2012-03-14

“Pattern matching,” I sighed.

Days I’ve spent patiently waiting. Aware that the impatient anxieties that once plagued me are so far behind me. Yet not so far I can’t smell them. For I know what happened on Sunday: my supply lines were cut short and I had to dip into what I consider to be my reserves.

You feel so silly now. When you realize how the little things kick off a full blown anxiety issue. So now you hold-up a mirror to yourself knowing that at every turn you become stronger. Not depleted like you once were.

The voices are better now, as I cast out that which is negative.

“You’re right,” said my cat, “you are stronger.”

“Yet I still feel I said the wrong thing to my care coordinator,” I frowned, “when she asked about the voices.”

“The good voices fit into the silence quite nicely,” purred my other cat, “it’s e negative voices that can kick you into an emotional journey that are the problem.”

“Only they do seem to have receded,” sighed my cat. “Now you entertain them merely so that you can flush them out of your core psyche.”

“It’s like that blind sight thing,” I replied. “Everyone has them they just don’t have a need to discover them out loud. Whereas for some reason I do.”

“Unconscious affectors,” noted my other cat, “have an effect on your consciousness. Yet it’s only through a mirror, when some agent or other reflects their insight back at you are you able to see them for what they are.”

A feeling of calm overtook me then. Leaving me once more in the waiting room of my life. Where I wish I could snooze to allow time to march on to a point where others are willing to play the parts fate has decreed for them.

“There’s only so much staring out of the window I can be bothered with,” muttered my cat.

“Manifest presence,” I sighed.

The narratives here don’t flow. There’s long pauses as I wander off to think of something else. Something I cannot speak of in written text because it’s to hard with no chance of filling in the back stories.

So you write fragments of though. Speak to yourself in written form. sometimes succeeding in getting a flow. Mostly focusing your mind with the screen being your focal point. Knowing full well not even you will be bothered to reread a lot of this. Yet here in written form it’s somehow more tangible. More able to warp and bend your unconscious mind into listening.

Half remembered dreams float across you mind now. As if part of your mind is trying to remember something significant. Yet I doubt I’ll speak of it. Merely fold myself into the memory and wonder.

So you let go of this place. Fold your inner eye to the places and spaces from which you sprang. A Freudian slip of the fingers and you remember… And now you’re visualizing great tracts of your life… Twelve! And the pathways between them all, remembering too all the sharp moments of other stuff that floats around your life.

“And with a single bound he was free,” cried my cat.

el’ric

“Mourn-bringer,” muttered my cat as I sat down month later.

The other magics of other days and ways reminded themselves to me then. Of the way I retreat from this reality into the meta-realities which bind more than this world together. For Something within had begin to spy the light of my other days and other ways. Wondering then what work is a man as the newly rediscovered displaces the old.

Leaving me reeling as I start to wonder about the sum of those other years when I didn’t pay much attention to mass market of the real. Preferring Instead to highlight those edge conditions of not quite sure. The things we all see magnified to the intimate degree, where I can be in on it without ever having been seen to touch it.

Other magics and other medicines then reminded themselves to me then as I began to question my place in the future. Looking now off a positive outcome for me and mine. With whatever I be left with. Hoping to I don’t go spoiling it. For on so many occasions this could have been different. Yet my assurances of self that I knew what I was doing never allowed me to overcome my inner spirit.

I thought I was so sure. So demanding in my surety of actions. Discovering now how I was probably not wrong. Merely could have handled thing different.

So now I orbit fixed positions with similarly dysfunctional airs wondering how to bring myself back to earth with a chance and a choice for a better future.

It’s all just foo

justice. some ice from the kitchen:

“Point being,” suggested my cat, “all bets are off. Because when thing are in flux the ability to make categorical statements as to the way thing are is void. The best you can hope is for the way things were.”

“And in institutions such as this,” added my other cat, “that could be dangerous.”

“Unless an agent of higher order gets involved,” I suggested, “and makes a few observations with respect to both sides of the argument.”

Primum non nocere

“Quantum Mnemonics,” I reminded myself as I sat down and began to engineer sense out of the maelstrom of facts currently streaming through my consciousness.

This is where, you decide, it all gets too weird. Because you truly know you’ve begun to stray into the domain of the Time Lords. Only for you it’s not science-fiction. Rather it’s the stories from your past giving you the ability to make a modified form of sense out of all of this.

Ideas come as fogs of probability rather than words: images from contemporary culture flow together leaving you with an overwhelming feeling of whatever it was the other thing was about. A feeling that only now are you able to translate into the spoken word.

Yet it’s only over an extended period of time that you may find your ways to uncover the truths of it. Patiently weaving skeins of different reality as you seek to uphold the past in the lights of things to come. And still so much fails make sense.

Leaving you, for now, trapped in a place where the least hypothesis, and the social structures of law and order, insist it’s little more than the pathology of a manifest thought disorder.

“Block Transfer Computations,” replied my other cat as she jumped onto the table and demanded due bandwidth consideration from my tuna sandwich.

“Are we really reverse engineering,” I asked my other cat once the tuna had been depleted, “a theory of block transfer from the mess I’ve uncovered with my Quantum Mnemonics.”

“Yes,” purred my other cat with a satisfied purr, “we are.” And with that she began to clean her face with a moistened paw and lost interest.

“It’s not funny,” objected my cat, “for others have begun to perceive the extra dimensions we have taken to folding our minds through.”

“I’ll continue this later,” I decided. “Because right now I’m stuck in a hole trying to resolve the apparent fogs of reality surrounding some of the key operators who support these facts as fiction.”

“Shit, shit, shit,” yelped the wolf as the truth sunk in and once again revealed me as the Bad Wolf who started it all.

“You along with others brought harm to his neural symbiote,” warned my other cat once the wolf’s identity had been established. “We do not take matters such as this lightly.”

Sounds of Silence

“On the morphology of neural semantic precursors in closed cell particle memetic structures,” I recited to myself as I wandered through the streets.  A moment later and my mind slipped into a crisis of confidence.

Your mind split then.  Leaving you flapping about inside your own head as your emotions flopped about looking for your cat, and your intellect began challenging the need for said cat.

Then she found me and my fleeting moment of panic dissipated.

Other moments of time and real began to suggest themselves to you then as once again you began to question.  And yet no coherently shareable view would come.  Leaving you yet again trapped between realms.

It’s that sense of the other voice, I decide later.  Something I can’t actually remember never being there.  It’s not until I pulled a trick of light and mind with my cat that I became able to see beyond the noise… and the silence.

Dimensions of change

“I miss my children,” I moaned as I sat there and contemplated the available opportunities of movement ahead of me. “I sense their minds around me all the time,” I continued, “but it’s on days like today when there’s an opportunity to catch-up that it really begins to ache.”

For a while I sat and pondered the nakedness of the trees outside my window. Contemplated too the spectre of Justice in the distance. A dry mood of not exactly depression blew across my soul then. Leaving me pondering words like ‘leviathan’, and the fickle deeds of minds so divorced from reality it becomes hard to see how once they could have successfully claimed to have been men.

Other dark collectives of human understanding revealed themselves to me then. Families of silence huddled together in the dark seeking to avoid the ultimate judgements of self enlightenment. Leaving me once again lost without words as individuals moved from the silence merely to assault me with their selfish understandings of right and wrong.

I began to ask why then. Again and again, until the deeper voices of my heart and soul could be heard repeating the question.

“Because I’m not in the best of moods,” came the reply from the other side of the fence, “and I’d only go blaming you for it right now.”

Strange, dark, words from ancient texts spooled across my mind then. Unlocking long metaphors of meaning written in the images of contemporary form. Promoting the deeper recollection of the treatise on the nature of harm that had once formulated itself in my mind.

“I’ve been contemplating,” purred my other cat suddenly, “the nature of blame. For example, would it be just to blame a catalysing agent for an explosion, given that the other reagents provide all the energy of the action/reaction.”

“Humans are dumb,” my cat announced, “failing so often to see beyond the simple logic of action-reaction. Failing to look deeper into the nature of the operators involved within the complex systems they uphold with greatest of virtue: life, mind, intellect, emotion.”

And with a laugh and a smile my mood turned. And I began, finally, to navigate my mood into a less bleak aspect.

“I can’t claim,” I replied in response to my cat’s assertions, “to be very much different. Other than I’ve developed the habit of thinking long.”

“Identification, thesis, apotheosis,” muttered my other cat, “antithesis.”

Halt 0

“I wouldn’t have left it going like this,” I admitted, “left it going for as long as I have, unless I’d become convinced there’s more to this than my personal insanity.”

“Your own personal,” emphasized my other cat with a grin, “insanity.”

“Sentenced 1989,” commented my cat by way of a distraction.

“Since 1943,” I muttered in reply…

For a moment I allowed my mind to stroll through the other trackways of my memory. Allowed the other operators of my empty life to specify the times and dates. Finding myself, then, falling through the maelstrom of symbols twice left by the side of the road.

Then life and art began to blur together again. As the juxtapositions of my various crazy notions began to intersect the realms of the real. More hard data passed me by with alarming coincidence as the supernatural plot of the programme I was watching began to unravel into a year long conversation. Leaving the others, perhaps, with a better explanation of the last five years of my living hell.

“Significant other,” my cat reminded me as I calmed myself with a breathing exercise, “most significant other, perhaps.”

“Proclamations,” I sighed eventually, “and the difference between Shadow and Other.”

“Easy,” purred my other cat, “it’s a voice and it’s all in your mind. Heart through head is Other,” she began, “those known to you. Those that are rejected are Shadow,” she continued, “head through heart.”

“Intellect and emotion,” I nodded thoughtfully.

“Along with the unconscious,” added my cat, “both Shadow and Other are operational entities within the realms of the sub-conscious.”

“And schizophrenia, the split mind,” I nodded as I recalled the conversations, “occurs when the normal moderators of the mind break down, allowing sub-conscious thought to bleed into prime consciousness. Leading to the peculiar phenomena where there is no fixed perception of self.”

“…and if you ever want to meet anyone who is truly insane,” my other cat reminded me with a demonic grin, “go speak to a writer…”