1,3 Versa Pile

1. Reconciling a new space

When. Gravity becomes ambiguous. A vacuous sensation one wouldn't anticipate. Where only absence makes the sense of existence grow fonder to its awareness. Within a vessel traversing alone. A ship floating on a sea amidst stars. Housing for a small community of 17.

D could feel the pressure of his feet, those biological pedals, holding himself upright inside ship. But this was not gravity. Only in the absence of that primordial planetary suction does one notice such a subtle difference between the types of forces. His feet were against the floor. His body was solidly grounded, according to the centrifugal force of the consistent spin of the Cosmos Grazer's apparatus.

It was a simulation of the gravity of a planet, construed for the comfort and sanity of the human body. Not the same as the pull of an earthly materia prima.

He wiggled his toes. He could feel the pressure against the material composition of floor of the ship. It held him, surely, but it was not the same response as the familiar earth. He was not planted, as one is on solid ground. Instead, he was held from floating aloft. Though not grounded.

Floating through the soft and silent texture of space-time, he could feel the silence, the absence of his familiar flavor of gravity.

Though he knew he was held within its netting, the stable morphing pocket through bristly pull of the network of stars out in the vast reaches of the etheric ocean around him, he could tell that this was not of the organic muse. This was not the soft gravity of the earthly body he was born on. This was a different genre; it was of a different spice. It called on some sticky shifting synesthesia between the five sense faculties that make up corporeality, those fundamental jerks that remind a body that it is within something larger that itself.

The institution of an immersive adaptation process.



2. Moving Along

D listened to these sensations and realized that he kept falling into this lacking recognition. He was being drawn to notice what his environment lacked. Thankfully, D recognized this unhealthy pattern and had been trained in the artful application of antidote to the poisons attracted to the mind. He focused on his breath and allowed himself to fade comfortably into the moment. He found energy there waiting for him. He found peace there waiting for him.

Master deconstruction wordsmith Jacques Derrida entered his mind. D found himself re-minded of the relationship that ancient Greeks had with writing and reading. As his mind writes the content for itself to read, "Plato's Pharmacy" spoke him through this epoch of his weakness.

Plato spoke of two potions: the pharmakon and the grammata. The pharmakon is powerful in doses: poisonous in too heavy a dose, charm with the right touch. The grammata, the dialectic, is the antidote for the heavy dose. A balanced dish for consumption: Part words to represent ideas, part controlled chaos and vitriolic beauty.

Or, one may part eidos into coincidentia oppositorum for a particularly tasty consumption.

"Just as the light spark provides shade to the dark, so too does the soul provide spirit to the body."
D's Grammata for himself. He'd remember this koan. He fed it to the philosopher within himself to break up his attention. The attention that fed his mind on what was lacking. He was abundant. This was abundant. There was much good to be had.

"Coffee's up Dant," emenated a woman's voice from somewhere behind him. He opened his eyes. He realized he had closed them in his meditation. He saw the stars.

L's form slid into the seat next to him. She placed her mug on the table to her right and flipped open a paperback. He looked over, awoken out of his now pleasant trance into a pleasant conversation. Different shades. Her amber-tinged blonde hair fell softly down onto her shoulder. She grabbed her laptop and placed it onto the counter in front of her.

"S is still plugging away in Doc-4; I thought I'd join you in front of the stars."

She stared down into the text and leaned back a bit, taking a sip of the steaming liquid in front of her.

D looked out in front of him tuning into pleasant vibration and took in the fullness of the sight in front of him anew. A thin counter curved around the half cylindric shape of the window in front of them. A dome composed their ceiling above. The tall window presented a magnificent view out into the universe ahead.

The hull of the ship reached out below the window, exposing their perched position above their trusted body of tech, the vessel and artifact carrying their crew out and towards its destination. From their height, they saw mostly etheric blue-black velvet of the space outside of their microcosm.

D released a deep breath out in the direction of the glass.

"Ah yes, the life blood." He said with a meager, half-assed attempt at making this statement an overtly grandiose profession, but it presented itself as forced and half-awkward. No matter. He considered L a close friend and the vibration of his identity with his environment was a dancing composition that now continually evolved in, around and of him.

"I'll probably go without it for the night. A bit too late for coffee at this point" D said, his default voice naturally drawing back through him again.

L glanced over at D, tucking her hair behind her ear and lifting her back into a straightened yet resting position on the cushioned barstool. "What are you working on?"

D lightly shook his head. "Not working much."

He actually struggled to think of how to answer such a simple question. He was sure he was doing something, but what was it that

A vacuum/time. A whooshing sound and all of the moment was sucked out of itself. It went somewhere else. Wait, maybe perspective did. This particular moment erupted into a fall. D felt his head tap lightly on a glass window. He was sitting on a train on earth. Where was that last moment? What had he been doing?

He looked to the left of him. L was seated next to him in a blue train seat, holding a paperback, eyes transfixed on the text. Rows of seats in twos stretched ahead and behind formed the cabin. The microcosm. D lightly shook his head. "Where are we?" He asked her, peering out the window onto the rolling hills, and meadows of some sort of plains. The rolling consistency of the machine along the tracks was soothing to his sense of gravity. Earthly, one might say.

L did not look away from the book. "I'm still in context. You however, have gone."

D leaned his head back on the headrest and took a deep breath. He tried to relax and let his thoughts come together. He closed his eyes This seemed to be a way to gather himself, but he couldn't exactly remember, so maybe

Another whoosh. He felt a sinking feeling in his chest. Colors played out smooth radians on the inside of his eyelids as he felt himself drifting backwards. Or inwards. He opened his eyes. He was standing behind S, who was seated facing a large, flat computer screen. He recognized that he was standing in Doc-4. "You're a madman S," D said, finding his standing center of balance in the rediscovered gravity of the Cosmos Grazer. His memory caught up with him. D took a deep breath out.

S did not look away from the screen. D could see the side rims of S's glasses under his red baseball cap. "Just look," he responded. S typed out a script into a terminal window to the left side of the screen. The rest of the screen was filled what seemed to be a live video feed of the cathedral-domed shape of a lounge deck. There, he saw L's back, seated in front of the window looking out over the ship and the vast expanses of space in front of her, coffee resting on the counter, still steaming. To her right, he saw another figure staring out over the surrounding starscape. Himself.

Glitch. It felt... glitchy. A twitch. D's mind reconciled what it was seeing by imagining he was there in the lounge. Only, as he formed daydream, the dream's image came to him with a twitchy unfurling of lucidity. An indeterminate time slipped by his awareness. He lost track of his vision until again, he found himself standing in the lounge. L was next to him, still transfixed on the paperback in front of him. She reached for the coffee and drew another sip. D again released a deep strong grip and focused on the gravity around and within him.

"You've been writing off the tracks again," L said and released a small smirk, still looking into her book.

"I guess so," D replied as he pulled up a stool next to L and took a seat. 



3. The Polar Context

_________________
FB41 Protocol

I. System architecture must always remain intact
   a. New script must be able to pass the Asclepius Test for Culpability at a minimum rate of 72%
   b. New script must be delivered within the confines of an explicitly referenced system at the outset of any phase shift
   c. User must track progress in reference to its Phase Shift Output Location (PSOL) back to initial phase
____________

D awoke the next morning in a warm and trance-like state. It was 06:43. He stared ahead, resting on his pillow and looking at the worn festival tapestry that he had placed on the ceiling above himself. It was softly woven cotton and black threads made a lotus radial pattern set against a forest green backdrop, encased in several thin white ring forms, evenly spaced from one another. The white rings seemed to hold the unfurling psychedelic pattern in place. D wondered if it was time for him to get up, or if he should allow himself to drift back to sleep. He chose sleep. Off he went.

He again woke at about 10:30. "Not too bad" he thought as he slowly swung over into a hunched, seated position on his bed. It was time for breakfast. His room was incased in a garden. The surrounding walls were glass from about shin height to chest height, and housed a plant ecosystem, from volcanic granite-enriched soil to the healthy bright green of the plant varieties above, from legume to radish to flora. Kale would set the stage for this day. He pulled out one of the stacked drawers tucked to the right of the pseduo-roman arch of his sliding doorway, grabbed a handful of the leafy green material out of the bundle and tossed it onto a black pan on the stove, which sat across the bedroom, on the other side of a 3-seater kitchen table that was placed along the wall shared with the head of his bed. The stove sat next to a mini-fridge, both of which were tucked in a square shape cutout of the glass encasing that covered the rest of the room's walls.

The meal was fresh. D felt the food feed directly into his brain, as if the prior day's events had left him sucked dry of his nutrients, setting up a network of internal vacuum processes, waiting to be "fed". The refurbishing of his energy stores was a much-needed relief as D transitioned into the day that faced him. He walked over to his beat-up 2-seater sofa and took a seat. He grabbed a book off his bed table by Phil Callahan and cracked it open. He rested as he let the food sink and move throughout his body system, flowing to his brain as it took in the light and its geometric encasing, the room that held him. 

About 13:20 ended his reading phase.
The light cerebral hum of the plants behind him emanated in stochastic waves out into the room. He looked up and around to where the frequencies felt they were coming from. He knew these frequencies were not a 'where', but he preferred to look nonetheless. Easier to tune. Time called him to lift. 13:21 started a new phase.

His breaths drew more and more and more into his focus. The elongated in-breaths responded to his attention and spoke to his lungs with a crisp cool. The edges stretched and felt the moisture in the air become drier, colder. Edges became flexible. Blended perspective cast a breathing veil of thinly transparent light in front of what was in front of his eyes.

The darker the purple was, the more the shape moved inwards towards his eyes. Space opened up inside of space. Flex/Wane. "Bravo," his mind thought as it watched the symphonic dance. The thought echoed as he let his attention forget what it was. "Tune into listening/watching" it told itself without speaking. Action: vacuum.

A new space flooded into D's reality. It made its way through the opportune vortexes of the purple openings. D made sure to shut his perspective by tracking his vision. "Too much flooding is not good," his memory sang, along with the symphony. The memory echoed as he let his memory forget what it was. "Tune into perception/in-breath" it told itself without uttering a sound. Action: take a step back.

Things became boundaries became nothings. And when this potpourri found a time to stop stirring itself, D felt a cool outdoor wind roll against his right cheek, his right ear. "I walked outside," came a memory, rolling against his right cortex, his right hemisphere.

The cold arose the hair on his skin, and more memory flooded in. This time, through the language of touch. He was outside, sitting on a bench. "She thinks I'm childish" his ego projected, the symphony growing softer, stranger. The projection echoed as he let his ego catch onto its creation. He wasn't so much in tune now, as he was out of context.



4. The Polar Context II
_________________
BD01 Protocol

III. Process must not be altered beyond its Godel Value (GV)
   a. New state must hold a GV within the range of .065 to .090 for at least 3 microseconds
      aa: If state does not pass BDO1[III.a] initiate return process
IV. Process must pass archetype connectivity test before use
____________

The bench was under a bus stop in what must have been a small suburban city. The temperature was mild-cool with a slight wind chill. D sat on the bench and leaned his chest forward over his feet. He opened his eyes a bit wider and let the cool breeze spark his attention further into context. Cars bustled by. Light traffic. D tucked his face into his cotton sweatshirt and breathed out, warming his face.

He felt the spirit of poeisis somewhere above the crown of his head. Derrida brushed past his mind. He spoke aloud in the direction of the stochastic series of rolled up windows that moved past him.

What cannot
There it ties
Simply asunder in anachronistic flow
There it unties

It cannot be a knot
Coincidentia oppositorum
And ambivalence
Parralleled
He enjoyed his voice's delivery. He immediately felt this enjoyment was alien. His mind redirected.

"What was I doing?"

The polar context was the stage for an answer. He was waiting for the bus. A partial answer. He could always hear the bus from quite aways off. The large moving machinery began the emission of sound up the road past a small hill. Perspective wouldn't allow any further sight of the road. He continued to stare off to his left. His vision traced the bus as it drew towards him. It released a bit of air from its suspension and it came to a stop.
The doors bent inwards, providing an opening. A bus driver looked to her right and smiled at D. She smiled and said "hello". "Hey, how's it going?" D asked without expecting an answer. His speech professed off-the-cuff as he mimed her smile. He stepped casually into the bus, his mind and body falling lightly into its processes for social normalcies. He worked his way to the back, smiling at a couple people at random along the way, and looking down the remainder of the walk. He sat down in a window seat and turned inwards to his left leg up on the seat next to him. He set down his backpack and looked up. He found himself a bit startled as he noticed S sitting across from him, laptop in lap, wire-rimmed glasses encasing head.
Triumphant. Glaze. Triumphant... Sycophant sing, song stretch. Becoming as it was yet. If it was pushed, just slide. Only slide until words can sink and burrow down into the bright depths of its pleasant under belly. It could purr almost. Almost... If its triumphant. The glaze cast over shadow lack. Slack-jawed nematode and nothing else. Slippery slide. Triumphant. Glaze. Triumphant... meaningless dribble. A pearl. Value cast out in the direction the light chooses to shine. Value cast inwards in the eyes not to see. Value is as blind as those who see it. Fold it. Bind it. Tear it. Triumphant...

"A sacred rage" from the mind of Socrates. To speak on behalf of the dialectic. "A sacred rage" from the heart of the spirit of the grammata as a response to what acts as lesser and what awaits as greater.

D was again in Doc-4. S was in his position, staring towards the screen.

"Dammit S, that one..." D spoke outwards at a loss for a teleological substance to offer the new silent stage he found himself on. The quickness of his recent phase shift left him feeling a bit internally twisted, in the gut. Or maybe, in his mind's eye of where his gut was.

S cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses, not looking away from the screen. "I'm working on hiccups."

"Hiccups?" D asked. The screen in front of S appeared to be black, with a bit of white code breaking up the screen.

"Yeah."

"Hmm, alright, I'm heading out. Dammit S..."

"See ya," S said as he took a sip of the cup to his right.

D headed back down the hallway and towards his room. He shook his head, and turned his focus towards his breath. A vacuum where light has to grow to escape. Makes things brighter. "I guess," he thought, then allowed himself to feel good in his thought. It felt strange to allow for the good feeling as a casual conclusion to the mess of experience that preceded the last shift.

He sat back on the couch in his room. The hum of the plants still offering a soft chorus as the stage background.

17:32 began his absorption phase.

He mind went back to his past life.

There was once a master who lived on a hillside in Ireland. Each morning, he would wake up, dip his hands into a bowl of water beside his bed and rub them together, scrubbing off the oil compounded from the night and day before. C would stand up on the floor and thank his Holy Master for the morning and for the day to come. In the zen tradition, he would then bow to the room with his hands together at his chest, his 4th chakra, then turn and bow to his bed behind him. Eternal morning appreciation as a beginning, an opening.

He would then grab a broom from the side of the room and sweep the floor of his small cabin home. He would sweep up all the dust, all of the dirt and left-behinds from the past, and center it in a pile at the heart of the cabin. If he crossed paths with any spiders or insects, he would grab a cloth and encase the creature with his fingers behind the cloth, taking care to keep it alive and unharmed. He would carry the creature over to the door and release it into its own polar context. "There you go" he would say, letting the creature off on a new leg of its journey before turning around and returning to his task. He would carefully brush all of the particles with his left hand, with a concise and fluid brush stroke, into a hand-carved teakwood ashtray. A fluid back stroking motion, akin to the style of Leonardo da Vinci painting on canvas. the stroke would move the particles along his floor and into the wooden container. He would pick up the container and let his hand vibrate to the hum of the morning's outside environment through the air pockets in his windows and the wooden walls of his home, allowing the particles to settle on the back wall of the ashtray. He would walk outside, past the granite entryway to the cabin and find a patch of grass that seemed suitable. There he would release the particles into their new polar context.

He would return inside, fill a handful of water from his faucet and rub his hands together, removing any dust and excess particles from his skin. First, back and forth, then using his thumbs, in mirror circular patterns, inwards to outwards, simultaneously rubbing and drying each of his fingertips individually.

Then, C would walk outside, towards his gravel pit. He would pick up a handful of gravel and dust, vibrate it to the hum of the inside of his cabin's inside environment, its tucked away silent space a pocket in a field of the outside morning sounds from the hills. He would rub this gravel in between his hands, hold it up and let the light breeze brush an etheric stroking motion some of the dust out and off of the matter in his hands in an under-stroke, akin to the style of its primal force of nature, moving its particles around, evolving the landscape. He would walk towards the door, releasing the rest of the pile from his hands, open the door and find a spot to sit that seemed suitable. There he would rest his particles, and exit the polar context.

D rested on the couch, staring blankly ahead of himself towards his kitchen stove, meditating open-eyed on the breath of the purple saturation.

Presenting itself
Receding from itself
Presenting itself
Receding from itself
Presenting itself
Receding from itself



5. Morphic Resonance
Change was a constant. D's reality took all focus and effort oriented towards foundation. If not, it would slip away, and that would be to acknowledge pure ether as king. A samurai in a field of blood. But this field was entirely absent of corporal violence.

Conflict and transcendent health both lie in the mind.

Sometimes ambivalence, and other times, neatly present in a pattern: coincidentia oppositorum.

All the more, other-mentally and bodily, D's presence was requested. He had to spot the impurity and sift through the mess.

Ambivalence is not purity. Nor is it clear:

Gather round. Come one come all! To a Carnival of Flavors, a Carnival of Rites! You'll see more than your eyes can witness! Step right up and contemplate what is beyond!

Yonder valley, a grand festival has become. This joyous eccentricity will unfurl in three acts!

[1] D gathers materials for the stage[s] 
[2] D sets up the stage[s]
[3] D takes down the stage[s]

This immersive theatre will place you in wonder, each step of your way! Don't miss an act! You'll be the only one on the block not talking about it!

Gather round, yonder folk and witness the becoming!

We have thoughts, emotions and presumptions galore! Words and words beyond all else. Images and flashes, epochal movement! Don't let the birds mock you, catch them in their cages!

You won't need dancing lessons after this celebration! We'll dance our way into cheer! Come all! 

A grand endeavor, a dance amongst the phases! Of all, the stoichiometries, they make two:

3,5 versa pile

and 1,3 versa pile
_________________
FB41 Protocol II. User must only add harmonic resonance scripts
   a. New script must be able to align with Initial Phase (IP0) with less than .04 degree variance
   b. Reference system must be in compatible script language      bb. Script language identical to user's IP0 language (S0) or
      bc. Differant script language (Sn) must be added with reference to a function that follows the guidelines of a Hermetic Translational Function to original script 
____________



6. Enter Psychic Sandbox

All of life, dancing quartz crystals around the lullaby of a paramagnetic flow. The sands of time dance around the transparent beauty flock of etheric birds. Rejoice, D. Rejoice.

The light refracts from some top, some tippy top, just beyond perspective the bend of energy flies around its paradise. Creating. Cultivating. Don't look right into it! It is too bright! Yet rejoice in that you may look through it. Around it and that IS glory. A glorious reprise.

At morning peak
The Grandfather Sphere along its effortless climb
All climb below and towards

Underneath,
River flow
Lavishly soaking under the banks
Nourishing potent hungry flora
From a plush swollen depths
Unto a vibrant ecstasy above of spontaneity and growth

The psychic force receding
It graceful bow
Speaks a softer hum
Unto awaiting ears
Blessing
A sonic sigh

Psychic sandbox has room for all to come and play in the artful mess of reality and all.

Quantum flow projects a Von Karman Street Vortex and we all dance behind it. Golden euphoria erupts from each splash amongst the sand piles. Each brush along the soft and readily shape-receptive hills.