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About a year ago, a close friend down here in the Florida Keys told me I needed to meet Jerry Weinstock, of Key West, who was as ardent about protecting Mother Nature down here, as I was. Turned out, that was Jerry’s life-long passion, which included a deep love for fishing and diving. His profession, however, was psychiatry, from which he mostly was retired when we met. He told me that for a very long time he was the only psychiatrist down here, and he had treated every writer in Key West at some point in time, and he also had been the school board’s psychiatrist.
Since we met, not as doctor-client, Jerry and I have had many discussions, a few face to face, most however in emails, probably 90 percent of which were published atwww.goodmorningkeywest.com.
For example, the other day Jerry replied to the November 3, 2014 good Florida Keys people hazardous waste alert: incumbent mosquito control board commissioner Phillip Goodman and incumbent county commissioner George Neugent post www.goodmorningkeywest.com, after a cold front had just come through Key West, night temperatures were in the high 50s F. It was awful.
Sloan: I dislike the cold waves –harder to swim today –(I think) ////// but enjoyed the Blog——–just finishing my last Tuna suchi from our fishing trip ( Donna and I ) 4 days ago—-that’s what is really incredible about Key west –can go out and catch your own Tuna —clean it and eat (enjoy) the flavor — with some picked key Limes.
best wishes for a good day !! Jerry
Thanks, alas, seems I’m swimming up Niarga Falls after it froze over and winter hasn’t even begun yet.
see another good metaphor
[I had published a few days earlier, that what I get up, write, put together and publish each morning is fishing; I used to call it soul fishing.]
it doesn’t feel like metaphor
the getting up and going fishing each morning, with what I publish, really is fishing – in times past I called it soul fishing
as I was about done putting today’s bait together, I sense I was to send it to my father’s lawyer, with a request that he share it with my father’s widow and three other people in Birmingham, who were, and still are, deeply involved in my father’s affairs
am pretty sure now all the writing I did about Ebola, besides being about Ebola and its spirit vibration, also was about something about as rough for me as Ebola, which was the recent correspondence with my father’s lawyer, and its accompanying spirit components, only the email I first sent to the lawyer, as per dreams, did I report so far; I heard back from him yesterday, what I anticipated, nothing encouraging, which led to me replying this morning back to him with a second much different (nice) tone email, as per dreams, and later on I sent today’s post to him to share around; the spirit currents are very heavy and very toxic, and I’m exhausted, my liver is wailing; this might go on a while, no clue how it will play out, but this river has to be paddled; once upon a time I was a pretty good whitewater paddler, and from time to time in dreams I am on a whitewater river in one of my old boats, and the dream is showing me what I am currently navigating in something I’m engaging when I’m awake; had such a dream in a nap a bit ago – perhaps I should call Trauma Star, get myself airlifted to, hmmm, Mt. Sinai – not literally, but literally in the soul sense
I should have been given this to do months ago, when I could have eased through it without a lot of time pressure on me …
My father asked me in a dream last June, as I recall, what I was going to be doing in October? I wondered if it was about the mayor’s race, but I wasn’t for sure; when October came and the dreams filling in the blanks started coming, I knew I would be dealing with his lawyer and his widow, and I knew it would chew me up internally …
I dreamt night before last of being in Hawaii in April, and I awoke hearing the tune and some of the lyrics to “April Love,” by Pat Boone, I thought I recalled … the only woman, and the only person, in my life, so far, who actually was on the same page with me about spirit matters was the woman who went around the world with me on credit cards, in 2000, and we ended up broke and stranded on Maui; in 2001, after HEAVY WAIT came through me, she was its muse, she came to me in a dream and said we were even and were headed separate ways, but would meet again at the Capriatti Hotel, and she got into a yellow taxi cab and I got into another yellow taxi cab, and we went off in different directions; I met Brenda when she was driving a taxi in north Georgia, her email handle was “taxi girl” …
Maybe being in Hawaii in April is a physical move, maybe it’s about something important in my life concerning Hawaii happening … meanwhile, I’m paddling up frozen Niagra Falls, or something, and it ain’t a whole heap of fun …
a lot of convoluted issues—glad you can sleep and dream;
Without REM sleep (dreaming) insanity results —but you do well in the rather lush detailed dreams you experience”………keep dreaming; tell me some of them—ok —(truncated)—————-Jerry
(also your feelings during the dream)
I replied the next morning, November 4:
Lots of people have told me they do not dream, as in, they do not remember their dreams. Some people I have known only remembered dreams occasionally. Others reported dreaming ongoing. I associated that with the state of their internal feminine; the more whole and functioning it was, the more they remembered their dreams. I suppose, perhaps incorrectly, that all people dream, even if they do not recall dreaming – REM sleep.
I have been plainly told in my sleep, in plain English, that I need to dream so I will know what is really going on. That concurred with my being instructed and corrected in dreams ongoing. Closer to Carl Jung’s view of dreams, than to Sigmund Freud’s. But I imagine Jung would have serious trouble with my dreams, which would defy his view of dreams and their symbols and the archetypes.
After writing to you yesterday afternoon, a lot of pieces fell into place in my noggin very fast.
Going back to the dream last June, as I recall, in which my father asked me what I was going to be doing in October? And I awoke not knowing how to answer his question, and wondering what he meant?
I wrote a great deal about Ebola in October, perhaps that started in latter September. I understood the spirit vibration of Ebola had been put into me. Soon, I felt like I was coming down with a flu. As days passed, the flu grew stronger. Mostly, it was in my right lung – right is the male side of a human body in lots of people’s spirit symbology, as well as in my own spirit symbology. The flu in my right lung moved into pneumonia.
I’ve had that happen a number of times. I’ve even had doctors tell me it was pneumonia many years past. I stopped treating it medically, after I knew it was a spirit process and that treating it medically would make it harder on me; even if the antibiotics knocked the pneumonia back, it would return, and not only that, it would return more than once. So, I just started riding it out, and eventually whatever it was related to in spirit would work its way through me and the pneumonia would start to clear up, slowly, and often regressing back, and then progressing forward again, over and over, until it was finished. That happened maybe a dozen times over the years, after I got the hang of how to deal with it.
Ebola is from Africa. The final and biggest rupture in my and my father’s relationship came when I, and my two best men friends, one of whom had been a valued management employee of my father’s snack food company, which competed head-on with Frito-Lay, the fellow was the company’s production manager, all three of us had dreams that I had an older half-brother named Travis, whose father was my father, and whose mother was the daughter of the black married couple who lived in the servants’ quarters of my father’s home. I went to my father’s bother, whom I loved dearly, and asked him if I had an older brother I didn’t know about? He confirmed it and said he wanted nothing to do with it. That was early September 1998.
I didn’t know what to do with what I had learned, so I did nothing with it.
In early December 1999, I was overwhelmed, out of the blue, with knowing it was time for me to ask my father about Travis. We did not see each other, but sometimes we exchanged brief, cordial handwritten letters. I wrote to him saying I and my two best men friends had dreamed I had an older brother named Travis, and if that was so, I was not upset, but I would like to meet him, if that was possible. I added, if I did not hear back to my request, I would take that to mean Travis existed. I said nothing about Travis’ being mix-raced, and I did not mention my father’s brother.
I received no letter back. Christmas Day came and passed. Each year, my father gave his children, including his adopted daughter by his second wife, common stock he owned. The value of the annual Christmas stock gift ranged from $8,000-$10,000, staying at or under the limit my father could give away each year without having to deal with the IRS gift tax laws. I did not receive the Christmas stock gift. I said to myself, oh well, and moved on.
About a week later I was again overwhelmed from out of the blue, I was to legally change my name to Sloan Young, Young was my middle name at birth, and to legally renounce all of my inheritances from my father, and to then advise him I had done that and send him proof, and do the same with my daughters, their mother, my brother and sister, and my second wife who, under out divorce decree, had a claim against part of one of my inheritances. All of which I did. Then, I was told to leave the country using credit cards, as I had very little money, and go where I was directed to go. Which I did.
Later, I was told to legally undo all of that, which, after much resistance on my part, and much pressure in dreams and other ways, I finally did. After which, I learned that my Travis letter was intercepted by my father’s wife, my stepmother. I had meant the letter just for his eyes. I did not know she was intercepting letters I sent to him. I learned that in November 2004, from my first wife, mother of my children, who had a PhD in Psychology, but never practiced that trade. She told me that all of my letters to my father were forwarded to her, for her to read and access my state of mind, and report her assessment back to my father and his wife.
That’s how I learned my stepmother had intercepted the Travis letter, and perhaps it explained my father’s behavior. For he had made it very clear to me that he would not do anything to cross his wife, as it might pertain to me. But perhaps he would have done what he did in any event. He had gone to great lengths to keep Travis hidden, which was revealed to my two best friends in their dreams. My mother didn’t know about it. My father’s brother never told his wife about it, according to her some years later, after her husband out of the picture.
So Ebola comes from Africa. This very difficult situation for my father, Travis, on which I have no judgement against my father, came from Africa, so to speak. The angels got me involved in Ebola as a warm up for what really was coming my way from Africa, again. The pneumonia in my right lung is my father, and Travis, and my and their unfathomable heart-breaking losses, caused by a society which would not accept a young white man and a young black woman who loved each other dearly, according to my two friends’ dreams, from being together and raising their son, whom my father loved dearly, according to my two friends’ dreams.
All of that, and Ebola, is being processed in me, Jerry, because I was prepared and trained by angels to do such things, for myself, and for other people. Of late, it hit my liver, which can be viewed as a body organ, but also as a liver, as in someone who lives, is alive, without which, a liver, a person dies.
I tell you all of this, Jerry, not to elicit a response from you. I tell you because it needs to be told, and you being an M.D., who practiced psychiatry for many years, are, I suppose, the ideal person to have this dumped on, especially considering I am viewed my some of my family, and was viewed by my father, as mentally ill. It is very different between him and me in my dreams, which are not compensating dreams. They are live interactions, just as real, or more real, than your and my interactions, Jerry, although there is no way I can prove that to anyone. Nor is there any way anyone can disprove it.
There is yet another player in this family production. My father’s younger brother, Jack, was born with the cord around his neck and never mentally developed past infancy; and he was an invalid, required constant nursing care until he died in his late teens. My father and his brother were so embarrassed by Jack that they would not bring their friends over to their home. Finally, their father made arrangements for Jack to live in a facility in Pennsylvania, I think it was, and against his wife’s wishes and strong objections, Jack was taken there to live out the rest of his short, unfortunate life. My father’s mother developed manic-depression over all of that, today called bipolar disorder.
I was told in a dream in October 2002, that I had an adversary, of whom I did no know. Then, I was shown the adversary was Jack, with whom my father had identified me. Now I was Jack. The great embarrassment. Now my brother, Major, was the favored son, the good son. Major, who later would kill himself and try to make it look like someone had killed him. Which, sadly, I was given the awful job of refuting in posts at my website, even before it was known that Major was dead, and after his body was found. The local police detective and the coroner’s forensic pathologist later concluded it was suicide designed to look like murder.
What father could cope with a son who is shown in dreams, and in dreams of his friends, everything he needs to know about what is important to him? That must have been terrifying for my father, and for his second wife, and for some of my other relatives, while other of my relatives were not freaked out, but I did not dream about them in those ways.
So, Brenda in north Georgia had a dream last night, of something major happening in my father’s home in Birmingham, in which his widow now lives; the home which used to be owned by my mother, which she left to her children, with our father having a life estate. He then bought my siblings and my interests in the home; I would have given him my interest, and told him so, but he said he wanted to push money to this children.
I’m obviously being vague about what is going on in Birmingham, because it’s a work in progress and, as I wrote to you yesterday, I don’t how it will play out. What I do know is my father came to me in a dream last night and showed me I was behind the curve in getting myself in shape for a spiritual football game, and I needed to get that fixed fast.
I summarized that dream just now, it was a bit more involved.
If I told you the whole dream, and the history behind it, and all the meanings, it would take a while. And the meanings would mean nothing to you, nor to anyone, but me, because the dream was a message to me in language and symbols familiar to me. The dream could not be understood by any person but me.
So here I am getting in shape for a spiritual football game, as fast as I can.
I once had a dear friend in New Mexico, who had done a residency in internal medicine and an a second residence in psychiatry. Later, he contracted a horribly crippling case of MS, which nearly totally paralyzed one side of his body, the left side, as I recall – the female side. He had very rough issues with his mother, as I recall. We “treated” each other for our various soul and human relationship woes.
He sometimes would say, in moments when he, or I, or someone we knew was put hard face to face with our own self in ways we did not in the least want to be put face to face, “Ain’t spiritual growth wonderful?”
I knew when I saw what I was being put to do in Birmingham, by writing to my father’s lawyer and to his widow, for an advance against my next inheritance, that it was a test for the lawyer, my stepmother, my father’s other trusted advisers, who still look after his affairs, and for me. I was furious that my father did not deal with them directly, as he deals with me directly. I’m still furious. But here I am, doing yet again something I don’t want to be doing. As if it matters to God that I like what I am given to do.