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Art vs hive mind

Friday, May 19 2017 Views: 155


Night-time, vast flat field. I was sitting on the grass with various craft materials strewn around me, trying to figure out how to weaponize Chinese lanterns. I made a few round lanterns out of embroidery hoops and white silk. The scene was illuminated by burning torches stuck in the ground in a wide circle around me and I picked one of those up to light my lanterns. They ascended about 30 feet and burned up completely. Then I made two square lanterns out of painters’ canvas on a metal frame; these took long time to catch fire, but flew much further.

Finally I got around to making what I intended – a huge rectangular lantern the base of which was a metal grate consisting entirely of cursive M’s, which is my initial, as I wanted the yet unspecified ‘them’ to know it was me that defeated them.

I lit the lantern and flew over to the mountain stronghold, holding on to the bottom of the base. I intended to drop a small pot of poison on them, but they were shooting crossbows at me and it fell out of my hand. As the lantern was torn, I jumped down between two rocks and at this moment suddenly had some clarity as to who I was attacking – it was a parasite with a hive mind that controlled ordinary people.

On my right side there was a hole in the rock, about a foot in diameter, and I knew it’s where the parasite stores its eggs and that these are activated by words. I just had the time to find a scrap of paper and wrote ‘nenavist’ (hate) on it and shove it into the hole, knowing that the young will turn on each other when they hatch. I wrote the Russian word with English letters and in my present handwriting. Then I was captured, but it didn’t bother me and I stood there smiling in the dark as they handcuffed me as I knew I’d just have to outlast them. I was informed I’ll have to undergo punishment by forced labour and brainwashing too.

One dismal morning I was going to the riverside factory where I had to work and was rounding a huge puddle, trying not to fall into the river when one of the guards caught up to me and held my hand to steady me. He stepped closer and whispered: “I know what you did”. I didn’t answer at first and kept walking, still holding his hand. Then, unexpectedly for myself, I smiled at him cordially and said: “I would really like to give you a coupon to have your one wish fulfilled”, and knew that it was enough for him to leave me alone.

Next, I was in a huge auditorium with other young women for a brainwashing session. The facilitator handed out a book and paperclips to each of us; we were supposed to pin the pages so that we only saw what they wanted us to see. The girl next to me was called Baiba and I asked her to look out for me while I sneaked a peek into the pages at the beginning of a book.

This section seemed to be about an artist as it contained mostly photos of a handsome blond man in his studio and of his paintings, which were mostly still lives in bright colours; there was no text. The man himself seemed to be a work of art as there were beautiful photos of him sleeping that looked somewhat contrived. His room was mostly white, there was a white mattress on the floor and he had a light-yellow blanket exactly the colour of his hair. The only other colour was something pink on his white nightstand.


The next page had a pop-up close-up of the object – a pink music box shaped as a coral with tiny golden bells. It played beautiful music very quietly. The book explained that the music is basso profondo singing into a seashell, complemented by the sound of bees buzzing and marimba. On the right side of the page there was a picture of the seashell used for the recording – it was an ordinary freshwater clam, but the top half had a miniature painting on it – a woman surrounded by flowers. I had a clear image in my head of Miller standing in an empty, dimly lit corner of a room, singing quietly into the shell.

Additional Comments:

Chuck’s bees and Emmerson’s pop-up books. Miller again, proves that once consciously introduced to the Dreamworld, a character stays there forever. Some discussion yesterday about internet platforms being 'obscure battlefields', this echoes as the idea of a hive mind activated by words. ******************************************************************************************* Updated to confirmed precognitive as it ties in with BlueOpossum's dream 'Her name is Mmmmm'.

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