I was walking north in Toronto, on a side street, just east of Logan Avenue.  It was one of the streets that dead-ends, in this case, just before meeting Mortimer Avenue.

More appropriately, this was heading north along Chester Avenue, about where Playter Crescent would be if it actually crossed Jackman Avenue to continue eastward to Chestnut Avenue and beyond.

There were two gardeners, by a maroon-coloured van of theirs, working in the groovy sunny daylight.

I was feeling so good to be there and in their august company that I pushed off and began effortlessly flying.  I passed these really lovely houses on the right side of the quiet side street.

One of the houses had a beautiful white Labrador dog that stood guard on the front lawn.  The Labrador had white rings encircling the most intensely blue-irised eyes.

Smiling at me, it greeted me with a lovely affectionate bark.  By jumping into the air, it was admirably trying to mimic my flight.  It had kept on tilting its head from one side to the next.

You could just hear its doggone mind thinking that there was something mighty queer about what I was doing.  You could just sense its awestruck mind thinking,

‘Hey, like wait a minute now.  Bipeds don’t fly!  What is this?’

What a riotous hoot!  It was such a gloriously cute, little creature.   Dear god I began laughing, while in flight which I can assure you is rather rare, for this was such a touching and beautiful sight.

It began running along the lawns and sidewalk while trying to keep up with me.  Its little head was cocked on the side, ears pinned back, its little face thrilled as all hell to be party to this psychedelic trip.

Can you not imagine its canine buddies dismissing it, as weaving more tall tales, on relating this one?  I was so riotously laughing that I became concerned that I would prematurely awaken.

This was so genuinely hysterical.  Well, canine buddies be damned, it was so pleased for me.  Bless its dear gentle-souled heart.

The handsome Labrador began a sweet clipped bark, cheering me on, protesting my cleverness while marvelling at just how I was able to pull it off.  Who cares about contact with EHs – extra-humans – trans-species contact has existed for millennia here, with all manner of marvellous creatures, truth be told.

This moment, between the young Labrador and me, was truly rapturous.  Well, I don’t know about pigs but this episode suggested that dogs have yet to learn to fly.

I have no idea what kind of dream my inspiring turn has led to for this adorable creature but the honour is all mine – serving as muse to this adorable blue-eyed dog.

Flying on up ahead, the road became exclusively lined with giant, old maple trees that were full of moss.  I was flying westwards – along Browning Avenue – because all the giant old maples, on the left of the street, were covered with moss on the side that faced the street and was close to me.  The sunlight was above and a bit behind me.

On approaching, in flight, one of the trees to the south – on the right side of the street – had the most incredible trunk-like branch.  This road, incidentally, was a paved affair.  This branch was so thick that it crossed the street going north-westerly.  On the other side, it attached to a less colossal maple.

Over Time both branches had become grafted with the knob, where they had joined, proving a huge bulbous affair.  As I flew under the branch, coming down a little to the street to accommodate the massive trunk, I looked up and back at its incredible beauty.

Surprised was I to see, way back behind me, my pointed feet.  It was as if my astral body was 10-12 feet long when in flight.

My motion here definitely was that of flying as opposed to feeling as though one were swimming through the air.  On such occasions, as the latter, it is then a laborious proposition and never a fun experience as now.  Clearly, this was an experience of being astrally projected.  I was rather impressed at how statuesque my astral body was.

A thoroughly soul-stirring adage this dream proved.  Truly, this was a dance with one’s very soul.  No greater intimacy could possibly be had.⁵

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Dreams, quite simply, are the poetry of the soul.  The preceding idyllic turn was the fourth dream of the second or B sleep session, on Monday, May 23, 1994, while the Moon transited both Scorpio and my sixth house.

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Photo: White Labrador retriever.

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