To attempt to detect the subliminal action of peripheral vision reflexes after the perceived threat-movement has been ignored is futile. Only the effect of the repeating subliminal stimulus is experienced; its cause is recondite. The subject may begin to feel that he or she is being watched. This is a form of operant conditioning known as subliminal-random-adverse stimulation of consciousness. As the process continues the consciousness attempts to reconcile the subliminal stimulation with its contemporaneous activity.
There is no beginning or end. I always wake up at the same point, just before the door opens and the tall man is about to enter the room. There is no continuation.
The way it is with dreams: the dreamer is actor writer and director and knows every aspect of the script.
I never see the tall man but I know he's beyond that door. I know his tuneless whistle and his dry cough, the bad tattoo on his left earlobe and the jingling of coins - or are they keys - in his trouser pocket against his thigh as he walks.
But this is no dream. It will not end with wakefulness.
Seconds after I wake he will be in the room and the pale, red-haired girl will blanch even paler and the young man in the crumpled linen suit tied by his hands and feet to the chair will scream and though I have never heard that scream I can never forget it.
I'm gone, running through the dimly lit corridors into the lobby, past the fat key-man sleeping at the reception counter, out into the driveway, running into the road, crossing the intersection, caught in squealing headlights, creased by slipstream.
There is no freedom. Freedom is a lie. I'll run this road forever and never be even falsely free.
To run is not to find freedom; it is merely expressive of the desire and desire is of no consequence. We are all protozoa bursting, attempting bifurcation, hopelessly blind to the impossibility of freedom.
And my heart pounds with the relentlessness of a living steam-hammer, shock-waves like bullets tear my synapses as I struggle to take in the scene from my hide somewhere in a non-existent corner of that room that has no right nor reason to exist for anyone but me.
I can't know why those people are in that place, will never hear their names in anything but hellish tongues, will never know why the bed is strewn with spent matches or what makes the girl turn away from the window and smile just before the door opens.
But I will shiver for the chill in that room, the same chill that lives in the marrow of the dwarf's spine.
The amok-man scenario, the Mexican motel-room sequence played in dumb-show by crippled and deformed actors on a broken set to a symphony of traffic whooshing through the rain, meeting and parting at the intersection, the same monstrous tableau with an unmade bed in a smoke filled alcove, its pale, dirty pink candlewick coverlet awry and its faded paisley patterned mattress exposed, a purple wash in a jagged edge of luminosity from the wall down-lighter.
And everywhere that chill, of homelessness and late-night-early-morning train stations, of highways, of strange bedrooms and other lives and other dreams, of commingled breath of unknown lovers, which freezes the semen, murders the seed moments before they come.
There is no beginning or end. I always wake up at the same point, just before the door opens and the tall man is about to enter the room. There is no continuation.
The way it is with dreams: the dreamer is actor writer and director and knows every aspect of the script.
I never see the tall man but I know he's beyond that door. I know his tuneless whistle and his dry cough, the bad tattoo on his left earlobe and the jingling of coins - or are they keys - in his trouser pocket against his thigh as he walks.
But this is no dream. It will not end with wakefulness.
Seconds after I wake he will be in the room and the pale, red-haired girl will blanch even paler and the young man in the crumpled linen suit tied by his hands and feet to the chair will scream and though I have never heard that scream I can never forget it.
I'm gone, running through the dimly lit corridors into the lobby, past the fat key-man sleeping at the reception counter, out into the driveway, running into the road, crossing the intersection, caught in squealing headlights, creased by slipstream.
There is no freedom. Freedom is a lie. I'll run this road forever and never be even falsely free.
To run is not to find freedom; it is merely expressive of the desire and desire is of no consequence. We are all protozoa bursting, attempting bifurcation, hopelessly blind to the impossibility of freedom.
And my heart pounds with the relentlessness of a living steam-hammer, shock-waves like bullets tear my synapses as I struggle to take in the scene from my hide somewhere in a non-existent corner of that room that has no right nor reason to exist for anyone but me.
I can't know why those people are in that place, will never hear their names in anything but hellish tongues, will never know why the bed is strewn with spent matches or what makes the girl turn away from the window and smile just before the door opens.
But I will shiver for the chill in that room, the same chill that lives in the marrow of the dwarf's spine.
The amok-man scenario, the Mexican motel-room sequence played in dumb-show by crippled and deformed actors on a broken set to a symphony of traffic whooshing through the rain, meeting and parting at the intersection, the same monstrous tableau with an unmade bed in a smoke filled alcove, its pale, dirty pink candlewick coverlet awry and its faded paisley patterned mattress exposed, a purple wash in a jagged edge of luminosity from the wall down-lighter.
And everywhere that chill, of homelessness and late-night-early-morning train stations, of highways, of strange bedrooms and other lives and other dreams, of commingled breath of unknown lovers, which freezes the semen, murders the seed moments before they come.
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