Monthly Archives: February 2011



I am being chased, tracked, pursued and even worse, forced to follow where I’m led.  Mysterious and dangerous as this sounds, while true, nothing close to a Ludlum novel.  As stated earlier, I don’t see men at the edge of vision but I do sense a presence at perception’s periphery.

Dreams, archaic research left in places it shouldn’t, synchronous concepts played out on cable documentaries, this is the core of my paranoia.  But as yet no David Warner, or Morgan Freeman charged with my torture have shown themselves.

 Last night I woke every hour on the hour.  And every time I fell back to sleep, the same dream continued in my head like a bad horror film interminably looped in some East Village art house.  Every version of the dream started the same.  I stood at the base of a grassy hill.  This hill towered above and at its apex, someone stood facing away into the wind.

I always called out but the figure never responded.  Every time I would dutifully climb that hill.  It was difficult with rocks sticking out at odd angles or loose gravel under foot.  The higher I climbed the steeper the pitch.  Once summitted, I would speak again to the figure.  He remained facing away, completely unaware of my presence.  I would then walk up, turn him around to face me.  Each time I faced myself.


Me … except the eyes, they were black as coal and completely unaware of my presence.  And each time, I would back away in horror only to fall down the hill.   Waking and gasping for air I would be unable to untangle myself from the bed sheets.  I couldn’t stop the dreams recurring theme because an unseen weight secured me to my pillows.  I’d toss a bit but always fell back to sleep only to re-live the dream once more.

Then, somewhere between five or six in the morning the dream changed.  Again I was at the bottom of the grassy hill.  Again, the figure on top and I obediently climbed. This time cresting the hill I saw the figure was different.  He was a child.  I didn’t bother calling just spun him around.

It was Oliver that stared back at me.  He looked up; eyes blue with a tinge of green and clear as mountain water.  We searched each other’s face for answers neither had questions for.  Then, without a hint of malice, this little boy leapt, huge canine teeth breaking from his gums, and began devouring me.  It was neither painful nor terrifying just this sense of bits and pieces of me dissappearing.

When the child was done, he wiped his face and took up his vigil once more.  There was nothing of me left, not even bones but still I had presence.   And in this ethereal existence, I rose.  I rose from the ground and floated into the air.   When my ascent was complete, I looked out over hill after hill after grassy hill.  Each topped by a little boy.  The first was Oliver.  The next, too was Oliver.  I floated over figure after figure, all Oliver until I reached one last, lone form.  It was me again with eyes so black, they sucked me in.  Literally, this figure made in my image became a new body for me to look out at the world from.

I turned to view the long line of Oliver’s I’d passed and in the distance I saw a glow emitting from the very first, the original.

Of course I woke then.  This time, I was able to get out of bed.  In the bathroom, staring back at me from the mirror, my eyes were now my own.  No pools of inky black.

Why the dreams?  Implications?  It seems I should understand yet like steam from a kettle, meaning slips through my grasp leaving a boiled barren residue at the bottom of my psyche.


Take My Card

I have a card.  A friend made it for me.  They felt I needed to broaden my message and so the distribution of small pieces of paper is in order, a bit like confetti but with more meat.  If you see this laying around anywhere, point it out.  Let people know.  Maybe it will “drive more traffic” to my site and in this mass exodus from things far more constructive, someone who knows me may surface and I might begin to answer, who am I?

As can be told by the above babble, I have never been a good marketer.  I stumble when asked to promote or sell.  But finding myself is by far the most important project I have ever attempted.  So as Bill Maher once said, “READ MY BLOG!”


Dug out of a larger container, plastic because I don’t remember glass jars, eaten straight off the spoon.  Snickers bars frozen, taken from the freezer for 5 minutes before eating so your teeth can bite through to the frosty wax of the chocolate.

Why do I have these cravings?  Where did they come from?  Last night, licking peanut butter off a spoon I realized that I had strayed from my mission with this blog.  The peanut butter brought back a memory.  I had been out of the hospital for a couple of years, living in the North when my friend Ray came for a visit.

He stayed with me in my tiny New York Apartment.  We had been watching some bad western when I went to the kitchen to get a spoon full of peanut butter.  When I came back out, Ray looked at me, dumbfounded.

“What?  You said you didn’t want anything.”

“No but what do ya’ got there?”

“Peanut butter.”

“Man, you are such a redneck.”

“What do you mean?”

“I never knew anyone else who ate peanut butter off a spoon.  Such a white trash thing to do.  Where’d you pick up that habit?”

I thought a moment but came up blank.

Frozen snickers?”

“What?” Ray asked.

“You ever put Snickers in the freezer?”


“I do.”

“Is it good?”

I thought a moment and then replied, “Yeah.  Very good.”

Ray let me stand there.  He could tell I was thinking something through.  After rummaging about my mind and coming up blank, I spoke.

“You know something?  I don’t know why I like these things.  I just do”

We spent the rest of the night just talking, rambled from one topic to the next.  Ray saw I was struggling with this idea of likes and dislikes.  After a while of chewing the fat as he’d say, Ray got this serious look on his face.

“Moses, someone likes things because their people liked them.  Their parents, grandparents, you know.  Like me and my gum.  You don’t have that, man.  You’re just a bunch of impulses without meaning.”

“That scares me, Ray.”

“Shit, don’t be fearful of the unknown.  That’s a blessing.  Knowing ain’t everything and surprise has its own pleasures.  But you are an analytical one and need reasons, don’t ya’?”


“Yeah.   Like why you like Jiffy on a spoon.  Or why you dress like some derelict walking the yellow line down Main Street.”

Or something like that dialogue occurred.  It’s been years and that’s what my feeble mind can cobble together about our conversation.  Reasons.  I need rationale for who or what I am.

This blog has begun to veer off into my speculative fantasies.  While that is what most blogs tend to be, that was not my intention.  More important, my mission, intuitive or learned, why I like frozen candy bars and peanut butter on a spoon.


Creationism?  Angels?  How is it I did not see these things in my posts?  My religion is the search for truth, my truth, yes, but truth none the less.  My faith, two fists full of sand I scatter about the ground waiting for a labyrinth image to emerge.  I’ve never spent much time with the concept of religion.  Quite funny for someone named after one of the Bibles most famous persons.

My desire has never been to find God but myself or at least The Book of Moses Haygood that explains who I really am.  I do not disparage religion either.  It’s just never stuck to me.  Over the years, I’ve had many friends whose faith was solid as oak.  But never once did anyone try to turn me.  I suppose my constant state of insanity waved them off.

Years ago I met this ex-nun.  She had left the order of her own accord.  Wanted to walk among the people she told me.  Not be distanced by the garb.  Her belief in God was absolute but never a thing to foist on others unless they wished to hear.

When it was apparent that I was not of the flock, she merely said, “It doesn’t matter where you go to find answers, it’s just important that you go and find the well that quenches your thirst.”

That’s what I’ve done, sought after a well that will quench my thirst.  It’s rarely in books but I do find solace between the pages.  It has been in places but always when I am alone.  I suppose I do have faith, faith not in a supreme being but rather larger forces beyond my comprehension.

What those forces may or may not be?  I equate this question with yeast used by a baker in a loaf of bread.  If the yeast was sentient, could it ever grasp the concept of the baker?  How then could I?  I merely ruminate on the small hints given us about the fabric of the universe.  When it comes to men of the cloth, I feel more comfortable with a tailor than a priest.  I only have to explain why I want a cuff in the pants, not my sins which I fear may be many.


Prior to my memory reboot, Terry Gilliam made a movie called TIME BANDITS.  It had a Supreme Being, Ultimate Evil and little men moving unaffected through time stealing things here and there.  Why do I find this story a metaphor for my life?  Not that I see little men running around the periphery of my perception.  But time as a scalable configuration, as if one could travel up and down the radio dial from BC to AD, this for some unknown reason strikes a nerve.

If there are parallel universes, multiple realities or dimensions, if time is simultaneous, if the universe operates 24/7 to the 9th power, should there be someone, something to manage the chaos?   My dreams begin to feel less like my subconscious let loose and more like manipulation.  By what?  Not a clue.   Truly, no idea.  It is more of a feeling, probably a need to justify my drug free nocturnal fantasies.

Did the minions of some Supreme Power take Oliver and then spit me out?  Proof?  None.  Merely the speculation of a frustrated curmudgeon whose search for answers leaves him checked at the border of awareness.  So, I generate movie inspired fantasies.  I do believe there is a lesson I could learn from Mr. Gilliam … humor.  I have become such a dower old maid locked away in my office.

And if there be minions out there then I duly dub them Midians.  Why?  Midians welcomed the biblical Moses into their tents when he first fled Egypt.  They were also his last conquest as the General of his people.  Everything is cyclical.  And so, if you are out there, manipulating time’s fabric, I can only hope the outcome less bloody should this Moses find his Midians.


Pseudo Science.  That is what I feel I immerse myself in.  I find that I can wrap my brain around complex scientific concepts yet when sifting through all the background math, my mind turns to runny pudding.  It’s as if I have a selective intellect.  I can conceive but have not the ability to create the conceptual proof.

Space time, multiple individuals, Chaos Theory and now I’m sifting through something called Biocentrism.  Its author claims that before a universal theory of everything can be created, biology and physics must be integrated.  Can life begin from nothing?  Evidently not.  Life only exists where consciousness leads.

And no, I am not referring to Dr. Robert Lanza’s work as Pseudo Science.  It is my inability to completely grasp his topic that annoys me.  I am Pseudo Science incarnate.  I have moments of such clarity.  Then with the reading of a single article, my mind becomes a muddle and I feel a need to sit in a corner and write “I will not think of myself as brilliant ever again,” some one thousand times.

Yet the task I have thrust myself into leads to the River Science.  The investigation is not to document but to find truth.  And in looking for this veracity of personal history, I always come to this question, “Am I smart enough?”

I don’t even know if I have a college degree.  What I do know is that I have a sharp mind with very large holes punched through its main sail by Buccaneers who have stolen pieces and left me adrift in a sea of quandary.  So, am I smart enough?  I’ll sharpen my cutlass and jump back into the battle once more because life evidently was not created from nothing and thus my appearance in the desert cannot be random.


In my day, Bigfoot was a mystery to be solved, not a fact waiting to be proved.  That statement in and of itself gives me hope.  In my day … I am middle aged and have had “a day” even though it started late in life. 

Back to Bigfoot.

So, I allowed myself a bit of television the other night.  On one of the cable channels was a two hour documentary concerning the scientific basis of Bigfoot.  It appeared more of a scripted panel discussion among true believers rather than authentic researchers.  To them, Bigfoot was one of three possibilities; a prehistoric ape, an ancient humanoid or a Shaman in training who had been too long in the wild and the 1967 Patterson film unquestionable evidence.

In 1994, I researched the Boggy Creek legend where an Arkansas house in the woods was terrorized by an upright ape like beast.  The incident occurred in the seventies and I was tasked with reevaluating the research for a new docu.  I actually found supposed hair samples from the attack.  I interviewed individuals who had been through that night of terror.  Almost everyone in the area was still convinced it had been Bigfoot.

The hair analysis came back inconclusive, nothing new to prove or disprove.  I watched again the really bad film on the subject, THE LEGEND OF BOGGY CREEK.  I sat through two hours of an actor in a monkey suit yelling in the woods.  But this time the terrified man running through a glass door caught my attention.

My thoughts were glass cuts and this person would have gone to the hospital.  Hospital records might produce credible evidence.  I checked out this possibility.  The records were not available to me but I was given the name and address of the attending physician at the emergency room that night.  He lived just outside of San Antonio, Texas.

At that point in time, he was a crusty old character who drank coffee by the pot with the perpetual cigarette dangling from his lower lip.  This was not a man who believed in monsters, ghosts or the paranormal.  But what he told me focused my approach to the subject.

“Don’t know what he saw that night.  Saw something, though.  In the movie, your guy went through a hollow core door mostly made with glass.  The man I treated crashed though a two inch thick, solid oak door and was covered from head to toe in splinters.  It was a fear for his life that turned him into Sampson.  Don’t know if it was a monster but something scared the shit out him.”

Here was a man who had witnessed the outcome of the encounter.   He believed something horrifying had been seen.  But what that something could have been he wasn’t willing to elaborate on.  Today, we too easily are led by the definitive even if it has no basis in fact.  Thus we call it Reality TV when there is nothing real about it.

In my day, even though we documented the mystical or supposed evils of the world, I was never expected to approach my story as fact first.  Possibly we have become so jaded that the mere idea of a Wild Hairy Beast-Man is not enough.  Bigfoot’s reality equals big ratings and so we allow this nonsense to be shoveled down the gullet of our minds.

This departure from my day is the exact distraction I find myself in now.  Every discovery about my beginnings in the desert leads to suppositions that have no basis of proof, they just are.  This man in Arkansas who ran through a door saw something beyond his rational mind and everyone is content to believe it is of unnatural origins.  The circumstances of my existence are beyond my rational mind yet I wrestle with this concept of unnatural origin without evidence.

So, I continue to look beyond the norm and validate what is validable.  I fear though the crusty old doctor in my head is not as centered as that fellow in Texas I interviewed so many years ago.  I fear my curmudgeon leads me down the path to insanity.  I hope that this path is only a wall of flames I must pass through to find the cool light of resolution not this lunacy I call life.


Why there?  A question that has tumbled through my brain until it is a polished stone of inquiry.  Yet, no concrete answer offers itself up.  Does the fact that I appeared off that roadside on a longitude similar yet 100 miles east of the great meteor crater near Winslow offer clues?  Could radioactive winds from Cold War mines dug by a Great People mercilessly lied to have created circumstances that brought me into being?

So, I’m either STARMAN or CAPTAIN AMERICA, yet my underdeveloped ego withdraws from the elevated status of Superhero or Alien.  I am mere mortal and as such, need to know why there, off that desert road, I was found.

Ray brought me in from the wilderness but wasn’t the one who found me.  He says someone else did, someone claiming I appeared, naked.  Poof and Moses materialized, named for a religious icon come out of the desert yet I have no vision of what I’m supposed to do.

Life for me started here.

Nothing but scrub brush, dried river bed and dusty road.  What’s special?   Why would I pick this spot to lose myself in?  If some cosmic occurrence happened there I ask why?  Why then?  And why two years prior did a little boy poof?

Answers flow from questions asked.  Yet, I feel frustration as questions mount, crushing what few answers I’ve scratched from hardened earth.  The time for capes and magic is childhood but my waxy mind does not hold those distant memories so the comic book motifs escape me.

Possibly I should get out.  I’ve had too much snow and ice with no relief.  My mood has grown as grey as the light that shines through my office window.

Yet, I stand firm, why there?  Why then?  And why me?

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