Hi Russ,

Tonight I was scrolling through a folder of old writings and came across this piece I wrote years ago in response to something you had written based on a dream of yours. You called your piece "Mr. Pillar Man’s Visit."

I was really struck by it, and Mr. Corn Man came to me back then as a spontaneous response.

As I recall, you published Mr. Pillar Man in Dream Network Journal (DNJ). So also, I sent Mr. Corn Man to DNJ. I found the date for your piece, by the way—Christmas 2013.

But tonight, as I re-read A Question for Mr. Corn Man, I suddenly realized that Mr. Corn Man—all irascible three feet of him—resonated strongly with Xhactu.

Mr. Corn Man derived from a dream I had had maybe twenty years earlier. That dream was simple and brief, but profound. It presented the strange, alien figure of a hairy, wiry, 3-foot-tall figure, along with the caption: “This is the Corn Spirit. It’s all that matters.” It was obvious that the Corn Spirit dream was presenting the figure of an old fertility god, almost like a garden priapus.

Xhactu is the same size, just as cranky, and just as priapic (witness how he and Irma got it on that first night in her Diner in Seattle).

I felt like the comparison between Xhactu and Mr. Corn Man was just, which suggests that Xhactu is beginning to take on the qualities of a pagan divinity.

Like so much else, this is an unexpected turn of events, and I feel it resonates as well with everything we’ve been writing.

I’ve wanted to place Mr. Pillar Man and Mr. Corn Man together, but DNJ was the only readily available venue at the time, and we were busy with other things. I just found the document for Mr. Pillar Man (2013). It’s still moving to me—as you were suggesting in your note today, about how things come to us so spontaneously that we continue to be surprised by them, and how they continue to be “fresh,” even years later. Remarkable!

So, now that Xhactu is taking on further dimensions, I wonder if you think there’s a place for both stories in the FC website. Maybe even somewhere else. There’s lots of shifting movement at the moment. Creative “cracks" opening up.

Let me know what you think.

Paco

---

Well, let's put both pieces together here. As I was posting this, I recalled this.

Conversation with a Blind, One-armed Dwarf

The dwarf was no taller than an ordinary desk, but this was

no ordinary dwarf. First, there is only one arm. Second,

wearing sunglasses and moving gingerly suggests at least

partial blindness.

“May I know your name,” I asked.

“Si.”

“Oh, you are a Spanish dwarf then.”

“No. That is my name.”

“That is unusual. What’s your last name?”

“Si. My name is Si Si. I have no middle name.”

“I see.”

“I don’t.”

“Do you always appear out of the blue like this?”

“Of course. Otherwise, everyone would avoid me.”

“Well then, what’s the purpose of your visit?”

“To deliver a message from The Committee.”

“The Committee? I don’t know what you are referring to.”

“No matter.”

“What’s the message?”

“Dwarfs are dedicated to seeing tasks through to completion.”

“That’s it?”

“It’s enough.”

---

Mr. Pillar Man's Visit

Tall and straight he stands

looking me over after walking

into my dream without knocking,

without invitation or permission.

"No need," he asserts.

"That I am here is enough; that's

the important thing after all."

He tells me he comes and goes

in dreams of mine and others.

"Very few know me, even

fewer know my name. Tell

the others I will be along soon.

I've some work to do. But don't

tell them my name."

For now, let's call him Mr. Pillar Man.

I'm sure you will recognize him

when he comes to your dream.

Then, sipping latte, in some cafe,

we can compare hints he has dropped.

 

From notes on a Christmas Dream, 2013.

---

A Question for Mr. Corn Man

by

Paco Mitchell

[This was written spontaneously, in response to Russell Lockhart’s dream-based poem about “Mr. Pillar Man,” printed in the last issue of DNJ. The figure of “Mr. Corn Man” comes from a dream I had about thirty years ago. In my dream he was called “The Corn Spirit.”]

In the remote garden where the Corn Man worked amidst green leaves, I walked quietly along the soft path until I stood a few feet away from where he toiled. He was sweating freely, his hairy body matted and streaked with rivulets. He was so intent on his work—stripping, binding, grafting—that I think he did not notice me at first. I stepped on a dry leaf to make a sound, having already learned that he did not enjoy being surprised by the sudden rudeness, the threat, of a human voice

"Who goes there?" he snarled.

"It is I," I said, "only I."

"Oh, you again. What do you want now?"

Several weeks had passed since I had discovered Mr. Corn Man and his hidden garden while out walking, and by now I was accustomed to his fierce, aggressive manner, and what seemed like his feral disdain for me. But this time I was not intimidated.

"I have come to ask you a question," I said.

"You have, have you? Well, I'm busy." His hands continued their swift magic. "You and your questions," he said as if to himself, and he muttered something unintelligible.

"Yes, and I think you know the answer."

At this he smirked, but he didn't seem to mind my impertinence.

"Well, then, out with it! I told you I'm busy! These plants don't grow by themselves, you know."

“Yes, I'll be brief. I just want to ask—ah—whether you happen to know Mr. Pillar Man. You know, the one who is tall and straight?"

Mr. Corn Man stopped momentarily and looked up from the dirt where he crouched. Then he cocked his head and looked at me sideways, like a bird, and snapped, "Who told you about Mr. Pillar Man?" He had regained the old brusqueness, and the uncanny air of menace that dripped from his naked body in waves.

"Does it matter who? It was just a friend, someone I know," I said, making bold. "He says that Mr. Pillar Man gets around, that he even paid a visit recently, and they talked. This isn't the only garden around, you know." Now I was almost taunting him, surprised at my own rudeness.

"Around? And just where is 'around' supposed to be, where Mr. Pillar Man just shows up?" he said mockingly, not rising to my bait. He continued working, as if racing the sun.

"Oh, you know," I said, having decided to go for broke. "Around. As in . . . dreams." I chewed my lip, waiting for his reply.

"Humph!" the Corn Man snorted. "Who dreams of Mr. Pillar Man any more? Few can see him these days. Oh, they may claim to dream of someone who resembles Mr. Pillar Man, but I'd wager they're only seeing their own reflections in a tin can."

But then Corn Man got a distant look in his eyes. "Was a time," he began . . .

"Yes?" I prompted.

He hesitated, then resumed, as if he'd made a decision.

"Was a time he and I, between us"—and he said this next part slowly and with emphasis—"ruled the world." He spit to the side and grafted a green stem onto a woody stalk.

"What do you mean, 'ruled the world'?" I wanted to keep him talking.

"The world! This! Here! Open your eyes! Look around! The Garden! Where else?" Mr. Corn Man was clearly annoyed. "Mr. Pillar Man and I. Together. He, with his feet in the ground and head in the air, straight as an arrow, and tall. And me, all three feet of me, crooked and twisted like these vines I'm growing. He swept the four corners and held the center while I—I—"

At this point he faltered, at a loss for words.

"Do you mean—" I began.

"Shut up, fool!" he yelled. "Let me think. Let me remember"—he paused, then said, almost affectionately, longingly—"how it was."

I held my tongue and waited. A breeze stirred the leaves around him and he seemed to swell—his entire body—as if pulsing with tumescence. I would swear he gained several inches in height, though he was still crouched and the sun was bright. Then he stood, and I saw it was so. He had grown six inches, maybe twelve. I stepped back, unsure of what was happening. Then he spoke again, this time as if from a distance.

"I was . . . everything. I was life itself. Together, Mr. Pillar Man and I marked the boundaries of the possible. Nothing came into being, except through us. We were"—his voice grew hoarse—"recognized then."

Now the only sound was the slight chafing of the leaves as he worked. I scarcely moved or breathed, hoping he would speak again. But he did not.

Finally I said, "Did you . . .  always look like this?"

"No, of course not. Neither did Mr. Pillar Man. He was a stone, needless to say, but snap your fingers and he could disappear in a gust of wind. Yes, together we were invincible. I was the fruit, he was the pollen. He was everywhere. We both were."

"Is he very old?" I asked.

At first he began to laugh almost convulsively at my stupidity, but when he calmed down he said, "Ha! Old? Is he old? You mean these so-called years of yours?" Then, shifting to what sounded like a low animal growl he said, "You don't measure us, bub. We measure you!"

At that he took up a runner and said, "Look at this." And with his shears he snipped six inches off the growing tip of the vine, the delicate leaves and tendrils tinted yellow and green. "This is you," he said. Next he shoved the stem and leaves into his mouth, chewing and swallowing until they were gone. Then he gazed directly at me, grinning broadly. In the bright sunlight, the irises of his eyes seemed yellow, and a small, leftover fleck of green leaf shone on one of his gleaming teeth. I couldn't say, even now, what was in the look he gave me in that moment. Was it evil? Was it beatific? It was both, really. I shuddered and turned away.

As I walked from the garden he called after me, once again with mockery in his voice, saying, "Don't you have any more questions about Mr. Pillar Man's visit?"

Long Raven Haiku for Tony

by Paco Mitchell

I watched a raven

On the parapet today

Solve the wind problem

 

If he walks in line

With the parapet, the wind

Will blow him over.

 

But he cannot drop

Through the dense, whipping branches

As on calmer days.

 

Today, he has to

Do the “parapet sidestep,”

As ravens call it

 

What is that? you say.

Yes, the “parapet sidestep”—

Beak facing the wind!

 

Ravens are not dumb.

By facing the howling wind—

He keeps his balance.

 

Wind whips the branches

And he can’t attain his goal:

Reach the suet block.

 

What’s his solution?

I just told you what it is:

Face the howling wind.

 

Or get blown over.

It’s a simple choice, for birds,

When it comes to wind.

 

They know what they are

Doing. Reach the suet block.

The wind is their friend.

 

Sidestep, if you must,

They will say to anyone.

But don’t let the wind

 

Get the best of you.

Sidestepping is no come-down—

For Masters of Wind!

Xhactu’s “Declaration of Independence”

 

Attentio- all Earthli-gs! Now hear this! I, Xhactu the Magn-ficent, have performed a swift, highly-tech-ical and, might I say, brilliant star-field repair of my inter-gala-tically-certified universal translator. It has now bee- restored to a 36.788 % Earth-speak func-ioning status. Better tha- before, eh?

 

This of course will dis-ppoint all of you Earthling fan- of silly, so-called—crackle, sputter—sci-fi fictio—crackle—like The Day the Ea-th Stoo- Stillll!

 

You no longer nee- to watch tha- inf-rior movie wi- Mikae- Re-nie as Klatu. Goo- ridd-nc-!

 

Ah, excuse m- whil I ad-ust this ci-cuit. [Bzzzz-wheeeeeeng-bong-bon-, etc.]

 

[Testing, testing. There, that’s better, ain’t it? I mean, isn’t it? Yes, now we’re back to 88.9963631 % efficacy of Earth-speak. We’re “back on track,” Earthlings!]

 

Let me start over. I know many of you are anxious to ask me more galactic questions. I’m more than happy to answer them—maybe.

 

Now. First question. Anyone? Yes, you in the corner.

 

1. Uh, dear Xhactu, if you inter-galactics are so superior, how come your universal translator broke down? Thank you. Rocky the Gremlin.

 

Xhactu: Dear Rocky, what kind of a name is that? You’re wasting my space-time, Earthling! “Rocky” sucks! But Gremlin is supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. Don’t you have technical faux-pas all the time, with your so-called computer “upgrades”? The ones that just make things worse? And don’t your computers “crash” all the time? Like when space ships crash into asteroids and comets?

 

Rocky: Well, yeah, sure, but …

 

Xhactu (turning green): Yeah what?

 

Rocky: Uh, well, I don’t …

 

Xhactu: Of course, you don’t! Next question?

 

2. Dear Xhactu. You don’t have to get so bent out of shape, do you? Thank you. Glenda.

 

Dear Glenda: Weren’t you the Wicked Witch of the West?

 

Glenda: Why no, Xhactu. I was the Good Witch. I mean, the Good Fairy!

 

Xhactu: Intergalactically speaking, there are no Good Fairies.

Glenda: Why?

 

Xhactu: Because all the Good Fairies went bye-bye.

 

Glenda: Where did they go?

 

Xhactu: Over the rainbow! Where else?

 

Glenda: Oh, now I see. It’s all crystal clear now.

 

3. Dear Xhactu. Were you really a Basque shepherd in the Pyrenees in a past life? Thank you. Joey Beetlebomb.

 

Xhactu: Of course. Don’t you see these scars? (Points to orange strips on center foot.) That’s where the wolves got hold of me, and started dragging me away from the fire.

 

Joey: Why did they do that? Thanks.

 

Xhactu: Why? Why, the better to eat me, idiot. What do you think?

 

DEAR XHACTU!

An Exciting New Advice Column 

(sponsored by Owl & Heron Press)

Send in your burning questions, which Xhactu will answer—maybe.

1. Dear Xhactu: What is the nature of love? (John W.)

—Dear John: Love is what you inferior Earthlings call “mush puppies.” We superior inter-galactics call “love” the Super-Glue of Everything (i.e., the gravitational field of dark matter).

2. Dear Xhactu:Is the power of dreams growing?(Merrilee B.)

—Dear Merrilee:  It could grow, if only Earthlings would open their eyes and try imagining for a change. But … unfortunately … they don’t … [crackle, crackle, universal translator heating up]

3. Dear Xhactu:Will there be a Second American Civil War?(Anonymous.)

—Dear Anonymous: What you mean “will,” Earthling? Civil War already happening. Open your eyes!

4. Dear Xhactu:Will I find fame and fortune?(Fred F.)

—Dear Fred: Sorry, Earthling, the answer is no.

5. Dear Xhactu: Donald Trump says you are a “fake alien.” Are you? (Anonymous.)

—Dear Idiot, Here is your answer in glalac-speak: DWUKKPQZIT!!!! 

Russ and Paco.

Are you acquainted with Adam Haar Horowitz’s work and the device he calls a Dormio?  He and a team of professors and researchers at the MIT Media Lab developed it to induce “dream incubation”.  He says he wants to create a “community of dream incubation”, i.e. a community of culture to open a new route between dreams and public life.  Thousands or millions or billions of people hooked up to Dormios.  And for what?  Apparently, we'll only discover that answer through the practice of dream incubation itself, and what it reveals to us.

Adam, however, is afraid that it may be used by companies or politicians to infiltrate our subconscious as a way to further control us.

On the other hand, the Dormio could make us aware on a mass level of how “unbelievably, compulsively, naturally, and irresistibly" creative the mind becomes once it slips loose of conscious control.  But there’s a fear here, too — a threat that our awareness may come apart under the pressure of such a torrent of creative energy surging through.

The ancients intimate that beneath our consciousness lies a ceaseless swarm of chasms & metamorphoses (the kind you & Paco express in “Fex & Coo”).  A few minutes in the hypnagogic state is all we need to enter a world where everything is change.  It’s a little scary to realize the sluggish movement of regular experience is made up of “millions of shining, vibrating filaments”.

The creativity of the dreaming mind is a transformative force that can’t be distilled into intellligible writing, paintings, or even music, no matter how hard we try.  I’d like to ask Xhactu if the power of our dreams is growing?  Too bad he has left the planet with his broken transmitter!  Do the dreams feel an urge to spill over into our world through devices like a Dormio?  Or more “Fex & Coo” type novel novels?  It’s all play, isn’t it?  A cosmic dance, indeed, although I sometimes fear what this incessant stream of forms and worlds, leaping and diving beneath our conscious mind, will reveal.  And not just to me or you — but to itself?!

Anyway, I was curious if you knew about Adam and his Dormio device.

Also, I appreciate hearing again the story of your fall as a nine year old, and why the owl became your totem.  So glad the owl spoke — and you heard its voice!

 

 

 

Xhactu’s Universal Translator broke down just when we were to receive his message on love. What can we learn from this disaster? I once had an experience of the significance of the Universal Translator in the delicate process of sending/receiving messages of love from the Galaxy to human beings. In my case the Translator was a gift label or tag on a beautifully wrapped box. Here is an excerpt of the story (from my book The Imperative). I was in an Encounter Group in 1972. “David” is my literary name:

The Group leader’s voice began to fade … David was in essence, alone. He clearly perceived a hand reach down from heaven bearing a gift—a box wrapped beautifully like a present. It had a tag on it too, and so David looked at the tag. He could see some writing on it but it wasn't clear. It looked like a pen that was running out of ink or which was written on greasy paper. At this point David inexplicably became gripped by a sense of urgency, an emotional intensity. He struggled to read the words on the little gift-tag. His whole attention was focused and as he willed himself to read the message, he began to speak what was on the tag. He had no idea why he was doing that. David just knew with certainty that he must speak those words which were originating from the gift-tag. He felt that something depended on his doing so. But what was it? His speech began awkwardly, like the writing itself. He was uttering something not yet his that was speaking through him. As he began to speak more clearly so too did the writing become clearer. Or, was it the other way around? Did his speech get clearer as he saw the writing get clearer? It was impossible to tell. … Finally, the words were spoken and the message delivered:
I love you! With this spontaneous speech came an eruption of emotion and David began sobbing deeply…

There was a problem with the medium of transmission and we humans must do what we can to have the medium ready for the alien visitor. It has something to do with language. Xhactu’s frustration and rage are the teaching here. There is something wrong with the medium and the other side cannot get through. Perhaps our impoverishment in the language of love may have something to do with the problem. We need to make the Grail!

but, alas!
it is too late
Xhactu has now withdrawn
and left us to our fate
darkness now befalls us

It ... is ..... too ........late .....

The spiralling engine of this cèilidh of dreams has at last drawn us all into its center, a portal has opened, and wisdom can finally be released to us humans. The immense satisfaction I feel is beyond compare. It is not the satisfaction of rational understanding. It is a soul satisfaction in receiving nourishment, substance of value to the soul. There is much mystery here—mystery to work on my soul life for years to come. And every fibre of my being wants to call it wisdom—Xhactu’s wisdom! This is what fiction can do, IF we follow the required ritual steps, a cèilidh being one such possible ritual. I wrote a book in 2015, based on the following experience:

I was sitting at my desk in a familiar but uncomfortable condition. My entire body had heated up, a sure sign of a creative phase that required some artistic output. I did not know what form it would take. As I sat there, in a kind of stew, I began to hear voices. Two voices were in conflict. They identified themselves as John and Buster and, as I began to record their vigorous dispute, to my surprise another voice joined in, or emerged from this dispute. Her name was even more surprising— Sigrid... 

A dialogue opened up as I hastened to write it out as it wrote itself through me, with three figures sometimes speaking at once. And I found a portal to wisdom.

Returning to Xhactu’s wisdom for a moment, just one gem:

It was as if the destiny he had dreamed about in the form of that Word resembling an incised, spherical space-rock in its cosmic nursery, contained his “forever potentialities", intact throughout many past lives and, presumably, future lives.

Dreams linked with destiny linked with individuality linked with  the Word. There’s a feast in itself.

Could it be that this wisdom is the true cèilidh that we may access IF we develop and enact those cultural practices that most faithfully correspond to this reality? Remember what Owl Man said (88 of Ch 17-18): “Important that we get this right and he could tell by Heron Man’s nod, that he felt it too.” The need for precision in ritual has long been understood. The prayer must be said in exactly the right tone and manner and wording or else access to wisdom is denied. 

Now I will do what I have always done, copy the gems of wisdom and make a little book of quotations to mull over for some time. And there is more to come. On LOVE! How this wisdom is needed at this time!

This cèilidh of dreams is spreading out, its ripples catching others. You’ll know if you are “bewitched, enthralled, transported." As I am! Listen to this extraordinary claim: “Thanks to Xhactu, this was the deepest interactive, psychic contact ever, between aliens and humans; and the humans—despite their legendary pride—were better off for it.” This cèilidh of dreams has taken us to the Origin of everything—a gift from the alien. The Origin, the vortex, the spiral! Everything swirling and emerging from this vortex is inceptive, world-forming. Space-words, hard as granite, endowing each of us with our unique destiny: “I was ‘inside’ that space-word, or encompassed by it, or consisted of it, or whatever. And my name means something!” Are we thus meant to reach back to this origin of us in order to heal something so deep, so primal, so long-forgotten, in order to recover who we truly are? 

This chapter will continue to work on me. Generative questions are already flowing in new directions for me to follow, to speak, to articulate. In this manner I may find out who I always-already am. Immediately the memory of a poem comes. I wrote it several decades ago. I now read it into this cèilidh of dreams:

and so you come to me

and so you come to me
in joyful celebration of reunion
i gaze at your naked body
you change from young woman
to a young man and back again
i burst out in a startled joyous cry
o you are androgynous

licking my face
you become all tongue
wet warm
filling my senses 

 i am the object of your desire

 now as i lie fully aroused
you tell of a meteor falling
through the sky towards earth
i see it as you so tell me
seeing and telling merge into one
image and word as one

you tell me quite clearly
in my arousal
in the fullness of my passion 

what profound mystery is this my sister?
is my passionate arousal
necessary preparation
of readiness
a bow strung tautly
pulled back further and further
arrow of consciousness notched quickly

am i then to follow its unerring path
leaving the quivering bow behind
flying free in the blue sky
of ecstatic vision
where you live
where you speak
in the clear language of visionary forms?

meteor falling
towards the earth
burning red
leaving a trail of dark burning fire
arcing through the sky

this vision
your sacred speech
my star sister

i will remember
you have told me something sacred
left me in deep wonder
what kind of speech what words
form a fiery meteor arcing through the sky
with immense crackling power?

i will do my work now
my beloved star sister
you have done yours
to prepare the vessel

from the taut quivering of the bow
to the unerring flight of the arrow
to the target
a new world may thus be entered
a world of vast distance
crackling furnaces of fire
tremendous forces
of sheer titanic creation 

a world of your speech
your word
where you speak me 

into existence

I have been waiting all week for this episode, ever since “Owl Man looked across the room and saw that Heron Man was typing away. Important that we get this right and he could tell by Heron Man’s nod, that he felt it too.” (Ep 17-18)

Important that we get this right—a potent enigmatic assertion to be sure! Get “what” right for “what’s" sake? And so I waited and today I found a shout of joy arise as I came to the end of this latest Episode 19-20—you know, the joy of discovering other souls on a resonant path who are speaking it: “we must be prepared for the dreams to become real in ways neither of us have yet imagined.” (99) Yes! How often do you hear of such a claim? Yet it is so! In the spirit of Owl Man’s final statement, “I would be most interested in hearing more dreams and see if this visitor has been at work in the dreams of others…” (98) I offer this "awake dream" (language is difficult here) in the spirit of “something has gained entry into the narrative cloud as well as the psyche of our characters.” (97):

I am in bed aware that I am sleeping, yet awake. I feel something entering that feels dangerous. I feel the presence of an animal merging with me, co-extensive with my human form. I move into a crouch position on the bed. I feel rippling power arcing through my chest and my mouth elongates and my teeth are sharp and bared. A growl utters easily from my chest. Power and grace in the animal body yet I am still human, too. I am conscious of my human experience while at the same time I have entered an animal consciousness as he entered mine. The power I feel is exhilarating. I have never felt such freedom. He takes over my speech centres. He/I growls a long basso note with consummate ease. In fact he enters my entire body. All my senses are now available to him.  (From my Autobiography The Imperative , p38)

I have waited a long time to get confirmation of the objectivity of such experiences from others who have “been there.”