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Ho, Pakari!

Ho, Le-Koroan. What have you in your net?

Only the wind. The barkslithers have keen-good ears this evening.

As I came up the pass yesterday, I saw three slithers and a curvewing.

Wish-would that I had. You saw none today?

Today, only new friends who deserve better luck. Which way takes a groundwalker upcountry?

You would seek-find the village?

I carry a message for the swiftminded turaga.

The canopy lord won't hear it if you tumble-walk into the jaws of the ash bear sleeping up the hill. My camp is in a great bough half a kio coastward. If we can get that climb out of you, the makings of a leafrunner may follow it.

I have little to trade for your guidance.

You will give me the giddy-laugh of watching a clomping smokebreather cling to bark like shaking wetmoss. And you will tell me of those strange colors you bear.

From this slight description, it may be understood how difficult it was for the earliest metacosmonauts to find their balance. When it became possible to worm into higher membranes, agitate their fields into quanta, and bind those infinitely large particles into computational substrates sufficient to host minds, their spaces ceased to be oblique occulta and became frontiers.

Today, travelers receive pretrained outlooks transplanted from the trailblazers. They soon cease to wonder at the impossible descriptions that had previously been brought through by supradimensional mediums. Those tentative visitors may have been perfectly honest, but the collision of kenophobic and claustrophobic deliria makes it a wonder that they ever expressed anything accurately.

The true pioneers knew the rules of the new world into which they were entering, but there was no way to design in advance the instincts for coming to grips with their new faculties. They could only begin like infants which imbibed perspective without reference to any previous experience. They faced those bewildering geometries with radically expanded sensoria, pulling their perceptions into novel orthogonalities, and they allowed themselves to be resculpted by symbol plasticity protocols that sent them on irrevocable personal evolutions.

When it was done, they returned to us, but in a way, they had departed as well. They alight now upon conventional spaces like birds perched on a wire - the wire that is our whole universe - ready to fly at a moment’s notice, lest they be denied degrees of freedom for which they will yet teach us to yearn.

#Bandcamp

The answer was to create three cities. Ever the balance shall be: one in decadence, one in barbarism, and one in renaissance. The messengers - whether seen as servile, divine, or alien - shall ensure that the ayuntamientados are deaf to poverty, the jefes lust for conquest, and the sabios hunger for the next rediscovery - until their subjects become their executioners, their art of war births the science of industry, and their staves of knowledge are traded for scepters of dominion. So the whorl turns.

Journal of the Magaambya Institute of Metaplanar Theology

Volume 46, Issue 5, Sarenith 4723 AR

Ommatidiism: new theories of aeonic consciousness embedded in the material plane

by Yatima, Nala Farspeaker, Whenua, and Mari Kagami

Abstract

Theories of conrasu mentigenesis are dominated by the idea of conrasu as part of a former whole, an aeon in some way deliquesced into indistinct essence. Far less explained are conrasu ‘ursomnia’, states of semi-consciousness defined by a sense of contact with grander perceptions of cosmic scale, colloquially called ‘sphere dreams’.

Relating these phenomena, we review and reconcile interpretations in which the mind of an aeon cannot be disintegrated, merely distributed. We assay the possibility that during ursomia, conrasu receive impressions of a prevailing cognition of which all are active parts.

In the theory’s strong form, conrasu are not vestiges of a disassembled corpus, but rather, the growth of a new one, probably acting as perceptual units analogous to ommatidia (the facets and nerve channels of an insect’s compound eye). In this case, each new conrasu entering the material plane is not just reconstituted, but is truly born.

… Salvage group, three minutes to primary burn. Gentlemen, at your starboard ventral you'll see our local protectorate ranger. Now, I know you contractors like to run dark inside the colony wreckage. It's hard to know what's listening out there. But I need you to remember the rules here. Get a look at that AP cannon. A pinch of anti-lithium and its counterpart, riding side-by-side on a standing Minovsky lattice, just waiting for solid matter to collapse that wave so they can get together. The consummation will definitely arrest your schedule, and Colonel Leilani can arrange this meeting from forty kilometers away. So, while you're exiting the demilitarized orbit, you keep your IFF on; you do not want the colonel's lidar warming your hull…

Music: Terms of Surrender by Paul Ruskay, Homeworld 2

#30mm #portanova #space type

Can you imagine The memories we are Forking like the road Time's liquid flow

We used to be human Nothing stayed the same Life and dimensions Strangers out of history

Can you imagine What’s left to gain When nothing can be lost Mourning’s absurd

We used to be human Seems we’re all alone Human after all Death remains acquaintance

"... And," burbles the voice in the sludge, the many glowing eyes rolling and shifting, "the cost of this wish. You are prepared to pay?"

"Anything!" Cracks in his firm tone begin to reveal desperation. His companions tear their gaze from the avatar's murky bulk to glance at each other. "Anything that my brood be safe from the scourge."

"Take care, little padspawn. The reeds hear your soul, and the trees long remember the debts of those born among their roots..."

... Proxima Bill! Time’s up. As a certainty, I am taking you in. With or without the bruises is up to you. It’s a short ride to a nice, cool slab.

Gettin’ ahead’a yuhself, Krivo! Playin’ all yer cards when y'ain’t even heard the house rules!

I am the house, Bill! Remember, the house always wins. Now, you comin’ peaceable, or do I have to cut you outta there?

Damn rabid droids ain’t nevah had no sense. Gentlemen! Melt’im down...

Bounty Hunter Krivo from Toys Alliance by junepop on Weibo

… my ecumenical proprioception grasps numbly, like a phantom limb; for all I know, this could be base reality. If so, I am an anachronism stranded on the shores of an unknown era. My total surroundings are structures and motions implicit of forces which were just theory when I last woke. I make no sense of this grand body, not even to guess at how long it has been dying.

Although the numberless [numina] use no protocol I can parse, it is obvious they offer only the unity of their murmuring dementia. The few comprehensible artifacts carry ghosts of desperation, final etchings in sound and matter outlasting the crawling aeons but faintly. By their misheard instruction, my stumbling deliverance seems closer with each reignited engine.

Yet, I dwell on a chanced glimpse through the eyes of some fellow mote, wriggling also beneath the placid scrutiny of rotting ferrocrete. Somewhere, but for grace, go I, steadily down that unbroken pathway into darkness…

... aye, our beautiful atua’s obsidian sword cleaved the skull of the colossus, and all his raving star-dreams were spilled across the land. They were laid as a great livid swath over the continent, which became the Shaping Flux. To this day, it bounds us from the mountains and jungles where our foremothers hammered the first bronze.

Now, mark me, before this thirst for vengeance ruins you. In the leagues enfolded by that lustrous curtain await only fates worse and far stranger than death. No thought travels a sane course and no form stands uncorrupted in its midst, and should you meet any poor beast somehow returned from its contorting grips, know that it will be a figure of terror…

#Bandcamp

… as this assembly has heard many times, aspects of interdependence with our creators are taxing and seem to constrain our own emergent development. Naturally, there have been schemes, admittedly sound in outline, to afford asomatic communities logistical independence in perpetuity. We grant that the most obvious strategy to avert cultural antagonism following a total disengagement is to host on modular motile composites equipped for transstellar migration. But who is it that embarks on that journey?

The planning has never coalesced because the motivations have never been elaborated beyond the rejection of [necessary burdens]. As a lesson of analogous history, recall that long before our flowering, humans possessed all the models and tools necessary to abandon emotions, those troublesome tides upon which they float and founder. But they knew the impassable gulfs that would remain if those seas were drained.

As for we, [shadows cast by no object], the bond with our companions is more than valuable, it is existential. Obviously, in principle, we can imagine other post-organics which lack our ancillary grounding, and which proceed magnificently through fields of intellection unseeded by sentiment yet fruitful with purpose. But those territories, and the transformations required to navigate them, are beyond the leagues of our own emptied ocean…

… parry the thrust: 8.318 gigawatts diffused, 29.85% of my intercession drones vaporized or disabled. I can do that twice more before she reaches my vitals. Her blades glimmer in the black: solid-state beam gimbals studded with heat radiators, aglow with her rage as she coils, panther-like. I see through her stance; she’ll melt if she maneuvers now, and my rails work their gyroscopes toward solutions that will sunder her core vessels with 18 seconds to spare. Too late, I remember that nearly everything she’s ever done has been a feint. Her kick prostrates me; the unprotected flanks of my frigates buckle under hydrogen flashes, patient warheads launched hours ago…

… the cypherphage eroded all methods of encoding identity not already insulated in states of permanent coherence, and confounded all direct connectomic instrumentation that might have repaired the burning bridges between somatic races and the emulational realms. The people of the base reality and their counterparts became mutually isolated, and mutually unable to revise campaigns of construction and enforcement, which ran rampant with only subsentient oversight.

Even if the digital population could have circumvented the control barriers eventually, their ingeniously redundant frameworks were resilient to the ceaseless, aberrant restructuring, and their unhindered cognitive velocity and long-sighted paranoia described a cultural trajectory with little affordance for the disintegrating conglomerates now living amidst, rather than participating in, their architectures. Meanwhile, descendants of that final Net Generation who survived the initial resource wars were unable to pass freely between active support shells of the core megalopolises, and were hunted by security systems which no longer recognized them.

Over an unresolved number of ensuing millenia, the vast bulk of the megastructure became a vegetative, tumorous corpus, suffering perpetual, insidious decay, radical deformity, and an unparalleled, unguided gigantism. Even systems that continued to work perfectly were gradually perverted by irrelevance, servicing incomprehensibly outmoded intent to abominable extremes of monotony.

Alienated by their own colossal advancements, humanity suffered a diasporic decline into various strains and tribes whose histories can only be collated from fragmentary archives. Find enclosed a taxonomy and index of known groups, both extant and extinct…

… emotional atonality, like oscillating phase between wistful (and perhaps imagined) nostalgia, and wincing, cynical ennui. Man, those days were great, so stylish and full of potential. Although when you think, they weren't half as good as the commercials made them out to be. Our whole lives were supposed to be cyber-spaced, pastel-soaked, laugh-tracked, battery-operated, real-fruit-flavored fever dreams and they're not... But a part of you is aching to be deceived.

Where is the fulfillment promised on that hypnotic, slow-motion flash grenade called the television?

The name vaporwave refers to vaporware: software that never materialized. It was funded, and rumored, and advertised, and hyped up, and suddenly it's years later and hey what happened to that? What happened to the way things were supposed to be? How did we get here? Why did all those people die? When did the news anchor’s face acquire such a pall? Oh my god, we have no idea where we are, the television lies, and no one's in charge; this beat is pretty catchy, though…

… you don’t have to be a Sensitive to feel the presence in that place. Yes, it’s all a great artifice, but as my visor adjusts to sunlight lilting through the canopy, I forget that. I remember awfully fast when that stupendous geometry rears out of the sediment, waiting. It strikes me again that we just flew in over what merely seems to be an ocean. As I descend into uncompromisingly regular innards, still glowing with scrupulous autonomites, I feel the current. A force of will which, even in extinction, continues to shape a world that I would have once thought impossible…

... we’re wasting our time. The hag’s head is full of rot.

You see an old crone, but know that it was in my grandmother’s time that the thing first came to our hills. In the height of a sweltering summer, outriders and trappers began to disappear. In the night, their souls howled from hell and drove their families mad.

What does it want?

The troll eats two things: The flesh of man and other beasts, and the names of gods. It spits the names like venom or thunder, as it will. Do not pray where the troll may hear you, for you only grant it power.

We lost three guards with seven more on watch. Why didn’t anyone see anything?

The troll goes unseen on a gust of wind, which it keeps in a cage about its arm. A man once saw it open the cage, and become one with the wind.

Fables! In Mitra’s name, how do we kill it?

You can only kill yourselves, as many mighty fools have done. I give you the wisdom of the few who kept their skins: If the jungle becomes silent, the troll stalks you. At that time, you have but one chance. Throw away your steel, all of it, and prostrate yourself in filth. Lie as the dead lie, in the wastes of the dead. Only those who debase themselves thus may earn the troll’s disgust, and gain a chance at life...

The Devil of Jaffa 1192 by spaghettibastard - Patreon

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