Million Dollar Psychic on Facebook!

Regular readers of this blog will know that I don't really 'get' Facebook. Well, I'm going to have to change that to the past tense. I'm starting to 'get' it. I can clearly see it has its uses. Which is why I have just set up a Facebook page for the Million Dollar Psychic project. In fact, it's something I should have probably set up a few months ago!

If you would like to follow how the project develops (and, of course, you are a Facebook user), please visit the page and click on 'like'. The idea is that this page will be a place to discuss psychic stuff in general and psychic development in particular whether you be a 'skeptic', a 'believer', or a 'I just don't know-er'!

You can also follow on twitter at twitter.com/skeptic2psychic.

Wake up!

Speaking of dreams within dreams, I have just re-read a potentially life-changing little book called Lucid Living by Tim Freke (yes, it's pronounced 'Freak'). The essence of this book is to suggest that our experience of everyday reality is, itself, much like a dream. In a dream, we are typically blissfully unaware that we are dreaming. We get caught up in the dramas of our dreamworld, and it is only when we wake up do we realise that we had, in fact, been dreaming!

Unless, that is, you are having what is called a 'lucid dream'. In a lucid dream you know that you are dreaming. And then, once you're aware that you are dreaming, you can even consciously control the dream.

Lucid living applies this idea to our waking experience. If your experience of everyday reality is like a dream, then you can 'wake up' in the dream and live your life more consciously. Mr Freke calls this state of consciousness being 'deep awake'.

Now, I don't know about you, but the idea of lucid living really strikes a chord with me. There have been maybe one or two times in my life when I have felt to be in this 'ultra-conscious' state that Freke calls being deep awake. In this state, the world just seems to be a very different place, and life does seem to resemble a waking dream. I guess the challenge is to find ways of achieving this state of awareness on a more permanent basis.

Dreams within dreams

Saw Inception last night. An astonishing film. Christopher Nolan is possibly one of the most amazing directors in Hollywood today. Without giving too much away, the film is based around the notion of being able to go into people's dreams to steal or implant ideas.

 
I was more taken with the way it used dreams within dreams to carry the story along. If you haven't seen the film, click here for a choice of 3 (count them, three!) different Inception trailers. Then go see it! If you have seen the film, but you're still scratching your head this illustrated guide to the film might help clear things up (a bit).

Become a psychic spy

Fifteen years ago, the world learned that the United States government had been funding research into psychic ability to the tune of around $20 million. That's a lot of cash to spend on something that many people think doesn't even exist! The reason the government was prepared to invest such a huge sum of money was because of the possible 'operational value' of psychic powers. That is, if such abilities were for real then surely you could train soldires to become 'psychic spies'!

Of course, when we talk about these things in the context of the US government, the CIA, then we don't talk about such things as psychic powers or psychic spies. Instead, we talk about 'remote viewers'. This sounds much more technical and militaristic.

The government-funded remote viewing research, under the project name of STARGATE, was declassified in 1994. It emerged that

So do you fancy yourself as a psychic spy? In fact, perhaps you are a trained remote viewer who, since the STARGATE project came to an end, has been waiting for a call to come down the line to be reactivated. If so, you might want to contact the Remote Viewing Institute in Germany. They are on the look out for remote viewers to take part in a research project. Drop them an email at kontakt@remoteviewinginstitute.com.

So long, and thanks for all the fish!

When you watch something like this, you've got to think that the dolphins are just toying with us...



As I typed the title of this post, I discovered I had also used it for a post last year! (The one where I announce my decision to leave my job.) Given that Douglas Adams' original use of the phrase was with reference to dolphins, it makes a lot more sense here.

The life you could have led

Having seen this cartoon by Leunig many years ago, the image has stuck with me. It says so much. But what stops him walking down that brightly lit alley...?

It's not about the monster

There can't be many people who could be towed along the surface of Loch Ness in a giant inflatable bubble and call it 'work'. Steve Feltham can.

I first 'met' Steve 18 years ago. Well I didn't actually meet him, but I felt I did. In August 1992 I watched Steve's video diary that was broadcast on BBC 2. The diary, called Desperately Seeking Nessie, followed Steve's first year as he set out to be a full-time Loch Ness Monster hunter. Yes, you read that correctly, a full-time Loch Ness Monster hunter. For many, the idea of even being a part-time monster hunter may seem a little surreal, but Steve wanted to do it full-time. At the age of 28 he decided to pack in his job, sell his house in Dorset, and end a seven year relationship with his then girlfriend in order to move up to the banks of Loch Ness to search for the Loch's legendary monster. Steve had been fascinated with Loch Ness and the monster that may or may not live in its murky depths ever since he was taken there on holiday as a kid. Since then he had been back several times and had even spent a 3-week holiday at the Loch on the look out for Nessie, weighing up the idea of giving up his job to do it full time.


At the time I first saw Steve's video diary, I was 22 years old and I'd just completed my degree at Liverpool Polytechnic. After 3 years' of student-dom, I was now living back at my parents' house in sunny Macclesfield. And, to be perfectly honest, I was pretty depressed. Not that there was anything wrong with my parents' house. Or even Macclesfield. It's just that I hadn't really expected to move back there after my student years, you know? So Steve's video-diary of how he took control of his life and followed his dream of becoming a Loch Ness Monster hunter came at an important time in my life when I was wondering what I might do next. It was an inspiring tale of realising that it is up to each of us to decide what we want to do with our lives and then having the courage to set about doing it, no matter how crazy it might seem to some people. (And let's face it, monster hunter has to be right up there towards the top end of the crazy scale!) In fact, one of the scenes from the video diary that stuck with me for many years was the shot of Steve driving off in his van (actually an old mobile library) in the direction of Scotland with the song Life's What You Make It by Talk Talk playing.

Over the years I had occasionally wondered if Steve had stuck it out. Was he still spending his days staring out over the waters of Loch Ness hoping to see something that would prove that he wasn't wasting his time? Indeed he was. His website, www.haveyouseenityet.com and a couple of clips on YouTube confirmed that he was still there and still making and selling little clay models of Nessie to help fund his research.

And so, during the 'summer' a couple of years ago (I use the word loosely here, as I think the summer lasted for little more than an afternoon) I decided to go and visit Steve. If nothing else, I wanted to be able to tell him how I had found his video diary inspiring and something I still remembered to this day. I dragged Rachel and Freya with me (not literally, Rachel shared the driving, Freya didn't have much choice) and we made a holiday out of it.

When we arrived at the Dores Inn car park, it was busier than I'd expected. The car park beside the pub on the banks of the Loch is where Steve has resided for the last 12 years or so, ever since the converted mobile library that is his home became, well, not so mobile. From this vantage point, Steve has an unparalleled view down the length of Loch Ness.

"It never ceases to amaze me, the wonderful and bizarre things I get involved in doing which I never would have done otherwise," Steve tells me when I ask him about his life since he'd decided to become a full-time monster hunter, "just the other day this gang turned up and covered this whole beach with a huge great polythene bubble, which they pumped up to become this 35-foot high plastic clear pyramid!". It turned out to be for a stunt to advertise Scottish Blend pyramid tea-bags, but at the last minute they decided to involve Steve, "they said, right, we're getting the Inverness paparazzi out tomorrow to do a photo-shoot with this giant tea-bag, but what would actually be better is if we could put a monster hunter inside it and tow him around the bay! So the next day, I'm getting towed around, and it was great because you're stood on this plastic skin and suddenly it becomes like a glass-bottomed boat so you can see all sorts of debris that's lying just out here. So I could tick that off as work!". I wasn't sure what surprised me more. The fact that Steve could call this work, or that there was an Inverness paparazzi.

Steve also told me about his friend who has built floats on to the base of his microlight aircraft so that they can go flying up and down the loch, "...which again in a way is monster hunting because you can look down into the water. And it's bloody great fun whilst you're doing it!"

But as we continued to talk about Steve's decision to become a monster hunter all those years ago, I noticed that we talked less and less about the monster, and more and more about what it means to follow a dream. In fact, that was the reason I had wanted to meet Steve. Personally, I wasn't that bothered whether or not there is a monster in Loch Ness, but Steve was. In fact, it was his passion. It was his dream to spend his life as a monster hunter and be the one to get conclusive evidence that Nessie was for real. But he was equally passionate about getting across the idea that, no matter what your dream is, you should do whatever you can to follow that dream. Even if it is as bizarre as looking for the Loch Ness Monster.

At the end of Steve's video diary he concludes, "This isn't just about hunting for a monster, but about having a dream and following it. It doesn't matter if people say you're mad, if you don't go for it one day you may say, 'well, I wish I'd done that when I'd had the chance'. If you don't follow your dreams, the only person who loses is you."

_____

Steve's video-diary, Desperately Seeking Nessie, can be viewed online here. 

The title of this post alludes to the title of cyclist Lance Armstrong's autobiography It's Not About The Bike. I was lent this by a friend at work about three years ago, and I still haven't read it. I think it's because I have a sneaky suspicion that a big part of it is going to be about the bike.

Flowing home

As we leave the hotel to head home after a fantastic holiday, Mesuda, the hotel's owner tells us not to worry that they are throwing water alongside the taxi-cab. "This is a Turkish custom", she explains, "which means 'may your journey be as smooth as water flows'". I liked that.

Too good to be true

Yes, there are places in the world where even Bradford is considered exotic...

Ten years younger

They also say that when in Turkey you should have a Turkish Shave. At least if you are a man. As it turns out I am a man, and I am in Turkey. So a few days ago I had a Turkish Shave.

I chose the friendliest-looking barber shop, which we had walked past several times on our way to and from the town. He enthusiastically waves us in, and offers us tea. I had read in the guide book at the hotel that the Turkish are especially proud of their hospitality and that it is considered rude not to accept tea when offered. So we accept. We drink tea as we watch the World Cup on the television. Portugal are beating North Korea 4 goals to nil. As we sip our tea, Portugal score a fifth.

Eventually, the barber gestures for me to lay my head back and the shave begins. He applies a smooth coating of shaving cream to my face, taking care to ensure that there are no gaps. Then the razor appears. Now, my concern with the cut-throat razor is, and always has been, the name. Cut-throat razor. I would have thought the last thing you want to be reminded of about a razor is what it is capable of doing when it is in the wrong hands! Fortunately, this particular razor is in the right hands as he deftly scrapes away the three or four days' worth of stubble that I had been growing in preparation for today's event. My face now feels as smooth as the rest of my body had felt after the hammam the day before. Anywhere else, and you might think that was the shave over with. But not in Turkey. Noticing that Rachel was looking a little warm while sipping her tea he picks up some lemon spritzer spray and sprays her face to cool her down, before doing the same to me. Next, large cotton-bud type things are dipped in lighter fuel and set alight. These implements are used to singe away any unwanted (and, no doubt, unsightly) ear-hairs. I didn't realise I had any, but I definitely feel them singe as they are gotten rid of.

At this point, by way of advice, my barber gestures to the cafe next door to his shop. "Omar's...", he says, "dirty. Don't go there." We hadn't planned to, but I had wondered why there had been a large picture of Omar Sharif in prominent place at the front of the cafe. I assumed it might have been because Mr Sharif himself had once eaten there. I doubted this now, especially if he'd been to this barber first. As I turn to look in the direction of the cafe, I notice the man turning the kebabs on the grill. He bears a striking resemblance to Omar Sharif. "Is that...", I begin to ask myself, but I stop myself. Of course it isn't. As we ponder over the dirtiness of the neighbouring cafe, and as I silently ponder the fate of Omar Sharif, North Korea concede a sixth goal.

As I turn back to look into the mirror ahead of me, I am taken aback by the sudden appearance of the tips a sharp pair of scissors at the end of my nose. He is now removing unwanted (and, no doubt, unsightly) nose-hairs. "Massage?" he asks. Before I can respond he is massaging my shoulders and arms. At one point, he even gets out a large electric massager to run across my back. The offer is extended to Rachel, who gratefully accepts her part in the proceedings. Meanwhile, Omar next door continues to turn kebabs in his decidedly empty cafe, and Portugal put a seventh goal past the Koreans.

"You look ten years younger!" the barber assures me, as we prepare to leave. I smile and ask him how old he thinks I look. "Ooh, 35?" he ventures. I give him a thumbs up, as though to indicate I am happy with that assessment. Not surprisingly, he takes my gesture to mean he has guessed correctly. "Yes, same age as me! 35!". I am surprised. I would have said he was nearer 45.

As we walk away, making sure not to make eye contact with the man in the neighbouring cafe, I feel thoroughly refreshed. And I feel confident in the knowledge that no unwanted (and, no doubt, unsightly) ear or nose-hairs are causing any offence. It then dawns on me. If he thought I looked 35 after my shave, and the shave made me look ten years younger, then he actually thought I was probably around 45.

Oh well, same age as him, I suppose. Same age as him.

Another bath like no other

I have never seen a bathroom with such a spectacular view. And probably never will again either. 'Tis quite amazing.

This picture is taken from the vantage point of the toilet. A 'poo with a view' if you will.

A bath like no other

They say that one thing you must try if you visit Turkey is a hammam. You and I might know it better as a Turkish Bath. Now it just so happens that the hotel in which we are staying has a hammam. And it just so happens that guests at this hotel are granted a complimentary hammam during their stay here. And it just so happens that we are guests at the hotel. And it just so happens that when we asked at reception about booking an appointment for our complimentary hammam, we were able to have one today. What I'm saying is, I had a Turkish Bath today.

I had no idea what to expect. Remember I had no idea I was going to be in Turkey today until just a couple of days ago, so no chance to read any of the guide books. I was entering un-chartered waters. Fortunately, I wasn't entering alone. Rachel was also hammam-ing, as were another couple.

All guests to the hammam have to wear comedy shoes. You slip these on like sandals but the wooden bases mean that no normal person could walk in them and look normal. The only way of propelling yourself forward is to shuffle. Or at least that was the case for me. Rachel, being a woman, after years of experience of propelling herself forward in a wide range of footwear seemed to be able to walk like a normal person. I looked across at the other couple who were also making their way into the hammam, and noticed they too were managing to walk like normal people. It was only me that was shuffling like a loon.

We propelled ourselves forward (I shuffled, Rachel and the others walked) into the hammam itself, a large marble-walled room in the bowels of the hotel. The first 15-20 minutes of a hammam, so I gather, is to sit and sweat and allow the pores to open. As we sat and sweated and allowed the pores to open, my mind began to wander. Was there anything I knew about Turkey? Anything from popular culture that might give me a hint as to what to expect from my hammam experience?

Then I remembered. Yes, there was a film I'd seen. A film that had something to do with Turkey. Midnight something. Midnight... Express. Midnight Express! Yes, that was it. I vaguely remember it as one of the first films I'd seen on video. Yes, in Midnight Express, doesn't the lead character go to a Turkish Bath...? Oh... no, it's not a Turkish Bath, is it? It's a Turkish Prison. And Turkish Baths and Turkish Prisons are not the same. At least I hope not.

The masseur makes his appearance. A stocky little man with a crew cut with a large tea-towel wrapped around his waist (it's actually called a pestamal). He gestures to the four of us as though to ask "who's first?". A few nods of heads seem to indicate that I am to go first. So I stand up and shuffle forward. He gestures for me to lie down on the large marble plinth in the centre of the room (the Gobek Tasi or Naval Stone). I ditch the sandals and oblige by lying face down on the plinth. I try not to think of the film Midnight Express. His job, I now realise, is to exfoliate. By exfoliate, I mean his job is to rub down my skin with a mitt that is made from the same stuff as a pan scourer. It was taking off the dead skin. There goes my first day's tan, I thought!

A tap on my back told me it was time to turn over on to my back. As I did so, Mr Masseur continued to scrape his brillo pad across my skin. As he moved from my legs to my upper torso, his face was a few inches from mine. Of course, being British, etiquette was uppermost in my mind. What is the proper etiquette in this situation, I asked myself? Do I make eye-contact or opt for a middle distance gaze? As I say, I'm British, so the middle distance gaze wins out and I choose a tile on the ceiling to focus upon.

Another tap, and I'm to sit up. As I do this a second masseur enters the hammam who, I presume, will begin to undertake the same torture I have just been through with the other guests. But no, I am being gestured to make my way over to the othe side of the Gobek Tasi and again lie face down. I do as I'm told. Immediately I prefer Mr Masseur no. 2, for he is the bringer of bubbles. Light, soft bubbles that somehow emerge from a pillow case. And lots of them. He proceeds to wash and massage me from head to toe. It is very, very relaxing.

A tap on my back and I know to turn over. Another interesting-looking ceiling tile catches my attention, saving us both (i.e., me) from any awkwardness. Another tap and I sit up to receive a neck massage that releases a knot or two that I didn't realise were there.

A final gesture brings me to my feet. My new friend rinses away the bubbles with cool water from a metal bowl that he pours over my head and shoulders. He then starts to make a quiet chanting noise that signals a change from cool water to ice cold water! Just as I was starting to like him, as well! It's cold but very refreshing.

By now, Mr. Masseur no. 1 was doling out his torture to Rachel. Although she seemed to be enjoying it. Just wait until you get to Mr. Masseur no. 2 with is pillow case of magical bubbles!

As we shuffle back to reception, I realise I am cleanest I have ever been. Ever.

Turkish delight

The wonders of technology. Blogging from my phone in the airport lounge at Heathrow! I'm amazed what is possible these days... But then again, to paraphrase Douglas Adams I still think digital watches are a pretty neat idea.

Rachel surprised me again. She had booked us a week's holiday to Turkey! And we leave in an hour. I am being very, very spoiled.

Never let the odds keep you from doing what you know in your heart you were meant to do!

H. Jackson Brown Jnr.

40 years young

Today I am 40. I remember when my dad turned 40. Forty is my dad's age, not mine!

I've been preparing myself for a while: when I was 38 and people asked me my age I would reply by saying I'd be 40 next year. Was I wishing my life away, or was I simply accepting that middle-age was soon to be upon me?

Now that I am 40, I am inclined to agree with Arthur Schopenhauer (don't I always?) who observed that, "the first forty years of life give us the text: the next thirty supply the commentary." I just hope it's not provided by John Motson.

[Thanks to Byron for the pic.]

Chomsky with dick jokes

I've said it before and I'll say it again. I'm a big, big fan of Bill Hicks. In my humble opinion, he is possibly the best stand-up comedian to have graced the planet. But as many of his fans will testify, he was so much more than just a stand-up. His routines cut through all the crap that is thrown at us day after day, and his comedy revealed the lunacy that passes for politics these days.

I say 'these days' even though he died 16 years ago. He was just 32 years old. The irony was that his routines from the early 1990s that dealt with US foreign policy, George Bush, and Iraq were just as relevant 10 years after his death. I consider myself extremely fortunate to have seen Bill when he performed live at the Neptune Theatre in Liverpool back in 1992 when I was a student. I had seen him on TV quite a few times before then and kind of expected to recognise most of his material. About 80% of the show was new material, much of it seemingly improvised or highly topical (it was the week after the Los Angeles Riots).

I am therefore, soooo looking forward to seeing American: The Bill Hicks Story tonight. There are many clips from Bill's shows available on YouTube. This one perhaps best sums up his philosophy:



The title of this post? It's how Bill referred to himself.

Tweet surrender

I've succumbed to twitter. If you are a fellow tweeter or twitterer, or whatever we're called, feel free to follow me to find out what nuggets of wisdom I'm likely to chuck out from time to time. In fact, please follow me, as without followers it's all rather pointless...

Do unto others

It's so easy to forget.
What you give is what you get.

Ratt, 1985.

Bedtime reading

My bedtime reading of late has been a book called Waking from Sleep (oh the irony).

All in the Mind

Three trailers for the same film, Inception, due to be released in the UK on July 16. The film looks amazing, but just goes to show how a little variation in editing can produce quite different trailers. For me, it's this one that is the most compelling:



This slightly shorter one doesn't sell it enough:



And this one, almost twice as long, perhaps gives away too much:



Still want to go and see it though!