MYST

Aberrations

I am l'espionne Agente Tроянда цветок. I was raised in a “Western Classical Imprint” style of education. I was home-schooled since my birth by my parents and private tutors. I have had an extensive formal education in computational mathematics and the physical sciences. I speak, read, and write in five languages. My education has been supplemented by private instruction and research. I have taught specialized course studies at University of Bologna and The European Security and Defence College (ESDC). I am certified in discrete lethal targeting operations, as well as a master in quantum algorithmic crypto-computing, global modeling simulations for clandestine service systems, and engaged in developing artificial intelligence applications for global defense initiatives. I am a master of disguises and alternate identities. My current research initiatives are the study of brain-washing, belief conversion, and the technologies used in propagating belief contagion and control.

Here follows excerpts from my archives and personal selected government dossiers, de-classified for the preservation of our open-sovereignty campaign and continuing the enlightenment of society.

The Exposé
field report 2.q640 ⚖ ♻

I made these agency notes using a special agency issue CeYi4 recorder pen. I could scribble flattering notes while discretely recording the audio of any conference of people. On this particular day, agents, code named, Gerontocrat and Subproletariat; Gonorrheal and Syphilitic; and the Grifter and the Swindler, all men, all powerful, were all sitting next to each other. Mel and myself were the only women station heads present. They sat around a polished wooden executive conference table. Like words in a dictionary ready to jump out of the book, they were always poised to get over on any situation. Always engaged in control rituals and taking advantage of conference situations. Poised to pounce on each another creating distractions that concealed the altering of the truth and the re-writing of history as simple laundering of facts. This particular meeting was starting late Everybody was ten minutes late and fidgety. To make matters worse, the two key executives, who originally called the meeting, (in avatar forms), were late and arrived in a whirlwind of cologne that was distracting and flogged the senses. It had that spicy hint of Eau de Parfum Viande Cuite ... “Yup, sorry we're late!", one of them spurts. “...lunch meeting down at Le Black Dog with LaPlinka from Rn'D ... they got the new radio internet hooked up. Go down n' check it out.." An attempt at levity that was a diversion and it snapped the tension like a twig breaking underfoot. I note the prevailing optimism on my legal pad. “Everybody! Now open to page 47 of the prospectus. We have several changes to make!," barked the other one. as they proceeded to drive the meeting forward. A psychotic overladen freighter, careening through a narrow strait clouded by tardiness, stress containerized in hyperbolic speculations. He's going to make a bunch of shit up on the spot. After their presentations, I noted that from this day forward their code names would be Agent Day Late and Agent Dollar Short. They were navigating through the narrow and treacherous sea lane of corporate business proceedings while hiding, cloaked in anonymity, on a discrete packet network that no one could see.
Everybody was relieved when the meeting was over ...

Mel met Armando T. while she was authoring and raising her own marionettes. Putting strings on puppets was easy, making sure they didn't break was another. Mel is short for Melody. Melody saw herself as a sparrow that fell from the sky. Armando lived as a turtle and he stayed in his shell. They actually worked well together although they were always physically light-years apart. Two distant data-centers connected by a single monofilament thread. They were assigned to run and execute jobs. They used discrete machine time to work together on a personal project, an opera they called, “Œuvre de les Marionettes". It was a play of actors acting as actors, with an endless audio loop. A public performance event gilded by a birthday celebration and an arousing speech of a famous naturalist. This personal and creative endeavor was against the rules. Flagrante delicto in corporate parlance, working on your own projects using government resources was punishable by deletion. Their infatuations with infinity, and their deeper harmonic understanding of Information Management (IM) shuttered the consequences of enhanced risk. There was always something preventing any tactile electro-resonances from completely connecting. The ancient quest, a prehistoric itch, searching for a sacred arpeggio that represented a clear and clean signal from the divine. A riff on a complete circuit, as they themselves came to realize that they were just viral data replicating itself. A human membrane encapsulating numerous zombie processes.

Both of them were nurtured and raised by the best and most sophisticated puppet masters. When a string broke, they knew exactly how to mediate, dispense absolutions, get the job done: the dog will find the bone, a policy belief for survival, the chickadee will always find a seed. Their plot on Earth was only in their mind's eye. There sole task was to stay awake and not fall asleep on their respective shifts. They were the best at their jobs.

“Edhal Jhal Dzijso, that was his name," the prisoner replied. The lead investigator sat in a chair quizzing, interrogating, probing with a microscopic mind tweezer. “We were disjointed, working all night and into the morning ... getting up at 4 or 5 in the afternoon and ... trying to make the day work properly, .." he squeaked. We knew he worked the graveyard shift. Walking into the back entrance, he passed the guard nodding and blinking in the booth, glassed and glazed off, they learn to know you. He had a classified security clearance. Indifferent, drifting itchy eyed, ricocheting off the walls, blink the sleepy seed stone crumbles down his face and bounces and rattles over the floor. Simultaneously he swipes the card reader, whooshing sliding doors, into frigid Liebert caverns where naked data swims in a big-blue mechanical and fluorescent ocean of government japery. “It is his vision. His real name is Izaya, the son of Turtle," he lies to the interrogator and it seems to pass the stress test. These interrogations that I witnessed concerned the surrounding barrios of the other-where, in the eras and auras that pre-dated and spawned the orange tinted demagogues and monkey types that govern the vestigial empty gray matter of a prestigious and prosperous humanity. Pay attention to these Earth-bound viruses, for lo, as in a blink of an eye, they have nurtured and raised more marionettes. The strings are broken. I know, I repeated, “the doggy finds its bone, a chickadee a seed, but your plot on Earth is in your mind's eye." A crooked deck, a tumultuous storm, everything you thought is washed overboard, into a sea. Abandoning ship?! It's not a statement or a question. It's a command. Backwards, you will jump ship and plummet, where down is up, into other blue voids. Rinse and repeat, a refrain that originated on the battle fields residing in data centers everywhere.

Spilka's Clam Bar, An Explanation
field report 463.01 π♫⚓

I managed to grab Armando T. for a quick interview. He was in the hospital lying on a gurney on his way from the emergency room to triage. I didn't have much time. He was dying, so I asked him to quickly recall where and when he figured out what he was doing. Here follows some recollections from our meeting as recorded with my government issue Z4Bollentin field recorder that was concealed in a floral brooch pinned on my lapel over my left breast:

“.. it was 1970 or 71, in the campus auditorium, I can remember Doc Samuels and Eric Bromley blowing righteous free saxophone over some pretty heavy poetry. Louis Angelini was on piano. There were other performers in the ensemble. I can’t remember their names, they were mostly faculty I guess. A slide projector was splashing images on a screen at the back of the stage. There were theater props, overstuffed recliner, coat rack, book shelf, vintage telephone which rang, items strategically placed around the stage. This was my first exposure to free improvisational mixed-media. I had it in print, Beckett, Camus, Kafka, Ionesco but had never experienced the punctuation pounding my eyes and ears .. I left this performance knowing that this is what I had to do. Supervisor Agent H.D. Watson was there. He saw it.. So did Agent M. Bingham. Can somebody get the Blind Reverand Bill C. over here to officiate, I gotta confess my sins.”

An orderly grabbed the gurney and started rolling
Armando toward the operating room.
I encouraged him to keep going.

“ .. We hung at Spilka’s Clam Bar on the corner of Stark and Noyes. Early 1960’s you could find Bukowski, Kerouac, and Waits sitting at the bar polishing dialogues, rendering verse over beers with shots of whiskey. Through the cigarette smoky clouds of the late sixties, young and developing local writers, poets, musicians, and intrepid students of new esoteric art forms hung at Spilka’s. The clam specials, all-you-can-eat spaghetti n' meatball events, spur of the moment floor shows, combined with the social intercourse encountered with the desperate and dismal local clientele created an atmosphere that was charged for igniting one’s most provocative inspirations. I went there often with C. Mead and D. Hanrahan. Sometimes the whole “Bottle Rocket Band” with B. Jewett, D. Anderson.. I don't know if Rich Mason was there, I miss Rich, only guitar player I ever meshed with ..”

A nurse jabbed a giant needle into his arm, he didn't even flinch ..

“.. one night, after a couple of inhalations of potent hash oil, Cliff and I came up with a thesis: L. Frank Baum's, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, an adult fantasy story not a children’s tale. A young girl and her dog, two witches, three unique characters of conscience, really tiny people living in peaceful colors, a wizard that hides behind a curtain, and a flock of flying monkey dogs aiding and abetting a military coup. These literary elements represented a unique propaganda point. A creation of a sophisticated and specialized cabal. It was the fuel that ignited the illuminati mind-set and inspired alternate reality theorists. Many musicians fell prey to that somewhere over the rainbow myth. A sub-conscious thread, the myst that was embedded into the mind of every man from prehistoric Rubble and Flintstone all the way to today’s most contemporary human. It was placed on TV every year and it was classified a done deal by the pocket-puppet masters.”

He drifted into unconsciousness.
The nurse rolled him into the operating room.

Gungal Presents “The Last Rites"

Hear ye, Hear ye, evil, wicked, sinful, immoral, unjust, corrupt, iniquitous, unprincipled, dishonest, nefarious, vile, godless, impious, vicious, pagan, orange-tainted proto-plasmatic blobs of uselessness:

Osténde nobis, Dómine, misericórdiam tuam.
S. Et salutáre tuum da nobis.
P. Dómine, exáudi oratiónem meam.
S. Et clamor meus ad te véniat.
P. Dóminus vobíscum.
S. Et cum spíritu tuo.
P. Orémus.

---

More Lubricant

I am from Turtle Man and Turtle Woman. They are one and the same. The totem reference is genetically embedded in the DNA. It can't budge. It was a winter thaw and I was stuck deep in the mud where and when, resolution of hibernation continues through the Spring. Where the hell were you? You have to breathe your own toxic gases to get to this stage of evolution. Let's wrap up what doesn't resolve and that which is not responsive. Returning to the home is going back to the source. Waking up to having spent frozen seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and the years turn into eons, just to get that a message across. Listen, here is my recollection of the incident: Yes, Tom and I shared a cigarette and some bourbon, prior to the performance at a local eating club. I already said this, what's the matter with you? He explicitly said to me in the foyer in perfect uninflected English, “Do you got a light?" He held up an unlit cigarette while looking directly into my eyes. I pulled a book of matches from my pocket and lit his cigarette. Why can't you remember? What's the matter with you? He took a deep inhale and while slowly exhaling the smoke he said, “I'm not a photojournalist. I do not do reportage.... Stories come from a lot of places, dreams and memories and lies and things... things you found and heard and saw and read and dreamed and made up.." He abruptly turned and walked to the stage to open his show. There was just him, a vibraphonist and an acoustic bass player on the stage and they opened with an emotional weather report. I know I'm repeating myself but you simply don't.., won't listen! But pay no attention, this is not the problem. It was just a trio. It was a solution to a problem. You have to wear a hat when you're carrying the world on your shoulders. This is an ancient and well known fact. It has been passed down through the ages, from generation to generation. Ron O. was there. You should just know this if you'd just take the time to pay attention.

Foote Note

Shelby Foote on Writing:
“ .. it’s a great thing if you can’t do any more than pay the light bill; to be able to do it and if somebody comes along with a large grant for you that short circuits that they’re depriving you of something there. He should do it on his own he should be wary about accepting obligations that would require him to do work he doesn’t like for instance. Ideally, unless he could afford it, he’d probably ought not get married. If he gets married, if he can’t afford it, he probably ought not have any children. Well that’s one hell of a restriction to put on somebody but a writer knows, not out of selfishness does he concentrate on what matters in his art. He does it because he knows the whole thing’s going to blow up in his face if he doesn’t. If you’re married and your wife wants a new coat and you write some bad fiction so that she can have a new coat you and your wife are not going to get along very well. Anyhow, so don’t do that. Let her go cold. The children are hungry give ‘em a peanut butter sandwich. Don’t go down and buy them some roast beef by writing bad work because you’re going to lose those children anyhow. You’ll be so dissatisfied with yourself that thing’s going to blow up. Most writers it’s going to blow up anyhow so perhaps it doesn’t matter. They’re self-centered people and well avoided people. Would do well to stay away from writers, they have interests that sometimes interfere with their, I won’t say decency, but with their conduct. Be a good idea to stay away from them. They’re not going to tell you anything anyhow. Young people would do well not to pay any attention to styles and fads unless they interest them and concentrate on doing the very best they can with whatever talent they’ve been able to muster. The best thing to do in all accounts is go your own way, work very hard at your craft, be true to whatever precepts you’ve formed and everything’s going to be all right or it won’t but I know nothing’s going to be all right if you do it any other way.”
from 1983 Interview with Shelby Foote,
Author and Civil War Historian

Myst

Myst was a game. A bunch of us thought the OSI model was a game developed by tricksters in the telco industries. The model is represented as layers which are stacked like pancakes. Historians speculate the model was developed in the late seventies. Naming the layers and providing a description of each layer was always a question posed to executive management types, budding sysops, web-masters (cough), and et al..

1️⃣ Physical Layer : 👁️ Rachel M. E. Wolfe's, Intro to Theatre .. the physical medium, such as nervous system and body parts, electric signals, light pulses.
2️⃣ Data Link Layer : 💰 A template for multi-platform producers by Gary P Hayes...+/-error detection, correction on the medium, data frames are reliably transmitted between entities.
3️⃣ Network Layer :🕸️ Implosion to Unity .. routing logical addressing engaging the best path for data (communication crystals) to reach a destination.
4️⃣ Transport Layer :🐢 Gustavus Swan and James N. Stevens .. segmented into chunks for efficient transmission, error-checking.. TCP; and UDP are language characters in the soup opera ...
5️⃣ Session Layer :💥Sir Arthur Conan Doyle Interview (1927 .. establish, maintain, and terminate connections. .. ensuring proper synchronization and spiritualisation.
6️⃣ Presentation Layer :💡 Focus on data translation, encryption, and compression. Make everything as small and personal as possible. Own your own data that senders and receivers can understand and can't understand.
7️⃣ Application Layer : 🪶Uncovering Latino History in the South This is sometimes referred to as the top layer. Applications interact with the network but human brains initiate requests and communications, like scrolling all day, waiting for email ...
8️⃣ There is no eighth layer only animals and a bone. 🦴🦮🐩🐕‍🐈🐦🐢🦠🦘🫎🦜🐁🦤
9️⃣ During the ninth hour of the day we learn and speak the words Asebeia (ἀσέβεια) and Daimonion (δαιμόνιον).
🔟 🎙️🔗 On the tenth day God created TCP/IP. Tis called a protocol suite. This is much like a hotel whose rooms are filled with hookers and hustlers. The modern internet hangs out in the hotel's bar and lounge looking and hoping for adventure. It doesn't line up perfectly with the OSI model's layers pancake stack but rather combines some functionalities, like maybe throwing a couple of sausages and some bacon on the plate. TCP/IP is supposed to provide rules; set standards that govern data transmission; help computers communicate across the globe; and allow human reflection on what they are and are not doing. Comprehending the OSI model and TCP/IP suite is crucial for anyone interested in networking and navigating through and around the Internet's inner workings.