diff options
Diffstat (limited to 'veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/the house that smiled.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/the house that smiled.txt | 176 |
1 files changed, 176 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/the house that smiled.txt b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/the house that smiled.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9268c50 --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/the house that smiled.txt @@ -0,0 +1,176 @@ + I awoke at the age of twenty-five in reasonably good shape and with a seemingly sound mind, but I awoke to a world of total insanity. I say I awoke because the reality I possess is one I would not have voluntarily chosen; no I would have hoped for something where I had a bit more control, more say in the directions of my life. So I say ‘awoke’ because everyone has at some point had that disorienting sensation of awaking in a strange place and for that instant not knowing how or why. I live in that instant. +I am a character in a book. I don’t even know the title of the book, so far it has read at times like a spy novel, a romance, a science textbook, an occult obsession, a personal journal, a metaphysical protein shake, and surrealist soup. The surrealist parts are the funniest, the romance parts the most exciting, and the rest cover a range from downright frightening to mysteriously intriguing. +I have studied extensively, though by no means thoroughly, both eastern and western philosophy from existentialism to Sufism to Christianity to the Gnostic Mushroom Cults of Mexico looking for ways to understand and cope with my situation —how does one behave in a novel? Some have proved useful but there is in the end, I fear no escaping my situation. I live within the constructs of words not objects. +Words are image and idea to me, I do not have your luxury of being able to evaluate and abstract myself, I can not say this thing is real this one is not because everything that could be is. Some days I live dramatic events that shape and influence the entire book other days I spend under a tree reading a book within a book. I never know what I will do until the day is over and this realization has given me the ultimate freedom, but no control and without control I don’t feel at home with the human race. The vast majority of the human race believes that it knows certain things to be true (i.e. you assume each night when you go to bed that you will wake up in the same place) whereas I have found no such consitency in this book. +My awakening as I have called it was simply the realization that I was a character in a novel and that to exert any control whatsoever over my circumstance would require that I gain an audience so I am here for you to let you in on my awakening. I have to offer my finest verbal worlds and the infinite constructs of the imagination which are totally without the bounds of reality which you have to abide by, I can travel the globe at the stroke of a pen. Enough reasoning, you’ll see my predicament eventually. + +All that we are is the result of all that we have thought. It is founded on thought. It is based on thought. —Buddha (transmitted on WORD INC airwaves all rights restricted) + +I am lying back supported by pillows on a small couch in the back corner of an underground bar, dawn, Paris 1999, listening to the radio and staring at walls not yet written by Rembrant, Miller, and all the dead poets. Peace back here in corner where I watch all time pass me by with the detached apathy of non-compliance —after all freedom is the one thing I have the most of. Static chirps of French corporate radio interrupt my musings on arts finer abstracts. Step aside and let the man go through. I feel like a lead train, heavy from hash, muscles detached from their control centers, inoperable, trying to struggle out the words for another espresso to wake the gray cells that hang like storm clouds on the edge of my brain. I am watching Nina who in her lovable French fashion is totally ignoring me. Such a sweet girl, waitress, Nina, cherub cheeks —she puts up with me long after closing time. I dream she loves me but I know she merely wants to go home; she certainly doesn't need me here. I tried to sleep with her once, but her heart wasn't in it. As a kind off consolation prize she lets me stay late until she is done closing up. + Every night I slouch my way here for my fix of stimulants, hallucinogens, and depressants, it's a full time job, shoveling coal in the engine. Of course my drug taking is metaphorical, but I have to explain things in terms you will relate to and you are all addicts of one of the aforementioned whether you know it or not. +Paris in the rain —dark and ugly, a city of dreams gone wrong. Parisians, like New Yorkers, seem to know something that the rest of us are missing, and they show no signs of sharing. Scaring information out of the agents here is like ripping rotting molars from a tweekers corroded mouth —no one wants the job. + Strange French lounge music tumbles in from the WORD INC. speakers behind the bar, it rolls across the room like an ancient reminder of an inadequacy that has been building up since the last ice age. Music ripped the fur from the ape body and made up man/woman, gave the creature a sense of wonder and beauty that demanded self-inspection. Why? Art thou not a self-reflexive monkey? Ancient questions that have been buried so well by the trappings and excrement of civilization; they learned to live in the gutters in alleys, only the homeless and displaced dropouts of society have the time left to investigate. Or course most of them lack the vigor and rigor of mind for such endeavors, but junkies know more about the nature of economy than stock market analysts in sickly air conditioned rooms can ever hope for. +This is the nightmare at the end of the century and like most of some forgotten race of seekers lying in languid rooms in far off dream cities, Paris, Prague, Peking, St Petersburg, I prefer to rest in peace now and start the real work on the edge of death. There at the final moment you will start to get the real digs. + Nowadays, reclined on Persian pillows and sweet perfumed hash dreams, I live here. I also have realities here. Nina with her drooping doe eyes pulls on my arm helping me off the couch, tearing me from the peace of inner reflections. She throws my arm over her shoulder and helps me toward the door. Stumbling up the stairs and onto the street I am blinded by the morning sun finally breaking its way through the sullen clouds. I light a cigarette and draw deeply. Using the building for support, with the cold Paris wind blowing winter right through me and my pea coat, I brace myself for the long stumble home. +The streets of Paris for those that have never had the good fortune to walk them, seem to perhaps been built by someone with a sense of humor someone who sat back and asked themselves: what would travel be like if we made it deliberately difficult instead of deliberately easy? The answer is here somewhere in the meandering alleys, bridges, tunnels, and streets that seem designed to get one lost, confused, and disoriented. Only in such a state do you begin to discover the real Paris. At least that’s my friend Allie says and I walking to her house on this sobering morning so I start to think like her. +Allie is French-Canadian by birth and I know her from Canada where she was a stripper for many years. Three of which she also spent living in my house and I have come here to Paris to return the favor by living ever so briefly in hers. Her full name is Allie Suviguile which I used to tease her about because in the crudest midwestern american accent she is only one r away from sounding like “survive guile” and she does indeed survive by being guile. Everyone at some point evolves to suit their name which is why I am deeply frightened of having children —far to much responsibility, in the back of their minds all parents store guilt at the thought that perhaps some of the wayward tendacies of their children are the result of parential influence, conscious or not. +My own memories may have filters on them that were shaded and toned by my parents. Take for instance Mexico City: I remember Mexico City in hazy brown discolored way, but its not the smog its the nature of memory. The image collages overlay themselves like a bad acid film from the sixties. Cut to a shot of the subway, sad brown faces and I want to know why they aren't on vacation like me… lay on top of it an image of pyramid excavation digging up and trying to solve the Mayan Caper. Years ago you would. Understand she was standing right next to me and then...Warm sweet smelling cab and my father says “hey, look a Kentucky fried Chicken” and sure enough I see one. Americana right in the middle of foreign chaos. +I've had quite a time ever since then trying to pick up the pieces of a world that exists in only my subjective phantasmal experience, but that is partially explained by the fact that I live in book and am subject to forget that at times and think that I actually exist, and that everything is actually happening. Some days everything actually is happening, but I’ll come to that. For now that kaleidoscope memories of my youth — I focused up into the sun , it burned in fantastical visions that all of Dr. Hoffman's LSD could never quite reach and then there was the sound...an unbelievable pulse of something so guttural it would announce itself for years to come by illicit in me the most terrifying kind of fear that paralyzes you. Leaves you like a woman I saw once stone still and shell shocked right in the middle of this great arch in Canyonlands National Park, Utah. She just stood there unable to move, feeling the digging hooks of unbridled terror burning into her brain and creating an endless and spellbinding feedback loop that forbids you to move, rips you right out of the very fabric of collective reality and propels you into strange land of pure abstraction. I watched her sit there unable to help herself doubtless staring at the two thousand foot drop and the meager four foot wide sandstone arch that was holding her there suspended in mid air, seeing herself for the first time the way we are. Naked cold and deathly afraid. + But the cab driver just laughed and said, “here in Mexico City there is no Kentucky Fried Chicken, maybe Kentucky Fried Cat, Kentucky Fried Dog, But definitely no Kentucky Fried Chicken.” He smiled this crooked smile revealing gold caps and over moist gum structure that was so large it seemed to be slowly crawling right up off his teeth. Okay no, that was a devise of literature, but he really did say that and he really did laugh at us, and then sternly advised in all seriousness against eating there, not that we would have anyway. And all this was years before I would ever get to India to learn that first there is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is. + But alas I did not have my Mexico City cabbie advise to help that woman frozen there on the Arch, in fact I went all the way to the end of the trail (funny I don't remember were it went) and came back and she was still there, frozen for time. Occasionally I wonder if maybe it would have help to walk by here real quietly and whisper...don't worry there is no Kentucky Fried Chicken, maybe Kentucky Fried Cat or Kentucky Fried Dog, but certainly no Kentucky Fried Chicken. + But that sound would never go away that Kaleidoscope burned out my eyes and left me open, Naked and exposed to be brutalized by sound. But I can't paint the picture that way the sad poet crap...Wilde would never have stood for the half alive black clad zombies that run around pretending to see so much deeper into life than the rest of us and they want to sell their torture to you for an outrageous price. I never saw the likes of such a con, I wouldn't spend a goddamn dime of the crap, sower up punks, shave, you read this stuff, it is mocking you. Yes you! Sour-headed mongrels sucking the joy out of it all, it drives me nuts, makes me want to live in Paris in state of perpetual disgust digging through trash can with this old bum I met once who went by the name of Henry. + But fortunately I ditched Henry for the time being although I have noticed that the oddest characters tend to pop up at the most inopportune times. Now the streets of Paris take on a particularily sinister intent and I duck into more obscure alleys trying to avoid Henry all the while thinking that that might well be just what he would expect me to do. Its not that I don’t want to see him its just that I have a certain hunger right now that Henry can not fill. I need a woman. +I am hoping that Allie did not bring anyone home last night because I am like a primordial beast in heat. The Paris nightlife does that to me, makes me get back in touch with very immediate physical yearnings for things like female flesh and the blessed rite of sex. + Allie and I share only two common points we like to talk about nothing for hours and we like to fuck. I don’t love her at all, though I care emensely for her and would never do anything to hurt her. Unless she asked me to in her special I’m-about-to-come extra breathy voice that crawls all the way to my backbrain and lets me tie her to chairs and whip her and fuck her mouth and joyfully consent to having the same done to me. Allie is Joyce’s worst nightmare, I have yet to find something that will make her blush —I remember the time I walked in on her and some man and without so much as hello she through him on his back impailed herself on his cock and yanked out mine and sucked it as best she could while bouncing up and down. She has dragged me to countless orgies, dominatrixes, and fetish balls all in the aimless pursuit of pleasure. Eventually I grew weary of the scene and I left her, but a chance meeting in the tube has led me here. That’s another great thing about living in book —you have chance meetings with nymphos on subways. + All this and now standing ringing her bell it seems that she has spent the night elsewhere. You never know how your day is going to be until its over. + + + I saw a man upon the stair, + A little man who wasn’t there. + He wasn’t there again today; + Gee, I wish he’d go away. + -WORD INC broadcast all rights are served + + +"...and the best part of it is, you're gonna love this, not one word of it is true. I've run it through CHIPS three times and we have no noise coming out of that sector in the last ten years..." + "Could it be an anomaly? We've missed things before..." + "What are you trying to say? that I'm missing a part of the game?" + "Look, how many timetracks are your people watching right now?" + "we're running twenty thousand day in and day out for the entire year local objective..." + "Well maybe somewhere in what must amount to over twenty million local subjective tracks, you missed something. Did i ever tell you the one about the house that smiled?" + "Enlighten me" + "I was killing some time down in the south, waiting between assignments you see, laying low from a job out in LA if I recollect properly, anyway, I had this ramshackle joint out in the woods all overgrown with vines and tree drooping right onto the porch. I spent most of the days working on the Brazilian Caper trying to put together the pieces, information synthesis was my specialty. so one day I came driving home from the bar, now I'd had a couple of gins which is key to the story, I pulled off the highway onto my driveway which was a dirt road maybe half a mile long and you could see the house when you turned off the main road but then you ducked under some trees and lost it until you were right up on it. when i turned off this one particular day I could have sworn the house smiled at me, when I got up on it it looked normal enough and I assumed it was the gin that made it smile. It never occurred to me to look from the point of vies that it was the gin that let me see it smile...I was preoccupied at the time. + "Some weeks later I thought about the incident so I ran the house through on CHIPS to see if we had any information on the place. turned out the house had a history of jealous behavior, so I checked into a skid row hotel and avoided the place for a week. I went back and everything I owned had been burned to the ground and I am still to this day convinced that i missed the clues because I didn't know that I had any. You see everything has a relationship with you, everything you see and do has a reaction to you and if you look at it another way everything you are doing might be a reaction to something you can't see." + "You're saying I'm looking at it wrong? Fine count me out of it, you wanted a background check on the area and I gave you one, if you don't like the information that is not my problem. I'm getting out a here this place gives me the creeps...." + + + I rather liked the place, it was in fact my favorite bar in the state the state being Georgia the country being USinc. The plaster was peeling in great sheets from the ceiling and the walls had a rough texture such that you had to move around and find just the right spot to lean your head back on. I had my spot, it was in the corner and I sat so I faced the front door I liked to see who was coming and going, comes with the trade you understand. I was in a red booth that wrapped the corner and had a table that was too short for it, worked out more as a foot rest than a table, although it held up my legs and drink without too much complaining so I guess you could call it a table, if you wanted to. There were these red lamps sticking out of the walls here and there, that and the kerosene candles on the tables were the only light. It was a small bar (all good bars are small) maybe six seven tables and a handful of stools; the place was a real diamond, but they kept it looking like coal. At the moment I was the only one here except for Harry Woods, the bartender, and of course the man who had just left my table. A man I was not having kind thoughts about right now. + His name was Scratch because he once clawed his way out of a lockup with his bare hands, or so the the story went. The information he was to have imparted was incidental, I had set him up to see if he would feed me a line or hang me out to dry, always good to hit a source with something you already know if like me, you haven't hit the source in a while. I crossed his name off of the list of reliables and I was packing up my bag to go when my phone rang. + I had recently gone into private practice after being with the company for fifteen years. To be completely forthcoming I would I guess have to revel that I was forced to go private on account of a royal fuck up of mine in Brazil, but I was putting it behind me and trying to drum up some work. The phone was an auspicious sign and when I looked at the ID'er it was coming straight in for the quarter itself. Holy Shit I thought, they must be more pissed at me than I thought. When people are trying to get a hold of you and you don't want them to the best idea is to keep moving. + I made a bee line for the bathroom, turned off the phone and pulled out a syringe. I went to do this once and some old junky thought I was shooting up and tried to get one off of me which I refused and he got mad and ran out to tell the management, course I was gone before they got there. I sat down on the toilet and set out the electromagnetic generator on the floor in front of me. I was tapping an old west piano line with my feet while it warmed up. When I saw the portal open I started to masturbate 'til I was just about ready to shoot. With my other hand I readied the needle and felt around for the sore at the base of my spine and inserted it. This was the trickiest part; I drew out a milky white cellular substance and I felt the familiar tingles around the edges of my body, starting in the feet and hands, I knew it was going to hit fast. I made a good jump and landed right on Maya's table where she drew it up into another syringe and then shot into the back of a good looking head. + + + + + Have you ever tried to live at the speed of light? I don't mean literally of course, just so there's no confusion here, we are after all in the middle of what is shaping up to be science fiction story of the worst kind. Agents popping up here and there without warning and always mysteriously knowing more than they could if they possible lived in your world, you the reader that is. I know its all crap, that's just the hack shit people work in. Word comes down from EDITORIAL RE-WRITE, ah ahem we don't quite seem to know what this is...could you expand on the science fiction stuff, now that we can sell. Have a really big hit! I see best seller lists in your future? eh? You want the chiclettes mister? Spanish boy sell that goddamn gum again come stumbling up to you on the street in Mexico City. +NOTICE FROM RE-WRITE: + We can't seem to decide what category of the book store to put this in sometimes it seems like a science textbook, then the next minute it getting dragged by some pimple faced clerk down to the science fiction shelves and then without warning you turn it into a personal confessional and start address the reader directly...could you organize this better we're very interested you see.... + Have you ever tried to live at the metaphorical speed of light. I mean you. Not an abstract self that you think the writer is talking to whenever you see the personal pronouns. You and I are having a dialogue and I'm trying to ask you a question except that we have a time travel issue. Is this nonfiction and true always, or is it fiction and entirely made up of unique emotional moments that fade as quickly as they show themselves? + I don’t have that delimma so I don’t have to worry about it I know I live in pure fiction, not even real you know, just words strung together…. A while ago I mentioned Henry, well its time for the real digs…. + Nobody around town could stand Henry he was I admit a paranoid schizophrenic and sometimes he would forget if he was talking to you or to the voices in his head. They would get kind of mixed up at time and he might occasionally chase you around and try to kill you with his umbrella, but he really meant no harm and he was too old to catch you even if he actually did mean you harm and I was just to naive to see it. Its all in how you paint it you know. you can try to cut it up and rearrange it and maybe you come closer to the abstract notions of truth that philosophers are always blabbing about, but nobody lives in an objective universe. this is the way I saw it Henry had good stories, he thought he was an agent see and he loved to tell anybody that would listen to him all about how he had the inside scope on the CIA. Used to be an agent see and they had me in on the Kennedy job and what better way to discredit me then to drive me out here on the streets? Sometimes when I was really stoned it did have an eery ring of truth about it, after all No one believed him. + No one really believes anyone really though, I mean we like to think we trust each other and we love to say that we do, but I've watched this tired old game long enough to know one thing, its a game. And in a game nothing is ever what it appears to be because if everything were right there for you on the surface for you it would be a pretty stupid game. So over the years the bipedal monkeys have dreamed up an elaborate universe of intricately interwoven moves and counter moves and rules to the game that has lately had the nasty side effect of becoming terribly obvious and not so much fun anymore. + I studied history quite a bit, I was drawn to it I think because I don’t have time. These stories are only linear in time to make iteasier on you the reader, but for me its all always existing forever somewhere and at sometime which makes the whole time concept lose shape and eventually it collapsesback to the state vector. + + + For that brief instant that the I that is me was in Maya's mouth I had the delectable sensation of what I imaging a cock must fell like roosting in a warm mouth. One of my projects with the company had been (my own design of course) to try to concentrate the entire essence of consciousness into the penis. That is to take on the identity of a cock and live through an orgasm that (in my theory) would resonate though the entire conscious. the only problem was that realistically we had no way of defining ourselves. so I took it upon myself to put aside the dope and cocaine and endless gratuitous blow jobs to first find this here consciousness thing that nobody would quite put there finger on. Regrettably I failed and that is the gist of the Brazilian Caper, maybe later we'll get into the tasty details but first I needed some time to adjust to a new body. + + + + Something rather strange has been going on lately, too many jumps I think you can't move between the threads of reality to often before you start to wonder which on of them is real. Denizens of psychedelic drugs refer to such people as acid casualties, this is mainly do to their tendency to not be able to let go. You can't move in and out of worlds until you detach, some one once said to me about the experience, first the human game stops then, the time game stops and then the me game stops. At this point you are confronted with the ugliest aspect of what you call reality, the personalized ego that fights all the way to the bitter end. It might not ever go away for good, but usually in the past I have been able to let go and move and now I find that I have more and more hear about jumping. The very sight of the needle and the apparatus this cold electromagnetic...thing, made partly of inorganic microchips and partly of neuron cells stolen from leeches. When the thing was first tested the story goes that they used jellyfish, but the director, Dr. Waiben was struck by this "duty to the irony of our situation" and switched the neural tissue to leeches because this thing is going to suck away the last defenses we have. Only that didn't exactly happen, the thing is that people can't be pushed to do anything they can't understand, and therefore they rejected it. so now were where we are, like the yogi said wherever you go there you are. And here we are, with too sets of humanity, those who went and those who didn't. + Naturally this created a certain power dynamic of have and have nots, but the thing is that most people who went lost all concern for what had been their lives, they fell victim to sabetoge, which is okay because it gave me job. I work for the Agency of Interdimensional Control, under the direction of Dr. Waiben. The good doctor and I were working on this project for years before anybody was aware what was going on and consequently we know the system technology and emot vortexes better than most and when people started to get wind we already knew which way it was going to blow. So we started setting up the agency and recruiting like minded individuals to help us keep things under control. + I must take time here in the narrative to mention exactly how the system works. We were both stumbled upon a kind of understanding of the way things work at the same time and hence we wound up in the same place one day which we later realized was not in fact an act of stumbling at all, but anyway we met near the outer edge of the universe on an 8th dimensional string. We had both realized at the same time that the string theory emerging in physics at the end of the twentieth century was in fact a more technical description (less poetic I might add) of the Egyptian book of the dead. At the time I thought this was coincidence, but then one day I was watching movie about virtual reality games and I started thinking about what would happen to human mind if you turned everything on at once. + I couldn't find any literature on the subject so I decided to make my own. I started with a virtual reality suit, a sensory deprivation chamber, ten years practice of yoga, a variety of hallucinogenic chemicals, orgone generators, talismans, magick symbols, and a room full of books, everything religious practice recorded by man, the latest in theoretical physics and everything in between. then their was Maya, but we'll come to that later. + My actual experiments were rather undisciplined and were not yielding much in the way of results until I accidentally left the stereo on one day. In the sensory deprivation chamber on 200 mc of DMT, with the orgone generators humming I had the literal felt experience of being on the edge of the universe and I was sure I found GOD. As it turned out I was on the edge of what up until then was thought of as the universe, but I met Dr. Waiben, not GOD. Although I spent the next two years quite sure that I had seen GOD. + + I noticed rather early in my life that movie actresses made me feel funny. When I say this most people think I mean some sexual entendre or maybe funny peculiar. What I really mean is that they made me feel funny. One guy in bar once told me that it is impossible to feel funny, you either are funny or your not he said. I asked him how he could be sure that no one felt funny as in funny haha just because he had never felt funny. He tried to hit me and I left in hurry without finishing my beer. I made it a point not to discusses the "funny" feeling with anyone again. + But I still felt funny and wasn't quite sure why. My natural assumption was that this was some sexual feeling I was having, but at the time I didn't have sex life to compare it too. Over the years I have found that sex will at times produce the funny feeling, but it is not as strong as with the actresses. Another thing that gave me the funny feeling over the years is cannabis. I have smoked pot nearly everyday for three or four years now and I find that toward the end of the night I tend to slide into the "funny" feeling quite naturally now. recently however I have found that the "funny" feeling can be induced at will anytime you want. This is or course the religious secret of the ages and you now expect that I will tell you how to do it yourself. except that words won't let me. I offer you this as a consolation prize: somewhere out there between the eleven dimensions (the four you know, four more you know if you have read mystics, and three more which can not be described they are only lived) there are portals through which you can move your consciousness. + That is why I said that you have to know how to detach. Most people I have noticed tend to think of themselves as their bodies. Interestingly most religions that most people tend to believe have always said that you are not your body, I was never religious though. the language that told me that was science, science said in rather more complicated terms that nothing exists. There has been much despair in fact over this statement. people have natural tendency to belief in what they call "life" that is the material world. They believe that it is real and existing at a point in time. When you learn to let go of the body (usually when you die) a vast array of possibilities open themselves up for examination and I can assure you that there is every bit as much to be feared as any hell fire and damnation sermon has ever threatened, but you only get their if you want to go. I'm not sure how realities come to exist, I can only tell you that they are their, and if you want to find them you will. + + It was sometime before I made the connection between the stereo and GOD, but one day in a vain attempt to get back to where I was I left the stereo on again. This time however I was catapulted into a nightmare of despair and utter gut wrenching fear and I "saw" the music drawing me into it and I had the experience of wrestling something off of me as if every cell in my body were desperately trying to get out of an invisible blanket that was tearing at my flesh threatening to rip me apart. i had a heart attack and started bleeding from my nose and mouth and Maya saved my life. she had walked into the room and thinking that I was gone turned off the radio, when she did I let out what she called the most inorganic noise I have ever had. she called the paramedic and started CPR which saved my life, sort of. + By this time i was quite detached from what most people would call life. I hadn't seen anyone aside from Maya in months and I only slept on Sundays. I had also long forgotten about things like the police and I was busted for having a rather large quantity of what they called controlled substances, the whole thing made the paper and my life went down hill. I moved into a different twelve by twelve room and got a new (and rather boring) wardrobe, but down in Atlanta a similarly minded individual read about my story and contacted me. In fact he managed to get me released and out on bail before the end of the month. + So I happened to come into the more formal experiment complete with government shadow funding. Private companies often donate to private research groups for tax deduction purposes and this money goes into the private sector where the CIA usually recommends projects that ought to get money. It was a rather complicated network of money laundering in the name of science which was why I joined up, its not everyday that you can live in spy novel. Except that I was very bad at it sometimes and liked to smoke pot while doing research and got pulled over stoned at four in the morning which landed me back in jail. this time they didn't want to bale me out so I sat there for a while and thought the nature of the thing. And somewhere in the middle of it I heard Maya recounting that she had turned off the stereo and I remembered the music episode and I had a Joycian moment where I just saw how it was working and it came to more complete and laid out like a plan. Of course now I know why, but at the time it was a monumental feeling to have that thing handed to me. + So I built just like I had seen in it, at a friends house over in Athens. We had worked on some musical experiments, he knew what I knew about the power of sound, and he was pretty open to going out on the edge, which is a good quality to look for in friends. I don't exactly know what I would say if some one came to my door and said hey I was wondering if I could set up an electromagnetic field generator in your living room and maybe project myself into a different multi-verse, but William shrugged and said "um okay." + So we did and it worked and I met Maya finally, although I was under the impression that we had already met in what I was still calling "the real" world. Maya is a mmm , entity is a tempting word but it implies a singularity when Maya is continually unfolding, you can meet here, but its never as good as elsewhere. Elsewhere became the name of the first reality that I encountered In the expeditions Bill and I embarked on. In what we called objective time tracks we had our bodies and world as I knew it, put in Elsewhere their were only subjective time tracks. We started with 1=1. One "normal" world and one "induced world" (since then the ratio has changed to 1=1,000,000,000), jumping between the two involved 200 intramuscular injection of DMT, sitting in a comfortable spot we used an array of speaker wire and amplifier heads to create a magnetic field around the body. When the DMT kick in the walls became electric and vibrated and I saw the cross waves coming in from the speakers (later we found that the low frequency bass helped make the waves easier to see) if you "thought" yourself at the harmonic convergence of the two, you stepped into Elsewhere. + It took two days of tinkering to master it, but when we did we had a reliable and repeatable experiment demonstrating the existence of "tangible" realities other than the consensus one. I took pawned it off on Waiben for a Swiss account and Bill and I were going to hit the road, but Maya intervened. + + + New York City at the end of the 20th century: woman says to me: don't you know you can't smoke in the subway? ya. :you don't give a fuck do ya>no< It was unquestionably rude: she deliberately intruded on my reality and imposed her own. I did not exist in world where people couldn't smoke in subway stations and she imposed RIGHT and WRONG on me. This is of course seen as quite okay as smoking causes death, but I knew that dead was not the end of things so I didn't have to cling like a crying widow to life. I started think what might happen if people expanded and just extended the old rules into the new. It was then that Bill and I laid plans for IAC. At first our goal was to just make a survey of the area. + I ended up on rainforest subtimetrack out on a routine patrol, I had always wanted to see the Jungle so I signed on. the group sailed right down through the mouth of the Amazon all the way down into her bowels it seemed by the time we put in at little fishing village. The sergeant was a trustworthy enough fellow, even looked a bit like some painting I had seen once of Vasco De Gama. He headed up to the mission to see if we could get lead from the Padre. He came back with an ear and the word the Eve El Gui, this woman of revered skills or so we were told. The sergeant was of the opinion that if the company was going to send us into death, it should at least be at the hands of a Sexual Goddess. Eve as we started to call her, was a tantric demonese hauled her self down from the Queens area nineteenth century, spit and polish deal and now wrecked her havoc through seven dimension. There was, besides me two soldiers who carried our heavy cannon, a map man and the sergeant. At first it was normal enough, I've run similar jobs before, just never in the jungle. + + I live in great fear of psychiatrists, which they would doubtless say it irrational, which in turn is the sourse of my fear. Imposing on the world the power to interpret what is real (sane they call it) and what is not real (insane) is to make yourself the living god that the ancients so greatly feared, reverd, and worshipped. The modern psychiatrist is playing out a script that the word created back in the beginning. It started as a word (always does) and it then became an idea, then an emtion...love of god, now it is flesh. We are god. How anticlimatic is that. When Waiben and I were first laying out the architecture of the word created universes we hypothosized that to kill the flesh would be to kill the word. But as we got further and further into the concreteness of the thing the more we realized that the flesh is not the word it is the word that becomes flesh. In other words killing the flesh was analogous to cutting out a tumor, only to have another start growing. Only pure image or pure emotion can knock out the word completely. + Image guns contained word defying images so that when you got shot with them the response would not be in terms of word. This is still the most effective way to rub out the word, although we do also use emotion guns which hit one with wonderous and overwhelming feelings, but some of the more skilled of the enemy have been able to cut these up and move thwn along irrational and chaotic lives and arrive at word. Poetry for instance will often render an emotion gun useless. + In the beginning the enemy started with an agent gone bad which we spun off as a metaphor in the Christ-con caper. Christ was originally one of use and we wrote him in to try to bring things to head, but we were way early on that timetrack and the whole thing blew up in our faces like the CIA at the Bay of Pigs fiasco. At that time the majority of the enemy was moving under the name of Christians, powermongers trying to horde the system and leaving the details to be worked out for future generations. The reverberations cut across nine dimensions and we had a hell of a mess to clean up. + Unfortunately the enemy is wilely, or perhaps that would be the end of the story, but its not, we got even bigger doodoo now. Now they call themselves scientists and they do there work from deep within jungles, concrete, and tropical like the one sarge and I are staring at. somewhere in the dizzying maze of trees and rivers and insects and the very air that is permeated with life, is Eve, the sudectress of word cons and we are being sent to take her out. + It was somewhat unusual to go into a literal jungle, I generally operate in the concrete metaphoric ones, but Eve had special credentials, and so did I. Eve was acting on the Iris script and trying to pick up the scattered pieces. She wanted things run on systems and she was going to bring down the shit house with her, as we say in the trade, one of her systems was an elaborate sex con called unilove. Unilove holds that the self can only love one other self at a time. Monogamy they call it back where I come from. We were having a hell of time trying to bring that one in for trial, and Eve was our chief opposition. My special talent was the ability to bring in the multiplicity of the issue, you see the singularity is but a convergaence of the multiplicies, but shop talk is not what you do sitting in camp at the edge of the jungle. + + + Soem readers no doubt are familiar with the losely defined concept of lucid dreaming, that is consciously indusing in oneself a dream state. Once when I was about ten my dead grandmother called and talked to me on the phone. I have no idea whether or not this actually happened, but I am certain that I experienced the phenomenon of it happening. + years later I had a similar experience of stumbling onto the dead in lucid dream state. this experience was not unlike what happens in virtual reality games only it was self indused rather than coming in from an outside apperatus. This discovery (which is as much of a discovery as Columbus landing and finding a population of five million and then claiming that he had discovered america) led william and I inexoribly into a tunnel of reality that paved the way for a global awakening. + By now we were fairly adept at moving in and out of realities that were from our point of view totally artifical and then we hit a snag, a big snag. We began to think perhaps we had induced some sort of sctizophrenia and conjunctual hallucinations. this proved to be fortuituse thing in the end, because we met the enemy in a virtual sense rther than unwittingly encountering them as actual intities. intities is as I ahve said a poor word for the phenomena, all thing are conceptual nothing exists, (sub atomic physics 101) words define things that exist. anything that can be put into words then has a fairly mapable probability of occuring in subjective reality. + We confronted the enemy before we knew they were the enemy and thus gained the upper hand. gradually we found the Elswhere had distinquitive cities and places not unlike the ones we were already familiar with. One we nicknamed the quarter, because of its resemblance to New Orleans. We chose it as our base of opperations in Elsewhere and went about setting up the scenery to our liking. WRITE and IMAGE were our tools and we painted quite a picture. I was inclined toward french quarter type of arcitecture and went so far as to go down to the "real" french qarter in New Orleans with the image guns to make a rough replica, in time of course others would find the quarter and now its a treaturous hell hole, but its still our jumping off point. + + Lying back supported by pillows on a small couch in the back corner of a bar, Paris 1999, staring at walls not yet written by Rembrant, Miller, and all the dead poets. Peace back here in corner where I watch all time pass me by with the detached apathy of non-compliance. Step aside and let the man go through. I feel like a lead train, heavy from hash, muscles detached from their control centers, inoperable, trying to struggle out the words for another espresso to wake the grey cells that hang like storm clouds on the edge of my brain. I am ignored by the sweet French waitress, Nina, cherub cheeks —the girl puts up with me long after closing time. I dream she loves me but I know she merely wants to go home; she certainly doesn't need me, I tried to sleep with her once, but her heart wasn't in it. As a kind off consolation prize she lets me stay late until she is done closing up. + Every night I slouch my way here for my fix of stimulants, hallucinogens, and depressants, it's a full time job, shoveling coal in the engine. Paris in the rain —dark and ugly like a city of dreams gone wrong. Parisians, like New Yorkers, seem to know something that the rest of us are missing, and they show no signs of sharing. Scaring information out of the agents here is like ripping rotting molars from a tweekers corroded mouth: no one wants the job. + Strange French lounge music tumbles in from speakers behind the bar, it rolls across the room like an ancient reminder of an inadequancy, building up since the last ice age. Music ripped the fur from the ape body and made up man/woman, gave the creature a sense of wonder and beauty that demanded self inspection. Why? Ancient questions that have been buried so well by the trappings and excrement of civilization; they learned to live in the gutters in alleys, only the homeless and displaced dropouts of society have the time left to investigate. Or course most of them lack the vigour and rigour of mind for such indeavors, but most junkies know more about the nature of economy than stock market analysists in sickly air conditioned rooms can ever hope for. + This is the nightmare at the end of the century and like most of some forgotten race of seekers lying in languid rooms in far off dream cities, Paris, Prague, Peking, St Petersburg, I prefer to rest in peace now and start the real work on the edge of death. There at the final moment you will start to get the real digs. Nowadays, reclined on Persian pillows and sweet perfumed hash dreams, I live here. I also have realities here. Nina with her drooping doe eyes pulls on my arm helping me off the couch, tearing me from the peace of inner reflections. She throughs my arm over her shoulder and helps me toward the door. Stumbling up the stairs and onto the street I am blinded by the morning sun finally breaking its way through the sullen clouds. I light a cigarette and using the building for support I brace myself for the walk home. + + + There wasn't much to go on the radio signal was weak and difficult to piece together. Rangoon Jungle Operation Unsucessfull. I ran that over and over the short wave and hoped for the best. The heat and the pain kicked in together like waves on the beach and you have to lie their and feel it, really digging it down deep before they let up. the plane was scattered in the canopies of the trees for several miles. My foot was definately broken in the fall, but the doctor was worse, with a deep puncture wound and labored breathing. He wasn't up to moving and I wasn't up to sitting out a night in the jungle, with god knows what hungry creatures running amuck. + Using the compass I tried to head north to where their should be a river, I had seen it from the plane, but the jungle was thick and I was moving slowly on my bad foot. I reached the river by nightfall though and a fishing boat heading down river picked me up and got me to the village, there was no phone, but I had food and shelter. I suffered a spasm of guilt over some rice when I thought of the doctor, but it passed. + The next morning at dawn I attempted to guide several of the men from the village back to the site of the crash, but we were unable to find the chutes or any sign of Waiben, by nightfall we gave up and the new took me up the river in darkness. At the first road crowssing I stole a car and headed back into Rangoon. I called the Agency and was greeted with a lecture regarding my job performance which I hung up on, and after a brief stop at the hospital where I was assured by ankle was not broken, but badly sprained; I headed to the local bar. Six beers later I no longer cared about the Jungle or Rangoon or anyother + + + + + + + The cold streaking blur of the express train colors the night in Kaliedscope lights that play out in little dances. The train seems on bender this metalic night, New York, 1999, and my head spins after the woman wouldn't let me smoke in peace; the caustic light from the flourecent reflections of white tile at the forty second street station burns on my skin. Letting my head bounce off the window in sway with the movement of the train, I hardly notice the man sitting opposite me until his voice assualts me. + "Where ya from?" + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + No good shits run the world. It's a well established fact, everyone knows this, but that doesn't bother me. Absctracts are okay, the world exists only in my head anyway. What trouibles me is the no good shits are driving around bodies and forcing themselves and their games on you. This is of course what makes them no good shits in the first place, the question is what are you to do about it? The most amusing thing to do is to play their game; times ten. reducto ad absurdum the romans called it; make it fucked up. Agents are always trying to sulk about in corners where no one notices them, but that is of course where people have come to expect them to be, you have to stay ahead of the metaphors. The normals one is the psycho killer (he was such a quite boy), now we got are eyes on the quiet ones...television, gottat stay ahead of the metaphor. Its played out you have to move into some new metaphors, just ahead of the other guy or he's going to mark you for what you are...someone hinding something. + Who isn't you say? Princeses and Diamonds and opals those living on the edge of the shell like little spinning protons hovering the nucleus of infinite faith. The best cover an agent can have is not have a cover. Believe that you are and nothing more, do not become what you are or you will no longer be. You will be something. everyone is something. The only time you're not being something is when you're having sex. Hence the old phrase "sexuality is an agents best cover..." or words to that effect. + The human mind is infinite and what have we done? tied it dopwn with the finite, like impounding a spaceship for being a spaceship. What logic? In order to win you have to play by your own rules and you have to make sure that you are the only one who knows what the rules are, otherwise they will anticipate the next move. disinformation comes from the understanding that you opponet believes womething to be true and you then feed them information that is likely to confirm or adapt to fit what they believe. This is best demonstrated by the Christ -con. This involves convincing people that something exists, once they are convinced that it is real, the world either confirms this at everyturn, or in more severe cases the world is conformed to fit the theory. Mainly only Scientists employ this logic anymore, but few pay them any mind. the Christ-con is wore threadbare and wreeks like drunk from across the room, nobody is being chiclettes in this parts anymore meester. When children laugh at you your cover is blown. + Time to move on they decided so we kicked out for the forest Sarge was riding shotgun and I was driving, an old army jeep looked like it had served half a dozen wars, but it suited us because we had served half a dozen wars. We blew up north on some information passed along by the natives at the outpost, some tribe up in the hills still living in caves and foraging for grubs and roots in the forest repudated to have the key to the rosette stone of knowledge. I was on the look out for a Truman Capote, but we saw no sign of him in the forest country. + + Two days in we picked up an odd broacast from the inspector back at head quarters and for the longest time I couldn't make heads or tails of it.... "The 1994 erie Ordinace was aimed specifically at such established public beliefs as Imagination, Belief, and Constitutional thought...spin like an actor; electricals and the reason that it happened in the first place...The Lawyer sought continuance on the planes altitude." We didn't have the descramblers to go with the code so to speak. We holed up in a nice sleepy town of eighty thousand and sat down to rest up and try to break the transmission in hopes it would have some sort of clue as to what we should do. we came up with... + A full retreat back to headquarters. unacceptable as we were not in any perceivable danger. At least not yet which is why we put it on the table, because they turn you know. + Hole up here for conciderable length of time and dig into the network. We laid the ground work even while we were toying with the idea, always keep working even if you don't know what you are working toward. Focus and concentration can have clearing effect like farting in an elevator. + Jump out of the loop completely and try to tackle the problem from the outside working in. In persuance of this thought we obtained passports and other paper and supplies. There was talk of the eastern front, they always need pack up and the rumor was good lodgings. + Try to jump out and then back in. Reconocince is difficult and involved much tedious and boring work, it was also shocking to the body and in some cases led to death. We made no move on this one, but we talked about it from time to time, but I think it was really more on my mind than Sarges. Sarge was all for the Eastern Front he was hooked on information, and he was checking out his sources in his spare time. I toyed with it, in between Martinis, but my heart wasn't in it, yet. I was working on trying to remember the future. + I had a most marvelous vision one day of red brick buildings. Boston -harvard square- fall; the Charles river slips by without a sound, the streets corral throngs of people- onlookers drunk beyond comprehension of what they were there to look at- they stumble out of bars and lurch through doorways like grenades rolled out on the street. Inside the Radcliffe boat house a reserve of surplus energy is released in muscular spasms that pulse in orgasm. Her breasts pool salt onto my tongue. And in walks Truman Copote he looks it over for a minute and then, having taken stock of the affair, proceeds to hand me the rosete stone of Knowledge. He lit a cigarette, took the stone back, and walked out the boathouse doors. I tasted salt in my mouth every time I called up the memory. + + Its cold this time of year in the East out there in backwater eddies towns where the frost had long since burnt the leaves red, yellow and then right of the tree where they pool in sidewlks and street and covered paths in Kaliediscope blankets. We huddled in blankets rather than paying the bills and having heat, we were agents we had to make do, get by on the absolute minmum. Most people who visited were appalled by the rather makeshift nature of the furniture and the transitory feeling that hung in the air around the place. It was not a howm it was a research center for the depraved, we were on to something and we just didn't have the words to wrap around it yet. + from time to time the word wing would float heavy in the air and I used to wonder if I alone felt this or if perhaps it truly was there, tangible and in air like the way the Japanese feel about feng shui and the cannelling of chi. It was pulsating and alive aroung there, nerves were being held bare and exposed to the radiating burn of now. Naseau and disorientation were come and though it was an unwritten rule that one would ascribe the unhidable effects of them to food poisoning or the like, uinderneath it all we knew that something big was a foot. Wing, and truman capote and a little boy coming by all the time selling promotional candy bars to raise money for his little legue baseball team. those are the snapshots that come up when I am drawn back there in memories. It was a good time it flowed right through our bodies and shot out the finger tips, something was most definately going on. It would be years before I was able to day what the it was, but even then I knew it was real. + There was a furniture store downtown in hwat most places I had been would have been called old town, except that here everything is old; old town and oldertown. Normaltown was just up the street from us, though I rarely set foot up there, the name was too obvious, something fishy about the scene. The scene was too transpanrent to have actually existed, at the time I ascribed it to faulty perception, but I was wrong. Awkums razor is no way to shave. + + +It's a self serve station, one of the good old boys that used to fuel Packards from a lever pump, back when driving meant something. When it had risk, and it was an accomplishment to get somewhere. At the pump there was no digital blink in your face, just the rolling click of numbers turning, trains that bore out through the desert country. The town had two smoke stacks and a wheat field to the north side of the station; not much else. This one drifter had pulled through years ago, bit of mental case they said later, he burned three barns a couple of houses and killed of all but two families in town. You can still see the crumpled black barn-skeletons if you cross the road and climb on the top rail of the wood fence that runs the length of the field. When the sun sets it's a magical sight —give you visions, remind you that its all really funny when you stop to think about it. + + + + Old Doc Waiben used to sing "you got to get behind the mule every morning and plow" when he was looking through the kitchen for coffee. The "fridge" was this old ice box that Doc had found at the side of the road and fixed up. When he drank to much and passed out before sundown he'd forget to restock the ice and the melted remnants of the morning would eventually force open the door and the bag of coffee would go sliding across the kitchen floor finding its way into all kind of strange places. "You got to get behind the mule/every morning and plow" Doc used to sing when he looked for the bag, and when he invariably found it lying in the farthest crack he would squat down like a child and scoot it along the floor over to the table, just laughing and singing "...every morning and plow..." +trashy-girl/aol + I had a most marvelous vision one day of red brick buildings. Boston —Harvard square— fall; the Charles river slips by without a sound, the streets corral throngs of people, onlookers too drunk to remember what they were there to look at-. They stumble out of bars and lurch through doorways like grenades rolled out on the street, and inside the Radcliffe boathouse a reserve of surplus energy is released in muscular spasms that pulse in orgasm. Her breasts pool salt onto my tongue. And in walks Truman Copote he looks it over for a minute and then, having taken stock of the affair, proceeds to hand me the rosette stone of Knowledge. He lights a cigarette, takes the stone back, and walks out the boathouse doors. I taste salt in my mouth every time I call up the memory. + + + + You have to sleep, because if you don't sleep you are unable to exist in the consensus reality...sleep is time travel and if you do not travel thru time you become a singularity existing only at one point in time, and the minute that point is passed you no longer exist...the only way to exist in consensus reality is to keep showing up at different points in time...leaving a trail that other reference points can piece together...the flow... the thread, so to speak... and out of this assembly process —run through all the complex webs of the human mind— other observation portals (humans) are able to organize a map of what you are...you exist at said points, exhibit said behaviors and therefore are to be called this object SIL, DR WAIBEN...these are the things we know about you...you must therefore...based on what we know about X...be Y.... + ADAM and some snake and he apperently had the thread the rosette stone of knowledge and you scream...NOT TRUMAN COPOTE!! But there he is nontheless, like a chamelaean, shifting from here to there, becoming what you are...TRUMAN COPOTE...wherever you go there is already an ostrich there...waiting.... + + Happenstance carried you here sitting out on a red rock mesa top forgetting each sunset as quickly as it passed. Staring out into nothingness the purest complete nothingness outside of ocean, in fact this was once a sea floor, even the fish wouldn't have it. But sitting on the porch of run down wood shack that passed as a house and rented for the paltry price of twenty five dollars a month. Actually thats what there paying me, twenty five a month to sit here and write reports; let go of all contact and take notes for somebody elses script, I never would have sritten myself into a role this melodramatic for a million bucks —reaks like hollywood cheese. I keep think that one day I'm going to wake up and find out that I really am just a collection of ideas that if fact at the bottom of the search for everything we're going to find nothing... The Tao Te Ching says that the smallest thing is in the biggest and vice verse, it seems to me then that since we already know that "everything" is actually made up of indescribably tiny "nothings" called electrons that it is only a matter of time before the big stuff, God, god, philosophy, science all the big stuff is going to turn out to be founded on nothing. + I first had this realization years ago and I decided to take on the big job myself I set out to find the unknown and find some way, however thin, to make it known. I wrote a book on what I found and met the interedting folks at the AIC and then I wa here, like you just sitting on the porch of a shitstye in the unbearable afternoon heat —southeastern Utah in August. All I do is wait for the mercy of the thunder clouds which manage to bring the temperature down to the high nineties, of course the trade off is in the humidity. I write reports, though not many anymore, for the AIC. Actually the bulk of this book will likely be filed away somewhere back in D.C. which is really just as well I guess, should it ever be needed at least someone can find what they're looking for. I'm just not looking for it anymore. But its a long way from here to there and I have to give some background. + In the beginning was the word and the word was with God. Like most sunday scholl children, I have no actual memory of hearing those words or at least I paid no attention to the idea of them. Not until years later, but lately I've been thinking that it might have been there the whole time from the beginning. Anyway at one point that little sentence was threatening to take control of my life and I met Sil and the rest of the people at AIC and found out rather to my embarassment that I was not the novelty I thought I was, rather I was endanger of becoming left behind with the women in children so to speak. And somehow the whole time I think I was trying to solve a riddle that had been subtly implanted near birth and which wormed its way out to consciousness just before the turn of the millenium. + + + + Sil lived in train station. He was not employed by the train company nor was he waiting on any particular train, he simply lived in the train station. It was his house, it just also happened to be train station. Trains came and went at all hours of the night, the worst were the ones that didn't stop, moving through at high speed it sounded like a freight train going through the house. Sil didn't mind it too much, only when he couldn't get to sleep nor did he mind the people milling about the station except for the tourists who would walk out into the flow of traffic and just stand there trying to decide which way to turn until some commuter collided and propelled them in one direction or another invariably the wrong one. These people are lost anywhere and that frustrated Sil, but the ones minding there own business didn't bother him some of them he even recognized and greeted, a few of them were true friends of his. + The lost ones were usually heading to the airport from some outer bungalow turned town in the sticks, off to Paris on family outing. The mass transportation of lost families was not Sil's specialty, he was doubly unhappy to have to share a home with them. |