Here one might notice how the word on the vocabulary book has a missing "H". The "H" is missing from the word Lohbado. This could affect pronunciation.
I've been busy as a bee, accepting dictation from the great spirit Oogah. He infiltrates my mind, forcing me to write down what he says, at the most importune moments, like when I'm about to pay for a cup of coffee, or while hurrying into a subway station, or lying down to sleep. That's part of being a professional Dreaming Man; one has to be able to shift in and out of various worlds within worlds and not lose track of what's up and what's down.
I remember Abel Crane, a character from the novel Pink Room, which I haven't gotten around to self-publishing yet, but will do so soon, Abel Crane, a doctoral student of religious studies at Lumpkins University, Yamaville, lived in a basement apartment and did various rituals to invite or dispel helpful or hindering spirits. He wore a sky-blue gown over a white silk smock to perform rituals of the cthonic underground. He filled the bath tub with a mixture of blood and water, lit candles on the goat shrine, the head of a stuffed goat grinning from a plaque above the shelves containing jars of various objects preserved in liquid, for example, the testicles of an old bull, the eyeball of a cat, a pig snout and of course, the severed hand of a man who sinned.
It took place in the yellow kitchen of his grave-like basement apartment in a huge brick house, surrounded with lush gardens, about a twenty-minute walk from Lumpkins University. An overhead light bulb provided the necessary blinding light to throw shadows wherever necessary to conceal something that would be best left unsaid.
Ok, this is not the place to get into a long story. Dreaming Man is a place of fragmentation, speaking in tongues, rhapsody, weeping and wailing, lamentation and the rest goes to Club Morono.
Take, for example, the psychological effect of light and shadow, used effectively in black and white horror films and psychological thrillers. Remember Peter Lorrie in M? Or that classic German expressionist silent Pabst film Lulu? I'll never forget the final scene where she meets Jack the Ripper, moody black and white, mist, silence, sadness, loneliness, a really poetic film. By now, such effects have been imitated to the point of kitch, however, it takes a special touch to make it work, to plunge the spectator into a surreal dream reality of unusual and unpredictable connections, an experience that could send shivers up the spine.
There's a lot to be said about the Visions and Mysticism of Isabella Stumps. That's another huge saga in itself. She specialized in eroticism of word clump, seed letters, magical alphabet, mantra, man/woman dialectic. The dream becomes so vivid. Reach out your hand to sink in your claws and the scenario dissolves.
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HAHAHA you are so funny some times!
I love the bee!
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