Hauntology is a dying art. Haha. I’m not familiar with the social theory of the hauntologist. I just like the atmosphere. For me, hauntology conjures images of dusty mansions furnished in gothic style. And non-time is when the clock strikes thirteen. You rang? I wonder if to study haunting, really study it, one has to be a ghost oneself. Study haunting first-hand. Like seeing from the future. A ghost in the cobweb-filled corridors. Play on the old piano, rattle some armor. Know all the secret passageways, where lost treasures are waiting.

Each ghost is a world. One that could be free, as Marcuse might add. Although I don’t think that’s quite what he meant. See through the ghost. And if one wishes upon a star, just like a wooden marionette the ghost might become real. Real boys and girls.

I’m reminded of one of the Mr. Wong movies, with Karloff. The one with the Eye of the Daughter of the Moon. At the end, the letter penned by the victim, the one that will reveal the murderer, finally arrives. But Karloff has already solved the case. He tears up the letter, unread.

 Haunting sounds, language and writing

The professional hauntologist must learn to distinguish the various sounds that go bump in the night. It is not so simple a matter as telling the difference between a dragging chain and air in the pipes, or low moaning and ‘just the wind.’ The sounds with logical explanations might very well be the sounds of a haunting. Thus a different type of listening is required.

The sound of the scoring plates resetting on an electromechanical skee-ball lane is a haunting sound, one you won’t hear very often, if at all. By now, practically all skee-ball lanes have been digitized. For those who have never had the pleasure, skee-ball scoring used to be tallied by a roll of plates. At the start of a new game, after inserting a dime or quarter, the plates rolled around to zero, making a sound like when the robot dealer shuffles metal playing cards in the Atlantic City of Tomorrow. Due to the desire to hear the sound, a popular skee-ball manufacturer now produces a ‘1930s-style’ lane, complete with flip-scoring plates. However, these prohibitively expensive lanes aren’t meant for the carnival or boardwalk, they’re for private arcades, where the sound drowns in the displaced nostalgia of the surrounding silence.

Can nostalgia be anything but displaced? Sure, when it is nostalgia for a dream. Many might interpret that in a despairing way. I don’t really find it to be such a bleak statement. No one has seen what justice looks like, “a fair and equitable world”, as Craig Murray puts it. And yet that doesn’t seem to stop anyone from having nostalgia for it.

Many dread falling asleep for fear of a recurring nightmare. And luck might have it that you’ve once visited some out-of-this-world place in a dream which you’d love to go back to. Because when you go to sleep, you don’t know what you are going to get. One can do things that may or may not effect the probablities. One can make preparations for a permanent move. And then close one’s eyes and hope to return.

Kitsch is a ghost of sentimentality. The living feeling has gone ahead, the echo all that’s left, haunting words, filling time.

Ghost-speak is a complex mixture of specific and universal dialects. Any licensed hauntologist will tell you. Being able to translate and decipher the meaning of gesture is paramount for a grasp of the language. Of course anyone can understand the basic ghostly hand gestures, the pointing finger says “over there,” the crooked finger says “over here.”

But say you are at an amphitheatre in the Pyrenees at midnight one March 18th. The ghost of a knight cries, “who will defend the temple?” and six other ghost-knights respond, “no one, no one. The temple is destroyed.” You’ve understood the words quite plainly, but what is the meaning?

When a ghost speaks, it is the gesture of speaking that needs translating more than the words themselves. When writing, the gesture of writing. A simple point, but forgetting it has been the cause of many rookie mistakes.

Thankfully, ghosts of one culture will respond to the cultural signifiers of another. This is true for vampires as well. For example, throwing a chicken egg into a coffin will stop a European vampire from rising as easily as a Chinese one, and the wooden stake works just as well on eithera useful tip for those getting into the business.

Kitsch is a ghost of sentimentality. The living feeling has gone ahead, the echo all that’s left, haunting words, filling time.

By now, you may have noticed that there is a big difference between dead language and living language.(You may also have noticed that I made no mention of the popular ‘Twilight Language’ while discussing haunting language. There are similarities, it is true. But I don’t use it, even though I’m perfectly fluent. Like a Frenchman who can speak perfect English, but refuses. Although I do have a pretty pair of Twilight Princess converse sneakers, for special occasions.)

In the background, Dieter Dengler describes having his Sky Raider jet shot out of the sky, wrestling it to the ground and being thrown free of the crash.The section begins about 20 minutes into the documentary Little Dieter Needs to Fly by Werner Herzog. After, Dieter talks about how when there is no time, there is no time for fear. When landing on an aircraft carrier in a monsoon, it’s after the landing that the legs start shaking uncontrollably. The fear lags behind, like the thunder moving slower than the lightning. And when it catches up, it’s fear of something that already happened, a ghost-fear.

So, where were we? Ghost sounds, ghost languages. We still have ghost writing to cover.

Geese honk, letting the others know where they are to keep the flock together. Owl hoots so that the others know to give it some space. Two crows in flight talk in low voices to one another. The sounds turn into languages. Finally, they become writing. The most advanced form of communication, and the most refined. What is written might even be more important than what is said, since what is said can be changed by artificial intelligence.

What the hell are those crows talking about, anyway? To be perfectly clear, when I say the written word, I don’t mean all this honking and hooting. Tomorrow, every piece of writing posted to this site could be changed into the most banal trash, or into posts saying the exact opposite of what they used to say. At the touch of a button, probably.

Misunderstanding what the written word was, the ghost strives to live on through the writing. Words on a page, words on a harddrive. When I die, I think I’ll be all the words ever written. Ghostly fingers, holding pens, typing on keyboards, caressing in an ancient language, love. Knocking autumn leaves from the trees, picture postcards from old flames rekindled.

Three Types of Ghost 

As we know, there are three types of ghost, or rather three general species. The first species is the predetermined ghost. This ghost will not see you as it makes its nightly rounds. It will drift over to the bookshelf, take a book down and read, ignoring you the whole time. If you stand in the path, it will pass right through you.

Not to say it isn’t harmless. It can still cause sleep deprivation and lower property values. And if you try to get rid of it, it can cause serious harm. So great care must be taken. If you are possessed by a predetermined ghost, you can feel its blind rage.

The next general species is the willful ghost. This ghost will take a book off the shelf, but if you disturb the air it will look at you. It can be a most unsettling sensation. Try to get rid of it, and it will resort to every trick in the book. If you’re possessed by a willful ghost, the room may start spinning, which can be disorienting.

The third type is the clumsy ghost. This is the ghost that will knock all the books off the shelf. It seems to behave with no rhyme or reason. Getting rid of it is always a complicated affair, like an absurd, convoluted scavenger hunt. Possession by a clumsy ghost will oddly enough make you clumsy, which causes bad luck.

A clumsy ghost can occasionally be helpful. Instead of knocking all the books from the shelf, it knocks only one. The helpful clumsy ghost is arguably a fourth type, although technically it is an ideation, not quite a ghost, and not quite an idea.

Suggested methods and strategies for the different types can be found in your textbook. They range from the simple to the frankly ridiculous. Controlling the winds with incantations, reagents and jing. Useful, I guess, if you’re dead in the water.

But fortunately or unfortunately, nothing beats first-hand encounters with the supernatural. So do try to have some.

Ideal Forms

Here we run the risk of picturing the ideal forms as objects instead of subjects. Plato’s philosophy as the ideal form of a haunted mansion, seen through the twisted trees. We explore the house and its grounds, but can’t find the occupants. Maybe they’re on vacation.

Still, the house itself seems to be alive, and trying to tell us something. Probably ‘Get. Out.’

By treating the ideal forms as subjects, a rapport can be established. We might even make the guest list for the next big party. Either way, our experience of the old mansion will be very different.

I’m of the school which maintains that this leap from object to subject is a decisive moment in the life of any philosopher.

Does the ideal form of every fireplace already have a fire in it, or must it first be lit?

Above the ideal form of the fireplace in one room of the old mansion, hanging over the mantlepiece, is a mirror in which is reflected one’s own ideal form, or what my school calls your Perfect Nature. But let’s set aside what is meant by the ideas ‘perfect’ and ‘nature’ for now, and say that this ideal form is your subject.

You should notice that your ideal form has much more in common with the other ideal forms than it does with the portraits and hunting trophies which adorn the walls, with eyes that follow as you move past them.

(Here, one reader argues that the ideal fireplace must have a fire in it, and another reader argues that the ideal fireplace is independent of the fire. The second reader pauses thoughtfully, then asks, “Is the ideal form a static object independent of time?”)

I’m sorry?

(Shouting, the second reader repeats the question)

I must apologize for the noise. Today the engineering team is fitting the foundations of the mansion with the solid-fuel rocket boosters. Soon we’ll be able to lift this sucker right into the air and fly into space. Although by now, I doubt that anyone would be the least bit surprised.

My take on the mysterious fireplace: If the ideal form of the fireplace contains the set of all fireplaces, then the ideal form of the fireplace is like a tree, with the specific forms of each fireplace the branches. As well we could say that this fireplace presents itself as all fireplaces, those with a fire already in them, and those yet to be lit. Therefore the dilemma of the fire is not solved by deciding one way or the other, but by seeing that the dilemma itself is a false one.

So the ideal form of the fireplace should be difficult to visualize. Through an angelological lens, we’d say that the ideal form of the fireplace is its angel, the angel of the fireplace. This is a kind of philosophical shorthand used to facilitate discussion without getting caught up in false dilemmas.

The ideal form of a static object, let’s say this coffee mug (with tea in it) exists in ideal spacetime. As the specific forms of the coffee mug do not exist independently of time, the ideal form of the mug does not exist independently of eternity. Using the angelological shorthand, we’d say that this coffee mug now exists ‘in heaven.’

Haunting vs Visitation

A shoddy product may be cheaply made, constructed with poor materials. However, not all products produced at low cost are shoddy. Cheap and poor here refer to lack of skill in the construction of a product. It’s the low-quality of the workmanship that results in shoddiness.

Quality suffers when time is in short supply. But is a time in short supply, itself, a shoddy product? Then, maybe we could say that shoddy time is the poor material with which shoddy products are made. A history built with this cheap material would be such a shoddy product. The compression of time into a line, infinite yet spaceless, thus squeezing out all sense of presence. A historical time of a ‘presence that is not present,’ this is the time of haunting.

A desire for connection, for contact, is implicit in a haunting. The geist is on the other side of a screen, marshalling every ounce of concentration to move someone, hold onto something, touch anything.

The opposite of a haunting is a visitation. The visitor connects, makes contact without effort. Appearing to each in their capacity to see, talem eum vidi qualem capere potui. As it has been said, and long ago.

You know how a page in a book can mean one thing to you on the first read through, but when you go back and read the same page, maybe you get something more out of it than you did the first time. This new reading of the same page can happen five minutes after the first reading, or five years, or fifty-five. What has changed? The words on the page have not rearranged themselves.

And then, there are people who go back and re-read a page, and it means the same thing to them as it did before.

Time and Eternity

Sitting in front of the fireplace in a room of the old mansion, drinking tea from heavenly coffee mugs, the readers now agree on saying that this is a fireplace which already has a fire yet needs to be lit, and does not already have a fire yet doesn’t need lighting. A funny sort of fireplace, indeed.

(The second reader adds wistfully, “which like all things is temporary: things don’t exist, or everything is a verb and not a form.”)

All things in time are temporary. Every thing in time is not a form, but has a form, albeit a temporary one. All things in eternity are eternal. Every thing in eternity is not a form, either, but has an eternal form.

Existing may not be a question of is or isn’t, but a scale. Between not existing and totally existing are degrees of existing to a greater or lesser extent.

When Hamlet says to be or not to be is the question, is he sane, or out of his wits? Or sane but pretending otherwise?

I wonder if we might clear up some misunderstandings about eternity.
Adding up all zero-dimensional points does not get us to the line, we must add a dimension of extension. Adding up all points on the one-dimensional line doesn’t get us to the two-dimensional plane, we must add a dimension of height, or depth. Adding up all the figures on the two-dimensional plane doesn’t get us to the third dimension, we add the dimension of volume. Adding up all solids doesn’t get us to the fourth dimension, we add the dimension of time, or spacetime. Adding up all the moments of time, or coordinates in spacetime doesn’t get us to the fifth dimension, we add a dimension of eternity.

So eternity is not the sum of all time, it’s an added dimension. Now we can visit the upper floors of the mansion, see what’s up. Maybe even get invited into a bedroom or two. Hubba hubba.

Adding up all eternals will not get us to the sixth dimension, we need to—you guessed it—add a dimension. Let’s call it the weirding dimension. Adding all weirdings will not get us to the seventh dimension, we add yet another dimension. And so on.

Some people stop at around nine or ten, maybe eleven dimensions. Those brave souls who go beyond that write their reports with symbolifications. They’ll write about a world of light, with cities and everything. A mansion of light. They’ll say it is a world of solid water, fluid earth, incompressible air and impenetrable fire. Of course they aren’t writing about a different reality far removed from this one, but this same reality,. Just with more dimensions revealed so we can see them.

“So what would it mean, then, to look for the future’s remnants?” asks Owen Hatherley at the beginning of Militant Modernism.

Here we’re taking for granted the idea that the destruction of the present has reduced the future to rubble. Looking for the remnants of a future that never came to pass. Not the remnants of the future which are the future’s leftovers. If we were looking for those, we’d have to look elsewhere. Wouldn’t have to look very far to find those.

The mansion is also transparent. I see the concepts I’ve hidden in my descriptions of the mansion, through it.

Not that the leftovers of the future trail behind it. More like the tail of a comet. Half the time the tail comes before the comet, and it always trails away from the sun.

NASA says: “Most comets have two tails. The tails appear as the comet approaches the Sun. Sunlight pushes on things, but very gently. Because the comet dust particles are so small, they are pushed away from the Sun into a long tail. Another tail is made of electrically charged molecules of gas (called ions). Very rarely a comet will have a third tail made of sodium, which we usually don’t see with our unaided eyes.”

The Sultan

I get the feeling that the sultan and I are coming from and going in opposite directions. When I bring things back to their base reality I end up in a place that looks very different than what it is for the sultan.

I question whether the sultan is really awake or aware. The forms are ghostly, transparent. Base reality is seen through successive layers of transparencies. The odd fellow with the clever device is transparent, I see the haunted mansion through the transparency. For me, the mansion is more real than the physical person that I am.

The mansion is also transparent. I see the concepts I’ve hidden in my descriptions of the mansion, through it.

Behind the concepts, I see my editor. More real than all that. Killing time, pretty much just shitposting memes while waiting for the writer to finish writing what is written in the stars so he can edit it. Beyond that are a few more transparencies. I won’t bore with the details. But base reality begins at my editor. For the sultan, what is real and what is more real is flipped on its head.

Advanced Strategies

On a large portion of the grounds of the mansion is the most marvellous graveyard. Maze-like unmanicured garden paths between the tombstones, statues, mausoleums make it easy to get lost. Some guests never return. Some swear that the tombstones move, rearranging the paths. In the middle of the graveyard is a pretty pool with a fountain. Not that everyone has seen it. Some guests spend hours at a time exploring, wandering along the paths, and never find it.

A very peaceful spot. After sitting there, the mansion seems different. No longer just a haunted house, but a home, drafty and eccentric. The whole thing seems to glow from within. 

If you happen to be at the old mansion when the thirteenth day of a month falls on a Friday, you’re in for a treat. That’s when gandma cooks up a cauldron of her special squid eyeball stew. You haven’t lived until you’ve tried it. Might not live too long afterwards, either. If you even survive the ordeal itself, that is. The squid is definitely dead, but the stew is not. As grandma sings-songs as she stirs, “until the squid is truly dead, the stew cannot live.” And don’t bother asking her about what makes the stew taste so good. You probably don’t want to know. But she won’t tell, anyway. She always says “no explanation is as satisfying as a bowl of hot squid eye stew, sweetie. Now shut up and play with your food.” 

One floor of the old mansion has many, many rooms. Probably over a hundred. But all of the doors are locked. There is a key in front of each door, but it’s the wrong key.

Finding the right keys for the doors would be a time-consuming and arduous task. These ingenious locks resist being picked, by pulling the little tools right out of the hands of a break-in artist.

Oppressive loneliness hangs heavily in the quiet corridors up here. After trying a few keys in a few doors, most guests give up and go back downstairs.

You want to get a tight grip, because the rope is yanked up very fast. So fast that it looks like everything around you is suddenly falling away with such speed that friction against the air causes it all to burst into flames. Quite a harrowing experience. But you’ll do fine. Just make sure you hold on to the rope.

There are so many interesting things to do and see in the rest of the mansion. The steamy laboratories, the writhing greenhouse, the dusty libraries. Floors of magic and synchronicity. Who could forget the dungeons, everybody’s favorite. And the salons where cobweb-covered skeletons sit on the sofas. They talked their subjects to death.

I think it’s funny how the first impression of the floor with the locked rooms is a sigh and a “this may take a while.” But if you were prisoner in a fortress and one of the locked doors led outside, you’d say, “Ah, what a careless jailer I have. I’ll be out of here in no time.”

That’s time for you, I guess. We aren’t in a fortress, though. It’s just a plain, silent floor. Hey, listen. You can hear some skeletons still chattering in one of the salons downstairs.

The old mansion is a popular destination for ghost watchers. Some don’t call themselves ghost watchers, they prefer ‘paranormal investigators.’ And they aren’t ghost watching, they say that they’re following the breath of the mansion. We oblige them, naturally.

A favourite ghost to watch is the ‘ballroom hanger.’ A long spiral staircase in the grand ballroom climbs up through the high vaulted ceiling and into a tall tower. Sections of the staircase have collapsed, leaving large gaps here and there.

But that doesn’t stop the ballroom hanger. It glides around the staircase, over the empty spaces and right to the top. Then jumps into the middle of the spiral wearing a noose with enough rope to stop it just before hitting the ground.

Then the ghost disappears. But the rope doesn’t, it retracts as if someone is pulling it back up. Which is useful, as it turns out, since by grabbing onto it you will be pulled up, too. This is the only way to get to that particular tower, what with the big holes in the staircase.

(In that particular tower, we have a Gottlieb Haunted House pinball machine. There are three playfields on this table. Two buttons control the flippers on the main floor, and a second set of buttons control flippers on both the upper floor and in the basement, which can be seen through a plexiglass window in the main floor. Drop-target multipliers, hit numbered targets in order for skill bonus, unlock multi-ball. All to an awesome soundtrack: Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D minor, naturally. Go for the high score.)

You want to get a tight grip, because the rope is yanked up very fast. So fast that it looks like everything around you is suddenly falling away with such speed that friction against the air causes it all to burst into flames. Quite a harrowing experience. But you’ll do fine. Just make sure you hold on to the rope.

The important parties at the old mansion are the ones that happen every full moon. There are parties on new moons, holidays you’ve never heard of, and other special events and occasions, too. The New Year’s Eve parties every Halloween are legendary. But the full moon parties are the ones everyone wants to be at because they’re the ones with a guest list.

If you didn’t make the guest list you can still crash the party, as long as you agree to play a victim in the murder mystery party game that starts during dinner.

Guests come wearing the latest fashions from the present, past and future. The mixing styles always triangulate in sexy arbitrage. These parties have been known to get pretty wild.

The observatory tower is roped off. During the party, a few chosen guests are allowed up into the v.i.p. area. They’re never seen again. The guests are only chosen at the party, there’s nothing you can do before the party to ensure you will be allowed up past the velvet rope.

The occupants of the mansion disappear around midnight, wandering off into the night carrying dessert plates and glasses. But the party rages on until dawn, when the mansion itself disappears, guests and all.

Only the drivers in the observatory tower know where the mansion goes after it disappears, if anyone does. The rest of the guests invariably wake up in their respective homes, in their respective beds, not knowing how they got there.

No ghostwatcher’s trip to the old mansion is complete without a visit to the garage/rec room. Ghost mechanics work on old cars, while foozball tables played by invisible hands look like non-euclidian engines, the pistons on the sides moving in and out in their arhythmic way.

Circular paddles and pucks hover and glide high above unplugged air-hockey tables. Apparitions crowd around arcade cabinets, rooting for the ghosts. Every time a pac-man dies, they cheer.

The back of the garage is a jumble of video monitors and car parts, wrapped in a tangle of wires and circuit boards. This is where doctors and scientists both living and dead experiment on different ways to get a ghost into a machine.

They have not had much luck yet. A ghost can possess a machine, but actually getting in one is another matter. One ghost will get lost in the chips, another gets sucked into a vacuum tube.

The most promising method so far is entrainment. For this, the tech has to be fairly advanced. The exchange between the tech and the ghost must be of such a nature that they learn from each other. The cycle of reciprocity gains momentum, soon the tech has a heart which is the ghost’s heart, a soul which is the ghost’s soul.

The biggest hurdle is giving the tech a mind that is the ghost’s mind. For this to happen, the ghost must concentrate. If the transfer is successful, the result is not an artificial singularity. It’s more like the video game comes alive, becomes a game to which the ghost can now entrain itself completely.

Secret passages, staircases and hidden rooms in the old mansion reveal themselves unexpectedly, as if the mansion chooses when to show them, and to whom. You can search for entrances, but a wall panel that you were certain was solid yesterday may slide open for you today.

Guests are usually stunned when they begin to realize the extent of the network behind the walls. Suddenly every bookcase might be a door, the heavy mysterious fireplace might swivel.

Now there are red-hot embers in the fireplace. Funny how the fire is lit, and yet isn’t. Isn’t, yet doesn’t need lighting. By placing wood on the glow, the fire will jump up of its own.

It’s kind of like in the story of Lord Nrsimha, avatar of Krishna. I’ll summarize off the top of my head. A demon-prince, I don’t remember the name, has followed all the rules of sacrifice and prayer until he’s granted a boon. He asks to be invincible day and night, on the ground or in the air. Now he thinks he can’t be killed, and goes around acting like a demon-prince with impunity.

So Lord Nrsimha grabs him at twilight, sits down on his throne with the demon-prince in his lap, and tears him to pieces.

On rainy nights a green light comes from the windows high at the top of the observatory tower of the old mansion. The green light isn’t seen from the inside, though. The source of the green light is a mystery. It has been suggested that it is an atmospheric electrical phenomenon like the St. Elmo fire.

The room at the top is an astrolabe. Ancient devices have been modded to connect them to the latest advances in computing equipment, the whole room quietly clicks and whirs, hums and purrs.

In the middle of the room is a table with a book on it, n-dimensional collapse manipulations: harnessing synchro-entanglement. The book is as cumbersome as its title.

The book is open to a page in the first chapter. To make it interesting, I could place the contents of the page in a quote box, and provide a dead link at the bottom of this strategy guide. But I won’t do that. Why should I make things interesting?

The page starts in the middle of a paragraph: 

“Adding up all wierdings doesn’t get us to the seventh dimension, we need to add a dimension, we’ll call it the mythic dimension. Adding up all mythics doesn’t get us to the eighth dimension, we need to add a dimension, we’ll call it the celestial dimension. (Incidentally, this eighth dimension is where the galactic federation has its headquarters. Although that is top secret information, so don’t go blabbing about it. Humankind just isn’t ready.)

Adding up all celestials doesn’t get us to the ninth dimension, we add the dimension of the mundus imaginalis. The higher dimensions begin at the tenth dimension, the world of light. The eleventh dimension is the heaven of light. Alternately, the tenth and eleventh dimensions are called the lower and higher dimensions of light.

The twelfth dimension is the hidden dimension. We don’t see it, but it is there. The thirteenth we call the world of pure lights, and the fourteenth is called simply the resplendent.

This is by no means the end. After the resplendent is a veil of mystery, beyond which are dimensions without end. There is no end but the end of ending. To say there is no God but God is only to say there is no horizon but the next horizon, and after annihilation comes the annihilation of annihilation.

So working our way backwards from the annihilation of annihilation, back through annihilation and the veil of mystery, the resplendent and the pure lights, the hidden, and the higher and lower dimensions of light, we find ourselves back in the mundus imaginalis, at the top of the lower dimensions. If we keep going, down through the celestial, the mythic, the wierding, and the proud and courageous eternal, we finally come to the dimension of spacetime. We’ll call it the heroic dimension, the abode of the hero of time.

Below that is the dimension of faithful bodies, the dimension of symbolic mastery, and the first dimension, the dimension of dimension. Beyond the first dimension is a dimensionless dimension. This is where you can find me at my post. Some people divide the dimensionless into four elemental dimensions, or dimensions of integral structures, fire, air, water, earth. some people add another dimensionless dimension inside the earth, where they mine for materials, like Minecraft.

After the dimensionless dimension, there are no more dimensions, just dementia, theoretical physics and other speciality mathematics. As Hawking says, “there may be things smaller than a Planck length, but it would be meaningless to talk about them.”

So we go up again. When in the dimensionless dimension, looking up at dimension one, the dimension of dimension, it is important to remember where you are in the field of dimensions. Forgetting the scale of dimensions is the biggest mistake one can make. It causes stupefaction, and you will lag behind. And when you are at the bottom and lag behind, it cannot end well. If you become stupefied higher up you will also lag behind, but there is at least a chance you will snap out of it before you fall too far behind.

To read more you’d have to turn the page.

Occasionally a new occupant settles in to the mansion. The previous occupants don’t move out, the new occupant joins the others.

The newest occupant always takes out the trash and recycling, gathers the mail and newspapers down by the gate, gives tours, polishes the silver, and much more.

The new occupant is an expert tour guide, bringing the mansion alive for the guests. But the new occupant doesn’t see the mansion as guests see it. For the new occupant, the mansion is in ruins. Walls caved in, ceiling collapsed, nothing but the sky above. A rare type of bird lives in the ruins, sort of a cross between crow and parakeet. A super-intelligent species, not your average murder and pandemonium.

When the moon split apart, the new occupant was down by the gate getting the paper, watching in surprise as the pieces rained like meteors down on the mansion. But the new occupant chose to stay in the ruins, living with the super-intelligent birds. Doesn’t see the old mansion as it was, not even in the mind’s eye. Yet still sees it clearly, plain as day, somehow.

Anyway, I hope you’ve enjoyed the tour. Tell your friends. Be sure to stop at the gift shop on your way out.

Soon the old mansion will get lost in the threads. But those who have visited it don’t ever get lost, they simply vanish. In a moire distortion veil, leaving lots of cherry blossom petals in their wake.