I dreamed last night.I saw the chain leading down a level, and felt a dilemma -- was this passage down to a trap where my pursuers were waiting for me to be vulnerable, or a passage to be safe? I could not tell, but felt the danger nearby, some motion on this level. A, swift descent of the rope chain, sliding partly with and partly down the mobile chain, and I was there, perhaps safe from the dangerous ones above. Around me were endless piles of junk. A periscope was stationed nearby which I had ruined out of fear of those above, and a young but old man, engineer or tinker, was trying to continue looking up through it at the chase above. Seeing me down here, he seemed somewhat saddened at the end of the vision, but moved to one of the piles of junk.. not junk, but endless boxes of items. He pulled a large trombone from a box, and began to unmake it, pulling the metals in it straight and out of the bends where it had met itself. "Tell me", he said, "how many hours does it take to make this?" .. I said I had no idea, although later I guessed perhaps a dozen dozen hours. I asked him how he spent his time, and he told me, he went from tinkering with the things to using periscope (oops!) when he got bored, and when bored with that he walked around. I surveyed the endless factory floors, rooms stretching off in all directions, industrial gears and tools mixed with boxes of everything imaginable. I imagined I could attach another of what would no doubt be many periscopes for him, although thinking of it, he probably could do so himself. He was not insane, he had just spent countless eternities alone in this unchanging environment with naught but toys and space. Beings like him were built for this, I thought, and I began to wonder about my own uncertain parentage. I heard a faint noise, and looked back. My friends, or acquaintances -- I never was sure what to call them, saw me turn and one of them hobbled away from the passage back to the chain. I strode towards them, leaving *him* with the increasingly less trombone pieces of metal. They saw that I saw them, and graciously (?) stopped. I was pleased that they were safe, but I could tell they were not enchanted with this place, or with the great adventure/difficulties we had had.. and perhaps they were afraid or tired of me as well, or simply had thought it easiest to slip off. "I'm very tired and want to just go home", said she of the group, her eyes never meeting mine. I sighed, let them go back to a realm I once called reality, through whatever gateway they found. I decided to spend some time here, taking in the peace. Time passed, although I could not keep track of it in a place like this. I only saw them again once, as two of them were married many years later and they managed to find a way to get me an invitation. I looked and felt much the same as when I entered that realm, but felt out of place in that place they called reality, and wasn't sure if they invited me to soothe guilty conscience or something else. Nothing had yet healed the pain of them attempting to move on without my seeing them, although it was something I had become used to, one among many from those I used to pretend were friends. I returned once again later, and all had been reclaimed by their earth but one, who had lived a full life and hardly remembered me. Endless attempts at conversation with the other man, and my own tinkering with things, both now fill my memories like roughage, but not my emotions. Am I the same as him? Are we gods? Spirits? Were there ever more of us? Was I originally from here? Are those that chase in the realm above brethren? I cannot remember. I keep trying to read past the singlemindedness in him, wondering if he has ever traveled to the other realms, but I can see little beyond his enthusiasm and boredom as he switches from task to task. The only things now that seem very real are the feel of my hands on these endless artefacts of humanity, and my memories of people long since passed.
Today is for more moving, hanging out with friends, more Carnival (with singing, hopefully), perhaps some playing of accordion on Flagstaff Hill, and contract programming.