Tricky the Demon -- Itching's Alt Consciousness

Previous "Itching" links:
Itching = Alt Consciousness Portals?
Secret Journal -- Scratching an Itch (or Not)
This Infernal Itching -- A Thorn in My Flesh
 
I feel a little guilty, but I'm overcoming it more and more. The short answer to guilt is obviously I wasn't cut out to be an ascetic. Whether not-scratching actually does you any good, it's looks like it can. But there must be some evolutionary reason why we scratch. It was probably those who didn't scratch who were overrun with bacteria and died. It explains why we have fingernails, and it's not just to give nail salons something to do.

I did my best with the idea. I had the idea suddenly one day that if I didn't scratch that might mean I'd be transported into other realms of consciousness. I'm always getting ideas like that, when I should just sit quietly after one comes and ask myself, Is it really likely that every stupid stray thought is a revelation? Or pick an idea and stick with it. If it succeeds, great. If it fails, at least I stuck with it. They used to advertise cars going 0 to 60 in 8 seconds. That's how fast I act on impulse.

Still, even as I think of it now, it makes a certain amount of sense. Portals to alt consciousness exist, and are likely round, and you can easily picture a round space encompassing every itch point. Even with my lack of discipline I'm smart enough to know that. But everything's changed now -- for the better, I hope -- and I'm back to scratching.

You'd be amazed at the heroic measures I took over the last couple weeks. I didn't shower for a week, thinking the more clogged my pores got, the more I'd itch, and the faster I'd attain the alt realms. I was half right. I had five times as many itches, but the commensurate realms were few. Until! I did have one, but at first I didn't think of it as alt consciousness. By and large, as my discomfort rose, I had only discomfort. It felt like things were crawling on me. Honestly, I had to look a few times, and I believed I saw something darting behind me when I was near a mirror.

So that was the alt realm! Which confused me, because it didn't seem like a reward for not scratching, because it had more to do with tempting me to scratch. Weird, huh? But that was it! I did the ascetic thing and the alt realm came disguised as sin. Which I hesitated over but gave into. Now I see, it was the reward, the payoff. Like I said, at my lowest point, I thought I saw something darting behind me, and finally I caught a glimpse in the window. There was a being ducking and hiding. I called out to it, and the name Tricky the Demon came to my mind.

Who, it turns out, was only ducking and hiding because he wanted to see me really squirm, I mean, really really squirm. Maybe for my own good, but still ... sadistic little bastard. I'll skip over the preliminaries. He told me he was here so I could go back to scratching. I resisted with all my might! I shall not scratch! But he was persuasive, saying he had the injunction to come up and assist me.

His voice was like honey, sweet to the ears, seductive like a beautiful woman, although his form, reddish, deformed, and obviously demonic was much less of a turn-on. He said in words so soft and sweet how gooooood it'd feeeeeel to let myself gooooo, etc, with very drawn out seductive language, like maybe he was selling Calgon. I said I felt bad about scratching and he had an answer for that. Which turned out to be a Magic Butler, materialized here for the job of scratching me!

So I went out for the day, trailed by Tricky the Demon and my Magic Butler. Every word of this is true, by the way. Maybe I started off confused, but this was the only alt portal I was going to get, and it was a fantastic one. In addition to scratching me, the Magic Butler is doing all the things that regular butlers do, more or less by the wave of his hand. And Tricky the Demon and I have been luxuriating on the couch, binge-watching old movies and eating free Whitman Samplers that he's teleporting in from somewhere.

I love it. All the luxury I'm getting, Tricky isn't making it, it's teleported in. Anything I want, I haven't paid for a thing. And apparently it's all untraceable. I'd guess the warehouses would have video cameras. But all they'd pick up would be the thing vanishing. Heck of a way to live, I know, but I don't see a downside. Tricky really is the Prince of Tempters, and so far I'm not noticing any ill effects. It's all great.

Anyway, I've changed my opinion 100%. Itching is out; full, free, and purposeful scratching is in. It really is true, you barely see anything when you fail to scratch. But when you're scratching -- I mean going at it with the full force of gusto, just short of drawing blood, all of life is open to you and the possibilities are endless. This is the greatest thing I've ever experienced. And that covers a number of things, of which the less said the better.

The good news, I'm back to scratching. The Magic Butler's scratching me, and himself once in a while. The places I can't reach, or don't want to because I'd have to wash my hands, I'm letting him get. Everything in front, above the waist and in plain sight, I'm going for. Tricky lies on the couch and looks at me, a playful smile. His eyes scrunch up when he smiles. He's truly delighted to see a guy in comfort.

So this is my thing now! It all worked out and it all makes sense. Alt consciousness comes from scratching and the grace of Tricky and the Magic Butler coming at my lowest point. I'm like Martin Luther King, Jr. -- I went down the mountain, I came back up, or however that goes. I imagined I saw it from afar, then I lived to arrive there, and now my children -- which I'm going to need a woman to get some of -- will someday play with children of the opposite color and be judged by their character, which will likely be very much like mine, beyond reproach.

I'm very blessed. I got alt consciousness from itching and scratching. Which maybe, like Dorothy said, I had all the time. But like her in Oz and waking up, maybe the Magic Butler and Tricky the Demon are just guys in the hood, the mailman and one of my cousins. With a bunch of old Whitman Samplers. They seem real enough. Life's still full of mysteries, like a box of chocolates, teleported in from somewhere. Over the rainbow?

Telegraphing Itches -- A Silent Disruption

I've been so into my theories of itches not scratched being alt consciousness portals, I haven't been thinking of anything else. But the most prevalent alt consciousness portal I seem to have opened is the one of being constantly distracted. The more psychically interesting ones have yielded precious little true gains. I saw a devil in a fleeting vision that merely taunted me, "You know you want to scratch! Submit to me and I will give you relief!" To which I yielded, no not for a second!

And so I turned back to the soothing balm of my group dynamics studies -- always thinking of how groups interact (my real life field) -- so, today, something on guerrilla group dynamics along with scratching, which I so long to do, and how itching is so distracting, and relating that to political action.

Disrupting meetings, services, and speeches has been done to death; we've all seen it. But typically it's all so crass, with only short-term benefits, if that's what you want to call it. For example, if you simply stand up and blurt out a counter opinion, there's no way it's going to do any good. You're going to be dragged kicking and screaming from the arena, and possibly tazed, and the crowd's going to be chanting "USA," and once you're gone he'll make funny remarks about you, so there you are.

It's always been my opinion that the key to a good disruption has to be done much more subtly -- like guerrilla group dynamics -- in such a way that those around you aren't even aware it's happening. And by more than one person, working as a team but apparently not even together. What you're trying to do is more distracting than disrupting, because the possibility of an embarrassing gaffe is worth its weight in gold. Remember Rick Perry's missing third point? I'll tell you exactly what I know about that: I know nothing! My lips are sealed! There's not a thing to tell!

All right, let's say we have a team of 7. They're in the audience, in the 3rd to 10th rows or so, and scattered here or there. They're not looking at each other, except for occasional glances. They have memorized a "set song," held in common, and trained themselves, practicing earlier, as to when "scratch points" will happen. As an example, you might recall the old song "What a Party" by Fats Domino. It's on YouTube or Spotify. Three times in the course of the song the background singers sing,

Big fat piano man, he sho' can wail away.
Big fat piano man, he sho' can play.

See where we're going with this? They have the regularity of music, and the predictability of music, but it's not noticeable to those around you because there's alternate sharing among the 7. You're mentally keeping time in your head, hitting the "scratch points" with occasional glances helping you stay on track. These points are shared by the 7. (Nothing needs to be exact.)

Speakers of course are looking to the audience in a random, more or less disinterested way. But they do notice what's going on, either consciously or unconsciously. Most male speakers consciously notice every pretty girl.* But they only notice the more extraneous phenomena -- someone coughing, rubbing his eyes, yawning, or scratching -- unconsciously. Unless there's something a little weird, and undefinable about it, nothing he can nail down. These audience members, they don't look like they're out to get me. In fact they look interested. If they were out to get me, they'd erupt like always, and everyone would drown them out with "USA!" That old bit.

So there they are, our 7, inwardly (and by occasional glances) working with Fats Domino, with an undistinguished scratching of the temple, the ear, the forehead, etc. With an increasing awareness on the part of the speaker that something's just not right ... but what? He glances at the pretty girls, still looking great. Then a guy with an itchy nose. I can see him breaking into a sweat at any point, but if he says anything about it, the papers will declare, "What a paranoid ass!" So what's he going to do, call out an anonymous audience member? Hardly. You're not doing anything with eye contact. He has no reason to be suspicious.

I know I'd hate to be the guy. This is something that'd give me vertigo. Expect that gaffe any second! This is something that also could reap great benefits in other arenas. Such as concerts, you might be able to finagle 18 or 20 encores out of them. The band's fingers are bleeding, the drummers arms are falling off, they're a mess! But you had a great time!

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*If you had, let's say, 3 pretty girls of the team scattered around, whose job it is to just sit pretty, that'd be great too. You can imagine the dissonance. He's noticing them every time he looks out, a positive. Then he's less consciously noticing the others scratching. The "pleasure vs pain" thing going on in his mind would be an interesting dynamic, perhaps so interesting as to be campaign-ending. By the way, I said "male speakers" notice pretty girls. This would also true for lots of female speakers, somewhere between 2% and 10% by nature, and the others for multiple reasons.

Note: It probably goes without saying, but you don't tell others what you're doing. The key thing is, You're like the 3 Musketeers, whose #1 rule was "Mum's the word on this whole Musketeer thing."

2nd Note: This is "For Entertainment Purposes Only." I don't actually advocate doing anything like this. Heavens forfend! Unless one of the pretty girls sits on my lap.

This Infernal Itching -- A Thorn in My Flesh

I'm loving this whole "itch-meditation" thing. Although, of course, after only a few days of it -- and with even the theoretical basis of it still so little known -- there's a long way to go. But as every journey (those on foot) begins with the first step, so too this one.

Forgive the philosophical sentiment, but that's what it's doing to me. The more I sit and stew in my own itches, forbearing scratching, the more I search for a deeper justification. One thing I hate, absolutely hate, is to launch out on something, only to find it was my own folly, then having to come slinking back with egg on my face. Like when I left home at 11, immediately got a thorn in my foot, and my parents had to take me to the ER. I seriously thought I could walk all the way north and make a go of it.

This, however, I hope is different. I'm no longer 11. I've been around, and I've probably made about every mistake I'm going to make. So I'll go by that certain knowledge, and with the stepping out on faith that's always been a part of my spiritual upbringing. I know the answers are out there, and if I can work up a previously undiscovered one and get my name on it, so much the better. I've certainly never heard of anyone doing with scratches and itches what I'm attempting.

All that said, again, I'm loving it. I've only scratched four or five times in the last day. Not out of the discomfort -- which admittedly has been immense -- but testing some stray theories on an occasional scratch being a type of reset button. The biggest bad news so far has been that my meditations aren't really leading anywhere except to this theoretical, philosophical work. So as far as "turning off my mind, relaxing and floating downstream," downstream hasn't even yet come into view.

The only visualizing I'm managing is to see the centers of itch spots as red, pulsing, nagging, terrible unrelenting bastards. Put this in your junior yogi notebook: Itches only intensify, they don't go away. And if they ever fade out on their own, it's only because three others have erupted and are much worse. I'm seriously thinking to add more scratching. It's amazing how scratching is such a relief. Nature's no dummy. The horse, the dog, and every other animal that scratches, they know something. As for elephants, they roll in mud and spray themselves. I'm totally familiar, personally, with how horses and dogs do it. But I've never rolled in mud and sprayed myself, which might be worth a try.

Or it could be that itches in meditation have to be entered without that relief. Like my soulmate Luke Skywalker, your consciousness goes cruising in, and no one thinks you can hit it, then you send a conscious charge down one persistent itch, and the whole thing blows up. Mere scratching's what everyone does, and it never gets us anywhere. Of course I'm a long ways from that.

I was watching some more science TV yesterday, and saw another show about black holes. Remember, in a previous post I likened itches as being possibly like black holes, with the rest of the aureole around the itch spot being like the rest of a galaxy? You can do all kinds of things if you get close enough to a black hole, in addition to being summarily killed. You can go back in time and be suddenly younger than everyone else. Which, if that's possible, maybe a little meditating on the spot might at least convey psychic insights. Who knows? It'd be wild to suddenly be younger than everyone else, but I can see it presenting problems when you show up at Social Security for your benefits and you look 11. Which is when I headed north and got the thorn.

Hmm, that thorn. It went in my foot. What if it just happened to hit one of these black hole points and that's why I'm like this? It's actually astounding that my foot hardly ever itches. The only constant place I get itches on my feet is between the toes, athlete's foot. Which I fought with tough-actin' Tinactin and had pretty good success at. I'm sure the thorn went in the mid section of my right foot, right where it never itches. I might have a foot with potential super powers. Am I Superfoot?

This is among the many things that need further exploration.

[Secret Journal] Scratching an Itch (or Not)

8:00 pm. Sunday - So many itches I cannot contain! -- I will bust! It's over! No, wait, stylistically I cannot start with the climax and give up. Must bear and forbear, must be patient. My impatience points to truth of pursuit, not falsity. Simply scratch as always, I have 61 years of ingrained habit, Lord Itch rules the temple.

8:10 pm. Sunday - The last 10 minutes have been a roller coaster ride, wooden, not safety-tested, really rattled my bones. Centered in non-itch new beginning, having scratched till I'm raw in places. Took BIC pen to right ear, smaller than finger, not recommended, certainly, but no one was looking. The things I do in the dark! Clean slate, blank slate, one little itch under eyes, then they creep in and subsume consciousness. I'm lost!

8:28 pm [day unspecified] - What's it been, 20 minutes? Rome wasn't built in 20 minutes, I guess. There's no reason to keep counseling patience, I already know that. This harping on patience is making me more impatient. Counsel mercy, which, apart from a possible first mention, is only truly mercy when it's not mentioned. OK, mercy for myself, still busy scratching. What I need is one decent concentrated itch spot, of my choosing, not a million popping up everywhere. What kind of universe is this, for pity's sake?

8:29 pm Sunday - Brief entry to say, the universe, the world is mercy -- pity, if you will -- I'm not separate. You can't think continental drift, tectonic movement, doesn't itch like hell. That's why we have earthquakes, the Logos rolling over to scratch. Merciful to itself. Giving credence to my theories.

11:00 pm Sunday - Must've dozed off. Dreamed I was on the ground floor of a massive itch, turned out to be a volcano. False alarm?

5:30 am Monday - Woke up scratching, might wear oven mitts today, hands up like a surgeon, reminding myself to break the cycle. That's it, I'm just unconscious through habit (cf. above, Lord Itch, Temple.) Who is this f'n Lord Itch? How did I come to serve him? Who's his consort? Is she worse, prodding him from behind? "Exact tribute from him, you worm!" she cries, calling the Lord a worm? Who is this massive B? Called Lady, probably. Lady Scratch? I guess that's it, men always want to scratch their itch, and Lord Itch just happened to fall for Lady Scratch, etc. "I got you under my skin." Making progress, this has a whole mythic basis!

6:30 am Monday - Finished coffee, my head a lot clearer, scratch that Lady Scratch stuff, unintentional pun, I swear. Scratch that, too ... Oops, did it again. Lady Scratch has now infected my vocabulary, my thought process. More coffee, gulping it down between these pen scratchings, no!!!! Must reclaim temple, especially new deity of my own choosing.

6:43 am Monday - Every developing world/cosmic view starts as experience, then mythologizes in upward ascent, making sense and also making palpable. All I've got so far is the itch point likened to black hole or nucleus, and conjecturing that entering (through consciousness) at that point might (likely?) be a different realm of consciousness. Not realm so much, bad word, too early for mythologizing itch point as kingdom.

7:03 am Monday - Thinking about blog today. Time to throw out some red meat. Maybe crumbs. Nose suddenly itching, think I see Heaven.

Itching = Alt Consciousness Portals?

It's tough not to scratch itches. I've spent my life doing it. I remember some really bad itches right in the middle of my back, then having to scratch them against a tree. And my mother always bringing up that's how horses do it. I didn't like her nagging -- I always bridled -- but she usually reared her head back laughing, so I couldn't actually neigh say it.

But who knows about itches? I know I've always heard there's certain itches that aren't meant to be scratched. Like infidelity, no matter the temptation. The idea in this temptation is that scratching the itch is positive. Maybe it feels positive in the heat of the moment. But we've seen so many who've scratched to their regret. I've heard several cry out in despair: "If only -- woe is me! -- I hadn't scratched that cute little itch!"

I've been thinking lately that maybe these itches -- actual, literal itches -- are meant as portals to other realms of consciousness, if only we could survive the test and not negate them in the very process of their revelation. Ever think of that?

It makes a certain amount of sense. You'd expect portals to be in definite spots, and other realms of consciousness, if they're anywhere, to be accessible through portals. If it were all nebulous and omnipresent -- which I'm not saying it's not -- you'd be falling over backwards into it. But what if we're meant to have a definite grasp on these things, and to visualize them like this: A circumference (the zone) going into the center (the nucleus), somewhat akin to a galaxy and its black hole. That's what I'm working with. I'm theorizing "It's All Happening" at that center, exactly the spot we negate when we succumb to scratching. O! the tricky ways of reality!

I would guess advanced yogis know all this, but they've kept their tongues, likely out of a cosmic sense of humor. They know these portal points are so easy to overlook, and it's funny to them, with our first inclination always being to immediately scratch away. Funny? Sad, really, with the higher realms right there. Good god, what all might we be missing? You know those little baby heads with wings, our almost-children in glory, so prominent in Catholic artwork circa 1860-1920? They had such a work ethic in those difficult years, they didn't have a lot of time to scratch ... maybe that's what they saw!

This is good stuff, and very likely true. But things only got worse in our time. With the coming of modern conveniences -- washers, driers, food processors, radios, TVs -- we're all sitting around, tuned in to every itch and with time on our hands to spare, as it were, so our fingers are busy, scratch scratch scratch. So whatever portals were common for the working man back then are closed to us today.

OK, we might ask, Why didn't the working man reveal more to us about these things, just flat out say it? Because working men back then were slow to speak, with not enough time, and they assumed everyone knew. Everyone breathes, right? You don't tell people, "Hey, I'm breathing!" Or it could've been they were afraid; they didn't want to end up in a mental hospital, which back then were very much a total beyotch.

But, oh how difficult it is to test out these ideas! Even when I feel like I'm tuning in, I still scratch, more or less unconsciously, simply out of habit. So many times I'm that close to getting there and looking around and I scratch. Isn't that weird? The positive to it is I'm still here to write this, but honestly I think I would've maintained consciousness well enough to both experience it and write about it. (Cf. working men, above; they lived to work tomorrow.) I'm not likely to just be overwhelmed to the point of riding a major itch to glory just like that.

My intuition is working overtime. This is all very immediate. I'm not scratching while typing, therefore the insights are flowing more freely. I've also got the consciousness to forebear, and in response the revelations are presenting themselves furiously. I can't keep up, and my nose itches in a massive nuisance way. Something's trying to hold me back, something wants me to scratch, something I have to resist -- you filthy devil! also called Old Scratch (!)-- until, I relent and scratch. "Just a little touch," I tell myself, until once again I die in an orgy of itch relief. But cosmic deflation...

Yet I shall not despair; I've always got another itch coming along shortly; that's the kind of grace I experience. Thinking back, last night was a terrible night sleeping. At one point, 3:30 a.m., I had an itch in the middle of my back. Maybe I was dreaming* of horses; I don't remember, or my mom. It was bad enough that I reached as far back as I could to get it. Now I think, "That could've been it!" Because when I'm in bed, I have all the time in the world to center myself in a spiritual reverie. An itch right on the spine is very likely the gateway to the essence of a particular chakra. Meaning, what is of the greatest discomfort to us would be the very portal to our absolute greatest comfort!

I can't go on. I must break. I must seek out the worst itching I can have! I'm sorry, this is too important.

*Night before last, in a dream, one of my cousins told me her middle name was Abner.

Sudden thought: Pet dander -- Anything there? It has to itch.
Note to self:  Book possibility, the It-ching, 64 different meanings of your itch.