Let’s say I’ve been having hallucinations. No, let’s say I’ve been talking to aliens. They’ve been showing themselves to me. They’re here to reclaim the human race–Mother Earth is dying. No. She is already dead–we humans just don’t know it yet.
I’ve been following strange sounds I am hearing in the environment–larger than life sounds, bigger than construction demolition, if you can imagine. The first sound I heard, another man heard it too. We stopped in our tracks and looked in the direction of the sound. Mouths agape, we made small talk, then hurriedly moved on with our lives.
The sounds are becoming more frequent. Different sounds: huge buzzes, big saws, massive rototillers. These are the alien machines eating people off the face of the earth. The time is now, but not quite yet. Someday they’ll all come and throw us into heaps of bodies. Bones will move alone without spirit, and air will taste like gas.
Sugar’s saint is Stella. Stella’s lover is the lion and they’re gone. Ready for liftoff, the spaceships holding those in the know are making their way past the trees and foliage unseen, to safety. For those of us left behind, is there hope? It will happen in waves until the grinding becomes so obvious we’ll not be able to deny it any longer. Life on planet earth is ending, and the humans who have pillaged and plundered her have to go. The green ones, the yellow ones, the blue ones–all gone.
They’re after me, I know it. Not the aliens as we expect–that’s a different story. These are men with magic scalpels that want to transform my life through subjugation and pain. They’re after my woman she-man parts, they’re after my good parts, they’re after my pain and my glory. I smell smoke, see it billowing in the air. Crying out, they hear but they don’t care. They are hell bent on making me miserable, on keeping things status quo and all the while a magic-oriented marshal law takes hold.
They visit me daily, sometimes for hours at a time, tinkering, wondering who I am, why I matter, and what’s the loss anyway? I’m a felled human, I’ve been smoked before, to them there’s no point in listening. In their eyes, I must have deserved it and I’ve been thrown to the wolves for consumption.
I’ve advanced myself to escape the pain this time. By this I mean I’ve evolved, I’ve advanced my life form. I hear thoughts? No. I am psychic? Never. But whatever I am, they don’t like it–the magic men, that is (the aliens are impressed. Maybe there is hope for the world yet.)
I transform myself and the sorcerers notice. They try to pick me apart like meth heads with nothing better to do than see how a cell phone works from the inside. I’m useless, broken apart and torn from within. In constant pain and fear, I can’t manage my finances, clean house, or some days wipe my ass strait. Is it over yet? am I done with course of therapy they deem necessary for their well-being? I don’t know. Today is a new day. Tomorrow is a new day. I just keep hanging on in hopes they will eventually leave me the hell alone. I take my meds, talk to the doctor and lean on mom for support.
This is the one year anniversary of the “Rocks up for Big Brother” post — one of the more “sacred” aspects of my journey. I carried this list of pictorial keys with me — my own personal Rosetta Stone enabling me to navigate through the wilderness of thought and experience. I was convinced at the time I published the post that the world would end as I released this sacred information to the public. I did not quite understand at the time that this was a personal experience, not a social experiment.