Jason Z. Christie's Blog, page 14

Lyrics to a Few of My Tracks

Playing Like An Angel, Grooving Like The Devil (W/ DJ Manticore)
http://www.soundclick.com/bands/defau...


My random binary flows leave you puzzledIn Chinese handcuffs, neutered and muzzledHigh-C - but you can call me Vorhees I'm Johnny Wad in these lyrical orgiesI got rhymes like presidential blowjobsThe shit smokes like Frop from Bob DobbsLyrical cascades from a veteran Noseralt.fan.veronika-moserIt's always tastyLike Persian scagAnd fuckin' iller than Tupac in drag
I need a buzz, so I'm huffin' up methaneGone insane like paint chips to the brainExhume to consumeGet ready for the bleedingCrazy rhymes, I'm eating what an Aussie toad's secretingConstruct my rhymes via quantum mechanicsThe verbal antics put MCs in a panicOn my light flow daysI cut heads like O.J.My puncture wound massacre leaves you dead as RFKRunnin' shit like a mule or a MasonThe Hessian Jason that's in league with Satan Self-referentialBut I don't curse the loss of reverencePresent the evidence that relegates you to irrelevanceTake you to task in my dead skin maskA tangled skein, Ed GeinI suffocate like nerve gas39 chambersBut they're all at AuschwitzMad doggin', I go postal like David Berkowitz
The only MC that can kick it in a fez
I slaughter motherfuckers like my name was Menendez
Like Ted Bundy
I came to put the hammer down
Insane clownDefender of the crownSwamped in gore like Elizabeth BathoryCross yourself from my heretical blasphemyYou better hope for a mercyful fateHesitate?I'll rip you up like Sharon Tate
Bloodshot eyes, in a fog of purple hazeMorbid talesI'm sick like Giles de ReisThe blizzard beast, with slash and burn tacticsWatch me mack thisI'm slightly out of practiceAncient tales of Lovecraftian horrorInvite you flies, kindly step into my parlorCan't stop the ticking of that damnable heartBeneath my floor, where you lie torn apartA magic bullet from a grassy knollI ain't your everyday Usenet trollVerbose mods, I'm suffering' from code bloatBut I'll still fuck you up like bonghits from Goat
I reside at the top
Like RamenAnd go Hong Kong Phooey on you fucking shaolinStay the same while I rhyme TutankhamenAnd switch it up just to throw you off trackNice try with the bullet/rhyme metaphorSay some rhymes that we ain't heard yetWanna go to war, I'll fuckin' take you to warAnd won't relent until I wet your whole setI'm bringing doomsday for you deceiversNon-believersYa fuckin' nation of mouth-breathers
I write rhymes like I used to drop hitsThat old timeDouble dippedBerkeley shitMCs, pleaseYou're just a scab on my ass
You're just a student, I'm fuckin' teachin' the classLike an '83 RegalI flex the Kegel
Break your every boneLike Evil Knieval I'm going Sweeney Todd on you fucking common rabbleLike the Barber of Seville at the Tower of BabelBabylon Fell1000 Days in SodomCrazy dope hardcore rhymes?
I fuckin' got 'emA solo MC with the mark of the beast
You put Vic in the mix
You better call for the priestMy DJ's the coper and your death looms closerTry to get hypeBut I'll always be doperOn and onPhantasmagoriaI might be dissin' or pissin' ya offBut never borin' yaMy claim to fame as a master thespianI gotta give a shout out to all the funky lesbiansTimes up – so it's time for my departureI always hit the target, just like a Zen archer

When In Rome (Magician's Birthday Mix)
https://soundcloud.com/the-original-h...


In 2001 I was just messin' around on my own doin' some Wesley Willis-type shitWhen I got an email from a cat named DJ Manticore
He said “I made a few tracks from your acapellas on mp3.comWhy don't you give 'em a listen and tell me what you think?”
I did, and I was blown away
This was some for-real hip-hop type shitFinally a DJ that understood me
And you know I've been nerdcore before ANY of you cats
Anyway, I thought it was fitting on this, his birthdayThat I cut some lyrics about him using one of my favorite tracks he's ever madeIt's called St. Roman's Passion, and this is how it goes...

Let me tell you 'bout my DJ, kidIn the eBay of life he's always makin' the high bidNo skid row bum, comin' dumb with no talentHe swings and brings swords like his name was Prince ValiantI got to jailHe's got bailI got his back like I was fuckin' chainmailThe Roman EmpireMy man gets propsPlus I gotta give it up to his mom and popsWith the skills that amazeHe's got beats for days1337 musician with the means and waysHe heads the house sub-committee on funky new tracksCuts his beats with an axeHip-hop lumberjackHe's got more cutsThan a snitch in prisonForeigner 4 on the floorWith the mad double visionManticore's the MasonTo my motherfuckin' DixonHe's mixin' tricks inFor all you little vixensI'll say it onceDon't ever FrontMy DJ is doper than a spacebase bluntCuz is was kid testedYour mother – approvedManticore show and prove with the fucking Krush GrooveThe coolest of editorsA sample predictorA true artisteThe 13th letterHe packs the bowl inHomeboy be rollin'Every summer he invades PolandHe controls the spiceThe children and the futureTry to say he ain't niceYou'll leave the show in suturesThe instrumentals are richAnd you meek get meekerHe's a full-time tweakerMakin' love to your speakersQuintessential DJLivin' up to his potentialAnd he ain't from New YorkOr even South CentralIn a sense, I guessOpposites attractCuz he's a cool motherfuckerAnd I'm proud to be wackManticore rocks the House of AtreidesCuz he makes tracks like I chain smoke BidisHe's the only rap producer that I can put my trust inWe're steady bustin', from London to RustonA seeker of grailsAnd he ain't for saleHe hunts down beats like they were a white whaleIrreverentBut also highly relevantDJ Manticore is the fucking Fifth Element
I don't freestyleBut if I did, it's be wildI'll make bank and kick the stank out you rank and fileI leave MCs in pilesLike my name was Pol PotYou might be cool as ice, kidBut some like it hotSo don't get too close or else you might get shotI set trip with CripsAnd rip shit at the dope spotI go to the GoodwillFor black WranglersRap stranglerI'm the one minute manglerStraight from my head right back to yoursI wage eternal warsCuz I'm the cracker with the tracksThe off-white mackYou punks get smacked when I pop the stackCuz I can kick it in AlgolRoll in up in a SnoballAnything from RubyAll the way back to COBOLThe schizophrenicMy infection? PandemicI put heads to be when I wax polemic

I crack a little sneer at your common cocktail banterTwo steps to the leftCuz I'm deft as Eddie CantorI bring a compendium obscureStraight from LoompanicsEpiphanic revelations shed light among the franticYou can flip a few wordsBut that don't make you famousI'll rip a full strip and tripYou'll get raped like Tori AmosYou're the weakest linkIn this mind meldRed shirtAnd you get canceled like SeinfeldFrom the mixed-up files of Mrs. Basil E. FrankweilerI'm a Wind in the DoorInspired Divine StylerThis is The CrucibleIt's irreducible You think you're better – but the feeling is mutualCan't stop for deathSo you're along for the rideI heard a fly buzz when you diedI throw aside the seventh veilYour artifice of superficialityThis carriage holds but just ourselvesAnd immortalityIn my stately pleasure dome decreeYou fall flat in the face of an educated MCIron Man, on a thing called horseI'll carve my name in your fly-blown corpseNo Sleep Til HammersmithI'll spit mad shitStraight from Zoog's RiftSo go decipherI'll play the sniperCome again, but not so hyperA homeopathic dose of my Vogonic poetryAnd when I flow it, B, the motherfuckers all know it's meI gotta give a thumbs down to your third-rate horrorBlood-sucking FreakI'm a fucking skull borerFrom BeyondI'll chew out your pinealAnd once again – the effort is minimalArmchair critique? I'll do you one betterHere's a bill, go find you an editorI got Nietzschean stylesYou try but you KantMy stanzas bonanzaCause your Pavlovian pantI electrify like NikolaAnd you're a half-baked EdisonHigh-C pulls the plug on your fucking bad medicine..

(I've bet lots of people $1500 that they couldn't get 75% of the references in that last verse, and I've never lost.)

Smug Assholes and the Death of Environmentalism

Smug Assholes and the Death of Environmentalism
I was a bit of a Henry David Thoreau when I was a kid. An only child, of sorts, all I ever did was read and commune with nature. Lots of beach-combing, playing in woods and swamps. And caring about the environment.

Yes, I shot a few dragonflies with a BB gun one day. Maybe drowned a few kittens when was an infant. But for the most part, I was a sensitive kid who cared about the planet. Not because anyone told me to, but because it was logical. Children are pretty much overflowing with empathy.

I even won some sort of ribbon for it in the second grade science fair. I glued a bunch of things I had gotten from the beach to a blue poster board, and entitled it 'Save Our Seas'. When asked, I even told them it was because I had cut my foot on glass at the beach. I'm unsure the story was true, to this day.

I've never lost that connection to nature, nor the desire to preserve it. But what I have gained is knowledge. Knowledge changes everything.

Today, environmentalism has been reduced to 'climate change', a fairly empty phrase. That's what all climates do, change. Good luck going against nature and stopping the planet from changing. The real trouble is, it's based on a false premise, that humans are the cause of it all, and humans can fix it all. All without a shred of proof. That's not science.

As a result of this intellectual laziness, more immediate, addressable threats are now pretty much ignored. Hydraulic fracturing (fracking) and the Fukishima Power Plant disaster are both good examples. The threat is immediate, serious, and preventable. But the media, and hence the people who take their direction from the media, have decided to focus on other, more vague concerns.

Environmentalism has been neutralized, and replaced with hand-wringing and wishful thinking. Instead of being involved, we've handed off all environmental activities to the Federal government – the single largest polluter on the planet.

Furthermore, we seem to hope to change the planet's climate via legislation.Legislation that is drafted, promoted, and approved by the same corporations that are doing the polluting. In essence, we are asking the biggest polluters on the planet to make ourselves stop changing the climate. Via force. A false premise with far-reaching implications.

Climate change has been used as a weapon against us to neutralize all other environmentalism. Ask yourself who benefits?

Of course, I want a clean planet. But you don't achieve that via laws, which are in fact guns pointed at each of us. If that worked...we wouldn't be in the state we are now, would we? Individuals have every reason to preserve their own property and local environment. Governments and corporations have no such motivation.

A good example of this situation would be the EPA themselves poisoning a large river. The outcry from the public was...non-existent. The repercussions for the people involved were, as well.

Doh!

If we can't trust the Federal government with stewardship of a single river, how can you trust them with an entire planet? A planet, I should point out, that we are ravaging with war...and destroying the environment further.

Please end the disconnect of thought. At the very least, don't let the 'climate change' scare divert you from much more real, pressing concerns. And, damn it, quit taking your cues from the people doing the polluting in the first place.

It's always some smug, smarmy asshole who gets his half-truths from Salon that thinks he knows it all. I'm sure said smug assholes have read all 1350 of these peer-reviewed papers, right...?
http://www.populartechnology.net/2009/10/peer-reviewed-papers-supporting.html
No, they haven't. Neither have you. You get your info from a corporate-controlled government, filtered through corporate media. If you actually care about the planet, rather than just repeating catchphrases, do a little independent research. And stop listening to that one smug asshole.

My eBooks are Free This Week

From the 5th to the 9th on Amazon. Download, and share the link, please.

http://www.amazon.com/Jason-Christie/...

Urgent

Brianna checked the time on her wrist implant, still ashamed at her lack of proper display lenses. Forty-six minutes. She could do it in forty-three.

She stepped in front of the Irix reader, and after the briefest of pauses, heard the chime signaling acceptance. The hot iron door rose into the three second arc couriers were give to pass into the outside world.

As always, the heat and light were both pummeling and exhilarating. The antechamber was kept brightly lit in consideration of this, and the walls themselves radiated plenty of heat. But nothing that could prepare you for this.

Most had never experienced it, and never would. She liked being elite, even as she labored for a greater elite. In a way, she even pitied them. They would never know what it was like to face your own mortality, to survive by your own wits and abilities. To live.

Before the door had reached its pinnacle, she was off like a shot. Hot sand battered her face and cheap polarized eye protectors. The short notice, big ticket runs were always the roughest, with good reason. The flares were always so close by then that the weather was already being affected.

And this was going to be be a big storm, she could tell. But not by the service she was subbed to. Brianna could only afford the basic level, which only told couriers the arrival time (plus/minus one minute).

But after four years of running, she knew far more about the storms than any Information Officer. 7.4, maybe 7.6.

Everything on the surface was about to get fried.

At the first gulch, she instead hooked right and ran alongside it. As far as she knew, it was a route only she knew about. While the common path was clearly marked by the footsteps of countless couriers, to her knowledge, she was the only person who ever deviated.

When she had a trip with a comfortable cushion, she had struck out this way on a whim. At worst, she thought she would turn around and take the financial penalty for an undelivered message. What had actually happened was that she had found a way to shave five minutes off of her run.

The regular footpath down into the gulch was treacherous. Taking it at anything beyond walking speed would have been fool-hardy. The route back up the other side was at least as daunting, requiring two hands in several places. It added ten minutes to a forty minute run.

Brianna spotted the landmark she used, a rock outcropping that looked vaguely like a finger pointing the way. At the end of the gully, she dropped down on her ass and let he feet slip out in front of her.

The first time she had done it by accident. In an attempt to walk down the steep incline, she had slipped backwards and hit her head. She came to at the bottom of the ravine with her scalp bleeding, and her skin starting to sear from the coming solar storm.

But now she was prepared. She had even worn padding, making the slide down fun. She hit the ground running at the bottom, and came right back up the other side. She shook her wrist as she ran, and got a fix on her remaining time.

She was about one minute ahead of schedule. The pain in her chest was sharp, her exposed skin red. It occurred to her, casually, that a twisted ankle, a broken bone at this point would be fatal.

Meh.

Brianna entered the zone, and within twenty minutes, the neighboring sister city began to grow on the horizon. Showboating, though she was her only audience, when she reached the long shadows of the edifice, she began to walk.

At the entrance, the door opened automatically. They were designed to keep people in, not out, of course. There was no one out there. It was only when she got inside that she checked the time again, and saw that she only had thirty seconds before it would have been sealed against the radiation influx.

The boarded the elevator that would take her to the level and sector her message was intended for. Her presence was announced, and the chamber door slide open silently.

Her eyes grew wide at the opulence. In stark contrast to the featureless concrete walls, the interior of the elite's living quarters always amazed her. This one was all gold and green tapestries, billowing window treatments (the windows were artificial), and lush, inviting rugs. Unlike the plebes, the elite used real candles instead of the synthetic electric ones.

She handed over the envelope (couriers weren't allowed to speak to clients), and felt the buzz that indicated she had been paid.

The woman opened it, smiled, and wrote a brief reply. She remoistened the point of the envelope and gave it back. Then she turned and walked back into her home without acknowledgement.

Back at the foyer, the display indicated that he current storm would pass in another hour and ten minutes. Time to take a nap.

Brianna contemplated the envelope in her hands. What could be so important as to justify the exorbitant expense? Not to mention risking someone's life.

She turned it over and noticed that it wasn't sealed...

Although the room was empty, and there were no cameras save for the eye scanner, she looked around nervously. She had to look.

She pulled the card out, and on it was a printed message of a single word.

"Lol".

Written below it was the woman's reply.

"Lol".

How to Ebay

So, as someone who does a fair amount of eBaying, a few
observations. There are ways to make money, if you're into that.
1. Large lots. Find what you specialize in, know about, can value, like, think you can sell, something. It almost doesn't matter what. Then, obviously, check the unit price. I've found, say, 12 Mcfarlane Dorothy figures for, I dunno, $125. I can sell them all day long for $35 plus shipping. Most of them were going for around $45.2. Mixed lots. For what I fool with, classic game carts, mixed lots can be a real boon. Most people collect for a few systems at best. So there might be a cart or three in there they want, but not enough to buy a bunch of stuff they don't want. Because they're not resellers. So I got nearly forty carts for $50. Three of them alone, for the Tandy Color Computer, a system I don't collect for, are worth $30-$40, together. Granted, this might not apply to any field out there, but it certainly works in my case.3. Lowball. I find that it doesn't hurt to just bid the minimum, or a few dollars more than that, on a lot of stuff. You won't get all of it, but you definitely will get some of it, and always at a great price. It's pretty low to no risk.4. For non-video game stuff, I know a woman who, among other things, does extreme low-balling. She finds all the auctions that are ending where the people miscalculated, and started with, say, an opening bid of a penny, and free shipping... She doesn't get everything she bids on, but she can make $100 stretch a LONG way, a penny at a time. Then she resells it for whatever in her flea market shop. And they actually lose money in the process. Oh, well.5. Get a store. It's less than $20 a month. Plan on keeping it forever, expense-wise. But I think you can sell 100 items from the basic store. You should be able to make at least that much from sales in a month, or you're simply not trying. But it is slow to build traffic, which is why the sooner you start building a presence, the better.Anyway, I got an unopened case of Colecovision River Raid carts, and shrink-wrapped Gremlins for the Apple 2. Holla.

Ouch. Be careful with the number of digits in the price w...

Ouch. Be careful with the number of digits in the price when you're goofing around with trading crypto. I've been making a little churn with Reddcoin by sheer volume, and its predictable patterns.

So the price was .000000004 (I believe. Not counting zeroes.), I put in a little sell order. 15,000,000 Reddcoin, for .000000049 or something like that, and boom.

It rounded to .00000004 and they all instantly sold. I don't think it wiped out everything I'd made with it, but I could have made 25%, obviously, if I had set it to a proper price, like .00000005

Meh. Live and learn. So I've got another order in for 30,000,000 at .00000003. But it goes to show you, a coin with very little actual monetary (Bitcoin) value can make you money.

And, Reddcoin, as I've talked up before, occupies a unique slot in the cryptocoin pantheon. It's what's used on the site Reddit to tip other users and contributors, etc.

So it has a real baseline. Almost so cheap as to be valueless, but it's probably been going from .000000003 to .0000007 or whatever for...a year? Years?

Worst case scenario, Reddit dismantles the tipping system, and the price collapses to zero. Bad news if you're trying to make money off of volume, and get caught with your knickers down.

On the other hand, it could conceivably go up in volume, if Reddit continues to grow. Or even take off in a big way, if we're into being pie-eyed optimistics.  (Protip: Never be optimistic.)

So, if you're holding, (heh),  and it creeps up past your ordinary sell price, you might not want to profit take right away.

Not that I think it's going to go up significantly at any time in the near future. But nor do I think it's going anywhere. Even if it's not widely adopted and used, it costs almost nothing to maintain the already written code. In fact, one could safely assume that the owners of Reddit are heavily vested in Reddcoin themselves, and would lose money if they discontinued its use.

So, what the hell. There's money to be made on these little pissant cryptocoins that are ultimately destined to fail, for the most part. Treat it like gambling at doge-dice.com, and just go all in every time.

In other words, flip everything you make from churn back into buying more on the next round. Much like compound interest, the growth is, I believe, exponential.

That's a good thing when it comes to making money, I suspect.

Too Long For Facebook

If it wasn't for the color of law, they'd be some dead ass muhfukkasz.

How's that for shit-stirring? I should start a database of cop names and information. Seems completely legal, but, oh, the implications and ramifications. I'd have to move into an empty concrete bunker.

I'm fine with that. As long as people Sirius Cybernetics Corporation the shit out of them if it ever goes down.

Thinking about it, it's "legal" for them to investigate us in any number of ways. If we, as citizens (dutiful citizens, say I), attempted to investigate their lives, it would be deemed illegal. But i'd like to see a lot more cops lose their jobs and go to prison, for sure. There's gotta be ways to make it happen.

G. Gordon Liddy is God. At least he is if you read his autobiography. He says that while in the DC prison, he obtained a linesman's handset, That's the telephone receiver (the thing you talk into) connected to a pair of wires with alligator clips.

With analog phones, you can just physically tap into the line and listen. So, he started setting the guards up, letting them know what other guard their wife was sleeping with, etc. Using insider information to cause chaos.

But there will always be hundreds of thousands of people in line to be police officers. There's really not much better than that for a psychopath. In fact, what the ultrarich do along those line, they have to do in secret. Not cops. They can just beat the shit out of you or kill you with impunity. In broad daylight. With cameras running. Even though you're innocent.

All I'm really saying is that they should be held accountable to the same laws we are.That's not asking for much, is it? They're also bankrupting cities and counties around the map. Making cops carry their own personal liability insurance would solve most problems overnight.

(Meh. I was blabbing away on Facebook to no one in particular, and thought, why not start putting crap like this on my mostly dead blog? So, not really read or edited. I honestly don't care very much.)

Conduit

Author's note: Some of the beings in this story communicate via high level symbols, mathematical jokes, and other esoteric forms. All anthropomorphisms are entirely mine, and should not be construed as accurate.
I went in. DMT is really hard to talk about. How can you explain the unexplainable? The experience is entirely other-dimensional and often non-verbal. A lot of times, it's telepathy. There's no time, no physicality. Everything we know as humans is grounded in our own reality. So we're forced to explain things as best we can, using terms that are for the most part inapplicable. If we should even be discussing them at all. But what the heck. I'll give it a shot.
I took the third hit, the breakthrough hit, and the room began to transform. Color intensified as if someone had cranked the gain on a television set. The edges of everything became more sharply defined. The world suddenly became more detailed. And dirty-looking. But that's pretty common on psychedelics.
Then everything resolved to polygons. This is what made begin to take simulation theory seriously. Later events only solidified these initial impressions.
My own pet theory in regard to that is that we're not necessarily in a digital simulation. I suspect the universe might be a sort of organic internet, and DMT hacks our own analog computers, our brains, removing the blinders that keep us from seeing the whole of reality.
Digital and analog are just concepts that constrain our thinking, as is the concept of simulations themselves. All I know is that there's more to reality than we can perceive, or even conceive.
So, after the images intensified, things began to change. The ceiling and walls took on the qualities of jewels and precious metals. The utilitarian berber carpet started to look more like an intricate Persian rug. A magic carpet, even.
The trip might have ended there. Beautiful, compelling. But ultimately superficial. By then, I was immobilized with wonder. Luckily, I had a plan. My beautiful and loving girlfriend was there as my babysitter. When she saw me drop the pipe, she administered the last hit to me herself. A pretty big one at that.I closed my eyes and saw the chrysanthemum. 
God, it's beautiful. It's a mandala of geometric shapes in every possible color. Sort of like the world's biggest kaleidoscope, but far more complex. I could stare at it for hours. But it represents the membrane you must pass through. I had become a creature of pure thought. I took as much of it in as I could and plunged forward.
I heard the crinkling. It sounds like the world as we know it being discarded as a frustrated writer would throw away a bad draft. Then I experienced something akin to light speed, and I was in the cathedral. It makes the chrysanthemum look like a finger-painted portrait by comparison. Breathtaking. Not that you breathe on the other side.
We call it the cathedral, but it's also bizarre. It's sort of a bazaar as well. Like a trans-dimensional Grand Central Station. Sort of a domed structure, impossibly huge, and made of, well, stained glass is the closest thing I can use to describe it, but more than mere glass.
Something entered me.
Not physically, of course. I had no body. But in the same sense that I had passed through a doorway, I had become one myself. I wasn't alarmed. Just another aspect of the experience. In all of my journeys, I have never experienced the least amount of malevolence. Not that it never happens, of course.
When I felt this entity enter me, I heard it say, “I'm going in.”The sensation was brief, and not somewhat disturbing. I got the distinct impression that I was being used as a gateway or a portal in the same sense that DMT acted as one for me.
No big deal. I'm used to a certain amount of curiosity when I arrive. I've felt things enter me, and worse. Sometimes they make...changes. Very casually, much as you or I would adjust a painting or a vase of flowers. In fact, I credit these others with helping me to quit smoking.
So I paid this no more attention than a giant waterslide would its riders. There was too much going on at one time, anyway. Which is a funny concept. Time, I mean. When you're there, you're acutely aware that time as a concept is meaningless. Time dissolves into the ever-present now.
At the same, uh, time (see how hard it is to discard that concept?), the clock in your head ticks on as always. You're in the most wondrous place in the universe, and you keep thinking, “How much time do I have left? Four more minutes? Five?”
It's a very incongruous thought process. I try not to sully that place with emotions, particularly negative ones, but I can't break my connection with time entirely. Can you even imagine a place without time or dimensions? I suspect you can't.
In a bigger sense, all the time is there, and more than our three or four dimensions, as well. As I've said, it's hard to explain. I get the impression that that's what the DMT elves do there, among other things. They manipulate time. Or, rather, they manipulate objects within time, often leading to what we consider coincidences.
I think they do this out of some sense of purpose we can't discern. At the same time, they appear to love what they do. When I encounter their work back on Earth, I can't help but grin at the thought of some magical inter-dimensional elf placing some item in my path so as to create an amusing situation.
It's a long way to go for a joke, which is why I suspect there is more to it than there appears to be upon cursory examination. I do wish I understood their purposes. For whatever reason, questions of that nature are discouraged, there.“You are,” they often say. “Be, do.”
Which should be enough for most people. For travelers such as myself, it's a little suspicious and unnerving. I mean, hear I am in the presence of these other-worldly beings with access to more knowledge than we can hope to comprehend, and they discourage asking questions. It's sort of an affront to them that you would spend your visit interrogating them instead of just being there and experiencing it. So I'm patient. I'm pretty sure I'll have all the answers eventually.
The dimensionality is also hard to grasp. There are directions, forward, up, etc. but there is no real fixed point of reference. We all seem to gather on the same plane, often vaguely humanoid, upright in the same direction, out of convenience. Etiquette, even.
I've been there enough to know it's really more akin to cyberspace. I just don't seem to have the same amount of control they do. There's no doubt to me that they could assume any angle or elevation they chose to. More than that, I'm also pretty sure that they can chose whatever appearance they want. Everything you encounter is sentient.
So after that thing that passed through me or whatever happened, I saw my buddies. The brothers, I call them. Each of my eight visits, save for one, included an encounter with them. They're artists, really. You might even call them hipsters.
Unlike the elves, they don't see to have a strong sense of purpose. That's probably a faulty perception on my part. But they behave a bit like traveling entertainers. I'd say minstrels, but they don't sing. Cosmic jugglers is the most apt description I can come up with. In appearance, they remind me of characters from a Rene Magritte painting.
The show me the most amazing things, as casually as you or I would point out something mundane. Even so, I get the sense that they realize they are blowing my mind. And they constantly try and one-up each other.
One would say (think), “Watch this,” and toss the arc of a rainbow from palm to palm.
“Watch this,” the other would say, and our little solar system would orbit his head.
“Watch this,” and in his palm, a thunderstorm.
The ultimate moment for me was when one of them crumpled up three-dimension reality like a piece of paper and tossed it over his shoulder. Even his companion seemed impressed with that move.
I started to hear the rushing sound that indicated I would be leaving soon. My two performance art buddies tipped their hats to me as a farewell.
As always, I hated to go. Not that I had a choice. I didn't feel sad, as such. I carry that sense of wonder with me always. I also know that I'll be back. Via DMT, but I'm also convinced that it's the afterlife as promised by various religions. And it's better than we can imagine.
What made me write this, though, is what happened at the last few moments before I returned home.
I felt the entity whose presence I had detected earlier, this time moving in the opposite direction. Their voices faded out as I left, but I heard them talking to each other.
“What was it like?”“Only three dimensions. Linear time. Fixed reference points. Physicality.”“That's crazy.”“It was...”

Closure

Just to let you know
I still love you
But
I love someone more
Because she
Loves me

She Speaks To Me On The Wind

She speaks to me on the wind
If I listen closely
That red-headed, freckle-faced girl I once knew
Timeless
Ageless
It's the only way I can hear her, now
Lover
Fighter
Mother
Little girl
Teacher
Of life's harshest lessons