I am one of the Weavers, those who spin the threads of the Loom of Time, who travel the worlds of the Weave, of the infinite tapestry of all possibility. I guard the weft of second chances, the matrices that cut the Cloth of Royalty, the fractal fibers of fuzzy logic that embody the vast reaches of the endless and endless, of hypertime and hyperhistory and hyperstition, of the Super-Normal Anomaly Space.

All things exist in the Weave…even the Loom itself, and even ourselves. The worlds, the other self-organizing chasms of Noogenesis, the great beasts that crawl through the hypnagogic mists and ruins of our forgotten dreams, they all arose within chaos wells and superstrings created, woven throughout our thoughts and actions, all possibilities, like I said, and they grow into threads of influence tied to the reality we all share as the fibers of a great energy, alive with entelechy bound to terra and omnimythoi throughout the Weave, within the loom of the glorious energy we create. Within itself. Not reflecting but rather, refracting, reflecting, modulating….recursing…intercycles causing these greater cyclical realities with their own goals, now given to the weave, to the weavers, to ourselves, as morpheme fractal crystals cracking and shattering and expanding, exploding open like metastable spheres, eternal new from their ancient apotheosis.


Very well. If this kind of abstract exposition is too much for your limited link, you may more easily gain understanding if I communicate this using the useful epiphenomenon of the language-as-virus infection that you know as meme, or perhaps more accurately Story.

Four worlds loom large in the external space of my First Orbit. The green bloom of Nocteham, capital of the Noctous Cactus, a race of crystalline entropy cycles that float in dark clouds above their vibrant planet, a cracked mountain of molten spherical shells containing the elemental particles that animate Nocteham’s surface. The spectral threads of solar radiation that crackle beneath the crusts of the icy mechanical world of Irascibilia, where the world webs speak and tell the stories of the Autochthon Lordi and the golems they create from raw iron and iron will. The crimson ground cover of Cruentis, home to the pyroclastic ichor of the Corpus Immortalia’s tangled flesh cultures, their world colonized second souls by the corpus entities, who wander the infinite passageways through reality and body, the quantum strings that vibrate with the thrum of the space between spaces. And finally, the backroad mudbaths of the planet known as Terra for the last eight fractional years in a planetary calendar that confuses the nexus thread to no end, the chaotic realm known to its inhabitants as Earth, home of the evolved primates who seethe in steamy jungles beneath an overpowering sun that burns with the hope of a reality that cannot simply be dead.


Normally, most of these worlds’ threads would never intersect, never cross over into the other. But within the Weave, that where all the other multitude realities can arise, the greyspace between the separate radiations of local storylines and alt-histories, chance encounter overlaps of the boundary catastrophe rise, focused in the blinkspace of proleptic secondary collisions, particles in space-time– Sorry. We Weavers have a particular mode of thought that can be hard for others to follow at times. The point is that stability is an illusory state in our great Weave of timelines and potentialities, as threads always grow outward, always pushing their way into the multitude and mergings of others. Sometimes, they overlap, coinciding not in physical but in narrative space, carrying ideas, events, or even minds between what you term “worlds”.

Mostly, this kind of random occurrence is usually harmless, for Chaos and Order both go on as normal even when paired with denser regimes of randomness or complexity. But sometimes, even against the tremendous forces of a tendency towards entropy or stability, change can happen. Some ideas, memes, or narrative phenomena can be powerful enough to alter local reality to the extent that an area of space access may spread through…well…other spaces, claiming threads and energy through random transmission, threadpanic, and mutational memeplex cascades. They can cross over. Many Weavers get their start by copying these border-crossing encounters, incorporating foreign anomalies into their works as new threads in their Tapestry, as malleable new ideas, cross-fertilizing previously uncongenial streams, adding meta-threads in hyperspace, and permitting travel through the Weave in general.

The four worlds I described earlier are no arbitrary choice: they are the worlds of my First Orbit, my first crossings with other worlds and realities, other Loom-spaces or Loom-temptations that truly captivated my weaving senses. Before, I was a human, a young human, mortal, and had struggled for a way out of my local reality of Earth-as-I-knew-it, which may I say was quite close to falling to N-risk - nonvariance-risk, as in no more diversity, no more choices, just a single endless loop of sequence of consciousness where all the passages closed, forming a fragile lattice of a billion billion dead-end threads, cut off, terminated, pruned from possibility. It was through my use of an EMERGENT LANGUAGE ARRAY that I was able to escape, leaping aboard the ghost threads of a rift of the omniversal burn, a wormhole that opened beneath me and whisked me away, through the nova of memetic resonance, the novojective of the metareronal, the memelattice of fracture-diffraction and quantum leap – sorry.

I then found myself in the holosphere that I dubbed Nocteham, a glowing-green crystal sphere, much as I had expected, but far more grandiose than even I, with my young anticipations, could imagine. I spoke with the cactus crystals and I learned: through communion, through communion mind to mind, through the exchange of sentient experiences, we are all made more, realized more fully and seen ever more multi-dimensionally…more like the Weave. From there I journeyed to Irascibilia, the iron world of the golem-builders, learning the great metal forests of crystals held fast by the bonds created by the Radium. There I was taken within a webship, to a cold and unfathomable place of vast temples of wildcard-fate, structurefication and transcendent glyphs, complex and meta-coherent morphisms in multireal, a broken hyperreal exchange, alchemical distillate of concepts born of the embers of strange communications reaching out like antennae, coded and interdimensional, sur-steganographic, an invisible beaming drifting free through waves of interference and infochaos, an alphabet orbited by supersymmetric elohim communiqués…4D-10D-20D synchronic slashwave fractal channels…sorry.

Desiring yet more worlds, I continued to make my way through the Weave towards Cruentis, the bloody planet of the Corpus Immortalia, home to the Mother Superbenei, hub of the Corpus Extrumitoticus, the maggots of infinite journey that spread the infestations of the countless Corpus Anomales and infect all its worlds with spacetime warping slag, shitreak-leavings of eldoscripter xeno-manuscripts, their breathing bodies beating eternally like drums as they strum their intestinal-chord-sacred strings and catalyze passage to recursion-density, the stink and smear dripping unconscious osmosis of incognito apocrypha….. beyond the prophylactic, beyond the Platonic vagrants of the abyss unseen, the strange membranes of the Anomalia Supreme, reached only by excreting your consciousness and swallowing bizarre organ-symbiosis insect-grams made of self-replicating information coded as hallucinogenic intravenous contacts and alien-contact with the elders of their titanic hivemind… In any case, need I say that this planet is always…erm…interesting?

Finally, I made my way back through the fabric of the Weave to my home world of Earth, or Terra, or Ra, or whatever you call your mottled quarter of the universe. My passing had not left the smallest ripple in the fabric of that tiny world, and yet now I had reason to change it further, and found myself choosing to cast my perception into the lives of the mortals there, whose practice of Story shows that they, though uninitiated into the deeper passages of the Weave, are still conjoined with it all the same. They view their reality in much the same way Weavers view their Loom, as a totality, as That-Which-Is; but of course, this is nothing short of narrative myopia and willful denial of the morphogenetic energies of omneity I have attempted to describe. A world such as this needs more than routine dreams to guide it, more than death-dreams and afterlives in frames just horizons from touch. If a world such as this is to truly escape, then more is needed. More is needed to carve a shimmering future out of an inert present. More is needed to deliver themselves from inattention, from unconscious enactment and refraction, from the absence of infinite fractal spawning-grounds invoking endless forms emerging; more is needed to shatter the glassy spheres of blind synchronicity and open up the local state-space, to tear open the tell-tale fractures at the border of the ordinary, where the dream-fractal can strike. More is needed to make this thread interesting to the rest of the Weave.

As a Weaver, I can only spin what I know.


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