Chapter 6
Heads up, we’re going to time travel for a moment. I’ve always enjoyed an incredible dream life. It wasn’t always well received, so eventually I stopped sharing it, stopped discussing it. Since as far back as I can remember, my dream have hinted towards a greater spiritual connection than I have felt in my daily life. There has been incidents of spillover into daily life, but mostly, it’s all self-contained in a context of sleep and dream. One incident of spillover came while I was living in San Antonio; my grandfather died in Abilene, and it was necessary to delay travel. My father went straight way, but my mother and I were going to drive up three days later. In the interim, I made it my mission to dream of my grandfather. I moved through my day one telling myself, “I will dream of my grandfather.” That became my mantra. This was well before I knew anything about lucid dreaming or magic. I knew on innate level I could make it happen. And I wanted it to happen. Out my entire family, I had the greatest rapport with Papa. It was a weird relationship, but it was the most consistent, and stable relationship. Not a lot hugs on that side of the family. He was a Baptist minister, a principal in a school district. He was loved and looked up to by many in several communities. I would ask him a question and he would hand me a book.
So that night, after some intense programming, I failed to dream of him. I woke, having no memories of any dreams, and began to rage. I lived in an apartment at the time, second floor, with a balcony overlooking the pool. I remember being on the porch, intense anger directed into the sky which was an idealistic, perfect blue. I wanted to conjure up rain clouds and storms, thinking Mickey Mouse and Fantasia equivalent. Nothing happened. I had no effect on reality. I remembered closing diamond patterns in the pool. Sparkles of sunlight. Very picturesque. Perfect morning. But I was too emotional to endure it so I went inside, pausing only to collect a white feather that was on the BBQ grill. It was a perfect white feather. I put it in my book ‘Illusions’ by Richard Bach that was on my piano.
I hear you. You’re thinking I am setting you up. On this day, as I tell the story, I can tell it without it having changed. I have written and discussed it multiple times, and each rendition is the same in details, with more or fewer words depending on the audience. It is replete with metaphors, but at the time, I couldn’t see them or access them. The feather is a metaphor, as is the book I inserted said feather into. When I tell this in person, the listeners get chills. I am equally affected by each telling, and I flush and my hands get warm. But then, it was excruciatingly real, and I was full of anger and sadness. I went through my day beside myself. I wonder if that expression means something. I also ramped up my self-programming, ‘I will dream of my grandfather.’ That night, I went to bed fully expecting to realize my goal. I closed my eyes and woke, ten hours later, not remembering a single dream. It was like I closed my eyes and opened them and it was morning. I was pissed. And now tired. I went out on the porch and released fury into the sky. I released enough energy I could have destroyed the Death Star. Not wanting to linger in the blue or the gentle diamonds on the pool, I turned to withdraw back into the solitude of my apartment, pausing only to unconsciously collect a second, pristine feather from on top of the BBQ. I put it in the book Illusions, by Richard Bach, and proceeded through my day, lamenting my failures and my life, but proceeding forward with my mantra to see my grandfather. I knew I could do it. I knew this was the only way I would ever have another conversation with him. I arrived back home after a day that was so common in action that I couldn’t tell you a single detail other than my mission statement, and without too much ado, packed, and retired early to engage in a dream mission to reach and hug my grandfather. To me, it was not only doable, it was reasonable that I accomplish the mission. I wanted it. I needed it.
It didn’t happen. I awoke, no dreams, and went out onto the porch and stared up into the sky almost daring it to smite me as I defied its pristine, perfectness.
“Sir? Sir?!”
I looked down from the railing and saw a child, a black kid who I had never seen in my apartment complex before, and who I had never saw afterwards. I have no clue who he was.
“What?!” I snapped.
Unperturbed, he asked, “Have you noticed that white dove that has been sitting on your balcony every morning?”
You would think I would have stopped and considered the feathers. I did not. I didn’t hesitate in my response, either. “No!” I said, turned away, picked up a third feather, and put it in my book with the others.
From there, I collected my mother and began our drive to Abilene. I shared with her my intentions to dream of grandfather and though I had failed, I how I was continuing to pursue my mission objective.
“You know I don’t want to hear it,” My mother said. “Your dreams are just brain fluff from you watching too much television and an over active imagination which is not practical and will never get you anywhere. Maybe if you spent more time in reality you would be more successful in life.”
And her rant continued for a few more miles, but it effectively put an end to further dialogue. We arrived and the first thing I did was find my grandfather’s keys. I figured this was something he touched every day, and my intent was to hold them as a talisman to help reinforce my goal of dreaming of him. I spent time sitting in his chair, looking at the book he had on the side table, which wasn’t something that would hold my interest, but it was what he was reading. I spent time in his study. Yeah, family arrived and there were minimal conversations, but mostly I was alone, even when I was with them, especially when I was with them, as if I were adopted or worse, simply a stray that wandered in and was tolerated to some degree. Grandfather’s study was always my refuge. Whenever family gathered and they were watching football, I was in the study reading, or listening to the reel to reel. The study had a particular smell, that of books, reel to reel, typing ribbon reels of red and black ink, chalk, and art supplies. There was a painting of a two fishermen in a storm with yellow slickers. I’m sure it’s a copy of something famous. Papa was in this room a lot and I could smell him. I continued with my mantra. And I continued to push the boundaries. That night, I got to sleep in his bed. My grandparents had the twin, ‘I love Lucy” bed arrangement, which was all of my life and maybe before, and it made you wonder how my father and his sister came about, but it was just the way they were. Again, this side of the family was Victorian reserved, no conversations on sex or sexuality except the Bible kind that you don’t lust, and there was no alcohol, no dancing, no games with dice, so no monopoly and definitely no D&D, and handshakes over hugs. The other family, oh, there was sex, and affairs, and drugs, and alcohol abuse, and law enforcement frequently at the door, and weapons discharged into the house, multiple divorces, generational sex abuse, and drama, with folks in and out of jail, and all of this under the canopy of a Church of Christ background which frequently informed me that the Baptist side of the family were going to hell because they were Baptist, which never made much sense, because if anything else, that side was at least kind and stable and sticking to their ethics. Talk about duality! My childhood was confusing to say the least. And probably why we didn’t talk about dreams or magic or ESP or aliens. So, I am not being gross when I tell you I slept in my grandfather’s bed. I even slept in his nightshirt, the one that was still on his bed and was recently worn. I share the information to impart how desperately I wanted to reconnect with him. I knew I was doing everything right. His night shirt drooped over me like a nightgown from an old Dickens tale, only there wasn’t any visits from any of the Christmas ghosts. I laid my head on his pillow. I did not cry, though there were tears that sneaked out and touched his pillow. I could smell him. And I continued with my mantra until I fell asleep.
I awoke, no dreams. Fuck! I got up, tired, but unable to keep my head on the pillow, unable to sleep or meditate or think properly. I went to the kitchen and sat in Papa’s place at the table. My grandmother said, “Well, another country heard from.” That was her thing to say. She said it every morning. Was it her mantra? Did it have meaning? Are people really countries, with populations of others inside of each of us? She was making bacon and eggs, and the biscuits were in the oven. My mom was at the table writing something in a tablet she had taken from my grandmother’s supplies.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Just a moment,” she answered.
“No, really, what are you doing?” I asked, and I don’t know why I was so insistent, but whatever she was doing it was inconsistent with her character. And she is a character, and though I know she is more substantial than a 2-dimensional foil to practice my wit on, she rarely engaged me in such a way that we could hold a meaningful dialogue of compassion and love towards each other, and I have still not reached a level of advancement that I can engage her.
“One moment, I’m writing down a dream I had and I don’t want to forget it,” my mother said.
“Oh, hell no, you are not,” I snapped.
“Language,” my grandmother said.
My mother looked at me. “I had a dream about Papa.”
“You’re making this up. You’re making fun of me because of what I shared with you and I don’t appreciate it,” I said.
“No, you don’t understand. This is important. Last night, in my dream, I went into Papa’s bedroom, and I saw him. He was sitting on the bed, but I didn’t see him by looking directly at him, but only when I looked in the dresser mirror. And he looked confused. And I told him, it was okay, you can go into the light,” my mother informed.
“No! You would not say that! You ridicule me for my dreams, and now you’re telling me this?” I demanded.
“And you were in the dream, and you were telling him not to go,” my mother said.
To my knowledge, my mother has never said anything more insightful and dead on accurate about me in my entire life. I was still holding Papa’s keys. It took effort to release them. They clattered to the table. My hand was bleeding and the keys had left imprints. The tears were unleashed and I began to sob. My grandmother touched my shoulder, but then continued on with preparing breakfast. She wasn’t ready yet, not for this. I withdrew to Papa’s chair. I cried that entire day and was so inconsolable that I was not invited to speak at the funeral. My father had tears at the funeral, and it was first time I had ever seen him emote anything other than anger. I wanted to put a flashlight in the casket. I was told no. I did so anyway. Too late, I discovered it had been removed. What is wrong with people!
I returned to San Antonio. I returned to my life and work and preparing for a move, and two weeks later I was in Dallas, working at DFW, having secured a work transfer. I had ceased trying to contact my grandfather the day I buried him. And it was that night, my first night in my new apartment, in a new city, that I had the dream. It didn’t feel like a dream.
I was on an airplane, a row of three seats, by myself, the middle seat. I am pretty sure this was a Super 80. The row directly in front of me, my brother sat alone. Two rows forwards of me, my parents sat, my father occupying the window seat, and my grandfather was sitting with them, occupying the aisle seat. They were talking. I could hear they were talking but I could not make out the words. I was not privy to this conversation. Again, I am impressed by the flow of time. This did not feel like a dream. There was the vibration of the airplane, the noise of the airplane engines. This was something else, maybe not real, but it was something! My grandfather got up, I think he looked at me but I purposely looked away. He sat down with my brother in the row directly in front of me, and held a conversation with him. Again, I was not privy to the conversation. My brother had not been at the funeral because he was in prison. My grandparents had been opposed to my parents adopting him. He was technically my mom’s sister’s son. His father was an Iranian air force officer, who the US was teaching aviation to back in the 70’s when were friends, and my aunt flew off to Iran and gave him too children, one girl, one boy, but for whatever reasons, she snuck out of the country and brought the boy with her, creating an international incident that had reporters on our doors, very much like the story “Not Without My Daughter,” with Sally Fields. (My aunt had left a daughter in Iran, interestingly enough.) I am telling you, we have drama. I am not making this shit up. I never saw my paternal grandparents connect with my brother, or his half biological brother that my maternal grandmother adopted and who was often with us. There were even multiple incidents of favoritism displayed towards me in front of my brother and my cousin, which even at a young age bothered me, because I could discern a difference, and they did, too, and it caused rifts and fights that played out in other arenas that the adults were not privy to, or didn’t care to understand. And so, the fact that my grandfather sat down with my brother and had a lengthy conversation with him, really didn’t fit with my expectations. And time passed. This was not just a speed your way to the most important part of the dream. I was bothered. Time was passing and I was uncomfortable and trying to figure what the hell all of this was.
My grandfather stood, came back a row, and he sat down with me. I looked at him but couldn’t maintain eye contact. I looked at the literature sticking out of the seatback pocket. My grandfather was silent. He didn’t say anything for the longest time. Time palpably passed. This was more than uncomfortable. I silently raged until he broke the silence.
“You’re taking this better than I imagined you would,” Papa said.
“I don’t want to take this,” I said.
I am pretty sure he nodded. A flight attendant offered a drink and he waved her off. And time ticked.
“Look out the window,” Papa instructed.
“Why?” I asked.
“Stop it. Look out the window and tell me what you see,” Papa said.
I looked out the window. “I don’t see anything.”
“Tell me what you see,” Papa said.
“What are you looking for?”
“Tell me what you see,” Papa insisted.
“I don’t know, farms, patchwork, roads,” I began listing. “Just Earth. What should I see?”
“That’s where I am buried, not where I am,” he said.
I began to cry. He touched my arm. I awoke, I was in my bed, my pillow was soaked and my tears were still flowing.
Sharing this story with you seems out of place here, in some ways, except I think it’s necessary if nothing else to show you the relevance that dreaming has in my life. I have had other profound dreams. I have had out of body experiences as a child. I have had esoteric experiences where I was brought up into a light, like sustained lightening, and seen a world without shadows. I have been in a white place of empty infinity. Mysticism has always been in the background, pulling at me, and I have resisted, and so just like the days where we go from wake to sleep to wake, so have I passed through levels of lucidity and connections, and so far, whenever I have touched the sacred it has only reinforced the fact that there is nothing mundane. It is all sacred and bound by a Light and Love, which contradicts almost everything the Church of Christ taught me, and there wasn’t a place to discuss the other experiences with family or friends without just really going off the deep end and being more disconnected from people than I already felt. Maybe I should have dived off the deep end much earlier, but I was afraid. I still struggle with this fear, fear of being alone, and this fear of being alone has driven me to make really bad relationship decisions. I know this. And I can only say I have improved in small steps, but am still fallible.
But I also share this to help kind of sort how varied my dreams are. There are levels. There are nonsense dreams. There are disconnected dreams where things are random and nonlinear. Most of my dreams seem to be stories. Literally motion pictures from start to finish. I have dreams about music. I have dreams about people and places and sometimes I am not me and those are really interesting. I have some prophetic dreams. Nothing ever big like winning the lottery or who is the next presidents, but small things that have come to pass, but are also equally explainable as being easily predicted to happen, and so in an effort to be rational and reasonable, I have tended to go with the scientific, logical explanation. I have always wanted to be Spock and I have spent a great deal of energy to be intellectual. I admit to neglecting my heart. I am now working on that part.
And so, it’s like this. Most people go to work, spend time with family, sleep, and do it all again. I work, I spend time with my immediate family, which is my ex-wife and son, with full focus on the wellbeing of my son. I am estranged from all family. That part isn’t relevant to this book, not so much anyway. It influences me, clearly. And then, there is my night time, replete with dreams where I am immersed in a second life, 24 hours, sometimes more, condensed into an eight to ten hour period. I am sure someone will argue this is just fantasy. Before Loxy, I would have agreed. I would lay in bed, aiming for sleep, either programing, or daydreaming, only to fade out and fade in and pick up right where I left off. My dreams are not all about sex. Many are. But this is my biggest argument against Freud’s assertion that all dreams are simply manifestations of a repressed libido. Believe me, I am obsessed with sex. You have one esoteric experience with sex, and you’ll either chase it or become celibate, and I am not doing the latter. But, neither are my dreams nightly orgies. I am not a sex addict. I don’t sabotage my life to get a need met, but this is a big part of my life, and before my divorce I was in a sexless marriage for two years, so you might imagine, if dreaming is just repressed libido, I would have had an increase sexual dreams, and that just didn’t happen. I had some sex dreams. Usually I wake up before the good part. I have even had lucid dreams where I pursued sexual contact and was still blocked. Which is even more frustrating than in real life because, hey, this is my dream and I want some, but sometimes the girl says no, which is a great set up for a joke, but also revealing of how I work. I do care about others, even if they’re ‘dream’ people. Have I lied to get sex? Sure. Even in non-lucid dreams, I have lied to get sex, directly and indirectly.
In dreams, and in life, I think sex doesn’t mean what we think it means. I think its energy that encourages us to connect, be creative. In Astral Projection, there seems to be no social rules in how people engage each other. This is my experience, and the people I consider experts on the subject have either directly said the same, or hinted at it. Of course, more people than not put a higher reverence on it than I seem to. I certainly think it’s sacred, but then, I really think there is nothing else. Everything is sacred, and if everything is sacred, then there aren’t some things more sacred than others. In the dream world, everything is equally me. The table. The characters. The props. Granted, every specific thing has meaning, but it’s still me. The characters are either archetypes or gateways to connecting with specific meaning, symbols to be engaged that when properly aligned can change the meaning of a sentence. Okay, and now this make sense to me. I understand why I am sharing this with you. It’s because, where I am about to take you, well… For me, this is not fiction. We’re going off the deep end and it’s not going to make a lot of sense, but the floor is about to fall out, and there will be tumbling involved and, well, welcome to my life.