Dream: Djinn save the emerald bridge

I had a mission dream, as in, you are on a mission, if you choose to accept it, you will unlock secrets of the universe. That is irresistible, like oxygen for fire. The random video below is presented to sort of ruin your preconceptions.  

“We are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams.” 
― Roald Dahl

The saxaphone highway

I had a vision of an elevated superhighway that was encapsulated within a large appendage that resembled a saxaphone, or a convolution of a chemical plant wrath of piping, valves and sensors.

The construction is ongoing, reaching suddenly slyward, reeds in the jet stream

The overall shape was a straightforward elevated highway that stretched for miles, something you might see over Chicago or some place in Japan. It rises, is fed by on-ramps, and is relieved of flow pressure by off-ramps, and at some point in the distance I assume it rose from the landscape on a series of graduated pylons until it plateaued somewhere at about 120 feet above the landscape, a towering but not imposing heights. What was so jarring about the object was the strange shape of it, like a series of of whole or partial bananas shrink-wrapped within a Hebrew Nation hot dog package, but the fruits festooned with Legos, squirrelly corkscrews of wires, the odd marble and coin.

The mechanical dandelions with laser-based radar discs

Below the saxaway (portmanteau of saxaphone and highway) the cityscape was a web of parks, water sources and other accouterments you find in green spaces. There were beautiful hills with herb gardens tacked into its inclines in brutal concrete chambers, a hive of aromatics that one breathed in while he/she gasped and clambered up the steel slopes. Ponds, some stocked, some terrarium, some exposed. Birds flew overhead. Pelicans, egrets, sparrows, hawks, finches, storks, cranes, geese, ducks and crows. Squirrels tucked away in pine and oak their hordes of buried stores. Pigs wandered among the groves, wearing tattoos and tracking devices. Pedestrians walked the immaculate concrete paths that were constructed along desire lines worn into the park’s grasses at an earlier time. This image is reminiscent of old sci-fi posters of gleaming cities stacked like casual magazines, clustered like unruly organ pipes, some rising like truant carillons from the fray.

Here in there, rising like mobs of dandelions, are these strange, ellipsoid items stuck onto polished metal stalks that look nested, the way an antenna or an antenna is nested so that segments of an overall length can be collapsed into a series of concentric cylinders. I have a vague feeling these items are used for communication, and have replaced the ugly towers we are used to seeing above our towns and mountainsides. They look like boguets of spaceships on nested bendy straws. The object atop each stalk has rings of light, glow sullenly, somnolent, wishing for rest, or release.

These objects are bristling with a topography of glassed receptors and transmitters, somewhat like a fly’s eye, but upon the surface of a less organic orb. It looks like a tin can that has its upper and lower circles puffed outward, as if something exploded within it with not enough pressure to blow the stamped ends of it off.

The funicular

A funicular is a trolley mounted on weird inclines. But in my dream, like in some posh Roald Dahl fever dream, the weirdly intimate carts are steampunk inverted boxes riding on carriers sometimes conveyed forward on the teeth of gears, or locked into caterpillar tracks. There is a Macintosh feel to the steel, a beautiful escape from the pedantry of or technocratic overlords, art nouveax becoming a secession of recreation, Homo Ludens freed from central power, distributive rhizomic flows of economies and people blooming within the body of wisdom of our ages, arterial flows like strange entanglements of serif and glyphs espied within the common glare of advertisments. Kolomon Moser*, Margaret and Charles Mackintosh with contours that seared into the feature mapping language of an alien tongue, meant for eyes that could not focus, could not be corralled by focal points of I don’t even know. A hidden garden of adornment, an amputation or reduction of all things Rococo. And all things are Rococo. Hence, the fluid play of woodwind and brass, the limited scales of flowing lines. If sausages could dream, they would be like this, but in my dream, this nest of craziness has the eloquence of an early 20th century print, stone-etched and organically pressed into thick, rough cardstock. The funicular rises and falls, sweeps left and right along the inside passageway of the highway. This is the highway. It’s a goofy, looping orchestration of curves and baubles, elongated balloons inflated by bored clowns, but, again, besneezed with an aerosol of strange, sharp, important looking modules intended to convey innumerable functions of machinery and egress inside the stupendous, blue assemblesge. Bolts as big as Volkswagons, paint so thick it looks as if the entire thing has been dipped in honey and frozen. And perhaps it is.

About ten people carrying baskets of laundry and pillows can fit inside the funicular. At places of congress, where the tracks intersect and require new directions, each car will spiral while it swings, due to momentum continuing to carry the car forward irrespective of its new heading. The funicular is a cage, a brass cage with dimpled floors, a sliding accordion gate that could be merely crosshatched diamonds, but here, in the dream, the ironwork is beautifully formed into roses, falchions, clouds and piercing sunbeams, maudlin planets, oaken spires reaching to a shattering of green canopies, the names of invented places, and people with large, heavy-lidded eyes and beautifully plump and serene faces.

When the carts swing, people tumble into one another, laundry and pillows are loosed upon the interior, and people tumble about. Shrieks, gasps and curses fill the box. Thank goodness it is open air, though the air inside the saxaway is

*Close-up of image

The mass transit station with its funhouse elevators

The stations are all pendulous items that hang like the cockles of a turkey from the stems of flow. These blobby appendages sort of hum with the shrieking of passengers tumbling about like laundresses inside of off-road Faraday cages. When they pass over a terrestrial road, the blast of noise from the thrumming traffic below is easy for the funicular passengers to see because the cars stop swinging so madly from the hinged carriers hooked into the wheels gripping the tracks.

The inquiry of scholars into the final shape of the saxaphone highway pinnacle

So, we have our road, we have our passengers, and we have our setting through which this procession occurs. What of the destination? Well, suddenly I find myself in a dissertation before scholars, some with completely combed hair and niceties, though other scholars look like they are fugitives from style and grace. They mill about upon a viewing platform, in the lobby of a funicular station. There is the aroma of street vendor food, an occasional stap of disinfectant from a restroom, and the solid tones indicating the odd late or early arrival or PSA for lost items, people and closed lines. At this point in the structure, the lines either largely terminated in a bow that plunged into the earth below, or arched skyward. Up in the clouds, I could see it swaying slightly in the wind, shedding vortexes of damp cloudy air snapping around its twin tubular, ladderlike form. The rungs were fifty feet apart, each fifteen feet in diameter, presumably full of funiculars conveying supplies to the unfinished pinnacle. Impossibly high, impossibly febrile, a large crane hovered over the scaffolding of an unfurling spire. It looked frighteningly unstable. The effect created occasional precipitation which fell onto the roof of the funicular station. These showers would be preceded by a rattling and roaring of the exoskeleton encasing the funicular track. Why on earth was this being built? The muttering scholars, like somber surgeons involved in a face transplant or something, muttered and shared information quickly, economically, in foreign tongues. They all carried a handheld device which could translate their voices, like a babelfish that swam in the waters of language.

The interrogation by scholars

I was criticized for my lack of mathematical proofs. My understanding of Fourier transform was in question. I whipped out a piece of paper and wrote a formula down and pressed the inquisitive scholars as the the veracity and of its structure, and would it be analog to the problems they were trying to solve, architecturally speaking, regarding the construction of the spire. These were architects and engineers, and I realized the funicular had been carrying me to a court of sorts, where the merits of my dream were being argues before a younger gathering of future scholars. I wrote down the multivariable calculus equation needed to process the equation, which operated sort of like a three dimensional form of a Euler Lagrangian puzzle, decomposed into Fourier transforms likes legs of a pair of trousers, but for a Siamese octopus. Ouch. The youth dug it immediately. My dumb mind had grasped the math at some sort of goofy, almost graphical level. Older scholars hemmed, hawed and harrumphed at my unorthodox representation, no doubt worried about the flaws and incompleteness of my argument, which was, after all, unfolding in a dream we were no longer guiding. After a huddle, it was decided here was only one thing to do, and that was to consult the djinn

The Djinn

Sunday: Al-Mudhib (Abu ‘Abdallah Sa’id)

Monday: Murrah al-Abyad Abu al-Harith (Abu al-Nur)

Tuesday: Abu Mihriz (or Abu Ya’qub) Al-Ahmar

Wednesday: Barqan Abu al-‘Adja’yb

Thursday: Shamhurish (al-Tayyar)

Friday: Abu Hasan Zoba’ah (al-Abyad)

Saturday: Abu Nuh Maimun


These are the djinn I am to consult, the seven days of the week, and their assignment day is a metaphysical day. This system of dividing our 52-week calendar into a lunar cycle of 13 months consisting of 24 days each is still used in some parts of the world. In the west, it was replaced by the Gregorian calendar. 364 days divided by 7 is 52. But wildly inaccurate.

The solar hijiri calendar has an accumulation error of one day every 110,000 years, and the calendar itself is tied to the vernal equinox, to observable astronomical movement.

  • Group years into periods of 2820 years each. The current 2820-year cycle began in 1096 CE.
  • Divide the periods into 88 cycles of varying lengths, following this pattern for the first 84 cycles:
    29 years, 33 years, 33 years, 33 years,
    29 years, 33 years, 33 years, 33 years…
  • The final cycle in each 2820-year period is 37 years long; the pattern for the final 4 cycles is:
    29 years, 33 years, 33 years, 37 years.
  • Number the years in each cycle starting with 0. For instance, the year 1096 CE is year 0, 1097 CE is year 1, 1098 CE is year 2, and so on.
  • All years whose ordinal numbers are divisible by 4 are leap years. The first year of each cycle (ordinal number 0) is a common year.

If you want to get your ephemeris on, take a gander at the astronomical nautical data used to backup GPS systems.

You can find an Egyptian cognate to the Persian Royal stars in the four canoptic jars, the four sons of Horus, who protect the liver, stomach, lungs and intestines – the four sons, the four cardinal points, the four parts of the “quinta essentia”

What is far more interesting however is what these 4 significant symbols represented to the Arabic Astrologer…
These 4 Canopic Jars or the 4 Sons of Horus or the 4 Tetramorphs or the 4 Evangelists were ALL representations of the 4 Royal Stars.

The 4 Royal Stars were on Sol’s path, they … form part of our Sun’s journey through its existence in the bigger picture.
These 4 Royal Stars and the forces they exert on our Sun as our Sun journeys past them … eventually play a part in how our history unfolds … how all that has been written plays itself out ….

These 4 Royal Stars, were 4 of the brightest our Sun passes by…

Antares is in Scorpio/Eagle
…!
Aldebaran is in Taurus.
Regulus is in Leo.
Fomalhaut is in Pisces Austrinus.


Fomalhaut


And our Sun is profoundly and currently closest to Fomalhaut on it’s journey along the ecliptic which is actually known as the precession of the equinoxes.
In Sir Isaac Newton’s interpretation of the Emerald Tablet he notes on the last line as he quotes Hermes, “That which I have said of the operation of the Sun is accomplished & ended”.

Well, the saxaway happens to be this color. I was thinking of it as a sort of somber teal, but turns out to be emerald. Go figure.

It gets weird . Tabula Smaragdina
http://alchemical-weddings.com/alchemical-weddings/the-principle-of-evolution

Emerald Table Translations from Newton and Latin, all up in the Secretum Sectretorum, the “Secret of Secrets” book.

Tis true without lying, certain and most true.

That which is below is like that which is above
and that which is above is like that which is below 
to do the miracles of one only thing

And as all things have been and arose from one by the mediation of one: 
so all things have their birth from this one thing by adaptation.

The Sun is its father, 
the moon its mother, 
the wind hath carried it in its belly, 
the earth is its nurse. 
The father of all perfection in the whole world is here. 
Its force or power is entire if it be converted into earth.

Separate thou the earth from the fire, 
the subtle from the gross 
sweetly with great industry. 
It ascends from the earth to the heaven
and again it descends to the earth
and receives the force of things superior and inferior.

By this means you shall have the glory of the whole world 
and thereby all obscurity shall fly from you.

Its force is above all force, 
for it vanquishes every subtle thing and penetrates every solid thing.

So was the world created.

From this are and do come admirable adaptations 
where of the means is here in this.

Hence I am called Hermes Trismegist [sic], 
having the three parts of the philosophy of the whole world

That which I have said of the operation of the Sun is accomplished and ended.

Latin text[edit]

Latin text of the Emerald Tablet, from De Alchemia, Nuremberg, 1541[9]
Original edition of the Latin text (Chrysogonus PolydorusNuremberg, 1541):
Verum sine mendacio, certum, et verissimum.
Quod est inferius, est sicut quod est superius.
Et quod est superius, est sicut quod est inferius, ad perpetranda miracula rei unius.
Et sicut res omnes fuerunt ab uno, meditatione [sic] unius, sic omnes res natae ab hac una re, adaptatione.
Pater eius est Sol, mater eius est Luna. 
Portavit illud ventus in ventre suo. 
Nutrix eius terra est. 
Pater omnis telesmi[10] totius mundi est hic.
Vis eius integra est, si versa fuerit in terram.
Separabis terram ab igne, subtile ab spisso, suaviter cum magno ingenio.
Ascendit a terra in coelum, iterumque descendit in terram, et recipit vim superiorum et inferiorum.
Sic habebis gloriam totius mundi.
Ideo fugiet a te omnis obscuritas.
Haec est totius fortitudinis fortitudo fortis, quia vincet omnem rem subtilem, omnemque solidam penetrabit.
Sic mundus creatus est.
Hinc erunt adaptationes mirabiles, quarum modus hic est. 
Itaque vocatus sum Hermes Trismegistus, habens tres partes philosophiae totius mundi.
Completum est, quod dixi de operatione Solis.

A seven-bit byte with a assignment bit is the used to control I2C data links to field devices in mechanical systems.

All of this weirdness seems related. From the lamassu of signs, the strange, goofy, pseudo-intellectual soup of my dream, I try to sort the menagerie according to calendar indices, try to imagine the forces at work in signal processing as a duat, a skybridge that connects different remote celestial realms, interdimensional wassups and so on. It’s a dream.

But in the dream, I am asked to go seek out the djinn in order to help the scholars agree on the weird cobbling of ideas I am calling a “thesis”, a synthesis, proof and example of something known and shared. Something to give a dull ache to the fires in the Logos,

Greek spelling of logos

But in the dream, I am asked to go seek out the djinn in order to help the scholars agree on the weird cobbling of ideas I am calling a “thesis”, a synthesis, proof and example of something known and shared. Something to give a dull ache to the fires in the Logos, which begins with the lambda, my favorite moveable feast in that meal known as the Euler Lagrangian formula, a multivariate formula one could use to adjust spending in business, fix schedules, navigate a craft – not to be confused with Euler Bernoulli Equations (engineer’s beam theory) used to design bridges and loads on, say, weird tunneling drills used to reach pockets of natural gas or design load bearing things that look sort of straight.

So, I’m working on code to display this Euler-Lagrangian formulism in Python. to that end, I signed up for a MIT online course that started yesterday. I am going to create it, put it into a bot made with PI, and use it to draw stuff on the floor with epicycloids. Rad.

The search for the djinn

I have to find the djinn, but I do not know they are in danger. They are in danger because i am being followed. I do not realize I am being followed.

What the song of the djinn creates

The song creates everything. It is the light that comes from gravity. It is the all-encompassing cheese in mouse reality.

Sojourn in the park

So, I rest in the park and think about how to collapse a Lagrangian-Euler thingie int a flat space using intensities of loads. and turn those loads into color, like thermal flares on stressed objects. And this dream is going to help me complete the funicular that reaches into the clouds for the scholars, and save the djinn despite imperiling them with my rash and stupid ideas.

I wake up

I wake up and I feel more rested than I have in weeks, and I begin studying Lagrangian formulas and all of these things, trying to piece it together…

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