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Scientific studies have documented that dream telepathy–communicating while we are sleeping–is real. I know all about it, and so do my acquaintances, whose dalliances end up in my dreams. 

“You do realize,” an astrologer told me last week, “that you’re psychically gifted? You’re tapped in to something. You get information in unusual ways…”

I gulped. “Keep that under your hat, ok?” I’ve learned to keep my “condition” under wraps. It’s easier that way. Blurting out truths that you have no way of knowing can be embarrassing. And people tend to really weird out when you innocently tell them a dream that contains their secrets.

quote open When we do something that isn’t on the up-and-up, we need to “confess” and tell someone, somehow, even if it’s thquote closerough our dreams.

I’m an inadvertent subconcious spy, a Mrs. Kravitz of sleep–that one third of our lives that we can’t really account for despite going through the motions of it for thousands of years.

What follows are my “anecdotal reports” about telepathic dreaming and communicating with others while we sleep. The phenomenon of telepathic dreaming has been validated by scientific studies, including at Princeton’s Psychophysical Research Laboratory.

The most interesting aspect to me is what may trigger it. My most dramatic examples of telepathic dreaming concern deceit. My theory: if we do something that isn’t on the up-and-up, we need to “confess” and tell someone, somehow. And apparently, sometimes, that person is me.

Take, for instance, the case of “The Frank Dream.”

The Frank Dream
When I was a lass of 20, I was fascinated with “Hans,” who was clever, handsome and “funny as all get out” as we liked to say in Ohio. He was also a total skeptic about all matters “psi,” as psychic phenomena are collectively known, as befit his college major: biology.

“If phenomena can’t be observed and recorded under clinical conditions and can’t be repeated under those same conditions, they aren’t valid,” Hans told me repeatedly. Whenever I mentioned odd things that had happened to me he shrugged them off as “anomalies” and “anecdotal reports,” which was his diplomatic way of saying they were b.s.

Hans lived in Cincinnati and I lived an hour away, in Dayton. He was also the friend of my ex-boyfriend, who’d recently married. Nevertheless, I kept up with Hans.

“Had a dream about you last night,” I told Hans over the phone one Sunday. “You went to a party and met a girl with brown hair. She became your girlfriend.”

He had gone to a party the night before, he admitted, and he’d met a girl with brown hair. But so what? Going to a party on Saturdays was commonplace, he pointed out, and the chances were good at a party that he would meet a girl with brown hair. (Never mind that the brunette he met that night did become his long-term girlfriend.)

“Had a dream about you last night,” I told Hans when I called the next Sunday. “You went to a party and talked with two guys about forming a jazz trio.”

There was a pause. He had gone to a party the night before and talked with two guys at a party about putting together a jazz trio.

I suggested that perhaps we were experiencing telepathic dreaming. He laughed. Hans reminded me that I knew he was a drummer; maybe he’d also mentioned that he was fond of jazz. Telepathic dreaming, he assured me, was a joke. (Apparently, Hans wasn’t up to date with the scientific literature on the matter.)

The next month, I moved out of state — to Kentucky. One weekend, I planned to drive back to Dayton, three hours away. Hans invited me to stop in Cincinnati en route.

That Friday morning, still in Kentucky, I awoke feeling upset. I’d had a dream about my ex — “Frank.” In my dream, Frank’s marriage to “Sylvie” was a mess.

The dream was rich in details that only later became relevant. In it, I drove to Dayton and pulled up to Flanagan’s, a bar where Frank’s band was playing. The cover charge was 50 cents. I handed the cashier a dollar, then took it back and instead gave him two quarters.When I entered the bar, fraternity boys were sitting at a long table, laughing too loudly. Just as I walked by, somebody knocked over a beer pitcher, and a river of lager spilled across the table. “Bummer, man,” said Il software del nostro online casinos online puo essere completamente rimosso dal pc seguendo le indicazioni alla pagina disinstallazione. a frat boy.

Somebody was yelling my name. I looked across the bar to see Sylvie, blond-haired wife of Frank, waving me over to sit with her. Sylvie was snockered, and immediately knocked her glass off the table. It smashed into bits on the floor.

“I’ve had it with Frank!” she screamed. “I want a divorce!”

I looked at my watch: it was 12:15. The band had stopped playing and Frank was onstage, winding up cords. I approached.

“What’s up with you and Sylvie?” “It’s over,” he said. “What a casino online c-&$%!”

In the next dream scene, I was alone with Frank, at his house. We were kissing on the couch, pulling off each other’s clothes. Then we saw headlights in the driveway. There was the sick realization that it was Sylvie, and that what we were doing was wrong. We quickly rebuttoned, anticipating Sylvie walking through the door.

I awoke in a sweat, feeling wretched, and I couldn’t shake the feeling all day-

That Friday afternoon, as I drove to Ohio, I couldn’t stop thinking of the dream. By the time I arrived in Cincinnati, I was almost crying.
Hans took one look at me and asked what was wrong.

“I feel so guilty! I want Frank and Sylvie to be happy! But I had a dream…”

Hans led me to the back terrace. “What are you talking about?”

So I told him the dream with all the dumb details, which to my surprise he took in with great interest.
“I thought I was over Frank,” I said at dream’s end. “But obviously I’m not!”

And then I looked over at Hans. He’d turned white.

“There’s no way you could have known,” he finally said, looking troubled.

“Known what?”

He shook his head. “That I went to Dayton last night, Flanagan’s to be exact, to hear Frank’s band play. It was a last minute decision…”

“Frank’s band actually played last night?” I asked. Frank’s band gigged about once a year.

He nodded. “You dreamed what actually happened to me in real life,” he said. “Taking back the dollar and paying with two quarters. The frat boys, the pitcher, the ‘Bummer, man!’ And Sylvie was drunk, screaming my name, and promptly dropped her beer glass, which smashed on the floor. She was yelling about she’d had it with Frank and wanted a divorce.”

Hans said at one point he looked at my watch and it said 12:15. “Frank was winding cords onstage. I asked what was up. He said it was over with Sylvie, and that she was a ‘c-&$%!’”

“Hans, are you making this up?”

“The only thing that was different about your dream and what really happened last night was…”

He looked sheepish. “…Instead of you going home with Frank, I went home with Sylvie. We were on the couch, ripping at each other’s clothes, when Frank’s car pulled up.”

He flashed me an intense look. “You know, I was never going to tell anybody about it in my life. But you went and dreamed it!” Even though our experience was only an anecdotal report, from then on Hans stopped rolling his eyes whenever I spoke of telepathy.

Other Instances of Telepathic Dreaming
After The Frank Dream Incident, I sporadically had other dreams that turned out to be exposés of betrayals and lies.
In one case, my telepathic dreaming concerned a vintner I was dating in Italy: I dreamed that he’d made a dramatic (and successful) come-on to a woman I’d introduced him to a few days before.

While I was pondering that the next morning, the vintner’s cousin called. I relayed the detailed scenario of my dream, complete with the dialogue. The cousin laughed, and said I was paranoid.

An hour later, the cousin called back sounding agitated. “You weren’t paranoid. He just phoned me and told me what he did last night. It was exactly what you dreamed, even the conversation…”

My ability to partake in telepathic dreaming faded shortly thereafter. Years went by without an incident. I didn’t really mind.

Not long ago, however, while I was in Thailand, I sent off an email to an acquaintance, “Gordon,” who is gay and lives with his boyfriend.

“Just woke up from a nap,” I wrote. “Funny dream! You rented a house in Spain to finish writing a book, but you instead had a torrid romance with an American woman. I saw you two off at the airport, and you kept asking me to come back to the States but I said I had to finish writing my book…The dream ended when you picked up my hand, looked at me tenderly, and said ‘I never had time to make you my lemon chicken!’”

I found it hilarious.

Gordon sent me an email within an hour, but he wasn’t amused; he was shocked.
He had in fact rented a house in Spain to finish writing a book. He had in fact been distracted: he’d had a two-week long torrid romance with an American woman, a surprising affair he had no intention of telling his boyfriend about.

“I just came back from putting my lover on the plane,” he wrote—and she’d begged to come with her, but he’d protested that he had to finish his book. “My last words to her were lamenting that I never had time to make her my lemon chicken…”

Beyond providing anecdotal evidence about telepathic dreaming, what these stories hint at is that there may really be no secrets for long. The truth is out there somewhere, as the saying goes, and we can stumble across it when we’re asleep.

Sweet dreams…

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About Melissa Rossi

Born in Dayton, Ohio, Melissa Rossi's first words were, "Get me outta here!" She's been moving around since she was 17 — living in Seattle, Portland and assorted other parts of the Pacific Northwest as well as in New York, Vermont, and Florida (let's not talk about Iowa and Kentucky). After writing a book about Courtney Love (Courtney Love: Queen of Noise), which Courtney didn't like, Rossi decided to become a world traveler, and has visited most European countries. She has also lived in assorted parts of Spain, Italy, the Netherlands and Belgium. Fluent in "Spitalnishsian" — an Italian, Spanish blend with a dash of Russian thrown in — Rossi has written for such publications as National Geographic Traveler, Newsweek, MSNBC and George, and is the author of What Every American Should Know about the Rest of the World (Plume/Penguin, 2003). A chronic sufferer of "Urban Deficit Disorder" — she can't focus on one city for long — Rossi probably will never settle down long enough to call one place her home.

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