Inside Recursive Glass-Blown Rooms of Explosive Truth

by Tantra Bensko

Can I tell you the things I only tell people I know can handle it? Can I go beyond the conventional lies about how the world works and skip pretending the world is just a normal place, where you go to the checkout line and a woman with hair like the 1930’s checks you out, in rural Alabama, and you put your food, or so-called food, in the basket, and just walk away into your life?

Can we just break down and really talk with each other about the things that matter and astonish and are so surreal they hardly seem possible? Wouldn’t that make us just laugh, and cry and dance around in a circle? Finally!

Is it late enough at night, or early enough in the morning? Are we alone? You know what I mean. You’ve had those experiences, haven’t you? Like my flute-playing friend told me: when he was meditating so hard in a park that he was turning into Kundalini fire, and other people’s lives started changing before his eyes, and the hand of a giant retaliating reptile came down from the sky and pushed him down. I mean, down!

Can we just keep acting like famous actors and actresses matter more than that, like their pictures at the checkout lines are really the tits, really where it’s at, and those little stories, like the reptile angel ones, that we are privy to can just go fade away as we walk along with our grocery cart full of apples that have been genetically modified?

Did you know that if it has five numbers on the fruit, that begin with 8, it has been genetically tampered with? Can we wonder about what life has really been about all this time when we find out that parents can now genetically modify their unborn kids, chose their eye colors, hair colors, sex, and you name it, you got it?

What about when we find out that lab monkeys can now operate robots through their thoughts — no fooling? Do you ever feel like a lab monkey, or someone who has been genetically modified from way, way back, when some other race of people already knew how to do these things? I mean, look at what they were shown doing in those cave paintings in, dare I say it straight out... Sumeria? There, I’ve said it. Are you leaving? Is your mind already made up? Do you love me already? Are you breathing deeper because I’ve said that?

Those aliens had helmets, came in space capsules, and were shown doing genetic manipulations. Any reason to think they really went away? Or are they still in charge?

Do people wonder about you, when you talk about actual reality over the dinner table, eating those foods that have been micro-waved into something that bears no resemblance to the original molecules?

And what about microwave mind control technology, like Montauk, Long Island, where all the teenagers went to a spot they’d never gone to, at the same time in the middle of the night, for nights in a row, and none of them knew why? There had been broadcasts with that exact suggestion going out every night that occurred, and the perpetrators had admitted it openly, as it was a testing program. They wanted to learn how to control us all, make us pretend the world is really mundane after all. Did they succeed, or are we going to fight back?

Can we just walk out of the grocery store and put the bags in our father’s car trunk, the bananas and mangoes and grapefruit, with their deadly pesticides intact, and kindly take the cart back and feel like we are doing a good enough thing by that little nice action? Smile at people, act like everything is normal, that we are happy about the way the world is going, say “Have a nice day.” Think of the happy face. Nice and yellow. Perky.

Can we just act like being perky is enough? Or do we ever think at night about those strange occurrences that happen when we talk too much about the things that break beyond the ordinary?

Like, when our Significant Other points out to us that our well-used toothbrush on the shelf is mysteriously replaced by one we haven’t seen before, the morning after we read about a conspiracy whistleblower being supposedly killed by poison on his toothbrush?

Like when our tires are cut the morning after we help a microwave-transmission mind-control victim? Are you with me? Can we get together over this? ’Cause being alone with it is just not working for me. Is it for you?

Let our real stories we don’t talk about come to each other, as little eddies of water, merging together. Let us be honest with each other. Let us really tell our stories. I’ll tell you one of mine. You tell someone one of yours. Here goes.

I once had a tattooed, muscular, heavily accented fiancé who had been strangely changed in his youth by those microwave transmissions at Montauk. He named himself “Chronos” to commemorate his part in the time travel experiments there.

He was genetically modified, himself, you could say, being part of a mind control program that we couldn’t forget about, as everywhere we went together, we were followed by black unmarked helicopters, often shining red lights down on us, buzzing our houses, following us in our cars across the country. Our phones were always bugged once we started spending time together. Because we were trying to free the world from those guys. We were trying to fight back.

Or were we being led by them? He channeled various entities including levels of himself as he became more and more free — or so he said. I think maybe it was the mind-control program talking to his head through microwave transmissions or something. Or maybe it was parts of himself his programmers had separated out that he was talking to, or maybe himself from the future was really coming through at times, as he claimed.

Maybe he was an alien shape-shifting into a human body, eating my soul’s extreme angst due to his actions. Or maybe he was the programmer, making the whole thing up, so I’d have to try to figure the darn thing out the rest of my life. The thing is, he was weird, but he wasn’t just crazy.

Because real things happened. Strange things. All the time. For example. A voice he channeled when I put him in hypnotic trance (maybe I’m his programmer) told us to go to Asheville at the right astrological time to do a ritual for them to straighten out the alternative timeline constructed by the Montauk Project. Well, we called my friend there and asked if we could stay, and he was happy to put us up, said we’d have a nice time.

We drove there across the country, and the day before we got there, we stopped at a gas station for Chronos to get some coffee. We sat in the van first to do a channeling session. I put him in trance, and the voice, which sounded like something mechanical, inhuman, said:

“I must tell you, Kundra, that Chronos is about to be attacked by bird demons. They are angry at you two for trying to reverse the Montauk Project. The project is necessary to keep the aliens in charge of this planet, as a base for attacking other planets. The bird demons are their minions. Chronos’s soul will be torn apart into pieces and he will forget you. He will hate you. His implant that controls him will be harder to tame. His health will fail. He will leave you.”

He came out of it and asked me what they said, while kissing me at the same time, his mouth soft against mine, the heat of his body so familiar but still able to cause electrical charges of intense love. Every time he channeled something like that it got me riled up, and I’d fight them to keep him, to keep him sane and healthy, and therefore, to help the world, if we succeeded in reversing the messing with the timeline that the secret Nazi-based military project had done.

It seemed odd to me that Chronos was neo-Nazi. And fighting the Nazi-funded program. Made me wonder sometimes. All I could do was heal him of that propensity. And he was rebuking it due to my influence. Sometimes. He could leave me on the verge of tears so easily. And the alien vampires could eat my pain.

They must have had a good lunch that day when I was telling him what they had said. But we did our best to laugh it off, and just live our lives, as we locked the doors on the van and went into the gas station to get his coffee.

When we came back, we got into the van, and there, in between us, sat the notebook I had written the notes on for all of the channeling sessions. On the page on top, on the words about the bird demons, was a giant splat of bird shit.

I kid you not. And the windows were rolled up the whole time. Chills.

Well, the next morning, we got to my friend Baxton’s house, and rang the doorbell. He greeted us with a white face, trembling a little. We had the usual polite introductions, and tour of the house we were to stay in.

Then Baxton said as matter of factly as he could, “I noticed my phone started making strange sounds after our phone call. I think it’s bugged now. But... well, even worse... This morning, I came into the living room and saw that the whole floor was completely covered with a layer of white bird feathers.”

“Holy f...! What do you think happened?”

“I don’t know. My dog spent the night out last night so it wasn’t him. The feathers were all exactly at a level height, perfectly covering every inch, very professionally done... It took a long time to clean it up... What can I say? Let me show you where you’re going to stay.”

The night was long and grueling. Whenever either one of us would get up, the Plasma Ball, the party globe that would normally send electricity in pretty colors toward its edge at the touch of a hand, would shock us. And it was unplugged. Something unexplainable was happening. The night was like a dream.

And in the morning, Chronos said he was leaving, going to go back to his neo-Nazi compound, going to buy back the guns he had sold when when he moved out to be with me. And he said he never loved me. He said, “It serves you right.”

“What? For what?” He said nothing, just grimly clenched his handsome jaw. I loved him so much it almost made me unable to stand up. His Edom-Rhic implant lump under the scalp was swollen, and he could hardly keep his hand off it. I cried more than ever. And I drove him to the station and put him on the bus.

Do we just make a nice phone call to our fathers and talk about everything but that? Where does all that reality go? To the world of dreams? To the little quirks and smirks of our body’s abnormalities?

What would you do with a story like this? Definitely not expect anyone normal to want to listen to it, display it for popular consumption, along with the movie stars at the checkout aisles. Nothing like that happens to them, obviously. They use the right kind of makeup and hair spray to keep that from happening. They go on the right diets and wear the right clothes. Can you imagine anything like that ever occurring to them, and them talking about it when they are interviewed? Their career would be over. Polite people don’t talk about this stuff. They just eat their modified mashed potatoes.

But I’m not polite. How about you?