Excerpt 159:
Unconscious Collectivity
As I became more adept at waking up without falling asleep I found I was not alone. The two entities that travelled with me, independently, at a distance, Sybil and the Professor were not meant to be there; they were not, by the standards of the ‘folk up top’ with the controlling shares, even entities. They were merely internal ‘developments’, hidden from sight by being my nominally imaginary pseudo-interactions. Anyone snooping into my cerebral output would hear voices that my mind had created as coping strategies; nothing more…case closed.
Sybil laid bare the blueprint of my existential narrative that was otherwise dressed in arctic clobber to prevent me seeing it. She communicated to me via coded code and Code-Fringed Cypher-Annotation (CFCA) with a side-elaboration of Speculative Intimation Dynamics (SID), that I needed to escape; my job was to discover what it was I needed to escape, or merely escape in blissful ignorance of it.
Sybil informed me, through third party proxy-sharing Piggyback Nostril Snorting and Long Form Mime Dracularistics (PNSLFMD), that everything under the My Life-Experience Label was preordained, prescheduled; ‘Everything’ had already happened in the way it was always going to…the details of which were not fully accessible to keep me from Pocket-Fluff Sproutpower Spasmjizz Nonchalantgrab (PFSSN) acts or inadvertancies that might mess up and make slippery the floors and ceilings of the upstairs echelons of puppetry and forced magic, or whatever they had going on up there…
Accessing the memory of what had transpired under the My Life-Experience Label, Sybil had suggested, with an underlying suctionclamp of insistence, was my only escape route. There was a slot, she explained, between an infinite amount of dead-ends and that was the escape route; she didn’t make out that a solution to my life’s missile not going off, would be easy… Easy she said, more than once, was for the dead and buried… A memory, if I had it right, was a rung on a ladder climbing up the well wall to a world I could only remember. The trick I had to perfect was to brute force the metaphorical into some kind of metaphorphicality…
Sybil had come to me in a dream back in those nights of the days when I was a dreamer, she’d reminded me. She’d told me something I needed to know but had to forget; she’d told me, I would never advance far enough to be able to ‘get it’. Long distances can be closer than you think when memories arrive en masse; wanting to fit in together, all shouting at once. I had occasion to blow out the candles on my mindcake that represented the lid-fast cookie jar of curiosity salve, because I had made it to where I could ‘get it’: they (whoever they were) were not trying to distill consciousness to create a paraconsciousness, they were, but their ultimate aim was to distill the Collective Unconscious…to access it and manipulate it… My warning systems said, ‘think about that for a moment’…and I did…and in a dreadful punning sense was too Jung to remember Freud…
The self-chosen few of the few would gain access to the Collective Unconscious to control the human population; create of them a fawning freezing global society that was willing to turn a blind-mind to having their neural brainscape commandeered and utilised by the elite’s cream, to facilitate an exclusive perceived world. A world where conscious thought was transferred to outside operators to use. The elite of the few would not only be able to sit on the face of the Humanity it was shitting on, but get inside and live the internal life on ‘borrowed’ imaginative energy.
A shared paraconscious system would house the Few of the elite of the cream, to protect them from Collective Unconscious manipulations. A world within a world, within the minds of ordinary people who are none the wiser, according to the blurb on the (for the eyes of multi-billionaires only) brochure.
Godstrand had wanted all pertinent bio-algorithms programmed only by himself, to make every decision based on Godstrandonomics; to cut all further human (tainted) input out of the Loop Notch Frame Hitch sketch…but he had to back-peddle when he realised it would make him responsible for morally unthinkable mass brain-dulling that was tantamount to brain-murder. There were other factions who were dementedly intent on snatching the levers of power, obviously. They were the ones manipulating human behaviour globally, pre-CU control…doing it the old-school way: wars and division, hate, spite, bile and cruelty with an authoritarian grin. God’s chosen, choosing to ignore their victims were God’s children. With a conspiracy of deep-greed, wrapped in a logjam of selfishly aggrandised auto-deism to face… Godstrand knew his own operationally installed liberal-pacifism could not outrun the aggressive pacing of the self-appointed belligerent entitlmenteers. He knew his fair-minded approach would likely lead to him losing the final battle for control; as the lever-grabbing suitors of ultimate power positioned themselves like storm clouds threatening targeted lightning strikes and bone crunching blasts of thunder…
A hey to the ho…and onward we go…
I now knew the truth; the Collective Unconscious was going to be under the control of whoever sat in the hot seat (also see: the Devil’s throne) come the lifting of the Great Pause. I needed to get myself to a level where I could influence the people influencing the Collective Unconscious Complex, the so-called Masters of the cream of the elite department. I need to get ahead of myself and pull me; and I needed to get behind myself and push…
It was widely accepted by those in the know, in anecdotal hearsay, that Godstrand had initiated a labyrinth of problematical conundrums that the aspirant-claimants for the hilt of excaliburative power had to endure and complete, in an orderly queue, before qualifying for a shot at all out cuckooful usurpation of Humanity’s steering wheel. Godstrand said, not outright, but by intimation, over and over, that Humanity’s purpose was to destroy Earth and end all life on it. Some said he was losing his marbles; others that maybe he was seeing with a clarity no one else could hear… And complimenting the Great Pause was a snoop-buttsniff-and-eyeruffle system that was learning what manipulations would bring all the world’s inhabitants together into line with conducive obedience So that the populations of Earth could be calibrated to serve the Masters of the elite of the cream of the top-scrapings. Godstrand reasoned that the human race would never survive on its own; scheduled to perish, as it was, from the toxicity of its own stupid genius. I did not want him to be right…
Later…
It came to my notice in fragments of remembered intervention Sybil had engineered into me without my knowledge, that Atoll, as a project, had been an attempt, by G & G labs, to gain access to the Collective Unconscious Mindscape (CUM), once they had established synchrokinesis with Interdimensional Parallelolax Hostcluntification Precept-percept Afterburning-Dangleweeds (IPHP-pAD). Sybil told me to pay attention to those populating Atoll’s peripheries. This meant Kirk, Atticus, Judith and the rest of the once revived dead mission were all suspects in an investigation into something that would develop as time elapsed and data loaded… Anticipatory suspicions were released into the injurious judgosphere…
While G&G labs were working on getting their boy into the CUM space, a foreign state operated lab was trying another access point to the CUM via the fringe borders of the Stockholm Munchaus franchise entrance locator array. The Stockholm Munchaus initiative was owned fully by a shadow bank that also controlled share-supremacy of all Western corporations. It didn’t own enough shares in itself, but when it did the dog’s of Hell would be released… The proliferation of Stockholm Munchauses was explained by the CUM’s natural defence mechanism, all but one Stockholm Munchaus was a ruse to deflect from the true entrance. There was a labyrinth of roadblocks and glass ceilings obstructing the adventurous CUM wannabe. But in theory any single consciousness node, if imagination were synchronised, could make good an entrance with a view to crossing over. Although, no one sane would want to be the person whose mere presence affected the entire species’ cultural and ethical databases by inadvertently tinkering with the programming code of the collective unconscious.
The Stickhelm Monkeyhorse was no more than a shack; its promises had all been broken and left to lie; its flair and exuberance boiled in a cauldron with a medieval woman accused of being a witch. The crowds had come and gone, whispers had evaporated…all draws drawn and shots fired off, deaf ears, blind eyes, cocooned emotions, cobwebs long abandoned by the arachnid crowd… I felt it from my memories who were trying resurface like freeborn fish; it was the end of the beginning and the beginning of the end, all at once. As it stood, I checked, there was no entrance. But I knew I would be back, however many wake ups it needed, with an entrance from material created by G & G labs.
I was drawn to a Stockholm Munchaus with a faded sign that said, ‘Closed by Refurbishment’. The clue was the use of ‘by’ and not ‘for’… It wasn’t being refurbished it was being used by the forces of the refurbished: a force called Kirk. Kirk, or whatever name he was using as a cover, did not speak as there was some kind of invisible insert dividing us. He manned a ticket office where no one ever came; if they had they’d’ve be turned away.
My eyes came to rest upon and decoded a poster advertising a play within a play within a ploy and I knew then that this was the entrance/exit pipehole of the gland in which Atoll was an involuntary fixture. I marked the place upon an imaginarily secret mind-map with three secret words…
When I woke again, I’d been sleeping. I was sitting on a lounging-perch, deploying a wearily dozing persona so as not to scare the surrounding people I had woken up into. My attention, for what it was, was seduced by a familiar voice that emanated from an upstairs room; two familiar voices. My ears perked up and were thrust into deciphering mode; what did this mean? Judith was speaking to K. I pictured an interrogation; Judith extracting information about K’s role in the disappearance of Botface’s torso… Had Judith then, I considered, breached the Kettle Protection Zone (KPZ) or the Protection Zone of the Kettle (PZK). As interrogation turned into collaboration; questions sprouted like desert flowers under the rare eventuality of a rain shower.
‘I love the hessian bra vibe,’ I said to myself readying just the right tone for old buddies reunion
but realised as the ongoing situation unfolded that these were memories incapable of interaction and the sound of loneliness started snivelling from a crack in the wall to the room in the back.
I turned to an approaching threat, ‘Hi,’ I mustered, with an unexpected desert-dry speech output…that put me on a bloomless back foot.
‘Hello,’ a familiar (as Atoll), Atticus, said, warmly, followed by a colder and underlyingly exasperated and code leaching, ’you have to order at the bar,’ with a why-don’t-you-know-this-already slant.
I was at the Marina Cafe, and all the guys from the once dead and then revived mission were there…Opportunity was knocking, opportunity was ringing the bell, opportunity was ramming open the door and telling everyone to get on the floor…
