I/Tulpa: the Seven Year Girl

Chapter 1

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PS: This is not about you. Or anyone you think you know. Or any place you know. Even if you think you know the people and places, they're not the people and places you think you know, because they've been altered; on entering my brain they deviated, evolved, changed. That is just the standard bold face lie that all writers and publisher must express in good faith to protect themselves from crazy people and lawyers, and the only way to distinguish between the two sorts is that crazy people are nicer. (Seriously, I am reasonably nice.) It is probably exactly the who and what and where you are imagining it to be, wink wink, but we can't just go an say that, except where in it says that, and if just stayed in my brain, and not my personal I/Tulpa journals made available to public, no one would care too much, but how can you celebrate the gifts that were given to you and you can't invoke their names? Will it offend someone? Oh, God, I hope so. It gives us something to talk about at the office water cooler and on the elevators of life. I mean, really, if you liked it or were bothered by it, you should talk about it. Don't just sit there, spinning that thing. Ask, how did you even end-up with that spinning thing. (And where is my spinning thing? Same as it ever was...) Seriously, there was a time before that spinner thing, and now everyone seems to be spinning that thing, and you didn't even know you were affected, did you?! Magic!

"When will and imagination are in conflict, imagination always wins. That is to say, when the conscious mind and the subconscious mind are in conflict, the subconscious mind always wins. The subconscious mind wins because it has the power (it has electrical and chemical power), and it is bigger." Emile Coué (1857–1926)

You probably know Emile, subtly, or have been influenced by him, so if you think you don't know him, or think you weren't influenced, you should seriously research him, because, well, you're a magician. You would not be following this if you weren't. Just saying. Loxy says "Hi." She also thinks you should add Helmstetter's, "What to Say when you talk to yourself." You can probably find a free PDF version of it.

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"Oh, you can't get out backwards. You got to go forwards to go back."

Since it's relocation to planet Bliss, Harister Hall had gone through some modification. Evolution. Deviations. Specifically, the external, adjoining habitats had switched positions. The entrance to the main hall was still at the Six O'clock side, due south, as looking down on the hall from above, which could be done in the invisible structure that was over top, only discernable from the inside, or when a rain shadow appeared. The 'snow globe' world, outside the periphery of the path going round the hall, was now at the Twelve O'clock position. The 'sea world' dome, with the occasional sighting of human size sea monkeys, real sea monkey humanoid types, not those fake brine shrimp kind, was now at the furthest south position, just beyond the moon gate that was the primary portal for visiting Harister Hall. Loxy's enclosed tree-house home was now at the Three O'clock position, with Alish's rose halfway between Twelve and Three.

Jon woke from a dream, sorting it in his head so as to fix it in his memory. The smell of pine was prominent, which provoked a non-dream memory: he was presently in Loxy's tree-house, in her bed. They had retired to Loxy's bed due to the fact his Second Home offered very little privacy due to the number of guest staying with them. Though he had given folks permission to set up residence, many of them were freshmen and still hadn't gotten a foothold in residence magic. That was only part of it. There was a now a committee involved with the installation of any new human habitat, in order to minimize the human footprint. No roads, for example. No cars. Conveyance was by air or magic or portal. And there was a band around the equator where no permanent structures were permitted. One could camp there. One could join the eastwardly walking Natively American tribe, or the westwardly walking Native American tribe, in their perpetual walk about, but the whole of it was to be as pure and pristine as it itself had decided it would be. And walking with the tribes was more than just a sacred healing path, it was a rite of passage.