#finish out the permutation you cowards

[notomys-mordax-blog]

Finish Anything Jam - DevLog#2

As I mentioned, at the end of 2024 I am going to be releasing ... something. One of my big challenges is that I have a few different WIPs and enjoy ... rotating between them.

While I was fairly focused in December on a project called "Eyes of the Pines" that focus shifted a bit during January.

Here are the projects I currently have cooking.

Eyes of the Pines: Southern gothic horror-light focused on an amnesiac young man who uncovers the secrets behind his past.

51ur8-90: A queer space opera featuring a mechanic in a backwater space colony who inadvertently ends up playing a bigger role in the conflict unfurling around them.

(no logo yet)

Broken Thread: The world of Azaria has been fractured by the Dread Lord of the Night Eternal. A small band of heroes prepare for their final confrontation with the dark wizard. For them, the conflict is personal. Before he became the Man who Stole the Sun, the wizard had been their trusted companion and treasured friend and for their leader, he was something more. 

This is what I got done this month:

51ur8-90

This is an old project that I'm picking up again. The script is complete, but one of the challenges with the script is that it's not very well formatted and there are a ton of different permutations (most of the LIs scenes can be played at several points in the story, with slight variations depending on when the scene is ready) -- I took the script and began untangling this and mapping it into twine.  So far I've gotten this done for chapter 1.

Decided I'd give creating updated sprites a try. As I mentioned earlier, while I have a beautiful full set of sprites there are two problems that I'm grappling with: one is matching the CG art with the sprite art, and the other is that I've developed a taste for including more animation (blinks, flip flaps, etc) in my VN art. 

Made a new base sprite for femmeMC. Resisted the urge to give them the option of masculine and feminine costume outfits. For now. One of the design choices of this game is that you can pick the gender presentation of all fo the characters, I'll probably stick with one version to start, and then finish.

Made a new base sprite for femme Shay.

Sat down and really considered some design principles. Decided to stop being a coward and actually uncomment out the 18+ scenes. While it might impact how I have to think about some of the more explicit scenes (to allow for a diversity of bits without completely blowing up the art budget) ... I think this is important to one of the design goals of the game. 

Same with the polyam aspect of the game. You can date the rebellion ace pilot. You can date the space pirate. You can be both at the same time. 

In terms of scripting, I am going to follow the approach where I go through one "path" at a time. The ending routes essentially consist of a combination of Bo's primary political affiliation plus which relationships they've developed with the other characters (like any good melodramatic space opera, it's possible to romance Rebellion Ace while choosing to enlist in the Federation). 

For what it's worth, the bad endings occur when Bo chooses not to trust the bonds they've made with people on 51ur8 -- so in the above-mentioned scenario, it's possible to end up with a happy ending to your romance, as long as you trust in Kai. 

Whichever character other than the route character Bo is closest to. I'm going to knock out the route where Bo joins the , while being close to Kai. 

Eyes of the Pines

Art:

Added some more expressions to Elian.

Created a logo, I don't love it, but it's fine as a placeholder 

Create a main menu art.

Thought about how I want to structure my sprites. 

sat down and played with a mirror and faces, really studied the expressions and did some sketches for my characters to play with what their expressions look like

Thought about lines - since this is a year long, I do what I want jam. Get excited about cross hatching.

Built out the file structure for an Jonah.

Redesign Jonah to better reflect his character 

Tweaked Saul's pose so he's facing the camera.

Sketched a headshot. 

Started Vivian's portrait 

Realized I was getting way too ambitious with the numbers of animations/etc. 

Misc:

Start up the dev log

Think about social media presence, decide that's a later problem.

Got a bluesky. Now I need to figure out how to use it. 

Started a game design documentation. 

Vndev confl

Coding:

Began coding a second scene (this one is ... Much more complicated than the first). Coding is definitely going to be a long pole, although I might get faster as I get more comfortable with ATL and have more built ins.

I added a choice menu that will let me jump to a certain scene for debugging. 

Writing

2.1 - 2.9

I'm essentially writing one "leg" of the story at a time, this will let me get the overall flow of the scenes as they come together. 

I'm doing Saul's route first (to his 'special' ending). I'm not sure what I'll do second, but I'm leaning towards Saul's "default" ending, then I'll tackle Jonah's routes (which will complete the "tower" path) 

I'll put this in writing, but I put together a playlist, this helps me focus on on the vibes that I'm aiming for.

[believerindaydreams]

under blue moon

oh look it’s another bit out of order. 

(may possibly get edited depending on the opinion of Syb who Doth Write Blondeyes with far more intensity than I do.)

this bit is from during Lent, before the Bus Trip of Doom. Our trio have taken up poetry sessions at the gatehouse- and somebody else is listening.

The memory shames Wallace even now, the way he and Joseph decided their lives back then. A scapular, one side brown homespun and the other the image of a saint, is less worldly than a coin; but they’d been gambling all the same. He has trouble crediting that he could ever have been so flighty. 

Reckons it best, not to admit to himself that he still might be- in ordinary time. 

This is not ordinary time. This is Lent, season of abstinence and strange sorrows, the time of year when the church’s blessed tide recedes, to expose the barren pagan world beneath. Father Paul dedicates this season to traveling, seeking reluctant converts for their flock; because now is when men reflect on their sins. 

Only Father Paul is not traveling this year, because of that- impertinence- of a brother of his, who came to visit for a day and has stayed for months. Accompanied by Joseph, gentle and distraught in his sorrows. Accompanied also, by a spirit that chose with careful precision, the moment to make itself manifest....

it is hard to credit that man as flesh and blood. 

To say that their monastery (this pit of unshriven sins, by guttering half-light)  has brought this fate upon itself would be a certain kind of blasphemy. To remain unmoved by this creature would be a rather worse one, Wallace can’t help feeling. 

He roams through the cloisters at night, disturbing the cats. 

He knows Latin better than any man here- excepting Father Paul, perhaps.

He had claimed for himself a portion of their sanctuary, carved out a worldliness in this place where there should be no such thing; thus reminding the flock that such things are, laying temptation in their path, in allways being most sly, and subtle, and cautious in his efforts...if the intent is not the breaking up of their flock, Wallace cannot imagine what else Angel Eyes might crave; and even if not, he’d bear watching. 

All of which is very poor philosophy indeed, to justify the way he has stolen away from evening prayer to spy on a guest, from the gatehouse attic. The passage out lies open and waiting. He might retreat at any moment, but chooses not to. 

“Turning and turning, in the widening gyre,” Angel Eyes reads. 

In this he is also unlike other men; his voice does not change to a carrying, artificial tone but remains serenely conversational. Wallace has become aware of its permutations, its inflections and digressions, is unable to listen without comparison to his multifold experience of priests and recitations. If it were a matter solely of the voice, he should have to consider it as fine a one as ever he’s heard. 

Joseph prefers not to read, for all his early promise as a speaker, and as for Benedict- Benedict has the sense not to read poetry, at least. His virtues may be strictly of the negative variety, but they do exist, as Christian charity requires him to acknowledge.

“He’s fallen asleep,” Joseph says. The peephole is small, but sufficient for him to see the man resting on the sofa beneath, the other who reaches for him with eager hands- 

and the third, who knocks Joseph back with his fist without missing a syllable. “The falcon cannot hear the falconer.”

“Well, he ought to be listening,” Joseph says very sullenly, not moving from the floor. 

“Things fall apart. The centre cannot hold,” Angel says. The book in his hand is a fine handsome edition, handcut pages and a heavy binding. Not quite the life of restraint promised to Father Paul, this gatehouse. 

“If I was that rude, you’d have it in for me.”

“Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world...the blood-dimmed tide is loosed-”

“Why do you let him get away with everything?” Joseph asks. “That new bag, your blasphemous little suppers, all the rest of it.”

A quiet, warm and ungodly smile warms Wallace then: a story he recognises, one that he’s heard before. Not the prodigal son, but the man’s brother.

“And everywhere, the ceremony of innocence is drowned...”

He doesn’t catch Joseph’s next interruption; the man’s lowered his voice, almost as if he expects an unseen listener. 

“The best lack all conviction...”

That must be more poetry, rather than a response. Joseph pulls himself close to the chair where Angel sits, to lean his head against the other man’s knee. 

Provoking no reaction whatsoever. “While the worst, are full of passionate intensity.”

“Passion we have by the truckload,” Joseph growls. “It’s everything else that’s the problem, always has been.” 

“Surely some revelation is at hand...” Angel continues, unperturbed. 

“Like hell there is. I’m leaving after Easter.”

And finally, finally, Angel closes the book. Marking it first with a ribbon, very deliberately. 

“Are you?” he asks- and that is not in a light, conversational tone at all, but something that draws on moonless nights and the isolation of nightmare for its power. “Well, you’ve done that before.“

“I mean for good this time. Finished the con, kept my promise-” Joseph laughs, a trifle hysterically. “He’s been hanging around my neck for years, I couldn’t get rid of him. I promised I’d see him safe first, you understand? And now I’ve done it and you’ve got him and I wish to God I hadn’t, but he’s yours now. I can get back on the road, like I always meant to.“

Angel picks up the dark gloves on his lap, pulls them on his hands with a deliberate lack of hurry or concern. “Six months, Blondie. Six months when I thought you wanted me, how indifferent were you?”

“Not half as much as you thought I was,” Joseph says, abruptly calm. The answer seems to surprise Angel too; he stops, a glove half on. “Inside of a month, I knew- I wanted you for you. Selfishly. I didn’t want my partner in on it, nothing you could have done would have driven me away- well, you know it didn’t.“

“And you left without a word,” Angel says. “I chose not to ask you why. I’m not asking now.”

It would, perhaps, be a statement of great poignancy and self-denial, as seen from below- such as from Joseph’s position. From up here, Wallace can make out no expression on Angel’s features, only the top-down view of a nose and thinning hair; and a reluctant compassion enters his heart. The man’s only a man, after all. 

(Perhaps God, looking from above, finds it equally simple to distribute forgiveness; but this is hardly a perspective he’ll suggest at prayer study.)

“Tuco needed me. I knew- I knew that if I said I had to leave, that I cared about somebody so much that I’d risk us just to save him, that you’d insist on coming along. Helping. Cutting me out, maybe, or...he was in New Orleans,“ Joseph says. “Not the picturesque part, some godless subdivision on the outskirts. The liveliest man I’ve ever met, and he honestly thought that stuffing ten pounds of joy into a five pound sack would be good for him. I’d have felt better if they’d been kicking him out of a rathole.”

“I wouldn’t.”

Joseph exhales. “Tuco’s like me, a crisis just makes him mad. Mad gives you something to work with. It’s the in-between times that wear the heart down...so I took care of him, I got him back on the road, and then I was stuck again! And frankly the hustle was getting worse and worse- it’s damned hard on him, I know that. You remember what he was like the first night you met him, all turquoise and big hats and comedy foreigner- and that was toned down, because I told him Carson was the classy sort. It got a lot worse than that.”

Wallace dearly wishes he could see better, what was happening; the way the chair creaks back suggests that Angel Eyes finds this line of inquiry none too reassuring. 

“How is his poker? Professionally speaking- I wasn’t paying the closest attention to him that night, you understand.“

“Not that great. Better at reading people than I am, but his betting’s terrible. No, we were going to have to find something else to do sooner or later, and I didn’t want to come ask you for help. Not just because I was being selfish, either. I knew what you were. I didn’t want to expose him to that...” Joseph trails off. “It’s a fucking strange sort of innocence he’s got, have you noticed? Like he expects the entire world to want him dead in a ditch, but he doesn’t see why that should embitter him any. It’s worth protecting.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“Well, good....”

“So what made you change your mind, in the end?”

Why Joseph begins to laugh, then, is a mystery to Wallace; but then, so’s most of this conversation. “For one thing, because I missed you- but you wouldn’t be satisfied with that answer, would you? I wouldn’t either. Because I missed you, because I wasn’t inhumane enough to keep us going through hell when I knew we had another choice, not when we were sleeping in the car every night and didn’t know where our next meal was coming from...that’s the thing about saintliness, if you’re alone it’s virtuous. If anyone’s depending on you, it’s just plain sadism.”

“And you fancy yourself as a saint.” Angel Eyes is, Wallace is positive, smirking something rotten. 

Joseph stands up then, with a martyr’s contentment. “I’d like to. And without you two around, maybe I’ll manage it. You’re planning to stay on here, aren’t you? Make soup, love Tuco, not do anything that’d get him in trouble?”

“That was the general idea, yes...of course, I did throw away my entire fortune on your behalf, retire from a line of business I happen to have excelled at, and have come to the conclusion you’re an absolute and arrant coward. But you needn’t worry that I’m going anywhere. Tuco’s certainly going to need support, once you abandon him.”

“It’s not the way you think.”

“I don’t care what you make of my opinion, it’s what Tuco thinks- and keeping him from chasing after your worthless hide is going to be a job and a half, have you thought of that?”

“No. He knows that I need to do this sometimes, he’ll be fine...and by the time he realises I’m not coming back, he won’t want to follow me anymore. You’ll take care of that much, I’m giving you every opportunity.”

Angel Eyes reaches out, picks up a pipe; Wallace wrinkles his nose at the unpleasant smell. “The exasperating part of all this is, you assume I’ll do anything to keep him by my side- and the worst of that is, you’re right.”

“You two are good together. Better than I ever was for him.”

“Planning to even give him the choice, before you go?” 

“Of course I am. Benedict?”

There is a long, long silence during which nothing happens at all; then Angel Eyes begins to laugh. It’s zesty, heartfelt, not an uncanny demon’s voice. 

He would, Wallace decides, have preferred a demon voice.

“Benedict,” Joseph says, laying a hand on the sofa; but not going near, not touching him at all. “I don’t understand. This has always worked before.”

“He sleeps better these days,” Angel says, still chuckling. “Not nearly so jumpy anymore- haven’t you noticed?” 

He reaches out and pulls a pack towards him. Settles it on his lap. The action means nothing to Wallace. 

It apparently means something to Joseph, though; there’s a petulant, almost childish whine in his voice. “That’s not fair.”

“No. It isn’t.”

Joseph bangs the door, as he goes out; Benedict stirs. “Blondie? Hey- where’d he- I guess I fell asleep again, huh?”

“Understandably. Yeats has that effect on many people.” 

“Oh, but I was trying this time- they were short, I understood them. Maybe too well, that one about the mask. But at least we have the place to ourselves now-”

Wallace decides to leave, then. Fascinating as this story is, his demon has no plans to wreck this sanctuary; so he doesn’t need to hear any more. 

The satisfying weight of the rosary in his pocket helps to soothe his spirit; he welcomes in the calm, as he begins the brief familiar prayers. For Joseph’s sake, he decides.

Scapular. Joseph had flipped it, told him to call. He’d won and chosen Paul.

”You’re an idiot. Paul’s never going to fuck you or anyone else, he’s about as holy as they come. Tuco’s much better fun.”

”That’s what I love about him,” Wallace had said. “That purity. That committed celibacy...it’ll keep me holy too, living up to his standards.” 

And given all that’s happened to Joseph since, he can’t help feeling that virtue’s proved its own reward.

[luci-yabs]

Take wing

Never again, not for him, for anything else, yes, but not for him...

Armoured soles crunched down on to the hardened earth, not soil or sand as he’d seen so many times before, no, this planet was better described as baked, a hard crust which simmered with earthen heat, casting a haze about everything, a distortion visible to those who used sight to chart their course.

He would have dismissed this vista, simply ignored it, or perhaps not even noticed it enough to ignore it in the first place. After all to ignore something implied the negation of noticing it, if it was never to be noticed in the first place then it did not need to be ignored either. He could almost hear his voice now; 

“Every battlefield has elements of every other, I have no need to take in the peculiarities of every permutation of conflict simply to satisfy a need to find meaning in it. Conflict is a calculation of loss and gain as much as agriculture is,”

He wondered if He would find the reference to farming humorous or aggravating when he told it. In his defence He was a Reaper, what better farmer could there be?

Arathaiel

He almost said it out loud; ‘We are almost there, we are nearing the moment I am dreading, we are ourselves becoming’ but the experience of a thousand lifetimes welled up inside of him like a great wave and smothered any such trite and comforting sentiment. If he felt something it was exactly because he forced himself to, not because he could not help it, but because he had consciously chosen not to be like a Reaper.

“My Lord,“

Kneeling was not an uncommon sight, if an unwelcome one, and though he knew the gesture was nothing more than a pointlessly symbolic one, bespeaking an appeal-to-humility-others-could-not-accept he did so anyway, for his body already bespoke that he was one-who-sought-to-be-less-than-his-station and, in frankness, he had been knelt to for over nine-thousand years, he doubted that one single moment in the interval of his half-lives would become the exception, despite the inherent fallacy in such an consideration.

His wings bristled a bit, instead, as he felt them contract back against him, not concealed, but no longer splayed out for others to admire. As always his armour responded to him fluidly, not as if it was an extension of himself, or as if it were alive, but rather as if it was simply another limb, like an arm or leg, and he contracted it with muscle and ligament working in tandem, except in truth it was wraithbone surging with the impulses of his mind. Of course, for him, the difference between flesh and blood and wraithbone were, at best, a liminal one.

We won, at least, or rather they won, it is there victory, not mine, it is his victory...

He felt the stirring inside of him and comforted it, knowing that it was fear now, yet assuring it nonetheless; to feel fear now is not weakness, your sacrifice, your bravery, is not invalidated by your wish to linger on, you are no coward. In the absence of fear there is no bravery, it is only because you acted against fear, despite knowing it, that you are brave...

“Father...you...lived..I feared...no-” it was the Exarch, he remembered, from before, a tall Aeldari who’s body bespoke of great relief and terror, mixed in a cocktail of doubt. Their Shrine felt the same but whereas the Exarch’s Mask could never fall, and thus all such feelings ha might quiet their wrath was fed to the flame of Khaine and transformed into yet more lust, the Aspect Warriors themselves were now bereft of Masks and left seeking comfort, in each other or...in him...

“You all fought well, it was an honour to fly beside you and witness you tear the eyes from the foe, your grace was enough to make even Falcon jealous were she here, and you struck like Khaine’s own spear into the eyes of Angacalan,” if he could provide them comfort, provide them relief, then he would do so, a shining light is what Teacher had called him and, though mockingly, the knowledge that Reaper did the same only served to motivate him more. It worked too, as he knew it would, the simmering fires in their breasts surged as they were transposed to the bloody-handed King himself, tearing apart from metaphorical beast. It was true that inciting the Mask upon others was not something he could do without tasting foul in his own mouth but, as of now, they needed that Mask to pull them through their losses. 

At all times evil, but some times a necessary evil, teacher...

“I must beg an indulgence of you for a moment, honoured Shrine Mother, if I may?” His eyes told all the Exarch needed to know, communicating both who he wished to speak to and the privacy he desired. It was, he reflected, curious that even though he had no true ‘eyes’ to speak of, other Aeldari still seemed able to read them...or at least read what he wanted to read in them.

“Of course, the Seers need us to return soon regardless, we shall await for him by the Chu’lian’oc, honoured Father,” the Shrine took wing, and it was in flight that he could most keenly see their losses, less than half remaining, and one of that missing half still here, waiting, seated with knees raised to his chest, a helmet  clasped in both hands, reversed so its stoic features, designed to appear heroic, gazed back into the warrior’s own face.

“Arathaiel?” 

A suppresed sob greeted him, the warrior not bothering to look up but, instead, leaning forward, his forehead touching to the metaphorical beak of his own helm, even as he, himself, reached up and ran articulated fingers of wraithbone over what passed for his ‘beak’.

“You do not know that name...you do not know me...you are not...”

“Him? No, I am not, and it would be a cruel and evil being to give you any impression I am,” he finished for him, standing above him for a moment...

“...but I do know you, because, in his own way, he has told me of you,” despite the baroque nature of his armour he folded and sat with nary a sound, barely feeling the heat which rose from the baked earth, his legs folded in contemplation over each other, arms resting each on a knee, head turned to regard the far distance, where the motley of colour which was the Warhost gathered about in the winding movements of some rainbow serpent.

“I do not want to know,” Arathaiel said, after the silence had run its course, his head rising ever so slightly from behind his Hawk helm, to reveal a striking face, eyes still ringed with some sorrow, though the sunken and hollow gaze in them absorbed that sadness til little of it remained. For an Aspect Warrior, he knew, it was an unseemly display in the aftermath of a battle, one her Shrine had, no doubt, felt at a loss to understand or explain. For them, surely, it had seemed he shed tears over a great honour.

Never again, not for me, never for me

“Why should I feel happy? Why should I revel? He...he l-”

“He loved you, he never stopped doing it, not for a moment, did his love for you ever waver-” even now it is strong enough for me to feel the motes of that love still upon the kindling of my souls “...love for you made him choose to do what he could to save you, do not stop to believe his love now, do not think he would have chosen this if there was anyway to come back to you alive,” he wished to reach out, to briefly embrace him, pull his head to his shoulder, but he resisted the impulse, for it would be wrong, he was not him and so deserved not to embrace Arathaiel as he had.

“I know that! Do you think I do not know that?!” His words were more venomous than he had intended, most likely, his helm lowered now and his bodly unfolding, the wings on his back responding to his emotions, opening somewhat, before he caught himself, his open arms and splayed legs pulling in again, he honesty of his body language replaced with one of constrained emotion; “But...none of that changes that he is gone and you...” eyes looked at him, briefly afraid.

“No, it does not change that,” he said, allowing his own head to sink in a gesture most would see as a simple gesture of shame, but the perceptive would note carried the connotation of personal-failure-repeated.

“I sometimes...I fear...I think...I think...what if I hate him now?” 

“You do not,” he said without a moment’s pause, the abruptness of it eliciting a snarl from Arathaeil;

“And what do you know of me? You think because you saw his memories and leeched his spirit you-” he caught himself, head falling down to stare at the ground, a gesture of both regret and supplication which made his stomach crawl.

“M-my profuse apolo-”

“I need no memories or wisdom to know your heart, Arathaiel, your feelings are writ so plain and clear that it is plain to all to see that you loved him. I do not need the eyes of a Hawk to know that,” he spoke over his apology, not wanting to even deign it with recognition, face turned now upon the young Arathaiel, as he spoke.

Arathaiel’s armoured fingers clenched in the earth, clawing grooves into the hardened substance, as he struggled to articulate the words of searing pain inside of him; “I hate him so much right now it hurts my heart to speak,”

“And that pain is love, it is the clearest evidence of your love you will ever find for that pain will resonate and carry through with you to the end of existence, dulled perhaps with time, but never gone,” never gone, that pain we carry with us.

“Pain is love? How perverse, surely love is the most exalted of all feelings and it is the loss of it which hurts,” Arathaiel looked up now, eyes opened somewhat wider, as he had passed through the threshold of his initial anger to see instead now with a more open heart.

“Pain and love cannot be separated, they are intertwined, just as intimate as any lovers. It was for love that Isha endured pain, love of her children brought torment at the hands of Khaine. How can these two dominions not be linked?” 

He listened, as the Honoured Father spoke on;

“Pain is the proof of the bond of our love, it lets us know that we wish them for their own sake, without it how would we distinguish our love for them from their utility to us? Your pain here is the evidence of your love for him, as his willingness to endure is the proof of his love for you. Never doubt what you have felt, never doubt that this pain is love, not hate,” a hand moved, a gauntlet clasped into a fist, over the breastplate, the heart, as if seizing it in a grip.

Chu’lian’oc rippled, a part of the world breaking to reveal a maw behind it. They would be gone soon.

“I wish love did not need to hurt so much,” he said, standing now, helm slipping back into place, ready to leave.

“As do I, but, forget not, that to love is to live. Isolation will not hurt as much as love, but it will leave you worse than hurt, worse than dead, it will leave you as nothing,” he remained where he sat, his Fate did not lead him through Chu’lian’oc now, the strands of it converged somewhere else still on this planet for him, a dance who’s steps he learned as he danced, still beckoned him.

Then he was alone, Chu’lian’oc was gone, and his wings gave a groaning, creaking, as he stretched them.

Is it easier? After the first? He had asked Teacher and, as Teacher was want to do, he had lied and said; Yes, every time it grows a little bit easier. You will become accustomed to it.

Nine-thousand nine-hundred and eighty-nine days, and it was no easier than it had been the first time. Every battle he promised; never again, not for me, never for me, and yet battle after battle they proved him wrong, they brought him back.

He carried them all on him now, behind him, stretching, a wall, brick-upon-brick, building up over centuries, over millenia, building into him. Their deaths was a love he could not repay but could not disappoint. 

“Take wing young bird, you are not yet done,”

[random0gener8r]

Giving Birth to a Universe

I gave birth to a universe today.  And yes, it IS amazingly wonderfully exerting, and both breathtaking and breath leaving for the last/first time . . . and realizing that every moment of thoughtful awareness, is both a birth and death, the moment between open or closed, ying or yang, the all entwining, encompassing Springer of life and death simultaneously infinitum, was that, while “we” are in our flesh sacks in the vibrational pattern that currently coincides with the vessel I inhabit, (as wonderful, brilliant, deviant, and twisted as “I” meaning both, meaning “we”, meaning the eternal “I” that is closest to this realm through focus and attention).  The “I” that plays with the other goddesses and gods about the current vibrational pattern that you happen to exist in because you chose this oh, so wonderful meat sac to inhabit. 

Oh, what a horrible way to speak of your own body.  It is your body, your temple of meat, flesh and bone that this world has sprouted just for you, to give you this exact, and I mean exactingly exact, ‘I’m British and have a stick shoved so far up my ass I’m refined enough to know the ‘divine pleasure and exquisite pain’ of every given moment’ kinda world just for you, and the only way it can be made perfect for you, is by you – the light and the dark, the push and the pull, the given and the taken.  Life.  Each co-self-aware existing being, which before the end, the final demise, is an organic burst of life, of light, and so to hurt any of you, I really am only hurting myself.  So I ask, “What did I do to deserve this???  Why are we creating this???”  It’s a scientific inquiry first, well, after the first flame of thought, and then accepting and choosing of the exact same fate, for opposite reasons, but from which all other possibilities within that vibrational pattern’s code of existence. . . . When ad infinitum becomes visible and coherent to you . . . . and I digress . . . .

  Oh and absolutely my/your/our energy makes a difference and I am going to wield it for “good” (as this specific arrangement of atoms at this moment of perceived time would so define it), . . .  I mean come on, from that height what does any of it matter, but it does, because it is a reflection of what you put out there (and I digress):

Start with one mind, your own, and then let it catch on from there.   Share it.  You’re only trying to convince yourself at the end of the day. 

There are 2 things that make up reality” – gravity and awareness of yourself and/or your physical surroundings. 

There is absolutely nothing to fear . . . death, the absence, there is nothing to fear in that -  this eternal moment of “you” that takes the span of a lifetime for “you” to experience, at this vibrational pattern’s wavelength, is perfect from start to finish, you will always be exactly what you were going to be.  But it is through the living of it YOU judge yourself and determine what kind of human being you are, and you bear the responsibility of your life and every choice you make through action or inaction, is yours to account for.  Because there is a line.  At the end of the day, there is a line , . . . 

“And what bitch (said as a woman to a woman)?  If I’m a sociopath, I ain’t gonna give one rat’s ass about you.” 

And that is a necessary, unavoidable, an ’impossibility not to contain’ in any life path of any current vibrational pattern form - it is The eternally separate.  The Other.  The one that can never be known except in being its exact opposite and being cool with that.  And I digress…

Until you can look yourself in the heart and mind and say yes to it all, and not because you’re a coward, but because you understand that the only way one can understand, to go beyond logical understanding TO emotional, universal pattern code, well, that is no easy path to hike. 

And so, To ALL my invited, welcome, welcome home, it is so good to see you again, it has been too long. Come, let’s sit a chat for a while and get to know each other again for the brother and sister that you are to me, my uncle, grandmother, Tio, and Tata, Alejandro and oh, she had the most American name, Helen or Martha . . . anyway, you get my drift here, don’t ya? 

So, if this a sermon, or a statement of belief, an article of faith, and my ‘god given right,’ thank you for listening, I appreciate it. 

  The birth process was physicalized.  My body arched like a cat’s, arms and legs frozen, poised in a pure moment of joy, exultation, being understanding. A harsh exhalation.  A universe born. 

This is the world from my perspective.  Thank you for letting me share it with you.  I hope this is a start to a conversation and look forward to hearing from you soon.

Each and every person out there is an aspect of yourself materialized.  Sometimes it’s fun to rough-house and get knocked around a bit.  Let’s you know you’re alive, that you could die, death isn’t a possibility at some point but not now, until it is, but I digress, or discharge or whatever you like; takes nothing away from me.  I know what I like and this way, will find out about you without giving my position away.  All in good fun, just another move on the great game board.  Come and see, come inside, the great and wonderful show is about to begin. 

  You know what keeps people honest in their judgement of themselves - does anyone, really, ever want to come up wanting?????  Unless you cannot comprehend that to the smallest degree…because then you are the antithesis, the anti, the nega, and you are your own being unknowable in the end, no matter how many permutations and possibilities I spin and spin and spin.  This side “I” will never see or know until the moment of our passing between the birth and death of universes.  That’s my story.  What’s yours?

Like I said, I’m spicy.  I like to cause a little trouble, get into a little mischief; I am human to the core and am going to see what that means – inside and out. 

My faith is in camaraderie, love, compassion and courage.  Change takes courage.  It takes belief.  It can come down to faith scraping nails down the side of a scarred old mahogany door frame, war-torn cornflower blue wall paper, yellowing, with an ancient child’s memory of roasting spitted rabbit over fire, imaginations rending of pillow case and all with nails sharped by keening tongue; back, when ya can’t see not that one speck of hope’s light in the darkness; the pit, the void, darkness everlasting.  I’ve looked it in the eye, even took a few turns around its whirlpool, died I did in ten other versions of reality, and then the mistake; the unintended attempt that was unacceptable.  A time of reckoning and acceptance should one be so worthy.  A choice upheld.