The Western Gate

Apt it is that I have awoke in dream in Kensington Gardens, where little puck bred Pan was conceived or at least based.
It is here I often dream awake. I drive past these gardens every day to work, gated gardens for the rich and affluent in Notting Hill whose houses border them, their own sanctuary, theirs! Not ours. Yes, they are fenced, but you cannot fence the mind of remote viewers or certainly as I, the lucid dreamer.
I meet Rumi here. For those that have been introduced to this before in these blogs will know, perhaps it is that great Poet, he shares my birthday after all, so he says, he calls me ‘Badru’, which I have since found out is Arabic meaning “Born on ‘Full Moon”, at least that’s what I’ve been told, it might just mean Full Moon. It’s these details in lucid dream that both confirm there is something more than just my own subjective input, and when I am told things in lucid dream, knowledge I cannot recall ever being a witness to before, how does it arise? Things such as dreaming where my lost keys are or a name I’d long forgotten, well yes, they can be explained as the mind having a good clear-out of its subconscious dustbin, old memories it instantly discarded but are still there like the recycle bin on a computer, still somewhere on the hard drive, just not catalogued anymore and eventually it will get overwritten. Well the mind’s not like the physical restraint of the computer but an organic permutation. Imagine the computer is a string with numbers imprinted upon it, when you no longer want information, at that point on the string it skips to the next visible code. Well the mind has two strings, and each spirals about, the permutations are immeasurable, it depends where and which sequence lines up. It’s not a good analogy I suppose.
In lucid dream, things said, or events can overwhelm and astound but there is one factor which, eludes. What is the point of it all, as great and remarkable as some of the events seen, what purpose does it fulfil? what is the point of knowing how the universe began, how consciousness arose, I no longer awake and look at the ceiling unable to move because I have dreamt of something so wonderful and mind-blowing I cannot move. Now I shrug my shoulders, whisper to the wind, “and?” i’ll ask to the same voice that doesn’t listen, or answer. What’s the meaning, what’s the point, so what? etc I damn and dismiss. Its a stark mixture of nihilism and existential misery. What am I to do with this information and lets face it, unless I can go out and pick up a double decker bus or cause a blind man to see, who’s bothered. It means nothing, it says nothing but a series of word babble and theories born even perhaps by the most ardent ‘space cadet’ or fantasist. None of this has any purpose.
“It’s like the Faery stories, the fables and tales,” explained Rumi, ” There’s always the king and perhaps a daughter doomed by jealousy, envy, wanted by lust and greed, there is in the tale perhaps a benevolent Jinn, now of course, being jinn, and being of the nature of creation, that it is benevolent there has to be equilibrium, therefore there will arise a malevolent Jinn. Each then, in dynamism that the story can unfold, each vying to create their sense of permanence. The Good and the Evil co-existing not because the universe is inherently either, but because all things are dual. “
I awoke from this, I understood, and yet, “and?” I muttered, ” and what’s the point, life goes on, same old same old….” It still meant nothing, in the reality and austerity of life, all this pretence and prose means nothing.
I wonder why I dream of Rumi, and Jerome, and Thoth and a host of other beings and persona’s from written and mythical times.
In fact, sometimes I wonder why don’t they all just fuck off, but they are pleasant to me and why not?
“What’s the point? Rumi, without analogy or some strange tale from long ago in a faraway land? “
“The universe will continue,” he said, “time will flow and duality will persist,.” He looked at me, my eyebrows raised as I dismissed his words and he could see I was unimpressed.
“Except,” he said, “there are those the universe does not touch, does not move them, holds no sway or illusion, no attraction or aversion , and in creation this isn’t supposed to happen.”
Yes that’s me I guess, in some shape or form, unimpressed by anything, not wanting or caring and yet just needing to sustain this rubbish flesh that binds me like a coffin to a man buried alive.
“If,” continued Rumi, ” The manifest conjures a benevolent Jinn and by the law of equanimity, conjures its malevolent, then what counters the watching and un-acting person.”
I imagine 6 billon people, there definitely isn’t 6 billion watchers in the waking world to balance the locust plague of want. Even half that, even still one tenth.
“No” said Rumi,” but the opposite of many is one, or none?”
It was at this point perhaps, realisation set in, “ you are a figment of my imagination, as Scrooge would say, a blob of mustard, an underdone potato. What you say is merely my ego bouncing back at me, oh how wonderful I am I decide and then I can be content, arise and continue. We all create a temple and it sings our song back to us, after another manner.”
There was silence from Rumi.
I added… somewhat to reinforce my power upon this abode, to further create division in Rumi’s stance of silence, “I don’t know how I knew you shared the same birthday as me, admittedly, surely though somewhere in my past I must’ve looked to see who shared my birthday, and forgotten… but all this, all this, ” I waved my hands about the garden where long dreams had been experienced, where many wonderful discourses had happened, “It, and you, and all the things discussed, are all born from me, not the universe, not the Devas… but here,” I finished stabbing a finger repeating into the side of my head.
Rumi sat on the nearby bench and plucked a frail violet flower next to him that he began to pick at, taking each petal and screwing it into a little ball, You write Badru, ” he began, ” you listen to these words that emanate, from my head,” he lifted his hand above his head and motioned upwards, “or as you have decided, yours?”
” That’s correct” I said.
I could not see myself in the dream anymore, it were as if I were now viewing the scene as if my eyes, and only my eyes and vision, were there.
” Maat and Thoth!” he commented. “You have a diagram of an image of Maat and Thoth looking westward and superimposed upon the British Isles?”

I do, it is like seeing shapes in clouds, figures in the stars, emotional prompts in an inkblot, that I saw Maat as a seated Goddess being England Scotland and Wales, and her scribe – Thoth as Ireland.

“These are elder Gods Badru” Rumi explained, ” the Grand old Gods beyond perhaps our influence and yet have propagated their seed to all that followed.”
With this he threw the last squashed up petal and then crumbled the seed head in his fingers which he now threw over his shoulder.
“Now Maat”, he continued, ” She commands there three countries, each, let us say a saint, David, Andrew and George, and yet above her head is a feather, tis not her, nor of her, but a symbol to which she is crowned?”
I wasn’t sure where this was going, and felt unease in the dream sequence, as if at any moment I would ever lose lucidity or interest.
” This is the area known, physically as ‘Sutherland’¹ , but it wasn’t always known by that name. Likewise, Thoth will write the discourses of Maat, And the area shown here is this (points to the area of Ireland that resembles the hand of Thoth) named Erris¹ “
I began to see my form again, intermittently changing between whether the dream was my viewpoint or if Rumi was speaking I would be again, a fly on the wall. I remember thinking Rumi had lost the plot, I felt guilt that this, construction I had created I had already began to dismantle, to have used and now desired gone. And I felt sadness as I listened to Rumi pointing to the highlands of Scotland and the western promontory of Ireland.
“These are areas do not fulfil the image or design of human or animal form, but principles? The feather, and the Hand that writes this quill. Just as Libra is the only sign in the zodiac that is not Man, nor beast.”
It was a nice image, I could see that, and yet, I knew I would awake and think again, as I stared at the ceiling, “So what? And?… ? “

Rumi continued I felt he were desperate now, even though he were a construct of my mind, it was as if this ‘Daemon’ before was clawing and clinging to remain, to have this scent of emotion that I had crafted about him linger.
“These ideas, ” he said, “are archetypes, they are not born of the tales of man, but exist in the realm of creation, this area..” he said pointing to those highlands of Scotland, ” was ruled by the clan known as Mackay.”
I suddenly froze upon the spot and for a moment was about to externalize, to escape the dream and awake. The Mackay were my grandparents.
” And this area” he said pointing towards the area of the Western promontory of Ireland was once known as the habitation of the “Gannons” … these were my other grandparents.
” Ancestry and the elder Gods are the same thing, just as DNa is coil of duality. But you know that don’t you?”
He looked at me, and I had awoke, staring upwards, my heart racing, and as I began to recall all that had been said, to memorize so that it was not forgotten, again the thought repeated in my mind,
“and of what good use use is this to me, or anyone?”
….. I had done some ancestry research, family tree years ago, somewhere I must’ve seen this information, and somehow bolted the coincidence onto the symbolic glyph… yes, another underdone potato

1/ These words were was not used in the actual dream, as I could, in the dream, see the areas Rumi was alluding to, I have merely added these words for ease of understanding. Sutherland is the Highest point of Scotland, And Mayo n.Erris is on the western shore of Ireland. Rumi actually said the word Erris, which apparently was the previous counties name, again, I can only say, I was good at geography, somewhere, sometime, surely I must’ve subconsciously received this information.