path: root/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/THE BOOK.txt

	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	
	


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,

/,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
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