May 9, 2013
8 mg. Galantamine at 2:45.
Lay awake for a long time and had some vivid HI and audio:
Lying in bed, I hear my mother’s voice in the room, “Dame un besito, Mari. Good night” and I’m surprised to realize I must have been talking to her on speaker phone (as I often do in WR) ever since I took the G and got into bed. I’m thrilled by the sensation, like a plane accelerating as it lifts off, beginning somewhere around my heart and moving up my head. Off we go into the living darkness of HI but still awake.
I’m sort of dreaming about making something in the kitchen, but I’m in the rec room and decide to run into the kitchen from there, only my body is all wobbly. I realize I’m dreaming, and make an effort to stay out of body as I get the wonderful feeling of gravity falling away from beneath me, but no go.
The roiling black-and-white of HI is like being in a really dark nightclub crowded with attractive men and women, like a cosmic dance floor as I move very closely among them, their faces turning and changing as the Beatles play, “Come on come on, baby, twist and shout, come on come on, baby, let it all out!” and I’m dancing, shaking my shoulders, knowing I can wriggle out of my body, I feel it working, but I’m afraid to actually sit up and open my eyes lest it wake me up, so again, no go.
Then I’m lying on my side on the rec room couch watching and listening to a strange, thin, blue-skinned woman I vaguely equate with Stinger’s mother. She’s discoursing on something, looking typically uncertain and slightly agitated. As I look and listen, I abruptly realize where I am and demand, “Come here, I need your help.” She stops talking but shows no sign of obeying. “Come here,” I insist, holding out my hands. “I need you to help pull me out of my body.” She finally complies and oh the joy of finally feeling myself get up and out of my body. She lets go of me and backs away but I follow her, still needing to grab hold of her upper arms to stabilize and root myself in the dream. I deliberately look over at the Bay windows where I saw Papi the other night, and take a few steps toward them, tempted to just fly out the windows, but I’m afraid doing so will wipe away my visuals, so I turn my head and look at the other side of the room. I remember the door I saw at the foot of the bed in that dream with Papi and abandon the weird blue lady to go and stand before the wall. There is no door there now, but I’m so close I find myself walking right into the wall. Why not, James does it all the time! There’s whiteness and a sense of substance without resistance.
I am somewhere else, a large square space of gray concrete and spacious rooms opening off it on the left, with a wide corridor stretching out ahead of me that opens onto another room directly ahead of me. At first I have to struggle to hold on to the visual and succeed in doing so only with my left eye. Okay, so it’s like I’m wearing a pirate patch, I can handle that. There’s music playing which permeates the entire location, as though it is its very bones or soul, and as I walk across the hard, slightly cool floor looking around me at other people milling about in colorful clothing, I begin singing. Soon I have full visuals and I’m singing as I drift around like an actress in a musical. I have perfect pitch, and my original lyrics flow out of me effortlessly in perfect time and harmony with the ambient music. It’s not a pop song, not classical, not rock, it’s a controlled yet expansive song of joy at being there out of body in a lucid dream. And as I sing (in WR I am not at all musically inclined though I love music) I gravitate toward the room filled with ballerinas in white stage outfits, and one of them is standing on the threshold looking at me as I study her. I’m tempted to walk in there, I used to love ballet and even took classes, but no, that’s the past. I move on and call out, “James?!” I look into a shadowy, slightly cavernous space that seems to be a kitchen, except the little boy lying on the counter looks more like he’s being operated on by the middle aged female chef. I consider asking her if she knows where I can find James, but discard the notion right away and avoid the room.
I return to the main interior “courtyard” and spotting and old-fashioned black rotary phone on a table have the fun idea of trying to call James on it. I move to the table and kneel on top of it. I take a moment to look at my hands, raising them before me to help keep the dream stable. I’m both surprised and amused to see that my fingers are much shorter then normal. “Oh my, look at these stumps” which I think might have something to do with having become lucid with the aid of a chemical rather than naturally, or with not being as deeply rooted in the dream as I could be. I look down at the phone and before picking up the receiver make it a point to look across the room and out a window at a nocturnal residential neighborhood, focusing on a house across the street with a gabled roof; I see the details clearly. I pick up the receiver, put my finger in one of the bottom rotary holes, and turn it once. I listen, but there is no dial tone; nothing is happening, so I hang up, encouraged to do so by a woman who suddenly steps up to the table wanting to know what the heck I’m doing.
I feel myself losing the dream and become conscious of my body on the bed but suddenly, thank God, I’m back standing in the middle of the space. I’ve lost all visuals, but at least I’m still asleep and I can feel the cool hard floor beneath my bare feet as I walk, using the sensation to reground myself in the LD. But as no visuals seem forthcoming here anymore, I think, what the hell, and launch myself in the general direction of a window into the darkness. I’m sucked into space toward a concentrated white point of light sort of like a waning moon, and then I’m soaring, “rocketing” through the darkness. “Michael! James! I’m in hyperspace!” I cry, surrounded by violet swirls of light, one section of which begins assuming the form, encouraged by my will and intent, of a man’s upper body. “James!” It could be him hearing my call wherever he might be in the dream space. I reach for him, he reaches for me, I feel his arms in my hands and his hands on my arms, and then we’re pressed against each other, and then we’re kissing, and oh my God, it feels so very real, his lips, his tongue, his mouth, the most real-feeling kiss I’ve experienced in a lucid dream that I can remember. As we descend into a scene, I find myself looking at a man with light, short hair and a pale, sober face, definitely not James, but right now I don’t care because we’ve landed in a small park of sorts. It’s night time, and there are two or more couples hanging out there, but all I really notice is the squat, broad leafless tree whose medium-thick limbs seem to have “caught” us as I nearly impale myself on a sharp cut off branch. The sharp pain is deliciously real and there’s only one thing I want now. I drape my naked body over a low limb, feeling it pressing into my belly as I hang limp, arms and legs dangling, and wait for my hyperspace date to have his way with me. He kneels behind me and begins stimulating me with his mouth. It feels fantastic but it’s not enough. “Oh come on!” I plead. He doesn’t listen and, I have to admit, what he’s doing feels good enough to wake me up; I don’t care, I simply go with the intensifying pleasure, which stays with me as I phase out of the dream a little before 6:00.