down before dawn, catch magnificent waves, they crash and explode like the birth of some universal event. for some reason (cold current) the water is considerably colder today, but it's invigorating and i'm enjoying riding some mighty powerful waveforms as my void claims me. 

you can't explain this stuff, it's beyond zen, it's some sort of hyper gate, transcendental.

later i have a coffee and get stuck into my osho book, i like the way the man talks, he makes some great observations about religions. i like mischievous. 

he talks about how happiness is something which is found from something or some one else, it's source is outside the self. he says only when you are creating something can you find bliss, which comes from within, it is not dependant on something external. i know all this but it's a pleasing confirmation especially as i have been so unhappy for a while, yet my moments of bliss are frequent.

the sun seems to burn through the clouds, and now as i drive home the sun is blazing the day away, intense and penetrating, it begins to get very hot and i turn on my over head fans and smoke a left over spliff, i think about sonchia, my mentor in jail, ponder over the conclusion to 'asset.'

it certainly was an unexpected ending, yet it was the only possible conclusion, i mean it's exactly what i would do, oh maybe i'd chose the enhancements but i am not a buddhist.  my mind wanders to ideas and ways of living that are hundreds of years old, the human brain was different back then, things were nowhere near as complex. buddha left instructions on how to follow him but our brains are very different now than back when he was daydreaming under trees, we can't possibly apply his techniques to our brains and expect the same result. we need enhancements. yes, i conclude, i would not have locked myself up, but i would have smoked that last thai stick and taken the upgrades. there is no going backwards sonchia my friend. 

a quick surf as the town is packed and i'm parked illegally, but the waves are tremendous, i catch a super powered one that blows all my illusions into the vastness of nothing. it's that one single one, the obliteration every soul searches for, outside the time space dimensions, i ride it to the core of my own void. it's beautiful and terrifying, it's sublimation. 

outside i deal with the horde, all plugged into the town for a long weekend, shops spilling over and walkways packed as i shuffle through. i wanted to go to the bank but it's to tricky and inefficient. i count my blessings and slip away back to mission control.

i check my mail, a card from an old friend, a friend of my ex wife really. i don't know what to do, it says she wants me to call her but i'm sort of unconnected to that past and don't see a point in reconnecting, i'm sitting on this one.

a card from my union thanking me for working on xmas day. i didn't suckers, i had the day off. i hate that union, total bunch of dumb zombies who have never helped me deal with any of the masses of abuse i encountered at work yet somehow manage to deduct $30 a week and send me an xmas card for my troubles.

i get a card from kate, bless you kate. it was so lovely for you to think of me. i get some messages from people via text, all wanting me to get in touch. i ignore them, just not in the mood right now. 

the light fractures as late afternoon sinking sun streams across the horizon through the big tropics and into mission control where i sit pondering my own disillusion into the void. 

wake up, weather changeable and my time seems to slow down as the morning catches up. i grab a coffee, walk around looking at colourful birds, my dog missing in action i wonder if he has found a better home to hang for the day. leftovers and exhausted children would be infinitely more attractive than an exhausted and left over man.
i read for a while,  stop and think about my own compass, is it fear, indifference or lust, it's really all over the pace this morning. 
fear. i have jehovah's witnesses coming, friends that found jesus. although i love them i hate their company, it's a dead end because there is no way i would become a witness. it's the ultimate detachment  and yet it's just another attachment to something quite ridiculous. however i respect their enthusiasm. i have to hide all my weed.
i smoke a little spliff before they arrive and my compass heads to lust. how do i know this? i go out to jb hi fi and buy a new tv. it's a big sexy one. a dumb impulsion gets the better of me but at least no one is pregnant right?
i sit down at mission control and look at my life 2016, strange year, a sad one in some ways, lots of shifting, loss, conflicts and weirdness but that's my life. i've grown somewhat indifferent to it all.
see i am all over the place. 
i burn some incense new stuff called 'black magick' very hard to get. do you know you cannot import this stuff into australia. lucky i have a chinese connection. 
i meditate upon the compass and attempt to dissolve it but i get an erection as thoughts flood my mind about a sexual encounter i had yesterday. back to lust. 
i need a surf.

always smiling, positive guy, everyone liked you including helen the head girl whom i secretly desired. helen was so happy when you started dating her, and who am i to stand in her path to happiness. just kids, head filled with dreams and outrageous ambitions. you were smart and immaculate, while i was a punk, more drawn to bowie and the clash while you dug those soul legends and ska. 
you and her were a good team but i knew even then something was amiss, it was written on her face shortly after. i saw it, but it was difficult to read and i was still young.
i came took some photo's of you and your ska band before you went of to new york. i had know idea you were being shaped by some mogul, i was in the 'screaming blue meanies' belting out bowie covers and playing velvet underground songs while you cut wham rap and got banned. that was cool man, i respected that. 
next thing i know you and andrew are some huge pop stars and your paying wembley stadium. i hated those songs man, but you seemed the same, that flamboyant vanity, that tom cruise grin, the unshaven stubble, stupid outfits and loads of dancing girls looking like they had scoffed down far to many anti depressants. 
not content from taking helen, you and andrew then took the perfectly sexy shirley and turned her into some sort of disco bunny. i loved her for the pink hair and safety pins not the fucking fluffy jumpers and white ankle socks. last xmas indeed.
well yog, i have to admit you came out in style, busted in a toilet, front page news, man that video clip was the first adult song you made that i thought was great. outside. yeah you made some funky tunes smoked a lot of weed, had a few supermodels on speed dial. that's all we wanted from life i guess. 40 years later your heart explodes while mine beats on, i don't know how many more beats it has left but it makes me wonder about the numbers, it's a numbers game they say and i was always bad at math.

it's stinking hot, covered in sweat like slime second skin that burns up the atmosphere. it's underwater over land, the day hazes away, and clouds hang like dali clocks in the molten skies.
i'm pedal to the metal down the freeway, turn off down some side road and sleepy suburb. the dawns delayed but when it arrived it had vengeance in it's heart. 
i weave down before the traffic catches up, head into galston gorge, that sunken bushland that takes me straight to prehistory. man there's no sign of civilization here except for the road and my old truck. no radio signal can reach me, just some looming interference. the air con makes a rattle and hum coughing along, barely able to pump out anything but short spurts of hot air and an irritating buzzing. 
i'm descending into the valley, down we go spiraling narrow road, rickety old bridge a hairpin turn or two, this is remote but it's in the middle of a city. sydney has pockets like this, it's a wild place despite what you see on the tv screens, it's land will kill you, they don't call it untamed wilderness for nothing. there's something else here to, some magick. an ancient one, one you don't wanna fuck with unless you know what your doing. 
the mechanics in my truck are clunky, each gear change sounds abrasive and when the windscreen falls out i know i'm pushing my luck. i hear the tyres crunching over glass and in my single side mirror see the sparkle of fragments catch the light like exploding stars.
the truck begins to slow down, i rev the engine thinking speed may help but the movement is sluggish and snails pace and the more i rev the more a thick black smog engulfs the old jalopy. my chest begins to burn as sunlight streams through. i've already stripped down to my shorts and my skins starting to fry.
suddenly the radiator goes, a hot gush of steam shoots upwards in front of my horrified face. the air con packs up and the truck splutters to a standstill. i am fucked and i'm fried unless i can get out of the sun. 
around me flames start to appear, spontaneous combustion. fire come to life. already several small pockets surround me as i wander away from the truck watching in disbelief. 
they say never leave your vehicle but mine is melting, i watch the tyres smolder, the ugly stink of rubber and toxic black smoke. 
i attempt to run along the road but my shoes are sticking to the tar. 
seems like i'm in an australian version of hell, flames begin to grow towering up and leaping from branch to branch, smoldering embers float across my line of sight like tiny lethal fireflies and then as i rush into the bushland the very flames of hell are quite literally licking at my heels. 
momentarily the smoke seems to disperse and i run to a standstill. i am surrounded by fire, a circle blazing away but frozen, a fire wall, a firewall.
a tiny ember floats by my shoulder traveling on an easy wave trajectory with no angles. i watch it as it catches my eye in some fixation. it moves faster and at and suddenly stops, hovering just at my face.
all moments froze, my mind still operating in fear at the speed of life, thoughts just like flames sparking into ignition from nowhere and burning up into nothing, my synapses exploding, all things frozen except my mind as it burns inferno like exploding thoughts, memory and ideas. i can't move anywhere but the safety of my circle. the fire itself is ceased mid-burn, each flame on ice as if time has stopped. i am in a photograph captured at 1000th of a second. physics itself burns.
through the frozen landscape something moves, a shadow being glides through each flame, weaving past burnt tree trunks, feet make a crunching sound crisp and clean upon the ashes of the bushland. it snaps the columns of flame that stand in its way, it breaks into the circle from outside and stands before me, it's ancient face from a time and place beyond all human history it's wings are black and scarlet, like burning blood. it's terrible gums and teeth like a hound. it walks around me like a shark would swim around prey, eyeing me up.
'let's make a deal mission?'
a finger is snapped and i can speak and move freely but the area is still suspended in time. 
'who are you?'
a powerful voice riding the wind screams like a chorus of angry vultures from the depths of a black charcoal soul. it not only cuts through every atom that vibrates within my flesh it sears itself into my soul rendering it outside of natural law.
'i am the adversary, lord of fire.'
and then a whisper, 'i came to claim your return but i am willing to come to an agreement.'
the nature of fire is it is immensely unpredictable and destructive but it comes from the same place. a place i am familiar with the secret destination of all alchemical transmutation, the sun.  
my negotiation is simple. emissary of the sun on earth.
the lord of fire disintegrates before me, taking all flame and fire and leaving me alone in the scorched earth with a quick look of acknowledgment, for we are brothers. and we both believe we serve the same light.  

the flaming lips -the terror

the blade meditation has cut away everything, it's sometimes quite beautiful and utterly terrifying. sometimes the meditation just kicks in on it's own, it must be finely attuned to my mind, maybe it is part of it i can no longer tell. it comes in so many forms, a hurtling hurricane of blades with no real form. a nano machine, millions of micro blades razor sharp splitting through time and memory, attachment and desire, an autonomous steam roller squashing and tearing apart photons, a robotic thing constructed of fractals, alien undetermined shaped, a silver octopus with razor blade tentacles, it's squeezes along neural pathways compressed and expanded, it devours like ammit but more like the hand of kali.
moments of ego slip out and float away, aspects of self shatter, elements of i are imploded while light liberated. it's unbearably painful to let so much go, all suffering and happiness, it all brings more of the same desires. i am almost free from it. 
sometimes i just find myself in a situation where i just invoke my blades and they come from the depths, from the mists, from the dark fathoms of the mental universe, they appear and churn, destroying it all, any sense of myself is passing into another fiction, nothing is true, everything permitted. 

an old friend from tokyo city iggy comes to visit these shores, we catch up on three consecutive sundays, it was good to see him readers, really good. iggy and i go back and as a younger man i got to see how unique a thinker he was, how individual and different. in a society of clones zombies and depressingly empty souls i found him a beacon of hope. i listened to him as we swapped stories of travels and ideas. his passion for mountains, persia, the forgotten parts of maps, the places where no one ever goes. 
me i had taken a strange path but it was accessible for anyone to follow should they choose. iggy, he went along a pathway that no one could follow. 
so it is good to see his return. it's been about 10 years, and now he is a cool father and a husband, blazing his own trail. 
we talk and it's just like old times only i'm older. my vitality is in decline, i'm sluggish and my bones are weary. iggy moves like a frictionless android from the future come to save or destroy us. 
hive city where we have laksa for breakfast, the women are all beautiful here. we always dug that asian vibe. 
for some reason i have a leaking eye, i buy a black eye patch which helps and take a photo of us both outside the hive, we look like we are mercenaries on shore leave but for some reason the photo is lost, i search for it but it's MIA.
those sundays flew by fast old friend. i miss you. and dear reader here's an example why.
i smile as we part company and i stupidly say (on auto pilot)'take care.'
and with that smile, the one that knows it's got something to say, iggy says, 'no! take risks.'
it makes me laugh but i guess you had to be there. 

after heat came the rain, i returned back to mission control loaded down and weary. i started reading and writing, casting out my circumstance and the serbian woman at the other end picked up the current. 
i thought the transmission would be georgian as i had recently seen some georgian script and it reminded me of an ancient language i knew. the strange motifs sent my mind asunder, the girl that drew them even further. i was casting and you turned up. 
i read four novels in the time i had, one straight after the other, part of a series, i had read five of them before so the theme was familiar and i knew the essential plot but the details were important so i just read between my long working hours and made considerable headway. 
i travelled from georgia, thailand, cambodia and nepal. hong kong would be next but i was fractured, splinters of me had taken seperate roads, one on their way to india as i speak. the splinter in nepal was being tutored by the nameless monk. he touched my forehead and transmitted to me the most powerful meditation that must be left unwritten and unmentioned. 
another splinter seems to have found its way to florida where it indulges in many hedonistic activities, sex and drugs surround me like a steam  bath of sin. i enjoy it all, for i am here to experience.
another splinter travels with my son, i sit next to him in an aircraft, we look out at cloud city landscape below. i am there in astral form only, just for protection. he knows he can call upon me at anytime and i think for the moment he's just feeling anxious and needed some reassurance. i write something down in his book:

if you fear loneliness do not travel.

travel is transformation.

a splinter of captain mission is of course smoking opium in thailand. the red sinking sun pours light across the skies painting it with a violent brushstroke of vitality. my eyelids are heavy and above me on the balcony a beautiful fan revolves with a clunky whirring noise i adapt to. strangely as i surrender to my state a rouge splinter is having slow languid sex with a girl whom has a serpent tattoo that winds around her lithe brown flesh, tail at her left foot as it wraps around her stomach exposing her belly button and makes its way between her breasts and finishes just as her neck begins. i kiss her serpentine symbol and a little hiss escapes her lips.

in hong kong i am eating some noodles, assaulted by sound, the horde moves past me, traffic crawls while scooters and bikes weave in and out of cars. the air is half filled with the stink of spices and fresh cooked foods and the rank of car exhausts.

another distantly attached splinter is in a colder part of serbia. i ask the glamorous girl in her leather boots how people stay warm in such a climate. she looks at me and says in a hard edged broken english voice, 'der ink much vodka, fuck like bear.'     

one thing i never understand is why australia (my adopted home) hates intelligent people so much. i was very popular when i kept quiet and just played sports but now i speak up and have ideas i'm sort of shunned, nothing worse than a smart person in australia. oh, well there is one thing worse, one with dark skin i guess. that's me.
now i hear they want to build a sporty stadium out west, why not a fucking library? 
the answer is australians are kept dumb and led by politicians they deserve, may as well build a colosseum. let russell crowe and mel gibson thrash it out while we all watch and cheer filled with cold beer and high on stupidity. 

an old technique, rise with the sun, watch it over the water as the first waves hit the retina. synchronise spectrums, extend the auric field in meditative expanse and discipline. walk down to the waterline, get toes and feet wet, see the pathway out from feet to horizon and give praise. 

already very warm, perfect curls upon perfect waves, they come in sets of three, large ones and i always get the last one, with my trusty fin. we ride and i am propelled through zen like states, my charkra system is vital, i have no distinction, the very blood that races around my body is as the pulse of the ocean, atomic dissolution  only the mind is left, neither here nor there, so where but everywhere.

it cannot last, like all things, orgasms, enlightenment and love, even a good meal, it lasts for as long as it lasts and the method is to understand clinging to it only brings tension, let it go, let it come, let it go, mantra of the noble path. 

i surf the morning to stillness, in golden light white divinity, profoundly sexy and alive, not even the oppressive heat matters, the day is born in splendour. the sun will rise and set, and everything is as it needs to be in the moment. 

every buddhist even in suffering is the potential to be free.  

i'm on a radio show with a psychiatrist and he's talking about the way asian men are now all risking their health to have their cock's enlarged with gels and silicon, an extremely painful procedure with harsh side effects not to mention it's illegal. the dr. explains that western advertising, porn and the internet where once asian men never even considered cock size important now they are all insecure and there is an epidemic loss of self confidence. he says previous to this the asian cock was quite adapted suitably for the asian vagina. ironically with all this advertising comes a rise in impotency amongst asian men. 
'so the west are literally castrating the east? the host asks.
the psychiatrist laughs, 'yeah that's one way of looking at it.'
the interviewer asks me what i think of western culture.
'it's basically a culture of emergency, emergency climate, emergency   economics, emergency epidemics, emergency drugs, wars on this and a wars on that, speculation on catastrophe, the sun zooming in, the meltdown expected. but if we did not believe you could control everything there would not be an emergency would there?'

a dream, a message i can't say but i'll take it as conformation there are things beyond what we can even comprehend. 
it's evening the sun has set over a large open air stadium, filled to capacity, i sit on the lawn at the front, and the atmosphere is beyond electric. david bowie, in all his various incarnations is playing a live show, he sings into the stars and then comes over to me and whispers 'thank you captain mission,' and then he shakes my hand in what i can only describe as sincerity. he smiles, i do to i'm sure in my sleep and then he returns to sing. 
later i am above the grass area, a luxury box looking down at the stadium and the man. i beckon a girl, 'come look see, it's david bowie.'
she seems disenchanted, 'yeah, i know i'm here, i know what's going on'
'but it's him. he's alive.'
she wanders of bored.
i look downwards as the dream fades and i awake.

fortunately my personal supply of medical marijuana is flowing. 
i drive home in the traffic, i'm listening to all india radio. i like some of their stuff. i like driving to them. i don't feel the need for speed. usually i listen to the radio, a banal station where they talk about politics through their predictable left wing prism so all india is a nice distraction. 
there's a lot of traffic down the winding road, everyones slightly maniacal and aggressive, especially the dumb tradies. 
when i get home i feel exhausted  a throbbing in my head, the terrible stress of being responsible for people, the frustration of not having a creative outlet at the moment other than write dumb stories about slow death from weirdness. maybe i'm turning into an h p lovecraft type, the monsters for him were the other. the blacks, the jews, the alien races. for me they are people who want a piece of me. i have always disliked that feeling, hence the themes of being eaten, cannibalism and devouring. 
i'm going to write something very dark and malevolent soon, i want to explore this. i am very influenced by liard barron whom you must seek out and read, i recommend 'the croning' to start with but you can start anywhere, any collection of short stories will do it. i love his work, so well executed and those brutal characters  the strange sexuality, the weirdness creeping in under the doors. he writes like a master and with such skill takes you into the dark like you never have been before. horror like this, cosmic horror is becoming very popular apparently. i guess it's a sign of the times.
i listened to a podcast by some writers who specifically wrote horror novels, they all seemed to agree that you have to start out writing a story about something normal and relatable, you need something very average that the reader can relate to and then introduce the horror. it's a disruptor. 
    

heavy day at work today, a client smashed his head against a desk, it make the loudest 'crack' i thought a fire work detonated, he then smashed his fist into his chin and bashed himself up pretty badly. we managed to put on a helmet but he struggled and proved to be fearless. he even tried to bite himself. he's pretty serious, a hard case, self injures and has serious epileptic seizures. this is the side of autism you don't hear about, the side where they are so far removed from reality there is no way back. occasionally i get a glimpse of what's under there, through all that defensive shit. it's like a moment of clarity but it's far and few between. i administered a dose of heavy tranquilliser, he was calmer but it took a few minites. i felt like i needed one to, the shock of that whack really effected my fragile psychology. later at his psychiatrist i asked if medical marujuana could be used, it's very effective against autism and seizures. the dr. said there's no supply and people have been waiting for it for many years. most people waiting are in far worse condition than my client. 
makes you wonder sometimes.

i'd driven west for two days, drunk a bottle of tequila and smoked a packet of cigarettes, filled up the wagon several times and slept approximately two hours in a small town with no name. i'd stayed in the truck, no point exposing myself, at least in 
here i was protected. 
once the booze ran out i stuck with the weed i picked up before i left. it cost me a few hundred dollars but took the edge of my fear.
the landscape was like mars, red dust everywhere with no real signs of life. occasionally a cloud of dust in the distance would turn out to be another car or 4x4. they would honk their horn or yell some incomprehensible call as we crossed but i remained silent and focused on driving away as fast and as far as possible.
yeah, it's unusual for me to drink or smoke but my nerves where shot to pieces and my head filled with some sort of traumatic memory i couldn't expunge, alcohol did seemed to blur the details and that was good enough for me.
i'd packed my bag in such a hurry, i'd forgotten basic stuff, a passport, bank book, laptop, i had probably left my front door wide open. it was of no consequence, i didn't plan on returning. what i found in the bag was a couple of cd's which were useless as the truck had no cd player. there was a worn copy of an old science fiction novel by robert heinlein and some loose change. it was a small bag. i chucked it from the window at 120k's. 
my possessions were now a truck, the clothes i wore, a bottle of water and a bag of weed. 
i poured some water into the back of my throat and sucked hard on the dying joint. my thoughts had slowed down, events stopped spiralling and were beginning to form some sort of lucid narrative.
it started with a dream, maybe now in retrospect it was never a dream but some sort communication from something i couldn't quite comprehend.
deep sleep, darker than night, a soft sensation and whispering in a unfamiliar language, my eyes appear to open as the sound becomes louder and through the ambient light i see the red eyes of beasts burning like wolves as hot breath hits my flesh and their salivating mouths drooling acid hits my body, mouths leer down and unholy teeth tear into me. my scream is lost in the sound of their frenzy, bits of my body torn away, blood spurting up and staining the sheets. it's a horror movie in my head. there are graphic details of abysmal  brutality, soft focus close ups of flesh being pulled apart like cotton wool, long beastly array's of teeth chewing bits of arm and leg. there's my eyes rolling back in their sockets as some wave ripples through me, but it is not pain. these beasts are eating me alive and i feel no pain just pleasure. i watch myself being eaten by them and all i feel is joy.
did i wake up? i did not, i fell into a deep deep sleep soft angels whispered blessings over my carcass. 
in the morning i cleaned my teeth and dressed, completed my work day with unbounded energy all the while feeling incredible pleasure from my dream of the previous night. my performance at work was impressive as though shot full of energy, my thinking was acute and sharp, i problem solved in seconds challenges that would usually take me hours. i also noticed my reactions where faster, my sensory system heightened. 
i had experienced drugs that enhance performance but this was beyond any drug, even the powerful shamanic tools, although i had neither supernatural of psychic abilities only i was animal sharp. i could hear conversations in other offices and focus in with excellent precision. this spilled over all my senses, vision, taste and touch. in my lunch break i usually have a salad wrap but today i ordered a steak sandwich and could not only taste the molecules absorb themselves into my bloodstream, i could tell the fear the slaughtered cow felt at the time of death. and that felt like nutrition. 
i managed to keep myself away from my peers at work and slipped away a few hours early, on the drive home furious thoughts rushed through my mind.
how can a dream or nightmare have such an effect upon me, perhaps i was completely mistaken. the only way to know was to return to it. 
once home i showered and checked my messages, several from tina the girl i was fucking. she wanted to see me so i texted her back with some excuse, she got angry and sent some hostile texts so i turned my phone off and took myself to bed.
slipping down, somewhere deeper than any space, a new dimension wraps itself around me. something grabs my arm and bites down sucking blood from my wrist. it feels so good, my body relaxes and floods with pleasure, a semi- sexual arousal. the hunger of the pack as my limbs are tor form my body, a violent splurge of aggressive animalistic  savagery. i see myself i smile in rapture. i can feels hands upon my body, ripping it apart.
sunlight floods through the bedroom, i lay there naked breathing, i am alive. it's incredible, my body floods with power and strength, i can perceive intense detail just by focus of attention, drill down into atomic structures. 
the day is bizarre, i'm in a completely different time, people around me function in slow motion while i act with a superior swiftness. i accomplish superhuman amounts, while consensus reality moves through treacle. 
mid afternoon i'm overwhelmed by hunger. i slip out and buy some meat, the butcher smells incredible, savage brutal death surrounds me and it fills my body with a formidable desire. 
i lock the door to the office and unwrap the packages, i must have bought a whole cow. there are ribs, slabs of steak, hearts and tongues and even tails. like some cocaine frenzy i devour it, ripping into it. the stink of death is beautiful. i'm high, stoned and tripping, the lives of several animals absorbed into my memory, every detail, births and sleeps, the pastures in which they graze, the swishing tail driving away flies, the stink of cow manure and the words of a farmer, the tension of inevitable death as they move from field to cage to the incomprehensible terror beyond the metal wall. that fear feeds me, like some injected nutrient supplement the fear within the raw electrons of dead flesh offers me life. it's repulsive in one tiny part of my mind but the flood of pleasure and power overwhelms moral consequence. i'm seduced easily by such a flood of deterministic impulse. 
i wrap the bones up and hide them. my shirt is stained from blood and bone fragments litter the desk, and my office stinks like a slaughterhouse. i spray half a can of air freshener in a veiled attempt to disguise my repulsive appetites. 
on the drive home i'm torn between stopping for more meat or getting home to return to the dream that empowers me. 
am i a werewolf? 
the very thought strikes me as absurd. i do a google search and eliminate this. for all my internet searching the most plausible solution the internet can throw at me is an iron deficiency but this does not explain my dreams. it's not rational, what is happening is something else, it's a transformation of some kind, i'm passing through some shamanic stage perhaps, some further initiation ceremony.
in sleep they come, many of them, shrouded in darkness, only teeth and eyes penetrate yet their form is part human. that fierce intelligence and strange language, the harmony of their sound. like birds flock they begin upon my body, not just eating the flesh but ripping it away, peeling it from bone and sinking claws into delicate tendon. the pleasure is engulfing me, semi erotic joy floods my mind, my breathing becomes faster as though close to orgasm. my heart plucked from my smashed ribs, and bitten into by the jaws of unknowable horror. darkness is a mass of weight, it wraps itself smothering all light and extinguishes everything a hunger sated.
a series of text messages wakes me, the last one reads, 'open the fucking door.'
i go to the door naked and open it. there on the floor she sobs. for a moment something inside me breaks, i feel it crumble and reduce me . i look down at the huddled wreck, she is sobbing and whimpering.
i kneel down and pull her up, 'come on, come inside.' she trembles and splutters.
'i was asleep, i didn't know you were here.'
i lead her towards the kitchen and sit her down on the red stool while i fill the kettle with water. the night light keeps us both in the shadows.
i get some words, a sorry story about her insecurities and desires. very middle class i think, but don't dare utter anything to upset her. eventually she wraps her arms around me, and i feel like i have to reciprocate. i don't want to but i have no choice, and as i hold her to me i get a scent of her neck. discretely my nose runs down the curve, millimetres away from her skin, my lip twitches involuntary and i feel some primal urge deep down begin to surface. 
'it's okay, it's okay, everything will be okay,' the words come automatically inversely proportional to my actions, it's not calculated that way just an algebra of desire. the neckline zooms closer until it's just a massive landscape of pulsing skin under which i see a lattice of muscle and tendon, that major artery like a motorway, the taste of her like a hit of heroin exploding into my blood. her powerful life dissolves through my olfactory system and i see it all from her cosmic like inception to her ridiculous confusion of peace transformed into shock. life doesn't flow out of her, it's ripped, shredded and devoured.
i sit amongst a pile of hair, some unrecognisable organs, an eyeball and bones. my hunger sated. the whole thing a blank, no memory except that neck being conquered. the blood that soaks me drips onto  the wooden floor as i walk up to the bathroom. 

i find myself on the side of the road, the truck still running. 
i rubbed my eyes, it was bright and i was nowhere, just some red trail i must have taken off road. i estimated it to be late afternoon, the sun getting low. night would arrive soon, i figured i had four hours left so i rolled another joint and stretched my legs. 
i'd not only killed her, i'd eaten her raw. a human being. no matter what i was, what i had become i still felt guilty. that had to count for something. when i stepped out the shower, i had already made up my mind. there was only one place to go. away. inland. i could keep people safe by exile. possibilities are reduced to all bad ones, soon they would track me down, soon i would hear sirens and soon i would be thrown to the wolves. but at least in the process i could exercise some harm minimisation. in my short intervals of sleep no dreams came, but it would only be a matter of time. for the moment it was peaceful. 




        

there's combat in the air, some one looking for a fight. i feel the hairs on my neck rise up, blood flows faster and my heartbeat shifts up a gear. i avoid conflict but sometimes it just tracks you down and seeks you out. this life it's in the form of the pesky bush turkey that has savaged my tranquility with it's discord and disgusting perchance for shitting everywhere. even pan stays out of it's path. 
so i have resorted to lateral strategy, a form of reasoning that came to me via the great occult tradition  and some late century tactical war manoeuvring. 
this goes against all codes of morality so don't try this at home unless you have protection. 
i made a deal with the ravens. they swoop down upon the confused turkey, they screech like demons, peck and surround the pest while it staggers bewildered and dazed. i watch from the balcony at the strange ambush, the big black beast runs for the exit, the corner of the garden where it can hop across into the neighbours. it has worked, now i need to make payment to the ravens whom seek their reward, a thin slice of cheese.
if only i can train ravens to attack all my enemies. 

the emerald city basking in sunlight on a glorious spring day as i wander through the streets, accessing public transport like a citizen in my undercover suit and skin, the eyes of authority flicker past me without suspicion as i weave through the crowded streets of asian markets and hive central. i should shift my plans and stock up on cheap nutrition but i have a magnetic pull towards the japanese bookshop where i pick up some interesting novels.
i stop in at the japanese shop for a black sesame ice cream and green tea cake. the lady who serves me looks bemused as i offer her a calculated and flirtatious bow, instead of being impressed with my efforts she just laughs, 'have a good one mate.'
my romantic moment shattered i seek solace in my ice cream, and prepare for the journey home. 
i'm currently reading paul trembley's novel, 'disappearance at devil's rock' after reading, 'a headful of ghosts,' im ploughing through this one, it's excellent and i can't turn pages fast enough. 

i'm crossing zones like a slippery fish in the hands of an axolotl. it's hard news in a soft zone, it's like the negativity has infested me and grown taken over my old bones. since i bit the sunshine now i'm not a moonbeam. i'd save myself but it's to late now.

like the wuthering heights directed by  david croninberg, this is a marriage of inconvenience, technology meets the new flesh, oh i'm such a mess as i walk up and down i'm the saddest clown in the room, i'm a washed superhero who turns into dr. doom, i'd save myself but its to late now.

i can't stop it, negotiate or dodge it, that inevitable wipe out, hot crash as you smash, bones crack and blood splat hit the ground running to a standstill on a windmill, it's a bitter pill. listen to what the man says in a war zone, talking on the exploding telephone. every act an artefact, expression of a self imploding artist speaking to the nation about the act of creation. 

out on the north end of sydney is a small suburb where the streets run out into wilderness, it just swallows up suburbia and if your unlucky to find yourself lost down there, chances are you will never find your way out. it's a gorge, a massive valley with a winding road that takes you down into it's depths and then out to another suburb. you pass prehistoric bushlands, views that are ancient and powerful, cross a single file wooden bridge and then it falls away to beyond nature as we know it. there's nothing obviously beautiful here, just the terror of the remote wild.
i drive an old van along hairpin bends, ledges that drop away to the past, precarious journey for fools and explorers. i'm meeting someone at a small village, we exchange paperwork, drink a coffee, talk a bit and i drive away. i wanted to put a face to a voice on the phone. i am glad i did, as i drive back impressed.
the sun beats down, it burns the day away, the skies are so blue it feels fake, the birds are amazing as they celebrate the spring. i speed out from the gorge back to civilisation and that dumb artificial feeling of safety. 

my new job bewilders me, i sit down at a desk and answer hundreds of e mails. most requesting numbers and charts filled out, time sheets and paperwork. i answer as many as possible but they just keep coming. i do certain tasks and attend certain meetings. i don't understand anything. people use anachronisms, a strange language designed to intimidate or dumbfound. i do my best.
at one meeting i am surrounded by my old bosses. now i am their equal they say nothing to me. i loathe these people, i loath my job.  i like the place i am placed, the unit is staffed by excellent people all really good, we are all refugees, moved her from different units because we see through the curtain. i like the people i am working with, real fucking committed and mature. 
they have all been bullied and intimidated and then moved sideways, just like me. i get a massive pay increase. i know why people do this job now but i don't know if i'd want to keep doing it. it's crazy, a lot of responsibility. i hate the paperwork, the meetings and the bureaucracy. it's nuts! 

prince- the sacrifice of victor

coney island baby - lou reed

solar saturation sunday as i move through the city, stocking up on books, i pick up some interesting volumes. particularly 'the myth of the andalusian paradise' by dario fernandez morera, a book i had been after for some time.
i pick up volume 3 of 'the familiar,' volume 5 of the karl ove knausgard biography and some other elusive books i had been seeking. 
later i head to meet people in newtown, it's a glorious spring day and we enjoy the wonderful sensations of city life, a pub balcony, a stroll through the park to stop upon a park bench and watch events pass us by, we have incredible italian food including the most divine desserts. and then i head home on that strange train, head buried in the final chapters of alister reynold's new book 'revenger' which is his best by far.

  

5am see's me driving along the highway into a majestic sunrise, blazing australian red and scarlet slashes across the huge sky, there's nothing quite like it, a powerful ancient landscape meets the glory of dawn. i'm contemplating my new life as some sort of team co ordinator type, responsibility pours into me like a self important beurocrat from a dostoyevsky novel. 
im split into various parts, my many selves operating a juggling routine. one fights a war far away. he's battle worn now, waiting for the results, he's cynical and jaded, ready to die. 
as i turn of the highway a spectacular rainbow shoots up into the stratosphere. it's biblical in it's architecture, gods promise...

the next morning the threat of storm havoc is in the atmosphere, as i drive towards terrible beach at 6am. i scan the waters, messy choppy surf, strange clouds forming, anarchic patterns herald chaos. i take a chance before deluge. i swim out in the ice water, it's shark country. the conditions perfect for attack but i figure i'm okay out here, i'd be so numb from cold i wouldn't feel anything anyway.

no waves this morning, it's far to random but i swim around and get wet, a few casual dog walkers and joggers look out at me a lone figure in the icy chill of the tasman sea. later i'm drinking a coffee dripping wet, being warmed by a friendly waitress from spain and the aspect of me that is presented is a ghost like phantom. i try to bring myself back together but i need time and some closure on a few fronts, soon i tell myself, soon.  

i wanted to write about the tv show i watch for a long time, i watch it on blu ray as i bingo watch the whole season without adverts and having to wait for another episode and believe me the tension and drama is so acute a week is just to far away.
i like a lot of series at the moment, orange s the new black, true detective, game of thrones, black sails but there is one show i should hate by all accounts, a tv series on pitch i would really avoid yet it has come to be one of the best shows i have ever seen and it's called, the walking dead.
i will not spoil it for you but it's not what you think it will be. philosophically it's the opposite of star trek, a show about hope. it's about no hope, it's about hell upon earth, it's horror and it's an utterly devastating experience to put yourself through. yet for some strange reason it is my fave show, possibly  because it's confronting. each series and there have been six now, becomes more and more captivating and it took me the two series before i really became hooked upon it's greatness. you as a viewer are made demands upon, you have to follow uncomfortable narratives, you have to be prepared to invest in characters you love whom come to do disgusting things you hate, you have to understand the unimaginable circumstances they are in, you have to cling to them and learn to let them go. this is a tv show they got right, it's a rare thing where horror works. the zombie apocalypse has always been a story that opens a pseudo political window into culture. the dawn of the dead was a brilliant film about consumerism, but here the zombies are nowhere near the threat as the survivors are. the zombies don't have to survive, they are free from all emotional suffering, pain and seem to just be functioning on auto pilot while the survivors are forced into transformation by such extremes. they loose their humanity and the walking dead are the living. 
there's enough humour to just keep you going but it's rare. there's enough beauty to fix you to what's important and the narrative is unpredictable and yet elusive. all we know is no matter what these characters go through it goes from worse to worse. 
i just finished watching the harrowing conclusion to series six, man it was sobering. it was indeed horrific and awful and made me feel sickened but i love some of those characters enough to keep watching. i've never seen a show that throws up so much philosophical stuff in your face, keeps you petrified and wanting more. the walking dead.

the wind picks up, shoots through mission control blowing up some paperworks and suddenly my lounge is filled with giant confetti. i scamper around picking them up, it's the old novel i was working on, now all out of sequence, probably a lot better. i should finish that one. 
i sip my coffee and stand looking upon the garden, filled with parrots, kookaburras and wrens. not a fucking bush turkey in sight thankfully. i rather be a bird man than a turkey right?
i feel close to packing in my job, i can feel the anger and frustration simmering away deep down inside my guts. i feel the absolute futility of it. i notified a corruption. now the person is attacking me and setting me up. i warned them this would happen i asked for protection and what i got was a circus. 
i could jump ship easy, there are people calling me but it does go against all principle. 
i'll fight this battle. i'll take my nemesis down, he's a weak petty dumb drone of a man, a bully and a thug. i have the support of the team but not the management absurdly. the management are a ridiculous group of paper pushers, it does make me laugh at their attempts to manage with blue sky thinking bullshit. hey australia it didn't work for tony fucking blair how do you think it's going to work for you. this type of work requires acute skills not dreamy ambience. ah well the pistols are drawn, i am in the sights of a psychopath  but he fires blanks whereas i have a nuke in waiting.

how i fucked fate and ate my own karma
by
captain mission

winter 2017 found me holed up in the temple of anissa, screaming snow had sealed me from any chance of leaving until the season changed and spring began melting the ice.
the snow was fierce, i hated it. blizzard whiteout, that snow blindness was eating up hope. the fucking irony was i only turned up for an overnight stay, just to grab some artefact for the bastards at the black museum. 
the pilot said, 'sure mission, we will be in and out, those monks hate visitors.'
even then 1000ft above the mountains in unimaginable turbulence i knew we were never quite going to make it. this was a one way trip. i wished the pilot would shut the fuck up and focus on the big black cloud looming over us, but instead he just chatted away gibbering about some girl he had fucked in chicago. 
i was clutching the chute and trying not to throw up when the storm swallowed us up.
i don't know what happened to the pilot, no doubt he faced death blabbering about his one night stand. me i clutched what i thought was the chute and fell out from the hatch at the mercy of the renegade winds. only the chute was an inflatable raft. somehow as i was tossed around i pulled a cord and it inflated, so consequently when i hit the snow at the side of the mountain i not only had a soft landing i had a sledge that carried me down until i sailed over an edge, once again glided through hard falling whiteout and landed in the grounds of the forbidden temple. the raft stopped at the feet of the holy one. i know this now because he told me, but at the time i couldn't see anything except whiteness. no doubt the raft had saved my life. i was laying flat upon my back and oriented myself so i was on all fours crawling on solid ground until one of my hands felt what appeared to be a foot. 
the holy one grabbed my arm and led me inside.
they fed me hot teas and herbs, gave me some strange paste to eat. they bathed me and took care of the cuts and abrasions. i think i must have broken a rib as my chest hurt with every breath, so i lay down and slept for a thousand years.
later i found out i was in anissa, at least the pilot had got me here i thought wondering what had become of him. last time i saw him he was falling out the front of the aircraft sucked up into the storm.
i asked the monk who was sitting near me. he said in broken english, 'no one else here. only you.'
the holy one made certain i was healed, sure i could have used some painkillers but they did a good job with their plants brews and tibetan bowl sound baths. i could feel the vibrations in my broken rib, my organs, and blood vessels.
no-one knew the age of the holy one, he only made an appearance once a day, he would drink tea and talk to some people then he would retreat to his rooms. from the monks i came to understand he was ancient, a man who had transcended space and time, his name was lam they told me, but additional information was not forthcoming.
gradually as my vision was restored i caught glimpses of lam, he was a child, dressed in robes. it was hard to make out details on his face but his eyes were bright and far to big.
my restoration was due to one monk who went by the name of iggy pop. i don't quite know how he adopted iggy's name but it was quite amusing. he would often hum iggy pop tunes to me under his breath and as my strength returned i would join him and sing the words. our fave was 'neighbourhood threat' but we did good harmonies on 'turn blue.'
iggy or monk pop as i liked to call him poured me a tea, and i asked him about the holy one, dali lam.
'what's that cat's story man. he's tiny, a dwarf or something?'
'not dwarf,' monk pop shook his head, 'he is the holy one.'
although i attempted to get more information about dali lam monk pop kept suspiciously quiet.
later i asked monk pop about the artefact and pulled out the papers from my jacket pocket. 
monk pop looked at me seriously, 'you know what this is?' he asked all seriously.
'fuck, it's just a piece of paper man, it don't mean nothing. just burn it for all i care.'
he looked at me curiously.
'i don't care. the black museum can go fuck themselves. cutthroats and gangsters anyway, i hear they are into some weird voodoo and black magick shit. sending me out here in the middle of nowhere. fuck them all.'
the winter was severe. it froze everything except my blood. my blood seemed to burn with an intensity i had never felt. i don't know if it was the high altitude or the tea but i felt good, warm with an inner glow and alert. monk pop gave me some lessons on meditation and i took to it well. he gave me mantras and chants that i practiced and found offered me insights into not just my own thought processes but some of these sounds had an effect upon my exterior world. once i found myself in a deep chant, a vibration so powerful when i opened my eyes and found i was sitting cross legged about an inch from the floor.
another meditation took me back through time and i saw myself being born. only i was not just watching myself, i was experiencing the whole process. the journey out from my mothers womb. i saw past lives, rebirths and deaths, all played out like an immersive film, but as real as it gets.
monk pop was surprised at how quickly i was learning all these techniques, he was also encouraging, he took me down to the library and showed me a collection of hand written parchments. some were ancient, most were even older.
unfortunately i could not read or understand the language, sanskrit, but other parchments were covered in drawings and symbols i took to be astrological. one used the motif of dragons and i was particularly drawn to a picture that looked a lot like the earth from space surrounded by a black dragon. not only was it beautiful and intricate but it seemed powerful and significant.
monk pop said it was magick and symbolised when and how magic came to earth.
eons ago earth was a beautiful paradise, an eden of lush life forms, rich and diverse. all at peace, everything in harmony. but then the red dragon came to earth from space. it made fire and burnt all things of beauty causing chaos and fear. then as the scorched earth clung to life the white dragon came and ate the red dragon and life once more bloomed in harmony. but eons later the last dragon, the black dragon came. but it was so black no one could see it, only feel it. the great beast wrapped itself inside the earth and slept, but it's power radiated out and gave the earth its magick.'
impressive story, groovy pictures. i dug these lord of the tibetan ring tales. 
we ascended the spiral stairs and left the dragon charts alone. we sung 'china girl' as we climbed, not the bowie version.
gradually my anger at being stranded and abandoned, thanks black museum, abated i began to feel something else, a kind of stillness, a peace. in fact the bare stones and the snow and ice reduced everything down to basic fundamentals. sometimes when i ventured above ground i would gaze out at the mountains and their peaks, i would soak in the strange wilderness and let it overwhelm me, these places were said to have demons and i could see why, they were awe inspiring and powerful. nature at it's extreme untouched pristine and raw had a certain majesty. it was also dangerous and unpredictable and sometimes t's slow moving geology would move fast and swallow you up.
every afternoon i would catch glimpses of the holy one. he was so small, i couldn't quite get my head around it so one day i asked if i could meet him. 
monk pop smiled, his eyes alight, 'it is forbidden.'
what could i do, my hosts had saved my life, i could only respect their wishes.
monk pop had been in the temple since birth, he said the female monks live amongst them as equals but are often indistinguishable from the males, he pointed at two robed monks walking out of a doorway, 'see those are two females.'


routines became rituals, the day was spent in deep meditation and contemplation. but for me i seemed to be drawn down towards the library and the ancient dragons. i spent many nights down there in the candle lit chamber gazing through the many books, images and symbolic charts. despite my lack of language skills and any real idea on linguistics i did discover some patterns and similarities which i cross referenced with monk pop. 
he smiled, 'beyond my pay grade,' he whispered.
the dragons were representations of energies, forces that had come to earth or perhaps manifested upon earth to the decedents of these monks. the dragons were sexual in nature, it represented sexual energy or some form of powerful spiritual energy, it was complex and difficult to distinguish between the two but my intuition was focused and acute with ambiguity as all magick tends to be. the red being primordial in nature, one could call that raw sexual energy, wild and unbounded, the white being a more conscious controlled power perhaps love but the black dragon, the magical one was difficult to decipher in terms of magick.

under the forbidden temple was a vast network of catacombs, they sprawled out into the mountains and reached in all directions. monk pop had informed me most of the tunnels had been unexplored for generations and only dali lam really knew the complete network. he spoke of monks who had gone missing down there and never returned. 
sometimes i took myself along a corridor with a few candles and some string to guide me back but i never got very far, the candles burnt out, the string ran out or i just got spooked.

four months into the white out i was down in the library reading what may be an astrological or alchemical formula, but the chances are it could have been a recipe for cheesecake for all i really knew. however there were certain fascinating aspects to the diagram.
'it's certainly not a recipe for cheesecake captain mission.'
i turned around to see dali lam standing there alone. his face was concealed under a large hood but his eyes were clear and they were not quite human although somewhat asian in appearance they were elongated and blacker than anything i had ever seen. dali lam was an alien. a grey i guess if we must think in terms of classifications but whatever termanology alien was most accurate. his massive forehead now revealed as he pulled down the hood.
'yes, yes, i am not from here mission, please get over the shock and lets discuss philosophical matters.'
'i'm sorry, it is a slight shock. it's just i never once suspected you would be...er not from here.'
'not human, you mean.'
'yes, not human.'
he smiled, 'we are all made from stars.'
i nodded, at least that was fundamentally true. something we had in common. he moved towards me, and looked at the table where all the charts were laid out sprawled across the stone surface. his long fingers moved them around and into some sort of oblique cohesion. again he spoke without speaking, some sort of telepathic projection.
'you are curious and have decoded much of the meaning in these charts with intuition but the real clue was not the representation of the dragon but the one of...'
...'the earth.' i finished for him.
'yes, these charts are eons old, way before mankind had any knowledge of the curvature of the earth. you were focused on the mythical but the clue lay in the science. these maps are indeed seeped in mystery, they were drawn by myself when i came here but they are in my own symbolic terminology, from my world. the dragons represent an aeon and you are correct to identify this with energy. some cultures see them as consciousness but you saw a sexual force. where i come from we see everything in sexual energy, all life is sexual in nature and it is the primal force that drives all living things. the red dragon symbolises this indeed but you ascribe love to the white dragon, whereas for us it is control. love under will. love although is indeed a by- product for us it is a dimension we cannot comprehend in the way you humans do. for humans it is ever present and real. my race don't have anything quite like it but we wanted it, so we came here and attempted to understand it. we do understand it but it is not possible for us to feel it. our needs are different, you have love we have control over our sexual natures. my race left me here after i made contact with a human you may have heard of, his name is mr. crowley.'
'alister crowley. yes i know of him, i have read much of his works.' suddenly it dawned upon me, crowley had completed a ritual where he had made contact with an alien intelligence, lam. he had even drawn pictures of him and it was apparently the first ever drawing of a grey alien in western societies although anthropologists and archeologists had also found cultures that had cave representations of lam.
'how old are you?'
'in your time i am thousands and thousands of years old, in my time i am just old. i have seen much of your planet and it interests me, which is why i chose to stay. occasionally i made contact with individuals and groups, some human brains are able to comprehend me without to much trauma so i need to be somewhat selective when i are contact. i came at period i call a nexus event, the shift from one aeon into another. the man, crowley was a herald however he misunderstood much of my intentions and communications. 
'it was probably the smack.'
'no it was his ego, thus i relocated to a society with out the same ego issues.'
'anissa, the forbidden temple.'
'it's only forbidden due to its topography, but the monks are very well practiced in a certain form of vajrayana we call kalachakra.' 
he reached out with his long spindly fingers and spread a sheet of parchment over the dragons. slowly unfurling it for me.
'all the monks here are buddhas, they have attained enlightenment, escaped suffering and their rebirth into this particular life was chosen specifically for you captain mission.'
i laughed.
then i saw lam was serious. so i stopped and tried to look serious.
'lam, you better explain what you mean.'
he pointed to the image, it was wheel like, psychedelia  wheels within wheels beautiful colours, purples, deep crimsons and rich blue tones, bright vibrant reds, a psychedelic kaleidoscope and as i looked i saw two forms within the art, two beings joined as one. this was not obvious, it took a while to make out and sometimes my concentration lost focus but my meditation practice was helpful in connecting to the images.
another chart showed what was an intricate mandala, and as i gazed into the mandala it immediatly absorbed me completely, i was sucked into it. 
i could feel my brain changing, certain neural nets creating faster than my thoughts could travel and new pathways expanding into unknown areas. i saw time streams and an explosion of memory in reverse.  partly patterned on my meditations but mostly new flashes of insight and understanding. as i stood there i heard chanting, the monks had entered and had begun some sort of ritual. lam hovered before me, a faint glow around him. the cycles of time were split into two  spinning wheels, two godlike beings, the wheel of external time, the internal one and then through the mandala the extraordinary unknown one. forbidden to mortals this last cycle, it was the karmic 'mechanism' of rebirth. the monks were practicing a tantra called anuttarayoga tantra which were graded practices through levels of unknowable time cycles, potentiality. they had escaped time itself, they could reincarnate anywhere, in any point along a time continuum. lam had taught them how to travel through space and time, escape even death and rebirth. it was incredible, my head began to feel lighter and i noticed my body glowing. the mandela was a star i gravitated towards, all dimensions shifted away and although i could hear the chanting monks, i could not see anything but the shining path towards the huge mandala and the strange entities that they were made from. i opened my arms embracing death, life and the doorway between, my head flung back chest out as i passed through into the iris between worlds. 

you can never escape time only its limits, the confusion it brings, the instinctive attachment we develop to it that give birth to karma, that renders us at times mercy, also known as fate. as i passed through the kalacharkra lams voice whispered inside my own expanded mind, 'liberation is our only mission captain mission.'
i thought i heard monk pop singing 'here come's success' in the distance echoing in snow capped mountains... 
...born into snow blindness i felt the strange soft ice around me, the whiteout of a savage elemental force ripping into my skin and burning my cheeks. spots of red drips ran down my face, splattered onto the snow in immaculate explosions, a trail of debris behind me i laughed and howled and maybe i danced, for i remembered death is nothing but forgetting. 

in the strange frozen landscape i looked beyond the falling blizzard and up towards the forbidden temple of anissia.

later i woke up in the military hospital in the autonomous region, someone had hooked me up to a drip and as i sat up on the uncomfortable bed asking the nurse if she had heard of the forbidden temple. she insisted i was found in the wreckage of a light aircraft wandering around snow-blind and with a broken rib and a few cuts and bruises. she said there was no temple there and no one knew of anything like anissa. 
the black museum didn't take long to track me down, their men in black paid me a visit at the hostel i was staying at two weeks after the hospital had discharged me. we ordered drinks at a coffee shop yaks milk and freshly ground coffee, the men wore their back suits and trench coats. hid behind their wrap around ray bans as i explained i had not been able to locate anissa or the artefact. they looked at me and laughed, 'you're a fool mission, you are the artefact.'