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interpreterslinguistics · 2 years ago

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Conversations with Ahi #1, Death on the Waters 24/3/23

My consciousness awakens slowly, the soft slide into dreaming.

Softly Death moves across the waters, no divide between the emptiness of forever and the quiet, reverent ripples of water. Space and the Ocean are as one.

They move with such grace, spiralling and twisting like the somnambulant tails on deepsea jellyfish, scales gleaming not with the light of the soft-bodied stars dotting the land around us but with a self-created, self-observant iridescence.

These stars around us are as big as my head, but I know that’s only because they are so, so close and Death is so, so large. Their entire body, longer than Time itself, spans between galaxies maybe, a trail of great experience and greater Mind.

I’m not sure exactly where I am, caught in them as a current, maybe, but I feel if I reach out with my consciousness the telltale ripples of moving appear like touching a lake’s surface from inside a boat, space gives in with such gentle convincing. The stars are such a gentle light, orange lanterns down the dusk-blue street, quiet totalities singing and smiling and spinning slowly, radiating harmony and hidden laws and balances like a wide tapestry net across Creation…

They show me what it’s like to eat stars.

They bow to Death’s mouth plucked from the tree like apples - but happy, like ecstatic witnesses dancing off the stage into unwound infinity, blurring, scraping the edges of spacetime, pulled into the black hole mouth like the tender undoing of threads in a handwoven shawl, delicate hands, with recognition to the work they know was done with arduous love, holding inch by inch like a doctor cradling a newborn bit by bit emerging from the womb. Space dances with them in their final breaths.

And the stars are happy, purpose fulfilled. Is it a lonely life to live deathless for years unfathomable to my human brain? Death laughs and it echoes like a droning dream of childhood - a rendition of Dies Irae begins to play in my physical room as I type, one done with such beautiful sliding between musical notes and phrases as if singing a room full of sunlight into being instead of singing about the day of judgement… And I remember them singing so gently as they do when they pull me along their boat. So distant. I hear them within the recording, the elongation, the implication of a room, the boundary within which things reflect, the God; idol of the Unspeakable.

“Where do you want to go?” a crossroads is revealed ahead but it’s of threads sort of like those in the woven tapestry from the mouth of the stars, lines of fate, timelines, multiverses spread out like frayed wires in the mouth of a cord. I feel like there is only one way forward - they laugh, it was worth asking anyway.

Six directions, four outwards, two up and down. A complexity beyond the sight of many - they stand in my room less a silhouette of pure black and more a hole into pure possibility. Stars much more familiarly distant to humans, dots, reflect in the surface of their being. Specifically reflect, I thought that they were showing me space but the faint ripples show me an ocean… “What is the difference? I remain.”

#conversations with Ahi #Ahi //#~abyssal murmurs #conversations //

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interpreterslinguistics · 2 years ago

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"being a teacher" mindset vs "being a student" mindset in the pagan community

I think that we in the pagan community broadly understand that "being a teacher" (IE teaching or treating yourself like a teacher) is for when you're adept enough to teach (purposely leaving that vague to reflect that the point at which you should feel comfortable taking on the teacher role is subjective), and most people understand that the teacher role doesn't just include taking on students but is also a mindset as well as a way of interacting with the community. What I mean by "being a teacher" is for example taking on the "I'm a veteran" mindset, like the pagan equivalent of "Im a fandom elder", it's a mindset of being, again, adept enough to teach, and also taking on actions such as making posts about certain aspects of spirit work and magic and so on, opening asks to give advice, etc. And obviously "being a teacher" can be on and off, can be on a subject-by-subject or even case-by-case basis, and it is a spectrum from novice to beginning tutor to veteran teacher, etc. But we all kind of mostly understand its a thing and that its something to avoid until you know and have practiced enough to teach

The thing though I think we don't acknowledge is that the teacher mindset stretches beyond what you do publicly. Most of us I'm sure know this implicitly, as with the whole comparison to the "fandom elder", we kind of know that we reach a point in parts of our practice where we say and embody "although there is always more to learn, I am at a point with this where I am comfortable dictating what I do with it and I think the way I perceive it is well-informed". But it goes deeper than just those actions

There's a widespread and almost ubiquitous approach to spirit work that I think holds people back, and it's using the "being a teacher" mindset to begin exploring spirit work topics (leaving magic out from now since I do not practice magic). People I'm guessing don't realise there's two ways to do things, to be a teacher or a student (of course as all dualities do, these blur on a spectrum), and that when people should be a student they generally are being a teacher - because generally, I have seen time and time again, they're told to.

For instance, the way we go about learning about deities I posit is taking on the "being a teacher" mindset when they should be - and think they are - taking on a "being a student" mindset. People are told to read myths, read posts or books or articles written/watch videos by non-channellers, form lists of personal associations, and go from there. That from the absolute get-go is putting the practitioner in the "being a teacher" mindset.

This is what researchers and such in colleges do after they've taken their courses (or as practice for their researcher phase while taking them) - this is not being a student, this is picking out (a conscious cultivating of sources based on prior knowledge - which is next to none) what to and not to take seriously, this is reading secondary sources to supplement personal experience (again next to none), and forming theories and theses and other workable knowledge.... Absorbing and regurgitating secondary sources in other fields is reserved for when you've been taught to get primary sources and how to investigate things yourself - even things like physics start you off with a tonne of hands-on demonstrations and proofs before you're let loose into theory-crafting. And it's "being a teacher" in the way that from the get-go you are assuming you have enough knowledge and experience on the topic to discern what is and isn't correct - you are "being a teacher" to teach yourself. And no, I don't think "go read a bunch of books and then you'll start to see which ones are wrong" is any different to teaching yourself - being a teacher.

There is, in my opinion, a complete lack of a "begin your studies by "being a student"" mindset in pagan circles. There's a reason that people go around talking about how people getting roped into wars off-plane are near community-wide condemned as making things up because it "sounds" like theyre making it up... Based on what? A lack of personal experience. A build-up of a lack of personal experience but a whole lot of secondhand knowledge (biased knowledge at best, opinions at worst) is mistaken as being the student phase when really it really is just an inherent consequence of the failure to initiate a student phase BEFORE the teacher phase. We are taught to think having a bunch of secondhand knowledge is having been a student, when we've done it backwards: we have given ourselves no knowledge foundation before diving straight into supplementary research - emphasis on supplementary.

Basically what Im saying is teaching yourself spirit work (magic + etc pagan-relevant arts aside for reasons stated) is not an efficient way to get to a stage where you can teach others, and I'd argue what's the point teaching others what already exists? Even if you're making it more digestible, there's only so many times we can communally chew the same resources.

There's a reason why all the big pagan blogs - no shade to them at all, and I guess I should make it clear I'm not shaming anyone, this is constructive criticism - are most successful with lists of regurgitated associations and theories on what gods like and do, supplemented with a scattering of "in my personal experience xyz deity seems to like this, because (insert reason that is not the deity explicitly confirming and that has not been tested independently by multiple channellers directly asking and investigating)". There is a fundamental misunderstanding, in my opinion, that what "being a student" means to the pagan community at large is actually teaching yourself and when you've taught yourself as much as possible, then you feel like you must be ready for "being a teacher" and of course you do! You've only been taught that what you can find from peers and secondary sources in general that are widely repeated are trustworthy sources, so... You've drained your resources you think when you've memorised things like association lists, so it's time to teach the next generation

Really, the issue with the "being a teacher" phase, and why I assign it so firmly to the act of absorbing secondary sources, is because "being a teacher" means you are using your discernment based on prior knowledge to know what is right and wrong... Which is what beginners are told to do... And actual spirit (deities being spirits in my lexicon) work does not work like that. Just point blank, you're not "working with" by definition spirits and deities if you are not working with them. You are at best a religious studies researcher of the pagan communities practices and religions, or a studier of (insert pantheon/s) history, or whathaveyou, which there is no shame in, but studying solely secondary sources is being a researcher into secondary sources

To draw this long ass opinion piece to a rapid close, I posit the "being a student" phase is actually getting in contact with actual spirits and actual deities. They are the primary sources for your experiences. They are the ones that teach you what to do, how to do it, why you're doing it, who does it, why it's important, what you should wear, what languages you should speak, what ways to move, etc, in order to communicate with them, they are the ones that teach you their history, civilisations, their family trees, their likes and dislikes, their etiquette, etc. And if you're here saying "ok but what if you're wrong?" first of all, yes! Secondary sources help elucidate personal research. But most of all... Who - or what actions - do you think taught humanity about these people in the first place? Who is the spirits, and what actions is communicating with them in whatever form that may be

People don't think it's possible to connect with them hence why they think secondary sources are actually primary, but if you don't believe you can communicate with the beings you intend to work with I wonder why you're getting into this. No shade, I genuinely think thats a vital question for anyone to ask but especially if you don't fully believe you can contact these entities - you really should know if you can set boundaries with and communicate discomfort to the things you are inviting into your home. Friendly, not snarky (if this is coming across cross or snarky sorry, I am indeed autistic) advice.

If you want to be a student, you need to go to the source and a firsthand, primary source teacher for something undistorted by other peoples bias. If you want to learn a language you don't just read essays done by people who don't speak it fluently, do you? And right away you if you want to learn it properly you need to start speaking it with a native or fluent speaker (or some app or whathaveyou but there's not really an app that mimics spirits for the metaphor to work).

A student should not be making decisions like "I don't believe in xyz thing (incarnation/past lives, godspousing, divination, magic, etc) so I'm not going to look into it." Not because you're not allowed to not believe, nor because you're not allowed to say "I don't CARE about/feel drawn to/WANT to believe in xyz thing so I'm not going to look into it." but simply because this is a decision made by a teacher mindset - it simply just no longer belongs to the student mindset.

A teacher is someone who dictates to another person what is and isn't true, you are by saying "the reason I'm not looking into this is because it is false (I do not believe it is true)" engaging the teacher mindset. You are allowed to have beliefs, and you're allowed to engage the teacher mindset whenever! But at least be cognizant of the fact that when you write something off as untrue, you are using your prior knowledge and prior research and firsthand sources and whatnot to make that decision because it is a teacher decision, and if you haven't gone through the "being a student" stage then.... You do not have RELEVANT prior knowledge/researh/etc to make an educated decision. You are not a learned and experienced and adept teacher in this particular aspect of your work, you are a teacher who gives opinions as fact. We all do it, but be conscious of it.

If you want to be a student of spirit work and deity work and whatnot, you need to get in there. You need to talk directly to them, you need to connect with spirit teachers who can show you how to interact with them, you need to lay off gulping down so many secondary sources until you're confident in your primary sources in order to check yourself against your peers' work (because if you're not in a teacher phase yet, how do you know how to discern right from wrong?), you need to be able to communicate with the people and cultures and races and etc that you're studying. What we're doing now is like studying a country's culture from the accounts of your countrymen who went and visited and came back - though really with the online pagan community at this point its more like studying the people who studied the people who studied the people who went to this country and came back

#thoughts //#~abyssal murmurs

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interpreterslinguistics · 2 years ago

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Conversations with Leviathan #5, C4tholic Aesthetics 18/3/23

(The word C4tholic is purposely censored so this isn't searchable with that term. Thanks for understanding!)

“(…) I feel like I’m watching a foreign nation’s religious ritual… Behind me I look to the pews. Leviathan sits in one of the rows very still but very clearly not paused, not an image. Legs crossed, hands folded neatly in his lap. His breathing is the walls around us, like scaled flesh - I expect the scene to change. Its energy flinches away from me but not it itself. He sits, fading into a strange obscurity, hair both on his head and in his facial hair fading to white, blurring off to the side like ink flowing in water. (…)”

“In my mindspace, in my stories, there tends to be a call to creating a flipped image of a space. For instance in my chief mindspace still a Sagrada Familia of a temple (…) if you go deep enough, the scene and gravity flips and lands you in the middle of a space I’ve tied to Leviathan - he corrects me: that he tied to me, that existed long before me. (…)

In a world of my own creation, the emanation of stillness and purity - a word better suited would be ‘clarity’…”

“(…) like Shiva swallowing the poison. Clarity, purity, a term I’ll henceforth call clear-purity, the clarity of running water absent of any impurities.”

“The enormity creaks through the bones of the place I find myself in: An old… Church? “Church, Cathedral, it doesn’t matter. Make of it what you will.” Again his voice doesn’t sound through anything but the clicking of the keyboard under my impulsed hands. Its walls crawl with the impression of something like spiders, goosebumps, some sort of energy that riles itself with its own existence. (…) The entire building shifts with a nightmarish absence of purpose and solidity grounded only by an overarching feeling - is it a toolshed? A laboratory? No, it’s a cathedral that doesn’t want to be seen, but the heaviness of this self-loathing remains intact. It recoils away from my eyes like pack of rabid wolves bowing viciously to a torch’s flames: instinctual, reigned in by - the word “reigned” brings a flash of a man wide-eyed in a vicious frenzy masked by a very distinct, well-fitted muzzle, well-fitted in the way that it is purposely built but doesn’t follow a human mouth shape as if factoring in what he’d transform into when he felt less backed into a corner, and more ready to go for the throat. His black hair hangs but it’s strikingly not hair at all, clearly sliding letters? Characters? Tiny, but scrolling downwards like filigree inked lines. I get the faint glimpse that he’s tied wrists-up to the wall behind him, wherever he happens to be at the moment.”

- From a personal meditation with him on the subject.

He walks with a cane, graced in all black, to the empty altar we found ourselves in last time. The self-repulsed church. His energy hums a slight disagreement to the label ‘self-repulsed’ but he curls it back inwards, there is a point to that opinion. It seems like it's self-repulsed, hiding itself away like this.

The altar is marred with blood. Old, dried in so much that it’s closer to being a dyed stone than a blood-covered stone; its patterns show deliberate splatters as if whatever happened here happened violently. As I’m attempting to decode the splatters he props himself up on the altar sitting on it casually, leaving his cane to the side. I suddenly feel like my eyes are failing me. There are screams. Distant memories sung by the stones of the walls themselves. Screams of what, though, pleasure or pain? Embodied fear or ecstatic post-awareness?

I find myself in a densely verdant forest at night, a scene that fades as quickly as it comes. “Sometimes, when you end up here -“ my eyesight barely returns as if my eyes are glazed over with liquid, I see him sitting on the altar still, “you go a little crazy. No, you look to the windows and wish for more.” I’m shown a window in what I presume is a different church, outside of which the daylight shines into a forest. There’s an impulse to consider how the books in this church are made from their pulp less as a commentary on symbolism and more so as if my mind, not mine, whoever’s I’m looking through, is absentmindedly occupying itself with following any line of causal thought and consideration available to them as they sit in this space.

Physically, Leviathan takes a spoon I didn’t know I had from my pen holder on my shelf. Its convex surface is like a mirror. He pulls me to put it propped up in the mug in front of me so it faces me… Looking in it, a darkness spreads from the nighted room behind me but more so like fog sreads than anything visibly moving. There’s an impulse from him that that is… Me.

He prompts, as I’m clearly stuck where to go - it’s at the tip of my tongue or more so brewing in my mind. “The mirror imagery.”

There’s a reason I brought up mirror imagery. I was thinking the other day on the connection between him, Leviathan, and the draw to C4tholic imagery. It’s never sat right in my mind - “As it shouldn’t.” He confirms; I’ve always gotten the impression from him that the faux-C4tholicism vibes in general demonolatry circles were more so something he puts up with from people who work with his brothers rather than anything he wants to seek out. And there’s a reason few who work with his brothers and the royal families connect with him.

And yet there’s something there, isn’t there? “Speak.” Get to the point. Got it.

The vision I give back to you then, My Lord, is this: I find myself in black robes in a black church. I find myself talking to a mirror. Herbs burn at the altar. The entire scene is something else under the surface as I’ve smeared the entire place in the black ashes of… You don’t need to know. Buried it. Burning is drowning.

Every place on Earth is consecrated, every hill an altar, every tree a worshiper. Then the Men flow through the streets with their burning branches and churned metal necklaces and their polyester robes… Yet even those things are made from the Earth.

(I see Leviathan sitting on a nighted throne of sorts, leaning his head on his hand. He nods.) These trees came from seeds, these machines from the Earth below. They sing in a different tune, but… I end my vision there.

He gets up from the seat, but it’s the impression of a huge scaled body moving itself on quadrupedal legs. No, not quadrupedal, but I’ll save that for later. He’s a being who knows this land well, intimately; he gives the impression though that the underground placement I feel he’s in is as he moves… Is what he has known for a long time in the way that he’s been afraid of seeing what’s above ground.

And oh, above ground… the moment I worded “above ground” as “exposed to the sky” in my head I got flashes of imagery of the “Sky Father” vision of God, of obscure alchemical and other occult texts, diagrams on parchments from so many traditions from the familiar to glimpses of Taoist drawings to things I’ve never seen before. Cultures all over the world singing different songs that, together, harmonise -

“Right, I get it.” He sits back in the throne, though it looks like he went to grab a book since he holds it open in his hands. “Here’s what we’ll do.”

I get the impression and vague vision - vague as I can’t see well - of a huge, expansively huge, list of to do’s. Notably they vary in language, seemingly hundreds are here. I can’t seem to get the impulse of what he’s saying across but I think that’s because it feels like a wire disconnected and sparking at the top… Because it is. Arching, rainbows, rain, fertilisation, spring, summer…

I want to ask about where we began and I’m silenced. “It’s a to-do list.” His energy though is flowing like clear water, though clear water with a current of electricity likely running through it. I probably shouldn’t touch.

As I was re-reading through with him as I do before publishing with whoever I’m writing with, which I do to make sure we’re on the same page and that they know what I’m publishing and giving them the opportunity to redact things, he called me back to writing more. There’s something untouched. ‘He prompts, as I’m clearly stuck where to go - it’s at the tip of my tongue or more so brewing in my mind. “The mirror imagery.”’ is what he highlights and brings back from the table.

Oh, there’s a heavy feeling of a reptile body, so grounded and real. It seems he’s fully slipped into it.

“What were you saying about this specifically? Don’t leave them hanging.” He as usual speaks with my brain’s English - but there’s a heavy reptile accent and growl to his speaking. We were talking about… What is it specifically you want to talk about?

“Where does the mirror come in. Make it public.”

Things slotted into place the other day about you that I’m still struggling to word. But I was feeling like how I always associate you with a very specific regurgitation of C4tholic imagery. A reflection, an - “obsidian mirror.” Yes.

The intersection of certain things. It’s so divorced from anything I’ve seen and so hard to place. Your connection to it feels like cathedrals possessed with emptiness, it’s shadows as light, it’s pure distilled absence, wet like the water’s waves. Where a C4tholic cathedral is a radiant promise, echoing chatter, human fears and ecstatic radiations, yours is at the bottom of the ocean. The walls are graced with soft blue light not through the windows but as an emanating property of their energy. The stained glass, if any, is either deep black or blurred beyond recognition, or shattered, hanging in the air as soft rounded sea glass. The altar is a seat like those in beautiful public parks, the place itself vibrating with swallowed music. The fish swim through the air, the seaweed around the water-worn legs…

“Too far in one direction.” His criticism is mellowed entirely by appreciation, but I know what he means.

Blackness. Oh, no, I didn’t know what he meant. He says without words that there is no decoration in the - not the Void, but the depths of his energy…

“Where we have been influences where we will end up. What we have seen influences what we will see in the future.” His ‘human form’ is barely that, a walking shadow vague in shape, distorting more like he is an anomaly in a television screen than a 3D person.

‘Not the Void, but the depths of his energy.’ I said. What’s the difference?

“The difference is the edge of space.” He shows me a place so familiar to me, the ambiotic gardens, the place where Stars sleep and dream, where the Boat glides over silken water. Ah, there’s nuances to this I cannot capture in my head.

“Then we need to meditate on this further then, don’t we.” His implications are clear with the imagery of meditation veiled either by the black of night and approaching sleep, or literally with the veil I need to wear more, or both, or… Suddenly, I am very tired. 6:52am. I have been awake all night.

#conversations //#conversations with leviathan #leviathan //

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interpreterslinguistics · 2 years ago

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😊😭😰🥴

#calathea

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interpreterslinguistics · 2 years ago

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Conversations with Leviathan #4, Dream Lessons 22/2/23

The meditation begins with him sitting cross-legged in an encompassing, slowly spinning if moving at all orb of dark mist, near-black, tinged either with purple or with grey - I can't tell. The shadow and vagueness of his form deeply betrays the fact that he is inhuman. He barely pretends; the way he walks shows under his robes more colourful than his usual appearances the legs of a reptile and the impression of a similar trailing body; moving to the window though not leaning on it, he looks outside. The scene out there is bright and familiar, the usual view outside my window, but thoroughly dreamlike. Dreamlike... Not metaphorical, I feel like my consciousness is falling down into sleep as I watch the scene.

In another world, in reaction to my sleepiness, I see him lean down tucking me as a child into bed, and I sink off into sleep.

We talk for a moment on the physical plane - mostly in energy - on the nature of waking up from this dreaming state. How am I to wake up from dreaming? He says that it's a matter of clinging on to something physical, real. He also points out that there's an art to moving inwards; he says to go from experiencing oneself out of one's body to moving inwards and experiencing oneself awake. Isn't that how it works? Where dreaming you spill outside, and waking you're self-contained?

Dream 1:

He sits before me asleep, emanating lines of stories from his body. These arch as pictographs across the cave walls, humans hunting bovines with spears... And yet each emanating line is different, like arms of sun rays: they're indvidual timelines, individual universes.

Outside the cave is a world I've never seen before. It's lush and prehistoric and yet the density radiating off the plants gives the distinct impression that this is every time and place - or more so the same time and place but in all universes overlaid into one. It's not that they're overaid like onion skin, it's more just that they are ethereally omnipresent like a nest of the very first eggs to ever hatch before the population eventually becomes worldwide. It's beautiful; I can't help but want to touch but he urges me from his position inside the cave to leave it be.

Travelling outside of it leads to a clear path in the natural easing of the tree trunks, though it's completely shaded by sunlit tree leaves making each leaf luminescent emerald green. I see a small frog hop across the clearing but it's not... real? It's like a ghost as if it were on a different plane passing through, unable to see me as I see it.

That's the ground he implies, and now it's time for the sky.

Leaving the cave as a brown eagle - I presume it's an eagle form - he beckons me to follow him and I do as a crow. The sky grows colder and colder as we ascend but less because of the height of it and more bcause I feel like we draw closer and closer to the Black Sky. The Day seems to give way as if the Night were pressing on its skin, transitioning through it, revealing the strangely organic, almost body-fluid-esque darkness with the speckling of stars... It's as if they're placed purposely on the skin of something or each of its cutaneous layers, hung like off the Firmament - he laughs and turns around ushering me to do the same and we look back down, not through the day sky on to the far ground but through the night sky to the day sky, creamy, translucent blue.

It feels as if this is... I can't word that. It's a view he's familiar with is all I can say, that this is something he's familiar with seeing. On the other side of the sky I can tell he's holding it in its entirety, the size of the Earth itself, with his left hand; he's so expansive I can't even see more than a portion of his body as he fades away from view. It's...

I get the feeling he's holding things to show me, so I peer into the blue - he chuckles and implies I should move back. "Perceive the entirety."

It's almost hard to perceive it in its entirety, though. It seems to encompass parts of me or rather this attempt at viewing is tied to senses within me I never get to open and experience through. "But what do you feel?"

I move to a more electric-based view, no, even that isn't right, but he says I'm getting closer. Physically he takes control of my body to put on a song I associate with what it feels like to be a sky spirit and puts it on loop.

What do I feel in it? I feel lost in it, that's what I feel. I struggle to keep track of the way it flows, as if it were parts of my own internal organ system floating away and outwards instead of staying in a predictable position. I poke him about possibly being wrong and he reassures me "There is no wrong answer."

It feels thick, and material, and - "Pause there for a moment. Material?" I mean that it feels so tangible and like something to cling on to. He very gently, subtly, implies that that may be something to look into with regards to waking up from a sleeping state. What is it that's material about it? What is it that my consciousness is doing when it experiences something as real?

He takes me through it, clouds somehow indistinguishable from the sky as if they were the milk in the homogenous mixture that makes it opaque like pale blue paint, and yet still whipping past us as we fly through. I feel everything get dimmer and dimmer but not the sky itself, just, my eyes, getting closer to....

Dream 2:

He sits ahead of me slumped over asleep in a cave. From him emanates lines of stories, individual universes, reaching outwards in pictographs towards the incredibly lush outer world. Outside though will collapse into one world when I go out there this time. I see his huge hands, clawed and inhuman though covered in human skin, in some sort of illusory state - as if he's manipulating reality with illusion so that they're invisible, but since they're really there if you're consious enough to see them you can - picking at and moving around and... Influencing, this line of history. He's outside of time and space in this cave controlling and reorienting certain universes - oh, plural. Because if you look around and know what to look for you can see many hands absolutely betraying the fact that this human body, as each hand let alone its arm is bigger than this sleeping human body he's presenting itself, is just a projection. He's directly... Well, it feels more so that he's showing each part of these timelines where exactly he had an influence; it's not that he's saying he's influencing them after they were written but he sure is suggesting being outside of the confines of time and space when he influenced them. Humanity sees him enter and exit at certain points on their linear historical timeline, I guess this i how he sees he same thing. I get a glimpse outside and for a split second I see it's on fire and being destroyed horrifically and violently by said fire before it flashes back to 'normal', I don't have any idea what that was about.

"But you do, don't you."

He appears at the cave entrance looking like a black reptilian canine, huge like a two-story building, teeth sharp like tusks and pupils glowing near-white. behind him the forest is on fire again but it's so strange, it's so thick as if the scene used to be water and now is mucous, and the implication is that this firey version is one of the many overlaying pan-possibilities somehow growing more and more 'possible', more and more significant to the timeline.

He invites me to come outside.

Dream 3:

I'm running with a pack of fellow black canines as fast as my body allows through a blackened, firelit, explosive battlefield. There are bodies strewn about that stagnate and blur in my vision long after I pass them - but not because that's something horrific and so much more because I'm putting off the understanding that that's food from the hunt that I'm missing out on. In the far distance, racing in the same direction as us, is the Storm Mother riding atop a... big wolf? Something heavy and obscured by dense smoke but her energy signature is unmistakable, looking as if the Sun itself is haloing her entire form like the Moon races with your car in the night.

He overshadows the battlefield, even more torn from 3D space than she was, overlaid as if this reality were just a video on a screen over which a translucent image of him is shown. His left hand behind his back, he holds something outwards in his right... I'm running still but focused on this unveiling image. Holding... A key? And a lock? The key enters into a lock and the scene forcibly is pulled into the Black Hole in a fraction of -

Back to the sky I pull my head from it as if all these visions were just seeing through it.

"Isn't that what a scyring mirror is, no?" He stands before me cloaked in pale blue - he's wearing other colours but my brain can't register anything other than sky blue looking at him. His face is blurred entirely, except for crows' eyes as sleek black as the long hair framing his face.

Dream 4:

We're alone on a boat in an endless sea, illuminated green by the green and pink sky above which churns around the piercing orange Sun. He rows, the gentle sound of oars in the water floats about; the ocean is warm as if it were a body. There's an implication that our shared house is carried atop the boat as it seems barely in reality, illusory vision showing metaphor so thick that it almost becomes reallity. It's a strange calm, as if we were sitting on summer's afternoon on a hillside watching the afternoon sky.

In the water are fish, long and thick, in strangely mechanical sine wave lines, looking like endless lemniscates. The closest ones seem to mostly move with us though these endless lemniscate fish go in every direction, like an intersection, like passing a car on a motorway and being struck with the understanding that the people inside have their own life you'll never know, it's almost bittersweet watching them go in their own directions.

They're DNA, aren't they? He nods, and as I look back to him rowing I see he's so much more familiar now - black hat covering his eyes, facial hair, black coat. It feels like we're rowing over a huge, pale body of some divine force.

#~abyssal murmurs #conversations //#leviathan //#conversations with leviathan

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Conversations with Leviathan #3, Silken Tofu 21/2/23

He's inviting me back to the mindspace in order to talk about something serious - or more so the word in my mind is something "lingering" with the implications of how incense smoke sticks to things. To glass.

I see him near my computer in my room, and the scene is visibly darker and more serious than usual; not as dangerous as a predator hunting prey but as ominous as walking alone down a country road at the middle of the night with the blackened, cloud-covered, churning nightsky overhead when suddenly the streetlights turn off. Not inherently dangerous, just immense, and black.

He's hunched over something, long pitch-black hair dripping like a blackened peacock's trail. In and through the dark are thick black tendrils, thicker at points than his body it seems, curling outwards like ink through water and hovering over whatever it is he's concerned with. It's a book, it seems, leather bound in a way I can't describe beyond the cover being strikingly and purposefully symmetrical. There's an almost mechanical detachment from it in that way.

"I need you to get the implications of this over crystal clear, do you understand?" His voice is deep like it's smeared through time. I'll do my best.

He points with one long, clawed finger to the window: outside are baying dogs, or more so they push and pull and seem to bark silently like souls in a river moving like the tides, barely holding their dog shape as they claw and reach - their expressions are tinted mad, more hysteric than angry, though that may just be the presumptions of a human brain friend to real dogs. I don't know what these are. They circle the house though and I'm led back through a wire-like line down through this scene, across my bed and on to the floor, to his feet where it blends and dissolves into the shadows under his black leather shoes. The same shadow from which these huge, engulfing tentacles are prying forth like elongated spiders' legs.

He tells me something unrelated and therefore not needed to be recorded in order to test our connection, to see if I'm listening that is. I am.

Back to the book in his hand. A small peek into what's written - on the physical plane I feel my back, which is directly facing where he's showing me he is in the vision, cold and wet as if exposed to the night rain - and its contents are strangely compartmentalised, it's not symmetrical but repeated like lines on a blackboard, the impression of a script and language I'm unfamiliar with.

On the horizon beyond the dogs is a viscerally fear-invoking, burning red, not that of sunrise but that of war's tangibility: burning cities, fire lighting, bombs dropping. And it directly echoes a scene he keeps showing me as vital and integral to his divinity: the End of the World, the sky illuminated red on the horizon as the coding of God's Creation breaks down and sings its final moments to the detuning of the Sun's pull... And I see, though we look in this vision at what seems to be incoming war, the march forward of the tangibility and inevitability of the sacrosanct civilisation ruined as neighbours and family alike are impersonally torn limb from limb, chemical dissolution in the name of whatever cause they march in on, I see him smile, resting on the cluttered windowsill. Or it would be cluttered, it's not? This is the Astral, isn't it? He nods. Well, the Astral is not submerged in war - he replies an ominous "Yet." and I can't tell if he's joking or not. It is really the Astral he's leaning in, several hours behind: it's still responding to him in a shower of brilliant impersonal blue sky. But regardless mentally he overlays his position and shows this oncoming march, and he is not afraid.

"Because whatever happens," he's suspended in water like an alligator, but with shadowed scaly body and gleaming eyes, implying the water is some sort of cushion to fire and explosives "I will remain, won't I."

I guess you will, my Lord. I prompt, subtly at least, to see what it is that he's brought me here to communicate.

"Here, I'll show you." He beckons me in with the excitement of a dad who had found a cool bug. In the book is a tonne of blank pages, specifically both before and after, though the fact that the writing doesn't start at the beginning implies very clearly that there once was writing on all the pages before this one, it just has been utterly, tracelessly, erased.

In the book, I've known since the beginning-- "oh, don't spoil it -" are names. And they're strange, they all look the same but they are not written. In fact they're more so tangible, 2D, shorthand versions of bodies - hilariously the strange compartmentalisation and neatness seems to echo dug-outgraves. But these are living bodies.

He licks a finger and uses it to smear spit on to the paper, which fades like invisible ink into the form of another one of these boxes - oh! I know... They're not boxes. I've been seeing something akin to this, with these sorts of brackets and nothing inside them:

[ ] [ ] [ ] [ ]

And I think what I'm actually seeing - he agrees with his energy, standing up and folding the book into his robes - is actually redactions of what's written which is an ongoing series of people's true names. These are... Oh. The severity is really sinking in now. Because this is, as I've known from the beginning... He nods. Is -

"A book of the dead." There's something about his smile; usually it is so true and so real, and so genuine and soft, but it's almost as if he's wearing his human face as a theatre mask. There's something behind all of it, a clockwork churning of black ink and black viscera, living void; his face becomes under the fake face a huge and deep tunnel of walls wet with black goo, like coagulating blood, leading to a point I can't even begin to see. Those tentacles behind his body spiral so slowly like the curled arms of a pinwheel, his form revealed to be as illusory and as arbitrary as the stone of a statue. The immensity...

The blackened, cloud-covered sky feels immense until the clouds clear, and the starry sky feels immense until the mind connects with the fact that those stars, and thus the night sky, are inutterably, incomprehensibly, spatially removed from any sort of glimpse of locality... And yet even they and we, the Pale Blue Dot, are confined and neighbourly-close in the arms of the Void Sky itself. Existence expansive and encompassing.

On the physical plane possessing me he pulls two cards from one of my decks, a deck that he has writen on the backs of each card, giving two cards that say Doorway and Portal respectively. Another card from another deck shows a monarch on a throne with a sword built for unspeakable violence below the clouds clearing to the light of the Moon in the Void Sky, with the energetic implication that she cradles in her hand a huge dog...

"Our time is coming, boy." 'Boy' he speaks to me as if affectionately but seriously addressing one of his hounds. The screams of war flare like the fire on the horizon, the sounds of explosions and whatnot distant, but nearing. It approaches, the town we live in begins to be swallowed in war - and suddenly that immensity is like nothing but a child's imaginary game with toys as the entire scene distorts and is swallowed in huge, galaxy-spanning ripples across spacetime itself, by the immensity of the Black Hole in a dimension beyond the 3rd. 3-dimensional space becomes nothing under the weight of the Black Hole.

"All games, all wars, all play fights on the horizon nothing but children scared of feeling insignificant, hm? Soon the dogs will feast," he implies with energy that the dogs clawing at the window earlier were a manifestation of the Black Hole, "and all will come back to rest."

The book he once held lies in the depths of an unseen forest, the wind flicking through pages and lighting the embers that are currently burning through it; he appears in the far background like an apparition on a video tape blurred and alien, tendrils spiralling outwards though in a direction inverted to before, tearing through like a slowed down - prolonged, numbingly - version of the visuals that come with shutting off an old TV. I look over on the physical plane to see the hat I have that reminds me of his and get the feeling that his energy signature is... Everywhere. He is in every shadow, dripping from every place that the light can't touch. Every ounce of light wasting watts after watts of power streaming into existence attempting to drive something unspeakable - him - back, and yet he is in every single shadow. And when the light, exhausted by its own excessive energy use in fear of him emerging, begins to dim, he effortlessly flows back. As the rivers dry only to fill the clouds, as the clouds fall only to fill the rivers, immensity can never be drained.

One more card physically he gives me: A head sliced in two from which dark tentacles and blood drip, and coil around, and -

My Lord, what is it that you do with that book? "Everywhere the light touches it leaves a signature, doesn't it?" Another card: A person attempts to hold two swords by their blades bleeding down on to them, pierced by six more. He chuckles, but there's an emotional tiredness to it, and the softness and gentleness returns. I see him fix his robes shut and they seem so normal, almost real though they still skirt reality and substance at least they try and front it. "No more. Steak for dinner. Thanks." The song we were listening to ends.

#~abyssal murmurs #conversations //#leviathan //#conversations with leviathan

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Conversations with Leviathan #2, Awakening ☀️ 19/2/23

[[MORE]]

"Such a brown haze, almost a mould, soaks this place in its alcoholic stench. The place is quiet only for the depth of the saturation of the wood, bending submissively to the touch as it fails to hold its shape anymore, soaked."

"The ferocity of the place they fear is much more of a home than this."

He motions for me to follow him and I do through the darkened buildings, watching the heavy robes he wears flow behind him like wings scraping the air around us as that's almost all I can see. The scene is so familiar but it's singing of something else; there's a sense that we're surrounded by an oppressive illusion meant to intimidate, scare, oppress, translate, but there's a realness behind it that is much more horrific - and it is ours. He laughs a small laugh at the word "horrific" dripping in it some sort of knowledge or opinion I can't quite grasp at. "What is it, though?" He gestures in a sweeping manner to the roof. Behind this fabrication of an old, shadowed, victorian building is a dark haze, and inside that in turn bubbles this strange non-formation of what is like adult foetuses - half-formed or half-made beings appearing though not with baby proportions - surfacing and bubbling away. Some sort of primordial soup. I'm reminded of the Sky -

He whisks me away, speedily jogging down the stairs outside the building into the blazing street - oh, blazing... The tepid, sickly green sunlight gives away, is torn away, into a woman's scream so ethereal and encompassing as the Sky itself that is distinctly inhuman and yet recognisable. The Sky Mother is exuding magnetic lines of pattern and life into the sky from her mouth, emanations of geometric shapes and archaic patterns found in the oldest human art... Little figures of humans too, heading out from her into war with their environment. The sky is lines and those lines are under her control. It's so vivid and real even in its near-storybook appearance because it's energy completely relaces the usual oppressively stagnant energy of the illusory place.

"That's the thing, isn't it." He's lighting incense, cradling the burning end in his hand as it sparks and burns. He places the wooden end in his mouth as he pulls up his kimono-esque sleeves, grabbing it again and placing it somewhere I can't quite manage to see: through the wall itself into the true reality. Everything around us is illusory.

Another scene; I feel like I've been in this lecture hall before. "You have." There's a implication that I understand and as I say that, physically, I can feel again him possessing me. He runs through my blood and a sense of clarity washes over my eyes, feeling like they're inhuman as he slips into the form of an alligator pressing against the surface of some swampy water before descending, slowly, making sure I can follow as if I were a baby alligator following a surrogate parent. This water is foul, like rotting plants dissolved in water; mostly though that stench is a disgusting thing for reasons beyond its disease-carrying state.

Drugs lure people into separate states. This swamp of an 'ocean' lures, with its corruption, one into a state of submission to a force beyond visibility. He's swimming and I'm following his current as a small consciousness on his back, but he's nearly entirely obscured by the thick green of the water due to how thick it is with rot - and that is not even the main issue. The main issue is its hallucinogenic properties. It's like a green screen except for reality instead of on a screen, fading into the scenes familiar to me from when I thought I was exploring this place in the Astral with my ex partner. He's urging me to pay attention though. He shows me that pale green sky as a pink and green emanation of the Sky Mother, the truth behind that scenery. This is -

He takes control of me on the physical plane to turn to a different song, one from his playlist: Sunrise, by Cellomano. There is an unspeakable amount of hate, anger, hurt - again he shows me that same area we were in before with the darkened house and pale sky, the one that the people responsible for the illusions left responsibility for in the hands of the Sky Mother. All this anguish and whatnot... He's emphasising in energy that this is a tangled mess equivalent to a form of code where a piece of information is run through multiple codes to get to a conclusion; it's a waste of time to follow its lure in an attempt to dissect and understand it. The multiple layers of encoding are purposely insilled in order to buy time to consume your mind as you try and unravel what secrets it eventually may hold. Instead, I see him leaning casually, smiling, on the balcony of this building looking off into the distant sky where the Sky Mother holds control, and I know it's not reality because I begin to question why he's so comfortable here: the scene around him fades to an open, green meadow with air dense with fragrant humidity and the Sun risen above and between two mountains, again questionable as he seems to be leaning on nothing yet that's the only clue this might be a.. Dream -

"The clues that wake you up to the illusion will be sutble." Again in the dark house, he pulls a small set of gold and silver keys from somewhere and holds them out to me. I cup them in my hand, unsure with what to do with them... Because at the end of the day this illusion was a home. And he echoes that too, calling back energetically to the nature of the Sky behind the curtain of swampy illusions. Through which... I show him his alligator form with me riding his back go out the other end of the deep swamp through the blackening depths into the clear night sky and yet again... That is an illusion too. That is an opinion.

What're the keys?

"Questioning. The illusion of the dream is compulsity. The archway is indecision. The end is rejection."

But when you reject something like this, don't they just re-cover it? Gnik Nus, by the Beatles is playing - and I accidentally lock my tablet screen showing my wallpaper, a sun emanating geometric lines and designs. Wolf Totem, by The Hu. Find the hole in reality - "and learn to see it for what it really is. Once you have the key, you just need to find the lock."

What if you're not conscious enough to find the lock? "Go back to what I first said: questioning." Those situations though when you're so sedated you can't find the beginning of questioning - "isn't that just what this is for? You think there's no point?" His face is overlayed with an illusion of a dog mask as if he's contributing to the illusion around us, this place and building I thought my ex made. He laughs. "Ah, no. Its no one's alone. This is not something unique to them, don't let them get in your head."

I forgot this place is teeming with dog people, making his mask astutely relevant. "Weird, isn't it."

"A dream will often keep you entwined by redirecting your attempts at looking outside of it. The way to look outside of a mirror that is constantly mirroring your actions is to realise its nature. It's surprising how little bothers you when you are at peace." I notice we haven't left this building despite the area being huge - "That's because I don't want to." Matter-of-fact, self-assured. As always. He speaks through the mask, hauntingly changing shape to some sort of bird in a way I literally cannot track nor perceive. I know it changed, I cannot repeat the change in my head - bird calls finish the song we're listening to as I say that.

"To escape a situation one must break through it. This, unfortunately - " he pulls a fire out of part of the scene; God, the scene looks so nonsensical and unreal now even though I feel even deeper down into a dreaming state than I was before. "- requires a detachment from your own feelings about a certain situation." I feel like we've moved to talking about something slightly different, but it's all entangled. "Weren't you supposed to be doing the dishes?" He's lighting some sort of cigarette or something using the fire of the scene. I'd be so scared to do anything of the sort lest I somehow transport the essence of the scene into me... I'd be terrified that taking from this would poison me.

-------

The bliss of the pale blue sky, womblike and mercury-esque, is a distant state of nothingness. It's acting like a place of transmutation. "Here," he implies with his energy, "is the place where all things start," I feel like I'm a printer through which his electrical impulses are invoking binary encoding itself in words. "Here is where all things start."

"And here -" he points to a blackboard except it's pale white, sterilised like his white lab coat and strange goggles, "is where things begin." It's registering as text in my brain except it's a collection of extensive symbols like the archaic drawings of humanty again, the first pictographs and expressions we have record of. I go to say somethng about my interpretation of today's lesson and poke his energy to see if it's appropriate to translate... I didn't notice until I started typing that last sentence that the fact he's finally relented, given I've wanted to translate multiple times so far, has now coincided with when he himself has decided to show that this is a lesson with this blackboard metaphor. Clever.

Returning to a state of bliss, right? What exactly does that mean? "Purity." Purity of what? "You know." He gestures at me as if to say "go on."

It's a purity of being. No matter what, we will always have a translation. We can only go back so far to a point of unity, to a point of being human and whatnot, because we will always have a programmed self expressing itself through our actions that sets us apart from others even of our own species. We will also always have a view and interpretation and therefore projection of the world around us. This cannot be changed. But others threaten to play with our perceptions of ourselves - he swings a leg out from the thick robes, showing an illusion overlaying whatever shoes he's actually wearing with a leather high-heeled boot, implying how every time I make a character based on him I tend to give him some sort of fancy heels, and he laughs as I translate what he's implying. Hopefully entertained by my shenanigans, then. A song begins playing that I associated with this illusory place we've been exploring, specifically one I found towards the end of my time in its miniature cult before I realised everything was all fake, a song also related directly to the fake deities he just referenced in a text post I just scrolled past and noted was weird - now I understand why it stuck out. But this song exists outside of that, desn't it. As real as it feels, the illusion is an interpretation, a projection.

"It is a dream for a reason, young one." He never uses pet names like that... "I can do what I want. But it is a dream - a dream, something that has never belonged to a single person. No symbol or experience or place ever can belong to one person, can it?"

He's holding the cigarette or whatever it is from earlier next to his face. His expression is always softened with an edge of the Void itself with those round sunglasses he seems to wear, leaving me with nothing but a curl of a smile tugging at one side of his lips. It's a pause of silence. I realise we're back in this cold, dark house from the illusion. He hands me a card physically which shows a person wild-haired and smiling holding a toothed crescent sickle. You can use the symbols of the place that held you to break you free, use the key made by the same jailors as your cuffs to unlock yourself.

"But at some point -" he takes a drag of the cigarette and the world seems to distort in a motion-sickening way into it, as if through a fourth dimension the space is being consumed. "You have to walk away from the illusion. There are more than two paths."

The world groans and creaks - yet soundless - as it is bent and distorted and pulled by the immense weight of an ever-present black hole. The familiar 3D spaces are pulled by some encompassing black, as encompassing as a father's embrace, warping it like water saturating and pulling apart with gentleness the very stability and cohesion of wood. Dissolution. The Black Hole is singing some sort of Creation-wide lullaby -

Boats are put out to sea, they distort as if their three dimensions were the two on a television. Birds attempt to fly away, scared, they too share the same fate. The faces of the 'civilians' distort and scream and attempt to give off the illusion that this is a horrific, unjust act, but it, like a tantruming child, is again still lulled down into the Beginning of Everything. The sky itself, one final attempt of this endless dream to call attention to its reasoning, takes over everything, yet even that is swallowed. "There is no need to listen," Leviathan's voice is dual, simultaneously him in his entirety and the Black Hole itself. Everything folds into a great black hole - that snaps shut like the powering off of an old television. And the song ends.

#Let me take you down 'cause I'm going to Strawberry Fields -#conversations //#~abyssal murmurs #leviathan //#conversations with leviathan

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#Eyes

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#Language

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Storm Mother, 12/1/23

What a whirlpool of emotions and new sensory data this all is, huh? Standing here on the cliffside, but like it’s been described before: in terms of horizontal length the space between my feet and the ocean is nothing. The Storm Mother ebbs at the ends of my consciousness, visions awakening to stormy seas with ships more decorative and alien than I have ever understood them to be before. The Sun burning into clouds, which look smothering and heavy like chlorine but are so fresh and free with salty air. The blurring of bubbles being both Sky and Ocean…

A wolf - I - pads to the beach. It’s ringing with the sounds of port activities, bells and seagulls, swaying, creaking wood. Children run past, adults bringing boxes and bits and pieces with rolled up pants avoiding the salt water. Salt water, salt air. The sky is olive green and ember orange.

Worksman, we all are. I feel her presence threaten to slide into the scene behind me like electricity hums in wires of a huge generator you’re not supposed to ever see the insides of. She’s a wolf rider, something heavy and inhuman, cracking the seams of reality like tight skin pushing apart failing clothing, like fierce eyes emerging from the shadow of a mask. Heavy footsteps, heavier rainfall.

In television and cinema, often the arrival of something huge is announced in the earthquake-esque pounding of steps, the rhythmic ripples across water, the sound before the sight. Here it’s drums - no, not drums plural, one drum, her own - the enormity rivaling the Earth Herself in the form of a human shorter than me… The heavy generator of power. Eagle feathers, raw meat. Electricity, the drive that makes muscles move. Did you know you can make dead animals move with salt?

The raw scream of what you hope is the mountain lion, the electric blood through a civilisation, the sting of acid causing muscle contraction; the polarised loops on the repeating lemniscate ring vision of God - a pause to draw it. Reverence towards details. A nun fervently mumbling prayers in ecstatic solitude, but her face, black void, no nun but the god of this -

We always get to this point where something needs to be done, something needs to be acted, to go any further. There is the scholar and there is the actor, there is knowledge in both the book and in the action, and to understand electricity you must embody in it. But that’s why I sit on the shore and look out at her. The world, her world, brims with knowledge under the seams. The brilliance of colours that are whispered about in iridescence, the wealth of the worlds of physics and light, in movement, in worship of Rhythm, of dance. In sound she calls, not written words. In pelts she dresses, torn from the flesh of animals (did you know pulling skins off muscle can cause those muscles to twitch?), not in stripes drawn on to fabric. In the water she rolls, not the mind. Always the electricity of the image, not in the image.

I have to sit, to lie down in the sturdiness of the sand as it’s stability is slowly eaten away by the flowing water - I imagine it to be, I want it to be. I am learning to swim again. The Ocean calls to me, sweet, seductive not as skin shown to the human but as flesh is to the wild maw, wild meat stew, churning underbelly of Creation… She has been evoked, the call echoed out to her, and her arrival is imminent. Eminent. Inevitable.

#conversations //#conversations with the Storm Mother #storm mother //#~abyssal murmurs

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Astral Diary: Wolf, 4/1/22

We’re seen again padding through the forest. We = some inorganic mix of the mist of the void entangled as thread between the fabric of myself and my other self. No eyes, because that’s not the point.

Entangled. The forest twists above me, but I’m inclined to drop the whole premise of sight from my retelling because that is not what a wolf is. When I was here, I was pushed by Eye to keep going even when I didn’t want to.

I said:

The world smells like a concoction only comparable to the smell of rain, a humid and pregnant, melodic composition of distant voices of people and plants and sweat and water on this plane, but also the voices of things energetic like whispers seeping through from somewhere else - energy. This energy has an alluring voice as a top note, mid notes of distant ‘human’ voices used by Fae throats like bait on a fisherman’s hook, base notes of whispered discourse and hissing emanations the unseen hands turning cogs in Nature’s workings. The ground is moist, and warm. It’s not too moist though, it doesn’t uncomfortably sink in-between paw pads.

Physically, as in in this room right now as I am typing, I’m drawn to the mirror on my bed sat uncomfortably facing myself directly. My own energy sings out and tells me from the other side that no - by the distortions in its surface - I’m not retelling this exactly. The distorted lights in it form an eye, I ask what I’m missing, drawn to Pinterest to click on a picture before it loads and it’s deer in a great looming forest, a picture out of place with the abstract or manmade images that generally dot my recommended images. Look back at the forest… And look at it.

The Sky stretches a strange and unfamiliar shade of blue above me - “this is not your sky”, I feel. The trees are light, some look like birch, but they stretch tall overhead and lend a bright coloured light to the scene… I presume it’s energy despite looking physical, it feels like, in the way that leaves billow down from underneath the tangle of branches, this bright light energy does the same, falling from the trees? Or perhaps just emanating from the trees like mist emanates from the ground…

What’s that about blood? I keep being drawn to talking about bloodshed, murder, killing. In the distance I see myself also as a black wolf, waiting at the intersection of memory and mindspace. He turns and walks into the mindspace with the implication of me following.

It’s a hollow shrine in here, carved into some sort of echoing and impossibly expansive cave… People, statues - statues? Or strangely humanoid stalagmites - praying with mouths open as if wailing or screaming. He curves around some sort of body on the floor and sits, interspersed with visions flashing in my mind of vaguely-human people ravenously tearing apart some sort of huge, horse-sized carcass less like a body between them and more like clay into which they’d waded, as it barely held any shape anymore and liquefied with its once-taut muscles shredded beyond cohesion. He smiles in-between the visions and my recognition, why? I know why, the fact that I knew bloodshed and whatnot would be a part of this meditation and avoided it, yet I linger on the visions of near-cannibalism.

“What did you hunt?” A small bird, it seems, I drop it from my maw like a house dog caught with a stolen egg. This kill was all I could muster. The bird’s fragile form is real enough to squish my lips against my face as I held it in the small front teeth far enough away from the devastation I could cause with the rest of my mouth. Some sort of sparrow, it looks like, big for a sparrow if so but coloured the same. I’m alone in the forest looking about, though looking more as feeling - paw pads like a shark’s electrical senses feeling pulsing energy - and it’s weirdly still all moving about me like a living ecosystem yet not shaming me for the catch. No discourse about endangered species? No criticism of unnecessary cruelty for killing such a small thing?

My head twists with curiosity at the idea of no backlash - but then twists much more involuntarily at a snapping twig. Mindspace overlaps Astral memories again as, from the line of trees, a hunting group of humans pours out from the tree line. They’re dressed in strange ways both naked in nonsensical places and wearing things that I barely remember as dress suits, dancing almost or at least their movements register as strange dances to my brain, holding spears and weaponry built like those of ancient times from chiseled rocks and tree bark, no metal in sight except flashing off the buttons of their suits and wrist cuffs. I want to flee from the weaponry but I realise I don’t have to, this is mental, and they shift across the clearing behind me in these clumsy and barely-cultivated dances before blurring, like sparks fly into stars from the campfire to the night sky, into cave paintings alongside the animals of ancient times… But the humans refuse to stay still. They remain strange fleshy blobs dancing about like pupae still stuck in the outlines but refusing to become history…

It’s a strange display. My wolf brain has had enough and wants to go find something more interesting and hands on, and fun. Physically I call Eye to see if he wants to play games.

#Astral //#Diary //#Shoutout to that one post that reminded me I didn't post this yet

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Hermes said: "...As the strawberry tree becomes the strawberry, I become DNA..."

#~abyssal murmurs #hermes //#channellings //

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Conversations with Leviathan #1, Walking Dreaming 13/12/22

(Friendly reminder this, like all my work here, is a part of a process of learning and isn't necessarily correct in its conclusion)

"An offer of a hookah?"

His black-clawed fingers reach to take it, grasping the pipe. It's night time physically, but in the Mental Realm the blue sky shines its light as the setting of a mundane scene. It always surprises me how the day sky feels so normal, sometimes.

He sits on my bed at the point where my desk is next to it, foot draped to the side and the other crossed foot to knee. An inhale: Three herbs danced together to make something reminiscent of rain, raag megh. A smile tugs at the corner of his lips, black mustache of curling hairs shifting slightly with it. He's moving as if something is between the fore finger and middle finger of his right hand, like a cigarette, but I can't see what it is...

The scene is peaceful, isn't it. A figure so widely beloved and loathed, so many opinions forced on to his shoulders as if they were objective truths yet he sits calm and detached from any sort of grandeur. Black... denim? Jacket scuffed with wear, draped around a white singlet, jeans? It's hard to tell, I can't see very well.

He takes another draw of the smoke and the room fills like a sauna, the scene enveloped into a -

Curling out from the smoke is spiralled river of a dragon, like those depicted in East Asia, but different. Hints of something else brim at the edges of the smoke as his form arises in it, flashes of a realness that isn't often seen in depictions of scaly fantastical things. I briefly saw him hold an orb -

The smoke clears, back to he himself as a human sitting on my bed, smirking. It's a gentle smirk though. He radiates a warmth matched only by the beaming day sky that touches on the glass windows like a kid, lost in awe, leans into the glass of a toy store window looking at something they covet.

Suddenly, I feel him behind me. He leans on the windowsill I look out from. The whole window scene is a blue that's specifically milky, the realism of the scene offering to fade as if blue opaque water was pour gently all over it; it feels like sleep coming in.

"That's because it is." The first words I've heard him say in a while.

And what happens if you touch it? He shrugs, walking towards my room's door presumably to go outside. I follow him? Yes, I'll follow him.

The hallway is a cloudy mess - not cloudy as in unclear because it's very clear, lucid almost, but the once stable and physically grounded decor in the place now floats in drifting sunlit clouds. "Sunlit" despite no windows allowing that light, so that must mean the Sky moves in and brings its own dimensions with it... It's all floating like little cities on clouds, the books and bookshelf ledges, the round chair, the clothes on the floor, the plants. The front door has dissolved into a gate holding back light.

"Do you want to see what's behind it?" He's using my brain to speak, so his mouth doesn't move.

Behind the gate is...

"You'll have to wait 'til sleep to see it."

Ah. See, part of me knows I'm able to see it. You can see the sleeping areas of the mindspace and dreams while awake - something is tapped in my room physically, sounds like incense - oh, I use incense to sleep. I am called.

14/12/22

I was right, he called me back to the space in mediation afterwards to try and approach the gate. He ended up partially possessing me and using my body to anchor his consciousness to an awake state, though now in retrospect I question why he would have to do that since his own body would also be awake. Which means... He was probably showing me how to do it.

Regardless, what lay beyond the front door was the sky, dripping down and cementing its place in the vague reproduction of the area outside my house. It's much less realistic behind the gate, as if walking out into a space outside a house in a video game that only exists to be a backdrop seen outside the windows.

Going into my house's garden specifically, and interacting with the sky, it was like paint in water... And specifically it was made of something I picked up on in the meditation I wrote above. It's a part of the mindspace that is in a slower state of functioning; interacting with it caused my own consciousness to drop into that of dreaming. Leviathan watched from a distance, and as I said he clung to my body to "keep himself awake" - to show me how to keep myself awake, since every time we both dipped near sleep he would readjust and withdraw a little from the scene while watching me. (L: "No, it was also to keep myself awake. The host body has a big impact on the other body, since Consciousness is shared.")

I found it easy to drop into sleep, and hard to get out of it. To be clear as this sounds slightly esoteric: When you come into contact with this type of Mental material, it pulls your consciousness down with it as I said. Parts of the Mental Realm, or mindspace, or perhaps not parts but applications of it (maybe we weren't in a place, but instead Leviathan was drawing me into sleep at a Mental location) are connected to a slower mental function, and when you stray into them your own mind drops its functioning and awareness. You get the experience of dreaming while awake, very literally, all the strange connections and storylines and appearing and disappearing objects, people, all of that is experienced while your body remains awake. It's an experience that might be easier to understand, I think, when it's had than when it's heard about.

I was there drawn into the scene, sitting on "the Sun" but it looked like the Moon as a crescent with a face, something I didn't realise wasn't adding up until Levathan pointed it out. I don't remember what else I saw but I remember vaguely the conversation. He was telling me to try raising my consciousness's functioning to return to a lucid state while in the unlucid Sky, but I couldn't do it. I've been able to, on occasion, almost become lucid in a dream and it required the exact same exertion of brain power, but I just can't seem to do it - at least not for longer than a second or two. No matter what I did, just like in dreams where my body is asleep, I always ended up falling back down again to a slower functioning. It really feels like gathering energy of sorts so I think I understand the sort of brainwave patterning, but I'm not sure I understand the connection between the Mental Realm's different atmospheric consciousness levels (atmospheric as in the surrounding atmosphere, the surrounding location) and the personal. Wait, maybe I do.

The Mental Realm is magnetic, right? And don't coils exert some sort of magnetic force? Is it similar with waves? Is the magnetism why, in these patches of slower consciousness functions, your own mind lowers its functioning to match - because it's magnetised? Hence why we're trying to change our brain/mind wave patterns and struggle to - because we get pulled back down to a magnetised state?

15/12/22

L: "Song: Sedation, by Council of Nine"

#conversations //#~abyssal murmurs #conversations with Leviathan #leviathan //

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