Rave: Mythophrenia

This is a fictional autobiography. Names, characters, places, incidents, are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as completely real. The general story has been inspired by the current socio-political-environmental climate and mostly the metaphysical journey of the author. This includes the original vision and the scenes that came out of deep meditation sessions and remembrance of intense spiritual awakenings. This is her Rave-Veda.

RAVE: Mythophrenia

Copyright © 2018 J I V A N A

Print ISBN: 978-1-54398-165-0

eBook ISBN: 978-1-54396-481-3

Cover Artist: BookBaby

Editor: Sweep Lotus

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

J I V A N A

www.raverj.com

Thank you to my parents who brought me into this world, with a special shoutout to Mom who nearly lost her life to give me mine. Thank you Dad, my original superhero, who loved and taught me to love the Earth. Thank you to my beloved husband, the most considerate, kind, warm-hearted, loyal, and supportive man, besides my father, I’ve had the privilege to know. Thank you to my editor Sweep Lotus for your tireless mentorship. Thank you to the myriad of magickal mirrors, all my friends and colleagues I have met on my path. Thank you to all the experiences of both magick and misery as I am today a grateful sum total of all that has transpired. Blessings and Gratitude to my soul-teachers and their lineages including that of Parahamansa Yogananda, Psalm Isadora, the Maine Terton, and Spanda Makt. Sending love to all the planetary warriors, and those who are rising to embody the sacred feminine and sacred masculine. Our work as activists and artivists is creating a paradigm shift for a more beautiful, equal, compassionate, and egalitarian world. Thank you my ancestors: Roots of old in Afrika, the Mayans, the Pagans of Europe, and my Northern Californian tribe the Wailiaki. Thank you to our global RAVE culture and all of those who have contributed to its inception and ongoing presence. Thank you to the magick of place: Poway, where I grew up, the various coastal towns I lived and would get married along the Pacific Ocean, my early dance days in Downtown San Diego’s club scene, Hollywood for keeping the energy of creativity alive, Lake Winnipesaukee for the vision of Raver J, and Costa Rica where I would finally be greeted by Earth, Herself. Thank you Gaia for allowing me to dance in your dream. This is an inspired work and dedicated to all people, especially those within my beloved rave culture, waking up to new realities. Let’s be grateful. Love will win.

Contents

Tips on how to read my story

Foreword

BEAT: Is This The Real Life?

BEAT: Auric IMMERSION

BEAT: Once in a Lifetime

BEAT: Hired Guns

BEAT: Day of Rest

BEAT: Reflections on Oz

BEAT: Honey to color starved days

BEAT: Laeauxdeur

BEAT: Mind Mydriasis

BEAT: TROUBADOR

BEAT: Cerebral Vortex

BEAT: War on Love

BEAT: #NoFilter

BEAT: The Echoes of Conversation

BEAT: reVision

BEAT: change

BEAT: Sol-Mates

BEAT: Muladhara Encounter

BEAT: Deep Gnosis

BEAT: Full Immersion

BEAT: Untied

BEAT: Moon Summons

BEAT: Sacred Journey

BEAT: A New World

BEAT: Proclivity of Pi

BEAT: Big Sue

BEAT: Trust the Signs

BEAT: Threshold

BEAT: Caravan

BEAT: On Gifting

BEAT: Koral Coronation

BEAT: Revolutionary Craft

BEAT: The Lucidity of Evolution

BEAT: Auricle of the Heart

BEAT: Diaspora

BEAT: The Bombshelter

BEAT: THE WAY

BEAT: Light at the End of the Tunnel

BEAT: Contention

BEAT: Dots Everywhere

BEAT: Novel-tea Overload

BEAT: Je Ne Sais Quoi

BEAT: The Story of Sunshine

BEAT: Parallel Worlds

BEAT: Oenomel

BEAT: Seeing

BEAT: Feed The Dreams

BEAT: Eats Everything

BEAT: Green Velvet

BEAT: Inter-dimensional Travel

BEAT: The Moving Picture of Hope

BEAT: Soul Cymatics

BEAT: Curio

BEAT: Belle Starr

BEAT: Barrage

BEAT: Code Talkers

BEAT: Toroflux

BEAT: Hypozeuxis

BEAT: Spiritual Epicure

BEAT: SWAT

BEAT: Roosting

BEAT: Cockerel Cocktails and Cake

BEAT: Dits + Dahs

BEAT: The four Corners

BEAT: Deep Diving

BEAT: Cosmos

BEAT: EcoCide

BEAT: The Choir

BEAT: Enigmata

BEAT: Misdirection

BEAT: Out of the Green Zone

BEAT: Empyreal Anamnesis

BEAT: The Minister

BEAT: Tetrachromat

BEAT: The Queen’s Station

BEAT: Monkey Do This

BEAT: Divine Rights

BEAT: Rosie

BEAT: Imago

BEAT: Street Art

BEAT: Resurrection

BEAT: Fracked

BEAT: Welcome Home

BEAT: Farce

BEAT: Karuna

BEAT: Santori the Disco Nap

BEAT: Que Sera Sera

BEAT: Day of the Arriving Victor

BEAT: Pharmacology

BEAT: Juvenile Sophia

BEAT: Shivoo

BEAT: Terahertz

BEAT: Curtain Call

BEAT: Intel

BEAT: The Great Distraction

BEAT: Back to work

BEAT: Earth to Jivana

BEAT: Now is the Time

BEAT: Grand Racket

BEAT: Finding Vision

BEAT: Rebel bass

BEAT: Licentious Burgers

BEAT: Swing Vote Strategy

BEAT: POPups

BEAT: No PLAN B

BEAT: Quiet Guerrilla Guffaw

BEAT: Powwow Room

BEAT: Ready for Action

BEAT: Pts. of Authority

BEAT: House music is freedom

BEAT: Nunnery Life

BEAT: The Revolution will not be televised

BEAT: So Fired

BEAT: Crown Jewels

BEAT: Beam me out Scotty

BEAT: Mandela effect

BEAT: Take Off

Resources

Tips on how to read my story

Play your favorite electronic music.

Breathe.

Know that I wrote this for you.

P.S. Koch is pronounced Cock.

Foreword

By J I V A N A

There is the world of fear, and the world of love. Every moment of every day we are making small choices of thought or action about how we choose to live and experience life. How we choose to hold and manifest our power. The current consensus reality is still a world of fear. But we have begun to wake up to a new reality, and we are finding one another.

Spread across the globe. We go by many names. We are the Emergent Culture. Emerging from and evolving out of the old, fading, fear-based paradigms. Like pioneering flowers after a wildfire, we erupt from and are connected to a mycelia network of art, music, and dance. We are here to share love and healing, and to reclaim our true relationship with Earth before it’s… too late. Our emergence was prophesied. Children of the rainbow, of all cultures awakening. But waking is not enough; we must unify the Love Tribe, create and join alliances. We must act, because we are not fated. The future is still in our hands. We must evolve collectively and quickly before our past agreements, which many still follow unquestioningly, exercise our own extinction.

I am one of the many co-creators in this vision for a better world. A world we believe can be inclusive of all, conscious of our actions, and based in unconditional love and trust. Each day, more of us are beginning to see the world in terms of energy, frequency, and vibration. Like Nikola Tesla said, those are the terms in which we must think to unlock the secrets of the universe. We are reclaiming our magic, our personal power, through love. And we must do this, so we can all contribute to bringing about HOPE (Helping Other People Evolve). We will need others. We need one another, to change the world, because the container to hold the vision is large. It is not merely seeing a new vision, but consciously and collectively holding it.

Over the years, people have wanted to know my story. How did I become part of the Emergent Culture, a global tribunal responsible for shouldering the shifting Chrysalis of our world in this potent time?

My answer? With the lens of the rave; watching the waves of change pour over us with Wonder, Love, and Hope¹. Learning to listen to my Heart, get in tune with the Eternal Beat, and allow myself to become One and Sound.

I contribute my tale to perpetuate a new story for this world. We need new stories to inspire and forge our future in egalitarian and ecologically harmonious ways. My story is compiled from both memories and journal entries I kept throughout my personal journey of awakening. Here is my story. Dance with me.

1 Mystical Language: Any time we attempt to describe feelings that could be ascribed to the Divine, or are derived from mystical experiences (including many - but not all - dreams), language proves inadequate. Because such feelings are often overwhelming, because we are powerfully moved to share them, and because language is one of our favorite tools as humans, we must allow that any language we use in these circumstances is exempt from all norms of usage and, indeed, social norms. For example, we want to capitalize Love and Gratitude and Grace. We trust that ellipsis dots will express at once the deep stillness and the plethora of super-sensory activity that accompany the emotions. We permit synesthesia. We cast off the limitations of correctness. We gift this freedom to you, too, dear reader....

Eureka –satori

My awakening

It started

at a

rave.

JIVANA

BEAT: Is This The Real Life?

I saw it first, the distant strobe light of red and blue flashes. It was only a millisecond later that the twins would see it too; their schoolgirl skirts flared as they dashed in the direction of the oncoming lights. Within moments an unnecessary amount of cop cars screeched as they obnoxiously slid in donut shapes to form an authority-driven wall. I made an instinctive request, Zoe turn it up! The music had been low in my ears for the very reason I was ordering it to be loud now. Before she could fulfill her duty, I had already issued the next order. Run! I yelled to our friends, hoping frantic gestures would reach them above their groove. They did. They ran in the opposite direction of the cop barricade, onto backstreets, and alleys. Smoke created from our adversaries entrance helped screen their retreat. Then time froze.

Time starts again but in adrenaline slow-mo. Paint droplets and streaks levitate while the music in my remote control earbuds begins to deliver increasing sound like a wobbling gong. As the sound infuses my being and moves toward heart-center, I am overcome by sound-induced ecstasy. Each heartbeat is empowered by ever-increasing reverberations.

A short eternity of sweet darkness. All I am is sound.

And then it happens. The music had been the catalyst but it is the wet splatter of paint across my eyes that seems to detonate the heart energy and it explodes out of my chest like a geyser. A dome of light forms. It’s so bright I see it with eyes closed.

My fingers move from the inner corners of the eyes across the cheekbones at a luxurious speed. They linger erotically at the temples while I perceive a deep and loitering eeewwww, which circumnavigates my head like a toy train in orbit. Blinking is gooey. It is a feat of heavy lifting, attempting to peel neon-pink drenched eyelashes apart but it’s worth the effort. My expanded aura shimmers in kaleidoscopic radiance. I gaze amusingly at this marvel knowing, after the last time this happened, it provides some form of protection. We’ll need it.

Zoe and Zephyr are slightly ahead and on either side of me. I see them both in my peripheral vision. We form a V. The girls seem to float their weight side to side, patiently expecting the impending arrival. The dark pigtails of the twins curiously flow upwards as if they are sinking to the bottom of an ancient ocean. Similar to being underwater, I cannot understand what is being said. With an enthusiastic grin, Zoe points at my eyes while making a gesture at hers. I interpret this as some sort of approval of my paint-smeared face.

Outside of this auric enigma, I decode pixelated shadows as Democracity cops. They are making up their mind when or whether they should join us in this ring. Unreal. But it is real.

Muffled yells, of a sisterly martial arts strategy session, come from the outer points of our V. The sound distortion indicates time distortion, at least for me. This is good as scenes of my life seem to be integrated into the auric dome, like projection art. I feel the corners of my mouth turn up in a slight smile as I watch a particular memory wave for my attention like one of those dancing tube men in front of used car lots.

Deactivate, comes a voice from the cop car speaker system and which reaches us in real-time while the auric-field flickers. I see them: guns pointing toward us, some behind car doors, others crouched like video game figures ready to invade. Zoe turns the music up again. The rest of their mechanical-sounding demand immediately garbles in time distortion. The dome stabilizes and brightens.

That memory keeps waving at me. I’m vibrating in indecision until I intuitively sense approval from the girls, You have time. Surrender.

BEAT: Auric IMMERSION

I am sitting cross-legged on the ground along the perimeter of a jam-packed stadium — at a massive party, Megawatt Phoenix.

LED fingertips twirl around me like a posse of comets playing butterfly games. I am not aware of the multitude of people catering to me as separate from myself as they massage my hands, arms, and head. I’m cruising through dimensions of geometric space until I am whispered to open your eyes by a girls voice. Hair is stroked as something lifts my heart-shaped glasses to rest on the crown of my head.

The helpers become a constant stream of braided-wave pleasure, aspects of rushing music and light. Or are they one? In this moment, I can’t tell. It’s pure experience as I watch the pantomiming performer show me a story of cosmic origins with his light gloves. The fingertips open portals, shake, and rapidly turn directions. We’re on a roller coaster ride through black holes and other dimensions. Pleasure is at a pre-gush peak level and - without warning - POOF, the light-glover blows in my face! Timed at the drop of the bass, it was his finale to the orchestrally complex finger-dancing piece. Bolt-struck stunned; mind blown, face melted, I am in absolute reverence of the entire experience of this giant party my new friends call a rave.

Ha Ha Ha Raver J! Marty, the neon leprechaun and new friend, proclaimed while laughing boisterously and elbowing another crew member. Shakra sported a fuzzy bucket hat, a groomed goatee, and a black tank with a shakka-sign that he then matched with real hand gestures. Those two had been my escorts on a mission meandering through the crowds on the stadium floor. Thankfully it was at Shakra’s chill speed, versus Marty’s signature skipping-pace. They had brought me to a gatekeeper, a Medusa with glowing sherbet snakes. Through her grace was I granted the entertainment from her guarded light charmer.

Shakra agreed with Marty in his subdued, and always surprising, surfer-like drawl, Yeaaah… she’s a raver, for suuuure. Shakra then stroked his goatee with the other hand and smiled as if he were containing a riot of amusement with me.

Raver J would stick, and it was how I was referred to from then on. All the way back through the rave, up the stadium steps, and re-introduced to our group at base camp, the section of stadium seats where our crew of friends had decided to set-up for the night. These stadium seats also offered a high-level viewpoint of the party. This look-out point reminded me of watching the ocean from a clifftop. Instead of a body of water, we observed a body of people, and the rave in its entirety. Remarking occasionally, but mostly sharing mutual awe simply by being present and experiencing the music together. This included dancing, of course. We could leave in small groups with assurance our cozy spot would always be secure.

Hanging out at base camp was not exactly similar to attending a major sporting game. No doubt, those can be exciting too, but not like this. Unlike a sporting event, there were no opposing sides. No winners or losers. Just one constant head-bob vibe. Excitement arose not from a clashing of titans but based upon the movement of the music itself, and everyone synched as one. At this time in Consumerican culture, raves were unprecedented. This was the imaginal realm made real. We were characters akin to folkloric beings. If you had never been to a rave, who could believe in hordes of bass-bopping, sparkle-bounteous beings co-existing on such a freely-expressing level? Before this moment, I could not! And yet here we were. Everyone together, uniting through dance to share a unique music experience permeated with love. This was certainly not the typical celebration of competition and anxiety as standardized in most other Consumerican cultural events and pastimes.

The twins were not quite on go-go dancing shift so Zoe snatched a hand, twirled me like her swing dance partner as she exclaimed, Let’s Dance!! She let go of my hand but continued to spin though it was a much hoppier footwork circle than the spin of her twin, Zephyr, who had climbed over seats revolving with sultrier wave-like movements of the arms.

The music was building. Like climbing rope through a spiral tower of sound, the music taunted us to keep pulling ourselves, higher and higher, and faster, and with more vigor…. Energized, my hands tingled as if mini-lightning bolts could shoot out from my palms and fingertips. The music roused us to previously unimaginable heights and, like the light show, all of sudden - changed. The volume completely dropped and the rope I was climbing severed, burned through perhaps from the lightning in my hands. It was free-fall… then boom! - a blasting shockwave of bass obliterated all sense of Being-ness. This was experienced seemingly by every entity present in the stadium. There were a few moments of feeling formless until our stunned electrons began to excite again. A hive hum of cheer then circled through the audience.

Instinctively I had dropped my head back, heart lifted, arms out-stretched with sizzling hands attempting a massive sky-hug. The twins may have tried to communicate with me, but their concern and voices would have been drowned out in the grand feeling of Presence.

For a moment of unknown time, I was caught in a beam of bright, all-encompassing, and honey-sweet light, nearly touching and perhaps forever dissolving into blissful ineffability.

BEAT: Once in a Lifetime

Catapulted out of my body, there I was… a god. No longer traveling through dimensions, I had reached and now was, both dark space and stars.

Awareness parachuted back into the party with wings the size of the planet’s sky. Megawatt Phoenix, the massive rave, was an amusing sea of twinkling lights and waves of sound below me. Here I would remain still, watching, enraptured by our collective body, a pulsing web of love. This was ecstasy. I was Home.

BEAT: Hired Guns

The end of the memory arrived in perfect timing with the lead-in of dark helmets and gun barrels. The full-suited, kevlar-clan then emerged through the aura kaleidoscopé. Sparks fly.

Nothing has been the same since running into an old friend only weeks ago and meeting his crew who brought me to my first rave. This night, facing authority figures as comrades flee from the scene of our brazen act of defiance, is directly a product of what happened after Megawatt Phoenix. So maybe I should start there...

It is difficult to get a man to understand something when his salary depends upon his not understanding it.

Upton Sinclair

BEAT: Day of Rest

I woke up at home and in bed. Stunned. Refreshed. Confused I did not remember leaving the rave, yet, certain that I was more fully alive than I had ever been. Quite the lucid dream, so I thought, as I snuggled myself in soft bedcovers.

As instructed by friends, I allowed myself to rejuvenate by resting the entire day, listening to a pirate radio station they had pre-programmed for me, and indulging in serotonin and electrolyte replacing snacks and beverages that were left for me upon drop off. Like morning dew upon a field of flowers and a peeping sun, I glistened with after-rave bliss.

BEAT: Reflections on Oz

The following morning, the morning I had to go back to work, was tough. Not so much because I couldn’t get up, but because I didn’t want to.

When my alarm went off that morning, it seemed so much louder than normal. Bright, screeching, echoey; frightening almost.

I popped up, eyes still closed, and dangled my feet over the side of the bed. Initially breathing in excitement for being alive, only to realize a split second later it was Monday. I was not waking up to a new rave day and to meet my new friends.

Excitement transformed into a wave of anxiety, all motivation drained out of my being, and I felt a shortness of breath. I slouched on an exhale with exhaustion and dread.… Groggy, nearly stumbling, I plodded into the bathroom to brush my teeth. My zombie stare incinerated in a spark of awareness. I froze all motion. My toothbrush dangled from my frothy mouth as I leaned toward the mirror and used both hands to examine my face.

I had pink, heart-shaped party glasses on. I remembered seeing them atop my bed-stand. I must have grabbed them instinctively and put them on after I smacked the alarm off. Who is this girl? I took them off and looked down to spit into the sink of my old life.

My mirrored closets faced each other, producing an infinity effect as I dressed, triggering deep introspection. In front of these mirrors I slipped on my slacks, buttoned up my silk poplin shirt, and pulled on my business jacket. A continuation of my normal morning pre-work routine, although with mindful, less mechanical speed, and an unusual, almost viscous, curiosity.

What is wrong with me? I peered into my own eyes, to the depths of infinity, asking my reflection, Why am I ruminating rebellion and feeling lethargic? I felt a desperate desire for my reflection to come to life and tell me. She never did; not in that moment, anyway.

Leaving the house, I found by my front door a burned CD scribbled in permanent ink pen: Raver J’s Ultra Marty Mix. I smiled, He could have left a USB drive. Regardless, I grabbed the musical gift so I could listen to it in the car. Fortunately or unfortunately, my car lease had not expired. This model still had a CD player.

The silver lining of Raver J’s Ultra Marty Mix winked at me as it moved in a sun ray coming in from my front doorway window. I held it in my hand as I rummaged through my purse looking for the car remote to start the seat heater and the news before I got into my well-earned, purring sports car. As is customary for responsible members of Democracity society, I listened to DYSTRAXION, Democracity’s news and entertainment channel, every morning on my commute.

Not more than a quarter of the way to work, I inevitably hit some traffic. With the news spouting what seemed to be untenable negativity, I decided to slip into the CD dock the mix Marty had given me. Rapid, pounding beats ensued, and instinctively I hit the button to initiate the convertible top to withdraw. Certain parts of the CD mix gave me chills making wispy, blonde arm hair erect, electrified and bringing back vivid sensations and recollections, such as the light show.

Gloved finger-lights had trailed for me - creating shapes and patterns that I had never seen - dancing for me as I would think the chaos of the cosmos could. I could feel my pupils expand, then the eyelids fluttered and started to roll to the back of my head.

Music, like rolling balls inside of a massage chair, worked through my body. My neck, my heart, my back, my legs.… I kept fighting the urge to close my eyes and surrender myself completely both to the music and to the gentle river of subtle psychedelic memories moving through my mind. The body warming, a moisture growing…. My eyes unable to fight, they closed.

My peaking arousal was interrupted abruptly by an electrical flickering of the stereo equipment and the long honk of the car behind me. The forceful gust of a gasp popped my eyes open. My fingers at first had separated, bursting open as if they wanted to shoot stars out of their tips. But that freeze frame of shock instinctively returned to motion as I gripped the wheel, hard, and slammed on the breaks. Adrenaline surged through my quickened heart, refocusing to find I had five car lengths of space in front of me.

That was intense. I turned the music off, turned the fan on full blast, and slapped my face lightly on both sides so that I could return to my normal senses. With the convertible top in procession above me, I resumed the drive in a startled - yet more alert - state of mind.

BEAT: Honey to color starved days

How am I going to get through the day? Flushed from the arousing recall of the rave, I felt offbeat of corporate culture as I pulled into the parking garage of the Koch Enterprises building.

Physically I did not feel bad but emotionally I felt estranged, as if I were among aliens. Prior to the rave, work-routine dictated a standard no eye-contact plan which included ignoring the initial Koch Enterprises guards, any plebeian employees zipping through the parking structure on motorized wheels for feet, as well as all subsequent level guards as I ascended the heights of parking for elite staff. Although I normally acknowledged people in the lobby or elevator with a simple Hi, I knew my change in behavior would go unnoticed, as most everyone has near full attention on their phone screen until the moment they sit at their desk and have to look at their work computer. I wanted to smile at everyone, or possibly (gasp) hug them. Little did I know I was forever altered.

BEAT: Laeauxdeur

Nearly worthless, I couldn’t do anything that day. I sat in my office, leaning back in my expensive ergonomic chair, staring out the window and biting mindlessly on the end of a pen. I think, for the first hour or two, I was mostly attuned to the clouds until I finally chose to acknowledge a tattered and sun-worn billboard. One that had always been in my line of sight but that I had never paid much conscious attention to. Platinum blonde, barely dressed. A cue to buy her perfume: Laeauxdeur.

Laeauxdeur…. Once, an international intern told me, in confidence and somewhat confused, that this word, in his language, would translate to the odor of water. It came as no real surprise to me, as I knew we created names for products based on perceived allure regardless of meaning. The more obscure, the better. What glamour is not false? Whatever it took to sell, because the end goal was the success of the brand. This meant success of the Koch subsidiary, which in theory contributed to the success of Democracity - the heartland of Consumerica - and ultimately to the mysterious workings of the global marketplace, the Dao - that traffic of august societal importance.

Many years ago I had refused to work on the Laeauxdeur campaign, so I did not busy myself with knowing how that campaign had contributed to society. I did, however, work with Avonne Laeauxdeur quite often these days. She, I had realized, was a marshal force when it came to contribution value.

There is an industry term for the Avonne Laeauxdeurs of the world, designated by those involved in their manufacturing process. It is nebulae. All nebulae are top of their game, but ultimately Koch -approved and -designed, and therefore endorsers of the Consumerican dream. We, the industrious behind the screen, know they are not stars, but projections. People, no more cosmic than any one of us, chosen for their ambition, looks, and ability to exploit. They provide no truly needed light for humanity. If nebulae were truly cosmic, I always imagined them as colossal clouds of spectacular haze; marvelous distractions, as they were.

In Democracity, most of the goods are produced or distributed by, or have some association with, a Koch subsidiary, although nothing bears the brand Koch. We are everything, everywhere, and in the minds of most, nowhere and nothing at all. But in my mind, all cues and even nebulae, then, worked for us at Koch Enterprises (or Koch E. as buried in the fine print on certain Human Resource documents). No matter which industry zenith they came from, if someone chose to represent one of our products, they worked for us. They were part of our unseen conglomerate vision. A modern manifest destiny.

For the others in the field, we call them simply cues because that is what they literally are, your cue to purchase any of the myriad goods our societal machine cranks out. A term synonymous with and indistinct from the advert they are featured in. Beautiful but unmemorable; unrecognizable novelties. Unlike nebulae who have power in their name as well, cues only have a face. The only thing they are necessary for is to keep tightening the bolts of our merchandise-driven global juggernaut. Of course, among those who serve society in this way, cues do not use another word for those at the top. An attempt to feign equality among themselves.

Avonne Laeauxdeur though, she was special, a true phenomenon. The most exploited of them all. Avonne had been, and anomalously still was, a top nebula for Democracity. In her mortal life, unbeknown to most, she was a short extension of her mother’s dynasty; yet her five-year run is considered a fairly long career for our quick-consuming, disposable marketplace. Avonne had been, and still very much was, the perfect cue to buy our manufactured goods. She continues to be pulled onto the covers of all gossip magazines annually, touted as the eternal nebula. The ultimate illusory distraction. Avonne’s longevity (although I could never be sure of this claim) was rumored to be perpetuated, like shrapnel from an exploded blue supergiant star, by Prisley Morus - ex-nebula, Democracity tastemaker and mogul... and Avonne’s mother.

Avonne’s fame has remained - in effigy - our top seller. Perhaps her look was universal, or it was conjured, nostalgic, post-mortem fanaticism. Everyone loves a tragedy. Either way, her image always worked. Lagging sales? Slap her on it. Avonne’s image transferred, like magic, to any medium and to any product.

Avonne’s nebulous image could not steal my thoughts for much longer. Noticing her billboard’s tattered perimeter blowing in the wind like hair wisps, my eyes began to refocus on reality. Unlike in the populace, Avonne did not create subliminal consumeristic desires in me. Perhaps due to something we shared in common that I sometimes wished I could forget.

The office alarm went off, a soothing chime, assisting my mind to refocus attention on my workspace. The alarm is a requirement on all sub-executive floors as a reminder to take time for well-being. It is also a reminder for those who are not salaried that you will not be paid if you work during lunch. You have been warned.

I decided to stay. My decision did not affect my pay, and I would never sue over a lack of well-being reminder since I wanted to move up the ranks. Plus I hadn’t achieved much that morning anyway.

As the chime faded, it initiated memories of my morning car ride. My eyes drifted to the window again, and the beats in my head from the Marty Mix now a soundtrack for the movement of the clouds. With great ease I surrendered to its silent serenade, a seduction of senses. Visuo-audio-tactioception. Overtaken, I quickly discovered that if I closed my eyes and listened intently to the music, I was back at that splendorous, wonderland-like rave.

BEAT: Mind Mydriasis

And so, life that week would be like the continuation of a trip.

The first two days, it was almost frightening how much easier it was to relinquish myself to the river of music-induced memories. To allow my mind, which had turned into a glittery inner-tube, to journey down that river of positivity. The river cleansed the negativity I had been harboring over a promotional loss, broke down boulders of current self-imposed responsibilities, and polished them to pebbles of melodic boredom.

Under the influence of this flow state, I indulged it. I listened to the mind-altering electronic music more than I should have, in terms of work productivity and previously set goals. Every morning I listened in the car and, like a fresh flood of rain, it would keep my river moving strongly throughout the day. So, picking up the phone to execute a cue-space sale or planning the new campaign for @mazon Burger seemed somehow washed away in this new flow.

Worry found its way to the banks of my river but would drown in its attempt to tackle my inner-tubal fantasy. Eventually, Worry got smart and had other worries join at the shore to form a choir of harassment. They won, in that their unwelcome, despondent incantations were louder if I closed my eyes. I only had so much time before my productivity would be measurably affected. But somehow Worry and Care did not necessarily co-exist as they once had for me. Something else had awakened and moved in me, the desire to revisit the rave experience, and it would not wane.

It dwelled within me, a powerful force transferring from my body, through my hands, into the hardware, like a phantasmal image burning through the screen of my computer. Commanding presence. As I stared into the screen attempting typing of any sort, it stared back at me, confronting me. What am I doing at work? That previously unthinkable question made me shift in my office chair. I should be dancing. And so I moved.

Behaving like a free-spirited child, I would rise from my desk, prancing on my toes until I could place my fingertips upon the glass of the window, to watch clouds once again. Real ones. Not the grand Avonne-clouds I could conjure from my office of Oz. What if someone walks in on me? I would claim market research for billboard inspiration and continue to look out the window. Inside, my deepest desire was a return to the rave.

Tap tap tap. Tapping on the window longing to be that me I once knew. That playful little girl I rediscovered at the rave. That girl filled with joy, love, and a zesty lust for life. Effervescently alive under my skin.

Can I swap my business suit for my raver racer-suit I donned that night? That suit; outfitted with checkers of a new game, the catapult into a new dimension - a dreamworld stitched together by sound-induced, popping, coral-reef-like, technicolor wonder. At that rave, it was as if one cell from each and every one of those tens of thousands of people had jumped into my body, infusing my being and re-forming me on the dance floor. Gone from that new-bodied experience, I began to feel like a desiccated, molted skin of the full being-ness I had achieved; wanting to abdicate myself completely from my staff.

To a certain extent, this all seemed crazy. What is my issue? Was it being away from the rave, or was it the heaviness that settled in me because I did not receive my last - and quite coveted - promotion?

I had been devastated when I’d found out. I had been called up to the CEO’s office, the floor below his mythical corporate penthouse. It was hard to see him through the flaunting smoke cloud of what I imagined was a fine, imported cigar.

Jacqueline thank you for your contributions but we have decided to take Victor on this round, Bernay Koch’s intonation pushed through from behind the smoke.

A rage I did not know I possessed surged through me. To avoid losing my job altogether, I had to contain it in silence and a spurious smile as I politely managed a thank you through my teeth to the bearer of bad news. Contribution? Like I’m just some cue!

An echoey vociferation erupted in my mind, breaking open the cage of a wild, cymbal-clapping monkey. It paraded in my mind with bulging eyes and an incessant, self-deprecating clamor. An absolutely intolerable raucous - the monkey forced me to the bar of @mazon Burger by noon to sedate it with a top-shelf martini. Alcohol did calm the monkey but did not make me any less aware of the designer adornments embellishing the faces and feet of of my fellow gastropub patronizers. Status-defining limited edition sunglasses, stilettos, and men’s work shoes made from the skin of the animal we feasted our desire for meat on; all unbearable reminders of why I should have been picked for the new executive opening.

The promotion would have raised me to an entirely new level: literally, I would have moved upstairs. A junior VP to a senior VP, a true Executive - I had earned it. Clearly everyone in this damned restaurant would agree. I had put a vast amount of work into the company since I graduated from university a few years back. The designer merchandise on-site up-sell at @mazon Burger had been a pioneering idea, and of my crafting. Sleek, slim-line online shopping consoles had been installed at every seat so you could conveniently and easily explore a world of merchandise only available for purchase while dining. We worked with every top designer, such as Pedigree and Oligarch, to create a special line all under the auspice of a new trend and intellectual property we called @mazonian Exotic. This idea catapulted me from an entry-level position up the corporate ladder, and decorated me with accolades. I stood out. Young, blonde, ambitious, award-winning. Unlike my associate who was merely young, and related to the Koch Owner-Tycoon.

Monkey had screeched and slammed the cymbals together at every unpleasant realization - Of course he would have been promoted before me. Clang! He was family. Screech! He was a man. Slam! Being taken over by rabid monkey-mind was an oppressive burden I wished never to repeat.

But to think that officially I was to refer to my promoted colleague anytime I saw him as Executive made me shudder. It would never happen, not unless I decided to tease him. At least, foreseeable situations where it would truly be expected of me would be few. There were not many gatherings between junior and senior VPs. No one would really ever take notice. And if they did? Let my defiance be noted.

Victor…. Victor Koch. He had been my boyfriend and not a good one. I had more respect for myself than to watch his constantly wandering eyes when we were out together and he apparently thought I was not paying attention. As a Koch, he had ushered me in the door with his family company after we graduated. I would always be grateful to him for that, so being forced to work with him every day after we parted ways was actually not so bad. His womanizing was painful at first; then, over time, humorous, and then slightly pitiful. Mostly for the women. Swooning over his freckles they knew he acquired from weekend sailing trips, primping accordingly, expecting an invite, unaware they were on a year-long wait list. Unlike those girls, he annoyed me, and deep down I knew he needed me. His ideas, for our type of work, were often … less than lackluster.

Rationally, and in retrospect, the promotion would have been an early bonus. I had always liked my job. I was proud of my achievements and stature thus far. Although it was not the ultimate success that I desired.

My idea of success was perhaps a few scales higher than that of the normal Consumerican who wanted a nice house, nice car, and disposable income for a worry-free existence. Yes, I am embarrassed to admit I wanted to be almost disgustingly wealthy like the Kochs. As a proud member of the self-appointed intelligentsia, my idea of the climax of success was this: a lifestyle of private jets, yachts, and exotic places. On the deepest level, I believe that is the coveted Consumerican Dream. That you could one day be a king - a dream I found myself actively playing a part in and one I was, fortunately, paid to perpetuate.

Although still young, I knew the window on a future position could close soon. If someone didn’t retire before I was thirty, my window might close forever, because I wanted that lifestyle while I was still beautiful. Unlike Victor’s revolving entourage, my preference had been not to have these things handed over to me by a man. My queendom would be earned by my own brilliance, sense of purpose, and self worth. Unlike Victor, I was not family and was not born into privilege.

Wait, do I really think all of that? Those had been my thoughts and goals. Suddenly they seemed somewhat silly… or juvenile? I seemed to be witnessing them reduce to sparkling sediment upon the alluvial banks of rave memory river. My job had provided the color to my existence. Now, the saturated color of the rave made my job appear greyscale.

I mused on how one experience could tether my spirit so quickly that, severed from it, I felt lost, floating away as I stared in retrospect at the origin of my newfound joy: the music, dancing, and feeling of connection among so many people. Enjoying the ride, but ultimately in search to get back to the source.

Something was different. Pre-rave I might have even established as wrong. Most of my mornings would start out with the news on; in the background, like informative elevator music. Once a calm start, it now assaulted my nerves. Every time I turned it on. So I would turn it off. Making me, that week, perhaps completely out of tune. Why do I need to hear about how poor people are leeches to society? The negativity siphoned productive energy from my heart. Turning off the news, in whatever format it was being broadcast, felt somehow as if I were protecting myself - and oddly empowering.

I didn’t know what was going on. I would hold my palms up in front of my eyes to examine them. There is a form of existence more colorful than this. But I could not see the source of the filter, so I