Glow Tribe.

If honesty
makes you unpopular,
than clearly you haven’t found your tribe.

Everyone needs something to freeze-frame
and define themselves against,
just as they feel the burning need
to feed and breed warmth
among like minds.

Loneliness
has little to do with a lack
of bodies, isolation can go deeper
than the skin.

Find family
among those with whom
you share a glow,

true company
among them.

Sitting Duck.

Covet their ambition.
Jealous of their determination.
Greedy for the initiative
they took, as you just

float ’round, sitting duck
in your dismal, stagnant fate,
fashioned by the fear-fueled
choice you always make

to remain habit-bound
to familiar ground,
no matter how miserable.

Commitment to convenience.
Terrified of the whole wide
world beyond the security
of your comfort zone.

Fuck ’em. Fuck it all.
Do it.
You owe it to yourself.

Time to defy your own expectations.
Resuscitate your life.
Find a new treadmill.
Build some peace of mind.

Break free.
Didn’t you want to see
and be so much more?
If not to grow into your own,
what are you
fucking
living for?

Bald Monkey.

When I think of Easter Island, what ultimately happened seems illogical to me, illogical to the point of inconceivable. After all, at some point someone had to cut down the last tree. Didn’t they realize what the bloody fuck they were doing? Did they not see that it was the last? Did they not care? 

And then I think back to when I was a kid, plucking those long, stray hairs stretching out from my father’s
fleshy bulb because, in essence, it just looked funny and inconsistent standing out there all alone, like some cerebral antennae or something — so, well, it must be terminated. 

I think maybe Easter Islanders had a similarly insipid mindset: better extinct than endangered.

Yet the idiotic philosophy has driven me yet again, now with respect to my own skull.

Once upon a time, I would ask guys why they shaved their heads and when they told me it was essentially because they were balding, it would strike me as absolutely absurd. 

“I was losing hair, so I shaved it all off.” 

In many ways, this is how I perceived the act of my former roommate, who had been using Rogaine for a short time before I came home one day and found he had cue-balled his head at the suggestion of some beer-guzzling, vagina-bearing beings he frequently hung out with at the bars. When we went our separate ways, I inherited the Rogaine. 

I figured I had it, I was balding, and it didn’t make sense for it to go to waste, so what the hell? So I tried it. Squirted that little ball of foam into my palm and applied it to the crop circle on my gourd twice a day. Was there a difference? I thought so, however meager, but I soon realized that in order to keep any of the hair I earned through this process I would need to keep applying it indefinitely. That sounded expensive. 

And what about the apocalypse? In the event of doomsday, Rogaine would surely be unavailable, and it would doubtlessly be stressful enough of a time without waking up in a heap of my own hair. 

Is that the way it would work, I wondered — if Rogaine was discontinued would it all fall out at once? 

I stopped using it. 

It is the autumn of life. Just as the leaves dry out and die, falling down and away from the forest trees, so the follicles on my bulbous head go gray and take to the wind. Only there will be no spring for my shedding scalp, I realize. Here we descend into eternal winter. 

Just deal with it, I told myself. Hair time is on the decline. Accept its fate. 

Still, every time I would lean over at work to change the trash I felt as though that bald spot was staring everyone down. A big, pasty, Caucasian eye staring out of an increasingly sparse and graying gourd forest of follicles. 

I had stopped wearing hats years ago — a major transition, I might add, as I had worn a ball cap every day for a long, long time. There were things I didn’t miss, like the way my hair would stick out the sides, how the sweat built up under the band that went around my forehead, how smoke would sometimes build up under the bill of my hat when smoking a cigarette and then bum rush my fucking eyeball. And it made my head itchy sometimes. 

I was balding, though, and Rogaine experimentation was over. So I got a hat. I also took out green Winter cap I’ve had forever. 

Itchy, hair sticking out the sides.

Then I came home a few days ago and said, fuck it. Suddenly I found myself adopting a sort of Hunter S. Thompson approach to my hair. 

Withering away was not the way of the Duke, so he took the auto-Kevorkian route. Rather than postponing the inevitable, riding the slow downward slope to the grave, he beat it to the punch. Self-administered mercy killing. Better to go out with a big bang than a slow, agonizing whimper. 

I grabbed the electric clipper from underneath the sink and mowed by sparsely-haired melon till there was nothing but peach fuzz. 

I look at myself in the mirror, a bald monkey stares back. 

What a large, oddly-shaped head. There is also that weird scar behind my one ear. I don’t remember where I got it from. 

I knew people will ask me why I shaved it. I wondered if anyone who knew my interest in meditation as of late would think I was going monk or something. 

I could be honest. Or I could fuck with them. 

“Well, I’m a heavy smoker,” I could say, “so I’m just getting used to the look is all.”

My only regret is choosing Winter as the season to do this…

Pee Chills Gone Rogue.

One girl I know called them pee chills. Another, piss shivers. If you are at a loss with respect to what I’m referencing, its like a sneeze growing in your nether regions as you take a leak, culminating with this shiver and tickle — a tiny high. Almost a mini-orgasm of varying intensity. They have been intensifying in my life as of late; they have also been moving beyond the realm of mere piddling. One day at work this week was particularly intense. Throughout the day, I would burst into a higher awareness and it would rise and climax — all without apparent trigger. 

The underlying tension was akin to how I felt when I would get angry or scared, only this time it carried the emotional tone of pleasure, eagerness, with a bit of anxiety — an energetic, escalating cocktail of anticipation. It was a full-body feeling akin to riding the edge of a sneeze or building, building sexual excitement, ever on the brink of blowing a full-body load. 

When I got home that night, I had difficulty meditating. I got stoned, jerked off, and after a nap felt better, but with a sort of brain-strain. The tension was still there, like background noise, and I had an almost-headache-like pressure in my skull the following day. 

I remain perplexed.

Lemming Dreamtime.

As the empire
slowly crumbles,
there are riots in the streets.

All the downtrodden
are uprising, fists in the air,
guns blazing.

Towers crumble to the ground,
we stack the bodies high.

Nightmare end to an epic story.

Watch our sacred narrative
as it tears at the seams.
Abandon the vessel now, go,
the fucker’s capsizing.

We all knew deep down
the day was coming.

This is the game
us children play
all the way to extinction.
The masses dumbed down,
distracted, enmeshed
in a system serving
the fat wallets of our owners.

Draining the earth
like parasites.

Void of insight, foresight,
blind leading the blind
at full speed, unerringly
towards the edge.

Terrified, enraged.

To hell with it.
Let’s get on with it.

I used to fear the fall,
so hungry for the ground now
on the other side
of inevitable catastrophe,

fertile soil for hope
rather than this unenlightened
upgrading.

Jerry & the Tao.

Two more memories floated to the surface during meditation in the last week or two. The first dealt with Jerry, a man who I had almost forgotten. I had met him at my first job at Super-K, where I worked with my mother. She worked the kiosk; I was stock boy for the deli.

During that time a lot was going on inside of me — I was inundated with flashbacks, had stopped sleeping and people, here and there, however few and far between, evidently noticed something was amiss. One such person was Jerry, maybe in his thirties. He had dark blond or light brown hair, a full beard, and kind, though sort of solemn, eyes. He seemed more “aware” or “awake” than most; perhaps what I now understand as mindful.

One day he caught me in the cooler and handed me a book. It was The Tao of Inner Peace by Diane Dreher. He said he had gotten out of the book what he could and felt that it might be right for me. I thanked him considerably.

I never got far into reading the book, as what I had read of it just did not speak to me at the time. Occasionally I would pick it up and skim the pages. For years I recalled but one quote from the book, and when I pulled it off my bookshelf again last night, I found it. It was the heading for chapter 10, entitled “Exploring Your Dualities: Yin and Yang.” The quote was a translation of Chapter 42 of the Tao Te Ching:

The Tao is the One.
From the One comes yin and yang;
From these two, creative energy;
From energy, ten thousand things,
The forms of all creation.

All life embodies yin
And embraces yang,
Through their union
Achieving harmony.

A few days after he had given me the book I had found out, through my mother and by listening to the typical shit-talk at work, that Jerry had quit his job, left his wife and child and had run off with some young, hot coworker. Everyone damned him in that typical, reactionary way, as if they had the vaguest clue as to the true nature of his circumstances — what was going on at home, in his life, in his heart and in his head. It was all judgement void of empathy, void of any attempt to understand. I never found out what had actually happened — I never saw him again — but I felt for him in a way. People rarely took the time to understand. They didn’t want to understand.

I think I could have saved myself a lot of pain and suffering if I had just let that insight sink in.

Perhaps he did what he did because it was his way of finding balance or inner peace. Maybe he had one hell of a Jungian Shadow. Perhaps he had fought it and lost, or fought it and won. In any case, he seemed to recognize that I was in the midst of wrestling with my own.

Maybe there was no real reason behind remembering this. Still, I think I’ll try giving that book a read-through again.

Groundless.

After long
enough, he finds
that trust seems to be synonymous
with suicide.

Still, he can never be sure.

Even his mind betrays,
and if he cannot trust
himself, how can he trust
his trust in anything else?

Any approximation
to certainty is a red flag,
then, surefire indication
he must be deceiving
himself again.

There is no solid
ground to be found,
after all,
just island after island
of quicksand.

Only lies can be identified.
Truth remains forever elusive.

So damned afraid
of being wrong,
with more than sufficient
experience to justify
the concern.

If he can never
know for certain,
will he ever learn
anything but suspicion

on a lonely, insipid,
dizzying mission
that could only end
by his declaration of forfeit?

Sex & Transient Ego Suicide.

Eyes like a predator
slowly closing in,
creeping, inching,
locked on lust.

She is set to devour.

Sharp seeth anointed
with saliva glistening
beneath the glow
of the moon, our voyeur
in the sky.

No false avertizement,
nothing here to hide.
Shame has no place
here, she said, leave
your baggage
at the door.

Push the civilized
to the side, embrace the raw
passion of the animal.

Surf this primal howl
over the melody
of plucked heartstrings,

sting of sweat,
a rhythm growing.
Sweet sip
of the great nothing.

Fingers etch
bleeding,
meandering, frenzied trails
up and down
my spine.

Entranced
by our shared
single-mindedness,
shared intimate space,
timelessness.

Something is wrong
here, I feel so alive.
Feel so fucking at home
here, seems so right.

Resistance
in the midst of this,
feebly clutching
to my lack of trust,
the only way
for me to survive,
I’m sure, until
we both let go,

consumed
by this dark bliss,
the shadow’s light,
we swirl, unify,

In this transient ego suicide.

Though no matter how close,
complete, high,
divine,

never quite satisfied.

Battles in the War.

Where were you
when we were down
in the dust of our homeland,

fighting
for what we imagined
to be worth saving,
bleeding the enemy,
antagonizing them like gnats
so they would come to see,
in their greed, that this war
was not worth
their investment?

High above,
studying souls
of a dying world,
thirsty for meaning,
hungry for a better life,
beaten down
by the nightmares
roaming that wasteland.

Exploiting the sick
fate we made.

Now here we are,
brand new skin,
different game board,
same old game,

you can almost smell
the world burning,
feel the frigid aura
of too many hearts grown cold,
so many minds gone black,

just waiting for the fall,
just another rotation
of the cycle,
another tour
through species suicide.

Open my eyes,
leave me scraps,
leave me half-blind
and seething,
living a lie, alone,
yet still dreaming
of a better way of life
as you stare down
with opportunistic eyes.

My chosen destiny
is to break this wall,
to salvage, to help find a way
to better us all
as you stretch out
your dark web of control.

In this frigid weather,
we stoke the embers within,
plowing down
this new path,
keep pushing till we find
another crossroad.

Needing
to find a place offering
warmth far passed
this icy tundra.

No escape.
No place to hide.

Must stand my ground,
walk my path, finding
my peace of mind,

find myself, be myself,
make myself, as I prepare
for the fight…

Aliens & the Nested Universe.

Rather than extraterrestrials, some have speculated that the creatures from UFO abduction accounts may be of extradimensional, interdimensional or ultraterrestrial origin. These aliens originate not from outer space, in other words, but from what is generally known as hyperspace, which gives them room to move in and out of our three-dimensional (3D) space in directions we cannot even point to. While they could be both hyperspatial beings as well as extraterrestrial, there is also the possibility that they may exist alongside us on earth, though chiefly in extradimensional space that remains invisible to us.

In an effort to explore the notion that this exotic hyperspace is the true home of what we typically call aliens, I decided to make my best laymen’s attempt at exploring the concept. Hyperspace is a complex world, however, and I can only hope that what I offer here are signs that I have finally gained some clarity with respect to it.

There are, so far as I can tell, three general forms that hyperspace may take: that of a nested universe, a parallel universe or the wacky world of the Many Worlds Interpretation. The notion of a nested universe seems like the right place to start.

Currently it seems to be the consensus that we live in a geometrically flat, indefinitely-stretching existential fabric of 4D spacetime. Our space is comprised of three symmetrical spatial dimensions, allowing movement along three axes (arbitrarily labeled x,y,z) in any of the six cardinal directions they make accessible to us (east-west; north-south; up-down). Each of these spatial dimensions are an orthogonal extension of the other. A line is a one-dimensional object, its single axis providing length stretching in two directions; though its arbitrary, let us say that its length is in width and it can move east and west. If we extend a line into two dimensions, we get a square. Its two dimensional axis would provide length in width as well as depth and provide, alongside the directions of east and west, north and south as well. Extend a square into three dimensions, you get a cube that could then be measured in terms of its height, width and depth and move north, south, east, west, up and down.

Bound to these three dimensions of space is one dimension of time. Given the coordinate axis t, this temporal dimension is distinguished from our spatial triad in its unique, asymmetrical nature — which is to say it flows only “forward,” unidirectionally, pushing us away from the past and towards the future in the vessel of the omnipresent now. As both space and time are part of a continuum, they are inseparable strands the fabric of spacetime. One is always moving at varying speeds through spacetime with the upper limit on linear acceleration set at 671 million miles per hour.

When one speaks of any number of spatial dimensions in addition to the standard three, this is known as hyperspace. Assuming the existence of just one additional spatial dimension, then, we would extend a cube at right angles into the fourth dimension it becomes a hypercube known as a tesseract. It has length not only in height, width and depth but in spissitude. It can move not only in the aforementioned cardinal directions but also along the 4D axis, providing the bonus directions known as ana and kata.

Unfortunately, such nifty names fail to help one attempting to conceptualize hyperspace. Much of what you read online and in books when you’re struggling to understand the concept of extra spatial dimensions references Edwin Abbott’s 1884 work, Flatland: A Romance of Many Dimensions, and adopts its use of dimension-down analogies.

Imagine, first, that I have an office. Now imagine that I walk into my office, sit down at my desk and look down upon what I first mistake for a sheet of paper with various shapes drawn upon it. Soon I notice that the shapes are moving about on the surface, however, which is kind of trippy, and that they are not drawn on so much as embedded within this 2D Flatland. No matter how close I bring my face to Flatland, for instance, they cannot see me, for they only know of north, south, east and west. Up and down simply do not exist for them.

If we now extend my position to some hyperspatial entity, some hyperbeing, our geometrically flat 3D Spaceland would have to be a universe nested within a greater Hyperspace much as Flatland is nested in Spaceland, specifically on the desk in my nonexistent office. This is because, judging from our lack of immediate and recognizable evidence of it, we can at least typically avoid interaction with this hypothetical hyperspace. Like Flatlanders unable to wrap their mind around our notions of up and down, us Spacelanders would be at a loss trying to conceive of ana and kata. Just as I am effectively invisible to the Flatlanders as I study them, so would a hyperbeing looking “down” (kata?) upon Spaceland, closely tracking and monitoring me.

The kind of perceptual range available to a higher-dimensional creature is also interesting to consider.

As I watch the Flatlanders, one square comes upon another square. It strikes me that not only am I invisible to them both, but that I can perceive them with a degree of totality that they would never be able to achieve in their own realm. Embedded in their plane, each of the squares might understand one another as squares, but they would only be capable of seeing one of the four lines of the other at once. Only by use of depth perception or by moving around the other square and seeing its other faces in seamless succession would its two-dimensionality be suggested. As a 3D Spacelander, of course, I see the two squares as wholes — that is, I see all sides, all four lines at once, adding up to one square “face” framing what it experiences as it’s inside.

Similar to the Flatlanders, however, I only catch suggestion of the 3D nature of a cube by means of my depth perception or seeing one of the cube’s six square faces. A tesseract would have 24 square faces — it would be comprised of eight cubes. A hyperbeing would see each of the 6-sided cubes as it rotated its tesseract just as I see each of the one-sided squares of the cube I’m moving around in my hands.

A hyperbeing would perceive me and the cube in my hand as I see the squares embedded on Flatland. Casually glancing my way, it would see all of my insides at every angle framed by every angle of my skin simultaneously. It would see the bald-spotted top, bottom, back and sides of my head along with my face, all pasty caucasian-colored surface packaging for the skull, eyes, brains, tongue and coffee-stained teeth. In this same way it would see me digesting my lunch. I could run from it, sure, but I would be a fool to think I could escape the all-seeing. There would be nowhere to hide. No matter how secure, how thick the walls, as it peers with its hyperdimensional eyes upon Spaceland it would easily see inside any locked building, any safe, and determine my location no matter how deep underground or high in the sky I am. There would be no privacy. It could track and monitor me from every angle at once and remain entirely undetectable.

The NSA has shit on a hyperbeing.

Despite this apparent perceptual boundary between a nested universe and its extradimensional space, direct interactions between them and their inhabitants are often a focal point in the literature. All examples take for granted the ease with which a higher-dimensional being would be capable of penetrating a lower dimensional plane and effecting its inhabitants. This strikes me as strange given that, as previously described, the shapes are embedded into the fabric of Flatland. Not only do they have no perception of up and down, they are inseparable from and therefore intrinsically bound to their nested, 2D space. They are drawn “in” rather than “on” that sheet-of-paper universe on my desk. You and I and everything else in our Spaceland is embedded within our 3D space, too — we are not resting “on” it. Even so, it could also be a matter of having the necessary technology to penetrate the nested universe.

It may be possible that rather than penetrating the nested universe a higher-dimensional entity would need what we could call “surrogates” or “avatars”. One could adopt an existing lower-dimensional being and utilize them as a medium. They may also adopt the style often attributed to the poltergeist: they could draw and manipulate energy in order to create an “avatar” to work through. Alternatively, one could inspire the members of the lower-dimensional space to construct a tulpa or egregore for them to work through.

Regardless as to whether they are direct contacts or ones accomplished through lesser-dimensional mediums, particular characteristics of their manifestations, if recognized for what they are, may betray their higher-dimensional nature to lesser-dimensional witnesses.

One such characteristic may be the seamless nature of their constructs. If I turn my attention to a group of circles constructing a square house on Flatland, I find that they do this by bringing together countless “dots” to form a square. However laborious this process is for them, I do not have to go through the same, tedious process. All I have to do is grab the interdimensional Sharpie on the table nearby and draw a seamless square. Even so, my square is also composed of countless dots, each of which are composed of dots, and so on, though all dots comprise and constitute the continuous lines that make up the circle. By extension, we would need to gather material to form a sphere — material ultimately composed of countless points called atoms, composed of points called electrons, protons and neutrons, made up of still smaller points, all of which are at once continuous waves that comprise and constitute the sphere. Still, my circle is cooler because it’s seamless and, without breaking a sweat, I could construct it in a jiffy.

By extension, however, it should be just as easy, natural and sensible for a hyperbeing to draw a seamless globe through an analogous process. Creating seamless objects would be as natural a consequence of their hyperspatial nature as the capacity for drawing a seamless circle would be for us. This may help explain the frequently-described seamless nature of both the exterior and interior of the alien craft, strangely devoid of sharp corners to the extreme that the chairs and tables seem molded into the floors. The same logic would apply to the seamless clothing they are often reported to be wearing.

Just as I could step in, or given its size perhaps just poke my finger into the center of the circle I had drawn, a hyperbeing could “step” in and out of their craft or their clothing — or even step through them. Walking through walls and other solid matter would be no more difficult for them than it would be for a basketball to roll through a square drawn in colored chalk on the pavement.

Another suggestion of their higher-dimensional nature may be their shadows. Though they could not see me directly, if I turned on the lamp behind me and let it cast my shadow across Flatland, would they see it? Would they see a 2D shadow betraying the presence of 3D me? Say that I held up a transparent cube near Flatland and shined a light behind it: the Flatlanders would see two boxes superimposed over one another, each of their corners connected by lines — what we would call a Necker cube. If I wanted to get them to grasp what I was and where I came from, that might be one way to do it. If all of this could be extended to our relations with hyperspace, we would then see the 3D shadow of 4D hyperbeing as it observes us from hyperspace. We could even be an audience for a 3D shadow-puppet show, I suppose. Could there be a strange logic behind the reports of “shadow people”? We would see the shadows of a transparent hypercube as a cube within a cube, attached to one another by lines at all corresponding corners. In either case, a rotating cube or hypercube may give the lower-dimensional being a better chance of getting the message, as it would be executing strange behavior.

Another possibility is having them walk on the 2D surfaces of a 3D object. For instance, if I were to rest a cube upon Flatland, they would only see a square — only the 1D faces of it, actually. And while they could not perceive the fact that they were walking upward at a right angle, they could nonetheless travel across all six 2D faces of it. That is to say that if they walked at this square they would not slam into it but rather travel up the face they had been unable to directly perceive, and ultimately all five of them. In this case, our analogous experience with a hypercube might be easier to understand directly. Imagine that a house in the form of 4D hypercube were brought down upon Spaceland. We would just see a regular house, but upon walking into the house we would find it composed of eight rooms, each as large as the house appeared to be from the outside. This may tie in with a pattern in abduction cases reported to various researchers in which the inside of the craft is reportedly bigger than the outside.

If the squares had covered all six faces of the cube I embedded on their plane several times, finally exiting and returning to familiar territory, we could go a step further in trying to help them conceptualize our higher-dimensional space. As they stare at the visible square face of the cube from outside of it, they are of course perplexed: how could that single house contain six times the space as implied by the size of it from the outside? Before their very eyes I could then unfold the cube into its 2D components, the single house manifesting, one by one, identical houses that served as “additions” to it in a cross-shaped formation of six squares. With respect to the 4D hypercube, if it were unfolded I would see the aforementioned house as the base for a fucked up looking skyscraper composed of seven other sections of equal size. It is stacked four houses high, with the third floor accompanied by four additional sections attached to it at all sides.

I could then go on to make more direct contact, and this is typically described as being accomplished in one of three fashions. First is by means of cross-sections. It is generally imagined that if a 3D object somehow managed to penetrate Flatland, the shapes would experience the object in essentially the same way they would an object native to their 2D environment, which is to say they would only see its 1D faces. That said, the object would appear to have bizarre qualities. If I took my two hands and punctured my ten fingers into Flatland, for example, the living shapes would see ten fleshy circles (in line-face) appear out of nowhere in two roughly-symmetrical formations of five.

Now imagine how curious Flatlanders in the vicinity might experiment with this strange phenomenon they are observing and how they might interpret the results. If a triangle poked one of the fleshy circles, for instance, it might notice how all ten of them immediately moved in unison, as if jointly reacting with surprise. What affected one, it seemed, affected them all. Communication between them was impossibly immediate and operated through an unknown medium. The fleshy circles seemed to be able to pop in and out of existence at will as I dipped my fingers in and out of their 2D plane. Imagine now that I dig my fingers of one hand in even deeper, until first my knuckles penetrated the plane, then my wrists. What would the Flatlanders see? Five fleshy, pasty, bony Caucasian circles — or 1D faces of them — slowly growing, then merging into one fleshly, bony oval, then shrinking, growing a bit, shrinking again. I’m kind of hairy, and that would doubtlessly fuck with them, too.

Hyperspatial objects and entities may then appear to us as multilocational, shapeshifting, growing and shrinking, splitting and merging, appearing and disappearing ambiguous 3D forms that offer no real suggestion as to their actual, hyperspatial nature. While this may not explain the reported aliens very well, it certainly does provide an explanation for some of the more peculiar phenomena exhibited by their craft, which have often appeared and disappeared, split and merged before eyewitnesses.

Second is by means of “peeling”. Typically it is described how I, for instance, could be expected to just casually peel a square off of Flatland despite the fact that it is embedded in its surface. Michio Kaku echoes the ease with which the process is typically described in his analogy regarding picking up a fish out of a pond. By extension, the suggestion would be that I could be just as easily peeled off Spaceland by a hyperbeing, vanishing into thin air before the eyes of any fellow Spacelander that might be looking. Psychic surgery would be simple: see a tumor, pluck it out. If the tumor was neglected, an autopsy would be unnecessary. For them our knots would not be. Childbirth would be an extradimensional breeze, requiring neither cesarean nor parting of the meat drapes.

Third, there are folds (or warps) and wormholes. Imagine I were able to pick Flatland up off my desk and fold it so that two areas a considerable distance across come to touch: would a Flatlander be able to cross the crease of the fold and, in the eyes of its fellow Flatlanders, move a great distance in a single moment, having disappeared from one place and reappeared in another? This would be a “warp” to the extreme and would constitute what is typically referred to as teleportation.

More popularly, a similar process is conceived in which the space is not only folded but a hole is punctured through both sides, allowing a Flatlander to walk through a circle and emerge out of another circle some distance away. This is usually called a wormhole, though more popularly both “mouths” or circles are described as being connected by a “neck.” Although this tube does not offer instantaneous travel to your destination, it takes the Flatlander traversing it a much shorter time to reach the other side than it would if it were to travel in typical linear mode. A wormhole in Spaceland would be not a circle, as the movie Interstellar depicted, but a sphere.

Folds and wormholes could also be utilized as a means of transporting a Flatlander not to a different location on their plane, but to another surface altogether. In other words, to parallel universes…

SOURCES:

Flatland: A Romance of Many Dimensions, Edwin Abbott (1884).
Rob Bryanton, “Imagining 10 Dimensions” (YouTube).
Jim Dekorne, “The Out-of-Body Experience as Dimensional Translocation,” (New Dawn magazine No. 74, Sept-Oct. 2002).
Hyperspace: A Scientific Odyssey Through Parallel Universes, Time Warps and the 10th Dimension, by Michio Kaku (1994).
Thad Roberts, “Visualizing Eleven Dimensions” (YouTube, TEDxBoulder).