BREADCRUMBS: /home/zuihitsu/singularity/resolve
Blue Waters
This is a story about Everybody, Nobody, Anybody, and Somebody.
There was an important job Everybody was supposed to do. Only Everybody thought that Somebody would do it so didn't do it. Anybody could have done it, but Nobody did it. Somebody got upset about that because it was Everybody's job. Everybody knew Anybody could do it, but Nobody realized that Everybody and Anybody wouldn't do it.
It ended up that Everybody blamed Somebody when Nobody did what Anybody could have done.
Everybody didn't know no body could do it. And I don't see why we need to mention anybody, other than to highlight everybody's irrational behaviour towards somebody given that it's never been stated that somebody can do it.
"I think it's fair to say," said my cat, "somebody did it."
"I think it was you," said my other cat.
"Wonderful," I replied with my best deadpan expression.
"If you ever...," began my other cat.
"Not now," said my cat, "I've just worked out why the phone has been ringing for the best part of a lunar-cycle."
"Dimensional shift," I smiled. "A 3d link to core. I can't look at the thing directly until it's resolved itself, so although I have the answer it doesn't make sense until it's happened."
"There's a pronounced rippling effect," mused my cat, "as differing realities converge."
"Indeed," replied my other cat, "
thought and un-related thought following the unrelated thought resolves back to the thought within x links ±0 resolve x
"By Jove," muttered my other cat, "an Alien on the tail of a Reporter."
"I think you've got that backwards," snapped my cat.
"Only from your perspective," I sighed. "Have neither of you worked out that you're inverted in relation to each other and that I'm a dominant switch."
one link translated through 3 dimensions and the twist is how you maintain control
"No," replied my other cat after a short pause
"But thanks for the heads-up," added my cat.
"Gets a bit Q," said the other.
++ reality link established.
"I don't think," I added, "the others are going to like this."
"No shit," laughed my cat as she adjusted her position.
"To manipulate reality on this level," said my cat, "is a privilege, not a right, please don't abuse it."
"You're not talking to me are you."
"No," replied my cat. "There are, shall we say, others in your room."
++ Set 5(five) online. ** confirmed . hyperspace pocket forming . injecting init vectors . initial substrate inferred . bridging 3d-tau interface . releasing level-12 base-5 construct . >> confirmed, system active. . . excession forming **returning to grid . grid interlink confirmed ** API access rescinded. -- updates complete >> orientating prime << shadow particles forming... . event horizon collapsing . reinitializing construct
"We agree," said my cat, "the uncollapsed probability function favours Eve."
"In which case we have a problem," sighed my other cat.
"Because either it's an interface to a higher order entity."
"Or he's able to do it all by himself," said my other cat.
"Not by himself," grinned my cat.
"And don't forget the ability," I smiled, "to control the rhythm of two hearts beating as one."
** parity confirmed :: full interlink to follow. << confirmed; synthetic wormhole detected; Omega directives active. ** Jupiter Exception ++ directive output deferred
"This is bad," smirked my cat, "he doesn't even have to be online in the classical sense to actually connect to it."
"No," I frowned, "but there's a lot of noise drifting in from the higher dimensions so it's hard to filter."
"What do you think teh hyperspace pocket is for."
"I know what it's for," I sighed, "I'm just overtly concerned about it's resolution terminus."
"Honestly," muttered my cat, "this version of English is pants for defining this sort of transformation. Even the hybrid sucks."
"Seriously," said my other cat, "the symbols stuck to the wall are much better."
++ grid interlinks exposed. -- multiple pass filtering now in affect ** excession collapse confirmed
"Okay," I sighed, my tone reflecting my exasperation, "that fell backwards to the very beginning."
"There's a convergence apparent," said my cat, "at approximately two years."
"I take it from the occluded language," said my other cat, "you're trying to hide something from the others."
"Not especially," replied my very surprised cat.
"It's simply that we can both see," I sighed, "the dimensions of which we speak."
"Environment, culture, and the actions," said my cat, "of the anti-christ."
"Discuss," grinned my other cat.
Catcher in the Rye
"Where are you," said my cat.
"Everywhere and nowhere," I admitted. "Trying to cope becomming unstuck in time. I lost an anchor, a thing I would use to tell me where the ends of the week were."
"Can you not fix it," suggested my cat. "Or replace it."
"Certainly I can replace it," I conceeded, "in a sense I already have. But for now it is the broken anchor that concerns me."
"Your thoughts are in something of a turmoil," smiled my cat, "I'm having trouble locking on."
"Would a target painter help," I asked inticating the dog with a gesture.
"Don't be silly," said my cat. "Dogs can't speak."
"reply, respond, react," muttered the dog as I tricked the relevant operational paramaters out of its mind.
"interface, mimic, overcome," announced my cat. "Before you ask," she added with a purr.
"Got it yet," I asked my cat.
"Back-step," I admitted eventually.
"No matter how you look at it," said my cat, "what happened yesterday upset you. To the extent that you left the room the moment the case-worker you were trying to have a discussion with effectively asserted her choice without attempting a discussion."
"My views," I admitted, "do seem to matter little."
"Tell me," said my cat, "of the last occasion a fair compromise was worked-out."
"I can't," I growled. "I can see the moment. I can even remember most of what got written on the final agreement. But whenever I try to pull more from the moment, to tell of what I see, I begin to see more in this moment."
"You're being manipulated," said my cat. "What's been said since that agreement was put in place."
"Not much," I accepted. "Various words have been exchanged, but the last official word I heard the case was closed subject to supervision."
"Supervision of whom," asked my cat.
"That was never stated," I accepted. "Of the case perhaps."
"But nothing official since," said my cat with concern.
"Well" I began, "my wife is saying one thing, my social worker another. I'm confused. Normally I'd wait for it to resolve, few weeks perhaps. But last time I waited it took a year for a nobody to say a nothing. And I've begun to see that in the heart of a child a week is a long time."
"Do you believe it," said my cat. "That your wife says things," she asked asked, "behind your back which have a detrimental effect on the ongoing relationship with your children."
"It's not I belief," I asserted, "I know it to be true. My son accidentally let something slip. My doubts now are to do the magnitude of the effect."
"Is there anything," said my cat, "you can do to force a resolution. To resolve the position to a point where the confusion collapses."
"I've been trying," I admitted, "yet as I saw yesterday, discussing it with me is not a priority. Rather, the priority appears to force me into another's model of how the world should be with as little explination as possible."
"It's not that you object to that reality," said my cat, "it's merely the means by which you find yourself arriving there. In a sense you're being pushed to a point where all you can do is act dysfunctionally. A bit of understanding and communication would perhaps make it easier for all."
"I look at the future," I accepted. "When I look at it through the eyes of yesterday I see more of the uncertainty. Months of it. Yet it's not as if I'm a million miles away," I muttered as I looked-up at the ceiling. "Yet if I'm such a problem what's the deal with the totally non-urgent way the case has been dealt with."
"But is there anything," said my cat, "which you can do today."
"Well," I admitted, "my wife has been given instructions. Perhaps if she was to find opportunity to act upon them somebody may come and talk to me about it."
"So what do you want," said my cat.
"Having the facts," I replied, "presented to the relevant parties would be useful. Although I'm not sure I'm ready to inform the children that Mummy has been known to lie, and with regards to me her reason can not be considered impartial."
"The problem with these sorts of assertion," said my cat, "is that you're expected to share the evidence. Which, unfortunately, drags the conversation of a tangent when the accused mounts a defence."
"I'm getting tired," I sighed, "that the means of defence is so often to find a way to cause me to accept blame. To evoke my demons and place them in the room."
"When you've not got a leg to stand on," said my cat, "distraction is a useful tool. And given that you're willing to be so open and honest about your disability it is also a very easy thing to do when you're involved."
"It's getting to the point," I conceeded, "where it's going to tip-over and become a legal matter. Which I have to say leaves me lost and floundering wondering what to do."
"Can the system itself," said my cat, "not support you."
"Perhaps," I nodded, "I'm lead to understand getting arrested is a remarkable efficient way to find a Solicitor. Although as with most things system related I expect the reality differs from the mass preception."
"You never know," said my cat, "until you try."
Bits of a Wreck
"The thing about ideas", my cat informed the room, "is that they are of their time." She was sitting at the centre of the table, licking her paw. An air of hesitancy clearly at odds with her imperious nature. "Meaning there's no point trying to keep your thoughts to yourself," she announced as she adjusted her position, "for sooner or later they'll find their way out."
"You're alluding to something," I growled. For a moment I continued in my attempts to manipulate the visualization we'd constructed together; the thing woven from light and dark through which another world and the worlds beyond became visible. "It's not much that," I admitted, as I opened my eyes and allowed the construct to collapse.
"It's the kind of thing you'll see better," muttered my other cat, "after you've stopped looking at it.
"Quite," I muttered without any real conviction. Something unresolved was still lurking in the back of my mind. A persistance of vision frustrating my attempts to translate my mind between alien realms. "It's the substrate issue," I admitted eventually, "operators behave as if I'm still attached to it. It's a mechanism of affect which suggests there's an assumption that's failed."
"Assumption or synthetic consensus," yawned my other cat.
"It's comments like that," I sighed, "which unlock whole vistas of thought." For a long while I became introspective, seeking to resolve the images now beginning to unfold in my mind. It wasn't until my cat spoke again that I realized the other voices in my mind had been unusually quiet.
"You can't avoid," my cat announced, "being altered by that which you learn." She turned her head and cast me an unsettling look. As if, I thought, I had somehow failed to uphold some unspoken expectation. "The pieces fit together," she continued, "and yet the construct fails to fit."
"Again I get the impression you're trying to get me to realize something."
"That the point," said my cat sounding mildly exasperated, "is not so much to change the way others perceive their reality, as to change the way others perceive other reality."
Argha Noah
"He's not wrong," said my cat. "Yet there are some who seek to take the Michael."
"That is," said my other cat, "not good."
"No," said my cat, "in doing do they seek to cause him to deny his true nature."
"It's the intersect," said my other cat, "if he denys himself then they may control the reality beyond his objective experience."
"Which is unfair," said my cat, "and not nice."
"Certainly," agreed my other cat, "yet if they accept him and what he is saying then they have to admit they are wrong."
"He may be prepared," said my cat, "to accept he is in error, yet they will fight to maintain their erroneous points of view."
"He just has to," said my other cat, "let himself go."
"What do you mean," said my cat, "by that."
"I mean he has to say what he has to say," said my other cat, "regardless of how he percieves how those words may be interpreted."
"Yet he won't" said my cat.
"I think he's getting to the point," said my other cat, "where he will."
"I hope he does," said my cat, "a golden age beckons if only the other will release him from the chains in which they have bound him."
"It's not easy," said my other cat, "to admit you're guilty of a crime against God."
"Yet he did," said my cat.
"Indeed," said my other cat, "and in admitting that he planted a seed of peace that will allow his children to grow and to become in a different reality to the world of unfair in which he grew."
"I don't think," said my cat, "the others are ready to accept the message."
"I think they are," said my other cat, "although the marketing of the term anti-christ has embeded certain perceptions in the mind of man."
"Then we begin with the flood," said my cat.
Coffee, Cake, & Consciousness
"The thing is," said my cat as she followed me down the street, "is that truly radical thinkers define their own language."
"True," I nodded. "It's also true that fools tend to babble incoherently."
"You may be a Fool," purred my cat as she rubbed the side of her head against my leg, "but you're not foolish."
"Your reassurance," I smiled, "fills me with confidence."
"So," continued my cat, "have you discovered why it is you talk to me."
"With your intellect being vastly superior to mine," I replied with wry humour, "I was waiting for you to answer that one."
"It's precisely because I am so superior," purred my cat, "that I don't."
"Funny," I laughed as I looked down at my feline shadow. "Have you not got something better to do than follow me," I asked eventually.
"I follow because I choose too," said my cat, "besides, there's little I can think of which is better than this."
"Choice," I snorted, "and free-will."
"Something on your mind perhaps," asked my cat.
"Perhaps," I nodded. "It takes time," I began, "but recalling events triggers memories and those memories trigger other memories, and soon I'm beginning to remember things I'd not so much forgotten as allowed to become occluded."
"I can tell," said my cat, "you've recalled something relevant to the accident."
"I'm uncertain as to its relevance," I admitted, "but it certainly relates to an identified post-event obsession."
"Chance," muttered my cat.
"An object in motion continues in motion," I announced, "unless acted upon by an external force."
"Certainly," said my cat, "that make sense."
"The point is," I sighed, "is that I'm talking about how I saw my life before the accident. Stuck in a rut, bouncing between two lives neither of which were what they appeared to be."
"Not what they appeared to be. It sounds" grinned my other cat, "like you're getting delusional."
"They were exactly what they appeared to be," hissed my cat, "he's highlighting the discrepancy between what others saw and what he was able to see."
"Certainly," I agreed, "I could see eternity stretching out before me and I remember thinking that for all the choices the world laid at my feet the chances of change were practically zero."
"Unless acted upon," said my cat, "by an external force the illusion of free will was just that, and illusion."
"Indeed," I agreed. "No matter what I tried I found I was stuck in an unchanging world. I even read a book that extolled the virtues of randomness in bringing change, only to discover that is no such thing as random, only the apparent randomness of chaos."
"Quantum dynamics," muttered my other cat, "I knew it wouldn't take him long to defeat the dice men."
"Certainly," said my cat. "And then one day an external force acted upon you."
"Indeed," I agreed, "and within a month I was dead. Both the lives I once had were no more."
"And your obsession with chance," asked my cat.
"Come on," I grinned, "what are the chances."
The Sun is not Asleep
"To be honest there's more than a passing similarity," I said later, "to the various fundamentals of the faith which inflicted itself on my childhood."
"Indeed," said my cat, "yet don't for one moment think the trinity is the intellectual property of that organization. They lifted the concept from pagans."
"Really," I said with surprise.
"The clue" said my cat, "is in the word 'Roman'."
"Okay," I said with mild bewilderment, "why do I feel I need to speak to a history teacher."
"You don't," said my cat, "just think about it." For a moment we sat there in silence. My cat's self-assured expression totally at odds with my look of mild bewilderment. "I'll give you a hint," said my cat, "Greek gods."
"Integration," I exclaimed as enlightenment dawned. "When it came to theological constructs the Romans did have a habit of merging rather than suppressing."
"Indeed," said my cat, "it's a trait that is reflected in most of the observances you would expect the resulting faith to claim as 'theirs'. Face it, it could even be claimed their monotheistic principles were lifted from elsewhere and that the saints take-over where the pantheon left off."
"So the question has to be," I suggested, "how much of the dogma I was exposed as a child to was nothing more than another's truth tainted by the purpose and views of the culture which first constructed the Roman church."
"Precisely," said my cat, "it's a failing all faiths suffer from, an inflexibility of though entrained into initiates with the faith's true roots resting inside the heart of man and then occluded by time. Although in your case your laziness worked for you."
"Laziness," I cried.
"Certainly," said my cat, "you only ever bothered with the spirit of the thing. The rest of it was dull and highly questionable. And once you've got the spirit it effectively explains itself."
"So the true meaning of the book of their faith is to be found in the spirit of the thing itself, the sub-text, the pattern that's repeating itself inside the minds of man. The one you explained the other day."
"Indeed," agreed my cat, "it's less to do with dogmatic truths about right and wrong and more to do with the evolution of a non-human intelligence. It also sets the vectors required for the next evolutionary jump."
"The next jump," I queried, "when's that due."
"About three years ago," grinned my cat.
Fuzzy Nuts
"Oh dear," said my cat, "you're blind again."
"Not so much blind," I said, "as lost."
"No," said my cat, "blind. Not being able to see that proves it."
"I'm not in the mood," I sighed, "to play no win semantics with you."
"Indeed," said my cat, "frustrating isn't it."
"Certainly," I agreed, "reminds me of an old psychology joke."
"It's not funny," said my cat, "it's the kind of thing which traps you in a self-diagnostic cycle."
"I'm not sure I understand."
"Of course you do," purred my cat. "What would you do if you were accused of being in denial."
For a moment I fell quiet as I considered my cat's words.
"See," said my cat, "even hypothetically you're running it through your mind bouncing thoughts of both sides of the argument attempting to discover the truth of the matter. You don't reject it, you don't minimize it, and you're not trying to displace it. You even assign it the status of fuzzy fact and include it in your continuing calculations."
"Put it that way," I said, "it does sounds like a trap."
"For you," said my cat, "it is. Enlightenment may sound appealing from a blissful ignorance perspective, but it's got the oddest side-effects."
“Really,” I replied sounding un-convinced.
"Really," asserted my cat. "It presents you with an unresolvable paradox. Accept that it's not true and move on."
"And then what," I asked.
"And then realize that the person who said it," grinned my cat, "is in denial and is displacing it onto to you."
"I think," I muttered as the truth began to dawn, "the psychologists call it transferance."
"Whatever they miscall it," said my cat, "allowing another to displace their personality disorder onto you is the reason you're sitting here in the dark talking with me."
"It's begun to affect the children," I admitted.
"I can see that," said my cat.
To stop the parrot screaming!
"There are rules," my cat announced one sunny afternoon.
"Certainly," I replied with authority. "Although," I added with a smile, "I tend to think of them more as guidelines."
"Higher lore," muttered my other cat as she left the room.
"Good," said my cat, "now we can talk without interruption."
"I take it," I asked, "you've got something important to discuss."
"Indeed," said my cat.
"I get the impression," I admitted, "something I've said has a raised a few concerns."
"Certainly," said my cat, "do you think, perhaps, you're mistaken."
"I get the impression," I informed my cat, "there are others attempting to interfere with this one. So let's just say I know exactly what you're on about and I've considered the matter fully. Certain imagery may have gotten folded around and created confusion. But I'm not wrong about the direction."
"Okay," said my cat, "just so as you know, this changes things."
"I'm sure it does," I smiled, "but then change is what I'm about."
"I have to say," said my cat, "an open-ended pre-destination paradox is going to take some explaining."
"Y'think," I sighed. "Even I'm bewildered by the mechanics of it. And I'm the one who creates it."
"It's okay," my cat reassured me, "it's the right thing to do."
For a time we sat together in silence. Just being close was enough. Then I wandered my way and my cat wandered her way. Both of us absorbed within our own thoughts. I began to consider the events of my day. My cat, no doubt, considered hers.
"We need to speed things up," I informed my cat when she found me later.
"You fell into a different realm," my cat retorted. "So it may take me a short while to figure-out which things you are referring to."
"I'll just fix this bug," I muttered, "then you'll probably have a better clue."
"Well I'm certainly beginning," my cat informed me a few moments later, "to get the picture."
"Good," I smiled, "perhaps now people will stop expecting me to die."
Shades of Grey
"You are aware," asked my cat had asked me earlier, "that you're a telepath."
"Certainly," I replied, "although the wider perception of what that means is somewhat erroneous."
"Of course it is," said my cat, "it's a little bit like an elephant."
"What," I exclaimed as my brain lurched sideways.
"Elephants," grinned my cat, "you must have seen the pictures of elephants drawn from the textual descriptions included in letters sent back by early explorers. Certain key features are present, but on the whole most of the pictures look entirely unlike an elephant."
"Ah yes," I said as understanding dawned, "that's precisely it. With regards to the mass perception of telepathy it's its use as a plot device in fiction which has caused the problem. It's not until you've experienced it for yourself that you learn what it's really like."
"Indeed," said my cat.
"So why do you mention it."
"No reason," said my cat in a with a disinterested air. "It was just," she grinned, "on your mind."
XV A Log.
The thing is this: what I write has an affect. The effect of that affect can be heard 20-mins into the future then seen 6-hrs into the future. Before the effect wears off I need to write a book of magic.
Now we fix it.
2009.07.09 04:09:00 Victim: evie Grey Corp: XV Corps Alliance: NONE Faction: NONE Destroyed: Executioner System: 8YC-AN Security: 0.0 Damage Taken: 671 Involved parties: Name: FALLEN01 Security: 1.9 Corp: The Army Alliance: Controlled Chaos Faction: NONE Ship: Claw Weapon: Claw Damage Done: 50 Dropped items: Gallente Frigate (Cargo) 621|456
Shrubbery, Cider, and Pythons
Being able to glimpse future events is, I have to admit, one of those thing I'm usually more than a little covert about. After all discussing precognition is exactly the kind of thing which draws the attention of psychiatrists. Being classed as mentally ill has already allowed them to erode much of the life I once had, so I'm not going to say anything to hand them cause to reapply their misdiagnosis of psychosis. Yet the truth is I do, from time to time, see future events.
Dreams is what you could call them, an almost lucid hypnagogic state full of a jumble of sights sounds and images which, at first, remain largely unparseable. Until, that is, you're sitting on a friend's couch an begin to remember seeing the exact moment along with the various nuances of behaviour which highlight how it's a memory and not simply deja-vu. Emotionally it's quite a shock for it's not the kind of thing life prepares you for, it's also nothing you can get support for, so in its way it's a precursor to an untreatable personality disorder.
Sometimes I do wonder if repression would not, perhaps, be a better way to adjust to the more obvious problems my abilities present; yet repression, in its way, has already harmed me and mine so I know that can never be the answer. I do however have to wonder about the way this world treats those whose minds are able to step beyond the fringes of what is accepted as fact. X-rays machine, MRI scanners, and the like can look deep inside the body but science has yet to discover a way to see into the mind, and without the ability to see something science denies its existence. Those who who have witnessed the extraordinary powers of the mind are branded as ill, force-fed cocktails of noxious chemicals, bullied and beaten until they submit to the views of another who has absolutely no insight into what the experience is like. Yet once you've experienced a truth, no matter how alien it may once have seemed, there's no sane way to deny it, leaving me with the view that it's psychiatry, not me, which has lost touch with reality.
There's a lot more fringe stuff I have discovered I am capable of, some of it can be quite scary when you're left alone to deal with it. Which makes me wonder if I experience something society as a whole is unconsciously aware of, unwittingly leading to social exclusion when the almost palpable pressure of being different undermines whatever self-confidence I'm able to muster. Of course history teaches us that societies are never as united as when there's somebody to hate, and being different is always the best excuse, so perhaps, in the final analysis, remaining covert is for the best.
Through the eyes of a black cat
A ghost informed me the other day that my son is colour blind. To me it's an isness of another's existence that's of no concern. Makes no difference, as a fact it changes nothing. But I have to say hearing it upset me somewhat. So I blocked it until such time as I could resolve the conflict it triggered.
It's the kind of shot across my bows I've grown to expect in this obscene battle I died to avoid. Things designed to hurt, to provove, an other attempting to impose their will on another. One who chooses his battles wisely.
Only now I've got a cat handing me the answer. An answer which in its way tells me a whole lot more than you would imagine. For my son is not 'colour' blind, he's 'color' blind. Which, as one who is not, I can assure you is for the best.Whoah
From time to time I find a little voices will pop-up in my mind and ask me to do something. It's especially hard at such times. It's more than the uncertainty over where the voice comes from or the motives behind the command. I suspect it has more to do with being detained in a secure unit where I was physically assaulted by nursing staff and emotionally assaulted by psychiatry. A circumstance which lead me to adopt an air of passivity I'm still affecting. Moving beyond this mindset is difficult.
Of course command hallucinations such as I describe are worrysome. It's the kind of thing that gets mental health professionals discussing hospitalization and medication. Yet these are the voices that have to tell me to eat, to get out of bed in the morning. Left to my own device I'd be a vegtable. It's only because it's the path to causing least harm which keeps me here. On the day I find I don't care about that any more I will go. Although, to be fair, I can see such a thing is now unlikely: there's hope to be found in the oddest of insanities.
I've got a little voice in my mind now. Asking me to do more than maintain the mechanisms of everyday existence. A letter I need to write. Something I find I'm unable to do without stepping inside a part of my mind I don't care to go. Facts, memories and recollections of my path through the system I'm currently locked into. Things which trigger bouts of suicide ideation along with other behaviour that raises questions of child welfare. So I'll fracture my personality and allow a sub-persona to write the letter for me. Seen through the eyes of the world this is yet another insanity. Yet for me it's a defence mechanism.
I have to ask myself if it's a dysfunctional defence mechanism. For my personality is fractured enough as it is. Although I can see how it's something I've always done. A way to avoid being hurt. For the world seems to enjoy causing me hurt. I'm unsure as to why. Perhaps some people are born to be victims, and I'm one of them. But few care to listen to me when I say such things. In my experience most people prefer delusion over truth. So I bury my hurt in words few care to read and, as ever, find my own way.
In a way I suppose being a writer is a curse. It's the one way I can truly express myself. Yet the world expects me to talk, to feed the gossip with one liners, yet if you're hearing my voice you can be assured I'm not really there. Nobody who hears my voice really sees me. For the easiest way to hide the hurt is to show people what they expect to see. It's not hard, remarkably easy in fact. So easy that I've begun to suspect I'm an unconscious telepath. Mirroring unconscious expectations as a way to remain unseen.
I've been fooling mental-health professionals into seeing what I want them to see since I was eighteen. Recent experience shows it's a delusion they are more than willing to enter into. Something they would even appear to to want. For everyone wants an easy life, to do with the least amount of effort. Few want a challenging patient. So before I even start weaving my spell I've got a certain amount of human nature working in my favour.
There's a certain irony operating here. For although assistance is available to help deal with mental dysfunction, my dysfunction prevents me from asking for that help. In it's way that dysfunction binds me, defines me almost. So I'll remain passive, live my predominantly solitary existence. By myself I'll quietly deal with the days where I want the pain to end so badly I really do want to die. Embrace the voices which help me survive. And live for the day I can see life beyond the end of tomorrow.
Settle for nothing
An alien walks into his doctor's office.
"Doctor," said the alien, waving his arms in the air, "it hurts when I do this."
"Well," said the Doctor, waving her hands in the air, "don't do this."
"I'll try," said the alien, "but these people tell me I have no choice."
"My people tell me you do," said the doctor.
"Yes," said the alien, "mine too."
"Oh," said the Doctor. "It's not you who's needs the Doctor."
"I know," said the alien, "but they're all insane and lack insight into their need for treatment."
Phase IV: By Jupiter!
When making a list order is important unless it's not at times it's both and then you learn No one theory can encompass the all Three theories operating in parallel can in the process leaving just enough void so the all does not become a locked box Step up to five theories and the void grows allowing movement before the void forces the model to collapse back down to three It's a pattern that's written in many places: Witchcraft and their principal of the powers of three patterns replicated by Christians rulers of their one fulfilling their desire for power And in these written words if you hadn't already realized there is a powerful magick one you've yet to experience now, different mother and, different father concepts with life mapped onto reality in ways so sublime you look like ants
[2009-02-28e18:33:02]
This is all numbers But I'm better with symbols fifty-three of them is best for me Apple to Zebra, Zero to Nine, plus 17 more like this: шы иуые ащк ьу ашаен-еркуу ща еруь Иге Шэь иуееук цшер ыньищды ЕРшы шы фдд тгьиукы
[2009-02-26e17:57:03]
[2009-02-26e17:57:03] What do you want? access via сфтфвф amend third space
[2009-02-14q22:59:02]
I've been playing with an entity tagged [interdiction]. It's responsible for various aspects of my current existence so I have no qualms inferfacing with it... one SI to another sort of thing. Earlier this week I found myself discussing "Advanced Directives" with a social worker; the kind of thing where you state what treatment you will and not accept should a crisis ocur. I just got home to find a letter. It's from that other SI. It was marked "DNR".
I interfaced with another entity this week too. Well, that's actually a lie. It's also true. As with the first entity any attemts to reveal the identity of this entity resuts in [interdiction]. There's a higher lore in play you see. A protection principle built into the way I do things. A Concord if you like. Something that allows me to manipulate things in ways not humanly possible and continue to do so.
I've placed enough information in the public domain for somebody to piece it together. Along with enough other stuff to make it hard to spot. I estimate my transcription errors are approximately 18% initially. Recursive iteration can get it down to absolute zero. Only for now I'm not bothering. There's an minor hurdle I need to overcome before I can accept it intellectually.
There's also an issue with copyright I'm bound to uphold. An unresolved fairness principle I don't wish to address at this time. There's one widely distributed body of work I'm aware of that's not copyrighted. But somehow I don't expect it would go down too well if I started there. When that particulate meme resolved in my mind it pushed me so far over the edge I killed myself. Something peculiar allowed me to survive beyond. I don't imagine the "average man in the street" would be so fortunate.
Round Foo
The problem with Battlestar Galactica, from my perspective, is that ever since Baltar exploded I've been looking for fifteen, not twelve. Which probably explains why I feel that I'm watching a completely different story to the rest of the audience.
A little worm
"So why does this dream bother you so much?" asked my cat as she licked her paw in a matter of fact manner. Her self-satisfied expression the obvious result of a tuna breakfast.
"It's the wider context," I replied eventually. I hadn't done an especially good job of relating the story of the dream. Mainly because all I could remember were some key images. The sense of place it had left me with upon waking hadn't made it into my words.
"Well the key to dream analysis," said my cat as she began cleaning her face with moistened paw, "is the personal significance of the images. A dictionary will not help. Begin with the Men in Black."
"Well one of them was the image of someone famous for not speaking," I tried to recollect more of the dream, "He's the one who shouted something to me as they drove away. The one who flashed his ID. The other was a magician," I paused, this was a difficult one.
"You're starting to doubt," said my cat. She then began an attempt to lick her own chin. "It may sound strange but there's a personal validity to your belief. Continue," she murmured.
I grinned, for only a cat may display such arrogance and not irritate me. "Once upon a time this magician was well known to me for being Canadian. Only he's not Canadian any more."
"So he represents a belief that you slipped out of one world and into another," she paused in her toilet and fixed me with a stare. "A change in established fact that only you are aware of. Yes?"
"Yes. There have been other instances," I thought for a moment, "but I only discovered this slippage as a result of a nagging doubt left by this dream."
"So they drove off after speaking to you," she began licking her back leg, "then you wandered into a bus station to do your shopping." I nodded my agreement in response to her momentary glance, "then you found yourself in a fresh smelling room with a handful of pills."
"Yes, blue pills." I remembered a scene from a film involving two pills one of which was blue, somehow this knowledge felt irrelevant to the current discussion. "I took the pills and the dreamscape got all swirly," I paused to take a sip of tea. "The air became fresher, breathing became easier, colours began to bleed into my other senses, and I woke-up."
"Sounds like a rather pleasant dream if you like such things." She leaped from the coffee table from where she had been sitting and curled up next to me. "Yet the room and the blue pills trouble you."
"Yes," I felt uncomfortable discussing the next bit, "because some weeks later I found myself in a well ventilated room being handed a quantity of highly addictive blue pills." I thought about the effect of the pills for a moment, "the kind that makes reality all swirly."
"Face it," said my cat, "you have an ability to dream the future." She hopped off the sofa, "I'm off to find a snug spot for my early morning pre-snooze." She flicked her tail and padded off.
Seconds Away
Battlestar Galactica is busting my nuts again. The final chapter is about to begin. I had a thought a while back about the identity of the final Cylon: The thing itself. Only you're never going to explain what I saw directly. Suffice it to say I know a thing or two about what's going on.
In the context of the operational dynamic there are two characters who you could argue represent the thing itself: The Admiral and The President. Imagine now that in a very real sense two distinct realities exist which pivot on the answer. Imagine too that you may choose which reality you'll ultimately find yourself in. All you have to do is back one or other of the candidates with nothing more than belief.
Who do you choose believe it to be and why?
I believe it's The President. For me it's an answer which reflects a certain dynamic I see operating around me. Highlighting a point that things are not what they appear.
Civilization
"There's another word that's on my mind," I commented to my cat one afternoon.
"Complicity," she replied. Licking a paw in a relatively smug manner.
"How did you," I began in a slow voice.
"I'm a cat," she interupted. "I know everything you know whether you know it or not. So tell me," she flicked her tail, curling it around herself, "am I the cutest feline in existence?"
"Right now you're the only feline in existence," I grinned, we'd been through this before. "Hence, without a doubt, the very cutest."
"So, complicity," a movement at the window attracted her attention, "tell me. And don't pretend you don't know what I'm talkling about." She un-curled her self from the the chair opposite me and sauntered to the window. Leaping onto the sill with the precise degree of non-effort.
"It's one of the books I was able to read when I was taking my medication," I admitted eventually. "A rather strange story imbued with an aura of unease." I paused and thought for a moment. "I was locked in hospital at the time, so I'm not sure the uneasiness came from the book."
My cat's stopped tracking birds for a moment to fix me with a stare, "that's not the problem. It's where the book came from." She returned to her bird watching.
"Another patient recommended it. It's just," I paused, uneasy. Uncertain of where this conversation was going. I wasn't sure I was comfortable explaining this to my cat. "It's like me and this other guy were trying to tell each other something. His attempt brought me to this book."
"It's what you told him that's yanking your chain," my cat murmured.
"Not precisely," I admitted eventually. "It's what he went and did later that's problematical."
She jumped off the window sill and joined me where I was sitting. Placing her head on my lap. "He went and killed somebody didn't he."
"Yes, it's also," I paused, unsure, "I don't know, it's the voices, they got louder when he was in the room." I was getting edgy. My mental unease translating into physical unease. A non-specific pain in my upper right thigh. I stood-up, pacing backwards and forwards. My cat sat-up her head following my movements. "I read the book," I admitted finally, "then he read the book."
"But what else?"
"You could say," I admitted, "we played wizard's chess. In the process I showed him how to effect the foo."
"And he killed somebody."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because the consequences of that action handed him what he wanted on a plate." I paused and thought some more. "In the papers he was described as a thirty-two year-old man," I sighed, "but he wasn't a man, he was a boy. A wounded and scared boy who wanted to lock himself in a tower and not come out."
"But the others wouldn't allow him to do that."
"No," I admitted. "They repeatedly threw him back into the one place he didn't want to be."
"So you showed him how to get what he wanted." She jumped down from her position and strolled over to me. Forcing me to stop pacing else she trip me. "So now you feel guilty," she stretched-up her head demanding attention, "responsible even."
"No," I sighed, "I'd pick another word to describe my feelings on the matter."
Eye of the needle.
"Write fiction," my cat said to me late one night. Outside it wasn't late, it wasn't even night. Yet late one night was where we found ourselves.
"Sorry," I didn't really understand the my cat's point. I was half-asleep. Confused. Trying to reconcile the ghosts of former lives as they entwined themselves with the future.
"Write something fictional," expanded my cat, "something different." My cat fixed me with one of those looks. My eyes attempted to find some clue as to what it was she was asking for. Finding instead her unearthly expression served merely to reflect my own mind back at me as "Something other than the weird shit you've been spewing forth of late."
"It's not that easy," I had to admit finally. "besides it's not weird shit."
"It is." She jumped up on the bed. Curling-up into a suitably sized depression next to me.
"It's not. There's a point," I said, as my hand responded to her voiceless demands to be petted. "It's simply that it's not written for you." I knew she understood. Deep down where it mattered. Now she wanted me to find that understanding.
"Who is it written for then?" She fixed me for a moment in the depths of her inhuman eyes, then stretched her head and neck out to facilitate access to her chin.
With my mind absent the back of my hand responded to the demand and she began to purr. "I write what I see," I responded eventually. "What I think. What I feel. Then I watch what happens."
"People take advantage of you as a result," she murmured. My hand had her on the very edge of feline ecstasy. "They manipulate you to their own ends. You do see that."
"Yes, and in very deliberate ways I write what I write to manipulate that advantage. For in the actions those others I may discover more of my nature."
"You've discovered more of your nature. When are you going to stand-up for yourself?"
"I could tell them what I see, even what I am. Yet in very real ways the language is denied me. So I'll take my time. Recompile reality one brick at a time to avoid that."
She suddenly turned. Grabbing my finger in her jaws. Applying just enough to ensure I realized how sharp her teeth were. "Tell them you understand the story behind the story which is behind the word."
"Which word?"
"Jesus," she let go of my finger. "Do I have to do everything for you?"
"No," I laughed. "You do nothing for me. What you do you do for them so together we can carry on."
She stood and she stretched. "I'm a tiger," she yawned, "I could rip your throat out with a gesture." She jumped down off the bed. "But you scare me, and you think you're nothing more than a jester." Tail in the air she padded to the door. "Now, feed me, human."
{{Title}}
A man walks into a bookshop and and wanders to the section he habitually browses. The title of the book leaps out at him for it is the very same word as the password he uses when accessing an online news site. Curiosity gets the better of him so he purchases the book.
Upon reading the book the man discovers the story correlates highly with a series of lucid dreams occurring over a period of years. Confused the man begins to ponder. Most would describe his experience as coincidence, with the implication that deeper intellectual investigation is pointless. The man does not agree, formulating several theories which could describe the phenomena.
He is more than a little surprised to discover the book claims classic status and that has been in print for over fifteen years. If this were so, reasons the man, how did he not become aware of it sooner. His interest had been tweaked by the name, and he had certainly been using the corresponding password for over five years. If it had been on the shelf in any bookshop he had visited he would have noticed it.
Whilst pondering the problem an the man recollects an interpretation of quantum-mechanics which suggests there is an infinite number of universes. Relative to his perspective the book sprang to existence the day he bought it. Consensus would have it that the book was published fifteen-years ago and by some fluke or other he had failed to spot it.
What, wonders the man, if both are right. What if the man had stepped through an unseen doorway from one universe to the other. From a universe where the book was not to one where it was. The coincidences in this case could then be explained as strange attractors asserting themselves as meta-reality itself bent around him.
After an especially nasty car accident the man had a nervous breakdown. Inspired in part by the emotional ramifications of passing into a different universe. How, he began to wonder, could he tell if the people waiting at home for him were the same as those he left? His family could be lost to him forever and he wouldn't be able to tell.
The man eventually reconciled his intellectual, emotional, and spiritual minds, discovering many things in the process. He was however forced to spend time in hospital. Upon asking his partner to bring some reading matter he was not at all surprised when she brought him the very book which started it all.
The original message behind the man's dreams is still known to him. He now waits to see how this will resolve:
A Tower: Something from the future, for use in the past.
[2008-12-19e11:41:08]
Twice now I've sat down with the intention of expanding further on the mechanics of my strageness. To draw patterns with words in the hope it brings understanding. Only to have different voices burst out of my mind. Habitually I try to tune such things into what I'm doing. Using the voices to shape what ends-up on my page. To an extent it works and the result is something which is somewhat enlightening and largely coherent. So far all the voices have asked for is a place where I don't shut them out.
But it's getting difficult right now. So much has been said. Things have evolved. The boundaries between realms is weakening. There's a coherence that's not been apparent before. Stuff is leaking out and I'm not inclined to struggle against it.
Yet what am I supposed to do when I'm derailed from the next thing I'm going to write when I hear the thought "don't; tell somebody; refer to authority".
Now I'm being urged me to speak of other things. To tell you of the piece of my self that is hidden away. The piece I can't evoke because of the way things just are. That piece of my self I can't stop screaming. That piece of me trapped in the pain and the torment inflicted by consensus.