It's a mindfulness exercise, partially decentralized via the web, but we gather over the three days to be. Part of the deal is that we rotate up bodies, sleeving into each-other for a day or two or more. I've drawn V's out of the hat. And now I'm walking by a strip mall in the Kelowna Summer, realizing that I'm ten-ish years older, aging like a cis woman does. Long-faced. Poised. On waking reflection, I realize she's a voice actress.

On the last day we might use a full pod. A silicon-skinned clanky. The kind they give you if you've been mangled in an accident. I wouldn't mind going full borg, even if they are primitive machines. I wonder how it would feel. There's a bus crash on the news. We offer a survivor a new body.

I'm getting a lot of dreams where I'm sleeved thus. Casually. Blissfully. A consistant theme in the sleeves.
Over there, in my family's house, in dreams as long as I can remember, there have been secret rooms. The slide in the church basement (age 4), the extra room between my bedroom wall and the washroom (10? 12), the club washroom with a hatch into the underworld and the red-headed psychopomp's friend (27?) until last night where I remember remembering another dream. My dreams build on each-other you see.

Here, tonight, in the basement/crawlspace there was, if you shimmied around enough, a thin 2' high 2.5' wide corridor with two 2' x 1.5' vertical shafts in it. If you went down there, you would finally know - is it a vestigial chute from unfinished construction collecting trash or the secret extra basement? The one you've thought about, wondered about. But if you went and checked it out, you couldn't get back out without help. And if no-one know you're down here doing some domestic spelunking... well, that'd be that. And even if they did, its a maze and your voice might give out before they found you.

Anyways. That house, in this dream, was my grandparents', now always somewhere not in the Okanagan but between Ioco and North Van. And if I (in this case also Spiderman) went there, I could not get out on my own. I needed a camera on a pole, or a waldo or a drone or some damn thing that I had only parts of in a trash bag with some laundry. So I was going to cross the street to get the Kingsway bus West, home.

On the opposite corner, we were readying for war amidst the migration. The evacuation. Not 100% real, wait-around-then-piss-yourself-in-fear war, but more like the Battlefield games. And I'm there and my hair is pinned back above my BDU collar in a nice dark women's NCO reg cut, I had... let's inventory... full spectrum field glasses, a smart map and an entrenching tool. Great. I'm an indispensable geographic/spotter/observer unit without a fucking gun. That's more like real warfare for you - we're the ones who win this thing, but who will -play- as this class?

The Sergeant, a balding redheaded man who has a gun and needs to go use it because this is getting less like a game every second, yells "Hyun-Sing - get in the one-man!" I guess he means me? Deadname of Eun-Soo? Lunar compatriot of Emily Watkins, now back in time to launch the apocalypse? Sure. Anyways, he needs me to escort the civs out. The one-man, once his now mine, is a nice low-profile Scuttle Tank about 70cm' high and 1m wide. Great for swarm tactics. The inside is like slipping into a shopping cart. But it has a full-colour HUD and it trundles along the walkway where the crosswalk would have been if we were an early 21st century city.

We don't bother with encryption. The enemy can't understand us and vice-versa. I know my signals, and the Scut's directional antenna is picking up fast approaching Queen chatter at 6-high. I could turn to level the main gun now that I have one, but that's the one direction that my damn vision is blocked by the red and blue entry plastic. My feet can direct the Scuttle so I reach out and pick at it and light shines through. And more than light. I calmly see the enemy's shadows, hovering in fast. I know my comrades have our rear.

Onward? Onward. I'll try to get a clear view.
 The dream:

Well, crap. Just when you think you've annihilated one alien warship, it turns out the entire thing is a trap and that warp in space that ran their engines is playing merry hell with the impulse drive. Which is to say: the Enterprise is going down.

We crash-land on a snow-blasted landscape. Between this and the battle, 60% survive. And, in the distance, a valley, IR, and chlorophyll. We're here for the long haul, so we descend.

The deeper you go into this green gouge in a frozen iceball, the warmer it gets. Deeper down, the people who have lived her for centuries have adapted, settled. Which means a complex series of humanoid-sized tubes running down into the lake-sized spring. It's... a waterslide.

Some of the crew, tired, a little freaked out, and now giddy, and want to hop in.

"Speaking as your cultural officer, I'd advise against that. One: Prime directive. They have waterslides, but do they have warp? Two: Warp or no, these are obviously really important to them. Like, they're the only above-ground structure. They may be signif-"

The round of whoops and splashes goes to prove that you can lead a group of shell-shocked Ensigns to water but you can't make them stay out of it.

A few mornings later, Kirk knocks and enters the buried titanium wreckage turned bunker, in which my bedroom lies. I'm groggy. Since no one is listening to their cultural officer, I've been catching up on sleep.

Kirk gives me the bad news. They've been crucified.

"Okay. How can I help?"


Often, when a sci-fi movie comes out, my dreams will generate a version of it. 

Like The Maxx says: "The shows in my head are always so much better."

Before anyone goes off on the usual Jedi propaganda rant, I'd like to point out that the whole damn Jedi order presided over a 5-millenium "republic" with zero innovation, and rather a lot of slavery. The Sith by contrast - an organization consisting of two people - pushed massive technological leaps in one generation. Of course the only ones you hear about are clone troopers, star destroyers and death star(s), and lightsabres other than a single blade, but which side is writing those movies? Also: think of the peacetime applications! Cloned organs, cities in space reducing ecological footprints (do you want your planet to turn into another Coruscant?), and the ability to supply the entire galaxy with its mining needs with just one planet blown up every decade or so! Oh, and lightsaber-based food processors and lawnmowers.

And you can join at any age, and are allowed to love.


Actually, the non-satirical reason is that I can project myself onto a fictional character who is moved by her shadow, in touch with her id. Playing KOTOR, I realized that Lucas's good vs. evil barely holds up if you take long enough to think about it, and the Jedi are better at looking good than doing good. They are incapable of making real change. They are feel-good in-activism presented as glory. They are the state's dictum that legitimate agency in opposition to injustice starts at calm dialogue, moves into sign-carrying, and stops at passive resistance. All other forms of making change have been ruled out, cast into the shadow.

From there, both personally and politically, in projecting myself onto the "bad guy" within this narrative context, I can enter into dialogue with the parts of myself forced out of conscious acceptance (i.e. into the shadow), weigh them and give the parts that I like time to develop within a safe fictional shell. I do this with larp characters, and can separate those impulses which I fear into those I have and can/should use, those that I have and should only direct outwards when in a safe place while keeping in compassionate awareness for when I see other people living them, and those which I merely fear that I have. From this, I have learned: I can present in a dorky feminine fashion without the world ending; had, in the past, survivor guilt that I needed to acknowledge; I intuitively understand why people would submit to a tyrannical regeime but should only exercise that in my actual politics so as to fight that impulse in real life; and am basically, even when playing an awful person, motivated by fixing the world. 
Having been back and forth on this issue a lot over the last few years, I've lost any confidence in the validity of the question as to where the self begins and ends. I can find no logically sound test that indicates whether individual identity under a given case is continuous or not. It seems to ultimately come down to a cultural semantic argument, and the closest cognitive science can come is that the "self" is a projection, convenient within a brain and across them for labelling, tracking and predicting behaviour patterns.

Growing from an infant into a child into an adult; having the body replace its own cells and/or chemicals; becoming unconscious; brain damage; near death experiences; religious rebirth; spiritual experiences; disassociative states; being ridden; psychopharmaceuticals; losing a limb; abiotic prosthetic implants; organ transplants; tissue scaffolded pseudotransplants; cranial magnetic interference; bundle theory; it's the ship of Theseus by a thousand names. Each argument describing a true core self as something other than opinion or tradition strays either into the ad hoc or unfalsifiable metaphysics.

That's not to say that there is not a "self," but there is no way of deliniating where it begins and ends that holds up to empirical testing. It makes the question "does God exist" seem simple by comparison.

And this fuzziness is just one of the philosophical questions that can drive an amazing show! 

We're all down there, in the twisting depths. And we don't know who is pulling the strings but this entire ordeal is set up to see if we crack. Having solved the other challenges, the vending machine that is also the slide to the next stage implies some pretty horrible glass-and-filth things if we activate the slide "wrong" ...and some moderately horrible (glass OR filth) things if we do it right.

One of us breaks away to backtrack up, reach the surface that way. On a higher, more spacious level he encounters a large number of younger women in some looks-centred profession (commercial actors? hosts?) who have a different set of challengces. Les repugnant to us, more to them.

Who is putting us through these paces?

A second person break off to ascend past where we entered, high and higher un-levels. Eventually she reaches the case of Next Gen, only with a few substitutions (Diana's CAFAB-looking son, for example)


 A dream of Snowpiercer. Only this was really good and had no plot holes. In fact, the rest of the world was running along just fine - it was merely perpetually chilly out, a sudden but not dire ice age, and other trains and commerce were proceeding in the usual fashion. We were just going too fast to see anything. Still, the rebellion had to continue.


At the Battle of Stalingrad. No overt fighting in the safe zone. Just lots of cautious movement for fear of snipers, and gross deprivation. Always always cold.

I am grateful for the Cat. On Thursday, she arranged for her old chum to walk me through basic makeup. A week prior, she came with me for professional acting headshots in three genders. On Friday, following her advice, I took the day off and actually slept well. I will have to do more of this.

The following are steeped in dream-allegory. Usually to sci-fi and, to a rarer extend other forms of spec fic, as I consume it. On TV first, then on film, then in larp it seems (this is new!), then in text.

I am told that other people on the spectrum also relate to their world in pop nerd culture allegory.

On a side note, these are following up on an earlier week where I dreamed I was acting in contemporary American re-makes of two shows: Ghost in the Shell and... something else. Curiously, GITS and BSG are both being rebooted South of the border.

Ogres and Fairies

A woman and her partner are in a field in a large garden on a fine and misty morning. Their relationship is strained. Both are pale. Her hair is black and shoulder-length; zer hair is a dark tawny, boyish and ragged.

As if someone had torn open a bag high above, small gifts - hats, rings, and other jewellery - rain out of the sky. The partner becomes larger, more ogreish as ze sweeps them up in zer hands. The woman becomes smaller, blocked out of the showering by her partners thorny, lumpy mass.

Someone tosses a pair of homemade lace butterfly wings, the size of an actual butterfly. Perfect. Beautiful. And a carryable size. But the ogre sweeps them up in zer hands. But now, somehow, there are actual butterfly wings. The woman, now tiny, dashes out to collect them. She catches them.

I strap them onto my back and fly off.

I hide in a dugout cabin as The Owners come past. Youths all, gabbing. Terrible and dangerous. And also huge in relation to my current size. I am about to leave when a young owner, looking eight if she were a human, and her mother come in. If I am caught, it would be unpleasant. If I am caught fleeing, it would be worse.

I dart up to alight on a rafter. Their conversation sounds normal, but I can't parse a single word. Like they are exchanging the idea of speech.

Eventually they leave. So do I.

A long corridor in a hospital. Extended care. Degenerative neural diseases. I mean a *long* corridor. It is the way between Their world and ours.

I flit above everyone, on the exposed pipes and ducts all painted hospital-white.

Two patients are there, Distressed and semi-coherent,  on suicide watch. One reports surviving abuse. She is referred to a psychiatrist.

There is a police department that misses me, a Captain. The two officers do not know that I am in the room with them, listening from behind some books on a desk. They speak of the people they've interviewed. It is a procedural show that I am in then? Alright then. I'll look into this, all tiny and absent.

I flit back to the hospital. To one of the patients in interview, she shudders in an armchair. Why so distressed now? I overhear their conversation - ah - it is the psychiatrist that is abusing her. Mystery solved! Now how to go about-

-the patient is up off her chair and over to the psychiatrist. She stabs him in the neck with a screw driver six, seven, eight, nine times. And she leaves.

Well, shit. Suddenly showing up and talking to her wouldn't exactly work. She'll Disbelieve me or crush me.

I am gone.

Out, in a sunny misty street. I run into an old friend.

The pixie woman flies up at her old friend. To attract her attention. The friend sees, the refugee pixie and acknowledges her, and her changed state. This, or something like it, has happened before. The ogre-partner - there is news of zer. The specifics are... what? Strange. Depressing. Alien. Full of closure. 

I can't hear the details as I am viewing from down on the ground. Now I am wearing all green to match my tawny hair. I have no wings. I am like a grasshopper. I am her male counterpart. I leap up to participate in the conversation, feeling somewhat left out.

This is a clear reference to Changeling: the Lost, which I played on Saturday.

I have been that tawny-and-green lad before. Ze is a guide for those who journey through other states of consciousness.

I have also been a winged Fairie in dreams. But full sized, with great billowing black wings, riding the currents of night. Also female then.

An Exodus after Caprica

They never found a planet. Not one unoccupied, or one willing to receive them. The intervening decades have not been kind but they have been formative. And our generation has grown up in dark, steel-and-glass spaces between stars. It is always night for us. Harsh sunlight without an atmosphere? That is not "day." It is like one hot light in a dark theatre.

There were spaces of other survivors from other colonies - despotic and with a certain reliance on cannibalism. We learned from them. But we were compassionate.

We are here. In a garden. At night, more or less. A nice place to stroll under lattice windows that keep out the vacuum. A small sun in the distance perhaps. But always night.

I explain our history things to the latest round of nuggets, as we call any student now. It was a term favoured by a woman like my grandmother-of-position if not of-genes. Her name was Starbuck. I carry that name too.

We are here.

Look at other dreams of BSG for contrast

Why these dreams are unusual:

from John Varley's Steel Beach.

Context: Hildy Johnson is one of the few humans on Luna who grew up on Earth. Ze is a newspaper reporter. Ze lives as a newspaperman, reporting in a society where people don't really read any more, but ze's employed in large part because because the Central Computer ("CC") has figured out that if humans don't spend a few hours a week engaged in some kind of "work" - even if it's standing around staring at an automated construction site while leaning on a shovel - we start to go a bit poorly in the head.

Even someone as well-adjusted as Hildy has attempted suicide four times. The last three were at home in private. The CC intervened, then wiped zer memory of the event. Most recently however, ze deliberately got into a barfight with a very large engineered thug. Ze remembers lying on an operating table... and then waking up on a desert island? Weird.

That was a year ago. It's an easily-inhabited island, curiously so. It's been a simple enough survival effort. But today a ship stopped off and a man in a uniform came ashore, claiming to be a figurative embodiment of the Central Computer, who had created a short hallucination with a year of memories attached. i.e. a dream

Before, if things collapsed, at least there was air to breathe.

Nowhere in the solar system did humans now live where the air was free. To "forget" how to implant memories in the human brain the CC would no doubt have to forget many other things. He would have to limit his abilities and, as he pointed out, unless he decreased his intelligence deliberately to a point that might endanger the very humans he was designed to protect, he would re-chisel this particular wheel in due time. And it was also true that the CC of Mars or Triton would certainly discover the techniques on their own, though the rumor was none of the other planetary computers was so far evolved as the Lunar CC. As nations which often found themselves in competition, the Eight Worlds did not encourage a lot of intercourse between their central cybernets. So all the reasons he stated sounded reasonable. It was railroad time, so somebody would build a choo-choo. But what didn't ring true was what the CC had left out. He liked the new capability. He was as pleased as a child with a new toy monorail.

"I have one further proof," the Admiral said. "It involves something I mentioned earlier. Acts that were out of character. This is the biggest one, and it involves you not noticing something that, if these memories had been generated by you, you surely would have noticed. You would have spotted it by now yourself, except I've kept your mind occupied. You haven't had time to really think back to the operating table, and the time immediately before that."

"It's not exactly fresh in my mind."

"Of course not. It feels as if it all happened a year ago."

"So what is it? What didn't I notice?"

"That you are female."

"Well, of course I'm—"

Words fail me again. How many degrees of surprise can there be?

Imagine the worst possible one, then square it, and you'll have some notion of how surprised I was. Not when I looked reflexively down at my body, which was, as the CC had said and I had known all along, female. No, the real shock came when I thought back to that day in the Blind Pig. Because that was the first moment in one year that I had realized I had been male when I got in the fight. I had been male when I went on the operating table.

And I had been female when I appeared on the beach of Scarpa Island.


And I simply had never noticed it.


Something continues to shake loose in my unconscious. Something regendered, properly gendered. This is very healthy.

Prohibition is still going strong, and I'm setting up a party in a large rez dorm. A fire breaks out and Prof. Arturo is adjusting the remote. A girl breaks away from her mother and jumps through the vortex. "Corazon" her mother calls after her. The professor goes.

I guess it's my turn next. Jump. And land in the mean streets of another world.

The alarm interrupts our adventures.

Up for a stroll 05:30 in the old industrial patch near Hastings where I used to live. Just near the big warehouses that double as music studios. I walk towards the sun rising over Grandview.

Lucid? Almost lucid?

A crowd of people run South, up the bicycle path. It's like a cross-section of Vancouver is out jogging this morning.

I turn North. Wow. There's a lot of people here.

I pull one woman aside. 

"What are you doing?" I ask.

She turns - close-cropped graying hair and a retroreflective blue-striped tracksuit - a smirk.

"Helping you dream" she says.

And she runs off.


Hermes has been trying to get my acknowledgement, my attention, my respect for some time.

Imagine  a jagged mountain shaped like a kolrabi, top and bottom.

It floats, slowly rotating two or more kilometers above the rural valley.

Like a Laputa. But this is no refuge for idle intellectuals. The minds here are honed and their edge tested.

Well, maybe not that honed. I am in slow orbit of its mass, π/12 off the equitorial. Its Higgs Bosons, tilted and skewed off of spacetime by psychic whim, keep it heavy and high off the earth and me, attuned to it with the help of my suit, in freefloat around it. I lost my grip some time ago, likely having blown a test to scale in properly. I can only hope not to make an ass of myself on the way in.

The main equitorial dock rotates into view. And oblong rectangle and much more 

Okay. Adjust my descent. I twist my mass a few degrees, but I'm not skilled, not powerful enough to make it. I'm going scrape hard, then slip out of orbit. It's a long way down to the Earth - or more likely, and worse, it's a public rescue. Not a fall, but a fail.

Rotate the mass of the pod and slip the aft into the Earth's well 10% and invert the spacetimeplane on the reverse. θ -> π/12? I think. My teacher thinks. She thinks in my head. I think in her head.

We think.

And the sixty or so students within do that. Their/our applied subjectivity gently nudges our mass-existence onto the slope of the Earth's gravity well on one side and away from the other. The structure, tugged by the Earth, tilts. Mass shifts. I float/coast/freefall...

...through the dock. And inside. Uninjured.

It's like Giger took up interior decoration. It's like termites ran Ikea. It's alive, sort of. Not like us. Obediant yet terrifyingly dominant. Smooth. Peanut coloured, pea, and muted saffron. Rounded, arched, rippled. Translucent lights added with orthodox electrics powered by repurposed digestive acids. Beautiful.

I float across and into the main classroom, rotating on my back and looking "ahead" through my shaggy brown hair and over my nose-ring. I coast down, and gently pitch until I land on the foot-high radial ripples that are our chairs, our benches. I catch my breath.

My instructor, our psychic queen in her heavy diving suit, smiles.

Well done. She thinks, and turns to the class.

What? Oh. Was that the test? Is she pleased. I slipped off. I fucked up the climb. Was that a set-up? Or just an obvious consequence of my behaviour that she foresaw and... used?

My mark is solid. I am in the top tier. There is another like me. I catch a glimpse of her. Like the rest of our class our uniforms are beetle-like; leathery, chitenously armoured and symbiotic. Tendons for strength-amplification and gas-cycling lumps that keep us alive and tethered to the psychic mass. We are perfection in utero.

"You are going to be going into the deep unconscious" she speak not with her cortex but with her larynx, as she does when she means business.

Oh. This is the final exam. Right.

"You will be walking around the world. In the dark. For about three weeks. You will be facing the deep subconscious fears projected from one of your classmates."

I've heard of this. This is what separates the children from the women.

"This is a 3 out of 13 on difficulty. Pack food. Team up."

And a tent. Something to bound your space and shield your subjectivity from that monstrously infinite holy blackness.

Also - the scale actually goes from 1 to 13 and then over from 1 to 3 again in the "lethal to all" super-range.

We're babies at this.

And yeah. I'm scared.

I catch her eye quickly. Not the teacher-queen; the other one like me. Except she is pale and black-haired, with black-framed rectangle glasses. Fifteen years old. Picture Homura. But I know her in waking life. This is Brook, just under different circumstances. Eyes brush past. We know. We are among the best of grades but we are not social alphas. We learn because we love it. And we do not want to stand in the alphas' way. We let the social acknowledgment of peership fall slack and turn away.

But her and I on a team? Unstoppable. Or at least optimal. Not really fair to everyone else though. We should take along someone who is struggling. Not someone who fails because she makes trouble. Just someone who is a bit behind. I mean, how else would this be fair? Or a proper challenge?

And, another question seemingly unrelated - whose fears will be actualized in that dark place?

Ah. Of course. To keep it fair.


Our Queen doesn't believe in fair. To keep it a challenge.

It will be one of us. Her or me.

Is it "Challenge Accepted?"


Damn the alarm clock. That was just getting good.



Consider. The offer of dream-help.

Consider: Watching "Hearts of Darkness." About the making of Apocalypse Now.

Watching Coppola talk about growing by facing your fears by becoming them, then moving past. Watching how messed up US/Vietnam-war films are, and how incredibly colonialist just-short-of-hate-speech the source text is. My fear of being a bad person. Of being thought a bad person. Facing that. A recent incident that prompted two earlier posts is the penultimate exam. Facing that. Coming out better, one hopes. Still facing th
at. To be thought is to become? No, too weak. I'll need to do something more direct. This is going to take awhile.


What lacked in my life that I struggle to make up for?

Body/identity integrity. Ostracized. Bored.

This by contrast: Gender integration. Included by those who matter. Engaged, eager and challenged.


Night-terror-like spatial distortions in closing my eyes under the effects of Wellbutrin


Eleanor Lamb. Emma Frost. Homura Akemi and Sakaya Miki. Psychonauts

I really missed having a media-archetype-saturated science-fiction dream


Dreams of acrobatics in lunar G

Dreams of trying to find gender euphoria in adolescence that were interrupted by waking, much like this one, because I was on the wrong track. Am I know in this residual pining? If so, how? Detect and fix. The solution is in fear. In becoming it.



Dreampt that I wrested the golden ring from Cersei after a scuffle. I spring the dragon from its cage and it is mine now.

Found someone else from Earth, who was peddling VCR parts as miraculous curosities



A sentencing circle and a band leader accused of murder. They decide to test whether his community actually supports him.

Temporarily free, he hosts an orgy. As with all orgies, there is someone there whom I'm more interested in than others; someone whom I've always had strong feelings for. Do I partake? As with all orgies, I am reluctant. I am looking for reasons not to get involved; reasons to be asexual. At last around some people. Maybe I could lie nearby? But it's her. And she's interested in me too. And this is probably the only chance we'll ever get.

But there are hints that something is amiss. People going missing. I am in the rafters soon, in black-tac, sneaking, like Chris.

Like TV: a sunny and rolling landscape, like widescreen California, where youth with magical secrets receive their elixirs. Each bottle strangely numbered to indicate its effects. I secretly quaff those of a fried, her numbers are 3-6-9. Drink this one and I look so young, I look how I feel when I play the larp character Emily the Science Nerd and I realize what was supposed to happen when I was fifteen, but which was derailed by being in the closet. How odd. How pleasant, this. My friend, experience and gothy, she says there's a drawback, a bounce, a price. I'm curious, but not deterred.

Moving on.

Dropping and being someone in a dream is nice, but what happens when the dream is done? Do they wake up with missing time, or do they remember being your puppet? Will this good ol' boy like the fact that a transsexual was dreaming that I was him? At least I did so unknowingly and didn't destroy his life. Saul is out there, and he joyrides his host bodies. And here he comes, angry.

I drift outside of the man I am riding. I let him speak. He's not happy about this. I explain myself, the situation, and leave.

I am a guest here.

This time I wake up in the traveller's lodge. In a body built to spec. It's my proxy self. A fluid disposable with no original consciousness. Much more ethical. And it looks different from how I do day to day. It looks like all those other women who, in my waking life, rounded out the audition room for the EMT role: dark hair in a long ponytail that suits her face, that doesn't make her look like a long-haired rocker boy. Fit, like I am now, but not in such a way that makes her afraid to stretch, lest she tear the shoulders out of her blouse. Someone who had time to be functional, and isn' racing to make up for a decade and a half inching along in the closet. Oh, and a tan. I'm through with sunburns.

It's not that bad in waking life. In waking life, I look pretty sharp, my health is good, and people generally assume I'm a woman. But what's important here, More importantly, most importantly, she's not like the person I remember seeing in the mirror all through the wrong puberty. Not like that ghost that is riding me. As her, I have space.

The body isn't stable of course. But the first thing I could do when I figured out how to work a basic lucid dream is to dream my way into a more comfortable body. And it's an improvement. But even when my focus shifts, and my subconscious self image reasserts itself, my body stays female.
Right. I should really tell people.

I see Christopher, or at least his parallel, and I ask him if he saw The Thirteenth Floor. "Because it's like that."

He's skeptical of course. But this is a dream. And I've been lucid dreaming for a bit and I have my tricks. In this case, telekinesis. Observe sir.

Now he's starting to get it.

Of course, I'm not the only rider in here. There are people here from six, seven universes up. People who stop through my waking life on their way here.

I will swim back up with them later.

 Want more social justice in your (science-)fiction? Itching to know how to write write about people of different abilities, religions, races, ages, sexual orientations and so on? Or how *not* to do it? There's a book for that!

It's called "Writing the Other" and it's *finally* available for PDF-purchase. It's by Nisi Shawl and Cynthia Ward. See link.

It's full of exercises and good advice.

For some reason it decides not to deal with class (although it can easily be put to use to address class divides), and it has a piece of fiction in it that's entertaining but not the best use of e-paper.

It is one of my favorite books.
(I often dream about speculative fiction that has yet to be released.)

Soon enough sisters, the skies are dark and a bunch of nasty vampires are running the show. Living humans are food. They're not the only supernaturals about though.
Read more... )

There was a cover of an Archie comic, or something like it. And Betty had fallen in love with another girl.

We sit at a long wooden table, appys finished, amongst friends. Betty, on my left, is engaged in conversation. Another woman across from me, making flirty eyes with Betty. I recognize her from the cover, except here she is flesh, not ink.

So, did you do this? She asks

What? I wonder what exactly, taking off my cowboy hat and flipping my thin long black ponytail. Checking my reflection in the mirror-wall across the restaurant. Lean. Male. An outfit that screams Console Cowboy.
Read more... )

Before all this, imagine me in a coffee shop. The morning light streaming in. I overhear a realtor talking to a colleague about her 'other' maternal grandma, the one she didn't know about; the one who died in the 1960s.

I am off to work. Research.

Waking factors in the following dream:
- Introducing someone to If These Walls Could Talk 2
- Dropping by my old (pre-transitional) landlady to find out she'd recently moved.
- See prior entries regarding extents of control

 In Southern Europe, in a medical camp, among the nurses.

It's not clear what we're doing here but maybe the politicians are getting ready for a war. How do they know?

In retrospect, this may not be history as you know it. World War 2 hasn't broken out yet. It's safer to insert cross-temporal operatives now. Mymission is to gather data and not interfere. To watch, not act. It's making me twitchy.
Read more... )

If there were computer-based artificial intelligences, would humans get along with them? There's a lot of science-fiction out there, especially movies, that suggest we should fear them. That they will "take over."

I see this as improbable and dangerously mistaken. The power-brokers on this planet are human. The world often changes to suit them. If a power struggle ever came down between self-directed AI and humans, I think that humans, especially powerful humans, would be the bad guys, the ones with the power and the disinterest in others's well-being; the jerks, the oppressors.

If AI's did unseat humans, it would likely be in a standard power-play, with some humans building/controlling the AIs to suit their wants - for power. Just as powerful and callous humans often play divide-and-conquer (e.g. both create a market for undocumented labour and persecute immigrants; play environmentalists and foresters against each-other when they should be on the same side), only with the divide here being orthodox biological persons versus non-orthodox/biological humans.

   Note to self: We need sci-fi told from that angle.

At some point, however it tumbles, we will likely be sharing our planet and, hopefully, our power with beings that were designed rather than evovled. Or should I say, (as someone with some major/controversial mind/body modification), designed in especially conscious and novel ways rather than evolved and/or designed in familiar ways. And some humans will probably seize on that difference as a justification for marginalization, just as we do with each-other.

I don't know when this will happen. Maybe they are out there now. Maybe not in my lifetime.

Either way, always the Promethean, I believe in foresight and stirring up trouble.

And I believe in stretching my conception of "person" wide, if only to make sure I'm not discounting anyone's experiences.

So I want to get on this.

Some of these minds might have facility with searching and collating web data. They might want to know who out there is sympathetic, willing to learn, and, if I may say so, persuasive.


To that end:

Hey there AI's and new-form intelligences. We should totally hang out. Feel free to message me.

This dream synthesized:

- years of lucid practice,
- a progression on gender
-an overdue return to the sci-fi elements common to my dreams.
- some issues that have been turning over in my mind

It occurred in a late morning that followed a night of stress-related insomnia.
    I feel proud to have had it. 

     Dreamer's commentary in red.
          Waking in blue
               Dream in green.

Battlestar. CnC.

Adama says something about love to the crew. "Love can bring you up; love can bring you down," or something; cliche but nuanced, complicated, contradictory.
    To most of the crew anyway. 

Starbuck is around, isn't she? I need to talk to her.
    Steel-eyed viper jockey with a death wish and all that.

Lucidity starts...

A-shaped halls and desatch'd lighting. I must be dreaming.

around here?

I think about it. Maybe she's so damn cranky because she's MtF. I mean. Seriously


And I have proof )


Yes, yes. That makes sense.

That's why she's elated sometimes and cranky others.

    "I remember it. It never stops hurting," she'll mutter into a bottle

Plus it's a war and trans medicine is kinda near the bottom of Dr. Cottle's priority list.

    Cylons, water shortages, we can handle. Getting vag-blocked, not so much.
Why the fixation? )

I search. A hallway begins, but ends in mirror.


Read more... )

But it's in the way. And reflecting everything except me.
    There is someone in there.

I might as well fun with it.
   I submerge my my face in the quicksilver of the mirror into the big black behind it.
     I feel it stretch and ripple over my mouth, and I blow bubbles.


Is there someone in there now?


Read more... )


There she is. Or maybe she's cissexed. And she's cranky because the series is done. In the past, thank you.
    She's a perfectly happy fiction that's had her run, her death, and is now being ressurrected, purposed by some wacky lucid narrator.

      "Look, let's make this work"


Read more... )
We talk. She stonewalls.

"Look: Kara get me information; I'll get you... drugs? You want drugs? Fine."


I leave. I get it. I return. She wants more.

Frazzled, I encounter another crewmember in the hall. She likes that I'm here. I think she knows that I am a stranger here. A smiling rough quickie follows.


Read more... )


Moving on.

Finding Starbuck again.

She's messed up again. Hurting.

   I don't know what I can get her so she'll talk,

      to get her to move over to my side of the story.
                                           And once there, open


Thorough Analysis )


A transparent corridor of resilient plexi. Outside, a this faraway planet, all rust and ochres.
Read more... )

Orange-red sunset sky. All of us in our styled-up, colour-coded coveralls and geneline haircuts. It's a Brave New World alright, but somehow less commercialist.

She asks me my geneline, I state "Alpha minus."

She says, "why so modest, you're an A(K) it's clear; the 'K' stands for artistic talent."

Back Alseep Later

In the forgotten (yet curiously lit) bottoms of the Old City, the Sheriff jostles his noisesome troops to lead an Elith along on snare poles.

Eight of them, plus the Sherrif? Two rear guard and Sherrif in front leads six of them to one Elith? What are these guys doing with an Elith? It's three tonnes of scales, claws and fangs. And the eyes.

Read more... )

Most of my agile flight dreams are just about the fleeing. But here, I turned and fought. Why?


Crossing a long, multi-levelled bridge. Stopped by the police, who are trying to defuse an explosive underneath. We can't even leave the bridge because then it may go off. The police officer winces as her radio crackles - the disposal team are making their third and final attempt. Some cover their ears, but I know the scale of the device, and so I make a quick peace with life.


On DS9's newly-commissioned Defiant, one of the designers ("Zorek?") went on at great legnth as to the warship's capabilities. Whatever character Eva was playing expressed her concerns that Starfleet was getting sucked into a faster-than-light military industrial complex. Zorek downplays any role on his part, stating that his organization are "small fish."


I like reading what people dreamed in earlier periods of tension. And I am a part of this history.



August 2017

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