temenos (August 2021) the sacred space in which psychical work is done. I’ve been struggling with that lately. My dreams and hence my being have been rooted in earthy concerns ever since the war began with Covid. The Gods have abandoned me for higher ground (September 2015). I need to reclaim my sacred space. I could go on a walk to the headland above Conwong. That used to be my sacred space. The lighthouse. Pete spoiled that for me. I found our Little Conwong sojourn too confronting. After that I walked to Little Bay. Then there’s docking costs. One hundred and ten dollars. 110 = 11 + 0. 11 is a master number. It represents one’s unique spiritual journey with its concomitant duty to bring awareness to the world. Isn’t it amazing what one gets from a Google search! I know nothing about numerology. I discount the zeros. I hate this psychobabble nonsense. And anyway Katherine Gleason told me so. I’m a numerological idiot (September 2022). I still haven’t bought her book. I struggle with online things. The screens kill my eyes. Do I do that? The men I saw on the distant headland were looking back to land and not out to sea. Is this about me finding a way back to terrestrial consciousness? Let’s face it I’m getting tired of having the same dream a hundred different ways (February 2023). Sometimes I wonder if I’ve reached my journey’s end. I’ve got this feeling that 4 is about as far as I can go (June 2022). Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Psychical wholeness is a worthy life goal. To go beyond 4 I fear would require a sacrifice too great for my capacity of being.

Only how long do I have to keep having this same dream for?

Until the female Russian invasion (September 2022).

Prepare.

Dream of the Berlin Art Display Max and Professorial Collaborations and Cork Flooring from Bunnings

Part 3. I was involved in a Berlin art display. The Führer had organised the event. He was third from a display in Paris. I was then walking past my health fund building in the city. I saw Max. I stopped. He stopped. We said hello. I was looking at Professors names on the directory board affixed to the wall of the health fund building. I couldn’t make out any names. It seemed like gibberish. Max said he was looking for a new Professor to continue the collaboration. I’m out of it I said. I know Max said. This was why he was handling the work going forward. Then later at a Bunnings I needed cork flooring. 7 millimeters thick. I was there and the roll I wanted was by the exit. I walked past the checkout to collect the roll pointing to it as the cashier worried because I had other items in my hands. I went around Bunnings with a trolley. All this material was the flooring for the art exhibition.

Berlin. Belmin’s going there to a film festival (June 2019). Yesterday over coffee I said to Greg let’s go to Berlin and expand that sagging acting career of yours (June 2023). Then there’s NAZI monuments. Fascist architecture. There’s not much left. I’m a fan. Milano Centrale is my favourite train station. If I lived in Europe I’d fly to Berlin and hang out with the beautiful people for a day. But alas I live far away. And anyway Europe’s so passé. I’m reading the Bourne Identity. Currently in Paris. I got the book for free from the giveaway rack across the road from the Little Bay cafés. Bourne is the third book in the book hence Part 3.

Then there’s Max. Max is back (November 2022). I met him outside my health fund building. I was there for a dentist appointment last week. Max appeared in the context of him being my resident inner academic. I spoke to Johan last night. I said to Johan that sometimes I do miss my connection to academic life because there the unconscious can be discussed. I also lamented the fact that Australia is not the place for such interests. Blue skies and nice weather don’t leave time for nocturnal pursuits.

Not that Johan’s faring any better in icy Holland. He’s coming up with solutions to environmental problems only to encounter academics that talk agreeably but do nothing else. He wants them to do something. I said to Johan that’s not their job. Academics write grants, publish incremental papers read by all of three people and lecture students to keep the wheels a-churning.

They don’t work on solutions.

They perpetuate problems.

But you see old habits die hard. Like Johan I’ve been brainwashed too. By the rigid belief pumped day in day out that institutional science is the only valid source of knowledge.

That was why I was looking for the name of a scientific collaborator.

This is scientism.

This is not science. Science is a method. A way of thinking. Any claim must stand true to all contrary explanations. No institution is required to validate science.

So I don’t need professors. They can’t teach me anything. Especially about the unconscious because to them what cannot be measured does not exist (August 2023). And besides. That’s not their job.

You’re better off being a dreamer.

Like the man walking along the M5 wearing a Bunnings hat. I heard that one on the radio. He created traffic chaos.

Because he broke the rules.

Like one does in dreams.

To Portugal. The world’s largest manufacturer of cork. I said to Johan it’s time for me to go. Only 7 millimeters. So near. Yet so far. I’m currently busy making seven figures getting ready to renovate my home.

Dream of the Ghost in my Sister’s Backyard that Attacked Us in a Laboratory

My sister had seen a ghost in her backyard. She asked me to investigate so I looked out the window. I saw nothing. Eventually we closed the blinds thinking not looking might bring the ghost out. Then later at the laboratory things started to happen. My sister walked down the corridor when she saw a floating blue folder come out from one of the metal cupboards. She called to me. I came down the corridor with a hand-held dustbin brush. I threw the dustbin brush at the floating folder. The ghost retaliated. My sister was hit and knocked out. Then I was too. The ghost covered up to make it look like I had beaten my sister then knocked myself out. But I had photos of the folder. I had taken them. The truth would be revealed.

And here is the photo. This is the truth. Dad wanted me to bring him a hand-held dustbin brush and catcher to clean the front steps. Guests were coming. Time to tidy up the façade. Dad’s the ghost in the unconscious machine. He programmed his kids to act a certain way in stressful situations. Workwise it killed us. We were brought up to be meticulous and accurate. But what makes for a great watchmaker doesn’t cut it in today’s work-a-day world. It’s better to be incompetent nowadays. Know how to drink and make friends. To play the game. Leverage the meticulous and accurate to climb the greasy pole. The floating folder those metal cupboards that’s my old laboratory. I always kept meticulous records. I knew where everything was. When Max called me a little while back he accused me of throwing out HIS molecules. What mental regress caused that? I told him do you think I’m a sicko my Austrian boss did that to me I went to Greece and when I came back a months worth of work had been washed down the drain. I actually cared about my work unlike the countless idiots I encountered along the way. You’d think science attracts smart people. It doesn’t. Not anymore. The kids can read. They have something called the Internet. The kids want a job. They don’t want to dick about in a lab for 10 years on the breadline. So what you get are the dregs. Those that can’t do anything. Or worse the immigration racketeers. I’ve seen so many shockers. You name it I’ve seen it. I could write a novel. But that would be a waste of time. The rot has set in everywhere. Into every institution. The competents are long gone. Services no longer required. I’m never going back. Besides one Google search by the gender and inclusivity officer and I’m done. This blog is my downfall. At least I can use it as evidence to plead insanity at my upcoming trial. No murder is gonna be pinned on me. See I’ve got my sister’s back. Though she needs to fix her backyard. And order blackout blinds. I can’t do everything for her. In this regard Max was right. Let them burn. Let them learn. Max has seen IT all. Several times. His novel would be better than mine.