Fact and fiction merge in the Dreamtime. Many cultures make no distinction between the waking and sleep states. In this way ALL experience has significance and synchronistic events make explicit the assumption that mind and matter are connected. Through symbolic dream interpretation of synchronicity and paranormal events (as described by Jean Bolen) we see apparent seepage from, and connection to, a sort of virtual space where thought directs the environment as in the Dreamtime. The problem with western civilization is its monophasic status. We don't readily accept testimony from non-waking ASCs as a valid form of experience worth investigating. If we were still connected, as are polyphasic shamanic societies, we would heed the content and import of such altered states of consciousness as dreams, trance, hypnosis, intoxication, and the mystical experience that is the UFO encounter, shamanic journey, dark night of the soul, etc. That which imbues life with numinosity and informs (enlightens-illuminates) us of the complexity of our "realityspacetime" (and perhaps those of Others)!

Everything described in waking consciousness, whether categorized as astral projection, precognition, psychometry or out of body experience, can seemingly happen, can be experienced as real , within specific "dream states"/ ASCs. In this way the lucid dream is the dreamer becoming the master programmer within a sort of virtual reality spacetime that is one's own mind! God, in essence! It seems logical that this kind of manipulation of reality could eventually become attainable by humanity-if only it would appreciate, respect, and explore these terrains.

Jeffery Lewis believes that our dreams directly affect events across the globe. The darkest recesses of our unconscious could be influencing events in a conspiracy of unconsciousness. The telecommunications net acts as reflector and director of our deep unconscious desires and instincts.

Even if the dream is viewed as a simple analytical indicator we should attempt better interaction/interfacing with our own minds. The idea of realizing one is within a dream and subsequently exacting degrees of control therein, parallels the mystical traditions of the East. In those traditions, once you realize ALL is mind you begin to be liberated from the urge to experience form and return to the oneness of "Totality Reality."

Virtual reality is the technological return to the archaic astralism of shamanic societies. There, shamen do business with otherworlders-bringing back the healing powers of "big medicine" for their tribe.

Visualization is the key to healing according to many researchers. Jose Silva details techniques for psychically healing oneself (The Self), and others, through mental sensory "imagery." In Stephen LaBerge's Lucid Dreaming we are introduced to the possibility of physical and psychological healing via control of the lucid dream state.

LaBerge details the history of lucid dreaming including the resistance among many researchers to accept it as even possible. He goes on to chronicle his own break through research in which he successfully communicated to persons in the sleep laboratory during an actual lucid dream state.

Once you've been familiarized with the background and basis for his research LaBerge describes several techniques for bringing about and remembering lucid dreams. The ideas and techniques are surprisingly simple yet weigh heavily upon the dreamer's wanting and trying to induce dream control. To become agile Oneironauts, i.e. dream explorers, requires intent, focus, and perseverance.

Those of you with lucid dream experience, particularly involving UFOs and paranormal phenomena, please write and share with us what you might have learned. For those of us still struggling through few lucid dream moments yours could be the story that initiates our own personal breakthrough.

Despite my obsessive interest in these subjects I can only recall about two "UFO dreams." Both of them were remembered immediately following early morning fevers. The first was a simple case of distant nocturnal lights seen across a great stretch of rough terrain.

The other dream was set in a friend's living room during the day. The scene was shattered by a deafening roar from outside the house. I ran outside and stood in the front yard, gawking at a monstrous metal machine which was rocketing skyward like some alien NASA Space Shuttle. But I know that it was NOT "one of ours." As I was running outside, I thought about grabbing the video camera that was in the house, but I convinced myself not to bother. After the vehicle was out of sight I made my way through the streets towards downtown. Once in the heart of the city, I found myself in a dark back alley. The dreary mood suddenly changed to a distinctly surreal feeling, as a "patch of reality" began roiling with dazzling polka-dots! Once manifested, the shimmering blob worked its way down the refuse-strewn alley towards me, "crawling" along the surfaces of brick walls, metal trash dumpsters, etc. Though I was excited and wanted to watch its every move, I hid from its "view". It definitely seemed intelligent to me and I was quite relieved to see it fade into non-existence.

I had my first dream of the Visitors last night. I read all but the last chapter of Communion Sunday night, and was really frightened. The anomaly of a phone call here in Little Rock from my dad was awfully strange-when the door knocked I felt sure it was them-but talking to him was reassuring. I resumed reading until 11:00 PM, and went to sleep certain they would come. Slept poorly, probably because I wasn't in my usual bed, and awoke a few hours later feeling totally normal and perfectly relaxed. My fears were gone but I certainly didn't feel they had been unfounded.

I read the last chapter Monday-not frightening, but certainly not reassuring as Strieber leaves a lot for speculation. The rest of the evening was spent answering a recent letter from Kevin H.

Tuesday night I began Transformation. Got as far as the end of the first section before bedtime. I may have awakened once or twice during the night, but not anywhere near as often as Sunday night. This night I had an unusual dream with a vivid presence:

I'm in a Ubik-like representation of my hotel room, though the bed, if I sit up, faces east instead of north. The walls are rotting wood with large cracks and gaps. The window on the left of the east wall has no glass, and the door to the outside on my right is missing. Through the doorway I see a short expanse of grass, then a gravel road leading east. Through the window I see a larger expanse of grass and a few hundred feet away some woods.

I sit up and am startled to see a Visitor sitting at the foot of the bed looking at me. He is just as Strieber and the rest say: about 5' tall, thin with a large head and large, black, slanting eyes. The actual presence of this Visitor isn't so frightening-it's almost expected-but he's dressed in a perfectly pressed 1950's style black suit, white shirt and thin black tie: the Men In Black!

He doesn't move, but I float up a few feet until I'm looking at him from above with my feet up a little higher behind me. I'm sure this happens under his control, but I'm not sure if I float bodily or have an out-of-body experience. At this point I awaken and
remember the shock I felt when I first saw this being. I go back to sleep and don't dream of the Visitor again. Now that they've attracted my attention, have I attracted theirs? I used to long for contact, but now I'm not so sure.

I'm back working at the gas station. It's night. Upstairs is a naked female alien, kept in a room just beyond the head of the stairs. The door is open. She seduces her prey by spitting a numbing venom on them. As I become aware of this, I try to hide underneath the stairs. She comes near the door and is able to spit her venom on me, first from one side of the stairs, then from the other. After 3 or 4 direct hits in the face, I lose my fear and inhibition and go upstairs to see her. She comes out into the hall. I remove my clothes and get down on the floor with her, then she bends her head all the way around to do 69. The combination of the venom and the 69 make for intense feelings, which persist a little while after I wake up.

The military has retrieved a dead alien body from a crashed saucer and are having the VA perform an autopsy on it in our morgue. As one doctor leans over and peers into the wide-open chest cavity, the alien wakes up and pulls him down into it. He was not dead after all, only unconscious from the crash. The juices within the alien's body make the doctor suddenly complacent. The alien gets up and walks away in attempt to take over the world by making us all complacent to his presence. I run to warn a group of people I went to high school with who are coming out of the lunchroom, but they ignore me and go in to see the alien. I leave them as a lost cause, and keep fleeing.

I'm walking through a typical looking suburban neighborhood on a hot summer afternoon. I'm cutting through yards rather than walking in the street, like we used to do as kids. On the edge of the subdivision are train tracks, down in a gully. I walk parallel to them for awhile. While cutting across a vacant lot, I see a haze ahead, like you see above asphalt when it's really hot. This haze moves towards me as I move towards it, then passes around me. It is a doorway into a parallel world that looks much like ours. It's not better or worse; it's just different. The obvious influence is the fact that I'm reading Louis L'Amour's Haunted Mesa.

I'm back at school in Fort Lyon. Agent Scully from the show The X-Files is here to give us a presentation about her real-life duties as an FBI agent, when she's not taping the fictional series. The focus of her slide show is all the places around the world she's traveled to in the line of duty. She passes out some candy hearts and we take a break. During the break I move to the front of the big table around which all of us students are sitting, to get a better view. I'm excited. Scully comes back and stars to loosen up a little before she resumes. She does so by taking off her outer garments, leaving only her underclothes - bra, slip, panties, garters, etc. I notice her left leg is a wooden prosthetic.

12/30/88 - ALIEN HATE

I'm sitting in this more or less normal looking room. The walls are all white and bare. There is no furniture. A man, familiar to me in the dream, comes in carrying a plastic object about the size and shape of a briefcase. It's a yellowish-white, sort of bone colored hard plastic. This person hands me this object saying something like, "Here's another one we picked up out there. I think you'll find it interesting. See what you can get out of him." The man leaves the room.

I placed the object flat on the ground with what looked like a computer screen facing up at me. No, it looked more like an Etch-a-Sketch screen. Somehow I 'knew' that what this man had left me with was an alien entity. There was nothing unusual about that in this dream. I wasn't sure if the plastic was the outer shell of some sort of cyborg or if it was just the carrying case for a completely biological entity therein.

In the screen were two slits through which I could see eyes that seemed to be floating in liquid. They bobbed and floated in a way that reminded me of that black 'magic eight ball' fortune telling toy that many of us played with as children.

I started communicating with this creature. I could ask questions and the eyes would move up-down for yes; side-to-side for no. This proved somewhat limiting so we started communicating telepathically. I sat there cross-legged on the floor with this object in front of me; hands gripping the comers. I must have looked like a kid playing Etch-a-Sketch.

The alien started telling me how it wanted me to hate it. I told the entity that I would rather love it. It said that I must learn the power of hate. I replied that I thought love was more powerful; had more staying power; was less problematic. We got into a big philosophical debate over the comparative value of love and hate. The alien made some good points but didn't convince me.

Then the creature became very emphatic: "You must hate me!"

"No, No, No, No. No," I cried! My hands were pressing hard on the plastic object. Suddenly needle-like projections from the object started piercing my fingers. I screamed in pain, flinging the box across the room.

The entity sat there quietly. As I was about to see if my fingers were bleeding, a tiny confetti-like piece of red plastic shot out of the back of the object. It fluttered up into the air and then down into my eye. I couldn't feel it in my eye but I started crying uncontrollably.

The sun shone hot and unceasing in a cloudless azure sky. As its unblinking eye slowly crossed the heavens for the hundredth time without ram, large cicadas buzzed noisily to each other from the barren, leafless trees. The shadeless fields were withered and burnt, once-rich topsoil turned to dry, cracked wasteland, suffocating under heavy dust. Nearby, the outlines of a long-dry reservoir were barely distinguishable from the dead landscape; famine and drought had taken their toll, and all was motionless in the shimmering heat.

As had happened before, a small blotch appeared on the harsh face of the sun but briefly, then moved on. A faint shadow darted quickly across the sterile countryside. Now a glint of cold steel was evident, a flashing signal from the indifferent heavens. This time we were ready. Our missile was true, and found its target. A large fissure appeared in the hull of the craft where the projectile struck; enormous quantities of steam poured from the wound, as brilliant flames shot skyward from some unseen porthole on top of the vessel. To our amazement, the steam condensed and fell as rain to the thirsty ground below. No wreckage was ever found, but the strange round ship plagued us no more.

It rained that evening for the first time in months. Jagged bolts of lightning cut through the sky as thunder crashed and jarred the greedy earth. When we awoke at daybreak we saw the reservoir had filled during the night. The pleasant chirping frogs greeted the dawn like a chorus of angels; the long drought was over.

08/8/91 Morphing Helicopters & Flying Saucers

Watching huge leviathan flying saucers in night sky, slow moving, no noise, when I see one accompanied by a jet black helicopter. I say to the others, "Run!, it's a helicopter' as the helicopter shines a beam down on me. Both UFO and helicopter get small enough to enter into the house ... they get toy sized and they go to the kitchen sink area where we watch them transform into liquid, then cylinder-shaped with rounded ends. I don't remember what happened after that. It maybe went into the garbage disposal. All three of us witness this, but when I ask Stan N. about it the next day, neither he nor the others are committed to this memory. They seem to be distancing themselves from it. I am disappointed to lack clear-cut corroboration for this "high strangeness" incident.

I was taken aboard a large, large, size of a city UFO and was tutored by a race from another planet. They were teaching me concepts such as flower healing, language concepts, and other things. My main teacher was a female. The race seemed to have no ill will toward Earthlings, but was puzzled by our mental denseness. I can't remember if I was just there for a visit or taken for good. I remember looking at geometric grid patterns ... projections for the sake of my learning.

I was riding in some sort of transportation which went so high above the Earth that you could see the Earth as if from a space capsule orbiting the Earth. It was a documentary-style dream, As I saw huge mushroom clouds of pollution forming on the Earth, a voice explained how dangerous these clouds were and directed my attention to glowing double lines out in space These lines looked like the capital letter H, without the horizontal connecting line. These parallel lines were said to be what the mushroom clouds of pollution turn into. For some reason, these parallel lines were very dangerous to the universe, and I hoped that the Earth would stop polluting soon. I remember feeling guilty that I sometimes drive my car distances which I could just as easily walk.

The Pale Horse on St. Louis Bay-Summer, 1994

On the first night of a 2 night camping trip to St. Louis Bay, the large body of water which includes both the Duluth, MN, and Superior, WI, harbors, I have the following conscious dream just before getting up in the morning.

In the vision, I am walking along the beach of Minnesota Point just across the bay from my camp site-in the area where I intend to cross the point later that morning over to Lake Superior.

From around a point on the beach up ahead of me a riderless, white or pale horse charges me-rushes aggressively at me, attempting to chase me away. Because I am conscious I do not flee from it-hence witness it-corrupt, turn to rotten, putrid flesh which melts, dissolves in the water of the bay.

In Biblical terms the "Pale Horse" is one of the Four Horses of the Apocalypse loosed upon earth by the Throne of God in Revelation. It is said to be the bearer or vehicle of plague, disease, etc.

Shakespeare Rides the Elevator up

A week or so after the above dream I have a peculiarly perplexing set of dreams involving Shakespearean actors and the play, Othello.

In the first of these dreams I witness Shakespearean actors going up in an elevator in the Prudential Tower, in Boston, MA. The location resembles the elevator scenes in the film True Lies in which Arnold Schwarzeneggar rides a horse up an elevator in a similar tower.

Each actor riding up has an awful double-with him or her-of horribly polluted water sewn up in a sort of crude Frankenstein skin which is connected to each actor by an umbilical.

Following this scene I witness a troupe of Shakespearean actors up on ... what appears to be an Aztec pyramid of human sacrifice giving a performance of Othello , which they seem to be beaming or aiming down right at me, or others down below.

The Hoofbeats of Plague

The nightly news around this time is full of the horrendous disaster in Rwanda-
thousands killed and now, outbreaks of cholera in the refugee camps spreading like wild fire on a stampeding horse from cesspools of filthy water filled with the rotting bodies of children. The outbreaks soon reach plague proportions with "water everywhere but not a drop to drink" that won't cause death down the black hole of demonic diarrhea.

I am aware I have witnessed the Pale Horse of the Apocalypse in action here behind the events of this catastrophe, tragedy, this mass murder. Only humans will be blamed however. No one will have seen the Scriptural programming behind the scenes of these events. No one believes dreams are real.

The Ride of the White Bronco

Also about this time the horrendous murder of O.J. Simpson's wife and her male companion blots out all but the most catastrophic news from Africa.

A white woman, throat slit, lying in a pool of blood in Los Angeles. O.J. the prime suspect. A black man. Probably a jealous black man. A jealous, black male-a beast, but certainly not the Lion King!

The last ride of O.J. in the White Bronco down LA freeways with a Panzer Division of cops behind practically mimics the flight of the booby-trapped bus in Speed , one of the summer's other mega-hits. Does life imitate art? Then who is inspiring this lousy art?

This live art-news event is seen by more Los Angelenos than any other TV event ever. But I'd be willing to bet not one of them witnessed the performance of Othello being beamed down from the pyramid Throne of Dreams. Nor will Simpson's attorneys use such evidence in his defense.

The Triumph of the Blind

The Pale Horse of plague stampedes through the refugee-now death camps in Central Africa. Thousands die, their insides sucked out by vampire bacteria, are bulldozed into mass graves. White Americans by the thousand pray for their relief but do not see, do not witness, the rides of the Pale Horse from the stable for black magic in their own Sacred Book.

The ride of the plague horse through the camps is as invisible as O.J.'s ride across Los Angeles to the site where his Desdemona was found with her head nearly hacked off is visible.

Male rage, right? Black male rage, beast rage, right? In Africa and now here at home, right?

Abused female, right? A Beauty and The Beast show trial that will play out this "tragedy" on one? two? three or more billion TV sets! That's really reaching your audience with your message! That's the Globe Theater for real!

Othello in Blood

Othello is a play about a black man, a powerful, charismatic black man married to and desperately, deeply in love with a white woman. It is Beauty and The Beast in blood.

Iago, Othello's evil buddy, whispers "true lies" about Desdemona, Othello's wife. "Hey. O.J., she's goin' out with that used car salesman!" Makes Othello jealous, inspires mistrust in him ... which finally explodes in murderous rage. Othello strangles Desdemona.

The Pale Horse of the White Bronco can also stampede in murderous rage.

The Throne of Dreams

This summer I witnessed this play, this tragedy being beamed down, broadcast down by "occult forces" from what might be described as the "Throne of Dreams."

Such theater, drama-striking the emotional being of a vulnerable person-is capable of possessing him or her (or history) and making us dance to perform these parts.

Consider the lessons we are learning from this performance of Othello using living, but unconscious actors. Consider how this play will further the mistrust between men and women, between blacks and whites, between men and their emotions, between countries-particularly those governed by blacks-and their people and the world.

Who benefits from the sowing of such terrible dragon seeds of mistrust? What kingdoms are built upon just such chaos?

If you can answer these questions you will have begun to understand who controls the Throne of Dreams and why. And that is the first step toward the recovery of that power for human beings and their benefit.