Look at you. Leaning there against the smooth finish of the brass and glass bar, you're sipping the last of your vodka and lemon. You pretend not to care who is watching you, but you know that we are. Your eyes dart about and you see all that is happening, but you think it seems like you only care about getting your next drink.
That guy that was just standing next to you for so long? He wanted to say something, but never had the chance. Well, he may have had the chance, but he never took it. He never made it happen. Phhht! Loser. He arrived with a full drink, stood there staring at shit he didn't care about and drank his beer while the gears in his head turned so slowly I could hear them squeak from over here. You weren't giving him any answers unless he asked the questions. Yeah. You're as cool as a minty ice cube. I like that.
“Hey, Tito,” I call to the bartender when he is near enough that I have to do little more than whisper, “Who is that girl over there? What's her story?”
“Never saw her before,” he answers, “but she came in by herself.”
“Is she waiting for someone?” I ask.
“Not sure. Seems like she's waiting for something though, doesn't it?”
“Yeah, she's waiting for you to get her a fresh drink,” I reply. “Send her one on me, but don't mention me.”
“You sure?” he asks
“I'm never sure, but there's no sense in second-guessing things. What could I get done if I had to be sure all the time?” Tito reaches to the top shelf, and pours the clear liquid from a beautifully-sculpted bottle into a fresh glass. He squeezes a lemon slice and drips the yellow juice, then tosses the slice away. Hanging a fresh slice over the glass' lip, he begins walking toward you.
I watch as he hands you the glass. You seem surprised that someone has bought you a drink. Bullshit! You've been there wondering the whole time why no one has sent a a gift to you already. Taking the glass, you hear the little voice in your head grumble 'why has it taken so long.' Sweeping your hair behind your right ear, I can see you mouth the words as you ask Tito who has sent it. This is the moment where my plan falls apart or works as I had hoped. I've got back-up plans in my pocket if this doesn't work, but I know Tito and his short-comings pretty well. I can read Tito's lips as he declines to answer your question - and he plays the part pretty well - but as I had predicted, he glances toward me for a fraction of a second as he turns from you. You catch his little mistake, follow the direction of his eyes and you see me there watching you. I can always trust Tito to mess up and make a plan come together.
You don't look at me for long – just an instant – but a hint of a smile appears and then disappears just as quickly as you look away. I turn my head away as well just after you. I swirl the ice in my emptying glass as I think about the next few moments. “What does a girl like this want to hear?” I ask myself. “What has she not heard yet?” I light a cigarette to help me think.
Taking the occasional drag from the smoldering cig, I let it mostly burn away in the ashtray as I call Tito for a refill. He pours me my Scotch on the rocks, and I take one last inhalation of tobacco as I reach for the glass. Out of the corner of my eye, I barely catch a glimpse as I see you walking past the crowd of nameless patrons lined at the bar. You approach me and I can feel my heart pump a little harder. I make as if I don't even notice you and you pass behind me so closely that I can feel the cool draft of your presence sweep along me. You don't stop. You don't say a word. You don't care that I am there. If you do, you don't let on anything to me. Striding confidently toward the door, I am relieved that you make the last possible turn and enter the ladies room instead of going those few steps further toward the exit.
It's not like me to check the restroom door every few seconds, but I do it anyway. I don't want you to just step out and slip through the exit without my notice. There are plenty of women here, but I've seen them all before – at least I've seen women just like them many times. But you; you I have never seen anywhere. I may never see you again. I don't want to take any chances. I despise a missed opportunity. The first half of my glass empties quickly.
From the corner of my right eye, I see you step out – the moment of truth. My breath lightens when you come back my way and wash me in your cool presence once again as you step only inches behind me then go to a now-empty table-for-two in a corner of the darkened bar. The deejay's music pumps beats made for such moments. Throbbing rhythms fill the room so loudly they drown all words except those spoken very near to the ear.
Acting quickly, I have Tito send one more 'anonymous' drink to you. As it is delivered, you once again look my way. This time, there is no smile. This time, there is only an unspoken question written on your face.
Answering your question, I lift my drink and begin approaching your table. You turn away from me, but I don't care. You saw me walking to you and I am now committed. You like control, don't you? I can work with that.
Without asking, I take the seat across from you and look directly into your eyes. They are stunning. I've seen eyes many times, but few have ever made me take a deep breath. Your eyes, so close to mine, make me gasp a gasp I try very hard to conceal. You smile a bit impatiently. Pointing to your drink, I say, “Fashionable Renaissance ladies used lemons to add more of a red coloring to their lips.” It's a blatantly miserable line and my heart sinks as I say it, but I follow with a sly smile of confidence. Despite my smile, all that I am truly confident of is that no one has ever led with that line to you before.
You smile now at me, and wrap your own ruby lips around the straw as you sip your vodka slowly. Placing your glass on the table, you look back to me and ask, “Do you think that is why I ask for lemon in my drink?”
“No,” I reply, “I think you just like the taste.” Again, I am amazed at how you trip me up.
You take the lemon slice hanging from your glass, and place it between those lips, lightly sucking the juices from it. “You're right. I do. And do you like the taste of a lemon?” you ask as you pull it away seductively.
“I do very much. I like the tangy, edgy bite of a lemon,” I reply. A devious grin now grows across your cheeks as you push the lemon into my mouth. I savor it not for its own tastes, but for the intimacy of the experience. I have never tasted a sweeter lemon in all my life. You pull the slice away and giggle girlishly at your success. I chuckle sheepishly at being so easily conquered.
My mouth and throat feel dry, though not entirely from the lemon's juiciness. “Tasty,” I say. “It goes well with my Scotch.”
“Have you never been fed fruits before?” you ask in a voice above the music.
“Never so sweet,” I say.
“Well, that is a shame,” you reply. “Life is full of all types of tasty fruits and we need be sure we taste them whenever they are ripe. There is nothing worse than a beautiful fruit wasted and left to rot on the ground without being savored.” Your words seem to flow from you in so many colors and textures that I am unsure if I have grasped all of your meanings. I now know why I see only you.
An awkward but pleasant silence fills the space between us. Somehow the pulsing music seems more distant now as our energies cut through it – creating a momentarily peaceful place for the two of us. I drink from my glass and, through the suggestion of my actions, you do the same. We smile once again. “Why have I never seen you here before?” I ask.
“You say that like you monitor who comes in and out quite regularly,” you state.
“Well, I am here often enough that I should have seen you by now, I'd think.”
“Well I have only been here once before. The last time I was in town. It wasn't anything like this back then.”
“Yes, well, they have made a few changes and...” you interrupt me before I can complete the thought. “That's not what I meant,” you correct me, “I thought you understood me better than that.”
I have missed an important clue to solving your puzzle and you have caught me flat. This is not like me at all. You have flustered me like no other has. 'Am I up to your challenge' I ask myself. 'She is beyond even me' I think; my ego bruised like an apple which has crashed to the earth abruptly. I am walking on shaky ground now and so, I decide that I should walk no further. I stretch my hand across the table to you, and begin to stand just slightly as I watch for your response. To my delight, you accept my hand as you stand as well.
I escort you to the dance floor and find enough room for us to move and celebrate our encounter. The pulsing audio fills us as we can feel the lowest of the vibrations move gracefully through us both. Thanks to the several drinks I have taken in, I am moving well, but not nearly so charmingly as you. Your head thrashes left and right in time with the beats as your entire body flows like a rippling wave. I have no idea who else is on the floor, and I don't care. You - the one who I had only been desiring and admiring from afar a few minutes ago – are now sharing a special time in my life with me.
“Julijana” you call into my ear above the music.
I look at you in surprise, not totally understanding what you had said. “My name is Julijana,” you say. “You never asked me my name.” We keep dancing without missing a step, but I know you are right once again.
“Theo,” I say, “and I am very, very, happy to meet you, Julijana.”
“I know,” you reply, giggling once again and grinning knowingly. You now dance even more seductively – more confidently than before. We dance for what seems a very long time without speaking another word. Our eyes meet often and they say so much of our shared experience. Our bodies meet now and then, but say even more. Body language can be the most expressive language of seduction when spoken by the gifted and your “words” bring out the poet in me. When finally the music slows, I clutch your waist to mine – drawing you in with such a force that I fear I may have hurt you. Rather than put you off, though, your eyes tell me that you enjoy the primal way I crave you. Holding you close, my lips trace along your neck and find the soft, fleshy place behind your ear's lower lobe. My tongue flicks softly from my parted lips and presses in just there. You respond by pulling me at my lower back toward you - forcing my slowly-growing manhood firmly into your gracefully-sculpted body.
I pull my head back and kiss you wildly without any further thought. I am no longer the man I was a while ago. I am no longer a man at all in many ways. I am a wild-man in my heart, and an animal in my mind. In the darkest corners of my deepest thoughts, I feel as if I am growing hair all over my body and my hands are morphing into claws. By the way you return my kisses I can sense that you are changing in much the same way. The people we appear to be every day are becoming the beasts we truly are beneath our civil disguises.
As the song ends, I take you by the hand and lead you hurriedly away from the dance floor to a small hinged segment at the end of the bar. I lift the “door” of the bar and lead you behind it very near to Tito. Tito calls out, “Hey man you can't come behind here, Theo!”
“Fuck you, dude!” I reply as I throw some cash at Tito and take you through an open doorway that leads us to a narrow hallway and then another door and a small room with a couch that the bar once used as a lounge for the bands which used to play here.
The room is compact but comfortable. Aside from the couch, there is a table with two metal chairs, a painting on the wall of some awful landscape and an end-table with a tiny lamp. I turn on the lamp and turn off the ceiling light. You have said nothing since we began kissing, and you say nothing still. I pull you close to me as if we are dancing once again, but this time as I kiss you, I slide the zipper of your soft dress all the way down. As I slip your dress from your shoulders and allow it to fall gently to your feet, you pull my shirt from me in what seems like one fluid motion. You undo my belt expertly and my pants fall to the floor and mingle with your dress.
Your bra seems to remove itself and your breasts point to me as if indicating exactly what they want. Your panties and my boxers are gone in the blink of an eye. While we both are taken with the visions before us, we take no time to admire one another. I lift you slightly and lay you on the sofa – your long, slender legs spread wide to reveal the most exquisitely-flowering orchid I have ever seen...your nectar flowing freely and being high-lighted in the glow of the lamp's faint shine. Like a hungry bee, I sip your nectar and coax even more to flow for me. You run your hands through my hair; grabbing at it in clumps to form handles as you pull me to you. The sounds emanating from your inner soul guide me as I search for more to eat.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
The Story of Giuliana (excerpt from The Chroniclers Tale)
CAUTION: Sexual Theme
Giuliana
She never performed these acts in public, fearing she may be called a witch, or something even worse. She would not be offended to be called a witch at all - for that is who she felt that she indeed was - but it would mean her death if such a thought were to be spoken into the wrong ears.
She was born with a perception that others seemed not to have. As a girl, she learned none of her friends or siblings saw many of the people that she indeed could see. She had conversations with people that her father could not even hear. She knew things before her grandmother did – and her grandmother was said to know everything.
Through trial and error, she learned not to mention many parts of her world to others. She came to understand that her world encompassed the world of her family and friends, but hers was a bit greater.
On her ninth birthday, her grandfather asked her to join him on a short walk so that he may give her his present. He asked her how she felt to be a year older and made small talk in other ways, but seemed preoccupied – as if he were avoiding what he really thought. “What did you get for me, grandfather?” she asked in an attempt to lead the conversation down a clearer path. In response, he fell silent - walking straight to a fallen log and sitting on the barky perch. She took a place next to him, looking to his face which was set straight forward.
Holding out his hands, one cupped above the other, he gently massaged his palms back and forth. Lifting his right hand, he reveals a simple, yet exquisite golden ring lying in the left. “It is not a complete circle, so that it may grow along with you, Guiliana.” She was amazed by the simple trick, and stunned by the beauty of the ring. ‘But how can he afford such a gift?’ she wondered. “You must have saved all your life for this ring!” she said admiringly.
“I could never afford such a ring, my dear, even if I had saved all of my life.”
“You stole it then?” she asked, hoping that this was not the case.
“No, Guiliana, I did not steal it. One should never steal even a bread crumb.
“Then where did it come from, grandfather?”
“From a magic place, Guiliana. I wanted, so badly to give you a real gift. This may be your last birthday I share with you. I am very old after all and these things can not be known. I wanted it so badly, that it was given to me to give to you. Go ahead Giuliana. Please put it on. It is very real, my dear.”
Placing it on her right hand, she squeezes it to a proper fit. “It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, grandfather. I will never take it off, I promise. But where did it come from, really?”
“Do you still see the people that no one else seems to see?” was his response.
This was an odd question, she thought. Had he not noticed that she had been pretending that such things no longer happened and that she had been a foolish, mistaken child? “Yes, always,” she replied. He seemed to know that already, though.
“And how many others are here with us?”
Her eyes dart about as if counting. “Seven.”
“Seven? Really? I see two men, a boy, a woman, and a lovely girl over there. Where is the seventh?”
He sees six people? Was he only guessing to play along? She didn’t think so. “There is another girl, Henrietta, with red hair hiding behind that tree. She is scared of you.”
Looking over to the tree, he sees a freckled girl peeking out and quickly retreating behind the heavy trunk. “She is wearing such a pretty dress, can she not step out so that I might see it better?”asked the old one.
Henrietta, hearing this, steps out cautiously and quietly. He CAN see them, thought Giuliana. This excited her and angered her simultaneously. Why had he said nothing when all the others would chastise her for making such claims? Why had he not supported her when she cried? “Why have you never told me this?” she asked of him accusingly.
“I thought you might not keep my secret,” he admitted. “As you have learned, our abilities must be kept a secret for our safety. You are very young, Giuliana, and you have been aware of your magic since your first days. I was not in touch with our secret until I was much older and gained what I have only through hard work and practice. Your gift is strong, little queen, and it will only grow stronger…”
For several years, Giuliana and her grandfather allowed themselves to live in their world on long walks alone and through sly nods when others were about. When it came that he passed from this world, he continued to visit his granddaughter in her dreams. Death had changed their relationship little. He mentored her as she explored her abilities.
She grew very strong in her unique capabilities – secretly lifting cattle and other livestock with her mind alone. She could produce a fistful of dust from the air. Her specialty, though, was her work with mirrors. She began with simple mirror tricks. Conjuring ancestors and reaching into the mirror then pulling something from the reflection were easily accomplished. She advanced quickly. In time, she would cup her hands together and manifest in her palms anything from the mirror’s reflection which might fit. Even bigger at times. If she captured the reflection of a figurine, she produced a twin. She was remarkable, yet her heart remained pure. She was a loving girl who was simply fascinated with her abilities. And who could blame her?
A candle flickered it’s light delicately as she held her palms together. Giuliana connected with the world in the mirror each time she conjured this way. She felt that her energies were especially strong this day as she mingled her world within a world without depth. Pulling for the candle top, she glimpsed her own reflection. This time – the first time - however, her image smiled at her, though she had not. Standing frozen, Giuliana had seen many strange things in her practice, but this is unexpected.
She no longer breathed as she stood motionless except for her eyes which widened as she viewed her reflected self step back and sit at the corner of the bed – her self image now only half visible within the edge of the mirror. Giuliana chased her thoughts like fireflies in a field and placed them back where they belonged as she slowly stood more upright, yet still held a defensive crouch. Moving for a new angle, she could now see her image self in full. She sat staring at Giuliana, obviously trying to comprehend what she was taking in as well.
Examining one another carefully, looking for the differences, there were none except for being mirror images of oneself. She had always parted her long dark hair down the middle, and, so there was little difference between the Giulianas – even in reflection.
Hours passed as the two experimented with movement Each took repeated turns at stepping out of the room and returning to see if the other did the same. Only occasionally. They were independent beings to be sure, but an unmistakable union was shared. It was a knock on the door – Giuliana’s mother – which distracted the pair. Startled, she threw a robe over the mirror. She was not ready to explain such a thing or to scare her mother to her death. “Are you joining us for dinner dear?” her mother called through the sealed door. though it was far more of a notice than an actual question.
“I will be there in just a moment, mother,” Giuliana replied. As the older woman left, Giuliana pulled the robe aside on the glass; hoping to see how her doppelganger had occupied herself. Part of her wanted to know if she still existed. Peeping behind the heavy robe, she saw her image sitting on the bed, brushing her hair and creating a part on the left. As the image looked to her, Giuliana waved a hand and made a few gestures to indicate that she liked the hair style and would return in a bit. Her reflection seemed to understand.
Stepping into the cramped hallway, a small mirror lay at the end of the hall. In it, her reflection was merely that. A normal reflection. It responded to all of her movements and was dependent on her own actions alone. Her experience near the window, was much the same – a translucent portrait reflective of her every action. Giuliana ate with her family, making no mention of her day. Finishing her meal quickly, she scrambled to her room shortly afterward and remained there for the night, saying that she felt in need of rest.
Returning to her room, Giuliana pulls aside the robe and sees that her twin is sleeping. Sitting on her own bed, Giuliana uses the time for contemplation. She had read nothing about her situation in any of the books Grandfather had hidden for her in the hollow log. She drifted off easily into slumber. When her grandfather visited that night and learned of the unusual mirror, he had no answers for her. In fact, he could not even see the new Giuliana – only the expected reflections. Both his and hers. “Accept her. Until we know more, though, do not approach too closely,” he warned as he left. Waking suddenly, Giuliana rose and pulled the robe once again across the face of the mirror – separating her world from her twin’s. The robe she wore dropped fluidly to the floor as she felt her lush dark hair brush her right breast. Giuliana knew that the stresses of the day could be eased from her body and mind – tracing and pinching her nipples in anticipation of a release. She lay facing the ceiling, her feet drawn toward her smooth bottom and forcing her knees outward. Her exposed genitals salivating at the thought of what would soon arrive. Touching one finger to her tongue, she held it to her budding clitoris – causing her to arch her back almost immediately. Her labia glowed a dark red as her dew made it glisten. Her orgasm came suddenly, surprising even her. She thrashed back and forth as silently as she could maintain the presence of mind to do – all the while stimulating and propelling herself into further tremors. Catching her breath, she gasped as sweat ran along her entire length. With a heightened sense of prurient interest, she wondered how her twin had spent the time. One finger tracing her belly, she walked to the mirror and peeked behind the robe. There in a room lit only by a candle, her twin lay prone on her bed, another candle plunging in and out of her reflected womanhood. Her twin convulsed often, as Giuliana could only stare. The new Giuliana caught a glimpse of the gawking Giuliana yet did not miss a single candle stroke despite the prying eyes. Her rhythmic insertions, in fact, increased in both frequency and intensity. Giuliana could see the familiar sparkle of her twins’ juices running freely along the creases of her buttocks.
Giuliana looked upon her twin with desire – seeing her image self as someone else entirely. Her own fingers delicately traced her labia, as her middle finger delved deeply into her space. Though she had never been fully aware of her own beauty, she now recognized it in her reflected self. Their eyes were fixed upon one another as they achieved their peaks in unison. They watch one another as their mouths open to reveal seductive tongues which slither across their ruby lips – themselves merely impersonations of the labia they both fondle so eagerly.
Following uncounted orgasms and delight-filled rumbles, the reflected Giuliana drags herself from the tangle of blankets knotted at her feet and approaches the mirror as a tigress approaches a prey paralyzed by fear. The mirrored twin presses her perspiring figure fully against her surface, leaving a dewy, hazy, perfect print of her form. Giuliana, enticed by the impression of her mirrored breasts, licks the surface of the glass – first along the foggy nape and then sliding to rendered nipples centered within the flattened impressions. Her hand glides along the glassy surface to the area where a slight bump indicates the vagina’s image. Gently, she slides a finger in mimic of intimate touch. Lying on the floor before the mirror, Giuliana’s reflection splays open her thighs and masturbates fully-exposed and without restraint – stimulated as much by the obvious attention cast upon her as her own endeavors. Her hair is soaked in sweat and falls across her face; sticking there like musky seaweed. Though Giuliana cannot hear the moans and cries, she can more than imagine them as she herself succumbs to the floor. Kneeling before the mirror; her knees are spread wide as she keeps her back erect for a clear view of her quivering twin. Pressing her left palm against the frame of the glass, her right hand serves her with unquestioning obedience. Droplets form drops as drops form streams running down her body; dripping from the hairs of her pubis and puddling into a musky tea on the hardwood surface beneath her.
A single candle burns in the reflection’s room. It casts its yellow light across an exhausted young woman with a newly discovered sense of self and of passion lying on the floor and staring into the eyes of an equally beautiful and understanding young woman. Giuliana for her part falls to the floor and rests, too tired – too far into her own eroticism – to move. Several minutes go by as her breaths slowly resume the heaving rhythms of a restful fulfillment. When finally she rights herself to look into the glass, she sees her other self still on the floor, yet now leaning against the bed, too spent to climb upon it. Holding two fingers to her lips she tastes and inhales the aromatic sheen which covers them both – envisioning these sensual stimulations as those of her reflection and not at all her own. Giuliana wishes a kiss and returns to her bed, leaving the glass uncovered for the night. Turning to her bed, Giuliana falls asleep quickly, however she twice awakens to peer through the mirror, pleasuring herself delicately at the sight of the beautiful maiden sleeping there in a bed so very much like hers.
In the following months, Giuliana spent more and more time in the confines of her room. Outwardly, she was a bright, genuinely happy young woman. Inwardly, she was happy as well – though no one knew the nature of her joy. She had found a kindred soul and a companion interested in her for who she was. They dressed wildly for one another and invented games only they could understand. Through trial and error they invented a code between themselves yet still communicated through occasional written notes.
They were best friends. They understood one another more intimately than even traditional twins. There was a oneness of soul between them which no woman or man had ever shared with another being. They were the Giulianas. No longer could one be considered separate from the other – joined both spiritually and emotionally. Eternally.
The Giulianas spent their private hours privately. Her grandfather could see how she spent her days and chastised her often. She had obeyed and heeded her grandfather – partly because of her respect for her elders, but also because she knew him to always be right. But when he warned her of her relationship, she dismissed him without a second thought. No one can understand, she thought.
Though no shortage of interested men lived in and about the village, none interested her like the woman in the mirror. On several occasions, mostly while in her twenties, Giuliana accepted suitors with whom she would sit in her family’s garden and chat. Only once did she grant a peck on the cheek; giving that only in pity for the sweet butcher’s son’s ill-fated overtures. She was cordial, friendly and well-liked by everyone, yet she never formed long-term, intimate bonds with anyone but herself and to her family to a lesser degree.
In her mind, she was not in love with herself. Vanity had little to do with her emotions. She saw her mirror self as a distinct person. One could argue the point both ways, but her perception was of another woman. This simple truth, of all the truths involved, she had struggled with for some time; having always believed love to exist only between man and woman. In the end, she felt her attraction to be real and that which was intended for her experience. She accepted this of herself, yet acknowledged it only to her grandfather; one who could never accept it.”
One night, following years of magical experimentation, Giuliana steps cleanly into the mirror. Joining her doppelganger – her love – in her world. Giuliana touched lightly at the skin of her twin – the twin responding in kind. To their delight, each of them is real in every sense and sensation. The once-reflected Giuliana pulls a dark heavy robe across her mirror, where it stays for an eternity.
Giuliana
She never performed these acts in public, fearing she may be called a witch, or something even worse. She would not be offended to be called a witch at all - for that is who she felt that she indeed was - but it would mean her death if such a thought were to be spoken into the wrong ears.
She was born with a perception that others seemed not to have. As a girl, she learned none of her friends or siblings saw many of the people that she indeed could see. She had conversations with people that her father could not even hear. She knew things before her grandmother did – and her grandmother was said to know everything.
Through trial and error, she learned not to mention many parts of her world to others. She came to understand that her world encompassed the world of her family and friends, but hers was a bit greater.
On her ninth birthday, her grandfather asked her to join him on a short walk so that he may give her his present. He asked her how she felt to be a year older and made small talk in other ways, but seemed preoccupied – as if he were avoiding what he really thought. “What did you get for me, grandfather?” she asked in an attempt to lead the conversation down a clearer path. In response, he fell silent - walking straight to a fallen log and sitting on the barky perch. She took a place next to him, looking to his face which was set straight forward.
Holding out his hands, one cupped above the other, he gently massaged his palms back and forth. Lifting his right hand, he reveals a simple, yet exquisite golden ring lying in the left. “It is not a complete circle, so that it may grow along with you, Guiliana.” She was amazed by the simple trick, and stunned by the beauty of the ring. ‘But how can he afford such a gift?’ she wondered. “You must have saved all your life for this ring!” she said admiringly.
“I could never afford such a ring, my dear, even if I had saved all of my life.”
“You stole it then?” she asked, hoping that this was not the case.
“No, Guiliana, I did not steal it. One should never steal even a bread crumb.
“Then where did it come from, grandfather?”
“From a magic place, Guiliana. I wanted, so badly to give you a real gift. This may be your last birthday I share with you. I am very old after all and these things can not be known. I wanted it so badly, that it was given to me to give to you. Go ahead Giuliana. Please put it on. It is very real, my dear.”
Placing it on her right hand, she squeezes it to a proper fit. “It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, grandfather. I will never take it off, I promise. But where did it come from, really?”
“Do you still see the people that no one else seems to see?” was his response.
This was an odd question, she thought. Had he not noticed that she had been pretending that such things no longer happened and that she had been a foolish, mistaken child? “Yes, always,” she replied. He seemed to know that already, though.
“And how many others are here with us?”
Her eyes dart about as if counting. “Seven.”
“Seven? Really? I see two men, a boy, a woman, and a lovely girl over there. Where is the seventh?”
He sees six people? Was he only guessing to play along? She didn’t think so. “There is another girl, Henrietta, with red hair hiding behind that tree. She is scared of you.”
Looking over to the tree, he sees a freckled girl peeking out and quickly retreating behind the heavy trunk. “She is wearing such a pretty dress, can she not step out so that I might see it better?”asked the old one.
Henrietta, hearing this, steps out cautiously and quietly. He CAN see them, thought Giuliana. This excited her and angered her simultaneously. Why had he said nothing when all the others would chastise her for making such claims? Why had he not supported her when she cried? “Why have you never told me this?” she asked of him accusingly.
“I thought you might not keep my secret,” he admitted. “As you have learned, our abilities must be kept a secret for our safety. You are very young, Giuliana, and you have been aware of your magic since your first days. I was not in touch with our secret until I was much older and gained what I have only through hard work and practice. Your gift is strong, little queen, and it will only grow stronger…”
For several years, Giuliana and her grandfather allowed themselves to live in their world on long walks alone and through sly nods when others were about. When it came that he passed from this world, he continued to visit his granddaughter in her dreams. Death had changed their relationship little. He mentored her as she explored her abilities.
She grew very strong in her unique capabilities – secretly lifting cattle and other livestock with her mind alone. She could produce a fistful of dust from the air. Her specialty, though, was her work with mirrors. She began with simple mirror tricks. Conjuring ancestors and reaching into the mirror then pulling something from the reflection were easily accomplished. She advanced quickly. In time, she would cup her hands together and manifest in her palms anything from the mirror’s reflection which might fit. Even bigger at times. If she captured the reflection of a figurine, she produced a twin. She was remarkable, yet her heart remained pure. She was a loving girl who was simply fascinated with her abilities. And who could blame her?
A candle flickered it’s light delicately as she held her palms together. Giuliana connected with the world in the mirror each time she conjured this way. She felt that her energies were especially strong this day as she mingled her world within a world without depth. Pulling for the candle top, she glimpsed her own reflection. This time – the first time - however, her image smiled at her, though she had not. Standing frozen, Giuliana had seen many strange things in her practice, but this is unexpected.
She no longer breathed as she stood motionless except for her eyes which widened as she viewed her reflected self step back and sit at the corner of the bed – her self image now only half visible within the edge of the mirror. Giuliana chased her thoughts like fireflies in a field and placed them back where they belonged as she slowly stood more upright, yet still held a defensive crouch. Moving for a new angle, she could now see her image self in full. She sat staring at Giuliana, obviously trying to comprehend what she was taking in as well.
Examining one another carefully, looking for the differences, there were none except for being mirror images of oneself. She had always parted her long dark hair down the middle, and, so there was little difference between the Giulianas – even in reflection.
Hours passed as the two experimented with movement Each took repeated turns at stepping out of the room and returning to see if the other did the same. Only occasionally. They were independent beings to be sure, but an unmistakable union was shared. It was a knock on the door – Giuliana’s mother – which distracted the pair. Startled, she threw a robe over the mirror. She was not ready to explain such a thing or to scare her mother to her death. “Are you joining us for dinner dear?” her mother called through the sealed door. though it was far more of a notice than an actual question.
“I will be there in just a moment, mother,” Giuliana replied. As the older woman left, Giuliana pulled the robe aside on the glass; hoping to see how her doppelganger had occupied herself. Part of her wanted to know if she still existed. Peeping behind the heavy robe, she saw her image sitting on the bed, brushing her hair and creating a part on the left. As the image looked to her, Giuliana waved a hand and made a few gestures to indicate that she liked the hair style and would return in a bit. Her reflection seemed to understand.
Stepping into the cramped hallway, a small mirror lay at the end of the hall. In it, her reflection was merely that. A normal reflection. It responded to all of her movements and was dependent on her own actions alone. Her experience near the window, was much the same – a translucent portrait reflective of her every action. Giuliana ate with her family, making no mention of her day. Finishing her meal quickly, she scrambled to her room shortly afterward and remained there for the night, saying that she felt in need of rest.
Returning to her room, Giuliana pulls aside the robe and sees that her twin is sleeping. Sitting on her own bed, Giuliana uses the time for contemplation. She had read nothing about her situation in any of the books Grandfather had hidden for her in the hollow log. She drifted off easily into slumber. When her grandfather visited that night and learned of the unusual mirror, he had no answers for her. In fact, he could not even see the new Giuliana – only the expected reflections. Both his and hers. “Accept her. Until we know more, though, do not approach too closely,” he warned as he left. Waking suddenly, Giuliana rose and pulled the robe once again across the face of the mirror – separating her world from her twin’s. The robe she wore dropped fluidly to the floor as she felt her lush dark hair brush her right breast. Giuliana knew that the stresses of the day could be eased from her body and mind – tracing and pinching her nipples in anticipation of a release. She lay facing the ceiling, her feet drawn toward her smooth bottom and forcing her knees outward. Her exposed genitals salivating at the thought of what would soon arrive. Touching one finger to her tongue, she held it to her budding clitoris – causing her to arch her back almost immediately. Her labia glowed a dark red as her dew made it glisten. Her orgasm came suddenly, surprising even her. She thrashed back and forth as silently as she could maintain the presence of mind to do – all the while stimulating and propelling herself into further tremors. Catching her breath, she gasped as sweat ran along her entire length. With a heightened sense of prurient interest, she wondered how her twin had spent the time. One finger tracing her belly, she walked to the mirror and peeked behind the robe. There in a room lit only by a candle, her twin lay prone on her bed, another candle plunging in and out of her reflected womanhood. Her twin convulsed often, as Giuliana could only stare. The new Giuliana caught a glimpse of the gawking Giuliana yet did not miss a single candle stroke despite the prying eyes. Her rhythmic insertions, in fact, increased in both frequency and intensity. Giuliana could see the familiar sparkle of her twins’ juices running freely along the creases of her buttocks.
Giuliana looked upon her twin with desire – seeing her image self as someone else entirely. Her own fingers delicately traced her labia, as her middle finger delved deeply into her space. Though she had never been fully aware of her own beauty, she now recognized it in her reflected self. Their eyes were fixed upon one another as they achieved their peaks in unison. They watch one another as their mouths open to reveal seductive tongues which slither across their ruby lips – themselves merely impersonations of the labia they both fondle so eagerly.
Following uncounted orgasms and delight-filled rumbles, the reflected Giuliana drags herself from the tangle of blankets knotted at her feet and approaches the mirror as a tigress approaches a prey paralyzed by fear. The mirrored twin presses her perspiring figure fully against her surface, leaving a dewy, hazy, perfect print of her form. Giuliana, enticed by the impression of her mirrored breasts, licks the surface of the glass – first along the foggy nape and then sliding to rendered nipples centered within the flattened impressions. Her hand glides along the glassy surface to the area where a slight bump indicates the vagina’s image. Gently, she slides a finger in mimic of intimate touch. Lying on the floor before the mirror, Giuliana’s reflection splays open her thighs and masturbates fully-exposed and without restraint – stimulated as much by the obvious attention cast upon her as her own endeavors. Her hair is soaked in sweat and falls across her face; sticking there like musky seaweed. Though Giuliana cannot hear the moans and cries, she can more than imagine them as she herself succumbs to the floor. Kneeling before the mirror; her knees are spread wide as she keeps her back erect for a clear view of her quivering twin. Pressing her left palm against the frame of the glass, her right hand serves her with unquestioning obedience. Droplets form drops as drops form streams running down her body; dripping from the hairs of her pubis and puddling into a musky tea on the hardwood surface beneath her.
A single candle burns in the reflection’s room. It casts its yellow light across an exhausted young woman with a newly discovered sense of self and of passion lying on the floor and staring into the eyes of an equally beautiful and understanding young woman. Giuliana for her part falls to the floor and rests, too tired – too far into her own eroticism – to move. Several minutes go by as her breaths slowly resume the heaving rhythms of a restful fulfillment. When finally she rights herself to look into the glass, she sees her other self still on the floor, yet now leaning against the bed, too spent to climb upon it. Holding two fingers to her lips she tastes and inhales the aromatic sheen which covers them both – envisioning these sensual stimulations as those of her reflection and not at all her own. Giuliana wishes a kiss and returns to her bed, leaving the glass uncovered for the night. Turning to her bed, Giuliana falls asleep quickly, however she twice awakens to peer through the mirror, pleasuring herself delicately at the sight of the beautiful maiden sleeping there in a bed so very much like hers.
In the following months, Giuliana spent more and more time in the confines of her room. Outwardly, she was a bright, genuinely happy young woman. Inwardly, she was happy as well – though no one knew the nature of her joy. She had found a kindred soul and a companion interested in her for who she was. They dressed wildly for one another and invented games only they could understand. Through trial and error they invented a code between themselves yet still communicated through occasional written notes.
They were best friends. They understood one another more intimately than even traditional twins. There was a oneness of soul between them which no woman or man had ever shared with another being. They were the Giulianas. No longer could one be considered separate from the other – joined both spiritually and emotionally. Eternally.
The Giulianas spent their private hours privately. Her grandfather could see how she spent her days and chastised her often. She had obeyed and heeded her grandfather – partly because of her respect for her elders, but also because she knew him to always be right. But when he warned her of her relationship, she dismissed him without a second thought. No one can understand, she thought.
Though no shortage of interested men lived in and about the village, none interested her like the woman in the mirror. On several occasions, mostly while in her twenties, Giuliana accepted suitors with whom she would sit in her family’s garden and chat. Only once did she grant a peck on the cheek; giving that only in pity for the sweet butcher’s son’s ill-fated overtures. She was cordial, friendly and well-liked by everyone, yet she never formed long-term, intimate bonds with anyone but herself and to her family to a lesser degree.
In her mind, she was not in love with herself. Vanity had little to do with her emotions. She saw her mirror self as a distinct person. One could argue the point both ways, but her perception was of another woman. This simple truth, of all the truths involved, she had struggled with for some time; having always believed love to exist only between man and woman. In the end, she felt her attraction to be real and that which was intended for her experience. She accepted this of herself, yet acknowledged it only to her grandfather; one who could never accept it.”
One night, following years of magical experimentation, Giuliana steps cleanly into the mirror. Joining her doppelganger – her love – in her world. Giuliana touched lightly at the skin of her twin – the twin responding in kind. To their delight, each of them is real in every sense and sensation. The once-reflected Giuliana pulls a dark heavy robe across her mirror, where it stays for an eternity.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Dream Cheese
When you wish upon a star
They'll say that it can't hear you
They'll tell you it's too far
But I can tell you this I know
For I've wished a wish or two
That wishes are our waking dreams
We wish our dreams come true
When you dream you dream alone
So dream aloud your greatest dream
Determine what you're shown
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
DRAFT COPY - The New Book of CHAD, Prequel
Here is a draft copy of the first chapter of the book I am working on. The rest of the book has a surreal, comic tone, so this is an odd way to set it up. Hopefully it will make sense when the final comes out. It could be a short story on its own.
It is still a rough draft which means it could be very different later (or cut entirely for all I know).
Prequel
I have always wondered the same things we all wonder. In my case, I may have wondered too often; distracted and pre-occupied by those really big questions and the answers they don't teach in school. All of my musings and thoughts led to the eternal question; 'Why am I here?' I was equally mesmerized by that eternal question's annoying siblings; “Where am I going?' and 'Where was I before?'
A part of this “wondering” led me to explore the dream-state; the “other” consciousness. From electronic scans of sleeping brains to near-sleeping meditation methods, I was certain that at least some of the answers I sought were to be found in the subconscious and the unconscious. In this searching process, I came upon 'lucid dreaming'; waking and controlling our actions and environments consciously while dreaming
Lucid dreaming blurs the lines of reality. Nearly everyone says that they wish they could fly freely within their dreams. Some say that they do – and they probably have. Flying is but one of the many abilities we may have in such an alternate experience. Although we may all stumble upon these dreams from time to time, few of us ever know what to truly do with the opportunity.
I see lucid dreaming as the type of consciousness we must have had while gestating in the womb. At some point in the process of growing from a zygote to a fetus to a new-born child (and I'm not even going to touch when that is) a light goes on and we are conscious and aware. At that moment we are present in the physical world. As a developing fetus we can react to sounds outside and scratch at our noses. We smile. What are we thinking in those moments?
I am now convinced that we are all born with the capacity to fly or do anything we wish in our dreams, but most of us are also born fearful of our dreams. How sad it is, then, that as we age, we lose our ease of access to that changeable, malleable, plastic world beyond even our own imaginations. I no longer believe it to be a coincidence that - while we are born fearful of our dreams - we lose that access in proportion with our so-called maturity. For most of us, time chases away the monster-filled night-mares and boogie men . If the dreams of our maturity don't lessen in intensity, at the very least we accept most of them without calling for our mommies. Nightmares are dismissed as 'bad dreams' at our wine-tastings, if they are mentioned at all. Except for a gifted few, most of us un-learn the ability to wake within a dream as we mature,.
For six years, I meditated and techniqued each day in my search to reclaim that gift. Naturally, the question arose:
For all the times I had awoken from dreams, could I have simply slipped into one and never returned?
If you have ever had one of these lucid dreams, then you know how so completely, believably real they can be. In a lucid dream, you live, love and feel every nuance that, in our waking life, we take for granted. If anything, you feel more. More thoughts, faster. More feelings, amplified. In comparison, my wakeful consciousness feels like life with the brakes on.
I sometimes wondered if those little details and distinctions are the fingerprints of reality. Can we actually see a stamp of authenticity to the world around us if we look hard enough? Carlos Castaneda was the first to offer me insight on this, and he felt that we can see the world as it actually is and not the illusion we see. Many others before him and since have claimed the same.
Douglas Adams thought about the big questions which he broke down into the big three -'Life', 'The Universe' and 'Everything'. Over the course of five books he chronicled the adventures of his main character who was - somewhat unknowingly – seeking big truths when Adams decided that the answer to life the universe and everything was “42”. Absurd in its simplicity, “42” is an even number which even looks plausible in print. Shrouded in the elegance of such simplicity, Adams was implying that all such questions may be much simpler than we had thought and that we were making much adieu about nothing. I don't think that Adams was mocking those like me who wanted real answers, and so I loved his solution. Seeking such answers is frustrating stuff. How many tmes had I been tempted to just decide that “THE TRUTH” is something which is very hard to find and it may well be impossible to ever know, so we may as well accept this, call the answer anything we wish – even 42 – and just move on with our lives. The relief from such burdens is so very tempting yet it had always felt wrong to give up so easily. Despite his writings, I'd be willing to bet that Adams never – ever - stopped pondering on any of the big three. He would never have written five books on the subject had it not been on his mind much of the time.
It is just not in me to settle for 42, so I googled and read all I could while still working and living.
I had always contemplated the true nature of the natural world, if you'll pardon the pun. Seeing dreams as a separate reality, I had studied general relativity, special relativity; string theory and M theory. Dreams, I was sure, were part of the puzzle that is our universe. Then one night, and I will never forget that night, these heady theories came to life in a way I could have never dreamt.
It was a dream beyond any I had before. It began as many other lucid dreams had. This one was a recurrent vision I was familiar with of a roller-coaster in the middle of blue space. I spent some time talking to the dream-people I dreamt – characters who seemed so truly genuine to me. We stood in the line for the coaster, but I never made it on the ride. I don't remember just how or why, but I do recall that at some point I went from mundane small-talk to finding off on a grand Kafkaesque experience – the end result of which was that I found myself in the hallway of an old hotel. It was a Wild West-style hotel and this hallway was at the top of three flights of stairs which wound up an open-center stairwell. I had never been here before and hadn't thought about such an environment. At a seemingly-random point in my dream I had been pulled from one place and found myself standing in cowboy-land. To my left was a three-story drop. To my right were the evenly spaced hotel doors and an umbrella stand which looked like it had been stolen from the Palace of Versailles and placed there next to Room Seven's door.
To this day I am not certain why I did what I did in that next instant. I can't mean that more. I can't explain why I seemed to instinctively seize the umbrella stand and hold onto it with a strength at the limits of not only my dream muscles, but my will. After only a few seconds in my control, the umbrella stand changed its appearance and it's substance to that which I had inexplicably seen and known it to truly be at my first glimpse of it. It was a “blue”. I had read about these nasty, deadly predators which lie out there where the dreams are. Blues are amorphous blue blobs which disguise themselves within our dreams, but seldom fit the context of the dream. If something from the background of your dream catches your eye because it is brighter or does not fit the story, there is a good chance that it is a blue. There are blues in everyone's dreams, but they present little danger to those oblivious to them. When encountered and recognized though, the dreamer is meeting the blue on his level and that makes the dream-creature very uncomfortable. Nefarious, deceptive and ill-tempered, Blues feel they must always be camoflaged.
I had recognized many disguised blues before, but never had I considered attacking one. I had only recently become proficient in deliberately “seeing” them in their true form and not as whatever they were pretending to be. I was pushing one of the final veils aside; peeking behind the curtains of my dreams I was beyond my abilities, boldly - ignorantly - making a mistake which nearly cost me my life. This blue wriggled and wretched in its attempt to escape my bear hug, using each moment to drain me of my energy – quite literally, the energy of my life. We are all just energy, and in our dreams the line between our body form and our pure energy form is drawn in watercolors rather than oils. Blues can take our energy from us and this is what makes them lethal. I knew from all that I had read that I was being tested – by whom I can't yet say – and this test was very, very real. If I had let go, I knew, I would never wake. The papers would read that I 'died from natural causes' while I slept. The truth would be that I was drained of my life while dreaming.
If I could not squeeze him from my dream soon, he would drain me completely. I held tightly as I willed my will over his. Once you begin wrestling with a blue, you must simply outlast it. I was stealing from him as he stole from me. I knew that my resources had to outlast his and struggled to squeeze his life from him just a little more rapidly. At the defining moment, I could feel him succumb but I was only seconds from losing the battle myself. I persisted in squeezing nothingness long after the blue had simply dissolved to nothingness. After what seemed like (and may have been) an eternity, there was an instantaneous release. From squeezing blue goo for my life, I suddenly was sitting bolt upright in my bed, struggling for air. The hotel was gone and I was now in my bed. Back safely awake, I gathered myself and simply stared at my blanketed feet. Only when I looked at my sleeping girlfriend did I begin to realize that I was not awake at all. She was hideous and in no way was she the girl I loved. I screamed out my primal scream and denied that this was at all what I believed to be real with my soul. Somewhere in that scream, the illusion of that world disappeared and I sat bolt upright once again, just as before, in my room.
Waking for the second time in thirty seconds I was suspicious now. I checked my girlfriend at once and saw that it was her lovely, smiling, sleeping face nested into her pillow as I had always known. My heart and my jaw relaxed in unison at this. With no idea of what to expect in this game, I checked for anything out of place. Anything. As I'm sure you know already, something was not right and at last I found the incongruity. Rather than displaying any sort of time on its bright red digits, the alarm clock simply indicated, “AWAY”. With this recognition, I flashed away from this false bedroom and another false girlfriend. Once again, I sat bolt upright in my bed.
It didn't take long to see that this time there was an umbrella stand at the foot of the bed. I sat bolt upright yet again.
I was now genuinely afraid that I would never awake to my own reality again. If I was fooled well enough and accepted what I saw as fact, I could be marooned in a false, but very real existence. At first, all seemed at peace and my dream almost got me this time. It took me so long to find the difference that I was beginning to believe I was safe. The bedspread was wrong. The bedspread was, in every detail, an actual bedspread I owned, but not the one I had gone to sleep beneath that night. I knew that this spread was folded neatly in the closet in my reality. The bed cover I saw here was a lighter, summer covering. In the midst of winter, it should have been the overstuffed chocolate-brown blanket I had used for many years. Once recognized, I sat bolt upright yet again. I looked for some clue for what seemed like hours. Nervously, I scanned the room – examining every identifiable feature and comparing them with my memory. I was too weak to get out of bed. I only decided to wake my sleeping beauty when I was reasonably sure that I was truly awake and “home”. Even then, with all sense of where I might actually be harshly torn into strips like a seventh grader's papier macher project, I feared what I may be waking.
Slowly, reluctantly I tapped her shoulder lightly with my fingertip. She did not wake at first, so I proceeded to run my fingers through her hair and massage her scalp. As she stirred, I started to incoherently tell her how I had awakened four times to false rooms. How I felt inexplicably drained of all my energy. How it was all that I could do to muster the energy to tell her this. How scared I had been.
I did not get out of bed the next day at all. Life has a feeling. Living is a vibration. I never really understood that until all but the very last of it had been drained from me. I felt almost nothing. I sensed the lack of life's vibrations which I had never noticed until they were no longer there. I was gaunt and felt near death beyond any figurative speech. To open my eyes took concentration and the spending of precious life-force. I would not allow myself to sleep, but I did rest. On the second day I visited the bathroom with great difficulty and went immediately back to bed. On the third day, I ate.
I passed the time wondering about my encounter and questioning whether or not I had passed the test. If I had passed it, what was the test measuring? Was it the test I had read about, or was I simply being taught a lesson. Most of all I wondered who was testing me or teaching this lesson.
That night shattered what I thought I knew and showed me just how little I actually could conceive. No mere dream can drain the essence of my life from me, yet this is what happened so I can only believe that it was not merely a dream at all, but more of a wandering, hapless excursion into the realm where dreams exist and I did not belong. I was not sick with flu. I had not been simply tired to the point of exhaustion by the activities of the previous day. To move an arm was something I would rest an hour to do. I had no doubts about what had happened. Even today, I am still looking for the discrepancy. Am I really here? If so, where is that, really?
I know how this all must sound to you. I get it. I can see your eyes rolling and that's fine. Whatever you might think, it doesn't change the fact that it is true. The truth, you see, doesn't care what you or I think, feel or believe. The facts continue to be despite our crazy ideas. I learned more about the nature of our existence in that one night than I...you get the point. There are stars-in-the-sky numbers of places we can go through the use of the portal we call dreams. If I can tell you nothing else in this life, I hope you will hear me when I say that there is more to our lives than what we see in our waking hours. It is just as real and far more complex. I don't claim to have all the answers, but I'm looking – and I'm finding a few.
Anyway, I didn't mean to go on about it like this, it's just that I think I had another one of those dreams last night.
It is still a rough draft which means it could be very different later (or cut entirely for all I know).
Prequel
I have always wondered the same things we all wonder. In my case, I may have wondered too often; distracted and pre-occupied by those really big questions and the answers they don't teach in school. All of my musings and thoughts led to the eternal question; 'Why am I here?' I was equally mesmerized by that eternal question's annoying siblings; “Where am I going?' and 'Where was I before?'
A part of this “wondering” led me to explore the dream-state; the “other” consciousness. From electronic scans of sleeping brains to near-sleeping meditation methods, I was certain that at least some of the answers I sought were to be found in the subconscious and the unconscious. In this searching process, I came upon 'lucid dreaming'; waking and controlling our actions and environments consciously while dreaming
Lucid dreaming blurs the lines of reality. Nearly everyone says that they wish they could fly freely within their dreams. Some say that they do – and they probably have. Flying is but one of the many abilities we may have in such an alternate experience. Although we may all stumble upon these dreams from time to time, few of us ever know what to truly do with the opportunity.
I see lucid dreaming as the type of consciousness we must have had while gestating in the womb. At some point in the process of growing from a zygote to a fetus to a new-born child (and I'm not even going to touch when that is) a light goes on and we are conscious and aware. At that moment we are present in the physical world. As a developing fetus we can react to sounds outside and scratch at our noses. We smile. What are we thinking in those moments?
I am now convinced that we are all born with the capacity to fly or do anything we wish in our dreams, but most of us are also born fearful of our dreams. How sad it is, then, that as we age, we lose our ease of access to that changeable, malleable, plastic world beyond even our own imaginations. I no longer believe it to be a coincidence that - while we are born fearful of our dreams - we lose that access in proportion with our so-called maturity. For most of us, time chases away the monster-filled night-mares and boogie men . If the dreams of our maturity don't lessen in intensity, at the very least we accept most of them without calling for our mommies. Nightmares are dismissed as 'bad dreams' at our wine-tastings, if they are mentioned at all. Except for a gifted few, most of us un-learn the ability to wake within a dream as we mature,.
For six years, I meditated and techniqued each day in my search to reclaim that gift. Naturally, the question arose:
For all the times I had awoken from dreams, could I have simply slipped into one and never returned?
If you have ever had one of these lucid dreams, then you know how so completely, believably real they can be. In a lucid dream, you live, love and feel every nuance that, in our waking life, we take for granted. If anything, you feel more. More thoughts, faster. More feelings, amplified. In comparison, my wakeful consciousness feels like life with the brakes on.
I sometimes wondered if those little details and distinctions are the fingerprints of reality. Can we actually see a stamp of authenticity to the world around us if we look hard enough? Carlos Castaneda was the first to offer me insight on this, and he felt that we can see the world as it actually is and not the illusion we see. Many others before him and since have claimed the same.
Douglas Adams thought about the big questions which he broke down into the big three -'Life', 'The Universe' and 'Everything'. Over the course of five books he chronicled the adventures of his main character who was - somewhat unknowingly – seeking big truths when Adams decided that the answer to life the universe and everything was “42”. Absurd in its simplicity, “42” is an even number which even looks plausible in print. Shrouded in the elegance of such simplicity, Adams was implying that all such questions may be much simpler than we had thought and that we were making much adieu about nothing. I don't think that Adams was mocking those like me who wanted real answers, and so I loved his solution. Seeking such answers is frustrating stuff. How many tmes had I been tempted to just decide that “THE TRUTH” is something which is very hard to find and it may well be impossible to ever know, so we may as well accept this, call the answer anything we wish – even 42 – and just move on with our lives. The relief from such burdens is so very tempting yet it had always felt wrong to give up so easily. Despite his writings, I'd be willing to bet that Adams never – ever - stopped pondering on any of the big three. He would never have written five books on the subject had it not been on his mind much of the time.
It is just not in me to settle for 42, so I googled and read all I could while still working and living.
I had always contemplated the true nature of the natural world, if you'll pardon the pun. Seeing dreams as a separate reality, I had studied general relativity, special relativity; string theory and M theory. Dreams, I was sure, were part of the puzzle that is our universe. Then one night, and I will never forget that night, these heady theories came to life in a way I could have never dreamt.
It was a dream beyond any I had before. It began as many other lucid dreams had. This one was a recurrent vision I was familiar with of a roller-coaster in the middle of blue space. I spent some time talking to the dream-people I dreamt – characters who seemed so truly genuine to me. We stood in the line for the coaster, but I never made it on the ride. I don't remember just how or why, but I do recall that at some point I went from mundane small-talk to finding off on a grand Kafkaesque experience – the end result of which was that I found myself in the hallway of an old hotel. It was a Wild West-style hotel and this hallway was at the top of three flights of stairs which wound up an open-center stairwell. I had never been here before and hadn't thought about such an environment. At a seemingly-random point in my dream I had been pulled from one place and found myself standing in cowboy-land. To my left was a three-story drop. To my right were the evenly spaced hotel doors and an umbrella stand which looked like it had been stolen from the Palace of Versailles and placed there next to Room Seven's door.
To this day I am not certain why I did what I did in that next instant. I can't mean that more. I can't explain why I seemed to instinctively seize the umbrella stand and hold onto it with a strength at the limits of not only my dream muscles, but my will. After only a few seconds in my control, the umbrella stand changed its appearance and it's substance to that which I had inexplicably seen and known it to truly be at my first glimpse of it. It was a “blue”. I had read about these nasty, deadly predators which lie out there where the dreams are. Blues are amorphous blue blobs which disguise themselves within our dreams, but seldom fit the context of the dream. If something from the background of your dream catches your eye because it is brighter or does not fit the story, there is a good chance that it is a blue. There are blues in everyone's dreams, but they present little danger to those oblivious to them. When encountered and recognized though, the dreamer is meeting the blue on his level and that makes the dream-creature very uncomfortable. Nefarious, deceptive and ill-tempered, Blues feel they must always be camoflaged.
I had recognized many disguised blues before, but never had I considered attacking one. I had only recently become proficient in deliberately “seeing” them in their true form and not as whatever they were pretending to be. I was pushing one of the final veils aside; peeking behind the curtains of my dreams I was beyond my abilities, boldly - ignorantly - making a mistake which nearly cost me my life. This blue wriggled and wretched in its attempt to escape my bear hug, using each moment to drain me of my energy – quite literally, the energy of my life. We are all just energy, and in our dreams the line between our body form and our pure energy form is drawn in watercolors rather than oils. Blues can take our energy from us and this is what makes them lethal. I knew from all that I had read that I was being tested – by whom I can't yet say – and this test was very, very real. If I had let go, I knew, I would never wake. The papers would read that I 'died from natural causes' while I slept. The truth would be that I was drained of my life while dreaming.
If I could not squeeze him from my dream soon, he would drain me completely. I held tightly as I willed my will over his. Once you begin wrestling with a blue, you must simply outlast it. I was stealing from him as he stole from me. I knew that my resources had to outlast his and struggled to squeeze his life from him just a little more rapidly. At the defining moment, I could feel him succumb but I was only seconds from losing the battle myself. I persisted in squeezing nothingness long after the blue had simply dissolved to nothingness. After what seemed like (and may have been) an eternity, there was an instantaneous release. From squeezing blue goo for my life, I suddenly was sitting bolt upright in my bed, struggling for air. The hotel was gone and I was now in my bed. Back safely awake, I gathered myself and simply stared at my blanketed feet. Only when I looked at my sleeping girlfriend did I begin to realize that I was not awake at all. She was hideous and in no way was she the girl I loved. I screamed out my primal scream and denied that this was at all what I believed to be real with my soul. Somewhere in that scream, the illusion of that world disappeared and I sat bolt upright once again, just as before, in my room.
Waking for the second time in thirty seconds I was suspicious now. I checked my girlfriend at once and saw that it was her lovely, smiling, sleeping face nested into her pillow as I had always known. My heart and my jaw relaxed in unison at this. With no idea of what to expect in this game, I checked for anything out of place. Anything. As I'm sure you know already, something was not right and at last I found the incongruity. Rather than displaying any sort of time on its bright red digits, the alarm clock simply indicated, “AWAY”. With this recognition, I flashed away from this false bedroom and another false girlfriend. Once again, I sat bolt upright in my bed.
It didn't take long to see that this time there was an umbrella stand at the foot of the bed. I sat bolt upright yet again.
I was now genuinely afraid that I would never awake to my own reality again. If I was fooled well enough and accepted what I saw as fact, I could be marooned in a false, but very real existence. At first, all seemed at peace and my dream almost got me this time. It took me so long to find the difference that I was beginning to believe I was safe. The bedspread was wrong. The bedspread was, in every detail, an actual bedspread I owned, but not the one I had gone to sleep beneath that night. I knew that this spread was folded neatly in the closet in my reality. The bed cover I saw here was a lighter, summer covering. In the midst of winter, it should have been the overstuffed chocolate-brown blanket I had used for many years. Once recognized, I sat bolt upright yet again. I looked for some clue for what seemed like hours. Nervously, I scanned the room – examining every identifiable feature and comparing them with my memory. I was too weak to get out of bed. I only decided to wake my sleeping beauty when I was reasonably sure that I was truly awake and “home”. Even then, with all sense of where I might actually be harshly torn into strips like a seventh grader's papier macher project, I feared what I may be waking.
Slowly, reluctantly I tapped her shoulder lightly with my fingertip. She did not wake at first, so I proceeded to run my fingers through her hair and massage her scalp. As she stirred, I started to incoherently tell her how I had awakened four times to false rooms. How I felt inexplicably drained of all my energy. How it was all that I could do to muster the energy to tell her this. How scared I had been.
I did not get out of bed the next day at all. Life has a feeling. Living is a vibration. I never really understood that until all but the very last of it had been drained from me. I felt almost nothing. I sensed the lack of life's vibrations which I had never noticed until they were no longer there. I was gaunt and felt near death beyond any figurative speech. To open my eyes took concentration and the spending of precious life-force. I would not allow myself to sleep, but I did rest. On the second day I visited the bathroom with great difficulty and went immediately back to bed. On the third day, I ate.
I passed the time wondering about my encounter and questioning whether or not I had passed the test. If I had passed it, what was the test measuring? Was it the test I had read about, or was I simply being taught a lesson. Most of all I wondered who was testing me or teaching this lesson.
That night shattered what I thought I knew and showed me just how little I actually could conceive. No mere dream can drain the essence of my life from me, yet this is what happened so I can only believe that it was not merely a dream at all, but more of a wandering, hapless excursion into the realm where dreams exist and I did not belong. I was not sick with flu. I had not been simply tired to the point of exhaustion by the activities of the previous day. To move an arm was something I would rest an hour to do. I had no doubts about what had happened. Even today, I am still looking for the discrepancy. Am I really here? If so, where is that, really?
I know how this all must sound to you. I get it. I can see your eyes rolling and that's fine. Whatever you might think, it doesn't change the fact that it is true. The truth, you see, doesn't care what you or I think, feel or believe. The facts continue to be despite our crazy ideas. I learned more about the nature of our existence in that one night than I...you get the point. There are stars-in-the-sky numbers of places we can go through the use of the portal we call dreams. If I can tell you nothing else in this life, I hope you will hear me when I say that there is more to our lives than what we see in our waking hours. It is just as real and far more complex. I don't claim to have all the answers, but I'm looking – and I'm finding a few.
Anyway, I didn't mean to go on about it like this, it's just that I think I had another one of those dreams last night.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Lost Things - a short story
Here is 'LOST THINGS....Living Beyond the Bubble' which is almost certainly the most bizarre short story I have ever completed. If you think this is strange, you should see the stuff I never finished. Even I have no idea why I write these things, sometimes.
I had to put it on two separate pages, so you can use the tabs above to read it.
I had to put it on two separate pages, so you can use the tabs above to read it.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Chapter One - the Chronicler's Tale
Chapter One
Walking.
The very act is the meaning and spirit of willingly stepping into the next instant whatever it may
be. Each fearless footprint stands as a noble, defiant declaration that we accept the
decisions of the fates.
For man, as an art form, walking is nowadays in decline. Nearly every animal on dry
land ‘round the earth possesses an innate understanding of, and propensity toward
walking. Snakes and worms crawl, yet that is still very nearly walking in an earthbound,
terra-centric sense. Even birds, gifted creatures who can fly any time they wish, engage
in walking at least some of the time. They stroll for their own reasons, yet it is hard to
know if they are aware of the innate compulsion to renew their connection with the earth
every now and then. Most, but very pointedly, not all, fly. Some swim. Certain particularly
clever birds employ all three ambulations. Walking , nearly shuffling, alone down a
remote, overgrown road, there is little to do but curse the birds. Not that the birds had
actually done anything all that wrong, but there is simply so little to do, and no one else
to curse at. Besides, they are flying and that – to him - seems better than plodding down
yet another dusty trail.
The laughing monkey-face of the banana-colored sun beats down hard, drying the
once-muddy road into a cracked, rock-like slab stretching continuously before him as well
as behind. When for a short time, there are no birds present in the surrounding trees or the
skies above, he begins to curse the sun. Knowing that the Egyptians once worshipped the
sun as Ra – their supreme god - he toys with the notion that maybe the sun could actually
hear his expletives and derogatory comments aspersed to its mother. He hopes so. The
Egyptians were a clever bunch. Surely they had good reason for the whole sun-worship
business.
He has not passed a fellow traveler moving in either direction in three days. This, in itself,
does not surprise him. He is coming from a place that no one wants to go, and heading to a
place that no one wants to leave – or so they say. The reason this road exists at all has long
since passed from the collective local memory. Indeed, even the ‘collective’ has long since
passed. The road is seldom traveled nowadays, but remains usably intact due to its
long-forgotten standing as a major trade corridor. With the trade came heavy use and,
therefore, solid construction. When trade disappears, though, trade corridors disappear
soon after.
His steps are slow and shuffling. The shoes he wears are nearly worn through to the toes
from dragging the tips along these many miles. His stag-skin leather trousers are nearly
covered by a tattered cloak – from the top of which his long, strangely-mangled hair
sprouts to greet the oppressive sun and birds above.
He carries with him a large, leather-bound journal. Its covers are thick like slabs of wood,
heavy like slabs of wood and dark like slabs of wood. Countless thick pages are protected
within - though the rough, exposed edges between the slabs of wood betray the yellowing
of their age and the unstoppable creeping of the elements.
As the sun, which has been sitting delicately above the horizon, now dips just enough to
touch it, a rustling arises in the brush just ahead of him and to the left. Out from the
brush, a tall man with dark, shoulder-length hair attempts to pop out in surprise. Rather
than popping out, however, he stumbles as he struggles to free himself from the tangle
of branches and vines clawing at his feet. He falls onto the trail, crashing down hard on
his left elbow and dropping his sword in the process – the blade tumbling and clanking
to the far side of the trail. “Halt!” he commands the old traveler as he sits up and massages
his damaged arm. “Choose now, sir. Your money or your life?” Still untangling his feet from
the vines, he motions menacingly toward the sword that lies several feet away to indicate
his intention to retrieve it very directly.
Still several normal-length strides (or a few giant, hopping strides) from the unfortunate
highwayman, the old man stands above the younger one and thinks about the question
for some time. “Are you referring to this choice hypothetically?” asks the old man.
Brushing the dust from his linen clothing, the tall burglar regards his victim’s inquiry as
a further annoyance in an already-aggravating encounter. “I mean to say, my good man,
that I am asking you to choose to give me your money, which you may hand over to me –
thereby sparing your life – or give me your life - which I will certainly, if not reluctantly,
take. In this case I will, of course, then take your money anyway. Giving me your money
is really your best course of action.”
Again the old man pauses, confused by what he is seeing and hearing. “Well, then, that is
not a proper question at all! Whether or not you kill me, you still get my money. Am I correct?”
“Well, yes…yes you are. Either way, I shall have your money. The question is, do I have to kill
you for it?” replies the tall man.
“Then why did you not ask me that question in the first place?”
The highwayman pauses, grasping at his short goatee hanging dread-locked from his chin.
“I’ve always said, ‘You’re money or your life.’ It was how my father made his living as did
his father before him,” the tall man steps across the width of the road to regain his sword,
“It is but an expression. Tradition, really. My family and I have worked on this road since
it was built and I have never had need of any other question.”
“Well then, if that is the question you have always asked, I would say that you have had
need for the proper question for quite some time. As did your father and his father before
him.”
“Enough of this!” commands the villain, recalling that, as a professional highwayman,
his first order of business is to assume and maintain control over any situation. “I have
asked you a question – two, actually – and I demand your reply.”
“Has anyone ever chosen to offer their life?”
“Well, no. No one has ever actually offered one, no. Some have chosen to struggle, but I
assure you that I dispatched them with ease. One of the secrets to success in my vocation
is to choose your prey carefully.”
“And do you expect me to offer my life or to struggle with you now?”
“I should hope not. You seem like a decent fellow. You also seem to have grown old which
indicates to me that you are wise enough to avoid- shall we say - unfortunate circumstances.”
“Your assessment of me is most kind. I have indeed lived many years and learned along the
way how to avoid those things which may shorten my time here on earth. Learning lessons is
what my life is about. I should think that you would agree that if we were to stop learning,
then we should all but die at that moment, would you not?”
“I will agree with you, old man. Now, if I may have your money, I will be on my way. I do not
mean to be presumptive, but I do trust that this will be your choice.”
“Certainly, that is what I should choose. However, if I am to surrender my belongings, then
should I not at least receive a proper burglary? I am certain that your past clients received
no less.”
“Of course, of course,” the highwayman concedes. “There is little doubt that this has not
been my finest moment, professionally. A man in my vocation does rely a fair bit on his
reputation. What would you have me do to make amends?”
“I would suggest to you that I should move back several steps, as you conceal yourself once
again in the bushes over there. We will re-stage the conditions of our first encounter with
due accuracy. As I approach, you should pop out once again whilst brandishing your sword.”
“How do I know that you will not run away as I hide myself?”
“My dear boy, I have not run anywhere in a very long time. I doubt that I still know how.
I merely walk, and have little mastery of that.”
“Then a properly conducted burglary, you shall receive! I suppose I owe you that much.
You will tell anyone you may meet that William of Umber was a formidable and competent
practitioner of his art, I trust?”
“Of course.” agrees the old man.
The old man turns to move slowly back along the trail approximately twenty steps. A small
finch, bird-brained as it may be, flies above the old man, covering the length of the old man’s
trek in far less time than the aged biped is able. May your next worm devour you from inside
wishes the weary one of the finch.
With little regard for the innate aerobatic prowess of the small fowl performing impossible
variations in flight, William watches the old man closely until he turns once again to face
toward him down the path. With this, William takes his cover in the brush – careful to maintain
visual contact with his mark. As promised, the old man calls out that he is proceeding toward
his impending, deserved and skillfully-conducted robbery, and walks slowly forward – very
careful to retrace the very same steps as he had taken before.
As the old man nears, William once again springs from the brush. Although not without
entanglements, this time he appears on the trail with far less stumbling and completely
fails to fall. Not his best work, but passable.
Pointing his sword at the old man, William asks, “Your money or your life?” The old man
glares disappointedly. “Dreadfully sorry, good sir. Old habits…you understand” offers the
thief as he stares to the ground in shame – the tip of his blade following suit. Renewing his
efforts, William once more raises his sword with calm authority. “Will you give me your
money now, sir, or need I kill you for it?” William smiles broadly with these words. His
tongue rolls them along as a dung beetle rolls its prize. It is a comfortable phrasing of the
question that seems to endow him with a certain, natural command of the situation. Like
a prideful student getting his first “A” on a test, his eyes look to the old man’s for approval.
That same old man catches the glint in his assailant’s eyes and he nods the requested
approvation. “That was very well done, I must say. I certainly felt much more threatened
this time. Now - and I really don’t mean to be a bother here or to impose awkward
complications - as to your question, I am afraid that I must offer my life in payment.”
William looks at the frail old man quizzically. “Surely, he is not going to fight to keep
his money,” he thinks to himself. “Why do you offer me your life? Give me your money
and I shall leaveyou in peace.” Then, resuming a more professional tone, he threatens,
“Fail, and I shall leave you in pieces.”
“I am afraid I must fail you.”
“Look here my good man! I am holding a very real sword here! It has tasted flesh
before. Give me your money and spare me the trouble of killing you,” pleads William.
“I can not do that.”
“Give me just a few dinari. You don’t have to give me all that you have. Provide me
with enough to venture into the village some night soon and enjoy libation and women.
After such a poor performance earlier, I see no need to be dogmatic with you, although I
have never allowed a client to retain his valuables before.”
“I’m afraid I have only my life to offer, as finances are not to be counted amongst
my possessions.”
“You have nothing?”
“Not a sheckle. No dinari. Not a quince nor a pence – nor anything which might
be sold for such.”
“Have you been robbed already? Is there someone else working in the forests of William
of Umber? If so, I shall hunt him down and take all of his possessions - including
yours - from him.”
“No, no,” the old man chuckles. “I have not been robbed by anyone but the fates. No
one can steal from me that which I do not own.”
With this news, the great highwayman William of Umber takes a seat on a fallen log at
the road’s edge. “You own nothing of value, then?” he ponders. “So what business have
you if you have no trade to conduct.”
“My own,” comes the response.
“Well you know my name, now, yet I do not know yours. Who are you, old man?”
William is considering the slow state of his finances of late. Robbery is his trade,
but there is obviously no trade to conduct with this fragile figure standing before him.
“I no longer know my name. Whatever it once may have been is unlikely to be an
apt moniker nowadays in any case, ” replies the traveler, “but many have addressed
me by title. They say that I am The Chronicler.”
“I have never heard of you,” William retorted.
“I should think not. Any man passing his life in these forlorn forests would encounter
only the most rare of traveler. I would think that news would arrive very slowly here.”
“So I should have heard of you, then?” asks William with a pawl of wariness.
“With a more active calendar, you might have heard of me, yes. Many have.”
“You say that this is your title. What do you chronicle, then?”
“I record the lives and stories of those I meet.”
“And will you be recording mine, then?”
“Of course, this is no passing encounter. ”
“What if I do not want to tell you my stories?”
“Everyone wants to tell their stories. That’s why you have them. Besides, I already
know that you come from a long line of highwaymen. Your name is William and you
are from Umber. You have been most forthcoming thus far.”
“So…that book you are carrying… if there are many who have heard of you and
your work, then that book you carry must be of some value.”
“This book is valuable beyond your wildest imaginings.”
“But you told me that you have nothing of value!”
“I have nothing of value to you. But, I admit, this book does have value.”
“If it has value, then why does it not apply to me?”
“Because the value of this book can not be assessed in terms of how many drinks or
women it may finance. The value of this book lies in the value that it has for man
in the collective sense.”
William stares deeply into the eyes of the wizened traveler, looking for some sign
of an infirm mind. Staring into the tired, old pupils – maybe through them – William
sees twin images merge into a single view of himself lying unconscious in a cold
stream. His view of this surreal scene is interrupted as slowly, deliberately - foreboding
in tone - this lonely recorder of the deeds of man speaks to William. “I will be there
when you do this.”
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