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.