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W.I.L.D. - by Grimly Whetfox

"Simple guideline: if you go Loony and pull out of it, then it was an 'initiation'. If you stay a Loony, then it was a mistake."
~ Phil Hine

"... yet in one dream I can compose a whole Comedy, behold the action, apprehend the jests and laugh my self awake at the conceits thereof..."
~ Sir Thomas Browne


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It had worked. For the first time. Well, not the first time it had worked, but the first time it had worked like this....

He stood in the centre of it all, the centre of the universe. What the hell had just happened? The buzzing, for god's sake, the NOISE! Like a jet engine taking off; like some gigantic, perfect generator, hidden TARDIS-style, labyrinthine, deep in the middle of him, in his chest.

It had been unbelievable! It hadn't taken long either, although he suspected that time was fairly relative at this point. All he had done was lay down on his bed, relaxed, begun a very slight breathing exercise (the one minute breath) and concentrated. This was beginners luck, he suspected, remembering what he had read about the universe configuring itself to help you when you were trying something new, something important. And sometimes just when you were playing cards...

Lying there, visualising his dream hands, breathing. His visions had slipped and slid in front of him, gently at first and then gathering pace: momentum, colour, definition. It seemed as if a new kind of energy was moving through him, something unlike anything he had felt before. A high-pitched vibration; subtle, tingling. And then fireworks had exploded behind his eyes - colours erupting, forming images, places, faces; some known, some obscure, but familiar...

Then the noise had started.

At first it was low, a rumble. Deep with him, below and beyond. There was a flash in his mind, a memory, clear and distinct.

He was in a huge public playing field at night, a teenager. He had gone there with friends at 3am on acid, tripping with glee, to get a clear view of the sky, so massive above them. The clouds seemed to reach down straight towards them, as if they were the centre of the universe, the apex of it all. It was as though they were in a giant fishbowl; which in a way, they were. Their skewed perspective of the immense night sky, its colours glowing and dynamic in their eyes, had given way to a new sensation. Something moving into the silence of the late night air. A rumble, low and far off in the distance, remote, abstract.

"What's that?" one of them had said.

"Don’t know… Shhhh, listen..."

And the faint rumble, like the furthest of thunder, had grown. Gently at first, but then with gathering intensity, getting louder and louder and increasing in pitch. Soon they were able to place it, the direction, and they realised it was a plane, coming in low towards the airport, towards them. They had laughed, shouting to each other to lay down on the grass and look up, straight up at the massive flying metal bird as it cruised, gravity defying, over their heads. The noise all encompassing: screaming engines and thunderous claps, mountains of moving air.

He snapped back from the memory with the colours still billowing in his mind and realised the noise was still there, still rising. He heard it from within, the top of it, the very peak of the sound. In his chest the feeling rose as the pitch of the note rose, higher and higher until he knew it could not get any higher, he could not hear in that range; but it continued to rise.

He understood, suddenly, what was happening.

Humans are just walking bags of pure energy!

The thought was liquid, electric, a current not spoken or imagined, just THERE. He fancied he must have some kind of nuclear reactor secreted inside his core, some dark machine. Wherever they had managed to hide it. Pretty smart of them anyway, what with all those organs in there.

The noise peaked finally, shriller and higher than he had ever imagined a noise could go; then fading, gently easing away. The noise became a light, a light that filled his vision, and as the sound faded, the very tip of the highest note dissolving away, the light grew in intensity and strength. Suddenly the sound was gone, and there was only the light.

He wondered. Paused and thought. Did that just happen?

Yes.

Then what? What to do?

Go somewhere.

But where? And how?

How? I dunno, man. Just try.

Remember the feeling in your chest? The feeling that rose with the sound, with the pitch of the note? That's how. That's how you steer this particular ship.

He grabbed the rudder and pushed, moving himself round, closing his eyes [eyes?] and relaxing, allowing whatever wanted to generate to generate. After a while he opened his [eyes], aware that something had formed. Something, or somewhere.

He stood in a marsh, on a dark night. It was cold, although he didn't [feel] it, he just knew it was cold, somehow. The sky was very dark and murky. The hills and mountains he could see in the distance disappeared into the night, black on black. The marshland was desolate. He could clearly see he was miles from anywhere, there was nothing and no-one close.

No wonder. You couldn't [walk] around out here, even with good pair of boots you'd be totally screwed. Huge puddles of dank water became grassy marshland, followed by deeper puddles, more like deep, fetid pools.

Wouldn't want to fall in one of them with a loose footing.

The thought mired him in the glutinous ground.

Fuck. Can't move. What do I do now?

The thought-voice inside stayed silent for a moment before its epiphany.

Oh yeah… Fly. Forgot about that one. Ok.

He hadn’t really given himself any options. There was no other way to move around marshland, and he'd flown before, several times. But he had not constructed the fabric before, had not made the scenery from scratch, had not come here on a jet plane.

He'd always just... found himself places. He'd done a piss poor job of designing this scene anyway, this place was terrible. Horrible atmosphere, dark, intimidating. Maybe he could fly on out of here and go someplace with more sunshine?

Got to be worth a try. Whaddaya got to lose, kid? Nuffing. Nothing can come from nothing. Nuff said.

He concentrated, closing his [eyes] again and relaxing, willing himself gently. This was a lot harder than he remembered. He floated up a few feet, but his arms were pinwheeling against some impossible centre of balance. His legs seemed to flap uselessly, uncontrolled and faltering. He wobbled around for a minute or two, trying to gauge the controls, to find a base to judge from.

It didn't work. He was floundering, literally, flapping in the air like an injured fish.

That's it!

He was trying to swim, rather than fly. Against air this was ineffective, no lever, nothing to push against, no purchase. He landed and steadied himself on the uneven ground, getting a damp foot for his efforts. 

Nice.

Right, remember the internal rudder. Don't try and swim through the air, don't try and push through the air. Think Superman, it's more of a float. Just will it to happen, don't push so hard...

And with that he rose up, his arms still flapping slightly, unintentionally. He swung forward, feeling the air gathering speed around him, and suddenly he was away.

The wind should have been colder at this height and speed, but he still couldn't feel it, or at least it felt strange.

No matter. Time to find somewhere nicer.

The landscape spread out, vast and dark before him. The inky puddles of dingy water joined into one black landmass as he rose. The horizon was murky, dim in every direction, no sign of the source of the light that allowed him to see the very disappointing view.

As he moved through the skies he surveyed in every direction; it was as if he were marooned on a small planet, alone. The odd perspective of the curve of the horizon made him think he could probably fly round it in one night if he got some speed up. But the landscape was all so similar, how would he know where he had started, or if he kept to a straight path? What the hell would be the point of flying around a marsh planet anyway? Would that be a smart thing to do, given the myriad of possibilities, the potential experiences before him?

No, probably not, dumbass. Probably not.

He approached a huge black lake, moving at such a speed its edges were soon out of his field of vision, and picked up more pace, raising and lowering his altitude slightly, swooping down near the gloomy black water and back up again, getting a feel for it.

A marsh bank emerged, a huge expanse of grass at the edge of the massive lake. He saw a lone, sparse tree on the far bank. He decided to head towards it and land, make an assessment and see what he could do with the situation. If nothing happened, he would abandon this dreary landscape, and try to wake up. But waking itself required a journey, through other, less solid realms.

Oh god. Not looking forward to that if that's what I have to do, he thought pessimistically. He'd been here, in this situation before. It could be... confusing, to say the least.

He soared over the water, gathering a bit of speed, and made a route towards the tree. As he approached, he realised it appeared to be dead. It certainly wasn't doing very well, anyway. As he drew near he steered slightly, discovering to his surprise that he had no control, no rudder. He began flailing, trying to use his arms and legs to turn, to operate the strange flying machine that was his body.

It was no good, he was out of control. The tree approached too fast. He was off course, comprehending suddenly that he'd only tried to go forward so far, not turn. He didn't know how to turn, it just wasn't working.

Why?

It had worked before! Before it had felt like the most natural thing in the world! Why the hell wasn't it working?

He let out a small yell of fear and crashed headlong into the tree, which, up close and personal, seemed really to be more of a bush. He expected to get hurt, expected sharp branches or at least some thorns to tear at his [flesh], but there was nothing. No pain, just him, wrapped upside down in this bush, slightly stuck.

Nice work, Superman.

How is my driving? Not so good, mate. Not so good.

I ain't lending you my car keys, let's put it that way.

He untangled himself and climbed down, feeling slightly worse for wear and a bit sheepish. He didn't really feel like trying to fly again. Crashing into things wasn't sore, but he didn't expect a different result, and so he knew he probably wouldn't get one. It occurred to him that if this was his first willed experience in the dream state, then perhaps he was better off with the interesting, enchanting (if somewhat sporadic) accidental lucid awakenings. They always had some fun going on, at whatever depth of lucidity he was at, so it was always interesting. This was hard work, boring, and a little chilling. He wasn't scared, but he definitely wasn't enjoying himself either. It was dark. And lonely.

Okay. Time to wake up then. Seems like such a waste though...

Wait! Why not try to change the scene entirely? You made this! You can make anything!

Try something new! C'mon, it can't be that hard. Certainly don't have much to lose, anyway....

Think, now... concentrate...

So he had closed his [eyes] again, blocking off the scene. Blocking out the horrible landscape, he chose instead the darkness of within, behind his [eyes], behind the veil.

It worked, quickly and unquestionably. He wondered why he had not tried this immediately, to change the scene to a nicer place to try flying, a nicer place to be generally.

What will be will be, he thought. Nothing he could do about it now.

He opened his [eyes] and there was nothing. Just... nothing. Blackness.

He looked [down] but he had no body, nothing to look [down] at, or anything to [look] with.

Nothing but empty black space in all directions. A universe with no stars, no moons, no planets. 

The void.

He had been here before. Not deliberately, but during some previous ‘excursions’ that had happened spontaneously. Unwilled: not directly willed, jet engine style, the way he had just done it. He knew he had wished for it those times, and attempted to conceive it, but when it had worked before it had happened accidentally. Before, it had always been in the middle of a dream, in the middle of the night or the very early morning, when his Rapid Eye Movement would be at its strongest peak, his body doing through the Pineal Gland Tango, strutting its hallucinogenic stuff through his synapses.

Dreams. Who fucking knows, man. Who fucking knows what this is all about.

He relaxed, remembering from experience that struggle or even effort was pretty much useless in the void. There was nothing to struggle against, nothing to put effort into. There was nothing. Nothing to do, no reason to panic. All he could do was wait.

The thought shot a red stab of terror through him.

How long?

What if he was stuck here?  What if he was... dead?

Fuck fuck fuck. Get a hold of yourself. That's classic. Remind yourself not to panic, reasonably, calmly, and then proceed to freak the fuck out, textbook style. Straight out of the chapter entitled "What not to do." Nice work.

He [breathed] out, relaxing himself again, and reminded himself he was just in limbo, his body at home in bed asleep. Paralysed, as it naturally was every time he entered the R.E.M. phase, so that he didn't act out his dreams in the real world.

He pictured himself in his boxer shorts, bed covers thrown to one side, trying to fly around his small bedroom with his eyes closed, arms flailing against thin air, amateurish, swimmer-style.

That wouldn't go down too well, he thought. There would be a high chance of injury to the body I am not currently connected to. I like that body. I don't want it injured, when it discovers that out there, in the real world, they have this painful force known as gravity. And gravity don't take too kindly to people trying to fly around. It doesn't like that one bit.

He shifted in the void, [spinning], [turning].

How could he tell, how could he describe his motion, when there were no landmarks, no orientation, nothing. He remembered the red flash of panic, and realised the way forward. The void really was a dull place, anyway. The dark marshes at least had been [somewhere].

Tangible. Somewhere where he had a [body], at least.

Deep with his [chest] he dug.

Down, deeper down, until he felt it. There, buried, low.

He began to visualise, his [mind’s eye], perceiving the nuclear power plant in there.

The generator, the source: a light. A steady, gentle light. As it slowly grew and developed he pulled some of the energy up to his face, behind his [eyes].

Grabbing roughly at this energy with dream hands which he could not see inside his blank dream mind, he laughed at the concept of what he was doing. His real body asleep in bed, at home, whilst his dream body disappeared in his sleeping mind and left him only with the mind of the dream body to play with. The mind inside the mind: a tangible, actual workable piece of his own unconscious.

All of a sudden it hit him. He realised, he saw what he must do. It was so obvious from this position.

The dream yoga. The lucid meditation. It would work. Of course it would work.

Get lucid and then focus, just as you do outside, do it inside. Go inside the inside. As above, so below. Obvious.

There was a sudden huge swell in the energy he worked - colours flashing, rolling billows of bright hues forming, blossoming in his vision. He pushed more energy through it, into it, from himself into himself, somewhere in between, amidst his consciousness.

His mind recharged, powered up. Preparing, coiling energy like a spring. He knew he had the necessary spirit here to do it, to grow something. He tried pushing the swirling colours into an image, a scene, a form, something with shape that he recognised. Anything. But the glowing masses of colour remained fluid and pliant, tainted with shimmering streaks. Making no sense.

He thought for a while, gently feeding it a thin stream of energy, coaxing it, keeping it rolling. And then he did as he had read, the idea popping into his mind, almost as if this was the perfect time for him to realise, as if everything so far had been set up exactly this way so that now, as he thought of this, he could understand it for what it truly was, and have all the facilities and wherewithal to use it, truly use its potential.

With four deft movements, he formed the colourful clouds and haze into a doorway: an opening, a portal to the next place. He had found the way, almost all by himself.

Does reading books count? Does that mean I was taught, or perhaps that I researched?

It didn't matter, he supposed. Knowledge was knowledge, however you came about it. And if you can get enough knowledge together in one place then you have wisdom.

How cool would that be?

He [smiled] to himself. Satisfied, enlightened: another good night's work under his... [belt].

It was going to get even more interesting now, he could feel it. Another tool in the armoury, another variation on the theme to exploit.

Beautiful.

A thin haze covered the edges of the colours draped in his mind in front of him. As the haze drifted across the framework he had formed, the image changed like an optical illusion: two images in one, the way in which you focus your eyes determining what you see.

The doorway took on the look of a mirror, the haze somehow reflecting the nothing that he was back at him, even though he wasn't there to see it.

Time to find out what is through the looking glass, his mind whispered, awestruck, to itself.

And he dove right in.

To Be Continued… By Grimly Whetfox, copyright 2008. All rights reserved.

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