Dream of: 17 August 1995 "Sacre Coeur"

I had gone to visit my father at the Gay Street House where he was living. He had an office set up on the first floor in the large back room whose bay window faced Eighth Street. He wasn't there at the moment, and instead I found two men dressed in dark suits waiting for him. They were both probably in their early 30s and neat in appearance. However I quickly sensed that they had some sinister reason for being there and I had the feeling they belonged to the Mafia. I spoke with them and finally convinced them that my father was out of town and that he wouldn't be back for the rest of the day. They appeared irritated to hear that, but finally said they would come back the following day, and they walked out the door.

From where I was I could look out the window and watch them boarding their car parked on Eighth Street. Even though they both climbed into the front, the back door was also open, and sitting in the back seat was a blonde well-figured woman whose legs were hanging out of the car. Probably about 30 years, she was wearing a long tight beige dress which closed around her ankles. Although she was attractive, there was something fake and tawdry about her at the same time.

When the woman looked back at me, and we stared straight into each others eyes, I immediately knew she had had some kind of relationship with my father. We continued to hold each others eyes until the stare seemed to become a battle of wills. Obviously she was a strong woman, but I was strong too. Finally we broke our stare with neither seeming to have won. She closed the car door and the car pulled away.

Almost immediately my father walked into the room – apparently he had been upstairs all the time. He was young and thin with no gray in his dark hair. He was handsome and looked as if he were about 30 years old. When he sat down at his desk I immediately began asking him about the men and the woman. Normally he didn't discuss any of his business affairs with me, but now he seemed resigned to telling me what the problem was, for he knew he could no longer escape it.

As he talked, I put together the story. The men and the woman did belong to the mob. He said the men were "enforcers," and that he had borrowed some money from the mob. I asked him how much the interest rate had been and he didn't seem to know, although obviously it had been usuriously outrageous. Now he was unable to repay the money, and the enforcers had come to collect.

I was surprised that he didn't have the money to pay back because I had been under the impression that financially he was quite well off. He owned several houses, including the Gay Street House, which was quite valuable. Could it be that all his properties were heavily mortgaged? And what about the Gallia County Farm? It was certainly valuable. Could he be thinking of selling it? I knew I had some money with which I might be able to help him, but I hesitated to throw my money away in this fiasco.

I had other plans for my money. For quite a while I had been planning to do some traveling. I would probably go to Europe first, where I had a relationship with a woman who was waiting for me. We had been together for a long time, and I wanted to travel around Europe with her. At the same time, however, I wondered if I would be better off to sever my relationship with her and travel by myself.

I was somewhat bothered because I had learned that the woman was half black. Although her color was now evident when I looked at her, when I had first begun my relationship with her I hadn't really noticed. And she wasn't as attractive as the women to which I had been accustomed in my life. Still despite her appearance, it was true that I always enjoyed being with her and we had fun together. In fact – I loved her.

When I snapped out of my reverie, I looked up and saw the very woman sitting beside me. We were no longer in the Gay Street House, but seemed to be sitting outside somewhere in the country in a peaceful meadow. She was happy to be with me. I looked at her brown skin and frizzy brown hair and was also happy to be with her, although I was still having uncertainties about traveling to Europe with her. We discussed the trip. She seemed to think my doubts were due to money problems, but I knew money had nothing to do with it. I had saved over $100,000, an ample amount for us to live for a long time. Apparently I hadn't told her how much money I had.

Our conversation turned to another topic: baptism. I had never been baptized and we discussed how a baptism was commonly accomplished. We concluded that it wasn't necessary for water to be used in baptism, but that baptism could be accomplished by going into a trance-like state. It seemed the idea was to be submerged for a certain period of time, but not necessarily in water. We concluded that a similar state could be accomplished without the water.

Besides that, we thought the typical baptismal submersion lasted 40 seconds. I however thought I could go into the state for 100 seconds. It was unclear whether it would be necessary for me to hold my breath during this time, but I thought I knew how to do it, and without further ado, I began.

My mind quickly slipped into a meditative state. I became oblivious to my surroundings and the passing of time seemed to slow. I somehow knew the 100 seconds were passing by and I seemed to know when they would end. I felt convinced that 40 seconds wouldn't have been sufficient for my purposes, and that the 100 seconds were necessary. I seemed to lose consciousness, yet I was still conscious.

The only thing which came to mind was a vision of my left hand. I was unsure whether I was actually looking at my hand, or if I were only imagining it. My left hand slowly reached down into the grass on the ground. I dug my hand into the ground and pulled up a handful of dirt and looked at it.

Suddenly my time was up and I snapped out of the trance. I knew now that I must do something. It was strange because I had never had this thought before. Somewhere or somehow I had heard about a group of people who lived together in something like a monastery, although I also pictured the place as a pyramid. I now wanted to visit them. The problem was that I didn't know where the place was. I thought it might be in South America, or in Europe.

Undaunted by a lack of address, I decided to write a postcard to the people anyway. I thought I would write two postcards. One I would send to a city in Europe. The other I would send to a city in Latin America. Perhaps when the postcards reached the cities, someone would know the correct address and forward them on to the right place.

I picked up a black pen which almost appeared to be a calligraphy pen. As I wrote the name of the place on a postcard, I was amazed at how beautiful my writing appeared. I seemed to have some natural abilities at writing beautiful letters. I thought the name of the group was "The temple of the sacre chor," or "The temple of the sacre choir" (I was unsure of the spelling of the last word), and then again, I thought the last word might be "coeur."

I debated what to put down. The word "choir" seemed to make sense because it would represent a group of people. But the word "coeur" also seemed correct, and I thought I had heard the phrase "sacre coeur" before.

In my uncertainty, when I reached the last letters of the last word, I switched from black ink to colored paint. Then I saw that I had messed up the last two letters, especially the letter "r," on which the paint had run so the letter couldn't even be read. I brushed the paint away several times and tried to rewrite the letters. When I looked at my right hand, I had different colors on my fingers. One finger was pink. I would need to try until I got the letter right, then clean up my hands.

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