Instalment six of English content transcribed from the Etheric Architecture session recorded on 13 Sept 2020. I have hundreds of hours of recordings, gigabytes of it. I started this transcription project from the last recorded audio for August this year and will keep going until I feel inclined to stop. It serves a purpose of anchoring data into the English language structure of the human collective mind, which is a vital component of the engagement with Earth core creation streaming complexes.

Presenting another transcript of English content from recorded audio Etheric Architecture sessions, which are a mix of Spherespeak (non-terran dialogue) and English transliteration, to anchor data into the human/Earth plane reality machinery. Italicised words below are those spoken by my more local persona and are more colloquial.

The first 3 of the 42 SpheresData transmissions included in the Transcript Project are available with the free Blog Plan membership. Remaining transcripts are included in the Transcript Project Plan, the price of which takes into account the fact that pdf files and audio upload links can be permanently saved by the subscriber.

The first 3 of the 42 SpheresData transmissions included in the Transcript Project are available with the free Blog Plan membership. Remaining transcripts are included in the Transcript Project Plan, the price of which takes into account the fact that pdf files and audio upload links can be permanently saved by the subscriber. As I continued with the project of writing out some of my transmissions, content format changed. That change can be seen from Transcript 16 onwards.

Because today the majority of my conversation will be with myself, as it is on most other days, I am typing out words I might use if I was having a conversation with someone else, or perhaps myself pulled out and standing corporeal before me instead of somewhere behind my eyes and up a bit. I am floating the idea that some of we who swim in turbulent waters of bone-rattling thought are inherently repellent of conversation with individuated others. Who are Others but other versions of personality wandering about the CGI of our reality pretending to be human just as I am. We (the some above-mentioned) word ourselves differently for a start, using personally meaningful vocabulary shared by few others. This puts people off engaging, I would say. They (the thinker of more common topics) don’t understand the purpose of the concepts which we others live inside of, and smell a trap of intellect which they are unwilling to test. They don’t step into the word-scapes we create and broadcast, the stability of their Story depends on this aversion. I ask myself often what good these concepts I live within serve other than to torment my interior and leave me unsuited for paddling in those large pools where humanity lives and builds its structures. Some of us are natural hermits, our words hitting the walls of silent caves, whilst crowds peer in on occasion, spy unintelligible symbols and continue on to the next village square. Let me share with you verse 20 from the Tao Te Ching , by the enigmatic character named Lao Tsu. Historians and other experts can agree that the Tao Te Ching was written at least 2500 years ago. The words quoted below give me comfort as they are so familiar to me that I know I have whispered them to myself from my own psyche. They have emerged from the sound of my own soul and they perfectly speak into the world (and have done so for the past two and a half thousand years) the conclusions which I observed in my own small sum of 52 sun rotations. Give up learning, and put an end to your troubles. Is there a difference between yes and no? Is there a difference between good and evil? Must I fear what others fear? What nonsense! Other people are contented, enjoying the sacrificial feast of the ox. In spring some go to the park and climb the terrace, But I alone am drifting, not knowing where I am. Like a newborn babe before it learns to smile, I am alone, without a place to go. Others have more than they need, but I alone have nothing. I am a fool. Oh, yes! I am confused. Others are clear and bright, But I alone am dim and weak. Others are sharp and clever, But I alone am dull and stupid. Oh, I drift like the waves of the sea, Without direction, like the restless wind. Everyone else is busy, But I alone am aimless and without desire. I am different. I am nourished by the great mother. ~ Lao Tsu, Tao Te Ching/Twenty What else is there to find? What more to achieve? What more to unwrap from the meagre offering of existential mysteries which keep myself and many before or beside me equally contained? To be human is to be bombarded with a recycling stream of lifepath choices, or to choose none of them and lay in some obscure glen with few roads in and no roads out; watching for similar minds in still pools disrupted minimally by our fingertips like Aspen leaves falling onto puddles. Some of us are Here without being Here. Over years and decades we sample several life stories, thinking our efforts failed because we cannot find a story to agree with and live inside of. We watch others jog by, happy in the thought-medicating harvests of their life choices; be those harvests wreathed in relief or suffering, they are fully invested in existing as a part of that story. What is there for those like myself? Do we find a peaceful rock ledge and sit there quietly doing and being nothing much at all, except for a placeholder for conscious intelligence – until the day we stop being human and step beyond the boundaries of some of those mysteries which plague the entirety of the time we are here? Is that even viable when you live inside a high-maintenance lifeform needing food, shelter and various other basics which demand labour and an ability to find a place inside a social story to attain? In so many articles people are discussing the purpose of being alive as human, using logic and imagination to devise long lists of conclusions. I think many of us really do not have a place here, we don’t fit and human civilisation truly does not want us here; it is too busy pretending to be something whilst we are born without the ability to be lulled by its melodies into a Dreaming Life. In the absence of the human-specific directive to be actively engaged in human endeavours there is – well, there is Nothing. Nothing is its own kind of undefinable Something Else. The only words I am finding to share with others like myself are;you are in a growing company. Published on: The Nothing in Between , 11/02/2025 Photo by SK Yeong

It was Wasted on You I think The air I breathed when singing your praises left a cold burn in my lungs Which lingers in feelings Of lost expectation Of a genuine reply. As a god above pantheons You are assigned a greatness Without having proved that your Unnamed name has the authority to Be more than an ideal More than a collar More than a Magician’s curse. Your reign hurts the people Who would gain more blessed fortune From their own thoughts gathered In the point of a stick than From your cryptic whispering In the minds of men trained in cruelty Who keep your name on their tongues Whist blood mists the air. You are the Hydra The many-headed At war with yourself Doomed to destruction And I hope to watch your Funerary pyre light the lower Heavens as our ships sail for home.

Was it enough When I curated my words When I foraged for honey Instead of treating my burns Was it enough When I loved on your smile When I smiled back And forgot for a while Was it enough When I hid what was frail Did you like my performance Did you follow my trail Was it enough Do you hunger for more When I say I have nothing Do you slam shut a door? Published on: Threads @between.speak, The Nothing in Between Date: 10/06/2024, 04/02/2025 There are 2-3 more posts to come until this blog is caught up with the current content on my Wordpress blog - The Nothing in Between. After that I will probably keep the two blogs mostly synchronous. You, my dear Reader can have a choice of blog platforms. Time Woven will still be the hub of my SpheresData outlay, but Wordpress lets me have more of a sense of connectedness to the human experience (even if it is only a small ribbon). I have lived a pretty lonesome kind of life and would like a bit more 'proof of life' interaction this year. Blessings to you for coming by and reading, Sherri-Lee

And the way I didn't go. That you will gain anything from reading my words is not within my expectation to guarantee. I do not have the heartwarming tones of picturesque landscapes to lead you through, not the comfort of a yarn-wrapped village home, not the consciousness developing exhilaration of tromping foreign soil, not the silken embrace of past authors to lend me the education of their prose. I have the island volcano of my life, the hermitage of a socially avoidant housewife on a spiritual odyssey, the pithy toolkit of one who speaks largely with Themselves, the weariness of a pretend human who has accepted the limitations of their acting skills. I love to draw pictures with words yet cycle through an un-captivating rolodex of potential subjects, over-thinking their relevance, settling on none. This is largely due to an innate knowing that the subjects are not mine, they are a collection of things I have seen people talk about, what I have gleaned to be supposedly important to anyone in this world trained to expect to live successfully, happily; entertained and entertaining. Photo by Susan Q Yin on Unsplash So my fingers have been let loose on the keyboard to pick their own topic, one I usually reject as being too me-specific to be of use to anyone else. But if I don’t tell my own story, why am I here? If pressed to sum up the course of my life I would say that I have sought to not play the game. I took the route away from social expectation, away from achievement, away from material gain, the acquisition of useful facts, the standardised behaviours of assigned roles, conformity to what folk call the ‘dominant narrative’. I finished high school as tied Dux of the year; spent a year abroad (both beautiful and torturous) ; went to secretarial college (I could not settle on a University degree, limited as the courses were in our town and an expensive undertaking; being quickly employable was the greater need) and finished that year as Dux of the college. I was scooped up by a local Accounting firm, hated every other moment of it (a conservative estimate of my dislike) , did not get the promised support to attend Uni (as I became pregnant, having married just after getting that Dux - far too damn early and something I recommend to no-one, especially my children) and was sidelined. Pregnant employees didn’t get much favour in a firm where all partners and accountants were men, and all secretarial/typing pool staff were women. I left to have the baby (an extremely difficult labour, birth and post partum experience) and resigned. Life from then onward was the Household Story; the rollercoaster of relationships, child raising, divorce, single-parenthood, budgeting to squeeze rent, food and other necessities from an extremely limited income, tussling over broken emotions and child maintenance payments. Then remarrying, more relationship training, more budgeting, more child raising, more solo-parenting (military spouses can deploy for extended periods) . Amongst it all was the affliction of believing that I was supposed to be doing more, being more, achieving more, learning more, exercising more, surviving better, achieving excellence as I did in school and living up to all that potential now subsumed by the busy-ness of laundry, child-caring, school runs, lawnmowing, cleaning bathrooms, floors and toilets, meal prep, doing all I could to improve the health of a chronically ill child, being the socially avoidant mother who made herself host birthday parties and play all the expected roles of a contributing member of society. For almost a decade of this I powered through with insomnia, getting little more than 4 hours of broken sleep per day. I rushed into life because that was the expected pathway and each day Life found unpredictable ways to kick my arse. Then in 2009 my world became strange. Through all my days I have been spiritually switched on. The knowing that there exists a realm of beings and an ethereal experience beyond the human physical has been with me always. I note it most from the age of 4-5 years. I thought the Christian god was who I was looking for and became ensconced in that belief pathway for longer than was spiritually healthy. The fascination took me all through my teens and into my 30’s. Hindsight says that the anchoring of a book which people more educated than I affirmed to be a true account of an all-powerful being who apparently would move heaven and earth to assist me was what helped me get through those years of struggling to play my roles. Many may think these roles are nothing to be struggling over, but my hindsight also says that it is firmly within the realm of possibility that I am undiagnosed neuro-divergent. Masking for decades to ‘be normal’, to regulate your nervous system, successfully communicate whilst your environment keeps changing around you in dramatic ways, being the anchor for a household reliant on you being able to get all the tasks done, will mess you up. It takes a large toll on the nervous and autoimmune systems. I never sought medical or psychological aid, that’s a part of the anxiety dysfunction and probably my nature. I thought I was doing just fine, soldiering on like a ‘good girl’. Then in 2009 the Spiritual Presence which I had been searching for, and actively inviting to come find me over the previous 30+ years, did exactly that. This is where my story may tromp too happily into the realm of ‘woo-woo’ for some of you. Now would be a good exit point if you are such a one whose ‘good sense’ is the dominant captain of your perception filters. This Presence came in a dense cloud - not a quiet inner whisper to tickle the conscience. Subtle encouragement is what It had been doing for years until time ran out for that approach. Living on the crust of a large squishy ball speeding through the cosmos brought me to the pre-designated point of our meeting and our spheres collided. It laid me flat and It had a lot to impart. But I rush to say that this was not a consciousness separate from me, a distant ruling god or any such entity. It was Me. What I had been calling for all these decades was that larger conglomerate of my own Being, my own conscious intelligence, the ‘higher self’ (not in a way so many have now made into a pseudo-spiritual term for trendy weekend retreats) . Is it ‘higher’? Only in terms of higher states of coherence, but it is not something physically above in the untouchable heavens. More like being farther off in larger geometries of the patterns of reality ‘beyond’ or ‘outside’ of this one (which could be considered a small simple shape nestled like the infant of a matryoshka doll within Great Great Grandparents of Conscious thought shaping all we sense) . In that year, beyond any sense of uncertainty, my life departed the route of normal Western culture expectation, taking a trajectory I doubt too many bother to go searching for. If by accident they do find it, they pass quickly on by lest they be pulled into strange waters and called ‘woo-woo’ by well-meaning but spiritually inexperienced minds (which themselves do not wish to risk the loss of their reputation for being sensible and scientifically supported in their conclusions about immeasurable qualities of reality) . Now seems like a suitable moment to share that a connection with the Larger Self is not a bliss experience. The bliss or Nirvana state (as used in Western conversation) , where suffering and ego is supposedly extinguished, is a nicely distracting plateau, a medication for the suffering mind. Journeying past the trials of the ego, dis-associatively accepting suffering, feeling a blissful state of non-attachment to the idea of separation and duality appears to have become the life apogee of many a seeker. ‘Being in Bliss’ is taken to indicate that you have reached some ultimate enlightenment point, which must therefore mean you have found that thing called ‘oneness’ or a state of unity with the cosmos. That has not been my experience. If you experience a bliss state yet don’t come out the other side to have an understanding of the place of bliss within the cosmic organism, I feel that you still have some ways to swim. That ‘bliss’ can be a motivator, it shouldn’t be a final destination. The greater a person’s burgeoning awareness of All That Is, the higher the likelihood that they will feel the crushing weight of a world in suffering. Bliss will not be able to medicate an aware mind out of that, nor should the one who wants to encapsulate the metamorphosis of an entire plane of consciousness try to be so distracted from the tumultuous waves of that change. If you are connecting with high minded portions of yourself from other geometries of the creation, it may become apparent that they don’t hang around in ‘blissouts’ - not if they are actively engaged in the process of changing paradigms within a plane of reality, or a system of connected planes. I will add that they don’t use English as a first language either. If your Grandparent Self has started talking to you, you will have to spend a considerable portion of your years learning to interpret ideographic shorthand into something maybe a little more relevant to your human life - but it may still not ever be that relevant. It will, however, be transformative. As a note to the reader - yes I did eventually make use of the services of a Clinical Psychologist. Her name was Shelley, she was very friendly. She spent my money telling me about Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, which was nothing new to me. What I gained from her was an assurance that I am not experiencing psychosis and an encouragement to not use alcohol as a coping mechanism - a sound request which I took onboard. Well then, so fun that you made it to this sentence. Thinking briefly enough on my past life with enough depth to write some coherently vague description of it triggered more anxiety/trauma response than I would have anticipated (especially as I had anticipated none). I am thinking now that this may be why I stare at that rolodex and don’t delve into my memory references deep enough to conjure things to write. So what is the way that I didn’t go? The way of normal, the way of good sense, the way with a recorded history and respected elders to direct the journey, the way of conforming to popular beliefs, the way which would have been something able to be talked about in general conversation. Feel free to drop a comment. I may be back with more of this experience chronicling. (Published previously on Substack )

I cannot, would not, speak for you. I cannot say that We All do this or that. For although the similarities of this base life are many, My Mind is mine, and Yours belongs to you. My thoughts have shape and patterned hue, Held together by my own electric machinery. They need neither sympathetic agreement nor Presumed community to form and continue. To announce None of Us, like We All Do, Would be more assumptive of Godly omniscience Than any human has the merit to claim As one hundred percent known to be true. To ‘awaken’ is to see more clearly than when slumbering in the Dreaming state of Living. It is to seek to understand the position and the state of the awareness which you take to be your point of consciously observing the fabrics of reality within your purview. You, the compartmentalised human, cannot know All, not even All about your own Self. The act of living awake is to move closer to understanding living as it is for you, to acknowledge what is true, or more meaningfully – to represent information to yourself in as accurate a manner as possible. To misrepresent to yourself the information gathered in your observations of life around you spins you into your own fantasy, an imagined story. If you continue to create for yourself an inaccurate version of your observations, you will have slow progress in attempts to develop your inhoused conscious intelligence to something which understands the more complex mysteries on which our human lives are built. Perhaps the most obvious device of human speech which indicates a living in imagination is to use ‘all inclusive’ statements – We all, None of us, Noone will – etc. These do not form true statements, they are fantastical generalisations stemming from an inner drama playing out a pantomine written to include others as subcharacters, which will destablize the user’s ability to accurately record and report on observations and thoughts formed from them. Further to the inner sticky web created, a person using these devices is disconnecting from a potential audience rather than attracting one, by assuming too much. I feel that this person may be so confident of their observations that they have no interest in actually knowing mine nor do they leave space for me to think or to act outside of their assumption that I am already doing or not doing what they say ‘We All’ are. To my reasoning, the mind using this dialogue is a closed system, and one which would require extensive outlay of mental resource to engage with. They ask for opinions yet have already decided in such a way as to restrict the level of access which contrary information has in entering their library of available text on which their worldview is constructed. Why should any of these Others which they implore for answers expend the energy and moments of time to respond, reason or debate their thoughts with them? Isn’t it like throwing pebbles into a swirling pool, watching them sink out of sight whilst bubbles keep rising? Then I read back over what I have written; wonder why I wrote it. Did I put the words together in the best way that I can craft to take thoughts from my mind and place them onto light backgrounds in ways that can be understood as I intended? Did I successfully form an imprint on glass to faithfully represent the original? This brings me to an open glade of realizing that my first purpose in the action of writing is to practice how to accurately translate concepts born in the mind field into human language and convey that inner landscape to Another – separated as we are within little closed wheels of bone and tissue, reliant on words to transfer complex meaning. And then, I think, what of the meaning? Why am I, why is anyone, desiring and labouring to transfer meaning into a passing stream? What drives my psyche to want to gather what sparks around on my mind field, repackage it, and scatter it to other mind fields? How much like RNA am I? Am I a protozoa? A white corpuscle? Protoplasm? Do I even have a function? Or am I a cog from an ancient machine tossed into a computer and rattling around in the case? Perhaps I am a strange sound pushed by cosmic winds into an unfamiliar symphony. Cheers and may your day provide the tinkling lights of a fog-doused pathway to the answers for some of your own questions.   Published on: The Nothing In Between , 02/02/2025, Photo by  Alfred Schrock

Drifting, an ungerminated seed; Swept by forlorn winds over concreted soil. Imagination fabricates the merry orchestra of a rock-strewn stream, Tricking hope of close rewards to bloom, In a mind left fallow; Unused by Possibilities. The sudden collision of funnelled air leaves the aging seed caught on loose stones; A quiet nook of uninterrupted solitude, Where begins the journey of returning to soil. Published on: The Nothing in Between/WP Photo by Grant Durr

Unfortunate; the clinging mist of unforgotten Yesterdays. When will I dwell in a still circle of Today with unspoiled circumference; a moment not tempered by bone-written memory? I could write You out; draw You from beneath my skin with flashing cursor prompt on a dark themed page, But You replicate in virus infected cells - unwilling receptacles of Your widely imposed Personal Story. I can move the frosted Mirrors of Your remembrance; put them beyond My sphere, turned away; And find them faced about again on another Sun-rising, like Solar Eclipse sunflowers of sparse leaf and undeterred programming. I could pull You out - both stalk and root, yet there is a beauty in the airless blood claret of Your many-petalled blooms. And I, trained to look for Life in any decaying pile, am reluctant to lose this interrupting Presence of Your hex-coloured pixilation. All Todays arrive as repeating blocks of basic text, amongst which Your imprint remains the greater Spectacle, And I, motivated by instances of kaleidoscopic information,am yet to master staring at a monotoned wall.

On the 8th of January in 2024 – so a little over a year ago – I wrote ‘This Feeling’ on my Threads account. I have been taking a trip back through blogs and social media (Threads and Instagram), pulling together documents on my PC so I can map where my words have been. I may not go back more than somewhere in 2020, I don’t know. I walk the meandering path until it peters out, then wait for the next path-head to emerge from a Fog we humans often refer to as reality. The speed at which life has travelled from 2020 to 2025, and even from January 2024 to today, gives me the sensation of living inside of a mystery. My days go neither forward nor back, each one appears as a 24 hour repetition of the one before, with small variances selected it seems from a drop-down options list of limited number. This sensation became especially noticeable from the end of 2019. I expect that there are differences, but they accrue in tiny allotments, over the entirety of which is pervasive exhaustion. Most exhausted is my attention to things called ‘life goals’, ‘achievements’ – I do not feel that they are essential to living, nor the purpose of it, yet the social complex of the human race continues to speak about these things as if they are divinely mandated, a functioning of proper evolutionary development. How the dialogue of productivity with which we are bombarded continues to be the dominant control after centuries of enlightened oral and written wisdom to the contrary baffles my wits, which perhaps are too slow to understand the pervasively simple nature of human consciousness. It is a small thing locked beneath the Earth’s atmosphere; a fish in a bowl believing itself to be a bird and left to imagine what being a bird is. And not just any bird – a powerful bird, a clever bird, a stunning bird, a talented bird, the best bird that it can be, based on its understanding of what birds are, all whilst it is a fish and not yet even familiar with the wind much less the clouds. So now I come to this stream of words I wrote a little over a year ago. I believe that I was speaking about being a fish, told to be a bird, being given little choice in the matter by environment, society, pervasive opinions which bang louder than a child on aquarium glass. I am in persistent opposition to human life expectations, so much so that for the majority of my hours I ignore what the human library has to offer. I ignore it because it hurts, like breathing car fumes when taking a deep breath of gumtree scented air after long-awaited rain. I don’t think that being human will ever stop hurting, be it mentally or physically. So I will continue to write about that sensation, looking back across my words occasionally to see if anything in my experience of life has altered. May your own day flow kinder than you are accustomed to, Sherri-Lee. Published on:  Threads @between.speak Date: 08/01/2024 This Feeling in my nerve bundles today goes something like this Poisoned, twisted, toxic, enforced logic squeezing limbs seeking unimprinted atmosphere. This is life, this is how I should be, how I should think, how I should act. A smile should be my companion, kind and gentle benevolence to settle the assumption of innocence. But I revile, I deny, I object. Don’t look for me if you want a captain to agree to your belief. I hate it. Your world is perverse, a faux perfume mixed of hallucinogens; My emanations which you call emotions overwhelm it, while it preserves itself with ridiculous knowings to subjugate my innate awareness. If I could tear this feeling from my solar plexus it would be a blood-blackened rose,a wind-howled vortex, nothing you can use; a Spectre’s heart. It will be the manure for my garden, grown above your disease, and I won’t let you come with me. Also published on The Nothing in Between Image by Zoltan Tasi