Still struggling to get a decent night’s seep. I am on a protocol of Zopiclone and 500/30 paracetamol codeine before bed. I have long been aware that my per kilogram body mass ability to handle alcohol and cannabis was at the higher end of the spectrum. I can still function when others might not. The attempts to sleep might be hindered by a state of “vigilance” and I am building up a psychological conditioning in which I do not want to try to go to bed. This is not healthy. In the “pharmacy” there are a number of synthetic and non-synthetic “narcotics” which I might use. At the moment the dosage is minimal, a maximum of 60mg codeine a night. This sleeping is clearly the thing I want to ameliorate now.
The morning’s dreams are in two segments. The first I would characterise as very boring and very old hat. Yawn.
The scene opens in UK research council offices. People known to me from the late eighties, the nineties and early two thousands. The people are exclusively London and South East based are conspiring amongst themselves about me. They, whilst pretending to be my friends, are undermining me and otherwise plotting and whispering amongst themselves. They have a fear of being found out and exposed. They are stuck and badly so. At the time they thought that the plotting was clever even cunning. They are now less convinced of this and far less amused by it. They are worried. In the dream they imagine they can interact with me in the same way as they once did. They are arrogant and complacent. They have no idea of the extent to which I have changed. In the dream I am bored that the same old shit is again being presented. I know that what they may deem important is ultra petty and trivial to me.
I awake it is around 6 AM. I have a loo break going back to bed assuming that I will not sleep.
The wife and I are walking through an airport. We have already cleared customs and border check. It is a huge airport in America. {Query Denver} There are shops and food concessions on either side. The wife pops into a shop. I continue along the corridor and a tall woman in dark navy cop like uniform stops me. She has immaculately ironed grey trousers and a paramilitary shirt. She is armed and has her long black hair in a tight pony-tail. She addresses me by name, “Dr Taylor can we have a word with you in private?”
“Yes, what about my wife?”
“My colleague will look after her. You are not being detained, we would just like a word.”
She ushers us off through an identity pass on lanyard secure door and into what looks like a high technology operations room. She ushers me down the corridor into a glass walled cubicle / office. All the while she is chatting with me in an accomplished and highly skilled manner. She is a pleasure to be with. She has a mild west coast accent and is very high functioning. I can tell that they are taking multiple images of me and she asks if I would mind giving a blood sample. I have nothing to hide.
I say that she is not what she at first seems to be and is probably secret service. She agrees that she is. I ask her if I can have a look at my file. She says that she cannot think of a reason why not and pulls up a chair her side of the desk. She shows me image after image of me reaching back decades. There are some from Tokyo some from Santa Clara and even some from Brittany France. I comment that they have been busy. She says with some pride that this is what they do. I ask her if there is anything else she wants to know. No. She looks at my passport and identity card, scans them. She gives me another card which is of US origin. It is for me to use, if needed, during our stay. It is high end official. If in doubt just show this card.
She then ushers me back to the main terminal where the wife is waiting. The wife asks and I say that US secret service have just taken a blood sample and have had me under surveillance for a very long time.
The dream ends and I gingerly role over onto my back. It is a little after 7 AM.
Dreamyoga 