EMF Alarms As False Wake-Up Calls.

“And this is not my face. And this is not my life. And there is not a single thing here I can recognize. This is all a dream. And none of you are real.”
— “Head Down,” Nine Inch Nails.

Though I don’t remember awakening specifically, I am sure what prompted my consciousness was a noise. A kind of beeping noise that shot up in pitch and then died over and over. My ears lead the hunt through the darkness that drapes over my locale. I follow it to a room, enter, and hear it coming from a closet with an open door. It should not be open. Someone has been in here. That was my first, frightening thought. Walking towards it, I watch as the LEDs of the EMF-meter on the shelf rise in number and tone.

There is a certain feeling, a creeping terror with the thought of walking into your one-bedroom apartment, your solitary abode, or, even worse, waking up in it during the middle of the night to find that things are not as you left them, that there are clear signs of someone else’s presence while you were away. That was the sudden fear I felt as I walked slowly into the dark room, towards the open closet. I see the line of LED lights on the tiny machine high on the shelf, see one, more, all of them light up and then go down again in time with the rise and fall in pitch of the beeping. I tried to formulate some rational explanation as to how the door could be open and that thing could have been turned on when no one but me should be stepping foot into this apartment without my knowledge and consent.

Then memory is just gone.

I wake up again at some point because it was cold. Why is it so fucking cold? Suddenly I remembered I had been hot before bed and had turned the fan on the wall to the air conditioning setting. As for the former closet experience, it did not strike me until after I had actually awakened and sat down for my first cigarette. It was then that I recalled the incident and realized immediately that it had not happened in the ordinary sense. It was also here that I first recognized that it had indeed an EMF-meter in the closet, one of a design clearly hijacked from the television show, Supernatural. I have no such device, however, nor do I have the specific closet I had seen it in. In retrospect, the EMF-meter seemed to grow more active as I approached it, lighting up and squealing — was the overarching message supposed to be that I was the ghost it was detecting?

Furthermore, what is with the false awakenings lately? I think the most it frighting thing that has struck me about the most recent wave of false awakenings is that despite my degree of wakefulness I seem trapped within a set of memories specific to the setting and which are at odds with my actual experience. It’s like memories came with the reality that were consistent with it, tailor-made for it, as if I had previous experiences, a whole elaborate history in the context of that space. Outside of the false awakening but having remembered it, I have at best vague recollections of this body of knowledge, this context of memory.

If these are not memories of previous experiences in these “spaces” then they are false memories unconsciously whipped up on the spot, and that is amazing, too. This also means to me that one’s sense of memory and reality is apparently even less reliable than I had previously accepted. Indeed, if I can be so easily fooled in false awakenings, why the fuck would it be any different with respect to my more consistent “true” awakenings?

Advertisements

Cyclones of Extinction.

In submission
to a maddening inner itch,
the hot glow of a burning
desire, he touches

skin
to it to hear
a momentary sizzle
before a mad dance
of ashes, like a snow globe,
encircle him, violence
of the winds reducing
him to but another wasted
speck, another last call

of Once Was among them.
Another blur amidst
cyclones of extinction.

Soar Above the Feels.

We live in a superspace
of nested dreams,
waking up is a choice,
climbing up
through an endless series
of false awakenings
and to each Russian Doll
you occupy
there is a corresponding strata
of this hyper-dimensional
Chinese Box.

There’s no way out.
No telling how we got in here.

With each cycle, expanding.
Never rest, just setting
out to conquer
another rung on the ladder.

Nothing is ever
what it seems,
nor is it meaningless blather:
find the message, discern
the question,
become the answer, never
settle for anything less
than the unachievable
target of comprehensive
self-awareness.

Aim to be yourSelf
to the fullest.

This is how we grow
into ourselves, this is how
we transcend
all we felt, all that we
feel today…

Like a Hollywood Reload.

How many lives
do I have hiding under
my belt? Am I typecast
in every incarnation?
Same story, reloaded,
new actors,
new angle,

like Hollywood
just regurgitating
the same old bullshit
trying to meet or beat former
success because it proves
to be more economical
in the long run
than the risk
of a divergent masterpiece,
valued only passed
its time, in retrospect.

History, myth, makes
our true heroes.
Details lost
in the distance of time,
no worries:
our relentless projections
will take care of that.

Still, Hollywood
does not invest
in that which failed
at the box office
and I find it hard to believe
that the story I live
is just back
by popular demand.

Mistress Mantis.

Eyebrows like the wings
of a bird in flight
pushing down against
a violent lift
by the wind.

Lids drawn down
still betray a world
isolated, dominated
by its own pressure.

Inside, she surfs the tension,
soaking it in, lost
in the trance she naturally
elicits when one cares
enough to pay attention.

He wants deeper.
Yearns to be within.

Renegade locks
cascade over her carved
features, face unveiling
itself to be a battleground
between the ego’s last stand
and the look of triumph
on a predator’s face

as she sinks her teeth
in for the first time
into her painstakingly
tracked, prized prey.

Mistress Mantis
is hungry.

Traps.

Strange how the fear
always shows its face
on the cusp
of something that suggests,
yes, there is hope
to be found, after all.

You fear rising
above the mess.
Terrified of success.
Failure is something

you would expect,
so much so that you are not
the least bit inclined
to prepare for any other outcome,

so you stick to the well-worn
roads, the tangle of grooves
that are so damn familiar
to you and you drive
within the lines, leave the risks
to those so inclined.

Piss around the parameter
and call it home sweet home.

Only traps
would have the inclination
to lure you out
beyond your comfort zone,
anyway.

Nothing else is out there…

Severed Limb & Yeah. High.

If your severed limb lived on, would it have a phantom body? I wonder if that’s how Thing felt. Just lugging a phantom corpse around at the wrist as It’s body lived on somewhere else, ambidextrous-curious but predominantly a righty, had to work to concentrate on the phantom sensations of his grip from the dick and phantom hand end when jerking off. Prosthetics could never keep up with his phantom rhythm and it was horribly distracting during that short-lived, experimental period of intrapersonal booty call. The hand, the body, they’re like the romantic “other halves” spoken about by Plato, though yes, there is the difference in size. Still, the reunion at the wrist would be — where was I going with this? 

False Awakenings, Psychic Elastic, Paranoia and Dreams.

7/7/15.

For the last few days, my sleeping, if you want to call it that, had come in a steady rhythm of violent spurts. I would close my eyes for twenty minutes, my eyes would pop back open in shock, and then I would close them again.

Eventually, I wake up to hear someone knocking on the door. I don’t really open my eyes; not much, anyway. As to who it might be, I vaguely recall something about maintenence stopping by, that I should be expecting them, but I’m too tired to remember or really give the vaguest semblance of a shit. So I just play dead.

I hear the door open and he comes in, and all the while I remain motionless. Just do what you have to do and go, I think. I keep my ears open, though. He makes some remark about the smoke in the apartment. “Somebody’s been partying in here,” were his words, I think. I have been asleep for hours, though, so that’s bullshit. I make no response, however, and just keep pretending like I’m sleeping, because even though he’s in my damn apartment, I simply do not feel like dealing with the guy. Then my eyes pop open. It comes to my attention that I’m not expecting maintenance, that no one had really come into the apartment. It had been yet another false awakening.

7/26/15: 3:05 AM:

I just felt as though my subtle form was pulled up out of my physical body for a moment or two, wiggled around for a bit, then let go to snap back into my bony, fleshy form, as if the two superimposed bodies were attached through some sort of psychic elastic.

I think I should take the opportunity to mention here, too, that I use certain words for lack of better ones, and certain alternative words (hallucinations, perhaps, for instance) lack the specificity I prefer. You have heard of phantom limbs that linger when physical limbs are lopped off of bodies? Well, this subtle body might be a sort of full-body analogue when consciousness becomes the (though in many cases only temporarily) amputated limb in question.

3:40 AM.

Now I got jolted by what sounded like something hit my window. I am high and mildly drunk. The window is open a little, the fan is on: perhaps someone slammed a car door and that’s all.

7/26/15, 2:30 PM.

It was like I was waking up before the dream was ready to end so it tried to rush to completion before it was forced to fade to black. For some reason the last few moments if the dream was more cartoonish than realistic, as I recall rest of the dream being (though I’ll be damned if I can remember anything else about it). A polar bear had been pushed off some mountain, and he slid to the bottom of it as if it were slipping down the side of a pyramid or something. It was like a slide. As he landed, he barely missed a guy resting on his belly at the bottom who had also been pushed off, or so it seemed. It was the actor that played a doctor on the television show House; he played the young character that committed suicide. I think I was thinking about his character at some point last night. He looks up at the bear, asks him if he’s a polar bear, and the polar bear looks at him and nods. Then I wake up.

New Directions.

Within a bond of consent
one finds freedom.
That’s all there really is:
now go get some.

It hides behind the scare tactics
and their frightening leverage,
wound in the strands
of an imperceptible web,

struggling against the terror
they deliver
just to keep you in place
to escape, look

at this from a distance,
recede, run far, so far away.
Find yourself, know yourself.
Now: never abandon
you, never allow yourself
to forget yourself again.

Live life through
and through, womb
to tomb, far and wide,
explore all the beauty
and horror out there,
held deep inside:

make amends
with existence.

Pursue your passion
to cure this sickness.
Find the eye and fashion
perfected reflections,
gain insight,
find new directions.

Struck.

Don’t mean to
and I don’t want to
but I like you
and its inevitable.

It would be so nice
if I could in well-earned
naïveté stumble
into a girl

that seems to magically
make things fall
into place, but I have history

to extract from
and a large body
of observational research
to provide sufficient context,

and my analysis
of all the relevant data
seems to suggest

I am just
simply
fucked,

and not
in the way that would help.