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Chapter 1. Doorway to Healing Dreams
 "Your doorway," said the shimmering figure as she led me from pain to glory. "Welcome home to your dream life, Rosemary."
When you cross through the portal of dreams, you become free for the first time—from hurt, from guilt, from fear, from grief, from terror, or worse. Here is where you begin your new life as a free human being. Here, in your dreams, you can finally be really you as you were meant to be.
We spend a third of our life sleeping, and much of that dreaming. We don't remember the dream world, except as a vague memory of good or scary dreams. Don't call waking the real world—the dream world is just as real on its own terms.
Dr. Joe Street and the Cardtowner Institute (CTI) of San Diego rescued me from the horrors of what my waking life had become—I know nothing of it here in the dream world, except I do know that in dreams we heal. In dreams we fix the waking—not the world, but ourselves, and that changes everything.
When I crossed the bridge into the dream world as a Talent, I became Rosemary Evening. I don't even know my real name in the waking world, but I know everything I do here—every action I take—makes life better for me on the other side.
In dreams, you meet new people. You make friends, you fall in love, you have hot steamy passionate sex, you lose all the inhibitions and other obstacles you create in your waking life, and you heal. That's why CTI calls their campus in Banker's Hill, near Balboa Park, 'your sexual garden' or 'your healing garden'—right out of the late Marvin Gaye's sweet songs.
It was to be all of that, and more. It is wonderful. You would hardly know from this inauspicious entry that I would become (as my admiring and delectable boss, Dr. Joe Street, brilliant bad boy of dream street, would soon call me; lots more about that, and him, later) the Talented Miss Rosemary Evening—agent extraordinaire of the dream world, a talented paranormal who would change the furniture around in the universe.
Think of it this way. We sleep one third of our lives. We probably daydream and idle another third of our lives. The remaining third we deal with survival—work, spouse, children, traffic, drive by shootings and other random, insane violence that terrifies us. We deal with death—our own, and of our loved ones—the unbearable. We deal with back stabbers, thieves, bosses from hell, spouses from purgatory (sometimes, the unlucky among us), and need I go on? When I learned of my espish talent, and how I could explore the dream world that is so vast in our lives, I was ready. My life was not a happy one—I'll leave it at that. I'm not even sure why. You're not supposed to know, over here in this dream world that you occupy eight hours a day.
I remember just about nothing of the waking world, and very little of my transition, except that I was trembling for unknown reasons. I can't what dark emotions might have followed me up to that gateway. I'm sure they included anger to the point of rage; pain to the point of agony; fear to the point of terror; guilt to the point of self-loathing; and all the usual things that broken people bring with them to the garden of healing. Honestly, I think it was all of the above.
The shadowy staff of the Cardtowner Institute (CTI) determined I have a major talent—I am very espish. That refers to extra-sensory perception (ESP) except this has nothing to do with telepathy, levitation, or other unproven paranormal arts. This has to do with dreams. The espish, like myself, have the power to move about in the dream world. We have the power to change lives—our own and the lives of others we meet in that alternate reality. We spend a third of our lives in that world. There is much more in there than some vague memories over morning coffee and daylight. Some say that life itself is but a dream. I won't argue that point either way. I only know that I have the gift of a wonderful power—which works only on the other side. This is how my story began, what became of me, and how I helped others to find the same peace. Much of it is through sexual healing.
Your dream world is your personal sexual garden. Most of us wander through there in darkness, afraid and confused of our own passions and desires. We walk through gloom, though we smell roses. We wish we could stop and see, but most of us don't have the espish ability to anchor ourselves and be an active player in that shimmering, floating world. I'm lucky that way (surprise, after nearly thirty years of undistinguished, average life). Oh yeah, we do have daylight in here. It's one surprise after another. You'll be amazed. Stick with me and learn all that I can tell you—I am still learning, also. There is so much to tell.
The good doctors and guides at CTI first tested me because I had a hard time in my daily life. Someone—a guide, an espish, a cognoscenta—figured I might be good dream material. Maybe it was my friend Fanna or someone like her. I would think she encountered me in her dreams and spotted my talent that I knew nothing about. In some dream, I probably floated through a darkish tavern in some city, surrounded by wolfish and threatening men and coyote-like women who scared the hell out of me with their grinning teeth and knifish eyes. Picture foxes and wolverines in business suits, holding happy hour drinks, and figuring ways to cut and rip each other psychologically for narcissistic self-gain. Argh—but somehow, Fanna or someone spotted me and knew. There goes another espish type. Let's recruit her before she slips down the rat hole of unknowing daily existence. Maybe I also drank too many glasses of Chablis to numb the pain. Maybe I smoked cigarettes or jee or who knows what. I have no idea. I just know I felt like I was living with a thousand pound concrete mill wheel on my back—all that unhappiness. I really don't even want to know what oppressed me so much.
I don't know what—a messy marriage, a tragedy, just bad luck—all I know is that once I crossed into the dream world under their coaching and guidance, I became a free person. The transition is not a permeable membrane. It is like a solid wall you pass through. What happens on one side stays on that side. What happens on the other side stays on that side. Never the twain shall meet. Which is fine. And the healing you do in the dream world will change your waking life for the better. See, once you experience freedom and joy, you will never settle for anything less. Once you become a whole person, with self-worth, you can meet members of the opposite sex who are also healthy and complete. You can experience fulfilling, balanced love (and sex, yeah, lots of it, fueled by joy and passion). Inwardly, though you remember nothing of your dreams when you are awake, you will never allow yourself to fall back in a ditch. Your inner joy and satisfaction become a balance wheel that keeps you on track.
This story is not about my waking life. In my dreams, like now, I know nothing of my waking life except that I am an adult woman about 29 years old with a lively, active brain and a good education. I have a revving sexual appetite that evidently has been frustrated to no end in my waking life—probably due to inhibitions, fears, guilt, timidity, and anything else I could name here as I sit here entering this journal into my virtual memory base.
Yes, I am writing this from the dream side of my life. I am sitting in a corner in a little apartment—all very cozy and kind of quietly dark—with a window open and a curtain blowing gently. It's a dream efficiency—I have a kitchenette corner, a dining corner, and a small Pullman-style bed nook in the main room; and a full bath adjacent. A balmy evening breeze wafts in from the Pacific Ocean, here in the city of San Diego. I am on the twenty-somethingth story of a high rise, where I have a small apartment (just for my sleeping and dreaming hours). I think I probably have a house in the suburbs with a lawn and a picket fence and a yellowish coach lantern over the driveway. I think I probably have it all, except that I have been miserably unhappy. Even in your dreams, you carry a vague awareness of your waking life. For me, it is a dull awareness of yelling and conflict, of being yelled at by a handsome but angry and rather mean-spirited man whose name might as well be Mud for all I know here. I prefer it on this side. My healing is ongoing. I have a guide—Fanna, an elegant and intelligent woman just a few years older than myself, who cares about me and always knows the right thing to say. It's still a struggle over here, but I am making progress. It's often a lot of fun, and actually hilarious (I should have mentioned up front) so it's a million laughs, like my first move when I became free. I saw a line of men in gym shorts, bending over a barbecue picnic table with their plates, and I ran down the line grabbing each by the ass. You know how we used to take a clothes pin and fasten a matchbook to our bicycle wheel when we were kids, and it made this RRRR sound like a motor. That's what I felt like—you'll see in a moment. Freedom is crazy and exhilarating.
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