Porcelain Dimension

In some obscure circles a discussion about meeting strangers in public washrooms invariably leads to the hypothesis that the strangers are from alternate dimensions.  Some astute members of these circles go so far as to insist that portals to other dimensions are prompted by the abundant accumulation of porcelain in these locations. The laid back, open minded members squeeze their chins and nod in possibility. But that’s not sufficient evidence enough for the more aggressive debaters who gesticulate absurdity in the ceramic hypothesis. Those overbearing individuals, and individual they are, seem to regard strangers from other dimensions, who lurk in public washrooms are there for the same reasons as the strangers in their own dimension- that being, an obvious urgent need to use the facilities.

This popular discussion can go on for hours. Temporary conclusions that chemical analysis of the room’s tile grout need be taken. Assertions that the chrome plumbing be tested for radio activity and Ph reading of the urinal flush water be measured. The chin squeezing, open minded of the group will vigorously nod their heads. A uniquely persistant member will remind everyone of the effect of the sheer weight of porcelain involved, at which point much face-palming ensues. Another well read member of the group will quote that, “The devil is in the details.” And a respectful pause is observed.

It’s a while before the discussion turns it’s focus on the strangers themselves. A new member of the group suddenly gets an epiphany, “What makes these strangers from another dimension strange?”… Several lower lips are extended and heads slowly move up and down. The definition of strange needs to be defined. Where are these other dimensional strangers from? What truly is their purpose there? When are they most likely to appear in the public washrooms? Who can positively identify them? “Why are they here?” Someone from the back of the group pipes in. He is tersely informed that the why of the matter was long ago agreed upon, because ‘they too need to use the facilities’. “Why don’t they use the washrooms in their own dimension?” asks the same discontented speaker. Eyes roll, arms are folded and heavy air is exhaled through multiple sets of nostrils. Another mandatory pause is observed.

An interlude of childhood memories about public washroom experiences is shared.An open minded participant remembers going into a washroom in the basement floor of an old department store, the washroom also happened to be connected to the subway by a dark, tile-lined tunnel shaped stairway. He remembered a strange man who wore a thick wool suit and a large hat who stood back from a stain etched, vertical floor urinal, pulled one panel of his jacket aside and without touching his male genitalia, urinated into the receptacle and then spit a loogey in after. That definitely in the speaker’s opinion was a stranger from another dimension.

Not to be left out of the lively discussion, another group member recalled how during his tenure in reform school, he and a group of his fellow juvees were loitering in a school lavatory when they heard the most grotesque sounds and smelled the most offensive odors coming out of the last toilet stall. The noises and smells were so horrific they had to wait and see who occupied the stall so they could later torment and forever embarrass and the kid. They waited for over half an hour and endured the most disgusting bodily excretions until they agreed not to wait any longer and kick the door of the stall in to find out. Much to their surprise, just before kicking the door, they all heard a gushing flush. But no one opened the stall door. The fellow telling the story had jumped up on the seat of the neighboring stall toilet and peeked over the metal divider. He swore he was never so surprised in his entire time at the reform school. When he told what he saw, his mates didn’t believe him and kicked the door open anyway. They discovered the stall empty.
Eyebrows raised at this point of the story. Then in the back of the group, someone suggested, “Maybe the guy flushed himself into the next dimension.”… A smattering of repressed chuckles jiggled the group.

“It’s all about the porcelain.” repeated a member tired of the stroll down memory lane. Yes they all agreed. All the porcelain fixtures and tiled walls and floors seemed to form a sort of crucible for electro-magnetic waves to transfer matter from one dimension to the other. All elements conjoined played some role in the frequent appearance of strangers from other dimensions appearing in public washrooms, but none of the group could conclusively come up with a solid explanation why.  With the discussion winding down, the group finished up by washing their hands and drying them under hot air blowers- then one by one, they all left the confines of the washroom via a paranormal method of their choosing.

Corporeal

     Worldly events are bending and warping like a "Rubber Man" sideshow contortionist. Even an unbiased observer with 20/20 vision can't manage to focus the abstracting images into anything recognizable. A matter of mass hallucination. Hysterical, manic, machinations. That's what reality actually looks like. The only way to make it behave as something different is through aggressive application of mass hypnosis. The use of somnambulistic phrases and shiny objects to pendulum-swing before rose tinted eyes. Contact lens blinders superimposed upon self-hobbled victims. An easy enough feat exercised upon victims that want to be entertained, not held to the grail-light of truth. Looking behind the curtain wasn't part of their front row ticket price, and yet, jumping off cliffs is free of charge. 

Our planet still hangs suspended in a revolving universe, stable as a pizza box hiding a molten mozzarella core. Oceans of soda and forests of garlic breadsticks compose the flat-earth geography. Self-imposed celebrities perpetually chase themselves ‘round ninety-degree corners. All is as should be in the abyss of Dis-reality Complication. 

One way to simplify life is to stop looking under pillows every night expecting gifted currency from fictitious entities acting out enamel fetishes. 

"Now what?" is a question more people should ask themselves in lieu of sentimental, self-indulgent ramblings about what they used to do, or who they used to be, or worse, bragging about how they haven't changed. Gets old fast. The often overlooked secret is- it's never too late to start something new, even if it's only switching your morning breakfast beverage from frozen orange juice concentrate to artificial vegetable flavored puree. That one minute change could domino-tilt the entire universe on a different course. 

Observe and absorb. Rhetoric is meaningless. Your arsenal of senses are your best conduits for learning. See, hear, smell, taste, feel, then THINK. Search for answers to questions. ASK questions you’ve never thought of before. Questions are the catalyst for growth. 

It's folly trying to “teach”. The best hope, is to plant a seed that will germinate into action at the most opportune time. It's not about rote, but about comprehension that begets epiphany.

Physical world, physical reality.... gravity plays a big part. Imagination isn't affected by gravity. Freedom from that ankle-yank pull is what sets imagination to FLY....Quantum Theory is pedestrian compared to imagination. It's bogged down by numbers and formulas, never ending equations.... chalk scratchings on dull slate, a poor substitute for the velvet sheen behind the cosmos.... 

Time is a rudimentary construct of man to aid him in keeping events organized, categorized and hypothesized. Time is merely a measurement, and not a very accurate one. There is no such thing as time fueling thought or imagination. But there is pulse. Fast, anticipated pulse, slow bemused pulse, a brush swish on a snare drum, a pluck of a bass string, the flutter of a heart in love. Pulse drives everything. Incremented time only cheapens the phenomenon of moment. Each heartbeat is an infinite moment. 

Distraction is a terminal path. Pillar of salt stuff. Mind to ash. But moments filled with imagination, discourage  distraction-rot. 

The night sky used to be filled with rainbows and strings of pulsing color spooling across the naked universe. 

MeLos the Memory Loss Drug

Zombies? There aren't any zombies. It's a word that got used over and over again until... 

There was this experiment done decades ago with monkeys and cocaine. A lab monkey could press a bar in his cage and get a dose of cocaine. Eventually the monkey pressed the bar so often he forgot to have sex, forgot to eat, or drink and eventually pressed that bar until he died of an overdose. 

Decades later, science in concert with large corporate pharmaceutical financing, invented a memory erasing drug. It’s original intention was to relieve the patient's chronic stress caused by irreconcilable memories. War vets were some of the first test subjects, looking for relief from post traumatic stress. Desperate to forget the horrors of war. It seemed to work as expected. For a while. The government gag order kept a lid on details behind a sudden increase in violence and homicide on military bases and in vetren hospitals.

Then the drug began showing up on street corners, eventually ending up in suburban living-rooms of middle America. People became obsessed with forgetting. Black market demand for the drug even outstripped the demand for marijuana. Then things really started to change...

Once some manmade synthetic is released into the natural environment, there’s no control over it. Genetically modified crops first proved migratory data on this scientific short-sight. Then came mutating viruses from animal to human, another overlooked aberration. When the pharmaceutical companies started pushing gene modification injections, they frantically attempted to cover up the monstrous, unexpected genetic outcomes. Think tank committees, quickly hired by the companies, were coerced into a consensus that the Memory Loss pill was the only way to return things to normal. They called the pill MeLos and advertised it on television and over the internet. Misguided visions of profits and absolution danced in their heads.  

When people began taking MeLos the memory erasing drug, it blended with a battery of pharmaceuticals they were already codependent on. These people lapsed into semi-functional, vegetative states. Already at the time, the word zombies had been over-used and adopted by pop culture and infiltrated it’s way into the lexicons of municipal departments and social institutions. The advent of Melos usage just cemented the label Zombie into reality. Only the few people who didn't take the memory loss drug-  didn’t buy into marketing hype, were able to fully realize the drug’s hideous result.

MeLos zombies proliferated every niche of society. Service sectors, even governments became useless. Before Melos, people who took drugs -over the counter medication or illegal controlled substances- could hide their addictions for a period of time, still function at their jobs or with their families to a minimal degree. But when people started taking Melos, they couldn't hide it’s effects. They couldn’t remember how to do their jobs, care for their families, be responsible for their actions. MeLos made them forget everything- and people felt good about that. They felt so good, they didn't feel a need to interact in any functional way with their communities. They simply didn’t remember anything. 

After a month, the person's mind and body started to organically self-produce the drug. This was a big shock to the pharmaceutical companies that held patents to profit from the  drug’s manufacture. The scientists, micro-biologists, developers- no one saw the memory drug high-jacking the patients genetic codes and begin to internally manufacture the insidious chemical on it’s own. 

There's an old saying, "it's never just one thing." When people fixed on an agenda of profit to invent that magic bullet, they often overlook the other "things" that might contribute to wrecking the outcome of their greedily imagined agendas. GMO pesticides, antibiotic over-use, polluted water supplies, microwave radiation, designer gene manipulation and yes, the copious production and use of more and more pills. When you combined MeLos with this already festering chemical- cocktail, somebody should have seen it coming. Nobody's run of blind luck is THAT good. 

Zombies? There aren't any zombies. Don't you remember? 

Stellar Cherry Pie

Six unidentified flying objects descended upon a sparsely populated mountain town. Twelve diminutive aliens disembarked from their ships and combed between the buildings and properties for traces of cherry pie. Cherries were aphrodisiacs to the space travelers, who hadn't had any physical concourse in several light years. Strictly by coincidence the town was having it's annual cherry festival and homemade pie contest.

Spurred on by the pheromones the tiny red fruit exuded, the extraterrestrials zeroed in on the festival held at the river front park. As they neared the area of the homemade pie contest, their shiny silver spandex spacesuits began to display various throbbing bulges and juicy wet spots. An emerald green river ran through town. The residents of the town hunted and fished along it’s banks all year round then celebrated year’s end with the cherry festival. It was in the center of this park that the cherry pie contest was taking place and a mass of people had gathered and brought their appetites. 

The small aliens assembled into a flying wedge formation and used their advanced laser weapons to cauterize an open path through the humanoid crowd. The pie contestants and pie judges scattered away from the long tables displaying the juicy red and sugary brown cherry pies. All twelve aliens jumped upon the tables and gorged themselves with pies, letting the glossy red syrup run down their chins and arms as they ate. Their shiny spacesuits became a sticky, syrupy mess. An orgasmic frenzy began as the aliens performed an orgy of wild sexual positions and acts across red-checkered tablecloth. They ripped their spandex spacesuits off and squealed in high-pitched gibberish as their thin-limbed bodies wiggled and rhythmically flopped atop broken pieces of flaky pie crust and gushing geysers of cherry syrup filling.  

The festival crowd stood back, shocked and aghast. Almost breathless as they stared at the tiny creatures from another galaxy. Mother's shielded their young offspring's eyes while snickering teenagers used their cellphone camera's to record the bizarre sight. Paunch bellied men in camo vests began fantasizing about oozing slices of pie and looked wanton at their wives. The event lasted no more than a few minutes, after which the aliens lay motionless atop long tables dripping with violated pie filling. 

The small aliens purred in a state of orgasmic fulfillment. The shocked onlookers began to shake off their surprise and initial fear. They momentarily looked back and forth at each other forming a mute resolution then all rushed the pie tables. Angered and maddened for the unprovoked laser attack the aliens perpetrated upon them, the townsfolk took advantage of the aliens’ lapse in awareness and wrecked upon the creatures, earthly revenge.

The cherry festival’s homemade pie contestants later made pies filled with alien entrails and held a new pie contest. The residents of the town never touched another cherry again as long as the vision of the mad alien orgy lingered in their memories.