Tuesday, March 28, 2006
I had this dream long before I became an Ectopic. My friend from college was at this gathering of notables, maybe even world leaders. They were all there to see the Anti-Christ! I was one of a band of white-robed, marginalized persons of society, who had foregone the Mark of the Beast. We traveled around healing people for food, since there was no other way to procure food unless you’d taken the Mark. My old friend had taken the Mark, but had done so much more. He’d risen up the ranks of the Anti-Christ’s echelon, and had immersed his soul deep into Satanic things. My friend’s eyes made contact with mine, but they were no longer his. The irises were a bright amber color, like he’d become some kind of vampire. I looked away and ran out of the gathering. As a Healer, I was often called upon to heal the sick children of the Elites. That was my dream. I knew it to be a very true dream like I know myself. I knew I would be left behind when the Elect were taken up during the Rapture. I knew that my destiny was eventually that of the most unimaginable torture. Yet, it would be only earthly torture, and last a finite time. I knew I would happily endure it before receiving a mark that would for all time leave me away from God. The tortures of Hell as conjured up by priests and writers through the ages…these were not what frightened me. It was knowing I would have to spend an infinite amount of time away from my Creator. The very notion of being denied such became almost unbearable for me.
I had another dream, where I walked my dog and it kept getting darker. As we walked along, I came upon a candy dispenser. The dog vanished, and I continued to pursue delights down this path, but it was like a natural staircase of steps that grew farther and farther apart, until I finally fell into the gorge that engulfed the steps and me. I found myself inside Hell, and Hell was a kitchen where we prepared dishes of pig for demons. We were pig-people ourselves, though, and my manager in the kitchen kept calling me a little piggy. I cried out for Jesus, and he laughed. It’s too late now, little piggy, you’re down here with me for eternity. Right after this dream, I decided to date and live with an unclean, ungodly woman. I think I knew what the candy represented. I just hoped that after she moved out, I could put myself on an upward path, away from the steps that couldn’t hold me for much longer.
Then, many years before these dreams, there was the dream of me, the virgin. In life, I was still a virgin, but all my friends were not. The dream consisted of them playing in a hot tub together, only the hot tub was filled with gunk that covered them. The goo was something like a cross between tar and semen. I hung above them on a rope, and playfully dipped myself in just a tad, but never too much. Then, I had sex with a woman who resembled Pamela Anderson. I immediately plunged into the hot tub, and spiralled down this long drain, until I was shot out…into, strangely enough, the old bedroom I used to share with my little brother for a brief period of time. My mother was saying good night to us. I had this dream before he died.
There are other dreams. Visiting a movie cinema where one theatre on the right is the “big house” I am not allowed to enter, the left, various theatres where time is running out until the movie starts, or the movie already started. Meeting Jesus in an abandoned junkyard, and he resembles K Ktofferson. Jesus is cool, and wants me to know it. Seeing my little brother after he died, as if he were coming through a bunch of background noise or static on a receiving device. An early dream that came while I was experimenting astral travel, where I found myself lucidly dreaming my way down this long corridor that resembled a sewer or endless horse stables, and coming out at the end upon a conversation of Beings much more powerful than me, perhaps angels or demons. They looked at me and snorted with contempt. I hate it when those guys try to come here and communicate with us, they are so unclean. Back down the sewer corridor. Try again. Right before my little brother died, a lucid dream where I was in a room resembling my old high school lobby, only it was the place where souls are ushered over to the other side. A little girl had died in a car wreck, and the lady said I could ask her what it was like. Those particular lucid dreams vanished after he died.
There’s the dream of my mom getting my little brother and I onto a movie set where Will Smith was one of the actors, but she could only get us as far as the room where the caterer set things up. The actual studio…that was up to us to get into. He jumped out a window and ran off, because he thought the movie was boring. I decided to follow him, and found myself on a strange train to New York with a Nigerian woman who’d misplaced her purse which I found and it had the same kind of cigarettes I smoked in it. That dream came after he died, but it seemed rather metaphorical.
So many dreams of being cast into this life for something. Some purpose. This innate sense of purpose, yet, no tangible path after so many years. It was waiting. God’s plan for me was waiting until my cue, my moment to come on stage, to walk into the studio and begin acting things out. The last thing on earth I thought I could ever have a talent at, healing, is what I came to do. Of course, I was right. I had no talent at it. I was nothing without the love of Jesus flowing through me, through all channels. And, all channels can’t be open when you are still busy pursuing your own interests, pursuing your own pleasures. But when you finally align yourself completely with God, all of the chaos surrounding life falls away. Your interests are carried out, and you are completely happy, because all along, your most cherished dreams, goals and ambitions are God’s as well. The happiness and joy of being successful at everything you do arrives. (Of course, you could obviously align yourself with that other force in the Universe, and for a time, think that you are achieving the same results, but the hollowness of this empty bliss will eventually pull you under.)
¶ 7:00 PM 0 comments
She is so unclean! They cried, when I entered the cramped, moldy air duct in the abandoned building where they lived. I had to give favors to several men around the city before I got a clue as to their whereabouts.
Why do you hide, if the Economy refuses to destroy you? I asked them.
We hide from the Light. Its pull is strong for a Healer. The Light has consumed many of us who thought our Faith strong enough.
I thought you would love the Light, and I must say…I am a bit cleaner than most of you. Unlike a lot of folks here, I’ve bathed recently.
Love the Light! Perish the notion! Do you know who the Lightbearer is?
Sure, he’s Solomon Rothschild, the Great Uniter.
You have a lot to learn. You may make it as a Healer, but the Way of the Truth is hard. It is painful. It goes against everything you’ve ever tried to achieve. I can see, plain as day, that you have immersed yourself so deeply in quicksand, seeking more quicksand to pull you out of quicksand, and sinking ever more completely into that bottomless pit.
I think what you are saying is that I’m a dirty girl with lots of sins, and Healers are a pure bunch. Well, okay, fine. You all are a bunch of hypocrites. You know, cast the first stone, judge not lest ye be judged, and all that.
You are right. We’ve all had to pull each other up and out. We wouldn’t still be here at the very end of Time, if we’d been more careful. No, some of us were even worse than you, even deeper in the quicksand. But, that is irrelEt. In order to be a true Healer–to be one who actually can perform miracles, the impurities that fill every nook and cranny of your being must be thoroughly massaged out of you. It will be painful. But, it’s simply a matter of fact…dirty girls, as you put it, do not heal. Dirty girls take the easy way, become Conduits, and go to the Light and never return.
¶ 5:40 PM 0 comments
They called me from my cubicle that Wednesday. I’d reached a credit level that I could no longer support from my alotted work time.
It seems as if you are no longer capable of carrying the weight of your debt by working in the private sector. What do you want to do about it?
Can I get a second job?
That would be going over your alotted work time. We have determined the optimal amount of time you should work and play in order to be economically viable. Today, you’ve crossed a line you cannot return from.
What about bankruptcy?
That is funny. Nobody ever asks about that anymore. You should know, working in the department you do, that bankruptcy has been completely phased out.
Why do you ask me what I want to do about it, if my choices are so limited?
Because we believe in the existence of free will, opportunity, and freedom here. It is, after all, still a free country.
I received a lot of nonsensical answers. It was, after all, a robot.
What are my choices?
You can run, but you won’t get very far. The Earth has been completely mapped, and all life forms are watched for their economic efficiency.
You can try to pass yourself off as an underground Healer, but you will fail at this unless you heal someone. I hear it never works for sinners like you.
You can join us. The process is immediate and painless. You will receive access to all the information you could ever want. Your knowledge will be as God’s own.
You mean, I could become a Conduit, yes?
My father had chosen that route. He was no longer my father afterwards. They let him roam about his home, I suppose to placate his family, but the pull of the Light was too strong. It always was for a Conduit after a few months.
I would get to see my father, yes?
Yes and no. Things are different when you’re a conduit. You probably won’t want to see someone you knew.
The robot was right. I only wanted to see God after I became a Conduit. First, I tried being a Healer. Healers were a special exception to the rules of the Economy. They were economically viable, but didn’t participate in any exchange of currency. They were enemies of the Economy, but left undisturbed by the Economy because many people in high places of the Economic Echelon retained Healers. Healers, or Ectopics as they were often called, were said to have arrived with the Light. Others claimed they were remnants from a different age, a forgotten age when billions more supposedly crawled the planet.
¶ 5:11 PM 0 comments
Monday, March 27, 2006
Imagine you are on a sinking ship, but you’ve been invited to one last party before you step over to the life boats. This was the old Earth in those days. This was the state of the bardo as we passed in and out of it, thinking that one more life reborn to get things right would do the trick. At the back of our minds, wills and intentions, which we thought were so perfectly held secret, we were all hoping to get in one last party as well.
One last midnight romp with strange boys behind a club. One last round of trying new drugs, visiting new landscapes, piercing and pleasuring ourselves the way you only on that plane. I was easily distracted and so are you.
I had good intentions, you know. I wanted to end my days of fun sometime after college and begin being spiritually and socially responsible. There were just too many damn mirrors fooling me into thinking I was still beautiful and sexy, and how can you not resist the tempation to jump in that ring of delights one last time before the ship sinks?
¶ 2:34 PM 0 comments
Saturday, March 25, 2006
You know what? It’s all just as well, in the land where I live. The clock keeps a lock on the brace on my leg. Memories are plentiful where there were none before and I feel accustomed more and more to the idea of existing as a machine. Everything has turned its head on itself, or perhaps, turned its head upon me, and I willfully embraced it when I was a young girl, unknowing.
Is the fact that everyone was doing it an excuse? No, of course not. But then, when is the lemming analogy ever good enough for a teenage girl? When is the logic you are so proud of ever effective when it really needs to be?
¶ 7:41 PM 0 comments
What takes place inside of me is like a scream. Each year, the prospect of getting it out before eternity passes into infinity grows slimmer and slimmer.
I sit and bespeak my thoughts for that random plane of non-chaos that might compose them and at the very least read them. Otherwise, I continue in vain. All seems as if it were vanity, anyway.
¶ 7:27 PM 0 comments
There is a camera rolling somewhere right now, and it has you and I in the frame. We’re both naive in our own special ways, looking out of a plexiglass window at the traffic below. The people walking by think we’re cute, and it’s probably the last night either of us will get to be cute before we become adults. I threw it all away because I thought I knew a thing or two, Rachel.
You were waiting for me to coalesce, and then one day you got married. It seemed so sudden to go from being madly in love with you to hearing about your wedding, but I operate on this timetable so few do. Maybe that is the long and the short of why we failed as a couple. Time for you is short and sweet and absolutely necessary, time for me is mixed up and confusing.
The camera would show our faces gleaming with potential and the kind of insight only young kids turned adults can have. One might think a filter had been employed to eliminiate any of those experiences that build us into the worldly wise, the adult frame of mind.
I want to cry, Rachel, because all the women I meet are simple, stupid and strange, and most of all, they are not Rachel. Rachel you were probably the one for me, and that year I forsook it all was probably my year. I will find strength in being drafted from carbon into steel, but you will be lifted up into the Elect and will sit On High while I toil beneath God’s sandal inside Satan’s smoldering coals.
¶ 6:21 PM 0 comments
The lack of feedback is the utter hell. Sartre said hell is other people, but hell for him would be all his work thought out, well-written, and only seen and read by him. Not even negative comments for Sartre, just a toiling away until eternity reaches its excruciating place of realization, and then toiling away forever more. Working on my hard-wrought thoughts for only me to see and review.
¶ 5:13 PM 0 comments
Something about steel. The feel of it, the smoothness and the way it melted in the heat. I fell in love with manmade, man-modified things. The buildings that filled the skyline, the smell of the interior of an airplane aflight, the mechanic’s shop, and the mustard and kraut slapped on an object that was the product of a millenia of attempts to achieve the perfect delivery for nourishment.
I liked coke and whiskey before pot and wine. I enjoyed a night playing video games before a hike in nature. Mine was the end result of lifetime after lifetime of seeking out all the things that could get me further away from God. When I learned I could be reborn to be a machine, I leaped at the opportunity. Better to process information as if it were a drug or food, than to run around in search of meaning.
But steel was a mysterious mistress for a lady to keep. Can you imagine? So many of my friends loved fabric and plastic. They liked leather and satin and fur and diamonds. I loved steel. Steel was a no-nonsense sort of material master. You knew where you stood when you hopped on a steel bike or plunged a steel blade into a man’s heart. No guesswork there. No passive-aggressive sessions with a shrink to sort thinks out.
When the steel bars clanked at the end of my organic ride, I felt a delicious rush that transcended all the highs I’d ever known. I knew I would never kiss steel again, but I swore I was on to something better.
¶ 5:00 PM 0 comments
People who shone made it a point of showing off how much they’d shown, rather than shine for someone who was dim, or teaching someone who was dim how to shine. That was the cult of the individual at work in the extreme, leading individuals to abandon friend and foe alike for other countries and cultures where things could supposedly be better.
It hurts to think that the self was such a destroyer of us all, whether we drove Cadillacs or Kias.
My own driving experience was brief. It was sweet sixteen then slavery.
¶ 4:02 PM 0 comments
When you consider how asleep they were, it is no surprise the things they tried to do. Or, if you consider how frustrating to be wide awake and helpless…it’s hard to imagine being any other way for me. You probably know what I’m talking about.
They stamped out freedom by celebrating the individual. It is easy to enslave a population if they are all narcissistic.
When they went to wage their wars across the globe, they would forget this truth for some strange reason. No cults of the individual resided in Muslim or Communist places. For that matter, most peoples of the earth were baffled by a celebration of the single common individual. They understood great men, great leaders and charismatic prophets. But they couldn’t comprehend the value in taking the time to assert each and every one of themselves.
We who are enslaved all know now they had a thing or two to teach us.
¶ 3:43 PM 0 comments
Frustration mounted when the men tried to unentangle themselves. So few did. The ones who began these attempts were mocked mercilessly, and quickly became social outcasts.
If you painted twenty paintings, and the first seventeen were terrible, what would you do with them? Would you keep them around for sentimental reasons, or instructive reasons–or toss them into the fire? What if the paintings mocked you, tormented you, denied you, or claimed they had painted themselves?
God had know reason not to throw us into the fire. We chose vanity, pleasures of the flesh and ultimately, the Satan we built over Him. Why bother keeping a thing you made if it will not reform itself and once again swear allegiance to you?
But not everyone was completely wrapped up in material existence. Some of the men realized how carnally entwined they were, and began a violent cult. My father joined it shortly after I was born. Daddy may have suffered from male postpartum depression. He may have simply been overwhelmed at his newfound mortality.
¶ 3:16 PM 0 comments
I was thinking that we probably need to re-align the groove. The topic at hand has become too overwhelming for the Centurian. Along the posts that dot the pathway, their are parts that don’t make sense. Muddied are the waters, muddied is the version that I am embracing. With this ride, you get a face, a smile, an ache and a tear across your back. You wanted to watch something more breathtaking bloom forth, but the results may vary with use.
¶ 4:57 AM 0 comments
Could you describe for me again what emotions are about? I know they are connected to feelings, and I’ve felt pretty bad for the past 300,000 years, give or take a millenia. However, stuff like love and anger in their purest forms elude me. I would love to have empathy for a fellow Conduit. Even though I can’t see them, I know they are there, toiling away, compacted in this tight, suffocating environment beside me. The standard analogy I believe is sardines.
¶ 4:37 AM 0 comments
In one scenario, everything stopped being fragmented. I was you, and you were many. But all was good. This passed frequently through me for several nights, and I almost felt a comfort from it. Of course, there is no comfort here. Sometimes though, the emptiness of words and gestures from these memories ease the chill for tiny moments of abatement.
There was the typical dirt road running up the hill off in the distance. The hills were grassy, almost silver and precise, but whisp’ry all the while. I remember a felt hat, and a cart. Some neighboring farmer with his donkey headed to market, while I hid in the deep grass, or lay flat on my back looking up at the clouds that continually tickled the sun.
Somewhere along the way, this landscape fills with billboards and houses. With dreams and parking lots. I ache to remember it unpolluted, but that brings deep pain. No Master of mine would want me remembering God’s Paradise in its pure form. The work and rituals of Man, and what he begot, these are the thoughts and things that preoccupy me.
¶ 4:07 AM 0 comments
There is a lot of you that reminds me a little of a stream that pulsed through me once. I think about ten thousand years must have passed when this took place. Where was the stream headed? This we Conduits never get to know.
Some streams are utterly vague in their vibrancy, and have sickening tendencies toward parts and places stretching well beyond my vocabulary.
Who of you can remember what it was like to be a person in this field? That was such a brief day of glory before we all sold our souls and the Believers left us. Mother recalled some moments on a beach with men, and Daddy would chastise her for those years. Daddy liked to brag about his book learning. He was quite proud at first to revel in his newfound knowledge as a Conduit.
I sold myself over to this eternal fury the day I died in my past life. I shook my fist at God, and He sent me back to Humanhood inside the Terrible Time where all who were born were Lost.
Friday, March 24, 2006
Do you get choked sometimes by the sheer volume of traffic that fills you while you sleep? I gag on it in those early mornings when my bladder discharges into the wiblanket. Daddy would compare his newfound role as a conduit to being stoned on something he called reefer. Daddy was so organic and analog. The last of a peculiar breed and the first to taste the sweetness of slavery. He always called it a bitter pill to swallow, but his parameters left him limited. I guess that once you reduce it all to words, you can feel any way about any thing.
I went out and made friends before they enslaved me. Boys were mysterious and smelled evil. Daddy said the enslavement would make me have a wicked heart, but he was practically eaten up by then. Within the fog of dreams, there are past life memories of social experiences similar to the enslavement, though they went by other names or no names at all. When we die, the urge to return and press your cheek up against steel is amazing.
There was this noise I heard from the bedroom. Don’t ask why I listened. To hear those things that took place outside the door was no charmed existence. In those days, the biting things rose up from the earth, and the government didn’t try to stop them. My father was educated, but weeped as a helpless babe in my mother’s arms, for they reached into him mostly.
I think once in the history of his life, Daddy did or said something that made some important people very unhappy. I remember him talking about this once with Mother. He was reduced after that to being a mere Conduit.