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shell14_amber

Heed

20th. Dec, 2008 | 08:34 pm

'Cock Penis' secret agent pseudonym dominic. Woke up laughing and tickled amy all night long. Came out of a sea as superteam onto a beach where amy tipped some little children about the truth of the fish they ate raw out of a cooler. Beach becomes long library - TV news filming is going on - one man among men explains his belief that each killing makes an angel of an animal. I'm angry and tell the room an impression of kevin bishop's elton john FAAAAACK OOOOFFF. I laugh like hell and out loud, so it seemed. Then a chubby boy serves a japanese lady tea, his mother tells the reporters that despite his manners, she believes he is a thug. His fat face becomes a black tulip closed cup, similar to a black slime placenta, and a pin inserts into the tiny red slit to his face. He grins like a statue and pus seeps out, I wake up laughing again.
-
I'm in Morpeth's 10 year ago safeway at the west checkout line and the queue rolls down a cave tunnel built in a rock outcrop exposed inside the shop, just by the tills.
#In constant sorrow, though all his days#
Dale Cooper is in the queue, and I go down the hole to find the end. jamie oliver walks up to leave - his wife is brainlessly getting a giant camera back into a pathetic shoulder bag without looking as she walks. Stupid fuck.
I go into a woodland wood shack, in the night, with a partner outside. Inside is empty, but walls are covered in leaflet racks, all over. One advertises a trip to the abandoned shack to see the rare owls. I'm doing all by torchlight. I turn around slow and low like on tv, and see the feet of a featureless silouette in the room silent behind me. I shit myself shouting (something like) "sculleeyyy.." for the partner agent out side. I'm pulled and it's dark and the thing standing is all around me and nowhere and   where is this?  I am focussed, not vision, all entirely focussed at a single point, almost brown with concentration against total dark. I Scream, and feel it in my chest and my throat is definitely strained to make the sound, but it is silent. I make no noise, and have faith that past limbo someone can hear me try. No time passes, and so forever I am trying, I try to shout "help me. please.", "I'm here" and a range of things, there in limbo, unable to move. not having a body I have no contact with a form to move in   ...in bed! I am in bed. In the dark I know I am in bed and amy will hear me, so I try, help, help, like I'm winded, but it's still silent. Forgetting who I ever was, my arm is tugged. I fallllll. the focus goes and the whole thing is twanged into a real wobbly black and I feel my body. I was in bed, I was paralysed. Waking up is very gradual, loss of cloud cover. sleep paralysed. amy really did move my arm. I really did not scream. holy wakeful!
Somewhere in that dream, along with agent cooper, Bob certainly appeared.
-
In a wealthy country family's gimungous bungalow, I sit near a large television feeling like a one foot in the child early teen blanched at a distant relation's home - steps go down to the carpeted living room. Walls are white, and the beams are dark with shit landscape paintings. It is quiet and I am not sure of my history. I think I play a game. Someone comes to me from behind. Total white impact left side of my brains BOSH I'm shot. A person has shot me with a flintlock pistol in the back of the head. Directly behind the left eye. Ben Horne, man of the house, or perhaps a neighbour visiting, breaks the news that this style of attack means that the bullet will work its way through to the left eye socket over the course of perhaps 50 second and annihilate my left eye follow such time. This mends the wonder I have at the normal working of my left eye. And, in fact, my entire mind. And life.
It doesn't happen. I stumble around a house explaining my situation, with some shot - samples in my left palm - deformed by impact and smeared with oily brain and blood. The pain is real! I wake up with it.
-

Must avoid typing on the internet when it is only there for my own good. And when it isn't? posted anyway. For mine for yours & ours.
Ten tailed docked tots relayed nine fort frontice lamond. AL tress frock danglass for ten minutes atop the baltic tower over water, Grand green water under a whole batter of bridges for ten thousnad useless years of trance! Dance the tense whole mass of idiots for treble point nonces forecount derange beast. Foremalln shteryist' m'nye eezv'neetye frogline to, partice PITHED league! Up from the bin in the fields around to the strutted hole. Fail to take the heads - that HEEDS still on! How we didn't remember to take the heads off, and so back came a legion through the bodice spine a throng all through the repeated time to the coat shed, back on the white suit and through aaaaaaah fuck off.

Gone! Gone!

Angry smokers, world of dead dogs. A billion camps. torn up important notice. Big dick'a'rone. FAT BLACK CROCHETed BABOONS. No problem. Bad coordination, wooHOOO!
Fun. Gone! Filthy idiot whore behaviours from start to end, GATE! Relief, Neverone! Every soapy bloodbag corpse thuds on the pavement similarly alien! Haruange! Tresspassers will be Intestinated! For the Almighty! For the one and only!

Like an auto mobile - with no one at the wheel
We're spinning out of control, - We're all over the road
In our sexy machine, OoOh, all the passengers scream, Scream, scream

I can see my lifetime piling up, I can see it smashing into yours.
It was not an accident at all, Open your window up - I hear you laughing
Going one two three four five, Going from the bottom to the top
Maybe I'm holding on too tight - And now I'm throwing up
I got a funny feeling!
Piling those houses up, building them  higher, higher, hiigher!

The knackeronis come and go regularly to me. I sleep too long, and then I sleep short to get up to be taught in the labs of the land.
I AM A WHITE COAT. I HAVE HANDLED THE DEAD. MY ACTIONS BRING NEEDLEPOINTS TO INNOCENTS AND MADNESS IN THE DARK EXCESS OF KNOWLEDGE-GREED. Extend, extend! For want of nothing extend into bearded nonsense! I play a small sad part in the name of Credential! The worst of all, credentials!! What a mess I have found. I negotiate quietly to curb the ends of my causes. NEURONS' LABOURS, I WILL NOT EAT IT!! Life to live, death to die. None in volition! The breath can slide on the spectrum of volition. This is a major interest of mine! What a picture to study closer! Deliberately breathe. Then relinquish volition... To where?? The finite crosshairs of deliberate action! What a mystery.
@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
ГАТЭЙ ГАТЭЙ ПАРАГАТЭЙ ПАРАСАМГАТЭЙ БОДИЙ
СВАХАА!

Two. However there came then ten downs mute & fat shit flourpack tummers, never that horse day came the brickered shade to Slap celing-slap the round babans.  All snug, fat shits.
Let clang the dog's packshit. Nonty roddy doyle. Pick that up, nitch , babalone pork skit scrubber said & was the flit in, ramp this blob in, & trick the hammercage up into the reedswing. Tenalone, swept the sink on the neighourans deg. neet nla deg. Jungle bitch can rood awang. Lets never take the lord at punt. Not rain. Rain. Rain, Rain, Rarl, Rail, Rain, Rail
Prat.
Pallit. Produce. Forted Ranger Hillcap Produce.
Tintop the carpetlayer portraite his whitest frill.
Doily scanners in evening bloomhauer. The wogld overnationalonderspackt.
Forn nutzing, traytanlon ca'spyect ant ranyeley, tertrotzkyn partor shtlet. Mandan, carry on, kicktportet, he loved this poodler, zdraeyh
Hell. Tairone. flight jackets for a canvas strip on the crossed front cache of ten plane tube males & bent cross the bulge of lady plump.
Lintbulb, sickness, Green dream in the room, for leftover nancy nrurmer, Rorodaaermny thithe. Carbon. Wristwatch. Chugbarrel. Death brown. Nail tip, buffer blades. trolley saddle. Nipperchips.
A patato fair in the sun & the sand. Dusty gentle wist for all the cobbles ticks. Lumps. Curves above ground. Cheap height for the sake of brand - a lock on the window, a pane in the door, together, forever, the fall whips were all. I.
/Wax link modecompryiscing together with a full frontal tumol to ranus toward the beef sun.
Tomron to monken rails in a pewt storm in callage tren the ron said to a great many, that to instigate the restoration was his only living remuntorn tail lead.
To gress mine lava telt we a land far from whatsoever seen at length with cross told men's arms. How away it went to the Blarfk nan toreno. Tolena man tai to four forked days. Ten main talents to forve my logs into the clear white mucus lever mon toaged the level anor to claw.
Fat head on glass aisle in the mont. Mont nanoon to the rest, it left, & more came for what hated him.
    Glory sheen. That shitbag's side angle stains were & are the worst. The hein, torall the tensest bastard in the sand square. Too Rails - It was incredible, no lives for them. Theirs & those to Planners & non awent.
Shut the Door. Shank it & Planks for the eyes to the Road. Skunk grasses blush up the range with twiggy smoke. Lavel words & reef reed ey. Outing, men's a car crolling up the cont path.
Shirking, woob biy - near, tick, long nobody. Glass. Tip allong rains to french monday flick skins parkrind blunches under plick hair cablelsh nine flat soaps are my pinkest friends. Flapping blackbirds & teloman staring. Was the hoover, forentit the manly. Funt the doodle.


The plastic lights in the ceiling of the car park opposite are a lovely calm weather on a quiet night. I am quite exhausted.
1- The knackeronees I have in bursts are more common lately. Muscle rushes percolating the mind into clenching all that'll clench. Anger turns to restrained amused hysterics and the pulse, pressure and lungs crank up without a doubt. There's great lashing energy and I am only left confused, saddened by lack of restraint and physically tired.
2- Idiocy is purely rife. I do not know what to do with insult and anger. I watch and it hums, but will take swipes of its own. I don't surround it properly.
3- Gibberish turn language into a restful place of sense. I notice even on very separate days, I use the word 'ten' very many times in beginning flows. This will probably stop now that I've noticed it. I loved 'Nipperchips'.
4- Brilliant life. The sinister gripes in my left abdomen do not improve. They will cycle. Rather, I will cycle from calm continuation to stark face of terminal illness. Still, no diagnosis, no total relentlessness, and no digestive trouble. I eat drink breathe piss shit sleep without reaction to the pains. It is hyperchondria. So it goes on, no problem.

There's certain active refuge in the absurdity of all things. No Problem!

SVAHAAAAA!!!

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shell14_amber

A good time

13th. Oct, 2008 | 06:00 pm
mood: curiouscurious

//Today I had a nap, and I dreamt. Waking up from the dream was most wrenching second only to the early morning at the beginning of the year that I almost choked in bed ( jerked, vomited, blue lips, woke up suddenly with the eyes of a corpse and screamed at the very sudden unfamiliarity. Then again, asleep, awake, terror, asleep, awake, terror, then gradually remembering. )
It was an exhaustion dream, and lasted for weeks in many different and not entirely separate places.

I was in a boring city square. It was south sunderland, somewhere I haven't been, and the war was happening. A few people were being crazy about it in a grinning way on some kind of monument. Most people were off the streets as the bombers came - they were small, though, like fighters, and old looking. Things blew up, and for most of that time I milled around the pavement considering the buildings quite casually - which one had the greatest upward-extent to stump a downward-bursting explosion.

I was in a diagonally descending industrial lift. Underground. Memories came of the world's whining that the banks and underground rail systems had stopped working not long ago. In the world, I remembered, the banks worked based on an underground mechanised store of gold and treasure under each branch
    -And so, it seems, all underground works had been silently comandeered by government to prepare a refuge for the coming war. Which came.

Then there were steam jets from pipes and narrow and waterlogged concrete mazes, and I was pulled through the lot by conveyor - alone but communicated with, from somewhere - a sequence of blue pipe-fixtures, quite abstract bits of plumbing, appear to me as I slid along a tunnel, each one triggering revelations and lost fantastical memories - each pipe-shape recalled a phrase in white
and together my circumstances turned into those that I had apparently forgotten: In slowed down time I walked to the surface from a metro station, and a small boy with a 2nd world war mask box ran from my side, away, to the entrance where the light was blurred - and I knew, knowledge creating the word in light by his side as he ran, his name was Samadhi.

I'm the boy in grey cotton. In wide road, deserted Hockley. In broad and excellently real daylight the firefight he expected begins gradually closeby, down the hill. He ducks behind a line of three huge biffa bins. Doesn't duck actually, he's short enough to just stand.
Also as expected, a nazi motorbike with sidecar, in grey, plus nazis, arrives startlingly close from the direction of the gunfire. The situation is both the present and a relived memory, the air is solid with both the true fear and comfort of distance of a thing of the past.
The men dismount. One finds the boy. Boy feels luger on the rim of his ear, hair, forehead, shut eyelid then to the back of the throat. All that I feel I've developed with respect to the Absolute rises like soft, silky sick to meet the fear of the unimaginable jolt to come, fear laps itself in intensity, and so all fright and furiously panicked introspective shit-of-the-moment just vanishes.
With it does the entire situation.

There is a world where my mother is demented and constantly hysterical about some way I have behaved, though I never see her. I find my father in a small spanish shop in the postapocalypse, and am overwhelmingly relieved to see him. He is frail and his mind really seems to flap in the confusion of the crisis, and I have to gently reassure him. Two young but big men are rude to him in a queue. I calm everybody, but without any expectation of it, I have a sudden violent daydream in which I dislocate the back of one's head from his spine, and kill the other with a fork thrust to the back. Then that exact thing happens, and I run.
The apocalypse is more of a dazed and boring dream where nothing makes sense, the illusory systems of check and decency are evaporated mostly. It is permanently dusky, and there are flood. Community events are held on huge scales with a psychotic shaky optimism, while at the same time, all property right respect is degraded quickly by mass personal violence on an individual basis.

Time begins not to progress causally. All sensation of individuality is overtaken by a teary feeling that all efforts at normality are weepingly, profoundly pathetic. I see photos of piles of glossy black rats on a post-apocalyptic social networking site. A list of names in an awful plain html format. It's quite funny. Every single act and intention takes on a feeling of being perverse in this world, and the dull half-dream awareness pours out from one bulb of the hourglass to the other, from awake to sleep. This is me waking up over an unusually long period of time, and it is very difficult.//



I have months since left my old small room. My campaign, only a campaign in my planning it out, has landed awkwardly and hurt itself.
I say an organisation running what it does using actual lives to teach ought to disclose details in the literature.
"but we make that statement verbally, so, *scoff*... ... There isn't much more to it... ..."
So, no.
I say there is one activity that is compulsory that I am not prepared to take part in. I am subtly humiliated.
What did you expect it to involve?
I expected it to involve very much what it does involve, all I expected otherwise was the option to choose not to, considering the breadth of work done into the form of perception, that doesn't model a single damned thing using the body of an independent sensate living individual. (or many thousands of them).
I'm likely to be derailed onto a more generic course. I will be guilty to accept this non-option, since I will not have made the decent effort to persuade them away from academic arrogance and conservatism. But what small difference could I make? Perhaps,  likely, just bad feelings towards me, the idiot boy who didn't want to kill for a qualification.

To type again is like time travel. It has been so long, and memories of doing this have little connotations attached that will make me live the experience slightly in the shadow of previous emotions at those past times.

O
Something that concerns me is that noise that has come to be me. Much of my wakeful life, since, who knows, the age of around 10, my mental voice lectures my situation to an imaginary observer in an imaginary future. It lectures my views and opinions, and rehearses what I, apparently, would ideally say in ideal situations that will never exist. It is mechanical and glazes over my full attention of what is ever happening.
And so, it is not good. It has come to represent  I , to  I . Incessantly, in the face of real situations, and constantly creates the machinery for dissonance in the moments arising in the future to which it's rehearsals to a nonexistent audience refer. A shanty, shitey invention - something out of honey I shrunk the kids. A thing like that. A hole is poked in it somewhere, though. In its bulk, squeezing out on my more honest senses like something fat sitting on a sentient cushion. There's the slightest transparency, and this is the sensation that the voice is not mine or me. It is a vocal neurosis that disturbs my mind constantly -   At this point I can't imagine lengthy mental peace, but have not-concrete faith that life can live more smoothly without the noise and confusion. That is the little step - It just isn't anything - it is no scaffold to my sense of local experience of Life, though that would seem to be the purpose for which it has come to exist. But it doesn't, does it? It's a jagged and chugging mess in and expanse of breezy open and Absolute space - Its awkwardness and piercing quality immediately give it the centrality it needs. The sense that it is the core of what surrounds it. Not just an unnecessary and quite detrimental polluting ragged junk-thing that draws the peaceful silent eye to it. Hoards attention, forces a view from IT, to out away from it.



This is the kind of thing that I should repeat when the feeling comes, and perhaps my puking out of this pain in the arse /in the head, will be my close-fist of beans to the incessant ghost of the internal hench-voice of destructive egotism.
I am not unhappy.

-It's been so long I wouldn't know what to ask. But I would be extremely glad to hear - who knows what or when - I haven't forgotten at all.

Amy is cooking and I am completely and utterly grateful.


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shell14_amber

baktat

8th. Sep, 2008 | 05:54 pm

The real live home's furniture removed onto the pavement
Where there are no more people.
That's treating life as maths and sense second.

inhale, exhale
Forward, back
Living, dying:
Arrows, let flown each to each
Meet midway and slice
The void in aimless flight-
Thus I return to the source!


Gesshu Soko, aged 79.
       
Today I am happy with my banjo and shawl, with the winter having arrived last week, two days before the forty year old flood defenses of my home town failed while I was there. The SeaKing went flying around the high street, very close overhead, like it was a river, - which at the time it certainly was close to - all the bridges to the side of the town with my house were put under by just two days of the normalest of rains. The magic of particular circumstances and conditions.
A snare drum with little strings!, it's so silly but is lovely.

Infinite ancestry! Billions earthly and thousands and thousands human, We're top of the pile, the pure bleeding edge, and we forget it! And you, now, even peak-er. You build by sitting there, you can't help it, and won't stop it. No problem.

Two little flies investigate the sticky bits on the desk. They even kneel down to taste it.

While I was on the canals I went to the butterfly place, and didn't have to invite butterflies to settle on my skin and munch me with their trunks. An insect's trunk, and I could actually feel it tickling me! Though most of the time they only look as if they have four legs. Why is that?
A week after I left the canals, a man and woman were murdered at their moorings on a close ajoined waterway, in the surroundings I am very able to remember. We share everything, really.

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shell14_amber

the one ceiling. My two eyes.

24th. May, 2008 | 03:47 pm

All the way, in its fullness out in this direction of ours', the bubbles and swells perpendicular to its own expansion and calm machinery, the word has dictated everything. We observe it as it, and through it.
As organism, as cloud of feedback loops and interaction of unobservable complexity, all things are prone to deviations. There is no spite in it, no intention, no evil, nothing 'unnatural'. All that is corrupt is the attitude. You are not due repair. You are not owed health.

'By any Means' is the most diseased and destructive concept that will ever be. The only true diseases are of attitude. All acts stem from attitude. Blocks within the system like an enzymatic disorder, compassionate potential building up and building up with an attitude blinding their beneficiary and venting out only empty desparate defense structures, anachronistic hollow aggression.

And words, I'm progressively less comfortable near. Ashen stubborn urns lined up, dots and dashes, the ground pawns of the mechanists, positivists, behaviourists - all forms of reduction that slay the source of their devisors. Those gray people that brutalise the very mental existence that they are in their entirety.
Being itself, mental if you must call it that, is not the one true question.
It is Not the one true or the one ultimate question. It is the one and only ultimate Truth. The One fact. Not question. Preceding all things solid and dead and workaday or social, or billiard-ball. Forget it.

And the one progression, the maintainer to which our glow owes its entirety, from which It all perpendicularly sprouts,   -the true Tetragrammaton, curiously, the one actual word, that atgc tetragrammaton. The closest thing to the divine in actuality itself. The form, the function, those structures and proportions that dictate your every memory and mechanisms that form you. The form dictated by the word itself, its physical expression of infinite replicas, a simple representation of the source, that code that is not physical at all.

But to live within yourself and forget that you do, ignorant that before you decided all things are nothing but dominos you are entirely this lucidity itself.. To be aware.. to be aware of being aware.. to then be aware of the structures through which you are. Then to refuse to extrapolate these collaboratory sense structures, all road from exterior reality leading to a sink, a centre. And to then deny a mentation beyond these same without-within  systems of heraldry to those systems with all the similar signs, perhaps without the wit or high resolution of resolve and intent... The benefit of the doubt, the benefit of compassion (the capability for compassion only normally expressed  and enjoyed only in its negative, its reservation.) that the glow exists, regardless of the source,    ,

to deny that the heat of the bonfire is the same heat as that of the ember, despite the scale of their sources... madness. Disease of attitude. and the spark, or rather lack of, giving rise to every disgusting '...ism' there is definable.

Ego games. Nonsense. Denial of the subjective. Denial of impermanence. all self perpetuating. None invulnerable, though.
Every moment is forever and every moment is equal. 'By any means' relegates whole swathes of Real time into the realm of 'neccessary evil'. Denies moments, denies lives too. It is Too dangerous a concept, and must be let to die.
-
For the sake of future reference,
    I regularly cut off all of my hair. Keep it off. I apply this to my face too, while I am too young and no where remotely near wise enough to feel I can fairly wear a beard. If I live old enough to be gray, this could be my reward, a big old thinking man's beard..
There are at least five plastic-cotta troughs in this Carpark-vista'ed apartment. There are baby tomatos, woflberries & physalis and giant healthy chives. We are losing floor space to oregano, coriander, basil, more chives, parsley and a handful of wolf(goji)berries picked off a shop floor. A potential future free lunch then. Tiny, red, shrivelled but essentially free.. so satisfying after all.

I have dreamt of feral tracksuits, unpredictable and immoral, roaming in a nighttime post catastrophic nottingham centre. They have a gun, I cannot know... I try to leave but they are not sober, there is no reasoning and I wake up with terror. Constantly I worry/uncomfortably focus on my battered patience. In a huge group of the peaceful, it takes just one furious individual to ruin everything... this is almost always on my mind lately.
I dreamt I am with Amy in a library, shortly becoming a record shop, and a pile of £1 ren & stimpy boxsets thrills me. Amy's talking to some group of strangers chokes down my happiness. I am in a golden garden of whippy phalaris and flowering wormwood. No realism at all, and a person from my old high school morphs into david schwimmer on a television. Another person from school in amber surf shorts likes me, and he produces a vial smaller than my little fingernail. Inside what is like deep, dark blue oilpaint consistency. On his finger, he applies drops to his anus. I taste the scrappiest smear on my left index finger. I sense impacts and pull & hold an exciting set of bizarre poses as I sense the source of gravity audibly bounce around me.  DiMethylTryptamine, I know in the dream.

I forget many others, but know that they are considerably more peaceful than the past.
Dysryhmthias tell me that my heart is the point on which I Primarily rest, and, ultimately, will fall. I believe, though I can't be certain,  that I accept this.

I am outside a good amount of the time. My life is to me closer on any spectrum to monastic than to socialite. I do not engage more people relative to passed weeks or months, perhaps up to a year gone by. This does not make me Unhappy. My view is freer every day from the taint of peers. I have only my year of life with Amy to thank for my entire root grounded beyond workaday, beyond go-out-&-drink, happier, Happier, Quiet existence.
Important to me is that I felt I would never feel a force to type while in this calm Way. I did not expect to be able to fluent type for any time at all, and am pleased and thankful to the powers of having-somewhere-to-post to. It's nice that this is here.
My worded to wordless insides ratio still occasionally upsets, or unbalances me. I am happier and quieter though. All things are more genuine.

The thing on my mind for many days on end, without single ease, is the proper, quiet, decent reaction to ridicule and ignorance. This, I can't work round quite yet. To deflect hurtful things. Not yet.

hello..

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shell14_amber

(no subject)

26th. Apr, 2008 | 04:54 pm
mood: coldcold

power struggle, but not in a combative way- my parts that use words and intellect just struggle to relinquish power to the silent space that is free and peaceful, and mute.

I did go through like high cloud clearing.
And for three days or so was peaceful, able to clean & walk and sit and eat with intent. Then the fear built and heathazed the peace away, with that impending moment that I would have to assert myself.
I tried it and now have come&go mild paranoid fantasies that the academic staff may now be suspiscious that I am an agent of some kind.

I will never vivisect and refuse to be worn into believe that this field is exclusive to the cold kind.
I need an altar to that fact in me, where the assertion can come in the times of the worst condescention.

chives look ill.

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shell14_amber

(no subject)

6th. Apr, 2008 | 04:11 pm


Scores of them in the night at sea in lines. They chatter, all the same way :  Flash, Flash, Fla-ash.
" [**]   [**]  [******] "
Good company for nausea & confusion.

One at home,

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shell14_amber

It came mildly as I tried to sleep.

5th. Apr, 2008 | 04:08 pm
mood: blankblank

April 4: bedtime
    But I was quite lucid, not exhausted, not close to sleep. And was sober. I think.
I have tried to describe It before. And I will try to describe it more times as it happens. As I tried to sleep, and more often in daylight - so - Napping rather than deep sleep. More often not in bed. More often as a younger

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shell14_amber

es*O*

3rd. Apr, 2008 | 12:23 am
mood: peacefulpeaceful
music: Avoice

// weedy concrete urban petra in stockyard but no people bar the group I awake with, still - and I walk the alleys on its near skirts towards occupied streets. While the quiet survives, and amongst town small passages open to blue beyond and flanked with frosted occasional glass and pebbledash are vent funnels. Twittering expulsion units from conditioners, quietly operational despite the inoccupancy of the structure they each serve. I pay close observance toward the patterns of vibration, oscillation of the dusty struts on the ventors, occuring that if I am lucidly awake in some peaceful objective reality with this comfortable band walking near me : the fluctuations through some logic-  seeming sound, will infinitely change, without pattern most probably. / though if I'm lucidly in a dream world which at that time I doubt, the flimsy metal fanways & crusty rattling spokes will show repetitive closed-frame like animated but not quite-lifelike patterns.
I squat near dusted cream extractor cube on my right, on the right angled bend, and feel the gravity sap of battling for lucidity against the flushing sensation of waking-up when I realise I am dreaming.
I feel I win, peace comes and I decide this is real.
I walk with tracksuited and underspoken friend type men round tramway streets of some flat place with little trouble other than in tram automatic doors. Little happens. But It began with an overcoming movement: to believe I am not lucid dreaming - 2nd degree : I am not dreaming at all.


Airborne over sandy Tanna, I'm sternly aware of the lie of island benevolent simplicity. The elders request Arms, in a single crate the height of a human, and the arrangement of smaller to larger, to accessory arms it will carry is my executive decision from the sky. Beyond a straightly South pier, out to sea near a neat mile Is a signpost of a log arrow for U.S., It slants obtusely to the ocean surface, and definitely North East.
Slightly further south of this sinister landmark is a notably shorter arrow for some island &765$%^£ beginning with B

I am retrieved with embarrassing violence and a selfish agression of law-enforcers from a brightly blued sea by an American destroyer. On board I will stay within a threeTired bus with en suite high class bar, along with robin williams , ^%5%, $%%$&&&*&. I mount stairs faced all ways with speckled mould grey transport plastics. ~Night grows on, The bus' side is flush with the Destroyer's edge with knifing bland water.

Symbols turn me to hot air throughout the morning and intermittently in the night. Difficult to wake from- globes, dots, arrows and jaunty doorways.

A violent and unimaginable row sends me out of my old Home from my mother. [No father appears in the visit]Cooling down in an Amsterdam miniature shopping centre, I am taught methods for 'watermelon seed' runes by an Indian stranger. We sit on a streetclothes shop floor with a felt black pouch and the Important Numbers & Grips. The correct throws and counting techniques. We're barely disturbed, but it is brief.


///////
=



weird quiet, stillness beside a walled garden of essential resins of feeling and motion of ten passed years.


I do wonder if hindsight distills colourful various activity into these images over long times or if the unedited truth is a past of action relative to Still Now.

words below pictures below action below essence



?
Open books Everywhere.

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shell14_amber

(no subject)

30th. Mar, 2008 | 05:57 pm

[a matt of angle was my earlier movement. when night i was awake to things that look dark,

in That sense, but were slippery and in all other senses were smooth and undulent and in a

certain sensation, metallic. Pits of timeless blackback snakes of searches. felt enough to

shake me, and enough to shake the feelings free of any temporal little socket so that they

float all detached in a collective formative world I can seek in music, if I have the

quietness to handle the wobbles my younger times' dredge back.
Now is now is different and more of a pinnacle in a piercing, progressive sense.
Light. Definitely the Light and shape. As below, so above.
Vacancy through rigour disheartens me, and the general spirit without is downward facing

arrogance.
Within, I have a kinder peace. but people make me sad with myself. sad with my self is

angry at people.

empirical snobbery only broadens the plane and buries away the Boundary with the Beyond us.

All science, with its baseless condescention, does, is widen a particular world (a source

of undue comforts) - but those qualities and the mystic and untouchable natures of that

border with what Cannot be probed, are exactly the same as Ever.
Rung down collective objective solids of Learn'ed ponces, and you arrive at the same line

to celebrate and revere as any human for thousands of years.
the grand unity from that immune to physical investigation.
The dark from Outside will not be worn away, but the stapled down clearing gives odd

security to some. Real ignorance to others.
It's all confusing.
In the end, all rigourous principles are based on thin, Almighty air. Regardless how much

many strangely idiotic people seem to desparately mundane-ify Reality itself.
They Will fail. I will die. And I am perplexed, and still quiet ]


It seemed that if a person refused to give you comfortable leeway on a street in the

Netherlands, it was with a solid, selffull intent which at least deserves some admiration,

as opposed to the quite apparent lost, bland, empty inconsideration of the people here. I

would like to move away from the sapped-identity bred self loathing here.
I must go.
I can be Happy now with my person [not me, no]. It is wonderful.

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shell14_amber

3+ O-> O+

16th. Mar, 2008 | 10:47 pm
mood: uncomfortableuncomfortable

laboratory Daphnia Pulex figures become
     starbouwrne JIBBERISH nymphs  &
doomladen curls and cursive fear of charts
& Heavy static [of Fantasy] of night's rooms vacant.
I'm for max cohen's drill with my new dustsettler. Dust to blank over the scription for Operation .

 Sust set the Drift for fright and load.
Bankt up a sandsGloss Abreet the night
A quest've Situation.
               Grave time.

}}
the VOynich wholeheartedly kept me awake an entire night. Short after though, H.R.Santacoma and the referenced drawnings to anchor the whole thing hit the right thresholds for me, and I was comfortable again. Though embarrassed.
still occasionally that paranoid itch that hoiks in the horizon to all solid divisions closest and makes the unknown into coded dark Things.
bad amounts of caffein does a similar thing to me in my surroundings : All opaque touchable membranous divisions available to me by senses become suspicious. Cryptic and encroaching. Really a menace.


Alchemical symbolism,
     zodiac, glyphs,
   runes     powers and
After sickness and a grey-Out of a kind in my and my view of Everything, I'm moving to another way again.

-
=


=
-
..//. aware, gradually, of the beachhead with many young people and the game's begun to survive into the progression of our new only-just:yet-to-be Invented society to a very particular point & Purpose :  demonstrated at the precise moment all new inhabitants are made/become aware of the game, :: The creature of the coast, coils through the surface like typical loch or sea monsters but on only rare occasions raises it's head out of the water. It's a titanic sea Dragon, whiskered, smallClawed and blue.
When the generations originating in the world we found over the next few days have developed to the level able to defeat the monster, we win.
Long dead, we win as wonderful ancestry.

I have a dream instinct to not exactly oppose the worst of enemies.
My immediate thought of the island is wonder towards the creature, and perhaps to appease it. The first image is of the/my temple of Bath T'oy. It was funny to me as I dreamt it. But it would have a genuine place counter and minor to the general consensus of hate towards the creature, as the hidden society of those in positive awe of the situation.

I've never dreamt of a Dragon before in my life.
// .

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=



=
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    So avoidant battered disappointment at most aspects of the whole world seem to be gathering into some new Way.
Still, just confused looking at a rotated view.



The stamp design though, 
   I can't even imagine what kind've drives are behind these people...
It has just to be hilarious.

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