Thursday 23rd January 1997.  (Sarnath, India).

I leave home telling my wife that I am going out for a while, actually I am going to the pub.  I am on a train into town, the line descends into a series of tunnels and I no longer recognise where I am.  I am walking the streets of an unknown city that stretches out below me.  There are a number of large single storey buildings made of a grey stone.  They are square in design with a flattened dome in the centre[1].  They are used for either civil or ritual purposes (See illustration).  This is a dreamscape I have visited before.  There are a lot of trees dotted among the buildings.

  I know that the hotel I am going to has a bit of a ‘reputation’.  Out of the front of a house come two young women.  The one with bottle blonde hair calls me.  I am confused as to what she is saying.  She gestures to me and pulls her left breast from her top, slurring out some remark about oral sex.  I then realise that this girl and her friend are totally whacked on heroin.  The one with the mousy short black hair looks particularly bad, her eyes black and empty.  I move onto the pub but realise I cannot go in because I have inadvertently put on one of Sue’s singlets instead of mine.

Friday 24th January 1997.  (Sarnath, India).*

Interesting hypnagogic images before some minor dreams.  As I am about to go to sleep I can see people dressed in black with their backs to a brick wall.  The scene changes, I am standing between two rows of Roman columns that stretch out before me to the left and right.  Standing before each are individuals, representative of different religious and spiritual traditions.  The only two that catch my eye are a Sadhu holding a trident[2] and someone I take to be Thomas Merton[3].  Down the centre of the columns stretches a yellow carpet, the same yellow as on the robes of Tibetan Monks.

Seated on it haunches is a giant bull, however it is also part human and was a Sadhu[4].  It charges towards me on its hands/hooves and stops just before me, bowing down its head towards me.  Between its horns, its skull breaks open and a lotus[5] grows out from inside. The final image is a dot of purple light that is moving in the distant blackness.  Though is never gets much closer, I can see that it is in fact a horse!

I dream that I am having an association with a young woman with dark hair, with whom I get on very well.  The place is a fusion of the Melbourne suburb of Kew (Q) and Varanasi.  Her name is Michelle, and she is adamant not just to be an affair on the side and wants me to leave my wife.  My wife for her part has accused me of having an affair with my twenty year old companion, for which the allegation is false.

Saturday 25th January 1997.  (Sarnath, India).*

I have the opportunity to meet the Dalai Lama.  On meeting him I am so moved to be in his presence that I begin sobbing as I prostrate before him.  As he gestures for me to get up, we exchange a few words.  He then takes my hand and the ground falls away beneath us as we rise into the air some twenty to fifty metres and begin to move across the countryside.  The scenery below is more reminiscent of Perth than the surrounding area of Sarnath.

My initial uneasiness gives way to confidence.  He tells me to have faith and to trust, not just in him but in my own ability.  As we soar higher and higher over the landscape I find I have a degree of control here.  The feeling I have here is reminiscent of my one and only out of body experience I had when I was sixteen years of age.  I say to His Holiness that people looking up from the ground would not see two men flying, rather they would see two birds, eagles I think.  Quite impressive.

This dream is in a place that is a cross between Sarnath and Perth. I remember being in some sort of hothouse.  Growing in here are deadly flowers that resemble stems growing out, looking like the lotus flower in the hypnagogic vision from the night before.  They remind me of ‘Triffids’ and we must kill them before leaving, but they continue to proliferate faster than we can kill them.  Escaping into the outside I find that my Head of Department at the University has left or is going to leave his wife for a young Tibetan woman that he has met. (Commentary here).

Thursday 30th January 1997.  (Sarnath, India).

I am back in Perth walking up Ballantine Road towards the junction with Warwick Road.  To the right on the opposite side of the road I see an inner city Melbourne Pub.  It is painted an earthy brown and is called the ‘Globe’.  I go for a ride across a field on my bike to a 24-hour petrol station.  Since I am in Melbourne I should phone my mother.  I find a wall phone with a twenty-cent slot.  I call her but find that I am getting the phone card tangled with the cable of the bike lock.  I drop my bike.  I pick up a nearby phone and continue to speak.

I ask a man standing close by to hang up the other phone I had been using as I am getting feedback.  I realise that by doing this I will be disconnected.  “Don’t”, I yell.  Too late.......  I am really mad, as I have no more money.  In my anger I confront the man I asked to hang up the phone.  He is about fifty years of age, about 6’.7” with blonde hair and glasses.  “Give me twenty cents”, I demand.  Standing there in front of me he replies, “I am going to kill you”.  As I consider my life to be worth more than twenty cents I back off.

Outside it is nearly dark.  A young aboriginal man comes rushing across the field on a bike, tossing it down in a way that makes me suspect that he may have stolen it.  “Someone is after me”, he blurts out as his two companions arrive.  “Who?”, asks someone.  He laughs and pulls out a bottle of tomato sauce and squeezes it all over the man.  “This is blood”, he laughs.  In the distance on a hill I can see the Channel Ten Studio in Nunawading, Victoria.  On the distant horizon I can see the lights of the towers of Melbourne rising into the night sky.

Monday 3rd February 1997.  (Varanasi, India).*

Strangest night sleep, disjointed dream and nightmare images.  I am down by the Ganga in the old city of Varanasi where there are many temples and shrines of all shapes and sizes hidden away in alcoves[6].  I am peering into one of these spaces in which the stone image is the sacred vermilion color.  In the sanctum are Yakshas[7] resembling boy like Sadhu’s.  Somehow they are interacting with the stone carvings, which are moving.  Alive with some sort of primeval life force in them.  The only deity I recognise is Nandi[8] the bull.  These deities are quite evil and I find myself jolted awake.

I am the custodian of an ancient Chinese throne, but it does not look like the ‘stereotype’ royal throne, but more of a chair.  The colors and patterns are traditional, red, green and blue, with gold trim.  It has four carved legs and no back.  The seat is curved, but flat with two very low arms.  The armrests are slightly wider.  Somehow I go from custodian to thinking that it is mine.  At one point I hold two women prisoner when I catch them breaking into my house.  Very strange.

Saturday 8th March 1997.  (Bombay, India).

I am at my old house in Churton Crescent in Warwick with some acquaintances.  Behind the back fence is a strange steel structure that has not been constructed, but rather placed there by persons unknown.  It is of a stainless steel and quite gigantic, approximately three metres in height.  There are strange aerial type projections on it and it has a tripod base.  My two sons and the other kids here are all interested in this object and are walking along the top of the fence.

Suddenly with a sort of telescopic action this thing starts to grow, bits and pieces projecting outwards and upwards, getting higher and higher, strange opening appear among the aerials.  The kids ask if they can go play on the object.  Reluctantly, the answer is yes.  However they just don’t play on it, but interact with it.  To their delight they find they can crawl like insects all over it without having to hang on to anything.  By crawling over it, they are also crawling through it, somehow passing through matter to appear on another part of this thing.

Though the children are having a good time, I am rather concerned because I know that this thing is not the work of human hands.  I suggest to the father of the other children here that it is not a good thing for them to be playing on this thing.  I ask, quietly at first for my sons and the others to get off.  In the end I am screaming at them, “get off, get off, get off”, as the thing begins to manoeuvre and gyrate, the children look like bees swarming over the outside.

The scene shifts.  I am with a girl at a McDonalds.  Having left, we are walking down a village path, like the ones in the areas I have visited in India.  Near a creek I come to a shed and who do I meet but three of my friends from my early twenties.  Ye-Ha, Ring and Mr Asia, who have come not to visit me, but know I am here and are camping.  We talk for a while and I invite them back to my house.

From here it gets a bit weirder.  We are riding on an elephant that starts to bounce!  In the beginning it is alright, we are on its back and it is bouncing all over the place, at one stage over a three-metre high cyclone fence topped with barbed wire.  As we are going along a truck comes very close to us and spills us ‘over the edge’, knocking us all off. (Commentary here).

Thursday 27th March 1997.*

I am still in India but cannot get a flight out, so I have to get one via Egypt home.  I have no money left.  Climbing the steps onto the 747 from the tarmac I meet a man who bears a striking resemblance to the actor Omar Sharrif.  The gangway pulls away and I leap at the doorway grabbing hold of the bottom of the doorway.  The hostess remarks, “don’t worry, we would not go without you”.  The inside of the plane is gigantic and I find I am on the top storey of the aircraft.  It is about to take off and I need to find my seat, since the top storey is first class only.

I descend the stairs and find myself at the rear of the plane where it tapers off to a point.  Grabbing any seat I try to fasten my seat belt, but cannot as it is in knots, so I tie it in a knot across my waist.  As the plane takes off and gains altitude I decide to go and find my seat, walking down the isle I meet the Egyptian man, “Why don’t we go to the recreational area”, he says or words to that effect.

I thought he just meant a room or something similar but we enter the most incredible place, a forest!  I am dumbstruck, “how do they get this in here?”.  “It is all just a matter of perspective”, he remarks, “things may be not what they seem to be in here”.  What stretches on for about five kilometres is actually models and miniatures.  The forest is of conifers with red/brown outcrops of stone slabs that rise just above the forest floor.  This place is beautiful, it just continues on for ages and ages.  Is this heaven?  I keep saying to myself, “how do they get this in a 747?”

Walking through the forest, I am looking at the sky and we come to a small village.  This just keeps getting more amazing all the time, of course other people on the flight are here also.  It is perhaps one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen.  Shops line either side of the street in this village.  I take them to be facades, but some are actually real.  There is a restaurant and a gift shop.  Leaving this place for a moment we walk back through the trees and I am looking down a trail that stretches the length of the aircraft.

Coming to the edge of the forest I think, ”OK, this has got to be the end of the aircraft.  We have come to a low stone wall that drops away to a cutting on the other side, and believe it or not there is a railway line down the bottom, two tracks.  A train, not steam, but old comes rushing from a tunnel cut into the hillside.  It is yellow in color with green carriages and it disappears into another tunnel.  “Is this real”, I say.  It seems to be a real train, but it is smaller than a real train, but it is also big enough to be a real train.  “How do they do this?”, I keep wondering.  I wander further into the forest back to the village to get something to eat.

We are sitting in a small shop or restaurant with a young girl who is in her early twenties.  I can actually feel the plane turning, we are hitting some turbulence.  As I am a bad flier, I begin to panic.  “Is the plane stalling?  I hope we are not going to crash”.  The woman and the Egyptian assure me that this is just a standard flight and not to worry and here I am sitting on the floor of this restaurant thinking the plane is going to go down any minute.  The flight evens out and as we are walking up the village street, I again think we have come to the edge of the aircraft.

For some reason you cannot go any further, but in front of me the town continues to stretch for miles.  There is a beautiful clock tower in the foreground and it is just after six o’clock.  I can see that the sun is setting, the clouds reflect the most lovely shades of orange (can this be related to the ‘underworld’ ie: I can not or are prevented to go any further).  This is an indication that we have come to the end of our flight and it is time to return to our seats.  High above, a Qantas jet arcs across the sky, another comes close to the first doing the same.  The Egyptian remarks, “you can’t trust pilots in this part of the world, they’re crazy”.

To return to our seats we have to go back through the village.  We find boxes of Indian biddies, packed in their purple paper.  They are all wet because they have been rained on.  “What are they?”, the girl ask.  I tell them they are an Indian cigarette made from a tobacco leaf rolled up.  I search through the boxes for some dry ones to offer them.  I cannot believe such a place exists within a 747, this beautiful green forest.  I say to the Egyptian that even though I am going home to my wife, perhaps I can spend a week in Egypt, offering me accommodation at his house.  As I have no money this all depends on whether I can get a cash advance on my MasterCard. (Commentary here).

Thursday 10th April 1997.

I have been associating with Chinese people in a city, but this changes and I am on a river cruise on an old paddle steamer to goes upstream.  We arrive along side the muddy bank of the river.  Walking down the gangplank I see ahead of me a small settlement that has the appearance of being from the nineteenth century.  This is Tasmania.  Gum trees line the riverfront and there are more buildings on the other side.  I know I only have a limited time here.  I will go to Salamanca Place to find one of the women I went to India with.

I walk through a bush track till I come to a settlement.  A row of two storey stone buildings in an L shape.  Written on the white on black plaques at the entrances to the buildings are the names of the many residents that live in the upstairs flats.  Frustrated after looking in the archways at all the names I ask if there is an Eliza G here?  “No, never heard of her”, is the reply.

I must be getting back, but find I have trouble getting on the boat, and so end up staying.  I find myself, after some assistance from Professor G working in a brewery.  On the truck on the way home we pass all the women who are walking home from work.  It is hard to tell which is which as they are all wearing long dresses of a deep red color, with a shawl of the same color over their heads[9].  I think that one of these women is the one I am looking for.  However as most of the employees there have black hair and dark skin, it is only from the front I can tell if any of them have blonde hair.

Next day?  I go to the entrance doorway to the brewery, I ask the large man there with the shaved head and beard if I can come in as I work there.  “Why are you asking me if you work here”?  I am looking for Professor G.  Together we head of down a bush track.  In some low-lying clearings in the distance are some cattle,  “Do these flood in the wet”, I ask, assuming these to be flood planes.

We descend a hill into another settlement.  This is a market, a cross between nineteenth century Australia and an Indian street around Godaulia in Varanasi.  The street that descends before me is dirt.  Either side the paint on the once brightly colored temples and buildings has fallen away in many places.  Exposed concrete and plaster amongst the run down buildings.  The women of this place also wear long dresses (not the same as before).  All the men wear dark green suits with a Nehru jacket.  On their heads are felt hats with a very wide flat brim and the headpiece in the shape of a small flat dome.  (mandala motif).

I come to the end of the street but cannot go any further.  To my right is a stable door through which I can see the town extends, there is food here.  “Can I go in there”?  I ask my companion.  For some reason I cannot (because of my dress?).  I ask a man for directions to Salamanca.  It is back up the trail from where we came to the river, turn left and walk along the bank.

Thursday 1st May 1997.

I am in a city in the Far Eastern part of the Russian Federation.  A large group of Mongols on horseback ride into the city.  This armed malitia looks like it belongs in the nineteenth century except for the Uzi’s they are carrying.  They want to take over the city and under the orders of the warlord everyone is to be driven by force from the city.  I fear what will happen to me if go with them and so I watch the exodus of people from a small upstairs window.  The only other European I see is a young man with pale skin and short red hair.  He has a backpack on and is coming down some outside stairs to join the crowds in the street.  I think I can escape in the confusion.

Now I am walking up a street on the outskirts of the city, to my left is an ancient fortress or castle.  From behind the towers and battlements, gigantic hairy legs crawl forth, it is a Huntsman spider!  Wait a minute, this cant be right.  I correct my perception, the fortress can only be a miniature for the spider to appear so large.

Further along up the hill I meet a young dark haired woman with her hair tied back in a ponytail.  “Why didn’t you have to leave the city”? I ask.  “Because we have a business to run”, pointing to a bookshop on the left-hand side of the road.  It is quite an ornate shopfront of nineteenth century Victorian design.  Large display windows divided by brass columns above black knee high facades.  Her remarks to me prompt me to look back across the city that lies in the distance.  Carved into the clay of the hillsides that rise from the far side of the city are two or three gigantic symbols or designs[10] that stand out against the green of the hills.

I reach into my pocket and pull out a strange piece of jewellery (see illustration).  Three gems, orange green and purple set in silver with Tibetan characters written in the silver.  Though it is quiet large I can put it on my chain with my other charms when I get home.  I have no money, bag or change of clothes, I must go south to get home.  I will probably have to ask (beg?) for food.  I will have to walk to New Delhi in India and there I should be able to get a passport from the embassy.

Sunday 8th June 1997.

I am journeying with two companions.  One is from the Information Services Department I am working in at the moment, the other I do recognise but cannot recall.  We are on what appears to be a carpet/trolley and ‘slide’ along from place to place.  I think we are out at lunch and I am looking for a cover for my mobile phone.  In Mitcham at the top of a hill where I used to live when I was in my twenties we get stuck, we pull it aside to free it and go sliding down into a church.  ‘Our Lady of the Immaculate Inception’?

A modern structure with an interior of polished wood panels and carvings.  This is not a Catholic Church though.  I can see an enamelled blue disc set in the side of a carving, fixed so that it moves or rotates like a gyroscope.  Moving in closer I see that the back of it is of silver.  I realise this is not a Monophysite church as I had first thought but a ‘Trilophysite Church[11]’.

A man appears from a doorway, a priest and he greets me.  I know this man, but not as a priest.  Someone from the past?  He is in his mid thirties, round steel rimmed glasses, dark hair and complexion.  A man arrives in the courtyard where we are standing, he is wearing a white military dress uniform and cap, carrying a box (a gift?).

I am shown a video of a woman in a white dress.  Again she is someone from my past but I cannot place who she is or my relationship to her.  I am shocked as she narrates her story to me.  She tears off her dress to reveal the robes of an Anglican Minister underneath.  We are invited to stay for lunch but must be getting back to work.

Tuesday 16th September 1997.

I have returned to Varanasi.  There is a young girl from the research group I was there in January.  She has long blonde hair and black make-up around her eyes.  Her name is Anna[12], we embrace glad to see each other.  I am shocked that the road leading down to Dasashwamedh Ghat from Godaulia has had all the ancient temples and buildings cleared either side of the road.

The road that was once a crowded bazaar is now a lifeless piece of urban design that leads to a cul-de-sac on the edge of the Ganges.  Where steps once lead down to the river has now been replaced by an intersection.  A dark colored 4WD going through the intersection is smashed in the rear by a white sedan.  Another car (red?) smashes into the back of the white sedan

Thursday 23rd October 1997.

I am in New Zealand at the home of a close female friend.  Everything seems a little bit older here, but still quite a nice place.  There is a big shopping centre.  This shopping centre is called the Lookout or something similar and from it is a view of the city and the bay.  Walking down towards it I see some Maori people, a group of young kids hanging around.  I am dressed to go swimming.  I guess I must stand out in the crowd dressed in my bathers in the middle of a shopping centre.  I return back to where I began to go for a walk around the place.

Now walking down along a waterfront, walking along a beach.  I think I should return to my friend’s house.  There is a steep hill will stone corrugations running along it.  I am trying to climb up but keeping a grip is hard.  My wife is ahead of me, I say to her further up, ”this is too steep to climb.  Just slide down and watch you don’t hurt yourself on the corrugations.

I am searching for a way back.  I see a car pull up to the gates of an elite walled estate.  The gates open and at the end of the paved driveway I can see a fountain and behind what appears to be the bay.  I sneak in through the gates before they close and make my way down.  Someone sees me and I ask, ”can I get back to the city this way”.  The answer is “yes”.

Walking back into town I find I am in a market place of some sort.  There is a small elevated tin shed similar to the street vendors in India.  People here are trading huge fish, some four or five feet long of all shapes and sizes.  All of a sudden I see the ‘wizard’[13] there.  Following in his footsteps is another man, similar but wearing the flat fishtailed had of a pope.  I say to my friend, “hey! its the wizard.  I make my way back towards the shopping centre.  I wake up.

Monday 27th October 1997.  (5.30am).

I am in a night club type place, but it is actually the Kung Fu school I have started attending.  There is someone resembling the character of Kramer from the TV comedy Seinfeld practicing his moves outside the front of the building.  Inside if resembles a bar, the place is quite crowded and I am trying to find a space to practice.  I nuzzle into a spot.

A huge dark man approaches me and kicks me several times, flipping me over but landing on my back unhurt.  He continues to confront me punching, kicking and threatening me[14].  Initially I am fearful and as the Sifu (Master) walks past I realise that it is not I that is fearful but my antagonist.  He is both vulnerable and destructible.  He too fears but it is he who is the weaker one.  The Kramer person is again practicing out the front.  Interesting shadow dream.

Sunday 2nd November 1997.

Again I am in Melbourne is the suburb I grew up in.  I am travelling around the countryside by bus.  In Kilsyth I find a record shop.  I pick through a selection of CD’s, all pretty crappy.  I think I have had a fair bit to drink as well.  I choose the CD American Prayer by Jim Morrison.

I go back to an area where a lot of young people are playing basketball.  One of them throws a ball high into a pine tree where it gets stuck.  I have a backpack on, in it are CD’s and my mobile phone.  In a dark sort of area that ‘crosses over’ I see a cute young woman walking across a field on the way home.

Now I see a rather depressed old man.  I recognise him to be the Irish father of my best friends first wife.  He looks run down and decrepit.  I walk up to him and ask, ”do you remember me?”  He looks and looks, finally remembering me.  We talk and he tells me that his daughter has become addicted to heroin.  Being a close friend I should visit here.  First I have to look that these CD’s and find they too are crappy.  Four are missing, one is a CDROM that is scratched.  Two are dummies and one is a small plastic disk.

I go to this place called ‘A Hospital’.  It is like a warehouse with hundred of beds partitioned off from each other.  This is where the addicts are.  She is there with her mother and in quite a state, dressed in white hospital robes as is everyone else in this place..  Walking towards me she stops to talk to someone else, seeing me but not recognising me she tells me that the doctors have come to see her.  Being on heroin she is edgy.  Finally recognising me she exclaims, “Oh my God!”.  Her mother for a moment thinks I am someone related to her addiction.  Not recognising me as I look completely different than I did 12 years ago.  She is calling to her mother who in turn is trying to protect her not knowing who I am.  “Its alright, its alright, he’s a friend”, she says as she comes rushing towards me.  I think that somehow this could be the beginning of the end of her problems.  I wake up.

Wednesday 5th November 1997.*

On my way home from work with George and another person I am unable to identify for the information services department where I am working at the moment.  I am in Perth somewhere in a back part.  There is a church there, partially derelict but with a view from the top.  Making our way through a wire fence we climb up the stairs holding onto the balustrade.  It goes on a steep angle up and to the right, turning again to the right until we come to the roof.  There is some cyclone fencing you must go through a hole in to get onto the roof proper.

The view is OK but not the best, I did not like having to climb over the railing to get there.  On the way back I see the floor of the roof is wooden palings.  The other man who is with us goes and damages them making it difficult for me to get down.  I manage to manoeuvre myself down and over them.  I tell George that I am going to go and get my hair cut.  I leave him saying that I will see him back at work.

Going to the hairdressers the woman who usually cuts my hair is not there.  There is an older woman there in her fifties who has the demeanour of that of a nurse.  As my hair is long she cuts a lot off the front and I am not too happy about this.  I think to myself, ”well it is different and not too bad”.  From this point the dream takes a completely different direction.

I am in a city somewhere, initially I think it is an old part of Perth.  It is dark and around me I can see lots of derelict buildings.  Now walking along peering into the old burnt out remains of buildings I continue on and on through this wasteland.  I am transformed, and find myself in the most marvellous city.  Transformed or transferred, here I have more control over where I am going.  This is a city unlike any I have ever seen or imagined!

Stone buildings and towers, going past I can actually read the inscriptions on the fronts of the buildings.  There is just so much happening around me, I cannot remember any of them specifically.  My senses are on overload here, but I do know that I can stop read the stone tablets embedded in the walls.  Staring up at these great stone spires of the skyscrapers I wonder what city can this be?

I seem to be gone for ages exploring this place, I know I should be getting back to work.  I have spent the whole day in this city.  I have gone to retrieve my mobile phone after leaving it some place.  I am totally in awe of this place and it reminds me of the feeling I had in the interior of the 747 dream of 27/03/97.  I think to myself when will I be going or more rightly how am I going to get back to work as l do not really know where I am.

I come to the outskirts of the city.  Here there is a number of women I take to be prostitutes who are standing in this place.  I ask a young man who is about to go with one of these women about the hairdresser as I figure she is the only person who can get me back.  I realise then that perhaps I am tripping.  The young man appears with one of the girls and she is saying something about taking drugs.  She guides me back to the place where this woman is.

There are two women living in a house there that seen oblivious to my presence.  I still seem to have some control over this place.  This house is dark and as I move around it I realise that the woman is not a hairdresser at all and I have been on some sort of psychoactive substance.  I do not know how but all of my clothes are in a dishevelled state.  I leave deciding I must make my own way home.  I arrive at a place where the city is really ‘dark’.  I enter a lane with old buildings in it. It gets darker as I go in and pitch black as I go in further.  I get a phone call from George asking where I am. I say that I will be back soon.  It appears I have been away for several days and nights, no wonder I don’t feel the best.  I still have some control over this dream.  Lying in bed in a semi-awake state I can hear my children outside though the dream is still happening.  I have to find my way back.  I am now in a twilight like place, “I know this place from previous dreams”, I say to myself.  I am now on my way back realising I have been on some sort of drug.  Lying here I savour the thoughts and the visions of the city I have just visited.

Sunday 30th November 1997.

I am in Tasmania once again with one of the women I went to India with.  There is a group of people, we are about to go out.  My parents are there as well as a friend from my childhood.  For some reason two men there are dressed in women’s clothes and are explaining why there is nothing wrong with it.  We all leave to get in our cars.  My companion’s boyfriend is one of those dressed in women’s clothes.  On the way I need to go to the toilet.  I find a hospital and ask the people there where the toilet is.  I walk out of the hospital and up a hill.  Somehow I must get out of here.  The scene shifts.

In India now, this is where I have escaped or come from.  A person I am travelling with says to me, “your wont believe it when you see this”.  A view of open ground comes before me.  Stretching out for miles around me are hundreds of aircraft of all shapes and sizes filling the landscape.  Mainly 747’s and large military aircraft.  They are being moved from one place to another, some are U.S. government, there is one from Saudi Air and another from a small unknown transport company.

What we decide to exit the country on is an old B52 bomber.  I am crawling across it making adjustments.  The top section behind the cockpit is missing and is open.  As the plane begins to take off I am hanging on, crawling up the side trying to get in.  “I wonder if this old bucket of bolts will get off the ground”.  Looking over my left shoulder I see in the air a giant aircraft that resembles a Galaxy or an Antonov transport.

We fly across the countryside just above ground level following the contours of the land.  I am amazed as we move down through traffic along a tree lined street that the wings are not torn off.

Thursday 11th December 1997.

I cannot remember the first part of this dream but I find myself crossing the road on the way to school.  In the classroom I sit facing the wall.  On a shelf there I find a pile of magazines, some of which are pornographic.  I am engrossed by these magazines.  Looking at them I feel like I have been here for eternity till I am distracted by a boy who tell me to wake up.  The teacher or actually the Headmistress is coming, I think there is going to be a test.

A stern looking middle-aged woman accompanied by another woman enters the room as I am writing my name on a piece of the paper in front of me.  Strange, my writing is as legible as my four year old who is learning to write.  The headmistress is explaining something about punishment that will be meted out on those that do not behave.  Something appears out of place here……I notice we all have colored ribbons attached to our collars with small brass safety pins.  We are instructed to clear our throats as we are going to practice our singing. La, la, la, laaaaaaa….

I am beginning to get agitated something is wrong here.  The older boy behind me gives me a poke, “sing if you don’t want to get into trouble”.  Looking around I ask him, “what year is this?”  “1900” is his reply.  “No, no this cannot be, I am 34 years old, no that is not right either.  I’m from ninety nine years in the……No, that’s not right!”  I know I am 35 years old and the year is 1997, but cannot figure out the sums to tell them my age or the year.

By now I have drawn the ire of the headmistress who is ordering me to sit down.  My agitation turns to panic much to the classes bemusement.  “I’m sorry I don’t belong here”.  “Sit down”, she orders me.  “I have to go, I can’t stay”, “sit down”.  I wake up.