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Saint Lucia

Thoughts, snippets of dreams, and residual perceptions.

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Edited by Daniel Frederick Best, Wednesday, 7 Jul 2021, 02:33

Hello, you good?

Today I'm writing for the purpose of recreation and elation. I spent at least the last day in my overused bed, dreaming a little, and machinating a little, and although I can't recall the entire depth of every scene I imagined whilst asleep, I can remember snippets, and I want to put some down; those I can remember. 

There I am in school; and now, I recall, it was my first day of secondary. I'm sitting at the back of class, but it is not unlike the theme that I am a forty two year old gone back to relive the experience. The teacher appears to be my old history teacher, Miss Adams, and Ballard is here, and Andrews, and Alexandrou, and Alden, plus some of the girls, and there is a cupboard that was never there at the time. 

With my new attitude, or rather my current attitude, to study, this makes getting on with work an easy task. I am a swot, and I approach English work with alacrity and brightness, and it feels good to be on top of everything. 

The day continues. At one point I'm walking about the school grounds during lunchtime and, it seems, I'm quite popular. I am surrounded by students in uniform and I'm talking amongst them, and then, when the small crowd has dissipated, a girl in a younger year has soon approached me, and with a request that I help her with a situation in which a friend of hers is being bullied. It's one of those situations in which, in dream, I normally enter into a conflict, with troublemakers and (for want of a better term) more 'evil' types of people. 

These evil people appear in my dreams, as I say, as like the theme of a nightmare. These evil people torment me in dream, and I am often drawn into the depths of a crisis, which goes from scene to scene, with me myself completing each task, with a single unfinished thread that leads onto another frightful scene of terrorism. 

To revert to the younger girl's request that I help in her bullying situation, somehow or other it does not arise that I am recruited in this endeavour. Yet, the entire themed situation passes in a second and, whether this is because I am not in reality tired enough to transcend the depths of such a vocation, I fail to engage with the task. However, such a task being fully familiar to me, I consider it completed, and I walk back to class. 

And I remember that, in those days, pupils had to walk around a one way system through the corridors. And I have entered in the correct entrance, and there are pupils everywhere, and I have made my way back to class. And inside the class I continue with my English work, and although there is a modicum of the resonance of how things were when I was actually a pupil at this school, namely that I was a middling student, and this reflects in my dream's English work, there is a stronger nuance that I have finally sussed out the notion of academic diligence; I am a model pupil - at times even to the degree that Miss Adams is unprepared for me. It is nice being in this class. 

Somewhere else, in the depths of sleep, I find myself in and around the Edgware area, walking there with Eugene, with whom I have gone to eat pizza, or some other takeaway food, and there I am, with a box of soup in my hands, following Eugene around as he marches off ahead, on to some unknown destination of his desire. And as we walk, I see some young Muslim men. They are standing near a seat in the middle of the Station driveway, and I place my box down, for one reason or another, then walk away a little way, and come back to the box. I see that, in the seconds it has taken for me to do so, one of the Muslim men has gobbed in my soup. 

I can't quite believe that this has taken place, yet I did see it for my very own eyes. Somewhere, I have placed my trust in the Muslim men, and this expectation has been failed - yet I fail to quite believe in it. In any case I take the box and walk away with it, harbouring hopes that the whole incident was merely in my mind. But the Muslim men become thematic within my dream, and there are factions of the group plotted at varying spots in and around the area. In short, in the case of my box of takeaway soup, I have carried it around, and not eaten from it, and finally placed it back down on some seat or other, and fished out the offending pat, in the efforts that this might make the food good again. It doesn't, inevitably, and I have to leave the food. 

I walk around Edgware, sometimes in the wake of Eugene's marching, others having broken off to explore whatever car parks or back ends of the shopping mall that I find myself. And I see colours, and I see that I may have some or other issues with Muslim men who, in reality, I have little dealing, and perhaps I do not know them well as I should do. 

I suppose this theme, that there are unknown factions of society that I have little dealings with, is prevalent in reality as well. For example, as I sit at the coffee shop and I watch the many people attending to their daily lives, I see and think about how my own relations with the myriad of individuals passes itself on to some or other nuance of how others see and perceive their own relations with others. How, for example, does this person (yes, the bleached haired lady with the large glasses and black jeans) perceive this other person (yes, the small Asian lady waiting at the bus stop with her shopping)? I myself have witnessed the reality of such a triad of consciousness, but how has this effect been witnessed in the eyes of the perceived? Perhaps they were merely unwitting of the instance. For example, I can see across the street the frame of a young barista serving customers at seats outside her place of work; and I can see a couple with a small cockapoo walking toward her, a bit further along the road. What is their experience? I daresay it personally drives me loopy! Is there an experience in which an unwitting human is made aware of a relatively innocuous specimen, and in addition, do they think about the experience? Why does this type of thing cause such interest in me? 

Could it be the case, for example, that my own sitting here behind the keyboard, with the various objects of familiarity placed around the desk, is somehow an equivalent experience to those in which an entirely separate human, be they somewhere else entirely, on the other side of the planet, even, is embroiled in those speculations of human interest, and is engaged in entirely other situations, with their own objects of familiarity, or nuances of energetic foreboding, such as... well... anything you could think of? There is a man in India, cooking curried chicken at a restaurant, and he must serve his customers! What does the chicken smell like? What do the customers do for a living? Are they rich? What did they do this morning? What is their experience like?  

Harry Kane, the footballer. It is his time. He is England's top boy today. Wherever he may be, be he sleeping now, or sitting at the balcony of his hotel... What is his experience? And I daresay that the existence of Harry Kane is one to which my own paltry existence and experience pales in comparison. That is, Harry Kane is a God! He must be! To have that kind of energy, coupled with the mental tenacity, to keep entire nations engaged not only for the duration of a football game but also for the press conferences and all other media engagements, it is quite astonishing. I am astonished! 

But as for Gods, it is one thing that I exist as a meek schizophrenic, and another that it is a truth, that once upon a time it was possible that I could have been so much more. I have complained that medicines, i.e. medication, i.e. sulpiride, piportil, and amisulpiride, are not "God-given". Herein lies the discussion of another nuance of life, which is whether our lives are determined or not, and I hope to discover some better insight into the problem when I have studied Quantum Mechanics later this year. These latter adherents might lay claim to the possibility for there to be the cause to think that what we see as the basis of our lives is not the be all and end all of everything. Our consciousnesses could eventually be strewn across the vast expanses of the universe, and the sum total of everything that can possibly be experienced is more like the reality of our lives. Well, my life in particular is a meagre and meek thing, but that's not for want of something more. Perhaps the reality of life is that... well... God Himself needs a break! There are billions of us - billions of others, as they'd have you think - and some are running about a field, some are making curry, some are writing what is likely to be a lost blog entry, and some... some are in pain. Some are in a great deal of pain and are fearful for their own lives. That, as some would have you believe, is a reality. 

Yet, I know what pain is like. I know what discomfort is like. I know what luxury is like. I know what love is like, and I know what morality is. I know many possible examples of what it is to experience humanity. What remains is the problem and problematic conundrum of other human's lives. And not merely human lives, but those of animals, and foliage, and dare I say inanimate matter. Could the experience of everything that harbours the capability of having an experience be bound up in the solitary existence, namely mine, yours, and everything else that exists? And given that the capacity for the billions of sentient beings (orangutans in African jungles, polecats in the Alaskan tundra, bus drivers all over the world) to have their own experiences is real, could such a capacity be found, namely, discovered within the recesses of our own consciousnesses? 

This would amount, in short, to a personal investigation. I would personally wish to engender a global engagement with this investigation; that is, it seems a moot point to pursue any claims pertaining to my own experience. That is, I would rather that the entirety of humanity would engage in such an investigation. However, I can say, without qualms and without embarrassment, that my investigation is two-fold. 

One: I see nothing whatsoever within the reaches of my own sensibility that tells me there is anything whatsoever to be said for the reality of a breach of consciousness laws, be they naïvely realistic, or otherwise. That is, when I have dreamed, and have dreamed lucidly and deeply, I have had no indication that anything like a tunnelling of my "atomic consciousness", into other consciousnesses, is at all possible. That said, on paper, it seems like a viable theory, and perhaps there is something in it. Perhaps there is a grand unified theory that connects it all. The reality of it would not only be life changing, but would change the world. Yet I suspect that these things are more in the realm of a spattering of individual's interests. 

Two: All scientific and quantum mechanical speculations notwithstanding, there is a residual experience which I can lay claim to having, which is neither dream nor reality, yet is altogether cerebral. And I digress:

Do you, like I often do, ever experience that anomaly of perception in which you can spontaneously see a distant spark of light, within the midst of your visual expanse? That is, are you ever disposed (washing dishes, or brushing your teeth, etc) to witness a very strong and very miniscule spot of bright light that appears upon your retina? Said spot, spark, wisp of light, is rarely talked about. It is one of those unconscious features of perception that we forget could be of importance. What could this anomaly represent? 

In the one instance, admittedly, perhaps it is a trick of the brain; a mere hallucination. 

In a second instance, perhaps it is a hint to something that exists within us all, at a deeper level. I find that when I experience this spark, I am led to recount a previous momentary resonance in which I myself was subconsciously elsewhere. Such a perception, in this case, seems to have awoken me from a subconscious slumber, in a sense to say, "Wake up into your life!" (I find, usually, that such a perception is followed by the same kind of feeling one may have when, having once woken of a morning, trying to recount the previous night's dream, namely, a dull kind of "resistance" or blockage to an open mind, whereas the preceding sensation was one, intuitively, of pure unconscious freedom.)

In a third instance, perhaps such a bright spark of the consciousness is indicative of the possibilities of an eternally light mind. That is, could there ever be such a thing as the experience in which every atom of our consciousness - every morsel of our conscious capabilities - is finally alight with consciousness; on fire from the swathes of pure perception. I like to think the possibility a reality, and its truth would mean that it is now on the sentient being to try to find everything within their being to attain this form of conscious experience. 

It's admittedly a bit out there. But it's a nice thought. 

So, in summary, dreams never give you access to other people's minds and lives, yet we naively believe in the existence of these other lives, and indeed we attribute quite a lot that we rely on to these minds, and so the possibility of a transition of perceptions is not to be sniffed at, theoretically. Dreams never give you this access, but there are residual, latent experiences which are not mainstream experiences, but which should be brought to light, so to speak, so as to round out the capacities and possibilities of human experiences, and ones which should help shed light on modern enlightenment consciousness. 

They had one two hundred years ago, so why not today? 

Anyway, with that, I leave it there. 

Thank you,

Daniel

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Saint Lucia

Dreams

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Hi, how ya doin'?

I'm just writing down here some snippets of some dreams which I had earlier. Everyone knows that people are bored by the recollection of dreams, so prepare to be bored, I guess. 

My recollection begins at the top of my old house where I grew up. I'm there, and the bedroom is a triangular as ever, and there's a lightlike thrill tinting the edges of everything. I hear some music coming from the hallway, and then I realise I am not in my top room bedroom, but my folks bedroom, yet the music is still coming. I go out and investigate, and there is a small speaker at the bottom of the stairs and electronic music is blaring from it. I look at the speaker and I can feel the vibrations coming off the front, and they are directed up the stairs towards the door of the top bedroom, and I get my ear in and follow the vibrations up the stairs. The vibrations are very strong, and there is a thick stream of them, and as I follow them I become aware of some other speakers at the top of the stairs, and I try to find the sweet spot where the sound should be strongest. Yet when I find it, there is no sound at the sweet spot, and I place my head there, and look for a minute, and I face the door. Then there, standing at the door, are two men. One of them I know: it is Aaron, and he is responsible for the music. He is staying in my old bedroom. It seems that the other man is his boyfriend, but this is not clear, and in fact I am reluctant to guess that he is, for I wouldn't want to be presumptuous. In any case, Aaron was showing me the techno tune on which he was working. And the tune comprised several notes, with two phrases, and he played the first phrase, and it was fine, and then he played the second phrase, and the last note was a surprise, and went up, and was very surprising. 

A little before this part of the dream I was in a field where I lived in some type of cabin or shack, and what I remember was looking up at the stars, and some of them moved. Some of them moved back and forth, and I thought, 'There is evidence of alien life.' Yet before I could be exposed to this display of alien existence the entire sky became distorted, with all the stars moving back and forth, and I considered this to be some effect of transmission, and nothing to do with aliens after all. And there was a guitar in this part of the dream. I remember sitting at the shack which was on one side of the field which was in fact a hill, with perhaps a forest behind it or maybe a road. And on the other side of the field was another shack, with someone, perhaps Aaron, living there. 

Nicholas was in my dream, in his musical capacity. 

I often dream that I am living in a bungalow that is built upon an estate which, in real life, connects me to Shakespeare's Corner in Mill Hill. It is a quaint little one for an estate where roads interconnect and there are little houses and bungalows, and there is always a drug scene - that is, a drug scene in which a main occupation of many individuals is to deal drugs, and within this village there is a man and he delivers the drugs. 

At one stage of dreaming I am lucky enough to catch Nirvana playing live, and they are playing hits from Nevermind, and the stage upon which they play, to all but seventeen or eighteen teenagers, is small, and probably I am here where Kurt killed Smells Like Teen Spirit for Top of the Pops. I can get a close up of Kurt's face, and the more I look at it, the more he seems to take on features that my own face possesses. There is a young man here, and he seems like a younger version of Eric Weinstein. This young man is a new character in my dreams. When, at one moment, I am in the mode of remembering his name, it comes up as a double syllabled name - Wein ein, or Wein mein - something like that. Perhaps I am enamoured with his personality, for there is something 'cool' about him, yet nerdy at the same time. This young man has appeared in deeper parts of dreams I have had in the past. I am thinking of when Nirvana murdered his song on Top of the Pops. The young man reminds me of a character who would be a frequent presence at the parties thrown by my brother's friends. 

On the verge of dreaming it is often the case that I think about the mathematics I am doing. What seems to be apparent is the rumination of my unconscious of the form of formulas upon which I am working. And yet, the forms, recently, are never clear. That is, there is a fake quality to them, as though I am not really doing mathematics but imagining that I am. I think what is happening is that I am compensating for my lack of real ability in the subject. Nevertheless, the conclusions are as shocking as every 'eureka' moment I have ever had, and they are certainly compensation. 

Qualitatively, there is a graininess to my dreams. They say we dream when we are stressed about something or other. I think I may be getting stressed about the course, even though I am effectively ahead. In real life, I find it excruciating that I cannot wake up every morning at an early hour and do my work. For those days are the days when I really can get things done. Those days when wake late, say eleven or twelve, I cannot get my rhythm, and the day is wasted. This is a real frustration to me. Even those days when I have woken early, yet need to go out, even that one hour away from work disrupts everything for me. It is not that I haven't been working. But in my mind those days are too sporadic, which are those I get a lot done. I aim, with all eager intentions, to get eight hours a day done. Yet, this is not happening. Maybe once a week I can do that. 

I slept in the day today. I have done no work. But my intentions are good. It is now nearly half past one in the morning. I have several tasks I could complete. I guess I should try now to do some of them. 

Dan

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Saint Lucia

Dream and yesterday

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I must blog, and welcome., 

A lot of people are scared, I imagine... I personally culminate my fears in dreams. I might as well blog about those. 

I dreamed at first that I was phoned by services in mental health saying - Martin Katz is unwell, and it is because you are increasingly psychotic. I could see their meaning in this, and although I care about Martin, could not see how I was currently in a breakdown. And, from where I remained (a house in the Garden Suburbs), my brother Ryan and I laughed at their request I come in to be examined. Yet services, in the form of psychiatric nurses, managed to get inside the large house, where I was asking my brother to get me some hash, to calm my brain (which these days would not do such a thing; but make things worse). We laughed at the services, but soon they were entered into our place of residence and threatening my brother with anti-psychotic injection. I fought this, and we were in the right, but I have an image of their trying to restrain Ryan and inject him. My only course of action to avert this disaster, was to grasp Ryan by a piece of flesh on his back, that must have hurt him. Yet we were still in the right, and services had nothing on us, yet they still persisted to save Martin's mind by the action of medicating me, and I brought out my phone to "go live" on facebook and the phone had been recording the audio of the entire debacle, much to the dismay of the psychiatric nurses (they appeared sanitised and medicinally clean). The dream ended with a vision of Ryan being held by three of these nurses, and then I awoke, and went to eat a piece of bread with cacik. 

And the next part of the dream, when I got back down after food, began. And there was Rochelle (a friend of my sister's), and my sister, in my mother and father's bedroom, and there was pink and perhaps allusion to childhood. I picked something up, perhaps an illness shard by the girls, but as much is not clear. But nevertheless I picked up an illness, in which small caterpillar-like creatures squeezed out from white pores in my skin, and I had to go to hospital. Here, everyone was having a similar illness, and there was my mother, perhaps suffering too, I don't know, yet in any case there she was sharing a bed next to someone I feel pained to say was my mother's auntie and friend, June. But my illness worsened: Caterpillar-like animals crawled out of pores in my skin, and I was worse for wear, but since it was an epidemic, I was able to leave. And in the dichotomous position of leaving or staying, it was the case that many people would contract the same illness, including doctors. We all took our positions in hospital beds, my mother, my mother's friend, and a doctor who became most unwell, and yet tried to help us all. Then, my sister being quite well and not in the vicinity, my brother arrived to take care of us by purchase of drinks and snacks, and meanwhile the hospital ward was going mental, with the epidemic taking full effect. And now, my brother exposed to the illness, he contracted it, and found this out by talking to a black girl who told him of his condition, which Ryan could not believe, and called out to his black friend, Keith, and apologised to me in the process, yet I understood the whole thing, and have always wanted to feel this understanding. And then an inpatient was there, Alistair, and had a deck of cards. He was a Scottish man, and knew every trick there was (I also had a deck of cards). His method of trickery was rough-edged, yet we compared tricks - well - Alistair was able to trick me a number of times, and I myself was unable to gain leverage over his mastery... his double-lifts were better than mine; his mind-reading tricks were better... The small, brown hair Scot soon turned out to have been a doctor all the while, and smiled at my efforts, which nothing could beat him. Alistair, being victorious, went back to his position as NHS hospital staff, and my illness continued. However, now, I wanted to leave, to get home to see my father, and went out into the hospital ground and found a bus, and went on the bus, and went back to my area where my father was waiting at home, where I really wanted to be. There was some altercation on the bus upon which some frenzy was taking place to do with the driver and passengers, and money, and it was a full bus, with mothers and .... mainly mothers, and i got back there to my area, near the park. 

I spent the rest of the night feeling weak with a respiration issue due to smoking. I could not sleep in, and need to work. Thinking over my time in life, and my failings before God, I finally resolved to fight the illness and woke up to breakfast and sit down to work. 

I must try to get on with things today. I am now on Unit 23 - The Fermi gas and solid-state physics. It is nigh on impossible. I shall be lucky to pass, but we shall see. 

I fail to be able to see what else I have to blog about. 

Wait. 

Yesterday was Martin Katz's 64th birthday. I sung him Happy Birthday several times. Martin cried throughout the day - it can't have been a very nice day. At about six o'clock Ryan needed my assistance in doing some tree work, in which I had to help the boy with picking a stump-grinding machine off his green van, and on, and off again, and I love that boy so much. And whenever I work with him, I feel an affinity for manual labour. But, however it appears to be the case - through mental health issues, or academic work and so on - I am at heart a cerebral person, and have not much love for this type of working. Nevertheless, I was able to see my boy, my brother, and we had great... how you say... banter - and we laughed and joked, and we bantered all the while, back in the old town of Burnt Oak, where we spoke of past friends that live in the area, and chatted and laughed about this or that, and it is always nice to see the boy - my boy. I took snaps and films as he chopped down tree stumps with his chainsaw, and then ground them out using the machine, and he (the boy) is becoming even larger in his arms, and fitter in his general fitness. We laughed and joked, and by the end I was able to leave the conversation we were having, which was about the species of trees, and whether one could tell if a tree was male or female, and their names, and their birth names or species name, and then people around being categorical as unto a tree (I have, for example, recently named a Copper Beech by the name Henry, which I thought a good name) - I was able to leave the day's talking on a high note, by activating my deepest charm, and finally saying something poignant as we departed - something I have always wanted to do. But before this I received a WhatsApp message from my sister Corina, which said that her three year old son Rio was enjoying the gift which I bought him, which was a third-party nintendo machine, and by the looks of the picture, it seemed he was really into it. 

Then later, Corina texted me the information that Rio found gaming difficult, but that he would try. He's just like all us Besties - we all try. We all try. 

Peace, and good morning to you. 

Dan



 

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Saint Lucia

A basic entry about a basic Tuesday

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Greetings, and welcome all blog lovers. 

Well, what an interesting night last night was! The details of it you can find within the sentences and sentiments of the blog I wrote at that time, but in short, I was halfway through my interjection when I decided to stop and try to sleep, and yet I could not sleep, and had to come back to the work and complete it, all the while under the influence of a full quarter of a sleeping tablet. Such was my motivation, borne out by that unsettled feeling of an incomplete day. 

In the morning, and from the reading of a paragraph from a book about habits and changing them, I tied up my shoelaces and finally went for what happens to be the second of my life's attempt at jogging. And I jogged down what they call Uphill Road, in little bursts, my lungs straining from the previous days smoking tobacco, and it was difficult and tiring. I wish to explain, that my motivation for such conduct is a continuation of the events of the past few weeks during which I seem to have been going through some major changes. I got down, in any case, to the mead at the bottom of the road, and yakked up my coffee into a bush there. I could have decided to take the A41 back up to my home, a direct route, but, by the dint of trying to get in touch with my true whims and feelings, I chose to go down and through the Broadway in Mill Hill, and did so, in little bursts of jogging, and say for a moment at the bench near the Mill Brew coffee shop (closed at the moment that is now), and went up on the Millway route, towards Apex Corner, where my home is. And I saw John, my Romanian acquaintance, who was most impressed with my conduct, and complimented me. (He wore a mask, and was going to work). It was nice to see him. 

Back home now (and I wish not to be crude about the matter), I noticed the bowel loosening effect of half an hour's exercise, and also washed under a temperamentally hot and cold shower, and felt a million times better than the way I did through the night, which was not a nice night, of sleep, or feelings. 

The day continued as like any other day, although decorated with a feeling of healthy design, and I pursued a breakfast of a single slice of toast with hummus, and a glass of water, and I set about, at the desk, by catching up on my social responsibilities, by means of my iPhone. I checked in with an old friend, Oliver, with whom I shared a couple of comments on the topic of family and exercise, and made my regular interactions with my main point of contact in this time of lockdown, a certain Martin Katz. I feel I should illuminate his life in a book. He is a good man, and an old sixty two year Jewish man, and he took a liking to me many years ago when we were in a mental hospital at the same time, and where we met. We've been friends ever since, and had our ups and downs, and what a sweet and spiritual presence he certainly is. He's been an absolute Godsend over the last few weeks, in which time I have needed such a friend to help me through. I would have been at a loss without him. His patience in my failure has brought me to tears in a moment of need. I have often brought him to tears, but he has repaid me tenfold, and I'll never forget it. However, our conversation this morning was a short one, relatively, compared to the hours we spend in facetiming. In fact, there was a hint of testosterone influenced shortness to the correspondence; yet we both seemed to understand one another. I knuckled down and continued on with my work which was to complete Unit 21 of Science module S217 - mathematics and physics, and did this until my eyes bled with tiredness and, in truth, I began to hallucinate I was as sleepy. 

After two and one half hours of study I decided to rest and catch up on the sleep of which I was deprived the previous night, and it was a rest so dotted with the freckles of the effects of medication (amisulpiride), that I spent two hours in it, and once I was awakened by a facetime from Martin, I realised I could remember my dream. 

In dream, as I sat near my mother, on a couch in the sunlight, I became aware that she was sent a letter - in fact, a correspondence from my open university tutor - which was a marked assignment that showed I was not achieving the highest marks of which she thought me capable. Upon her indication to me of this, that many of the equations had come to be wrong, I complained that the course is hard, and that you had to recognise the difficulty of special relativity, and that this equation was my first attempt at solving a calculation in such a topic. And then, still in dream, I left the room and sat to in a car outside to sulk with my sister who was also in the car. When mother came along to inquire about the situation, we complained to her about her, that she always.... she never.... this that and the other.... And the car was in front of a estate agent's office in Mill Hill, and I realise, that that was where the couch in the sunlight must have been. I found myself walking about the town, in dream, and past various happy people, including an Indian woman, and past an ice cream parlour, and this and that, and the other. Then, soon, I was back outside the estate agent's office, where Corina (my sister) still occupied the car, and I noticed a time-travelling man appearing in different positions around the vicinity of the office, and pointed him out to Corina, saying, "Can you see the time-traveller?" Then, in any case, my sister and I had secretly installed an espionage system within the estate agents, which we monitored from the car, and found, explicitly, that we were being grassed up for doing so, by Chris Addison, who appeared in "The Thick Of It", that is a television show written by my man Armando. The phone was ringing, out of dream, and I was glad that I had something for which I should awake, and it was Katzy, facetiming me. 

After I spoke to Martin I phoned my girlfriend, who is called Tamsin, and we spoke, and I found out about her day, and her plans, and her habits of reading (at the moment it is the Harry Potter series), and then, in any case, we ceased communication, and went on with our day. That endeavour, for me, was to continue to catch up with friends, and I spent a good half an hour chatting by Whatsapp video call to another old friend of mine, Adam Young. His diatribe was based on the care which I should take in signing any contracts, with Channel Four, to do with a television series that might be made about my life, and based on the book about that, which I called The Chicken Shop Incident. He is most concerned that I am going to be fucked over, and I settled the discussion by outlining my full awareness that I am most certainly going to be fucked over, and it's a done deal, in short. We ceased communication, and I spent the rest of the day trying to continue my studies, interposed with bouts of communication with Martin, and a meal of fish fingers, chips and beans, and a walk to the convenience shop on Apex Corner, for lemonade and cat food. 

In the evening I spoke to my mother, and also my friend Charlie, and only one other thing of note, was the occurrence of a lengthy conversation with my little brother, Ryan Best. He was carving a spoon down the shed at number five, and I was speaking about the events of the past few weeks, which have been a great experience of illumination, which I must admit were most difficult, but also humorous and interesting, and which I would one day like to write about, if such an endeavour is possible. In any case, I love my little brother; our conversations may improve, now that I am not so completely and utterly stoned off my face on weed twelve or thirteen hours a day, since I quit that drug during a medication change that happened because the supplies of my last one had discontinued. 

This drug is much better. Amisulpiride. 

I was looking forward to this day, and I have gone over my time. But there it is, blog lovers. That's my entry for the day. I will see you in the next day. 

Love Dan


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