Beacon of the Solitary.

Distract, censor, confuse,
issue your propaganda.

Control the release
of information,
a calculated flow,
a measured progression
to properly condition
minds on the receiving end.

Deny, spin and lie
to divide the herds,
just to keep them in line.

And like it or not we
all play your game,
play right into your hand.

I only have a single,
solitary finger for you,
though its the tallest
of the five.

They curl before
it like the kneeling faithful
as it stands tall,
striving for sky

only to act as a beacon
for your eye, a message
delivered to you, from me,
translated: fuck you,
sincerely.

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Of Sidelines and Dead Ends.

Standing on the sidelines,
still and stagnant,
examining with a critical eye
potential solutions
to the problems
produced, metastasized
by the way we live our lives.

All I see are dead ends.
Damn my cynicism.

To try and put a dent
in this machine
with picket signs, petitions,
voting and begging politicians
already bought and paid for?

To pour resources
into the greater good
while you can barely
keep yourself afloat?

Infect the mind
of the majority strategically
embracing the notion
that the end
justifies your means?

Do charity
to ease guilt
with a short-sighted,
expedient mind
blind to the root causes?

Try with your lack
of understanding,
in the ignorance
that you are ultimately
feeding the symptoms
for the sake
of emotional masturbation,

that your every stroke,
unbeknownst to you,
constitutes an exacerbation
of this truly cataclysmic situation?

The road ends
in my mind before fueling
a single step
onto that potential route.

This need is aching
against a sense
of being powerless,
however connected.

Sidelines
should not be a settlement.

Show of Hands (and Put That Away).

“Alexa and Valentina Have a Sudsy Fuck Session” stars Alexa Weix and Valentina Velasques in a porn that has a promising opening but quickly descends into stupidity with the introduction of a can of whipped cream.

Save it for a latte. I mean, really.

I must confess that I find it peculiar that despite finding so many correlations between the desire for sex and the desire for food that I find their active cross-contamination generally unfavorable, but there you have it. It doesn’t help that I’m so high the kites look like gnats and the introduction of whip cream into my stoner-boner voyeur show shifts me to munchie-mode and makes me want a sundae, which is irritating me as much as some of the random thoughts I have to jot down as I’m disappointed with Internet porn clip after Internet porn clip.

Distractions plague the end-of-the-night pipe-cleaning process. Sometimes its random, plaguing questions borne from the womb of bad porn clips I should have read the titles of more closely. Other times, its ideas for dialogues and monologues I get distracted by.

“I find it hard — eh, ‘difficult’ is probably a better word-choice, but oh well — to commit to an Internet porn clip to finish myself off to before bed, and you’re asking how I feel about a relationship?”

Other times, crude statements or commentary come to mind.

“I bet there’s a lot of fisting in Muppet porn.”

Inevitably, I click onward to a web of porn like a stoned, solo-sexual soldier.

Moving on, in “Naughty Bookworms: Jessi Palmer,” a dorky guy teaching class starts out being verbally pummeled by the aggressive cross-examination of sole student Jessi, who quickly earns my respect by mocking the dorky guy’s pink shirt. He then cross-examines her standing up and so above her and in front of the desk, without boundary, to at once show his lack of fear and challenge her in the hopes that she will assume the submissive role in response. Instead, she then turns sexually aggressive and he retreats to his former underdog position with his tail between his legs.

I like her.

The more he resists, the more she persists and this pays off, clearly, as they then proceed to fuck. It would be nice if being an infrequent barker who must be cornered in order to bite paid off this way in the real world, but it would seem that what happens in porn is unrealistic, because that is what gives us erections: things not likely to happen.

Why else would this porn be here? Our erections are a show of hands for their election of the pornographic content. We have to aim our lips or domed dills for things beyond the horizon of the conceivably achievable. We need to want what we don’t have or are too damned frightened to shoot for.

We are monkeys condemning ourselves to our own cages in this zoo, and bored monkeys with wifi access do what they do.

Ongoing Battles in the War to Remember.

I stopped taking the mood-meds and moved my documentation from paper to a small micro-cassette recorder I kept on myself at all times during my insomniac evenings. That way, I could quickly document anything strange that happened in real-time. It also became a teenage teddybear of sorts, as I held onto it for dear life whenever I was feeling daring enough to submit to the pull of sleep. If not for this little device, I would never have remembered two particularly strange incidents that occurred that year of 1995.

The first was on April Fools Day, and this was a recording I had not recalled making describing an incident I did not remember occurring. That fitting morning of April 1st I found myself sitting up in bed with my eyes open, though I maintained in my log that I had truly been awake for some time in a “different conscious state.” Though I did not provide details, I maintained that I had not spent the night in my room. Instead, I had been somewhere else with many others engaging in some activity.

I also had been speaking with someone in my room shortly before coming to and managed to retain some memory of the conversation. This individual seemed to be female and my sense now is that she was the same individual who visited me when I was young and called herself The Teacher, and suitably so.

At some point her and I had been speaking of abduction researcher Budd Hopkins, who’s first book had essentially triggered what became a flood of memory fragments for me back around the beginning of that year. I mentioned my sense that he was an abductee himself, which I felt she confirmed. She also gave me reassurance about something.

I clicked stop on the tape recorder, got ready for work and the memory of making that recording vanished. It was perhaps a year or two later when I finally transcribed the tapes, astonished to find it in the process. I was talking to myself through a cassette that sliced like a blade through space, time, and a wall of apparently layered amnesia.

It was also three days after this recorded-then-forgotten event that I received another brief flashback and basically hypnotized myself into grander recollection of the episode. I then broke down and called around for a hypnotist, not telling my parents the real reason for wanting to go and not even asking the hypnotist if she worked with abductees until I was alone in the room with her. Despite that, she told me that it was quite a coincidence I had come to her, as she worked with Budd Hopkins in his Intruders foundation. It sounded insane to consider that there might be some relationship between the unremembered conversation about Hopkins on April 1st and finding my way to that particular hypnotist on April 27th, but sounding insane has never stopped such notions from entering into consideration in my case, unfortunately.

The event on April 1st was not the only discovery during the transcription, either, which only served to unnerve me all the more. The other occurred in mid-July, shortly after the initial “astral plane” experiences that began the month before appeared to halt their assault on my already-mutilated sense of reality.

At around midnight on June 16 I awoke and pressed “record” on my micro-cassette recorder, which I cradled close to me like a goddamn teddybear at the time. I reported a bit too calmly that I had seen something move in my room out if the corner of my eye. Then, stop.

The next log was at 3:11 AM, where I reported a deep noise pulsating in my ears (which in retrospect I came to connect to the bothersome lump I had discovered behind an ear the previous month of June). Then, stop.

Another log follows, one for which I gave no time, in which I reported that I could “feel” a black dog with glowing, red eyes watching me from the far corner near my bedroom door. Then came a frightening and final, stop.

There were also three recollections, though for each I failed to supply dates or document with the precision I would have preferred. All are what I, to be safe, have classified as dreams.

The first involved being with a group of people being led down a somewhat winding tunnel by two male individuals. One was dark-haired, the other blonde-haired. In these dark tunnels, we all gazed at these glowing tanks that lined the walls. It reminded me how they arrange the aquariums in some pet shops I’ve been to, but there was an especially eerie quality to it.

Whenever I go to one of those pet shop aquarium tunnels now, I think of it. The two strange guys, the group I was with, the eerie blue glow of the tanks in that dark corridor, the whirs and hums of machines. A blurry dream that sticks with me.

Later I would read of the “incubatoriums” or “baby factories” many abductees are shown during an abduction. Everything fits frighteningly well save for the fact, perhaps a telling one, that I can remember nothing if what we were seeing in the tanks, only that it left me with a strange feeling.

The other dream involved visiting a strange nursery, as I put it, where I proceeded to “quarrel with the tenants.” To this brief description I have attached a single, brief image of being escorted in or out of a whitish, glass-encased room by what appear to be two men in orange jumpsuits.

Last but not least, I recalled a particularly strange and vivid “dream” one night. I had walked outside the front door of the house, passed the garage and driveway. I had walked beneath the archway that led beneath the tree to the side of the garage. My recorder was in hand.

I stopped, closed my eyes and my head fell back. My grip loosened on the recorder and I felt as it dropped to the grass at my feet. Then I felt a swift, smooth sensation of being lifted upward a short distance, perhaps twice the height if the garage, until I felt what was clearly solid ground suddenly there beneath my shoes.

I have failed to note this when writing of it before, but the experience has come up in my mind quite a few times lately: there was not the slightest sense of being either dropped or rested on solid ground. It felt as if I was lifted from the grass while induced in a sudden state pleasant paralysis to a one-way floor above me. It was akin to a one-way mirror. Instead of being a mirror on one side, it was a solid floor; rather than transparency on the other side, there was just a hole. Experientially, the floor just wasn’t there at all until the base of my immobilized feet met with the solid side of this one-sided floor.

My eyes still heavy and closed, I just tried to stay awake. With all my dwindling might I fought to pry open my eyelids with only minute and fleeting success. It felt as though I was inside a small circular structure, but my eyes were blurry and hardly open a quarter of the way and the environment was dark as night and eerily silent. A blurry sea of black surrounded me, but just ahead of me in the darkness I finally saw the blurry, chalky whitish-gray silhouettes. There were three spindly beings with inverted-teardrop heads and slanted, blurry, black ovals where eyes would be. Try as I might, I could not focus my vision and the overwhelming desire to close my eyes and submit to the call of sleep overtook me. It felt as if they were approaching just as I blacked out entirely.

Though I know I did not recall making the two tape recordings and may not have even remembered the three dreams after documenting them on paper, I had arrived at some strange an interesting conclusions by that summer. On the tapes, I spoke of feeling especially unnerved that summer, as I felt an abduction had taken place recently that had changed something on a serious note. My sense was that I had taken a stand against something and had gotten on their bad side in the process. I found myself wondering if I had done the intelligent and right thing, which was a very strange inner struggle to be having given I had not the vaguest sense of what I had done in the first place.

I recall from the incident in August, 1995 that the amnesia faded much like a dream does, and trying to hold onto the memories was like trying to grip water. I ran upstairs to write it all down, but so much was gone, so little left over.

Battles in the War to Remember.

To each buried memory
in this ol’ cemetery,
its very own plot.
They could have built
a catacomb!
Now:
why the fuck not?

It never struck me until I began reflecting more on the whole incident with the flashback of the chair and the drawing on my wall that it might not have been me burying these memories. I was actively fighting the amnesia. Same thing the August morning, only in that case I watched it fly away from me in retrograde.

This was not me. This was not my doing. This was fucking done to me against my will.

Even during the flashbacks of the incident that must have happened in November or December of 1983, when I was six years old, I knew that they would try and make me forget, which is why I studied the alien Doctor carefully, so I would both remember and be able to draw him one day when I had developed sufficient talent. After the flashback, I noticed one of the many drawings on my wall was the face of the Doctor, though I had drawn the picture some time before I had the flashback.

The Goblin Man, who’s face was missing from the flashback, might have come out through my obsessive-compulsive drawing of the alien face that one evening.

Evidently I made a more aggressive attempt when I lay immobilized on my loft bed staring down at the chair pulled out from my desk and chanting you will remember, you will remember, you will remember over and over to myself. When that flashback came to me, it brought with it all the fear and anger of the moment as well, but though I remembered the chair and chanting “you will remember,” I cannot at all recall what it was that I was trying to remember, only that I felt it deathly important to remember, to overpower the amnesia that was creeping.

There is no way these incidents were acts of repression or dissociation on my own part. I remember constantly trying to fight the amnesia when I was a kid, and that battle was rekindled after the memories started rushing back in.

In February of 1995 I started giving the date, time, and descriptions of when I got memories and of the time and descriptions of real-time incidents on paper. My memory had clearly failed me, or perhaps only my ability to recollect; in either case, I wanted back what was mine. I wanted total recall, and while I was looking for the lost parts I wanted to ensure that I would lose no more in the process. Documenting it all became a very important weapon in the ongoing war to remember.

My first real-time incident since the memories occurred in March of 1995. By the evening of March 14th, I had been on ten milligrams of the antidepressant Nortipiptyline for eleven days and tried to get back into the routine of sleeping again. I had been lying on my back for some reason, which was something I had avoided since childhood, as I had come to associate sleeping supine with having nightmares.

I found myself in the hypnogogic state experiencing the sensation of being lifted up out if my bed to the height of the window that lie just above the headboard, then going horizontally out the window, only to snap out of it and sense my body fully in bed. Then it would start all over again. I knew at the time that this was an illusion and even found that I could control it somewhat. Eventually I grew bored with it and drifted off to sleep.

Some time later, I awoke with my mind acute, apparently in response to sensing a presence in the room, though conveniently I was simultaneously in a state of almost total body paralysis. It moved onto my bed and crawled atop my body, straddling me. I could feel its legs at my sides. It then seemed to put something over my face that made it difficult to breathe and made me feel as if I was trapped in my head, with little to no sense of my body. As I fought to open my eyes I found that I seemed to be in some dark, spacious masque with a porthole before me. Striving to see through the porthole, I got vague images of what I thought was the base of a gigantic tree, and along with that got the general sense that the area was a marsh or swamp.

Suddenly the masque was gone and I was aware of my entire body on the bed again, the creature still atop me. It was pushing its hands on my chest now, apparently in the attempts to suffocate me, and when that seemed to be judged as insufficient the creature then moved its knees on top of my chest to apply more excruciating pressure. Curiously, I have no recollection of how the encounter ended.

Upon awakening the following morning, I found the log I only vaguely remembered making after the experience in the notebook beside my bed — and then some.

At 1:31 AM, I wrote: “I keep having nightmares about being lifted up out of my bed and going through the window, of someone standing over me with an air tank on my face. My eyelids are nailed closed. I also had a dream sensation of being somewhat in this position around 4:00, feeling a presence in the room and falling on the floor.” I then signed out of the log at 1:18.

You cannot log out earlier than you logged in, nor can you have a first experience that takes place some three hours after the second experience. To say that I was in a particularly confused state that evening would be to make a mole hill out of a mountain to be sure, and that wasn’t the half of it.

Not only did I only vaguely recall making the log and only recall the second experience I documented, but I had absolutely no recollection at all of drawing the symbol I found in the notebook nearby the log, nor what it was supposed to mean. It was comprised of a circle with two crescents on the top and bottom in the manner that made it look like a crude drawing of an eye.

I later found this is a classic example of an experience of sleep paralysis, when one awakens before the “REM atonia” induced during dreamtime that ensures we do not act out our dreams shuts off. As a consequence, the unconscious compensates for the distortion or lack of sense data with hallucinatory phenomena that manifests in accordance with available cues from mental set and environmental setting. These cues are predictable, which is likely why the manifestations during sleep paralysis are cross-cultural, referred to variously as “old hag attacks,” being “hag-ridden,” or encountering the incubus or succubus.

It makes sense to me, and it takes only a little serious consideration. We awaken but feel detached from our paralyzed bodies, lingering between first- and second-person consciousness. This act of observing oneself results in the sense, at the other end of this dualistic state, of being observed, hence the sense of fear and the sense of an observing presence.

This guides the hallucinatory phenomena that fills the sensory vacuum, which conjures up just such a mysterious, malicious presence in your room which serves to confirm this sense of a dreadful presence. If you’re a male, you may also be erect in this state, making it likely that the hallucinatory narrative then moves to this vile entity straddling you. It may also lead one to perceive it as female, though in my case the creature gave off a sexless vibe.

Our minds being awake and our bodies being immobilized and locked on autopilot with respect to body functions also makes us utterly incapable of consciously exerting control on our breathing, which despite our efforts remains locked in shallow breathing mode. Our brains interpret this resistance as being suffocated. Mix this with the aforementioned menacing presence, and the next logical step in the hallucinatory storyline has its required cues: it is the mysterious presence in your room that is now proceeding to suffocate you.

The time issue bothered me, though given the interpretation of this experience of REM-atonia-induced hallucinatory phenomena, it’s not difficult to imagine this would also serve as an explanation.

This was the first time I had taken medication, and in my opinion it had only made things worse, for now I was unsure as to whether this was really happening, a product of my utter madness, or bad reactions to an antidepressant.

Now I was calling into question my own memories expressed in a written log I didn’t remember writing regarding an experience I apparently only partially consciously recalled.

Blindsci.

I love science. I just hate some trends in the attitude of the scientific community. My problem resides in certain scientists, I suppose. They are already looking down on me in the scenarios in my head in which I find myself barking back at them.

Don’t be so blinded in your pride in current scientific knowledge and its achievements, no matter how grand they appear on your scale, that you fail to see the extents of the known-unknowns and coincidently ignore the potential infinity of unknown-unknowns; that you fail to learn from history and the certainties once held so unquestionably that we now laugh at in retrospect, at best perhaps regarding them as the cute efforts and relatively genius achievements of their play with different mental models. Don’t be so full of pride that you fail to measure the height of present knowledge against the potential scope of our ignorance.

We’re still playing with models, trying to build meta-models as a species. You’re at the top, so I understand looking down. But don’t forget to look up, too.

The Dig.

Hope to hell I held
you up too high.
Every move I make
a part of me fears
that I’m just falling
into your plan.

With every layer of illusion
peeled away to unveil
another husk
to be cast,

I cannot help
but gain the sense
that whatever is buried ought
to be damn worthy

given the thickness,
the distance,
of this endless barrier

and the whispers
that keep getting louder
as I go deeper.

Hold On/Let Go.

The body has been perceived as a cell for the soul in the prison we call the physical world. Efforts towards this or that specific ideal results in escape from something that evidently sucks pretty bad, as its regarded as even worse than the present prison of life: rounds of rebirth, for instance, or being cast by some asinine-divine hand into an unseen world that has been painted with descriptions of vivid unpleasantries.

As for the body and the world of the senses, they are something to be endured for a later payoff which only occurs, conveniently, after one has bit the big one, kicked the bucket, cashed out, bought the farm and passed away only to come to rest in peace six feet down, tucked in beneath blankets of soil with a headstone as a pillow for the Big Sleep beneath the open sky.

From mother’s womb to home to home to nursing home to funeral home and finally denied a home, limited to the graveyard, some vile garden of inoperable flesh, skin buried like seeds as if in hopes they might blossom again. Life, they seem to convey, is little more than a long, relentless test of our endurance.

Even granting the existence of exosomatic consciousness and the cosmic recycling of consciousness variously known as reincarnation or the transmigration of souls, does this perspective hold any water?

Devaluing the world of the senses seems an extreme and unhealthy position to me. It always bothered me that Buddhism emphasizes letting go to the fullest extreme as a sort of ultimate escapism; instead, it seemed to me that the goal should be to place oneself in a position where one can hold on and let go at will. This is what I find so attractive about both Chaos Magick and concentration/mindfulness meditation, and their pairing at some level seems almost natural.

Meditation is said to bring you to identify with the core aspect of awareness that resides behind the ego which is free from the automatic cravings and aversions which fuel the ego. We are neither associating or dissociating, pulling towards or pushing away, running from and chasing in order to catch an oh-so-transient sense of satisfaction as we earn a moment of rest in the Here and Now. We keep our masque and the stage of the world and the play to which it is bound at an arm’s length, in and outside the world at the same time.

At some level the issue seems to be that we are enmeshed in a role we identify with which is inextricably bound to a story we blindly believe in, and here it would seem that Chaos Magick and the aforementioned meditation are convenient and useful technologies.

Meditation is the act of fueling the awareness of the masque one dons and the corresponding story in which one consequently participates; it trains us to take an intentional position in the Witness state of consciousness and utilize that third-person position in that additional degree of freedom to the fullest extent possible. Chaos Magick is about mastering the art of intentionally traversing different masques, different stories. We adopt useful illusions through “believing in” by achieving Campbell’s seizure, then “believing out” again to Witness consciousness.

Its not about escaping, its about more effective psychological management.

The body is not a cell, its a handy shell at worst, and it is the way we live our lives and not life itself that constitutes a prison. It’s about facing your truths squarely and letting go of even your most sacred of lies and accomplishing the wisest of all suggestions: Know Thyself.

That’s the hope, anyway.

Last to Know.

Mark Vonnegut, son of writer Kurt Vonnegut, wrote a book himself called The Eden Express. It was about a psychotic break that ultimately landed him in an institution. Though it has been perhaps a decade since I read it, I recalled a portion from that (damn good) book and grabbed my copy to find it:

“She didn’t think even for a minute that maybe I had had an accident. She knew immediately what kind of hospital I was in. My parents and lots of my friends showed a similar lack of surprise. It seems that they all felt I was crazy, but also felt I had worked out such good ways of dealing with it that I had effectively turned a sow’s ear into a purse. They all hoped I’d be able to keep it up, but feared it just wasn’t possible … it turned out the only one who was surprised about my going nuts was myself.”

This came to mind recently when I watched lectures and interviews on YouTube with neuroscientist James Fallon. He was conducting brain scans of people with different disorders and decided to have his family’s brains scanned to check them for any early warning signs for Alzheimer’s.

All scans in the family seemed perfectly normal save for one, which seemed to suggest, rather than Alzheimer’s, the worst case of psychopathy he had ever seen. Thinking he had mixed a scan from his pile of psychopath brain-scans with the pile for his family, he checked the name. It was him.

He said that what really convinced him was his reaction to this unexpected news. “I didn’t care,” he said, and that seemed proof enough. He later discovered that one side of his family had historically spawned violent, aggressive and homicidal tendencies, still later to discover that he has all the high-risk genetic factors. Socialization, he believes, is what saved him.

What really surprised him was the feedback he got when he approached close family and friends and asked them what they thought of him. He found that they had all always thought he fit the sociopath-psychopath profile — even his wife, who he has been with since he was fifteen (if I recall correctly).

In both cases, after they discover what they are they found that the people closest to them suspected it all along.

Mark was 21, I believe. Fallon was born in 1947 and learned of his socialized psychopathy relatively recently. It’s difficult to imagine a person living so many years with a fairly fucking major part of his personality entirely blind to him while to everyone close to him it is as clear as day. How many years could one go without one person giving him feedback that might trigger the self-realization?

Was it truly ignorance or deep denial? I suspect, despite my distaste for the option, that it was true ignorance: they knew nothing of it to deny. It flew entirely under their radar, and that notion horrifies me.

Fear demands examination, and I can describe it in this way.

If you think about it, there are four categories of regarding knowledge of oneself. First there are the Known-Knowns, the things we know we know about ourselves. More accurately, here resides our certainties, be they based on evidence or bunk, irrationality or reason, be they half-baked or promoted from the hypothetical to the theoretical.

Equally explicit and conscious are the Known-Unknowns a level down, or all that which you know you do not know about yourself. These are all the deep, self-directed personal questions about the nature of your personal history, family tree, the nature of your consciousness, the contents of your unconscious.

Deeper, we hit the level of Unknown-Knowns, the reservoir of things not only known and then forgotten, but which you also forget you ever knew — the dissociated, the unconscious, the subliminal and implicit.

Unknown-unknowns are the most frightening. By their very nature they are unpredictable, unsuspected, just around the corner, out of sight, and when they graduate to Known-Unknowns or perhaps quantum leap to the Land of Known-Knowns, the realization changes everything, and the message seems clear enough.

Never underestimate the unpredictable.