Aberrations of Reality Read online

  “We’ll send someone for you,” Frank said, his hand on the doorknob. Rebecca was at his side, cold and rigid, staring into space with reptilian eyes.

  Wait, I said. What’s going to happen to me? You can’t just leave me here! You turned me into a fucking cat! A fucking—

  They both grinned as Frank opened the door. “Don’t worry, little fella. We’ll send someone. I put out food and water for you, so you won’t have to worry about that. Relax, take a load off. Soon you won’t remember any of this.”

  They stepped into the hall, closing the door behind them. I heard it lock. The apartment seemed to darken, and I suddenly forgot what I had just been thinking. I went in search of food. Later, I would have myself a nap.

  * * *

  The next day, Suxie showed up at Frank’s apartment. She unlocked the door, let herself in, and found Anubis napping on the sofa.

  She reached out, gave him a pet behind the ears. He purred. She lifted him off the cushion and took him to her breast.

  “Come on,” she whispered. “It’s time for us to go home.”

  REBIRTH IN DREAMS

  Dreams have much to tell us about the existential condition of being. The native peoples, which some foolishly refer to as savages, know this well. The Aborigines of Australia, the indigenous tribes of the Americas, the shamanistic wizards of the Caribbean Islands—these cultures ascribe transcendental knowledge to their dreams, and rightly so. They even built this knowledge into their grand ancient cities, whose crumbling ruins now remain like esoteric signposts, pointing us toward the origins of the universe.

  I became obsessed with the subject during my teenage years. My fascination drew me into the realm of rare books and bizarre records. Away from my fellow human beings, I retreated into a world of symbols, pagan rites, and paths better left untrod. Even after I graduated from college, my appetite remained unsated. This lingering interest in dreams affected my work life, ensuring that I remain a bachelor indefinitely.

  Each night was an opportunity for me to conduct some new experiment, which I meticulously recorded in my dream journal, not knowing what to make of the strange visions. Through study I learned of certain individuals who had found a doorway in their dreams, an escape from endless suffering, a portal to their higher selves.

  This I wanted.

  But where to begin?

  I had one idea. Some of these individuals employed substances—narcotics—specific herbs and plants which possessed consciousness-altering capabilities, to achieve their end. Cannabis was among these. Also absinth, opium, and peyote, as well as a vine from Amazonia called Ayahuasca.

  According to The Living Torah and various other sacred Hebrew texts, the cannabis plant was first found growing on King Solomon’s grave, and was therefore reputed to impart godlike wisdom to anyone who ingested it. Peyote, a cactus, apparently took its eater into the spirit world, and the session of the opium eater was akin to that of a waking dream.

  I inquired about getting my hands on some of these, and was told of a shop on the edge of town, purportedly run by a local Mexican witch.

  I decided to visit her shop on a Tuesday.

  It was a shabby tenement half-submerged in shadows, located in the back alley behind two derelict buildings. I arrived just past noon.

  Pushing through the front door, I disturbed a set of bells, prompting their chiming. I took myself past dusty shelves, taxidermic animals, mason jars storing herbs and powders, into a chamber alight with glowing candles.

  Strange painted effigies, whose origins evaded me, occupied various altars and shrines. The idols had large whitish faces and oversized black eyes. And teeth, too: square, yellow, beaver-like teeth. In some, I noticed a hand-wrapped cigar poking from their mouths. In others, glasses full of foul yellow liquid sat at their feet, collecting mold.

  I perused the shelves and display cases, my intellect fully engaged, astounded at the variety of occult relics cached here. Many were accompanied by folded white papers, on which was written the item’s price. Even the cost seemed relatively agreeable.

  In one corner, I came across an effigy four feet tall, dressed in numerous pairs of pants, shirts, scarves, and a huge hat. This slightly grotesque idol—grotesque because of its severely emaciated body and grinning-bone smile—puffed on a cigar and even had a drink in its hands. More cigar packs and drink glasses cluttered its feat, as if they had been discarded there on purpose. Like offerings.

  I discovered the witch by the cash register, fussing over a set of bones and stroking a gangly cat.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  She looked up; her hair, tangled around her shoulders, was black with gray streaks. Pockmarks covered her face and boils festered on her neck. Something was amiss in her eyes—they were too white, almost pulpy. Swatting the cat, she shooed it from the counter and turned to me.

  “It’s you,” she replied.

  This was a surprise. “You know me?”

  “You came once before. You’ll come once again… though never in the same incarnation. What do you seek this time?”

  “Sleep—and dream—inducing potions,” I said, maintaining my air of authority. “I am interested in escaping my smaller self through dreams.”

  She placed the set of bones into a burlap sack, shoving them under the counter. “You’re in luck, boy. Today I received a shipment of special potions from Mexico. You want to lose yourself into dreams? This drink will get the job done.”

  Intrigued, I let her lead me to a dark room choked with books and strange devices. It was something like the greenhouses recently made popular. Glass windows lined the ceiling, green vines dangling therefrom. Plants in pots and plants in troughs, some uprooted and strewn across the tables, scattered soil like blood. A constricting smell hung thick in the air, like moist dirt. It reminded me of the cemetery after it rains.

  In the center of the room, displayed on a flat piece of stone, was a grotesque idol. A skeletal figure wearing a white robe, carrying a scythe in one hand and a small globe in the other. Its face was like the devil in female form, with the grinning rictus of a weasel.

  “How about this?” I asked. “Is it for sale?”

  “You want nothing to do with that, Señor,” the witch said. “That is Señora de las Sombras—Lady of the Shadows. She is death. Her scythe represents the killing. Her globe, Death’s dominion. No, not unless you are looking to kill or be killed do you need that.” She glared at me, eyes like ice under a night sky. “Come along. What you seek is over in this direction.”

  We came to a big wooden crate with a black cat lying on top. Beside the cat, the word Oaxaca was stamped in bold black letters on the lid. The condition of the crate implied that it had endured a long journey.

  Shooing the cat, the witch pried the lid with a slanted iron bar, revealing a treasure trove of glass bottles filled with amber liquid. The bottles had been packed along with a slew of dried corn husks.

  “What is it?” I said.

  “Mezcal.”

  “Hm?”

  “Agave brewed from the rugged fields of the Oaxaca Valley. Guaranteed to drive your mind from realty. And look,” she held a bottle to the light as she spoke, “a grave-worm with every purchase.”

  The little drowned invertebrate floated up through the liquid as she shook the bottle; it crested for a moment, swirled, then dropped and resettled on the bottom.

  “Grotesque,” I said. “What on earth is it? An opiate? Why include the rancid worm?”

  She grimaced at my words. “This is the finest, most mystical alcohol the New World has to offer, amigo. And as for the worm, each one was hand-dug from a cemetery in Oaxaca. They’re what put the magic into the potion.”

  “I’m not much for drinking.”

  “How do you plan to escape your smaller self if you can’t indulge a little experimentation? I assure you, a robust glass of this before bed and you’ll be whisked to faraway lands.”

  “Then I’ll take a bottle, thank you.”

&nb
sp; She grinned, displaying a maw of misaligned teeth, and clasped her hands. “Excellent.”

  * * *

  That night, I sat looking at the gold bottle on the table. A fire crackled behind me. A soft breeze wound through the smokestacks outside the window, producing a monotone howl. My cats, Faust and Fauna, lolled on the shaggy gray hearthrug. I got a glass from the cabinet and poured myself two fingers of mezcal.

  “Here’s to consciousness alteration,” I said, without really knowing what I meant.

  The cats peered up from the floor. I swallowed my allotment in a gulp and began to cough and gag. The burn was severe. I rushed to the sink for water. The bloody stuff tasted like a graveyard: earthy and damp. I decanted another glassful, just for good measure, and retired to the blankets of my armchair. I read for a while by firelight, then fell asleep.

  The visions came hard and without mercy. My dreams had never been so vivid. I lost all concept of material existence, thoroughly convinced I was in another land.

  It started with a group of us climbing a mountain range. We had been nomads for a time, but somehow I knew that we now traveled toward our new home. Families toiled across rocky terrain. We soiled our clothes, as wild trees extended around us.

  After cresting one hill, we dropped into a ravine, only to find ourselves climbing another hill. The presence of oak and pine trees seemed to mark our progression through the unyielding landscape. At length, we stopped to make camp.

  As the stars came out, I stood by the edge of a cliff, the sprawling campsite at my rear. Little fires glowed between canvas tents. I heard people talking and laughing. Someone was playing a violin. Yet their merriment did not concern me, for my sight had been arrested by a looming presence in the distance. I first thought it to be a great beast lumbering toward us, but with time it became clear that the image was stationary.

  I realized it was actually a pair of images; two dark blotches probing the sky. Twin towers erected on the horizon, whose architecture appeared bizarrely alien yet unquestionably human. Silvery columns mounted up and up, faceted with innumerable pane-glass windows, with stars circling around their dreadful apexes.

  Were these towers our destination? And was that smoke I saw rising?

  I awoke in the armchair, sweating, entangled in blankets, oblivious as to my whereabouts. Slowly, however, the vision uncurled from my mind and I regained composure. The fire had died down and the cats had scooted closer to retain the heat. The room glowed dimly. My mouth still tasted of the mezcal and I was exhausted. Quickly, before suffering a fugue, I recorded the vision in my journal and retired to the bedchamber.

  The next day I reread the entry but felt wholly detached from it. It was like something someone else had written. I had no memory of it. Though glad to have achieved the vision, I lamented that I could not remember it.

  I supposed the journal entry was evidence enough. Still, the description of the towers sent shivers up my spine.

  I repeated the process the following night. This time I took three glasses of mezcal. Was that too much? I had to admit, I was developing an affinity for the stuff. Only a quarter of the bottle remained… also that floating, wretched worm. Soon I’d be totally out. I decided it was good the witch possessed so many bottles, for I would have to return and purchase another.

  Nestled in my armchair, I awaited sleep while listening to the hypnotic noises of the fire. Faust and Fauna had curled into my lap. Soon my head reclined and my eyelids drooped, and I was transported out to the sea.

  I was alone on a thrashing ocean, with a carpet of blue spread out beneath me. Seagulls wheeled overhead, issuing their forlorn cries. Somehow I was perched atop the water like a messiah. A gold sun rode the sky, mitigated by groups of silent, scudding clouds. I saw no land, only row upon row of white, spuming waves.

  I began walking across the water. It was strange to feel nothing under my feet. I bestrode fluffy currents of air and evoked God’s mightiness, taking great pleasure in each calculated step. If Jesus had done it, then I could do it: any man could do it. We were all created in His image and likeness—we were all part God.

  I awoke in a state of peace, still sensing the undulant water in my stomach and the cushions of air beneath my feet. I remembered my vision and didn’t need to record it. I even translated it: all men (and women) are children of God, possessing the same powers Jesus Christ possessed. We must only wake and realize it.

  Pleased, I stretched in the armchair and yawned serenely. Morning poured in through the uncurtained window. The fire was out, and the cats were meowing to be fed. I had slept the entire night.

  * * *

  When I returned to the witch’s hut, she was not glad to see me.

  “What the devil are you doing here?” she snapped. “It’s only been two days.”

  I chuckled. “You know exactly why I’m here.”

  “You’re after more mezcal. How quickly you abandon your temperance.” She was stocking a jar of herbs onto a shelf, straining to reach its highest location. The jar slipped and shattered on the floor. A puff of smoke with a demonic image arose briefly. It was a face painted white, skeletal in appearance, with hollow eyes and square teeth, biting on a cigar and sipping a glass of mezcal. The image intensified, waved, then faded from sight.

  “Maximón, take it,” she muttered.

  I stepped forward. “What’s that you say?”

  Her impatient hand gestures urged me away. “Is nothing. Is not for the likes of you.”

  “I see. Well, I’ll have you know that I gladly indulge intemperance for the sake of altered consciousness.”

  “Have you finished the bottle? Did you consume the grave-worm?”

  Here I faltered. “No… not exactly.”

  “I refuse to give you more until you do. The grave-worm induces the strongest visions. Return when you’ve experienced those.”

  At that point she forgot I was in the room and went on with stocking her shelves.

  As I headed for the door, turning on imperious heels, I replied, “Yes, I most certainly will. You needn’t worry about that,” and left the shop.

  * * *

  Night found me contemplating the bottle again. I watched the invertebrate grave-worm ascend and descend through the honey-colored liquid. My cats looked on from the hearthrug, heads cocked. At last I drew the curtains, and sat in mounting silence.

  To eat a worm? Such a thing was unheard of! No cultivated gentleman would stoop so low.

  But I was above cultivation, wasn’t I? I was on the brink of revelation, venturing into unknown landscapes possessed of amorphous kernels of true knowledge. I wanted universal wisdom. I wanted power and ascension. I wanted refuge from this dreary mortal coil.

  I wanted escape from my smaller self. The part of me that felt lonely some nights, that felt like an outcast, and was bitter for having to live in a world where men had ceased to think.

  If to learn the purpose and physiology of the universe meant biting the head off a grave-worm… then I was prepared to bite.

  I lifted the bottle and depleted it, wincing as the worm bumped its way down my gullet. I started to cough, to become nauseated. I bent forward, resting my hands on my knees, but the feeling passed.

  Then I was completely drunk. I fell into the chair, studying the ceiling, imagining the worm in my stomach. Soon the acids would take effect and break it apart, absorb it, filter it through the rest of my body. How long did the process take? I didn’t have a chance to wonder: in a minute I was asleep.

  But something was different. I hovered above my body, observing the passed-out figure in the armchair. My head was back, my eyes closed, my mouth ajar. I didn’t seem to be breathing. My body looked so pathetic without me inside it, merely a… husk.

  Because I was a specter, I phased through the roof rather easily and shot into the star-strewn sky. A sea of buildings and lights unfolded below me. Streets appeared insignificant and narrow. A gathering of smoke rose from every chimney, and a bulbous moon held up the dark
ness. In the distance, a string of mountains, dark but visible, cut the horizon in twain.

  I could go anywhere; I was free. The world was mine!

  The words came too soon, for the next moment I was soaring up at a mind-numbing speed. I tried to scream but nothing came out. The world fell away like a trapdoor—smaller and smaller and smaller, then bigger and bigger and bigger—until colors and topography had blended together. Deep blue ocean crept up at the sides, soon encompassing everything. The earth pulled away from me. I was carried into outer space, and there I saw the whole planet rolling slowly and timelessly in its lonely black void.

  It reminded me of my smaller self.

  When the mad journey ended, I remained suspended in place, the stars twinkling about me. The nuclear sun burned nearby, but I dared not seek it out. Instead, I turned the other way, away from Earth, toward the cosmos, and went insane instantly. The higher spiritual realms were too much for me to comprehend. They filled my brain, wiped it clean, and I forgot my name, my story, my life. I became a part of that Godlike blackness: empty, beautiful, alone.

  A fire ignited within—flaming, flaming, flaming. Pain enveloped me and I exploded outward, bursting into ever-widening circles. Pieces of me scattered and were gone, but my core, my soul, remained intact, glinting like a fiery ember. I became aware of others burning around me, for now I was not so alone.

  My transformation was complete. I had succeeded in killing my smaller self and was reborn in the fire like a rising Phoenix. I had become the triangle, the triad, the converging balance of the three, the fourth whole.

  I am still here, riding my cosmic vessel through oceans of time. Drinking my perpetual glass of mezcal, smoking my cigar, displaying my square wooden teeth. Perhaps I am a star, you tell me. Go outside tonight and look for my painted white face, my black eyes, and my crooked clown grin. I promise to be blinking ever so brightly… just for you.