Plasma and Structures

He found himself in some kind of club. Music was playing. People were dancing around. Among those present, three stood out — lacquered hairstyles, suits, chains, cigar, whiskey. The two big guys headed toward the new guest, who was already walking unhurriedly but confidently toward the exit. Without wasting a second, he accelerated along the street. The big guys came out of the club and moved in his direction. He turned into a dark alley and ended up in a dead end. Seeing metal stairs, he began to climb them. One of the big guys fired a couple of shots but missed and realized that the bullet could ricochet into his partner, who was already climbing the stairs. The stairs could not hold — part of the flight collapsed, and the big guy fell into a dumpster.

It turned out that workers had just poured tar on the roof, and his feet stuck to it like glue. He managed only to reach a pipe one meter in diameter and jump into it.

Rushing deep into the pipe with many turns, and finally reaching the last turn in the form of a ramp, he flew out of the pipe onto a wedding. A smoke machine turned on. Smoke poured from the pipe. When the smoke began to dissipate, the mafia realized that this was the one they were looking for. He dove into the smoke and hid in the garden. In the end, nothing worked except jumping back into the pipe. The mafia noticed this, ran up to the pipe, and began shaking it.

He was being shaken, but the shaking soon stopped. He overcame the atmosphere. The capsule he was in joined a swarm of ships — the Cryonic swarm, where many Earthlings slept while they figured out what to do, because there were essentially no sufficient grounds for anything. There was no goal.

Humanity had wandered into the so-called self-annihilation arm. The swarm was the sum of consciousnesses — modules that together formed a single cluster. Inside it, holograms were lived out: earthly lives, ordinary everyday routines. In parallel, super-differentiations were solved, which with each step, each iteration, generated the very reason why this was happening in principle.

The one who discovered this thought while inside an earthly iteration, walking through the forest, would consider this thought as pretense, which made it impossible to wake up on the ship, in the capsule. This, among other things, stabilized the processes of the cluster.

Pretense is a branch of creation, a degree of pre-creation, a way to hold the gaps in the shell — one of many optimization functions. To pretend for a while means to create one’s own world in which everything is as it should be for the optimization of earthly man. Pretense can be produced and changed rarely, or it can happen every second, depending on the frequency of practice and the intensity of growing symbiosis. It is subjective and differs from the pretense of others — from their intensity and frequency.

On one hand, pretense is the creation and maintenance of multitudes of subjective worlds for the optimization of these same worlds and those from which they are produced. On the other hand, they are soft geometry — intertwining patterns that acquire either sharp angles and rough two-dimensional forms, or incredible futuristic multidimensional soft reflections, projections, whose symmetries constitute the three-dimensional state of a person in ordinary everyday life. The predominance of one or another multidimensional form depends on gravity, which, unlike earthly gravity, is symmetry. Symmetries influence and determine the state of matter. Pharmacores as intermediate links in the state of man — so he thought.

He had a duffel bag with him, matches, tobacco, and rusks. He was walking through the forest and saw a small elevation in the distance, in which there was an inconspicuous ajar door. Entering it, he discovered it was a bunker, and the door immediately closed automatically. It was a hermetic door with a combination lock. Inside there were several compartments. Moving from one compartment to another, he saw that there were only two, but when transitioning from the second to the first, he discovered that it was already a different compartment — in other words, a third one. And when he transitioned again into what had been the second, he realized it was not the second but the fourth. Thus he counted seventeen compartments that looped and repeated again.

When he finally grew tired of opening and closing doors, he lay down to sleep in the most suitable third compartment.

Waking up, he went to another compartment, which no longer resembled any of yesterday’s. It was a food compartment with two refrigerators and boxes containing a variety of canned goods, cereals, boxes of cookies, cocoa, powdered milk, nuts, all kinds of chocolate bars, containers of water, filters, medical boxes with first-aid kits.

The next compartment was also different: a shower, toilet, exercise bike, washing machine. This time there were only three looping compartments. He understood that every day their number and contents changed, but they changed depending on the fact that he understood this and, building on this understanding, constructed patterns, discovered categories and types, kept computational records, built diagrams. He had to carry a duffel bag with records, maps, notes for years. Compasses, rulers, pencils, spare glasses, magnifying lenses — he packed all of this into the duffel bag before heading to the neighboring compartment. Sometimes he left the duffel bag and looped back to it again, knowing in advance the time-transition pattern. He got used to leaving the duffel bag and always returned for it in time.

Once he returned for the duffel bag, but it was not there. He always knew the door code, but he also knew that this code changed every day. All the notes were in the records. He moved a chair, sat down at the table, narrowed his eyes, and began making calculations. He closed his eyes and, in silence, over the course of four years, came to the point where the door opened. People came, carefully placed him on a stretcher with bells, and carried him into the mountains. They left him there and departed.

He woke up in the third compartment and everything repeated again — and again, and again. Sometimes he muttered in his sleep that he was a monk, and he was not alone — he was a repeating monk, a multi-monk, he muttered.

Once he woke up in the mountains and dispersed immediately across all the mountains. One lived his entire life in the local village. Other lives had different trajectories. Some lines looped, branched, but all of them had continuous trajectories, intersections, symmetries, forming geometric metamorphoses.

Sometimes these were mountain ridges. Below, wavy hills could be seen. Near the hills, rounded roofs of huts were visible. Mushrooms could be seen in the grass. There were mushroom pickers by the river.

Everything was where it was at every moment in time. And where it was not, there was something else. There was the absence of what was not there. There was the presence of absence. There was a monk. There were many of them. They were where there was nothing but them. Where there were no monks, there was everything else. When something appeared, the monks disappeared. When something disappeared, the monks appeared.

All monks are one monk. Everything is the shadow of the monk, except the monk himself. The shadow is the shadow of this shadow. The shadow of the shadow is the shadow except the shadow itself. The shadow is the shadow. Shadow.

Sometimes birds sang in the garden. One sang like this: “tiu-i tiu-i tiu-i ti.” Then another sang the same way. But when many birds sang at once — and they sang the same — it already became “tiu-i-i-tiu-i-tiu-i-u-i-ti.” Although each sang like the others, together they sang not like one. And the more birds there were, the less identically they sang, and they did not let him sleep.

A year later, having opened the vent, there was silence for two weeks. He packed his duffel bag and set off in search of the birds. Climbing a hill, he looked through a spyglass. On the southern slope, children were rolling a tractor wheel. Inside the wheel was a person. In the east, there was a gray-haired sage drinking tea from a bowl and eating sumalak with a spoon. In the west, there was an old sage eating tea with a spoon and drinking sumalak from a bowl. In the north, there was sumalak and an old man — he was from the bowl.

Wiping the spyglass on his shirt, he looked south again. In the south was the north. In the east was the west. In the west was the east. In the north was the south.

He folded the spyglass, put it in its case, placed the case in a bag, put the bag in his backpack, slung the backpack over his shoulder, and noticed something glowing in the distance. He took the backpack off his shoulder, took the bag out of the backpack, took the case out of the bag, opened the case, took out the spyglass, unfolded it, wiped it, and carefully brought it to his right eye and began to look.

In the distance, someone was sending a signal. On a nearby island, someone was waving an object reflecting light and sending a signal. Not far away, on the slope of the hill, lay a boat.

He folded the spyglass, put it in the case, placed the case on the grass, took the bag out of the backpack, wiped the case, put the case in the bag, put the bag back in the backpack, slung the backpack over his shoulder, and went home to sleep.

In the morning he packed the backpack, put the spyglass, halva, cookies, a pack of tea, a pack of tobacco, a pipe, and a mug into it. He reached the boat, put the backpack in the boat, lowered it into the water, jumped in, took out the pipe, lit it, took the spyglass out of his pocket, and began to smoke, look, and sail. He sailed, looked through the spyglass, and smoked. Suddenly he saw smoke, removed the pipe — the smoke disappeared.

He sailed to the island, tied the boat to the rocks, slung the backpack over his shoulders, and headed toward the hills, making his way through thorns, palm thickets, and lianas. He walked all day and found a freshwater stream. He lit a fire, brewed tea, and discovered that someone had opened the package and bitten the halva. The tracks led into the forest. When it finally grew dark, he made a torch from coconut husk. He saw a fire on the hill but did not dare go at night and went to sleep.

He slept well in the warmth. By the fire on dry ferns it was warm, comfortable, good.

In the morning he opened his eyes and felt excellent — more precisely, as good as never before. He decided not to go anywhere. Why go somewhere if it was already as good as never before? He built a hut, began gathering materials, setting up everyday life, catching fish. He built a hut on a palm tree, learned to jump between trees, gathered mangoes. He hid the boat in the jungle and never climbed the hill where a fire was lit every night.

Once someone came and began taking photographs. He photographed the hut, the everyday objects, the fire pit, fish remains, the torch, coconut plates, sculptures, stones, ropes, knots, totems, canisters, nets, the pipe, boots, and left. But after that, no one came anymore.

Once a small plane crashed on the island. It fell beyond the hills, two days’ journey away. At that very moment, a man in rags ran out of the forest. He was saying something in his own language. On his faded torn T-shirt was the inscription “Brazil Coffee.” He pointed his finger at the hill where someone lit a fire every night. Suddenly the plane that had fallen a minute ago flew out backward from behind the hill and flew away.

Night fell. He lit a torch and headed up the hill toward the fire. After several hours, he saw a man calmly sitting by the fire. This man was talking about how time had begun to change after electromagnetic installations started being tested on the island. About how a man had sailed to the island — he had sailed to the island many times and was sending a light signal with a piece of the plane. He looked closely at the man by the fire. The man turned his face toward him. It was himself. He himself had sent the signal. He himself had directed the experiment. He had sent the plane with emitters that had unexpectedly activated in the air. He had created and installed several emitters on the island, built the hut, jumped between trees, and caught fish for trillions of cycles. And suddenly his mouth began to speak it all in reverse order. He began to shake and glow, twist and blur across the ground, flowing down the slope of the hill.

Part 3

At depth, fish were playing. While time passed, something had to be done. Everyone was similar in that they were doing something. These were metabolizing organizations — in the form of fish, animals, and all other living beings, living and metabolizing. A person split a fish, the fish split another fish, another fish split plants, plants split the bones of fish, plants split the sun. A person split himself and others, but not everyone. Mostly, everyone split the sun. And not only that — the sun also split everyone. Sometimes a person argued about what could be split and what could not. He argued, that is, he split. At the same time, a fish was splitting inside him, but the fish was also splitting the person himself by giving him strength so that he would live longer. And the longer he lived, the more the sun, oxygen, other people, other fish, and he himself would split him.

He himself was not only himself. He was substance. Inside him was substance, and not just one. Outside there was also substance, and not just one. Inside one substance there were many substances, and inside those many, and between them, there were other many — like nesting dolls, liquid nesting dolls passing through other nesting dolls. They were like bubbles inside bubbles. They could pass through each other, could merge with others, forming larger and smaller ones. These bubbles could take different shapes — for example, in the form of a fish or a fish’s eye. And when the fish looked, small bubbles could travel from its eye to its brain — that was what it saw. And from outside, from what it saw, bubbles flew off that had come from space. Everything was relations between all possible forms of bubbles inside one large fluctuating formless bubble.

Once a fish overcame itself and became a human. Perhaps one day a human will also overcome himself and change form. Once, a man entered a shot glass bar and began to overcome himself. There was a time when everything was different. He was tiny, smaller than a millimeter. He grew larger and overcame everything. Sometimes everything overcame him and he shrank, but then he grew again. He pulsated.

He left the shot glass bar, walked down the street and pulsated. The bus engine pulsated. Workers pulsated. A streetlamp pulsated at fifty hertz. He walked calmly, measuredly, stepping on the cobblestones in such a way that his shoe compositionally did not violate the boundaries. The changing forms of tiles, puddles, roads, and alleys merged into mathematical intuitivism.

He crossed one street, then another, describing lines, arcs, spirals. He conducted experiments with electromagnetic waves without any emitters or installations. He observed, analyzed, remembered, compared, twisted, rotated, symmetrized, compressed, stretched, disappeared. He disappeared in one place and appeared in another. He wandered through villages, fields, mountains. He was a mountain, a stone, snow, a tree, sand, soil. He was straw, a fly, a spider, a potato, an onion, flour, a spoon, a pie, a yoke, a fence. He lived in the village and was the nose of an old man, the wheel of a freight train. He traveled the world, was a button in a spaceship, a wire on the Moon, a photon. He became a photon and left the galactic arm, got on a tram, and rode home.

He took a piece of chalk and began to draw. He drew a triangle in which all angles were right angles. He drew a round square, a square oval, and an oval polygon with one angle. He drew a circle, and inside it another circle that was larger than the outer one. He added yet another outer circle that consisted of right angles and was smaller than the second. He lowered the upper board, fixed the sound of the board’s wheel on it, turned the bicycle upside down, attached a rattle, and began to construct diagrams of rhythmic synchronicities with events on the roof of the neighboring house and with the movements of pigeons.

He picked up the receiver, listened to the beeps, turned the coil of the telephone and the knob of the radio, and watched how the pigeons spun around their own axis. This formed intuitionist implications. He looked out the window and implicated passersby. Someone was hurrying, someone was lighting a pipe, someone was carrying a bucket of sand. One man carried a two-by-two sheet of plywood, another carried a box, pliers, a hammer, nails. Two carried a pipe. A man in a jacket carried a twenty-liter bottle. All of them created a changing rhythm.

He took a typewriter out of the closet and began to type. He typed words that had already existed before his birth. But if that particular order of his own words was isomorphic to his genetics, then who was typing the text? Could it be that genetic algorithms were typing their own intonations? he thought. He thought that it was they who had thought about themselves, and he, at the same time. No matter what he typed, he was typing a map — a map of himself. Even if what was printed spoke about how he was typing a text inside which he sat at a typewriter typing himself, he was still fractally printing himself, sitting at the typewriter and not in front of it. And at the same time he remained in the memory of friends, in the memory of a dog. Wherever he was, he left imprints everywhere of what had existed before his birth — which had imprinted itself in the form of himself, continuing consciously and unconsciously, accidentally and intentionally, to imprint itself in space, which itself was an imprint.

These were layers. He moved between layers.

Once he took a tabla out of its case and began to play combinations of four variables: ta ka di mi. He connected this with the four DNA bases and the fact that systems of calculation, the tabla, and the gong were invented in India. That rhythm is topos. Topoi are mathematical universes. By producing rhythm, a universe is born. Rhythmic interweavings are interweavings of universes. Rhythm is connected with repetitions. Repetitions immerse one in trance. Trance is connected with synchronicity. Trance is samadhi. Samadhi is infinity.

Repetitions are practice.

Practice is mantra.

Mantra is memory.

Memory is life.

Life is rhythm.

Rhythm is pulse.

Pulse is breathing.

Breathing is meditative.

Meditative is sattva.

Sattva is purity.

The next day, at lunchtime, he heard someone speaking to him on the radio. He told everyone to be quiet, knocked on the neighbors’ door and said he had just heard a knock at the door. No one opened. Someone was talking on the radio. He approached the radio and began turning the knob. The voice began to speed up and slow down. He tuned the voice. The voice said: “Turn one knob to mark four, the other to mark five.” Then the voice said: “Take a step back and do thirty push-ups. Bring new resistors and replace the transformer. Connect the speakers. Attach the amplifier. Across the road there is a good premises. Ring the doorbell, say “owl in the suitcase.” In a few seconds you will see an envelope, a key, and leaflets under the door. Pass the leaflets to the person on rollers at the entrance to the editorial office. A journalist will come out from there and hand you an envelope. Two blocks away is the institute. There, at the entrance from the courtyard, there is a janitor. Give him the envelope. He will check it and give you a case. Wait. A taxi will arrive. Go out of town. Get out at the power plant. There, along the road through the forest, people will meet you. Open the case, carefully take out the capsule with the button on it, press it. The case and the people will disappear. Walk along the road to their car. Use the capsule if you see anyone — they are not real, it’s a hologram. In the car there should be a small device, gray, resembling a cube. It is semi-transparent, possibly in the glove compartment. This cube creates the hologram. Take it in your hand, don’t be afraid. Synchronize with it. It will show you that you are in empty space. Create space using your imagination. It doesn’t work immediately. Try changing locations. Do not move more than twenty-two thousand kilometers away from the cube. Use the capsule if you feel that something is wrong. And remember — everything tends toward equilibrium.”

In the room where he found himself there were books and magazines. They contained images of people who did not exist, but he knew they did exist — they had merely transformed. They existed in the form of their children. And those who had no children still existed. If someone invented the radio and had no children, he transformed into the radio. The degree of a fisherman transformed into rice. Children came to school and ate rice. The mathematics teacher transformed chalk into a bagel. Across the road was a bakery with tubes, nearby lay braids, triangles, rectangles. He asked for half a rectangle, wrapped it in paper, came home, set the package aside, took a ball, divided it into rings, took a formless substance, placed it in a concave form, added rings, subjected it to heat treatment. He took another formless substance, placed it in another concave form, put spirals in it, and also subjected it to heat treatment. He merged the substances, mixed the rings and spirals.

He took a linguistic translator and angularly translated the rings and spirals into pasta and onion sections. He took a geometric translator and translated them back into spirals and rings. He was always surrounded by forms that translated into words. Words translated into dopamine, into actions. Actions were the translation itself. Everything intertwined and was itself an interweaving. It represented categories, sections, levels.

He looked at everything through thermodynamic glasses. Years passed. Space continued to structure itself. Some structures maintained stability, others did not. Relying on stable structures, he decoded something. If he decoded something, then he was encoding something. And if he was encoding something, then he was decoding something. Overall, he was recoding — building upon what existed, and it became different, yet remained itself. In childhood he looked different, but he had always remained himself.

Sometimes he put on electromagnetic glasses and observed how space interfered, although he himself consisted of chromosomes and cells, inside which flexible manifolds of geometry functioned — bio-nano-robots overgrown with variations of their own algorithms. In other words, if one looked at it with the naked eye, it would be what it was — a visual geometric constructor containing information through electromagnetic waves. Through a special microscope displaying an image of the nano-robots on a monitor, if translated into text, errors would appear. Every subjective gaze would describe the object subjectively — namely, sets of letters, words, their order would not be symmetrical, but morphic, intuitively the same. Yet the more subjects there were, the greater the degree of dissimilarity — though mostly in micro-discrepancies.

When translating this into a graph of functions, a diagram, sound, intonation, voice, language, what it originally was became more complex. Perhaps it could only ever be a translation, he thought. And the very fact that he was thinking was also a translation. But the way he translated was it itself in his representation.