A mind once stretched by a new idea, never regains its original dimension
Oliver Wendell Holmes
eXisTenTiaLNihLisT exploring nightmares as necessary well being of being well; adult themes and graphic languages and imagery
“Rudimentary, I cogitate, without forethought, on the November wintry darkness of restless inconvenience as mares in the night tighten the garrote around my pliable throat and laugh as last gasps of air exit my mouth in a gurgled wheeze.” — Doppelganger Henri
On this road a lesson learned, look ahead and do not turn. – Turtle-Dove Mythology
Nightmares are the occupational hazard of dreamers and their quest to ascend past the conventional.; drifting lazily between uncharted dimensional landscapes amid speeds of a rebellious tortoise crossing a deserted section of highway hoping to make it to the other side before the next transference appears.
Rescued by a kindly motorist of agelessness who takes the irate turtle and sits him on the opposite side from whence he came. “Bet you’re glad I came along, young fella,” says the senior as he cautiously returns to his 1959 Nash Rambler and drives away with smoke bellowing from the rear, causing the tortoise to choke momentarily before sighing as forlorn for the intervention in his journey.
A insignificant head gazes skywards and asks the Goddess of Testudinidae:
“Why for you prevent me from fulfilling the prophecy of my reptilian ancestry to reach the Lake of Testudo to spawn with my dome-shaped paramour?”
The clouds parted and a voice mutters:
“It is not your destiny to cross the road but that of the chicken.”
And the clouds rejoined.
Only silence, except for crickets in the distance as night suddenly descended over the marshland innermost.
“What’s a chicken?”
At that very moment a naughty hen began the trek across the blacktop of evil and in an instant was mere fluttering feathers in the breeze.
“Oooooooooh,Ffffffffuuuuuuuucccccccccccccccccck,” slowly shrieked the startled hard-shelled terrapin.
Followed by the cackle of more crickets and a whippoorwill’s lament.
A solitary blood-stained feather lands in front of the land-dweller who ruminated for nanoseconds.
The tortoise began returning to his origin realizing proliferation was not his providence.
“Nightmare’s themes are useful even if the emotions and psychological stress occurring may produce negative responses to the dreamers themselves.” Dr. Ernst to his students in my novella, “Cool Side of the Pillow,” ‘Chapter 3: The Dreaming Double-The Doppelganger Paradigm’
Remote viewing seems plausible enough a diversion and George Norry was interviewing Major Ed Dames, an expert, on coast to coast am. I was not certain why the radio was tuned on since it was in the trunk of my car. Paranormal in reality was in my dreams again, where it belonged, so I was unafraid. I lit a cigar, which became a joint; an immediate buzz, the warm feeling that I generally did not achieve with a cigarrilhas Dannemann Sumatra Speciale. It had been a long time since I had smoked reefer but since it was a dream I was at least rewarded with a potent strain that in the physical world would have wasted me in a millisecond.
Trails of blue smoke exhaled from my nostrils, it was flickering cylindrically, and evoking embedded microscopic lighthouses. I pondered why I could never find pot that emitted blue lighthouse smoke but was glad as I took another long and deep toke, coughing so loudly that I expelled Lilliputians from my laungs into space. No wonder I had respiratory problems. Poor little bastards were not wearing space suits and all suffocated in the cold vacuum of outer space immediately. Their tiny bodies, dressed in 18th Century attire, drifted away and were devoured by a comet sized anteater who winked at me as if to say thanks, before it was vaporized by a real comet that just happened to be in this area of the galaxy.
THIS was great dreamPot.
Seated on an oversize couch in the realm of Skull Island; King Kong would die for this combination futon and bed folded over thrice and stuffed with some synthetic down designed to reconfigure itself each time the seated moved into a different position. The upper portion was literally feet above my head and perched across the top was a massive peregrine falcon on one side and one the other, a white tiger arched on its hind legs as if ready to strike me from above.
“So you see we have no need for traditional security guards and there are no troubles with mice,” a male phasing to female disembodied voice whispered.
In front of this rapidly morphing furniture, now it was trying to become a love seat and the constant shifting made a newly formed Cupid misfire an arrow, aimed for an attractive and familiar femme form who was immediately recognizable even if we had never met in the busy physical world, which pierced directly through the neck of the tiger, growling more than slightly pissed before dematerializing, carried away on winds of random dice roll.
The lady was dressed in black iridescent nylons and a plaid skirt with a satin white blouse tightly caressing an obdurate upper body that refused to succumb to peripheral visional prefecture.
There was an unseen poetess communicating prose that made as much sense as the mutating futon, now a one legged table that hopped like a bunny rabbit each time I tried to sit down my glass of cognac, which unexpectedly converted itself into a glass of wine the shade of red brighter than blood and more spicy than jalapenos in ammonia.
“So alive with music I died in the rhyme,” she said. Wearing oversized sunglasses and bathed in light from an unseen source, she continued her elegance in words “Cats wagging tails like dogs in heat of the moment the lights came back on after the electrical storm passed my vacant stare into the abyss that was bliss.”
She paused, as if she had been overwhelmed by aposiopesis and her antepenultimate diktat was truly an awe-inspiring becoming of silence.
My mother was sitting behind me, in a wheelchair that soon transformed into a hospital bed and then smaller love seat, more in line with one from the 3rd and not 15th Dimension. “Who are you?”
She would ask this often since she was suffering from, and later died from complications of Alzheimer’s disease so even in a dream I was unsurprised by her inquiry.
“I’m your son,” I replied in a somber tone.
“I have a son?”
“Yes, I am he.”
“How could I have a son? You’re such an ugly bastard.”
My mother, Frances, called me worse so being ugly and born out of wedlock was not the least bit distressing anymore. I accepted my fate, just as the tortoise had in my earlier dream, before I awoke, visited the bathroom to urinate sugar cubes (hmm, maybe I was still asleep for it certainly was painful passing square shapes through my tiny urinary track) before giddily returning to my antique bed to find Pink Martini had decided to take my place on the double wide pillows. I placed my head softly, albeit, cautiously onto of Pink, and immediately was unconscious, if I was ever conscious at all, and replied to Frances:
“You got, me Frances. I am an ugly son of a bitch.”
She smiled nefariously and inquired why I had taken her to the poetry reading.
“I thought you like poetry.”
It was the spiraling effect of Hypnagogique because I was reverting back to the just-before-falling-asleep-state and voices began to speak in ominous tones as the antepenultimate expressions spewed forth like lava from my volcanic mindscape. The voice began hover before a massive desk even Zeus would have been humbled sitting behind it.
“We cannot extend any more credit, I’m afraid your only option is to give up and let the state take care of you.”
“Which state might that be?”
I smirked and stated flatly, “Got to be a state of mind, lucky, me, the ugly bastard. Got to get my state of mind out of the state of West Ala and make it to the Panopticon.” Could I possibly escape the stygian allure of my boat ride up the River Styx and tell Thanatos to fuck off in the darkness that was encompassing my ugly soul?
Parallel universes awaited me and it was not too long before I was choosing which passageway would suit my apostasy. I had already abandoned faith in religion and politics; all left was causes now worth less than the pillow of salt Lot’s wife turned into and I gladly was ready to jettison my fate to the cerulean atmosphere ahead.
Gorillas were seated nearby, all wearing faces of other animals as if cut from the very death mask of each; finales breathe life’s regeneration as behind them, with whips and wearing lavender elevated and intimidating boots, stood seventeen gigantic Amazonian women scrutinizing my package, which was sitting on the table of marble and containing Wiccan incense from the Planet Trafalgar.
“I do not care whether you live long or die shortly so long as you fucking perform solitary fluidity of pleasure you laissez-faire masculine emasculator.”
The poetess convexes her skull, flesh unreciprocated, as snapping fingers cascaded her in enthusiastic brilliance.
I, too, tried to snapped fingers, now merged together into interconnected fleshy tissue, and pounded my forehead onto the footrope. The amazonian women were now dropping tiny spiders onto my chest which all began square dancing. Each spider was superbly in sync with her partner and I understood what Gulliver felt during his travels as he laid, fettered to the valley of shadows of self doubt, while the little people teased him as the danced across his groin in fashionable shoes.
Parsimonious Resilience in the Web of My East Coast Spider Lady Lover
Dressed in webs of silk she spun me into a linen spread of dread.
I beseech thee to let me go quietly into the night, to disappear amongst the tall trees of regret and never to return on this astral plane. I ask for exculpation from transgressions and if it pleases thee, cut out my tongue and slash my vocal chords.
My eyes have seen enough suffering and if my vision offends, remove my sight.
Prepare my table before my enemies so they can finally have the last word and last glance at this puny mortal who would have been happier born one hundred and twenty three years earlier.
My East Coast Spider Lady Lover had recently moved back from the West Coast, after cocooning her unborn spider babies first meals in a web stretching from the lower portion of Oregon down to a few miles into Mexico; they would need to sample Spanish cuisine, too, she must have considered and plenty of humanoid delicacies awaiting fangs of arachnids that would grow to the size of Arizona in three weeks.
We had been lovers once after she encased me in silken threads before realizing she could not inject me with poisons that would liquefy me.
Why not dissolve me, too?
At least she had left former Presidents George Bush, Junior and Senior, as desiccated Republications and somewhere on her cross country tour she had impaled a Democrat, too, when one of her spiney legs found Bill Clinton.
She ripped open my shrink wrap and with an implanted mental image directed me towards a boat in New York harbor where once on board I found all my ether friends had been spared death and that we were heading towards the open sea. I projected thanks to her as she gently pushed the boat containing seventy three humans who I knew were to be the only sentient beings spared on this hate-filled planet. We all waved as she skidded by across the calm waters towards Europe, Asia, the Middle East and Africa.
The boat sailed on winds of freedom and love as we headed towards Australia where a space ship the size of Rhode Island awaited us to take us to a new life on a planet outside our balmy solar system.
I awoke to find silence in the house. The felines were all gone, having left me a urine-soaked goodbye note scrawled in paw scratches on yellow legal sized paper.
“We all thank you for caring after us all these years and wish you well in your new life on a distant world. The spiders spared us and sent us all to a planet where cat nip grows wild, there are no dogs, hills are made of yarn thousands of miles in length and dual suns set and rise every seventeen hours. The fields are green with untainted grass and we’ll dine on solar energy. Love always, your feline friends.”
I smiled, closed my eyes and felt myself ease from solid to ethereal as my spirit was transported to another blue green planet with my friends and the promise of a world without hated, greed, corruption or mean-spiritness; now fodder for the spiders on the third planet from the sun.
My last memory was of the myriad of peoples with me:
The mythological life enclosed me in a wisp of logical conclusions as I sat on a purple boulder of words and watched the others frolicing in the pastures of colours never allowed to exist on earth as our eyes were finally opened to existence without fear, prejudice, bigotry, hatred, politics, religion or genocide.
Dedicated to all dreamers of freedom from tyranny I bid you farewell