Sunday, March 31, 2013

...Almost...

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You could saunter song-filled hallways as the visuals wrapped around you [9]. Poems whispered from the portraits you might pass [1]. You could step-off from the edge and fall through space to sighing fountains [10]. You could hear transcendent music. T'was a gas!
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It was "candy for the eye" attached to verse you'd never seen, but hard to keep your "bearings" on the way. One way trips all seem so final as you clicked "fluorescent signs," and the way-back's hard to find, I'm pleased to say.
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You'd wander in cool gardens that you only dream about [7], or fly to real castles in the sky [5]! You'd float along, astonished, while the pictures curled and danced; you'd "warp" to other places if you tried!
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You'd almost smell the greenness of the lushly crafted leaves as they moved around in winds you'd almost feel. You'd almost taste the flowers that were growing 'round low bushes which were almost... like they may as well be real [3].
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It's more valid than some golf course that you over-fertilize, and so poison all the wildlife downstream! Rather, satisfy an urge to get away from all that hassle, for awhile, and just wander in your dreams.
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Jump through *holes* in space to see its alternate dimension, and then walk, amazed—if gob-smacked—by the sight. Visit links you've "clicked" on for a different kind of view, and be thankful for the conscience you don't fight...
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And, yes, you may be lucky if I poke you in the eye, or I *scare* you with the stories I can tell. The fact they MAY be real is a fact you might consider... if you freak and go all purple—mad as hell!  I'm cast "the piano player," and I'm honest with myself and expressions bubbled from me just provide my mental health.
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Remember a proportion of your rage may coincide with assertions that one's grossly incorrect. I'm right? It makes you angry; you lose your bearings—and your focus—so descend to crass attacks ... and disrespect!  Then you obviate the circumspect and fail on your merits, pontificate your party line: a parody of parrots.
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...I wander halls and parapets of faery-castles built [6]... with this: the smallest gesture and a nod! See, "convenience" is no virtue when enjoyed by just the *few*, so I'll build the odd reality... that must query Christian gods...  ...rake this "muck" (it is deserved) on "shiny shoes" of *greater* persons... who would sooner shut me up, or put me out.  Elitists have their way; they write the rules; they ARE foreclosure; they are sum and tat and total, and they SHALL NOT go without!
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Stand atop a soap-box—never put there for your use—but to vent a righteous spleen 'bout what you'd feel. ...I can take it or can leave it, but I'm better for the hearing, and the same must go for you, so... that's the deal.  ...Though, there's something in the "seeing" and the "hearing" what is there; it runs a different groove and must preclude the rut now fared...
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Care to hear a sunrise? Then a visit to my "grotto" was the coolest place you'd ever think to be. You'd run and spread your arms to "warp" or "fly" but "cleave the heavens" that were spreading wide like curtains, yes... You're free!
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Build your own and we'd be neighbors—an idea marketplace, where the usual laws of physics shan't apply. Unhindered by the *rules* you're—freely—thinking on your own, and then thinking for yourself the reasons "why."
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Don't believe the priests and kings—who bother and distract you—with convenient rules they've made... to stay on top. Learn to take your counsel from the mirror of your life—then learn to wonder why; then, learn to cop!
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...And this, "a tiny plot" of all the places you can wander that provide their own *distraction*, I admit. But who is making money when you cash out "buying in," and begin to see who profits most by... it.
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Come on in and talk, leave a message, walk the walk, and we'll share out all the things that we have found. Come and look and you might find: it's your culture strikes you blind, and the teachings that you've scorned?  They're more profound.


alienview@roadrunner.com
http://www.alienview.net/
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"Culture is not your friend." -- Terence McKenna

"Dreamland,"—an expression of a virtual universe that Terence McKenna would have walked into and never come out of—on the other hand, was as real as you wanted it to be, linked to anywhere, and it did it "right now," in real time... even last century.  Additionally, it was going to get a lot better—a LOT better...

Ultimately, you can own a little piece of this virtual paradise! Don't buy a few packs of coffin nails, some Hagen Daz (to provide the required fundage)—take a chance. Buy in. But come to wander the environs for free, that’s as free as it needs to get, and as good as it got...

Got?  Yes...

See, I discovered real estate in cyberspace is every bit as ephemeral as real estate in actuality... it's just a lot less expensive.  See, things get less expensive when made only of photons and electrons. Only, it hurts no less when it's taken from you, earth-quaked, or otherwise blown up. ...But sabotage?

See, and paying for the privilege, I worked for years building a huge virtual cyber-park where one could walk or fly in a construction not beholden to the usual physics, ya know. Space, Time, and Surface area, to a degree, became a place to show your art when it wasn't being art itself. It was gallery and school and community, too.

Then, the tragic result of a transfer of ownership of the aforementioned "universe," the whole of my acreage of "Experiential Park" was moved, abruptly, to another spot in a new virtual universe. This rendered all of my  relevantly cross-connecting teleportation coordinates false, useless, and meaningless.

There were many hundreds of those coordinates, into the teens of hundreds. All are Required and Key for accurate pin-point teleportation providing for ease of movment.  All of them were now delivering the participant, not to other examples of 3D art and immersion in it but to a flat green "obliviate," presently, where those constructions should be.

A lot of the magic of the place... just went away, reader.  A little like a defaced painting...

I started to go back through those errors and correcting them, but what would I do if I was unceremoniously moved again! I understood then.  Where is the confidence laboriously correcting, and for many hours, what can be erased so effortlessly in seconds by errant, arbitrary, and thoughtlessly unilateral and artless philistines.  Harsh... but damn!

A shadow of that world remains, though, and is assess-able still. It's wander-able and there is plenty of stuff to see, only, stay out of the water, away from fountains, named transporters, and shunts. They don't do what they once did; gone's the magic there... once.  Now, you are inexplicably transported to oblivion.

Additionally disconecting, the code and software used to gain admittance to this world was sold to a third party... in Germany... so the interface is now in German. Ouch. Another hurdle. I've asked the new owners to put me in the "new world" where I was in the "old world." Pick one set of coordinates in my world, place my corresponding construction at that coordinate, line up north and south... ...and all my coordinates work anew!

It is not permitted.

I've been to every spot in the new world where my constructions should be... it is nothing but nothing. There's nothing there. I could be there. But no. So know, you know?  No?

Sincerely, you used to be able to go to some pretty neat places—a parapet where you can stand with friends and watch ... too many UFOs careen around in front of you [Picture #8]... for instance. The whole park was a gallery and an expression of art, itself.

You can just wander around in it is all, wander around and talk to other people in real time. ...And verily... While you're "there"... are you not "there"?

Terrence McKenna talked about virtual reality extensively.Ralph Abraham and Rupert Sheldrake back him up in finite if informative "Trialogues" (sic).  I know what I'm doing would have knocked his sox off. Search ITune podcasts for Lorenzo's "Psychedelic Salon"...

Graham Hancock alludes to it. Daniel Pinchbeck sails fretfully on its surface, and I aspire to illustrate it. Perception is the reality, and that is not bad news.

See, aspiration can be composed of photons and electrons more economically and expansively than it can be made of platinum and diamonds, eh? Or wood and concrete. Or—well... anything you could care to name.

Verilyburied deeply in McKenna's cold-soaked moonlet of Neptune at near absolute zero one could download themselves, their friends, and their loved ones into a grown quartz crystal a foot across and live in a manner that suited them for all time, 'real' as one wanted to be, in a virtual universe as palpable as the one strategically and profitably retreated from, eh? What else is required for existence, after all but the perception of existence?

Perception is all that is required for "reality." Indeed, we could all be in a virtual universe right now and not remotely know it...

Restore John Ford!

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