No Dreams in Digital

People speak in romantic tones about dreaming. Losing the ability to have dreams while sleeping is one of the trade offs of brain augmentation. The best time to back up the day’s data is at night when you’re asleep. Your subconscious is suppressed so synchronization can occur efficiently. So you could dream or learn something once and keep it forever.

Nowadays, if you want to dream after you’ve had the surgery, you have to go off-line when you sleep and that’s illegal. Besides being fined, you could lose some of the data you collected during the day. Depending on the job you have, that could a disciplinary offense.

I’m still paying off my cyberization loans, so I’m glad I got a descent I.T. gig. My parents got me augmented after high school, so of course college easier. Teach me once and I got it. I remember the ‘stock’ (un-augmented) students struggling in class, looking at me with envy. Some families abstain from augmenting their children for religious reasons.

The Anti-Facebookists or Christians look at me like Frankenstein. I’m not even a cyborg yet. The surgery just installed a stimulator for the brain to enhance its performance and recall. Other implant provides constant connection to EchoNet for data back up. If I get sick or damaged, my memories can be retrieved.

The stock kids used to tease me about the dreams they had the night before. They said I had to “turn myself off” a night. I would’ve resented it more, but I had so many benefits they didn’t. No exit exams, all A’s and guaranteed employment after graduation. I see why my parents got into so much debt to get me super-sized, so fuck the normals.

Five years after graduation, I was picked up by a data storage and recovery company. After some intense training, I was given a bank of whispers to support. Apparently I’m doing a pretty good job.

My apartment was near a budding arts district, which is to say close to the ‘hood. A place where artists and young entrepreneurs were rehabbing buildings once boarded up. When I wasn’t on-call, I’d hang out, read and slip overpriced coffee.

There was a buzzing in the base of my skull in these places, which meant folks has ad-hoc networks near by. One of the side effects of being connected to EchoNet all the time is sensitivity to data moving around at different frequencies. I can’t “see the data”, but I can feel it’s motion.

For fifty years it’s been illegal to be disconnected from EchoNet. Once you turn 18, you either have an selective service beacon, a EchoNet capable smartphone or have your brain augmented like me. Hanging around these underground nets might be a problem, but the Homeland Security doesn’t come down here much. Don’t see working CCTV cameras around here either, so I’ll risk it. There’s also rumors that folks go offline on a regular basis down here. I ask the brewista why folks risk a DHS visit for going dark illegally? 

“So we can dream.” One of the café regulars told me. He’s wearing shades sipping tea. “We can be free here. In that back room there is shielding from radio waves, so no EchoNet. Theres a few cots too. You can catch one or two dreams in the space of an hour. You should try it.”

He turned went into the dark room, still with shades on. I could see through doorway what looked like an opium den, but instead of smoking they were sleeping. I see now, all of these people had been augmented, but went offline to nap. Hmm, if you go dark (offline) for less than an hour, it gets reported as possible system failure. As long as you don’t do it every day, no flags get raised. These guys are having their cake and eating it too.

I turn my head as not to record (remember) any faces. It’s a pretty good life I have, but what’s this business of dreaming? I was taught it was a relic of the past like eating raw meat. But these people would risk jail time and possible data lost for something arbitrary as dreams...

Photo Caption: My New Balance 475's taken with my iPhone 4S w/Hipstamatic app (Loftus lens, Blanko Noir film)

copyright 2012 Johnathan Clifton Harding

Escape Velocity

It's quite out here. Nothing happens much, just occasion meteors or a ship. All these rocks look static, lifeless, but they all have a story. The rock I'm sitting on is an old Bank of America account I closed.

This bank was engaged in illegal foreclosures, unjust fee hikes and moving trillions of dollars in derivatives to FDIC guaranteed accounts. So, I heeded the call of Operation Cashback and closed my account.

Cut up my ATM card and spread the pieces on the table. They looked like pieces or rocks in Saturn's rings, beautiful debris. So funny, I closed all my accounts, but BofA stills send me mail saying I am below the $25 limit. Their gravity is fighting me, doesn't want me to go, just float around until I go BACK and sit down with ANOTHER rep and show them the paperwork I completed to close my accounts and the receipt for the money I cashed out. Maybe then I'll reach escape velocity.

Bank of America is a big, bloated planet, that has destroyed so much life with it's tonic gases. The people on the planet's surface don't know it yet, but they're dying. I see them standing in front of the ATM, coughing because they don't have $5000 in the account so they get hit with monthly fee for accessing their own money. Awareness and a little tenacity is the only way off the surface. I opened an account with a local credit union. So there is life on other planets. People gotta wake up.

photo: my old ATM card taken with my iPhone 3Gs w/ on board camera app, and edited with PS Express app.

2012 is a Joke

Emergency! Market forces extracted wealth from the working classes then dropped it on a bad spin at the roulette wheel. Now they want Geico to recover their losses. The Tea Party (serfs that protect wealth of landlords) toast the idea.

The Democrats realize their President is a better conservative than the Blue Dogs ever were. I'm not making this up. Obama was vetted, like all candidates, on his willingness to protect status quo. He knew he could deliver the Dems, the Blacks and the Liberals to Wall Street in a nice neat package.

The Corporate powers do their part by painting the rational republicans, disgruntled democrats into a corner with tea party red; figuring they can keep serving poison economic policies as long as Obama is at the counter.

That stratagem will get most of us in 2012. But there's a few hardcore thinkers that will continue to bitch and blog and explore third party candidates. Who knows, since we were able to get a Black president in 2008, maybe we can get a Green one in 2012.

Photo: Walter Reed ambulance taken w/iPhone 3Gs and Hipstamatic app (Salvador 84, Ina's 1935).

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

It's Summertime

Once I could touch the sun. I could hug their fiery photosphere. Wash them with starlight, before sending them off to school.

After the divorce came the Fall. I could still see them, but the distance - things just got a little cooler. Moods changed, from bright green to more sober colors. Sometimes I'd feel like I was just floating, drifting on some uncaring wind.

On Thanksgiving day 2010, I was told they were moving to Florida, the farthest point from the sun. Icicles were on my face by the afternoon. I could see my breath, words like "You'll get them this summer. They won't forget you. Use Skype for video calls." More cicles, crying like a bitch. Angry, confused, frustrated, but still willful. I would see them soon.

One thing I've learn about my orbit is that it never stops. I set small fires at the cave's mouth. Stored fruits and vegetables. Sent presents from the amazon. Always prayed to the stars, always knew my season would come.

Now, I can see green beneath my toes. The earth doesn't resist me as she once did. Hope, laughter, more dirty dishes are coming into view. It's summertime...

Photo: Lamp light through glass cup taken with iPhone3Gs, Hipstamatic app (Jimmy, Blanko Noir)


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Ashram

It might as well be a temple. As many times as I've retreated to its open solitude. The spirits, the elves, the open doors I've seen in its low cut grasses. It might as well...

A girl showed me how to find four-leaf clovers. Old gods kiss my face when I was anxious about the divorce. I bartered with a priestess for the cookie. I've seen myself walking barefoot through the grass. Once there were creatures gathered in the far corner looking up. I looked up too. We were all blessed.

I am the shadow in this place. The observation of myself is true religion and my path to enlightened.

Photo: Mom's backyard, one of the most holiest places on Earth taken with iPhone3Gs, Hipstamatic app (Jimmy, Blanko Noir)

These United States...

Myself and my fellow Americans complain too much. Liberals complain because Obama acts like a compassionate conservative. GOP complains because he is Black. Democrats complain because Obama continues W Bush's wars. Tea party complains because he's Black.

I work the weekends and.. wait, I'm employed?! Yes, I'm employed and have been all my adult life. I have loved ones not so lucky. I say luck, not because I didn't educate myself, acquired new skills, learn how to get along with people, because I did. I say luck because I'm sure other folks have and they are still jobless.

I am fat (as of this writing) not because of thyroid problems, but because I eat too damn much. There are people who don't have the same access to foods that I do and they are in the same zip code. Lucky, blessed, take your pick.

My beloved anonymous brother and sister, please take this time to celebrate the fortunes you do have. Like this internet enabled device your reading this self righteous blog post on. The Gods, Fates, Probability has been good to us. That picture is of a sandwich I bought from Starbucks. Taste good, but makes you write blog posts like this, so be careful.

Photo: Sausage, egg & cheese from Starbucks taken with iPhone3Gs, Hipstamatic app (Helga Viking, Alfred Infrared)

the Evangelist

I heard this fire, these finger tips walking across coals. A sacred dance in Sin City. My reptilian brain was disquieted, he didn't know what to make of this language; the pain and insight of the Blues, delicious chaos of a Hendrix run. How can you put words on invisible tongues.

In 1972 the universe was created. Gods and goddesses were worshipped because they made it rain and the children grew up with a strong sense of cultural pride. In 1972, wars were fought and ended, long hair had politics woven into it. God was Black, Brown and Yellow.

On this sacred corner, wrinkled hands still remembered how to pray to ancient gods. The strings theorized people would pay to hear the gospel during their lunch hour. They was right. I saw all classes bow and toss IOUs at the prophet's feet. Their ears burned, they caught that feeling, then moved on. Prayer changes things.

Photo: Guitarist at 7th & F Sts, Wash DC taken with iPhone3Gs, Hipstamatic app (Lucifer VI, Blanko Noir)

Taste

She didn't call. I saw a light refracting in a glass half full. I could distract myself with disappointment or burn this alcohol in a lamp and write.

My ink spilled a bit, dripping off the table, directing me to look elsewhere for inspiration. At two o'clock, a Cinderella relinquishes hard labour for a short time. Perhaps to meet a writer in his solitude.

I've seen a stone faced barista soften with easy, patient chatter. "Why do you care about my final exams." She says, espresso shots fall. I let the query linger, form its own conclusions, let the seed of curiosity grow.

Let it steam, questions without answers foam in the mind about this caring, well dress regular. Stir in a little politics and some compliments on simple braids and curls.

Can't grow attached to any potential cup of latte. The constant waiting in line or unrequited advances, enamors you to the process. To sip is not as important as that act of treasuring the taste.

Photo: To go cup taken with iPhone3Gs, Hipstamatic app (Salvador 84, Pistil, Cherry Shine)

Seasons

God is round and everything created inherits that propensity. Even conflict is cyclical, gravity pulls, planets resist, the motions are orbits. Seasons are created, life and expectations of things that have come before.

My seasons resolve around my passions. The closer I get to my fiery core, the brighter my sky, greener my grass the fuller my bounty. Wildlife flourishes, I have plans for Friday night, etc. Then the season of forgetfulness comes upon me.

I start to drift further from Sol. Days grow shorter, nights colder, too cold to speak. Constellations like Aphrodite drift by without so much as a whisper from me.

But, stars do change and I remind myself of the god I once was. A beauty lost until I find it again in myself. Memory brings the sun round. Closer, I align myself with truths I produce like blossoms. Like attracts and beauty is compounded. I remember that work toward my star is near zero effort and I feel warm.

My own personal gravity serves me well.

Photo: Juggler in Wash DC in front of Gallery Place Chinatown Metro station taken with iPhone3Gs, Hipstamatic app (Chunky, Blanko Noir)

Red Riding Hood

There was a dark wood I was trapped in awhile back. The light was blocked by people who didn't believe in ambition. They were crabs who climbed trees just to keep another crab from moving higher. They blocked out the sun, but they also formed a canopy for ambitious creatures like myself.

I met a fellow traveler from that wood the other day. She was clothed in cocoa leaves and smelled like fear. We broke bread in a place without trees and spoke of higher powers, miracles and such.

When I led her back to the road, she did not give me her eyes. Later, she stated her courage was fluttering, as if I carried a strong wind. I know it was just the city, but allowed her to draw conclusions. It was as if the spirits were telling me to remove the woods in my soul.
Photo: Crossing an intersection at twilight taken with iPhone3Gs, Hipstamatic app (Chunky, Ina's 1935)

Spring in Bangazi

We perceive it in our minds - an idea, the fragrance of choices. Our generation is blooming, covering the sky. Our feet rooted, soaked in sweat and blood, our songs - the bark on our tree.

Winds from Gaddafi's fighter jets move our branches, but we remain resolute in this free Libyan soil. We desire Spring for our children, warm democratic rays.

Mercenaries see us as kindling, the West eye our sap, neighbors pray this regional storm won't make their forests dance. But the seasons are changing. It is our time.

Photo: Dogwood or Cherry tree taken w/ iPhone 3GS, Hipstamatic app (Chunky, Blanko Noir)

Ghosts in the Machine

The machinery looks frightful. Blue steel gears all oiled up with corporate money. But teachers and fireman stood against the monster. The liberal media challenged its shrill narrative. Wisconsinites got dirty, pressing their bodies between the agenda and it's implementation, slowing down the oppressor's drill.

The cables are taut now. Straining under the weight of the Press. The masses, even genuine fiscal conservatives, see somethings wrong. The hard won protections of non-capitalists in a free-market are being threaten by the political machine. Squeezing people between scarcity and low wages, squishing folks under the high cost of health benefits.. Trapped - the would be victim finds the strength to face anti-labor agents like Governor Walker.

The slippery slope of capitalism claims as many souls as politicians can push. The GOP seems to have bigger hands this year. As my brothers and sisters slide into debt, think that I should really start a business. Because in capitalism, if you don't have capital, you don't have power. This is why real democracy is so important. One person, one vote.

Photo: Drill at construction site taken w/ iPhone 3GS, Hipstamatic app (Chunky, Blanko Noir)


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Pooper Scooper

The future is only dark for the unprepared. For those who've lose faith in their inner god. Now the dark doesn't have to be scary. In fact, once you've purged a few demons, you can see in the dark much more clearly.

Having been haunted by the demons common to man. I've learned their trick is making you forget they're visitors, not part of your essential self. Demons, like the ego, are baggage that we pick up along our material journey. While on earth, we get mud on our shoes, motes in our eyes and spinach in our teeth. That's a big deal for someone who didn't have a body to start with.

Ego isn't a bad thing, its a pet, an animal that needs taming, an ape that can smoke. If you ever think its civilized - watch out; you could get your face ripped off. We only need the ego for comfort and to talk to egocentric people. Those few of us that shed the ego before death or old age - I'll see you in the dog park.

People free of ego's domination are interesting to talk to. They seem self-contained, comfortable in their own skin and adaptable. Folk around them tend to adjust to higher frequencies. The egoless are centers of gravity, contagions, forces of nature.

Once this state is achieved, time for departure is near. You see, not only is the ego a pet, its also an anchor. The buoyancy of the little god can easily overcome earth's pull without an ego weighing it down. A low pressure system forms overhead, then a whirlwind brings death to the body. So when people say "the good die young" it's because of the weather.

The path to achieving this state of egolessness is boring and wonderful. One technique is to progressively free oneself from fear, learn life's lessons and accept that everything and everyone "out there" is really in here - we are all one. With these elements in place, buoyancy is increased and the spiritual eye opens.

There are all kinds of adventures to be had by just accepting who you are and that you define who that is. No religion required.

See you in the dog park.

Photo: Metro platform from inside subway w/ reflection from window, taken w/ iPhone 3GS, Hipstamatic app (Helga Viking, Float)

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Egyptian Hell

You can really appreciate water in this place. Diamonds are traded for ice cubes here, silk for refreshment.

When a government demands resources like taxes, blood and loyalty, but can't provide food and water, shelter from cold and ignorance. That government should replaced.

When a government commits violence against it's own people, the most grievous violence of poverty, that government should be overthrown.

When clean water is sacrificed for profit, the culture has turned into cancer, eating it's own people to sustain itself.

When education leads to a degree of unemployment worst than the unskilled experience - it's a type of Hell. It's a part of the pit where your books torment you. Your knowledge harasses you.

It's hot in this place, not because of flames but because of embers. Frustration smolders in the mind stealing sleep. Feet pace. There is no comfort.

Here you can not see the sky. Well you can, but it doesn't recognize you. Believing you to an enemy, you get hot rain. Acid that doesn't nourish the soil. Cracks of dry earth appear across your brow. A forehead like a desert floor.

I'm sipping this holy water for my brothers and sisters in Hell. Where demons in police uniforms test your resolve. I sip this cool water and pray for change.

Photo: ice water, taken w/ iPhone 3GS, Hipstamatic app (Kaimal Mark II, Ina's 1935, Cadet Blue Gel)

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The Hunger Pains

They think we're tired. Distracted by the internet again. Commerce is returning, stepping around our Revolution. But we're hungry and we can't ate your reforms. You take day old bread, no, thirty year old bread and wrap it a new napkin.

We can't ate oppression. It chokes. Civil liberties stumble with bloated bellies and skinny arms, sitting in this square. Why can't you hear us, our stomach roar. Perhaps our bones, our taxes and foreign aide make you chew so loudly, we seem silent. Just 1000s of mimes in Tahrir.

The baker, once a military man, serves us dishes his children wouldn't eat. They dine on exotic fare like freedom of travel, economic security, marriage and happiness. Billions of calories are consumed by his family, while we wait.

You hate those peeping in the window. Al Jazeera, reporting on the terrible food you serve us. We can't chew fear. We refuse to ate ourselves into oblivion with your poison recipes.

We have just enough strength to starve. Not ourselves, but your machine which grinds us into flour for your companies. We will starve the regime, week by week, until the baker closes his shop of horrors. Just alittle while longer. God willing.

Photo: "Beer and Wine" taken w/ iPhone 3GS, Hipstamatic app (Salvador 84, Pistil)

Bitches Brew

These factories. These machines of culture polute the air with notions of class. In the fog people loose themselves, traveling down a path to vanity. With tolls every morning; the wayfarers believe this the road to paradise.

Against the tide of the 7-11 masses, poverty has many faces. Some poor in spirit are big tippers. The line, the cashout, the line, is the rhythm of the nobility. Ancient ways of home preparation is a lost art and even frowned upon as black magic.

Witches and sorcerores who make their own brew, oft wish for exile. Waking up before birds, the boiling cauldrons, the spells can be tiresome. But their coin does not permit otherwise and they accept this.

Look, something wicked this way comes... Oh, another Starbucks.

Photo: coffee cup taken with iPhone 3GS, Hipstamatic app (John S, Pistil, Cherry Shine)

Soul Food

What can you take with you? I guess only what fits in the mind, but our memories have holes in them, so only really big things can be stored there.

The heart has some carrying capacity, but its hard to open without right feeling to retrieve the right item. Hashmarks or tags our feelings are. You need the right combination to open the lock.

Scars are a pocket most forget about, but it's pretty reliable as a carrying case. We have bought many a troublesome item from one life to the next in scars. They're sturdy, you always can find them when you need it, but they get a bit heavy after a while. Can slow you down.

The last place to store things is prayer. If you have people that love you back in the physical, my understanding is that prayer is a reliable way of acquiring things you forgot. Children, spouses and living parents will regularly send precious care packages straight to your door. Alas, after the grieving period ends, the packages become less frequent and for some souls, they stop altogether.

That's fine. You've been here awhile and it's time to release the priorlife and embrace the after. You don't need that much to get by around here anyway, all you need is you.

Photo: my latest attempt at homemade bread. Taken w/ iPhone 3GS, Hipstamatic app ( John S, Alfred Infrared)

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Weekend Metaphor

It's quiet out here in space. You don't so much "hear" as much as "feel" and there's little going on out here emotionally.

Sitting on one of the rocks that make up Saturn's rings is.. different. Not awesome, but a crazy bright reflection from planetside and a lot of rocks and dust.

The rocks only get pretty far away, like some people in your life. Up close they have faults, prejudice, petty territorial squabbles. At a distance they have genius, personality and wonderful memories.

My rock perch is full of holes from small collisions; like my face in an Earth mirror. But far away I too become devine, a seamless part of the cosmic whole.

At a distance, with the ego as a point on the horizon, God's presence feels closer than at any religious service. You can see that you are a part of what primitives called Spirit.

So don't be afraid if you're drifting like a rock in space, remember you're part of a beautiful sky. All your holes and imperfections make up a ring. You are a Saturday floating around a Sunday. That's an amazing weekend.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Upside Down World

When I realized I was a reflection I wasn't sad, it answered so many of the questions buzzing in my head. Questions like why the goals I chase run away, but things I wasn't thinking about come effortlessly.

Why a dry heart produces tears? Why dirty hands create beautiful works that inspire purity?

Once I realized I was a reflection, that took all the pressure off. The outcome and I divorced. The journey became the love of my life, the destinations alone the way - just friends.

Once I realized I was a reflection, I wasn't even curious about who the "real" person was at all. I figured it didn't matter. Religions chase that real person, philosophies question he's existence. I guess knowing who I am is enough.

I figure just as long I do me, this reflection will always have a smile on it's face.

photo taken w/ iPhone 3Gs, Hipstamatic app (Melodie, Pistel)

Code Orange

It's been there for hours. People started crossing the street to avoid it. Whispers directing traffic.

No police were called in to investigate, just self imposed butterfly caution, zip-zagging around an unknown unknown.

When a man came with money for the meter, folks at the bus stop laughed. Feeling stupid is funny. Irrational fear and moving in herds opens a million year old window into us.

Sometimes the van is white, sometimes brown or beige; but to our mammalian eyes the unknown is always colored bad.

So we avoid and whisper, til some happenstance reveals the situation then we laugh, but we don't learn. The next van gets quarantined as well.

Only the drivers recognize this pattern, some exploit it, some try to teach. Historically, teachers are eaten by the ignorant because they get too close. By those standards the exploiters seem wise.

Let's not be afraid of the van.


photo: taken w/ iPhone 3Gs, Hipstamatic app (Melodie, Ina's1935)