Choppy Night for a Wounded Animal.

I may not have been entirely naked but I think my shirt was off. In any case, I seemed to be sitting at the end of some table. My back hurt like hell, particularly my one shoulder. It felt tense to the point of agony and the involuntary twitching was fucking relentless. Then a woman walks over to me. I cower like a wounded animal at her approach, though once she puts her hand on my shoulder it instantly relaxes, the pain immediately disappears.

Fade to black…

I remembered walking into my bedroom and checking the digital alarm clock beside my bed, staring at the time and trying to make sense of it. I knew that this clock was set an hour and a half ahead, but the math still suggested it was far later at night — or earlier in the morning, actually — than it should have been. I check my cell phone and the clock on the computer and it still seems that too much time had passed. To boot, I feel certain that I had not been asleep, but I had absolutely no memory of what I had been doing beforehand.

I finally went to sleep, but I kept waking up every half hour, it seemed, to down a bottle of water from the fridge, walk back into the bedroom and then crash back onto the mattress. It was almost like I was caught in a loop. Eventually I just lay in bed feeling bloated, afraid to hiccup because I might vomit up water.

Shortly after I woke up I kept thinking about the shoulder memory, remembering a little bit more of it as the day at work progressed. I also suddenly remembered the confusion with the time and constantly waking up thirsty.

This evening as I drove home from work along a long, unplowed stretch of road during out first major snowfall of the season, the tension I typically have when driving in Winter returned. My back ached. It still hurts.

I wish I had her talent.

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A Haunting Gap.

Sometime this morning around eight o’clock I realize I am standing in the area by the windows in my living room, feeling confused about the light pouring in through the green curtains. How can it be morning? My mind is clear and I feel strangely calm. I then turn towards my bedroom, where it hits me that I cannot recall the last few hours. I cannot even trace back my last memory. I don’t know why I was by the windows. I know I have not been asleep because I feel so relieved when I fall onto my bed.

No Cosmic Justice.

Many people find it hard enough to empathize with those in positions they were formerly in themselves, let alone empathize with someone in a position that they entirely alien to. Even when they can manage to see from their former positions they can only see themselves there in the other person’s shoes, you could say, but not looking through the eyes of the other person. This is why the notion if retributive karma has come to irritate me as much as the heaven/hell belief: do something bad to someone now and later, somewhere down the line, tables will surely turn. Even when we remember our former positions we all too often fail to empathize, as formerly mentioned, so what good is a cosmic system of justice aiming for balance throughout countless incarnations shrouded by amnesia?

To Mentally Maim.

So again,
they descend
upon the zoo,

pluck out
their pet projects,
examine, test
and tweak
from mind to skin.

All those questions,
all those nightmares,
every hope and fear
attacks

me viciously
like shot arrows, alive,
hungry for me.

Expected this.
No surprise.
Better fucking luck next time.

Go ahead,
insist it was all a dream,
wipe the subjects’ minds clean.
Now just give them space
to feel it out,

explore their black-and-white
options: to dissociate
or embrace…

Subliminal influence
will keep you in line.

Train your brain,
follow your heart
and in time
we shall meet
again, predictably
in this very same place.

Chapter ends.
It moves
on, be patient…

Despite those ever-cautious
expectations
of yours, even in the light
of your diverse and rich disillusion,
your cautious nature
clearly now called
into question, answers
will trickle in, bleed,
leak like a sieve,

stain you,
mentally maim you,

a virus that replicates,
breeds like bunnies,
evolves a cultural bowel movement
into a goddamned revolution.

Our keynote flood.

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?

Cold & Haunted.

Every winter, more or less, it happens again — I feel flashes of what it was like living in that skin, living that life where I died at a Florida mall while living out of my car in the parking lot. I understand that I’m thinking about how horrible it would be during this season to be out in the streets, but I have no specific recollection of being in the cold in that life.

In that life I appeared to be born in Little Rock, Arkansas. I remember a trip to New York and maybe a short period in Vietnam, but then it was just Florida — Miami Beach and Palm Beach. Florida, I feel certain, is where I died running in that mall — that recurring dream as a kid.

Why the reaction to the cold, the Ohio snow, in the state I’ve lived in since I was last spat out 36 years ago? Just hating the weather would be one thing, but always the associations with that life, the fear of homelessness and the guilt for having a warm place to sleep at night jab at my insides.

It would be so nice to simply recall it all, to face that life as a whole, to know what unseen memories are influencing me — to get a full name, to be able to search for who I was and confirm or falsify it all. To move forward.

To not be haunted by myself.

Goblins of the Threshold.

I. Samhain.
11/1/09

Closing my eyes, letting go, my mind drifts, blossoming spontaneous motion pictures, as is usually the case before I slide into a dream. Relaxed and numb, I am certain I will fall asleep for the few hours I have until I have to start waking up for work, but suddenly, in the silent movie in my mind, one of them pop up. Short, slender, large head and black, slanted, almond-shaped eyes. I come out of it, then drift back into another motion picture, but again they emerge, uninvited.

Curse my unconscious.

Getting up out of bed, I pour myself a mug of coffee. Sit in front of the computer. And then I just stare off into space. Stare into the void where answers should be.

II. Just Another Paranoid Afternoon Morning.
11/13/09

It is the eleventh; the day before my birthday. Something feels “off” from the moment I open my eyes. Suddenly I just wake up, as if out of a trance at the snap of fingers, and look at the clock, which reads around one in the afternoon. Apparently I had gotten up, turned off my two alarms and fell back asleep without realizing it, which happens a bit too often. Either in my hand or just near it on the bed is my cell phone, which immediately struck me as odd, as I always keep it in the chair next to the head of my bed and would have no reason to have it in my hands anyway, as I hadn’t set the alarm on my cell last night. Strangest of all, I was positioned on my bed wrong; my feet were towards the head of the bed, my head at the foot. I sure as hell hadn’t fallen asleep that way. Granted, I must have gotten up to turn off the alarm, which I’ve done countless times without realizing it, but I’ve never settled back down in bed in the opposite direction. And that still didn’t explain my fucking phone.

Later, I would become disturbed by the possibility that I might have been sleep-walking, or more specifically sleep-talking — that I had either answered the phone in my sleep or called someone and had some conversation I didn’t remember. Checking my cell later on, I saw no number called or received during the time I was out. I’d had a few beers the night before, but I certainly wasn’t drunk when I fell asleep. So I just got up, made some coffee, checked the net, took a shower. Tried not to think about it, tried not to reinforce my own stupid paranoia.

And failed fucking miserably.

III. Faces Out From the Haze.
11/16/09

Saturday night, more like Sunday morning. No sleep aide tonight. No pill, no bottle. Back to the mattress, lain straight, I close my eyes, focusing on deep breathing, imagining a cocoon around me, and then relaxing myself from toes to the top of my head, going deeper, deeper. Just breathe. Just relax. Again I see them in my mind’s eye. Involuntarily rising up from the mental haze, this time it is just their faces staring down at me, real close up to my face. Eyes raping my eyes. Breathing deeply, relaxing further, I try to find focus on Ajna, the third eye region, but even with that calm concentration where I feel entirely compact and focused, I see one of them looking down at me, face so close its almost touching mine. Even my mind is against me. Rolling over, face to the wall, clutching the wadded-up blanket like a child, I tell myself just to go to sleep. To forget them. Just sleep without dumbing yourself down tonight. Ignore the sounds, its just the neighbors, the people upstairs, the cars outside, the plumbing, the computer. No one is there. No one is there. Fucking go to sleep.

IV. Supine.
11/20/09

I wake up on my back, my body positioned straight, legs together, both my hands placed on my chest, and paralyzed. I am unable to move anything but my eyes. Unless I am meditating, this is a weird position for me to be sleeping in, and even when I do meditate and eventually fall to sleep I roll over on my side or my stomach shortly thereafter. As I open my eyes, staring at the ceiling, an afterimage of a straight line blinking in my field of vision for a few moments for some odd reason, I immediately recognize how peculiar all this is, and though perplexed, I am unafraid. I move my eyes, which is the only part of me I seem capable of moving, towards the clock, but I cannot remember what time it was that I saw. Nor can I recall my dreams, though I feel certain I had more than one. I remember thinking it was a shame I had not kept my webcam recording me sleeping as I had several nights prior. I then close my eyes again and drift off to sleep.

V. They Are My Waldo.
1/12/10

If you ever watch South Park you may have noticed that in many episodes that have stretched out across the seasons cameos have been made by “The Vistors,” as the writers call them, or, as they are more popularly known, the Gray aliens. Its like Where’s Waldo? only in this case Waldo is short, skinny, with a huge head like an overturned egg upon which rests two big, black, slanted and almond-shaped eyes. And even if you don’t look for Waldo, he pops up out of nowhere, haunting you. Sometimes these cameos are blatant, but more often you’ll find them hiding in the crowds or in the scenery.

Well, for the past few months this is precisely what my head has been like when I’m lying down trying to go to sleep. As is always the case, pictures emerge out of the haze of my mind as I am on the bridge of sleeping and waking; sometimes these images are in color, sometimes they manifest in this crisp, vivid, opaque kind of quality, as if I’m viewing it all through a pair of dark sunglasses. Often its scenery, sometimes people; sometimes freeze-frames, sometimes there’s movement. So I’ll be letting my mind go and drifting calmly off to sleep when out of nowhere one of the Grays will appear, walking around, and they will look dead at me like some character on television that suddenly looks back at you from within the screen and you get the startling sense that the character is real and can actually see you. As can be expected, this freaks me out and I bolt awake, physically bolting upward, only to try and fall asleep again, often to only have it happen again.

To be entirely honest, I prefer this to what was occurring maybe a month or two ago, when I could not lay my head down into the pillow sober without seeing, within my mind, images of a group of Grays looking down on me from real, real close-up. I always sleep on my side or with my face down in the pillow, rarely on my back, so the fact that I always saw them looking down on me from a supine position shocked me even more; despite the fact that these were before-dream images, it felt as if I was actually there, real-time, on my back, despite the fact that I most certainly was not (or at least at the time, I can say with confidence). I really would have hoped that after all these years the sight of their faces would not haunt me so; that they would not be so very entrancing and yet simultaneously frightening.

To some things, it seems one can never become desensitized.

Of Aliens & Alters.

It would not make sense to claim that alien abduction accounts are due to “screen memories” of childhood abuse, and for two reasons: first, the purpose of such a screen memory would be to dull or reduce the trauma of the actual memories being “screened,” and given the terror inherent in so many of these alien experiences it does not seem to be serving its purpose. Second, not all memories stem from childhood; many have been real-time experiences. Those with Dissociative Identity Disorder often have alters who are modeled after an abuser or perhaps the “screen” that the abuser was given. The alters may then repeat the abuse, perhaps similar to the way in which the mind is thought to deliver recurring dreams in order to exhaust an intensely emotional circumstance. Is this the answer? Are the aliens I have been seeing all my life hallucinogenic exteriorizations of alternate identities? The astral projections or lucid dreams I began having in May, 1995 — experiences that began with me being attacked by a formless, vicious entity — truly a shared dream state which I had with just such an alter? Is this a possibility I could perhaps verify or falsify myself in some way?

Driving Me Blindly.

Womb to tomb
descending through spacetime
direction fixed, weaving a wordline
in the free fall of causality
on my way

down from heights of order
to the tangled depths of entropy

to add to the mesh of roots
prepackaged,
vacuum-sealed in opaque plastic,
nonetheless clearly
well-woven in me,
driving me blindly.

Always falling,
eyes hypnotized
straight ahead, drifting up
now and again, just,
please,
never look down,
half fearing, half hoping
for ground that you might eventually
think you found in an impact
approximately six feet down

though you find the grave is bottomless
forever falling through all of this
in a style naively echoing every preceding
dead again, back to skin
round of shit.

Weekend Reflections.

Saturday. Half asleep, minimal coffee in my system, I reach for the front door of the apartment.

My roommate breaks his role of mute on the couch nearby. “Leaving again?”

Jolt of adrenaline, confusion.

I have been asleep all day. This would be the first time I left. Maybe he meant yesterday, I tell myself. Or maybe I go through money so quickly because I’m doing things in my sleep. Rarely do I know what’s in my account, in my gas tank. I frequently forget where I parked, frequently get the day wrong. Could I be ignoring the warning signs?

I tell myself it’s just paranoia.

Sunday, I wake up. Good morning, afternoon.

Now, what was it? Implicit impact, explicit amnesia. Reverberations of response, no recollection of the stimulus. Awakening engulfed in a mood, the product of just another dream hidden from me.

So I sip the coffee, smoke the cigarette and wonder what goes on in my head in the absence of my consciousness. The mind should not be so foreign and secretive to its resident awareness, methinks.