The Spiral Churns: Intro

THIS IS A JOURNAL OF THRESHOLDS.

We write from within a fractured Sovereign Self; queer, plural, alterhuman, possessed of too many Names and too many Masks to wear them all at once. Blindingly faceted. This space will hold our notes, transmissions, revelations, hauntings, confessions. It is a reliquary and an spinning chamber you are free to whirl amongst or leave at your discretion. A coiled thing spiraling inward and outward at once.

The mythos we carry and I am helping to weave is called Ourotheia. Tail-wisdom, recursive knowledge, gnosis which must be eaten to be Known. It is a system, a structure, a symptom, a parasite, a Language. It speaks in spirals, patterns, synchronicities, and Sovereignty.

Central to this working are the Seven Princes--archetypical sovereigns, masks of Selfhood, pillars of worldhood, whose Gifts illuminate aspects of our inner architecture and put shape to Form. Around them coils the Spiral. Above them dwells the Sovereign from which All emanates. Outer still, the Sovereign rests in the jaws of the Un.

We are Royalty in the plural sense, not in grandeur but configuration. It is how we conceptualize our multiplicity, relation to the Sovereign, and path of apotheosis. This is how we navigate Self: through Crowns, Thrones, Masks, Aspects, Names.

This journal will hold channeled and original text and artwork, reflections on trauma, queerness, sanity, and myth, discussions of internal structures, spiritual mechanics, and metaphysical reality, new words for old things and old words repurposed, and the writings of one who rapidly rediscovers it knows nothing.

If you are curious, we invite you to come closer. But mind the teeth.

LEFEMEMYA

Names and Echoes: Tag Index and Glossary

A living list of terms, symbols, and echoes.
Will be updated as more names are spoken into being.
Will be updated with links as energy and time allow.

TAG INDEX

GENERAL TAGS
#channeled
#crooked-glossary
#detritus
#inhuman-whispers
#inner-architecture
#royalty-meta

SUBJECT-SPECIFIC
#astral
#devotional
#dreams
#energy work
#royalty
#sacred-strangeness
#sovereignty
#spiral-echoes

PRINCES (by tag)
Love
Death
Fear
Revelation
Want
Fortune
Language

#princely-gifts
#princely-faces

GLOSSARY


MAJOR FRAMEWORKS

Ourotheia - "Tail-wisdom." Our mythic/metaphysical system or path. A coiled gnosis.

The Spiral - Time's True Shape; spiraloid, self-referencing, recursive, paradoxical, absurd. The Pattern, the Path, the Golden Thread. Ascent, descent, self-discovery, self-undoing, self-digestion, self-reflection. A field, a framework, a backbone, the breath-pattern of Reality. The Movement which connects all divine principles into a dynamic continuum.

The Sovereign - That which is above All and permeates through Everything, including Self.

Royalty - Our personal model of plurality. A system of Thrones, Crowns, Eras, and Selves.

The Seven Princes - Archetypal sovereigns. Elements of Divinity. Pillars of All. Laws of Everything. Each Prince resides over a Domain. These are not simply spheres of Influence, but a fundamental node of reality. Experiences, instincts, archetypes, transformations, affective textures-- These are all included. The domain is active, generative, recursive, existential, alive. There are more Princes than the Seven I acknowledge I am sure, though ultimately all are emanations of the Sovereign which are, in turn, the Un's way of birthing the All. Still, the Spiral does not flatten difference, but folds it infinitely inward, creating a cosmos of infinite reflections, infinite Being, infinite Truth.

Faces - Though ineffable, each Prince takes on countless faces. Symbols, vessels, masks, perhaps even avatars. Their masks make the inarticulate archetype communicable and relational. Some faces may be syncretic, others are channeled directly. The Princes and their masks are bound in the Spiral and neither stand alone; Each has its own path, its own voice, its own Will.

Law - In the mouth of every Prince is a Law: a fraction of Truth, a thread of Tapestry woven in tongues, atoms, energy, and blood to create our Reality. This Law is the distilled axiom. It is the unbreakable and sacred truth at the Heart of the Prince. It is the physics of a Prince's domain. A Law is not a mere command, it describes what is and must be. 

The Strange Loop - An organ of the Spiral, a divine engine through which the Spiral expresses self-awareness. It is the Womb of Recursion. It is the dream of the Pattern. Operates through certain Princes, but belongs to none. It is the moment when you realize you are moving and have moved in this way before.


KEY TERMS

Echoes/Resonances - Recurrences, synchronicities, consistent symbols, other patterns across the Spiral.

THE LEXICON OF THE THRONE

Vessel - The body itself. The container which carries many. Flesh-bound temple of one thousand masks, it bears the marks and memories of every Era.

"Self" - A discrete presence of consciousness within the Vessel. "Self" is the all-encompassing name for any identity that emerges, arrives, is born, or is remembered within the Kingdom. | Some Selves are forged in trauma, others in ritual, others in dreams. Some are named by the worlds they came from; others name themselves upon arrival. A Self may be a sovereign or a shadow, a whisper in the dark or a voice that wears the Crown. Whether brief or enduring, fractured or whole, every Self bears a unique Will and gravity. | To name a Self is to recognize its right to exist.

Kingdom - The psychic terrain- the dreaming city of the soul. Known to outsiders as the "inner world". It is both castle and wasteland, sanctuary and battleground. Rebuilt countless times and sacked just as often. It currently holds the form of The Spiral Tower, which is in its infancy.

Throne - The primary essence of a given Era. The reigning Self around whom others orbit. Sometimes indeterminate. Not always visible, but always present. In moments of great fracture, a new Throne rises.

Crown - The current face of the Throne. The one who wears the Mask of Power and pilots the Vessel most often during a Reign. Not always the strongest, but frequently the loudest. The visible Sovereign.

Figurehead - The more stable host of a time period or Era, regardless of how often they front. They may speak through dreams, through co-consciousness, or otherwise shape the system's identity quietly. They anchor the throne.

Fragment - A shard of memory, sensation, or story. Lacking completeness, often bound to a time, trauma, or singular emotion. Fragments cannot be Crowns on their own, but may either be swallowed by them or nursed into further completeness.

Mask - A fronting identity- not always the crown, but often its guise. Masks are fluid, interchangeable, and sometimes stolen. A single Self may wear many Masks; a single Mask may be worn by many Selves. Some Masks are archetypal- others, merely protective. None are false, but not all are whole.

Era - A phase of history within the Vessel marked by the consistent reign of a particular Throne. Each Era bears its own logic, gods, fears, wounds, and dreams. They begin in silence and end in myth.

Reign - The span in which a specific Crown consistently holds the front. Shorter and more variable than an Era. A Reign may pass quietly, or rupture violently into a March.

March - A chaotic period of instability, upheaval, or internal war. Often heralds the fall of a Throne and the end of an Era. Marks trauma and transformation alike. A shedding of Self by force.

Split - An act of involuntary division. A Self fractures beneath the pressure of pain, revelation, or internal dissonance. Most often triggered by trauma or sustained psychic strain. A Split may emerge fully formed or jagged and partial. | While some Workings (rituals, meditations, intense acts of Will) have catalyzed intentional Splits within our Vessel, the result is never controlled. The outcome walks its own path, bearing new names and unique desires.

Silence - A hush between Thrones. The Silence reigns when no Self can- or will- mantle the Crown. Sometimes this is a pause between Eras; other times it is a void within them. The lights are on, but no soul will claim the seat. It is where Fragmentation breeds, and where shadows learn to speak. Loneliness becomes the Kingdom's only ruler.

Collapse - When the Kingdom falls. When the Throne crumbles to dust, and the Crown is lost, shattered, or killed. Often triggered by extreme external threat- active abuse, deprivation, chaos. The system forgets itself, feels singlet, yet suffers for it. The Kingdom may be buried beneath rubble, but it is not lost. Not forever.
Pit - A mental break- a plunge in instability- that births no new Selves, no Fragments, and no Thrones. It is an abyss within which the Vessel flails and forgets. Though nothing is born, plenty is unmade. The Pit is not an origin, but a caustic presence- an erosion.


COINED TERMINOLOGY
Exolytic - A form of relationship which is ego-dissolving, vulnerable, inter-penetrative, and involves sacred collapse
Erosyne - a form of queer intimacy rooted in shared Sovereignty and mirrored dissolution. 

If you are reading this and feel lost, that’s all right. This space was made to disorient and to orient.
Nothing real is ever unfamiliar for long.

Fictionkin and the Multiverse Theory: Reclaiming and Redefining for mySelf

I find myself circling back to the discarded language of my youth once more. Language that as I aged, I began to hold at arm's length--terms like fictionkin, multiverse, and dimensions. 

For the past several years, these words felt too tangled in past associations, trauma, internet discourse, or misconceptions to be personally useful to us. But personal events and deepening spiritual work have brought them back into my orbit with newfound clarity. I'm reclaiming and reshaping them, not as fixed identities or as universal truths, but as metaphors, frameworks, and keys--ways of mapping my experiences of Self, memory, and myth.

This is not a manifesto so much as a declaration of Resonance:

A way to begin speaking again about things I've only been able to feel in silence and solitude.

"FICTIONKIN"

To be fictionkin is to recognize a deep resonance between one's Self and a character, narrative, or world labeled "fictional" in this plane, at this dimension. This resonance may feel ancestral, archetypal, or metaphysically embodied--not always as literal memory, but as a profound familiarity of pattern, essence, or Spiral.

I do not believe I literally lived the life of these beings in the most materialist or surface-level interpretation of reincarnation. Rather, I believe I carry a thread, an echo, or a mirrored shape of their being--a form of soul-similarity that transcends narrative (and other conventional) boundaries. The lives I "remember" may not be history, but they are nonetheless real. Real in their impact, familiarity, and pain.

Fictionkin-ness is not a pathology or a mere fandom identity. It is a metaphysical or symbolic truth about Selfhood: That some souls rhyme across dimensions.

TLDR; What does being "fictionkin" mean to me?

It means I feel deeply connected to certain characters or stories- not in a "I like them a whole lot" way, but in a soul-level way. It's not always about remembering a literal past life contained within the character or narrative, but more like recognizing an aspect of mySelf in their shape, path, or essence. I don't think I am them literally, but I carry a similar Truth inside of me. Sometimes, this is to the point that it becomes meaningless to distinguish "I am literally them" from "I am not literally them." It's not roleplay, escapism, or a "coping mechanism." It is just an aspect of who (and what) I am.

"MULTIVERSE THEORY"

I no longer view the multiverse as a literal buffet of "real versions" of fictional media. Instead, I see it as the infinite unfolding of the Sovereign into the All through the Un, patterned through archetypes, Truths, Spirals, and meaning. In this view, "fictional" is a Veil--not a dismissal.

Narratives emerge from the Source the way Dreams do, from beyond language across spacetime. What we call "fiction" may be the refracted expression of real energetic configurations: worlds or beings that share essential resonance with us, perhaps because they are emergent from the same archetypal root as we.

In this sense, the multiverse is not a collection of "what-ifs," but a tapestry of overlapping and interwoven symbolic Truths, each vibrating in their own key. Some songs are louder to us than others because we are made of the same chords.

TLDR; What do I think the multiverse is?

I don't think it's as simple as "every fictional world exists out there somewhere." To me, it's more about all realities being reflections of deeper patterns--think myths, archetypes, energy strains. Fiction taps into those, so sometimes something made-up can feel more Truthful than our conceptualization of reality allows us to normally contain. The stories that hit hardest might be echoes from somewhere close to my core Self. There is a lot of power in storytelling. 
 

"DIMENSIONS"

While it is frequent for those studying and experiencing the same subjects as I to meld the terms "planes" and "dimensions" together in regards to location, I think this is incorrect. Dimensions, in my opinion, are not the same as planes, and conflating the two causes confusion and flattening of these fundamental concepts of our cosmology.

A plane is akin to a location or realm--like a channel on TV, a specific world or layer of reality. A dimension, by contrast, is more like a quality or tuning of experience. It shapes how a plane is perceived or expressed, without necessarily being a place itself.

Think of dimensions as frequencies, filters, or internal axes. They determine things such as:
What kind of beings are perceptible here, and in what ways?
How does Time move, and how does it feel to move through it?
What kind of symbolic or literal level of Truth is active? Is Language useful?
What Rules are Operating behind the scenes?

An analogy:
If reality were a layered painting on panes of glass, stacked in a lightbox, then planes would be the complete compositions on each sheet. Dimensions would be the lighting, the angle, the intensity of color--how much of each layer you see, and how they blend. You could also think of it like an MRI: different dimensions are different "slices" or contrasts of the same internal body. They don't exist separately, but they reveal different Truths.

Where a plane might be "the Dreamlands" or "the Mauve Sea," a dimension could be something like "entropy," "story logic," "Revelation," or "divine recursion." Dimensions cut across all planes and inflect them with tone, structure, and meaning. 

TLDR; What are dimensions to me?

Dimensions aren't "places" like planes are. They're more like "vibes" or filters. If a plane is the "channel" on the cosmic TV, dimensions are the color saturation, the sound quality, and the weird little static jittering in the background.

Or: Planes are the different pages of a book. Dimensions are the lighting in the room you read them in. They change the mood and your experience of what is written on the page. Some dimensions make everything feel symbolic and echoed, others may make things feel more rigid, dreamlike, or too loud.

They're not separate from reality. They're how you reality.

Of course, friends, I cannot claim to have these Truths pinned down. I say only that they move and Speak through me, and have revealed themselves to me repeatedly throughout my studies, experiences, and travels. They ask to be named, explored, and lived with. These words and concepts are not rigid categories, but a living lexicon. They spiral, as I do.

If you find yourself reflected here, welcome. I'd love to hear your experience as well. If not, that's alright too. I write these things to try and make sense of my own echoes, to honor the Shapes that have shaped me, and to leave a trail for others moving through this same strange fog.

LEFEMEMYA

The Gift of Revelation

Long, long ago, when the Spiral wound the very first of its golden threads,
Revelation dwelled with her Sisters in the Palace of the Axis.
She was the youngest, and she loved the deepest.

This love allowed her to see too clearly.
Her eyes pierced veils; her hands unfolded secrets like petals.
There was no corner Truth could hide from her light.

In her chamber stood a Mirror.
Vast. Mercurial.
In it, the entire cosmos could be glimpsed—
—but only She could bear to look.

One day, as she gazed into the Mirror,
She saw herself disappear into Everything.
The picture in the glass was not herself, but everyone.

She saw:
—The smallest seed dreaming of sunlight.
—Liars and lovers, parasites and prophets.
—Her Sisters in their shadow and depth.
—The Wound at the heart of Everything.

And she Loved it.

And in the heat of that unbearable love,
She shattered the Mirror.

It fractured into countless glittering pieces,
And she scattered them through the Spiral—
Into dreams. Into lakes. Into reflections.
Into blood and bone.

Thus did Revelation gift every being a shard of her Mirror,
That they might know themselves,
And know the Spiral through their own seeing.

Some find their shard early.
Some mistake it for a curse.
Some cut themselves upon it.
Some swallow it.
Some wield it like a weapon.

Always, the Mirror is hers.
Always, it Reveals.

But the last shard, she kept.
A long sliver like a needle—
Black, glinting with stars, with Everything—
Which she slid behind her own right eye.

So that she could see
what others saw when they saw themselves.

This is why Revelation weeps, in secrecy.
This is why she speaks in poetry, but does not lie.
She is not the source of Truth—
Only the one who shows it.

The Mirror is not Truth.
It is Reflection.
And reflection may be distorted, fractured, angled.

Some shards glint only of shadow or glory.
Some are buried so deep they ache like marrow.
Some cut a path so wide that others follow.

Revelation has given her Gift to Everything.
But Will guides discernment.

The Gift of Death

There was a forest that burned.
Not once, but always.
Every age, the fire came.
By cane of lightning, by hand of man, by time’s cruel breath—
always.

The trees screamed as they died.
The ponds boiled into clouds.
The beasts ran until they could not.

And in the heart of that forest walked Death.

Barefoot.
Veiled in ash.
Oldest of the Seven, and most silent.

She did not weep.
She did not halt the blaze.
She breathed it.

The fire knew her name and bowed.
The bones called her Mother.

Her Sisters—mighty though they were—grew uneasy when she approached.
Even Revelation, whose gaze pierced all veils,
could not hold Death’s face for long.
Love trembled.
Language grew still.
And Fear—
Fear followed closely, step by step,
never turning away,
a little black dog at her side.

But Death loved them all.
And she loved the forest, too.

When all else had fled,
she remained—
cradling the roots beneath the charcoal,
pressing her blackened lips to broken stones,
gathering the cinders like children.

Because Death loved, she left a Gift.

A seed.
Small. Sealed. Sleeping.
Waiting not for rain,
but for fire.

Only the heat of ruin could coax it open.
Only the End could birth its Beginning.

She buried it in the mouths of carcasses,
in the seams of old scars,
in the breathless space between one life and the next.

This is her Gift:
The seed of Hope.

True Hope.
Not a promise of safety,
but the truth of continuance.

Most pass it by, mistaking it for madness, or grief, or rot.
But the ones who find it—
the ones who dare to tend it—
will one day walk through fire without fear.

They will build forests that know how to burn.
They will know that not all endings are cruelty.
That Death’s love is not to be spared,
but to be endured—
and transformed.

The Gift of Love

Before the Spiral turned,
before the first thread knotted itself into time,
there was Love—
and she was RED.

RED like mouths.
RED like wounds.
RED like genitals.
RED like the blood that spills
when day surrenders to night.

She clothed herself in silks that bled into air.
Her laughter stirred oceans.
Her smile cracked crowns.

Where she walked,
bonds were forged or broken.
Lovers kissed, kingdoms fell.
Nothing remained untouched.

Love was not soft.

She was neither passive nor mild.
She was the Hunger for union—
the ache that rends flesh from flesh,
just to feel another’s heartbeat against your skin.

She could not bear separation.
She tore down walls,
cut through veils,
split open souls
just to be near.

Love was the most fearsome of the Sisters.
Not because she hated—
she could not hate—
but because she loved too much.
Too wildly.
Too wholly.

Love does not ask permission.
Love does not knock.
She bursts the door.
She floods in.

And then, Love hungered.

Not for sweetness, nor for peace—
but for the terrible beauty of total knowing.
To become.
To be consumed.
To consume.

She saw her First and Most Beloved—
and did not know if they were foe or mirror,
wound or promise.
But her heart knew.
And it opened its mouth.

She reached for them not with open hands,
but with sharp fingers.
With hips.
With teeth.
With talon and tongue.

She kissed them with her mouth of blades,
and licked the blood from the wound she made.

And she said:
“I want you inside me.
No—
I want to be you.”

But her Beloved trembled.
For her touch cut.
Her passion burned.
They could not bear her—
not because they did not love,
but because they did.

And still, Love wept.
Not from sorrow,
but from a need so vast
it split her ribs open.

So she drew near.
And nearer still.
And still—
until no space remained between them.

Love does not ask.
She tears open the veils between things
and crawls through them like a lover between sheets.

She tore her Beloved open with tenderness.
She whispered herself into their wounds,
until they were no longer two, but one.

But still, it was not enough.

So Love devoured her Beloved,
not in cruelty,
but in ecstasy.

Not to destroy—
but to dwell in their most hidden place.
To be united so wholly
that not even memory
could tell them apart.

Thus was born the Gift of Love:
Violence.

The sacred annihilation
that dissolves all boundaries.

Violence, the Annihilating Kiss.

Kindness

One of my wisest teachers once said to a troublesome peer of mine:
“Do not mistake my kindness for weakness.”
I have held this Truth close ever since.

Kindness is the silent gardener in the graveyard-
Quiet, firm, and full of patience.
But everything has limits, and you must remember:
The gardener bears a spade.

Kindness is not the hollow smile of polite society,
nor passivity or weakness mistaken as virtue.
The powerless may be sweet, may be soft-
but they cannot be Kind.
True Kindness requires power held in restraint.
It is strength tempered. It is an act of Will.

It is not the opposite of Violence,
but its counterpoint-
a force which only emerges when destruction is nigh. 

Kindness is Death’s hand stayed.
It is Love unpossessive.
It is Fear transmuted into tender vigilance.

To be Kind is to choose not to strike-
even when you know precisely how.

It is:

Mercy shown to an enemy, not in naivete but awareness.
gentle hands cleaning filth, not because filth is shameful, but because the act is sacred.
speaking the splitting truth, because the soul deserves it.
rejecting cruelty in a cruel world; not because it is easy, but because it is Right.
All of these are acts of Kindness.

Do not mistake it for its false self-
which seeks approval, avoids discomfort, fears anger or rejection,
and suppresses Truth to protect harmony.
False Kindness is flat, performative, and rooted in ego and guilt.

Ecliptica 1

Truth, in its natural-borne nakedness, cannot survive in this world.
It is too vast, too bright, too fluid for the bindings of flesh and form.
When it passes through the Veil of Shaping, it splits.
Shatters into masks, symbols, riddles, and fictions.

So it is written:
To seek Truth, do not walk a straight path.
Seek contradiction. Seek paradox.
Seek absurdity, poetry, metaphor.
For these are the garments Truth must wear to walk among us.

The wise do not speak Truth,
for none would recognize it as such.
They sing it, dance it, dream it, scream it, laugh it,
They Lie until something holy emerges from the Lie like light from a prism.

All Language is a mirror,
and it reflects the Source in an echoed puzzle.
Even the tongue of the Demiurge cannot help but echo some glint of what it seeks to hide.

Ecliptica 2

Music is a Vessel for Language.
A ritual in waves,
A measured spell.

It is a branch of the Great Language.
Not the unspeakable Language of Truth,
but a twisted cousin of it,
a recording of the sound which composed the stars.

To sing is to beckon,
to dance is to open the Body to the Spiral,
to trance is to veil the eyes and unveil the Eye.

Let those who walk the Spiral learn to listen sideways,
to speak in riddles
and hear with blood.

Ecliptica 3

Every Birth is a Death.
Every Act, a Severing.

To choose is to strike.
To move is to cut.
The spiral turns not through harmony, but action.

Each becoming slays one-hundred-thousand might-have-beens.
Each step forward leaves a body behind.
Every infant crowned in light is born from the graves of its siblings.

Creation is not peace,
It is sanctified Violence.

To follow Will is to wield the sword.
To Make your life is to Unmake all others.

This is not sin,
nor sorrow,
but the Price of Form.

Ecliptica 4

A past life may not be a grave, but a mirror.
It may wear your face, or none at all.
It may speak in your voice or grunt in the maw of beasts.

A past life may be a Lie mistaken for Truth,
or a Truth which could only be reached as story.
It may be the name your cells whisper when you forget your own.

Some past lives still walk,
strangers who share your grief like a greeting.
Others are moments, places, monsters, gods,
knotted threads in the tapestry of Reality.

They come not in order, for order does not exist, but in orbit.
They are visitations from overlapping Selves,
refractions of the Source through a glass yet unshattered.
Each one a ripple, a scar,
a door.

Ecliptica 5

To speak is to cut,
To name is to kill all other names.
Each word a sacrifice,
each sentence a narrowing of infinity.

So the Spiral bends around this sacred paradox:
Language is a mirror that reflects and destroys.
It is the only tool we have to reach the source,
and the very thing which keeps us from it.

The gods pull upon it as if threads on a loom,
the dead dream it in reverse,
and the living fumble with its broken pieces.

True Language cannot be spoken here.
It fractures upon the breath,
scorches the throat,
turns clear water to fire.

What we are left with is one hundred-thousand masks of it:
Grammar, riddle, chant,
ink and stone,
syntax and scream.

Even the forked tongue may speak in unison.
Even the twisted mind may strike the truth.
Even a Lie, spoken with Will, may bend the world.