The way to Post Eden

I had dreams that started in 2007 and ended in 2015. They were three or four trips to my personal, post Edenic paradise.  An actual place located between time and timelessness, a place I could remain disembodied and be happy until it came time to answer another call from God, but only if I did something heroic.  That one act of heroism done on myself would in turn lead me closer to Christ and living a more self-conscious lifestyle.  I believe the dreams were preparing me for these things, and now in 2018, I am on the cusp of bringing closer to fruition.

I was introduced back to this realm of my dreams in 2007, by three or four unknown friends. It was in the upstairs attic, or bedroom of a some type of informal reception house, sitting their solitary and all alone amid a vast and never ending wheat field, drenched in bright morning sun. I still do not recall what they were telling me, but I have a sense that it had to do with the task ahead, and they were instilling me with the heart and fortitude to carry on with it, successfully. The room itself was small and cluttered, and not all of the sunlight was coming in through the windows, and it was somewhat dim. I was basking amid friends in their cool and comforting blue dimness. And I still felt a longing to be back in their presence, even after I woke up.

Their well-wishes would prove effective the following year and my life would change. In October 2008 I re-enlisted back into active duty Army, after already having prior service from 2002 to 2006. In retrospect, those two years from November 2006 to October 2008 was my first brief reality check and bleak realization that I could not make it in the real world, being the way that I was.  I was given a hand of cards that I could not play, by people who did not at all play with a full deck.  Going back in the Army after serving four prior years was simply me putting it back away into the dark and murky bins of psychological damage, that already began cluttering my mind.  Four years passed without a dream close to the one in 2007, until after new years of 2012;  I ordered a bag of superfly agaric and tripped balls, writhing and squirming in my bed because my mind was imagining an apparition of a female soul taker.  She was coming in on her train or monorail in all of her homely brattiness, with her mother too perhaps, coming to get me under skylights like I saw at that train station in Paris, ugly purple and yellow! Then I opened my eyes and time appeared as if running on film, and I could see the numbers which inhabited the invisible dimension in my head.  More alarmingly, I bought a Kahr MK40 no more than two months prior, after staying at my parents.  I had just ETSed out of Ft. Stewart where I burnt the skin under my eyes badly from unchecked alcoholics anxiety, the drinking left me not only in bad physical health but bad mental health also.  Their neighbor for whatever reason chose to use our parking spot while they were gone and my frazzled alcoholic brain registered it as intruder and I got scared. I think that day or the following, I left by foot in the snow to buy the gun.  But that wasn’t why I really bought the gun, I think I bought it for a subconscious reason that had not yet by the mercy of God raised its ugly head.  I even came close to accidental suicide after moving out of my parents into a closet room in the U-District of Seattle.  During one of my nights of drinking, and hearing AWOLNATION’s Sail on the radio, I picked up my gun to pretend to shoot my computer.  It was chambered at that time and I could’ve easily pulled the trigger thinking it would not shoot, or even worse pretended to shoot myself only to find a real bullet spraying my brains all over that tiny room. I thank God that never happened.

About February 2014 the dreams started again, a realization that I wouldn’t make it unless I did something heroic; I found myself on the sixth floor balcony of an apartment, surrounded by fur trees many times taller than the building itself.  It was sunny, and beautiful and I was trying to tell my family that many years ago, human beings stood taller than even the trees which loomed out in front of the apartment building, but they refused to believe me. It seems immediately after that I was taken high up in the air over a city that had looked like Houston, my birth city. But I was still not high enough to the same height as the head of that titanic, spindly plant creature, which I saw far out in the distance amid a tornado like wind.  As it’s long spindly appendages morphed into a more human form, it shrank and densified into the form of a giant Doctor Doom, or Doctor Doom-like character, with the same costume, cape and hood, but maybe a slightly different color, and he seemed to have a face of flesh although I cannot recall how it looked.  The vividness came out in his imposing size and presence, as his massive arm moved closer toward me, it seemed he grew larger and larger the closer he got.

He seemed to catch me in his hand as he got so large he towered directly over my head and it felt as if I would cross under his shadow. I remember looking down and seeing if he would hit any buildings, but he never did! Being with this titanic being was like your coolest movie in 3d and on dmt. This was the only dream other than the very first I remember having at a specific time in my life. The other dreams I had, but I do not remember when I had them.  All I know is they were sometime between 2007 and 2015.  Like the others, the dream of being on an apartment balcony with my family then being teleported over a city to meet a morphing titan had its dream portal, a path you follow in your rem sleep to lead to that specific level of vividness and state of beauty.  The giants in the dreams symbolized what I had to become in the real world to overcome the task ahead and hopefully find myself there again, instead of somewhere else akin to hell.  I think the dream portal to that dream involved being outside of a Buckingham Palace type of building, others similar buildings surrounded it in the dream and I remember floating over their rooftops and looking into their windows, and others I actually went inside of, briefly, but not the main palace, I could not enter because of some game being played on me that I can’t recall.  Other dream portals included boarding a grey hound bus to end up at a downtown library or courthouse, I go inside and see books and records of my life and the lives of others.  Or being back at my old house on Mattson Road, but overlooking a different landscape, dotted with water and islands and seeing Oakville, the town it lied just outside of, and how it would look in the future, far off in the distance. I know another portal was my grandparents old house, which was just up the hill from my parents, hidden behind trees inhabited by Sasquatch.  But my old house where I was raised in Oakville is a big portal.  It’s beautiful most of the time and the 70 acre property looks slightly different, but there is a tinge of paradise in its two fields and within its forest. I remember sneaking into my sister’s room for weed, in the late afternoon and in the dark of the night.  I may have had to undergo the wrath of my parents once or twice but even after I wake up I vaguely wish that I lived there again, maybe even as its landowner, and imagine I’m back in that dream portal again, on the cusp of paradise. Then there’s the Motel portal, were I am outside walking along the wooden dock of a motel trying to find my room, or going up and down a busy main street just biding my, away from a group.  I end up upstairs in one of three places, either a cute Victorian house with red burgundy walls in a comfy cozy bedroom decorated with furniture, plants and potpourri; upstairs in a spacious living room with futuristic walls of silver and purple lava lamp, feeling very groggy and mentally sluggish and in the company of a friendly stranger; or upstairs huddled in a tiny bedroom lit dimly with purple blue light and adorned with streaming satin sheets. But how could I forget the biggest portal of them all? The one where I first board a super sonic train that enters into a dark tunnel and takes me to an aerial docking station. There I board a large futuristic commercial air-craft where I may or may not have to wear ear-buds and other gear just to handle the noise and ruckus of the flight.  But I ultimately end up in space, not an endless and infinite space, but a finite and celestial heaven, inhabited at the very center by a super-massive sheening and glistening orb that is all-intelligent and putting on a cerebral light and effects show.  And still, I recall even more portals, but I no longer wish to continue.

And then I finally enter back into Post Edenic Paradise, either all in one trip or broken up into two or more.  I’m taken to a subterranean marine base housing a four dimensional interactive globe of prehistoric Earth, there visitors charter the path they are to take.  I remember chartering a specific course and then I paddled my way through a dark viaduct leading out of the base’s main station.  I paddled through a black tunnel and then out into an open power-station built half in the water and half out.  Here, the orbis geographica of antiquity began coming closer into view, and I began to see how over eons, the land masses began to spread further and further apart to create the oceans of today, nevertheless, the water of this particular area was still a bright and sparkling indigo color, and you could see right through down to the coral reef biome which still separated the land masses by just a few miles of shallow tropical seas.  My navigation was finally calibrated using the classical grid overlay displaying spiritual latitude oriented against its longitude counterpart.   Because of this I was able to gauge how well I could handle the rest of my life, it dealt with channeling our giant prehistoric ancestors and learning wisdom from their teaching.

After my charter I was dropped uninvited into a giant Victorian looking house in the middle of the day.  I could tell because of the sterile light coming in through the windows.  I was never told anything was there but I felt a presence which told me I had to find my way out without getting seen, and the thing that I never saw that inhabited that house was a beautiful giantess with long black hair.  It was strange cause I seemed to fall out of an antique Victorian sewing box that folded out of a cabinet in the wall like some strange other-dimensional gnome, and it was similar to the one my parents had in their house in Oakville, next to their piano. I made it unscathed out of the house and into its giant flower garden and planting beds, and somehow over the giant boulders which fenced the prehistoric property from outside invaders.  But outside of its walls was nothing but barren land, littered with tumbling weeds and inhabited by nomadic tribes of roaming giants. But there was still a tinge of post eden in the air that seemed to grow more intense as I walked closer under the legs of sixteen foot giants who appeared like towering tribesmen, adorned in toothed necklaces and clutching their piked spears.  As I kept walking the flat desert I kept walking under taller and taller giants, until I ended this journey in the company of a tour guide who led me to a city out in that vast desert, a city of megalithic temples and fortresses. I entered in under a looming arch and surrounded by the bustling of the city and entered into a temple where I was shown or given something divine and dealing with my path. That was the end of that journey as far as I can tell, and then I woke up.  I possibly made a brief re-entry one night after I found another portal in the pages of one of my favorite artists, Geoff Darrow. I was marveling at his detailed and intricate work on the blue biomechanical Godzilla with interconnecting appendages, it covered a vast space and formed its own colorful alien world. I realized it was my own illustration that I was doing for fun and at that point I may have entered back into some prehistoric city that existed at some point in the distant distant past.  The architecture of the buildings and the very landscape itself had a sort of cartoon, fish eye lens effect to them that was very subtle.  The sky was not blue but red, as if such a heavy dusk was setting that the light retreating off the refracting glass in the sky dimmed the Sun’s rays to appear red and no longer bright yellow. I appeared to be entering a city built on a lava canyon with metal steps and stone staircases. They led me into a fabricated wall of buildings, slightly dilapidated, masterfully fashioned and stacked one upon the other, like some ornate prehistoric shanty metropolis.  Once inside I passed through a narrow door and through two or three cluttered rooms, into and even more cluttered space no larger than a closet. Standing within its tiny opening I faced the skull of a sixteen foot giant on display, amid a wide array of maps, gadgets and tools, used for finding the truth but long lost to time. I believe my brother was with me briefly, refusing the validity of this giant skull even as he stood there staring at it. I could not help him see the truth and I left going back out same way I came in.

  It would be on June 11th, 2014, my birthday, I would catch a fleeting glimpse of what I thought was a tiny glowing orb that looked wispy in the air, directly above my head.  I saw it as I was walking back from 7-11 and I swear it was only for no more than a second.  I feel it was foreshadowing a brighter future and it already knew what I did not yet know myself, even at that stage.  Only after I came back from visiting my cousin over the fourth of July did I have the epiphany that life as I’d known it was no longer worth living . . . unless.  The same year I had three nightmares, the first was more of a morningmare, cause it happened when the sun was shining down into my window.  It was of a demonic face with piercing eyes that bulged red and veiny, and it would not stop staring menacingly back at me.  But I feel it had just as much to do with the alcohol addiction I was battling a couple years prior, as I was still overcoming it and I was in one of its last throws.  The second was of myself, although I wasn’t aware of it at the time, I was staring back at myself sitting down on a bench behind tinted glass doors.  I could not see my own face,  just the sides of my legs, I was horrified to open the doors and pass by this stranger, and just the sight of his presence chilled me to the bone.  The third was of myself again, and I was looking at myself and I saw that my head was caved in and I appeared like a hideous mushroom man with a horrible fungus, hideous features and debilitating handicap. I was hopeless in front of my peers who could do nothing to help me. These were all portends to a fate that was quick manifesting into permanent reality unless I did not take drastic action to turn it all around.

As 2014 winded down I began my first year of un-fucking what this ungodly orthodontist had allowed done.  This is where it starts to get really crazy for me, and this is what ultimately would end up giving me PTSD as a result of undergoing the process.  Not because of actually doing what I was doing to myself, but having to see the looks on peoples faces as they were seeing the apparent results.  I thought it would all go smoothly but that was far from the case, it would go about as rough as you can imagine it going.  As January turned to February, and February turned to March, humanity as I’d known it would grow more wrathful and less hospitable.  At first I tried immersing myself in my work but by the end of 2015, working became more and more unbearable and simply pushing my face back out became more and more the only priority.  But as I began my second year of un-fucking what that yes man orthodontist had done, I was not paying attention to the damage I was doing to my left cheek.  Still I went on with it, high out of my head on weed and buzzed until I got leaky gut off of too much caffeine.  And then the second Amanita binges began, this time gifted with patches running along my daily route to the grocery store and into town by something divine.  It was during the second muscimol trips that Adam and Eve both bid me one last blessing, on an intense muscimol high that had left me vomiting.  Still, they waved to me from somewhere southwest of time and told me to write on the wall if I saw them, so I did.  I wrote I could see them waving and I waved back, as I could vaguely see them through time.  I might meet them again and I sensed these lives we live now are nothing but brief illusions.  I was languishing in downward descending physicality, and sick to my stomach from a toxic dose of muscimol, I sensed an invisible alien like entity, like some demonic squid who came briefly into my room to see who was conjuring up and calling upon such an alternate dimension as this.  The demonic squid was invisible but I still knew it was there, it came in with a powerful rush, squirming into my room and passing through the wall under the ceiling, inside my  darkened closet.  But then it left just as quick as it came, and all I was left with was its brief reverberating echo to move on.  I could also sense that we are the ones somehow still underwater and this concave reality is causing us to form invisible bubbles that run up and in toward the center of Earth.  Then I really got a sense of this fake holographic simulation as I stared blankly at the wall and then threw up into my cooking pot.  I turned off the lights in a daze and began entering into chapter two of this ensuing wrath full of evil eye and glares that throw daggers into your stomach.  A hell that was coming in on me from all directions.

It was November, 2015, and it was getting cold outside.  Still, I became unwelcome where I lived in Lynwood and I would end up leaving a package that was an amulet and my carbon monoxide detector at that house, as they may as well belonged to nobody at all.

  As I was at the bus stop making my way down to Parkland, where I moved, I believe I saw what had planted those amanitas while at the bus station during a blustery and wet day; through the clouds in the sky I swear I saw a white orb. It was so high that it would be nearly impossible to catch unless I did not point it out to you in the sky, and even then it would be hard to see because its pure whiteness blended in so well with the surrounding sky.  It occurred to me that maybe it had something to do with the blustery weather that month and the growth of the mushrooms along the road.  Whatever the reasons for the amanitas growing along the road it brought in a hellish chapter in my life.  Briefly for the worst but ultimately for the best.   After spending my holidays walking out in the dark and cold, blustery rain to find a new place to live cause I was no longer welcome where  I lived in Lynwood, I spent my new years chocking down my last dried out amanita in a rented room in Tacoma, but I only got buzzed.

I was still devoting all of my time to pushing my face back out with the towel but I was still doing it wrong and still was not really paying attention to the damage until I almost choked on a bite of a doughnut.  After I took my first real assessment of my cheek I was in somewhat shock, and it finally dawned on me how torn and worn down it had become and I completely lost symmetry on that side.  Eating or even smiling became had become difficult I just now seemed to notice.  I was too determined to break my jaw if I had to, at all costs, I’ll be damned with the consequences.  What kind of damage and pain I was causing to myself was well masked under my marijuana and caffeine riddled trance.  Somehow I knew I could heal myself and get myself right after this long never ending hellish experience was over, so grueling and insanely strenuous to my arms, wrists, hands, and thumbs.

As winter turned to spring and spring into summer I remained aloof in that room and writhed as I pushed and pushed and pushed, and turned that house into a festering dump, overran with flies and watching the Joe Rogan Experience on my Wacom Cintiq.  The final days at that house two latinos or mexican males, younger around in their twenties would come in the house break into Kristin’s room right across from me.  I would be forced to throw my garbage into other people’s trash bins and It seemed that I was the only one left besides Kristin, who still lived their.  Ultimately I would end up being the one to move out of there and I feel she ended up staying there as an agreement with the landlord and the house and I’m sure it ended up becoming a normal house again in time, but I know I left her with a minor psychological stain that will not exactly be easy to erase from her memory.

After another unpleasant move in the cold November of 2016 I somehow made my way back down to Centralia, where I was sent to the Orthodondist that sunny day in the summer of 1992.  That could be a whole other story in its own and maybe someday I will tell it to you, yes, something divine lead me back down here, the town where it all began.  I revisited it in a slum lords insect ridden trailer house on 1515 crescent avenue, pushing my face out to Type O Negative’s Dead Again.  I myself was also finally dead again as I lay down in the cold black room littered with boxes and unorganized belongings and my eroded stomach lining quivered and writhed with delicious monsters.  And likewise a monster is perhaps what was made of me down here, as I am still that powerless and abused thirteen year old who had a so called doctor perform something heinous and lawless to him before he even had a chance to live his own life.  Yes I was definitely sent back to this town to prove something, that I can overcome this, and make myself right again even in the face atrocious adversity such as that.  Where the government and the grown adults who are out of touch and disrespectful of your own ethnicity and how you were born call the shots on your entire life, and you are a helplessly compliant black-latino male with a large and soon to be non-existent overbite.

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