While in Mexico City, I took some LSD and then headed for the room of Mike Saxby (a British friend whom I had met in Mexico City in early 1978). As I walked up the stairs in the hall where he was living, I thought to myself that I wouldn't be reading any great books while on the LSD; I would simply be doing mundane things in the room with Mike and Augusto (a Columbian fellow whom I had also met in Mexico City).

Mike wasn't in his room when I arrived, but I walked inside anyway. After sitting down, I began imagining how distorted Mike's face would look and I wondered whether I would be able to confront him while under the influence of the LSD.

The disorderly room was cluttered with many things strewn all about. Out of my pocket I pulled some off-white scraps of paper with a few words written on them and placed them on the bed and the dresser.

I began to feel the effects of the LSD, and when Mike finally walked into the room, I told him I had taken the LSD. He told me he thought the LSD wasn't pure and that it contained another mixed-in chemical. I wasn't really sure what kind of LSD I had taken, but I agreed with him, and I began to feel as if the LSD might have contained some amphetamine.

A copy of Tiempo magazine was stuck in the dresser in front of a mirror, opened to a page with a photograph of a man in the foreground and a city stretching out in the background. One could discern the spires of a temple which seemed arabesque as if from somewhere in the near or middle east. As I felt the LSD, I gazed upon the picture and I contemplated how I could view the picture and feel a sense of travel. World travel, however, had definitely lost its interest for me.

I abruptly left Mike and walked out onto the street where I entered a large department store containing practically no customers and I strolled through the aisles. Some clerks were wearing blue uniforms and name tags. The store was clearly loosing money; why was business so slow? I looked at the walls and decor, seeking clues for the store's failure. Music was playing in the background. I finally walked out of the store thinking about how insipid the music had sounded and how ugly was the wasting of my LSD trip by listening to such dribble.

I continued walking around, and although I was alone, I seemed to have a whole retinue of shadows behind me. I entered a room filled with people where a meeting was in progress; a man sitting in the room was being asked about psychology and about being a psychologist. He said something to the effect that he didn't like being referred to as a psychologist simply because he had completed a certain amount of time studying psychology.

I sat next to another man who exuded the air of a strong character and I asked him if he was a psychologist. He basically repeated what the other man had said about not liking to be called a psychologist. I asked him whether he had a masters or a doctorate degree in psychology.

Suddenly I became aware that something quite dramatic having to do with "death" was occurring in the room. Up in front of us was a movie-like mural or drawing which transfixed me as I stared at it. My role as spectator began to become confused with the role of actor and at times I felt as if I were within the mural or movie. At other times I felt I was merely observing.

Suddenly I was confronted with the question of death. I couldn't simply rise and leave the room if I wanted - things had gotten out of hand: I was faced with the possibility of dying. An image flashed across my mind which looked like a picture full of symbols, among which were some white candles. It seemed as if someone was going to have to die. I was terribly afraid and my first thought was that I hadn't been to church in years. Then I heard an unknown, clear voice in my head ask, "Are you afraid of death?"

I had to admit that I was afraid of death because that was the awful truth. The time, however, for someone to die had arrived. I had images of my mother, my father and my sister dying. When I thought of my mother dying, I felt intense anguish; of my father, regret and pity; of my sister, guilt and the image of a white flower under a blue sky.

The images passed away and I stood up before the mural which depicted about fifteen men frozen in various postures seated in chairs. It was clear to me now that the men, although I didn't recognize any of them in particular, were playwrights - perhaps the same playwrights whose names Mike Saxby had jotted down for me on a piece of paper the day before.

I couldn't decipher the rest of the mural, although there was much there. The general theme, however, became evident. One man was walking through the midst of the scene and creating a kind of wave amongst the others as he passed. The walking figure was evil incarnate - and I felt I had an appointment that I must keep with that creature. He was real and I had to treat him as such. Standing before the mural I began tracing the outlines of the work with a piece of chalk.

It seemed as if someone was going to have to die. I was terribly afraid and my first thought was that I hadn't been to church in years.

Dream Commentary of December 15, 2014

Fearing death, I reflected that I hadn't attended church in years.

Eventually, I will come to see the Dream Journal as a place of baptism wherein I will convince myself that I can wash away my sins by publishing my dreams. This can be done artistically, as foreshadowed by my tracing of the playwrights with my chalk. I have at least realized that part of my purpose is to envision a sort of play starring certain members of the Dream Journal as characters. This makes me think of the Dream Journal as a stage within the church. However, since I've previously equated the Dream Journal with the church itself, I don't think I can change now and say that the Dream Journal is itself a stage within the church. No, it seems more accurate to say that there is a stage within the Dream Journal. I'm not sure yet what the stage symbolizes, but I will learn.

Dream-journalists will be the characters in the eventual dream-play which will contain the dreams in which dream-journalists will have broken through into my dreams by name. So far, seven Dream-Journal dream-journalists have appeared by name in that dream-play which will be such a pleasure to compose - when the time comes.

Conceptualizing the church as metaphor for the Dream Journal holds water because of the congregation and the belief in spirituality. Spirituality is defined by dreams. The mere fact that we dream proves that we are spiritual and not physical in form because dreams are almost completely spiritual. Dreams, however, do not prove that we are immortal. I believe that the concept of immortality is a matter of central importance both to members of the Dream Journal and members of a church. Although the concept of spirituality might be important as a force binding the congregation, the concept of immortality may be of more "core" importance to the church/Dream-Journal enigma.

I disagree that all souls are necessarily immortal and I believe that immortality is probably not inevitable. I believe that sin may have the power to annihilate the soul and that the soul, therefore, is potentially mortal. I do not think I am alone on the Dream Journal in the belief in the destructibility of the soul because I know of at least one atheist dream-journalist on the Dream Journal, and surely that dream-journalist believes that the soul has a mortal potential. The distinction between the atheist and me, however, is that most atheists would believe that all souls perish, while I believe that only evil souls probably perish. Which would lead me to want to have a clearer idea of what evil is, just in case it might still be possible to save - with art - this evil soul as it passes through the other dream-journalists on the Dream Journal.