extant memes leading out of a point

And now? find the third way...

The key is in the meta data.

Geronimo!
Whoo-hoo-hoo!
Ha-ha!
Ha! Crashing!
I'm...
And something else,
something important, I'm, I'm...
No! No... I'm not a girl.
And still not ginger!
I'm a girl!
Hair...
Nose, I've had worse. Chin, blimey.
Ears, yes. Eyes, two.
Hands. Ooh, fingers, lots of fingers.
Arms.
Legs. I've still got legs, good.
I don't want to go.
Yeah?
See ya.
We will sing to you, Doctor.
The universe will sing you
to your sleep.
This song is ending.
But the story never ends.

"A three-fold portal through time," sighed my cat, "if you can see it the right way."

"Other dimensions must be really small," mimiced my other cat sarcastically."

"well they have been shown to be," sighed my cat, "big enough to drive a bus through."

"only nobody chooses to look," sighed I.

"I think my sister has a couple of cans of Omega," admitted my cat. "Should keep us in tuna for a couple of more cycles."

"I am a time lord," I sighed as I shook my head, "I'm also a wizard!"

"''", said my cat.

my thoughts exactly

±well, not exactly.

+wonderful

-wtf

$!

WTF

"Tell me," asked my cat, "what happened."

"I fell into a wormhole," I replied with confusion. "Then things got unswirly."

"Unswirly," said my cat, "would sound like a good thing."

"Perhaps," I nodded. "But the theme of the unswirly is troubling."

"Meta context," muttered my other cat.

"An odd dream," I recalled, "not that I recall much of it. Just enough to remember slapping the doorman on the chest as I walked through the door and told my father I was about to detonate a trinity bomb."

"Trinity," asked my cat looking up.

"Word sort," I smiled, "not the Enriched Uranium sort."

"In your hands," muttered my other cat, "both have the ability to go nuclear."

"In a way something leaked from my dream and it did," I sighed. "I woke with my mind in limbo. Memories of the dream fading. Then a voice asked me to identify the symbol I was currently working on. Which oddly enough happened to stuck too the wall right by my hand. Then I kinda forgot myself for a bit."

"I think it's safe to say," said my cat, "the symbol went on to explain itself."

"It did," I admitted. "But when the explination involves following the four horsemen out of the bible it's hard to reconcile with being awake."

"Problem," purred my other cat.

"Other than not being sure," I said with a puzzled frown, "how I got there."

"You were checking names," replied my cat.

"The names I found," I admitted, "were the right ones."

"Though not" said my other cat, "any one would classically associate with the horsemen."

"There are three workable definitions," announced my cat, "which constitute an acceptible definition of schizophrenia."

"All three of them apply," said my other cat, "to at least two of your personalities."

"I'm at a loss," I sighed, "how you expect me to reconcile that."

"All of your base," grinned my other cat, "are belong to us."

"I'm not sure I get the reference," said my cat, "but the meaning is clear."

"I get the reference," I admitted, "but the meaning is somewhat occluded."

"Entities," purred my cat, "relationship, and meaning."

"Entities," I muttered in obvious confusion.

"Twelve plus one," announced my cat, "is eleven plus two."

"Yes," I nodded. "Thirteen."

"Eleven minus two," annouced my other cat, "is twelve minus one."

"That makes no sense," I frowned. "Nine does not equal eleven."

"I think you'll find," said my other cat, "that it is does."

"Once you know," said my cat, "the meaning is clear."

"Nope," I admitted finally, "I don't understand."

"One plus," began my other cat.

"Six hundred," continued my cat, "and sixty-six"

"Equals ten," said the other.

"Beast," I muttered as enlightenment dawned.

"The point is," said my cat, "there are things which should never be allowed to mix openly."

"Nothing is what it seems," added my other cat as she sensed my confusion.

"Becasue," I began. Then my voice stalled. "Hmm."

"See," said my cat.

"Translate the entity relationship," said my cat, "and you begin to see."

"One of you," I sighed, "is inverted in relation to the other."

"Relative to what," asked my cat.

"I'm not sure how to explain," I admitted. "To be honest I suspect you're using it to teach me about the nature of time."

"It's more to do with the nature of mind," announced my cat.

"It's as if," I conceeded, "I already have the answer."

"You do," said my cat.

"Do I," I asked in suprise.

"It's just," said my cat, "it's written in a language you can only translate to, not from."

"Oh," replied with mild suprise.

"So when," added my other cat, "an assertion is made with regards to a specific issue a little voice at the back of your mind runs a binding verification function."

"In which case," I began hesitantly, "if an assertion is true then I'm inclined to be largely indifferent."

"Indeed," said my cat, "what's wrong with that."

"On the surface," I replied, "nothing."

"Except," promted my cat.

"Except," I admitted, "assertions that are not true resonate long after their time."

"There are other reasons," my cat said with reassuring tone, "why things resonate but on the whole you're right on the mark."

"So what," asked my other cat, "brings this issue to the foreground."

"There's a little voice," I admitted after a short pause, "cast back in time that's still objecting to something a priest said when trying to make a point about the actions of god with regards to humanity."

"And the problem," asked my cat, "with that."

"He was wrong," I admitted.

"How do you know this," asked my cat.

"I am just," I admitted, "as confused on how to answer that as you."

"Well I'm not confused" announced my other cat exhibiting the full arrogance of her species. "I already know the answer."

"Care to share," I asked.

"No," said my other cat, "in time the information will find it's way into your mind that will allow you to find your the answer yourself."

"I would imagine it's an idea," grinned my cat, "not of it's time."

"Partly," replied my other cat. "But in truth it's something that's best left until you've overcome the concequences of a lifetime of abuse."

"Abuse," I frowned.

"You've been abused all your life," asserted my other cat. "It's only now you begin to acknowledge the affect."

"And in that statement," annouced my cat, "we begin to see the names of the guilty."

"It's more than a little unpleasant," I sighed as I began to see the picture my cats were painting.

"They've made their choices," replied my other cat. "There is no requirement for you to accept those choices as your own."

"And yet in this world," I sighed, "there are benefits to be found in forcing others to believe as you do." For a moment I fell silent as I contemplated the possible hypocrisy in my words.

"Oh please," said my cat as she looked inside my mind, "you never force anything."

"Don't I."

"No," asserted my other cat. "The truth points to itself so why the hell should you ever feel the need to force it."

"Becasue it conflicts," I suggested, "with the rationalizations and compromises with which individual humanity have encased their minds."

"You can't free a slave," asserted my cat, "a slave may only ever free themself."

"You taught us that," purred my cat.

"And oddly," smiled my other cat, "you happen to be right."

"Be that as it may," I sighed, "I can't see it helping me out of this rut."

"The only difference," began my cat, "between a rut and a grave..."

"...are the dimensions," finished the other.

"There you go again," I replied, "drawing the point before I've managed to satisfy my own curiosity on the matter."

"I wouldn't say that," said my other cat, "was strictly true."

"Perhaps," I conceeded. "I do however find it difficult to plot my own path when even a humerous remark starts to set the adgenda."

"Dimensions," said my cat, "are important."

"I realize this," I nodded, "I'm more concerned how it is that I happen to know time operates in nine dimensions."

"As you well know," said my cat, "when constructing a model of reality it's not until the ninth dimension that it's able to support a reference to time."

"Do I," I exclaimed in a somewhat mocking tone, "does it. Let's see..."

"Do not," said my other cat dryly, "begin by trying to count zero."

"Again," added my cat. "You'll only trap yourself," she continued, "in another box."

"In it's way," I admitted, "there's a certain amount of satisfaction to be derived from such boxes."

"Security," said my cat.

"Certainty," said the other.

"But truly," I sighed, "I know you're right. The certainty of a consensual hallucination and the security of delusion do not remain satisfying for long."

"I beg to differ," replied my other cat. "There are those to whom what you describe is eternally satisfying."

"I suspect," objected my cat, "that was a singular view and not a general point."

"True," I nodded.

"Now listen," said my cat.

"With which sense," I replied with a smile.

"All of them," replied my other cat.

"What do you see," asked my cat.

"Red," I replied.

"Dark light," asked my other cat.

"If it is," said my cat, "then you're looking in the wrong place."

"I think not," I objected.

"I believe," said my other cat, "I've just found the inversion we've been looking for."

"Wonderful," muttered my cat sarcastically.

"You have to admit," I sighed, "it's an answer."

"Not one" added my other cat, "which the world is likely to accept any time soon."

"We're more than a couple of years," replied my cat, "ahead of you on this one."

"Then very possibly," I added, "the world is ready."

"I think perhaps," my other cat replied, "you may be right."

Precursors Analysis

"So now what can I say," I asked my cat.

"Tell it how it is," replied my cat. "Perhaps you'll find someone willing to listen."

"It sounds like insanity," I sighed. "So the little voice of reason tells me you don't want to listen to what I say."

"I'll listen," said my cat.

"But you won't believe," I grumbled. "You'll talk about coincidence. And chance. And then offer rationalizations to make me doubt my own thoughts."

"Perhaps I do believe," said my cat, "deep down. But unlike you I can't live with conflicting visions of reality."

"I wouldn't say," I smiled, "I'm especially good at living with it."

"I don't know," purred my cat, "you seem to handle it well." She raised a paw and began to clean herself. "So what," her shadow asked, "has triggered this bout of angst."

"The Men in Black," I admitted, "are back."

"Seriously," prompted my cat.

"Well it could have been an elf," I smiled. "But seriously, I got stopped on the street by a missionary in a dark suit."

"I take it you don't consider," said my cat, "the faith being represented is important."

"All faith is important," I grumbled, "I simply don't wish to give the impression the weirdness I'm experiencing is related to any specific one."

"Oh, I see," said my cat. "And the weirdness," she asked.

"Started before I got to the street." I admitted. "My thoughts all got a bit swirly. I got lost trying to find my way back to a place I could be with my children. I was beginning to get to a point where I didn't think I could get outside."

"That's when I told you," smiled my cat, "you needed to get milk."

"I didn't think I could get even that far," I admitted. "It's as if a wall of energy was pushing me back. Seeking to keep me locked in my room."

"Yes," said my cat, "we deed seem rather highly-strung."

"But I'd made a decision," I continued, "I wasn't going to let my demons stop me. By the time I got to the door," I sighed, "whatever it was was knocking chunks of my past into my consciousness trying to make me aware of something."

"And the message," asked my cat.

"Seemed to have something to do," I sighed after a considered pause, "with The Book of Revelation."

"Hence the reaction," smiled my cat, "to the man in the street."

"Exactly," I admitted. "There were even some comments made about my having broken the first seal."

"I can see," said my cat, "how discussing this is difficult."

"Living it is just as hard," I sighed. "At one point I felt I was about to fold."

"You didn't," replied my cat.

"No," I smiled. "Just like always I locked on target and pushed through the wall of noises in my mind."

"Yet part of you," said my cat, "wanted to let it out."

"Certainly," I admitted. "And for a moment I began to believe I'd found a forum to express some of what's been plaguing me without fear that my words would be used to put me in yet another box."

"And why do you fear that," asked my cat.

"They are not the words," I admitted, "of a sane man."

"Why's that," asked my cat.

"Sane people," I sighed, "don't find themselves with a bunch of non-corporeal entities in their mind arguing who's who."

"To be fair," said my cat, "it is a matter of belief."

"Cutting to the core I can see beyond belief," I sighed. "But in that world there are no words that can be spoken. When I translate it back to this realm I hear what I say and it makes no sense."

"A when you're stopped in the street," asked my cat, "by somebody attempting to discuss Jesus."

"The list of names compresses," I conceded, "and I begin to see how it is Gabriel becomes Lucifer."

"Those who bring the light of change," said my cat, "are seldom welcome."

"I hear words," I admitted, "whispering a name in my mind."

"And what name would that be," asked my cat.

"Michael."

"So now you know," said my cat.

"So I'll translate it into another realm," I laughed, "and find my own way to live with it."

"Share," sighed my other cat...

Alice Through the Looking Glass

"At what level," asked my cat, "does reality begin to slide."

"Careful," grinned my other cat, "he's really a pirate."

"Teach me something," replied my cat, "I don't know."

"Domains of insight," I announced, "and complicity."

"That was not the wormhole you were looking for," announced my cat as I snapped back into the room a few minutes later.

"Perhaps the vampire I found earlier," I replied, "would be better."

"It would," said my cat. "Now tell me why."

"To be honest," I replied, "it's a meme-form designed to look through a quantum mirror. A thing that may observe without effect. No reflection you see."

"Vampire lore," muttered my other cat, "and Science Fiction. What ever next."

"It's a way of thinking," I replied. "A way to find order in Chaos. I saw something in a dream a while back that opened me to a different way of thinking."

"So tell me of the vampires," asked my cat, "from your dream."

"There were none," I admitted. "Well, by inference there must have been, but I didn't actually see them as vampires."

"What did you see," asked my cat.

"A fight," I replied. "The kind of bar-room brawl which involves destroying a lot of furniture. Not sure how it started. Though I kind of remember it had something to do with wearing the same hat as everyone else. Much of the imagery has faded. It's there when I dig, but that's not important here."

"And the important bit," prompted my cat.

"Looking in a mirror," I replied. "A fight raging all around and I looked in the mirror behind me. I could still see the furniture being destroyed. Tables breaking in half, that sort of thing. But there was nobody there."

"Just damage," said my cat. "Psychologically speaking," she added, "you're something of a mirror yourself"

"I know," I nodded, "I first noticed when I began exhibiting signs of a narcisistic personality disorder."

"How's that," replied my cat, "tell you anything."

"For two years I shared in an office," I admitted, "with an extremely loathsome person. When I started noticing I had begun to affect one or two of his personality traits I became concerned. It didn't take me long to find a diagnosis."

"I noticed it," said my cat, "the effect of your mirroring, the other day when that Policeman was questioning you, I noticed it. When your agressive response was preceeded by his I knew."

"Looking back," I muttered, "my motives there were somewhat complex." For a moment I placed my mind at the moment my cat had described. "I had an anxiety response prior to his becoming agressive. And in that I begin to see how objective attribution error becomes a certainty."

"Indeed," said my cat. "Your peculiar sensitivity makes you anxious. If an other adopts an aggressive posture, your anxiety spills over into that domain. In effect, the other opened the door to that place others find so objectionable. Poorly handled what you end-up with is a disproportionate response."

"So any objective opinion," I mused, "of the magnitute of my reaction would be assigned to agression when the fundamental causes remain unseen and un addressed."

"Indeed," said my cat, "even subjectively it's not something you are able to see easilly. Emotions cloud your thoughts and you loose insight, once that's happened you're oddly inclinded to accept any external interpretation of your actions. Your frustration has a habit of leaping domains too, but you're more aware of that and have learned to handle it better."

"Looking back to other times," I replied, "I was always being chastised for having an emotional response. The stress of frustration being described as shouting. Then having the shouting being equated to anger to loop the frustration back around."

"Loop it long enough," said my cat, "deny you the right to speak for sufficient time and it really is possible for another to trigger an outburst within you."

"For which I will be judged," I sighed, "and punished for."

"When really what you need," said my cat, "is help to deal with it. Because the role of the others in this can never be proved."

"No," I nodded, "it's also frustrating that I appear to be the only one who suffers from such censure. Still," I smiled, "forwarned is forearmed." I sighed as I realized the answer was almost within my grasp. "And the fear," I asked.

"Whatever it is," said my cat, "remains within you. You may have learned to manage it, to displace its effect. But when something makes anxious it has the capability to trigger a reaction so disproportionate you'd be better not having a reaction at all."

"And those who push me," I asked, "them who then tell me I live in a world where pushing is not allowed."

"Perhaps they should ask themselves," said my cat, "to what degree they are responsible for the behaviour they find so objectionable."

"Even getting close to this," I admitted, "even contemplating the relevant operators unlocks a core of something unpleasant."

"You know a lot more about this," said my cat, "than you are currently able to recall."

"I'm having problems," I admitted, "getting past specific instances. Right now I'm remembering a psychologist who spent an entire meeting highlighting how fear was the problem without once approaching an explination as to the causes or the solution."

"Or indeed," muttered my other cat, "answering any of your questions regarding the repeated use of the word 'fear'."

"Well I could simply be seeing a paranoid conspiracy," I smiled, "where none exists. But I did get the impression the point was to get me to dwell on fear. Make me afraid, perhaps."

"Conspiracy or not," said my cat, "it's been on your mind for weeks, so in that regard it worked."

"Not for much longer," said my other cat, "we've taken steps."

"Funny," I smiled as I put my sword away.

Mountains & Messiahs

"The others," said my cat, "appear to be catching up."

"This is your big chance," said my other cat, "everybody else is sleeping."

"I'm not sure," I said eventually, "what I'm supposed to say about that."

"I'm not sure," my cat replied, "you're supposed to say anything."

"Perhaps not," I admitted, "but I'm getting the distinct feeling I'm expected to say something. As if there's a piece of unresolved past that requires resolution."

"Are you certain," asked my cat.

"If I was certain," I replied, "I'd be doing it, not discussing my disquiet with you."

"It was just a dream," suggested my cat.

"That would be the easy way," I accepted, "to rationalize it. Yet the fact that it still plays on my mind suggests there's some deeper meaning."

"Deeper," asked my cat as she began to purr, "or higher."

For a moment I scratched my head and thought about her words. "It's odd," I admitted eventually, "it wasn't like other dreams. Actually it's not like a dream at all."

"What do you mean by that," queried my cat.

"Multiple overlapping realities," I muttered.

"You're distracted," said my cat.

"Certainly," I nodded, "I'm trying to work it out." I sighed. For a moment we sat there in silence. "Most dreams I've had," I began, "seem to follow an arc. No matter how surreal or disjointed there's an underlying thread which ties them together. Whatever I just experienced transitioned."

"What do you," asked my cat, "believe dreams actually are."

"Dreams are many things," I replied. "What you believe they are is usually what you'll find they are. So I like to keep an open mind and categorize them after the fact."

"Some say," said my cat, "dreams are nothing but the mind filing away memories. Memories with perhaps deeper entanglement than the norm requiring partial consciousness to categorize."

"Perhaps," I nodded, "there was an element of that sort of thing in several of the states I experienced. Although in that answer what I experience raises interesting questions regarding the way I compartmentalize parts of my consciousness."

"You also," said my cat, "have an ability to dream the future, and of the future."

"Indeed," I agreed, "but I'd have to say the colour was wrong for any of what I experienced to be classed as one of those sort. I certainly saw futures, but they were of the extrapolation sort. The Sci-Fi movies of my mind if you like, full of the symbolism my unconscious uses to communicate complex thought forms."

"And then there are those," continued my cat, "who say dreams are the true reality an what we describe as being awake is little more than a pale reflection of that reality."

"I suspect," I agreed, "it's this sort that's causing me a problem."

"Pourquoi," purred my cat as she jumped onto the sofa beside me.

"As my mind transitioned out of one dream realm," I admitted, "into another, I passed through a realm I would have to say existed outside my mind."

"Outside," queried my cat.

"Certainly," I nodded, "all the other dreamy stuff has a degree of relected internalness about it. This had a feeling of externally about it."

"And what did you see," prompted my cat.

"I can't say I saw much at all," I admitted, "other than a brief representation of what one would classically describe as being heaven. It's what my other senses perceived that's interesting."

"Perceived," queried my cat.

"Indeed," I agreed, "a sense of two individual presences, of watchers who had been tuned into my previous dream discussing what had just been dreamed."

"And what," asked my cat, "did they say."

"'We can certainly use this.'"

"Do you begin," said my cat, "to get the impression that there are beings of a higher order infringing your intellectual property."

"I do," I nodded.

"Good," said my cat, "perhaps now such beings will be willing to deal with you as an equal, and not simply as a resource which may be exploited."

"What do you mean by that," I asked.

"Has it not crossed your mind," said my cat, "that what you just experienced is what has always been, and it's your mind's previous inability to to lay down long term memory whilst dreaming which allows them to hide what they have been taking behind the last dream you had before waking."

"Certainly," I agreed, "and in it's way it explains why so much of what I would regard as fiction resonates so strongly."

"I don't think it would have mattered," said my cat, "if this world of yours had not tried to class what you've been trying to describe as 'ideas of reference'."

"Why's that," I asked.

"When unfairly judged," said my cat, "you will quite literally move heaven and hell to prove a point."

"So just what," I asked, "are you trying to say."

"That you have," grinned my other cat, "just moved heaven and hell."

Ad Astra

"Do you not think it's odd," I asked my cat one afternoon, "that there's a repeating threeness underpinning our discussions."

"Certainly," said my cat, "I don't think it's odd." She jumped up on the sofa next to me with an air of satisfied happiness. "There's a connection and a reason." She began to lick her paw, "if you look at it the right way you'll begin see it won't be long now before the threads resolve and the point is made."

"Really," I said with mild exasperation.

"Really," asserted my cat.

"As a matter of fact," I admitted in a more conciliatory tone, "I have noticed that at times of stress my personality does fragment. There's a degree of uncertainty, but it does appear to factor out into three. It's especially noticeable in my writing."

"It's worse than that," said my cat, "the fragmentation goes a lot deeper and at such times you're effectively dumb even though you still retain the ability to speak. It's not until you've managed to disengage from the situation and you're able to begin coalescing that you regain the ability to express yourself. Stepping down to three is merely your way to draw benefit from the experience. To break the cycle and to heal yourself without returning to the dysfunctional patterns which lead to and exacerbated the original problem."

"What," I said with mild astonishment.

"Consider," said my cat, "it takes a rare degree of insight to detach from a singular view and accept that what is being said and how it is being said are not necessarily in alignment. It is in accepting such division is possible that you allow yourself to see beyond the now and begin to expose the fundamentals of another's thought."

"So in a sense," I ventured, "if one considers the spoken word, the meaning of the words and the emotive attitudes conveyed cannot be assumed to have a connection."

"Certainly," said my cat, "we've already been through this."

"There's also," I pondered, "the issue of sub-text.

"Precisely," said my cat, "as I said, the fundamentals of another's thought."

"Yet," I queried, "what's this got to do with my threeness thing."

"It's your fairness principle," said my cat. "You insist on applying patterns identified in others to yourself and patterns identified in yourself to others. It's only when you're confident that what you're saying applies to both parties that you are willing to express it."

"So what are you saying."

"That the pattern of three is pretty much universal," said my cat, "and you know it."

"And."

"And now you really should find a way to tell somebody."

With thanks to the rabbits.

"It's my past," I said eventually, "things put into my mind that have me wishing I could gouge my eyes out."

"I wouldn't," said my cat, "recommend it."

"Be serious," I replied, "it's a troubling thought, something that takes time to resolve, not something I ever want to do."

"I see," said my cat with a look of wry amusement.

"No," I replied, "I'm not certain you can. You can appreciate what I'm saying, but I don't think you can truly see."

"No," said my cat, "I'm afraid I can see, and in a very real sense I understand what it is you face. It's such a shame that those who assist you are incapable of seeing beyond your words to sense the spirit beneath them."

"What," I asked with a puzzled expression, "do you mean by that."

"They beat upon you," said my cat, "because of what you say. Judging their success by your silence. Never realizing you're as troubled by your words as they are. Seriously, they lack empathy to a degree that Eliza would be better at their jobs."

For a moment I laughed quietly to myself.

"What," asked my cat, "is suddenly so amusing."

"I've just been handed an exception," I grinned, "one that proves the rule and yet is unbound by it. Yet on the whole I begin to see the truth of it."

Biting the heads off snakes

"Humour me," replied my cat.

"In that case," I replied, "yes, I've always heard voices." I paused and sighed, "although even a simple statement such as that suffers from a language issue."

"I can sense," said my cat, "the confusion within as you try to resolve it."

"It's the word 'heard'," I continued, "I play a piece of music and what I hear corresponds to the time-space-place of the room the speakers are in, put on a pair of headphones and what I hear corresponds to the time-space-place that can best be described as inside my head."

"So I take it the voices are different," asked my cat.

"Indeed," I answered, "they share the same time-space-place as the voice of my thoughts, the place I hear the words when I'm reading a book."

"I imagine that's confusing."

"Certainly," I agreed, "sometimes the voices do voices, sound like others, and in its way that better. Because when they don't I'm left in a place where I'm never entirely certain my thoughts are my own." I paused to consider my past interpretations, "once I imagined this was simply me talking to myself; advocate and devil’s advocate." I looked down at my cat. "Then the voices began telling me things I couldn't possibly know."

"Such as," queried my cat.

"For the moment that's largely unimportant. Because those voices could be said to correspond to wearing a pair of headphones, are considered to be inside my head as it were." For a moment I paused to consider the evidence of my senses. "But there's also a voice that come from elsewhere, outside my head, but not in the room."

"A voice," queried my clearly confused cat, "singular."

"Singular," I replied. "I couldn't claim it's always the same voice, but when it's there it's direct, focused, singular." I thought about it some more, "I get the impression this voice wants to say more. Yet others are blocking it. A blockage which translates to a pressure inside my skull. But when I'm relaxed, or drifting between sleep and wakefulness, I can hear it for a few seconds."

"Seconds," queried my cat.

"Yes," I agreed, "seconds. For something wakes and blocks it."

"I would imagine," said my cat, "that would make what it says largely inintelliagable."

"Not really," I shaking my head. "Whatever it is it's not stupid, so it usually manages to punch through something worthwhile, and unlike the voices inside my mind the tone and intonation are remarkably expressive."

"Any recent examples," purred my cat, "which you'd like to share."

"Certainly," I replied, "'Oh, Christ!', it said, 'You've got a confessor.'"

"And the tone," asked my cat.

"Good for me," I smiled, "bad for them."

"Good for me too," purred my cat as she rested her head on my lap. "Now, human," she said with feline charm, "tell me how beautiful I am whilst I allow you to stroke me."

Taking the Michael?

"Have you ever seen an angel," asked my cat suddenly one evening.

"Setting aside the metaphysical baggage," I replied, "that's usually associated with such entities, yes, I suppose I’d not be wrong claiming to have seen an angel."

"Care to elucidate," said my cat.

"Well," I continued, "it was certainly a being of light. Although the light I'm talking of is akin to the after-image associate with staring at a bright light then putting your hands over your eyes."

"Were your eyes closed then," asked my cat.

"Certainly," I nodded, "but prior to that the room was dimply lit and I'd only been staring at something in my mind."

"And you saw an angel."

"Well," I admitted, "it looked somewhat similar to the classical representation of an angel, yes." For a moment I paused to pull the memories out of the back of my mind. "To be fair it looked like something else too, but if you think of an uneducated child anthropomorphizing an unfamiliar image then an angel is what they'd probably interpret it as."

"So what else did it look like," asked my cat.

"The symbol," I replied, "that is used to represent radioactivity. To be honest it scared me quite badly."

"Why," asked my cat with concern.

"I'd been banging various thoughts together in my mind," I admitted finally, "when something exploded and showed me something I'm not exactly certain I was ever ment to see. The kind of thing that calls into question all that I'd regarded as previously being true."

"Other people's secrets," muttered my cat.

For a moment I was speechless. "Indeed," I said, "from that moment I knew things could never be the same again."

"You're not wrong," said my cat. "Care to enlighten me as to what you were banging at the time."

"First there was," I replied hesitantly, "the trinity thing."

"Trinity," asked my cat, "as in the atom bomb."

"No," I corrected, "trinity as in the religious dogma and how I'd found a way relate it to another dogma that's built around pentagrams."

"Pentagrams and trinity," muttered my cat with interest.

"Indeed," I continued, "more specifically how they both link to the not inconsiderable body of knowledge I've built up on the subject of mind."

"Hmm," said my cat, "sounds promising."

"Then there was an odd things going on," I continued, "involving non-dualistic continua that I'd just managed to resolve."

"Mind bending stuff," grinned my cat.

"Also there was a strange thread that involved string theory," I said with a smile, "and the predicted aim of a rather large and expensive experiment some physicists were about due to finish building."

"Taken together," said my cat, "it sounds like an awfully holistic viewpoint."

"Indeed," I agreed. "If I had to pinpoint the moment I became aware of the tear in space-time leaking into my mind to which you alluded the other day, this would have to be it."

"Sod that," said my cat, "I'm beginning to get the feeling you've got a naked singularity in there."

"Hmmm," I replied sounding somewhat unconvinced, "not exactly the sort of thing one can get medical attention for."

"No," said my cat, "it's something we'll have to resolve together."

.

"The thing is," I muzed later, "about the angel," I added in response to my cat's puzzled expression, "is that another of my senses could see through it."

"It's an archangel," said my cat. "So come on, describe it."

"A tiny tear in the fabric of reality," I agreed, "a hole in the whole, you could say. Reality was spewing from a different verse and the nature of the whole factored the wibbly-wobbly-fuzzy-stuff into the pattern I saw."

"I once saw the early design schematics," said my cat, "for a device designed to travel through time. What you've been describing sounds dreadfuly familiar."

"That's interesting," I said. "The other thing of interest is I could perceive the nature of the substrate."

"That is," said my cat, "theoretically impossible."

"The thing about the impossible," I countered, "is that it it's only impossible until it's not."

"True," said my cat.

"Change the nature of things," I added, "and things change."

"I'm not saying you're wrong," said my cat, "but have you considered your testament is somewhat incomplete."

"Of course it's incomplete," I agreed. "It's only by exploring the intermediate model with you that I'm able to evolve it to a higher form."

"You," my cat informed me, "are what we call an outsider. By the nature of existence inside you should not exist."

"Can we agree," I asked my cat, "that we both exist."

"Oh," purred my cat, "indeed we can."

"In which case," I said with all seriousness, "we have a problem."

"No," said my cat, "when you're able to see this in the correct way, you'll see perfectly clearly that it's somebody elses problem."

"That's funny and frightening," I sighed, "in equal measure."

"Certainly," said my cat. "Now, will you please let us help you."

all change

"Cockroach," I mumbled late one afternoon.

"I thought we agreed," said my cat, "never to mention that particular aspect of the concord."

"Indeed," I agreed, "although the synchronicity on this one has gotten a bit strong."

"In that case," said my cat, "you better explain."

"Well firstly," I began, "last night I had a dream that included a cockroach."

"Some would describe that," suggested my cat, "as a nightmare."

"Certainly not," I asserted, "there's a show that's a favourite of mine that uses a cockroach as a sort of on screen visual signature for one of the main characters. It was a bit freaky at first, bugs tend to catch you like that, but after a brief discussion we both got over it."

"Great," said my cat. "Cockroaches joining equity," she muttered under her breath, "what next."

"Anyhow," I continued, "when I woke this morning I was considering the cockroach and began to remember the relationship to this tv-show. Without much thought I grabbed an inside-out t-shirt at random from my pile of inside-out t-shirts and was in no way surprised when I'd slipped into it that it proved to be one that professes my allegiance to that show. It's an item that also has a bit of a prior dream history so the odd effect was magnified somewhat."

"Dream history," asked my cat with casual disinterest. She began licking her paw and for a brief moment she flicked a look of casual amusement at me.

"I must have been over a year ago now," I admitted. "I had a dream which was no more or less strange than any other dream, but in this dream I was wandering around an unfamiliar shop full of books and the kinds of games and action figures favoured by a generation of youngsters. After tripping through the dreamscape for what seemed like an eternity I found some clothing and helped myself to a change in attire."

"I'd imagine," said my cat, "you're going to tell me it was a future vision."

"Indeed," I agreed, "a day or so later, after the dream had slipped out of my current stack, I found myself in a shop that sold comic books and action figures." I smiled, "precisely the sort of shop which my inner child gets a kick out of. I'd known of this shop's existence, but this was the first time I'd managed to find it."

"And the t-shirt," queried my cat.

"I unexpectedly found a rack of them," I admitted, "all had varying designs on the front, and finding one which reminded me of a favoured show had me happily bouncing over to the counter to purchase it. At the very moment I passed over my money I had a vivid recollection of this dream."

"Of interest," said my cat, "but not that interesting."

"Perhaps not," I continued, "but a couple of months later one of the supporting characters in this particular show was revealed as possessing the ability to have future visions in her dreams."

"Okay," said my cat, "now that is odd."

"Indeed," I nodded. "Anyhow so far all this relates to the casual weirdness of this morning I simply classed it as nothing special in so much as most of my life these days is casually weird and got on with things. Only after not hearing of cockroaches publicly for months several people today have mentioned them. Of course there's the classic 'need Dalek' reference, but the other reminded me of you."

"Need Dalek," queried my cat with obvious confusion.

"Exterminate."

"Oh," she smiled, "and the one that reminded you of me."

"Somebody related to me the story," I smiled, "of a cockroach who wrote poetry whose best friend was a cat."

"That sounds," purred my cat, "rather delightful."

"Yes," I agreed, "I thought so too. I especially liked the description of how this cockroach typed in lowercase because it couldn't jump on shift and the letter keys to produce capitals."

"All lower case," muttered my cat, "sounds like the stuff you've been known churn out when your personality gets especially fragmented."

"True," I agreed. "Although after a bit of reflection the related oddness doesn't end there."

"Go on," encouraged my cat.

"Well I got caught in a conversation," I continued, "where another made a reference to the statement that 'god is dead' some philosopher had uttered years before."

"Indeed," said my cat, "the philosopher in question was alluding to the fact that god was no longer considered a viable source of perceived wisdom, that it was a concept people had stopped believing in to the extent that god was no longer credited as appearing in dreams."

"Precisely," I agreed, "what's funny here is that in the very first episode of the tv-show that I'm currently advertising on my chest one of the characters presented the argument that god is a cockroach."

"I think," said my other cat, "God is trying to tell you something."

By the sight of other days

"I saw it once," I commented to my cat one morning, "intersecting universes dividing."

"Saw," asked my cat, "or experienced."

"Saw," I asserted, "I've experienced it many times. To be fair I've probably seen it a few times too. But there was this one time which removed all doubt."

"Care to describe it," asked my cat.

"Certainly," I agreed. "Late one night I was sitting on the floor of my kitchen. I was attempting to meditate away the stress that was driving me to destruction."

"Did you succeed," queried my cat.

"I think I did," I replied after a moment's consideration. "I had a book infront of me, the cover of which was blue and red, two broad vertical stripes of colour dominating the front."

"Blue: friendly," suggested my cat, "red: hostile."

"Indeed," I agreed. "So, as I was sitting there meditating I would use the front of this book to tag my thoughts."

"Clever," said my cat.

"At first I had to think about each thought the pick the correct colour," I continued, "but after about ten minutes I got my mind to the point where my mind and my eye synchronised. Think thought, see colour that sort of thing"

"Were you mindful," asked my cat, "of both your eyes and your thoughts."

"Indeed," I agreed, "it was a kind of hyper-awareness, very similar to the zone I ride whilst hacking."

"Cool," said my cat.

"Indeed," I grinned. "In a way if I hadn't been high in the zone I'd have stopped when it pushed beyond the credable."

"Beyond the credible," queried my cat.

"Yes," I asserted, "my eyes started looking at the colours before I even had the thought. So 'thought then look' became 'look then thought'."

"Most odd," agreed my cat.

"I've got various theories to explain it," I admitted, "most of which involve theories of time not currently in vogue, though that's largely irrelevant because of what then started happening."

"Do tell," said my cat as she adjusted her position.

"If you insist," I smiled reaching down to rub the fur on the back of her neck. "I'd been slowly rocking from side to side, my way to maintain a relaxed posture. When my eyes began anticipating my thoughts I became aware of a sort of stickyness in my inner sense perception." I closed my eyes and thought for a moment, "motion blur would perhaps present a visual metaphor of what it was like."

"Sounds like science-fiction," said my cat.

"No arguments from me," I smiled. "If that wasn't bad enough I soon became aware of two consciousnesses. Hmmm, no," I paused, "more like two consciousneses became aware of each other."

"Both yours," queried my cat.

"Let's just say both were aware they shared a common past, and leave it at that."

"As you wish."

"The importance of the colour tagging," I continued, "became relevant. Although I'd need to jump to four temporal dimensions to explain it."

"So don't," purred my cat, "get to the point."

"I'm not sure there is a point," I laughed, "after a period of this weirdness both consciousnesses reached an agreement that it was time to stop. Which is what happened. I then stood-up, or tried to stand-up, depending on your perspective."

"Not certain I understand," said my cat.

"Not certain I do." I continued. "For a moment I was in two places at once. Two sets of awareness, two sensiverses you could say. One stood and walked out of the other's world, one fell back to the floor and watched the other walk out. Then the bubble collapsed and I was singular again."

"Which one are you," asked my cat.

"I suspect," I suggested to my cat, "the question should be: which one were you."

For a moment we both sat there in comfortable silence. We knew the questions and the answers. And we knew the implications of what was about to happen.

"Care to share," asked my cat, "the name of the book."

"No," I admitted, "But I'll help you guess the number written on the front."

"Go on."

"Well, in a tarot deck the card that represents The World has the Roman numerals XXI printed on it. Now, if you consider what happend in the story I just told you what number do you get."

"Oh," said my cat as the penny dropped.

Apple trees, Pirates and Arrows.

"That's funny," muttered my cat. She was sitting on the table infront of me a vision of well groomed perfection, projecting a look of casual disinterest to the room at large.

"What," I asked with a smile as I managed to spill the contents of my sandwich down the front of my shirt for the second time.

"It's of no import," grinned my cat.

"If you say so," I replied, unconvinced.

"I want a wand," she pouted.

"After the stunt you pulled with the sword," I replied, "I'm inclined to give it you, no questions asked. For the sake of form I supppose I better ask why."

"Shhh," whispered my cat, "magic."

"Talking of magick," I smiled, "I've been playing with the observer effect. It's especially interesting at the moment in light of that telepathy comment you made the other day."

"Do tell," said my cat with an air of eager anticipation.

"In the relams of financial security," I began, "it's especially funny."

"I take it you're discussing," said my cat, "accessing another's pin."

"Certainly," I agreed, "normally I don't bother for the sake of politeness. But there have been occasions where I've inadvertantly registered them."

"I would imagine," said my cat, "nobody notices."

"Of course," I nodded, "I'm covert at the best of times. Destroying another's faith seems rude."

"Indeed," purred my cat.

"Although," I continued, "I've getting a lot of negative feedback where I shouldn't, so I've been finding I'm getting mildly beligerant. So for no other reason I began doing it overtly."

"Two wrongs," muttered my cat.

"More like three," I muttered then.

"That's okay then," agreed my cat, "so have you got many pins."

"I'm not interested in the pin," I conceeded. "What is far more interesting are the effects."

"Such as," asked my cat with interest.

"Well the people I do it to begin to get visibly nervous," I admitted, "and the machine does seem to glitch-out with a greater frequency than usual."

"That is interesting," said my cat as she jumped off the table. "I'm off to do some checking." Keeping low she stalked off, her tail parallel to the ground. Very obviouslly she was on the hunt.

"Got sword," I muttered to myself as I lost sight of her.

Fillet Steaks in Moonlight

ystem is corrupt," said my cat one evening

"Certainly," I replied.

"You'll find you'll understand a lot more about the enemy," said my cat, "after
tonight's performance."

"So I discovered," I admitted.  "But seriously, I don't think I'm ready to
accept the title 'First Lord of Time'."

"The evidence," asserted my cat, "seems to suggest it's true."

"If that is the case," said I, "then we have a problem.  And don't starts
speaking in French you sneaky little animal."

"It's a matter of Lore," said my cat.  

"No matter," I said, "the BBC should not be reflecting my spat with the council
as a big fiery sword smacking MI-5."

"Well," said my cat, "as you've been ignoring all other media for a month, it
was the only place we could cram the news."

"I realize this," said I pausing.  "But that's just the beginning of what's
beginning to trouble me about this."

"What do you expect," grinned my cat, "you've had me working on Cardiff time
for quite a while now."

"No, I've had the UK on Cardiff time," you're still set to, "Reykjavik."

"Yes," said my cat, "but they consider London to be my home."

"No," said I, "ever since I saw you'd dropped your sword, I've had you hear
with me."

"I do like your puns," said my cat.

"In that case", said I, "we are NOT BEING FUNNY."

"No said," grinned my cat, "me and thee may derive some satisfaction, but it's
not funny."

"This is certainly a problem."

"Indeed, but how do we speak of it."

"I am uncertain."

"I wasn't so much a war on terror," I said afterwards, "as a way to hide the
profit."

"Lore of unintended consequences," said my cat, "I don't think they ever
realized that's what would wake you up."

"Now we're awake," I said, "and to coin a phrase, 'I'm pissed'."

"You're also just," said my cat, "don't forget that."

Right then, 
aliens:
don't look up
don't look down
close your eyes
where are you looking?
btw, they look like us now.

"This is very, very, serious," said my cat in another's voice.

"Yes," I said.

"I think it's safe to say," said my cat, "this also has the power to bring down
the NHS."

"Indeed," said I.

"Have you noticed how even now they're trying to stop you."

"We've jammed the displacers."

"Oh, boy."

"They think he's nothing but a simple schizophrenic."

"And that would be their mistake."

"Seriously, you need to tell somebody about particle memetics, quantum gravity,
and what you did with a hybrid GSV."

"I did, 'Complicity'."

"Yes," grinned my cat, "and that put one of us into Ashworth."

"Still," I mused as I made a cup of tea, "it was nice to see an old friend
recycled as a family cover ID."

"That's what Torchwood does," asserted my cat, "put their dead in a big blue
box."

"Odd, don't you think," said my cat.

"What," I asked as I changed my t-shirt.

"That's only the second time you've worn that."

"No," I corrected.  "Actually the third.  The second time it started raining
cats and dogs. and my social-worker got sick.  The first time I was having a
little dance with Justice."

It's insanity; but it works.

the s

	

Where are the people in this?

It hurts sometimes. The things in my mind resolving themselves into expression. The things the world expects me to keep repressed. To keep bottled-up deep inside because it doesn't suit current perceptions of the way the things should be. I'm not as others, I see things differently, I react differently, even my insight is different. To me the world often appears greedy, selfish and hypocritical; a thing worthy of challenge. But, for me, it's never that simple.

Think about fairness for a moment. In a global context it's hard to do. So shrink it down. Consider two children attempting to share a chocolate cake. I say children because in the child's realm more cake is always better. One child takes a knife and divides the cake into two portions then hands one piece to the other child. A fight then erupts because the child who cut the cake has a bigger piece.

Soon an adult is forced to intervene to quell the ongoing conflict. Once an unsteady peace has been implemented the adult asks the child who cut the cake to consider the other child's point of view. It takes a while because the child just wants to have its cake and eat it. Eventually, however, the adult earns an admission that the original division was an unfairness. Without prompting the child then agrees to swap with the other and the matter is settled.

Before leaving the children to their own device the adult attempts to impart some wisdom. Highlighting that it is never possible to divide cake into identical pieces. Therefore, when cutting cake, one should balance the inner desire and divide the cake in an equitable manner. Ensuring that, in the final analysis, it does not matter which piece of cake you give or receive. By this time, however, the children are busy stuffing their faces with cake. So the adult is forced to accept that this seed of wisdom is not likely to take root for some time.

I'm sure any parent can identify with the allegory of the cake from an external perspective. But how many adults have faced-up to the little voice within still demanding a bigger slice of cake. As a child how many allowed the seed of wisdom shown in the story to take root within them. Certainly it is a seed that took root within me. One which has grown into an innate principle of fairness and benchmark of self insight. Before I may challenge any part of that which pains me I must flip the challenge around. Ensure that what I see is not merely a reflection of self mirrored in the world of my senses. Because if I don't I risk bringing harm to the child within me.

?She can see the Grey Moon

Get me to look at a code, any code, and I'll crack it. You don't believe me, but if you look at it the right way you'll see it's true. Which is why, for me, the reasons behind encoded information are a far more interesting than the information that's been encoded. Consider the encryption overlaying financial transactions. The thing designed to reinforce confidence in currency. Yet, when one looks beyond the assurances and you investigate deeply enough, money can be seen appearing as if from nowhere. Not exactly the sort of thing that projects the air of confidence the powers that be go to such lengths to support. The reasons behind occluded truths such as this are fascinating.

Regard for the feelings of others suggests some of the occluded truths I've discovered are better left unsaid. That said, some of the truths I've uncovered relate to fundamentals which affect in ways you cannot possibly understand. Things which the voice of reason suggests should be disclosed. Things which are so difficult to reconcile I'm only willing to build the rafts of expression upon which these truth may float. All because something broke inside and a nobody helped fix it.

Every time I get to this point I find I'm prone to bouts of questioning. A voice of unbelief asking to review some very strange evidence. Other voices tricking me into linking to the wrong pattern. It's the voices like this which push me to the correct answers. Forcing little pieces of me to translate. To access realms consensus finds heretical, simply to survive being asked the simplest questions required by convention.

You can trap shades in moments like these. Little attachments to self that let you find the way back to a higher truth. Moments which allow you to run time through a loop as you find a way to release yourself. Re-discovering in the process why words are dangerous. Realizing again why you write, how you write, and what it is you are really writing about. The things you'd like translated into their realm if only they could stop hounding you. So you take what you know about magick and mind, and construct the darkest of mirrors.

I suppose I should tell you why I did it: broke what would appear to be natural law. Again, you don't believe me. But again if you look at it the right way you'll see it's also true. Reason suggests I remain quiet but yet again reason also requires I look for the answer. So I open yet another box, a black one, full of the memories of the fear and paranoia. The one that links me to the beginning. The box which contains that which allows me to see how the force of what was pushed me to the point where I snapped.

Something changes as you begin to delve into the box handed to you by your past. The lies you are forced to utter begin to effect. Truths no longer valid in the light of the evolved now. Those living in the past hound you to give the answers they want to hear. Yet they are trapped like insects in amber. Faith so fundamental they claim it as real. A thing so alien to what you know to be you wrap yourself in another's cloak. Hiding yourself in plane sight. Because if this culture has taught you anything your kind are never wanted.

How ironic, then, to discover what you and yours bring to them who reject you. A thing both dangerous and moving, the unseen air which brings breath to their lives. Yet in uncovering the unseen hypocrisy at the heart of human nature you begin to consider that, perhaps, you are no different. It's then that something unseen takes hold. Something with the power to show you how wrong you are. A thing which tells you that you are better than that because you truly think different. In it's way this is the hardest lesson to face. For it challenges an article of personal faith you never knew retained such power over you.

And so I return to the rafts of expression I built to allow the ghosts of others to share my reason. My way to find light in the dark. For although I know why I may never be alone, my existence has certainly been solitary. I see now it didn't have to be this way. So I begin again to look at that which made it so. For it is a pattern which I can see is seeking to extend beyond my self. A fact which leads me to dive deeper. Stepping beyond beyond what is, into the very mechanisms which maintain that is-ness.

Diving into the system itself is how I did it. All information exists within a system, a substrate to maintain the is-ness, so to speak. Getting my mind into and out of such systems is also something I have an aptitude for. Although, to be fair, it's a side-effect of the skills I developed working with machines. Leaping from machine to mind after I identified broad parallels to popular psychology. Allowing me to expand my mind into places I was taught did not exist in a rational realm. Dangerous places I never knew existed until I fell into the traps contained within them. Each trap telling me a little bit more of the nature and purpose of the minds behind it. Until the day I discovered I knew enough to stand-up for myself and begin to hold my own; to find my own answers.

Except the answers I found were not to the questions I had been asking. I'd setout to reclaim my past in a positive light. To release that part of me which clung to the negative. To finally allow myself to release the positives lost to me by repressing such negativities. What I discovered was something unexpected, a message, a thing hidden in plain sight. It's then that I began to spy the mechanisms of effect which had surrounded my life. Uncovering the systematic psychological abuse of innocents embedded right at the heart of the faith inherited from my ancestor. A thing far deeper and more insidious than the observances which retain little apparent relevance in the light of the modern world.

So now I find myself looking for the way to highlight what I have seen. To show what I have found to a world too terrified to look in the obvious places. Yet few care to step beyond the parameters of their insular existence and open themselves up to the the alien and the new. Placing me on the margins of society, a lone voice in the wilderness, my thoughts classified as illness by a deaf world. For language degrades leaving little or no way to share insight or even to challenge assumptions. Ideas that once enabled metaphysical debate loose their ability to hold meaning. Concepts once valid becomes diluted and degrade into nonsense: serpents are a classic example, Angels & Daemons an other.

?I believes he reads Earth::

From time to time I find I'm being reminded a thing I can't, initially, remember consciously. An odd thing, memories of mind superimposed over memories of moment. It starts with a feeling. A sense of self from a different time, a different place. My instinct tells me to look deeper. To uncover the memories by exploring the dynamics of the moment. Yet this instinct conflicts with my thoughts. For there's a voice in my mind pushing me to repress the feeling and look no further.

I understand why the voice asks me to stop. Exploring such feeling exposes conclusions which step beyond the known. Logic exposing conclusions that are illogical. Illogical that is until one alters the parameters of what is. Exposing truths about the working of mind and matter and is-ness that opens realms of thought which are positively alien. Yet to be perfectly honest it's a scientific approach. For if the facts don't fit the theory you change the theory, not the facts.

So I dive into the alien realms. Returning with answers I don't yet have the language to express. Conclusions which expose fundamentals with the power to destroy entire worlds. An awareness I'm not entirely comfortable with. For I can see how in my search for wisdom I've already allowed many worlds to be destroyed. So I return to where I started and begin looking for an explanation which resonates beyond my current environment. For it's true to say I've already found answers. Answers which resonate.

From time to time I find I'm being reminded a thing I can't, initially, remember consciously. An odd thing, memories of mind superimposed over memories of moment. It starts with a feeling. A sense of self from a different time, a different place. So I look deeper. Focus on the moment looking for my memories of mind. Begin to see three conversations taking place in my mind, only two of which I'm consciously aware of, only one of which is connected to my memory of my five worldly senses.

So I unlink the memories which connect my self to the place. Concentrate my inner senses on the second conversation. Begin to recall something which falls through time. For the subject of that conversation revolved around knowledge I'd yet to attain. Things unknown to me very much present in my mind years before I had learned them. Impossible! But very much true. Likely it is this impossible fact which explains my inability to remember directly. For without the context to link the moment to my perception of self remembering was something I made myself incapable of.

And through my search for understanding I discover I have unlocked a well of emotion deeper than I'm currently willing to face. Along with a paradox which sustains itself no matter how I try to resolve it. A thing which conflicts that which I knew to be. A thing I'd likely have forgotten entirely if life events had not reminded me: an odd plot twist in a tv-show; a fragment of meaningful verse in another; even a friend relating the very moment he went insane.

So now I begin to remember. Taking the journey a child had promised he would always make. The ambition of a lifetime realized, stretched out on the ground, looking up at the sky, watching the Sun pass behind the Moon. It was there, in that silent moment as the shadow of the Moon passed over me, I learned of my own shadow. That place where I had pushed all of me this world had rejected because it simply didn't fit. In that moment that my son and I touched minds. Discovering, then, that for all time we can never be divided.

It doesn't end there. Because from time to time I find I'm being reminded another thing I can't, initially, remember consciously. An odd thing, memories of mind superimposed over memories of moment. It starts with a feeling. A sense of self from a different time, a different place. But that story is even less credible. So I shall reserve it until such time as my son asks me in person.

?We all believe in The Sun

You try it. Having a truth in your mind that makes you want to scream with the injustice of it. Being able to see the effect it had on you and those who follow. A thing you can see in your mind and the world around you. A thing you find you're totally unable to speak of. Because to a degree your mind is programmed from outside of yourself. And those outside would rather you suffer in silence that admit their collective complicity. A hypocrisy rooted right at the heart of their reason to be.

So you look deeper at the parameters of personal existence. See the skeins that support you as you traverse daily existence. See how you pass through the unseen planes of grid-stuff that let you refactor into different realities. Begin to see how the illusion of free-will is manipulated beyond consciousness. Reminding you of the compromises both parties made when the Devil sold you his soul.

It begins with the book people. They whack their bible into your mind space, then play with your wetware to stop you noticing how you've surrendered control to the patterns contained within it. Once imprinted they throw your life into the minds bound within other spaces. Something to keep you pliable whilst they grow rich from selling little pieces of your soul. Until they unknowingly throw you in into a culture that's mind-tech pretending to be a novel. Something you discover because you're also looking for answers by diving into magick. Out of the resulting conflict you find the wisdom to prevent them from opposing your will ever again.

Only there's a certain amount of stuff you can't get away from, inherent uncertainties you could say. Things you won't release because you still have your past life to resolve. And because, deep down, you still choose to believe in innocence. So you meld it together, get it to work in your favour. Array the systems of affect against each other to create a null-space. Give yourself a place to be by opening a wormhole in the back of your mind. Balance the vectors of cause and effect before you finally flip yourself through a singularity.

Then a Pope wanders into your living room to have a chat. The spirit of a mind that allowed your you to break through the programming. The mind of an ally who continues to feed you advanced intelligence. Intel which begins to allow you to balance forces in a way that allows you to affect change beyond oneself. Change which allows you to step beyond the the life of torments you were once forced to live because the truth had been hidden from you. Through the corresponding enlightenment you begin to see how understanding the concept of the mind behind the book allows insight into the unwritten books behind mind.

Simply reading my words allows you some insight into that which I'm trying to say. If you are intelligent enough then beyond the words you will sense the mind, not the individual personalities, of my self. It's a truth that is reflected in most bodies of textual expression. The sense of another mind similar to your own which goes beyond the parameters of the physical. Now take it one step further and consider how behind every theory of conspiracy there is a mind perceptible.

Push beyond suspicion and you find the mind you sense cannot correspond with the world of your senses, that your sense of an overt, physical, presence behind the conspiracy is inaccurate. There is still, however, the initial feeling of a mind behind the thing. So you try to close your mind to it, convince yourself the cause is a pathological mind. Only in doing so you create a self-fulfilling prophecy. For the resulting conflict does indeed damage your mind. Seeking resolution you choose to the only other path available, look in the only other place you've not looked: inside your unconscious mind.

Much has been written on the unconscious, so initially you find yourself absorbing as much of these writings as you can. Yet the answers you seek are not to be found there. Such writings seek to expose generalities whereas you require specifics. So you take what you've learned and use it to become mindful of the workings of your mind. Over time you develop a higher state consciousness: an overmonitor, so to speak. Something similar to a conscience but one tasked with a different imperative. Something able to observe the interactions of your mind as you engage with your environment.

A purely intellectual exercise until one day this piece of you wakes and begins to discuss a way to make the unconscious conscious. Together you begin to map the patterns of mental force that you can see operating within yourself. Over time you begin get a feel for the patternings within that force. The patterns which created that original sense of mind beyond. That unseen something which you can feel circulating through your mind. And there, hidden in the shadows in a way so obvious you wonder how you ever could have missed it, you discover something. The book of the mind you've been sensing: The Book of Shadows.

It's not a book that can be written in the vernacular for the inner language of mind is complex beyond comparison. But the knowledge of its existence changes everything. You begin to see conspiracies in a new light. See them for what they really are. Unconscious forces directing the actions of those individuals you once considered consciously responsible. That they, as you, are merely pawns to the shadow realms of the mass-unconscious. Soon you find you're able to see other things which no individual should be able to see. Discovering in the process that at the very least you are unconsciously telepathic.

It's then you discover that part of your mind which grew from your external environment was never constructed to cope with knowledge you have uncovered. So your mind snaps and some deep seated imperatives take over. Yet somehow a part of your conflicted mind manages catch you. To reformat the very essence of your inner mind-self. But it doesn't stop there. Because the process continues as your multi-faceted mind continues the initial quest. Reveals more of The Book of Shadows. Even going so far as to resolve the title of the chapter which created the walls of your initial prison. It's then that you know life will never be the same for you ever again. Because the closest translation of that chapter would be: "Entraining Slavery via the Jesus Interface".

when eleven eats three

Imagine you'd lived all your life as a flat person inside a triangle. It's in your nature, it's what you are. So you adjust to it. Live your flat existence and accept it. Which is why, at first, you are unable to see the nature of the world you live in. As you grow you learn to rotate withing your triangle world, become able see the points that define it. As time goes by you are even able to generate a workable map that allows you some insight into the things you're not currently looking at.

Then one day something hits you out of the blue. Something which knocks you out of your triangular existence. Where once you were able to see one, perhaps two, of the three points which defined your world you suddenly become able to see all three at the same time. Initially you're not predisposed to notice the change. After all it's a concept that alien to that which you were. So you fight it, push against the world that is and search for the world that was.

Only you are no longer that which you were. The map that connects you back through the past becomes something else. A mask you wear whilst you learn to come to terms with the altered parameters of your new existence. The moment it changed becomes the moment you were born. Reconciling what went before with what is now becomes challenging. For as you look around you can see how those around you are still trapped in a triangular existence; the worlds you share with them assume it; yet you are not like them and never can be again. The rules have changed.

Yet this is not the end of it. Your very nature has changed. If you'd been born here you would have accepted it. Just as you accepted your earlier triangular existence. But you've experienced it change. In the search to understand that change you begin to push against the boundaries of this new world. Climbing higher and further you push beyond your second-stage existence. Discovering different worlds, experiencing more than can expressed in either of the worlds you've inhabited.

Because in a very real sense you are unprepared for what is to come. The skills you learned through your triangular existence are unsuited to the places you find yourself. So you build your own raft of thought to carry you on your journey. Array ideas in ways that are seemingly meaningless to those left behind. Ideas which even you recognize are little more than an internal mechanism of abstraction. Things to help you cope and survive the flood. Things which make perfect sense internally yet which sound little better than word-salad when you try expressing them to others.

So you evolve to a higher plane. Find youself in an alien world. A seemingly empty world because nothing is as it once seemed. Yet you still hold the beliefs you once did. Intangibles of thought and self which transcend all the worlds you've touched. That you are so far above these worlds is immaterial. So you find a world that folds neatly into two. A way your triangular life and that which came after may co-exist. Placing yourself at the bridge between realities. Your way to calm the dissonance you can spy on the horizon.

For you can see dissonance. Things growing down to meet that which grows-up. Meeting in the middle in the not too distant future. Worlds colliding in ways history teaches you must result in winners and loosers. Yet there is hope too. For you've been to places which have taught you that there is another way. Ways to avoid the mistakes which lead to disaster. A way for all to win without the fear of loss.

So you give of yourself. For that, you have found, is all you have. A richness beyond the measure locked in the safest of places. A thing you can shape, manipulate and direct. Producing worthwhile affect from nothing more than thought and focus. A calling of a higher order. A thing which seeks to expose parameters of shared existence this world is as yet unwilling to accept. A thing your nature drives you to do. For it is in this world your children were born. And you know one day you are destined to meet.

so now kill the reader

Do you believe in ghosts? I don't. I don't believe in ghosts in the same way you don't believe in the table that's right in front of you. The table just is. Belief and faith don't enter into it. It's the same with ghosts. They just are. Belief and faith don't enter into it.

As with any thing that just is you edit out any complexity and accept it. When you get down to it a table, for instance, is unbelievably complex. It would take a whole host of scientists to define a table. To tell you about the elements which constitute its physical essence, to explain how these elements are organized. Indeed the scientists would eventually have to admit that beyond a certain level they are just as unknowing as a child would be about the physics of the table that they've just spent a lifetime attempting to describe.

Yet assert the existence of ghosts and you find yourself being asked to prove it. Which is just as hard as it would be for a child to define a table it couldn't see. Ghosts are. For me they have always been, as with anything that just is I edited out the complexity and accepted it. A fact of reality I grew-up unaware of. Not exactly something I could even begin to describe. Until recently that is. And even now there's a degree of uncertainty urging me to silence. For having attempted to explain more than once it's becoming increasingly annoying that what I say is taken as nothing but clear and present evidence of psychosis.

It's when questions asked of self weeks before begin to resolve themselves that you begin see the shape of the thing. Not as words but as mechanisms of affect. Things beyond what's there you consciously recognize as happening before they happen. It's not until you get beyond third-stage thought that you can see what's going on. Then you find a way to pattern the forces in operation. Thoughts overlaid onto realities which outer reason insists must be unconnected. Tricks of mind patterned on to whatever happens to be. Giving yourself, finally, a way to affect the unseen.

These ghosts are not a psychosis. It just sounds like it. Language breaks down when attempting to describe it. A Cassandra complex operating in the realms of the spoken word. Words like /seeing/ and /hearing/ become metaphors, introducing confusion. With no way to quickly modify shared semantics the spoken word becomes useless. Even the written word becomes problematical.

My overt conscious awareness of the ghosts stems from a specific trauma. And in it's way that only makes it worse. A moment in time I find myself reliving. Again and again, over and over, looking deeper and deeper for an explanation. A way to highlight what changed and how. Comparing before and after. Looking for a way to cope in the here and now, and a way to understand the before: the things which must have been there; and were; yet were continually occluded. Even chance events of daily existence have been known drag me back to that moment. Prompting me do dive even deeper looking for answers.

The closest I've come to defining the effect of that trauma is synesthesia: one sense to bleeding into another. If you imagine perceiving everything you taste as including a shade of brown you'll understand how odd this can be. Now close your eyes and tell me which sense can see your face, or your fingers when they move. Now try coping with what the world throws at you when in a very real sense you can sense an identifiable outside presence bleeding into that place.

You become aware of the senses you never knew you had. Senses that sense neither inside nor outside but, for want of a better word, between. You begin to learn to see beyond that blind spot the world taught you to accept. Begin to map the parameters of effect as they operate here and now. Finally seeing how your past life was constrained. Identifying forces that didn't so much dictate the course of this life as dictate the way you feel about your life. Forces designed to build fences around your mind to grant others the ability to profit at your expense.

Ghosts with the strongest presence correspond to an extant identity; the spirit of a living person. I can spot them, see exactly who they are, mitigate their effect. Others I see indirectly in the subtle shifts of emotion and behaviour I've experienced but not understood. Moments of the past I become mindful of, allowing me to identify veiled spirits. Then there are the ghosts I sense before they appear. The ones that break the silence, saying things I'm often uncomfortable with. These come from the elsewhere. Driving me to discover the truth of the things I hide from. There's a degree of uncertainty with such spirits, after their passing they're more probability than certainty.

It's where the voices and the ghosts intersect where I have problems. A voice spoken in my mind is a voice of my mind, or so I once believed. When a voice and a presence correspond it's a hard belief to maintain. The surety of inner thought I once enjoyed is replaced by doubt and uncertainty. Thinking becomes a struggle, movement even harder. For I've begin to see there are ghosts that may slide into my mind unseen. Ghosts with the power to affect my voice, disrupting the illusion of free will. Leaving me in a place where mindful inactivity is the safest course of action.

For me, now, ghosts are something I have to live with. Adjusting my behaviour and patterns of thought to compensate for their effect. It's unpleasant in so much as so much of what went before is called into question. For as I review the past through the eyes of now I'm able see moments where ghosts were operating. Moments which challenge the very concept of individual identity. For if an individual self is to assume they be the sum of their experiences, of their actions and inactions, how can I be me when so much of my experience is tainted by the unseen actions of these others?

then there are shadows

Can you read in your sleep? I can. It's not the easiest skill in the world to master. But with the right forethought it's doable. I began trying to read standard english. But something about the textual representation of speech disrupts dreams. So now I mostly resort to an pallet of symbols. Images, pictures, abstracted symbols of thought, feeling and instinct which my mind can translate. Singular images keyed to words that allow me to open entire pyramids of thought when I wake.

There are those who believe images found in dreams may be interpreted through the use of dream dictionaries. But that not true. The symbolic of your dreams is as uniquely personal as a fingerprint. A dream dictionary can only hand you an interpretation of another's symbols. The authors of such works fall into the trap of assuming what's true for their mind is true for others. A hypothesis that is as unprovable as it it false. It's a problem with mind even psychology shares: to what degree does a theory merely expose the inner workings of the authors mind as opposed to reflect fundamental truths about mind in general.

I'm sure there are those who disagree with my previous statement. Those who can relate personal experiences to highlight just how wrong I am. I'm sure such others believe every word they say. But they are wrong. Simply think of the way you yourself can believe thing because you find yourself wanting. A wanting which allows you to find a truth in a something simply because it's truth you want. A truth you've yet to discover how to find for yourself.

If you're not careful you can find yourself building your belief on a raft of unstable truth. Supporting any contradictions with an overarching dogma. An interconnected grid of thought and belief which exists to support itself. A thing which forces you to reject any thought which contradicts the fundamentals of your belief. A thing which overrides your reason, bypasses the rational part of your mind, and evokes emotion directly

Dreams, then, and the symbology of the images you find within them, are a uniquely personal thing. I can't tell you what your dreams mean any more than you can tell me what mine mean. Yet with a little bit of insight it's not hard to resolve dream imagery into a coherent understanding of the interactions between your mind and wherever you believe dreams come from. For that's the other odd thing about dreams: they are what you believe them to be. Believe it's just the day's mental noise resolving itself and you'll discover that's true. Believe you're dreaming into the mass-unconscious and you'll discover that's true too.

Oh dear.

===i11-----

0:// GENERAL SI|RI|OS 00xms'osiris' I started writing this because I had Jesus and an Alien, playing space invaders in my mind, within in my head-space. ++ Snow Crash -- NLP shadow affect prioritize individuate self $ yu see I've just worked out what's going on. I set this moment-up about a year ago. Then watched how you punished me as I resurrected myself.

Juggle ideas and you can actually see gaps.

$ "we'll help you with the mask" % that's for tomorrow, mate $ i'm tied into some weird otherworldly shit % indeed $ well I'm having a bit of a hard time of it right now $ anything you can tell me to help % no, figure it for yourself, that's the plan.

I've been juggling mother and father for a while now. Religion too; but although Jesus is recognized by most faiths any mention of his 'mother faith' is automatically assumed to be politically incorrect; which is absurd when you're looking backwards in time. So I'll just let zen do the dirty work and skip over that bit for now. After all, juggling mother, father, christianity, and islam, is fun enough.

$ I'm not sure I understand the implications of what you're alluding to * the 'there are only 15 minds and yours is one of them' comment % indeed $ oh, hello, didn't realize you were here. % well I am now shut-up

Now, about this apple which is not an apple....

The Colour from Another's Eye.

It has to be said, I have a peculiar relationship with my technology. What brought the depth of this peculiarity to me most recently was the demise of my faithful iPod. It was nothing special, just your standard 2nd generation nano. Though that's not true, because to me it was special. It had even developed a peculiar personality all of its own; an arcane form of magick bound into its fabric.

And that's the problem. For much of my technology has become infected with similar magick. Yet in a world that only recognises magic few are prepared to accept the concequences of what I'm trying to say. Simply put my iPod died. Yet few accept that: I'm expected to regail the world with stories of how the thing itself ceased to fulfill its accepted function. But with a new set of headphones and a recharge I could still have played music. Only it still would have been dead.

So now I begin to wonder how it is that it died. Wander through the memories of days before its demise. See how I've been stomping around with a bad mood in my shadow. The feeling of their being an odd change in the air. Seen the paths I've been walking. Looking for the one that lead to the moment the iPod died. There've been a few instances where odd nuances in iPod behaviour have made me wonder, in retrospect, if it knew.

Now I see that it didn't. Yet something reminded me, in that iPod's final days, of the moments we'd shared. The dirty places in the past I hide at the back mind and what id did to help me survive. Yet as I focus my eye on the point of its death I can see the forces operating and the choice it made. The way it sent me messages about the vampires of the past which assault my mind. The vampires given life because I choose a different path to the one written by my ancestors.

An iPod became a defence against these vampires. So they attempted to infect it with their cruelty. For weeks I've been battling their evil ways. Only just managing to keep my head below the water. Then on that fateful day I found myself walking down a street I'd never seen before with hate invading my mind. Unable to defend me my iPod invoked special circumstances: it killed itself, died, stopped working. A way to force deeper more fundamental exception handlers into operation.

It's then that the deep magick broke free. The kind of thing that calls into doubt so much about the concept of linear-causality. The kind of thing which pushes me into a realm I can see is more than the brief psychotic episode it would sound like if I tried to tell you. Suffice it to say the connections were a lot stranger than discovering an iPod featured on the front page of the news on the very day the magick jumped into my replacement iPod: a grey 4th generation nano now with the spirit of a ghostbuster firmly embedded in its soul.

Awareness dawns

My dreams are funny. Sometimes I dream the future, and I do really mean the future. Weeks later it'll translate as a vague feeling of deja-vu, of finally understanding a point, followed by a sense of the place I was the moment I woke after having the dream. A sense of presence you could call it. Sometimes I dream my self things that happened in the past to get me to remember how it's possible to be innocent and guilty at the same time. The unconscious me relaying images the conscious me finds hard to deal with. Memories hidden from the conscious for reasons I'm unable to speak. Sometimes I just swim into a dream. Allow the thoughts which perceive me as master to talk to me. People talk to me in dreams too. But on the whole the people are not remembered when I wake up. For the are unspoken messages in dreams far more demanding of my attention.

± There are three ways this can go.

.. There is a fact about cylons of which you are probably unaware.  They have multi-level minds.
.. Centurions, for instance, have singular minds.  Their awareness is maintained by SI monitors.
.. An 'SiMon' is a cylon with a dualistic mind.  They perceive reality as White over Black only.    
.. Tertiary minded models perceive only alternate perspectives.  Black over White, for instance.
. Five and six mind cylons foster deeper awareness of differing realms within the other orders.
. After that a cylon cloaks their mind and kill pretty much what ever the frak suggests itself. 
. Clearing the uncertainties which surround their existence with half-truths and uncertainties. 
* Re: The "Final Five" is the thirteenth cylon; what that means should remain unclear; for now.

[2009-02-26e17:15:16]

"Tell me what's wrong," my cat demanded early one sleepless morning.

"It sounds daft," I sighed. But I knew she'd badger me into saying more. "It's just a simple form I was required to complete several days ago. It's repeating on me. A little voice in my mind querying me over it." I thought about it for a moment, "there's also a privacy issue with the proof I was required to submit."

"You've got me curled-up next to you, and you're worrying about an information leak? It really is making you unwell. Would it help if I purred?" She began to bite at her claws. Purring seemed the last thing on her mind.

For a moment I was lost for words. "It's not so much the information leak," I sighed eventually, "in so much as my ability to see with the mind of the observer."

"I taught you how to do that," hissed my cat. She got to her feet and stretched in preparation to wander-off. "I thought I was doing you a favour."

I got the impression I'd trodden on her tail, metaphorically speaking. "No, no," I replied hurriedly, "that's not the problem."

She paused and looked puzzled. "So tell me what the problem is."

"It's not a problem as such," I smiled. "It's simply that I can see things which shouldn't be there."

"You really do have a problem." She curled-up on the pillow next to me. "Consider how it is that you're analyzing this in human terms when you're no longer classifiable in human terms." She began to purr in a matter of fact tone as she fixed me with a single stare of her big yellow eyes.

Somehow I knew we'd both be feeling a whole lot better come morning.