I wasn't getting very far in recalling details of my dream about The Ideal Woman from Redfield. My memories are very shallow. This would be a good time to remember what I said a few weeks about about the Interior Castle, but I'm not really recalling that either. I could look it up. But let me try to restate it on the fly. There's stuff up here, meaning what I can visualize, like a car, the picture of a car. Then there's stuff up there, also visualized but without entirely conscious thought. It just is. Getting there can be tricky. But the basic move is to do what Elvis advised in Speedway: "Let Yourself Go."
Yesterday afternoon I decided to try for some lucid dreams. I remember reading in a magazine once, along with invoking other spiritual experiences, that there are techniques to make lucid dreams more likely. Some are more strenuous than others. Endurance stuff, like staying awake a couple of days. Standing on your head for several hours, that kind of thing. Another way is the same as sympathetic magic techniques. Such as if I wanted to dream of the girl from Redfield, let's say, I might surround myself with red things and pictures of girls. Another way is to eat strange foods or unnatural portions of foods, anything to get your body out of its normal rut. It's a matter of purposely throwing your digestive metabolism out of whack, knowing you'll have a restless night, but also assuming you will sleep soundly for an hour or so, and in that brief time your dreams will be as lucid as can be.
[Let me pause here to give a legal disclaimer. The techniques described in this blog are "for entertainment purposes only." Do not try this at home or in any other bed outside your home. Consult your doctor before any medical or dietary changes. Like me. I phone my doctor a dozen times a day. "Hi, it's me again. I just saw an ad for Vagisil on TV. And they said to call you and see if it's right for me." No? OK, I'll talk to you after the next commercial break."]
I decided to go with this last technique -- dietary havoc -- which required a quick trip to the grocery store to get some navy beans, salt pork, and johnny cake. With some quick soaking and boiling the beans were softened up enough to eat by 9:30 p.m. A couple big bowls and it was time for bed.
Around midnight I was still awake. The discomfort of being so full was the biggest problem. But you know how it is with this kind of meal, a few hours in and you feel like a pressure cooker. The churning is bad. It's like the song "Locomotion," with the chugga chugga motion. The train's on your digestive track, speeding downhill, saying, "I knew I could, I knew I could!" This is no way to sleep; your midsection alternates between feeling constricted and about to blow. I was sweating through my clothes in agony, discomfort, pain. I felt contorted, twisted in knots. There's a kind of rotting away feeling, a gnawing that doesn't quit. It was exactly what I wanted.
Then it happened. I must have gone into an alternate realm of sleep. I was in a very cloudy place, clouds stretched out everywhere, like looking out a plane's window. There was a palace ahead. I entered the palace and was informed it was where the akashic records are stored. I knew about this place from reading Levi's "Aquarian Gospel of Jesus Christ." I mentioned this to the gatekeeper and he said he didn't remember ever seeing him. So I'm like "Hmmm, that pious old fraud!" Anyway, I checked the digital card catalog and got about 35 million hits on "dreams about women." I was just about to narrow my search to "anima" and more specifically "ideal women" and, I hoped, more narrowly yet, to "Redfield, Iowa," when I suddenly woke up with a most severe biological function in the offing.
The digestive impulse angered me in a terrible way! But with a full belly of navy beans, salt pork, and johnny cake, and the churning that always goes with it, even more than "She," this impulse is something "that must be obeyed."