South Coast – Westerly Dreamer – New Books – Dream 18-12-2025

Here is last night’s dream had before 5:26 AM The overall sleep was again goodish.

I am on an old style British train, in a carriage with facing bench seats. The seats are made of that slightly itchy hard wearing material. I am with Simon. We are heading past Gatwick towards Worthing. He is telling me that there are lots of good properties for sale on the South coast. They have come down in price and a bargain can be had. He says that all along the coast they are up for sale. He strongly recommends buying one there. The mood is light hearted. We are going to the seaside.

We alight and are then in the town centre of an unspecified South coast town. Simon leads me to the coast. Off the coast I can see a number of small islands with white chalky cliffs and grassy tops. Each island is seemingly floating in the sea. They are distinct and I know they have their own eco-system. I can see sheep on the cliff tops on some. Simon says the islands float by and that the scenery is constantly changing. They are like the islands floating in air in the Avatar movies. I say that I did not know things like this were off the South coast of England.

We go back in towards town and stop at a small open square with white low rise regency housing. It is a couple of streets back from the front. We are approached by Christine and Elizabeth, both of whom are female dreamers. Christine seems to know Simon. We greet each other. Elizabeth takes me to one side in an overly earnest manner. Simon and Christine walk off together.

Elizabeth says that I must come to stay with her as we have somethings to work on. But first she must clear the coast with her landlord as visitors, especially male, are not allowed. She looks young. I say OK I will find somewhere to wait.

I find a bench and stretch myself out on it naked under a duvet. My clothes are on the ground nearby. I fall asleep. It is in the middle of town. I am woken by Elizabeth shaking my shoulder. I check where my clothes are and dress under the blanket. I have a half a bottle of white wine which I knock back. I wipe my face and am ready to go.

Elizabeth leads me off and downstairs to her basement studio flat in a very large white regency building. The flat is small and cramped but definitely that of a female, from decor and smell. She shows me her single bed and a bed roll she has made up on the floor. I will sleep on the floor. It must be obvious to everyone that she is not sleeping with me, having sex. I comment that I am pretty much past all that.

We lie down and make ready for sleep. As we are nodding off the walls between the flat and that of the next door neighbour fade. In bed there are two women. They have bright “trendy” hair with tattoos and piercings. The hair is vividly dyed. They are in a lesbian relationship. Elizabeth is very conservative in comparison. I ask her if she is a lesbian too, suggesting she dabbled as a younger woman. No. She says that the lesbian relationship here relates to feminine dreaming and that the two women are dreamers like her. I know she is a Westerly dreamer and her mother Christine, a Southerly one. The lesbian theme and the lack of walls is a commentary of the connectedness of feminine dreaming. People are very sceptical about me and Elizabeth. They gather round to criticise. Under the bed is a book we are working on together. To fend off the criticism I sit up on my bed roll and show a hard covered book. It is open at the frontispiece with copyright notice, ISBN and title. As I flick though the pages there are black and white images and text which literally appears as I change page. The gang of gathered critics look on slightly awe struck as the text and images of the new book appear right before their eyes. This is a new book which I may write.

The dream ends.

King Charles – Blaise Metreweli – Dream Snippet 17-12-2025

This from around 6 AM on a night when I manged to stay in bed until 8AM!! Possibly my best night’s sleep since before the operation.

The dream starts in a palatial dressing room area. He is sat at what can be described as a dressing table. In front of him is an ornate “triptych” of mirrors. He is looking into the mirrors. The reflection in the mirror is of a younger Charles. The one sat on a posh stool is one the age he is now. The Charles in the mirror is saying “great, now I get to be king” he is excited and enthusiastic. The older Charles is thinking, “oh shit, bugger, I have actually got to be king!” He adjusts his cufflinks. He is pensive. He turns and stands up.

Later he is met by Camilla and she takes his elbow. Again he fidgets with his cufflink on his left shirtsleeve. Later on he is joined by William and Kate who are dressed up with blue sashes. It is evening and they all have a gig to go to.

The scene changes and it is another day. Charles is walking along a carpeted corridor with a tall woman who is Blaise Metreweli. From their interaction I can tell that they have met before and are increasingly on familiar grounds. She is giving him his weekly update. He jokes that when an M dies and new M is always born. They both find this mildly amusing. Charles likes to walk and talk and she is comfortable with this. The corridor has a tall window at one end and a carpet which is in a wide strip but which does not reach the walls. There is wooden floor between the carpet and the ornate walls. The carpet is of a reddish hue. They are both walking away from the low morning winter light from the window and casting a shadow in front of them. Charles is listening with full attention. You can almost hear him listening. It is a special skill of his. It is clear that the relationship between king and MI6 is not as simple as it might first seem. It is more nuanced and impactful.

The dream ends.

I wonder where did that come from. It has touched upon something other than the face value which I cannot as yet put into words.

Oxbridge College – Short Dream – 16-12-2025

Here is this morning’s dream had just before 6 AM. I am no longer getting up to watch TV during the night. The sleep is still not profound. I wake several times. After about 3 AM I do not feel tired. But can sleep. After about 6 the lower back pain tends to make me want to get up and move around.

The dream opens on a green field which slopes slightly down to a river. It is like Christchurch Meadow. There can be seen a weeping willow near the river. The dream is certain that this is Oxford. I am walking with two male “fellows” who are a bit younger than me along a path. They are professors. One has dark hair the other more blonde.

The scene changes and we are in some unspecified Oxford college taking the tour. They are showing me a refectory, a library and the kind of rooms that a college fellow has. They say that it has access to university libraries including the Bodleian. It dawns on me that in a round about way they are offering me a position at the college.

I ask them on what criteria they could do such a thing commenting that in no way do I match up to the normal criteria about how these things are offered. They say that because of the private way the college is funded there are many weird and wonderful endowments that could be invoked and used. I do not think they are being serious and it is some kind of cobbled together ersatz. I further comment that I am not able to teach anything vaguely on any university curriculum. They seem unfazed by this.

They want to show me the college farm. We take a short ride out into the country and the dark haired one proudly displays their new eco-farm in which they grow heritage vegetables. He shows me his tutor group in action and shows me a spreadsheet of names arranged in a “portrait” orientation excel spreadsheet. I rearrange the spreadsheet into “landscape”. The names are all very English. One name stands out, Scanlon.

We go back to the college and I am invited to a soirée that evening at which many of the fellows and members of the college will be. The master will also be there. I thank them for the invitation but decline. I explain that I am not fond of such things and generally have difficulty hacking them.

I am near perplexed in the dream as to why they might cobble together some kind of position. It smacks of some political fix; somebody has had a “bright” idea. They have not thought this through.

The dream ends

Wayback even though I was not a top “A” grade student my school wanted me to take the Oxford entrance exams, because the teacher thought I would be better at the slightly off the wall questions. We visited Christchurch. The extra lessons however were interfering with rugby training at lunchtimes so I stopped going. I did not sit the exams.

Chaotic Mess – Rare Slow Soul Magic – Dream 12-12-2025

Sleep last night came in two segments 12 – 2:30 and after an hour of TV, 4 to 7. In “A Discovery of Witches” season two last night Diana masters the ninth knot, the spell of endings and beginnings, the knot of completion(s). Implicit is inherent in this is also the tenth knot. Diana a weaver and time walker prepares to travel back to modern day.

The first part is in the early sleep and shallow. I am with the ex-wife. She wants to show me what is going on in the village. She insists that I go to see what has become of the village pubs. She is curious and very nosey. She wants all the gossip. Reluctantly I go with her and one of the pubs is under new management. He is trying to make a go of it. The pub is in a state of mess and undergoing renovation. A part of it is open for business. We go in and he asks what I want. I ask for a pint of Guiness and it takes long while to pour and settle. The ex-wife has a half of bitter and proceeds to go around chatting at/with everyone else in the pub. I ask the landlord about his plans.

We move off to the next pub. This is more lively and all the village folk some from out of town and some born are ostentatiously getting pissed  up. The air is of forced jollity, almost an anxious jollity. This pub is better lit. The locals all stare at me. Once again the ex-wife works the room talking to everyone and gossiping about life in the village and in general. I do not see the point of it in the dream. The pub is a mess and someone needs to do a glasses round and wipe down tables. There is a hint of Christmas party and the TV in the pub is blaring away in the background. It is harsh to the senses.

I awake for some poor TV, a pill and two lion bars.

Back now in the dream I am upstairs in a retreat centre type house. It is redbrick and old. On the other side of a single track road is a chest height red-brick and flint wall behind which is a substantial weir and mill race. The river is powerful and the water deep and of a green hue due to the weeds. I know the building I am in is aligned to the old water mill. It is a part of the complex. The feel is very similar  to Llangollen. The smell is similar too; we are near mountains. I am lying on the bed with the window open. The net curtains are blowing lightly in the breeze and I can hear the deep bass rumble of the water on the weir.

I hear a key in the door downstairs and in walks Paul and Emma. (Walker). They walk through into the kitchen and I can hear the keys being thrown into a small ceramic pot / ashtray. The pot is glazed agate green. I can hear Paul complaining to Emma about me. He complains how things can be messy after I have been and that although the mess is not mine it is in response to me that the chaos and mess ensues.  He is not happy about me being there and wants me to go. His unwelcome is widely held among many people. I do not do what they deem I ought to.

I come down stairs and Paul intuits that I have heard what he has been saying. He asks if I have heard.  I affirm. He says that there is no point pretending then. I say that I am not in the least bit upset. I have something to show him. In the kitchen are plates and cutlery unwashed. He looks at them with scorn. We all go out into a walled garden and to a stand-up wooden table in a “beer-garden” private to the property and which overlooks the weir.

I say to Paul that I possess a special rare type of magic. This he doubts as otherwise I would have used the magic to clean up. I say that this magic is not of a material kind, the kind for tricks and show. I say that my magic is a special kind of magic known by some as Soul magic. This magic is of a very slow effect. It is a slow Soul magic. He is sceptical.

I hold up my left hand and a brown hen’s egg appears in it. This catches his attention. It cracks and the top comes off. It is now like a soft boiled egg ready for eating in “dippy eggs”. I say to him that my magic, the deeper magic, pertains only to the Soul. It is not mundane. In the dream he understands that the egg is a metaphor for the Souls. I say that yes I can and do work directly with the Soul(s).

The dreaming view looks down at the soft yolky egg from above and then zooms out to a side view. A small amount of yolk has run down from the egg along my fingers and onto my white inner wrist. I say that even Soul magic is of two kinds, the magic of the Souls evolving through lifetimes and that of the spark within. True magic is about the creation and enveloping of the spark within a Soular casing, the egg of lives. The ultimate magic is about liberation in which the ovoid shell, the eggy casing of the Soul is rent and evaporates only to leave the spark within and thence throughout. Soul magic is about encapsulation and liberation. It is beyond the sight of most and not to the everyday taste.

As they watch the egg starts to dissolve shimmering into space with a shimmering of tiny golden insubstantial flecks. Leaving a tiny bright yellow-orange radiant spark or flame. Which is suspended above my fingers. Paul and Emma are temporarily transfixed. They come to with a jolt and all they can see is my upstretched left hand with fingers touching from where the egg once was. They can see a small trickle of bright yellow yolk against the white inner skin of my wrist.

The dream zooms out and looks directly into the depths of the water going over the mill race weir. I know that those prone to the chaos of the West struggle to see the beautiful order and patterns of time.

I come to and feel the stiffness in my hips and lower back…

Through Female Eyes – Ancient Hebrew – Operating Theatre – Horses Dream 09-12-2025

Last night’s dream. For me it is very unusual in that I am seeing a fair part of the dream through the eyes of a woman. The dream is in two parts, before and after a TV/snack break around 4:30 AM.

The dream starts with the visual field filled with a “word-cloud” of letters in black ink on a white background. The background looks a bit like a piece of cloth or parchment, frayed a little. But it is entirely mental, a mind projection. The letters are Latin-roman and the letter-word-cloud is in English, by way of a codex or very loose cypher or key.

I am aware that this is not my body and that I am female in it. I can feel long female plaited hair and the overarching perfume is female. The body is in good nick and pain free. The mind is academic and is problem solving. It is asleep and dreaming. The difference in smell is marked.

The word-cloud changes to a slightly more yellowed background. Here the text has some similarities to modern Hebrew only is in a much less brutal type face. The text is handwritten with an italic nib and there are a lot of dots and “commas” where a superscript might be. These are diacritical marks. The word cloud comes in several different batches and I know these to be segments of text. The text feels archaic and in the dream I wonder if she is reading Aramaic. She is familiar with the text I am not. It is old.

{On waking a quick Google search suggests that the text is archaic or ancient Hebrew. The level of confidence for this designation is around 70-80% by eye.} I get up for a “midnight snack” and to watch some shit TV to help me go back to sleep instead of tossing and turning.

Back in bed I drift off. I am at first looking up from an operating table at people in light  blue medical gowns standing around me. There is an adjustable medical light. The men and women in theatre are masked and busy. One of the surgeons has a binocular headpiece with microscope objectives. He is examining a tool closely. It is modern day.

I am now above the operating table looking down. I can see that it is not the operating theatre I was in. I have a clear pre-operative recollection of that. I am seeing through the eyes of the woman again. She is having abdominal surgery of some kind. The sense is that the theatre is top whack high-end private medicine and it feels East coast USA money, lots of money. I am watching the procedure with a critical eye implying that the woman has some medical training.

I am now sat with the woman in a holiday “rental” near the sea and above some green grassed cliffs looking down on deserted beaches. I am making her breakfast. We are getting ready to leave. We are tidying up. Someone from the landlord comes and says that we need not do that. But I say that it is impeccable to leave a place more tidy than when found.

Before we go we go for a ride on the cliff tops. We are sharing a truly huge thorough bread dark brown horse with her in front, and me behind. We pause on a raised hillock. In the paddock below there are horses at gallop. They are very high quality. There is a man on one horse and a woman on another. They are a couple. He has the air of command. There are a several free horses being exercised and some horses with grooms following up the rear. The man pulls up and stops. He raises his hand and the free horses lie down and roll in the grass. He raises his hand again and they get up. This is his demonstration of power. They all gallop off. He waves at the woman with me who is possibly his daughter. He winks at her and then gallops off. There is some craic between them to which I am not party. They are “aristocratic” or quasi. It starts to rain and we head back to the lodge.

The dream ends.

“Spiritual” Journeys

I have used inverted commas quotation mark here because I struggle a little with how words have in a sense become tainted by multiple usage and being bandied about as PR. Spiritual as a word has had its impact and meaning downgraded to the point of near meaninglessness.

I am going to attempt to put into words something which I have hesitated to do. It is close to impossible. This cannot be undertaken without emphasising just how important a few years of my childhood were in my development, in this life. One constellation in particular left its mark deep in my psyche.

It was by its light during an English language common entrance exam that I foresaw events near two and a half decades later. It was the harbinger and the key of a volte face in life. I left the harbour alone in my coracle adrift upon the Southern ocean lit by its solace. I left Cape Town after being burned on table mountain.

Later I had another foreboding which was also to find consummation over a similar time delay. Each of these were pivotal. That foreboding prevented me making a UCAS university choice against the advice of my school teachers.

When I was young and in an English boarding school as an expat child I got to read the lessons and the prayers in church. While the others sat with parents. It was like a duck to water that I took to the lectern and the prayer “chair” deep in the nave. There I found St Francis of Assisi.

« Seigneur, faites de moi un instrument de votre paix.
Là où il y a de la haine, que je mette l’amour. »

« C’est en pardonnant qu’on est pardonné,
c’est en mourant qu’on ressuscite à l’éternelle vie. »

This man was in tune with the Mahayana bodhisattva ideal. His words touched.

Unfortunately those with the skill of a chameleon can adopt any mask, any direction, any character they choose. Believe me I learned how to blend. And in blending one loses authentic essence.

At the end of my schooling I took general studies courses in Buddhism, cooking and Rastafarianism. Ever Jah, ever loving, ever faithful. Rastafari. I read all that I could on witchcraft and alchemy. I made “friends” with the librarian in our town.

The Buddhism was presented in an intellectual descriptive manner in which the various fetters were enumerated for debate. Although I understood, the manner was for me boring and definitional. I sensed beyond that which was being professed. It was during intense meditation sat in seiza at karate that I learned that I had in fact been meditating all of my childhood. I used to sit and observe. I used to wait. I was touched directly by the dreamtime out in the shimmering bush of western Queensland. The aboriginal pointing stick had cleaved something open.

And then when I went to university I mostly forgot. By the time I was doing my Ph.D. research I figured that I had found something I was good at. So maybe this was the future. I enjoyed “pissing about with lasers”. I was to an extent, life and soul of the party. It was only in the early nineties that I started to withdraw, as if driven by a deeper current, out into the hills, the mountains and the countryside. It set up a kind of imbalance. On the one hand was a “normal” life and career. On the other there was silence and quiet. My reading was more intellectual philosophy, science and philosophy of science. I noted that despite mundane academic achievement many of “the greats” struggled with non-salary paying bigger questions.

I was offered a choice. Fort Collins Colorado or Bern Switzerland. One of those would have brought me quicker into contact with things “spiritual” than the other. The Swiss francs were certain, so I saw the Berner Oberland and learned painfully of “qualität”. Something which I tried thenceforth to express.

In the mid nineties at the place of my prior foreboding I was brought to my knees. Despite writing excellent research proposals I was stymied and unfunded. A grudge held by a “competing” senior academic could kill a proposal with a mere word. I had a breakdown. The answer to life the universe and everything could no longer be found in the laws of quantum mechanics and thermodynamics. It seemed there was more. It was around then that my ambition faded and the picture of a life academic dimmed. I began to search in earnest. I opened myself up wide. Again I largely forgot and tried to rebuild a life after breakdown. For some unknown reason money for research and start-up came more easily. I was “successful” for a while.

In the very early part of this century I was tested by power. I had a taste of it and did not abuse. Like Galadriel I refused the ring and was no longer sorely tempted thereby. It was around this time that a series of what might be called micro-renunciations began. In which step-wise I renounced or was forced to renounce the accoutrements of normal life. Each one was more difficult and profound than the last. Slowly life was stripped of all that made it busy and hectic. Until in the middle of 2006 I renounced all and walked off into the metaphorical “wilderness”. Dramatic as that sounds, at face value it looked simple, at core it cleaved and parted, severed and up-ended.

I did not become a wandering mendicant with charnel grounds for abode nor skull cup for beverage. Though adrift I most certainly was. I had already learned as a child, the nature of impermanence. Strangely without accoutrement life did not cease, the world did not implode, nor did it stop.

When you are thrust  from an Outlook calendar ruled life, with hours dissected into segments, with meetings set for you, with each action seemingly accountable, into nothing. The meaning of time changes in an unalterable and irrevocable way. It is no longer a spreadsheet thing. The boxes, the rice paper walls of the day, dissolve.

At end of 2008 I left the map so to speak. I began a series of meditations which went beyond. There was nothing, despite my research skill, which I could find written. These “meditations” continued in the UK in houses close to civilisation yet separate in the English countryside. I can say that the rigor of these was high and they continued for many years. In around 2010-11 I began having Buddhist dreams.

In the early part of the century whilst still teaching physical chemistry I had a series of waking visions in which I had “om mane padme hum” tattooed on my forearms in Sanskrit and with me in monastic robes. These visions were sufficiently powerful to be present whilst I was lecturing Chemical Reaction Kinetics to undergraduates in South Kensington. It was around then that I got to express my compassion for others, to care for them.

Overlaid on a “Toltec” background was a distinctly Buddhist vibe.

All the while I had a seemingly normal life as a married man doing for quite a while “A” level science private tutoring. The outer world and the inner world differed and markedly so.

To me as a member of the elephant dreaming class there is no problem with the scholastic wisdom teachings of Siddartha and the more dramatic Toltec corpus. The latter is a guide, when viewed with clarity, to the navigation of glamour and illusion. There is probably only one truth expressed via many different approaches. The Tower of Babel has a lot to answer for…

This is probably enough for today…

Pluralitas non est ponenda sine necessitate

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Le rasoir d’Ockham ou rasoir d’Occam est un principe de raisonnement philosophique entrant dans les concepts de rationalisme et de nominalisme. Le terme vient de « raser » qui, en philosophie, signifie « éliminer des explications non nécessaires d’un phénomène » et du philosophe du XIVe siècle Guillaume d’Ockham.

Également appelé principe de simplicité, principe d’économie ou principe de parcimonie (en latin « lex parsimoniae »), il dispose d’une ancienne formulation :

    Pluralitas non est ponenda sine necessitate

    (les multiples ne doivent pas être utilisés sans nécessité)

Dans le langage courant, le rasoir d’Ockham pourrait s’exprimer par les phrases : « L’explication la plus simple est généralement la bonne », ou : « Pourquoi faire compliqué quand on peut faire simple ? » Une formulation plus moderne est que « les hypothèses suffisantes les plus simples doivent être préférées (il faut et il suffit) ». C’est un des principes heuristiques fondamentaux en science, mais ce n’est ni un principe de départ ni un résultat scientifique.

Le principe fait appel à une simplicité en termes de nombre d’entités, de concepts ou d’hypothèses utilisés, et non en termes de complexité de leur combinaison, les deux se contredisant généralement : si vous avez une explication d’un phénomène par la combinaison de deux causes séparées, le principe incite à rechercher une cause unique plus profonde qui serait à l’origine des causes préalablement postulées, ce qui donnera finalement, en cas de succès, une construction plus complexe mais avec un nombre plus réduit d’hypothèses.

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One of the interesting thoughts for me which pertains slightly to this blog relates to finding an internally consistent and comprehensive explanation as to the nature of the dreams I have had and which are archived in this blog. I would genuinely be interested to hear any explanation from the psychology / psychiatry profession which attempts to explain the scope of them. This specifically so given my prior training as a scientist and current life context as a relatively socially isolated retired person.

Those dreams which appear to point at previous incarnations can be discounted as merely dreams. There is no need to invoke the hypothesis of reincarnation. But saying things are just dreams is a bit of a handwaving dismissal. It is not entirely satisfactory.

Invocation of the single hypothesis of reincarnation renders explanation easier in context and does not require any complicated theorising as to just why or how come I dream about, inter alia, Buddhist themed, dreams. Inherent in this is a difficulty because it suggests that there needs to be some mechanism of transfer of memory between different lives, different incarnations. It raises the question as to what exactly is the nature of the “thing” which not only reincarnates but which is able to carry memory and recollection in the absence of a biological body. The neuroscientist is likely to prefer a brain and perhaps evolving synaptic scaffold construct to explain memory. Such a thing cannot exist beyond the soft wet matter of living humanity. There is no biological or biochemical hypothesis which can account for the notion of memory transfer between lives. The science fiction writer or scientifically inarticulate new-ager might say, “it is all in the DNA”.  If it were, it is not facile to explain how “Buddhist DNA” found its way to a small valley in the foothills of Snowdon. Yes my mother when tanned could pass for an Indian especially if she wore a bindi. But the DNA explanation does not really wash. My dad was ginger.

The easiest explanation is to blame an overactive imagination on my part which somehow breaks though during sleep. Perhaps there is a part of my deep sub-conscious which wants to be “special” and thereby invents some new DSM-5 type nocturnal mental disorder, the classification of which could be career enhancing for some psychologist or other. I have a form of delusional psychopathy which may or may not be common. After all who in their right mind would make dreams like mine public? Best kept secret to avoid public gaze. We can come up with the Whacko McNutjob persona.

The fact of the dreams and their recall are, at least to me, real. My speculation is that they are not “common or garden”.

This does not require the invocation of significance. I am just some bloke who happens to dream a lot. No biggie…

Provided that they are not significant there is no wider problem or issue.

If however we invoke, even tentatively, a putative wider significance, a gamut of implications might surface. A similarity to mystical vision and quasi-religious imagery can be drawn. In some circles that is significant in terms of context and perhaps faith. The follow on question might be, “why does someone who, was for a short while, deep in the UK based science community have such phenomena?”. This community being the self-assigned debunker of myths and pseudoscience. “Bah!!”

One could say that weird stuff happens, end of story. It  / he is just an anomaly.

The easiest hypothesis is that the hundreds of dreams archived here are all “just some shit that I made up”. The follow on to this is that I must therefore have at least some imagination and persistent inventiveness. One could counter with the deep philosophical argument, “you just can’t make shit like this up!” I am not sure as to what the motive might be for this inventiveness though others could speculate freely. Maybe I am simply an attention seeker. Maybe it is all some big game to make people question the extent and wider applicability of their self-diagnosed omniscience.

For me it is just habit. If I have a dream which I can recall and am lucid in, when I get up of a morning,  I type it up in Word.  I sometimes make a short note on a post it before typing. There are close to 100 dreams in 2025.

I personally have no strong need to pick an explanation and have that as a definite. A part of the art of dreaming is to enjoy the unknown and the partially or poorly explained.

I can see multiple implications which will almost certainly never manifest. Life circumstance does not support these weekly possible trajectories. There is nothing I can do about it.

I could say something groovy…

The coalescence of the dreaming onto and into the physical plane is not easy. Surprisingly little, though nascent in dreaming, makes it through into the “agreed” and “shared” physical plane realties.

He is just a feckless dreamer, head in the clouds…

Each of us make our own versions of reality not all of which are entirely apt.