Lucid Journey

By Michael T. Mayo

Dr. Mayo is a practitioner of the ancient art of 'Dreaming.' "Lucid Journey" chronicles his two-year odyssey of lucid dreams from April 2013 through April 2015. This unique collection of his lucid dreams offers you a window into the world of the 'Dreamer.' It is a glimpse of the power and magic buried deep within the 'Dream-scape.'

The the

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael T. Mayo
• Release date: May 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9798986216614

Book preview

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Lucid Journey

By

Dr. Michael T. Mayo

Queens Army Tucson, Arizona

Copyright© 2022 Michael T. Mayo

All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be copied, shared, reproduced, transmitted, or stored electronically or by any other means without explicit written permission from Dr. Mayo.

Library of Congress Number: ????

ISBN # 979-8-9862166-2-1 Print edition

ISBN # 979-8-9862166-1-4 e-book

First digital Edition, May, 2022

Published by: Queens Army LLC

Tucson, Arizona 85711

Our website is: queensarmy.net

Our distributor is: Ingram

CREDITS: Images for the cover was provided courtesy of PIXABAY.

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to the memory

of

Vanessa Rose Ortega

Foreword

This is not my story. I am its facilitator.

I am Dr. Mayo, ‘The Teller of the Tale’

Introduction

Dr. Mayo is a practitioner of the ancient art of ‘Dreaming.’ Lucid Journey chronicles his two-year odyssey of lucid dreams from April 2013 through April 2015. This unique collection of his lucid dreams offers you a window into the world of the ‘Dreamer.’ It is a glimpse of the power and magic buried deep within the ‘Dream-scape.’

The theme uniting these seemingly unrelated Dreams was not revealed to Dr. mayo until after this book was completed.

These dreams were to provide Dr. Mayo with specific skill sets needed to complete an unknown mission, which remained a mystery to him until after it was complete.

You may choose to remain in the dark as Dr. Mayo was in the dark until after he shares his strange lucid dreams with you. A complete explanation of the theme of this book is included in the Appendix.

This is a true story. Dr. Mayo experienced all of these lucid dreams. He hopes you enjoy reading them as much as he enjoyed sharing them.

Some names in this book were altered or omitted for personal, legal, or other reasons.

Dr. Mayo’s Mantra

Nothing is what it appears to be, ever.

Don’t take it personally, even if it’s meant to be.

Every challenge brings an opportunity. (The gift)

The secret is to focus on the opportunity…

Not on the challenge.

Expect nothing… and you will never be disappointed.

The only thing between you and your dreams… is you.

Give yourself permission to fail…

So you can give yourself permission to succeed.

Treat yourself the way you want others to treat you.

Learn to say ‘Thank You’… and mean it.

Forgive others… So you can forgive yourself.

Magic Mountain

Last night I went out early to catch the Night bus. When I climbed on board, every one of the forty-seven passengers was celebrating and making all kinds of noise. I asked them if they wanted an opportunity to have another life experience. They were so excited about such a possibility they all urged me to try and pull it off. My approach seemed to have merit, so I asked Brad, the bus driver, to take us to Magic Mountain. It is a small mountain located on the Pine Ridge Oglala Lakota Indian reservation in South Dakota.

Magic Mountain is believed to contain a portal to another reality. When Brad let us off near the face of its towering cliffs, I told everyone to follow me in single file and pretend I was the Pied Piper. I told them we were going to walk right into the side of the mountain, but if they hesitated or doubted for a single moment, they could lose this opportunity to have another chance at life.

As the passengers from the ‘Bus of No Return’ emerged from the other side of the mountain, I counted them carefully in hopes most of them made it through the solid granite of Magic Mountain. All forty-seven of the passengers survived their passage through the mountain. They all emerged fully dressed in authentic Native American buckskin attire. They were now newly minted real Lakota Indians. I summoned a herd of horses for them to ride. Forty-eight horses thundered towards us. All were paints except the lead stallion. He was cloud white. Each Lakota mounted a steed and galloped off towards the west into the setting sun. The one remaining horse was the snow-white stallion. He slowly approached me closer and closer until our noses touched. I leaped onto his powerful shoulders. We whirled and raced eastward towards the new day and rising sun.

While passengers from the ‘Bus of No Return’ were transformed into fully clothed Native American Lakota Indians and rode west on their paint ponies, I became pale white and rode in the opposite direction on this white stallion unclothed like Lady Godiva. We traveled together a long time before I discovered the name of this beautiful white stallion. His name was Destiny.

In our travels together, we came upon a simple wooden table. On top of the table were three bundles of roughly wrapped parchment papers. Each bundle had a different word printed in large black uppercase letters. The three packages were labeled: Dentistry, Destiny, and Death. Since the horse’s name was Destiny, I chose that package first. I had no interest in Death or Dentistry, so the remaining two packages slowly faded and disappeared. As I unraveled the bundled package, a single white Lilly of the Valley appeared. The next item to appear as I continued to unravel the bundle was a single white rose. The third item was a long white frilly feather from an exotic bird. The fourth item was a rectangular piece of white linen, slightly larger than two cloth napkins combined end to end. I rolled up the linen cloth along its short axis and placed it around my head like an Indian headband. Then, I placed the Lilly flower into the band near my left ear, the rose near my right ear and the feather at the very back of my head. The last item in the package was a book 12 X 16, bound in pure white leather with a gold cross emblazoned on its cover. I assumed this book must be a large Christian Bible.

I opened the thick cover embossed with its gold cross. Inside was an opening into a pastel-colored springtime scene from a beautiful, magical place. Destiny and I passed through this narrow opening and emerged into another world filled with light, beautiful flowers, green grass, and lush trees. On the right side of the unpaved pathway stood a tall man with silver-gray hair dressed in a flowing, white, floor-length robe. He welcomed us into his beautiful world. He explained that he was showing me my destiny. The light grew brighter and more abundant as we moved deeper into my future. When it became clear this gentleman was showing me where I would be headed after I was deceased, I interrupted his train of thought by asking him who he was. When he told me it was Father Time, I knew it was time for us to get out of there. We made our way back the way we had come, leaving Father Time standing at the last portal before the afterlife and exiting the large leather-bound book.

I held it in my hands for some while before once again opening the cover of the book with the golden cross. This time there was another page beneath the thick leather-bound cover.

On it was the words: Lucid Journey

Followed by: A Two-Year Odyssey

As I thumbed through more pages, I knew it was my destiny to complete this book.

The Strange Tale of Matthew Huggins

Early Friday morning, while I was doing research in the third attention, a child suddenly appeared out of nowhere. He was standing in the street staring at me through a plate glass display window in a store. I was on the inside, and he was on the road outside. On my side of the glass, there was nothing. On his side of the glass, there appeared a scene from almost any small town in America. Beside him, on his left side, sat a little Pug dog staring in at me. Not knowing where they had come from and not wanting to act dumbfounded because there isn’t supposed to be anything to speak of inside the third attention, I engaged the young boy in conversation. I asked him for his name. He replied, Matthew. I asked, Matthew, what. He replied, Matthew Huggins. He was dressed in blue jeans and a plaid cotton sports shirt with an open collar. His hair was neatly combed and parted on the right side, which seemed incongruous. Most people part their hair on the left side. He said, when I asked, that he was six years old and that he was lost.

When I asked his dog’s name, he said that the dog wasn’t his. I wondered if the dog had a name, and he replied, Shirley. For the dog to have the name Shirley and for the dog to be sitting obediently at his feet, and for it not to be his dog, seemed quite odd to me.

When I asked if there was anything I could do to assist him, he reiterated that he was lost and wanted to go home. I wondered if he knew where he lived, and he answered yes, but when I asked where that place might be located, he couldn’t give me any meaningful directions. At this point, I moved around what appeared to be this enormous piece of plate glass and out onto the street scene that engulfed me. I stood for a moment taking in an authentic small-town main street, and then I took Matthew’s right hand in my left hand. We turned and walked away down the road. As I did so, a park appeared at the end of the street, and we walked into it.

That park was the same park I had visited several times with my older son when we were in Australia two years ago. We sat down together on one of the many benches that dotted the pathway winding its way slowly through towering eucalyptus trees.

Matthew Huggins was staring at me with great intent and anticipation. I gazed up at the billowing eucalyptus trees, wondering how this place could appear out of nowhere when everything, including Matthew Huggins, vanished. I was again in the third attention, where there was absolutely nothing to be seen.

This whole event left me with questions unanswered, so early Saturday morning, I returned to the third attention to seek some satisfactory explanation of what had transpired the day before. The third attention is what Deepak Chopra refers to as The Field of Infinite Possibilities. Buddhists refer to this place as the ‘Void’ or the ‘Place of Emptiness.’ In The Teachings of Don Juan Carlos Castaneda refers to it as the third attention. There exists in the third attention what I refer to as the ‘Source’ who can, upon request, provide insight, perspective, and other useful information. Since this event transpired within the third attention, it seemed logical to pursue answers from the Source.

I began my inquiry with questions like, Was Matthew a real child or something masquerading as a child? Was Matthew deceased? Was that dog a real dog, and if so, was it his dog? What was the point of the whole experience? Where did that park come from? I was surprised at the answers that I got.

The Source responded thusly, You know, you are unbelievable. There were supposed to be only three possible outcomes from your encounter with Matthew. You were supposed to mess it up, two, you were supposed to learn something new, or three, you were supposed to help in some constructive way. But, you didn’t do any of those three things.

I was told that Matthew died in an automobile accident. He was six years old at the time of his death, and the dog was not his dog, but a creation from his imagination intended to elicit empathy and sympathy for him. Instead of dying as an average person would have, Matthew had a history of stealing life force from those he encountered along his way to sustain his quasi-existence.

When Matthew attempted to take my life force from me, I was absorbed in the beauty of the park environment. Matthew had extracted the memory of the park we were in from me and recreated it because it was the furthest I had ever been from home. Thus he presumed I could relate to his situation, and he thought it would elicit empathy and sympathy for him. His recreation of the park and the small town main street required such an extensive expenditure of energy it left him unable to extract any life forces from me. Instead, I absorbed all his remaining energy instantly, and Matthew Hugging’s death finally caught up with him.

Matthew Huggins was a real child who died in a car accident sometime in the past, somewhere in this country. His real name was Matthew Higgins. He changed his name to Huggins because it included a HUG.

Thatcher

A few minutes before 2:00 a.m., my wife woke me up whispering, There’s something here. There is something in the room!

Since I am a seer, I opened my all-seeing eye and scanned the bedroom, peering into the darkness. On her side of the bed, near the doorway, I could make out an unfamiliar sight. It was about four feet tall and weighed about two or three hundred pounds. It was dark forest green, covered with large scales, and it was standing upright on its two hind legs. Each foot had only two toes. There was a long scaly tail with spiny protrusions sticking upward out along its entire length. Its belly was covered in gold-colored horizontal scales. Each foreleg or arm, if you please, had three fingers or perhaps toes. Two enormous yellow eyes stared intently at me. Like a horse, its head had two large nostrils, and its nose was like a pug alligator.

Not knowing its intentions, I followed standard protocol for dealing with the unknown. First, I put on the rose-colored spectacles that allow me to see something as it is and not as what it might appear to be. Nothing of its appearance changed. The second thing I did was take out The Sword of Truth, which has two unique qualities. The gleaming reflection from its polished surface reveals the true nature of the observed object. And the mere touch of this half-sword can kill any demon or spirit. Nothing of the creature’s appearance changed. It did not cringe at the sight of this mighty sword.

Relieved by this, I proceeded to query our guest. Why are you here? What do you want? Are you a gargoyle? Are you a demon? Where did you come from? Are you an alien from outer space? Do you speak English? Do you communicate telepathically? Did you follow us home from Paris? We had recently returned from France, so this seemed to be a logical question for me to ask, but there was no response. There was only the unbroken stare from those huge yellow eyes.

This questioning process continued for some time, interrupted periodically by my wife saying, Well…Well?

Eventually, the visitor began to share their intentions with me. I don’t know exactly how this happened because I never saw its lips move, but the words were clear. As I asked each question again, the creature revealed that it was a baby dragon, that its name was Thatcher, that it followed my wife home from Castle Hill Country Day School, where she had gone that day for the first time as a classroom volunteer in my granddaughter’s third grade class.

Thatcher said Castle Hill’s School emblem was a dragon, and he was that dragon. He said he was no longer comfortable at Castle Hill. He was afraid. He was worried that Castle Hill Country Day School was closing, so he needed to find a new home. Thatcher felt comfortable with my wife, so he followed her home.

But why at 2:00 a.m.? I asked. Thatcher said that he had to walk because baby dragons can’t fly.

I told Thatcher that he was welcome to stay as long as he didn’t cause trouble for any of the other magical creatures that live here. I took his hand, and we crossed the bridge into Never Land, where I introduced him to its many wonderful inhabitants.

Dolphins, Whales, and Dead Men’s Tales

It is said, the sixth sense allows one to see and talk with the dead. That rings true for me.

Out of curiosity, I summoned Aaron Alexis. I expected, even anxiously anticipated he would be burning ‘forever after’ somewhere in hell.

As I began my summoning protocol, a purplish light flickered from afar, accompanied by a strange sound like sizzling fat in a frying pan mixed with sounds like metal foil burning in a microwave.

When summoned, they usually come, standing there sheepishly by the side of my bed, or sometimes, I will be slowly drawn to their side wherever that might be. As I was drawn closer, the sounds grew louder; the pulsing purple light grew more intense. Then I saw him. Instead of being in the flames of hell, he sat on the edge of the curb in the Navy yard with hands covering both ears; head bowed down upon his bent knees.

The purple light and plasma sounds were emanating from him. I made several attempts to get his attention as he rocked slowly to and fro. Not until I reached out and touched his shoulder, calling him by his name, did he finally acknowledge my presence. We talked at length, but he never looked up at me during our entire conversation, and he never removed his hands from over his ears.

He said they did it to him. He said emphatically, The Navy put me in a tank with water and subjected me to high energy, low-frequency sounds. They wanted to know if that sound energy was safe for humans. They also exposed me to microwaves. At first, it wasn’t so bad, but the effects got worse with time. It did something to the nerves in my skin and my hearing. It got worse and worse, but they wouldn’t help me. They did it; they did it to me. The tales dead men have told me through the years have always turned out to be true, even those of Osama Bin Laden and Mao Zedong. This story may turn out to be untrue, but I doubt in the end it will. Why would a dead man bother to lie when they only wish to hear their story? Frequently, the living lie to me; dead men never have.

We know the military has a long history of denial and deceit. We also know they have weapons now that use microwaves and directed sound, lasers, and high-energy directed particles. If they exposed thousands of military personnel to the effects of hydrogen bombs during the Cold War, why would they not expose even a few military personnel to the effects of low-frequency sound or microwaves or even high-energy particles?

Perhaps it is time we started listening to the dying dolphins, beached whales, and dead men’s tales and possibly even to the words of Edward Snowden, for he must be, if ever there were, a dead man walking.

Aaron Alexis was the delusional Navy Yard gunman who killed 12 people on September 16th, 2013. Edward Snowden stole vast numbers of classified documents from the US government and maliciously released them to journalists.

October Sky

I awoke this morning at about 3:00. I was sitting in an ancient creaky, rocking chair somewhere in northern Mexico. I was facing the mountains to the north. The last remnants of light from the setting sun-brushed crimson and purple against darkening clouds, illuminating split wooden rails on a corral fence in its path. I knew horses must be standing silently somewhere, hidden in darkness. Embers from a dying fire glowed between rocks encircling them to the left of my dusty, rough-out boots. I smell wisps of mesquite smoke from its dimming fire. Darkness engulfed everything. Someone handed me cigars. I smoked one after another. Each was a different size and shape. They all smelled terrible and tasted even worse. This continued throughout the night.

As the first light of day crept slowly towards the horizon, they gave me a large cigar about ten inches in length with the end for lighting turned upwards, pipe-like, enlarged and scooped out. I heard my wife’s voice intone cynically, That’s going to explode if you light it! A hand presented the lighted match, I puffed, and the end of the cigar burst into flames; sparks flew in every direction. Fortunately, the flames quickly died, leaving a robust pleasant scent with a smooth clean aftertaste unlike all of the other cigars that previously accompanied a long lonely night.

As I turned to face east, sunrise lighted layers of clouds with touches of yellow, pink, and red. Eureka, I clearly understood its message now, … and the sun also rises. Everything vanished in that instant. I opened my eyes and stared blinking at the darkened ceiling of my bedroom; my wife cuddled by my side. I turned to face the clock on my nightstand. It was 3:00 a.m.

Thus, this is the craft of ‘The Oracle,’ to create a vision wrought with mystery, magic, and hidden meaning, tailored to meet the needs of one seeking guidance from the Oracle.

From the middle of September through the end of October, the period will challenge everyone. Each person will be forced to do things they do not want to do. The path each will be on at the end of this period will not be the same as the path they were on at its beginning.

As ‘Truthfully Told’ byThe Oracle

A Curse is just a Curse

The seeker’s situation somehow seemed more serious now, more sinister than anticipated. There is a place, the ‘Place of Karmic Connections.’ I never found the need to venture there before, until now. I noted the time before entering its portal, 12:59 a.m. As soon as I cracked open the door, it began vibrating violently in my hand in unison with a deafening snoring sound coming from within, as though some giant lay sleeping there in the darkness. I entered, closed the door, and turned to see everywhere hanging from an invisible ceiling, ropes strung with large glass beads of various shapes, colors, and sizes, reminiscent of a doorway in a fortune teller’s shop.

Ropes hung silently, each someone’s personal karmic history. The snoring ceased with the closing of the portal door. The task that lay ahead was to locate the secret history of the one seeking counsel from the Oracle. I called out in a loud voice the name of that person. Seven ropes remained. All of the endless others vanished. I called again, first with her maiden name than her married name. One among the seven lit up, with each of its beads glowing softly.

One oval yellow bead caught my eye, glowing brighter than others. I reached out with my right hand and grasped it. I was whisked upward into the clouds and then descended slowly into a snowy scene in Germany, where children played, skating on ice. My view moved inside an apartment where this seeker held a small child staring out her window at the cold winter scene before her. She was far from home, away from family, friends, and all things familiar. She was the wife of an American Serviceman. She hated it. She hated everything about it. She hated her life and cursed it. A curse is just a curse.

I was again standing in front of the glowing beads strung a couple of inches apart upon its dangling rope. I reached out and grasped a second bead and was whisked away into a desert scene from the southwest and left standing by a wooden corral for horses. She was younger, standing there by the horses. She was the 9th of ten children, the only girl. She was a teenager. She was angry. She was treated differently than her brothers. She believed her dad cared more for his horses than he did for her. She hated her dad for that, and she cursed him. But a curse is just a curse.

Once again, I was standing in front of the glowing beads for the third time. Again I grasped another brilliant bead of a different hue. I was whisked instantly into a violent confrontation in a darkened bedroom between her and her teenage son, her firstborn son, and in her anger, she cursed him. She cursed him for screwing up and screwing up her life. But then, a curse is only a curse.

The problem is that her father and her mother were both curanderos from birth, for they were both born with magic. She, too was born of magic, a magic that she has chosen not to acknowledge.

So, perhaps a curse is more than a curse when cast in anger and with magic in your blood. Maybe, they can become a karmic event hanging down upon a rope visible only to the eye of the Oracle.

Curandero is the Spanish name for a magical healer.

The Fourth Vision

For the Oracle, the vision is an access point into intricacies for unraveling the tangles of past, present, and future. The past creates the present. The present portends the future. The future is yet to be written. Mathematicians work with probabilities. The Oracle works from within the realm of infinite possibility.

For this inquiry, four visions formed the pool from which the Oracle crafted his admonitions.

The first vision followed complaints of multiple encounters of increasing severity of smelling tobacco smoke when there was no source for the smoke. When annoyance became so disturbing that the client resorted to applying ‘Vicks Vapor Rub,’ curiosity woke the sleeping Oracle who posed this question. What is the source of these ‘smoke signals’?

In the first vision, I observed a string of multiple fires, still burning, which stretched from my periphery on the left to my periphery on the right. Where there is fire, there is smoke. These fires were coming from burning bridges, the burning of relationships, the burning of opportunities, and even the burning of one’s past. The message was delivered via the subconscious mind, via repeated encounters with the smell of ‘tobacco’ burning.

The second vision was October Sky. The third vision was A curse is just a curse. This then is the fourth and final vision.

I found myself standing on a narrow dirt pathway somewhere in the desert, facing four forks in the road. Yogi Bear always said, "When you come to a fork in the road…

Take it." There before me were four separate, distinct paths. Above them, a long white cotton banner floating in the air stretched across the four paths with ‘October 31st’ written in large black letters.

Standing by my left side, holding my left hand in her right hand, was a young girl with dark hair in pigtails. She was perhaps five or six years of age and was wearing a white short sleeve blouse under a denim dress with straps over each shoulder like a jumper. She held an old-fashioned metal lunch box in her left hand, prepared for her first day of school.

The first pathway on the left leads to continuing unending trial and tribulation from the karmic rod of retribution.

The second pathway from the left leads to mystery and magic, the magic she was born into this life to embrace.

The third pathway from the left requires forgiveness. First, she must forgive herself. Second, she must forgive family, friends, enemies, and strangers. This must be followed by never again injuring self or others in word or deed or even with a thought. This then buys her just one day, one day of respite from retribution. Each day that follows then becomes another Ground Hog’s day.

The fourth pathway to the right turned sharply and curved back under itself, leading to death and disillusion, returning to life as a blind invalid in India. These four separate paths represent four possible choices open for consideration.

Creating strategies for mitigating Karma is always an imposing proposition, even for the Oracle.

A Window

At 3:07 this morning, I wondered if I would ever get back to sleep. I engaged the Facilitator. He said he wanted to show me a window. It sounded O.K. to me. He took me a short distance away to the wooden frame around a window with no glass. The frame was made of heavy oak, stained and varnished. It was about 4 feet high and 5 or 6 feet wide. I stood in front of the window frame, looking out into a scene with a dark background where a long line of people was winding slowly from the right side to the left side of the window.

The line was composed of men and women following each other closely as they progressed across the space framed by the window. They all wore dark clothing, and they all had a hat or scarf or some other sort of covering on their heads. At the end of the line on the left side, a single figure accepted each passerby’s head covering before they jumped and disappeared into an abyss. As each jumper surrendered their headwear, the gender and face of the person receiving these coverings changed. The collector tossed the headdress into the abyss, smiled, and then the jumper jumped.

On the right side, where the line was forming, new entrants came forward from every direction, falling into the procession as it continued to form. I proceeded back towards the beginning of the line and found a female sojourner that had clothing that looked rather sturdy, reasonably nice looking, not too old, not too feeble. I latched onto her jacket with a firm grip and followed her to the jumping-off point. When we arrived at the front of the line, the face of the character receiving head covers changed to that of an older lady who appeared as though she might be this jumper’s mother. She smiled at us, and we jumped into the