A Pre-Sim Confession

Author Note: [This Third Space seems to be the only place where people like Alex, John, Boris and many other great, talented people are thinking about the meta-abstraction of identity in virtual worlds - I continue our discussion of identity and self.] - Enjoy.

Dedicated to Boris G, John W, and Alex L. (&peace brothers&),

Opaque. Infinite Loops in Pre-Sim Space.

Author thought: ["I/We are all at least potentially multiple, even if most of I/Us do not suffer from the oppressive consciousness of being so. In recent years, increasing numbers of multiple myselves/themselves have come to reject the idea that their multiplicity should be regarded as a medical “disorder.” I reject that idea as well. I see them as facets on a diamond."]

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John, I was scraping off and clinging to the leftovers and dregs of yours at the edge of this plaintext waterfall of cold florescent shadows next to another plane of gray against a gray as the  sun's crimson sky pressed down on me, which is not the same, but moving forward, and being pulled forward among what's been left by a media noplacescape straining toward a completion in 30 minute-dimensions leaning left and forward in one jerky camera obscura movement of thought. You'd been the page on the screen itself whose words were grains of sand winding among untitled monuments the biting wind of writer's block whistling against my face, stinging rows incite the sense of standing in the face of nothing which is the nature of you're my sign and I gesture along the video arcades of redemption of pimpled teenagers amped on angst and hormones and bitterness. My knees are sore from praying for rain, the kind that flushes all this shit away. My knees are sore from praying to Elohim. My Knees are sore from praying to all my virtual selves.

 "A new world is only a new mind - or many minds" - William Carlos Williams

Boris, I write out of need for my own redemption and the thought that I could have 'Sanity' once more. I am a mediated, medicated narcassistic drama king; outside my ego, I see chaos un-tamed by what's been the light source itself, song, movement and time collide against the tides moving one on one as unconverted remains strewn beside tire tracks left by overpowered fixed-up muscle cars as the translucent white feet of angels trail beside the forward constancy of motion impel thought in its similarities toward a recognition of fetid city air and dusty red brown color specific in the charges laid against unknown substances striking my face and hands like unwelcome dinners set around the table with no one in mind and then abandoned. You become of me in this haven the elements deny themselves, disorder remaining in its own destination from the center blazing inside itself like a sign and outpost of the known into location and faction torn from time and the space it has, torn from the spaces between these hollow words creating infinite silences of dread set up shop to torment me and suck the air from my burnt lungs. Trembling I am left, my eyes raised above the ground. I look, I'm trying to look up, but I am Outside it again.

"...this vague & dream like world, without love, or heart, or passion, or sex,is the world I really care about, & I find interesting. For, though, they are dreams to you, & and I can't express them at all adequately, these things are perfectly real to me." - Virginia Woolf

Alex, I thought of a series of bizarre congruent furies I would say to some of your poems; a series of mistakes belittle my witnessing of what cascades across the margin's opening in the darkness of the hailstorm and call me down into the origin of a safety. I think your work does surround my partitions between who I am and who people think I am. I would create a music, called by the name I give myself in the darkness of silences, give doubt in its own term, and dedicate it to you. This wound would betray my immovable movable stasis, more like walls moving in the sand beneath my feet seem pulled down into the water, memories swimming beneath my stains of soul, billowing inert forces penetrating light - the gate is open and calls me to enter into my own destiny of silences. That destiny of eternal silence of these infinite spaces between each word fills me with dread, down to the the chill left in my bones and settles there like fog in a dark valley. 

SimWill 3.0, I drifted into this video game without knowing why, a tabula rasa on auto re-wind, where the knowledge grown resembled the bones thrown upon the table seven times seven in a row and then consulted, a haruspex of an ancient world I will carry from here in the empty ivory carved box that is myself.

"Just go ahead and call echo," I'll answer.  I can't even remember what it was I came here into this Third-Space space to get away from besides a break from Zoloft green algae drinks with a sprinkle of lithium and lust. Ludi hates me because of my false promises, but I am still his brother; and, but he still paints willing chasms with his own blood and gold colors and their opposites with rhythms and rhymes, prayers uttered upward into this density without remiss or calm; and comparable to my own dead decay of syntax which would clings and scatters around the cities and slums in my heart. Forgive me.

Brilliant electric sky with ends abutted into blue and green forests.  My own munificence Gathers into a knot of light and then subsides into hunter green-gray scenting toward inked blackness. It's not dark yet, but it's getting there.  What's the stroke along her hair, what's the name she left on the wall of my bathroom, I've been down to the bottom of a cesspool of lies, I'm not even searching for truth this time, just a vacation from all this shit.  Calms the latent hailstorm without knowing how or why the winds themselves knew where they are going. I'm standing against the hill with her ribbons blowing around me and trying to forget about the neon distraction.

I thought to myself, "Self, this air is filled with an infinite number of radiating euclidean lines, which cross and weave together without ever quite coinciding; it is these which represent the true form of my every hope's essence."

To which I would reply: "This is the hour, minute, second between clock ticks at hand, the blast from the black edge of the world inhabits my own unknown hand, hesitant on these keys at best believing I stand outside the formal system and can say that Yes - it is complete, and provable, and hold what's been ignored too long, a blind scientologist sentinel at the peak of this Escher house relives my building and song and spaces of dread, lets the dizzying spin of my thought's blacked hailstorm become a wandering tide the loom and weft of open electric gyrating engines ride valkies this hour in giving anchor and palm their own distance rising throughout the mind's hour thrown among the rolling dreams which come against my thoughts; a broad bitter gust reams the window tight against its frame and juncture in the night's beating streams and shores flat and firm along the way, scheming in between what's known and what's not and then dreamed or hallucinated away too soon to leave and too late to cry a silent prayer into the graying sign of the cold florescent lit dawn."

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