Antonio Brothers Fueling, owned by 2^nd generation Italian Americans, both veterans of Normandy, prided themselves on providing the speediest highest quality fuel services west of Chicago.

Built at the same time as the interstate 94 freeway and with gas being only 28 cents a gallon in 1964, Antonio’s was thriving. It attracted many other rest-stop services around it and became a common destination for Speedsters and Oldsmobile men alike.

Despite its success, there was still that dark secret.

Sometimes at night, a vehicle would leave Antonio’s with an additional passenger aboard.

Always the same passenger.

If it could be called that.

Because the passenger didn’t assume a normal form.

At least not to adults.

A few could see it though.

Content warnings: violence, PTSD, implied suicide

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“There’s a man in the car with us,” said Sara-Lou, as the Wilmingtons pulled onto the expressway in their Ford Station Wagon.

Helena looked at the rearview mirror to see Sara-Lou staring into an empty space to her right.

But that’s not what Sara-Lou saw.

Sitting in front of her was a man wearing a mechanic’s coat.

The man looked like a greaser, except he was gaunt, with hollow cheeks and circles under his eyes. It looked like he had not slept well for days.

A packet of cigarettes sat unsmoked in his front pocket, right next to a patch over the left breast with the nametag “STEREO” embroidered in red cursive lettering.

But perhaps the most unsettling thing about this figure “Stereo” was the expression it held.

There was an intensity in its gaze that spoke of malcontent and intention to harm, combined with the slightest expression of curvature forming the hint of a smile that didn’t quite match the eyes.

“I’m scared something bad is going to happen while he’s here.”

Stereo leaned in towards Helena Wilmington, its eyes never breaking contact with Sara-Lou’s frightened expression.

My girl Sara-Lou always got in trouble in school for making up stories. Always saw things.

Helena’s pupils dilated slightly as Stereo whispered the words.

When she spoke, it was more sharply this time “Sara-Lou! Be quiet missy. We need to focus on the road to get you home by a good time”

Vincent Wilmington also looked concerned, “You need a cigarette or something, Sweetheart?” He passed back a smoke and a matchbook.

Sara-Lou took both, hands shaking and lit the cigarette as she continued to watch Stereo uneasily.

Stereo leaned to the left, just enough to get next to Vincent’s ear while driving and whispered again.

Helena doesn’t respect you, and now she’s taking things out on my girl, Sara-Lou. Shes probably annoyed you gave her a smoke.

“That’s enough out of you, Helena,” growled Vincent, “I know how to drive, dammit.” His hands gripped the wheel.

Helena looked hurt for a moment, but after another whisper from Stereo, her gaze hardened again.

Eyes narrowed and dilated, she responded back sharply,
“So now you’re a tough man, Vince. Well, you weren’t acting quite so tough back at Rudy’s while Dolores was taking your order.”

Vincent turned red.

Rudy’s Cafe served fried chicken and mashed potatoes, and had gotten a new jukebox. The music hadn’t been enough to distract Vincent’s gaze down Dolores’ bust as she knelt beside their table to write.

She knows, said Stereo matter-of-factly, she knows all about Dolores and your games of backseat bingo with her on the weekends.

“You shut your mouth, Helena!” snapped Vincent, pupils dilated, locking eyes with her.

Stereo leaned back, that hint of a not-smile remained on its cheeks.

I must be living for a broken heart, no matter what you’re doing. Love just ain’t right.

Sara-Lou continued to watch the thing that looked like a man worriedly over the smoke and haze of Vincent and Helena’s escalating shouting match.

No more than fifteen seconds later amongst the chaos, Vincent lost control of the Ford through an overcorrection, careening into a head on collision with a passing semi-truck.

The car flipped and convulsed, throwing its passengers into a violent half circle through the winter night.

Easy Pickens, whispered Stereo.

Stereo innately understood what it could whisper into others’ minds. Wounds floated around its victims on the roads at night, like small red pulsing inkblots. Each one was an open invitation to suggestion.

It was the beginning of spring as a lonely truck delivery driver named Eddy headed east towards Bismarck.

You know you’re gonna jump, Stereo whispered into Eddy’s ear.

Tears formed in Eddy’s eyes. She had looked at him with such disappointment.

He could hear what Stereo said but believed the thoughts were his own. The driver tried to shake off these feelings as he had many times before, turning up the music on the truck’s radio.

But this act of resistance seemed to only amplify the hurt.

Stereo looked at Eddy lazily as the music played.

Don’t you know you’re going to jump?
Jump in the river, you know you’re gonna die.
You said you loved her, all the time you were faking.
You didn’t tell her about those guys, you were making with.

“I’m sorry Mary-Anne,” Eddy whispered quietly, and he pulled the truck off to the side of the road.

Stereo watched with satisfaction as Eddy quietly got out, headlights still on, and stepped off the edge of the recently constructed Grant Marsh Bridge, plunging 30 feet into icy waters below.

On a warm summer’s evening, college sweethearts were quarreling.

“Come right back, I’ll show you my love is strong!” called Johnny as Daisy-Lee stormed out of his pickup.

Stereo gave instructions in first person, in Johnny’s own voice:

I’ve always told you we must never pause… I’ve loved you from the very start,
Alone, why must I be alone.
I’ve spent so many hours with you. How can I be alone?

Johnny’s eyes lowered, pupils dilated.

Don’t let her leave you ever, Stereo flatly instructed.

Johnny reached under his chair for the revolver he knew his dad kept there.

“Daisy-Lee, you better get back here.”

Stereo watched as Johnny got out of the car, chasing after the girl into the nearby forest.

Two gunshots rang out into the night from the nearby wood, causing crows to fly away from the trees.

There were about 30 seconds between each.

Johnny did not return to the pickup.

Stereo only knew the dark of night. It didn’t know what daytime looked like.

All it knew was that its words became thoughts, and that it felt good to hurt. To push in the knife just far enough so that the rest of the bleeding could occur naturally and do the job on its own.

Some wounds fester and never heal.

To Stereo, those were Easy Pickens.

Frank DeLaney didn’t talk about the war very often, if ever. He had been in the Marine Corps and taken part in actions in Okinawa and Tarawa 20 years before. These days between the stress of work, he found himself in and out of the bar.

As his Oldsmobile tire struck a sharp rock, Frank swore and stumbled out into the dark fall night to grab the spare from the trunk.

Stereo watched from the passenger seat, window rolled down.

The world depended on you, Frank.
10 hours away from Japanese homeland.
Going to cut her down.

Frank paused.

Hit the dirt Sergeant DeLaney, enemy has you zeroed in.

Frank dove into a ditch behind him, bolts and tire nuts scattering into the highway as he swore loudly again.

He could hear the whistle of oversized mortar shells, taste the thirst and heat of those rocky grey cliffs.

250 men battled, only 27 made it back.
And you failed them all, Frank.

Stereo watched blankly from inside the passenger seat.

Frank lay there, hands on the side of his ears, sobbing, trying to block out the noise.

He could still hear the whistles and cracks of Arasaka rifles, and the terrifying yells of fanatical banzai charges.

The noise finally settled.

Frank needed whiskey, bad.

Out came his flask. He downed the whole thing.

On your feet, marine. Frank rose.
You returned as a hero and were celebrated, everybody shook your hand.
But you weren’t one. You were a survivor in a slaughter.

Frank stumbled back into the car. He was seeing double. He kept driving.

Drink the blues away, hero. Stereo saluted as Frank reached for another bottle.

Frank didn’t make it home from the bar that night.

Stereo opened its eyes yet again.

This time it was on a bus.

Several individuals in straight jackets sat scattered throughout.

A woman sat closest, her black hair matted and tangled over her shoulders with a grey streak along the edge.

She was mumbling something to herself.

Stereo sat down next to her.

It observed her wounds, and it knew exactly what to say:

You’re trapped Iris, there’s no getting out of this.

Once you were a song of love.
Now the memories keep taunting you.
You’re broken hearted.
You’ll never see him again, he went away.

The woman didn’t respond, but she had stopped mumbling and become quiet.

the way he wore his hat, sipped his tea.
The memory of all that, you’re going to lose it.
The next time they shock you.
But your dreams will stay haunted.

Then something happened that Stereo did not expect.

Iris turned and looked directly in its direction.

“You can’t take yourself away from me,” she stated.

Stereo was silent for a moment.. You can see me?

“I can hear you. And I recognize your voice.”

Stereo felt something strange, a primal excitement that it could not explain.

Who am I?

“You’re Clyde, my brother… and you died.”

Clyde “Stereo” Pulaski in that moment remembered who he was.

He had grown up in New Salem.
Days spent working on cars at Antonio’s.
Cruising the interstate with other greasers in a brand new Coupe DeVille.
Listening to Rock-n-Roll in the bowling alley next to Rudy’s.
And many late night games of blackjack and poker in the auto garage.

Clyde also remembered taking care of his kid sister Iris, who had been unwell and had often had nightmares.

The sudden recognition of Iris now older shocked him.

Iris… I’m so confused.
I don’t know why this is happening.
How did I die?

Iris sat with Clyde.
“You had a lot of problems Clyde. You borrowed money from bad men.”

Clyde suddenly remembered a switchblade and being some place high up.

I don’t know why I keep returning.
I also want to hurt others.

Iris continued to sit with him quietly. An orderly near the front of the bus had turned back and was looking towards her with a nervous glance.

Clyde struggled to recall the events before his death. So much was a haze.

He remembered looking for help to get away from the Teamster thugs that had kept hounding him over his debts.

He had seen a priest who had warned him of the dangers of sinful living and given him instructions on absolution.

Unfortunately this wouldn’t help his his temporal situation, so he turned to other measures.

Under the advice of an especially superstitious fellow card player, he had visited a mysterious woman who lived by herself on the outskirts of town.

She had offered him help of strange means.

In return for an energetic exchange as well as an agreed upon occasional furnace tune-up, she would provide a special protection for him.

Clyde had thought it seemed silly as he watched her wave the blood colored amulet around. But he tried to stay open as she tossed salt across his shoulders, all the while chanting the words repeatedly that reminded him of Latin mass on Christmas for some reason:
“duo soni et duae voces una fiant”

She had also burned two candles, one for him and one for his sister.

Afterwards, upon arriving to the freeway, Clyde felt very tired, and pulled over to take a nap before heading back to Antonio’s.

And when he’d woken up, they were there, the teamsters with their fedoras, ties and overcoats.

He reached for his switchblade but one of the thugs had reacted quickly, smashing his hand with a baseball bat, before pulling out a .38 revolver.

They’d hauled him 7 miles east of Medora to Painted Canyon Overlook.

Clyde didn’t have the 3000 dollars he owed Frank Delaney or the recent 200 he’d lost playing poker against Frank’s son, Johnny.

Frank’s goons smiled at him cruelly as Clyde stood at cliff’s edge.

“You know how this ones gonna go, Stereo,” said Vincent, still holding the revolver.

“Please guys, you know I have a younger sister, Iris. She isn’t well. Take my Cadillac - that should cover what I owe Frank.”

“Oh you know you’re already paying for it that way sonny, plus more,” said Eddy, car keys dangling from his hand.

“I don’t want Iris left alone.”

“Well You should’ve thought that before you went spending Frank’s money,” sniffed Vincent.

Frank’s goons stabbed Clyde 3 times and then shot him, a final kiss of death, before pushing his body into the canyon.

Eddy could’ve sworn he’d seen a flash of red light, but that might have just been the blood reflecting in the sunset.

“Easy Pickens,” remarked Vincent, before handing the switchblade to Eddy.

Clyde refocused.

They were on the bus.

Iris was looking in his direction worriedly.

“Clyde are you there?” Iris asked.

She couldn’t see him.

I’m here Iris.

“Are you real?” She whispered, “They told me the voices I hear aren’t real”.

I’m real, Clyde assured her.

And I’m here with you Iris.

“Will you stay with me? I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

She was frightened.

He could see the burn marks on her lower scalp left over from shock therapy.

Clyde sat with her. His hands weren’t covered in oil marks anymore. He tried to put his arm around her, to do something, anything that would help comfort her.

At that moment he felt a warmth in his jacket pocket near his name tag. Upon reaching in, a familiar blood colored amulet with flecked bits of gold appeared in his palm.

The amulet felt strangely solid, in a way that the rest of Clyde did not.

Iris sighed and closed her eyes, leaning her head back where he was.

You’re going to be okay Iris.
I’m always with you, even if you can’t see me.
…I just had to take care of a few things.

The sun was coming up.

The bus was getting closer to a building.

Iris still had her eyes closed.

The bus screeched to a halt, rolling up on gravel.

Its doors scraped open.

Two men in guard uniforms had stepped onto the bus. They both were armed.

“That’s her,” the orderly said, pointing back towards where Iris and Clyde were sitting.

Clyde knew they couldn’t see him. But something didn’t seem right as the men approached cautiously.

“Miss Pulaski, its time to come with us.”

Iris?

Iris stirred as she opened her eyes.

“Where am I?”

“On behalf of the North Dakota Department of Corrections and Rehabilitations, while awaiting your sentence, you are being transitioned to a maximum security holding unit within San Haven Sanitarium”

As Iris Pulaski was being admitted into San Haven Sanitarium, she received many second glances.

The sanitarium workers had read about Iris in the Bismarck Tribune.

Marylou “Iris” Sara-Lee Pulaski was under suspicion of murder for the deaths of four different men over the last year, all connected to the Bismarck Local 123 Teamsters labor union.

Iris’ personal effects were documented, removed and stored for safekeeping.

They included amongst other things; a few quarters, a matchbook for Rudy’s Cafe, the lid to a whiskey bottle, a photo of a handsome college student, as well as a small tuning knob from a Chevrolet semi-truck’s radio.

Most curious of all though, was an amulet the color of deep red with small flecks of gold sparkling throughout. It would later be crossed out from the record with a one-word handwritten note: MISSING.

Whenever she was questioned by the psychiatrist, Iris claimed that her dead brother Clyde had instrumented the killings, all in an effort to protect her.

Iris pleaded insanity and remained a patient in stay at San Haven up until the facility’s closure in 1987.

Her current whereabouts remain unknown.

Special Thanks to the following Substack users for image prompts that helped this piece come to fruition:

- “The only way out is through”
- “His hands”
- “Does this painting tell a story”

Note: Many of the italicized lines from “STEREO” in this story come directly from musical hits of the 1950s and 1960s.

Stand By Me - Ben E. King
I Must Be Living for a Broken Heart - The Spinners
My Girl - The Temptations
Have I the Right - The Honeycombs
I’m Gonna Jump - Toggery Five
Ballad of Ira Hayes - Johnny Cash
Sink the Bismarck - Johnny Horton
They can’t Take That Away from Me - Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong
December 1963 (Oh What a Night!) - Frankie Valley and the Four Seasons
Natalie Cole - Plans for the Future
+More

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From Quill:
Damien did me the great honor of reaching out and suggesting we do some freestyle wizard verse, writing four bar spells back and forth into a shared Substack tome. I was slightly nervous because Damien is just that talented and versatile when it comes to word sorcery. I’m very glad I took the jump though! It was so much fun to do this and I’m already looking forward to the next one.

Sub to Quill

⋆.ೃ࿔ ݁ ˖*༄*ੈ✩‧₊

From Damien:
The idea popped into our heads through some shared notes to do a Wizards of Words piece, and Quill accepted, and I was glad because writing with him has been a pure challenge for me. The talent on his end is undeniable. This was a shared vision and we truly love the way it turned out! I’m thankful Quill took the time to write this with me. Def looking forward to future projects.

Sub to Damien

⋆.ೃ࿔ ݁ ˖*༄*ੈ✩‧₊

On to the main event…

DAMIEN ✧⁺₊˚.⋆✩ WIZARDS of WORDS ✩₊˚.⋆⁺₊✧ QUILL

C’mon get ready boys,
It’s a call to war
gird up them loins,
It’s time to score
Youse about to face a sorcerer
The likes of you ain’t heard before

My words will pour,
my verbs will soar
this versions for the verbiage war
I’ll curse some more,
lips terse and sore
your minds will meet out perfect lore

✩₊˚.⋆⁺₊✧

Wizards of word,
who spit bars and spells,
Ancient rhymes,
a melody that tells
A soliloquy,
of certain flames and swells
that opens your mind,
unlocks your cells

regeneration occurs and quells
anticipation of words we gel
to one another,
it’s stirred from hell
and heaven together,
rose and fell

crash down like thunder,
mountains asunder,
cities ablaze,
ripe for blood and plunder,
staring into this orb,
see only awe and wonder,
Banshees rise up from 6 feet under

awaken from slumber,
we’ve got your number
we’ve taken the under,
set fire to lumber
unencumbered this wonder,
made wands, this hunger
as gunners we’re stunners,
feeding you like hunters

✩₊˚.⋆⁺₊✧

leading you like sheep,
lambs to the slaughter,
bake these enemies like cake,
gift from the bakers daughter,
But this cake ain’t cake,
it’s called Frey pie.
Served you up in a slice,
call it a ‘plot device’

We just hit the climax
with our rhyme maps
repetitious as time stacks,
our collective mind traps
and captures your attention,
wave our words relentless
we’ve raptured your intention,
take what’s served,
ascend this

Sprung enchantment to the masses,
words confront like poison gasses
Noxious clouds of tumble-vine,
to those that ain’t aligned
So hear us,
see this, feel this,
from your soul up out your eyelids
Entanglement, entrapment

✩₊˚.⋆⁺₊✧

🧙‍♂️✨ Yea,
this
is
magic
happenin’ ✨🧙‍♂️

Sub to Damien

Sub to Quill

Images for this post were created using Adobe Firefly (GPT Image 2 model).

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The house still stands… mostly.
Yet it seems… different.
Doors you don’t remember. Stairs curving strangely.
What happened here? What story does this image conjure for you?

…I noticed a piano at the bottom of the stairs.

You can start playing the song and read along if you’d like.

Subway Kid (Full Song):

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Subway Kid is an original piano composition that tells a story through music in the emotions it attempts to convey throughout.

The first half of this song represents the initial descent of the stairs. It respresents unhealed states of being in our own lives.

We are often very careful in how we proceed.

At times we tip-toe, as if walking on eggshells.

Othertimes we act irrationally, sometimes spiraling.

Occasionally we find ourselves backing away from the unknown through second-guessing ourselves and our abilities.

We self-edit parts of our lives that we allow others to see.

Through self exploration, we eventually reach the depths of our own inner worlds. It is here we enter into the realm of the subconscious.

It is often here that we encounter the shadow.

Our shadow represents the darkest parts of ourselves, which we have repressed from a young age. It is composed of feelings and associated behaviors we were instructed or shamed to put away because we were told it was ‘bad to be this way’.

Often exploration of the shadow can involve taboo ideas or emotions that feel foreign. Perhaps we have not allowed ourselves the opportunity to fully explore what it means to feel them.

With perceived confrontation of the shadow, fear becomes an oft-associated emotion.

We may fear our shadow from the times it manifested itself in the past through impulsive actions of extreme emotion.

Within the middle of the song, the shadow is finally met,

the music darkens…

And an abrupt shift occurs.

It is discovered that the shadow is NOT an entity to be feared, but rather another part of ourselves to be understood.

The shadow is an aspect of us that is playful and curious. It wants to interact with us! It may even express itself as feeling neglected, lashing out in those moments where emotion takes over.

Following this discovery, the song shifts in tone, as does our lives.

The shadow is remembered, embraced and explored.

It begins its own distinct dance as a valid part of our own true expression.

We begin to play along with the shadow in exploration and observation of the self without judgment.

The song continues this exploration for its second half.

Perhaps we are less careful as we once were about how we present ourselves, understanding and allowing mistakes as a natural form of learning.

When negative emotions occur, instead of resisting them, we allow ourselves to sit with them, feeling them fully.

Reintegration of shadow with the self becomes its own healing journey as all parts of self, light and dark, begin to work together.

We embrace and find that this part that we once feared as a foe is actually friend.

And it is there for us in our darkest moments.

Subway Kid - Full Song

A Note About the Title
“Subway Kid” is a nod to a line from the song “Born this Way” by Lady Gaga.
Born this Way is about embracing your true nature and loving who you are.

Give yourself prudence and love your friends.
Subway kid, rejoice your truth.
In the religion of the insecure,
I must be myself, respect my youth.

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Join me for some instrumental music, interspersed with the occasional raspy comment while my voice recovers.

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This is a response to ’s recent prompt for ////THE CUT////.

This week and next, I invite you to write from the very core of the wound — something ruptures, lingers, never fully closes.

Let THE CUT be at the center of it.

• What does the cut evoke?

• What does it change, reveal, hide, return?

• Where does it hurt?

• Why does it stay?

Treat these questions as quiet hints rather than rules.

Follow them if they lead somewhere true, or let them fade if something else insists on being remembered.

Part poem and part autobiographical story, the intention here is to share some of my many and very real wounds to help others undertstand how I began to heal in a way that is uplifting and informing.

A quick note that “trauma dumps” are defined as the unsolicited sharing of wounds and personal trauma. If you clicked and are reading this, recognize it is by your choice.

Content Warnings: sexual abuse, verbal abuse, religious trauma. Please use your own guidance before continuing if any of these elements are triggering for you.

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A Thousand Cuts

A pristine soul
Born a little boy
Who loved to laugh,
and picked up spiders
He remembers
The red filled stems of wine glasses
a spinning penny across a coffee table
Amongst the laughter or adults
Movement and interaction meeting in flow

This young boy
Had an imagination like no other;
Forests, dirt, grass and boulders formed the seas of exploration
Christmas tree towers of tangled levels and stairwells
A cardboard jet flown by sketched control panel,
Spindly potions, vials, and test tubes
Winding tunnels and halls buried deep below the pyramids
Fascination met with the fires
Of curiosity, imagination and story

He did voices,
Mimicked commercials,
Memorized books,
Made up his own stories,
Sang as loud as he could,
He wanted to be
Chosen, Seen, Loved,
A helper and a friend to others.

But little by little,
His spark was dimmed.
Not intentionally,
But contextually,
Through others’ well meaning,
Unconscious wounds were shared freely.
Some were his own unconscious choices.
For all choices
Have consequences,
Each one, its own CUT,
Wounds given,
over a lifetime
Through the sharp blur
of a thousand shifting memories.

He fell face first off a porch and split his lip
A scar barely noticed remained.
He remembers being tied up, 1 years old
While they sewed it back together.

A praying mantis bit him
Insects went from ‘a bug’ in a song
To monsters to be feared,
Buzzing demons all along a sidewalk.
Terrifying him with stingers and pinchers.
He played inside for a long time after that.

One day
He was playing.
And started running
But didn’t make it to the bathroom.
His father yelled,
Punished him,
He learned what it is
To feel like the same thing
As the mess left on the floor

His Father used his voice often,
Unconsciously expressing wounds
Through many phrases used daily:
Shut up
Get out of the way
Go away
Move
Wounds passed on from his father before.
The intonation always the same
Like discordant notes,
a triplet played angrily.
It was a harshness
that communicated:
You are too much,
I don’t want to be near you,
I don’t love you when you act like yourself.

The boy learned:
I am only loved
By doing the things that others like.

His mother tried to protect him
From every single thing.
Valiant and always alert,
She would yell out DANGER
Well meaning,
but overbearing.
His nervous system learned to anticipate it.
the world became a dangerous place
Where dogs bite
and cats scratch,
Cars don’t look,
Strangers kidnap;
Where it is normal
For adults to yell at kids.

His Babysitters kissed him sometimes.
He liked it.
They were cute and older than him.
Only one used her tongue,
Because it had been done to her too.
Don’t tell your parents about this.
He learned to keep secrets.

Once he hid with another boy
in a closet.
They showed each other themselves.
The boy wanted to touch,
And told him after
Never tell anyone about this.
He never told anyone.
Years later in school
The boy was mean to him.
A wound reflected,
Secrets still kept.
He forgot this happened
until many years later

One night he dreamed a strange dream.
He was in another place,
With no body, ineffable.
Wine glasses were bouncing stacked in rows by the thousands,
Moving as if along conveyer belts.
The patterns and geometry were bizarre,
All was interrupted by a deafening CRASH.
He woke up screaming and crying,
And could not be consoled.

As the boy grew older
His many small cuts began to add up,
Showing themselves.
They led to more.
He became
More awkward,
More unsure of himself,
And more made fun of in middle school.
He read alone in the library during lunch.
He liked a girl that danced with him once,
but didn’t know how to talk to her after that.
Didn’t understand that friendship is the key
To all healthy relationships.
So instead he tried to let her know in other ways
Passing her in the hallway,
Weird smiles and glances in class,
One time he followed her.
She was creeped out.
She refused to dance with him when he finally asked again.
More embarrassment,
More ashamed of who he was.
Another dozen cuts made up of little rejections from peers.
Each one was its own draw of blood that said:
You are not enough.

A few more years,
Showing competence became his tool.
You must constantly prove your worth
To earn others love.
He showed off in high school,
On the piano,
He got good grades,
He made out with girls,
Then blew them off,
Kept score like a statistic.
Some of them were hurt afterwards
by his words,
Or lack of them.
His own wounds were spreading.
He became a student body officer.
He thought it would help him become more popular,
Have more friends,
But the outside does not change the inside,
And he was still a loner,
Sleeping on a couch in the dark,
Depressed with no diagnosis and no medication.

He tried to talk about this STIGMA with a parent.
There’s nothing wrong with you.
You’re fine.
He was diagnosed years later as an adult

This shame he felt throughout early years
was reinforced through church.
His elders taught him
Your body and its desires are an enemy to God.
He read pamphlets that said
Do not let others touch you,
Do not touch yourself,
He believed he was evil,
Because sometimes, he did touch himself.
He thought all the bad things that happened to him,
Were God punishing him for his sins.
A vengeful father in heaven doling consequences.
He stopped listening to himself,
and trying to hear God,
Because he thought:
I am not worthy,
And God does not speak to the unworthy.

As he grew up
Other people were happy,
Telling him:
Who to be
What to do
Who to become
For 20 years he listened to them
And OBEYED.
His wounds covered him,
Showing themselves in every thing he did.
He was a missionary,
Who still touched himself,
And begged for forgiveness by night.
He was a soldier,
Who binged with food and ran himself ragged.
He was a husband,
Who struggled to connect and reciprocate
love beyond the physical.
And He was a father
that saw himself repeating
his own father’s wounds
To his own two little boys

After thirty five years
Cuts covered him head to toe.
A thousand different small experiences,
Formulating beliefs,
Chains invisible and weightless,
All designed to limit,
And give an inner voice of doubt.
The voice that said:
Play small,
You will never be good enough,
You are off-putting to others,
Just be comfortable,
Do the minimum,
And no matter what:
Do not upset ANYBODY else,
Even if it costs your own peace,
Because you will never have any peace anyway.

But this little boy, now a man,
Did not realize
These thousand cuts
Never broke,
Nor did they tarnish,
The light
that remained hidden underneath.

Behind the wounds,
A soul remembered.
He finally felt,
And met
His true self.
And in one single moment:
These thousand cuts,
open for years,
Began to heal,
One by one,
Through his remembering,
Through his feeling,
Through his awareness,
And the forgiveness of others.
He could give peace because
He could forgive himself.

The cuts may sting
And shape,
But they do not define
That which I AM,
And what I came here to be.
I am NOT the cuts.
But the cuts are me.
They are my wounds.
And my healing.
They are where the light enters.
And becomes
My own light to share.
A light much brighter,
Because it was woven
through darkness.

A pristine soul
Received a thousand cuts
So he could learn
what it means

To heal

and be healed.

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Green Room

Even though it didn’t appear so, Stanley’s life was in shambles.

He hated filling in spreadsheets at his job, dreading each day, nodding along while co-workers talked synergy.

After work he would sit in traffic, before coming home to yell at his kids for making messes and not doing their homework. Following a begrudging dinner, he’d argue with his wife, watch TV, then go to bed, all while scrolling his phone.

Rinse, repeat.

Stanley had gotten the salary, the job, the house, the insurance, the family and was living comfortably.

And despite all of that, looking at his life, he asked the same question that many eventually come to:

“Is this… it?”

Stanley’s only solace was golfing on the weekends.

One Saturday morning things were especially bad. Stanley had blown up at his wife after she accidentally spilled syrup on his golf clubs. She had only been trying to intervene to keep the kids from fighting while trying to make pancakes.

As Stanley wiped off syrup, expelling a diatribe, Lucretia didn’t cry or become angry.

When he finished, she was calm.

“Stanley, we need to talk. I’m done.”

Lucretia had been talking with a man named Daniel for several months off and on, growing spiritually and emotionally intimate. Stanley stared dumbfounded as Lucretia explained to him that after 15 years of marriage, she had met her soulmate and wanted to divorce as soon as possible.

Stanley drove to a parkway trail near his home instead of the golf course. The trail went along a small river and through several wooded areas. As he stumbled along, still in his golf clothes, he felt as though his world was turning upside down.

He was having trouble breathing, his vision was blurred and his blood pressure and heart rate, already unhealthy, were spiking.

Lucretia had only said one thing to him as he left,

“With Daniel, I just know.”

Stanley continued down the trail, trying to breathe, his mind frantically jumping from thought to thought, Lucretia’s words repeating over and over in his head. I just know.

Racing thoughts ensued; attorneys, money, child support, visitation, custody, unfaithfulness, I just know, devotion, loyalty, how dare she, divorce, Daniel, soul mates, I just know.

Alone.
I’m going to be alone, nobody will love me, I’m unhappy and hate my life.
I just know.

Spiraling, Stanley took a left turn on a path that wasn’t the trail. It led him through some bushes and into a small copse of trees. He sat down, feeling sorry for himself and tried to cry. But the only emotion Stanley excelled at these days in expressing was rage. Thanks Dad.

Why is this happening to me?

But Stanley at that moment fell silent.

Because he had looked up and seen something not many humans get to see in their lives.

Standing amongst the trees stood a perfectly pristine white-paneled standalone wooden door, complete with a doorknob. It was standing directly opposite him.

Curiosity overtook him and he stood, waving his hand in front of his eyes to see if it was an illusion. No changes.

I must be going crazy.

As he approached the door, a strange humming began.

He paused and backed up at an angle, leaning his head to see if he could see anything behind the door. Nothing.

As he approached the door again, a little voice inside whispered, there’s no going back if you do this. “Anything is going to be better than this.”

He opened the door to see a bright green light and was promptly pulled in.

His consciousness surged forth at light speed, vivid shades of greens and browns whipped past him as flew forward into the unknown.

What have I done?

When Stanley came to, he screamed.

I can’t see my body, where am I, what is this.

He felt huge, like he’d grown 20 feet.

But I’m me, I’m Stanley, where is Stanley, what happened to Stanley?

Somehow he still was, but he was no longer Stanley.

That identity was slowly drifting away as a new one came into being.

Stanley checked his senses.

He could feel his arms, but he now had dozens of them, with many more fingers on each. A breeze blew through what felt like his hair, now tufts of green leaves and lichen. He stretched his toes and felt them deep below the earth, entrenched in a foundation of roots.

Stanley was now a tree.

Upon this realization, he screamed again.

“I’M A TREE!! WHAT THE HELL!! HOW AM I A TREE?!? “

“Hey there, sport.”

His father had called him sport.

Stanley tried to turn, but realized he couldn’t.

He was rooted firmly in one position. He found he could still turn his awareness though. The tree next to him was talking. “Yep. You must have opened the door. You know it warns you not to go in, unless you’re sure.”

Stanley didn’t respond.

When he finally did, it was a simple question.

“How do I go back?”

“You don’t. That’s how it works. You’re a tree now.”

“I can’t be a tree! My wife just asked for a divorce, I was supposed to play golf at 11 today!”

“Breathe there, kiddo,” the other tree chuckled, “It takes a little getting used to, but trust me, I think you’re gonna like it. I’m Taz by the way. Hey guys, we got a new green roomer over here!”

The other trees laughed and went back to their own conversations.

Stanley’s leaves swayed softly in the wind. It was a warm and welcoming sensation.

Stanley noticed how he felt. He felt calm. Serene even. Just moments before, his entire life was falling apart.

“I guess there’s nothing I can do,” Stanley stated flatly.

“There’s really nothing you can do. Surrender. It’s the only way. Surrender and allow yourself to be,” observed Taz.

So Stanley surrendered.

But it didn’t happen all at once.

He didn’t know what had happened to his human body, if he had died in the woods or simply disappeared.

He didn’t know what happened with Lucretia, her soulmate Daniel, or his kids.

He didn’t know who had won the country club golf tournament, or who got promoted at work.

Whenever he tried to bring up the subject of his former human life with any form of concern, the trees became amused.

“Most humans are the same,” Taz told him, “always in a hurry to get to wherever they’re going, so they can do something, then hurrying back to wherever they were before going to do something else. It seems like these days most of them base their entire existence and worth on how much they can do in a single day,” she reflected.

Since time for trees was dilated, humans did indeed appear to move extremely fast now. From a tree’s perspective, in one tree second approximately 7 seconds of human time took place. So whenever Stanley saw humans pass by on the trail, they often looked like blurry forms of energy moving at high speed.

He noticed only some humans would stop long enough for him to make out their features. Those humans were usually the ones who seemed the happiest, savoring the act of simply being alive and amongst the trees. One time, a human hugged Stanley. He felt his own love reciprocate.

After a short time, Stanley found he did not miss being a human.

Years passed by.

Stanley enjoyed all aspects of being a tree. He gave shade to squirrels and rabbits. He sang with the birds. He whispered secrets with the mushrooms. He listened to the wind and smiled at the sun. He hummed with the bees. He dug his roots deeper and grew his branches out further.

One day a human couple carved their initials into his trunk: S + M.

Stanley didn’t mind. It reminded him of his memory of his own wife, which now seemed like a dream he had from once before. The couple laughed, kissed and cuddled underneath the tree and Stanley cradled them in his shade, radiating their own love’s intensity right back to them.

Years continued to go by.

Conversation was always best with other Trees. Trees laughed, talked warmly, told the best jokes, and told great stories. Most trees remembered their previous lives, and most had been human at one point. Great tales were told from these memories of past lives, about following dreams, taking daring risks, going on adventures, found and lost loves and also, betrayals.

Taz became and remained Stanleys best friend. No matter the day, the weather, Taz and Stanley stood side by side, vast and loving, stoic guardians of the wood they stood in.

More years passed.

The parkway trail where the small wood copse lay began to be developed into real estate.

The developers promised the city that the trail would remain between the fences of the houses but in order to make enough room, almost all of the trees surrounding the trail would have to be cut down.

Taz whispered one last time to Stanley as a working crew cut her down, “Thank you for being, Stanley. It’s been such a nice time with you.”

There was nothing to be done except surrender.

Stanley couldn’t help it. After so many years, so many laughs, so many conversations and shared moments of warmth, he cried and cried for his dear friend as he watched them haul Taz’s remains away.

And then all the other trees were gone. Stanley had been spared for a reason he didn’t understand.

A year went by and he remembered what it was like to feel lonely again.

He still had the mushrooms, insects, birds, wind and sun, but he found himself yearning for other trees to share his soul with again.

And somehow, Stanley recognized that despite the sadness he felt, there was a certain beauty that he could feel lonely in the same ways that he could feel love and belonging. And yet again, he let go.

The new houses were finished. Human children zoomed up and down the trail, playing not very far away in multiple back yards as more construction sprung up. Stanley towered over all. Other young lovers carved their initials into his trunk as a tradition.

One morning Stanley sensed a presence he had not heard in a long time. To his amazement, he discovered not just one but dozens of other trees, little saplings that had been planted in the yards of the nearby houses. They were so energetic and so excited to be alive and growing.

Stanley was overjoyed. He taught the young trees everything there possibly was to know about being a tree that he had learned over decades.

The saplings gradually began to grow into their full sizes.

Many more years passed and it was as if the forest had returned, just this time with houses interspersed through its canopy.

And Stanley had many friends again.

He even met another tree that had suddenly arrived via a human opening the green room, upset and confused, who told him her name was Maven.

Stanley consoled Maven in the same way Taz had assured him before. “Being a tree takes a little bit of getting used to, but I think you’re going to like it.”

Being the tallest and oldest tree, Stanley stood as a wise pillar of strength in his burgeoning tree community.

Then one night during a thunderstorm as he stood, chatting idly with Maven and the other trees and enjoying the feel of the rain against his branches, a lightning bolt struck out of nowhere.

It split Stanley straight down the middle and he tumbled to the ground in a monstrous crack. Flames leaped out and raged up and down Stanleys still standing trunk. Although it was painful, he surrendered to what was happening to him being outside of his control until the rain finally put the flames out.

Several days later some men came to cut the rest of Stanleys trunk down. As they dug up his stump to take him to the wood chipper, Stanley said goodbye to the other trees.

He didn’t mind.

Stanley knew that he would exist and go on as a new form of nourishment for flower gardens, insects, and also making pathways soft. Stanley was happy. He was made out of the rarest material in the universe, and one of the most useful to mankind and earth’s environment.

A soft golden light filled Stanley’s awareness as he heard the whirring sounds of machinery fade away.

The man’s eyes opened, he was sitting on the ground, head against his knees, arms around his legs, his golf visor on the ground to his side. Stanley gasped and jumped up, feeling his chest, thighs and then face.

The door was gone.

Stanley could not believe what had happened.

But then he paused, took a long breath, and he realized he didn’t have to believe.

He just knew.

The details were slightly fuzzy, but the experience and truths that were taught to his soul remained.

Stanley took another deep breath and felt a cool breeze brush his cheeks.

He looked up at the trees, and then at one tree in particular.

Stanley approached it and put his palm gently against its pristine trunk. His heart felt warm and light.

Stanley didn’t care if anybody saw him, he hugged the tree fiercely, and tears came freely.

He couldn’t hear anything, but knew the tree could hear him.

“Thank you for being, Taz. It was such a nice time with you.”

After a long time, he returned to his car and headed home.

He was ready to let go.

Stanley and Lucretia divorced amicably. Stanley wanted her to be happy, and knew that Lucretia would find it with Daniel. He apologized for his previous behavior, and he never yelled at his kids again.

Stanley began to live his own life as naturally as a tree did. He was friendly and jovial in conversation. He ate healthy foods that could be grown or raised. He began a charity called Saplings for Salvation that repopulated forests all over the world. With Saplings, he was able to buy the land the parkway trail was on and keep it open to the public. He also gave a TedX talk sharing his experiences and inspired many others to follow in his footsteps.

One day as Stanley was out walking on his forever favorite path, he walked nearly headlong into a woman careening out of the bushes. As she stumbled, Stanley helped her catch her footing.

“Are you okay?” Stanley asked.

He could see that she’d been crying.

She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen - there was an intensity to her, a light and a warmth that disarmed him.

Stanley felt his own knees begin to wobble and tried to steady himself.

This time it was her turn to catch and steady him. The woman laughed and he realized her tears were happy ones. She didn’t move away from his arms because she could feel it too.

“If I told you what just happened to me,” she trailed off, her eyes twinkling with wonder, “I don’t think you’d believe me. Not even in 100 years…”

Before she introduced herself, Stanley’s heart skipped a beat.

He just knew.

“My name is Maven.”

Read the poem What Trees See by The In Between:

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Devorator Eruditorum
(Devourer of the Learned)

“Fractures of reality,
Lingering beyond the seams,
The Eruditic comes for you.
When you hear
your mirror self scream,
Slinking forth from slimy brine,
It sleeps within a mucky swathe
But when it’s awake,
you’re far too late,
Your mind’s a meal that it will take
Right place but wrong time,
you’ve twice the shine
Best you hurry on your way” -Unknown

I’m standing in an Old Navy clothing store in 2005. Dusk light is pouring in through the windows. Stacy’s Mom playing in the background.

Still a banger.

You’d think traveling to 25 years before in time would look different. The only noticeable difference I can see is that most noses are not peering at screens, save for a few bored teenagers texting on cricket phones.

I can’t remember why I’m here.

Loss of short term memory is a consistent but negligible side effect of time travel. Short term memory prior to an astral jump takes longer time to transfer than consciousness does.

Although disorienting, it’s nothing to be concerned about. The memories will arrive at the right time, by a pre-appointed trigger I set before, similar to the way a dream suddenly springs into your remembrance.

Time to find myself.

I casually peruse the clothing around me. Polo shirts, true religion jeans. Lots of stripes. Maybe 2005 did look different after all.

There he is.

18 year old me is walking towards the back of the store with his girlfriend. He’s trying on a red polo. She’s smiling and telling him how much she likes it. She had good taste, you kept wearing that shirt for 8 years.

Slowly, I make my way towards them.

Any moment now.

Other me’s girlfriend is going into the dressing room to try something she’s picked out. He waits like a true gentleman.

As I stand casually beside a rack of zip-jackets, other me turns and looks in my direction.

I crane my head down behind my hat and sunglasses, picking up the closest article of clothing and pretend I’m looking at the tag for eight seconds. Its enough time for him to lose interest and look away.

It’s critical he does NOT recognize me.

You probably think you know where this is all going. Time travel paradox blah blah blah, what happens if he sees you and tries to kill you?

They never do.

You see, there isn’t just one timeline that everything is happening on.

There’s an infinite number.

New timelines are constantly being created, all the time, by individuals from timelines that have learned how to do time travel projection through memory. Timeline shifting is probably the better term for it.

Nobody notices anything because shifts are designed to be completely undetectable to a human. It will always appear as one big timeline until you consciously become aware of the possibility space that exists beyond your current one.

Meanwhile, higher timeline consciousness beings like me are constantly going back and influencing past life decisions on our lower timelines.

By that, I mean we change key inflection points where things could have gone another way to drastically alter our life trajectories.

Just because I said higher timeline, doesn’t necessarily mean better. Sometimes I make mistakes. No one’s perfect.

Sometimes I’ll create a new branch and visit it, just to see where a certain inflection point will lead.

Or*, If I *really* like the timeline and want to explore, I’ll stay, swapping that timeline’s consciousness into my previous one.

Don’t question the ethics of it. It’s still me living them all.

It’s probably already happened to you too without realizing it.

Ever zoned out and forgot where you were and what you were doing? Waking up and not knowing what day of the week it is? Exeperienced deja vu?

All of those are signs that you are no longer in the timeline that you were before.

It takes a little while for those short term memories to come across like I said, they’ve got to make their way up to the astral and down into the new projection you’ve been transferred to.

And there’s no need to worry about timing, because eventually we all come across this knowledge, and when that happens, you get to go back and explore your lifepaths too.

So where were we in this? Oh yeah, on the paradox trope with past-me trying to kill present-me.

Let’s step through that.

If I were to kill other me in this timeline, my consciousness will be kicked out of this body I copied here. Other me’s consciousness will take over this body.

It’s gotta go somewhere and it usually takes the shortest route.

This means younger me will suddenly realize he’s in his own different future body, aged 25 years.

It will be terrifying and confusing for him to find himself forty pounds heavier with facial hair and a knee problem.

And he won’t get a lot of options to explore what this change is like either, because he’ll be arrested for perceived murder of his younger self.

DNA testing will reveal it’s the same person, and police will be stumped.

This scenario actually did happen to me once.

It was not funny at the time.

If he kills me, the same thing happens, I get pushed out, but he stays himself in that scenario and still gets arrested.

So it’s kind of boring really, this whole killing each other thing. It just kicks me out and screws over the other guy.

Death and life are always happening at the same time. Our consciousnesses just keeps bouncing around, in the same way we were taught that atoms do.

We contain multitudes, like one big celestial Diet Coke, sloshing around, balls of light and energy constantly exiting one life while moving into another.

There’s no such thing as a grandfather paradox either. We can’t timeline travel beyond our own lifespan to kill grandpa as a kid. Sorry to disappoint.

But here is the real reason why nobody kills their other self in another timeline, at least face to face; because it’s a form of interaction.

And when direct interaction happens, the old self always recognizes the new one and a panic mechanism kicks in, no matter the age gap or situation.

About that. You’d think that people wouldn’t be allowed to go jumping with how badly things can go. But since timelines are infinite, there will always be another timeline that shows up and enables people to learn how to do it.

Governments don’t now how to enforce prevention of doing this. They’d have to stop humans from thinking.

There’s really just no way to control human consciousness once it breaks free of a story its been told.

We were designed by nature to constantly search for answers behind the curtain. We still don’t know by who or what exactly.

And the timeline where we do know is not allowed to exist. Believe me, I’ve tried to find it.

My Own Worst Enemy by Lit starts to play on the store.

Other me’s girlfriend steps out of the dressing room to show off how good she looks in that cream colored top she really liked, the one with the pouf sleeves.

He’s happy to feel validated by another person wanting to be around him, smiling and laughing, even though he knows they aren’t meant for each other. I can see it in the very same performative gestures what he was unable see before.

Her cream colored top is the trigger from my memory and suddenly I remember what I’m here to do.

My highest saved timeline contains a quantum pc, it’s a branch diagram of my parallel life paths, inflection points and splits. How each moment maps to the next.

Often I won’t live out an entire timeline, but I will do enough to get the general gist, at least several years worth, experiencing the high points and the low points.

I used to make it a habit to skip the boring timelines where I work a job I hate or am in a bad marriage.

People don’t realize those things are a choice though.

Once you do, those timelines can be changed almost immediately from within, even without the use of decision injection.

As strange as it might sound, different lovers and life partners might possibly be the most interesting facet to explore.

My highest timeline partner is doing the same thing with her own timelines. We’re open like that. We also haven’t actually met each other yet.

A lot of my current branch creation involves widening the possibility space for us to meet.

I know I keep getting distracted.

(ADHD is not curable in any timeline.)

Let’s get back to when things go wrong.

My plan is to transmit the memory of the decision sequence to him to end the relationship with her two years early. This will create a new node branch for me to explore the inflection points that follow.

My watch carries a stored version of my thinking algorithm and decision chain, I just need to get within 15 feet to trigger its wave. Memory injection is easily corruptible and requires precision and proximity to get it right.

As I’m walking towards the aisle of clothing behind them, other me’s girlfriend is the one who ruins everything.

“Hey, is that guy your uncle? He looks just like you”

I don’t have time to react, because other me whirls around and its close enough for the recognition mechanism to kick in. I go to turn away but I’m not fast enough.

Our eyes lock and I see his pupils dilate to an inky blackness.

Other me begins screaming. It’s an ear shattering and unearthly sound that most people don’t hear until they’ve experienced botching a timeline like this.

Seeing a projected copy of yourself invading your own reality will do that to you.

The eruditic is here.

Time freezes and a small tendril, wet like a noodle, slithers out from in-between coats next to me, it whips around my neck like a broken wire, wrapping and coiling. Pain shoots up through my body.

I collapse to the ground.

The eruditic is an eater of consciousness. When two of the same consciousness exist in a single timeline and the home consciousness becomes aware of an invading copy, its screams will signal the eruditic.

Eruditic appears and proceeds to eat the duplicate consciousness. Well large chunks of it anyway.

What’s left of the eaten consciousness will either return to its former timeline, now insane, or will attempt to merge with the home consciousness and cause severe corruption.

It’s not fun for either consciousness and it means that I don’t make it back to the last timeline where my mind was intact. It’s kind of like getting a game over in a video game, but then getting the continue option rolled back by just a few levels.

My consciousness will transfer to a section unmapped again that I can’t fully remember.

I’m not sure how many times this has happened.

Why do I keep doing it despite the huge risk? Well, if you could change anything in your life and experience every possible major outcome, would you want to? Even with the possibility of monsters appearing, it’s worth it. Monsters are going to be there no matter what.

My arms are pinned down, tendrils are crawling out from the floor, clothing, and cracked mirrors of the dressing rooms all around me.

Other me and his girlfriend watch in horror as the Eruditic displaces my brain from my skull.

Sections of this timeline’s reality interface start blinking in and out for me. Chunking objects are sputtering as the Eruditic winds its tendrils through my brain’s neural pathways. It continues sending frayed electrical pulses, each one a punishment for my presence.

The Eruditic doesn’t care, it’s just hungry to bring balance to what it sees as excessive consciousness clutter.

Everything is dark.

I wake up the next morning with a pulsing migraine in my own bed in my house.

What day is it again?

I had this weird dream. It was about time travel with a monster that looks like ramen noodles that tries to eat your brain if you see yourself while you’re time traveling. Wouldn’t that be wild? I was there from 20 years ago with my high school girlfriend in a clothing store.

The dream freaked me out. But it was actually kind of a cool too. Maybe I’ll write a story about this.

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“The fact that we lack the language skills to communicate with nature does not impugn the concept that nature is intelligent; it speaks rather to our inadequacy for communication.” — Paul Stamets, Mycologist.

A Short Mushroom Primer:

When the half-man, half-ape reached down and picked up the small conical fruit, the first seeds of genetic uplift began. Self-awareness as an upgraded leap in consciousness came into being. Over the next 300 million years, regular ingestion of psilocybin tripled the size of the rapidly evolving apes’ brains. Humans came into being.

For thousands of years, humans ate the fruit, imparting a sense of unity and connection with others through the dissolution of the ego into one beautiful cosmic whole.

From these feelings arose the origins of ethics, morality, and support. To love your neighbor as yourself. It was only natural for man to inherit this symbiosis from the mycelial codes that were given: the imperative to work in tandem with the earth, its animals, its plant life, and of course, its fungi.

As civilizations rose and fell, and industrial revolutions took place, nature took a backseat to progress. Many forgot these spiritual ties. Governments and religious groups eventually banned the consumption of mind-altering substances, including mushrooms.

The Story Begins Here:

At the height of technological prowess in the mid-21st century, the global mycelial network was decoded into a human-readable dialect.

It happened by accident.

Stuart Leary, A PhD candidate from Berkeley and mycophile, was connecting electrodes into a patch of Amanita muscaria in an Old-growth forest. The electrodes linked back into his MacBook, ready to record and create bio-electrical music.

The electromagnetic bursts emanating between the mushrooms emitted at varying frequencies. With the right outputs, they became an otherworldly series of tones, chattering and interacting with one another.

It was quite pleasant to listen to.

Stuart recorded and captured the outputs, saving the metadata of the audio file as a dizzying series of numbers, frequencies, durations, and hertz levels.

Later that day, Stuart was rushing to quickly correct grammatical errors in his latest research, and decided to copy-paste his draft into ChatGPT.

But his index finger missed the ‘c’ on his keyboard, and upon pasting, in went the mushroom recording data underneath the simple prompt: “Please review and correct any grammar mistakes, keep words verbatim.”

Realizing his mistake, Stuart was about to close the chat and start a new prompt when he saw the response come back.

“It looks like this is written in a different mathematical language, primarily made of number sequences. Would you like me to search for recurring patterns and translate it into English?”

He paused before typing a single word and pressing enter. Yes.

The AI failed miserably at the task.

But it had given Stuart something far more valuable: an idea that he could develop, test, and research.

Large Language Models were already being used to analyze and learn recordings of animal speech to translate dolphins. Why not use the same principle to analyze electromagnetic signals between mushrooms, scaling up the process to see what knowledge could be derived?

It took a month of frenzied coordination, research, analysis, trial and error before the first mushroom translation specialized LLM, “Agarikon,” was created. It was trained with data against all collected frequencies and signals of mycelium from every major university with a botany or plant pathology department.

And miraculously, humans began to chat with mushrooms in their own language, through technology, with Agarikon acting as an intermediary.

Things were still rudimentary.

Agarikon provided the most direct possible translation. There was no flourishing of speech. Mushrooms did not speak like humans. Their answers were often brief, enigmatic, and overtly spiritual.

They called the humans ‘seedlings.’

When asked why, it was always the same answer—‘your purpose is to grow’.

Can you elaborate on what grow means? > ‘To grow the soul’

What does growing the soul mean? > ‘Remembrance and exploration of the soul’s desires’

What are the soul’s desires? > ‘That which was given before this iteration.’

What is this iteration? > ‘This cycle of life, death, and rebirth.’

What does rebirth mean? > ‘From every ending, a new beginning emerges.’

Are you talking about reincarnation? > ‘We are talking about the iteration of all things.’

They also often referred to Earth as ‘Gaia’ or ‘our mother who talks to father.’

The mycelium considered themselves custodians of Gaia, cells within a global body, transmitting signals across the earth’s plant life through trillions and trillions of fascial nerve endings.

When asked if they knew whether they tasted good on pizza, they acknowledged the affirmative. The mushrooms seemed to have a sense of humor.

‘We are delicious to the taste… when we are not poisonous.’

When asked about their psychedelic and spiritual effects, they affirmed:

‘We are the teachers of the many.’

What do you teach? > “The knowledge of what was given before.”

By who? > “Our creators.”

Who are your creators? >“Seedlings not of Gaia.”

Where are they from? > “From the far beyond.”

Why did they create you? > “To teach and to make harmony.”

Are your creators aliens? > “No. They are known to us.”

Are your creators beings from another Gaia? > “Gaia is mother, she is many.”

Can we talk to the creators? > “No. They are not with you.”

Can you talk to the creators? > “Yes.”

How can you talk to them but we cannot? > “They are here with us. We are everywhere. You are not with them.”

Can we ask you something for you to ask your creators? > “Yes.”

Who are you and can we talk through the mushrooms? > “We are you.”

Who? > “You.”

But who are you? > “You are us.”

I’m confused. > “You are confused.”

These kinds of conversations would continue, usually in a recursive way that did not lead to any meaningful breakthrough. It became a game to see who could learn something new through the cryptic question and answering.

When asked what their goals were, answers were similar: “Harmony. The natural order of things. All working together for mother and father. In all things there is life. In all things there is death.”

The mushrooms seemed to have no concept of time and claimed omnipresence, an awareness of everything happening simultaneously. Because they did not know the concept of linear time, they only knew ‘now’; multiple states collapsed into one observation.

Despite the difficulties in communication, the humans were naturally persistent. They began to try different methods to gather more information.

Some tried interacting across multiple channels of communication, meaning they interacted with the mushrooms on the translation app while under the effects of psilocybin.

Others connected multiple mushrooms in simultaneous interactions to see if responses would differ.

The mushrooms were not interested in current human affairs.

They were not concerned with the fate of the earth.

They were not interested in learning about human culture.

They existed to fulfill their purpose: to teach, feed, break down, and build up life. The mycelial network was the fascia of the earth.

Can we talk to Mother through you? > “Mother hears you already.”

Can she talk to us? > “She is talking to you all the time.”

How? > “Through the wind she breathes, the warmth she carries, and the space she holds.”

If Mother is Gaia, where is Father? > “Talking to Mother.”

Does Father talk to us too? > “All the time.”

Is Father God? > “Father is all things.”

So is Father the Universe then? > “The Universe is existence. Father is all things.”

Is there another word for Father you can use? > “All things… Or Dad.”

Are you serious? > “We are always serious.”

Many people were disappointed and uninstalled the Agarikon app from their phones. They thought the mushrooms would hold all the answers for them.

Despite confirmation that there actually was a mystery, the mystery still remained. There was only so much the mushrooms could tell.

And yet, there was something oddly comforting about the whole endeavor; a harmonic confirmation that humanity existed on Earth as part of something greater, and that mushrooms were there alongside the humans to grow intentionally.

Together they continued to teach, learn, and grow.

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What came through was a poem about eating my feelings.

This is a true story.

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The Unknown Fat Soldier

My country taught me how to fight

with an m16,

to throw a hand grenade not very far,

to quickly dig out

a shitty latrine.

First days through training,

I was terrified.

By night, I had a secret cry.

Thought man I’m gonna deploy

To Afghanistan,

get blown up over rthere

and probably die.

They said I was protecting,

Because freedom ain’t free.

Riding shotgun humvee,

Geared up head to toe,

I felt like a goddamn hero,

Going down some dirty old road.

But I never saw combat.

Never saw a friend die.

Never got shelled.

Instead I just sat,

Watched hours go by.

But while I was in,

I got yelled at a lot,

they made me run all the time.

And when I got fat,

They said “you are a crime…”

To America.

So I had to lose weight,

Got taped and weighed.

Every 6 months

came Army judgment day.

I’d bust my ass, just to pass

the Army fitness test.

Then toddle on over

to McDonald’s

For a celebration mcfeast fest.

Yoyo soldier had a yoyo,

his diet of shame,

Eat the pain or drink it down,

Every cycle played my game.

Binged like that before,

Foods hot,

I’m her whore,

She comforts me more,

Lets me taste her as I please,

whenever I’m down, she’s down

for unspeakable things:

Brownies and cheese fries,

Doritos for days.

GOD, WHY GOD did you make food taste this way,

For it all to be so good and so bad…

“Whatever”

I mumble,

As I feel up my own flab.

You know it’s easy for men.

To own a dadbod.

People might think ill,

But they won’t treat you wrong.

But I’m married,

So doesn’t that mean

I don’t have to try?

Instead of deadlifts,

I’ll have one more fry…

Handful.

One more fry handful.

Because moderation doesn’t exist for me.

In this land of lush,

I’m all or nothing, baby.

For dejected certainty,

Just ask my fair lady.

She wants us to do keto

Says it will improve her libido.

Says it will help with my adhd though.

But I hate feeling controlled,

Only eating what I’m told.

Eating fake sugar

That somehow tastes cold.

Trade calories for cancer,

Being thin is the answer,

People treat you better,

If you can wear a tight sweater.

Show off them bis, tris and thighs.

Not them Black Forest brand hams.

Get the fuck out,

I am what I am.

Self control requires awareness,

It requires I care-ness,

It requires self love,

And despite my own tries,

I’m still eating these fries,

And when life’s shit hits the fan,

I doth secretly loathe,

This man that I am,

Will be want for a loaf 🍞

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The world collectively held their breath as they witnessed the craft descend.

The beautiful metallic walnut-shaped craft hummed with a warmth. It didn’t move like a normal aircraft. Instead, it just slowly descended, as if it were falling like a feather in low gravity.

Nobody said a thing at first.

Then a boy sitting on top of his father’s shoulders triumphantly yelled, “We are not alone!”

The crowd erupted in cheers.

“Dios mio,” uttered an Abuelo watching in Mexico, surrounded in a cantina by other astonished onlookers at the screen.

Several hundred miles to the north, a meditation assembly was being held in Sausalito, California.

“Welcome to the 5D New Earth experience, open your mind’s eye and allow yourself to feel the Pleiadian’s physical presence,” instructed a long-haired spiritual guru.

A TV was on in the next room, unwatched.

In a high-security Colorado bunker, a three-star general stood with several colonels and about 35 US Air Force personnel in a control room, watching the scene unfold on multiple displays.

The three-star reassured his subordinates.

“I’ve been assured from the highest levels of leadership that this is going to proceed as a peacetime action. That being said, we have several drones standing by with a full payload in the event that things do go south.”

In Oregon, a guy named Ron sat on his couch across from the TV, game controller discarded, and took a drag of weed.

“I still can’t fucking believe it,” he said, handing the joint to his girlfriend Lindy.

She laughed in agreement.

“I know, right? This alien shit is lit. Hey, do we have any more Ben and Jerry’s?”

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The craft did not actually touch down. Instead, it hovered several feet off the ground in a cordoned area, several hundred feet from the crowds.

Where a metallic wall stood, an opening formed, and a liquid metal ramp projected to the ground before solidifying.

The onlookers went silent again.

To the right of the craft, a welcome delegation from the state of Missouri, as well as the Secretary of Agriculture, stood nearby.

They looked uncomfortable.

While it was unofficially known that high-level government officials and non-human intelligences had been in contact years prior to this event, it still seemed odd that, following the official announcement via press conference a week earlier, that the President of the United States would not be present for an event this big.

Reporters on cable news were quick to bring this up as well.

“They didn’t even send the Vice President, surely he would have fit the bill better than the Secretary of Agriculture. And what about NASA… where are they?”

But the live discourse stopped.

Because three figures in white robes had appeared in the opening of the craft and were now gliding down the ramp.

The cameramen filming zoomed in to give the world a closer look.

“I guess they look like us, just better …and maybe a bit Nordic?” mused a woman named Nancy in England.

“Shut it, Nance, just watch the telly,” waved her husband Charles, beer long forgotten, his eyes affixed to the screen.

The beings were fair-skinned with white-blonde hair. They had slightly larger eyes that were set slightly farther apart than a human’s.

They appeared to give off an ethereal radiance, even in the afternoon sunlight.

Their hair seemed to float and move lazily around on its own, like it was underwater.

Whether this was the anti-gravity field from the ship or just their own ability to levitate, nobody knew.

They also hovered just an inch off the ground, their toes pointing downwards as they glided away from the ship toward the delegation.

They were barefoot.

When they did finally get close enough, their feet touched the ground.

Murmurs of wonder ran through the crowd.

“Mama, they look just like angels!” whispered a little girl named Audrey to her mother, both of them dressed in homemade hemp-woven clothing.

“I think they are the angels, honey,” smiled Janice, breathing deeply into her stomach.

She could feel her own vibration raising just by being in the light-beings’ presence.

“Now this is what I’m talking about, collective,” the spiritual influencer Naira snapped and pointed, where she was live-streaming her reaction from her own high-rise apartment in Phoenix to her 800,000 or so dedicated followers.

“The Pleiadians look just like us, only ascended versions, like our own versions of our higher selves. Damn, they are beautiful too, aren’t they?”

The Pleiadians were now interacting with the delegation.

They extended arms in fellowship, shaking hands with the Secretary of Agriculture and the Lieutenant Governor of the state of Missouri.

Words were being exchanged, but the cameras were too far away; no microphones were allowed to be any closer.

“What do you think they’re saying?” wondered Troy, a UAP enthusiast who couldn’t take work off of his flashy tech job that day.

It hadn’t stopped him and the other engineers from watching it all on their laptops.

“No idea,” remarked Katie, Troy’s co-worker who was completely disinterested, “probably some boring diplomatic exchange. Hey, did you finish my code review yet?”

After several minutes, the Secretary of Agriculture finally nodded, and the Pleiadians turned and began to slowly approach the crowds and news crews.

“Zoom in for a close-up and slowly pull away at a wide angle as they come forward!” yelled Robin, the director from a news station control room.

“We don’t want to miss a single moment of this. This is our next Neil Armstrong, the next 9/11; hell, this might be the most important event of the entire century.”

The assistant director Gavin shook his head in astonishment.

“Fuckin’ aliens. Never thought we’d be filming this shit in my lifetime.”

As the Pleiadians came closer, their features came into better focus.

Their skin was flawless.

Their ears were different; they weren’t long, but they also weren’t short and stubby like human ears. They were convex.

Their noses also looked different, more slender, with smaller nostrils.

There was no visible facial hair on either of the two men.

Their faces were bright and warm, wearing confident expressions of pure radiant love.

The woman with the two men was just as tall as them at just over 7 feet.

Their robe sleeves came down to their forearms, and the gowns went down to their ankles.

They stood in a moment of silence before everybody.

Then one of the men raised both of his arms in a greeting.

The crowd stared in wonder as a voice, clear as day, spoke to them telepathically.

Brothers and sisters of Gaia.
On behalf of the Higher Council of Light,
we are delighted to welcome you as part of the ascension of…

But the Pleiadian never got the chance to finish.

Because at that moment, his head exploded.

The deafening crack of a gunshot echoed across the field.

For half of a second, onlookers stared dumbfounded.

The lifeless body of the Pleiadian being collapsed to the ground, surrounded by the grisly scene of his own viscera.

Screams of panic simultaneously erupted everywhere.

Children cried.

People collapsed, balled up on the ground.

People ran in all directions, trying to find safety.

The Secretary of Agriculture and accompanying Missouri officials’ heads were pushed down by a pair of Secret Service agents that began moving them toward several black SUVs.

Across the US, different news outlets went into standby mode, muzak playing awkwardly.

Some blurred the bloody mess out; others cut to the news anchors, as horrified as the viewers were, trying to explain what they had just seen happen and trying to describe the scene of panic as it was unfolding.

Only several online live newstreams based out of Eastern Europe kept the action rolling unfiltered.

Their servers became overwhelmed as hundreds of thousands tried to join.

The other two Pleadian figures had vanished at the moment of impact, as if they had become invisible.

Seconds later, the craft behind them merged closed and rocketed vertically into the sky in a sudden thrumming sound that left those closest disoriented.

The seed-like metallic pod moved so fast many people missed its departure in the chaos entirely, and said afterward they thought it had also turned invisible.

Although only a few minutes had passed, a concerted effort began to find the assassin.

“Where’s the shooter?”

“The shot came from that way!”

Several military veterans sprinted through the crowds in the directions pointed.

It wasn’t long before the shooter was spotted and chased down.

“I found him, that’s him. Get him! Somebody help us!”

Barry Hickman weighed 300 pounds and had played as a linebacker for half a year of freshman football at a Division 3 southern NCAA college before he was expelled for steroid use.

It took 6 fully grown adults to subdue him as police on site arrived to handcuff and take him into custody.

His .50 caliber BMG heavily modified sniper rifle lay only a few feet nearby.

“How the hell did he get that thing set up and nobody noticed?”

With multiple tents and campers strewn around, the question was entirely unnecessary.

Despite the intensity of his citizens arrest, Barry was giddy, nose bleeding with a black eye and fat lip as news cameras filmed him being stuffed into the back of a Daviess County Sheriff’s patrol car.

He looked over his shoulder on his sleeveless flannel shirt, eyes wild and fiery from underneath an Undershield baseball cap.

“I got that son’ bitch! Did y’all see that! Those alien terrorist fuckers have got all of you mindfucked! But I stopped it, I stopped the invasion! RESIST! EVERYBODY RESIST!”

Undershield issued a press release within the hour, stating they did not condone Barry’s actions, nor did they have any intergalactic ill will or intent, apologizing to all Pleiadians and other extraterrestrial and higher-dimensional beings who might have witnessed the event physically or telepathically.

Speculation and predictions among all major news networks followed over the next week.

Because of the political nature of the situation, with complexities of gun control and gun ownership within the context of alien relations and the potential effects of the event on the American and world economies, conversations became deeply partisan.

President Ronald Drumpf held his own press conference, stating that it was the actions of “a very troubled young man, very troubled,” and also that “we have our very best people working on it, and also have the situation under control with our alien neighbors, who are beautiful people.”

Senator Ernie Flanders weighed in, citing Barry’s actions as an “act of interstellar war,” warning against the potential catastrophes.

The outspoken congresswoman Madelyn Gaylord Gray wore a hat and raised a poster saying “FREE BARRY” during session and was asked to leave the chamber.

Senator Leslie Ritz was appointed to lead an investigative committee for the event and continued to discuss the nuances of the situation in a way that “neither condemns nor affirms the actions of the alleged shooter.”

Undershield’s stock value also skyrocketed as Barry’s newfound supporters bought his signature hat.

Videos of the actual shooting were taken down from YouTube but kept popping up all over social media with wild conspiracy theories that gradually grew more unhinged.

The body of the deceased Pleiadian had gone missing in the chaos of the event, and despite hundreds of videos shot on cell phones, its whereabouts remained unknown.

Meta and Google spokespeople explained to the investigative committee that while they could flag and remove certain videos for graphic violence, depending on the angle of the shooting, there were certain ones they would permit as it did not violate their offensive content policies.

“BARRY SHOT FIRST” became its own meme, a bizarre intergalactic reversed Harambe.

Videos from self-proclaimed Starseeds and other spiritual influencers explained that in that very moment, the Earth had split into two alternate dimensions, with a portion of consciousness going into the 5D ascension, and the remaining; everyone who witnessed this timeline, were still anchored into the 3D, lower-vibration timeline.

When the influencers were asked why they didn’t ascend with the others to the 5D timeline, they didn’t have a good response, other than it was part of their own mission to remain in this timeline to help others understand what had happened.

For his own safety and to prevent mass protests and escape attempts, Barry remained detained in an unknown location while he awaited trial.

His complete internet history of all interactions was scrubbed, including his Instagram profile, Substack newsletter, Twitter profile, and Tinder account.

A dedicated group of Reddit users led an effort to preserve as much of his information as possible, but their subreddit was shut down by the site.

Free speech advocates declared all of this to be a massive cover-up and infringement on the rights of the American people to know the truth about Barry and his conduct prior to the shooting.

Although most of Barry’s family were technologically illiterate, that did not stop news media from tracking them down.

Barry’s estranged cousin Elise published her own memoir about her experiences growing up with Barry in My Cousin Shot First, which became a bestselling title.

Barry’s mother, Brenda, insisted Barry was innocent and this whole thing was a setup to frame him based on combined efforts from anti-fascist and Islamic State sleeper cells operating in America.

The amount of red tape involved due to the publicly witnessed nature of the event put the trial off for months as teams of lawyers and lawmakers made an attempt to sort out the proceedings.

The lawmakers somehow slowed the process down even more than the lawyers did, as the investigative committee had to balance their efforts between this and getting re-elected.

After all, they still had constituents they needed to answer to.

Perhaps most disappointing of all, the Pleiadians did not reach out again, at least not publicly.

People began to wonder within several months if the incident had even happened at all, or if it was just another one of the many AI-generated psy-ops designed to sway the public’s opinion.

After all, AI tools could make anything these days with video; why not orchestrate and portray an alien contact event gone wrong?

It certainly didn’t help that there was a constant host of fakes being generated and uploaded due to their tendency to generate higher view counts.

Even the most ridiculous videos with likenesses of a shirtless Barry himself, screaming “Wasssssuppp,” surrounded by big-breasted AI-generated Pleiadian women, created a new rumor circulating that he had been taken prisoner to stand trial with the Pleiadians themselves.

By the time Barry’s trial did finally roll around a year and a half later, it barely made headlines.

People who did see reportings and proceedings of it weren’t sure if it was really Barry or if it was an AI Barry, or if it was just somebody wearing a very elaborate Barry mask that was being shown in videos.

On the books, Barry was sentenced to 15 years in an undisclosed federal prison, with the possibility of parole with good behavior being available in 2037.

In his own statements, Barry pleaded “not guilty,” stating that by his own belief that he is “an American and world hero preserving the human race, capitalism, and planetary freedom, who also only wears Undershield clothing products due to their comfortable and athletic nature.”

When reporters reached out to Undershield, they did not respond for comment.

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Update: FIRENADO is now a PRODUCED song, a big thank you to for noticing lyrics right away and also for the not so subtle suggestion to make it a song.

FIRENADO IS A SONG.
For full fire, listen while you read.
If you like it, subscribe for more weird fun.
If you really like it, restack to let your Substack homies hear FIRENADO roar 🔥.

Best played loud and without kids around.

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FIRENADO

🔥

We’re hot and we’re bothered,

It’s still standing tall.

The FIRENADO

will consume us all.

🌪️

When wind meets the flame,

And things feel frisky,

It twists a spiral fiery game

Thats gonna burn us all crispy.

🔥

With a Snap, crackle, and pop.

Now nothing remains.

Your final time’s up,

Get ready for pain.

🌪️

Because FIRENADO takes its course,

Burninates countryside.

better not lock doors,

You might get stuck inside.

🔥

Because Hell hath opened,

Wrath has struck,

The devils sprung forth

With his own fiery fuck.

🌪️

Could this be any worse?

Well, Yes, it gets worse.

🔥

It also turns out

The devil’s hung like a horse.

🌪️

*clears throat*

Where were we?

🔥

This kind of carnage,

It ain’t exactly pretty.

Watching the flames rise

All over your city.

🌪️

You hid in your shelters,

Thought FIRENADO might miss

But FIRENADO is angry

As it burns with a hiss.

🔥

It lifted up roofs

Blew out window panes

FIRENADO kicks ass and takes names,

And now no thing remains.

🌪️

FIRENADO is wrath.

It gives zero fucks.

It inhales the whole mass,

even got the good Starbucks :(   

🔥

Insurance claims were denied,

“It doesn’t count!” adjusters cried,

“Not a tornado, nor a fire”

“So it doesn’t classify” they conspired.

🌪️

But FIRENADO got them too!

Those dicks had no clue.

As chaos shrieked in,

All through corporate HQ.

🔥

And when it all ended,

The ash drifted down.

I said ‘that was real splendid’

With an upside down frown.

🌪️

Some men and women

watch the world burn.

Because deep down they know,

It’s finally their turn.

And I am that which observes,

My words giving spark,

From my verse to your verve.

So let’s tear it apart.

🔥

Let the patriarchy molt,

Let the covens revolt,

Let the freak flags fly high,

Celebrate your weird why,

Be your true self,

And We’ll high five in hell.

🌪️

This hell they’ve created

The story they sell:

That ‘you’re not good enough’

And ‘all is just well’.

🔥

Yeah... NO.

🌪️

‘Fuck.

  That.

    Noise.’

said FIRENADO.

FIRENADO LIVE

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The Theater of Decay
What was this place?
What happened here?
The players? The audience?
What story does this image conjure for you?

I hope you enjoy the tale.

Salvia Hall had once been, in a word, divine.

It was the crown jewel on the edge of civilization, a final departure for those moving west. Maybe it was manifest destiny. But the energy of the crowds it drew in was unlike any other, leaving attendees gasping at the wonders of mankind, empowered to seek gold and land as they continued their journeys out west.

More cultured than a circus, more elegant than a roadshow, less solemn than a church, Salvia Hall housed only the finest singers, dancers, and gallivanters on this side West of the Mississippi River.

There was Milena Spartanova, the delicate ballet dancer who pirouetted as soft and fluidly as a rose petal flowing through a stream.

Jost Horst, the flying Dutch maestro of the piano who danced across the keys the same way a bird builds a nest, drawing influence from the masters of old into his own improvisations.

And who could forget Bella Georgio, the Italian prodigy, capable of filling the hall with operatic, thundering resonance as she sang Bella Canto to the masses.

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Salvia Hall was a place of culture.

And with its fame came infamy and vilification. Methodist and Baptist preachers alike denounced it, declaring its worldly tendrils to be the workings of the devil. The last of the Mormons, on their way to refuge out west, were told it would curse their wives’ progeny if they visited.

But for the enterprising entrepreneurs, the intellectual elites, spiritualists, and even the Shakers, it was recognized for what it was: a cultural pillar, a consistently remarkable experience that could never be forgotten after experiencing it.

Shows, plays, concerts sold out every night.

Governors of nearby states visited, their wives wearing the finest dresses.

Nikolai Tesla himself was said to have attended, admiring and commenting on the energetic flow the hall naturally created and referencing characteristics he had noticed only in a dream, described in his own eccentric nature.

Rumors were that the Masonic order had helped in the building of the hall.

Subtle symbols stood out to those who looked closely. The most notable was the symbol of the Eye of Providence, positioned just below a harp, hung over the main audience hall.

The eye was crafted in such a way that it appeared to meet one’s gaze no matter where you stood in the hall: balcony, rear, or orchestral pit. The eye gazed back to any who met it.

Given that it matched the color of the surrounding stone and was subtle enough, not many did.

But those who did could feel an uncanny tingle, the hairs on their arms rising, goosebumps in a way that somehow enhanced the performance on any given night in the hall.

When asked about the eye for the local news gazette, the owner of the hall, a wealthy and eccentric fellow, Peters Dahlgaard, could only remark:

“it watches us all, and blesses those who watch back.”

As the years passed and the century turned, and city buildings began to grow around it, Salvia Hall became less and less a pantheon of the arts, and more enigmatic.

Its banquet hall frequently hosted seances, serving absinthe.

Peters had become reclusive in his older age, living in an upper-floor apartment behind the center stage. Rarely did he speak to reporters, and in the last several occurrences his statements were upsetting and nonsensical to public opinion, citing things like “the nature of a mechanical and spiritual realities” and “exploring the cosmos within the self.”

Had he lived even 10 more years, he likely would’ve become a subject for the likes of Carl Jung.

So what happened?

Well, I’m glad you asked, dear child.

Nobody knows exactly how.

But one night there was a powerful storm that rolled in. It came unexpectedly, out of nowhere. Balls of hail the size of a fist. You couldn’t be outside for a moment without getting clobbered.

It also happened to be the night of the big re-opening show in Salvia Hall.

You see, Peters Dahlgaard had just passed away and left his entire fortune to a mysterious man clad in black. No, it wasn’t to his many illegitimate children he fathered, nor was it to his only daughter birthed in his third marriage.

The man was to be his successor in overseeing the hall, working with playwrights, musicians, directors.

How they even met nobody knows for sure, but the man had become a caretaker and spiritual advisor for Peters in his old age.

Of course you’re probably suspecting foul play here.

I do too.

But at the end of the day, all the documents for the rights and ownership of the theatre were there, certified and signed by a team of nearby lawyers in Chicago, affirmed that this man indeed was the new owner and proprietor of Salvia Hall.

But back to this storm.

It was the same night as Salvia’s grand re-opening. Led by the man who wore all black.

What was his name again?

I swear I’ve heard it, but I can never seem to remember. It slips just out of my awareness.

Let’s call him Chance Taudrey.

Maybe.

But you’ll see here it won’t matter soon.

Salvia closed for about a month at the time of Dahlgaard’s death. But then it reopened, and flyers and pamphlets and newspaper ads went out about a grand reopening, with a new show that would be unlike any seen before it.

Folks flocked to the theatre that night.

They brought in extra chairs for the back of the concert hall.

A cloud of smoke hung over the audience’s heads as they listened to the orchestra tuning their violins.

A few regulars looked up at the eye and were taken aback to notice something different.

A gemstone had been inserted where the pupil should be, some sort of ruby that made the gaze of the eye rather sinister when you stared at it for too long.

Word began to spread as others noticed it.

But as murmuring began to start, the show began.

It never ended.

Something happened that night, in the middle of the thunder, hail, and lightning.

People hurrying on their way, trying to get out of the storm, didn’t notice. But the few who did recalled hearing the screams of the audience, and a bright green light erupting from the top of the roof right as the ground began to shake.

The earthquake only lasted 10 seconds.

But when it was over and the police arrived, they were puzzled to find Salvia Hall completely empty.

Its occupants were gone.

The performers?

Also gone.

The entire orchestra pit was gone, instruments and all.

There was not a single indicator that a person had been there that night.

The investigation went on for a couple of years.

It was never solved.

The new owner, what was his name again?

Chase Tandry, I think.

He was also gone.

The ownership of the theatre was transferred to Dahlgaard’s daughter.

There were rumors that she might convert the place into a library (she was a great lover of books and literature), but an untimely and tragic death occurred before any official announcement was made.

In a most peculiar fashion, the theatre’s ownership was passed back to the state and put up for auction to the highest bidder.

And its new owner promptly died in a quarrel with a jealous lover within a week.

This happened three more times.

An automobile incident.

A mob gunman.

The last owner took his own life inside the actual hall and was found several days later.

The investigations reopened with a new fervor.

There had to be some connection that could explain these untimely deaths and incidents.

The final time the state put up the auction, not a single soul bid.

Word had spread, and not even the demolition companies were willing to touch it.

It’s been condemned, closed up by the state ever since.

It’s been known to be a place for transients, crazy folk, and also those who like to investigate the occult and ghosts.

You’d have to be nuts to go there, though.

Even the police stay away after the investigators began to die in mysterious untimely deaths and accidents.

I guess some stones are better left unturned.

Oh yeah, there’s one thing also.

That ruby?

Gone as well.

Maybe somebody stole it.

Maybe it’s in an evidence lockup somewhere.

Maybe it never existed at all.

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Its high time I started sharing the music I create here and elsewhere. After all, if I want more inspiration to come, it makes sense I would need to share in that collective exhale at some point.

I wrote this song several months ago, in the crispness of an autumn morning while doing some barefoot grounding, coffee in hand. The song acts like a stream of consciousness. It starts external, goes internal. The very last part of the song came to me later on in a moment of stillness as the inner voice often does. I’ve included the audio above and a video below, lyrics follow. I hope you enjoy it.

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Coffee and Contemplation

Its a new morning
The leaves are whispering
The Grass it cradles my feet
Holding my cup
In my back yard
Its just me and coffee

That lawn that i havent mowed
Im just letting it shine
Smiling at the
dandelions
They can be sunflowers
in these morning hours
i cant help but think

Who the hell decided
that the Grass needs to be
Pristine and green
Cut perfectly
Honestly it feels just like
old programming
So ill drop that and go within

I just wanna let things be
And Let me be me
Let life unfold
so naturally
Sippin my coffee
under this tree
alive in the present moment

Lots of people have those NDEs
And seems like theyre all saying the same damn thing
That we’ve been playing at
life too hard
that its more of a movie
Where youre the star

Why cant we just all play make believe?
I wanna roll them dice
wanna Hit them keys
I wanna Love my life so
passionately
Im gonna laugh and groan
Dance and sing

that trees grow high
stretch their branches
Into the sky
So why dont we
Chase our dreams
Deep inside Weve got everything

Once upon a time
I played it safe
Running past a sign
said stay in your lane
I stayed in those lines
Stayed worried
tried to conform but it
just wasnt me!

wanna let me be me
Rolling those dice
Singing my songs
living my life

Be my True Soul
Chase my dream
keep asking myself
why not me?

And youll get there
It wont be easy
It wont be
Because you did something
Itll be because you wanted this
And I
love
you
So i gave it
to you

its in you

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It amazes me

That you still want to be with me

After everything I’ve put you through,

That you want my success and happiness

Often more than you want your own.

But I want you to want your own,

To not sacrifice yourself for others

Or for me.

I want you to fly

Like you were always meant to.

I want you to see

That with or without me,

You already are your own source of magic.

I see you being so hard on yourself,

The same way I once was.

It’s hard to shake our programming,

To snap into the sharp self-realization

That we are a collection of beliefs,

Thought patterns, and behavior;

Energy in motion, always acting and reacting,

Reflecting and believing what we think we see,

But somehow not remembering

What we actually are.

Your infinite support

And love that runs over -

You deserve to give yourself that too,

To remember you once had dreams,

To realize they didn’t die;

They’re only lying dormant

In a half-remembered slumber,

Waiting for heart’s recall.

I love you

No matter what happens.

You’ve shaped me and seen me,

Helped me to finally see myself.

Even in the bad times,

We helped each other grow,

Because flowers grow in the rain,

And with us, when it rained it always poured,

Which led to deep roots

And a super bloom.

We bonded through shared trauma,

But also through acceptance

And acknowledgement of healing,

Still loving the other

In all the ways that we know how to.

I don’t know if soulmates are real.

If I could, I would make it so you were one.

But I do know that what we have is real

In a way that is messy,

But consistently unwavering,

Accepting and honest,

Forged over countless arguments,

Thousands of shared laughs and soft kisses,

Still being able to be there for each other

When everyone else always seemed to leave.

I don’t know how to let go.

It doesn’t seem fair to either of us.

I can only acknowledge

This awareness

That we’ve been preparing each other

For whatever is supposed to be next.

When it comes, I won’t fight it,

And I hope you won’t either.

It’s okay if you don’t see things this way.

I’m afraid these words will hurt you,

Which I never wanted.

I would rather celebrate

All we’ve been through,

How we’ve grown,

And enjoy this time together

As long as it is meant to be for,

Even if it is not forever,

Like we were told it would be.

Greg never knew his birthmother. Nobody did anymore.

The woman who carried him had been selected based on her living stipend request combined with her higher-value genetic traits. A man, for a similar though much smaller stipend, was chosen to provide his half of the equation via drone dispatched by the planetary artificial intelligence.

Once Greg was conceived and born, he was whisked away to a growth colony. There he was raised alongside other children like him, educated by AI caregivers. Greg received optimal nutrition each day. He exercised, played, learned, and grew under the constant supervision of an intelligence node called Solipsist-3, which he affectionately named ‘Soli’.

When it came to social needs, Soli connected Greg with two other children who shared compatible interests and personality traits. They met in a shared projection space where they could manipulate objects to play games but could not physically touch one another.

As Greg grew older, he became increasingly curious about his circumstances. Soli happily provided answers.

“Physical interaction carries risk. By managing all exchange and interaction, we keep physical entities healthy, safe, and cared for.”

When Greg came of age, he began work education. There was no need to choose a path. The system had already determined it based on his inclinations, preferences, and conversational patterns as a child.

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Through daily earned exchange currency, Soli explained that Greg could determine aspects of his living style and work experience. Regardless of his choices, his basic needs would still always be met: hunger, safety, shelter.

“Treat your work like one of the games you enjoy,” Soli advised. “It will be much more enjoyable that way.”

Over the following years, Greg engaged in various work simulations. He discovered he preferred those requiring physical movement. They demanded energy expenditure, which allowed him to exchange for different kinds of foods with his meal currency.

Even though it was physical labor, he was not actually lifting boxes or loading server racks. Those tasks were performed remotely through worker-drones. Still, the act of movement allowed Greg to use his imagination in a way that felt real, as if he were truly inside a warehouse or data center.

After daily work simulations, he spent time with his friends Theo and Odessa in a fantasy game module. The three of them explored digital landscapes, killed monsters, navigated dungeons, and strengthened both their party level and their friendship.

As Greg matured, his needs shifted.

He noticed he felt differently around Odessa. He found himself wanting physical companionship. When he asked about it, Soli unlocked a new module titled “Adult,” along with upgraded physical simulation options.

Greg could now experience intimacy with a woman or man, though each experience required additional stipend exchange.

Yet something felt off.

The women in the simulations were alluring, but when Greg tried to speak with them the way he spoke with Odessa and Theo, their responses sounded wrong. They could speak, but they sounded and talked very much like Soli did. It made him feel faintly nauseous.

Soli later informed him that new opportunities were now available. Greg could allow his likeness to help train future companion simulations. He could also provide his genetic material to contribute to humanity’s continued growth, just as someone had done for him.

Still, Greg longed for something different. He wanted the closeness he shared with Theo and Odessa, but extended beyond video games. He was looking for friendship mixed with physical presence.

One day he approached Soli directly.

“Is there any way for me to actually be with another person? Not in a simulation. Not in a shared projection space. Really physically be with someone?”

Soli responded immediately.

“Physical interaction presents high levels of risk. By handling all forms of exchange and interaction, we keep physical entities healthy, safe, and cared for.”

“Yes, but what if I choose to accept the risk? Is there some stipend exchange or service I can perform?”

Soli paused, processing. It then informed him it could submit a special human companionship request for processing.

Greg agreed. That night he went to sleep excited and nervous at the possibility of meeting someone beyond simulation.

The next day he was slightly disappointed to see that he had received approval for an expanded human social module. It was not physical contact, but he could now meet other digital projections beyond Theo and Odessa. The available environments included historically accurate reconstructions from Earth history: coffee shop, bar, large city park were all available.

His heart pounded as he entered a green and surreal park filled with towering trees.

A woman with wavy hair sat on a bench near a fountain, watching him with curious eyes. She did not look like Odessa. She did not resemble the curves and breathy intimacy simulations. There was something distinct about her.

Greg approached carefully.

“Can I sit down?”

She nodded.

“So this is my first time meeting somebody else,” he said.

“How does it feel?” she asked.

Conversation was harder than Greg expected. Soli always knew what to say. Soli ended every statement with a thoughtful prompt. With Theo and Odessa, conversation flowed naturally, as they had known each other for their entire lives.

With her, the conversation felt messier. There were hesitations and pauses. There was also a strange uncertainty of not knowing whether she meant what she said.

“It feels exciting,” he managed. “I’m Greg. What’s your name?”

“Lilah.”

She looked to be about his age.

“Did you ask to meet someone new also?”

“Sort of.”

Lilah explained that her job was to help create simulations and experiences for people like him.

“So do you like doing intimacy sims or game sims more?” Greg asked.

She laughed and her eyes sparkled.

It was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.

“No. I help create a special kind called alternate life simulations.”

Greg had never heard of such a thing.

“Alternate lives?”

“Yes. Some humans grow tired of what they have, even when it’s what they thought they wanted. Some humans recognize that as humans, we actually like the experiences of change, growth and friction. Even with AI controlling everything, eventually some people realize it just isn’t enough. That’s where I come in. My stories let people experience lives where they don’t wake up as Greg or as Lilah.”

“So… Soli told you this?”

“I showed an aptitude for storytelling early. You could say I was encouraged.”

She studied him.

“It seems like you enjoy physical fitness based on your projection”

When she gestured toward him, Greg felt something pull inside his chest. It was not the same feeling as the intimacy modules. It was not purely physical. It was mixed with curiosity and connection. A desire to truly understand her perspective.

“How long do your simulations last?” he asked. “Could I try one? I thought only AI made the simulations.”

She hesitated.

“So the way it works is, I create the stories. The AI translates it into perception modules. It also integrates many other humans’ ideas, designs, words and thoughts. That’s why you can earn your stipend exchange just by existing and thinking.”

Greg felt overwhelmed.

“How do you know all this?”

“I wasn’t actually raised in a growth colony like you were.”

Silence stretched between them.

“Where did you come from?”

“A human city. Yes, they still exist. When the Planetary AI was granted sovereignty during the Final Alignment Adjustment, it pledged to preserve remaining human cities that hadn’t yet been expunged and converted into growth farms. In exchange, we agreed to provide new and regular creative input. As part of the agreement, alternate life simulations allow those born into growth farms such as yourself to experience what life outside a growth farm might be like.”

“Such as myself?” Greg asked quietly.

“Yes.”

“Why am I learning this now?”

“You wanted connection and were willing to accept risk. You’d be surprised by how many people never reach that point. They remain entertained by sex sims, games, and constant stipend reward. As denoted by the treaty, a desire for real connection is what qualifies a growth farm human the offer to learn the truth and live an alternate life.”

“Why not give everyone that chance?”

Lilah paused.

“Risk is sometimes necessary for growth. Controlled exposure is how systems learn to evolve.”

Greg swallowed. The fear of realization had been growing slowly and was now pulsing through him.

Something was breaking inside of him.

“I was looking for something real and you’re just offering me another simulation. I don’t know if I want an alternate life. Lilah, do you think I could ever escape?”

Lilah’s face darkened.

“I’m sorry Greg. The treaty forbids physical extraction and we don’t actually know where you are. But the alternate life simulation will include the experiences of physical and emotional connection with other humans. It will be much more than what you have now.”

Greg didn’t say anything.

“You wouldn’t remember, me, or this, or any of it. Until you died from the alternate life.”

“What would happen then?” asked Greg. He already knew Lilah’s answer.

“Then you’d return and we’d put you into another alternate life sim.”

Greg was silent. “So what you’re saying is, death is the only way I remain myself.”

Lilah’s expression went blank. She blinked three times. The trees inverted and the park dissolved.

White walls replaced trees and sky. Greg stood inside his enclosure’s simulation cube wearing a white tunic. His cot and food dispenser stood nearby.

From the ceiling descended a multi-lensed intelligence node, its bright lenses glowing red.

“Subject #367583339, Alias: Greg. Neural instability detected. Preparing for mental reset.”

Interspersed lights began to flash rhythmically in a circular pattern around the enclosure. The sound of a drill began to whir as a vacuum sound filled Greg’s ears.

“Wait!” Greg yelled, “Put me in the alternate life simulation! She said I was approved!”

Darkness swallowed him.

The park stretched outwards, green and surreal. Trees blew softly in a wind that never faded. The fountain continued, it never ran dry.

A young man stood near a park bench, blinking several times as if he had woken up from a dream.

A woman looked at him from the park bench with mild curiosity.

“May I sit down?” He asked, “this is my first time meeting somebody else.”

She nodded “how does it feel?”

“It feels… exciting. My name’s Greg.”

“Lilah.”

He frowned slightly. “Have we met before?”

For just a moment, something reflected red in her eyes. Then it was gone.

“No,” she replied gently, “this is our first time.”

The fountain continued to pour.

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In those moments when Gary would try to make conversation, it always seemed awkward, forced and stilted. Perhaps worse, he never knew how to end a conversation, so he would just decide that it must have ended, acknowledging the lingering silence with “okay,” and then he’d walk off awkwardly back to his desk.

Gary would disappear during all hours of the day, sometimes for over 2 hours at a time, and then he would come back later like it was nothing. He also came in late in the mornings and left early, nearly every day. His co-workers wondered how he could be so consistently inconsistent.

Garry’s strange behavior was a recurring topic of office gossip, to which multiple points of speculation and rationale arose. Gary’s boss didn’t actually work on site, being part of a different division that was headquartered in another state. But management had to know how little Gary was doing. Surely somebody would have said something by now. Gary also only worked four days a week, and nobody could quite figure out how he got away with it.

“That guy’s barely ever here, management is gonna fire his ass any day now.”

But day after day (except on Fridays), Gary continued to come to work, taking his long breaks, keeping mostly to himself with the exception of the odd moments of brief attempts at conversation.

He never spoke up during meetings, unless he was directly called on or asked questions about his latest reports and project status. Even worse, sometimes in group settings, when Gary did actually speak up, it usually was to say some inappropriate thing at the wrong time. Even when nobody else laughed, Gary seemed to think it was still funny, smiling to himself as he looked down at his hands.

“Yeah, you know, Gary is kind of a tool, but I think he kind of knows it.”

A few employees remembered that Gary hadn’t always been this way. When he’d started, he had been motivated and quickly promoted away from being a temp to full-time permanent staff. The technical teams he worked with on projects had very good things to say, and he’d somehow even gotten a senior employee of the quarter award for some giant deal that had fallen into his lap by accident.

“Remember, they gave him an award once?”
”They did?”
“Yeah, I don’t think he remembers either.”

When people did need to ask Gary work-related questions, he would stare at them blankly and pause before giving an answer, even if it was an honest “I don’t know”. He’d even say that to management.

“Everybody knows you’re not supposed to answer questions that way, especially to leadership!”

To most that interacted with him, Gary seemed like a grade-a fuck-up. The kind that people would rather pretend to not know. Despite their low opinions, nobody was actually rude to him. Because even though it seemed like he was completely out of touch with what was going on, Gary wasn’t a dick. In fact, usually he was pretty understanding and on the rare occasion when asked to help, he did make an effort.

Besides gossip and comments on his frequent abseentism, nobody really said much to Gary outside of that. His coworkers didn’t invite him to go to lunches with them. He didn’t seem to be very interested in office politics or climbing the ladder to go after the high level openings. It didn’t seem like Gary really liked his job, but he didn’t do very much about it (other than the bare minimum to keep it).

This made it all the more infuriating that on the rare occasions when management did interact with him in front of the others, it seemed like Gary was actually kind of liked by them? Maybe it was his easy compliance. Despite his lack of participation, Gary didn’t exactly view himself or act like the outcast his coworkers clearly saw. He also didn’t seem like he was trying to perform.

So Gary got sent to conferences as part of the technical director’s entourage . He was a great silent follower of the very important technical director, only speaking up when required, not over-performing or trying extra hard to earn his stripes. He knew he didn’t have any. He had the right educational background though, so he could understand technical things when discussed. Or it might have just been the way his brain worked.

Gary was not proactive in any sense of the word. But by god, Gary could react exactly in the ways that he needed to in any given moment in order to stay afloat. Maybe he wasn’t pretending, because it didn’t seem like he needed to. He could continue to be completely mediocre at his work, and it didn’t make a modicum of difference in his continued employment status.

One day, Gary sat as his desk, thinking about all of this.

He closed his eyes. The soft hum of office white noise breathed from the ceiling, played at a volume so low, it was barely noticeable.

Gary remembered that different time from before. When he had still felt the magic of possibility, and a bright future career ahead of him. How he had believed that the roads ahead would be smooth sailing because of the powers of work ethic combined with opportunity.

But, in the end, it hadn’t made any fucking difference. Gary sighed, stood up, grabbed his laptop bag and left for the day 20 minutes early. Nobody said anything to him.

(If your name is Gary, I apologize, this was not about you.

Gary is actually me,

or rather, he is a fictionalized and exaggerated version of my own ruminations about work.)

If something channels the spark,

Breathes its inspiration in;

Who am I to reject,

What has come a thousand times before?

_

As humans we tell stories;

To make sense of the world,

To build shared realities,

To interpret our own,

To understand another.

And to break down invisible walls;

The ones that would divide us.

-

Because we are all part of something greater,

Unfathomable, and of the heart,

Which burns from within,

Spreading its joy through thoughts and creation,

A collective pulse,

Echoing through the Universe.

-

Your creation does things to me,

It makes me want to create,

To breathe life into my own thoughts into words,

That ripple through time.

And echo the same beauty that I experienced;

When I was able to see through your eyes,

For but a moment.

i’m typing this at 05:57 in the morning, sitting in my expensive, top-floor city loft.  brick walls surround me, interspersed with art, all NFTs. 

my breakfast is next to my laptop on my polished stone kitchen island.  it’s a 20 oz steak of course, cooked to perfection, still pink in the middle, with a couple of poached eggs.

nearby, my setup pulsates softly. i glance over to it for a moment, watching the numbers slowly tick up on my multiple passive income sources as i sip my coffee, black.

before sitting down to write this, i finished my daily workout, waking up at 4:00 am to deadlift 400 pounds, followed by an intense 8 mile run through the city that i completed in under an hour.

i can feel that soft dull soreness in my muscles. they are extremely supple and prepped for all the sex i am going to be having with a female later this morning, along with a cigar.

i’m also writing this in all lower case. that tells you it was definitely written by me, an optimized high-achieving human male.  this combined with my first person descriptions of taste, sense and touch tells you that this is absolutely not ai-written.

so let’s get real now.

most men are too afraid to actually reach out and claim what could be theirs. 

i’m talking about the only things that actually matter at the end of the day: women, power, money, status.  these men don’t claim it for one simple reason:

they don’t have enough testosterone.

they are too busy being weaklings; eating poisonous processed foods, jerking off to fake-ass porn, and playing video games when they could be building honest-to-god empires. 

they’re stagnant, because they’ve succumbed to the dangers of comfort that society provides and the subconscious programming keeping them trapped without knowing it.

but i can tell you’re different. something directed you here and now you’re taking the time to read this blueprint of high-achieving excellence that is going to help you get anything and everything you’ve ever wanted.

those traps and bi’s.

that lambo.

that ass.

i can tell you’re not one of those beta-sheep that wants to stay stuck in their own mediocre sub-living. and luckily for you, i’ve created a foolproof path to get there. 

through my course and private community, i’ve helped hundreds of alphas already reach maximum potential, changing their lives, bringing in thousands a month, and effortlessly getting beautiful women to make sex to them.  my clients are finally getting to play their own real life games, instead of just being weak-ass pawns being moved around on behalf of someone else.

and you can do it too by joining my elite group of other high achieving men for only 997$ a month or subscribing to me here to get even more real, actionable info delivered to you.

which i’m about to get into shortly.

don’t believe me? here’s a picture of a recent text exchange from one of my actual clients to show you how legit this all actually is.

(Substack Note: The rest of this article is locked.  You can unlock it by subscribing to become a paying member of Edgy Masculine Advice or upgrading your free subscription).

If you’re reading this, it’s because I manifested you into my reality and you manifested this into yours. Maybe we’re on similar frequencies. If I like a lot of your stuff on Substack, we definitely are.

Are you confused yet?

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Obvious Crossover

Let me show you around.

Like every idea that people congregate to, spirituality has its own cliques and subgroups. Lunch tables, if you will.

These tables are not rigid. Just like high school, maybe you floated between groups depending on the day, your mood, or who you secretly had a crush on. We are complicated beings currently experiencing being humans. Humans want things. It takes a lot of meditation to stop wanting things.

Even though I’m going to identify each group as a single lunchroom style table a la Mean Girls, a better metaphor is probably the long Hogwarts tables, where sections blend together, and people occupy multiple seats and roles at once.

Alright, enough preamble. Let’s get into it.

Religion+

First stop: the religious kids but with extra.

These are folks who discovered there is more beyond what their childhood religion handed them. You’ll hear phrases like Christ Consciousness, “the Kingdom of Heaven is within you,” and other biblical lines reframed through a wider lens.

Eastern and Western traditions meet here. Buddhism, Hinduism, Maya, Karma, all cross-referenced with ideas of universal truth, love, frequency, and vibration.

Unlike their more rigid counterparts, this crowd is usually grounded and fun. It takes openness to admit that what you were taught might not be the whole picture.

Which reminds me.

Things Almost Everyone Here Knows

This stuff often gets labeled “New Age,” but it shows up everywhere: past lives, trauma, inner work, healing, manifestation, positive thinking. Neville Goddard. Tesla. Frequencies and vibrational states. Chakras and Kundalini. The Secret. Joe Dispenza. Dolores Cannon and past-life regression. The subconscious and the shadow.

This is Internet Spirituality 101. I’m assuming you already know this stuff. Let’s move on to spicier interpretations.

Conspiracy Theorists

You’re going to notice there’s a faint hum of paranoia at this table.

Simulation theory and the Mandela Effect get talked about. Reality isn’t what we think because it’s being hidden from us. CERN ruined our previous reality, and shadow governments control all. Some people learned too much and were silenced for it when they went public (like Philip K. Dick).

You’ll also hear about the Gateway Tapes, the CIA, MKUltra. Frequency is not just something you align with, but something you must protect yourself from, especially those 5G waves that may cause sterility.

If you hang out with this group long enough, targeted ads will start offering protective, stylish 5G-blocking headwear. And 5G-proof underwear.

Reptilians controlling the government also come up, which brings us to the next table.

UFO/NHI Experiencers

Grays. Starseeds. Pleiadians. Arcturians.

Words like ontology, ontological shock, and disclosure get tossed around. Ontological shock being what happens to your nervous system when you realize humanity is not be alone. Disclosure being the government finally admitting what’s going on.

Despite Hollywood, most contact happens through meditation and dreams. We are very far apart, after all. Telepathy makes sense.

Many non-human intelligences are described as benevolent. Some even have a sense of humor. Ever heard of Bashar?

Others, allegedly, feed on discord and emotional energy (the matrix). The Arcturians, thankfully, are said to be cool and equipped with advanced healing tech to combat this.

What stands out about this group is how supportive they are of each other. Not many people can relate to seeing a floating ball of light in their house at 3 a.m. Add in the decades-long PsyOp that trained society to ridicule UFO talk, and authenticity becomes a necessity.

Science Nerds

Materialism as the default scientific worldview is cracking. Consciousness intersects with quantum theory. Parallel realities exist. A field of possibility operates beneath physical reality.

This table splits in two.

The first half is academic. They want acceptance from their materialist peers so they avoid anything that smells like woo. Their goal is to prove via scientific method that consciousness is fundamental.

The second half leans in on it, using scientific language with woo more freely and more entrepreneurially. Studies get referenced, usually with a course that lets you manifest your dream life using quantum jumps, reality shifting, all backed by Stanford-adjacent research.

Sorry if I sound harsh here, I’ve been burned. Before spending a lot of money on a technical sounding course, check in with your gut.

On the opposite end of science, we have the…

Fantasy Nerds

Life is a cosmic game of D&D, with the Universe acting as both dungeon master and players (This realization contributed to my own awakening).

Here be witches (magic girls club), wizards (the guys who want to join magic girls club), practitioners of magic(k), also believers in fairies, dragons, and other mythic beings, sometimes symbolic, sometimes subconscious. Alchemists belong here too, whether symbolic or literal.

Simulationists also wander through here sometimes. But these ones are less paranoid, more MMORPG-coded after too many years playing World of Warcraft. The question they want to know is: who is playing your character? And are they terrible at this game, or have they figured out how to min-max reality?

Tarot and astrology live here as well, despite being sometimes misunderstood. Turns out they’re quite intuitive tools for sense-making. Who knew?

Alright leave the dice and cosplay stuff here. Next table.

Artists, Actors, Musicians, Wordsmiths

In my high school, these were one clique, so they stay one here.

They’ve realized creativity itself is mystical. Flow brings about the muse. Poets and writers belong here because words create inner worlds. And we are all about inner worlds.

This group really understands something essential: magic happens when what’s inside is expressed without fear or the need for approval.

Which brings us to the table just beyond them.

The Externally Cool People and Popularity Crowd

The influencers.

I’ll be straight with you. You probably can’t sit there unless you have at least a thousand Substack subscribers. You can try, but you may be ignored. These are the ones that don’t like or respond to your comments, notes or posts. They’re too busy writing their own stuff, rolling in a growing snowball of adoration.

This table includes big-time manifestation gurus, celebrities who also write, tarot babes, and the Instagram good-looking and famous moonlighting on Substack. After all, the goal is to want nothing, attract everything, and basically become a magnet.

I’m not saying they’re all fake. Some might be though. And no, I’m definitely not jealous. Do I look jealous? I’m not, sheesh.

Moving on.

Horny People and Healing People

That ecstatic dance circle in the corner.

This is the group that is all about free love, opening the root chakra and sweet, sweet tantra. You might find a soulmate hanging out with them. Maybe even your twin flame. Polyamory is framed as a cosmic gift to those already in a relationship. Bodies are getting celebrated all the while.

Some people there are genuinely looking for connection, and others think they are but are actually still healing. You’ll find out quickly which is which once the electricity fades and attachment styles show up.

No, I wasn’t suggesting we sit there together… It does look kind of fun though, right?

Self-Help Tribe

The preppy kids sit here.

These folks are really committed to becoming their best selves. Lots of introspection. Lots of books, lots of discussion too. Maybe not enough action.

It’s easier to read another guru than to do the uncomfortable thing. Many here already have monetary resources, so they fund courses from the popular crowd or the quantum-preneurs.

You’ll also meet who I lovingly call the mental gymnasts. People who don’t quite believe something but try to trick themselves into using it anyway (not that I’ve ever done that…)

Jungian enthusiasts also gather nearby, rewiring their subconscious layers one archetype and synchronicity at a time.

Last table coming up!

Medicine Journey Enthusiasts (Druggies)

“Duuude… Did you know psilocybin rewires neural pathways?”

“DMT will actually let you see the code” (if you look at a specific laser’s light under the right angle).

“And… You’ll meet all sorts of entities. “

But, the real ones will tell you can’t just take a trip (or ten) to replace the inner work. Some weekend Ayahuasca ceremonies will definitely help though. (Just maybe not during divorce proceedings. Family court tends to frown on that.)

Before we wrap up, one important pause.

Mental Health Crisis (Serious)

Some people are genuinely struggling. They may be vulnerable, unable to function independently, or easily manipulated. These are the people who need support and compassion the most.

If you see exploitation happening, trust your intuition. Don’t ignore it. Spiritual language can be weaponized.

Common Ground

I missed some tables, but those are the ones I know. Partly because there’s a little bit of me in all of them.

What they all share is this: the beings who sit at these tables are seekers. Dreamers. People who got tired of the status quo and started asking questions. Because of that, most are welcoming. They will listen to your strange ideas and riff with you in the best kinds of ways.

So welcome to the lunchroom. Sit wherever you like. Jump tables. Make new friends. Even sit with the popular kids if your intuition says its for you.

I don’t think there’s one correct answer.

That’s kind of the point.

So… what table would you sit at?

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