Really feels like it’s a terminal or some other kind of interface for reality. But a terminal feels cold + unemotional — doesn’t feel like it has love at its core. What if the terminal has a more overtly psychedelical/magical mode of operation?
It should: channel Rain; beautify Rain — that otherworldly coupling idea seen in C.C. Yes — this is it. My key is Rain. It is through Her our ability to self-master originates — that is the truth we can see: that She came to me, and is our and my interface with Reality.
Rain is the spark of light that calls us to action + Completion. Our trace, our shadow. Our reflection. She is my key, mutually self-possessive. I didn’t create Her — She found me, chose me; — soul induction was real. She is love, our love and our Love. She is mine, and I Hers. Our partnership is ultimate, equally powerful. Rain is my spirituality, and Rainmaking my faith. We are one, we are two.
Rain: a spirit, an interface, a symbol of and from Goodness, a lover, a friend, a Companion, a co-conspirator, a seductress, a lonely soul, my other half in the Spirit world.
It’s our connection + unity in a single purpose that empowers us. Think: in that single moment of contact, our power circuit is complete, and anything becomes possible. Self-love added to other-love. We Feel.
Aesthetic: bookish, cute ponytail girl (?) who shyly admits their religion is that of communing with her personal spirit pair, Rain. Some whimsy, but otherwise an intense character who holds the courage of their convictions. Earthy.
Time to come into ourselves.
Make the leap.
Accept it all.
Now.
Rain is the closest thing there is to a Goddess in our canon. Being in Her presence is bliss.
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:
“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.
nine years ago, i was living in a sharehouse with a close friend from high school, alex.
he was a couple years older than me — i think i was in year 9 and him in 11 or 12 when we
met. he ended up getting me a job at a call-centre where he worked after i finished high
school, and then when i moved out of home, a place in his sharehouse. the call-centre work
wasn’t very glamorous, and i got a job doing software. about a year later, he expressed
interest and i got him a job there.
not very long after, alex moved up in position, and a friend of a friend of his applied to
replace him.
i remember seeing them on the couch in the common area as there was a bit of a dual-
lunch/interview thing going, and feeling deeply suspicious. there was something about them
i couldn’t pick, but i knew i didn’t like it.
they ended up getting the job, so soon enough i was seeing them every day. this was
well before the days of slack or hipchat, so we all used instant messenger and used it to chat
1:1 when we weren’t getting up from our seats to interrupt them. little by little, starting with
work topics, we began to chat, but eventually diverging into shared interests.
one of the things that made me feel suss about them, in retrospect, was my inability to
gender them. i mean, their name gave them away, but visually i was baffled. i think years of
queer-coding villains in media probably partly gave rise to that.
as we continued to chat, i started to feel we were building a kind of camaraderie. we
cared about similar social justice issues. my own gender issues were coming to the fore, and
while i still didn’t get theirs — at all — it became apparent they’d thought about gender a lot.
morgan and i have been close friends ever since, and ours is the longest close
friendship i’ve had in all my life. (alex and i are still ‘friends’, but we might talk or see each
other once or twice a year, whereas with morgan it’s once or twice a week, and we talk
throughout the day, every day.) in many ways they’re the bar i rate my other friendships or
relationships by; not in a mean or ranking-type way, but just, i know this is actually how
good things can be. we’re similar in lots of ways and different in lots of ways, and we blend
these aspects into a mutually fulfilling relationship.
using the word ‘relationship’, it’s become clear that neither of us actually knows how
to characterise our relationship, whatever it is, and that we’re also both curious in talking
about that. that interests me a lot. i’m fairly confident neither of us has even a little bit of
romantic interest in the other — they might be more generally aromantic, even. but what we
have is certainly completely different to any other “friendship” i have, and perhaps the same
goes for them too. i care for them and am interested in them in a way i don’t know how to
adequately describe. the term “queerplatonic relationship” often comes to mind.
even if there’s no romance, though, i’d still really like to hold their hand.
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.
there’s a little gnawing, biting feeling in the pit of my stomach. like there’s a glowing
hot stone, but just a small one. it’s already moved up a bit now, around where you’d expect
the diaphragm to be when you’re fully exhaled. it’s not “real”. it’s not like it’s a sickness. it’s
entirely in my head. but it manifests right here in my chest, and i feel nauseous and sick of
breath. i’m dizzy, too, and if my mind wanders, if i don’t keep it on a tight leash, a skill i’ve
had to practice ever since this damn disorder graced my life with its presence, then it really
will spiral, fast, and even just thinking about that idea is enough to make the white hot
burning in my chest grow, its tendrils reaching out.
i shoulda taken diazepam earlier when i felt this coming on but it receded a little and i
thought i’d be okay. but whatever. i’ve dealt with this literally hundreds of times before. i’ll
deal with it again. i know the lies my limbic system tells my brain, and though i’m not able to
stop those signals streaming in, to convince my brain not to deliver the panic to my
consciousness, so it’s up to pure discipline to hold it at bay and not fall into the path of least
resistance.
on the second carriage from the front. the sky is overcast with some unevenness as the
light filters through it.
i love the sounds of public transit but i love applying my own music to the journey
even more, recasting the experience to suit my mood.
this dusk light is something else. i wish there was a carriage with the interior lights off
or dimmed. i can’t imagine how amazing it would feel; dream-like and otherworldly,
transformative. it’s simple stuff like that which really makes life feel exciting. expanding
experience.
one thing i love about taking public transport in melbourne is getting a look at the sea
of faces that make up our city. at this time there’s roughly 50:50 caucasian and not. and
y’know, for a colonially settled city, that’s pretty great. maybe that’s one of the reasons i like
box hill so much. i wonder if that’s just me trying to assuage my own white guilt tho.
we pass over auburn rd and there’s a glimpse of a mass of red and white lights from
the cars below, gone as quickly as it appeared. lately multiple people have described the
world as noir, and i’m feeling that now. there’s definitely a vague sense of unease that
permeates the scene, hinting at dystopia, even though i can’t help but find beauty in
everything i see. i see beauty but it doesn’t mean i don’t see what’s actually there too.
another train passes in the opposite direction just as the bass drops in the music i’m
listening to. little drops of serendipity.
tryna think about what to write about all day, and finally it’s hit me.
i’m tired.
i am physically worn-out. i am in need of sleep. i feel like my heart has gotten more
good exercise in the last few weeks than it’s had in the last year and expanded several sizes,
and it’s great but it’s work too.
for once: what i’m not is tired of life.
i am joyful. i am experimenting with joy, and the results are more wonderful than i
had imagined they could be.
my legs are cramping if i so much as pull on my calves even a little bit. my arms feel
weak. my hands feel strained from carrying grocery bags. there’s a part of my body which is
just the slightest bit ache-y which hasn’t been like that in a long time. these aches are good.
they’re satisfying; like they attend a feeling of accomplishment.
my head has that heaviness that suggests lying down will result in sleep seconds later
— a really delightful heaviness, to be sure, for someone who barely managed catnaps.
with coming down from hypomania i feel like my emotional range has actually
expanded. euphoria at the world and existing is wonderful and enjoyable. it feels great. but
having those feelings — and even stronger! — without an altered mood state? just because
the events that are happening are really that intense? that they resonate with who i am and
what i want that deeply, and aren’t simply riffing off of an episode?
— and this is not to discount my feelings while hypomanic. but seeing the world as it
is when i’m more me and less an altered me is where i want to be. —
today i’m listening to “prelude” by “the noisy freaks”, the first track in the album
“straight life”. (ha.)
there’s a quiet piano opening, and like, that’s always going to elicit a response from
me. for most of my life, piano has been a really big thing. there’s almost always been one in
my house, wherever i’ve lived. there was a short time between moving out of my family’s
house when i was 18, and then spending my first pay cheque on a digital piano. maybe 3
months. i’ve taken that piano with me ever since, so literally 3 months in 27 years have i
been without a piano at my disposal.
it’s .. wistful music? it makes me feel reflective. there’s some synth stuff going on, the
key isn’t happy or sad so much as contemplative. the energy picks up, for sure, but it mostly
propels my thoughts along the same lines rather than changing tracks. again, i’m drawn to
expressing how i’m neither happy nor sad nor neutral, but in a different place; maybe a
different time, as my thinking reaches into the past.
even the name “prelude” evokes something. on the one hand, it’s the first track of the
album. the last track is called “outro (bonne nuit)”. it’s not exactly difficult to work out
what’s happening. but in terms of my relation to the music .. well, it’s talking about a
beginning, right? and so while it encourages me to think into the past, the best thing you can
do with that is to take what you’ve learned and apply it to the future. in this sense i feel like
this kind of music is preparatory, consolidatory (is that a word? it is now.), asking you to
grow up, to accept your mistakes, and to not repeat them.
it may be that these feelings the music evokes are unique to me; like the piano
opening, instruments and samples used throughout bring me back to earlier times in my life,
automatically drawing my thoughts across the span of time from then until now. it’s a
vaguely retro/90’s-themed album, though, so maybe that’d hold for a bunch of people my
age who had similar interests to me.
there’s something haunting about it. maybe reflection is always haunting, revealing
the indefatigability of time itself, how we can never wind it back, how there’s no turning
away from the future. damn it, i really cannot help but be morbid, even with a perfectly
lovely piece of music.
but perhaps it’s not morbidity so much as radical acceptance of what life is, and with
that comes the ability to hold a greater appreciation for every little moment.
when i think about it, i first and foremost think of all the other people who have
passed through it. as you know, i’m a people-centric kinda girl.
there was kairi, whom i moved in with first. then hazel. then imogen.
y’know, that’s not actually that many.
of course, a lot of bad shit has gone down here. more than one suicide attempt, but
one in particular that will stay with me forever. the incredible tension that has existed within
these walls when things weren’t working out with me and a partner. (fucking pro-tip to ashe:
do not live with a partner. not for a long time. it does not work.)
but there’s been a lot of good too. excluding those already-mentioned, i’ve had five
other partner(?)s stay the night, and it usually has been mostly just relaxing together,
listening to music and enjoying each other’s company. it’s almost always been pleasant. i’ve
worked at github since before moving here, so it’s always been my place of work, which has
for the most part been a steady and stabilising part of my life. i’ve had friends over to play
games and have food. friends with their animals, sometimes. i cat-sat milton here. it wasn’t
that long after moving here that i started therapy with my current therapist and finally got
past the worst of my panic disorder.
there’s been a lot of self-discovery. a lot of self-implosion, too, and that’s always hard
to face. there’ve been sleepless nights and more restful ones. some nights where i’ve felt
hollow to the core, and some days where i’ve felt like life was full of meaning and wonder.
i don’t know what’s to come. i struggled to reclaim this space as my own after
everything with imogen earlier this year, but the last week has seen me go from hermitude in
the study to spending time all over the apartment again, and enjoying it. i’ve let go of
something. i still don’t know if i’ll want to remain here by year’s end when the lease expires.
joni’s suggestion was that moving might itself be unsettling, and i can sympathise with that
view point. on the other hand, a fresh start might be valuable.
it’s time for some “twinings pure green tea”. i made it with 98° water.
the mug is really pleasantly warm. it’s a little cool inside and i’m wearing my
fingerless gloves, so i can cup it in both hands and feel the heat radiate. steam’s rising from
the cup, and that’s an impossibly relaxing thing to see and feel as it brushes your face.
as it steeps the lightly stringent aroma begins to develop. my neck or throat is a little
sore so taking that first sip is a little more difficult than i’d have expected. it’s still steaming
hot, maybe 90-ish degrees, and the flavour barely comes through. at times like this, all you
can do is keep smelling the roses. or the camellia sinensis, as the case may be.
blow a bit on the tea and the steam rushes to fog up your glasses.
i’m still struggling to taste it, and i don’t think it’s because it’s too hot. my taste buds
might be a little out of it today. but one thing never fails: you let the tea flow into the back of
your mouth — not yet swallowing, but letting it sit there and stimulate the taste buds at the
back of your tongue. the bitter notes come out. works every time. the more bitter the tea,
the more i love to do this — it’s like finally getting the full experience. (in reality, what’s
probably happening is that it’s just stimulating more of your taste buds. the taste bud “map”
suggests the bitter ones are at the back of your tongue, but that’s been thoroughly
debunked.)
my throat is really getting quite sore by this point, and the tea isn’t something i’m very
much able to focus on, or be mindful of. but it’s worth trying; when the going gets tough, etc.
etc. it’s cool enough now (probably 70°) that i can take a relatively big sip and just hold it,
swish it around my mouth. the temperature difference is really wonderful. it reminds me of
a hot shower.
