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diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/3.txt b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/3.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..daee7f7 --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/3.txt @@ -0,0 +1,47 @@ + + Just out of St. George the rain starts. Desert thunderstorms rolling eastward in flight of the waning sun. I came up over a rise in the highway and saw the golden enchanted light of that photographers describe so technically as: magical light. The hand of god was streaming down from the heavens just as it did two thousand years ago for anyone traveling on donkey to see. I was drifting from heaven to hell pulled insidiously by a thousand details of life and the one true simplicity that they could not longer cloud over. It was a timeless moment in which I was not the one moving at seventy five miles an hour through the Utah desert, yet I was watching it unfold before me. Time rolled out in front of the clouds and I floated in the swirling paint of sand, rock sky and air, dragged, pulled forward by thirst and held back by history. +Henry turned off the main highway not long after that and drove thirty or so miles into the small town of Moab Utah. Moab is a speck of dust of the forehead of the desert and little more than a hiccup in the road, but it suited my needs. I bought a steak, some charcoal, potatoes, eggs and beans, along with beer and cigarettes. I met some hippies headed into the campgrounds and I bummed a ride off them. I threw my stuff in the back of their beat up truck and jumped in after it, sharing the space with an overly friendly black lab. We headed back the same way I had come in with Henry, but this time turned off onto a dirt road and after a few minutes I saw a small sign that read now leaving Canyonlands National Park North. +From there the road began a thirty-mile climb up the side of the canyon wall east of Moab. The road was so windy as to limit the size of vehicle that can get up, it clung to the canyon until the top when it crested over and tore right across the desert floor to the edge of another canyon. From here it was a short drive back up to the campground which was perched like an eagles nest about five hundred yards from the edge of the first drop off. + The Utah Canyon country is like a layered cake it gently slopes off then drops five hundred feet suddenly and then tapers off again for half a mile and then drops again and so on all the way down to the invisible bottom. Somewhere far below and ahead of where I stood was the confluence of the green and Colorado rivers, the hands that gave the canyons this signature over the geological eons. Eons which saw the passage of many different types of men with many different beliefs. Silence has reigned king for far longer than the transitory mind of man could even wrap itself around. + I came here because I knew it was here. No other reason than that, I knew it was here and I needed to see it again + I walked in on a party in progress and had to once again face the harsh realities that happen when you have to go in public. There were conversations and the swirling sound of introductions around me but I didn’t catch any names there was Dean and There was Betty of that much I was certain and for the time being that was the only problem I was occupied with, but then I noticed that they were all staring at me. How long had I been sitting there silently? Was their suspisian arroused? What sort of madness was really at work here? Was this the twitching of a depraved mind torn up by pills that felt like horse tranquilizer dosages or was this simply where I say my name? I took a quick scan of their faces and gambled. + “Oh, um I’m Sil….” Back to the comforts of silence. But no I had gauged it right with the paranoia there was Dean looking at me like a shrink bearing down on a stubborn patient intent on finding the source of his madness. + I started laughing. I just couldn’t hold up any longer I looked at the unknown eyes blinking in confusion and then say Betty’s face starting to light up with understanding. + “So what did you find?” They were on to me. Damn. + “What oh it’s just been a long day never hitchhiked before you know…” + “Uh huh. So what did you bring us?” Damn. Damn! Bearing down like hawk eyeing its prey, this wasn’t fair they didn’t understand where I was, what sort of strange hell I was in, the air felt like pressure bearing down into me crushing me with gravity. Ought to unload on them get them out here and see what to make of them. I gave three pills each to Dean and Betty and two each for the other two girls whose names I finally caught as Sabrina and Natalie. But I was not terribly interested in them for the time being. Dean and Betty told me about the drive; the ticket Dean had almost gotten just before the mountains and the crazy old woman in the trailer at the gas station that stopped at in some mountain town whose name no one knows anyway. I listen half-heartedly; I knew there was no hope for retaining anything of substance, but I caught enough so that I would be able to piece it together later in a more comprehensive state of mind. I watched the pills sweep up on them and the stories slowed and drifted off into silence without ever being resumed. The other two girls were silent the whole time, looking for all appearances like they were bored out of their thick dizzy skulls, doubtless they had already had to sit through these escapades earlier. +Dean and betty registered themselves in the hotel of silence and the room took on the uneasy air that rooms get when strangers must share silence. About forty five minutes into the experience the girls looked on the verge of cracking up, silence is not something that many people can endure for too long, there isn’t a lot of time for rehearsal in this world. Something is always taking place some commotion from the street, the television, the radio, families, neighbors, noise always noise with which to occupy the mind, but it this room there was nothing, only the occasional gutteral creaks of leather when someone shifted in their seat emmiting a sound a bit like a fart. Betty broke the leaden air with an “excuse you,” after one of those noises and this gave Sabrina the opportunity to speak, a go ahead signal from us… yes? She had decided she had to get home. I knew that was not a good idea; I thought about mentioning the true force of what the pills were about to do. I thought of mentioning that from my rudimentary medical knowledge I had discerned from the bottle (and a couple of others which I recognized as used in the treatment of epilepsy), was that the woman had seizures and that this pill was designed to shut down the brain when she felt one coming on. (I knew it would payoff to read Grey's Anatomy). I thought of all this and I wanted to explain it all but I couldn’t get it out right away and then she was gone. Natalie leaned back in the door and sneered some comment to Betty about her having some interesting friends and then disappeared like a cockroach scurrying from the light. + “Who is that woman?” I asked to the now silent room. + Betty started laughing and rolled forward holding her face in her hands, “I don’t know, I just don’t know….” + Dean filled in the blanks in her story by explaining that they were other friends of Mark’s and that he was at work for the rest of the night. I looked at them and thought of trying to tell them about what I had done, but I knew that they would pass out on me before I got to the good stuff and likely would never believe it anyway. Its good to have skeptical friends; it keeps you honest there is an understanding that before belief must come scrutiny with out scrutiny you tend to forget what it was you were doing in the first place. Did anything really happen at all? With the right combination of skeptics and hallucinogens you could probably solve all the worlds problem in about half a day, but we tend to believe that such people are raving paranoid lunatics that Ronald Reagan let out of the loony bins when he cut public funding for the mentally ill. It’s a fine line a very fine line. + They dove into coma-like state like the champion drug abusers that they were. Some people do drugs and then attempt to maintain their cool and act as if they were sober. These people are deeply confused and must wrestle their way through the most horrid of nightmares when they sleep at night. When I take drugs and I will say the same for Dean and Betty I like float out of my body and am not really too much concerned anymore with what anyone might think of me for it. This is the bridge that the politics of drugs can never hope to bridge. Yes the drug user tends to be apathetic and not a good little godling of Consumption because he is too fucked up to care about such things. But from the drug users point of view the same is equally true about the lawmaker or drug war soldier; they are so fucked up on a drug called power that they must step into the life of everyone and ram their beliefs down my throat with plunger like a redcoat loading a cannon a few hundred years ago. It creates a catch twenty two for both parties and the end result will always be one side saying good and the other saying bad and the thing in question could be as important as freedom of choice or as sing-song as potato and potaato. Good potato bad potato still you have a potato. Have a potato backed/have one sliced and fried/have a potato for breakfast/have one for lunch/ eat your goddamn potato or blow your fucking head off and send your corpse to a necrophiliac convention at the hotel Dumont in downtown Chicago…. + I was sore from lying in the truck all day and couldn’t sit still. After they passed out I went and took a shower and changed clothes. I tried stretching my joints for a while in the living room but it didn’t help and I headed out for a walk with the vague hope that I might find something to do I got back to the house after about two hours of wandering, it was just getting a real good pine pitch black somewhere, but in this neighborhood there was only a caustic glow of flood lamps through on asphalt. Dean and Betty were just getting up and getting handle on things when I got back. The original plan had been to go out with mark and the two girls when he got off but that evaporated in the face of pills. I ended up sleeping in a walk-in closet off the bedroom where Dean had been staying. It was a peaceful sleep, a quiet prelude to chaos. + + The silence of sleep was stolen from me at about ten the next morning by a raging warthog of a woman that I had paid not attention to the night before. It was Natalie making the racket as I discovered descending the stairs. Dean was up sitting at the kitchen table with a haggard look on his face that made me glad I had taken the pills earlier and was now free of their effects. I felt bright and triumphant, I was in a celebratory mood. I scavenged about for the makings of coffee and finding some I set about brewing up a pot. + “Those pills were like a sledgehammer…” + “Ya I know, but I had to ride all the way over the Rockies in the back of a pickup with three people’s camping gear and it was driving me nuts so I went a head and took em. Next thing I knew I was in boulder; I stole the pills and ran off to trade some hippies that’s how I got here.” + Dean listened with a cocked head as if to suggest that he was not actually going to buy any such story, but it was the only one I had to sell at the moment, so he accepted it. We were fierce creatures to behold, Dean and I, if yus happened to run across us before noon it was very likely that you were not going to get in on our good side. For one thing I see no need to exist before noon, nothing of any significance ever happens in the morning and generally speaking I don’t go to bed until after the sun has risen anyway. I like my eggs scrambles with loads of bacon on the side and some sort of bread-like substance slathered in butter, but most of all I like it served right when I get up —around one or two. + “So whats mark like?” Dean shrugged and that was all the answer I needed it said he was an alright guy, he had his head in the right place but rarely had to use it, it said he was a johnson and wouldn’t interfere in your life unless you asked him too Johnsons are a rare breed and one of the best things about them is that you don’t have to know them personally to know them above and beyond the personal, they are folks who can communicate more in silence than most can with a half hour deluge of verbose discriptions and life-long histories. + He’s Betty’s friend you know? I’m just a spectator… I mean he’s a nice guy, but I figure its very likely I will never see him again so why bother getting to know him? He seems to feel the same way. Besides he worked all day yesterday and I passed out before he even got home last night so… ya well there you go.” + “Yes there you go…” We both drifted off into private universes of thought, staring blankly at the coffeemakers monotonous and pathetically slow drip. I was thinking about Johnson’s, wandering if my definitions were the same as William Burroughs from whom Dean and I has stole the term. It was a colloquialism and if you recycle language from the past those in the present have no idea what you are talking about, which is a good thing is you constantly find yourself surrounded by strangers with only one or two people who really know you. It was a silent mysterious language that Dean and I shared; we had spent enough idle evenings doing nothing and mixd them with enough ferrocious adventures to know each others thought as well as our own. Not that we tended to have the same thoughts which a lot of people who came int contact with us assumed. Actually Dean and I disagreed on just about everything, but we were both able to see things from the others point of view without having to constantly prove ourselves right. He believed what he believed and I had my beliefs and we may have shared and compared, contrasted and built upon each others thoughts, but in no way were we the same. + I was turning this around in the feeble gray cells trying to wakethem up when I heard Dean groan. + “Fuck she’s back…” + “Who?” + “Natalie.” + “Who’s Natalie?” + “The beast.” + It was then that the beastial creature ricketed into thekitchen like a teetering wounded warthog. Of course I only see it that way in hindsight at the time there was merely a deep sense of spiritual torture rising up in me, I immediately took her to be the source of the foul locus plague character that fell upon the kitchen with her precense. Looking back I see only a warthog, there is no other word for her; she was one of those unique people that is ugly inside out and through and through. +Just as there are those people that upon meeting I am immediately sure I will be friends with forever, so to are there those people whose immpression of death is so strong that I know I will go to my grave living in fear of there existance. Not a fear of them per se, but a fear of there personality, that some twist of fate might turn me into a Natalie. She was one of those people whom nature itself must have been ashamed of, to have created such a vacumm of life and to allow it to continue to spread like a pestulence over the land, it makes the argument against a centient god stronger with every passing day. + Natalie was about thirty pounds over weight making her inhabit that no mans land between big boned and good old fashioned fat; it was a land in which wayward creatures that should have been beautiful find them selves, dragged by an unpleasant personality to the doldrums of food. Nobody really like Natalie as I was to learn from Mark, he detested her but was so amused by her that he never protested anything she did. The woman was like a bulldozer mooing down everything in its path. + The first words out of her mouth were “who the fuck are you?” + There is no space for kindness in the heart of the grotesque they can not afford it; so great is their silent grudge against the world they must constantly reassure themselves that they are on absolute edge, guarded on all sides against a possible attack, an attack which would devastated whatever is left of there chopped liver looking egos. It is a defense mechanism of a wounded animal to start every interaction with a hostile tone, the milk of human kindness flows only from the udders of self love without that it ferments into hatred and manifests itself through out the body in ugliness and hostility. + “I am Sil.” Simplicity is always the best bet in the face of inbred opposition. + “You must be the third one, I think we met last night but you look kind of forgettable, I must have overlooked you” + “Yes you must have.” I’ve always been curious what it is that makes one like Natalie, perhaps it was her parents, perhaps cruel classmates, perhaps its hardwired genetically, but whatever the sourse may be it is never the ones they take it out on. We the innocent always bear the brunt of the assault against the guilty. + “Well how about some coffee?” It was the demanding tone that got to me, as if I were too assumed that I would have no chance of understanding the clever insults that she dropped like smelly little turds leaking out her loose and defective sphincter, if nothing else you could probably follow their trail through the forest and find her if she ever got lost. Except that I doubt very much anyone would look for herif she did get lost. + “The coffee is not ready yet.” + “Well what good are you?” + “None to you” + It was early in the morning I hadn’t had anything to drink yet and I was not about to match wits with something that I hoped would just go away. I love a cutting sarcastic argument because I usually win them, but I didn’t have the energy for it this morning and I figured that it was not worth one iota of stress to put this woman in her place. Besides it was not my house, not my coffee, not my friend, and not my responsibility to make everyone into a nice person. I had a responsibility to myself; I looked at Dean for a minute as if to say what is this thing?, I looked at hr as she tunneled about in the refridgerator seeking refuge. + “I tell you what, you make me kind of queasy and I think coffee on top of that would be a bad idea so why don’t you help yourself to the whole damn pot and I will leave you in peace to enjoy your heartfelt superiorty over the world and wonder why it is that I don’t like you even though I don’t know you… try thinking about…. No, actually I think you should just keep it simple this morning… just trying thinking or better yet try feeling.” + I was out the door before I even finished and Dean was right behind me. We hopped in the trusty toyota and headed off in search of a more serene cup of coffee. We found what we were looking for at circle K on the corner where the clerk did not feel it necessary to ridicule us while we filled our cups which was really all you can ask for in this world.. diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/4.txt b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/4.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..187a861 --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/4.txt @@ -0,0 +1,39 @@ + It was well past noon by the time we made to back to mark’s house and Betty was sitting on the porch waiting for us. Most of the houses in the are were your standard eighties tract housing fare, but the street Mark lived on was older probably from the fifties when things were looking rosy and we still got along with each other. Or at least that’s the impression the architecture of the period gives off, there were no fences on the street and all but a few of the houses had porches. I could almost picture the old Buick wagons or huge tail-finned Oldsmobile’s lumbering into the one-lane driveways —the kind that were really no more than two narrow stripes of concrete separated by grass— as the husbands came home for a lunch break. The way Betty was roosting in the shadows gave one the impression that she was the neighborhood gossip sitting on the porch all day observing the comings and goings of the neighborhood. Perhaps scandalous ministers stopping by a widows house to deliver the good news or a nice boy turned urchin riding home on his bike kicking over trash cans to the disgust of the hardworking fathers that have to clean them up. Those porch-sitting women would have been remarkable writers if anyone had given them a pen and paper or even a typewriter. Dean and I used to debate endlessly the fact that it was very likely that many of the best books ever written were read only by their authors, which is what happens when the world of art is forced to subsist within the world of commerce. + Apparently in our absence the world of Betty had collided with the world of Natalie and according to Mark who came outside at the sound of Dean’s car, the results were spectacular. Betty is a big girl and I would not personally want to go needlessly provoking her wrath, but Natalie couldn’t do anything else, it was the nature of her personality and Betty dealt with her swiftly and effectively —She threw her out a screen door. Betty picked her up and gave her the bum’s rush sending Natalie right through the screen door and down the steps into the driveway. I deeply wished I could have seen such a spectacular episode of justice, but we had done what Dean and I do best —avoided confrontation. +The subtle art of non-interference, as the I Ching calls it, is a process by which you train yourself not to partake in the foolish social bickering of tribal monkeys. That is to say that yes, there is a part of me that would have loved to throw Natalie out a plate-glass window and then jump up and down on her lacerated body until it resembled the gooey mess of pulp that congeals at the bottom of juicer, but to do so (or to do the less violent equivalent with words) would have had every bit as much reciprocal effect on me. The stress which the human body must endure to work itself up into such a fit of rage is too much effort (in my humble opinion) for a result that is inevitably doomed to failure. No one ever really learned anything by being bum rushed through a screen door, fun though it might be to serve up a little probity every now and then. + This account was my first impression of Mark and it only served to illustrate Dean’s descriptions and highlight the fact that he was effeminately gay which I already knew, but it was nonetheless always a treat to witness when one is usually surrounded by all forms of blatant heterosexual dominance. Its nice to hear a lisp after spending time in Utah where the only people with lisps usually have a host of other physical handicaps to go along with them. Gay communities are just that —communities— and they primarily exist within the liberal confines of big cites where they can enjoy, if not a political tour de force, than at least better treatment without the open hostility of hicks. Of course that isn’t to say that there is no open hostility, just that it is less and more infrequent. + I flopped myself into an old rocking chair with soft pillows and a gentle, natural rhythm to it and Dean went inside to take a shower. Betty was in an exuberant mood from having done something about the Natalie situation and she wanted to go out. Mark also was talking about a club he wanted to go to; I was all for it, its good to be hit on by gay men every now and then, nice to be the hunted rather than the hunter for a night. It would massage my ego to be hit on by gay man for the simple reason that any living brute can get a girl, but you have to be above average attractive before a gay man with waste his time on something as potentially volatile as a straight man in a gay bar surrounded by fag hags. At least that’s what my friend Zach used to tell me and he was the closest I ever came to wanting to be gay myself, I never had sex, never even kissed him, but there was an unspoken tension in the relationship that we both had a healthy respect for. Amy was horribly threatened by him which amuse the fuck out of me because she was herself bisexual and there is nothing funnier than the irony of hypocrisy. + I was lost in my own reflections glaring on the windshield like car headlights streaking through the night when I heard my name. + “Hello, anybody home…Sil I was asking you a question?” + “Right. What was the question?” + “Right.” Betty laughed at me; “I was wanting to know if you and Dean wanted to go to Tangz with us?” + “Us?” + “Ya well at least Mark and I, maybe Sabrina…” + I curled my lip at the mention of Sabrina, “is it absolutely necessary that she be included?” + Now Mark was laughing at me, “she’s really nice when she’s not around Natalie, in fact that’s the only reason I tolerate Natalie is so I can hang out with Sabrina.” + “Alright whatever… what’s Tangz? Isn’t that that stuff astronauts drink?” + “No that would be tang.” + “Right.” + Mark obviously didn’t find this routine funny so I dropped it and he launched into a description of the Tangz, which I ignored for the most part, but when he mentioned dollar beers before eight I suggested we leave immediately so I could get good and liquored for five bucks and then spend the rest of the time trying to maintain myself. +We weren’t hardly inside the door when the first lavascious gay boy was all over Dean and I; we smiled played his games and let him buy us drinks; when we had what we wanted we turned our backs and ignored him. I learned all this from having female friends and no I don’t think it’s heartless and mercenary. The man wanted to buy us drinks insisted on it with all the fervor of one who believes that something is going to be exchanged; far be it for me to rain on his little parade. (Contrary to what some men assume this is not a business venture, you do not get anything in return for buying someone a drink. If that’s your strategy stick to catholic bars where the guilt quotient runs high, because in any other establishment your making a gamble and if you happen to encounter me or may friends it’s a gamble that you will loose). + Not that the buck fifty he spent would have broken us; no things were still riding along well with all three of us flushed out with money, but like everything else we all knew that was bound to change so we tried as best we could to live it up while we could. Its tricky business the whole money thing, sometimes its there and sometimes its not, unfortunately I have yet to master what it takes to track when its around, where it comes from, how long it’ll be here and when its going to leave… to do that you’d have to care. And I don’t care. + What I was caring about at that particular moment was a blond at the far end of the bar, as a girl in a gay man’s club she stood out like a sore thumb, but she had yet to turn around and look in our direction. I watched her laughing with her friends who seemed consist of three guys one of whom was in uniform; I was tying to decide if all three were gay or if one was her boyfriend. It was an act of desperation or maybe of boredom. Betty and Mark were dancing on the big ballroom floor that occupied the majority of the joint while Dean and I sulked away free drinks in the corner booth of the mezzanine area that constituted the only seating outside of the bar, There isn’t a whole lot for a straight man to do in a gay bar, but change I reasoned is always good. Now and then a lisping stranger would approach sometimes trying to be casual, sometimes outright soliciting sex, and try to entice us somewhere or other that we had never heard of. Needless to say it was not long before the blond turned around and reveled the inconsistency of the gods which bestow some with bodies and others with faces reflecting all their glory, but seldom both in the same lustrous package. She had the body part down and I was in love with her until she turned around. Be careful what you wish for they say…. + Dean and I were ready for a change of scene, but Betty would hear nothing of the sort. In fact she merely mocked us for not being able to have good time. She detailed our own enthusiasms back to us which we had so eloquently arranged several night before and then with that cutting edge that women always have at the ready she sliced and diced us until I started to have believe her that I was indeed the biggest hypocrite on the planet. At least, I reasoned, I’m good at something. Undaunted Dean gave Mark the keys to his car and suggested that her and I set out on foot together; Mark told us about another bar up the street which was a singles hang out and apparently the most notorious place in Denver to pick up a good case of the happies —er—herpes, but we wrote that off as a gay mythmaking in the same way the some hetros are won’t pee in a gay bar of fear of contracting “the AIDS” as my friend Jeff used to refer to the Human Imunodeficency Virus, which contrary to popular belief does not always lead to the AIDS. Dean and I were out the door in a flesh with a rough sketch of where we were headed, but it wasn’t more than a block before we got sidetracked completely off course and found ourselves in a diner booth waiting on hamburgers and swilling cheap beer. + + + + +Drifting lightly over fields of heather through Picasso conversations and dipping over the ridge in full regalia we sailed on to New Orleans. It was only a blanket sky that stole us through and across Kansas where the soft velvet covers of night is the only way the see. Kansas was built and designed for darkness, one look at it in the daytime and you know that. I had my looks a ten when I was dragged at gunpoint by my mother to family reunion in Kansas, it’s flat, it’s hot and it two tone brown and green. It’s a Cliff note of cyberspace where God just threw down a pile of two by fours called it a house and moved on. The people are etch-a-sketch nightmares crafted by drunken cartoonist in the back lot of Hollywood cartoon porn set. +We did it at night on our backs staring out Dean’s moon roof, the road was straight flat and didn’t require much driver input beyond the sympathetic nervous system. At night Kansas is a prose poem embryonic sleeping like the grass and birds and whatever else inhabits the blank Formica-like ground. +I loved it drifted through endless hazes of abstraction drawn out across continents of thought where I where I wandered through Parisian streets looking for a bit of bread and coffee. Whorehouses and cafes drifted across the night sky and the passing glare of headlights bounced from the road to the roof of the car and for moment we saw our reflection and then the great looping butterfly conversations began. +“Did you ever read that piece I sent to you on the vitropy thing you read?” +“The one with Einstein as con artist ‘buying time for the universe’?” +“Ya do you remember the other theory that was in it? The one where I was arguing that in light of Steven Hawking theory nothing can ever be true for more than the time in which you can observe it be true…” +“How do you know then if you are observing it at the instant it happens unless you are being observed as well? +“Huh. Well I don’t know if that would really be answerable, it like saying if a tree falls in the woods…” +Ya so the answer is no. +“How do you mean?” +“I mean it’s in the language. ‘If a tree falls in the forest and no one is there does it make noise?’, well yes and no I guess because it depends on how you define noise…is noise only what is audible to humans or is noise the movement of air regardless of whether it hits a human ear drum? In the first case the answer is no the second case the answer is yes and in neither case does it have any bearing whatsoever on anything that we might ever hope to find interesting enough to write down and try to communicate to other people.” +“You guys talk about the oddest things.” Betty didn’t say much in Kansas, she was having a kind of culture shock experience coming out of a stable happy marriage into a seething pit of relentlessly narcissistic and self obsessed vipers. Dean and I could talk about anything we could find arguments and discussions in the simplest and most mundane of points. We would pick them up like mice and role them around in the dirt until they were ten times our size and the whole thing collapsed under its own weight and we ended up laughing ourselves quiet until we found another one. We would have been happy to lie on our back and watch the clouds all day so long as we had all the comfort issues of food and the like taken care of and a healthy supply of heroin was running on drip IV and never ran out for all eternity. But the circumstances of the planet at this stage did not allow for such and idyllic life so we stop up ideas, words, schemes, plans, the unteathered nothingness of thought, and occasionally heroin. +Dean was my skeptic. He tended to not believe anything while I believed everything. We could both shift our polarities around in a dizzying fashion that left observers disoriented and unsure of who exactly we were. We tended to lapse into that person universe whenever we were bored and Kansas at night provided as much bored as you need to drop down into the fertile crescent of you brain the unconsciousness and drag up Paris where you walked about looking for a girl named Nina and tragic river to watch it all from afar. Dean tended to anchor things some what for Betty because she was his sister and he felt some need to keep her in touch with reality, his stories had an urgency to them and subtle homer Simpson take on life more bemusement than amusement. Where as I talked the way Terence Malik made films, in riddles and allegories only we understand. Some people found it interesting and other arrogant. The one who thought it arrogant usual slept with me, wanted to be around me constantly and ended up ruining my life; the rest became my friends. Dean and I never held our arrogance against each other but secretly we both knew we were right and wrong all the time, which was a horribly efficient way of seeing everything from as many angles as possible at all times. Verbal and emotional esotericness tends to lead to physical chaos. +But it tends to accelerate things as well. diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/Sil Waiben Kell Tucker.txt b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/Sil Waiben Kell Tucker.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b400674 --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/Sil Waiben Kell Tucker.txt @@ -0,0 +1,144 @@ +in the beginning +was the word + Sil Hawkard always wanted to be rich, filthy fucking rich, because rich people lie around in opium filled rooms and snap there fingers for food and sex and drugs and what else is there in life really? Fortunately for Sil he was filthy fucking rich and lying around in his own little palace in Mandalay exploring the outer perimeters of sanity by the ingestion of galvanized petroleum vapors. He was an oil man, though he didn’t start that way. + He sucks on the thin plastic tube, lighting the huca with a bic lighter bearing the insignia of a crucified christ with crown of thorns. Sil looks at the christ's crown and thinks to himself -this was not an oil man. + Petroleum it was generally believed was made into smokable drug by the arab's who looking for some potential use for the waste products given off in the refinement process, but this was not strictly true. In fact petroleum was a rather inaccurate name for what Sil and a good percentage of the world was smoking these days. It was rather a carbon based opiate smoke made by trapping the opiates in a petroleum vapor and then condencing the vapor into a liquid which was inturn boiled through alcohol and left behind a sticky oil candy goo (hense the name) which would burn for hours slowly releasing it densly packed opiates. It turned ugly grey dirt heroin into the finest high imaginable. + Sil hits the huca again and feels his face going numb his head slumps down until his chin is nearly on his chest, he snaps his fingers twice. Two Arab boys appear and began to dance crooked, spinning patterns devised over centuries of hypnotic oppression which the cockroaches of skid row motels had only recently begun to learn. Oppression is a drug, it acts equally, though differently, on the oppressed and the oppressor alike. + All things must remain at equilibrium or fall into decay, this is a law of physics, and it is true of all systems mathematical --however if one considers spiritual and emotional systems one must take into account negative entropy. + The crooked dance is hypnotic to watch and all consuming to perform. In India they teach it to snakes, and in the sewers of America cockroaches feasting on the +radioactive waste have begun to learn it on their own. Like terrible creatures from a Kafkian nightmare they sit quitely underground, as we go about our lives, learning the dance passing it on to their children and teaching them how to use it as an evolutionary tool --for all systems are also trying to succeed one another. One day a properly evolved cockroach will crawl out of a sewer drain just as the head of state is stepping to the podium to address the nation. He will devour the president raw as the live camera crews feed man's downfall to a nation of viewers even as it happens. The blood soaked cameramen will never stop filming and the cockroach will scurry to the podium, strain himself to an upright position and address the nation...Behold I am. He will dance and spin and all will be entranced. Women will castrate men and men will bludgeon themselves to death with pickaxes until they are suitable for cockroach consumption and life will continue on much as it always has. + The system is independent of its elements, humans are not necessary, cockroaches would uphold the system just as well. Sil Hawkard’s mind is racing, horrible conspiracies are leaping at him from the walls like ostriches gone mad, heads palpating and seeking some soft cerebellum to penetrate. The initial paranoia of the petroleum smoke is fading away and Sil falls into a profound haze of self absorption. The boys continued to dance trance-like as the numbers explode at the edges of his vision. + +And the word was with god + Sil's story is a rather long and convoluted one and subject to enhancement on his own part, but this much is true: At the age of twenty one Sil Hawkard discovered that while he vaguely enjoyed torturing the professors at Columbia university, most people in the United State are squares, and Sil, already an avowed anarchist was weary of the materialists whom he felt lacked the imagination and understand to really get it --so to speak. So he dropped out for a semester and bummed his way around the united states. In the middle of the Utah desert one night in July he ingested a rather large quantity of +psilosilum in the form of mushrooms. His fascination with with mind manipulation did not began with drugs though, it began much earlier in a high school biology class where he realized the simple truth that the brain is a continuously changing chemical reaction. Thus if one wanted to escape the pattern of chemical reactions typical of human thought, one ought to change the chemistry of the brain itself. Sil's mushroom experience was typical of innerspace voyages except for one thing, he became convince that ostriches held the secret to the universe and it was this discovery that led him to Africa. + Sil arrived in africa in nineteen ninety three to find a talking ostrich; instead he found cryptotechnology --or it found him if you work from a Jungian perspective. He arrived in Angola aboard The Decator a british cargo ship bringing in weapons to fund a counter insurgancy movement to a government disinformation lope which the west was hoping would topple the rather lax dis informationg disinformation system in power --a government that welcomed technological refugees with open arms. Angola had become a haven for code writers who were not willing to dumb themselves down to the technology standards of the united States and its allies. Sil was a code breaker so to speak. He wasn't interested in simple bianary code breaking and writing he was interested in finding the rest of the characters which would form the semantic code to language, but the technology for undertaking such an endevor was in Angola . He asked around for all of two days when he wsa approached to take a package back to the United States in exchange for ten thousand dollars and a plane ticket anywhere in the world. Naturally at the end of his funds and having no chance at a grant, he accepted. Two months later, after deliverying a package to a man named William in Rhode Island, he he made his way Tunisia where an ostrich ahd told him to find a man named Cary Downs. downs was an excintric billionary obcessed with the occult and interstellar transmission of pure energy. In this spacetime point most people thought he owned an oil empire, but really it was the floating cities of geodasic domes attached to he oil derricks that people talked about. But Sil didn't know anything about the oil he just wanted a job at Downs' bar in the floating citystate, and the rent free +fully adjustable two bedroom geodasic dome that had been offer to him over a casual phone call from New York. + Sil, like the rest of you, desperately wanted to understand what the hell was going on and one meeting Downs in person and looking into his eyes he saw for in instant that he (right or wrong) believed that he knew what the hell was going on. Downs wa of medium hieght and had a rather slight build with a slinky way of walking across a room that most people were immediately put at ease by, Sil on the otherhand stiffened at the sight of him realized that if knowledge is power than this man is far more powerful than most peopl realize. After a short introduction a hashish pipe was produce and the two relaxed and spoke at length. + There are some thing you should understand before you decide you want to stay here, he began. "This structure is a living labritory and there is no hiearchical structure that dictates what you should do. You are free. You may do or not do anything you wish, but you may not tell others what they can and can't do no matter how much you find them annoying backward or incomprehensible. You will find that even the most "ignorant" mindsets become quite enlightening in this environment. There is a rather large library at your disposal and a full functioning gourmet restuarant. You do not need currancy to get anything you want here, but you do need excellant signal reception and frequency adaptors in order to keep from losing your your semantic grasp on spacetime while you're capapulted into spacetimemind." Downs lit the huca and passed the tube back to Sil, "in order to expand the potential of the human brain I built this city and I have tried the gather all the possible maps of the human brain together into one place and see what they had to gain from each other. To se what happens, " Downs paused and smiled at Sil, and I like you which is not trrue of everyone here." + Sil moved in to a dome apartment furnish in luxurious tapastries and artifacts that ranged from cuniform texts to what appeared to be scrools of tibetian text. There was a couch of warm dark orange velvet and piles of pillows with scene from the tibet book of +the dead and the Kama Sutra. The mixture of oriental and occidental gave the room a circular feeling which was reinforced by the spereical walls and roof. Sils head felt heavy and he laid down in the pile pillows and felt the room spin drunkenly. Don't worry the spinning will fade, your brain is conditioned to judgeperspective on three dimension planes. Taking away the planer walls it is used to causes distress and disorientation, but it will eventually go away as your brain maps out the new system and eventually you will forget that you live in a circle. + Cary Downs floatilla as he liked to call it consisted of seventy two people ranging from ethnobotists to a fundamentalist Babtist preacher. All the floatillas food was grown in to large green houses or caught in the waters around it meat was flown in every week by helicopter although only a few people ate it as meat was generally considered by the scientists as an inefficiant means of nurishing the human body, but one of them named Waiben had successfully argued that the body was but one part of the human existance and the appetite and random whims of taste should not be ignored in some asetic quest. There was also a bar and smoking lounge which was Sil's contribution to the system --as the residents refered to it. It was a closed system (save the imported meat and alcohol). Three additional green houses grew THC enhanced marajuana of a strain called alamant which was processed into hash and given out in bulk to the inhabitants also grown was peyote plants, close to twenty varienies of hallucinogenic mushrooms, poppies, coco plants, tabacco plants and several other mind altering herbs and medicines that Sil had never heard of. + The walls gave Sil the impression that the room was colapsing back in on itself, the disorientation and the intensity of hash rendered Sil immobile three days which Cary assured him was normal he suggested that Sil not restrain himself on the drugs, but of course to realize their potential incapatabilities after all he said everything you ever wanted is here no one is judging you and no one is threatening you so you'd be fool not to let go +for once in your life then we'll initiate you into our program . So Sil spent close to three months playing with the nuero circuitry of his brain. + + + Sil found himself in a spacetime point called Tucker. Discipline is an agent's greatest virtue, thinks Agent Tucker to himself as he draws a long and satisfying hit off the oxygen tube. Behind him Doris Day and her Waxing Loquacious Lesbians play a sultry 60's motown number on a dimly lit stage, and the general atmosphere of the bar takes on a surreal quality. A good bar is one where the possibilities remain endless regardless of the irrefutable realities. Agent Tucker is well aware of the realities, but his mind is only now beginning to sense the infinite set of possibilities that comes with every new reality. For instance when considering the overall picture of life and its universal quotient of suffering it is hard to feel pity for one’s own self. There is not nearly enough pity in Tucker to cover even his immediate family. He has no self pity, he considers self pity to be a symptom mental illness because it requires the ego to be divided into pitier and pitied. He likes his ego together as one in harmony he is quite proud of this justification and it helps to ease his innate sense of self pity and focus his mind on work. His work is the great work as a the masters would have called it. He is a Agent of the State. The State is not to be confused with the government as many of you would assume. On the contrary the government is but an instrument of the State, the State is a separate entity whose ultimate identity is unknown even to Tucker; he is but an agent of it charged with ceasing the drug trade. He has for months now been stalking the elusive Sil Hawkard, a man whose identity is also unknown to him, he realizes that Hawkard could well be in this very room right now planning Tucker's demise, the thought sends a cold shiver of fear down his spine and he cringes thinking again like a manta: discipline is an agent’s greatest virtue. Agent Tucker takes another hit of the oxygen and notices the numbers exploding at the edges of his vision. Exploding numbers are the smoker's worst fear. Suddenly seized by the idea that +Hawkard may be present, Agent Tucker nervously fingers his pistol and glances furtively around the bar. He notes, but passes over one Sil Hawkard quietly sitting at the other end of the bar with a soda water in front of him. Sil is also caressing his own gun and contemplating the effectiveness of the copeater he has tied in a van outside. He watches as Agent Tucker gets up and moves toward the door Sil can see the fear in his eyes he knows that weakness has set into Tucker’s mind. Sil reaches into his pocket and pushes the intercom button on a two way radio, he is thinking about a Keat's poem he hasn't seen since high school. + So old the place was, I remember none + The like upon the earth: what I had seen + Of grey cathedrals, buttressed walls, rent towers, + The superannuations of sunk realms, + Or nature's rocks toiled hard in waves and winds, + Seemed but the faulture of decrepit things + To that eternal doomed monument. + Outside in the back of the van, one of the Arab boys unchains the copeater and lets it out the back door. Agent Tucker is opening the door to his own car with a sense of relief when he feels hot breath on his neck and a dull ache at the base of his spine, but this is fleeting and an instant later the copeater is sucking the remnants of flesh from a spinal chord, being careful not to damage the raw nerves as his masters taught him. + Hawkard is still inside the bar sipping quitely on his soda water, his phone rings, he pulls it out of his jacket and puts it to his ear... + "The Agent Tucker problem has been solved and the shipment will go through as planned." + "Thank you William, your services are invaluable to me, and I will wire the money first thing in the morning." Sil is smiling to himself visualizing the final horror as death met Agent Tucker. Sil replaces the phone on its receiver and lights a cigarette. + At another point in the fabric of reality Sil felt a primordial yearning to devour raw flesh and roll in a room of naked women.You are at a club wearing skin tight black vinyl pants and a black tank top with no bra, your nipples are hard and everyone can see them through your shirt. Your dancing with a black haired girl also wearing tight black clothing, sitting at the back watching from a distance. Your pussy clenches and sends tremors through your body every time the girl brushes against your skin, she teases you dragging her finger along your arm, and as the music stops she grabs you by the hand and leads you two a booth where two of her friends are waiting. + Sil hates cops....I fucking hate 'em. I hate 'em. I hate 'em. I hate 'em. I want to kill them all in a violent sea of time-released explosive donuts that when eaten mix with the stomach acids and explode in violent blueberrystrawberrylemon filled death. Die pig die. Imagine it, a million sworn upholders of THE LAW dead in an instant. Think of the society we could have. Think of the freedom, think of the beauty. The sweet satisfaction of tearing down all the rotting pig gut filled doughnut shops in the nation. No more sweaty palms. "License and registration please." Fuck you, never again. Never again. kill every cop you see --a populist revolt. We don't need all these damn laws, the people are okay --we know how to look after ourselves. The laws are the ones that fucked everything up the first place. And who hurts the most people in this here little world? The State. A cattle car streaming over the tracks of life, slick with the blood of the people. The train can't go up the hill because the tracks are too slippery with my guts your guts our guts. Cut off by THE LAW, our heads impaled on the ends of the its tentacle-like arms as they strangling the last hold outs of resistance into pacified stupidity. + The anger subsides as his mind rationalizes that at least one more is dead. Sil found himself dialling a number he didn't know picks up the phone --the other end never rings instead a voice says: "hello?" + "May I speak to Captain Clark please?" + "I'm sorry he's not in. May I take a message?" + "No. No message." Sil hangs up the phone. He walks to the back of the bar and flops his body onto the luxurious red velvet couch and is swept by an overwhelming sensation of peace; his mind begin to expand, and he feels the desire for more consciousness --the death of us all, Sil thinks idly to himself as he lights a pipe under the table and discreetly sucks in a deep inhalation of opium hash mixture. The sticky sweet smoke that fills his lungs brings forth tape loops and strange loops of staitc future memories. Teisting and turning there way through the circuitry until Anarchy is the only answer to all questions which begin with why? whY? wHY? WHY? Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law --future memories of books he hasn't read. In distant memory filtering strands of DNA locked deep in Sil's cerebral cortex a vibration begins, infinitely small at first but building slowly into his medulla and finally spring forth into the part of the brain referred to as consciousness. The cameras rolled even as the lights were dimming. +"BRING THE PRISONER FORWARD" + Unrolling a weighty and sterile looking scroll of antiseptically white paper a voice whose origin is masked by the size of the paper itself reads: + After making reviews of the past actions, thoughts, and attributed sentiments, it is the judgement of this committee, and therefore the judgment of the government it represents, that due to a general lack of ability to perceive the options open to the work potential of the drone in question in simple terms of an x or not-x negativism which would be most helpful in these situations and would consequently decrease expenditures and lower taxes for other individuals living in said dualism and therefore we hereby decree that all metaprogramming undertaken by the individual without the consent and simultaneous approval of this committee and the government it represents to be criminal in intent, hostile in action, and punishable by prison and/or death upon conception. Thank you. You may go. + Sil Hawkard finds himself dragged from the tribunal, hands tied in front of him and legs trailing uselessly behind. His guards use his head to open the heavy wooden door and +then they dump him unceremoniously onto the filthy street where a group of children are playing. A monkey runs by, tugging its penis with one hand and slapping its bright red ass with the other . + Eventually the transmission deemed irrelevant given overwhelming incoming signal that sweeps across all frequencies, visual, audio, chemical, and physical. There are five senses, sight, sound, taste, touch, and smell, and only four signal sources; both smell and taste are chemical reactions with tissue that are then turned into different chemical reactions in the brain. Sil tried at first to kill the reception entirely, but this proved a bit to radical of a step so he worked in phases first chemical manipulations of brainwaves --what the simians referred to as drugs Downs used to say. + Teletype for corsica the agent sent in for returns, Home office denied request for reinforcements, all communication to be ceased henceforth. Piss in the riddle thought the old man wheeling his chair back out to the porch, he picked up a mason jar of corn whiskey and laid the shotgun across his lap. + The languid afternoon floated in and up the beach from the Atlantic bringing photomontages of Mandalay and the Dutch East Indies spice trade boats, far off places he had heard of only as words and imagined smells. Up the beach from the house were the beginnings of the rocky South Carolina shoreline teeming with crabs, sponges, sea anemones, and circle swooping gulls feeding on sand crabs exposed in the fluctuating waves. It was low tide, in fact it was always low tide or at least it seemed that way to the old man. He was partly right, the tide was lower than it had been a year before when a man by the name of Dr. Waiben began overseeing construction of a nuclear power plant buried two miles under ground to hide its heat signature for pesky government satellites. The plant whose only entrance was from the sea, was Cary Downs research facility but right now that is but future memory fighting for space at a coordinate that won't have it. + Sil is in New orleans renting an attic in the french quarter following a strict regiment to kick the opium habit he developed at FREEDOM Inc. The best cure downs had said is +to get a job in INDOCTRINATION Inc., where you will be forced to confront the ugly stupity of life. + + The old man stood up on the porch and paced back and forth waiting...you understand the seriousness of the matter... obviously we would not expect an ordinary agent to do such a thing...your expertise in these fields...well frankly it's unparalleled..there is no other...These orders are coming straight from the top...your cooperation is non-negotiable... + + +...to be an abstraction does not +mean that an entity is nothing. +--A. N. Whitehead + + Two years earlier: Dr. Waiben, pathologist for IND Inc., surveys a long horrifically clean hallway whose smoothness is interrupted only occasionally by the presence of polished sliver knobs indicating doorways. There are no observation windows or any other windows within the rooms. This is the housing quarter for the derelicts of society: prostitutes, schizophrenics, lobotomy patients, drug pushers, anarchists, communists, AIDS victims, the aberrations that society never needed nor found a use for, end up here, under the care of Dr. Waiben, pathologist for IND Inc. The good doctor has, for twenty odd years, been the caretaker of the derelicts, charged with restoring to them a level of functionality deemed necessary by society. He is the man who puts the cogs back into the wheel. + Waiben is an expert in mind manipulation through the use of psychoactive chemicals like Ayahuasca which he has recently fed to one whore whom the state had deemed a "revolutionary" for her accidental participation in an protest against the seizure of private property. Her constant screaming had disturbed the other doctors, but Waiben +found them soothing in the same erotic kind of way that a soft candle lit room made him desperately want to masturbate. Regardless, he hated departmental friction so he was treating her with his standard dosage of twenty dried kuri-coo caps blended into a protein shake. The girl was a fighter and she knew she didn't want the shake; he had been forced to strap her down on a table and put a low voltage cattle prod in her cunt, and even then she had held out for eighteen seconds -it was a record for the floor. + He watched her on a TV monitor from the station at the end of the hall. She alternated between foaming a bloody spit out of her mouth while her eyes bulged menacingly, to sitting apparently quite peacefully on the edge of the toilet seat. Her vital stats were typical for the dosage he had given her. He watched with the detached apathy of those who have seen the degradation of life for twenty odd years and never thought to bat an eye toward suffering. He panned the room camera around and noted blood and little clumps of flesh lying on the floor near the bed, he zoomed in and momentary renewed his interests as he realized that she had been picking the burnt flesh out of her cunt. His stomach turned, not at the idea of her suffering, but at the idea that she would leave it lying about on the floor like a common animal wallowing in its own shit. He sighed and picked up a bic lighter with a picture of Uncle Sam on it, the typical picture was warped due to the surface curvature of the lighter giving Old Sam a peculiar evil bent that Waiben admired; he lit it and held it at the base of the opium pipe, taking a deep and satisfying drag. + Opium was a recent habit for Waiben, he typically avoided addictive substances out of the repulsion he felt toward people who were dependant on anything. But with opiates he found a peaceful state of mind that he felt might make a person more susceptible to mind control. However, in experimenting with the drug he had accidentally developed a habit. Doctor Waiben's habit did not go unnoticed by others in his department however, and as he was already unpopular for his rather unconventional methods and ideas, it wasn't long before a doctor by the name of Kellinger reported him to the state. In the tumultuous time that was the present the good doctor was asked to resign, but did not instead he called +a press conference which was sadly rather ill attended, he proceeded to get up in front of the local new cameras and launch into an anti-government rant. he was promptly arrested for "divulging state secrets and brought to trial before a hastily put together tribunal of senators and judges. + One person who did happen to catch the broadcast was Sil Hawkard who was in a New Orleans attic when he heard a voice from on the television drift up to his room...the united states government is by its own legal definitions, insane and therefor incapable of being held accountable for its decisions.... + Sil bolted upright in his bed and ran down stares in time to catch the name Waiben before the camera cut out. Two days later Sil was arrested and thrown in prison in the cell next to Waiben. Because Sil was not a United States citizen he was merely given a lecture and thrown bodily out of the building bringing future memories to head. He made a deal with Waiben before he left, come to New Orleans and meet with me to discuss nuero research and I will get you out.... + Doctor Waiben was something of an anomaly among scientists, he enjoyed being proved wrong because it saved him the trouble of having to prove anything right. Waiben was one of the unique individuals of this century that understood that when you open one door its real value is not what is behind it but whether or not there are any more doors that revel themselves to the researcher. He did not suffer from what Robert Wilson calls the New Inquisition. This term is a catch phrase for those that try to make a belief system stand up with scientific legs, when in fact science is a tool or method of research, it is amoral. Science does not believe anything because it is not a thing, it is a language. I quote from Wilhelm Reich in Hell: There is also argument by Logic. This can sometimes be combined with scientific experiments and if the two mesh we have a "fit" of theory with fact and scientists are delighted. Pure Argument by Logic, however does not require this experimental back up and only demands that the conclusions by reached by the game-rules +of an abstract symbol system. In our hypothetical case, some witness might inform congress: +All mome raths need to be distimmed; +All frammisgoshes are mome raths; therefore; +all frammisgoshes need to be distimmed + + This so-called transitive property has led scientists into the same dead end alley of faith that religion finds itself in, I have faith in science the mad man rants on silver screens... + transcribed from tapes: the terminal disease clerk took orders by the turnstile, finding the story in the story and logging in the disease workers all night long. At five in the morning he got off and headed to a tavern as the sun was coming up. Direct confrontation with the terminal virus word is a bit confusing to those who are not properly prepared. poor fuckers never had a chance, the technical sergeant takes off his helmet and slams it on the table the near moronic mumblings of discontent. Waging war is semantically impossible without overtones of homosexuality. Heavy handed, the second wave fell in line with the technical sergeant at the lead. The thing you have to watch out for are the warblers --the distractions coming in at the sides, sound is their most effective weapon, primordial hangover he called it drunkenly raising the glass. And some of you may think this suspect but take my advise sounds where it all started. In the beginning was the word and the word spoke. The sergeant stoops and cups his hands to light a cigarette. Then there is sex or not enough of it, both are equally dangerous --biology is not something to scoff at. sexuality is the best cover an agent can ever use. Rockets come searing in overhead ripping flesh and scoffing at the notion of eternity, out here you don't have time to talk, the thoughts are things, they are no longer words...keep your radios tuned boys its getting ugly. Another rocket sears in severed limbs fly out the explosion and olive drab body parts litter the scene. Watch out for the bloody words, sharp words that +hang in the air like knives and when uttered returned to slit the throat of their speaker and if every word you have spoken returned to act upon yourself would you survive the experience? Me no way i’m outta here. Situation getting sticky, humid like vaporous blood hanging on in the air. Still acrid smell of urine and small children playing in a asphalt playground ringed on all sides by immense brick walls with basket ball hoops hung half way up each of the sides. Realize that that which we are taught from childhood to distrust is in fact a pawn of something far more immense and much much more dangerous. The governments and nations of the world are incidental pawns the real powers control them and then beyond them there are even more and so on like looking two mirrors facing each other and going on to infinity. The monster of power is faceless there is no one person or group that controls everything they are all parts of a immense and multi-headed monster that is constantly biting itself and attacking it own heads until some day it will destroy itself. The end of time leaves space and word alone together + we're taking heavy fire! The sergeant calls for back up, the captain says love one another and cryptically hangs up the phone. The Spanish soldier selling chicletts say no good no bueno, pictures worth not even half a thousand words. Wouldn’ give you ten words, worthless gringo words don’t mean shit. no good no bueno, not worth the blood their written in. The blood of all peoples not yours, not your shoes, by god keep your slave labor camps a closed-mouthed secret. Gotta keep that in house, dis-credit all new agencies by routinely feeding them false information. News doesn’t happen events happen, and the department of television information broadcasting inc. a subdivision of indoctrination inc. decides what gets out and what remains forever sealed in baby pissshitguts. No that's not true. No comment. No need for comment, the preceding has been since proved to be untrue, cut to shots of smart bombs. Couldn’t get fifty words for those now gringo -over exposure- nobody buying. Same old stinking shit. No Good. No Bueno. + Gringo go home in thousand languages in a million words, why don’t you crawl back in your cave get your tail so far between your legs it goes half way up your ass? Lead +me to the holy spigot and we’ll show you the bidet of death, constructed by gringos, for gringos, to flush out gringos, to show them all what you do behind closed doors. Can’t close them all --we have our technicians as well and they’re getting to be better than yours. We got the money rolling in --even offered you the picture words but you don’t want them. No Good. Can’t use those, too strong. No fair, crying boy heads home for cave to lick his dirty balls clean. + I gotta picture for you I on vacation in your country go to hear senator’s speak but all door are closed, all sealed. So i gotta fiber optic and feed it in from the roof show all senators mad with sexual lust and blood thirsty, clamoring for war and stealing souls and bodies and driving them off wherever they see fit. + The technician is retro actively of course --the papers said the man was mentally ill. ‘my cod!’ screamed a church lady in the front row, ‘satan has garbled the lords message, this isn’t what he meant for you to hear, no it was not all like that, there was to be understanding.’ she is parading her old cunt bones whining at the justices --tissue conducts signals, animals communicate through the use of visual, acoustic , chemical, tactile and electrical signals. Our laboratory is an abundant and well preserved feed back loop to understand and interpret Eusocial behavior. negative feedback inhibition to make you shiver Gringo. Make you shiver good. + Repetition unsuccessful. The radiologist was called in to examine the patient --blisters and burns indicate high probability of skin mutation, what would you say Dr. Waiben? Crested and on the nod? Diminutively yes definitely. + Information potential exists --its an unsettling thought, dependency --and what happens when things start to think? How do you draw the lines then. + HOW THE PLAGUE BEGAN: + The wish to preserve -not worth saving what already is- in this scenario. The word, the loss of body situated at the origins of recorded sound -the temporal metaphysical and esthetic possibilities. + <insert sounds of truck on dirt road> + Old man yelling. Get off of my laaawwwnnn! Sits down to oil his gun some more and then half turns in his chair to face the camera and says "i haven't left the porch since i got this CDRom PEOPLE version 3.0. Updated and expanded human potential at your fingertips. Its the only thing i need --got no use for the stinking gringos anymore-- camera pans out and down revealing a yard strewn with shotgunblasted bodies of young children. We see wife, face half torn off, crawling towards a pistol <shotgun blast stage left> her head disappears entirely. Old man: "human potential, the new CDrom makes wives unnecessary." cue logo: on sale now at a sanatorium near you.... + I'm going to finally send you the orgy papers this time -been fixing to get 'round to that for some time" <heavy southern drawl> don't think he's the type to do it though but i been wrong once or twice a'fore. Don't want people showing up on my lawn though that's never good. get off of my lllaaaawwwwnnnnn! <shotgun blast again, distant screaming sounds of deaths final agonies eeking out blood gurgling windpipes> Fucking Gringos! Go home in a thousand languages! + Experience as much of the human potential as possible retain the container and forward the frog to the fun sun freaks of eastern Tibet all is well with alkaline, and acidity is on the skids with death rooted out leaving only chicken shit shovelled scrapped and scraped like lemon lime gatorade poured from a fuck buck of love. Stop talking to yourself --listen to the virus talk to you. All that you consider to be a accident was carefully orchestrated for your benefit by a benevolent cocksucking god from the twenty-third dimension to just plain old irritate the fuck out of you like a bad rectal itch. Stupid gringo got no cure for the ass itch i show you some pictures, yes very dirty, little girls you like?????? + <<<<<commander in chief of the NATO forces in Europe is fucking small refugee boy in the ass, the boy cries for his mother the general is laughing, your mother’s down the hall boy ,she’s busy with the president of France right now. But maybe later you’d like to +lick his come off her dead face. Ban those words tear them right out snip snip. Can’t say that, its disgusting. War is a snuff film for the rich. <<<<We gotta step up the bombing chief the public’s losing innarest in us screams the chief of staff running in circles jerking off and slapping his ass until it turns a bright purple and with all seriousness General Jesse Helms pauses to reflect: I remember a time when life was good no one got in our way, why in Europe under Patton i musta raped twenty thirty little boys and a handful of nuns too. He smiles lost in memory... + But God hath given us these trying times.... + Yes it is bit hard to get cunt these days isn’t it, mumbles the chief of state as he strokes his wife’s cock....Yes dear start a war, get me some cute refugee boys, i so love snapping their necks when i’m coming, she growls affectionately. + That's it gentlemen were going to war! The president stands and ejaculates on a map of the world KOSOVO it is he says as his thick oatmeal consistency sperm all but covers the former republic of Yugoslavia. + You like? You like, no? Too bad. You can’t have those words, too strong. I get power, you give me power, I steal power from you, to expensive to buy it. I get power and you get pictures and maybe I tell you how to cure rectal itch? Eh? Eh? Eh? + + + Experiements with the death ray tape and image guns began with William Burroughs in the nineteen fifties, but was sidetracked by the advent of digital technology. The newer is not necessarily the better though folks smoetimes they just have different uses --like the image gun that shot...In the beginning was the word and the word was made flesh by a cacophonous blast out of heaven's pearly cum-stained ass creating the father, the son, and the holy spigot which lies in a secluded garden on the cliffs overlooking the Sargasso sea. The spigot is buried in a volcano designed by Czech ostriches in the eleventh hour of creation to drain all human excrement off the continent of Europe and into +the Sargasso sea all lumpy with turd so thick Jesus "conny" Christ in drag is walking along to the amazement of the gullible, floating gently from turd to turd. The piss blood of a million cunts and cocks line the shores giving the whole place a radioactive iridescent red glow not to mention a awful stench. Mr. Rogers and Captain Kangaroo are standing on the bluffs watching the spectacle and scanning with hawk eyes for sweet tight asses in which they can stab their hungry cocks. The father caught the son sitting in the middle of the garden sucking on an apple and he became enraged and hog tied the boy and penetrated every orifice in his body with a peeled and sculpted cucumber cock; the boy was left a whimpering quivering lump of fleshy jello from which spawned humankind. + The piss gut rotting flesh smell, air taunt necked and jerking at the nose, the captain's eyes role back into his head as is guts are blasted out his ass by a giggling man headed tape worm of extraordinary wit who was prone to quoting Joyce and Bugs Bunny in the same sentence in a way that reminded listeners of Buster Keaton in some strange drugstore hurricane kind of a way. The skatolic odor was rich and the worm refused to bath. Owing to the peculiar nature of its origin the soldiers did not disturb the worm preferring instead to watch the captain writhe in agony pulling his legs back behind his ear to attempt to lick the matted blood soaked pubic hair over the the torn orangish flesh that hung in ribbons over a large hole that had once been a simple anus. The upshot of it all was that the worm ate less rations than the captain so the men were basically satisfied with the arrangement and they followed the worm wiggling through the jungle as it did impersonations of Fred Astaire... + Blasted rot gut con-artist with ten huge molars running across the front of his mouth in a clump owing to his mother's industrial accident with the cunt acid from the chink's hyperdrill. Drilled right on through back to china, the asshole couldn't even close the damn thing and the lower mandible just kind of hung there like a tire swing. Maya spits in his face in disgust and revulsion you don't have enough money for me to kiss you there isn't enough money on the planet... + The giggling Hyenas are dressed in black and high on amphetamines looking to turn you inside out. + Tongue-tied porn queens scream obscenities at passersby "I'll suck your dick until your eyeballs pop out your ass..." + Steady...wait til you see the whites of their eyes...Blown newspapers and advert scrapes cover the bottom three feet of a brick wall like sardines neatly packed in a kipper snack tin from a 1983 supermarket shelf....Horatio Alger's sodomizing menage-a-toi with the Maytag Man and Uncle Sam has led us to train station on the SpaceTime line where freedom is an irrelevant inconvenience of language that is slowly being fazed out of history. Language is a virus. The i that is You speaks, I speak and the vibrations of air we create controls our every move. Science gives rise to Magic in the form of powerful papers that tell who what why and how you are to be. You can't march down to city hall to protest without a permit filed ahead of time with the city clerk. You can't drive an automobile without the Proper Papers. You can't leave the country without PAPERS, you can't perform honest labor without PAPERS. You can't buy or grow certain pharmaceuticals at all, nor can you pursue the happiness of your choice unless it falls into one category. Consumption. We are all free to consume, which when you think about it, is the only freedom we really need in a CONSUMER SOCIETY. Televisions, radios, automobiles, washing machines, drying machines, refrigerators, freezers, ovens, microwave ovens, convection ovens, alarm clocks, computers, headphones, home furnishings, bicycles, video games, tennis shoes, laser disc players, DVD players, record players, compact disc players, cordless telephones, wireless phones, digital phones, cellular phones, two way radios, short wave radios, car stereos, home stereos, and every accessory you can conceive of and millions more you couldn't. We have all the entertainment and modern conveniences in the world in our home each assessable at our fingertips when ever you chose. Which is a good thing because the minute you step out of your house some OFFICAL OF THE STATE is going to want to see some goddamn- +papers-on-the-double-what-the-hell-are-you-doing-here-cough-up-the-fee-place-your-hands-behind-your-head-you-have-the-right-to-remain-silent-lie-down-and-spread-your-legs-and-shut-the-fuck-up-right-fucking-now sir! + Uncle Sam came on the ground and left without a trace. Horatio and Maytag were emotionally tormented for years until there eventual deaths through ritualistic dismemberment. + And I don't have any papers standing on a cement sidewalk slab starring at the FREEDOM OF AMERICA locked inside a now closed appliance store. The Ace Appliance Store to be precise. I feel suddenly nervous like they know what I am thinking. They know that I am thinking. + -He's not smiling. Oh no, not yet, we're working on it though.- + We the people we govern you the other people have decided for reasons which are beyond the scope of this broadcast and may well be beyond the scope of your comprehension entirely that all freedoms which you previously thought you had but never in reality did possess are summarily denied from this point forward. Please report to the nearest biomedical programing center by the fourth of May where a new human program biounity 3.6 will be installed into your seratonin and allow for future dopemine programing without the need for physical intervention please go about your lives as you always have all those not present for the reprogramming procedures by the fourth of May will be consider fugitives of the state and will be dealt with in the harshest manner allowed by law and endorsed by the entertainment loving public... + + + Naturally Waiben wanted out of jail and was perfectly willing to meet with his former cellmate who had struck up most unusual conversations with him and who had a habit of mumbling incoherently when asked what it was that he did. + + + +. + +There is no governor +anywhere -R.A.W. + + Sil stood at the window watching the sea leavel water lapping at the top third of it he toyed seeming mindlessly with the leavel that raised and lowered the dome and thought about Euchrists oral sex and the confusion of living a multi-ordinal quantum reality on a planet of third wave nuerocirciut apes. It wasn't that he looked down on people as a mass like most assumed nor that he felt some condescending sense of pity which motivates the religious savior type apes rather that simply that it would be easier for him if everyone understood a few things about quantum reality and non local universes. Pluratity. Unfortunately scientists and its worth noting that only a scant few of that sub population spoke the language of mathematics. It was equally troubling to Sil that no one spoke sanskrit or any of the languages that are really beautiful to the ear. He took a deep hit of the black alamant hash cigerette and headed to his typewriter wondering what it would be like to live in reality tunnel where everything is not fiction. where things actually happen far off like spice trade boats chinese junkets pulling into Siapan out of south sea storms. Opulent opium pictographs of women spread delicate violent flesh orgies across the room, scenes from Arabian Knights He wrote a letter to the governments of the world: + +Boards Sydicates and Cartels of the earth: +A general Theory of Anarchy, welcome to MINDFUCK: + You will undoubtable, upon hearing the term anarchy associate it with the popular mythology of a chaos-like state where murderers run naked through the street fucking helpless women inhaling blizards of cock and raving acid heads doing unspeakable things to your grandmother. Images conjured I suspect out of Frued's catalogue of chaos images +This apocalyptic vision is inherently politically based, but i understand that your imprints are such because you are politicians. however political anarchy is an oxymoron Anarchy of the Senses is what I speak of. In this vision your grandmother is you cellular memories no more static movie flicking black and white you are not you --semantic breakdown is inevitable why wait for death? + Anarchy, like life itself is infinitly more complicated than simple political gaming, left wing right wing, the whole concept of a bianary system is meanigless. The problem with the west in general is that it makes dicotomies out of what is really just a grey cloudy lump of shit which is wrong What i mean by that statement is that nothing is reducible to being either/or, belief itself is multidemensional and it is right. You feel the joke creeping in youself --at the edge of sleep different voices start to think for themselves maintainng an iron grip on reality creates tension and energy loss semantic breakdown at death. That is to say that to hold a beleif is to filter information through an infinitely complex system and into the brain where the information is organized further and through electro-chemical response conditioning, an opinion or patterned is formed. When the brain is again confronted with a similiar question the response path of the original is duplicated. + Doesn't ever strike you that this is not life. This is robotics. In light of something that is infinitely complex many philosophers, politicians and other freaks of nature have chosen to assume a starting point from which it can be safely assumed that everyone is at least in agreement of basic "facts." But as mathmatics show, these facts are subjective at best and non-existant for all practical purposes. The Image is not the thing it is a representation of the thing by the individual. There is no objective stance. Everything is in our heads, everthing that occurs around us occurs in our grey matter which is to say that everything is an internal experience of the individual rather than an external event happening to the individual. Thus the anarchists starting point is similtaniously everywhere and nowhere much like the timespace experience itself. At this point you can decide what is real and what is not. The punchline ducks and dodges. + This does not mean that fairies exist and men can walk through walls and everything coming into the bus is real at all rather that it can be real, because what is real is only a generalized hallucination. See what you want to see be who you want to be. If it doesn't matter why not be what makes you happy healthy and mindful of your self rather than butting into the business of everyone else? Laws are the result of psychosis. Only the mentally unbalanced would impose a limitation upon itself. You enjoy this metaphor when it matches up the moral code generally accepted as in the case of athletics and developement of the body, the decay worchippers, but when it is applied to everything it suddenly creates distress and psychosis. Psychosis is characterized by delusions and disorientation which you again like as a definition when it is appied to those whose lives are incomperhensible to you, the "insane,." You deem it to be appropriate then--for instance people holding non-bianary processing patterns (loonies, bums, the elderly)-- in this you are comforatble, but if the definition is expanded to include everything this causes the delusional to see that everything is delutional. this in turn leads to semantic confusion --if nothing is real then what matters? What is matter? A forth dimensional manifestation of energy? What are we? A forth deminsional manifestation of energy. + You hope that we are with you, you believe that we are with you, but you feel the incomprehension creeping in at the sides, you really can't believe it, but you feel it. You know we are not with you and you think that we are against you because this is the Alpha Male imprint, you're getting paranoid trying so hard to make us paranoid when it really isn't that easy; and you're frightened that one day you will look up trying to see a spaceship, but its something from your childhood and you're thinking you want see forever but you don't know what it means. You think you'll find it in the DNA strands, all the built in mechanisms --the punchline isn't what it seems, I'm sounding like an idiot and I no longer care. + Anarchy is not a threat to political institutions, life is a threat to political institutions. Why punish behavior that is differential from your own? You're trying it you're finding +that you like it. If you want to stop people from buying cars, stop building roads. If you want people to stop commiting crime stop building prisons. If you want people to stop starving to death stop making them work. If you want people to stop working tell them that their are vast sources of energy capable of sustaining them and tell them that these sources can be tapped in space. Tell them the coca-cola thing burroughs was always nagging you about. Tell them what you did. Tell them the game, because it is nearly up the semantic game has been played out and they can see it smell it touch it and taste it. They fanacize about it in Utopian novels and movies; they fret over it too because they don't know if you've been there first, they don't know if its safe. But eventually they're going to come over anyway. And you know as well as i do that control is as pointless as the rest of it in the end because oddly --the poets were always right. We are only human, meaning that when we are beyond that in thought the game playing falls apart --some see demoneds some see little green men, and you know what those signs mean. the end is near. The bucket is coming down the well. And once you are in it none of the concerns of the water have meaning. + I, as some many before me only wish to thank you without you i never would have been forced to think beyond spacetime, and into spacetimemind. I, also like many before do hearby, with a bow, resign. + +Sincerely, +SpaceTimeMind coordinate: Sil Hawkard + + + + Most, including the president, who recieved the letter thought it the suicide note of a man whom records showed had always led a quiet and unobtrusive life in south Hampton +Massuchusets. One of the few would might have understood it was Dr.Waiben, but he never got a copy. diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/THE BOOK.odt b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/THE BOOK.odt Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..6f1262d --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/THE BOOK.odt diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/THE BOOK.txt b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/THE BOOK.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..60a73c4 --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/THE BOOK.txt @@ -0,0 +1,781 @@ + 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 that's what there paying me, twenty five a month to sit here and write reports; let go of all contact and take notes for somebody else's script, I never would have written myself into a role this melodramatic for a million bucks recks 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 interesting folks at the AIC and then I was 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 school 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 embarrassment 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 millennium. + + + + + +In the beginning +there was the word + + + +<<<<<<<<<begin transmission ghf8672y ﾵ ﾤﾤ ﾤxZDFß∂ƒ©˙¥®´∑¨^øøπππ“π“∫∫~∫∫Ω≈ç√∫~µ≤≥÷1243ﾵ ﾧ + œ∑´®†¥¨^øπ“´®†¨¨¥ø^¨^ø¨^¡¡¡£™¢∞§¶¶•ªºº––åß∂ƒ©©©©©©˙∆©˙∆∆˚¬˚¬…æ¬ +æΩ≈ç≈√∫~µ≤≥÷‑«« ` ¡™£¢∞§¶•ªº–≠123235ﾵﾧ +tyiyiu +ƒ¥†∆†^˙˚∆^¥¥†∆˙ƒ˙©©∆˙˙˙˙ƒƒƒ©©©©©©©©∞§§¶•ª•ªª§∞§∞¢£¢£∞¶§¶∞¶§∞¶§∞¶§§¥†ƒ©∆˙©ƒ∆¥ƒ∂˙©√µ∆~√©ƒ≈߃∂≈Ω˙©∆˙熃∂ߥ®ƒ√˚∆©¨¥†ƒ∂ + +, + +/,68487654321>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> +Fragments of Ash falling. +White washed ceilings hanging so ominous +Hallucination of bubble-headed figures +crawling like the Michelin Man +across an indescribable mountain of tires +Motels Motels Motels +Whiskey Bourbon. +Tow truck +non-ordinary state of reality +precludes a state of reality +that something is real Point at +the autistic manwomanchild +Autistic man pointing at you +laughing unable to fathom how your brain +functions and quite self righteously +you you cling to its definitions. +Must delineate between abnormality +and those of us who Understand +The Human Virus breeding +like rats unconsciously conscious and aware +of our disorganization. +Gas Station Cold Fusion dreams +of the Anarchist are breeding +in the minds of the oil men +who don’t want to +loose their stranglehold of reality. +Fragments of Ash falling +the continual settling of dust +weighing down humanity and the +French Maid masturbates discreetly in +the next room. You need her +to keep the dust off your mortal +coil spring. +Rebirth mythology. +Mythology of reality. We must +distinguish between what will be defined as +sane and what shall be referred to +as insanity. Kevlar definitions +constructed to make a better shampoo +seem like a logical item on which +to squander your paperbacked slavery bills. +After all these years Tide still +gets your socks whiter +Its a wonder +that they aren’t transparent by now. +that your brain retarded +in its development +that evolution had not +anticipated the advent +of the opposable thumb the unopposable +domination of the thumb leading +to and insect superiority of mating +rituals stolen from a textbook +on damselflies darning needles +sewing shut your lips, mind atrophy. +Weber's White Race Enriched for Superiority +Scorched earth campaigns raining Ash. +Shit from the sky. Tax man came +for your baby in exchange for unpaid balance. +You understand. Nothing Personal +Just doing our job. Same as the +next guy. From Auzwich on down the +line. Didn’t make the rules. Sorry. +We perfected them. +There are no innocents in a world of +free will. You don’t have to survive +at the expense of others. You could +die with puncture wounds in your hands +and others would create a new mythology +strange irony would find another with holes +in his hands unwilling to accept +cockroach mentalities. +You want to beLIEve Hitler +was a madman but he lives on in quiet +cafes centralsouthamerica not so free +not all the communists have been shot yet +Your mistook misunderstood missed +the lesson in the situation that unfolded +Dr. of dialectic excuses you want +to beLIEve Hitler was a madman +Hitler killed everybody's body +only taking orders you understand +just doing my job from Independence +on down the line. +It was a sad money grubbing hunter +gather up his children and thank +his gods they are his and he their god +behold I have come to tell you that +everything you know is wrong +stop doing you job its not yours +see Hitler in your mind you want him dead +but he's not he liveson +buried under restraint in everyones mind. +Only taking orders you understand. Didn’t have +a CHOICE. Got a family to feed. +radio crackle. pop. hiss. +silence. +<<<<<<<<<<<END TRANSMISSION>>>>>>>>> + + The first thing you notice on entering the quarter is the radioactive stench of rotting death. It hangs in the air like rotten pasteries in a Parisian Bistro thrown out in the alley and neglected by even the hungriest of terrified bums lurking in dark corners. The smell hits you like a sledge hammer, but it has something blood curdling familiar about it, it is the smell of death. the smell of your death. You can get in without dying, but you smell it lurking around the corner and you feel it closing in on you. Death is a thick smell, a reminder that the body is temporal and hangs by a thred, a thread lible to snap without a moment's notice. + The tibetians said that demons prey on those near the gates of the after world, those who don't know where they are, the ones that came in on a bus wreck or an earthquake, the ones that never had a chance to realize what was going on, but that's not strickly true, at least the demons part. Demons is a bit overboard, they're the true flesh pioneers, the ones who refuse to let go of the uniquely human games, the politics, the barter system, the Madison Avenue rewrite department, the beggardly filth flesh markets. It's not that they aren't deadly —they certainly are if you're not careful— but they are highly predictable because just about everyone coming across the bay has played the demon games before and unless death was a total shocker you recognize the game and push on; down deeper into the regions where the tenament settlements are and then into The Village. + The tenament settlements are a lot like one would imagine the early American colonial settlements. sickly white creatures constantly scared of everything. the slightest rustle in the evening breeze and they're running for the gun cupboard. hair trigger finger they got too so its best to mind your own business and head straight through so as not to raise any suspicions. And for god's sake don't let them draw you into conversation or you'll start seeing things and end up stone paranoid or worse: a rational materialist. + The Village is a little hill in the center of town where the biologic requirements are meaningless and things can get dicey if you're not paying close attention. This is a second rate guidebook built off personal and anticdotal stories, there is a map in the back, like the tibetian map i suggest you bear it in mind, it might come in handy that day when the whole world comes down in a storm of atomic virus heat and the skin finally gets scorched right off. Welcome the end of history. + + +Book one: set and setting + + + + Sil Hawkard always wanted to be. Which differentiated him from the bulk of the people alive on the third planet who wanted to be something. This semantic anomaly was epidemic in Usinc, but Sil had managed to never catch 'the virus" as they said in the circles of the cured. he himself enjoyed freedom and if your trying to be something you can never be free. you're locked into the constraints of the role you wanted to play. In Sil's estimation it was more fun to switch roles at the drop of a hat. He enjoyed such musings when he was lying around in his floating home off the coast of Mandalay. Mandalay is in the South Pacific Seas three hundred miles Northeast of Australia and over two thousand miles from the farthest outpost of the Usinc empire. Originally settled by rich expatriot Usincer's whose money came from dubious endevors, Mandalay evolved over the years into a Freeport city-state with no government and swift and highly effective way of dealing with the only crime —murder. Mandalay was warm in September and every afternoon the storms would roll in the thunderheads and rain wouldn't fall so much as materialize right out of the air. Life went on in the rain with the exception of clothes as few people wore them around Mandalay; that was one of side effects of the Freeport's origins in sensual based anarchy which -like the word istelf- began with a letter... + Sil is sitting much like he does every afternoon, on a bambo chair smoking petroleum. Petroleum was in fact ultimately one of the things that had led Sil here, but actually petroleum was an inaccurate street name for what Sil was smoking. It was rather a carbon based opiate smoke made by trapping the opiates in a petroleum vapor and then condensing the vapor into a liquid which was in turn mixed with pure hash oil and boiled through alcohol leaving behind a sticky, oily, candy-goo hence the name. The black substance was roughly the consistancy of petroleum jelly and it would burn (with flames like tiki torch) for hours slowly releasing together the THC and the densely packed opiates. The flames would die down over time as the jelly itself turned into a glowing coal, the heat from which release more of the psychoactive chemicals than any other method of ingestion. The process was remarkable in that it didn't matter how good of a starting point drug you had because you could always cook in more —it turned ugly grey heroin and dirty mexican pot into the finest high imaginable. Needless to say the product was um profitable so long as one avoided the normal channels of distribution, it was this rather shaky profession that had led Sil to escape the Usinc empire. + Sil hits the huca again and feels his face going numb his head slumps down until his chin is nearly on his chest, he snaps his fingers twice. Two Arab dancers appear and began to dance crooked, spinning patterns mastered over centuries of hypnotic oppression (the cockroaches of skid row motels are only now beginning to learn) which gave it power in its freedom, more power than things born free. Oppression is a drug; it acts equally, though differently, on the oppressed and the oppressor alike —the oppressed gain a more acute vision of the things in life that can not be controlled. What makes the oppressor stronger in the common fabric of reality only pushes the oppressed into areas outside of the common fabric of reality until eventually the oppressed simply leave. + The crooked dance is hypnotic to watch and all consuming to perform. In India they teach it to snakes, and in the sewers of Usinc cockroaches feasting on the radioactive waste have begun to learn it on their own. Like terrible creatures from a Kafkian nightmare they sit quietly underground, as we go about our lives, learning the dance passing it on to their children and teaching them how to use it as an evolutionary tool. One day a properly evolved cockroach will crawl out of a sewer drain just as the head of state is stepping to the podium to address the nation... He will devour the president raw as the live camera crews feed man's downfall to a nation of viewers even as it happens. The blood soaked cameramen will never stop filming and the cockroach will scurry to the podium, strain himself to an upright position and address the nation...Behold I am. He will dance and spin and all will be entranced. Women will castrate men and men will bludgeon themselves to death with pickaxes until they are suitable for cockroach consumption and life will continue on much as it always has. The system is independent of its elements, humans are not necessary, cockroaches would uphold the system just as well. Unless of course the atomicnovavirus gets loose. Sil falls into a profound haze of self-absorption. The boys continued to dance trance-like as the numbers explode at the edges of his vision. + Sil's story is a rather long and convoluted one and subject to enhancement on his own part, because that was one of Mandalay's charms, no one cared about who you used to be, but who you are. Sil had not made the mistake of trying to hold power over others, rather he used it to make himself more powerful. + At the age of twenty one Sil Hawkard discovered that while he vaguely enjoyed torturing the professors at Columbia university, most people in the Usinc are squares, and Sil, already an avowed anarchist was weary of the materialists whom he felt lacked the imagination and understand to really get the it —so to speak. So he dropped out for a semester and bummed his way around what was then called the United States. In the middle of the Utah desert one night in July he ingested a rather large quantity of psylicilim in the form of mushrooms. He met someone, but that is not important just yet. The quantum reality convergence that Sil felt during the experience was rather hard to forget and it prompted him to extend his drop out faze for a few more years. One other rather peculiar thing happened to Sil on the mushrooms. A bouncing humanoid of early homo erectus origins told him that the rosette stone of the word was in safe hands with the ostriches. + + + It like your going bang! the epi-endo-genetic bang that finally turns on the radio, like when the old crystal quarts set gets cranked next to the digital signal, cold and clear you can taste it metallic, vibrations of noise it slam your gut. Sock you like a plutonium fuzz blast, but there's something to be said for bringing it down slow too. frequency modulation is the pulsar of life, blasting straight through the chest and then stroking on soft cushions to sooth you down. In and out. draws you from one world to the next. electro- static charge, like the pulsation of an old castagraf recorder. + You move the body electric in pulsations with receptors that crawl — warmth of the spine and into the back of the brain where it hit so hard. The surge is ecstatic... drive you right on over into the next dimension -model -metaphor -you get the picture. You might have even hung it on your wall when you where younger, and hungrier —hunger drives the hierarchy and its there, even when your stomach is full... hits you raw like the electric pulse of life got hard wired into your brain... its all gone from now. ebb and flow, Surges come in waves. I gotta run to make diving in smooth... feels in slow motion... you hit the water like a torpedo and the waves slip out in a circular ark... eyes smart from the unbroken motion. Body electric but suspended in perfect fluidity like the ecstatic dances of the trance shamans carried slip-slow up into the magic of the beyond. Echos abound like a caged sun gone supernova... atomizes and reforms as the cool wave hits the skin. smooth blue skin. + smoking filterless cigarettes listening to the voices trailing in from the mezzanine, a masterpiece composition of harmonized waves, sound —the trigger behind the motion. dancing eyes so hungry spiral with giddiness, threw out the tired old man mind. Bring it back down... bring it back down cause you never quite got it the first time. + Lost in a blur of images, swirling words, sounds, smells, miraculous warmth on the crawling embers of flesh; digging keep digging. we're all such great tunnelers mining out the beautiful and now i see the ugly creeping in around the edges.... the black on the starry night... Van Gogh and his goddamn ear always creeping in at the edges. Diggin' fast and furious: tunnelers. roots and the little blooms... the moment -the purity -the wavelength transitions in simplicity, burned like hydrochloric acid onto the memory film. scar tissue that don't go away. + I lose you, no? Maybe you like the chiclettes real cheap mister i get deal from the factory, they rewind the tape and sell it to me cheap. I just passin along the savings to you you know eh? Me like you lots. hug you if i could. you want chiclettes mister? One dollar buys whole box...eh?...no? + +And the word was with god + + Sil arrived in Africa in nineteen ninety-three to find a talking ostrich; instead he found cryptotechnology —or it found him if you work from a Jungian perspective. He arrived in Angola aboard The Decatur a British cargo ship bringing in weapons to fund a counter insurgency movement to a government disinformation loop which the west was hoping would topple the rather lax disinformation system in power —a government that welcomed technological refugees with open arms. Angola had become a haven for code writers who were not willing to dumb themselves down to the technology standards of the United States and its allies. Sil was a code breaker so to speak. He wasn't interested in simple binary code breaking and writing as in computer languages he was interested in finding the rest of the characters which would form the semantic code to language, but the technology for undertaking such an endeavor was in Angola. In fact many things that don't fly with the governments of the west were readily available in Angola. Sil asked around for all of two days when he found someone who need a package delivered to the United States in exchange for ten thousand dollars and a plane ticket anywhere in the world. + Naturally at the end of his funds and having no chance at a research grant, he accepted. Two months later he made his way to Tunisia where he finally found the ostrich who in turn told him to seek a man named Cary Downs. Downs was an eccentric billionaire obsessed with the occult and interstellar transmission of pure information; Sil was told that he had been looking for someone in Sil's area of expertise In this spacetime point most people thought Cary Downs owned an oil empire, but really it was a floating anarchist city made up of Bucky Fuller's geodesic domes which had been attached just under water to the pilings of the oil derricks. But Sil didn't know anything about the oil he just wanted a job at Downs' floating city-state, and the rent-free fully adjustable two-bedroom geodesic dome that had been offer to him over a casual phone call from New York. + Sil, like the rest of you, desperately wanted to understand what the hell was going on , and as most people realize in some vague sense —no one knows what the hell is really going on. There are nevertheless those who believe that they do know and are willing to destroy anyone who dares to invade their sacred planes of understanding. Most of them at this time were concentrated in the United States where they made good and sure to track what everyone was doing and saying and thinking and feeling. They have devised extremely elaborate game-playing circuits with uniquely complex languages like legalese and mathematics and only those who speak them can acquire power and get stuff, and they have created strange loop disinformation systems to keep the knowledge from spreading. They say that such information is classified and can only be know by them; they say you don't understand the big picture, the interests of the nation, for our collective safety, to protect those still living —so that they can hide from their crimes against human souls the scorched atomic earth it's getting used up like a gutter whore and they are going to leave you here and head into space and you are going to try to stop them which is exactly what they need you to do. + Fortunately within the disinformation loops the power mongers themselves are bound up and must work inside the verbal fences of currency and truth and the "American Way." They had even created an elaborate mythology to support the system wherein the truth is always shown as lying in the hands of the few, and the many are stuck to live out normal lives while they themselves are extraordinary and important. The History fiction principle is not widely understood outside of the control elite loops —those who named themselves famous. The trap is that if knowledge is not widespread then its power slides into atrophy, ie. No entropy means atrophy. + It wasn't that Sil wanted to illuminate the world or anything he knew that was a fiction as well; he merely wanted to left in peace and he would accord others the same respect. On meeting Downs in person and looking into his eyes he saw the recognition of these ideas, he saw someone who had decoded the gaming and was ready to move on. He saw a man to whom power and wealth were as irrelevant as Nobel Peace prizes. Downs was of medium height and had a rather slight build; most people thought he was in his forties but he was much older. He had away of walking across a room with an effortless grace which most people were immediately put at ease by. Sil thought it was rather too deliberate, but he merely noted it and kept suspicion at bay. He kept telling himself this is a man who gan get what you need and will let you do what you want, don't fuck this up. After a short introduction a hashish pipe was produce and the two relaxed and spoke at length. + "There is some thing you should understand before you decide you want to stay here," Downs had a formality and thoughtfulness to his speech that gave off the impression that every word was vitally important. "This structure is a living laboratory and there is no hierarchical structure that dictates what you should do. You are free. You may do or not do anything you wish, but you may not tell others what they can and can't do, no matter how much you find them annoying, backward or incomprehensible. You will find that even the most ignorant," his tone condescended the word, "mindsets become quite enlightening in this environment. There is a rather large library at your disposal and gourmet chefs will prepare most anything you want. You do not need currency to get anything you want here, but you do need excellent signal reception and frequency adapters in order to keep from losing your semantic grasp on spacetime while you're catapulted into spacetimemind." Downs lit the hash cigarette, smiled and passed it to Sil, "in order to expand the potential of the human brain I built this city and I have tried the gather all the possible maps of the human experience together into one place and see what they had to gain from each other. just because it might prove interesting, " Downs paused and stared his unobtrusive but penetrating gaze at Sil, "and I like you, which is not true of everyone here." + + Sil moved in to a dome apartment furnish in luxurious tapestries and artifacts that ranged from cuneiform texts to what appeared to be scrolls of Tibetan text. There was a couch of warm dark orange velvet and piles of pillows with scenes from the Tibet Book of the Dead and the Kama Sutra. The mixture of oriental and occidental gave the room a circular feeling, which was reinforced by the spherical walls and roof. Sil's head felt heavy and he laid down in the pile pillows and felt the room spin drunkenly. Don't worry the spinning will fade, your brain is conditioned to judge perspective on three dimension planes. Taking away the planer walls it is used too causes distress and disorientation, but it will eventually go away as your brain maps out the new system and eventually you will forget that you live in a circle. + Cary Downs' flotilla as he liked to call it consisted of seventy-two people, ranging from ethnobotanists to a fundamentalist Baptist preacher. All the flotilla's food was grown in to large greenhouses or caught in the waters around it; meat was flown in every week by helicopter although only a few people ate it as meat was generally considered by the scientists as an inefficient means of nourishing the human body. It had been proposed by one of them named William that the body was but one part of the human existence and the appetite and random whims of taste should not be ignored in some ascetic quest that blinded us in sterile Orwellian future-nightmares as he had put it. There was also a bar and smoking lounge, which was Sil's contribution to the system —as the residents referred to it. It was a closed system (save the imported meat and alcohol). Three additional greenhouses grew THC enhanced marijuana of a strain called alamont which was processed into hash and given out in bulk to the inhabitants. Also grown were peyote plants, poppies, coca plants, tobacco plants, close to twenty varieties of hallucinogenic mushrooms including the Kuri-coo, and several other mind altering herbs and medicines that Sil had never heard of. + The inward curvature of the walls gave Sil the impression that his room was collapsing back in on itself, the disorientation of circular walls and the intensity of hash rendered Sil immobile for three days —which Cary assured him was perfectly normal. He further suggested that Sil not restrain himself on the drugs, but realize their potential incompatibilities after all he said everything you ever wanted is here no one is judging you and no one is threatening you so you'd be fool not to let go for once in your life then we'll initiate you into our program . So Sil spent close to three months, usually alone (although he sometimes experimented with the exotically beautiful tantric sex guides), playing with the nuero chemical circuitry of his brain. He learned to focus himself out of his body and down to a single point within or without the the spacetime boundaries. This gave him a fantastic amount of power, and it made him an agent in a polydimensional universe instead of limiting him to only one at a time. It was here that he found The Quarter. + +EVERYTHING YOU KNOW IS WRONG +EVERYTHING YOU KNOW IS RIGHT +EVERYTHING YOU KNOW IS A MAYBE +EVERTHING YOU KNOW IS MEANINGLESS +-from A Game-Circuit Guidebook by Maya Stevens + + One quiet afternoon Sil found himself in a spacetime point that called itself Tucker. Discipline is an agent's greatest virtue, it was thinking when Sil dropped in. It was in a bar and behind it Doris Day and her Waxing Loquacious Lesbians were playing a sultry 60's motown number on a dimly lit stage, and the general atmosphere of the bar had a surreal quality. The walls seemed to breath as if threatening to go ahead and speak. bars are excellent places for observing the least attractive maps of humanity the best you can hope for is one where the possibilities remain endless regardless of the irrefutable realities. Tucker seemed well aware of the realities, but it's mind was only now beginning to sense the infinite set of possibilities that comes with every new reality. Occasionally it became aware that other voices seemed to be talking in his head, other people getting in his head through warped words, written words, sometimes they told him things he believed as evil and other times they made him mindlessly hum product jingles from the seventies. This self knowledge was the only reason Sil hung around quietly listening to this man's mind. But Tucker did not seem to have self-pity, he considered self-pity to be a symptom mental illness because it requires the ego to be divided into pitier and pitied. He liked his ego together as one in harmony he seemed quite proud of this justification and it helped to ease his innate sense of anxiety at the idea that thoughts not originating from his own mind could work their way in regardless. + Tucker is an Agent of the State. Sil almost fell backward in his chair. The State is not to be confused with the government as many of you would assume. On the contrary the government is but an instrument of the State, the State is a separate entity whose ultimate identity seemed unknown even to Tucker. Sil was no longer being passive, he grilled in on Tucker's storage banks looking for a name, and moves around in his skin he hears the word Waiben. The chill and the cringe are not his own they were Sil's and he learned the first rule of any closed system: Just because you aren't paranoid doesn't mean they aren't watching you. + The TuckerSil coordinate thinks of butting in on a conversation to give two men a piece of his mind, but Sil steered him toward the attractive blond to his right who Sil figured would be more interesting and could lead to sex, but after a few failed attempts he overhears the cruel whisper that guy is bugging me, you want to go over to a booth? Half shocked half hurt the Tucker gets up to leave; standing at the urinal on his way out he is shocked to find a poem scrawled on the wall + So old the place was, I remember none + The like upon the earth: what I had seen + Of grey cathedrals, buttressed walls, rent towers, + The superannuations of sunk realms, + Or nature's rocks toiled hard in waves and winds, + Seemed but the faulture of decrepit things + To that eternal doomed monument. +What a very curious bar he thinks to himself getting into his car. Sil jumped put leaving tucker to his thoughts; those people must be intellectuals he thinks morosely I never understand what everyone is talking about. I am stupid he is thinking as he drives away, at least the voices are gone. + + Sil is smiling to himself and lighting a cigarette. At another point in the fabric of reality Sil is feeling a primordial yearning to devour raw flesh and roll in a room of naked women. You are at a club wearing skintight black vinyl pants and a black tank top with no bra, your nipples are hard and everyone can see them through your shirt. You're dancing with a black haired girl also wearing tight black clothing, sitting at the back watching from a distance. Your pussy clenches and sends tremors through your body every time the girl brushes against your skin, she teases you dragging her finger along your arm, and as the music stops she grabs you by the hand and leads you two a corner booth where two more women are locked in delicious animal fire; locked naked and sitting upright they grind pussies together, shuddering mouth to mouth, breast to breast legs entwined.... + + Sil along with the rest of the residents in the police state he used to call home, hates cops....I fucking hate 'em. I hate 'em. I hate 'em. I hate 'em. I want to kill them all in a violent sea of time-released explosive donuts that when eaten mix with the stomach acids and explode in violent blueberrystrawberrylemon filled death he fanaticizes. Die pig die. Imagine it, a million sworn upholders of THE LAW dead in an instant. Think of the society we could have. Think of the freedom, think of the beauty. The sweet satisfaction of tearing down all the rotting pig gut filled doughnut shops in the nation. No more sweaty palms. "License and registration please." Fuck you, never again. Never again. kill every cop you see —a populist revolt. We don't need all these damn laws, the people are okay —we know how to look after ourselves. The laws are the ones that fucked everything up the first place. And who hurts the most people in this here little world? The State. A cattle car streaming over the tracks of life, slick with the blood of the people. The train can't go up the hill because the tracks are too slippery with my guts your guts our guts. Cut off by THE LAW, our heads impaled on the ends of the its tentacle-like arms as they strangling the last hold outs of resistance into pacified stupidity. + The anger subsided and Sil found himself dialing a number he didn't know he picks up the phone —the other end never rings, instead a voice says: "hello?" + "May I speak to Captain Clark please?" + "I'm sorry he's not in. May I take a message?" + "No. No message." Sil hangs up the phone. He walks to the back of the room and flops his body onto the luxurious pillows and is swept by an overwhelming sensation of peace; his mind begin to expand, and he feels the desire for more consciousness —the death of us all, Sil thinks idly to himself as he lights a pipe and sucks in a deep inhalation of opium and hash. The sticky sweet smoke that fills his lungs brings forth tape loops and strange loops of static memories. Twisting and turning their way through the circuitry until: Anarchy is the only answer to all questions which begin with why? whY? wHY? WHY? Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law —future memories of books he hasn't read yet. In distant memory filtering strands of DNA locked deep in Sil's cerebral cortex a vibration begins, infinitely small at first but building slowly into his medulla and finally spring forth into the part of the brain referred to as consciousness. The cameras rolled even as the lights were dimming. +"BRING THE PRISONER FORWARD" + Unrolling a weighty and sterile looking scroll of antiseptically white paper a voice whose origin is masked by the size of the paper itself reads: + After making reviews of the past actions, thoughts, and attributed sentiments, it is the judgement of this committee, and therefore the judgment of the government it represents, that due to a general lack of ability to perceive the options open to the work potential of the drone in question in simple terms of an x or not-x negativism which would be most helpful in these situations and would consequently decrease expenditures and lower taxes for other individuals living in said dualism and therefore we hereby decree that all metaprogramming undertaken by the individual without the consent and simultaneous approval of this committee and the government it represents to be criminal in intent, hostile in action, and punishable by prison and/or death upon conception. Thank you. You may go. + Sil Hawkard finds himself dragged from the tribunal; hands tied in front of him and legs trailing uselessly behind. His guards use his head to open the heavy wooden door and then they dump him unceremoniously onto the filthy street where a group of children are playing. A monkey runs by, tugging its penis with one hand and slapping its bright red ass with the other. + + + Teletype for Corsica the agent sent in for returns, Home office denied request for reinforcements, all communication to be ceased henceforth. Piss in the riddle thought the old man wheeling his chair back out to the porch, he picked up a Mason jar of corn whiskey and laid the shotgun across his lap. + The languid afternoon floated in and up the beach from the Atlantic bringing photomontages of Mandalay and the Dutch East Indies spice trade boats, far off places he had heard of only as words and imagined smells. Up the beach from the house were the beginnings of the rocky South Carolina shoreline teeming with crabs, sponges, sea anemones, and circle swooping gulls feeding on sand crabs exposed in the fluctuating waves. It was low tide, in fact it was always low tide or at least it seemed that way to the old man. + He was partly right, the tide was lower than it had been a year before when a man by the name of Dr. Waiben began overseeing construction of a nuclear power plant buried two miles under ground to hide its heat signature for pesky government satellites. The plant, whose only entrance was from the sea, was Waiben's new research facility but right now that is but future memory fighting for space at a coordinate that won't have it. + + Sil is in New Orleans renting an attic in the French quarter following a strict regiment to kick the opium habit he developed at FREEDOM Inc. The best cure Downs had said is to get a job in INDOCTRINATION Inc., where you will be forced to confront the ugly stupidity of life. + + The old man stood up on the porch and paced back and forth waiting...you understand the seriousness of the matter... obviously we would not expect an ordinary agent to do such a thing...your expertise in these fields...well frankly it's unparalleled..there is no other...These orders are coming straight from the top...your cooperation is non-negotiable... + + +...to be an abstraction does not +mean that an entity is nothing. +—A. N. Whitehead + + Two years earlier: Dr. Waiben, pathologist for Usinc., surveys a long horrifically clean hallway whose smoothness is interrupted only occasionally by the presence of polished sliver knobs indicating doorways. There are no observation windows or any other windows within the rooms. This is the housing quarter for the derelicts of society: prostitutes, schizophrenics, lobotomy patients, drug pushers, anarchists, communists, AIDS victims, the aberrations that society never needed nor found a use for, end up here, under the care of Dr. Waiben, pathologist for IND Inc. The good doctor has, for twenty odd years, been the caretaker of the derelicts, charged with restoring to them a level of functionality deemed necessary by society. He is the man who puts the cogs back into the wheel. + He was also one of three doctors in Usinc that had been approved by the government to do LSD and Ibogaine research of human subjects. this was the public record of what he was doing and indeed it was his little pet project having cured himself of an alcoholic tendency with Ibogaine he genuinely wanted to help others with what he considered a miracle drug. But like most people he did not have just one personality + Waiben was not an ordinary doctor as in white coat sort of psychologist, he came from a different school of thought that said in order to treat someone's mind you must be willing to live through it. As a consequence of this belief system Dr. Waiben found himself frequently passed over and ignored for promotion because his unorthodox approach to the human mind was extreme. Waiben was not afraid to induce seizures with light triggers, or to spend two weeks straight on LSD trying to see what the world might look like to a schizophrenic, and perhaps most potentially embarrassing to Usinc politicos was his recent foray into fetishism and sadomasochistic sex. It just doesn't sound good for sheep to find out that congress is funding someone who ties people and whips them because both parties genuinely enjoy it. The mass of the populace did not have sex like this because they we're afraid of it, afraid that the could be twisted and they certain;y weren't keen on their hard earned money being spent of such projects. The irony of it was that Ibogaine would have been perfectly acceptable if anyone knew about his other project. His forays into fetishism, quietly published in circles of like minded individuals had raised a few control junky eyebrows and perked up a handful of ears at the top level of government in Usinc where it was generally accepted that what people didn't want to know about themselves might be handy thing to know if you were trying to dominate them. The studies these people had Waiben doing took place elsewhere, in a facility that did not even have a name. Waiben was engaged in a further extension of the old MK ULTRA project of the CIA, only by now even the CIA didn't know if they were really doing it or not. People from the private sector like Cary were the only ones aware of what was going on. + Certain "expendable persons" as the jargon of government labeled them were donated to Waiben for research purposes. Minds that be reasoned that if some people got off on pain others might get further if you combined fear and pain. + Waiben had agreed to such a monstrous thing because he desperately wanted to know that the hell was really going on and he realized that torture and the old traditions of ritual slaughter was one of the only areas of the human experience that no one was willing to study. No one was willing to give up their humanity in order to try to figure out what it means to have humanity, like addiction the costs seemed to high. Waiben coped with this by creating a cold calculated side of himself that was able to abstract itself and reason and do things to other people that were unpleasant to say the least. This new and colder side of the doctor was a materialist sort of personality that reasoned there is little moral difference between experimenting on a rat and experimenting on a human. The rat had its rights violated on the premise that there were millions more where that came from, well quite frankly the same is true of humans. Its not a pretty line of logic and most people prefer not to think about it. Waiben admired the irony of it, PETA would have approved, and more importantly there was little difference between what he did during the day —he tortured people who did not want to be tortured, and at night he tortured people who want to be tortured. The overlap made him appear alternately as a sadistic monster and a normal well adjusted psychiatrist with a hobby —depending on who you were and what time it was. + However as time went on it became clear to him that mixing fear and sex did not have much of a result. Fear overwhelmed and subjugated arousal. In fact fear seemed to do that to everything. But he kept on because he wasn't sure if he would be allowed to stop, after all if they were letting him do this to people what would stop them from doing it to him someday? He was having the inner stirring of fear himself. For instance this fine sunny afternoon in May they wanted him to administer electro-shock treatment to a "prostitute" whom the state had deemed an expendable —personsona non grata. Waiben figured that she was probably not prostitute and was probably merely someone with out any one to miss them if they disappeared. He was well aware that the government was actively engaged in experimenting on its citizens, but he tried not to care. + He was sitting in his office watching her on a closed circuit television system thinking that she was the most attractive prostitute he had ever seen. Most of the subjects he got were just plain ugly and led ugly lives like the man he had tortured to death yesterday was a convicted child molester, Waiben didn't have problem torturing someone like that, or the skin head girl from last week who finally realized the error of beliefs, but sadly passed on without a chance to mend her ways. Looking at the prostitute now he sudden felt something scientists are trained not to feel —emotions. The materialist was beaten and bruised by the Mystic who argued suddenly with a force he did not usually have. Dead end, his mystic kept yelling, DEAD fucking END. He thought about the things he would really prefer to do to her after he got off work, in an environment where where she was free to enjoy transcendence. The mystic was a clever little fellow and argued that since the research had seemed to show that sex energy does not mix well with fear energy it made since to pursue the opposite logic. Sex with love energy. + It hit him with all the enlightening force of genuine discovery. Sex is as far as science has ever bothered to go, after sex it all gets very muddled complicated and confusion. Its here that emotions exist and from there it gets even worse leading to world where nothing seems to behave as it should. That was of course the thing that now made Waiben want to go. He sat in absolute silence for a while trying to wrap his brain around a theory that the mystic was fast spinning like a mental tornado sweeping across his cerebrum. The wind started with the thought that there might possibly be some corollary between the way quantum mechanics breaks down close to the beginning to the universe and the way that personality behavior breaks down around genuine human emotions. Why are they trying to measure subjective experiences with tools and language designed to be objective. What we need here is a new approach a new model and a new language to describe it.... + And suddenly it died. One of the disagreeable aspects of having a mind that never sits still is that it loses track of one thought rather easily and jumps to next without warning, i think i lost my choo-choo some might say.... For instance in his reverie Waiben had forgotten about the task at hand and suddenly realized that with the new tunnel of reality creeping in around him he could no longer carry out the torture with the abstract detachment we once had. i cant do this anymore without feeling it the mystic declared categorically, but at the same time the materialist new the consequences of not doing it might be fatal. The words buzzed through his head and started a little audio feedback loop a bit like putting a guitar too close to and amplifier. The result was a mild pressure in the right side of his head that he thought was actually producing muscle twitches, he tried to feel it with his hand to verify the experience, but the movement broke the spell. + He stood suddenly steeling himself for the task at hand and marched with ominous dread down the horrifically long and sterile hallway toward the unmarked door at the other end. He stood outside, leaning against the door and waited as the cattle prod charged to the standard dosage of ten thousand low amplitude volts. he saw the thing lying there like a virus so innocently waiting for something to turn it evil. In that moment he felt the screams of all the lost burned up souls at the edge of the bay. he felt himself floating by and only watching as they choked up gasoline-napalm sores that seared off their tongues and licked up the bodies in flames. this is played out to show you that you can not do everything, suffering is built into the system and no religious excuses are going to justify it for you, you have to feel it. The air is hot and thick like the worst humidity and the scorching of the flesh sizzles in your nostrils and you just watch. Hell is for voyeurs, the control addicts that like to watch. You just have to ride it out and hope that the cynicism doesn't burn you up right up with them or you find yourself in the liquid fire ripping out your own eyes and sawing off your tongue to run away. Withdrawal in disgust is not the same as apathy.... + A little red light came on signalling that the cattle prod was fully charged. Waiben bent down a picked it up, he held it there for a minute to feel the cold metal length. the phallic irony of it was not lost on him. He pushed a button and the door to swung open with a faint hiss. he stepped into an antiseptically clean room that was maintained at 96˚ which replicated the natural body temperature for the average human. In front of him was the girl. She was indeed very beautiful with short black hair which looked like it had been in tight micro-curls at one point. Now it was a dishevelled mess. She was lying naked with her legs were splayed wide and restrained with leather straps and buckles, her arms were restrained above her head. He smiles weakly at her, and said you know I wish we could have met under different circumstances.... + He looks into her eyes watching the pupils dilate and touches the cattle prod to the delicate smoothness of her leg, he ran it up until it was nestled against her shaven mound and pressed the switch. Her body went rigid and she shot up off the table as if suddenly turned into a stiff board. He kept his eyes locked on her as she collapse back onto the table. he saw something flash through them and he felt a tremor in his guts, his muscles spasmed involuntarily. You don't have to do this...please don't do this... He stopped and put the cattle prod down there was something missing in this situation, whe doesn't have fear. He could tell it in her eyes their was an absence of the primal desire to live. He was overwhelmed and as gently as he could he pulled the duct tape off of her mouth. + She was crying, but she smiled at him "that really really fucking hurts," she whispered. + Waiben could not help laughing though he felt monstrous under the circumstances. he abruptly stopped and started crying. Big uncontrollable sobs that wracked his whole body and he fell on his knees and proceeded to curl up in little ball on the floor. he lay like that for a while until the sobs worked themselves out and then he was motionless on the floor. After a few minutes he heard her horse voice asking him if he was done. He collected himself and stood, but he could not bring himself to look her in the eyes. Could you possibly undo these restraints then? + Waiben was disoriented, but he was pretty sure the girls mouth had not moved. "Of course," he undid them, but he picked up the cattle prod as he did and moved away from her. She sat up on the table and stared at him without speaking. The gaze was piercing and he shifted uncomfortably as her eyes continued to bore down on him. + Finally she spoke, "I'm going to get you out of here, but before i do you're going to have to learn what you are." + The absurdity of the statement did not bother him he simply said okay. + She stepped up to him and began to undress him, starting by unbuttoning his shirt. When she undid his belt she reached down and rather gently held his rigid cock as she eased the pants down over it. She stood embracing him strongly with her arms around his neck and pulled herself up until her pussy parted and she slid down on his cock. Waiben remained rigid like a board, but he closed his eyes and she kissed his lips. "do you want to fuck me ?" + The shear absurdity of the situation came rushing up in Waiben's face and he realized that he did not want to fuck her. + "You don't do you," she whispered into his ear. "you want to get on the table don't you...you want to feel it, don't you." + Waiben found himself nodding and she led him over and laid him down. She spread his legs and restrained them along with his arms. She stroked his cock hard again and teased him by biting his nipples. All at once her eyes went black and she thrust the cattle prod into his balls and flipped the switch. + Waiben's body felt to him as if it had been blow up off the table by some kind of wind. he didn't even feel his come splash of his face as the electricity caused an involuntary muscle spasm that made it arc out of his cock in unnaturally thick spurts. He landed back on the table and heard his voice make an inhuman screeching kind of wail. He felt the pain coming in like standing in front of subway tunnel and watching the headlight drawing toward you with the full horror of knowing that you can not move out of the way. It hit him like a train and knocked him unconscious. + He awoke with a cramp in his neck. He opened his eyes and saw that he was in a cinder block room with two windows up near the ceiling. He was not accustomed to waking in strange spaces he felt a sense of panic and leaped up off the cold concrete floor and threw his hands on the doorknob with all the desperation of already knowing that it wasn't going to turn. He began to cry again, cursing himself for letting go of control. He felt something hot at his toes and he awoke again to the confusion of being on a wooden ship that was in flames. In fact he noticed that his foot was on fire and he jumped up and beat it against his leg and then with his hand until it went out. the deck was rocking violently now and he was thrown bodily across it into a doorway that opened with the force of his impact and sent him tumbling down three or four stairs. his hair was on fire and he beat is hands in frenzy feeling the smell of panic mixed up in the smoke, a primordial fear of fire seized him and as the ship rocked back the other direction he and went flying back out the door. He skidded across the deck feeling splinters stab into his chest, stomach, and balls. + Dr Waiben awoke again in the room with the girl. By now he was so confused as to not know if he was dreaming or dead or alive and everything was really happening. The girl was standing over him whispering, "it really doesn't matter, treat it all as if it were real and treat all of it as if it were a dream and most importantly treat all of it as if it were meaningless in the end. + She unstrapped the restraints and Dr. Waiben felt her lifting him like a sack of potatoes which she slung over her shoulder and threw open the door. He watched the ground for a while occasionally lifting his head to see if anyone was following them. They emerged into sunshine and he suddenly became aware that they were both naked. It occurred to him that they were anything but sly right now but even as he tried to lift his head she lowered his feet down and laid him against the side of a car. He saw stars as the blood rushed out of his head and a door opened and she gently pushed him inside the car and jumped in after him. + + + About a year before he had been approached by the unnamed man to work on the MK-ULTRA project Dr. Waiben had considered himself a rational materialist quite sure that he knew better than the mass of people what the hell was going on. Some people found him arrogant, but most agreed that he was one the fast track to a successful career in government psychiatry. One day on vacation in New York city Waiben was sitting on a subway watching a very attractive woman read the paper when an older gentleman in a three piece pin striped suit sat down next to him. They were the only ones in the car and Waiben didn't understand why he had to sit right next to him. He was about to move away when the man said rather loudly and seemingly to no one in particular, "She's a real beauty isn't she?" + Waiben had heard stories of weirdness being common among New York's subways, but he had yet to see it. "Excuse me?" + "That woman right their," he gestured at her and she appeared to not have heard him, "she's a real beauty, isn't she?" + Waiben looked at her and blushed, but she ignored him, "yes she is." he agreed. + "She's not really there," the man said matter-of-factly. + Waiben looked at him for a moment and watched him smile. He turned back and the woman was indeed not there. He was startled and jumped up out of his seat trying to see where she was. The train was still moving and the doors to either car at opposite sides remained shut. He was seized by panic and turned back to the man, "that the fuck?" + "Yes what the fuck?" the man kept smiling. Waiben felt dizzy and had to balance himself against a pole. "Would you like a pancake?" The man reached into his bag and pulled out a pancake. + "No, no what the hell is going on here? Who are you?" + Take a pancake otherwise you won't believe me, take two, eat one now and save it for later." Waiben was beyond himself and accepted the two pancakes one of which he slid in his pocket and one of which he ate. He felt himself become very tired and it alarmed him, but by the time he realized he had been drugged it was to late. who are you?" he managed to ask before he lost consciousness. He was out before he could hear the man say "you." + He awoke to the familiar surrounding of his hotel room, but without being able to remember getting there. He sat up realizing it had all been a dream, but he reached in his pocket and there was that damn pancake. Waiben felt everything caving in. He stood up to take a shower and stepped on a book or something that was book-like, inhabiting that nether region of publishing between a fat pamphlet and a skinny book. Picking it up he saw the title was Pissing on Gravities Rainbow, it was written by someone named Sil Hawkard, there was no publisher and it appeared to have been hand bound. The first page said if you're reading this you you have just experienced psychic dissidence and you are confused because your personal model of reality no longer fits everything you have experienced. You have questions.... + + Dr Waiben read the book seven times that night and was not at all what most people would have called enlightened. The book challenged every basic belief that a rational existence is based on and Waiben found himself suddenly unsure if anything existed and more importantly he realized that he could really not tell if he was alive at all. This created a level of uncertainty that paved the way for enlightenment and over the months leading up to the cattle prod incident he found himself reading names like Reich, Kinsey, Leary, Korbinsky and others. He was seized by the enthusiasm that comes with genuine discoveries and Waiben thought he might be able to bring the whole world along with him. The Tim Leary Syndrome they call it in the trade. So he started trying to get his colleagues interested; dropping names like Wilhelm Reich, Timothy Leary, Albert Kinsey, Alfred Korzynski. Science has the same form of black balling that Hollywood mustered up and showed to the world, and all three of these names were on the list of STUFF NO ONE TALKS ABOUT ANYMORE. + These men and many others working with them and apart from them had found a part of human nature that the rest of human nature was not willing to deal with. they challenged the basic assumptions about life that all of cooperative society is based on. Between them they were opening the three cardinal "no no's" of western civilization: sex, death and reality. they were an disliked group of people to say the least. to make matters worst Waiben kept trying to push toward the mathematical theory of quantum inseparability arguing that nobody want to talk about these three seemingly unrelated issues because at some level we are all aware that they are linked. Such thoughts do not keep the mass of people up late at night, and things that the masses don't know they don't have may as well not exist. Waiben coined the phrase "genetic repression" to describe the phenomena and he attempted to have it published in the New England Journal of Medicine as an argument linking the cultural response to Wilhelm reich (his imprisonment and burning of his research) with Dr Waiben's own experiences in fetich clubs. + it was bold and beautiful theory that argued that everyone is insane. But it is not the sixties anymore and people are sick and fucking tired of trying to learn the universe; Waiben's paper was not printed and was returned to him with a handwritten note citing "ridiculous references, no scientific validation, and a total lack cohesiveness" as reasons for it rejection. Waiben was deeply hurt for a while until he realized that sick people do not see themselves as sick, until the illness effects their lives in some way that can not be ignored. Scientists are sick. they suffer from what Reich loosely termed "the emotional plague," by which he seems to have meant that empirical evidence is not the only way to answer a question. Science is so certain that it has the answer that it refuses to allow itself to be doubted. It has to rig the game, limit the questions and spend years making sure the evidence at hand will fit the accepted model of the universe. Its a lot like the Catholic Church during the Spanish Inquisition, so much so in fact that Robert Anton Wilson calls this disease The New Inquisition. From Wilhelm Reich in Hell: There is also argument by Logic. This can sometimes be combined with scientific experiments and if the two mesh we have a "fit" of theory with fact and scientists are delighted. Pure Argument by Logic however does not require this experimental back up and only demands that the conclusions by reached by the game-rules of an abstract symbol system. In our hypothetical case, some witness might inform congress: +All mome raths need to be distimmed; +All frammisgoshes are mome raths; therefore; +all frammisgoshes need to be distimmed + The new inquisition thinks that Science is has that damnedable old thing that the Catholic Church once thought only it had: THE TRUTH. With THE TRUTH on your side you don't need to fear; anything challenging you is inherently wrong because you are quite certain that you have THE ONLY TRUTH. Multi-model reality is not an option granted by the Inquisitors. And the Inquisitors get mighty damn pissed when one of their priests goes astray and they will do some mighty bad things to them if they catch them. + Waiben new that by getting in the car he was trusting his life to someone other than himself and he knew that someone could very well be an agent of the Inquisitors. fortunately for his rampant paranoia he didn't have time to argue about the situation. + + Transcribed from tapes: the terminal disease clerk took orders by the turnstile, finding the story in the story and logging in the disease workers all night long. At five in the morning he got off and headed to a tavern as the sun was coming up. Direct confrontation with the terminal virus word is a bit confusing to those who are not properly prepared. poor fuckers never had a chance; the technical sergeant takes off his helmet and slams it on the table the near moronic mumbling of discontent. Waging war is semantically impossible without overtones of homosexuality. Heavy handed, the second wave fell in line with the technical sergeant at the lead. The thing you have to watch out for are the warblers —the distractions coming in at the sides, sound is their most effective weapon, primordial hangover he called it drunkenly raising a glass. And some of you may think this suspect, but take my advice sound's where it all started. In the beginning was the word and the word spoke. The sergeant stoops and cups his hands to light a cigarette. Then there is sex or not enough of it, both is equally dangerous —biology is not something to scoff at. sexuality is the best cover an agent can ever use. Rockets come searing in overhead ripping flesh and scoffing at the notion of eternity, out here you don't have time to talk, the thoughts are things, they are no longer words...keep your radios tuned boys its getting ugly. Another rocket sears in severed limbs fly out the explosion and olive drab body parts litter the scene. + Watch out for the bloody words, sharp words that hang in the air like knives and when uttered returned to slit the throat of their speaker and if every word you have spoken returned to act upon yourself would you survive the experience? Me no way I'm outta here. Situation getting sticky, humid like vaporous blood hanging on in the air. Still acrid smell of urine and small children playing in a asphalt playground ringed on all sides by immense brick walls with basketball hoops hung half way up each of the sides. Realize that that which we are taught from childhood to distrust is in fact a pawn of something far more immense and much much more dangerous. The governments and nations of the world are incidental pawns of there own control systems and then beyond them there are even more and so on like looking two mirrors facing each other and going on to infinity. The monster of power is faceless there is no one person or group that controls everything they are all parts of a immense and multi-headed monster that is constantly biting itself and attacking it own heads until some day it will destroy itself. The end of time leaves space and word alone together + we're taking heavy fire! The sergeant calls for back up, the captain says love one another and cryptically hangs up the phone. The Spanish soldier selling chiclettes say no good no bueno, pictures worth not even half a thousand words. Wouldn't give you ten words, worthless gringo words don’t mean shit. no good no bueno, not worth the blood their written in. The blood of all peoples not yours, not your shoes, by god keep your slave labor camps a closed-mouthed secret. Gotta keep that in house, dis-credit all news agencies by routinely feeding them false information. News doesn’t happen events happen, and the department of television information broadcasting inc. a subdivision of indoctrination inc. decides what gets out and what remains forever sealed in baby pissshitguts. No that's not true. No comment. No need for comment, the preceding has been since proved to be untrue, cut to shots of smart bombs. Couldn’t get fifty words for those now gringo -over exposure- nobody buying. Same old stinking shit. No Good. No Bueno. + Gringo go home in thousand languages in a million words, why don’t you crawl back in your cave get your tail so far between your legs it goes half way up your ass? Lead me to the holy spigot and we’ll show you the bidet of death, constructed by gringos, for gringos, to flush out gringos, to show them all what you do behind closed doors. Can’t close them all —we have our technicians as well and they’re getting to be better than yours. We got the money rolling in —even offered you the picture words but you don’t want them. No Good. Can’t use those, too strong. No fair, crying boy heads home for cave to lick his dirty balls clean. + I gotta picture for you I on vacation in your country go to hear senator’s speak but all door are closed, all sealed. So i gotta fiber optic and feed it in from the roof show all senators mad with sexual lust and blood thirsty, clamoring for war and stealing souls and bodies and driving them off wherever they see fit. + The technician is retro actively of course —the papers said the man was mentally ill. ‘my cod!’ screamed a church lady in the front row, ‘satan has garbled the lords message, this isn’t what he meant for you to hear, no it was not all like that, there was to be understanding.’ she is parading her old cunt bones whining at the justices —tissue conducts signals, animals communicate through the use of visual, acoustic , chemical, tactile and electrical signals. Our laboratory is an abundant and well preserved feed back loop to understand and interpret Eusocial behavior. negative feedback inhibition to make you shiver Gringo. Make you shiver good. + Repetition unsuccessful. The radiologist was called in to examine the patient —blisters and burns indicate high probability of skin mutation, what would you say Dr. Waiben? Crested and on the nod? Diminutively, yes definitely. + Information potential exists —its an unsettling thought, dependency —and what happens when things start to think? How do you draw the lines then? + HOW THE PLAGUE BEGAN: + The wish to preserve -not worth saving what already is- in this scenario. The word, the loss of body situated at the origins of recorded sound -the temporal metaphysical and esthetic possibilities. + <insert sounds of truck on dirt road> + Old man yelling. Get off of my laaawwwnnn! Sits down to oil his gun some more and then half turns in his chair to face the camera and says "i haven't left the porch since i got this CDRom PEOPLE version 3.0. Updated and expanded human potential at your fingertips. Its the only thing i need —got no use for the stinking gringos anymore— camera pans out and down revealing a yard strewn with shotgun-blasted bodies of young children. We see wife, face half torn off, crawling towards a pistol <shotgun blast stage left> her head disappears entirely. Old man: "human potential, the new CDRom makes wives unnecessary." cue logo: on sale now at a sanatorium near you.... + I'm going to finally send you the orgy papers this time -been fixing to get 'round to that for some time" <heavy southern drawl> don't think he's the type to do it though but i been wrong once or twice a'fore. Don't want people showing up on my lawn though that's never good. get off of my lllaaaawwwwnnnnn! <shotgun blast again, distant screaming sounds of deaths final agonies eeking out blood gurgling windpipes> Fucking Gringos! Go home in a thousand languages! + Experience as much of the human potential as possible, retain the container and forward the frog to the fun sun freaks of eastern Tibet —all is well with alkaline, and acidity is on the skids with death rooted out leaving only chicken shit shoveled scrapped and scraped like lemon lime Gatorade poured from a fuck buck of love. Stop talking to yourself —listen to the virus talk to you. All that you consider to be a accident was carefully orchestrated for your benefit by a benevolent cocksucking god from the twenty-third dimension to just plain old irritate the fuck out of you like a bad rectal itch. Stupid gringo got no cure for the ass itch i show you some pictures, yes very dirty, little girls you like?????? + <<<<<commander in chief of the NATO forces in Europe is fucking small refugee boy in the ass, the boy cries for his mother the general is laughing, your mother’s down the hall boy ,she’s busy with the president of France right now. But maybe later you’d like to lick his come off her dead face. Ban those words tear them right out snip snip. Can’t say that, its disgusting. War is a snuff film for the rich. <<<<We gotta step up the bombing chief the public’s losing innarest in us screams the chief of staff running in circles jerking off and slapping his ass until it turns a bright purple and with all seriousness General Jesse Helms pauses to reflect: I remember a time when life was good no one got in our way, why in Europe under Patton i musta raped twenty thirty little boys and a handful of nuns too. He smiles lost in memory... + But God hath given us these trying times.... + Yes it is bit hard to get cunt these days isn’t it, mumbles the chief of state as he strokes his wife’s cock....Yes dear start a war, get me some cute refugee boys, i so love snapping their necks when I'm coming, she growls affectionately. + That's it gentlemen were going to war! The president stands and ejaculates on a map of the world KOSOVO it is he says as his thick oatmeal consistency sperm all but covers the former republic of Yugoslavia. + You like? You like, no? Too bad. You can’t have those words, too strong. I get power, you give me power, I steal power from you, to expensive to buy it. I get power and you get pictures and maybe I tell you how to cure rectal itch? Eh? Eh? Eh? + +Perfection is attained not +when there is no longer anything to add, +but when there is no +longer anything to take away +-Antoine de Saint Exupery + Experiments with the death ray tape and image guns began with William Burroughs in the nineteen fifties, but was sidetracked by the advent of digital technology. The newer is not necessarily the better though folks sometimes they just have different uses —like the image gun that shot...In the beginning was the word and the word was made flesh by a cacophonous blast out of heaven's pearly cum-stained ass creating the father, the son, and the holy spigot which lies in a secluded garden on the cliffs overlooking the Sargasso sea. The spigot is buried in a volcano designed by Czech ostriches in the eleventh hour of creation to drain all human excrement off the continent of Europe and into the Sargasso sea all lumpy with turd so thick Jesus "conny" Christ in drag is walking along to the amazement of the gullible, floating gently from turd to turd. The piss blood of a million cunts and cocks line the shores giving the whole place a radioactive iridescent red glow not to mention a awful stench. Mr. Rogers and Captain Kangaroo are standing on the bluffs watching the spectacle and scanning with hawk eyes for sweet tight asses in which they can stab their hungry cocks. The father caught the son sitting in the middle of the garden sucking on an apple and he became enraged and hog tied the boy and penetrated every orifice in his body with a peeled and sculpted cucumber cock; the boy was left a whimpering, quivering lump of fleshy jello from which spawned humankind. + The piss gut rotting flesh smell, air taunt necked and jerking at the nose, the captain's eyes role back into his head as is guts are blasted out his ass by a giggling man headed tape worm of extraordinary wit who was prone to quoting Joyce and Bugs Bunny in the same sentence in a way that reminded listeners of Buster Keaton in some strange drugstore hurricane kind of a way. The skatolic odor was rich and the worm refused to bath. Owing to the peculiar nature of its origin the soldiers did not disturb the worm preferring instead to watch the captain writhe in agony pulling his legs back behind his ear to attempt to lick the matted blood soaked pubic hair over the torn orangish flesh that hung in ribbons over a large hole that had once been a simple anus. The upshot of it all was that the worm ate less rations than the captain so the men were basically satisfied with the arrangement and they followed the worm wiggling through the jungle as it did impersonations of Fred Astaire... + Blasted rot gut con-artist with ten huge molars running across the front of his mouth in a clump owing to his mother's industrial accident with the cunt acid from the hyperdrill, drilled right on through back to china. The asshole couldn't even close the damn thing and the lower mandible just kind of hung there like a tire swing. + The giggling Hyenas are dressed in black and high on amphetamines looking to turn you inside out. + Tongue-tied porn queens scream obscenities at passersby "I'll suck your dick until your eyeballs pop out your ass..." + Steady...wait til you see the whites of their eyes...Blown newspapers and advert scrapes cover the bottom three feet of a brick wall like sardines neatly packed in a kipper snack tin from a 1983 supermarket shelf....Horatio Alger's sodomizing menage-a-toi with the Maytag Man and Uncle Sam has led us to train station on the SpaceTime line where freedom is an irrelevant inconvenience of language that is slowly being fazed out of history. The i that is You speaks, I speak and the vibrations of air we create controls our every move. Science gives rise to Magic in the form of powerful papers that tell who what why and how you are to be. There are things which you can describe and things which you are not allowed to describe. And thought trickles like blood, out and on to the page bring things that can be done and things that can not be done. The word controls the game, those who write it are irrelevant the minute they put it on paper, it controls them you me the things we see the things we think, if the word isn't there first there is no reference if there is no reference there is no thing. How do you know a unicorn exists? simple it does. You can find them in stores, in books, in words on papers that tell you what it is, therefore it exists. + Uncle Sam came on the ground and left without a trace. Horatio and Maytag were emotionally tormented for years until their eventual deaths through ritualistic dismemberment. +We the people we govern you the other people have decided for reasons which are beyond the scope of this broadcast and may well be beyond the scope of your comprehension entirely that all freedoms which you previously thought you had but never in reality did possess are summarily denied from this point forward. Please report to the nearest biomedical programming center by the fourth of May where a new human program bio-unity 3.6 will be installed into your seratonin and allow for future dopemine programming without the need for physical intervention please go about your lives as you always have all those not present for the reprogramming procedures by the fourth of May will be consider fugitives of the state and will be dealt with in the harshest manner allowed by law and endorsed by the entertainment loving public... + + + Jail is bad and naturally Waiben wanted out, so he was perfectly willing to meet with his former cellmate, if that was all it would take. Besides Sil had drawn him in to interesting and most unusual conversations about the edges of science and how close they were to the fringes of magic and shamanistic traditions and methods. Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magick ...he kept saying. He seemed intent on getting some sort of confirmation and reassurance from Waiben, but Sil struck Waiben as extremely well read and without the usual pretensions of one who is in as deep as he appeared to be. Beside the ideas they discussed, Waiben senses some mystery in Sil's nonchalant attitude toward jail, you only have that attitude if you know you aren't going to be in for long. He mentioned that his employer had some friends who could get Waiben out, but refused further probing. + Waiben's hope for some sort of mystery surrounding Sil were further heightened in New Orleans by Sil's refusal to name his employer, he would just lapse back on a well developed habit of mumbling incoherently and abruptly changing the subject usually to something about the merits of anarchy. Waiben wanted to hear the words i am rich and i will pay you large sums of money to work for me to do pure research untainted by political agenda and what not. Waiben realized he was beginning to sound like some scientific utopianist and mentally slapped himself in the face. + Waiben studied Sil's face in the last rays of New Orleans sun noticing the wild sparkle that seemed the jump out of his eyes when his mind began to race and Waiben could barely keep up with the blast of ideas. But they were not incoherent rants he watched the wheels turning, half wondering whether he had actually thought this up ahead of time or if he really just talked as fast as the words formed in his head and assembled the ideas as he went. Sil appeared to be around twenty five perhaps a bit older, but his head was a jungle of hair the crawled all over his glasses and eyes obscuring them entirely at time such that he reminded the doctor of the hairy talking thingy from the Adams family. + Still Waiben was happy to be talking to someone who was as least way beyond the game circuit and seemed to possess at least a spotty grasp of particles, superstring theory and quantum inseparably. He seemed especially obsessed with frequencies and radio transmission which intrigued Waiben as his own experiments with orgone energy had seemed to be pointing in that direction. Sil was a ferocious smoker Waiben noticed —such a ridiculous drug habit he thought somewhat indifferently. + "What? I'm sorry my mind was wandering." Waiben felt momentarily awkward, but Sil seemed not to care. + "No. I'm sorry. I've never done this before." Actually such was not strictly true. Sil had carried on Cary's tradition of recruitment before he even had something to recruit them for. For a time when sill had tested the opiate waters, he had accidentally stumbled upon a certain state of mind which taught the individual certain neurologically self evident truths, but it came with a heavy dependence. The thing about heroin that never came across in the translation between junkie and non-junky was that heroin as a trip has some very interesting things to say about the nature of reality. Most people tended to miss that when contemplating the price of addiction. But addiction can be overcome Sil realized and for a time he had travelled in heroin circles preaching the gospel of Ibogaine, a drug that's specific neurological interaction made it seem as perhaps a way out. Sil reached this conclusion by becoming a heroin addict first and then seeing if he could get out. Or perhaps he just liked to leap into the darkness and hope that there would prove to be a way out. Addiction is a powerful motivator for naturally lazy people. But in time he came to realize why the government would want a sedated dependant class of citizens, in fact junkies were the ideal model citizen from governments perspective —they don't care about anything except when they can get more junk. It was a Burroughsian nightmare, and it freaked Sil out to watch it happening. Most people thought he was paranoid and dismissed him without looking closely enough to see if there was anything worth being paranoid about. Are you paranoid about your soul? No too happy to assume the party line of Materialist Consumer? When you increase the stakes of the game the game isn't a game anymore, this is why people loved conspiracies and CIA tales of intrigue, it kept the stakes limited to what could happen before death. Nobody liked to entertain the possibility that these "games might carry on over the edge and into the valley of the shadow of death. Wasn't that what the Sunday school book with the silly pictures said. What do you think were doing here? Get off of my lawn.... + "Done what?" Waiben's words were measured carefully against the swirling tornado sweeping across his cerebrum. + "Recruited anyone." + "Recruited for what?" asked Waiben feeling the squeeze of reality tunnel uncertainty. + "Perhaps invited is a better word. There is somewhere I'd like you to go with me." Sil smiled vaguely at him. He thought about a night he had spent standing in the rain trying to decide if he had died in an auto wreck two months before and everything he had been living was his minds projection into the future. He thought about his naked horror when he realized that ultimately there was no way of really being sure about anything. Any wild whim of imagination that blew into his mind might very well be true or at least it had just as good a chance of being real. He remembered the nakedness and the rain more than anything. + + Several hours later as the heat dissipates slowly back inland to the swamps and the ocean breeze brings in the gulf night, Waiben is thinking about Voodoo, Gringos and the Quantum Uncertainty principle. Waiben was beginning to fell the squeeze of uncertainty that comes with a true anarchy of senses. Oh you mean this can really happen? Or am I just thinking that its happening? Or is it happening because i think its happening? Or am I thinking that it is really happening and I'm just dreaming? Am I going to wake up one day and not remember this dream? Fuzzy logic dogs chasing each other around on a 1965 street in a East Chicago neighborhood. + Sil could be some fundamentalist nutcase trying to lead him out of the country and to his death. Religious nuts hated science more than science nuts hated religion and learning the languages of each in order to pass one's self off as a scientist or a baptist wasn't that difficult. + He sat up in bed reread the letter Sil had given him...With practice you can teach yourself to receive peoples signals or thoughts; what we want you to figure out is how to create a sub-audio broadcast that can actually be controlled and directed like an ordinary radio signal. Is telepathy an interpersonal form of radio? If it is how could it be controlled focussed and sent and received? What is true for one system (radio) should be relatively the same in another (telepathy) if only the signal amplitude is being changed. The problem I see is that even subtle changes in input can cause radical oscillations in output, we need you to chase those butterflies for us, we do not have the time to do the nuts and bolts things are moving to quickly these days and we've been forced to contract some of out programs. I will give you the details and a project summary tomorrow when I pick you up at nine please be ready to travel. Waiben thought about it for a while and fell asleep to a tunnel where television was the ultimate telepathic control signal broadcast onto an unwitting population and designed to create subtle and undetectable mind control. It was a fitful sleep. + + Sixty years earlier in a different coordinate point Dr. Waiben is inventing Color Television. It was the basis of his realization that mind control was possible, it was merely a question of finding the right tools and methods of applying the tools. He had stumbled on to the idea of television as a form of mind control about the time the first color sets were being worked around in the not yet official jet propulsion lab in California. He was just by coincidence (if you believe in such nonsensical notions) studying the orgone theories of Doctor Wilhelm Reich at the time. + Even in the nineteen thirties Reich’s theories were revolutionary to Waiben and he felt he had found someone besides himself and Korzybsky who truly understood the implications of Einstein's relativity —years before the Firesign Theater would say it, Waiben realized that everything he knew was wrong. It liberated him from the confines of Aristotelian thought which seems to imply that everything true is a continually unfolding and building upon that which came before it. The world had been turned on its ear and very few people seemed to notice. + The sentence that leaped out of Reich’s notes as Waiben stared hypnotically at the bluish glow of the first color television set was one that warned prolonged exposure to the bluish radiation of bion energy has had negative physical ramifications such as headaches, red swollen eyes, and the feeling that one had been staring at the sun for too long.... The synapse fired and Waiben began experimenting with blue light emissions to find out if they had any connection to orgone energy + In the end he found that blue wavelength radiation with prolonged exposure irritates the eyes and actually appeared to drain orgone energy out of the individual presumably by neutralizing the signal and allowing it to pass through the individual with out interacting. On an oriental map one might say that television depleted an individuals chi. This, reasoned Waiben, would make people tired from watching television. At the same time television would give a preset image map (moving pictures they called them) with stories that engaged the mind making it difficult to break away from the energy depleter. It was more addictive then heroin and because it was legally sanctioned and actively encouraged by every positive reinforcement society had to offer no one ever considered that it was a "drug." The mass of people were taught that drugs were old herbs and mischief from humanities checkered past. The idea of new drugs was not an idea that got a lot of publicity in the forties. + A sedated and apathetic culture with a very high threshold for persecution thus raised its ugly head. Waiben never mentioned his findings to anyone and merely offered to help in the perfecting of the television signal —always quietly insisting that blue light was the easiest method of signal transmission + In a dreamstate Waiben drove though the suburbs around nine o'clock and watched the eerie blue glow coming from the hundreds of thousands of houses he had addicted. + He saw television as a virus...like a virus it was benign until the right switch from the host triggered the release of the disease. Like a virus it was passed from one generation to the next, and like a virus its spread was exponentially related to the human population growth ie. more people = more infected people. The greatest side effect of television though was quite unintended by Waiben, it had radically reoriented the global mindset from isolated consumption into total slavery to consumption and fashion. Thus Waiben learned that the fastest and most effect way of controlling a large population was to make it genuinely believe that it own enslavers were in fact its heros, its gods, thus eliminating or at the very least co-opting naysayers by making them part and parcel of the disease. + As TV became more widespread even its detractors had to use the very channels of oppression as their only outlet for resistance. Much like controlling any signal path, insurrectionists and radicals were diverted by capacitors (“the media”) and squelched by resistors (“the police”). Thus the people remained happy and content with their oppression and no one was able to convince them to give up the convenience of slavery for the hardships of freedom. Would you? + It wasn't enough though; true mind control would leave the victim unable to disobey the signal or ideally, unaware that he or she were even being controlled —like Christ reborn, Waiben thinks of the old con artist sitting laughing from con artist heaven. + sub-audio messages are below the threshold of human hearing, but not that of comprehension. It is the noise of someone thinking. Listening in is just a matter of having the right receptors, psychics and clairvoyants had been doing it as circus tricks for centuries. “Think of it as inter-cellular radio” he told his colleagues who mostly ignored his fanatical rantings. universal breakdown short circuited the word and left you here naked and cold. + +familiarity breeds contempt +-William Brandon +from the Origin of Consciousness + + + The next morning, true to his word Sil picked Waiben up in a limousine and they seemed by Waiben's limited knowledge of geography, to be heading toward the airport. Sil smoked as they drove and his sunglasses combined with the black leather interior of the limousine made him appear like a typical millionaire, which only served to put Waiben that more at ease with an idea he was unsure about at least he seems to have the money.... Sil though seemed determined to make him nervous and, throwing his cigarette out the window, reached into his jacket and pulled out something that looked like a handrolled cigarette. He spoke rapidly, but with some eerie form of ordained authority...Normally i would never do this to someone, but time is speeding up and I can't bring you in properly. It is important that you know a few things...one is that what you perceive as reality is a horribly sheltered view of what is really going on in this here universe, and two, these little aliens (he handed Waiben a rolled cigarette) are going to show you the rest of it. If we had the time i would prove these points to you by showing you authoritative studies and what not, but that's really just a Bavarian Fire Drill anyway so rather than take the time to show you that for yourself I'm just telling you. Now smoke the DMT and close your eyes, everything you know is wrong anyway.... +* * * * * * +Everything after that was different. +* * * * * * + Two hours later on an airplane that Waiben only dimly remembered boarding, Sil could tell that Waiben was suffering Space Time Mind confusion. Sil left Waiben in the main compartment of the jet and disappeared with a wavering walk into the back of the plane, Waiben could hear him talking to what he assumed was the cockpit crew giving flight instructions. The plane was not unlike most government planes it had couches instead of seats and revealed to one how much room there really is on the inside on an airplane. This particular plane had a few things that Waiben doubted were government planes —an assortment of medical tools that were stored in glass cabinet near the front of the cabin and beside each of the black leather couches were a permanently attached hucas which, Waiben noticed by bumping one, were flexible at the base so as not to spill their contents during flight. The cabin also contained an impressive collection of computer hardware and curiously near the door marked COCKPIT, on a small desk was an antique typewriter with the word Underwood inscribed on the face. The walls of the jet were covered with tapestries and pillows with scenes from the Tibetan Book of The Dead and the Kama Sutra lay haphazardly in the corner the mixture of oriental and occidental gave the room a circular feeling, which was reinforced by the cylindrical walls and roof. + Actually Sil had been talking to Cary and suddenly the door to Waiben's back flung open and Sil and another man came struggling through it, laughing and carrying a giant mirror full of cocaine. “So you found our coordinate eh?” said the man in the three piece suit (Cary always dressed the occasion) laughing and pointed at Waiben. + “Yes I did.” said Waiben staring at the coke. + “Oh, pardon me how rude, would you like some cocaine, I fear this is all we have left, but help yourself.” Cary thrust a silver trade into Waiben's lap. There was an almost grapefruit sized pile of cocaine in the middle of it. It was more cocaine than Waiben had ever seen. He had so lost his bearings with reality that no further stimulation of his brain seemed necessary, “no thanks," he said handing the rather heavy platter back to Cary. + “No thanks you don’t want any or no thanks you want it but you aren’t about to do on a jet with two people you don’t know?” + Waiben suddenly felt threatening hairs on the back of his neck rise, “Second” he said staring defiantly in Cary's eyes. + “Lay off him Cary he's already trying to live at least six tunnels at once, you know how disorienting it is at first” Sil flopped down on a couch and began to load a huca with hashish, he looked at Waiben and said rather abstractly, "just remember, if it doesn't make you laugh it probably isn't real...." His voice trailed off into mumblings Waiben did not catch. + + “Just so you know Doctor, if we were going to hurt you, we would have pushed you out of the plane as soon as we were over water, so relax and do some drugs, we’ll tell you what we need you for later, right now you need us, you got the need we got the drugs so lighten up eh?” Downs had decided that since the doctor was already in a tunnel of weirdness and confusion that he might be reoriented by Cary's cankerous old southern man routine. Cary imagined his performances to be somewhat akin to hanging out with William S. Burroughs as he appears in Naked Lunch. + Waiben just sat somewhat reluctantly on the couch next to Sil who without looking handed him the end of the surgical tubing and when Waiben put it to his lips Sil lit the huca. Waiben noticed just before the hash hit him that the lighter had a picture of christ with a crown of thorns on it. This realization man him chuckle and wonder if Sil had seen his or perhaps it was his or perhaps every gas station in America has them. + "Uh oh he's gonna get the giggles," Downs said laughing himself, "here do some coke to speed up the signal processing, it frees the word." + "The word?" Waiben lowered his nose to the powdered sugar-like line. He smiled to himself and snorted a heroic amount of cocaine into his nose. Unfortunately he failed to take into account the fact that he was pressurized to an altitude of fourteen thousand feet and his only previous experience of it had been at sea level. Sil reached over and stuck a tube in front of his open mouth and he sucked almost involuntarily. The smoke was not hash, it was more DMT. The last thought Waiben remembered having was: "oh wow, this is going to be very interesting...." + broadband signal strength test market for better higher climbable mountains:”:”:”::”:”:”:”:”:”:”>>>>>>>>>wicked evil sentiments have been exercised and all words and virus contained>>>>>>government works like this more or less:>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> transmission broadcast’s proposals for your demise. incomplete and ill planned. the joint chiefs of staff would be happy to coordinate efforts for a small fee. Step into the circular electric room walls dance with pulsating warbled beams of light. The general is a continually shifting and transforming creature that alternates between waving a pointer, panging a podium and crooning a Frank Sinatra voice "it was a very good year/ for small town girls...."Do pictures have a language? static. message garbled. transmission lost. + + Waiben surveys his hotel room with its view overlooking the Buenos Aries airport he stares at their plane off to the right of the terminal just barely visible from where he is. Well so this is South America. Huh. The room is mid-grade not nice, but so far free of roaches which when flying over the city on their approach seemed quite an unlikely possibility. Waiben lies down on the bed, lights a cigarette, and turns on the television. Spanish broadcast MTV. He rolls on his side reaching into his bag and extracting a vial of DMT, do whatever you want tonight they had said just be sober by six in the morning. He pours the white powder into a glass pipe feeling a bit like a crack whore the taste is reminiscent of cock, that soothing human injecting quality...the world game stopped the truth game stopped and finally in less than thirty seconds the Waiben game stopped what happened after that is a matter of some speculation, but he was pretty sure that he hadn't really talked to an ostrich that explained to him the future and his role in something called Freeport. Sil and Cary were in the next room listening to Waiben on a short wave system they had set up prior to giving Waiben a key. + "He's going to see them I know it," Sil found himself saying. + "I don't understand why you think this doctor is so useful, I already have scientists that are further along in his field that he is." Downs didn't like Waiben he sensed something familiar about him as if everything he was capable of he had already done once before with disastrous results and Downs had spent enough time messing with the fabric of reality to know that his brain knew a lot more than it would let him see all at once. A sufi story came back to him...a man walks into a store and says to the shop keeper have you seen me before? The shopkeeper says no and the man says then how do you know it is me? + Sil is insistent on Waiben's necessity and even when Cary raises the control game issues Sil does not back down, "that's why I gave him the hallucinogens because it rids you of the ego, he doesn't know who he is right now, he thinks he invented color television. Relax." Sil smoked a little DMT himself and tuned his shortwave radio to static. This helped to establish in his mind a kind of rhythm and seemed to link the drug to the static, if only in his mind. Pictures are a language he is thinking. + + + +I do not believe that the world +is made of quarks or electromagnetic waves, +or stars, or planets, or any of these things. +I believe the world is made of language. +-Terence McKenna + + Madison Avenue is a faceless row of buildings filled with thousands of advertising agents, it is an entity in Abstraction. Abstraction is the legal basis for the sanctity of the state, and it is a wholly binary system. Its language is binary coding form the conceptual level down to vast systems of information stored in computer cuneiform. It was to put it mildly the last place one would look for spiritual insight. But Sil Hawkard was not bounded by the archetypal mythologies of his culture. In any age and any culture the shaman is the the oddball who is separate from the cultural images of the human experience. The non-shaman citizen is in constant conflict between expectation of habit and the nagging guilt of novelty or rather the lack of novelty. The shaman is merely one who has allowed the self to take over the citizen in such a way that behavior and even brainwave patterns are altered. And it is for this reason that the shaman is exiled to the edge of the village, because tampering with the fabric of consensus reality is dangerous to its continued existence never call anything up that you can not put back down. + The most common method of achieving such a feat over the years has been chemical mind manipulation. Sil's fascination with mind manipulation did not began with drugs though, it began much earlier in a high school biology class where he realized the simple truth that the brain is a continuously changing chemical reaction. The nuero circuitry of the brain is like the inner workings of a computer, of course it is infinitely more complex, but the computer is still a useful metaphor. Eventually through his use of drugs he came to realize that even chemical maps are in fact a rather poor guide to what the hell is really going on. If you see something you have never seen before, you want to tell about it you want to talk about it you want to describe it. You are tempted to say it resembled a woman but was nothing like a woman. The first thing you need to move on from the temporal reality that most people cling to is a new language. + It was this reason that had led Sil to Madison avenue because even if their goals were slightly less benign than Sil's own they nevertheless possessed a wealth of data on manipulations of language. They had managed to create a universe in which people were convinced they needed everything they didn't have. This was a powerful tool of magic and while Sil wasn't entirely sure if they were even aware of what they were doing they were undeniably doing it. Manipulating language is one of the shaman's starting tools, kind of a chip flint arrow in the bigger picture, but technology builds on itself —if you can't chip an arrow head you can't split an atom. So he arranged to have one hundred televisions brought to Buenos Aries and tuned to different stations in all kinds of languages and he began the immense task of taping, editing, and splicing Madison Avenue's commercial language. + It was for this reason Sil wanted to bring Waiben to Buenos Aries and now as Waiben sat in the chair staring around the room at the overwhelming sensory input potential of one hundred televisions in one room he felt overwhelmed and not up to the task. He had at his disposal a team of over two hundred electronics experts, but he had the annoy task of looking for something without knowing what it was. Downs and Hawkard had left him a copious amount of DMT, mushrooms, peyote, cocaine, and hashish to help him along. Sil recommended hash and cocaine together as the best decoding agent for the Madison magicians as he had taken to calling them. His proposal came after a week of drugs and sex which Waiben had enjoyed and felt for the first time really truly free and alive. Sex is as good as the body gets Downs had said, but now he had years worth of work staring him in the face. I know you want to find the face behind the mask behind the face behind the mask behind the face behind the mask... Sil had chanted as he left. The most curious event of the week was the time when Sil had been teaching Waiben how to use mantras and hash as tools in meditation. Waiben realized after selecting a mantra from an astrology book in Downs' apartment, that Sil was chanting I can't believe its not butter, I can't believe its not butter I can't believe its not butter.... + Sil and Downs returned to the oil derrick city while the good doctor spent the better part of the day in an oxygen pure environment subjecting himself the recuperative acupuncture therapy on his muscles which were stimulated one by one with needle pricks while an orgone generator hummed steadily in the corner. The pre-programmed alpha waves stimulated his body's brain functions that were healing in nature and as the experiment went on, electrographs of brain activity mapped the centers stimulated and was compared with the frequency emitted until each frequency had its effects defined and clearly mapped. In another room one of his researchers was having similar electro- stimulation through flicker television screens recorded and the alpha waves would be compared to Waiben's and others. + Chemical stimulation of the brain acts at different frequencies than orgone so Waiben entered into a tunnel of reality where the healer believed that orgone would rejuvenate the body and help it recover from the destructive side effects of the drugs. Simultaneously doing research and healing appealed to the self centered side of Waiben. Waiben was not a regular user of drugs and thus prone to over-enthusiasm from the get go —Downs had cautioned him about the difference between want and need and how thin and blurry the line could get. No one said the doors to the chapel perilous wouldn't be guarded. Addiction is the first to rear its ugly head the word is obliterated by the need. need is driven by re -action rather than action. The first rule of anarchy is to never react. Re-action is a non event, it doesn't exist in reality and its futility is readily apparent to anyone who ceases to do it. The human brain is taught to feel a certain sensation and because evolution was soooo effective the brain learns to adjust to fit the new reality —making it real. Thus it reacts to the stimuli by negating its effects and like the man in the floppy hat said it never got weird enough for me. + avoiding addiction is no easy task —you're up against over ten thousand years of terrestrial survival instincts; shedding them is the damnedest thing like the Kimono dragons continually picking at the dead flesh that refuses to leave the beast that it was once a part of. Waiben felt up to the task on many levels, but he had made a mental note to not have any opiates around because after all a man has to know his limitations. + + + + +reality is a narrow +definition of existence +-Sil Hawkard from The Rubber Octopus + + + +one year and six thousand miles northeast Sil sits in his room of Tunisia smoking hash and reading a letter from the doctor that said: + +observations on the Madison Avenue language/image institution: + The rigid censorship guidelines for language that may or may not be used by broadcast media is the first thing that one notices when evaluating the Madison language manipulation. What you don't hear is more obvious than what you do hear. This arbitrary crystalline definition between what is accepted as language and what is peripheral gives added power to the absent words given there selective nature. The power is largely meaningless but the precision of its delineation tends to suggest that those making the choices do indeed have power. At this point there power is largely exercised in the form of fines although who continue to push usually fade out of the picture. The restriction of language, even of a few simple words like sexually oriented words, gives the controller power over the sender who is dependant on the controllers approval prior to broadcast. The censorship itself is not so strong as to limit image rather disrupt the free flow of ideas without raising the suspicions of the majority who, it is important to remember can ultimately disrupt the delicate balance. + image control of broadcast media is much more sexually oriented than language. they don't let them them see sex in realtime, they let them see violence in realtime, but never ever the actual sex act. It is endlessly mentioned and alluded to but never shown. This seems to create a message of sex being more powerful than death, which in the ordinary magical arts is not necessarily true. The lack of sex images is complicated. By depriving them of biotic need creates a tension and stress and without equilibrium, power can never be achieved. But it also creates a subculture, those who enjoy the nudity so much that they are willing to go out and buy it on the free market. This can never be stopped, therefore it is best to marginalize this subculture through city zoning laws and force them into the “bad parts” of town. By moving them to the side they become ineffectual during rebellion because the dominate culture knows that no matter how bad the current situation may be they sure as hell don’t want some “porn watching trash monger” in charge. + The human consciousness is latent with sexuality. Not hetero or homo, but simply sexuality, however in wordimage track television it is almost exclusively heterosexual mythology —conditioning the brain into a binary system of either/or hetero/homo, one disrupts the normal circuitry of the brain creating mono memes (see footnote).1 Mono memes lead to repression and non-symmetrical personality types. Signal processing in these brain patterns is much more open to autosuggestion —research continues in this field. + 3.Language manipulation: When attempting autosuggestion it is worth bearing in mind the KISS principle of which I believe Madison Avenue is acutely aware. The so-called “sound bite” is simple and enables you to plant marginalizing catch phrases in the mind of general public It also leaves room to constantly create and update the marginalization. In addition, by providing easy to recall words and phrases that simplify and therefore make meaningless complicated patterns and repetitions you create a tendency to narrow brainwave activities. Examples: Nigger, Nazi, Lesbo bitch, rock’n’roll, just a junky, anything with monger at the end of it, etc. It is also worth noting that Madison employs what shamans and priests have known for centuries the rhythm of the words is as important as the meaning which is why jingles were so popular for so long. Repeated exposure, however, creates an irritability so I think there would have to be ceremonial in quality; as in a concert, but thus far the government news broadcasts have not employed such a technique (perhaps it is too obvious) + I could not (through the nature of the medium) tell if any sort of orgone generator type of energy was being used, but such a device requires a symbol transfer system which in my opinion has not been toyed with yet although I believe that it might be with further research. I also plan to look more into the blue light synchronicity between Orgone and the neutral background of television. One of the technicians here has a tunnel in which the connection is real and the destruction of Reich's research a typical sloppy government cover-up to conceal what they were doing...you get the idea. It is a tunnel that I have yet to explore. + +personal notes: television (and here i mean all television because all television is advertising) seems to be primarily a means of defining language and image. It presents polarities so often and with such a remarkable sense of irony (unintended?) that it seems to be telling us what the limits are. "The news" often plays the most violent stories back to back with the most heartwarming ones, obstinately to not depress the viewer but it has rather the opposite effect of creating a constant tension in the viewer causing one have an inevitable sense of doom in every situation of pleasure. This helps to instill a sense of control over behavior, however this is not something that can be clinically evaluated it is just instinct. Ordinarily I would disregard the rather direct nature of the causality, but because especially America in some very real sense allows its fabric of reality to be held together by television I think that some sort of synchronic behavior patterns could be instilled through the airwaves. The Question of intelligent origins I still have no opinion on —I think that the fastest way to determine such a direct causality would be to deliberately try it and judge the results. Thank you for your continued support and be advised that I am returning to the united states under the name Chase Hollister. + + New Orleans: the bus is gone leaving a surly crowd of Mexicans behind coming to work in restaurants they can’t afford to eat in. Down the street tourists buy overpriced and ugly looking wood carvings because the sign on the shop says Voodoo and they want funky stuff so their relatives back home will find them more authentic —as if reality were not a fabric tearing down the middle. Sil Hawkard is sitting at his favorite stateside tavern waiting for the arrival of Dr. Waiben whom he is beginning to suspect may in fact be turning out as Downs had said —be careful what you wish for. Waiben was making Sil wait and Sil new it, Waiben was letting him know that one can not escape the control circuit if one is going to attempt to live in the fabric. Of course Sil knew he would have a well thought out and logical excuse, not to would have been Sil's style; he knew the game circuit and he knew the games and he never bothered to play. Sil was excited by the prospect of what he might be getting in terms of research from Waiben, but he was also logically paranoid and knew human behavior so he developed the possibility that Waiben might be giving him a strange loop of disinformation. As a precaution Downs had insisted he take entourage who were now spread around New Orleans waiting for his signal and amusing themselves at the same time. + Sil saw Waiben outside as he rounded the corner and Sil ducked into the restroom—two paranoids meeting is always a contest of wills and never simple. First the feelers—Waiben headed straight into the bathroom and started to pee in the urinal, Sil stepped noiselessly out of the stall next to him and gently eased a gun behind his ear, “Doctor Livingston I presume?” + Waiben was visibly shaken, but tried his best to hide it, he smiled “Sil your paranoia is unfounded, occasionally troubling, but always amusing. Sil paused for a moment unsure if Waiben’s lips had even moved. + "Don’t pull telepathy games with me Waiben, it's irritating. Half the time all i get is gibberish, just save it until you know what your doing, okay?” His tone was deliberately condescending and he said it with out moving his lips and looking straight into Waiben's eyes + “That wasn’t telepathy is was sub vocal speech, but okay we’ll just talk, can i get you a drink?” Waiben looked a touch surprised, but Sil couldn't tell if it was genuine. + + Dr Waiben had arrived in New Orleans after a short lecture stop in Los Angeles, California where he had experimented with speaking in tongues. The central nervous system is much like a radio antenna and Waiben was obsessed with finding a powerful enough signal to reach everyone at once. The tongues method appeared, from the LA experiment anyway, to be strong enough only if you knew how to pick it up. Much like his experiments with television, it required the listener to make a conscious effort to tune it in, which meant that it could be tuned out just as easily. + SpaceTime events collide. Words bounce out uncontrollably and with no respect whatsoever for the recognized conventions of English grammar and proper method of coherent speech. Pick up your marshmallows and walk -Christ is drunk and babbling in the streets of Bethlehem, Mohammed heaves him over his shoulder and carries him to a remote cave in the Gobi desert where they make sweet love under the waning stars of eternity like Calvin Klein and Gorgio Armani before the great clothing wars of the late 1990's. + + Sil sits down with Waiben and starts to tell a story, but thinks better of it and simply studies Waiben's face for a minute. "Cary has a brain tumor and he is going to die within a month." he said suddenly. "Everything is being turned over to me on the condition that I withdraw all support and contact from you and your research facility, but I have not agreed to it yet. I came here to ask you if the rumors are true." + For the first time Waiben genuinely felt spacetimemind curving and he saw Sil Hawkard fade and crumble as if he had actually been made up of millions of tiny ants. + The assistant beside him watches horrified as the virus pushes in bubbling crispy blisters against the outer skin of the boy's cock. The cock begins to move as if independent of the boy, it twists and turns in ways that one would not expect a cock to be able to move. It seems propelled about by the force of the popping skin blisters. The skin is searing and the acrid smell of burnt flesh permeates the air, a faint trail of delicate whispy smoke emits from the top like effervescent semen. His cock continues to dance about as if possessed by a viral cobra, the skin is disfigured and slides off in sheets that look like red black strips of chicken skin. The blisters are popped like a burnt hot dog, the vein on the underside splits open and oozes out a hideous trail of ochre liquid that snags in the boys pubic hair and trickles down his ass. + The virus begins to organize itself into more complex structures as though it were leaping up the evolutionary ladder right before the good Doctor's eyes. The boy screams in pain and terror as the blisters begin to form on his chest. + "By God i think its going to his brain, its ten minutes old and its evolved from a virus to a sentient creature capable of locating the vital organs of its host and destroying it. Waiben is momentarily shocked, the assistant retreats to the observation room for fear its growth rate might be too exponential and drags Waiben by the arm. Behind the antiseptically clean glass they continue to observe the beast as it burrows through the boys body, and then suddenly it stops and the monitoring devise on the boy falls silent. It dies with the host, how tragically effective, thought Waiben. + "What we need to do is tamper with its genes so that it doesn't die with the host -a virus that evolves in to a completely independent creature in an evolutionary span of two or three minutes..." Waiben's assistant Dr Kellinger's mind is racing ten ton truck-like around the viscus fluids of his skull and two years away a phone is already ringing. + "Did you hear that?" Waiben asks suspiciously as his spacetime point begins to warp forward. + Kellinger stops mid sentence. "Hear what?" + "The phone, I thought I hear the phone?" + "Are you okay? + "Yes, why?" + "You're the one who had the phones down hear removed two weeks ago because you said they were distracting you from this project and now you're still hearing them ring? You might want to lay off the cocaine for a little while Doctor." + "It not habit forming." + "All elements of mind control are habit forming —you of all people ought to know that." + Fragments of ash are falling. Government radio broadcasts interrupt still air to create wavelengths...my god thinks Waiben its working on me He grabs a cattle prod and heads out of the room. + Somewhere a man shoot a monkey and blows off its balls. The monkey laughs obnoxiously as the cells reconstruct themselves and a new set of balls rapidly grows in place of the old ones, he advances menacingly on the man who now realizes his error and begins to flee. Always subjugate reality. + + Waiben burst out laughing and took an exaggerated sip of scotch, "you're the one who tried so hard to get me to believe that nothing is true...are you afraid to live your own reality?" + Sil stared at Waiben for a bit and got up silently and walked to the bathroom again he smoked DMT and sat on the toilet seat and braced himself. Fragments of Ash falling. White washed ceilings hanging so ominous Hallucination of bubble-headed figures crawling like the Mitchelin Man across an indescribable mountain of tires +Motels Motels Motels Whiskey Bourbon. Tow truck non-ordinary state of reality precludes a state of reality that something is real Point at the autistic manwomanchild Autistic man pointing at you laughing unable to fathom how your brain functions and quite self righteously you you cling to its definitions. Must delineate between abnormality and those of us who Understand The Human Virus breeding like rats unconsciously conscious and aware of our disorganization. Gas Station Cold Fusion dreams of the Anarchist are breeding in the minds of the oil men who don’t want to loose their stranglehold of reality.Fragments of Ash falling the continual settling of dust weighing down humanity and the French Maid masturbates discreetly in the next room. You need her to keep the dust off your mortal coil spring.Rebirth mythology.Mythology of reality. We must distinguish between what will be defined as sane and what shall be referred to as insanity. Kevlar definitions constructed to make a better shampoo seem like a logical item on which to squander your paperbacked slavery bills.After all these years Tide still +gets your socks whiter Its a wonder that they aren’t transparent by now.that your brain retarded in its development that evolution had not anticipated the advent of the opposable thumb the unopposable domination of the thumb leading to and insect superiority of mating rituals stolen from a textbook on damselflies darning needles sewing shut your lips, mind atrophy. Weber's White Race Enriched for Superiority Scorched earth campaigns raining Ash. Shit from the sky. Tax man came for your baby in exchange for unpaid balance. You understand. Nothing Personal Just doing our job. Same as the next guy. From Auzwich on down the line. Didn’t make the rules. Sorry. We perfected them.There are no innocents in a world of free will. You don’t have to survive at the expense of others. You could die with puncture wounds in your hands and others would create a new mythology strange irony would find another with holes in his hands unwilling to accept cockroach mentalities.You want to beLIEve Hitler was a madman but he lives on in quiet cafes centralsouthamerica not so free not all the communists have been shot yet Your mistook misunderstood missed the lesson in the situation that unfolded Dr. of dialectic excuses you want to beLIEve Hitler was a madman Hitler killed everybody's body only taking orders you understand just doing my job from Independence on down the line. It was a sad money grubbing hunter gather up his children and thank his gods they are his and he their god behold I have come to tell you that everything you know is wrong stop doing your job it is not yours see Hitler in your mind you want him dead but he's not he lives on buried under restraint in everyone's mind.Only taking orders you understand. Didn’t have a CHOICE. Got a family to feed. radio crackle. pop. hiss. silence. + + “Alright, so what are you going to do?” Waiben asked as he came back. + "I will not sell you out to the State like Cary wants me to do, but you will never see me again." Sil walked out of the bar and got in a waiting car. + + Anything everything like a hurricane blowing bits of ash in from mountainous eruptions. Sil is sitting at a table, coat turned collar up and looking like a grainy photograph, harsh contrasts under a sterile florescent bulbs, mad-smoking a half lit cigarette. Old Cary Downs is inside, diffidence hangs like a fern in the corner to liven the place up and remind freshly wed virgins that drinking the seed is a gift of God. God who rots like a gaslamp whore waiting to get back what life owed him. Sil lays down the napkin he was blowing his nose in and gets up to leave. + Sil remembers a peculiar buzzing sound rang near the edge of his ears, a sound not unlike what a bear must hear with its head stuck inside a hollow log with hornets nest buzzing at the other end and echoing up the length. The sound began to organize itself at first into random pulses and thumps until a pattern emerged and Sil saw the rhythmic pounding of African drummers crouched by the fire and Aztec dancers whirled like calavera dolls blowing in the wind swept rafters of a Mexican village and far off, back in the shadows a thousand villagers chanted a harsh wilderness voice that carried up into his consciousness and spoke: + Behold we are ants. Tonight we appear to you as a headless horseman suit driven by a midget who smokes cinnamon sticks and who before this is over will likely find sexually desirable in the same way those lechers looked at Snow White when she would bend over the stove. Only Kiki can save you, but that is irrelevant for now. As we said we are ants and our purpose is singular. Attachment is a pattern and in runs through you. Beware of the singularity of Time and consult often the wisdom of the last carrier pigeon. She waits like a pregnant woman ready to burst forth with impenetrable mysteries. Might well be the key to the universe handed by a pervertial passageway of dreams. + Cary died two days later and Sil flew to an island he had only recently found on the map. An island where sad tropic storms made one want to just sit on the porch in a bambo chair and stare at nothing for hours. Sil was sad about Cary, but primarily he suddenly felt the full weight of his own life on his shoulders —everyone in Tunisia was waiting to see what he would do. He had taken the manufacturing codes for the production of the hashish and marijuana using carbon as a carrier and sold it for seven million dollars which he then parlayed into the stocks of the companies using a false corporation and funnelled the money into an e-cash account in the Caribbean. Sil was financially poised to build an international empire and without word he left the derrick taking cary's jet and most of his information research code machinery. As far as anyone on the rig knew he just disappeared they heard odd stories like one that an old man had approached him on the beach and converted him to Christianity. One person did show up at the rig in Tunisia though: the doctor will see you now. + + The encroaching millennia had several side effects which most people in the state had not anticipated, every society has its periodic upheavals and tumult but every society is different in what the upheaval is about. No one expected the fucking in the streets routine to really happen, but it did or at least it had for a while —it was dying off now some of the old purist religious types where beginning to crawl out of their bomb shelters to realize that the world had indeed gone mad just not violently mad. Instead sex evolved. It made sense to Waiben, after all the continuation of the species was more or less assured by DNA, why not have some fun, Waiben had developed a perverse sense of humor in Buenos Aries. and had begun investigating ways of deliberately controlling the mind. scenes from the laboratory play on tape loops in the new Smithsonian. Do what ever you want just make sure he's in pain the whole time. I want his brain to remain in shock and agony for as long as it can before it turns itself off completely. Waiben was working on a theory of ego destruction —what happens to the mind if there is no ego? So far his experiment with television had been a disaster the only thing resembling a result was one freakish accident in which a Wichita cop, after 189 hours of uninterrupted signal, had blasted his own eyeballs out of his head and sent a strange grey ooze that had once been a brain flying across the room plastering on the wall like abstract art . Then the unexplainable part his assistants puzzled over: projectile vomit squirted unrecognizable organ goo onto the television screen, when they wiped the ooze off the screen the television had short circuited itself and was spitting out random numbers for ten minutes or so and then at the bottom it scrolled out slowly and deliberately drwaibenlovesyou. + As a half joke half experiment (founded one Sil's premise if it isn't funny it probably won't work) Waiben had begun buying up control of broadcasting stations around the world and in writing his own autosuggestion programs that everyone should get naked when the zeros came. It worked. Old friends who hadn't met in years would run down the street toward each other and instead of just hugging, they would fuck. At first it had been a bit odd, but as more of the herd joined in it became more acceptable. It did lead to many people who sort of slunk around in the shadows desperately trying to avoid running into a third grade teacher named Mrs. Fendleskin or other, who chased them nightly in their dreams. She was archetypical three hundred pounds overweight and yet somehow able to keep up with him chasing after him screaming you were such a bright boy. Think of all I did for you, come give Mrs. Fendleskin a little fuck! Invariably people woke up drenched in sweat and nervously double checking their underwear for dried cum. That's the problem with unlocking the unconscious, its libido often runs directly contrary to that of the conscious. Time and Space are illusions created to fill a void, the one crack religion didn't quite reach —the gap between us. + Broadcast directives: Dr. Livingston i presume with your melting walls and Anne Clarke, saturated drug-induced sixties peace movement. Have you any idea what silliness peace inspires? We don’t need peace on earth we need to get the fuck off of earth; the space ship planet home evolution mythology is tired and worn. The cunt earth mother mythology is weary-eyed and thoroughly sick of our presence. Where is it writ that homo sapiens ought to remain forever a terrestrial stupid creature fighting over gold and oil and dooming itself to species-cide? Have you no sense of the inevitable; conceiving only of that which you know is possible? Is your terrestrial stupidity a symptom of the oxygen saturated environment that spawned you? Get rid of addiction, get rid of heroin, get rid of oxygen. Evolve. Survival of the fittest —you hear these words and think only of brawn and strength and lions ripping zebras to shreds. Fools! all of you. Survival depends on thought and intelligence we step of the food chain dilemma thousands of year ago, now its time to step off the planet all together we no longer need it. + Bless your lucky soul that you were born in the day and age when cessation of planetary constraints is possible. Don’t give me your morals, your religions, your beliefs —you can’t even justify your existence without them. Something can not be the source and justification of the source even the cave man Thak standing next to the first wheel must have seen the stupidity in these circular arguments. <sound of a woman whining Thak! Thak! get in here and take out the garbage>>><<<hear Thak's internal wheels turning conceiving of gunpowder shotgun blasted cunts to high hell!>>>>> Have we passed the zero hour? Were we all sad eyed asleep at the wheel worried about our individual emotional experiences and missing the collective consciousness required to assemble a planetary brain collective capable of solving the hard realities of prevention. Prevention of leaving. Don’t go you may die. Don’t stay you will die. No we were not sad eyed asleep, you were sad eyed asleep and missed the boat but we know. + Assemble in the presence of god and know that i am peace. i am iam iam and i know why. Sorry can’t tell i am enjoying my intellectual, emotional and physical superiority because i have kicked the carbon death loop and caught the virus and decoded it for you, but I'm holding out on you waiting until you can grasp the fundamentals. Einstein died almost fifty years ago and you are still fifty years behind him. Let go of Newton let go of Aristotle and embrace a reality that is forever “plural and mutable,” realize that belief is a misconception, a temporary insanity which leads the human mind to mistakenly assume that it is capable of processing all signals. Like a radio you can only be tuned to one station at a time some of you might manage two or three at best —there are billions of signals incoming at all times. Some are visual, some are auditory, some are beyond normal comprehension, and some like neutrinos are so small they can pass through the molecular spaces in your body. So by default you can not receive all the information and without all information all belief is stupid foolish games of semantics and power. + + Boards and syndicates of the earth did not take kindly to Dr. Waiben's reprogramming of the human computer and an all out cultural war started in 2001 with Waiben attempting to superimpose his own indoctrination over that of the Ind. INC mind control game, or as he had renamed it: the U. S. A., Unconditioned & Systematic Autosuggestion state. The boards fought with conventional weapons and propaganda; Waiben used nonviolence (which endeared him to the people) and nanotechnology. This last piece of technology forced the boards and syndicates to move ahead with their time table and institute operation TOTAL CONTROL. + >>>>>>>>these are trying times my fellow countrymen with a heavy hand ahem heart it was that i signed into law the seizure of private property and confiscation of all land into the hands of state>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<we caution you against overreaction as these measures are necessary and temporary so all resistance will be dealt with in the interest of time and efficiency,,,,,,,,,,>>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<<Your will be receiving a vaccination pill sent out to all persons using the IRS databanks to select names you are instructed to take the pill and remain indoors until the virus alert sirens have blown for a second time. <<<<<<we appreciate your understanding and trust that you will realize that this is time where it is decided whether democracies will work in the post modern future>>>>we believe that we will send a message to the dictators of the world that democracy is inevitable and necessary to preserve the way of life we hold dear>>>>>>we will take your cooperation and compliance as a show of faith in the leaders you have elected to make decisions for you>>>>>>>> + Waiben knew that the so called vaccination pill contained a nanochip encoded with in a neutral virus which in humans found its way into the brain where it remained without harming the host, accept that this one had its own computer circuitry etched onto its molecular structure which would cause it to mutate and release a chemical agent that caused the chemical makeup of the host brain to switch and tune, so to speak, down to a longer alpha wavelength. At this wavelength the human brain processes at lower signal reception and in behavioral science experiments it had showed a tendency to be more open to auto-suggestion. No stumbling over lines, the computer chip in you brain has precision craftsmanship unequalled in its uncompromising quality. No expense has been spared in the programming of your life. And then there is me I am special screams your useless ego. + Crumple up the word and throw it into the sewer drain hope that someday a big bloated alligator will choke to death on words. + + + + +the legend of the toothless woman chased down the street with giant plastic candy cane saying you're gonna like it in your ass!!!!!! + + + + So the board goes apeshit right off the bat, they got this whole thing brewing in the Mediterranean —insurrection, that's why i work alone —trust nobody in the carbon death loop —burn you right up for sure. Work alone, should be the number one rule, never shoulda gone to Waiben in the first place. + Anyway the board’s got a problem down in the Med —sensitive area you know lost word truths hanging around <they think> You know —the Egyptians, Cleopatra and her goddamn cats (I hate ‘em I hate ‘em I hate ‘em), the Roman gods— so they say to Waiben write it all up make it realunreel it all back so we know how to play it. + You familiar with the fictionhistory principle right? Well, so Waiben writes the whole thing up and sticks it right at the beginning thinking they’ll miss it —they’re ugly and they’re scared, but they’re not blind. + So the best update I can give you is that Chicago got the Neutron bomb <just buildings and viruses now> Europe's in civil war and “ethnic strife” <always has been stupid fucking cave dwellers> New York’s a shit hole on account of the Antarctic ice shelf heating up and dropping off <swallowed the whole goddamn city mosta L.A. too> Geiger counter at ten thousand feet told me to stay away from China <goddamn mess it is, which really isn’t good on account of the battle plans coming outta Tibet, only decent maps you can find these days> so I hightailed it here to see you. + The Old Man smiled and lit a cigarette looking thing that smelled of hash and cow shit <powdered mushroom brew from the brujo con artist at a time like this?> + “There is no future and no past Sil, you know that” —the three dollar principle. + Cary hands the twiggy cigarette looking smoke to Sil who takes a hit and watches the old man pick his nose aggressively. Sil starts to laugh, but controls himself. The Old Man pulls an earwig the size of a human thumb out of his nose and puts it in his mouth. He grabs the cigarette and takes another drag, he leans forward and kisses Sil blowing smoke into his lungs and the earwig down his throat. Sil tries to gag, and recoils in horror. + “That’ll keep the flesh eaters offa ya,” The Old Man drawls, “Whatever Waiben wrote sure as hell did make them mad, and the smoke will take your mind of the time coordinates, you’re gonna need all your energy focusing on the other three circuits —I'm going to see the ostriches....” + + + + +like to live in reality tunnel where everything is not fiction. where things actually happen far off like spice trade boats Chinese junkets pulling into Siapan out of south sea storms. Opulent opium pictographs of women spread delicate violent flesh orgies across the room, scenes from Arabian Knights He wrote a letter to the governments of the world: + + +A general Theory of Anarchy or more simply MINDFUCK + Most people when they hear the term anarchy associate it with the popular mythology of a chaos-like state with no government where murderers run naked through the street fucking helpless women and doing blizzards of drugs. This apocalyptic vision is childish at best. I do not propose to herein give a true or accurate version of anarchy or how it would work in the current sociological setting. Indeed the central message I hope to convey is that political anarchy is the least of my concerns. I only know what is in my head. If yours is different then you are wrong. At least from my point of view. + Anarchy, like life itself is infinitely more complicated than simple political gaming, left wing right wing, the whole concept of a binary system is illogical. The problem with the west in general is that it makes dichotomies out of what is really just a grey cloudy lump of shit, so to speak. What i mean by that statement is that nothing is reducible to being either/or, belief itself is multidimensional. That is to say that to hold a belief is to filter information through an infinitely complex system and into the brain where the information is organized further and through electro-chemical response conditioning, an opinion or patterned is formed. When the brain is again confronted with a similar question the response path of the original is duplicated. + Doesn't ever strike you that this is not life. This is robotic. In light of something that is infinitely complex many philosophers, politicians and other freaks of nature have chosen to assume a starting point from which it can be safely assumed that everyone is at least in agreement of basic "facts." But as mathematics show, these facts are subjective at best and nonexistent for all practical purposes. Everything is in our heads, everything that occurs around us occurs in our grey matter which is to say that everything is an internal experience of the individual rather than an external event happening to the individual. Thus the anarchists starting point is simultaneously everywhere and nowhere much like the timespace experience itself. At this point you can decide what is real and what is not. + This does not mean that fairies exist and men can walk through walls and everything coming into the bus is real at all rather that it can be real, because what most call real is only a generalized hallucination. See what you want to see be who you want to be. If it doesn't matter why not be what makes you happy healthy and mindful of your self rather than butting into the business of everyone else. Laws are the result of psychosis. Only the mentally unbalanced would impose a limitation upon itself. You enjoy this metaphor when it matches up the moral code generally accepted, but when it is applied to everything it suddenly creates distress and psychosis. Psychosis is characterized by delusions and disorientation which you again like as a definition when it is applied to those areas of life in which you deem it to be appropriate —for instance people holding non-binary processing patterns (loonies, bums, the elderly)— in this you are comfortable, but if the definition is expanded to include everything this causes the delusional to see that everything is delusional. this in turn leads to semantic confusion —if nothing is real then what matters? What is matter? A forth dimensional manifestation of energy? What are we? A forth dimensional manifestation of energy. + Anarchy is not a threat to political institutions, life is a threat to political institutions. Why punish behavior that is differential from your own? try it you might like it. If you want to stop people from buying cars, stop building roads. if you want people to stop committing crime stop building prisons. If you want people to stop starving to death stop making them work. If you want people to stop working tell them that their are vast sources of energy capable of sustaining them and tell them that these sourses can be tapped in space. Tell them the coca cola thing Burroughs was always nagging you about. Tell them what you did. Tell them the game, because it is nearly up the semantic game has been played out and they can see it smell it touch it and taste it. They fantasize about it in Utopian novels and movies they fret over it too because they don't know if you've been there first, they don't know if its safe. But eventually they're going to come over anyway. And you know as well as i do that control is as pointless as the rest of it in the end because oddly the poets were always right. We are only human, meaning that when we are beyond that in thought the game playing falls apart —some see demons some see little green men, and you know what those signs mean. the end is near. The bucket is coming down the well. And once you are in it none of the concerns of the water have meaning. + I, as some many before me only wish to thank you for your trauma because without it i never would have been forced to think beyond spacetime, and into spacetimemind. I, also like many before, do hereby with a bow, resign. + +Sincerely, +SpaceTimeMind coordinate: Sil Hawkard + + + + Most, including the president, who received the letter thought it the suicide note of a man whom records showed had always led a quiet and unobtrusive life. One of the few would might have understood it was Dr.Waiben, but he never got a copy. + + + +A ford Econoline blasts headlight beams through a cold Tennessee mist. Clouded sky obscured like Man Ray. Inside Maya is sucking oxygen and sipping Ayahuasca tea, one hand steadies the wheel —this is it, back to the big sky's, the west ,the desert the last places to hide. Enough of this goddamn smooched together states claustrophobic monosyllabic citizenry. Ignore the people they're only a temporary inconvenience of sanity. Well Well Well cigarette time don't go no where kids and remember crack is good because...<chorus of children chanting> ...it raises money for the CIA to conduct covert operations against foreign nationals that would otherwise lead meaningless and happy lives...that's right now sit tight whilst Mr. Robertson gets a fix. + She wires herself into the payphone at the back of the station and quickly sends a message it William on the west coast.....all is well in high spirits. will see you two days hence. will be last transmission. in Jasper. +And i don’t mean freedom in the abstract American idealism sort of a way, i mean an Anarchy of the senses, the obliteration of logic and “common” sense, there’s enough of that garbage around that's why its common, what we need what i need is uncommon sense. Anarchy of sense. Most people when they hear the term anarchy associate it with the popular mythology of a chaos-like state with no government where murderers run naked through the street fucking helpless women and doing blizzards of drugs. This apocalyptic vision is childish at best. I do not propose to herein give a true or accurate version of anarchy or how it would work in the current sociological setting. Indeed the central message I hope to convey is that political anarchy is the least of my concerns. I only know what is in my head. If yours is different then you are wrong. At least from my point of view. + Anarchy, like life itself is infinitely more complicated than simple political gaming, left wing right wing, the whole concept of a binary system is illogical. The problem with the west in general is that it makes dichotomies out of what is really just a grey cloudy lump of shit, so to speak. What i mean by that statement is that nothing is reducible to being either/or, belief itself is multi-dimensional. That is to say that to hold a belief is to filter information through an infinitely complex system and into the brain where the information is organized further and through electro-chemical responses, an opinion is formed. In light of something that is infinitely complex many philosophers, politicians and other freaks of nature have chosen to assume a starting point from which it can be safely assumed that everyone is at least in agreement of basic "facts." But as cutting edge physics and chaos mathematics show, these facts are subjective at best and nonexistent for all practical purposes. Everything is in our heads, everything that occurs around us occurs in our grey matter which is to say that everything is an internal experience of the individual rather than an external event happening to the individual and as poet Bernard Wolfe put it. + + Maya’s journal became her life, her drug, the thing that took over. Everyone has a thing that takes over completely —Children, jobs, heroin, art, photographs, anything that feels like genius. + + Maya sat in silence for a moment contemplating a life of crime potentially running from people who would torture her or worse with no ultimate objective. She ran it over again and weight it against the thought of eventually returning to college and meeting some guy and getting married and pregnant, and fat. “Please Chloe, get me out of the boredom of my life, physical torture is no worse then psychological torture and I’ve got enough of that already.” + “Alright lets go home, I’ll call William and see if he needs anything.” + + +I used to go out after work to drink a beer. But i don't anymore. But i likely will again. I likely will do everything i have already done all over again in slowmotion three year cycles like a film loop. This makes me feel safe. Safety makes me want to vomit on fat ladies that take up a whole bench seat on the subways up in San Francisco. When i was twenty two I rolled on a new film when I am twenty five I rolled a new film when I am Twenty eight I will roll a new film. This makes me feel safe. Safety makes me think of national geographic pictures where brown skinned natives wrap worm heads on sticks and slowly twist the stick to pull the worm from under their skin with out ripping it in half and leaving its disease riddled body under their skin.71 + Nowhere anywhere as fast as they could run leaping timespace life elfin nightmarish flashes of light. I think I saw the end as a post script obituary for the living. Its not going to be any better I can tell you that much —Dr. Waiben removed his shoes and sat back on the chair smoking a petroleum cigarette. + menes memories and magnetism + " On the way to visit the ostriches I had the peculiar sensation of running down a long tunnel of green black liquid in which little hairy creatures were urging me to speak I could not speak and I felt a panic at the urgency with which they were prodding me to speak. I had the distinct feeling that If I did not speak I would cease to inhabit four dimensional spacetime, and I was struck by the overwhelming feeling that without words I would experience what those around me would have called death. I now simply regard it as a loss of language, we are in fact much like a computer monitor, the hard drive will continue to receive information even if those on the outside can not tell what is being done with the information received. language creates the pictures and graphics that we call i or you or her or whatever. + +Is anyone paying any attention here? You expect me in your little scene and if I don't pay up you'll eliminate me? Who made up these fucking rules? This sucks I want my money back or I'm outta here. The old man gets up off the porch and stumbles drunkenly back into the house getting his shot gun from off the kitchen table where he was cleaning it earlier in the day. He retrieves it and flops back in rocking chair. A yuppie couple jogging on a Saturday morning are the first to go... + + + +You want to go out Friday +and you want to go forever. + -Michael Stipe + + It never has mattered has it? You only invent what you want to know and so why does it always end in failure? Did you lock into a pattern you couldn't see through? You can no longer trust the metaphor because you saw it coming in focus and you realized it's something from your childhood —endless tapes loping across eons. And you see the game for what it was —something cold-blooded, reptile, slinking across the room. You know the menu is not the meal and you have your metaphors and language bounded in all its unique epochal glory and you see through the epoches, but you can't shake the fear. You know that change is inevitable; you know what you want, you say what you want, and you build the metaphor until it casts its shadow into time. You think you know the end of it and still your sitting on the curb, hungry, apathetic, waiting for the sewer water to splash and wake from the nightmare of history. You're thinking this isn't me, this can't be me. + Everyone walks with unshakable self confidence, but not slow enough to remember that they are walking and when they laugh they pretend to be unafraid. You only realize you're walking when you trip and are forced to remember that you are walking —going backwards to get a reference point. You know its a terrible to stumble about when the maps are all laid out on the table in their glory. You know the end but you really can't believe it and the shock of ending will throw your rhythm off its track. This isn't you. If you know it doesn't matter, then it doesn't matter. Remember not to be frightened because they can not take <the word> <the image> <the vibration> of your hyperspacial shadow cast across time —and a poor reflection i would judge. Be what you are. You are whatever you want to play. Too long in the game circuit, cut the wires pull the plug you will feel better. You will be. Always. + Maya Stevens was sitting at her desk in nineteen ninety nine quietly unaware of anyone named Waiben or Hawkard. She was making the fateful decision to turn her back on history, the nightmare was coming into focus. Cultural evolution took over after biological evolution had ceased and cultural evolution gave way to a multidimensional realization of ecstasy, though Maya didn't have that vocabulary to describe it that way. She merely felt that life was too short to spend it doing anything but exploring, she was unable to function as a member of society because she lived too much in amazement that any of life was actually happening. Her value system had been turned inside out by the wordimagevibration of ecstasy. She knew what she wanted —to be. This is her story. + + +Consciousness is the feelings of the contrast +of theory, as mere theory, with fact, as mere fact. +This contrast holds whether or not the theory be correct + -A. N. Whitehead + +Transcribed from intercellular radio: Half an hour later over Mexican food and she said my name is...beady eyed half faced men in a diner cut out eyes and fucking rotting corpses to overcome insecurities handed out at birth —afterbirth is death thrown in a biohazard container and trucked off to a point on a continuum I've never seen. + She glides and is not. Day 4: sounds of light and transmorphing Indian deities gives way to vampire children gnashing teeth and gnawing off the toes of the dead. Sound becomes rhythm and gives way to light and objects manifested out of try temporal vacuum air. Get out your accumulators— Egyptians, Tibetans. Kundalini guides prey on the new arrivals in death as in life, no different. "Best try to buck up boys" the sergeant bellows "since none of you paid a rats ass worth of attention in basic..." + funeral dirges still ringing in their ears the cast of corpse memories not yet faded. i went downtown to see the firelight fountains and all the pretty hippies in costumes from centuries ago. Pull me under pull me over take off my shoes. + She was feeling quite distressed and wanted to get undressed —naked not nude— she doesn't know the difference and i don't care enough to tell her. Some things you can't do —enlighten others—fuck yourself in the ass—. Jumping around too much these days? Perhaps a synaptic workout is in order; something to make the goo go? The Mexican boy selling—hey mister you wanna but some chiclettes? One doolaar buy one box, lotsa gum —eh? no? + Cambodian prostitute with HIV contorts to accommodate the small, mutilated and misshapen penis of wealthy Usinc busy ness man. Inc had all the magic sown up in paperback bills weighing down the servile. she opens her mouth and closes her eyes, come splashes across her face like elastic and gooey silly string. He slaps her face and punches her, mashing come and blood —the rampant spread of dis ease—he leaves without paying and she feels luck to be alive, but doesn't know why. And the poets cry li la la li lalali or some such nonsense, blowing winds rustling trees, photomantages of boredom turned to alcohol like the infinite mysteries —just starting to ferment. If you can bake a cake you can build a bomb, you could split an atom —won't you please keep that thing away from me? oh won't you please keep that thing away from me. Keep that frying pan away from me. + + Maya took the trip many years after Sil, but no ostrich appeared, little flighted birds hovered about her window sill and bardos of Tibetan death held out. Skinny cold fingers like withering men, like <horus sirus oriosis> and all the other dying gods who laid the framework for the christ con. + Little birds that said we shit and we piss and we masturbate and we don't give a good goddamn about much else. An emu drifted out of a bellowing purple sheet that hung on a clothesline two stories below Maya's window. He looked up at her and said 'beware the the creature, the parasite holding you down, call you it the eye that is looking for me?' + do what i am doing he said and promptly made a fibrous ball of light that twisted and turned and hovered in the air as if it were made of the very sound that had described it into being. God said "let there be light" or sounds to that effect. Maya saw great Persian empires laid out, expanding and retracting, moving across time in slow molasses-like motions. Cities where the sun stood still in the sky and monstrous creations of the mind, horrifying and seductive at the same time. Like ancient Tibetan art there was no distinction between the province of the mind and the province of the body. Women swam in south china seas of ambient warmth moving in playful erotic motions, cresting like dolphins. Creatures of all forms walked streets of near ancient origin, cobblestones and whitewashed buildings with European wrought iron balconies. Tapestries hung out from the window beckon the passersby to climb up into untold pleasures of body and mind. The scene was overwhelming and undescribable; beautiful and horrifying in a way that held horror and beauty to be ultimately different reactions to same observed phenomena. + Like most people who have experimented with consciousness expansion Maya's initial voyage into hyperspace left her feeling elated and reborn, with all of life's secrets tucked neatly in her mind behind her beautiful eyes. But like most people she lacked the vocabulary to make these places real in fourth dimensional planes. Large parts of what she confronted lay dominate in her mind because she was unable to face them. As a result her "enlightenment" was short lived and in the weeks that followed all the old patterns and programs of her life, both the conscious and the unconscious, reasserted themselves until two months later she felt her life was indeed just as shitty as it had been before she had drifted out into the bardos. This fact caused her much anxiety. Maya was (like all of us) trying to figure out what the hell is really going on down here. Innerspace had been her holy Grail if i can get inside deep deep deep inside it will all make sense, but the inside is far more tricky twisting and ever elusive than the outside. going into the quarter alone is a touchy proposition, you tend to end up with one foot here and one there and you come out stone paranoid and schizophrenic. Best to have somebody with you to help navigate this side of things while you're on the endside. Maya enjoyed the risk at first, mainly because she had no idea what she was dealing with, but she quickly came to realize that going it alone is doubly difficult and rewarding at the same time. But if you get there alone you inevitably want to bring everyone back with you. (See archives, records under Leary, Timothy) + One day Maya was looking for innerspace maps at the book store when she ran across the name of a man who had written many books on the subject of 'what the hell is going on down here?' Aleister Crowley claimed to have a map and method for getting to places in the innerspacial world that Maya had difficulty believing really existed. She had been there, but up until now she was able to run programs in her mind that said that everything could be a delusion, a creation of her own mind. Crowley described the same phenomena and experiences that Maya had feltseenknown, his imagery was different bounded in his own spacetime experience, but neverthless Maya could feel in the spaces between the words that Crowley had been somewhere like where she had been. Maya was hooked and began to study his methods of Magick focusing on departure techniques; she soon found herself capable of reaching the subway station under the quarter, although she didn't yet know about the quarter or even where she was. She merely had sensations and saw things that seemed to behave as if she were in some sort of intergalactic train station waiting on an outbound line. She didn't know how to get on the subway yet. + Crowley gave Maya that ability to simultaneously absorb these experiences with all her existence, and remain detached from them at the same time. He preached that nothing is true or untrue, but that one should be open at all times to be able to accept temporarily anything as true or untrue. If you are skeptical of the process you learn nothing, you must embrace the process and remain skeptical of the results. There are merely different MAPS OF THE UNIVERSE, some of them are more and less interesting than others, the point is to learn as many of possible before you start choosing between them. + In the present Maya existed as a member of the genus homo species sapien. She lived in Usinc. Usinc had its a wide variety of maps existing in it but one overwhelmed the rest and was often unconsciously dictated by the Alpha Mans of her tribe. The dominate map in USinc as far as Maya could determine was what one of the Sapiens, Noma Chomsky, called the Star System. This map (or tunnel reality, or set of beliefs) holds that most people are really stupid, or more eloquently in Chomsky's words: "...people would like to think that there's somebody up there who know's what he's doing. since we don't participate, we don't control and we don't even think about questions of vital importance, we hope somebody is paying attention who has some competence. Lets hope the ship has a captain, in other words since were not taking part in what's going on... It is an important feature of (this) ideological system to impose on people the feeling that they really are incompetent to deal with these complex and important issues: they'd better leave it to the captain. One devise (for programming people to feel incompetent) is the star system, an array of figures who are often media creations or creations of the academic propaganda establishment, whose deep insights we are supposed to admire and to whom we must happily and confidently assign the right to control our lives..." + This sort of map serves to divide people in two groups; those who are on the mapped described in detail and have nothing to worry about and those who are fucked and just get to listen and watch the map as one might listen and watch a talking bird. They tended to listen to what they called the TELALINGUS, a blunt box-like object with voices and images being projected outward into their consciousness. In older times people who heard voices coming out of the walls were called crazy, but in Usinc they were called consumers. The screen of the Telalingus created myths and metaphors by which they could make some sense of the world. Maya did not like these people they made her feel icky and she avoided them at any cost. + In Usinc most people believed this system is in fact THE WAY THINGS HAVE ALWAYS BEEN, but such is not the case. The dominate Usinc map was a rather new and untested prototype reality which increasingly did not measure up to even the most basic parts of consensus reality. There is another school of thought, a door that Crowley threw open, a metaphoric door to a metaphoric place called Gnosis. Gnosis holds that the only way to learn is to experience to confront the unknown directly to experience the sensations without having to make an apriori judgement about there validity. This map allows for a greater variety to life and makes it infinitely more fun and adventurous than listening to voices in a box. Maya went back to the innerspacial experience with a new sense of what the hell was really going on. She entered into belief tunnels and researched brain metabolism and learned what happened with tryptamines and how the beta-carbaloids bonded with her synapses and what harmines and harmalines were. Then she went to the mystical maps from the eastern parts of the world and compared and contrasted ecstasy with satori and other states of consciousness outlines in Tibetan and and other eastern MAPS OF THE UNIVERSE. Maya was learning that in the innerspacial world there is no consensus reality you created your own and learned how to manipulate it to your own satisfaction and desires. This put her at odds with the dominate Usinc belief system of the day which labeled this behavior delusional. and found it threatening, she began to get paranoid. One foot in one foot out. She lacked the proper equipment to get all the way in. + There are two things wrong with the label delusional: first in order to have something be delusional you must first have something that is non-delusional. There is nothing that exists apart from ourselves this was something that a particularly revered Usincer named Einstein had been trying to say for almost a hundred years. He asserted rather bluntly that without us there to observe it the world only exists in potential or delusionally. It was rumored that later in life he regretted saying this. The second problem is the people who label certain things delusional and others non-delusional. A long time ago when the ancestors of Usinc arrived on the land they brought with them this map; the natives who greeted called them they-who-have-stick-up-there-ass-and-are-no-fun which has a much nicer ring that scientist or doctor or priest which is what most USincer's called them. The natives used to chuckle about it and ridicule the size of their shrivelled white penises behind their backs which irritated the Usincer's so they gave them small pox and killed them all. Elimination was a standard threat defense system in Usinc and was still practised in modern times. + The sense of direct confrontation and followed by personal understanding (limited though it was) gave Maya the emotional fortitude and strength to travel further and further down mysterious roads in pursuit of the truth or whatever. It might also have driven her quite batty and killed her depending on what map you the reader are bringing along. + The Crowley doctrine of not having beliefs also provided Maya way to experience things without terror, for the conquest of fear is an absolute necessity when one approaches the fringes of what is known and not yet known. Out in the Quarter fear is rampant, but without fear one is free to have myriad of experiences that are not available to those with fear, objective subjectivity Maya called it. For instance just because one is presented with the sights of mass slaughter and carnage and every evil satanic thing ever recorded by man one is not bound to be afraid of these things because one is not bound to the system which labelled them evil in the first place. If that doesn't follow think of it this way: we have genetic memories encoded in or DNA (in twenty years science may well find the actual gene that has Dante's satanic visions stored in it), but in the mean time if you should accidentally dreg the hideous severed, bloody, snarling head of Lucifer up out of our genetic memory banks you can make him go away. You just internalize the event and label it endogenetic which doesn't sound nearly as frightening as a seven headed monster spitting fire, gnashing its teeth, slashing up your record collection and generally making a mess of the living room. Of course if their actually is a seven headed fire-breathing beast from hell in your living room then you really do have a problem and you might wonder if your losing your mind. But ultimately even that is no comfort because if you've lost your mind you have to wonder who has it and why are they putting multi-headed-fire-breathing-demons in your goddamn living room? + Maya had fun with gnosis and managed to avoid seven headed satanists in her living room for the time being, but she did quickly find that she could no longer keep up with the pace of her mind. The racing mind is a difficult thing to stop, you find thoughts at every corner and you can't seem to find room for new ones to modify the old ones and your mind tends to enter a static loop. You'd have better luck stopping a train then stopping a train of thoughts. The best thing to do is to take time to fully absorb and understand each journey before taking another, otherwise knowledge becomes static and starts to feedback. + Maya had discovered that knowledge has an exponential rate of accumulation and soon she found she knew so much about so much that she came to the inevitable conclusion that information has timebounded saturation points. She started to have to rely on artificial means of meditation and breathing exercises to get herself to sleep. + This may sound like a nightmare of some sort, but actually it is quite a skill to have, it like finding the on/off switch to the human brain. This gives one an extreme felling of detached vivaciousness, like you can walk through walls if you wanted to and eventually you decide you can actually walk through walls you just don't know how. Hassan i Sabbah will be driving the bus for the remainder of the tour you may direct any further questions to him... + "The British biologist, Richard Dawkins has coined the expression meme to designate a signal traveling in human space-time and carrying information (or mis-information). In Dawkins view, just as biological evolution depends on the circulation of genes, sociological evolution depends on the migratory habits of memes." —from Wilhelm Reich in Hell, by Robert Anton Wilson. Memes like genes can only be in one brain at any given time, the trick is to learn how to leave the individual sense of mind and find the point at which consciousness is pure essence with itself. Out there one is not bounded by the standard saturation points. Too many menes in "your brain" leads to a danger that it will all be static and meaningless chatter. If you want to decode the static that builds up in your brain you have to graph it on a time scale. Maya graphed the static in a journal. + + +life is far to grave of a +matter to be taken seriously +-Oscar Wilde + + William S. Burroughs once said that language is a virus, most Usincer's thought this was cute and humored the old man. But when you stop and think about it language does act very much like a virus. It is passed from old to young, it mutates according to the host, and it is fatal —when you stop talking you are dead. If we are to humor this cute notion further we might eventually want to cure ourselves of this worldwide epidemic. Memes may well be the genetic key. Why do we need information? Why do we need to be alive? If we are to suppose that the viral pattern of language is consistent with other virus patterns then it's transmission and ability to replicate itself must have a genetic code which it uses to trigger reproduction and the consequent mutation of the host cell structure. What is the DNA of language? + This theory rests on the supposition that ideas come before words ie the typical theory of language development: we speak because we have something to say. Suppose we speak to create the things we want to see.... Shit or get of the pot the old man screams. + +Static System Sampler: + + Sex and violence, she smiled that's what these people need —sex and violence. She feels the rage building. Writing is transmission it is the creation of alternative realities, the first step in creating a new world is to write it down. + The tired shopkeeper is out smoking her obscenely thin cigarettes leaning out the front door ducking the afternoon sun. She smokes constantly pausing only to give a tired answer to the same tourists she has to stare at day after day. An endless reminder that they, not her, are the ones enjoying life. Too many of them day after day year after year look look looking never buying. The Leather Connection doesn’t do a lot of business on warm spring days —who puts a leather shop on the beach front. Nor is it the kinky sort of fetish shop you might hope for. Not even any leather in the windows. She moves her lips mumbling incoherences intelligible only to herself. She lights another cigarette. A rabid dog paces back and forth across the doorway as if protecting it from unseen horror. + The sharp eyed Asian hawk sitting behind me at another table closes her purse, pen safely secured inside. She licks stamps and affixes them to postcards. Notes for those at home. “Jenny: LA is great -warm sunny. I’m having a great time. Remind me to tell you about this guy Bill I met the other day. Take care of yourself. Say hi to Tom for me. Love....” + Families wander down the hill looking for a nice place to eat. The neon signs offer Mexican Italian Greek food, “but we need a children's menu.” “Tommy’s only nine, he can’t eat a whole meal himself.” “Do you think they could split a dinner, I’m not very hungry myself?” “You brought the credit card right?” “No, but I’ve still got some cash left over from breakfast this morning. “Wasn’t that a charming little place?” “What was it called?” “Lets go there again before we leave.” + The locals, the non-travelers, the doomed-forever-to-live-in-one-placers stream by in shinny cars coming home from work in THE BIG CITY. Their flimsy soda can Japanese cars that look as if a good size bird could, with decent aim, crush the plastic colored roofs. The locals drive with windows up and frowns turned down. “Did I remember to e-mail that memo to Tony at the office in Chicago? I wonder what sort of crap Diane cooked for dinner tonight? She is the worst cook. What happened to that tri-tip on Friday? I wouldn’t have known what is was if I hadn’t bought it myself. Dave and Linda smiled and said it was delicious the lying bastards. don’t encourage her she might actually believe she can cook. Dave probably just wants to sleep with her. That whore. I wonder if she’s fooling around behind my back? She never wants to have sex anymore. Its always the same routine. Me still dripping from a shower her reading some book I crawl onto of her . ‘Not tonight honey I’m to tired.’ I wait till she’s fast a sleep and sneak down to the kitchen reach behind the fridge and pull out the nudie magazines and —off quietly to the bathroom. I wonder what Diane would look like in tight leather, probably fat. She still hasn’t lost all the wait from the pregnancy. God its been what like eighteen months Justin’s starting to walk for christsakes. The light is green, fucking traffic.” + The static of ordinary life is horrendous and boring this brief sample was brought to you to remind you that not everyone, perhaps not even you, leads an interesting life. Was that you i heard saying that someone else said that the newscaster said that the stockbrokers think that the CEO's are going to rig the oil market and drive us into recession? ...hope the captain knows, cause us tech sergeant are just barely able to gather enough memes to pull ya through the day and get into the missionary position with a half limp cock and let the lov'in let the lov'in come back to me. Swing your hips and let it all get lose. No really. put the book down and swing 'em. Uncle Sabbah likes to see the little girls and boys shakin' de hips. + + Fog is settling in from the hills meeting up with banks rolling in from the sea, threatening the star’s view, tiny windows of the gods peeping in watching our silly games in continued amusement. They keep doing it every night Reminding me of San Francisco, the golden gate after sundown glowing like it were Apollos chariot itself. Proudly beckoning the traveler with tale of endless wanderlust -out here the final frontier come swim discover secrets hidden from mankind...Come the sharks are hungry. The mashing of teeth and bone, the tearing of flesh. + I would not fuck you in Thailand/ I would not fuck you in a plane over Japan. One of Dr. Suess’ lesser known couplets. + The sun is setting and several miles out at sea a trident nuclear submarine is preforming manoeuvres in preparation for a war that most people don't believe will really happen. I like to pretend the submarine doesn't exist, I like to think that no one has ever really refined and mutated the Anthrax virus to make it deadlier and that no one ever dared to split atoms, but they did and it leaves me feeling hungry and tired. + I find myself surrounded on all sides. Everyone these days is completely obsessed with Being Bizarre. So much so that nothing really is Bizarre anymore. Yuppies ride Harleys and frequent bondage parlors on the weekends while pulling in double incomes of 150K during the week scurrying from house to latte to work to the onceaweekmatrimonialassfucking. + You want Bizarre? Circus freaks castrating themselves on the street corners and pimps shooting heroin in their balls while screaming whores accost their long dead mothers in hotel rooms a cockroach won’t set foot in? Lawyers sitting on the roof, television antenna protruding from their limbs as policemen ritualistically torture themselves gouging out their own eyeballs to avoid the scene below? You think that is normal? You think it sounds better when you call it Urban Life? You're all nuts. + + +Star System Sampler: + + "Are you making this shit up? Or has it really been found by anthropologists?" + "As if that lends it some sort of credibility? Their PhD's mean they can't possibly be wrong or maybe deliberately lying ?" + "Are you that paranoid?" + "That's not paranoia, you always assume that wrong means bad. I am just saying it is really every bit as possible as the usual tunnel that says science is true." + Maya is lying on the couch rainy-day-ranting in the formica sunshine about the chemical similarities between DMT and human seratonin. DMT is in fact so recognizable to the human brain that it passes the through the blood/brain barrier in a matter of seconds. it is her theory that Seratonin was originally DMT and as the terrestrial ape moved out of the trees into caves and cities the chemical structure of the substance was altered, perhaps by diet perhaps by culture or perhaps deliberately by secret sect conspiring against humanity. She doesn't necessarily believe it, but she has fun tormenting her next door neighbor Pete with theories she knows are beyond what he has decided is real. People who refuse to admit for even one moment that "reality" and "fantasy" might at some point merge miss out on so many wonderful ideas. Maya loved to point out the ridiculous and far removed ideas that most people overlook as possibilties. She liked to remind everyone that we could be living in a great novel six billion pages long or our entire universe might be an intricate and complex dream some alien entity is having. Maya liked brain twists and loops that led directly into unsolvable paradoxes which, in her mind, always pointed out the stupidity of trying to use language to build things. + "unicorns don't exist right? + "right." + "Then how do you know what they look like?" + "They're the imagined creations of an artist." + "How do you know that? How do you know they didn't used to exist and they just don't now? How do you know that they aren't actually called dodo's?" + "Because somebody would have...i don't know... what are you getting at....?" + "The thing is, is that for any set of equations there is an infinite possibility of solutions; I'm not trying to say this is the right solution, I'm just trying to point out that it is one of the possibilities. And I can't understand why you dismiss it solely on the basis that it sounds ridiculous." She smiled at Pete's bewilderment, the way an adult likes to smile its superiority at a child, but Maya knew that superiority is fleeting and ever relative. + She kissed Pete on the cheek, chiefly because she liked to watch him turn red and he shifted in his chair trying to hide his hard on while she pretended to be oblivious and went into the bedroom to change clothes. + "I guess its time for me to go huh?" he called from the other room. + "I guess so," she called back thinking time is not an object, its inside you. + + +In the cosmic computer are all repetitions, +all tape loops necessary to keep the cosmos going; +the noise, sight, sounds, feelings, rhythms are obvious and full. +-John C Lilly, M.D. from The Center of the Cyclone + + Sleeping fitfully under a moonless sky dreaming of a stale, smoky bar's liquor-stained floors and a headless horsemen riding like Icarius out of the fiery sun-gilded gates of hell. The headless horseman swerves and bears down on the I that is you with menacing intent, jolting the dream element awake and into a sleepnonsleep trance on the isthmus of reality. The horseman dismounts and walks in to the bar. + I was bewildered and in my heavy-lidded gaze saw a man with no head standing just inside the mosquito netting that covers the tropical doorway. Closer inspection revealed a pair of blinking eyes peering at me from where the neck tie should have been. A hand slipped out from the waist and motioned for me to rise. I climbed clumsily off of my barstool and followed him out into the middle of the jungle night. The headless horseman motioned for me to sit on a fallen tree and pulled out a long stick of cinnamon, he lit it and inhaled through a button hole in his chest. I sat down on the log opposite him and staring eye-level at the cinnamonette and I began to appreciate the sheer size of the horseman and realized that even without his head, the horseman was taller than me... + Time passes by in jerky motions not unlike the first motion pictures; uneven and without regard for continuity. Maybe moments maybe hours maybe at the same time, an old man with a sickly grey beard and a ridiculous suit is sitting where the horseman had been. One hand is out of sight down his pants and the other wags a long finger at you and he begins to jerk his cock screaming i want you i want YOU i WANT YOU! Eventually you slouched over against a wall and sleep. + + Cary was looking at Maya through eyes that seemed galaxies away, "you didn't say whether or not you enjoyed it." + "It was horrifying and beautiful at the same time." + "Did you feel fear or joy?" + "At times i drifted into spaces that started me on a fear program and then a voice or some unspoken thought would say 'don't be afraid.' Fear is judging i kept thinking and i was trying to hold out on judgements until after the experience. But i did have an overwhelming feeling of sadness as i started coming down and i saw the whole tree of humanity... i was descending through it and i felt as if i could have chosen an infinite variety of bodies...experiences...and then i found the Maya one and instantly i was back and that was that..." + You went into what the Sufi's would call the cosmic control center only you just touched the edge of it...or you went in and you repressed the memories of the horror...that happens to sometimes..." + "So now what?" Maya felt genuinely lost. She wanted to go back up out into deep deep inner space, but she knew she didn't really even understand what had happened yet. She didn't tell Cary that she had repeated the train station imagery or that a headlight had been boring down on her and that the sound had overwhelmed her and blown her back down. I saw the train again she kept thinking, why do i keep seeing a train? + "Well i have to go back down to costa Rica and take care of some business at my research lab, but here is my email address," he handed her a slip of paper. "That code at the end makes sure to forward it to my cell phone so i will get it as soon as you send it." He stood as if to leave and Maya jumped up with him. + "Okay ya I'll write you...i have a lot more questions..." + "Well I'm not sure if i have any answers, but I'll do what i can for you." He kissed her hand and closed the door as she left. + And so it came that Maya found herself fully committed to the task of figuring out what the hell was going on down here. The Star Map of Materialism was discarded completely from Maya's life and she begin slowly but surely to slink into the corners and fringes of society, she entered onto the Usinc list of potential threats and though she was unaware of it she was marked for elimination. Cary met with her when his schedule allowed for it and they corresponded by email when he was out of town. Frustratingly he never gave her answers instead he asked questions she hadn't reached yet. Cary knew what it was like to be eliminated and he cautioned her against talking to anyone about these sorts of things. + The Taoists say those who know don't tell and those who tell don't know. Most Usincers familiar with this philosophy found it irritating and believed that things indescribable don't exist. And how they humored him when he said language is a virus. Maya began to see the emotional plague. The self limiting and self fulfilled negative programs that the majority of her fellow sapiens exhibited became horrifying and Maya alternately found herself swinging like a pendulum between the poles and love and hate. At times she felt a tremendous force radiating out from her chest trying to embrace the entire world and bath it in LOVE, At other times the repulsion for all things human drove her into isolation where she would sit meditating and using psychoactivating devises to leave her body to exit the game, role-playing circuit that is "reality." As the game circuit and its contractions became more and more painfully obvious Maya found herself drifting out of her body quiet involuntarily, right in the middle of conversations. The things that most Usincer's talked about rarely amounted to much more then meaningless chatter and Maya could feel and had to internalize the death imagery, the negative body images, the label obsessions that comes from lost dreams, lack of love, and leaves only hollow shells to bundle up confusion and static. Drifting out of the body without warning was quite disconcerting, but it forced her to feel people and use this to know them rather than words. It was a step into another dimension. At first it only happened when she was stoned, but gradually she learned that certain thoughts and breathe techniques could produce the effect while "sober." + Sober was an obsession for most Usincers, they believed that despite the fact that they ate mind altering chemicals all day long (usually caffeine in the form of coffee or methamphetamines in the form of diet pills) that they were actually in a state of mind that was sober or natural. Maya was constantly seized by desires to show people their biocomputers their souls whatever metaphor was necessary to give them back control over their lives. But Cary's advise held her in check and she avoided trying to show or teach anyone anything. You have to want to know something before you can learn it. She learned from the mistakes of Leary and the rest of the early western explorers. +Pointing out to people the sheer futility of trying to stop someone from exploring the unknown regions of the mind was ridiculous, and it also meant risking identifying oneself as a "drug user." This term was used to relegate mind exploration and its necessary tools into a peripheral segment of society that irritated and generally frightened most Usincers. Over the centuries people with ideas that are unpopular have noticed that people in the past with unusual ideas about life and its potentials tended to meet rather untimely and painful deaths. So the observant ones learned to shut the fuck up, or write in code like Da Vinci or Crowley. Great myths are spawned, the Knights of Templar, the Illuminati, the Masons, Taoists, the Assassins, the Sufis; history is riddled with mysteries. + Plans were underway at the upper levels of the Alpha Male dominators to get some more small pox blankets to these unwanted citizens. Plans had in fact been underway for some time, but since the serious students of innerspace had learned centuries before how to survive under adverse conditions it was difficult to figure out who need to be eliminated. Slowly and carefully Cary was admitting Maya into the ranks of those networks which exist in the peripherals of organized primate societies. He took her underground. + Most Usincers remained oblivious to the underground. It was something they heard of but assumed did not really exist. In fact Most Usincers had no idea that they were the most electronically advanced biocomputer in the known universe; consequently they wasted much time in imitating the behavior of other less electronically sophisticated animals. The Alpha Male orientation of the political system was little different than any primate group. A select group, after fighting amongst themselves for the approval of the rest of the tribe, set themselves up somewhere they called HEADQUARTERS and from here they ruled over the rest of the primate masses. This allowed the masses to relax from worry about decisions and beliefs and ideas. The Alpha Males supplied these things for them. They felt the Alpha Males did a good job of it most of the time. But this began to change and the Alpha Males began to feel threatened by the socio-cultural changes that were taking place so they reacted defensively like any cornered primate —they became paranoid. This paranoid psychosis manifested itself in the form of small pox blankets which by now had been improved. There were now Anthrax blankets, Leprosy-Anthrax blankets, atomic blankets, HIV blankets, and the Alpha males continued to invest more and more of the resources of Usinc, and indeed the whole world, into developing new lethal blankets. + It wasn't long before one of them suggested that they out to test the blankets just to make sure they work you see. The first subpopulace to be identified were the "drug users." Infected needles were distributed, secret police raided and seized property, and in time strip searches on public streets became common. This angered many Usincers even those who were not "drug-users" but they did not speak up because they would be labeled drug sympathizers which was only slightly less irritating to the Alpha Males than actual "drug-users." In short they knew they would be given blankets too. Usinc was fast becoming a rather shitty place to live. + It was about this time that the first glimpses of the boiling of the Usinc political caldron began to manifest themselves; riots broke out in Detroit, Chicago and Atlanta, and the entire infrastructure of communication was threatening to take away the Alpha Male domination. The Alpha Males silenced these protests with blankets, but then labor strikes broke out all over the country followed by advent of technology that deeply threatened the Star System. Communications technology was taking vast arrays of previously rare and complicated information and making it available to the masses of primates. The people banded together and decided that the Alpha Males had to go, but the Alpha Males were ahead of them again. They had already found that outright violence was unpopular within the tribe (although perfectly acceptable against those in other tribes). They began to study those things that irritated them and they learned that silence and secrecy are far more effective than noisy riot-type events. They used paper magic stolen from the great magicians of the past. + Cary had decoded the paper magic and learned to move through it without it touching him. He learned how to use it against the Alpha Males and this made him very very threatening to them. He quickly learned to be very very quiet and resourceful. Maya didn't have access to the resources that Cary did so he told her what he could without putting her life in danger. He told her about the Alpha Males and how to explore innerspace without raising there interests. He taught her how to walk without being noticed and how to use their paper magic against them. He told her that any hunting pack will inevitably develop a complex system of signals to communicate with during an attack. He told her the most important signal would be a riot in New York City which would cause the population to ask the Alpha Males to use the blankets on them. Usinc was full of deeply confused primates. He told her that when such an event occurred the best bet would be to head to somewhere on the planet that the Alpha Males did not care about. He gave her a list of such places and told her that when the time came he would help her get to one of them. He did not tell her that they were all places he controlled and that very very few people on the planet knew about them. He also did not tell her that some of these places did not actually exist in the consensus timespace coordinate. + Maya found the whole thing adventurous and exciting like a spy novel, she kept it in the back of her mind, where, like most of the citizens of Usinc it fought with another voice in the back of her head that kept saying its never going to get that bad, it never going to happen... + + + + In the meantime she stayed in Long Beach and kept up her research into inner space, occasionally using Ayahuasca, but primarily concentration on Psylosilum Cubensis which was the most commonly available a particularly psybocilum concentrated species of mushroom that was along with LSD 25, MDMA and a host of other hallucinatory drugs, officially declared a schedule one deadly drug by the government of Usinc way back in 1965. No government investigation or tests were ever performed on psylocilum it just got lumped with the rest of the psychedelic drugs of the nineteen sixties and deemed inappropriate for human consumption. + Chemically altering your own brain processing structure is hardly a new idea, people have been taking strange drugs and eating different plants throughout history. But it also important to notice that these people have also been persecuted by almost every Alpha Male government and syndicate since the beginning of time. It has its genesis in the Christian story which THE CHURCH has so cleverly glossed over for centuries. + Christ was a gnostic; he claimed a direct communication with god, and while Maya did not believe in the consensus definition of god, she understood that there was something out there and that Christ more than likely had seen it and what happened to him? He got nailed to a goddamn tree. That has got to fucking hurt. You go about minding your own business and one day you confront a world that is an entirely separate reality from your own, and you like it, it gives you a feeling of ecstasy, you want to share it with others. At first they think you are insane, weird or overly imaginative at best, but you keep trying and trying and trying to tell them that there is a better way, you do some amazing things with the knowledge you have and they realize you might not be kidding and this makes them nervous so they tell the Alpha Males. We fear. And the Alpha Males use their paper magic on you. They write things into LAW and they make you ILLEGAL. They claim that this then gives them the right to stop you. You are amused by their unwillingness to try what you speak of, but you keep telling them ...it can be better than this...and you know this. One day they get desperate and they nail you to a cross. Through the physical pain you finally gain what you were lacking the power to transcend the body, you find death before they did and you leave, but they never understand. And you are dead to them. + + + + There are worms in the soul of the materialist and they are eating from the inside out, logic and the belief that things which can be replicated through objective experimentation are the only things which can possible be true, is not wrong, but rather a very limited way of viewing life. Why is science so reluctant to investigate phenomena like UFOs, demon possession, chemical induced brain change, telekinesis, psychic communication, telepathy, witchcraft, Auras, Orgone energies, Gaian sentience, collective unconscious, and the rest of the fringes? Simply because its own self limiting philosophies have consciously chosen to ignore them. If it were proven true that telepathy is possible would it invalidate all of biology? No why then is science afraid of this possibility and fight so violently against it and those that are willing to investigate it are labeled frauds and charlatans? Because it would force science to admit its shortcomings and the Alpha Males would have to give up the powerful personality egos which are the only programs that their biocomputers are capable of running. + The irony of the star system is that those who go farthest out of the limbs get the greatest respect as humans (Gandi, Einstein, Galilieo, Bucky Fuller, Tim Leary et al) but their ideas are never taken seriously and when they are finally proved right it is only with the greatest of begrudgement that science and governments will admit what they secretly fear: that consensus reality is not a good map of what the hell is really going on down here. + The worms are eating from the inside out and the decay is not easy to see unless you look from the inside and crack the elaborate schematics of secret societies. Science is perhaps the most elaborate and widespread secret society to ever grace the face of the earth. It has gone so far as to develop an complex and untranslatable language unique to each of its subdivisions —any hunting pack will develop very sophisticated and complex signals with which to communicate during the hunt. The complexity of science is so great that even within the heads of the beast can not understand each other. Biologists pay no attention to physicists and physicist can't understand chaos theorists, chaos theorists sneer down their horned rimmed glasses at botanists and none of them take psychologists seriously. + The for instances: Sigmund Freud in his investigation of the human mind predicated that one day psychology would be but another field of biology, that is that most psychosis has some definite interaction with physical biology. In other words if you tend to suffer from delusions of grandeur it might well be because you chest muscles are in a constant state of hypertension or something to that effect. Enter Wilhelm Reich, at first Reich merely takes Freud one step further, outlining a better method of psychotherapy that focuses on how the patient behaves rather than what he says. Reich recognizes that most people give away more of the unconscious in behaviors and habits than in conscious thought-out speech and ideas. Slowly psychology accepts this and he publishes Character Armor, there are of course those who refuse to accept it but in twenty years they receded from majority to minority. Then Reich turns to the question of biological causes of mental psychosis and he is drowned out in a cry of protest, biology is unwilling to accept or even experiment with his Orgone energy. While biologists happily admit they have next to know idea how the brain works they are damn sure that this is not within the realm of possibilities. + Reich is arrested by order of the American Medical Association and imprisoned for the remainder of his life. His research is hauled out of his office and labs and burned in the New York City incinerator. Reich thought as a scientist that he was immune to such primitive charges as heresy or the like. He is wrong and pays an exacting toll for his mistake. In an ironic twist sixty years later Bell's Theorem seems to bare out that at least there is a chance his hypotheses could be correct and to ad another spoonful of irony, they major American Medical Association endorsed method of treating seriously mental illness is biologically based chemicals, which we call drugs. + Another for instance: Bells theorem (that familiar bell curve on which you were graded) seems to suggest that points on opposite side of the familiar curve could in fact be behaving in the exact same way. For instance if you were to take to molecule on opposite side of the universe and look at their behaviors they would in fact appear to be the very same thing. A whole branch of physics has sprung up to study this idea they call it non-local energy transfer. However despite the fact that any farmer in Iowa could easily see the implications of this theory that if two things can be doing the same thing at the same time then two people could reasonable be expected to be thinking the same things at the same time, the physicist will not investigate telepathy and the like. why? His own map of the universe says that it is at least possible why not look into it, it seems like an interesting and certainly revolutionary idea? Because he or she knows that this is not how life is. Self limiting prophesies are always fulfilled. If you know something is true or not true then it is true or not true for you. There is no objective reality. Sorry kids there just isn't. Einstein told everyone that eighty years ago, but unfortunately he wrote (like Crowley and da Vinci and the rest) in a very clever code called physics and the star system holds that you could not possibly understand physics. + Let me destroy that myth for a moment. Its simple, relativity says that the measurements made at any given point (you being a point in this case, belittling i know but work with me here). At any given point what is seen by the observer is only accurate at that point. In other words what you see and experience is uniquely your own perspective and is not true for any one else. We all know this as common sense, but sadly few understand it. This means that we are all uniquely alone and separate from each other —incapable of ever seeing the world through someone else's eyes —so long as we remain bounded to the spacetime point we call our "self." Transcending this point of observations suspends the laws of physics as we know them and throws us out of the time bounded Quantum Universe into the Multiversial Flow that mystics have been babbling incoherently about for centuries. The Tao Te Ching is not enigmatic it just doesn't operate on the same logic and rational that we do. Transcending the self is not hard you can do it on a daily basis; the human brain has known this unconsciously for thousands of years and developed something called empathy which allows us to try to see the world through another persons eyes. If you go further you forget that there are people and non-people there only is. + + The Star map consists of litanies of hierarchical structures at the tops of which reside experts who hand out information that travels down the ladder and is collectively agreed on by those in the lower rungs to be true. Thus only a select few of the people presumably know what the hell was actually going on. This leads to holding beliefs and is very detrimental to the mass of the population, tending to produce psychosis which tends to manifest in the Nabisco sponsored M&M&M Monotheism Monogamy Monotony. Polly gets a cracker. Peoget. Its been written up, described dis affected, looped and fed back so many times the signal is garbled into meaningless static. + Usinc primates were a curious group. Maya liked to watch them and felt at times like an alien anthropologist sent to study this unique, bizarre species. + + +We're all Fucked +-Sil Hawkard from Pissing on Gravities Rainbow + + + Of course there were some good things about Usinc primates, some of them were goddamn sexy. The males of the species tended to believe that if they put their cocks in you this then gave them control over you. Maya found this irritating and consequently spent most of her sexual energy on women who tended to be less controlling and more open to multiple partners. + For some time though Maya's inner space exploration had taken over her sex drive. She spent three months in near isolation save her contact with her neighbors. During this time she travelled into spaces very foreign and exciting. She learned how to gain control over what experts in the field called the biocomputer or the soft machine. The human brain is the most sophisticated thing in the known universe; it is capable of processing data at a rate that so far exceeds everything else as to make it seem unique. But it is not unique at all, computers operate on a very similar principle of electrical impulses to move and interpret data. Instead of synapses and ganglia they use resisters and capacitors. If we reverse the analogy and view the brain as a much advanced computer questions present themselves, questions like what programs are running? Who is the meta-programmer in charge of loading and running the programs that the people use? Can you seize conscious control away from the meta-programmer and program your brain yourself? Maya found that she was not in control of many of the programs that her brain ran, some being run on a daily basis. Her three months in isolation was an attempt to catalog the programs stored in her hard drive. She got quite good at leaving her body and she had the experience of communicating with entities that do not occupy physical realms. One afternoon one of these entities addressed her directly and questioned why she wanted to be alone. No one in here is alone. To be alone is to no longer exist in a relative universe. + Maya gradually came realize that you can not remain in static isolation without necessarily limiting the number of reality tunnels available for exploration. This is why people who never leave their hometowns tend to believe that their lives are the way THINGS HAVE ALWAYS BEEN. Stasis leads to static which leads to confusion and eventual psychosis like emotional attachments to things. This psychosis eventually leads one to become the memetic duplicate of the parent program. Primate Bio-Computers get anxious when they start to feel like they are becoming their parents they have a "mid-life crisis." This is because the nuero-circuitry on the soft machine is not designed to run pattern lopes, we are the only self programmable computers in the known universe and you're worrying what color curtains you should have in your window, what style of clothing is more popular among the rich and famous, how you can accumulate and store as many scraps of papermagicmoney as possible? + The more you travel the more you know is the ultimate extension of this logic. Mathematically: Stasis=static=boredom=fear=death. As the Sufis used to say before they got co-opted by the Hippies Uplifting Humans (HUH? for short) don't put anything over your head, it could fall and hurt you. Maybe they had to much ether in the temple or maybe you're just taking it all too seriously. + The more "other people's shoes" you can fit into the more perceptions you will have on what the hell is going on down here. The more perspectives you get, the less you care which one is right, and you stop taking any of it seriously. But that doesn't mean you aren't serious about it. Achieving states of ecstasy feels really fucking good otherwise why would you bother? It seemed curious to Maya that religion had chosen to portray enlightenment as this serene eternal peace on a mountain top kind of image. A good ad company selling ecstasy wouldn't get clients with an ad campaign like that. Its worse than some late night hack job: Do you feel bored? restless? Try the new godatic ecstasy pill! feel the energy of the entire universe pulsing through your body! order today, supplies limited, only three easy payments 19.95.... + Ecstasy is takes many forms, sex, chemicals, food, smells, tactile sensations of skin on skin. There are no limits in the province of the mind save what you put on it. You don't have to live in one place mentally or physically so why would you want to? She hit upon the idea of living in a reality tunnel without a home base without a steady income and surviving on a daily basis rather than a monthly one, or a yearly one making decisions on the basis of a lifetime's worth of time makes it very hard to act. Be here now the Buddhists say. One of the easiest ways to get into the now is to force the body to have to constantly adapt to new surroundings. Cats always land on their feet because they start running before they hit the ground. + Listening to Cary and reading the emails he sent her from the far corners of the earth tell made Maya realized constantly moving altered your consciousness. Cary came by one day with an eightball of cocaine and said I thought you might need this. She was in New York City forty-two hours later after a three our nap in Denver, Colorado. + Maya arrived already in an altered state of consciousness, she had run out of coke in Kentucky and kept herself awake by taking massive dosses of caffeine and occasionally slashing her arm. She found that eventually after thirty or so hours it is harder to fall asleep then it is to remain awake. Her eyeballs ached and her hands were callused from gripping the steering wheel of the trusty ford econoline van which despite having 238,654 miles on it was still the most reliable vehicle she had ever seen. Although as she took off all her clothes and drove through the stifling Kansas heat she wondered if maybe Cary would have given her a BMW or something if she had asked him. I need to be rich she thought. + She went to her friend April's house and called her from the front porch on a cell phone that Cary had loaned her. Halfway through the catching up she walked in the door. It made Maya smile and seemed to shock the shit appropriately out of April who was getting head from another girl while she talked and who nearly leaped up to the ceiling when Maya burst in the door. + +Snapshots: + +223 slipping in splish splash boom band boom and it was in Arizona when i noticed. Creosote bushes Juniper trees growing up through brown grass and dry red earth sky painted black and blue Culumous clouds held off in the distance and dirt splatters the windshield rolling rolling on rolling on what i need is. + disappointment click clack tree wheels tuffs of white cotton mixed in with the rumble of thunderheads and i had a line on and there was a sign jelly roll. Cigarette ash and the rain was holding off. Headed east headed east ping pong sing song. Desert air alone. Never had much time to talk about money, when i need a hammer i use it the rest of the time i leave it in the garage. Not much you can say about a hammer. It works. + I like your diction ohhh baby i loooove you diction. contemplate chemicals as a means of communication, if all you got is language all you got it four dimensions up-down, left-right, back-forward and what time is it. Bodeey is communication, sex is communication, chemicals are communication, images are communication, words too. My mind your mind ITS mind. i want to dream in eight sided polydimensional technicolor. + Corky voice over: New Mexico is dark few lights here and there, but they don't seem to have a sun. Ya its dark. theres some stars there's the dig dipper looking bigger and dippery then ever, looks more like a spatula to me but whom am i to say. + Southern man voice over: and there some rocks over thar by the Indian gaaaming facilities. and there's a big blinkin,' one a 'em radio towers i reckon + Homer: uuuuh look. truck. mmmm donuts. + Glow on the horizon could it be?! waiting for alien abduction mind fading. + You don't think we are Indians? Look at all these teepees we are....Indians. +` The first genuine signs of an altered sate of consciousness: inability to distinguish between movement and sitting still. Time becomes plural bendable mutable and simultaneously objective and subjective. Bending time affects space the ability to look into the distance behind the eyelids disappears and the world feels right on top of you, flattened out like a blanket over your head. then a feeling of dizziness and disorientation of visual field inability to judge distance. followed by flawed depth perception difficulty in walking and a feeling of separation of mind and body. The body will remain intact but the mind goes into something akin to active sleep. You are asleep without being asleep. The body seems to function on a light dark binary pattern regardless of whether or not the mind is there with it. + the final unanswered question of humanity: where do thoughts come from? The brain? how does a gooey cellular substance flush with electrical charges and billions of strung together molecules formulate complex abstract ideas about things that don't exist? I feel like a lucky strike, i think I'm toasted. + Once when i was five i had an imaginary friend named Steve. We got along great until one day he tried to steal my blanket and i kicked him out of a moving car. that was the end of Steve. + + Maya no intention of spending much time in New York City but she got slightly side-tracked by brown liquor, green marijuana and an eerie sense of syncronicity that seemed to scream out follow me. Her friend April had a friend who had a friend.... that had invited her to the annual naked party that the rebellious hippie type students threw every year at NYU to somehow prove that they were cooler than anyone else. Maya was amused by hippish college students and thought it was inane, but she also knew they tended to be in possession of chemicals that Maya was lacking. And they never even realize that drugs are not phase, they're a way of life that so threatens humanity that they have come to be the cardinal sin. + The naked party was a nationally known event held in an enormous old Victorian house three stories high wedged back off an alley in the East Village Mall. As you might imagine everyone at the party was naked, and as you might expect they were all severely inebriated. Maya danced around the rooms looking for some sort of powerful mind altering drug, she spied a wretchedly foul looking hippie boy who seemed like he was having a more innarestin' time than the rest of the people and cornered him to get an eighth of Psybilsilm Cubensis at the reason price of two minute of kissing and brief grope during which time Maya ate the mushrooms and escaped from further advances. The alcohol rumbled with the addition of stale fungus and suddenly she felt dizzy and a lot drunker then she had the moment before. Maya stumbled toward the bathroom to rid her body of the alcohol pollutants wondering if the mushrooms would act like peyote and be stronger after you through up. She opened the door too drunk to care if it was occupied and burst in to catch William, a slight man of about twenty five with a thin but muscular body, gently fucking a girl doggy style. Maya's world was beginning to become less and less vertical, but she caught the girls beautiful face in the mirror, perfectly framed by long angelic golden ringlets of hair that Maya’s eyes followed down to her sweat glistened nipples and heaving breasts. William was leaning toward the sink to do a line of cocaine, at that instant Maya was too drunk to be taken aback, she simply squeezed in and closed the door behind her and threw up in the toilet for a minute. After several gut wrenching heaves she tried to get up and sit down to pee, but the world was refusing to hold itself up and the toilet seat leapt up at her resulting in a fairly loud noise that made the girl turn her head and shimmy slightly looking back at her. + “you look like you could use a pick up, give her some coke William.” She smiled at Maya . William pulled his cock out of the girl but lost his balance turning around and accidentally slapped his cock against Maya's cheek + “Oh my god! I’m sorry! oh wow, did that just happen?” It was by far the most immediate and personal introduction to anyone she had ever had. The girl just laughed. + “Usually I date someone for a while before I let them slap my face with their dick.” Maya had found that sarcasm was funniest in the midst of insanity. + The girl laughed again, she bent down and licked Maya’s cheek, “Just getting my cum off your face,” she whispered in Maya’s ear. Maya did a line and felt much better and then another and then another and another until she felt downright spectacular. Then the girl grabbed her by the hand and led her out of the bathroom and down the hall into a room that was empty and smelled of the delightfully sweet aroma of Opium. + “You have Opium,” she murmured as the girl pulled her into bed. + “Yes I do." She pulled Maya down onto the bed. "My name is Chloe and that was William, and that's enough talk,” she lit and huca and passed the hose to Maya. + Picture: A blurry collage of images short circuited by imperfection and redeemed by the great opportunities of flesh and smokey tongues. Maya liked men and women, and was not, like most of the other bipedal apes of Usinc, afraid of having sex with her own image. Bisexuality exists potential for everyone, but only a handful realize the seductive pleasure of a body so close to the I. In fact Maya was far more selective of the men she slept with then women, but William, Chloe's boyfriend, was a sleek muscular yummy as one of Maya friends used to say, so she didn't complain when he climbed in bed too. Others at the party came and went but the three paid them no mind. Maya was lost in a world that for a moment offered the opportunity to let the music and the swirl of opium lights carry her into a sexual trance that welled up in her feet and travelled deliciously up her spine until it erupted in a whole body orgasm. + There was an odd moment after the orgasm when Maya had returned to the dance floor for a moment and then decided she wanted more and went back to the room only to catch William getting dressed and looking like he was going to leave. "Where are you going?" + "My friend needs some stuff." William eyed her suspiciously. + "At three in morning?" Maya furrowed her brow and held back from asking prying questions like who or why. "addict?" She asked. + "He pays me very well so that i won't have a problem catering to his whims." William pulled on his boots and got up to go, "Chloe's still in the bedroom you should let her take care of you..." He kissed Maya on the cheek and headed for the door. Maya watched him go and then walked back to the bedroom. + "Where the hell did William just run off to?" She asked closing the door behind her. + "Our friend Cary needed some things that William and I got for him." + "Cary?" + + + +Why aren't you gay? +-Sil Hawkard from Pissing on Gravities Rainbow + + The poetics of Allen carry long over and over into the the Quarter like Voodoo music and you know that they are with you and all will be solved when you are recognized. You hope that all you have come to believe is true and you want to know if we're all lost in the confusion and you want to think the smoke is clearing and surgeon will be stitching up the lacerations and you're licking up the blood. And every one seems to walk so confident and proud like they know so well what they are doing and you cutting into fear and they don't seem to notice. You're feeling like an idiot because it is so easy for them to walk proud and unafraid and you no longer care you want to see yourself smiling in a nineteen twenty's black and white photograph yellowed over the years and you want to know if you've been stuck in this station for to long you want to know if you've been down this line before. No one seems to understand why you're saying what you're saying and the lesbians don't understand men and the fags hate women and the heteros hate everyone and everyone is so dead dead dead afraid of sex. Why would you refuse an open mouth on your cock why would you deny the tongue snaking through the folds of your pussy simply because it came from a body that looked just like your own? Why deny half of all the sex you could ever have? Go back and confess your sins and catch the first train out of here you freaks. Its crowded and we haven't got the time or the resources to be having you around. Face up to the things you are not and could be, step aside and make room for those of us who are here to go. "I hope for you that you apply this happiness, this peacefulness" -JMS + + “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you” Chloe climbed on top of Maya and began sucking her nipples. Maya felt her body relax and could smell the familiar mingling of incense and opium smoke floating across the room she raised her head and saw Chloe’s hard nipples rub against her own sending tremors down her spine and an aching contraction gripped her pussy. The cream ran down her slit and trickled over her ass and onto the pillow. She drew up the Chloe’s leg until it was rubbing against her pussy, smearing herself on her thigh. Maya pulled Chloe’s mouth onto her own and kissed her hard, pushing her tongue into her warm sweet mouth, licking her lips and nibbling at her tongue. There mouths danced and the whole religious allegory of centuries seemed to swirl around from the Indonesian tapestries that hung on the walls and ceiling. Chloe rolled over and dragged Maya on top of her pushing Maya’s head down between her legs. Maya ran her hands across Chloe’s pussy and down her thighs, pulling her legs apart. She looked up at Chloe's ringlet hair and smiled her warmth through the cinnamon orange color she felt it flowing out through her chest nipples hard and sticking up like radio antenna. Drawing Chloe’s ass into her hands and lifting the pussy onto her tongue, Maya lapped at her creaming pussy, stabbing her tongue between Chloe’s glistening smooth and moist lips, dragging it up over her clit slowly to tease her at first, but Chloe grabbed Maya’s hair and forced her tongue between her lips and ground hard onto her tongue. Cum soaked Maya’s face and she began to lick as hard and fast as she could. + + + Exhausted and Satiated Maya and Chloe left the naked party together at seven the next day, carefully stepping over the delicate piles of sleeping flesh that litter the floor, admiring the groping hands clasped of breasts and clutching at limp cocks, crisscrossed and sleeping in splendor. Chloe took Maya to breakfast and the twenty four hour diner downtown and invited her to make the drive up to Boston and stay with her. + “So what is it you two do?” Maya said trying to make conversation with someone she realized suddenly —she had had sex with, done large quantities of opium, mushrooms, and cocaine, yet had never really talked to. Maya thought of the joke about the couple that was getting divorced just out of college. One of their friends says ‘what happened?’ ‘Well,’ says that man ‘we met and got married in college; I didn’t know we couldn’t get along when we were sober.’ + “So now you think because we fucked and shared some drugs that I'm going to bare my soul to you?” Chloe asked smiling. + “I was hoping,” said Maya meeting her smile. + “Well, okay, I can tell you the truth but you won't believe me." Chloe seemed to be measuring her up with words designed to lead Maya somewhere. + “'Belief is the death of intelligence,'” said Maya. + “Well Well well, you can read.” Chloe seemed to shift to a certain bitchy character that suddenly made her appear self righteous and altogether ugly in that smug ugliness that New Englanders seem to always have whether they mean it or not. She looked searchingly in Chloe's eyes and heard a voice, one she had never heard before telling her that smugliness is ugliness is fear/must cut through/ get them down from there/ stuck like a cat///. She quieted her voices and listened to the way Chloe's green eyes moved as she talked. She felt her breathe between sips of her coffee and watched to curl of her tongue as it formed words. She wondered absently if William was in love with her. + "The truth is that William and I work for a man named Cary, we make collages and sound loops which he needs when he goes um travelling." + "I knew a man named Cary," Maya was thinking aloud and instantly regretted it, but Chloe only smiled. At first it was warm and friendly but then a consumptive almost animal like fire began to burn behind her eyes or maybe it was Maya's own desires projected outward into Chloe's eyes. + "How would you like to come up to Boston and lick my pussy for a few days?" + She said it with such feline grace that it sounded as if she giving someone directions to a restaurant, Maya came back: "Are you going to lick mine?" + "I'm going to fuck you like you've never been fucked, so you'll stay fucked." + +We forget that sacred, +respectful sex may not look +like heterosexual monogamy, +and we forget that human +beings are sexual every +moment of their lives. +-Sallie Tisdale + + It reminds me of a place i used to live where in dark corners i watched a beautiful brunette and fell deeply in love with her, though we never spoke. I watched her like writer would smug certitude that i knew the real her better than she knew herself. I sat alone in that dark corner night after night waiting and watching. If you listen in silence the Buddhists say, you hear much more. Silence means no thought no word no picture, if you want to know what someone is saying stop listening to the syntax and watch how they say it. You only do that if you are internally quiet and listening, which involves the eyes as much as the ears. + i like to listen to Chloe watch her lips curl and retracted and form out words thoughts ideas smiles frowns all the expressions of human emotions which words are not needed for. Words are abstracted ideas intellectual masturbation, bodddiiiiyyy language is here-now happening, really occurring, Maya Maya Maya what are you doing you sound like you're in love with the girl... I am but I'm not; I'm not because being in love turns strange gears in my head and heart and soul and makes me change to better reflect upon the image i am so desperate to duplicate assimilate and make myself into. My love is possessive lays inroads across lives bringing separate things together i can never again tell someone i am in love with them because they always expect it to last forever. i hurt them when i leave and i never mean to i still love them i just have to leave. + Sex. the feel of her nipple rubbing coarsely against mine the softness of mashed breasts stuck together kissing chasing her tongue around her mouth. there is a reason writers are afraid of sex and hate trying to write it, they don't have words for it. They think its something that is happening, a thing that exists apart from ourselves, but it is not. It is in us —we are sex. Sex is seeping from our pores and we hate it, we deny it. I want to celebrate it, I want to have a mad passionate orgy with the entire world. I want men I want Women i want plants I want animals, all life in one orgiastic embrace like Kali and Vishnu; mouths locked on mouths, on breasts, on cocks, on cunts, cocks in cunts, in asses, between breasts, tongues licking necks, licking nipples, licking asses, fingers probing flesh, FLESH FLEsh FLesh searing and popping with electrostatic sexual energy. Is that so much to ask? Wouldn't you like it? Are you scared because you know you would and it might turn the world upside down? + How to suck seed: I like sucking on a man's cock —my mother would call me a whore. I like cock, the flesh there is much softer than anywhere else on a man's bodies, the cock is the closest a man gets to being a woman. It amazes me that women don't enjoy sucking cock more if only for that reason, of course that's not all i like about it. I like watching them squirm, making them twitch; i like looking in their eyes as my mouth slides down the shaft giving them that fuck me look that men spend most of there lives trying to coax out of women. Men are really quiet simple like that, look at them in the right way, beg for the right things (like pllleeeease ppllleeeease fuck me harder or yes cum all over my face...) and they will do anything you want. They will still try to front their character armor, try to treat you like an idiot try to prove themselves superior, but I never begrudge them that, if i were as dumb as a man and my ego were that defenseless I'd spend most of my waking hours trying to protect it too. + Maybe i should writing a guidebook for women called How To Suck Cock. I should definite reeducate them on the come part, many women think men like to come in your mouth, this is not true. Men want you to get messy, they want come in your mouth on your face on your breasts every where, its like they're marking their territory. You have to act like you like it too, and eventually you will...eventually you will find you are turned on by things much more perverted then you originally thought possible. You will find yourself not just wanting to suck cock but to rub your face all over it, devour his balls with you tongue making him twitch and begging for him to fuck your face. You will discover as I have that sex is not good until you are covered in sweat and cum and have violated all the taboos and laws of the country. You will also find that this will scare the living shit out of most men who run away when you walk in a room in stiletto skin tight rubber boots up to your cunt and nipple clamps with a chain, and say get on your knees and lick my asshole. They're good at dishing out perversion and degrading you but most can't take it when its your perversion and you degrading them. that is why i prefer bisexual women, women who know that sex is everywhere inside you and as the song says the last taboo was shattered by her tongue one night. + I think sex with women is more exciting, and easier than sex with men. I know women's bodies, they are my own body. By the nature of things having sex with women is more like masturbating, there is no coming to terms with the other. There is no Other. And usually women are adventurous than with men. This is vague and meaningless and horribly analytical,why am i writing this? No one will ever see it. Because i am horny and Chloe is at the store and William meeting some guy named Sil. William says he's cute. It would be really odd an unfathomable snychronistity if the Cary that they know is the same one i know...I'm tired of writing. i need coffee. + + +"To a person over 35 or 40 +the word "drug" means one +of two things: doctor-disease +or dope-fiend-crime. Nothing you +can say to a person who has this +neurological fix on the on the word +drug is going to change their mind." +-Dr Timothy Leary + + + Sitting at the twenty four hour diner and I wonder if I'm lost again. I wonder if i made some horrible mistake. I wonder if i should have been baptized? As if being born were a sin? What kind of fucked up belief is that? Welcome to hell, i guess. I want you to be naked always, i want you to be wild like a panther pacing the jungle. New York. timepiece. Dark bruises hanging low on bloody red brick world and the college kids smile absently at each other still snug in surrogate wombs. Eastern money all sick with age, death and decay do you even remember why you got rich or was it a hand out? I was brought here by money wanting for it that is. would you like to know what its like to not have it would you would you can you imagine. Money is a heavy hand; heavy when you got it heavier when you don't. And you dare to tell me what i ought to do what rules i ought to follow do you hear me labelling up your ugly world do you want to know what i think? Of course not you just hold your head up high hide behind your religions, your morals, your laws, your gods, your ceremonies, your traditions, your truth. You want to know what i think? Of course not. But you're going to one day I am going to be heard. I will write you a letter and you will hear it in your dreamsleep and it will seep into you like a virus and start to duplicate itself cell by cell until i break you down, pull out your stubborn beliefs and watch them in the pure light. And you will see your ugliness for what it is. And you will see that this is not the peacelove you can market and absorb and redirect like the 1960's. You will see it in the white light of nova ovens. It's William Burroughs at your doorstep with Hassan and me, and we will take back your ugliness and show it to all the galaxy and you will be afraid of yourself you will run from yourself and you will go nowhere. + Dear Boards, Syndicates and Cartels or the earth Jesse Helms and cold blooded mindless religious idiots of all history, Newt Gingrich and all corrupt power mongers selling the souls that are not yours and never will be yours, Banking families of the earth locking down lives that are not yours and never will be yours; hear me now. What have you that i do not have what have i that you need why are you vampiring off bodies that are not yours to use? Where do you base your authority from in what powerless jungles do you hide? What wet swamps do your bellies stink of knees are muddied with could you find no way into the Quarter but this in your atom splitters in your denial religions you just couldn't keep the lid down because your filth games do not pull in this here. We are here and we are here to stay and you will hear it you will feel it you will taste it but not until we tell you sill you know it because your books do not have the puzzle do not have the key do not know what you are looking for. And in those moments of confusion we will tear you to shreds gnawing like demons, preying on your flesh, throwing your ripped entrails on the subway tracks and watching you grind into nothing. Not a thing. i am not a thing. + Acrid caffeine burned stomach linings peeling off the damn thing girl in charge rages —i need supplies, nutrients the front line is taking heavy casualties. Stop into a french bistro with awnings covered like the french flag. Ham and cheese under a better name. Up the street there is William he's with another man can't make out if he's cute or not. Quicken pace. Man is getting into a BMW smiling very cute looks familiar. + A Window in the back of the BMW rolled down and out popped Cary's smiling face. "Maya I heard you were in the east....would you like to come to the western lands?" + "This is so odd," she smiled back at him. She shifted her hips and leaned down to the window giving Cary a kiss on the cheek. "I dunno, is Mr. Burroughs going to be there...?" + "Of course." + "Well i don't have any money so i don't think i can go..." + "If you don't think you can go then you can't go, but i have something for you anyway, actually its for all of you," he gestured at William and smiled at Chloe as she came running from up the street. He handed an envelope to Maya. sorry i can't talk we've got to be in Costa Rica by morning..." His voice was overwhelmed by the passing of a truck. Maya kissed him again and ran around to the drivers door and tapped on the window as Cary said hello/goodbye to Chloe. + "I didn't get your name?" She said as the window lowered enough to show a pair of muddy green eyes. + "Sil," he said rolling the window the rest of the way down. His lips didn't seem to move and there was no expression on his face, but behind the eyes Maya saw the intensity of something enormous burning. She was instantly obsessed. + "I'm Maya," she held out her hand which he clasped and kissed gently. + "Its nice to meet you Maya. Have a nice stay." the car started up and Sil smiled at her for a brief second before rolling up the black tinted window and heading down the street. Maya stood there for a minute watching the car disappear into Harvard Square. You to she thought blankly. Chloe and William were holding the door for her, she floated upstairs with them. + "What's in the envelope?" William seemed anxious to Maya as she flopped down on the couch." + "lets see..." It was a rather large envelope and she tore it apart like a birthday present. Three passports and three airline tickets spilled out onto the floor. They gathered them up and realized that they needed to be at the airport in two hours. + "Cary's sending us to the flotilla..." William seemed amazed. + "The what?" + Maya was not paying attention she was staring at the ten one thousand dollar bills taped to the inside of her passport. She noticed that it was her picture but not her name. She also noticed that Chloe and William did not have money in their passports. Exchange in Madrid. ...better rates read the note. + + +Why do today what you did yesterday +and can do tomorrow anyway? +-Maya Stevens from A Game-Circuit Guidebook + + Gliding down out of those Elysian fields you often feel tired lonely and a little bit afraid that if death is not the end then what the hell really is going on around here???? Sometimes looking into and through the eyes of someone you don't even know you get the tragic silence of empty timespace tugging at those mindstrings that hide until the lonely hour of the morning when the I sees itself in the mirror, and tries to reconcile the emotions of so many different state of mind —bring the contradictions of emotion into focus— only to reveal them to be more juxtaposed than you had originally imagined. What happens to the sad eyed boys you loved, but never spoke to, lusted after but never kissed warm lips, never felt, salty tequila necks never licked in tropical humid splendor. What becomes of the non-events those give lifes its tragic beauty? It lends poets' enthusiasm, hearing centuries of events that failed to undergo the formality of actually occurring. + Is this occurred, is this happening, are you reaching me or am i reaching you and what is the difference.? What is the difference between an observer created universe existing -only for the individual- and a set of1x1000000000000000000000000000000000 +000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000 multiverses all existing simultaneously? Why has everyone lost their wild-eyed enthusiasm for life? Why was i born in this strange cynical decade? What will you do when the whole thing goes up? Change tunnels involuntarily that's what you'll do; maybe you should start practicing? Do you ever feel hungry tireduglyhungry? Do you ever feel your fingers dancing on skin that isn't there? Slow motion glow of torpid rhythms, dancing like words —first there is skin, then there is no skin, then there is. Undulations felt time-ripple like, something Dali would approve of. From right up under torrid kisses a yearning gripping phantasmal emotion claws at you like rust. digging digging. Have you ever seen hungry eyes? gripped and held them for an instant that transcended TimeSpaceMind points and fell together in grace, like Dante's vision standing on its ear, staring you readydareugly in the face? Don't you want to go? don't you ever want to let go for a second? to see the approval oblivion lugs up behind it? Can you feel it? Its in foreign cities, lands you've only dreamed of. Have you ever wandered what it was exactly that makes the milk of paradise, what did Coolidge see? Have you ever wanted the elixir she carries in that elliptic second? Have you ever hungered? She's hungry yearning tie the tiger to a stick. That thing is going to eat your flesh in horrors you never thought could be true. Don't you want to go? We are here. Don't you want to go? + It was a couple of thousand desert miles and a few seasons ago and you were walking fast to catch a train you'd already missed. And a billboard ad that wasn't new two years ago, spent like a sperm poodle condom. You're just sitting in the red vinyl cushions at an all night diner spinning a few tracks on the jukebox, burying concrete +highway traces of noise, headlights dragging past. Calling up visions of lost highways, dredged out images blurred together; passing seasons traced out in the arks of headlights carved through concrete, and you pull to the side of the road recollecting missed side streets, passed exits and you haven't slept a moment since Taos years ago. Lying down in the back seat, A.M. only radio, and you're playing along on a dimestore guitar you got this past week for ten bucks in Las Crusas, New Mexico, traded it for dinner from a man who already heard music in the season's knew the uglysimpletruth and had no need to catch what you had missed. You drowned it out with desert miles spent walking on asphalt. Mescaline, Morphine and you tried to catch it, photographfreezeframed for an eternity's preservation, just as a moment slid by. Memory is seared to film. Another missed exit on desert highways, the dust turned to miles and passed you out on the two lane, rickety and prone to ruin in the seasons when you passed through; too tired not to stop at an all night diner for a Kerouac cherry pie on the plastic stools. Diner red, hard formica counters raised out of cold concrete floors —scuffed from the worn heels of trucker boots. Watch them treading season after season across the threshold and into the red glow just to rest wearied eyes and maybe spin a few tracks from days past. The waitress departs without a care for the miles missed and you're writing up a catalog of things to seedothink. Fresh customers arriving out of the chilled Kentucky mist. + Sad desert of two days driving slams you back down in the booth, speakers ease out the rhythm of headlights blearing past and the Las Crusas guitar reflects a Picasso shape on the concrete of the parking lot. Thee mist interrupting the even light just +to play proud chords of songs unwritten to mark the passing seasons. Missed out of haste, sown into concrete known only in diner light whose reflection is just fragmented enough with the past to see all the seasons. + Have you ever been hungry? + + Maya had never been to Europe or the Middle East nor had she been in a floating geodesic dome before. The plane touched down at midnight in Madrid. The three travellers were met at the airport by a limo; maya looked at the sleek black car and suddenly had a change of heart. She told them she would catch up in the next few days, reasoning that Cary would not have given her ten thousand dollars if he expected her to go straight to the flotilla. + From the airport Maya got a cab and attempted to lose herself in the night of Madrid. She walked in the crowded streets alone looking for a club or a bar in which she could pass the night. They buildings were white and the streets narrow she walked aimlessly for a while studying the shops and houses wondering what it was like to live somewhere that people had been living for nearly fifteen hundred years. The heavy fiction of history seemed to hang like vaporous lead fog on the streets. When Usincer's travel abroad they are forced to confront the fact that a two hundred year history is but a blip. Maya had never been on a street that was thousand years old in fact the one she was on now had been repaved in 1986, but this did not enter into her thoughts she was thinking that at least some street had been here for a thousand years. Eventually she came to a series of side-streets and alleys that overflowed with bars,cafe's and clubs; drunken Europeans spill out onto the streets and she felt drunken Spanish eyes leering at her. Spanish: Senorita! Come here, you need someone? I'll take care of you eh? We dance make love. Maya ducked in bar without acknowledging them she ordered scotch and sat at the bar for a while listening to the swirling sounds of Spanish and French. She could translate snippets here and there: fuck the government! chinga this and chinga that. Maya hadn't been around real Spanish before, but she recognized traces of bastardized Mexican cuss words and slang. The bar was packed and hot the walls were red and Maya felt the stench of centuries of people with poor bathing habits. Usincer's are a clean obsessed people Maya thought as she finished her scotch and headed toward the door.She went to akl;sdjf lkj, the adfdkjf, and then to a club with the promising name of 69. It was here that she ran into a boisterously drunk American who claimed he was a doctor. + Waiben was leaving when Maya arrived, but the presence of a beautiful white girl convinced him to stay. She noticed him primarily because he was the only white person in the club which reminded Maya that she too was white and that she too probably stuck out every bit as much in this sea of olive-brown faces. But, Maya paid him little mind and settled herself at the bar ordering another scotch. She got her drink and turned around to see Dr. Waiben standing. leaning against a pole and staring at her. She felt an ill vibe about his person and turned back around to the bar, but he came up and leaned in next to her ear. "Are you from Usinc?" + She did not turn to look at him and continued to roll her scotch back and forth on the bar shuffling it between her hands like an ice puck. + "Excuse me miss are you from Usinc?" + "Je Ne Sais Pas?" she smiled and shook her head. + Waiben was quite drunk and he started to ask again only louder like people do when the realize that someone doesn't understand them as if they will when you say it at twice the volume. He caught himself and simply smiled. He stared at her in a way she recognized: hungry. She could tell that deep down he would like to deposit some or preferably all of his sperm on her, Maya knew that was men's first thought when they saw her or any woman for that matter, and Maya was well aware of her biological power over men. She let her spaghetti strap slide down her shoulder so that he could see the top of her breast better. His eyes followed it and she wiggled in her stool and leaned forward to get a napkin, playing him like a fiddle. He just kept staring at her finally her turned and mumbled under his breath and into his drink "Sleep with me you stupid french cunt." But loud enough that Maya caught it. She turned looked him dead in the eyes and said: "If I went to bed with you you won't live through the experience...insecure pencil dicked Usinc businessmen have never turned me on anyway." + He stared at her trying to absorb the impact and looking like a Yugo that's been hit by a cement truck. Maya smiled and stared back, reading him. He was a curious man; medium build and of nondescript stature, the kind of person who passes without notice on a crowded Usinc street. Perfectly nondescript and it gave her the creeps, Maya knew that its the ones that you don't notice that you have to watch out for. + "Actually I'm a doctor," he said lamely. + "That's the best you can do?" she smiled again. "What was your name?" + "Dr. Waiben." + "Well Dr. Waiben it was nice to meet you," she held out her hand and he shook it. Maya sucked down the rest of her drink and set it on the bar. "Would you like another drink?" she could tell Waiben thought this was his big chance, men like to think that if they give you something it means you will give them something in return. They liked that logic so much they built an entire society based on it. Maya hated the barter system and never sold her conversation for drinks. She smiled an artificial ironic smile and said yes waited until he turned to get the bartenders attention and then ducked out the door and into the Spanish night. She hit he street running and laughing outloud much to the amusement of two men kissing in darkened doorway. she answered them with catcalls and a whoop chinga me el nino.... for the first time she felt free and continued running down the Madrid street paying no attention to where she was going. Eventually she found a hotel and got a room. + The next day Maya bought a laptop computer and after much haggling and showing of money got the man at the store to give her a number of another man that claimed he could get her modem that could dial off of payphones. she got a bus ticket to Marabella in the south of Spain which her pocketguide to Spain said was where all the rich and famous movie star types hang out. This, she reasoned, is usually where all the fun stuff goes on —in the houses of the rich and richer. The bus ticket was third class which Maya always travelled so that she could see the countryside and be able to stop frequented to smoke joints or get something to eat. She typed on the bus not worrying about the eyesore nature of a beautiful Usinc woman wearing jeans and a tank top listening to headphones and typing on a laptop on a nineteen seventies bus full of working class Spanish citizens lumber over the hills. From a payphone in aklsdjf kadjf she emailed Cary a message on how to go about getting a boat and shared a hash cigarette with a boy that looked about fifteen and spoke no Usinc. he approached her smoking form shyly and asked something in Spanish which Maya took to mean he wanted her cigarette, she handed it too him and he puffed on it and smiled at her after a thoughtful pause, "lkasdjf?" She took it to mean hash she smiled si. he rambled for sometime in Spanish gesturing occasionally toward the town. Maya caught some of it it seemed like he was offering her something food perhaps, but she declined No grasias and bid him farewell getting back on the bus. It took the better part of the day and into the night to get to Marabella. Maya was tired and went straight to the first hotel and crashed out for the night. + She woke up the next morning and wired herself up to the internet expecting directions to a boat of some sort. Instead there was a map of Marabella with a cafe highlighted and a note below it that read see you here at eleven. Maya looked at the clock it was already ten thirty she threw on her clothes and ran to catch a cab. the drive wound through the town and Maya saw the Mediterranean for the first time. The town reminded her of New Orleans must have looked a hundred years ago whitewash buildings and wrought iron railings. New Orleans if it had been on a hill. The cab dove down the hill and into waterfront plaza littered with Orange Trees and sidewalk vendors. Lovely, Maya murmured in an British accent, imagining some snotty old British bitch delighting in the mock authenticity of Marabella isn't it just lovely.... + Cary was sitting at table in front of cafe klajdklf eating eggs. he got up and gave Maya a hug, offering her a seat. + "I see you decided to take advantage of the opportunity to travel...you don't have guilt circuit cut yet though or you would have just said hey can you send a boat for me... + I didn't want to put you out...' + "No one ever puts me out if i want to do something that i am able to do i do it, if i don't i don't. I find this greatly simplifies what most people call domestic life and leaves me free to do more interesting things: the why's how's and whatfor's.... He smiled, "now for the funny part " and Maya got the lecture that Sil had gotten many years earlier. + + + +Within the province of the mind, What I believe +to be true is true or becomes true, within the limits +to be found experientially and experimentally. +These limits are further beliefs to be transcended. + —Dr John C Lilly from The Center of the Cyclone + +October 23,1999 Two weeks later and i feel a little better —less motion sickness. Went into something like a trance state last night with the sensory depravation chamber and the mushrooms. Cary kept asking me what i saw when i couldn't really make out anything that was describable he gave me a book how to build maps in hyperspace or something of that nature. Mostly i felt cold as if i were on a wind blown desert mesa or something to that effect. Sense of dread and anticipation like you feel when starting a trip that you know will not be easy, but i never went anywhere. Sat around in the bar last night with Chloe and Cary talking about the potential effects of being able to receive all the information in a ten dimensional lattice work universe such as ours. The question being: would computers be capable of translating dimensions the we don't normally have ocular reference points in? In other words Cary was arguing that if implanting new programs in the human mind is through chemical means does that mean that addition things could be seen if chemical were cross referenced (so to speak) with digitally enhanced ocular images? Light conversation around here. That's the thing i can't get over is that there are so much information stored here in computers in nanocreatures and human nervous systems its absolutely incredible. And Cary continues to baffle me in way that no one ever has before without me wanting to sleep with them. Not that i haven't had sex with him, he took me through a wide array of tantric and other sex magic traditions the other day and i came so hard i saw other universes the satori things eastern mystics are always raving about. But it wasn't erotic it was just sex. Really damn good sex. Sometimes i think Cary has cracked the code and knows things the rest of us aren't going to know until after we die and sometimes i think he's just as clueless as the rest of us he just happens to be the guy with the money. I asked him about that this morning and he looked at me for really long time like i was insane. He got that very thoughtful look on his face like i can tell when he finally hits at emotion; he said just because you're dead doesn't mean you stop programming your consciousness. You just don't do it with your body anymore. I take that to mean that he is a trickster like the rest of the religious people of the world, he just tricks me into thinking about things i find enjoyable where as David Koresh did not. + Still haven't met Sil Hawkard again and no one seems to know where he is or when of even if he is coming back. I just remember the piercing green eyes that sparkled and laughed while the face did nothing. Apparently i am not alone in obsessing over his eyes everyone here says that one of the things they notice about him is that her never looks directly into their eyes. When he talks he seems miles away that's what William said when i asked him about him on the plane. But everyone seems to like him or at least respect him even if they don't understand. I heard a story the second day i was here that he had vanished and that not even Cary knew where he was. Apparently he lived here for about four years leaving to conduct some experiments in south America but always going back here never said mush just watched. Some days he just sat in the bar and smoked hash and stared at the walls other days he would just read magazines or watch and laugh as people went about their jobs. they said they never felt that he was laughing at them rather that he laughed because he liked the way he felt when he was laughing. I asked Cary about it that and he just started laughing. He gave me a book that Hawkard wrote though, something called the rubber octopus I read most of it in a day. Very confusing jumbled sort of book that felt more like an interpersonal wrestling match between the author and the story then it did a novel. I couldn't tell what was real and what wasn't and characters would appear without explanation and disappear again and he kept reminding the reader that they are reading a book and that he is in there mind. I am writing a new program in your mind sentences would start and then he would go on to say thinks like UFO's are real i saw one in August 4 2954 on a dirt road in Oklahoma. It was still dark just an hour before sunrise i was driving a '69 Ford truck, the sky was black and the only thing i could see was the road in front of me and then there was a flash and two figures approached me and offered me pancakes and then got back into their spaceship and took off again. then the text would digress into language experiments with semantics and Linguistics. It gives you the feeling that the author is brilliant, but doesn't care if you follow him or not he just wants you to have a good time. And the sex scenes...if he can actually have sex as well as he writes it... he needs to come back here so I can test that theory. + + +November 19, 1999 I flew with Cary to Paris today to have some more tests done on his brain to see if he indeed has a tumor. He still hasn't mentioned anything to anyone yet, he doesn't seem to be bothered by it, but i cried all night last night. + +November 23, 1999 Cary is going to die. the doctors give him two months tops. I flew back alone to the Flotilla he said there were some things he needed to do, but that he would come to have a bon Voyage party. He seemed genuinely excited about death, maybe he is in denial. + +November 29. 1999 Cable received on the antique telegraph machine in Cary's office read: + A thousand apologies for not being able to return.stop.I leave all of you with sufficient funds to continue the facilities into the near future.stop.shutting down costa rica facility all persons there return to Flotilla if it strikes your fancy.stop.smile.stop.i died yesterday and Sil is dictating this to the woman at the telegraph office.stop.remember if death is not the end then what the hell is really going on around here.stop. + +STOP.STOP.STOP.STOP.STOP.STOP.STOP.STOP.STOP.STOP.STOP.STOP.STOP +47 words 127 pages + + + diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/Y of R CHAPTER ONE.odt b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/Y of R CHAPTER ONE.odt Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..620db4d --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/Y of R CHAPTER ONE.odt diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/Y of R CHAPTER ONE.txt b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/Y of R CHAPTER ONE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4348c7f --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/Y of R CHAPTER ONE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,134 @@ + … It is just, it is just about to, it is just about to rolywholyover. —James Joyce + +Eigenstate One (The Year of the Rocket) + It was the year they launched the first privatized rocket into orbit and it captured to imagination of the world much like I imagine Neil Armstrong did, although I wasn’t alive then. It set in motion a global shift from stale cynicism to optimism; it turned our dreamminds back on. At least from my point a view, in hindsight the rocket became incidental, as any revolution does after it is over, but at the time it was a monumental event. The generation I grew up with had no one thing to identify our dreams with, in end we were all on that rocket and for me that’s where it all started. +Of course it did set off a chain of events that forever change everyone who lived through it but I only know that with hindsight. At the time it was a symbol and I knew even then that the first step to making a dream reality is to have the right symbols, something needed to change in those days we just didn’t know what that it was. We stumbled about like sleep walkers toiling through empty existences. The rocket changed that; it brought the magic of space out of the hands of the government and gave the universe back to the imagination of the individual. + It was also the beginning of the end of government. Of course the decline of government power was nothing, new for years sociologists had been aware that the human mind was decentralizing itself. I remember in college a professor tracing the de-evolution of power from GOD to KING, to kings, to Congresses, and so on with control always being more diluted as time progressed. But the rocket gave us a locus, it drew us onto a common ground of wonder, it was applied theory —reality. +In Usinc the primitive tribal-monkey routine of government had been falling out of favor ever since the Internet replaced, first the Electoral College and then Congress itself. No one was interested in politics anymore, no one cared, we just knew there were problems and we wanted to solve them. It was a strange and unsettling time to be alive, even I had been a tad alarmed when it was decided that the United States would be privatized and its name changed to Usinc, but in the end it made no real difference in anyone’s daily life. Except maybe the bureaucrats in Washington who lost their jobs, but most of them moved into the private sector without to much trouble. +When the shuttle completed its two day orbit there were huge parties to celebrate and everyone was wondering how long before they could afford to go. Only Televangelists like Walter Finks decried the new space race as obscene and immoral, but he thought everything aside from god was immoral and obscene. Finks had his loyal followers that were opposed to just about everything fun and no one paid them much mind anymore; only the most backward people still watched television and they had been left (or stayed) behind long before the rocket. We were through with dire predictions from religious idiots and scientists alike. In the end I guess Cynicism came full circle back to Hope and even the pessimists lost their audience —we had cried wolf too many times we already knew nothing would come of it. Everyone talked about what an exciting time it was to be alive… people living in every age may well have said the same thing, but that’s only because being alive on the third planet is exciting. + +The rocket went off at 6:23 EST from the NASA pad in Cape Canaveral; I woke up exactly three hours later just before sunrise in Los Angeles. The room was still dark but I could see the translucent glow of morning beginning to bleed through the window. I sat up and looked at the clock, it read 6:23; I had only been asleep for five hours. I didn’t know about the rocket yet but I could sense that something had happened, the prevalence of EtherTwo, the Virtual Net, had given us all a boosted feeling of what they used to call ESP. It turned out that virtual reality activated previously unused portions of the brain that gave everyone a closer connection. I wasn’t much for scientific detail, but I had noticed the effects shortly after my first trip, everyone had. +I lay there for a while staring at the rough plaster ceiling imagining it to be the surface of the moon and trying to sense what it would be like if I were slowly orbiting its convoluted landscape at about five hundred feet just floating in the infinite emptiness of space. I believe it would feel something like I felt snorkeling last summer in the Cayman Islands. I thought of about it then too, floating there on the surface of the water looking down at the ocean floor trying to see craters and ridges instead of coral and sand. The water filled in around my head, plugged my ears and cut off the outside world; I could hear myself breathing in the silence. Space is pure silence. +I lit a cigarette and turned on my lamp; the warm murky-yellow glow of the rice paper shade gave a harsh glare and made me squint momentarily until my eyes adjusted. At the time I was living in modest sized studio on Huntington Harbor which is about half an hour south of Los Angeles proper. I was killing time or vacationing or some combination of the two. I had family in LA so I was in town for the holidays and I had sublet this place for a few months. I was anxious to get out of LA, but if I was going to be there I figured I might as well get a nice place. +The studio was essentially one large room with a door to the bathroom and half a wall partitioning off the kitchen. I slept on the couch to conserve space; the only other furniture was an oversized chair and a rinky-dink bookshelf I constructed out of cinderblocks and Walnut boards. My only improvement on the place has been to paint the walls white and decorate them with my black and white photographs. I didn’t receive many visitors in those days so the place was spartan, but it was better than jail. +I had been released from LA County about a month before. Like everyone I met on the inside I was innocent although, to be absolutely honest. I had been a thief, but to prove the irony of life, the crime I actually got caught for I never committed. However even I knew that I would get caught eventually for something, and since the crime they convicted me of was considerably less than what I could have been charged with, I considered myself lucky and served my six months as a model prisoner. Six months is a long time to spending a ten by twelve room, but it did have its upside —I read. I read constantly in between being bused down to various other jails where three other inmates and myself cleaned cells, changed linens and mopped floors. I read a lot about photography, which until jail had been just a hobby, but now it was a job. Sort of. And no I didn’t get raped; I was in county jail not prison. +The first privately funded rocket was just passing over Los Angeles when I woke up that morning although it was too early for anyone to care much. As bleary-eyed business people stood in line for coffee they slowly noticed the headlines and they went home to port into E2 and watch the video feed from space. I didn’t port in until after lunch, instead I popped into the Garden of Delights and took a short acid trip, after an hour or so I got in the shower, and went for my morning walk. I went as I usually did to Café du Monde, a kind of all night French diner if there is such a thing. It was quaint and peaceful around eleven in the morning when I sat down for coffee. +Café du Monde was on the boardwalk in Sunset Beach and Claire and I met for breakfast every Monday. It was January but the weather was typically LA —seventy-two and sunny. One thing I have learned over the years is that while everything will fail at some point, it will never get cold in LA. I called LA home for almost twenty-five years and I can safely say that not once in that time do I ever recollect being cold. +Los Angeles was as it always had been for as long as I’ve known it, the epicenter of the cultural/tech revolution. It was soulless and bright like the light at the end of the tunnel, but it was my home and had a connection to it whether I liked to admit it or not. In fact before I began my career as a thief I had written a book about LA, celebrating the uneasy paranoid inferiority one gets from growing up in a land of actors, of course no one ever published it. I worked here and there in cafés and wrote occasional stories to support myself, which is why I had so much free time. That’s another thing about LA it always seems like you are the only one that has to work for a living while everybody else just floats from party to party; naturally that is not literally true, but if you spend enough time there it certain feels that way. +Someone had left a newspaper on the table and that was when I first saw the news about the shuttle; the headline was in one-inch bold type that fairly splashed across the page ‘DeLiTech Launches First Private Shuttle.’ Three executives from DeLiTech were orbiting the earth even as I lit my cigarette. DeLiTech was the manufacturer of the first commercially available virtual reality system, which I had just used. DeLiTech was also rumored to be the largest and most profitable entity on the planet and many people clinging to old beliefs thought DeLiTech was running the whole planet by now. EtherTwo was littered with sites ‘proving’ such a worldwide conspiracy, but rational people like myself really didn’t care. Now they were going off the planet too. It made me laugh at first; I could picture the Ether jam that would hit by two o’clock as the conspiracy sites went into overdrive. +I sipped a cup of coffee and listened to my stomach growl as it snarled at the acidic liquid churning away in it’s emptiness. Behind me I heard a middle-aged couple talking about the launch. He said he wanted to go into space himself and wondered how long it would be before the common man could afford such a thing, and she wanted to know what sex in zero gravity would feel like. We all wanted to know what weightless sex would feel like; kind of awkward I imagined. +I was waiting for Claire, it was unusual for her to be late, and I was about to call her Donne when I saw her running up the boardwalk; she was smiling and looked excited. Claire was seven years younger than I was in age and several older than I was in lifetimes. She had that inborn wisdom that a lot of us never get even at the end of the timeline. I watched her smiling face framed by short blond curls; she was wearing tight black leather pants and a red shirt with a mid length coat; she had the smile of someone who has no worries. But I knew Claire well enough to guess that there was pain down a couple stories in the basement of her mind. Still she didn’t volunteer much of it and I was not in the excavating business. +“I’m sorry I’m late, my father called.” She flopped into the chair opposite me; “did you order yet?” +“No,” I smiled at her as she reached into her bag and pulled out a cigarette, “what did your dad say?” Claire’s father was a bit of a mystery to me, I knew he was rather wealthy and traveled a lot; he seemed to work very hard at whatever it was that he did. He talked a lot about gambling and investing stocks I gathered he did something with IPO’s, but I had only a crude idea of what that meant. +“Did you see the paper?” she talked as she lit a cigarette. I nodded and she told me that her father was good friends with ‘Arthur’ the head of DeLiTech, he had called her to say that he might be going into space in the next six months, but nothing was sure yet. He had called to ask her if she thought he should go. “What did you tell him?” “Are you kidding? I told him to save a spot for us.” +I smiled and thought for an instant that if this girl could get me into space I would marry her, but then I set that thought aside and pondered the reality of space. The waitress took our order and Claire told me about her night at a club, but I was still thinking about her father, Arthur, DeLiTech, and what it meant to have civilians in space. When I was younger the space program had sort of died; the public took little or no interest although I knew that the program itself continued to develop. But at the table that day it occurred to me that just as westward movement of Americans had been precipitated by westward movement of soldiers, so too it seemed that space exploration was going to look a hundred years from now. First we send the soldier to check things out and then if it looks okay we fall them twenty years later. +I read somewhere that the time between a scientific revolution and its seamless absorption into culture was usually about sixty years, which meant that the space thing, if you took the man on the moon to be the starting point, was just about three quarter of the way rooted into culture. +Claire’s story was that she had gotten kicked out of the club for being underage, but had managed somehow or other to get back in and then to her own genuine surprise she had been asked by some agent type to be in a video for EtherMusic. My ears perked up at the end when I heard EtherMusic. +“I told my dad and he said not to do it, but that guy Arthur from DeLiTech… he knows some people who could get me into the interactive stuff if I wanted to do that. I don’t know, it might be fun…” +“Is that how come you got VirtTECh for so cheap?” I had always wondered where she got the money for the hardware; retail stores sold it for over a thousand and I knew Claire didn’t have that much money to waste on toys —I of course had stolen mine. “Sort of, I think my dad won it somehow or other; he didn’t have time to use it so he gave it to me.” Claire didn’t seem interested in my question and seemed somewhat annoyed that I had asked it. She was always rather vague about her father. I had been to dinner with the two of them a couple of times, but they spoke in some sort of code that I always felt I was intruding on so I mostly kept my mouth shut and listened. +Claire was a dancer; she was a very good one, I met her two days before she was due to go and dance for New York City Ballet, but she hated it and came home two months later. We had been friends since she was in New York, but the sex was limited to those times when we happened to be in the same city at the same time. Once we were having a late night snack at this café by her house and the waitress, a friend of Claire’s, asked us how we do you do that?” I assumed she meant the separation, but I wasn’t really paying attention to her and all the sudden Claire started sobbing and moaning out “I don’t know how I do it its so hard…he just doesn’t love me enough to stay in one place…” she put on quite a show and it was all I could do not to laugh. How we “did that” was quite simple, we didn’t know any other way to do it. +Some people have a need to be around each other constantly in order to be happy; Claire and I would have lost our minds in such a relationship, we were far to independent for some kind of obsessive compulsive love. She was the first independent person I had ever been involved with and in the six months I had known her neither one of us had ever spoken about our relationship. We were to busy doing to stop and overanalyze what we were doing and for me it was the healthiest thing I had ever had in my life. I never asked Claire, but she seemed happy with the arrangement. There was little else we could have done, both of us traveled a lot, me for the hell of it and her for dance. In fact she had just been admitted to the prestigious Julliard Academy and was getting ready to move to New York. +As for myself I was all set up with an odd job in some backwater eddy of Georgia with a wealthy client who wanted me to make AO images of his art collection so that he could construct a gallery in the EtherMet. I didn’t know very much about AO’s I had helped a friend so something similar and I guess this guy asked him who did it and he passed it on to me, despite the fact that my friend had done most o the work. I was studying up on digital imaging and if all went well the paycheck from this guy would keep me for a year or more, depending on where I decided to travel to. +The last three months had actually been the most time that Claire and I had spent in the same eigenstate together since we met. For the first time I didn’t really want to leave her, but it was inevitable, we both had separate lives and if we didn’t respect that we would never last. We talked about her plans for a while and then mine; after a smoke or two she had to go and I was left sitting on the boardwalk alone once again. After a while I went home to do some packing for my trip and to port into E2 and check out the space adventure firsthand. + + + + + + + + + + + + +Eigenstate Two + + The collapse of the state vector was old news to physicists, but it meant nothing to the average citizen of the United States. Sil Hawkard changed that. He mixed metaphors and collapsed the state vector on everyone. Sil started out college like every other white middle class acid-dropping freshman majoring in philosophy. After that first acid trip though nothing was ever the same. He dropped “the liberal studies crap” as he was later heard to refer to it, and double majored in Quantum Physics and Aeronautical Engineering. When he had first brought this proposal to his professors they had laughed at him and when he refused to back down they got quite angry. You can’t do that they said, no one could handle it. They were wrong and Sil got undergraduate degrees in both. +He was something of a legend around the campus of Berkeley, wild rumors circulated about drugs, occult magic, orgies, the sort of things everyone wished they were doing were projected onto Sil. The truth was somewhat more mundane, he had no friends in town and nothing better to do so he studied and worked eighty to ninety hours a week to get the degrees. He then shocked an entire science department by getting a Masters degree in Philosophy. The same professors who said he couldn’t handle the former load couldn’t believe that he had turned his back on them after working so hard. He went on to write his doctoral thesis on the history of anarchy. +By this time he was taking some form of ethnogen on a monthly basis. Sil refused to use the word “drug” and distanced himself from those who did. He was primarily taking psilocilium-containing mushrooms, but he had taken acid and peyote as well. What he got out of them is hard to say, but a good guess would be insight into the nature of reality, because he got very good at altering everybody else’s. + Sil was quite amused when he finally left school at the age of thirty-two to find that very few employers would believe his resume. A woman he spoke to at the Berkeley office of transcripts told him that his was the most requested transcript in there entire database. Sil took a variety of old jobs working in research labs, lecturing as guest at colleges, consulting for the Rand Institute. Most people that Sil had contact with were academia and bored the shit out of him, so he took to hanging out with a different type of personality ones that were what most people call criminal. +Of course Sil did not consider them such except in the most close-minded legal kind of way, but a man who wrote his doctoral thesis on anarchy is not going to have a moral problem with crime. In fact Sil saw crime as the future of mankind. What is illegal and immoral three hundred years ago is the accepted reality of today. Less than half of the adult population believes in God, three hundred years ago to say things like that led one to a human barbecue. Hardly anyone thinks that sex is horrible and should be limited to twice or three times a year, and yet a hundred years go many in the medical profession considered it just that. The list goes on, but the point is that to Sil’s mind, what is going to change tomorrow are the things we can’t talk about or do today. So it made sense to him to hang out with them. +Unbeknownst to most he wrote a book. He published it himself and distributed it privately; he called it End Government Now. It was wildly optimistic and hinted at some rather strange, perhaps creative is a better word, solutions to complex problems like word hunger, human rights, space exploration, physical immortality and what he called “the only true law.” + The first page read: +Modern mathematical theory seems to validate the logic of anarchy by the simple recognition that events are seldom causal and are, curiously enough, totally acausal. In other words what appears to be a direct cause-effect scenario is in fact dependent on a myriad of other factors which we can no longer afford to ignore. A world based on acasual arguments is in essence the natural state of the known universe. To take such a model of reality and use it to test all the human systems such as government, social conventions, economics and interpersonal relationships is the focus of this book. Therefore to model the universe any other way and even to use this map without updating it on a minute to minute basis is to misinterpret the available incoming data. To pretend as we do that the systems thought up by the greatest minds of two hundred years ago are still an accurate model of reality is tragic. The evidence that nothing is working anymore is all around us and the pundits of all different beliefs are too busy laying blame to notice what is really the heart of the matter —our dreams are not reflected in our daily lives. +Anything based on such an inaccurate map is wrong not because the thing itself is a priori wrong but because the map it started from is wrong. Therefore all systems not operating on the laws of chaos are doomed to failure because they do not reflect what we know to be true. Government does not work because it was developed from a binary map that is regrettably outdated. +Government then is outdated and in my mind no longer necessary for humanity to function smoothly. Just as we had to shed the feudal system of kings and serfs so now must we shed the democracy which has become every bit as much of a prison (literally and figuratively) as the dominator system it replaced. Government has become a self-imposed limitation and in order to address the complex web of problems that faces the global community we must first address the system itself. Government has had the acausal effect on the governed of becoming a surrogate god. Instead of a savior from the skies we are waiting for one from the well springs of our own DNA and indeed our chances for success may well be less than our ancestors who prayed in vain to a god that we now know does not exist. +The first challenge to anyone wanting to faze out the dinosaur of government is bring people around to the idea that they need not look to the skies or their fellow man, but in stillness examine the “thing that thou art.” Education (for those without the background in teleology) is the battlefield on which we will stake our fight. It is my plan to do the very thing that all stale fundamentalists fear, to free the minds of their children. Modeling language as a virus William S. Burroughs showed that successful brainwashing (learning) is no more difficult than giving the idea you wish to infect a point of entry. I can say no more than that, but first more on anarchy itself and how we use the term. +Anarchy is the only system which allows the brain to accurately map ideas, events, emotions, subconscious thought, dreams, hopes, and synchronicities because it allows the free floating mind to build a map as each new situation arises rather than trying to fit it onto an existing map. The anarchist does not try to put a square peg in a round whole. That is to say that the human mind in a way similar to a computer creates a path of electrochemical reactions each time it receives new information, however when confronted with the same or a similar situation it sends the idea back down the first path. We call this process memory and it is indispensable for much of our reactions to stimuli. For instance we learn at a young age that green means go, a signal path is created that says go and when the brain runs across green signals for the rest of its life it tends to send a go signal. This is very useful, as we do not need to relearn it every time we are at a traffic light. But it is not useful when we are dealing with the infinitely more complex realm of ideas and beliefs. +Fortunately it is possible to retrain the brain and in fact we might well recognize that all of human history is a record of our efforts to retrain our brains into new worlds and new ideas. The term anarchy in the context that I am using requires you to re-train your brain. +Most people were taught (brainwashed) to fire the term anarchy down a signal path littered with associations of political chaos where murderers run naked through the street fucking helpless women and doing blizzards of drugs. This apocalyptic vision is very much necessary for the current state of affairs to be maintained. And a powerful minority of neophobes has a vested interest in maintaining the status quo. I do not mean to herein imply a conspiracy, on the contrary someone who is not open to new ideas could never manage a conspiracy. What I mean is that static brains gravitate toward static ideas. Thus the secret to changing the world is to change the way we live in it. + Anarchy, like life itself is infinitely more complicated than simple political gaming, left wing right wing; the whole concept of a binary system is not accurate. The problem with the west in general is that it makes dichotomies out of what is really just a gray cloudy lump of shit, so to speak. What I mean by that statement is that nothing is reducible to being either/or, belief itself is multidimensional. Any belief is necessarily wrong on two levels. First it is wrong because it is not taking in any new signals and therefore does not reflect our day to day existence; that is what we mean when we say “yes I agree in principle, but the reality is…” Secondly a belief is inherently wrong because it is the product of a unique historical period and reflects loosely what Korzibsky called time-binding. That is we are human and what we believe is true is a product of our internal personality not a reflection of the outside world. In order to reflect the outside world one must first transcend the limitations of personal, cultural and even species histories. + Everything is in our heads, everything that occurs around us occurs in our gray matter which is to say that everything is an internal experience of the individual rather than the external event that is happening to the individual. The promise of the anarchist who steps into this ontological mess is the promise of one who sees light at the end of the tunnel. The anarchist realizes that in order to accurately reflect the outside world he must spend enough time in transcendence of himself, his culture, and even his species. He is the modern day shaman and it was with good reason that the ancient tribes kept the shaman isolated on the edge of the community; he was not so much a part of the community as a tool of the community. Our misguided belief that an isolated individual from inside the community can represent the entire community makes no more sense that saying a spoke of a wheel is the wheel. +Anarchy is not a threat to political institutions; life is a threat to political institutions. We are only human, meaning that only when we are beyond our mere humanity can we begin to perceive what humanity is. We are finally beginning to perceive the ancient riddles were not riddles at all but clues not things to be understood but things to explore. +We are drawing out all that which you have feared in order that you may see it and no longer live in fear. + + Needless to say most people would not have the slightest idea what Sil was talking about, nor would they have been interested in learning, which is why he never attempted to publish it publicly. Sil reasoned that it was not important to have more people understand; what was needed was a greater understanding and appreciation by those who were interested. Sil was a rare breed; he was attempting to bring modern culture up to date in order that it should accurately reflect that which it ‘knew’ to be true and he knew that to do this he would have to start with a small group of missionaries, so to speak, and then move on to the world at large. He gave this book (it went on for another hundred or so pages giving techniques for experiential validations and further illuminations of his theories and how he came to have them) to people he felt might understand it and occasionally for variety to those he did not think would understand it. Out of this group of friends, acquaintances and strangers he formed a virtual reality think tank that he called DeLiTech. +DeLiTech began life as a consultant think tank, but quickly found that its ideas were way ahead of the people asking for its’ advise so Sil recruited a second group of “technicians” made up of like-minded (although in most cases not as eccentric) scientists, mystics, and computer programmers to design and build a new reality. DeLiTech was beginning to think in gestalts instead of action-reaction analysis; it was trying to become a collective brain for humanity. +What started out as a whimsical idea of one strange man ended up in massive group effort that would in three short years turn the world upside down and inside out. What went on in those three years is the stuff of legends; what first came out is more easily quantified; it was a virtual reality game/educational tool called ALTER, and it did just that. + + + + + + + +Eigenstate Three: Utah Desert (five years until the rocket) + + Maya Stevens was born in a jacuzzi out back of her parent three room shanty house. The Jacuzzi sat on a patio and overlooked the wind swept mesa country of southeastern Utah. ‘Abbey country’ her father called it in reference to Edward Abbey a twentieth century anarchist and writer of unpopular fiction about the red rock canyon country into which Maya was born. The day of her birth it was sunny and cold the air temperature was in the twenties and snow had dusted the distant La Salle Mountains the night before. The infant’s first sight was a naked, grizzled old Ute Indian man named Horseshoe; he was a doctor of sorts and was there to assisted Maya’s mother in the birthing process. +He remarked later that she was the first child he had seen born that was not crying. He left shortly after she was born and headed back down the canyon trail that led to his own depilated shack some three miles away from the Stevens’ place. On the average the land just north of Moab Utah was sparsely populated boasting only about one person per twenty square miles. It was a fine place to live if you could stand the desert and the isolation. The nearest paved road was ten miles from the Stevens family doorstep, and that was the way Mr. Stevens liked it. +Maya’s father was a white upper middle class intellectual who, under the influence of Edward Abbey and others, had become a radical anarchist. During the nineteen sixties, while hiding out in the desolate desert wilderness of Utah from charges of “drug” and weapons trafficking, he fell in love with a Ute Indian girl named Mary Waters. They were never married but spent the rest of their lives together with their one daughter Maya. +Maya grew up as a Ute and all of her friends were Utes, in fact the land where they lived was actually part of a Ute Indian reservation which allowed her father to relax slightly from the fear of arrest. Maya was raised in the Native American Church, which her father had joined in the late seventies when he found out that peyote was used as a sacrament for contacting god. At the age of sixteen Maya herself ingested peyote as part of a traditional coming of age ceremony. Of course only the peyote was traditional the rest was an elaborate contrivance on the part of her father who felt that one could mature better if there was a physical event to mark the passage between childhood and adulthood. Besides she couldn’t get a drivers license since she did not officially exist in the first place. +Maya did not know that the majority of the people in her country would classify her as mentally unstable and morally wrong for this little ceremony. She did not know that most of the world believed that mescaline, the active ingredient in peyote was a drug. In fact in the Ute culture the word drug does not have any contextual meaning; they do not see peyote as any different than corn. One is food for the body; the other is food for the soul. +Maya’s experience with peyote was convoluted and unique to her, she was not expected to talk about it, but her father noticed that shortly after her first time she started asking him about college. Up until then Maya had been home schooled by her parents and had schooled herself reading and using the internet that her father had given her for her twelfth birthday. She was not an isolated ignorant hick, on the contrary she was an intellectual of a very dangerous sort —she knew the words, but didn’t believe any of it. That is to say that with her father’s ideas and her mother’s cultural sense Maya believed what she believed and no intellectual argument was ever going to sway the fundamental truth in her mind. +Now if one had been able to give her a new understanding of something through direct experience, some sort of Gnostic conversion, that she remained opened to, but the silly mind games of western intellectuals meant to her what they meant to everyone except silly western intellectuals —nothing. When you feel it you understand it, you don’t need to talk about it, understanding transcends words which is why people’s sympathies mean nothing in a time of crisis. +When Maya was seventeen she went away to a public university on a scholarship. She went because she was young and wanted to see the world, the school part was largely because of paper magic. Maya had no real goals like most college students; she did not go to school for job training which is what most people living in Usinc at that time did. Her first year at the University of California at Long Beach was one of massive culture shock and if not for a chance meeting with a like-minded neighbor, Maya would likely have dropped out. +To come from the relatively isolated reservation, whose main contact with the outside world was the internet, to the hustling-bustling wheeling-dealing town of Long beach was bad enough, but to make matters worse she found herself ostracized for her beliefs and feared because she was different. Radically different and she brought with her the idiosyncrasies of her culture. Little things that put people off, for instance she had adopted her mothers habit of quietly singing Ute songs as she went about her day and no one told Maya that to do such things at the supermarket in metropolitan areas was “wrong.” +Her father, in the tradition of all anarchists wary of brainwashing, had raised Maya without commercial television and since his taste in movies ran toward the surrealist side of the video store, Maya was frighteningly ignorant of pop culture. She knew the Internet well, but had never cared enough to have it be a real part of her life. Her father had however made sure that she was well read and she was educated far beyond most of her peers, but that only served to make Maya feel even more like she was from another world. This is not to imply that pop culture was totally foreign to her, it just didn’t mean anything, it wasn’t real and she had no connection to it and consequently no basis from which to connect with other people. Thus to be cast into the epicenter of modern silliness—Los Angeles—was a shock to say the least. One pearl of wisdom that her father had ingrained deeply in Maya’s psyche was the phrase “always question everything.” In fact it was so deep in her brain it was sub-verbal, that is it wasn’t a continuous thought or conscious skepticism but an involuntary action of her existence and such anarchism does not fit well into the constraining venerated halls of higher learning. + But Maya didn’t drop out. She went to class and did her work and was a model student, but inside she was continually horrified by the behavior and culture of those that surrounded her. She made no friends and lived alone. She felt like an alien, and most of her classmates treated her like one. Perhaps the genes of her mother made her able to survive, that Ute DNA that has been ostracized and plagued for hundreds of years has a coping mechanism —internal emotional composure. + But the truth of the matter was that Maya had far too little free time to actually worry about being lonely. She also wasn’t entirely alone. Maya was living in a fourplex, which was basically a big old house that had been subdivided at some point and was now four separate apartments that shared a common entryway and staircase. Maya’s apartment was upstairs and to the left if one were facing the building. It was a twenties Spanish style villa with an arched entrance that lead into a courtyard with a little fountain, one of those pissing statues, and then on the far side underneath an arch supported terrace was the main entrance. The courtyard had large willow trees in three corners; the one that would have been adjacent to Maya’s patio had been destroyed the previous year in a storm. Maya’s upstairs place was small, but retained a quaint sort of charm that made her forget about the sordid neighborhood that lurked two blocks south on seventh street. +The ground floor consisted of a parking garage that opened into an alley and above the cars were the apartments themselves. Maya had the end unit that overlooked Seventh Street, and owing to the lost tree her window was visible to anyone walking by. She solved the privacy issue with a tapestry, but it depressed her that she had no view. Being from the wide open redrock mesas, Maya had learned to appreciate the landscapes’ effect on character and mental health. She found a solution just a week after she moved in. +As one came up the communal stairs and into the hallway their was another door before Maya’s. For a week no one came in or out of it and Maya was going to ask if it was available, but then one afternoon returning from class she met the occupant. His name was Cary. Maya introduced herself and Cary, learning that she was new to California, offered to show her around. He took her to Fluer De Lie a little French style café/coffeeshop and bought her lunch. +Maya liked Cary immediately, he reminded her of her father and she found herself finally able to sit and talk with someone who understood her if not totally at least better than most she had met. Cary was well-educated in eastern philosophy which wasn’t very far removed from Maya’s own Ute beliefs, he was also an avowed anarchist so the two of them had long discussions debating the practicality of anarchy. As time went on she found herself more and more spending the warm fall evening with Cary talking for hours on his patio. He introduced her to Marijuana, which seemed to her like a mild-mannered second cousin to peyote; he took her for drives up the coast to see Santa Cruz, Monterey, and San Francisco; he even took her shopping and bought her nice clothes. +They were even lovers for a while, somewhere between a joint, Monterey, and sexual thirst, she found herself taking his pants off one day. Cary made her come in ways she didn’t realize existed previously, but after a week or two he cut it off because he thought it unhealthy for her and because certain state and federal statutes strictly forbade such things. The looks people give a couple thirty years apart in age told Maya more about the emotional sickness of white culture than a thousand sociology textbooks ever could have. After all Maya’s father was nineteen years older than her mother, so to Maya age was not a factor love. +Cary was only the third person Maya ever had sex with, and the first that she had felt anything for that might be termed love. She did not know if she loved him or not, but she did sense that whatever it was it was more from her end than his so she let it go. Their friendship however, continued. A lot of people might have considered such a thing strange or even wrong, but when you don’t put fences around sexuality it can be a fluid thing that ebbs and flows through a relationship. Theirs ebbed and then flowed away again. Maya believed life was a rippling processes, not unlike a constantly churning pond, you can’t be static and remain alive so she accepted her relationship with Cary for what it was on a daily basis, setting no limitations or expectations. Cary privately marveled to himself that in his near fifty-year life he had never run across anyone quite as natural and Maya, and yet he wasn’t even sure what he meant by that. He just understood. + Cary was gone a lot traveling out of the country virtually once a week, and when he was away Maya spent most of her time alone studying for classes or out of her own curiosity. Cary got her into Taoist and Egyptian beliefs; he also introduced her to the scientific skepticism of Aleister Crowley who taught in a manner far different from her structured life at the university. Maya started to become more and more interested in exploring the great unknown —the human mind. Sensing that she wanted to be on the edges of human though Cary outfitted her apartment with the recently released and very expensive EtherTwo. EtherTwo was the third generation of the internet, but instead of requiring a machine like a computer E2 as it was called ran off your own mind. By the use of an infrared portal which fit over the face and recognized users by retinal scan; a small DNA based circuit board which you held in your hand; and a series of electrode patches which powered it up using the energy field that surrounds everyone’s body; one was able to explore a digital world that felt seemed every bit as real the “real” world. It was interdimensional insofar as the dimension it led to was human created rather than “discovered” as in science fiction stories. You walked out onto the street and took buses and cabs or subways to wherever you wanted to go be it a library, a hash den, or a business meeting. It was just about to change everything and Maya was one of the first thousand or so people to start using it. + Maya was absolutely enthralled by it and spent more time in E2 than in the real world, as everyone would later on. It was simply better, safer, and more fun than the “real” world. + But to be completely cut off from humanity, studying intensely, and living in different reality does not make for a well-balanced human being. For that Maya had to force herself out of the house into personal interaction with others. Thus once a week she would go to a bar or a coffeeshop or somewhere people congregate and observe and occasionally interact with strangers. She often found that she couldn’t maintain conversations with people because she didn’t share their belief that life was a mess. Most people she met ended up laying out their problems and at first Maya tried to help them but gradually she realized that it was the act of complaining that these people enjoyed so much. They didn’t want to solve their problems because they believed that life “would be boring without them.” + This crowd of neurotics tended, Maya noticed to congregate around establishments that plied the trades of caffeine and alcohol, and while she did not see either as the sole cause of their unhappy states of mind, they certainly weren’t helping the problem. At first and in general for as long as he could remember being around other people was something Maya only did out of a sense of necessity or obligation. It had never entered her head to want to spend her free time with others; she felt she needed to. It was a distinction that caused a certain air of indifference about her, and others sometimes picked up on it. Sometimes they seemed hurt or offended by comments that Maya never gave a second thought to, until Cary called her on it. +“You may not put any stock in the words, but you live in world that does, and if you don’t respect that you will find yourself surrounded by bitter sarcastic people whom you don’t like.” + “The words never seem to come out the way I want them to.” +To make matters even worse Maya was strikingly beautiful meaning that women hated her and men were afraid of her. She had her mothers slim defined figure along with her sharp features and jet black hair, but her eyes were the piercing ocean blue DNA of her father. In Freudian terminology she had taken an imprint at the oral stage which gave her the soft edges of femininity and inquisitiveness, and at the anal stage she had shifted slightly so as to be thin and strong, both emotionally and physically. She was every emotionally deficient man’s worst nightmare and could reveal deep personal emotions as easily as she could analyze and abstract the complex causation that had led to the emotions. Naturally she majored in psychology. + Most men that Maya met were frighteningly simple creatures and one could only deal with them on the most mammalian of levels. Every time she watched men and women trying to interact with each other her mind went back to a psych class on primate behavior patterns. The Alpha male of the pack would spy a desired female across the room (often herself) and move in to attempt to mate. Shortly after this the rest of the pack would come over to pick among the remaining presumable less desirable females or occasionally to challenge the Alpha Male’s authority. The latter usually took place by means of a game called pool. These poor men would have been completely lost without the pack structure, which Maya puzzled over for so long it became her thesis and senior project. Her professors thought it was hysterical and graduated her with honors. + Maya was accepted to graduate school for Psychology at Harvard University, but before she went east she went home. As part of her graduation she and her father performed a peyote ceremony. In her voyage Maya traveled backwards through the DNA loop and took the form of her father. Maya saw herself through his eyes and felt his pride for her and she looked upon her mother and felt his love for her, she turned to her mother and speaking with her father’s voice said: “It is all here, I will see you soon.” Her mother hugged her and kissed her and underneath the Utah sky Maya lost her last remaining piece of fear. She replaced it with understanding + Until then Maya had knowledge, immense amounts of knowledge, but no understanding. It was here through her “father’s” eyes that she learned that knowledge can be retold and formed into language, but understanding is unique to each individual. For a moment with the help of an ancient herb Maya transcended herself and felt another beings understanding. She saw the world from another alien point of view. + Maya gathered up her books and moved to Boston Massachusetts to attend graduate school in the Harvard Psychology department. The day she left DeLiTech introduced the first virtual reality game ALTER. As a going away present her father had one of the first models sent to her a few days later. + + + + +Eigenstate four (the doctor will seen you in a moment…) + + Dr Waiben read to many science fiction stories as a child and as a result he was no longer a doctor anymore. Officially anyway; that is he lost his license to practice in a fiasco that the CIA still referred to as “that Brazilian snafu.” Dr Waiben preferred to call it ‘the Brazilian Caper’ and didn’t think it was a fuck up at all other than the fact the his staff and several government officials were killed. Waiben had been crossing various strands of DNA namely termite, human and bovine; and had created something he called E.A.T.E.R. which was not actually an acronym, but he made it into one because he knew how congress loved them. Engineer Augmented Territory Enforcement cReature was a hideous thing to behold. It was like a termite of steroids with seven stomachs like a cow and the intelligence of an Arkansas hillbilly. It went berserk one day and ate most of Waiben’s lab, his entire staff, and two visiting house representatives from North Dakota. Naturally the CIA blamed the thing on Waiben and promptly promoted him back to the United States and made him in charge of “gathering information” from captured enemy operatives. Naturally Waiben loved torturing people, but unfortunately he got so involved in the process he sometimes forgot to ask them for information. + Waiben was a real artist and he spent his off time doing what any artist does —he looked for inspiration for his art. One day while he was driving through upstate New York Dr. Waiben stopped at an antique store that was actually a converted barn. In the very back corner of the barn there was something Waiben had never seen before, a rather phallic looking devise, which the proprietor told him, was a cattle prod. Being from the city Waiben had no idea what it was for, but upon hearing that it delivered what the woman called ‘a motivating shock’ to get a cow moving, Waiben bought it for twenty-two dollars. + + + Eigenstate one (Los Angeles) + Two days before I left for Atlanta (Claire was already gone for New York) I gave up on the ghost. I borrowed the phraseology from someone whose name is now long lost… part of giving up on the ghost. The ghost tried to give meaning to everything to order the chaos and make some sense out of it, but I always saw through it and turned every thought into paradox and crushed it under the heavy weight of theory. I wanted a model that would make shape out of the chaos, order it into some tangible thing that my mind could wrap itself around. But from the beginning there was nothing but chaos and when I gave up I sailed smoothly through. +Without the ghost everything proceeds with stark certitude, even in the midst of chaotic confusion. And from the beginning there was never anything but that chaotic confusion and it enveloped me like a warm water blanket, saturated my amniotic gills until I was ether, vaporously thin and ghost-like. I took the antidote from a Dr. of Letters, a fecund pact between the nefarious odor of my own ego and perfumed smooth heights of the chaos that falls like a curtain when you find yourself staring at the obsidian side of the moon. + I had a gift/curse which led me to always see the contradiction, the opposite, the paradox, the non-existent line between the real and the unreal irony. I saw the joke and it was on all of us. I was my own worst enemy; there was nothing I could do that I could just as well not do. I was a philosopher even when my mother was still wiping that shit from my toddling ass and I was doomed to forever think. Somewhere in the years that followed I contacted the outside world, the alien otherness of humanity. I found them all dried and stinking of the putrid death-rot smell that hearkened me to a deeper understanding of the true horrors of the death camps. + I had no interest in life, if life was what surrounded me. Most everyone I knew was a failure or if not, it was only because they were worse than failures they were great successes in a game called failure. I pitied them and they thought me kind and generous and a host of other things that I was not. I may have acted after those fashions but I was not any of them and in acting them I only did so because I pitied those that surrounded me. I never failed. I did something far worse and far more contemptible in their eyes, I never tried to live, I glided day to day doing the bare minimum of what was necessary to survive. +In their words I had no life and if what they called life; the money they carefully gathered up money in the bank and checked on it daily; the books they stacked neatly on stylish shelves; the gluttonous meals they sucked into ever larger stomachs; the hideously false and atrocious gods they prayed to; if these things are living then I was dead. The world of Usinc disgusted me; I was only at home in the disjointed chaos. That day I gave up on the ghost because I realized that all my life I had desired not to live —if what others do is called living—but to express myself. + I wanted to live at the speed of light and found that the only way to do such a thing is to express myself at the speed of light to think faster than anyone could possibly live. Whether I die tomorrow on a plane or four hundred years from now is of no consequence to me what I am running after is the specter, the holy grail of the infinite mind, the ineffable nothingness of my life. I gave up on the ghost. Not out of volition or moral superiority but because I could no longer not give up on myself. I climbed into the cell I made for myself with the gilded bars of intellect and logic I sealed it off and stopped living in order that first I would express myself + By all accounts and standards of those around me I was not a total failure, but well on my way. My friend John once called me a ‘junkie waiting to happen,’ which I take to mean that there was nothing important enough in my life to keep me from throwing it away on heroin and he ought to know he threw away four years himself to the endless game of trying to fill the needle. I had my addiction, for the signs of failure are hung on posts called addiction; caffeine, nicotine, cannabis; I kept myself from heroin by feeding in a steady diet of slightly less dangerous, less parasitic drugs which kept the ultimate parasite, my own mind, at bay. + For years I desperately wanted to succeed by their terms if only so I could then turn my back on them and show it all to be meaningless, but you can learn nothing by being the most successful failure, and then there was my own failure to attain such a standing. I could not master that thing that ineffable separation that people manage when they separate themselves off into carefully cordoned halls and passageways that lead from room to room and in each ephemeral room is a different personality. One room for work, one for friends, one for their loves, one for me, one for you, like great hotels these peoples’ minds confuse me I get lost; I could not subdivide my brain into carefully constructed track housing. I tried for a while in spite of myself, just to see what it was like. + I remain in gestalts, in patterns; I remain chaotic, I still see every contradiction between reality and the unreal irony of it, I puzzled over this in all the gutters of all the streets, of all the cities I have ever found myself in, and I have found the sweetest and most feminine caress of an answer, nothing could be more stark and aridly true —just like the ghost itself. + Now I have learned that if I speak in riddles and rhythmic rhyme people will listen to what I say with a suddenly detached air of force abstraction, they look at me as if I might give them some insight they have always wanted into the “true” nature of existence as if I know something they do not. The truth is that I know less than anyone does. Talking with a well developed vocabulary and taking interest in my own mind are not things that I would logically expect people to take an interest in, but they do. Everywhere I have been for any length of time inevitably someone says to me that I make them think about things that hadn’t considered before. As if I had somehow forced them to when it was after all their minds and their thoughts not mine. + People tell me I could make great sums of money selling my words, I have my doubts about this, but if it were true for what end? Would I be any more alive? Am I to finally succumb to the end-of-the-day philosophy that what ever else happens its money that makes us able to live? Perhaps that is all there is. I have some piece of paper somewhere that says I studied a lot of theories on the nature of life and that is true I have read many books and could name a couple dozen theories on the nature of life, but that all told me nothing about my own. It told me in vivid detail what it was that certain peoples’ lives are all about, but nothing in it grabbed me and took hold in such a way that I wanted to act it out in my own life. + I love the mystery of not knowing. Gave up on the ghost and flew to Atlanta. The plane ride went from being a banal way to spend a day to an electrifying adventure and an absolute act of faith in my fellow men and women with the simple realization that this moment this timeless intangible thought might be the last as the plane tumbled out of the sky. It didn’t but it was the most exhilarating flight I ever had. + + + + + +. diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/book one sez i.txt b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/book one sez i.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e91b374 --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/book one sez i.txt @@ -0,0 +1,419 @@ +In the beginning +there was the word + + + +<<<<<<<<<begin transmission ghf8672y101003:35:10 PM03⌘ 03 031xZDFß∂ƒ©˙¥®´∑¨^øøπππ“π“∫∫~∫∫Ω≈ç√∫~µ≤≥÷⌘12430315 0315 + +\ + +03:35:10 PM101 + +03:35:10 PM03 + +åß∂ƒ©˙∆˚¬…æ + œ∑´®†¥¨^øπ“´®†¨¨¥ø^¨^ø¨^¡¡¡£™¢∞§¶¶•ªºº––åß∂ƒ©©©©©©˙∆©˙∆∆˚¬˚¬…æ¬ +æΩ≈ç≈√∫~µ≤≥÷-Oct 03, 2015«« ` ¡™£¢∞§¶•ªº–≠123235⌘031515 10 10 +1031tyiyiu + + +ƒ¥†∆†^˙˚∆^¥¥†∆˙ƒ˙©©∆˙˙˙˙ƒƒƒ©©©©©©©©∞§§¶•ª•ªª§∞§∞¢£¢£∞¶§¶∞¶§∞¶§∞¶§§¥†ƒ©∆˙©ƒ∆¥ƒ∂˙©√µ∆~√©ƒ≈߃∂≈Ω˙©∆˙熃∂ߥ®ƒ√˚∆©¨¥†ƒ∂ \03:35:10 PM +1515 +151515 ©ƒ†ƒ˙©¥¥©¨ƒ∆ÁËÂËÁÊÌÁÔÓÔÓÌÁËÁÁÊË„ÎÏ◊ıÙÇ ÓÔ‰ÊÏÁËÈض§•ª–º–≠§Ê¶Á•ÔÈØ +103 +, +1/,68487654321>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> +Fragments of Ash falling. +White washed ceilings hanging so ominous +Hallucination of bubble-headed figures +crawling like the Michelin Man +across an indescribable mountain of tires +Motels Motels Motels +Whiskey Bourbon. +Tow truck +non-ordinary state of reality +precludes a state of reality +that something is real Point at +the autistic manwomanchild +Autistic man pointing at you +laughing unable to fathom how your brain +functions and quite self righteously +you you cling to its definitions. +Must delineate between abnormality +and those of us who Understand +The Human Virus breeding +like rats unconsciously conscious and aware +of our disorganization. +Gas Station Cold Fusion dreams +of the Anarchist are breeding +in the minds of the oil men +who don’t want to +loose their stranglehold of reality. +Fragments of Ash falling +the continual settling of dust +weighing down humanity and the +French Maid masturbates discreetly in +the next room. You need her +to keep the dust off your mortal +coil spring. +Rebirth mythology. +Mythology of reality. We must +distinguish between what will be defined as +sane and what shall be referred to +as insanity. Kevlar definitions +constructed to make a better shampoo +seem like a logical item on which +to squander your paperbacked slavery bills. +After all these years Tide still +gets your socks whiter +Its a wonder +that they aren’t transparent by now. +that your brain retarded +in its development +that evolution had not +anticipated the advent +of the opposable thumb the unopposable +domination of the thumb leading +to and insect superiority of mating +rituals stolen from a textbook +on damselflies darning needles +sewing shut your lips, mind atrophy. +Weber's White Race Enriched for Superiority +Scorched earth campaigns raining Ash. +Shit from the sky. Tax man came +for your baby in exchange for unpaid balance. +You understand. Nothing Personal +Just doing our job. Same as the +next guy. From Auzwich on down the +line. Didn’t make the rules. Sorry. +We perfected them. +There are no innocents in a world of +free will. You don’t have to survive +at the expense of others. You could +die with puncture wounds in your hands +and others would create a new mythology +strange irony would find another with holes +in his hands unwilling to accept +cockroach mentalities. +You want to beLIEve Hitler +was a madman but he lives on in quiet +cafes centralsouthamerica not so free +not all the communists have been shot yet +Your mistook misunderstood missed +the lesson in the situation that unfolded +Dr. of dialectic excuses you want +to beLIEve Hitler was a madman +Hitler killed everybody's body +only taking orders you understand +just doing my job from Independence +on down the line. +It was a sad money grubbing hunter +gather up his children and thank +his gods they are his and he their god +behold I have come to tell you that +everything you know is wrong +stop doing you job its not yours +see Hitler in your mind you want him dead +but he's not he liveson +buried under restraint in everyones mind. +Only taking orders you understand. Didn’t have +a CHOICE. Got a family to feed. +radio crackle. pop. hiss. +silence. +<<<<<<<<<<<END TRANSMISSION>>>>>>>>> + + The preceeding was dictated and broadcast on intercellular radio frequencies by the ostriches. It came on the eleven hour of the terrestrial scale. It appears to be encoded in DNA as at threat check and broadcast as a record of what it was all about, intergalactic agencies monitoring in the area recieved it and passed it along to the CCCC wherein it was decided that the matter should be investigated. + + Sil Hawkard always wanted to be. Which differentiated him from the bulk of the people alive on the third planet who wanted to be something. This semantic anomaly was epidemic in nineteen ninety nine, but Sil was beyond it; lying around in his floating palace off the coast of the piracy haven of Mandalay. Mandalay is in the South Pacific Seas three hundred miles Northeast of Australia. Originally settled by rich expatriot Americans whose money came from dubious endevors Mandalay evolved over the years into a Freeport city-state with no government and swift and highly effective way of dealing with murder --the only crime. Mandalay was warm in September and every afternoon the storms would roll in the thunderheads and rain wouldn't fall so much as materialize right out of the air. The extreme humidity made one --not sticky like those in humid temperate zones are accustomed to-- downright wet. Life went on in the rain with the exception of clothes as few people wore them around Mandalay; that was one of side effects of the Freeport's origins in sensual based anarchy which -like the word istelf- began with a letter... + Sil is sitting much like he does every afternoon, on a bambo chair smoking petroleum. Petroleum was in fact ultimately one of the things that had led Sil here. +Actually to fair petroleum was a rather inaccurate name for what Sil was smoking. It was rather a carbon based opiate smoke made by trapping the opiates in a petroleum vapor and then condensing the vapor into a liquid which was in turn mixed with pure hash oil and boiled through alcohol leaving behind a sticky, oily, candy-goo hence the name. The black substance was roughly the consistancy of petroleum jelly and it would burn (with flames like tiki torch) for hours slowly releasing together the THC and the densely packed opiates. The flames would down over time the jelly itself turn into a glowing coal, the heat from which release more of the pyschoactive chemicals than any other method of injestion. The process was remarkable in that it didn't matter how good of a starting point drug you had because you could alway cookin more --itturned ugly grey heroin dirty mexican pot into the finest high imaginable. Needless to say the product was um profitable so long as one avoided the normal channels of distribution it was this rather shaky profession combined with a book recounting the adventures of an anarchist named Captain Mission that had led Sil to establish he own Freeport. + Sil hits the huca again and feels his face going numb his head slumps down until his chin is nearly on his chest, he snaps his fingers twice. Two Arab dancers appear and began to dance crooked, spinning patterns mastered over centuries of hypnotic oppression (which the cockroaches of skid row motels had only recently begun to learn) which gave it power in its freedom more power than things born free. Oppression is a drug; it acts equally, though differently, on the oppressed and the oppressor alike the oppressed gain a more acute vision of the things in life that can not be controlled. + All things must remain at equilibrium or fall into decay, this is a law of physics, and it is true of all systems mathematical --however if one considers spiritual and emotional systems one must take into account negative entropy. The negative entropy of opression is such that as the oppressor gains more control the opressed gains more as well and as chaos theory teaches the repition of varibles in different systems leds to massive oscilations in output. What makes the oppressor stronger in the common fabric of reality only pushes the +oppressed into areas outside of the common fabric of reality until eventually the oppressed simply leave. + The crooked dance is hypnotic to watch and all consuming to perform. In India they teach it to snakes, and in the sewers of America cockroaches feasting on the radioactive waste have begun to learn it on their own. Like terrible creatures from a Kafkian nightmare they sit quietly underground, as we go about our lives, learning the dance passing it on to their children and teaching them how to use it as an evolutionary tool --for all systems are also trying to succeed one another. One day a properly evolved cockroach will crawl out of a sewer drain just as the head of state is stepping to the podium to address the nation. He will devour the president raw as the live camera crews feed man's downfall to a nation of viewers even as it happens. The blood soaked cameramen will never stop filming and the cockroach will scurry to the podium, strain himself to an upright position and address the nation...Behold I am. He will dance and spin and all will be entranced. Women will castrate men and men will bludgeon themselves to death with pickaxes until they are suitable for cockroach consumption and life will continue on much as it always has. The system is independent of its elements, humans are not necessary, cockroaches would uphold the system just as well. Sil falls into a profound haze of self-absorption. The boys continued to dance trance-like as the numbers explode at the edges of his vision. + Sil's story is a rather long and convoluted one and subject to enhancement on his own part, because that was one of Mandalay's charms, no one cared who you used to be but who you are. Sil had not made the mistake of trying to hold power over others rather he used it to make himself more powerful + . At the age of twenty one Sil Hawkard discovered that while he vaguely enjoyed torturing the professors at Columbia university, most people in the United States are squares, and Sil, already an avowed anarchist was weary of the materialists whom he felt lacked the imagination and understand to really get the it --so to speak. So he dropped out +for a semester and bummed his way around the United States. In the middle of the Utah desert one night in July he ingested a rather large quantity of psylicilim in the form of mushrooms. He also met someone but that is not important just yet. The Quantum Reality convergance that Sil felt during the experience was rather hard to forget and it prompted him to extend his dropped out face for a few more years. One other rather peculiar thing happened to Sil on the mushrooms. A bouncing humanoid of eary homo ercuts origins told him that the rosetta stone of the word was in safe hands with the ostriches. + +And the word was with god + + Sil arrived in Africa in nineteen ninety-three to find a talking ostrich; instead he found cryptotechnology --or it found him if you work from a Jungian perspective. He arrived in Angola aboard The Decatur a British cargo ship bringing in weapons to fund a counter insurgency movement to a government disinformation lope which the west was hoping would topple the rather lax disinformation system in power --a government that welcomed technological refugees with open arms. Angola had become a haven for code writers who were not willing to dumb themselves down to the technology standards of the United States and its allies. Sil was a code breaker so to speak. He wasn't interested in simple binary code breaking and writing he was interested in finding the rest of the characters which would form the semantic code to language, but the technology for undertaking such an endeavor was in Angola. He asked around for all of two days when he was approached to take a package back to the United States in exchange for ten thousand dollars and a plane ticket anywhere in the world. Naturally at the end of his funds and having no chance at a grant, he accepted. Two months later, after delivering a package to a man named William in Rhode Island, he made his way Tunisia where an ostrich (Sil was already having regular transmissions with the ostrich intercellular radio) had told him to find a man named Cary Downs. Downs was an eccentric billionaire obsessed with the +occult and interstellar transmission of pure information; Sil was told that he had been looking for someone in Sil's area of expertise In this spacetime point most people thought Cary Downs owned an oil empire, but really it was the floating cities of geodesic domes attached to the oil derricks that people talked about. But Sil didn't know anything about the oil he just wanted a job at Downs' bar in the floating city-state, and the rent-free fully adjustable two-bedroom geodesic dome that had been offer to him over a casual phone call from New York. + Sil, like the rest of you, desperately wanted to understand what the hell was going on , and as most people realize in some vague sense that while no one knows what the hell is really going on there are nonetheless those who believe that they do and are willing to destroy anyone who dares to invade their sacred planes of understanding. Most of them at this time were concentrated in the united States where they made good and sure to track what everyone was doing and saying and thinking and feeling. They have devised extremely elaborate game-playing circuits with uniquely complex languages like legelese and mathmatics and only those who speak them can acquire power and get stuff, and they have created strange loop disinformation systems to keep the knowledge from spreading. They say that such information is classified and can only be know by them; they say you don't understand the big picture, the interests of the nation, for our collective safety, to protect those still living --so that they can hide from their crimes against human souls the scorched atomic earth it getting used up like gutter whore and they are going to leave you here and head into space and you are going to try to stop them which is exactly what they need you to do. oddy within the disinformation loops they are themselves bounded as well and must work inside the verbal fences of currency and truth and the American way. They have even created an elaborate mythology to support the system wherein the truth is always shown as lying in the hands of the few and the many are stuck to live out normal lives while they them selves are extrodinary and important. The History fiction principle is not widely understood outside of the contol elite loops. + It wasn't that Sil wanted to illuminate the world or anything he knew that was a fiction as well he merely wanted to left in peace and he would accord others the same respect. On meeting Downs in person and looking into his eyes he saw the recognicion of these ideas he saw someone who had decoded the gaming and was ready to move on. He saw a man to whom power and wealth were as irrelevant as Nobel Peace prizes. Downs was of medium height and had a rather slight build with a effortless way of walking across a room which most people were immediately put at ease by; after a short introduction a hashish pipe was produce and the two relaxed and spoke at length. + "There is some thing you should understand before you decide you want to stay here," Downs began. "This structure is a living laboratory and there is no hierarchical structure that dictates what you should do. You are free. You may do or not do anything you wish, but you may not tell others what they can and can't do, no matter how much you find them annoying backward or incomprehensible. You will find that even the most ignorant," his tone condescended the word, "mindsets become quite enlightening in this environment. There is a rather large library at your disposal and gourmet chefs will prepare most anything you want. You do not need currency to get anything you want here, but you do need excellent signal reception and frequency adapters in order to keep from losing your semantic grasp on spacetime while you're catapulted into spacetimemind." Downs lit the hash cigertte and passed back to Sil, "in order to expand the potential of the human brain I built this city and I have tried the gather all the possible maps of the human brain together into one place and see what they had to gain from each other. just because it might prove interesting, " Downs paused and smiled at Sil, "and I like you which is not true of everyone here." + Sil moved in to a dome apartment furnish in luxurious tapestries and artifacts that ranged from cuneiform texts to what appeared to be scrolls of Tibetan text. There was a couch of warm dark orange velvet and piles of pillows with scenes from the Tibet Book of the Dead and the Kama Sutra. The mixture of oriental and occidental gave the room a +circular feeling, which was reinforced by the spherical walls and roof. Sil's head felt heavy and he laid down in the pile pillows and felt the room spin drunkenly. Don't worry the spinning will fade, your brain is conditioned to judge perspective on three dimension planes. Taking away the planer walls it is used too causes distress and disorientation, but it will eventually go away as your brain maps out the new system and eventually you will forget that you live in a circle. + Cary Downs' flotilla as he liked to call it consisted of seventy-two people, ranging from ethnobotanists to a fundamentalist Baptist preacher. All the flotilla's food was grown in to large greenhouses or caught in the waters around it; meat was flown in every week by helicopter although only a few people ate it as meat was generally considered by the scientists as an inefficient means of nursing the human body. It had been proposed by one of them named William that the body was but one part of the human existence and the appetite and random whims of taste should not be ignored in some ascetic quest that blinded us in sterile orwellian futurenightmares as he had put it. There was also a bar and smoking lounge, which was Sil's contribution to the system --as the residents referred to it. It was a closed system (save the imported meat and alcohol). Three additional greenhouses grew THC enhanced marijuana of a strain called alamant which was processed into hash and given out in bulk to the inhabitants. Also grown were peyote plants, poppies, coca plants, tobacco plants, close to twenty varieties of hallucinogenic mushrooms including the Kuri-coo, and several other mind altering herbs and medicines that Sil had never heard of. +The inward curvature of the walls gave Sil the impression that the room was collapsing back in on itself, the disorientation and the intensity of hash rendered Sil immobile for three days which Cary assured him was normal. He furthur suggested that Sil not restrain himself on the drugs, but realize their potential incompatibilities after all he said everything you ever wanted is here no one is judging you and no one is threatening you so you'd be fool not to let go for once in your life then we'll initiate you into our program . So Sil spent close to three months usually alone (although he sometimes experiemented with the +exotically beautiful tantric sex guides) playing with the nuero chemical circuitry of his brain. + +EVERYTHING YOU KNOW IS WRONG +EVERYTHING YOU KNOW IS RIGHT +EVERYTHING YOU KNOW IS A MAYBE +EVERTHING YOU KNOW IS MEANINGLESS +-from A Game-Circuit Guidebook by Maya Stevens + + Sil found himself in a spacetime point called Tucker. Discipline is an agent's greatest virtue, thinks Agent Tucker to himself as he draws a long and satisfying hit off the oxygen tube. Behind him Doris Day and her Waxing Loquacious Lesbians play a sultry 60's motown number on a dimly lit stage, and the general atmosphere of the bar takes on a surreal quality. The walls seemed to breath as if threatening to go ahead and speak. bars are excellant places for observing the least attractive maps of humanity the best you can hope for is one where the possibilities remain endless regardless of the irrefutable realities. Agent Tucker is well aware of the realities, but his mind is only now beginning to sense the infinite set of possibilities that comes with every new reality. Occasionally he suffers from what he calls voices, other people getting in his head through warped words written words, sometimes they tell him things he believes as evil and other times they mindlessly hum product jingles from the seventies. But Tucker has no self-pity, he considers self-pity to be a symptom mental illness (more so then hearing voices nevertheless he is smart enough not to mention the voices to anyone) because it requires the ego to be divided into pitier and pitied. He likes his ego together as one in harmony he is quite proud of this justification and it helps to ease his innate sense of anxiety at the idea that thoughts not originating from his own mind can work their way in regardless. Tucker is an Agent of the State. The State is not to be confused with the government as many of you would assume. On the contrary the government is but an instrument of the State, the State is a separate entity whose ultimate identity is unknown even to Tucker; he is but an agent of it charged with ceasing +the drug trade. He has for months now been stalking the elusive Sil Hawkard, a man whose face is unknown to him, he realizes that Hawkard could well be in this very room right now planning Tucker's demise, the thought sends a cold shiver of fear down his spine and he cringes thinking again like a manta: discipline is an agent’s greatest virtue. + A man near Tucker but thankfully behind him is rather drunckenly slurring something akin to scientists have feelings too you know. Tucker thinks to himself that the scientists on television always seem rather cold at their little press gatherings where they sollomly talk about finding new galaxies and what not if it were me i'd be jumping up and down fuckin yelling and carrying on, they must are incredibly logical cold people. + The TuckerSil coordinate thinks of butting in to the conversation to give them a piece of his mind, but then he decides the attractive blond to his right would be more interesting and could lead to sex, but after a few failed attempts he overhears the cruel whisper that guy is bugging me ,you want to go over to a booth? Half shocked half hurt the Tucker gets up to leave; standing at the urinal on his way out he is shocked to find a poem scrawled on the wall + So old the place was, I remember none + The like upon the earth: what I had seen + Of grey cathedrals, buttressed walls, rent towers, + The superannuations of sunk realms, + Or nature's rocks toiled hard in waves and winds, + Seemed but the faulture of decrepit things + To that eternal doomed monument. +What a very curious bar he thinks to himself getting into his car. Those people must be intellectuals he thinks morosely I never understand what everyone is talking about. I am stupid he is thinking as he drives away, at least the voices are gone. + + Sil is smiling to himself and lighting a cigarette. At another point in the fabric of reality Sil is feeling a primordial yearning to devour raw flesh and roll in a room of naked women. You are at a club wearing skintight black vinyl pants and a black tank top with no bra, your nipples are hard and everyone can see them through your shirt. You're dancing with a black haired girl also wearing tight black clothing, sitting at the back watching from a distance. Your pussy clenches and sends tremors through your body every time the girl brushes against your skin, she teases you dragging her finger along your arm, and as the music stops she grabs you by the hand and leads you two a corner booth where two more women are locked in delisious animal fire; locked naked and sitting upright they grind pussies together, shuddering mouth to mouth, breast to breast legs entwined.... + + Sil along with the rest of the residents in the police state he used to call home, hates cops....I fucking hate 'em. I hate 'em. I hate 'em. I hate 'em. I want to kill them all in a violent sea of time-released explosive donuts that when eaten mix with the stomach acids and explode in violent blueberrystrawberrylemon filled death he fanicizes. Die pig die. Imagine it, a million sworn upholders of THE LAW dead in an instant. Think of the society we could have. Think of the freedom, think of the beauty. The sweet satisfaction of tearing down all the rotting pig gut filled doughnut shops in the nation. No more sweaty palms. "License and registration please." Fuck you, never again. Never again. kill every cop you see --a populist revolt. We don't need all these damn laws, the people are okay --we know how to look after ourselves. The laws are the ones that fucked everything up the first place. And who hurts the most people in this here little world? The State. A cattle car streaming over the tracks of life, slick with the blood of the people. The train can't go up the hill because the tracks are too slippery with my guts your guts our guts. Cut off by THE LAW, our heads impaled on the ends of the its tentacle-like arms as they strangling the last hold outs of resistance into pacified stupidity. + The anger subsided and Sil found himself dialing a number he didn't know he picks up the phone --the other end never rings, instead a voice says: "hello?" + "May I speak to Captain Clark please?" + "I'm sorry he's not in. May I take a message?" + "No. No message." Sil hangs up the phone. He walks to the back of the room and flops his body onto the luxurious pillows and is swept by an overwhelming sensation of peace; his mind begin to expand, and he feels the desire for more consciousness --the death of us all, Sil thinks idly to himself as he lights a pipe and sucks in a deep inhalation of opium and hash. The sticky sweet smoke that fills his lungs brings forth tape loops and strange loops of static memories. Twisting and turning their way through the circuitry until: Anarchy is the only answer to all questions which begin with why? whY? wHY? WHY? Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law --future memories of books he hasn't read yet. In distant memory filtering strands of DNA locked deep in Sil's cerebral cortex a vibration begins, infinitely small at first but building slowly into his medulla and finally spring forth into the part of the brain referred to as consciousness. The cameras rolled even as the lights were dimming. +"BRING THE PRISONER FORWARD" + Unrolling a weighty and sterile looking scroll of antiseptically white paper a voice whose origin is masked by the size of the paper itself reads: + After making reviews of the past actions, thoughts, and attributed sentiments, it is the judgement of this committee, and therefore the judgment of the government it represents, that due to a general lack of ability to perceive the options open to the work potential of the drone in question in simple terms of an x or not-x negativism which would be most helpful in these situations and would consequently decrease expenditures and lower taxes for other individuals living in said dualism and therefore we hereby decree that all metaprogramming undertaken by the individual without the consent and simultaneous approval of this committee and the government it represents to be criminal in intent, hostile +in action, and punishable by prison and/or death upon conception. Thank you. You may go. + Sil Hawkard finds himself dragged from the tribunal; hands tied in front of him and legs trailing uselessly behind. His guards use his head to open the heavy wooden door and then they dump him unceremoniously onto the filthy street where a group of children are playing. A monkey runs by, tugging its penis with one hand and slapping its bright red ass with the other. + Eventually broadcast is deemed irrelevant given overwhelming incoming signal that sweeps across all frequencies, visual, audio, chemical, and physical. There are five senses, sight, sound, taste, touch, and smell, and only four signal sources; both smell and taste are chemical reactions with tissue that are then turned into different chemical reactions in the brain. Sil tried at first to kill the reception entirely, but this proved a bit to radical of a step so he worked in phases first chemical manipulations of brainwaves --what the simians referred to as drugs Downs used to say. + + Teletype for Corsica the agent sent in for returns, Home office denied request for reinforcements, all communication to be ceased henceforth. Piss in the riddle thought the old man wheeling his chair back out to the porch, he picked up a Mason jar of corn whiskey and laid the shotgun across his lap. + The languid afternoon floated in and up the beach from the Atlantic bringing photomontages of Mandalay and the Dutch East Indies spice trade boats, far off places he had heard of only as words and imagined smells. Up the beach from the house were the beginnings of the rocky South Carolina shoreline teeming with crabs, sponges, sea anemones, and circle swooping gulls feeding on sand crabs exposed in the fluctuating waves. It was low tide, in fact it was always low tide or at least it seemed that way to the old man. He was partly right, the tide was lower than it had been a year before when a man by the name of Dr. Waiben began overseeing construction of a nuclear power plant +buried two miles under ground to hide its heat signature for pesky government satellites. The plant, whose only entrance was from the sea, was Waiben's new research facility but right now that is but future memory fighting from space at a coordinate that won't have it. + + Sil is in New Orleans renting an attic in the French quarter following a strict regiment to kick the opium habit he developed at FREEDOM Inc. The best cure downs had said is to get a job in INDOCTRINATION Inc., where you will be forced to confront the ugly stupidity of life. + + The old man stood up on the porch and paced back and forth waiting...you understand the seriousness of the matter... obviously we would not expect an ordinary agent to do such a thing...your expertise in these fields...well frankly it's unparalleled..there is no other...These orders are coming straight from the top...your cooperation is non-negotiable... + + +...to be an abstraction does not +mean that an entity is nothing. +--A. N. Whitehead + + Two years earlier: Dr. Waiben, pathologist for IND Inc., surveys a long horrifically clean hallway whose smoothness is interrupted only occasionally by the presence of polished sliver knobs indicating doorways. There are no observation windows or any other windows within the rooms. This is the housing quarter for the derelicts of society: prostitutes, schizophrenics, lobotomy patients, drug pushers, anarchists, communists, AIDS victims, the aberrations that society never needed nor found a use for, end up here, under the care of Dr. Waiben, pathologist for IND Inc. The good doctor has, for twenty odd years, been the caretaker of the derelicts, charged with restoring to them a level of +functionality deemed necessary by society. He is the man who puts the cogs back into the wheel. + Waiben is an expert in mind manipulation which by its nature made him the butt of most of the jokes at the facility, but Waiben really didn't care what other people thought of him because he had watched the semantic breakdown of the game curcuit from the perspective of orgone energy. he was required to give electro shock therapy to dissedent citizens in order to get them reconditioned by the government, but in reality he spends most of his time smoking petroleum and sitting next to an orgone generator In really time he knoes he must administer electro-shockto a whore whom the state had deemed a "revolutionary" for her accidental participation in a protest against the seizure of private property. Her constant screaming was disturbed the other doctors, but Waiben found them soothing in the same erotic kind of way that a soft candle lit room made him desperately want to masturbate. Regardless, he hated departmental friction so he was treating her with his standard dosage of ten thousand low amplitude watts delivered through acattle prod in her cunt, and even then she had held out for nearly an hour before confessing to her actions -it was a record for the floor. + He watched her on a TV monitor from the station at the end of the hall. She alternated between foaming a bloody spit out of her mouth while her eyes bulged menacingly, to sitting apparently quite peacefully on the edge of the toilet seat. Her vital stats were typical for the voltage he had given her. He watched with the detached apathy of those who have seen the degradation of life for twenty odd years and never thought to bat an eye toward suffering. He thought the whole process rather silly, why give them mental anquish which only makes them stronger (see A Theory of Surpression and its Counter Effectsby Doctor Waiben, New England Journal of medicine Aug. 1993 ) Afterall why torture people when you could just as easily manipulate them without them realizing what was going on. He considered himself an expert in mind control because he realized that the well places suggestion or auto association tricks were far more effective means of +controlling large popluations. However he kept this knowledge largely to himself and the occasional stranger in a bar. like that guy the other night that guy who said he heard voices of course you do everybody dows what did you think a television was for? + He panned the room camera around and noted blood and little clumps of flesh lying on the floor near the bed, he zoomed in and momentary renewed his distracted interest as he realized the whore had been picking the burnt flesh out of her cunt. His stomach turned, not at the idea of her suffering, but at the tradgedy of the ineffectiveness of the government to maintain the control that had so intricately laid. For a moment he considered the fragility of all control and the necessity of constantly defending it, he tried without success to remeber the I ching quote about ruling least and that being the best or something of that nature. He sighed and picked up a bic lighter with a picture of Uncle Sam on it, the typical picture was warped due to the surface curvature of the lighter giving Old Sam a peculiar evil bent that Waiben admired; he lit it and held it at the base of the hash, taking a deep and satisfying drag. + hash was part of a new foray for Waiben a sign of his growing discontent with the rigid structure of the scientific community. Doctor Waiben was something of an anomaly among scientists; he enjoyed being proved wrong, he loved arguing theory purely on the basis that if one is opposed and one for a theory to gether that might discover a new theory. Being proved wrong also saved him the trouble of having to prove anything right. Waiben was one of the unique individuals of this century that understood that when you open one door its real value is not what is behind it but whether or not there are any more doors that revel themselves to the researcher. He did not suffer from what Wilson calls the New Inquisition, a catch phrase for those that try to make a belief system stand up with scientific legs, when in fact science is a tool or method of research, it is amoral science dows not fit model realities it is merely one way of testing models of reality. Science does not believe anything because it is not a thing, it is a language. From Wilhelm Reich in Hell: There is also argument by Logic. This can sometimes be combined with scientific experiments and +if the two mesh we have a "fit" of theory with fact and scientists are delighted. Pure Argument by Logic however does not require this experimental back up and only demands that the conclusions by reached by the game-rules of an abstract symbol system. In our hypothetical case, some witness might inform congress: +All mome raths need to be distimmed; +All frammisgoshes are mome raths; therefore; +all frammisgoshes need to be distimmed + + This so-called transitive property has led scientists into the same dead end alley of faith that religion finds itself in, I have faith in science the mad man rants on silver screens... Waiben felt foolish when confronted with this logic bound personification of science so he took to smoking hash and playing with orgone generators, he was finding a freedom that was tickling the little grey cells back into the crooked dance. + + Unfortuanately for him Doctor Waiben's habits did not go unnoticed by others in his department however, and as he was already unpopular for his rather unconventional methods and ideas, it wasn't long before a doctor by the name of Kellinger reported him to the state. In the tumultuous time that was the present the good doctor was asked to resign, but did not instead he called a press conference which was sadly rather ill attended, he proceeded to get up in front of the local new cameras and launch into an anti-government rant. He was promptly arrested for "divulging state secrets" and brought to trial before a hastily put together tribunal of senators and judges; It was the beginning of the Inquistitors hearings on Science and Sanity. + One person who did happen to catch the broadcast was Sil Hawkard who was in a New Orleans attic when he heard a voice from on the television drift up to his room...the united states government is by its own legal definitions, insane and incapable of +distinquishing between reality and non-real realities. The cat is coming out of the bag <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<Fragments of ash are falling>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> + Sil bolted upright in his bed and ran downstairs in time to catch the name Waiben before the camera cut out. That's the man I heard at the Tucker point, he called Downs and mentioned it to him. Do what thou wilt was all he said. Two days later Sil was arrested and thrown in prison in the cell next to Waiben. Because Sil was not a United States citizen he was merely given a lecture and thrown bodily out of the building bringing future memories to a head. He made a deal with Waiben before he left, come to New Orleans and meet with me to discuss nuero-research and I will get you out.... + + Transcribed from tapes: the terminal disease clerk took orders by the turnstile, finding the story in the story and logging in the disease workers all night long. At five in the morning he got off and headed to a tavern as the sun was coming up. Direct confrontation with the terminal virus word is a bit confusing to those who are not properly prepared. poor fuckers never had a chance; the technical sergeant takes off his helmet and slams it on the table the near moronic mumblings of discontent. Waging war is semantically impossible without overtones of homosexuality. Heavy handed, the second wave fell in line with the technical sergeant at the lead. The thing you have to watch out for are the warblers --the distractions coming in at the sides, sound is their most effective weapon, primordial hangover he called it drunkenly raising the glass. And some of you may think this suspect but take my advice sounds where it all started. In the beginning was the word and the word spoke. The sergeant stoops and cups his hands to light a cigarette. Then there is sex or not enough of it, both is equally dangerous --biology is not something to scoff at. sexuality is the best cover an agent can ever use. Rockets come searing in overhead ripping flesh and scoffing at the notion of eternity, out here you don't have time to talk, the thoughts are things, they are no longer words...keep your radios tuned boys its getting ugly. Another rocket sears in severed limbs fly out the explosion and olive drab +body parts litter the scene. Watch out for the bloody words, sharp words that hang in the air like knives and when uttered returned to slit the throat of their speaker and if every word you have spoken returned to act upon yourself would you survive the experience? Me no way i’m outta here. Situation getting sticky, humid like vaporous blood hanging on in the air. Still acrid smell of urine and small children playing in a asphalt playground ringed on all sides by immense brick walls with basket ball hoops hung half way up each of the sides. Realize that that which we are taught from childhood to distrust is in fact a pawn of something far more immense and much much more dangerous. The governments and nations of the world are incidental pawns of there own control systemsand then beyond them there are even more and so on like looking two mirrors facing each other and going on to infinity. The monster of power is faceless there is no one person or group that controls everything they are all parts of a immense and multi-headed monster that is constantly biting itself and attacking it own heads until some day it will destroy itself. The end of time leaves space and word alone together + we're taking heavy fire! The sergeant calls for back up, the captain says love one another and cryptically hangs up the phone. The Spanish soldier selling chiclets say no good no bueno, pictures worth not even half a thousand words. Wouldn’ give you ten words, worthless gringo words don’t mean shit. no good no bueno, not worth the blood their written in. The blood of all peoples not yours, not your shoes, by god keep your slave labor camps a closed-mouthed secret. Gotta keep that in house, dis-credit all new agencies by routinely feeding them false information. News doesn’t happen events happen, and the department of television information broadcasting inc. a subdivision of indoctrination inc. decides what gets out and what remains forever sealed in baby pissshitguts. No that's not true. No comment. No need for comment, the preceding has been since proved to be untrue, cut to shots of smart bombs. Couldn’t get fifty words for those now gringo -over exposure- nobody buying. Same old stinking shit. No Good. No Bueno. + Gringo go home in thousand languages in a million words, why don’t you crawl back in your cave get your tail so far between your legs it goes half way up your ass? Lead me to the holy spigot and we’ll show you the bidet of death, constructed by gringos, for gringos, to flush out gringos, to show them all what you do behind closed doors. Can’t close them all --we have our technicians as well and they’re getting to be better than yours. We got the money rolling in --even offered you the picture words but you don’t want them. No Good. Can’t use those, too strong. No fair, crying boy heads home for cave to lick his dirty balls clean. + I gotta picture for you I on vacation in your country go to hear senator’s speak but all door are closed, all sealed. So i gotta fiber optic and feed it in from the roof show all senators mad with sexual lust and blood thirsty, clamoring for war and stealing souls and bodies and driving them off wherever they see fit. + The technician is retro actively of course --the papers said the man was mentally ill. ‘my cod!’ screamed a church lady in the front row, ‘satan has garbled the lords message, this isn’t what he meant for you to hear, no it was not all like that, there was to be understanding.’ she is parading her old cunt bones whining at the justices --tissue conducts signals, animals communicate through the use of visual, acoustic , chemical, tactile and electrical signals. Our laboratory is an abundant and well preserved feed back loop to understand and interpret Eusocial behavior. negative feedback inhibition to make you shiver Gringo. Make you shiver good. + Repetition unsuccessful. The radiologist was called in to examine the patient --blisters and burns indicate high probability of skin mutation, what would you say Dr. Waiben? Crested and on the nod? Diminutively yes definitely. + Information potential exists --its an unsettling thought, dependency --and what happens when things start to think? How do you draw the lines then. + HOW THE PLAGUE BEGAN: + The wish to preserve -not worth saving what already is- in this scenario. The word, the loss of body situated at the origins of recorded sound -the temporal metaphysical and esthetic possibilities. + <insert sounds of truck on dirt road> + Old man yelling. Get off of my laaawwwnnn! Sits down to oil his gun some more and then half turns in his chair to face the camera and says "i haven't left the porch since i got this CDRom PEOPLE version 3.0. Updated and expanded human potential at your fingertips. Its the only thing i need --got no use for the stinking gringos anymore-- camera pans out and down revealing a yard strewn with shotgunblasted bodies of young children. We see wife, face half torn off, crawling towards a pistol <shotgun blast stage left> her head disappears entirely. Old man: "human potential, the new CDrom makes wives unnecessary." cue logo: on sale now at a sanatorium near you.... + I'm going to finally send you the orgy papers this time -been fixing to get 'round to that for some time" <heavy southern drawl> don't think he's the type to do it though but i been wrong once or twice a'fore. Don't want people showing up on my lawn though that's never good. get off of my lllaaaawwwwnnnnn! <shotgun blast again, distant screaming sounds of deaths final agonies eeking out blood gurgling windpipes> Fucking Gringos! Go home in a thousand languages! + Experience as much of the human potential as possible retain the container and forward the frog to the fun sun freaks of eastern Tibet all is well with alkaline, and acidity is on the skids with death rooted out leaving only chicken shit shoveled scrapped and scraped like lemon lime Gatorade poured from a fuck buck of love. Stop talking to yourself --listen to the virus talk to you. All that you consider to be a accident was carefully orchestrated for your benefit by a benevolent cocksucking god from the twenty-third dimension to just plain old irritate the fuck out of you like a bad rectal itch. Stupid gringo got no cure for the ass itch i show you some pictures, yes very dirty, little girls you like?????? + <<<<<commander in chief of the NATO forces in Europe is fucking small refugee boy in the ass, the boy cries for his mother the general is laughing, your mother’s down the hall boy ,she’s busy with the president of France right now. But maybe later you’d like to lick his come off her dead face. Ban those words tear them right out snip snip. Can’t say that, its disgusting. War is a snuff film for the rich. <<<<We gotta step up the bombing chief the public’s losing innarest in us screams the chief of staff running in circles jerking off and slapping his ass until it turns a bright purple and with all seriousness General Jesse Helms pauses to reflect: I remember a time when life was good no one got in our way, why in Europe under Patton i musta raped twenty thirty little boys and a handful of nuns too. He smiles lost in memory... + But God hath given us these trying times.... + Yes it is bit hard to get cunt these days isn’t it, mumbles the chief of state as he strokes his wife’s cock....Yes dear start a war, get me some cute refugee boys, i so love snapping their necks when i’m coming, she growls affectionately. + That's it gentlemen were going to war! The president stands and ejaculates on a map of the world KOSOVO it is he says as his thick oatmeal consistency sperm all but covers the former republic of Yugoslavia. + You like? You like, no? Too bad. You can’t have those words, too strong. I get power, you give me power, I steal power from you, to expensive to buy it. I get power and you get pictures and maybe I tell you how to cure rectal itch? Eh? Eh? Eh? + +Perfection is attained not +when there is no longer anything to add, +but when there is no +longer anything to take away +-Antoine de Saint Exupery + Experiments with the death ray tape and image guns began with William Burroughs in the nineteen fifties, but was sidetracked by the advent of digital technology. The newer is not necessarily the better though folks sometimes they just have different uses +--like the image gun that shot...In the beginning was the word and the word was made flesh by a cacophonous blast out of heaven's pearly cum-stained ass creating the father, the son, and the holy spigot which lies in a secluded garden on the cliffs overlooking the Sargasso sea. The spigot is buried in a volcano designed by Czech ostriches in the eleventh hour of creation to drain all human excrement off the continent of Europe and into the Sargasso sea all lumpy with turd so thick Jesus "conny" Christ in drag is walking along to the amazement of the gullible, floating gently from turd to turd. The piss blood of a million cunts and cocks line the shores giving the whole place a radioactive iridescent red glow not to mention a awful stench. Mr. Rogers and Captain Kangaroo are standing on the bluffs watching the spectacle and scanning with hawk eyes for sweet tight asses in which they can stab their hungry cocks. The father caught the son sitting in the middle of the garden sucking on an apple and he became enraged and hog tied the boy and penetrated every orifice in his body with a peeled and sculpted cucumber cock; the boy was left a whimpering quivering lump of fleshy jello from which spawned humankind. + The piss gut rotting flesh smell, air taunt necked and jerking at the nose, the captain's eyes role back into his head as is guts are blasted out his ass by a giggling man headed tape worm of extraordinary wit who was prone to quoting Joyce and Bugs Bunny in the same sentence in a way that reminded listeners of Buster Keaton in some strange drugstore hurricane kind of a way. The skatolic odor was rich and the worm refused to bath. Owing to the peculiar nature of its origin the soldiers did not disturb the worm preferring instead to watch the captain writhe in agony pulling his legs back behind his ear to attempt to lick the matted blood soaked pubic hair over the torn orangish flesh that hung in ribbons over a large hole that had once been a simple anus. The upshot of it all was that the worm ate less rations than the captain so the men were basically satisfied with the arrangement and they followed the worm wiggling through the jungle as it did impersonations of Fred Astaire... + Blasted rot gut con-artist with ten huge molars running across the front of his mouth in a clump owing to his mother's industrial accident with the cunt acid from the chink's hyperdrill. Drilled right on through back to china, the asshole couldn't even close the damn thing and the lower mandible just kind of hung there like a tire swing. Maya spits in his face in disgust and revulsion you don't have enough money for me to kiss you there isn't enough money on the planet... + The giggling Hyenas are dressed in black and high on amphetamines looking to turn you inside out. + Tongue-tied porn queens scream obscenities at passersby "I'll suck your dick until your eyeballs pop out your ass..." + Steady...wait til you see the whites of their eyes...Blown newspapers and advert scrapes cover the bottom three feet of a brick wall like sardines neatly packed in a kipper snack tin from a 1983 supermarket shelf....Horatio Alger's sodomizing menage-a-toi with the Maytag Man and Uncle Sam has led us to train station on the SpaceTime line where freedom is an irrelevant inconvenience of language that is slowly being fazed out of history. Language is a virus. The i that is You speaks, I speak and the vibrations of air we create controls our every move. Science gives rise to Magic in the form of powerful papers that tell who what why and how you are to be. You can't march down to city hall to protest without a permit filed ahead of time with the city clerk. You can't drive an automobile without the Proper Papers. You can't leave the country without PAPERS, you can't perform honest labor without PAPERS. You can't buy or grow certain pharmaceuticals at all, nor can you pursue the happiness of your choice unless it falls into one category. Consumption. We are all free to consume which when you think about it, is the only freedom we really need in a CONSUMER SOCIETY. Televisions, radios, automobiles, washing machines, drying machines, refrigerators, freezers, ovens, microwave ovens, convection ovens, alarm clocks, computers, headphones, home furnishings, bicycles, video games, tennis shoes, laser disc players, DVD players, record +players, compact disc players, cordless telephones, wireless phones, digital phones, cellular phones, two way radios, short wave radios, car stereos, home stereos, and every accessory you can conceive of and millions more you couldn't. We have all the entertainment and modern conveniences in the world in our home each assessable at our fingertips whenever you chose. Which is a good thing because the minute you step out of your house some OFFICAL OF THE STATE is going to want to see some goddamn-papers-on-the-double-what-the-hell-are-you-doing-here-cough-up-the-fee-place-your-hands-behind-your-head-you-have-the-right-to-remain-silent-lie-down-and-spread-your-legs-and-shut-the-fuck-up-right-fucking-now sir! + Uncle Sam came on the ground and left without a trace. Horatio and Maytag were emotionally tormented for years until their eventual deaths through ritualistic dismemberment. + Sil Hawkard: And I don't have any papers standing on a cement sidewalk slab starring at the FREEDOM OF AMERICA locked inside a now closed appliance store. The Ace Appliance Store to be precise. I feel suddenly nervous like they know what I am thinking. They know that I am thinking. + -He's not smiling. Oh no, not yet, we're working on it though.- + We the people we govern you the other people have decided for reasons which are beyond the scope of this broadcast and may well be beyond the scope of your comprehension entirely that all freedoms which you previously thought you had but never in reality did possess are summarily denied from this point forward. Please report to the nearest biomedical programming center by the fourth of May where a new human program bio-unity 3.6 will be installed into your seratonin and allow for future dopemine programming without the need for physical intervention please go about your lives as you always have all those not present for the reprogramming procedures by the fourth of May will be consider fugitives of the state and will be dealt with in the harshest manner allowed by law and endorsed by the entertainment loving public... + + + Naturally Waiben wanted out of jail and was perfectly willing to meet with his former cellmate who had struck up most unusual conversations about the edges of science and how far did he think they were from the fringes of magic and shamanist traditions and methods? Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magick ...Sil struck Waiben as extremely well read and without the usual pretensions of one who is in as deep as he appeared to be, Waiben's hopes were somewhat dashed when he refused to answer the question who do you work for prefering to lapse back on a well developedhabit of mumbling incoherently and abruptly changing the subject usually to something about the merits of anarchy. Waiben wanted to hear the words i am rich and i will pay you large sums of money to work for me to do pure research untainted by political agenda and what not, Waiben realized he was beginning to sound like some science utopianist and mentally slapped himself in the face. + Waiben studied Sil's face in the last rays of New Orleans sun noticing the wild sparkle that seemed the jump out of his eyes when his mind began to race and Waiben could abrely keep up with the blast of ideas. But they were not incoherent rants he watched the wheels truning half wondering whether he had actually thought this up ahead of time or whether he really just talked as fast as the words formed in his head. Sil appeared to be around twenty five perhaps a bit older, but his head was a jungle of hair the crawled all over his glasses and eyes obscuring them entirely at time such that he reminded the doctor of the hairy talking thingy from the Adams family. + Still Waiben was happy to be talking to someone who was as least way beyond the game curcuit and seemed to pocess at least a spotty grasp of partical theory and probabilies. He seemed especially obcessed with frequencies and radio transmission which intriguid Waiben as his own experiements with orgaon had seemed to be pointing in that +direction. Sil was a furocious smoker Waiben noticed --such a rediculous drug habit he thought somewhat indifferently. + "What? I'm soory my mind was wandering." Waiben felt momentarily ackward, but Sil seemed not to care. + "No I'm sorry I've never done this before." + "Done what?" Waiben could only think horrified of unwelcome sexual advances and suddenly reality filpfloped for him. + "recruited anyone." was Sil's not so reassuring reply + "recruited for what," asked Waiben uneasily feeling the squeeze of reality tunnel uncertainty. + "Perhaps invited is a better word. There is somewhere I'd like you to go with me." + This was too much for Waiben and he had to blurt out, "are you trying to hit on me?" + Sil just laughed "Downs was right your still planer, but don't worry you don't have to have sex with anyone although I recomment you do have sex with someone perhaps even everyone. Now I'm going to do some coding, you have room waiting at the mondrain and I'll pick you up at about eight tomorrow morning we have a ten o'cock flight to Buenos Aries. I'm glad to have you along," he smiled. + Waiben absorbed the information and sudden thought aloud "you can't fly from New Orleans to Buenos Aires the airports not big enough..." + "We're not taking a commercial flight," Sil said as he walked away. + Several hours later as the heat dissipates slowly bvack inland to the swamps and the ocean breeze brings in the gulf night, Waiben is thinking about Voodoo, Gringos and the Quantum Uncertainty principle. It had occurred to him that in addition to the homosexual tunnel he had accidentally step into and the imagined tunnel he wished he could find there was another tunnel to consider:Sil couled be some fundamentalist nut case +trying to lead him out of the country and to his death. Religious nuts hated science more than science nuts hated religion and learning the languages of each in order to pass one's seflf off as a scientist or a baptist wasn't that difficult. + He sat up in bed reread the letter Sil had given him...With practice you can teach yourself to receive peoples signals or thoughts; what we want you to figure out is how to create a sub-audio broadcast that can actually be controlled and directed like an ordinary radio signal. Telepathy is an interpersonal form of radio, and my understanding of the general theories of chaos, what is true for one system should be relatively the same in another if only the signal amplitude is being changed. The problem I see is that even subtle changes in input can cause radical oscillations in output or more poetically: somewhere a butterfly is beating its wings and changing world history. Waiben thought about it for a while and fell asleep to a tunnel where television was the ultimate telepathic control signal broadcast onto an unwitting population and designed to create subtle and undetectable mind control. It was a fitful sleep. + Waiben slid into what shamans call the dream body, Jungians call the net of synchronicity and phycisist call the uncertainty principle where spacemind over whelms and breaks down the normal balance of spacetime and mind. Sixty years earlier in a different coordinate point Dr. Waiben is inventing Color Television. It was the basis of his realization that mind control was possible, it was merely a question of finding the right tools and methods of applying the tools. He had stumbled on to the idea of television as a form of mind control about the time the first color sets were coming onto the market. He was just by coincidence (if you believe in such nonsensical notions) studying the orgone theories of Doctor Wilheim Reich at the time. + Even in the nineteen forties Reich’s theories were revolutionary to Waiben and he felt he had found someone besides himself and Korzybsky who truly understood the implications of Einstein's relativity notions and revolutionary view of the world that he gave us. The sentence that leaped out of Reich’s notes as Waiben stared hypnotically at the +bluish glow of the first color television set was one that warned prolonged exposure to the bluish radiation of bion energy has had negative physical ramifications such as headaches, red swollen eyes, and the feeling that one had been staring at the sun for too long.... The synapse fired and Waiben hurried home to begin experimenting with blue light emissions to find out if they had any connection to orgone energy and in the end he found that blue wavelength radiation with prolonged exposure irritates the eyes and actually appeared to drain orgone energy out of the individual presumably by neutralizing the signal and allowing it to pass through the individual with out interacting. This reasoned Waiben would make people tired from watching television, but simultaneously unable to break the strong magnetic bond that the TV was creating. The potential for a sedated and apathetic culture with a very high threshold for persecution thus raised its ugly head. Waiben never mentioned his finding to anyone and merely offered to help in the perfecting of the television signal --always quietly insisting that blue light was the easiest method of signal transmission + Waiben used to drive the suburbs around nine o'clock just watching the eerie blue glow coming from the hundreds of thousands of houses he had infected. He like to think of television as a virus because in many respects it was; like virus it was benign until the right electrical connection from the host triggered the release of the disease. Like a virus it was passed from one generation to the next, and like a virus its spread was exponentially related to the human population growth ie. more people = infected people. The greatest side effect of television though was quite unintended by Waiben, it had radically reoriented the global mindset from isolated consumption into total slavery to consumption and fashion. Thus Waiben learned that the fastest and most effect way of controlling a large population was to make it genuinely believe that it own enslavers were in fact its heros, its gods, thus eliminating or at the very least co-opting naysayers by making them part and parcel of the disease. Additionally as TV became more widespread even its detractors had to use the very channels of oppression as their only outlet for resistance. Much like +controlling any signal path, insurrectionists and radicals were diverted by capacitors (“the media”) and squelched by resistors (“the police”). Thus the people remained happy and content with their oppression and no one was able to convince them to give up the convenience of slavery for the hardships of freedom. Would you? + It wasn't enough though; true mind control would leave the victim unable to disobey the signal or ideally, unaware that he or she were even being controlled --like Christ reborn, Waiben thinks of the old con artist sitting laughing from con artist heaven. + sub-audio messages are below the threshold of human hearing, but not that of comprehension. It is the noise of someone thinking. Listening in is just a matter of having the right receptors, psychics and clairvoyants had been doing it as circus tricks for centuries. The granddaddy of all his research would be that day when he could say definitively that he had a method for true and total mind control. It was this quest that had led him back to a state lab in Las Vegas where tonight he is planning to induce mind alteration and manipulation with the legendary Ayahuasca which contains a harmine that some believe bonds directly with human DNA. In the good doctor's mind that meant opening up a channel directly into the cellular level, allowing for deep meta-programming and possibly a key for using nanotechnology --but that’s too complicated right now. “Think of it as inter-cellular radio” he told his colleagues who mostly ignored his fanatical rantings. + Stupid fucking scientists he is thinking. I hate 'em I hate 'em I hate 'em I fucking hate 'em. They spend there whole goddamn lives studying the brilliant thoughts culled from centuries of genius's without ever stopping to think that maybe genius lurks in there own minds. Ingrates. Ought to have been stamped out with the rest of the conservative christian movements, they have no understanding of novelty. If it hasn't been done a hundred times before they won't even talk about it let alone attempt to experiment with it. + Paging Dr. Waiben. Dr. Waiben please come to Lab 203. Dr. Waiben Lab 203. + What the fuck have those morons done now? Probably killed one of themselves by mistake. Lab 203 was of course the antidote lab for the biological warfare experiments he had been conducting back east. Nowadays Waiben was finding even in his close colleagues’ a certain hang up, they felt they had found the key when in fact they merely had the next step to the door, the key itself was still along way off. Thus he decided that Kellinger and his other lab assistant, Dr. Frederick were becoming even more of a liability then a help. True to his ruthless and cold pursuit of power Waiben logically concluded that they were no longer necessary, but at the same time they knew to much to risk turning his back on them --Kellinger had, after all been as much a part of inventing the eaters as Waiben had. So Waiben arrived at his lab with his mind made up, he knew Kellinger was in Los Angeles for the Weekend with his lover Simon, and he also knew William was in Los Angeles with an eater doing some work for Sil, he called Sill and Sil called William and not thirty minutes later Dr. Kellinger’s tendril like arm snaked up and grabbed his own ringing phone...Doctor Kellinger? Speaking.... universal breakdown short curcuited the word and left you here naked and cold. + +familiarity breeds contempt +-William Brandon +from the Origin of Consciousness + + + The next morning, true to his word Sil picked Waiben up in a limosine and they caught downs' private jet to Buenos Aries. Sil could tell that Waiben was suffering Space Time Mind confusion and that the first signs of the breakdown of scientific rationality were already manifesting themselves. Sil left Waiben in the main compartment of the jet and disappeared with a wavering walk into the back of the plane, Waiben could hear another man talking to what he assumed was the cockpit crew giving flight instructions. The plane was not unlike most government planes it had couches instead of seats and revealled to one how much room there realy is on the inside on an airplane. This particular plane had a few +things that Waiben doubted were government planes --an assortment of medical tools that were stored in glass cabinet near the front of the cabin and beside each of the black leather couches were a permanently attached hucas which, Waiben noticed by bumping one, were flexible at the base so as not to spill their contents during flight. The cabin also contained an impressive collection of computer hardware and curiously near the door marked COCKPIT, on a small desk was an antique typewriter with the word Underwood inscribed on the face. The walls of the jet were covered with tapestries and pillows with scenes from the Tibetian Book of The Dead and the Kama Sutra lay haphazardly in the corner the mixture of oriental and occidental gave the room a circular feeling, which was reinforced by the cynderical walls and roof. + The door to Waiben's back flung open and Sil and another man came struggling through it, laughing and carrying a giant mirror full of cocaine. “So you found our coordinate eh?” said the man in the three piece suit, laughing and pointed at Waiben. + “Yes I did.” said Waiben staring at the coke. + “Oh, pardon me how rude, would you like some cocaine, I fear this is all we have left, but help yourself.” + “No thanks” + “No thanks you don’t want any or no thanks you want it but you aren’t about to do on a jet with two people you don’t know?” + “Second” + “Lay off him Cary he's already trying to live at least six tunnels at once, you know how disorienting it is at first” Sil flopped down on a couch and began to load a huca with hashish. "Just remember if it doesn't make you laugh it probably isn't real..." his voice trailed off into mumblings Waiben did not catch. + “Just so you know Doctor, if we were going to hurt you, we would have pushed you out of the plane as soon as we were over water, so relax and do some drugs, we’ll tell you what we need you for later, right now you need us, you got the need we got the drugs +so lighten up eh?” Downs had decided that since the doctor was already in a tunnel of anylitical scientific doctrine he would be best brought around by his cankerous old southern man routine that he imagined to be somewhat akin to hanging out with William S. Burroughs. + Waiben sat somewhat reluctantly on the couch next to Sil who handed him the end of the surgical tubing and when Waiben put it to his lips Sil lit the huca. Waiben noticed just before the hash hit him that the lighter had a picture of christ with a crown of thorns on it. This realization man him chuckle and wonder if Sil had seen his or perhaps it was his or perhaps every gas station in America has them. + "Uh oh he's gonna get the giggles," Downs said laughing himself, "here do some coke to speed up the signal processing, it frees the word." + Waiben felt a delicious chemical alkaloid taste on the back of his tongue as he sniffed a long line of cocaine --a brilliantly awakened peacefulness settled over him. Downs noticed the change in mindset and dropped the old man routine in favor of his smooth warm welcome-to-my-world voice... + broadband signal strength test market for better higher climbable mountains:”:”:”::”:”:”:”:”:”:”>>>>>>>>>wicked evil sentiments have been exercised and all words and virus contained>>>>>>government works like this more or less:>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>The waiting drove me mad...so stop waiting ya stupid fuck... transmission broadcast’s proposals for your demise. incomplete and ill planned. the joint chiefs of staff would be happy to coordinate efforts for a small fee. Do pictures have a language? static. message garbled. transmission lost. + + Waiben surveys his hotel room with its view overlooking the Buenos Aries airport he stares at their plane off to the right of the terminal just barely visible from where he is. Well so this is South America. Huh. The room is midgrade not nice, but so far free of roaches which when flying over the city on their approach seemed quite an unlikely +possibility. Waiben lies down on the bed, lights a cigarette, and turns on the television. Spanish broadcast MTV. He rolls on his side reaching into his bag and extracting a vial of DMT, do whatever you want tonight they had said just be sober by six in the morning. He pours the white powder into a glass pipe feeling a bit like a crack whore the taste is reminecint of cock that soothing artificial quality...the world game stopped the truth game stopped and finally in less than thirty seconds the Waiben game stopped what happened after that is a matter of some speculation, but he was pretty sure that he hadn't really talked to an ostrich that explained to him the future and his role in something called Freeport. Sil and Cary were in the next room listening to Waiben on a short wave system they had set up prior to giving Waiben a key. + "He's going to see them I know it," Sil found himself saying. + "I don't unerstand why you think this doctor is so useful, I already have scientists that are further along in his field that he is." Downs didn't like Waiben he sensed something familiar about him as if everything he was capable of he had already done once before with disaterous results and Downs had spent enough time messing with the fabric of reality to know that his brain knew a lot more than it would let him see all at once. A sufi story came back to him...a man walks into a store and says to the shop keeper have you seen me before? The shopkeeper says no and the man says then how do you know it is me? + Sil is insistant on Waiben's necesity and even when Cary raises the control game issues Sil does not back down, "thats why I gave him the hallucinogens because it rids you of the ego, he doesn't know who he is right now, he thinks he invented color television. Relax." Sil smoked a little DMT himself and tuned his shortwave radio to static. This helped to establish in his mind a kind of rhythm and seemed to link the drug to the static, if only in his mind. Pictures are a language he is thinking. + +I do not believe that the world +is made of quarks or electromagnetic waves, +or stars, or planets, or any of these things. +I believe the world is made of language. +-Terence McKenna + Madison Avenue is a faceless row of buildings filled with thousands of advertising agents, it is an entity in Abstraction. Abstraction is the legal basis for the sanctity of the state, and it is a wholly bianary system. Its language is bianary coding form the conceptual level down to vast systems of information stored in computer cuniform. It was to put it mildly the last place one would look for spiritual insight. But Sil Hawkard was not bounded by the archtypal mythologies of his culture. In any age and any culture the shaman is the the oddball who is seperate from the cultural images of the human experience. The non-shaman citizen is in constant conflict between expectation of habit and the nagging guilt of novelty or rather the lack of novelty. The shaman is merely one who has allowed the self to take over the citizen in such a way that bahavior and even brainwave patterns are altered. And it is for this reason that the shaman is exiled to the edge of the village, because tampering with the fabric of consensus reality is dangerous to its continued existance never call anything up that you can not put back down. + The most common method of acheiving such a feat over the years has been chemical mind manipulation. Sil's fascination with mind manipulation did not began with drugs though, it began much earlier in a high school biology class where he realized the simple truth that the brain is a continuously changing chemical reaction. The nuero circuitry of the brain is like the inner workings of a computer, of course it is infinitely more complex, but the computer is still a useful metaphor. Eventually through his use of drugs he came to realize that even chemical maps are in fact a rather poor guide to what the hell is really going on. If you see something you have never seen before, you want to tell about it you want to talk about it you want to describe it. You are tempted to say it resembled a woman but was nothing like a woman. The first thing you need to move on from the temporal reality that most people cling to is a new language. + It was this reason that had led Sil to Madison avenue because even if their goals were slightly less benign than Sil's own they nevertheless possessed a wealth of data on manipulations of language. They had managed to create a universe in which people were +convinced they needed everything they didn't have. This was a powerful tool of magic and while Sil wasn't entirely sure if they were even aware of what they were doing they were undeniably doing it. Manipulating language is one of the shaman's starting tools, kind of a chip flint arrow in the bigger picture, but technology builts on itself --if you can't chip an arrow head you can't split an atom. So he arranged to have one hundred televisions brought to Buenos Aries and tuned to different stations in all kinds of languages and he began the immense task of taping, editing, and splicing Madison Avenue's commercial language. + It was for this reason Sil wanted to bring Waiben to Buenos Aries and now as Waiben sat in the chair staring around the room at the overwhelmin sensory input potential of one hundred televisions in one room he felt overwhelmed and not up to the task. He had at his disposal a team of over two hundred electronics experts, but he had the annoy task of looking for something without knowing what it was. Downs and Hawkard had left him a copious amount of DMT, mushrooms, peyote, cocaine, and hashish to help him along. Sil recomended hash and cocaine together as the best decoding agent for the madison magicians as he had taken to calling them. His proposal came after a week of drugs and sex which Waiben had enjoyed and felt for the first time really truly free and alive. Sex is as good as the body gets Downs had said, but now he had years worth of work staring him in the face. I know you want to find the face behind the mask behind the face behind the mask behind the face behind the mask... Sil had chanted as he left. The most curious event of the week was the time when Sil had been teaching Waiben how to use mantras and hash as tools in meditation. Waiben realized after selecting a mantra from an astrology book in Downs' apartment, that Sil was chanting I can't believ its not butter, I can't believe its not butter I can't believe its not butter.... + Sil and Downs returned to the oil derrick city while the good doctor spent the better part of the day in an oxygen pure environment subjecting himself the recuperative acupuncture therapy on his muscles which were stimulated one by one with needle pricks +while an orgone generator hummed steadily in the corner. The preprogrammed alpha waves stimulated his body's brain functions that were healing in nature and as the experienment went on electro graphs of brain activity mapped the centers stimulated and was compared with the frequency emitted until each frequency had its effects defined and clearly mapped. In another room one of his researchers was having similiar electro stimulation through flicker television screens recorded and the alpha waves would be compared to Waiben's and others. + Chemical stimulation of the brain acts at different frequencies than orgone so Waiben entered into a tunnel of reality where the healer believed that orgone would rejuvinate the body and help it recover from the destructive side effects of the drugs. Similtaneously doing research and healing appealled to the self centered side of Waiben. Waiben was not a regular user of drugs and thus prone to over-enthusiasm from the get go --Downs had cautioned him about the difference between want and need and how thin and blurry the line could get. No one said the doors to the chapel perilous wouldn't be guarded. Addiction is the first to rear its ugly head the word is obliterated by the need. need is driven by re -action rather than action. The first rule of anarchy is to never react. Re-action is a non event, it doesn't exist in reality and it futility is readily apparent to anyone who ceases to do it. The human brain is taught to feel a certain sensation and because evolution was soooo effective the brain learns to adjust to fit the new reality --making ot real. Thus it reacts to the stimuli by negating its effects and like the man in the floppy hat said it never got weird enough for me. + avoiding addiction is no easy task --you're up against over ten thousand years of terrestrial survival instincts; shedding them is the damnedest thing like the Kimono dragons continually picking at the dead flesh that refuses to leave the beast that it was once a part of. Waiben felt up to the task on many levels, but he had made a mental note to not have any opiates around because after all a man has to know his limitations. + + + + +reality is a narrow +definition of existance +-Sil Hawkard from The Rubber Octupus + + + +one year and six thousand miles northeast Sil sits in his room of tunisia smoking hash and reading a letter from the doctor that said: + +observations on the Madison Avenue language/image institution: + The rigid censorship guidelines for language that may or may not be used by broadcast media is the first thing that one notices when evaluating the Madison language manipulation. What you don't hear is more obvious than what you do hear. This arbitrary crystaline definition between what is accepted as language and what is perifrial gives added power to the abscant words given there selective nature. The powe3r is largely meaningless but the pricision of its delineation tends to suggest that those making the choices do indeed have power. At this point there power is largely exercised in the form of fines although who continue to push usually fade out of the picture. The restriction of language, even of a few simple words like sexually oriented words, gives the controller power over the sender who is dependant on the controllers approval prior to broadcast. The censorship itself is not so strong as to limit image rather disrupt the free flow of ideas without raising the suspicions of the majority who, it is important to remember can ultimately disrupt the delicate balance. + image control of broadcast media is much more sexually oriented than language. they don't let them them see sex in realtime, they let them see violense in realtime, but never ever the actual sex act. It is endlessly mentioned and alluded to but never shown. This seems to create a message of sex being more powerful than death, which in the ordinary magical arts is not necessarily true. The lack of sex images is complicated. By depriving them of biotic need creates a tension and stress and without equilibrium, power can never be achieved. But it also creates a subculture, those who enjoy the nudity so much that they are willing to go out and buy it on the free market. This can never be stopped, therefore it is best to marginalize this subculture through city zoning laws and force them into the “bad parts” of town. This marginalization makes them ineffectual during rebellion because the dominate culture knows that no matter how bad the current situation may be they sure as hell don’t want some “porn watching trash monger” in charge. + The human consciousness is latent with sexuality. Not hetro or homo, but simply sexuality, however in wordimage track television it is almost exclusively hetrosexual mythology --conditioning the brain into a binary system of either/or hetero/homo, one disrupts the normal circuitry of the brain creating mono memes (see footnote).1 Monomemes lead to +repression and non-symetical personality types. Signal processing in these brain patterns is much more open to autosuggestion --research continues in this field. + 3.Language manipulation: When attempting autosuggestion it is worth bearing in mind the KISS principle of which I believe Madison Avenue is acutely aware. The so-called “sound bite” is simple and enables you to plant marginalizing catch phrases in the mind of general public It also leaves room to constantly create and update the marginalization. In addition, by providing easy to recall words and phrases that simplify and therefore make meaningless complicated patterns and repitions you create a tendancy to narrow brainwave activities. Examples: Nigger, Nazi, Lesbo bitch, rock’n’roll, just a junky, anything with monger at the end of it, etc. It is also worth noting that Madison employs what shamans and priests have known for centuries the --rythem of the words is as important as the meaning which is why jingles were so popular for so long. Repeated exposure, however, creates an irritablility so I think there would have to be ceremonial in quality; as in a concert, but thus far the government newsbroadcastshave not employed such a technique (perhaps it is too obvious) + I could not (through the nature of the medium) tell if any sort of orgone generator type of energy was being used, but such a device requires a symbol transfer system which in my opinion has not been toyed with yet although I believe that it might be with further reasearch. I also plan to look more into the blue light synchronicity between Orgone and the neutral background of television. One of the technitians here has a tunnel in which the connection is real and the distruction of Reich's research a typical sloppy government cover-up to conceal what they were doing...you get the idea. It is a tunnel that I have yet to explore. + +personal notes: television (and here i mean all television because all television is advertising) seems to be primarily a means of diffining language and image. It presents polarities so often and with such a remarkable sense of irony (unitended?) that it seems to be telling us what the limits are. "The news" often plays the most violent stories back to back with the most heartwarming ones, obstenitly to not depress the viewer but it has rather the opposite effect of creating a constant tension in the viewer causing one have an inevitable sense of doom in every situation of pleasure. This helps to instill a sense of control over behavior, however this is not something that can be clinically evaulated it is just instinct. Ordinarily I would disregard the rather direct nature of the causality, but because especially America in some very real sense allows its fabric of reality to be held together by television I think that some sort of syncronise behaviorial patterns could be instilled through the airwaves. The Question of intelligent origions I still have no opinion on --I think that the fastest way to determine such a direct causality would be to delibriately try it and judege the results. Thank you for your continued support and be advised that I am returning to the united states under the name Chase Hollister. + + New Orleans: the bus is gone leaving a surly crowd of Mexicans behind coming to work in restaurants they can’t afford to eat in. Down the street tourists buy overpriced and ugly looking wood carvings because the sign on the shop says Voodoo and they want funky stuff so their relatives back home will find them more authentic --as if reality were not a fabric tearing down the middle. Sil Hawkard is sitting at his favorite stateside tavern waiting for the arrival of Dr. Waiben whom he is beginning to suspect may in fact be turning out as Downs had said --be careful what you wish for. Waiben was making Sil wait and Sil new it, Waiben was letting him know that one can not escape the control circuit if one is going to attempt to live in the fabric. Of course Sil knew he would have a well thought out and logical excuse, not to would have been Sil's style; he knew the game curcuit and he knew the games and he never bothered to play. Sil was excited by the prospect of what he might be getting in terms of research from Waiben, but he was also logically paranoid and knew human behavior so he developed the possiblity that Waiben might be giving him a stranglelope of disinformation. As a precaution Downs had insisted he take entourage who were now spread around New Orleans waiting for his signal and amusing themselves at the same time. + Sil saw Waiben outside as he rounded the corner and Sil ducked into the restroom--two paranoids meeting is always a contest of wills and never simple. First the feelers--Waiben headed straight into the bathroom and started to pee in the urinal, Sil stepped noiselessly out of the stall next to him and gently eased a gun behind his ear, “Doctor Livingston I presume?” + Waiben was visibly shaken, but tried his best to hide it, he smiled “Sil your paranoia is unfounded, occasionally troubling, but always amusing. Sil paused for a moment unsure if Waiben’s lips had even moved. + "Don’t pull telepathy games with me Waiben, it's irritating. Half the time all i get is gibberish, just save it until you know what your doing, okay?” His tone was deliberately +condescending and he said it with out moving his lips and looking straight into Waiben's eyes + “That wasn’t telepathy is was sub vocal speech, but okay we’ll just talk, can i get you a drink?” Waiben looked a touch surprised, but Sil couldn't tell if it was genuine. + + Dr Waiben had arrived in New Orleans after a short lecture stop in Los Angeles, California where he had experimented with speaking in tongues. The central nervous system is much like a radio antenna and Waiben was obsessed with finding a powerful enough signal to reach everyone at once. The tongues method appeared, from the LA experiment anyway, to be strong enough only if you knew how to pick it up. Much like his experiments with television, it required the listener to make a conscious effort to tune it in, which meant that it could be tuned out just as easily. + SpaceTime events collide. Words bounce out uncontrollably and with no respect whatsoever for the recognized conventions of english grammar and proper method of coherent speech. Pick up your marshmallows and walk -Christ is drunk and babbling in the streets of Bethlehem, Mohammed heaves him over his shoulder and carries him to a remote cave in the Gobi desert where they make sweet love under the waning stars of eternity like Calvin Klein and Gorgio Armani before the great clothing wars of the late 1990's. + + Sil sits down with Waiben and starts to tell a story, but thinks better of it and simply studies Waiben's face for a minute. "Cary has a brain tumor and he is going to die within a month." he said suddenly. "Everything is being turned over to me on the condition that I withdrawl all support and contact from you and your research facility, but I have not agred to it yet. I came here to ask you if the rumors are true." + For the first time Waiben genuinely felt spacetimemind curving and he saw Sil Hawkard fade and crumble as if he had actually been made up of structuralized ants. + The assistant beside him watches horrified as the virus pushes in bubbling crispy blisters against the outer skin of the boy's cock. The cock begins to move as if independent of the boy, it twists and turns in ways that one would not expect a cock to be able to move. It seems propelled about by the force of the popping skin blisters. The skin is searing and the acrid smell of burnt flesh permeates the air, a faint trail of delicate whispy smoke emits from the top like effervescent semen. His cock continues to dance about as if possessed by a viral cobra, the skin is disfigured and slides off in sheets that look like red black strips of chicken skin. The blisters are popped like a burnt hot dog, the vein on the underside splits open and oozes out a hideous trail of ochre liquid that snags in the boys pubic hair and trickles down his ass. + The virus begins to organize itself into more complex structures as though it were leaping up the evolutionary ladder right before the good Doctor's eyes. The boy screams in pain and terror as the blisters begin to form on his chest. + "By God i think its going to his brain, its ten minutes old and its evolved from a virus to a sentient creature capable of locating the vital organs of its host and destroying it. Waiben is momentarily shocked, the assistant retreats to the observation room for fear its growth rate might be too exponential and drags Waiben by the arm. Behind the antiseptically clean glass they continue to observe the beast as it burrows through the boys body, and then suddenly it stops and the monitoring devise on the boy falls silent. It dies with the host, how tragically effective, thought Waiben. + "What we need to do is tamper with its genes so that it doesn't die with the host -a virus that evolves in to a completely independent creature in an evolutionary span of two or three minutes..." Waiben's assistant Dr Kellinger's mind is racing ten ton truck-like around the viscus fluids of his skull and two years away a phone is already ringing. + "Did you hear that?" Waiben asks suspiciously as his spacetime point begins to warp forward. + Kellinger stops mid sentence. "Hear what?" + "The phone, I thought I hear the phone?" + "Are you okay? + "Yes, why?" + "You're the one who had the phones down hear removed two weeks ago because you said they were distracting you from this project and now you're still hearing them ring? You might want to lay off the cocaine for a little while Doctor." + "It not habit forming." + "All elements of mind control are habit forming --you of all people ought to know that." + Fragments of ash are falling. Government radio broadcasts interrupt still air to create wavelengths...my god thinks Waiben its working on me He grabs a cattle prod and heads out of the room. + Somewhere a man shoot a monkey and blows off its balls. The monkey laughs obnoxiously as the cells reconstruct themselves and a new set of balls rapidly grows in place of the old ones, he advances menacingly on the man who now realizes his error and begins to flee. Always subjugate reality. + + Waiben burst out laughing and took an exaggerated sip of scotch, "you're the one who tried so hard to get me to believe that nothing is true...are you afraid to live your own reality?" + Sil stared at Waiben for a bit and got up silently and walked to the bathroom again he smoked DMT and sat on the toilet seat and braced himself. Fragments of Ash falling. White washed ceilings hanging so ominous Hallucination of bubble-headed figures crawling like the Michelin Man across an indescribable mountain of tires +Motels Motels Motels Whiskey Bourbon. Tow truck non-ordinary state of reality precludes a state of reality that something is real Point at the autistic manwomanchild Autistic man pointing at you laughing unable to fathom how your brain functions and quite +self righteously you you cling to its definitions. Must delineate between abnormality and those of us who Understand The Human Virus breeding like rats unconsciously conscious and awareof our disorganization. Gas Station Cold Fusion dreams of the Anarchist are breedingin the minds of the oil men who don’t want toloose their stranglehold of reality.Fragments of Ash falling the continual settling of dust weighing down humanity and the French Maid masturbates discreetly in the next room. You need her to keep the dust off your mortalcoil spring.Rebirth mythology.Mythology of reality. We must distinguish between what will be defined as sane and what shall be referred to as insanity. Kevlar definitionsconstructed to make a better shampoo seem like a logical item on whichto squander your paperbacked slavery bills.After all these years Tide still +gets your socks whiter Its a wonder that they aren’t transparent by now.that your brain retarded in its developmentthat evolution had not anticipated the advent of the opposable thumb the unopposable domination of the thumb leadingto and insect superiority of mating rituals stolen from a textbook on damselflies darning needles sewing shut your lips, mind atrophy. Weber's White Race Enriched for Superiority Scorched earth campaigns raining Ash. Shit from the sky. Tax man camefor your baby in exchange for unpaid balance. You understand. Nothing Personal Just doing our job. Same as the next guy. From Auzwich on down the line. Didn’t make the rules. Sorry. We perfected them.There are no innocents in a world of free will. You don’t have to survive at the expense of others. You could die with puncture wounds in your handsand others would create a new mythology strange irony would find another with holes in his hands unwilling to accept cockroach mentalities.You want to beLIEve Hitler was a madman but he lives on in quiet cafes centralsouthamerica not so free not all the communists have been shot yet Your mistook misunderstood missed the lesson in the situation that unfolded Dr. of dialectic excuses you want to beLIEve Hitler was a madman Hitler killed everybody's body only taking orders you understand just doing my job from Independence on down the line. It was a sad money grubbing hunter gather up his children and thank his gods they are his and he their +god behold I have come to tell you that everything you know is wrong stop doing your job it is not yours see Hitler in your mind you want him dead but he's not he livesonburied under restraint in everyones mind.Only taking orders you understand. Didn’t have a CHOICE. Got a family to feed. radio crackle. pop. hiss. silence. + + “Alright, so what are you going to do?” Waiben asked as he came back. + "I will not sell you out to the State like Cary wants me to do, but you will never see me again." Sil walked out of the bar and got in a waiting car. + + Anything everything like a hurricane blowing bits of ash in from mountainous eruptions. Sil is sitting at a table, coat turned collar up and looking like a grainy photograph, harsh contrasts under a sterile florescent bulbs, mad-smoking a half lit cigarette. Old Cary Downs is inside, diffidence hangs like a fern in the corner to liven the place up and remind freshly wed virgins that drinking the seed is a gift of God. God who rots like a gaslamp whore waiting to get back what life owed him. Sil lays down the napkin he was blowing his nose in and gets up to leave. + Sil remebers a peculiar buzzing sound rang near the edge of his ears, a sound not unlike what a bear must hear with its head stuck inside a hollow log with hornets nest buzzing at the other end and echoing up the length. The sound began to organize itself at first into random pulses and thumps until a pattern emerged and Sil saw the rhythmic pounding of African drummers crouched by the fire and Aztec dancers whirled like calavera dolls blowing in the wind swept rafters of a Mexican village and far off, back in the shadows a thousand villagers chanted a harsh wilderness voice that carried up into his consciousness and spoke: + Behold we are ants. Tonight we appear to you as a headless horseman suit driven by a midget who smokes cinnamon sticks and who before this is over will likely find sexually desirable in the same way those lechers looked at Snow White when she +would bend over the stove. Only KiKi can save you, but that is irrelevant for now. As we said we are ants and our purpose is singular. Attachment is a pattern and in runs through you. Beware of the singularity of Time and consult often the wisdom of the last carrier pigeon. She waits like a pregnant woman ready to burst forth with impenetrable mysteries. Might well be the key to the universe handed by a pervertial passageway of dreams. + Cary died two days later and Sil flew to an island he had only recently found on the map. An island where sad tropic storms made one want to just sit on the porch in a bambo chair and stare at nothing for hours. Sil was sad about Cary, but primarily he suddenly felt the full weight of his own life on his shoulders --everyone in tunisia was waiting to see what he would do. He had taken the manufacturing codes for the production of the synthesiation of hashish and marajuana using carbon as a carrier and sold it for seven million dollars which he then parlayed into the stocks of the companies using a false corporation and funnelled the money into an e-cash account in the carribean. Sil was finacially poised to build an international empire and without word he left the derrick taking cary's jet and most of his informationresearch code machinery. As far as anyone on the rig knew he just disappeared they heard odd stories like one that an old man had approached him on the beach and converted him to christianity. One person did show up at the rig in tunisia though: the doctor will see you now. + + The encroaching millennia had several side effects which most people in the state had not antisipated, every society has its periodic upheavals and tumult but every society is different in what the upheaval is about. No one expected the fucking in the streets routine to really happen, but it did or at least it had for a while --it was dying off now some of the old purist religious types where beginning to crawl out of their bomb shelters to realize that the world had indeed gone mad just not violently mad. Instead sex evolved. It made sense to Waiben, after all the continuation of the species was more or less assured by DNA, why not have some fun, Waiben had developed a perverse sense of +humor in Buenos Aries. and had begun investigating ways of dilberately controlling the mind. scenes from the labritory play on tape loops in the new smithsonian. Do what ever you want just make sure he's in pain the whole time. I want his brain to remain in shock and agony for as long as it can before it turns itself off completely. Waiben was working on a theory of ego destruction --what happens to the mind if there is no ego? So far his experiment with television had been a disaster the only thing resembling a result was one freakish accident in which a Wichita cop, after 189 hours of uninterrupted signal, had blasted his own eyeballs out of his head and sent a strange grey ooze that had once been a brain flying across the room plastering on the wall like abstract art . Then the unexplainable parth his assistants puzzled over: projectile vomit squirted unrecognizable organ goo onto the television screen, when they wiped the ooze off the screen the television had short circuited itself and was spitting out random numbers for ten minutes or so and then at the bottom it scrolled out slowly and deliberately drwaibenlovesyou. + As a half joke half experiment (founded one Sil's premise if it isn't funny it probably won't work) Waiben had begun buying up control of broadcasting stations around the world and inwritting his own autosuggestion programs that everyone should get naked when the zeros came. It worked. Old friends who hadn't met in years would run down the street toward each other and instead of just hugging, they would fuck. At first it had been a bit odd, but as more of the herd joined in it became more acceptable. It did lead to many people who sort of slunk around in the shadows desperately trying to avoid running into a third grade teacher named Mrs. Fendleskin or other, who chased them nightly in their dreams. She was archtypically three hundred pounds overweight and yet somehow able to keep up with him chasing after him screaming you were such a bright boy. Think of all I did for you, come give Mrs. Fendleskin a little fuck! Invariably people woke up drenched in sweat and nervously double checking their underwear for dried cum. That's the problem with unlocking the unconscious, its libido often runs directly contrary +to that of the conscious. Time and Space are illusions created to fill a void, the one crack religion didn't quite reach --the gap between us. + Broadcast directives: Dr. Livingston i presume with your melting walls and Anne Clarke, saturated drug-induced sixties peace movement. Have you any idea what silliness peace inspires? We don’t need peace on earth we need to get the fuck off of earth; the space ship planet home evolution mythology is tired and worn. The cunt earth mother mythology is weary-eyed and thoroughly sick of our presence. Where is it writ that homo sapians ought to remain forever a terrestrial stupid creature fighting over gold and oil and dooming itself to specicide? Have you no sense of the inevitable; conceiving only of that which you know is possible? Is your terrestrial stupidity a symptom of the oxygen saturated environment that spawned you? Get rid of addiction, get rid of heroin, get rid of oxygen. Evolve. Survival of the fittest --you hear these words and think only of brawn and strength and lions ripping zebras to shreds. Fools! all of you. Survival depends on thought and intelligence we step of the food chain dilemma thousands of year ago, now its time to step off the planet all together we no longer need it. + Bless your lucky soul that you were born in the day and age when cessation of planetary constraints is possible. Don’t give me your morals, your religions, your beliefs --you can’t even justify your existence without them. Something can not be the source and justification of the source even the cave man Thak standing next to the first wheel must have seen the stupidity in these circular arguments. <sound of a woman whining Thak! Thak! get in here and take out the garbage>>><<<hear Thak's internal wheels turning conceiving of gunpowder shotgun blasted cunt's to high hell!>>>>> Have we passed the zero hour? Were we all sad eyed asleep at the wheel worried about our individual emotional experiences and missing the collective consciousness required to assemble a planetary brain collective capable of solving the hard realities of prevention. Prevention of leaving. Don’t go you may die. Don’t stay you will die. No we were not sad eyed asleep, you were sad eyed asleep and missed the boat but we know. + Assemble in the presence of god and know that i am peace. i am iam iam and i know why. Sorry can’t tell i am enjoying my intellectual, emotional and physical superiority because i have kicked the carbon death loop and caught the virus and decoded it for you, but i’m holding out on you waiting until you can grasp the fundamentals. Einstein died almost fifty years ago and you are still fifty years behind him. Let go of Newton let go of Aristotle and embrace a reality that is forever “plural and mutable,” realize that belief is a misconception, a temporary insanity which leads the human mind to mistakenly assume that it is capable of processing all signals. Like a radio you can only be tuned to one station at a time some of you might manage two or three at best --there are billions of signals incoming at all times. Some are visual, some are auditory, some are beyond normal comprehension, and some like nuetrinos are so small they can pass through the molecular spaces in your body. So by default you can not receive all the information and without all information all belief is stupid foolish games of semantics and power. + + Boards and syndicates of the earth did not take kindly to Dr. Waiben's reprogramming of the human computer and an all out cultural war started in 2001 with Waiben attempting to superimpose his own indoctrination over that of the Ind. INC mind contol game, or as he had renamed it: the U. S. A., Unconditioned & Systematic Autosuggestion state. The boards fought with conventional weapons and propoganda; Waiben used nonviolence (which indeared him to the people) and nano-technology. This last piece of technology forced the boards and syndicates to move ahead with their time table and institute operation TOTAL CONTROL. + >>>>>>>>these are trying times my fellow countrymen with a heavy hand ahem heart it was that i signed into law the seizure of private property and confiscation of all land into the hands of state>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<we caution you against overreaction as these measures are necessary and temporary so all resistance will be dealt with in the interest of time and efficiency,,,,,,,,,,>>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<<Your will be receiving +a vaccination pill sent out to all persons using the IRS databanks to select names you are instructed to take the pill and remain indoors until the virus alert sirens have blown for a second time. <<<<<<we appreciate your understanding and trust that you will realize that this is time where it is decided whether democracies will work in the post modern future>>>>we believe that we will send a message to the dictators of the world that democracy is inevitable and necessary to preserve the way of life we hold dear>>>>>>we will take your cooperation and compliance as a show of faith in the leaders you have elected to make decisions for you>>>>>>>> + Waiben knew that the so called vaccination pill contained a nanochip encoded with in a neutral virus which in humans found its way into the brain where it remained without harming the host, accept that this one had its own computer circuitry etched onto its molecular structure which would cause it to mutate and release a chemical agent that caused the chemical makeup of the host brain to switch and tune, so to speak, down to a longer alpha wavelength. At this wavelength the human brain processes at lower signal reception and in behavioral science experiments it had showed a tendency to be more open to auto-suggestion. No stumbling over lines, the computer chip in you brain has precision craftsmanship unequalled in its uncompromising quality. No expense has been spared in the programming of your life. And then there is me I am special screams your useless ego. + Crumple up the word and throw it into the sewer drain hope that someday a big bloated alligator will choke to death on words. + + + + +the legend of the toothless woman chased down the street with giant plastic candy cane saying you're gonna like it in your ass!!!!!! + + + All was well --cooking up plans to leave and then Waiben goes spilling to whole thing off to the boards --gotta have more power-- he says. + “Goddamnit!!” Sil crushes another flesh eater. + So the board goes apeshit right off the bat, they got this whole thing brewing in the Mediterranean --insurrection, that's why i work alone --trust nobody in the carbon death loop --burn you right up for sure. Work alone, should be the number one rule, never shoulda gone to Waiben in the first place. + Anyway the board’s got a problem down in the Med --sensitive area you know lost word truths hanging around <they think> You know --the Egyptians, Cleopatra and her goddamn cats (I hate ‘em I hate ‘em I hate ‘em), the Roman gods-- so they say to Waiben write it all up make it realunreel it all back so we know how to play it. + You familiar with the fictionhistory principle right? Well, so Waiben writes the whole thing up and sticks it right at the beginning thinking they’ll miss it --they’re ugly and they’re scared, but they’re not blind. + So the best update I can give you is that Chicago got the Neutron bomb <just buildings and viruses now> Europe's in civil war and “ethnic strife” <always has been stupid fucking cave dwellers> New York’s a shit hole on account of the Antarctic ice shelf heating up and dropping off <swallowed the whole goddamn city mosta L.A. too> Geiger counter at ten thousand feet told me to stay away from China <goddamn mess it is, which really isn’t good on account of the battle plans coming outta Tibet, only decent maps you can find these days> so I hightailed it here to see you. + The Old Man smiled and lit a cigarette looking thing that smelled of hash and cow shit <powdered mushroom brew from the brujo con artist at a time like this?> + “There is no future and no past Sil, you know that” --the three dollar principle. + He hands the twiggy cigarette looking smoke to Sil who takes a hit and watches The Old Man pick his nose aggressively. Sil starts to laugh, but controls himself. The Old +Man pulls an earwig the size of a human thumb out of his nose and puts it in his mouth. He grabs the cigarette and takes another drag, he leans forward and kisses Sil blowing smoke into his lungs and the earwig down his throat. Sil tries to gag, and recoils in horror. + “That’ll keep the flesh eaters offa ya,” The Old Man drawls, “Whatever Waiben wrote sure as hell did make them mad, and the smoke will take your mind of the time coordinates, you’re gonna need all your energy focusing on the other three circuits --we’re going to see the ostriches....” diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/book two sez i.txt b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/book two sez i.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ab51b0b --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/book two sez i.txt @@ -0,0 +1,351 @@ + + +Consciousness is the feelings of the contrast +of theory, as mere theory, with fact, as mere fact. +This contrast holds whether or not the theory be correct + -A. N. Whitehead + +Transcribed from intercellular radio: Half an hour later over Mexican food and she said my name is...beady eyed half faced men in a diner cut out eyes and fucking rotting corpses to overcome insecurities handed out at birth —afterbirth is death thrown in a biohazard container and trucked off to a point on a continuum I've never seen. + She glides and is not. Day 4: sounds of light and transmorphing Indian deities gives way to vampire children gnashing teeth and gnawing off the toes of the dead. Sound becomes rhythm and gives way to light and objects manifested out of try temporal vacuum air. Get out your accumulators— Egyptians, Tibetans. Kundalini guides prey on the new arrivals in death as in life, no different. "Best try to buck up boys" the sargent bellows "since none of you paid a rats ass worth of attention in basic..." + funeral dirges still ringing in their ears the cast of corpse memories not yet faded. i went downtown to see the firelight fountains and all the pretty hippies in costumes from centuries ago. Pull me under pull me over take off my shoes. + She was feeling quite distressed and wanted to get undressed —naked not nude— she doesn't know the difference and i don't care enough to tell her. Some things you can't do —enlighten others—fuck yourself in the ass—. Jumping around too much these days? Perhaps a synaptic workout is in order; something to make the goo go? The Mexican boy selling—hey mister you wanna but some chiclettes? One dolaar buy one box, lotsa gum —eh? no? + Cambodian prostitute with HIV contorts to accommodate the small, mutilated and misshapen penis of wealthy Usinc busy ness man. Inc had all the magic sown up in paperback bills weighing down the servile. she opens her mouth and closes her eyes, come splashes across her face like elastic and gooey silly string. He slaps her face and punches her, mashing come and blood —the rampant spread of dis ease—he leaves without paying and she feels luck to be alive, but doesn't know why. And the poets cry li la la li lalali or some such nonsense, blowing winds rustling trees, photomantages of bordem turned to alcohol like the infinite mysteries —just starting to ferment. If you can bake a cake you can build a bomb, you could split an atom —won't you please keep that thing away from me? oh won't you please keep that thing away from me. Keep that frying pan away from me. + + Maya took the trip many years after Sil, but no ostrich appeared, little flighted birds hovered about her window sill and bardos of tibetian death held out. Skinny cold fingers like withering men, like <horus sirus oriosis> and all the other dying gods who laid the framework for the christ con. + Little birds that said we shit and we piss and we masterbate and we don't give a good goddamn about much else. An emu drifted out of a bellowing purple sheet that hung on a clothesline two stories below Maya's window. He looked up at her and said 'beware the the creature, the parasite holding you down, call you it the eye that is looking for me?' + do what i am doing he said and promptly made a fiberous ball of light that twisted and turned and hovered in the air as if it were made of the very sound that had described it into being. God said "let there be light" or sounds to that effect. Maya saw great persian empires laid out, expanding and retracting, moving across time in slow molasses-like motions. Cities where the sun stood still in the sky and mosterous creations of the mind, horrifying and seductive at the same time. Like ancient Tibetian art there was no distinction between the provice of the mind and the province of the body. Women swam in south china seas of ambient warmth moving in playful erotic motions, cresting like dolphins. Creatures of all forms walked streets of near ancient origin, cobblestones and whitewashed buildings with European wrought iron balconies. Tapastries hung out from the window beckon the passersby to climb up into untold pleasures of body and mind. The scene was overwhelming and undescribably beautiful and horrifying in a way that held horror and beauty to be ultimately different reactions to same observed phenomena. + Like most people who have experimented with consciousness expansion Maya's initial voyage into hyperspace left her feeling elated and reborn, with all of life's secrets tucked neatly in her mind behind her beautiful eyes. But like most people she lacked the vocabulary to make these places real in fourth dimensional planes. Large parts of what she confronted lay dorminate in her mind because she was unable to face them. As a result her "enlightenment" was short lived and in the weeks that followed all the old patterns and programs of her life, both the conscious and the unconscious, reasserted themselves until two months later she felt her life was indeed just as shitty as it had been before she had drifted out into the bardos. This fact caused her much anxiety. Maya was (like all of us) trying to figure out what the hell is really going on down here. Innerspace had been her holy grail if i can get inside deep deep deep inside it will all make sense, but the inside is far more tricky twisting and ever elusive than the outside. going into the quarter alone is a touchy proposition, you tend to end up with one foot here and one there and you come out stone paranoid and schitzophrenic. Best to have somebaody with you to help navigate this side of things while you're on the endside. Maya enjoyed the risk at first, mainly because she had no idea what she was dealing with, but she quickly came to realize that going it alone is doubly difficult and rewarding at the same time. But if you get there alone you inevitably want to bring everyone back with you. (See archival records under Leary, Timothy) + One day Maya was looking for innerspace maps at the book store when she ran across the name of a man who had written many books on the subject of 'what the hell is going on down here?' Aleister Crowley claimed to have a map and method for getting to places in the innerspacial world that Maya had difficulty believing really existed. She had been there, but up until now she was able to run programs in her mind that said that everything could be a delusion, a creation of her own mind. Crowley described the same phenomena and experiences that Maya had feltseenknown, his imagery was different bounded in his own spacetime experience, but neverthless Maya could feel in the spaces between the words that Crowley had been somewhere like where she had been. Maya was hooked and began to study his methods of Magick focusing on departure techniques; she soon found herself capable of reaching the subway station under the quarter, although she didn't yet know about the quarter or even where she was. She merely had sensations and saw things that seemed to behave as if she were in some sort of intergalactic train station waiting on an outbound line. She didnt know how to get on the subway yet. + Crowley gave Maya that ability to similtaneously absorb these experiences whith all her existance, and remain detached from them at the same time. He preached that nothing is true or untrue, but that one should be open at all times to be able to accept temporarily anything as true or untrue. If you are skeptical of the process you learn nothing, you must embrace the process and remain skeptical of the results. There are merely different MAPS OF THE UNIVERSE, some of them are more and less interesting than others, the point is to learn as many of possible before you start choosing between them. + In the present Maya existed as a member of the genus homo species sapian. She lived in Usinc. Usinc had its a wide variety of maps existing in it but one overwhelmed the rest and was often unconsiously dictated by the Alpha Mans of her tribe. The dominate map in USinc as far as Maya could determine was what one of the Sapians, Noma Chomsky, called the Star System. This map (or tunnel reality, or set of beliefs) holds that most people are really stupid, or more eloquently in Chomsky's words: "...people would like to think that there's somebody up there who know's what he's doing. since we don't participate, we don't control and we don't even think about questions of vital importance, we hope somebody is paying attention who has some competance. Lets hope the ship has a captain, in other words since were not taking part in whats going on... It is an important feature of (this) ideological system to impose on people the feeling that they really are incompetent to deal with these complex and important issues: they'd better leave it to the captain. One devise (for programming people to feel incompetent) is the star system, an array of figures who are often media creations or creations of the academic propoganda establishment, whose deep insights we are supposed to admire and to whom we must happily and confidently assign the right to control our lives..." + This sort of map serves to divide people in two groups; those who are on the mapped described in detail and have nothing to worry about and those who are fucked and just get to listen and watch the map as one might listen and watch a talking bird. They tended to listen to what they called the TELALINGUS, a blunt box-like object with voices and images being projected outward into their consciousness. In older times people who heard voices coming out of the walls were called crazy, but in Usinc they were called consumers. The screen of the Telalingus created myths and metaphors by which they could make some sense of the world. Maya did not like these people they made her feel icky and she avoided them at any cost. + In Usinc most people believed this system is in fact THE WAY THINGS HAVE ALWAYS BEEN, but such is not the case. The dominate Usinc map was a rather new and untested prototype reality which increasingly did not measure up to even the most basic parts of concensus reality. There is another school of thought, a door that Crowley threw open, a metaphoric door to a metaphoric place called Gnosis. Gnosis holds that the only way to learn is to experience to confront the unknown directly to experience the sensations without having to make an apriori judgement about there validity. This map allows for a greater variety to life and makes it infinitly more fun and adventurous than listening to voices in a box. Maya went back to the innerspacial experience with a new sense of what the hell was really going on. She entered into belief tunnels and researched brain metabolism and learned what happened with typtamines and how the beta-carbaloids bonded with her synapses and what harmines and harmalines were. Then she went to the mystical maps from the eastern parts of the world and compared and contrasted ecstasy with satori and other states of consciousness outlines in Tibetian and and other eastern MAPS OF THE UNIVERSE. Maya was learning that in the innerspacial world there is no consensus reality you created your own and learned how to manipulate it to your own satisfaction and desires. This put her at odds with the dominate Usinc belief system of the day which labeled this behavior delusional. and found it threatening, she began to get paranoid. One foot in one foot out. She lacked the proper equipment to get all the way in. + There are two things wrong with the label delusional: first in order to have something be delusional you must first have something that is non-delusional. There is nothing that exists apart from ourselves this was something that a particularly revered Usincer named Einstien had been trying to say for almost a hundred years. He asserted rather bluntly that without us there to observe it the world only exists in potential or delusionally. It was rumored that later in life he regretted saying this. The second problem is the people who label certain things delusional and others non-delusional. A long time ago when the ansestors of Usinc arrived on the land they brought with them this map; the natives who greeted called them they-who-have-stick-up-there-ass-and-are-no-fun which has a much nicer ring that scientist or doctor or priest which is what most USincer's called them. The natives used to chuckle about it and ridicule the size of their shrivelled white penises behind their backs which irritated the Usincer's so they gave them small pox and killed them all. Elimination was a standard threat defense system in Usinc and was still practised in modern times. + The sense of direct confrontation and followed by personal understanding (limited though it was) gave Maya the emotional fortitude and strength to travel further and further down mysterious roads in pursuit of the truth or whatever. It might also have driven her quite batty and killed her depending on what map you the reader are bringing along. + The Crowley doctorine of not having beliefs also provided Maya way to experience things without terror, for the conquest of fear is an absolute necessity when one approaches the fringes of what is known and not yet known. Out in the Quarter fear is rampant, but without fear one is free to have myrid of experiences that are not availible to those with fear, objective subjectivity Maya called it. For instance just because one is presented with the sights of mass slaughter and carnage and every evil satanic thing ever recorded by man one is not bound to be afraid of these things because one is not bound to the system which labelled them evil in the first place. If that doesn't follow think of it this way: we have genetic memories encoded in or DNA (in twenty years science may well find the actual gene that has Dante's satanic visions stored in it), but in the mean time if you should accidentally dreg the hidious severed, bloody, snarling head of Lucifer up out of our genetic memory banks you can make him go away. You just internalize the event and lable it endogenetic which doesn't sound nearly as frightening as a seven headed monster spitting fire, gnashing its teeth, slashing up your record collection and generally making a mess of the living room. Of course if their actually is a seven headed fire-breathing beast from hell in your living room then you really do have a problem and you might wonder if your losing your mind. But ultimately even that is no comfort because if you've lost your mind you have to wonder who has it and why are they putting multi-headed-fire-breathing-demons in your goddamn living room? + Maya had fun with gnosis and managed to avoid seven headed satanists in her living room for the time being, but she did quickly find that she could no longer keep up with the pace of her mind. The racing mind is a difficult thing to stop, you find thoughts at every corner and you can't seem to find room for new ones to modify the old ones and your mind tends to enter a static loop. You'd have better luck stopping a train then stopping a train of thoughts. The best thing to do is to take time to fully absorb and understand each journey before taking another, otherwise knowledge becomes static and starts to feedback. + Maya had discovered that knowledge has an expontial rate of accululation and soon she found she knew so much about so much that she came to the inevitable conclusion that information has timebounded saturation points. She started to have to rely on artifcial means of meditation and breathing exercizes to get herself to sleep. + This may sound like a nightmare of some sort, but actually it is quite a skill to have, it like finding the on/off switch to the human brain. This gives one an extreme felling of detached vivaciousness, like you can walk through walls if you wanted to and eventually you decide you can actually walk through walls you just don't know how. Hassan i Sabbah will be driving the bus for the remainder of the tour you may direct any further questions to him... + "The British biologist, Richard Dawkins has coined the expression meme to designate a signal traveling in human space-time and carrying information (or mis-information). In Dawkins view, just as biological evolution depends on the circulation of genes, sociological evolution depends on the migratory habits of memes." —from Wilhelm Reich in Hell, by Robert Anton Wilson. Menes like genes can only be in one brain at any given time, the trick is to learn how to leave the individual sense of mind and find the point at which consciousness is pure essense with itself. Out there one is not bounded by the standard saturation points. Too many menes in "your brain" leads to a danger that it will all be static and meaningless chatter. If you want to decode the static that builds up in your brain you have to graph it on a time scale. Maya graphed the static in a journal. + + +life is far to grave of a +matter to be taken seriously +-Oscar Wilde + + William S. Burroughs once said that language is a virus, most Usincer's thought this was cute and humored the old man. But when you stop and think about it language does act very much like a virus. It is passed from old to young, it mutates according to the host, and it is fatal —when you stop talking you are dead. If we are to humor this cute notion further we might eventually want to cure ourselves of this worldwide epidemic. Memes may well be the genetic key. Why do we need information? Why do we need to be alive? If we are to suppose that the viral pattern of language is consistent with other virus patterns then it's transmission and ability to replicate itself must have a genetic code which it uses to trigger reprodution and the consequent mutation of the host cell structure. What is the DNA of language? + This theory rests on the supposition that ideas come before words ie the typical theory of language development: we speak because we have something to say. Suppose we speak to create the things we want to see.... Shit or get of the pot the old man screams. + +Static System Sampler: + + Sex and violence, she smiled that's what these people need —sex and violence. She feels the rage building. Writing is transmission it is the creation of alternative realities, the first step in creating a new world is to write it down. + The tired shopkeeper is out smoking her obscenely thin cigarettes leaning out the front door ducking the afternnon sun. She smokes constantly pausing only to give a tired answer to the same tourists she has to stare at day after day. An endless reminder that they, not her, are the ones enjoying life. Too many of them day after day year after year look look looking never buying. The Leather Connection doesn’t do a lot of business on warm spring days —who puts a leather shop on the beachfront. Nor is it the kinky sort of fetish shop you might hope for. Not even any leather in the windows. She moves her lips mumbling incoherences intelligible only to herself. She lights another cigarette. A rabid dog paces back and forth across the doorway as if protecting it from unseen horror. + The sharp eyed Asian hawk sitting behind me at another table closes her purse, pen safely secured inside. She licks stamps and affixes them to postcards. Notes for those at home. “Jenny: LA is great -warm sunny. I’m having a great time. Remind me to tell you about this guy Bill I met the other day. Take care of yourself. Say hi to Tom for me. Love....” + Families wander down the hill looking for a nice place to eat. The neon signs offer Mexican Italian Greek food, “but we need a children's menu.” “Tommy’s only nine, he can’t eat a whole meal himself.” “Do you think they could split a dinner, I’m not very hungry myself?” “You brought the credit card right?” “No, but I’ve still got some cash left over from breakfast this morning. “Wasn’t that a charming little place?” “What was it called?” “Lets go there again before we leave.” + The locals, the non-travelers, the doomed-forever-to-live-in-one-placers stream by in shinny cars coming home from work in THE BIG CITY. Their flimsy soda can Japanese cars that look as if a good size bird could, with decent aim, crush the plastic colored roofs. The locals drive with windows up and frowns turned down. “Did I remember to e-mail that memo to Tony at the office in Chicago? I wonder what sort of crap Diane cooked for dinner tonight? She is the worst cook. What happened to that tri-tip on Friday? I wouldn’t have known what is was if I hadn’t bought it myself. Dave and Linda smiled and said it was delicious the lying bastards. don’t encourage her she might actually believe she can cook. Dave probably just wants to sleep with her. That whore. I wonder if she’s fooling around behind my back? She never wants to have sex anymore. Its always the same routine. Me still dripping from a shower her reading some book I crawl onto of her . ‘Not tonight honey I’m to tired.’ I wait till she’s fast a sleep and sneak down to the kitchen reach behind the fridge and pull out the nudie magazines and —off quietly to the bathroom. I wonder what Diane would look like in tight leather, probably fat. She still hasn’t lost all the wait from the pregnancy. God its been what like eighteen months Justin’s starting to walk for christsakes. The light is green, fucking traffic.” + The static of ordinary life is horrendous and boring this brief sample was brought to you to remind you that not everyone, perhaps not even you, leads an interesting life. Was that you i heard saying that someone else said that the newscaster said that the stockbrokers think that the CEO's are going to rig the oil market and drive us into recession? ...hope the captain knows, cause us tech sargents are just barely able to gather enough memes to pull ya through the day and get into the missionary possition with a half limp cock and let the lov'in let the lov'in come back to me. Swing your hips and let it all get lose. No really. put the book down and swing 'em. Uncle Sabbah likes to see the little girls and boys shakin' de hips. + + Fog is settling in from the hills meeting up with banks rolling in from the sea, threatening the star’s view, tiny windows of the gods peeping in watching our silly games in continued amusement. They keep doing it every night Reminding me of San Francisco, the golden gate after sundown glowing like it were Apollos chariot itself. Proudly beckoning the traveler with tale of endless wanderlust -out here the final frontier come swim discover secrets hidden from mankind...Come the sharks are hungry. The mashing of teeth and bone, the tearing of flesh. + I would not fuck you in Thailand/ I would not fuck you in a plane over Japan. One of Dr. Suess’ lesser known couplets. + The sun is setting and several miles out at sea a trident nuclear submarine is preforming manoeuvres in preparation for a war that most people don't believe will really happen. I like to pretend the submarine doesn't exist, I like to think that no one has ever really refined and mutated the Anthrax virus to make it deadlier and that no one ever dared to split atoms, but they did and it leaves me feeling hungry and tired. + I find myself surrounded on all sides. Everyone these days is completely obsessed with Being Bizarre. So much so that nothing really is Bizarre anymore. Yuppies ride Harleys and frequent bondage parlors on the weekends while pulling in double incomes of 150K during the week scurrying from house to latte to work to the onceaweekmatrimonialassfucking. + You want Bizarre? Circus freaks castrating themselves on the street corners and pimps shooting heroin in their balls while screaming whores accost their long dead mothers in hotel rooms a cockroach won’t set foot in? Lawyers sitting on the roof, television antenna protruding from their limbs as policemen ritualistically torture themselves gouging out their own eyeballs to avoid the scene below? You think that is normal? You think it sounds better when you call it Urban Life? You're all nuts. + + +Star System Sampler: + + "Are you making this shit up? Or has it really been found by anthropologists?" + "As if that lends it some sort of credibility? Their PhD's mean they can't possibly be wrong or maybe deliberately lying ?" + "Are you that paranoid?" + "That's not paranoia, you always assume that wrong means bad. I am just saying it is really every bit as possible as the usual tunnel that says science is true." + Maya is lying on the couch rainy-day-ranting in the Fornical sunshine about the chemical similarities between DMT and human seratonin. DMT is in fact so recognizable to the human brain that it passes the through the blood/brain barrier in a matter of seconds. it is her theory that Seratonion was origionally DMT and as the terestrial ape moved out of the trees into caves and cities the chemical structure of the substance was altered, perhaps by diet perhaps by culture or perhaps deliberately by secret sect conspiring against humanity. She doesn't necessarily believe it, but she has fun tormenting her next door neighbor Pete with theories she knows are beyond what he has decided is real. People who refuse to admit for even one moment that "reality" and "fantasy" might at some point merge miss out on so many wonderful ideas. Maya loved to point out the ridiculus and far removed ideas that most people overlook as possibilties. She liked to remind everyone that we could be living in a great novel six billion pages long or our entire universe might be an intricate and complex dream some alien entity is having. Maya liked brain twists and loops that led directly into unsolvable paradoxes which, in her mind, always pointed out the stupidity of trying to use language to build things. + "unicorns don't exist right? + "right." + "Then how do you know what they look like?" + "They're the imagined creations of an artist." + "How do you know that? How do you know they didn't used to exist and they just don't now? How do you know that they aren't actually called dodo's?" + "Because somebody would have...i don't know... what are you getting at....?" + "The thing is, is that for any set of equations there is an infinite possibility of solutions; I'm not trying to say this is the right solution, I'm just trying to point out that it is one of the possibilities. And I can't understand why you dismiss it solely on the basis that it sounds rediculious." She smiled at Pete's bewilderment, the way an adult likes to smile its superiority at a child, but Maya knew that superiority is fleeting and ever relative. + She kissed Pete on the cheek, chiefly because she liked to watch him turn red and he shifted in his chair trying to hide his hard on while she pretented to be oblivious and went into the bedroom to change clothes. + "I guess its time for me to go huh?" he called from the other room. + "I guess so," she called back thinking time is not an object, its inside you. Maya was living on the western edge of Usinc (a state labeled Fornical) in a town by the name of Long Beach, which did not in Maya's opinion pocess a beach that would lead any rational person to call it Long. She lived in the upper left hand apartment of a fourplex building. The aforementioned Pete lived below her and next to him was a sweet quiet old woman whose life went on interminal pause between visits of her two grandchildren. The remaining apartment directly across from Maya's belonged to a man who called himself Cary, but Maya suspected that that was not his real name. He was rarely home, extremely wealth, extremely brilliant and seemed vaguely powerful in some way Maya couldn't quite place. Certain people when you meet them give off an air understanding that makes them appear powerful to others who don't have that sense of omnipotent confidence —like they are aware that their "self" is not the sum total of experience. Maya had met him a few times and said hi but she did not know him very well. She wanted to though and when she found out from the old woman down stars that Cary's daughter went to the university Maya enrolled in one of her classes. + Anna was a beautiful girl with black raven hair that swung across her shoulders and bounced when she laughed. Which she did a lot when talking to Maya. She was nothing like her father seemed. She was however always in a good mood and did not seem to have the psychosis of most people in Long Beach. But Maya was disappointed that she couldn't get Anna to divulge any scandelous details of her father's life. But Maya did use her as an impetus to talk to Cary more. This led to vague friendship consisting of a cursory discussion of his world travel habits, lack of official citizenship, and an invite to use his balcony whenever she liked. He did not lock his door and professed not to believe in property instead he had the entire place wired with cameras so that if indeed someone stole something from him he could find them and accertain whether or not they needed the item more than he did. All of this intrigued Maya and secretly she wanted to know more, but she was happy to just use his balcony which was the largest one in the building. It opened virtually right into a palm tree and gave one the feeling of being at some Mediterranean villa. It made Maya want to waltz around in a leopard trimmed chamise wearing platform shoes and sipping pina coladas. Maya's balcony was drenched in afternoon sun and not a pleasnt place to read so she would go to Cary's in the afternoon and read his books and drink pina coladas in her underwear and pace back and forth in her leopard trimmed chamise. She didn't know there was a camera in the tree as well and that it could be remotely moved and zoomed so as to allow Cary to see what she was reading. In fact Cary knew a rather lot more about Maya then Maya realized. That was only because Maya was looking on a different map scale, Cary's map was much much larger. But this is Maya's story and now a one act scene to show character development: + + Scene one: ONE DAY IN MAYA'S APARTMENT +MAYA +PETE +NARARATOR +(Stage is a smallish square room with deep red walls, two couches perpendicular to the audience and facing each other with a table between them. MAYA is a slinky sexual girl of twenty-four with fiery grey-green eyes, short black hair like ravens trying to get out of her head and slender arms and legs that slip around her body like ribbons. She is wearing tight black satin pants and a green spaghetti strap tank top which is also tight. She is sitting cross legged on the left hand couch smoking a cigarette. PETE sits across from her watching her with a puzzled look on his face. He is obviously younger than her and of a tall lanky build with an insecure awkwardness that is betrayed in his shifty mannerisms —as if he were not quite comfortable in his own skin.) + +Narrator (sitting on a stool stage left) ...Pete watched Maya with absolute fascination, he had never met a woman, no he had never met anyone, as intelligent or as goddamn sexy as her. He did not fully realize it but he was devastatingly in love with her and this we know meant that she would devour him and destroy his life. He did not know this yet, but the thought did pass through his mind occasionally when he masturbated —imagining her in all sorts of ridiculous situations where the end result was always her sweet innocent but wise voice begging him to Cum all over me...ya come on my face. (aside: wouldn't you?) Pete was smart enough to realize the unlikelihood of him having sex with Maya but dumb enough to pine after her nonetheless. +PETE:(existentially in his own mind) please pleeeeeeease have sex with me. +MAYA: Would you like to see me naked? +PETE: (too eagerly) Yes! +MAYA: huh... i guess that's better than not. (she makes no move to get naked) + +NARRARATOR: It especially disturbed Pete that she seemed to take so much delight in teasing him and frustrating him further. It also disturbed him when she went out with other men instead of him, especially when the other men was Jared Towers. Towers was in Pete's World Religion class and represented a peace of humanity deeply disturbing to Pete, he represented strength and masculinity. Pete was young and still believe that masculinity is limited to those specimens of the male population that look like they just walked off the cover of GQ or its ilk. Later, like the rest of us he would come to realize that these cro-magnon motherfuckers are in fact far to fragile to satisfy a woman in bed and spend the majority of their adult lives desperately trying to convince themselves that they are not gay. But, Pete had fixated on a rumor that Jared had a twelve inch cock, thick as a flashlight and had convinced himself that this was why Maya went out with him. It served the need for self torture that Pete's brain seemed to possess. + +MAYA: "Will you do something for me?" +PETE: (hesitantly) "Maybe" +MAYA: (with deadpan sincerity) "take off you clothes" +JARED: standing as if to strip and then thinking better of it sits back down) "NO" + + (A seven headed snarling beast of unknown but leaning towards demonic origin leaps out of the floor from stage rear he first bites at PETE; several heads lay into his flesh and rips off first his arms and then his legs, and then holding Pete upside down by the stumps of his legs it chews on his balls staring out at the audience. The beast leaps on the narrator and tears him to bits as a laugh tracks play offstage. MAYA is still watching sitting behind the beast on the couch oblivious to the goings on. The beast leaps down and starts to eat the audience; critics first the juicy fat ones in the front row and then the rich lesbians behind them all the way to back ripping up art fag kids who snuck in without a ticket cause there friend works at the door. The beast runs snarling into the streets of New York devouring east village types causing people to go into panic and leap from the tops of burning buildings. Carnage and Mayhem abound.) +Curtain falls. + +(The End) + + + Jared was not really Maya's type either she only went out with him because she liked nice dinners, but didn't like to pay for them. Jared was rich or rather his parents were rich and he would do pretty much whatever Maya told him to. She had never had sex with him and didn't want to. You can't have sex with a man who let you hypnotize him and then revealed under hypnosis that his father once chased him a around the house with a meat cleaver when he caught the boy masturbating to a picture of the Virgin Mary. Maya used to wonder over fine french food: what kind of sick fuck finds the mother of god sexually appealing? I mean if sacrilege is a turn on masturbate and think of fucking god in his own ass like he thinks of fucking you in yours...Maya had laughed for hours on that one, of course she didn't tell Jared anything about the revelation or how far into his mind she had gotten that afternoon. + + Pete had left and Maya had changed clothes and was heading out the door to meet Jared for dinner when she noticed light leaking under Cary's door. + "Cary? It's Maya are you home?" She knocked and hearing no reply she pushed gently on the door which floated open as if on its own accord. + A voice floated languidly in from the balcony and said, "Come in... I'm outside..." Maya went out onto the balcony and there was Cary sitting and smoking a cigar shaped object which smelled like hash. + "Hi." + "Hi." + "Sit down," he took another drag and exhaled. It definitely smelled like hash. He caught her staring at it as she sniffed at the smoke. Cary laughed, "would you like to smoke some hash? I brought it back from Morocco..." + "That would be lovely," Maya felt the awkwardness of a setting too intimate for the relationship that was being cast onto it. Cary did not appear anything but relaxed, but of course he was likely quite stoned. Maya accepted the blunt and smoked it for a while before handing it back. + "Have you been enjoying this balcony in my absence?" + "Oh ya, i sit out here in the afternoons and read," the hash hit fast and hard and Maya had to fight to keep her wits about her, she thought vaguely of Hassan i Sabbah and his brainwashing techniques and for a moment she understood why he was so effective. + "This stuff hits hard at first but it settles down and leaves you in a nice contemplative frame of mind, i only smoke it in the evenings. I prefer something more active for the daytime." + "I would never have guessed that you smoked pot..." + "That's the idea." he smiled, handed her the blunt and leaned back in his chair reaching for cigarettes. Maya took the blunt and reached in her bag for her own smokes, lighting one she asked, "What exactly is it that you do? Your daughter told me you own a casino or a mine or something?" + He laughed. "Doing research are we?" Maya blushed, but Cary just kept laughing. "What i do has nothing to do with either of those things. I just believe in diversifying my financial assets...so that if one particular area of the world economy goes snafu i don't lose everything...just good business you know........ but yes i do have both of those things, but they are just things and not even ones that I'm actively involved in..." his voice trailed off. "What i do is more complicated...some might say that i am trying to figure out what the hell is going on down here...others say that i already have figured that out and i have moved on to far more nefarious projects..." + He said the sentence like he knew that Maya would recognize it and the realization gave her an acute sense of paranoia which was accented by the canaboids floating in and out of her brain. Banish fear. Someone knowing you well without having spent any time with them is not necessarily a bad thing...people fall in love and they seem happy about it . Secretly i think they're deluded but this is different. Its a common phrase perhaps we've read similar books or maybe more people are into this sort of thing than you realize. + "So do you know what the hell is really going on down here?" Maya asked as coolly as she could in her stoned state. + He just smiled, "you're the one studying in college trying to figure it out... why don't you tell me?" He settled back in his chair as if waiting to listen to a lengthy discussion on the subject. + "It would take more than pot for me to tell you that..." + "I have more than pot if you would like it." + "What do you have?" + "Do you know anything about South America shamanism? They make a hallucinogenic brew —some people call Yage some call Ayahuasca, i call it the orange stuff that bubbles.... + "Ya I know what Yage is, William Burroughs went looking for it, i read that book...." + "Ah yes the Yage Letters...unfortunately mister Burroughs was an acute heroin addict at the time and heroin tends to not put one in a positive state of mind...the book is a careful and imaginative account of one man's failure to transcend himself." + "I like Burroughs," Maya said slowly, "but sometimes his whole nightmare apocalyptic routine gets a bit old, but he's good at seeing what could go wrong in any situation. If you want to know what could go right, you've got Leary or McKenna." + "You've read a lot of interesting books...i overheard you saying something about Aleister Crowley this afternoon... that's why i decided it was okay to let you know that i can get you anything you want...drug-wise and otherwise....you seem very intelligent." Maya blushed slightly and couldn't decide if Cary was hitting on her or if he was just a genuine intelligent man trying to be nice. "It would be easier to know if we had a script wouldn't it???" + "Excuse me?" Maya had been lost in her internal musings and the question seemed to come out of nowhere + "Nothing I was just listening...I'm going to give you some Yage that i had brewed up for me, its a healthy dose but i think you've the skepticism to handle it. Are you interested?" + "Yes I'd love to but um," Maya hesitated not wanting to be rude, "not to be rude but i don't particularly want to do it right now... in front of you...." + "Of course not, you should go back in your room and drink it on an empty stomach and lie there in the darkness and just watch the back of your eyelids...that's the way you get into this stuff." He was staring at her with his piercing, but unobtrusive green eyes, "but you have to promise me that you'll take it tonight and tell me about it tomorrow afternoon sometime because I have to early the next morning and I want to know what you get out of it" + "Ummm, okay ya," Maya thought for a second, "i can cancel my plans tonight," + "You should he's a waste of time." + Maya started, confused "you know Jared?" + Cary smiled and pulled a vial of Ayahuasca out of his pocket "know i didn't even know you were going out, but since i changed your plans with an exotic blend of South American hallucinogens, he can't meant much to you." + She blushed and took the vial, "thank you. I'll see you tomorrow." + + + +In the cosmic computer are all repitions, +all tape loops necessary to keep the cosmos going; +the noise, sight, sounds, feelings, rhythms are obvious and full. +-John C Lilly, M.D. from The Center of the Cyclone + + Sleeping fitfully under a moonless sky dreaming of a stale, smoky bar's liquor-stained floors and a headless horsemen riding like Icarius out of the fiery sun-gilded gates of hell. The headless horseman swerves and bears down on the I that is you with menacing intent, jolting the dream element awake and into a sleepnonsleep trance on the isthmus of reality. The horseman dismounts and walks in to the bar. + I was bewildered and in my heavy-lidded gaze saw a man with no head standing just inside the mosquito netting that covers the tropical doorway. Closer inspection revealed a pair of blinking eyes peering at me from where the neck tie should have been. A hand slipped out from the waist and motioned for me to rise. I climbed clumsily off of my barstool and followed him out into the middle of the jungle night. The headless horseman motioned for me to sit on a fallen tree and pulled out a long stick of cinnamon, he lit it and inhaled through a button hole in his chest. I sat down on the log opposite him and staring eye-level at the cinnamonette and I began to appreciate the sheer size of the horseman and realized that even without his head, the horseman was taller than me... + Time passes by in jerky motions not unlike the first motion pictures; uneven and without regard for continuity. Maybe moments maybe hours maybe at the same time, an old man with a sickly grey beard and a ridiculous suit is sitting where the horseman had been. One hand is out of sight down his pants and the other wags a long finger at you and he begins to jerk his cock screaming i want you i want YOU i WANT YOU! Eventually you slouched over against a wall and sleep. + + Cary was looking at Maya through eyes that seemed galaxies away, "you didn't say whether or not you enjoyed it." + "It was horrifying and beautiful at the same time." + "Did you feel fear or joy?" + "At times i drifted into spaces that started me on a fear program and then a voice or some unspoken thought would say 'don't be afraid.' Fear is judging i kept thinking and i was trying to hold out on judgements until after the experience. But i did have an overwhelming feeling of sadness as i started coming down and i saw the whole tree of humanity... i was decending through it and i felt as if i could have chosen an infinite variety of bodies...experiences...and then i found the Maya one and instantly i was back and that was that..." + You went into what the sufi's would call the cosmic control center only you just touched the edge of it...or you went in and you repressed the memories of the horror...that happens to sometimes..." + "So now what?" Maya felt genuinely lost. She wanted to go back up out into deep deep inner space, but she knew she didn't really even understand what had happened yet. She didn't tell Cary that she had repeated the trainstation imagery or that a headlight had been boring down on her and that the sound had overwhelmed her and blown her back down. I saw the train again she kept thinking, why do i keep seeing a train? + "Well i have to go back down to costa Rica and take care of some business at my research lab, but here is my email address," he handed her a slip of paper. "That code at the end makes sure to forward it to my cell phone so i will get it as soon as you send it." He stood as if to leave and Maya jumped up with him. + "Okay ya I'll write you...i have a lot more questions..." + "Well I'm not sure if i have any answers, but i'll do what i can for you." He kissed her hand and closed the door as she left. + And so it came that Maya found herself fully committed to the task of figuring out what the hell was going on down here. The Star Map of Materialism was discarded completely from Maya's life and she begin slowly but surely to slink into the corners and fringes of society, she entered onto the Usinc list of potential threats and though she was unaware of it she was marked for elimination. Cary met with her when his schedule allowed for it and they corresponded by email when he was out of town. Frustratingly he never gave her answers instead he asked questions she hadn't reached yet. Cary knew what it was like to be eliminated and he cautioned her against talking to anyone about these sorts of things. + The Taoists say those who know don't tell and those who tell don't know. Most Usincers familiar with this philosophy found it irritating and believed that things indescribable don't exist. And how they humored him when he said language is a virus. Maya began to see the emotional plague. The self limiting and self fulfilled negative programs that the majority of her fellow sapians exhibited became horrifying and Maya alternately found herself swinging like a pendulum between the poles and love and hate. At times she felt a tremendous force radiating out from her chest trying to embrace the entire world and bath it in LOVE, At other times the repulsion for all things human drove her into isolation where she would sit meditating and using psychoactivating devises to leave her body to exit the game, role-playing curcuit that is "reality." As the game circuit and its contractions became more and more painfully obvious Maya found herself drifting out of her body quiet involuntarily, right in the middle of conversations. The things that most Usincer's talked about rarely amounted to much more then meaningless chatter and Maya could feel and had to internalize the death imagry, the negative body images, the lable obsessions that comes from lost dreams, lack of love, and leaves only hollow shells to bundle up confusion and static. Drifting out of the body without warning was quite disconcerting, but it forced her to feel people and use this to know them rather than words. It was a step into another dimension. At first it only happened when she was stoned, but gradually she learned that certain thoughts and breathe techniques could produce the effect while "sober." + Sober was an obsession for most usincers, they believed that despite the fact that they ate mind alterning chemicals all day long (usually caffiene in the form of coffee or metamphetamines in the form of diet pills) that they were actually in a state of mind that was sober or natural. Maya was constantly siezed by desires to show people their biocomputers their souls whatever metaphor was necessary to give them back control over their lives. But Cary's advise held her in check and she avoided trying to show or teach anyone anything. You have to want to know something before you can learn it. She learned from the mistakes of Leary and the rest of the early western explorers. +Pointing out to people the sheer futilness of trying to stop someone from exploring the unknown regions of the mind was ridiculous, and it also meant risking identifing oneself as a "drug user." This term was used to religate mind exploration and its necessary tools into a periphrial segment of society that irritated and generally frightened most Usincers. Over the centuries people with ideas that are unpopular have noticed that people in the past with unusual ideas about life and its potentials tended to meet rather untimely and painful deaths. So the observant ones learned to shut the fuck up, or write in code like Da Vinci or Crowley. Great myths are spawned, the Knights of Templar, the Illuminati, the Masons, Taoists, the Assassins, the Sufis; history is riddled with mysteries. + Plans were underway at the upper levels of the Alpha Male dominators to get some more small pox blankets to these unwanted citizens. Plans had in fact been underway for some time, but since the serious students of innerspace had learned centuries before how to survive under adverse conditions it was difficult to figure out who need to be eliminated. Slowly and carefully Cary was admitting Maya into the ranks of those networks which exist in the periphrials of organized primate societies. He took her underground. + Most Usincers remained oblivious to the underground. It was something they heard of but assumed did not really exist. In fact Most Usincers had no idea that they were the most electronically advanced biocomputer in the known universe; consequently they wasted much time in imitating the behavior of other less electronically sophisticated animals. The Alpha Male orientation of the political system was little different than any primate group. A select group, after fighting amongst themselves for the approval of the rest of the tribe, set themselves up somewhere they called HEADQUARTERS and from here they ruled over the rest of the primate masses. This allowed the masses to relax from worry about decisions and beliefs and ideas. The Alpha Males supplied these things for them. They felt the Alpha Males did a good job of it most of the time. But this began to change and the Alpha Males began to feel threatened by the socio-cultural changes that were taking place so they reacted defensively like any cornered primate —they became paranoid. This paranoid psychosis manifested itself in the form of small pox blankets which by now had been improved. There were now Anthrax blankets, Leprosy-Anthrax blankets, atomic blankets, HIV blankets, and the Alpha males continued to invest more and more of the resourses of Usinc, and indeed the whole world, into developing new lethal blankets. + It wasn't long before one of them suggested that they out to test the blankets just to make sure they work you see. The first subpopulace to be identified were the "drug users." Infected needles were distributed, secret police raided and siezed property, and in time strip searches on public streets became common. This angered many Usincers even those who were not "drug-users" but they did not speak up because they would be labled drug sympathizers which was only slightly less irritating to the Alpha Males than actual "drug-users." In short they knew they would be given blankets too. Usinc was fast becoming a rather shitty place to live. + It was about this time that the first glimpses of the boiling of the Usinc political caldron began to manifest themselves; riots broke out in Detroit, Chicago and Atlanta, and the entire infastructure of communication was threatening to take away the Alpha Male domination. The Alpha Males silenced these protests with blankets, but then labor strikes broke out all over the country followed by advent of technology that deeply threatened the Star System. Communications technology was taking vast arrays of previously rare and complicated information and making it availible to the masses of primates. The people banded together and decided that the Alpha Males had to go, but the Alpha Males were ahead of them again. They had already found that outright violence was unpopular within the tribe (although perfectly acceptable against those in other tribes). They began to study those things that irritated them and they learned that silence and secracy are far more effective than noisy riot-type events. They used paper magic stolen from the great magicians of the past. + Cary had decoded the paper magic and learned to move through it without it touching him. He learned how to use it against the Alpha Males and this made him very very threatening to them. He quickly learned to be very very quiet and resourceful. Maya didn't have access to the resources that Cary did so he told her what he could without putting her life in danger. He told her about the Alpha Males and how to explore innerspace without raising there interests. He taught her how to walk without being noticed and how to use their paper magic against them. He told her that any hunting pack will inevitably develpoe a complex system of signals to communicate with during an attack. He told her the most important signal would be a riot in New York City which would cause the population to ask the Alpha Males to use the blankets on them. Unsinc was full of deeply confused primates. He told her that when such an event occurred the best bet would be to head to somewhere on the planet that the Alpha Males did not care about. He gave her a list of such places and told her that when the time came he would help her get to one of them. He did not tell her that they were all places he controlled and that very very few people on the planet knew about them. He also did not tell her that some of these places did not actually exist in the concensus timespace coordinate. + Maya found the whole thing adventurous and exciting like a spy novel, she kept it in the back of her mind, where, like most of the citizens of Usinc it fought with another voice in the back of her head that kept saying its never going to get that bad, it never going to happen... + + + + In the meantime she stayed in Long Beach and kept up her research into inner space, occasionally using Ayahuasca, but primarily concentration on Psylosilum Cubensis which was the most commonly available a particularly psybocilum concentrated species of mushroom that was along with LSD 25, MDMA and a host of other hallucinatory drugs, officially declared a schedule one deadly drug by the government of Usinc way back in 1965. No government investigation or tests were ever performed on psylocilum it just got lumped with the rest of the psychedelic drugs of the nineteen sixties and deemed inappropriate for human consumption. + Chemically altering your own brain processing structure is hardly a new idea, people have been taking strange drugs and eating different plants throughout history. But it also important to notice that these people have also been persecuted by almost every Alpha Male government and syndicate since the beginning of time. It has its genesis in the Christian story which THE CHURCH has so cleverly glossed over for centuries. + Christ was a gnostic; he claimed a direct communication with god, and while Maya did not believe in the consensus definition of god, she understood that there was something out there and that Christ more than likely had seen it and what happened to him? He got nailed to a goddamn tree. That has got to fucking hurt. You go about minding your own business and one day you confront a world that is an entirely separate reality from your own, and you like it, it gives you a feeling of ecstasy, you want to share it with others. At first they think you are insane, weird or overly imaginative at best, but you keep trying and trying and trying to tell them that there is a better way, you do some amazing things with the knowledge you have and they realize you might not be kidding and this makes them nervous so they tell the Alpha Males. We fear. And the Alpha Males use their paper magic on you. They write things into LAW and they make you ILLEGAL. They claim that this then gives them the right to stop you. You are amused by their unwillingness to try what you speak of, but you keep telling them ...it can be better than this...and you know this. One day they get desperate and they nail you to a cross. Through the physical pain you finally gain what you were lacking the power to transcend the body, you find death before they did and you leave, but they never understand. And you are dead to them. + + + + There are worms in the soul of the materialist and they are eating from the inside out, logic and the belief that things which can be replicated through objective experimentation are the only things which can possible be true, is not wrong, but rather a very limited way of viewing life. Why is science so reluctant to investigate phenomena like UFOs, demon possession, chemical induced brain change, telekinesis, psychic communication, telepathy, witchcraft, Auras, Orgone energies, Gaian sentience, collective unconscious, and the rest of the fringes? Simply because its own self limiting philosphies have consciously chosen to ignore them. If it were proven true that telepathy is possible would it invalidate all of biology? No why then is science afraid of this possibility and fight so violently against it and those that are willing to investigate it are labled frauds and charlatans? Because it would force science to admit its shortcomings and the Alpha Males would have to give up the powerful personality egos which are the only programs that their biocomputers are capable of running. + The irony of the star sytem is that those who go fathest out of the limbs get the greatest respect as humans (Gandi, Einstien, Galilieo, Bucky Fuller, Tim Leary et al) but their ideas are never taken seriously and when they are finally proved right it is only with the greatest of begrudgement that science and governments will admit what they secretly fear: that consensus reality is not a good map of what the hell is really going on down here. + The worms are eating from the inside out and the decay is not easy to see unless you look from the inside and crack the elaborate schematics of secret societies. Science is perhaps the most elaborate and widespread secret society to ever grace the face of the earth. It has gone so far as to develop an complex and untranslatable language unique to each of its subdivisions —any hunting pack will develope very sofisticated and complex signals with which to communicate during the hunt. The complexity of science is so great that even within the heads of the beast can not understand each other. Biologists pay no attention to physicists and physicist can't understand chaos theorists, chaos theorists sneer down their horned rimmed glasses at botanists and none of them take psychologists seriously. + The for instances: Sigmuend Freud in his investigation of the human mind predicated that one day psychology would be but another field of biology, that is that most psychosis has some definite interaction with physical biology. In other words if you tend to suffer from delusions of grandeur it might well be because you chest muscles are in a constant state of hypertension or something to that effect. Enter Wilhelm Reich, at first Reich merely takes Freud one step further, outlining a better method of psychotherapy that focuses on how the patient behaves rather than what he says. Reich recognizes that most people give away more of the unconscious in behaviors and habits than in conscious thought-out speech and ideas. Slowly psychology accepts this and he publishes Character Armor, there are of course those who refuse to accept it but in twenty years they receded from majority to minority. Then Reich turns to the question of biological causes of mental psychosis and he is drowned out in a cry of protest, biology is unwilling to accept or even experiment with his Orgone energy. While biologists happily admit they have next to know idea how the brain works they are damn sure that this is not within the realm of possibilities. + Reich is arrested by order of the American Medical Association and imprisoned for the remainder of his life. His research is hauled out of his office and labs and burned in the New York City incinerator. Reich thought as a scientist that he was immune to such primitive charges as heresy or the like. He is wrong and pays an exacting toll for his mistake. In an ironic twist sixty years later Bell's Theorem seems to bare out that at least there is a chance his hypotheses could be correct and to ad another spoonful of irony, they major American Medical Association endorsed method of treating seriously mental illness is biologically based chemicals, which we call drugs. + Another for instance: Bells theorem (that familiar bell curve on which you were graded) seems to suggest that points on opposite side of the familiar curve could in fact be behaving in the exact same way. For instance if you were to take to molecule on opposite side of the universe and look at their behaviors they would in fact appear to be the very same thing. A whole branch of physics has sprung up to study this idea they call it non-local energy transfer. However despite the fact that any farmer in Iowa could easily see the implications of this theory that if two things can be doing the same thing at the same time then two people could reasonable be expected to be thinking the same things at the same time, the physicist will not investigate telepathy and the like. why? His own map of the universe says that it is at least possible why not look into it, it seems like an interesting and certainly revolutionary idea? Because he or she knows that this is not how life is. Self limiting prophesies are always fulfilled. If you know something is true or not true then it is true or not true for you. There is no objective reality. Sorry kids there just isn't. Einstein told everyone that eighty years ago, but unfortunately he wrote (like Crowley and da Vinci and the rest) in a very clever code called physics and the star system holds that you could not possibly understand physics. + Let me destroy that myth for a moment. Its simple, relativity says that the measurements made at any given point (you being a point in this case, belittling i know but work with me here). At any given point what is seen by the observer is only accurate at that point. In other words what you see and experience is uniquely your own perspective and is not true for any one else. We all know this as common sense, but sadly few understand it. This means that we are all uniquely alone and separate from each other —incapable of ever seeing the world through someone else's eyes —so long as we remain bounded to the spacetime point we call our "self." Transcending this point of observations suspends the laws of physics as we know them and throws us out of the time bounded Quantum Universe into the Multiversial Flow that mystics have been babbling incoherently about for centuries. The Tao Te Ching is not enigmantic it just doesn't operate on the same logic and rational that we do. Transcending the self is not hard you can do it on a daily basis; the human brain has known this unconsciously for thousands of years and developed something called empathy which allows us to try to see the world through another persons eyes. If you go further you forget that there are people and non-people there only is. + + The Star map consists of litanies of hierarchical structures at the tops of which reside experts who hand out information that travels down the ladder and is collectively agreed on by those in the lower rungs to be true. Thus only a select few of the people presumably know what the hell was actually going on. This leads to holding beliefs and is very detrimental to the mass of the population, tending to produce psychosis which tends to manifest in the Nabisco sponsored M&M&M Monotheism Monogamy Monotony. Polly gets a cracker. Peoget. Its been written up, described dis affected, looped and fed back so many times the signal is garbled into meaningless static. + Usinc primates were a curious group. Maya liked to watch them and felt at times like an alien anthropolgist sent to study this unique, bizzare species. + + +We're all Fucked +-Sil Hawkard from Pissing on Gravities Rainbow + + + Of course there were some good things about Usinc primates, some of them were goddamn sexy. The males of the species tended to believe that if they put their cocks in you this then gave them control over you. Maya found this irritating and consequently spent most of her sexual energy on women who tended to be less controlling and more open to multiple partners. + For some time though Maya's inner space exploration had taken over her sex drive. She spent three months in near isolation save her contact with her neighbors. During this time she travelled into spaces very foreign and exciting. She learned how to gain control over what experts in the field called the biocomputer or the soft machine. The human brain is the most sophisticated thing in the known universe; it is capable of processing data at a rate that so far exceeds everything else as to make it seem unique. But it is not unique at all, computers operate on a very similar principle of electrical impulses to move and interpret data. Instead of synapses and ganglia they use resisters and capacitors. If we reverse the analogy and view the brain as a much advanced computer questions present themselves, questions like what programs are running? Who is the meta-programmer in charge of loading and running the programs that the people use? Can you seize conscious control away from the meta-programmer and program your brain yourself? Maya found that she was not in control of many of the programs that her brain ran, some being run on a daily basis. Her three months in isolation was an attempt to catalog the programs stored in her hard drive. She got quite good at leaving her body and she had the experience of communicating with entities that do not occupy physical realms. One afternoon one of these entities addressed her directly and questioned why she wanted to be alone. No one in here is alone. To be alone is to no longer exist in a relative universe. + Maya gradually came realize that you can not remain in static isolation without necessarily limiting the number of reality tunnels available for exploration. This is why people who never leave their hometowns tend to believe that their lives are the way THINGS HAVE ALWAYS BEEN. Stasis leads to static which leads to confusion and eventual psychosis like emotional attachments to things. This psychosis eventually leads one to become the memetic duplicate of the parent program. Primate Bio-Computers get anxious when they start to feel like they are becoming their parents they have a "mid-life crisis." This is because the nuero-circuitry on the soft machine is not designed to run pattern lopes, we are the only self programable computers in the known universe and you're worrying what color curtains you should have in your window, what style of clothing is more popular among the rich and famous, how you can accumulate and store as many scraps of papermagicmoney as possible? + The more you travel the more you know is the ultimate extention of this logic. Mathmatically: Stasis=static=boredom=fear=death. As the sufis used to say before they got co-opted by the Hippies Uplifting Humans (HUH? for short) don't put anything over your head, it could fall and hurt you. Maybe they had to much ether in the temple or maybe you're just taking it all too seriously. + The more "other people's shoes" you can fit into the more perceptions you will have on what the hell is going on down here. The more perspectives you get, the less you care which one is right, and you stop taking any of it seriously. But that doesn't mean you aren't serious about it. Achieving states of ecstasy feels really fucking good otherwise why would you bother? It seemed curious to Maya that religion had chosen to portray enlightenmnet as this serene eternal peace on a mountain top kind of image. A good ad company selling ecstasy wouldn't get clients with an ad campaign like that. Its worse than some late night hack job: Do you feel bored? restless? Try the new godatic ecstasty pill! feel the energy of the entire universe pulsing through your body! order today, supplies limited, only three easy payments 19.95.... + Ecstasy is takes many forms, sex, chemicals, food, smells, tactile sensations of skin on skin. There are no limits in the province of the mind save what you put on it. You don't have to live in one place mentally or physically so why would you want to? She hit upon the idea of living in a reality tunnel without a home base without a steady income and surviving on a daily basis rather than a monthly one, or a yearly one making decisions on the basis of a lifetime's worth of time makes it very hard to act. Be here now the Buddhists say. One of the easiest ways to get into the now is to force the body to have to constantly adapt to new surroundings. Cats always land on their feet because they start running before they hit the ground. + Listening to Cary and reading the emails he sent her from the far corners of the earth tell made Maya realized constantly moving altered your consciousness. Cary came by one day with an eightball of cocaine and said I thought you might need this. She was in New York City forty-two hours later after a three our nap in Denver, Colorado. + Maya arrived already in an altered state of consciousness, she had run out of coke in Kentucky and kept herself awake by taking massive dosses of caffeine and occasionally slashing her arm. She found that eventually after thirty or so hours it is harder to fall asleep then it is to remain awake. Her eyeballs ached and her hands were callused from gripping the steering wheel of the trusty ford ecnoline van which despite having 238,654 miles on it was still the most reliable vehicle she had ever seen. Although as she took off all her clothes and drove through the stifling Kansas heat she wondered if maybe Cary would have given her a BMW or something if she had asked him. I need to be rich she thought. + She went to her friend April's house and called her from the front porch on a cell phone that Cary had loaned her. Halfway through the catching up she walked in the door. It made Maya smile and seemed to shock the shit appropriately out of April who was getting head from another girl while she talked and who nearly leaped up to the ceiling when Maya burst in the door. + +Snapshots: + +223 slipping in splish splash boom band boom and it was in Arizona when i noticed. Creosote bushes Juniper trees growing up through brown grass and dry red earth sky painted black and blue Culumous clouds held off in the distance and dirt splatters the windshield rolling rolling on rolling on what i need is. + disappointment click clack tree wheels tuffs of white cotton mixed in with the rumble of thunderheads and i had a line on and there was a sign jelly roll. Cigarette ash and the rain was holding off. Headed east headed east ping pong sing song. Desert air alone. Never had much time to talk about money, when i need a hammer i use it the rest of the time i leave it in the garage. Not much you can say about a hammer. It works. + I like your diction ohhh baby i loooove you diction. contemplate chemicals as a means of communication, if all you got is language all you got it four dimensions up-down, left-right, back-forward and what time is it. Bodeey is communication, sex is communication, chemicals are communication, images are communication, words too. My mind your mind ITS mind. i want to dream in eight sided polydimensional technicolor. + Corky voice over: New Mexico is dark few lights here and there, but they don't seem to have a sun. Ya its dark. theres some stars there's the dig dipper looking bigger and dippery then ever, looks more like a spatula to me but whom am i to say. + Southern man voice over: and there some rocks over thar by tha Indian gaaaming facilities. and there's a big blinkin,' one a 'em radio towers i reckon + Homer: uuuuh look. truck. mmmm donuts. + Glow on the horizon could it be?! waiting for alien abduction mind fading. + You don't think we are Indians? Look at all these teepees we are....Indians. +` The first genuine signs of an altered sate of consciousness: inability to distinguish between movement and sitting still. Time becomes plural bendable mutable and simultaneously objective and subjective. Bending time affects space the ability to look into the distance behind the eyelids disappears and the world feels right on top of you, flattened out like a blanket over your head. then a feeling of dizziness and disorientation of visual field inability to judge distance. followed by flawed depth perception difficulty in walking and a feeling of separation of mind and body. The body will remain intact but the mind goes into something akin to active sleep. You are asleep without being asleep. The body seems to function on a light dark binary pattern regardless of whether or not the mind is there with it. + the final unanswered question of humanity: where do thoughts come from? The brain? how does a gooey cellular substance flush with electrical charges and billions of strung together molecules formulate complex abstract ideas about things that don't exist? I feel like a lucky strike, i think I'm toasted. + Once when i was five i had an imaginary friend named steve. We got along great until one day he tried to steal my blanket and i kicked him out of a moving car. that was the end of steve. + + Maya no intention of spending much time in New York City but she got slightly side-tracked by brown liquor, green marijuana and an eerie sense of syncronicity that seemed to scream out follow me. Her friend April had a friend who had a friend.... that had invited her to the annual naked party that the rebellious hippie type students threw every year at NYU to somehow prove that they were cooler than anyone else. Maya was amused by hippish college students and thought it was inane, but she also knew they tended to be in possession of chemicals that Maya was lacking. And they never even realize that drugs are not phase, they're a way of life that so threatens humanity that they have come to be the cardinal sin. + The naked party was a nationally known event held in an enormous old Victorian house three stories high wedged back off an alley in the East Village Mall. As you might imagine everyone at the party was naked, and as you might expect they were all severely inebriated. Maya danced around the rooms looking for some sort of powerful mind altering drug, she spied a wretchedly foul looking hippie boy who seemed like he was having a more innarestin' time than the rest of the people and cornered him to get an eighth of Psybilsilm Cubensis at the reason price of two minute of kissing and brief grope during which time Maya ate the mushrooms and escaped from further advances. The alcohol rumbled with the addition of stale fungus and suddenly she felt dizzy and alot drunker then she had the moment before. Maya stumbled toward the bathroom to rid her body of the alcohol pollutants wondering if the mushrooms would act like peyote and be stronger after you through up. She opened the door too drunk to care if it was occupied and burst in to catch William, a slight man of about twenty five with a thin but muscular body, gently fucking a girl doggy style. Maya's world was beginning to become less and less vertical, but she caught the girls beautiful face in the mirror, perfectly framed by long angelic golden ringlets of hair that Maya’s eyes followed down to her sweat glistened nipples and heaving breasts. William was leaning toward the sink to do a line of cocaine, at that instant Maya was too drunk to be taken aback, she simply squeezed in and closed the door behind her and threw up in the toilet for a minute. After several gut wrenching heaves she tried to get up and sit down to pee, but the world was refusing to hold itself up and the toilet seat leapt up at her resulting in a fairly loud noise that made the girl turn her head and shimmy slightly looking back at her. + “you look like you could use a pick up, give her some coke William.” She smiled at Maya . William pulled his cock out of the girl but lost his balance turning around and accidentally slapped his cock against Maya's cheek + “Oh my god! I’m sorry! oh wow, did that just happen?” It was by far the most immediate and personal introduction to anyone she had ever had. The girl just laughed. + “Usually I date someone for a while before I let them slap my face with their dick.” Maya had found that sarcasism was funniest in the midst of insanity. + The girl laughed again, she bent down and licked Maya’s cheek, “Just getting my cum off your face,” she whispered in Maya’s ear. Maya did a line and felt much better and then another and then another and another until she felt downright spectacular. Then the girl grabbed her by the hand and led her out of the bathroom and down the hall into a room that was empty and smelled of the delightfully sweet aroma of Opium. + “You have Opium,” she murmured as the girl pulled her into bed. + “Yes I do." She pulled Maya down onto the bed. "My name is Chloe and that was William, and that's enough talk,” she lit and huca and passed the hose to Maya. + Picture: A blurry collage of images short circuited by imperfection and redeemed by the great opportunities of flesh and smokey tongues. Maya liked men and women, and was not, like most of the other bipedal apes of Usinc, afraid of having sex with her own image. Bisexuality exists in potentia for everyone, but only a handful realize the seductive pleasure of a body so close to the I. In fact Maya was far more selective of the men she slept with then women, but William, Chloe's boyfriend, was a sleek muscular yummy as one of Maya friends used to say, so she didn't complain when he climbed in bed too. Others at the party came and went but the three paid them no mind. Maya was lost in a world that for a moment offered the opportunity to let the music and the swirl of opium lights carry her into a sexual trance that welled up in her feet and travelled deliciously up her spine until it erupted in a whole body orgasm. + There was an odd moment after the orgasm when Maya had returned to the dance floor for a moment and then decided she wanted more and wnt back to the rooom only to catch William getting dressed and looking like he was going to leave. "Where are you going?" + "My friend needs some stuff." William eyed her suspiciously. + "At three in morning?" Maya furrowed her brow and held back from asking prying questions like who or why. "addict?" She asked. + "He pays me very well so that i won't have a problem catering to his whims." William pulled on his boots and got up to go, "Chloe's still in the bedroom you should let her take care of you..." He kissed Maya on the cheek and headed for the door. Maya watched him go and then walked back to the bedroom. + "Where the hell did William just run off to?" She asked closing the door behind her. + "Our friend Cary needed some things that William and I got for him." + "Cary?" + + + +Why aren't you gay? +-Sil Hawkard from Pissing on Gravities Rainbow + + The poetics of Allen carry long over and over into the the Quarter like Voodoo music and you know that they are with you and all will be solved when you are recognized. You hope that all you have come to believe is true and you want to know if we're all lost in the confusion and you want to think the smoke is clearing and surgeon will be stitching up the lacerations and you're licking up the blood. And every one seems to walk so confident and proud like they know so well what they are doing and you cutting into fear and they don't seem to notice. You're feeling like an idiot because it is so easy for them to walk proud and unafraid and you no longer care you want to see yourself smiling in a nineteen twenty's black and white photograph yellowed over the years and you want to know if you've been stuck in this station for to long you want to know if you've been down this line before. No one seems to understand why you're saying what you're saying and the lesbians don't understand men and the fags hate women and the hetros hate everyone and everyone is so dead dead dead afraid of sex. Why would you refuse an open mouth on your cock why would you deny the tongue snaking through the folds of your pussy simply because it came from a body that looked just like your own? Why deny half of all the sex you could ever have? Go back and confess your sins and catch the first train out of here you freaks. Its crowded and we haven't got the time or the resources to be having you around. Face up to the things you are not and could be, step aside and make room for those of us who are here to go. "I hope for you that you apply this happiness, this peacefulness" -JMS + + “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you” Chloe climbed on top of Maya and began sucking her nipples. Maya felt her body relax and could smell the familiar mingling of incense and opium smoke floating across the room she raised her head and saw Chloe’s hard nipples rub against her own sending tremors down her spine and an aching contraction gripped her pussy. The cream ran down her slit and trickled over her ass and onto the pillow. She drew up the Chloe’s leg until it was rubbing against her pussy, smearing herself on her thigh. Maya pulled Chloe’s mouth onto her own and kissed her hard, pushing her tongue into her warm sweet mouth, licking her lips and nibbling at her tongue. There mouths danced and the whole religious allegory of centuries seemed to swirl around from the Indonesian tapestries that hung on the walls and ceiling. Chloe rolled over and dragged Maya on top of her pushing Maya’s head down between her legs. Maya ran her hands across Chloe’s pussy and down her thighs, pulling her legs apart. She looked up at Chloe's ringlet hair and smiled her warmth through the cinnamon orange color she felt it flowing out through her chest nipples hard and sticking up like radio antenna. Drawing Chloe’s ass into her hands and lifting the pussy onto her tongue, Maya lapped at her creaming pussy, stabbing her tongue between Chloe’s glistening smooth and moist lips, dragging it up over her clit slowly to tease her at first, but Chloe grabbed Maya’s hair and forced her tongue between her lips and ground hard onto her tongue. Cum soaked Maya’s face and she began to lick as hard and fast as she could. + + + Exhausted and Satiated Maya and Chloe left the naked party together at seven the next day, carefully stepping over the delicate piles of sleeping flesh that litter the floor, admiring the groping hands clasped of breasts and clutching at limp cocks, crisscrossed and sleeping in splendor. Chloe took Maya to breakfast and the twenty four hour diner downtown and invited her to make the drive up to Boston and stay with her. + “So what is it you two do?” Maya said trying to make conversation with someone she realized suddenly —she had had sex with, done large quantities of opium, mushrooms, and cocaine, yet had never really talked to. Maya thought of the joke about the couple that was getting divorced just out of college. One of their friends says ‘what happened?’ ‘Well,’ says that man ‘we met and got married in college; I didn’t know we couldn’t get along when we were sober.’ + “So now you think because we fucked and shared some drugs that I'm going to bare my soul to you?” Chloe asked smiling. + “I was hoping,” said Maya meeting her smile. + “Well, okay, I can tell you the truth but you won't believe me." Chloe seemed to be measuring her up with words designed to lead Maya somewhere. + “'Belief is the death of intelligence,'” said Maya. + “Well Well well, you can read.” Chloe seemed to shift to a certain bitchy character that suddenly made her appear self righteous and altogether ugly in that smug ugliness that New Englanders seem to always have whether they mean it or not. She looked searchingly in Chloe's eyes and heard a voice, one she had never heard before telling her that smugliness is ugliness is fear/must cut through/ get them down from there/ stuck like a cat///. She quieted her voices and listened to the way Chloe's green eyes moved as she talked. She felt her breathe between sips of her coffee and watched to curl of her tongue as it formed words. She wondered absently if William was in love with her. + "The truth is that William and I work for a man named Cary, we make collages and sound loops which he needs when he goes um travelling." + "I knew a man named Cary," Maya was thinking aloud and instantly regretted it, but Chloe only smiled. At first it was warm and friendly but then a consumptive almost animal like fire began to burn behind her eyes or maybe it was Maya's own desires projected outward into Chloe's eyes. + "How would you like to come up to Boston and lick my pussy for a few days?" + She said it with such feline grace that it sounded as if she giving someone directions to a restaurant, Maya came back: "Are you going to lick mine?" + "I'm going to fuck you like you've never been fucked, so you'll stay fucked." + +We forget that sacred, +respectful sex may not look +like heterosexual monogamy, +and we forget that human +beings are sexual every +moment of their lives. +-Sallie Tisdale + + It reminds me of a place i used to live where in dark corners i watched a beautiful brunette and fell deeply in love with her, though we never spoke. I watched her like writer would smug certitude that i knew the real her better than she knew herself. I sat alone in that dark corner night after night waiting and watching. If you listen in silence the Buddhists say, you hear much more. Silence means no thought no word no picture, if you want to know what someone is saying stop listening to the syntax and watch how they say it. You only do that if you are internally quiet and listening, which involves the eyes as much as the ears. + i like to listen to Chloe watch her lips curl and retracted and form out words thoughts ideas smiles frowns all the expressions of human emotions which words are not needed for. Words are abstracted ideas intellectual masturbation, bodddiiiiyyy language is here-now happening, really occurring, Maya Maya Maya what are you doing you sound like you're in love with the girl... I am but I'm not; I'm not because being in love turns strange gears in my head and heart and soul and makes me change to better reflect upon the image i am so desperate to duplicate assimilate and make myself into. My love is possessive lays inroads across lives bringing separate things together i can never again tell someone i am in love with them because they always expect it to last forever. i hurt them when i leave and i never mean to i still love them i just have to leave. + Sex. the feel of her nipple rubbing coarsely against mine the softness of mashed breasts stuck together kissing chasing her tongue around her mouth. there is a reason writers are afraid of sex and hate trying to write it, they don't have words for it. They think its something that is happening, a thing that exists apart from ourselves, but it is not. It is in us —we are sex. Sex is seeping from our pores and we hate it, we deny it. I want to celebrate it, I want to have a mad passionate orgy with the entire world. I want men I want Women i want plants I want animals, all life in one orgiastic embrace like Kali and Vishnu; mouths locked on mouths, on breasts, on cocks, on cunts, cocks in cunts, in asses, between breasts, tongues licking necks, licking nipples, licking asses, fingers probing flesh, FLESH FLEsh FLesh searing and popping with electrostatic sexual energy. Is that so much to ask? Wouldn't you like it? Are you scared because you know you would and it might turn the world upside down? + How to suck seed: I like sucking on a man's cock —my mother would call me a whore. I like cock, the flesh there is much softer than anywhere else on a man's bodies, the cock is the closest a man gets to being a woman. It amazes me that women don't enjoy sucking cock more if only for that reason, of course that's not all i like about it. I like watching them squirm, making them twitch; i like looking in their eyes as my mouth slides down the shaft giving them that fuck me look that men spend most of there lives trying to coax out of women. Men are really quiet simple like that, look at them in the right way, beg for the right things (like pllleeeease ppllleeeease fuck me harder or yes cum all over my face...) and they will do anything you want. They will still try to front their character armor, try to treat you like an idiot try to prove themselves superior, but I never begrudge them that, if i were as dumb as a man and my ego were that defenseless I'd spend most of my waking hours trying to protect it too. + Maybe i should writing a guidebook for women called How To Suck Cock. I should definite reeducate them on the come part, many women think men like to come in your mouth, this is not true. Men want you to get messy, they want come in your mouth on your face on your breasts every where, its like they're marking their territory. You have to act like you like it too, and eventually you will...eventually you will find you are turned on by things much more perverted then you originally thought possible. You will find yourself not just wanting to suck cock but to rub your face all over it, devour his balls with you tongue making him twitch and begging for him to fuck your face. You will discover as I have that sex is not good until you are covered in sweat and cum and have violated all the taboos and laws of the country. You will also find that this will scare the living shit out of most men who run away when you walk in a room in stiletto skin tight rubber boots up to your cunt and nipple clamps with a chain, and say get on your knees and lick my asshole. They're good at dishing out perversion and degrading you but most can't take it when its your perversion and you degrading them. that is why i prefer bisexual women, women who know that sex is everywhere inside you and as the song says the last taboo was shattered by her tongue one night. + I think sex with women is more exciting, and easier than sex with men. I know women's bodies, they are my own body. By the nature of things having sex with women is more like masturbating, there is no coming to terms with the other. There is no Other. And usually women are adventurous than with men. This is vague and meaningless and horribly analytical,why am i writing this? No one will ever see it. Because i am horny and Chloe is at the store and William meeting some guy named Sil. William says he's cute. It would be really odd an unfathomable snychronistity if the Cary that they know is the same one i know...i'm tired of writing. i need coffee. + + +"To a person over 35 or 40 +the word "drug" means one +of two things: doctor-disease +or dope-fiend-crime. Nothing you +can say to a person who has this +neurological fix on the on the word +drug is going to change their mind." +-Dr Timothy Leary + + + Sitting at the twenty four hour diner and I wonder if I'm lost again. I wonder if i made some horrible mistake. I wonder if i should have been baptized? As if being born were a sin? What kind of fucked up belief is that? Welcome to hell, i guess. I want you to be naked always, i want you to be wild like a panther pacing the jungle. New York. timepiece. Dark bruises hanging low on bloody red brick world and the college kids smile absently at each other still snug in surrogate wombs. Eastern money all sick with age, death and decay do you even remember why you got rich or was it a hand out? I was brought here by money wanting for it that is. would you like to know what its like to not have it would you would you can you imagine. Money is a heavy hand; heavy when you got it heavier when you don't. And you dare to tell me what i ought to do what rules i ought to follow do you hear me labelling up your ugly world do you want to know what i think? Of course not you just hold your head up high hide behind your religions, your morals, your laws, your gods, your ceremonies, your traditions, your truth. You want to know what i think? Of course not. But you're going to one day I am going to be heard. I will write you a letter and you will hear it in your dreamsleep and it will seep into you like a virus and start to duplicate itself cell by cell until i break you down, pull out your stubborn beliefs and watch them in the pure light. And you will see your ugliness for what it is. And you will see that this is not the peacelove you can market and absorb and redirect like the 1960's. You will see it in the white light of nova ovens. It's William Burroughs at your doorstep with Hassan and me, and we will take back your ugliness and show it to all the galaxy and you will be afraid of yourself you will run from yourself and you will go nowhere. + Dear Boards, Syndicates and Cartels or the earth Jesse Helms and cold blooded mindless religioso idiots of all history, Newt Gingrich and all corrupt power mongers selling the souls that are not yours and never will be yours, Banking families of the earth locking down lives that are not yours and never will be yours; hear me now. What have you that i do not have what have i that you need why are you vampiring off bodies that are not yours to use? Where do you base your authority from in what powerless jungles do you hide? What wet swamps do your bellies stink of knees are muddied with could you find no way into the Quarter but this in your atom splitters in your denial religions you just couldn't keep the lid down because your filth games do not pull in this here. We are here and we are here to stay and you will hear it you will feel it you will taste it but not until we tell you sill you know it because your books do not have the puzzle do not have the key do not know what you are looking for. And in those moments of confusion we will tear you to shreads gnawing like demons, preying on your flesh, throwing your ripped entrails on the subway tracks and watching you grind into nothing. Not a thing. i am not a thing. + Acrid caffeine burned stomach linings peeling off the damn thing girl in charge rages —i need supplies, nutrients the front line is taking heavy casualties. Stop into a french bistro with awnings covered like the french flag. Ham and cheese under a better name. Up the street there is William he's with another man can't make out if he's cute or not. Quicken pace. Man is getting into a BMW smiling very cute looks familiar. + A Window in the back of the BMW rolled down and out popped Cary's smiling face. "Maya I heard you were in the east....would you like to come to the western lands?" + "This is so odd," she smiled back at him. She shifted her hips and leaned down to the window giving Cary a kiss on the cheek. "I dunno, is Mr. Burroughs going to be there...?" + "Of course." + "Well i don't have any money so i don't think i can go..." + "If you don't think you can go then you can't go, but i have something for you anyway, actually its for all of you," he gestured at William and smiled at Chloe as she came running from up the street. He handed an envelope to Maya. sorry i can't talk we've got to be in Costa Rica by morning..." His voice was overwhelmed by the passing of a truck. Maya kissed him again and ran around to the drivers door and tapped on the window as Cary said hello/goodbye to Chloe. + "I didn't get your name?" She said as the window lowered enough to show a pair of muddy green eyes. + "Sil," he said rolling the window the rest of the way down. His lips didn't seem to move and there was no expression on his face, but behind the eyes Maya saw the intensity of something enormous burning. She was instantly obsessed. + "I'm Maya," she held out her hand which he clasped and kissed gently. + "Its nice to meet you Maya. Have a nice stay." the car started up and Sil smiled at her for a brief second before rolling up the black tinted window and heading down the street. Maya stood there for a minute watching the car disappear into Harvard Square. You to she thought blankly. Chloe and William were holding the door for her, she floated upstairs with them. + "What's in the envelope?" William seemed anxious to Maya as she flopped down on the couch." + "lets see..." It was a rather large envelope and she tore it apart like a birthday present. Three passports and three airline tickets spilled out onto the floor. They gathered them up and realized that they needed to be at the airport in two hours. + "Cary's sending us to the flotilla..." William seemed amazed. + "The what?" + Maya was not paying attention she was staring at the ten one thousand dollar bills taped to the inside of her passport. She noticed that it was her picture but not her name. She also noticed that Chloe and William did not have money in their passports. Exchange in Madrid. ...better rates read the note. + + +Why do today what you did yesterday +and can do tomorrow anyway? +-Maya Stevens from A Game-Circuit Guidebook + + Gliding down out of those Elysian fields you often feel tired lonely and a little bit afraid that if death is not the end then what the hell really is going on around here???? Sometimes looking into and through the eyes of someone you don't even know you get the tragic silence of empty timespace tugging at those mindstrings that hide until the lonely hour of the morning when the I sees itself in the mirror, and tries to reconcile the emotions of so many different state of mind —bring the contradictions of emotion into focus— only to reveal them to be more juxtaposed than you had originally imagined. What happens to the sad eyed boys you loved, but never spoke to, lusted after but never kissed warm lips, never felt, salty tequila necks never licked in tropical humid splendor. What becomes of the non-events those give lifes its tragic beauty? It lends poets' enthusiasm, hearing centuries of events that failed to undergo the formality of actually occurring. + Is this occurred, is this happening, are you reaching me or am i reaching you and what is the difference.? What is the difference between an observer created universe existing -only for the individual- and a set of1x1000000000000000000000000000000000 +000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000 multiverses all existing simultaneously? Why has everyone lost their wild-eyed enthusiasm for life? Why was i born in this strange cynical decade? What will you do when the whole thing goes up? Change tunnels involuntarily that's what you'll do; maybe you should start practicing? Do you ever feel hungry tireduglyhungry? Do you ever feel your fingers dancing on skin that isn't there? Slow motion glow of torpid rhythms, dancing like words —first there is skin, then there is no skin, then there is. Undulations felt time-ripple like, something Dali would approve of. From right up under torrid kisses a yearning gripping phantasmal emotion claws at you like rust. digging digging. Have you ever seen hungry eyes? gripped and held them for an instant that transcended TimeSpaceMind points and fell together in grace, like Dante's vision standing on its ear, staring you readydareugly in the face? Don't you want to go? don't you ever want to let go for a second? to see the approval oblivion lugs up behind it? Can you feel it? Its in foreign cities, lands you've only dreamed of. Have you ever wandered what it was exactly that makes the milk of paradise, what did Coolidge see? Have you ever wanted the elixir she carries in that elliptic second? Have you ever hungered? She's hungry yearning tie the tiger to a stick. That thing is going to eat your flesh in horrors you never thought could be true. Don't you want to go? We are here. Don't you want to go? + It was a couple of thousand desert miles and a few seasons ago and you were walking fast to catch a train you'd already missed. And a billboard ad that wasn't new two years ago, spent like a sperm poodle condom. You're just sitting in the red vinyl cushions at an all night diner spinning a few tracks on the jukebox, burying concrete +highway traces of noise, headlights dragging past. Calling up visions of lost highways, dredged out images blurred together; passing seasons traced out in the arks of headlights carved through concrete, and you pull to the side of the road recollecting missed side streets, passed exits and you haven't slept a moment since Taos years ago. Lying down in the back seat, A.M. only radio, and you're playing along on a dimestore guitar you got this past week for ten bucks in Las Crusas, New Mexico, traded it for dinner from a man who already heard music in the season's knew the uglysimpletruth and had no need to catch what you had missed. You drowned it out with desert miles spent walking on asphalt. Mescaline, Morphine and you tried to catch it, photographfreezeframed for an eternity's preservation, just as a moment slid by. Memory is seared to film. Another missed exit on desert highways, the dust turned to miles and passed you out on the two lane, rickety and prone to ruin in the seasons when you passed through; too tired not to stop at an all night diner for a Kerouac cherry pie on the plastic stools. Diner red, hard formica counters raised out of cold concrete floors —scuffed from the worn heels of trucker boots. Watch them treading season after season across the threshold and into the red glow just to rest wearied eyes and maybe spin a few tracks from days past. The waitress departs without a care for the miles missed and you're writing up a catalog of things to seedothink. Fresh customers arriving out of the chilled Kentucky mist. + Sad desert of two days driving slams you back down in the booth, speakers ease out the rhythm of headlights blearing past and the Las Crusas guitar reflects a Picasso shape on the concrete of the parking lot. Thee mist interrupting the even light just +to play proud chords of songs unwritten to mark the passing seasons. Missed out of haste, sown into concrete known only in diner light whose reflection is just fragmented enough with the past to see all the seasons. + Have you ever been hungry? + + Maya had never been to Europe or the Middle East nor had she been in a floating geodesic dome before. The plane touched down at midnight in Madrid. The three travellers were met at the airport by a limo; maya looked at the sleek black car and suddenly had a change of heart. She told them she would catch up in the next few days, reasoning that Cary would not have given her ten thousand dollars if he expected her to go straight to the flotilla. + From the airport Maya got a cab and attempted to lose herself in the night of Madrid. She walked in the crowded streets alone looking for a club or a bar in which she could pass the night. They buildings were white and the streets narrow she walked aimlessly for a while studying the shops and houses wondering what it was like to live somewhere that people had been living for nearly fifteen hundred years. The heavy fiction of history seemed to hang like vaporous lead fog on the streets. When Usincer's travel abroad they are forced to confront the fact that a two hundred year history is but a blip. Maya had never been on a street that was thousand years old in fact the one she was on now had been repaved in 1986, but this did not enter into her thoughts she was thinking that at least some street had been here for a thousand years. Eventually she came to a series of side-streets and alleys that overflowed with bars,cafe's and clubs; drunken Europeans spill out onto the streets and she felt drunken Spanish eyes leering at her. Spanish: Senorita! Come here, you need someone? I'll take care of you eh? We dance make love. Maya ducked in bar without acknowledging them she ordered scotch and sat at the bar for a while listening to the swirling sounds of Spanish and French. She could translate snippets here and there: fuck the government! chinga this and chinga that. Maya hadn't been around real Spanish before, but she recognized traces of bastardized Mexican cuss words and slang. The bar was packed and hot the walls were red and Maya felt the stench of centuries of people with poor bathing habits. Usincer's are a clean obsessed people Maya thought as she finished her scotch and headed toward the door.She went to akl;sdjf lkj, the adfdkjf, and then to a club with the promising name of 69. It was here that she ran into a boisterously drunk American who claimed he was a doctor. + Waiben was leaving when Maya arrived, but the presence of a beautiful white girl convinced him to stay. She noticed him primarily because he was the only white person in the club which reminded Maya that she too was white and that she too probably stuck out every bit as much in this sea of olive-brown faces. But, Maya paid him little mind and settled herself at the bar ordering another scotch. She got her drink and turned around to see Dr. Waiben standing. leaning against a pole and staring at her. She felt an ill vibe about his person and turned back around to the bar, but he came up and leaned in next to her ear. "Are you from Usinc?" + She did not turn to look at him and continued to roll her scotch back and forth on the bar shuffling it between her hands like an ice puck. + "Excuse me miss are you from Usinc?" + "Je Ne Sais Pas?" she smiled and shook her head. + Waiben was quite drunk and he started to ask again only louder like people do when the realize that someone doesn't understand them as if they will when you say it at twice the volume. He caught himself and simply smiled. He stared at her in a way she recognized: hungry. She could tell that deep down he would like to deposit some or preferably all of his sperm on her, Maya knew that was men's first thought when they saw her or any woman for that matter, and Maya was well aware of her biological power over men. She let her spaghetti strap slide down her shoulder so that he could see the top of her breast better. His eyes followed it and she wiggled in her stool and leaned forward to get a napkin, playing him like a fiddle. He just kept staring at her finally her turned and mumbled under his breath and into his drink "Sleep with me you stupid french cunt." But loud enough that Maya caught it. She turned looked him dead in the eyes and said: "If I went to bed with you you won't live through the experience...insecure pencil dicked Usinc businessmen have never turned me on anyway." + He stared at her trying to absorb the impact and looking like a Yugo that's been hit by a cement truck. Maya smiled and stared back, reading him. He was a curious man; medium build and of nondescript stature, the kind of person who passes without notice on a crowded Usinc street. Perfectly nondescript and it gave her the creeps, Maya knew that its the ones that you don't notice that you have to watch out for. + "Actually I'm a doctor," he said lamely. + "That's the best you can do?" she smiled again. "What was your name?" + "Dr. Waiben." + "Well Dr. Waiben it was nice to meet you," she held out her hand and he shook it. Maya sucked down the rest of her drink and set it on the bar. "Would you like another drink?" she could tell Waiben thought this was his big chance, men like to think that if they give you something it means you will give them something in return. They liked that logic so much they built an entire society based on it. Maya hated the barter system and never sold her conversation for drinks. She smiled an artificial ironic smile and said yes waited until he turned to get the bartenders attention and then ducked out the door and into the Spanish night. She hit he street running and laughing outloud much to the amusement of two men kissing in darkened doorway. she answered them with catcalls and a whoop chinga me el nino.... for the first time she felt free and continued running down the Madrid street paying no attention to where she was going. Eventually she found a hotel and got a room. + The next day Maya bought a laptop computer and after much haggling and showing of money got the man at the store to give her a number of another man that claimed he could get her modem that could dial off of payphones. she got a bus ticket to Marabella in the south of Spain which her pocketguide to Spain said was where all the rich and famous movie star types hang out. This, she reasoned, is usually where all the fun stuff goes on —in the houses of the rich and richer. The bus ticket was third class which Maya always travelled so that she could see the countryside and be able to stop frequented to smoke joints or get something to eat. She typed on the bus not worrying about the eyesore nature of a beautiful Usinc woman wearing jeans and a tank top listening to headphones and typing on a laptop on a nineteen seventies bus full of working class Spanish citizens lumber over the hills. From a payphone in aklsdjf kadjf she emailed Cary a message on how to go about getting a boat and shared a hash cigarette with a boy that looked about fifteen and spoke no Usinc. he approached her smoking form shyly and asked something in Spanish which Maya took to mean he wanted her cigarette, she handed it too him and he puffed on it and smiled at her after a thoughtful pause, "lkasdjf?" She took it to mean hash she smiled si. he rambled for sometime in Spanish gesturing occasionally toward the town. Maya caught some of it it seemed like he was offering her something food perhaps, but she declined No grasias and bid him farewell getting back on the bus. It took the better part of the day and into the night to get to Marabella. Maya was tired and went straight to the first hotel and crashed out for the night. + She woke up the next morning and wired herself up to the internet expecting directions to a boat of some sort. Instead there was a map of Marabella with a cafe highlighted and a note below it that read see you here at eleven. Maya looked at the clock it was already ten thirty she threw on her clothes and ran to catch a cab. the drive wound through the town and Maya saw the Mediterranean for the first time. The town reminded her of New Orleans must have looked a hundred years ago whitewash buildings and wrought iron railings. New Orleans if it had been on a hill. The cab dove down the hill and into waterfront plaza littered with Orange Trees and sidewalk vendors. Lovely, Maya murmured in an British accent, imagining some snotty old British bitch delighting in the mock authenticity of Marabella isn't it just lovely.... + Cary was sitting at table in front of cafe klajdklf eating eggs. he got up and gave Maya a hug, offering her a seat. + "I see you decided to take advantage of the opportunity to travel...you don't have guilt circuit cut yet though or you would have just said hey can you send a boat for me... + I didn't want to put you out...' + "No one ever puts me out if i want to do something that i am able to do i do it, if i don't i don't. I find this greatly simplifies what most people call domestic life and leaves me free to do more interesting things: the why's how's and whatfor's.... He smiled, "now for the funny part " and Maya got the lecture that Sil had gotten many years earlier. + + + +Within the province of the mind, What I believe +to be true is true or becomes true, within the limits +to be found experientially and experimentally. +These limits are further beliefs to be transcended. + —Dr John C Lilly from The Center of the Cyclone + +October 23,1999 Two weeks later and i feel a little better —less motion sickness. Went into something like a trance state last night with the sensory depravation chamber and the mushrooms. Cary kept asking me what i saw when i couldn't really make out anything that was describable he gave me a book how to build maps in hyperspace or something of that nature. Mostly i felt cold as if i were on a wind blown desert mesa or something to that effect. Sense of dread and anticipation like you feel when starting a trip that you know will not be easy, but i never went anywhere. Sat around in the bar last night with Chloe and Cary talking about the potential effects of being able to receive all the information in a ten dimensional lattice work universe such as ours. The question being: would computers be capable of translating dimensions the we don't normally have ocular reference points in? In other words Cary was arguing that if implanting new programs in the human mind is through chemical means does that mean that addition things could be seen if chemical were cross referenced (so to speak) with digitally enhanced ocular images? Light conversation around here. That's the thing i can't get over is that there are so much information stored here in computers in nanocreatures and human nervous systems its absolutely incredible. And Cary continues to baffle me in way that no one ever has before without me wanting to sleep with them. Not that i haven't had sex with him, he took me through a wide array of tantric and other sex magic traditions the other day and i came so hard i saw other universes the satori things eastern mystics are always raving about. But it wasn't erotic it was just sex. Really damn good sex. Sometimes i think Cary has cracked the code and knows things the rest of us aren't going to know until after we die and sometimes i think he's just as clueless as the rest of us he just happens to be the guy with the money. I asked him about that this morning and he looked at me for really long time like i was insane. He got that very thoughtful look on his face like i can tell when he finally hits at emotion; he said just because you're dead doesn't mean you stop programming your consciousness. You just don't do it with your body anymore. I take that to mean that he is a trickster like the rest of the religious people of the world, he just tricks me into thinking about things i find enjoyable where as David Koresh did not. + Still haven't met Sil Hawkard again and no one seems to know where he is or when of even if he is coming back. I just remember the piercing green eyes that sparkled and laughed while the face did nothing. Apparently i am not alone in obsessing over his eyes everyone here says that one of the things they notice about him is that her never looks directly into their eyes. When he talks he seems miles away that's what William said when i asked him about him on the plane. But everyone seems to like him or at least respect him even if they don't understand. I heard a story the second day i was here that he had vanished and that not even Cary knew where he was. Apparently he lived here for about four years leaving to conduct some experiments in south America but always going back here never said mush just watched. Some days he just sat in the bar and smoked hash and stared at the walls other days he would just read magazines or watch and laugh as people went about their jobs. they said they never felt that he was laughing at them rather that he laughed because he liked the way he felt when he was laughing. I asked Cary about it that and he just started laughing. He gave me a book that Hawkard wrote though, something called the rubber octopus I read most of it in a day. Very confusing jumbled sort of book that felt more like an interpersonal wrestling match between the author and the story then it did a novel. I couldn't tell what was real and what wasn't and characters would appear without explanation and disappear again and he kept reminding the reader that they are reading a book and that he is in there mind. I am writing a new program in your mind sentences would start and then he would go on to say thinks like UFO's are real i saw one in August 4 2954 on a dirt road in Oklahoma. It was still dark just an hour before sunrise i was driving a '69 Ford truck, the sky was black and the only thing i could see was the road in front of me and then there was a flash and two figures approached me and offered me pancakes and then got back into their spaceship and took off again. then the text would digress into language experiments with semantics and Linguistics. It gives you the feeling that the author is brilliant, but doesn't care if you follow him or not he just wants you to have a good time. And the sex scenes...if he can actually have sex as well as he writes it... he needs to come back here so I can test that theory. + + +November 19, 1999 I flew with Cary to Paris today to have some more tests done on his brain to see if he indeed has a tumor. He still hasn't mentioned anything to anyone yet, he doesn't seem to be bothered by it, but i cried all night last night. + +November 23, 1999 Cary is going to die. the doctors give him two months tops. I flew back alone to the Flotilla he said there were some things he needed to do, but that he would come to have a bon Voyage party. He seemed genuinely excited about death, maybe he is in denial. + +November 29. 1999 Cable received on the antique telegraph machine in Cary's office read: + A thousand apologies for not being able to return.stop.I leave all of you with sufficient funds to continue the facilities into the near future.stop.shutting down costa rica facility all persons there return to Flotilla if it strikes your fancy.stop.smile.stop.i died yesterday and sil is dictating this to the woman at the telegraph office.stop.remember if death is not the end then what the hell is really going on around here.stop. + +STOP.STOP.STOP.STOP.STOP.STOP.STOP.STOP.STOP.STOP.STOP.STOP.STOP +21717 words 58 pages diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/chapter one.txt b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/chapter one.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b004e58 --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/chapter one.txt @@ -0,0 +1,419 @@ +in the beginning +there was the word + + +Sil Hawkard always wanted to be rich, filthy fucking rich, because rich people lie around in opium filled rooms and snap there fingers for food and sex and drugs and what else is there in life really? Fortunately for Sil he is filthy fucking rich and lying around in his own little palace in Mandalay exploring the outer perimeters of sanity by the ingestion of galvanized petroleum vapors. He is an oil man, though he didn’t start that way. He sucks on the thin plastic tube, lighting the huca with a bic lighter bearing the insignia of a crucified christ with crown of thorns. Sil Hawkard notes the christ's crown and thinks to himself -this was not an oil man. Fucking Arabs have the greatest drug on the earth and they won't share it. So Sil had applied what was now called the Kellinger method in the industry; that poor fucker Kellinger had no idea... + Halfway around the world and twenty years before the phone rings; your ears implode at the sound and you look up to the wall where a phone hangs; reaching up with a tendril-like arm and tentatively snaking its receiver to the ear, a voice from far away says "Dr. Kellinger?" Speaking. "I have found the glitch in your prototype Eater and fixed it. It to be an invaluable help in our trade and I have decided that since I have modified it to an extent which you did not anticipate, that it is by all rights my idea. Do you hear that scratching at your door? By altering the genetic coding of the beast I realized that many different applications become available to the user, the one on your door step is called Kellingereater prototype number 1. Goodbye." + The door blows apart into fragments of wood sticking in your wrist and ankles, but this is no more than a passing sensation for the ferocious nature of the Kellingereater is that they have twenty three stomachs each of which must be constantly fed. It rips into you like a butcher chopping meat, systematically picking out vital organs and stuffing them into organized pouches attached to its stomach as its masters had trained it. It sucks the remaining scraps of quivering flesh into its mouth, rises on its hind legs and runs homeward... + Sil lapses back onto a burgandy velvet couch, people would do anything to avoid being fed to the eaters. Anything. Like work until they died of natural causes, sell their daughter for prices way below the market value, sacrifice themselves for their children; Sil takes another deep inhalation of petroleum smoke and contemplates the difference between luck and organized coincidence. For instance he really knew nothing about and had no hand in creating eaters and yet they were essentially his key to wealth. Getting rich is easy in the underworld, staying rich is hard, but if your enemies don't know you exist then there is no one to harm you. hence the end that befell Kellinger who by all rights if his luck had been better, should be sitting on this red velvet couch. Petroleum it was generally believed was made into smokable drug, first by the arabs looking for some potential use for the waste products given off in the refinement process, but this was not strictly true. In fact petroleum was a rather inacurrate name for what Sil and a good percentage of the world was smoking these days. + Sil hits the huca again and feels his face going numb his head slumps down until his chin is nearly on his chest he snaps his fingers twice. Two Arab boys appear and began to dance crooked, spinning patterns devised over centuries of hypnotic oppression which the cockroaches of skid row motels had only recently begun to learn. Oppression is a drug, it acts equally, though differently, on the oppressed and the oppressor alike. All things must remain at equilibrium or fall into decay, this is a law of physics, and it is true of all systems mathematical --however if one considers spiritual and emotional systems one must take into account negative entropy + The crooked dance is hypnotic to watch and all consuming to perform. In India they teach it to snakes, and in the sewers of America cockroaches feasting on the radioactive waste have begun to learn it on their own. Like terrible creatures from a Kafkian nightmare they sit quitely underground, as we go about our lives, learning the dance passing it on to their children and teaching them how to use it as an evolutionary tool --for all systems are also trying to succeed one another. One day a properly evolved cockroach will crawl out of a sewer drain just as the head of state is stepping to the podium to address the nation. He will devour the president raw as the live camera crews feed man's downfall to a nation of viewers even as it happens. The blood soaked +cameramen will never stop filming and the cockroach will scurry to the podium, strain himself to an upright position and address the nation...Behold I am. He will dance and spin and all will be entranced. Women will castrate men and men will bludgeon themselves to death with pickaxes until they are suitable for cockroach consumption and life will continue on much as it always has. The system is independent of its elements, humans are not necessary, cockroaches would uphold the system just as well. Sil Hawkard’s mind is racing, horrible conspiracies are leaping at him from the walls like ostriches gone mad, heads palpating and seeking some soft cerebellum to penetrate. The initial paranoia of the petroleum smoke is fading away and Sil falls into a profound haze of self absorption. The boys continued to dance trance-like as the numbers explode at the edges of his vision. + Sil's story is a rather long and convoluted one and subject to enhancement on his own part, but this much is true: At the age of twenty one Sil Hawkard discovered that while he vaguely enjoyed torturing the professors at Columbia university, most people in the United State are squares, and Sil, already an avowed anarchist was wearymaterialists whom he felt lacked the imagination and understand to really get it so to speak. So he dropped out for a semester and bummed his way around the united states. In the middle of the Utah desert one night in July he ingested a rather large quanity of psilosilum in the form of mushrooms. His facination with with mind manipulation did not began with drugs though, it began much earlier in a high school biology class where he realized the simple truth that the brain is a continuously changing chemical reaction. Thus if one wanted to escape the pattern of chemical reactions typical of human thought, one ought to change the chemistry of the brain itself. Sil's mushroom experience was typical of innerspace voyages except for one thing, he bcame convince that ostriches held the secret to the universe and it was this discovery that led him to Africa. + * * * * * + Discipline is an agent's greatest virtue, thinks Agent Tucker to himself as he draws a long and satisfying hit off the oxygen tube. Behind him Doris Day and her Waxing Loquacious Lesbians play a sultry 60's motown number on a dimly lit stage, and the general atmosphere of +The Knight takes on a surreal quality. A good bar is one where the possibilities remain endless regardless of the irrefutable realities. Agent Tucker is well aware of the realities, but his mind is only now beginning to sense the infinite set of possibilities that comes with every new reality. For instance when considering the overall picture of life and its universal quotient of suffering it is hard to feel pity for one’s own self. There is not nearly enough pity in Tucker to cover even his immediate family. He has no self pity, he considers self pity to be a symptom mental illness because it requires the ego to be divided into pitier and pitied. He likes his ego together as one in harmony he is quite proud of this justification and it helps to ease his innate sense of self pity and focus his mind on work. His work is the great work as a the masters would have called it. He is a Agent of the State. The State is not to be confused with the government as many of you would assume. On the contrary the government is but an instrument of the State, the State is a separate entity whose ultimate identity is unknown even to Tucker; he is but an agent of it charged with ceasing the petroleum trade. He has for months now been stalking the elusive Sil Hawkard, a man whose identity is also unknown to him, he realizes that Hawkard could well be in this very room right now planning Tucker's demise, the thought sends a cold shiver of fear down his spine and he cringes thinking again like a manta: discipline is an agent’s greatest virtue. Agent Tucker takes another hit of the oxygen and notices the numbers exploding at the edges of his vision. Exploding numbers are the smoker's worst fear. Suddenly seized by the idea that Hawkard may be present, Agent Tucker nervously fingers his pistol and glances furtively around the bar. He notes, but passes over one Sil Hawkard quietly sitting at the other end of the bar with a soda water in front of him. Sil is also caressing his own gun and contemplating the effectiveness of the copeater he has tied in a van outside. He watches as Agent Tucker gets up and moves toward the door Sil can see the fear in his eyes he knows that weakness has set into Tucker’s mind. Sil reaches into his pocket and pushes the intercom button on a two way radio, he is thinking about a Keat's poem he hasn't seen since high school. + So old the place was, I remember none + The like upon the earth: what I had seen + Of grey cathedrals, buttressed walls, rent towers, + The superannuations of sunk realms, + Or nature's rocks toiled hard in waves and winds, + Seemed but the faulture of decrepit things + To that eternal doomed monument. + Outside in the back of the van, one of the Arab boys unchains the copeater and lets it out the back door. Agent Tucker is opening the door to his own car with a sense of relief when he feels hot breath on his neck and a dull ache at the base of his spine, but this is fleeting and an instant later the copeater is sucking the remnants of flesh from a spinal chord, being careful not to damage the raw nerves as his masters taught him. + Hawkard is still inside the bar sipping quitely on his soda water, his phone rings, he pulls it out of his jacket and puts it to his ear... + "The Agent Tucker problem has been solved and the shipment will go through as planned." + "Thank you William, your services are invaluable to me, and I will wire the money first thing in the morning." Sil is smiling to himself visualizing the final horror as death met Agent Tucker. Sil replaces the phone on its receiver and lights a cigarette. + Sil hates cops....I fucking hate 'em. I hate 'em. I hate 'em. I hate 'em. I want to kill them all in a violent sea of time-released explosive donuts that when eaten mix with the stomach acids and explode in violent blueberrystrawberrylemon filled death. Die pig die. Imagine it, a million sworn upholders of THE LAW dead in an instant. Think of the society we could have. Think of the freedom, think of the beauty. The sweet satisfaction of tearing down all the rotting pig gut filled doughnut shops in the nation. No more sweaty palms. "License and registration please." Fuck you, never again. Never again. kill every cop you see --a populist revolt. We don't need all these damn laws, the people are okay --we know how to look after ourselves. The laws are the ones that fucked everything up the first place. And who hurts the most people in this here little world? The State. A cattle car streaming over the tracks of life, slick with the blood of the people. The train can't go up the hill because the tracks are too slippery with my guts your guts our guts. +Cut off by THE LAW, our heads impaled on the ends of the its tentacle-like arms as they strangling the last hold outs of resistance into pacified stupidity. + The anger subsides as his mind rationalizes that at least one more is dead. Sil picks up the phone again and dials a number the other end never rings instead a voice says: "hello?" + "May I speak to Captain Clark please?" + "I'm sorry he's not in. May I take a message?" + "No. No message." Sil hangs up the phone. He walks to the back of the bar and flops his body onto the luxurious red velvet couch and is swept by an overwhelming sensation of peace; his mind begin to expand, and he feels the desire for more petroleum benzoates creep over his body. It is his only weakness, the last and greatest of drugs. The weakness of any great mind is that it is constantly aware of its greatness. Consciousness is the death of us all, Sil thinks idly to himself as he lights a pipe under the table and discreetly sucks in a deep inhalation of petroleum benzoate. The sticky sweet smoke that fills his lungs never fails to remind him of his first time and the decision it had forced upon him. Anarchy is the only answer to all questions which begin with why? whY? wHY? WHY? Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law. In distant memory filtering strands of DNA locked deep in Sil's cerebral cortex a vibration begins, infinitely small at first but building slowly into his medulla and finally spring forth into the part of the brain referred to as consciousness. The cameras rolled even as the lights were dimming. +"BRING THE PRISONER FORWARD" + Unrolling a weighty and sterile looking scroll of antiseptically white paper a voice whose origin is masked by the size of the paper itself reads: + After making reviews of the past actions, thoughts, and attributed sentiments, it is the judgement of this committee, and therefore the judgment of the government it represents, that due to a general lack of ability to perceive the options open to the work potential of the drone in question in simple terms of an x or not-x negativism which would be most helpful in these situations and would consequently decrease expenditures and lower taxes for other individuals living in said dualism and therefore we hereby decree that all metaprogramming undertaken by the +individual without the consent and simultaneous approval of this committee and the government it represents to be criminal in intent, hostile in action, and punishable by prison and/or death upon conception. Thank you. You may go. + Sil Hawkard is dragged from the tribunal, hands tied in front of him and legs trailing uselessly behind. His guards use his head to open the heavy wooden door and then they dump him unceremoniously onto the filthy street where a group of children are playing. A monkey runs by, tugging its penis with one hand and slapping its bright red ass with the other . + + + +the doctor will +see you now + Teletype for corsica the agent sent in for returns, Home office denied request for reinforcements, all communication to be ceased henceforth. Piss in the riddle thought the old man wheeling his chair back out to the porch, he picked up a mason jar of corn whiskey and laid the shotgun across his lap. + The languid afternoon floated in and up the beach from the Atlantic bringing photomantages of Mandalay and the Dutch East Indies spice trade boats, far off places he had heard of only as words and imagined smells. Up the beach from the house were the beginnings of the rocky South Carolina shoreline teeming with crabs, sponges, sea anemones, and circle swooping gulls feeding on sand crabs exposed in the fluxuating waves. It was low tide, in fact it was always low tide or at least it seemed that way to the old man. He was partly right, the tide was lower than it had been a year before when a man by the name of Dr. Waiben began overseeing construction of a nuclear power plant burried two miles under ground to hide its heat signature for pesky government satelites. The plant whose only enterance was from the sea, was Sil Hawkard's +Eastern Atlantic Trans-genetic Eectro Radiation facility and it pumped sea water in like a vacuum cleaner to cool the core of the nuclear reactor. Officially neither Waiben nor Sil's names were attached to the plant, and its proported purpose was the rather benign cause of recycling facility. + The old man stood up on the porch and paced back and forth waiting...you understand the seriousness of the matter... obviously we would not expect an ordinary agent to do such a thing...your expertise in these fields...well frankly it's unparalleled..there is no other...These orders are coming straight from the top...your cooperation is non-negotiable... + + Sil had contracted with a building company to construct the domed facility under the rather vague heading of "recycling" which provided the guise to obtain the the necessary building permits and then after it was done, he had brought in his own oil drilling teams to dig down, but it was Waiben who had set up the nuclear capabilities. Of course one can not build a nuclear reactor without some authority noticing but that was where the eaters had come in handy. + Sil decided that nuclear research was of the utmost importance and that scientists and the new scientific inquisition were making it nearly impossible for the work to be accomplished. Naturally Sil himself did not possess the scientific background necessary for research in these fields so he brought in the Doctor. + Two years earlier: Dr. Waiben, pathologist of the state, surveys a long horrifically clean hallway whose smoothness is interrupted only occasionally by the presence of polished sliver knobs indicating doorways. There are no observation windows or any other windows within the rooms. This is the housing quarter for the derelicts of society: prostitutes, schizophrenics, lobotomy patients, drug pushers, anarchists, communists, AIDS victims, the aberrations that society never needed nor found a use for, end up here, under the care of Dr. Waiben, pathologist of the state. The good doctor has, for twenty odd years, been the caretaker of the derelicts, charged with restoring to them a level of functionality deemed necessary by society. He is a man who puts the cogs back into the wheel. + Waiben is an expert in mind manipulation through the use of psychoactive chemicals like the Ayahuasca mushroom which he has recently fed to one whore whom the stae had deemed a "revolutionary" for her accidental particpation in an protest against the siezure of private property. Her constant screaming had disturbed the other doctors, but Waiben found them soothing in the +same erotic kind of way that a soft candle lit room made him desperately want to masturbate. Regardless, he hated departmental friction so he was treating her with his standard dosage of twenty ripe Ayahuasca caps blended into a protein shake. The girl was a fighter and she knew she didn't want the shake; he had been forced to strap her down on a table and put a low voltage cattle prod in her cunt, and even then she had held out for eighteen seconds -it was a record for the floor. + He watched her on a TV monitor from the station at the end of the hall. She alternated between foaming a bloody spit out of her mouth while her eyes bulged menacingly, to sitting apparently quite peacefully on the edge of the toilet seat. Her vital stats were typical for the dosage he had given her. He watched with the detached apathy of those who have seen the degradation of life for twenty odd years and never thought to bat an eye toward suffering. He panned the room camera around and noted blood and little clumps of flesh lying on the floor near the bed, he zoomed in and momentary renewed his interests as he realized that she had been picking the burnt flesh out of her cunt. His stomach turned, not at the idea of her suffering, but at the idea that she would leave it lying about on the floor like a common animal wallowing in its own shit. He sighed and picked up a bic lighter with a picture of Uncle Sam on it, the typical picture was warped due to the surface curvature of the lighter giving Old Sam a peculiar evil bent that Waiben admired; he lit it and held it at the base of the petroleum pipe, taking a deep and satisfying drag. + Petroleum was a recent habit for Waiben, he typically avoided addictive substances out of the repulsion he felt toward people who were dependant on anything. But with petroleum he found a peaceful state of mind that he felt might make a person more susceptible to mind control. However, in experimenting with the drug he had accidentally developed a habit. But since it was basically harmless -as long as he stayed away from open flames- he made no effort to quit. + + Doctor Waiben's petroleum habit did not go unnoticed by others in his department however, and as he was already unpopular for his rather unconventional methods and ideas, it wasn't long before a doctor by the name of Kellinger reported him to the state. In the tumultous time that was the present the good doctor was asked to resign, but did not instead he called a press +conference which was sadly rather ill attended, he proceeded to get up infront off the local new cameras and lauch into an anti-government rant. he was proply arrested for "divulging state secrets and brought to trial before a hastely put together tribunal of senators and judges. + One person who did happen to catch the broadcast was Sil Hawkard who by this time was already not a U.S, citizen but moved through the country in underground netwroks wike the weathermen that had been around for centuries and were activated whenever enough people felt they were needed. Sil was in a New Orlean's safe house when he heard a voice from on the televison drift up to his room...the united states government is by its own legal deffinitions, insane and therefor incapable of being held accountable for its decisions.... + Sil bolted upright in his bed and ran down stares in time to catch the name Waiben before the camera cut out. Two days later Sil was arrested and thrown in prison in the cell next to Waiben. Because Sil was not a United States citizen he was merely given a lecture and thrown bodily out of the building, but he made a deal with Waiben --research these subjects and I will get you out.... + Doctor Waiben was something of an anomaly among scientists, he enjoyed being proved wrong because it saved him the trouble of having to prove anything right. Waiben was one of the unique individuals of this century that understood that when you open one door its real value is not what is behind it but whether or not there are any more doors that revel themselves to the researcher. He did not suffer from what Robert Wilson calls the New Inquisition. This term is a catch phrase for those that try to make a belief system stand up with scientific legs, when in fact science is a tool or method of research, it is amoral. Science does not believe anything because it is not a thing, it is a language. I quote from Wilhelm Reich in Hell: There is also argument by Logic. This can sometimes be combined with scientific experiments and if the two mesh we have a "fit" of theory with fact and scientists are delighted. Pure Argument by Logic, however does not require this experimental back up and only demands that the conclusions by reached by the game-rules of an abstract symbol system. In our hypothetical case, some witness might inform congress: +All mome raths need to be distimmed; +All frammisgoshes are mome raths; therefore; +all frammisgoshes need to be distimmed + This so-called transitive property has led scientists into the same dead end alley of faith that religion finds itself in, I have faith in science the mad man rants on silver screens... Waiben, like Sil, did not have the semantic virus that infects the mass of mankind and Sil thought he might be just the man to cure the bug in the rest of the population. He had built for Waiben four research facilities one in Mandalay which was devoted to semantic research and verbal anomalies, the biologic research facility in Las Vegas devoted to inter-organism research, a non-local mind-body facility in Buenos Aries, and the one in North Carolina for inter atomic structure research. Sil had cured himself with a rather haphazard method of self-experimentation with chemical, wavelength and various energy manipulation technics; Waiben on the other hand seemed to have never had the virus in the first place which was why Sil respected and fear him. Sil had learned to step back --transmission deemed irrelevant given overwhelming incoming signal that sweeps across all frequencies, visual, audio, chemical, and physical. There are five senses, sight, sound, taste, touch, and smell, and only four signal sources; both smell and taste are chemical reactions with tissue that are then turned into different chemical reactions in the brain. Thus the chemical input takes on a greater role suggesting perhaps that additional chemical experimentation is warranted. Perhaps? perhaps not. Quien Sabe? + + + + + Sil however realized that until such time as the doors are open one might as well input positive frequencies which is why he found himself sitting on a porch in Mandalay, scotch whiskey and cocaine laid out like an offering before him, Chloe and maya were having sex on a couch behind him and he heard them orgasming as he sniffed a long line of coke and stood up to refill his glass.... + +The good doctor spent the better part of the day in an oxygen pure environment subjecting himself the recuperative acupuncture therapy his muscles were stimulated one by one with needle pricks while an orgone generated hummed steadily in the corners. The pre-programmed alpha waves stimulated his bodies brain functions that were healing in nature and as the experiment went on electro graphs of brain activity mapped the centers stimulated and was compared with the frequency emitted until each frequency had its effects defined and clearly mapped. + Needless to say this was not effective in the field so the theory then presented itself how can you produce those effects through chemical instead of electrical stimuli. Mapping the effects of chemical stimuli was naturally Waiben’s favorite part of the job. Which is why he and Sil were such good friends --because chemical stimulation of the brain acts at different frequencies then orgone --ones that drove people insane in self destruction. No one said the doors to the chapel perilous wouldn't be guarded. addiction is the first to rear its ugly head the word is obliterated by the need. need is driven by re action, the brain is taught to feel a certain sensation and because evolution was some effective the brain learns to cope and adjust to fit the new reality. Thus it reacts to the stimuli by negating its effects and like the man in the floppy hat said it never got weird enough for me. + avoiding addiction is no easy task --you're up against over ten thousand years of terrestrial survival instincts that are no longer needed. But shedding them is the damnedest thing like the Kimono dragons continually picking at the dead flesh that refuses to leave the beast that it was once a part of. + Sil taps out cocaine on Chloe's nipples and drags his tongue in circles around sweeping powder and nipple into his mouth maya nose glides a velvet straw along the line on Chloe's stomach... + + + + * * * * + + + "Pterodactyl winged birds flew overhead and the ground was squirming the way heat waves shimmer the horizon. The Fort at San Juan rose distinctly to my left as if my subconscious were unabashed stealing its imagery from Salvador Dali. I licked my fingers and and found them to be an interesting Teriyaki-lemon flavor quite unlike anything I had ever tasted before. I looked at my shoes and realized I was standing on a giant skeleton key which I somehow knew was to the old Fort at San Juan. I tried to pick it up and carry it to the door but it was much to heavy for one man. In the distance I could see a bus approaching and felt as though I had been waiting for it the whole time. It pulled up next to me and all my college friends were gesturing for me to come aboard. The door opened." + + Two years before on the west coast Maya Stevens is also hating the public, in her case however it is due to overexposure. She is beginning to think that perhaps Skinner was right maybe there only are eight different kinds of people in the world. She is sitting at a table chain smoking and waiting for William. He told her to write whatever she saw if he was late, well fuck him, writing it down was too much effort it took all she had not to kill them all in some kind of horrifically violent frenzy of sexual energy. Sex and violence, she smiled that's what these people need --sex and violence. She feels the rage building. Writing is therapeutic, that must be what William meant when he said write he meant get out the anger, get out the seething molten rage without going to jail. Maya picks up the pen she had stolen from the bookstore and begins to record the people as they pass her on the street...Dr Waiben's plane is touching down two years away.... + And the Galaxy girl walks down the street, boyfriend in tow, brown stomach seductively bare, midriff shirt. They're meeting friends later at the gate hanging ten feet high down town. She and her shirt with GALAXY GIRL written in glittering silver, would like to get drunk, high on little golden yellow pills, and float in the ecstasy of swirling music. Who wouldn't? Maya thinks +about Chloe and candles and wine and glittering golden sheets and the smell of incense and opium smoke floating across the room. She raised her head and saw Chloe seated on silvery blue satin pillows. Maya's arms shook slightly as her hand nervously ran up Chloe's stomach and circled her nipples. Maya grabbed the chain that held Chloe's nipples and tugged causing her to gasped and press her breasts against her own. She felt Chloe's hard nipples rubbing against her chest sending tremors down her spine and an aching contraction gripped her pussy. Maya's pussy contracts in realtime and seers her back to the chair the table the extent of our known reality. + She looks up as three marines drive smiling and pointed in a squarish red truck (marines de reguir) desperately hoping for some sweet young girl to cross the street coming back from the beach. Stoplights are a woman’s worst nightmare. Catcalls. Warbles, like sex crazed crows float up the street. Victim. Hoping for a smile of a acknowledgement to insincere flattery. Them squirming in their truck. Hey baby... Marines cruising for cunt. Any cunt will do Maya thinks disgustedly. If you want to jack off in something warm and wet why not just use the shower? Why involve women at all? + And they keep walking by as she begins to wander if maybe William isn't going to show at all, but there is the aging club girl with bright cherry lips painted extra red by the contrast in her black leather jacket eyeing her. Maya stares blankly back at her picturing the memories in her mind. The girl sits slouched in a chair as if resigned that she will never make it back to New York. CBGB’s. Those were the good days. Now its just slouched days in slouched chairs cigarette aimed skyward dreaming of darkness and the wild seductive wails of guitar (what was that blonde guys name?) the rhythmic pounding of the beat forcing its way into your chest, the throb, the guttural appeal of all things taboo and enticing. Maya giggles at the stupidity of attributing anything so noble as nostalgia to someone who probably doesn't even know what CBGB’s was. The surfer and his girl stroll by, her breasts spilling out of the too small top, losing its Herculean battle to save the world from nudity. They wander into the cafe for snacks, drinks, to gorge the thirst induced by the haughtless sun now carving the end of its tyrannical arc. They order designer water and leave. + The tired shopkeeper is out smoking her obscenely thin cigarettes again (excuse me is there any tobacco in those?). She smokes constantly pausing only to give a tired answer to the same tourists she has to stare at day after day. An endless reminder that they, not her, are the ones enjoying life. Too many of them day after day year after year look look looking never buying. The Leather Connection doesn’t do a lot of business on hot spring days. Nor is it the kinky sort of fetish shop you might hope for. Not even any leather in the windows. She moves her lips mumbling incoherences intelligible only to herself. She lights another cigarette. Get some thicker smokes, they’ll last longer Maya wants to shout. But she can tell the woman's not the type to take unsolicited advise. Besides Maya is shifting into first person and writing without pause now: + The sharp eyed Asian hawk sitting behind me closes her purse, pen safely secured inside. She licks stamps and affixes them to postcards. Notes for those at home. “Jenny: LA is great -warm sunny. I’m having a great time. Remind me to tell you about this guy Bill I met the other day. Take care of yourself. Say hi to Tom for me. Love....” + Families wander by looking for a nice place to eat. The neon signs offer Mexican Italian Greek food, “but we need a children's menu.” “Tommy’s only nine, he can’t eat a whole meal himself.” “Do you think they could split a dinner, I’m not very hungry myself?” “You brought the credit card right?” “No, but I’ve still got some cash left over from breakfast this morning. “Wasn’t that a charming little place?” “What was it called?” “Lets go there again before we leave.” + The locals, the non-travelers, the doomed-forever-to-live-in-one-placers stream by in shinny cars coming home from work in THE BIG CITY. Their flimsy soda can Japanese cars that look as if a good size bird could, with decent aim, crush the plastic colored roofs. The locals drive with windows up and frowns turned down. “Did I remember to e-mail that memo to Tony at the office in Chicago? I wonder what sort of crap Diane cooked for dinner tonight? She is the worst cook. What happened to that tri-tip on Friday? I wouldn’t have known what is was if I hadn’t bought it myself. Dave and Linda smiled and said it was delicious the lying bastards. don’t encourage her she might actually believe she can cook. Dave probably just wants to sleep with her. That whore. I wonder if she’s fooling around behind my back? She never wants to have sex +anymore. Its always the same routine. Me still dripping from a shower her reading some book I crawl onto of her . ‘Not tonight honey I’m to tired.’ I wait till she’s fast a sleep and sneak down to the kitchen reach behind the fridge and pull out the nudie magazines and --off quietly to the bathroom. I wonder what Diane would look like in tight leather, probably fat. She still hasn’t lost all the wait from the pregnancy. God its been what like eighteen months Justin’s starting to walk for christsakes. The light is green, fucking traffic.” The typical suburbian woes. + Fog is settling in from the hills meeting up with banks rolling in from the sea, threatening the star’s view, tiny windows of the gods peeping in watching our silly games in continued amusement. (“they keep doing it every night”) Reminding me of San Francisco, the golden gate after sundown glowing like it were Apollos chariot itself. Proudly beckoning the traveler with tale of endless wanderlust -out here the final frontier come swim discover secrets hidden from mankind...Come the sharks are hungry. The mashing of teeth and bone the tearing of flesh. A bitter couple take a seat behind me. “out here in the great outdoors the largest smoking section in America.” Amen brother. Places out of reach of the spreading TYRANTS OF HEALTH. Would you like extra grease on that steak? Why, yes please. Breakfast in Memphis, eggs pancakes toast slices of orange parsley, juice and a happy go lucky waiter offering free Sprite? Why, yes please and keep it coming. William could I borrow your lighter? Certainly. Cigarettes coffee and more open road that's what I need. Bad coffee, bad roads full of chuckholes and entire lanes wiped out in flood, and of course really good cigarettes, that's what I really need -enough of this damn city. + The eastern couple hesitates on the steps below he Indian she Asian. Such a wonderfully raceless baby they could have. We need a worldwide orgy to end racial differences. End racism, fuck a foreigner! And of course end culture, diversity and everything interesting about people. + I would not fuck you in Thailand/ I would not fuck you in a plane over Japan. One of Dr. Suess’ lesser known couplets. + Maya puts down her pen and lights another cigarette. She contemplates that effectiveness of writing as a release of anger, it doesn't work, she is thinking --now I just know why I want to +kill them. She leaves the table and jumps on the bus headed into the city. I'll call Chloe she thinks. The sun is setting and several miles out at sea a trident Nuclear submarine is preforming manoeuvres in preparation for a war that most people don't believe will really happen. Maya knows nothing about the submarine, nothing about the eaters, nothing about petroleum, nothing about dancing cockroaches, and nothing about a man who goes by the name of Dr. Waiben. + + * * * * * + + "I find myself surrounded on all sides. Everyone these days is completely obsessed with The Bizarre. So much so that nothing really is The Bizarre anymore. Yuppies ride Harleys and frequent bondage parlors on the weekends while pulling in double incomes of 150K during the week scurrying from house to latte to work to the onceaweekmatrimonialassfucking. This is not bizarre this is vaudevillian comedy gone real life. + You need bizarre, truly bizarre. You need circus freaks castrating themselves on the street corners and pimps shooting heroin in there balls while screaming whores accost their long dead mothers in hotel rooms cockroach won’t set foot in while lawyers sit on the roof television antenna protruding from there limbs as policemen ritualistically torture themselves gouging out there own eyeballs to avoid the scene below them. + <<<We the people who govern you the people we rule do with heavy hearts sanctimoniously declare...>>>> + Sil Hawkard is lighting the petroleum filled huca once again he thinks of the pastpresentfuture as a continually unfolding singularity which can be viewed from points within time or from Nuit outside of the system. He lifts the phone to his ear and dials William to see about the numbers... + William's phone is ringing half way around the world in a slum neighbor hood in Los Angeles California, but Maya is too tired to get it and Sil leaves a voice mail message thus missing his first contact with the Queen of Numbers. + "The bus stopped and I got on board the driver was a stick figure that I had drawn in the fourth grade with his head between his legs and his balls on top of his spine. We took off across a dry lake bed leaving the fort at Old San Juan in the haze of desert road dust. It was going fast for bus so fast I remember becoming alarmed and thinking that we were in danger of bending the SpaceTime perhaps more sharply than I was accustomed to. True to my fears or perhaps as a result of them a balloon in the shape of Einstein's head became to approach from the distance until it gently floated through the window and attached itself to the head of a seagull and began squacking about approach velocities or viscosities and other nonsense I didn't understand, but the kid next to me started feeding it alka seltzers and William Tell began to chase it around screaming seagulls! seagulls! Einstein appeared quite disturbed by the process and began to vomit out great multicolored spears of glass that formed a giant 3-D Kaleidoscope that drifted in midair like a mobile. Seek beauty Seek BEAUTY! Einstein squacked and then the driver blasted the head off with a shotgun and Einstein disintegrated into multicolored bits. It was quite beautiful like the fourth of July. Do you understand what I'm getting at here?" + + "I’m sorry I’m late,” William opens the door out of breath + “I wrote you a poem, and the phone rang but I didn't get it . Do you think that I'm going out on a limb by saying that an ancient skeleton remains from a Tunisian oil field seem to show trace elements of Psilocybin in the molecular structure of the bone." + "Slow down woman one thing at a time. I like the poem,” he says glancing at a three line couplet of Suessian origins. “Let me check the message....Psilocybin in a fossil bone...Is it human?” + "Of course its human who cares if rats have that shit in 'em I want to know if we ever did." + "Have you been reading McKenna again? William yells from the bedroom over the distant sound of Sil Hawkard’s voice encoded message. + "No, but the one time I did made a lot of sense. Do you think Pete could get me Ayahuasca? + "Pete can get you just about anything but my friend Sil called so I've got to go to a remote phone and call him back what time do you think it is in Tunisia? + "I don't know. Wait you didn't answer my question what about the skeletons? + "Are you making this shit up or has it been found by anthropologists?" + "As if that lends it some sort of credibility? Their PhD's mean they can't possibly be lying right?" + "Are you that paranoid?" + "That's not paranoia, that's the language of power." + Maya is lying on the couch rainydayranting in the sun about the link between Psilocybin and human seratonin, it is her theory that the mushrooms that now contain Psilocybin were once a fungus whose primary host was the human skin. The peculiar flesh disease was in fact our link to nirvana, and as it evolved it found us unnecessary for its survival so it evolved into the more independent form it takes today --the mushroom. She doesn't necessarily believe it, but she has fun tormenting William's mind with the possibility. + "The thing is, is that for any set of equations there is an infinite possibility of solutions I'm not trying to say this is the right solution, I'm just trying to point out that it is one of the possibilities and I can't understand why someone like you would dismiss it solely on the basis that it does not fit your model of reality. Does this mean that you've come to have beliefs?" + "Belief is the death of thought'" + "That's great, you're well read, but you're not living what you know to be true so what's the fucking point of knowing?" + "That is the point of knowing, if you know that you can't know anything then you ought to equally realize that you can't know that you don't know anything." + "What the fuck are you trying to say?" + "I'm trying to say that we're all waiting for Godot to get back, and I think that there is no us, there is no waiting, and there certainly is no Godot. The facts are events happening at a point in time and they can only be observed from the point at which they occur, all attempts to +reconstruct them after the point are futile and doomed to failure, you can not escape the fact that you are bounded by time, you are doomed to exist in the present. You can recall the past or think and plan for the future but you will never be there." + "Thank you Einstein, but you're defeating your own argument which was that Ayahuasca was never part of the human metabolism because its outside of your sphere of observation, but that doesn't mean that as an event it never happened." + "Right. It just means I wasn't there to observe it." + "So would you like to try it to see if maybe observing it first hand gives you a better point from which to observe the facts of the event? I think you may find that time is not so rigid of a boundary as you might think. Time is inside you, not around you and you can program the human mind just like you can program any other computer." + "If you're really interested in meta-programing and mind control you should go down to Fahrenheit tonight and hear this guy Dr. Waiben lecture. He's an expert on that shit. He's that official pathologist of the state and according to Sil, head of the psychotropic/biological warfare and mind control division out in Nevada." + "When?" + "I don't know I gotta go the flyers on the nightstand I think...." he shuts the door behind him. + + * * * * * + + Television was Waiben's idea and he was quite proud of it. The emission of a steadily pulsing signal from a transmitter within the individuals' home was low-grade mind control --quite passively making them think less or not at all. But it had an unexpected and quite satisfying side effect --low level blue wavelength energy has a draining and hypnotic effect of the cerebral cortex of the average human brain. Waiben used to drive the suburbs around nine o'clock just watching the eerie blue glow coming from the hundreds of thousands of houses he had infected. +He like to think of television as a virus because in many respects it was; like virus it was benign until the right electrical connection from the host triggered its disease. Like virus it was passed from one generation to the next, and like a virus its spread was exponential. The greatest fallout for television though was quite unintended by Waiben, it had radically reoriented the global mindset from isolated consumption into total slavery to fashion and consumption, the the fastest and most effect way of controlling a large population was to make it genuinely believe that it own enslavers were in fact its heros, thus eliminating or at the very least coopting resistors and making them use the channels of oppression as their only outlet for resistance. Much like controlling any signal, resistors insurrectionists and radicals were diverted by capacitors (“the media”) and squelched by resistors (“the police”) Thus the people remained happy and content with their oppression and no one was able to convince them to give up the convenience of slavery for the freedom of hardship. Wouldn’t you? + It wasn't enough though; true mind control would leave the victim unable to disobey the signal or ideally, unaware that he or she were even being controlled --like Christ reborn, Waiben thinks of the old con artist sitting laughing from con artist heaven. + Sub-audio messages are below the threshold of human hearing, but not that of comprehension. It is the noise of someone thinking. Listening in is just a matter of having the right receptors, psychics and clairvoyants had been doing it as circus tricks for centuries. With practice Waiben had taught himself to receive some peoples signals, but what he needed to figure out was how to create a sub-audio language whose broadcast could actually be controlled and directed like an ordinary radio signal. Telepathy is an interpersonal form of radio, and using the general theories of chaos, what is true for one system should be relatively the same in another if only the signal amplitude is being changed, the problem was that even subtle changes in input can cause radical oscillations in output...somewhere a butterfly is beating its wings and changing world history. + The granddaddy of all his research would be that day when he could say definitively that he had a method for true and total mind control. It was this quest that had led him back to his +lab in Las Vegas where tonight he is planning to induce mind alteration and manipulation with the legendary Ayahuasca which contains a harmine that some believe bonds directly with human DNA. In the good doctor's mind that meant opening up a channel directly into the cellular level, allowing for deep meta-programming and possibly a key for using nanotechnology --but that's to complicated right now. Think of it as inter-cellular radio he told his colleagues who mostly ignored his fanatical rantings. + Stupid fucking scientists he is thinking. I hate 'em I hate 'em I hate 'em I fucking hate 'em. They spend there whole goddamn lives studying the brilliant thoughts culled from centuries of genius's without ever stopping to think that maybe genius lurks in there own minds. Ingrates. Ought to have been stamped out with the rest of the conservative christian movements, they have no understanding of novelty. If it hasn't been done a hundred times before they won't even talk about it let alone attempt to experiment with it. + Paging Dr. Waiben. Dr. Waiben please come to Lab 203. Dr. Waiben Lab 203. + What the fuck have those morons done now? Probably killed one of themselves by mistake. Lab 203 was of course the antidote lab for the biological warfare experiments he had been conducting back east. + + Nine hundred miles east Sil Hawkard boards a jet bound for his Tunisian oil fields in the cargo hold of the private plane is a capsule containing the genetic coding of a man who went by the name of Agent Tucker, whom Chase is planning to update into Agent Fucker a man of many talents. + "We should figure out how to make his neck come out of his ass so he shits out his mouth." + "I don't know if now is the right time for you to be doing this it can bond to your DNA it can open up your mind in ways I don't think your able to envision yet, it'll blow your life apart and turn it inside out and once you're there you can never came back." + "Just give me the stuff, I've done LSD, and mushrooms and lots of shit." + "Alright but let me tell you something so that later when your trying to make sense out of it all you can think about this: there is no more firmament." + "There is no more Firmament? Okay." + Maya takes the vial of Ayahuasca tea and leaves Pete's apartment she wants to share it with William but is afraid that he will send her on a bad trip. She heads to Old Cary Downs house and he opens the door wearing nothing... + "I was just...you can come in but take off your clothes first I'm having a naked party." Maya enters and sees no one. Cary sits down in front of a tape machine he hits play and the walls disappear. +<<<<<<<<<begin transmission ghf8672y101003:41:04 PM03⌘ 03 0323xZDFß∂ƒ©˙¥®´∑¨^øøπππ“π“∫∫~∫∫Ω≈ç√∫~µ≤≥÷⌘12430315 0315 + +\ + +03:41:04 PM1023 + +03:41:04 PM03 + +åß∂ƒ©˙∆˚¬…æ + œ∑´®†¥¨^øπ“´®†¨¨¥ø^¨^ø¨^¡¡¡£™¢∞§¶¶•ªºº––åß∂ƒ©©©©©©˙∆©˙∆∆˚¬˚¬…æ¬ +æΩ≈ç≈√∫~µ≤≥÷-Oct 03, 2015«« ` ¡™£¢∞§¶•ªº–≠123235⌘031515 10 10 +230323tyiyiu + + +ƒ¥†∆†^˙˚∆^¥¥†∆˙ƒ˙©©∆˙˙˙˙ƒƒƒ©©©©©©©©∞§§¶•ª•ªª§∞§∞¢£¢£∞¶§¶∞¶§∞¶§∞¶§§¥†ƒ©∆˙©ƒ∆¥ƒ∂˙©√µ∆~√©ƒ≈߃∂≈Ω˙©∆˙熃∂ߥ®ƒ√˚∆©¨¥†ƒ∂ \03:41:04 PM +1515 +151515 ©ƒ†ƒ˙©¥¥©¨ƒ∆ÁËÂËÁÊÌÁÔÓÔÓÌÁËÁÁÊË„ÎÏ◊ıÙÇ ÓÔ‰ÊÏÁËÈض§•ª–º–≠§Ê¶Á•ÔÈØ +2403 +, +24/,68487654321>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> + + "I slept fitfully under a moonless sky dreaming of a stale, smoky bar's liquor-stained floors and a headless horsemen riding like Icarius out of the fiery sun-gilded gates of hell. The headless horseman swerved and bore down on the I that is me with menacing intent, jolting me out +of my dream and into a sleepnonsleep trance on the isthmus of reality. The horseman dismounted and knocked metaphorically on the nylon tent door. I was bewildered and in my heavy-lidded gaze saw a man with no head standing outside the mesh doorway. Closer inspection revealed a pair of blinking eyes peering at me from where the neck tie should have been; without the neck they seemed appropriate in a way that only Jules Verne could have understood. A hand slipped out from the waist and motioned for me to rise. I climbed clumsily out of my sleeping bag kicking it to the bottom of the tent and crouching down under the low ceiling, I unzipped the door and carefully stepped over my pillow and out onto the the red Utah sand. The headless horseman motioned for me to sit on a log and pulled out a long stick of cinnamon, he lit it and inhaled through a button hole in his chest. I sat down on a log opposite him and staring eye-level at the cinnamonette and I began to appreciate the sheer size of the horseman and realized that even without his head, the horseman was taller than me..." + In the beginning was the word and the word was made flesh by a cacophonous blast out of heaven's pearly cum-stained ass creating the father, the son, and the holy spigot which lies in a secluded garden on the cliffs overlooking the Sargasso sea. The spigot is buried in a volcano designed by Czech ostriches in the eleventh hour of creation to drain all human excrement off the continent of Europe and into the Sargasso sea all lumpy with turd so thick Jesus "conny" Christ in drag is walking along to the amazement of the gullible, floating gently from turd to turd. The piss blood of a million cunts and cocks line the shores giving the whole place a radioactive iridescent red glow not to mention a awful stench. Mr. Rogers and Captain Kangaroo are standing on the bluffs watching the spectacle and scanning with hawk eyes for sweet tight asses in which they can stab their hungry cocks. The father caught the son sitting in the middle of the garden sucking on an apple and he became enraged and hog tied the boy and penetrated every orifice in his body with a peeled and sculpted cucumber cock; the boy was left a whimpering quivering lump of fleshy jello from which spawned humankind. + The piss gut rotting flesh smell, air taunt necked and jerking at the nose, the captain's eyes role back into his head as is guts are blasted out his ass by a giggling man headed tape worm +of extraordinary wit who was prone to quoting Joyce and Bugs Bunny in the same sentence in a way that reminded listeners of Buster Keaton in some strange drugstore hurricane kind of a way. The skatolic odor was rich and the worm refused to bath. Owing to the peculiar nature of its origin the soldiers did not disturb the worm preferring instead to watch the captain writhe in agony pulling his legs back behind his ear to attempt to lick the matted blood soaked pubic hair over the the torn orangish flesh that hung in ribbons over a large hole that had once been a simple anus. The upshot of it all was that the worm ate less rations than the captain so the men were basically satisfied with the arrangement and they followed the worm wiggling through the jungle as it did impersonations of Fred Astaire... + Blasted rot gut con-artist with ten huge molars running across the front of his mouth in a clump owing to his mother's industrial accident with the cunt acid from the chink's hyperdrill. Drilled right on through back to china, the asshole couldn't even close the damn thing and the lower mandible just kind of hung there like a tire swing. Maya spits in his face in disgust and revulsion you don't have enough money for me to kiss you there isn't enough money on the planet... + The giggling Hyenas are dressed in black and high on amphetamines looking to turn you inside out. + Tongue-tied porn queens scream obscenities at passersby "I'll suck your dick until your eyeballs pop out your ass..." + Blown newspapers and advert scrapes cover the bottom three feet of a brick wall like sardines neatly packed in a kipper snack tin from a 1983 supermarket shelf and William is lighting a petroleum pipe behind a school yard where two children shot each other in the asshole with dart guns until the weaker one screamed "uncle!" + <<<<<<<<<<end transmission>>>>>>>>>> + An old man with a sickly grey beard and a ridiculous suit was sitting where the horseman had been. His hand was out of sight down his pants and the other wagged a long finger at me and he began to jerk his cock screaming i want you i want YOU i WANT YOU! Eventually I +slouched over against a tree and slept the rest of the night soundly. I awoke with a start, sweating profusely in the glare of the midday Utah sun. Struggling to my feet and I stretched my arms overhead as if to grasp the immensity of the deep, almost purple, sky. I remembered the arrival of the headless horseman and the sense of telepathic communication it had given me. The campsite was covered with horse tracks and it appeared the headless horseman had left in the same direction he came from. There was no sign of how the bearded man had arrived or departed there was only a gooey clump of sand where he had come on the ground." + Outside the streets are cluttered with wind-junk blown in fifty odd miles from the desert and clinging to the stuccoed buildings like piles. Whores prance at the street corner; occasionally a car swoops in a carnivorous vulture to a road kill, sucking up the promise vacuum cleaner style in a way Hoover himself never have dared dream possible. + One is in a shop window tugging idly at her clit and occasionally spreading her fleshy lips at passersby, she shifts on her pillow and evidence of past customers dribbles timelike out of her ass. Pete watches in idle fascination. Disturbance up the street; an old woman is battering a man with her false teeth stuck on the end on a cane... The teeth leave jagged cuts and tears on the man's face threatening to turn it pock scarred like Jared Towers' whose father once chased him a around the house with a meat cleaver when the boy was caught masturbating to a picture of the Virgin Mary. Pete recalls Jared telling him that he could hold back from climaxing by thinking about meat cleavers and consequently in trying to discourage him from having sex, his father had created a sexual machine capable of satisfying women for hours on end. Jared was a legend among the whores, most of whom would have slept with him for free, but of course professionalism required them to charge. Jared was rumored to have a twelve inch cock, thick as a flashlight, Pete winces as he considers him own cock shriveled down to two inches by the biting cold of the public restroom. + A whore from up the street walks in to wash the cum off her face in the sink. I never seen so much cum and outta such a small dick! She looks squarely at Pete, screws up her face and says you want one too? Twenty five to swallow, thirty on the face. For fifty I'll spit it back in +your mouth. No? Well I have this one guy who loves it and most people don't know about that option so I like to offer it up front. Pete smiles and leaves. + + It is here with in these four walls that American realize their final manifest destiny. It is here that we have struggle so hard to get. The twentieth century Horatio Alger is the Maytag man and a used car dealer rolled into one. + Horatio Alger's sodomizing menage-a-toi with the Maytag Man and Uncle Sam has led us to train station on the SpaceTime line where freedom is an irrelevant inconvenience of language that is slowly being fazed out of history. Language is a virus. The i that is You speaks, I speak and the vibrations of air we create controls our every move. Science gives rise to Magic in the form of powerful papers that tell who what why and how you are to be. You can't march down to city hall to protest without a permit filed ahead of time with the city clerk. You can't drive an automobile without the Proper Papers. You can't leave the country without PAPERS, you can't perform honest labor without PAPERS. You can't buy or grow certain pharmaceuticals at all, nor can you pursue the happiness of your choice unless it falls into one category. Consumption. We are all free to consume, which when you think about it, is the only freedom we really need in a CONSUMER SOCIETY. Televisions, radios, automobiles, washing machines, drying machines, refrigerators, freezers, ovens, microwave ovens, convection ovens, alarm clocks, computers, headphones, home furnishings, bicycles, video games, tennis shoes, laser disc players, DVD players, record players, compact disc players, cordless telephones, wireless phones, digital phones, cellular phones, two way radios, short wave radios, car stereos, home stereos, and every accessory you can conceive of and millions more you couldn't. We have all the entertainment and modern conveniences in the world in our home each assessable at our fingertips when ever you chose. Which is a good thing because the minute you step out of your house some OFFICAL OF THE STATE is going to want to see some goddamn-papers-on-the-double-what-the-hell-are-you-doing-here-cough-up-the-fee-place-your-hands-behind-your-head-you-have-the-right-to-remain-silent-lie-down-and-spread-your-legs-and-shut-the-fuck-up-right-fucking-now sir! + Uncle Sam came on the ground and left without a trace. Horatio and Maytag were emotionally tormented for years until there eventual deaths through ritualistic dismemberment. + And I don't have any papers standing on a cement sidewalk slab starring at the FREEDOM OF AMERICA locked inside a now closed appliance store. The Ace Appliance Store to be precise. I feel suddenly nervous like they know what I am thinking. They know that I am thinking. + -He's not smiling. Oh no, not yet, we're working on it though.- + We the people we govern you the other people have decided for reasons which are beyond the scope of this broadcast and may well be beyond the scope of your comprehension entirely that all freedoms which you previously thought you had but never in reality did possess are summarily denied from this point forward. Please report to the nearest biomedical programing center by the fourth of May where a new human program biounity 3.6 will be installed into your seratonin and allow for future dopemine programing without the need for physical intervention please go about your lives as you always have all those not present for the reprogramming procedures by the fourth of May will be consider fugitives of the state and will be dealt with in the harshest manner allowed by law and endorsed by the entertainment loving public... + Textbook introduction to Linguistics as Maya heard at the lecture in the slum district of Berkeley California. The sixties were molded to create confusion and remind the people of the comfort the felt they had once felt in the peaceful emptiness of the 1950's. Stupidity is a drug and I am on it thought Maya. She sipped more of her tea and watched the speaker's DNA evolve into something more Avian in appearance . Suddenly he raised his wings like the hooded sirius hawk of Uri Gellars nightmares and turned his head to the side as if to receive some kind of outside signal + <<<Extinguish all rational thought>>>" + He's parroting William Burroughs, she laughed to herself and then the voice narrowed its frequency range and began to become two separate voices at the same time. Oh shit thought Maya he knows about tongues, she looked again at the flyer that William had given her, it read: +Speaking on the subjugation of minority races by mind control speaker Dr. Waiben 2:45 rain or shine. + Fragments of ash are falling falling falling...... + Elsewhere a frog hiccups and the premier of Angola nervously fingers his new found nuclear release button dug up by archaeologists looking for the queens underwear we find pig tails and decapitated cats arranged in ceremonial fashion the smoke is unbearable like Milan Kundera's ashes filtered through a sieve and mixed with two cups of cold chicken stock to form surrealist soup. + Circus freaks are castrating themselves on the street corners pimps shooting heroin in their balls while screaming whores accost their long dead mothers in hotel rooms cockroachs wouldn't set foot in while lawyers sit on the roof television antennae protruding from there limbs as policemen ritualistically torture themselves gouging out there own eyeballs to avoid the scene below them. + "The world’s end was at my doorstep. A white hot light had flashed civilization out. Cities ran as great metalglassconcrete rivers of deathdisfiguremanglement. Citizen’s charred limbs protruded like rocks that were floating with the stream. The searing smell of burning flesh darted through the hazy yellow air. A great clock tower was dripping time from its hands and Maya saw herself arms severed and lying by her side. Her face had been burned off and eyes dissolved. Her head was upturned and its jaw hung down swinging stupidly in the yellow flesh burning air. Time was pooling in her mouth and dribbling done her chin like come." + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +Chapter Two + + + + + + + + + + + + + + The plane touched down with Sil clutching the seat, it wasn’t that he feared flying it was that he feared commercial airline pilots. Too many pill do not make for steady hands. He always breathed easier on his own jet but when landing on US territory that was not an option. Sil generally did not come into the the united police state he had other people run these errands for him, but Waiben himself had called this meeting and insisted that it be at the Knight and that the transfer of technology must be done in the flesh. Waiben had promised to give him something pertinent to your line of work he had said in a heavily encrypted email two days before. Sil had been in Bangkok recruiting mercenaries and whores he enjoyed the company of whores even when he wasn’t horny, they like him had no pretensions of honesty or goodness, they were whores and he was a sultan or so he fancied it as he stepped off the plane and into the east Texas night. The McAllen airport still sported the old ladder exits, no air-conditioned luxuries. He was greeted by a government car which whisked him off toward New Orleans. Sil never flew into major commercial airports, far to risky to many hero cop types hell bent of memorizing the pictures of every “bad guy” that came of the wire and while Sil was pretty sure that no one was looking for him it just wasn’t worth the risk. + “Mind if i smoke a little petroleum” + “No sir the Dr. gave me some to give, you he figured you would want it.” + Sil shuddered mentally. “How long will it be before New Orleans?” + “probably get there by sunrise” + Seven hours, perfect for a puff or two and some dream time. + + * * * * * + + <My god sir Mercuries in retrograde and Saturns looking a bit piqued looks like heranus is the place to be. Johnson this is serious business no time for puns! good god man what the hell is wrong with you?! Now getback in there and pull Sirius back so mercury levels off or were going to have worldwide epidemic of assfucking>>>>>This is Ted Kopel...Millions of women world wide can not sit down to day do to a near hysterical episode of ass fucking that in inexplicably broke out around eight EST last night reporting live from Bangkok heres Richard Gere....Thank you Ted <sound effects of screaming and grunts pigs> as you can see behind me the assfucking still hasn't let up oooohhh that's gotta hurt <closeup handheld camera shot of a man being fucked in the ass by a horse> lets see if we can get a word in <moves up to man> sir how does it feel to get fucked in the ass by a horse? We'll i tell ya Richard it takes some getting used to but everybody's gotta make a buck somehow! You mean you're getting paid? Ehy yes of course this is my job I am THE MAN WHO TAKES IT IN THE ASS FROM HORSES. I have a cable show starting next month on the Family Channel, followed hopefully by a live show on Leno the month after but that's still in the planning stages........ + Was I saying something reverent <<<<excuse me sir but this is Ted Turner and you sir are interrupting my broadcast>>>> go to hell I'm writing here and I say there is no Ted Turner so THERE IS NO TED TURNER. What are piles anyway? + Time like most thing is best when foolishly squandered on meaningless pursuits. Useless Stuff. + A ford Econoline blasts headlight beams through a cold Kentucky mist. Clouded sky obscured like Man Ray. Inside Maya is sucking oxygen and sipping Ayahuasca tea, one hand +steadies the wheel --this is it, back to the big sky's, the west ,the desert the last places to hide. Enough of this goddamn smooshed together states claustrophobic monosyllabic citizenry. Ignore the people they're only a temporary inconvenience of sanity. Count Korbinsky fueds with demonologists in the back of her mind. Signing off with lalala she smiles. + Well Well Well cigarette time don't go no where kids and remember crack is good because...<chorus of children chanting> ...it raises money for the CIA to conduct covert operations against foreign nationals that would otherwise lead meaningless and happy lives...that's right now sit tight whilst Mr. Robertson gets a fix.....Kentucky is a beautiful state -if you take the right drugs. The drugs obscure the frightening backward racist mentality that the New South’s propaganda claims is gone. A thing of the past. Earl’s miracle potion wears off and Maya stops for gas in Jasper. + She wires herself into the payphone at the back of the station and quickly sends a message it William on the west coast.....all is well in high spirits. will see you two days hense. will be last transmission. in Jasper. + + + + * * * * * + + It was the Spring of nineteen ninety three when I first stated to write this down in journal form, I was struck by a deep seeded biological need to write, the only problem was I had no story to tell. I was a college sophomore attending the University of Redlands in the smog filled pestilence of Southern California’s Inland Empire. Exactly whose Empire it was remains an uninteresting question. I had know aprticular interest in school, it just seemed better than getting a job and thanks to a small inheritance it was a possibility, so I went with it, but like I said i needed a story not a lesson in how to tell it. I learned to useful things in college, the first is that marajuana will keep moist and fluffy even in the dryest of climes if you keep it in a jar with a small slice of +carrot. The second thing i learned is that to alter the human brain’s tranditional pattern of processing information by the injestion of any chemical is to expand the minds pontential to process the information in an origional way. This processing change is deemed bad by society at large and especially by the middle class, can[t quite afford the countryclub set that my parents belong to. My name is May Steven’s I am twenty one years old and my only loves are the word virus, mind alteration, and my dog named ATW (Al the Wonder Dog). My only hobby is masturbation. + + Maya’s journal was the thing that prompted her to make that fateful decision to turn her back on all that was good and easy and comfortable and drop out of school to find a story worth telling. Journals that said....today i hung out with my friends smoked pot, went to class and then played on the computer until i passed out, do not sell. And Maya above all things realized that in this society money is synonymous with freedom and she wanted freedom more than anything. + + And i don’t mean freedom in the abstract american idealism sort of a way, i mean an Anarchy of the senses, the obliteration of logic and “common” sense, there’s enough of that garbage around that's why its common, what we need what i need is uncommon sense. Anarchy of sense. Most people when they hear the term anarchy associate it with the popular mythology of a chaos-like state with no government where murderers run naked through the street fucking helpless women and doing blizzards of drugs. This apocalyptic vision is childish at best. I do not propose to herein give a true or accurate version of anarchy or how it would work in the current sociological setting. Indeed the central message I hope to convey is that political anarchy is the least of my concerns. I only know what is in my head. If yours is different then you are wrong. At least from my point of view. + Anarchy, like life itself is infinitely more complicated than simple political gaming, left wing right wing, the whole concept of a binary system is illogical. The problem with the west in general is that it makes dichotomies out of what is really just a grey cloudy lump of shit, so to +speak. What i mean by that statement is that nothing is reducible to being either/or, belief itself is multi-dimensional. That is to say that to hold a belief is to filter information through an infinitely complex system and into the brain where the information is organized further and through electro-chemical responses, an opinion is formed. In light of something that is infinitely complex many philosophers, politicians and other freaks of nature have chosen to assume a starting point from which it can be safely assumed that everyone is at least in agreement of basic "facts." But as cutting edge physics and chaos mathematics show, these facts are subjective at best and nonexistent for all practical purposes. Everything is in our heads, everything that occurs around us occurs in our grey matter which is to say that everything is an internal experience of the individual rather than an external event happening to the individual and as poet Bernard Wolfe called the brain. That is to say that everything is constantly in question and it is here that I encourage the reader to remember the words of Robert Anton Wilson who wrote in the preface to Cosmic Trigger: "belief is the death of intelligence." He went on to elaborate saying that once a belief has been decided upon the questioning of the issue ceases. Everything is to be doubted. + Thus the anarchists starting point is simultaneously everywhere and nowhere much like the timespace experience itself. + + Maya’s journal became her life, her drug, the thing that took over. Everyone has a thing that takes over completely --Children, jobs, heroin, art, photographs, anything that feels like genius. Maya’s genius was her journal. Kind of sad that at the time only us ostriches recognized her genius, but you humans did take about ten thousand years to figure out away to dispose of your own feces so I guess that we shouldn’t expect any more. + Maya met William three years ago at a party in Rhode Island --a naked party. Maya dropped out of Redlands at the end of nineteen ninety three, well technically and much to the horror of her parents, she taken an indefinite leave of absence. Her only requirement of life is that it please dear god prove interesting so she piled her belongings in the back of a ford Econline van (suitably painted barf green), and set up a laptop computer with remote internet access in the space +between the seats. Together she and ATW had cut wide random swaths of road across the United States in a vain attempt to write or explore or get lost or take drugs or be or some such nonsense. After the Georgia affair (later) She headed up the East Coast with a vague notion of seeing Boston. She had friends in Rhode Island at Brown University and got slightly side-tracked by brown liquor and green marijuana. Her friend John had a friend who had a friend.... that had invited her to the annual naked party. The naked party was a nationally know event held in an enormous old Victorian house three stories high that had been converted into some sort of hippesque domicile for supposedly poor college students who, mysteriously, were able to afford tuition, but unable to provide a sufficient amount of alcohol, a terribly depressing reality to stumble into when you are also low on cash. It was here she met Yukon Jack, and with a bottle under each arm, he made everything okay. + She met William and his sometime girlfriend Chloe at the naked party. As you might imagine they were all naked, actually everyone was naked, and as you might expect they were all severely inebriated. + Maya stumbled toward the bathroom to rid her body of its pollutants and of course make room for more. She opened the door too drunk to care if it was occupied and burst in to catch William, a slight man of about twenty five with a thin but muscular body, gently fucking a girl doggy style. Chloe’s world was beginning to become less and less vertical, but she caught the girls beautiful face in the mirror, perfectly framed by long angelic golden ringlets of hair that Maya’s eyes followed down to her sweat glistened nipples and heaving breasts. William was leaning toward the sink to do a line of cocaine, at that instant Maya was too drunk to be taken aback, she simply squeezed in and closed the door behind her and sat down to pee. The world was refusing to hold itself up and the toilet seat leapt up to meet her resulting in a fairly loud noise that made the girl turn her head and shimmy slightly “you look like you could use a pick up, give her some coke William.” William pulled out of the girl and turned around confronting Maya with his hard cock which accidentally slapped her cheek. + “Oh my god I’m sorry! oh wow did that just happen?” It was by far the most immediate and personal introduction to anyone she had ever had. + “Usually I date someone for a while before I let them slap my face with their dick.” She stumbled over her words trying to remain sarcastic in the midst of insanity. + The girl laughed, she bent down and licked Maya’s cheek, “Just getting my cum off your face,” she whispered in Maya’s ear. Maya did a line and then another and then the girl grabbed her by the hand and led her out of the bathroom and down the hall into a room that was empty and smelled of the delightfully sweet aroma of Opium. + “You have Opium,” she murmured as the girl pulled her into bed. + “Yes I do. My name is Chloe and that was William, okay that's enough talk,” she lit and huca and passed passed the hose to Maya... + The events that transpired the rest of the night remained a vague and blurry collage of images for all three of them --good times tend to be remembered that way when one is ingesting large quantities of drugs. Maya was short on money and needed a place to crash and work for a little while, so William and Chloe adopted her and took her back to their studio loft in Boston. For four days they took Maya on an opium holiday and had sex and just when Maya was beginning to think that they never worked or in fact did anything at all other than fuck, William received a phone call in the middle of having sex with Maya and inexplicably left without saying a word. + “Where did he go...?” Maya heard her voice before she was aware that she had even spoken. + “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you” Chloe climbed on top of her and began sucking her nipples. Maya felt her body relax and could smell the familiar mingling of incense and opium smoke floating across the room she raised her head and saw Chloe’s hard nipples rub against her own sending tremors down her spine and an aching contraction gripped her pussy. The cream ran down her slit and trickled over her ass onto the pillow. She drew up the Chloe’s leg until it was rubbing against her pussy, smearing herself on her thigh. Maya pulled Chloe’s mouth onto her own and kissed her hard, pushing her tongue into her warm sweet mouth, licking her lips and +nibbling at her tongue. Chloe rolled over and dragged Maya on top of her pushing Maya’s head down between her legs. Maya ran her hands across Chloe’s pussy and down her thighs, pulling her legs apart. Drawing Chloe’s ass into her hands and lifting the pussy onto her tongue, Maya lapped at her creaming pussy, stabbing her tongue between Chloe’s glistening smooth and moist lips, dragging it up over her clit slowly to tease her at first, but Chloe grabbed Maya’s hair and forced her tongue between her lips and ground hard onto her tongue. Cum soaked Maya’s face and she began to lick as hard and fast as she could. + + + Exhausted, and for the first time in her life thoroughly sick of having sex, Maya dragged Chloe out to have coffee at a twenty four hour coffee shop in Harvard Square. + “So what is it you two do?” Maya said trying to make conversation with someone she realized suddenly --she had had sex with, done large quantities of petroleum, cocaine and opium, and yet had never really talked to. Maya thought of the joke about the couple that was getting divorced just out of college. One of their friends says ‘what happened?’ ‘Well,’ says that man ‘we met and got married in college; I didn’t know we couldn’t get along when we were sober.’ But Chloe was to smart to be just a junky. + “So now you think that because we’ve had sex and shared drugs that I should tell you about myself?” Chloe asked smiling. + “No right now i just want to know about you and what you do,” said Maya meeting her smile. + “Well, I paint and write and practice Crowleyian sex magic rituals, how’s that for soundbite length personal history?” + “okay. So William pays your rent huh?” Maya asked a little jealously. + “We have a business together, we sell.” + “Ah” said Maya finally putting the pieces together even as the last of the drugs cleared out of her brain. + “Maybe you could make some money...talk to William see if he needs anything done....” + I don’t know, it was hear that Maya hesitate if only for an instant because she knew that the descent into the world these two were part of was not a simple employment proposition. there are people who work and lead nice lives and are happy and then there are the people who do things, change things and generally control the lives of the other ninety nine percent whether directly and consciously or indirect accidents of “fate.” Maya suddenly realized that the proverbial apple was being thrust in her direction and she was really fucking hungry. + “You want to get something more substantial to eat?” Chloe looked cold. + Sure, you know this town better than I do,” Maya stood, “you lead the way.” + + * * * * * * + + Three years before and one ocean east William was sitting in the Heathrow airport scribbling a journal note about the fat woman selling British flags at a souvenir stand. He had no ticket and was forced for monetary reasons to fly standby, consequently he had been sitting in Heathrow for the better part of forty-eight hours trying to get on a flight bound for New York. At this point however he would have settled for a flight anywhere in the America’s --hitchhiking, while dangerous at the end of the century, was at least more interesting then sitting around an airport selling sketches of tourists to buy cigarettes and donuts. + Sil Hawkard was at this time still funding himself with the international campaign to end petroleum addiction and his recent key note speech in front of the Queen of England while totally meaningless in terms of raising money nevertheless filled him with an ironic sense of power. He struggled throughout the speech not to burst in to hysterics light up a petroleum filled huca and run around the room giggling and blowing petroleum smoke up the snatches of wealthy old British ladies, maybe even goosing the queen for the hell of it. But he had contained himself until now. He slid into the airport restroom, locked the stall behind him and bent down to check for any arrant pairs of trousers that might denote the presence of an Englishman. The only thing worse than the +English are the French. White people victims of a tragic and ancient nuclear accident which had mutated the melatonin cells giving them a sickly white appearance and penchant for dwelling in caves. + He lit the pipe and took a deep hit, coughing profusely at the end of it. + William, being a smoker of many substances heard the coughing in the bathroom and headed for the door to see if it be a sharer or not. See slipped noiselessly in and crept into a stall being careful not to close the door or make a noise, he stood up on the toilet and peered over the edge. He was confronted with a man that looked to be of medium height and muscular build with a hair that all but obscured his head. Shit thought William, a white boy smokin’ petroleum in the airport, gotta be a junky, he cleared his throat. + Sil heard the noise and snapped his head up for and instant, saw William's face peering down at him and then Sil rolled onto the floor and fell into convolutions. + “Shit!” William leapt over the stall falling on the toilet and soaking his foot and pantleg, “Fucking christ, don’t OD here you stupid fuck!” He turned Sil over and slapped his face --a petroleum OD was not uncommon back in the early days, new drugs require test subjects to overdose a few times before the parameters of ingestion are known to the users at large. Sil was crumpled in a ball unconscious, William pulled out his passport and sat down on the toilet, he noticed a piece of paper hanging out of Sil’s coat pocket and pulled out the speaking guide to the symposium on addictive narcotics at the Royal Palace in Buckingham England, he also noticed that the keynote speaker was the same man now crumpled before him. + “Holy heads of lettuce, he whispered to himself. He glanced at Sil’s face recognizing now the most outspoken proponent of banning petroleum. “This is the oldest con i’ve ever heard of you bastard, he kicked Sil in the chest and felt something metallic and hard hit his tow, he bent down to pull the gun out when Sil’s hand flashed across his peripheral vision and pulled the gun first. + “Oh shit man, I’m trying to help you for christ sakes!” said William raising his hands. + Sil was dimly aware, given his state of mind that shooting someone in an airport bathroom was a bad idea. He stared at the twentish black face for moment and said “Help me to my plane and I’ll give you a lift to South America. William had never been poor, but most people he knew didn’t have access to their own planes, he hesitated suspiciously “you have a plane, like your own plane?” + “Technically no, but its available for my use at my convenience, and since I have gun pointed at you, just help me or I’ll shoot you and run for it.” + Okay, fair enough.” William helped him to his feet and they headed out of the bathroom turned into an unmarked door that Sil gestured to, and were soon aboard the government jet of one Dr. Waiben, headed for Buenos Arias. + + + William was out of his mind, or what the nonprofessional drug user refers to as wasted, sound was obliterated as a form on communication, Sil and the other guy were not speaking but William began to hear words forming in the air, like an LSD trip might be , but these words were free of the vibrated source that had created them or rather they had not been created they just were, like turning on a radio and just picking up whatever station it was tuned to.m Bloody words sharp words that hung in the air like knives and when uttered returned to slit the throat of their speaker and if every word you have spoken returned to act upon yourself would you survive the experience?////??//::”::”::”::”::”:”:” <<<<curious words hung about the room William saw them in the air or at least thought he saw them and them the edges of his vision started to dim turning first deep red and then black until the natural light filled his vision and his lost consciousness. He awoke with out having remembered passing out at all. + Sil was still seated next to him and Waiben had brought his chair up in front of him and was leering close to his face shining a red light in his eyes. “Take this,” he handed William a small round pill.” + No thanks man that was heavy enough shit,” he shook his head. + “That's why you need to take this, we haven’t quite perfected this shit yet and it tends to give you glaucoma like symptoms for a few days if you don’t take one of these.” + William took the pill and sat up a little bit “man i been travelling all over Europe and the orient and i’ve smoked a lot of shit, but I’ve never had anything like that. Who the fuck are you guys and where do you get that shit?” + “That as you know is Sil, his last name is Hawkard, and I,” William could sense the pride in his voice, “am Doctor Waiben, pathologist of the state.” + + Chloe and Maya are in Boston nineteen ninety six eating dinner to fill the aching acid burned stomachs after to much caffeine at the coffee house. Now slightly drunk and feeling quite floaty Maya is thinking about sex again. She’s thinking about sex with William though, not Chloe. “When will William be getting back?” she asks + “Probably not ‘til tomorrow or the next day, why you getting tired of my tongue?” + Maya turned red and stammered “no, i mean i was just asking...would it bother you at all if i wanted to fuck him?” + “No only if you wanted to take him away from me...” + “Well I was thinking that since I have a van maybe I could help him with deliveries or whatever it is that he does...” her voice trailed off. + Chloe stared at her coldly for a moment before speaking then spoke slowly and deliberately, “Look Maya I like you and you’re a tremendously good fuck, but you have no idea where William’s past comes from and no idea what it is exactly that he does, the people he works for can...” + “What, kill me?” Maya interrupted her. + Chloe laughed, “if they’re generous. If not they can do things that are a lot worse than death, and they do it to people on a daily basis. They’re not criminals, they’re not interested in any end objective, they just want to push the human experience as far as they can, ‘because it might +prove interesting’ is what Sil always says. Do you understand that you’re way and I mean way, way, out of your league?” + Maya sat in silence for a moment contemplating a life of crime potentially running from people who would torture her or worse with no ultimate objective. She ran it over again and weight it against the thought of eventually returning to college and meeting some guy and getting married and pregnant, and fat. “Please Chloe, get me out of the boredom of my life, physical torture is no worse then psychological torture and I’ve got enough of that already.” + “Alright lets go home, I’ll call William and see if he needs anything.” + + + + he wondered feeling the full force of the drug take him over. Spanish man selling chicletts say no good no bueno, pictures worth not even half a thousand words. Wouldn’ give you ten words, worthless gringo words don’t mean shit. no good no bueno, not worth the blood their written in. The blood of all peoples not yours, not your shoes, by god keep your slave labor camps a closed-mouthed secret. Gotta keep that in house, dis-credit all new agencies by routinely feeding them false information. News doesn’t happen events happen, and the department of television information broadcasting inc. a subdivision of indoctrination inc. decides what gets out and what remains forever sealed in baby pissshitguts. No that's not true. No comment. No need for comment, the preceding has been since proved to be untrue, cut to shots of smart bombs. Couldn’t get fifty words for those now gringo -over exposure- nobody buying. Same old stinking shit. No Good. No Bueno. + Gringo go home in thousand languages in a million words, why don’t you crawl back in your cave get your tail so far between your legs it goes half way up your ass? Lead me to the holy spigot and we’ll show you the bidet of death, constructed by gringos, for gringos, to flush out gringos, to show them all what you do behind closed doors. Can’t close them all --we have our technicians as well and they’re getting to be better than yours. We got the money rolling in --even +offered you the picture words but you don’t want them. No Good. Can’t use those, too strong. No fair, crying boy heads home for cave to lick his dirty balls clean. + I gotta picture for you I on vacation in your country go to hear senator’s speak but all door are closed, all sealed. So i gotta fiber optic and feed it in from the roof show all senators mad with sexual lust and blood thirsty, clamoring for war and stealing souls and bodies and driving them off wherever they see fit. + The technician is retro actively of course --the papers said the man was mentally ill. ‘my cod!’ screamed a church lady in the front row, ‘satan has garbled the lords message, this isn’t what he meant for you to hear, no it was not all like that, there was to be understanding.’ she is parading her old cunt bones whining at the justices --tissue conducts signals, animals communicate through the use of visual, acoustic , chemical, tactile and electrical signals. Our laboratory is an abundant and well preserved feed back loop to understand and interpret Eusocial behavior. negative feedback inhibition to make you shiver Gringo. Make you shiver good. + Repetition unsuccessful. The radiologist was called in to examine the patient --blisters and burns indicate high probability of skin mutation, what would you say Dr. Waiben? Crested and on the nod? Diminutively yes definitely. + Information potential exists --its an unsettling thought, dependency --and what happens when things start to think? How do you draw the lines then. + HOW THE PLAGUE BEGAN: + The wish to preserve -not worth saving what already is- in this scenario. The word, the loss of body situated at the origins of recorded sound -the temporal metaphysical and esthetic possibilities. + <insert sounds of truck on dirt road> + Old man yelling. Get off of my laaawwwnnn! Sits down to oil his gun some more and then half turns in his chair to face the camera and says "i haven't left the porch since i got this CDRom PEOPLE version 3.0. Updated and expanded human potential at your fingertips. Its the only thing i need --got no use for the stinking gringos anymore-- camera pans out and down +revealing a yard strewn with shotgunblasted bodies of young children. We see wife, face half torn off, crawling towards a pistol <shotgun blast stage left> her head disappears entirely. Old man: "human potential, the new CDrom makes wives unnecessary." cue logo: on sale now at a sanatorium near you.... + I'm going to finally send you the orgy papers this time -been fixing to get 'round to that for some time" <heavy southern drawl> don't think he's the type to do it though but i been wrong once or twice a'fore. Don't want people showing up on my lawn though that's never good. get off of my lllaaaawwwwnnnnn! <shotgun blast again, distant screaming sounds of deaths final agonies eeking out blood gurgling windpipes> Fucking Gringos! Go home in a thousand languages! + Experience as much of the human potential as possible retain the container and forward the frog to the fun sun freaks of eastern tibet all is well with alkaline, and acidity is on the skids with death rooted out leaving only chicken shit shovelled scrapped and scraped like lemon lime gatorade poured from a fuck buck of love. Stop talking to yourself --listen to the virus talk to you. All that you consider to be a accident was carefully orchestrated for your benefit by a benevolent cocksucking god from the twenty-third dimension to just plain old irritate the fuck out of you like a bad rectal itch. Stupid gringo got no cure for the ass itch i show you some pictures, yes very dirty, little girls you like?????? + <<<<<commander in chief of the NATO forces in Europe is fucking small refugee boy in the ass, the boy cries for his mother the general is laughing, your mother’s down the hall boy ,she’s busy with the president of France right now. But maybe later you’d like to lick his come off her dead face. Ban those words tear them right out snip snip. Can’t say that, its disgusting. War is a snuff film for the rich. <<<<We gotta step up the bombing chief the public’s losing innarest in us screams the chief of staff running in circles jerking off and slapping his ass until it turns a bright purple and with all seriousness General Jesse Helms pauses to reflect: I remember a time when life was good no one got in our way, why in Europe under Patton i musta raped twenty thirty little boys and a handleful of nuns too. He smiles lost in memory... + But God hath given us these trying times.... + Yes it is bit hard to get cunt these days isn’t it, mumbles the chief of state as he strokes his wife’s cock....Yes dear start a war, get me some cute refugee boys, i so love snapping their necks when i’m coming, she growls affectionately. + That's it gentlemen were going to war! The president stands and ejaculates on a map of the world KOSOVO it is he says as his thick oatmeal consistency sperm all but covers the former republic of Yugoslavia. + You like? You like, no? Too bad. You can’t have those words, too strong. I get power, you give me power, I steal power from you, to expensive to buy it. I get power and you get pictures and maybe I tell you how to cure rectal itch? Eh? Eh? Eh? + + + Chloe and Maya, got back to the loft just as the answering machine was picking up the line in nineteen ninety three. leave a message.....Hi ladies it’s me i need a favor of you, or at least one of you...call me at.... “Hello” Chloe picks up the receiver midway through the message. “Ya okay I’ll tell her.” long Pause. “Just don’t think that she’s yours cause she not she’s ours, okay. Okay. She hangs up the phone + “Well?” Maya is anxious. + “Three months ago William was trying to catch a flight back to the United States from England, and he saw a guy OD on petroleum in the bathroom so the guy helped him out in return for saving his life. This guy is someone you don’t mess with and if I were you I would avoid even having him know who you are. Anyway William needs someone to meet him in Los Angeles next week and I told him you would go.” + “Okay.......that's where i just left from,but what the hell” Maya is slightly disappointed. “What am I going to do?” + “I didn’t ask, but I can almost guarantee you you’re going to be waiting alot, so you can write in that little notebook of yours, and think of me.” Chloe smiled. + Two hours later Maya bid her good bye and the econoline blasted off into the early morning light. The sun finally rose as Maya cut through Virginia and across the Blue Ridge Mountains. + + + + Dr Waiben in Buenos Aries nineteen ninety three the warm summer air is wafting into the hotel room through a window, hot muggy sticky oppressive air Waiben is tuning a radio to short wave frequencies and feeding into a computer which, following a chaos math program for shoreline patterns, varies the signal at seemingly random and sporadic intervals which decay on the same scale as a Koch curve. The computer is broadcasting the signals which Waiben is hoping will be reprinted in some part by William in the next room. This kind of low grade telepathy experiment has become Waiben's latest obsession --having completely abandoned television as a form of active mind control. It’s great as a passive he was fond of saying, but I am an active person and I so are the people I want to control. He leans back in his chair and closes his eyes, he focuses hard on the darkness trying to hear something anything a pattern of sounds from the horns on the street below any repetition that might be considered a signal pattern which could be captured by microphones and modelled by computer. The problem with the technology in the recording industry is that it records what we can already hear he thought suddenly we built the instruments to record what we already know. How do you build instruments that can record something you’re not even sure exists and how would you know if you did record something that that was in fact what you were looking for? + <<<<<<<<<<<exterminate exterminate exterminate>>>>>>:::” radio tissue is chirping broadcasts continuously down the line xxxxxxxxxxxration food and waterxxxxxxxxxxx +<<<<<<<<nothing here now but The Recordingsç∫~µ≤:::::::::”:::::::”::”:::::::::::::: + its an act of will short circuited all back down to earth and at some point deconstruction patterns form. lots of fear bubbling up around the edges the old cunt pears mysteriously self +mocking into a crystal ball, she shakes it again harmonizing the electron spins and creating some unstable sarcastic flux. your gonna have the pellets one day boy, shooda listened to your mother. + in another room the british physicist reminds us that life begets life through the slow rhythms of geophysical oscillations. Whimsical elves re-peal labels back onto soda bottles in a backwards tape loop. + + + The next morning William woke in Buenos Aries to the stink of smog and fumes and too many people living in to close a quarters with not enough bathing going on --the general smell that pervades all human outposts. He stumbled out of bed grabbed the pad of paper that he had been scribbling on last night, walked down the hall to Sil’s room and opened the door. Sil was still in bed with several women lying askew and presenting William with a scene of tantalizing depravity. He crept up to the bed, “Sil.” “Sil.” he whispered in a hiss + Sil bolted upright in bed and muttered, “the thing to do i suppose would be to recreate the future disassemble the present and cut up the past.” + “What?” + “Nothing where’s Waiben?” + “I don’t know.” + “Nevermind. Are ya good with numbers?” + “No but my girlfriend is.” + “She’s not here but i’ll keep that in mind...alright i’ll do the numbers part you go down stairs and get the blue van its with the valet. Bring it around front in half an hour and make sure the gated door is locked with three dead bolts.” + “You got it,” William stood and left taking a long last look at the sleeping girl’s firm round ass. + + William was out front in the Van at the appointed time and Waiben came strolling across the street leading a monkey on a chain. “Meet the President,” he said climbing in the van and shoving the monkey behind the seat. He grabbed the notes William had made the night before and screened them quickly, “Damn...” he muttered. + “Did I do something wrong?” William asked nervously. + “No, would you stop acting like a scared school boy?” Waiben glares at him for an instant and then relaxes. “Look I’m going to explain as much as you need to know okay? Get on the highway right there no just stay on this road for about twenty minutes and pay close attention to me. Don’t worry about me I have no use for you, not right this minute anyway, but Sil needs your help. You’ll start as errand boy or something of the sort if you want to move up Sil will let you, but remember no matter how stupid your part might seem from your point of view you don’t have any other point of view to see it from. Picking your own nose could if viewed from the proper perspective be considered an act of pure genius...... + Waiben continued on in strange circular lines of logic from which William was able to gather only that Sil would pay his bills rent food and all, and give him a cell phone so long as he, William was available whenever Sil needed him to do whatever Sil asked him to do. In a way this was antithical to William's anarchist senses, but no rent and no job were always the true goal of his underdeveloped anarchy anyway. Besides he needed an in to this sort of a life and these guys, whatever it was they did, certain gave a solid illusion of being rich and powerful. + Waiben was using an old police interrogation trick on William, although not because he thought William was stupid, rather because it always works. he set himself up as the wild eyed scientist lunatic (lighthearted good cop) and Sil as the pragmatic realist with the money and means (powerful serious cop). In fact they were both both, but William didn’t need to know that --the less you know about crime the longer you can expect to do it and live. If he had in fact told William that he and Sil were not really good friends and would have killed each other if they thought they could get away with it and live to tell about it, it would have created an uneasy foundation for him to work from and might even have led him to believe that he might off them +both or play them against one another. Sil trusted this kid so Waiben trusted, not Sil, but at least his judgement. So Waiben had taken it upon himself to show him the Buenos Aires research facility. It was something even his assistant Kellinger didn’t know about. + + The following was transcribed from audio tape recorded during the actual research faze and combined with analysis at a later date, it is intended to serve as a metaphoric representation of the dream process. I have printed and edited it into this form so that my many benefactors and supporters both public and private may benefit from the research that they are paying for I thank you for your continued support and sincerely hope that the information I have gathered benefits you and that you will continue on with that support as there is much ground yet to be tread. Sincerely Dr. Waiben: + + + Get me the fuck out of here. bloody words sharp words that hung in the air like knives and when uttered returned to slit the throat of their speaker and if every word you have spoken returned to act upon yourself would you survive the experience, me no way i’m outta here. Situation getting sticky, humid like vaporous blood hanging on in the air. Still acrid smell of urine and small children playing in a asphalt playground ringed on all sides by immense brick walls with basket ball hoops hung half way up each of the sides. Its two months latter and William has settled into his loft with Chloe, he is still trying to make sense of a world in which eaters can exist for years without any one knowing about it. He sits dazed on the couch processing the information like anyone who has suddenly had the proverbial wool removed from their eyes and realized that that which we are taught from childhood to distrust is in fact a pawn of something far more immense and much much more dangerous. The governments and nations of the world are incidental pawns the real powers control them and then beyond there are even more and so on like looking two mirrors facing each other and going on to infinity. The monster of power is faceless there is no one person or group that controls everything they are all parts of a immense and +multiheaded monster that is constantly biting itself and attacking it own heads until some day it will destroy itself. William is unaware of the kind of power that is beyond human ability as we generally think of it, a world of ghost and goblins does not do justice to the power of stars and black holes with there inescapable gravitational pull. William is at the beginning of a tunnel that is long and dark and which only one in million live to see the end of. Its the oldest con, the rebirth mythology chase it forever and you’re only farther away. + Chloe is getting ready for the naked party, painting glitter and neon paint around her breasted and in stripes up her legs. William is admiring her ass and knows nothing about a girl named Maya, a man named Pete, or that Sil Hawkard and Dr. Waiben are slowly but surely attempting to navigated the tunnel and to push humanity down in with them kicking and screaming all the way. + + + * * * * * * + + + + + + + portrait of exhaustion your face hangs from bones like a projector screen, not much happened since the 1995 drop off but don't worry the drinks are on me. Avert eyes look nothing head on --wary gaze averted to the passersby hung headed --lot of insignificant coordinate points brought together by chaotic butterfly thoughts. And then you have to shave. Maybe fifty five heart attack watch on your wrist hung like a trophy in the atrophy with the cigarette still burning --nicotine. number patterns all broken down on account of the Lottery, the old man thinks of nothing but cigarettes and shotguns. + sorry to say that all I really wanted was to lay on rock and smoke your dope, forget fever fears and empty telephone alarms. iAM tired again. hung down and now:where do we go from nowhere --everynothing thing that isn't anywhere will be nothing now here. newspapers blow in slow motion film loops a little too grainy to be real, everything is fine you can spend my money on a lottery ticket, cigarettes and whiskey. Cellular red white and blue control symbol couldn't be reached for comment the old man stands up from the rocking rests the shotgun against the front of the house and retreats inside --Uncle is that you-- you saw uncle? Unencumbered you will float off into abstract nothingness the suits are there for weight-cover --near the end of the line the bathroom attendant of stranger nightmares is helping the man back into his coat... + "ya know sir the thing that's going to get you through the oxygen chambers is going to be this breathing apparatus." He drapes the fleshy blank of virgin skin over the old man's brittle wrinkled canvas innards and sharp protruding age bones. + the attendant adds with snicker "you can't always turn right on red ya know...." he throws the skinned carcass into a lavatory stall where a pile of bloody skinned bodies is building up the old man steps back onto the porch, picks up the shotgun and sits back in the rocking chair the creaky of floor boards sound like screaming children. Shoot her again. + Let me sleep until we have disappeared. The train pulled out of the station before I could my papers in order. Sad desert night and I stood in the phone booth for forty five minutes trying to remember a phone number. I got confused when i remembered nothing was real and couldn't +really have mattered anyway so sat on my suitcase outside the train station and smoked cigarettes until the thought passed. I am alternating between heavy and light like breathing into a balloon. Cars never will be the same, and headlights don't do much for vision in the moonless night. It was dark. Black. Simply black. I slept until morning and caught the next rain east.... + There is nothingeverythingthatis. In Canada great black crowds of crows will descend and attack in mass a single great horned owl and peck it to death in great bombing swoops beaks extended like cheap imitation switchblades from a drunken night in Tijuana. eventually the owls next snaps from the continual battering and the crows fly away and return to eat the body after it has ripened up in the afternoon heat. + I used to go out after work to drink a beer. But i don't anymore. But i likely will again. I likely will do everything i have already done all over again in slowmotion three year cycles like a film loop. This makes me feel safe. Safety makes me want to vomit on fat ladies that take up a whole bench seat on the subways up in San Francisco when i was twenty two I rolled on a new film when I am twenty five I rolled a new film when I am Twenty eight I will roll a new film. This makes me feel safe. Safety makes me think of national geographic pictures where brown skinned natives wrap worm heads on sticks and slowly twist the stick to pull the worm from under their skin with out ripping it in half and leaving its disease riddled body under their skin. + Nowhere anywhere as fast as they could run leaping timespace life elfian nightmarish flashes of light. I think I saw the end as a post script obituary for the living. Its not going to be any better I can tell you that much --Dr. Waiben removed his shoes and sat back on the chair smoking a petroleum cigarette. + menes memories and magnetism + "The British biologist, Richard Dawkins has coined the expression meme to designate a signal traveling in human space-time and carrying information (or mis-information). In Dawkins view, just as biological evolution depends on the circulation of genes, sociological evolution depends on the migratory habits of memes." --from Wilhelm Reich in Hell, by Robert Anton Wilson. + memes by the definition given above would seem to bring the virus of language down yet another level to the point of perhaps decoding its genetic structure. If we are to suppose that the viral quality of language is consistent with other virus then its transmission and ability to replicate itself must in the biologists reality tunnel, have a genetic code by which it reproduces and mutates the host cell structure. Dawkins theory rests on the supposition theat ideas come before words ie the typical theory of language development we speak because we have something to saw. + On the way to visit the ostriches I had the peculiar sensation of running down a long tunnel of green black liquid in which little hairy elf like creatures were urging me to speak I could not speak and I felt a panic at the urgency with which they were probing me to speak I had the distinct feeling that If I did not speak I would cease to inhabit four dimensional spacetime, and I was struck by the overwhelming feeling that without words I would experience what those around me would have called death but what I now simply consider a loss of language I gave not concluded partly from this experience and partly from what the ostrich's told me afterwards that loss of word is loss of body and that we are in fact much like a computer monitor, the hard drive will continue to receive information even if those on the outside can not tell what is being done with the information received. + + + diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/open your eyes.txt b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/open your eyes.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..49c9692 --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/open your eyes.txt @@ -0,0 +1,115 @@ + … It is just, it is just about to, it is just about to rolywholyover. —James Joyce +Eigenstate One (The Year 1999) + Open your eyes to Los Angeles, 1999, the sun is coming up and in state of sleepnonsleep you start to feel, for the first time, the pre-millennium tension building. The room is nearly dark but the translucent glow of morning is beginning to bleed through the window. The clock reads 6:23. The distant sound of crashing waves jars a notion of abstract and ocean size uncertainty into the backbrain of a terminally nebulous domesticated primate. +I lie there for a while just staring at the rough plaster ceiling and wondering if it’s texture is as close to the surface of the moon as I imagine it to be. Sometimes in that half sleep state I try to imagine I am slowly orbiting the moon at about five hundred feet instead of lying on my back staring at a ceiling. I jilt myself out of this mini-eigenstate by lighting a cigarette and turning on the lamp, the warm murky-yellow glow of the rice paper shade is harsh in contrast to the dark room and I am forced to squint until my eyes adjust. The room is of modest size and contains the bed I am sitting up in, a nightstand with a lamp and a half-size bookshelf; the walls are decorated with black and white photographs of New York, Paris and the rural south, some of them I took myself and others are by professionals. The bookshelf holds mainly science textbooks interspersed with occasional antique occult/magic tomes, all of which are related to my work; on top of it is a small meditation shrine which I set up as part of an elaborate personal joke. +I don’t normally get up this early but right now I am still living on New York time. I wear two watches, one is a twenty-four hours stopwatch that I start over everyday when I wake up and the other has the local time of whatever country or continent I happen to be in. I started this practice years ago when I decided to live in a Quantum Relativity State. Not long after I read a joke somewhere that said the man who wears a watch always know what time it is, the man who wears two is never quite sure, I am never quite sure about anything and time is certainly as transient as anything else. + This is, as I said earlier, nineteen ninety-nine on the modern calendar, but it is not technically Los Angeles its actually Sunset Beach, a small ocean community about half an hour south of LA proper; but I refer to everything within a hundred miles of LA as being LA. I never did have a high regard for lines that don’t exist. The house I am staying in is on Huntington Harbor and although I don’t personally own it do I pay any rent on it, nevertheless I think of it as one of my homes. I don’t live anywhere, really, but I have homes here, New York, Paris, and one that actually is in my name —a farm outside of a small town in rural Georgia. I travel a lot between the three cities and only go to The Farm for research and recruiting purposes. + I crush out the cigarette and get up for a shower and shave after which I spend half an hour doing Hatha Yoga followed by some push-ups and sit-ups. This has been my morning routine for three years now and I find that in spite of my love for cigarettes I am in better shape than most people in the western world. This routine also helps to center me in whatever eigenstate I happen to be inhabiting, and serves to remind me at the start of everyday that is just one eigenstate among countless and it is subject to radical and irreversible change at any given point. (Note: an eigenstate is a fancy name for any point at which an observation is made. In Quantum Physics this term is used to denote the activities of particles when they are being measured and helps to differentiate from the actual activity of the particle which may be quite different at other points. In laymen’s terms it means nothing.) Any one interested at all in transcendence or brain modification should take up Hatha Yoga immediately, I also happen to think that Hatha combined with Kundalini can be viable sure for addiction, to quote the master addict himself “anything that can be done with chemicals can be done without.” + I took up yoga because I had a hypothesis that consciousness was a result of the antenna that was receiving it; in other words I thought for a time that we see what we see because of our physical shape. It turned out I was grossly underestimating the complexity of things, but I did walk away with a lifelong habit that keeps me in good physical shape. I have two major drug addictions and no plans to kick either of them and this morning like any other found me at the coffeeshop ingesting caffeine and nicotine until around noon. Of course I was also working a case, but I will be the first to admit that it was a definite second priority. + This particular case had been open, but remained unsolved for eleven years before I was called in to help, and I am pretty sure that I was a last resort for my employer since he has gone to great pains to make sure that there is no trail between him and me. What is it you ask? We will come to that, but let me first say that I am not a cop or a private dick or anything of that sort; I am a specialist and I am not cheap. I started off by soliciting my services in private circles where law does not tread and when I produced results where no one else had, word traveled and now my clients seek me out. This leaves me the luxury of choosing which cases to take and which to walk away from. I have recently gotten in the habit of taking on jobs that do not at first appear solvable to me; it’s the only way I could figure to keep myself on my toes. + Naturally before I committed to this case I checked out my employer who it turned out it was an ex-CIA man with a career that stretched all the way back to the old OSS days. He had, from what my sources told me, worked this case himself for several years without results and apparently it had gotten to him enough that even after he retired he was still working it. And now he wanted my help. + Over coffee and in between cigarettes I hacked my way through some networks and got in touch with an old associate in Rangoon who had some connections that dated back to the OSS; I also put a man on my employer told him to watch but remain hidden. This meant that we could lose him for a while, after all he was CIA and therefore stone paranoid that somebody else might have more information than he did. Such a man can rarely be relied upon to make good judgements, and I knew that he was never going to give up all his information without some effort on my part. I didn’t want to play any card I didn’t have to and most of all I didn’t want him to feel watched, but I did want to know what he was up to. I have found that if you watch people they will usually tell you what you want to know without you having to force it out of them. William handled the grunt work for me without questioning why I was wasting his talents on spook stuff, which was a good thing, because I didn’t really have an answer for him. It just felt right; I thought about the job and he came to mind that’s the way I work. + The CIA man (his agency name was Raptor which was so cheesy and stupid I decided to keep it for him) had made a muck out of project way back in the nineteen fifties. The project was one of those stupid black ops things that are rarely actually operations and never black. “A Secret Agency is an oxymoron run by morons and build on the hard work of more morons,” William used to say. He harbors some bitterness toward the NSA for not recognizing his talents as legitimate, but he is basically right and this case was a spectacular example of an intelligence op that was well neither intelligent nor much of an op. + It was called WAIBEN for the doctor/agent that initiated it and it was really not an issue so far as I could see —they gave some LSD to prisoners several decades ago to see what the drug would do. They were trying to figure out mind control, but the tests had been inconclusive and the project was abandoned in 1963. Waiben had had an accident crossing the street in 1990, but he was old to begin with and had probably threatened to write his memoirs or the like, so they got rid of him. The CIA looking for mind control devises is like a monkey trying to find a monkey. How can you study mind control when you have all the minds working for you under your control? No wonder they didn’t have any luck. + William’s voice was echoing in my head when I put the report down. The gist of it was that it had been a fuck up, and indeed it was true from what the documentation showed it had blown up in Waiben’s face, but where was the case? I noticed a list of names at the back which I assumed were the prisoners who had been given the LSD, two pages and nothing I recognized, but then on page three a name was highlighted Eugene Sean Patriman. On the back of that page held in place by a small paper clips were two photographs; one which showed Mr. Patriman in the traditional mug shot pose, it was dated 1963. The other was color and showed Mr. Patriman eating what looked like breakfast at a table outdoors, he was wearing sunglasses and the photo seemed to be taken from quite a distance, it was dated 1989. None of this struck me as unusual at first glance, Mr. Patriman looked to be well adjusted to society and seemed in good health… really good health on second look, and then after looking at the two side by side… far too good of health. Mr. Patriman should be sixty-one years old in the second photograph, but there was not wrinkle on his face…. I found it unsettling, but I still saw no case. + William dropped some mail on the net that Raptor was preparing to leave for New York and that he had been reading the project reports, apparently there were some pages missing from mine. I read them over quickly and caught a cab to the airport, by ten thirty local I was at café Dante in the East Village waiting on William. + William arrived right on time, he was driving a cab an in the back was Raptor. They were having some sort of argument from the looks of things and eventually I saw Raptor look over at me. I was wearing a smiling Richard Nixon mask to piss him off and through him off guard; I was all ready catching the eye of nearly everyone waling by and if there is one thing that a CIA man hates it’s conspicuity. Raptor was not the timid paranoid man I was expecting, but he did seem truly frightened to be seen with me. Spooks are so easy to throw off their guard its really not even fun to me any more. I need to work with an exhibitionist to see if I can throw them off guard. + Raptor had collected himself by the time he reached my table; he sat and stared at me in silence. In moment or two the waiter came and he order a burger fries and coke which he never touched through out the meal. + “I hired you because you have a perspective that I don’t and its is now obvious to me that I underestimated your capacities for the more mundane aspects of our work so now I will come clean with you. I’m not sure entirely what your man was able to get his hands on, but hear is my information. This case is the biggest thing you are ever going to work and I suspect that you will be killed before you solve it, but if you want to know what really happened in that cell is that the subject made contact with decidedly unfriendly and seemingly alien agencies which you can read as individuals and/or organizations. This sounds ridiculous every time I say but I have found no other explanation for these events that are one these tapes. + He handed me an envelope, which I could tell by touch held three VHS tapes; he kept talking as the waiter set the food down in front of him. +“You have to see the tapes to understand what you are dealing with but the basic gist of it is that some sort of alternate reality seems to exist quite parallel to out own, but frighteningly different and decidedly alien. Dr.Waiben’s experiment –in ways we still don’t understand- appears to have inadvertently created a bridge or passageway between these realities. The really interesting part is that the bridge or link or whatever… is a man. We haven’t been able to get in touch with him since 1989, but we have found photographs of him as far back in time as the American Civil war. Apparently he can um well as improbably as it sounds…he can move through time. The consequences of this experiment remain largely unknown… as if that wasn’t enough…. I know your background in Quantum events… you will understand what I mean when I say we aren’t entirely sure anymore that any of this ever happened that is we have come to question everything and found nothing to be reliable… +“We put timothy Leary on the case for a while but he couldn’t make heads or tales of it either and in the end he concluded that his talents were needed elsewhere… its been hard finding people to work on this sort of a case… rather sensitive you understand… there are two people one I know you are familiar with… operating out of Rangoon I believe. The other wishes to remain anonymous for the time being… I have had about all I can take of this case… I feel like something is taking over my body, my mind, like I am no longer in charge…like there is no control left… I am going to disappear… but the best of luck to you… look up your friend in Rangoon he has been on this one for a couple of years now, he’s the one who took the picture earlier this year good man… + He abruptly jumped up from the table and sprinted down the street. I was in shock. William yelled and started to pursue Raptor but I yelled back to let him go. I took off the Nixon mask and motioned him over to the table. I stood as he approached and told him to bring all of our people to the farm within the next three days. I ran out into the street, jumped in the cab that William had been driving and headed to La Guardia again. + By the time I touched down in Atlanta my brain was spun through, looped and twisted beyond everything. Its one thing to live by certain mantras like changes in perception can come at any second, any one who had ever read a few Quantum Psychology book or been to a transactional theripist new as much as I did they just never thought to use them as tools to make money, but it is an entirely different proposition to be told that everything you hoped was true was indeed true. This was going to be the biggest case I had ever had in fact I had the distinct feeling that after this nothing else was going to matter. The first call I made was to Rangoon. Sil agreed to come to The Farm; it would be the first time we had met since I took it over from him. The second call I made was to a girl; she promised me she would look after me if I lost my mind which by now seemed inevitable. + I put in the first video the minute I walked in the door. It was shot from a ceiling camera and started with a man in a white coat injecting Mr. Patriman with what I assumed was LSD. What followed was largely uninteresting except for a phrase that he kept repeating (it seemed wholely incongues to me) I can’t believe its not butter, I can’t believe its not butter…. At 04:58:23 on my VCR counter, Partiman calmly stood up and walked through the wa ll! I rewound the tape so many times it was in danger of being damaged. + + +Eigenstate Two (The Year of the Logitician) + +Sil Hawkard awoke with a cramp in his neck. He found himself lying on a cold cement floor inside a small room with bare cinderblock walls and two tiny windows that were high up on the walls, near the ceiling. He did not know how he had come to be in the room, there were flashes of falling distant memories of panic that might have been from a movie or might have actually happened. The room felt fake as if suspended in between the known and unknown, not unlike a train station and Sil half imagined that at any moment a giant coastal flyer engine might come crashing through the walls. The windows were too high to see out of and they gave him a dizzy feeling that made him quesy. +He got up to take his mind off the churning in his stomach and see if there was a way out; the door opposite him was locked so he jumped up and down trying to see out the windows, but only glimpsed what he figured was probably another room just like the one he was in. He thought about yelling but was wary of attracting attention. + Far off as if it were traveling a long cooridor came an echoing voice, it was garbled by echo andSil could only hear the word Tribune or was it fly, June? In any case it did not help, you rarely get to the castle in situations like this so Sil resigned himself to waiting. The voice gave him some feeling that at least something somewhere was happening and—good or bad—that thought gave him the comfort to sit down facing the door. He did not remember falling asleep, but he was reasonably sure that the door opening had awoken him. + The door opened and two official looking gentlemen entered, they were wearing uniforms that Sil didn’t recognize. The second one in the door had a syringe in his hand and Sil sae bad things in his future, but the first man very politely asked if he would come with them. They led him down a long hall lined with doors that Sil assumed were more rooms like his own. At the end of the hall was an arched entrance that led into a mezzanine where various officials were milling about and other prisoners were being processed through a serious of desks. His guards led him up to the end of the line and simply left him there. Sil assumed escape was not an option. None of the other prisoners appeared to be trying anyway. +Then Sil realized that such a thing did not technically mean that one could not. He broke out or line and walked toward what seemed like sunlight. That is he went in the brightest direction, no one seemed to pay him any mind and he was soon out of the lobby and found himself on the street + +I hit the street running and the first thing I noticed is one of those old time banners they used to string up between light posts downtown by the park, back when they had light posts and parks, such things being out of favor today. But today for moment I got to get me up outta these old bones and that old banner dragged me kicking and screaming all the way back to San Francisco, Chinatown, big red streamers hanging from windows and red banners with indecipherable Chinese characters strung up between buildings. I was with Mike Cultch and we were mosing our lazy way up to Coit tower to sleep on the cold stone wall on the ast side where the bushes grew up and you could hide from the washout cops. Security guards being the most dangerous form of human know, we like Coit in spite of them. Plenty of light to read by and no one goes up their except the tourists and they're all gone by sundown. Just us and the handfull of wash ups who were mostly too drunk and stoned to notice anything that wasn't trying to bite them. + not that we didn't have few close calls on the day. Like the rent a gun downtpwn standing by the gate of parking lot like he really was Neil Cassady or something and he thinks he smells some shit from my cigarette. he trys to pull a real cop routine on us and mike starts to turn around and I pipe up hey can I see your badge their mister washout. Now he didn't like that name to much so he comes at me swinging and I just duck. he punches the side of a car and it makes this awful crunching sound like when you're biting into a stale rock hard pretzel. I was ready to get out of their on the double, but Mike is pissed cause he got suckered so he starts kicking the cop in the side. I can tell by Washouts expression that its cracking ribs and more than likely creating one hell of mess with his internal organs. I felt sort of bad, but Mikes crazy when he gets mad so I wasn't about to take one in the face for a washout. By the time he let up on him the washout was spitting blood and coughing uncontrollably. we split and never looked back. Maybe that Washout learned the fine are of minding your own business, but more than likely he just beat the crap out of someone who reminded him of mike. Violence as a virus rarely does anything but duplicate and breed. + Today's a long way from washouts, chinatown and the whole San Fransisco scene; today is New York, slivers of sky and me, walking memory, invisible to others because I see them first. I make it my point to see them first that way they don't notice me as much. someones got to be paying attention and as long as someone else is giving off the vibe of paying attention some little nuerocircuit in the back of the brain relaxes and they don't see me. Its an old trick I learned from a voodoo priest one night walking around New Orleans. He had this bone staff with a human baby skull tied to it along with bead and teeth and other little artifact of his trade. I saw the skull, but I never saw him. He distracted my mind and controlled the situation. It so happened that later I did see him sitting on some steps later on in the evening when the salt air was turning to fungus and laying the rest down to sleep. He asked me for light and I noticed it wasn't a cigarette he was smoking so I made myself and home and he shared the joint with me. By and by we feel on the topic of straights and how dope frees up the mind and makes you hyper observant and one thing led to another and I learned how to do invisble. One of the handy thing about this skill is that you can cut through the static of humanity and you start to notice who sees you and who doesn't. As old Bull would say you get to meet the johnsons. right now here walking down the street, long past the red banner and moving up town I am on my way to meet some Johnsons. Nice family, good neighborhood, mind their own business and they were good enough to ask me to dinner. + Living on couches and corner mattresses crawling with tick and bed bugs and fleas you come to miss the home cooked meal. Eventually you stop craving it stop even being aware that such a thing exists, but its a good thing to let someone remind you of every now ans then. I can almost taste it + I closed my eyes and saw a finger print. + + + + + +Eigenstate Two (The Year of the Beast) + +Scene one: ONE DAY IN MAYA'S APARTMENT +MAYA +PETE +NARARATOR +(Stage is a smallish square room with deep red walls, two couches perpendicular to the audience and facing each other with a table between them. MAYA is a slinky sexual girl of twenty-four with fiery grey-green eyes, short black hair like ravens trying to get out of her head and slender arms and legs that slip around her body like ribbons. She is wearing tight black satin pants and a green spaghetti strap tank top which is also tight. She is sitting cross legged on the left hand couch smoking a cigarette. PETE sits across from her watching her with a puzzled look on his face. He is obviously younger than her and of a tall lanky build with an insecure awkwardness that is betrayed in his shifty mannerisms —as if he were not quite comfortable in his own skin.) + +Narrator (sitting on a stool stage left) ...Pete watched Maya with absolute fascination, he had never met a woman, no he had never met anyone, as intelligent or as goddamn sexy as her. He did not fully realize it but he was devastatingly in love with her and this we know meant that she would devour him and destroy his life. He did not know this yet, but the thought did pass through his mind occasionally when he masturbated —imagining her in all sorts of ridiculous situations where the end result was always her sweet innocent but wise voice begging him to Cum all over me...ya come on my face. (aside: wouldn't you?) Pete was smart enough to realize the unlikelihood of him having sex with Maya but dumb enough to pine after her nonetheless. +PETE:(existentially in his own mind) please pleeeeeeease have sex with me. +MAYA: Would you like to see me naked? +PETE: (too eagerly) Yes! +MAYA: huh... I guess that's better than not. (she makes no move to get naked) + +NARRARATOR: It especially disturbed Pete that she seemed to take so much delight in teasing him and frustrating him further. It also disturbed him when she went out with other men instead of him, especially when the other men was Jared Towers. Towers was in Pete's World Religion class and represented a peace of humanity deeply disturbing to Pete, he represented strength and masculinity. Pete was young and still believe that masculinity is limited to those specimens of the male population that look like they just walked off the cover of GQ or its ilk. Later, like the rest of us he would come to realize that these cro-magnon motherfuckers are in fact far to fragile to satisfy a woman in bed and spend the majority of their adult lives desperately trying to convince themselves that they are not gay. But, Pete had fixated on a rumor that Jared had a twelve inch cock, thick as a flashlight and had convinced himself that this was why Maya went out with him. It served the need for self torture that Pete's brain seemed to possess. + +MAYA: "Will you do something for me?" +PETE: (hesitantly) "Maybe" +MAYA: (with deadpan sincerity) "take off you clothes" +JARED: standing as if to strip and then thinking better of it sits back down) "NO" + + (A seven headed snarling beast of unknown but leaning towards demonic origin leaps out of the floor from stage rear he first bites at PETE; several heads lay into his flesh and rips off first his arms and then his legs, and then holding Pete upside down by the stumps of his legs it chews on his balls staring out at the audience. The beast leaps on the narrator and tears him to bits as a laugh tracks play offstage. MAYA is still watching sitting behind the beast on the couch oblivious to the goings on. The beast leaps down and starts to eat the audience; critics first the juicy fat ones in the front row and then the rich lesbians behind them all the way to back ripping up art fag kids who snuck in without a ticket cause there friend works at the door. The beast runs snarling into the streets of New York devouring east village types causing people to go into panic and leap from the tops of burning buildings. Carnage and Mayhem abound.) +Curtain falls. + + +Eigenstate two (year of the Logitician) + +Maya was living on the western edge of Usinc (a state labeled Fornical) in a town by the name of Long Beach, which did not in Maya's opinion possess a beach that would lead any rational person to call it Long. She lived in the upper left hand apartment of a fourplex building. The aforementioned Pete lived below her and next to him was a sweet quiet old woman whose life went on interminable pause between visits of her two grandchildren. The remaining apartment directly across from Maya's belonged to a man who called himself Cary, but Maya suspected that that was not his real name. He was rarely home, extremely wealth, extremely brilliant and seemed vaguely powerful in some way Maya couldn't quite place. Certain people when you meet them give off an air understanding that makes them appear powerful to others who don't have that sense of omnipotent confidence —like they are aware that their "self" is not the sum total of experience. Maya had met him a few times and said hi but she did not know him very well. She wanted to though and when she found out from the old woman down stars that Cary's daughter went to the university Maya enrolled in one of her classes. + Anna was a beautiful girl with black raven hair that swung across her shoulders and bounced when she laughed. Which she did a lot when talking to Maya. She was nothing like her father seemed. She was however always in a good mood and did not seem to have the psychosis of most people in Long Beach. But Maya was disappointed that she couldn't get Anna to divulge any scandalous details of her father's life. But Maya did use her as an impetus to talk to Cary more. This led to vague friendship consisting of a cursory discussion of his world travel habits, lack of official citizenship, and an invite to use his balcony whenever she liked. He did not lock his door and professed not to believe in property instead he had the entire place wired with cameras so that if indeed someone stole something from him he could find them and ascertain whether or not they needed the item more than he did. All of this intrigued Maya and secretly she wanted to know more, but she was happy to just use his balcony which was the largest one in the building. It opened virtually right into a palm tree and gave one the feeling of being at some Mediterranean villa. It made Maya want to waltz around in a leopard trimmed chamois wearing platform shoes and sipping pina coladas. Maya's balcony was drenched in afternoon sun and not a pleasant place to read so she would go to Cary's in the afternoon and read his books and drink pina coladas in her underwear and pace back and forth in her leopard trimmed chamois. She didn't know there was a camera in the tree as well and that it could be remotely moved and zoomed so as to allow Cary to see what she was reading. In fact Cary knew a rather lot more about Maya then Maya realized. That was only because Maya was looking on a different map scale, Cary's map was much much larger. But this is Maya's story and now a one act scene to show character development: + + (The End) + + + Jared was not really Maya's type either she only went out with him because she liked nice dinners, but didn't like to pay for them. Jared was rich or rather his parents were rich and he would do pretty much whatever Maya told him to. She had never had sex with him and didn't want to. You can't have sex with a man who let you hypnotize him and then revealed under hypnosis that his father once chased him a around the house with a meat cleaver when he caught the boy masturbating to a picture of the Virgin Mary. Maya used to wonder over fine french food: what kind of sick fuck finds the mother of god sexually appealing? I mean if sacrilege is a turn on masturbate and think of fucking god in his own ass like he thinks of fucking you in yours...Maya had laughed for hours on that one, of course she didn't tell Jared anything about the revelation or how far into his mind she had gotten that afternoon. + + Pete had left and Maya had changed clothes and was heading out the door to meet Jared for dinner when she noticed light leaking under Cary's door. + "Cary? It's Maya are you home?" She knocked and hearing no reply she pushed gently on the door which floated open as if on its own accord. + A voice floated languidly in from the balcony and said, "Come in... I'm outside..." Maya went out onto the balcony and there was Cary sitting and smoking a cigar shaped object which smelled like hash. + "Hi." + "Hi." + "Sit down," he took another drag and exhaled. It definitely smelled like hash. He caught her staring at it as she sniffed at the smoke. Cary laughed, "would you like to smoke some hash? I brought it back from Morocco..." + "That would be lovely," Maya felt the awkwardness of a setting too intimate for the relationship that was being cast onto it. Cary did not appear anything but relaxed, but of course he was likely quite stoned. Maya accepted the blunt and smoked it for a while before handing it back. + "Have you been enjoying this balcony in my absence?" + "Oh ya, I sit out here in the afternoons and read," the hash hit fast and hard and Maya had to fight to keep her wits about her, she thought vaguely of Hassan I Sabbah and his brainwashing techniques and for a moment she understood why he was so effective. + "This stuff hits hard at first but it settles down and leaves you in a nice contemplative frame of mind, I only smoke it in the evenings. I prefer something more active for the daytime." + "I would never have guessed that you smoked pot..." + "That's the idea." he smiled, handed her the blunt and leaned back in his chair reaching for cigarettes. Maya took the blunt and reached in her bag for her own smokes, lighting one she asked, "What exactly is it that you do? Your daughter told me you own a casino or a mine or something?" + He laughed. "Doing research are we?" Maya blushed, but Cary just kept laughing. "What I do has nothing to do with either of those things. I just believe in diversifying my financial assets...so that if one particular area of the world economy goes snafu I don't lose everything...just good business you know........ but yes I do have both of those things, but they are just things and not even ones that I'm actively involved in..." his voice trailed off. "What I do is more complicated...some might say that I am trying to figure out what the hell is going on down here...others say that I already have figured that out and I have moved on to far more nefarious projects..." + He said the sentence like he knew that Maya would recognize it and the realization gave her an acute sense of paranoia which was accented by the canaboids floating in and out of her brain. Banish fear. Someone knowing you well without having spent any time with them is not necessarily a bad thing...people fall in love and they seem happy about it . Secretly I think they're deluded but this is different. Its a common phrase perhaps we've read similar books or maybe more people are into this sort of thing than you realize. + "So do you know what the hell is really going on down here?" Maya asked as coolly as she could in her stoned state. + He just smiled, "you're the one studying in college trying to figure it out... why don't you tell me?" He settled back in his chair as if waiting to listen to a lengthy discussion on the subject. + "It would take more than pot for me to tell you that..." + "I have more than pot if you would like it." + "What do you have?" + "Do you know anything about South America shamanism? They make a hallucinogenic brew —some people call Yage some call Ayahuasca, I call it the orange stuff that bubbles.... + "Ya I know what Yage is, William Burroughs went looking for it, I read that book...." + "Ah yes the Yage Letters...unfortunately mister Burroughs was an acute heroin addict at the time and heroin tends to not put one in a positive state of mind...the book is a careful and imaginative account of one man's failure to transcend himself." + "I like Burroughs," Maya said slowly, "but sometimes his whole nightmare apocalyptic routine gets a bit old, but he's good at seeing what could go wrong in any situation. If you want to know what could go right, you've got Leary or McKenna." + "You've read a lot of interesting books...I overheard you saying something about Aleister Crowley this afternoon... that's why I decided it was okay to let you know that I can get you anything you want...drug-wise and otherwise....you seem very intelligent." Maya blushed slightly and couldn't decide if Cary was hitting on her or if he was just a genuine intelligent man trying to be nice. "It would be easier to know if we had a script wouldn't it???" + "Excuse me?" Maya had been lost in her internal musings and the question seemed to come out of nowhere + "Nothing I was just listening...I'm going to give you some Yage that I had brewed up for me, its a healthy dose but I think you've the skepticism to handle it. Are you interested?" + "Yes I'd love to but um," Maya hesitated not wanting to be rude, "not to be rude but I don't particularly want to do it right now... in front of you...." + "Of course not, you should go back in your room and drink it on an empty stomach and lie there in the darkness and just watch the back of your eyelids...that's the way you get into this stuff." He was staring at her with his piercing, but unobtrusive green eyes, "but you have to promise me that you'll take it tonight and tell me about it tomorrow afternoon sometime because I have to early the next morning and I want to know what you get out of it" + "Ummm, okay ya," Maya thought for a second, "I can cancel my plans tonight," + "You should he's a waste of time." + Maya started, confused "you know Jared?" + Cary smiled and pulled a vial of Ayahuasca out of his pocket "know I didn't even know you were going out, but since I changed your plans with an exotic blend of South American hallucinogens, he can't meant much to you." + She blushed and took the vial, "thank you. I'll see you tomorrow." + + + diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/smiling house.txt b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/smiling house.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9f6289d --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/smiling house.txt @@ -0,0 +1,179 @@ + 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. + +Post Script: + + 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 + +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 + + + + +"...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. But you see at the end I am the one who has to live through it so you ought to be able to read it with out too much pain, that is if I can live it…. +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 the quarter 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 times 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…. Besides I was just to naive to see it in terms of crazy/not crazy. 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 it easier 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 collapses back to the state vector. There is no such thing as TIME. + + + 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, someone 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 fear 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 we’re where we are, like the yogi said —wherever you go there you are. And here we are, with two 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 micrograms 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. + . 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. diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/the house that smiled.odt b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/the house that smiled.odt Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..95ceccc --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/the house that smiled.odt 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. |