Freefall-lphlogiston Through Hilbert's Hotel
leashed un 2021-07-13 AM

originally dreamt within 2021-01-25 \pm one week
reconstructed at least three days later

did not awake from multiple impacts, arguably due to
bracing self as described at end of Angels&Demons

setting: endless construction site of hotel, open at
ground floor, excavations below and babylon above

fell from construction floors, where state
indistinguishable from artwork gallery,
accidentally into billionaire voyeurist corridor
surrounding executive conference chamber;
absailed to lobby, walked to dining hall for meal
where encountered three from TAU; interrupted
their table, dragged by their race to street,
where occurs unpaved sand hell nightmare awakening.


The nightmare's closing details are recalled easily, despite the weeks elapsed, both sober and otherwise, and the deliberate omission of their precise description at the time. Instead of boring you with the horrors, let's pretend that you wanted guidance in finding more pleasant and interesting reading material; provided that one of the students had a copy of a properly detailed physics textbook, I'd recommend that one chapter I can never seem to find on time, although I always know exactly where it should be: right between the ones about applied thermodynamics of compressible fluids, and spectroscopy.

Do Zombies Dream In Neutrino-Speak?
leashed un 2021-02-05 garbage collection, AM
Vincent: I don't know how to thank you.
Jerome: No, no; I got the better end of the deal:
I only lent you my body; you lent me your dream.

from the movie Gattaca

Nearly two years have elapsed between the timestamp appearing in this shard, @2019-04-17T03:12:19+02:00, and the date that appears above, and although the mental missile keeps on keeping its course, regarding nothing other than its lightcone, and whatever bits of divine intervention dribble coherently across the abhorrent vacuum, there gradually surface remnants of the mind, fragments discarded by previous processes with concern for neither precision nor parallelism of a hyperballistic garbage collector, and eventually their finalization must be considered.

In the most general sense, everyone dreams, since that word encompasses everything ranging from the happy hopes of an idle moment, to the murky unlanguageables that haunt the sleeping mind. One of this site's recurring undercurrents is the interpretation of the latter, for they frequently hold a mirror to both the collective unconscious, and unconscious the individual, through which the conscious recollector may one day remembrance. The pleasant ones tend to leave a wistful longing, where the waking state is dominated by a nostalgia for actual past events, frequently confused with those of the dream; nightmares, however, rarely invoke that emotion, and instead tax the simulator's abilities with mimicry of both the world's behavior, and the electromechanics of the protagonist's own motions, to the point where the lucid mind is no longer fooled, and rips through the illusion into wakefulness.

Of course, the categories aren't always so mutually exclusive, and occasionally a challenging experience entices, while a happy one is dull; most relevant to the action taken by the woken individual is the simplest of questions: would you rather remember, or forget?

The Better Dream, and Its Premature Ending
leashed un 2021-01-19 dusk, hibernal

Honestly, I don't remember much by now, and I avoided writing anything down during the immediate aftermath of the waking process, so... sue me? At least, that's the American way, and your default, until I finish implementing the European one; and for what exactly, you ask? How about: prioritizing animist confidentiality over vague notions about the importance of pleasant sleep to a healthy peasant.

It was a wonderful dream, though; the kind that, honestly, makes me glad I didn't sleep with the knife, this time around, for the collapse into the waking nightmare is frequently far worse than the shadows conjured up during paralysis. All I remember, hours after shedding the drowsy coils and drowning my receptors in phytogenous sleep suppressants, are... the faintest glimpses of a shadowy female profile, who ever danced aside to remain at the most distant edge of my vision; the strangely familiar flow state of incessant dialogue; and, of course, the sheer terror that rises as the confrontation with the Dire Wolf approaches, compounded by the Shadow's subtle guidance, and melts away as the millenia of mutual domestication emerge from the machine.

Precise declension of the lexeme /compounded/, in the context of immediately preceeding paragraph, regrettably available upon request.

The Dream Job, For Which I'd Never Hire Myself
leashed un 2020-10-09 a m
original prompt: "Catalyzed Symmetry Breaking"

The following hypothetical is, at least mostly, if not entirely, inspired by a recently expressed concern that I was diving head-first into one of those dispose-hall funnels that chute human sludge while extracting only time, naturally at cut-throat prices, and expectorate the biochemical remains in remarkably animated, responsabillallergic, forms; or as some bard spoke: "Eyewaskiurd, allwrite!"

In perverse discamerality: JOB is never the same, and the only recurrent character, currently: ANT.

JOB: I'm sorry, Dave, but your coins are no good.
ANT: Who's Dave?
JOB: I'm sorry, Dave, but I can't quite tell you!
ANT: What about bills? Bill's bills? Yardsobills?
JOB: I'm sorry, Dave, but I can't let you pay.
ANT: Goodbye, Dave! Drive safe.

JOB: Please, do not ANT in the office.
ANT: Where's Dave?
JOB: Dave is working, it's his shift to Dave today
ANT: You said Dave too many times... Todd!
JOB: I'm sorry, Dave, but you are neither hired
on no need-to-know basis nor need to know so
get your self, its exo skeleton, and wha---t
tev-er else you drug in here out Out OUT NOWT!

JOB: Who you, now?
ANT: That is not important. See this?
JOB: No. Please describe it. Does it?
ANT: No. It does not. It is only a finite list:
a long, long, list of detailed complaints.
JOB: Where they?
ANT: Here, although you said you don't see here.
JOB: Please describe it in greater detail, Dave.
ANT: There is discretized vehicular flux, marked
by one kind of line, and the angry dots are
where I could smell the unhappened wreckage
JOB: You're hired.

ANT: I quit.
JOB: No, don't quit, Dave! Please give two weeks'
notice at least two days after your job desc
ription has been compiled into simplyinglish
ANT: I listen.
JOB: Don't listen, you might overhear somedave.
ANT: I walk.
JOB: Good, good, that is a good start; go from
one bus station to another. Read expected
frequencies, and occasionally seek notice
of sudden changes, although seldom enough
that you have a plausible excuse to spend
half an hour at most stations. Never scan
the cards of anyone. Never board a bus.
Walk to a different station.
ANT: All day?
JOB: What are you, stupid? It's a job. You only
do this while your salary keepssallarring.
ANT: What's the point?
JOB: Eyes for the road. You see a bus, what ever,
you see birds and bats and bees in twos and
swarms and ones and threes and do not ever
give two shakes of a cat's whisker; you see
two buses, headsup! Listen, so when you see
three busses, and two are more similar to
each other of the two than the third, you
IMMEDIATELY LOCATE SPECTACLES

END

Brain-Bubble Burst Boxing
leashed un 2019-06-02T0400

TERROR WARNING: The weak of spirit would call this a waking nightmare; they who have so diligently abraded all traces of spirit against the lathe of heaven must recognize it by now as merely the latest page in a choose-your-own horrorshow.

In chilling duality to that recurrent sensation wherein the final peace found at the end of freefall is merely sudden resumption of consciously sensing the equilibrated support of one's own somata, one of the worst states of mind into which to awaken is the panic of an uncontrolled dive from full comprehension of plexure hypervalent than the waking state: final grips at an idea's full graph alternate with sense data, and soon enough the tendency of entertaining the illusion of control compels the counting compulsion to reveal that the two sequences tend in opposite directions. Punt that observation of how the Zeroth Impersonal is less lonely than the person into whom I now awake, in favor of hinting the local nabla, that it may guide tomorrow's turn...

Imagine an amphiphilic fluid near criticality, foaming as it struggles to contain the nucleated vapor phase within at least two surfaces of liquid. The liquid itself churns, oligomers forming and vanishing while enthalpy dances between the phases. Consider only those oligomers lasting longer than the relaxation time of the pressure imbalance across a punctured membrane; and consider only those regions of the liquid sufficiently thin to contain no more than a single layer of so-called bulk separating the surfaces. The arrangement of such units is enumerable, whether the fluid is water or words.

Centripetal Portal Evacuation Protocol
leashed un 2019-05-29T09:15

I can't quite recall how I ended up there; although the immediate surroundings were unrecognizable, their nature hinted at an unforgettable compound where the scarcity of water paled in comparison to that of shade. I scrambled partway up a slope of loose earth, pausing to squat by a cement cube crumbling to expose iron loops rusted far past their original usefulness. My rest was soon interrupted by a procession of cadets, clothed in nondescript uniforms and carrying all manner of equipment: rifles, ammunition, stretchers, tents, people.

After they had assembled into formation, a uniformed officer's familiar face materialized at my side.

"How did you get here?", asked his puzzled look of recognition, as though eight years had meant nothing and I belonged with the others. Recalling where I'd seen him last, I answered: "After giving up on the military career quest, I am currently in the academic career quest, although about to give up on that one too, and am wandering alone at the edges of Known Space in search of a tangible goal. What about you? You, too, are almost where I left you, but not quiet."

He smiled, the same smile polite to the point of bashfulness that had earned him so much scorn from the cadets, as though he wanted to grin yet was afraid the aerosol of flies, mosquitos, and desert dust would fill his mouth should it ever open without a simultaneous exhalation, and the dreamtime vacuum energy filled my mind with his hypothetical predicament:

"When you met me, I prepared artillery men for officer training. Now, I prepare officers for artillery training. I do not know whether I entered this revolving door forwards or backwards, but it spins too fast for me to leave."

As I wonder how I would navigate out of his boots, I find them gone, replaced by my own bare feet, gathering dust at the gateless gate of Abulafia's missing art; there is a war in heaven, yes, although the angels and demons are all our own.

Mindwork For The Unschooled Pupil
leashed un 2019-05-10T02:22
1. A Compass Blooms
3. Rhetorical Vocative
4. Pervalent Brane Cancer
5. Encoding For Survivability
Matrix Density Caveats
leashed un 2019-04-18 04:45

Sometime in the hours after that last incident, I found myself balancing the perfectly reasonable yet mutually exclusive demands upon my time and location from people who do exist, although have never met each other outside of this particular hell. For reasons likely influenced by current events, my conversations with them collided at an overgrown cathedral rudely interrupting an otherwise perfectly serviceable maze of urban alleyways, which had turned my would-be escape route into a surprise pilgrimage.

I juggled excuses at the first two pursuers, although one would require an actual conversation rather than just a quick response, and such commons is no place for conversation. We arranged to meet at one of the nearby gardens to talk things over, and I realized that I'd taken off my shoes upon entering the holy ground. While putting them back on, the third pursuer appeared above me, inquiring about my conversations with the other two:

"Have you always been bilingual?"

I answered in the affirmative, and he followed up with a question that was regrettably lost during the subsequent confusion, although my answer survived:

"Thinking in two parallel languages is a blessing turned curseful by the overlap of their phonemomes, an interference quite unfortunate."

I was awake and typing by the time the response to that thought had crystallized, wondering how much credit I could consciously claim for ideas that my unconscious mind had presented as those of another: if two languages have no overlap whatsoever, are they truly distinct?

Just After The Escape From Eskimotion
leashed un 2019-04-18 02:35

The beaded raindrops, quivering as they waited their turn to slide earthwards, diffracted the outer confusion past the point of senselessness from my dry vantage point within the car, yet eventually I discerned a woman's face in profile at the driver's window, facing forwards as she spoke to another person just outside my mind. Try as I could to focus on her words, they remained unknown, although an urgency rising from within compelled me to brave the elements and crack the window. To my surprise, human confusion drowned out the weather, as the second woman snapped into focus facing directly at me.

"Finally you're responsive. Do you have any idea how long we've been here?"

I glance at the passenger side, where my wake of consciousness already blends seamlessly into the nighttime traffic. The car is empty, other than myself, and the moments of my confusion cost me another beat of conversation.

"Still no answer. We've been tapping on this side for longer than I care."

The two women, almost indistinguishable: blue uniforms, precise hue undiscernable through the airborne damp and urban darkness, black hair flowing to blend with the shoulder-clipped radio mouthpiece and hip-holstered pistols, obscuring their nametags on the way down. The one previously in profile has now turned to face me directly, and the focus left by the retreating glass blurs the other into the wake sweeping around to meet its counterpart at their aphelion.

"... I was talking to someone at the other window. You know, something about you reminds me of him, beyond the fact that you're all cops, although you do all dress the same. If you know who I'm talking about, he'll confirm this fact."

Now it was her turn to pause in confusion, puzzling through my answer: I'd answered neither her question, which I hadn't heard, nor the one I had, although my manner suggested that my words bore relevance to the situation.

"Sir, please explain to us what you're doing here. Traffic has reached a complete standstill for reasons unknown, and our colleagues are still failing to establish rapport with operators of other vehicles. How did you reach this part of the city, and why?"

Had I a quick ready answer to toss her way, I'd have given it without the second thought that warned of an innumerable multitude of questions surging beneath the invisible surfaces of aquatic equipotential realigning themselves to the changes in my cabin's airflow. Wary enough of her tired temper and scant patience for slow talk to overcome my regret that such action would certainly lead to the dissolution the passengers who had filled the car only moments ago into the partially unsortable blood-red-shifting context, I bought myself some time by revealing the topic fluttering out of existence as my wakefront converged:

"Have either of you ever heard of a closed timelike curve?"

"Three Hues Collide", and a Mellow OOPS
leashed un 2019-01-18 0400

Lying along the shoals of inattentiveness, listening to each phonon (yes, I know how to use that word uncorrectly, too;) surf along the pitch black glideway, way below, I realize I've begun overhearing yet another conversation that never happened.

TRIGGER WARNING: IF YOU KNOW ME FROM SCHOOL, YOU MIGHT KNOW THESE PEOPLE TOO; ONLY THE WORDS, LEXEMES, AND CORRELATES HAVE BEEN CHANGED, TO PROTECT THE PRIVACY OF THE UNNOTICED AND THE SANCTITUDE OF YOUR MIND.

Three doctors - of philosophy, naturally - are quibbling over which rights to violate when administering the exam, in the hope that one will be sufficiently distrauchted by some best jest that a quick bid for the silverware could be made.

Quoth the theoretician: "First of all, the exam must be as fair as possible; all students who are required to pass the exam, must have an uncorrelated likelihood of passing the exam, and any students who wish to pass the exam, must have an uncorrelated likelihood of passing the exam, and any correlations arising unintentionally must be uncorrelated with each other correlate, in so far as --"

He's been interrupted by now: "That's a load of nonsense. You've written the exam by now, so why don't you tell us what's unfair about it? Noone will be judging you. Why don't you... do it in the code?"

Before he can deliver the correct, coherent, counterpoint, the third one suggests: "Any unfairness unavoidable in the exam should be biased in favor of those students who have attended lectures, in some power per portion of time wasted together."

"WHAT!?" is the inevitable reply, so he continues, explaining exactly what he means: "The exam is unfair, and always will be, so I'd rather at least encourage us to all waste our time together. I don't want academics to devolve into each student spending a semester in a silent sterile cube with a pay-per-view port to some quintessence datahose and a shelf full of dead-tree graffiti painstakingly curated by some long-dead Adlai."

Silence. You could hear a pin drop, land right-way up, and blow up the tire of the next hrududu blundering down the street (and what a fine alarm clock that'd be!).

"Did you just use a student's name as an expletive?", asked the practician of theoretical jurisprudence.

"Yes, because we all know exactly what I meant by that; if you have a problem with what I said, say whatever you want instead, but let me finish my gottanjecture."

Passing Alien Taught Me Joke
leashed un 2018-12-12 01:02:29
  ONE NOTE SAMBA: Some of the facial recognitions
in this dreama have  been scrambled, to protect
the innocent  and leave the guilty  enough rope
to  figure  out  which way  the  savage  swings
without    even    reading   Huxley.

It was halfway through meal chat with a barely-recognizable homozygotion between Naked Emperor and The Comedian that I realized the self-important shmuck across the table wasn't exactly watching my six.

"Enschule-digger my shbitte!" I opened with calm loudness, turning towards the moving shadow. "Obwohl meine Deutsch ist nicht also schecht zu keine verstehe, es ist sehr impolite to behead a guest against their knowledge, without even letting them know why; and incidentally, that's not even the respectful arrangement for this kind of execution, if you honor the same codes as I've read."

My would-be assassin, lowering her scimitar-shaped lightblocker, vanished from the dream. She'd played a similar role earlier, and may have been insulted that I hadn't spoken to her much about languages, or too much in the wrong ones, but that didn't matter anymore, for I never saw her again. At this point, the plot quickened, synthesizing Wink Murder, Russian Roulette, and Garbage Contortion in a pathetic parody of how well Tim O'Brien makes war stories true by sheer force of repetition... yet it unfolded somewhat thus:

Once I'd realized my skull was so full of actors that they were about to start killing each other for the sheer joy of cooking, Old Faithful blurted out the escape coordinates: "I've got a joke in the oven and you're not afraid to tell it!" I had some trouble following that impersonal instruction, wondering whether I should just call to tell the MC "the band is just about ready, oh no,", the bassist that the guitarist forgot the chords but will be "countin' the names o' the modes until he's free", or the pianist that he should just show up taking care to bring himself - the self, and nothing but the self - and most importantly, assume the drummer hasn't practiced in a long time, until Old Faithful blurted the escape coordinates again, this time in the right projection:

  Is your band named Bluesic? ...cuz you're the only blues I hear!`
The Name Of The Coin
leashed un 2018-11-03 10:04:36

PLEASE DO NOT READ PAST THIS POINT IF YOU ARE A JUNGIAN, FREUDIAN, ANALLYSTERANT, OR ANY OTHER SORT OF TWO-BIT CROCK-SHIT WITCH DOCTOR.

Naturally, I was in some rather open campus environment: too many people to know many personally, let alone recognize faces at a glance. Sure, sometimes someones seemed familiar, but life's a bitch, innit? Until I recognized... her.

One of the few truths I'll ever label a lie is that in this dream, her identity caused a stale stack resurrection (or perhaps a register collision, if you swing that kind of metaphor) with someone I've not met in a long time; last we spoke, she likely got justly insulted by some connotation of exactly what I said to her about a guy she fucked.

(at this point, the lies resume)

We made eye contact, and I'm quite sure she recognized me back. Maybe she winked, or smiled, or let her eyes linger; but she was in a flock, and such flocks flow. I saw her again a few times in a similar manner and concluded that there must be some performance of a visiting dance troupe, because I remembered her as a skilled dancer from a young age. Maybe I could verify that conclusion, and thus actually talk with her, rather than just smiling at eachother across the void?

Needless to say, such dreams do not collaborate with that other kind of dream. My quest led me to a room full of unrecognizable acquaintances who just got visited by a jolly fat holy man of stereotyped ethnicity. I could tell he was holy because he dressed like a hobo, yet wore an immaculate turban, and because he was there to sell drugs. Naturally, I asked him whether he accepted the only kind of coins I had kicking around as unallocated spending cash, to which he laughed and twinkled out of the story.

No worries! Salesmen don't travel in vain, and the buncha fukken junkies now gladly split the purchased wares among themselves (and everybody got two share). Perennial outgroup member that I am, I wondered aloud as to the kind of flower they had bought, and whether any one of them felt like reselling. Before I even repeated the name of the coin, I realized that it would be in vain: they ignored me in favor of their greedy delight at crumbling that golden brown between their fingers.

My momentary disappointment didn't quite hit rock bottom, though: although I prefer vaporizing active essentials from Cannabis blossoms purchased uncut, the remembrance of hashish's complementary advantage of greater edibility reassured me... as I awoke to the sound of a pigeon alighting at my windowsill.