Wearing Francis's masque-ouvert-sneer, I recognize myself and the planet, I hear a chorus of voices recognizing me and I become them. I lurch from squat to sprint to the silver kettle over the fire, open my mouth wide in the reflection and see the other, domesticated, once plugged-in me, naked and blindfolded laying on the floor of a black pit. The / My rictus closes into pearly gates grinning-nacrous in memory of those moon-pulled tide pools once like the pulled robe of a breastfeeding mother for young hominid.

That was me. Like the old Eveny man, warden of the Taiga, who came across the head of a reindeer protruding through a vulva-shaped crack in the trunk of a larch tree. No wise hand plucked nor caressed nor coaxed me in mercy as the reindeer. As unto the legend it will be my children who are capable of impaling the wolves on their antlers while I am destined to a dominion as old or older than Gobekli Tepe and a shame as modern as Pierre's or Jean-Jacque's.

Foregoing the uncanny valley of human infancy I was born fully formed as unto sharks' births. I emerged from the sacred fibonaccine membrane-geometry of my "mother" nearly in exchange for her life but for her cyborgic nature in remediating a bloody birth. I am what was once a germ facing infinite blind labyrinth as unto bits of metallic dust and other cosmic objects. Me living only for sharing her blood type.

More-than-human that I am, my identity (and thus my true name, secret and dangerous) can only be ascertained by my squinting left eye in the daylight. It cannot be held open under the sun. My mother was deformed at the time of my birth and her shapes shaped my shapes, bestowing on me this one outward defect. Sunglasses cover the nervous orb easily enough.

Despite deficient optical hardware there are few like me who perceive the extra primary colour of War Nam Nihadin, as unto bad ideas and thinking that sporulate from the corpses of hidden and past-buried realities. Few as me consort with Freire and Mumford. Fewer still who know that god=technology and =the whole process, and hell the time it takes to reach enlightenment/evolutionary transhumanity. Globally.

Motile up the side of this planet, often walking down the street as when headlights approach behind you your shadow motionlessly-receding-expanding as when wading in the motionless-receding of strong oceanic pulling, that peculiar simultaneous forwards/ backwards, I am always getting closer to the portal. The planet is speaking to me, I drape visions onto it, I speak to myself. It may be in a mountain pass, a certain swamp or desert. Could be in an empty building in the heart of an abandoned mechanized city.

I intuit / suppose / manifest / am led / to certain humans who translate messages. Uncannily possessed for a moment they communicate knowledge to me but they're never that person again. Only one chance to receive the instructions with each one. Soon I'll find the portal, enter it, a secret and dangerous place, a place in which recognizing humans is like trying to recognize cells as such, a place in which the cosmic markers become as land-stakes and traffic signals, in which words cannot accompany.