*Raine and the Land of Oz: Part 1* -- 19 Apr 2001 
 
 
   Yet attributes of the subject, “those who have precognitive  
dreams,” are not implied from anything dealing with combined  
effects observed in random samples of cosmic bs, nor are they even  
necessarily at all perceivable therein.  
   
   I like Marco's dreams, and particularly the time-travel agency  
episodes and the intrigue . . . “after all that swimming.”  (It  
reminds me of the time I was kissing with swimmer-girl Sylvia, but  
then I inquire about something and she explains, “. . . when I  
joined the Navy,” -- and that settled, she's *not* interested in  
talk right then.)  
 
   And his scenes from San Francisco --  
 
   “. . .  I appeared, seemingly having been waiting for days -- 
for what, I don't know -- on an empty pier at a grayed-out  
Fisherman's Wharf . . .”  
 
   -- always bring to mind my SF Dream/Vision incidents, like:  
 
   The evening of Wednesday, 16 April 1986, there in my room at a  
residence hall of a university (where they were called “the  
Titans”), 
 
   Vision:  The momentary scene is of a missile silo installation  
as if in sort of a cut-away view seeing down and from the side.   
(Along with the scene in the vision came recollection of an  
incident from some years before.) 
 
   After the vision, I remembered what I could about the  
particular incident -- just that to what I had paid attention when  
it happened -- a Titan missile silo explosion resultant from a  
worker dropping a wrench that then landed wrong.  At the time of  
the event I was an aerospace risk analyst.  It was reported on  
network news, and we conversed about it at work -- probably that  
morning and again after the cause had been revealed.  The only  
information I acquired was from a small several network news  
reports from that time, and I really don’t think I had ever  
thought of the incident since before leaving that job to return to  
school in 1983.  
 
   Two days later, 18 April at 1730 hrs, while getting ready for  
dinner there in my room, the top story on the network news was the  
Titan 34D rocket that blew up on lift-off (-- 80 days after the  
Space Shuttle and 80 years after the SF earthquake, and 3½ years  
before the largest SF earthquake since, at 0004 hrs UT on 18  
October 1989 . . . they are documented by UT). 
  
 net-link, 
   www.seismo.berkeley.edu/seismo/faq/ 
  
      The 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake occurred on  
   October 18, 1989 at 00:04 UTC in the Santa Cruz  
   Mountains of Central California.  Because of its  
   proximity to the San Francisco Bay Area, the  
   earthquake was felt extensively over the area. 
 
      Date: October 18, 1989 at 00:04 UTC (October 17,  
   1989 at 05:04 PM local time). 
      Faulting: This earthquake was the first major  
   event on the San Andreas fault since the 1906. 
      Property Damage: $ 5,900,000,000.  At the time,  
   this was the most costly natural disaster in the  
   United States. 
 
      The 1906 San Francisco earthquake occurred on  
   April 18, 1906 at 13:12 UTC in the San Francisco Bay  
   Area of Central California.  The earthquake was felt  
   all over California and Nevada. 
 
      Date: April 18, 1906 at 13:12 UTC (April 18, 1906  
   at 05:12 AM local time). 
      Faulting: The San Andreas fault ruptured 430 km  
   from San Juan Bautista to the Cape. 
      Property Damage: $ 400,000,000 in 1906 $$$. 
 
 
    I told about the vision and Titan rocket incident in a note I  
mailed to a girl in Tulsa, one Morgan le Fay, early in the morning  
on 20 December 1987. 
  
    Monday, 28 September 1998, 
    I lay down at 1730 hrs for a nap, my alarm set for 1900 hrs so  
I could wake up to watch the San Francisco v. Chicago Cubs  
wildcard one-game playoff. 
    Drm:  Morgan le Fay is at the house, amongst a small group of  
individuals who understand what’s going on.  They are staying here  
for a while.  In a scene, inserted after the situation was well  
developed in the main part of the house, I’m alone upstairs  
momentarily, being there in the bedroom lighted as if only from  
soft light diffusely filling in from the hallway, being there  
seemingly only for contemplating the sleeping arrangements --  
there, seriously regarding where Morgan is to be sleeping (this  
where actually my bookshelves and stacks of books are, one  
bookcase filled with political history) and being affected with  
some emotions over the whole thing. 
    I want to make a favorable impression upon Miss le Fay, still  
respecting her more than any of the Earth-girls, and I’m wondering  
what I could give her -- looking through some stuff I really  
thought she might like.  Then I’m over by my mom’s desk where my  
mom, knowing my mind, says to give her this.  She has a set of 6 x  
8.5 inch photos each in a wooden frame -- one in each hand, and  
looking down at them I see each is the same, sealed in like  
polyethylene clear-film sheet, instead of glass.  I look at the  
nearer one in her right hand that she holds closer for me to see,  
her saying, “It’s from when you were 3½ in Palisade.”  [End.  I  
awoke in the dream, and in that moment -- I think how it was the  
girl, as -- within a few seconds of waking up, my alarm beeps.] 
 
 
The New York Times, Saturday, 19 Apr 1986, p. 1 --  
 
      VANDENBERG AIR FORCE BASE, Calif., April 18 -- A Titan 
   rocket carrying a secret military payload exploded today in 
   a large orange fireball seconds after liftoff here, Air  
   Force officials said.  
      The explosion released a cloud of poisonous fumes and  
   damaged the launching pad . . .  
   . . .  
      The $65 million Titan 34D, the largest of the nation's  
   unmanned rockets, is powered by a combination of liquid and  
   solid-fuel rockets.  It exploded at Launching Complex 4 at  
   10:45 A.M., . . . 
 
      (The story continues into the edition, where there's 
   another story and a diagram of the Titan 34D rocket listing  
   specifications.) 
 
 
Original incident background, 
The New York Times, Saturday, 20 Sep 1980, p. 1 --  
 
      DAMASCUS, Ark., Sept. 19 -- A fuel explosion rocked an 
   underground Titan 2 nuclear missile silo near here early  
   this morning belching flames and debris about 500 feet  
   skyward and injuring 22 Air Force personnel, one of them  
   fatally.  
      . . .  
      Late today, Air Force Secretary Hans M. Mark insisted 
   that there “was absolutely no evidence of radioactive debris  
   in the area” and that “the warhead is not in danger of being 
   ignited because it was designed with fail-safe devices.”  
 
                  Fail-Safe Instructions  
 
      The missile warhead is designed so that only a carefully 
   orchestrated series of events can cause it to fire once the 
   command to detonate has been given. . . . 
 
      (And there is a photo of residents and debris, and a  
   schematic illustration of a typical Titan 2 missile  
   installation.) 
 
 
Also, The New York Times, 20 Sep 1980, p. 1 --  
 
      DAMASCUS, Ark., Sept. 19 -- Sam Hutto, up at 3 A.M. today  
   to milk his cows, came closest to the secret that everyone  
   here always knew was in the ground.  
      Mr. Hutto saw it fire up in the night sky, the boom of it  
   shaking the ground, the white flame shooting 300 feet  
   straight up.  Then, he told his fascinated neighbors later,  
   something dark came banging down from the sky, an object  
   that he suspects was the warhead.  It landed near the main  
   road, State Route 65.  
      “I was in my pickup looking right at the thing,” Mr.  
   Hutto said.  “I saw the flame, I felt a big boom and then  
   the white light popping up and rising like a comet.  I  
   thought a missile had actually gone off . . .”  
      . . .  
      Marlin Ward, another dairy farmer, was looking out from  
   his milking shed toward the silo when the explosion  
   occurred, sending the dark object skyward.  
      . . .  
      After the explosion, Mr. Ward resumed milking his cows.  
   “I got all 140 of them before the troopers chased me out,”  
   he said.  
      . . . 
 
      (The stories continue extensively, with more stories,  
   into the edition and in later editions.) 
 
 
   A photo of a Titan 2 rocket taken when the last one in Arkansas  
was removed from its silo is shown along with an article in the  
Tulsa newspaper.  The story also recounts the 1980 incident.  
 
   The article from the 24 June 1986 Tulsa *World* is scanned in:  
 
   TulsaWorld_24June1987_Titan2_bw300.bmp  
   File size = 836 Kb (255 Kb zipped) 
 
   It’s a b&w image scanned at 300 dpi.  To view it, open Start --  
Programs -- Accessories -- Imaging. 
 
star-link (TulsaWorld_Titan2.zip), 
   roswell.fortunecity.com/milkyway/416/summer/summer.html  
 
   
   Now, imagine you're in this dream . . .  
 
   (opening scene)  
 
   You're at Philosophy 203: Logic, a class you put off, but it’s  
required . . .  
 
   (but, . . . I've never taken logic before, I don't know a damn  
thing about it) 
 
   It’s a quiz, oh my god!  
 
   (T or F)  
 
   1.  X allows, “All my dreams are just independently created  
nothingness.”  Therefore, X validly concludes, “Every dream of  
everyone is independently created nothingness.”  
 
   2.  X considers, “If a random sample of subjects is rounded up  
and their dreams recorded, the dream data will correlate with new- 
information-set data no differently than random cosmic bullshit  
correlates to the new-information.”  Therefore, X validly  
concludes, “The dream function may show dependency with the cosmic  
bullshit function at a level of significance warranting further  
research, that much is certain.  Only the mechanistic laws of  
natural science that operate this cosmic bullshit are just not yet  
fully understood, in the way that water turning to steam is  
understood.”  
 
   Discuss --  
 
   A.  What relevance do the issues raised in the exercises in  
logic -- numbers 1 and 2 above, have to the issue:  “those who  
have precognitive dreams?”   (Hint:  This is a non-empty subset of  
the group, “those who have dreams.”)  
 
   B.  What effects, if any, would the comparative population size  
of the subset, “those who have precognitive dreams” have upon the  
issues raised in logic exercise 2?  Extra credit: Be more  
specific.  Discuss statistical inference. 
 
   C.  What is a presupposition?  
 
   (lingering feeling of disorientation . . .)  
 
   (quick scene change)  
 
   Now, it’s like the next class, right after the one about the  
logic mumbo-jumbo.  You're in Math 338 -- Introductory Probability  
Theory (for non-Math majors).  
 
   God, what is this?  Another quiz!! 
 
   (By way of processes supposed as reported . . .) 
   There are 100 urns, inside each urn are 10 balls randomly  
selected from a group of 1000 balls.  Each ball has a number on  
it, previously assigned by way of random selection and sequential  
association with a random ordering of the natural numbers from 1  
to 1000.  Half the balls are red, the other half are black.  (The  
urns are white.)  Each one from a group 100 persons is randomly  
associated with an urn.  Each person (not able to “see” inside the  
urn) selects one ball from his or her urn.  The results are  
recorded for all to see.  Then the same 1000 balls are again  
randomly placed inside the urns, 10 to each one.  Each person,  
again, is randomly associated with an urn, and selects one ball  
from within.  Results are recorded.  (It is noted that one person  
selected the No. 27 ball both times.)  The whole routine is done a  
third time.  It is observed the same person as in the prior two  
trials again selected the No. 27.  Explain this result.  
 
   And on one read-through you're going: this is easy . . . with  
all the thousands of balls and hundreds of urns, all the colors in  
the visible spectrum . . . not to mention all the rational as well  
as irrational numbers -- what *else* would you expect.  This is  
easy . . .  You think to check your digital watch -- the red- 
digits-on-black display says “10:27” which makes you feel  
confident, plenty of time . . . and you’re staring fixedly at the  
white, blank sheet of your answer paper.  [whereupon, you wake up]  
 
   Someone had left the stereo on (tuned to a hits of the ’70s and  
’80s station).  And like, within 5 seconds after consciousness,  
continuing through the uninterrupted set, Huey Lewis and the News  
begins with, “Back In Time.”  
 
   [related stuff -- www.bttf.com/lewis.htm ] 
   
 
   The preceding made-up dream was written in all materiality  
several weeks before I had the following,  
 
Real dream (on Saturday, 16 October 1999): 
  
   I’m a college student in a realistic classroom in the midst of  
a test.  At the beginning here, I’m wasting time drawing a pattern  
of interlocking hexagons over the blank bottom half of the paper  
-- in medium blue pencil, and the eraser is involved too.  It’s a  
project that is due as part of the exam, but it was assigned ahead  
of time and I could have done this part prior to the exam.  I  
didn't, and so I’m taking up test time with it.  It has to be done  
somewhat neatly, which here seems to be difficult.  (It’s really  
not that hard to do very quickly.)  I consider momentarily how  
stupid it was, my putting this off until right now. 
   Then assaying this exam experience, I see the other part to the  
exam, off to the side at my right, there on my school-desktop -- a  
white sheet of paper with just six questions typed out.  I  
understand that they are short-essay, which would not be that hard  
to answer if I had read what was assigned to be read in the  
textbook -- and I glance down at the book over on the floor, it’s  
like hardly ever been opened -- and I consider some more on how  
stupid I have been.  I’m not prepared to just answer the  
questions, I will have to ponder over them, and . . . (realizing I  
really don’t have a plan for this exam).  So I check the time,  
looking up at the clock up on the wall at the front of the room.   
It’s about 25 minutes after the hour . . . and in this moment  
someone asks the teacher about how much time is left for  
(whatever), and the male teacher announces to the class:  
“Everything is due at 20 till.”  And looking at the clock face, I  
consider I'm really screwed. [whereupon, I wake up]  
 
   As soon as I’m awake, I recall: the guy who figured out the  
model for the structure of the benzene molecule dreamed it by way  
of a hexagon of snakes, or something.   The benzene (C6H6) hex- 
model was a fundamental development in organic chemistry.  To this  
day, organic compounds are structurally diagrammed using all these  
hexagons.  
   I researched it in several encyclopedias.  His name was  
Friedrich August Kekule (1829 - 1896).  
   Colliers -- German chemist who established the ring structure  
of benzene . . .  
   Americana -- . . .  Benzene, C6H6, was a puzzle because of the  
low ratio of hydrogen to carbon.  In 1865, Kekule suggested that  
the six carbon atoms form a ring with a hydrogen atom on each  
carbon. . . . 
   Britannica -- Chemist who laid the groundwork for the modern  
structural theory of organic chemistry . . .  One night in 1865,  
Kekule dreamed of the benzene molecule as a snake biting its tail  
while in whirling motion.  From that vision his concept of the  
six-carbon benzene ring was born, and the facts of organic  
chemistry known up to that time fell into place. . . .  
 
   A few days later, I'm catching up on reading the dream posts,  
and I find this one which I enjoyed a lot, since it *was* ones  
such as Marco McClean for whose benefit that I made up the dream  
in the first place.  
 
 
On Fri, 15 Oct 1999 15:35:14 -0700, Marco McClean <memo@mcn.org>  
(subject: Elephant Boys, Zombie Factory), to alt.dreams, wrote:  
 
>    . . .  
>  
>     In the third dream I'm back in college trying to take up  
> where I left off, actually /finish/ the organic chemistry  
> course and get through second-year calculus. I don't want to  
> go to lab! I hate prescribed lab! It feels exactly like when  
> I was in real-life second grade, I knew my addition and  
> subtraction by heart through 100 and even times-tables and  
> all, yet I'd freeze up in terror when we were instructed to  
> bring out the urine-smelling molded plastic numerals set and  
> follow instructions in unison to twist them off and set them  
> out on the desks to match the marks the teacher made on the  
> board. I used to stare at the clock and hopelessly /will/ it  
> to speed up and ring the bell.  
>     Every school I ever went to (and we moved a lot) that  
> was in an old-fashioned building had such elements of  
> torture to it.  
>     Anyway, in the dream I miss lunch, and here's how:  
>     I go back to the dorm room after [something] class. Out  
> my window and across the football field some art students  
> have made a life-sized canvas elephant costume with three  
> people inside and they're running it back and forth, back  
> and forth, in an administration-defying bit of performance  
> art. I shout to my roommate, who's the girl in the next room  
> over (through an open connecting-hall), "Look! Come look!"  
>     She comes in. She's uninterested in the elephant art.  
> She's a cross between Juanita, Jill Taylor and Lisa, the  
> writer for the Advocate-News, and here she's about 19, I'm  
> about 19 too, and she's from a religious family where they  
> don't believe in having sex until you're like too old to  
> have babies-- that's their method of birth control. This  
> girl is juicy and interested, though, and we're soon  
> sideways on my dorm bed, taking each other's clothes off.  
> She won't permit genital contact but everything else we're  
> doing is really nice. She's Juanita's body, anyway.  
>     Yummy! Yummy! How nice! I'm totally patient. If she  
> wants to do this (and she does) there's no problem with  
> getting a box of rubbers and going forward later. Tomorrow.  
> Next week. There's all the time in the world.  
>     So. Lunchtime has almost passed and the girl has gone  
> back to her own room to get ready for her next classes. I'm  
> getting dressed to go to "Calculus BX" and my clothes are  
> impossibly complicated. I get one pair of pants on and  
> there's another pair on already underneath. I take them both  
> off and my t-shirts and underwear are all thickly knitted  
> out of, you know, that plastic, urine-smelling yarn. Where  
> are my /real/ clothes?  
>     And the walls of my room are all sloppily hung dusty  
> bare sheetrock and the floor is rough, dry, bare earth, like  
> under a house. Out the window (no glass yet), in the field,  
> the art boys are sulkily disassembling their canvas elephant  
> under the supervision of campus rent-a-cops.  
>     I missed lunch again. Maybe I /won't/ go to math.  
>     Dressed at last, I wander across the school. I notice  
> how dangerously slippery the concrete is in and around the  
> gym's shower area. I'm thinking about suggesting they epoxy  
> rubber grommets down in a herringbone pattern so nobody  
> slips and hits his head. Boy, the janitors'd like that,  
> wouldn't they. You couldn't sweep.  
>  
> In the next dream . . .  
>  
> In the last dream I'm working on an assembly line in a  
> metal-shop factory. If you're a hard worker they let you  
> drive one of several forklifts with hand-like robot grapples  
> to lift heavy things onto the line. The workers are  
> dissatisfied with conditions and pay. One forklift guy  
> accidentally nudges a line-worker and a riot ensues,  
> resulting in the men around me running down the wide  
> corridor with tools and wrenches. I go with them, worried  
> about what they'll wreck. Why wreck things?  
>     By the time we turn the corner I'm a company thug sent  
> to stop them but I can't bear to hurt them, so I mess with  
> the situation instead:  now we're all on the same team,  
> fighting zombies from another factory and I'm the only one  
> with a useful weapon, a pistol that temporarily stops  
> zombies like a shield, and also it shoots liquid whose  
> action depends on where it hits (hit them in the legs and  
> they fall down and squirm in a circle; hit them in the head  
> and they turn and disassemble each other-- in the absence of  
> another, a zombie will quickly tear himself apart, arms and  
> hands last, of course.  
>     The men with me need to be convinced to just run away  
> and let me handle this. I have to drag one screaming man  
> while I shoot back at zombies. There's a lot of electrical  
> noise going on. Welding and static. My weapon is silent. The  
> part of the factory we're in is still working, oblivious to  
> the danger. The man I'm dragging dies and stops screaming.  
>     Back at the corner of hallways we group up to decide how  
> to proceed with the fight without letting on to the factory  
> management what's happening. One of our men is a zombie. He  
> looks like Robin Williams' stuck-up roommate in /Patch  
> Adams/, but greasy and powerful and dead. He has a necklace  
> of tiny sewing pins on a black ribbon, and he's recharging  
> by muttering a repetitive prayer, then removing one pin to  
> place it in front of his armpit, where it slides of its own  
> accord inside his greasy shirt and presumably into his  
> chest.  
>     Part of the prayer he says is, "...It's a far better  
> thing of..." and there's the word, "anthracite," and  
> something about the satisfaction of a job well done.  
 
   anthracite; from Latin, anthracites; transliterated from the  
Greek *anthracites*, a dark blood-stone; (from *anthrax*).  
 
   anthrax; from Latin, anthrax; transliterated from the Greek  
*anthrax* (coal).  
 
>     I watch as he absorbs four or five pins in this manner.  
>     Some factory doctors operate on a man in an alcove we've  
> passed.  
>     One of us is a woman. She's part zombie now as a result  
> of the fighting and she doesn't have a pin necklace to  
> recharge herself, nor would it work for her without the  
> special, customized prayer each zombie must have. The men go  
> off behind a pile of dirt to discuss in private whether to  
> help her or not!  I try to get past the little airplane now  
> blocking the hall to reach the doctors and steal some  
> alligator-clip-leads to give the woman a little more time,  
> but the stubborn-pony-like little airplane bends and shifts  
> and makes it really hard to get by.  I say, "Okay, you win.  
> I'll stop."  The plane winks at me with one black rubber  
> grommet to the side of its right engine nacelle. It /gives/  
> me a single yellow clip-lead.  
>     Back at the now-collapsed, useless woman (dammit!) an  
> antique Televideo terminal needs repair. I efficiently clean  
> and reassemble its keyboard. This is war. There's no time  
> for sentiment.  
   
 
   A zombie-like persons dream: 
 
   Tuesday, 12 May 1992, 
   Drm:  I’m in an upper-floor office, in the middle of an on- 
going intense armed assault -- a life-and-death struggle -- like  
in a war battle-zone.  I open a door.  Big mistake; I get  
reprimanded for it by a more knowledgeable young guy, like it gave  
away our position. 
   (scene-shift, later) 
   Seeing the expanse of the office battleground, there are tall  
fair zombie-like guys roaming with a purpose. [end, awake] 
 
 
   My one absolute-zombie dream:  
 
   Sunday, 11 May 1986,  
   Drm:  In the foyer to a pale beige-yellow corridor, kind of  
like a spacious movie theater access the way they used to be,  
which leads off away to the left.  From the beginning in this  
scene, zombie-people are walking past me dressed in their dull and  
dark every-day clothes, oblivious to me, on down the corridor and  
into the recesses to where the dimly-lighted corridor goes off to  
the left and the darkness further on.  The zombie-people are dead  
(-- but not totally brain-dead), although biologically functional,  
and they are “made” to do what they do here, in every way, by some  
unseen invasive power.  Their eyes are shut, which, of course,  
doesn't make any difference, because, like I said, they are  
“controlled” in every way.  I sort of take notice of things that  
seem to be the more peculiar . . . but they kind of give me the  
creeps. 
   I really don't want to hang around here, and noticing the gray- 
painted modern office-like door along the right side wall of this  
foyer area, I go over to the door (thinking I want to go inside  
there).  But just as I grab the door handle, a guy comes up from  
behind me (from opposite the direction of the zombie corridor),  
dressed in a suit and tie, officiously demanding, “What are you  
doing!?”  He's being a jerk, having taken it upon himself to  
“help” control access through the door to only the ones who are  
allowed.  So while I’m opening the door, I glance back in his  
direction, responding appropriately, “Jesus said I could.”  I go  
on in through the doorway . . . 
 
 
   *    *    *    *    *    * 
 
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