HYPERSPACE [a literary depiction of psychosis]

October 14, 2016


what if?



What follows is the strangest story I have ever witnessed claiming to be true. I use the word “witnessed” because the person relating this narrative drew such a detailed description of his purported experience that it was as if I myself were with him; as if I myself had undergone the event.  

I concede it would be natural for one to think I am posting this account because in it my novel HYPERSPACE became a focal point of the interlocution between the narrator and the two “personages” it describes. Anyone who thinks in this manner is correct! The reason for this is the fact that I do not know the narrator. My encounter with him in which he described his experience was the only contact I have had with him. How did he know me? True, he may have seen my book online. But what motive would he have to construct such a tale as the one that follows and then contact me? I accept the possibility that what he told me is true. Had he contacted me about an alien abduction without a reference to me or my book I may still have posted it. Believability would have to have been the gauge. The ETs’ persistent reference to my novel (according to the narrator), places his story within the realm of believability, at least for me. This does not prove his story true. But for me, it does make it believable. Why would the narrator invent such a scenario? What motive could he possibly have? He will receive no remuneration for relating his story. So it must be true! But after I tell myself that, lingering doubts persist. The reader must make up his or her own mind. I still have not made up mine.

There is no sense is wasting any more time. What follows, in his own words (typed out by yours truly) is the aforementioned narrative of the person whose story it is; a person whom I do not know; a person with whom, since his only contact with me, I have had no association. I do not even know his name. Harley is the only name by which I know him, and he assured me that the name Harley is pseudonymous. Whatever name was actually used with reference to the narrator in the event described below, Harley is the name used in this transcription. The words are exactly as Harley spoke them, including any grammatical errors that might exist within them. The only items extracted from the recording were coughs, pauses, and breathing sounds. Here now is Harley’s account.

I’ll start by saying I’m a regular guy, living to do my job, get through the day, no flights of fancy. I’m a statistician, for heaven’s sakes! It’s my job to think logically, to have my feet on the ground, figuratively for sure even if not literally! I don’t do drugs, by the way. My only drug is the caffeine in my coffee. So what explains the experience I am about to describe? It is either real, or I had a drug free hallucination which, if true, means I may be losing my mind. Yet I feel and think right now this moment as I always have…wanna do my job, get through the day with no flights of fancy. To me the experience I am about to describe was real. But isn’t that what all psychos say? Also, I don’t have any agenda apart from what I was directed to do by the people who directed me. I say people secure in the knowledge that despite their physical difference from homo sapiens (one of them in particular), they were sentient and intelligent. Maybe what I am about to tell you did happen. It sure seems to me like it happened!

Well, after a cup of that java I mentioned, early in the morning on the day the events began…oh, it was pretty damn early. I need a coupla hours before I get out of the house and travel to whatever client I’m working with on a given day. I like to get to the client early as possible. Real glad my current client likes to start early also. He’s a real estate executive who needs land values compared and contrasted with regard to their locales. He’s actually in his office seven AM sharp every day! I really feel like a slacker when I get there seven-thirty. So you can imagine how I felt about the day I didn’t show up!

That day! As I walked toward the front door I glanced at the wall clock: six-fifty AM. I opened the front door and stepped outside. I was instantly amazed at the darkness that confronted me! I looked straight forward outside into the dark and could literally see nothing. “Shit!” The word just shot out. “What the fuck is going on here?” Stan, I almost never use expletives! But those expletive filled remarks were not thought out in the slightest fashion. They were reflex reactions which I feel even now when thinking about what I was experiencing then. “I gotta get outa here,” I thought, and did an about face with the intention of reentering my house. But there was no house, just darkness. “Jesus Christ!” I blurted. “Where the hell am I.” At the same time I was amazed at the silence. Deep and still. That old cliche about “deafening silence”? I was in it, baby! I was in it! I know it was early in the morning, but any borough in New York City there ain’t no such thing as deafening silence any time of any day or night.

I have no idea how much time passed. I just knew that suddenly I was in a circle of blue light. It surrounded me. I looked up. The blue light extended upward past my vision. I looked down. The blue light extended downward past my vision. During the time period I was encased in cylindrical blue, occasionally a dull yellow area would appear on one side or the other of my encasement. I had no concept of the amount of time spent in the blueness, nor memory of any intermediary occurrence that may have been transfixed, as it were, between the cylindrical blue experience and the next consciously remembered experience, which happened to be a face! And quite a face! I mean, unique! The hair, the color, the clothing…Wait! I’m talking too fast. Let me slow down and go one step at a time. Let’s just take the face and hair…I mean, you really can’t talk about the one without talking about the other. The way the long hair hung, and its color–sort of a blend between light blond and albino white–seen next to his slightly elongated head and face, seemed to make that hair blend with the face in such a manner so as to appear a single feature! Because that skin…can’t really say it was white, or what we generally refer to as flesh color. No! It was a light gold! So his hair did initially seem to be part of his skin. But as I sat there for a short time and took in the scene in more detail, I could clearly see that hair hanging down to his shoulders. Those shoulders, his entire body, was clothed in what I would have to say was a uniform of exquisite blue. I actually remember all this in detail, and that surprises me, because there is so much of my experience that I don’t remember. Well, whatever I remember, you’re gonna hear it. On his left shoulder was sort of a bright gold epaulette. No tassels or fringes. Just a golden area covering his shoulder. He was wearing two ornaments that I remember quite distinctly. I just assume they consisted of some kind of precious stone. The color of one was blue, but a lighter hue than that of his clothes, so there was a distinguishing contrast. But the stone constantly scintillated bright white flashes…I mean real white, blinding bright and flashing. It was small and circular… seemed to be attached to his clothes just below his neck. Another, larger stone, in the shape of a winged figure, was part of, or was attached to his uniform over his left breast. It was unmistakably a bird with outspread wings looking a little more than an inch wide from tip to tip. Its body–vertically placed, the small sharp beak pointed upward–looked to be approaching two inches long, including the tail. Outspread wings looked beige, had consecutive indentations running up and down across the wing…darn, there’s a word for that, can’t remember…

“Fluting,” I interrupted.

Yeah, that’s it. Each of the flutings spanned a wing’s length. The body was a light gold, and its spread tail was beige tinged with gold, also containing consecutive flutings spreading across, running up and down the tail’s length.

Well, this personage was standing before me. I was seated, but that’s one of the things I don’t remember. What was I seated on? What place was it? He was staring at me in an intense fashion which was when I noted that his eyes were a blue-gray. He had a high forehead, but not abnormally so; a straight nose neither excessively large or small; straight lips, I’d guess you’d say, neither smiling nor frowning…serious looking; and his light golden skin was as smooth as…I honestly can’t think of an analogy. I saw not the slightest wrinkle anywhere, including not the slightest hint of small pockets under those eyes of his. Just flat smoothness. Alabaster! That’s it! Smooth as alabaster! I’m not talking cliché here. If you ever saw an alabaster carving, smooth, almost shiny…that’s his skin!

“Do you feel well?” he asked. His voice’s sound was smooth as his skin, and comforting–the tone moderate, not alto and not bass. And I sort of felt the words inside me. I can’t say if I saw his lips moving…if he was using telepathy.

“I don’t know. Where am I?” was my answer.

He said, “in a ship.”

“What the heck am I doing here?” I asked him.

“You should not be alarmed. No harm will come to you,” was his response.

“Kidnapping is harmful,” I answered.

“Sometimes a modicum of force is required for a greater good. No physical harm to you will occur,” he said.

“Why am I here?” I thought I had a right to know what their intentions were.

He answered as follows: “Occasionally we select an individual for communication. We may like to gauge his individual situation, gauge the situation of his immediate environment, and also attempt as accurate a perception as possible, from this individual’s standpoint, of homo sapiens sapiens’ current status. In your case there is something more specific involved.”

“You think kidnapping and imprisonment of me is going to get answers out of me?” I felt amazed that they would kidnap someone with an expectation that he would cooperate with them on any level.

“You can relax, Harley,” he said. He knew my real name. “You will suffer no physical harm. It would be extremely inappropriate and unethical to treat you in the fashion to which you are now being subjected if we had no overriding reason to do so. I know how strange this is for you, but we do know of ethics. We are ethical. I’ll give you a choice: stay on this ship for the amount of time necessary for us to properly communicate, and if that is your choice, we will immediately move to a more comfortable area and you can have sustaining food and drink for this short interim. Or, if you prefer, you can come to our planet where you will be supplied with quite comfortable living space for the time of your visit. You will then know us better. Your fears will dissipate. Whatever is your choice, at the proper time you will be returned to your normal environment on Earth.”

“Where are you from?” I looked directly at him.

His response was a bit vague. “That’s difficult. The easiest truthful answer for the present time is to say the Pleiades, if you are familiar with astronomy from Earth’s perspective. But we go back farther. At a future time we may inform you with details concerning this.”

“Won’t a trip to your planet take a bunch of lifetimes?” I sort of wondered out loud to him.

“It will take minutes.” was his immediate response. Then he went on. “Our technology has the capacity for time/space forced curvature. We have no need to concern ourselves with the speed of light problem.”

“Hyperspace?” I asked. “I’m an old Isaac Asimov fan and I’m remembering something he wrote about called hyperjumps–how using hyperspace you get from one place in the galaxy to another.”

“That terminology can be applicable,” was his answer to my hyperspace question.

Next I told him I was still having trouble convincing myself I’m not dreaming or hallucinating, mentioning to him as I have to you that I don’t use drugs. “Look,” I said to him, “a trip to your planet sounds wonderful. But maybe we can make it another time. But I wouldn’t mind another cup of coffee. I didn’t finish the one I had before leaving my house.”

In a second I was in a totally different environment…lavish, actually! The entire room–quite a large room, I might add–was a light gray. Usually when a person thinks gray he thinks dull, boring. But let me tell you Stan, this room was gorgeous! Maybe it had to do with the ambient lighting filtering into the space from the tiny circular ceiling lights that seemed to be emitting a pleasant light blue. Whatever it was, this gray was the opposite of dull and boring. I was seated in a large light gray, almost white cushioned lounge chair with a high comfortable back–on which my own back relaxed–and more than adequate arms upon which my own arms rested. Jorg was seated on an identical lounge chair across from me…yeah, he had told me his name, which was kind of long and funny and hard to pronounce, but the sound Jorg seemed to be part of it, so that’s how I called him then and refer to him now. To the left of us was a luxurious looking sofa consisting of adjacent huge cushions–on a square gray white-speckled carpet centered on what looked to be a smooth stone gray floor–three of which extended into three others to form a right angle. Each of the cushions, with the exception of the one extending towards the center of the room, just a few feet away from Jorg, included a short raised cushioned back consisting of the same material as the seats. Upon the seats were several fancy looking square pillow-cushions, several the same gray as the seating, two or three others the kind of white, silky, long-haired pillows you see in luxury hotels. In front of this improvised sofa stood a three-piece glass table, each piece its own small table, each a square, each with four legs extending down to a bottom square of what looked to be hard plastic. The three pieces also formed a right angle and I remember precisely that the table was placed so that its projecting right angle pointed right into the sofa’s depressed right angle. On the middle table–the right angle one whose far corner pointed into the sofa’s–was a thin white vase and a flowery looking circular dish with something in it that looked like cookies, or some other treat. Between Jorg and me stood a circular glass table with a silvery cylindrical rim encircling the table’s edge. The light emissions from the ceiling casting a shine in various sections of the light bluish-gray wall I was facing was pleasantly noticeable. I am describing this to you in such detail for two reasons: one, I am amazed that I remember all of that detail so clearly. And two, I want you to understand the contrast between what I was experiencing in that room, and what I had experienced a short time before when lifted out of this world and the immediate interview that followed; and the contrast between the room’s luxurious look and most people’s preconceived notion of abductee experience…or, for that matter, what I have read of other abductee’s real experiences since my own abduction.

“What happened?” I asked Jorg in reaction to the sudden change of environment. My tone was definitely a reflection of my amazement.

He answered. “We transferred to another area of the ship. This area was constructed for the purpose of homo sapiens sapiens’ comfort…a familiar environment supplies such.”

“Yeah, but how’d the transfer happen!” It was an exclamation of incredulity as much as a question.

He answered in as matter of factly way as a traffic cop might answer ‘when the light is green’ if you asked him when you can cross the street: “Without going into technical details, it was simply a space transfer. If we can curve space and time to reach your planet, is it not reasonable to suppose we can curve space minutely to transfer from one spot to another in a given small area?”

“But you didn’t press any buttons…controls!” In retrospect I view that response as an unconscious challenge. I mean, I wouldn’t have the wherewithal to challenge their technological advancement and superiority intentionally. It was another one of those reflex reactions, like the occasional expletives. But he answered me in a very normal tone of voice, not like he was touting his superior knowledge.

“The ship senses my will. To be slightly more technical, mental vibrations can effect physical phenomena.”

“Unfuck…unbelievable!” I had to catch myself, Stan. Another unsought after expletive almost slipped out. Honest, using that kind of language is not my normal practice.

Jorg’s next remark was his invitation for me to try some of his coffee plus a repeated food offer. “Have some of your coffee and if you would like food, please make it known.”

“Coffee would be just fine, but where…” Before I could finish asking Jorg where the coffee was, I saw on the glass table positioned between us a large coffee mug. I could see thin wisps of coffee steam rising upward from the mug and I could smell a wonderful coffee aroma. “I won’t even ask how you did it,” I said as I bent forward and reached for the mug. As I was lifting it, leaning back, bringing it too me, I caught sight of another figure sitting on the improvised sofa to my left, which seconds before had been unoccupied. A claw clenched my gut! The sight of him shocked the hell out of me. I gotta tell ya’, I have never been into this ET/UFO stuff, but if ever there was a Gray, this was it! He was staring right at me! He was short…about half the size of Jorg, who was easily around six-three. His entire head and face were smooth and a steel color. I mean, he was totally bald. Yul Brynner and Telly Savalas would envy him. His eyes were large ovals slanted downward and inward and I could barely make out the eye itself deep inside the large dark opening. I can think of no other physical attributes. He seemed to be in some kind of uniform, or clothing…enclothed in a shiny steel looking substance with a zipper-like line or lip running vertically from his neck to his groin. He was plain and his presence was unnerving. I guess because he was/is so different from humans. I mean, Jorg was unnerving when his figure first entered my vision. But the shock of my new situation was probably more responsible for that than Jorg himself. Jorg is human, even if from somewhere else.

“Has he told you anything?” the Gray asked Jorg while continuing to stare at me.

While continuing to look in my direction, Jorg’s answer to his Gray friend or ally was…”We’ve just begun. The new situation is always unnerving to our visitors. It is best to allow them to relax until they can acclimate themselves to a different reality.”

Now everything was telepathic! Their lips did not move, there was no sound in my ears. But I did perceive their words. In English by the way, which tells me they wanted me to understand all of the communications that were interchanged between themselves.

“Harley,” Jorg spoke. “Did you notice yellow areas in the blue when you were within the beam?’

“As a matter of fact, I did,” I answered him.

Jorg turned his head towards the Gray. “Why,” Jorg asked the Gray in telepathic mode, “was there interference with our transmission of Harley from his residence to this ship?”

“Others of us,” the Gray responded telepathically, “tried to infiltrate your transmission beam. Their agenda is not ours.”

“Correct,” Jorg responded while turning his head back in my direction. “Harley,” Jorg continued speaking, once again vocally. “Do you ever contemplate why your species, homo sapiens sapiens, is self-destructive? Why your species is suicidal?”

“I don’t know,” I answered him. “Some of us are, others aren’t. Don’t you know more than me about this?”

“Yes,” Jorg said to me. “We do. I ask to find out how much you know.”

“I don’t think about it a lot. I’m too busy working, earning a living.

“Many books have been written about this subject,” Jorg went on, “by various members of your species. Mostly psychologists, psychiatrists, and other people of science on Earth. A particular book actually shows the psychophysiological process in homo sapiens sapiens. It was written by a non-scientist, but one with much personal experience and who has studied the work of a particular psychologist who has pinpointed quite accurately homo sapiens sapiens’ brain problem.”

I shot a couple of questions at him: “If you’re interested in this subject why am I here? Why didn’t you abduct the writer or the psychologist?”

He answered immediately: “There are several reasons why you have been selected. The referred to writer writes quite well but is speech deficient. Also, he would not be self-composed in this situation. You are. The psychologist on whose science the writer’s book is based is physically old and would not bear the beam transmission well.”

“A third reason is our perennial interest in your gene line.” It was the Gray. His words were in my head. “What?” I shot the word directly at him while turning toward him with a sharp movement noting that his appearance and seated positioning were unchanged. “What the hell do you have to do with my gene line?” My feelings toward him had become slightly more relaxed until those last thoughts of his entered my head.

“I will inform you of that soon,” the Gray telepathically continued. “But right now our immediate interest is the book just mentioned and homo sapiens sapiens’ penchant for self-destruction.”

“At this point,” I told him, “I don’t give a fuck what your interest is. What the hell do you have to do with my gene line?”

“I’m sorry you have become so upset,” Jorg vocally intervened, the calmness of his sounds soothing my riled feelings. “I will be as open with you as I can, but briefly, because we must return to the topic of our immediate interest for each moment that passes brings your species closer to its greatest suffering and possible disappearance. For millennia we have traced various gene lines in the interest of our research to gain knowledge of homo sapiens sapiens for the purpose of guiding your species in as covert a way as possible. Please bear in mind, our civilization precedes yours by hundreds of thousands of years. Because of this, our advanced knowledge and experience has the potential to benefit your species, a species related to our Pleiadian. Though my friend here” Jorg went on speaking while continuing to focus his sight in my direction, “is of an entirely different species, he and his planetary system also take interest in Earth’s outcome. This is true of most of us. That is the reason for our interest in various gene lines. Your line was selected along with many others. We have been tracing them all for millennia. This has included what you refer to as abductions. Malice is absent from our intentions. Others from outside Earth have negative intentions. We do not. I will add this: though we have not had occasion to engage with you until now, in the past others of your gene line have been our temporary guests.”

I can’t explain why, but for some reason while he spoke, even though I listened intently, the thought of my cup of coffee began intruding on my mind, my thinking. I had actually forgotten about my coffee for the entire time of this conversation. For some reason, at this point, I had an urge to sip it. I raised the cup to my lips and partook. “Hey!” I exclaimed. “This is the best coffee I ever tasted!” I was immediately perturbed at what I thought was my irrational outcry. But even as I thought it irrational, I was wondering if it really was. How do these beings, not even of planet Earth, know how to make such delectable coffee? Something so minor!

“Is he from the Pleiades too?” I asked, slightly turning my head and nodding towards the Gray.

“No,” the Gray answered telepathically.

I didn’t pursue the subject after the terse response.

Jorg then resumed the topic of his primary concern. “The homo sapiens sapiens species has a propensity to suicide, yet most of its individual members do not intensely think about this fact, nor do most of them even have an intimation of it. As you have said, ‘they don’t think about it a lot. They’re too busy working, earning a living.’”

“Even those of your species that use time to read, to self educate, usually read material unrelated to our discussion,” the Gray telepathically added.

“‘Hyperspace’,” continued Jorg, “the book I am referring to, is extremely useful to us in our desire to educate a wide spectrum of individuals among you as to the nature of your species’ penchant toward suicide, because it allows the non-science reading person to witness the event. It is of great interest to us because it pinpoints the problem quite exactly and more accurately than any non-scientific work, and even more so than various psychology volumes.”

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“What problem does it pinpoint?” I asked.

Jorg explained. “Youngsters of your species suffer traumatic experiences. The sources of these suffering experiences are either their elders or the general environment, whether the environment in question be the physical locale or others of their species, such as siblings and peers. This has a catastrophic effect on the extremely sensitive homo sapiens sapiens’ brain. The brain’s neurons lock in these traumas. The growing individual then acts out these traumas with irrational, often violent, often homicidal, often suicidal behavior. The brain mechanism’s malfunction is greatly compounded when individual’s of Homo sapiens sapiens become sexually active because orgasm is essentially an electrical discharge which opens the brain’s trauma-locked neurons. When these wires called neurons open, the locked in traumas–adverse electrical charges–are released. The traumas erupt, shooting up and out. The individual Homo sapiens sapiens experiencing this phenomenon is almost always unaware of the process qua process he or she is experiencing. The individual only feels the past catastrophe that is the trauma, the individual thus being lost in the trauma’s Pain. The reason for the unawareness of the original trauma which is the phenomenon at the root of the catastrophic feelings, is that this trauma’s origin, this original catastrophic occurrence suffered by the brain, is often preconscious due to the reality that it often occurs when the part of the brain controlling consciousness is unformed. Because concepts and language are functions of consciousness, the person suffering this trauma later in his or her life not only has no concept as to the Pain’s cause, as to its origin; neither has he or she language with which to identify the suffering. The individual in question is thus lost in an indefinable maze of excruciating Pain. Pain that is usually not at all physical, but quite powerful. In fact, this feeling is often so excruciatingly emotionally painful that the individual self-destructs. The reason for this self-destruction is uncomplicated: death presents itself as a less painful alternative to the current excruciation. In many cases, the excruciation is so extreme, that death even presents itself as a paradisal alternative. Those among you with a religious ideology of martyrdom as a pathway to Paradise who are also infested with these locked-in traumas, will consciously seek death to achieve Paradise. Some among this group believe that, in the midst of their own suicide, murdering non-believers of their particular religion will make them martyrs. Their unhinged thinking process leads them to believe such actions will allow them to achieve paradise, which in turn causes them to seek mass death of others by exploding themselves in the midst of large crowds of their fellow homo sapiens sapiens. Another facet of the overall problem is this: the unhinged homo sapiens sapiens brain produces feelings that feel like reality, and so individuals more times than not perform incorrect or irrational actions based on those feelings; actions sometimes innocuous in the midst of an individual’s chaotic life, as well as actions other times catastrophic on a small scale or on a large scale involving many individuals outside the perpetrator’s normal daily parameters. In fact, such feelings are in reality fantasy-reflections of the homo sapiens sapiens unhinged brain. This phenomenon is as true for emotional feelings as for sexual feelings and sexual physical sensations. Emotional and sexual feelings and sexual physical sensations very often do not correspond to the individual’s immediate reality. There is one particular religion on Earth in your current time frame that is permeated with the just now described homicidal/suicidal frenzy. The sexual component of this process is so powerful, that many of these self-defined martyrs fantasize eternal sex in Paradise. This is often their consciously thought motivation driven by their subconscious mechanism. They idealize their fevered flesh sensations and give them, along with acts of homicide and torture, a religious sanction based on passages in their scripture, thereby allowing themselves permission to perpetrate the most hideous acts of barbaric savagery with a feeling of clear conscience along with a false knowledge that they are doing God’s work.”

Jorg continued without pausing. “The general brain malfunction I am describing exists in various degrees. Almost every one of your species has brain malfunction. The degree is the question. The vast majority of you suffer a relatively minor form of brain malfunction. A substantial minority of you suffer a suicidal/homicidal form of brain malfunction. The danger to your species is this: the minority of individuals with the suicidal/homicidal form of brain malfunction (as those members of the specific aforementioned religion) are working unabatedly to achieve nuclear weapons. Destroying the majority of individuals on your planet because they do not comport with this group’s fantastic religious ideology means nothing to them because they believe they are doing God’s work and in so doing they will achieve Paradise. Do you understand what I am saying to you?”

“Yes,” I  responded. Jorg went on:

“Another threat to your species is the inability of your nation-states to act in a general species’ interest, but instead for each to mindlessly pursue its narrow self-interest, debilitating their economies and risking mindless, catastrophic war. Included in this, most particularly, is a conglomerate of super wealthy, power-mongering autocrats–some endemic to particular governments; others independent of governments–whose deranged self-interest predisposes them to initiate destructive agendas that threaten the well being of the homo sapiens sapiens population at large. All this is the result of the trauma-driven, unbalanced brains of these states’ governmental and business leaders and the just mentioned autocrats. Do you understand what I am saying to you?”

“Yes,” I  responded.

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Jorg spoke. “Your task is to educate your species in the best possible manner.”

“How?” I answered with a question.

Jorg answered. “The name of the person who authored the book that shows the process just described will be implanted in your mind. You will contact him, tell him of your current experience. He will then place a description of our interaction along with the information given you during this interaction in the place where he calls attention to his book.”

“You mean you want him to sell his book,” I half stated and half asked.

Jorg then explained. “It is unfortunate that this writer’s work is almost totally unknown, and all of his notifications on the Earth venue called internet go unnoticed and ignored, despite the fact that this particular book is as well written as Earth books are, while also containing an accurate description of the aforementioned suffering from preconscious trauma. Hesitation to break out of habitual activity, including habitual reading activity, is a distinctive homo sapiens sapiens’ trait. Another prohibitive of individuals reading the book, even after procuring it, is the presence within its pages of explicit descriptions of Homo sapiens sapiens sexual activity. Unlike most members of your species, the author of this book understands the direct connect of sex to Trauma-upsurge to suicide. The author about whom I speak displays to the reader this connection, including vivid, detailed sexual descriptions; the type of detail he displays throughout this book with regard to all facets of the protagonist’s existence. He makes no differentiation between the sexual and other facets of the protagonist’s existence. The current level of your species’ development continues to disallow sexual activity as a normal psychophysiological function. Many of your species think of sexual explicit references as evil, wicked, immoral. If they see it in a book, they stop reading, regardless of the work’s overall context. The existing conundrum is this: the book under discussion is a book individuals of your species must read, but individuals cannot know this unless they read it. Often something special, something extra ordinary in the general Homo sapiens sapiens course of events is required to encourage an individual’s departure from his or her normal activity pattern, whether that pattern be closed habitual reading habits, or aversion to explicit sexual description.”

I then presented him with the following: “So let’s say everyone reads this book. Is that going to stop the suicidal/homicidal maniacs?”

Jorg’s response: “Self-awareness by a vast majority of individuals of your species will be a large step in the right direction. You must emphasize to the author of this book that when he promotes it, he must stress that it is not a psychology text book; that it does not go into detailed psychological explanations, as the one I gave to you; but that it depicts, shows the process as it occurs in one individual. From this depiction the reader can extrapolate to the entire species.”

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I turned my head leftwards to see if the Gray might telepathically communicate something, but the sofa was bare. I turned back to Jorg but he was gone. The entire scene was gone!” I was still in my kitchen looking at my cup of coffee. I sipped it. It was ice cold. I looked through the kitchen window. It was bright daylight. Before I had stepped out of the door it was still dawn. When I left in the morning it was around six-fifty. I looked at the clock. I gasped when I saw eleven-thirty AM.

Eleven-thirty AM were the last words Harley spoke in the above transcribed recording. I asked him if his ET experience changed any of his plans. He responded negatively. “I’m just going to get back to work and hope that time will erase the strain of it from my mind.”

“They had no parting words for you?”

“It ended just like I said. I was sitting in my kitchen over an ice-cold cup of coffee and the clock read eleven-thirty AM.”

After that statement we sat around for several minutes discussing world events. We agreed that the world situation was getting more dangerous with each breath. “Look,” I said. “The subhuman in charge of North Korea already has nukes, and the subhumans running Iran either have them or are getting pretty damn close. And then there are the wild-card subhumans like ISIS scum working twenty-four/seven to procure them. And North Korea and Iran are working on delivery systems. Do these ETs really think that large numbers of people reading my novel Hyperspace is going to make any kind of a difference?”

“I can only repeat what they told me when I asked a similar question: ‘Self-awareness by a vast majority of individuals of your species will be a large step in the right direction.’ They seem to have infused my memory with the entire experience, including that quote.”

He rose, we shook hands, he turned and left my apartment in Brooklyn, NY. That was September 21, 2016. I haven’t seen him or heard from him since.

I can’t say for certain whether his story was real, fiction, or the product of hallucination. As for its being fiction, what motive would he have? He’s not getting paid for his story. As for hallucination, he did mention in his narration that his only drug intake is caffeine. He seemed pretty down to earth when he was narrating and when we spoke before and after. Yet his story is so incredible…

Whether anyone believes Harley’s story or not, either the ETs or Harley had intricate knowledge of Homo sapiens proclivity to brain malfunction, knew that my novel Hyperspace seriously dealt with this issue in the most intense and realistic manner possible, which means that either these ETs or Harley read my book and know where this brain malfunction problem will lead. Anyone who reads Hyperspace will live through a verbally painted experience: a most vivid depiction of where we are headed if we as a species do not correct our brain defect in the near future.

Buy Hyperspace at Amazon.com   Buy Hyperspace at BarnesandNoble.com   Buy Hyperspace at AuthorHouse.com

HYPERSPACE [a literary depiction of psychosis]

September 15, 2016


The Truth Behind Hyperspace…A Real Event

“If you want to understand why planet Earth, your home, is a Lunatic Asylum, HYPERSPACE will show you!”

In the last HYPERSPACE blog post, I wrote the following: “The literary agent of today would reject MOBY DICK after reading the first paragraph.” I invite you to read this post. (A short scroll down.)  It briefly explains why publishing literary fiction today is almost impossible. The current market, dictated mostly by literary agents, forces the fiction writer to make a choice: write to make money, or write to create literary art. In the past the two were not mutually exclusive. Today they are.

HYPERSPACE is literary fiction, and as such it had to be self-published. No agent would touch it. It is as intense a character study as was ever written in the world of fiction. There is no violence (except for the story’s end), no police, no spies, no magicians with magic wands…

The truth of HYPERSPACE was communicated to me by a real event decades ago. This event began with my decision to forgo a Primal therapy group session. At that time the Primal Institute (now the Primal Center in Los Angeles) had a branch in New York City. The discoverer of Primal therapy, psychologist Arthur Janov, was going to be at the group session that evening. I wanted to meet the person who may be the most innovative psychologist since Freud, but I simply did not feel like going to the facility that evening. So I descended the New York City catacombs (the subway) and stepped onto a Brooklyn bound F train.

Then occurred what might have been an act of God! The subway lost power! After five minutes I decided that I would rather walk back to my starting point (the train traveled one stop) and go to the group session rather than waste my time on a hot, sticky, smelly subway going nowhere.

Once at Primal Institute East, I seated myself in the large group session room: on a padded floor leaning against a padded wall. (Yes, everything was padded, the essential point of Primal therapy being to release your feelings, not repress them…with the proviso you do not release those feelings on other people, but on the wall, or whatever else to can punch, without hurting anyone else or yourself.)

When Dr. Janov entered the room the first words out of his mouth communicated to me what was to become the truth of the novel HYPERSPACE. He said, “It’s really sick out there. Neurosis is more common than the common cold.” At this point in time I consider those words to be an understatement, albeit one that pinpoints the problem. Neurosis is a rampant component of the homo sapiens species; psychosis is widespread often running a psychopathic course (e.g. ISIS); and normal psychological brain function (normal in the sense of process, not numbers) is rare. If you want to understand why planet Earth, your home, is a Lunatic Asylum, HYPERSPACE will show you!


The HYPERSPACE blog post referred to above makes the point that popular fiction (the only fiction writing with money making potential in today’s market), and literary fiction, are both worthy art forms. But if anyone wants to read literary fiction, a book store probably will not be carrying any contemporary examples of such. If you know what you are looking for, you will find it on Amazon and other online book sites. HYPERSPACE is one such.

If you read HYPERSPACE, I make one promise to you: in terms of depth of character development, as well as scene and event description, reading HYPERSPACE will be closer to reading MOBY DICK than reading anything in pop fiction would be, because HYPERSPACE, like MOBY DICK, is gut-wrenching real life squeezed into words.

No one will get an argument from me that reading pop fiction is enjoyable and worthwhile. However, if you want to experience a probing of characters’ souls in a real-life format, HYPERSPACE (as MOBY DICK and other great literary works) is a book to read.

HYPERSPACE [a literary depiction of psychosis]

November 9, 2015







If you want to experience a modern work of literary fiction, get this book now! There will be no next time. 

“Why not?” 

Because after this visit, the odds are that you will not return to this site.

“Who is Stanley I. Brookoff? There’s so much stuff out there.”

So much STUFF. Most of it pop art.

Pop art is virtually the only publishable art form in writing today. If Shakespeare were alive today and no one had ever heard of Shakespeare, he would be unable to get the story of Hamlet published as a novel. Let us take the more apropos example of Melville the novelist. The literary agent of today would reject Moby Dick after reading the first paragraph.

Every now and then I hear a commentator on radio or television remark: “Where are the great literary works of today?” They are out there, all right. But they are virtually impossible to get published by a mainstream publisher because, a) literary agents are either functional illiterates incapable of reading above a seventh grade level and reject anything above that level as bad writing, which supports a blogger’s comment I once read that a literary agent would not know a gem if it fell onto his or her lap; b) the literary agent may not think writing above a seventh grade reading level is marketable; and, c) the publisher him- or herself would not even consider looking at an unsolicited manuscript of a novel. A novel must have the imprimatur of a literary agent for a publisher to allow him- or herself to view it.

Because of c), the literary agent is the gateway to publishing for novelists and hence is the determiner as to which direction literary culture proceeds. And literary culture is civilization’s spearhead. Therefore, civilization’s spearhead is mostly in the hands of functional illiterates or marketers abysmally ignorant of the receptivity by the general public of literature’s finest points.

The literary work of art entitled HYPERSPACE, the very book now within your reach, could not find a literary agent that would even explore its artistry. It was rejected time and again based on a well written query letter. Was the story’s concept too deep for functional illiterates who read the query? Or did the readers of the query think that the reading public was not intelligent enough to grapple with such a concept as is encapsulated in the story HYPERSPACE, or with its artistry?

To underline the difficulty artistic writers have in getting past the literary agent and subsequently getting published by mainstream publishers, I will cite the example of a reply I received from a literary agent with regard to another novel I have been trying to get published by mainstream publishers. The novel is an artistically written, action-packed, romance-laden story occurring in ancient Rome, with heavy emphasis on characterization. The well written query letter is usually not answered or precipitates a short rejection notice. One agent, however, had the audacity to write in length, informing me of the “fact” that my novel was too short to be published for an adult readership. I felt compelled to reply, something I never do in response to a rejection notice. The pith of my reply was to cite a list of classics shorter than the novel I was submitting:

Of Mice and Men, John Steinbeck: 30,000 words

Animal Farm, George Orwell: 30,000 words

Billy Budd, Herman Melville: 32,000 words

Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Truman Capote: 35,000 words

A Clockwork Orange, Anthony Burgess: 35,000 words

The Old Man and the Sea, Ernest Hemingway: 26,500 words

The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Robert Lewis Stevenson: 25,200 words

A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens: 29,100 words

The Time Machine, H.G. Wells: 32,150 words

The novel I was submitting is 44,012 words. So much for the literary agent’s literary perspicacity. I have decided to seek an agent for the screenplay version of this story.

So quality writers are forced to self publish or go the screenplay route against the odds of ever seeing it produced. On the other hand, a book reviewer would never consider touching a self-published novel, never mind reading and reviewing one. And the literary-writer is very often a terrible marketer. The literary-writer’s essential talent is writing in-depth literature, not selling. So the work remains unknown, and commentators continue to ask: “Where are the great literary works of today?”

The novel HYPERSPACE is a work of literary writing of the first order.

As do many others, I like James Bond. And Edgar Rice Burroughs of Tarzan fame is one of my favorite fiction writers. Burroughs’ writing has even influenced my own prose. But HYPERSPACE is no easy read like Bond and Tarzan. It is much more closely related to Jean-Paul Sartre’s Nausea, both in style and in theme. It’s great to read Tarzan and Bond, and other fast moving works of action and adventure. But when you seek a work of depth, a work of literary art that delves into the souls of characters, you require Moby Dick, Nausea, The Catcher in the Rye, or HYPERSPACE. If you are an individual who loves and appreciates literary fiction which incorporates writing of great human depth, HYPERSPACE is your book.

I wish to counsel you. When you read HYPERSPACE, to squeeze the goodness from this work of literature, you must read it to the end. Do not allow yourself to be dissuaded from completing HYPERSPACE by the modicum of sexually explicit passages which it contains. These passages are essential to the novel for realism’s sake (I don’t write stories, I write LIFE), and appear sporadically in the book’s first half: the novel deals with psychosis. Do not allow yourself to be dissuaded from completing HYPERSPACE by the novel’s intricate and detailed prose: real life is intricate and detailed. It is always my desire that the reader BE THERE!

If you stay with HYPERSPACE to the end, you will gain access to some of the most beautiful prose and delectable poetry in the history of fiction writing. And the novel’s climax will shoot an electric bolt into you that will shock out your breath.


HYPERSPACE [a literary depiction of psychosis]

April 20, 2015








HYPERSPACE [a literary depiction of psychosis]

January 19, 2015

An alluring young woman . . . child meets Star Friend . . . escape from hell . . . Ultimate Voyage



“My ship is sacred because it is an elemental force of universal matter, and not Russell’s math nor Einstein’s physics can pinpoint the concept better!”

Jason, Last of the Argonauts

A Star is his Friend



Fearless Novel: Realistic, Unexpurgated, Relevant




A Day in the Asylum:

A Day on Planet Earth


Meeting 1 AND Meeting 2




HYPERSPACE [a literary depiction of psychosis]

January 16, 2015


[For information concerning full HYPERSPACE excerpts on this site, please scroll down to next post.]

NOTE: In this novel the symbol < means the beginning of a character’s thought and a superscript zero (0) ends the thought.

“Why are you all alone Jason? Why don’t you have some fun?” a light, pleasant female voice, breaking into his thoughts, is asking. Turning left slightly, viewing a blonde, pink female form in blue standing before him…

*  *  *

Beaming in his eyes is the lush shining brightness of her astonishing blonde hair warmly blending with her radiant light pinkness, her perfectly womanly shape being revealed in a manner more evocative for its subtlety than for any pretentious flamboyance…

*  *  *

Wheeling into a narrow side path of polished stone they are standing before a side entrance, he feeling her hand loosening its grip, pulling away, he watching for several seconds as she is groping in her hand bag until, the hand rising with a ring of keys, she pushes one of them into the lock hole. “Jason, look!” indicating with her chin that the lock should be the object of his attention, he watching her pulling the key partially out, pushing it in with quick jerking motions. Looking up at him with a broad smile…  “See how easy it is?” she is rhetorically questioning, while in a second gagging is constricting his throat.

* * *

Do you know,” he is saying while she is looking at him, “I once heard a great theoretical physicist say that before the Big Bang the universe was a compressed mass of matter the size of a quark, a mere subatomic particle! Can you begin to think how small and puny we are? How insignificant? That we are mere figments of God’s imagination?” Noticing a look of perplexity on her face…

*  *  *

He is watching himself standing in the flatland far enough away from their house of a year and a half ago for it to hardly be visible. “That’s when I turned away from the house and began walking towards the mountain on the Edge. That was when I drew near to our Meeting, my Love for Eternity. I remember my aching during the long walk to the mountain. It was you who drew me there! Why else would I walk so far even though I was hurting so much?” Cloying his memory’s vision, colors are emblazoning land and peak. Gazing at the skyward jutting jagged-edged triangle, he is viewing a mass of rock with sides of unequal height drenched in yellow sunset orange, the waning glow thinning into the sky, melding with evening blue. Raising his eyes into the blue, thinking of outer space and of far away worlds . . . “I was thinking, my Love, of how much better things must be out there than they are here. It wasn’t an accident that we met! You guided me and knew my thoughts because it was then, while looking up and thinking of these things, that we met! For it was then that I saw your Eternal Light glimmering in my eye! First there was the darkness of the evening sky, then there was me thinking of how things had to be better up there on other worlds, and then there you were winking at me with your dear dear blueness, like a clear and bright blue diamond. That was our first Meeting my Love, my Friend, my Goodness! That was your calling of me to you!”…Continuing staring at the tiny pauselessly winking blue dot amidst the increased number of blinking dots now suspended in a darkening abyss he is aware of silence.

*  *  *

Tying the laces of each sneaker together in such a way as to allow him to sling them across his left shoulder; doing so, he is continuing walking where lapping ocean meets land, enjoying the sensation of cool and tingly wetness flowing around his feet, through his toes, sinking them slightly into sand converting to soft scratchy sludge, the sneakers with his motion swinging narrowly across his shoulder. A breadth of aquatic risings and fallings in gentle almost even-cadenced swells stretching out to open horizon; a blinding veil of yellow-white blazing outward from an orb of congealed seemingly endless hydrogen explosions inflaming an almost cloudless light blue sky spreading over beach and ocean is striking Jason as an inexplicable vista to the wondering eye. Breathing in deeply the sea’s intoxicating aroma as splashing sounds of waves striking land are filling his hearing, squawking sounds are now impinging and, looking up, a view of flying gulls across the oceanic expanse and over the beach is entering his vision…. Walking with care so as not to cut his feet or stub his toes, Jason is viewing a cliff beyond the pathway rising to a plateau as he is entering a wide semi-circular area. Loose rocks and pebbles covering the area, large boulders embedded in the ground, and, like the backs of large turtles, similar boulders in the dark blue bay, their tops visible above the surface, are entering his vision….Something touching is startling him, he almost tripping. Looking up…a girl about his age is standing directly before him. Seeing her in a one piece swimsuit cut away around the waist, a golden tinge in her brown hair visible, for a second he is looking into her brown eyes and then downward seeing her holding a large ball. “Do you want to play?” she is asking him in her soft voice, smiling at him. “No!” Beginning walking towards the cliff…<why did you say no0 “She offered friendship and you said no!” Drawing near the cliffside he is stopping and looking back seeing the girl standing by herself holding the beach ball, looking towards him. A sharp stabbing pain deep within traveling out until it is consuming him is being experienced. “She wanted to play with someone and now she’s alone,” he is whispering, the thought of her loneliness, of his saying no when she offered him friendship adding to her lonely suffering, causing within him a crying, a painfully consuming unquenchable fire. <couldn’t help it0 “Turn around now and go back to her and play.” <can’t0 Reaching the foot of the cliff, turning right, directing himself away from the water, fire is engulfing him as the image of the girl alone on the beach looking for the friend who never came is searing him with its inner vision, while rolling through him like earth-vibrating thunder are his feelings as he is experiencing a visceral vice-like constriction.


*  *  *

“I know that Plato’s methods run counter to those of the existentialists because the goal of the latter is definitely not to achieve a universal system though for many if not for most of the ancients a universal system was the primary goal and it got even worse in Nietzsche’s day culminating in Hegel’s pronouncement that his universal system was actually God!” Stopping by the footboard and placing on it his left foot he is bending tying his lace. “Yeah! The final synthesis of the Hegelian dialectic is God! How many people know that when Nietzsche wrote ‘God is dead’ he was referring in large part to Hegel’s philosophy which ultimately led to Communism!” <one of the things attracting me to existentialism0…”…isn’t it odd that I seem to be more interested in reading than in women? Existentialism! Plato!” <long ago women…always disconnected…do people think i’m strange…never see woman…0

HYPERSPACE [a literary depiction of psychosis]

November 16, 2014



To You of Discriminating Literary Discernment,

Procure an edition of HYPERSPACE (inexpensive well-bound hard or soft cover, or economical ebook–Kindle or Nook), and you will enjoy the same high caliber of story-transformed-to-life throughout the entire novel as exists in the excerpts presented below.

Scroll past WARNING posted below to the excerpt entitled A Day in the Asylum: A Day on Planet EarthAs you read this piece you will understand its title. In this section of story you will WITNESS the Asylum’s (planet Earth’s) grasping, life-choking tentacles entwine themselves around the young protagonist seemingly in an attempt to make his life a living hell! But the origin of his hell begins during and directly after his birth, a factor which is exposed within the novel’s depths. What makes this component of the story so important, so URGENT, is that it happens to be a widespread phenomenon throughout the homo sapiens species around our planet. As Frederick Leboyer, noted French obstetrician and author of Birth Without Violence, once wrote me, “The treatment, no! mistreatment of the New-born is still, practically EVERYWHERE all over the world as criminal as ever.” Such treatment of newborns is a major explanation for the over preponderance of teenage suicides: young people lost in overwhelming negative sensations emanating from the traumatized part of the preconscious brain (the rhombencephalon or hindbrain), a profoundly negative state effectuated at or soon after birth by various types of painful experiences initiated by stressful obstetric practices and other unheeded external factors.

If you scroll down past Jason, Last of the Argonauts, and continue scrolling past purchasing information, to HYPERSPACE/An escape from hell, you have access to two more sizable excerpts: Meeting 1, in which a most beautiful, alluring young woman makes an unmistakably sexually provocative advance towards the protagonist, precipitating him onto an unexpected trajectory of confronting the Abyss, resulting in his attempt to escape from hell, including how the character’s deep involvement with music helps him “travel” to his Star Friend . . . on the Ultimate Voyage; and Meeting 2, in which the protagonist when a child meets his Star Friend, to which he looks as his life’s beneficent and loving Guide. I encourage you to also read these two alternative excerpts. They will present you with two contrasting experiences in the protagonist’s life that will truly gain your interest. These divergent experiences are intimately related by their connection to the protagonist’s traumatic post-birth experiences. To better understand the psychodynamics of this phenomenon, you may want to scroll past Meeting 2 and read the blog post that follows, entitled The Most Important Novel of the 20th and 21st Centuries, and the comments which follow this post, which are components of a dialogue between the author (me) and a skeptic who was confident that directing oneself spiritually is adequate for the dispelling of all internal problems. I am fairly certain that my psychologically sound explanations encouraged him to rethink the issue. Also, reading the excerpts Meeting 1 and Meeting 2 will supply greater story context to the excerpt entitled A Day in the Asylum: A Day on Planet Earth.

I hope you enjoy these excerpts. [A fuller, more complete version of A Day in the Asylum: A Day on Planet Earth is available for reading on page three of the HYPERSPACE site. Scroll to the bottom of page one and click Older Entries and then scroll to Older Entries again on page two. Now scroll until you reach the title of this excerpt on page three.]

Have a great read!


The Author

HYPERSPACE [a literary depiction of psychosis]

September 15, 2014







HYPERSPACE [a literary depiction of psychosis]

September 15, 2014

A Day in the Asylum:

A Day on Planet Earth

NOTE 1: It should be borne in mind that though the story’s powerful pathos is always present, some of the violent scenes and expletive-laden language in the excerpt which follows (as in the novel generally), are extremely graphic, because realism is one of my major goals in fiction writing. If this is something with which you are not comfortable, you are advised to read no further.

NOTE 2: In this novel the symbol < means the beginning of a character’s thought and a superscript zero (0) ends the thought.

NOTE 3: To read two more excerpts (Meeting 1 and Meeting 2) scroll past Jason, Last of the Argonauts and Purchasing information, to HYPERSPACE/An escape from hell . . .

Deep bright purple appearing peripherally in his rightward view as he is continuing towards the park’s entrance is motivating him to turn his head rightwards so that, amidst deep green stems arising, bright purple blooms–white styles extending from their interiors outward–are dazzling his vision. Continuing walking he is seeing adjacent to the purples large flowers the whiteness of which in shining sunlight is seeming blinding with no burning blindness to be felt when staring; the large smooth snowy petals surrounding stigmata of yellow brightness like a sun’s shining radiance engulfing her planets in the clarity of light. Small yellow flower-puffs a little farther on are dancing in a light breeze while, after that, red daisy-like flowers–dark red centers popping up, light pink leaves stretching out forming sabers–are appearing. Then a large opening . . . <park entrance . . . last night0 Turning his head to the right and looking . . . “Oh . . .” <. . . different0 . . . he is viewing a flat stone flower-flanked pathway with large grapefruit sized blossoms dangling out from their green enclosures. Uneven edges give the pathway-stones the appearance of having been set in place subsequent to quarrying, their exposed surfaces smoothed and polished afterwards. At the end of the pathway a statue looking like a boy reminiscent to Jason of something Greek is entering his vision. <if i go in looking will i find beach0 In the midst of his ruminations he is startled suddenly seeing the boy-statue at the end of the path moving. <old man0 Feeling a sense of relief he is observing the man walking, wooden cane for support, dressed in white T-shirt and tan slacks, a sailor’s cap white with black brim atop his head, shaded areas of the cane’s wood from hooked handle to tip catching his eye like scattered islands in a brown wooden sea. The man is beginning walking past him . . . <old man’s pretty fast . . . younger than looks–but not young . . .0 “. . . sir?”


He is watching the old man turning towards him. <high crackling voice0 “Sir?”

“Yeah kid,” focusing his attention on Jason while speaking.

“How do I get to the beach from here?”

“The beach?”


“No problem kid. Just walk straight down the street yer on and you’ll hit the beach in no time flat. Just make sure the beach don’t hitchya back!”

<being funny?0 Looking closely at the man’s unshaven face and squinty eyes . . . “Thanks sir.”

“Don’t mention it. Before yuh go, tell me yer address so I can bill yuh fer ten dollars fer my services!” Watching the lines at the corners of the man’s eyes crinkle in contraction while he is beginning heavy sounding laughter, smacking his good leg with the corresponding hand, Jason is hearing: “Don’t be so serious kid! I’m just jokin’, darn it!”

“Thanks mister. ’Preciate it.” Walking down the street becoming more aware of the enveloping heat, the man’s firm but crackling voice is dogging him: “WATCH OUT FER SHARKS KID! WATCH OUT FER ’EM! THEY LOVE STEAKS WITH CATSUP!” A loud high-pitched yelp is striking his ears. Turning, he is viewing the man smacking his leg in a paroxysm of laughter. <godalmighty–it’s not that funny0 Whispering and walking: “He’s kinda friendly. Why don’t I feel friendly?” Breathing . . . “Why?” <i don’t laugh0 “Not even at something good.” <why0 “The old guy could be a friend.” Startling him–in contrast to the verdurous scenes he has just viewed–is desolation in the form of a huge lot reaching out towards him making him aware that his lostness in thought is causing him to lose sight of his surroundings. Turning, looking towards the recently skirted park, a large, fenced, white-laned square area is appearing in his vision, the lanes consisting of sand, one of them a central divider, itself being horizontally bisected by another. Now being viewed, the central divider is seen winding into a wide circular lane and then another wide circular lane farther on, the one closest to him containing concentric circles of grass, a shrub planted in its center. On either side of this circular lane is a lawn, the center of each containing flat, circular low-cut shrubs, while surrounding these are complex designs of shrubs extending to the lawns’ very edges approaching the road on which is walking the observer. In the farther circular lane his vision is encompassing a pool constantly replenished in its center with six sunlit sparkling jets of water encircling the pool’s midpoint so narrowly as to cause the upward shooting streams to appear from a distance as one. Turning his head forward, continuing walking, viewing while passing the huge lot with its ugly desolation, his gaze is following the bare landscape rising to a heaping mound of dumped strewn-about junk. Hearing noises and scanning the mound . . . <kids0 Watching them throwing things about, hearing the crashing of the thrown items landing, as well as the yelling, the noise being subdued somewhat by distance; continuing walking viewing the scene, he is espying one of them, wearing a black baseball cap backwards on his head, suddenly stopping, raising his arm, pointing in his direction. <me or just this direction? . . . lotsa people on beach . . .0 Beginning jogging he is looking up . . . <two blocks–ocean0 Glancing behind him he is seeing them running onto the sidewalk, the backward baseball cap in the lead pointing at him, continuing running towards him. <jerks can’t touch me . . . pour it on0 He is beginning running full speed, the gap between him and the belligerents quickly expanding. “I’m a track athlete, jerks,” verbalizing a thought under his breath. “It equals power!” he is remarking while staring into black, star speckled night, remembering the sense of superiority he had had over those who would have harmed him, born of the knowledge that try as they would they could not touch him. <proficiency in running is like proficiency in any sport, any art, any science0 Continuing staring into the fluorescently starry New York night, he is seeing himself standing in the sand, dozens of people spread along the immediate beach area, some sitting, some lying on blankets, others walking about and, farther down, others swimming or bobbing in the glistening water . . . <safe0 Breathing a sigh of relief, looking back, seeing the belligerents standing on the street bordering the sand . . . <idiots0 Continuing walking towards the water he is looking back once more, watching the pack turn, watching them walking back in the opposite direction . . . Hissingly: “Jerks!” Feeling temptation to yell at them indicating his triumph he is continuing walking until reaching the water. <not too crowded . . . but enough . . . colorful . . .0 Glimpsing the people strewn across the sandy expanse, fleshy islands separated by golden-white sun-drenched lakes, some lying on their backs or on their bellies totally exposed to the sun; others sprawling flat on their elongated beach chairs; others seated upright reading books, newspapers, magazines, or just relaxing or snoozing; yet others seeking comfort under wide umbrellas of various bright colors stuck in the sand, Jason, continuing walking towards the water, is now viewing the bright aqua as a marvelous photographic panorama. Striding onward, blue, white, green and yellow triangles descending from umbrella apices are crossing his vision; a golden colored fancy one–the circular material’s expanse being divided by downwardly curving white lines–entering his sight as he is approaching sand lapped moist by the ocean’s constant caress. Though he has not come prepared to swim he wants as much as possible to feel the sea flowing about him. Ceasing walking, stooping down, untying a sneaker, removing it and his sock, stuffing the latter into the former, on dry sand laying the unit down, he is repeating the sequence with the other foot. Tying the laces of each sneaker together in such a way as to allow him to sling them across his left shoulder; doing so, he is continuing walking where lapping ocean meets land, enjoying the sensation of cool and tingly wetness flowing around his feet, through his toes, sinking them slightly into sand converting to soft scratchy sludge, the sneakers with his motion swinging narrowly across his shoulder. A breadth of aquatic risings and fallings in gentle almost even-cadenced swells stretching out to open horizon; a blinding veil of yellow-white blazing outward from an orb of congealed seemingly endless hydrogen explosions inflaming an almost cloudless light blue sky spreading over beach and ocean is striking Jason as an inexplicable vista to the wondering eye. Breathing in deeply the sea’s intoxicating aroma as splashing sounds of waves striking land are filling his hearing, squawking sounds are now impinging and, looking up, a view of flying gulls across the oceanic expanse and over the beach is entering his vision. <what goodness0 Whisperingly: “Why isn’t it always like this?” Continuing walking in the pleasant wetness looking straight ahead, espying rocky rises in the distance, he is turning his head leftwards viewing the awesome sea, noticing only two bobbing heads swimming in opposite directions, one closer to land, one farther out; then, turning his head rightwards, entering his vision are fleshy islands of people spreading out more sporadically than previously viewed, with fewer gaudy colored umbrellas dotting the landscape. <further from town0 Looking forward, the rocky rises which have previously seemed distant, are appearing now very close, Jason discerning their jagged scraggly shapes in greater detail. <must see them0 Whispering: “I’ll climb if I have to. I’m good at that!” Continuing walking along the eternally undefined line of water lapping land he is soon espying the beach winding around the rocky rises, themselves declining in height with their approach to the sea. <no climbing–yet0 Soon he is at the foot of the rocky rise he has been viewing for the last several minutes noting its being almost ground level where he is standing and realizing that its elongated compilation of rocks and shells is not terminating on the beach but is continuing its length well out into the watery depths while waves are seeming not to be breaking on its sharp and jagged insertion into the sea. Turningthe bend, he is stepping onto a narrow wedge of beach acting as a cliff-encircling path strewn with rocks, pebbles, shells, both whole and in sharp shattered bits, surface-loose or compressed into sand and beach-mud. Walking with care so as not to cut his feet or stub his toes, Jason is viewing a cliff beyond the pathway rising to a plateau as he is entering a wide semi-circular area. <canyon0 Loose rocks and pebbles covering the area, large boulders embedded in the ground, and, like the backs of large turtles, similar boulders in the dark blue bay, their tops visible above the surface, are entering his vision. Squawking sounds striking his ears . . . turning his head skywards . . . <gulls . . . flying into sun . . .0 Turning his head away, colors dark and bright blinding his sight, he rubbing his eyes and again opening them, looking out over sea, flat clouds appearing to him, the colored visual aberration is continuing slightly blinding his sight. <storm coming?0 “Hope not!” Looking across the semi-circular bay towards the cliff directly before him, with its light tan shade and deep crevices gouged out of rock at various intervals, his eyes are following it up to the plateau. Towards the center of the formation he is viewing a deep indent which is appearing to offer the possibility of a small canyon of its own, while the top stratum of the cliff is seeming to him darker than the rest. Wanting to get close, beginning walking across the semi-circle staying near the water, seeing no hindering rocks, he is stepping into the shoal head facing down so as to watch that he not trip or slip on something below. Something touching is startling him, he almost tripping. Looking up, entering his vision, a girl about his age is standing directly before him. Seeing her in a one piece swimsuit cut away around the waist, a golden tinge in her brown hair visible, for a second he is looking into her brown eyes and then downward seeing her holding a large ball. “Do you want to play?” she is asking him in her soft voice, smiling at him. “No!” Beginning walking towards the cliff . . . <why did you say no0 “She offered friendship and you said no!” Drawing near the cliffside he is stopping and looking back seeing the girl standing by herself holding the beach ball, looking towards him. A sharp stabbing pain deep within traveling out until it is consuming him is being experienced. “She wanted to play with someone and now she’s alone,” he is whispering, the thought of her loneliness, of his saying no when she offered him friendship adding to her lonely suffering, causing within him a crying, a painfully consuming unquenchable fire. <couldn’t help it0 “Turn around now and go back to her and play.” <can’t0 Reaching the foot of the cliff, turning right, directing himself away from the water, fire is engulfing him as the image of the girl alone on the beach looking for the friend who never came is searing him with its inner vision, while rolling through him like earth-vibrating thunder are his feelings as he is experiencing a visceral vice-like constriction. <go back to her0 Feeling no joy when seeing a traversable path winding up the cliff, he is dropping his sneakers to the ground, bending, separating them with an untying of the knot joining the respective laces, taking a sock out of one of the sneakers, leaning against the cliff, raising his left leg and pulling a sock back over his toes and foot, lowering his leg, slipping his foot partly into the sneaker, bending, inserting his fingers along the inner edges, pulling the sneaker up and on. Repeating this sequence with the right foot he is then kneeling tying the laces. Rising, beginning walking up the path . . . <why . . . why didn’t you play with her0 “I don’t know. I just couldn’t.” <but you wanted to . . . you would have had a friend0 Reaching the top after a six minute traverse, he is looking up, scanning the surroundings, viewing a barren landscape in his immediate proximity but noticing trees not too far distant. While exploring his puzzlement over his lack of an answer to his question of Why, he is walking in the trees’ direction until standing before foliage extending into the near distance, a small spread of yellow flowers brushing against him, purple blossoms at his feet with sprinklings of red; pink and orange blooms a little farther on. Beyond these are tall trees, thick and thin, luxuriously spreading green-covered branches shifting in a breeze. Stepping to the side of the flowers he is entering the thick foliage continuing wading forward until reaching one of the thicker trees. Walking past the tree an open field of low-cut grass is entering his vision. Stepping onto the field he is soon in the center of green . . . <like a ballpark0 . . . while entering his rightward vision is a disruption. Turning directly towards it he is seeing a large square formed by sandy white lanes with a similar lane running right down the square’s center itself bisected by another such lane. The lane running down the square’s center is seen winding into two large circles each consisting of the same white sand, the one closest to him having in its center a sparkling pool with a fountain of six razor-thin jets of water forming a circumference so narrow as to make it seem from a distance that they are one watery jet replenishing the pool constantly; the circular lane farthest from him containing concentric circles of grass with a shrub planted in its center. On either side of this circular lane is a lawn, the center of each containing flat, circular, low-cut shrubs, while surrounding these are complex designs of shrubs extending to the very border dividing lawn from street-road beyond the greenery. “I’ve been here before . . .” <. . . been here before . . . but . . .0 “. . . sometimes you feel you’ve been in a place but can’t quite remember . . .” <no0 “I remember!” <the park0 “Near the park!” Relief! In the midst of a strange place this is close to something familiar. <park like friend . . . girl . . . looking for friend0 “Why didn’t you play with her?” Unable to enter the area with the sandy white lanes, it being enclosed with a fence of crisscrossed hexagonal wires, he is walking towards the bushes and trees. “Has to be the park!” <almost home0 Soon amidst dense dark green bushes he is pushing forward until entering a large circular grassy area being interspersed several times with spirals of brick and stone, across from which, a short distance farther on, are appearing perfectly cut rectangular hedges, the dividing spaces of their sectioned widths flanked by cone shaped trees with immaculately shaved leaves. <similar?0 Walking across the grass towards the center, stepping onto a narrow brick lane, following it straight until it is curving him from his intended direction, stepping from the lane and continuing walking straight across the grass, he is occasionally traversing another path of brick or stone appearing along his way. Finally reaching the perfectly cut hedges flanked by their cone shaped trees with immaculately shaved leaves, a short gravel path is separating two of the cone shapes appearing before him, extending to a grassy path being spanned by a thickly leafed arch under which Jason is passing, the grassy path continuing, bordering the rectangular hedges and their flanking cone shapes. Seeing on his right a dead end of trees and brambles, he is turning left, walking a short distance, two more adjacent immaculately shaved cones appearing, a path extending between them. Continuing, he is suddenly finding himself gazing to his left at a wide lane of low-cut grass with corridor walls consisting of purple flowers and about twelve foot high thick green verdure while farther to the left slightly behind him thick dark green fronds are climbing a small stone wall somewhat beyond a hedge. Turning his head rightwards his gaze is following the grassy lane walled by purple flowers and twelve foot high thick green verdure which he is observing extending to smooth-boled flanking trees with the largest green leaves he has ever seen floating like breeze-blown pendula. Gazing groundward he is viewing bushes and variously shaded purple flowers seeming to him like tiny folk rushing out to the open from their forested enclosures.  Walking rightward on the grassy lane amidst the purple flowers and green verdure towards the smooth-boled trees Jason is inhaling deeply the summer air with the soft breeze spreading its warmth around him. <different world0 “This is like that other planet I imagined about six months ago when I met my Star Friend . . .” Whisperingly: “Star Friend.” <like being on Star Friend0 “For sure!” <how can I get to him0 “I remember! We were in this spot last night! This was the park last night!” Feeling relief from the familiar setting which a second before appeared to be a beautiful but strange place . . . <this place is like my friend . . . like my Star Friend . . .0 “. . . like the girl . . . alone . . . looking for a friend. I should have played with her.” “HEY!  LOOK AT THAT!” A loud booming voice is breaking into the midst of Jason’s brooding. Jason, trying to discern from which direction it is coming . . . “IT’S THE BLOND PUSSY! NOW WE CAN GET HIM!” Turning rightwards Jason is seeing coming out of the trees and bushes several boys of about his age and a little older. Instantly he is recognizing the one in the turned backward black baseball cap. Beneath the cap he is viewing a chubby, mean, angry looking face and with him are two of his friends. “Yeah,” another one of them is saying in a deeper matter-of-fact voice. “It’s the pussy blond jerkoff alright!” He is taller than the black-capped one and is thin, his mouth a twisted snarl, Jason is observing. “Hey jerkoff,” another is yelling, Jason turning his head, seeing that the new voice is coming from another kid, also thin but shorter than the previous speaker. “Let’s see you run blondy!” Ready to take off Jason is looking down the lane in the direction of the park’s entrance but is seeing a fifth kid blocking his way. This one is the same height as the last and muscular with a nasty look on his darkly tanned face, his slick black hair combed straight back.  “Come on blond pussy prick!” the tan muscular one is snarling. “Let’s see you run!” The speaker crouches opening his arms as if to catch prey while Jason is looking about realizing that they have fanned around him leaving no unblocked route. “C’mon,” the chubby one in the backward baseball cap is saying. “Let’s punch the fuck outa him!” Instantly they are rushing Jason, the tan muscular one being the first to reach him and, grabbing him by the shirt, jerking him towards him with one hand, punching him in the left eye with the other clenched tightly into a fist. Seeing before him the one with the black baseball cap turned backward he is suddenly watching a rising leg, his stomach taking a powerful kick, he falling down in pain and breathlessness, the force of the kick and his dropping causing the tan muscular one to lose his grip.  Jason is no longer seeing, it seeming as if all of them together are jumping him, beating him with their clenched fists on the head, all the while uninhibitedly without pause spewing at him chains of expletives. A hand grabbing his hair is pulling up his head and banging it down on the grassy lane, his head cracking with pain, he wondering if he is bleeding. Once more he is feeling his head being raised by the pulling of hair. “Listen,” he is hearing one of them saying while his head is being held by pulled hair. “Let’s drag this asshole out of here where there’s cement. Then we can watch him bleed while we’re smashing his head!”

“Great idea!” opines another. Feeling hands tightly gripping his ankles and himself being dragged along the ground, Jason is opening his eyes watching two of them dragging him while wondering where the other three are. Passing by him speedily in his vision are grass, trees, bushes, flowers as he is being dragged forward across the ground. Raising his head slightly he is viewing a wall of bushes up front and then suddenly colored stars and circles in the midst of blackness as he is feeling a forceful bang on his head. “Hey, piece of shit! Don’t raise that girly blond head again, little prick, goddamn little jerkoff, or I’ll kick it off!” the muscular tan one is saying while walking behind him with one of the others. Feeling his body being dragged over a hard surface, flat stones–visibly distinguished by dividing cracks from cementing–are whizzing past his eyes, while a statue of a young boy is passing to his left, he recognizing the park’s entrance that he had seen from the street. “Ok!” the chubby one in the black baseball cap turned backwards is yelling while dropping Jason’s left foot. The tall thin one is dropping his right foot following the other’s lead. “Now I’m going to put this little cocksucking prick out of his misery!” He is walking to a point adjacent to Jason’s head resting on a stone. Bending down he is grabbing Jason by the hair yanking his head up with sharp jerking motion. “Wait! I want to make the asshole suffer a little more,” the tan muscular one is saying, “before you crack that beautiful blond head open.” Drawing back his right leg and kicking it forward with all of the force he can muster he is kicking Jason in the right side. Repeating this action several times as if in an extreme uncontrollable fit of temper the chubby one is suddenly beginning speaking, still holding Jason’s head by his hair while jerking it slightly higher. “Ok . . .” “HEY! GET AWAY FROM THAT BOY!” A deep booming voice is vibrating in Jason’s ears. Instantly the chubby one is loosening his grip allowing Jason’s head to drop, it striking the stone. “GET AWAY FROM THAT BOY!” the roaring voice is commanding. Feeling pain in his head and in his side as he is barely glimpsing his tormentors fleeing, wondering again if he is bleeding, Jason is suddenly feeling a cool hand brushing over his forehead. Opening his eyes a large black face with full black beard sprinkled with gray hovering over him–tufts of gray-sprinkled black hair popping out from under his cap, deep black eyes staring into him with corner skin crinkles, a larger than usual neck-worn wooden cross dangling on a thick brown leather chord from his upper chest, the top three buttons of his shirt being open–is entering Jason’s vision along with an awe inspiring feeling of power and goodness permeating his being that he could not quite define. Seeming to be studying Jason, the latter is hearing the man speaking. “Here son,” the deep resonating voice that has rescued him is saying. “Let me help you up.” Wanting to thank him Jason cannot find his voice; wanting to cry he cannot or else his enemies will have won a victory over him. Jason is watching the large man bending above him supporting himself on one knee; is feeling a hand under his head slowly raising it; is watching the man’s other hand going towards his head while the first hand is withdrawing. “You’re bleeding a little, son. Here, let me help you up and take you home. Do you live far from here?” Soft and soothing are the deep sounds of the man’s kind voice. Struggling, Jason is squeezing back the urge to cry. “No sir,” he is forcing out the words. Feeling the man’s hands under his arms slowly raising him, not letting him go even when standing, it is seeming to him that they are remaining in that position for a long time. “I want to be sure you can stand without my holding you up,” the kind deep voice vibrating in his ears is saying. The hands slipping from under his arms Jason is feeling slightly wobbly. “Take one step,” his friend behind him is kindly suggesting, he then taking a step and feeling his knees shaking. “You can do it,” the sounds are resonating in his ears, the voice’s power giving him strength. “I’m telling you, you can!” the voice is commanding, the kindliness always present, always being felt; its goodness penetrating him to his deepest self. Taking another step . . . <i can do it0 “If I walk home on my own it will be a victory over my enemies!”

“Yes son. But it will be even more. It will be an overcoming within yourself.”

Walking shakily towards the park’s entrance, feeling the power of his rescuer behind him, the entrance is appearing close in his sight. <home soon safe0 “I can do this alone.” Walking up to him, stopping by his side, placing a hand gently on his shoulder, Jason is turning his head towards him and, looking up, is viewing his face with full gray sprinkled beard, shiny black eyes staring down at him smiling at him with their corner wrinkles; is feeling his concern, his love, his strength. “You have decided to take the journey home yourself”–the deep sounds soothing and supporting him– “and I respect your decision and view it with awe because I think you sense what I have learned from a long life, that each man must carry his own cross. Yet, when we see someone in need we must help.” Continuing staring into his face Jason, watching his free hand rising and descending, is feeling it smoothing his hair around his injury. “Go home son, and your folks will care for you.” Walking on, passing through the park’s opening onto the street, turning left on the way towards his house, Jason is feeling the deep concern for him of the Man, tears welling in his eyes, moistening his face. Closing his eyes as hard as he can, pushing back the tears, refusing to cry . . . <my victory0 Seeing a somewhat familiar figure a short distance away . . . <who? . . . don’t know . . .0 “Hey kid!” a rough crackly voice is saying. “What in blazes happened t’ yer?” <old man . . . way to beach . . .0 Approaching him, stopping, bending down, head with black brimmed sailor’s cap tilting leftwards; placing his right hand on Jason’s head turning it slightly to Jason’s right while holding on to his cane with his other hand, he is guiding Jason’s head back, thumb on chin, fingers along cheek. Gently pressing down his head, viewing his back-of-head wound . . . “What scum did this t’ yer, kid?” speaking threateningly.

“I don’t know them. I’m new here.” <proud . . . speak calm . . . no crying . . .0

“Goddamn scum!” Growling: “If I’da saw ’em do it I’da cracked their goddamned heads open!” Continuing holding Jason: “When yer older, look up Captain Danny. Sail with him for a year or two, that’s all. Just a year or two and no one will ever touch ya’!” Gently releasing Jason’s head his gritty voice is once more sounding. “Go home kid. Ya’ need tending. I’ll watch ya’ walkin’.” Beginning walking, thinking about the old man and Captain Danny . . .  “. . . how would that help?” Wondering if the old man had sailed with Captain Danny, thinking that the captain must be a fierce character, visualizing a huge man at a ship’s wheel with a full black-bearded face grimacing, he is hearing him in his mind loudly barking commands. “Neither Captain Danny or the old man would ever cry!” he is remarking when realizing that the captain’s voice is sounding like the old man’s. <girl on beach would cry0 “She would feel hurt at my being beat up the way I felt hurt at her being alone.” Dwelling on this while walking, his house is appearing suddenly in his gaze. <ma and pa home?0 Like an electric bolt the thought is shooting through his body. <lunch break maybe . . . not two yet . . . closer to one . . . around midday0 Green hedges–flower-sprinkled yellow–are visually moving behind him as he is walking up the stone stairway approaching the door, two sets of vertical white frames decorating the wood present in his sight. Grasping the knob, turning it slowly . . . <open0 Feeling in his stomach the force of a powerful punch he is slowly pushing the door in, slowly closing it behind him, standing in the livingroom where, to his right, several feet distant, his parents are seated on the sofa in the midst of a heated argument. Walking past them, quietly approaching his bedroom door . . . “WHERE THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING? WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO YOU?” Opening his bedroom door while not responding to his father, he is walking quickly in closing the door behind him. Running to his bed, jumping onto it face down, laying there, he is feeling surprise that he has no urge to cry.

Hearing his door opening and slamming closed, his father’s harsh voice is sounding loud in his ears. “WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, YOU LITTLE PIECE OF SHIT! DIDN’T YOU HEAR ME TALKING TO YOU? ANSWER ME! ” An urge to answer is filling Jason but there are no words within him. “YOU’RE PLAYING GAMES WITH ME?” Feeling his shirt being clutched from his back and being pulled, causing it to tighten against his chest and belly, he is suddenly being lifted into the air, his father beginning shaking him, then, opening the door, carrying him in this manner to the livingroom.

“What the hell is going on?” he is hearing his mother’s voice sounding in his ears with surprise and consternation. “Frank, we have to leave!”

“NOT UNTIL I TEACH THIS LITTLE SHIT A LESSON!” he is yelling at his wife while shaking Jason vigorously, suddenly letting him go, allowing him to fall on the floor, the muffled thud of his own body striking the hard surface entering his ears while he is landing on his injured right side, sharp pain shooting through his shoulder. “Now ANSWER my question,” his father’s growling filling his ears. “What the goddamn hell happened to you?”

“I got ganged up on,” hearing his own answer as a listless whisper.

“You mean you got beat up! And what did you do to the scumbag that beat you up?”

“There was more than one,” he is saying, still lying on his side, fearing that if he sits or stands up his father will hit him.

You didn’t hurt any of them? You just let them beat you up? Get the hell back into your bedroom and don’t let me see your goddamn face again!”

“Wait,” his mother is saying. “Let me see your head.” He can see her approaching him and standing above him. “Get the hell on your feet so your mother can look at you,” he is hearing his father saying gruffly. Pushing up with his hands, feeling sharp pain in his right side and shoulder, Jason kneeling is now slowly rising to his feet. “Make it snappy,” his father is commanding. “We shoulda been outa here five minutes ago!” Feeling his mother’s hand descending on his head, traveling to his back, he is hearing her speaking. “You’ve got a cut. Go shower and wash off the dirt and the blood and then go to bed.” Turning around Jason is beginning walking to his room. “And make supper later! We won’t be back ’til very late!” her voice’s sound following him.

Lying in bed after showering, feeling pain and soreness in his banged up head, his puffy red left eye, in his side where he has been kicked and in his right shoulder where he has fallen due to his father dropping him, he is staring into the clear bright California sky of sunny blue through the unshaded open window. <want to cry?0 “It’s good not to cry. That’s being strong, that’s defeating my enemies, by not giving in to hurt feelings and baby crying.” <but why . . . the pain . . .0 “Not enough to make me cry!” Feeling extremely sleepy, struggling against it, his eyes are closing, he sinking into sleep. Bent fetal-like, lying sideways, staring into the blackness of his closed eyes . . . <what day . . tuesday? . . . saturday? . . . where? . . . bedroom? . . . ah . . .0 “Bedroom! Afternoon nap . . .” <dreamt . . . what? . . . can’t remember . . . ghouls in white . . . white clothing, white masks0 “Was kidnapped from Ma!” <i screamed . . . they took me further and further . . .0 “I remember being so frightened . . .” <no words to describe . . .0 “A horrible nightmare!” Opening his eyes . . . <almost dark0 Stretching his legs out and his arms downward he is yawning. Hearing no sound, he is turning resting on his back, a scintillating dot of seemingly transparent blue appearing in his vision. “Star Friend!” the words are exhaling softly. “You found me! You found me! You found me!” he is crying out the words. “I love you! I love you! I love you! I love you! I love you! I love you! I love you! I love you! I love you! I love you! I love you! I want to go to you and be with you forever! I don’t like it here! Take me to you my Loving Friend! Please! Let me go to you!” Speaking as the star is gleaming through his window against the backdrop of the darkening evening sky a powerful feeling of goodness and relief is surging through him, soothing him, caressing him, kissing his innermost self so that all of the badness he has been suffering and the powerful goodness he is now experiencing from his Star are blending into one overwhelming sensation. From deep within a crying is welling up over which he has no control, tears rolling down his face onto his pillow, he crying and crying and crying, seemingly endlessly. <you will choose the time . . .0

HYPERSPACE [a literary depiction of psychosis]

June 4, 2014


 Jason, Last of the Argonauts

A Star is his Friend


[A short scroll-down past WARNING brings you to crucial excerpts from HYPERSPACE: Meeting 1 and Meeting 2. Those who read these two excerpts can judge for themselves that these two selections promise the reader a novel which contains a story of great interest and depth worthy of a reader’s full attention.]


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