Alarmingly Strange Stories
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Now that's waxing my verbal virtuosity, dramatically. Sadly, I've only met sharks, not the porpoises, in the ocean currents of unconsciousness. Between 2 and 6 am, grounding is essential. But how? As we struggle into consciousness, each morning, a self-erasing mechanism destroys memories of dreams; only vague and vivid snippets remain as clues. But how many people can recall dreams that were not dreams at all? I have recalled for hours and days afterwards, of these impositions, unlike the general amnesia accompanying most of my dreams all of my life. I assure you that I have shockedly unlearned all Jungian and Freudian concepts of dreams. It's only our own language's impotence, calling these dreams. The Eskimos have myriad words for snow. We have only one for dreams that often are not dreams, which we ourselves, generate. My experiences, in the extreme, illustrate this indigestible possibility. Paul, God bless you for the chance to ventilate and exchange ideas in this horrid realm. Horrid, because attacks continue and vary in intensity to the point where I have tacitly accepted all I've told you at the risk of denying everything about the mind and dreams I've ever learned. Description of hauntings at night: A large black shapeless mass turns out the lights while you are in the labyrinth of mazes and hallways en route to storage rooms. He stands in your way laughing, evilly. There is a terror and a strong wave of hatred felt. Trying to retrace your way in the darkness back towards the elevator, hugging the walls brings air blown onto the back of your neck. Your name is whispered in your ear and your clothing clutched and plucked at by unseen hands. The presence is large and blacker than the darkness surrounding it; you feel a sense of being watched and sense waves of intense hatred, which is undeniable. Flashlights fail and dim and blink out when one tries to outsmart its turning the lights out. The six floor apartment building a juts the Fort Hamilton Army Base, a quarter mile away and is at the virtual foot of the Brooklyn side of the Verrazzano Bridge. I have been the superintendent of that building between 1990 and 1999 and have encountered that entity through my denial of acceptance to raw fear of it. It has intruded into my dreams, followed me into the elevator and into my bedroom to evoke horrid worst scenario nightmares, which betray that it knows our minds better that we do. I avoided the basement, neglected my duties and was subsequently fired by the management office. This building stands at the intersection of 92nd Street and Fort Hamilton pkwy, in Brooklyn, New York. The psychic attacks continue; nonetheless. I am drowsing over the bathroom sink, half asleep and yawning, supporting myself with my arms on both sides. Still half asleep and naked, when something brushes my face and loins, both just below the sink and just above my face. I open my bleary eyes and see an enormous conglomeration of festooned fishhooks surrounding me, hanging from the ceiling, across the sink, a filigree chandelier of razor sharp connected fishhooks that I've stumbled. Now, stark naked with pinching sharp connections at my groin, lip, and face, that apprise me. Quickly panicking, now that I've been deeply hooked in a myriad places. In to my genitals, pulling through my lip and cheek. To move backwards in shock or panic flight, is to deeply gaff myself further.

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