1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
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.
|
