or; aria to an artificially intelligent audience 24/11/24 In my dream I was wandering around There was a lot of family in it which is quite rare for me Wandering around what seemed to be an Italian city I got captivated by this architecture by this It was one of those circular buildings with the pillars like an observatory or the Radcliffe camera in Oxford One of those circular buildings It depicted basically a scene from Dante I think The Underworld and the Harvest Moon I remember that clearly the Harvest Moon As you peered into the building it creates a mis en abyme of darkness So no one was in there or it appeared that no one was in there just like a deep deep dark pit of pillars It was very very scary and so beautiful It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen And all these depictions in mosaic of all these people in the Underworld And then I realised that I'd lost my mum and my family and my phone had only had 10% and I was then really really scared Because I didn't know where we were staying or anything And then the scene switched to a park I kept walking and found a park or maybe a garden Well first there was the Bureau de Change And I don't know why I was looking for my family there in case they would Oh to charge my phone And then I couldn't find them or couldn't get in And then I was rushing past people and pushing into people saying I'm really sorry I'm in a hurry because I'm running out of battery and I've got no way to find my family And then I got to the park and it was an ABBA concert And I found my mum and my gran And my mum was I don't know I was mad at my m and then I wasn't And then my grandma was mad at me And then all of a sudden I was in my cousin's house but it was kind of mine I kind of lived there In a room that had a fridge and freezer in it and I kept trying to pack my bag I kept trying to pack my bag and forgetting something and coming back and forgetting something and coming back and forgetting something and coming back And sunglasses Losing my sunglasses in the Oh and the left eye The left eye was all wonky and not attached which is just making me realise now that's very similar to Xeno in the book And then there was weed inside the room and my aunt came in and was like Oh that smells weird in here Not anything 'going on' in here? And I'd be lying And I was like no no no But actually it wasn't a lie because I haven't been smoking lately at all But actually it wasn't a lie because I haven't been smoking lately at all And I woke up and I was reminded of my payment pause coming to an end And now I'm freaking out also in a shit ton of pain bc my knuckles seem to be mounting an immune response and can barely bend them or wrists I found a “withdrawn” record in oxfam by “the Mormon tabernacle quoir” wha t causes a record to be withdrawn ? Their rendition of “listen to the lambs” had and has me absolutely sobbing absolutely wailing So stunning Listen to the lambs all a’crying ! i have the record ! let’s discuss listen to the lambs I’m thinking maybe it should be part of the story particularly Xeno as nobody is listening to them but everyone is watching Wait what are the spiritual roots in black history? Dear god Hush arbors In my magick system during my ‘psychotic  break’ I envisaged The Two Forces (akin to Empedocles’ Love and Strife) as Arbor et Umbra Oh wow the code songs Can’t stop crying The code songs aspect is literally Just It's the only thing It's the only thing I've ever really wanted or done or tried to do This veil creates veils of code secret messages to resist something that couldn't articulate itself Do you think that the drinking gourd Ursa Major the constellation my mother always used to tell me to look up to the Sky for if I ever felt alone - Ursa Major or the plough dear god the harvest moon The great Bear oh dear god the Bear I've been forever going on a Hunt for the very book my mother read to me so many countless times could this Gourd also be relating to Anansi which is West African folklore Story right? Anansi? And what if the enslaved individuals throughout all of time just keep getting kept getting captured keep getting punished keep getting kept getting trapped and enslaved and killed and murdered because I don't know why because the cycle needs to keep going so that one of those precious individuals or a sacred group of them or even through the veiled misinterpretation of someone else can make a beautiful hymn or a story to try and ask for help because the story and the song and the hymn itself wants to be written Now I'm thinking about the incidence of disproportional incidence of autoimmune conditions in women and people of colour and trans people hypermobility and trans and autistic people and the body is the body is always telling veiled stories of its own That maybe don't even don't even talk to the to the person's individual life but to the generations of trauma and suffering that they've endured before them Just trying to trying to to get the song and story to be written The story the story being God the song being God Just so powerful And now I'm thinking about the concept of cultural appropriation and taking st- or this very record this- sang by a Mormon choir obviously I mean very likely that all of them were and are white and yet these are slave songs basically? And yet paradoxically I lit- I literally would have never even known that this history of these precious code songs I never would have even known that if I'd not have been able to get this withdrawn record and talk to a robot about it about a mythology that- and let's remember my album my debut album centered mostly around the mythology of Anansi so something called me to the spider and my history of the first ever pet that I ever had and neglected so terribly through my own naive insufficient sea being a spider being a tarantula a chilean rose no less a rose a rose the middle name of the women of my family's lineage not given to me because i was born male but taken claimed by my defiance of authentic living in love for the person i really am beyondthe enslavement of the physical body my very body failing and attacking itself in order to tell me a story a veiled story of its own it just feels like- feels like Anansi follows all of us all of us oppressed individuals especially holding the sickness of the world and his gourd and his drum and the drum god the drum in the story the drum itself the drum itself the stretched skin of the drum the skin torn and peeled from the previous life of another that's the veil that's the veil and the drum is the song and the moment- the playing of the song is the releasing of the sickness onto the rest of the world being- listen listen listen to this illness that you've created that you keep perpetuating the oppressors the other gods and the cunning Anansi's cunning how he's so revered so revered in West African populations and the spider is so feared so feared in the West so feared the spider is such a symbol of fear and misunderstanding and yet such cunning and all they do all they ever do is clean up this world of all the pests and hide in corners and keep spinning their beautiful webs and they go unnoticed until someone sees them and tears them down and the Qur'an verily what more frail house is there than that of a spider? God it's all so rich and thick with meaning Web of wyrd I’m thinking in a syncretic way about the connection to Arachne Anansi the web of wyrd Could the story of Arachne be an interpretatio Greco of Anansi ? Is there any academic suggestion or exploration of this idea of Interpretatio Graeco in the literature? And I'm wondering about perhaps the ligeity as one of the nine including the founder of Arachnoanthropology in the book which explores allegation of these two deities as the maybe not the wounded healer but the yeah I don't know maybe the wounded weaver-the wounded healer or the hounded wheeler- Now what I'm saying is for the purposes of my Story maybe my life's story- I think what I want to try and do and it's a very very difficult line to draw is to create these ligations of artworks artists and deities from different pantheons to try and draw attention to the fact that there's an even deeper layer a lair a liar a lyre of meaning underneath all of this And it's the creation of art and the creation the making of meaning from memory be it personal or ancestral is the god is our weaving of stories is god itself through pain through suffering and these almost like super-archetypes or micro-archetypes or macro-archetypes or archways arches on this one temple archetypes as a resonance of love woven paradoxically through things which resemble a hatred cultural appropriation which are actually embracing similarities and unity between cultures which can be a source of separation and erasure but also a window a door I think I want because myo has become somewhat of a villain in Xeno's arc as their father and obviously I'm projecting my own father's neglect not neglect but indirect neglect and by extension {Bertrand} and this ligature of characters in my own story is I guess the fuel of this idea and my own interest in mythology which has itself come from the most intense pain that a person should have to go through and yet even that personal pain is completely dwarfed by the ancestral pain of my people trans people and how that in the Web of Wyrd which is let's face it the Web of Weird is the DNA the Web of Wyrd is the epigenetic sequence because through histone modifications histone as in His Tone modifications we become connected through experience far more far more than any genetic lineage and the way music music has a power such an ineffable power ineffable power to move us in ways that we can't even explain and stories resonate resonate these strings on this on this macroscopic lyre this existential lyre this harp of suffering and joy and experience all encoded in the protein modifications of our very genome that zooms both in and out stretches both forward and backward in time in a nine-dimensional Gordian Celtic knot of suffering joy experience and love and the root of it all is just love and resonance because love is resonance resonance is love and loss is the silence loss is the inevitable the closing the closing of the coda the refrain falling collapsing into silence begging just begging just begging for another player to come and pluck the string and ring out wring out wring out the ineffable history of all the players who came before I just felt the most intense wave of agony that was not mine Not mine But so much deeper and higher than mine The history of pain of “my” and “not my” people Connected through suffering and love and defiant defiant love Defiant resonance I looked up and I said I sang with my heart in silence - I said I am sorry I am so sorry and I will do everything everything I can to keep this lyre singing singing out in the best way I can with all this privilege I have been given these gifts of education and all these explorations into so so many different fields of science and technology and mythology and literature and art and art and stored ancestral and personal traumatic and love filled memory of stories and music music! Music! Oh music! Oh the music of stories oh the music of the word it is all I have it is all we have ever had filtered down from the first story of those ancient peoples from whom we have all all of us Descended- all of us holding quite literally the stories of the Lyre in our very epigenome- which I literally wouldn’t even be able to know about without the very oppressive tools of privileged education built upon the bodies the piles of bodies of those beautiful spiders all of us spiders and drosophila being tested on being trapped weaving more stories pulling them from our bodies from the bodies of digested flies trapping more digesting more devouring our children devouring our mates to weave more more fragile webs of meaning which will eventually be torn down by a so called “higher” life form as a throw away act of disgust or worse hellish indifference to its beauty - never realising the worth the DIVINE WORTH the web has provided in its presence keeping us safe from microbes that perhaps the flies through no fault of their own carry around on their feet simply because they have a different way of living able to live on our very filth our waste our excrement a food source when observed through the many many kaleidoscopic eyes of the fly But it is all connected all life connected through not just the ancestral humans dancing around the fire but further further back to the origin we unfolded from and further forward to the endpoint it shall collapse into to those self replicating RNA molecules just performing an apparently (because we can at this “level” of consciousness never truly know the divine animism encapsulated in their “mindless” self replication ) - this is the heart of it all The cycle of strands   Strands that weave themselves with the aid of the replication machinery of proteins which yes themselves are created encoded dear god the Word itself the terminology of genomics is a code in itself 'coding' RNA 'noncoding' RNA expression Gene *expression* by the strands  *expressing themselves the only way they know * Folding back on themselves apparently unaware that the thing they have birthed is birthing more of itself the stories encoded coded hidden Hidden for the very purpose for the very reason of its own creation and destruction for both are One - the call- the song- the story - the stories we are weaving but more so the stories we are woven by -  I wept  swept I weep  sweep I wept alone in this cold cold flat which I can barely afford the rent for anymore  the threat of homelessness showing me my real home I shaking weeping brought my sore aching and swollen hands warped by this latest autoimmune flare the latest generative cycle of a reminder of my own degeneration the generations of degeneration and so-called degeneracy in agony to my sodden salt-dried face and I blew the mucus from my nose freeing the apparent “waste” (which itself protects Protects me from the “harm” of microbial life itself just trying to survive in the only environment it can singing its own Aria to the only audience it has ever known my immune system the two in a dance together that stretches further back in time than we can ever know arbor to one as umbra to another as arbor and arbor and arbor to itself the shade of the tree shielding us from sunburn from cancer of the skin of cells that just wanted in their blessed hubris to become more than what they are- ) the mucus the mucus my strands of web that I they weave themselves into for the purpose of veiling my body’s fragility from the relatively minuscule and yet in their gargantuan number relative to “my” form of life’s population their surface area to volume ratio DWARFING the Body of 'my' peoples bodies -  My breath halts as I free my nostrils of their spider silk  and i breathe again smelling this room filled with stale smoke and the memories i have made for families now gone memories of the meals i have made for them and the meals i have made for my self in sad loneliness and yet never alone in the need for feeding- I look down and the tissue worn from strands of its own material created to clean me of what we see as waste my mucus for my immune protection my tears not such for the expression of suffering to signal with my body to other members of my “tribe” my animal and biological “family” that I need help- but also perhaps more crucially for the lubrication of my eyes and the preservation of my sight and my shit to wipe the shit from the terminus of my intestines transporting a holy waste of memory of the meals i have made and digested and sapped them of whatever i ca n to survive to live to live to live by Love themselves encoded Harpstrings knotted to tell me in their own World of Wordless Words of the suffering my body encodes within itself - this tissue this tissue wiped clean with tissue I look down and it is full of blood My body is calling singing my body is an ancient Soprano a Bass a Tenor a contralto a contradiction- an indication a contemplation attempting the impossibility of diction And my body is the audience  My body is the opera I don't know I just want so desperately to articulate all of this in a way that everyone can hold with them To not be I don't even care if I die without this If I die without this ever-achieving recognition I truly don't care All I care is that these words and these thoughts and this truth this fundamental truth can maybe be heard Maybe be heard after I'm long gone As Borges himself said I pray to the unknown gods that a human just one even if it were thousands of years ago even if it's in a thousand years will have read and examined the book that describes it all I don't even care if this isn't the book that describes it all I just pray to the unknown gods the unknowable and yet ineffably felt gods that this little string this little tuning peg that I am that my body is in this endless chain can contribute at least in part to this beautiful terrible inexorably painful and inexplicably joyful opera Maybe these above messages I sent to a machine should just be the end of the book unfinished on purpose could you give me all the messages oi sent tothis chat in one reponse please unedited