Thought-Talk Monologue Voice-Over.

Some might say
that you never existed
in the first place,

but your reality was cemented
in me through the nature
of our conversations.

Just as they use
verbal communication
atop nonverbals,

you use subjective still-frames
and mental motion pictures

by a thought-talk

is your telepathic

You’re the best voice
that’s ever been
in my head.


Sophia the Untouchable.

Absolute nothing is a fertile field.

If a universe Big Banged ex nihilo once, then it may have happened countless times before. Universes may still be Banging away into existence as you read this, all of them doing so in a direction you can’t point to (with all of this dependent on time having any meaning outside the context of a given universe and in the superspace that contains the hypothetical multiverse). We would perceive but one universe in a vast multiverse — and not much of that one universe, it would seem.

Current estimations hold that our universe is composed of 68.3% dark energy and 26.8 percent dark matter — substance we can neither grab nor perceive makes up most of everything, and apparently we are not a part of it. The normal matter that is accessible to our senses (and of which our senses are composed) presently makes up only 4.9% of our cosmic pie (in a potential superspace bakery).

This is not to suggest that our senses are sensitive to so much as a considerable fraction of that 4.9%, of course. We have a set amount of senses among those available in the animal kingdom, each picking up but a narrow range of a specific type of signal. This data is edited by our subliminal beliefs and values, integrated and finally translated by genetically-hardwired processes. This translation is stored in sensory memory and subsequently and involuntarily recalled by consciousness in working memory. Only then does it become our “immediate” experience.

All we know of the external world derives from what we “remember” regarding what our body experiences. As a consequence, our Here and Now is truly There and Before. Even at our most attentive we have no hope of living in the moment; we are forever riding its coattails. We are all living in the past and no one is ever right where they are standing now.

When your body’s memory of the moment passes by working memory, it might be stored in long term memory, from which consciousness in working memory might summon it through retrieval cues. When long term memory swallows something, however, it seems to in some sense digest it, break it down, dismember it — and so recall always involves creativity on the part of the recollector, as memories must be literally “re-membered.” To some degree one always incorrectly recalls past events and may even go so far as to produce “false memories,” which is to say one recalls events that never even happened in the first place.

Despite this, memory serves as the backbone for our sense of identity and our understanding of the world. Long-term memory suggests the temporal dimension, which is the only way we can make sense of the spatial dimensions suggested by sensory memory. Our reliance upon memory is inescapable. We require it to compile and associate data, scientific or otherwise. If we are honest, all that any of us ever know is memory, and all memory is ultimately false memory.

Even what we accept as imagination and fantasy is dependent upon the ingredients supplied by memory: it is no coincidence that the way in which we experience anything subjectively has analogues to our biological experience. Inner-senses are modeled after our biological senses and for all we know reveal our true consciousness as accurately and completely as our biological senses do with respect to external reality.

We try to make sense out of our external experience and so form worldviews; we try to make sense out of our internal experience and its relation to external experience and so form identity. As a consequence of our worldviews, we tend to conform our experience to them, and so further obscure our sense of reality. As a consequence of our identity, we tend to conform our internal experience in such a way that it reinforces our identifications. In so doing, we further obscure our sense of self. To make matters worse in both cases, this fatal flaw is the law and it is followed without exception: we can do no more, no less, if we have any hope to survive.

Of My Stalemates and Unknowns.

Back in high school, my friends and I debated, argued like mad dogs over philosophical notions and whatnot. Over time, you realize that nothing good comes out of these debates. They are divisive, polarizing, and neither party is swayed or even learns much, for that matter, but becomes more or less a parody of a perspective. You get the feeling that your viewpoint narrows, that your stance becomes fixed, that consistency is more important than honest consideration, exploration, research and, whenever possible, experimentation. Its an ego battle; that’s all: I’m right, you’re wrong.

Me? I like discussions. I like learning and exploring new ideas. That’s why I prefer listening to lectures rather than debates. I can consider someone’s point of view, take notes and conduct research on my own and have discussions with others over points that, despite my attempts to understand on my own, remain unclear. Sometimes you need another set of eyes, a foreign mind, as the voices in your head have reached a stalemate. But the arguments in the head can be quite enough. Questioning your motives, your sanity, your grip on reality is hard enough. This isn’t a contest. I just want a greater understanding. And I have no desire to run around in circles.

I don’t see any evidence for any god. I don’t think our culture is healthy for us and a million time bombs are ticking away and it’s only a matter of time.

Most importantly, perhaps: I don’t know if the creatures I have seen all throughout my life are extraterrestrial, from a parallel universe or are mere hallucinogenic exteriorizations of my alternate personalities, but they are real in some sense. A mystery I desperately want to solve.

Bitch of it is, I have the advantage or frustration of being the only one who knows that I am not lying, that I’m not making this shit up; I take things from that point of departure. Its not sleep paralysis or narcolepsy or some mutant form of parasitosis; I know to a large degree what they are not, though cannot be so certain what they are. And perhaps I am stuck in that ignorance. Stuck there forever. But I’ll take my unknown over your circular bullshit.

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
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,
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.

In the Absence of Answers.

So much relies upon nailing down what exactly they are, which I, to some degree shamefully, must confess I have been trying to determine since I was sixteen — a pursuit ongoing at nearly 35 years of age. The years have done much in the way of offering elaboration to those old questions of mine, evolving them and spawning altogether new ones, but they have done zip-diddly-shit in the way of providing certainty about what the bloody fuck is going on.

“You realize you may never know the answers to your questions,” Dr. Napier had said to me so many years ago.

It killed me, but the doc was right, and I knew of that potentiality even then and found the notion agonizing. Perhaps on par with the fear that answers would indeed come, that the flames of the truth awaited my discovery just over the horizon I was chasing — a horizon ever-eager for the feast that would inevitably arrive for it to consume.

If indeed it is all true, t’was not merely I that would suffer the crushing weight of the truth, but the whole of the human species. My hope was, is to know the truth, to in the very least gain the greatest possible understanding. I wish to face the truth squarely and learn to adapt to it rather than fight to prove I’m right despite my lack of justification. Understanding is of utmost value to me.

If I was insane, my lack of trust in myself, I feared, would be irreversibly obliterated. No hope for renewal.

When the world you have come to know suddenly seems to be a steaming pile of fly-infested lies, when you are tossed into the unknown, left trying to piece together some context for all this, you realize that faith cannot be the measure of a truth; that a feeling of certainty is not necessarily the emotional component to coming to penultimate understanding. A million voices covey a million different things that differ greatly, in many cases, at their very roots. They cannot all be true, though they can all be false. You were led astray once, would you not be a fool to trust your own judgement again? If you cannot trust yourself you find yourself in a rather daunting position. How do you earn back confidence in yourself? By ensuring your judgement is reliable. By coming to understand yourself. Face yourself, who or whatever you may truly be. By digging deep in yourself, trying to identify patterns, pinpoint key influences. And after long enough in your explorations you hear the echo of Jared Leto’s voice:

“I open up my head. Inside,
I find another person’s mind.”

Exploring the potentiality the last few months that at least some of the strange memories and experiences of my life might be explained by dissociation led me to read about dissociative identity disorder. The subject of multiple personalities has always intrigued me since I first read of it through author Colin Wilson, but never had I read on it to the extent I have as of late, nor have I ever took time to really consider the possibility — only briefly in tense moments and the thought frightened me enough not to dwell on it. Personal experiences of Dissociative Identity Disorder that I have read fascinate me intellectually, but agonize me emotionally. I don’t experience the intense intrusive thoughts and chronic episodes of amnesia that such people struggle to cope with, so perhaps entertaining the idea that their world of suffering is my own serves as somewhat of an insult, however unintentional.

I don’t know what’s going in with me, and it still frustrates me to think I never fucking will.

Siva of the Cosmic Circus.

To be forewarned is to be forearmed, but one might be ill to discover all four arms are left juggling like a Siva in a circus act in an atmosphere tense with concerns over one’s own sanity. 
One’s head, my head, left spinning inside in the style of an amphetamine-fed exorcist day and night and day again.
To keep oneself in check, one might maintain awareness of the four classifications of information and their three antagonists.
The four classifications of information are:
1) The “known-knowns,” or that which one knows one knows;
2) The “known-unknowns” constitutes that which one knows one does not know. 
3)  The “unknown-unknowns,” or that which one does not even know that one does not know. 
4) Last but not least, there are the often-overlooked “unknown-knowns,” or that which one knows unconsciously, but not consciously.
To these four classifications of information we can add the three antagonists:
1) Misinformation (myth).
2) Censorship (deliberate cover-up).
3) Disinformation (lies).
The importance of being aware of the four information classifications and three antagonists comes with the fact that true freedom can only become available with proper education, as only that allows for educated extrapolations and informed decisions. If knowledge is power, ignorance is vulnerability, and secrecy generates a dammed-up surplus that gives those in the know power over those they keep in the dark. 
Furthermore: if knowledge is power and ignorance is vulnerability, faith is blind, rendering the faithful utterly incapable of distinguishing one from the other. Faith is what allows those in the know to keep you in the dark and overpower you. 
They key, then, would be to tread down an exploratory path with one’s trusty torch of doubt lighting the way, altering mental models in accordance with experimental feedback as with caution and respect one explores various avenues found and created so as to build up a body of pragmatic knowledge regarding self and reality, heightening awareness of one’s ignorance and casting away misunderstandings and lies that obscure a more pure reception and transmission — that get in the way of greater understanding and clearer communication.

Skull Orgy.

We experience what we typically regard as three distinctly separate spheres: the sensory, the memory, and the imagination. The sensory is considered objective, memory considered the subjective record of the objective, and imagination as the sole product of the subjective.
In fact, however, all coexist within the same subjective space where they have a threesome relationship that far exceeds the occasional cross-contamination. Imagination draws off sensory experience and memory, sensory experience is influenced by imagination and memory, memory is influenced by imagination and sensory experience and all are experienced subjectively. 
It’s up to you to sort out the orgy, mosh-pit fuck-fest in your head.

Of Dreams and Alternate Realities.

What I lacked was conscious understanding, any semblance of a context, mental map or model of the out-of-body experience. 
There is, however, a relevant childhood encounter I had with my “teacher,” for whom I later would adopt the name Nimi. Though I must have remembered the encounter by the hypnosis session of April 27, 1995, it was not until some time afterward that I would begin to catch hints of the significance inherent in what she was conveying to me.
I confessed to her that I had always felt as if I had a foot, and perhaps half of me, in another world. As I told her this, I imagined my body wedged between a paper-thin membrane separating two worlds. In essence, I was, albeit involuntarily, painting a mental picture for her to go along with my telepathic voice-over just as she so often did with me. 
She responded with a soft, “in a way, that is true,” which made me immediately suspicious. I feared from her mental tone that perhaps it was just an adult’s way of humoring a child. It was not, as she did what adults never proceeded to do after casting out those words: she actually explained to me just in what way that was true.
With her inner voice, she told me that there were what she called “planes of existence” and that some people can function on these other planes better than others. Atop her telepathic voice I received the subjective image of perhaps four flat, rectangular sheets hovering a few inches above one another in a bluish-black void.
Though I have no recollection of it, she must have indicated that these planes separately or collectively constituted “the world,” as this produced immediate confusion in me. My understanding, I told her, was that the world was round, not flat. Her response seemed to clear things up for me, though that is all I could recall regarding the remainder of the conversation.
Like many of the things she had told me, however, it would have relevance to experience later in life, in this case with reference to the “astral projections” that began occurring outside my control around May of 1995.
The projections happened on several occasions with that remarkable intensity I experienced in the initial one, and continue to this day in a calmer way. I could never consciously will them to happen – they always happened of their own accord, be it by chance, accident, or the design of some outside force. 
While I believe there is sufficient evidence of disembodied consciousness, having an out of body “experience” is not necessarily synonymous with an exosomatic actuality. In some cases, it undoubtedly is, judging from the mass of accounts, but I can unfortunately not say the same, with any confidence, of my own.
In my own experiences there has never been any instance I recall in which I was roaming in a disembodied state through the familiar, physical landscape; a disappointment, I might add, as that was my original intention in pursuing the out of body state and in fact the only form I understood. Instead, I appear to only have access to what many others have referred to as other worlds, alternate realities, parallel universes, other dimensions or planes of existence. Is that truly what they constitute? 
After long bouts of contemplation in which I considered these experiences to perhaps be “nothing more” than what are known as lucid or waking dreams, I realized that the characteristics did not at all match. Despite being more aware than I could ever recall being in corporeal reality, I was unable to will the scenery to change. All that was within my capacity to do was exit the realm by turning inward, or imploding, and one of three things would happen.
Sometimes I would wake up in my body, finding it in a state of paralysis. Occasionally, I would be pulled down yet again into the “astral plane,” though always into a different environment than before.
Often enough I would experience, or recall experiencing, a place I have come to call limbo, however. Usually this place was a seemingly infinite black void, though sometimes one of a gold-tan color instead, and in some cases tunnels or wells of black or white color.
In limbo, sensations are always difficult to describe. On the whole, in seems to be an “electric” space. Here, the visual sense is at best peripheral in awareness and sometimes absent entirely, with the sensory field dominated with subtle energy sensations. This is the cheesy terminology I have adopted to designate what could otherwise only be described, perhaps, as a hybridization of the typical sensations known as touch, taste and movement. 
The curious thing about limbo is that it seems to serve as a multidimensional antechamber that leads, essentially, everywhere. I could somehow successfully execute a kind of bilocation, existing in my immobilized physical body and in the void I somehow sensed was “below” me at once, and so hover in-between the worlds. Being in my vacant, immobilized body did not involve use of my senses in most cases, but when I did occasionally hear something, like the radio or the hum of my computer, it sounded as one would expect it to if they were listening to it from underwater. By focusing on the muffled sound, however, I could use my attention as an anchor to the physical world as well as a rope by which I could pull myself back. 
The limbo could also lead me to other worlds, however, and I could linger in-between those other worlds and the limbo as well.
The quality of these alternate realities vary, or so it seems. It may be that some of these other worlds are dreamlike, others so rich they could almost be mistaken for the physical world, and still others hyperreal, experienced as being even “more real” than the physical world. Alternatively, it could be that the quality of the environment does not change, but only the quality of my means of sensing it and “being present” there.  
Even in my initial experiences in May of 1995 it was clear that the rich and intensely vivid quality of my surroundings was entirely relative to the degree of emotional intensity behind my attention. Objects and the environment as a whole seem to have their own self-luminescence, no evident external light source required — only the investment of one’s attention. This goes not only for the visual sense, either, but tactile as well, and presumably all the rest.
Indeed, my very existence there seemed somehow dependent on my attention on it. I could never decide whether or not this was due to its nature as a lucid or waking dream or due to the necessity of heightened awareness to activate the senses of that thought-responsive subtle body. It certainly felt that I drifted farther away when my attention slacked, that there was distance between me and that other body and that I was brought closer to the world with corresponding clarity of the senses when my attention sufficiently increased.
As with the first experience, spawned by the vision of a woman’s bare breast, acute attention seemed to “turn the lights on” behind this peculiar reality. If awareness spawned the realm’s full-sensory quality, did this not imply that it was indeed a product of my own mind? 
It later struck me, however, that this could indeed be a reality and my senses in the corresponding body on that plane of existence may have merely atrophied from lack of use, which may explain the initial blurriness I experienced. It was much like being tired or being under the influence of a downer drug and then being blasted into acute wakefulness. Perhaps my sudden and intense attention spawned my otherworldly senses into acute attention rather than the reality itself. 
Yet there were still other qualities that seemed to distinguish these experiences from the lucid dreams so many have reported. As an example, there was my mode of movement or travel within the context of the environment. Especially during the first experience, from the moment I became aware I seemed to be in a constant state of high-speed motion driven by where I focused my attention. The problem seemed to be that my attention was too intense and easily distracted, which led me to zipping about the surreal environment. 
Though I did not often see myself, during these experiences I felt as if I shifted between three distinct forms. In one, I was merely a ball, a center of condensed awareness. Occasionally I felt like smoke, a cloud, or amorphous mass. There were also occasions in which I felt as if I had what is more recognizable as a body, but this body seemed to be made out of something I can only relate to electricity. I later came to note that these three forms were more than slightly similar to the three forms apparitions are often described as manifesting as. Was it somehow the same body?
Though these alternate realities seem distinct from the dream, they are undoubtedly connected with them. The ultimate nature of the distinction has root, as William Buhlman has suggested, in their degree of sensitivity and responsiveness to consciousness.
Though our dreams constitute environments or spaces that are highly sensitive and responsive to conscious will and the unconscious mind of the dreaming individual, the alternate realities appear to have considerable resistance to such manipulation, though to some degree, at least, experience has shown it to be possible. 
This does not seem to be a repository of just my memories and imagination, however. It led me to wonder if each of us, outside of our personal mind, shared a greater mind, and so I was dreaming, even lucid dreaming, only it was of a higher order than personal. It was sort of a collective database for sensory perception and simulation.
Perhaps what I’m visiting are places which have been remembered or imagined by groups of people — perhaps these places serve as manifestations of the memory and imagination of the species. That so many have so often perceived the environments in our waking world would have the effect of ingraining their memories there complete with all their misperceptions, poor spatial intelligence, false memories and imagined environments as well. 
Memory would be built up, maintained, evolved through group reinforcement of experience and imagination through repeated and/or intensely emotionally-fueled exposure and/or execution. Such  “weight” of memory could not be changed without repeated or intense focus that culminates in a match to its power. Old habits die hard. Environments would resist fundamental manipulation by consciousness with the strength of its own memory.
Additionally, this collective mind may have qualities and processes similar to the individual minds that feed and draw from it, such as the disjunctive cognitions and interobjects of dreams — both constituting a mutation of association that either thrives or dies out in the ecosystem of the mind. If so, perhaps these alternate realities are mutations of the moments we have experienced; schemas we call cultural memory which we can experience as if through the ordinary senses as prototypes procured from collective “attractors”.
Though it took me some time to realize it, the strange atmosphere I felt when I awoke into those alternate bedrooms spawned from this sense that the world was on pause. 
Everything was silent, as if this was a freeze-framed still image — a free-floating, three-dimensional alternative version of my bedroom unhinged by temporal constraints. It was as if they were defective time-slices; moments rejected because they lack flow with the causality or chronology of reality. The probability wave never crashed in their favor, and so now each of these moments have been condemned to land of existential continuity errors, in which I have so often become lost.
Rather than absorptive focus on my physical body, which would once again ensnare me, lock in key, to biological, spatiotemporal constraints, I instead traverse the associations between the alternate frames by seeking instead the right environment, sometimes flipping through reality-channels like mad.
Though we experience 4-dimensional spacetime in a seemingly seamless sequence of 3-dimensional cross-sections which appear to be woven together by causality, then, could it be that reality as we experience it is really akin to a film in which various freeze-framed stills we could call “moments” are spliced together sequentially due to their degrees of similarity and difference to one another, which in turn produces the illusion of causality when experienced through the embedded material medium of the corporeal body?
Outside of that body, consciousness would traverse the frames by means of association through absorptive focus, able to explore mutant and literally timeless moments that never made it and even poke around in alternate sequences that do not jive well at all with the sequence of events we identify as home. Some of these frames might be single frames that carry only slight discrepancy with your home reality, others might be entirely off in left field and bear little to no correspondence with familiar experience

From Elsewhere, To Nowhere.

During high school, and some time after I had sifted through those seeming past life memories, I had gone to the mall. Whether I was with my friends or parents at the time I do not recall, but I had wandered into a bookstore and did my usual browsing of the paranormal section. That is where I picked up a book I had neither read nor heard of before, a book by Scott Mandelker entitled, From Elsewhere: Being E.T. in America.

By that time I had developed a particular distaste for the more hokey or cheesy literature on the subjects of UFOs and paranormal, as exposure of the subject in such a manner only served the agenda of those who would prefer to cast out the baby with the bath water of new age nonsense it was left to marinate in. Despite this, I picked it up and brushed through the pages randomly once or twice, reading a random passage. Perhaps the first I read made adrenaline flood my system, as the particular account described a planet with the same desert setting I had seen in my memories. In fear, I shut the book, put it back on the shelf and avoided it like the plague if I ever came across it somewhere else. To this day I have yet to read it, as a matter of fact, and considering the amount it goes for online, it may be some time until I do.

On those pages are there recollections akin to my own, or does this serve as merely another example of false hope in finding someone with whom I can truly identify at this level? Would any story inside that book truly resonate with my memories of that world?

My sense has always been that the planet looked like Saturn, most likely because this planet was of a tan color and had similar rings. Most of the surface of the planet seemed to be a desert, a vast wasteland of sand, rock formations and the occasional isolated, creepy, leafless tree. Here and there it was pockmarked by lush oases that were basically small, isolated jungles of phosphorescent vegetation. There were also sparse signs of civilization on the surface as well, various structures such as buildings and the terrible “death machines” that prowled the sands, though what these machines were or did that made them so threatening I cannot recall.

Most of the civilization lived underground, however, in subterranean cities and tunnels. One reason may have been the constant threats from the sky. In my playtime as a kid, a constant worry of the duo as they ventured across their desert world were the rocks that occasionally fell from the sky. That was not their only threat, either. In one memory in the desert area, I remember hiding and looking from a short distance at a sedimentary rock formation of some kind. I watched some small creature scurry across the ground and another creature, appearing seemingly out of nowhere, attacking it. I cannot recall what the prey looked like. The predator had the body of a fuzzball with long, spider-like legs, and it was quick and precise. I watched as in one swift movement it pounced on and wrapped its legs around its prey. I also recall a strange memory of an elephant-and-anteater like creature with a long, flexible, narrow trunk and an otherwise bloated or pudgy appearance. The one I saw was presumably dead, however, so perhaps that has some bearing on the seeming “rolls of fat” appearance of the creature’s skin.

So perhaps it could be that the civilization had to relocate underground when their planet began being pelted by meteorites and asteroids and the Daddy Long-Leg psycho-pompoms and anteater-elephant creatures roamed free on the surface. Perhaps the “death machines” were tanks of some kind, keeping people off the surface, or warring against some other faction. All of that could potentially make sense, but other things seem inconsistent or too coincidental to be true. despite my impression that the planet had rings akin to Saturn, I never recall seeing those rings in the sky, which one would think should stand out. conveniently it would appear, judging from the memories, that I could see just as I do with my present eyes, though it did seem both broader and crystal clear, and surprisingly so even during my memories in the darkness. Nonetheless, how likely is it that an extraterrestrial civilization would have eyes that express vision to consciousness in the way and within the range with which we, as humans, are familiar? Does convergent evolution extend throughout the cosmos?

Speaking of convergence: do my memories of this dead world converge with the memories of anyone else, then, for whatever reason? Seemingly so. The theme of a desert locale and associations with it being the home of the Grays has surfaced in material by Whitley Strieber, David Jacobs, Karla Turner and others. In his book, The Threat, David Jacobs remarks that “[m]any abductees have reported being in desert-like terrain. Although the meaning of these settings is unclear, there are indications that such terrain may be a home environment for the aliens.” He then provides portions of the transcripts from the hypnosis session of “Susan Steiner” (pages 51-52), who seems to be describing another planet:

“The sky is like reddish. There’s like cloud formations that are sort of hanging in the air very low, like very, they’re not like cumulus clouds. They’re more feathery type clouds. And they’re like all different colors. Like multicolored and they’re hanging in the air, almost like cotton candy or angel’s hair. It looks sort of like angel’s hair hanging there in the air. It’s just like all over the place. There’s like three, looks like there’s three suns in the sky. One of them has like little, like smaller things sort of like … I don’t know what you would call them but like rotating around one of the suns. The other two don’t have that, the other two are just plain. We start walking out into this […] hard sand. It’s not like beach sand, it’s like harder than that.”

There is again a mention of a desert world in Karla Turner’s book Taken, where she speaks of an abductee she calls Angie:

“In February 1989, she had another abduction in which she was called a ‘Chosen One’ and was also shown a scene familiar from other abductee reports. One of the aliens touched her forehead, she said, and ‘a series of graphic images exploded’ in her mind. She saw ‘a reddish-gold desert planet with two setting suns,’ a ‘galaxy,’ a ‘blood-red moon and a fiery orange sun exploding,’ and an ‘underground city’ before she blacked out. When she regained consciousness, an alien told her their home was ‘Cassiopeia in the heavens’ but that they had made a home for themselves on Earth before humans were created. After this, Angie passed out again and was returned home.”

In his book Confirmation, Whitley Strieber provides snippets from the letters many have sent to him describing their own bizarre experiences. On page 149, he cites an experience that sounds somewhat familiar:

“I was standing in the middle of a red plain. The ground beneath my feet was dust… like what I imagine moon dust would be like. There were no rocks, no chunks of anything. I appeared to be in the middle of a street. There were large, tan buildings running up and down this street, in all sort of strange configurations. They were not elaborate at all — just very angular. On the whole, they looked like Spanish missions, if those missions had been designed by Salvador Dali. They were made of some crenulated metallic material that on first glance looked like adobe. The sky above my head was white. Not bright white or cloudy white — it was more like the sky glowed, like it had some innate property of light. On the street were dozens of ‘gray’ creatures. They appeared to be gliding back and fourth up and down the street. They gave off this feeling that I was sort of distasteful to them. I felt big and dirty and ugly.”

As I browsed through Albert Rosales compilation of humanoid sighting reports for 1989 on, I came across an interesting case that occurred in Mezhriybaza, Uzbekistan. On the fitting night of October 31, UFOFORUM in Russia reported that:

“A local bookkeeper, X. Saidov, spotted a large dazzling object descending towards the ground. After the object landed, a tall robot-like being wearing a silvery suit emerged from the object. Terrified, Saidov is unable to move and apparently loses consciousness. Waking up later, he finds himself in a desert like location standing among the sands. He could see hills and pyramids around him. He sees a man and woman exit one of the pyramids, but he remained paralyzed and felt the ground under him become soft. He soon lost consciousness again. Later he found himself standing next to his car close to the village.”

In her first book, Into the Fringe (pages 102-103) Karla Turner provides another reference to a desert world as she describes speaking with her son, David, who had experienced an apparent recollection of two scenes super-imposed over one another. One of these images depicted a sandstorm on a world that was entirely desert, and the sky seemed hardly distinguishable, for “the only way I could tell the sky from the ground was that the sky was a lighter shade of tan.” The second image depicted “an outside area at night, pitch-black. But I could see something in front of me. It looked like a fifteen-foot-tall tree trunk or irregular column, and it was covered with thick, dark brown fur” and that though he “could see some sort of appendage near the top of the column”, he was clueless as to its nature.

As Karla Turner noted in that same book, this experience bears an uncanny resemblance to an incident described in chapter 26 of Whitley Strieber’s 1989 novel, Majestic, which is a fictional account based on the Roswell story. In the novel, Nick Duke, a Baltimore reporter, investigates a lead given to him by Wilfred Stone, an ex-director of the CIA. In the chapter in question, the character of Wilfred Stone describes what to him was a strange and confusing experience in which he seemed to have found himself on a planet which appeared like Saturn in which he was “standing in a desert. It was strewn with sharp black boulders that shone dully in the weak light.” He described “the grit underfoot” and how “the air was crackling dry and the sky was brown.” He felt as if he were some unthinking animal as he ran across the world. He described two suns, one that was just setting as the scene began, leaving him in darkness, and the other, red sun rising in the midst of his encounter with what appeared to be a gigantic mantis. It was the furry tree trunk description that resonated with David’s mental image, and David seemed to be describing the insect’s legs.

The description of the planet looking like Saturn echoes my feelings; after all, my memories of a desert world is what inspired me to get that mural of Saturn on my wall when I was in junior high. The large insect theme at least resonates with my recollections to some degree. Yet is this all just coincidence?

If so, it would appear to extend beyond anecdotal reports from others considering the recently discovery concerning what are known as “land planets.”

The habitable or “Goldilocks” zone is the area around a given star that will neither be too hot nor too cold for a planet’s surface to potentially hold liquid water and therefore perhaps some form of extraterrestrial life. The habitable zone is dependent not just on the stage of the star but also on the type of planet. Aqua planets such as our earth have more surface water than land, suffering a rampant greenhouse effect if they orbit too close and going ice-9 if their orbit strays too far. Land planets are essentially the polar opposite of aqua planets, as they are composed of vast desert landscapes pot-marked here and there with oases, but void of any semblance of an ocean. One would assume that life would be primarily subterranean, as there may be relatively abundant water beneath the surface, and perhaps otherwise isolated to the oases forming from the springs that bleed through the desert skin.

Additional differences between aqua and land planets were presented in the 2011 paper “Habitable Zone Limits for Dry Planets,” written by Yutaka Abe, Ayako Abe-Ouchi, Norman H. Sleep, and Kevin J. Zahnle and published in the magazine Astrobiology. Their research suggests that if a land planet and an aqua planet orbited the same star, the habitable zone for the land planet would be roughly three times larger, enabling it to be both closer and farther away from the star and still sustain life. This would mean that life-bearing planets such as our own might be relatively rare, with land planets in all likelihood standing as the more common celestial nest for budding life in the cosmos.

Of course, this notion of land planets or desert worlds being fertile for life all really constitutes an educated guess in the end, albeit one heavy on the education. In any case, its interesting, and in no fashion do I for a moment think this means the entire alien landscape in my memory is indeed an accurate depiction of past events I was privy to in one form or another and not some unconsciously-generated fantasy I became emotionally ensnared in.

Still, it could all make sense as a fantasy. In my own case, perhaps the alter takes the form of an alien in response to constantly having to face and fight with my deeply-rooted feeling that I somehow simply did not belong anywhere. Perhaps this sense of “alienation” is also why while alone as a child I played with my hands and pretended they were two aliens meandering about their planet’s surface. Perhaps the alien personality took root in the rich history of the dead alien desert world that served as a backdrop to my private childhood playtime. Perhaps the personality sincerely believes that history is true, that this history is its own. Perhaps the purpose it serves is to give me an explanation for my sense of isolation. It has relevance, I feel, that this explanation has been regarded with tremendous fear and horror for me since I was sixteen (and if the memories are not false memories, as far back as six). If the purpose of the alter was to offer explanations that would produce psychological comfort, it undoubtedly failed.

There is no doubt that Saturn, named after the Roman god of agriculture, has a good deal of cultural associations that would make it an optimal choice for my unconscious in the creation of spontaneous fantasies. Saturn is thought to be characterized by coldness, dryness, time, constriction, law, karma, fate, judgment, structure and death. It is also associated with the father, specifically the darker issues associated with him if he is not outright tyrannical, and the Goblin Man, if not a true alien but rather a symbol, would very likely be a manifestation for (clearly unconscious) darker issues with my actual father. In any case, the symbolic usage here as a whole would seem to bear a tight cohesion in terms of meaning if one is to regard it as hallucinatory.

The issue remains, however: as a fantasy, it does not seem altogether appealing to my inner eye, as I have a general distaste for the kind of laziness that goes on in popular fiction writing. To offer a relevant example, there is the tendency for sci-fi writers to fashion entire planets composed of one specific appearance and season in contrast to, for instance, our own planet which is composed of deserts, tropics, the arctic tundra, and all varying types of environment. On occasion they show signs of differing weather patterns, but not so much in terms of seasons or varying types of climate. We imagine Yoda living in a swamp-world, we imagine waterworlds and, often enough, desert worlds. Tatooine of Star Wars, known to my young self quite well, and Arrakis of Frank Herbert’s Dune series, which I have never read, though a friend gave me the book some years ago and it still rests amongst the others on my shelves. Nor have I ever seen the movie, in my recollection. There are quite a few movies using desert worlds, in fact, and I intended to watch some of them to see if they contained elements from my memories. The idea, of course, was to come across a movie that depicted the scenes I so vividly recalled and prove to myself that I wasn’t even original in my pseudo-delusions. To the small degree in which I have actualized this intention, I have found nothing in comparison to my memories. So do my notions of a desert world not just constitute an active, unconsciously-generated fantasy, but one borne of a significant lack of creativity?

How to Raise the Bar and Hang Yourself By It.

One mountain, many paths, as the Buddhists say. Of course, in this case you’ll have to imagine that the mountain’s peak is a metaphor for orgasm and you have found yourself hopelessly tangled in debaucherous, labyrinthine streams of endless porn links, and that adds up to a lot of simultaneous paths you want to take with equal intensity. You are on a heroic quest to find the one perfect scene in the one perfect porn that just doesn’t exist. And to get where? To where you could easily go with some simple visualization techniques and a few flicks of the wrist, but that technology promises to deliver in a countless number of ways you never would have thought of at the click of a mouse.

If the brain is the biggest erogenous zone, the computer is the optimal sex toy. And so away we play.

Nonetheless, I feel it is imperative for fellow porn-watchers, specifically men under the heading of introverted bachelors, to bear in mind the frightening possibility that expanding our pornographic horizons may be systematically desensitizing us to the kind of girls willing to fuck us. Where are we going to find a lady as luscious as Mellissa Lauren, who always wants to have her hair pulled? Or even better, Sasha Gray, who likes all sorts of interesting things?

Watching the same porn clip, film, or even the same porn star inevitably falls under the influence of the Law of Diminishing Returns. No matter how good the imagery, how sexy the scenes, regardless as to how we can tell she really enjoys it and can get off from watching her get off, the inevitable happens. We eventually become desensitized and might as well be staring at the wall with a flaccid, dome-tipped skin-hose in hand.

The best of times, the worst of times: the call to action. We have to push the threshold for the sake of getting off, and so of course we do so. Boldly marching forward into the vast lands of internet pornography, we expand our horizons, pop cherries we never even knew we had. Our tastes branch out, perhaps only out of desperation, and our bar, in the end, is inevitably raised too high.

Consider it. Be rational. When we finally get a chance to have actual sex with, like, a real, live girl again and stuff, what’s the likelihood that she’s going to be interested in anything more than the barebones ritual of casual copulation? By taking matters into our own hands for an enduring period, we have threatened to callous more than merely our own meaty manhood (lotion, my friends: lotion). Indeed, we show great promise in ever-thickening the callous towards the experience itself, to eventually snuff out our already-dwindling ability to appreciate sex within the awkward bounds of objective probability.