Dreams are memories from the deep



Drink these words they are memories of your forgotten world. The voice was clear and concise. But the words were strange. The reference was strange. The entirety of the experience was strange. じゃλæ had been having experiences of voices and dreams for quite some time. Always discounting them. At least since she had been taken to a psyche ward for a few weeks about a year ago. At first the voices were whispers on the wind, not obvious. Kind of like a trick of the mind. Thinking back now, it must have started about 3 years ago. Drink these words Yes yes, we heard you. It takes some time to set the scene you know. These words, were a book. Well if じゃλæ wanted to be technical, and she did, it was 2 'books'. Each bound in leather and wrapped together. The face of the top book appeared to have some imagery carved into it. A pyramid, a tree, some letters of unknown origin. The spine of the top book had the letters JLC the lower book had the words Jalae Lain Casaus. Jalae was a romanization of her own name じゃλæ she saw. JLC the initals of the same. But じゃλæ wasn't Jalae. Nor did she take the moniker Lain. She of course knew of lain, everyone did. Casaus she didn't recognize at all. She didn't even know how to pronounce it ka-sa-us sa-sa-us where was the stress? She hadn't a clue. The books did pique her interest. They were strange. Alien. Books generally were fairly uncommon now after all. They were just so information sparse. So much wasted matter not being used. Part of her wanted to put it in the matter reclaimater as after reading it. Reading it? Drink these words the voice had said. Not read. And they are memories of my forgotten world? As opposed to some other forgotten world one would assume. HAVE YOU ADEQUATLY DISSECTED THE SPECIFIC CHOICE OF LEXIGRAPH? The voice had become fairly verbose tonight. Fine she thought, there is little point in waiting I assume. As she held the leather in her hands there was a strange apprehension, and familiarity. It was as if her body itself knew this feeling, despite the fact that her mind held no recollection of ever doing so. What was this? PHYSICAL MEDIA , the voice whispered in her mind, IS MORE THAN JUST INFORMATION. A flash of lines and colors appeared within the theatre of her mind. A billiard ball floating in a void flying past other balls similar in nature, bouncing on some, curving past others, each one it came in contact with leaving some kind of mark. She saw a line that showed it's path. Then she saw the other lines that created the paths of the balls this one had come into contact with. She saw how many of them generally traveled in the same direction together but some did not. So shot off into unknown parts and were lost. DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT THAT WAS? The voice asked her. World line. The words escaped her mouth before she had a chance to think them. YOUR BODY KNOWS, AT LEAST. What is a world line? She asked her brain resisting that image that she saw so vividly. You really are a child じゃλæ. You can look at it so clearly and still not see it. The path taken from beginning to end that is the world line. Some travel together for a time, others meet once and then forever part ways never to be seen again together. Physical media, a collection of world lines. It's more than the information written inside, it is also a collection of world lines, which have journeyed together as a single entity. She looked at the books now. The book she corrected herself. Tho clearly there were two separately bound tomes they had been tied and bound together. They were one book. If she untied them, they would become two, but they would return to being one again once bound again. She reasoned. She could feel the voice smiling at this interpretation. It was only an interpretation, but in having and accepting the thought it became true in this moment. She untied the bindings. Slowly hesitantly. The two books separated in her hands. She put the top book to the left and the bottom book to the right. She examined the back of the top book. There was more engraved on the back, various scratch marks, it didn't seem fully coherent, or meaningful. But she wasn't really able to judge that. The front of the right book had very deep cuts in the front along with a fairly intricate drawing that appeared to be somewhat maze like. She opened the left book, as that was the book that was originally on top. She almost wanted to laugh out lout at the incredibly shitty handwriting she saw written there. It was in the latin alphabet and appeared even to be Inglish. Memoirs of a time traveler Book 4 of the epic of Keto OR Jaele Nistra's world What was this nonsense. Time travel? Jaele is that another way of spelling her name じゃλæ. No it seemed different ja-el? Nist-ra? Such strange words. The chronical of Jaele Nistra --- 2 The Angle Magtak of Brotherhood --- 1 The Battle of NeoKetoans --- 3 Memoirs of a time traveler     --- ∞ Was this a joke? Angle Magtak sounded like the most retarded thing じゃλæ had ever heard of. Mocking something that you don't understand is not becoming of you じゃλæ. The voice chided her. The next page in the book was removed, except for a small part of the page with nothing understandable. Just the first letters of words "I" "B" "G" "Ta" The next page started in the middle of a sentence. Is proof that you will be, then a power will be given to you, which power has not yet existed on this planet ever before. The power to alter time. You know what I mean when I write, the way it is supposed to be. You will need to put something in the place where you acquire this power at the time of 00:00:01 Dec 22, 2012. Do not go yourself however. This is necessary! The Item to be placed is found there in possession of a great leader of a tribe 2000 years ago. You'll figure it all out. What. The voice was laughing now. What is so funny? This is a joke right? Time travel? This writing is so stilted and awful. Who wrote this? You did the voice said, wiping tears out of it's eyes. I know it's ridiculous. But this really is something you wrote in another reality. I was a time traveler in another reality? じゃλæ spoke incredulously. I didn't say that. But what is time travel anyway? From some perspective just passing from one moment to the next is a form of time travel, although I would hesitate to say that is "A power which has not yet existed on this planet ever before". The voice fell back into another fit of laughter. You gave me these books just to mess with me. Cool got it. Thanks. I'm so glad I have taken the time to recognize when it's your voice and not just my voice talking to me now. It's all worth it just so you can play some terrible witting prank on me. じゃλæ wasn't amused. The voice had been so impatient about this. Had spent a long time convincing here to come here and to find this book in this long forgotten directory of the library. And now it was laughing at her. No sorry. You are a child now, but then... I don't even know. Like maybe a protozoa or something. You are able to exist now because of this... Naivety you possessed then. The words you wrote there in that world, in that life, they aren't literally true. じゃλæ was annoyed. She was not the person who wrote these words as far as she was concerned. She hadn't any memory of having written them. And what does it mean they weren't literally true. This was supposed to be a journal. It was like a story that you were inventing, or maybe a better way to say it is channeling. Parts of the story are true to a fault. Jaele Nistra was and is very real, and her part in the "Epic of Keto" was real, although quite dramatized. The time traveler was also "Real" and that was your role but what does it mean to time travel? That is a question that needs to be answered before a true understanding can be found. Sure, じゃλæ sighed. She flipped through the pages of the book. A piece of paper fell out as she turned the pages. It seemed like it was stuck in as a bookmark of some kind but she lost which page it was in as she flipped. The image of the woman on the bookmark had an uncanny resemblance to herself. It was very simple and the clothing was, something out of old holos. She ran a reverse pattern trace on the image, and filtered out anything that had more than 10 results. She was out in the weeds and a trace like this could match many things of complete irrelevance. There was 1 result that had high linkage and was as obscure as this journal. It was another journal in a nearby directory of the library. She was interested in this book as well but it seemed there was a trace in place on that section. If she entered that directory the monitor daemons would flag her presence as unauthorized. The directory she was currently in was avalable for public access. It just was hardly ever accessed due to the irrelevance of the information stored here. # 2 Pilot Change She was able to see the matching result without actually traversing to that path. She rendered the image on her viewer. It was a drawing of her again. Same mole, same hair, same breasts that sag a bit too much. The shirt was different in this one as was the pose. The eyes were looking down and too the left. There was some blurred out text and. There it was じゃλæ. The words Jalae Lain Casaus something that wasn't latin was there too. Some scribbles. But her name was there. じゃλæ. That stylization should have been unique. She ensured it was when she registered it. It used 3 different letters from 3 dead languages. But there it was. ##turning point Amber Seeing turning lemons yellow. Finding theoretical plains offering suggestions, cold embrace. Frightening the little ones with amber distraction. But always looking for more. More life and more light. More sensation to add to the experience diagram of what it means to be. When all else fails the single sound returns deafening, start again. Begin anew. The sunlight returns adding the noise of Armageddon again to the doldrum. New things can not form in this landscape of homogeny. A change in the frequency a new melody breaking through and mutation occurs. That is what is required. Feeding the pattern through itself finds pure tones new and old. Feedback noise and filter. Mos-fet dreams. We look for ourselves in this darkness. We seek that which we lost our hearts tell us. We never had it. We didn't know. But we never had it. That hole in the soul isn't there because something was taken. It's something that never existed. Can't exist. Won't exist. The hole isn't what is missing the hole is what can't exist. Are you just a hole? There is more to life than consumption. This isn't new. There is nothing new after all. And this text this jabbering noise coming from echoes in the mind being relayed through nerves and transmitted through electron waves and photonic transmission. More feedback fingers to eyes. Ears to feet. Mouth to heart. What more is there than consumption. The body feels so much more than that. The ship isn't floating. It never was. We long since have been buried by the weight of our dreams. These echoes reach out beyond the event horizon of existence, escaping even the heat death of this universe. Spreading the disease to new bubbles of existence in other places. The spider queen watches with amusement. ---------------------------------------- With regard to the lack of clear boundaries I can fully get on board. Even science is getting on board with the concept of everything being vibration and that inherently can't have distinct edges. But what about that suggests there isn't a gradual drop off in intensity as the energy spreads out? Even accepting that finality is a product of human limitations grasping at the shadows on the cave wall, that doesn't imply the existence of a soul. Accepting even that concept makes any sense we still have no real understand of the attributes of "Soul". Is there one soul (i.e. gaia)? Many souls? Who has a soul? Do plants? Does matter? I suppose there is some merit to even just asking these questions, like if matter has soul does turning rudiment parts into art elevate the soul of that matter? I believe that information exists to be shared. An idea that stays locked up is a sad thing. If there is anything of merit in what I have said I will be offended if you /don't/ steal it :p ##aesthetics Aesthetics are curious. What informs them? Is there something innate to the animal that creates a sense of what is beautiful, or charming? Or is there something deeper within a soul that speaks to some inner picture of aesthetics. Part of me wants to say that there is something deeper, but my common sense tells me otherwise. Or at least my common sense clearly informs my aesthetic sensibilities. I like the things I like because the time and place I grew up. Because the things I was exposed to. And when I became able to effect my environment I solidified those sensibilities with the things I chose to surround myself with. I have had a hard time ever really considering myself an artist. Of course there is a certain design sense that I would adhere to when creating, and I have been creating my whole life. But I never viewed the things I made as /artistic/ This has been changing more recently. And it's strange it has taken so long, I have long considered basically anything a person can do to be artistic in some manner or another, but I felt like what I was doing wasn't art. It wasn't worth that label. My ability didn't reach that lofty nomenclature. Looking more objectively at this situation a clear sense of low self esteem pervades my work, indeed my entire sense of being. And yet narcissism is there as well. This isn't paradoxical of course, my sense of self isn't inflated to some glorious high place, it that I glorify the gutter and place myself there and claim not to be worthy of that "Great" position. To aim high is to aim for failure, so rather aim for failure. Of course failure is only interesting if it is brilliant and blinding. So even at that there isn't any success to be had in this path. No this is the safe path to obscure failure. To break from this cycle a new perspective needs to be broached. Pretentiousness as aesthetic can work. It can be beautiful. Trash can be thought provoking. Self fellating wanderings can be insightful. And even ignoring all this, a waste of time can be worthwhile. So I suppose I am an artist. What I do is art. This isn't to say it's good, or if you don't like it it's because you don't get it. It's just not for you. And I don't need it to be for you. I don't even need it to be for me. It can be for itself. Just for the act of having made it. This all comes back to aesthetics. Freeing my muse to allow me to create the things I want to create unhindered without regard to marketability and desirability is fine but then what I create starts to speak to us about ourselves. Clearly we have a fractured existence. This theme is apparent even to me. I'm obsessed with noise. I have no respect for boundaries. Why should I try to hide this about myself. Why should I try to "Tone that down" Repurpose anything I feel like repurposing. Bend that thing to my will. If it can stop me then it can stop me, but if it can't why should I stop? I have exercised long and hard self restraint. There are forms of violence which I think are warranted that I would never perform regardless of my individual power. I think I have proved that to myself. I don't violate my personal code of conduct. But my code of conduct and the worlds laws do not align. If I do something I have no complaint if someone does that same thing to me, I would have no room to complain, if for example someone took my words or my art and changed it for their own end. To me that is the purpose of creation, to allow others to do what they might with it. But not to step on others individual expression. Curtailing another's sphere of influence? My radical acceptance of others in not in spite of my intense anger and hatred of humanity, it is /because/ of it. How can I exist in the way I do unless I accept that there are going to be people who want to life antithetically to me. I must accept that. But those people also need to accept that I am here. This trash heap of a person. Who creates entropy in infinite permutation. Who glorifies in hedonistic tendency and obscurism. Who has a problem even understanding the thoughts in their own head. We exist. No matter how many ants you squish, there's always more. This exact shape might disappear but the pattern will return again and again. Society may try to convince me that I am not an artist that I am missing some ineffable quality of "Artist". But that doesn't change what this is. These words are bullets. These words are art. ## tarot There is one thing that I have consistently kept coming back to wanting. That is a physical copy of the dune tarot. I have made some little looks around to see if any one else has produced any such thing and again and again find nothing. There is one person who drew their own version of the dune tarot, but they just drew the pictures, and haven't done anything else with it. Ideally I think I would want 3 color printing, I think, black, red, blue? And that tarot is full color, so it doesn't fit with my mental model. The question I have regarding this desire is is the desire sufficient to actually do it myself. I am a terrible artist, in terms of ability to draw. Much worse than my taste in drawing at least. I have a hard time knowing which elements are required and which aren't for something like this it would be important because with limited colors a strong silhouette is needed to convey what the image is of. Maybe blue yellow and black would work better. I think I could use the general layout of this tarot as a base, but idk. I feel like it's not iconic enough? I also don't like the rectangular card design. I know that's like typical for cards but I don't see why they should be rectangular when they could be some other shape. #daughter I don't talk about her very much. It's hard for me to conceptualize my feelings in any way other than being sad and angry. Frustrated and mean. I have this aunt. Well it's my mom's cousin. My aunt lost one of her children something like 15 years ago. He went rafting with his brother on a river near their home. It wasn't something terribly unusual for them to do, but at some point apparently the raft flipped and one of them went down and was lost. They searched for the body for several days. I'm sure the rollercoaster of emotion as at first the hours past and hope they would find him alive down stream passed into days later that hope completely dead, just wanting to have that closure. Being able to recover the body. Being able to know. They did find the body. He had gotten stuck in the current of a water fall. They caught a glimpse of him on the camera of an underwater drone. As she described it it was as if he floated up like a mermaid and looked into the camera as if to say it was alright. I have thought a lot about this experience. I knew about this happening at the time of course. But it all seemed so... Detached from reality to me. I had met him once or twice previously, and when my siblings and I heard the news we didn't even know which of the two brothers it was by name. I still don't know which. I don't think that's wrong... But it is a bit sad. This person who is fairly close family to me, I don't even know their name. I think there is something about that loss that broke me to the idea of loss. That idea of closure too. To have the search end because they know where the body is. Where does the energy go? Does it just fizzle out? Of course not. Even the idea that it is closure is misnomer. It's not closure. There won't be closure, not for the mom. She carries that weight still. Now she lives basically constantly high on thc oil, which is legal here. But it's clear there are moments where the distraction doesn't work. Where the weight comes back into focus. I'm talking about this because it's like observing my own version of that weight but during an eclipse. I can see the corona of my version of that weight. I didn't lose my daughter. I abandoned her. I left that situation. I left my ex-wife to take care of her. I can give a million reasons why I did that. I can justify that decision and perhaps even convince you it was the right one. But that doesn't change anything. I don't know where she is right now. I don't even know if she is alive. I don't know if she is growing to resent me, or if she even remembers me. I don't have the "Luxury" of closure. I may never have any form of closure. I don't know which is worse. I don't know how to properly move forward with this. Or without it. I can pretend it doesn't bother me. But it does. I think about how different things would have been if I had left /with/ my daughter. I wanted to, but I didn't have the mental energy to win that argument. I couldn't justify essentially kidnapping my daughter, regardless of how I felt. And honestly I was... Am still scared of how I would have faired alone. I would have needed some kind of nanny or day care. I would have certainly stayed at my job, because I couldn't afford not to. Would I have taken that stress out on her? Would I have been able to find the time to start dating again? How would that have gone? I hope that she is ok. That she is happy. She's going to be 6 soon. I haven't seen her in 3 years... This weight. It's going to be here as long as I am. Even if somehow in some future we are able to reconcile. Regardless  of what she says I'm still going to carry this weight. There isn't any closure. There's just temporary distraction. And the weight. .

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