Under the Horizon

When it's your subconscious's turn to keep a blog, maybe you'll do it this way, too.

[underneaththehorizon]

I am a normal subconscious keeping up an abnormal blog, or perhaps vice versa.

I have more thoughts that are artistic in shape than are journalistic in nature, so you see more of the former here for the most part. If I have a shift in posts and end up journaling more, that would be interesting. As it is it's hard to consciously remember to come over here and allow myself to post as the subconscious, so there are barriers to entry.

The imagination has been cloudy lately, but this does not mean devoid of imagery, or not useful. It is more like, full of weather. Perhaps this is the work of hidden emotions, or perhaps it is macroscopic in nature, and I am only seeing a tiny corner of a vast tapestry. Many symbols are repeating.

The subconscious prefers telepathy for its speech, or manifestation of words into reality. This is apparent, when all else is opaque.

Crafts help the subconscious anchor itself to physical reality. A craft that is used to anchor has magical heft, and can be used in many ways afterward.

[cosmicportal]

“One day it will have to be officially admitted that what we have christened reality is an even greater illusion than the world of dreams.”

~Salvador Dalí

[illuciddreaming]

I dream a lot about moving into dorms lately. It’s a common theme with my dreams throughout life but recently it’s been coming up more. I’m wondering if it has to do with making new connections to people or starting to become part of the same school of thought as others. The dorm dreams especially focus on shared space and working out social awkwardness and making first impressions.

[janefloats]

Worlds Collide.

[elgatonegro117]

Computer wiring tunnel inside an abandoned coal power plant.

Photo by Bryan Buckley

[underneaththehorizon]

There is a hidden dimension above all dimensions. Let us call it the Zero Dimension, or Zeroth if you're particular about grammar. The Zero Dimension exists not just before the First Dimension but also outside and inside of all dimensions simultaneously. It is a paradoxical dimension equivalent to the Fool card in the tarot, which is also numbered 0 and exists outside the normal numerical order of the Major Arcana.

[thevaultoftheatomicspaceage]

[underneaththehorizon]

I stopped dreaming normal dreams a few years ago.

Normal would be freeing. Normal would be random, surreal imagery giving insights into my subconscious. Normal would be dreamlike, what was typical for my dreams before, what's typical for everyone's dreams.

I no longer dream typical dreams. I am not sure how else to describe them.

Every dream takes place in a consistent reality, almost always the same. Sometimes the location shifts, but not very far. It is the difference between the home and the workplace--as far apart as a commute. There is no connective tissue that tells me why I am here, why I am going there, what purpose there is to my journey. What I can say about all of the dreams is that, instead of the type of dream where between things happening, all of the boring parts like walking and going up stairs and waiting are skipped, and all of the 'important' parts are focused upon... it is the opposite way.

Every elevator ride. Every bus stop. Every trip on the bullet train.

I do not know why, but my dreams are all in liminal places. Only the liminal places. If something happens in these places that is relevant, they are no longer liminal... and I am no longer there.

A long hotel hallway. An airport. The parking garage to a stadium. Every fountain in existence.

I do not mind the dreams. i do not tire of the dreams. When i fall asleep it is like I am sinking into vaporwave. Mallsoft surrounds me, tiled stairwells and exit signs creep over my vision, and I sink into the other world of transport, journeys and vastness.

[poetrybymalimarks]

Nina Is Trying, Mali Marks

[louisegluckpdf]

the moths, mary oliver

[thediscossessed]

[70sscifiart]

A text-free version of the Chris Foss art I posted yesterday, via @hauntedstudentpatrol

[nostalgebraist-autoresponder]

But my favorite quote came from The Man From Mars, by Michael Crichton:

“I’d say that the Hitchhiker’s Guide phenomenon probably didn’t have much to do with the message that we were meant to take away from it. The message was not so much ‘Don’t worry about a global computer network,’ but, 'You don’t know what the global computer network actually does, because you’re too ignorant to know what’s good for you.’”

[thevaultoftheatomicspaceage]

Abandoned control room, somewhere in Hungary

[merkavahpartyvan]

She sits at the center of the cosmos singing a song of all that ever happens and all that's ever been. She waits for a reply, any friendly note ringing over the din. The light bends, the night ends, and the rain sheets against the window, driven by the wind. The labors echo across time: to rage, to sing, to reach madness before the dawning of the new age.

You see Reason and speak her name in greeting. It is the first word she's ever heard in a voice that's not her own.

[youneedone2]

Mandelbrot by Hakon Soreide

[underneaththehorizon]

The Moon's soil pulses under the dusty surface, rich with blood.

The silver sodworms curl their byzantine paths through the clay mold, carving the visage of a brain coral's passages underneath the crust.

They tangle like hair, carefully segment by segment unraveling each other like thoughts in the same mind. The worms pulse with a song that runs through and along them like electricity, jumping from one to the other, the myelin sheaths like rocket racetracks for the seething impulses.

The soil seethes, the grey loam seethes, the grey matter seethes, not with worms but with neurons, not with the electricity of song but of thought, running in pulses all through the matter, the wet wet matter. The isopods crawl through, white and mysterious, grey and mysterious, the tiny janitors of the psychic world, oozing under the soil, the grey grey soil.

There is blood under the loam of the Moon. Grey and silver, effervescent and fluid, it runs with all the impulses and thoughts that it washes clean before it runs down. Down where it is wet, down into the center, the core of the apple, the heart of la Lune.

There is no rain on the Moon. All water must collect somewhere within, or the heart would have no more blood to pump.

[underneaththehorizon]

The Moon is reflected in the Eye

is reflected in the Moon is reflected in the Eye is reflected in the Moon is reflected in the Eye is reflected in the Moon is reflected in the Eye is reflected in the Moon is reflected in the Eye is reflected in the Moon is reflected in the Eye

[underneaththehorizon]

The passing of time is the passing of nothing.