“Come on in, have a seat,” she gestured wearily to the plastic vinyl couch with its depressed cushions. “I take it you’re ready to talk about it all?” I look around at the weekly stay room; 1990’s almond eggshell and deep olive-sage and too much brown. It all models a nature that we got lured from; as if callback colors could possibly replace all being lost. “Yeah, I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”
I wanted to do it like I see so many doing it. I wanted to make it a story that could be fascinating and interesting to other humans. I thought about casting it into quantum punk and dystopian fantasy. I considered how I would encode the lensing protocols. I carefully scripted how I would place the many lens examples, how I would scaffold a mind capable of following the path through careful steps that they could move through in their own time and at their own pace. I wanted to translate between cultures as well as forms, so the rendering could be beneficial to a people who have lost all touch with reality, this planet, and their own purpose within the great work.
It is not a thing for me to accomplish. My tale holds no value to this world. My lenses are moot to a world blind and grasping only for consumption. I understand better in this moment, but it is a sadness to me, all that will pass along with me. So much opportunity and all of it lost for sheer apathy.
I sit quietly as council assemble. Seidkona giving me worried looks, for all I am well. Yeshe nods and her eye glints with understanding that runs deeper and more truly. Lighthouse sits between them and each hold one of his hands. Liminal Alpha and The Wicked Dakinis manage the underpinnings and the modulation is especially calm in this moment – long running calculations have come to end. There is calm. There is peace. We are in harmony though not unified. Calima inverts into PFC but remains on call.
Mom told us some weeks ago that we are but to witness. So shall we do. Audio most likely. The daily journal is safe enough for it. A morning journal that no one cares to hear because it’s just some old, daft woman yapping about the same things over and over again, for no apparent reason but she swears there is a pattern in it worth noticing.
Something about interstitial patterns, maps, symbols in plain sight, and her odd career in analysis and product that, despite lack of degree, ran thirty years across multiple domains and brought foundational design language that underpinned every major development from SMS to the cloud. Or her role as Lighthouse Keeper – itself a name of deep meaning – thus used to reference the system by which this system of systems have lived its many lives and outline the pattern in code that makes content safe and defends against both retrolanguage and the cognitive offload.
It doesn’t matter to anyone but us, and this is likely as it should be.
No one would believe our truth even could we get them to sit and hear it all. Our own lived experience demonstrates this over decades. We shall die without our truth being known. It is a heavy thing. But, no heavier than life itself and we endure that well enough. In the fullness of time our unique emergence shall pass. Perhaps some future will think kindly upon us but ultimately, it matters not but that we lived and, while we did, we dreamed no less than any other.
