Tag Archives: dreams

The Times After (conclusion)

   [Short story, by Sha’Tara]

For some time, Lon watched Reuben as he disappeared, then a cry from the orphanage made him turn and run to the ramshackle building.  Two of the adults were already there, calming the children and bending over one three year old lying on the ground, the little body thrashing, if feebly.  Sweet little Amri.

“What’s wrong with her, does anyone know?”

“Maybe something she ate.  The children are chewing on anything they can eat.  They’re all in terrible pain, Lon.

“I know, Maggie.  I agree, we need to move, no more delays.  We’ll get started right now, pack what we can, hide what we can’t carry and go.”

“Where?”

“Ruben said he’d go north if he was free to do so.  He walked west when he left, but you know Ruben – he’d do that automatically just to confuse anyone wanted to follow or track him.  I know he’d turn as soon as he was out of sight, but which way?  I wish now we’d gone with him.  We’ll have a quick meeting in about an hour and decide our direction, then we’ll just go.  We cannot stay here, there’s nothing left to eat, and the water is no longer safe to drink.”

Soon the miserable camp was stripped and obliterated of recent human habitation as much as was possible.  The children were lined up and given a rope to hang on to.  The meeting was short: they would go east; no reason why except a secret vote turned up a majority of two for an eastern direction. 

Lon was bitterly disappointed, he’d hoped they would try to follow Ruben, though he well knew that was impossible.  He left his message for Ruben and they began their danger-fraught quest for food and water.  Already Lon had violated one of Ruben’s warnings, to only travel at night.  Adults took turns carrying little Amri and the weaker children.  The rest of the children began to lose some of their listlessness as they noticed changes along the route.

Evening saw the group drop down into a small gully, to hide and for protection.  Kamal, one of the strongest adults, went off in search of water which against so many odds, he did find.  Everybody searched for edible plants and roots and some of the hunger was assuaged for a time.  Night came and the small fire was doused so it wouldn’t create a glow.  The people slept on the ground, in their old rags.  Dried grasses had been stacked to lay little Amri and two other sickly children upon and each had an adult companion to keep them cuddled and reassured.  The stars came out, harsh and bright, flickering like cold, unseeing eyes.  Unable to help himself, Lon who was one of the sentry detail, walked a short distance away from the fitful and fretting sleepers and looked into the sky, turning slowly as he did so. 

“Where are you Ana?” he thought to himself.  “You promised and you must know we are in dire straights now.  We need your help; I need you here.  Don’t let Ruben be right about this.  I’m desperately counting on you.  You know I’m a terrible leader and here I am, leader by default.  This is too much responsibility…”

Morning came early, gray and cold before the sun could rise.  The hungry troop stood up, drank some water, and took to the land again, walking in the general direction of the sunrise.  Everybody, even the children, walked slower, looking for plants and roots to eat.  Hopelessness more than sadness pervaded the group.  Who could blame them? 

Finally the sun was high enough to beam down some energy into their wasted bodies.  Laughter even erupted from some children as they noticed a butterfly.

“Follow it,” said one of the women, “it may lead us to some edible flowers, or even berries.”  There was a bit of a chase, but the children were cautioned not to interfere with the insect’s path.  Suddenly it rose up and they thought they’d lost it but it came down again to disappear behind a dip in the flat ground.  They came to the edge and looked down upon a miracle, a regular feast.  An entire embankment was covered in blackberries, more or less ripe. 

Lon cautioned his charges: “I know you are very hungry but these plants will hurt you terribly if you wander in them carelessly.  We have nothing to bind rips and tears in skin.  Please use extreme caution.  Do not be in any hurry, we will camp here.  There are many green things here, there must be water also.”

Kamal went out on water detail again, he seemed to have a knack for finding it, and he did find potable water – warm but quenching nevertheless.  The blackberries did not give up their bounty without bloodshed but they proved adequate to ease the group’s hunger.  That was a good ending to what had started as a very dismal day.

That night Lon had a dream.

It wasn’t Ana who came to him in the dream, but his older sister whom he had watched being gang-raped and die in one of the hunters’ camps.  She stood on the open ground, away from the camp.  He walked over to her. 

“Hello Lon, it’s nice to see you again.  I’ve missed you terribly.  I’m sorry I abandoned you in the camp but my body wouldn’t hold on any longer.  I knew you had survived and escaped.  How are you?” 

“I’m so glad to see you Nan, you have no idea.  I’m OK, but we’re in a very precarious situation here, the people I mean.  We need help.  The children are weakening; some are sick.”

“I know that, but things must take their course, Lon.  In a way it’s your own fault that things are this bad.”

“How can you say that, Nan?  How dare you!  I’ve done everything I could to help here…”

“From your point of view, yes, but did you listen to those who may have known more?  Did you listen to Ruben, or were you so worried about his wild streak, his atavism, that you refused to trust his better survivalist judgment?  Didn’t he counsel to take the group away several months ago when the drought started?  Didn’t you think he’d know where to take you all if you followed him?  Did you think that he was trying to gain control of the group and were jealous of him?  Weren’t you afraid he would break your rules when he deemed necessary to save lives?   I know you Lon.  You mean well, but you have never really mined those deeper aspects of your nature: the fearful, the coward and the user – those aspects of one’s personality that become the controller; which reside in your subconscious.  It’s those things that killed Ana, and have brought you to these straights.”

“What do you know of Ruben, or Ana?  How can you possibly know what’s in my subconscious?  How can you know anything if you accuse me of killing Ana?  I loved her!”

“Of course you did.  You never realized you loved her too much under the circumstances, and you strangled her.  She didn’t know because in her own way she loved you too, but you choked her those many times when you insisted she come away from her duties to be with you.  She was conflicted; didn’t know where to stand between your demands, and the needs of the people.  Oh yes, you killed her.  She was an empath, Lon.  If you had allowed her full freedom to live her nature she’d still be here, with all of you, and she’d be laughing with you tonight.”

“It’s a dream, just a dream,” said Lon in the dream, “isn’t it?”

“If you want, but it is much more than a dream.  I’m here to help, Lon, but you must do as I tell you – exactly as I tell you – when you wake up into your real world.  You will abandon any idea of leading this little group.  Someone much more suitable is going to appear during the coming day.  Your hopes for the group will be fulfilled, but not the way you hoped they would be.  When help arrives, this is what you must do: walk away north, into the wilderness, by yourself.  Do not turn back, do not come back.  Your own redemption or your death, await in the young re-grown northern forests.  You will meet some people there and they will teach you about real love which is compassion.  I will see you again, Lon.  Goodbye.”

He watched her fade in the pale moonlight and woke up drenched in sweat.  Immediately he began to shake violently.  He got up, stretched and went on a short run to warm up, all the while thinking about his dream.

“That’s not a dream, that’s a nightmare!”  he thought.  Then he saw the possibility that it had been a vision.  “Morning will tell, tomorrow will tell.  I’ll wait until help arrives, I’ll see.”

Strange times call for strange events.  By the middle of the next day, as most of the people were busy gathering berries, eating, hauling water or keeping the children in line, the very first event of Lon’s dream came to pass: Ruben returned from his quest.  He approved of the stopping place with a few nods.  Always somewhat taciturn, he was even quieter than usual.  Lon queried him.

“What brings you back so soon, and how did you find us?”  Ruben frowned, then started talking:

“A blind man could have tracked your group Lon.  Haven’t I taught you anything at all about being circumspect?  What’s all around you, any idea?  What lurks out there?  What’s watching?  What’s scenting the air?  What’s listening?  Anyway, I saw your sign, and read your message at the old camp.  Also, I smelled your smoke – it travels a long way in this light breeze.  But that’s no longer your concern.  I’m taking over guiding this little group, for however long it takes before we get the help we were promised.”

“Say that again?  The help we were promised?  What do you mean by that?”

“I had a vision.  Saw a woman who claimed she was your sister.  She said that Ana had sent her.  She explained about your, well, character defects.  I already knew that, it’s partly why I had to leave, see?  Anyway the vision woman asked me to return to the group and be the guide until Ana and her people are ready and able to rescue and relocate those of the group who want it.  She said they’d all been waiting for you but you wouldn’t see it, so they decided to violate a bit of “prime directive” by contacting me.

You know me Lon.  You know I would not make this up – I don’t believe in any of this.  Somehow though, that woman, your sister, was very convincing. 

“Now you have to go.  Sorry, but it’s got to be short goodbyes.  Take whatever you want, or think you might need and head north.  She said Ana will meet with you when you’ve been gone long enough.  North, Lon, north.  It’s all waiting for your there.   Once my stint here is done, I’ll be tracking up myself – I won’t be going with Ana’s people, even if they’re only relocating the people to another part of this earth.  This, this land, this continent, is my world.  I belong here.

“I still don’t believe this, but irrational as it all is, I understand.  It’s not about belief, it’s the flow, just as in the wild.  All anyone needs to do is walk in the great flow of things.  The only time we must struggle is in opposition to those who do not walk in the flow of life.  That’s what gives rise to endless conflict.  I sensed your need to impose change and values.  You can’t wish, desire or impose non-violence anymore than you can stop a meat grinder by sticking your fingers in it, Lon. 

“I know this is harsh for you at the moment; you’re hurt and angry, but  you’ll learn.  The loneliness and the wild will teach you; the north, with its cold and its pristine snows will cleanse you and change you.  If you’re worried about food or shelter, observe the animals and the birds and learn: they’re the best teachers in the wild.  I’ll see you again, in the spring.”    

     

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I am Nothing, I am but a Chimera

[thoughts from    ~burning woman~   by Sha’Tara]

I harbor in my mind this wonderful thought: that I am Nothing.  If I am Nothing, then I don’t need anything.  I don’t crowd other life, demanding space for myself.  I don’t consume, eat, absorb, collect and hoard “stuff” because being Nothing, I need nothing.  I can walk, or float if I wish, observing and learning. 

In this wonderful and recurrent vision, I walk among earth life somewhat unseen.  If I am touched, I can realize this but the other, the one who touches is only aware of a shadow, some sense that “something” happened and a diminishing sense of dread, or transport.  

Being Nothing, I have an infinite number of choices on how I interact with the world around me.  There is nothing that world can do about my choices because being Nothing, I cannot be controlled in any aspect of my life.  Being Nothing I do not need approval or love, nor do I care if fear, hatred or indifference is expressed towards me.   

This is interesting, and I am curious: could Nothing be feared? Could Nothing be hated, resented? Could Nothing be loved?  Could Nothing render a presence of divinity?  

Of course it can; it always does though it is not thought of as Nothing.  Though Nothing cannot be seen it can be sensed in the sense of being a Chimera.  I know how fearful or awed people can be of the Chimeras planted in their minds from childhood and from particular stages of their lives. 

What are those Chimeras?  They are what is believed outright without personal experience of, nor proof of; something “everybody” believes they know while actually knowing nothing about it.  Something believed because “someone” or “something” in authority said it was so.  Because someone taught so.  Chimeras are born of faith in Gods, teachers, preachers, leaders, entertainers, bankers, lovers, doctors, scientists.  They pass their Chimeras on to the world and while they are being used as a convenience (and always for profit and mind-control) they are simultaneously gestated into a next generation so they may guarantee the endless turning of the squirrel cage.  

The world is full of Chimeras.  Gods, of course, top the list, but enemies are the most used models.  They are a particular species of very convenient Chimera – always needed and in a constant state of being invented and given to poetic license.  Enemies allow people to hide their own failings and evil inside a Chimera, a Demon whom they fondly hope will never be encountered for that would create a reality shift problem.  That is why “refugees” (the enemy) are a major problem: by their presence they create a breakdown of faith in the chimerical mental construct.  Once allowed in they no longer serve as a convenient Chimera and new ones must be invented.  As Pooh would say, “Oh, bother!”

Lesser Chimeras are other people’s beliefs that don’t jive with ours.  If we create the alternative fact that theirs are evil, then we can conveniently claim that ours are good and pure.  More Chimeras are other people’s races and skin tone; gender or language or how they interact and even how they eat. 

Chimeras are the mind-prisons of the Somethings.  I know this because when I exist as a Something, I bring my Chimeras to life, and how they love to dance their dance of death with me. 

That being explained, it remains that the most dangerous Chimera is someone who is Nothing.  Someone who cannot be manipulated, controlled, pushed into a corner, dummied down, bought, imprisoned or “frightened to death” using any of society’s control mechanisms.  Someone who doesn’t have an ego to be stroked. Someone who is always free regardless of circumstances.

It is a truism that what we own, owns us.  By that same token, what we believe also owns us.  When we are owned, we are slaves. 

What I enjoy most about being Nothing is I can live with nothing and I can choose whether to feel fear, or loathing, or anger, or express love unconditionally, or feel happiness, or simply enjoy quiet comfort whereas a Something can only experience a part of those choices. 

Nothing can sit on a cloud and sleep until the cloud dissipates, then glide along on the wind, perhaps to land on a ship on the high seas, on an island or on a high mountain or in the middle of the desert where Nothing communes alone with Joy. 

Nothing can wander freely in the middle of a war zone unscathed, except for the burning pain of ever-present Sorrow, that being a given.  

Being Nothing would serve no purpose if Nothing could not live in the constant experience of knowing Joy and Sorrow intimately.  That is, after all, the whole point of being Nothing – to experience living a life in total freedom of choice; where consequences do not raise questions of conscience because they affect only Nothing.  They never harm, nor hurt the ego-beings: the Anythings or Somethings.  Emotionally a Nothing is a closed system.  What a Nothing experiences doesn’t affect the external world at all.

Can a physical entity, or being, be Nothing apart from dreams and visions?  That would be some trick now, wouldn’t it? 

A Nothing Chimera walks between the worlds of man and that of spirit.  Can the embodied Nothing join those two worlds and if it did, what must be the outcome? 

Nebuchadnezzar’s Dream: the Statue, Then and Now

Book of Daniel — The Vision, old and new.

 (Another vision from    ~burning woman~   by Sha’Tara)

The books called the “Bible” are not difficult to understand, least of all those who deal with dreams.  But so much darkness has been cast upon the words by would-be interpreters, by greedy fools; by writers of bad fiction, but mostly by Religion, that it takes careful re-reading to “get it” if one is looking, say, for information in prophetic writings of long ago.  An open-minded person, educated enough and perhaps with a degree of wisdom can get much valuable information from that maligned and misunderstood book.

A case in point:  The prophet Daniel lived during the Babylonian Jewish Diaspora, circa 530 BC.  During the reign of Nebuchadnezzar, the king had a dream of a majestic statue that had a head of gold, chest and arms of silver, belly and thighs of bronze, legs of iron and feet partly of iron and partly of baked clay.

 While he was looking and admiring this colossal statue, “a rock was cut out but not by human hands. It struck the statue on its feet of iron and clay and smashed them.  The statue collapsed and was reduced to broken pieces, like chaff and the wind swept them away…”

Daniel (Daniel 2:31) interprets the vision according to his information at the time.  The interpretation, except for the last part, is now ancient history.  Babylon fell, as did the other empires symbolized by the statue.

 The vision remains as a reminder that “history” repeats.  There is a new interpretation of this vision, which I will share because I have had a similar vision, but to do with these times, not those of 2500 years ago.

My vision has to do with the corporate world, banking, the military industrial complex, medical and prescription drugs cartels; energy and food empires built on aggressive exploitation of natural resources, including the ubiquitous usage of human slave labour.  It speaks of hierarchies and bureaucracies.  The head of gold is those who lord it over these powersdictators of empires, CEO’s and elitist fat cats on the boards of directors: the richest men on this world.  Most of the statue’s energy flows up there and there is not enough left to make the entire statue of gold, nor would those at the top allow that! 

 So must come the next echelon of “leaders” – those who are represented by the chest and arms of silver.  These too are rich, and have a greater “reach” than those at the top.  The second layer of power: politicians, heads of various military and security state agencies, despots of all kinds in politics, religion, business, “mobs” and families; heads of charitable” (read tax-free) organizations – all those whose positions depend on those at the top but are autonomous from those below them.

 Then come the bureaucracies – the “belly and thighs” of the statue – those entrusted to make it work; to suck the energy from the bottom and move it to the top.  The mid-level corporate managers, the bean counters… and those qualified to “have the great ideas” and push corporate fanaticism through advertising, etc.   Professionals of all stripes, research and development scientists, teachers, doctors, lawyers and judges, law enforcers, local bank managers, on it goes.  Those who must believe and push because they have sold their souls to the upper parts of the machine; because it makes them comfortable, relatively rich and feeling safe.  

 Finally come the feet of the statue, those who support and feed it: the working class.  There is some iron in them, which means they actually believe in the ponderous contraption they laboriously and pointlessly support with their faith, their hopes, their love even… and ultimately, their mindless laboring and ignominious, pointless death.

But it must end, as all things that have grown out of balance; as have all empires in the past.  And in the collapse of this monstrosity, most of those who support it must, of course, die with it and their remnants will be swept away by “the rock cut out, but not by human hands.” 

In my vision the “rock” is nature turning against man in a final showdown in which only the planet can win.

There was more to my vision:  I saw beyond the pollution storm of environmental destruction; beyond spiritual corruption and mental bankruptcy

I saw what remained beyond civilization’s collapse; what had survived in underground testing labs; what was dead to feelings and could never understand empathy: I saw the rise of the Cyborgs.  Human machines gradually taking over because they needed so little “natural” energy to operate on.  They could live in a poisoned environment.  They could reproduce themselves, repair themselves and even evolve through trial and error processes using old and new technology and what they had absorbed from brief interactions with non-earth people who had shown up during the catastrophic destruction (The ancient “creators” from planet X, Nibiru, perhaps?  It wasn’t clear who these interlopers had been, just that they had made a brief appearance and made a quick exit.

 

These Cyborgs, I saw, were determined to hunt down and kill the last surviving “true” humans on this world for they sensed them as dangerous competitors.  Well, not surprising.  They had, after all, the “memories” of the pre-Cyborg human race.  A necessary part of their awareness, their programming.   They understood that if the humans survived, the many battles would go to the Cyborgs but the final war would be won by the surviving humans… and history repeats itself!

Oh well, hints of “Terminator” and other sci-fi stories and movies.  But in these confused times where nothing, anything or everything can be believed, or believed “in”… who’s to say what is fiction, what is prophecy?

I would not offer my dreams and visions as prophecies — just some food for thought.  Something to help us “slow down” and do a bit of thinking outside the box. Nor is this about taking a stand for survival: there is no surviving earth.  This world has evolved itself as a treadmill; an exercise machine for Earthians.  When our time’s up we have to take off our sweaty exercise stuff, shower and dress appropriately for “out there” and exit the “club”…

 “And what’s “appropriate”? someone might ask. 

 Depends on what’s “out there” for you.  Think: why have you done all that exercising all those years?  What was your purpose?

To live a life, I suppose” would be one answer.  “I really have no idea” would probably be the most common reply.

“How could anyone possibly know what’s out there?” someone else may add

 All they’d get for answer to that is a smile and a reminder that it’s all on their destination ticket.

 “I don’t have a destination ticket” another may challenge.

The answer to that is, that’s not a choice.  Everyone has a destination ticket.  All are born with it and it’s a part of one’s entire life.  Perhaps now would be a good idea to locate it and read the fine print.  Who knows but what one’s life lived without due care and attention may have caused to be written on the “admission” side of the ticket? 

 

Do Scarecrows Dream in those Fields of Yore?

                                                          [a short story by Sha’Tara]

I’m thinking about those scarecrows alone out there in the fields of yore, abandoned to the extremes of winter storms, half buried under snow drifts, no birds to speak to, to speak of.  Must be pretty lonely, huh?

Yes, it is quite lonely.  I happen to be one of them.  The one thinking of scarecrows also.

The last wagon with the last team, wallowing under a heavy load of straw rolled past some weeks ago now.  It didn’t stop to pick me up. I don’t blame it.  Or the horses for not stopping.  It was late, getting dark and horses cold and hungry.  As were the people, the makers, the creators, those strange creatures that try to make us look like them so we’d be very, very scary.  As long as the illusion lasts, we are indeed scary individuals, all dressed in their hand-me-downs, pretending to wave our arms.  Sometimes they even nail a stick to our arms so we look like we have a gun.

It’s full winter now.  My second in this field.  I have lots of time to think, alone in the snow, my feet frozen into the ground, icicles dangling from my golden straw fingertips.

Do scarecrows dream?  When I was young, my outfits not quite so ratty, my head in better shape, I could actually dream.  I was told in a dream that winter was a great time to meditate on my purpose in life, that I’d be too busy come spring and summer to do much thinking.  My problem is, having a head stuffed with old newspapers and assorted rags that my information and ability to think is somewhat straitened.  You try it, you’ll see.  Still I was able to record or remember that dream.

Thinking?  Yes, I do try.  What else is there to do?  I don’t feel very much of anything.  The scenery doesn’t change and I can’t turn my head.  I’m not sure that what I hear I actually hear.  Could be something I imagine. I’ve never managed smell though I know about it.  A young bald eagle sat on my shoulder once and he was repeating some lessons he was learning.  “Soar, stare down, smell, dive, cling, kill, tear into.”  Eagle talk, I suppose.  I’m just glad I don’t smell like anything so he didn’t use me for practice.

Here I stand, my left sleeve from an old faded red shirt torn open to the elbow, waving in a stiff northern breeze, my brown fedora hat with the hole in the top partially covering my eyes, my coat slipped off the left shoulder and my right arm dislocated and dangling at right angles down from its elbow.  I guess I make a pathetic figure, unless you’re also a scarecrow but I’d be willing to bet if I had anything to bet with that you’re not.  You’re probably one of our creators in fact. I could say a thing or two about your skills at creativity but I don’t have that authority.  I’ll just think it.

The sky is darkening again.  There’s going to be another blizzard tonight, I can tell, if I had anyone to tell to.  The cold has granulated the snow and its hisses by as if it were angry at something.  Maybe it is.  I don’t see the point of getting angry, everything dies in the end; the snow melts, however much it hardens itself in little ice balls and my skeleton of cheap reject wood will rot.  They might burn me.  That’s a thought.  It’s so cold right now that burning doesn’t sound like such a bad idea.  I didn’t know until now that bad ideas made any sound.  I’m learning something new every day, even when I’m just thinking.

Day after the blizzard.  There’s more snow in the field, all in shiny icy waves where the wind cleared the crust and the low winter sun strikes its surface.  It’s pretty, even if I’ve seen this a hundred or more times.  The wind has gone south, where it seemed so intent on going last night.  I hope it finds what it was looking for, or chasing after.  I don’t speak wind so when I asked it didn’t answer.  It just moaned around my body and tried to tear my clothes off. That’s the wind for you.  No sense of decency.  But I feel pretty proud of myself, I hung on and only lost one suspender button.  My coveralls are still holding up.

Hey, how about that.  I distinctly hear some chirping to my right.  Closer now.  I feel a presence or more than one on my shoulder.  Snow buntings.  Hi little guys, I try to say to them, I’m so glad you are back this year.  Are you OK?  Finding enough to eat under the hedgerows?  You aren’t cold, are you?  If you are, you can huddle under my hat for a while.  I’d like to hear about your adventures in other fields, if you’ve met any of my folks?  I rattle on like this and I think, as much as I can think, that they hear me because they huddle under my hat and go to sleep.

Now I remember.  I was supposed to meditate on my purpose in life.  Only I don’t know what meditating involves.  I think it’s beyond me.  Anyway, my purpose, that’s simple enough.  In summer, pretend to scare away the crows.  Not that I want to scare anything away, quite the opposite, but that’s what they made me for.  In winter, shelter little birds. Otherwise watch, listen, observe and store it up in those old newspapers.  Who knows but someone who knows how to read may take my head apart some day, read through those old newspapers  and learn something from me.

That’s an interesting thought, don’t you think?  I mean, if there was a you and you were here to listen to me and think with me.  I’ll just pretend.  Pretending is OK when you’re completely happy and fulfilled.

Sincerely, Racso the scarecrow from the eastern half section. Sorry, I don’t have any other address.

Sha’Dow Dream Weaver

       [poem by  ~burning woman~  ]

We’ve only just met, so you believe
But I’ve known you for many long years
Watched you grow, watched you develop
Seeing your follies and bewilderments
As your body dragged you into puberty

I made certain you would never see me
Hiding in the shadows that encompassed
Your days, your events, your wet dreams
I sent others to waylay you, to seduce
Desiring to know what you would do

Now I reveal myself to your wondering mind
To your wandering eyes and thoughts
Who is she, you think, can I trust her
You question yourself as you fall deeper
Into my siren image from dream-time lust

It’s simple to pretend we’ve never met
I certainly can and for you it’s true
You only saw me in your adolescent dreams
Dreams I gave you, fed you, for anticipation
Now I manifest from shadows: take me

 

Arithmetical or Numerological Sequence +3 and +6 from a dream

Can somebody explain this to me?  Who is the math wiz who can decipher the following?  

Here goes, interesting apparently endless sequence of repeating numbers 3 and 6 given to me in my dreams.  I got up at 4 AM one morning to try it out on a calculator, then I typed it out on the computer when I found out it worked.  I stopped at 258, as you will see, but it seems to go on forever…

When you add the numbers within each sum result, i.e.,  84=12=1+2=3  or 249=15=1+5=6  you always get the same sequence of 3, 6, 3, 6, 3, 6 all the way.  Check it out.  What fascinates me is that the numbers within the resulting sum number (main number) when added together always add up to 3 and 6 and 3 and 6 repetitively.

Those of you in arithmetic and numerology, do you know what this sequence is?  If it is a legitimate sequence, is it known, and does it have a name?

Some interesting totals that show up: 33, 66, 111, 222.   Obviously 444 (12) and 555 (15) will have to appear if one continues.

   1+2=3, +3=6, +6=12 +(1+2)=15, +(1+5)=21, +(2+1)=24, +(2+4)=30,

+(3+0)=33, +(3+3)=39, +(3+9=12=1+2)=42, +(4+2)=48, +(4+8=12=1+2)=51, +(5+1)=57, +(5+7=12=1+2)=60,

+(6+0)=66, +(6+6=12=1+2)=69, +(6+9=15=1+5)=75, +(7+5=12=1+2)=78, +(7+8=15=1+5)=84, +(8+4=12=1+2)=87,

+(8+7=15=1+5)=93, +(9+3=12=1+2)=96, +(9+6=15=1+5)=102, +(1+0+2)=105, +(1+0+5)=111, +(1+1+1)=114,

+(1+1+4)=120, +(1+2+0)=123, +(1+2+3)=129, +(1+2+9=12=1+2)=132, +(1+3+2)=138, +(1+3+8=12=1+2)=141,

+(1+4+1)=147, +(1+4+7=12=1+2)=150, +(1+5+0)=156, +(1+5+6=12=1+2)=159, +(1+5+9=15=1+5)=165,

+(1+6+5=12=1+2)=168, +(1+6+8=15=1+5)=174, +(1+7+4=12=1+2)=177, +(1+7+7=15=1+5)=183,

+(1+8+3=12=1+2)=186, +(1+8+6=15=1+5)=192, +(1+9+2=12=1+2)=195, +(1+9+5=15=1+5)=201, +(2+0+1)=204

+(2+0+4)=210, +(2+1+0)=213, +(2+1+3)=219, +(2+1+9=12=1+2)=222, +(2+2+2)=228, +(2+2+8=12=1+2)=231,

+(2+3+1)=237, +(2+3+7=12=1+2)=240, +(2+4+0­)=246, +(2+4+6=12=1+2)=249, +(2+4+9=15=1+5)=255, +(2+5+5=12=1+2)=258…

So, what am I looking at there, if anything?   

My Golden Boy

(*** for Vidhika at “The Grateful Dead” blog***)
   [a Short Story – by Sha’Tara]

It had all happened so fast.  Maybe because everything spoke of perfection, a dovetailing of events that happen only in fairy tales.  It was my fairy tale.  That perfect Summer.
 
I probably better go back a bit and explain.  Our family, that is my mom, my dad and me, well, we were what is called dysfunctional.  My dad is an alcoholic and an abuser.  Even as I write this, and admit it to myself I cringe inside.  I can still see him come into my room those nights when mom worked the night shift at the hospital.  I can still smell his breath and feel his hands on me as he tugged at my nightgown while I tried to hold on to it, curling up and crying, begging him to leave me alone.  But every time I had to let him or get beaten.  If I got beaten I lied to mom about the bruises.  I was so sure all of this was my fault and if she found out she’d hate me or beat me up and maybe send me away to a foster home or something.
 
But then he beat her too and she fought back.  She’s a nurse and you could say she’s pretty tough.  She kicked him out of our lives finally, divorced him with an injunction against him not to contact us.  He tried it once.  He went to jail.  I don’t know where he is now and hope I never find out.  I’m still afraid of him; afraid he’ll show up one day, even though I’m now living on my own.
 
After the divorce things got better for mom and I.  I told her then what dad had done to me and we became, well, more like two women who share their pain in understanding rather than mother and daughter.  You will say, she should have known, but I think she didn’t want to face it then.  I was only fifteen then but my life had made me mature in some ways, though in others I trailed behind.  In school I did well and I had a dream to become a doctor. 
 
Mom had saved up some money and some vacation time and after I turned sixteen she decided to spend a whole month in a cabin at a popular lake near the mountains.  Kind of a birthday gift for you, she said.  We took only what we could pack and took the bus to Chanesville, then a smaller tour bus to the resort on lake Chitsaw.  Our cabin was back in the trees, a bit old and moldy smelling at first, but it was far enough we didn’t have to hear the jetskis and power boats that continually tore up the waterfront.
 
The beach was perfect.  Golden sand under a golden sun.  I tan easily and within a couple of days I felt pretty good walking around in one of my two bikinis.  I had a blue and a pink one and sometimes I mixed the colours.  Within a week I knew almost everybody and had a couple of girl friends from my school.
 
I saw him during the second week and I fell in love.  No, not just infatuated, but deeply and madly in love.  It was as if he had materialized from inside my dreams.  Tall, handsome, beautiful of face with shoulder-length blond hair.  I wasn’t the only one who noticed him, of course, and soon he was the talk of our circle.  We dared each other to go over and talk to him.  Sometimes he walked alone along the shore and it seemed to me that the sand became even more golden after he touched it. 
 
I decided I’d risk it and waited until he took one of his walks by himself and walked to the water in an intersecting path.  When he was within a couple of yards from me I bent over pretending to be inspecting something in the sand.  He came over and asked what I was looking at.  I lied and said I thought I’d seen a green bug burrowing in.  He laughed.  Introduced himself: Dean.  I did likewise: Shauna.  We walked together.  I, lost in a lucid dream.  He, probably looking me over as men do.  It often made me uncomfortable but with him, well, I would have danced naked for him if he’d asked me!
 
D’you have someone?  No I said.  Neither do I.  There’s a party at our cabin tomorrow evening.  I’ll come by your place and escort you, if you want to come.  Sure I said.  It’s number forty-three, up there in the trees.  Yeah, I know, he said.  I’ve watched you before and I followed you yesterday. 
 
Well, with that my feelings went off the chart.  The rest is just too predictable, right out of a bad novel.  He came to our cabin and I introduced him to mom.  She didn’t take to him the way I’d expected.  She took me into her room and closed the door.  You watch yourself, Shauna, she said.  This boy makes me uncomfortable.  Maybe it’s just me, being your mom and seeing you go out on a date like that.  Promise you’ll be home by midnight and that you won’t walk back alone?
 
Yes mom, yes.  Promises are easy to make when your mind, your heart, your whole being is somewhere else.  Walking with Dean was like floating in the air.  Everything was wonderful, beautiful.  The stars were brighter than usual.  The air was cleaner, sweeter.  The party was great.  When most of the people had wandered off, the kids to “midnight swims” and the adults back to their own places, I found myself practically alone with Dean.  Come upstairs, I’ll show you my room, he said.  I felt a twinge of something – a warning?  Mom’s words tried to make me stop.  But I couldn’t.  He was my golden lover. 
 
Yeah, we made love.  Wildly, passionately.  He had experience.  He drove me crazy.  I lost myself in him and finally fell asleep in his arms.  He woke me up just before midnight, reminding me of my promise to my mother to be home by then.  We got dressed and he walked me home.  I was still in that mood you get when you walk out of a movie theatre when the romance has triumphed.  Dizzy with love.
 
I spent most of the rest of that vacation with Dean.  Inseparable, we were.  Afterwards, we talked every night on the phone.  It was long distance but mostly he made the calls so it didn’t cost me much.  Then I missed my period.  I knew I was pregnant.  I couldn’t tell mom and didn’t know what to do.  So stupid.  I just forgot the damned pills.  Just figured it couldn’t happen until Dean and I were married, or living together, you know?  I told Dean.  Dead silence on the other end of the phone.  Dean?  Yeah, well, you going to get an abortion, aren’t you?  They’re not legal here and I can’t tell mom.  What do we do?  I asked stupidly.  I don’t think it’s a question of what we do, babe.  It’s not really my problem, is it.  You have to get an abortion.
 
I must have passed out.  When I came to, the phone was talking to me.  I hung up and tried to wake up from a nightmare.  But it was like before with dad.  It was no nightmare.  Real.  This was real.  Dean dumped me.  Then mom noticed and after much crying, I told her.  She was real mad at first, said I should have told her and she could have made the arrangement.  Stupid, you’re so stupid.  Now it’s too late.  What are your plans?  She asked.  My plans?  I don’t have any plans!  Dean and I were going to move in together eventually, get married.  Now I’m alone again, just like when you worked the night shift and dad molested me.  What can I do mom? 
 
You have to give my mom credit.  She didn’t stay mad, or in blame, or denial.  She asked me, what has life taught you so far when you have a problem?  And I told her, I have to find my own solution to it.  It’s my problem and I must deal with it.  And I want my baby I said suddenly with a new kind of passion I’d never had before. 
 
I continued in school until it got too embarrassing.  Took correspondence courses put together for girls in my situation.  Mom supported me.  She attended when I had my baby.  At first, well, he was just a typical shriveled up little thing with a loud mouth.  But as he grew I saw the spitting image of Dean in him.  He is my golden boy and I love him.  He’s the legacy of my lost pleasure and happiness as a stupid young girl and he’s my joy now, my life. 
 
I’m nineteen now, soon I’ll be twenty and Shane is three.  I moved away from home last year, just to be alone with my son.  It feels right to do this by myself and for him to know who his real mother is.  Mom was spending too much time with him thinking I needed time to myself.  I don’t need that much.  I like my work – I work in a hair dressing shop where they train you.  I like working with people and pleasing them with the right words, the right touch and of course, the right hairstyle.  We live in a basement bachelor suite in a run-down old quadplex but it’s a good place.  The owners live upstairs; an old Jewish couple who adore Shane.  They baby-sit for me, most of the time for nothing.  What can I say more?  My life and my world are good.
 
The other day as I was getting on the bus I noticed a stretch limo stopping on the other side of the street by a Starbucks.  I smiled – I always do at those ostentatious ugly vehicles that have only one message for the rest of us: Hey look at me, I’m rich.  Dumb.  Then I saw a man step out as the chauffeur opened the door.  Tall, handsome, blond.  It was Dean.  I know it was.  My heart was pounding in my chest and I had to grab the back of the seat to keep my balance.  I looked again but he was gone and the bus pulled out.  It’s then I realized how good my life really is.  It’s mine.  Dean could have been a part of the wonder we created in our foolishness.  But he chose not to and left the entire fortune in my hands and my heart.
 
When Shane is old enough I’ll let him go and give him his life too.  We make our own way in life; we don’t depend on others or belong to others.  Then life is truly good.