Stanley I. Brookoff's Blog, page 4

HYPERSPACE [Not science-fiction]

http://www.hyperspacebook.wordpress.com

NOTE: In this novel the symbol < precedes a character’s thought, and a superscripts zero (0) follows that thought.

(To view an earlier excerpt posting, scroll to the end of the blogsite page and click Older Entries, and then scroll to: A Day in the Asylum: A Day on Planet Earth.)

HYPERSPACE

An escape from hell . . .

[APPROACH THE END OF THIS BOOK AND UNDERSTAND THE MEANING OF HYPERSPACE AS NO ONE EVER HAS.]

Meeting 1

Experiencing and visualizing simultaneously the cool, soft darkness surrounding him, engulfing him, while, from his reclining position with his head on pillow in slight elevation, staring into the night sky, bright sparks are titillating Jason with their shining and winking.

0 “Too much big city light.”

Discerning multifarious twinkling tints amidst the sparse city view, his gaze is constantly focusing on a scintillating dot of bluish hue somewhat elevated above various fairly low residential structures. 0 Feeling a pang, breathing deeply, sighing, from across the void he is continuing viewing the bright bluish dot.

Grasping the tie knot hugging his neck, with his left hand pulling it down, he is opening his top collar button. “Thank god,” he is breathing while rubbing his neck, feeling the air refreshing the recently imprisoned skin. Supine, fully dressed, but for the absence of his shoes, feet hanging just over the bed’s edge, he is continuing looking at the bright point of blue blinking through his window.

night0 “What a goddamn night!”

Unable to control the flood of images cramming his mind–women, men, blasting music, alcohol, food, the boss, Pat . . . 0 He is watching the people, with few exceptions informally dressed, and the big boss from Houston in his dark suit. with his cigar . . . young middle age . . . usually taciturn0 Whisperingly, under his breath: “Look at him now slapping backs and offering witticisms. A goddamn boss act!” Watching his emphatically waving hand making a point to one of the salesmen, a thin stream of white smoke curling upwards into the air from the thick cigar he is holding between the fingers of the motionless hand held at his waist . . . brooding black beard0

Standing in a far corner, his bright blondness distinguishing him and his self-imposed distance removing him from undesired attention, Jason is observing and mentally commenting to himself concerning surrounding occurrences, as constant feelings that he should not be there are impinging. was up to three packs a day in the navy he’d said0 Watching the boss speaking to several salespeople–holding his cigar, oblivious to the emanating pollution–Jason is recalling his navy friend’s comment at the other job: had to quit . . . i couldn’t breathe air anymore, never mind smoke . . .0 Continuing observing the scene before him as his navy friend’s voice is trailing off into his memory’s recesses . . . 0 “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 . . . 0 Beyond her, in small groups throughout the rectangular room, he is observing people milling about. 0 “Are you looking off into the mysterious foggy future?” her soft pleasant voice is playfully asking.

“No! Actually, I’m looking at the big boss’ odoriferous mechanism of atmospheric toxicity.” She is breaking into a gay irrepressible laugh, he smiling. “You do have a way with words, Jason, don’t you?” Continuing smiling, her womanly appearance is confronting him with her long bright blonde hair descending, strands resting on her ninety-nine percent bare shoulders, large waves streaming in a flow behind her . . . 0 . . . he viewing in her incomparable hazel eyes laughter-born moisture, a penetrating visceral warmth suddenly overwhelming 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; in her simple light blue dress, somewhat loose so that it is flowing with her motion or, were it present, with a breeze, but far from billowing; with its two parallel rows of sewed blue and pink flowers running crosswise in waves, the lower row dancing just above the petite fullness of her braless breasts, the upper row flowing across the fabric’s edge, at various points petals or leaves virtually kissing her radiant skin; all being lifted by two thread-thin shoulder strings of blue. Viewing the mostly pink flowers above her girlish breast–the several of a turquoise hue barely contrasting with the ocean of fabric from which they grow, the lucent calyces of light green allowing her pinkness to filter through–his eyes, wandering slightly down, are not failing to note, to the left and to the right, protruding nipple points clearly defining the fabric. Nor are they failing to consider, as they are wandering farther downward, the hemline of her dress falling halfway only to her perfectly formed feminine thighs, her shapely legs descending further in his view. “Why don’t we leave here Jason? Come over to my place where we can talk without all this horrendous racket.” Ossifying the pleasant warmth currently infusing Jason is a sudden chill. “Where do you live?” his voice sounding distant to him.

“Oh, not far. In the neighborhood . . . a few blocks, actually.”

“Ok,” while feeling deeply penetrating knife stabs, his intellectual assessment that he is committing an extremely serious error dominating his thinking even while flashing through his mind is an image of office laughter that he is refusing such an offer, with ensuing questions amongst personnel as to what exactly is wrong with Jason. “C’mon!” Pat is saying, while with unexpected suddeness she is reaching out grabbing his left hand in her right; he, perceiving a flashing in her eyes, internally freezing. 0 His viscera in turmoil he is feeling her small hand holding his, his vision centering on her perfectly proportioned slim girl’s shape as she is beginning walking, he trailing slightly behind, a tiny hand-chain of two blond links wending its way through pockets of people standing or moving about in the center of the large room. Seeing Tony and Jill in the periphery of his vision to his left, each holding a drink, they waving to him; Jason, turning slightly, mechanically raising his free hand, waving in response . . . in anticipation another would be . . . are those surprised looks? . . . especially tony the macho-man? . . .0 0 Approaching the wide passageway preceding the apartment’s entrance, Pat, releasing Jason’s hand, is walking to the coat rack against the wall on the left, he watching her slim girlish form, bare arm reaching, small hand of short-cut clear polished nails closing upon a light blue jacket. As, swirling her jacket around over her shoulders, he is viewing her petit breasts quivering with motion beneath their covering, instantaneously an internal electrical bolt is slamming him, dissipating all mental meanderings. Turning towards him, smiling, her hazel eyes gleaming in his direction . . . “Ready?” . . . her soft friendly tone sounding in his ears seemingly implying much more than mere readiness to leave . . . “Yup!” 0 . . . he is feeling the entire room’s eyes burning into the back of his neck while she, opening the door, is exiting, he following her into the hallway. In the hallway he is continuing following her, passing the elevator, the stairway approaching in his sight, now walking down behind her, the minuscule up and down movement of her golden hair (shining in his eyes) duplicating the rhythm of her step-by-step descent, a hypnotic effect transfixing his gaze, his mind, his viscera. Following in a trance a path being set for him which he has no desire to follow is concerning him on another level of mind while feeling a claw digging into and tightening around his intestines, he placing one foot, then the other, on consecutive steps in what is seeming to him an unending descent of one flight; reaching the mid-landing with a huge square window, top section being swung slightly open jutting into the night, then the ground floor. Seeing her ahead of him, small hand tightening around the flat steel bar running horizontally across the aluminum framed glass entranceway door, pushing it open, walking into the night, he is following, grabbing the bar and pushing, wondering at her not waiting for him . . . ?0 . . . stepping outside, watching her turning around, she smiling at him with a brightness matching her golden persona. “Come on,” she is saying, feigning a whine. “You don’t want to be up all night, do you?” Instantaneously transmitting through his neuronal wiring is a powerful electrical shock stunning him into a frozen, almost paralyzed state by his sudden and full awareness of the current situation into which he is stepping, as if into an escape-proof trap, he hating himself for his stupidity, gulping reflexively, the intestinal claw tightening around his viscera. Walking up to her, the tight claw relentlessly clenching within, they are descending down several concrete steps to the sidewalk. Turning left, continuing half a block to the corner, turning left again, beginning walking down a semi-lit street, a phalanx of evenly spaced oaks lining the curb paralleling their direction, Jason is feeling a light cool breeze slicing through his blazer cutting his flesh as he is viewing someone speedily approaching through the darkness, drawing near, breaking into the narrow parameter of his sight. Watching him slithering by like a shadow, seeing the shadow slowing its pace, observing it taking notice of them while continuing walking in their direction, viewing its presence adjacent to Pat, the shadow-become-substance is sweeping his eyes up and down her form whistling and, looking at Jason for less than a second, picking up his speed. “Lucky bastard,” are words ebbing into the darkening evening’s silence as Pat’s right hand is enclosing around Jason’s left. “C’mon luv. It ain’t gettin’ early!” 0 As they are walking down the next block, feeling her small hand in his . . . 0 . . . he is groping for an answer, feeling her girl’s flesh in his while turning left at the block’s corner. Walking past two three-family houses, turning into the entrance of the third, he is anticipating that she will lead him up the front stairway. 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, pulling it 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. With the door swinging open and the lights switching on at the behest of Pat’s hand waving over a switch, Jason is dumbly following her into the house.

Meeting 2

Together again are he and his Friend for Eternity. “When did we first meet, my Love?” his child’s voice is querying in his memory. 0 “We lived inland, then, my Love. I remember perfectly! It was flatland with hills and mountains towards the horizon.” 0 “It was when I brought a report-card home with an F. It was like this, my Loving Friend . . . I told Ma ‘I got an F in math.’ ‘Pa is not gonna like that,’ she said. ‘As a matter of fact,’ she said, ‘I don’t like that! Get to your room! Pa will go up there when he gets home.’ Yes my Loving Friend! That’s how our Meeting started!” Chirping in a high pitched child’s sound, Jason is continuing. “You know, I once heard someone say . . . was it a teacher or a minister? . . . I don’t remember . . . I once heard him say that sometimes good things come from bad but when the bad is happening you don’t know it will be the cause of the good! So when Pa came up later I didn’t know good would follow. I remember! ‘What’s this about you getting an F, huh?’ he said. He sounded like Pa sounds when he’s real mean. Honest, I don’t remember what I said back! Then Pa whupped me! He grabbed me by my shirt and pants and pulled me off the bed, threw me back down real hard so my behind faced up and then he whupped me as hard as I’ve ever been whupped! He used the flat of his hand, alright, but Pa is strong! I couldn’t sit down for a long time without hurtin’. And I cried . . . I wanna cry now, my Loving Friend, just thinking about it. But you’re here and I feel your goodness and I know I’m safe. Anyway, I remember laying in bed on my stomach after my whupping. It seemed like a real long time, my laying there. I didn’t cry too much, you know. For some reason I just stopped. And I felt a strange feeling in me . . . I don’t know what.” Continuing staring out his window . . . “Then, my Friend for Eternity, I realized it was getting darker. I could never explain what made me get up from bed, hurtin’ the way I was. But now I know. You made me get up! You did, Loving Friend! ’Cause you wanted me to leave there, wanted me to . . .” Hearing his father’s booming voice along with his mother’s shrieks he is continuing staring at the twinkling blue spark of light. “I was feeling a really awful aching in my behind, you know. But I still got up and walked! Why would I do that? Why would I want to? It was you my Love! It was you calling me to you!” He is remembering wincing in pain, slowly and quietly opening his bedroom door, walking out into the hall, quietly closing the door, walking carefully down the stairs, not wishing his parents to see him, reaching the bottom, walking straight to the front door feeling fire burning his lower behind from his father’s beating and the back of his neck from his imagining his parents’ stares who may be in the kitchen or livingroom behind him. Opening the door, stepping into the cool end-of-winter air, he is walking out into the flatland, feeling the trodding-on of stones and old plant life carcasses. Silence is infiltrating the child’s memory. 0 “Can’t be sure . . . maybe . . .” was our Meeting . . . we moved here when?0 “About a year ago, I think.” 0 “And I met you about six or so months before that . . . February or March.” 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!” now? . . . highness . . .0 Whispering with excitement, “. . . joy . . . goodness, beauty, love, caring . . .” 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.

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Published on December 13, 2013 13:26

HYPERSPACE

http://www.hyperspacebook.wordpress.com

NOTE: In this novel the symbol < precedes a character’s thought, and a superscripts zero (0) follows that thought.

HYPERSPACE

An escape from hell . . .

Meeting 1

Experiencing and visualizing simultaneously the cool, soft darkness surrounding him, engulfing him, while, from his reclining position with his head on pillow in slight elevation, staring into the night sky, bright sparks are titillating Jason with their shining and winking.

0 “Too much big city light.”

Discerning multifarious twinkling tints amidst the sparse city view, his gaze is constantly focusing on a scintillating dot of bluish hue somewhat elevated above various fairly low residential structures. 0 Feeling a pang, breathing deeply, sighing, from across the void he is continuing viewing the bright bluish dot.

Grasping the tie knot hugging his neck, with his left hand pulling it down, he is opening his top collar button. “Thank god,” he is breathing while rubbing his neck, feeling the air refreshing the recently imprisoned skin. Supine, fully dressed, but for the absence of his shoes, feet hanging just over the bed’s edge, he is continuing looking at the bright point of blue blinking through his window.

night0 “What a goddamn night!”

Unable to control the flood of images cramming his mind–women, men, blasting music, alcohol, food, the boss, Pat . . . 0 He is watching the people, with few exceptions informally dressed, and the big boss from Houston in his dark suit. with his cigar . . . young middle age . . . usually taciturn0 Whisperingly, under his breath: “Look at him now slapping backs and offering witticisms. A goddamn boss act!” Watching his emphatically waving hand making a point to one of the salesmen, a thin stream of white smoke curling upwards into the air from the thick cigar he is holding between the fingers of the motionless hand held at his waist . . . brooding black beard0

Standing in a far corner, his bright blondness distinguishing him and his self-imposed distance removing him from undesired attention, Jason is observing and mentally commenting to himself concerning surrounding occurrences, as constant feelings that he should not be there are impinging. was up to three packs a day in the navy he’d said0 Watching the boss speaking to several salespeople–holding his cigar, oblivious to the emanating pollution–Jason is recalling his navy friend’s comment at the other job: had to quit . . . i couldn’t breathe air anymore, never mind smoke . . .0 Continuing observing the scene before him as his navy friend’s voice is trailing off into his memory’s recesses . . . 0 “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 . . . 0 Beyond her, in small groups throughout the rectangular room, he is observing people milling about. 0 “Are you looking off into the mysterious foggy future?” her soft pleasant voice is playfully asking.

“No! Actually, I’m looking at the big boss’ odoriferous mechanism of atmospheric toxicity.” She is breaking into a gay irrepressible laugh, he smiling. “You do have a way with words, Jason, don’t you?” Continuing smiling, her womanly appearance is confronting him with her long bright blonde hair descending, strands resting on her ninety-nine percent bare shoulders, large waves streaming in a flow behind her . . . 0 . . . he viewing in her incomparable hazel eyes laughter-born moisture, a penetrating visceral warmth suddenly overwhelming 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; in her simple light blue dress, somewhat loose so that it is flowing with her motion or, were it present, with a breeze, but far from billowing; with its two parallel rows of sewed blue and pink flowers running crosswise in waves, the lower row dancing just above the petite fullness of her braless breasts, the upper row flowing across the fabric’s edge, at various points petals or leaves virtually kissing her radiant skin; all being lifted by two thread-thin shoulder strings of blue. Viewing the mostly pink flowers above her girlish breast–the several of a turquoise hue barely contrasting with the ocean of fabric from which they grow, the lucent calyces of light green allowing her pinkness to filter through–his eyes, wandering slightly down, are not failing to note, to the left and to the right, protruding nipple points clearly defining the fabric. Nor are they failing to consider, as they are wandering farther downward, the hemline of her dress falling halfway only to her perfectly formed feminine thighs, her shapely legs descending further in his view. “Why don’t we leave here Jason? Come over to my place where we can talk without all this horrendous racket.” Ossifying the pleasant warmth currently infusing Jason is a sudden chill. “Where do you live?” his voice sounding distant to him.

“Oh, not far. In the neighborhood . . . a few blocks, actually.”

“Ok,” while feeling deeply penetrating knife stabs, his intellectual assessment that he is committing an extremely serious error dominating his thinking even while flashing through his mind is an image of office laughter that he is refusing such an offer, with ensuing questions amongst personnel as to what exactly is wrong with Jason. “C’mon!” Pat is saying, while with unexpected suddeness she is reaching out grabbing his left hand in her right; he, perceiving a flashing in her eyes, internally freezing. 0 His viscera in turmoil he is feeling her small hand holding his, his vision centering on her perfectly proportioned slim girl’s shape as she is beginning walking, he trailing slightly behind, a tiny hand-chain of two blond links wending its way through pockets of people standing or moving about in the center of the large room. Seeing Tony and Jill in the periphery of his vision to his left, each holding a drink, they waving to him; Jason, turning slightly, mechanically raising his free hand, waving in response . . . in anticipation another would be . . . are those surprised looks? . . . especially tony the macho-man? . . .0 0 Approaching the wide passageway preceding the apartment’s entrance, Pat, releasing Jason’s hand, is walking to the coat rack against the wall on the left, he watching her slim girlish form, bare arm reaching, small hand of short-cut clear polished nails closing upon a light blue jacket. As, swirling her jacket around over her shoulders, he is viewing her petit breasts quivering with motion beneath their covering, instantaneously an internal electrical bolt is slamming him, dissipating all mental meanderings. Turning towards him, smiling, her hazel eyes gleaming in his direction . . . “Ready?” . . . her soft friendly tone sounding in his ears seemingly implying much more than mere readiness to leave . . . “Yup!” 0 . . . he is feeling the entire room’s eyes burning into the back of his neck while she, opening the door, is exiting, he following her into the hallway. In the hallway he is continuing following her, passing the elevator, the stairway approaching in his sight, now walking down behind her, the minuscule up and down movement of her golden hair (shining in his eyes) duplicating the rhythm of her step-by-step descent, a hypnotic effect transfixing his gaze, his mind, his viscera. Following in a trance a path being set for him which he has no desire to follow is concerning him on another level of mind while feeling a claw digging into and tightening around his intestines, he placing one foot, then the other, on consecutive steps in what is seeming to him an unending descent of one flight; reaching the mid-landing with a huge square window, top section being swung slightly open jutting into the night, then the ground floor. Seeing her ahead of him, small hand tightening around the flat steel bar running horizontally across the aluminum framed glass entranceway door, pushing it open, walking into the night, he is following, grabbing the bar and pushing, wondering at her not waiting for him . . . ?0 . . . stepping outside, watching her turning around, she smiling at him with a brightness matching her golden persona. “Come on,” she is saying, feigning a whine. “You don’t want to be up all night, do you?” Instantaneously transmitting through his neuronal wiring is a powerful electrical shock stunning him into a frozen, almost paralyzed state by his sudden and full awareness of the current situation into which he is stepping, as if into an escape-proof trap, he hating himself for his stupidity, gulping reflexively, the intestinal claw tightening around his viscera. Walking up to her, the tight claw relentlessly clenching within, they are descending down several concrete steps to the sidewalk. Turning left, continuing half a block to the corner, turning left again, beginning walking down a semi-lit street, a phalanx of evenly spaced oaks lining the curb paralleling their direction, Jason is feeling a light cool breeze slicing through his blazer cutting his flesh as he is viewing someone speedily approaching through the darkness, drawing near, breaking into the narrow parameter of his sight. Watching him slithering by like a shadow, seeing the shadow slowing its pace, observing it taking notice of them while continuing walking in their direction, viewing its presence adjacent to Pat, the shadow-become-substance is sweeping his eyes up and down her form whistling and, looking at Jason for less than a second, picking up his speed. “Lucky bastard,” are words ebbing into the darkening evening’s silence as Pat’s right hand is enclosing around Jason’s left. “C’mon luv. It ain’t gettin’ early!” 0 As they are walking down the next block, feeling her small hand in his . . . 0 . . . he is groping for an answer, feeling her girl’s flesh in his while turning left at the block’s corner. Walking past two three-family houses, turning into the entrance of the third, he is anticipating that she will lead him up the front stairway. 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, pulling it 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. With the door swinging open and the lights switching on at the behest of Pat’s hand waving over a switch, Jason is dumbly following her into the house.

Meeting 2

Together again are he and his Friend for Eternity. “When did we first meet, my Love?” his child’s voice is querying in his memory. 0 “We lived inland, then, my Love. I remember perfectly! It was flatland with hills and mountains towards the horizon.” 0 “It was when I brought a report-card home with an F. It was like this, my Loving Friend . . . I told Ma ‘I got an F in math.’ ‘Pa is not gonna like that,’ she said. ‘As a matter of fact,’ she said, ‘I don’t like that! Get to your room! Pa will go up there when he gets home.’ Yes my Loving Friend! That’s how our Meeting started!” Chirping in a high pitched child’s sound, Jason is continuing. “You know, I once heard someone say . . . was it a teacher or a minister? . . . I don’t remember . . . I once heard him say that sometimes good things come from bad but when the bad is happening you don’t know it will be the cause of the good! So when Pa came up later I didn’t know good would follow. I remember! ‘What’s this about you getting an F, huh?’ he said. He sounded like Pa sounds when he’s real mean. Honest, I don’t remember what I said back! Then Pa whupped me! He grabbed me by my shirt and pants and pulled me off the bed, threw me back down real hard so my behind faced up and then he whupped me as hard as I’ve ever been whupped! He used the flat of his hand, alright, but Pa is strong! I couldn’t sit down for a long time without hurtin’. And I cried . . . I wanna cry now, my Loving Friend, just thinking about it. But you’re here and I feel your goodness and I know I’m safe. Anyway, I remember laying in bed on my stomach after my whupping. It seemed like a real long time, my laying there. I didn’t cry too much, you know. For some reason I just stopped. And I felt a strange feeling in me . . . I don’t know what.” Continuing staring out his window . . . “Then, my Friend for Eternity, I realized it was getting darker. I could never explain what made me get up from bed, hurtin’ the way I was. But now I know. You made me get up! You did, Loving Friend! ’Cause you wanted me to leave there, wanted me to . . .” Hearing his father’s booming voice along with his mother’s shrieks he is continuing staring at the twinkling blue spark of light. “I was feeling a really awful aching in my behind, you know. But I still got up and walked! Why would I do that? Why would I want to? It was you my Love! It was you calling me to you!” He is remembering wincing in pain, slowly and quietly opening his bedroom door, walking out into the hall, quietly closing the door, walking carefully down the stairs, not wishing his parents to see him, reaching the bottom, walking straight to the front door feeling fire burning his lower behind from his father’s beating and the back of his neck from his imagining his parents’ stares who may be in the kitchen or livingroom behind him. Opening the door, stepping into the cool end-of-winter air, he is walking out into the flatland, feeling the trodding-on of stones and old plant life carcasses. Silence is infiltrating the child’s memory. 0 “Can’t be sure . . . maybe . . .” was our Meeting . . . we moved here when?0 “About a year ago, I think.” 0 “And I met you about six or so months before that . . . February or March.” 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!” now? . . . highness . . .0 Whispering with excitement, “. . . joy . . . goodness, beauty, love, caring . . .” 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.

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Published on December 13, 2013 13:26

HYPERSPACE

http://www.hyperspacebook.wordpress.com

Jason, Last of the Argonauts

A Star is his Friend

HYPERSPACE

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Published on December 02, 2013 17:51

HYPERSPACE

http://www.hyperspacebook.wordpress.com

WARNING: HYPERSPACE

IS NOT A WORK OF SCIENCE-FICTION.

THIS NOVEL IS FOR ADULTS ONLY–

MINORS SHOULD NOT BE ALLOWED

ACCESS TO THIS WORK.

To see excerpts from story, scroll to and click Older Entries. Then go to

A Day in the Asylum:

A Day on Planet Earth

and further down to

MEETING

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Published on December 02, 2013 16:28

HYPERSPACE [a literary depiction of psychosis]

http://www.hyperspacebook.wordpress.com

HYPERSPACE

An escape from hell . . .

The Most Important Novel of the 20th and 21st Centuries

HYPERSPACE is the MOST IMPORTANT novel written in the 20th and 21st centuries because it offers a valid explanation as to why planet Earth has been from time immemorial and still is a violence-ridden planet and why our species, homo sapiens, may indeed be brain-programed to self-destruct! HYPERSPACE shows in great pictorial detail the CRIMES committed against the individual AT BIRTH; how these CRIMES against the individual TWIST personality, and how this affects the person later in life. It is an indisputable FACT THAT ALMOST EVERY HOSPITAL IN THE WORLD, inadvertently or purposefully, MISTREATS NEWBORNS! In a letter sent to me by noted French obstetrician Frederick Leboyer, author of Birth Without Violence, he wrote the following:

“The treatment, no! . . . mistreatment of the New-born is still, practically EVERYWHERE all over the world, as criminal as ever.”

That is HYPERSPACE’s essential message and, given such treatment at birth, the psychophysiological ramifications later in the individual’s life must be seen as unavoidable. I think the prevalence of teen suicides no accident, these tragic events occurring just at the time of nascent sexual maturation. On a PBS documentary concerning teen suicides which I viewed, one teen who had attempted suicide said something to the effect that she didn’t attempt suicide because she desired to die, but because she could no longer bear the terribleness of what she was suffering while living! She was not speaking about suffering from an external source, for the documentary made clear that she was well treated at home. The suffering was internal! What then was the source of this internal suffering? My next question is, what happened to her at birth or soon thereafter? Because her suffering emanated from an unconscious source! I contend that her suffering was pre-conscious, i.e., that a traumatic event occurred in her life before the conscious part of her brain was functioning! I.e., during or soon after birth!

How else can the following questions be answered?

*Why has our species been and is currently, as always, prone to war, rape, pillage, irrational suicidal behavior?

*Why is there a preponderance of teen suicides?

*Why do mothers abandon newborns, in some cases throwing them in garbage cans and compactors; in other cases outright murdering them?

*Why are there religious fanatics who “know” they will go to “heaven” if they murder “infidels,” the more they murder the higher in “heaven” they believe they will go?

*Why throughout history has there been, as there is now, an overwhelming number of people with emotional problems which make them incompatible with others and unable to live sanely with themselves?

WHY IS PLANET EARTH A LUNATIC ASYLUM?

If a majority of us are mistreated at birth, then it follows that a majority of us have trauma entrenched in the lower region of the brain which will affect our behavior in a major way later in life WHEN WE BECOME SEXUAL! The electrical discharge known as orgasm OPENS THE BRAIN’S NEURONS AND RELEASES BURIED TRAUMA! This phenomenon was explicated by psychologist Arthur Janov, discoverer of Primal Therapy:

. . . how which organ systems later become affected by stress depends on prototypic events occurring very early in life, in a way associated with the maturation of the brain.

Thus the newborn is “adequate” in the areas of respiration, coronary response, and other life-sustaining processes. These are integrated by the innermost portion of the brain in the anatomic midline. Traumas at this stage of life (from in utero to the age of approximately one year) constitute what I call “first line traumas.” (Arthur Janov, Ph.D, Primal Man.)

DEFINITION: Primal = upsurging of subconscious Trauma (Primal Pain)

It is my belief that much compulsive neurotic sex is an unconscious attempt to produce a first-line discharge. It is one of the only ways a neurotic can bring on a massive compulsive release for himself. Indeed, Primal patients who are fairly advanced in treatment find that convulsive orgasm immediately plunges them into birth Primals. In short, orgasm for the neurotic may well be a discharge of unresolved convulsing Pain, and the reason for the severe convulsions during orgasm must be due to first-line pressure and not to any property of normal sex.

Compulsive sex, then, is a necessary deterrent to the possibility of seizures or of psychosis. It is when the human system becomes rigid, and riddled by internalized moral precepts which preclude free sex, that the first-line discharge moves from the sexual apparatus to the head (seizures). Hospitalized mental patients deprived of sex are also deprived of a chance to discharge tension. It would be far better to teach them the value of sex and masturbation and to help them “let go” with their bodies. It seems almost trivial: a notion that instead of lining up each morning in the hospital for their electroconvulsive shock treatment, patients should be lining up for their morning sex–a seemingly whimsical but deadly serious notion. The problem, of course, is that free sex for mentally ill persons too often brings on more anxiety, not less. (Arthur Janov, Ph.D, Primal Man.)

It is known that the 9/11 terrorists and the Ft. Hood shooter were involved in sexual activity shortly before their murderous and suicidal acts! If it became apparent that all jihadi suicide killers did not participate in neurotic sexual escapades shortly before the perpetration of their atrocities, it would surprise me. It should be borne in mind that they are looking forward to going to “heaven” where they will have unlimited sex with seventy-two beautiful virgin women (houris).

Depending on the extremity of the mistreatment one suffers at birth, one will be neurotic to that degree . . . or PSYCHOTIC! The process of creating neurosis and psychosis is the same. The degree is different! Read HYPERSPACE and WATCH THE PROCESS UNFOLD BEFORE YOUR EYES! HYPERSPACE shows ALL the events of Jason’s life covered by the story from traumatic birth and post-birth to the radical consequences later in his life! In my novels I labor to SHOW EVENTS. If the story concerns gladiators, as in another of my novels, I SHOW the butcheries of the arena! In HYPERSPACE I show everything that comprises the life of a psychotic! If a reader cannot tolerate explicit sexuality in a book, then the reader is advised to skip over such passages in HYPERSPACE but keep in mind that they are there, because they are in life and are integral to the process of neurotic and psychotic trauma release! This is my promise: there is no frivolous word, sexual or otherwise, in HYPERSPACE. Every word, every description, is there for a reason in a story comprising the most exquisite prose interlaced with poetically delineated scenes, even while steeping itself in the psychological reality of the most serious brain malfunction. Do you agree that there is something radically wrong with life on this planet? Do you agree that there is something radically wrong historically and currently with the activities of our species? Then it is in your interest to purchase and read HYPERSPACE!

http://www.hyperspacebook.wordpress.com

Use the Amazon or Barnes and Noble links to purchase this extremely important book! Or go to the publisher’s link (AuthorHouse).

IT IS IN YOUR INTEREST TO KNOW WHY THE WORLD YOU LIVE IN IS LOST IN SPACE!

READ HYPERSPACE AND LEARN WHY HOMO SAPIENS IS NOT SANE. LEARN WHAT THE PROCESS IS THAT HAS TURNED PLANET EARTH INTO A LUNATIC ASYLUM!

4 Responses to “HYPERSPACE”

RJ Says: April 17, 2012 at 5:14 am

To better understand this violent world, you must read the New Testament in the Bible. Humans focus on the physical world, but our spirit is what we are.

We live in a fallen world consumed with spiritual warfare; Good (Love) and Bad (Hate).

The 1 to 100 years we spend on Earth is a fraction of the life of our spirit.

This World will pass away leaving our Spirit to live eternal life or doomed to slow destruction perhaps by the fire of the SUN. IMO of course.

Grace and Peace to you and your loved ones.

Stanley Brookoff (author of HYPERSPACE) Says: April 18, 2012 at 2:50 am

When a newborn person comes into the world and is grabbed by the feet, held upside down, smacked in the rear, placed on a table under blinding bright lights, is forced to suffer astringents stuck in his or her nose and rubbed about the eyes, and who may be the object of various injections, and whose hearing is constantly bombarded by loud noises heard as shocks, and who is then stuck in a glass receptacle (the Glass Cage) for hours or days with little human contact . . . when all of this occurs, as it often does in hospital environments, this new person will have had his or her brain traumatized. And this traumatization will result in a malfunctioning organ (brain) that will take a lifetime to un-traumatize, if the person doesn’t become a drug addict or commit suicide first. This person can read the Bible, Hebrew or Christian, Shakespeare, and even psychology books, but it won’t matter. The brain will continue to malfunction until long-range psychotherapy unwinds the brain’s twisted neurons.

RJ Says: April 18, 2012 at 5:17 am

I respectfully disagree.

The violence referenced is common around the world where many humans are born a natural birth; therefore the environment you referenced does NOT explain humankind’s inhumanity globally.

A child can be raised by hateful bigots, yet when able to think for itself can choose between right or wrong, love or hate.

Whether you believe in God or not, fact is we are spiritual beings; Our 1 to 100yrs of life on this Earth is but a fraction of the time our spirit will live in this universe; the flesh will soon return to the Earth leaving our spirit to soar or doomed to destruction.

There is spiritual warfare in this world as we fight to do what is right when we want to do wrong; like lie, cheat, steal, hurt others or even murder.

In addition, many can read the Bible and get nothing out of it because they live for the flesh.

Broad and wide is the road to destruction that most will travel, and narrow is the path to Spiritual life which few will find.

Try reading books of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John in the Bible; it may help you understand the meaning of life.

Grace and Peace to you and your loved ones.

Stanley Brookoff Says: April 22, 2012 at 4:34 am

Hi RJ!

I respond to your last comment by first pointing out that there is, generally, no place on this planet where newborns are treated well. It’s only a question of what kind of mistreatment the new person suffers. If the newborn is in a modern hospital setting, he or she will incur the type of mistreatment described in my response to your first comment. If the newborn is in a Third World setting, the mistreatment will not be organized as a “medical” procedure, but there will be more than enough suffering for the new person to experience, beginning with starvation. Go to the following site and get a fair idea of what goes on in non-hospital third-world settings:

http://www.thirdworldtraveler.com/Life_Death_ThirdWorld/Deaf_screams_NI.html

Though this article centers primarily on women giving birth, it should be obvious that if the new mother is treated severely, the newborn will be treated just as severely or worse.

You may also want to visit the home page of this site to review some other categories:

http://www.thirdworldtraveler.com/Life_Death_ThirdWorld/LifeDeath_TW.html

In a letter written to me by French obstetrician Frederick Leboyer, author of Birth Without Violence, he wrote the following: “The treatment, no! . . . mistreatment of the New-born is still, practically EVERYWHERE all over the world, as criminal as ever.”

Therefore, one very credible explanation for the fact that our species, homo sapiens sapiens, is an irrational, violence-ridden, destructive, suicidal species, is brain-twisting mistreatment of the individual at birth. When this is coupledwith the violent nature of the planet itself (life feeding on life and natural cataclysms), it is quite extraordinary that some enlightenment has prevailed at various points in history. I have a saying: “If there is no God, homo sapiens is a dead-end street.”

The existence of God is not an argument against physical reality! Physical reality is such, that if you stick a pin in your finger, bang your head, or stub your toe you will feel pain. If you get hit by a car your body will be damaged and you will suffer terrible pain. If you are cut or stabbed with a knife, you will bleed. If the body experiences a severe enough injury you can die. None of these experiences are at odds with the existence of God. So too, if a newborn is mistreated, this person’s brain will be traumatized and the individual will suffer terrible Pain later in his or her life commensurate with the birth or post-birth trauma. Such an experience is not at odds with the existence of God.

Because a pin prick, a bang in the head, a stubbed toe, a car accident, and a knife cut are things we remember consciously (they being everyday occurrences of conscious life), we accept them as normal events of flesh and blood life existence. And those among us who believe, think, or know there is a God, see no contradiction with these painful occurrences and the existence of God. But because birth and post-birth traumas occur at a time when the brain’s cortex (the seat of consciousness) is non-functional, we have no conscious memory of such events. So much is this the case, that only a very small minority among the homo sapiens population of this planet are even aware of this malady’s existence! This despite the fact that this malady is the single most inimical illness prevalent within our species. I once heard psychologist Arthur Janov say “neurosis is more common than the common cold.” I think he was understating the case. Neurosis and psychosis are rampant epidemics scourging life on this planet! As has been the case throughout history.

The point is, that when I write about birth or post-birth brain trauma you (and most others) don’t relate to it as a phenomenon as real as stubbing one’s toe. You may think I am dreaming up the idea of early brain trauma and thus the idea seems to fly in the face of your theological notion that “spirit” is above flesh, and if we all follow a particular theology the spirit will be victorious over negativity. So let me present you with these questions: Because you believe in your theology (Christianity), does not your toe still hurt when you bang it? Do you not bleed if you cut yourself? Of course the answer to these rhetorical questions is “yes.” In short, there is no contradiction between your Christianity and physical reality. Nor between Judaism, Buddhism, Hinduism, atheism, agnosticism, or any other ism and physical reality. And because I appreciate your willingness to have this dialogue, I will show you that birth or post-birth trauma is as much a physical reality as stubbing your toe or getting a cut:

The brain is a tripartite organ. The sections are, from top to bottom, cortex, midbrain (mesencephalon), and hindbrain (rhombencephalon). These threesections are connected by approximately 100 billion neurons. When a trauma occurs to an individual at birth or soon after birth, many of these neurons will gate. Gating is when the neuron blocks transmission of messages. Bear in mind that neurons are wires and the messages they transmit are electrical. When a birth or post-birth trauma occurs, the new brain receives that trauma as a life threat due to the frail nature of the young organism (the baby). The brain “knows” that the full impact of the trauma will kill the organism, so it stops the message of the trauma from reaching the organism outside of the brain. Thus the trauma remains in the brain. The only part of the brain fully functioning at that stage of life is the hindbrain; the midbrain only partially functioning, and the cortex being totally non-functional. Because conscious thought and memory are functions of the cortex (non-functional at birth), the person who has had a birth or post-birth trauma will have no conscious memory of that trauma. When this person gets older, various negative events in the person’s life will remind him or her, in an unconscious way, of that original, or those original, negative events. The individual in question will feel funny, will feel at odds with life, will feel negative, will feel depressed. Because this individual will have no conscious memory of the cause of these feelings (the original trauma at birth), he or she will be at a total loss as to why he or she feel so bitter, so negative, so at odds with life; will be at a total loss as to why he or she is suffering the tortures of the damned. When this person becomes pubescent, a new factor is added to the equation: sexuality. The reason for the existence of this new factor is that the orgasm is an electrical discharge. Aside from the pleasurable sensations emitted by this electrical discharge, it also serves the function of ungating (i.e. opening) the brain’s gated (closed) neurons. If a birth or post-birth trauma is buried in that brain, when the neurons’ gates are swung open by the electrical discharge of orgasm, that trauma will shoot up and out like a volcanic eruption! (Dr. Janov refers to this effect as a Primal). If the trauma at birth was severe enough, its eruption later in life can precipitate suicide. The preponderance of teen suicides is not a coincidence.

Now you have some acquaintance of the physical reality of birth and post-birth trauma. I hope you can see that it is as real as a pin prick and as devastating as a serious car accident. Just as a pin-prick or a car accident is not at odds with any theology (all religions relate events of physical injury), neither is birth or post-birth trauma suffered by the brain at odds with any theology or its lack. A long process of psychotherapy can dissipate some of the traumatic Pain buried in the brain’s lower regions. The deeper the Pain is buried (i.e. Pain ensconced in the hindbrain), the more physiological will be its affects, the more a part of the person’s flesh and blood it will be, and the more difficult it will be to eradicate from the individual’s life, and the longer it will take. The best psychotherapy for this malady is lying down and feeling the Pain when it erupts. This is Primal therapy. However, because the sensations of this procedure are extremely severe, including as it does the feeling to want to commit suicide, it is wise to enter into it with a trained psychotherapist guiding the way.

I do exhort you to scroll down on the HYPERSPACE site to the item I posted concerning Whitney Houston. You will read about why people use drugs. I also encourage you to read HYPERSPACE and watch the Primal process unfold before your eyes.

Stan

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Published on December 02, 2013 15:48