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[I apologize in advance for the overall structure of this short story, it was written in WordPad and so therefor shows up horribly in the forum format. I may revise it later for easier reading, and spellchecking will follow. I think it's readable as is in the meantime, please excuse any spelling or other mistakes as I wrote short stories in the mode of drawn out poetry and tend to trade accuracy for the stream. Thank you in advance for reading, all comments are welcome however I wouldn't waste any time critiquing my style as I am a highschool dropout who never learned English proper and would not change my methods for the world. G0d bless the robots and the chipmunks.] 
LITTLE NEON BUBBLES
- Medicine
Wondering aloud that evening, I found myself wandering in the chaos. Allowed, I wonder, in a subtle sort of soft spoken murmer; can they be seen? I mean surely they must, in certain situations, as my ancestors over the ocean have songs, book, tales written of them; have for, well probably a long time by most standards. Even dance, even an alcoholic liquour loaded with anise. The fuzzy little neon girls have to had blessed with endowment some strange naivete, possibly the village drunkards, maybe the early morning mushroom gatherer's. I admit, though my historical facts retention swells considerably for cultures of which I have no blood soaking up, I am remarkably ignorant of my own great-greats.
The hammoc sank low between it's supporting Beech trunks as I sat up leaning my palms into the net, with both legs pushed straight out over the grass. Brown dress shoes. My socks were nearly at the knees with red stripes across the upper half. Fagus Grandifolia; I still laugh... fortunatley I have little shame.
How I miss that spot up on the hill, next to the cement steps lumped under the door frame. We used to sit there on clear warm Summer nights, her beside me drinking Guiness on the stairs, the guys alternating between sit/standing against the cellar door and leaning sideways on the brick wall. You could easily join a conversation going down there from the grove if you were resting on the hammock and faced towards the house. It was perfect, no need to raise your voice, and the traffic below the hill might as well have been driving into the twilight sky for all any of us could tell.
This evening however, I was in the grove on my lonesome; the guests indulging in various microbeer, vodka and idle conversation, the typical blurry philosophical void arguments resembling they're diplopia. I was to be counted amongst the nights neophyte's, gripping the ears of an ancient luck dragon, a mixture of 40mg's d-Amphetmine, 60mg's Morphine Sulfate and a few tokes from a little wooden peace pipe. My fellow travellers took a different route to a lower plane; I never did find out exactly what designer chemical they vibrated off but I believe it was 2c-B.
Sinking lower to the earth, I was caught phascinated with the mystic movement of firefly's blinking silently, slipping in and out of perception, vacuum fluctuation, like the sparkle blossoms uttered by the quantum holographic mental field. How easy it is to find symbolic reflection in Nature. I recall thinking that it is only easy because it is how our manifestation arises by itself, to itself, within itself. But my attention was diverted, caught by a slightly different colour spectrum. The grass was aglow in a foggy haze, and I was reminded of my own mushroom hunts in the brief moments before dawn spills out above the swamps and meadows in Ocala. That faint light blue dew that hugs the compost heaps behind southern farmers love dens. Only, I wasn't anywhere near a farm, a compost heap, or even a cow for that matter, and it was around midnight, far too early for Nature's morning wood.
And they started to hum like a refrigerator, or an oscillating floor fan. Humming, and chirping, a tweaking synthesized high pitched blend of melting voices lost behind the pounding of ancient drum rituals echoing to this day on the grounds of long forlorn Lenape powwows. As they danced into fruition, at least to my perception, the microscopic gathering took on a shapeshifting geometric patterning, as if a solid structure composed of countless [mostly orange] triangles would form, congeal to a liquid light, and reform as another program took position. I wondered if this was the method of communication they used; or that maybe this was a glimpse of Nature's language? But then human Nature is concerned with amplified emotions, buttons pressed into bundled nerve junctions, sadness pulsing with the overwhelming sound brought on by inhaling nitrous oxide and the brilliancy of a sun. To this day I am mercilessly perplexed, profoundly disturbed at my inability to attain the assumed clarity they surely require of our thought processing if we are ever to commune to share each other's wellbeing.
Pan's flute brought the scene out in full glory, my enviorment seemed to wake up in a generally peaceful mood, the only menacing intention held distant by a nearby willow tree bracketing my misunderstanding of the constituents composing the malevolant whispers uttered as if the wind had an eternal sigh when blown through overhanging branches. Arising, falling, arising, falling, horizontal, vertical going through the motions, my mind snapped out of a trance and fear dug its way out of the hole in my heart, fighting a central nervous stimulated paranoia :
"If I stop thinking about existing, I will cease to exist." Again :
"Being, my sense of 'I am', is all that remains, and if I lose this 210bps it's all over. I dont want to die, please!" Panic settles scattered dust particles mind slip n' sliding jungle gym wire crisscrossing synaesthetic confusion "it wont slow down from a rate of vibration to a steady single tone, it will flatline silent" and though the fairy folk up on the hill that warm Summer night, I believe, had only the kindest loving purpose for nurturing my awareness, I never saw them again.
I had seen them prior to this experience, but never before had the impact and depth perception been so intense. Brian and Eric walked down those cement steps lumped under the frame laughing hysterically about something and it was over. I sat back up proper, took my shoes and socks off, stretched my legs out and pushed my bare toes into the grass, the dirt, and the moss thriving off a host of pebbles under the hammock. Deadly nightshade growing up the banister, morning glories trumpeting the angelic hymn, ferns screening the belly of the forest, peoples eyes swimming in the dark.
LITTLE NEON BUBBLES
- Medicine
Wondering aloud that evening, I found myself wandering in the chaos. Allowed, I wonder, in a subtle sort of soft spoken murmer; can they be seen? I mean surely they must, in certain situations, as my ancestors over the ocean have songs, book, tales written of them; have for, well probably a long time by most standards. Even dance, even an alcoholic liquour loaded with anise. The fuzzy little neon girls have to had blessed with endowment some strange naivete, possibly the village drunkards, maybe the early morning mushroom gatherer's. I admit, though my historical facts retention swells considerably for cultures of which I have no blood soaking up, I am remarkably ignorant of my own great-greats.
The hammoc sank low between it's supporting Beech trunks as I sat up leaning my palms into the net, with both legs pushed straight out over the grass. Brown dress shoes. My socks were nearly at the knees with red stripes across the upper half. Fagus Grandifolia; I still laugh... fortunatley I have little shame.
How I miss that spot up on the hill, next to the cement steps lumped under the door frame. We used to sit there on clear warm Summer nights, her beside me drinking Guiness on the stairs, the guys alternating between sit/standing against the cellar door and leaning sideways on the brick wall. You could easily join a conversation going down there from the grove if you were resting on the hammock and faced towards the house. It was perfect, no need to raise your voice, and the traffic below the hill might as well have been driving into the twilight sky for all any of us could tell.
This evening however, I was in the grove on my lonesome; the guests indulging in various microbeer, vodka and idle conversation, the typical blurry philosophical void arguments resembling they're diplopia. I was to be counted amongst the nights neophyte's, gripping the ears of an ancient luck dragon, a mixture of 40mg's d-Amphetmine, 60mg's Morphine Sulfate and a few tokes from a little wooden peace pipe. My fellow travellers took a different route to a lower plane; I never did find out exactly what designer chemical they vibrated off but I believe it was 2c-B.
Sinking lower to the earth, I was caught phascinated with the mystic movement of firefly's blinking silently, slipping in and out of perception, vacuum fluctuation, like the sparkle blossoms uttered by the quantum holographic mental field. How easy it is to find symbolic reflection in Nature. I recall thinking that it is only easy because it is how our manifestation arises by itself, to itself, within itself. But my attention was diverted, caught by a slightly different colour spectrum. The grass was aglow in a foggy haze, and I was reminded of my own mushroom hunts in the brief moments before dawn spills out above the swamps and meadows in Ocala. That faint light blue dew that hugs the compost heaps behind southern farmers love dens. Only, I wasn't anywhere near a farm, a compost heap, or even a cow for that matter, and it was around midnight, far too early for Nature's morning wood.
And they started to hum like a refrigerator, or an oscillating floor fan. Humming, and chirping, a tweaking synthesized high pitched blend of melting voices lost behind the pounding of ancient drum rituals echoing to this day on the grounds of long forlorn Lenape powwows. As they danced into fruition, at least to my perception, the microscopic gathering took on a shapeshifting geometric patterning, as if a solid structure composed of countless [mostly orange] triangles would form, congeal to a liquid light, and reform as another program took position. I wondered if this was the method of communication they used; or that maybe this was a glimpse of Nature's language? But then human Nature is concerned with amplified emotions, buttons pressed into bundled nerve junctions, sadness pulsing with the overwhelming sound brought on by inhaling nitrous oxide and the brilliancy of a sun. To this day I am mercilessly perplexed, profoundly disturbed at my inability to attain the assumed clarity they surely require of our thought processing if we are ever to commune to share each other's wellbeing.
Pan's flute brought the scene out in full glory, my enviorment seemed to wake up in a generally peaceful mood, the only menacing intention held distant by a nearby willow tree bracketing my misunderstanding of the constituents composing the malevolant whispers uttered as if the wind had an eternal sigh when blown through overhanging branches. Arising, falling, arising, falling, horizontal, vertical going through the motions, my mind snapped out of a trance and fear dug its way out of the hole in my heart, fighting a central nervous stimulated paranoia :
"If I stop thinking about existing, I will cease to exist." Again :
"Being, my sense of 'I am', is all that remains, and if I lose this 210bps it's all over. I dont want to die, please!" Panic settles scattered dust particles mind slip n' sliding jungle gym wire crisscrossing synaesthetic confusion "it wont slow down from a rate of vibration to a steady single tone, it will flatline silent" and though the fairy folk up on the hill that warm Summer night, I believe, had only the kindest loving purpose for nurturing my awareness, I never saw them again.
I had seen them prior to this experience, but never before had the impact and depth perception been so intense. Brian and Eric walked down those cement steps lumped under the frame laughing hysterically about something and it was over. I sat back up proper, took my shoes and socks off, stretched my legs out and pushed my bare toes into the grass, the dirt, and the moss thriving off a host of pebbles under the hammock. Deadly nightshade growing up the banister, morning glories trumpeting the angelic hymn, ferns screening the belly of the forest, peoples eyes swimming in the dark.
