Hello. 

What a nice night of internal imagery and imagination presented in a most cranial way I just had. 

I won't tell you about that though. But just so you know, it was lovely. 

I think the current post I write will go on about your regular theories of time and space, space and time, spacetime... For instance, I've been on a meditative tip recently, and successfully so, and not to keep quiet about that! The meditation has been deep and I've been deeply, deeply relaxed and massively and hugely open to internal and cranial susceptibilities, such as those of time and space, and spacetime, etc... I'm actually ripe for the theorising, so let's get to it, and theorise, and do it well, for all and sundry. 

What is time? As we know it, it is the ticking of clocks, it is relative, and it is common to feelings of boredom or excitement. Time passes slowly for the bored, but if you're excited and manipulated, it goes fast, too fast sometimes. It passes at the relative rate of one second per second, is a tight little invisible concept, and herein lies the very interesting thing about time. It is invisible to the eye, like many things, and passes, and when we look, it disappears. 

For example, there are many features of physics and the natural world, that are seemingly invisible, and can only be experienced in a somewhat indirect means. One may take as an example, the first if you will, of water. We look at water and we wonder how something that is, something that has a form, something that is an object of sorts, is actually clear, and in many ways invisible. Water must have been one of the earliest primordial intellectual concerns. These days we have no qualms about it, it's natural. But I suppose children might think about why water is clear. Once we know that we are witnesses to a liquid made of sparsely jiving particles, we no longer worry. 

And then, as another example, there is oxygen - air! Primordially, we may not have understood about air, and from antiquity we have realised that we have before us another substance that is completely sparse and jiving. It is something, yet it is clear, see through, we love it, we know it, we feel it, but we can't see it. In any case, it is clear, there is something to be said about things being clear. 

As another example, and yet more invisible, yet clearly palatable, is gravity. Gravity is inscrutable enough that we have had to be surreptitious about it for many years, and we only recently began to understand this. Newton was of the notion that gravity was some sort of action at a distance, and Einstein realised that gravity is a curved spacetime. Gravity is a strange phenomena that seems to match this notion about invisible concepts. 

Yet another example to go on would be the reign of inner experience itself, which is invisible, so invisible. How might you explain to an alien who has visited Earth from far away, that we can touch and feel, that can sense things by touch, that we have sensations? Furthermore, how would we explain that we are able to harbour an inner intuition and harbour knowledge. In fact, it is only by common familiarity that we are able to do this for other humans. Thoughts are invisible, yet they are physical; we cannot see them, yet we know about them. 

So, the fifth example of invisible phenomena is, obviously, time. Now, time passes at a rate of one second per second, so in effect it's value is naturally just one. Time, therefore, is one, like consciousness. 

But what I'd like to say about time is this. If you can imagine a sphere, which incidentally is rotating in all possible directions at once, perhaps at the speed of light, perhaps the rate of the magnitude of the acceleration due to gravity, think of this. Take a vector on the sphere, tangent to the surface, and send it round the sphere. Whichever direction you move the vector, it makes no difference to the constitution of the sphere. A cube would be different, for keep fixed the vector in that instance and there is always a way of telling your orientation. A sphere is always the same, and thus there is only on direction on a sphere. And this is like time; time has the single direction, i.e. always forwards. Time only moves forwards, in this one direction, unlike space in which we can move forwards and backwards and all manner of directions. This, I believe, is a matter of entropy, which is the idea that time can only move in one direction, and that there is in fact an "arrow of time". 

One other thing I would like to point out is that, in the context of this single direction, there is a deeper notion to be seen. And this is that time is not merely the fact of a value moving in a single direction, but moreover the fact that there is a direction at all. This might be seen to be going the way of dual space. The dual of a time vector would be a dual time vector, namely, the fact of a direction in the first place. This is fundamental, and in fact, time is a fundamental fact, a fundamental value, and the value of time is one. 

To be continued...

I think my mother wishes I was dead. 

Dear mother, 
Do you wish I was dead? I know we don't have much in common, and therefore we don't have a great deal to talk about. But have I really outlived your expectations of how long I should be alive? 

It's very sad isn't it? But I feel this way, because after our argument in the car that other Sunday, not only did you not talk to me for a week and a half, but you pounced on the opportunity. 

I feel like, perhaps, maybe you think I think I'm better than you. I can't help feeling that you'd be a happier person, in the long run, if I were dead. You're constantly communicating to me that I'm not good enough. You constantly blame me for ridiculous things. You're never happy with me. I always feel like I've done something wrong. 

If you were more that way inclined, then I could talk to you about this. But you don't listen, and you don't talk about these things. I have to stew in my own juices about these issues. 

I love you mum, but you're inscrutable at the best of times. 

Daniel

x

It has recently occurred to me, that most people are not in any appreciable amount of pain at any one time. 

Most people, it seems, are able to go about their daily lives all the while feeling fine, feeling good, confident, attractive, and mentally well. 

I thank these people for their fine contributions to society, and our socialist system of benefits, for keeping me alive. 

Actually, I know I need to die, to take away the burden of me. But that is a future endeavour. 

For now, I will concentrate on finishing my degree, on making music and art, and looking after my cats and friends, Tommy and Charlie, and friends Charlie, Roberto, Massimo, Lee, Eugene, Sara, Aaron, and Tamsin, and any others I have failed to mention, and my family, Ryan, Corina, Julie, Fred, Rio, Rocco, Sia, Fiona and Dayne, Phoenix and Montel, and cousins and all the rest. 

I don't really know what else to say this morning. 

Curious and enlightening dream just now. 

I had gone into town, and was waiting outside a nightclub, lying down against a poster board, and I'm looking at the stars. Lee comes up to me and suggests we go in; apparently Ross or Ollie is inside as well. But this time, I decline and say, I'm happy having a good time just looking at the stars. And there are numerous stars in the sky, and some are flying about, and this confirms to me that there are aliens. 

Actually, prior to this, I have been in a tutorial, in dream, and the lesson concerns science and maths and a graph. The graph is a partly sinusoidal curve, with a maximum to the top, and a maximum to the left, and we work out together an equation that describes the motion of the curve, and it involves the equation

So, sitting - laying - at the side of the nightclub, I have this equation in mind. The sky is filled with life: stars shooting from left to right, satellites zooming all around, and a Chinese weather balloon makes regular appearances above the Thames, In fact, the latter drops a package to the ground - it explodes in a display of light and noise, and reveals presents of popcorn and other delights. I start to eat the popcorn. 

I find myself going into a small hut next to the river. In this hut, like a small classroom or boardroom, there are three other people: two young women and one young man. The young man has a degree from a brick university, and complains to me that I "must be one of those Open University people." I tell him yes, and consequently go on a diatribe about the nuances of brick universities. "You get to finish your degree in three years," I say. "And you get to come out and go into a job where you write words for a living, and you get paid £50 a word for your job!!" And I think, although the young man initially tended to look down on me, eventually he had some respect. I leave the hut, and walk through a courtyard. 

In the courtyard are university students eating lunch, although it's way past midnight, and I see an Open University tutor - a portly man with a bald head and a blue shirt and ID card around his neck - and I shout out, "I go there!!" and the man says something and backs away, and as he does so, I shout, "What is to become of me??" The man disappears with a smile on his face. 

Then, having followed the man, I find myself in a large hall, quite sparse, but like a banquet hall, and somehow or other, somewhere along the timeline of events, I have ended up singing one of my band's new songs to a crowd of people, and one of those who hear it is the young man from the hut, and he is impressed, and so was I! 

Then, next I was walking along the riverbank, with those Chinese weather balloons making regular appearances in the night sky, and dropping packages of popcorn that explode in light and noise. I notice that the weather balloons' appearances are highly regular, that is, they drive along at highly regular intervals, and whenever they do they drop a package in an explosion, and I think to myself, I find myself talking to some girls at the side of the river, and I say to them, "For some reason, I'm not very attractive to women." They recount that perhaps I should go for male partners, but I decline. 

Then, finally, I enter the nightclub. I walk around and find myself at a pool table. A black man approaches me and offers me a game, or some whores, and the whores are black women. I say to him, "No, I'm not interested," and it's fine, there are no repercussions. I leave the club. 

The sky is filled with activity. The Chinese weather balloons shoot past frequently in the sky, dropping packages, and each time they do, I think

The end. 

Daniel
x

Today I managed to meditate for the sum total of an hour and a half. It was good meditation, and much needed; and very necessary - I was aggravatingly stressed out. The first half and hour simply took me perhaps to a less-intensely stressed-out state of mind, but I came out of it still with your particular mode of non-relaxedness, and consequently made some burgers for dinner. As a matter of fact, once cooked, I dropped a patty on the ground, but still ate it all up. 

Then, post-burger dinner, I went back and took up meditation once again. Of late I have entertained a notion of communicating with aliens, via training of consciousness, the latter which I believe is of such fine frequency, that it would not register on a physical measurement analysis. The practice, given its due, has led me to a particular technique: that of "remote viewing", which deserves more to be said. 

Remote viewing is a set of protocols that would enable one the ability to see deeper into spaces or objects, than one would normally. That is, one may imagine the view beyond a wall, or into a closed box, or into somebody's personal arena, or indeed into the spaces of extra-terrestrials, be they aboard a ship, or merely chilling indoors. 

It has become a great technique for me, that enhances meditation, by giving it a goal, not to mention a means to an end. I've only used it now for a week, but I must say, the employment of its use is the most natural thing on Earth. That is, the way I use it and have been using it is to visualise by imagination what it must look like to see myself floating above my head, in the situation of a God's eye view. Imagine it now! Just picture your head from above, and see that it takes no effort at all! 

One day many years ago when I was freshly medicated I found myself transitioning to the effects of this new feeling, and among many other experiences, such as hallucinations (meagre and nothing as they were in comparison to the enlightenment of previous experiences) and beautiful visualisations of the phenomenal world (which I saw was "classical" and vibrant), laying on my back to sleep of a night, I followed the train of a thought, which turned into a point of light, which became a picture in my mind, which revealed itself to be an image of my own face, and it was accompanied by a high-pitch noise of intense vibrations, and because I hated the sight of myself, the image disappeared. Nevertheless, ever since, I've been convinced about the truth of the existence of outer-body experiences, despite never having repeated the experience. 

But I believe, and fault me all you like, that consciousness is not restricted to only first-person internal experience. I can say this, because I am a schizophrenic, and not an academic, and I have a layman's mind. That is, I believe everything about and around us may have a type of consciousness, however simple. In fact, I wonder at the idea whether human consciousness is as complex as you can get, and whether God's consciousness is a simple matter. 

When you remote view, it is plain to see that the practice not only is effortless and natural, albeit only accurate to a diminished degree, but it also has a soothing effect on your immediate social influence. I will say no more about that, except to say that society enjoys the calm member, and to remotely view yourself as though in the throes of an outer-body experience is massively calming. 

In any case, I recommend it. Please try it, if you can! 

Many thanks, 
Daniel. 

Happy Chrimbo! And Merrington Chrimbobulations to one and all! 

It appears that the conspiracy is such that Covid-19 was planned all along, to ease us into the waters of World War III. 

But we could be each destined to move to our own planet! The world doesn't turn for it's own accord, and there are many options open to us to make. 

The almost fourteen billion years it has been since the birth of this universe has left us in early days yet! We are young! Evolution can develop to many much further outposts.

And consciousness is the micro-expansion of the local universe. 

We think about death too much! 

Hello to all, 

Now, I'm not entirely sure as to the meaning of this post, what I'm going to try to say, or why effectively I'm writing it. But to put it succinctly, I've decided that I'm certainly a subjective idealist. 

Last night, within the hour before I went to bed, I had a meditation session. I did my usual practice: starting by breathing in through the nose, and out through the mouth, and saying "I am aware of my breath," twenty eight times, from twenty seven to zero, and I was generally relaxed throughout, and whenever I realised my thoughts were distracting me, I would acknowledge them, note them, and return to the breath. 

I do this every time, and in fact, for some time it has been my practice, and I aim to go for an hour, but mainly only reach half an hour or forty five minutes, before quitting. And it has served me well. I've taken the relaxation and blissful happiness that results as a good enough consequence of my practice. 

But last night, as I pursued this practice, I decided at some point that I would aim for a two hour session - although, as to the time, I am guessing, and do not look at the clock. And consequently, as the thoughts came in and distracted me, and I acknowledged them and continued to focus on my breathing, I realised that my mind and breathing had led me to a state of existence that one can only call "nothingness". This state, as it is, was intermingled with sporadic and fleeting sensations of some really quite beautiful and psychedelic images, that were thick and full in their right, and looked at times as like coloured foliage, and at others like the ocean or sky. And these were images of heaven, I took it. 

But at some stage, I took even these images as distracting thoughts, and would note them and return to the breath. And in so doing I arrived upon that state of existence called "nothingness", and would enter into this state, until I realised that I was inside it, and then the thoughts would come. And I would note the thoughts, and come back to the breath, and would enter the nothingness that was this blissful state of existence. 

It is a lot like sleeping, I noted, although you are not asleep. It was a lot like a sea of black, and a lot like death, although you're not dead. 

I came out of the feeling, and lay down on the bed, almost accidentally. It transpired that I had meditated for exactly one hour. 

The feeling, I may add, was not inherently a pleasant one, although I feel that it is worth further exploration, and that I now have a better view of what I'm supposed to be aiming for in my meditation. 

Whether I have attained nirvana, or an enlightened state, it would be nice to say that I have. But the nature of my mental illness is such that I was left with a kind of disturbed feeling, that perhaps what I experienced was not quite right. Nevertheless, as I say, it is worth pursuing further investigation. 

As for being a subjective idealist, you yourself may do well to search that term, because I have no inclination to give you an extended account. However, I will say that it requires that we see the physical world as made up of elements that are connected by the mind. That is, all ideas of waking life - a tree, for example - exist within my own mind. But what it is that differentiates the waking life from dreaming life, is that the conscious experience of all others is substantial in creating the reality of ideas in waking life, whereas my own dreaming life requires no such condition. 

My conception goes further, to say that nature exists in the mind of God, that is, in the imagination of God, and this produces a law of nature, that we need God to be the father, just as God needs us to be his children. That is the relationship that is required for the whole concept to work. 

I could go further (but I wish to close soon enough), and say that empirical conceptions, such as constructions of the physical world like created objects - coins, ornaments, clocks, etc - adhere to this notion, whether the creator is alive or dead. But when God created the world - perhaps He did so at the beginning of time, and hence left it to run by itself - He did so alongside the notion of humanity, or man, or humans, and we are connected and necessary to one another. I digress. 

That is my contribution to society today. 

Daniel

What did I just dream about? 

It's five thirty am. I woke up, slightly tired, about an hour ago with inclinations to write a facebook post that some people may or may not deem to be quite funny. I forwent the opportunity, for lack of funny ideas. 

Nevertheless, having gone to sleep at about eleven o'clock, I went into a sleep that was themed around the trip to Greece of a young man who happens to be my cousins young son. Said young son has been the subject of my cousin's wife's recent facebook posts, and for some reason they had a small effect on me. 

I remember a feeling, last night as I slept, of a type of anxiety, that the boy himself may be having a turbulent time of sorts, at once stage opening my eyes at hallucinating that his image was hovering above my bed and intermingled with the shapes of objects set about the room. Quite, quite unnerving. I hope the boy is fine. 

I dreamt about something else meanwhile, but the memory escapes me. 

However, the main dream I had, when all turbulence had calmed down, was that I was sitting in my family's living room with my father and a man called Scott who used to be my childhood best friend. 

We were watching the world cup on television. Suddenly, my father hands me a beautiful, large silver coin with an intricate design etched into it, based upon the world cup, and in particular, a British coin. The coin is heavy and feels very, very valuable, and my father and I talk about it, and my father watches the football. There is a commentary on. 

At one point, with Scott sitting to my left on the settee opposite the television, and my father somehow sitting in front of the television to my right, as like unto a small child, I ask my father what he is thinking. In fact, it is a very pertinent and imposing question, more like a challenge. "Dad," I say. "Are you thinking?" 

"Yes," he replies.

"Tell me what you are thinking."

"When?" 

"Now!" 

I say this, and then my father starts lucidly and fluently talking, telling me things on his mind. I can see his eyes, bright, brown and clear, and his monologue is fascinating and fulfilling to me. 

The coin... now, the coin being very heavy and solid and valuable seems to have been constructed from constituent coins. That is, it seems that one may take the coin apart, for it to be constituted by other smaller coins, and this feature is what has made the coin so heavy and valuable. There is a constituent smaller five pence coin, and another constituent fifty pence coin or ten pence coin, and it feels wonderful to piece it together, like parts of an intricate watch. 

Then it seems my father has had a revelation and wants to do a piece of writing. For inspiration he asks me to talk - to "Just say anything!" And so I start talking and do so fluently and clearly, and whatever I say seems to cause my father to engage in writing his letter a bit better. 

But he seems to be struggling a little. Struggling, I say, in the same way that I myself may have struggled to write a letter in the heyday of my religious inspiration. That is, my father keeps restarting his letter, and crossing things out, and rewriting them. Well, it is and isn't like that. Effectively, my father writes a paragraph, and he addresses it to me, and everything he writes is perfect. It is humorous, succinct and pertinent, although with a few crossings-out. It is inspiring, and makes me wish to write a funny post on facebook. 

Then Scott also begins to write. It seems the theme of the dream scene is writing, and Scott is also writing me a letter, and he writes it in his own style - mainly humorous, in his own humour - and he says some very funny things. It makes me a little jealous, truth be told. 

I had an idea, then, to wake up and write a humorous post on facebook, that spoke on the theme of "How to write a funny post on Facebook, at a moment's notice!" 

Well, that post did not come to fruition. Nevertheless, this one did. 

That's it. 

I hope you have a good day. 

Daniel 
x

Kiki and the seven items of Mill Hill. 

There is a group of friends in Mill Hill whom each have go through a test in time to earn their own personal item - an avatar - that gives them special powers. 

Paul is playing silly buggers with his friends in Mill Hill park. He is hiding his rather large penis in the foliage nearby where several girls have been sitting, and telling them there is a surprise in the undergrowth. When they find the surprise, it is Paul's penis, and it is most amusing. 

But Paul has a guitar, a twelve-string acoustic, which, when the police are summoned to arrest him, Paul has hidden in time. 

The park is huge, like a reserve, and has many trees and valleys, and Paul goes missing one day. 

Daniel also has a guitar, and he was supposed to play it to the group one special night. But Daniel has gone in search of Paul. 

Daniel finds Paul, in the midst of an ancient age, and Paul has special powers, and reveals to Daniel that he had to go through a series of trials before he could master his guitar and achieve these special powers. 

Dean is also there, and he has to master his nunchuks, which were hidden in the forest of Mill Hill during the Chinese age. 

In any case, Paul has returned to Mill Hill park in the present time, and he is training Daniel so that he may master his item, an acoustic six string guitar, when the time comes. But Paul and Daniel have to overcome their own difficulties before they are able to progress to master level. For instance, when Paul was playing silly buggers with his willy, Paul claims that the police only intervened because Daniel hit him on the willy a little bit, which in addition, caused Paul to cum a little bit! This has been on Paul's mind for all eternity, and Daniel says, "Sorry Paul, it was just a little smack!" The issue is resolved, a little. 

But there is a crack of thunder, and an item comes flying out of the sky, It is a taikwondo stick - it is spinning through the air. Sarah, a friend of the group, is able, with deft skill and amazing talent, to catch the stick in the midst of a martial arts spinning jump, and she catches it right in the middle of the pole. The skies light up with her reward: GORGEOUS!! says the huge message across the sky, and fireworks and stars go off, and this is Sarah's avatar, her item, and a hole opens up in the ground. The hole reveals a burning pool of lava, and the ground burns away gradually, as the hole gets larger, and friends are sitting about the pool of lava, whilst the legacy of how to beat the lava ball at the centre is revealed, by a ghostly voice. The hole is increasing in size, and everybody manages to escape the lava ball in the centre, which burns the ground all around. 

Daniel, in particular, escapes, and jumps on a crocodile, his companion in the quest to find his own item, an acoustic six-string guitar, and the crocodile/alligator speeds off towards the forest of Mill Hill, and sees, in the daze of travelling a great momentum, the return of the same alligator come back from the forest, in the future. 

Beyond the forest is a vast plain, whereupon all manner of safari animals are grazing, and they are unfortunately in danger. Daniel has to climb a tree, reminiscent of a tree that once existed in the Mill Hill park days, and to avoid the danger, has to reach the very top, which is constituted of very thin branches, and he ascends. 

Will Daniel reach the top of the tree? 

To be continued...

"No sooner had I sent that email, then problem seemed to resolve itself!"

I'm tired. It's four thirty five in the morning, and it's about three hours since I fell asleep. But I'm awake now.

I don't really know what to tell you, other than the ins and outs of this dream I just had, to which a small blog post could never do it justice. 

I think I might kill myself. If I do, know this, there was nothing you or anyone could have done about it, and it was the right thing to do, and it was good. 

I'm not depressed. I'm hardly psychotic, but that's debatable. I'm even happy. I'm happy, and happy to work on my course, and go to the gym, and deal with life on a day to day basis. I'm happy to work on my course, even though it's just transpired that I won't get my degree for at least another two years - even though the good thing is that I'm almost to be shifted over to the OU's Master of Physics degree. I'm happy to go to the gym, even though it's a constant uphill battle to maintain twenty three stone versus the amount that I eat. I even happy to deal with life on a day to day basis, even though it's fraught with strange characters and circumstances, and to be Frank, I'm exhausted. 

I feel like Sisyphus. Pushing a rock up a hill for the rest of eternity. 

I could kill myself. It's not good for people to hear or read; it makes them worried. 

If I kill myself, I'll go straight to Heaven. I'll leave a legacy. People will see what I've done in life, finally. They'll look at my paintings and recognise my genius eye for colour. They'll listen to my albums and music and recognise my genius for melody and structure. They'll read my book and recognise my genius for language and literature. And when they read my book they'll see why I killed myself. I'll finally be recognised. 

"Kill yourself for recognition, kill yourself to never ever stop" - Thom Yorke, Radiohead. 

The dream was set in a house in Stevenage, but more likely my old house at number five. The earliest part I can remember was when I encountered Christine, my dad's auntie, and Brian, my dad's auntie's son-in-law. I've had beef with these people in real life. During the George Floyd situation back in 2020 Christine was posting "White lives matter" memes all over facebook every five minutes, and in the end I called her out. I had a go at her in a public letter, and it was necessary and got twenty or more likes from people who thought the same. But perhaps it caused a rift in the family relationship. I notice now that our little unit is never invited to parties or nights up in Stevenage, where they all live. And Brian, well, I've recently unfriended him on facebook because he keeps posting conspiracy posts. It was all well and good during covid - you half expected it at least from some people. Nevertheless it wound me up, and recently, well, from lack of conspiracies about coronavirus, he was posting flat Earth theory posts. So I unfriended him. It was impulse, really. I kind of regret it. 

So there they are, in dream, coming to the party at number five, surrounded by others from the family, and Christine has come upstairs and stands outside my bedroom with Brian standing there, surrounded by others from my the family. "Christine," I say. "I'm sorry! Forgive me! Peace! Peace!" And a friend of hers says, "Peace!" and Christine recognises the sentiment and shakes my hand. So does Brian, and we embrace and I say, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! You're the man! You're the man!"

The party begins in my bedroom. Brian and I are trying to get on facebook, using my various devices, including my Atari, my Commodore 64, my BBC Acorn, and my PC. He links up to the BBC but it's archaic, and nothing comes on the screen except some code nobody understands. I go on my PC and am thwarted from getting on the website by some means or other, then I switch my attention over to putting on some music. 

Smashing Pumpkins are playing on my system, but the speakers are the old ones, and I have to try to switch the cables over to the good speakers, and so I do this, and it sounds good. Some people are enjoying the music, others not so much. There are many people here, including some of the rougher people from Brian and Christine's entourage - a wiry man who appears to be on ecstasy, and some others on the same. Christine's son, a down's syndrome boy, sits there in the corner, gurning away. I don't partake of the recreational drugs. My own family is not there, although perhaps my sister is there, and Camille, and Kerry and Tasha - some of the girls of the family. 

But Lee is here. Lee the writer. Lee is all about truth. 

Somehow or other there is an altercation - a backlash of sorts - and it seems Brian and friends have not taken my apology seriously. Their friends stay looming outside the place - in fact, it seems they've been banished; they can't get in - they can't affect us. 

And Lee has left messages everywhere, on television, on radio, on walls, in books. 

The messages affect people here, including Marius, my cousin, but especially the down's syndrome boy, who seems to have been so affected by Lee's messages that his down's syndrome is cured and he sits there like a normal boy. The boy talks and says of Christine, "She's grotesque." 

People can't accept that Lee has cured this child, and they become very agitated and rile up against Lee, who is very easy going about the whole thing, and has gone ahead and left messages for everybody in the neighbourhood, and the latter have arrived to protect us all. There are Chinese neighbours who muscle in on the protection of those within the party. But it is rather amazing that Lee has cured this child, and it appears that Lee himself is, in fact, the messiah, 

I wake up wanting to kill myself. 

But it's not a sad suicide. No. It's a necessary suicide, from happiness and joy. 

In any case, I don't commit suicide. I come here. I write. 

But now I'm done writing. The dream was golden and heavenly, but it was just a dream. In any case, whatever happens, God loves us. 

Thanks. 

The night that was last night, and its consequent situation about sleep, consisted of a very mentally dry experience in which it seemed I had been asleep for all eternity. That is, it felt like I was dead, and had ended up resting for the rest of time. 

Then I woke up; it was five thirty in the morning, and I did a few things, had a mince about on the internet, at a cheese sandwich (this was American cheese on 50/50 Kingsmill bread), you know, the usual things. Then at eight thirty am I went back to lie on my bed to read a book (that book? Block 2 of MST326, of course), and I drifted into sleep and consequent dreaming, and the following dream. 

There I was, in my little room, with my sister there, and a painting on the wall. There was a painting on the wall, of which I was particularly proud that I had painted, and then Lee shows up. And my sister is the sister of my childhood, writhing and squishing about in a pre-adolescent condition, and Lee has taken pains to be the judge of my painting, which, now I think of it, was of a man in three colours, brown, green and blue or yellow. And it is a tall painting and takes up the space on the wall of the room. I don't react too kindly when Lee's judgement culminates in his slight and careless retouching of the face of the man in the painting, with his own brush, and I find myself becoming very, very upset by this. I admonish Lee. Meanwhile, my sister, squirming in the glory of her childlike youth, takes a goddess-like phantasmagorical presence, and the dream progresses. 

Lee's retouching of my work, culminating in a mere brushstroke of black paint over the man's face, has caused me such pain, such sorrow, that somehow my painting has improved some-fold. Before I admonish Lee, I can see a version of some of his own work, and the colours are a psychedelic display of vibrant beauty, although the shape of the image is merely a psychedelic pattern, and I'm stunned. I ask Lee, "How did you get those colours?" And he explains, 

"I just mixed these three colours together," and the colours were green, blue and yellow. It is good. He achieves a neon sparkle with hints at a techno festival light display theme. 

Soon we see that the room has opened magnificently into a part of a large two storey house, and one that sits detached from other houses, like an American house from a horror television show. It is not strange that this house, belonging to me myself, contains rooms in which the interior decoration takes the form of pictures and paintings that I have painted - that is, on the walls - and they are all my work. The dream is very much one of those "painting-as-you-go" dreams, but that is not the theme. 

People are arriving for a party, and many faces bring me to this state of feeling very popular. They are the faces of my youth; some are people I haven't seen for years, some are people I have as friends on Facebook, some are Eugene and Lee and Ashley. 

They come to me, these people of my past, and they wonder what is wrong with me. They don't know that I am butthurt about Lee's judgement of my art, and his consequent desecration of said art, but I am - very butthurt, and I spend most of the party in tears, and weeping, and crying. They are all very concerned. 

Meanwhile, the walls of my house are covered in my own art, and Lee also paints several pieces, and I never quite grasp how he gets his brilliant colours. There are messages all over the walls - Lee has left many messages in his art, and this helps me to communicate with my party guests... however, I refrain from employing the use of his every message, being that I feel as if it is disingenuous to do so. I am trying everything in my power to make this a fun party. But I am so butthurt. 

Martin is there, and so is Scott. These are teenage friends. They don't know why I am so upset, crying all the time, weeping, and getting angry. 

Then, suddenly, I figure it out. 

I'm upset because I met God, and went walking with God, and then God forsook me. 

"I met God!" I say to the people, including Tariz and Sharon, and it cheers me up some since I now know why I was so upset. "I miss God," I tell them. 

"Oh, he misses God!" they say. 

Something in the dream is alleviated. The messages in Lee's art are pertinent, and prominent. There is graffiti all over. The art is painting itself. 

We move from the second storey to the balcony, which overlooks the main hall. And then we are in said main hall, and it is dark outside, and the dream slowly comes to an end. The party is over. 

***

Usually, by having these dreams about colours and painting, I wake up wanting to paint. This time, however, I woke up feeling that I was a failed messiah. 

And it's true - in the end, I do miss God. The sentiment served to set me up for confidence in the following day. 

There we have it. 

Daniel

x

Hello, 

I've just experienced the most compelling, inspiring and uplifting dream I've had in a while. 

And while there were no extreme visual revelations, no immediately distinct creative representations, as I'm often used to having, that involve images of abstract art, or canvasses made from warehouses and so on, that cause me to wake up with a determination to create, there was a subtle and important theme which I feel is most necessary to my own development as a human being. 

How far back the dream went I could not tell you, but I come to in the old kitchen of number five, my old house, and I have just been at the park where I had an opportunity to engage in some sports. The engagement itself, whilst it may have involved the swinging of a "hammer", like they have in the hammer-throw, was a short opportunity to kick a special type of rugby ball, that looked like a spinning top. The owner of the ball had kicked it my way, and I myself had tried to kick it back, by spinning it on the ground and kicking it that way. Whereas the act itself of kicking the ball was not a very successful one, I felt like I had a purpose - to kick a ball - and that gave me the confidence to go back home and proclaim a new devotion, that of kicking balls, to my father. He was in the vicinity of the kitchen, and so was my mother. 

There we were in the kitchen of number five, and my mother somehow or other got onto the subject of my accolades. In fact, she was going through some old school reports, and one of them had said, "Daniel is a very creative person, but he spends most of his time making googly eyes with Sarah." I said to my mum, "Which Sarah?" and she said, "Sarah Heimann." The Sarah in question was a chubby Jewish girl, and I was indifferent. 

Then we received a visit from a friend of my sister, another girl, whose presence in our lives I was not sure about. She herself was a smart young lady, and happened to be doing a maths course of some kind. She showed me her work; I was nonplussed, and recognised the equations, and was able to say something about it. 

Then I was talking to my mother, who was really admonishing me in her own way, encouraging me to get on with my life, as mothers do, and she reminded me, that not only do I have a place to stay at her house, but I have my own apartment, and not only that, please don't forget, I also have that other apartment in Colindale. Of course!! I have another apartment, and effectively three places to be. 

We went, mother and I, to the spare apartment, which was the one in Grace Close, Edgware now, and we sat and had tea, and watched television, and I checked through the mail. 

And then, as we had tea and watched television, the phone rang. The person on the other line was my one-time care-coordinator Mark, and he had some good news. "Daniel," he began, "You have been with us a number of years, and we're very impressed with your progress." He was referring to my mental illness. 

And I guess that there are a good many reasons why such a representative would be impressed with my progress: I haven't got in trouble for some time, I haven't been hospitalised for ages, I haven't hurt anybody for fifteen years, and I've quit recreational drugs for some two and a half years. 

The care-coordinator, now a black man, referred me to the literature that was on the hallway table, that had come through the post. Mother was keen and interested as I opened the pages of a prospectus and read, 'Now that you have come to the end of your mental illness...' 

And there were a great many opportunities now open to me! Now that I was clear of mental illness, why, I could get a job in a library! I could get a job anywhere I liked! I had graduated my mental illness. 

I had graduated my mental illness! 

I must say, this was a very life-affirming dream. It caused me to wake up early and positively, and I looked at all my achievements: my certificate of higher education, my diploma of higher education. And it caused me to reflect that I am less than a year away from graduating university. That's no mean feat. It's quite impressive. And while there's no reality to the idea of graduating mental illness, there's depth and meaning in the achievements I have made, and am yet to make, and the future is looking good. 

Thank you
Daniel

Well, it's been nearly three months since I took my first two level three exams, MS327 Deterministic and Stochastic Dynamics and SM358 The Quantum World. 

I'm pleased to say that I passed my quantum exam, albeit with terribly low marks - but I'm not unhappy about that, I'm pleased. All I wanted was to pass that course, and I did. 

However, with MS327, things were not so pleasing. I failed. 

Devastating, yes, but not entirely unexpected. I entered the exam with the simple view to merely pass the thing, and whereas last year I tried my utmost to achieve a distinction, and consequently only passed, this view only served me to approach the questions with a diminished capacity. So I failed. 

Nevermind. I now have an opportunity to resit the exam, and so it is now my prerogative to study and revise to the point that I can sufficiently make up the marks that I need to get through this year. And overall, this year, I was just two points off a pass mark. It's all very doable. 

And what makes it doable is the fact that I now have a much, much better idea of how to tackle the Lagrangian questions, thanks to a man called David Evans, who worked on a practice question with me recently. I'm much more confident. 

But again, I must not become complacent. There's every chance that I won't pass this module. And what it that happens? Well, I'll have to redo the thing!! Not good. But I don't want to entertain those thoughts. I know I can pass, and I know I have to do a bit more revision to get there. 

So, in light of that, here's a little run down of things I could do, in order to maximise my chances:-

Firstly, I'm semi-banking on the hope that this resit exam will be similar to the last, albeit with slightly modified variations on questions. I think I found that with my resit of MST125 back in the day. I really hope it will be like this, because then I have the best chance at answering the questions. 

That said, I need to rewrite that last exam over the course of the next two weeks. I need to make perfect use of Sandra's exam script. (Sandra is a woman who achieved a distinction and was kind enough to share her exam answers with me.) 

I need to go through a couple (or three) of the practice exams and past papers. 

I need to rewrite and fully understand the Diffusion equation question (Q9) of the recent exam, and perhaps go over Unit 11 once more. 

I would like a flawless attempt at the Fourier Transform question, hence look for practice at this - which I have done... there are numerous problems online to look at and understand. 

In terms of the questions which I have no worries about - questions one, two, three, etc - I really need to make sure I do know what I'm doing with those. I need to remind myself about the sections in the handbook which can help me, and I need to brush up on these questions. 

What does worry me? The Diffusion equation questions, the Lagrangian equation questions, the Fourier Transform questions, and also questions involving the Continuity equation. This latter involves going through Unit 9 once or twice more, and finding more and more about it online and with the help on the website with David Evans. 

Basically, and on the whole, I need to absorb myself in this work for the next two weeks five days. The exam takes place on the 13th of September, a Tuesday, yes, but I will start to become nervous on the Monday, the very day I intend to start the exam - at twelve midnight. 

On the whole, I do not mind that I have failed that exam, because a resit is not so bad, especially since now, with the extra work that I will put in, I will have a better understanding of the questions and formulas that I need to know. At least I will have a refreshed knowledge of the whole thing, and will not have put the lot to the back of my mind, like I always seem to do with everything I've ever learned at the Open University. 

Anyway, I do not know what more I need to say on this topic. I have mentioned those areas that I need to revise and work on, and I have got them out in the open, and vocalised them, written them down, and dug deep enough to crystallise them. There is no stopping me now. Now, I just need to get it all into practice. 

Anyway, wish me luck. I may need it. 

Blessings. 

Daniel.