1. the recollection or remembrance of the past; reminiscence.

2. Platonism: recollection of the Ideas, which the soul had known in a previous existence, especially by means of reasoning.

3. the medical history of a patient.

4. Immunology: a prompt immune response to a previously encountered antigen, characterised by more rapid onset and greater effectiveness of antibody and T cell reaction than during the first encounter, as after a booster shot in a previously immunised person.

5. a prayer in a Eucharistic service, recalling the Passion, Resurrection, and Ascension of Christ.

Etymology: via New Latin from Greek, from anamimnēskein, “to recall”, from mimnēskein, “to call to mind”.

[Jana Heidersdorf - All That Remains]



1. the recollection or remembrance of the past; reminiscence.

2. Platonism: recollection of the Ideas, which the soul had known in a previous existence, especially by means of reasoning.

3. the medical history of a patient.

4. Immunology: a prompt immune response to a previously encountered antigen, characterised by more rapid onset and greater effectiveness of antibody and T cell reaction than during the first encounter, as after a booster shot in a previously immunised person.

5. a prayer in a Eucharistic service, recalling the Passion, Resurrection, and Ascension of Christ.

Etymology: via New Latin from Greek, from anamimnēskein, “to recall”, from mimnēskein, “to call to mind”.

[Caitlin Hackett - Keep the Memories]

Fanfiction - Anamnesis

 I started this as a little present for lovely @iwanttodriveyouthroughthenight‘s Tumblrversary. The seamstress master @outlanderedandoverhere also blackmailed enticed me, saying that a continuation would inspire her to finish the raven dress. And she did – and I do! This story started with Cassiopeia (Constellations series) and is preceded by The Captain. So grateful for such an amazing feedback on the College AU! See you on the other side with much much love <3


Jamie sorted through the small squares made of blue cardboard and gave her an evil smile.

Charcot’s triad?”

“Fever, jaundice and right upper quadrant pain.” She replied without hesitation, giving him a smug smile. “You’ll have to do much worse if you want to get me.”

“Well then.” He shuffled through the cards and gave her a victorious glare when he found a suitable one. “Differential diagnosis of fever of unknown origin. All.of.them.”

“Now you’re just being mean.” She sighed and threw herself in listing numerous diseases with gruelling enough names to make one feel very sick indeed.

“…Amebiasis, Bartonellosis, Brucellosis, Malaria, Catscratch disease.” Claire gave him a hesitant look. “How many am I missing?”

“Just about a couple of hundred.” He offered her the card with a smile. “I consider myself avenged after you quizzed me on the Odyssey. I’ll have nightmares with that for years to come – ye’re fairly harder on me than Mr. Rice, the actual teacher.”

“I like being thorough.” She replied tersely, neatly stacking her flashcards on the library’s mahogany table.

“Aye.” He gave her a sweet smile. “And that’s why you’ll be the best doctor in the world. I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

“Hmpf.” Claire grumbled, but she surrendered to a warm grin, while he kissed her kuckles. “I’m just worried. I’ll have a practical test this week with Doctor Potter – yes, the “male chauvinist pig”; I was a little sloshed that night! – That will count for thirty percent of my grade this semester. I need to get it right.”

“Ye will, mo nighean donn.” Jamie lightly caressed her cheek. “I have nay doubt about it.” And he kissed her eager lips.

“Mister Fraser,” The librarian, a small but commanding woman called Mrs. Fitz, hissed above their heads. “As much as I admire you, do I really need to remind you that you are in a library?” And striking them with an admonishing look, she roared. “No kissing!”

“I am sorry, Mrs. Fitz.” Jamie presented the middle-aged woman with a guilty and humbled look, capable of melting the stoniest heart. “But this woman makes me forget all sense of propriety.”

Claire gave him a narrow look.

“I remember how it was – being young and in love.” For a moment her eyes lost focus, her mind wandering into a land of dreams and memories. “But,” She snapped out of it. “That doesn’t allow for debauchery in this study place. Keep your tongue inside your mouth in my library!” And she moved to warn a couple of students nearby to lower their voices while talking.

“Nice move.” Claire applauded, laughing. “You almost had her. What?” She asked, noticing his look had suffered a transformation alike Mrs. Fitz’s.

“I was just wondering…” He said softly, giving her a dark and disarming glare that made her blood boil instantly, her knees weakening – luckily she was already sitting. “The potential of these enormous and verra strong tables. That plump…” He smiled with mischief. “Gluteus maximus leaning on it.”

Claire licked her lips, suddenly very dry.

“That thought just occurred to you?” She said amiably.

“Nay.” He grinned. “Actually it was a recurrent thought back then – when I admired ye from afar. I liked to watch ye – thinking, biting your lip in concentration; smiling to yourself when ye realized ye had it figured out; writing with your free hand placed in a slightly crocked way on the paper. I was content with knowing the wee mechanisms of ye.” He gave her a shy look. “But sometimes in the summer time ye’d come with a floral dress, yer naked legs all visible under the table; the curve of yer shoulders showing, so tempting. In those times I had thoughts of a….baser nature.”

They had been together for almost a month at that point – and Jamie had been nothing short of chivalrous during that time. After that first night they had slept together in his room, they had seldom find opportunity to share a bed again – and in those rare occasions they would kiss, teasingly caress the exposed skin and talk to each other in seriousness or playfulness. But he had never made any attempt or suggestion that they should push their relationship beyond the already known limits. He wanted her, Claire knew. But he was holding back – and she wasn’t entirely sure why.

“Do tell me more about it.”

“Perhaps someday,” He hummed near her ear. “I’ll show ye.” And he kissed her neck, the tip of his tongue darting to taste her skin.

“Mister Fraser!” Mrs. Fitz screamed behind them.


“Miss Beauchamp, you’re to take the medical history of the patient in curtain four. He’s complaining of abdominal pain – I’ll expect you to come and discuss differential diagnosis with me in thirty minutes.”

“Yes, Doctor Potter.” She said gracefully and grabbed the chart from his hand.

As she walked in the direction of the curtain she breathed deeply, trying to find the calm centre required to practice good medicine. She gave a quick look to her white coat and identification card, making sure she was presentable – sometimes patients tended to disregard her inquiries if they didn’t think her professional or mature enough, as she clearly wasn’t a doctor yet. Claire made a mental list of questions to ask the patient – occasionally she neglected to ask about their sexual history and intestinal habits, which always drove Doctor Potter to an endless speech about the importance of a thorough anamnesis and the catastrophic outcomes expecting a “sloppy doctor”.

“Good day sir, I’m Claire Beauchamp.” She greeted while opening the curtain, her eyes fixed on the chart. “I’m here to ask you a few questions…”

“Ask away.” Jamie’s voice replied cheerfully, making her jump. She raised her eyes to watch him happily seated on the gurney, his legs bouncing like an excited child’s.

“What the hell are you doing here?” She exclaimed, attracting the looks of nearby nurses and a couple of elderly patients. Blushing, she quickly closed the blue fabric around them, shielding them from prying eyes. “James Fraser, what are you up to?”

“Och.” He extended his hand and caressed her cheek. “Ye were so concerned with doing well with this evaluation – I just wanted to help.” Jamie shrugged.

“I imagine you’re not really sick – after all those pancakes you ate this morning you seemed in good enough health.” She gave him a wry look. “What did you tell them you were feeling?”

“Cramping in my belly. Fever. Vomiting.” He gave her a naughty smile. “I was going for the appendicitis thing, ye ken.”

“Well,” Claire glared at him. “I might end up giving you a rectal exam – or worse, Doctor Potter will - and you’ll learn your lesson. Probably won’t ever meddle with my business again.”

“Ye’re not impressed with my attempt of helping ye, I gather.” Jamie raised a brow. “At least ye can be at ease asking me yer wee questions.”

“If my professor finds out you’re my boyfriend,” Claire hissed, but the corners of her mouth betrayed the temptation of smiling. “I’ll probably fail this. Eternally.”

“Is that what I am?” Jamie asked slowly, his eyes serious and intent on hers. “Your boyfriend?”

“Well,” She answered in a careful tone, biting her full bottom lip. They still hadn’t had the talk – it had seemed pointless to define their relationship with a label, when they were both perfectly aware of the depth of their mutual feelings. But alas – some things were meant to be said out loud, sooner or later. “We spend an awful lot of time snogging. You helped me make flashcards themed by colour. I watched an entire documentary on a man named Seneca, which I didn’t even knew had existed until a week ago. You grabbed a second pair of socks for me to wear the other night when we were studying, because you knew my feet would be cold and I can’t focus when I’m chilled. So I guess you must be my boyfriend.” Claire blushed slightly. “You know…If you want to.”

“So all it takes to hold yer heart is to make sure yer feet are warm?” He shook his head in feigned disbelief. “Ye really know how to make a lad feel special, aye?”

“You’re ruining it.” Claire folded her arms, squinting at him. “Say yes before I take it back, James Fraser.”

“Yes. God, yes!” Jamie grabbed her free hand, lacing their fingers together. “But I was hoping to be the one to ask, ye ken.” He gave her a lopsided smile. “I have the pride of a man, after all.”

“That you are.” She gave a quick look around and, not finding anyone peeking through the curtain’s folds, lightly kissed him on the lips. “And that you have.”

He hugged her and nuzzled her neck, humming against her with pleasure at their contact and her scent, which was always stronger there.

“Now, can you make up some answers to my questions?” Claire asked, tapping the pen on the blank paper sheet. “I’ll skip the sexual history part.” She said haltingly, her fingers fidgeting with a curl falling over her forehead. “I’m sure I can devise something to say to Doctor Potter about it…You don’t need to tell me anything…”

“Oh, Lord.” Jamie closed his eyes in mortification and covered them with his opened palms. “That wasna really how I intended to have this conversation.” He growled. “At all.”

“What?” She swallowed hard, stopping in the process of writing down the absence of any known allergies. “Look Jamie, I knew you had a past. Everybody has one. It’s fine.”

He shook his head, still not looking at her.

“Well,” Claire continued nervously. “Is it a scandalous number, then? I’m sure with your personality and looks there were plenty of girls who…”

“No.” He removed his hands and finally looked at her, blue glinting with carefulness and – mischief? -, raising his chin in defiance. “Claire, there’s nothing to talk about - there’s no one.”

“What do you mean?” She muttered, the suddenly forgotten chart bobbing on her hands.

“I mean,” He smiled coyly. “Your recently proclaimed boyfriend is a virgin.”


Hey guys, I’d really really appreciate it if you could check out this short series called “Anamnesis”, I found it so beautiful and was sad to learn they can’t (at the moment) continue the series due to lack of budget and audience. In short, it is based off a short film they did that was so well done they were compelled to continue it. It is about dreams, lucid dreaming, astral projection, and the unconscious mind(trying not to give too much away). Please, please, spread this around. It would be a tragedy if something this beautiful and well done was lost due to lack of funds/support. Be sure to watch the original short film first:

And here is episode one (of five):

Many thanks <3



1. the recollection or remembrance of the past; reminiscence.

2. Platonism: recollection of the Ideas, which the soul had known in a previous existence, especially by means of reasoning.

3. the medical history of a patient.

4. Immunology: a prompt immune response to a previously encountered antigen, characterised by more rapid onset and greater effectiveness of antibody and T cell reaction than during the first encounter, as after a booster shot in a previously immunised person.

5. a prayer in a Eucharistic service, recalling the Passion, Resurrection, and Ascension of Christ.

rεsılıAncε dε la mεmoırε - anamnεsıs(4) / YSE#25 page 4 by jef safi

Outlining a Theory of General Creativity .. on a ‘Pataphysical projectory
Entropy ≥ Memory ● Creativity ²

stratified as:

Memory ● Creativity ² = ΩΞ { Mimesis ● Catharsis ² }῀
Mimesis ● Catharsis ² = ΩΞ { Metabolê ● Catabolê ² }῀
Metabolê ● Catabolê ² = ΩΞ { Mitosis ● Cytosis ² }῀
Mitosis ● Cytosis ² = ΩΞ { Molecula ●. Chymia ² }῀
Molecula ● Chymia ² = ΩΞ { M ● c ² }῀
. . and . . M ● c ² = ΩΞ { E }῀
. . whe(re)n . . ΩΞ { E }῀ ≤ Ξntropy


= emergence of possibles (Ω) by individuating resonances (Ξ) in a multiple.

= resonance of similitudes by 1n1 individuating compulsions in a multiple.

” = { μ¹ { δ῀ { π¹ ( technè▲lógos ) } } }῀
Algorithm of the 1n1 individuating compulsions in a multiple.

where “μ” ; “δ” ; “π
are the 3 moments of a multiple individuating processus.
( symbolized by the 3 moments “Mosthai / Deiknuen / Poiein” of the creative processus
according to Maffesoli )

and where “( technè▲lógos )”
are the hypomnemata, or tertiary sedimentations of a multiple transindividuation.
( symbolized in a sensitive▲intelligible dialemmatic )

YSE#25 page 6

Memoria es el verdadero nombre de la relación con el propio ser, o del afecto de uno por uno mismo. Según Kant, el tiempo era la forma bajo la cual el espíritu se afecta a sí mismo, tal como el espacio era la forma bajo la cual el espíritu era afectado por otra cosa; el tiempo era por tanto “autoafección”, constituyendo la estructura esencial de la subjetividad. Pero el tiempo como sujeto, o más bien subjetivación, se llama Memoria. No esa memoria corta que viene después, y se opone al olvido, sino “la memoria absoluta” que dobla el presente, que redobla el pasado, y que es uno mismo con el olvido, ya que es en sí misma y continuamente olvidada para ser rehecha; su pliegue se confunde en efecto con el despliegue, porque éste permanece presente en el otro como lo que es plegado. Solamente el olvido (el despliegue) recupera lo que está plegado en la memoria (en el pliegue en sí mismo).
(…) Aquello que se opone a la memoria no es el olvido, sino el olvido del olvido, que nos disuelve por fuera, y que constituye la muerte.

Memory is the real name of the relation to the self, or of the affect of oneself by oneself. According to Kant, time was the form in which the spirit affected itself, as the space was the form in which the spirit was affected by something else ; time was therefore “self-affection”, constituting the essential structure of the subjectivity. But time as subject, or rather subjectification, is called Memory. Not that short memory that comes after, and opposed to oblivion, but “the absolute memory” which doubles the present, which redoubles the outside, and which is one with oblivion, as it is itself and continuously forgotten to be redone ; its fold merges with the unfold, because this one remains present in this other one, as what is folded. Only oblivion (unfolding) finds again what is folded into the memory (in the fold itself).
(…) What is opposed to the memory is not the oblivion, but the oblivion of oblivion, which dissolves us outside, and which constitutes the death.

Mémoire est le vrai nom du rapport à soi, ou de l'affect de soi par soi. Selon Kant, le temps était la forme sous laquelle l'esprit s'affectait lui·même, tout comme l'espace était la forme sous laquelle l'esprit était affecté par autre chose ; le temps était donc “auto-affection”, constituant la structure essentielle de la subjectivité. Mais le temps comme sujet, ou plutôt subjectivation, s'appelle Mémoire. Non pas cette courte mémoire qui vient après, et s'oppose à l'oubli, mais “l'absolue mémoire” qui double le présent, qui redouble le dehors, et qui ne fait qu'un avec l'oubli, puisqu'elle est elle-même et sans cesse oubliée pour être refaite ; son pli en effet se confond avec le dépli, parce que celui-ci reste présent dans celui-là comme ce qui est plié. Seul l'oubli (le dépli) retrouve ce qui est plié dans la mémoire (dans le pli lui-même).
(…) Ce qui s'oppose à la mémoire n'est pas l'oubli, mais l'oubli de l'oubli, qui nous dissout au dehors, et qui constitue la mort.

( Gilles Deleuze - Foucault, Les Editions de Minuit, 1986 )

| . rectO-persO . | . E ≥ m.C² . | . co~errAnce . | . TiLt . |

A little excerpt to whet your appetite ...

It was not unusual to see ghosts during the Darkling Days. They may not have carried chains the way the ghosts in the stories did, but they often rode in on one – denizens of the Dead City caught like leaves in the main spring as the great clock began to wind down. It dragged them past borders they would not normally have dared to cross, and tangled them up in the gears and cogs of everyday life again. It was a fleeting, if unsettling, phenomenon; the specters would linger in the City a fortnight or so until the Rending, when the clock would be rewound and the dragging chain would pull them home again.

But this was different. The Rending had come and gone, but this year the ghosts still lingered. And this one had gone from being a disconcerting blur in the corner of his eye to an almost fully-formed image, real enough now to follow him silently through the crowded streets. The people around him could see it, too, though they gave it a wide berth. That was what you were supposed to do with the Darklings. Everyone knew that acknowledging a thing made it real.

Besides, the citizens of Clarior were already shell-shocked enough as it was. They had absorbed it as best they could: the bakery was open, the newspapers had gone to print, women were still hanging out their laundry and gossiping on the street corners. But the entire City was dressed in the black clothes of mourning, and the rotting pumpkins and tattered crepe ribbons were still on display. No one seemed entirely sure what to do with them now that their protective charms had proven futile.

And, of course, there were the ghosts.

He saw one lingering by a news stand, head tilted to the side as it frowned at the late edition of a local paper. He saw one on the outdoor terrace of a cafe, poking its translucent finger into the tea cup of a patron who was heroically pretending not to notice.

He did his best to ignore them, too, and turned up the collar of his old army coat against the autumn chill. A bit of a defiant fashion choice, that; it alternatively earned him nods of respect and sharp glares of disapproval. Had he had the option, he would have chosen something else to wear – but he was a beggar now, and beggars could not be choosers.

The scent threaded permanently through the worn-soft fibers, a mixture of coffee grounds and woodsmoke and skin, was both a comfort and a torment. In all the days since, he had not been able to bring himself to put his hands in any of the many assorted pockets, terrified that what he’d find there might shatter his already wavering resolve.

But the ghost had no similar reservations.

As he stopped on the street corner to wait for a rattling tramcar to pass, the ghost stopped beside him. It was impossible not to notice it then. It smelled of wet, dark earth and wore a uniform that he did not recognize, moth-eaten and dry rotted and a particular color that could only be called ‘decay.’ When the creature turned its head towards him, the lit street lamps, mere fireflies now this early in the dusk, were still powerful enough to reflect on the brass half-mask welded directly into its exposed skull. The phantom had no eyes, but he could sense that it was watching him.

The closer the calendar crept towards the Rending, the stronger the ghosts became. They could move things, sometimes, though nothing heavy or for very far. But he had never known one substantial enough to grab his wrist and force something into his hand the way this one did now.

It was a gear about half the size of his palm and coated in flaking bits of rust. (No, he would realize later, not rust; blood.) “What -?” he began, forgetting himself in his confusion and looking directly into the leering skull’s empty eye sockets. The chill that flooded him then was cold enough to hurt, but he did not look away.

The ghost was unperturbed, reaching past his arm to dip its rotting fingers into the right-side pocket of his coat. It withdrew a piece of folded paper, worn soft with age and repeated creasing, and pressed that into his hand, too.

The missive bore his own handwriting in faded ink, the letters overlapped by a steady if hesitant hand in graphite. Time had smeared most of the words into incomprehension, but three remained visible still, the two handwritings tangled together around the letters: come find me.

He looked up with a startled inhalation, but the ghost had abruptly vanished.

All that remained was the silver tendrils of his startled breath in the gathering dark, just as frail and just as quickly gone in the glow of the gaslights overhead.


(Like what you’re reading?  Check out the story here: clockwork-kingdoms)