I had a terrible dream, my being filled with dread when I’d woken. I remembered every detail of this dream, which is not common for me. I rose from my bed and stretched my limbs, an effort to shake the memory. This dream happened when I was 17, and now at age 61, I still have not forgotten it.
The dream was of me sitting in a movie theatre. I was without a companion, although the seats were crowded. I was puzzled because messages were quite visible on the movie screen. Messages that were not relative to the movie. They were commanding messages, telling me “You are always under surveillance.” “Obey the laws at all times.” “Do everything your government tells you to do.” “Your superiors are to be obeyed at all times.” “Your thoughts are heard.” “There is no safe place to go if you try to escape.”
I’d turned to a girl sitting beside me and asked, “Why are all these words on the movie screen?” The girl turned to look at me wearing an expression of puzzlement. She said, “What words?”
There was a sudden rustle in the audience. A lady shouted, “She sees our commands. Grab her!” Hearing that I’d bolted from my seat and ran from the scores of people who had, in obedience, risen from their seats to join the chase.
“Oh God, what have I gotten myself into this time? Please help me!” I prayed as I rushed to open the door. The swarm of people were getting closer as I burst out into the sun-filled day. The brightness of the day either blinded them, or God had answered my panicked prayer, as none had followed me out of the building.
I would later learn about “Subliminal Messaging”, but I had never heard of it then. To this day I wonder about that dream. Could my subconscious have picked up on messages while I shopped at the mall? Could my mind, not able to reconcile what was happening, force me to have the dream? Perhaps so, as I totally understood when this type of messaging was explained to me.
Truth be told, we just experienced a 3.6 magnitude earthquake. We heard a very loud boom and the place shook. I, sitting at the computer, felt the earth shake three more times!
Our home is in Amherstburg, and we rent an apartment in Windsor. We were at the apartment when the earth moved under our feet.
My husband will be obligated to go to the house in the morning. He was planning to go anyway to enjoy the backyard and the many birds this season. He will fill the bird feeders and count the flocks of feathered friends who sing to him.
Driving out of Collingwood, Ontario I’d noticed brilliant-barren-of-leaves-red-stemmed bushes dotting the landscape. Online-searching hit on Dogwood Bush.
I’d never seen this bush, or most likely I’d never noticed it before. It had been a treat to the eye. Perhaps, someday, Dogwood will grow in my yard. Another trip to Collingwood, with a shovel in the car, and I may get permission from a landowner to harvest some of their awesome bushes!
Now arent’ they a cute couple? I’d say we were. The thing is, Les and I were not slated to remain in love or to have a long-term relationship.
Fact is, it had nothing to do with him, it was about the damaged-me.
I look back in time at that naturally-afroed-white-boy I was so drawn to, and I remember how very much I wanted to spend my life with him. Les was charming and gentle. The problem was, I was unaccustomed to a male who had those attributes. I’d, since age 11, already met so many vile men, and in some twisted fashion, I could not relate to a gentile, sweet, loving and kind fellow. Sad, isn’t it?
But that is what happens to a little girl who, during her childhood, had been abused, sexually abused, abandoned, psychologically tortured and socially outcasted.
Hey Les, wherever you are – I am sad you had to experience the girl that had been me. In retrospect, I wish I had been gifted the counselling and supports I had needed to become a better person, and indeed, a better person to have walked into your life.
Les Jeffries, I hope your life has been beautiful, since me!
I’d asked my husband where the miniature spoon came from, and he’d answered my question with the question, “What spoon?” I’d pointed to the floor at the nickel coin and beside it a miniature spoon. Barry, that’s my husband, had then said, “That is not a spoon. It is a part that broke off my pen.”
I’d thought that interesting, and pondered the image for a while before I’d snapped a photo. Barry’d then asked, “What is interesting about that, to take a photo of it?” I’d smiled and then told him the story which had teased my brain as I’d soaked in the image.
I’d told him the small specks, that resembled white powder, could be seen by some as lost particles from a nickel of cocaine. He’d roared at that saying, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of cocaine being sold in nickels!” I’d ignored his teasing and had continued my story, telling him the spoon was the hidden part in the pen. Who’d think the spoon was detachable from the innocuous looking pen, or that it could have such a nefarious use?
He’d laughed, and had asked, “How does this stuff get into your head?” I’d smiled at him, not replying. After all, I didn’t know the answer to that question.
When she came into my home and had the nerve to turn my naked wooden lady to the wall, I had been upset. Who has the nerve to enter another person’s home and dare to move objects they deem objectionable? Isn’t it the rule is for the offended to simply leave?
After the obnoxious woman finally left my home, I found reasons to laugh at her rude behaviour! It was obvious she had no understanding of the arts. The naked body has been sculpted for untold centuries. She deems herself an artist of sorts, so her action was telling, of her lack of artist’s eye.
I looked at my wooden lady, purchased at a local thrift shop, and smiled. When I turned her face forward again, I noticed her raised eyebrows. I mused, was she surprised she had been noticed and moved or was she telling me it was time I should scrape and paint the walls?