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Coincidental dream

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Last night I dreamed a strange dream...

I was in the shower and I... there was an obligation... an obligation that I procreate with my brother's wife, in order to reproduce a child, that was a "brother/cousin" to my brother's child, Sia, whom we would call Mia. 

Before that, however, I was reading a book to my sister. The book was like the bible, yet it was a Charles Dickens book, and we accessed parts of it via Alexa, the electrical assistant. I drew in that book, and improved a drawing by fine lines on a the previous picture. It was a very touching moment. 

So, Fiona and I were to reproduce, and whether we did or not is undisclosed, but certainly, there was Kate Burton, with whom I ended up actually having a child with... in the shower. We had a beautiful child, and were married, and on the wedding day, our family had to help my brother, Ryan, to come of age, and all we had to do in this endeavour was, at the penultimate moment, to bring him aware of his own scent, and then Ryan had come of age. 

And then I had my child, and we had a happy life, me and Kate. And things went from strength to strength. The boy grew up, and there were ups and there were downs - with Mia's head coming off at one stage. 

But Mia was to be a success, it being that we were a successful family. We took him, at the right age, into a music studio to make music. And Mia was successful. Yet, he was so lazy - so terribly and unfortunately lazy - that he could never impress his father. It was with stupidity and carelessness that Mia came into all sorts of money, for the most part guaranteed by his father. 

Mia had so much money, by dint of his father's success, that he had accumulated all manner of collections, including a sports card collection so vast that he'd even collected numerous rare combinations of these without even knowing it. 

It was then with regret and humility that father had to break the news to Mia... Mia, he began. You've won the lottery! 

For in his past, Mia was heir to the McFlys, a family who'd travelled in time and accumulated my wealth. 

There were many coincidences in these scenes, many coincidences indeed. But after all these coincidences, there was finally that one solitary coincidence, that one stupid and hapless coincidence, that saved us all. 

In the mire of coincidences, within which nothing could be done to save the laziness and carelessness of Mia McFly, finally there was an electrical rod that was able to pair with another electrical rod of somewhat slightly longer length. 

And the McFlys were saved. 

The end. 

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Saint Lucia

Some Thoughts About The Situation in Hand

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Hi, how are you? 

I'm blogging to crystallise some concerns I have with the situation about my upcoming exams, which are SM358 The Quantum World (on Tuesday 7 June) and MS327 Deterministic and Stochastic Dynamics (on Friday 10 June). 

Well, what can be said about this? First of all, I think it apt to say that the SM358 exam will be a touch more difficult than MS327. I say this because it seems evident that the questions we will be posed will be more apt to contain the unfamiliar, whereas with MS327 the situation will be more of a case of using the formulas we've learned. 

I have three weeks till the first exam. So my revision, having already begun in some form or other, must continue and continue with a more severe approach to intensity. For SM358 I must sit and complete several past papers, and complete the iCMA medleys, and also have a look at some of the additional exercises. 

My outstanding topics of which I need to study better are all those of book 3. I need to look at entanglement, perturbation theory, angular momentum, many-electron atoms, diatomic molecules, good quantum numbers, and the Linear Combination of Atomic Orbitals method, to name a few. I shall write a list of outstanding topics, and tick them off when I am confident. 

I feel like I can't have a repeat of last year. Although then I did do a lot of revision, I was unable to dig deep enough to get some of the more abstruse topics clear. And now, I have twelve hours a day for at least one week to do something about it. 

This blog should serve as a motivational enterprise. 

There are topics in which I feel I have a good grounding: Normalisation, operators, Schrodinger's equation, the sandwich integral rule, some Dirac notation, some Ehrenfest's theorem, some angular momentum, and some spin. But I should revise these topics nevertheless, and revise them well, by completing past papers. 

My MS327 exam should require at least one week of attempting to complete past papers. There is not a great deal with which I am concerned in this module, but I do need not to be complacent. That week is the week beginning 22nd May. Perhaps I will blog for more motivation closer to the time. But I would definitely be better off just doing the calculations. 

As with last year, my main source of revision should be that which is called "active" - that is, calculations, calculations, calculations! 

There are books I wish to review, however, they should be done in what would otherwise be my spare time, i.e. before bed, and so on. 

There is not much else to say about the matter. Calculation is key. Active study is the way! 

Wish me luck! (and good luck to all others doing exams!). 

Daniel xx

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Saint Lucia

Hospital in cave on island

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Just blogging real quick about the events that took place last night whilst I was asleep, which happened in my brain, in a dream. 

There was a cave full of mental patients, on some island somewhere. It was some kind of hospital there. 

Then a new patient arrived; a very violent and psychotic man. 

The events in the dream were that - there was a lunchtime meal with burgers, and the psychotic man had bacon with his. There were two or three other characters - one who reminded me of Nigel the old man in Mill Hill, the other, perhaps Nick Warman or someone similar. They had issues with the lunchtime saga and the psychotic man in general. 

The psychotic man goes from strength to strength. He helps the others, who hadn't realised that they had had hope of getting out. 

There's a third man, who's hair the psychotic man shaves off before his tribunal, whilst he was unconscious. 

The psychotic man has gone from strength to strength. He has a deep relationship with his psychiatrist, with whom he discusses the psychiatry books he has read, and gets better. His mother arrives for his final tribunal. The man realises he loves his mother. 

It's a happy ending. Everyone gets out. 

Thanks, 

Daniel 

x

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Saint Lucia

The New World Order

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Hello, how ya doing? 

I wanted to perhaps talk about some of the things which have been happening in my mind and brain of late. Some of these things are dreams, some of these things are hopes, some of these things are aspirations. All of them have happened in my brain of late. 

I can remember some parts of a dream which played out for me last night. It was about Neil the sparks, and he was a conspiracy theorist. The dream formulated around an alleyway where my father and I were working which, now I think of it, somehow reminds me of The Matrix, that is, the array of binary digits that fill the computer screen. I was helping father with concreting and carpentry, and some electrics, and we switched to a scene that turned out to be Neil's apartment, and Neil the sparks was a conspiracy theorist. 

I can remember being on Neil's bunkbed, and what a coincidence, the whole gang was there too. 

But Neil was a conspiracy theorist, and somehow or other I myself was attempting to convince him of the true conspiracy, that is, the real answer to conspiracy theories, like the New World Order, and so on. 

Now, the New World Order is not a conspiracy theory - not anymore. It's legacy is that it is something that government seemed to want to bring about many years ago, and they say that 9/11 was the fulcrum that did it. "Nine eleven was done to bring about the New World Order," they say, and perhaps that's true, but what's so bad about the New World Order that people think is so terrible? Perhaps it's something to do with freedom, i.e., that our liberty is at stake; that we ourselves are destined to become unthinking and unconscious beings. I'm sure that there are a thousand reasons, but this is our reality. We as automatons seem to wish to be libertarians, and at base level we wish to be closer to nature, and conscious, and free. We wish to live in an utopian society, but there seems to be a conflict. Some people believe there to be a top-down evil; an evil from a higher level. Some people believe this to be the evil of billionaires or politicians and government officials, and they believe we are being kept down, kept from knowing the "truth", and kept from financial, social and moral success. 

I'll be honest with you, I don't think this "top-down evil" exists. But perhaps it does, and perhaps it goes to a deeper spiritual abstraction than would be accessible by anyone not deep into religion or morality, or study, or education. But who am I to talk about education? Although I have studied in various disciplines through my life, I merely have a layman's credentials when it comes to life experiences. Besides the point, maybe, and perhaps I shouldn't allude to the goodness of God, the divinity of Jesus, the morality of Heaven, because perhaps I'm at risk of being disingenuous. It surely makes no difference whether a human is religious or not, for a human may be religious an still not entirely moral, or a human may be moral and yet not religious. I cannot claim to have any special insight into morality, but I do believe in a higher power, and yet I still have faults. At the top, I believe, and top-down is God, or at least goodness, and this is true if you believe in God or not. I believe this because I know myself, and I know at heart I am not a bad person, that any "evil" that exists within me is only sickness, and that I am the same as everybody else. I could even be vulgar about it. But this morning I had breakfast, and at lunch I had a sandwich, and at dinner I had toast. I'm sure high-ranking government people also had to eat through the day: there is no human with superpowers, and those who could be in possession would be good people. Otherwise they'd be sick. 

No, the New World Order is just a political artefact, that happens to ring suspect to the ears of the suspicious. It's happened, in the sense in which a new political and social and financial order has been brought about, many times in the past. And if it has done so, it was from the order of a genuine higher power. But I have no evidence for this, and this is where I fail. But it's not to the detriment of anything! If humans wish to control a population, we must be aware that death is nothing, and in the long run we're not really in control. Population control is just a construct, like freedom or love, set up to convince us to be inspired. God is the only one who has a plan. 

I told my friend Neil the sparks that he had to call out to God. When you do this in dream you can see how much of our intuition about greater power is an illusion. But sometimes the illusion is that powerful that it is undeniable, both evolutionarily and physically. 

I don't know what to say other than that. Perhaps I could type for a further hour or so, but I don't think it would be massively interesting. I'm feeling a little hungry in any case. But perhaps that's thirst. 

I shall seek water now. 

Blessings x

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Saint Lucia

The truth about Daniel Best

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Maybe it's that you have had enough of me? Maybe now it is my time? Maybe now it is after all about time. 

Last night's dream was a nice one about windmills. I was an engineer working on a windmill just for me and my friends, but the windmill wouldn't work, no matter how much we changed the engineering. It was quite a fascinating dream just to see the nice workings of the mechanics. Nevertheless, I do not remember much else about that there dream of which it was I had. 

I forget a hell of a lot about nuff that goes on in my head at nights. Everybody thinks I'm totally insane. It's a bit lonely sometimes. Maybe I have to jest with them, maybe I must find a celestial eminence, maybe bells are ringing out for Christmas day. The nuance of viagra emails that would stand out is that I'm going back to the good old days. Everybody understands you, what is the Samoan for hiding in the sand dunes? One more hour in bed, ready to spill the things in my head. Her name is Judy, and we will see her again. 

What you find is that people on the internet do not half take the fucking piss. 

Ask yourself, Are you alright? Is Ukraine alright? Why is mother so rude to me? Maybe it's because she's a Londoner, maybe not. 

Maybe I'm not alright, is that okay? You lot seem to think I'm nuts. 

Let me tell you the truth about Daniel Best. 

x

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Saint Lucia

Complaints of the day...

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Hi.

I just need to blog right now; that is, I felt the need to blog so that I could perhaps get out some of the things that are bothering me. These things are only minor complaints, and whether they have anything to do with my mental illness is another thing. But nevertheless, I'm so frustrated I could cry. 

They happen on a daily basis, these things... these minor upsets, by which life seems driven. If it's not a misguided comment by a friend, it's a lecture, on some topic or other, by someone with whom you disagree entirely. It would not be meet to describe the instances fully, but rest assured they happen on a daily basis. 

I'm sure I could do better than writing other things in this blog than just dreams and complaints, and I suppose this small complaint may seem petty. But nevertheless it's nice to have somewhere to go. 

Now, I'm not a greatly political person. In fact, I would say that my politics aligns with those of the world's best rock stars, for example, Kurt Cobain or Jimmy Hendrix. Perhaps Kurt doesn't massively fit with this appraisal, but certainly Jimmy would not have been as popular were he to have had a political point of view, or at least a more political viewpoint. In fact, I have struggled to find my place in the world of politics. That is, a person in my own position, that is, on social benefits, under the social system, social housing, state wages, with a mental illness entirely subsidised by the NHS and so forth, well, perhaps you would forgive me for a socialist leaning. In fact, having read Marx's Capital (to a degree), I was impressed by some of the sentiments, and by some of the content, in the sense in which it leans towards a fairer society for those with less money, and less education, and so on and so forth. But in the same breath, you have capitalists who say that socialism leads directly to communism, and the latter ideology has a very poor PR on the whole, indeed. You hear that socialism is an extremist ideology, taken up by Russians and Chinese, who live in communist societies, and who have very little freedom. 

So, as much as I have sympathy with the socialist outlook, I feel myself very 'put under' by the opposing team, who tell me that that outlook is more extremist than extremism itself. I would, in that sense, say I am opposed to extremism. That is a given, and that is fair enough to say. But while I have sympathy for socialism on a minor scale, I actually find myself supporting the conservatives. That is, while the whole world seems up in arms about the party-going habits of our leader during lockdown time, I actually still empathise and sympathise with Boris Johnson. People who hate this man say that he is one of the rich elite, who have been Eton educated and born in power, and should be despised for his authoritarian ways. But whenever I see the man, and this is coming from a person for whom that level of expertise and energy can only ever amount to a dream, I feel proud and I feel a connection. When it comes to parties and whatnot, well, I have to say, I do not care. It is about as severe a reprimand as a speeding ticket, and has nothing to do with whether he can run the country or not. And furthermore, when I see the man, I see nothing but competence and humanity. The man himself, despite all the negativity and backlash he has to deal with every day, is in fact, absolutely and positively resilient, and I wouldn't sniff at it were he to be a permanent fixture. People on the left try to muddy his name, but to me it all amounts to petty name calling and so on and so forth. 

So, it seems, much as I should be socialist, and leftist, I have a great deal more empathy with the right. Also, in saying that, I have empathy with Capitalism. That is, and being wholly a part of this university, which to me represents a wholesome and worthwhile institution, I understand that there is a greater entity to which to attain. That is, when I am driving through an area heavily populated with tall company buildings, and enterprise, I see that there is a larger infrastructure to which we should all attain. And what is this infrastructure? It is being able to put your bins out and have them picked up by workers who make that their business. It is being able to go a store and buy your weekly shop knowing there are people who've made the effort enough to make sure the shelves are stocked, with goods that have been produced and regulated by people who've made the effort to make sure they can reach you. It is products, and music, and industry, and money, and yes, there are people at the top who are intelligent enough to ensure these things can get to us. 

Today I had a conversation with someone who is 'one of those' people. That is, an antivaxxer, anti-government, anti-education, anti-capitalist, anti-every-fucking-thing, protest marching person. I mean, he's a nice guy, who has helped me in otherwise difficult situations, but what he was say, I find it to be the case that I can't abide by any of it. At all. 

The situation I'm in, that is, the situation that perhaps caused me to come online and write about these things, is that, I cannot for the life of me explain to some people that there are individuals on planet Earth who are so clever, so intelligent, that it would be hard for people like us to fathom. And not to put too fine a point on it, but I know these people exist, because one way or another I used to be one of them. But that's another story. One way or another, I am aware of the existence of people, and not merely doctors like GPs or what have you, who have extraordinary minds. They are amazing. And the reason I'm writing this now, I suppose, in a nutshell, is because this antivaxxer, as soon as I've tried to explain that we couldn't have this infrastructure without the minds of these men and women, well, he tried to convince me that nobody is that intelligent!!! 

I'm sorry, but this man has not been to college, to university or anything like that, so how would he know. But in short he actually said this to me, he said, "I've met intelligent people and they're not that intelligent." 

The fact is, just because you yourself are not intelligent, doesn't mean that intelligent people don't exist. I mean, I could outline the existence of Einstein, Newton, Bertrand Russel, Gödel, Beethoven, Bach, Steven Hawking, and so on and so forth. 

But my frustration lies in the fact that there is no way of explaining to some people that there exists intelligent people on the planet!!! 

There is intelligence. I know it for a fact. 

People who think that there aren't people who are that intelligent just aren't very intelligent themselves, I'm sorry. 

And therein lies the tale. 

But on this topic of what political persuasion I am, well I think I can at least safely say, I hate antivaxxers. I hate them. I despise them. And I'm sorry if this seems a little negative, but I can't hold it in anymore. And I would go one further and say, those who are antivax persuaded are in fact either (1) Crazy, (2) Not educated, (3) Simple minded, and (4) Top down they think the world is run by evil people. 

I want to say, in a mode in which to put your mind at ease, you have nothing to worry about. There is nothing to fear. The world is a good place, and there is good at the top, be it a good minded man or woman, a moral person, a moral ideology, or perhaps even a God! 

And in fact, I personally do believe in God. And further to that I just wish to add, that I myself will be adding, to my repertoire of spiritual activities such as meditation and relaxation, an hour of quiet prayer to that. And I think that's a good idea, and I wish to proceed as soon as possible. 

Many thanks, 
Daniel. 

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Saint Lucia

The boss and the employee

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I'm trying to make sense of this dream. It was a peculiar one in which I myself was not present in the dream as myself, but as an employee of a publishing company.

I can't really gauge exactly where it began, but there I am at this warehouse, working on a book. The boss is a rich man, and has written a book himself, and it is my job to read that book and transcribe it into a published form. 

There are other employees here, one old man who seems to be dead. In fact, at one point in the dream, I am in the street and I look up to a tall bridge, and a father's child has fallen from the bridge. The father jumps after the child, and it appears he has saved him - but really they both died. Much of the dream is about people who are dead. 

In fact, the most pertinent thing about this dream is that I myself am not present. I say that I am working for a boss, but really it is this character who is working for his boss. I see things from his perspective - but even saying that is putting too personal a spin on it. I really am not present in this dream. 

So this character has to read his boss's book about business and transcribe it to publishable form. The boss is expecting a large tome. The character's resolve is to take the rough form of the book and re-bind it. And that seems to do the job. 

I'm afraid that's all I can remember. 

Daniel

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Saint Lucia

My father, and meditation.

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Meditation. 

My father is the zen king. A friend of mine described my dad as 'zen' some years back, and the description has never failed me. 

This even I was in the pub with my father and a friend of his from the old days. I must say, my father is the most moral man. The first thing I learnt when I studied philosophy at university fifteen years ago was that you don't necessarily have to be religious or even spiritual to be moral. My father, Fred, is not religious - at least not outwardly, although he has alluded to a greater sense of spiritual questioning, due to his advancing years. Yet his morality and humility are beyond bounds; he puts everyone else before him, he has such patience, and he gives everything he can, and he'll do anything for anyone, as they say. 

When it comes to my interpersonal relationship with my father, I daresay it is the truth: I do not tend to bring out the best in him. I take this to be for a number of reasons. One, who am I to him? How is he supposed to gauge who I am exactly? Am I his middle aged son, or am I his young child? Am I a world-weary intellectual, or am I a know nothing son of a builder? How is he supposed to gauge who I am? It must be difficult. On the other hand, when my father is talking over a pint to someone he's known for years - his best mate - someone who has striven to advance himself to my father in understanding on his own terms, that is when my father knows more who he is, and who he is talking to. So I saw old Fred in a good light - in a great light - this evening when he was talking to Tony, who is one of his best friends. Yes, Fred was talking fluently and freely about the legal proceedings that are taking place within the family, and was talking about his memories of Samoa, and spoke about these things with authority, and intelligence, and thoughtfulness, and I loved him. 

I don't wish to sour the note by saying that, one-to-one, when Tony was not there, I began to fail to understand the things my father was trying to get at. I don't know why that is. But perhaps it's detrimental to a notion that perhaps I myself am characteristically unsure of myself. But that's another thing. 

I'm quiet these days; I rarely talk. It must seem to people that I have little to say. Several people, though, have said it: I don't know things. I don't know things. That's a saying. It alludes to street-smarts, or even more worldly smarts. But I do know certain things. Unfortunately most people are not interested in hearing about how to solve a differential equation, or what a two-dimensional map is, or how to manipulate a Hessian matrix, or what they are, even. In a standard setting it must be true - I don't know things. So I remain quiet. 

When I arrived home I was stressed out. I have realised that this anxiety I have amounts to a type of panic attack. These panic attacks occur frequently - once or twice a day - and if they happen during the day, I must lie down abed and breath more regularly, inhaling through the nose and exhaling through the mouth, until my heartbeat has calmed down and reached the pace at which I am breathing. If they happen at night, as just occurred just now, I'm happy to sit quietly and meditate. 

The first few minutes of meditation are relatively awkward, and one wonders if there is a point to it at all. But I sit cross-legged on my bed, facing the window, lights out (other than my salt lamp - an orange glow), and I breath in through the nose, and out through the mouth until I have achieved a steady rhythm. There are two ways, I am given to understand, with which to proceed. One of them is to inwardly focus upon a thought - be it God's warmth, the compassion of Jesus, the expanse of the ego, or the delights of genius. I like to remember this technique to start with, but I rarely follow it. No, I tend to go in for that other way of doing things - to inwardly and actively reject all thoughts. That is, one must tell oneself, that thoughts are none of my business. But it is not just a matter of repeating 'thoughts are none of my business', but you must allow each thought to pass you by. That is, when a thought arises, you must remember that it is none of your business, and proceed. The way I have personally clocked this technique is by looking directly at my thinking - that is, the thinking substance itself. I have found a way to 'get behind' all thoughts by watching this mechanism at work, and allowing those monadic elements that arise upon awareness of them, to fall away. Then I say, 'deeper, deeper', and I go deeper, and I have a notion that is not borne out by the light of consciousness, and it may be something to do with the ego. For example, I realised that one outcome of meditation could be to expand the ego (although, this may seem counter-intuitive - we're supposed to disregard the ego, aren't we?). And tonight I saw that my ego is the full id of my understanding and encapsulates everything I know to be in existence in the world, and that I'll never fully disregard the ego, which I take to be the driving force of my mind and soul, and of which the female's is said to be the anima, so in effect, to enhance the ego is a good thing. 

During meditation I may or may not have on some music, say, some classical symphony or other, and this is a fine thing. Of course, it is peaceful enough to relax with nothing but the sound of silence - that way, we are left with the sound of things arising, and then passing away - arising, and passing away. Yet it is also a good thing to have on some symphony or other. For some symphonies may last an hour, and for one thing it is good to have a gauge of how long you are deep in this state, and to aim to finish with the penultimate finale of the piece. Tonight I had on Rachmaninov, and his is a fine second symphony, for if a symphony is worth its weight, it will map your thinking, enhance your thinking, and all the more give you something to release, when necessary, deeper and deeper. 

Meditation is a type of self-hypnosis. It is always wise to be aware of what it is from which we are dropping attachment. For me, it is always anxiety, and internal stress related pain. And yet, it is said, that in this fast-paced world in which we live, when we finally decided to come out of our meditative state, it is wise to make ourselves aware of the material world we are coming back into. For me it is a decision, that I know when I've done enough, and I listen to the traffic, and I begin to breathe in through the nose, and out through the mouth, and I say, when I open my eyes, I will feel more relaxed and mentally clear than I ever have, and then I gradually open my eyes, and I breathe outwardly, and I am done. I have meditated. 

I'm almost glad sometimes, that I have such panic attacks that meditation is deemed necessary, for otherwise I would not know calm. 

Daniel

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Saint Lucia

Things I want to do

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Things I want to do: 

  • Play guitar - write some new songs
  • Play Nintendo Switch - Super Smash Bros., Zelda, Mario Odyssey
  • Play piano - learn that little Aria by Bach
  • Study Science, i.e.:-
  • Write my TMAs
  • Read the books, units, chapters - MS327, SM358
  • Do my exam - get high marks, like, rilly high!
  • Learn to code in Python - that is, learn to write text adventures
  • Learn to code in Python - make a website
  • Play a show with my band - Islington Hope and Anchor
  • Finish recording and producing my album - Prefrontal Vortex
  • Lose a little weight
  • Learn to control my smoking better
  • Do my animation
  • Make some music videos for my band
  • Tidy flat
  • Buy a toilet seat
  • Buy that Ed Marlo Card technique book
  • Listen to music and relax
  • Relax and listen to Classical music
  • Meditate
  • Read my course books
  • Pass my course, with high marks
  • Learn to code. 

That's about it, but i'll update if I think ofanything. 

Thanks
Daniel
x

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Saint Lucia

Back To The Future remake dream...

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Edited by Daniel Frederick Best, Friday, 21 Jan 2022, 05:36

This dream begins somewhere beneath the ocean, about four hours ago. 

I must frame Meister Kern as a a central character here; it seems fair enough. I am beneath the ocean, with my brother, and Meister Kern has told us about his being commissioned to make a film. We see Lee has done various drawings, and a crab is in a bucket. Ryan has something to do with such a crab. The crab is significant of work and, beneath the ocean, is a symbol of respect. Lee has also done some work with Lego, and we, being beneath the ocean so deep, are also beneath Brent Cross shopping centre. I vow to go into the Lego shop as soon as possible, to purchase some Lego, such that I am inspired enough, and such that I wish also to make some things (films, art) with Lego. Ryan will be alright, for now. 

But it seems that Lee has been commissioned to make a film, and it will be shown at the shopping centre. And I travel up to the shopping centre, and the film being shown is a remake of 'Gremlins'. My sister is in the audience, and thereare two halves to the theatre:- she is on the other side, or in any case, makes her way to the other side. We watch, within the audience, this introduction, and see many strange creatures: Gremlins - and we discuss something about them, and Corina has her thoughts about it, and I have mine, and Corina gets usurped to the other side. And a woman to my left, well, she recognises that I have something to say about the film, and in any case, the film begins. 

We are at Brent Cross, and inside the shopping centre, the Gremlins have taken over. I approach the first doorway from without, and my accomplice is the distinguished gentleman from Third Rock From The Sun; the alien, although he is merely a distinguished gentleman. And we approach the centre, and walk up some flight of stairs, and over the top, and there we are given ham and pancakes, and a gaggle of people are standing in the forecourt area. I think we are told, or are expected to work out, that there are gremlins inside the building. 

I am watching the film with Lee, and we are inside the film. I love Lee, and my brother is there.

We see, beneath the shopping centre, on the outside, well, we see a long stretch of waterway, like a stream, and the film continues. And we travel, this distinguished gentleman and I, over to said waterway, and we are now in the midst of a remake of 'Back To The Future', and now we see the preamble to the film. It seems Meister Kern has been given surplus amounts of footage to work with. In any case, the distinguished gentleman and I have usurped the waterway, and we are filling two of the left and right halves of it with concrete:- that is, Doc is mixing the concrete, and I am washing the waterway with it, to the effect that I am creating two trails of concrete in the water. There is something about this. Soon enough, we have usurped or commandeered, or in any case, created a hidden concrete track upon which we wish to test our DeLorean time machine. 

It is time for a cigarette. And Doc has given me a gun, a silver Colt Peacemaker, and he says, "Light your cigarette with the spark from the shot, or don't have a cigarette!" And so, I aim the gun up at the sky, and I fire, and my cigarette is lit from the sparks of the gun. 

Lee has been doing a great job of remaking Back to the Future, so far, and now we see Doc and Marty testing out their track. On the upper level there is a horse and carriage, or DeLorean, or in any case a faster vehicle, and just below we see Marty running as fast as he can to keep up with Doc. He occasionally bangs into the sides or the walls of tunnels, but he keeps momentum. This goes on, there is lots of excitement. 

Then eventually, as we watch Marty running down the track, we see the environment changes, and like ghosts coming from the ground, there appear people all around - for just a moment. 

I myself, sitting in the theatre, yet near the edge of the action, turn to Lee and say, "Momentum! Marty has kept the momentum!" I have realised, that Eighty-eight miles per hour is just the speed that keeps the momentum of a DeLorean going enough to travel in time, and that Marty's momentum is really what can cause you to travel in time. "Momentum," I say. "Energy, the time-independent Hamiltonian!" And I start to trace out the Schrödinger's equation in the air. Yet the film persists. Yet to my left there is a woman, and she is complaining to me about the silver gun in my hands, and I tell her, "It's just a toy," but she fails to believe in me until I demonstrate the shot - which is the effect of pointing the gun into the air, loaded with a cap, and I fire. I turn back to LEE - he says, "Armando." I'm trying to work out what he means by this, and I turn to the woman, and she transpires to actually be my wife, and I am surrounded by our children: three kids, and then I listen to the woman, and she claims that, in the midst of all this time travelling, the fact that I shot the gun at that particular time some while ago, well, that was in fact bad luck, and had caused the nightmarish effect of the phenomenon of Gremlins back at the Brent Cross shopping centre. I can see her logic. 

I begin to run back to the shopping centre, and the momentum of my run causes me to enter into a time-zone inwhich we see a few zombies, and yet there is more to this time travel. I run faster and faster and I enter into the shopping centre - right into the middle of the centre wherein there is an infestation of gremlins - and I bang right into a red illuminated ball in the centre: This ball then turns me in a Super Mario type character, and I have a small zippo lighter in hand, and every time I strike it, I jump. I strike it three times, and jump higher and higher into the air. This character - this Super Mario character - has the tenacity and power to eradicate the gremlins, and therein the tale ends. 

However, with my zippo lighter, I am able to shave the hair of Doc, and of a black man who stand with their backs to me, and my job of doing that is greatly appreciated. 

Therein lies the tale - I awaken. 

NB:- when I have run back to the shopping centre I have had my attention drawn to the fact of a Blue Peter van, that is a BBC van, and I move along and there it is, the BBC van. 

Daniel. 
x

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Saint Lucia

Sentiments of old age and fathers

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My father is a fucking sweetheart, let's make no bones about it. 

I was listening to him today at the dinner table when I had been at my parents house, and this was after dinner, which was eggs, chips and, for me, no-chicken kiev. And I listened to him as he discussed first the Edgware Walker, a man who would walk around the town, hunch-backed, looking through bins, and who died in 2005. Then, once my mother had taken her plate away, dad began to talk about property, and in particular, a property he had recently missed the opportunity to procure, that was on the market. And he told me of lease-holdings and free-holdings, and then the discussion turned to the jobs market, and the fact that Eastern Europeans had taken a part in destroying the workplace, due to their ridiculously low wages. And he spoke about his former employer, Anil Varma, who is a millionaire, who chose to fire some English workers in favour of the Eastern Europeans. And then the discussion went on from there to politics, and Boris Johnson, whom I gather my father has some sympathy towards - and whom, I suppose, I do too. 

We ended up in the garden, smoking roll ups, and the night was freezing. Anyhow, I noticed as I listened to my father talking, that I didn't have to say very much, and part of the time I felt slightly resentful of that. However, my father himself didn't seem to notice that he was doing all the talking. And I take it now, that this is how my father sees conversation between he and his son: as a chance to educate me on certain things. Indeed, and yes, I was slightly resentful, for the fact that I myself have been in higher education for more years than I care to mention, and I have a deep desire to tell my father of these things I have learnt, and show him the complexity of the knowledge I have acquired. 

But overriding all this, I noticed, as I listened to him talking (which, I also noticed, was giving me a slight headache for some reason), was a feeling of deep love and compassion. My father, like many of ours, is not going to be around for ever - although, he is in fact just sixty-seven now, and we have a good few years, health providing - and in any case, perhaps I have nothing of interest to teach my father. In any case, I thought, 'Could I not just sit and listen to my father?'

And that is the prevailing lesson of the day. Is it too much to ask of me to allow my father to at least feel like he is educating his son? I'm not saying he isn't educating me - although much of his lecture was reliant on basic right wing politics; but I do not mind that - I feel like perhaps I am right wing, in many ways. The media, when we are exposed to it, despite its efforts to branch out into perhaps deeper themes of politics and social talk, can be very mainstream, and as a result the basest of social adherents are provided with a point of view, and this is why much of our social media experience is based around navigating through stupid comments and repetitive posts, that say not very much of anything new. But we can't let these things get to us. 

My father is not a difficult man, not really. Some men do not understand their fathers. But I feel like I can understand him well, my father. I often do wish our discussions were more like discussions than one-sided lectures. Nevertheless, I am moral enough and full of ethical love to be able to afford my very father the very things he wishes of our relationship. He is a philosophical man, but not a religious man: I feel like, perhaps he could do with a good reading of the bible, or a visit to church. He is a zen warrior, is my father. He is bald and tan. Today I couldn't help but see him as the hairy one, and I the bald man. 

Hegel, in Philosophy of Mind, talks at times of 'derangement'. Yesterday I was reading about it, in his words, and he has some very lively ways of thinking. Yet there is a sense of racism running though his works, although such as it seems to be a fact of the time he lived in, rather than a matter of his outlook, and in fact, I imagine the Hegel was rather liberal and forward thinking for a German philosopher of the eighteen hundreds - that is, his work is sprinkled with generalisations about national individuals, yet he is not overt. In any case, he spoke about derangement, and one thing which struck me was the notion that psychosis itself (indeed, in his words, derangement) is a phenomenon that happens when the individual has cast away his objective sense, and his dreams and subjective consciousness have been cast into the fore of the mans mind. That is, the deranged are living in a dream world manifest in objective living. 

It makes me think, on the one hand, of the absolute objectivity of the mind, and what is afforded in the educated man's consciousness. That is, as an occasional victim of insanity myself, I recognised the truth of my own psychosis, in that it was in fact a product of dreaming whilst awake, and very much so. I am now fully medicated, and strive to achieve the most pared down and educated existence I possibly can. Although, I am at odds with what this entails in social existence... I have to grow old, and growing old I have to contend with a perpetually extending youth - that is, a youth that continues to extend away from me into the past that is a 'now'. 

This objective reality is part of psychology that comes with maturity and experience. It exists within all of us. The dreaming life of the subjective unconscious is something that leaves us as we get older, and it is why the young are able to rely on us, derangement providing. There are certain boundaries that we learn, that strengthen with age, and upon which we build on a daily basis. We need to be solid, that is, we need to accept the conventional life, and accept a transition into old age. 

I sometimes feel like my parents will never die. There is a time in life when we feel this deeply. But time passes, and one day they will be gone, and that will be their legacy. 

Some people have already lost their parents. I am not ready to lose mine - hence I convince myself that they will live forever; that sixty seven and sixty four are still as young as forty, relatively. In many ways, they are. I am as old as my mother was when I was seventeen, and I thought she was old then. But now I see that she is young. And that she has many years left. 

Also, I have been praying for people I love. It seems that prayer is a good way to formalise positive thoughts about those people, and in a sense paves the way for some people to thrive in life. Well, I know what I mean. It's the same as building a path up a mountain, or building a house. Prayer builds, and people can live in what wehave built. 

I will close now, but I could go on, philosophising etc, yet I have work to do, which is another story. 

best wishes, 
Daniel 
x

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Saint Lucia

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I had a dream. A little dream. A dream about computer programming. 

I want to try to dig deep here, with the description of this dream, because although the dream was relatively simple, there are subtle elements that I seem to have forgotten, which I feel I could remember if I just laid out the steps. 

Now, the dream did not begin where I start. I start close to the end. I start where I am sitting at a terminal and I am talking on the phone to an operator, who is a friend or old teacher of programming, and I'm asking her about how to get started on a refresher course of computer programming. I have a command prompt page up, and I say (on the phone), "It's B4, isn't it, to start?" and I type "B4" into the prompt, and things start to kick off - the other terminals fire up, and the tutor says, "Oh yes, I think I see what you mean!" I have recently found an old module book which has within it some instruction on how to program, and I tell the tutor this. It is about this time that I wake up with a strange desire to do some coding, and I come to my PC and I fire it up, and I get out my Python Crash Course book, and I have a cup of tea and a roll-up, and look at the screen. I fail to know exactly what I want to code. 

I think I have time to code, during the course of my studies. In fact, I have ample time. I would like to learn how to make websites, but this is further down the line. I need to refresh my mind about basic coding. 

Anyway, the dream started earlier, and a key point about it was the appearance of mathematician Eric Weinstein. We were in some sort of warehouse full of computers. The FBI are involved in some sort of investigation (I'd love to know about what!), and it has to do with technology. In short, Eric is the mastermind of some sort of "conspiracy" in which some files are being sought via the internet and hacking, and it's some sort of hacking scandal. 

There are computers. The computers represent the files. The files are being investigated. Eric is a computer coding genius and the head of the operation, but whether he is helping the FBI or protecting the hackers is not clear. He seems to be doing both. 

The FBI have moved in and they are close to uncovering the conspiracy. A file is opened and investigated; many files are. But the FBI are thwarted in their investigation because the programs are written to protect the information, and they hence parry off any attempts to uncover the information, and the files are closed down, and the system is reset, and we are left with many terminals with plain screens and evident command prompt windows, and Eric is suitably satisfied. 

It's a computer-based dream, and now the Big Bang Theory TV show cast of Sheldon, Leonard and Howard are here working, and there is a woman from the show, and it's a dream so we are allowed to touch her body. Anyway, she gives us all a great wank each. 

Then we are at the end of the dream, where I began. 

There that's it! 

Daniel. 

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Saint Lucia

How to be a fully conscious human being

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My dream begins way back in the night, and at my folks house, and, at the earliest point I can remember, I am looking for my socks. 

My folks are leaving - for a shopping trip, or for a weekend away - and I am in a hurry to get down to the library. But I have to leave soon, or the door will be closed behind me. I also need to find my jumper. 

My parents have left. I have failed to find my socks in time, and I have not found my jumper. In the living room there is light from cars arriving, and young people begin to arrive for a party that is happening since my parents are going away. Eugene has turned up and there are more people here - girls and ravers. 

I go into the back room, and there is a ravertard talking about physics - in particular, momentum. I say to him (among an audience) that momentum is velocity dependent on mass, and I talk about velocity having a hidden property, and I write down the equation for velocity on the board. That is a section of the dream.

Then Eugene is leaving for some reason or other, and I ask him for a lift to the library; the library which I could easily have got there in a quicker time had I gone alone. Eugene says jump in; we go - he drives backwards, and goes the long way around; I am annoyed about that. Yet it turns out that the long way is in fact a short cut to the library - however, along the way Eugene is pulled over by a cop, and I must leave the car, and consequently do. 

I am in the local park, and I find an alternative path to the library, which involves going past and via a certain underpass, that leads to a supermarket behind which (or, at least, down some secret paths) there is backdoor, and stairs, and, with the help of a young woman, I somehow stumble upon a secret level that has a staircase that leads to an underground and secret entrance into the library. I go in. 

It is closing time at the library. The librarian has given me the grace to search for the book I am wishing to borrow. I go to the appropriate section of the library, and I find the shelf I need. Meanwhile, with the library about to close, the librarian has been expecting me, so that I am asked to spend some time watching a video about myself. The video is played on a small television, and a classroom of children have gathered to watch, and the video is intended to incriminate me on some level. 

The video plays and is a series of scenes in which I have been secretly filmed in incriminating circumstances in different dreams. So for example, there is a scene in which I have been in the park, and have taken a shit in the bushes, and there were a line of people walking by all the time, and the cameraman has been filming me. I can see that I have been caught. And there are several scenes like this, and, once the video has finished, we can see there is a scene within the library in which the class have taken to drama lessons. At once, we see that there is a single member of the class who stands out, whilst the others take to acting, and this person receives a nasty smack on the face, from some chavvy young lady. It turns out the recipient is black, and that the attack was racist, and she goes and cries - that is, she acts like she is crying, yet she is really crying in reality. 

And then Boris Johnson, who is familiar with incrimination on a daily basis, is in the library. There is a short time before closing. He himself stands upon the raised stage area, and I am directed to a letter that has been framed upon the wall. I do not know who has written it, though perhaps Boris. I read the letter. 

Then I wish to find my book, before closing. But the science section is hard to find, and all I can find is the law section, and the legal philosophy books there. It contains books I have already read, but am anxious to start. It is closing time. 

The library closes and I am inside. It then transpires that there is a secret "after-hours" club with several juiced in members dotted around the library. I walk around. I find Tamsin sitting there, and she is nonplussed that I have found her: I never knew she was such a dark horse. She is reading on the floor. I am part of the club now. I think my own sister is here. 

But now it is time to leave. I go into an underground passage, and find myself in the stairwell behind the supermarket from before. The lady from before is there as well, and we are having difficulty finding the right stairs to the right level. But eventually we find the right level. We go home. 

Daniel. 

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Saint Lucia

Stressed out blethering

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Hello, 

I don't know what I have to say, but the stress is creeping up, and I don't know why. So the best thing to do is to tap some keys and see what happens. 

I must say, my dream last night was really particularly stunning, and I've never experienced anything quite like it. I've told you about it, so there's nothing more to say, but I suppose I would like to have more dreams like it. 

I said that it was a lucid dream, but in fact it wasn't quite lucid - although that doesn't detract from its clarity. I've never seen anything more clear. When I saw those spaceships shooting across the sky... I said to Joan, "I've had dreams like this, but nothing as clear as this!" I thought the dream was real, and God forbid it was a lucid dream!! Actually, I've not had a lucid dream for a very long time. I've forgotten how to access them. #

I'm watching The Sopranos - the final show of series five. There's one more series left to watch. I've enjoyed it. 

I've been recommended to watch Nathan For You, a comedy show. I will watch it - it sounds hilarious. It's about a guy who goes to businesses to offer help, under the guise of being a "help" show! Anyway, that's for next week. 

Charlie's ill. He has some kind of cold or flu. So it means we can't go to our recording session on Sunday...

We've recorded an album. It's called Prefrontal Vortex - by Two Five Burn. It's alternative rock, well, grunge really. Although it's more just hard rock. I sing on it, and play guitar. Actually, I wrote all the songs, and play most of the instruments. Rob played drums on half of it, and Mass played bass on half of it. Thank God for Charlie, who will be playing all of the synthesisers. Anyway, it sounds quite good. We've just got to record the synths and backing vocals and the mix it and master it. I'm paying Rob a hundred quid, provided I can afford it. But I think he deserves it. I'll pay Charlie fifty quid too. I was going to pay Mass fifty quid, but only played half the bass tracks. I'll pay him thirty. I can't wait to release it. We'll have to do a live show. 

Anyway, you're all up to date. I'm still a bit stressed; that didn't really work!

See you later. 

Daniel. 

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Saint Lucia

There are ghosts

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There are ghosts. 

*Disclaimer*: I'm a paranoid schizophrenic.

You expect ghosts to appear as white sheets, floating at the end of the bed. But they're everywhere - in objects, in another dimension, in your heart. 

People keep dying. My auntie died last week. That night, in the throes of midnight mourning, I said goodbye. I wasn't amazingly close to auntie Ann, but I had a better relationship with her spouse, my uncle Mick, who died a few years ago. My heart goes out to my cousins, Gareth, Kirsten and Cathryn. 

What do I do to deserve these dreams? What it must've been, was that I must've spent the day taking notes from the wrong mathematics book. I'm so tired. But I need to give myself a few minutes to readjust. I've just had a terrible nightmare. Let me explain. Let the breath of God fall lightly across my lips. 

I wake up, in dream, and I'm dreaming, and there are several scenarios. The first is that I'm in my flat, and I'm playing my Epiphone SG, and I'm writing a new song, and it's got the flavour of a Led Zeppelin ballad. (In fact, I feel like I should be writing that song now, but I had to come here). And my flat is my flat. I notice someone has thrown something through my kitchen window; that is, there is a ball-bearing shaped hole in the pane - the pane seems quite thick, and I can trace the trajectory of the ball-bearing, and at once I do so, and it appears to have come from the nearby mental hospital, across the town. But the hole ceases up, and the hole appears to now have been made from this side of the window. And it is capped with a piece of solder. I know. Very boring. I know. 

Yet there I am, in this dark dream on this dark night, and I have a huge house that is haunted. And in dream I am working on this song - I have the chords in my head right now, and I wonder if they really work in real life. But there I am in dream, writing this song, this ballad, like Led Zeppelin. 

And halfway through the night, from the moment when I was going to sleep, to the moment I woke up, I was subjected, subdued, subordinated to the crying of my cats, and they kept waking me up, and I was in Catland, where cats themselves have a real life, a real existence, a real internal experience, and theirs is a huge reality, and I myself was drawn into it, and saw, when I woke up several times, that there was a cat in my room other than my own cats, and it was a human-sized cat, like a pirate size, and most frightening. But there you have it. 

There you are, and there I was, in dream, playing guitar and writing a song on my Epiphone SG, and old Rob shows up, and there he is, sitting there, Roberto, enjoying the guitar, and my flat is huge and there are steps leading everywhere, like Labyrinth. I want him to get a picture of me hanging on the balcony, and I ask him to take it - because, before, I was hanging on the bannisters, and I had thought, "This would make a good picture!" So I asked him to take it, and I've searched all around the house, for the correct bannister to hang off, and Rob has gone off, looking for it, and he's walking all around the house, and he's then divided into two... and there are now two Robs walking around the house, up and down stairs, and now there's a third... walking up and down the Labyrinth that is my flat, and in any case, I found where I wanted him to take my picture, and I waited, to see if the Three Robs would come together and meet over the other side of the hallway, yet when they came together, they turned into other people, and there was now Rob, and Judy (my dead ex), and another woman - a young girl. 

The picture was taken, and now I'm feeling tired. Have you ever felt tired in your sleep? That's dangerous. You might die! But there's a knock at the door, and in comes Eugene, my old best mate, and I'm very thankful, and he's here to skin up and watch the football, and I'm very thankful that he's here, and now Eugene, Rob and Judy are here. 

But they're not here for long. The next thing you know, I've gone back to bed, and I'm trying to fall asleep in dream, and that's dangerous - you could end up in hell. But now I'm alone, and it's me, and my guitar, my Epiphone SG, is with me the whole time, and I'm constantly trying to write this song. But there's a weird feeling; an ominous feeling, so I look out the window. And I don't want to be seen looking out the window, because people always look up at me. Yet I look out the window - I peer out the panes - and it is a dark and late night, and there is a man walking down below, among the Autumn trees, and under the dim lights of the streetlamp, and he's walking away to the right, down the road, and he turns back, and takes a look at me - a deliberate look at me, and it is most perturbing, and I'm nonplussed and scared. The man has disappeared (because he walked away). But then I approach the window a second time, still playing this Epiphone SG and writing my song, and I look leftwards down the road, from my high place up here in the window, and there is a woman. "Don't look up! Don't look up!" I think, but as she's walking, she looks up. She stares for a minute. I skulk back inside the room. Don't strange things happen in dreams? Whenever two things happen similarly in a dream, that's something of which to be wary, because that doesn't happen in dreams; that only happens in real life. 

Then, there is a woman in my room. I'm playing guitar... well, I'm trying to play... and she is a ghost, and she grabs me and takes me. She hugs me and embraces me. She is a black woman. She kisses me and grabs my balls, and I think, "She's going to rip my balls off!" but it feels good. And I'm still trying to play guitar. The woman disappears. 

I walk into the hallway, and there are people there. At a glance, I have seen Jimmy Saville, but I walk past thinking nothing of it. But then, as I go into my bathroom, he is there again in a different guise, and he says, "Why didn't you beat me up?!" So I think, 'Yeah, I should have!' and I push him back, down the hall, and now to the left, in another bedroom, there is another Jimmy Saville, lying on the bed, and a third, and they all look different. It is fucking petrifying. 

I try to wake up, and I'm so tired, but I shock myself out of it, and wake up, and there's Chris Cornell standing at the foot of my bed, in pirate gear, looking kind of short, kind of 'Pirates of the Caribbean', and it is fucking petrifying. I get out of bed and I come here. 

That's it, that's the experience. But it leaves me wanting to have a black girlfriend, and to write this song on my Epiphone SG. 

Daniel

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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

Meal, medication, mum.

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Edited by Daniel Frederick Best, Thursday, 1 Jul 2021, 23:38

Hi. 

Complaining. 

Lots to complain about. Woke in such a bad mood, and also in proto-psychotic funk, from dreams that tell me I could once think better, more freely, and more happily than I can today. 

People will say, "You're doing a maths and physics degree, what's the problem?" When have the nightmares that I have, which are the most horrific psychological torture you can imagine, only then you know the problem. 

So, I've gone out last night, for the first time in over a year and a half, to eat out with the boys, in honour of Ashley, God rest his soul. And we've gone to El Vaquero, which is an all you can eat meat grill, where they keep bringing out all manner of pork, beef, lamb, chicken, in all different flavours and styles. Only thing is, I'm vegetarian (pescatarian), so I've gone for the fish option. Said fish option is all you can eat salad and a couple of fillets of seabass. The meat option was something like twenty five/thirty quid, and my choice was twenty two fifty. 

So I've got there - early - and met Steven and Lee, and eventually helped myself to some salad. I loaded my plate and it was admittedly nice. They started bringing out meat for the boys, and they start filling up. We're joined by some others and they also start filling up. Then eventually my fish is brought to me. It's two fillets of seabass, and it was gone in three minutes. So I sit there watching the boys fill up, and we're joined by some more including Eugene, Ollie, Daniel and Charlie. There's eight of us. They're all filling up on every fucking meat under the sun, and I'm sitting there watching, drinking tepid tap water. 

I brought some photos, of a holiday we all went on to Magaluf twenty years ago, and the boys look through them, and we see some shots of Ashley, and the boys appreciate. The boys are filling up on all manner of beef, chicken, lamb and pork. I'm sitting watching them, occasionally sipping my tepid water. 

About an hour later I get another plate of salad. The boys are filling up on meat, and they are getting pretty full. Some boys order drinks. It's all good. 

The boys are talking and laughing, and occasionally I am noticed. 

I daresay, from these type of meetings, there is no way that the boys can possibly have seen the best of me. I'm quiet the whole time, occasionally saying something, while full blown conversations go on all around me. Eugene is his normal raucous self. People just don't seem to be very interested in me. I've got so much more to offer than what they see of me. They're nice guys, don't get me wrong. But they talk too much about subjects. I mean, for God sake, it's Covid time. How can you possibly have had the life you've claimed to be living. I've resigned to accept that the boys just don't think I'm very interesting or have much to say for myself. Yes, cheese is nice. Yes, I watched the football. Yes, I like strawberry jam on toast. 

Jesus, guys, I've quit weed, I'm doing well on my degree, I'm doing computer coding, I've written a book, I've got a girlfriend - I've sorted myself out! Someone ask me what I'm up to? 

I think, perhaps, with the nature of what these boys are more used to, success is natural. They've all got money. There is at least one millionaire among them. So they don't care about my petty successes: it's all natural; you should be successful. 

So I'm not very interesting to them; I accept that. I was sat so patiently and nicely. I'm off all drugs. I just wanted to be good. They talk loudly, and fair enough - their vibrant enough. And in fact it was nice to see them - nice to see Shneider, Gold, the Kerns, Jackson, Gaughan, and even Silver. Although Charlie has never so much as asked me a single question - never seemed very interested at all. That's life. 

So I've gone out for a cigarette or two, come back, and now the bill has been discussed, and it's come to £280 between eight of us. So they've worked out that we'll split the bill. Everybody paid, except Eugene who has very little money at the moment, and Ollie sorted him out. And it turns out to be thirty five quid each. 

The waiter has walked off before I've had a chance to pay, and he's saying it's all good, it's all paid. But I haven't paid, and I tell Lee, "I haven't paid". Anyway, long story short, the waiter finally comes back and says, "You're right, we're short," and so I paid thirty five quid from my card. 

And I tell you, it was gutting. I've never felt more ripped off. 

Okay, so there's eight of us, and we should split the bill, but Jesus, guys! You just each ate about six times more meat than I even could sniff at. When I looked at the bill, my meal was exactly £23:00. I drank tepid water all night - no alcohol, no coke, not even a mineral water. Why have I just paid one point five times the cost of my meal. You all saw me sitting there with two measly fillets of fish, while you all ate ten pounds of meat each. I have blatantly over paid to the tune of twelve quid. 

For fuck sake guys, we've got a millionaire over there, we've got the guy who wrote Borat next to me, we've Ollie who is paid highly enough. We've got some rich people here. Why is the person who is on a living wage paying for the bulk of drinks that everybody had? 

I was absolutely gutted. Thirty five quid for two plates of salad and bit of fish. That's a tenner a plate of salad and fifteen quid for the fish. It's not good enough. What a rip off. 

Anyway that's that. That's what happened. 

Okay, fair enough, Eugene needed a little helping hand. But that's after the fact. I didn't know about that. You don't say, "You're paying for so and so's meal," after you've paid. 

I just wish there was a little thought. 

So it bothered me. I went to bed, admittedly stuffed, and had a nightmare. There was a lot to this nightmare, but the only part I can recall is when I dreamt that Lee was actually black, and he had convinced me that he was Jewish my entire life, and part of the dream I was trying to twist my mind back so that I could see him as the Jewish person I knew he was. 

Actually, there is no way of explaining the psychological horror that this dream gave me. It's a mental thing, and it has to do with the fact that I'm medicated. I often have these dreams, that remind me that I was once not medicated, and once had a perfectly fluid brain, and even once had a massively lucid brain, with all manner of thought at my disposal. I no longer have the fluid thoughts I used to have, and I woke up fully aware of the fact. 

I woke up in a foul mood, and could feel the antipsychotic effects as strongly as if it I had just started taking them yesterday. 

It's an imposition. When I first took medication, I had done nothing of the sort of thing that could possibly warrant the shock and pain that they cause. When you're hospitalised the law is that they must monitor you for a month before making any attempt at diagnosis, and especially before medicating you. These corrupt part-timers diagnosed me and medicated me within five minutes of meeting me. Okay, I'm pre-empting the diagnosis. They hadn't even diagnosed me. 

I saw Tamsin today at Costa, and I complained a bit to her, about the injustice of it all. I say it like that, in a way which makes people think it's a minor complaint. But the type of treatment I have had is barely even reserved for those people who are criminally insane. For fuck sake, all I did was have an argument with my brother, and the wankers gave me a lobotomy. I know, you think I'm exaggerating. I'm not. Medication is a lobotomy. That's why I'm complaining. Every so often it becomes a real issue. I hate the way medication makes me feel. All patients do. That's why they strive with everything in their might to try to get away from it. 

I'm so tired of trying to make people understand what medication is all about. IT'S A LOBOTOMY!! Mum doesn't understand it at all. She lives in her little fancy world where birds tweet and crickets chirp. Mum, do you realise that a part of my brain is missing? Fuck! It's impossible to get my point across. You can't do that people! All because I had an argument with my brother. 

So I saw Tamsin, and had a little complain, and she understands; she gets it - she's one of us... she's medicated. So she made me feel a little better. 

But once I got home I lay on the bed and started machinating about all the times I've seen psychiatrists, and how utterly stupid they all are. They spend years in medical school, and they learn nothing practical whatsoever. They learn no mathematics: no mechanics, no algebra, no calculus, no matrices, no group theory. They learn nothing except what medication to give to which people. That's judging. They learn to judge, and they spend five years doing it. What a waste of time. What a waste of life. They see someone like me, animated and anxious to communicate, and even though they haven't got the first clue about what might be going on inside my head, they put my behaviour down to a thought disorder. If I'm sitting in an office with a psychiatrist, and this psychiatrist has for some unknown reason been given the power to decide what my characteristics mean psychologically, by someone who is not qualified to know the contents of my thoughts, then I'm in that environment. And they are clutching at straws. Because if I was a drummer in a rock band, I'd be expected to be animated. If I'm in a psychiatrist's office then of course you're going to think there's something wrong with me. 

And all you can do is judge me. That is all you can do. You think you have dispensation over what goes on in my head - you don't. All you can see is my angry face, angry because you're so imposing and rude, and you hear my words, that should be talking to people who love me, who aren't judging me. That's all you can see. But let me tell you. You haven't seen the best of me - I'm not this face, I'm not this body, I'm not these words I say... 

I live in here..... inside my head. 

You couldn't possibly know what's going on in here. Even if I were to write for a thousand years on the subject you wouldn't even have scratched the surface!!

Anyway, long story short, I'm absolutely gutted that life is continually unfair to me. 

There is nothing in a doctor's intrigue that has afforded even a modicum of respect from me, because they have fucked me over at every step of the way. 

Every step of the way. 

Here I sit, like a good boy, doing exactly what I'm told. I'm the worst kind of sheep imaginable. I even like the government, can you believe that? It happened. Medicine has won. 

And you know, through all the experiences I've had, which you yourself could never imagine possible, and all the treatment I have had, all that I've learned is how to lie. 

I'm a great liar. 

I'm not deluded. The things I've seen are real. You are the deluded ones, for thinking that this is all there is and all there ever could be to life. Life is capable of a thousand, a million times more than you know. It is an amazing gift. It is full of secrets, and secret rooms, and secret levels, and secret cities. There are angels. There are gods. There is a God. 

I spoke to mum earlier, and tried to complain about the events of last night. "Suck it up!" she said. I hung up on her. I've been doing that more and more often recently. It's becoming more and more what I do, and I think she might notice. Mum likes to live in a world of cheeping birds and chirping crickets. But that's not the world that we live today. She might not like it, but you know.... 

Suck it up. 

Daniel

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Saint Lucia

Worried about exam

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I am heretofore... drunk!

And now, without a moment's further ado, we are have drunk Daniel!

I am worried about this exam. 

I am petrified about this exam. 

So petrified am I that, lord only knows how petrified I am! 

There. I think I said it. I said it all man. I said it all man. 

Daniel

x

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Saint Lucia

Religious dream of loft-space and the needy and meek.

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I am now going to write a blog post that documents a dream about which I know the meaning already. 

There in life I was staying with somebody, and staying with their son, within my childhood and within a loft-space at their abode. This somebody happens to be a friend of my mother, yet also a friend of the family. This dream is about what is important in life, and how we manufacture meaning by clinging on to past flames. 

I am sleeping in this loft-space. My sister is here, and Scott, the son of Cathy, my mother's friend. Actually, she is my friend as well, and more so that Scott, who is a past 'flame'. 

We all sleep, and it is a sleep over. Cathy is looking after Corina and I for the night. We sleep among many books. I cannot get this idea of the loft-space trapdoor out of my head. The trapdoor is filled with books that I have read, and Corina and Scott and I sleep, and we have a nice night, whilst Cathy is downstairs sleeping with her husband Tony. 

But there is some kind of altercation or misunderstanding that has seemed to have happened between Scott and I, although Corina is not in this event, But Scott and I have had a falling out, and we are not friends. Yet Cathy is the overarching motherly influence, and still a flame is fanned for the hearth of our friendship. I am to leave. 

And in leaving, I want to take my books with me, that it seems I have entrusted to the holding of Scott and Cathy and Tony. I have many books. I have fallen out with Scott, and I must leave and take my books with me. Yet I have left so many books, and they are all inside this loft-space, hidden in between different joists, and some on shelves (what is it this about shelves? Yes I like shelves.)

Cathy is understanding, but Scott is fuming. I don't know why Scott has turned on me. We've just had an understanding. I want to have collected all my books, that have been stored over the years in this loft-space, and there are some magic ones, and some history ones, and some science ones. And I want them all back. And I nearly have them, but there is one book, that they have, that I remember that they have, that I especially want back, and it's a magic book. And every time I collect a book I want, I remember another book. I keep remembering the other book. 

Anyway, I have collected nearly all my books, and it turns out that this is the sum total of nearly all of Scott's possessions. And he becomes more and more humble with each book I take back. I am nearly out of the house. 

Then, we are in the lobby, or kitchen, or religious area of the house, and Sydney Crocker has come in, and yet, Where is my father? Syd is fixing the kitchen, and I have not the excuse to yet leave the house, into the day and onto where I do no know, but it feels like there is a church out there. 

Syd is fixing the kitchen, and there are other characters, like Dean A, and it seems we are in a church environment. And John Kenny is here, and he has some issue with a woman. We are at the church, and we sing our praises, and the church makes a lovely scene, but the woman John (or Dean) has entertained has turned out to be slightly mental... a bit of a broken woman. She calls John (Dean) on the phone and is acting all mad and bunny boiler-like, and I devise a plan to fill this woman's head with lies, such that she believes those lies, and eventually goes somewhere else, from having lost interest. 

The woman, having been lied to, and subsequently having had her heart ripped out, decides to pursue John (Dean) through crawl-space underneath this church. And meanwhile a Hollywood movie has been made, and yet the woman (Jeanette or Alice), she has been spat on, and finds all this going on by popping to say hello, from behind a holy counter, and up from the ground underneath the church, and through a cupboard. The woman is mad enough not to care about the abuse she has had to deal with. 

But perhaps she is not mad. 

Anyway, I know the meaning of this dream. This dream is about those who care about us. This dream is about those we care about. This dream is about religion, and Christ. 

Christ has driven life, and we are in Christ. We are geared and primed, taught and conditioned to believe in the Christ, and perhaps it is a clever ruse, a very wise and cunning ruse, to ensure that we are each looked after in life. 

Some of us fail to understand what the meaning of 'being looked after' is. But just as I am inside a room, sheltered from the weather, I am in Christ's light. 

The appearance of Scott in this dream comes as an issue or nuance, or element of my own misconceptions, that there is something special about our acquaintance with one another. But that is an illusion. It is illusion that I place Scott on a pedestal, merely because I knew him in childhood. 

In the dream, I was taking the books back, and this could be a hint towards the idea of a multiversal existence beyond my own, that is, a recognition of what I am perceived as. However, we know in our heart that such an anomaly cannot be true, but the hint is there. 

This dream is about neediness, and the recursive nature of religion, as a ground. There is something very sorrowful about my perceptions of religion, and something very dour about my perceptions of women in this dream. 

There appear to be two types of women in this dream: the needy, and the needed - and it pains me to say it. They are both my mother, but one of them is a lover. 

I have no reach with women. 

I leave it here.

And good morning. 

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Saint Lucia

Exam dread

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Hello, 

Something is bothering me about this upcoming exam. I feel really nervous, dissatisfied, despondent and unhopeful. I'd like to work out why. 

I know what I've got to do to make me happier - that's if I was doing four or five hours practice a day. And with two weeks left to go, that's really what I need to do. 

So why don't I do that? I think this really despondent, unhopeful feeling has something to do with it. I just need to get organised. 

It's these days. The exam will come and by that point I'll have no other option but to sit down for four hours and do my best. But I need to practice. 

My dread is causing me stress which affects my ability to study. 

Really, all I need to do is to get a heads up on a few little topics. The big one is Unit 19-21, i.e. systems of particles, circular motion and rotating bodies and angular momentum. 

There's a little situation with Conservation of momentum that my head is struggling to deal with, even though it's relatively simple. 

I can only hope. 

I just need to work on these last units. 

So what I'll do is, I'll restudy those units, i.e. I'll take notes, and do some exercises and examples, and finally some practice exams. 

What really gets to me is that there are some people on this module who are already there, and are able to work and revise without thinking about doing other things the whole time. I feel like I'm the worst student here. 

Bottom line: as long as I can sit here for the entire day, maybe take one or two guitar breaks, then I'm bound to get something done. 

They say not to concentrate on concepts too much, and merely to practice. I really hope I'm prepared on the day. 

I leave it there. 

Daniel,

x

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Saint Lucia

The internet and it's place in the middle of the road.

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Hello... all? 

It's a very strange time for me in my life right now. I'm feeling very sober, very clear headed, yet very lonesome, fatigued and frustrated with the world. There are some things I would like to get off my chest, about this situation that I am in, and whether you read or not, it is not a bother to me. 

I suppose I shall start from the heart - well, I mean, from that which is most immediate. I am fatigued and frustrated by the internet and its nuances. The internet tries to come across as a liberal, forward thinking platform for free thought and free speech. But it is a stifling and toxic environment, and you could probably get cancer from trying too hard to be accepted. In music, especially in the eighties, you used to get all types of 'middle of the road' music - music that was safe and trusted: Genesis, Dire Straights, all the rest. I believe what we are experiencing today is a washout of middle of the road content which all companies, outfits and users try to emulate to ensure they get the ultimate amount of hits, obviously so that it leads to financial gain. But it's had a really deadening effect on the psyche and psychology of mankind. Everybody everywhere is trying to be as middle of the road and safe as possible. There's no true excitement, and the only thing that gives us any true happiness is making an order on Amazon. It is a very dire situation. And I think it's really true. But I don't know what else to say about it. We all try to be as amenable as possible, and worse still, we are blocked by the internet if we try to escape these confines. 

The other thing about the internet is that, not only is it fatiguing and frustrating, but we sit for hours watching clips and videos and memes, and reading comments, and we expect there to be something different from comment to comment. Some threads can have a thousand likes and a thousand comments, but have you ever tried to read past the tenth comment. After the third comment you seem to catch the gist of what is being said on that post, and you wonder why anybody took the time to say anything in the first place. It's hard to take the internet at face value in any case, but the point I'm trying to make is that there's no diversity from comment to comment. You do not need to read a hundred comments by a hundred different people, when the first comment says exactly what the last will say. In addition, it makes one pine for trolls. I miss trolls, I really do! And I would like to be one, but when you're as open-faced online as I am, you may be ostracised or blocked or cancelled. 

But about this point on trolls. For me, it used to be easy to get what I needed from the internet. That's because I was always stoned the whole time, and I could make fun of people, and also not worry about being made fun of myself. So now that I've been over a year free from weed and hash and all things Mary Jane, it's been hard to adjust. And I think that in the beginning, I was up for it. I was totally into the idea in which academia was the ultimate goal, and capitalism and monetary gain, and control were the right things to be into. And I think, in the long run, I'll be alright, especially if I remember to blog my thoughts from time to time. But fuck me is it boring. And it should be boring, that's true, if you want to earn yourself a little cash and live a stress free life - I mean, there's nothing more stressful than being high all the time, and wanting to keep high all the time. But in terms of how I'm adjusting... it's getting to the time of my abstinence from recreational drugs at which I have nearly beaten my record - that is, I'm fourteen months clear. Yet I have been fifteen months clear, so you see that I'm nearly at my record. But I'm starting to flake out. Well, I am and I'm not. I'm pining for a bit of excitement, and I'm busting to troll a few people. Trolling can be political, and can be nuanced and clever, or it can just be fun. I wish I was able to break out a bit more and troll a few more people. 

About this internet nuance: where we are exposed to the entire world's population in text on our phones... You know, it seems on the face of it that there are a lot more people than there actually are. You see in the streets - you walk the streets, and the situation is very much a case of "you and them". That is, it's you, walking the streets, and everybody else. We amalgamate all those people into a machination of illusory imagination. We imagine that the collective human, as the 'other' in society, is balled up into one idea. We think "people will think this of me, or people will think that of me..." But that is an illusion. When you're at the festival, and there are a thousand other people in the crowd, that lead singer is looking out on the entire crowd, and all this cheering emanates from the audience, and it seems like there's a thousand souls all screaming to be entertained. But that is an illusion. There is only one person. It's you. Consciousness is one. Thinking is one. There are not a thousand people, but there is only you. There is one person. So when we see the internet and all the millions of comments and avatars, it's true to say, we don't need them. We only need one person. One person can satisfy a man's needs by saying slightly different things each time, much more than a million people can by saying the one thing over and over again. 

I'm thinking of abandoning the internet. Facebook can do one. Twitter's no better. I don't get Reddit. Itunes is alright though, although listening to CDs is much better, much more enjoyable. And I imagine listening to vinyl is much better than that! 

In short, we need someone to look after us. And by looking after us, I mean we need someone to take care of all our needs. 

I have a girlfriend - although, sometimes I'm sceptical of that. But it's true, she is my girlfriend. I've recently journaled some bad things about her. I mean, they were born of real issues I was having. Like, sometimes I don't like to kiss my girlfriend. It can be spitty and phlegmy and not nice at all. So I said these things, and mind you, I was anxious at the time; full of anxiety and not at all centred. I was agitated, and I get like that at times. I was questioning our relationship. I mean, she should be here, right? She should be here, and not just here for an hour on a Monday afternoon. She should be here, but the question is, do I want her to be here? Perhaps I don't, not really. Perhaps that's why she isn't here, and not a reason on her part at all. But I have things I need to get on with in life, and relationships can get in the way. My cousins all have kids, and so do my sister and brother, but I don't, and in that sense I don't have a life - not in the way it's written to be lived. I can do anything I want. I don't know what I'm saying. I guess I'm saying that I'm having to adjust. 

I'm going to stop there, because that's all I have the energy for. 

But there's more to say. 

Till next time. 

Daniel. 

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Saint Lucia

Something to clear up

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Hello, darlings. 

Not my monkeys; not my circus. 

That is the best placative thought that entered my head during the course of last night's failed attempt at a good night's sleep. It very nearly led me into a relaxed state of mind but, by the time it occurred, it was already morning. And now, the day is early and a serious sentiment is rife for the blogging. 

This serious sentiment appears to me as being highly important for the same reasons as I often blog in the past, although those times are usually when I have had a deep and resonant dream, or if I'm worrying about study. I also blog when I've had a perturbing day, or am having a difficult period. And I like to investigate these things, and what better way to investigate than through a personal record? They always come to something. 

Now, I am not a misogynist. At least, I don't see myself as such. I do like to make fun of women, sometimes, as I like to make fun of my friends, and family, and celebrities and politicians. I do not think I am a misogynist. I think I may have said some edgy things about women to certain people, not least one of my best friends, and these have always been tongue in cheek. I don't like it when people talk down to women, or when they talk lowly of women, or when they are vulgar about women... Just like when people are racist - I don't like that. 

And when we interact in society, there is a threshold. With the advent of technological advancement, and social media, etc, we have been conditioned to feel like we have to interact a little more than is strictly necessary. We are actively encouraged to post comments on every news item or other nuance of media; that is, we now feel it is our duty and right to make a comment on whatever topic that is put before us. It is indeed an anomaly. Society is now interactive in a way in which it never used to be, and perhaps we are only getting used to it, or perhaps we have gone down a wrong path. There is no God-given law that says we absolutely have to get involved. This brings about the advent of trolls, and it is a natural progression of technology. I miss the days when we only had four television channels. 

Now, this pandemic, with it's restrictions in the form of social distancing, lockdowns and masks, considerations of hygiene, and conspiracy theories and the vaccines, well, it has encumbered a difficult year. We have had a year of these restrictions and this narrative, in which everybody has been involved. So now that things have recently eased up a little, I guess it's only natural that we should have to relearn to adjust to social interactions.

As soon as the day arrived, I got myself back in the gym, and started going as much as possible. Things seemed to be going well. If you'll remember before the pandemic even began, I think you'll recall that things were slightly tense, and I myself put this down to Brexit, and the tensions of that anomaly. They certainly were tense, I recall! I recall having to put myself through some sort of "beef" whenever I chose to visit the local shops to have a coffee. It was a frequent occurrence that I would find myself in some sort of trouble with some or other man or woman, and so frequent that it started to make me unwell, and I vowed to commit suicide. Of course, in the end, I was exposed to a miracle of nature and science and religion that meant I did not have to hurt myself, and things turned out alright. To a degree... 

Last week at the gym I was standing outside in the forecourt, and smoking a small roll-up. I had had five minutes to kill before I was allowed to enter, due to their new rules of the app. And I was minding my own business out in the open, next to a fence. Occasionally, people would walk by, and pay no attention to me. Then, a minute later, a mother with her child in a buggy walked by and stopped by the corner of the fence. I had no idea why she stopped, but she appeared to be tending to her child. I was nearly done with my roll-up, and had previously tried to smile at her, when she said, "Can you go away, please?" 

"I'm sorry?" I said. 

"Can you go away, please?" she said again. 

"Can you go away?" I retorted. 

It turned out she was upset by my smoking a cigarette near her child, or more accurately that there was a nursery nearby. Was she right to be so rude? I was way out in the open, and the lady continued, "Just be a pleasant person!" 

I was astounded and said, "I am a pleasant person!" to which she looked utterly exasperated and to the sky and said, "You are not a pleasant person!"

In the end I told her to fuck off. I mean, the nerve of it. To literally stand there and tell me to go away, and then accuse me of being an unpleasant person. I wonder what about me affords that effect. 

And then today, on two accounts, something strange happened. 

First, and I don't care too much about this - although I would love to know what is going on in her mind - an old friend of mine was walking past and I tried to say hello, and she basically ignored me. It's perturbing and unnerving, but I won't talk to her again. I think she is arrogant. 

Second, as I was sat outside the coffee shop reading a book, with a recently purchased Americano, waiting for the arrival of my two friends Charlie and Julia, I was approached by a lady, who went to take a chair, you know how they do... "Can I take this," she asked, already half off with it. 

"I'm waiting for my friends," I said. 

"There's two chairs there," she said. 

"I have two friends coming," I replied. 

"Well, they're not here so I'm taking it," she snorted and smugly smiled, snatching the chair away. 

Unbelievable. So rude. 

So anyway, whatever happened next is of no concern to anyone, and I will relate it in due course. But the whole day has left me wondering, what is it about me that these women think they can be as rude to me as they please? 

Now, I'm not a misogynist. I love women. But I haven't got the time for these plain ladies to whom I owe nothing, but to whom they seem to think I do. 

Are you a plain lady? Do you feel like I owe you something? Please explain to me what I owe you in the comments and we can arrange a meeting. 

Yours sincerely, 

Daniel

Not my monkeys, not my circus. 

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Saint Lucia

A plan of action

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Edited by Daniel Frederick Best, Tuesday, 20 Apr 2021, 23:47

Hello!

I feel the entry of a blog is close to my pursuits, and necessary, in that I daresay I have not truly done much in the way of active construction for a while now, and yes, necessary could be the word.  

The things which I must blog about now, these things which perturb me, are all very palatable, and sensible to the ears or eyes of a reader, especially one for whom the prospects of examinations are present. 

I have not worked. Or perhaps I have, yet I feel that I have not done enough, and this is intended in the representation of mathematics. Yes, I have read, and read profusely and diligently, widely and comprehensively. Yet when it comes to the actual implementation of having done some mathematics, I am afraid I fail to be able to say I am pleased with my output. 

I think it could extend to the concept of any physical output, and in that sense a blog post could be the best way in which I will able to approach the situation. It will certainly get me in the zone, I hope. 

But the blog post of current - this one - well, it is finished already. I have already said that the task of writing mathematics has been subdued by me of late. I have already said that a blog post may get me started. However, I think it may help to devise a plan. 

That is, I have completed all necessary TMAs bar one, the last, TMA08, and I am working on that now. I am a week ahead in the reading. I have completed the first of twelve questions on that TMA. Now I must complete the second question, which is about Unit 20, which is about circular motion and contains a rather complicated derivation that uses the reverse chain rule, and which I am not familiar with. I must get my head down on that. 

But the good thing about this unit, Unit 20, is that it pertains to a very question that was asked me by a friend, Charlie, last year, and pertains to the motion of an inverted pendulum. I thought last year that I would be able to answer his question (which was admittedly unformulated, yet contained an interesting model), yet I could not. And it was not until recently that I realised I was able to approach this question by using the mathematics of Unit 20! In fact, this unit could teach me very much in the way of mechanics, and I am pumped to learn about it. I am encouraged and motivated. I will get into it. 

And in this final TMA08 there are twelve questions to answer, twelve problems to solve, and the bulk are revision questions. I must say, and in no uncertain terms, I am shitting myself about the exam. And I guess that is the cause of this post - I really am worried. I am tense, and unnerved, and nervous, and my worry is causing me to sleep a lot. The exam takes place in June on the 11th, which is a Friday. I am thinking about sleeping through the previous day, and waking up just in time to begin the exam as soon as it becomes published, at 12 o'clock midnight. That way, I shall have a calm four and a half hours of peaceful work, and it will pass, and I shall pass the exam! And all will be well. 

I must remember to think about a practice run in terms of using my scanner. That is certainly causing me a little worry. How long will I have to scan in my work? The exam is supposed to last three hours, and we have an extra one and a half for the purpose of scanning in work. How long can I get away with, if the scanning takes less time? This is what I want to figure out. 

And then, once the TMA08 is finished, I will have two or three weeks to delve into revision. I plan, now, to use the time to write as much mathematics as I can, and this involves at least twenty one examples of equations, corresponding to the twenty one units, but also more than twenty one examples. I want to know this course through and through, inside and out, every nuance and secret of the knowledge. I think I can do it. 

So, in short, the plan is: 

  • Finish TMA08 - Do Q.2., and read accordingly, and do Q.3., and read accordingly. And do the other nine questions, reading accordingly, in the manner of gaining a start on revision. 
  • Practice using my scanner, and uploading to PDF - I did this well enough last year, but it would put me at ease if I did this sooner rather than later. 
  • Revision - This involves writing my own version of the handbook, with formulas, notes, procedures and examples within. - It involves writing and performing a sufficient amount of practice questions, and actually doing the mathematics!! - I shall write a list, and consolidate my learning. - I shall do and redo the practice quizzes. - I shall reread my prior TMAs. 
  • Do the exam - This involves waking up at an appropriate time to make a start as early as possible. 

There, I think I've covered everything. 

Now to make a start, on that reading! 

Daniel

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Saint Lucia

The nightmare of the little girl's toybox

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Oh, gardens, gardens! Oh sleepy cinema headquarters, where you can stay and watch the movie from the box. 

Oh blimey! It all used to be so simple! The terrible story of the man with the oxen axes was always that one which put us all to sleep so soon. And at this early in the morning you couldn't blame the pastor for his best attempt to come up with a distraction, otherwise the book franchise might seem all the more unpalatable. And blimey, blimey! The upper echelons of the box-rooms at which many fuckers used to stay the night and wonder why they had so happy a group of friends, well, they were cosy enough, to sleep and read, and read through your comings and goings of the prior years, and all the hateful nastiness that they had brought. 

Blimey, blimey, blimey! Did the public readings of the tomes of many classical scholars give you the feeling that things were going so well, until that time that you could realise you yourself had written a classic. It must have been so difficult to have had to rekindle the times you had been through. And not only having to have gone through the times you went through, but actually having gone through the times you went through! Those were the worst things. But it was never so pleasant actually, and trust was a big issue, make no mistake, and there were the friends and the friends within the night, and the nightmares with friends in them. I don't know why I have to be so scared of these people. However, they are scary when you put it all into context. 

We start, in case you haven't realised, in a box room above a cinema, and I am sleeping. Well, I may or may not be sleeping, but in any case, I may or may not have already had a little nap, or have been watching a film, in the cinema, and one gets the impression that the film was The Pink Panther. I'm pretty sure Maddie was there. Nevertheless, I myself certainly was, and I was reading all the classic books, the novels, the memoirs from my mattress in that upper room, and smoking roll-ups, and it was all so very interesting. 

I think one of the books was by a Frenchman, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, but probably not him after all, or merely Albert Camus. And yet, his book, The Outsider, well it was indeed my own book, and I myself was rather impressed with it, not that it mattered. For the only thing inherent in anything, and that means in anything whatsoever, is the meaning beneath. Whereas I do not know the meaning beneath these nightmares, I do know that a book written in the style of a hapless warrior of the mind would become a classic like unto those which have been written by Frenchmen, or even that other writer, the one who wrote A Clockwork Orange. So that would be a good thing. You could instantly grasp the style, and there I was reading away and writing away in the box room of a cinema, trying sleep and yet smoking roll-ups. 

While all this was happening, and the books lay strewn across the floor in front of a television no less, I received a knock upon the door, and said door opened and it was a long old creaking event, and very ominous, I can tell you. But I tell you this now, I have never been so scared to have been the recipient and receiver of that young man we all know, Aaron, who appeared there fresh from fucking his girlfriend down the hall. It was a strange thing indeed, and, I suppose to keep from being a bore to his new squeeze, he himself was asking, by way of implication, at the chances of perhaps having a roll up. I must add, and it certainly pains me to do so, that at first I was not best inclined to honour this request. Yet the fear that fell off the ceiling, and through his slight and slightly boxer like young frame, came into my confused and schizophrenic head, and I relented and said, "Yes, of course, you may help yourself!" The young man laughed, as though he knew he would always get what he wanted, and laughed also because he had just been fucking his girlfriend down the hall, and I had not been. And it was a scary, scary thing. 

What am I so afraid of, I wonder? I think what it is, perhaps, is the feeling that I myself am missing in action. That is, when all the war rages on around, my worst fear is that I myself and cosied up at the fireplace reading Albert Camus. But funnily enough, there is something that scares more than that. While there are things that have meaning and things that don't, the type of thing that I know has meaning, that is, the other-worldy essences of these little instances of the type of things that go in in my head whilst I'm asleep, they show that there is such a depth of meaning that the whole thing seems a little to vast. And I am scared of this vast meaningful chasm, and worry about the zombies and ghosts that live in the cracks of the things which I am unaware. That is what I am so afraid of. 

Then, to make things worse, another scary thing came from the shadows, merely to scare the pants off me. It was Charlie, who had been down the stairs in another room fucking his girlfriend, and he had come up to see me to ask me for a roll up! What it was to this dual instance of a repetitive circumstance that perturbed me so much I daresay I shall never know. Yet ask me he did, and reply I did, and gave him access to all manner of my tobacco stores. Even though it transpired that the main theme of the dream was whether or not I could keep the attention of a reader in books, it seem that a secondary one would uphold the first, and that secondary one was whether I had enough roll-ups to go round. Yet it transpired that, whereas I myself had thought I was a good writer, and had written all these classic tomes which were upheld in their capacity for quality by a footnote from an old college buddy John-Paul Smiley, the least happy outcome to our little adventure was that one was being exposed in the sense of not being a good writer at all!! So there was Charlie in his playful and meaningful capacity, and even though I love Charlie, there was an undercurrent of thought, that went, "You are a homosexual, Daniel!" or some such other nonsense like that. They all knew it. Anyway, thus run the undertones of a dream like this. 

Then there was a child, and the child was talking to me, and I to her, and she looked Chinese, or like an Elon Musk type figure. I guess you can circumscribe these thoughts when they are you most private, for she was more like a Dean Alexandrou than Elon Musk, yet she had a wisdom, and she spoke and I wish I knew what it was she was saying. Therein lies the tale! 

Therein lies the tale of the nightmare of the little girls toybox. 

Daniel

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Saint Lucia

One-fold syndhams and identity bending algorithms

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The best thing to do - always, always, always - is to write down your deepest dreams of alien technology from the future. 

As I lay there in my bed, trying to ignore the door-knocking antics of my drunkard neighbour at twelve midnight, I began to feel guilty, that I might not be paying enough attention to his life and topics of life content. And went deeper in dream. 

And I went deeper in dream, as Johnboy went further downstairs, and I could begin to hear his voice in my head as the well meaning sweetheart made his way, with dog, round the external vestibules of this estate. I could hear him say, "Oh, it's one of those ones, is it now?" And I knew what he meant - he meant that we are at battle!! 

So later, when he knocked me up a second time, this time the door was unlocked, and John entered, this time with a hammer. Yet at least it was a small hammer. But in no danger was I, because he apologised profusely when he realised that I myself was trying to sleep and was in bed, and he busied himself in my bedroom, as I went to address the other situation, that was that my Indian neighbours, the ones who own the convenience shop over the road, had also taken advantage of my open door and had entered and were inside the kitchen. 

So I went to see about the situation, and there was a lovely Indian woman, her husband, and daughter, and it transpired that we all began to have sex on a mattress on the floor there. 

Then, when we had finished, I went to make a cup of tea, and this time the situation was that Sid was at the counter, chipping sections off my favourite tea mug with a tile cutting device, to the point that said cup was now damaged in the shape of a castle, and was ruined. I told him to stop, to salvage the item, and Sid was indifferent, and went away. Then there was a knock at the door, and a very nice lady was there, whom had heard that there was some good sex available in this apartment, and yes we had sex, and it was very nice, having sex with this lovely white woman. 

There were also two others here now - a man and a woman, and they stood beyond the stairs, and waited patiently. 

Then, when the sex was done, I found myself milling around in the darkness of the apartment, in a wing of the building where, were the lights to be turned on, I would be exposed to the entire neighbourhood. I could see, from my darkened viewpoint, the existence of other members of the estate, and saw a woman at her desk, writing on the internet, or reading, or in any case working at the computer, and I was hid from sight. 

Then I found myself careening up the A41 in my old grey Ford Escort, and found myself coming to a junction, at which there was some Jaguar in front of me, and to avoid crashing into it I pulled into a driveway where I thought I could catch a shortcut back through Hendon and home again. Yet there was some sort of children's party going on there, and I had, at the instruction of an over-riding adult, to perform a U-turn and pull out, and I did so barely missing a small child. Yet I niftily missed the child and was home again. 

Now, inside the apartment again, I began to notice strange things, but not notice them such that they could give me a lucid dream, no - this was not a lucid dream. But I noticed small things, such as the existence and presence of a small piece of graffiti, that looked like a blue third eye, written upon the ceiling of the kitchen. And I wondered how on Earth it could have gotten there since I had not let anyone inside the flat, and concluded that someone, some strange spirit or woke individual, had access to my flat. How many other people had access to my flat? It was a strange circumstance. Yet I accepted it, and went to sleep. 

And I went to sleep in the dream, in my bed, and dreamed lucidly of a friend of mine, Mr Warman, and told him, in dream, to give me a call on the phone as soon as possible. 

So I woke up, from that dream, to a phone call from an unknown number, and answered it. It was someone asking to speak to Daniel Best. "Who is this?" I queried. He gave me a name, and suggested that he was responding to a request by some authority to give me a call. I realised that this was the result of my request that Mr Warman phone me, and that something special was happening. As we began to speak, like unto the manner of a phone call that I received from a fellow student at the OU quite recently, my apartment shifted and changed, and I realised I was atop a great bridge that overlooked a motorway or river far, far down the side of a mountain, and at one stage or other it seemed like I was the king of the seventh level of heaven or hell, for my abode was a shifting and changing mansion, and the man spoke. We spoke, and chatted, this new acquaintance and I, of the content of courses, and in a strange language that we both knew, and which deepened our understanding of matters, and it may have been Steven Hawking. 

Then, towards the end of our conversation, Steven mentioned what course he was on, and I knew it, and I said, "Watch out for such and such items of interest; they are very striking." 

And then Steven said, "Look out for something called the 'One-form Syndham' and the 'Identity bending algorithm.'" 

So then I woke up into this reality and google searched these subjects, and only found an item called, "Bent functions", which has something to do with cryptography. 

I wonder if Johnboy really did knock on my door earlier on, or if I dreamed it. It certainly felt real - nevertheless I ignored it, no matter how persistently he tried. 

Daniel

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