Altered States of Consciousness

I’ve been interested in various states of consciousness for a long time. I’m interested because I am unwilling to ignore the strange stutters in consensus or accepted reality that many people label “coincidence.” Between 1997 and 1999, I was involved with a group of people interested in exploring dreams, the symbolic language in dreams, and the real life impact dreams have upon our lives. We met every week for two years.

During these two years, strange incidents occurred among us for which no common explanation was ever found. For instances, eight of us met one evening and five of us reported that we rode a  bicycle in our dream. None of the five even owned bicycles. Another time, a woman in the group had a dream where she and I are together. We are listening to a man talk who is up on a stage and she turns to me and says, “What did he say, Martha?” and then she awoke.  She told me about this dream and the next night I am in her dream and she turns to me and says, “What did he say, Martha?” The next time we meet I was able to tell her the man said. “Together we stand like children before the Divine and wonder at the powers of love.”

During this time I came to the conclusion that consciousness is not restricted to our physical bodies and consciousness is not limited to linear time. The rules of normal reality apply only to those who believe they are real. In other words, we build our own prison walls.

When I first began using social media, I didn’t notice anything unusual at first. But as time passed and I began connecting with more people, I noticed strange telepathic happenings occur. I don’t think I’m the only one who has noticed these psychic shocks and would appreciate hearing from others on this topic.

So here is my question : Could it be that when we enter the world of social media, the mind drifts out of the body, just as it does it the dream state? If this is true perhaps what we’ve created with The Internet is an extension of the collective unconscious. Furthermore, if we’ve created a working sub-station of the collective unconscious, then the impossible could be waiting right around the  next corner. Unfortunately, not everyone will notice or care.

copyright © 2013 Martha Fawcett


The Final Desire


It would seem clear that the Soul’s evolution is principally based upon the progressive elimination of all separating desires. As these separating desires are eliminated, the desire to return to the Source becomes stronger and more dominant in our consciousness…. As we evolve over countless centuries we begin to exhaust or eliminate these separating desires. As we do so, the desire to know that which created us becomes stronger. One day it is the only desire left in us.

From, PLUTO: The Evolutionary Journey of the Soul: Volume I, by Jeff Wolf Green


No man is an island
Entire of itself
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thine own
Or of thine friend’s were.
Each man’s death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.

John Donne

Find out how these two principles work in One: Book III of The Janaforma Trilogy

copyright © 2014 Martha Fawcett




Zombie Apcolypse Hits Mainstreet USA

What lies beneath is only buried, it is not dead.  With one-eye closed, horror becomes caricature presenting us with an archetypal opera on tour from the world of dreams.  Further armed with a macabre sense of humor, one begins to believe a zombie kerfuffle of animated rot might even be amusing.

Mainstreet appeared safe until the sun went down at 5:38 EST and a darkness took hold that was as black as kohl. It was 6:03 on the dot when Thorp Whitaker, Mainstreet’s sheriff, and his deputy, Moby Jensen, walked out of the Dunkin Donuts at Eastgate Mall. Sheriff Whitaker glanced up toward the sky before saying, “More doom and gloom than this man can handle. When’s the goddamn cloud cover going to lift? We’re supposed to be having a full moon tonight.”

Moby took a bite out of his jelly donut and exposed its bright red filling.  “Ground’s too hot for this time of year. That’s what’s causing all the fog.”

Getting along toward 6:30, families were going about their familiar routines—children and homework, TV, then bed around 10:00.  Most people were asleep when the earth in several of the churchyards began to crack and heave upward. The Westminster clock hanging on the wall behind the sheriff’s desk had just chimed 11:00 o’clock when Moby glanced up from his copy of Iron Man Magazine and asked Sheriff Whitaker, “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Sheriff Whitaker replied. He was hard of hearing from his many years of target practice without wearing earplugs.

Moby listened more carefully. He even got up from his chair and went to the front door of the office, opened it, and peered up and down the deserted street. The one slight peculiarity were the lights along the main drag. They were emitting an eerie green glow in the fog. Beyond that, the night was deadly quiet. Moby stepped back inside and told the sheriff, “Guess it was nothing. Maybe it’s all that fracking they’re doing south of town. Probably giving mother nature a bellyache.”

By then, it already was too late. Apocalypse began at sundown.

Seconds after the last rays of orange sun dipped below the horizon, the first cracks appeared in the ground at Saint Mary’s Cemetery. By 7:10, the dirt-encrusted nails of bony fingertips were emerging here and there, poking up through the ground like drifts of button mushrooms. By 9:00 o’clock, the ground in Saint Mary’s Cemetery appeared to be alive with squirming disembodied hands.

In the long run, escape from their underground prison was more difficult for the zombies than is commonly believed. It took them hours to dig their way to freedom. Those who had been dead the longest emerged first, crawling out through the generational layers of compost blanketing the Earth. The longest-undead even proved helpful to their newly-undead compatriots. Once they were free, they took up the task of tearing at the sod where the newly buried were struggling to escape. They even buddied-up and moved a few larger boulders that impeded the resurrection of some. What they lacked in soul, brains, and physical vigor, they made up for in determination.

When the zombie resurrection was complete, in Saint Mary’s Cemetery alone, assembled were eleven million various insects; thirty-eight prehistoric sloths; a pair of saber-tooth tigers; three condykarths, which are prehistoric hoofed mammals; twenty Paleo-Indian Clovis people, a woolly mammoth, eleven hundred rats and mice; thirty-one dogs; fifty-eight cats and one goat. Thirty-eight modern humans also resurrected. Two were in unmarked graves. One of these two had been buried with the one goat in a compromising position. That was story in itself. The other unmarked grave held the remains of an alien found in the middle of a crop circle in 1953. At the time, two dozen local residents saw the body and declared it, “another goddamn Gray.” The sheriff at the time, Sheriff Tinabadge, told the local news, “It was nothing more than the mutilated remains of a cow.” By that time, the body of the alien was safely buried in an unmarked grave in Saint Mary’s Cemetery.

The town of Mainstreet had a dwindling population. Depending on the profit-margin whims of mega-corporations, the population could vary between three thousand and seven thousand residences. Most shops along the main street of town stood empty since the 1970’s when outsourcing sucked the life-blood out of the community. All serious commerce now took place at Eastgate Mall where dead-eyed cashiers at the Walmart ordered customers to, “Have a nice day or else.” The only in-town traffic jam happened on Sunday mornings when the thirty-two churches opened their doors and Bible-thumping preachers disseminated God’s views on human morality to the masses. Sixteen of these churches had cemeteries. Mariner’s Church was said to hold the remains of a famous Caribbean pirate and a family of early European settlers that died of The Plague. The new cemetery west of town and the veterans cemetery north of town held thousands, including all those who died in the World Wars.

At exactly 10:58 PM, the woolly mammoth zombie suddenly found her footing and obliterated the white picket fence surrounding Saint Mary’s Church. That’s when Moby Jensen glanced up from his magazine and asked Sheriff Whitaker, “Did you hear that?” Moments later, the mass of undead from the beginning of time began their slow lumbering pilgrimage toward the heart of Mainstreet. Their feet barely left the ground as they shuffled and scraped their way along toward nowhere and beyond. The only glue holding the divergent assemblage together was their collective rot. In the long run, their rot proved a weak epoxy and the coutége left skin, teeth, hair and an occasional body part along the thoroughfare to town. In the post-mortem world we live in today, it was easy to trace, what would become known in the aftermath as, the Resurrection Point of each zombie.

Pity the wide-eyed innocents who first saw the stark visceral emergence of the zombies and realized they were something more serious than wispy ghosts.

Mainstreet’s library closed its doors at 10:00 PM. Nancy Prettineck, librarian, went to the ladies room, fixed her face, and blotted her lead-red lipstick with a piece of tissue and tossed it in the trashcan. Later, Moby Jensen would retrieve the tissue as evidence. When Nancy walked outside at 10:20, her boyfriend Tommy Hotkake was waiting to drive her home. Instead, Tommy  seduced Nancy into going to Stewart’s for burgers and root beers. While they were eating, he also talked her into driving out to Pike’s Reservoir. They never made it.  Two bodies were found the next day with missing brains. They were taken to the county morgue where they resurrected the following night with all the other morgue residents.

Pity the realist who attempted to use his authority and physical power to halt the sudden onslaught.

When the bulk of the zombies reached the crossroads at the center of Mainstreet, Sheriff Whitaker loaded his double-barreled shotgun and stepped out into the middle of the street. A few seconds later, the slow stampede took him down with all the others.

Pity the survivors for they carry the burdens of the past and present as they attempt to kept their own hope alive.

An hour past dawn, the country clerk, the only official still left alive in Mainstreet, swore Moby Jensen in as the new acting sheriff. Moby stood in the middle of the street as the few hundred survivors came out of hiding and sought his guidance. Moby was twenty-two years old, patient, smart and respectful, yet he felt the deep well of his inexperience that morning. His baby blue eyes filled with tears as he told his friends and neighbors, “We’re outnumber by at least a million to one.”

“We will fight!” came a resolute voice from the small crowd.

Moby was shocked at the energy and determination coming from them. “That’s right! We’ll fight!” he shouted in return. “We’ll call ourselves the Army of The Living.”

“We are the Army of The Living!” came a voice from one quarter and then another and another until they all were shouting, “We’ll fight! We’re the Army of The Living.”

Moby raised his arms and said, “Listen, every last one of you,” and the small band of survivors hushed and drew near. “We know very little about this new menace, but we do know the following three things: Their first targets are the most innocent; they want our humanity and souls and for some cockamamie reason, they believe our complete consciousness resides in our brains. We know zombies cannot survive the light of day and the scrutiny of reason; however, if you are bitten, you will become a zombie too.”

“Keep hope alive,” shouted a woman’s voice off to his right.

“That’s right,” said Moby. “If we can keep hope alive, it will keep us alive.” And so the battle began…

copyright © 2013 Martha Fawcett

Is the Headless Horseman of Tarrytown in Cahoots with the Sleepy Hollow Gnomes?

photo (2)Walking in the woods near Tarrytown, New York, I saw a half-dead tree that appeared to be hit by lightening. The strike left a deep invagination that ran all the way up the trunk and penetrated into the heartwood, yet the tree was still alive. What caught my attention was deep inside the tree, something that resembled a small door. See the fungi growing out of the doorframe? It is just beginning to fade.

In the early Nineteenth Century, Washington Irving first reported on the bizarre and otherworldly happenings that occurred in the environs of Tarrytown and Sleepy Hollow; so I was forewarned and suspicious. To take this picture I had to lean inside the tree and worry about spiders jumping into my hair. I showed the picture to my four felines when I returned home and they told me, “You’ve taken a picture of a door to a lower kingdom, specifically a gnome kingdom. You’re lucky you got out alive.” Felines are sworn enemies of gnomes. In Germanic folklore, gnomes carry darts with them so they can injure humans. That sudden twinge you feel in your neck, you probably were hit by a gnome dart.

copyright © 2013 Martha Fawcett

Perfect Empathy

photo - CopyPholcus phalangioides also known as the “vibrating spider, cellar spider,” or daddy long-legs.”

Buddha sits in meditative peace until Pholcus phalangioides tickles Buddha’s cheek. This is normal behavior for daddy long-legs that vibrates the web of other spiders to mimic the struggle of trapped prey. This special trick lures hungry webhosts closer to the waiting mouth of the vibrating spider. Buddha feels the dancing feet upon his forehead, nose, and cheek, but does not move. When the spider settles into a position between the Buddha’s left and third eye, the Buddha looks out through the spider’s compound eyes and see in a way he has never seen before.
copyright © 2013 Martha Fawcett

February: The New Spring

My daughter Penelope mentioned that we need more weather predicting groundhogs on the job  and that Punxsutawney Phil was off his game this year. I think so too. This year, the effects of global warming caused a abnormally mild winter up and down the East Coast of the USA. Last week, I saw a groundhog crawling over the edge of my raised garden beds, in search of a carrot or turnip from last summer. When he found his nubbin, he was content to sit there in the sunlight and munch.

If we never had a real winter this year, perhaps we never had our proper rest and now the strange itch of new growth is only growing stronger. While the shadows of radical and antiquated opinions attempt to drag us back into our holes, nothing can stop the natural cycles of our evolution. The only question we need to ask ourselves is, do we have the courage to face our shadows and stay awake while doing it?

February 29, Leap Day, is an important milestone in the life of Jane Hibernia Smith, the protagonist of Together, book II of The Janaforma Trilogy.

The events of February are a great metaphor for personal evolution. The month begins with the pagan festival of Imbolic on February 1. The earth may be frozen and blanketed with snow but deep underground seeds are stirring with an itch to be born. The groundhog emerges on February 2. What awoke him from his underground burrow? Did he hear seeds cracking or did the embryonic roots snaking around him tickle his back? The groundhog peeks out of his burrow, sees his shadow, and retreats, delaying the process of rebirth. Yet spring will come because nothing can stop the natural cycles of Earth’s evolution. If the groundhog could find the courage to face his shadow, his cycle of rebirth would begin immediately and he would not be asleep when the opportunity of Leap Day arrives once every four years.

In the case of Jane Hibernia Smith, strange things had been happening to her for weeks before February 29th. Yet when Hibernia finally emerged from her space pod, she does not run back to her empty life. Jane Hibernia Smith takes advantage of the rare opportunity of Leap Day and makes an evolutionary leap into her future.

copyright © 2013 Martha Fawcett

Awake Great Mother!

Coral reefs slumber beneath the seas
like the profiles of long, elegant women.
Hidden there, the scattered shells
of siren’s voices still remember Her name.
Once, severed from Her by the steely blades of titans,
reason wore her shells ‘round their ears like two rigid teacups,
while tossing Her pearls back into the sea.

Awake Great Mother!
Open your sea-indigo eye to me
An inspirit my life with your eye for beauty.

Rise ancient sirens!
Sing Her songs
And She will echo “I love you” through russling leaves.

Let’s celebrate Her like lovers,
like children, dancing on Her beaches
with Her infinite sand between our toes.

Oh Mother One
of understanding,
tear off my rags of denial
so I may run naked into your sea.
Teach me the salt of You.

The murmuring Om:
the silent mystery behind Her sings—
Love’s meaning is hidden within you.

Martha Fawcett (copryright 2012)

No Man is an Island

No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thine own
Or of thine friend’s were.
Each man’s death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.
John Donne

Am I a rock, an island afloat in a vast universe of indifference or “part of the main” and “piece of the continent?” The Janaforma crew of the starship, La Ventana, face this question in One, the final book of the Janaforma Trilogy.

Added, October 19, 2012, 3:54 PM

Am I a rock, an island afloat in a vast universe of indifference or “part of the main…piece of the continent?” If I direct my question outward, the question does not lead to any self-evident truth, but rather to a choice we ask ourselves. Do we choose to be one with others or are we alone?  It’s my personal decision to approach life with empathy so I can’t turn around when it’s inconvenient and say, “I don’t agree with you, therefore you are my enemy.”

I reconcile this philosophy by looking inside myself to the cooperative tension between my mind and feelings. I see my fear and doubt speaking with many voices while feelings use shame to animate the endless voices of my internal judgment. When I first approached my internal noise, I barely could see my real self among the distortions thrown up by doubt, fear, shame. However, when I began dialoguing with these internal voices, gave them faces, I began to understand my real self.

Webster defines “understanding” as “the quality or condition of one who understands; comprehension.” An understanding person is someone who is sympathetic or empathetic. Understanding opens our minds and soothes our feelings with assurance; and the quirky magic involved in understanding is that when we understand, understanding becomes ubiquitous throughout our being.

If we want to create authentic and lasting change in society, then we need to communicate with others from the strength of internal morality. Does this philosopical modus operandi mean that sometimes individuals are going to take advantage and we are going to open ourselves to more emotional bumps and bruises? Yes, but the bumps and bruises are tenderizering and exposes us to our own empathy and gives our human experience authentic depth.