One and None

Dreaming has been a part of human history for as long as anyone can remember, and it’s never lost it’s mystical veil over it’s denizens. The seemingly limitless interpretations of their value in our daily lives stretch to all walks of life. However, accompanied with this mystique is an altered state of consciousness known as “hypnagogia“, or in it’s lay-terms, the “borderland state“, the “borderline“, or the “ half-dream “ state. Along with dreaming this is one of the most fascinating altered states of consciousness we can experience without the use of hallucinogenic substances. It is commonly described as achieving conscious awareness during the point at which the mind submits to the subconscious prior to dreaming. In essence, it is exactly such, but the mysterious is unfortunately not quite that simple. An average amount of people have experienced this at least a few times that they can recall by memory. In the hypnagogic state, random voices may sound seemingly from no where, visual apparitions may materialize, origin-less thoughts could possess the mind which some have told they agreed with. Landscapes may paint themselves before you, your body may feel as if it’s grown to enormous sizes, or in some cases experience points of timelessness. These experiences are reasonably not unlike those seen under the influence of certain psychoactive substances.

The term “hypnagogic“ was coined by the 19th century French psychologist Alfred Maury, which is a derivative of two Greek words, Hypnos (sleep) and Agogeus (guide, or leader). By analytical definition, the term means “sleep guide“ , which is a most apt description. It can even play into some scenarios people have recounted of encountering what is known as “sleep entities“; beings in which confront them before sleep. This situation and the advocates deeming to have experienced them date as far back as the middle ages and are often retold as ugly old women sitting on their chests causing breathing problems. Beings resembling vampires, demons, angels, and even praeter-human intelligences are other descriptions which fall into this phenomena. It isn’t out of the question to observe that with each point in history, the sleep entities vary in description and thus has a great connection with the current consciousness and perception of the individual. This however is not a solution for various phenomena which seem to make interesting the lives of some.

One of the first to remark on hypnagogic potentials was Aristotle, who spoke of the “affections we experience when sinking into slumber 'and' the images which present themselves to us in sleep“. In the third century AD, Iamblichus, the Neo-Platonic philosopher, wrote of the “voices” and “bright and tranquil light” that came to him in the “condition between sleeping and waking” and which he believed were a form of “god-sent” experience. There is adequate evidence to suggest that the alchemists of the Middle Ages made use of a form of hypnagogia during their lengthy preparations and distillations. The weird characters and eerie landscapes that fill alchemical illustrations would not be out of place in a hypnagogic hallucination. It’s evident that this little understood experience has been an inspirational tool for philosophers and artists alike for centuries. For the aesthetic minded this can prove to be a valuable “doorway“ into something potentially infinitely inspiring. Bluntly, it’s the possibility of crafting, or watching your dreams unfold at will with front row seats.

To exist in a society of watered down desensitization of commercials and marketing schemes like chicken nuggets, I feel hypnagogia is the artist’s best trump card. To the uninspired, it can be that graceful hand of creativity that sweeps you up in a moment of artistry. As an example, the musical prowess of the progressive rock Band known as Tool seems to illustrate this notion quite well in their track, “Stinkfist“. In it’s entirety, the song seems to be about dealing with the frustration of desensitization through the remedy of altered dream states. The lines “It’s not enough, I need more, nothing seems to satisfy. I don’t want it, I just need it, to breathe, to feel, to know I’m alive.“ and, “Finger deep within the borderline. Show me that you love me and that we belong together, turn around and take my hand.“ confirm this. It’s easy to surmise that hypnagogia would be the metaphorical meaning for stinkfist, however gruesome it may seem. Other advocates even in old time’s past have also used this as a vehicle of sorts for their spiritual endeavors. Emmanuel Swedenborg, the 18th century philosopher, scientist, and visionary developed a method of inducing and exploring hypnagogic states during which he traveled to heaven, hell, and other realms. Oliver Fox, a theosophical writer in the early 20th century, used the hypnagogic hallucination of a doorway as a starting point for his astral traveling. The magical artist Austin Osman Spare journeyed to hypnagogic worlds and brought back images to adorn his canvases. Rudolph Steiner advised that the best time to communicate with the dead was during the period between sleep and wakefulness. Steiner claimed that if you asked the dead a question before sleep, you would get an answer the next morning upon awaking. Given these descriptions and the realms explored through these means, one could gather that our external perceptions could very well be our internal inner-space merely passing through a filter. Needless to say, that what is disconnected from us is merely an illusion. Everything is connected. Many philosophies and methods of enlightenment varying in culture around the World emplore that the cusp of nirvana sits upon the realization of inter-connectedness with everything, so it’s no surprise dreams maintain an importance. Many scientists studying sleep have uncovered that activity in the brain isn’t very different between being awake and sleeping. According to neuro-scientists Denis Pare and Rodolfo Llinas, the brain’s simultaneous 40 Hz “neural oscillations“, which are associated with consciousness, also occur during REM sleep. Given this, Pare and Llinas were led to the conclusion that the only difference between our dreaming and waking states is that in waking states, the closed system that generates oscillatory states is modulated by incoming stimuli from the outside world. In other words, what we call “waking state” is really an REM dream state, with a sensory topping. Or, we shouldn’t speak of being either asleep or awake, but of “sleep plus waking state.” There’s your supporting evidence.

Scientists have also unearthed that the thalamus of the brain is also important during sleep. Located within it is the pineal gland, which the philosopher Descartes believed to be the seat of the soul, and whose purpose in scientific circles remains to be something of a mystery. Recently, one crucial function of the pineal gland has become clear: it is the only gland in mammals that produces the hormone melatonin, which is important in the production of the neurotransmitter serotonin. Serotonin is the substance which interacts with our brain chemistry to produce perception. That the pineal gland is located precisely where ancient Vedic literature places the “third eye“, whose function is spiritual vision and the opening of which results in enlightenment, offers some hard, neurological evidence for a belief too often relegated to fancy and superstition. The pineal gland could also be observed in light of the scepter of Hermes (Egyptian God). In the twin snakes coiled about a rod crowned by a winged cone, the integration of man’s conscious and unconscious minds, united by the unique state of hypnagogia. If your goal is to pry open your third eye, it wouldn’t be a bad start to experiment with your dreams and embrace the closest scepter of Hermes to you.

Ultimately, hypnagogia offers what it’s explorers put in. It’s important to remain calm and relaxed for it’s been known that sleep disorders have originated from this practice. It certainly isn’t for those of the feint at heart, but challenges are common for psychonauts of any kind. With invested time and patience, one could wreap many rewards and perhaps have one of those life-altering experiences people talk about so much. At any rate, merely the description alone could give us all something to sleep on.

*Image 'Hypnagogia: Doorway to Inner-Space' courtesy of myself.

        Choking on inevitable bouts of consciousness, I twisted and ebbed upon the uncomfortable couch I somehow fell asleep on the night before. Uninviting rays of dawn crept through imperfect windows to sting my forlorn eyes; it was Sunday morning, Church Sunday. I sat upright on the couch, listening to various pops and cracks of my bones while the itchy surface of the couch's fabric pricked at my skin, suggesting it's age. I watched her enter the room with a papier-maché smile on her lips, and I forcefully returned one. It had been a short sixteen years of my time in this place, and I knew second-guessing my decisions wasn't uncommon. She warmly offered me a cup of coffee, and to cook breakfast, but such a textbook situation wasn't a regular commodity in this household, and I knew this. Alienated, I obliged. I sat down to a typical mediocre American breakfast as her Grandmother and Uncle who lived with them entered the kitchen. A thin woman she was, cigarette knit between wrinkle-laden lips patted me on the shoulder as if my current undertaking was to result in some sort of failure. Then again, I was the one. I was the guy like no other guy who stole the heart of her Grand-daughter; an expectation I never wanted to live up to. The boyfriends of old time's past have been abusive dead beats who would paint their necks red, if they weren't red enough already.

It was a cozy atmosphere in the tiny trailer in the battery acid sense of the word, because today was Church day. All the false hopes, insecurities and pipe-dreams all just wilted away, and I was (un)fortunate enough to be their special guest. The Family vehicle was an old beat up sedan which had seen better days, and by now I had realized that these aren't your average Church-folk. Realization came easy when you're poised upon uncomfortable furniture for 'X' amount of hours listening to quasi-religious babble only later to find that none of them actualize it in their lives. The drive to Church was an unforgettable one. Amidst all of the random effects littering the car floor, I nearly forgot about the ordeal ahead of me. One couldn't be entirely sure about the location of the ash-tray if one deliberately contemplates the amount of ashes on the floor next to it. The side window was smug with an array of cheaply out-dated stickers once meant to overtly display the occupants interests, but now it would be an embarrassment. For some reason the tagging of live-stock came to mind. In the backseat I sat in my purgatory, paying keen-eyes for any high-rise chapel or steeple, but I saw none.

"We're here!" her Grandmother exclaimed in pensive glee.
"Rich, this is going to be fun. I'm glad you're here with me." she said as she held my hand.

The Church was a small building sharing a lot with a row of houses before it, and it was no wonder I had missed it in my prior search. Immediately, past experiences caught up with me in flashback fashion, of how few there were. In my formative years the few times I stepped foot into any kind of Church were on an unorganized basis. As an unbaptized child, the only masses I attended were with the Family of Friends. Having very little knowledge into the likes of Church activities, each and every time I attended was befallen with wonder, anxiety, and alienation. Quite a cocktail for the youthful mind, one might say. At that point in time, the Church had succeeded. I was a typical God-fearing citizen, but as time ebbs and flows, so do revelations come.

Upon entering the Church, the out of place feeling crept up on me like cold hands around the back of my neck, but I didn't mind it. In the company of people who geniunely cared for me, I was complacent. What would follow is a mixture of both the former and the latter. Curiousity tingled in my chest, and anxiety crawled on my skin like insects. We sat in the first row of the small Church, and her Grandmother couldn't stop smiling in my direction. The night before I divulged my short visitations to the Church of Jesus Christ to her, and she had hoped that today I would grasp a better understanding. The pressure had mounted, and my palms became caked with sweat upon thinking about it. I glanced at the wooden altar, and in the corner of my eye I saw a young man aged approximately in his mid-twenties enter the room from a backdoor. White-collar, black clothes, it was all there. He was the Pastor of this Church. He approached the altar in formal fashion placing his bible on it's surface.

"Good morning ladies and gentleman. Today I would like to focus on the words of Jesus,
and the sacrament of meaning behind his sacrifice for us." the Pastor said with diligence.

I followed him with my eyes, paying attention to his words with insatiable curiousity. Up until now, the Bible and Jesus had been a bit of a myth for me. To hear someone speak of him in such a context was new to me, and demanded attention.

"Jesus died on the cross, and so the cross is our way of honoring, and respecting his sacrifice for our sins. Jesus taught that love, forgiveness, and acts of kindness shown to everyone, even our enemies is to be rewarded. Love is boundless, and conquers all obstacles in our paths." he continued on as he began to pace back and forth in front of the altar.

As his sermon ensued, I began to notice that he too was also following me with his eyes as he spoke. It didn't occur to me until much later that I stuck out like an atheist recieving excommunication considering it was my first visit. As time elapsed he covered various topics pertaining to Christian lore, including how to allow Jesus into your heart. There was something about him in the way that he spoke that seemed to mark the letters V.A.I.N. on his forehead, but observations aside, I listened. The time came for song and to praise the Lord which was a result of our voices and the Church piano. I didn't know the words, but her Family coaxed me to join in if I could. I sat quitely as I watched the members of the Church sing and dance in appraisal, a few shedding tears and even crying in Religious surrender. I couldn't provoke myself into it, and instead I was rewarded with chewing the inside of my cheek with a parched mouth.

The song and dance came to an end, thus concluding this Sunday's activities, but all was not over. I stood in full erect from my seat and turned to her Grandmother who asked me what I thought. I gave her an honest answer, in that I never expected what I had heard from the good Pastor. Speak of the Devil. He approached me from behind already in speech, as if he didn't care if I was facing him or not.

"Hey son, I noticed you were moved by my words earlier." he said with apparent pride.
"Yeah. I never knew those things about Jesus before." I replied with a tugging smile.
"I'm glad to see you allowed Jesus into your heart. Come with me for a moment."

He lead me away from the benches lining the Church in countless dizzying rows, and lead me up a few stairs behind the altar. My eyes instinctively seemed to fall upon the microphone he had in hand, and immediately my mind sparked into wildfire with possibilities. Slowly, my tense vision fell upon the seemingly endless amounts of tenants in the Church as he began to speak with them through the microphone.

"My Friends, a beautiful event has just been brought to my attention.
Our dear Friend Rich, the newest face which has joined us for the first
time today has told me of his blessed experience. Jesus has entered his
heart, and he wishes to relay this feeling to you."

.. I watched him speak, and I wondered how I had missed the fangs in his mouth during all of his prior talking. Who was he to say Jesus had entered my heart? On what grounds could he attempt to manipulate me with puppet strings? There I was, throat parched, nothing able to slake my thirst. My tongue was like a hungry snake tunneling through my skull searching for solace. I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat taking it's time to disappear. All eyes were on me, taking me in to be one of their own. If God truly endowed man with free-will, I hadn't seen my own in the walls of this Church. Lowering his hand, the Pastor placed the mic before my lips. They say silence is golden, but all I felt was rust. I was a stranger in an even stranger land, in the strangest situation. Eternities would pass, but in reality moments would give me all the time I needed to allow my eyes to dart around vigorously at the countless faces looking up at me. Nervous, the Pastor retracted the mic back to his own lips sheepishly.

"My dear Friends, it seems that our blessed Friend is moved
beyond words. Please, come and offer him your love and kindness.
Share this holy moment with him."

I stood still as if several roots beneath me held me tethered to the floor. They all came, in one large flock to approach me before the altar. In that very moment, I wasn't sure what to expect by all definitions of the phrase. So much had happened already that I didn't expect. One by one, they came before me and touched me with their hands, praising me in the name of Jesus. Some of them once again were moved to the point of tears, but all I had to move me was mental dismemberment. I had began to wonder who really mattered here. Was it there Religious ecstasy they so ached for each Sunday, or was it my assumed holy alignment? Finally, my eyes found my girlfriend and her Grandmother, who sure enough was leaking with tears. At a blank, my expression remained drained of emotion, and completely vacant. Only my eyes spoke of the feeling of invasion.

We left the Church afterward, and for the last time. For whatever reasons teenage angst may dictate, I broke up with the girl months afterward, and told no one of my Church experience. It was something I locked away in the subconscious vault of my mind, so it wasn't something I thought about much until years later when I could make sense of it. Though, I had wondered from time to time if the entire event was orchestrated. Her Grandmother was quite fond of the young Pastor, and knew him on a personal level. I suppose it's just another example of the Church leaving behind it's puncture wounds, and hiding their guilt-laden fangs.

The End.

Oh, and just let it be known that I don't regret that experience. I don't hold any conscious contempt for the Church either. I chose to take it for what it was, an eye opening event that would later pave the way for some purging. A better word would be cognitive dissonance.

*Image titled 'Vision and Mission', from the works of Alex Grey.