The fiona, spun sangria, and the warehouse party house

The bar as I sat with a glass of whiskey in my hand was a pale oak sheen, and there were bottles lined up, and tins of tincture powders like a drugstore. I was not ready for what happened. I had already been at a feast, and outdoor garden picnic, an indoor corridor twice met, a crowded bar where I met an old friend, and Michel was there in all contexts mostly speaking cryptic close words, in a huge warehouse while I was wrapped in red silk. He said the number nine, and merged into the couch, with green hair. The warehouse and the party, the quiet scenes in the corridors, and now this; Fiona.

The first thing I noticed was the thing she wore on her hand. I heard her speak and glanced only twenty degrees to my left. She had an orange webbing with blue pale jewels woven into the sunset macrame. It instantly imbued her with an energy. “I didn’t want to sit here without saying anything she said.” and this was a caveat and a ruse, because as I turned toward her, she began.

The device she had in her other hand was a spinning liquid dispenser made of bronze with two holes releasing amber and chartreuse liquid. SHe was spinning it’s ellipse-shape and  alcohol was somewhat falling into the tumbler in front of her. I had to back away slightly because it was falling on the floor. THis did not stop her! I glanced behind me and an entire chorus of men in suits were singing a song in gaelic.”FIOONA, CE!!!” THis is how I knew her name was FIona. THey clearly were singing for her in the sort of swelling chant  which erupted accompanied by unknown drums. This fueled her motion. I grasped my whiskey.Joe was there. He started to help the spinning liquid machine Fiona wielded. Others held a huge tub with rinds and fruit suspended in the liquid sangria. I realized the liquor fest had begun. Fiona was the spirit, the song, the drink. It was invoked. This had promise, but then I awakened.

Earlier I entered the bar upstairs in the lightness. As I was walking through the dim corridor to arrive, Michel met me. He put his arms around me in a hug. It was familiar, and instantly too much to be embraced alone by anyone but Joe. He came with me into the bar, like a shadow to my right. I felt odd to be with him going into this wild packed room. A woman began telling me a story and Michel slipped off. I could not listen to the rest of the story because Beth, my childhood friend was there. This time with her little sister Laura, all grown up, and her husband and new baby which he carried. Beth showed me a program from some event she had gone to. While we weren’t in Germany as far as I could tell, one of the programs was called, “Looking toward the Panzer’s” It cost 2,800 for the trip. I scanned the document which was a receipt as well, with my careful intensity reserved for Scorpio’s private curiosities. I saw that they had indeed paid the $2,800 for the Panzer trip. I embarrassed myself by telling her I noticed that they had paid for it and since I knew she had gone to Germany after high school, I let her tell me…”Actually, we’re going tomorrow!”  I couldn’t believe it. I have been studying Huertgenwald’s famous  1944 campaign. As I slip off to find Joe, there is no sign of him. I return to the dark corridor with it’s slate grey berber carpet and sloping inset lights like an aquarium, He is standing in his leather jacket and dark jeans in a wide stance at the bottom of a ramp. I wrap my arms around him. “I’ve been looking for you, ” He said, “I’ve been looking for YOU.” I say.

“What have you been up to ?” I ask. We go outside to where there is a circle of burned grass. He sort of trails of as if this is explanatory in and of itself.

Earlier in the warehouse he’d sat next to me after Michel dissipated and I had felt the soft closeness as I turned up toward Joe’s face and smiled just for him. The couch seemed hung 20 feet above the floor and we watched a woman come in with big placards of wood with a white veneer and tarot -like images. Her task was to paint something on them and bring them back to the vendor she’d worked things out with. It turned out to be Eliza Urtiaga. SHe did a wide plie and did not screech as she often does, nor giggle, which was a relief. Old wooden tracks seemed to be taking someone away in punishment animatronically with a puppet jaw. This room was mostly empty. I wondered if I ought to be making more contacts with the people in the village.

Garden party, money in the rice…

&~~

Prologue: As I was cooking breakfast, I recalled the most important thing which was a vision that came to me between sleep and wakening. A man called “the rock” was shown driving…HE HAD THE SECRET. He looked like my great uncle pete, Carl L. Peterson the II in a photo I saw of him in the seventies on a hike(perhaps when he took on the APpalachian)

What he knew was this:  It was a brain. It was an object in the shape of a brain that flashed to me. The thing about it was…it was his. He had his own brain. He got to make solid thoughts in his own brain. He formed them. They were in corruptibly his own because he knew how to put them there and how to keep them there. It is an oubliette of one’s own mind that is required. Go inward and form your own brain theoretically, abstractly, and then actually. 

 

 

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Nicotine Incubus

I have 4 different categories of dreams. Tonight I will talk about one of them. You all probably know about the Incubus; the demon that sits on your chest while you are asleep and suffocates you. I have a Nicotine Incubus. The only reason I say this is that I spend substantial amounts of my life not smoking and have come to make a distinction between dreaming with nicotine in my system and without.  When I am smoking, here is one kind of recurring dream I have:

There is a transitional time between wake and sleep. This dream always happens just about 15 minutes after I have started drifting, and am in that in between period of sleep and wake.

I become dizzy. My head is spinning. It feels very, very heavy. I know it is happening and I try to wake myself. I usually can not. A loud noise, like guitar feedback, scraping nails, screaming, and some kind of engine, deep and full, all start spinning around in my head. I am being pulled deeper into my pillow. I really want to wake up but the intensity and heaviness increase- the noise gets louder and louder- so I become less and less able to wake myself. I am being pulled down.

I sometimes am able to realize I have a choice. If I am feeling strong, I make the right choice. I start to fall. I am in a standing position and begin to fall face down. I trust myself. I am able to fall in slow motion. Just before I hit the floor, I begin to hover. I hover well if I am feeling strong. It is like flying except I am only 3 or 4 feet from the ground. I search out things. Sometimes I can control it. Sometimes I find naked women. Sometimes I just go through earthen tunnels; underground worlds.

The dizziness comes back, the noise, screaming metal sounds. I realize I must awake because I am not able to breathe. I see myself on the bed. I have hovered to myself. On the count of three I will wake up. 1,2,3, Wake up! I think I am awake but the noise starts again. I tell myself I will throw myself on the floor, out of my bed, and do so. I think I am awake, but I am not. I am still being pulled down. I am gasping for breath. The gasping is what wakes me. I look around. I have been still. I haven’t tossed or turned. I am not on the floor. I stand up and am dizzy. I can’t see well. I have to stay out of bed because I know that if I lay back down I will immediately be pulled back in.

The Dream of Change

the conjuring bells

Something is coming for me from the inside. It began one day when I was walking home alone through an autumn forest on a cloudy afternoon. Out of nowhere I heard the melodic ringing of bells. I sat down against a tree and listened. A strange high started coming over me, and I soon realized that the sound was coming from within. That first time I welcomed it, and allowed the ringing (and the high) to build — its song filled my head and all my thoughts vanished. It felt as though my skull melted and then murmured voices began to speak — but they were too hushed for me to make out any meaning from their words (nor to know if they were speaking English). I had a sense that questions were being asked, fairly banal questions.

The ringing bells starting coming for me multiple times a day, and every time I ran away to be alone and steady myself. The high lifts me out of time and space, and I am swept up into a pulsating and rhythmic tornado while still sensing my feet firmly planted on the ground. Every time feels as if I am being turned inside out — my inner life exposed for all to see, but with no one there to bear witness.

I lived in a roofless house in the middle of a forest. Helen would visited me there, and I would often find her sleeping soundly on my bed. One particularly disorienting afternoon, I was handed a typed letter by a tall, gaunt, faceless man. It was from my brother Bobby. It read:

                I’m dying.    I’m dyinG. 
  I’m dying.    I’m dYing.                     I’m dyiNg.
       Everything is made of Green.
   There is a GUN ship in Hanoi.
…it was used by ghosts to shoot down US Bombers.
                        I’m not ready to see you.            But soon. 

The paper was a work of art. It was stained in colors I had never seen before, and the ink from the typewriter seemed to endless drip off of the paper but leave no marks. I wanted him to know how beautiful it was — but I knew he wouldn’t believe me.

I raced home with the letter when the ringing came for me again. I grabbed a tree and rode the high out. I was tired of this unexpected visitor (or visitors), and I hoped Helen was at my house so I could hug her. I went in and, thankfully, she was there and held me as I wept frustrated tears. Whalen was sitting at my desk. He mentioned the ghosts — he said he spent 8 hours one day teaching them the alphabet.

In Helen’s arms the ringing came for me again. I ran out of the house into the dense forest — the melody became more insistent and began drowning out my vision. I started sliding between two separate worlds…. My eyes would open and I would be in my bedroom (in Hanoi) in a trance, motionless, staring at the ceiling . . . then my eyes would close and I would be back in the forest, stoned, the bells ringing louder and louder. This happened about three times, and on the last time I willed myself to stay in my bedroom — in this world, from where I type this entry. ♨

war games

We are now living in post-apocalyptic cities where nothing grows and all industrial progress has ceased. The sun never shines here, it is always dark. There are no animals left, we have eaten them all — there are only trees, decrepit buildings, and us. Without animals we no longer have a reference that we can point to and claim the vague animator we call “instinct” exists; nor do we have operational machines to tear into the land. Without these we no longer feel dominion over anything; and even the most Earth loving among us are weak and angry.

The boys are marching off to war. There is a black clothed team and a white clothed team. I’m with the black. This war is a senseless game, neither side has a goal; but people will die, many people will die. While marching into the silent and empty forest I desert my company and build a raft out of old animal bones and twigs. I float down a tame stream and arrive at a place where I am stuck inside a photographic book that is similar to a high school year book. There is always one photo that is animated and talking. The type of dialogue taking place is like that of an evening news show conducting an interview. I am asked what I think the biggest problem we now face is. The page turns and my photograph is animated — in it I am a teenager, I have long hair and I’m wearing a red KGB shirt with a hammer & sickle decal on it. I proclaim proudly (in the way only a teenager can) that it is because we have abandoned ourselves, and that I have never abandoned anything. But my adult self who is wittnessing my talking teenage photograph knows this is not true — I have just abandoned my army.

Beethoven’s 5th symphony begins blasting into the world. I can hear it perfectly, it is precise. The book closes and the trees uproot. The world is receiving its final apocalyptic blows. I am not worried, instead I am marveled by how my dreaming mind is capable of reproducing this complicated music — and I wake up with it still ringing in my ears. ♨

crocodile road

I’m in a second story apartment with my friend Helen. She has a beautiful terrace that overlooks a lively and colorful street — the scene makes me think I’m in a city in South America. As we’re talking on the terrace I notice that the shop names below are changing. At first I am baffled, but then this tips me off to the fact that I may be dreaming. Immediately an excited fear pierces my mind. I start looking around in attempt to read the shifting signs above the storefronts. I can’t — they are moving and changing too fast, and the roman letters are taking on different shapes and colors. We move inside and I grab Helen by the waist and she whispers something into my ear and kisses my cheek. I ask her if we are dreaming. She nods with a grin. I’m overwhelmed with a intoxicating sense of freedom. I don’t know what to do: Should I rearrange the dream? Summon the ghosts of old friends? Take flight? Make love with an apparition? All the possibilities scramble my brain and render me powerless. I’m stuck — I know I’m dreaming, but I don’t know how to manage the experience — and now I’m unconvinced that the far off world my body is sleeping in holds any authenticity. I’m also frighted and a deep loneliness ruptures within my body . . . “It’s all only me.”
– – –
I’m driving north on Route 29, heading to 70 west, going to West Virginia. I’m on a motorbike, and I’m not paying attention to the road, occasionally falling into a trance. I snap to and realize that I fell asleep while driving and missed 70. “Where am I? These are hilly dirt roads. How did I get here? This isn’t 29. How did I manage this while sleeping?” I’m still drowsy, and I can barely keep my eyes open. And slowly I realize that every time sleep overtakes me, and my eyes close, they open somewhere else. I’m flopping between two distinct worlds; however the secondary one is very faint. I’m constantly jolting myself back to the one in which I’m driving the motorbike over the dirt roads — it seems more authentic to me, and the one in which it is more pressing that I find my way, the road seems treacherous. I manage to stay awake driving just enough to see that the road ends at the base of a hill at a watery pit. I come to a sliding stop on my bike just before the water’s edge. I see that the dirty shallow water is full of crocodiles. I start getting nervous, and turn the bike around to leave. The dirt on the ground is as fine as powder, and the struggle up the hill is slow and hard. As I’m leaving I see another beast: this one is bodiless and is only the head of a crocodile but its lidless eyes are catlike, huge, perfectly round, and emerald green. I have no idea how, but despite have no body, it is still capable of moving around terribly fast. It’s chomping its gapping jaw and staring at me, into me — and the layered sounds its jaw makes as it chomps are ghastly and loud. I manage to get on top of the hill, but sleep comes for me again. I’m driving — my eyes close and open . . . I am looking out into my room, lying on my bed . . . they close . . . I’m driving on the dirt road, I don’t know where I’m going . . . they open . . . I am lying on my bed. This happens a few more times and then this world, in which I am writing out this occurrence, holds me. And I am left wondering where I’m headed on that dirt road. ♨