THE MIND DIMENSION, CHAPTER 006

THE MIND DIMENSION, CHAPTER 006

OCTOBER 29, 2014, 4:33 A.M. WEDNESDAY

I was holding back on telling, and I know I can post for safe keeping only, at least on the BLOGGER account, by hitting the ''DRAFT'', instead of the ''PUBLISH'' prompt. Still, it is being publicly continued for now, and holding back the largest part of that recent high school dream is just stupidity on my part, so I am telling it now. But I really have to make it so only the few who need to know what I am saying, will put the (2+2) together, and anyone who does not need to have this detailed information, might try, but may arrive at a 3 or a 5 or even a 9.368. I was going to sa I must BE something, but PP and the first letter stands for paranoid and last one does not stand for anyone I ever conducted music business with; might get all bent out of shape and then proceed to come down here to my crib, and bend me all out of shape. So I won't say a thing, WAYV.

The high school was in a totally unfamiliar area, in whatever universe it was in. Still, across from it and a large baseball field past that, was a highway, and on the other side was a large building that was about a dozen stories tall, industrial, not residential. The entire building was owned by the makers of my PRIVECODE MACHINE from the tail end of 1983, when I purchased this wild device, and kept it in its shipping box until leaving 1802 Robin Hill to move into 134 Norris Avenue, from Voorhees to Atco, in New Jersey, on 1 February, of 1983.

Mark Minor as some of you know, along with Salvador, Peter, Wilson, Alan, and a few others, were all in one place in this ”waking world” but they were not all in this parallel universe of the dream world or the multiverse. Mister Minor had no sailboat, and was not related to the great John Dee of England, but he did want to go home, without getting into any fights or drinking all through the non daylight hours. He seems to have been connected with the same supernatural forces that both 'witch-doctor' Wilson and I both are also. Oh, that is what he called himself, until he graduated to 'voodoo priest', I merely quote things, tell news, you know, not make up stories,. But yes, I will tell stories, true ones, no matter how much they appear to be a must-be-fish-tale. Mark Minor and I walked across this baseball field, and the weather appeared spring-like, and there were no palm trees within the limit of sight, so I don't think I was in Florida, in whatever universe I was 'dreaming to be in' through a living double of myself. Suddenly Salvador came running out of nowhere, maybe left field if I can make a joke here. Then he pulled out a miniature KFP machine only a foot long, that also had a wearing collar, like that thing in 1986 I wore to play roulette, and got teased by the casino personnel in Atlantic City. It made access to two different money player chips more accessible, so I wore it, and let them all laugh at me. I was the one laughing making a clear grand weekly, off of their tables.

Instead of keys and knobs and dials and places for discs to go, was a long blank area like a rectangular drumming pad. He then proceeded to say hay there or some similar thing to Mark minor and myself, and then while wearing this thing that he put on directly after this, he put his two hands out as if to use a real KFP, and instead of music, he began doing what he did back in 1965 and 1966, over at the New Jersey Neuro Psychiatric Institute, now defunct; just like Bancroft Neurological Health System, as well, and Turnersville Pathmark; and so many other places; accomplished by powerful covert methods by the History Marker Remover section of the mighty ESS, the (HMR). Salvador Ventura then began tapping the way he used to at the institute, with his fingers, only as he did so, a tiny little speaker system on each side of the rectangle he was wearing, would speak what he was code-tapping, in any possible voice, and he laughed real smuggly while adjusting in-between tapping, with his left hand, a small set of almost invisible dials on the left of the contraption, I believe there were four of them. He had me talking, he had Mark minor, then he had Diana Ross, the Motown vocalist. I asked him why he was doing this and he began laughing, not loud and revolting or anything, just a soft unoffensive tonal quality laugh, but he just kept laughing, and laughing. Then he took the thing off, and put it back in some backpack that he had attached with a small double silver chain, into his right pocket, leaving it dangling half way to the ground. His laughter stopped abruptly, and he looked at me, and said, “You fucking asshole Mark”, meaning me and not Mark Minor. “You really believed that shit, and then you say how great you are at bluffs and fakes and poker and shit, what a crock”. I just stopped dead in my tracks, staring at the bastard, sort of angry, and a bit hurt also. I thought we were pals, and here he is fucking with me. Then Mark Minor spoke up and said back to him, “Hay, he doesn't want to get it, you know how painful some family shit can be, ya dork”. This is when I jumped in and said, “Will somebody please let me in on just what you mother fuckers are all quacking about”! Then we all sat down at some bleachers that were past the one end of this ball field, leaving us to stare off at a highway about 150 feet ahead of us, and on the other side of it, the building, completely owned by the one and only, multiversally famous, International Mobile Machines Corporation.

This is when Salvador reminded me that I was a type-1-exploratron, and “why should I tell you a thing”, he said, “get out of my pal's body before I kick your ass”. I told him the truth with unquestionable candor at this point, that I now remember this is totally true, but I did not mean to get here, it is all a sixth dimensional program that thinks and makes all of us pawns then move on a huge Packman type simulation videogame of a sort in five dimensions called hyperspace. Then he said, “I don't care about all that shit Mark, all that matters is that you talk a big game about poker and you're letting peeps pull all kinds of double blind bluffs on you, you know, like they would say those things with that much certainty on that show, and not know another truth”? Then I realized what he was talking about, even cornball idiot me has limitations to my VSG Syndrome and the stupidity that so many times goes along with maintaining more painless vacuums in memory. This is when I realized what was being spoken, and also I put together that I was here in this crazy place, sitting on bleachers, with the bleachers again, for heavens sake. Then he burst out into raucous laughter unlike the first time at the beginning of this, and said, “That wild so-called fictional book of yours in 1994, TBP, holy hell Mark, there is more happening than just port in the storm years, ya' dam dummy”. I then said, “hold shit, I know this now, stop making fun of me. Remember how you hated your father making fun of you and were screaming out for Miss Wescott to help you”? Then he retorted with, “That's your world, not mine. Here in reality, I never went to some sike ward with you in 1965, you fuckiGN butt wipe”. I then ended this conversation with, “Well Sal, all I can say is they do sound alike when they speak as adults, so Jesus, forgive me for not being almighty Goddess”. I jumped up and left Minor and Ventura just looking at me, and walked to a bridge for pedestrians to cross over the large highway, and went into the IMMC Building. As soon as I got there, I was grabbed bodily by security officers, bound, gagged, and carried off on some gurney type of item, into a deep sub-basement area. I saw myself on a large screen TV system that had to be 20 feet across, and brighter than a summer beach at noon. When my eyes adjusted to this incredible TV set, I saw them running my entire life in fast forward from the minute I moved into Atco, and all through the show, they kept saying, “We're always watching you, buddy”. They must have said this in a serious tonal quality at least ten dam times. I asked if they could go past this time era, and they said we can go up as far as twenty fifty five. They hit a skip button, that said right on it in big purple lettering, “SKIP”, and suddenly it was 1984, and I was watching myself living in Robin Hill again where I had left for a while, over in unit number 506. They eventually seemed to get bored with me and my questions and said to me that they were going on a coffee break, and would I like to be taught how to operate the scanner tendle, this is what they called it, I just report the dream, folks. There is no 'R' in the word, and I do not know what exactly a scanner-tendle is, but they showed me how to run it, and left the room. I realized I could make it go off of that part of New Jersey, and go anywhere. I learned some stuff that is so hot, if I ever told any of it, I would be dead in one minute from the time I hit POST PUBLISH.

Long Story Short (LSS), the school mates were breaking my dam stones about poker, and sure enough, I can bluff and I can read people, and I am a dam good poker player, and the average asshole would be cleaned out fast with me, I promise. But they were totally right. Some powerful people went way out of their way to seem to know something I totally believed had happened, was not the way I thought all along, and were quite adamant about it, more so than they would be if they did not indeed know better. 99% of normal readers not a part of this, don't have a clue why I had this wild dream where I was back in a high school, or why all of this was said to me, but I know, and the few involved in it all, they know. WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

Fire alarms go off every single day between the opening bell on Wall Street and shortly thereafter. I will not lie, it happens on the weekends too. If I wanted to skip that part and be dishonest here, I could have. The whole truth means do not skip a part of it or omit shit that negates the value of the crap you're trying to prove and make claim to. But my honesty prevails, and I am proud to be an honest gentlemen who may tell seemingly wild fish tales, but I KNOW THEY ARE TRUE, AND SO DO THE DAM GODS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Maybe all of this IS where the shadows all dwell by day, or in Ireland with bands that like my Ernie song a lot. Give me a break Mister freaking Kitkat.

THIS PARTICULAR WRITING TERMINATES NOW!