Here is this morning’s dream.

The flavour of this dream in entirely UK and specifically England. I am in a small featureless room with D whom I used to know. He is taciturn and concerned. There is a heavy leaden vibe. I know that in the last few days he has received an advanced cancer diagnosis and he has yet come to terms with it. It is in a sense tearing him up and bringing up inner conflicts long avoided. We are in his parents’ house. I leave the room and go for a loud and long “dad piss” in the toilet next door. On the way out I bump into D’s long dead father. He tells me that D is in in denial and would like to express himself but is having trouble pissing, metaphorically speaking.

I go back into the room and already I can see that a part of D is in the in-between and that his time before passing over is not all that long. I say to him in the dream that I am not surprised to see him there given what has occurred in dreaming recently. I know that his Soul is being subjugated by his stubborn personality. There is a part of him which seeks to speak to me and it is not his personality. The inner conflict is making him grey and dank. There is nothing I can do. I know that post death I will get a visit. By then it will be late.

The scene changes to some kind of work’s social event. I am talking with two early middle aged English women, who are expensively dressed. One has a grey bob and the other has longer dyed orange hair. They are both “crystal feeler” new age types and speak posh and clipped. There is some kind of new age book launch going on. The woman with the longer hair asks me if I can “see”. I say to her that I certainly could in the past but that I have not done this for a long time because it tends to freak out any person being seen. They are both excited.

The grey bob asks me if I could “see” her. I warn her that if I Iook she may not like what I see and that she might not like the experience. Intrigued she asks me to go ahead. I stand close to her around one foot away and look into her eyes and more diffusely with unfocused eyes. I see first her form and then her thoughts. Beyond that I can see her Soul. I say to her that she finds me attractive. She comments that such a comment is no big deal nor seeing. I can tell that she is sexually aroused and defiant, refusing to believe that she is being seen. I ask her if she would like a tissue to wipe the moisture from her vulva which I know she has emitted. She turns bright red and moves away aware that she has been fully transparent to me. I know that it is this sensation of transparency which makes people anxious and antagonistic.

The scene changes and we are upstairs in a plush London hotel not too far away from Covent Garden. There is some kind of training or healing event going on with facilitators and a finger buffet. The guests are all very well-heeled except me. There are a few Richmond type women who have “beautiful” homes. There is one woman in peach who is talking to the facilitator stood up in plenary. She says that she is fearful because she has just had a cancer diagnosis and does not know what to do with the rest of her life. I walk over to her and hug her in my arms. She starts to cry.

Later an older woman is talking to the facilitator. She too has a recent diagnosis. I hug her also. She is the mother of the younger woman. In contrast she has accepted her fate and is worried that her daughter is not being real. She asks me how come I am calm. I explain that in our house we have a lot of experience of cancer diagnoses. She asks me if I can help her daughter.

The next to speak is David Bowie. He is taller than in “real” life and dressed in an immaculate pastel blue suit with bleach dyed blond hair. He looks as he did forty plus year ago. He too is diagnosed and I similarly hug him. He towers over me. We both know he is dead. It is our shared joke. I suggest that we all go to a nightclub to dance. Everyone thinks this is a good idea.

Bowie and I are in a bright red low long American style convertible with white walled tyres. He is driving the right hand drive car. The cream leather upholstery is immaculate. He does a handbrake turn into a parking spot on a cobbled square. We get out and head toward the night club. Outside on the pavement are many Bowie statutes representing his various on-stage incarnations. He is very laconic and holds back.

The others all go into the night club. I then marshal them back out onto the square where Bowie is doing a medley of his hits. We start to conga with Bowie at the head and the daughter from before behind him. Behind her the mother and then me. The bouncers from the night club join in. The sense is of a warm summer dawn around 5 AM.

The dream ends.