Day:2 Ded Moone Camp Facility

I was told to get a feel on my own. That’s what I get for asking a question after midnight. Dark and wet, I could appreciate the existance of a trail to the rear of the island, the hike through the brush, the single slip i'd be from disappearing in the drink for a gulp. Sleeping comes whenever the hell it wants, but it eventually skews me back toward the night shift with everyone else here, so far. It’s those brief moments of sunlight in the late evening when I've caught a rare dose of nap. This night ended at the bar on the stool. I never thought it would be this comfortable all those times I was prevented from indulging in the act by the sheer ridiculousness of the look as it was the movie staple of the down trotted fuck-up. The Voice, it—I am literally dying for this shit, so excuse the fucking bias I may share as I bring this up, but to keep with my journaling immersion technique from Wolfman Patrick, i have to be cautious aboout said—context.

An illogical force made of chemical injustices has deemed me unworthy of their work, a radical neuron that staged a rebillion for a far less active existence. It’s essential, The Voice says, to the continuum as an insufferable chaos generator it must be now and forever, I'm too weak for the Voice’s prime objectives. So, I should just die, suck the barrel like you mean it, to steal a cop’s gun, to jump from the third floor inside a crowded mall. Untold feat(s) are in my dead future, not a savior nor an artist, if I could only accept the taste of destiny’s humbling bliss and halt this awful waste to my being. I should indeed see this body as forfeit. Anyway, these oozing nightmares cause sleep paralysis as the ooze dives in, nostrils first, kind of sleep, left me waking from the perfectly simulated drowning or whatever they call in the astral plane of the mirrored devourer.

Shift consists of work pertaining to three main facets of their research study. Going Local involved tasks with survival necessities in mind, plus key items that must be human sourced from a shop. None had been beyond the town of *********** in a while, and that is how I got chummy with Hay woman Donna. Anything I needed to make this creature of a place comfortable. I liked her recommendations, or what they implied about the off-hours decompressors. No one else had anything to say about her comment. My rank put me in this stationary probationary period as an endurance loyalty check. I remember where the paths are.

These names are a fatal consequence of choosing the first invitation to a fun religion, if I may over dramatize the mislabeled seriousness. the grind to survive here may just hit the lines on the face that way. This writing, the tapes of recordings, rare films, and opportunities are collecting—compiling possibilities for the line to hold a charge of Ded Moone’s signature, enlightened activity in the form of work with seeming little thought of much else. I’m slotted to appear helpful next to Harvest Woman April, whose medical slogon could be, the best first aid is self-first-aid. This is due to the several ways in which the Cove Osen le Manoir could abruptly flash-flood. It’s genuinely a mysterious anomaly keeping the sloshy dung of misrepresented back alley cousin of H2O from the occasional high tides of that one hurricane back in ’85. Splashes are not impending doom; we wouldn’t have time for any of those versions, even if we did know, and the beds are mainly on the top floor. The solace was nice, but the time frames since their last accident counter were something to celebrate. I asked her for the advice. She didn't say much.

My savior from another impressive safety lecture was Coldman Jason. Some do-gooder he turned out to be; with his laser—with an emphasis on—focus on a couple of pieces he found in college. They attempted to explain it, and I didn’t care. But it feels like either one of the spiritual or technical drives to scroll the atmosphere, exact wording, at ‘key’ points.

Communication beyond the veil, to borrow the layman’s terms (he actually said it like that), was not a matter of how to but what to say. The intention is in the mind; the words don’t have to matter. This is where his thesis, drum in the World, slams the title amid the page, words as conduits. Astral or chaos theory, in every language to speak to and ask of a new realm. He said it’s a plain, one of many, home to or origin of beings, entities, energies, and sea kings. Stories that cannot be told, where the men go when they’ve added their souls to a tale. These depths in this cove provide the greatest echo in my life. Suppose my next question sounded a bit like one of Ron's, but who wouldn’t? Framing it around their leader’s experience didn't really do much, more subversion in delightful gentrified speak. Besides Blue Moon June’s claim of knowing where to dig to uncover the dig site of the D.C.S. Atrium, the collective only moved some wind and a rumble. However, this rumble comes with qualifiers. 1(No one is willing to try the experiment again without better understanding.) 2(And a fatal mistake was made during the ceremony. The principle of authenticity had not been thoroughly proven.) Piqued my interest there.

Our talk became a bit strained as I pressed about the connection my writings, dreams, Voice, have with this religion toward the end of the day. First, Coldman Jason, in his pull to get me used to my new name, advised me that I shouldn’t be afraid of the cult aesthetic. I assume he meant the word I was half-assed tip-toeing around in my pseudo match of their excitement.

“A research expedition, sure,” I asked, “but the tall-tale structure is what, a red herring?”

“Remember, it’s all in the conviction, the thrust into life from not a heaven or hell or Hades realm but somewhere undiscoverable—”

“Except the same mortality rules and grammer apply.”

“Possibly. Every syllable aimed at altering the state of reality on a massive scale--sound waves acting as keys in locks we can't phathom. Who wouldn’t perceive a divinity in this discovery?”

“Perhaps,” I said.

“Religion or not, it’s confirmable under the scientific method. It progresses in stages as we understand new portions of the Atrium. Don’t fear the cult and the pageantry. I welcome your skepticism—think of this as a clinical trial with increasingly more lively participation.

“The word, right,” I said.

A collective Feng shui of doom and divinity, mislabeled, littered with work boots on steel walkways, pitter-patter this way and that with industrial members and pledges. Asking them for a resume threw off their conceptions of the fresh air flee-in-the-night from their former home lifestyle. At the intersection of that thought and Coldman Jason's querry on a connection to consciouness, they took in the Spying Hawaiian, Ron with an actual drive to promote the group’s findings. Anonymity be damned if the story carries the lush, shallow garden of sensationalism. Admirably, since Harvestman Jerith seemed very fond of the live-in merc life despite the name change, I found Ron chatting him up on the exit steps leading to the walkway to the dock. Alas, not the one we arrived in; positive to me, at least. Adamant that I was the new scribe, his invitation seemed warm. Able to stay vigilant enough to spot the gators casing the landing, he could field Ron’s curiosity by breaking the Prince Charms-a-Lot act by throwing a chunk of raw meat in the water to get that chomp theat put the image of that death roll in your head.

Unlike Ron, I was meant to sit, take in the environment in all its chirpy splendor, and take a read on those involved, they were persistent about that too, talk to everyone, if you can, they'd add. What I hadn’t counted on was how seriously they took, and expected us to take our ranks and position. Ron could interview all he wanted, but he was no longer the scribe on duty, according to Harvestman Jerith's wording, and split second smirk toward. his mustach fell back over the upper lip and back to stern work he went. Once Hare-woman Kath and Iceman Xavier returned with an oversized fishing dinghy (stripped and gutted former police boat), he would do his short yet lengthy boundary barrier check, spot the followers. Maybe he’d fish and patrol to give Hare-womn Kath something to fry up other than pheasant and pork chops, mined you, last night's left overs were a mouth water surprise, so no notes yet. With Ron on the pole, he can remain calm and vigilant while teaching Ron how to get the fatter catfish off the bottom. If not, this would be the second job he's not suited for. Even Harvestman Jerith joked my job was under threat as long as I didn’t have to leave.

Harvestman Jerith explained the threats he faced from the Bayou beyond the alligators. Hidden as the group may be, for example, the deceptive shrubbery laced with trap barbed wire, curious folk loved the myth, and blame the cult for the convience. Plus, smugglers look for new routes and hide aways, with larger organizations willing fund the hostile takeover. He checked the ‘No Trespassing’ signs and realigned traps knocked out by flipped mirrored sensors that brought alerts to the base room. Any interpretation of light to the diodes puts the image to his monitor, leaving off most of the day to consere power. There was one safe path he and his five helpers could follow at night off the island. Ron was disturbed by his polite refusal to allow him to walk with him, although I think the red flag he referred to a little later on was the lack of reason why since I knew about it. I said he should try to be more willing to walk blindly into the dark, but I guess he though I was joking. I took a quick note that the key to the hilly maze in the light of day was the fake trees amongst the pines. The bases were covered in the muddy area of the former high tide, but not the plastic pot they didn’t bother to remove. At least it was black.

The humidity is draining. Hydration is now an annoyance. Trees swallowed us whole, where the gaps fear the solid sun rays, seemingly boiled where the sauna vibe came from, and blocked the wind from being worth a damn all day. One reason the stall is out at the bar by 4 pm despite the schedule clearly stating no drinking before 17:00. You wouldn’t believe it, looking at the back wall, that a staffed kitchen was behind the open coolers on a workbench bar of random bottle in no real order. I don’t know whether it was a load bearing decision or style, but the first helper, the half doorway, was a startler that knocked my stool over in favor of falling on my ass. From what he tells me, it’s a hell of a menu, and from what comes out, the voodoo is strong with this one.

With every fiber of my being, and remembering what I’m seeing is meant to involve heavy bleeding, I put off the most I-don’t-want-or-have-a-spare-fuck-for-your-charity expression at all times to prevent advice from those who always want to start with you have so much life left. But Corn-woman Cecilia spouted some wisdom I’m going to attempt to quote because while I remember it word for word, it was less then shrug worthy and could only appreciate the attempt at face value. I asked semi-drunkenly if any of the so-called experiments were dangerous. Not only was my tone overly eager due to the awkward inclusion of a burb, but she took note of my noting earlier as she checked for Ron, I assume.

“Listen here, I will say this only once. The science here is nothing less than cutting-edge. Their research is accurate if not debatable, while none of the experts invited here can believe what they’ve seen, whether or not they understood, they have nothing to disprove what they've experienced. When I volunteered, it was a selection of interesting lines I mistook for poetry that drew me to this. Now, in the bottom of a Madness’s Lull, be still its approaching rise, be acclimated to the prescribed vertigo aligned with this endeavor meant to pull your skin off for me to serve it back to you….So hard to see another lifer….” Must have struck a cord. It's I don't hide too much that they can see through. I don't get the same read off of Ron as I do everyone else...now.

Diner. Immpeccable.

Drank myself to sleep.

Nightmare addition:

It’s the ooze again. The mindless, soulless entity grows with every morsel, person to person, not quite eating but a vicious, viscous absorbing with slow dissolving acid. The outer layer is salivation; all fires are defeated, acid makes it shimmer in bubbles, and looks like black and nothing else, no matter the shape. Reasonless and unkillable, the pain is as putrid as the bile that suffocates and burns the vocal cords on the unsuspecting rube's way in. A crying Blackhole in shambles with out a sun, wearing the infinity meant for a romantic’s yarn for the first day to be every day. Its digestion is done with liquid hatred of the throat, slitting the variety. Lips are only unzipped for the sword at the end of a drill. The clattering spine against the steel playgroung equipment in slow motion for analysis. “Laugh! Slit your tongue and play paddy cake with me. LAUGH.” It replies to my scream that won’t stop curdling blood. Stare down the love who let the line go to avoid the fight. Can’t blame th— “LAUGH and fucking never stop. NOW!”