Thursday, October 31, 2013

Happy Hallowe'en!

   Goofing off at the Spirit Halloween Store with James the other day I was a little disappointed to find such a fascination with gore.  As someone who enjoys exploring his own boundaries of fear, I love horror stories and movies, including gore, when it serves the story.  Picking up a little doll, however, one that could animatronically sew its own mouth shut, I was a little confused as to what exactly Halloween meant to people in this age, and what children were taking away from it.  I felt sorry for them, for the Halloweens I knew were full of mystery, wonder and deep awe.  I vividly remember those I celebrated in my youth, where I ran through the artificial "haunted houses" our local radio stations were sponsoring, laughing, screaming, finding my way in the dim lighting, looking for the source of a particular feeling that came every October without fail.  As leaves began turning the colors of autumn, gently showering me as I walked the tree-lined streets of historical districts, I could feel the ages pass beneath my feet in the crisp air, knowing very well that I shared the same path with others who were still walking, unseen, in the dimension of spirit.

    It made me think of, and question, the great resource of the esoteric and occult literature available to me during my years in elementary school.  I find it amazing and humorous that an elementary school library would have featured such books when you think of the overabundance of the "THINK OF THE CHILDREN!" busybodies in our day and age flipping out over everything, so apt to censor, to omit, to burn, to sterilize in our modern anti-bacterial world.

   When I was little, children could still go trick-or-treating, unsupervised and at night.  There were no razor blades in apples or poisoned candy ( an urban legend which gained momentum in the 80's, only three cases of poisoned candy have ever been reported, all perpetrated by individuals within the same family ).  The books I was reading during this time had been placed there for a reason, shaping me to question and investigate life and death, all of the psychospiritual which borders our human condition.  I was learning all about the paranormal events which transpired somewhere on our planet every day.  I gravitated toward these books instantly, voraciously, more curious than frightened, overstimulated with the exciting possibility that such unexplained phenomena could happen to me.

   After all, the first house I'd ever lived in was an old Victorian home where a woman had hung herself in the closet of the room I slept in.  My mother would hear her crying late at night, the feet of the woman visible under the doorway, blue and luminous.  A heavy cellar door had slammed shut by itself on me there, catching one of my fingers, scarring and forever branding me with an awareness and interest in the great unknown.  I looked forward to each of my school's book fairs with great anticipation, wondering what new book of ghost stories or tomes of the unexplained would be available.  The tale of Bloody Mary was making the rounds at my school then, our version featuring the ghost of a desperate woman whose only child had drowned. Students were continually being dared the following:

1. Go into the school bathroom alone and stand before the mirror.

2. After the person keeping watch has turned off the lights, begin turning around counter-clockwise while repeating, "BLOODY MARY, I GOT YOUR BABY", a total of thirteen times.

3. Open your eyes.

   The apparition of this woman was then supposed to materialize within the mirror, snatching out at you for the child you claimed to have.  I always got a chuckle out of hearing the terrified screams and stomping feet down the hallways around Halloween, knowing someone had just invoked and allegedly seen Bloody Mary.

   Even before then, I can remember visiting the mall with my mother, shopping for a witch costume and looking wide-eyed over the assortment of nightmare figures displayed in shop windows.  From down a strobe-lit hallway, other disturbing figures invited me toward a haunted house that was being put on, one in which I saw people enter, but never come out.  I could hear shrieks of terror and pain, sounds of thunder and howling wind, creaking trees and doors, ghostly moaning and the rattle of chains. I hid behind my mother, even after she explained to me that it was all fake.  I couldn't comprehend how anyone could enjoy such a bizarre and clearly horrifying form of entertainment.  The figures continued leering at me near a faux wooden castle door under which an occasional plume of sweet-smelling fog escaped.  It looked like the doorway to hell, and I didn't understand how my mother thought I would find being scared to death any fun.

   We exited the mall, stepping into the parking lot, kicking through mounds of dry leaves and marveling over the fall colors.  Sitting in the backseat while my mother crossed items off her shopping list, I turned my head to investigate a sudden commotion I heard happening near one of the building's side entrances.  A small group of people I recognized burst from the doorway, laughing, holding their chests, turning to look back at the ghouls who had just chased them out of the haunted house's exit.  I understood then, smiling at the people excitedly giggling, animatedly recapping the frightening adventure they had just shared.  They looked alright, quite exhilarated in fact, and I longed to go with them, to stand among the brave individuals who dared to tread the dark places that no one else would.

   This was a time of perceptible magic, an energy tangible and intoxicating.  There were the Halloween parties thrown for neighborhood children, at school and in the homes of friends, school projects which left the smells of construction paper and Elmer's glue, the black and orange, the archaic symbols, the death masks and jack o' lanterns grinning from beyond.  There were giant harvest moons, deep orange as they climbed the twilight sky, prompting a storytelling which ran late and vivid into the night, the passing of legends spoken in tones hushed and intent.  This was an ideal time when I could find out about my own family's history with the paranormal, when busy adults could be persuaded to speak about the ghosts they had seen or heard.  Menacing shadows would play about the walls while candles flickered in autumn drafts, and the slightest noise from another room was most definitely caused by the spirit who was being discussed and votes would be taken on who would have to go into the room and investigate.

   Children ran through the streets during a night in which the veil between the worlds of the living and the dead was at its thinnest.  I ran with them, hollering, laughing, tearing through front lawns recreated as graveyards in cheap vinyl costumes and plastic masks cool on my face.  Returning home, pawing through our sugary loot while Linus was still waiting for the Great Pumpkin on television, I would think of the possibility of such a being, presiding over dark nightmare landscapes, a pumpkin king who could be invoked and reward the brave with secrets.  So much of our perception was tainted, clouded by fear. Was it possible one could learn to walk in darkness with detachment, adapting a night vision not manipulated by emotion?  And what of these ghosts?  What were they?  What did they want?  Were they really stuck in some limbo?  Were they really trying to communicate with the living?  I thought of the legend of the Jack 'O Lantern, a man who at one time walked the earth just as I did.  He met the devil one night and was able to trick him up into a tree.  When he died, he was refused admission into heaven due to his many sins.  At the gates of hell, the devil recognized him and did not allow him to enter either, but threw two fiery coals at him which stuck to his eyes, forever banished to roam a netherworld between light and dark, laughing with madness.

   As I matured, I was taken by the same odd pull every Halloween.  I would have dreams of attempting to scramble up a wet hill I could never entirely climb, only catching quick glimpses of a luminous and festive Halloween carnival in process at the top of the mound.  There was an old castle not far from my house, upon whose cemetery grounds grew a tree a man had been unjustly hung in long ago.  The shadow of the hanged man was supposed to be visible every Halloween, never appearing for me as I waited like Linus all through the night, listening to Saint Saens Danse Macabe on the radio, peering through skeleton trees at the harvest moon, projecting my consciousness out into the night and all its mysterious places, hoping true magic could still be found on this earth.  On November 1st, I'd always wake up depressed, feeling the energy had dissipated, the great carnival had left town and I had missed my one yearly chance to catch up with it.

   Down the hill from my house was a daycare above a small lake.  During the month of October the lake sat black and still in the night, the moon but a small luminous coin resting on its surface.  The daycare was reportedly haunted by one or more children who had attended it, revisiting its rooms and playground even in death.  My cousin was a teacher there, and would frequently fill me in on all the latest ghostly gossip.  A child had been heard laughing when none were there, toys would roll out of the gymnasium of their own accord, kids would claim to see other children invisible to everyone else and footsteps could be heard upstairs when none were present.  By that time, my ghoshunting skills had been refined over the years by the books I continued reading, gleaming techniques from Ed and Lorraine Warren, a husband-and-wife ghosthunting team who had visited haunts all over the world.  My cousin used to live, as had all of our family, in a house infested with spirits.  Most of the activity took place in the back of the home, in the kitchen, dining room and utility room.  There was a particular closet in a back room I had hidden myself in during a game of hide-and-seek once.  As I parted the coats and made my way inside, it seemed like the closet was larger than I remembered, and I felt my way through to the back as if it were a Narnian wardrobe.  Reaching out with my right hand, my fingers closed around something cold and soft.  I moved my hand down its length, suddenly realizing it was an arm, and felt an old wrinkled elbow.  Exploding from the closet, screaming in fear, I vowed never to enter that room alone again, and yet whenever I spent the night, I always slept on the couch near the dining room, listening and watching for any signs of activity.

   The dining table chairs were always being moved about, as was anything left on the tabletop.  Lights went on and off by themselves, lawn chairs were arranged in a circle, and invisible pebbles were thrown at the windows in the back of the house, their indentations in the soft ground below the only evidence that something strange was occurring.  One night I sprinkled a fine coat of flour about the dining room and kitchen, and left a sound-activated voice recorder under the dining table.  The next morning, I awoke to find that the chairs and the items on the table had been moved without any trace of footprints.  Playing the tape back, I could hear the objects moving, the sounds of breathing, and the chiming of a grandfather clock my cousin did not own.  One afternoon at the house, well before the age of cellphones, as my mother spoke with an aunt over the phone in the kitchen, she was shocked to find that same aunt walking up the sidewalk to the front door.  She never entered, as she was still miles away in her own house, talking with my mother on her phone.

   As Native Americans, all of us in our family were from a very early age instilled with a belief in a spirit domain, knowing full well that contact to and from our worlds was possible.  Still, I needed to know more.  What were they trying to say to us?  Where do we go afterward?  And so I joined my cousin one evening after the daycare had closed.  I poked around the rooms, my intuition set at ten, asking the spirits of the place to reveal themselves to us.  Nothing was happening, and we decided to take a break in the galley.  We were just about to leave when I thought that perhaps it needed to be dark, so we turned off all the lights.  Instantly, heavy footsteps were heard from upstairs, footsteps and a heavy scraping that followed us wherever we walked on the lower floor.

   This same cousin joined me on opening night when the Blair Witch Project premiered at a Denver theatre, as a new resurgence and love affair with the unknown took hold.  We'd been to many fake but fun haunted houses together, including the haunted mansion rides that were always featured at those carnivals they set up in parking lots in the summer.  We traded books on ghost stories back and forth, rented horror movies we only ended up laughing at, and went to the same Halloween parties thrown by other family members every year.  A year ago we took one of our best stories and were flown to California to film an episode for a Biography Channel paranormal television program.  As adults we continue to share the real-life ghost stories we have lived through and sometimes have new ones to tell.  We can thank my mother for our appreciation of this holiday, who always threw the best parties and always told the scariest stories.  She’d have little boxes set up with holes in them for us to put our hands through.  Inside she’d have things like cold spaghetti, or peeled grapes serving as intestines or eyeballs, while a haunted house record was playing in the background.  It was an innocent, spooky sort of fun I don’t see much in our world today.

   Do we look forward to this time of year as it marks the "season of rest" after a busy, mind-numbing year?  Do we look forward to the thinning of the veil, hoping it can bring us closer to those dear to us who have crossed over?  Are we simply satisfied that, for one time in the year, we can dress however we like, appear as whomever we wish, in a society so full of regulations and labels?

   I attended a spiritual weekend retreat in the Colorado mountains a few years back.  At night, we would sit around the campfire, drumming, passing around my didgeridoo, talking long into the night.  Eventually, as the moon turned the shadows of trees into ominous figures, we got around to sharing ghost stories.  One guy spoke about growing up in a mountainous area without electricity or running water.  Sometimes at night, when fetching water, there was a certain presence, an evil in the woods that would send the hairs on the back of his neck up like the tail of a frightened cat.  I'd read about these places before, author John Keel wrote of a place which lied in a "zone of fear", a frightening area where an almost tangible aura of dread could be felt.  Even in the year 2007, there are still many shadowy places in our world that are rich with energies dark and foreboding.  At the retreat, I was also told about a nearby city in the four-corners area where skinwalkers had been reported, evil shapeshifters from Native American lore as well as many other cultures.  In the same urban legend as the homicidal man with the hook lurking at a make-out spot, a couple's car breaks down at night in an area known as Blue Hill.  The male goes off to find assistance while his girlfriend waits in the car.  He never returns, and in the morning when a policeman arrives, he escorts the young lady into his car, instructing her not to look back.  When she does, she is horrified to find the skin of her boyfriend hanging from a nearby tree.  The man who shared this story with me swears it to be true, saying that documentation of this incident can be found in the city's records.

   In the same "I swear to God it's true!" vein, I'll share one final story with you, just as it was related to me.  The sister of a fellow acquaintance of mine is in Colorado applying for a job with our wildlife division.  The position she is applying for requires her to spend three months living alone in a cabin deep in the forest, monitoring tagged animals, checking lightning strikes for possible fires, and so on.  During her three-month probationary period, she finds that she enjoys the isolation and the freedom she feels living with and as one with all of nature.  In her spare time, she begins taking scenic photographs of the area and its animals.  Before she knows it, her time is up and she returns to civilization while her performance is under review.  One of the first things she does upon returning is to take her film to be developed.  Later, as she walks through the parking lot going through her photographs, she has a complete mental breakdown.

   Paramedics are called and she is taken to a nearby hospital.  An ER technician collects her purse and the photos from the scene, which are then delivered to the woman’s brother, the very same man who recounted this story to me, as he sits in the hospital’s waiting area.  He goes through the photographs, looking for anything that might have brought on his sister's attack.  There are pictures of mountain sunsets, of full moons, grazing animals, flowers and insects.  When he comes to the thirteenth photograph, however, it becomes apparent to him why his sister suffered the emotional trauma she did.  The thirteenth photo is one of his sister, asleep on the bed of her cabin.

   Hoping you find the answers you seek this season, Happy Haunting!

   - Christopher Allen Brewer, October 2013


Tuesday, October 29, 2013

Halloween Updates

   Tomorrow's Postcards From The Paranormal presentation at the Celebration Conscious Living Center has officially sold out!  Thanks to everyone who signed up and we wish Happy Hauntings to everyone who can't be there.  You may still phone the store if you would like to be put on a waiting list should space become available ( 634-1855 ).

   We will also be appearing on the Denver Post's Editor's Desk for an interview with Editor-In-Chief Greg Moore on Halloween day.  Past interviews can be found here:

   We will continue collaborating with Blue Moon Haunted History tours and other fine colleagues of ours for more ghost hunts, tours and presentations in the very near future.  Thank you for following our updates!


Tuesday, October 8, 2013



   Near the entrance to my home hangs an odd bit of taxidermy.  What appears to be some sort of mutated turtle with a spiked tail climbs the wall under a framed box label for the Cortical Systematics line of Micro Pods.  The Micro Pods are of course the latest organic game consoles on the market, which attach directly to the players spinal Bio Port, for the most immersive and intense form of virtual reality gaming known to man.  The turtle husk was procured from a Trout Farm, whereby its organs were harvested to grow more Game Pods.  Have you played?

   These artifacts are of course authentic movie props from the brilliant 1999 David Cronenberg film eXistenZ, featuring Jude Law and Jennifer Jason Leigh.  Have you seen it?  The props were procured on eBay after my umpteenth viewing.  The soundtrack, composed by Howard Shore, remains on heavy rotation throughout my playlists, all these years after its release.  Like most of Cronenberg’s films, eXistenZ also touched a nerve in a very disturbing manner, coiling around my subconscious and tickling at different archetypes, as one would unconsciously poke at a wound to process the different layers of sensation.


   In the movie, successful game designer Allegra Geller ( Leigh ) has just released the latest virtual reality product from Antenna Research, a game called eXistenZ.  At a seminar, she is shot and escorted to safety by security guard Ted Pikul ( Law ).  As her organic Game Pod took a hit during the attack, she must plug in with Pikul to ascertain whether or not the game was permanently damaged.  Inside the game, they find their behavior patterns altered by their characters, and when they come across new Micro Pods to plug into their reality becomes even more distorted.  As they are hunted by rival game company Cortical Systematics and their double agents, as well as terrorists from a realist resistance faction who believe these games are responsible for the total deforming of reality, they begin to lose their grasp on what is part of the game and what is actually occurring.


   As a gamer I was understandably delighted by this innovative film, and hearing Robin Thicke crooning about “Blurred Lines” all summer made me think about my own experiences with the utter distortion of reality.  Back in the early 80’s, I was among the many gamers forced by concerned mothers to hand over their Dungeons & Dragons role-playing games after several players became obsessed with their characters.  Such was the extent of this hysteria that a slew of generic novels were published about the dangers inherent in this method of gaming, as well as the release of a laughable made-for-TV movie starring a young Tom Hanks.  I recently finished one of those novels, Rona Jaffee’s “Mazes & Monsters”, and rewatched the CBS movie on which her bestseller was based ( it still remains one of my guilty favorites ).

    In that story, Robbie Wheeling ( Hanks ) completely surrenders to his character, the Holy Man Pardieu.  He is no longer able to distinguish the game world from his real one after a night of role-playing in the Pequod Caverns ( and having once lived down the street from one of the former entrances to Cave Of The Winds, I can’t say I didn’t find this method of game play appealing ).  Robbie’s friends eventually come to his rescue when his imagined quest takes him to “The Two Towers” ( in reality the World Trade Center ), after stabbing a man he mistook for a “Gorvil”.  His friends come to visit after Robbie has healed from this traumatic ordeal and are stunned to find that he still believes he is Pardieu, ready for his next adventure.  They play the game one last time until the sun begins to set and all the monsters are dead.


   The movie was all the more poignant as it was based on a true story, and I often thought of the kid who disappeared while I watched the Dungeons & Dragons animated program on Saturday mornings.  How could someone forget who he was?  And yet there have been many times where I’ve also forgotten who I was and what purpose I served.  I knew my name and my history, but my identity would become foreign, my clothes dated, as would my hairstyle, peering into a stranger’s eyes in the mirror, nothing more than a cog, a drone.  This still happens sometimes, working 9-hour days, Monday through Friday, my mind so absorbed in work and my tasks that I begin to feel insectoid, part of a collective, a character just doing his bit to keep the great wheels turning and nothing more, until my days off, when I wake up and realize I can do anything I want, and I have been asleep far too long.


   In eXistenZ, as well as all videogames, virtual characters remain stuck in a game loop until they are interacted with.  They might sway ever so slightly, gently bob up and down, pretending to breathe or gesture, enacting pre-programmed routines until prodded, until one approaches them and presses the “TALK” button, their responses another set of pre-programmed answers.







   You might push them, hit them, shoot them, and after a predictable response they will continue to keep staring dead ahead with blank expressions.  I have most likely appeared to others in such a manner, sitting in my car while waiting for a traffic light, staring at the sodium content on a box of frozen food at a grocery, waiting in line at the DMV.


   Some of my favorite generic virtual characters to interact with exist in many of the old Nintendo 64 videogames.  These characters are obviously far less realistic than those of today, and they often have these funny 2-dimensional faces painted on their polygon heads, their low-tech arm and leg joints similar to marionettes.  The N64 backdrops are always a digitized, pixelated mess when you get too close to a wall, painting or prop, and I fell in love with all its blatant virtuality.


   The synthetic skin, the way the characters moved like low-budget stop-motion puppets, all of their humble honesty in the way these poor cousins attempted to mimic humanity.  I remember salivating before a monitor when an N64 demo was first released, feeling as if I finally had both feet in the future, and now, with much more sophisticated and advanced consoles at my disposal, I can simply appreciate the camp value.  Perhaps I’ll be thinking the same thing further into the future when I have my spine fitted out for a Bio Port and I’m holding the first clammy, squirming, bio-organic game pod in my hands, ready to plug in and experience a new form of reality.  I see this future already being seeded with the current avatars we are shaping in RPGs, in Nintendo’s Miis , on Xbox Live, on the Playstation Network, on Facebook, every player embracing their virtuality and the freedoms therein in the same way one might embrace a religion.

   During one game, I had a couple armed guards escorting me into enemy territory.  I had the difficulty setting on “HIGH”, and it took many attempts to break into this futuristic fortress.  I would go to bed at night with the feel of the game controls still in my hands, my thumb moving about phantom buttons, wondering what combination of moves would allow me access to a higher level.  The guards, stuck in a loop, bobbed together like Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, with their guns poised, waiting for me to act, to break their loop, to open up new sets of pre-programmed routines.  I stood close enough to examine the dull adobe skin of their faces, and I could see where the seams of their faces met their heads like cheap Halloween masks, wondering what was beneath.  How far did their virtual consciousness extend?  How much virtual memory did they have?  Was there such a thing as virtual souls?

    I shoved one of them, his expression unchanging.  I shot at him, and listened to him scream in virtual pain, but I was not an enemy, so he did not retaliate.  Was he collecting data?  What did he think of me pushing him about, messing with him, discharging my laser into his abdomen?  I certainly had no remorse in molesting him, giggling as he hopped backward and let out a comical yelp which no doubt the voice actor giggled over after recording it.  I continued studying how he was connected, how he waited for the correct response from me, wondering what kind of a mind was behind that crude faceplate.  It began to become absolutely surreal, having interacted with GUARD NUMBER 1 so often, for so many hours, that in my dream that evening I found the walls of my astral space flooded with generic, virtual, heavily pixelated paint, GUARD NUMBER 1 swaying at my side.  He was unable to move until I entered a certain code into a keypad next to a nearby door.  After that, I would have to defeat an enemy, upgrade my weapon and retrieve a key.  But in my dream, he stopped doing things for me.  I entered several combinations of codes but the door would not open, and I began to fear I might be stuck there myself, in some game loop, unable to breathe in a virtual environment without oxygen.


   Fed up, I raised my pistol and fired a bolt of energy into the guard’s stomach.  But, instead of screaming while violently jerking backward, then returning to a state of inaction, he slowly turned his head around, black lines of anger painted over his adobe skin, staring at me with cold hostility.  He suddenly configured his hand into a point and shoved it into my mouth as a sharp burst of static electricity filled my chest.  I could taste burned plastic and rubber, my throat full of ozone as my moans of pain and horror became digitized to the point of sounding like a Speak & Spell, watching as my arms, which desperately tried to hold the guard back, began to take on a synthetic, adobe shade.


   When I awoke, I immediately looked about the room, focusing on the texture of my bedroom wall to verify its realism.  For a few minutes I studied the surface of things, the detail, the minute pockmarks and scratches, the random blemishes.   Random…It still appeared to be painted on in the dim light, and I peeked out my window in paranoia, in time to see the mailman coming up the walk.  I had seen him deliver our mail so many times, the predictability of his movements, his mannerisms, nearly generic and pre-programmed.  I listened to his whistle, now turned sinister, as I pondered how I would know whether or not I was stuck in a highly realistic videogame.  Everyone in my neighborhood, everyone in our world, would each contain a set of pre-programmed responses to religion, to war, to territory.  What loop did I currently feel stuck in, and what action could be taken to free myself from it?  Most people base their concept of reality around what they can see, and touch, when most everything that matters is invisible.  Most people would then never really know whether or not they were being held in a kind of Star Trek Holodeck program.  Their reality would then be a series of colored force fields shaded just so, featuring enough blemishes and random indentations on surfaces, replicators providing seamless objects, unknown programmers concealing the ultimate reality. 


   Regardless, gaming remains one of my favorite methods of escapism.  Over the years I have taken down countless robots, zombies, supervillains and monsters.  I just can’t think of any other way I might find a cool temp job as a rogue sniper off-planet.  Through these pixelated paradises I have been able to wield sleek rocket launchers, force-choke alien bounty hunters, bitch slap demons back to hell and blow enemy warships to smithereens.  In missile-heavy pimped-out hovercraft I detailed myself I have been able to clear the streets in my virtual neighborhood of any road ragers who made the mistake of threatening me or following too closely.  Don’t we all at one time or another think about how handy intimidating little rockets coming out of our headlights might be when cut off in traffic?  How we long to be able to deploy spiked chains or minibombs from the back of our cars, to have submachine guns popping out the sides, to operate hidden pipes under our vehicle that might spray slippery oil or black fog?  And at what point does the fantasy override the reality, as it did for Robbie Wheeling ( in reality James Dallas Egbert III )?

   I have a passion for horror movies, for anything scary, really, and most of my favorite videogames are survival-horror.  I am able to play them just before bed.  I love listening to soundtracks from Poltergeist, The Shining, Silence Of The Lambs and others.  I am able to fall asleep to this music.  One might think such stimulation might influence my dreams in a negative manner, except I also love nightmares.  As I will write about in an upcoming blog, I was once able to visit the nightmarish township of Silent Hill after playing the videogame for a week straight, surprised as that disturbing virtual world began to interlace with my own.  I even found actual buildings I had dreamt about, and knew exactly where the door was which connected my dream world with my waking one.  Still, how can I, with such stimulation, and my own catalog of brutal life experiences, come out of an ultraviolent videogame and have a refreshing nap while others are taking arms and gunning people down?

   As a SpiritChaser I often talk about the nature of fear and our responses to it, how it has the incredible power to utterly distort and contaminate our reality and to make us do things.  Not simply bounding over tall fences like superheroes when we feel our lives are in danger, but staying with an abusive or uncaring person for years and years, sacrificing our dignity, freedom and happiness because we are too afraid to be alone.  I often ask myself uncomfortable questions so that I don’t bat an eye when others do.  I can deal with unfortunate situations because they empower me to find creative solutions to them.  I don’t mind running through the dark hallways of my dreams being chased by monsters representing different aspects of my psyche for I know that eventually I will turn around and ask, “WTF?”

   The escapism I seek is healthy, and necessary, from the tailgaters on the highway, from oblivious consumers who bar me from products with their shopping carts, from a squabbling Congress, from petty tyrants, from the entitled, the greedy, the insensitive, the cruel.  I know they exist to teach me a myriad of things, including patience, and they are simply mirror reflections of the worst of myself.  We exaggerate in them what we don’t wish to see in ourselves.  Still, when I’m in the game, I have quite good aim…

   In one of performance artist Laurie Anderson’s thrilling segments from “Stories From The Nerve Bible”, she speaks about being detained at an airport during the 90’s with the “Superbowl coverage of the Gulf War” on every monitor.  She talks about the camera-outfitted, precision-perfect guided missiles able to televise the finding of their every target.  They had at last made war cosmetically appealing for the MTV era.  Now there are a plethora of army recruitment commercials in which eager young pyros are invited to perform battle simulations as easily as they do videogames, then go out and do it “for real”.  During U2’s ZOO TV tour, Bono and The Edge were watching television together in their hotel room as a young soldier was being interviewed about the new technologies available to his unit during wartime.  Simulations aside, he was asked what it was like to witness and interact with these new precision instruments of destruction, viewing the remote bombings through electronic night scopes and missile cameras, from monitors in tanks and helicopters.


   “It’s so realistic,” he commented.

   Later I will find my flesh the color of dull, synthetic adobe, glowing in some apocalyptic firelight, my body gently heaving up and down as I breathe in virtual oxygen, a warm game control vibrating in someone’s hands, and I know that within an hour I will have replaced one reality for another.  Unable to distinguish which is which when I dream of them, my dream yet another version of reality like a Micro Pod inserted directly into my back, I will hear an eerie whistle.  My mailman is coming, with a delivery for me.  As I enter my waking life to greet him, the mutated turtle remains in suspended animation near my doorway.  The mailman will have the same pre-programmed response he always has for me.


   “Any outgoing?”


   There is a man who cowers for his life in eXistenZ, while Allegra and Pikul aim their guns at him, and he desperately asks if they are still in the game.  His answer is met with silence, the silence of doubt, as they are ultimately unsure of the answer.   When I hear that whistle down my street I remember what it felt like to game so much that horizons became blurred and my only purpose was to find some key.  What’s more disturbing is when I lie down to sleep, the gates of my dream world opening wide to greet me, seamless in the way it transitions from the real world to the astral, and I hear that whistle at night, when there are no mailmen about, and I wonder of the myriad of realities I am stepping in and out of, which one I will awake to.

   - Christopher Allen Brewer, October, 2013

Friday, September 20, 2013

Sacred Space

   “For the highest good, in the name of The Creator, I ask that…”


   I held in my hands an abalone shell full of smoldering white sage and cedar.  Nearby lay a braid of sweetgrass I would burn afterward.  I was participating in a Native American “smudging” ritual, spiritually cleansing myself and my environment of any negative energies that had accumulated since my last ceremony.  As a child I had seen this being done in my family on many different occasions for many different reasons.  Perhaps someone was ill and the “bad medicine” was being removed from them.  Someone may have received an Indian name, been visited by an evil spirit, or was taking part in a vision quest, sundance or powwow.  I was very familiar with the smell of burning sage, having been christened Mato Cante ( Oglala Sioux for Bear Heart ) in 1991, and sweetgrass was my most favorite scent on earth.  There have been occasions in the evening where I have walked or driven through inexplicable clouds of sweetgrass when I had departed loved ones or spirit guides on my mind, and I’d like to think that meant they were there with me, too.


   Waving the smoke about with an eagle feather, the one handed down to me in 1991 from a long line of powerful, proud males, I thought of a holy place, untouched and untainted by evil, a sacred place I might call out to, whose residents I might call upon.  I often thought of Shamballa, Shangri La, the supposed mythical land in Tibet which is said to vibrate at a higher frequency so as to remain unseen by those at lower energies.  This paradise could only be entered once one was cleansed and enlightened, devoid of any lower-vibrational emotions, thoughts or intent.  I would visualize the purest and holiest place I could think of, and it often led me back to Shangri La, where I could imagine monasteries nestled within misty mountain peaks where holy men sought enlightenment and trained themselves to do any number of things, from levitation to astral projection to complete invisibility.  For hundreds of years in the snowy mountains of Tibet startled sherpas had been reporting a mysterious race of warrior guardians who could disappear at will and were believed to be protecting the entrances to Shamballa.  I thought of the monks in this realm, the modern-day Jedi who meditated daily and helped the world stay in balance from their secret domain.  I could imagine them lighting candles or Nag Champa about their temples just as I had, so whenever I first lit a white candle to begin my smudging session I thought of that pure light coming from that enchanted realm.  I would also ring a bell, sonically dispersing and shattering any negative energy and to inform Spirit that I was ready to receive assistance.


   “…anything I have taken on willingly or unwillingly, which does not belong to me, which is not for my highest good, which is not healing or loving…”


   I closed my eyes, aligning my soul with my interpretation of the Divine, tapping into how it felt, how I remembered it the many times it had graced my reality with love and concern.  I thought of the source, the place which I had sent many prayers, queries and thanks.  It was a place I was in frequent communion with for it was from this place that my dreams were generated, preminatory or not, the ones I furiously typed into my phone as soon as I woke from them, so as not to forget them, no matter how tired I was.


   “…be released from my spirit, body and mind, and cast into the light.”


   The other night, for instance, I had dreamt of an old, abandoned, decrepit and decaying amusement park under a highway overpass.  Forgotten and overgrown with weeds, it sat in the dark, in the shadows of highway bridges, beside, of all things, a rice processing plant.  When I was first introduced to the empty industrial plant in this dream, with its enormous mounds of rice and quiet conveyor belts, it was like being shown a commercial.  There was a haunting montage, beautifully-shot clips which faded into one another of several two-story high rice mounds, with an American flag waving in the wind, conveyor belts reaching toward the heavens and surreal industrial yellow plant lights turning the rice gold in the evening hues.


   The processing center was restricted, and there were several No Trespassing signs about the park.  To get into this area, one had to have someone drop them off at a particular spot on the highway, as there was no room to pull over.  They then had to hop over a guard rail and slip down a steep embankment.  No one worked in the plant at night and there was no security.  The amusement park lied just beyond, black and uninviting, it’s former parking lot reduced to broken, jagged concrete slabs, a puzzle too old to be put back together once more.


   “I ask to be filled up with light, for truth, clarity and healing, surrounded and enfolded by the golden universal healing white light…”


   As police patrolled this area frequently, a visit to this area would have to be done with speed and stealth.  I can’t remember who I had asked to drop me off, and if the person hopping the railing with me was my old best friend or not, but it felt like her.  Many times in dreams the person I started out with morphed into someone else, as would the environment I was in.  Bedrooms became shops in malls, where I’d have to throw the bed covers over my naked body while people browsed about.  Private bathrooms could become beverage stands, transforming just as I was in the middle of urinating, so that suddenly everyone in the mall could see me.  Most times these strange people just milled about like background videogame characters, pretending to breathe, to browse, to gesture, not showing the slightest bit of surprise that a man was openly using the restroom while they waited for their espressos and smoothies.


   “I release any negative, unhealing and unloving energies, vibrations, thoughtforms, entities, spirits, parasites…”


   I ran with all my might past the enchanting, mysterious rice processing plant toward the abandoned amusement park before any police cruisers overhead might spot me.  As I ran I kicked up clouds of dirt and dust behind me, my dark brown hair blowing jet black in the night, dark as the crumbling asphalt ribbons I ran upon which led to an Oz after the apocalypse.  I was aware of myself and my destination.  I was aware of my purpose.  I knew I led a paranormal investigative unit called The SpiritChasers and I was investigating a local legend, an urban myth concerning a large cache of gold hidden beneath the bowels of the amusement park and the ghosts who protected it.  Did I know of such a place in the world beyond my dream?


   “I call upon my spirit guides, my allies in spirit, who are of the light and there to assist me for the highest good.  I call upon my ancestors, my guardian angels, my friends, my Maker…”

   A rusted metal ramp led into the park’s entrance.  Many of its bolts had rusted out and the sides of the ramp, which had once gleamed in the sun, were now warped and crooked, resembling a mechanical, ulcerated tongue spitting out decay where it had once accepted happy visitors.  I vaguely recalled what kind of a person that made me, not a happy visitor but an uneasy detective, creeping up into the mouth of the unknown and intimidating, in the middle of the night so as not to be caught, in a possibly unfruitful mission to uncover secrets.


   “I cast out any dark energies, anything or anyone who would willingly or unwillingly cause me pain or harm.  I call upon the energies of protection, of goodwill, of peace, love, healing, luck, blessings and guidance.  I surround myself and my environment with light, enfolding and surrounding all who dwell within my home.”


   I tugged at one of the ramp’s sides, and it gave way with a sharp crack.  Gold coins spilled from inside, but I knew there was much more to be found here.  Just as I was about to cross the park entrance, I heard a distant rumbling.  There was a blinged-out car approaching carrying three men from a local gang, all of whom had also heard the legend and wanted to find the gold for themselves.  But suddenly, behind them, emerged a police cruiser.  I ran back toward the rice plant, staying in the shadows, ducking behind one of the massive concrete pillars which held up the overpass overhead.  The three gang members were arrested, and in moments the police car was gone, as was my friend, leaving only me to observe the quiet scene under the dim yellow factory lights of the plant.

   “If there are any in need, and if I have any light to spare, I send my love and healing energies to the ill, the lost, the lonely, the hurting, the defeated.”


   As I stood there, preparing to scamper back up the steep hill to the highway, I paused a moment and pondered turning back and going to the amusement park alone.  Could I really go back myself, in the pitch-black, unarmed, with no map of the labyrinthian tunnels beneath the broken concrete in search of a treasure no one had ever found?  As scary as such a proposition seemed, none one of my feelings about it replied in the negative.  I could do it, I could imagine myself there, moving about in a suffocating blackness, deep below ground, deep into the unknown, and from that imagination sprung the realization that such a question should have never entered my mind.  Why would my first and most immediate reaction be one of doubt when I trusted myself, my intent, my vision?


  “I send forth my gratitude, my thanks, for my home and the people who dwell within it, for the visitors who have come and gone, for the assistance I have received from Spirit, for the life I have been given and the role of Spirit within it.”

   I found myself back in the park, with a man who I believed was my father, or a father figure.  We entered the amusement park together and explored the first of the many broken-down attractions, which were the bumper cars.  The man with me brought my attention to the rafters overhead, asking, “who’s sitting up there?”  There, in the shadows, I could make out the eerie silhouette of a man crouched low, hiding in the dark.  I knew it was not a man, but the ghost of one, and my adrenaline rocketed throughout my dream body.  I went around to the far side and slowly proceeded up a rusted ladder, peering over the ceiling of the bumper cars to get a look at the spirit who sat there.  I found it tremendously unsettling to find him in such a position, as if he was ready to pounce on one of us.  Why was he hiding?  Shouldn’t we be more afraid of him?  Or was he behaving in such a manner to instill fear and confusion?  Perhaps to blend in, perhaps to frighten off anyone or anything that could be, I began to moan like a ghost, as low, deep, haunting, primal and terrifying as I could muster.  The next thing I remembered was being shaken, violently pulled from that world to another, as my fellow spiritchasing partner James shook me back into “reality”.


   “For the highest good, in the name of The Creator, I thank you, thank you, thank you.  Amen.”


   I realized I was in my bed, in Manitou, in America, in the “real” world.  James was still shouting assurances at me as my moans faded away and the lights of the rice plant went out.  “Chris, it’s OK, you’re having a bad dream, wake up, it’s OK!”  I could barely see him, his concerned face a pale Na’vi blue in the moonlight.  I had nearly scared myself awake but as was the case with my reoccurring sleep paralysis I needed James to physically rescue me from that other plane.  My eyes half open, I tried reasoning with the world I had just left.  Many times the locations in my dreams are cobbled together from various intersections where meaningful things happened.  I might be visiting my first apartment, but instead of the nearby highway I remembered there might instead be another street, one in which a big black dog would chase me home from school.


   I thought of the odd overpass situated above the strange rice processing plant.  Was there even such a thing?  I recognized the highway bridges and knew where they were situated in reality, but why rice, of all things?  Could they really be there?  I had before dreamt of places I had never visited which I discovered in my waking life.  Regardless, I was too tired to break down the symbology, but I typed the entire dream into my smart phone’s notepad for later decryption.  I remembered the ghost sitting up in the rafters and I could still feel the sensation of fear like a thick blanket around me.  For Native Americans, to dream of an evil spirit is the same thing as actually having been visited by one.  Dreaming of an ancestor who has crossed into the afterlife means you have actually been visited by them.  They cross through the astral plane and our dreamtime dramas as easily as entering a room, to send their greetings or to test your spirit, as it was said that the Underworld and the Astral World were very close together.  Was this a test?


   The first memory that emerged was that of me standing beneath the pillar, wondering if I could go back and explore the dark amusement park alone.  I wanted to say I could, I wanted to believe that I could, and some part of my dream encouraged me to think so.  Do dreams continue even after we have left them, in the same way a waterfall roars when no one is there to hear it?  I thought of myself leaving my hiding place by the pillar, reentering that dark park to claim the reward for my bravery and belief in myself, moaning down dark corridors, bellowing a warning , searching for a treasure that glowed the same gold as rice under industrial yellow lights.


   The following day I would smudge my home, just in case a bad spirit brought some bad medicine into my home while I was sleeping and vulnerable.  It may have simply been something generated by me, as I had just finished working on Halloween playlists for my MP3 player.  One was titled “SHIVERS”, and was a collection of instrumental music from horror movies and video games, from POLTERGEIST to DEAD ISLAND.  I would often fall asleep to music, in order to see how the melodies might affect my dreaming mind.  In the same way I had visited the nightmarish township of Silent Hill during my dreamtime after playing the videogame for 2 weeks straight in an attempt  to explore my own boundaries of fear, I had created “SHIVERS”, just to see where I might be led.


   I would later discover that dreaming of mounds of rice was very positive, as it signified good fortune.  I thought of those great mounds, faintly glowing gold under those factory lights.  I don’t always pay too close attention to someone else’s interpretation of something.  I always act on intuition and synchronicity, especially when dealing with matters of the paranormal, where one is attempting to comprehend and define the unseen, working with various types of energies.  Still, symbolically, I could see how the golden rice could imply a great fortune, were I brave enough to face my fears.


  A day or so afterward, a psychic I crossed paths with spontaneously began speaking with me about limitation.  She worked in a crisis counseling center and gave me examples of how people get stuck in these negative frames of mind and generate more negativity, drama, fear, anger.  She was telling me about our first impulses and how we can restructure the mind to think differently, as we often thought in very limited terms and often assumed we could not accomplish even the most simple tasks in a short amount of time – say, some sort of workload, or getting through our inbox by the end of our shift.  Our obligations begin to pile up in enormous mounds we help exaggerate, and we lose confidence in ourselves and feel betrayed by time.  I had told her nothing of my dream or my concerns, we were simply speaking about the floods I was experiencing living in Manitou Springs.

   Still, she looked me directly in the eye, and told me that a great many people were in training but they didn’t know it.  There were big things happening in the cosmos, on our Earth, in the sun, and that we had passed through a photon belt and were beginning to vibrate at a higher frequency, which would greatly affect our thoughtforms.  She said it would make it possible for us to do more, to advance both technologically and spiritually, but we would have to do both together, to keep the world in balance.  I asked her what kinds of things we could do, and what we might be training for and she just winked at me.


   When I went back to work, just as I entered my office, there was a commercial playing for a new Star Wars game on my PC monitor.  I entered just in time to see a Jedi using the Force to move a vehicle aside to block an evil Sith opponent.  I thought of my potential, mystical lands, and startled sherpas I might encounter one day…


   “For the highest good, in the name of The Creator, I ask that…”


-          Christopher Allen Brewer, September 2013