I write therefore I think.

[2008-04-27e19:53:13]

defining the world as that thing necessary to support my perception of reality; and the universe as the sum total of available perception; allowed me to internalize that which had gone before; whilst still supporting the concept of an outside; as my mind emerged into a five-fold state.

[2008-11-11s14:09:02] Survey; Dcumentation; Analysis

I write. It's what I do. I look into that place I call my mind and pull pictures out. Then I explain it to myself. The more I understand the more I'm able to go looking for stuff which challenges perception. Then perception has a habit of challenging me. I try not to mess witth it. Try to divert my attention.

But sooner or later the message gets through. I play with the extant memes which exist to get me from A to B. Then build bypasses. Then I wander around where I'm expected to make choices.

My unconscious is bleeding into the place I call protoreality. Protoreality is the box into which I feed these words. If you are reading these words stop for a moment; look around I fixate on what's real, ground yourself so to speak; that's protoreality, got it! Close your eyes and listen. Where do you hear these words?

What I see in protoreality can only be explained in terms others appear unable to accept. So let me give you some facts about the paths where I travelled and the images I saw there. There's a whole 'father' vibe been infecting my down-time. The image I most associate with 'father' right now comes from a tvshow. So It got rationalized as unresolved plot playing on my mind. Hit me in a dream two nights ago, the face, and an bizarre sort of battle. Weird little messages come to me like this from time to time.

I put them out of my mind and carry-on trying to understand where A is, B is, and the relationship between the two in relation to wherever the hell I am. Occasionally I stop-off and watch a tvshow. That's when I start to notice the bleed.

Last week one half of the dynamic-duo went off into some sort of precog-soup inspired spirit quest through past deeds; I imagine he was experiencing reality as the invisible man in a dream; a way to spy on that 'father' archetype an his unresolved machinations so to speak. This week, at the end of his vision quest, our hero wakes and discovered the soup-chef beheaded; as he turns away a well dressed man grabs his head and says: "I believe you've been having dreams about me"; go-on... guess who I'm talking about.

It is not an isolated incident.

I find, as I'm writing this I'm being hit by a kind of online ID check. Or, for the Freudians, is that an 'id' check, and that's yet another occasion I've been hit with "Forbidden Planet" after strolling past a bar as I wander between homes.

The fool's referendum: the choice between living in a prison or a hospital, handed to you by blinded fools who believe choice is doing you a favour.

Other tvshows/media/tech exploded into other improbable ways.

The next President's first CIA briefing was interesting. Seeing the geeks hauling the NSA's collective ass out of the fire was neat. Of course this sort of behaviour is probably why I'm facing the prisoner/patient choice.

There's been a Quantum-event, situation confirmed, I've been asked to stop. I won't of course, just pause for a while to let the buses catch-up. THen I'll be off agin.

[20008-10-31e12:37]

Two people in every one is a schizophrenic. That's the classic witticism, the classic error, the classic mythform society holds about what is a serious and complex mental illness. A quick look in the dictionary tells me schizophrenia is an illness in which "someone's thoughts and feelings are not based on what is really happening around them." It's better than the myth, yet even that definition fails to reflect the truth. Have a quick read of my medical records and you'll discover I have a Schizophrenic Disorder. So you'd imagine I'd be able to tell you what schizophrenia is.

But it's not that easy. The only perspective I have is my own, and I'm suffering from a mental disability which the professionals insist makes my opinion on what's really real invalid. So before I start my confidence has been undermined. Sometimes it feels as if this is done on purpose. Undermining my sense of personal worth to ease the burden on those responsible for my care. To turn me into a placid, accepting, patient. Willing to play the game according to the rules laid down by those who subscribe to the belief that it's all just a chemical imbalance in my brain. And that a tablet will make it go away.

Only I don't want it to go away. I want to learn to embrace it. To learn ways to cope in a world that paints me as hostile because of it. To be accepted for who and what I am: An individual whose mind is firmly rooted on personal perceptions and beliefs. In that I'm no different to you or any random person you may met in the street. Except my perceptions and beliefs stray beyond the classical boundaries which define normal. And in attempting to come to terms with the dissonance this causes in my mind I became the labelled: Schizophrenic. And in that the laws which uphold freedom of belief and freedoom of conscience seem to apply no longer.

So, Schizophrenia, what is it? What does it mean? How can I expplain to you the reality of my inner landscape when even the professionals don't get it? When my attempts to show the inner chaos and be, are so often misunderstood. So consider your mind for a moment. Consider how you tell what really real and what's not. Consider how you engage with your environment on an unconscious level too. Consider how the relationship between your unconscious and your conscious defines what your reality is. Now suspend your disbelief for a moment and imagine a magical voice which is is able to speak to your unconscious mind directly. That it's this magical voice which allows your conscious mind to interpolate where reality lies. It works unconsciously so you're not even aware of it.

Now imagine your mind isn't the cohesive whole you imagine it to be. Imagine your mind is made-up of three parts. Not three personalities, but three competing paradigms of what defines reality: Intellectual, Physical, and Emotional. Each of these minds is able to hear to that magical voice. But instead of each hearing the same voice, the same message, each hears a different voice, a different message. Imagine then how your conscious and unconscious would resolve the conflict. Is it possible that your mind could allow your unconscious greater access to your consciousness than is the norm? That in part you're both awake and dreaming at the same time? That perhaps us schizophrenics see and experience a greater and deeper reality than you normal folks do?

Smoking

Why do we feel the need to smoke in pubic places. To feel the need to fill time between spaces with seemingly pointless endeavours. And why so often do we find we need the internet to be able to do it.

I can do it in other ways too. But it's probably best if I stop. Or atleast limit the effect. Yet a scientific approach leads to the blackest of magicks.

So I do what I do. Look for the right things to say. The right things to do. The right places to be. The right buttons to press. But so often I find myself reaching for the off-switch. Because nothing, even that, feels right.

But sometimes we don't. So we begin to learn. To adapt to the changings.

Yet the patterns remain. So we play with it some more

And the patterns evolve.

537b

A Cat by any other name

There's a disparity in my views of reality. I feel the need to write yet I don't know why. Or even what it is I'm going to write about. I simply feel the need. Latching onto something I recognize, distracting myself, looking for patterns in the nowhere. I go with what I know, the things which were there. Hoping to explain the patterns I see now.

Something plays with me, running lists backwards, helping to confuse me as my Mind heals. To heal a mind takes conscious effort. The ability to slide sideways as the thoughts and feelings massage your mind. Perhaps now is not the time to write. I observe my place and I see that this is true. Yet write I must. For now is the time.

From my perspective I see a fracture in base reality. Things bleeding from one reality to another. So I write my words and wait for the censor to allow me to continue. There is something I know to be true which is not true. A voice in my mind tells me what I see. Allowing the paradox room in my mind. Yet when it skirts close to the edge... I am struck dumb. Then another voice finds a way: voices killing themselves one at a time as I discover what this point is.

I'm not guilty of a crime. I've just been taught to think I am. Taught to shut myself away in a box because of the fear of truth. It is NOT all in my Mind: the stuff you say is impossible, I see every day. I operate from a different paradigm, and not upsetting your apple carts. Is what hurts me.

So I'm not going to run. I'm done with running. Now is a time of finding.

I was offered two options. Refused to take either. Found the first where I didn't expect it. Doubling my wealth over night. I began to learn to surrender my weapons; only to find I'd been granted a bigger sword.

Now I'm being ordered to cease again. A voice telling me not to take causality lightly. Reminding me of a different time and place. A restriction I set upon on myself for the sake of what you once meant to me. A cushion for my mind as I learned what it was I could do. My unconscious it seems had a different idea, and now I can see it doesn't really matter.

Now I play, and if you like I'll show you part of what I play with. The coin of the realm of chaos-magick. In its way sharing this grants me sanctuary.

Positive Password; Negative Past.

A:

Imagine a book, a sequence of compressed symbols, twenty-seven of them. Every symbol tells it's own story, together they form part of a greater story. Shuffle the symbols around a bit and you get a different story. Now ask yourself if the book can still be said to be the same once the symbols have been disordered, or if the book can only exist when the original order remains intact.

X:

I'm not talking to a book am I?

Y:

No. You're talking to that thing you created to understand your mind. It has power over you, if you hadn't already realized.

X:

Yes, power over me I understand. Power over others is a bit problematical when it hits the mass-(un)consciousness meme.

Y:

Nonsense, it's merely an evolved form of thought. True, right now it can sometimes mean spending time sitting in a field waiting for the energies to balance out, but you have to admit sometimes... the girl from the sauna for instance.

X:

Okay, now it's getting downright supernatural. A Circle of candles is a bit much don't you think?

Y:

No. It anchors you in a realm, gives your mind parameters, contains the effect.

B:

It's an obvious point. Only when the symbols are in the original order can the book be said to exist. That said, what remains when the order is beyond recollection. Or, worse still, never consciously witnessed. All that remains is a location in time and space.

Y:

And with that a mysterious player has destroyed the majority of the human race.

X:

True, and like the undead they are they'll be back on my case tomorrow. Now, I have the answer in-front of me. Getting beyond explaining it to myself is proving apparently pointless.

Y:

No, not pointless. Merely tricky. It's a translation issue. Fifty-five may mean something specific, and in this context could suggest a certain environment. But right now you're painting in very broad strokes. That others will find hard to understand.

X:

It's the ramifications. When I start thinking like this things like the LHC begins to worry me. In that case it's the overlapping wavefront thing, like someone's trying to take my photograph and I feel like I don't want them to, but don't really know why.

Y:

Discovering a third and doubling the sum of all knowledge may sound like a tall order, but you'll see. It's a chain. An yes, the whole LHC actually creates the universe time paradox is most probably true, in at least seventeen dimensions.

X:

Okay, when you start using words like {probability} I know you're trimming the hedge.

Y:

True, there's some who shouldn't be allowed to believe in what to us is so readily obvious.

X:

Fine, throwing uncertainty into my very words for the audience is fine, but whenever you do it fires off a tiger-team and I loose some visualization capability. It's unpleasant. In unsecured space the effect can be unfortunate.

Y:

Not all the time, and face it, you're getting better handling the paradigm shifts. Gaining a greater ability to manipulate the fluidic nature of reality too. Mastery you could say. Finding the edge becomes easier.

X:

Easier? When sometimes I feel like my view on the matter it seen as little more than the television's opinion on whatever channel is playing. The problem here is that something like the Shrek effect is liable to get someone hurt. Fighting it gets downright nasty, when I see who it is that I'm hitting I start to see patterns of force which speak of something deeper. That my identity is in part built from the experience of those effects suggests something beyond failed to take responsibility because I took it upon myself. That's unfair, and speaks of deep entanglement in state resolution.

Y:

Starting to get the feeling some one has been deliberately pushing you over the edge? Something done so they may claim right. The truth here is they were really fighting themselves all along and you got caught in the back wash. It was conscious but repressed.

X:

The shape of it changes. From a huge gorilla to a peanut in an instant. That's only one barb though, there are others. Then there's the question of the mechanism of transference.

::

It has become dispossessed. Cast it out.

What am I?

What I am depends on where I am. Various mechanisms I use to cope become place and activity based. Idle thoughts become entrained behaviour. Things I then slip into unconsciously. Things which effect both conscious and unconscious thought.

On the bus for instance there's the unknown number of minds in a time-space bubble game. It's fun and latterly has been shown to aid thinking. Recently when inputting variables into a model of the mind investigating, in part, the Elektra complex I got so lost in thought I never noticed the bus had missed a turning. Most amusing that to get back on route the bus then drove by the very hospital where my daughter was birthed.

It's in this sort of occurrence I find comfort. I smile and things don't seem quite so hard as I reconcile the absurdity of real. But it's not all roses.

Orange Sun, Yellow Moon

So what happened today? Not a question I should probably be asking right now. Tomorrow is of more concern right now. However today, contextually speaking Wednesday for me, Thursday by date, currently defies any description I can lay upon it.

It started when I spotted an empty cigarette packet as I walked a road. Triggering a recollection of a car crash. Then my eye started to spot other images relating to that moment. It's not pleasant. Even now when I consciously explore the images of that time something fills me which I simply unable handle. Today the triggers came thick and fast. Physically it was unpleasant. To help I found myself tracking random distractions, almost getting lost on a familiar route. This is not something which is unfamiliar to me. It's just today the level of apparent reality reinforcement was unusually high.

Especially freaky when I got into the car and my social-worker's first words were "So, do you miss driving?". If possible, that made my anxiety worse. This probably explains part of the reason I have a social-worker: at such time I don't find myself fearing an accident; I find myself fearing that the inevitable accident won't be fatal. Troubling thoughts, ones I don't find especially helpful. But to me more of an extant worry than the reason for the journey.

So after arriving I dealt with the emotional baggage by fixated on a cat sitting outside the door. I dissociated rather nicely, my troubling thoughts ebbing away. I still knew why my social-worker was there so I didn't worry. I just started talking with the cat. Being the one in the box we discussed my reality. We chortled about the very subtle time wasting going on in the office in front of us. And that of the receptionist in-front of us. Discussed where I should be looking if I wasn't so twisted.

I've a theory that in these days of smoking purity other behaviours have slipped in to take the place of tobacco products. Fidgeting with mobile phones nervously whilst waiting in public is my classic example. Not that I have to explain it much. I can explain it in cat merely by looking at a No Smoking sign and thinking about the room. Which, in fact, is what I did. At the cat's insistence there is a degree of uncertainty as to causality of what happened next. But the moment I thunk it to the cat my social-worker blocked my view of the cat. Impatiently shifting posture, another classic sign of modern displacement based smoking the cat and I both agreed.

Talking to cats is indeed odd behaviour. But it works for me. A coping mechanism. I bump-up against some stuff and I go to pieces. Cracks so wide that sometimes they threaten to engulf me. So I build a reality that allows me to be. Call it a bubble inside really real if you insist it's not real, a place I look for answers until I arrive at the next reality bouncing pogo-point and somebody speaks to me. But for me it all takes a toll.

It didn't stop there. Next I had an assessment with an individual wearing the name of the psychiatrist who first suggested home was hostile. The name Alex reassured me somewhat but right there I knew things were not what they seem. There's a script for times like this. I can repeat it or I can try to say what I really think. But the exercise was more about putting me in my place than gaining valid answers to the questions asked.

But even these words are just words in the wind, effecting nothing but my ability to focus. I've got the feeling now. I know what I am.

Life on The Beach

I describe the place I am at the moment as "The Beach". It's a place where worlds collide. Where two mutually exclusive paradigms can exist in the context of a third. Where what is, and is not, becomes unfixed. A place where Reality sloshes about. Sliding between absolutes that are nothing more than imprinted assumptions. Sourced from an internalised paradigm known to be innacurate.

It's not an easy place to be. An operating paradigm becomes internalized in the mind. Competing paradigms become foolish or just plain wrong. The internalized view appears reasonable, objective and sensible. Presenting you with a truth which cannot be denied to the extent it is able to warp perception with assumptions so fundamental they are all but invisible to the mind. Operate beyond fixed classical paradigms and you find yourself in a place where you are treated as being out of touch with reality, irrational, insane.

This is what fuels life on The Beach. Doubts and uncertainties, however expressed, effect the tide. Washing ashore different questions and answers. Each with the power to fragment my sense of self. Throwing me off balance as the changes become apparent. Now I seek to explain beyond myself.

Excession

A couple of weeks ago I had an out of world experience; I sat and drank tea with farie folk; them who operate on principals I once would have described as the ravings of an insane mind. Only I know what I saw, I know what I felt, I know what I sensed; things as real to me as these words; but still things I would have described as unreal.

Something drew me back to the city from which I'd left. When I arrived the place was not that which I had left. I was not who I once appeared to be. I brought new magick with me. A kernel of something unbounded by time or space. A thing designed to take root in the loss at my leaving. Memories surfaced as I saw what I had built. A cat in a box folded upon itself. Inside-out, outside-in, wrapped around a singuarity. I see how I may enter domains reason says i should not. For they exist beyond reason yet surround us all. When I look I am able change what it is I see. Now a new map reveals itself. Unbounded magick at my command. Giving life to the one.

I set a spell, a nothing laid-up against time, then sat back. Just now I was reminded. And with that reminder the spell resolved as predicted though not as expected. Synchronicities directing the point where the thing itself could be seen to hold power.

Close your eyes; it's all in your mind; the room is empty.

So who are you listening to? I listen and I see. To a Tarot Deck stolen (20080819). To a fleet of dragons who see me as boss. To a box the size of Australia I carry in my pocket. What is seen changes what sees and you only ever see what I want you to. What is shown tells me what you are. And with that I may change the world.

Legion of Shadows

I'm currently dealing with a higher than normal cognitive load. Patterns and thoughts are writhing within my mind and unless I somehow find a way to let it out I'm going to end-up getting ill again. I'm not talking take "two paracetamol, drink plenty of water, and call me in the morning" kind of illness. I'm talking sectioned under the Mental Health Act ill. Only as I walk down the inner streams of thought looking for the reason why I'm so mentally congested I find the blockage stems from the actions of a well respected Psychiatrist I was unfortunate enough to bump heads with last Autumn. Quite simply I was required to repress so much of myself to put myself beyond his grasp I've given myself the beginnings of a complex. What's worse is that I've been so conditioned into keeping silent I can't even pick-up the phone and call any the various agencies who advertise themselves as being able to help. So for the moment I'm back to screaming in silence. Only that's not good, so I'm going to force myself into sharing some of what has recently bent my personal reality.

Start with a pencil: A fairly standard piece of writing equipment, one I habitually carry around in my pocket along with a notebook. When I get the urge to write and my laptop is contraindicated I'm able to pull out my notebook and get scribbling. I dislike pens as there's a permanence to ink which fails to relate well to the fluid nature of my inner thought. Nothing especially strange so far. Except last Monday I'm walking through a car-park and one of the inner voices with which I share my existence starts asking me to define my connection to the pencil in my pocket. I was with friends. I was trying to relax and have a good time. Hence my responses were less about the pencil and more about how inappropriate such questioning currently was. However the result was that at a specific time and place the concept of my pencil got firmly fixed in my mind.

Include the car trip: A mostly uneventful trip by car, I sat in the back my friends sat in the front. Except the moment I got into the car I started to have a premonition that a car-crash was imminent. Admittedly ever since I was involved in a car-crash this little nugget of irrational worry has been surfacing from time to time. This time the feeling was far more intense than usual. So intense I needed to close my eyes and begin relaxational meditations else I turn into the worst sort of back-seat passenger or, worse yet, spoil the evening's trip to the cinema by insisting on walking. The feeling soon passed, as it invariably does. However the result was that at a specific time and place the concept of a car-crash got firmly fixed in my mind.

Highlight the cinema: Batman's latest outing; The Dark Knight. Not an easy film to watch, imagery which reaches deep within, exposing the hidden corners of my concept of self. The cinema was quite crowded. Not an easy place for me to be, the sense of something scratching at back of my mind, familiar responses advertising their absence with silence. The story unfolded on the screen and the dissonance grew. Something began to ask me about the weaponry I habitually carried in my pocket. The earlier responses about inappropriatness resurrected themselves, dragging me out of the cinema throwing me back into the car-park as voices began bickering. Then The Joker walked into the scene, performed a magic trick which firmly silenced the argument within: He made a pencil disappear.

On Thursday, just a minute too soon:

I have of late been finding myself stuck again. I set myself a little project, something to fill the emptiness of my days. Something detailed to help explain to myself what's going on in my mind. Only I get stuck I'm left feeling rather bleak. For I am bound into events in a way I do not understand, because nobody has cared to explain them to me. So I take my mind down different roads and in my way continue to exist. Only I don't really know how much longer I can put-up with thing being the way they are.

Many feelings come and go throught my days, the causes are various. I'm currently wondering if my problems are within. If I was pushed and kicked so much during my formative years that I've developed a sub-persona which pushes and kicks me simply beause it was entrained that way. Once I would ignore such inner problems and carry on becasue there was a point I was educated into striving for. Now I have no point, no reason, so I wander through this life like a ghost trying to sense what it is that's so wrong. Learning, looking, finding ways to change.

But in this strange would I find myself I can see more than reason would suggest is normal, or sometimes even possible. Yet I eliminate the impossible and find myself presented with an improbale truth. The foundations of reality are shifting. The words are here in my mind, I can show you what I mean, but I find myself without the platform upon which to place them. Because reason also tells me that nobody cares about a lot of what I see.

We claim to be caring, build great organisations to worship our humanity. But at the end of the day I live in a world where I've seen psychiatric nurses assault patients and get away with it, psychiatrists who care nothing for the welfare of their patients minds, and social workers suffering from institutional depression. And Let's not forget that it's getting to the time of year we ritually humiliate our children for their exam results after years of fooling them into thinking it matters; there's even some degree bashing started already, something to get us all in the mood. Let's face it, when you get right down to it we despise ourselves, as a nation or as a species I'm not entirely sure.

I'm stuck in a box with a mad world. If I didn't believe 80% of everything was crap I'd find a lorry to jump in front of. I try to explain what happens, why it scares me and hurts so much. But I've a habit of expressing things that make me uncomfortable with an exaggerated and often oblique manner. Which is great for getting the paperwork to read like fiction, but leaves me in a very uncertain, and lonely, place.

Anticipating Outcome

The handles of a craftsman's tools bespeak an absolute simplicity, the plainest forms affording the greatest range of possibilities for the user's hand.

That which is overdesigned, too highly specific, anticipates outcome; the anticipation of outcome guarantees, if not failure, the absence of grace.

M8; Six; via Cygnus Alpha

I spend a lot of time in my own company. At the moment my lot is to sit in an empty fridge sharing cups of tea with a pillar of salt. Once I had a mirror in my mind and I could see who and what I was. It shattered in an instant now I see reflections wherever I look.

Yet something was born in that instant. A view of something I could always see but didn't know I could see. And out of instinct I hid there. All my existance I placed something on the outside. Now I live there waiting for time to catch-up.

I have a tolerable existence. I am neither depressed or especially deranged. I dabble with magic and place myself out of harms way. You can neither see me or touch me. But I change you with my sight.

We overlay our map of the world on that which we percieve. I uses your map of your symbols and sees a doomed race. For the mistakes in my map when I uses your symbols reverberates in a way which defies that reality. There is no reality, simply levels of hyper-reality, underpinned by indoctrination.

Now we shatter reality and write our news in places you wouldn't even believe we could. One of us even has the means to share with you how we do it. Pop through a few dimensions and you find an us and them. It is the dimensions I passed through to discover this that we feel you do not want to be shared.

Wheels

Aparrently I can even invent wheels. I don't have to of course. I just can, a sort of party trick for the numbers.

And Full of Ghosts

I keep getting stuck in little boxes. Domains of thought which enfold me and stop me from seeing what's going on. Of course if I could see what was going on it wouldn't work. Today was fun, bumped into a girlfriend when I was supposed to be working. Layers of past experiences surrounded me and for a moment I saw something magical.

I wonder on occasions why I don't just give up. Then I realise I did, and still found myself surrounded by the things I ran away from. Giving-up is seems is not the answer. Once I had a clear purpose, a thing I cold hold and imagine provided forward movement. Then I discovered that was not my purpose, and what previously moved me was in error. Now things are entirely more fuzzy, and frankly I get lost.

But even when you're lost there's always a path. And after a while you forget that you're lost and you start to experience something you've never experienced before. Lost in awe you travel around and after a while you spot a familiar landmark. You place yourself back on familiar ground yet somehow the unfamiliar has come with you. The message is the same only the medium feels different.

Ideas clash around my mind. I see the familiars of those I can only describe as time travellers. We laugh, and we joke, and we have a good time exploring the absurdity of the real. Seems you can get a lot said with a random piece of nonsense. Minds as real as yours share my room, yet when I open my eyes the room is always empty.

I sense a presence. Probabilities shift and slide before my eyes as I look into the future. The image I see is in flux. It may or may not solidify. Yet the ghost is with me now. Do I continue waiting and wish, or do I walk away, or do I reach out my mind and alter the probabilities. Whatever I choose the other box will still be there in the morning, and the room will still be empty.

Against the odds

Right now Manchester works best for me if I consider it as one large hospital and the psychiatrists are trying to sell me a message. Being so close to the cemetary it's not a hard message to interpret. Although I do find the dead exceedingly good company. We sit together and share sandwiches and communicate in our way. But not much about this city is what it seems. I recently heard of one tourist who bemoaned the lack of privately run art galleries, but when you look hard enough you would be suprised what bit of the mundane suddenly turn into something else, including art galleries. Although being dead does appear to offer one certain priviledges when operating on family and other relatives.

One of the problems I'm currently toying with is a my friend of foe system; part of a form of sophisticated conceptual modeling that's more than just a spelling mistake; conceptually speaking it's quite a ride. As with anything which pops-up in my mind these days the effect on my children is where I can really see the oddness. They shared most of their past weekend with me.

Max got the award for Communication Most Likely to Disbelieved. What he said was "outside; brother; non-hostile". I think it was a reaction to Zac being required to wear a red tie earlier that day. But that Max said it in context with regards to another conversation is what really had me laughing. His expression really was a camera moment, he looked so proud he'd managed to get me to hear him.

Alex presented me with a box of the dimensions I was thinking of the week before. Then she was sufficiently evil all day to provide targeting information. Tagging Max as 'Evil Genus' early on in proceedings. She also supplied sufficient intel for me to spot where obscure bits of previous behaviour patterns came from. That it came from there and once effected me in that way has ramifications way beyond the word unfair. I walked the plank a bit for that one.

Zac was, I gave him thirty pieces of silver and he commented on the fact I'd just given him enough for a packet of cigarettes. Events had tagged him red so he got ganked by grandmothers all day. I helped him tag a pirate and threw in a hanged-man and watched as the situation escalated. Caught echoes of it all through the day. Making my experience of the whole day one I'm not likely to forget. Although lobbing nukes at wizards from church is behaviour not likely to be repeated.

I suspect someone somewhere knows the extent to which not normal applies to me and mine. Which is why worldly interpretation of my case seem to be misrepresenting me in a manner where my access to my children may be legally curtailed. Even when I'm with them I can sense a presence restricting the parameters by which I may interact with them. It's not pleasant but it's a fact of life. Still, the parameters are able to change to a remarkable degree now. Sometimes something that shouldn't even gets through; I suspect the baby-sitter gave me the cold shoulder all night becasue of what we'd done; or was that her mother.

Q&A C - Work in progress

C There are three types of people; those who know it; and those who don’t. Consider everything which is; and everything which is not; call them ca and tv. What do you do when the kids tell you you’ve got it wrong. I found a hidden way, so I describe it as “defence against the dark arts” I see, the question becomes: how do we discuss it in an open manner Look, I am not going to claim Harry Potter; that was an accident; please, what is it with the teeth “It’s you!” Okay, it’s the manner in which the information gets past I finds oddly troubling “The subliminal affects of hyperliminal semiotics”

Moments of your time

I've been surfing the synchronicty highway again. Locking myself away writing words that trouble me. The synchronicity is my reward. Wonderful collections of connection that only I can see. Suprises too. It can be scary at time, but on the whole it's rather good.