Hypnosis inside the fabric of the room

The residual drowsiness hangs on me like during the end of a dream. My eyelids fall toward the computer screen before realizing they're attached to my head, and settle for a groggy slump. They're pissed at me for writing this right now. They want to sink into the down feathered pillow that sits just to my left near the head of my bed. Its light blue coat calls from the blue sheets. But no, I must get this out. Then I will walk around in the remaining sunshine listening to the sounds of the street, the sounds of life.

I think I got one-and-a-half hits in before blacking out. I left my body--must have just climbed right out--and my consciousness spread out against the three walls surrounding me. I sank into the wall behind me, which became the ceiling and the back wall at the same time--all the walls melded together with me in the middle, and I was stuck. I woke up stuck to the wall--stuck IN all the walls really, and I had no control over my body. There were two others in this world I now inhabited (even though I was alone before I smoked, but ha, I had no recollection of anything at the time), and they were laughing at me in my stuckness. One was on my left and one was on my right but I couldn't see them because I couldn't move my head--didn't have a head as I was by now completely soaked into the fabric of the walls--hynosis inside the fabric of the room. I became terrified and tried to jump out of the walls but couldn't--and realized that I had no body any longer, and I was quickly forgetting what a body even felt like. I mustered up enough will to get back into my body just enough to stand though, and when I stood I heard a thump on the ground (which I later realized was my iPod--falling from my hand and crashing against the flooor--which I put on before the trip). I stared down at the table, which contained the yellow bong and a bottle of mescal, also yellow, and suddenly I was spinning in a circular motion from the bong to the mescal, from yellow to yellow, spinning round and round like a ferris wheel--three feet in diameter with my trapped inside--inside my own room. All the while the two evil beings surrounding me laughed and laughed. It was then I realized that I had done something to cause this, that I had eaten something, or drank something (maybe it was that yellow bottle down there) or smoked something to put me in this state. And then I remembered "SALVIA"--the green goddess.

I remember thinking that there was someone on the other side of this woven blanket of unconsciousness that I had asked to help me but didn't--Eric--DAMN HIM, if he had been there he would have never allowed me to stand up and my iPod never would have dropped and crashed to the ground--my iPod! Damnit, it probably broke, wait a minute, I'm sinking back into my body now, hold on, sit down, relax, take this weird shit off my head, what is this, oh, a blindfold, so much for that, I must have tried to throw that off my head when I first stood up and it must have gotten caught on my ears. OK, just close your eyes and look at the colors. Shoot, the colors are all gone, I wasted this whole trip freaking out over being stuck inside the fabric of the room. Well, if there was ever a good cause for freaking out, that's it.

I'm going to go catch the last bit of sunshine now.

Hypnosis on the wheels of a steel tank

If you go so far out on the edge that you find yourself drinking a beer with death, when you come back you can do anything.

Easter Sunday 2005--in a downpour in the dark--I was driving a '66 Ford Fairlane up the stretch of 880 that runs from San Jose to Berkeley. The rain was pelting the car like hailstones, and the visibility was like staring into a piece of computer paper stained by long streaks of black ink. I was driving a matchbox car through a file cabinet full of soaking wet newspapers.

Sara sat uneasy in the passenger seat. Her eyes were large, infused with terror, peeled to the glass of the windshield. The static of the radio blared from the speakers between her sharp blasts of "get over to the left!" "you're over the line!" and "honey, watch it!" She tried to talk me into turning around and staying the night in San Jose.

But I was calm, relaxed. Total control.

A '66 Ford Fairlane is a giant, hollow piece of steel that ambles down the pothole-plagued roads of Northern California like a drunk in some early Irish novel. The steering wheel is loose and unreliable. You cannot control this hunk of steel; you can only hope to guide it in the right general direction.

Somewhere before Freemont, at a swerving 65 miles per hour, I approached an 18-wheel tanker in a patch of thick traffic. He was in the right lane and I was in the center. In the heavy rains we were both wavering back and forth in our lanes as waves of water shot out from every tire.

I knew I had to pass the tanker before he caused too much trouble in the congestion, so I lounged forward. 65 mph and I nugded the pedal harder. 70, 75, 80, I was building speed and lurking forward, creeping up on the long, silver tanker.

Just as the nose of the Ford was even with his bumper, I watched him lose control and slide into our lane. His front end was angling toward us as I jerked the wheel and slammed on the breaks, hydroplaning and nicking the side of a small honda on my left. Sara cried out in a series of piercing screams and yells that intensified as the side of the tanker came closer and closer to us in the windshield.

It happened in a cascade of freeze frames that clicked like snapshots as the image of the tanker became larger and larger. Cars in every direction were dodging left and right, water engulfed us like a wave over a surfer. Every nerve in my body stabbed my inner layers like a single, giant double-edged needle. Pure terror shocked my frame into paralysis as Sara's screams bounced from wall to wall inside my head.

Up close, the wheels of the tanker were as big as the Ford. This vision seemed queerly intriguing from my vantage point behind the steering wheel, and in the confusion of flying water, darting cars and piercing screams I snapped into a peaceful, still calm. It was a dreamy calm, icy, dark, dead and unresponsive. Hypnosis on the wheels of a steel tank. My heart rate slowed to zero as my last breath passed through my lungs, into the tubes of my chest and out my mouth. I smiled.

In the next moment the tanker seemed to grab a hold of itself. Like the man who nods off in his chair and quickly jerks his head back into a wakeful state, the truck snapped to attention and skidded in the opposite direction. He regained composure, straightened out and slowed down.

I slowed down to half his speed and watched him gain distance on us. A few long, hard breaths followed from both Sara and I, and we checked to make sure the other was ok. I pulled into the right lane and crawled along at 40 mph for two or three solid minutes before picking up speed again in the flow of traffic.

I approached the tanker, but moved over two lanes before overtaking him. Ten minutes or so after I passed him I glanced in the rear view mirror and noticed the tanker taking an exit beneath a sign advertising a fast food joint. His long body eased into the turn as he decreased speed and inserted himself into the wide mouth of the exit ramp.

The Three Children

The Universe has THREE children, triplets milking the blood of the same womb and feasting on the same placenta. Every system of thought has its nomenclature, most commonly in Western myth, Father, Spirit, Son. Or poetically, Jove, Pluto, Neptune. Or practically, Cause, Operation, Effect. But we can call them, metaphysically, respectively, Creator, Diviner, Communicator. Or, in modern terms, Producer, Director, Actor. Of these, each entity in the Universe is all three, one-in-the-same, cubed. Each atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

In this manner, the Universe in its most comprehensive entirety, all the stars in their courses, replicates the tiniest imperceptible bit of dust-matter in the smallest cave of the smallest planet. The grime that falls from the cabinet-maker's brow is the same as the million suns spinning on their axis.

When I was a child I was walking on a dirt path behind my home. Wading through the forrest, through overgrown brush, leaves and thorns scraping against my ankles and knees, I every so often took occasion to glance down at the floor supporting my feet. I noticed that the dirt rose and sunk in predictable patterns, which I had seen somewhere before. Upon closer inspection, it seemed that the patterns in the dirt were nothing more than a small-scale model of the mountain range out in the distance.

They are all illusion. Illusion layered upon illusion. I wake from one dream into the next. The dreams are infinite, world upon world, one after the other stretching on forever through the ocean of time and space. The human mind as a functional practicality discriminates between each of these dreams, sections them off so that the overwhelming bombardment of illusions is not confusing, but quite to the contrary understandable, coherent. But this too is illusion.

Under the spell of sleep or intoxication, other worlds appear. The body is a mine field of emotions and feelings all firing and sparking to maintain equilibrium and secure survival. But when these are suppressed and the body shuts down, this incredible energy is diverted from the organs of the body to the pathways in the mind. The energy of the mind transcends the body and journeys into the spirit worlds that exist outside of the constraints of the mind. Patterns of eyeballs appear; chain after chain of never-ending eyeballs, through which we may peer into different illusions.

Go drunk walking

Go drunk walking: http://www.wagenschenke.ch/

Hours of fun.

Ten thousand ships will sail

Ten thousand ships will sail the ocean of fire
ten thousand monsters will flee to the mountains,
crawl out of the lagoon and wipe the goo from their skin.
The deer-headed snake will watch from behind a tree.

When the goo is wiped clean from the monsters' skin
the monsters will take up in the mountains
camp out in the clean air and drink from the saltless well.
They will celebrate for seven thousand years, building fires, drinking wine.

Strange music will play from stranger beasts.
The ten thousand monsters will celebrate for seven thousand years
mad in copulation and wild in lust, raving ceremonies, orgies.
The deer-headed snake will watch from behind a tree.

The ten thousand ships will be lost in the ocean of fire.
Few will survive and return to the homeland.
7 thousand will perish in the raging fires, the bloody ocean,
screaming their mother's names from their mouths.

Return to the womb, the survivers will come back saying.
Grab the bloody cord and climb back in. The world is dying.
The sea is hardening and the earth is loosening. The ropes are fraying.
The stilts that once held the universe in place are woobling, falling.

The planets are falling millions of miles down the well of the tomb.
True death will soon resurface, after a prolonged period of hibernation.
This hibernation is ending, the one true death will soon remove its mask,
open her eyes, stretch her limbs and yawn, inhaling the seven trillion suns.

The monsters are held captive in the mountains by the elements,
stuck in the timeless warfare of living. Some time passes, the celebrations carry on.
Ten thousand monsters ravenous in orgy soon turns to twenty thousand,
Two hundred and twenty thousand monsters emerge after some time in the mountains.

The wine is sweet, the ground soft. But the crowds are growing large,
the food is running scarce. The lambs have mostly been slaughtered,
the monsters begin living off of the meat of their own dead. From every death
a new life must spring, another tragedy must play out on the stage.

The deer-headed snake lays low in the brush, working at night surveying and building.
The monsters catch only a glimpse, a fleeting shadow, a lost breath.
He hides well, in the grass and the rock. His skin is the color of life. He blends.
His odor is foul, and the myths of the monsters run deep with odor.

Generations are lost, some time passes. The deer-headed snake is almost ready.
The myths of the monsters are hazy for the eyes, but alive for the nose.
A smell is always introduced in the prologue. The smell moves and shakes,
continues, grows old and dies and is reborn as some other smell, in the distance.

Population grows with the myths of the monsters. Too many, the sages say.
We cannot live with this many monsters on our warm island, they contend.
Something must be done. A plan is necessary to save the monsters in the mountains.
The sages meet and consult for one year, and in the end of one year a shaman speaks.

Under toxic cloaks the shaman dreams the solution. He dreams of the fairy land
where the grass parts to show a purple pond where tiny creatures with wings fly and drink.
They live in the trees surrounding the purple pond, they construct homes in the wood.
At night they fly under the yellow moon. The pond glows a luminescent purple.

The shaman dreams the ritual. He sees it clearly in his dreams, until his dreams are real.
The ritual of the tiny fairies is death by procreation, an ancient ritual, complex and intense.
The man lies with his head in a burning bed of coals. Concubines are hired for stimulation,
procreation. 7 concubines stimulate the man, one straddles him as his head burns.

The moment of death is the moment of life.
One soul climbs into the next.
He is dead and born.
Population is constant.