Entrainment is the process of synchronization, where the vibrations of one object will cause the vibrations of another object to oscillate at the same rate. External rhythms, such as in ambient music, can have a direct effect on the psychology and physiology of the listener. Slower tempos from 48-70 BPMS have been proven to decrease heart and respiratory rates, thereby altering the predominate brainwave patterns, directly affecting behavior.
Binaural beats are continuous tones of subtly different frequencies—most common in techno music—which are delivered to each ear independently in stereo via headphones. If the left channel's pitch is 100 cycles per second and the right channel's pitch is 108 cycles per second, the difference between the two equals 8 cycles per second. When these sounds are combined they produce a pulsing tone that waxes and wanes in a "wah-wah" rhythm, which quite effectively seizes control of various parts of the brain, based on cyclical dissimilarities. Binaural beats are not an external sound; rather they are subsonic frequencies heard within the brain itself. These frequencies are created as both hemispheres work simultaneously to hear sounds that are pitched differently by key mathematical intervals (window frequencies). The brainwaves respond to these oscillating tones by following them (entrainment) and both hemispheres begin to work together. Communication between the two sides of the brain is associated with flashes of creativity, insight and wisdom on some levels; pleasure, eroticism, and primordial yearning on others.
The four main brainwave patterns are BETA, ALPHA, THETA and DELTA. Each has a characteristic blueprint and produces a distinctive state of consciousness. BETA waves (14 cycles per second and above) dominate the normal waking state of consciousness when attention is directed towards the outside world, and are initially optimized by the alien body process. ALPHA waves (8-13 cycles per second) are present during dreaming and light meditation when the eyes are closed, and are broadcast by the alien body in external form through the use of radio frequencies. THETA waves (4-7 cycles per second) occur in sleep and are dominate in the highest state of mediation. In deep meditation and deep sleep, DELTA waves (.5 to 3 cycles per second) are experienced. The optimum level for deep thought is in the realm of THETA. When in THETA, the senses are withdrawn from the external world and focused on then inner one. DELTA waves endow a total evacuation from existence and provide the most profound feelings of peace. Ultimately, through the alien hypnosis, DELTA waves are predominant, and present during all of the subject's activity.
By strategically placing and moving sounds around the head and body, the sounds are experienced in subjective spaces. This can enhance and modify the perceived experience of them. Primarily effective when listened to through headphones, these soundtracks create precise locations in three-dimensional soundscapes. A determinate combination of alien pulse and binaural beats associated with techno music results in the attainment of hypnosis suitable for carrying out the alien body methodology (more on alien methodology in linked page # 4.
Ruefully yours,
[email protected]
Hectors eyes looked as if glass had been blown across them; beneath, dark prune-like rings. "I know you're very tired," Frank said. "But we do have to consider this as a possibility, Hect. We've seen all this today, and I'm guessing there's more similarities in his other pages. We need to read them."
"I don't think I can do that right now, Frank. I'm pushing twenty-four hours. I'm beat."
Frank rubbed his eyes. "Tomorrow, before we leave, can you print the other essays out?"
"Sure." Hector move the mouse, performed a few clicks. "There. I've saved them on my hard drive."
"Thanks," Frank said. He hesitated a moment, then rubbed his hands together. "So what's the plan for tomorrow?"
Hector turned the computer off and stood up. His bones made a cracking noise. "Ouch...let me sleep on that one Frank. I'll let you know in the morning. I'll get you a pillow and a blanket. Try to get in a few hours, okay?"
Frank nodded, although he knew sleep would be hard to find. His body wanted it but he wasn't too sure his mind would allow it. "I'll try my best."
Hector left and returned with a white pillow and a large blue comforter.
"Thanks, Hect."
Hector retreated in silence, then turned and said, "Tomorrow's probably gonna be another long day."
Frank closed his eyes. Dear God, I hope not.
Chapter Twenty-One
The night was black, but far from silent.
Lester wandered the desolate west-end streets for what seemed like hours until he finally caught word of the night's location. Talk on the streets had the site set inside an abandoned warehouse bordering the docks near 18th street, but as it so happened, last minute arrangements had to be made due to a band of undercover authorities that had performed a non-related drug sweep in the area, breaking up the start of the gathering and forcing the troops to reassemble twenty blocks north at 38th street behind an abandoned tenement, just west of Hell's Kitchen.
When Lester finally located the congregation, many had already gathered. He inconspicuously slithered in and around the site, easily blending in but still soliciting some measly, paranoid sneers from the others in attendance, their wild eyes rolling with no direction in mind other than to provide alarm to those who ventured too near, or to seek guidance from the Leader.
Jyro.
Lester was anxious because he had news for Jyro tonight, and had been seeking him ever since those cops came into the building looking for the man in black earlier tonight. He'd been following this particular man in black for a few days now, just as Jyro had instructed the troops to do, and was sheltering in the lobby when he heard the cops approach. He remembered exchanging a few choice words with them, careful not to reveal too much about the rebellion. He took off in urgent plea to reveal the occurrence to the leader, as the great Jyro needed all eventualities—however slight—to be reported, especially if the clash upon the...upon them, was to succeed.
Flames pranced from garbage-can fires situated at various locations about the site, each offering warmth to four or five homeless men huddling close in an effort to escape the frigid night air. Wild howls flew back and forth from amidst the tiny groups—gutteral discharges, profanities, senseless shouts—each serving no purpose other than for those in attendance to dispense their aggressions in anticipation of the approaching festivities.
Slowly, Lester wound in and about the homeless cliques through the camp, all the way until he could go no further, finding himself at the entrance of a small tent made out of a large blue tarpaulin. Two large black men stood at the flapping entrance, muscles swelling, each gripping a formidable looking steel pipe that had been either ripped from a nearby awning, or torn from a gutter. They wore tightly woven bandanas on their skulls and sneered at Lester's approach, as if he were trespassing on sacred ground, which in this obscure little world, probably rang true.
One of the guards stepped forward and abruptly wielded his pipe down across Lester's path, like a medieval sentry stationed at a palace entrance. Lester stopped short, feeling the wind of the rapidly swung pipe upon his filthy face. He caught his breath just in time to defend himself before being questioned.
"I-I have news for Jyro!" he bellowed, cowering as if expecting a blow.
The looming guard's eyebrows pointed into a dark V. "Address the Leader with respect, disheveler."
Lester swallowed a lump in his throat, his glance nervously darting between the two scowling guards. "I have news for the Leader." His breaths were short and stagnant.
The guard pressed his steel pipe against Lester's chest, then peered back at the second watchman as he stuck his head into the tent. He pulled out after a few moments, turned, and nodded slightly.
The guard pulled his pipe back and placed his face inches from Lester's. His breath stank of whiskey and something rotten. "The leader will see you, disheveler." Lester was quickly and forcefully guided into the tent.
The interior of the tent was much larger thanLester had imagined
standing outside. Actually, the tent itself served only as a drape to the entrance of an alley situated between an abandoned building and a chain-link fence. A few torn couches and mattresses sat haphazardly at the entrance of the alley in apparent attempt to create interior coziness. Three additional 'guards' seated on the couches immediately stood upon Lester's entrance, two of them holding pipes, one a large kitchen knife, each making the passage past the scrappy furniture all the more daunting. He could feel their hot rancid breaths on his cheeks as he passed them by, each puff filled with threat, their flexing muscles providing an additional obstacle en route to the Leader.
The guard ushering Lester gave him a sudden, sharp push from behind. "Move along," he shouted, and Lester fell forward past the thugs, tripping over his own feet, landing on his knees.
"Good man," a dark gravely voice issued, hushing everyone within. "Kneel before your leader."
Lester peered up and saw him, the leader, the great black man, seated on a fairly new reclining chair—clearly stolen—his presence alone holding strict command of all those in the room. He was donned in torn jeans, a black tee, and a brown leather jacket that looked as though it had been through more battles than a championship prize-fighter. His head was shaved bald, a glistening sheen of sweat reflecting the torch-flames set up at either sides of his 'throne'. He wore sunglasses, and when he smiled at Lester, a gold tooth shone from within. "Well, well. I haven't seen your ugly face before."
Lester peered up at the impressive man. The story on Jyro was a familiar one amongst the ranks of homeless. He had been a professional entertainment wrestler once, did the WWF circuit for three years before overdosing on some bad steroids. He lost half his mind and it became impossible to negotiate a contract with him, much less have him get all his theatrical moves down. But Jyro had been extremely popular with the fans, a real money-maker, and with the promoters investing big bucks in him, he was forced to continue his participation in the circuit.
He hit rock bottom in a 'championship' bout with Killer Kalhoun. The prearranged scenario was that Killer Kalhoun would win the fight in the eighth round, pinning Jyro to the canvas after performing a triple twist flip on him about two minutes into the round. But Jyro, after blowing a number of serious moves that had Kalhoun fiercely angered, well, he decided to take matters in his own hands and force an upset. The three-hundred twenty pound man caught Kalhoun off guard as he tried to perform a double back clothesline drop and ducked down, slamming him in the nuts with his shoulder as he passed over him. Kalhoun went down in a convulsion. The maddened Jyro immediately dove down and sunk his teeth into the champ's jugular, which created quite a spectacle, not to mention a great deal of blood; the frenzied crowd had assumed it was fake all along. When WWF security finally pried Jyro away from Kalhoun—they had to give him a damn good beating with their nightsticks—the downed wrestler had lost two quarts of blood, nearly a quart of which the out-of-control Jyro vomited back up on the security guards as they tried to restrain him. It was at this moment the crowd quietened down a bit, finally realizing that something had gone dearly wrong, and by the time the paramedics arrived, the entire arena had been silenced into shock. They ended up watching their two heroes being escorted away, one on a stretcher, one in handcuffs.
Killer Kalhoun survived the ordeal, but retired immediately after and spent the next seven years performing charity work for children with AIDS. Jyro, on the other hand, spent three years in jail, resigning himself to a life in New York City's streets as a tyrant in the homeless community immediately after, providing leadership to all those lost souls willing to follow his command. Most were too afraid not to.
"I-I," Lester stammered. He peered down and saw two filthy white women, prostitutes perhaps, down on their haunches at either sides of the recliner. They could have been sisters, each possessing hair once blonde but now brown with soot, straggled and unruly. The colors of their eyes were dulled to lifeless grey circles, hanging lazily in their sockets, seemingly propped up by the blackened crescents underneath like two dead babies nestled in charred cradles. Measly threads for clothes hung forlornly on their emaciated bodies, heroin tracks racing up their sleeveless arms like parades of army ants. They mockingly sneered at Lester as he spoke, and he thought that in any minute snakes would sprout from their heads.
"I saw a man in black today," he finally managed.
Jyro stood from his throne, flexing his muscles. He stepped forward, bald head skimming the top of the tent nearly seven feet high. Lester squinted, fearing the worst, that Jyro would bite into his head and devour his blood just like he did to that Killer Kalhoun guy seven years ago. "What is your name, disheveler?"
"Lester." He was shaking badly.
"Lester—what did you see today?"
"The cops, they took one away."
Jyro smiled. "Good. That's one less we'll have to deal with." Jyro leaned down close to Lester. "The rebellion is tomorrow Lester. You up for it?"
"Y-yes, my Leader." He trembled like frightened cat.
Jyro spun around and stood before his chair, one foot up on the armrest. "We meet tomorrow at midnight!" he shouted, raising his arms triumphantly in the air. The dozen or so people sharing space inside shouted in return, one of the interior guards darting from the tent to spread the news. At once shouts emanated from the hundreds gathered at the site, the clamor growing by the second as word shot around the camp. The great black man looked down at the cowering Lester and smiled. "The rebellion has begun, Lester. Good job. Now take him away!" he shouted, the smile disappearing from his face.
Lester was forcibly ushered outside into the din of the night, into the growing crowd, where plans for the rebellion had taken flight.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Pain wracked Jaimie's body as she woke, cramps darting from joint to muscle to tendon as if electric prods had been lanced into her body, making it nearly impossible to move. She tried to remember what had happened, and as she tiredly searched her brain for a recollection to her apparent injuries, she felt a terrible headache loom. She tried to twist her body, felt a hard floor through the pain, and realized with dismay that she was not at home: all the floors in her house were carpeted.
The subway perhaps? She remembered being there. Suddenly everything started to come back to her, a nightmarish flash of events hitting her like some weird recall in a movie, unfurling as if spilled out from an upturned bag: the bloody bald man chasing her across campus, escaping into the subway, riding to the Bronx, the terribly injured man on the platform. Then, her return to the city, trying to find her way home, the whole time struggling to keep herself conscious. Finally, making it home. Entering.
So then where was she now? Not in the subway. She made an effort to open her eyes, and it hurt to do so, tiny jolts of pain pinching the skin around her eyes. At once a cobalt illumination doused her vision like a splash of ocean water, and she tried to raise an arm to shield the radiance. But she could barely move her limb, the pain of the slight motion far worse than the neon impingement upon her eyes, and she could only twitter her eyes until her pupils managed adjustment to the strange illumination.
Finally her surroundings came into view. She felt dread; the place was unknown to her. She had never visited here before. Gazing warily about, she saw nothing of detail, just a black glossy sea racing away beneath her into an infinite horizon, as if she were floating in space. Looking up, a distant ceiling came into view perhaps a hundred feet high, its surface as smooth and as illustrious as the floor. Wispy streaks of blue neon floated above her like clouds in the sky, their source unexaminable in this place of darkness. A sudden popping noise resounded within her head and she became aware of an odd noise, a deep hum like that of a great engine operating from a distance. The hum infiltrated her senses, and she quickly realized that her pain felt much too real for this whole scenario to be some extravagant dream. Fear enveloped her like a sharp gust of wind, masking some of her pain, enabling her to reassume control of her muscles. She forced herse
lf to sit up and a great wave of dizziness washed over her like a tidal wave, nearly pulling her back to the flooring, but she managed to brace herself with her hands, keeping still until the spins subsided.
She heard footsteps approaching. A hot flash melted over her, her wet fingers pressing against the smooth floor. Her tactile senses returned. She was soaked in sweat, her shirt matted to her body, her jeans itching her skin, sticking to her legs. Dirt was caked to her skin and clothes, she could feel the dried tightness of it. The footsteps grew louder, nearer. She stayed put, eyes rolling in all directions trying desperately to see through the wavy blue luminescence of the black room, but she could not discern from which direction they approached.
"Who's there?" she managed to call, but it came out only as a whisper, the enveloping hum that filled the room overpowering her ability to hear her own pained query.
Then, a hand, clasping down on her shoulder. She startled and turned, the motion sending intense pain through her entire body.
And she saw him, a gorge of fear rising in her throat. Bald. Sunglasses. Bathed in filth.
And smiling.
Chapter Twenty-Three
For the second night in a row, the babies invaded Frank's dreams. Again they stood in a procession as far as his eyes could see, an ocean of tiny bald heads disappearing into a neon blue horizon, a textured carpet of pink flesh laid it out so close together that he as their leader could virtually step out and walk atop them. Mouthless, noseless, they stared up at him, their glowing eyes big and black and wet, suddenly full of leering hatred. The eyes...they looked like...like sunglasses. Suddenly he felt not as their leader, but as their prisoner. He tried to move his arms, but could not. His wrists were tethered behind his back. His ankles too, shackled to the raised flooring on which he had stood so proudly not moments earlier. Now, he cowered, scared, crying like a baby—not like one of these babies, but like a normal one. Like Jaimie had been years ago. No, he said to himself, these babies don't cry. No reason to. They had everything they wanted. Again he tried to move, but could not, and he felt great pains. Then in the distance he heard a cry, perhaps from one of the babies after all. He looked out across the sea of textured flesh and saw a single baby on its back floating across the expanse of heads, coming towards him, legs first. A single baby, unlike the rest, the body small, pink, naked, but the head, although bald, fully grown with bright blue eyes and freckles. Jaimie. Her eyes then rolled up into their sockets, exposing the whites, emotional and physical anguish tormenting her, her hands grasping at the sea of flesh, seeking his help, calling daddy! daddy! just like she did when she was young and needed him in the middle of the night when she awoke from a nightmare.
Atmosphere Page 19