Whispered Words
Chapter 2

For the sake of stitching together a satisfactory rationalisation of such things I have to believe that multiple universes exist in multiple timelines, so that many different Mediterraneans may exist in different people's dreaming where an Italian peninsula may not have been so explicitly defined. It follows just as surely that for all of us here in this reality we chose to wake up in one which has been so defined.

I have to believe that for certain cosmic dreamers here on Earth, all points in the unfolding of time exist virtually simultaneously. There may be only a few such dreamers, but their number is an insignificant consideration when just a few of them are able to transcend the reality we have otherwise so painstakingly defined.

But in practical terms simultaneity must be cast against the background of identities which have a consistent character throughout the extent of all existence. In the case of Italy and Sicily this will involve the modelling of sinful and faithful behaviours by their respective social actors. The existence of a potentially simultaneous multi-verse doesn't mean there's not a lot of waiting for component elements to come to fruition. On the contrary the existence of a multi-verse suggests that such elements are coordinated by a vastly intricate clockwork, and that waiting is a necessary tedium which persists even while such actors are asleep and dreaming.

Such dreamers won't be limited to human ones by any means, indeed some of the most interesting dreamers in this age of ecological uncertainty are shadowy figures such as spiders and corona viruses. An alliance with some of these cosmic dreamers may entail access to vast stretches of time which exist in close proximity for such dreamers.

Nevertheless the mechanism facilitating an alliance of this sort may be found in the time spent waiting for a bridge to be built between the two worlds within the multi-verse. To draw an analogy it's like waiting for two distant doors within the expanse of time to synchronize so that a crossing may be undertaken by the two respective parties.

But in more practical terms it's like waiting for an opportunity to fulfil one's destiny. In my case I've been waiting a long time for a context in which I could say the things I've been telling you about. I've been ready for a while, but actually putting the bits together on a printed page has been tedious and painstaking. I've been orbiting the bits of thinking for many years through a couple of volumes of my work, and I'm only just getting to the point of it all now. It may be a thing too subtle for you to see, but arriving at this point depended on an ability to negotiate a dreamed reality.

People are pulling things out of their dreaming all the time, in spite of whether or not they realise that this is where it's coming from. Creative people, people like inventors or artists or creators of any sort, are pulling ideas out of their imagination, and in terms of my own creativity I liken this imagination to an island of dreaming. They then make their ideas part of history by giving them a physical form, and in spite of whatever else may have been said about creativity, they're fishing these things out of the sea of feeling. And this is so, not only for all of us as humans, but for all living things, not least of which are the little spiders and corona viruses.

The relationship between these creative individuals and the sea of feeling is not so much one where individuals select imagery according to their random fancy. The sea of feeling is more like the surface of a purposeful dreamer who then selects members in possession of a nature which is consistent with the fulfilment of its purposes. In terms of the planetary dreamer the sea of feeling is like an organ, a touch sensitive skin if you please, which is one component of the integral planetary being. It is this being who does the dreaming, the sea of feeling is the medium by which the planet's purposes are transmitted to its members, and the creatures on this planet are the instruments of their fulfilment.

You will no doubt have noticed that much of this depends on the blurring of some strict definitions. The definitions at risk are thinking, feeling and dreaming which I suspect can be reduced to an identity which has a graded continuum. Thinking, feeling and dreaming are graduated states of consciousness which differ only in terms of their relative wakefulness. The utility of a continuum such as this is its ability to locate feeling half way between thinking and dreaming where it behaves like a medium which negotiates the relationship between these states of consciousness.

The point I have been orbiting, and which I am only just getting to now, is that endings exist as an island of dreaming in the sea of feeling before their beginnings are even started. In the case of my father's conception, for example, the day of his birth would have existed unconsciously in my grandmother's feelings for some time, and the flurry of practicalities surrounding the timing of her pregnancy would have followed paradoxically about nine months earlier. The fairly reliable proof of this will have been her perfect innocence of what she was doing with respect to the pattern among our names and birthdays. I suspect that my mother was blessed with a dream with which to inspire her family planning but I doubt that my grandmother had any knowledge of what her behaviour would ultimately mean to me. Up until my mother had her dream I doubt that anyone was conscious of what was about to happen to our family but I suspect that the whole haphazard project was a preface to the emergence of my dreaming on this world.

My grandmother's reproductive behaviour early in 1922 was perfectly spontaneous, having very little consideration of its consequences, and yet it was in such accord with the little island of dreaming I ultimately came from. I can be sure of her spontaneity because my father was the child of an illicit affair. My grandmother was 23 when she fell pregnant with my father, and was not married to my grandfather who was an actor born in 1863, and so he was much older than her. He was in fact 59 at this time, and was three years older than my great grandfather which would have been a scandalous disappointment to her, and her entire family. Not surprisingly, my father grew up in an orphan home, and it was not until 1933 that my grandmother married Lt. Col. William Beckwith who kindly gave my father his surname when he adopted him.

I can't overestimate the significance of my father's birth date and initials in my subsequent development and publication of the host model theory, yet in any other context they would appear to have been virtually randomly selected. I spent many long and painful years in conflict with my mother which took a decisive turn when I discovered the pattern among our names and birth dates. We had very different views about the role I should be playing on this planet; I was making an effort to avoid properly dealing with the host model, and it was only in the context of this pattern that I felt equipped to boldly confront it. You may want to doubt the significance of these otherwise seemingly random factors, but in view of the timely emergence of the host model you will surely concede that their simultaneous occurrence was unlikely to be coincidental.

If you happen to be partial to this concession then you will probably be open to the inference that my publication of the host model story in October of 2008 was the ultimate objective of that fateful dalliance my grandmother entertained early in 1922. The only question remaining is one of how this is even possible, and the answer to which may be crafted in terms of my simultaneous dwelling on an island of dreaming surrounded by her sea of feeling. The alternative would involve the activity of an agency of some sort, such as a secret cabal of British intelligence officers or some ghostly spirit of some sort, but I prefer the mechanism I've been relating to you here. Everything is metaphor in a universe defined by the infinite regression of abstractions, and the oceans and islands here on Earth are a metaphor for the relationship between feeling and dreaming.

In view of the historic circumstances surrounding the emergence of the host model theory, I can't ignore the rising crescendo of drama seen on this planet over the course of the last hundred years or so. In terms of the experience of my family during this interval, I must conclude that the precise date and hour of its publication had been foreseen by a cosmic dreamer, and so the preliminary work of setting it all up some 87 years earlier could now begin.

My family's example of how a dreamed reality is embodied over the course of ages is consistent with other such examples, such as the shapes of Italy and the British Isles, but the planet is virtually littered with countless other examples on different scales of existence. You could look at almost any provocative geological formation and see how a similarly dreamed reality was embodied, but really each and every one of us is no less involved in the unfolding cosmic drama. I particularly admire the Beatles, for example, and how they were lucky enough to intersect with such a deep pool of feeling. This feeling may have waited a long time for the small group of receptive individuals to dip into it, and model those timeless melodies and lyrical sentiments, but wait it surely did. You may have observed something similar in your own experiences, something which defies your ability to explain, but which became a memory you could compare your other experiences with. I'd now like to tell you about a couple of examples from my own experiences.

It was the winter of 1980, and I was getting ready to fly to London to meet an old flame with whom I hoped to patch things up. I was mostly saving money which took a while with the modest means I had at my disposal, but it was at this time that I began to take an interest in visiting the pyramids at Giza on the western edge of Cairo. I was smoking a little cannabis, I was observing some perceptual aberrations even in a state of sobriety, and so I was on the lookout for further evidence of peculiarity.

It was three or four months to my departure date when I had a strange dream just before waking up one morning. It was a brightly coloured dream which was unusual because my dreams were usually dull and grey. It was a very simple dream consisting entirely of a triangular window which served as a gable beneath a pitched roof, and it had a wooden frame with a circular glass inset cut into the window surrounded by wood of the same colour and design. There was nothing else remarkable about this dream but I woke from it immediately wondering what its meaning could have been. It may not have been particularly remarkable but it made a lasting impression on my memory which persists even to this day.

The day of departure arrived without having a clear idea about where I was going to meet this girl. I gathered and hoped that she would be there at the arrivals gate at London Heathrow but I wasn't particularly surprised when I couldn't find her there. This was my first venture overseas so navigating an unknown and complex airport was a bit hit and miss, and I stumbled blindly forward thinking about where else I could possibly meet her. I was still in a daze when I ascended an escalator, and at the top I turned around only to be confronted with the very gabled window I had seen in that dream several months earlier. I stood there shocked but not thinking for only a moment because I happened to glance back down the escalator and there she was among the crowd on the floor below. I couldn't think about the window as I hurried through the crowds not wishing to lose sight of her, but later, and over the years I thought about that window a lot.

The other example I wanted to tell you about occurred only a couple of weeks later. I was on my own again. We had mutually agreed that our plan to travel around Europe together wasn't going to work out, so we parted company and went our separate ways. I stayed in London to take in a few of the must see tourist items such as the museums and art galleries, before going up to Yorkshire to visit a friend I knew from Sydney.

I was an art student in Sydney, so the National Gallery at Trafalgar Square was one item I wanted to see. I have a vague memory of being stoned that day, but looking back on it now I can't see how that was even possible. I didn't know anyone in London who could have provided me with anything like that, and in view of my living conditions at the Youth Hostel, there would have been no privacy for me to light up and have a puff, which I would have felt was necessary in a foreign country. Nevertheless something happened at the gallery which arouses my suspicions.

The National Gallery is quite large so someone unfamiliar with it could easily get lost. I had been there for about an hour when I sat down on a padded bench in the middle of a gallery to rest and view the paintings. It was quite dark and crowded, and as I sat there in the dim light I was overcome with the strongest sense of déjà vu I had ever had in my life. It was so strong that I was struck with horror, and as I began to panic I got up to beat a path to the exit, which in the state I was in seemed impossibly far away. I must have looked deranged to the other people in the gallery as I looked here and there for something I could recognise.

When I got back out to the Square I was still flushed with that feeling of having seen it all before, and it was several hours before I felt well again. It wasn't the only bout with déjà vu I had during that visit to England. It happened again one evening at the cinema in the north of Yorkshire, but I know I was stoned that day.

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