Remember.

Screaming
through the wall
that rooms beyond
do indeed exist:

do not mistake
the walls of your world
for the universe.

State-specific.
Mood-dependent.
Dissociative
amnesiac.

All that sense of futility,
uselessness,
anxiety, confusion,
depression,
it is but an illusion.

You can break
out of this, push
through it, pull out
of, rise above all this.

Can you hear me?

Do not fall under
that dark spell.
Mood means so
much, thoughts muddy
the perceptual pot.
Memories infect,
past always present.

Flush this out of me.
Let me see.
Let me be me.
Let me remember.

I must remember.

Who I Have Always Been.

If one fancies me insane I would hope, at the very least, that they give me this: my fantasies are not ones consciously manufactured, nor are they ones that serve to uphold the ego. Take the apparent past life memories, for instance: first an alien on a dying world, then an orphan priest “unhappy” with his “work” and who seemed to have ended his life by means of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to head at what he considered a great age, then a man born in the fifties that died in poverty inside a mall in Florida.

Not exactly a high ranking official of Atlantis or a highly-evolved member of Ashtar Command or whatever, not in any incarnation.

Being an alien might be considered exotic, but given the apparent circumstances it was a species with issues exceeding that of present-day humanity, so not exactly a steroid injection into the ego inspiring some sense of relative superiority. I am no fucking god incarnate or a famous and successful person working out his karmic debt in a shit life and cesspool fast food employment. This is just a manifestation of the same old underling shit. I am who I have always been, for better or worse. Context only changes the particular manifestation, not the underlying patterns of dismal habituation. I am my cause, I am my effect, I am my freedom and responsibility, drawn to relations and circumstances with whom and in which I bear affinity.

Madame Equilibria.

So she roams
the sweet earth, seeks
her soil, a rich land,
a thick blanket

for dreams
to impregnate
reality,

for comfort that hugs
the roots
that branch, wind down
and out,

dreaming and awake,
wedding the yearning
for the sky
with the ever-seductive
pull of Gaea.

Journeying into darkness
as she grows towards the fire,
receptive to it all.

Strong enough to rise,
not proud enough
to be taken
by the fall,

confident,
determined
that she shall find
her place

somewhere.

Another UFO Dream (9/5/15).

On September 5, I had another dream about sighting UFOs in the sky. I have a vague recollection of seeing one craft with metallic fins or protrusions that it moved as if it were swimming through the air. The most clearly recalled moment of the dream, however, was when I was outside and holding a child or an animal with other people around me, a lot of distracting activity. In the midst of all this I look up to see a fast moving object like a small, circular, blurry white cloud dancing across the sky. My feeling is that I kept seeing things like this in the sky but other people kept missing it.

So the theme continues.

On and on and on.

Close Enough.

True, you may
not be
a part of me literally,

though you are
certainly close enough,

different from me
to a sufficient
enough degree
for me to love.

It is so wrong
of me, I know,
but so what?

Fuck you: I am
keeping you,
for I fucking love
you.

Obviously.

So frighteningly
obviously.

Any Brand of Monster (Like Me).

Terrified.

Cracking, breaking,
shattered
once again.

His footsteps
are like thunder
growling, howling
through me so
violently.

(Just hide
behind the door in wait,
like a fist of tension,
immobilized
by flooding adrenaline.)

Belt in hand
again, approaching his children,
now his son,
my only friend.

(Damn your empathy.)

Hurting them, he hurts
me. How can he not,
how does he not
feel this hell
he delivers unto
them, this
hell that I’m sharing.

(Find a knife.
Grab a gun.
Save them.
Stop this.)

Immobilized.
Frozen.
Feet nailed
to the floor.

Guilt staining
my insides.
Divert my inner eye
from this powerless witness
I am.
Never
to help them.

No.
I just run
and hide,

as I always do
when it comes to
any brand
of monster.

Lady of the Trees.

I stop the gondola full of trash bags by the side of the building, waiting for the cars to leave me an opening so I can make it to the corral, where we have the dumpster. Suddenly the old woman in the car just in front of me starts talking to me through her open window. She tells me how pretty the shrub to the side of me is and I find myself nodding, explaining sadly how before we know it, it will be buried in snow. She seems to detest the Ohioan Winternity the same way I do. She reacts inside in the same way I do when people say the “s” word to me, anyway, though considerably less violently.

She then explains how she can feel the change in energy when the leaves fall, interrupting herself mid-sentence to explain how she thinks she used to be a tree.

“Or a Druid,” she says. “They worshipped trees.”

She then began talking about the soaring death rates in the cold season. The drive-thru line started moving, however. She then bid me farewell, telling me that it was nice chatting with me and I returned her kind goodbye with equal sincerity.

As I made it back to the dumpsters, where I sat and had my small coffee and cigarette, I noted how warm I felt — not the physical kind of warmth either, but like a soothing, energetic, nice, buzzing kind of feeling beyond the skin. I felt charged somehow.

A short time later, I’m outside smoking again, people-watching as covertly as I was able. This one kid approached the nearby door and I felt as though my energy sort of shot to him and “felt” him from the mind out. It was brief, full of emotions, moods and a jumble of high-speed imagery. I didn’t immediately make the connection between this experience and the incident with the Lady of the Trees that had just happened a short time ago, but I did find it remarkable that the experience, however typical for me, was so much more intense, so much deeper than usual.

Looking over how I explained it to myself in my head, I felt the use of words such as “feel” and referencing imagery was somehow inaccurate, but it was the best I could do with the words I had at my disposal.

Am I insane? Maybe.

I put out my smoke, went inside and one of the managers, a happily crazy cat lady, starts rambling to me at high speed, confessing away her thoughts and feelings in a verbal waterfall. The other manager, who I’ll call Fester, stands beside me. I know he doesn’t like her and he had just made a comment earlier how she was irritating him so much he wanted to punch her in the face. Though he played it cool on the outside from what I could see, as he stood before me and Cat Lady ranted to me I could feel his irritation, feel his anger at her — like his energy was spiky and flaring up around his body. I made the mistake of laughing aloud, looking at him and saying. “Holy shit, man — I can FEEL that.”

He seemed weirded out by that, perhaps thinking me to be crazy.

Maybe the Lady of the Trees unknowingly subliminally suggested the energy thing to me and that was why I was again feeling it to this amazing intensity — or perhaps it was the paranormal afterglow, as I call it. In the wake of being around the strange creature I have seen all my life or other people who experience weird things like I do, this seem to amp up. It’s like we energize each other in general and specifically increase the likelihood of weird things happening between us.

Life is endlessly weird.

No Space.

Mother says
they’re just bad dreams.
Daddy thinks
I’m seeing things.

Your studies suggest
that I’m insane.
So what does all that noise
really mean?

When they come back again,
it amounts to fucking nothing.

You can no
sooner protect me
than I can wish
them away.

My hands are tied,
back against the wall.
I’ve tried everything.

Throughout denial, beliefs,
death, drugs and running,
changes of interpretation,
fighting, attempting
true communication,
fucked-up reality
remains unchanged.

This is just a part of me.

Like shadows, forever following.
Inside or out,
there is no escaping.

There is no space
they are not invading.

Nothing left
here but wading.

Driving Through the Rain.

(Letter to the Self,
on 9/12/15.)

How did you like today? Just waking up like you did, deciding to go out and run errands — and doing it despite the fact that it was pouring down rain from the time you left to the time you came back?

Typically you’re too paranoid to drive around and do things, of course. And you hate driving in the rain.

Even so, you failed to realize how well you dealt with it until you got back to your apartment. Amazement in retrospect. You didn’t freak out, not once. It was all natural. You weren’t in a cold sweat, shaking and so on. You were still kind of nervous when around people and in dealing with them, sure, but nothing like usual.

The change today was rather dramatic. Unprecedented.

This, this should happen more often. This is something you should nurture, help to grow. Relinquish your old ways of dealing with yourself for awhile, try and embrace this mode of being.

Cease the wretched self-loathing.

Look at it this way: for years you have beat yourself up and talked down to yourself inside, and often enough aloud as well. Circumstances have not improved. This is not helping things, that is clear. How about we try a little tweaking? Like this: ease the fuck up on yourself.

This is what you did without trying today.

Its bad enough fucking up, why drag out the pain through needless reinforcement? Quit tonguing sore teeth, man. Try again, try another way, give the fuck up, but this rumination, this negative thinking, is utterly useless. This obsessive concern with how you make people feel or how they feel towards you or just how they feel has got to stop.

I’m not saying obliterate your empathy — I’m saying quit letting it paralyze you. Quit being its puppet. It’s not helping you or anyone else and you must come to terms with that fact. Change will then come naturally.

God and Other Drugs.

It was the end of the work shift and I was outside, hiding in my car, having a smoke, looking through my beat-to-shit iPhone at the wall of walls called Facebook when I thought I saw something. A picture of an ex-coworker who I like to think of as a friend, too. I scrolled my way back up to find my suspicions confirmed: it was Doris in a hospital bed beside two smiling faces.

It’s been awhile since I have talked with her and I wondered what had happened. I didn’t bother reading the comments below the photo, I just messaged her and asked what had happened, why she was in a hospital bed, and she responded back in, well, rather garbled fashion.

Was it because they had her drugged? Or was it just her poor spelling? I felt like an ass for asking myself that question, but there you have it. Poor spelling is better than the maze of verbal chaos that autocorrect delivers, so in any case, it could be worse.

Throughout a series of messages back and fourth I learned that she had overdosed on the heroine she had evidently taken up using since she had broken up with her girlfriend, died twice on the table and was currently in recovery. I told her that I was glad she was alive, to please be strong and get better, that she should take better care of herself because she’s fucking worth it, and all the other lame things you find yourself saying through text to somebody regarding some horribly fucked up circumstance they have just been through.

And I glossed over when she explained to me that there “had to be a reason” — a reason that she had died twice and was still alive, that is. I glossed over it in a single message. That was all it took.

Perhaps coincidentally and for no real reason at all, that was precisely the point when she stopped returning messages. Or perhaps she remembered I was an atheist and knew I had intentionally dodged her roundabout suggestion that she was still alive because “god has a plan” for her.

What did she expect, and what else could I have done? I’m not going to lie to her but I respect her enough to not try and vigorously rub the truth in her face given what is likely to be her still-fragile emotional condition.

I still think that getting off drugs and “finding god” is not the accomplishment so many seem to think it is. It’s just a lullaby they tell themselves to sleep through life.

But she’s alive.