I often have dreams of being in a town between Dawson Creek and Vancouver, on the highway as I'm traveling on the bus.
I visit a small town community center. There are people there.
Then I visit a small outdoor museum at the side of the highway. It has pens for farm animals.
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As humans, we exist in this dimension and that dimension simultaneously. If you look at the human mind as an individual mind, probably not. But it works if you look at the Human Mind as a singular collective mind, then indeed at any given time of the day, there are lots of people in the World who are dreaming and in the dreamWorld and a lot of people who are awake in this World.
The fence behind the swingset. When I get there, as a spirit in the dreamworld, I teleport through the fence and go into the forest. The fence is the doorway. Actual doorways would be redundant in the ghostworld as ghosts can teleport through doors, walls, floors, etc. One is on the ground floor then on an upper floor in a dream thus quickly having teleported through floors. A ghost needs a doorway to walk through a passageway like a fish needs a scuba tank to breathe, that is, not at all.
This is very much like Platform 9 and 3/4 in the Harry Potter stories.
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"Your mother's vagina looks futuristic."
"Why does it look futuristic?"
"Because I'm going to fuck her in the future."
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"For the dead travel fast." Bram Stoker
I am on a bus now. My friend, the late Mark Roy is there. First he is sitting near the bank of the bus on a seat on the left hand side of the bus, port side. Then all of a sudden he is standing in front of me. We have an argument. He is glowering, hovering over me as I sit in a side seat of the bus, in the middle left hand side of the bus. He was wearing a hoodie that looked like a shawl wrapped round his face. Spectral. I felt threatened. Mark can be a very angry guy. Remembering Prince Philip, I say to him succinctly. "I have connections with the British Royal Family." He then leaves and sits in the back of the bus. I then go to the exit doors. He's there too. I tell him I'm not afraid of him, I think, this part is sketchy.
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The story of Mark Roy. Mark's been dead for the good part of 20 years. He might want his story to be told. He might, from the afterlife, say that I should write it not for his sake, but for mine. Psychic Marissa Ryan said as much when she advised someone to write their memoirs.
I first met Mark in 1993. Mark Roy was one of the greatest scientific minds in the neighborhood. He was into Lobachevsky, Marcuse, Heidegger, Schopenhauer, Spinoza, Hegelian Dialectics, calculus, Einstein, Sherlock Holmes, mathematical equations, chess. I told him that he was really smart at science. He said, "If I'm so smart in science, why am I still on welfare?"
Because Mark was such a scientific mind, I wonder if him visiting me in a dream on Friday March 9, described above was a warning about Stephen Hawking's then impending death.
One day at a party in Calgary years ago, he shot cocaine for the first time. During that experience, he ejaculated spontaneously. That's when his life took a ghastly turn for the worse because ever since then, he spent pretty much every last dime he had on cocaine, trying to recreate that experience. But he never did. Of course that's ridiculous. Even if he was able to, that would just be a five second experience. Like George Anderson said, "That person appeared normal outwardly, but there was something wrong with his day to day telepathy." That pretty much summed it up for Mark. Looking for cocaine shots all the time is bad telepathy.
Mark got AIDS from shooting up some bad drugs. Truth is stranger than fiction. Jonesing for heroin, he would looked for used discarded needles and then draw up water from puddles and shoot that up. Another junky friend of mine said, "Mark was too lazy to make a doctors appointment and then wait two weeks to get on the methadone program."
Aside from cocaine, at one time, he was always talking about rubidium. Then he re-discovered heroin and then became a hard core heroin junkie.
One time in 1996, just after the time Mark got AIDS, Mark was in an alley. He found a bag of crack in the hollow of a dumpster handle. He put it back there. An angry dealer accused him of taking a bag of crack that was hidden in the hollow of a dumpster handle. Mark said he didn't take it. The dealer took out two needles, one in either hand, aiming for Mark's eyes. The angry dealer made a point of holding up the needles, one in each hand, each hand a clenched fist holding the needles before attacking. The needles each embedded in Mark's temples. One of them entered and exited cleanly but the other one busted off and ended up in Mark's eye socket bone.
Mark was a very angry guy. One time at a Chinese restaurant, he yelled at a waitress loudly, "HEY!!!" as if she were a dog. Another time, when he was in an AIDS sickened state, 70 pounds soaking wet, we walked into a restaurant. Some people were sitting at a table. Mark said, "I want to sit here." They told him to go away. He took off the hood of the hoodie he was wearing. He looked like a demon from hell, and he yelled at them, "Can't you see I'm sick?!!!!"
Mark died from a self administered heroin overdose in April 2003 at the age of 41.
I feel guilty for having called Mark a parasite one time. I don't think he blames me for his death. Calling someone a parasite wouldn't kill a person. Shooting up used needles with water drawn up from rain puddles however would kill a person.
Mark has retained his angry personality into the afterlife. Snarky Marky.
Hermann Hesse's Demian mentions the mark of Cain. Mark had or was the mark of cocaine.
"Hey. I got something to say. It's better to burn out, than to fade away!" Def Leppard
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