Oi! Wake Up!

In recent months I have been dreaming a lot. Dreams that go on and on even allowing for a bathroom break. Today I noted that this type of dreaming always seems to occur in periods of realization for me. I haven’t properly meditated in months and I have been thrashing around like a beached whale unable to act on anything. I marked this down perhaps to depression and periodically talked myself into starting again. However, each new initiative was short lived. Then a couple of nights ago I saw a movie on TV. It made me realize that all too often I look outside for answers that actually are to be found inside. Suddenly, a rush of realizations came to me. One was that I already know what I need

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Time and The Dream

Last night I had one of those dreams that has you questioning everything. The alarm went off and I woke up. On waking, I recalled that I had just been dreaming and that the dream had been about setting the alarm. Now at first sight, this perhaps isn’t so puzzling but, when you think a bit deeper about it it most certainly is. I woke up as the alarm started to sound yet in the prior moments, I was dreaming about setting that very alarm. Exactly how does that work? Could it be that future events create our past and this is some type of evidence of it? Was the dream experienced as the alarm went off and only seemed to take place before it woke me up? Did I

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The Train Ride

Below is a short story from My Haunted Life – Extreme Edition. It is one of two stories that are unique to the paperback that otherwise includes all of the content of My Haunted Life, My Haunted Life Too and My Haunted Life 3. At 200 pages, it is quite a substantial book and would make a great gift for anyone who enjoys tales of the paranormal and supernatural. + + + + + + + + + + + + His head dropped as he once again slipped off in to sleep. Of course, he immediately woke up again, mentally cursing his inability to sleep on a train. He opened his eyes and watched the monotonous eastern European countryside flash by without really registering any of it at all.

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Japan and Birmingham

I play a lot of music during the day as I work in my home office. It never ceases to amaze me the power of music. In particular, its power to evoke memories and trigger mood and emotional responses. If I want to meditate, I simply go to youtube these days and select a nice suitable piece of music and I am off to other spheres….. Today, I played some Japan. It has been a long time since I did and I was immediately transported back to Birmingham and 1979. My best friend at college – Steve – introduced me to Japan one afternoon at his flat. We were playing Dungeons and Dragons and he put one of their albums on. I loved the music and the deep rumbling of David Sylvian’s

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Your Life is One Big Lie

One of the central themes of all my writings – even the My Haunted Life series – is the nature of reality and the role that we may play in dictating that. Over the last twenty or so years (if not my entire life really), I have read, meditated on, studied and discussed this topic and the process I have come to several conclusions. One of these is that I now believe that much of our world is an illusion. It’s easy to draw analogies with movies like the Matrix here and I and others often do but what I mean is a lot of what we think we know isn’t real. It isn’t truth nor fact. I once said (and thought it was rather cute) – “The more I

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Adam and Eve

I have the words But perhaps I lack the wisdom Exploration is an exciting game Especially of those darkened inner regions As I build my tortuous iron chain Just like that of poor Mr. Marley Seeking ever more worldly gain To take along to my final party But there are chinks in my armour That steely shell that I built To protect myself from me Don’t need that silly psycho drama Strutting on a worldly stage Never to be heard no more A fool full of his own import But trapped in the guilded cage Of his own idiotic nature Nothing, nothing more to be Life’s a package of candy With sticky tangy centers Pungent tastes in the chewing Dissolves to nothing but tasty spit As I fade into the

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Life is But A Dream

I recall singing that song when I was a small child and wondering what did it mean? – Life is just a dream? Row, row, row your boat, Gently down the stream. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, Life is but a dream. But where did this come from and who wrote it? A bit of research suggests that the earliest printing of it was in 1852 but who wrote it and why seems lost in the mists of time. If anyone knows, please let me know… I thought life a dream when I was a child or rather, I thought it a game that I controlled. It was a sort of virtual reality (as it would be called now) and I was sat in a box connected to a machine that

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All is One

I looked down onto and across a very strange and unfamiliar landscape. It was a rocky, largely barren place with sharpened peaks rising all around. Yellows and grays beneath an azure sky. It was like looking into a vast ampitheater and I recall thinking that the heat of the midday sun must be unbearable down there in the center. Strange, because ‘down there’ was really up there on top of a flattened peak of dust and bare rocks. It was a strange and crazy point of vantage that I had of this scene. There were a number of squarish whitened buildings dotted around in the yellow-green valleys – signs of life at least. It was then that I noticed that atop the flattened rocky peak in the center of my

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The Story – from Best Laid Plans

I am going to tell you a story Although it has a beginning It’s ending is yet unwritten And maybe has no ending Once upon a long, long time ago A boy was to a woman born He sneezed and started his life He was the family’s very first born He grew and grew and grew Tall and thin but quite bright And off to college he went Seeking out truth and inner light He looked and searched all about Examining all manner of places Never finding what he sought But he covered all the bases One day in despair he sat Quietly contemplating naught Tired of seeking, he took a rest And lost his train of thought The inner vision grew and grew Discovering very strange places Filled with

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The Art of Dreaming

For a while this morning I was researching Carlos Castenada. I had read his first four or five books as a teen and was thinking perhaps it was time to refresh my memory as regards their content. Pretty soon, I was reading about the man and how most likely, he was a fraud who rather than sitting in a small room with Don Juan was reading books about the subject at the University Library. I felt a rising sense of disappointment too as I read how he had retreated to a mansion with three female followers who gave up everything to live with and follow him and how he treated his family. All the classic symptoms of ego, sex and cult. Very disappointing. I read too a summary of the

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