The Way

Medea woke up knowing something was wrong, but that everything would be okay. Tremors through the earth but the tremors in her heart stronger; tremors intuitive of the coming collection of time and mind. Like a little bee signing the honey from the vine. It was violent and beautiful, an orgasm fully recognized.

Atlantis shook. America shook. All worlds which are other than these intersected and created a jam session of techtonic proportion indescribable by most humans; it wasn’t a normal day. Medea stepped outside to the mind of the trees symphonic and holistically carving a new world from the clay.

We are not afraid, she thought. Even asleep on my bed, curled in my breast like the young child I’ve hugged many a time and given away, knowing what could be lost, I am not afraid. I will not be afraid.

Strange to say such things! Don’t do it!
Says Mary Kelly in another world, one where the overflowing just began and heavens! The keyboard and drums….

In the middle of the night, climbing the mountain, the Witch and the Warlock looked down from their climb and saw a thick white mist engulfing the town below.

In the middle of the night, the night that Atlantis died, the knight that the City of Angels collided with inevitable space and time metafiction, the Authoress jammed drunk on wine and pot with a few of the receptive. Stoned out of our minds, I swear we lifted something off the Zeitgeist, musically, she thought. Those tones that transport and manipulate the feeling of a room, that’s what was made. That’s what was created, and so many words not even sung.

And so the Authoress thought it dutiful to write what had happened amongst souls. Though it was said to be selfish, the desire to unite amongst souls; this, the product of years of conditioning. And so it was, and ever shall be; world without end, Amen:

We walk through the valley of the shadow of our doubt
We walk through the valley of the shadow
We walk through the valley of the shadow of the pyramid….

And the Earth Shook

I never know what to write, I just get signals, little tattle-tale rats of ideas who walk in, bust out a joint, and pass me a story. I never know what’s going to happen next, it just does. It’s like the weirdest fucking cosmic half-way house in my head sometimes, said the Authoress to the Sirian .

Somewhere, in some Universe:

“My fellow Americans,” said the President in her most reserved, sympathetic tone, “I speak to you now, not as a President, but as a citizen of this great nation in mourning. Today, November the eleventh, at three twenty-three in the morning, Los Angeles was attacked by a nuclear warhead. Hundreds of thousands of lives have been lost. Our nation is in a state of emergency, and I know you’re all asking: What are we going to do about it? At this time, our Intelligence cannot disclose a full report, although we suspect that operatives of the enemies of Freedom, Iran, were involved in the attack…

Somewhere in another Universe:

“My fellow Atlanteans,” said the Queen Regent in her most sincere, compassionate voice, “I speak to you now, not as Queen Regent, but as a citizen of this great continent in mourning. Today, eleventh of El-Viath, at twenty three minutes Terce, Lateraline time, Lo Sarkos was attacked by a nuclear warhead. Our empire is in a state of crisis, and I know what you’re all asking: What are we going to do about it? At this time, our Intelligence cannot disclose a full report, although we suspect that operatives of the enemies of Freedom, the Uupain-Inlik are involved…”

Medea Culpa laced up her boots.

The Worlds begin shifting on a Saturday night

Most people think of worlds as floating, blue and green marbles orbiting a gravity halo around a center star. Indeed, many worlds exist this way. But what one forgets to remember is that according to the eccentricities of Quantum mechanics, these worlds also exist in many places at once. In reality, all worlds are lined up much like a city apartment building; each residing in its own space, yet all inhabiting approximately the same location. Some universes live on the 33rd floor, some in the basement. It’s a real bitch when the power goes out.

Medea Culpa drifted slowly back to sleep, her head in the gentle cusp of her lover’s shoulder. For now, all was right in her world, despite the appropriations of a crawling chaos in the heart of Atlantis that only oxcytocin and wine would numb.

At the same time, Mary Kelly swallowed two shots of tequila and poured a third; the election results had just come in: 49 to 51, and the next leader of the Free (that was a joke) world, John McJabulon, a puppet well known for his staunch ideals of a One World Militarized Zone, gave his acceptance speech. In it, he stated that recent intelligence reports showed strong evidence that the terrorist attacks on L.A. had been perpetrated by Iranian-backed terrorist organizations, and that the United States would respond with nuclear power.

At the same time, the Authoress took a very long hit of a very large water pipe filled with purple cannabis and salvia divninorum. The room swarmed with salvia sea creatures; half of them her friends, the other half, merpeople in bluejeans. Blue halos appeared over each of their heads, and a small green man seemed to be sitting on top of the dresser. When she looked him straight in the eye, he winked one giant black pupil, then disappeared. The room normalized. Fucking great pot, she thought. This is definitely going in the Novel, even though the discussion isn’t quite as surreal as I’d like. She normally didn’t party this far out, but her friend’s insistence on no less than 95 pounds of crawfish and nearly that amount in beer easily persuaded her. Even with rabid technology at the heart of America’s panic button, it took about twenty minutes longer for the information that the City of Angels was now a wasteland to reach the party house than it did everyone else.

(INRI: Igni Natura Renovata Integra, is variously translated as “All of nature is renewed by fire”, “Fire Renews Nature Completely”, or “through fire, nature is reborn whole”)

At the same time, on the eastern side of a mountain by the sea, a warlock studied the strange claw-like tentacles of a dead jellyfish washed up by a blood-red sea. His stomach growled with hunger, but the site was too disgusting to bear thought for food.

On the western side of the mountain, by the woods, a witch stepped outside her hut and looked forlornly at the bodies of ten thousand blackbirds. They looked to have hemorrhaged; blood crusted around each orifice, eyes just coagulations of brown scabs. The flies hadn’t even had time to swarm yet, but it was early.

And still, at the same time, the Sirian intelligence operative spoke to her commander through reverse-engineered Pleiadian transmitter technology:

“It seems things are getting away from us.” said the dog-like spy, who’d known about the attacks on L.A. for seven years. Every time she tried to say something, the Authoress would admonish her and bribe her with food.

“Xenu’s behind this, I know it,” said the Sirian Intelligence High Commander. If you can, get us a sample from the next reptilian you meet. Doesn’t have to be DNA; it can be a clothing item. A toe would be perfect. We need to see what their collective bio-consciousness is preparing for, and if we need to send reinforcements, we will.”

“Of course. I’ll alert you as soon as the reptiles reveal something.”

“You’re a good dog.”

“I know I am. Thank you, sir.”

And in all universes, the powerful ruling class smiled as a ripple cut them one more slice off the big cheese; people are most easily controlled when they believe their worlds may be torn apart.

These kinds of dreams.

The Authoress awoke on the couch from a night of strange dreams, induced primarily by the visual and sensory input of watching science fiction, a raucous electromagnetically-charged thunderstorm, and drinking a little too much cheap white wine.

In the first dream, she saw an older man and an older woman climbing opposite sides of a mountain that looked eerily familiar. They both wore brown monk robes and carried small brown bags over their shoulders. A hawk followed the woman about a hundred feet up, and a large cat followed the man. They both looked extremely sad yet extremely determined. Down below, in an idyllic little town by the ocean, whitewashed houses and boatyards and grocery stores were slowly being covered in a thick, white mist.

In the second dream, she was at the circus. A small red haired woman rode a lion through the three rings, gracefully hopping over the partitions as if she were riding a pony. Suddenly, there was an explosion. The circus tent caught on fire at one end, people ran screaming and panicked, including the Authoress, who was a participant in this dream. But the red-haired woman kept on riding the lion until she walked straight into the flame and disappeared. Soon after, black helicopters showed up and arrested everyone who said they saw the woman riding the lion as they were clearly suspects in the terrorist attack that had ravaged the circus. The Authoress did not get arrested, but saw that those who did were marked with a big yellow five-pointed star, hooded, cuffed, and marched into black vans.

In the third dream, the Authoress had a child. Her pregnancy and labor were very quick, as though she’d thought the child into her belly and then proceeded to give birth to it. She laid down on her couch and opened her legs and gently pushed, and a tiny human being came out. It was not like real labor, she knew, but at this point, the Authoress was very aware that she was dreaming. She held the tiny child, who was only about the size of her large long-fingered hands, and nursed it. The child had blue eyes and no hair whatsoever and looked somewhat like an alien, as most babies do. After it fed, it started talking. It said that her name was Sarah and that she’d really like some more food soon. The Authoress, amused, asked her how the hell she learned to talk and where she’d come from. The baby said, in confused but clear English, “I come from someplace very far away.”

“Like, over the ocean?” said the dreamer.

“No, like a galaxy far, far, away. It’s called teleportation, Mommy.”

And with that, the Authoress shook herself awake.

Little did she know that her roommate, the canine-bodied yellow-eyed “dog” who was really an intelligence operative from the planet behind the Dog Star Sirius had recorded these dreams and sent them back to her home planet for analysis. Most dreams were useless, but sometimes a sliver of information from a Universe next door would slip in. The Sirians were very interested in these kinds of dreams.