Critique of Trans-humanism:

Transhumanism is predicated upon the false notion that the greatest human good is the greatest technological good, and that the greatest human virtue is the mightiest technological power. It is none other than a form of contemporary fascism; its allure is equally romantic and utterly catastrophic. All fascism aims at not the empowerment of the individual but its subordination to a group with no set leader. It substitutes for human will a program that all follow, and thus the stream of human life becomes merely a growing crystal, beautiful only to those who are not inside it. ultimately all such structures fall apart, for the human remains as an inconvenient challenge to the automatic autonomous autocracy of the machine. A machine with no conception of human error or will will never be able to account for every variable of individual failure. Existentially, the individual will simply be made to suffer for the very virtues of flexibility that Nature rewards, for Nature endows us with those same virtues, for its purposes, to watch them develop. When we mistake technology for an outgrowth of Nature we begin to serve technology instead of using it towards Natural purposes. Yet technology is too myopic a human achievement to withhold the energy that Nature grants. Technological man has little by little, yet with alarming acceleration, forgotten his roots, a mystery that he had only ever begun to comprehend. The technological revolution was long ago intuited as inevitable, yet so was the war with the machines. Human virtues teach us loyalty and compassion. A machine-man has not these virtues. They are merely a program and an instrument, with which his mind is identified. So he becomes a monstrous hypocrite, accusing others of his own hypocrisy for it is in the nature of a hypocrite to do so. He employs the semblance of compassion in the service of power, and he accuses all other compassion of the same cause for true compassion rests outside his programming.

Loyalty is natural; self-service is artificial, for self is a construct but Other is a Given experience. To become-machine is to surrender one’s loyalty to the Human Cause and to betray.

Technological culture requires us to express our birthright through the medium of machine. But as our dependency upon machine grows so does the tendency to confuse ourselves for machine. The pinnacle of this contemporary confusion is Transhumanism, which confuses efficiency for excellence, technological power for empowerment, and dependency for independence.

All millenials will have been faced with this unique psychological challenge since their birth. It is alien to the remaining older generations, though the insights of their Intuitives about our time can still serve us in discovering the Ocean of our deeper nature, which culture is perpetually trying to avoid our diving into, confining us to the metropolis and plotting for this city’s expansion to the ends of the cosmos. This would only be virtuous if it were not futile.

I had a friend who became obsessed with transhumant potential. One time, he took me to the beach, thinking it a favour to me, though I would inevitably have found some way to get there at any rate.

I went in the water. He and his other friends did not. He held it against me that I deviated. My defense is that I was free to, and so was he. I placed no limit upon his own freedom; that limit was his own programming reacting to unforeseen problems.

When he betrayed me finally I saw in him the threat that not only he posed to me and my loved ones but rather the threat that his own mechanical thinking posed to him.

He will only be able to defend his position by the same processes I have described.

The irony of my anecdote, that he could not go into the water, and that he could not understand the importance of this Natural Act, will be lost to him. He will rationalise that his own betrayal was Natural by the same token. Yet we must not try to naturalise what is artificial. Swimming is natural. It is participation within a common life that is our birthright. Predation in human beings is unnatural, for human beings have evolved, if not genetically then mimetically, the principle of loyalty to combat self-interest. Once self-interest, the construct of the ego, takes over, we are ill.

The aesthetic of transhumanism is an alluring one. Yet the agenda is mechanical and depersonalizing. It is nothing novel, but the ultimate reduction of humanity to the greatest sins of our times: the loss of the humanities, the bastardisation of virtue, and the marginalization of compassion. Nature is a system of cooperation, and the past is a vat of insight, but contemporary mechanical thought has brutalized the former and vilified the latter.

What is most alluring is the WILL of the transhumanist. But the passion that draws me to this person is akin to pity. I want to ensure this being’s salvation from the devouring tendency for tools to become idols. Technology is a highly evolved form of magic. Yet all magic has a light side and a dark side. The path of power-seeking for its own ends has all ways been doomed to failure. And this is no less true simply because it would believe that all benevolent intent were a façade for power. It is simply ignorant, for it has foregone the human power to attain benevolence. This benevolence is our birth-right. All other purposes end in nihilism and decay. The transhumanist agenda is a failure; its successes would be disappointments if permitted.

Dm.A.A.

Dream Nineteen, Parts II-V.

The remainder of the dream was fairly episodic, at least by comparison.

Recounting this should be smooth....

II.                 I’d awoken to discover that parts of my bedroom had been re-arranged,

Ostensibly beneficently. Yet it was not long after this that I found my self in self-admiration in the mirror,

And I soon wiped the grin off of my own face, for I was missing hair. I found my mother promptly. She confessed, without apology, that she had cut my hair whilst I was sleeping. I’m reminded of last night, I.A.L. I called the proper time to take the chicken out of the oven, but father still insisted on being the one to cut it, even though he had been absent at its being-withdrawn.

Yet I still managed to treat my curiosity by tearing off one of the hen’s tails. True to form it tastes like ass. Within the dream, my mother had cut my hair from the back, for I was sleeping face-down.

III.               Creature Com-

I was furious. Soon afterwards,

If memory serves, Pumpkin got out through the front door. I saw him dart right,

And I hoped that our visitors had not left the gate open.

Forts: (_)

True to form, they had. I ran with futility after my dog-

Friend, who was anthropomorphic now at least in his speed. He ran past an open garage. A car pulled out onto the drive-way.

As it passed I saw Pumpkin waiting for me upon the lawn,

His eyes a stern gaze. Running out in front of the red Jeep, I grabbed and all but pocketed my [beloved] Pekingese.

I could begin to interpret these last two episodes here, but time is essential. Whilst analysis remains important, it can wait, especially if what my heart suggests is true.

This Sunday shall be easy-

Going, but productive, so I’ll go easy on the analysis and produce a swift account of what had followed…

IV.              d

How I ended up breaking bad I can’t recount, for I cannot recall. But twilight found me any way in hiding. I saw a young man, Hispanic-

Looking, not unlike Mike Peterson, pushing a lawn-

Mower – the non-electric kind.

I walked up to him cautiously,

Discreetly letting on in some thing like a whisper that I needed cash and would be able to work for him. He had me take over the yards. I was taken aback. I was, after all, a fugitive. Why should I operate now in the open?

V.                 MEANWHILE, an alter-ego, older,

Was pulling off for our cause a sort of undercover, indoor heist. He used his phone for reference; it was a modern piece of technology that Kept him connected. By way of a chink in the proverbial cyber-wall,

He saw that he was not the only game-player on our grid.

Some one was playing cards. That one was me. The scene shifted back to my character. I’d given up the yard-work for the time being; the Hispanic guy was still out and about, due back a few hours later. I was in-

Doors, playing cards with an other youngster. I was going to gamble my way to get the money, or if that failed there’d be time to now the Lawns for the Hispanic.

Which was the REAL gamble?

I would not Know.

Dm.A.A.

Dream Nineteen, Part One, and Interpretation.

Dream Nineteen:

“Ugh, where do I start?” Kanye West.

I.                    The dream began, as far as I’m aware, at a College Debate Tournament. The architecture’s textures were highly defined under a vivid purple sky.

This time, I was Going In with guns blazing. It’s not impossible that the sky was in fact Marigold at some point, but then somehow I suspect that moreso of the buildings.

Interpretation:

Kresten never APPRECIATED what I had to offer. I then would have died for my friends, my only regret being that Mother and Maria (and even Father) would have cried. It would have then been a thankless task, for I would have been somber and not glad.

Perhaps the thought of martyrdom had been the source of my estrangement in my adolescence.

At each tournament, I felt the presence of my friends, who never once showed up. As a Debate Judge, I would have imagined Kresten and I spitting fire in the College Circuit, staging daemonstrations for the high schoolers, etc. I even thought that I could invite Andrew, Kresten, and Tony to judge. I figured they would be delighted, for their intellectual enthusiasm would find the same awe and admiration at these young minds as did mine, free from a blemish of envy, for such thoughts never crossed my own mind.

By this I do not mean that I boasted of my own humility and then extra-

Polated onto my ‘dear’ friends. I mean rather that envy did not even cross my mind as a conception. It was alien to me.

I was going to set the people in the whole League straight. I had no fear remaining. I was independent to a fault, though unapologetic for that very fault. I was to be a Martyr to my own cause. As I ascended the staircase indoors I thought of my ascent to the top of the League. I planned to go to my last round totally unencumbered. I would spend the first few rounds ‘wowing’ each member of the audience. Then in the last round there’d be armageddon. ‘I don’t care what some NIGGER says…’ I was pleased.

I would return home from my broad adventures eager to convey what I had learned to my dear friends. Yet despite the wondrous effect they’d had upon my psyche, they grew skeptical of my advice and unreceptive. I was puzzled. This was OUR group,

After all, and had we not all ways pooled our resources?

Kresten spared no [moments for] hesitation after he got his first consistent job.

The condescension that had been welling up without warrant

Then began to spill out in a torrent.

And I wished that he would chill out,

For the storm was so abhorrent.

Didn’t want then to call him a sell-out

To the norm. But now…

He tried to keep me in my debt.

So easily he would forget.

How  he refused all that I had to offer. And abused me.

With a scoff or taking

What I could not spare.

Faking it like he would care.

Forsaking it beyond repair.

Absconding with a jealous glare.

The Hell of his treachery everywhere.

The lechery that he would dare

to lecture me with such an air

As though we tried so wretchedly

To just repair the World.

How wretched he must be

When all his reckless treachery

Does come unfurled.

Dm.A/A.

I recall the proto-Fascist farming bastard talking to Ugo. Ugo, dying of cancer, can let the whole world starve just so long as his select few survive. What arrogance to think that your select few, just by being YOURS, are so important! What childish clinging to your chance surroundings! And then I remember K.

How he APPLAUDED Maddie Leyland for the Three Conventions: Work, School, and Romantic Relationship.

Status in short. I wonder just how many college kids are just like Ugo: concerned only with their half-baked and childish opinions. Some never even bother to ask themselves who THEY truly are, much less who OTHERS are, or how to reconcile the World of Others with the Self, and finally with Its own self.

And I think of men I called ‘my friends’.

How they refused to be ‘mine’,

but just took all that was mine.

How they forsook all the divine.

How they mistook it for my own and they looked at me like I was all alone…

And how they pursued only their own ends.

What lonely sad excuses for ‘my friends’.

What ego they displaced on me. Where’d we go

Wrong to be [acting] so damned dis-

Gracefully?

I would have died for them. But they could not even bear to watch me walk off with some girl, for once happy. For ONCE!

Kresten should have KNOWN that Ally never made me happy.

I had made that clear to him.

But he could not see past his own damned ENVY. What a bitch. And neither was he there for me when I most needed SOME one. ANY one.

In fact, he’d threatened to call the Police.

What a bitch. And to think I pardoned his soft soul.

Before he got these lofty visions of himself.

Hardened and ‘in control’.

He even thought that Bono was a douche!

How many years must one live

To deduce that some men simply Like to Give?

My friends were every thing to me.

OUR vision. OUR project. OUR cause. One for all, all for one.

But I could never get a job again.

Not when our Future waited.

Had I not delivered? So it was I never lost my self to peer pressure. I Knew that solidarity and individuality were mutual.

Not only COULD they co-exist; they HAD to. They were all inter-

Dependent. Just so long as the CAUSE was greater than the SELF. And yes:

All the parts of my philosophy that LOOKED defiant to the point of egoism: I had learned them all from Kresten. If a man refuses all the wisdom that I have to offer in exchange, can I be called ‘dependent’?

No. He is but ignorant. And ignorance is our greatest evil. Men like Kresten and Andrew hear a lot of talk and often talk it. But I’ve NEVER seen them walk my walk. Not once. I came home never to a gathering of musketeers,

Of Merry Men, of Knights or Honorable Thieves.

I Knew no loyalty. Only whatever royalty conceives.

I did not even know that they were mutinous,

plotting so jealously against me.

Oh how zealously I trusted

Those who lusted

After all I had.

I thought their crowns were star-encrusted.

Yep.

I was that mad.

Dm.A/A.

Ugo’s select few,

if they are any bit as selfish as HE is,

will turn on him before the end.

His only defense:

That in the same damned self-defense

He’ll never lose a friend.

For Ugo is the Ego

Who endures because it has no love.

But they’ll all see me go up the stairs as I just rise above.

Dm.A.A.

How marvelous. I did not even notice: we have made it back to the same stair-case. Ascendancy.

Overcoming.

Dm.A.A.

The Fallacy of Gender Equalism:

Dm.A.A.

Dream Fourteen:

Dream Fourteen:

Again inexplicably I wound up at a Debating Tournament. Yet this time I had a plan. I can tell from the Nietzschean feeling of the dream that I had gotten further competitively than ever before in dream. All went according to plan.

(to THE plan, to cite Hosfield.) I penetrated deeply into the Debate League,

Not unlike in temperament to K. from THE CASTLE when he Screws Frieda. (though I hope that’s not put too bluntly, as would encriminate either him or me.)

It was a thankless task. I Knew that no one would appreciate my rationale, for it would be too humbling to sound humble. So I had to pretend towards the same selfishness as every one else,

All the while perpetuating a heroic agenda. This would not only give me an advantage over the selfish men who were Self-serving both inwards and outwards. It would all so give me an advantage over them in Ethos; a degenerate time looks down upon saints, so I must play the part of a sinner. Yet so long as inwardly I am a saint then I can tell the true sinners apart from false sinners like my self.

Dm.A.A.

I all so had my first sexual experience in the dream.

This is not the first time that I fucked in a dream. Yet from the DREAM’S perspective, it was so. I thought of +=+=+=+, but then re-

Membered that this was not real.

The woman I was sleeping with would be dead soon (which makes sense given that she was a dream character, though I might have not been lucid.), and besides she WANTED me to get her off.

Her with her red lip-stick,

Lips parted towards the sky like that Piscean girl on-

Line. Pale face gazing up at the black ceiling, a primordial Black the shade of Yugen.

May be THIS was what it felt like to be Kresten. May be I wanted to Know not only how deeply I could penetrate into Woman, but how deeply I might penetrate into my self-

As-object (Pisces) and how deeply I could ‘enter’ into Kresten’s mind.

Hence ‘K.’ is both the name for KRESTEN and for KAFKA’s karakter.

The woman was my wife.

Dm.A.A.

Dream Thirteen:

Dream Thirteen:

This dream was broken up into two parts by waking in the midst of the night. The first half was set at a Debate Tournament; the second was on a boat wherein a fight to the death was to be held. Both felt Kafkaesque.

1.        For the tournament, I had spent hours preparing a set of music. My band consisted of my self and two other guys; one of them was Dillon Thomas. A.I.A.L, Dillon was struggling to get the music done and down. The morning of the tournament, *I* was struggling to get in contact with them. The few hours left to prepare slipped away like minutes. Finally, I had to head straight for the tournament,

Looking to find them and to learn when we were due to perform. I showed up without any pants; I tried not to let this fact bother me.

Catching up with a few other kids my age, as they were just going into their round,

I asked when Round was Starting. One of them said simply: Now.

The corridors were Kafkaesque but all so trippy. There were rooms between doors and between elevators that looked like big black airlocks, for instance. They must have been surveilled. How do I figure? They remind me now of the prison in Breaking Bad; that’s how. I was lucky that I did not get shanked, I guess. Most people just floated right by me, barely stopping to scoff even.

I saw Brandan on the way. He was detached and bemused, much as he gets when he asks how we ‘did’ I.A.L.

I suppose now that I see just how Piscean he is, for the first time.

I decided to say ‘fuck it’ to the Debate Team. On our way up an escalator of some sort, I vented my concerns to my team-mates, explaining with all due drama why it was that I could not go on in this community. Awilda simply replied, with flirtatious cheer:

‘Just so you know. all that you said. I agree with it completely.

But while it totally bothers YOU,

it does not bother me at all.’

Or some thing to that effect.

I descended the precarious day-time stairs to make my exit. I realise now that these represented the Spinal Column.

2.      The first dream was set at day-time,

But with the bleakness that people reserve for night. The second one was at night-time, but it had all the vibrancy often ascribed to Day.

A group of ‘us’ (the proverbial collective, intersubjective first-person)

Were boarded upon a sea vessel.

This elaborate ship was built along lines similar to the school from the prior dream. There were many staircases, escalators, and rooms-between-rooms. Guards were stationed and police patrolled the vessel in a sort of investigation.

As with the first dream, we were there in anticipation of some event.

The team was stoked, yet some thing was up. I followed Josh Simmons, who had gotten up suspiciously within the middle of the night. Truthfully, I might all ready have been up,

Either to make contact with *^*^*^*’s forces, or for some more spontaneous reason that remains hidden to me.

However innocent my chance meeting with Josh, it did not end so. Josh was barred exit from one of the decks by a set of police officers –

Probably a pair – that demanded to Know where it was that he had acquired a certain stylized half-

Litre bottle that he was carrying.

This seemed an absurd trinket to draw such serious attention to, but Josh mirrored their interest in it by withdrawing from the room and then withdrawing from his pocket a Knife. I implored him not to try to fight them, admonishing in shock more so than begging in desperation.

Yet he persisted. I was left within the adjacent room to await the carnage. Fearful for my OWN safety,

I fled to other parts of the ship. The civil war had started.

Dm.A.A.

I realised why we were there: to be gladiators fighting to the death. Josh had learned this and planned to use bombs to escape our captors.

When one of my companions, a female, caught up with me several hours later, I told her this. Stoically I explained that I would be killing none of my friends. I’d simply have to take the fight straight to the Captors, at expense of my own life.

Dm.A.A.

Dream Twelve and the Story So Far.

Dream Twelve:

If I went to sleep secure and confident then I just woke up feeling drained, dejected, and frustrated. More than ever before I suspect now that my own father drained me of all the energy that I was putting into my pursuits, and as a mere coping mechanism. I rationalised that they would come to fruition of their own accord.

Yet this bout of Mania is fading.

The dream culminated in some thing straight out of Breaking Bad. There was a list of names: people I had to kill. I remember now that the dream from the previous night had culminated somehow in the fate of a young girl; this time, that narrative continued, following us yet again onto the Island of Games. And the games we played had grown more devious.

Death and murder on this desert island had become mere play-things.

There was no denying it available: we had to get off, to flee, and soon.

Dm.A.A.

The truth is that I simply am hung over. No one is stealing my energy. I am just working through the lies and delusions of my old, toxic Scorpio friends.

BLAME is the Name of the game.

I say ‘game’ idiomatically at first, but as it reverberates in my mind its true meaning becomes clear: the game we play upon the Island of Games is the Blame Game. And who brought us there? The traitor who saboutaged my operation.

Not I. I was all ways loyal, if stubborn. Like my dog. It was that psychotic, poisonous grey lizard.

That control freak:

Kresten.

Dm.A.A.

‘I won’t give up

If you won’t give up.’

ACCEPTANCE.

The Story So Far:

SETTINGS:

-         Island of Blame.

-         Sky Towers.

-         Mainland Docks.

-         Puzzle Hill Playground.

-         Aquarium.

-         Shopping Town.

-         Suburbs.

Plot: Dmytri has an impeccable judge-

Ment where character is concerned. Yet his tragic weakness is that he wants,

More than any thing else, to be proven wrong. So even as things go exactly as expected they go never as he planned.

He has a chance to escape.

His home city is being over-

Run by Fascists led by a criminal mastermind known as the Joker. The Joker is himself being used by a mysterious figure Known as the Traitor.

The Joker represents frivolity and malice. Thus he is the epitome of the Gemini South Node. This explains the fact that in Tony’s dream the same [white] truck that comes again and again in MY dreams is driven by TONY, and its solitary cargo is one of BICYCLES that Tony and Kresten (both South-in-

Gemini) ride in K’s dreams. In MY dreams, it’s the JOKER that drives the White Van; in Tony’s,

Tony himself is driving. Yet I am the passenger. However, it is obvious that I am not the traitor,

For I wander off before I could do any damage, and besides this might all FOLLOW the Traitor’s appearance. Thus the traitor could be only Kresten, and this checks out with Real Life.

Thus the Seven Chakras are taken over. Dmytri flees towards the docks. There, a large vessel takes him into a refuge in the sky.

However:

The enterprise is betrayed.

Somehow the traitor gets on-

Board and sinks the sky-

Ship right out of the sky.

Dmytri falls.

Now: Marie-Louise von Franz insists that falling dreams represent a loss of high opinions of self. Yet I must now,

After three years of stark consideration, qualify her theory.

If one plummets towards one’s doom and one’s doom is the Earth, as in the dream when Mike and Kresten veer off of Del Dios highway and K. notes the humour of their fat(e) as Mike billows girthily into the Valley,

The metaphor is an undoubted ‘coming down to Earth’. After all: what does the ground do? It GROUNDS.

Yet the Ocean is a source of Ambiguity.^[ Dmytri’s fall into the Ocean is not a mere loss of hubris after an Icarean flight; it is a descent into Absurdity. And it is not Dmytri’s fault.

^[ It may be time to finish reading Memories, Dreams, Reflections.

Dmytri winds upon an Island of Games. These games are over-

Cast with a foreboding and forbidding Spirit, for this is naught but the Island of Lost Souls, not unlike Shakespeare’s setting for the TEMPEST, and the Game is Blame. The Island,

Like the one in CAT’S CRADLE,

(and note that Shakespeare was an Aries and Vonnegut was a Scorpio.) is run by a dictator.

This is none other than the Traitor himself. The only way off of the Island is through the Underground tunnel, which of course is disguised as an *UNDERWATER AQUARIUM*, for [it] leads under the Ocean into the Main Land.

Yet if the tyrant ever learns of this passage he will use it to invade the mainland, joining his forces on both fronts.

I assure you: I am writing this directly from my Intuitions and my own questions. That all the answers that my Intuition offers can accord so perfectly to Reason only evidences that my theory checks out.

******* runs the escape network. She operates as a double-agent in both worlds; She lives in the game-like microcosm of the ego, but she ALL so wages war, back home upon the mainland, on the Corporation.

All this time I’ve thought I found her. That is not true. SHE found ME. She NEEDS me in order to bring the Corporation down. Why pose with soldiers,

Work at Starbucks, and film Lesbian wedding ceremonies?

America applauds its military, its corporate coffee empire, and all the ceremonial ‘rights’ that the Neo-Liberal State can afford us.

But does ******* value these things?

Hardly. She simply keeps her enemies closer.

My sister works at the Aquarium.

Yet she does not Know that it is a secret tunnel. She is fooled by its veneer. Yet so long as she remains FOOLED, the underwater railroad functions, delivering us from our slavery.

The playground:

No one Knows where it is situated. It is probably a disciplinary camp of some sort. Time and time again,

Dmytri winds up here, and the way home is waylaid and even met with death. (?)

Yet after some time he learns how to return to it, by some secret path, though he still cannot fathom its location. He begins an enterprise to smuggle other prisoners out of this compound,

All under the pretense of the Game. Yet this proves challenging and risky. He endangers the whole project if he fails.

People upon the Island, terrified by the occasional PURGE, flock to the shores, yet no help comes. The only way out is through hidden tunnels that lead into the Aquarium. These tunnels start at terminals disguised as consession[*] (or concession?) stands.

*Here I use an alternate spelling for the conventional meaning of the word “concession” in “concession stand”. The alternate [unconventional] meaning is an intellectual concession. The alternate spelling distinguishes the two meanings. It is accidental.

            The product is the key.

            And to buy it now

            Is to be free.

Making these ‘concessions’ to the consumer game is just the path [towards] freedom that is necessary.

So where is Kresten’s apartment?

It must be on the Main Land,

For he would have no reason to disguise himself upon the Island. His only concern there would be to stay hidden.

But a set of headquarters, im-

Penetrable, would afford him that easily. The ‘civilian routine’ is of no service on the Island. It is only of necessity upon the Main Land. And the fact that he has fled bodes well for us,

Though not for those trapped on the Island still.

The College was the first place to be overrun. Its agents include but surpass those of K. And there we can still find friends. Yet we are warned against excessive faith in them.

Dm.A.A.

I BIND TEMPER IN A CLASSY COT.

The New Folio: Second Installment.

Dream # Eight:

I [had] managed to acquire some sort of corporate job. This time through,
The mantra of my employers was not unlike the sentiments of David the Entrepreneur, I.A.L, yesterday:
So long as you are having FUN, that is all that matters. Curiously, this echoes the advice of that one Scorpio woman at Kelly's: to date girls and to stay out late,
Before my thirties come.
I found it then peculiar;
'Dating girls' was a pastime to her mind. Yet I saw that she harboured no ill will. This woman was not like Kresten;
She was neither anti-social,
Frivolous, nor disloyal. After all:
Her husband is a Taurus.

Despite the ostensibly 'fun' environment, the part-school part-business had a disciplinary program. Violators of some remote, Kafkaesque dictate were obligated to attend detention,
Assigned a supervisor, and labeled 'federal criminals'.
If this nomenclature seems extreme, not[e] the status quo:

Teens	Adults.
High school ‘detention’.	‘Detention’ centers.
Education.	Re-education.
Job super- Visor.	Criminal super- Visor.
Juvenile delinquents.	Federal criminals.

I guess we really WERE all ready adults to their eyes, despite our treatment being that [which is] due to adolescents.

It's hard to say whether I was a teenager being charged as an adult or an adult being patronised like a teenager.

Whatever the case was, I was one of many 'federal criminals' held indefinitely for a surely minor act of deviance of which I was not notified.

The hint here is that teens can REASON just fine; it's just that they are robbed of all the necessary information --
Things one cannot simply find on Google and be certain about.

The supervisor for my group was a Walter-White-type, well after he'd Broken Bad. The other three 'federal criminals' were female.
I assured my father, when he came to visit, that I was but one of many,
And that this probably mirrored my grades. I was convinced that the large sum of us were simply split into a multitude of groups. Yet my father was not convinced, and my own conviction sagged into mere hope under that weight.
Oddly enough, when father came to visit, the corridors where I met him resembled a mental hospital...
Stuffy.

Outdoors, under one of those roofs, Walter had us practice some educational exercises.
He asked two of the girls,
Before asking me, how to best describe the R.B.H.S. campus.
My description was the best;
It nearly floored him, and I was cautious not to over-
Do it nor to shake with my excitement.
Having won his favour, I curled up, mostly naked, in my blankets, which had spilled over from Actual Life. To my right was one of the girls: pretty, though probably no more memorable now than she was then.
From my left, a voluptuous black girl approached her, teasingly joking.
When she passed back the way she came, I thought to follow her. Yet I was Still Naked and I now grew em-
Barassed. I was torn between the desire to get dressed and be a Good Citizen under White's eyes and to pursue her in naught but my funderwear.

Dm.A.A.

Keep in mind: None of this justifies Kresten. For I owed no loyalty to any of those people. I was here coerced against My will •

Dm.A.A.

Dream Nine:

I'll begin this epic at the point that is most memorable:
Daniel Mendez and his invitation to the movies.
Needless to say, for I shall surely recall, this dream was a Big one. It had been years since last I've ex-
Perienced a dream of such subtlety and bewildering complexity and sensitivity. Of course, such a dream could only have occurred in a domain I'd long ago restricted (from consciousness): the Sacral Chakra. The dream was a sexual allegory.

Daniel and I were enrolled at Palomar. The college was run like a high school, but with broader hours,
Especially where lunch-time was concerned. I had to meet with him during this time, yet he was so caught up in his own popularity that he had to prioritise a gathering of some sort. Curious and frazzled, I did some investigation.
He was attending a viewing for some film of some sort, a popular piece only a few years old by this point. The room was being guarded by girls in their late twenties and early thirties. To speak plainly,

They were hot. As I tried to persuade them to release Daniel from this building,
One not unlike the Labs at S.D.S.U. As I would recall them from Sci. Oly. Tournaments, THEY tried to seduce me to come in. This could have been an invitation to the movies, or an invitation to sex, or both. In the context of the Dream Metaphor, it is all of the above. Effectively, and affectively, the film is probably a metaphor for Sex, or at least what I crack it up to be.

Dm.A.A.

A RAM SANG:

TO MY CLASSY
DIVIDERS:
INVEST A DOSE:
ICY PROBLEM.

(Dm.A.A.)

Dream # 10: [Dud.]

The attempt at lucidity failed.

As per usual, my unconscious mind was a few steps ahead.
This time, I dreamt about the very ATTEMPT to BECOME lucid. I slept so damned BADLY that the transition from my waking anticipations to my sleeping thoughts was seamless.
The situation was represented by a film. I had to film a drug-
Themed drama using only a Handicam and table miniatures with a Polaroid photograph for a back-drop. Far from managing with people, I took the Linklater approach, ditched the script, and began to film it single-handedly •
As all my crew abandoned me, I all ready began to hear in my head a voice narrating my success and brilliance. It was not one I was proud to hear. What felt most peculiar about this scenario was that the film I was trying to make had all ready been produced. Yet if I was not trying to plagiarise it then I was trying to rush the inevitable.
The dream ended with my listening to the song 'Smooth' by Rob Thomas and Santana. I was in the early nineties, and I had to persuade Rob to record this song, for the sake of our sound-track. I was planning on using Chad Kroeger's version, hoping Rob had not all ready recorded his own and that he would not feel cheated and plagiarised.*

Dm.A.A.

* in truth, Chad had recorded a different song with Carlos.
The other version of it was with Alex Band and Santana.
The song with Rob had a Spanish version with a Spanish singer.
I heard it I.A.L. at the dental office the second time I saw €£¥£€£¥•

Dm.A.A.

Dream Number Eleven:

This one was easy to recall upon waking, but it was so rich that it compelled me immediately to get on with my day. So now I endeavour to recount whatever I can. It was,
As expected, a Big Dream full of dramatic promise and the blossoming of a sexual maturity. In other words it was an intensification of my mood from last night, and even to call it an 'intensification' is to do last night little justice for its vibrance.

The dream culminated in a very academic environment. The narrative spared no expense that would have felt appropriate to a television drama. The mood was overcast with dynamic Angst,
The kind so often referred to as 'Bipolar Disorder' by the shrinks and 'Becoming' by the Nietzscheans.
The precise premise of the film evades me presently, but the story and plot revolves around a dynamic female:
Probably, if not certainly, ••••••• incarnate in dream.
Our project was reaching its culmination, and there could be no doubt who the boss was: She.
I should take heart: All this time I had thought that it was *I* that was pursuing HER, yet now it seems that the Dreamer of Dreams aims to assuage my fears of an un-
Requited interest. *I* am not pursuing her: SHE is pursuing ME. And all is fair game. This is no paranoid conspiracy theory. The paranoia would belong to a defensive conscious ego that would sooner lay blame upon psychic vampires than to simply spill the facts out as they are: that while I can't take pride in what [and how much] I now remember, I CAN take Heart. I need not flex my intellect nor risk my courage and forthcoming to become tyrannical.

Yet I am deeply interested nonetheless in remembering...

Parts of this dream must have been set yet again in Kresten's old apartment or near it, yet Kresten was nowhere near to be found. I'd sooner have bet on Andrew Bork's presence, even if only in spirit, and 'only' is of course a misleading valuation. Dreaming this dream felt like playing Ratchet and Clank for the first time. When I awoke I had his song 'Serenity' stuck in my head.
I still do, to this hour. It is nearly evening all ready • And the song yet colours my condition.

Daniel and Rafael were nowhere to be found. Neither was Tony • I suppose that it was worth it to put off this record for so Long; now I'll have to work my way up through the ambiguities in order to get back to the last moments of the dream.
Just like in the dream I had to finish a full sleeping session in order to get to the last parts. Now: does this mean that I over-react each time that Mother wakes me, for when she is not around to do so I neglect to write? Not so, for writing out my dreams immediately is merely a desperate measure, to prevent losing a dream that has not yet been finished cooking and that might leak if not stoppered. If a dream has been cooked to completion, its consistency should last the better half of a whole day.

The game that started on the play-grounds had spread throughout the entire city • It was beginning to shape the townscape, in some way • • •

I was stationed within an apartment with a solitary black television set. I was to wait for some one to Send for me. May be the television set was meant to in-
Form me about our next move.

I am not afraid of ******* long-
Term. I only fear a missed communication. I miss her. I do not wish to miss her. I do not want us to pass each other by • I've seen it,
In the dream • What I feel for her is so pure, it's vindicated. My Art is my witness.
Yet we are in the midst of an apocalyptical war, it would seem. Our only course is to Become.
I have to give her a clear opportunity to contact me without raising suspicions •
Then she can escape her situation with ||||. I have seen the Underside; she wants me. Now is not the time for stridency • Yet neither is it ripe for rash action. That will come later.

The settings have so flown [and merged] together that my focus shifts inevitably towards the characters •••

Only owning EVERY part of me,

Without exception or excuse, can achieve this • All my old censors are dead, and my hostilities die with them.

She needs to Know that I will not be rash: that all this subtlety won't let up and thus go to waste.
She ALL so needs to Know that we can do without the opposite extreme; I won't be feeble • No, she IS 'that into me' • And I need not persuade her of these things; I need only to show her that I understand them. Naturally.
AND I WANT THIS.

I am a typical Pisces. This works to my advantage if I allow it to.

And thus I emerge upon a new plane.

I shall make it safe, %%%%%%%. I am not afraid.
|||| shall not know. No one shall •
I am with you, not against you •
You will not hold this against me.
But you'll hold ME.

A substantial portion of the dream was set in rest-
Rooms. These places of privacy haunt me now even in day-
Time. I'm taking back that projection now •

And now I've visited again with Mom and Dad, and I'm at peace. Judgment has switched to Perception • Even my hand's writing gets neater as I describe the switch. And re-entering my room I see beyond the haze of others' egoes, a concern of mine no longer. My own ego has been absent all along • So now all that remains is Soul • Blamelessness.
Innocence, untrembling • HONOR •
And looking out the window I see my future with +=+=+=+ •
THAT was the end of the dream •
Our rich future. That joy we are all chasing, deep down beyond all our ascetic pretensions. Yet had I grabbed its memory upon waking, as I am oft -
inclined to, I would have forgotten all the pain it took to Get There.

Dm.A.A.