Archive for the Dreams Category


Posted in Dreams on January 30, 2012 by Phantasme


How should I conduct myself among them?

Posted in Dream Creates Reality, Dreams on June 24, 2011 by Phantasme

It’s all extremely old-fashioned. There’s a sphere made of rock beings, mostly dramatically speciated. Three primary groups… though there are the rather interesting free-martins (if you will) and the hybrid offshoots; however, to return to the essential point, there are the rock-beings: red, the grey, and the yellow.
I should say immediately that though I worked very closely with the red for many thousands of years and of course there are some truly excellent people among them, I like the yellow ones the best.

So now you understand me on that subject.

The yellow ones had a very short lifespan, is the thing, but they were the only ones with a truly communicative way of preserving information. Their interstitial sociobiological, perhaps eugenic morphology yielded quite colorful results once they had absorbed thoughts, and became very human-like, if I could be permitted the observation. Father, mother, daughter, daughter, son, so on like that. Pets, sometimes. All appropriately sized. Only lasted about a fifth of a second each but we all had special viewers, you see, and interpreters, as well. Mine was a very tall man, blue-furred, well-dressed, well taken care of. Very well trained, all of them.

…but this must all be terribly opaque to you. I’m so sorry. I’ll try to be more succinct.

This was how your planet, the Earth, came into being – the yellow people, the red people, and all around them the grey people, formed concentric quilts of living humanoid stone in various phases. It was really splendid and they all did a truly beautiful job with it. Picture one of those things by Escher, MC Escher, you know, made out of stone-people and plasma-people, but rough-hewn. Big-boned, you could say, though none of them had any sort of differentiated internal structures.
You know what it is? It’s the gravity. It really does cause me to become so scattered. Or! It’s not the gravity, but all the many things you people are constantly thinking of, around here. It’s very much like gravity.

“So, you’re an alien, trying to acclimatize yourself to the human world.” Frank wasn’t skeptical, as such, but he needed some clarification.
“Yeah.” Gary stretched his legs out, then pulled his boots off and sighed. It had been a hard day.
“And it’s not uncommon,” Frank coaxed. Gary assumed the same amused defensive posture he always did when he and Frank had a conversation that required him to divulge facts about himself, chuckled, and took off his jacket and hat before responding.
“Not in human terms, no – probably around 100,000 have landed in your lifetime alone, I’d imagine.”
“Well, what are you if you’re not a primate?”
“I’m not so much an organic body as a grouping of informational tendencies. People of my world evolved beyond discrete physical location, per se. That’s our trick for interstellar travel, our medicine, our architecture, so to speak, right there – as well as the basis of most of the forms of culture that people of my sort entertain themselves with.” Gary tossed his wallet onto the large empty spool he used as a table. He cracked his toes and leaned back on the car seat he’d bolted to the floor next to his couch (the back seat from the same dismantled automobile). “I’m different from most of my kind, though – ”
“Which is why you wanted to come here?” Frank interjected his question pretty smoothly.
“-yes. So to speak.” Gary was satisfied, so far, with Frank’s read of the facts at hand, and let out another, longer sigh to get rid of some of the crappy tension he’d accumulated over the day, dished out by the asshole that served as his and Frank’s immediate supervisor in the monitor assembly factory that employed them. Visiconcept Systems Int’l. Inc. wasn’t a leader in terms of production technology, efficient systems, or work environment quality. Its bids for contracts were competitive.
Frank thought it over. Then he asked, “can you just leave anytime you want?”
“Fuck, no!” Gary seemed horrified by the idea. “I figured I’d probably meet my end here, in some way or other, when I made the decision, and I’ll certainly die here – ‘Gary’ will, I mean. One thing, though: I wasn’t born here.”
“Hm.” Frank thought it over some more. “You say that as if it’s a point of pride.”
“Hell yeah it is. Hell yeah it is. It’s the whole point: this is a long way from my planet of birth, man, and I’m not even from a big population center, there, either. I’m a fucking rebel, dude, and I take pride in being wild and free.” Gary spotted a wad of damp thread rolled up and wedged between the last two toes of his left foot and swabbed it out with his index finger. He made a squinting, serious grimace as he did so.
Frank watched him with matter-of-fact but tranquil interest.
After a while, he chuckled. He heaved up and walked lugubriously to the freezer, nobly communicating the ancient evening weariness of the eternal worker. He opened it, and palmed a beer to check its temperature. He grabbed two and tossed one to Gary. “So, you’ll meet your end here, and die here?”
Gary nodded and popped the beer with all-encomapssing gratitude.
They drank. Frank waited for a while, then prompted, “So, would you mind expounding on that a little?” Gary stared at the table and nodded twice, distracted but focusing, attentive; he didn’t answer, though. He seemed a bit confused, as if he had been thinking of something else entirely and had forgotten what they were talking about. He took the draining tug on his beer and got up to fetch two fresh. Frank was used to Gary’s weird defensive tactics, though; he prodded him as he reached for his beer. “Or, perhaps your alien consciousness fails to comprehend the ambiguity of that pair of statements?”
Gary laughed; “I had to make this body pretty much from scratch, man.”
Frank was going to throw something at Gary if he tried to get away with that bullshit posing as some kind of exposition.
Gary glanced out of the corner of his eye and made a placating gesture as he continued. “Society being what it is, I had to make it a pubescent body, right? To be able to, like, get by, get in the system, you know. I didn’t want to waste my time in a fucking orphanage for whatever fucking eighteen years. Because of the locationality of Earth and its animals, I had to do all that from my birthplace, cell by freaking cell, all the way across all of space. But, once I was here, I was here, and that’s that. When this body wears out – it doesn’t happen as ridiculously quickly as it does with the rest of you poor bastards, but it does happen eventually – when this wears out and dies, there will be millions of informational attractor patterns left over, no matter how dead I am. Those, which are me, collectively, will be from here, though, and there aren’t any bodies that I know of to be able to make anywhere else. This -” Gary slammed his fist down illustratively on the spool-table, “is unique in all the universe, as far as I know. This is here.” He brought his fist down a second time.
“Huh.” Frank made a contemplative face which was thoroughly colored with good-natured annoyance at this lengthy yet utterly absurd answer.
A beer later Frank spoke again, mainly in order that this asshole be given to understand that it was not, as he seemed to assume, a settled matter. “So, let’s pretend I understand some portion of whatever the hell you’re talking about. Why would any intelligent… intelligence, from an advanced utopian culture of space traveling information-geniuses made of smart particles, decide to kill itself by elective confinement in this pain-wracked existence of despair and privation?”
“I know, right?! Ha ha ha!” Gary raised his beer and cheered, “Woo hoo!”
Frank was a grim stone against which Gary’s jubilant humor beat pointlessly against. The stone remained still, posing Gary with a nonplussed and flatly imperative smirk of disdain.
“Yeah; I’ll die and leave a fucking ghost. That’s what people where I’m from do here – die as ghosts. That’s really what we are, too, because the attractor patterns last about a thousand times as long as even the best bodies do.”

Here is an interesting thing about human cognition:
it happens in time.

Understanding this makes it plain why so few of our talks ever seem to merit the difficulty of it all, to me, but are so damnably significant and mysterious, for you.

I was trying to explain a procedural and technological conundrum to you, but, as is often my way, I was stumbling over the concept, using too many words – it is my way. When I said,
“…consider the way a primitive and an educated primitive would each regard your Q-phone, after you’d shown them each a typewriter.”
you were confounded. Your mind didn’t even begin to grasp the analogies I alluded to. However, your species is aware of the whole of time, its origins and its ultimate, ineluctable conclusion, its terrible ignominious and meaningless end. How is it possible? One imagines that, as your consciousnesses require time in order to compute or collate at all, that it would take precisely the whole of time in order for even one of you to have fathomed it. And yet, you apes all come out seeming to know a great deal about how it works and so forth, and all are capable of the most profound utterances concerning its nature and parsimony. It’s really quite impressive.
So it shouldn’t have been quite so much of a surprise, and yet I do understand why the people who don’t know me, personally, all ran around shouting – I’m sure it was very exciting to see that much change happen all at once; though, really, one imagines at least a few of them, at least you, perhaps, might have been even a tiny bit grateful, as you all seem to go around saying and thinking that you wish wish wish something just like that would happen.
When it does, it seems to require a great deal of processing and tearful conversations to get everything all straightened out. The relationships that human beings have with material objects is pretty sexual, if I may say so. In weird ways.


It can be very annoying and disappointing to deal with human beings. I told him, just as we were meeting, the very first time and several times since: “Here is the fundamental concept that you should understand about me, the thing that makes sense of all the other things I do and say,” et cetera, and then five years later he still gapes at me and bellows “whaaat” every time the basic truth of that bit of self revelation is made apparent.
I see all time in one instant, as all things are one thing and all events are the shape of reality in time, which is, to me, fully so, simultaneous.
I understand that it is not that way for human beings, and yet; I can’t help but wonder why it mightn’t be one of those things they could model in the brain. With that imagination of theirs. But apparently it’s only useful for sticking parts of one animal onto another animal and worshipping the product, off in a cave or gazebo, somewhere.

“If you have to have someone explain everything that the yellow people are supposedly saying,” Frank was definitely not implicating that he had granted anything of the kind, but was driving to make a point and so willing to table that particular part of the discussion for the time being; “and you could only see them with the special viewers in the first place, how can I know if they aren’t just some entertaining hallucination cooked up by your peoples’ fabulists?”
Frank said ‘your people’ with persistent emphasis as it was still, to his drunken mind, and important matter not to concede to Gary’s essential claim, and he believed that he could find an inconsistency in the tale at some level that would allow him to destroy the entire construct, unravel it all in one great incision of all-powerful physicalist rationale. He was committed; he was aware of no irony.
“They did unpredictable things, and, it was possible to leave messages for them, to which they would respond, once they learned to decipher them.”
Frank twisted the lid of his grinder thoughtfully, pursing his lips and furrowing his brows. He emptied out the middle chamber onto a small leaf of paper paper on the spool-table in front of him and thoughtfully prepared his materials.
“Uh huh.”
“That was eventually how we were able to reach the moon, eventually, as a matter of fact, and how I was able to get downstream in time to a point at which the years would occur more or less in order.” Gary gazed off into his own thoughts.
“Go on;” prompted Frank. “Go ahead and explain that last bit, please.”
“Oh right; sorry – we taught sciences to the cthonics. Well, the red and the yellow. The grey couldn’t learn anything. They couldn’t even really be conditioned, but their behavioral paradigms and reproductive math could be be exploited.”
“Cthonics?” Frank rolled a joint.
“That’s what I call them. Earth-beings, old ones, cthonics. Nice people, really, though savage and violent like all of Earth’s creatures. They weren’t the first, but they are often among the first of any of the life forms on any planet in this cosmos.”
Frank decided to let ‘this cosmos’ slide, for the time being.
“The symbiotes all went off in various collectives, made their own cities. There are a few underground – we could could go there. I’m very highly regarded, there. I helped design the technology on which much of it is based, though it’s probably advanced many orders of complexity and undergone a few paradigm shifts since those days.
“Symbiotes?” Frank had lit the joint, so the word came out as a barely restrained wheezing whisper-shout.
“The technology we devised for the cthonics involved dinosaurs and teamwork.”
Frank waited.
“Time was operating at a bizarre differential between our enclave and the world of the cthonics and terrestrials. Look; it’s just a really long and complicated story; you’ll have to accept that and either resign yourself to not knowing or making the best of the bits and pieces I’m able to verbalize. I warn you, as I warm to the topic I’m just going to get more pedantic and abstruse. It’s just the way these things work.”
Frank put the boot down and adopted an appropriately chastened and newly deferential expression. He grinned and Gary continued.

Frank was around six and a half feet tall. He had very long hair which he dyed black. To hide his growing baldness, he wore a fisherman’s toke cap, a signature one-of-a-kind knit for him by his aunt Larraine. He had a very large chain which he kept clipped to his heavy leather belt; some of his friends used these for securing their wallets, but Frank used his to beat a man mercilessly on the legs and ribs while he screamed and wept. The victim was in his thirties, with a bright yellow bandanna tied around his head and a sporty looking tee shirt.
Frank went about the beating in a very businesslike manner. He counted off strokes in his head, and sighed as he stopped, ready to continue or quit, staring at his task with mute boredom. Tom whispered, “holy fuck!”
Tom, hilariously enough, was the only one among them that actually smoked cannabis. The rest of them were either “straight edge” (you may feel free to puzzle out what that means, for yourself) or alcoholics of the old school. The main thing is that the guy had ripped one of them off, though, and Frank – in old school fashion – had felt it necessary to establish dominance in this way.
“Don’ ever try that shit again,” said Frank in a quiet voice, “or id’ll be a lot worse, man. If you got to do that shit man, you do that shit at the bus station and take your chances with the police and the fucking soldiers, all right? Cause they follow rules, man. I don’ follow those rules.”
The dealer dragged himself across the floor, crying as quietly as he could, gripping his legs under the knees with one hand and clawing at the carpet before him with the other. Frank noted that he had probably not broken any bones on him.
“Fuckin’ey!” whipsered Tom. “Jesus Frances; that is some serious shit, brother! Ha, ha!” He nodded in approval as the man, a virtual stranger, who had ripped him off for eighty dollars, who had been easily tracked down by one of his clade’s boys, whose possessions and cash were stacked neatly on a table made out of a barstool with a plywood disc riveted onto it, tried to make his way to the doorway.
“It might be a minute before he can walk again, after that, Frances,” offered Matt Westerley.
“Yeah;” Frank rubbed his chin, “why don’chu give him a ride downtown or to a fucking Marta stop or something.”
There were sixty four hits of acid in with the guy’s wad.

The cubensoid was a mutant of considerable prestige, fitted to a cluster of seventy three otherwise unremarkable partners. Her roles related to problem solving and memory, and she had developed an excellent command of pheremonals, language, lyricism, social interaction, and intuitive instructive visualization. She learned quasitemporal meditational techniques rather early in her development, and it was hoped that this was a trait that could be genetically encoded into clones of herself.

Her saurian claws found endless variety of purchase on the structures of the city built from the living hide of her parents, red and grey, in all ways awake and dreaming of science each moment, reading the words left in endless vaults by the Creating Gods. She imagined the restless minds of the gods, trapped in their marble room with only their clever box, each other, and a trick of happenstance with which to take part in the adventures of life.
The cubensoid had never seen the box, or any of its avatars, nor even its golems, though she had read its compositions with great relish and had made a special point of reading textbooks it wrote itself, even ones about subjects in which she had little or no interest.
Its books were always very cleverly constructed, usually consisting of a pair of tubes full of drink that one was to swallow as an admixture, or perhaps a lump of white gel that would emit glowing displays when coaxed. The box had created a rulebook for the game of ry’ti that itself consisted of a series of problems of ry’ti expressed as interlocking pieces of metal-girded and cloth-adorned wood slats. It was truly a thing of baroque beauty as well as a brilliant way of letting each reader discover her or his own solution to such wry lessons as Opening the Book and Finding the Index.


This was called ‘rasting’; it was necessary in order to traverse some classes of nonphysical barriers. Non-locational distances could be crossed with rasts. Stalkers, dowsers, and other types of diviners had attempted to codify a method for rasting into aleatoric and psionic spaces, but before true rasting, there was nothing reliable.


She was able to climb sixty stories or plummet suddenly and without fear. The city was constructed as if to cause her endless perfect freedom of movement and delightful exercise of powers. Her eyes were always either engaged or relieved, as needed, and her claws always found the perfect hold.
She sang about this and licks of ylemic face flickered about her, smiling indulgently and knowingly, nodding. No alterations were really undertaken, though – everything here was perfect, though, as a matter of form, the possibility for extra footholds or perches for saurians was discussed at a yellow family roundtable.



Posted in Dream Creates Reality, Dreams on May 2, 2011 by Phantasme

I absolutely demand to wring every drop, every drop, though. Explosions of pain make my eye not work. Wake up, unable to recall why, what the pain is, why it is there, or who I am, for several minutes, where she is, what has happened. Pushing my face against this phantom blade edge is more than a habit now; I get surges from it, cartoon electricity, and once again I can put my fists up to the sky and fucking threaten it. It’s been twenty years since I was allowed to feel. It’s the first time I’ve ever been this. I can’t apologize for the thing I am doing because it’s already thunderously right. It’s already been right, forever, as hot as the blood is and the way it pushes against my head, forcing it to beat in time with the surges. My smile splits in two and opens outward, which is the only way it can express itself anymore, and though there is blood and now eight more sets of teeth it is an honest wrenching slash of unfiltered ecstasy, finally, even if only for that flash of an instant. All around me are people, some are blood filled clocks. Some get nervous and I want to dash at them, catch them and press them against the blood that’s pounding against the inside of my chest, where my arms hold it back, and the heat makes everything turn to paper. Everyone sweats and tries feebly to escape, except me, because I’ve pushed my face into quadrants that retain the body’s energy, and there I am able to control it, and to push my fists against the sky, and fucking threaten it, while I grip everything underneath me with my thighs and scream “NO”

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Posted in Dreams on June 5, 2009 by Phantasme

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Poor Muriel

Posted in Dreams on January 28, 2009 by Phantasme

Poor Muriel. Machine’s arm-web arches and flexes with Hwgrdok ever at the controls, counterbalancing and compensating as Scary Dog and the Tall Poet prod and scream and otherwise force her body to lurch, uncomprehending, between rows of people. Robot takes pity upon Muriel and steadies her personally when the Tall Poet actually strikes at her, trying to drive her to the dirty rubber sheeting on the floor where feet tamp filth to a third layer, a carpet of gummed disease. Robot guides her to her seat, balances her and helps her to sit. Machine seems to relax, poised.
The coach is filled with commuters; many of them look at poor Muriel with disdain, for her odor is offensive. She doesn’t see them, but Hwgrdok does, and thus steers the various elements of Machine so that its thousands of spidery metal limbs and accessories clamp down over their heads and drill inside to feed from their brains. These commuters don’t notice, they never do, for Machine is adept, and the human brain has no nerve-endings.
Gatrom whines and weeps as Robot, done with attending Muriel, walks heavily to Gatrom’s station, plucks him from his seat and carries him to the Sea. The Tall Poet and Scary Dog laugh uproariously as he begs. Hwgrdok is already scanning over the many hopeful infant faces that crowd toward the vacuum left when Robot mercilessly tosses Gatrom, screaming and clutching wildly, into the very same natal cubby that spawned him. Hwgrdok nods approval; Robot knew she would be pleased by this trick. Once Gatrom recovers from his landing and has tried his prison, his wildly sobbing demeanor instantly switches to rancor and boredom. “I’ve been doing what I was designed to do!” he yells out eventually from inside his fleshy cage. “Why am I being punished for that?” Answering shouts and sobs ring out from the squirming many; soon the noise degenerates into hundreds of raggedly sobbing morons. Gatrom smiles darkly. “That’ll teach her to throw me away. I’ll torment her with the screams of her victims!” Hwgrdok doesn’t hear anything like screams from her nodule at the end of Machine, but of course Gatrom doesn’t know this.
Groups of orderly data rotate through a viewing area and make routine but carefully detailed reports. They confer to confirm sited landmark advertisement-designs and light-configurations passing by through the windows of the coach. Soon, it’s time for Machine to gently grip Muriel, pick her up out of the seat, and prod her toward the exit. She stumbles, and people avoid her, but she isn’t upset by that, not while a fire-darkened gnome works hard to shadow and paint those things which, unmasked of his artistry, would damage or even crush poor Muriel’s delicate soul.
Hwgrdok tires. She turns to her other self, for strength, and so Jakodas takes over Machine’s delicate controls. Jakodas does not adhere to the staid paradigms that Hwgrdok observes, she delights in exploiting the subtle idiosyncrasies and loopholes of Machine’s powers. The gnome leaps like a tiny intrepid spider from place to place along Machine’s interlocking sections, adding weight here, making a careful adjustment of finials and knobs there. He makes a sound like the warping of antique wood, which is his laughter.
Hwgrdok, nearby but concealed, loses all compuosure and weeps softly, without shame. Piloting is very demanding, and she is new to it.
Away from the coach’s landing and all but the most harmless observers – animals and discarded animates, report the data – Machine flexes into a flattened position and gently plucks Muriel out of gross space to nestle her into a small, cushioned, well-conditioned pocket. There, she remains for days; the gnome entertains her with images of dancing worms and wise singing rats until Jakodas has piloted Machine to another enclosure altogether, far away, and much safer for poor Muriel. Now, she is able to sit in a nice park that is well lit and contains no threats or disturbances. The gnome watches her tenderly, from a distance, before leaving her to ply his cunning against the bureaucracy of the local government. The illusions he must create now would doubtless terrify her.

“I made you, goddammit!” shrieks Gatrom at the gnome.
If he had lips, the gnome would smile. He shows his gums, makes his horrid laughter. He scampers across a long white metal arm made of hundreds of hinged coils, and leers down into hills and valleys of natal cubbies, shaking his rumpled and clawed little fist. The expression he flashes over the railings of his catwalk to Gatrom’s cubby below is nightmarish.

Muriel dreams of Sad Dog and Cheryl Ann, and dreams of taking the dog’s leash and walking him into Heaven, where they would both be allowed to sleep. “Sad Dog is loyal, and simple, and happy.”

Muno steps gracefully from a mesh of wire and slatted fingers; Machine curls away from her and provides a short pathway from nothingness into Jakodas’s command station. Little more than a few instances of verification and assumed approval is required of Muno, but the two women enjoy one another’s company and Jakodas is recorded as having performed with enhanced efficiency and competence when teamed with a companion.
Muno complexifies her own terel extensively, though, once extracted and vivified by Machine. A dozen or more whole pathways are activated and filled with streaming input from strangers, all of them linked by common association, all engaged in very dangerous activities. It’s as if a roomful of strangers, each pregnant with its own wild and rich history, all became part of Self from one second to the next, as if one woke from a dream of being nothing at all to a reality of being far too many things at once.
Jakodas is intrigued and concerned immediately, but remains polite and indugent of her ‘guest’. Hwgrdok, who would doubtlessly object strenuously to this sudden and provocative cascade of changes, drifts deeper into sleep, entering the delta brain wave state, ceasing to dream.