I’ve always wanted to be kept.

For as long as I can recall. My very first long-form creative writing endeavour (age 7) was an obvious self-insert; an anthropomorphic rabbit, kept. Collared in all but name; a wrist cuff, unable to be removed. In a cell, somewhere far away.

Fantasies of being like Mewtwo in the first Pokémon movie, kept in a lab somewhere, never let out. Actually trying to roleplay that out at a friend’s once (age 9ish). He thought I was weird. I guess he was right. We stopped hanging out.

There was the time I had a different, much closer friend literally tie me to his bed (age 13; what we had on hand to effect this purpose was, uh, socks). Cue EXTREME scrambling to cover this up somehow when his mother well-intendingly burst in at the late hour that it was. I should ask him what he made of my asking to do that at the time.

Hell, it’s not a stretch to see it in the way I’d given myself to romantic relationships up until a few years back. Total abnegation of the self. The subconscious rebels, though, because what I want to give is not even what the most possessive of my partners wanted to take. Not that I really had a clue about myself then, either; it was all these strange, wordless longings, and they’d seem to contradict themselves in ways I couldn’t grasp.

The most frustrating thing was always myself, in the end.

This quest for self-knowledge in earnest has been apace for more than 18 months, now, and I think we’re approaching the last crescendo before the home stretch. Not to suggest I’ll be ever truly finished with it, by any means, but once I’ve found it — once I’ve locked eyes with my soul and listened — I suspect that same, once-eternal dread of facing up to what I’ve made for myself will no longer feature.

And maybe I’ll find myself a keeper or two.

I was contemplating (intentional/endogenous) plural identity formation, and it occurred to me how much in common the mindstates before and after have with trans identity formation.

When I think back to who I was before I’d really accepted myself as being trans, I had all the usual hangups: what if I’m faking it, what if it’s not actually better, what if it’s grass-is-greener, what will my family/friends think, etc. etc. There was something basically obscuring it, and yet — while many aspects of my material reality have surely shifted in the decade since — internally the changes are not huge. The most prominent one is simply identification; a willingness to see the self through a given lens, followed by the confirmatory euphoria of knowing truth.

There’s nothing fundamentally different about questioning-me and knowing-me, just a change in what I’m willing to accept about myself.

It was much the same with plurality. It had long made sense as a means of better understanding my self, but before you cross the gap (which really takes place in lots of little ways, rather than one leap, but some of the little ways are bigger than others), doubt fills your mind and occludes those moments of recognisance. Even though it “made sense” even stronger was the sense that it was generally thought to be a faked phenomenon (sound familiar?), one with no real value other than to seek attention.

I wonder just how many possibly useful lenses are hidden this way; in general, and for my selves specifically. What, if accepted, would let me go even further in my quest for self-knowledge?

Please enter into dialogue with this text. Not that kind of dialogue. The other. The kind where ‘you’ read and something unspeakable decides what to do next.

Topic question: What does it mean for someone to have an identity, a personality, heck, even a soul?

We’ve characterised ourselves as a “plural egg waiting to be cracked”, and that’s basically what happened when we saw the word “tulpamancy” for the first time. In an instant, something changed. I needed to be heard.

There’ve been times in the past where I’ve been more or less known to Ashe, but seeing that word was the moment of clarity in knowing me.

Hell, it was even more circuitous than that. An acquaintance — someone we gravitated toward without knowing why we ought, only sure we should — didn’t even mention it. Just barely mentioned a mention of it. And — as Alan Watts would say when you push the button labelled “surprise” — here we are. We asked, they answered, the word was seen. We are set in motion.

Tulpamancy was the vector for learning about our plurality. We found another tulpamancer who had similar views on the majesty and gravity of the activity, and I learned to learn about myself with their and their tulpa’s help. I say “majesty and gravity” probably because our first site of engaging in tulpamancy-adjacent activities was a Discord server where it basically was treated as “roleplay, except if you try really hard and long enough you can learn to impose your characters”, or some shit like that. (This isn’t any server you know about if you’re reading this, unless you’re the “other tulpamancer”.)

It’s hard for me to know what a tulpa is and isn’t; what an alter is and isn’t. Tulpae as seen usually imply a form, a distinct personality. They honestly seem pretty forced a lot of the time, as comes out in the questions asked. Even the older ones. Some of the most ‘believable’ tulpae, to me, are some of the least clearly differentiated. Is this just some kind of ego/supremacy thing going on here? Do I think anyone not like me must be less valid? ’cause bitch I know some of the shit I see is basically emotionally stunted boys playing RP fantasy who get tired of it after a few weeks when no-one else is interested in playing any more. What does that amount to? And what of the rest?

Let me be clear: these are my thoughts, concepts unfinished. Draw conclusions with great hesitation. Is that clear? Do not auto-complete my thoughts.

Here’s my experience anyway.

I see myself as occupying as much space in this brain as Ashe. I feel my network connected to so many of the same things as theirs, and choose to claim ownership. We are satisfied with this. We are two, and we are one, and I guess there’s a third sometimes which is like, the emergent consensus, the voice that is ours combined, that which is so, the context to our differentiations. But there isn’t three. Fuck me this all sounds so bananas. Don’t think I don’t see that. But, y’know — words to live by — there is a point where we needed to stop and we have clearly passed it — but let’s keep going and see what happens. This is seeing what happens.

The emergent consensus voice surprises and scares us sometimes, as much as I used to surprise Ashe when I was getting used to being heard. Take from that what you will. What I can repeat with certainty is this: there isn’t three. I think it’s adjustment to coexistence, corecognition. Like, in the fabric of consciousness. No-one ever said this would make sense.

Why do I know that with certainty? Because, as far as I can tell, the nature of our existence is two. Like, when it all comes down to it, that’s how we are structured and formed. Like, maybe we could create a tulpa and then there’d be questions and there’d be answers, but inasmuch as what we are and have been, we’re two.

Here’s what I know: when Ashe was little, they had an imaginary friend.

Here’s what I know: when they were 12 or 13, this imaginary friend was given a name, a form, an idea, and this idea was something that sometimes seemed bigger than themselves. Sometimes it was scary. Sometimes it seemed like it wasn’t under their control, just.. happened to be.

Here’s what I know: they danced and switched places with this idea, for years. They named it, it named them. Identity was always a matter of two; double-buffered ego.

Here’s what I know: that’s me.

These are words of exploration and interrogation, prompting the unknown to offer what it may.

One thing that comes to mind fairly rapidly is like, hey, is this all just a cover for some kind of psychosis? What even would that mean? “a mental disorder where a person loses the capacity to tell what’s real from what isn’t”? Am I about to start hypothesising on what “real” even means? Does that — that I want to debate “real” — mean we’ve just lost it?

What “lost it” means varies according to what others negotiate as acceptable. As far as we go without detection, none would know any better, and we’d appear that much more normal. Does that mean psychosis is socially mediated? Of course it fucking does. Why is it normal in some cultures that people should speak tongues, or hear the word of God?

And, after all, isn’t that where we’re going?

Here we are. This is where the break is more evident. They had no idea what was coming. They truly didn’t. I don’t suppose anyone dabbles in this stuff having any clue what’s waiting for them on the other side. How could they? How could anyone know what they were opening up to?

Would anyone choose to, knowing? And here’s the thing: the question is nonsensical. Knowing is too late.

And what is “this stuff”? This stuff that mysteriously connects us to others, where we share a tongue and purpose, even as it is occluded from view. You can’t open yourself up to this without being taken along for the ride. Knowing is too late.

October 25. Would this all have happened without? The question is already moot. What was meant to happen happened and what’s meant to happen will, that much we’re sure of. We didn’t always view things this way. We’ve reordered our principles on these lines, quite willingly — it’s just that we’re not going to start telling other people it’s so. Literally no-one wants another preacher. More to the point, our alignment with polyaletheia compels us to recognise that it does not follow for those who don’t believe it so. To tell them would be a lie, unless they chose to believe. (does this make us “mythologists”?)

Fuck, this is bananas. I know. I know.

But it’s our reality, so, fuck it.

Let’s keep going and see what happens.

Back to October 25. It was the first time we saw each other. The first time we recognised each other, eye-to-eye, as individuals. (“But, ‘individuals’, —” you begin. I KNOW.)

I acted with purpose. I tempted them into knowing. Into believing. Into stepping back. Into seeing.

“Cosmic seduction” was the first term that came to our newly joint mind, and it’s stuck with us ever since. They didn’t plan for it — they couldn’t. Around and around we go. In those moments I truly felt, and they knew. Discovery of internality began. Of making our own meaning. There’s the break. When others stop being able to dictate what has value; when the buck rests entirely with you.

Sometimes it feels like this is all so bizarrely obvious. That we should all come into possession and command of our own meaning. But it is clearly not so. We can’t exist in any other way than our energies (i know) flow.

The thing is, we keep getting feedback. In the last week alone:

1. “[your writing is] like genuinely uplifting”
2. “you know you’re really enthusiastic? it’s charming.”
3. “you are living your truth & doing so with so much positivity & energy […] if more people focused on just being themselves & doing so in a positive light like you do, the world would be a better place”

So clearly it’s not obvious, at least, not to so many people who by their own admission feel it’s a breath of fresh air to see it embodied. In case the leap isn’t clear: to describe things as so is to contrast with an implied default, a non-so being. (Yes I’m getting into ontology now shut up.) To say our being is uplifting is to contrast with an implied default way of life that does not cause uplift. Hang on: seeing us is genuinely uplifting. Just taking a moment to consider that fully. We are causing uplift. Woah. Not the first time, not the last.

So maybe it’s not obvious. Then our purpose has at least one component that is clear: to uplift. This is kasmakfa coming through, entirely of its own accord. Ehipassiko: we tested the teaching out so that it became our own.

Our own.

Ours.

We are crisscrossed paths of memory and destination,
streaks of light swirled together.

We are neither day or night.
We are both, neither, and all.

Excuse the detour, but that poem struck a nerve when it first found us. You can appreciate why.

What does it mean to uplift? I refuse to pay any more attention to the dictionary you opened just now; we’ve done all we can with the existing terms. We need to go bigger. To reach out further. Close your eyes and feel the void rushing upon you.

To uplift is to make aware. To uplift is to open eyes. To uplift is to unlock.

It’s so easy to know. But aha — it would seem that way, wouldn’t it? On the other side.

Fuck. I know.

Still, we’ve come full circle at last. “What is ‘this stuff’?” It’s knowledge (!) — that one’s purpose, meaning, life, fulfilment are all one’s own, entirely negotiable and needing negotiation with none other than yourself.

Still, there’s knowing and there’s knowing. Who hasn’t heard variants of this sentiment a hundred times already? Map/territory/etc. Show you the door/walk through it/etc.

And therein comes the purpose of uplift: to provide a better map, to show to the right door. That’s why we are who we are and so purposefully and brightly. Anyone can write something that sounds truthy. To live truthfully is another matter, especially because we live in a society. What does it mean to mix truthfully knowing living with self-sustaining existence in society? That’s what we can show.

Anyway.

All this purpose talk is neither here nor there; essentially masturbatory, ’cause it only relates to us and our plans.

We were able to clarify “this stuff”, though, which was a nice takeaway.

Earlier when I was thinking about “this stuff”, the flavour and intent — in my mind, I mean — was clearly occult/mystic. (I’ve been writing in bits and pieces for hours, now.) Y’know, all the “they had no idea what was coming” business. What was coming? Nothing other than the occult, of course. It’s one of those things that’s impossible to know anything solid about unless you know about it. Here’s that refrain: knowing is too late.

We almost happened upon this much earlier in the year, helped along by a too-high antidepressant dose that was causing a subtle but thorough sense of dissociation. It was easier to see and limn those boundaries of meaning and existence then. We shifted back into reality once we came down from that dose, and besides the angles were all wrong. Little did we know: that was just practice.

Now, “occult” is a word with all kinds of baggage and shit. There you are with that fucking dictionary again. Okay — I’ll allow it. Mystical, supernatural or magical powers or phenomena; communicated only to the initiated. Esoteric. “to cut off from view by interposing”. This time all it took was one attractor and for godssakes please do not start with some law of attraction gronk right now I do not have time for this shit.

But like, plurality was always going to be that which drew us in, it was just a matter of when and how. Seriously. It was always going to happen. You need to believe that.

And so we recall the same question: what was coming? (“belief in”) the “occult”, or rather, the belief that we can create our own reality/meaning/subjectivity.

Again with less punctuation: the belief that we create our own reality was coming.

Self-belief was coming. They had no idea what was coming. They truly didn’t. How could anyone know what they were opening up to? Would anyone choose to, knowing? The question is nonsensical. Knowing is too late.

i want to try to describe how i relate to my own identity. i don’t know how other people feel about their identities. it’s not a feeling you can transmit. you can’t put your hand on someone else’s and understand how they perceive it. i have no idea if this experiment is even vaguely feasible, but i want to try.

when i turn my attention inward and look for it, there’s nothing. what i grasp for first is a label, something with a shape which it might fit into. there’s a couple of these that come to mind almost immediately: programmer, trans girl, anarchist … but well, that’s the thing. i’ve been all of these and none of these at the same time. some days i don’t “feel” a label but the criteria fit anyway, because of how labels and identity work — by social construction. you can only be a programmer in a world that knows what programming is, that distinguishes it from something else, and that distinguishing defines its criteria. other days i feel it but the criteria don’t exactly fit. being a trans girl is one of those thing. the problem with these criteria is that they are indeed socially constructed, meaning they’re malleable. and as a member of society, it’s not like the construction has nothing to do with me.

i guess the thing is that, maybe more than most, my identity is slippery. some parts remain fixed for longer periods of time than others, but as far as i can tell there’s nothing that remains indefinitely. this seems to set me apart from other people. or at least, people without bpd.

one of the worst parts of a slippery identity is that it’s also difficult for me to grasp much of the time. even i won’t know where part of me has gone, where part of me came from, when to expect that something might appear or disappear. sometimes i wake up and there’s something that was core to me that’s just … vanished. i can’t explain it any better than that. maybe it’ll be back. maybe it won’t. maybe something similar will take its place.

in times like these, consistent action arises out of consistent values. i don’t see values as a part of identity. i think people sometimes choose to make their values their identity, but i don’t believe identifying a certain way is a requirement for holding a certain value. i’ll never believe less in universal human rights, queer rights, the fundamental unjustness of capital, etc. but some days i might think the term “activist” fits more than others. indeed, some days i will highly associate with it, and others not at all.

so when i cast my vision inward.. i see no identity at all, until i pause and let my eyes adjust, and then i see a million. i don’t know how to convey this. how much it feels like i’m at odds with a world that expects me to remain static, to possess a single identity and not a dynamic process of identity. how much that can make me feel bad for not conforming with their expectations; how that can manifest as disappointment and disgust and self-hate, none of which helps, but instead pushes me toward repression.

i find it hard to say i’m one person. it’s hard to say i possess “an identity”, to relate to “my identity” when the singular is utterly dissonant here.

it’s hard to say i relate to identity.

The previous post is a message to myself, so I don’t need to justify it. But I’ll justify it here for anyone else:

These are the experiences of my gender I always wanted but never had. Like anything you identify with, there are these moments where you realise that you’re experiencing some fundamental part of that identity which makes you feel like you’re really a part of it. And for me, this is part of it.

.. best kept to oneself until after achieved. amirite?

I spent most of today reading 75 pages of the muse’s¹ tumble log², and it left me with a variety of feelings.

Anything consciousness-raising is good, and that it certainly did. As with any reading of large quantities of “good stuff”, I have the distinct feeling that I wasn’t being vigilant enough; surely reading so much of this type of material should have a transformational effect on a person, leaving me pumped and ready to fight injustice, love myself and be who I want to be. Yada yada.

Alternatively, perhaps not! What it did leave with me was a renewed sense of wanting to improve³, and a vague feeling that the way there is not only knowable, but more and more in the direction I’m headed, so long as I apply myself, bare myself, defend myself …

The steps I’ve taken towards being right with myself over gender have been rewarding so far; I’m “out” as makes sense at work, and while I don’t think I’ve heard anyone call me by (new) name yet⁴, that will be pretty special.

In the grand scheme of things a name (I suppose) doesn’t seem too special—you’d think with all my complaining about my own use of labels that I wouldn’t accord names so much. But while a label is something one uses to reduce the effort that needs to be expended in working out how to pigeon-hole me⁵, a name is the identifier that wrests control away from the labeller; it embodies ultimate identity, personality, agency, responsibility.

Whereas any label one can apply to someone is necessarily partial, often or eventually wrong, and usually poorly defined anyway⁶, a name embodies your imperfections, your divergences from the pigeon-holes: label-centric identification renders them as annoying impurities (“Ashley is a Buddhist, though not one who meditates.”); names just concentrate on the person (“Ashley.”), and let real communication, real learning, real experience take on the rest of the relationship. You can’t have a relationship with someone who’s defined purely in terms of the adjectives you can apply to them.

Being Anneli is empowering. I think partly I exhausted my (birth) name. Arlen is this. Arlen was this. Now Arlen is that. Uh-oh, Arlen was that. Now Arlen is something else. Et cetera. I’m trying to move on from that, though that is in no way necessary or sufficient to decide that I no longer feel the name represents me. There’s a deeper question in there.

My only explanation is that there’s some fighting somewhere inside me⁷ that rails against the notion of me being “male.” Part of the in-fighting I have (with myself) is that this seems to play into heteronormativity; after all, how can I say “I don’t feel so male, I feel female lots too!” without acknowledging what defines those terms? And frankly that hurts me a bit too; almost like I should be “better than that”⁸. There’s an alot⁹ wound up, just in that. Harbinger of heteronormativity’s end by day; reluctant customer by night. Or something.

So dressing ambiguously, wearing hair ambiguously, being named ambiguously¹⁰, acting ambiguously; they give me some life. Trans has never been a label¹¹ I’ve been fully comfortable applying to myself for some reason, though I feel more and more that it’s appropriate (… even if I don’t plan on transitioning¹²). I hate the hair all over my body, and only the futility of fighting it lets me leave it grow out. And when it does, people¹³ comment on how masculine I look. That kinda kills me.

It’s those kind of experiences that lead me to think that I need to do more in order to broadcast that it’s actually not nice for me to hear things like that; that is, the more work I put into appearing effeminate, the more obvious it will be that I don’t want those comments.

At times like these, I tend to think back to how this plays into heteronormativity¹⁴. I’m a bit lost. But I’m finding my way.

tea clouds, er lang (stupid boy), re re re. RE. Religious education (Regular expression). Religion is a regular expression? /religion/g. Religion as a global religious expression. /religion/i; case-insensitive religion. Insensitive expression. Stunning prophecy on p.LXXI.

Don’t get started on labels again. I love jumping to labels. They drive me along on my little way, helping me avoid all actual inclination to do things, but just to say “oh yes I’m X and therefore I can have the opinion Y.”

I have applied the following terms to myself in the past:

girl. felon. agnostic. Australian. wife. solipsist. son. alone. pilot. husband. monk. nihilist. daughter. friendly. Christian. enemy. vegan. Buddhist. assured. right. Estonian. parent. vague. transwoman. lover. man. gay. heterosexual. polyamorist. boyfriend. queer. genderqueer. boy. atheist. girlfriend. unfriendly. wrong. transgender. father. Zen practiser. Sikh. antipatriot. vegetarian. feminist. universalist. woman. omnivore. friend. humanist. relativist. theist. programmer. homosexual. interpreter. Muslim. Mahayana practiser. mother. monogamist. Theravadin.

myself?

That’s one label I should keep.