Time Travel For Beginners

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Three seekers blog thoughts, stories, humor, poetry, science, technology, music, artwork and the esoteric.

Filtering by Author: Lix


So the question in this spiel has to do with extra sensory abilities, should such a thing exist. This, apparently and according to some scientists, does have scientific merit in a world where such ideas are considered nonsense. To a logical mind, yes, absolutely, such a thing is indeed bullshit and silly and something only a child or psychopath would deem worthy of any real consideration. Let's step into our child/psychotic minds and roll with it just for a few minutes. Allow me to move on, assuming that this is a real and common thing, as it very well may be.

The Question of God or divinity is apparent in all of us. The concept itself exists not just because we were taught as children that such a thing exists. The idea of something larger, something omnipresent, something powerful and beyond our bodies, exists. Fantasy and horror writers speak of ghosts and goblins and creatures from beyond, and we can all relate to it in some way, either as a joke or as a way to escape what surrounds. The fantastic is real in our minds and not at all a foreign thing.

Allow me to tie these together.

Let's take the concept of god and the infinite and tie it into ourselves and our beings. We know fundamentally, if not subconsciously, that something exists beyond our bodies in whatever form our conscious minds can conceive. Is this psychosis inherit in all of us? The mind does seem rather eager to see things that don't exist and to hear the words of the dead. There is a heaven just a side-step away and through the little door in the attic that holds the monsters from childhood. Some claim to be able to and possibly can hear others' thoughts, feel others' emotions, see the future, talk to the dead, know things they can't possibly know. Does the monster under the bed grant these abilities? Yes, it does, because the monster under the bed is me and you and the kid down the street whose chain fell off his bike, and the sky, and unity of the belief of something out there that is more than taste and touch and smell and seeing and hearing. Maybe we're all monsters of creation with powers unbelievable even to ourselves and our primitive brains. Hiding beyond our senses may be the world of our fantasies where the Mutants beyond perception roam around and experience the world in a language no one can speak and in thoughts beyond the mind.

That's crazy though, isn't it? I mean, if our brains and perceptions therein hold us from the infinite, then why would they exist? Consider the opposite of psychosis, and stop and think if maybe we don't have things ass backwards when considering madness. I can't taste colors because that's crazy. But I do have a feeling that colors have flavors, only when I'm in a more lucid place than the madness of reason.



Schizophrenic vibrate and awake.

Weirdo translations of sound waves, course in a disaster across the mediocre membranes and forgiven lobes.

Eyes in their being are vivid video screens, depicting scenes of animal mutilation and maggots turned to gods, in the pink bellies of the color purple.

Playing with runes writ on the cancerous stones and murdered eyeballs of a Dodo bird. It's beak being used for other magical happenings performed by a flash of sorcerer's wit.

This yellow morning seems, and in it, that feeling is cursed to little scrutiny and no more thought than the feather gives the flesh.

Trek as a god journeys faith.

My hair is foul and breathes of nicotine and radioactive ozone like the fallen earths of a Martian's history bible.

Laugh in the face of hollow psycho facelifts, intended for a child's birthing ceremony.

I walk outside and gas has lit the air.

I walk through red clouds in red altars of sky.

I summon a gesture which is incantation.

I make the moon folklore and cherish the poison winds.

Downstairs the gnomes have gotten all the apple cores, and the feast is discarded. The party remains to pray to misunderstood deities who favor greater Gods which worship the fabric of water.



Here's another assemblage of words. They could mean something, if they find something in you. If not, words are cool anyways.

The hymn song rang dastardly in my ears and hollered across the torso belly and pubic forest, which belongs to a titan rhinoceros god.

Horus of the Son and the daughters of this Harmony Warlock arrived and made a home of the cursed fog, which hung like a dead political vigilante's bloated techni-color corpse.

I bend to pluck the marrow from the black fevered grass, the field is brimming with the coarse angel growths, like a rib cage from the fleshy mounds yet under the charcoal and neon gas of the longsword heavens.

The Daughters are waving in sways which mimic the grasses laughter movements. They splinter stare and Horus claps in laser blasts over the mourning daybreak.

My helmet is lifted, as if to see my sights covered in the dusts of purple Legion and the wingtips of butterfly martians, come to seek their fortunes to folly.

A blade is heavy here and the wine walk, which brings fruit, was a moon ago. It yielded the black grateful vine one last taste.

I am want to laugh as the scepter of the death troll strikes down a turbulent breeze, just an ache of breath. It had been living in lungs grown from gnarled, thick fleshed, trees.

The dance of the warlock's daughters catches the light and old juxtaposed Sun is pleased. I seat myself before the power held in each crooked movement flowing as the undercurrent of baptized holy oceans.

The lung tree riddled me once and I answered where words are meaningless, unless spoken in spells and loving whispers to the graves of fallen centaur power lords.

The war was friendly to the blood soaked ground and the splinter grass craves one more morsel of blue flesh.

Embrace the air and become dust, which is all things concerning a wind's struggle towards it's other end.

The trail embarks and concludes at a single point, between the suns of a thousand years beyond a single bigot moment.

The Titan god we live on breathes. If that happens the message written in blood on a shard of sky will crumble back and back, until underground pixie-sprites laugh at it's humility.


This is a poem I wrote, which is something I don't do often. In fact, I haven't really written this kind of thing in years. Here it is, though; inspiration made me do it, and I hope you enjoy it. This poem is about whatever you want it to be about.

Of a dense thicket of average trees, a sleepy road, and the Neon Cherubim dance above.

Curious gestures, movement over movement, with the meaning of a sunrise whisper's cascade across the swirl of grassland.

Their pigmented skin desire diseases of gold and blue hue glowing, stripes and spots like thunder over a weightless moon's glowing sky.

Their bristle of hair is thick and pubic, innocent however, as if the locks of some angelic faun prince, innocent in his pleasant wanderings

One called Faith walks the roadsides slender edge in defiance of the flying circus spectacle.

A crisp dull and senseless morning awakens and the cherubim seek slumber comforts.

Faith heals the daylight and its Super Buddhist sentry spectacle.

His haunts are dangerous, as if by the miracle of the Christmas Pimp's rough handed caress.

Faith and Buddhist worship at the creamy center of glowing acid tombs and the honorary icons within.

Barbara, the statue of an abomination ogre bitch, all horns and ribcage flesh.

Hands are held, and the prayer to the mid-day god goes answered.

Dusty dusk fills their nostrils in the wake of atoms swirling in cocktails of swamp water, like a fine strong hallucinogen.

Lick the salt of the sun and crunch the crust of the clouds, because it's coming.

Super Buddhist rain dances awaken the holy machines, breathing and exhaling visionary oils.

Backwoods mongoloids along awkward forests, and the icons of Barbara and Tito (the miracle of science) worshiped by the few who dare to fathom their distant ideologies.

If time's Christ Horse ran this way we could notice that all equal things under and above were touching in pornographic detail and the horrible pain of myth.

Touch the way miracles touch and the sun will crash through to a whirlwind satanic substance, like a god's flesh, all goosebumps and pinprick decay.

The Neon Cherubim dance, and again they dance, to each sacred myth curdled in the hollow minds of every inch of gnarled forest.

The gentle concrete of a slumbering road's course whispers throughout.

neon baby.png


An oracle cyclops, you abandoned tool for deeper alignments.

That curse of yours died Friday.

The totem animal house that belonged to your father and that blue and gold whisper of a mother.

The womb werewolves gnashing at the tender meat of their puss sack night times.

The myth of voodoo knowledge plagues and has plagued and a curse was born in the dusk.

The macro god of a child Christ.

The micro god of a DNA follicle, something from a Plutonian Roman myth.

Nonsense is forbidden in the kingdom of seven frogs.

Long lipped spoken enchantments belched from the thunder of a miscreant breath of storm.

The longing child courage to ask for another birth.

Another murdered day, shrinking my skull like a tribal enchantment

The lusts of a scrotum full of Buddhist wisdom.

Don't worry, if that home you saw in a dystopian dream was real, that wandering god would tell you.

The curses of childhood and the ghost matriarchy failed.

Courage is kept in a jar next to the robotic brains of vegetable jellies.

Brilliant surrender, show me that mighty Christ, naked as a hero, on a martyred nighttime cure of a nuclear city skyline.



psb tv.png


“OH, yes, this sleepover is going to be AMAZING!” Trudy exclaims. She has just nestled her slightly overweight pre-teen body into her night gown. She takes a knee, then settles herself next to Juniper, her best friend, whose bed they are laying on.

“I know, I can't even believe your dad said you could come!” Juniper exclaims in return with equal enthusiasm. Juniper is much thinner than Trudy, to an almost sickly aesthetic.

“So do you think that Reginald really rubbed his balls on Audrey's...” Trudy began.

“Shut the fuck up, it's starting!” Juniper's voice becomes as deep and crackly as an old sailor who's been kicked in the throat. Her attention has left any middle school social drama and become entirely focused on her favorite television show. This interest is shared by all of her female classmates. The show is called “Tribal O'Briar's Bank Heist Half Hour.” This particular night the half-hour is set aside for a two-hour special. This fact, along with it being a Friday night, is the reason for this impromptu sleep over.

Trudy hugs her Tribal O'Briar plush action doll just before lightly kissing it. Juniper touches herself where a breast might be, though she is careful not to let Trudy see. The theme music begins and the girls simultaneously squeak in a way only a twelve-year-old girl can. The theme is something akin to:

Tribal! Tribal O'Briar! Shooting up the Guard.


Taking all the cash cash cash.

Tribal O'Briar!


This ridiculous theme song has been responsible for the moistening of under-aged panties for approximately three years. At this point, Tribal, who serves as host on the show as well as star, is presented in his dramatized “hide-out” which by all appearances is in a cavern somewhere with natural green swamp-gas lighting. He is dressed in clothing provided by his sponsors, a black t-shirt with the trademarked emblem of Monsoon Shoes on the breast. His shoes are large neon green atrocities, also produced by Monsoon Shoes. The only garment belonging to Tribal's personal trademark are his green and blue Bermuda shorts. The shorts are covered in tropical flowers and draping down below Tribal's knees. These shorts are famously identifiable as Tribal's shorts, because he wears them at all occasions. Just before he can bite into a large taco from another of his sponsors, Taco Restaurant Franchise, he looks to the camera and begins to speak.

“This week we have a special TWO HOUR episode of Tribal for you people at home. I come across the Guard just about every week. When you live a life of free-spirited spit-in-your-face action like I do you're gonna come across the law every time. This week, though, I have a run in with something I may not have the cunning for. What do you guys think at home? You can phone in with comments and questions! I'll answer them all myself, because I care about my fans. Anyways, sit back tight and buckle into your adventure mind-sets because things are gonna get hairy for your old pal Tribal this week. You know what I always say... I'm a bad ass.”

This last part is Tribal's catch phrase, which is normally accompanied by a trademark smile that melts young Trudy and Juniper's hearts.

“You getting pumped Tribal?” asked Salvador Thick. Salvador is Tribal's intern and sidekick.

“You know I am. Today we're going into the Second Esteemed Bank of Frusterton. It's gonna be a tight haul. There are up to TWELVE people inside, customers not included. We're expecting a big crowd because of the holiday weekend. Big crowds mean big cash, and if you know me at all you know I ain't leaving without that booty. I've got Salvador here, my right hand man, and behind the camera is Bowie Bowie, just itching to film the action! After these commercial messages from very righteous sponsors we're going in there! For definite!"

Just as the Monsoon Moon Shoe Company's ad begins to play, Juniper and Trudy turn to each other.

“Salvador is so gay for Tribal. He's always asking him if he's pumped or if he's ready. 'Ready to jump my bones' is more like it.”

“Oh I know. Did you hear that Tribal is dating Xibi Deck?”

“I hate her, but I did buy tickets to a live taping of her show next week.”

“I hate her too, but her new album, Pop Sensation Superstar, is outrageous!”

“Shut the fuck up! The show is back on!”

With the end of the commercial break we find Tribal just outside the bank. He has twin pistols in his hands. He is nearly panting with anticipation, though this is for dramatic effect.

“Alright, you know the drill Salvador! Go in guns out and ready! I'll do all the talking. You know me, I'm a bad ass!” Tribal is speaking directly into the camera. Suddenly he kicks open the door in an action full of over-dramatic suspense, and he enters the bank.

“Everyone on the floor! I'm Tribal O'Briar and this is a stick up!”

The crowd is mostly silent save for a few small yelps. They all know the drill. They've signed the releases for their likenesses to be used in the television show. The show hands around the forms a few minutes before they enter to rob the establishment. This serves two purposes. The first is so no one can sue the show. The second is so the bank has enough time to call the authorities before being robbed. Without a run-in with the Guard, the show would get old after the first season, though this being television, the corporate leg has a contract with all of law enforcement. They are not able to use lethal force in bringing down Tribal. Tribal, however, is allowed to kill as many Guard as he sees fit. In addition to these legalities, should Tribal be captured, he is not allowed to be jailed.

The heist on this episode is going well. Tribal throws out a few threats, pistol whips an elderly man, and sexually advances himself upon a teller. This brews hatred for this teller in the hearts of the young female audience. Salvador, ever at Tribal's side, acts as back up and nearly mimics Tribal's actions. Salvador is not well thought of by the audience. Plans to replace him have been discussed by the show's producers. All is going very well, that is, until the Guard arrives at the bank. With the Guard there, things are now going great, and very much in accordance with the rough script.

“Tribal, it's the Guard!” Salvador screams, holding a pistol in his hand.

“Hey,” Tribal says casually walking towards a young man standing where the line had been. “What're you doing here at the bank today,” Tribal asks, holding a microphone to the young man's mouth.

“I'm here to see how much I can get for this gold tooth here,” the ratty young man says in response.

“Well guess what. You're my hostage!” Tribal exclaims just before grabbing the unsuspecting boy, who is stupefied by the whole strange scene. Obviously this young man is not one of Tribal's throngs of fans. This is a strange young man. He carries a razor but does not move to defend himself with it. He does not appear threatened by Tribal. This young man plays along as instructed by the intern, who made him sign the paper he was handed.

“Stay tuned, let's see how I get myself out of this one, guys, and we'll be back after this word from our sponsors,” Tribal says into the camera before it goes black. Shortly thereafter the image is replaced by an advertisement for acne cream.

“EEEwwww, did you see that weird guy Tribal took hostage?”

“Yeah, he had like gross goggles with like weird eyes inside of them?”

“That guy was way gross, kind of like weird Grobur, you know that guy who's like on the chess team at our school.”

“Yeah, Mandy told me you had a crush on Grobur.”

“Do not, you bitch. Gross!”

Soon, after a few minutes of name calling between the two girls, the commercials end. Tribal appears before the camera.

“Get a shot of all those Guardsmen, Bowie Bowie!” Tribal shouts, waving his gun towards the open window. The cameraman does as instructed. Outside are three hovercraft with flashing lights. The word “Guard” is printed in bold lettering along the side of each.

“Give yourself up, Tribal,” one of the Guardsmen reads loudly from a small card. “You're reign of tyranny is over!”

“Sheah, right dude!” Tribal laughs, looking into the camera mocking the Guardsman. This is a very action-packed scene. The girls are on the edge of their seats.

“Alright guys, check it,” Tribal begins. “I'm going out there with my hostage, and there's a lot of Guard out there, so I might not make it out of this ALIVE!” Tribal is all smiles as he says this.

Tribal, without further hesitation, kicks the door open and starts blasting away Guardsmen left and right. Among explosions of blood from the chest cavities and heads of the Guardsmen, Tribal makes his way out of the bank. He holds his two pistols, taking shots, one then another. Salvador has the hostage with the cat eye goggles. The Guard fires back, though they fire blanks. The producers of the show have them all under contract to make this look good. Finally, after fifteen Guard are dead, one of the Captains yells.

“Bring in the Exterma-BOT!” The giant Guard robot is part of the script. Its presence is meant to bring in ratings for the two-hour special. It had been programmed to explode spectacularly whenever it senses it had been hit by a bullet.

“Uh oh, guys. An Exterma-Bot! How will I get out of this one? Stay tuned through these commercial breaks from very important and cool sponsors and find out!” Tribal says into the camera, while covered in the blood of innocent Guardsmen.

“OH MY GOD! I LOVE TRIBAL,” the girls scream at once.

“He's the cutest and most daring criminal of all time!”

“I want to marry him, and he could take me on his heists!”

The screaming goes on like this for some time when finally the commercials end and the show returns. At first Tribal doesn't know that anything unscripted is happening. He hears banging noises and assumes the Exterma-Bot is on its way and that his heroic caper will come to an end for the week. Even after he sees Messiah Woman, he still thinks the producers are responsible.

“Wow, we must be trying to appeal to a male audience with this chick,” Tribal mutters to Salvador. This is a reasonable assumption. Messiah Woman is dressed in a get-up any pubescent male would place her in. The most substantial piece of her attire is a long flowing cape. Her breasts are covered with the purest white pasties. Besides this she wears a low-cut skirt and boots. She flies, enormous breasts jiggling, towards Tribal, oozing golden holy energy.

“Relinquish the hostage and surrender yourself to the judgment of the Goddess!” Messiah Woman announces.

“Hey none of this is in the script!” Tribal yells. “How can I be expected to work like this?”

The camera never leaves Tribal's form. It stays on him as Messiah Woman blasts him through. The shot of golden energy from Messiah Woman's eyes impales Tribal. He stands there, with the slightest wobble, before saying,

“....I'm a bad ass...."

His final words, spoken not into the camera, but silently to himself.

The girls cry and scream.

“He'll come back, he's not dead, he'll come back, it's all a joke!” The girls say as they watch in horror. It was no joke. Messiah Woman has not read the script. She is not on the payroll of the show's producer. Tribal O'Briar is dead. The camera turns off and the next broadcast is a memorial image of Tribal in his prime. Beneath his image are the words “Tribal O'Briar, gone but not forgotten.” He died at the tender age of nineteen.

“You are safe now,” Messiah Woman says to the boy hostage. Suddenly before him is a tape player. He presses play and the two listen:

“Eji, I, your benefactor, have instructions. You must travel with Messiah Woman, she who has just rescued you. She will help you find the Pixie Sultan. Ask her to help and she will. Do not lose hope. He is out there and he awaits you.”

“Will you help me?” The hostage, Eji, asks.

Messiah Woman considers for a moment. She sees this young man as strange in appearance and demeanor, almost devout. She feels that the tape player's sudden appearance may have been some form of divine interaction. Before she can respond, she feels the presence of her Goddess. The presence of her Goddess overcomes her and prompts a hasty decision.

“The Goddess must have placed me here for this purpose," she states. "I shall help you find this Pixie Sultan.”

Eji unfurls his magic carpet and together the two fly onward. The camera is off now, and the show is over.



These have been Weird Halo and 12 Cent Anti-Stories. These are two cartoons I plan to present at no fixed schedule, but probably at least once a week. Someday I may add more titles to the mix. For now, though, I hope you enjoy these two in this introductory double feature.