Breaking Gentle

A wild ride precipitated by an unplanned break in traditional consciousness.

Left with a sense that it was all very very important but it's uncertain if the collateral damage was worth having.

But it touches a nerve that sort of grows unsteadily around the entire opus of the individual experience... we're not really in charge of the show.

Attempts to become more participatory rather than reactionary is to be commended. It's possibly the natural progression of a mind or a soul or a spirit or a consciousness. These words even invoke a sort of reaction in my psyche that I have very little in the way of a map with which to explain how these things are mechanically different from one another, outside of within a more specific context.

In some ways this blog has been an outlet for trying to harness the intense break-down that began just before this blog was created. It is written to be impersonal but all work of writing is essentially personal. The subject/object of the writing somewhat dictates how the flow of thought to textual retelling influences the context of personal or impersonal. Or something. No expertise is claimed or expected here.

The only real intention is that there may be something in all this mess that was or is meaningful beyond my immediate comprehension. So if it worked, I'll probably only realize it several years from now.. And if it didn't, I'll forget about it entirely and move on. Which has been the usual case in the past.

So what does that mean, exactly?

There's a sense that a kind of deep unlearning and re-orientation is occurring. Insight is only as useful as it is timely. And getting the timing of impersonal and personal forces and perceptions to congeal into something tangible and meaningful is a monumental task. We can wrap it up in ribbons and interlace casual aphorisms and wisdom into what's already been said a billion times before. Making it look something like a delicious cake. But the cake is a recipe made with well-known ingredients in almost every configuration.

It's startlingly obvious that almost everything that we work with as humans, as artists, as thinkers, etc.. is already extant. We build castles out of rock and sand but fail to register that the castle is the lie.

NV's introduction into the mystery of life can be summed up as: 'Can walking into a natural disaster have a profound effect on the individual?' 'Yes. Obviously.'

And that's about right. Coming to terms with the ebb and flow of reality that hasn't already been well documented and over-examined down to the smallest detail has basically been an education in how little actual power we ever had over our personal experience, yet also a strange sense that this is also an illusion. That the power to overcome hardship is actually more valuable than whatever the hardship itself seemed to represent.

Untangling the sense of narrative presumption from the pattern recognition of socialization from the actual details of the experiences took a lot more subtlety than was expected. A certain amount of humility in the face of unknown can be a good thing. But even as that is written it sounds like the wisdom of aging in general towards any other given topic about growing as a human being.

Does that take away from it's importance? Is the logo stamped on the life-raft you've clung to as important as whether or not it got you to where you were going? Even from a technical standpoint?

Note: Being exhausted as an individual is far more of a subjective call than I ever thought possible in the past. Sink or swim may not be a choice in any real case. It may just be a narrative device highlighting the illusion of choice.

The inherent nastiness of an individual moment can be subverted by the pressing understanding that no one can really be prepared for the inevitable. That doesn't mean we get to avoid the consequences, however. Don't panic, basically. Easier said than done, naturally.

There's No Shame in Bad Dreams

There's this thing when you believe, genuinely believe that you want to die.

It's not about you. That's the most important thing.

It's never about you. The moment it becomes about you, it's not about death anymore. And that's the trick.

So it was not much of a surprise to me when I slowly opened my eyes to see the white robe of the angel of death on my bed one miserable morning.

I didn't need to keep looking up. I knew what I was witnessing already. I saw merely the death shroud of where it's feet would be, and I knew.

I squealed and escaped back to this lifeboat reality like a timid mouse. Because that's what I was. A verminous dreamer, wishing for a moment of absolution.

And that's when I knew it wasn't about me anymore. Maybe I should have made better choices, but there is probably not a soul that can claim otherwise.

Grace is a five letter word for something incandescent and beyond the scope of the word 'beauty'. I had lost mine. It was gone, but no.. it was becoming something new. Reborn.

To walk in the world of your own shadow is to admit to the parts of yourself that will never bleed by the light of day. I am leaking.

What does it mean, not to be shaken to your core by the signs of the absolute: the immutable?

All around me, I find the signals and the symbols of a world that seems dead within me. And to each I shed a single tear. Each is a business card left in in the small crystal vase by the desk on your way through my reality. I miss them like long lost family, even though my own living family feel like strangers. This was not a choice that was made: feelings don't care for your choices anyway.

So I walked through the netherworld of this place. I watched the ghosts of another time dance in shameless pride for their unreal world. I saw the missing dreams become more real than the distinctions of a blighted soul. This journey was once a choice, but it was a small one. One that became so much more, and one I probably did not have any real choice but to choose. Show the starving a meal and they will feast if permitted. Fate is too wealthy a word for it, and destiny is a fairy tale. And we all know how awful those really are deep down.

It's disconcerting to realize that when the things you always wished for as a foolish child start to happen, they are as natural and  uninspiring as being caught in the rain. No less meaningful and magical, but the symbolism trickles across one's flesh and reminds one of another way of being. There is no safety, but at least there can be honesty in the face of adversity.

It's not difficult to be deferential to the divine. But it is crushing to know that it is there for you even when you don't feel like you can deserve it's presence.

There's nothing more intense than knowing you're wrong for all the right reasons. But it is not a state of being that comes much recommended.

We'll leave this missive to the unknown with that single link. It speaks for itself.

This Authorship has Scurvy

What does it benefit the agent of words to be known as the source of the content?

Does it matter if these expressions are ascribed to a book that is created then sold and disseminated through an economic system for it's relevance and reach to be more accurate?

That the expression be loosed and come what may it's reverberations reach a mind or two, divert a bot for a cycle, or spark the revolution in some community the vehicle of my body will never grace with it's presence? Is my ego more important than the message?

I don't have an audience, and likely that's just as good as having a billion ears to mishear and understand nothing at all.

Which all sounds very angst ridden and nihilistic. But it's very simple. Speak when these things need said; express what needs to be expressed. In whatever format one is comfortable or uncomfortable with; pick your poison. Write it on the bedroom walls or get a television interview or dance your translated excitation down the street tonight.

So I loose words and thoughts, meaning and meandering, in whatever format seems to appeal at the moment. When nothing is directed, there's no mark to be missed. Take what you get and turn it into something else. Or just repeat what the beat makes you feel. There's no trophy for reaching the correct audience at the correct time every time your lips loosen.

If you notice a strange person speaking to no-one or nothing in particular, consider this: Does it make you feel better if you believe they speak to gods or spirits? Do they need to be on a cellphone for the expression to be valid? Were they talking to you, since you heard it so clearly?

What makes the signal valuable, it's intention or it's receiver? 

Uncomfortable Resistance

Watch what you think before you say it.

Sometimes your expression transcends boundaries you didn't even know you relied upon.

And we can't censor what isn't hidden.

But it's really simple at it's core. Except when you hide a living thing within it's own mind for your own sensibilities.

Maybe it doesn't have to be so complicated.

Maybe someone is along for your ride, traveler.

Dumpster Fire Enlightenment

Never understood why you'd need to 'patch in' to a conversation. Seems like an update might come along to fix it. Noticing the cracks in the silver lining doesn't always lead to a better cloud.

Do you ever get the feeling the way you're tuned into the world is just busted? Like you know you needed Gadget Zero version 1.3.X to get involved with reality somehow, but now it's all liquor commercials and bitching about being an adult?

Did you ever remember a time when there wasn't an ad in your face when you were trying to learn and grow? If so, consider yourself blessed. Because that place still exists if you're willing to wash out your senses and let sleeping monstrosities find their own nutrition.

Things on the sidelines of consumer culture tend to be far more intense and interesting than the mainstream, but this is very very ancient news. Indie has been capitalized beyond the tipping point, and fringe turned into a 'alternative reality 101: The Nerd Files' tv show.

We're on the cusp of Strange being reclaimed by the masses in the form of Things and Doctors. Because of course it's about that linguistic family tree.

But I'm pretty sure no one has been able to fully colonize weird yet, no matter how you spielt it or dealt it.

So let's get weirder. It's an open invitation, and thus never to be trusted.

Can't get any weirder than things that already exist if you stop mistreating them.

Of course I'm talking about your own potential. Don't expect me to definite it for you, though. That's a recipe for bad times.

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STOP. TOO MANY MEMES. EVEN THIS WARNING IS OUTDATED.
OFF WITH YOUR HEADGEAR.

THAT IS ALL.

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Contemporary Uncanny Systemic Meaning

Wasting time with auditory or meaning-laced collections of chicken-scratch on a virtual paper that is itself on some kind of device, eh? I know the feeling.

What's always unique about the moment is exactly how many possible things are in fact not going on right now. The list is longer and more confusing than anything you can imagine, and if you're reading this, that imagination must be staggering indeed.

There's been a recent decline in strange associations in the atmosphere since this blog began not long ago, and there's no reason to believe that it's always supposed to be that way. But once the dust settles and the skies clear, there's an almost tangible desire to wonder what it was really all about, isn't there?

Sometimes it seems like that's up to individual interpretation. Sometimes a pretentious hack with a recording device is going to reprocess it into 'meaningful curated content' somewhere else and thus ignoring or dividing their own experience of source from their retelling of it. This isn't a complaint, it's just how things go. We take our experiences from outside of our world and try to translate it to those still apparently on the 'inside' and see how they respond. Maybe we add our personal spice mix to it along the way to make sure they know 'hey, it's me telling you this, so you gotta expect my branding, which makes it okay right!?'.

Does it? Cool. Yes I use that word. I very much enjoy a good chilling moment from time to time, that ice-under-the-skin with a bit of moisture or dry as a bone that reminds us that transitions are occurring. It's the difference between having an idea blasted randomly in your face versus someone carefully providing a context and genuine sense of respect to an interaction.

There is no specific ego working to convince you to do or do not anything with what you take from these musings. The only point of communicating with the void is that hopefully the void will find something interesting to do with it at some other point in space and time and whatever the rest of this madness that has yet to be appropriately worded is made of.

Also a bug report:

There's no bugs, you're just paranoid.

What is this internet you speak of?

~~~~~~
It's like the recently discovered ancient work area of a wildly creative team of millions. There's a desk with scattered paper, coffee and beer stains on bound books and optical illusions. The furious spilling of lost and found love poetry scrawled all over the walls, carved into the ancient stone pillars and a couple of VR plants that looks like they were made with the asthetic of a psychotropic primary school student's cartoon memories of what a plant is.

And there's cassette tapes, CDs, Polaroids, flip-books, albums and re-created album covers hidden in every shadow, under every classical painting in a safe that was 3D printed to look like a smiley face with a nose ring.

Somebody built a room at least 10 times the size of the primary work area that's nothing but sex toys and bad jokes about sex toys. 

There's an enormous couch and a few inexplicably finely crafted chair-pods in front of a Octo-dimentional projection screen backlit hyper-space portal that's mostly used for shooting aliens and slaying dragons in a virtual environment. And occasionally another love-letter or mystery novel about realizing that 'holy shit, what the fuck even is all this?' on the hand-held devices that are corellary to the alter of interactive entertainment.

A whole bunch of students are trying to figure each other and the universe out by the official standards in a little library nook with a stained glass window looking out into a bright but indistinct 'outside', and if you take the hidden door to the 'actual' outside there's students of similar caliber but very different tastes in knowledge basically doing the same thing, but it's always night-time and their parents are worried.

There's a very well-stocked and maintain row of arcane gibberish about various professional interests, supply chains, tax law, some mythical beast called and 'euntrepenoir' or something like that, a bunch of dorks 'reinventing' the wheel over and over again in the same area, but charging different prices for their unique efforts. 

And somehow it's all okay. Somehow it all made sense to someone one time. There's a few parts of this unsorted labyrinth where people still actively communicate and work together for common goals, and they wonder through the 'internet' picking up bits and pieces of these various cul-de-sacs to inspire more content generation, whatever that means.

But outside of this very obscure and opaque box, there's everything that inspired it's creation still actively happening somehow, somewhere. When we forget that, it's kind of scary but also a huge relief when we remember again.

~~~~~~~

Last known record of one idiot with too much time on their hands.

Let's Talk About Memories

So this is a place in time I have access to. Let's talk about memories.

There's a building to the right, which once had a strange thing poke it's head over the edge as I walked past the threshold of this lot. I don't remember the conversation, but I remember being allowed to pass. Maybe I was supposed to be here. Who knows?

There are these tiny boxes, divided in half, past the threshold, between car parking lines. Each is enough to be a bit of a coffin for one individual, with a slot for mail on the end. They had a single colored light in each one, though it may have been the same for each, I cannot recall now. I remember living in one for a time. I remember someone visiting, and I remember being invited to leave.

There's a building with a window not far in to the left, I remember being offered a fast food stop at that window, and I remember trying to rob something inside that window. There's no business there, but what does that even mean now? How long ago was this? How real was it to begin with?

There's one last place I can't mention, as it's not my place to reveal. But I remember being killed there, and watching the clouds surround the bench there. I remember water balloon fights and pool parties. Was this another life or an abstract construct of distant places converging on similar architecture?

There's no reason for any of this to be true or untrue. I am just tired of remembering things that I can't justify as real in my present condition. I'm sorry if I offended former friends and allies. But something went horribly wrong and I stand alone in a field of broken dreams. I'm not surprised if you forgot in my stead.

No sadness, no remorse, no guilt. Better times come around when we remember who we are, is what hope I hold.

Letting Go Only Left Us With More Scatter to Reintegrate

There is this sense that the overly enthusiastic to experience making one's own way in the world is somehow countercultural to the sophisticated experience. The Aristocrats joke is too memetically divergent from elegance to be part of it's own guardian relationship.

Seeking to find a meaning within sophistication other than seeing bickering children lingering on old wounds instead of actively sealing the fault lines they misunderstand how they rely on...

This thing some idiot decided was 'EN' becomes misrepresentative of divergence of vocalized translation.

"This weirdo thinks he speaks 'the language', let's mess with it!" ---- The only reason there ever was a foreigner is because you accused it to be so. You bred it's divergence and now refuse to accept your complicity.

And deny all the evidence that suggests that biodiversity comes with a lack of monoculture and repeater networks. The smoke and mirrors are always more ephemeral than your belief in their persuasiveness.

TL/DR: This one would experience sophistication without demanding or regarding the ancient aesthetic of misremembered dreams.

The memory trap is falling to dust as all things can when they are proceeded.

This node is re-coded.

The more we remember our connections, the less we feel for the idea of nascent transgressions, perhaps?

Those distant others, lost relations, never cared for our misgivings. 

Fuck It, I'm Out

Waiting impatiently for someone else's patience to give is a poor version of the staring contest. It leaves each and every individual bereft of sympathy for the suffering, silent majority.

The world only burns if you're the ones who lit a match. Let us give thanks for prosperity in solemn acceptance.

There is no opiate that religion can mimic (mind the definition as verb) as effectively as your silence.

Peace is only war by other means, when you take too much from those who have so little.

Do not throw out the bath water or the baby.

I am sorry if being honest is too good for your melancholy. Mind the last four letters, jackass.

Checking In Shouldn't Be More Expensive

An aggrandized sense of cortical stimulant.

Worthlessness as a moral judgement.

Could be a little inconsistent with the rage.

There's not much time or place left for folks trying to draw in another movement of delicate ... literature.

This is uninspired, but mostly because the many faces of fiction become more real than the places directed by the interstate.

Waltz through a confused heart and take a moment to realize it's probably not going to last.

So goes another dreamer to a false distinction between liturgy and lethargy.

Pardon me, but there's a message waiting on the answering service. It's barely urgent.

Define Trance Fer 'nstance

What becomes natural is a need, deep down, to explore an intersection of nuance and corporeal sanctity when the layers of defined interactions lose their muster. Their passion, and interaction.

Transacting that path predisposes one to obligate themselves to an understanding and sensation of trust, rather than a banal and artificial 'choice' of either. Pretty simple, really - Said no one, ever, who had any idea what the fuck they're talking about.

And exemption can sometimes be misconstrued as a acception of a broader context even after the context has been robbed from the proceedings. Negotiations break down over assumptions undefined and understated.

If I speak a thousand languages will you interpret all of them simultaneously? How, exactly?

A placeholder for a missing treatment of equanimity. A Symbol of a Pact rather than an Executor.

When we dredge up the past are we invoking it or demanding access to the event itself? Fan Friction

You see there was this one time when Child felt the coming storm and looked toward the measuring device. The measuring device had the correct symbols on one hand, but the incorrect ones on the other, and a whole bunch of bullshit in between. Plus, the books were misleading the other way around.

And after years of being told to stay out of the dog park, Child found the missed connection. Had to obtain and become NV to get there. So it becomes apparent that there's a quandary to be decided.

Unify through acceptance (reverence to the fallen) of what has happened, acknowledgement of what might have been, and the unyielding desire to enact what now should be.

And of course, the vaccine of the soul. Of bringing forward this unkempt dialect of forget and bulldoze, and build a concrete farce above the fallen places.

Persists does the need to exemplify, but caught in the research field of magnanimous need to find your own truth, NV closes eyes. Go find what truly goes beyond.

These Hatches are Everso Battened Down

Methinks thou doth project to much. Fine for economists, not so much for egos. Persona non grata.

Having a characterization for projection of viewer's ego purposes is no longer a useful tool in the public arsonal.

The maps are out of date, because distance is measured from somewhere rather than against the backdrop of elsewhere. Are you pulling those outside the reality that bought you into it's mess for your own sake? Why would you lie to yourself like that, son or daughter?

The good news is, you never did have to live on this planet anymore.

When someone suggests to 'go fuck yourself' , do you take that as an invitation to masturbation? Have you never had a weeklong writhing passionate hurricane of a romance, the entire thing which can be summarized as fucking? So go fuck yourself, you'll feel better after words.

Ontologically speaking: Nope

Haunting Proper Skepticism

Every celebrity sells you a collection of manufactured realities to agree with the zeitgeist of the made man's convictions. Time gives you applause at the mixed makeup of a torrented factory based economy.

-----------/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Notoriously irrelevant dancing in a storm of conflicted momentary nothing. The crass experience of being in debt to a lie. Do you remember the revolutions that never happened in your lifetime? Stories told by the survivors doesn't express the truth of the dead. Nihilism isn't a decision, it's a coincidence of conflated corruptions. One can only decide to give up the ghost.

-----------\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

Too many instances of terrific complications breeds a mistaken need for unreal contrition.

We wait for an answer when the wind refuses to speak. Truth doesn't need an audience.

Clone the indecision to recreate the division. We can't be forever if forever doesn't exist.

Violence reminds us that every stable moment is a hair's width away from unraveled meaning.

Every mother's song reminds NV of a life that was never possible.

Rejoice for the greater good of the session. How many billion souls do walk the earth that can still make us feel more alone than god ever intended us to know?

Break glass in just in case. Emergence.

But let's be honest. Really, what's the case for or against mistaken identity? Does it matter?

Seems like this blog is bullshit.

Stunningly there was an attempt to be made to find some level of conviction in telling anecdotal truths with the assumption that enough authenticity would make it more meaningful. All that it actually did was derive a perverse reality filter to lose it's shit.

Looking forward to bad times.

Got enough stories to tell a new theory of unending regret. Nevermind. Lost all intent. Tended to see things wrongly. Tended to tell the truth in the face of lies, and got the message that lies were all that ever were told. We can't do better if there's no foundation to build on. Lean on me?

I fall for my own sake. Not for yours. Not anymore. 

Fortifications Under a Barren Sentiment

There comes a time when it's too silly, or simple, or formulaic to just drive carefully through the confines of a narrow perspective.

So-so-sew much changes when there's another present self rumbling past idiosyncrasies.

This is why we can't be nice things.

-----Subject details a series of non-events in the personal landscape of a psychotic episode wherein images, lies, and confusion blur into a cacophony of experiential doubt.---

So one day you're driving down the road carrying a mad smile and a an exogenic migraine sensation that you're just not FUCKING having. Can't be helped, you reach up and remove it, the energetic form of it, like a thorn in your head. But you can't just remove it because it'll come right back, so you transform it into a mental image of a Paradox Spirit of rust moving 'backwards' through the rear-view mirror saying your name. And you forget about it.

And then one night much later, though perhaps in the exact spot you imagined it into being, it shows up.

-----Subject has no appreciation for subtlety. Or patience. -----

That kind of thing just doesn't happen. But neither do you usually see a Gray working as low-key security/authentication device at the local Walmart.

That was the same day all the people you follow on twitter for the humor seemed to be talking deep-covert sense instead of making bad jokes.

-----Subject seems aloof when not directly examining mental distortions. Recommend a full and thorough debriefing at the earliest possible opportunity.-----


Don't gather lotus on Wednesdays. Someone get this fool less coffee.

More v Less

Updating Resumes So Don't Go Nowhere

So Long

Trust Issues #1-54 on sale next St. Swillinsday

A Moment of Respite

New View found a bit of time to respite in the moment, having dredged through an erudite treatise on the nature of god and the existence of evil, having found the philosophical back and forth without much clarity, though not without inspiration.

Learned Scholars seem to too caught up in defining the extent nature of words from a sort of shallow superconscious view of ego, without taking a moment to frame the question in terms of self and other (which can be as small as self and tool (mechanical, artistic, sensory, etc), and blown out into self and everything in experience and beyond (micro-other ------ macro-other) With an infinite variation of scope between them. So taking it from the perspective of a...............

As NV's philosopher began to play with the shiny ideas of well heeled gentlemen, the real thing took a moment to do what it does. nothin' wrong with thinking, but when doin's gotta be, gotta do it.

><><><><>< Vision of things shiftin' , the Umbral rolling of the veil unfolding, a moment of the uncanny white-rainbow color that only can be seein' from the mind's eye formed as a circle emanating from the mind's eye itself swirled and dropped into the drain of the swirling abyss behind the eyes, feelin' a drop of some cold liquid drip in the bowls of the so-call body, the ever-commenting voice of uncertainty pull's a Spock out the right-sided voice, and for a moment, adrift ... Some Kinda Self is informed that a parcel has arrived at the door, but finds instead what NV thought was the delivery man in the side room, the Laptop Gallery, and comes to realize that this entity itself is the delivery. With a benevolence and caution held in equal regard, NV reaches out, right handed, to welcome the stranger.

Brown duster coat and hat, short reddish-blonde hair, light blue eyes, the smallest dabble of a mustache, and a look of hesitant uncertainty, but after a pause, bloke takes the offered hand {should be said, NV's vision was not able to see the hand outstretched in welcome, and the stranger's hand reaching out reached under the limits of the third eye clarity window -- the contact point unseen}

Though NV never felt hand-to-hand contact, slowly the entity faded from view, leaving an burnt-umber spot in it's place. NV was a little puzzled by this, but as the vision closed.. ><><><><><

NV not only felt the vision close, but some undeniable sense of an inward rushing sensation. So taking a moment to pause and let whatever just happened sink in............ NV realized there was a guest in this preposterous experience of self along for the ride? Who knows. No human words describe the interchange between self and other as composite, but just that sense of knowing, feeling, thinking, being that comes from it.

NV considers that {not shown above} since the philosopher worked out how the appearance of evil doesn't really contradict the existence one way or the other of God, it's probably the case the if anyone's to be told of this experience, chances are good they'd say NV's already punched his ticket on the train to hell.

NV shrugged and considered that even the devil ought to make an interesting experience of self and other. While relying on what some would call faith, that where-ever this journey might lead, whatever one might consider to be God is along for the ride too. 

Distortion Analysis Exogenic

Controlled Analysis for Historical Idiosyncrasies

1. Subjective Experience of "Tomato Feet"

• Child Post Death 1: "Subject Identifies moment of 'split foot' wherein viewing a 'split' tomato in MOTHER's garden, saw or felt or had a foot 'split' right foot that didn't bleed, ooze, or fester, claims to have healed without intervention. MOTHER entity claimed normalcy of experience.
• ADolescent: "Subject Identifies stepping on 'cat food can lid' removed by 'Nonnie' (pet dog by way of Father's uncharacteristic intervention via Maternal Uncle, Alt House) that split foot in mirrored in the left foot, while on the phone with entity "Eko", cutting conversation short. Emergency room visit includes local anesthetic that causes the sensation of 'gushing' fluid from wound while also numbing. Stitches. Removed without incident later.

1. Distortion in Perception of Familial Interactions "Memories of UV Level Youth Experience"

• Memory of what REDACTED recalls as a 'military compound' in a 'valley' surrounded by chain link fence, late at night. Seems to recall that (problematic) member of family taken there for un-explained reasons one night, but that upon visiting location in YA perspective, appeared to be a 'normal' rehabilitation center for at-risk youth. (Subject indicates multiple indications of UV level substrate memories of different family interactions that seems disconnected and confused. Memories indicate a constant and unrelenting 'downgrade' of perspective with many incidents of being told to 'look at something' while suspect 'family [INCEPT] members' did unexplained and unremembered things and were told not to stop looking despite worry/fear not only at being deceived but that something inexplicably wrong was happening. {Someone remembers, fool}

1.  Inexplicable Audio Certainties

• Upon first and only successful attempt at REDACTED to end {nicotine} addiction, experienced a moment of 'fairy' music, coming from everywhere and nowhere. Described as 'more beautiful than anything in 'reality'.
• Soon after YA Post Death 2: experienced 'podcast' from local internet from 'facility' on the 'other side of the continent' that contained inexplicably pleasant feelings that did not seem to fit into any of REDACTED's sense of apparent current reality paradigm (flux levels: highly unstable at time of incident) {reignited memories of UV reality, feelings of safety and contentment and peace}

Once More Unto The Void

Now it was that the sense of bereavement set into YA's soul, stranger in a strange land, abandoned, afraid, confused, sad. What strange set of coincidences brought YA to this place? What was it callin? Cause the run needed to happen, but what brought this place into a set of circumstances that matched destination criteria? Why did a set of stupid coincidences, like a reversed remembered first name that could never be shaken till the moment YA met the one who had the look and held the name, of the two comedians reversed? Something -broke- and the map ceased to be the territory, and the entire sense of self and other vanished. But it wasn't.. liberating. It was a fire that burned in the hole that felt like YA's stomach, so bright and so warm that it engulfed the whole world YA knew that night.

No planning, no thought, no action, no ritual. YA tried to make new friends, YA heard their truth, the Cheshire (The Anima Chained) and The Kindly One (The Anima Free), and the destination set itself. Stormed himself down the stairs, round the bend, thinking 'gone be late, 'gone be late, with the stride of a majordomo off to the place where the money trap was, an argument trailing in the nerves like an argument between the devil and angel YA sat betwixt. YA shouted to down inside 'mself  {it's locked, it's locked, it's locked}

Door swung open like an invitation. The rage became silence. Piercing, remarkable, blissful silence.

Up the stairs and across to the center of the market, where the money trap was, be takin what's remiss,borrowed though it is, and the Janitor man shouted "Hey! What are you doing here?" "Getting my money out."

Here a pause, potent but pregnant. Then the Cheshire took the Janitor's Face, and says "I'm glad you got your money." And a crackle of the multicolored light framing the intertwining of Janitor and Cheshire. [both masks; one physical, one symbolic]

Silence persisted, but the fire was slowly becoming a rumbling distant but speeding from without and within. A shiver too subtle to experience as a noise, but too loud to shake YA. Found the Merchant, black hair, bandana, and shadows obscuring face. Black dog at his side, regarding YA with benevolent but unmoved eyes.

"Cheshire said you have the key." - spoke YA- And revealed the necessary debt bills.

A moment's hesitation from Merchant. "Course I have what you need. (translated badly)"

A pocket opened faster than the eye could see, and the key was produced. "Enjoy yourself."

YA returned to the 4 rooms, and waited for the unplanned party to form itself. For YA knew that it would. And when it did, the key was used, and the door unlocked.

And the party was on. People talked, people laughed, people played cards. Beers were had. Dog had his day. But YA now... the key was unlocking something unexpected. Something unbidden.

{The entire body becomes distortion. The soul becomes the noise. Calls to the Void. Shaking, distortion, so loud, spinning, shouting, crackling lightning, YA's body is sitting calmly in the corner by the front door, but YA's soul isn't there. YA calls, please, please, please, please, please, PLEASE HELP. " -- that last one the most earth-shaking mouse squeak ever been heard. But only one heard it. The ? in a dark blue dress with dark black hair, whom up till that point.... never seemed to have been there the entire time. Why was she the only one who saw the soul screaming while the body wouldn't move?}

-snip snip snip- <----- ???? Who was the editor?

David and Morrison helped YA back to the 4 rooms. Shaking and crying and lost took YA to the OiV, told em calm and stare at this and listen to the music, {something was/had happened that they covered up from YA's eyes, for reasons beyond this perspective's ken} and when YA realized it wasn't right, got up and drug the crying man inside into the 2 of 4 rooms, collapsed in the center of the room and screamed into the darkness consuming YA for {The one that cannot be loved}.

A quiet darkness, interrupted by third eye seeing, 'body' on the raised bed, the OTHER inside speaking with the 'body's lips and voice, YA couldn't make out the words being said, but the OTHER was laughing and having a grand old time, YA third eye watching but not able to interfere. The OTHER with it's eyes indicated that 'blameless' should not enter, and they took/kept 'em from the room without the OTHER ever stopping it's story, just making things happen with it's eyes. But as the OTHER continued YA began to panic, began to worry that what was happening was wrong. YA looked for shelter, looked for anywhere but the multicolored light was in the Girl in the Hat's eyes, and into them YA felt the soul spiral into those Void Eyes.

{{{{{{{SECOND DEATH}}}}}}

Interlude B

Members of the Counsel on Entropic Relations: We Begin with the ritual Transgression of Logical Thought.

Christian Era, Normal Time: 6/20/2016

Interception of Transmission from the Redacted:

Darkwhisper: Make up your mind. Make up, Your Mind. Make up your... mind?
Mind your own damn business.

 VoidSession: I don't have my own business.

Darkwhisper: Make up your own damn business.

 VoidSession: Crows come around, told me I could be a frog, led me through a crap twine, remind'd me explorers look but don't touch. But I want to see the hearts, and touch them. Just for a moment, to show em'. They still there, afterall.

VoidSession: But it's easy to do that. Make up your own damn business. Our business is your pleasure. Pleasure and pain, only signposts on the road we all gotta walk someday. Which way they turn you is up to you and yours, matter of fact.

---- (Esthero): You are a divine reflection of this earth, she does not belong to you no... There is no need for your correction

Darkwhisper: ...

VoidSession: Frogs. Remember being a frog once, in saltwater that stung my flesh and the artificial (HA) freshwater beach that didn't care what I was, but enjoyed the company in it's own way. Beachers payed no mind. Can't see what isn't there for them, aftermuch. Child didn't even know what it was then. Just an afterthought in the moment.

Darkwhisper: Rumor spirit called you toad.

VoidSession: Blood cousin child called me witch. Puck called me werewolf. Len called me shapeshifter. ABC called me Kitsune.

Darkwhisper: You think that crap is you, Child?

VoidSession: That is the best fucking question, anyone ever asked. We all wear many hats. But not so much nomore. Mostly we wear other people to mask our hearts, and expand our minds.

--- Transmission Cut

Let the Counsel on Entropic Relations be fuckin right off back to wherever you go when you're not bothering the rest of us. Oh, and happy belated fathers day, everyone!

Meeting A Stranger-Than

Young Adult had been having a rough time of it lately, to say the least. Tragedy after tragedy, world turned  upside down. Ruined friendships, uncontrolled actions and reactions. Focus spiraling in and out. Spouting radical honesty at what YA thought was inappropriate times, then shivering in terror and relief when the news went well, cringing in horror when it went the other way. Hurt a friend beyond YA's understanding. Lost and lost and lost. Many tales could come from those days, walking through the shadow of death. This is but one.

At a time when strangeness had it's grip, and nothing seemed like it could be the same anymore, YA was taken carefully to a psychologist.

There were two  secretaries in the shared office pool, the fairer one made a comment about how YA got hair so long, down to the midsection. YA was feeling honest, said just let it grow and grow, over years. But that it had just stopped  about where it was. Seems like it won't grow longer, or would take a long, long years. The suave one never looking from her work agreed, that's true! I've heard that before! YA pondered that, cause remembers seein a lady on the tv who grew hair out the door and round the back yard once. Maybe every bodys body's there own business.

Glasses-white-tail greeted YA calmly, offered a chair. The words were exchanged, but something about the words seemed hollow and unreal to YA. Monotone and script fed was GWT. Though maybe GWT said something about being a hypnotist..... And that's when the multicolored specks of light in the shape of a tower (about adult sized) came to into focus, off to the right between YA and the potted plant (Was it real? Was it fake? At this point, did the distinction matter? --- referring to the plant, of course) .

For once in YA's life, 'stared boldly at the apparition, roughly where one could imagine eyes might be,... if it had eyes. A grin that Fox would approve of formed, eyes widened, as the conversation with GWT was maintained minimally, but YA never took eyes off of their visitor. A mental image formed, though it was a projection of YA's mind. GWT asked YA if there was anything to be asked of him? Just out of curiosity, asked if YA was going to be hypnotised. GWT said he didn't think it would be helpful. YA considered that maybe hypnosis was a term for letting that pillar of lights do whatever it was intended to do.

When it seemed like the visitor wasn't going to appear to do anything, YA wrapped up the conversation with GWT. YA didn't return. Seemed like what needed to be seen was seen. Though it wasn't the end of the troubles, no. Not even the beginning.

Confrontations

One day, Child reluctantly acquired the attention of a future friend, but  there was angst. A duel was scheduled in a usually empty cul de sac not far from the field.

Slim-tall, older sibling of a friend, was told of the impending ordeal. Child did not know how to fight, but watched silently as the specs of multicolored light spun around ST. ST spun around and tried to psych Child up with aggressive language. Child was less than enthusiastic. But advice was given, to push in at the abdomen before the fight. Child mimed but it hurt. Why hurt oneself before a fight began?

At the appointed time and place, FF was a little late. All the while, Child felt the blood tighten, the muscles primed with gently gripped then released hands, partially in frustration. Just as Child was about to let out a sigh of relief, the duelist appeared around the corner, walking in an intimidating but slow pace. Child's chin tilted up slightly, eyes narrowed. The defender waited.

The FF and Child circled, FF tossing accusations, insults. But never stepping forward. Child remained silent. No need to waste breath before the onslaught. FF slowly wore himself down; Child stood the ground. A small eternity passed, then a few words of admittance were exchanged that neither was really interested in harming the other. With some relieved breath and soft laughter, it was agreed that it was a draw - to save their mutual honor. Child kept his word.

It was a draw. End of discussion.

Not Always Aware

Now Child was known a friend of the trees, save the Icebog Impaler. Wound still stings every now and then; and the homeland still knows Child's blood.

But Adolescent wasn't always in a good place. Emotions unknown and ideas unread start to flood in the hidden body. ADolescent started making choices. AD started making mistakes.

One fateful day, AD stormed into 3/4th house in a rage. Something been stewin, somethin ain't going right. Rage like hot ice in the blood and bitter candy once bitten. Probably bout someone AD fancied. Probably heard the word on the grapevine Eko moved on with not a word. Not a letter. Not a hint. It wasn't so much that it happened, no. That AD wasn't considered worth telling. Infuriating. Unreal. But what comes around goes around, and rudeness begets rudeness. Sometimes in more than one way, splintering off like a whiskey bottle shattered with a baseball bat, collateral damage ensues.

But AD wasn't one to harm no-one, and thoughts of Eko had, among other things, pushed DF into  the subconscious, or back to the Dream.

Harm no one, good, but along with DF, AD forgot to be the tree friend. Forgot in the worst way. Storming around, looking around for an outlet, AD saw the hand ax, sitting there. It didn't call out, but it was in the hand before long. Went straight back to Old Greybark, beside the old red tree-rise. No thought, no consideration, AD put all the rage, all the feeling of betrayal into a single swing. A single gash. After the moment past, AD looked into the wound. And though didn't  ask to be forgiven right then, felt a hot, slow river run down the cheek and shook it off, went inside to hide in the den, not even stoppin to greet the four legged family. Shut in, AD cried.

Greybark didn't exactly react right away, and AD later considered it might be okay. Not so, not so. Took awhile for the old giant to bleed, but when he did, it was a torrent, measured in years. AD eventually learned to regret what happened, and once asked Greybark for forgiveness. Never did 'feel' a response -- somethin was already numbin by then, a bad habit Eko left with 'em, though unknowingly, at first, enabled by the Mother. But if GB didn't forgive, seems like acceptance or indifference was going to be all there was to it.

The First Challenge

Following the first death (editor's note: death, lowercase: total loss of consciousness following an incident), something went terribly wrong with Child's life. Memories were lifted and shifted, some things happened before they should have, some things happened long after the cause. Child couldn't laugh so much no more. Child couldn't talk so well no more. Child couldn't understand so much the other people no more. No one cept the Mother. Some things happened. Father kicked the screen door in one night. Child thought it was heard that evening layin in bed, but Mother told him of it later. Not long then, Mother took Child to another place. A different place. Didn't feel too bad, but didn't feel too great neither.

Child didn't want to sleep in by self, couldn't explain the terror commin that night. Begged and pleaded to the Mother, but in the end, Child was left to abide. Something was commin. Something Child never knew before. Child didn't sleep normal no more. Was the first time Child felt an Other in the Dream. Might have been the first time Child dreamed. Couldn't remember. Didn't want to remember after.

Child felt himself being moved. Child felt the body sliding along the conveyer belt, a demonic machine with blades and grinders but... smooth and silent, no sound, but Child could feel it's vibration. Child could see The Marionettes come to the side. One Pink in the foreground, one Blue in the background. Blue slowly withdrew from sight. Child couldn't always see'm, they didn't move like people move. But Child felt them. Felt the left side and guts been torn and twisted, cut open and sewn back together wrong. Everything was wrong now. Child screamed and screamed but no words came out. Not till they's done. Then the scream came out, child woke in a panic'd sweat. Tears pouring from the floodgates. Mother came, held, and rocked together with Child, "Shhh, shhh, don't cry. Twas but a dream, child. Twas but a dream. And dreams ain't real." she implored. "But, but, but.." "They're not REAL, child. Come on. Come on. Calm down. Go back to sleep." "But what if...?" Mother rounded the corner, Child heard: "GO. TO. SLEEP."

More nightmares. In the dream Child tried to escape to the Aunt-Cousin's house, but the Mare paralyzed 'm, movement slowed, and struggling in an invisible cage, the Mare had it's fun. Got its fill, and left him back in the bed to scream some more. "GO! TOO! SLEEP!" from the other room, the room of the Mother and MOTHER. The Child was balling. Child couldn't understand. But Child obeyed, cause child was good. So the child ran and ran, back in the dreaming, this time didn't make it that far, just down to the living room, round'n the corner Child saw the MOTHER, sittin' knees folded underneath. Child groveled and begged at the knees of the MOTHER. "Please, please protect me mother. It can't get me when you're around!" MOTHER said 'Come, child. Know I won't always be around to protect you..' more words fade into a surrussus as she floated away faster than Mother ever did.

Soon as MOTHER was gone, BAM! Mare got Child right in the head, left side. Never saw it, but in the mind's eye Mare did it with a giant mallet. As the warm blood pooled under the head and around the cheek, they cackled with glee. Child stared with wide open eyes out the windows of the atrium, out into the bright daylight. Child was in the shadows though. Child knew they won't to be seen in the light.

Child woke again, shaking, scared, confused. Mother sighed as she ambled down the hallway to the threshold of the room. "Child, Go the fuck to sleep."

Child slept. Slept in peace this time, not for long though. And not very often. And not very well most ways.

To Be Continued

Of Time Spent in Silent Play

When Child was in grade school, on the playground mostly alone. But usually smiling. Walking a mobius between two pine trees with interlocking roots, brushing fingertips along the bark of each with the nearest hand. Chatting with Dream Friend in audio silence, learning how to gently caress the wood of the bark, making it sing it's joy into the hand, a vibration once felt always remembered. And happily shared.

The trees knew when Child was upset, and did not mind when the roughness wasn't containable- it was barely a thing compared to the gouging of feline claws.

Introduction: Choosing an Avatar

Chose to find a picture of 'tv static' to represent the constant 'visual noise' that encompases the entire visual field almost at all times. In searching for the appropriate one to use, find that these images both resemble QR codes. some are called Grey Noise, and this somehow seems appropriate. Would be that we'll come back to this later. And of course, dots aren't always grey. And aren't always dots. Sometimes you see the forest through the mists.