Howard Blue erupted from vivacious able-bodied car salesman to growing and shrinking clouds of swirling red. The air sent him in all directions as he unwillingly dissipated into cold ware-house abandon with no molecule run astray. Soon faintly hissing ventilators shot outward their blinds and returned atmospheric balance, within but a moment the man no longer stood or fell. And the dark space lay empty again.
In the adjacent room, flip-switching spectators of another world observed green-tinted vials filling to the brim with DNA. While the creature of sex, occupation, and social security that was Howard Blue ceased to exist on paper, buttons and lights flickered in the control room.
Retired to immortality, he simply bounced unaware from imprisoning glass wall to wall, no predator or life ambition to ever infect him again. Only by form of number came new defin-ition, 73, light-burned into the glass.
The sample was quickly filed away.
I remember, when the story of “The Vaporized Man” all started.
It was in-betwixt, a novel once written, by Ray Bradbury, Brendan S (The Time Traveler), a wanton soldier, a few potheads, and some guy who worked at an ice cream shop.
It all started when aliens, or some type of “half-breed” anti-precent, super-thesis, of a new, “hyperform” of aliens, arriving on the Earth, started sucking the souls directly out of human bodies using nothing more than remote antennae technology.
I told this to my son, though he was an avid “receiver,” he never truly believed me, that I was Brendan S, and I stopped time traveling a long time ago.
The war with the machines, as well as the aliens, all started with a series of psychic confessions in the seventies . . .
Ernest L. Woods put his hand over the nurses wound, and closed it, with the electrostatic charge of his hand alone, and looked up, reciting the miracle prayer, as she was healed in other places in moments. The christlike effect remained with him after all these years, but sometimes, you never know where someone is in the next life.
Once, at the ice-cream shop, the individual who was, at that time, being “instilled” or “desired-to” take the trash outside, was looking at the fudge-bin, and trying to make sense out of the peach flavors arrangement today, when he thought about the lyric in the back of his mind, and started writing a short phrase on a piece of paper, while looking out the window, at the park across from him.
Agamont park is across from the Acadia Outdoors ice-cream shop, and the girls who work there are mostly foreign. There is even a very obviously American girl – who just turned out to be French, and I'm like a ninja to a lot of these people, the way I move some things so fast, and they don't even know who I am.
I tried to explain my “poetic theory” to a lot of people, sometime, once, a long time ago, but they never listened.
People don't know how to talk these days.
The Ice-Cream Man approached the left wall (in the script of his mind) attempting to be funny, when writing was not always new to everyone, if you want to be a writer, sometimes the need to “say anything” is the true imperative of anyone.
To first take a piece of paper, and think of a sound, a word, or anything at all, is always the first step.
He wrote, “I know,” something is going on outside.
Ernest looked at the piece of paper, somehow bearing of the same name he had in the previous life, yet can not remember “himself” at all.
He wrote the words, “Emptiness . . .”
Repeating, the poetry was written by the end of the day.
It was a poem about emptiness.
He worked at the shop all day, for as long as he could, and even had to take care of the ice-cream shop for an entire week, when back home he was an engineer, but no one seemed to notice.
He also worked outside, doing landscaping, mowing lawns, and raking leaves, for a local landscaping business, that was a job his dad helped him get. He was paid almost $500 a week, and did pretty well. Over time, his bank account amassed to %5,000. In this time, there was a moment of reciprocity, and he expressed a “need” to discuss audio engineering, in a rare video, one night, something else was happening outside of the ice-cream shop . . .
The man's soul was sucked directly out of his body.
Into thin air, it flew, eruptuously flowing, with vacuole energy of cloud-dust-floes, emanations of purity, hate, chaos, and misery, all inter-tangled into the same one “flowing atomic counterpart” to the atmosphere, an alien might want to consume immediately. With hyper-rays, and a physical counterpart of their own, the eatation device was put into place, and the human soul was consumed by the waiting ghost-ship in moments. A person was walking by, past the alley-way, when it was happening. The man had no idea what was going to happen, until his hat fell off, and suddenly his eyes fell dim, and there was nothing except for clothes, and a greyer skein of his body on the ground, with some blood, and a few lost synthetic items, like a lighter, a pack of cigarettes, and his (then de-charged) cell-phone. His name was “Ben” or something, and he was terrible at math.
I walked to work that day, and tried to tell Ernest that the energy of the shop was not good for fudge, in a way. Though he didn't quite understand my encryption, I knew exactly what had happened the previous night. Ernest just didn't seem to understand the way things really are, already, in the word, as much as he wanted to help us all. I told him, “The energy was bad last night. I saw a pretty evil movie on the internet last night. People really want to sing, not work jobs.” He looked confused.
“Well, do you want to do the dishes, today..?”
“To stay out of people's way..?” “Do you need to make sure you can be okay, today..?”
“Why do I matter so much..? We all do what we do. It's ok.”
He looked weirded-out.
I said, “I'll sell the ice-cream today,” and just stood there, in the same spot the words were stated, until the first customer arrived, and I gave them a cone of chocolate ice-cream, that I shoveled out in front of them, with the same ice-cream scoop I preferred to use . . .
“Why do you think they like chocolate so much..?”
“It's good for your skin.”
“Have you seen that movie Chocolat..?”
Ernest kind of smiled and nodded, looking awareized.
I said, “The same effect can come from things like tea, coffee, or even cocaine. It's all the same flower, or cocoa product, from either cocoa, or leaves like poppy seeds, that all grow in the same area. They're like numbing, earthing chemicals. They make you more like the Earth, itself. Your own skin is more like the dirt, in a kind of good way. It makes you feel natural. People lie about cocaine.”
“How do you know all this?”
I didn't know.
“I don't know.”
“I just think it's probably true.”
Something lit up in my eyes, when I flashed on the computer-screen really quickly. It illumined my senses, like I had to do something real quick.
I went to the back-closet room, and put on the music.
Putamayo's world music started playing. And the song Wagon Wheel was always my favorite.
I hate my mother though . . .
I listened to the after-effect of the song, when the next one came on, and no one seemed to care that I had made a 'mix cd' of the stores music, already, somehow cheating the emotions of the energy of the store. Kathy thought it was funny (the manager). But I knew Sarah was angry at me. She was a kind of “mean girl” with a sort of snakelike smile.
I miss her, when she's gone, though . . .
I really miss you.
A mental fluctuation emanated from my subconscious, and I felt the words travel out to the Japanese girl, who I really loved . . .
I could “feel” a hacker back home, was peering through the camera on my machine. Staring at my bed. Just staring at the damned thing. Mentally, I started to look out the window, and I saw some German people walking in. I took a deep breath, and thought about “the last time.”
They were trying to buy some ice-cream drunk.
I sold a few vanilla cones, and wrote another lyric, meditating on the “common addictions of Americans.”
Later that day . . .
“Brendan, what do you really know about cocoa..?”
“Yeah. How do you know that..? What do you really know about the true science of it, or something..?”
“It's like, the coconuts, you know . . .”
“What do you mean..?” “They're over there.”
“You know how you've got your skin, there are chemicals underneath your skin. The coconuts in trees on islands near the equator are like the edge of the Earth's own center, in a way, like the somehow exposed “genitals” of the Earth, even though it sounds crazy, and all of our genitals are usually a little bit darker in color. Melanin in the human skin is like a transformation-chemical, its used to change or alter your skin-color over time, based on the race that you are, and the closer to the equator, like coconuts, your own blood, and skin color change, based on the sun. So, if you have a lot of melanin in your skin, you might like chocolate more.”
And that's all I said.
I don't usually go into prolonged superadvanced explanations for “why” anymore than “how” although, I truly know my body needed vitamins when I was young.
I used to “feel” the dryness of my souls emptiness. I could tell, staring out from my vacuole, chemical-eyes, I had no way to accept or “adjust” to reality, early on, without a pair of eye-glasses that totally jaded my handsome face away from pretty girls early on in life. I was even made fun of in math class, by my own teacher.
Misses “Sariaski” (or whatever her name was) used to find weird ways to make me look bad in front of the whole math class.
I think eventually people in the class, studens, started to notice why she was doing it, and it became a pretty sad feeling for all of us.
That was when I started having to wear glasses.
Although I feel smart, handsome, and powerful in the modern day and age, I am not “respected” as a handsome, or attractive man.
Certain mistakes, or variant obverse junctures in my life, obvious in a bad way, allowed for people in my town to destroy my image early on. I don't drive a car, and my only true vehicle is my soul itself, or the guitar I play. Though, I don't play shows or concerts anymore. One of my friends (Josh) started making fun of me, along with everyone else, and I had to leave him behind, also.
Working at the ice-cream shop, arrived at the end of a string of jobs I had before I had to start collecting disability, because the government finally decided I probably shouldn't work because of my depression and how many people seem to not like me in the workplace.
Now, in the ice-cream shop, I write lyrics on a small piece of paper, usually just one lyric a day, or I work on the same lyric for as long as a week long.
I used to smoke joints before work, at the Criterion, but I felt bad about that, since people noticed the smell eventually. I was a good worker, though, at the movie theater . . .
I liked making the popcorn, and I was really good at helping people understand the “point of certain movies.”
My mental encyclopedia of music, and writing, and movies is far-stretching, and goes to the super pro ad lunum ex limitae for “advanced taste in media.”
I know that sometimes machines demand a lot from us, so I've avidly helped in the online world (in tech media) and tried to help people start websites, bands, or powerful corporate ideas, through mere subtle influence alone.
I know that “social manipulation isn't cool ..” so I found out, later on, that the true means to “break the law for a good reason” no longer exists, eventually, so I never really tried to commit any crimes of any kind.
If I ever really stole anything, I'd probably just steal “energy itself” like raw drugs, so to speak, because honestly, all I really want is to feel good, so if I ever stole anything, I'd probably just go for the weed, the beer, or the “energy” itself, you know what I mean..? Crimes are usually committed for a reason, but the way I feel about my future is that since I already know I want to make music, and the expression of music is the most powerful form of expression the human soul can express, I'll always have power to a certain degree, so I really don't mind, so long as I go where I go, I may always have a good guitar with me.
I don't always need a tuner, or any help from anyone to play guitar. I started recording music when I was a teenager. I made music with a lot of helpful people later on in life, but I never really advertise or tell people that I'm a musician.
A songwriter usually has a poster-image, presenting themselves to the world, but the idea of a “solitary” or quiet, or so-termed “reserved” self-inclined, or self-teaching songwriter is not a far-off idea to me, as a helpful way to survive or evolve in a tough world. Music made privately, or mostly “for ones self” is an empowering means or way to survive.
I mean, if it all came down to it, the raw expression of vocal power, in a acapella expression of vocalized, beautiful-sounding tones from any “loved” person of your choice (a raw vocal track) from someone you truly love, or at the time you love, will always have a healing effect on you.
Fixing the bass-resonance in a song, is like fixing your own body when you hear it and feel it in the same room that the effect is being produced in, since the bass-tones resonate throughout the whole room.
I learned audio engineering in a tech school, in Bangor, Maine, where I met a lot of other aspiring musicians and engineers in Maine. I met some people who went to work for radio, others for TV, CBS, and I've had friends who worked for people “in the music industry,” had a few actual engineers who were my teachers, and I've spoken directly and done hands-on learning in actual studios, from some of the most helpful people in the field of engineering, when I was fortunate to get a chance to study audio at the time, in 2008. Right now, in 2009, I can hardly tell “why” I really left that school . . .
I still kind of think of Rumi (my girlfriend) sometimes, but I already know it was all tragedy.
Doug asked (my audio teacher) if I was “on drugs” because of how negligent I was in audio school ..
I was so paranoid back then I think because some one in the NSA was hacking me (Trent Reznor) and a lot of the rednecks, and gangs in the school were filtering their hate through various people, to me, and yet, the whole time, no one wanted to approach me directly. I look like Bruce Lee. Like a ninja, and some people just like to get a chance to mess with me on a direct level, yet usually not at all. It just felt uncomfortable to be at school, and I wanted to be alone a lot of the time. I smoked joints, or weed by myself, and it wasn't really a drug-habit. I would just write a lyric after, usually. Or, at least, I would mentally fixate on a creative idea all day.
The truth that Rumi loved me is real, and I know it, and even if no one believes me, or us, I know that our love was once good.
People can step in-between people, and their love, and their relationships, at “importunate moments” for the sake of your own loves evolution, when in such moments like a transition of some kind is meant to be made, yet with only heartbreak, the transition can turn into something totally different, that changes in a different way.
Rumi had to go back to Japan, and I was forced to stay living here, in America, where I remained in Maine, trapped in Bar Harbor, where I remain today, and I feel so worthless, existentially lacking in true awareness, because of how meaningless my life has become.
Now, I Stand In My Studio All Night, And . . .
“Wonder.” infinitely, on and on …
What it was like being at school in NESCOM (the name if my tech school) was pretty much like a living experience of the industrialization of America, in a singular college setting.
I didn't want to be there, yet I knew that I “had” to be, since I felt as though I'd already mysteriously seen myself in movies, or had experiences in the world in a way that exposed the media, or industry to me, in powerful ways before.
I knew that if I wanted to, I could write poetry, or do anything with my life, based on the feeling I had for the past I knew so well.
I looked at the future, and I knew even if I lost a lot of things, or something bad happened, I still would be able to get back up, because I mentally already “know” I've gotten up, from so many things, so many times.
One time, I recorded a song “just for fun” once all of my equipment was properly set up, in a unexpectedly surprisingly full-moon night, sometime in November of this year, and I found a moment to play my piano. I didn't think much of the piano, and at the time I started playing, I felt as though the feeling of all of the notes were directly similar to singular “experiences” I had had before, somehow encoded in each of the notes alone.
I heard the “sound” of my memories, and I knew “feeling” encoded in the memory. I felt this was like a drug, itself, like the idea of a “chemical” was really just an ancient term, a nepenthe, or some made-up word used to describe the pro-dredging movement of simply “wanting more from ones own mind” so such as to “take the drug to get high in a meaningful way” or to achieve an “artistic high” I would look into my memories, like Edgar Allan Poe, and somehow try to form a loop with my own thoughts, and memories, between multiple ideas, concepts, and idealities.
The realities I intermerged in my pro-imaginings of this scenelike style of imagery, with the reference-math of a “possible tuning style” known as A-based tuning (tuning with the A note) otherwise known as “432” tuning, a new style of tuning I just learned about, I think I might try this tuning, though I don't know if I am really spiritual enough to attempt this kind of evolution.
I tuned my guitar, from the standard (industry tuning is 440 hertz) that was preset, and I changed it down eight octaves, to 432 hertz, and this helped me see clearly, with more images in my mind. I could see the future stretching out vastly before me, and I found that all things in my mind were pure, inspitefully of how I felt about my prior evolutions . . .
I knew, I “knew” violence in my past – I knew I might not've been the best person, but I still knew myself. I thought, on my identity, somehow these sounds (frequencies) really make me feel good.
I used to walk to Michelle's house (my first girlfriend) and talk to her, in her room, but I never really went into her bedroom, because I knew it was kind of wrong, since I was so young, and I wanted to respect her ..
She had a kind of open-minded mother, but I also kind of knew how important my evolution was (my growth process), so I tried my best to try to relate with her also, even though I knew my girlfriend was the one that mattered most. Somehow, she really helped me understand maturity in relationships early on. How Michelle was willing to let go of bad feelings, for whatever reason, she seemed to know how to keep herself confident. I learned the confidence-trick, she had, was really rooted in her own face, or beauty. She had a way of wearing make-up, or styling herself, that made her appear better than other people.
I liked how she “enjoyed how I wore so much black” even though I was not trying to be goth. I wore black constantly, because I simply “wanted to.” It felt good / cool to wear black, so I wore black. Clothes are a form of expression, I suppose, but to me the idea of “ether” or “atmosphere” was black, and I simply wanted the akasha, and the astral realm on my side. I knew that power was written in the stars, also, so I've always had a respect for both sides of the yin and yang / black and white perception, humans have, of color.
I like the way the rainbows look, for instance, when you are so high, that you see a rainbow on your way to rehab, not that I think that would happen, it's just so logical, when your mind is so positive, and the world wants to lie so much, but even at a moment when they're trying to drive you off, and move you away from all of your drugs and positivity, you'll just see a rainbow, and still be high on your way there no matter what.
I like the idea, also, that our human bodies are not just one color. I looked at the ice-cream long enough, one day, while I was meditating on energy, I noticed our entire spectrum of all the colors in the entire world might exist in the biology of our human bodies, and in each of our human bodies. I remembered this was called the “RGB” of our human bodies, and I used to call it that.
Red Green Blue.
(If you look at a rainbow in the sky, during the afternoon, you usually get a chance to observe the way the colors transition).
Looking closely, you'll see in the fineline space between each color, there is a lighter glow. Like the light color of white itself, there truly is no space between the colors. All of the colors transition slowly from one to the next, simply fading in a way that only presents more colors to your eyes, the more you attempt to look in-between them. I learned once, also, that the “gold” color you see in the sky is generated particularly by three, or maybe four particular chromatic energies of the akashereal energy of the sky.
Once, on a pretty fortunate day, while buying weed (at the dispensary), or so I imagined, I would figure this out
Take a good amount of blue. (A perfect, beautiful blue) . . .
Make sure you “like” the color blue you've chosen.
The next three colors needed to produce gold, to generate the best midas aeffect out of your mind (effect + affect, to feel and also enjoy the effect, expectingly), when you notice the adjured movements from one, to the next, there is radiance in the goldness of yellow, though yellow is born from the sun, so how yellow can exist in the sky is likely a means or cause from the color green, based on the factuality for / of how “green is the color of the heart.” The entire Earth is green, so we must be influencing the sky with our biological power / or life-power through the trees. When we aeffect the sky with a bright enough wave of love, the goldenness to the sky can change to a different hue of yellow, and when this happens a brightening-effect can also come from the ocean. I've noticed that when the energies from both ocean, trees, and human perception (a levated mind) / artistic thinking, can cause things to happen in the world at the moment when someone is observing the creation-process of this “alchemy” (cosmic gold). I think that when I first noticed this, I had a very fortunate period of time in my life, and made also some of the most beautiful artwork and media of my entire life, in that part of my life. I don't know when.
I know the feeling of emptiness as “positive form of emptiness” thanks to my akashic research.
Looking at people, or respecting a human, or the persona of a human being as though the soul is a “thing” is meaningful to me. The way your face looks, the energy in your eyes, and how a body feels from a distance based on the aura of the soul-energy, colored sometimes by chakra energy, or just the environment, sometimes the spirituality of a person can be observed from a distance, based on their thoughts alone, and I think that's how I am.
I know a lot about the colour blue, because I know that “blue” is the color of my voice.
Consciousness is blue, they say, in modern-day spirituality books. It is even recorded in chakra research, that G# (the G# note) and human voice / voice chakra is colored with a dark or very cosmic looking blue color, and the blue-color of the consciousness-colors I usually see are usually the brightest, and most beautiful version of the color blue I've ever seen. I feel as though I've always seen this, and personally known, the “best versions of the color blue,” that there are in the world.
I know, it has been said, that sometimes, when you are asked what your favorite color is, all you can say sometimes is that your favorite color is blue.
No one really knows what my music sounds like, though.
Every day I go home, and write another song, at my microphone, for a week on end, or “weeks on end” sometimes, and mentally hope to upload one to that indie music site I heard about, that one where Moby posted his new electronic pop track.
I wanted to make it far in the world of music, but based on the way I am, how I feel so sad . . . I kind of knew I might do better, to just be a “writer” or scientist of some kind.
“Brendan, are you a scorpio..?”
I was standing at the edge of the fudge, looking like a idiot near the window.
I think it was because I wanted to be alone, so I chose the farthest side of the room to meditate.
“Why do you ask..?”
“It says your birthday on your job application.”
“Oh. So why, did you ask then..?”
She just smiled.
One of the Bulgarian girls.
To Milena, I said, “I am born on November Fifth.”
Stating my birthday in the present, to effect her as much as I could. I knew she liked me. She's so pretty, I would hear myself emanating subconsciously, sometimes, when she walked past me.
The cuter foreign girls are the special ones. Milena sang for me once because she was on a “American Idol” audition in Bulgaria once. She was with me, alone in the ice-cream shop, around 9 o'clock one night, and just started singing, because I asked her to. She sang a pretty loud, powerful love-song everyone could hear, and I told her I think she has a beautiful voice, and that she's a good singer.
The people at the register looked more (what is the word..?) “bluffing..?” or something, like “red in the cheeks” because I'm honest about love, and I'd be ready to elope / get married with the right girl any day of the week, if I found the right one, and the right moment. Music and art is meant to be respected, so didn't pay attention to them. And went straight home, and I got high and watched a movie.
Milena was probably the only girl at the entire store-chain that really had a chance with me.
I didn't want to know anyone, for a while . . .
Tom (at work / my other job) the landscaper I worked with, was a crotchety old guy, and his bad humor, and meanness rubbed off on me, sometimes, at the worst moments. He was a mean old guy, and we smoked weed together in his truck sometimes, but I felt used by everyone already, for whatever reason, and it was starting to seem like I was everyone's favorite fool, more than “individual” this summer, in spite of how unique I thought myself to be. My opinions were not as powerful or heavy-hitting as the biting remarks of your common Maine redneck for a period of time, and for a while I actually had to listen to what these deranged freques had to say about themselves.
With a good unique phrase every now and then, I could shut down all of their negative thoughts. The “Fraze” I preferred to use, what it was, in the most unique power of my own personal phraseology, I could ever choose, was usually a lyrical remark, spoken out loud.
Like a Pythagorean style wasn't enough for me, I always seemed to have to do this meaningful form of effectation of the world, atmosphere, or people, or “things” (or, “others”) because, I really wanted to sing all the time, but I was always too quiet to be heard. The rhymes (I noticed) were louder, since you sing the tone of the rhyme on purpose. Whereas, if you intend to sing a rhyme on purpose, and the rhyme is going to link up or synchronize with another rhyme, the factuality of the potentiation for the tones agreeing is a possible-loudness in both tones based on the mere nature of the universe alone, that when the future (the universe) knows that your voice “will” match up with the other tone, and through the virtue of this design, we can find a way to “protend” our verses, such as to louden something using our expectations alone.
I also learned that if you're a low-voiced person, and you want to be a good singer, it is obviously good to choose to “speak low on purpose” so as to properly master your higher tones of your voice, whereas the sibilance (S-sounds), and other vibrations in your voice are much clearer, and potentially more “hearable” at high frequencies, and if you allow your voice to become “higher” over time, you may find a unique development of better taste buds, and increased chi, mental power, and meditational ability, neuroacoustic power, and other faculties increased by the virtue of the voice-sense, and the voice-sense itself will also be more empowered.
Rasp is good in the voice, sometimes, it is true.
I know, also, that some singers “smoke on purpose” to hear the brightness of their voices better, directly before a performance.
My own audio business of music teacher once said, “When there was a bag of cocaine on the Arista studio's, right there on the mixing board, we would just have to move it. It doesn't mean we felt bad that it was there.”
A lot of the country music made nowadays is more loving, in my opinion, and I'm glad I have (and I truly have found) a one, or two favorite country songs I really enjoy. I also like opera, I discovered in college, and I revelated, in college, also, that exploration of mental senses is important – where in audio class, it's like they said to me, that my own mind, has senses, “inside of my mind.” Like neuro-senses, that are already there, and can be brought out and explored more through time, like a TV-vacuum, or a inter-explorable blackhole realm, or voiduous love, and endless meaningful need.
Style, going like an oscillator-switch, is like the movement of a chakra in your palm or hand at the right moment. The phantom stitch of a good “secret” interlaced / or intercoded, like the re-written words of a God, may via the lens of a good human or the realest “demigod” of all people, we'd be religious, or mentally aware enough, to know that our beauty is going to speak the truth some day, and we'll speak the truth – through beauty alone.
I needed a cigarette, so I walked out into the front of the shop, standing beside the candy machines, and stared out at the water.
I think the ice-cream girl (the manager), whose name I forget, because she's cool like me, always knew I'd write a book about this crazy experience. I took a long drag off the menthol, and spat the ice – the mint into the air around me, and I “know” the air in Bar harbor was seriously cold this year. I liked it that way. I wanted the air to be cold.
I walk out, sometimes, a few steps, like I used to back when I was at the Criterion, standing beside him out front, just to feel the energy of the road as you walk into it, a little bit.
You can feel it, like the ocean coming at you, and get a gist for the energy in the world. How the energy is in the world sometimes is so beautifully-spaced, you don't even need to think at all. You do the “road-move” naturally, feel the energy is good, then walk straight to rite-aid, buy a bag of weed, or go buy a coffee, always at the right moment in time.
I think I subconsciously learned this trick from Dave. He was a projectionist ..
One day (well, today) I heard Aimee say something, kind of cryptic, and I felt like I was to blame for something.
Everything was going fine, for two summers, so far, and I kind of felt “cozy” at the ice-cream shop.
Somehow, one of the “supervisors” (the skinny, yellow-haired guy named Kevin) who I literally didn't know at all, yet who claimed to have gone to the same high school as me, was starting to talk about me at work.
Eventually, I'd be transferred to “clothes” because the manager, and a few other supervisors said I was better doing something more serious than selling ice-cream.
I moved upstairs, to the clothing area, and spent more time with Sarah (the French girl) while Kevin tried to make me feel like an idiot as much as he could, but he never could.
We even went to a “work dinner” once, where all the employees were invited to go eat a fancy restaurant (The Jordan Pond House) where all of us were there, one night, and I had a glass of wine, and then another glass of wine, and had a good time, both times that I went to the work dinners. The girl “I” had a crush on, Petya, was even there one night, and I'm glad I had a night with her, even though she seemed to think I was weird, or too strange to care about.
I'd probably find her just as vaguely uncaring on a porn-site later on in life, and fuck her like a living shadow, anyway, while she still doesn't care, because I can tell the sex she has has obviously made her kind of stupid in the brain. Her crotch was tight, I can already tell, though.
Petya said, in the car, “Brendan drank three glasses of wine..!” I only had two.
At work, when Petya's “future husband” (Chris) was standing on the other side of the ice-cream shops “bar” I was arranging / organizing the fudge, and almost for an entire minute, Petya was (I could tell) trying to focus on the ice-cream cones, while she mentally ignored her own future husband, so she could play “house” with me, for as long as she could, because the two of us never seemed to be the only ones to work in the ice-cream shop together. She ignored her own husband, just to feel closer to me, but the tragic thing is how I myself am the only one “aware” or “sensible” to even admit it. I hope Chris dies, though, because he was always a jerk, and I'd probably take much better care of that girl, than he could.
He makes me feel like I'm not “right” to be living in America, when I know that some people just date foreign girls to feel cool. Being truly self-explored, as well as world-explored, I know, through the sense of a “reincarnative lens” that Chris or whoever he is, doesn't care about Petya at all, and he, like a lot of other American men, choose a submissive foreign girl just to find a way to have a way to achieve more power in their own country, so that they can potentially “own” a more slave-ish, or sexually attractive submittee of their tragic narcissistic American pride, and hateful ego-process.
Some people in America are so negative, they don't even care if they're missing limbs, or have no ideas, imagination, or power at all. Their “sense” is the only thing they care about, sometimes, even if they're a bat-shit retarded blind-guy trying to cross the street, and all the guy really wants to do is “scope you out for how psychic you are” using an angry pair of dead-eye-balls he still somehow wants you to be both “psychic enough to notice” and also “help give him directions” to the place he needs to go – when the blatant illogicality of needing directions, when you're already blind, should be stupid enough, for your own dumb mind. So, I kind of don't feel bad for how racist I can be to my own town, especially since Bar harbor is a multicultural town with a plethora of almost 100 different cultures in a single summer, and I know how much more interesting black girls can be, compared to a lot of the lame Americans I'd meet each summer. Honestly, the tourists in Maine, and a lot of the people in Bar harbor are like disgraced witches, or tragic ex-salem idiots, and if you ever come here, you should buy a bag of weed, and stay for as long as you can, so that you can properly chop off another heard of one or two of the negative, bad witches in Maine, who migrated here, after they were already killed in Salem, in earlier American history, and also a few other one's who made it all the way to Edgar Allan Poe's incarnation, sometime in the eighteenhundreds, when a person such as King James or Constantine was not as needed in the world, the tragic “things” just can't seem to stop attracting their hateful souls to me – I swear, sometimes they get magnetized to my energy based on the nature of my mind alone, simply because of how poetic my mind, and my thoughts can be.
I don't know “how” dead some people are, but the truth about various movies like “Dead Alive” or maybe “Evil Dead” like the movie “The Island Of Doctor Moreau” are not truly scary, any more than references for how fucked up, chemical-driven, super-psychotic, imbecillia victims in America will be in the future, when they somehow reincarnate, after all the drugs, and bad shit they've done in just the year 2009.
I picked up a newspaper, while I was thinking all of this, these private thoughts emanating inside (and outside) of me, flowing like a free-flow of blackness, and akasha-white all at once, like the smoke and ethereality were “one and the same time” of pure truths, I slipped the cigarette off the lower part of my lip, and stared off along the water.
The glow of the blue, with the white scintillations off the top of the water were glowing like stars in a sea of blue. I looked at this for a moment longer, and started to make notes in my tiny black notebook I kept in my right pocket.
I wrote a symbol, instead of a lyric, and put it back in my pocket. The National's music was my favored music to listen to.
This year, I was moving more toward the indie sound.
I wanted to play guitar more.
I knew I had a chance, with at least “one” of the girls I had ran into in the previous weeks (or months).
Sometimes, a girl doesn't really know if she likes you or not, but I know since the “Call 911 and be afraid like everyone else!” disasters that took place in the beginning of the decade, I could tell how much fear and trust issues people had in the world.
Technology is good, and can be beautiful, but the terrorist-fear, or “witch hunt” – from bad politicians, and some “anti-magnetic” appearance of “the terrible two's” would probably dawn on all of us, some day . . . with what was going on, even to this day, and I already knew why, but no one wanted to go out with me, no matter how hard I tried.
I guess, at the time, things just weren't quite “safe” enough.
The education on modern-day witches was never really told, and people in my school didn't favor this type of education.
We were going to learn more about the subject, such as when teachers brought in the movie, “The Crucible.” We even read and watched the story, “The Lottery.” But I remember when the twin towers fell (or were destroyed) the teachers in my school abruptly stopped teaching on the subject of religion, history, and “witchcraft.” All of these subjects stopped being taught in a very short period of time, and eventually my increased respect-level brought me enough power to write the songs I really wanted to. Some of my goth friends made jokes about “The Jihad” but I really was mentally perturbed by America's need to distract itself.
Even though I struck out a lot, I had a reason to try. I made a entire album, or a entire CD in the nineties (1999-2000), and it was called CTRL + M. With rightness, I still listen to it, to this day, late at night, and derive a lot of inspiration and power from the bio-feedback of my own words and music.
The energy of the songs is like an electricity, an electric enough energy to me, to live off of, like blood, or water.
It does something to me.
Especially when I listen to my songs in a dark room, in the purely black room, where all I can see is a single LED light, or nothing at all, glowing in my studio. I wanted to tell other people how this feels, but for some reason people would always seem to want to talk about something else.
I like my song, “Committed,” the most, though. If anyone ever really asked, or wanted to know what my own favorite song is . . .
(It's scary beautiful.) :)
If I write like this, maybe in the future, I might have a King James version of the New Testament to my left, near the bong on the table. There always seems to be something special to the left of me.
A non-linear approach to writing is appreciated by a lot of writers nowadays. Stated by “The King” (Stephen King) himself, in his own treatise on quitting alcohol, that, “if you want to write three pages a day, you will be able to, especially if you are writing in the present, known as present-tensory writing.”
With this, using the craft or concept of present-tense writing, you can write anything, anywhere, any time, so long as you respect time, and admire that our human minds and human bodies are always here, “traveling” and moving through time and space no matter what we do. My own mother doesn't trust me, or my spiritual theories, but she is still sensible enough to like “me” or my “body” or “face” – such that I know, even in my own damnedness in this family, illumined only by my own despair, that even if I don't do what she wants, or what other people want, I will still have my soul, in the body I have, in this moment, to use my hands, to write, to state, or think anything that I want to exist, to, “write into existence,” these things that I hope for, and then see, and breathe back into me, and out, the more I stare at the page, and let the feeling oscillate. I've met condescending writers who think I am “not much of a writer” because I talk too much. I still think it's funny to “say” that, though. And with this thing, that I “Write into existence” I will become more powerful. Definitely, in spite of the naysayers.
The energy I use, to draw light from my writing as opposed to drugs, or alcohol, will be spiritual (or future-based), universal energy I draw to myself, that is much better energy than what is wrought from the powerful emptiness of some drugs I don't need, such as the ethos in the unnecessary thoughts of a useless god. I am also hated by Hindu people, while it seems the Hindu, like my mother, are hateful to their own souls, and obviously hate time, and existence. It's a hilarious religion.
In my spiritual studies, I've learned that there is so much truth sometimes in truly “stupid” things. I've noticed sometimes also that great genius can arrive, and “remain” in the minds of people, to whom the world will lie, and say our intelligence can not be changed, yet I've witnessed through the help of drugs and meditation and spiritual experiencing of all kinds, the rejuvenation of many minds, and people all over the place I've noticed get smarter, and become far more intelligent with only a day or two having passed, and stay much smarter once they are smarter after whatever it is that has made them more intelligent. I think doctors lie when they say you can not change or increase your own intelligence, and the I.Q., like a frequency, is a breadth of time and space that can always be increased, or made higher. Certain people, like my mother, who makes bad coffee, and doesn't have good taste in music, has believed more in what doctors have to say, than her own soul, for pretty much her whole life.
I like myself, the way I am. I like my mental awarenss, the tai chi of my body, the power I have. I like the power I have inside, that I am able to bring out, and give to other people, and yet when I know “my own mother hates me” I feel like a stranger to my own perceptions, so I really have not quite known what to do – to try and tell her, how I feel, when I know the painful abusefulness of a human body, when such a pill as aspirin or ibuprofen is taken, instead of a simple walk, exercise, meditation, sleep, or anything else . . .
Her drug-addict need to reach for a “pill” instead of a good thing like even a cup of water, has always amazed me, at how many other mothers, and people she can impress to be a drug-addict like her, when my whole life she' acted as though I am a “problem child” when in truth, I am a very religious man, who may swear from time to time, or might not be perfect – but I “know” God exists, because how I am. I accept my beauty, and know my grace through my acceptance of other people, also, and I know most of all that if “God” doesn't love me, that I have “faith” to know I can alter or change this view if I want to, so that I know even if I want to use a pill, or a synthetic relief, in my own life, I will not habitually abuse this, or force it on other people – I will merely try it, or use it when I have to, but I will remember God is the true chemical, and all I really need is the energy or “power” of “anything” – since all things, and all matter are essentially all the same, with the same wave, chemicals, and elements as everything else, down to the wave, the super-string of the wave, and all the elements, the proton, neutron, and electron that form this atom, we are (all) formed of the same pythagorean math, a fibonacci rising and falling, each way, in any way, the same cross-spiral that keeps us in motion, ever-animating our lives through our hands, some polarized to choose what they choose, while the ones to whom choose to use “both hands” are more able to select the right choice, in a sense, because we are using “more than one sense” to express ourselves – and “narrow-minded” or “one-frame” mindsets, like my mother, usually are not able to believe in God because of the visual plane, since their imaginations are too corrupted, probably from the sex, drugs, and media, she is not able to use her own hand, to respect what was there, before she erased God from her own imagination, with the bad art of so many lies, and made up ideas, and nonsense materials, products, and “bad movies” so that she could effectively become her own God, and make cookies to heal people, instead of use actual love, because I kind of “know” – this is the basis for genetic theft, from a reptilian species of extraterrestrial like the ones I've heard about – that is expressed, a reptilian style, that I notice, exists both, in the extraterrestrials, and also in her.
So the truth about how much women are giving up on spirituality is obvious to me because of the sexuality, and internet. Inspiration to “bad behavior” from the internet isn't new to me, and I think that's what they were talking about when I was told to stop working at the ice-cream shop, and work in the clothing store with everyone else.
I was a self-trained hacker, or security expect as a teen, and got away from “that life” early on, just as quickly as I was a part of it, yet mysteriously, though I hardly knew, the social, sexual, and psycho-spiritual influence I had on people on the internet was more powerful, and influential than I thought.
Kevin looked at me with somewhat 'shocked eyes' sometimes I didn't understand. I am not sure what became so potent, or attractive about me, over time, just by wearing a simple tan collared shirt I was forced to wear for my job. I even tucked in my shirt, and fixed my belt, constantly, all day long, but truly had no idea why people liked to stare at me, and think about me so much.
One lyric I wrote around this time, in devotion to life itself, I remember writing as I walked off from work, almost in a perfectly straight line, from my job, to the nearest bus, and I just rode straight home, meditating on the concept of trees, vegetation, and life-force that is found in nature. I felt really good. It was funny how many people got angry at me that summer, and how I never really cared about it. I drank so much, got so drunk, and got so high. I wasted at least three or four potential friendships, and didn't even pay attention to the music I was making. There were at least “three” or “four” advances from the girls at work, and I really didn't pay attention to them. I wanted to make music, until I had finally created, “The Song That Matters,” and in spite of how much work I did, and how hard everyone tried to effect me that summer, I didn't make “The Song” until sometime in the Fall, of 2009.
I didn't have sex once, all summer long.
Kevin might've kept his homosexuality, or bisexuality to himself, but I knew “sexual intentions” when I felt them, and the creepiness of being “forced to do dishes” when the sadomasochistic enjoyment of watching an engineer being “forced to do dishes” when I was in the ice-cream shop really was amusing to me, in spite of them, also, because I really wanted to build up my arm muscles, and get more powerful this summer, so I also didn't mind that much, either.
I wanted to work a totally different job after, honestly, and it seemed like people just didn't even want to even “try to understand me” at this point.
It's like spirituality is truly a lost, or only “potentially-revivicatable” idea in America, still, even to this very tragic, and boring day in the summer now, I quickly wrote in my notebook.
Gordon and Les invited themselves over to my house, and I told Les I hoped he brought the volcano.
We all got super-high in the studio, and Gordon was having the best time. For probably thirty full seconds, I lost my head, and laughed at everyone, and everything. My mind was literally empty for almost a minute, I think, and then I put down the tube from the volcano vape, and “managed to tell them how high I was,” and wrote a single paragraph in my laptop, and went to bed as soon as I could that night.
I remember staring at the paragraph, and thinking, “I want to be a writer some day.”
I stared at the words. I also thought, “This is one of the best things I've ever written.”
It was some strange, weird paragraph about a “vaporized man” being killed by an alien, or something. The experience with the vaporizer I smoked with Les and Gordon must've influenced the story. I told Les about the story idea, later on, and he seemed vexed.
I saved it on my computer, and hoped I could find it later in life, when I choose to write the book. At the time when I write the book, I wanted to write, called, “The Vaporized Man.
Hopefully just a novella. Maybe something simple. Just ninety pages to get the point across . .
So, they can know the things that I know, how I look at this world, and what I know about the alien invasion.
Walking back home, from Narrows campground, the next day, the sun was shining brightly on my back, and I wanted to call Les.
He was good for chilling with in unexpected moments, since I think he knew I was becoming spiritual.
He wanted to say a lot of things to me, because I kind of knew we had karma together. Drinking whiskey with him on some nights felt truly therapeutic; the last time. He was making jokes about seagulls, and how they like to “party” by the dumpster beside his apartment. Just don't bring up crows around him, though.
I asked once, a person, what subject I should write about, and they only responded with the word, “Nature.” This felt like an emanation from the God-divine, and since it was from the root, and the source of truth and lies, itself, I started to write on this subject, as though personally entangled in it all, because, for all I know, down to the number, since I already know my own voice frequency, the assumption that my own birth-date, or birth-time is a rhytmically-encoded number or math that actually “exists” in the bible of the human archetypes or the “akasha” of human archetypes, is something I discovered, also, one night, when I was making a song, and saw that one of my most dramatic new songs, stopped, at the frame-point (based on measures) where the timing stopped at exactly the number Seven Forty, and the song ended perfectly, also.
My birth chart appears to have a lot to say about this number, it is just that I still don't know if I was born at night, or in the morning, at 7:40 A.M. On November Fifth, in 1985.
I guess I'll find out, and figure it out some day.
Sometimes, I just “know” when the aurora borealis is going to be coming out. The Northern Lights will be blue this year.
They are going to be blue this year.
I sighed, inside.
Oh no . . .
(A week later)
My mom found some of my writing, and signed me up for a visit to the local “therapist.” (..?) As I was walking up to talk to “Paul” I sarcastically noted, that, “Yeah. And the northern lights will be out soon. They are going to be blue.”
As though trying to spite my own writing ..
I didn't even mean to look at the newspaper, in a gas station a week later, and found out the Northern Lights came out the exact night after, and I even found videos of it on youtube later on.
It is true, I actually had a ability to remember “beautiful memories” like perfectly scripted poems, sometimes.
There are so many, to the worth of the human soul, in “senses” we could, or might achieve, from / through the soul of another – so much :information: and “power” in the energy of the soul.
The human soul, in particular, is good for getting work done.
A human soul is built just like a machine (on the inside). Mysteriously, our natural polarized state, with the yin and yang of the magnesis of our cells demands good health from some people, according to science (magnetic science), “who are good people in a bad setting, who become stronger when they are around negative people, because of the spiritual nature of the world, thus making them stronger each and every time they are 'forced' to respond to this negative element in their reality.” (Edgar Cayce, on B.L.S. 2020).
I sat at my computer, and mused on the words I was writing. (Some poem, in the back of my mind).
There was a loud “vorp” sound outside. I looked out the window, and saw a bright white flashing light.
A car was halted in the middle of the road, and I left my computer for a moment to see what was going on.
The empty silver car, in the middle of the road, appeared to have no driver, and I stared in wonder at it for a time. It was towed, the next day, and my dad laughed like the driver must've run into the woods while drinking or something, because the driver of the silver car was never found.
I went to work a little later than usual that day.
The ocean was crashing, and I walked through the park, to reach the Acadia store, as soon as I could get my shirt buttoned, and walk in and start on my first lyric of the day, trying not to think about “The Silver Car” as much as I could, because really it made no sense, and I don't like thinking about things that confuse me.
I kept a baseball bat behind my bed, and in spite of how scared I ever got, I never really needed to use it. I'm a pretty safe, and truly self-protecting person, I love, with “self-love” and I know, well enough, that my own body and spirit is a respectable matter. The truth is, it is my actual bat from when I played baseball as a kid, and as an athletically-oriented person, though I don't play “that many sports” I'd much rather have a thing like that, than an actual weapon to defend myself, because I feel like the reason to defend yourself, based on a profession like being an athlete (I am a body-builder, and I do tai chi lately), I would feel much better, to defend myself thinking of myself as an athlete, more than anything else.
However, like my “katana” (the samurai sword I had as a teenager) my baseball bat, was also stolen by my mother, one night, or day, in a moment unexpected, and I still have no idea where either one of them are. I feel less safe, without them. My mother also gets more attracted to me, it seems – like a magnetic response, when she knows she is personally responsible for causing my fear. She is a sado bitch. I usually just play one of my songs to feel better . . .
I remember a recent report on Youtube made it clear, since this terrorist b.s. has started, that “young men” are the most endangered people in America, and I think it is because of older women, and the people in the world who think we're more meant to have sex than evolve, and since I already know how many women are demanding of me, and how much I don't want to be “that close” to some women, that a lot of this hatred for men, or “fear of young men” started with negative women like Jan Sprague.
My mom is from Massachusetts, her name “Janice Fielding” rhymes with “Dracula” and she is literally “From Salem” (the witch area of Massachusetts) because of how much she wants to torture and hurt me, alone. That is the reason why I think that.
I am also, very good at detecting a bad presence, like a ghost, or a witch, from a far-distance away. That's why I can't help but keep thinking: why would a silver car just be sitting in the middle of the road like that..?
Why do so many older men and women in America, our parents in particular, like to tell us, or have us pretend there is “nothing wrong with the world” when we see the atmosphere, and energy in our movies and TV-shows, and even the news, and the people's fear in these movies and shows is obvious to us, yet at home they tell us we're all-right, but when I turn on my TV, I see the coliseum.
A man would roam the halls, in a mental hospital, somewhere, with a metal key hanging down his neck, localized to his voice chakra. He had a way of using the baritone of his voice, to shout the words, “This is Rome..!” “America is Rome..!”
Sounds realistic ..
My mom has probably wanted to mess with me like that, or put me in the “coliseum” for as long as I've been alive.
She's an objectifying woman.
I think she's meaner to men, than women, also.
I never really thought about it that much, until now.
I guess she might be one of them, too ..
I couldn't love one of my ex-girlfriends.
There was only one.
She seemed to know what I was writing, somehow. It was strange, because I felt like it was an invasion of some kind, that didn't require the use of any hacking software. She could somehow see me, or know what I was writing, by using her mind alone. It was strange, because I knew she had more money than me, and was in a situation in life where she might be more respected – but her face was so evil-looking (like a reptilian style of face) and she was so bitter all the time, I read this more as artistic competition. She didn't want to admit why she felt the way she did, but her name, “Lisa,” was obviously a funny take on another person's name, like “anyone else,” or “anyone who isn't this bitch named Lisa,” and I just remember the real reason why I couldn't be her friend was because she judged my writing, and my artistic power too much.
I don't even know why “girls and boys” need to judge each other's work, when the only work they should be judging is the kiss between their lips.
I don't really want to, honestly.
A natural mystic, worlock, or natural witch of any kind can read a heretic from a mile away, and bitches like them are not as important to me, than this book, so I thought I'd want to figure this out anyway, so I thought I'd mention that, very casually, while writing this book, that I (being the artist I am) pretty much, all day long, “have to consciously protect my sexuality,” and I am (Brendan Lee Sprague) a victim of abuse from women.
The reptilianesque desire to “steal energy” or 'steal power' from another person, soul, or human being – is, in the inhumane, over-obsessed mis-use of power, like the invasiveness of British soldiers in America, is not so far-different from the same invasion of Roman soldiers to so many places, and these three generations of suicidal human behavior, to me, seem influenced. The influence to human behavior, from ecliptic moments in the distance, perhaps, by the means of travel of their own, might also seem influenced from what are known as the Annunaki, or star-gods of the universe, actual “ancient” or “long-living” aliens, who have ways of transferring powerful thoughts, and directives to certain humans on the Earth. Reptile information sent to the Earth is the idea that we need “art + power” to gain or achieve political power, and also so that our propaganda can be powerful, a lot of people are personally investigating personal power through awareness, so we are investigating our psychic minds – but the reptile genome, or the “hate gene” of bad expressions of spirituality is on its last limb, still trying to attempt to steal one, or two more things from the human race, when I feel like, the only way they could truly take anything from us would be in our thoughts (or consciousness). So, if I know the cloud-well of my own thoughts so well, there Is an abyss in all of us, that can be measured, or explored, or checked out like a book in a library to see what happens any time this mysterium of human affairs causes our best people, mothers, daughters, and “figures” in the world, to completely sell their souls, and allow their minds to be remotely influenced by bad ideas, through the interpolation of permutations from alien directives, because of a nazi-like energy from these reptile fiends, based on how I've known about the potential for a true / real alien invasion for years, and I “know” that my mother would never behave this way, nor a lot of the girls, and powerful people in the world. To me, they are better as normal or nice people, but they way some people seem to be becoming criminals, and bad people, oversexed, and abusive of drugs, “because” of the extraterrestrials is to me like nothing more than abuse of power, and I am myself disgusted by these people.
Honestly, I can tell something might even be going on right now, that I am not “totally” aware about, but I feel like it's true.
(From my journal early last night).
Into my voice recorder (right now) planning a new vocal, and then I just started talking instead ..
“I think I want to write a Pop CD some day.”
I put down the device, and stared at the computer screen for a minute too long.
Nikki's messenger box popped back up, and she wanted to talk. I was forced to close it, because my joint was already rolled, and I just taking a deep breath kept moving toward the door of the living room, to the kitchen.
I felt rolling vocals flowing through me. The night was blue-lit, like blue fire. I thought the sky was black, but it was actually more like purple. I thought I was going to figure out why, until I realized I was still caught in the buzz from the first off of the high. I looked at the joint, and automatic words started flowing through my mind. A lyric flowed through, and receptively, I heard a reference to the nearby campground. I didn't know why, I just kept imagining the campground.
I felt really good, and the emanation of the vocal was like a voice, that was a intelligence of mere beauty alone, I heard writhing loudly, and I just looked up at the sky, and erased all of my bad beliefs from the past few days, and blessed the tones with a assimilated lyric, from all of the words I was just thinking, and stated, to God, the universe, the Earth, and everything, that “I love this moment right now.”
I went inside, and got my drink back in my hand, and told Nikki I was outside, smoking the joint I had rolled. I said I couldn't talk because I had a bad day, and I was really determined tonight, to write something . . .
She didn't really know what I was trying to say, but I wanted her to know I still needed her there, her remote energy, to help me get the writing done. It's helpful, sometimes, to have someone there.
Once, smoking a joint, one night I had tripped a little on some of the divine sage, Nikki was asking me about what I was doing with one of my new websites. I was telling her, it's a new site to help people with music. From rhymes, to samples, to songwriting ideas, to thoughts on rhythm, or almost anything at all to help people with music. She was interested and I kept telling her about it. I got really high that night, and looked up information on “mental programming.” All I could find was information on meditation, something referring to brainwaves, the effect of binaural beats, and how (random quote) though I thought it was interesting, because it sounded like sci-fi, that a random painter from I think the sixteenhundreds, known as William Blake, once wrote in his diary, that he (in his own words) thinks, or once stated, and thought that, “The Imagination Is The Body Of God.”
The words stood there in bold powerful letters emanating in my mind, and I could kind of feel their effect emanating powerfully. I wanted to tell Nikki how I felt about this, but the truth is we're both kind of atheistic, and we never really got much of a chance to talk on subject-matter like that. She probably is like an actual old soul from Egypt, and maybe I am too, so we don't really know how to talk about everything, or a thing like that, when we are both already the individuals we are, and I know Nikki is unique.
The truth, “working for someone” is not so much a job or a task, anymore than a mental slavery to a bad leader, sometimes, where in a narcissistic phrase, or mental term, the “phrase, line, or lyric” or an argument stated by a mean, cruel, or judicating woman, or simply “very mean girl” has the same effect of a gun, shot by a cowboy in the wild-west. The scientific journal noted on this, studying brainwave science, the emotional impact of both of these things actually has a similarly like-effect on the human imagination when tested on shamans in Africa, as well as mental patients in EEG tests, and studies, showing each or either of the photographs to either one. It was noticed, also, that sometimes the effect of the wrath of a woman (according to brainwave research) was more damaging, and more hurtful, than actual gunshots to the human body.
I've found the longer I work at the ice-cream shop, I wonder why the chocolate fudge is sold so close to the ice-cream that's the “special kind” because I already know, all of the fudge is special, since it is a special item from Maine. We also have blueberries, and a lot of good things like syrup and natural products. I remember when I was young my father told me about Reefer Madness, and how the hemp and paper companies were competing over 'resources' in general, and not just marijuana . . . these words were fleetingly floating through my mind, one night, when all of us at work heard a loud scream outside. Aimee (the manager) looked scared. “Brendan, you need to go outside right now.” I looked out the window . . .
There was a car, in the road, and then sirens.
* * * * * * *
“If there is anything you can do, you should, because you look the strongest out of all of us.”
I was looking at the “individual” who had left his car, pointing his finger at the motorcycle or moped-driver in the other side of the street. It was the psychic lady's husband, the crazy gypsy-looking dude. It looked like he just threw his cigarette onto a guy's car-window on accident, and it got in somehow. He's looking pretty bad.
The guy in the wifebeater (the big guy) looks drunk, and he's moving his hands up and down like he's on Cops.
Aimee looked, and moved down the window-ornaments a little bit, and said, “Dude. That guy has a gun.”
The gypsy guy was trying to talk the guy out of doing anything, but it looked like road rage, from a distance, and no one knew why it was even happening.
“Shit like this doesn't happen in Bar harbor.”
“I don't know . . .”
Is all Brendan said, until he went outside.
He was in the road, talking face to face with the guy with the gun, when the gun went off, almost as soon as he was outside, and when Brendan was back in the ice-cream shop, the guy with the gun was on the ground, and Brendan had to talk to the cops for an hour.
“Brendan, how did you know how to do that..?” Aimee had asked me, while she didn't mind me rolling an “obvious joint” for the whole store to see, because being an instant local-hero, I had to smoke a 'proud joint' this night, because I always knew, if the shit hit the fan with the witches and tourists in Maine, I'd always have to save someones life, because I always loved the people in Maine.
“What did you do..?”
“What really happened is, as soon as the guy saw the fear in my own eyes – or, well, the anger in my own eyes, he wanted to shoot me, instead of the other guy. So I just like, automatically grabbed his gun, and aimed it at his own body, so he shot himself.”
“It's a karate move they taught me when I was a kid.”
Aimee looked down.
She seemed very satisfied with this answer.
I went home, that day, thinking about the “weird silver car” in the middle of the road.
I had to make sense of it . . .
Even if I did just help keep Bar harbor safe for a night, I don't really like to “think” about violence. It looked like he shot himself in the kidneys, too, and I can't even imagine how bad that must feel. The people in Maine have serious rage problems.
I know . . . how it “might” feel, because of how much drinking I've done, but the more I think about it – I swear, I would never want to feel that type of pain. I looked at the Red Bull Vodka I was drinking at the time. I figured, “They must've been drinking something like this, at one point in their lives.” “It's all my fault, good or bad.” “We're all the centers of our own shows.” I muttered affirmations all the way to the sink, and dumped out the drink into the metal sink. I rolled a joint, and went to bed that night a little more mental than I expected to be.
The next day, I got a bonus, from the people at work, who always liked thinking of me as some kind of modern-day saint, but I really just wrote a lyric as soon as I woke up, and wasn't thinking about anything at all, all day, 'cept for the coffee I wanted to drink later in the afternoon.
I was writing, and I thought, “If a cigarette, I'll make a joint. Change, turn the page into a Transformed, the title is with a capital T, yet, for some of you, it's only a word, and a word alone, to me, it's a title though . . .”
I wrote more,
“I want electrics. Bio-electrics. Keep me clean, with a new style of jet. I want it black. I want stealth black. I want power, blackness, and darkness, to black-protect me, whenever I laugh, in states of use, when in use, for the sake of the ray that shoots from my tesla-coil dreaming, like this, I'll keep as clean as the waves dark like the black that I eye shoot through.”
No, I gotta keep writing . . .
They know, “I get judged. For not enough. Too much silence, so I can hardly 'not' shut up. We feel still. Time to look down. Look at the water, 'cept it's already remembered. Cool movie. Impressive dream. Nice time, spending time getting stolen by another's soul's reality. Only one. One soul, out of many. When, in any given moment, I can see, you in the continuum of this cerebro of the dream.”
“With my holy grail.”
“What is the idea, of that movie..?”
I was sitting with my parents, later that night.
They knew how my life was, but this time they really wanted to know more, for some reason . . .
My mom kept asking about my “hand.”
I said, I'm kind of ambidextrous, because I play guitar and also juggle. I kept talking away her reflections, and half-attempted gestures to reference fighting and cool guy things. I told her, it's not a big deal. Summer's in Maine always have a little chaos.
I want to hear myself, “hear myself,” if I record a song. In a single more definite, “one-based layer' I'd only “see and hear myself” if there was only one layer, whereas if I am “only performing with a guitar and singing also” the effect of a “universal power” exists in this, where there is more room for other senses, based on the pure nature, and absolutism of this “one-frame reference of reality, since so many things are containable in the singularity of the dream; when especial, this dream is directed with an intent and precise will to evolve, and heal myself, and other people through the experience itself, making me more interested in the experience each time, and also adventurous.”
She seemed to find the idea interesting.
The next night, I wrote a lyric, and wanted to express it “more,” so I told her, and then played a song for both of my parents out loud (with guitar and vocals) and it was pretty good. I played the song (a cover song) “What If God Was One Of Us” (sometime in late 2009). It was one of the first covers I ever played.
My mom liked this a lot.
I was recording in my studio, one night, when I heard distant reverberations of drum-beat sounds. Off in the distance, this felt like the powerful sounds of a heart. Traveling across the road, for whatever reason, my dad didn't want a hit this night, even though he usually only takes one, when we hit a joint together, he said, “He hit the walls, and banged on every part of the porta-potty, once, when we had to hide from the cops once, and they didn't know what was going on, and I was just trip-rocking the whole time. Something about Rob just didn't give a fuck.”
(He was talking about the weird old guy down the street, named Rob, who would play the drums, or any drums, to the end of his life, no matter what).
I wanted to smoke weed with him.
I don't know if that will ever happen . . .
It seems unlikely.
Even though we are so far into the future of the new millennium already, I can hardly imagine I'd ever really smoke weed with the rare, weird “Drummer Guy” down the street.
In the future, when I imagine, if I ever even find the mysterious, weird experience of actually getting to know “any” of my neighbors, I just hope they actually know how to truly sing, write, lyricise, or naturally at least “try” to write a song, with more than just one try.
(She's nice, truly, deep down). My mom, becoming less obsessive, started to keep her distance from my studio over time, probably noticing how a lot of the love-song energy in my music was just driven from my soul, once I told her about the very cute, and very sexy Bulgarian girl at work. She must've looked at my “Bruce Lee'ish” face long enough, and noticed how this made more sense than a personal attraction to her own son . . .
I looked up, at the same moment, and the sun-rays of the afternoon light glimmered on my face, and despite her apparent satanistic pride, the apparent beauty of my own christlike nature must've shown through, at that very moment in time, also.
Some day, I hope to better-educate my mom on the true reason why words like “indoctrinate” are not used much more, anymore, since the Christian church turned evil, and wants to brainwash and control people more than actually teach us things. I also know that her vocabulary, and personal use of certain words and phrases, to my writer-mind, thinks or seems to think on a track of programmed perceptions, so even if she thinks she wants or desires certain things, I think it's actually just the way she's become programmed by the American system, and that's another reason why I always remember to consciously forgive a lot of her actions.
Those termed “weak-willed” are at least friends, if you do not know them, usually will quickly just turn to a demon in front of you.
Mob-behavior, and easily-influenciable behavior of people in a day and age when / where the world keeps spinning, with or without a little “spiritual or psychic help” also, doesn't always “entirely revolve” unless the materials of this research are not explored only on the “mental plane alone.” So, we require a resource, the paper, the product, and the many things that go into the creation of both the product, the resource, and the media, to share this idea or concept, the work with the world that we share.
A message is written in a line.
When lyrics are written, you might enter a new track of brainwave. The gamma waves, like a thirty year old ma, always seem to be more creative.
It's like the number thirty itself is just a more powerful version of the beauty of the number three, itself, when you think about it on a repeating track of patterned beauty. The exponential expanding power of the triadic improvement-power of this number, when healing energy is encoded in the vital essence, or vital power of a media, product, resource, of “energy” from all of this, that is geared more toward the mental, can also, sometimes, even though semi-fictional, or mostly-nonfiction, oftentimes require a lot more “imagination” than most things that are usually expected to.
If we imagine a lot of power to ourselves, and in some way, we are able to mentally imagine the thing we need that is the art, and the product of the work we are creating, we will see, or mentally understand the chemicals, the process, and the biology of this matter and the elements that make it up.
I think this is possible, and that such “chemical alchemy” is something that will some day become a new paradigm in human understanding, such as the concept of a new way of healing, that is directed in the feeling of a far-affected force, tone, or energy that alters a frequency, wave, energy, or “thing” from a distance, like a remote healing radio, or a remote far-feeling way to direct energy or love at a directed-to source. The radionic power of this energy, with real “positive radiations” will light up the energy of the object, or energy of the thing, with a new vital power, and energize, with the feeling itself. When feelings are more accepted, they energize more.
Such a feeling, when the chemicals “feel right” or when you buy a bag of herb, and when you first look at the green, the smell, and the color effects you, and you feel high almost instantly . . .
And you “know” you are going to smoke it:
That is chemical alchemy.
I opened one of my pre-2012 spirituality books one night, and read a passage from a unique, bright-covered book, with a glow of what appeared to be a sun light's glow shining over a moon, during an eclipse, and the quote, from someone named Grossinger, read the words, “Someone, with a warm familiar face appeared on the screen, one night. Unexpectedly complaining about the same terror-abuse, from our N.W.O. On the Earth, where they fail to see a lyrical gene in those of whom I am first born of, a Lyran, or Lyrical race, from a star-system known as Lyra, and even though the Reptiles amongst us also abuse machines to encode the human race as a mass entity, of negativity, itself, the “humans and Lyrans” have always had a positive bond and partnership with each other, since the early days of Christ and the essenes, with several positive incarnations.”
“The reincarnated truths are within you.”
The power of one soul, with the hands, or “when the hands of a lyricist are moving,” are pro-moveable, during the storm of a dark lens sight. Where, in a storm, when you choose to peer through a dark lens, in a storm, you tend to survive.
We find that “in a storm” a lot of people are capable of many things, with the two hands of a singular human body.
My mind is sure.
So, one day, I reaped a lost song, and snuck out of my home one night, and stole something that I could never return, because it was also then stolen from me.
This was a glass object, of a radiant, pot-related accord with reality. My ex-girlfriends mom's house was also burned down. Instead of actually “decimated” in a normal way, so there is really no true “actual” anchored energy of proving that I ever stole the pipe I stole out of my ex-girlfriend's moms car, but I asure you, I did.
I smoked a single hit of it that night, on a night when I usually had no weed, and I got so h i g h it was unbelievable.
She looked at herself, my ex-girlfriend, one night, when I had originally known her when I was only seventeen, and we never had sex. And just forcefully put “me” inside of “her” without a condom, because it was a good opportunity to finally have “real sex” and we never had, and the truth is there are practically nothing but healthy bodies in Maine, for long seasons, sometimes, due to the cold alone. We're almost “purposefully cool” here, in a way. She has gotten stronger over the years, and she almost made me feel like I had to let go of everything completely.
I remember when she got off of me, because of how “in case” and “because” I had to make sure, that anything, or everything I let go of that night had to be done the right way, so she kept going until that was done the right way, with the same type of instrument I use to sing.
The vocal expressionary power of a normal human being is far-reaching.
My own voice-power, and voice-frequency may prove this, some day.
Once, in a big-bang of powerful self-expression, some people found muse in the idea of likeness in another, though idolization had to first spring from self-idolization. The idolatry of my own perverse sense of need in the grandiosity over-abuse of my own ego, over time, expanded into a near-perfect math in the stylings of a self-rationed understanding of the word-count, punctuae, and need for general sentencing in a measured dose of words, each time, like all of my words, and thoughts, would always flow in a perfect temperate feed of power, and expressionary power of a chemical basis for my high, and mentality, to be consciously continued, for a long time, until the greatness of my soul eclipses, into a much greater thing, en transcendia with the power in, around me, and above me, through, and with the help of such intelligent presences, and cosmic power, as what exists at the fount of any mountain or clime I may reach . . .
I typed a name on accident, once, and in spite of time, or “inspitefully” of time, I still love her, and the name is not an accident. Amy, my sister, knows how to read codes. She can carefully know “when” and also “how” the subliminities of a mind are trying to, but falsely attempt to conjure magic. From the effects of a person who uses heart-power, and the magic-power of their love alone, they have the actual ability to stop the flow of magic, or create an entirely new magic at any given time. The reality of a person such as her is greater than most people, and inspitefully (also) of some of the personages in history who were, in a once-doubted, systate of thinking that we “want” to program ourselves to a disbelieving strata of perception, we might lacking in the general perceptivity of past-orientation, think against our own pasts entirely. This doubtlessly is a design of logic itself, since our own psychologically is inventive. Though not so creative, a memory, or truth, in the trauma of an actual evident, though obscured, may, in bio—bealterment, or through superchange, the idea may be hyper-altered, or meta-altered, in a sense, through the transcendent lens of another, taken through a hyperreality of explanation to the newer plane, of an almost imperceptible lens of explaination that may (only) exist in the mind of a supergod. Technical notes on the hypertrap of the maze-lens of reality would almost enquire our own questions to be re-questioned, many letters altered, names repeated, and several memories attempted, and re-attempted, due to the “trying nature of god” a bereftment of mystery, and a logic in only renewment, to make up for the memories, of its own lost, or tragic experiences as a civilization, the united civilization of what is in a world that is “god's world” inter, re-expression, and many times, re-trying its own evolution . . .
Would eventually find the right soul.
I need to be here, “for you.”
I will go where you need me to go, but I need to be able to get back to you, so in spite of any mistakes you make, or might make, don't let your heart go cold.
I will still love the few memories I have of spending time with you alone, in a room with you.
. . .
“Are you going to fix that..?”
“Yes..?” I answered back, but I had already broken up with Rumi.
I just kept working, because I was already working . . .
“The ice cream machine, that is jammed.”
“And the coffee overflowed, somehow . . . “ and she laughed. “Even though that never happens.”
I wrote a few more things in my notebook, and then only “tried” to fix them, having to reveal to my co-workers I am not so good with such things as coffee-machines and stuff like that. I guess I am only really good with things like computers, I had to tell them.
“I think so.”
They were letting me know how to keep the clothes right, when they were being folded.
Some girls were watching me, as I walked through the clothes, each cube, and clothing display, with my awkward need to walk slow.
They laughed. “He looks like such an idiot.”
I had nothing, except for the piece of paper in my pocket ..
I turned around, and looked at them, right in the eyes. “I am still fine.” I transferred, and the girl only reacted to my eyes. I felt empty, and started to sweat. I only had a few shirts to fix. It felt like they came in the store just because of me ..
I went back to ice-cream, because I was working both today.
Petya wasn't working today.
Things felt so empty, for some reason. I walked back, and fixed the clothes again. One of the girls looked different, and was on her cell-phone all of a sudden. I felt like, maybe she heard my thoughts somehow. The other one was hanging out in ice-cream, and I sarcastic-politely gave her a free tasting.
The other girl had left, and I was left in the store at this point.
Outside it was windy, and I could tell the way the power went out the other day, the energy was almost as though crashing against itself, in a way. The idea that when the psychics, or “psychic people” from the psychic shop were so confused, last summer also, makes me think those people had a real reason to be angry at them.
The one guy on the moped seemed to be rushing about, parked at the end of intersections, like he kept wanting to make a choice .. his wife was strange, looking angry, like they had some thing they needed to do, or like time was running out, or something.
The Kurt V song was playing, “Pretty Pimpin” while I walked into the room, while someone had their radio on. I looked at Matt, the guy at the cashier, and he said, loudly, “Brendan do you do things with computers..?” and I said, “what do you mean..?” “Like, powerful things..?” “I don't know.” “I guess.”
I didn't know at the time, but he assumed I was a hacker from some things other people in town had said about me.
“I make music. I'm an audio engineer.” I told him.
He looked down, at his watch, and looked kind of coy for a moment, and said, “Brendan, do you want to bring in the gum-ball machine now..? It's getting to be about that time, and we gotta close the store now. And close.”
“So that we can lock the doors, and make sure everything is meant to be good, and safe, and protected. For tomorrow.”
I went outside, and brought in the machine.
I didn't think much of it at the time ..
Or how much like a prison guard he was behaving like, or trying to be at the time, also ..
That night, at my computer; I went online, and tried to tell a few of my friends that I wanted to re-start my UB squad. I went to a different site, and checked to see if the “letters” were truly stating what I thought they had, at my inbox. Rumi had said, what I never thought had occurred. Though, I hadn't talked to her, and I didn't know if it was true. I guess she was getting married . . .
It would all end, because of my mom. She told her not to call me, after she found out Rumi was getting married, and all I wanted was for her to at least still “think” about me . . .
I drank beer that night, and got stoned like I always do.
I usually drink budweiser.
The TV seems farther, and farther away, sometimes, the way my parents keep moving the entertainment system. Still, I feel closer, and closer all the time.
I want to be alone, I thought, and then vocalized, “I want to be alone.”
I walked out of the room, and heard my thoughts, somehow, louder than before.
The depth, and emanatory power of my thoughts increased.
The book I had read, the previous night, was loudly – voluminous in its own way, a powerful drone of prayers effected from the pages of the key, while the powerful voice in my own was being quietly directed to the black microphone in the other room.
To this moment, I found the coolness of a black candle, and lit the candle, though I rarely do.
The candle, in its pillar style, looked, to my right mind, like a human avatar.
I lit this, with the far-feeling desire to “connect, and Then Try.” An effect, rooted in desire.
Whoever, or whatever I wanted, I wanted a lot of, that night.
A “A.A.” symbol was somewhere, written in the room, from a lost coin my over-religious uncle once sent me, and as I dreamed in the back of my mind how the song would sound, I started editing the tracks in my multitracker slowly.
First, you click the green shortcut on your desktop, entitled, “New Mix” to automatically create a new song, using a mere shortcut from the program, to get going quickly.
I usually record a song with a good guitar, or powerful instrument of any kind first. So long as its loud, powerful, and playable, I usually am playing guitar or piano. The truth is I am amazing at the drums, so I leave the thought of them out of my mind, like an infinite heartbeat I just choose to mentally trust. I remember when I became to the point of meditation, as so-involved in the drumming I did, I almost self-fully, in a sense, 'chose' to avoid them, because I knew I could potentially hurt myself, doing so much, in such moments, to merely bang on a few circular hollow boxes and instruments, when I don't always record them. I made a point, to teach my mind that I could both play, or electronically produce drum sounds using my computer, equally as good, whether live, or with the drums on the computer, and I have held up to my vow, to this day, out of both respect for the machine, and the real world, duly. I respect both worlds, though both worlds do not totally respect me.
I know once, when I was young, there was a cyborgian nature to my soul that I wouldn't describe. I wanted to, but I chose not to.
The world seemed, “evolved,” but not as, when so-evolved, where, in its evolution, it was not the point to revelate to such awareness to the very “feelable” and very “physical” computer implant in the back of my head.
Extraterrestrial intervention, in the tronning, or “selectation” of a person who was going to be powerful, who does not also deny their karma, will be self-selecting, so I already know I would upgrade myself, with or without the help of the zetas.
I remember when I was able to, I really tried to reach out to aliens, but the true desire, I always knew was to reveal them to other people.
Extraterrestrial intelligence can or may bring on such power and information that we can learn a lot about them in a short period of time, sometimes, in such ways that our own minds, and mental power can be affluently increased, and made both more loving, technologically-aware, and spiritual, all at the same time. The multifold effect of how, 'so many things' can be improved, and also made better, through the “communique” alone, without any actual material interference, knowing that the consciousness, and voice itself is the only thing being interchanged, I was able to over time make an observation toward the noticing of how schisms in patients of shizophrenia seem more common in thiefs of actual material things. The revelation that, also, a “journal” kept by a thief tortures his subconscious mind, that, in such an effect, to the yielding of en eventualis, a “light” at the end of a tunnel, the half-written plea for a last-long vodunlike effect of hatred inter-encoded in the words themselves, someone, just before being murdered by the dark illuminati (bad E.T.'s) would be in the case of E. A. Poe, smart enough to write a quickly-written vodun effect, in a “endless” or purposefully-fragmented letter, about a “evolved man” or “evolved scientist” of some kind, who is aware of the biology, and science, and math, and magic of other beings, who, yet to some mysterium of the desirous, and last effect of his own character, reputes himself to die as a result of his own power and magic. The “Lighthouse” is such a story, and was written by Poe, to protect me, to this day, as with other things, like the Key of Solomon written by Nostradamus, and other magic books that over-defeat such bad magic as the work of Leadbeater (a actor, from various propaganda films). Nazi culture interpolated into the comic books, movies, and American films became obvious to me, ever since the first time I watched Reefer Madness.
If people want to control a material, a substance, or a piece of something as much as “one thing” from the entire material complex and elemental complex of all things, natural, and synthetic in the entire world, they'd have to have more power than to just “try” to ruin my relationships, or make me look like a prisoner, when I'm as good as a writer than to use the real name of the bastard, anymore than once, or twice, to oververse, and evince a new feeling in / and of, when I know of what group he is oriented, and none of these “societies” are nearly as powerful, or anywhere close as powerful as what information I hold.
“I can edit videos. I make websites. I don't know. I've always been pretty good with computers, I guess.” Kevin looked stunned, with amazement, that he didn't want to reveal, but felt like he just had to, anyway. For whatever reason, he really liked using my name, “Brendan,” a lot, lately. I really was too stoned to know why he was so obsessed with me, my existence, and my reputation all of a sudden. It might've been because of the mobster I killed in the road outside the store, to stop that psychic from getting killed.
I don't know how, but for some reason, I thought that Kevin might be related to a powerful group of people of his own accord. My rapport with them was probably long-lasting. Although, the new things in life are not always so well-oriented with the roots of olde, when my own sense old power, or new power, when we are all powerful in our pagan roots to a degree, based on the puritans, and puritan families, I can kind of see the resemblance between modern N.W.O. Families, and the actual “good” or “positive illuminati families” when two people from different tribes of the secret societies / secret clubs in the world are able to unite, eye to eye, and really look at each other, and know they are in the world together.
Kevin became nicer over time, and seemed to offer me more breaks, usually, but I think he knew how high I was.
I met a guy at work later, who was very bad at rhyming, and yet he kept asking me what my studio was “like.” I told him, “It's mostly black equipment. I don't know. It's a rooom .. with stuff in it.”
He looked interested, yet kind of stood too close to me.
I said, “Yeah. I've read that book,” once we got onto the discussion of things in general.
Though flowing, I can't like it too much when a man gets too close to me, and invades me chi, totally senseless of his own thoughts (or energy). The energy in all of this can be incursive, or meaningless, yet interpolate anyway, and it is rude to me. So, I had to tell him off several times, until he left Bar Harbor, and moved back to California. I remember his song about the “Bebe girl” he met at a grocery store, had no reason to go out with him, except for sex, and how much he disgusted me. One day, the next morning while smoking two joints in a row, underneath my studio, in my dad's sports car, underneath I said, very proudly, and kind of meanly, “I'm gonna get Fucked Up today..!”
Chris seemed to be getting a little 'too high' those days, at work, and it started pretty fast, that I was less and less the scapegoat at work, as far as the local idiot pothead, or the “boxhead” of the group. I think that Chris couldn't keep his high, most of all, because he abused his awareness of the other workers, and he even mentioned how a nice girl, the religious girl, from the coffee-shop, I was working at, was a victim of her own family.
If I ever really saw “Chris” again, out of the many 'Chris's' I've seen, I'd love to directly curse him to his face, or kick his evil ass for the shit he said about Nati's uncle.
Also, if I ever “meet” so-termed, “Nati's” uncle, I'll be glad to drink a beer with him sometime, and tell him what I think about karma, words, and names.
Once, during a similar T I M E in my history in Bar harbor, I met a girl named Lisa Kay, “Rosenthal” (like Rockefeller almost) who wanted to spend some time with a person she meets on the internet (in her words). She got nothing out of me, except for how I 'look' 'sound' and 'am' but didn't love me, and used me almost as though a model, designed for her sex, and her sexuality alone – when she was completely ugly compared to me, and had no power over words, or artistic ability of any kind, and to me, seemed kind of stupid, also, yet she had the internet, her college degree, and more money than me.
After we broke up, I got drunk, and threw up in my bed.
Later, I watched the movie “Jaws” over and over, almost every single day, as soon as I woke up in the morning.
My mom made me extremely sweet coffee every morning, and I watched the character, (the kid, “Alex”) get killed repeatedly every morning.
Alex was the name of the drug-dealer (a local corrupt cop who grew weed) who also pardoned me once, for stealing my mom's car, later in life, so my subconscious seemed to say . . .
When a Great White Shark attack just killed a 63 year old woman in Maine two weeks ago, and my mom is 63.
I don't really know “why” this number matters so much, but according to the math of own electrically-charged psychotronic guns I have designed to help me fight when I am in a VR Realm (Virtual Reality) I can use them, more, sometimes, when they are directly rooted in what this number provides, since the number 63 is also the frequency-number. To the decimel, of one of the frequencies I use to electrocute people, when I am forced to fight or defend myself. When a psychic is forced to fight, we usually don't write this down, or tell anyone, but since the world is seriously falling apart right now, I need to tell “you” (whoever is reading this book);
To build a psychic shield will be done using “real” technology, and not just your “mind” alone.
To build a proper “electric gun” you will need actual technology, also.
These technology are buildable, and will help you defend yourself against foreign invasions, negative intelligences, and the E.T.'s on the Earth who have been recognized as malificent to us.
The hyper-gun (my psychotronic gun) is developable only by very powerful psychics.
I will direct / write out actual schematics, and how to build this, and what proper techniques are necessary to keep the weapon functioning, as well as your own psychic mind. The true reason why I am sharing this is because I like my world, I like the human race, and I want to help people.
The first step, if you are interested in being more “safe” (though sometimes you are truly only in need of self-defense, you should not think of a certain enemy, or mentally prepare an assault if you are hoping to build this gun, because it would be a bad demonstration to your subconscious mind of how you would use your psychic mind in the future, and even though you might think reality is a game, the truth is aliens really have invaded the Earth, several times, and this time we might really have a chance to beat them.
The truth that E.T. Presences have oftentimes altered H I S T O R Y, and made things impossible for humans to evolve, is because this is just a natural tendency of abuse from a foreign star.
Recorded in our texts, and ancient documents, or what I call “history” the reality of an alien invasive force from afar, or a distance, is not impossible, or illogical. The primitive hatred, and racism of the human race, also, to me, seems invented, although not entirely. There are obvious tamperings with our emotions, and manipulations of will-power, and free-will mechanisms all over the world, and many people are forced to do things, re-directed, and guided, controlled, and executively “declared” to be doing things, or must do certain things, when no matter what is happening, each and every one of us always has the chance to use our own free will. In this moment, I think that the lie of alien interpolation of “any” lie into society, whether from a alien, hitler, or whatever, no matter “what” it is, is always like a dis-ease, or illness of some kind, and even though we want to have a name for something, sometimes the only true way to deal with the problem is creatively.
Using our own intelligence, we created “rationale” and the proper psychology to be able to fight in the first place.
Honor, and humility was developed later on.
Though, when wars took place in the past, such as the more recent Vietnam, it was once said, by a great warrior, “Though. It is true, there are a lot of great ones. It isn't the gun you should fear.”
He moved his hand to silence me, and continued talking. “It's the one who builds the gun you should be afraid of.”
“Writ with this.”
“My weapon is my own despair.”
Somehow, over time, I started to get to feel a point of bitterness, over the misery of not being with Rumi, the longer I was at the ice-cream shop, and no one seemed to even notice I was writing lyrics, or attempting to get on stage some day at all.
I went to Rite-Aid, sometimes, and purposefully expressing my desire toward a somewhat darker bent in reality, I once knew the “last time” I ever wanted to work a job, was this one.
I found that over time, my bitterness I felt toward the way people, not just anyone, but American “tourists” in particular, in a simple word, those to whom were visiting my island, my town from afar. They arrived at my private, powerful, and cult “rich town” of Bar harbor, like they were invading. The way they entered this part of the world and behaved like they owned the place . . . you know who I mean.
The interloping force of these negators from logic, and denialists of their own countries and homes enter into our lives, and stay, and stare, and stand there, eating and consuming our energy, without loving us, and seem to enjoy the pain we are in also.
Their sick, sadomasochistic desire must be stopped with the force of love itself, sometimes.
All we have to fight them is our own love, with the power of more love.
I know, this is the true power of love . . .
I knew I had to quit my job.
I started walking slower, the way I walked down the Criterion alleyway, though I never knew why I still walked that path-route. I found myself looking at a name, spray-painted on the backdoor of the theater, in crude, very stylish artsy lettering, “MAX.” The person who was working with me, at the concessions, a eighteen year old from the high school, who had no respect for reality.
The name was spray-painted in such a brazen, and powerful, sort of hateful kind of way, that I kind of felt like he had spray-painted his own name on the door, on purpose, almost to prove a point of his own ignorance + arrogance, all in one fell swoop.
The ignorance of how it felt, to look at his name on the wall, or a “door” – as though the name just had to claim the doorway, and the entrance, or the backdoor, itself, was a reference to something I didn't like at all.
One day at work, it seemed like Kevin was pretty much not sure what to do with a new stack of shirts, so he told me to arrange them, after I had gotten to work after only an hour.
I free-floatingly was singing a lyric in my mind, when I found myself folding the shirts, when he said something about the music I had played.
“Brendan . . .”
“You can't just mix all of the Putamayo songs onto a mix CD like that.”
“Those are company songs. Store songs, that were given to the store by the free enterprise of those CD's, they are made for the tourists. For the store to play, not just for a mix or some cool high school style playlist to be made out of them.”
I looked at him, blankly, with a stare that was pretty empty.
The dilapidated feeling in my bones, themselves, and my mind, seemed to feel almost as though I was about to burst, and I looked at him like I knew it was the exact, precise phrase, and words, I – out of all phrases, and words, didn't want to hear at all.
“Okay,” I said.
I brought the mix back home, and even though I had other copies, I broke it in two with my hands, and let the pieces land wherever they landed on the floor.
I feel bad about myself, when music upsets people, but I knew since meditating with music, and the power of vibration, how it had healed me for so long, that I never wanted that to be the effect I had on people with my music.
I mixed a pixies rock CD, the next day, to bring to work, and play the music on purpose, and worked a few more months until I was officially “done” working at the Acadia Outdoors store. I played mostly a few Pixies songs, but I mostly mixed in Frank Black's actual solo tracks, a little bit, to keep it interesting. My favorite song to play was, “Los Angelas.”
Kevin was a real impolite, skinny, five foot six little bitch, in my point of view, and I'd kick his ass any day, if I had a real good reason, or opportunity to, but I stopped starting fights, or messing with people a long time ago, and I vowed to make music, instead of “do that” (you know, like with computers ..) a long time ago, since I knew it was better to heal, than to hurt.
He really was a skinny little bitch, too, and the way Americans act so tough, when they're so fat, or skinny, and they never really get in actual fights – is so hilarious when I know I practice tai chi, now, and I have perfect libido in bed with women, and I would almost not know “what” to do with a little bitch like him, honestly, but at this point in time I'd honestly rather just kill the dude.
On my last day of work, I walked over to see a girl at the massage parlor nearby. Jordan Montana was working as the receptionist there, and I entered, having skirted past the shop a little bit (a place where I actually got massages) and grabbed a few CD's that were left outside of the Two Cats Breakfast cafe, and remember giving her a Cher CD, and a soundtrack from some movie. She pretty much never saw me again, after this, and I knew she wouldn't, because I was mentally quitting my job that day, but didn't want to tell anyone, but was still determined to, at least one more day, see, “the girl at the massage parlor,” because she was so sweet, and I had no idea how I even met her in the first place. She smiled, and I walked off, with a mysterious new air of confidence, and she didn't know why.
I was pretty determined to write a song today, I remembered, and knew that I was going to. I did write a song that day.
I got “home” (my CD player in my backpack) and then quickly said I needed to go get something from the ATM, or whatever excuse I could come up with, and in about 3 minutes flat, I had walked past the freezer aisle in Rite-aid, and then returned to quietly open the glass door, and slid four large Natty Daddy beers into my backpack, and kept walking. I never look behind me, and I prefer to “act” on my way out of the store (have a real mean look on my face) and pretty much 'feel like I could go to jail, and almost in a way, desire it, because I might as well if I really want to drink this shit.'
For whatever reason, whenever I disrespect both myself, “and” the product, in certain cases, it's almost like I'm “meant to get away with it.”
Marking this as my final day at the miserable, alcohol-abusing “ice cream shop” I apparently was “looking like a bad-guy” in front of people, I had to quit, and quickly went back home, and managed to save the other two beers, drinking one as soon as I got back, and getting as drunk and buzzed as I could with a large joint to smoke, and wrote a new song called, “The Final Mile.”
“God, I hated that job.”
No one knew I was quitting it. I still had to work landscaping. It was kind of like how things were when I dropped out of audio school, to just make music at home. I hated how I had to keep working, though. The system of my computer was running really smoothly, so I realized I could do a little more than just music-making tonight. Though, I felt kind of sick from the catharsis, I just looked up my checking balance really quickly, because I really honestly never check it that much and found out I had about $5,233 in the account (about five hundred dollars). This gave me both a feeling of satisfaction, and a tragic feeling of almost a negative form of relief, because I thought, both that “if I could save so much . . .” at the same time as, “then I should take advantage of the money I now have..!” So, the parallel was in a decision that was, in this moment, only indecision that could be properly voted upon by the effect of the song I made.
I picked out my guitar I wanted to play, and while I still had the Schecter, because I wanted to sell it, for an extra little bit more money, I played a loud electronic rock song, and felt convinced that I wanted to make music, and become spiritual, instead of become corporate brainwash-material for this lame American system.
I knew, the property of an actual “program” was almost, in a way, more operably changeable than the feeling of just a “thing” or a “consumeable” product of some kind.
The reality of a man, or a woman, who was like a “walking talking product” was the real abuseable reality by Americans, in this “Program of the American System” that is the system itself. We live in this holographic dream, a place where one job, and one worker, and another job, and another worker, are supposed to be balancing each other out. Yet, as I find out more about myself, looking at my face, my karma, and where I am from . . .
I can not help but judge, that I appear almost native to a different part of the world, native to a sense, maybe oriented, or simply arriving in my own buddhistic concept, though much like Americans, and feeling just the same, I know my style of tai chi is more unique to me, and I put on my slippers, and tend to drink tea with a certainty that I feel, or felt so close to my katana when I was young, I was always going to truly live like a samurai, no matter who I was.
I went outside, and sat down on the rock in front of the house. “Stupid ice-cream shop.” Was the lyric repeating in my head. I was on full-on affirmation-mode, at this momentelle in time. The “unit of time” was the lyric itself. The words, or fraze, repeated emanatingly in my mind, a power of “vital force” like the energy of love itself. I knew I'd be okay. I didn't know why.
The reality was setting in.
I got up, and looked at the “American Flag.” The image of the hologram, of the white, red, and blue laser-lights congealing together, in this mysterium of the image before me, as the salvia-strings from the smoke, inter-rolled with the weed of the special bud I had saved, from college, or so it felt, because when the salvia hit my lungs, and the weed mixed with it at the same time, I had the right see-through papers, the glucose papers you can watch the weed burn as you smoke it, and actually see the leaves melt in the fire as you get high off of it, at the same time as you see the weed melting inside of the joint, you feel it inside of yourself, and I felt so high. I felt good. I looked at the American Flag, and for whatever reason, I just started pouring smoke out of my mouth onto it. I exerted a long, lasting spill of smoke, and attempted to completely soak, and lather the fabric, the cloth like gauze, with my potent smoke, and empowered, and gave as much energy, and esteem, and pride I could possibly lend the flag.
I really started laughing, because for whatever reason this got me really high.
I even once, as I walked inside, “as though this memory was history itself,” thought on the 120-page book I wrote, that somehow in a weird, sci-fi novel-way, made a reference to “The Odyssey” and how I am much like the main character, except of a much different reality, a more medieval hologram, like the midworld, in which Ulysses is more like a president-style person instead, yet I hardly would remember such a reality, because of the drunkness of my own nature, because I'd probably be some “unwilling leader”-type soul, like the president Ulysses S. Grant, in all likeliness, than an actual true hero of the flag.
So, I laughed a lot, also, and for some reason, I felt like I had to laugh a little bit, with the energy of my laughter getting on the flag, too.
So, I laughed on the flag.
I think I was trying to produce wind. It is truly amazing how almost no one has ever really witnessed my behavior at night time, when I am just all to myself, and trying to experience an experience with “experience” itself, with reality, or just existence, because sometimes I feel so good, I forget about everything except for my very thoughts themselves, and just keep focusing, and unfocusing on the depth of the words, to the sentences, to the paragraphs, to the general idea, subject-matter, and context, back to my original emotion itself, and when I judge or measure the emotion, I seem to always get back on track.
The truth is, if I ever really was ulysses S. Grant, then it is probable that Ulysses S. Grant already quit drinking a long time ago, around the age of fifty, when he was the president, and I would probably never really have a problem with drugs in the future, so I think I was laughing so much, because in spite of the absurdity of my behavior, I am actually a very well-tempered, and honest, and pretty much going-to-be sober man in the future, who does not drink, or abuse drugs that much at all, because I am already sober enough to write this, and it has already felt like several years since I last had a drink. I am thirty now, and the “feeling” of my ecstasy seems to just be getting better, and better. Almost like a good well-formed craft of the inventions of my own creativity itself, rending a program out of my own mold, that is the “fire of the fire” – only the fire of the lowest form. These might even be familiar words to me, but I don't really know why. I know, for whatever reason, though all of this might feel existentially absurd, that we must “go on and fight for the answer for what we are seeking, when the day is tomorrow.”
I looked down, and suddenly flashed on the image of the fifty dollar bill, and lied down on my bed and gasped and sighed an exasperated breath of vital air, and felt astral black breathe through my lungs, and felt one hundred percent positive all of a sudden, and suddenly just admitted, “I probably am the reincarnation of Ulysses S. Grant” and just started staring, and didn't laugh at all.
Rushing to my computer, I just started to write, and lost track of time, until my buzz was followed only by weed alone. It took several hits, and hit after hit, bowl after bowl, I finally figured out the right dollar amount to sell my guitar for, and I put it on eBay, and mentally knew that I'd be able to get $500 for it.
I also found a way to sell a few other things, but I kind of thought money wouldn't be a problem for me, so I stopped worrying for the next day or two of songmaking.
For whatever reason, there really didn't seem to be much “time” to imagine, when all I “wanted was to make a song” which, in accordance with time and logic, usually always requires “at least five minutes” to create. Almost as though the expectation of making music, driven the life to another place or locale, the energy was being dredged and then changed, and replaced, to a moved location, that kept re-locating my interests, thoughts, and ideas. Stealthily moving with the floes of a natural glacier, or movements in the ice beneath, or ether above, I felt as though my thoughts could travel through any wall, material, or “thing” of any kind of matter, no matter what the material, object, or thing. Like a translucency to the object, I could “flow through” in a way that was setting my soul free as I went through, and as I felt this movement, like the actual feeling of a flowing movement within me also, I am flowing in within, my body, as well as mentally beyond the plane or aura of my bodies feelings, that are expanding outside of me, reaching with each cell into the universi beyond me, into whatever universe I find myself.
I hope that if I find this “true” universe, I won't have to work at such a place as an “Ice Cream Shop” next time.
Knowing, thinking from the matter I am made, I know that 'atoms' in their sub-strings, to the super-strings beyond, are in that when I find we are describing a matter of the quantum plane, an actual phrenological explanation can be made to the actual spaces, and time-space continuums in the equidistances in the separations, and connections in these matters, in a “feelingly explored” notion of how intuiting new realities can be felt-explored, or inter-explored, I know that if my body is made of cells, that are outer, to the inner waves of an atom, the holographic galaxy of each atom in my body would likely prefer the swirl of a much better shade than what most girls offered me, in the looks on their faces, while I was working at the ice-cream shop, because if I am a practicing physicist who is eventually going to make myself powerful through my music, to improve my own music through my science, it is likely that over time, I will get better looks from pretty girls in the field of music, since I am learning based on the flavors of ice-cream, what genre I should choose, and use the most of. Based on the music in the shop, and what choices the girls make, and what “sweet things” they seem to like, I also want to change myself, and alter my body, and mind, and experiences as much as I can to make myself as “flavorable” to the girls, and as acceptable to the beauty of others, as I can, with as much of the power that both I, and they deserve, equalizing my atoms with theirs, in a way that is (to me) adding to my reality, and hopefully adding to theirs also. I want this to stay the way it is, with a reviewing of all faculties in the moment of completeness, that once everything is made clear, I mentally “know” I have everything, and rest into a lasting state of transcendence, that permeates into a state of “definite feeling – the definite truth of how in love I am.” With the girl I am with, whoever she is . . .
It could be Sarah. It could be Petya. It could be Milena. I was in potential love with any or all of them. I talked about love, sometimes like it was a 'symbolic concept' but I don't know how many people noticed, back then ..
I really was finding very few potential “American” girlfriends, for whatever reason ..
The next “company dinner” (for my last two weeks at first), because I actually can't legally “abruptly quit my job” according to the laws of the state. I was pretty miserable, to think about how I was quitting, because I kind of knew weed-money might become an issue. I had to tell my dad, I “might” want help with weed, sometimes. It didn't seem to bother him much, but the truth is he seems to forget, usually, and just get angry at me instead, when he thinks I am expecting “love” instead of weed, so his derangement and general hatred for me can make it hard for me to get weed with his help, but the truth was that my own job was getting worse than my own father's racistic disprideful hatred for “anyone different than him” (because I look more unique than most people) and he found a really mean way of expressing this sometimes, with hoarding, miserly, sarcastic, and purposefully-heartbreaking remarks, and behavior, all of the time ..
He is not as smart, or as big or as strong as me, but he has behaved like an overgrown child for years, always finding rare moments to literally “poke” me, with his weird remarks, and bitter sounding mindsets, exposed through weird terms, and strange overpolitical remarks, each and every time never adding up to any form of punchline or solvency, other than insult or bad comparisons, or negative reflections, until I finally just grabbed a book one night as I was walking past him while he was sitting in his chair, and picked up the big, hardcover version of the text known as “1941” and learned, as I gleaned the pages of the weird, very “indie” looking book, in whatever year I glanced, then, noticed it was filled with Nazi propaganda, and the now-realized enemy of the world, these to whom are none other than the true N.W.O. – are nothing more than a tripped cult of bad drug users, lesbians, and horrendously hateful masochists like my father, and sadomasochists like the proud evils who inhabit, with their violent inhibitions, the hatred of a nonexistent devil, the fleeting thought of their own illusive hatred, in such masked, and “carefully hidden”: books like this, with seemingly marketable covers, and real reasons to reach the world with pages to be read, when the entire “American” book I was holding in my hands, in front of me, in a time when such books would probably never be found, was an actual artifact of nazi propaganda.
I slid the book back, into the bookcase, and returned a different look at my father, only in the slightest, of maybe a one-percent of my own perceptions, through a new style of distrust, I relegated this to a sense of his own intellect, and realized I simply could no longer respect the very mind inside of him.
I, returning to the kitchen, the “only” kitchen in the house, realized I had a lot of drinking left to do that night.
I drank only about five beers, the tall 8% alcohol, forty-style ones, with the blue label, and stared at my TV, vexed by the Trailer Park Boys, as Bubbles, Julian, and Randy, ran all over the screen in their drunken charades, until one of them finally fell right through the roof at a trailer-park party they were having one evening, and in spite of all the tragic feelings as of late, and my job-quitting, I just burst out laughing, and started to cry a little bit realizing how happy I truly was, when J. Roc just said, “It's raining motherfuckers..!”
I invited my friend Josh over the next day, but this isn't really much to mention.
He really never stays too long, but it was around Christmas time, and I really loved his energy, and the social power, and social attention we got, and gave each other, with all the time we'd spent.
He didn't want to say much, but I knew the spiritual energy was different on this particular Christmas.
Josh wanted to ask me about my latest “revealings” to myself, or “ideas” I might have, since I knew the idea was a “lost concept” (or so he thought) the concept of my self-figuring-out, without the logic of a weird, lost identity, like “the poet” or “the musician” or “the engineer” or “scientist” – we searched through these archetypes. We searched through these emotions, and came up with many phrases. We knew the truth was in us, so we usually just had a lot of songs to play.
Sometimes, we'd shift, in song to song switches, and switching back to hear his song, or I'd play my own really quickly improvised, while he's already recording a entire string of songs.
The recording quality of the music was “room quality” meaning we had enough mics to mic up the whole room in a high-quality sounding way. I liked to used analog equipment, so this was also to the advantage of other people, when I knew that they might like to know what the true feeling of what it's like to “be inside of a studio” because I eventually managed to get that feeling in my home studio, just the way it felt in the professional studios where I learned about them, they had an especially black appeal, and most of my equipment was almost perfectly spaced for the sake of the sole performer, in the case of an actual person or soul in the middle of things, I always had a microphone at a chair, on a stand, with the possibility of a guitar being plugged in quickly, so that I could be ready to record a song at any given time really quickly.
Originally, Josh arrived with me one night, when I met him later, at a party, and we found that he had a natural talent with using microphones, and happened to be able to record a lot more songs than either one of us expected, even though he was nervous, and claimed he had “never recorded before,” we took a walk after, in the dark night, and thought about it. I knew I was sort of understanding toward this reality, but his music, in spite of how I like to be humble, was truly powerful-sounding, and well-performed, and seemed almost like a spiritual feeling. He looked a lot like the original face, or image of a familiar figure I remembered from the seventies, also, although I don't know how or why I automatically just wrote the word, “remembered” when I was not really alive in the seventies ..
When he looked at me, that night, and asked, “when you trip, do you ever look at your face in the mirror..?” I just kind of thought, “do you ever listen to the music from the seventies, and think about how they might've felt, if they tried the same thing, and the effect is different now..?”
Josh quickly looked at the mirror, and he immediately smiled. I was sitting nearby to him, and I said, “look good..?” And he said, “yes.”
“That's what I thought.”
“You should try tripping alone more.”
“Don't use the mirror, though.'
“It's just a thing, another thing like anything else.”
“I mean, it seems profound or kind of interesting.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Well we're born at similar times, and you know, I myself am like a reflection in a way .. I mean, I don't mean to be so cool-sounding, but we're all really just like Christians or buddhists, how all people really just want the same thing, to be happy, and know each other. We want company, and peace. Just to live, so why do we need to look at something, or see ourselves, to confirm so much of what we already have, or what we'll get, if all we are going to do is remind ourselves of what we have, with the mirror anyway..? Remember you are here, in the moment, with what you have, and see what happens if you go to my studio, or your recorder, and you hit the record+play button in that moment, instead, and without the temporal effect of just the image, you can truly capture your soul.”
“Like a professional CD, in a moment.”
“Really cool, yeah.”
“That's what we should do.”
“Make it so it's easy.”
“So that we can make the best, most high-quality music, like a really high-quality mirror. In the moment we need to, right when we want to make a song. Right at the right moment, and seriously high quality sounding. We need to be well set up, and totally ready every time. And the process should get you high.”
“Whoa, you're over-completing the idea.”
I spoke in such direct, loud tones back then, in each section, sound, and measure of each word I spoke, until I really looked at my own face later on in life but it was kind of a miracle, how I helped him with that follow-through, of self-respect, for himself, since his pain, and his sadness, really are nothing compared to the power in his face, the name, and the light I saw in his soul. Josh, or whoever he is, is a really cool dude on the personal level, and for the obvious “friend” that I knew was available from him, I almost felt like if you make music, or if you try to share your soul with the world, when you might not even have a need to, or have a powerful reason to try so hard, you must be an even nicer person, if you are already social and personable, and choose to make music beyond this, putting yourself more out there, to connect and love on an even more powerful level. This I respected in him, and I knew he was great for this reason.
He didn't drink.
He looked positively vexed all the time.
Like he liked to be confused, and yet didn't “need” a surprise so badly, based on the need for a good reality – anymore than just a good reality.
“That was a powerful identity.” I sighed, a loud, powerful sigh, and happy feeling inside of me, perceptively felt by both of us, maybe, as the quiet shadow walked into my moms car to get driven home. The Jimi Hendrix looking apparition entered the car, and was off, back to the community house he was living at, at the time.
The shadow of his silhouette, as he walked off, to the car, from the front step, looked truly tall, dark, black, and as though a distant crow's shadow, or silhouette, in a meaningfully symbolic form, going through the ethereal blackness of the night, like walking away from a drunk feeling, quickly incurred from a party he'd just gone to, still drunk from his last drink before he left the party, to walk back home.
His arms sort of “placed themselves” at his side, but moved naturally, and he had a natural grace about the control of his chi, in the “coldness” of his body, for some reason. A very well-held, and “set” posture of his body-movements, like he was a dark antenna aligned, like a black star, perfectly balancing with the night-sky, and the Sirius moon.
“God, he looks so cool.” I wanted to help him make a CD, or get recordings made, as soon as I could.. he was inspiring me, and when I got back inside, back home, I got to the microphone I first laid my eyes on, and started to record a simple acoustic track.
As I recorded that night, I was in the same position, the same spot where I was originally recording, or “smoking” the vape with Gordon and Les, that night, like I had a great reason to try and play a song that night. Instead, I just forgot and started laughing.
Somewhere outside, a hovering U.F.O. – or to our eyes, a simple purple sphereized triangle was hovering, in a mid-air positricity with the waves around it, and in the ether standing this mist around the machine, I found my own eyes were only directed at the guitar, where what I was saying, when the orbs around it found a way to swim toward the man beneath the hovering object. A low hum vibration was coming out of the bottom of the ship, and I think the man looked up for a second confused then didn't notice a single thing and then kept on walking.
The ship moved past him, and with interest in someone else, because they were going in the better direction.
The individual had more “powerful energy” – though, to these E.T. Presences, inspitefully of their bad energy of their own, the devices these Zeta's used, in their ships, were detectional of only the loudness, or power of the waves in the frequencies themselves, from the EMF-waves of the human aura, in whatever lost images of Kirlian patterns and color-shifting, they only saw the “level of power” itself, and I thought it was funny that this might be true that I could feel, in my astral projection, as I was playing my guitar, I could clearly see how their instruments, as basic and advanced I am to them, or them maybe to me, at least “one of us” might know a lot more about frequencies than the other one, since their instruments were detecting the person's energy only on a volume-based level, and were not actually deriving any emotional or sentiment-based energy, so they were not actually aware that the “power” of the person's “fear” was the only thing they were reading, in spite of how powerful, the only reason why they had such “powerful energy” was because they were in a state of fear, but since the remoteness, and simplicity of the ship's design was so basic, it was only able to read the power-level itself, so it is as though the fear didn't even matter at all, but it was only the power-level that the directives of the ship wanted to have, no matter whether fear, or passion.
The ship passed over my studio, even for a second, I looked out, not clear enough to see, but anything was possible, so I went out a few nights later, and sure enough, a far-away distance zig-zagging lights were intervalically moving, from point to point, like mentally-formed triangulations in the far-distant space, like an entertaining view, to be shared with me, on purpose, for me to somehow “learn through” the imagery of, seeing the U.F.O. Move in the distance. It definitely was moving, and looked like a far-away star. I know I might still see one, still, if I wanted to, or tried. I know how they look by now, and there was an alien U.F.O. three nights later I witnessed.
The “system” of the elite was in town, one day, in a sense. I was trying to write a powerful lyric, and one day a big cop-looking stoner walked out from around the corner of the ice-cream shop, and it was Chris. He looked like an agent of some kind.
He had this obvious, ongoing “Three-letter God” reference, to key me in on the NSA that was watching me, but I literally felt that hemp was a plant grown and smoked for thousands of years, and the law is absurd to control a medicine, I still purchased weed through him. It didn't help my image at work, though.
So, the next day, I invited him to my house, to see if he wanted to record a song .. (That 'Bebe girl' song he was talking about). I knew it was with a good chorusline, from his reciting it at work, and I thought it would actually cure our relationship a little bit if we just recorded it.
In spite of how “spylike” he felt, I invited him over, and he was at my place the same day I invited him. We took the bus over, and very shortly were smoking a spliff in my “master studio” and looking at the instruments, and he was an amazing guitar player, so it was only a two-take process, and the mixing process was already started. The mix took almost two hours, but the individual known as “Chris” was clearly a professional of some kind. He didn't even need to think about the guitar-sound, the mix, the vocals, or the layers, or anything. He walked to the door, and as he was leaving the room, I thought, desperately in search of the right frequency to speak in, and responded, “Yeah. I guess. If you like that poppy, modern-day feel.” And he just kind of looked at me, a little offended, and seemed to remain offended after I told him what I thought – almost a two second moment process, itself, after we totally finished the mix, I totally trashed the energy as soon as it was totally mixed.
He walked out of the room, and was smoking a cigarette outside. It was funny, because I wasn't really so spiritual at this time. I knew about a few “tricks” of the ideals, or process of “power” in my own passion, but it was kind of funny how when we both went back inside, Chris clearly had a look in his eyes watching me strum my Hohner acoustic guitar, and singing the lyrics from my song entitled, “Expectation,” which was actually the name of the song, and I sang it a little louder the second time.
He moved out of Maine / away from Maine, quickly after meeting me, and seemed more afraid than sexually perverse or threatening, and also, mysteriously, my body-magnetics returned to normal over time, and my appearance improved again, once he was gone. This mysterious effect of the magnetism of competing bodies didn't impress me, though, so I chose ti never think about him. and supposedly went back to California with his “new girlfriend” (Bebe girl) the next two weeks later. And, in spite of how he reacted in the sports car, also, it seemed like he was a little bit concerned for his own power, or how his own soul was doing, after he saw me play the guitar and sing.
I have not heard from him, and it has been a while since he saw me play.
I really did think his song was pretty good.
When I got to the point of actually “explaining” myself to anyone, at work, in my crew, or “with my crew” at Cooper Gardens, I didn't want to tell Little Tom, in particular. He had a entire bottle of hydrocodone's one day, and I actually took one one day. I was super-high, and felt like I needed to confess.
He was Vietnam vet, and his son had already died in Iraq. “She cheated on me,” I told him. “Oh..! That's it..!” He laughed. And Tom seemed amused, at me, for a while.
“Damn, there's a lot of things – a lot of SHIT that's worse than that..!”
I looked at him, and kind of laughed.
I was angry, that day, though.
We smoked a joint together at the end of work every day.
Tom seemed to have a relieving effect, anyway, because he loved weed so much.
The way people drink just isn't much compared to the very devoted, and passionate way some men will smoke weed compared to focusing on any of their troubles.
I realized he was right.
It really was nothing.
I have experienced far worse things.
The individual who “spent time with her” was also a pretty absurd individual. A korean minister, of some kind. Far older than her. It made it all look obviously damning to him, more than me. I was always a pretty religiously-oriented person. I like buddhism, as well as Christianity. A lot of my family is very aware of the many sides of religion. We know about, also, the healing power of our own love and energy, and the truth of how some families support themselves – which is the true religion, we find is really always in need of a pure sense, so we always find that our true religion is always family, and history with each other, itself.
This karma is formed over time, and we must know that we all have a “reason” in our family connections, where each of us are going to do one thing, and another does something, that is circulatory of the energy we need to flow between us all, so that with the help of each other, love energy will positively travel within the circuit of the entire family cell. Our so-termed “eco-system” is the atmosphere, and with or without any honesty, we can not get the meaning of a concept across to someone, so even if we have to yell or scream, that is the way it was, until we started to sing . . . I knew I was not singing much lately, so that day I kind of reacted when I “mentally fantasized about taking pills all day” instead of working, so I kind of threw my arms up in the air, told Tom to “fuck off” the next time I saw the pills in his hand, and quit that job, too.
I walked down Main street, in the direction leaving from where my father's shop and warehouse used to be, where I first worked for him. And the same road, where I used to walk with my friends. He tried to follow me a bit and ask what's wrong, but after the things I told him, I kind of realized I had a lot more interesting work, or more important things to be doing than mowing lawns.
I went straight home, and loaded up some of my old software, and started doing a few people searches.
. . . . . . . . . .
“Tea Sung Kang” – a.k.a. “Tae Sung Kang” – a.k.a. “Teasung Kang,” was a Korean minister, who emigrated to the United States, who has a “semi-retarded son” (down syndrome) and who became a minister in his later twenties (I think), and who was at the time 35. I noticd in his crime report he had gotten into a drunk driving accident, where he was arrested in Maine, near the Patten parsonage where his original church in Maine operated out of. He was arrested for drunk driving, almost directly after he slept with Rumi.
I looked up a photo.
Staring into his eyes, for a prolonged period of time, I meditated only hatefully, with anger in my heart, and through years of memories, soon to be erased, I'd never drink another drop of alcohol some day, beyond the age of thirty, because of my personal plea to live a better life than this tragic man.
I looked into his eyes once more, and I decided to keep space, in me, or from me. For whatever reason, I was just too angry ..
An e-mail to Rumi, so that I could have some time (alone) I guess, quickly left the same words directed at Tom, a silent yet powerful letter, ending meaningfully with the unique phrase, “Fuck You!” and then she responded one more time. She left me alone for a while, and at the time I got her off my back, so I could deal with things.
She thought I was trying to be mean.
This world, has been like an ongoing World War, for years, of the “third” kind, and I know, this awful feeling of an alien presence, or negative tragic power on the Earth, that we must creatively oppose, must be opposed with every sense, essence, and power we have, to defeat this whore, and wretch of an enemy, the unknown sea of lies, the energy of ear, or the simple desire to transform or manipulate others through lies – I knew this certainly was not a “Christian” feeling, or anything we'd felt in our families or histories.
The pain on the Earth felt like an alien feeling that was invented, almost like a genetic strain of misery, somehow, produced in our DNA just to hurt us, as though a invisible chemical in the air, that free-flows, flowing around us, such as to provoke or inspire the same fear in others.
I started walking the streets of Bar harbor, differently that day, and I wrote in my notebook more. I started carrying with right with me, also, and would take routine trips to the shore, and ocean, to “re-gather” my thoughts, while burning at the sea. Going to the ocean to smoke joints alone at the ocean became a routine at this point in my life. I decided to keep this as an active habit. To this day, I have not lost my connection to the ocean.
“water is life, in the essence of vitality.” A youtube video was droning in the other room. “Water, like the cymatic shapes formed in water, is all vibration, just as the sound-waves that are passing through it. Crystals are formed both physically and nonphysically to generate the standing wave, or manifest expression of this energy, into the note, shape, or symbol that this appears to be, and . . .” I turned off the video, and started to play my acoustic guitar, and recorded a new song, in a new process, where I had started to record more, and more, on a more daily basis, and this got to a point where once I was writing and recording a song a day, I started to create up to three songs a day, and eventually I was able to record entire sessions in my studio without fear.
The hi-hat of my drum-set, the entire time, had a pink flower sticker on it, that was left by my one true love.
She would know, from the power, and love I effect into that drum, I am not leaving her behind, and I will be back. The high-frequency “tings” would only reach her, anyway, because she has heard the drum, and the hologram of her touch, love, the sticker, and kiss, is an all-complete way, to keep in isle, the view of the love I wanted, in the life ahead of me.
I was born on an island, on a island that goes just off the mainland of the part of the world known as Maine, in the United Stes, and this is a part of the world known as Mount Desert Island, otherwise known as MDI. The world knows little about my town, but this is a powerful celebrity-ville, and the tourist town I'm from is a very lucrative and fortunate part of the world, such that we are a very secure town, with little influence from corporations, althuugh we are all directly connected to the mainland through a bridge, and the town, originally called, “Eden,” is much like original sectioned cities, like in the Essene tribes, where Jesus himself, and other figures from the Bible, were always kept, to be safe, in a reincarnation of the past, to a new age of similar karma, where some of us secretly knew this karma was real, and when you walk down cottage, the compass proves it in the very cross you see, as each road you walk, and turn, forms a perfect cross going right down Main street, to Cottage, street, and wherever each street takes you – in the roads that are perfectly aligned with the divine cross, of the island.
My school (the first school I went to) was also originally called “Eden School” preserving the original name of the town, so because of that reason, the history of my town being shared out loud, and a lot of detailed accounts and stories of my town, and the people here, also, knowing that my own grandfather was a talented “divination” expert, and aware soul who knew about such things as magic, and good transportation, and things like music. I could feel the culture in my town was obvious, and truthful, so I don't usually tend to forget this history, and I never really forget.
At the hundred-point of every thought through the emerald tablets of our own personal design, the Torquine shell of our own power can ensafen us to a more powerful vibration, if we want to, truly, keep ourselves safe in the sactuary of our own souls, we must have to admit, sometimes, that whether the power of Jesus or the Devil, the caducean possibility of each, or either, or at least, “one” – yet rarely both, will, in whatever condition of the coin, will be the power, of the metal, of the key, that sets you free, when I myself always felt, a mysterious affinity for both.
When I was young, some power was with me .. the illumination of a sense, an actual feeling of sound. The tone-sense, or, an “actual understanding of vibrations, and sounds made from a distance.” I thought I knew them, like a vibration from the ether. I knew these were more than just vibrations.
The energy felt like what might cause a movement, or poltergeist effect, yet seemed to feel like this was only an effect, or side-effect of emotional power itself.
The emotional power can or may build up into a new unique, more powerful form of energy, sometimes, that is a condensed version of either love or hate, generating a standing wave.
The standing wave, of our present science, is reflective of an obvious relationship in both sound, and holograms, that seems to represent both the effect of a three-pointed laser (the atom), an actual hologram, and the reality of how a hologram + as well as atom are creatable at the 'very same time.'
The generation, and post-regeneration of the same image, in a unique re-coded, or re-coding of DNA, is a heightened sensory power, that of the neuroacoustic effect of the healing effect of the “sound-based imagination,” we find a powerful black viel of truth, the darkness of which is truly light, and is not so much black, anymore than space, and the darkness, and beautiful darkness of the ether itself and of space this ether is infinite. The movement of particles (cells) or waves (effects / power / energy effects) will re-cause, or re-incur effects in people, as well as things, equally. That both an object, or a living body might be equally affectable by sound . . .
I thought about the car in the road.
The way it was just sitting there, with no driver in the front seat. I could tell the psychic guy who was in trouble might've been hated for a reason . . .
It looked strange, but true.
For some reason, the idea of this vaporization theory, what I was then learning about presented a general task for uncovering the true need for chemicals and drugs in the world conjointly involved in also the investigation of why certain psychics (or magic practitioners) are so hated, during a alien invasion. The intervention of “drugs” or “chemicals” amid all of this, like a hypnotic effect, seemed to be rending the entire control over reality.
I looked at the world.
I saw it with new eyes.
The all-of-a-sudden feeling, of a journey I was on, became vastly apparent before me, and I saw a cloud.
The cloud was of waves, and many sites, and over time, the faculty of four powerful souls, those like real “horsemen of the apocalypse” – echoed like names, as if truly real, reincarnated people, from John Lennon, to Bruce Lee, were somehow on the Earth, and mysteriously involved in the fight against these dark forces.
Many times, I saw my own face, with the avatar of death. I was death himself. I was proud of this, for some reason.
I looked up, crying, as I looked up into the blue, and white blinding lights of the sky, and the sun beamed right through my face, and through my brow chakra, and right through, into the Earth. I felt the tears burn in a good way, and in a sense, I kind of always knew I was the “one who truly understands death more than anyone.” For whatever tragic, good, or bad reason, I'd known too much already, that our souls truly reincarnate, and that I can “definitely” tell a lot of people that Christ / Jesus, and the God we know of, the power of nature, magic, things such as reincarnation, and the effect of an old-soul whom becomes psychic, and is capable of “certain abilities,” is totally real, but at this time in my life, I had no evidence of such things, other than that of reincarnation itself.
I looked on the ground, and saw the grass growing, that was very green. Down, I looked at an orange dandelion. The yellow returned back, when I glimmered my own eyes, in a way, since crying at the sun. The sky was blue, and I looked back at the green grass. A certain tint of white broke through, and soon I saw the red heatglow of the fuzzy waves above the road, in the heat of the summer. Just “thinking” of the color blue, now, everything seemed to look blue-tinted for a while, and this is how everything appeared to me, for the next few hours. I never took many drugs, even at this point in my life, and the spiritual effect of just “seeing everything blue” (for me) back then, required no drugs.
I walked, out past the place in the town where I thought, while thinking all of these thoughts, in a tragic absurd observation of myself, “mentally accepting that I am a horseman of the apocalypse,” I am “death itself,” I went straight to the pay-phone at the Village Green, and called my dad. He got the park (The Village Green) in a short few hour or two, though it took a while, I bought a pizza slice, and got some popcorn, and felt like I was being “forced” to get acquainted with the town of Bar harbor.
For some reason, knowing without a job, or knowing (thinking) and truly aware of the fact I had no job, and I had nothing I could do about it, since I knew I hated the jobs I was working, I had really nothing to do at all.
I looked around the park, and this is all true story, and looked at the grass, the pavement, and saw all of the rest of the colors of the spectrum, and I somehow knew this was a body-completing effect rooted in my soul, or my chakras somehow.
The way I felt more spiritual after this moment was real, and somehow, even with Bob (Cooper's Garden's) he wanted a “two weeks notice,” but I was very mean on the phone, and I never went to work for him again.
The actual hologram, and the reality of how a hologram + as well as atom are creatable at the 'very same time.' . . . the words were now recorded on my own recording device, and I was beginning a careful study of soundwaves, and how to learn more about both holograms and vibrations. I also was beginning to paint more, and I did a lot more paintings of the swirl technique, with plasmic and auroric designs in them, like cymatics, in a sense. I already knew they felt “trippy” to look at, and even share, also, so the limited nature of such paintings was obvious and I really needed to use my hands more. The pen I chose (a truly powerful black pen) to draw with, was my eventual tool of expression, and remains my most powerful instrument today.
I know a much better painter than me, within all truth, and even though his “earlier work” (from other lifetimes) is just as good, I think his best work is in this present day and age. The understanding of how a local musician, or artist / and artist from Maine, or Bar harbor can be a natural artisan, or just someone who is “naturally-attuned with the art world” is almost seemingly caused by the effect of merely living here, in Eden, at all.
The very “fruit” of eden, is anything in Eden, so we are always liked by our own natural world, and the energy of the ocean and vegetation around us, to live where we are, and appreciate the world we have, by creating something for nature, from nature.
The true reality of how proud an artist might be, to keep painting, from one work, to the next, as though each painting represents a soul-element, of each life to life expression, as though from the poet, to the painter, like a modern-day painting from the reincarnated Wordsworth, a classical demonstration of how a mysterium of the ancient, old English words, can move on, from one, to the next, and finally (usually) only be revealed truly by the artistic power, and awareness of another poet, to whom can see the power in another, as a result of his “present work.”
I've heard of mystics, in history, where they are “self-hidden” and live of a code, to that of what is only a “normal” as their life provides, an indidivuae of people who refuse to be too popular, for whom are working for Earth, and “Universe” on an equally-respectful level, and these workers, for the sake of light, in my honest respect, I truly know the best friends of these types of people.
The uniquety of an artists power, I have found, is enough, like I was telling my dad, on the truck-ride home, although he didn't believe me, that I could “make money as a writer,” he didn't seem to know much about the history of much at all, but as we drove home, I both thought about these things on one track of my mind (on the inside), and out loud, told him what I think about all of this, on the outside track, at the same time. Magnetically attuning myself, he had no idea how I had a 200 I.Q., which was only proved by a paid research study later on, because since I have such a high I.Q. I am usually paid just to receive a research study, and the best part of this is how I lied originally about how much money they paid me, affording me even greater fortune to “lie about my I.Q.” for as long as I want to. I was (I think) given at least $500 from Mclean hospital, the Mental Hospital that originally imprisoned me for a week, and then later another $500, equaling a sum-total of at least $1000, or $1200 in a sum total for all of the money I was paid, just to answer questions, be interviewed, and stare at a screen while doing an EEG. I even paid for my taxi ride home, to the community house I was staying at, at the time in Brookline, in Boston when I got back, I counted the money, ate a few Hershey's kisses, and went to bed. The experience, I had here, I met a lot of cute girls, got drunk a few times, and rehab didn't sober me up at all.
When I got home, I smoked a joint with my “wordsmith” friend, and he sat with me in a field. I helped myself to a loud prolonged hit off the spliff, and I told him, “Man. You know. The whole time I was stoned, and on that LSD that one time .. all I could do was think about the word, Remember, and the name Edgar Allan Poe, Edgar Allan Poie, Edgar Allan Poe, over and over again .. and I got so high. I was sooo high.”
I started laughing, and then dropped the joint into the grass, and quickly tried to pick it back up, like I'd accidentally tried to throw it out of a closed window of a car ..
Josh kept laughing, but I am usually a lot like the people I talk about, when I'm so bad at imitating myself, when I am already previously-affiliated with the person I am smoking my joint with, since he was a friend of mine in that lifetime, also.
We can't help but be very honest with one another, here in Maine.
I said, breaking the silence like a ice-pick of darkness, with the cold tone of voice I suddenly spoke through, sounding like a self-numbed action hero, “do you think aliens are real..?”
“What..?” And he started laughing. “Oh yeah. Like the Arcturians. And the Pleiades, and stuff yeah. I believe in that stuff.”
We stared off, and talked for a while.
The discussion echoed into the grass, and the Earth, and the dirt, and the elements, interpolating, and integrating the “observations” of our awareness, into time and space, and I was effectively “de-programmed” from the bad programming of rehab, and got back to normal life as it was, after another joint that evening.
The echoe, of a far-off chain of waves, somehow in a state of perpetual emanation was showering the mellowfied ear-drums of the soul that was flying, at that moment, when I felt so drunk, I leaned back in my computer chair, and while working on the latest song, felt as though my entire lower back was relieved of pain, as I took a self-enlightening hit of weed, and didn't know how to look at the world, 'cept through the eyes of a parallel genius, and found the most well-intended of soul-doubting, loved-of quotes, in all things I'd ever thought, in the world, and stated one phrase out of my every incarnation process, and the words were simply that, “I knew, while we were driving. I had a reason to drink mine alone.”
In the next day, when I was walking through Bar harbor with a chocolate milk-shake in my hand, I knew of a craven cigarette-smoking drunk who needed a “reason to drive his truck” a lot, so I would occasionally filter my thoughts with his idiotic laughter, and talk to him at the liquor store when he was selling things like “saint brendans whiskey” and a new, more dangerous brand of peppermint schnapps.
I was going to tell him something like, “I might need a bag of weed today.”
But instead, all night, he was just trying to tell me about how he drinks his whiskey, and as soon as we walked into his cabin (the semi-motel style cabin) he rented near me, somewhere in Trenton, which was actually just a single room, saying things about the “horsemen of the apocalypse” and how he wanted to know, “how Poe already had the TB,” whatever that means, and why I had to talk to him about all these things in a single night, when he was the one to claim “my” song, when I had the acoustic guitar in my hands, was a “sad” song, when I was always a confident person.
These fools around me didn't understand they were listening only to the movement of the air molecules.
They could only hear their own voices enactuating the ideas around them. No one really wanted to speak. Did we really have any ideas at all..? I thought they were truly trying to be unique. The reality was all-of-a-sudden, we knew, that we were all trying to say the same thing. One night, or that very night, I told Les, “I think we're all under mind-control. While something far worse is happening.”
He just looked at me, and knew I was saying something, “under the influence,” but the drugs just had to be ignored that night.
When I told him I remembered knowing a lot when I was young, it was like my best friend Gabe represented the archangel Gabriel, and I myself always kind of held a connection to death, or the fourth horsemen of the apocalypse, which was like the devil, or lucifer, or Christ himself.
Les never wanted to believe my grandiose theories. About my identity, or who I was, or what I was going to do with my “life.” He knew how to look at my college self, the version of myself he met when he was in school with me. I'd buy a bag of weed from Gordon, and give him a little to smoke with me, and we were friends through the drug, so by the virtue of smoking weed together, it was like we were sharing each other's fortune, and sharing each others' delusions, also. We were all paving the same road, of the same future, and didn't even seem to mind also, that if we were all heading in the same direction, at least 'one of us was going to be the director.'
I looked at the past-tense, present-tense, and local-tense, to all “futurable” possible timelines, and I was sure where I had to go, this time.
I started walking, and left the ice-cream shop, one day, on a similar day, when I abruptly left work, to talk to the girl at the parlor down the street . . .
I also, saw an image of myself, for some reason, running fast down the side-walk in Bar harbor, to get to the ocean.
I saw myself, in another version or image of myself walking, and could see myself running down the road at night.
I went to this image, and in my mind, all there was was a bright light, and flashing all the time. Blue, red, and green LED lights, and beautiful music playing.
I was at my computer, and safe from all so-called “influences,” or “problems.”
There was something weird about how we'd smoke weed together, cold and so careful at night, not sure why we felt like we were being watched, but we were always sometimes needing to see something more back then, something was more visual than we wanted to state, or knew, and the problem was that we always had something to look at, but we didn't really have the artistic ability to totally construct “the best image” for our minds to be directed.
So, over time, I lost track with Les, because my art-work was getting better, and I knew my own mind to be more creative, so I got on a track of my own eventually.
Without the subtle influence of his bad, or worser-style of creativity, I could tell my style was improving, also.
Over time, I stood in the Winter's of Maine, with a far-better friend, who I even outgrew, and became better than.
The Jimi Hendrix style smile on his face, while Brandon Lee walked away, and I'd already felt the next look in someones eyes, like the glow of the clownlike smile, on a seventies-influenced persona, working closer to home than I had thought. I looked around me, and noticed that everyone was just the same. They had all lived before, and we were all like death that had risen up from the Earth, to live the same way as we always had done.
The way I looked at them, I had my own self-same look in my eyes.
I could not stop, the reincarnated feeling, when I went to work one day at work.
The cold feeling of the air, and the wind, and the absolute feeling of pure white feeling as though a thin as well as thick sheet, and layer of atmosphere had layered itself over everything, and I walked up to the shop, when I looked at a sign, that was an arts shop, with an individual working there, who I later found was a pretty obvious sociopathic rendition of Gary Numan, from the music industry, and he had a shop called, “Side Effects,” where I ended up asking for a time to sell paintings in the summer, when I did in October.
The night I was trying to tell someone, about the power of this theory I had, I wanted to tell someone else, when I wrote a quick 120 or 200 pages, in a New Age “treatise” ( I called it ) called, “Super-Terrestrials” a document or book on how to be creative in the future, or my personal thoughts on artistic power in the new millennium, and I went to start making my own paintings around the same time.
I was not sure if I wanted to tell anyone, but I knew the problem with mind-control, and the invasiveness of bad energy from a distant, or close corner of the universe was obviously a divine intervention with God, and both the universe, “and” Humans, where only a human, or one human could truly prove their own power against the forces of the unknown to protect our own race from the negativism of these “cataclysmic” cosmic theories. I thought that rapture, or the “reckoning” of our humankind would always come with the hand of at least one more, supermortal, or penultimate-in-power, the demigod-like, or most powerful human would always be an artist.
The true power of this artist would be super-terrestrial, and need to rise above the odds of his own risen spirit. That we are feeling to be in a spirit or a weather of the atmosphere that is as though a time when our own soul, like the cloud-dust, matter, of the clay of the atmosphere, can be sucked out or eaten from our very bodies, or the rootcore, moral spine, or the fibre, or maybe the actual calcial core, or root energy, or the very base-matter of all of our source-materials, what we have at the centre of all of this is only our blood, our DNA, or our swearing, and desire to accursedly, with or without the moment of love, create or destroy a new future through the root-notes, or root-vibrations, or root-colors of our original soul-concept, and with our original soul-concepts, and the original traits, features, and best powerful abilities of the best hero, or the best saint, or the best artist, we should always want a lot of possibilities to put all into one story.
The trip of this reality, is when there had been a long time ago, the same drug addict alive, when at the same time, our self-rended version of Christ was never much of an interest toward the art-world, unless it had been for industry itself.
We found that later on in life, although “carpentry” was once much of a form to simply live, and build a house to live in . . . in the modern day and age, a much more needed craft in the factuality of the Earth, in base materials, of feelings, and absolute matter, of the soul-matter, a spiritual meaning in our actual matter, the thoughts of our consciousness and to word poems, or to word lyrics, in a better verse than the conversations to buy or accept nothing more than the power of a high or drug – we found more power in music or the energy of waves, so that in our enscriptions, over time and space, the Air itself was written on. With great lyricists, like the artist, and the writer who lived in a quiet way, able to retain his thoughts, while all the while, at the same time during an alien invasion, he was able to retain his entire thought-track, consciousness, by writing lyrics the whole time, and desire to remain “linear and able to describe the whole story” when he planned on writing a story about his experience at the ice-cream shop some day, that originally was meant to be only a journal, that turned into about a different subject-matter, later on, when he felt more “powerful” and high enough to describe, The Vaporized Man, as best as he could, as though “pretending not to want to” keep the original paragraph he had written that night, with Gordon and Les, on his black thinkpad, that survived to the present moment, almost 15 years later, still showing up, to be completed on a quantum computer, in a time and day when the information could be recalled. The one about the mysterious, lost man in the warehouse.
I'd been to rehab, and had my mind “reprogrammed” many times, from all the times I needed rehabilitation from all the drugs I'd done, but I've always believed in God, and I knew all of these things, this story, and my ideas, could always be remembered somehow. The akashic, invisible black, force of the unknown, and the darkness around me, existing in the space, and the information of the world, and the data of the power of everything, in all things, has caused me to remember with both the help of my new computer, and my own words, at the present moment in time.”
“The story ended on the page I thought it would end on, and I finished the story tonight.”