Autocratic Forcefeed- Wait to Die (2005)

This track was originally be released on a compilation on the Forcefieldsforever label run by Simon Thrasher. To my knowledge, it was never released. It also had a short story that was to be released in a companion book of prose, along with the release. The entire compilation was music inspired by or otherwise about dreams.

Piece inspired by dream in which an abstract and omnipresent spirit guides us through a house with impossible dimensions where the dim lights and coagulated air obscure our vision. The house unfolds into secret passageways and hidden architectural fronts. A Narrator goads us with small clues leading us to each subsequent destination. In the various rooms, we learn a moralistic lesson or are exposed to what is just beyond our eyes. We are guided not necessarily by faith, but by the immutably human need to go further, to discover, to find out where this is going.

When we arrive, the world beyond the entrance explodes in a dazzling array of deceptively golden light. We are still within the house, but the dilapidated walls and rotted wood have transformed into heavily fortified, polished, and painted enclosings, not unlike the interior walls of a museum corridor. We pass by fine art and elegant furniture and the signs of opulence bemuse and delight my fellow travelers, though I remain skeptical of the journey.

The general consensus is that this is heaven and my fellow travelers are quick to jump to this conclusion. Certainly, the spirits moving through us have made our journey seem cataclysmic, but I refuse to let my anticipation give way to rash conclusions. I wait for the evidence to pile in.

We encounter a number of ghosts, who inform us that our suspension of disbelief thus far has served us well, but in order to go even further we will have to kill someone. Someone whose name starts with a K. Kerrigan, possibly?

“Why do we have to kill Kerrigan?” I ask.

“Because we miss the old bastard.” One ghost says, laughing lightheartedly.

“Man, I haven’t seen Kerrigan in forever,” another exclaims.

I wonder why Kerrigan hasn’t joined them in the afterlife yet. After all, though he may not be dead yet in our reality, surely the afterlife does not operate in the same temporal plane of existence as us mortals. I ask the ghosts if this means that Time as a measurement still exists and haunts us after we die. Are we are still bound by the same relativistic chains that constrict us on this mortal coil after we’ve superceded our fleshy shells, I wonder?

The ghosts become confused and appear almost contemptuous of any philosophical inquiry or intellectual debate. It is at this point that I feel like I may have been manipulated. I feel like I might be being led into a trap. Why would I be required to kill in order to get into heaven? Why would enlightened sentient creatures forbid human ponderance, even riddled as it were with the limitations of man’s imagination?

I say nothing further and we proceed.

We continue through the museum corridors into larger spaces, no less cultured or elegant, and begin to see other bodies. Human bodies. Animated, lively, happy, interacting with one another. The faces are flawlessly jubilant. The décor is astounding. The air is fresher. Stepping back into the world of humanity comforts any ills begotten by the frightening memories of what had just transpired. Our final room is a gigantic spherical ballroom with a sunroof and a 360 degree perimeter of windows overlooking a thriving city. The doors to the outside world are open and a gust of wind from the bustling metropolis sails in as we adjust to the warm ambience.

In the ballroom and on the adjacent deck, people are dining, discussing, and dancing, each looking fanciful and dapper.

“Oh my God. This IS heaven!” Chris, who is still dressed in civilian clothes like the rest of us, says.

I begin to believe him as I bask in the spectacle of harmonious being that surrounds us. I overlook the fact that none of these cheerful faces seem to have noticed us, until one starts walking towards us. It is Professor Hanley, whom I instantly recognize as our narrator.

“Sorry for all the spooky stuff back there,” he says.

He explains to us how we will soon see why it was necessary and leads us to a table outside of the ballroom in the crisp, spring air. The travelers and I are slightly perturbed by Hanley’s presence, but follow him anyway. Well, all of us are pertubed except Chris, who, before we could sit down literally grabbed Hanley and proclaimed:
“I don’t ever want to leave. I just can’t wait to die!”

Hanley calms him down and starts to fumble through his justification over the murder of Kerrigan. I begin to lose faith quickly, but Chris is hanging by his every word.

As Hanley stutters, I go along with it, helping him by mentioning Kierkegaard’s theory on the teleological suspension of the ethical. He incorporates my point into his argument and my attention wanders to the tables next to me. Their conversations are too faint to make out and I begin to wonder if they are real. They move with such ease, but are so impenetrable, like a life-size game of The Sims.
I hone in on one couple, watching as they move their lips, play with the umbrellas in their martini glasses, and cross their legs in stereotypical sexual anxiety. The gentleman’s whispers slow down and I drown out everything but his voice. He moves his lips meticulously and precise so that I can make out what he says next, which I am completely unprepared for.

“Please. Get me out of here.”