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My Present Self Changing All Current Paradigms Indefinitely and Other Ostensibly Non sequitur Episodes Contributing to The Inevitably Enlightening Conscious Embrace Unifying The Ambiguously Perceivable Notion of Self with The Irrational, Ineffable, and Abstract Reality Commonly Believed to Be Beyond Intellect and Reason’s Affirming Apprehension
(Destructing Delicate Delusions of Self, Subject, and Substance)
A Table of Content 0.2 Forward 0.1 1.0 Abstract-preamble 2.5 Philalethia 3.1 Despotic Theocracy 1.1 Poimandres 0.4 thewhatwhywherewhen… 1.2 A world made of Delicate Delusions 1.3 Exit To An Empty Ethereal Shambahla 3.0 The Myth of His Holy Regenerating Organic Cadaver 4.0 A Secret Society of Secular Gnostics 2.1 From Inside the Skull is Sky 2.4 Retrospectively Comparative Analysis 2.3 Bureaucratic Necromancy 4.1 Graveyard Guard 6.1 Side Step The High Stepped High Voltage Currents 5.3 Slick Shoes Rick 7.3 Araby 3.2 A Personal Apocrypha 5.2 Chamber of Eclectic Ecclesiastics 6.3 A Monday Matinee 3.333 Mad Rants of Mental Prophets 1.4 The Semi-holistic Hypochondriac 6.5 Strung-out Cybele 4.3 Pinheaded Conversationalist 3.5 Dr. Marduk 8.0 The Best Times Are End Times 7.4 The Mephistopheles Collective 5.0 Brahma’s Salvation from Sartreian Despair 5.1 (off the docks) 6.0 Pretty Bird 2.2 Unexpected Environmental Interference 7.1 Battles Of Duality 6.2 A Renunciation Of What 2.0 The United Republics 7.0 Park Bench Ponderings 6.4 Eschatological Omens In Everyday Perceptions 4.4 Personal Displacement 7.1 Patterns In Samsara: Habits - Addiction 3.4 Trinity Of Ontology, Epistemology, And Cosmology 5.3 Burning Midnight Petrol 7.2 Synonymenology 8.2 Dues ex machina 8.1 And In The End There Was Again p. 1 p. 2 p. 3 p. 6 p. 10 p. 13 p. 14 p. 18 p. 22 p. 23 p. 26 p. 30 p. 32 p. 36 p. 38 p. 43 p. 45 p. 48 p. 49 p. 52 p. 54 p. 59 p. 61 p. 65 p. 66 p. 70 p. 71 p. 74 p. 76 p. 79 p. 81 p. 83 p. 85 p. 87 p. 91 p. 92 p. 95 p. 96 p. 98 p. 100 p. 101 p. 104 p. 105
Part one is introductory Part two is societal
Part three is religious
Part four is social
Part five is personal
Part six is biochemical
Part seven is material
Part eight is escheatogical
================================================================ 0.2----------------------------------------Forward--------------------------------------------------Not documented retrospectively in past tense, first person with hindsight’s insight, but rather in the currently experienced, contemporarily fleeting, ephemerally temporal, perception. Through means non-verbal and mostly irrational or at least not rationally comprehensible on any conscious level of the mind, rendering basically ineffable, the transference of experience from one centralised point of observation to another will be done through Stream Of Thought - Unified state of mind - Direct perceptions here in and after for the want of less words abbreviated as SOTUD. Using the medium of language, hoping to transcend its obvious limitations and inadequacies for expressing anything objectively lucid and worthy of deeper contemplation in a hope to not rely on the words and their mundane meanings to relay the messages unable to fit within the constraints of the rationally bound bit of semantic circuitry we liberally place under the umbrella of mind but to hopefully use the words and ideas, thoughts and feelings, and their implied impressions directly projected in that vague direction open to the perception of and cause for the deeper conception and realization of the thoughts typically impossible to express efficiently by articulating rationally, is put simply my unhindered intention. If one or many find immortalized impressions of these abstract expressions in text or pure thought form, whether channelled later through a passive vessel of neurons and mystery wrapped in flesh or made manifest spontaneously in a electromagnetic medium of telltale types, the experience thought on and of as obscure and absurd will and or may have influence in some irrational sense beyond intention and understanding. If this improbable event is to happen in this or one of an unimaginable amount of other parallel dimensions I offer this key as quick note: To all those opposed, intellectually defensive individuals, who do not display an understanding of the effects that happen while one articulates that which was not meant to be transported linguistically from one mind to another, horizontally, but intuitively or mystically in the confines of the mind as insight from the higher non-other emanated down vertically (metaphorically directional while speaking metaphysically) through to the personal mind set state of consciousness. Do not readily dismiss these writings as purely aesthetic pieces of obscurantism merely because their ostensibly irrational and abstract tone, substance, nature, and structure, or do if you so insist. Chaos’ appearance may just hold a polar relation to the deeper reality not seen under superficial inspection. 0.1 Existence dependent on perception - keep in mind keep in mind - all in mind All in mind and in good time -with an introduction not as but for a necessary explanation:
================================================================ 1.0---------------------------------------Abstract-Preamble----------------------------------------With no adequate location in time to label as a sensible beginning I’m left with the option of avoiding a start or conceptual commencement and simply letting the reader become spontaneously aware of the world I’m finding myself lost in and attempting to document. With no memory of the proximal past, recently passed diverging chains of events interlock, eternally tangled and looping in augmented figure eights. My imagination takes advantage of all the fears and doubts lying dormant under the surface as a ground for my mind to project its interpretation of a reality eternally and equally obstinately unintelligible kept up on the wobbly stilts of faith in logic’s mire against the waves and winds of awareness in absurdity and the ridiculous misconceptions of my twisted, or perceived to be, experiences. I guess a start is inevitable. So I will start by taking a shot at an appropriate enough place in the space time continuum lassoed by memory then bound and gagged by reflection. By no means do I consider this an actual beginning at all but more so a fair compromise or a satisfactory attempt at a shot in the dark, with faith and hope in intention and consciousness‘ influence on probability, increasing the chances of this choice being the most logical of starting points. Without further adieux I present to you…
================================================================ 2.5---------------------------------------------Philalethia--------------------------------------------Cityscapes in rusting metallic blue, front doors lynching open to reveal monsters far too alien to ever begin even attempting to understand. In this place silence himself only occasionally tries to poke his head out of hiding, he never makes it fully. When he gets the balls and comes near he’s somewhere distant, detached, always anywhere but here (wherever the particular there that’s not this present here may be at the time seems to evade any pattern in placement almost sharing that eternally out of reach trait attributed to the long lost rainbows of yore). From that anywhere but here he cautiously comes just close enough to be barely perceived like his next of kin darkness is rarely seen . Random horns’ honks accent the industrial orchestrations creating a constant audio ground if ever barely floundering out. Beyond it all with one limb pinned a static rush from cerebrum to spinal column shooting through charred stone fingers demands each hair in front a follicle to stand at attention and pay respects to the aesthetic value of this vibrant high current neon night filling every inch of the hungry eyed sight. I try to lift the weight off the wound and find a higher hiding ground. Poke and prod, pull and pluck, peel and puncture, what ever the fancy is molested or tickled by. Up in a garden where the view is priceless, of what is of, not so much, the shade from the moonlight behind the planter pot pine tree makes a cloak of secrecy for me to sit doubt free and observe nameless neighbours with faces of dimming wingless fireflies dieing under telescoping monocle lenses. The pseudo bioluminescence map out the multileveled toxic labyrinth before the digital sun fully subsides behind the blocky horizon line perforated with evenly spread city center pillars fencing off the edge of the world. The minotaur stands above all; incarnated in the heaven stretched obsidian obelisk; the un-dead center of a steel, symmetric, fog faded city. From here the mass scale of the continental grid can almost be imagined. One can count the cities towards the horizon by the identical skyward markers protruding out of each and every segment. A darkened black and neon green fog fills the continental Flanders field shrinking away on a curve into an endless horizon. A view from above, beyond the reach of thriving bacterial infection I sit in somnolence contemplating salvation. Explicit viral visions reach hopelessly skyward from dreamscape neighbourhoods consisting of rundown copper clock towers and ghetto fabulous past tense town houses. My community garden where strata fees are fairly invested no one enters except in dismal stretches of the most lost and lonely early hours. By then I’m nearly never present and if so sleep walking and staring off in starry eyed lullabies with the sirens and flash flood lights penetrating my deepest layers of self and mind. Although asleep and unconscious the senses still transport the endless streams of data onto the power saving sleeper mode set cerebral screen. Dreams altered and shaped by exterior experiences. Subconsciously sleep walking up to the garden to watch and consume the sensory stimuli effecting the dream state. Effects may seem unpleasantly scanty but the uniqueness in them offers something out of the ordinary to record in the morning. Dreams where I’ve jumped thousands of times keep me questioning the originality and legitimacy of apparently waking realities. No way to know if this is a second or third showing. A rerun
lunatic engenders self inspiration only in the darker recesses of the mind. No way to know if a dream was a first life memory and all other experience an automatic replay to occupy something prolonging the uniting with absolute emptiness or a solely subconscious projection merely of manifested imagination. 2.5.1 It goes without saying: a word that is the lack of whatever needs to be heard lying still-birthed in the mind is not actively avoided by proper nursing, guiding, uplifting, because the inversed, normally descending from a preternatural blissful nonexistent state screaming into a painful new world, represents the universal will that all submit to. In the mental equivalent, due to the inverse of the symbols, from the physical to mental, the act of conception is bringing the product up back towards that place of origin, the creator, analogously the thinker, of this new being descended, emanated, a process in it’s own creation. Excessive attempts for symbolic explanations in another form of philosophical syncretism of platonic thought and phenomenology. From a secular sense of Brahman, avoiding the extremists precepts associated with either label of God or the void, came developed life and human kind, from developed life as women came child, from developed child came man and his creation thought, from developed thought came the infinite concept whatever its from, into infinite regress with every stage symbolic of the prior. 2.5.2 I remain staring over this scenic disaster taking it all in, sponge like. Every new image conjures up another question, every question; a dozen answers, and of course every answer comes stock with a conceptual endoskeleton of doubt and scepticism. The view from the garden is a non pharmaceutical sedative, easing the pain but allowing the continuation of a tumescent development. While in the elevated unclean brick built Eden the main course of action consists of the projection of mental weight out over the street light lit highways resembling something abandoned then adopted for multi purpose use air strips and waste dumps. Sending it all from my self to dilute into the polluted space entangled in a labyrinth of skyscrapers and electrical lines. Sometimes the demons exported are dense enough to adopt a semi materialized form of hallucinogenic visualization as oriental winged serpent spirits slithering through the psychic traffic of others’ emanations. The art of blowing smoke rings and arrows although ancient in origin, madly deep in symbolic implications. Just the act, the art for process. Not the essence but the form. 2.5.3 Like liberated bureaucrats love needles in hay stacks, half passed overcast cloud covers discard soggy ski masks. It rains down in waves how masses migrate, unawareness of reasons farther off of reason’s reaches beyond the petrified wooden member’s full extension. Rotting from the inside out, fighting the cure and the sickness simultaneously I feed the conflict, fuel the fire, place faith in the endothermic mental unravelling. The cloudy coil serpent spiralling around the city center’s skyward spike reaching outwards until it fades into sky like fads in time. The sky, a still wet ceiling water painting of a sea swelling whirl pool. That pattern is all too recognizable at times. Some time from now and ten thousand blinks wont wipe the image clean. The canvas remains an unalterable
permanent fixture. As above so below, the mirror means more than is consciously conceivable, a reflection from the sea to sky, the waters are winds and the plug is pulled. Draining up and out instead of down. The social masterpiece of an obsidian erection piercing the highest tip of the celestial tarp. The circus tent entrapping all is prophesized to fall in flames descending on the stubborn and surprised. That deep into the stratosphere requires astronautic capabilities or a stairway from hell. Signs everywhere tell me not to quit searching through the symbols. Even in language, relations between concepts may represent the manifold layers of a cosmic truth divine. Pearly white wings sprout from my shoulders every thirty-seventh Sunday. ….unfilled prescriptions from the metaphysician for an array of multicoloured remedies bring me back down to earth, hell, Hades, the realm of the demiurge. Everything is relative, underworld misconceived as relative to the mundane while more accurately relative to any of the many higher planes or finer harmonized frequencies of existence. The drugs work like any other narcotic acting as a symbolic epitome of descent of the one into the four, the spark in the square, the quintessential fifth and unnumbered first essence within the four elemental walls of the sensory. Brain candy banana flavoured antibiotics go down smoother than a master con’s final plans. Intended deliciousness to seduce temptation and gain concrete control solidifying and entangling the intangible with the structured ephemeral. The contradicting natures of nature and order naturally breed paradox and disorder. 2.5.4 Ever-present themes in the singularly general direction, forward in posterity, and hoped to be infinitely branching, are expanding within that unalterable direction, by the only means of timeless communication; the projection of an idea or a thought labelled collectively, despite radical variations in significance for evolutionary progress, and academically as literature. These ever present themes all attempt to suggest and express the same inexpressible nature of the incomprehensible ultimate reality, not beyond but within the one described and perceived. We all believe and share the experience of seeing an undifferentiating unity between all ostensibly differing stories’ meanings. A limited number of archetypal themes within mankind’s experience is evident in an examination of itself. Which I leave to one’s left. This is my story. There is no more literature, literally no more.
================================================================ 3.1.1---------------------------------Despotic Theocracy--------------------------------------------An unsettling setting of dilapidated cloud castles forecast a dreary and drawn out unending day. The kind of day ideal to inspire subtle transmigration into a dream like state marking off fleeting moments forever lost down the abyss of expired time, the one omniscient thief in the night always piercing rays of God’s golden glory from the devils dreary quarry. Everyone’s seen it before, the more observant more often, the deeper more deeply, but I would optimistically say all have noticed it at least once in their cloud covered journeys. A universal experience seldom shared, nowhere near as much as it should be based on the impacting irrationally emotional effect given. The astonishing impact of something so simplistic in natural process and infinitely complex in its many meanings. Despite theology held, precepts imbued, or unique psychological idiosyncrasies, the lasting effect remains the same. Beyond words of this world though not beyond understanding, despite the belief in the claim we think in limited symbols, the words as symbols act as primeval boundaries long overdrawn. I walk zombie like, conform to the hoards, eyes posed like glass marbles, with a face painted blank and dreary. Despite robotic literal interpretation it is much harder to paint over or erase a finalized personal magnum opus than it is to paint and transform an empty canvas into an original abstract expression. Defying the unilateral direction of time while defining the mysteries I find myself eternally descending down to where... Consecrated phallic symbols desecrate decrepit temples, Men of the cloak spread disease, dirty handed dictators mould what matters most. Doctors wipe wet scalpels on motley stained aprons day after day, shit stained sheets hang off hospital beds and bedpan ashtrays perfume every room. Nurses are trained undead androids paid in pieces of onsite waste, leftover flesh more fresh than their own. Voodoo tricks mastered by sanctioned father, doctor, leader, teachers. All in one learned more than trusted advisors. Red light district monasteries master the dark arts, gray matter magic. The church and state’s heads and fingers. Bureaucrats liturgically well versed, Omni-competent in the art of undermining under-mind-lings, trained and raised in boot camp settings set the scenes. From test tube baby to alter boy, then hybrid soldier to ecclesiastical Master of Science and medicine, the cyclic system produces anonymous bodies to keep a firm hold on the substance from every angle. Armed like angels with a Caduceus in the left hand, a Kirpan by the side, and a Sword of justice in a golden scabbard on the back. Twisted hermetical teachings used for the benefit of the black practitioners in winged and polished army boots pass through only the initiated pairs of inhuman lips. 3.1.2 The rationality exempt church stands proudly three blocks away. It is one of many, each on outskirts of a 10 mile radius of the nearest other. Per city they are few in number, great in size, with a simplistic design while elaborately ornamented. The elaborate ornamentation consists of a wide range of aesthetic relics, ranging from mass produced silk
tapestries inscribed with mathematical formulations denying the validity of doubt in the only supposed truth, the truth unscrupulously portrayed by the only proven method in the house of the initiated, to the massive urn containing the ash embodying that particular churches triumphs over the heretic terrorists selfishly out to confuse the masses with contradicting views, all chaotic attempts from rebel liberators. These relics all act as sanctimonious charms of fear and hate. With an evening mass Sunday through Saturday the sepulchre is lined from wall to wall every night. Communion consists of an unimaginably desirable non toxic synthetic liquid, not addictive but highly habit forming, and a complete nutrient supplement making life all the more manageable. Jack-o-lantern faces changing slightly spanning single moments in the anonymous mass of a pseudo spiritual culmination make a show of ticks and flinches putting the greatest of theatres to shame. Service followed by unselective collective disease free copulation. Bacchanalian Sunday school services run late when deemed to be. Balanced deification of the self by epicurean putrefaction of the dense body and a cleansing of the mind and soul by sold and washed thoughts and beliefs. The entranced marionettes laugh at the few remaining rebel soldiers marching bound single file down the parted sea of permanently dumbstruck onlookers. Encouraged morally excusable crimes in the eyes of the fair minded are deeply perturbing to the stone set dogmatists opposing anything even possibly condoning not their owning. 3.1.2 Helios’ sons’ graceful walk of shame is prematurely misappropriated. Postponing fate is sleeping in another hour, sleeping off another layer of the sluggish dark dead sleep state of mind. A film of fleshy uterine broken water phlegm and juice cover head to toe the lying upright table tied prophets of hitherto heresy. Black cybernetic tendrils enter behind the head and at the temples. These grappling hooks and magnetic ladders are for microscopic digital viruses to slowly eat the fine electric white flesh leaving behind a preprogrammed putrid mess. Pure injections of an already fermented form of sickness, direct implantation. Ceremonial cerebral surgery causes dissemination of coherence with the means of any further articulation flaccid, untill eventually, disintegrated without a trace. Sacrifice the unruly outlaws. No one wants to hear them speak and if they did the soon to be ash, son’s of flame know better than to waste their personal prized possessions on the unworthy and incapable of comprehension due not to lack of ability but will not to. It kills me. Some of the inebriated to almost comatose far eyed faces I know by name, some by touch, and some as of now by a visual conformation of logical reductions from names and descriptions collected while traveling through conversations of Philalethians searching for a valuable offering of insight or a match of perfectly harmonized stellar alignment acting as the final gear in my personal developing theoretically systematic machine. The sacrificial first part of the service ends and the filler begins. I do not come to mass often. When I do for business not pleasure. Not business of the economic, financial, or organizational type but the dirty and personal ethical duty carried through out of a sheer necessity and inexorable conviction. Most of the faithful stare condescendingly; if only they understood the not obvious enough irony in the simple nature of the act. Inside the holy halls of misguided worship and praise; pain is the only transferable commodity and it is limitless. There’s the explanation for the spiritual economy being in the maladroit state it is. Tonight I come to monitor and to document the
trial at hand. No scales of liberty. No scales, no weight, no balance. Justice has no place here. The events are unfolding remarkably. I hate to have to have to hate having a ceaselessly beating compassionate heart. No better than left with a dead heart of stone to sit unanimated, sterilized in the crowd. Empathy sensed easily by the practitioners on stage. Trained in any kind of extra mental capabilities, they know what to look for and how to battle it. Tactical developments with few other purposes in mind make a dangerous area of expertise to fall in opposing contact with. No use in hiding in the songs of worship expelled from lungs of subservient eunuchs, carried through hollow pipes of a putrefying organic and partially mummified organ player’s life size ivory oak instrument, and pulsing with the throb of a holy septic heart. The words mere traps to test allegiance. The weak die, but the weakest survive. The others pass the test objectively which is to say unnoticeably by any observer accounting for anything. The test’s ridiculously unmatched candidates race for cheese in cosmological lab rat running wheels. The imagery never losing content’s potency even after strung out over usage. Temperature is rising fast with suspicion growing and glances collecting. Pressure rises, feet are slowly sinking, walls of scornful faces nearing, sneering, and comfort shrinking into a microscopic spec of futility. I’m not afraid of anything- of anything truly, except submission to addiction, the loss of will’s freedom. The one thing I do find most unnerving to imagine, the worst thought up situation to be in unwillingly, has always been being the last one left in a world populated purely by zombies - zombie flicks do nothing for me consciously, though symbolically terrorizing in the realms of the subconscious - irrational nightmares and imaginings. Complete alienation to the point of survival constantly balancing on a pinnacle of desperate deviations away from destruction. Flash backs of nightmares come flooding in as my escalating anxiety acts gravitationally. The choir starts repeating a chorus almost every devotee sings with displaced conviction, the melodies predictable and the words repetitive, I open my mouth to swallow the pill, singing the song to evade hostile suspicions. The majority of this evenings congregation are in uniform and most likely on duty, the state and the god head’s respectable toy soldiers. Unholy allegiance to the supreme leader of the republic. This true and raw core of the united. The oppressors of the people every individual fears inside but respects unquestionably on the exterior growing up to understand as an inevitably absolute authority there to protect and maintain civil obedience. The public schools produce forced effects of child indoctrinization- no room for opinion. Faith is the most honourable virtue, thinking independently is dangerous and criminal, selfish and deemed punishable by the righteous. The honourable do there duty to protect the greater good for even greater personal benefits, the only drawback is a sacrifice of unnecessary freedoms that would be suppressed by professional peers anyways. A soul rebel I see darting his eyes, in a scrupulous fit from malformed superego suppression of compassion and logic desperately attempting to engender humane sympathy through the pressures of social impressions layered on ruthlessly, strategically. I give this child not yet forsaken from spiritual potential a message through the eyes that there is hope and not to worry breaking contact quick enough so as our position are not discovered and in it so him and I being battered in different methods of mental conditioning, vanquishing all hope of a later intellectual liberation. The chorus repeated enough times now only the most sceptical still check back
every other moment for a chance at exposing themselves as a target of zealous indignation and uncultured intolerance to walk them up to the alter, feeding the fatal procession martyring the just who’s empty bodies now casually litter the preachers mount. I come here for the same basic reasons but with polar motivations. To gain insight into the nature and root of our socio-political ideologically based meta-apocalyptic dilemma. . Some brothers still breathing with the pupil faced backwards, its sphere rolled in reverse showing only runny egg white eyes with no signs of higher life. Only the basic biological traits of living tissue, empty of a force or energy uniting the cells supernaturally remain. Some eyes closed, some staring hopelessly, others with strands of self still present look onwards contentedly. One by one the old pompous preacher wheels the vertically standing strapped tables towards a metal furnace door a deeper black even than the emptiness inside of the congregations love lost leader. A well behaved alter boy opens the door and an overwhelming feeling of grossly disturbing anticipation fills the holy house as its inhabitants brace for the highlight of their day- a much due refuelling of their burning fire and restoring of their wavering faith for yet another hopelessly dark and meaningless day. Lined up in a row the first to go only has a few feet to travel before being put up on a last stood stand, receiving not a prayer of salvation but a promise of damnation, and released into a pit unseen below instantly creating a cloud of putrid smoke smelling of flowering sulphur and searing flesh. The songs and sermons end in the ringing out of an ancient, expired, disturbed, and long overdue echo of a dead man’s last desperately given breath. The burning of the untried heretics fuels and encourages the madness of the movement while the unknown soldiers, the spiritual rebels, who would be labelled as utmost noble martyrs with a simple change of paradigm or role reversal which is an easy explanation for the sin of viewing something from any other angle than the one and only one right point of view, have only the shrill of burning throats to aid the final throws of a dying hymn
================================================================ 1.1 ----------------------------------------Poimandres----------------------------------------------To speak – to breath, outright wrongly justified in my conviction, ethical or not, leading to from and then reversed at from leading to, viewing from the end to the start down worm holes of time backwards, the only direction currently perceptible, to the beginning again from the end, again and again – after being tucked in at night and after the story was spoken entirely I asked why the man faces backwards looking behind to where he has already been while walking with his back facing that forwards direction he is headed, not headed as in facing but the opposite direction of that he is facing, that which he is moving. The story teller told me she had heard the story long ago and never asked herself and that the man just did and it was so – dream’s ends breed new beginnings. From the bed in the morning the delicate art of persuasion must be mastered and
executed flawlessly in order, for the chain of events resulting in my turning off of the alarm, to be put into action. My microcosmic cause for a primum mobile, I share that unique yet so relatable love-hate and dependent relationship with. Waking up in a cold sweat day in day out loses its shock value once expected and accepted as a daily inevitability though it never loses its intensely disdainful form in relation to the affected. The paintings and pictures, decorating all but three of the solemn bedroom walls I’ve only ever known as being four in quantity start to spin and spiral neither clockwise nor counter but inward for reasons I can only hope to understand while not realizing how lost I am in the daily journey from my dream land to the other more common and concrete state. I’ll surely never remember the thoughts and actions before the latter and between the two, which is the earlier mentioned and in so being the reason it always seems to escape from me via loss of memory, for reasons beyond my grasp leaving me to only guess it has something to do with a temporary transcendence of the existence or ties to the fourth dimension. A Temporary transcendence of time seems suspiciously paradoxical yet seems to be a common theme and goal throughout a diverse and varying range of ideologies, religious and philosophical, prehistoric to post-modern. Off on a tangent’s tangent the suspiciously paradoxical state’s significance is self explanatory, self evident, and proven significant by the mere fact that its existence is at all, more so upon continuous reinterpretations. Reinterpret. Reinterpret. Reinterpret. After all these toys and tools are done their songs, fate finds me upright, awake, inspired by the realization of the fact which I seem to constantly lose and grasp, like a game never ending unless considering the awareness of its eternal and cyclical nature as a means of an end. It surely is not an end merely an illusion of it being so due to the change in point of view. With a tired look painted onto a clammy skin covered face I am forever dancing awkwardly, me and my virgin lover truth, with whom in I’d dwell a thousand lives if the choice were solely mine. Finally fully conscious, ignore the understatement by avoiding a literal interpretation and instead understanding in the intended sense of the term which in this case is referring to the waking state in which most are succumbed by to the point that they are hardly aware of any aspect of its nature, in relation to them, and the role it wholly plays, but which I, due to possibly over pondering on, have at darker times in my life grown quite discontent with to the point in certain circumstances counter productively to my original intentions. The music doesn’t end until the lights are off. Lights off isn’t long, isn’t far. Porridge for a morning meal, skip the details. No apologies for accounts of mundane trivialities, without them there would be far too much something giving the illusion of less salient jumbled nonsensical jargon. Why the lack of plot and over abundance of what is not? …Perceptions are in actuality what seem not to be and more often what are not what they may seem to be, a common sense to those who take the time and energy to question the validity of everything perceived, swear to god, ask him yourself; the master illusionist, the man holding the mirror who creates the illusion of a world free of illusions. 1.1.2 Bus rides go by too fast when shut off from the world in that fixed state of mind sustained solely by the dual sided walls of music, one of adequately enough intellectual feed or fodder feeding the need and hunger felt by few but the few felt by enough to move
and inspire something unreal in intensity beyond passion and obsess, need or desire, the other side of the universal drive, physical survival, that strange little feeling of being in a constant struggle for metaphysical survival. The inverse of the strongest drive amplified and tied intrinsically to the self. That’s the cause for the mark, or the sign. Cain’s maybe I don’t know. Whatever the name it’s given, it remains the same and only ever present in the few unfortunately fated extreme minority that exclusively know the existential pain and angst first hand. That anterior wall being seen and in being seen being consumed symbolically in its essence it all makes sense and explains itself. The final wall enclosing the sphere consisting of skull, skin, short dark hair in a state of recovery somewhat recently cut, the back of the head, an awkward place, I’ve never known and never will. Now, what’s actually happening: Wake-> commute-> work-> commute-> opportunity to break the cycle turns to two of three given scenarios, hypothesizing about breaking the cycle until the ring comes round again, or, like most often, lose to one form of distraction or another-> repeat. An acceptance of the sorry state or acknowledgement of the possibility that is another way, gets one nowhere else other than the bleak awareness of what is. At many times it’s out of sight but within the bounds of conceptual restraints like when consciously aware of the subconscious sensing of its radiating presence. Next step progressively is to unfold the reasons meaning it is to discover it simply because it is possible by the description of where and what it is. The need to draw my own lines, the big machine in the sky will only spit out the dots, got the choice to make but not the choice to choose whether I choose or not. Today I work on mentally surviving this meaningless labour. Work goes by. If it didn’t I certainly wouldn’t either. At least its over, sadly the feelings I share regarding the act consuming the better part of the work week’s days are not exclusive to me but shared by almost all, which seems slightly wry, maybe not considering without discontent and desire there is no motion or progress, so never mind, everything’s all right. I’ve heard that before, said it even more. In thesis and antithesis, synthesis and as a thesis once again, philosophical progress seems ridiculous, except in the sense of the absurd, and in that I’m always hoping there will be a final piece to the unfinished dialectic, and with that hope showing doubt I still have faith despite the technically logical incompatibility of the two. Floating down the street between my modern master’s giant house to the bus station where the sickness is always more apparent, I notice a stoic in a cardboard box with a fire red fro topping a porcelain face. All that’s alive on this porcelain face are two emerald eyes shifting from inside, out, up, locked like bio-nuclear projectiles onto mine. 1.1.3 Hearing my name whispered within that dimly lit cavern between my ears usually is enough for me to steer my attention to the source’s general direction. When that voice seems louder than an orchestrated apocalypse with symphonic intentions yet more subtle and sub audible than sound vibrations beyond human perception projected lightyears away I am lead to an eager and curious situational analysis regarding whether or not I am to subject my attention to whatever alien force is the cause and reason for this unreal phenomenon. Put thoughts aside to help me make up my mind on time, and I find myself listening wide eyed to the words being pulled into life by the only means of creation there ever was, ever is and ever has been beyond time, in its limited sense, meta-immemorial dimensionally.
“Son, take the time you know is of the essence to sit down beside the one you see worthy. I know the story you long to know and I alone recognize that which you can’t help but hide from any sense of senses but subtly and radiantly display through the eyes as I see it manifest as tools only to express.” With direction changed I find myself crouching down, ducking under the soggy lid of a majestic and rotting cardboard canopy, and kneeling thigh deep into the surface assumed to be the ground I walk on, presumptuously associated with the concrete, as in material, and ironically proving to be nothing but the farthest from yet still consisting of only concrete, as in cement. The feelings and thoughts typical to that of a dialogue are thick in the air despite the fact my throat has caved in, the mining shaft has given way taking all the miners and their lives and in return only giving pain and sorrow through the beast of sullen eyed knowledge to those emotionally opposed to the twisted fate the poor family and friends of those imaginary miners, and my lips are sealed in surrender. This illusion like fog, the fact of this being a dialogue, is intrinsically tied, as living, feeding neon vines from the one end to the other of the episode, without which the outcome would be completely ridiculous and unself-supported. In a single moment, an instant between two time segments of the smallest perceptible unit, there is now a vast distance from every sense stimulated beyond, prior to the currently altered idea, beliefs of what is mentally possibly … A blinding green flash paints the eyes with bright, potent, liquid, sovereignty. In a voice soft as cherubim’s down and as firm as organized firmamental mitochondria a whisper commands me: “Fear nothing, Understand all by knowing you understand even less than what you must fear, and Follow Me.” The smell and taste of chemical consciousness, enough to bring one past la purge, to an uplifting state of equanimity and silence only known to the dead or non existent. Not lastly at all since all in this moment is simultaneous, the arms of the being shoot and branch out growing exponentially into a web of translucent tendrils flowing through where I should be, joining me with itself, the everything, and the infinite. Like the light out of the darkness to illuminate the precious moment, darkness comes of the light to swallow all, back into nothing. – Lights out.
================================================================ 0.4-----------------------------------Thewhatwhywherewhen------------------------------------A seemingly late but still necessary premise: Somewhere between beyond and between Somewhere beyond between and beyond Somewhere lost between the two and somewhere lost beyond the two Somewhere amongst an ever expected apocalypse and a assiduously anticipated rapture Somewhere between the death of God and a final Resurrection
Somewhere beyond past and future Somewhere within an epic epoch When fallacious grounds beneath all the standing fall When All pluralities teeter on the brink of extinction When All dualities teeter on the brink of existence The absurd and rational Chaos and order Life and death When finality is subject to it’s self and the all explodes in a nova crescendo The infinite Infinite’s immaculate conception Microcosmically, this is where my consciousness rests This is where my journey ends This is where my freedom lies Yes or No The Yes, the will, the journey, the line of action, The points at end are present and future, the past is nonexistent The tethered line between these points, the events in which the experienced world resides Where some will say suffering is essential for awareness of existence beyond a point of nothingness and the plain where celestial forms manifest to represent and give us the chance to dance for them to act as bodies entangled with stars ================================================================ 1.2------------------------------A World Made of Delicate Delusions---------------------------Nonsense. The transcription of thoughts to words, an attempted rational verbal documentation, is the only door of perception into the otherwise unattainable understanding of that mark inside’s internal processe’s resulting-projection of realities not externally experienced but rooted deeper within than any other observable concept or experience, even if only ever becoming made peripherally aware of. 1.2.1 Waking up while walking down colossal corridors, memories of hospital halls shoot through the circuits of my pulsing, swelling, unseen space. Thoughts enough to drive madmen crazy blend with a guilty pleasure, a by-product of this throbbing aching stirring the maelstrom into oblivion. This throbbing aching is synchronized to that rhythmic pulsing intrinsic with the fluid lifelong break-beat cardiac burlesque dance felt in a space void of cessation. Is it in my chest or in my head and where’s the captain of these gallows? I hear the steady beat of his drum and direct my oar down through the welcoming waters but the mouth behind the omnipotent voice is never known or torn asunder. Its different now, the doctors don’t lean over me with blinding lights over head, stylized surgical instruments cleansed past death to prevent the spread of parasitic life and sex, metallic eyes cold and bright pointing down like starved and dieing needle nosed
fangs. Most importantly it’s not being seen through kaleidoscope eyes. The gross-psycho manipulation did not remain or come back again. The blue robes and plastic gloves are gone, the latex covers to separate the right from wrong and sick from fit, have long been disposed of. Biohazard waste buckets are emptied of overflowing human waste and amputated spongy flesh into leaky crates and sold legitimately to research centers sponsored by The Sickness Incorporated. The fungi growing, the living death in gray matter, the secret pandemic beyond the reach of the unaware and unwilling is getting out of hand killing none but hope in the optimist and self in the sympathetic. The symptoms of the incorporeal sickness is like that of death without the spiritual liberation and yet within the synonymous emptiness. In the form of liquid darkness growing out of itself in a malicious attempt to consume its origins, source or globe of divine light, it waits and spreads. With a parasitic nature and orientation of survival, the most primal justification, reason, the flaming sword of god has little effect but still a chance. The infected, unaware of their tragic state; walk the earth with the same love void in death and all the pains of sub terrestrial life. The title of M.D. has been replaced by M.C. Medicinae Doctor to Master of Ceremonies, Master of Ceremonies to Ceremonial Master, Ceremonial Master of my life or death depending on the vital outcome of the psychospiritual practises mastered for the event of government issued psychical purgatory assessments, a mental lobotomy, attempted spiritual amputation. Doc’s face is fading fast, fade him faster before its over. From a paralyzed immobile anesthetised dream dread state to a more waking, walking, sober state, I transport myself by my power of projection, will to power transportation via the 5th dimension, through one world of illusion to another just in time to avoid a most unfortunate fate. The psychedelic confusion rooted in doubt and questioning of obscurity is a personal response to the lack of a receptive submissive expected effect implemented by the devil manifested in my fellow man through weaknesses like greed and even that selfish primal desire for survival. 1.2.2 Almost lost in a mind-death-memory trap. The paranoia of just that is more than justified, nothing worse than being stuck in a surreal glitch in the subconsciously constructed metaphysical system that is reality. I have been there once before which seemed like twice compressed and contracted and mirrored infinitely. The worst possible time to fall victim to déjà vu. Murphy was out to get me and he almost killed me, another victim of his ironic law, sending an extra-dimensional Paramnesiac across my path. Thought I philosophically stumbled into a psychological bear trap, more accurately like a life suspended eternally in a single moment (which is far worse than death) trap, which was the absolutely intricate and yet to be humanly understood system summed up blasphemously as reality. Never imagined anything nearly as Terrifying as even being theoretically possible. Lesson taken away from that experience would have to be how terribly weak and dangerously strong the mind can be under the wrong conditions and influences. No one knows those who know where it started, if it’s necessary, and why its here. Though there are some who speculate it is just the cosmic red shift intensification of the challenge that has been as long as there has been anything that was in any state of being. They go on to say: “To exist there must be non-existence which is the primordial and most simple balanced conflict. The oneness of the perfectly harmonized first duality radiated a
glow and tone so fine anything to conceptually hold it captive would instantly transcend existence and non existence to join the holy union in a super positioned Omni-dimensional vortex eternally.” They say that’s their goal and its nothing new. That all psychonauts are the partial reincarnation of one part mystic, another part philosopher, some segment explorer, avid scholar, and narcotic experimenter. In some cases consisting of traceably related recycled bits of energy and information, the more recent growth of interest in study and research of Palingenesis has brought more and more suggestive data and supportive theories into the views of the mainstream scientific and literary communities. Streams of thought flowing freely, scenic shifts through the looking glass, perceptual concepts remain unscathed while gross detailed change gives way. 1.2.3 The eternal and epic battle of consciousness, the original dialectic, the first two to come from the original one, has now made itself evident while the division bells virginally ring how they haven’t since time began. Critical pragmatic Dualism transformed, from ideal to practical, has spawned a war, the example of conflict, conflict the interaction of two un-harmonized bodies meaning one is not in sync with or understanding the other. One being of knowledge the other of ignorance, light and darkness, health and sickness, life and death, the synthesis of the symbolic dialectic that is only itself is yet to come. Newly constructed universal mind state standards spring forth from the spores released into the environment to constantly change this world and make independent adaptation a challenge fit for few. That and the one uniting trait that is laziness may be the reasons for the instantaneous assimilation of free thought and conforming to alien paradigms. The original plan to opiate the masses was inefficient and far to flawed so twisting the mind on subtle psychoactive chemicals with specific alterations in perception intentionally designed for a single purpose was the only other option for them. Like a virus without origin this will in the negative is unparalleled and even very likely to throw off the karmic balance. 1.2.4 Waking up once again while walking down the same colossal corridors I prep myself mentally for the climactic battle about to be brought on by forces unavoidable. The gladiator has no choice; orders merely trickle down through lesser beings and incarnations of the first. Decisions made then executed through the limbs and lesser organs on innumerable scales seen as symbolic of the farthest, deepest, highest truths in nature – thought through to action indirectly. I’m prodded by electric lightning forked tridents from pre-programmed points in space to encourage my obedience. The temperature has changed greatly and I somehow lacked all sense of change except for the knowledge gained rationally with the use of analytical memory. I remember the air being temperate and unnoticeable and now I am fearing hyperventilation or chronic nerve damage due to the tremors brought on by this unfathomable cold. It may not even be physically cold in this chamber at all, either way it doesn’t matter whether its real or not I am effected all the same. The reasons for my suspicions of it not actually being this cold are two in number. It would be very uneconomical and nearly impossible to void a room of its heat to the extent presently perceived. Direct wireless mental tap connections like a hack through energy barriers of
consciousness would be much more typical of them especially when the technology and materials are as plentiful and the environment as suitable as is in this growing tangled mass of souls gravitationally attracting more proponents and snowballing into a spiritual black hole only the most elusive of survivors stand a chance to escape. In recent years the focus of technological and scientific advancement shifted from products making conforming to the socially set standards of physical and superficial idealizations easier to attain, via cosmetic alterations and the denaturalizing of the self, cleansing diversity and imperfections to a point of nothingness, and was aimed completely, like only absolute powers can direct advancement, at pseudoscientific or rather protoscientific offensive and defensive technologies, neural sensory altering, and of course controlling, destroying, manipulating, sustaining, moulding and directing any and all varying forms of consciousness. The walls at this end are made of organized light diodes displaying an appearance of infinite space changing brightness and hue causing a similar sense but opposite effect of being locked in a sense deprivation tank. They do this to keep the sense of self strong and transcendental escape plans nearly impossible. The tunnels end is coming closer, a ring of black light outlines this foreboding destination. I stall to test the degree of freedom I have convinced myself I am allowing to be implemented on me and a sonic flash hits the nerve I’m hoping for and a flash of light fades my field of vision to a mystic kirlian version of perception. Near fatal neural damage can be channelled to produce amazing affects when directed through the right connections. Everything is changed. Pink and purple, neon blue, auric imprints differentiate details and objects. Depth and texture have vanished and are only memories of a past life in an alien universe. I stand a chance now. On the lower plains I’d never make it, they’d probably beat me with crude metal tools and have me restrained by rope, constrained to my writhing worldly self. The arena I am about to enter is an ancient archetypal battle ground, the grounds where ideas evolve to survive or die under foot of lost times. My first time to be here in this strong of a sense of being here, which in this case I guess is the strongest sense one can since here has no spatial point or locality. My only other visions of it which may vary greatly from what I will soon see have been through the mediums of dreams, prophetic episodes, astral projections, and through the vicarious gateways mapped in the type of previous metaphysical martyrs. The entranceway of vibrant black light reaches out as I, my organized body of energy in which I am observing from, become one with it and with what lies on the other side. 1.2.5 The other side, the inadequate title given by because its elusiveness to rational description, is now and present. All lost in it daily without a doubt. Outlook defines how things seem inwardly. Seeking affirmations as mental masturbations is attaining a fading feeling of doubting suppression of doubtful depression. The will to challenge, to conquer the captive, is a master example of man’s discontent state. - In my studies of biology I wondered why we wouldn’t simply develop a photosynthetic secondary homeostasis system like our greenly tinged extraterrestrial patrons. My teacher at the time said we evolved an alternative means of feeding. - To hunt and gather, take and collect, gives the opportunity for freedom of choice, responsibility for error. The dorsally projecting depend on higher source directly, while the anterior laterally progressing work indirectly through the alternative.
================================================================ 1.3-----------------------------Exit to an Empty Ethereal Shambhala----------------------------Exiting the entranceway of a twenty-something century old coliseum, the spirits of deceased super sapient rebels each scream their pieces at me. Faces in the crowd are unrecognizable but the radiating beauty and unique familiarity in belief and thought process I recognize instantly. I feel safe here, so distant from the source of sickness yet at it’s source’s point of origin. The usual sense of subtle subconscious precognition is rendered useless in this realm ruled by fate in its one of two absolute states. Not that of a falling rock where nearly no freedom present but in the most capricious state of fate never seen except in the first cause and in this point of ever expanding branches of possibilities. From this theoretical dimensional point of potentialities one can travel to almost any other universe, other than the unparalleled and as of yet uncreated. The anti-shape of the space is spatially interlaced like the emanating sefirot with different planes or levels, not below, above, or alongside one another, but from within each other making traveling in and amongst them quite an alien experience. Travel so commonly associated with direction loses all cognitive connections and I smell the smoke from my rewired circuitry overheating risking a critical meltdown. The arena itself consists solely of organized information and energy, channelled and controlled by it’s own will and awareness on a much more simple but incomparably higher than any rational anthropomorphic sapient, even multidimensional or omniscient, being’s level. The groupings of denser energies are seen as tumescent abstractions encased in translucent membranes. The silence is the only appropriate background for the deafening blanket of thought waves transmitted from every conceivable point to every other filling the space with and making up it’s consistency which is the pink fog like aether surrounding and permeating every observable object. A breathtaking, bone chilling, hair raising, goose bumping realization sweeps through my body following a brief internal possession of a phantom paramnesiac. He
brought me a vision seen through similar eyes in a different time in a paralleled universe. This place beyond space I have been to once before in a life I have a newly formed vague recollection of. I catch this spectre in my mind conceptually constraining him from escaping to ask for more knowledge and information of the event he thought vital enough to tease me with. He disappears and in his place a story unfolds in the mind’s eye from a point of view eerily too similar to mine, not experiencing the actual event currently but from the point of view of one recollecting and communicating it to another some time recently after. So the story I am seeing actually being of a like being recollecting the episode I felt was mistakenly originally mine and not his actual first hand experiencing of it. Why with this indirect method the phantom chose to allow me a window into this similar past event experienced by another I can only watch through and wonder. I am as the one I cannot see through his own senses for the time talking to another I will assume is a close friend. Instead of experiencing passively It feels as if I am acting freely doing and saying what I am actually experiencing and the one who’s life I am momentarily possessing is passively observing contently because our story is the same and he is believing he is freely acting and I am the one passively observing if he is at all aware of my presence which I can not picture him being completely capable of doing in this particular situation. 1.3.1 I am thrown in mid conversation so our tales’ descriptions are not exactly the same because up until the point of entrance, which I mysteriously possess knowledge of as well, our stories vary extraordinarily. Mine is a journey in a world quite different where I have left my body and am head to head with my fate in the deathly darkest most part of their psycho-temporal spawning grounds while his a voluntary recreational ontological exploration into transcendent forms of consciousness. Although his means of transportation is similar the relative environment and intention differ greatly . In a dimly lit, raw, and adolescent two bedroom suite with inebriated company sloppily trading their poorly articulated undeveloped thoughts the one whose face I never see is in an anomalous existentially fragile state of mind. He locks himself in the bathroom, stares straight above the sink, and is caught by the eyes of a killer, the eyes of a victim, the stone cold eyes of a god and beast. Fixed on the only things worthy of fear with intention to transcend the material prison, produced by foolishly extreme dualistic beliefs, he longs to escape and starts to enter a deep and dark state of malign meditation, to rid his existence of world and self. Although he is staring into a mirror I am not yet sharing his perception therefore I still am devoid of any visual information. The knowledge of these events although unattained by any logical means is that which I mentioned I am in possession of beyond a rationally sensible means. The knowledge obviously not gained even vicariously empirically considering the complete lack of physical, visual, details or descriptions. Now the story played back no differently than a memory of my own but because of time, setting, and no prior recollection of any events leading to or from the one there is no possible way it has happened in my life and must therefore be purely metempsychotic in nature. The young man who’s mouth was temporarily mine opened excitedly to blurt out an answer to his friend’s question of, “what is it?”, which was intended to be asked by the
prompting statement “holy shit! Something unbelievably mental just happened.” “It was crazy I transported myself not to another place but to no place. I of course could not comprehend what that would be like so my imagination did its job for the aid of my mind in rationally perceiving the experience. There was empty space everywhere without stars or anything and there were faintly glowing pink nebulous columns symbolizing the structure of the place I was located. I, my knowable self, was not there. I was in the bathroom but my deeper self, my individual consciousness beyond intellect and passion, my point of view was there. I had no body and time could not even exist. One thing I am aware of now was my absolute indifference. Not apathetic or cynical still unlimitedly compassionate yet still absolutely indifferent. There was nothing, no mental noise of any kind. A sort of nirvana, a wholly attainment, I was one with Brahman, a (from that point of view eternal and only from this point of view temporary) realization of my whole self only and forever existing within, being one with, and attaining the absolute. I believe I experienced the neither external nor internal state known as Moksha and many other inadequate names and now that I have had a taste I will never seize searching for that fix.” The listener wasn’t sure if his psychedelic speaker friend was bull shitting or just confused by the to alien to be understandable experience which was evident by the lack of understanding and excitement in his own nonverbal response. The requested extension of the brief metempsychotic paramnesia ends with the fleeting nature of an insignificant memory and the reality I almost forgot I am in creeping back from peripheral points inwards. Hearing that point of view on a descriptively similar place undefined by space makes me question the unauthenticated subjective nature of where I am and fills me with the hope that it is more than a mere inwardly perceived illusion, and the fear that if this is a truly objective higher place beyond any and all other specifically phenomenal objects the responsibility possessed and the matters at hand would be overwhelmingly impacting on a life now held in higher esteem than ever before where the slightest lack of prudence will damn my surviving essence to unforeseeable degrees. With my bearings gathered and the mental side effects kicked I snap back into it. Beyond the limits of mental exertion, stamina has left no trace of life in its abandoned camp grounds. The coals are cold and the bush has long since overgrown clearings of any kind. When I get back, if back is where I’m heading, there will be some necessary sedating. Euphoric intravenous forces the mind into hibernation and the soul into higher hiding places. Ominous waves of anxiety steadily become more frequent and grow in intensity disrupting the mystical state of equanimity and disintegrating the instinctual feelings of security associated with it. Mind state dependent on the shifting sensory gradient making the transition a slow transformation with no transitional phase or stage bridged between to ease the change. The unnerving feeling of something deadly in the shade in which I am suspended is reaching its own extrinsic finality by harbouring microscopic android pirates into my ageing empty vessel. They rape and pillage all that is found leaving only broken empty picture frames hanging by bent nails on blood painted walls and heaps of cadaverous memories hidden in closets, behind beds, and swept hastily under rotting rugs. The different odours of the mould left to grow remind me of the stale sense tied to the infectious symptoms of the sickness.
1.3.2 The feeling of what is to come is contradicted by the lack of any apparent external antagonisms. My original precepts regarding the unfolding events have long since evaporated from the oil spill puddles decorating the marble floor of my mosaic psyche and now a thin surface polish of doubt and curiosity allow the truth to reflect down from the skylights into my downward facing eyes. The battle is not of one against another or of one against all others but of another type of desperate struggle. In form he then appears. A Shadow beckons me into darkness arousing my only vital suppressed desire. The challenge is the seemingly impossible, where one must refuse to let go although there is nothing to hold on to and continue to go on despite all the tractor beam howls of the struggling conscience. In a state of sympathetic omnipresent awareness the suffering and futility of cyclical existence would bring one to the obvious inevitable conclusion if it were not for the single significant variable that is irrational freewill. With the choice laid out in front of me I would assume I have only to choose one or the other looking blindly past any other possibilities. Symbolically the existential, philosophic or religious, ascetic or indulgent question lies backwards, inverted through perception, the one question that life depends on is a trick question the partial awareness of its tricky crooked nature leads many to believe there is no answer or that it is simply out of reach of human comprehension. The Shadow grows stronger and remains, obstinately attempting to make me choose which path to follow. I can give into selfish sin, survival, or take the step into the infinite which some have said is the choice taken by the indifferent enlightened one but that is still choosing and having preference. Too far from somethingness into nothingness which is not where the absolute lies but in the non nothingness which would be the balanced middle way. I choose not to choose but to will out the enemy who waits with a noose tied to the hour hand of the clock in the sky. I tell him I’ve won and he may feel free to try whenever he likes as long as the time is right. The macroscopic mental conflict resolves itself temporarily by my withstanding the applied pressures and surviving my own overdramatic renunciations. There is farther still to go, they want me to come and join them still, but with this battle won I know I should be out of reach and can return to the renegade world I am trying to save. In the darkest depths of their urban fortress they psychologically manipulate me into arms with one I cannot destroy and is from me but representing them. The shadow is the parasitic inspiration for all the fallacious philosophical inquiries leading me down into a hollow pit of despair. He is here merely to confuse and destroy me, collected by the enemy from past emissions of excess thought and energy and organized into a separate being then transmitted into my heightened state of perceptions to be used as an inversed introspectional deconstructing beam. What a foolishly created organization of consciousness. Nothing is sweeter than the total annihilation of the unsubstantiated therefore unjustified intellectual arrogance by the means of a necessary conceptual deconstruction. Leave him whimpering, pouring pathos out his wounds, drowning in a man made lake of self pity. Face down ass up, left for the lesser fiends, the vultures. The victim’s body I take a last look at through a tilted mirror seen telescopically a few light years away in a universe much more phenomenally palpable than the present not above but below and within the dieing Demiurge. With loose ends tied up here I must be doing fine down below. I have no choice of
when I return or where I will be and have been in the mundane reality but if acting directly and all goes well when I enter back into the world of projected shadows on the wall I will be in an equivalent place to where I have gone since I was when I left.
================================================================ 3.0-------------------The Myth of His Holy Regenerating Organic Cadaver--------------------
Before and after when were anywhere Continuity lapsed and reason undistinguished Infinite space in infinite time though neither yet themselves, fundamentally beginningless Chaos in darkness bred embryonic star seedlings Seven in number, Seven in color Seven in sound, the same in sources The lawlessness gradually loses its apprehension With spontaneous creation by probable cause in the time span of eternity the first law of relation follows in necessary order with the creation of something from father maybe and mother nothing Breath the breath of life Exhale the same of death Turned the self to a string to be and weave through the heavens The holy yarn unofficially holding nature together Buried deep under every moment and woven through every melody Rotting through time and sinking in land Stretching, spanning, dividing, Bending, Though never breaking Under, in, and amongst all
================================================================ 4.0-----------------------------A Secret Society of Secular Gnostics----------------------------Meeting times and places are completely unscheduled with faith in naturally spontaneous fated outcomes for the reason that they are much more reliable than the chaos of attempting to construct a rationally organized façade of causes as actions. Communication consisting of messages past personally from one to another on street corners, cross walks, escalators and walkways. Always ready and prepared if not then the specific opportunity will be missed, potential outcomes destroyed irreparably. Notes sown secretly in jacket pockets made impossible to find but easily accessed to the initiate for easy transference in the rush of a walk by fluke chance freak act of fate, accidental rip letting the letter fall as an unanticipating but slightly expecting other reaches out a hand to find a fallen piece of the puzzle, for example. Oil spills on penguin tails or chalky jet black blazers of sacrificed silk worms typically accent the anti authoritarian scholarly self denied artistocratic metaphysical revolutionary. Equipped to the bone with a controversially contradictory anti-sophist arsenal. Nothing’s perfect in this world or any other up to a distance of at least three worlds away in any given direction, up, in, down, or out. Recognition of fraternal relations is beyond a physically visual memorial description and instead relying on resonating vibratory interpretations. The sign is sensed strongly by relatable carriers with the strongest subtle psycho-social-spiritual affinity. Different eyes with the same something inside are the most obvious physical giveaway. Coincidently stylish standardized aviators over the eyes in covert situations keep iris scanning identifiers in place and out of the way. Not dwelling in secrecy for the reasons of ancients but for the avoidance of total annihilation through assimilation. The institution for the collective development of mankind was burnt to the ground following up a police investigation for massive stashes of, at time of attack blatantly planted, entheobotanicals. The fight is a struggle, the battle is more of a constant stream of attempts to recover from stumbling. A hand on the back pushing down, a force on the gut pulling closer, jagged gravel undesirably beckoning. Relation between the object falling and that being fallen towards is elastic wanting only to retract back to basics. Conservative direction is natural law, to return to Origins alone. The unequivocally negative, posterior decline, the other side of the parabola. We are all working towards something we know is there. We aren’t agents, organized or anything close to arrogant enough to self describe as intelligence. The
missions accepted are inspired through insight. The pay is a lack of guilt enough to sleep at night. Once shown the truth, the lie, the reality, duty becomes predominate to everything. This line of work makes the great divide even greater. Closest equivalent to a peer human companion would be Fredrick the inventor. He who has dreams as a child of technological advancements required to facilitate digitalmental interface lingering through life hanging on by threads of triggers in memory. “… its because all the funding goes into the development of cosmetics and television sets instead of psychology, philosophy and the exploration of consciousness” he would shout an inch away with a delicate mixture of gin and vehemence strong on his breath; while always supporting self and habits by the selling off of different devices. Dream recorders a hot seller, next to his various pharmaceutical creations causing experiences ranging from waking temporary prophetic revelations to lucid dreams sprinkled with the direct effects of varying aphrodisiacs and stimulants. Met accidentally when both noticed the exchange of a hand written note normally transferred unnoticeably. “Ah ha, how aware are you?” he said expecting any number of distinctly separate infinities of possibilities. Instantly understanding he must know at least as much as I think I do about this unsolvable mystery involving every person unknowingly I reply hastily, “enough to know its rare if one passively utilized participant becomes consciously aware of the actions involving himself, and this encounter of two symmetric anomalies on parallel journeys both in the exchange having been trying to document the ostensibly organized interpersonal game of chance exchanges of random information is equivalent to finding a microscopic needle in a megaverse of haystacks.” this was years ago now. Now is of greater relevance - “Fredrick you ought to feed me some new brain candy.” Downtown amongst the waves of weird where schools of strangers hustle and bustle like clockwork we sit cross legged in half lotus and let the change take affect, welcoming the waves of sunburst euphoria. Fixed on the hum of each others vibrations our brain waves do the dance of nubile entities both attempting to harmonize magnanimously for the holy synthesis of fine channelled energies not of this realm but of this world. With eyes closed every passer-by glows incandescent variations ranging up and down the left side of the spectrum, as we perceive the warmer aspects of their person. A darkened diminishing source of light slowly passes by with an aura of darkness cooling the fires surrounding. A microcosmic black hole spiritually draining observers actively though not consciously, and rather undesirably. A lost life inspiring the inner euthanasiast in me to grab a knife and stalk it into a back alley haven. Do the poor soul a favour, save him from hell, liberate his soul from its forsaken body and mind. The worst part is the unwillingness due to the primary problem, his obstinate self deciding inability of disillusionment. A moral conundrum to help one who wants what is not good for them. To help someone or to give one what they want. The morally logical answer is to do good rather than feed temptation but the golden rule rules out lucidity of choice in favour of the lesser. Fredrick’s gone without a farewell, the only excuse is an uncontrollable irrational paranoia. Not excusing completely the person making the choice to give in but a good enough reason to engender pitiless moderate sympathy or understanding. Don’t blame him much, an outstanding humanitarian citizen never harming anyone but if bumped into by an official drone or badge for bureaucracy enough variety in separately packaged substances to pay for room and board in a six by nine cell for twenty five to life. Theft or assault deems a slap on the wrist while picking a particular flower or fungi can instantly vanquish
all material freedoms living only a Mandelan piece of mind with the ceaseless application of unwavering effort. Botany and biology are censored and controlled to a federal degree. No texts for public, predated publications burnt up just like in that other book, which they‘ve also burnt with all of the like. Left alone then to ponder the minutes I recently squandered I write a poem on the palm of my hand to ease my mind, appease the voice inside, and cease the grind of neural friction the number one reason for system melt downs, those mini microcosmic nuclear holocausts. Deciduous trees with no secrets have eyes peering down into unending depths of the soul relinquishing the confusion spawned from ignorance of the true nature and relation between the one and others. One spot for days the park bench has become me. Now melting into it and the surrounding just petrified in awareness of the moment and its beings. Staring close enough to see weeds sprouting slowly but surely from the hard dead ground. This park is a child bearing zombie. The worst kind, only randomly appearing in a pathetic and desperate unwanted sequel. “Go home.“, a voice chimes in. Go. Where is that? I am how can I be other than what is, I am. He fed me Amisare2b. Stimulating total self awareness. Trying to leave the park of shadows, mirrors block every direction. Walking around them they don’t move but are already there. Cant be real. Cant walk through them. The image reflecting is appearing to become increasingly frantic. Starting to seem threatening causing great discomfort. Black glossy pupils darting to bull’s-eyes rapid fire automatic weapons always superfluously effective. Overkill always and there’s no chance of failure, no chance of survival, survival’s no longer an only option.
================================================================ 2.1---------------------------------From inside the skull is sky-----------------------------------The places where sunspots burnt in timeless images of impersonalized reflections are marked off through open eyes like crescent moon temples leaning over the ocean. Illuminated Lighthouse replicas fall tumbling down into cosmic beach shores where the chaos breaks to hurl pink seashells against barnacled teeth. Explosions of shell and mystery flesh in new years celebrations of flying pyrotechnics fill the fogless sky. Beachside disasters one after another are reoccurring with every new move through the rainbow. All red, the images enflamed in their selves. Simultaneously stars falling into the ever changing center of attention. Looking differently I see a perfect green wheel spiralling out of every composite thought. Deeper still the monadic framework in lightning white blue traces the history and infinite ties of the objects to every relation. Empty images in wasted words, Nothing’s empty, an elusive essence. The fixed abstract flamingo fandangle makes the invisible pink unicorn seem so much closer. Think twice before... …the truth in layers makes itself tangible. …the lost boys return home for the ever …that rhythm falls down in tempo, a spiralling down beat …releasing the organs, the heartbeat, the drummer …revolting against the slave master of the gallows All I ever see are the same damned sights like a patient’s brick wall window view in Hitchcock’s terminal ward. The troubling aspects may be that immobility has no relation to me but the negative yet no matter how far the distance traveled it is only ever orbital and never farther, never higher. Same distance away from the inward point destined to distance. The unchanging point of view must drive countless others completely crazy. Chest down, lower torso growing in amount of visual space taken while stretching farther away, eyes at the tip of a tunnel looking down on the rest. Observations of this consciousness altered, lifted up to alternative abodes, they seem to be somewhat aware of the ridiculousness and incomprehensibleness of the unquestioning of such an unchanging and permanently fixed physical point of view so vital to every waking experience. They most likely have no clue to why they find the self ontology worthy of questioning and so bewildering for even if it is through the manifested question consciously aware of due to limitations, the bridged forms as unformed subconscious questions are only appearing as examining. Examining the hands as a focused object of attention towards the unknown question. A universal trademark of the decently high. The anti-drug war mongers’ propaganda claims the action is due to a lack of current understanding for the seemingly alien limbs functionality, or for a fear that there is something fatally wrong with them. Too few long to understand the ties between the drug induced mind and that of the divine.
2.1.2 I walk with a simulated slightly lame leg, squirrelly eyed, “need a fix” gait to not attract unwanted attention and because it is in good fashion, damning the effects of subconscious conformity hobbling so fashionably. As long as I avoid aura intensity proximity sensors and keep my mental defences up to keep them out I usually make it from a point to be with relatively no trouble, other than the normal hassles of thieving cons and drunken madmen with to many things to prove to no one in particular. Looks like my havens reached with curfew met. The front door demands a plasma sample to identify and disengage electric frames keeping hordes of pillagers out of the landing. The automated “No loitering, littering, visiting, soliciting, yelling or screaming, bleeding or needing absolutely anything here, absolutely no exceptions.” sign flickers off and on in flashes of piss yellow neon. 2.1.3 The 47th floor is where these dusty footprints lead my feet. When habits take over the mind will rest until the routine pattern is interrupted by an unexpected environmental interference. The elevator is in a constant state of maintenance giving the cold cement spiralling steps unwanted attention and the journey up Jacob’s ladder every evening epitomizes innate inanity; seeing the same somnolent souls rising slowly back to where they descended from at day’s draconian dawn. Faces lacking life like features with sparkleless eyes and stone sealed lips sometimes speckle the corridor of otherwise empty space. Analytic, sterile, and icy apathy developed as a result of psychological study as the polar effect compared to it’s warmer intuitive counterpart. The majority has the prior learned as a survival skill to undermine and defend from exploitation while the later is more of a burden than a blessing when the only other bodies of consciousness to sense and interact with mentally misinterpret every preverbal thought and representing action communicated due to the sadly pessimistic stubborn self interested trap of a paradigm, The Sickness Incorporated. Never once seen a soul obviously uninfected in my building, its even harder to say so without generalizing especially considering everyone’s born in a cesspool conceived at a cost amidst a live feeding frenzy. No one is clean. Born slightly sick, external influence help the infection thrive inside. A perfectly designed virus it knows just where to go and does the most damage to the most vital defence first, after a while all hope is lost and it is one with it’s host. The Doors are damp and gloomy and the fabricated materials seem to age like old flesh. My portal opens with a shoulder shove and the rustic smell of comfort and familiarity put my mind at ease. I watch the record spin around and suffocate the obstinately ceaseless voice refusing to die trapped inside. Self direction fails. Try again. Setting right? – Red lights reflecting off bare white walls tinted darkly – A sea of sounds filling up an empty vessel – incense burning Holy Ghost smoke spirals – desperation for salvation – Setting right? – Setting left me nothing but a headache and nausea. Tremors, sweating, unbearable discomfort localized mostly in the legs I’d leave behind, the voice of the tormenter needs to rest. Shuffling uncontrollably, hours past since the first attempt to rest my head and shut my eyes. Time is the only problem in the equation, not a problem to solve but a problem to dissolve. If only meditation would work the rest would be found. Found countless different methods, all said to be perfected, flawless, all to be as useless as the next. There is a drastic reason for this innate inability.
Something other than the next best thing, pushing itself out of the womb, is waiting on the other side. Across the land of time in a pagan shrine there lies a myth of a dieing god. Beyond finitude of papyrus scrolls and chiselled stone the message stays in the song of the ancient oak grove. In him, in his bones His blood and his throne His means, his ends A terrestrial moan 2.1.4 Vines break through to entwine his bones with the earth and his pages crumble under the pressure of storm. Elemental damage takes its many tolls over fractured millennia repeating cyclically. Natural repetition exchanged for salvation, bound to the frosty glaze of the grown mutation. The progression of cycles orchestrating the cosmos places the weeds to dress his left body up right. A lotus cracks through just between and above the eyes to blossom perfectly protecting his mossy alabaster skull. His skeletal shrine is no place for the weary, where the sun shines darkly feeding the weeds a nocturnal lullaby, the atmosphere is thick enough to asphyxiate any unfortunate wandering Atlanteans. The nocturnal journey to my macabre Mecca is as unsettlingly familiar as it was the first time. Assuming there was a first time. Its hard to convince the self there was a first time when the same scene plays through the same precise way beyond time immemorial. The same thoughts thought and the same new understanding comes to me, momentarily as, for the first time until the next moment when the more real and recent realization encompassing the prior come into being, as into my being or my conscious awareness of it’s being or existence, and wipes it’s intrinsically teleological fallacious prerequisite but extrinsically essential step in the development of the newer understanding of itelf into an oblivion of negation by the instant flood of memories pertaining to the events exact enfoldment countless times before. Even the memories of realizing the current understanding that is remembering the forgetting of all the countless times the exact episode had reoccurred will keep the mini mental karmic wheel turning. Stuck in nightmarish déjà vu, where despite all efforts at a rebellion of fate the reactions remain the same it isonly after the choice is made that awareness of failure embraced and recognized. The cycle or ignorance, awareness, possession of knowledge, forgetting, the death of memory, the death of an idea’s conscious coherence, then the resurrection of the object temporarily lost to darkness by means of reuniting it with the self through the active principle of awareness and perception like a badger wont let go. The universe remains where from inside the skull is sky - The eyes are stars rivers flow from – crystal’s fall down - heaven sent - inundating desolate meadows Bringing to life what may come - macrocosmic Adam Cadmon caught crying blood for lost lovers – exposed in front of all the guys – universal pantheon - gossip over poker – whose got the best story? – dirty secrets are the most intriguing – to the drama hungry – superficial domination – of the dirt - of the clay – broken seal of ancient moulds – creative process – only truth in mystery - abandoned in meditation – the seed is sown – sun brings light - what a sight – the almond tree blossoms – harvest comes – crucified histories Stigmatic relics - neck worn pendants – street side peddlers drive hard bargains - holy
communion – emptied vessel - quenched the thirst – Dionysian excess – love confusion – inebriate to disillusion - Nubian heretics tip the balance – leaning Libra – balance breaking - curtains burning – shadows falling – symbols growing – teething - feeding – breeding – seeming – being - meaning – nothing – none - no - more … Fidgeting restlessly, tormented idiosyncratically is like trying to sleep with a full head of psychedelics and a gut running only on uppers and table sugar. A cure for the non existent illness is still in the early stages of development. In the other room patience is tying the noose tighter and tighter. I would aid her if my hands weren’t tied so tightly. Cut circulation engenders arterial emancipation. Time is the last burning bridge leading into an electric estuary where Styx feeds the molten seas. One thing when time drags herself with partially shattered limbs across mile long closed hospital halls but when her breathing stops and pitch fork prods poke unresponsively into her soft sides reality is then conceived as an inescapable concept swallowing whole to hold till no when. To lie in waiting staring at a stubborn clock refusing to move, the moment of maddening despair suspended over stellar life spans, purgatory, a forgotten unfinished fate, greatest fear, only danger when dead are dear, death as salvation is an eagerly awaited and welcomed friend in this inescapable only alternative to an end.
================================================================ 2.4-------------------------Retrospectively Comparative Analysis-------------------------------A lack of absence of street side apostles would aid the populous out of its dismal trenches, not a permanent fixture but a temporary jumpstart to get word release active again. Thinking back to partially deteriorated times when every other face’s direction was upwards and the sun would bring reflecting eyes to life, communication was ripe and active, thought transfer’s sound effects echoed in ambient chorus. I would fear drowning in a rapidly flowing sea of life, living strangers not bad but busy, awareness at the time being so low and obtuse combined with the lack of sense perception under par with existing, more can be seen now with the will to direct the focused field of sensory traded for critical analytical skills and information loss due to times erosion. More recent memories of studying home movies helped fill in the blanks with captured events, time imprinted onto a disk, digital memory is much more reliable than the biomechanical. A rear porch over backyard angle shows a miniature madman running naked in circles with a backdrop of evergreen tips licking the skyline. Born in 08 the trees stand strong while corporate culture is budding. That same angle a few years later half a dozen green giants speckle newly made backyards of newly moved neighbours in similar houses. A decade again and the thunder comes from the ground leaving a clearing to pave over and start construction for an economically motivated individual, pay in credit instalments and the destruction of pieces cut from the universal. Haven’t seen the old forest from that angle in years. From the inside looking out, from an old imagined blind spot in the center of the development I can stand on a square segment brightly lit and watched by multiple closed circuit cameras. From the center all’s looking any which way all walled in, the walls are surrounded by an acre of parking lots beyond them roads, lights, signs for more parking encompassed by wide walls which couldn’t be of any less significance, either way its just more crap I don’t need, most likely doing me more harm than good. The cold metal bench below steals my heat, greedy and possessive untrained natural instincts inspire dwelling on or going strait on to an unmade plan of action regarding the preservation of what’s mine and ceasing the unwilling sharing, this distributing of warmth. Like a child with its yet to be played with ball if one tries to take it. Iv noticed most of man are children in more ways than not. Mankind is an offensive overstatement, unless defined by an undeveloped cynical realist the more accurate term should connote the developmental stage achieved by the average human being, childhood at best, adolescence generously. Mankind has nothing to worry about, nothing to fear. They are entirely saved already if self aware and in so being consciously acknowledging Man‘s freedom. Childkind, making the first step towards the last. 2.4.1 The telescoping nature of manifold realities while perceived to be indefinitely symbolic of and representing an untransformed parallel truth, sharing aspects, origin, and meaning only existing in transmuted situational relativity, makse me feel as if I’m falling through fractals consisting of an infinite chain of fractured mirrors and stained glass windows rather than multiplied forms of shapes and colours. Restlessly falling for a time undeterminable, from a point unimaginable feels as if every aspect of waking up from
falling in a dream to lying on something familiar, were perfectly inverted. The later is far from rare, a strange universal tendency which is another aspect being the best example of it’s symmetric polarity. This commonly encountered mental vestigiality is one of many, and those are some of many more to surely be lying latent undiscovered. All the courses for Vestigial Psychology are under complete control of the United Academy. No publicly released publications of any text even hinting at the subject. Too many subjects’ knowledge is under direct control of the Republic. Wisdom is kept in a safely locked chest while the key is ironically kept by the unwise and foolishly unlearned faithful keepers. Lessons of ethics to teach that food cannot be in the hands of the hungry, money in the purses of the poor, nor necessity be vanquished from the needy. Fame firmly established in the online cult of religious role playing games, I am a weekend warrior, a pagan moon worshiper on rainy Saturdays. Fake days drive some crazy while others settle in comfortably. Those who cant handle the encapsulating gravity of phenomenological emptiness fill the void with frivolous addictions and trivial obsessions. Some have trouble seeing the nature of the game being played. The true essence of it, what that means in itself and in relation to the I, the this, and everything. Seeing all this started with the perching of self on a far too familiar but distantly visited bus stop bench. One visited by someone unlike myself, a child with the same name, the same eyes. He saw colours and light, heard birds and joyous conversations, smelt budding fruits, vegetation, open air, felt the inspiring energy of life and its optimistically endless winds of opportunity. The seat was a park bench, the pillars were giant bonsais in planter pots, before the walls of windows on skyward cement infrastructures were mere seedlings. Some fully developed, modest, homed, owned, two floored, dwellings were derooted at cost to make way for the humble seedlings, the first of the titans. The blue and white cow spotted sky would stretch as far as the imagination would let it, stretching across all the universe if only forever.
=============================================================== 2.3----------------------------Bureaucratic Necromancy-------------------------------------------
Channels of orgones, ions, mana, and odes are magnetically localized to federal service centers, all traveling on different levels and frequencies, taking different paths, all headed in a single direction. Some travel sporadically, some precisely, yet all in perfect harmony. Waves or streams, seen in form from barely visible faded photons to misty aquamarine phosphorescence. The mechanically mined and distilled resources, fossil fuels and gases, are used to run the front end of the show, the other energies collected questionably are partly used for further research into the field of artificial biomechanical pseudo psycho management systems but are mostly used to support the habit of the most hungry, scourging the planet for that ultimate-entheo kick, purest life/death fix for the sickly rich with nothing to lose but over obsessive selfish and sinful thriving for serial century survival. After supernatural laboratory light speed processing the resulting product is a condensed and more manageable form isolated in crystal containers. A United Service Center is located dead center in every single square city grid, dwarfing all constructed structures and competing with the atmosphere’s outer most limits not for proximity to the heavens but for distance from a terrestrial hell. The identical obsidian centers orchestrate the surrounding sea of chaos, towering out of eyesight and rooted below the deepest level’s where biological life cannot survive the crushing pressure and the exothermic toxicity. Crazy street side conspiracists scream beliefs that the city halls are columns supporting an oppressively clandestine holographic sky. Too far gone into madness, the pitiful fools waste their words and life away outside their cage completely constrained. They’ve lost all logical faculties. They could easily be dragged away if they were any bit of a danger to the force they shamefully fail to engage but they are instead, a fate in their eyes worse for its epitomizing failure, ignored. The reasons the silently screaming martyrs are left to waste away are methodological limitations. To send armed forces and make a commotion causes unexpected unrest and would be a costly task. Transmitting false antipathetic waves associated with the target, the lunatic philanthropist, and aimed directly at any observers aware of his raving antics by sensing conscious tentacles probing the original targeted object. It’s all very simple and much more logical to remove the threat itself rather than the cause of the threat. I notice this when I try to give a piece of time to the mad man’s just cause and I find my thoughts, despite logical psychological self examination and the personal beliefs I maintain before focusing on the fading star, heavily influenced by the unwanted feelings of insignificance and apathetic ridicule aimed at the blurry waste I regarded so differently before sustaining his image in the mind with eyes fixed and attention submitted. One particular self sacrificed lost cause inspiring a second thought is a regular fixture in the daily routine of imprisoning duties. His name is Jacob and has long since lost his mind in every manner. In a trademark screaming banter he bellows “The end is not coming, It is Here!” over and over all day long, the one duty diligently six days a week. Sunday is a day of rest he devotes to the loyally served God Head praying for strength and praying his divine communicational skills are not lost in his dysphasic abyss. I have spoken with him once, anymore would be pointless. Beyond the point of any communication, there is no barrier between the two objects trying to communicate. There are no two objects in any relation to each other at all, by a subjective definition of existence to both objects acting as a subject in the equation. Confusion dominates and directs the delusions driving his devotion. Clammy, scabby skin, lanky joints with sporadically spread out tumescent mysteries, scarce and scattered collections of knotted threads looking lathered in crude oil
all deviously decorate the saddening sight. Eyes sunken deep in a deteriorating mask of the same pale mustard yellow, the only outline making the camouflaged eyes distinct are the enflamed pink rings cracking and swollen separating the malignant emerald organs. Since perceptual sensing ray priority is so high on any observing him too much attention can never be given or a world of trouble would arise but from the casual glimpses the observer is safe from exposition and only subject to a stomach turning pity which is the only thought tied to the roughly related image of him. Unknown if the undesirable emotional and mental reaction is for his lack of living, ostensible failure by the analyst’s standards, or his reeking stench of death, all which are one and the same and equally as much so diverse. The old dieing fool is running out of time and he knows it more than anyone. Keeping track of his numbered days has been occupying my mind’s time in a pleasantly morbid manor. Today is the day which zero entitles. Called in sick, would never miss this. Waiting across four lanes of traffic and glancing over periodically. The hacking coughs shake his bones, looking as if his razorblade frame will any moment tear through the thin film membrane stretching like saran rap any moment the contents of which will litter the already soiled cement. My feeling of solitary isolation flickers off momentarily, someone else here shares part of my reality. Something’s up. Looking official in an unblemished vogue black suite, ironed collar partnered with matching seems, no visible scars, all dead give aways of an undistinguishable disposition, this tool is up to something. Jacob’s martyrdom is coming to an awe inspiring blossoming. The rose unfolding, its innards exposed for the sun’s blessings. Down on one knee unable to hold up the body that has lost hope far before the will driving it even considered to. Blood is dripping down his inanimate chin giving it the illusion of a temporary liquid rejuvenation. The line of release for the bile and blood being evoked out of his neglected toothless oral cavity mirrors the line of vision and attention in the final reaching for holy unity with the tip of his chapped nose as a horizontal axis of asymmetry. The one pulpy stream of liquidized organics representing the temporal essence returning back to where it came from and the other stream of existential liberty uniting the quintessential will beyond individuality back to where it came dividing the body in vertically bilateral symmetry. The most beautiful scene ever imagined. There seemed to be no traffic for the moment giving me a clear view to burn this godly image deep into the mental tablet, my most protected treasure. Before I think to run across and salvage the pre-cadaverous holy idol a white cube van screeches to a stop blocking him from my vision. A hum is heard, louder and closer. The hum of a white noise policing engineered demigod. The van’s wheels screech away while simultaneously all senses are lost in over stimulation. The Protector, the van, and Jacob are gone. The scarless man is not quite, walking away from point of action suspiciously casual. I need answers. Curiosity and courage are forgotten virtues, seen as ineffective and adolescent, a cultural taboo due to a general lack of insight on the subject and fear of the unknown and unsure. Following him to an unmarked entrance, realizing I may lose my chance I blow the cover and call after him. Left with only an expressionless look for the soul purpose of retrieving visual information the abandoned landing forebodes further investigation. A crow rests on a nearby branch just to stare me down until I leave this quarter acre for a remote park bench. There will be no funeral for my departed and distanced friend. Distanced in levels of coherence, from somewhat of objective viewing grounds, and from the taken for granted
sense of realism. The body has left the visible world, taken to the next unknown where it will be first dissected, then the self grossly trisected, body, mind, and soul. The first third dissected again and again until there is nothing much more than a fine subatomic substance to be exported in a crisscrossed cooler marked “undone”. The second backed up onto unofficial third party hard drives. The third if not caught precisely right then slipping away into infinity where it loses any sense of self and is one with the others to maybe spontaneously pop back into existence when a spark is needed to jump start another evolutionary process. An informal, “farewell my friend” sent via praiseworthy one footed pigeon who occasionally goes by Sir Timmy the Monopod with no mutual friends and relatives no more distant than a foot or two but sure to meet Jacob on the other side soon enough, is the only jest left to offer. Left in the place replacing the crow, gargoyle watchers watch the disappearing acts first hand and they aren’t the most easily fooled folk. Their monolithic stone statures represent providence. The crow waits in the sky circling the two of us. The Crow wishes everything was black, the Pigeon that all was organic metallic shit stains and garbage. Raised by vultures, unaware of his prematurely altered nature, Sir Timmy circles and scavenges the trash littered parks for scraps of partially devoured abandoned cats, rats, mice and men. 2.3.1 Mind meld into the feathered father’s form. Free from physical restraints to fly unlawfully. Crimes of a cosmological rebellion defy the deified laws and limits. Prometheus, Icarus, Lucifer, and Cain all the same story with different cultural and contemporary twists. To challenge unchanging and die for rebirth. From the first thoughts of the first cause being a mistake or deviation, mutation, or of negative meaning in action the reaction is rebellion and the question is whether it be justifiable or heretical. Only thought of in fundamental times when oxymoronically desiring for progress back to the better old ways before degrading effects of time have taken place. The will as a mental homing pigeon ascending, I watch my body crumble in the park only momentarily, drifts through ethereal planes to find Jacob’s remaining incoherent essence. Relying purely on magnetism and attraction I must surrender to the flowing current of motion. Not as a point perceived from a stationary perspective but as that point stretched in a direction through space or through time, either one are efficacious to exemplify the act which remains the same in its basic form despite the features formed and fractions deduced, or viewed in a second dimension that line as a point is only illusion due to the angle of the observer in relation to it. All the lights aren’t points but lines stretching from the past relative location to the distanced present. The city seen through photographic eyes set on an extended exposure time. Pink, amber, red, and white streaks tear trough black lit night lives outlining ghostly figures in incandescent luminescence. Only sense left intact is an unalterable trans-ocular visual receptiveness. Point of focus lost in a trade for an objective omniscience as if eyes where around the head and every independent piece of information in the peripheral was simultaneously comprehended, brought into existence, sustained and fixed into the awareness of a multi eyed god machine. An orb of consciousness, detached from the sensory organs, completely independent to perceive any object in it’s being reflecting the light of it’s essential being into an anything willing to
experience the other and accept its state. The point of observation unbound by a limited focal point in distribution of attention, I am, shoots through the streets like an electrical charge. The traveling speed beyond matters potential, the cause of the tracers and streaks of light stretching from the horizon in which direction I’m headed to the abandoned horizon lying behind. The speed and inertia are building exponentially. A force similar to gravity starts becoming more present. I notice a curve in my direction, I try to redirect but steering off the determined course seems futile. A thousand moments and changes in the span of a second. The first being thoughts of fear, the second feeling angst for not knowing what I will be in a few more. The third to onward through the thousands consisting of noticing increases in speed, doubts in adherence, reason dismissing the doubts, the process repeating in invariable differences but the same general motions ending and starting in the same irrationally dismissed synthesis. After the infinite second in time and miles of concrete curbs passed the speed, angle, a sense of dissemination climax in a cosmic crescendo and the means of transport is gone like the lost precursor of itself, another step in the cycle now left dead in memory’s garden. 2.3.2 Systems are flawed, loop holes are found, if not found then created through the massive exploitation of a small imperfection. Concentration of essence compressed into as small and dense of a form as possible. Using methods similar to those used by astral projectors the body shrinks away in dismal dissociation. The I detached from the point of view perceiving the I, like the detached weight on the end of a silver fishing line, becomes like a separate agent of will and perspective, a point of view without any sense of self. If the body were to be disturbed in the moment all attention would be diverted and all intention lost, all progress discarded and over inertial nausea would be the only reality maintainable. Walls are not present as they were before. External objects all appearing prephenomenally. Every aspect like that in a mathematical system with spatial relations less prevalent and perceivable due to a non graphic form and appearance. Normal is what seems so manipulated and distorted compared to currently relative side of the same reality. Surroundings and direction comprehended visually due to human’s state currently dependent on visual information for construction of data into relatable ideas. Every anything as a single representation. This is all I see. The connections of the concepts govern all physical traits, from locality, to action, from appearance to any abstract state. A grid of glowing spheres on a grid beyond physical dimensions allowing an infinitude of connections between vastly separate sources without interruption or tangled confusion. I’ve been here before. Seen this before. As a child on outlawed substances. I described it as the ideal world beyond the veil of material perception. The knowledge, which is always present but inactive, of how to interpret a seemingly impossible to humanly comprehend ontologically systematic reality I appropriately stumble upon in a forgotten corner of my mind falls wet and warm in my lap. The logic activated sheds a new light on alien and abstract pure forms of coherence, disintegrating illusions of incomprehensibility and illegitimate substantiality. The natural flow and legibility seems a priori in the sense that it is an unclouded system of
interpretation and must be what it is in its very nature. Nothing more, nothing less. =============================================================== 4.1------------------------------Graveyard Guard------------------------------------------------I attempt to avoid cliché scenes without desperately trying to live an intentionally original life but the allure or value of certain opportunities easily overpowers foetal desires to avoid the objects incompatible with biased preconceptions and antipathetic self scrutinizing stereotypes. When I climb over my lesser judgemental pieces of mental scrap I find myself doing what I want for whatever the reasons to, not, for, or against, may be. The 4am cemetery stroll fills me with an unchanging magic. Primordial energies, savage and ancient vibrations entwine my nerves and lace my bones, waking the serpent, power, the potential slithers resting under the surface. Certain things happen and functions change, altering more permanently than hoped for and expected. Some things will never ever be the same again, lesson learnt a thousand times, always different, always just as painful and unique. I’ve heard Time’s the bastard son of death veiling the most precious moment out from under longing eyes. The son of something at the best of times described as incomprehensible, maybe a mage who trained this trickster. The illusionist waves his hand implying, you can no longer see it, therefore it is gone. Innocence, irretrievable due to time’s luxurious law. I take it back. Every word I read, wrote, said, every song heard or made, and every nocturnal trip, stumble, and fall’s recovery. I take it back in vain. Every step imagined to be on a glass bottom boat dance floor one way mirror ceiling from the other imagined observation deck below. Walking on faces six feet deep, ethereal melodies fill the simulated space around me. The moon’s just floating, it’s all so lovely, so calm, so placid and haunting. The faces though dead, empty of blood and soft tissue, are all imagined with glossy eyes and smiles wide. A slight smell of smoke warns of a guard working graveyards tired and hopeless with a name written in the sand just to be washed away as the waves break, written again and again in the eternal battle of duty and pleasure. “Land ahoy!” The captain bellows inside my vessel. I swim ashore, there are no other passengers in sight. The stars reflection in the water keep the phosphorescence company and the two parties sparkle in a stellar waltz. The beach fades into the material and grave pathway. Thoughts race - Questions rise - Whats fly - …does he know? …does he think? good or bad? Friend or foe? Either way the only thing to do now is verbalize our apparent mutual awareness. “Good evening”, I tilt my hat and nod, my head reading all reactions as a response because the square just stared without a word or human gesture offered in exchange for the small piece given of myself. Whether a response is gratuitous or not, compassion and respect are universal. How is it that lacking universality in the specific individual is the only observably reliable universal truth. Everyone has their price for defying humanity. The definition of human is in need of drastic alterations. The bodies left unburied decompose back to where they came millennia before forensic anthropologists stumble drunkenly over would be historically opulent goldmines.
The symbolic representation’s seeming significance may be due to the material reflections of higher systems. Any metaphysical truths, if meant to be understood, can be by the perceivable analogue. If something is not it is logically that, not to be understood. The monologue dictates thoughts to action. The dialogue recorded in mono loses potency and prospect. Stereo truth’s enhancing the long playing worlds of vinyl and the yard surrounding amplifies one of two options. My entrance would not be admitted with security dogs asking me to politely leave before I ask to come in. Lights and cameras to discourage action. The free unguarded disregarded resting ground is the dancehall of the neurotic zombie wannabe queens and lonely long haired balding virtuosos with stiff crusty trench coats and soft sweaty skin. He would be wrong to generalize. I am certainly none of the above: I am a gentlemen, coming for the kicks, only observing passively. Observation is more of an act than participating in mindless reactions which is more receptive and passive than truly active contrary to appearance and natural linguistic categorizing. I see the guard once again, this time not a word shall be spoken unto him. The dodgy bastard ought to be cured of his inflictions before infecting a catastrophic number of, in this specific sense assumed to be, innocent others with the sickness in its growing pandemic. Sour sons of bitches drive me mental with frustration, transferring emotional impressions unto me victoriously. Cant let them vent their endless array of problems and troubles. It’s quite heavy baggage, for such a long and timeless trip, I’d rather be without it. Out of the one gate down half a block and into the next on my mental list of curious visits for the night. The sight of falling fireflies triggers long lost ties to a time of stars in adolescent skies dieing one at a time. Not fading just falling down behind the horizon causing the famous Antarctic plastic tree forest fire, the fumes of which intoxicated all inhabitants of the lower hemisphere sending all breathers of air into an inebriated state of enlightened lust for love and knowledge to the point of animalistic vulgarity. Massive orgies in every library and learning institution which lasted days until the participants came to, naked and ashamed. That was another place in another time completely disconnected from this, other than the consciousness of each, by one being in the one and having been in the other in some sleeping dream state ages past with no causal ties or relations.
================================================================ 6.1---------------------Side Step The High Stepped High Voltage Currents-------------------In the belly of a Sunday afternoon with both beginning and ending equally out of sight I wait for my bus contently reading disguised contraband. Philosophy texts are passed around from hand to hand in underground networks where initiation is nearly impossible for the unintended but inevitable for those who beyond intentionality possess a fated disposition. Beautiful amounts of disgusting people cloud around the seat made mine. Disgusting amounts of beautiful people make fleeting appearances on the scene, usually lost in one way or another. None ever to completely captivating. The eyes on my face are always my own, surrendered to none, always under solid control they have learned to give nothing. Embarking on a journey to the future exception, a perilous advent towards an impeding anomaly, I wait for a siren to cast my body upon the barbed wire shores. The exception is now, now gone, and here again. Passing in and out of existence as other bodies pass between us, blocking the sun from the moon causing momentary black outs. The strange little epitome of perfection in seamless black tights and a perfectly complimenting wore-torn jacket defies all hitherto personal philosophies and attitudes, understandings and opinions. My siren, my muse, and sun all in one. The stoic life is surrounded in the beauty and peace of simplicity. The epicurean adventures bring fear and misery. The later is always so tempting despite rationality. To surrender to the irrational with faith is to submit myself before the highest and blaspheme in the only elevated way. The current moral conflict ironically brings another to mind. The inconvenience and tortures of a ceaselessly hyperactive mind seems too much to unnecessarily bare. A pill a day would do the job but that seems like anything but an answer. The farthest thing from a cure. A suppressive treatment like a lid sealed on a boiling pot. In this situation there is no choice again. I must choose one or the other. So far in not choosing I have chosen to choose not to pop and drug my most personal principle. Past moments and memories of overwhelming feelings shoot before tongue tied eyes from the left side to the right at superluminal speeds causing the episode to end before awareness of them even begins. Angelic inspiration caught an off guard heart square in the solar plexus with juggernaut force. I hear the breath of cupid fill my lungs and feel the effects trickle down through to capillary meridians. Instant high clears the mind. Forgetting to exhale - empty the prahna flooded lungs. The only negative balancing the emotional equation would be the fear in lack of reciprocity. No equilibrium of equanimity present in the past or present. Life long voyages leave the lust ravaged heart sordid and swelling resembling an amputated infection of a recently active sexual organ. Abyss black mirror eyes entrance my every aspect of thought. The incessant tormentor’s voice echoes away through valleys of the forgotten, cowering in the presence of this blinding white light. A Glimpse at my mental panacea, distilled to its purest form, it must be handled with caution and care in the wrong hands my life may be rerendered hopeless. Her fierce beauty scatters the mental scavengers. The eye of the storm parting a raging sea all around my self drawn confines, left in a bone dry desert of temporary safety and an impending rush of the apathetic water walls crushing down from all sides from miles up. The temporary state rationally seems more relevant than the not yet to be
moment, which is to be experienced after depending on the outcome of a depending number of possibilities. “Do you suffer?” asked spontaneously, void of precognitive inspection to judge likelihood of variables for interpretation, from a stranger without any prior recognition whose entire essence is coming into existence by an unexpected personally directed question and of such creepy, socially akward implication. Of course the information regarding the likelihood of interpretation is post cognitively activated. All hail king kamikaze. She stops and turns with an automatic cautionary finger on the trigger. The blade licks my neck by the time she is facing. Her eyes are sharper than a diamond Excalibur but the real danger is in the mastery of the one yielding the weapon. The prevailing “excuse me?” could have been anticipated if I dwelled for a second on the slightest plan of action. To late to back out now, if I cut the losses I’m back to nothing in a bit of the negative with the whole looking foolishly bit far too overwhelming. In a calm voice reinforced head to toe in ambiguity I repeat the question again but subtly more articulated. By now the desire unconsciously wished is fulfilled with awareness’s engenderment accompanied by the fulfillment. She surrendered to me her attention and in doing so was diverted off the regular course. Her words not meticulously chosen to maintain an unalterable image but flowing naturally representing an unrepressed and pure personality soothing a soul typically surrounded in facsimile interaction, speculative observation on authenticity of an interpreted contrast with a hidden intention. If in an appropriate conversation with one trusted, a long time loyal friend or a recently discovered over exhilarating mental infatuation with whom one foolishly placed faith, the lotus may bloom erratically. Roots can shoot deeper into subterranean alkaloid pockets where heavy metal poisoning anchors to devour by symbiotic disintegration. The pedals zealousness blocks the source of photosynthetic nutrition for itself and any unfortunate neighbours. Unintended processional suicide of the whole by the unbalance of a singular component striving to be greater or larger than life will allow. Pride and potential the pitiful downfall. Excitement incited action drives me wingless from the looking point. Porcelain dolls fall and gravitate expediently into the concrete floor below. Scenes end in shattered pieces, the noises of which relay the meaning, the weight, the reality of the priceless destruction. 6.1.1 She is watching me watch her moves and mine while I am doing the same plus noting the fact we are mirroring each other interiorly which is a given mutuality and cyclical completion by predictable unfolding trend of relation’s course and design. Put it all on pause, fantasy style, to take a quick look around, scope out the environment, any clear or present dangers. Only once in a lifetime never known fading faces, some of which have turned a bit to watch the strange episode in which I’m suddenly co-staring. All these eyes cover us in heavy blankets of awareness. I feel every extra layer lathered on then weighing down. What is she? If only I could see her less then truly. Now I’m blind so sight is valued even higher. Secondary impressions are essential for a broad and full perception but the typical means of the methodical connection is lost. A makeshift replacement with the least substantial difference seems to be interpreting the naked minds’ personal reflections of her without the factors predicted by the unambiguous physiognomic assertions, lucid and
legible on their simply strung faces like block letter alphabets on black board backgrounds. Midnight chalk moonlight. So I watch her watch them watch her, to use their eyes and use there minds. I learn the most when observing myself not observing but acting in the dual action of self awareness of self expression. The observation of the action of action’s observation which is to say merely observing the act of observing action makes time well spent and perception perceptible. A popular activity for efficient time passing while surrounded in human distractions. Objective external introspection is not easily attained, more difficultly sustained. If the state is maintained exospectionally the vital knowledge is then to be gained. In this awkward interaction resulting in immediate unfulfillment, obscure and otherwise unattained insights sprout forward from the milky nothingness floating between and enabling newly found possible potentials to be viewed and targeted. Trip far and hard, chemical psychedelics are outdated and unpredictable, left for the fiends, the addicted masses. Ontological tracers left from the early morning’s project: Experimenting with a mouth full of morning glory downloading Hegel’s phenomenology at 192 kbps via Digitalized Mental Thought interface. D.M.T. interface has changed the world I believe more than any other technological achievement. Not for most people or in a universal sense but the world to an individual conceiving the insight born of spirit and intellect colliding in supernova seen light years in advance. I judge their biased judgments with as much of an unbiased judgmental attitude as possible to get an accurate vision of the actual unclouded by thought fuzz perception lying behind and within the percept, the immediate kernel of truth to an unminded eye. I see grins of appreciation on the game hunters’ and perverts’ transparent faces, elusive eyes evading contact by the bashful and lonely while others of the same group with the same ocular organs project unashamedly ocean deep and outstretched evading evasion in a longing hope. Every other member of her same sex scans from bottom up, she is drowning anyone weaker in spiteful jealous disapproval. She must be beautiful. The game of catch with our words is turning into hot potato, we are somewhere between putting on a catchers mitt and throwing off the hockey gloves without the repetition of the prior and anger of the latter. Like a cliché romance flick of two lovers at a bus station where the camera spins around them in nauseating cheesiness, my point of view suffers a similar effect, an unconsciously motivated out of body action failing to depart and remaining in orbit gravitating around two dizzying bodies, trying to escape from this transaction and its unpredictable outcome. How she so sincerely asks what I feel is alienating. An unattainably simplistic expectation of feelings beyond limits of thought are too distantly abstract to articulate. Midway through description the matter of subject dependent on state and relative form transposes to an unplanned explanation as to why I have yet to and will not answer the question, transformation catalyzed by the delayed realization, the product of which was a simple, “I can’t”. I fail to explain that I am unable to tell her. I try to tell her I am unable to explain that I cannot tell her. Third time around she catches the train and follows the tracks back as far as they take her. The knowledge gained not of a destination but a direction. The direction is of primary importance, the destination merely a resulting illusion, a divinely
induced orgasmic perception. Trying to get to the bottom of anything, I need to know if she thinks I know how she feels. The knowledge of others’ levels of awareness plays a vital role in subconscious communication. Harvested opinions laced in perception are delicate and fragile, the sharpest dance around them flawlessly. Flashbacks of psychedelic nostalgia – what’s real is too much so, how strange it is. When reaching greatest extent of disillusionment I ask what she thinks I think she thinks of me. Thinking of myself as beyond temptation, beyond the powers of seducing desires only to learn I have as of yet not come face to face with a worthy embodiment of this creator/destroyer personification of desire. The sensual experience in a descriptive sense sets volumes ablaze and hurls minds into oblivion. Epic lochs long, deep and dark, Eyes pleading, forcing, and dragging mine into them. Dark crystal tractor beams lift weight off my feet and out of my crown. Awareness of a blood red light present and centered squarely between the sides, ribs and spine expanding outward producing more heat and less density in internal activity while sustaining equal density in energy. Burning away the butterflies with flaming wings, miniature seraphs making attempts at an incorporeal ascension. Flying too close to the burning sun above they share a fate to fall into a sea of bile and other acidic digestive fluids. Where does this savage butterfly hunter come from. Surely not here or anywhere near, the local apple trees are all diseased and produce nothing but bad fruit. 6.1.2 Cautiously goading a frail oneness in the verbal or mental act of creating laws of attraction and reaction, we all try to relate the personal in an attempted resemblance of unity to accept and embrace human nature. Those that don’t try to make the effort to try not to, which is still just the negative proving the positive existent. I know, she knows, we know. When the marks are seen, proven, and then believed we hum in sync inside. Love is…god is…you are….I am….now is… “Study up young man” I’d always hear, “No, not that nonsense out of the canon. It will get you nowhere.” He doesn’t know where it leads. Nowhere is a fallacy misinterpreted, listen closely to the symbols’ subtle vibrations. Grasp the truer meaning, dismiss the superficial. Dismiss all superficial. There are beliefs but no knowledge of where nowhere is or isn’t, known or not. Self made, boy made, self taught man. Self destroys the truest form, temporarily destroy the self to see what else is there outside the subject’s limited experience. Lets journey through to candy land on a trip through cosmonautical oceanic nebulae. 6.1.3 Make an effort to chart and document problem solving skills’ natural development. Observe the role predetermined played out fate plays in natural gifts, inclinations, innate potentialities, combined with the freedom of choice in regards to direction and will exerted as it synthesizes into a quantum variant. Fate in the general sense, yet to happen but guaranteed too, may be seen as predetermined only in the sense of the pre being a paradox
already decided by the subjects all knowing disconnected impersonal self and not before in the normal sense, chronologically within time, but pre as in before and beyond, somewhere in between the two. The determined aspect stripped of the divine other’s, or rather a concept’s, (causality’s) holistic responsibility, determinism or fatalism, while not fanatically jumping to the antithesis, putting faith in randomly probable chaotic outcomes. Solve the problem to a most reasonable outcome where there is a small subatomic space in which free will rests and will sometimes awake. Experimental extracurricular activities discovered for self motivated intentions of certain mental faculties’ further development. Bright neon signs emphasize necessity. Big bright lights sharing fundamentally exoteric knowledge and justly one sided unbiased economic advise. Coffee or burgers, beer or candy, the biggest and loudest is usually most convincing. Two for one exorcisms under half an hour or its free. Fast food, drink, sleep, sex, and sedative, chains are lurking patiently behind every street lamp. Backseat of a candy apple red convertible, our hands trace, retrace, and embrace retro tattoos from calf to chin. Together we scrape and devour falling fragments like serpents strangling every last ounce of passion out of a fighting, dying, struggling prey. From town to town, station to station, the wheels keep rolling out the carpet for fates unveiling. Playing chicken to win with precognition gives the kicks of chasing ill-fated defeat off the edge of hubristic cliffs. An adulated self depiction created and preserved in black ice mirror’s vice grip stands fixed in a vane vice emporium. Metaphorical preservatives self sustain metaphysical prerogatives. I’ve learned to use trick photography to capture the relentless apparitions. Black ice mirror masks never tell the truth, always manipulate for the better perception, the desired conception, telling sweet lies which never turn to cloy. Onlookers like what’s seen inside. I try to find the path to self, I believe its down the path of truth but the roadside messages misdirect me. Barbwire walled in highways make the desert wastelands inaccessible. Destroy the self to see and be what is not anything, a thing, or nothing. Strapped in beside a crash test dummy and the brick wall’s coming up fast. Something burnt in black block letters remains illegible. Seconds latter, seconds away from contact, the script becomes clear. A flash of an image burnt in annihilates my fictional existence, reading: “The thing in itself separate from anything and nothing, beyond objectiveness hidden deeper within interrelations, makes contact now, from something comes nothing in a moments transformation.”
=============================================================== 5.3------------------------------------Slick Shoes Rick--------------------------------------------A personable people guy, slick shoes rick is said to be. I'll see him within a good part of a minute, smiling cheery eyed with eager greetings projecting profusely from his porous soul. Most predominate, distinguishing feature is without a doubt his characterizing, through the roof, social intelligence. He knows enough to remain amiable while maintaining sincere authenticity. Most like him, with chameleon like capabilities in an overly adjustable manner, remain unaware of other's sensitivity to the sometimes pitiful psychological processes causing all, in the particularly relevant example’s case, efforts to be in vain. In the land of parapsychological superheroes from a purely social point of view x-ray vision, is easily one of the most valuable abilities. Normal folk have transparent eyes, windows work both ways. The ones made of marble, or maybe even mirrors are the more dangerous cases. It’s fair to think if what’s inside the head cant be seen the owners not only wouldn’t want it to be for a reason but also have the ability to keep it that way. Worthy of intrigue and interest some use this for unopened intentions, subtle and snake like. Just as expected across the same predictable intersection a glimpse of the white collar, pressed pants, and clean tie of the shoe shiner with sparkles in his eyes is caught and registered in the mental filing cabinet labelled in invisible ink: insignificant affirmations. Momentarily patronless scanning face after face I notice his attention shift with state of mind remaining unchanged, always cool and content. He dresses sharper than any of his potential clients which makes him quite a peculiar sight while working. Our synergistic peculiarity is the basis of our acquaintanceship. The action and the observation. Hellos to goodbyes in a handshake's disguise. While walking away on the original course afterthoughts of the intersection interactions fill my head with relaying acoustics. Words said, words heard, thoughts sensed, and intentions questioned. The bastard submission into the wonder offered by the bold reflection. Before I can nod him off with a, “hey good to see you, I’m in a hurry but I’ll see you soon,” he pounces on me like a hungry 3rd world merchant on tourists with an oh so slick, “Hey buddy!” Insincerities are an enemy if not acknowledging unaccepted social constructions. That’s where we differ. “Hey”, I respond somewhat neutrally, in comparison appearing horrendously unenthusiastic. Instantly realising my honest and upfront approach will not be productive for the
attaining of my goals I start cooking up a recipe of escape plans. He looks at me fully animated probing deeply enough to make feeling comfortable nowhere near maintainable and asks if I could use some help. In the minute and meaningless conversation so far people up to three digits have walked past us staring at the strange sight of mismatched polar inversions. One perfectly kept meeting societies every single standard set on his perceived demographic engaged with an unkempt, stabbing thorn in sore thumb, bohemian, both of which are blocking a very busy pedestrian traffic lane ironically on the accord of the one thought not to disturb the flow. “We’re in every bodies way.” Snickering he says, “That doesn’t bother you.” “Lets pretend that it does or at least acknowledge the chance that it may and respect just in case.” - The dialogue dies with a bad choice of words. “Peace be with you my brother.”
================================================================ 7.3-------------------------------------Araby-------------------------------------------------------Metro’s late and I’m waiting impatiently as the second hand blandly clicks ticktocks away in rigid gear movements circling forever. My eyes stay fixed at the wrist wondering if it’s even possible to turn off the silent narration of my calmly whispering tormenter. They say it is, I say they still are so it cant be. You know The block has something wrong when the street lights are gone replaced by large wood watch men. The Grandfather clock on the corner of 8th and Main is the only one to never have missed a second unlike all his unruly grandchildren, spoiled nieces and naughty nephews. Keeping track of everything and nothing, perfectly useless in a practical sense, the copper cobblestone corners are platforms for erect wooden midnight watchmen. I know there’s an eye in each side recording every passer-by in a cold inhuman code consisting of points along one axis or another by juxtaposed counter dimensions. The cyber spatial map of bodies if tapped into, leaks a glimpse of what’s all really there to measure. If tourists were non-fiction they would stop and stare while being stared at back unknowingly by unflinching metallic proboscis eyes. The times when so was are gone if not only now always except in imagined towns of unnumbered joyous and lively attractions. Fairy tales slammed shut night after night by programmed nannies, our house hold governors. Recording everything, watching and measuring. Making sure mommies and daddies raise there kiddies right, not to be to curious or unhappy with the delicate art of juggling uppers to downers while staring into the monitor displaying ad after ad occasionally disturbed by sparse United Republic patriotism lifting shorts. No shows about joy, love, or violence, only a hand full of channels all owned and controlled by the same subdivisions of the Sickness Incorporated unknown as surely so because the manufacturing is done anonymously , information is not liberally expended and the passing of laws prohibiting the neglect of up keeping a united single minded media institution. Power buttons non existent only volume up, down and change the channel back and forth for those brave enough to see if a more appealing set of advertisements is on. Made over and above to entertain and numb the mind. Seven minute epic build up to why this toothbrush is the best, or a deeply touching hour long episode that one cant relate to anymore fortunately offering an easier way to manage all the stress and emptiness of life in only two pills thrice daily. Why its in and how its permitted, I’ll never know. Not complaining, walking determinedly to the show, expecting anything out of the insipidly bland and stale placid state of this gray aged place predictably unchanged. Not in the center of town or anywhere near, Araby’s a mile away on the edge of Commercial Zone One and Residential Zone B where the industrial wastelands start before chasing the continent over horizons. Strange
flutes and voices lead the way. Getting closer I see people who’s nights are already over stumbling past me in an opposite direction. How the night changes people and their perspective, from me right now judging that haggard drunk to the possibility of leaving completely oblivious to self perspective through enough mutations and changes to waking up somewhere with no memories of leaving is truly magical. It is a bizarre, indeed bizarre. The greeter would scare any sane people, or those avoiding self destruction, far away, while the blind and hungry look and laugh, thinking of nothing but the motion of momentum. No Arabian women glittered in gold with delicate bodies elaborately decorated, only piles of cigarette butts, broken fading glow sticks, and a multitude of other odd trampled use to be somethings from broken syringes to broken baby bottles. First folk seen inside are some kids experimenting with the easiest and cheapest means of altering consciousness. Eyes out of their heads circling each others’ slimy necks. The half naked, haggard spent empty bodies, still manage to show a glimmer of innocence. I stop and watch their innocence smoking something smelling of mixed biodegradable wastes, papers, and other chemical concoctions. So far only people more elevated than the high risers, ranging from six year old street kids to fifty year old barnacles, and all unable to see the that the party died, life left the building, if it was ever present I doubt. Some stands are open but the walls are empty. Eyes bulge out of frog folk gangs marching past towards the center fairground. A rave without physical phonetics or audible music, for gypsy junkies and fringe crackers, the environment chokes on itself, too saturated with auditory hallucinations. A giant fair ground filled with fill up stations. Dealers, manufacturers, shippers, receivers, enthusiasts, and eager fiends smelling out a quick sure fix. Surely a place to find legends crawling to their graves. Journal worthy material is up to my ears but I cant find a pen or any means of expression. The typical modes of recording are disgustingly inadequate, the only way is to breath it all and then tomorrow morning work begins with the inducing of vomit into a bowl before one would then make a reading, the art of biomancy. Like tea reading but more specific in detail, much more amazingly accurate, though deliciously unorthodox. Lost in the hustle and bustle I haven’t yet touched a single substance but am likely the most disorientated person present, overdosing purely on contact highs. With all the confusion there is no firm ground for the psyche to rest. A transient mind out of itself using the relayed information of emitted messages to constantly work at constructing a substantial pseudo understanding of the psychic environment. Without that there is nothing to relate anything to and I’m left in a vacuum. There is still a flute playing dieing songs, struggling to carry on one note at a time. The flute player turn snake charmer and layers of spasmodic serpents start to circle my feet. Strongly enough held hallucinations of enough surrounding people emit an influential enough idea causing me to believe this is how it is. It cant be real there are too many in one space. Snakes are hard enough to come by, this is not as it seems, the air smells funny and looks even worse. Bilious neon clouds cause fog blindness. Everything is melting which means I’m running out of time. The melting isn’t gradually taking place over everything equally. Pieces of something have melted away completely by the time another part touching just begins to bend a bit and start to drip. Soon half the things that would have to be there are not. A screaming harlequin runs past me like a rainbow blasting by, his legs have melted off and are completely translucent streaks of pink paint, he still
runs past eager and legless. Bikes still roll although I see not a single wheel let alone two, maybe a peddle is appearing spontaneously in another dimension. A foot is going around a gear I would have to imagine is there for a lack of visual confirmation and I find an equally immaterialized carousel to rid my self from the rest of this ride. 7.3.1 Still nothing worthy to write about but there must be something, a reason is why I came. There must be a reason for all of this, I will find it. The journey begins under the assumption that this absurd ceremony serves a rational purpose. Ask around, that may not be productive but should be better than nothing. Not as calloused as I wish I was I see a couple shooting up in front me, I turn away. The feeling aroused is to much for me to bear, cant imagine how they can bear the experience first hand, wrist, arm, elastic. I guess they cant. Tough to say and tough to judge, so I walk away. Deciding to follow the little black clouds, hovering over heads like shadows from above, I travel down the darkly lit corridor. A pill popping midget in a second hand cowboy getup rides past on a white bulldog - a startling snap back into reality if its safe to label such a world so ubiquitously . An attempted snag with a verbal lasso turns a jittering jaw in my direction. “What’s it?” he hacks into the dust before my feet. Eyes hanging on by their pinkie fingers but just dieing to roll back to sleep with their backs facing me, lying safely inside the malformed oddball of a head. Concentration fleeting causing the consciously applied effort needed to keep at least one eye at a time facing forward to plead pitifully guilty. The sight causes a stuttered “sorry” after three solemn moments of open mouthed silence. The unnecessarily strange dwarfed conquistador starts growling nervously and draws a novelty sawed off shotgun from a saddle attached holster. The mounted snow white bulldog chuckles empathetically as if to sing a hymn of renewal. Quite the team of train wrecked fiend thieves. Good cop, bad cop, its only all a show. Good con, bad con, the truth comes out in layers with awareness brushing though the rising surface. Dimensions of truth measured in the two inch brush strokes. Psychologically manipulating evils of the intelligent. Pull one over on me before the counter with a mental grapple until the offender is in an unexpected intellectual full nelson. Seeing right through every motive, every intention makes the susceptibility to exploitation less of a concern and more of an irritating nuisance. The subconscious mental state sense receptors act disadvantageously in amidst incoherent environments where confusion and doubt are the only universal traits of the reality twisted uniquely to each individual observer. The dog collar reads “Jacko”. A nose in the ass and crotch compensates for the lack of any formal introductions due. They’ve sensed the frailty in the defences of their verbal communication and they cant afford to leak out anymore so they switch to gross motor linguistics while trying to cover up the playing a game of hot potato with general notions and directly deceitful implications. Like watching the success of drunken hackers in the dark keeping up a pitch black hacky sack, its a strange sight to see a man watching his dog for direction. The pants in their closet must be an odd shape. “The dog“, the dwarf says, “has consumed nowhere near the massive amount of substances I have tonight”, with a hint of hope for the successful elusiveness of the desperate attempt for his pathetic defence of pride evading an onlookers awareness. Obviously a failed attempt, a failed attempt that the truth of which displaying in my
sympathetic downward gaze sparks a napoleon complex fuelled last stand of defence. Hopefully Jacko is tame and cool, a kamikaze in a situation like this would be a kujo on demand segue into a stab, grab, and run. Awkwardness interrupted by a violent episode of tremors. The dog started barking four seconds prior, must of sensed it before the victim. He had another three second delay on top of that so the world had time to spin a little before he knew what was what, when it was, and why. By the time it all caught up a stubby yet gaunt shortened skeletal hand dives like a railroad spike into a blood stained pocket. Upon exit a fist double in size sky rockets out on elastic arm connections as fast as he effortlessly brings it snapping back to the other hand in front of a greasy handlebar moustache. They lock then twist. An empty fluorescent orange cylinder hit’s the floor, the sound echoes in succession immediately after the clap of a hand cups a hungry semi toothless mouth hard enough to through the contents of the empty vessels through to the back of the head. The tremors stop, the barking stops, sounds and sights and canine oral secretions stop. Jacko looks up at his friend saddled up above, perched on a saddle stripped from a second hand rocking horse. The savagely stirred cocktail weenie of trouble looks down at his companion before looking up wide eyed, with an instantly limp neck and relaxing of the spine. The windows shining down into those sad puppy eyes reflect no light from the sun or life inside. Only emptiness and junky home furnishings remain. With that the sad little far gone body topples forwards ass over teakettle into the hard dirt pathway from some there to somewhere else. Jacko’s lament is a fast acting, hard hitting, introspective intoxicant. The song howled with soul and passion of deep sorrow and unbearable acceptance. The song pushes and pulls the crop lines of emotional stability and my personal conviction of ontological limitations. The miniature bull dog is the closest to human thing I’ve seen since my arrival. The irrational universal symbols in the shells of words are the same and recognized as the seed of the sighs and whines in these dog gone cries. 7.3.2 Of course the song summons the comforting warmth of the sky in all its radiant magnificence but the side effects of such an influence are completely unpredictable. First thing to take effect would be the water colour backdrops from horizons behind to overhead. Details losing focus and colour variation decreasing. The light from the skyline canvas adds the same touch of artificial colouring to everything reflecting it. Depth perception completely distorts while every object loses its third dimension, disintigrating distances apart becoming animations. The dirt road is a flat brown strip looking like a freeze frame of a muddy river with swirls and currents following foot prints. Jacko transformed into mythical character made of a colourful malleable medium loses his comic appeal and I feel a tinge of sadness . Don’t know if he knew it or if I looked the same to him but he seemed to have a firm grip of what’s going on. The saddle and midget lie as a forgotten portrait on the side of the road and Jacko’s song changes course. No more remorse, regret or mourning, instead a communion and open unfolding of self in relation. He knows where I need to go and I hear sincere promise in his howling voice. Animated angel wings spring from his shoulder blades and in the single action we are eye level. The flying seraphim winged white water painted dog looks unfinished , the wings’ movement is quite hard to grasp two dimensionally while so close with both sides visible. The flat painted paper plane
wings shake and shudder stirring dust, cigarette butts, and various remnants of discarded packaging from the ground, including the fatal emptied contents of that orange cylinder. Hovering above me to the west the setting sun makes a halo mane around Jacko’s squished pug face. Human eyes ask me something vague. Response in action, he will take me there, he must know where to go in here to find what I’m looking for. Of we go over walls, fences, gates and doorways. This whole place is one large labyrinth with different people wandering around from clearing to clearing to trade what they have and take what they can. Gives me a better picture of things to come.
=============================================================== 3.2---------------------------------------A personal apocrypha------------------------------------Walking from here to there or maybe there to here, the specific direction is irrelevant, I hear ominous prophesies of an immaculate revelation in the naturally random and in so I guess divinely determined unfolding strings of separately spoken words. The strings do not become a composite and cohesive message until flowing through and being synced between the sources in harmonious congruency by a passive collector of the undirected incoming data, sort of like my jacket’s zipper. I hear my name in the open empty ambiguity of background muffles ripe for personal interpretation. A trashy fake blond unscrambling her shortly unfolding future yaps at her phone, all I catch is an intercepted, “are you ready…” undoubtedly directed at a friend soon to be met for whatever is expected. A white collar looks down at his wrist then up at his replica answering with a question mechanically and to the point, “for what?”. Next words heard fluently came from a b boy’s radio at the end of an introduction to the next set. I’m guessing the words I missed were composed of the following artist’s name or song title and is without the guess work the latter half of his beat backed intro, regardless of meaning for others, the radio said, “…is next”. The music starts and the neology-less experience comes to an end. Finding messages in songs has nothing special about it. Music serves the open purpose. I have friends with faith in an idol or imagined personifications and I apparently put mine in the subjectively superior auditory hallucinations resulting from an evesdropper’s game of connect the dots. The only difference is the open mindedness to self-withheld false doctrines of faith paving the way for progress and development. I respond to god under my breath in the affirmative though slightly exasperated. 3.2.1 The last surviving bicameral minded men - labelled schizos and locked away by the
very offspring of their ancestral dependents, the same prophesizing historically immortal men now crippled by a self serving culture in a world unfitting and inversely unravelled developing like a spawn growing strong enough to consume the creator and return it’s source back into its own pre-existing state before being perpetuating nothingness, back into mental chaos and incoherence. The last surviving bicameral minded men still walk the planet of the hairless apes in search of a non disenchanting ascension of consciousness. The most developed minds in recorded history have only been so because of the level of awareness of their greatness. Ones divine nature is only called into existence when fully realized. No one person’s essence is any more holy than any other’s as no apple’s appleness is greater than any other apples’. Its redness and sweetness may be greater but its appleness is necessarily prevalent. The difference between the eternally existing and infinitely accomplished philosophers, teachers, and prophets, collectively masters, and those of the forgotten and struggling criminals, victims, and or even all agreeable plebeian, listed lessening in degree of distance from the contrast, is the fact the prior devote their life to unfolding and untangling the mind and reality, to reunite with the universal, truth, labelled by many as god or what have you, while the others are distracted by the particular, or the ostensibly practical temporary trivialities. The fruit of the intellectual labour is knowledge. Primarily knowledge of the self, the knowledge of one’s divine nature, which is absolutely empowering by the understanding of the true power in freedom and lack of liberty in desiring the simplistic dominating power of ego like the stoic’s absolute possession of everything desired by desiring nothing and in attaining that possessing everything desired. 3.2.2 In the core of a cage - global entrapment - the center is driving a mechanism attached fittingly to every joint and member - the counter part of extra dimensional machine elves on a laboratory treadmill appearing to be the design of a pissed off M.C. Escher doing cosmic laps light speed of a stationed mobius strip. Ironically the infinite has most finite ties and associations. Nothing relatable, nothing comparable. An idea complete in itself. Unbelievably defying ontological understanding. If everything is a manipulation of something else sharing an origin presumes the most fundamental unity. The unstressed aphorism with no background, prelude, post notes, or after thoughts of any explanatory value. Teleological absurdities are what, in the end, I am rationally led to accept. Beyond the logical limitation there is a single means of escape through the final flight off the precipice which is complete and unblemished faith in the absurd absolute. Redemption attained through holy indifference to the ego’s minor existence. Downloading happiness without a high speed connection is killing me. “Focus on the particular”, I tell myself. Focus hard. I predict to discover the transition is hard but possible and necessary. From the deeper levels of thought looking in and tuned out of any relevant incoming signal I broadcast automatically. The same conversations with to much reverb and delay echo without decay building the most gradual form feedback the world has ever known. “Do you believe in god?” in a million voices.
“A no may misdirect you more than a yes but its tough to anticipate and estimate each of your rational processes, assumptions, comprehensive competences and associations. It would be much more accurate to say, the I as in the being thinking and answering your question has transcended, through epistemological inquiring, your unquestioned elementary understanding of the process of believe as well your crudely primitive anthropomorphic conception of god.” “ so technically no, but if I were to say yes you would be closer to understanding the more accurate and honest of the two answers.” Utilitarian Monogamous polytheists are savage pagan hedonists in the eyes of paranoid polygamous monotheists. Radio advertisements pumping through caps of skin and skull fill the air with sporadic tension. Learn to hunt then kill our fathers. Lie in wait for the rest of these last days. Trying to let myself write while consciously maintaining and focusing on another tract of thought, let my fingers type something while my mind attempts to ponder something else. Force a separation of conscious activity by having the subconscious pose and mimic ink by allowing itself to act passively. So far the attempts have been useless except for the time before writing a thing about it and starting to drift off. Need the aid of foggy consciousness of sleep to separate the hemispheres for experimental purposes. “Hey doc I made a break through. I can teach anyone how to develop a split personality in an hour.” - Like a tattoo, it will stick with you forever but not aesthetic and mentally much more of an inconvenience. Now the one voice interrupts the other. Find the cure, try and unite them. Losing conscious control of one is where problems come in. Cant have a nightmare if its lucid. Lose control of your own creation, the law is to be destroyed. Seems unpractical and counter productive to the goal of experimentally productive achievements. Punishment is payment. Payment mustn’t be a good thing. Freedom is a good thing. Payment is negative when everything’s free.
================================================================ 5.2-----------------------------Chamber Of Eclectic Ecclesiastics--------------------------------It is an ever going battle, a constant dialectic. Victory dependent upon the contingent- defeat. I see it in every action, reason, perception, and notion, the greater duality in it’s esoteric philosophy’s endless implications. The inescapable understanding lingers like tracers, delaying and doubling, it multiplies figures and forms to fill the space with lagging data. A fear of reason drowning in sense perception, stimuli overload beyond and because of an inability for rational comprehension. At one end, needy, dependent, and empty. It can fill limitlessly any essence to any degree, in a sense from particular to general, and from everything to nothing. It is in me and I am in it. It vanishes in the presence of the mechanical, it vanishes into the mechanical. Machines direct me where to go. Mechanized fingers point down vacant pathways on good days, straight steel wells on others. This is one of moderate amity. Where I stand looking down to where I will be the image seen firm in its metallic emptiness. Gees this scene is geometrically precise and symmetric, ergonomically neglected, and aesthetically so cynic.
The doors are numbered. Days are numbered. Instructions lead to the last door on the left. The robotic ceiling mounted fingers point the way directing me, me to follow under conditions of evading doubt regarding the outcome being for or against a wellbeing for a sympathetically imagined future me. Stainless steel walls reflect impressions in a surface of unblemished distortion. Detail lost in a gradient blur. There’s always a different hall to march down, always a different end to come to. With every step towards the predetermined destination a countless number of ripples shoot through the place of impact, out of orbit making contact. Waves grow in visibility as distance allows them to slow and accumulate, concentrated energy building up on forward motion, growing contribution to the perpetual. Resistance causes friction between the spatially corresponding bodies. Walls breathing heavily in perfect unison with the palpations of my contracting diaphragm. No thoughts of my walk, all processed subconsciously, doing the usual activity while travelling empty headedly. Taking note of the patterns and relations of motions effect on stationary positions, trying to apprehend a notion of relative motion somewhat more rationally. Not the best location given but passes the moments of unable to be mental silence or the closest comprehensible equivalent. The mind wont turn off, the voice wont stop, the ego wont die, the other wont rest, hide, or reside inactive inside. The doors, floor, and ceiling down the hall curve upwards maintaining the same perfect dimensions with an alteration of direction. Once in front of the last door on the left, before the floor curves vertically at the end of the walkway, I turn slightly right to peer up the hall. Looks just as the one walked down facing back looking towards where I came. Strange enough as it is but I am where I supposedly should be, facing the door in front of me remembering I forgot or never had a memory of why I am doing what ever it is I am. Been walking, staring, talking muted thinking for quite sometime with no before or beginning. Under a deeper chronologic assessment the only answers found are fragmentary. Walking down a half, getting to where I am realizing I have no memory of anything other than the extremely present occurrings. Looking upwards down a vertically lying shaft of a metallic hall the image is identical to ones reflected on. The reflection projected onto a newly drawn mental canvass plays on repeat, film reels hooked up on a loop with the same small cigarette burns flashing predictably in the same silent corner. The glowing golden halo around the emptiness illuminates the objects within a given proximity. A little sidetracked but a necessary detour to learn how I got here to make sure I want to go into where I’m going - that place, the door on the left. Climbing up into the projection booth of my mind through a broken window with one pane cracked, the other altogether gone. Inside the neglected attic workplace the only ubiquitous presence which is to say substance being omnipresent resembles dust in its many identically varying forms. A blanket over the thick red shag carpet creeping up the walls. Sitting still in the center of the room the dust cloaks a table with old film equipment running steadily. The only evidence of life in the place. The only objects offering a barely acceptable illusion of evidence for life, being artificial and merely mechanical which the traits of which undermine the entire illusion, meaning there is only an empty machine laid in dust on a cheap wooden table. Beside the structure opposite my window made entrance a secondary structure humbly resides half hidden. Hard to make out anything under inches of dust but the shape is intriguing to the utmost degree. A chair of some kind is easy enough but nowhere near
enough. Inhale cautiously deep breath with too few doubts and second thoughts and even them too many seconds to late. A massive exhale directly on the body right in front of me and before the first effects finish in the pre-chaos commencing moment I start to see the many undesirable outcomes as payment for curiosity encouraged experimenting. Hours after the dust storm resides I notice someone staring at me through the cracks of my unsealed eyes in a regal red uniform sitting crooked in a chair. Eyes open, mind clearing, the less shocking more probable of a few varying possibilities unfold upright and respectfully just as the old forgotten dust covered skeleton still in uniform has been for far too long. His overtime stubs must be ridiculous. At least he wont mind if I play with the film a little. No one in the theatre below and the tape between the squeaking reels has burnt a figure eight stain into the motorized box spinning the wheels endlessly. After some minor adjustments and makeshift alterations the loop is free from its deterministic fate. Taking control of the analog feed and scrubbing slowly forward, the sound track consists of the occurring track of thought while the ambient surround is made of random rogue mental emissions. How strange to hear the recently made audible manifestations of internal ponderings in slow motion. Pitch shift downwards and running time twice as long I start manually replaying a line chosen at random, “Gees this scene is geometrically precise and symmetric, ergonomically neglected and…” a quick high squeak blasts through the air as the image onscreen races hastily backwards, too far ahead, no use to recapitulate the currently fresh in immediate memory. The mechanism starts to jam the closer I get to the commencement of awareness and the cigarette burns are gradually growing in size and quantity. Forcing the tape backwards staring on screen seeing one frame at a time of a picture retreating with the angle declining and a golden halo swelling encapsulating the better portion of the image. The gears stop turning completely despite any amount of effort physically exerted. A light bulb pops, the screen goes black, and the projector starts to puff out a delicate tail of smoke. Belief in intelligent design keeps an open mind’s eye out for communication through nature, a geomancer of sorts not in practise but merely observation. Cloudy smoke signals faintly resemble a vague translation of “Give Up Now.”, in a wide smoky cursive. Ripping the film off the reel I hold it up to the light to stare at the burnt in clues of how I got where I was. Farther down the burn marks grow until there is the outer edge of a background just able to be made out. By the time my fingers feed through the end of the strip hope is already miles away. Twisted and burnt the end of the roll is useless and gone, destroyed sometime ago in a world inside which translates as forgotten for good. One hand on the door and the environmental silence shifts slightly. A hum I never noticed is now realized to be over and ended. Clicks echo behind solid steel walls, a mechanical catalyst for surfacing inquiries, curiosities, doubts, and imaginings about the background actions responsible for the infinitely detailed dance of gears. The music sounds orchestrated from within diverse systems, a composition governed by intention directed to perfection in quantum variants, and performed by an innumerable amount of rabid machine elves. If Apollo and Loki collaborated on metaphysically digital compositions and performed live after epochs of practise behind this curtain of a steel vision the difference would be indistinguishable. I have no choice but to surrender my will to the music and kinetically express the airy audible complexities on the fringe of physical laws and cosmological invention. Trying
to dance while conscious of the actions would be a pointless waste of over exertions both mental and technical, the only reasonable approach is the only option available. Unwillingly but not disagreeably entranced in a state transcending the vaguest conceptions of rationally conceivable modes of being. Bound and gagged traditionally. The value of an inherited decorative razorblade bowtie compared to play towns made of sticks and clay, too obvious a contrast. The pusher hides behind the ancient loom weaving cosmological bungee cords as an untrained master of freedom trafficking, lacking in positive intention and conscientiousness, being equivalent to the inversed negation, staring enviously at his prey refuses to get up - remains hidden eternally doomed to exist partially in his self damned state. Slapping on latex gloves, elastic echoes sharp and immediate, tender skin hides in receptive submission. Another slap on the back for positive encouragement and the walls cave in. The idea of self is holistically heresy, a blasphemous misconception resulting in only tragedy after tragedy. The perplexing folding of dimensions in so folding growing creates a deeper and wider more intricately enveloped cavern to fall into. Confusion a symptom of ignorance is a means to it’s inversion. Understanding a symptom of knowledge is a means to it’s inversion.
================================================================ 6.3------------------------------------a Monday matinee-------------------------------------------My plot thickens as the clouds break and the first ray of light splices the sky. Stick to the plans and the expected outcomes will be as predictable as any cheese stuffed clone of a movie, though I’m boycotting boycotting for today’s cute blonde exception. Cinnamonatography is sweet and sparkly but lacks anything other than the illusion of substance. Another gear in the money machine, we pay the fee to make believe there’s something significant about the times were going to share and that this other really cares. Quarter to is around the bend where I hopefully imagine and anticipate, pathetically visualizing, believing it will have some sway, her emerging momentarily with a hyperactive Id evoking smile and eyes. Red velvet steps contrast my ratty black patched up pants if perception altered to third person from front the image would be reminiscent of a dream. The dream has faded to this transparent fragile film delicately inspected so as not to disintegrate by the presence of metaphorically physical mental contact. Left out for the elements as a misplaced note every rainy night soaks the dream making it one more degree closer to an unspecific locality infinitely distanced from memory. Under inspection of the essence remaining the regrettable realization of the irreplaceable effects from the procrastination of the creation of a carbon copy blossoms like hard copies while duplicating information. Every second longer I wait, every progressively changing rate at which the salient
duration of seconds last increases noticeably. The exponential crescendo of time manipulation will leave me in an eternally lasting limbo if the target of my aspired apprehension does not materialize momentarily. Starting to sketch like the nervous wreck I must be because of the haunting by imaginarily constructed artificial memories and unintentionally self simulated pseudo-deja-vus I start desperately seeking sanctum. Memories lacking a perceived passed existence, therefore any substantial historicity which even on a conscious level are rationally understood as being so, still leave unshakeable mental effects and emotional inflictions. Like waking up from a horrible dream with the inability to convince oneself of the absurdity and impossibility of such outcomes in the waking more constant and rational travelled reality although trying to and in the effort showing obvious awareness of some sort of conscious understanding of the yet but ought to be fleeting persisting delirious belief’s blatant stand against fallaciousness. Some of these beliefs being the typically predictable discouraging self conscious doubts we all know to well. What evolutionary reason these are universally embedded into human psychology has still not been passed down to me or brought into existence independently pulled from the akashic table of contents by the means of productive reasoning. I don’t know why others look outside into the darkness of night when the answers are inside, well lit and warm. The fire has whispered many secrets to me when I stare in and listen to the unspoken transmigrating distribution of subtle streams of it’s nature’s ways, trans-systematically unordinarily organized information naturally flowing through the medium of observation from one object to another. She wont be coming and I’m a fool, she isn’t coming and I’m a fool, she still isn’t coming and I’m still a fool for ever believing anything without adequate excuses. I already know and knew better than to believe I know anything other than to not believe. Monday matinee starting just on time, we share a soda though we’d rather not and try not to talk too much, keeping the little tact we can, such an appropriate setting for getting to know each other. The movie lacked and the hour long mouthful of face was a little strange in its accompaniment of sceptical conceptual flirtations with the action’s superfluity. A little secret neurotic idiosyncrasy that will never leave my lips in front of unlabelled lovers. Darling if you knew the games my evil Jiminy Cricket plays with me when we love the night away. The film sufficed as a distraction for the transmutation of the day into night we now meander into holding arms fulfilling the current responsibilities. The worst part of any night is the feedback loop of prayer for not having to verbalize desires for finitude followed by complacent solitude. I ask the one word question not even substantial enough to be open ended just merely an open end itself, “so?”, iv always been too tactfully sympathetic for my own immediate benefit. With the ball in the court I urge someone from the audience to psych her out and make her drop it. Instead she takes the easy empty way out by answering the question, she says the same repeated and lobs the ball right back in an equally meaningful as it is effortless pass. Son of a bitch, this shit’s retarded.
========================================================= 3.333--------------------Mad Rants of Mental Prophets------------------------------From one on the steps, city centre, high noon: “the level of the awareness of your divinity is…” a crow’s caw interrupts, “…the higher it is being held, because the ultimate truth is absolute - the most high. The higher the….” a car crash distracts, “ …is a consciousness that is absolute and completely…” sirens barge in, “….proof of existences dependence on perceiving it being so.” The speaker takes leisurely breaths before concluding his otherwise unheard but still prophesized theological directions. The body sized card wearing prophet turns around now hiding the scrawled messianic message painted on the jack of spades to show a similar message on the ace of hearts and there’s a face on the back of his head. The voice sums up with a mop the other half’s mess speaking with a similar voice in a tonally contrasted voice: “That is the understanding I have come to, regarding that abstract transcendent reality misperceived universally but maybe understood in unanimously identical ways by the pure prophets and philosophers enlightened enough to embrace the problem objectively taking their own psychological hindrances into consideration of brevity in the blank lack of anything.” Drifting away slowly, fading, writing myself the only way I know how. Thoughts of wow so tired sleep death of mind my mi ague pl - trust non believers. Believe in the change of the progress as regress back into submission of the ruling principle. The act of rebelling is a divine action or counterproductive adolescent show of obstinate egoism. To challenge the standards. Push the stationary. Progress and change. Walking while waking. Leaving the waking to enter a sleep stay of threads of malaise. Faith is a friend of the self, reason a demon, a deity, the keyboard a fixture in the sightline confiscating the bright nights under an unnerving off white glow. The smell of the sick, mental stagnation. This is
lack of life for refreshing, moulding, and melding. The melding of one into many, few to none. Writing and speaking, loving and winning. Having, destroying, creating preserving, divine acts lie ignored, unimportant. Pragmatic escapism - free flowing thoughts go out into the world. Popping out eggs, dozens at a time - launched in every direction, shrapnel all over. Plunder every orifice. Pushing newborns out of the nest a thousand times a second. Superluminal creative processes, meticulous chaos, designed for disaster, lets go home, that’s more than enough for now. Its time to leave, I know. …the concluding of lost, misplaced, or forgotten unfinished or formed lines as ideas. Backwards light radiating faster back into its origin. Laughing and crying, headless faces on sticks balance proverbially. Back alley pole dancers illuminated by garbage bin fires fuelled by burning escort advertisements. Paid for pimps pompous as pope’s cardinals, act only as assistants in cardinal activities organizing factions to suppress any progressive developments. Love is not free, unity is hypocrisy, truth is only what I say, you should be afraid. The monologue of history, of reality, of liberty. The dialogue is outdated, left behind with the Hellenized, due to infections directly related to a lack of eligibility. Come to summon it out from inside. I know its possible. I don’t know I hope, I want to know the only times it is ever clear enough to record would be when there is no way to record effectively. Whether its at the end of all the moving lines tying every system into one uniting pattern, a visual representation of the sole uniting principle, or in the means, like how a rock in the palm of the hand sneaks away as unexpectedly as it comes. Neither in the need or the desire. The fix or the kick. The dependence or dependent. Not chasing the dragon but the snake through the bush. The bush grows thick, still thicker and thicker, the snake grows thinner and thinner while the fire keeps burning greater and greater. The scales grow harder as trembling fingers grow softer, the trees grow taller and the rivers wider. The sun burns brighter, hotter and dryer, while the shade sweeps over everything beyond the bounds of the limited. The lines approved to be typed while fading away in a drifting state. A state drifting away, shifting into red. Red fog, blue, backlit background walls of light. Look around the walls are gone. I look around the walls are gone voices stop to squander time. Shit’s way to heavy, I feel my head coming in way to fast. The ceiling and ground are coming as well, sharing velocity. The red light goes on forever. No free ride home organized tonight- “don’t lose it.” Lessons of the lost monologue... type writer music, the sound of type, rain, and nothing being gone. Gone again. 3.3.1 Sad to say what I said I wouldn’t. Stuck head on with an urge to express and inability to articulate. The bottle pressure lifting, rising. Letting go I remembered to remember not to forget the destined to be forgotten thoughts of awe. The leftover sun stained remains of rat-tailed dumpster babies. No space in the cells for each and all of them. They get away with murder before it gets too wrong, just wait till they’re all twenty and busy thugging to catch the win. Scratch and win, lottery ticket entrepreneurs know themselves wrong or say teach the right way to the left behind. After math of unconscious cathartic passively active purging: Learn the most about the most important subject, the sunset not subject, find yourself in a dangly state open up and the impressions becoming imprinted, lost in the lack of will the selling of clouds covers
the sky until its all gone for always. Where nothings ever gone nothing ever is. Pseudo nothing and that which does not include anything else at all but pure this as the unmediated and reconceptualised notion of it in itself to nothing else with none for its own or for others. Unobserved with only the idea as a representation of what it is. Found keys in front of the door on the inside in a dream. Don’t ask why if they aren’t to say crazy bastard laugh it up. The music is all that ever takes over. I close my eyes and let my fingers massage the keys, you got mine if you want I’m on some, do if its what’s going to get gone bye morning. Wiped off clean then splashed through Tuesday. Its true. The bells are out and everyone is right this way. Rattle snake son. Subconscious transcriptions of thought to word. Drifted off with keys in hand the drum beats don’t help the staying of awake.
================================================================ 1.4-----------------------------------Semi-holistic Hypochondriac--------------------------------I’m obsessive and compulsively paranoid about becoming impaired by an unjustified paranoia. Bringing it on completely of my own accord and will. The possibility of going insane is starting to drive me closer and closer. The ironic, self evident, contradictory paradox is persisting insistently from moment to moment. Episodes where intensity is beyond a bearable threshold are lately becoming more frequent of an experience. The temperament pinned to the edge of my weather beaten lapel contradicts the one balancing atop of my crown. Both engaged in each other knee deep through the eyes. A spider and scorpion, pitch black, poisonous, named butterfly and bumblebee respectively. The actual matter at hand being the topic always drifting away with the tide and refusing to cease it’s lingering on the horizon, always haunting in eyesight while remaining out of focus. Details blurring the haziness causes to deep an analysis to suffocate the onlooker in overwhelming dizziness. Sitting in silence the fear manifests in a voice eerily similar to my own in tone and accent but infinitely different in character and perspective. A personally directed maleficent purity, distilled from the dark side of the most high internally divine awakened within, personification of the man’s worst fears and most devastating evils as an alter ego unable to be silenced. Feeding me thoughts, a cat o’ nine tails repetitively conditioning the spirit, the battle is to silence the other and that is all. Unwilling self mutilation, nothing exterior is having an influence, desperately trying to suffocate the voiced fears, doubts, and ruthless speculations. Try to ignore in disbelief, self sent, self directed, the master of mind, knowing every defence technique and how to overcome it. Equalled in power of logic and mind the match is too fair, too even, unbalanced perhaps because of no conscious hindrance. This other within embracing the potential of the subconscious. Wining every argument, justifying every eloquently
destructive intangible aphorism, the only escape is through evasion, distraction, filling attention so full with anything else leaving no room for the darkness of self to dwell and fester. The music has failed as mental medication, now becoming a dreary audible backdrop cushioning the breeding of these unwanted conceptual manifestations of consciousness. Something more real and active, live and interactive, receptive, and responsive is needed. There is one in the same exterior environment though undoubtedly light-years away in mental habitation, somewhere between peace and idle enjoyment. He will be my much needed anchor for the time being. Preparing to release the chain into the ocean of self to come out with breathing in control not battered passively dead against Poseidon’s fury. A friend, a distraction, conversation-communication, the need for it, so logical. Selfishly conceived symbiotic salvation through the means of union. The other dwelling inside the self saturating awareness to leave no room for idle destructive idealized delusions. Fill me with your words and thoughts, your self and mind, bring your being into me through awareness, perception, cognition, reflection, until there is nothing left of myself for the moment and I’m purely being in egoless existence. “What do you think?” I ask in general vagueness. Would have very well spoken the question mark by its lonesome if it were possible like in the realm of the written text. Running faster now just to get the kite off the ground. “It’s absolutely wonderful”, referring to the electromagnetic manipulating of human consciousness’s externalized manifestation of a phonetically recordable medium. I definitely agree and this is made known. We talk of the music, it’s many layers, conceptually, the technical and artistic achievement in innovation and originality, the sad fact so few listen to music with the ear and attention it deserves, and even more sad still how even less music deserves that attention or requires an even slightly musically literate ear. The joy of a holy creation possessing ones entire being is inexpressible and most fairly described as only so. The album ends so we play another.
================================================================ 6.5------------------------------------Strung out Cybele-------------------------------------------Out of the chaos that is twilight in the land of the living and the dead, on Boundary St. running long, uninterrupted, with slight hills giving gradual changes one soul watches another wander alone. She looks about sixteen, give, or god help me take, three years. The rain ceased its earthward descent moments before but hasn’t yet completely finished up. Two blocks down at the second lit stop sign, her damp footsteps pave a path of silence and all that’s heard outside of two soggy skulls is the electric hum of neon street lights. The hum is soft, solemn, delicately morbid, consisting solely of seraphic haunting tones and derelict melodies transposed and relayed in the endless echo of our cement strip canyon. The song gently permeates my deepest corners of thought. The will to do anything but willingly let this song flow through my being is traceless in it’s absence. And so it plays despite the effort’s zealous opposing of it’s premature oppression. The world is dead around her, she seems completely cut off and unaffected… floating silent slowly down the street…even the comparatively corporeal breeze neglects her remote presence. She looks homeless, perceptibly…the cold rough road under tender feet…shoeless, meaninglessly directionless. The sidewalk under foot burns a rough cold wet, and the song of echoing sorrowful silence is all I hear over my analytically macabre thoughts and pitiful desires. She seems to have materialized where she was the moment I noticed her. Fragile faded footprints are left from every step but only go back as far as I remember. Causally forsaken…paving a path of abandoned flesh…by barefoot abandonment, they pop out of existence if attention wavers. Approaching the place she stood when I first saw her and looking on to see that she is still the same distance away, I sympathize with her muddy tarnished dress as it desperately grabs onto what it can. The obstinate distance between our two moving bodies remains the same like a spectral rainbow I will follow forever. Kneeling down to inspect the soggy faded footprints…tiny pink pieces, soft as death…the image finds a reason. The message of how is relayed by way
of grotesque revelation dirtying the hand that wipes the off-white scum onto the curb side scraper then to a back of pant leg hand cloth. While attentive focus drifts away and the palpability fades another hallucinogenic trait is seen in the nature of the footprint phenomenon. …implanted down into cement… Under deeper inspection while applying greater levels of attention instead of the image fading it grows in detail and activity. These spawning pieces of her rotting flesh are not as dead as their origin seems to be. Becoming brighter pink to a deep blood red the particular specimen under observation seems to spread out like starfish fungi ready to absorb whatever lies below. The sourceless song is describing my every observation as if my world of shadows and transformations is the set of a film for this terrible songs accompaniment. …the seed is set, the vein vines grow next… Crimson incandescence radiate superphysically from this newly spawn parasite. Like the sub sensory luminal radiations in the double helix seen exclusively in elevated shamanic states of the psychedelic, this pseudo sentient organism leaves glowing tracers in the minds eye. A kernel in the core of the sponge like jelly starfish pierces the pavement directly below dead center and shoots straight, directly down. Direction and motion unlike that of projectiles with more of a root like serpentine digging, somewhere between a steak being driven into the ground, an amphetamine filled worm and an icy metallic tendril piercing ripe layers of lush flesh. ...thick as fingers shooting through the ground.. The single string thickens before splitting and spreading out. The vein’s number of branches grows exponentially, first break one hundred meters deep, then fifty from there until the distance is to great to make out the detail and the number to high to see distinction. The vine red line has turned…growth fast as light, direction down… into a tangled capillary net. The solid ground I walk on is somehow only translucent regarding this until now unimaginable phenomenon. With every break or branching out the rate of growth grows faster and faster, with the action becoming farther distanced the increase in speed gave the illusion of a constant rate motion, these form the first explosions under my concentrated eyes the process sped up to perfectly balance on the limits of comprehension. As flaming red lines fade off into the distance I notice every other footprint has acted the same, giving me a sense of supernatural vertigo, the ground is beneath my feet but I can see these glowing pathways down below as if into a vast space with a glass cover floor keeping me from falling downwards forever. The tendrils emit more than light and subtle vibrations, the strongest impression gathered being an unnerving sense of the living, not independently but as a convalescent component. Inches in front of my second hand dress shoes, the beginning of this secondary event has taken an unnoticed change. Before as a little lump close to flush with the street the mound of mouldy star shaped matter has become inverted to quite an extreme degree. The pink roughly pulsing diameter’s center has caved noticeably below where the pavement should stop it from doing so. No pressure cracks surrounded or other logical explanations, not that the latter have been to imminently pervasive lately. …somewhere… A caved in core gleams centralized darkness from a swollen orifice. Trusting my desires to inspect it, curiously with a finger seems dangerous but shouldn’t be. Purely for
the pursuit of knowledge what should be harmless is left in doubt‘s awareness of this reality’s reliability. Bidirectional intuition and a schizophrenic conscience with multiple malevolent personalities makes the choice completely up to the empty self certain substance of pure reason. The existential weight would be joyously counterbalanced by faithful submission to a dictating power if it wasn’t for reason’s ceaseless scepticism. …down there.. As I put a hesitant finger towards the descended crater the slightest magnetism is sensed inwardly then affirmed visually. The would be tip of a black hole leans slightly in line with my shaking finger tip. An electric connection and the thing quivers when I feel a quick toxic burning and pull away in shock. The glowing becomes greater …deep in…as if the touch moistened its lips with vitality for the first time in centuries. A peristaltic throbbing swells the thickening root downwards. The organic motion can be seen travelling through the veins…the center… into the dark unknown. To hell it brings a hint of life, enough to reanimate this morbid axis mundi. At the deepest parts of the capillary branches where the limits of the one is reached and connects to those of another the spark jumps hosts and activates the next footprint over. Seen as a titanic underground neural network … now there’s… working as one system rather than separate abandoned mutations. As the next footprint over becomes stimulated it acts in the same way as the first still is, with the orifice erecting and sending out an unending and unwavering resonant pitch harmonizing with the song perfectly without seeming to add any or take any more away than was there before remaining in that sense unaffected while still being perceivable altered in its absolution. …a pathway… Every starfish-fungi-flesh-footprint left is soon…for the… to be filled with a howling form of life and an intensified delving deeper down connecting the deep beyond with the ground under failing feet. One by one they emit swells of throbbing light downwards …fire… and add another pitch to this psycho harmonic symphony. My attention jumps from one to the next until I notice the process is catching up to my original focus of attention and the origin of this epic distraction. …back to her with the bleeding feet… Still the same distance away although I’ve been stopped and inspecting while she appears to have been steadily walking, one of the least important mysteries of the moment. Her nature is that of her possibly illusionary remains. The more I focus the more detail appears, the more I care the more drastic her state becomes and the more I become involved as an observer the stronger the sense of affinity becomes. The fact that I may be the only one hearing the environment manipulating song now with the added ringing chorus of screaming street dwelling undead invertebrates only comes to my attention…it’s known she left dead pieces down the street… now that I wonder if she hears it at all after seeing her unsteady limp be perfectly on time with this melodious melancholy. Her consciousness, or alternative abstract sense of awareness, is either completely engulfed by or engulfing this wholly intrinsic scenic tragedy. She could and would not be without the relative circumstances as they would be just as unable to exist without her within and involved orchestration. …but she walks on with the same blank face… I decide to cross the street in order to feel the infinite textures and hear the sad stories of her ancient and sordid virginal face by way of inner inspection through ocular penetration, before the opportunity is lost forever like dream state regret. From across the
street she looks even more ephemeral with the profile of a ravaged princess on her second to last breath. A pasty pale veil covers a bruise and open sore leopard skin print evenly spread over every square inch of the sordid surface. The layer’s translucency adds unbelievable depth surpassing the imaginations constraints. The soaking white made transparent film of a lace gown covers her motley epidermal canvas of blaring albino white painted leopard print where red burns from the cold don’t drown out the detail. The skin itself in spots lacks all pigment showing the world of under workings, the red and blue passageways for the vital fluids to flow however futile the action. The veins inside her poorly veiled breast glowing burning red, seem to be stretching out towards the surface, and filling my mind with recent associations of identical imagery. …matted hair maps her crooked gait… The footprint tendril tipped ground flowers are almost all singing the same song with the exception of the three behind this voodoo flower girl. The subconscious calculations of most likely causations triggers a deeply set intuitive concern. I find myself stuck somewhere between the product of suicidal curiosity and entrancement of oncoming headlights and that of unfinished business in connection with survival instincts stuck in scruples with time counting down by the addition of high frequency harmonics. …for her its cold there’s never light… Decision to take action is made and the mental applications activated but the physical counterpart has some sort of delay. My legs move slowly like the fist of a dreamer unable to conquer the opposition. It seems we are in two completely separate spheres of influence, the fact I am just becoming aware of this now I cannot come close to understanding. She seems to be moving fluent and delicately. In comparison I’m completely stuck in slow motion. Sprinting as fast as I can across the street now swelling beneath with bloody red roots the time signatures will never match up. Frozen mid stride midnight stars suspend me to no feet contact and I know I can’t make it due deadline. Her empty face shows a sign of what’s to come. A sign reads sharp turn ahead. The loneliness packaged neatly behind her eyes ….its always dark, no other life…looks as if it is in perfect form ready to dive off into a deeper and darker world below. The nightmarish realm will finally leave her. I didn’t start the process of devastation but liberation, these hungry channel beings may not be as malevolent as they seem. I still have half of the street’s length from her to travel when the swelling glow reaches the top surface and ignites a yet to be laid footprint. …rats and roaches eating up her dress… Her neck snaps back, eyes roll onto their alabaster backs, and the veins seen through her thin film of a translucent membrane swell with tumescent excitement. Mouth opens wide, gaping, slender, then falls through itself, caves in. Fine wire fire shoots up from below, up the more direct path into her melting sole. The fire ignites her entire body and she adds the final note to her morose requiem with a hint of irony. Her capillary webbing expands and explodes in one moment of tissue breakdown, organ disintegration, and instantaneous self destruction like a miniature meltdown. The sky is open where she was and through that small break in dark cloud cover the moon glows red behind her shadow. …snakes and spiders make terrible guests… The song fades off as gradually as all the abnormal imagery. The ground is cold,
firm and wet with nothing seen below or through it. The street is empty, houses dilapidated and abandoned. Finally approaching where she was, speed seems normal but there’s nothing relative, a burnt up bouquet of babies breath lies trampled in a shallow pool of oil and mud. Walking on to put it behind without looking back at where a maladroit memory was born, grew, aged, and died out of the chaos that is twilight in the land of the living and the dead
================================================================ 4.2----------------------------------Pin Headed Conversationalist----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ !*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*! -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ --------------------------------------------------------------^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ --------------------------------------------------^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ -----------------------------------------------^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ -----------------------------------“What bothers you most?” “Pretentiousness” “And after that? “Hypocrites” “After hypocrites?” “I’d say Irony” “Then what?” “Humor”
“Really?” “No…” “.” !
================================================================ 3.5-----------------------------Dr. Marduk---------------------------------------------------------Keeping me down with leather straps, choking out strangled ankles, wrists, neck, I lie on a bed on wheels on a linoleum floor on the thirteenth floor of a stout cement windowless building on meridian intersects of technical quasi biologic strictly mechanical man made axes on the street with the name on the tip of an anaesthetized tongue draped over one side of chapped lips on a road rash torn chin on the edge of a face as a mask on a glob lost in lights, drugs, and medical jargon. Almost as smooth a talker as smooth a cutter, armed in scalpels and crucifixes performing miracles no one lives to tell about in split second replay. Intricate scars as mapped patterns of third degree last image flash burns. Forgotten memories suspended in emotion normally lingering under the threshold of awareness blast an atomic silhouette onto a lamented cement skull. The rot from his teeth makes me nauseas to that point immeasurably close to a total loss of consciousness, in the darkest corner of gray unable to be seen as separate either way. Fingernails tipped with hybrid hunting snake venom numbing any nerve in unspecific proximity. Long and hard, painted candy apple red, coated in a poison primer. Psycho analysis considered unorthodox if patient is willing, being not consensual appropriates surgical investigations. The Grand Proprietor’s squawks are heard torturously through rusty headsets; “Invested inventors investigating inadvertently invented inversed investments’ in word play’s proficiency ignore the inadequacy to articulate the intrinsic truth from the vanishing starting point of nothing.” Trying to keep the mind clean and clear throughout the unavoidable and unwanted mental autopsy without focusing on the action itself. Concentrating on not concentrating on concentration. A thousand Synonymous sentences for alternatively phrasing the action of consciousness whether negative or neutral circle my cerebrum. Meditation was preparation. A single thought astray will surely be caught in the nets of the nurses. Survived similar situations once before when the failure of avoidance caught my green horns off guard. A different story closed and placed on a dusty shelf far in the back of the evicted library. They can only destroy what they can find. He can only destroy what he can find. An undersized name tag means something personally undecipherable about the large alphabet soup block letters dangling above, below and beside. Too large and the clowning obscurity wavers the fitting out of fixation.
As volume decreases with light and static darkness swells all laws crumble together. His eyelashes reach out to me dancing out of his face like hair width vines curling down in layers of earth, death, stone and birth. Eyes multiplying out horizontally through the edge of peripheral boundaries till there is a ring of chain link mirrored iris ovals encircling the place I think I am. The other’s eyes, all hallucinatory, are lidless, dimensionless images with their illusion of material contingency fluctuating from a point zero hertz to the double digit kilohertz in a picture painting wave pattern. The lashes from the first two eyes linking up in front of the temporarily unconcerned for white shadow still lash out rapidly. The upper lashes weaving a finely woven coarse black blanket blocking out the hot white lights of penetrating nakedness while those below branch out like a hundred hungry roman candle cobras released through a rubber toilet bowl. Weaving sporadically and loosely as an inverted reflection of their only overhanging counterparts. Crashing gently to the floor with the firm pliability and slimy solidarity of a magnetically cohesive surreal substance, the blanket above has formed a damp matt black dome reaching to the bilateral border of unwinking and swollen reddish green dyed iris eyes. The actions below more playful and active, their transforming to a resulted state is less mechanical and immediate. The temperaturelessness of them is not perceptually conceived of as room temperature but as a tingly feeling of void coming in contact with sensory organs of the skin. Not activating temperature, pressure, or pain receptors but non-psychically submental extrasensory energy receptors lying not below or within the others in the skin but alongside in a uniquely separate but vitally connected plain of existence. Some of the rogue strands start to ensnare by already bound lower limbs and those of the reclining share more in common as I’m here in their good graces. Instantly a click destroys the perceivably primary surface layers constituting the currently held reality. The temporal ceiling, floor, and band of eyes uniting them; vanish leaving only behind the reminder on a face completely impartial to the facets of it’s external existence. That click from a switch. 3.5.1 With the flick of a switch a helmet of needles begins to descend horizontally from the corner of the room, supported by the hydraulic limbs of mechanically diligent servants. Robotic handmaids programmed to despise any conceptual variation of empathy lube the living skin with uncovered sterile sterling steel fingers. Transcending Marxist alienation their labour sold with the licence papers, circuits aren’t wired for hope or change. Sadly the only universal trait if trade is capital encouragement. No pay needed when no will near or present. The M.D. completely cloaked in urine stench hiccups and I can see in his cowardly expression the attempt to hide the fact he vomited in his mouth and forcefully swallowed in secrecy. Dr. Marduk the middle man between us and them, between now and then, between god and men. I am talking not of all the abnormalities, I always do, we all do. He doesn’t and wont. Other than the practical deviations, the changes in the predictably determined, there is nothing actively drawing attention. I note the Inspectional prods that are the digging of his dirty nails, shedding scabby flakes, under tender eyelids - Wedging a rusty crowbar between slit skin flaps ready to heal without a mark. The next step is incited by the press of a button by the extension of his decrepit finger, crooked and gray, a rotting, mouldy, sharpened member. The song of hypodermic needles and dentistry drills fills the
fog hiding the scum covered walls. Horrors potency arousing shock, sensuous density overloading sense perception centers. Visions presumed hallucinatory while existing independently of spatial limitations. There was no present fog or cloud moments ago. There were no clowns, religious icons, glowing jaguars or feathered serpents upon the entrance I could never have missed. Now I’m surrounded in phantom manifestations of mental abstractions, becoming sapient, my state and place, this altered twilight of mind’s operating room, their dream becoming increasingly lucid. The reasons and answers for alter egos, or independently developed deviant self aware centralized states of consciousnesses, remain buried in the rubble of subconscious knowledge as an untapped source, an unattainable reserve of mental resources. Either way the lack of public understanding regarding the pandemic phenomenon has little influence over the outcome of the current situation. These independent exterior abstractions of my melting mind all gaze openly in a trance of wonder and malaise, malice and fear. Auras radiate in transparent rays of neon gas. Saints laugh inexhaustibly with melting halos veiling the face fighting nightmarish clowns weeping hysterically for the spotlight, the focus of attention. The crude raw realizations of their existence being completely dependent upon my perception and the presence of a one way transmission of thoughts race to a conscious embrace arriving nearly simultaneously. The prior’s lead distinguished by the interruption inspiring the later revelation. That interruption being their immediate reaction as if an instantaneous awareness of my thoughts comes to them as it would myself, the later revelation being my awareness of this very causal process. No secrets stay hidden from the deepest depths of self although the reverse is possible and seemingly essential giving its perceived commonness which can be hypothesized to be a tip of the iceberg considering the nature of the phenomenon. Cant even think of anything completely lacking in oppositional relativity when these wild spectres materialize incandescent fangs, claws, hooks, horns, and feathers increasing in size and obscurity. A symphony of discordant distortion and feedback ranging in frequency and volume seals the mental cage and makes the pandemonium inescapable. The only thing to do is embrace it all in conscious consumption. Dull it all by raising up high, illuminate this hyper temporal reality in blinding white magnificence until it fades in its overwhelming intensity, control is still mine or at least the illusion of it as so. The blinding bright light is swallowed in smoke and blank nothingness turns to foggy somethingness. The room is tinted the colour of the doctors eyes. Control is lost, a different place we all are now.
3.5.2 The beings created subconsciously arising out of smoke sepulchres dance to the music of the doctor’s gnawing instruments. The nurses slowly morph into fluorescent leopard pole dancers who’s steel eyes remain unchanged. Nothing strong enough to scrub and brush such an image clean. So lifelike, so artificial, so dead and mechanical. Twelve hundred hands spawn from one to cover my eyes, hold my chin, stroke my cheek, caress my neck. They crawl to cover every inch unconcealed by my sweat soaked wardrobe. My trophy case is a closet full of different wardrobes, different faces. Some with names some
with numbers, some transparent and some brightly covered. Iv toured them all just for the experience and the escape. An escape artist studying the dirty underbelly of institutionally applied unethical practises of parapsychology. Not accidental but almost as much encouraged as is heavily funded. By the time I realise why the hands pre-emptively suppress any unwanted movements the chemical cocktail taken out of the Doc’s martini takes affect. I watched them mix and make the most lethal concoction in a giant mortar and pistil then emptying the content into a giant plastic punch bowl on a stand with wheels. The needle filled helmet inches closer when at last something soothing starts to happen, happen as in I am currently feeling something. The tubes running from the pulpy bottom saturates my strained veins via unholy intravenous. Watching them fill their cups reassures me the poison entering uninvited is somewhat safe if madmen of medicine and nurse zombie androids drink it in careless moderation. The experimental torture phase is passing into the sedated and operational closed curtain scene just in time as fine liquid crimson trails dance over my eyes. Simultaneously the lids come to having to bear and chase the streams of punctured scalp leakages downward until they rest closed and off. Last traceable thoughts left before the slit of red light’s glow left for long. They must have done it somehow, came on like waking up from an unpredicted fainting spell. Waking up without the prerequisite of unconsciousness, waking in the sense from one state to another not necessarily from sleeping to waking but waking from a more dimensionally lawful to a more capricious unstructured state like place. Realized it happened after the fact, experienced consciously only when retrospectively. The past current experience of the ontological alteration must have skimmed under the surface of my conscious awareness. Confusion and chaos reign supreme in the waiting grounds for the return of my Viking father Quetzalcoatl. Said he’d run to get a pack of smokes and be back in five. Waiting at the door, after adaptation I wait with one eye on the door, after enough external influence and cause of evolution, recognition will diminish. Promised return is delayed but not forgotten. In an unknown real life, time runs backwards. In the experienced unreal life time crawls forwards. In the negated life beyond both alternatives of ephemeral and universal time is seen from another dimension the line is no more a line but now seen as a fixed theoretical surface. Dreams of nothing. There is nothing more dissimilar and polar to dreaming nothing. The most potent place I ever dreamt of. An endless journey deeper into the deeper intuitive and analytical meaning of nothings’ nature, relation to itself, relation to myself and to universality. Falling not down but inwards. Imageless and mute, understanding apprehended directly as its transcending typically essential mediums. A swelling growing collection increasing density and mass.
================================================================ 8.0----------------------------The Best Times Are End Times------------------------------------The anticipated apocalypse of all messianic orders accumulates into a mass of inarticulate fears and anxious fits of impatience. Twisted hope turns to hate with no proximity to love. Remote senses of strength in desperation will be cleansed by a sterile selfish collecting of survival strategies. Domestic violence wll be heard in the house of the holy. The gods coexist in perfect harmony. It’s a union job with unimaginable dues. Dos and don’ts of on site services – don’t get caught drinking on the job, a holocaust looks terrible on the resume, don’t act in the present, it’s too refutable, practice passivism, tie your hands if you must, the desire is strong to interject in fallacious spin offs. Despite the despicable heresy and blasphemy of idolatry remember you have no ego and must act as you are, nothing. “Stand down alone as you came, as you are, freedom is illusion, meaning’s a misconception.” In the end the sum is futilely a zero, symbolic in shape to represent the eternally abysmal place of the existential anti-hero. You are the unread narrator forgot in the last scattered pages of the only published text. The confusion lies in the absence of truth. A million paths deviate as personal manifestations cannot all lead to the same place. Especially considering all starting from different locations, all through different terrain, different lengths, and different depths describing unique and differing ends. On the brink of extinction, total annihilation can be seen out the window. Separated by a thin pane of glass, in burnt and cracked transformation it unintentionally mimics a stained glass masterpiece depicting experience as a catalyst for the final shattering of being. Behind the light filter I sit in a rocking chair made by dead ancestors in days out of my reach. Insulation hangs down three inches above my head acting as a bed of cocoons, beehives, and bird nests. The consistent hum of airborne vermin, if not feeding or copulating then ardently attempting either, drowns out the persistant percussion of nuclear
warfare. One long song of ground shaking bass and sky high frequency whistles from AWOL projectiles. A constant chorus always building in epic dynamics while strictly keeping the same attitude and emotion. The lyrical arrangements are more heartfelt and vehement than anything written or performed before. Every note heard comes from the deepest and darkest most part of the soul emphatically accented with the meaning in a last breath. No golden trumpets poking out of the clouds pouring out rapturous tunes of melodic salvation, only black smoke clouding the heavens where all that is pouring are streams of napalm and sheets of acid rain. Chemical warfare taken to new heights. Universally common tactical strategy is to aim for the weak points. The body is a powerful and well protected device, the mind is fragile where damage is irreparable. No time for laboratory testing and development, onsite field experimentation has always been present in desperate times of war. The armed and airborne forces drop gallons of mass produced lysergic acid diethylamide onto rebel forces. Effects are unforeseeable but optimistically naïve in being presumably destructive.
================================================================ 7.4--------------------------The Mephistopheles Collective---------------------------------------The Aerial view of it all defies rationality and precedes insanity. A portal to another world. A new sky and horizon inside this seasonal set up of a vaudeville trade show, a 24hour midnight market where chemical exchange rates fluctuate and the surrounding city encasing the place fades into forgotten unessential subconscious givens of unconcerned participants. The designated area occupied as the organized fair grounds while approaching could not have been over the size of the average massive retailer’s paved parking lot. Now in pretty deep the city has hidden itself behind the horizon if in this world at all which seems unlikely considering distance travelled from the heart of the machine. I should be in the heart of the city, in a tent or basement, not looking over a vast desert riding atop a flying sphinx. Suspicions regarding the existence of designer hallucinations, at first hand referred to as perceptions, simmer on the subject‘s red element. Steam dissipates the airborne ornaments of observation. Here everyone sees and believes the same things, there’s nothing to question, no cause for alarm. Not drugged so the alteration of perception is effected chemically, too many variables and unpredictably radical side effects. Done mentally utilizing the contagious instrument of the subconscious sensing then conforming of the many million external notions building the collective form of reality seen as a cohesive whole. The only explanation for the heck of a lot more. Conspiracy’s perfectly probable and evidently likely. The sky wasn’t orange cream coloured before my entrance into the realm of the variable. Delusions of self indulgence save the for itself from negative consumption. With enough cognitive connections anything is justifiable, any truth can be constructive with enough creative additions. Why not mirror the birds in their element as they do in ours. Pearly silk blankets of creamy pink peach hover, suspended by the lacking, over the realm of gypsy aviators, giant doves, miniature vultures, multi coloured origami airplanes and everlasting roman candle flares swimming sporadically in the sea of sky. With no hardware needed nonverbal
communication is dominant by sake of its essentiality. With a fate unfinished while flying bareback on a transfigured psychic dope sick bulldog thirty thousand feet in the air the slightest swoop, slip or slide would result in the homeostatically undesirable outcome also being an adrenaline fiend’s ultimate aspiration. With a minimal margin for error and it being an impossibility of an outcome the likelihood of spontaneously created or atleast recently realised telekinetic ties is much more probably and not being would be out of range of reasonable possibility. So he knows when I want to dive up to cloud quilt enclosures and he does so instantly dipping my finger through the surface above like doing the equivalent with water below and the effects last longer as the breach in surface remains broken and patiently mends itself dependent on other exterior forces less prevalent in the more liquid medium. Finger painting sunset sky tones on a cloud canvas for my patron, this cathedral is almost complete, the mural depicts chubby naked cherub angels clad in wreaths and halos. This temporary metropolis portrays a mosaic of every wrong. The castle of the goblin king lies at its center. Kingless, ungoblinated, and far out of reach for meeting any right minded castle critique’s standards. An old patched up circus tent with a layer of papier-mâché extraneously adding the lacking detail, depth and design. Jacko adopting the shape of a sphinx sometime between then and now whispers unintelligible hints and secrets on how to enter, where to go, who to look for, what he told her, what she did, why that is, with the most enthusiasm and for the longest duration who has seen what when it comes to the final frontier of human exploration where the physical and mental curiously contact and unite momentarily until the cohesive composite disintegrates into separate disunion and arbitrary differentiation. The sky is sunless now but sustaining an empty orange congruency with the reflected mass of dead land below. A neighbouring rooftop acting as a makeshift helipad chosen because its particular absence of rooftop shanty settlements. The only rooftop seen in miles without what looks the least bit like a Bedouin’s battle camp. Upon our descent, dry thirsty eyes guide us down gently. We happen to come in peace but not for it. We come in curiosity, giving in to intellectual temptation. One foot off Jacko the marble coated sphinx and half a dozen heads appear behind the closest clumps of scraps and contemporary ruins. Only message relayed is the one - carries all the meaning and emotion of an accidentally transmitted awkward smile. The retaliatory transmission, one of many mixed signals. A showdown of the unknown, every participant has there hand on the holster but no one wants to draw first. The lack of fear is enough to prioritize confusion over tension but still create grounds unsuitable for an appropriate degree of conviction to lead to progressive action. Their many eyes are looking glasses into their twist of what would be called some sort of culture. Tribal features mask the marks of individuality. They move more like a school of fish than a flock of seagulls. The current trend of mind state, although far from one I have any affinity with, they are all on exactly the same word of the same line on the very specific same page in whatever strange saga that may be buried in. Eyes like children lost in existential labyrinths with war paint decorating the most distinguished of features. Focusing on the particular has the same effect as on the general because of the lacking differences. The closest one directly in front of me was female judging by the largely disintegrated facial features and almost perceivably feminine body type. Her sex has faded in the process of spiritual quicksilver distillation by the sand storms of her barren home, and the constant subjection to chemical conditioning. The cracks and lines tracing life’s
painful impressions onto her tessellated face resemble a mosaic map, possibly of this desert though only vaguely familiar in its semblance. The desire to copy this ancient treasure map is unbearable, the only force keeping me from running up to imprint the image by rubbing an old black pencil crayon fiercely over a cloth covering her limestone face is the devil holding me back convincing me to live another day and not die at the hands of a twisted commune of second world hillbillies. A miniature sixth story squatter finally breaks his maternal confines of protective clenching arms and an oil stained shawl. The little streetless street kid screams, breaking the silence with a youthfully enthusiastic and drawn out, “bubby!” while running full speed towards me and Jacko now back to a small alabaster bull dog. The massively focused point of attention shifts slightly, still in the same direction but from my body to another and the space between the two where the next episode enters commencement. Consummation - A divine uniting ion which the gauntly masked renegade dives at as a stretched spaghetti light form would into a black hole. Jacko you shouldn’t eat strange children through your forehead. He cowers like a dog and asks permission to explain. The dumb struck onlookers gasp for air and stare in disbelief onto these alien ruckus rousers. Just when the general consensus is to adopt a more violent mob mentality jacko reacts to his recently accidental consumption. Now a sphinx as in a cut of a dream scene he stops all in their warpaths with a massive stone look momentarily possessing Medusa‘s charm. The face of the sphinx not that of a man but that of a boy. That of the boy with the aspiring desires. He speaks to his tribe in a twisted dialect speaking the truth of lucid contentedness in every particular and specific symbol spoken. The proud proclamations of his longing desire and summoning of saviours from the sky are the reasons why the two meandering travellers have landed on this exact rooftop. Wondering where jacko’s old essence has gone I ask the speaker a question in front of the audience as if it is part of some scripted dialogue to incite a necessary answer for an obviously apparent curiosity’s question. If the relation of souls be that of ego’s there will be an ever present master slave relationship and if the souls be something separate and beyond the ego they will both inhabit the same self, psychology and ego. The answer to my question spoken from that at which it was directed will tell me the true nature of their soul and mind and more importantly where I’m headed next.
================================================================ 5.0------------------Brahma’s Salvation From Sartreian Despair------------------------------Attempting again to indite the ineffable. An experience observed in a state of psilocybernetically enhanced trans-dimensionally inspired awe is not one easy to draw on reflectively. The present experience seeming familiar as I recal having a glimpse of it years before as a future possibility. This recurrent experience stimulating the recollection of the anticipation inspiring, and until now forgotten, metaphysically mystical event summed up without detail in a line. To describe the event accurately I will retell the blooming intuitive understandings chronologically in their natural progression which would be starting seemingly retrospectively until recapitulating more objectively from a pseudotransneospectative point of view: The then as a now means then I am, not was, up in a tree sprouting out of English bay a good couple decades preceding me with a girl I only know for trouble’s barely innocent fun. Been trying to stay away from experiments with consciousness lately due to an undesirably lengthy and dreadfully too dark night of my poor soul but she‘s a good reason for justifying an exception as enough motivation to blanket out the fear. The fear, the only fear worth fearing, the most personal, metaphysical, and spiritually carceral of fears fear fears itself. This, the only thing worthy of human dread is tragically taboo therefore not only never talked about but rarely ever even thought of. More concern flooding the streets for punching in five minutes late or missing an ironically thought to be personal televised addiction than loosing control of what’s really important. The loss of divine liberty. The fall of man, the exile from paradise, the death of god. There’s no census on how many minds understand to what extent reality really is worth holding on to let alone how many minds are still even bothering to hold on. The sage grows alongside roads to be collected by hungry hipsters. The sage dies alone to be abandoned by a sated populace. I’m sprawled out on a adequately sized branch leaning against the upper trunk drowning in a sense deprivation tank of my own solemnly critical thoughts. I’m surprised the figurative scalpel used for the mental butcheries, the spiritually self mutilating Freudian dissections exposing every raw throbbing corner of mind, has not withered its hosts dwindling into a sliver lost and lodged into the infinite abyss of light and darkness‘s absolute absence. The details of them lost are of the preceding thoughts to the life altering experience. Like many other similar states surely perceived as genuinely divine, the aura
of personal brilliance is washed away by an unwanted wave sharing traits of a similarly natured out of body experience resulting in nothing but a sobriety vanquishing illusions of mystical divinity. 5.0.1 That point of view behind the eyes, deep in the face, unmoving, observing, lacking perfected explanations and understanding, leaving gray holes and flaws in many far from completed overlapping fields daring to uncover the greatest secret behind every thought and experience. This within many layers may be manipulated in the dream state in ways unimaginably. Window realities constrained to exist within fiction and dreams, both always conceived in the depths of imagination. The philosopher having a dream about himself reading a book about himself having a dream in which he is reading a book where he himself is watching himself stare into a mirror. The layers of abstraction being infinite represent the every dimension imagined in an unending multiverse of seeming separate but linked manifestations of consciousness. The ability to travel on the silver strand of soul links inconceivably diverse experiences of essence and being which maybe discovered if unwillingly stumbled upon in cases with extreme experiments of unhypothesized philosophic and spiritual psychonaut expansion into open ended anythings. Point of view becomes fuzzy and blurred, my eyes are closed. In an instant - state of mind changed, not only surface state of mind and current feelings but all the way to the core of every psychological motivation. Such a shift of feelings and philosophy regarding more separate subjects I earlier wasn’t even aware of explained by the fact I’m no longer lounging on a tree branch. There I am still thought being perceived as a whole and not empirically, existing to the present point of view completely and only within my mind, more accurately my memory, mine temporarily meaning my memory held moments before is completely gone and the awareness of any differentiation only coming after the fact. As of now I have no knowledge of any change in mind only that I am this now here where I should be somewhere much farther down the line in a more mature me, thinking back to the me in the tree with feelings of enlightened sympathy without regret but wishes for having known better not to be so stuck on such useless trivialities. Thinking back, from the new now which is an unknown amount of time ahead of the back which was now before the momentary change of mind and body, I wish I could just tell myself to change and influence the direction my younger self will take to avoid maybe not so unnecessary pain. Back again I realize not what has just happened but that something definitely has. With my point of perception back into my concrete contemporary consciousness I psychoanalyze the mind I was in moments ago viewing the one I’m back in again for until moments before I though most likely forever disregarding the gradual changes and transformations until the day it develops into the one possessed for the brief second long enough to judge a memory I am existing in as the now. Dare not to label anything over other than living as time travel for time is always being travelled until escaped completely through absolute transcendence. Like a seer perceiving through the sense of sight of another mind some where distant I the medium in which I observed from was contemplative and with eyes closed so the insight gained was purely the observation of thought, the hearing of the mind’s voice and the seeing of the mind’s eye. I did as the other wished I would, somehow the future self affected the past if time is even linear, influencing
the already in an existing paradox. The insight taken from the short experience in the greater mind inspired a shift in thought from that moment on until the wave falls back upon itself again.
=============================================================== 5.1-----------------------------------------(off the docks)-----------------------------------------In is out, and in so being, out is in is a theologically syncretised conclusion explaining a probable definition of the only hopelessly paradoxical finite process. Death, release into nothingness, rebirth, microcosmological absolute attainment, the greatest remaining and in a sense only guaranteed to be always remaining misunderstood, inexpressible, unpragmatically contrivable unanswered question and mystery. The question of the mystery and the mystery of the question cannot be projected on each others’ states because their ontologically intrinsic essence before form. Another subject, a concept, an entity, an absolute being, an imagined delusion. Existing within infinite polarities, wrapped up in cloth and covered in dust by some, conditioned to defend an undeveloped and unsupported obstinate faith, while by others centuries farther along in intellectually evolutionary progress, who’s existence thousands of years prior to the more modern believers, would devout a life time, whether ardently or in balanced moderation, to ponder questions stepped over, under, or walked past by the blind and oblivious, forever attempting to unwrap the cloth cover and brush of the dust to hold the magnificent relic into the light under a scientific eye. This unattainable force of ineffable nature governing life. Death is fate at the end of the tunnel, the farthest reaches of space, the darkest depths of the sea, the heart of man, beyond but within the very core of all and nothing. Death is the god of the living. The grand answer, a product of many notable schools of thought and philosophy primarily synonymonology. Life is Life whether what it is of. Of a universe, a world, a creature, or consciousness, the same laws apply to the same principles. As above so below, in essence or appearance, the material ideal, platonic distinction, perceived separately in a metaphysically constructed duality. The other is always an identical inversion and must be by vary nature of it being of the same but separately existing interdependently. When all the layers dance harmoniously, - the sun in the most distant visible layer as a silk shroud covering the naked firmament hiding under the covers, and the millions of celestial fragments floating within their corresponding spheres retracting focus inwards unfold silver clouds with golden lining, a fine line between the unsure ocean’s plagued surface and outer reaches of a an unbroken sky filling with commercial airliners, lone birds of prey, flocks of winged scavengers,nand one short a hundred heavenward red balloons, the sense of self is lost, and atman is forgotten in the moment where there is only what is. Wont imagine the ninety nine little hearts learning life’s only lesson of loves’ loss. They came from ahead soon I will be making my way through a sea of skyward eyes and outstretched hopes. Songs of simulated accordion show tunes fade in for the song to begin. The scene is set under a newly erected shore spanning marquee. Idiosephobia overcome by keen interest and unquenchable curiosity for the most bizarre phenomena on this side of the
ocean. Needlessly complicated, ridiculously chaotic, infinitely complex but somehow all overlooked with presumptions correlatively harmonizing naturally. The innocents indoctrinated and not yet desensitized have the sense, can see then ask, “whats wrong with that person?” the psychedelic mind, free and clear from unnatural filters and a twisted superego produced by a crooked social environment senses it stronger than anything, staring at the people, taking note of all the little systematic inessentials, uninterruptible social relations, the people are definitely something. Every time I take a walk I think the same thoughts of recognition for most accurate exalted observation, Jim you said it best, they certainly are strange. The loading docks make their noise where all the men go to play a game; they’d rather not but are addicted to the mindless means of pay. I sit on the dock with my guitar and play a song for the seagulls. They don’t appreciate, they still cannot. Silly seagulls hoping around, over, in, and through the shit on docks, fighting over crumbs and waste. Their life’s a fight for dominance, to choke down the most food possible, grow the largest and the strongest for that extra bit of freedom in not have to follow in flight or share found scraps. Seagulls are people. With a simple and cold motivated nature; that understood I’m eased of any disappointments or suffering. The one lesson learned down at the docks though regarding anywhere else equally is the universal truth that nobody knows what’s really going on, and even worse is how few seem to see the danger in that. 5.1.1 Waterfront station - I’m watching the days wither away in the form of a tiny mouse cadaver left by the lacking waste disposers. Smoke them away, one at a time, I would more if I could but they’re going by in a syndicate of a serial stream. Oh, if days could be devoured two at a time. Think of all the time to be saved living through nine simultaneously. The words wont stop unless I talk or become engulfed in a conversation with a strange unknown soldier, though we ought not talk to strangers, the dangers not on par with the degree of irrationality in the unjustified fear of the relatively harmless act. If I am to try, the end most result is a prolonged awkward moment breeding to separately diverging cases of bewildered wonderment. Much easier to leak the words away in the dark cozy comfort of under praised unconsciousness. Public cement bed naps offer the best of rests. After ashing out some hand rolled calea to infuse my dreams with the ebb and flow echoing around me I rest my head and tune out the world. Meditate on the harmonizing product of the ocean’s vocalised aum, the city’s ceaseless heart beat and the electric hum of a productively destructive society’s subconscious. All the essential automatic processes behind walls, and underground, within cables and variously shaped metal boxes. Dreaming of trips to the psychiatric day spa, receiving mental enemas and a daily database refresh. In all honesty lucidity wavers more often off then on. I’m a dangerously inexperienced dreamer for the abilities precociously acquired through inadvertent recreational study. Sleepwalking circles under the awning and speaking inarticulately of dream state created unintelligible prophecies. Hopefully not influencing any open minded innocent bystanders, tripping on stimulating mumbles prophesising unconsciously woven word associations, thinking this eccentric’s a loony. I wake up somewhere else I wandered away to when dreaming of magical journeys. Somewhere distant from the familiar grounds around which the seagulls keep
cozy, an opium den of sorts. All these faces seem familiar, both recently and distantly. None are strangers, though some are strange in the ways they’ve changed since their image has been reflected, projected on to the dusty cinema screen. All the faces look hungry and naked. One with giant octopus eyes, soulless and abysmal, inspects me with ocular tentacles, while another, a meek observer on a stool, sallow face buried in a book out of sight, scribbles notes desperately, composing an ambient composition of scratches and swishes. No windows or lamps, the room is lit with the light from a hundred wide eyes, emitting the light from inside to dimly illuminate faces and halos. The light doesn’t quite reach the walls and nowhere blessing the corners or edges this possibly boundless bordello. Wherever the absent windows rest the entrance and exit must be as well because where they are not I am learning first hand. When the contained sea of faces notices my pre-dismal frustration the light dims and expressions change. Eyes narrow giving off the feeling of the general countenance diminishing into a ubiquitous visual silence. Egolessly judging, the golden scales of Libra fix and grapple, an anchor pressing to submission. Bound and stripped on a mental operation table, the darkly painted shells are working on my transformation into one vast cavity. Every face has lost its familiarity, without changing in descriptive appearance. All caving in towards the frame out of which I am always peering. The faint cautious light dwindles into single spots of glare from the midnight pupils inching towards me. Now only eyes separated by the width of faces completely encapsulating, my bubble of awareness shrinking in fear and suffocation.
=============================================================== 6.0--------------------------------------Pretty Bird--------------------------------------------------My stop’s coming up here, known that eyes closed. Time to get up, walk past, and be stripped to the bone by harmlessly intentioned strangers with stranger eyes than imagined with mine closed and the mind‘s wide. Standing ahead, an old oriental lady wears a rubber mask of a culturally controlled superego dominating other elements in effortless obedience almost sealing in the rays of divinity manifest in content simplicity. I stare just long enough so as not to bring the action onto myself by any other attentive observers. Eyes hop like scotch on rocks with the grace of bored nicky-nicky-nine-doorers from face to face to study the secrets stashed under the surface. Next destination for these idle eyes; a multicultural plethora of generalized differences like a most fascinating junky of undistinguishable preference. Native by origin, maladaptive in relation to westernized evils pushed into pills or tightly rapped plastic, a victim of the world addicted and homeless is more than a problem left under the rug. On public transit the public transmits millions of bits of information, subconsciously intended uncontrolled communication, sporadically in every direction at once wherever the reflecting light will carry visual stimulus caused from the action masking reason communicated through countless mediums and abstractions. So I study the dance of human interpretation until the choreography becomes predictable and the playwright’s scribbles become more legible. The relations visualised in abstract representations of thoughts and influence as lines and bubbles, silver and transparent, popping, growing, infusing, and fading as a forefront background veiling the action without blocking or interrupting. Been doing the same thing for a little to long and a routine’s becoming apparent, surfacing slowly through the attempted cover ups and superficial alterations on the daily course of action. Paranoid back of mind corner eyed visuals of self alienation, postmortificationary simplification, the complex scruples most simple description. The same street travelled too often turns surreal familiarity into an impossibly false reflection existing in the doubt and uncertainty of the fleeting shadow’s historical accuracy while walking hesitatingly between god and the gallows. The lack of a rational justification for the questionably placed conviction in habitually subtle addiction directed indignation stirs
the glass waters of my waiting pool where I sit in a boat made of wooden doubts, nailed together with a handful of small iron scepticisms. A foot on the ground and a foot in the air I hear a sweetly microscopic song sung from a new little friend, a recently lit life, the song knows only innocence, his muse must be pure. A little chirpy thing so delicate and fine, a strawberry with toothpick bird legs covered in down between beak and feet. An excuse to break the cycle, the pattern, the cement shoes of the days. The butterfly’s wing flaps a hurricane ways away, this tiny feathered inspiring omen misdirects my day for a willing change I’ll follow wherever so long as it leads me. No faith in god, science, man, or time, all proven wrong, cold, and empty far too often to be relied on. Only safe to have faith in the birds, squirrels and in the winds carrying the fallen pedals of every forgotten flower. The caged bird knows to sing the same song anyways. This rhapsody exits in breath from the beak of every bird in every corner of life’s unending labyrinth. Describing a fleeting and capricious personably pliable conception of faith in motion. A song of interdependence. I have faith in fate as fate has faith in me, I’ve seen the outcomes, products, every day I live them one at a time inescapably. After the reasons passing reason’s cross examination the scales tip the one way as I go the other and turn off into a dark little ally with a pleasant arch of various vines and long weeds blooming there buds with floral accompaniment. They said to watch my head as I did. The door didn’t fit over me right but I made do and went with it anyway. Falling down dark endless pathways meticulously speckled with little red flashing lights catalytically engenders awareness of a long needed now overdue escape. Stretching the phantom limbs in confined and controlled freedom. Lets sprint full speed to the end and hope the floor doesn’t disappear. Not to much left up here but darkness, one direction, and the chance to go, to let go, to go. To go up or down not side to side. No lateral movements allowed, deemed pointless, irrelevant, in a sense destination distanced to travel directionless. Forward on I chase this flying dream leader to a land from here unimagined. Where will this fluorescent faerie lead me, I can only wonder and anticipate what the end of the rabbit hole looks like. Eyes closed with the lids open a bright white haze covers everything. I’m running, flying, beyond natural speeds without the discomfort of over exertion. The ground’s grown softer while everything else subtly became invisible somehow skipping any threshold of observable change throughout the entire process. It only was and now is on an intuitive level with relative distinctions drawn from somewhere unknown. Running now over vast green hills under a cloudless oceanic above with a strange dream like ambience caressing the bright monotone lime green hills and unblemished evenly coated cyan skies the mind is free and clear, evils gone, thoughts have died. Not thinking of where I’m heading or leaving just that I am going, fuelled purely from the innocent ecstasy of complete liberation, the absolute attainment of existence’s exigency carries me away. 6.0.1 Face to face now with a women or girl, beyond neither in both their positive aspects, balancing absolutes paradoxically, wisdom and innocence, she tells me her name. Her whispers fills my being with life more than I thought to be in this world. “You may refer to me…”, she sings with immeasurable patience and virtue, “…silently and
conceptually…” in tones of liquid silver silky down, “… as Maya.”, and both birds and winds seem to whisper in harmony with her. “Come with me….” My hand reaches for hers but before molecular contact she laughs like a child and starts running away. She needs me to chase her, to follow her hair as it paints a golden trail, weightless airborne streaks at heads height, mapping out the route through this otherwise vast emptiness. Golden ribbons flowing forward the longer I wait the longer they stretch and the farther away she gets. I cant be hesitating, only hurting myself. I make the choice to follow in pursuit and the instant becomes the all and only. Forever chasing fleeting life.
=============================================================== 2.2------------------------Unexpected Environmental Interference------------------------------On my way out the door of 1202b, descending half steps half heartedly, a squirming source of whimpers extracts my attention from a Petri dish of inner monologue. Half way between the first step up, last one down, and the gateway’s releasing points from the here to there, there being anywhere other than here of course a new addition takes its place. In the edge where the surface below meets the surface beside, the rot lined edge and vertex of spatial planes, the angular medium for a change of direction - each revealing another dimension, a a newly altered bipedal rodent drags its remains by the better half. Towards the steps in my direction, from outside where I planned to be headed, this barely beheaded munchkin mouse man’s predicament alters the outcome of my presumably decided and expected future self’s placement in space and time. Weak and fading he raises a multicoloured undead arm to signal me down. Leaning over to get a closer look I ask him what he wants. “H…e…l...p… …m…e…”, he stutters out, perforated by garbled bubbles of blood and phlegm. The smallest and saddest puppy dog eyes, red with death, shimmer brighter than teeth like god’s shoe shine. Deciding not to ask what happened, as sick of same story a thousand times over as this he is close to death, I do what the last didn’t take the time to though not to say without a scruple. The answer bearing the decision came only after half a dozen dialectics on ethics, autonomy, and suffering recycle through my mind. The weakness called compassion and its symptom of sympathy keep me from absolute ahimsa. In this case my humility precedes the last chapter of an unfortunate tragedy, untold and laid to rest in its silence. The mix of a crunch and squish pre-emptively silences uncalled for screams. No more pain or falsely placed hope. The little bastard probably was not quick enough out of the way on someone’s way in and I am the first person to notice this sad example of unwanted post mortem sustenance. Poor little thing, so peculiar it is. His barest bone self was bleeding pleading just one moment past now popped like a cherry into the ocean of immateriality forever floating masslessly in obscurity. Seconds recent enough to maybe catch a glimpse of something leaving or any hyper natural activities created in the process. Check every time and so far nothing extra ordinary has been the least bit perceivable. No scale handy to see if any 21 multiplied by the ratio of this mouse man to the average human‘s size, ignoring unknown
variables into the equation - grams disappear upon the departing of that flickering spark now out till next time. Not even a kirlian camera to see if the sight changed drastically other than the obvious effect of the shoes crushing impact. Kneeling down on the landing’s cold iron base to get a better look at the hoped for occasion. I think Transdimensional travel if to be seen so crudely through rough physical senses at all would only be recognizable blown up in magnifying glasses with a perfect balance of particularly formless and pure perfectly directed lighting. This time may be the first, it may be the imagined discovery always hoped for. Never been this close in time, this fortunate in convenience of convergence. Only ever been there after the actual passing hoping to catch a slowly fading tail float away, waiting for hours without a single image snared and seen. Hopes fade with the recent memory as yet again the attempts are in vain other than the educational process of learning what wasn’t perceivable in these particular circumstances. The experience questionably blemishing my uneventful day. All I know is outside this doorway two toy soldiers stand side by side looking onwards displaying nothing but watchful detached authoritative scrutiny. With the door now open I kick the tiny tangled disengaged corpse out into the street. Putting one more splash on my shoes inspiring thoughts of Rick’s professional help. The uncommon dog may give it a sniff if found soon enough. The ocean’s breath would lift him up and out of here if he could only nourish wings and climb high enough up the clock tower towering over the dilapidated newspaper stands and ancient apartments composing this bland block. The goliath dwarfs the others by comparison but its strange to judge such structural objects as these. The towers talking heads say these simple sweet creatures are vermin. They speak with faces, hands and feet. Little mutant mice men inbred and unfed scream for rations, for food and drug is all they ask. It wasn’t the clumsy foot of another who reaped the worthiness of life from the almost forgotten tiny body but the sphinx of 1202b. One stone watching and waiting above every entrance, the only thing as impossible as proving they are present is probing there absence. Sometimes blatant in a cat or crow other times harder to distinguish from the dead surroundings. Inanimate culpability is not to be overlooked. Twisted columns slowly crumbling. Atlas has no rest with that same equally equivalent amount of failures, hopes, and aspirations. With all or none or some including any disappointments or sorrows, if present, the stars would only know. Atlas will you ever open up to such insatiable inquiring? Steps force me downwards, the one direction too strongly implied to disobey. My fingers trace the railings nesting in a outgrown coat of peeling black paint. The sphinx of 1202b sits lifeless above and behind me observing with computerized eyes. This stretch again seems as it did before. Familiarity relentlessly haunting me again through a royal hall of empty opaque portraits in elaborate frames commercially perfected, produced, then consumed and a strip mall of Shops for shopping, lounges for lounging, and safe injection sites for safely injecting. The only thing unfamiliar remains constantly so and changing, these waves and breaks in the sea of others. Always unnerving causing at times great discomfort. Such a trip, beginning to attempt to comprehend the possible thought patterns painting the mosaic of a socially charged mental environment. So many separate and unconcerned individually motivated identities coexisting in enough harmony to sustain an abstract system with varying degrees of interdependence, this observation at least never attempts to feel familiar.
================================================================ 7.2--------------------------------Battles of Duality------------------------------------------------Assault and battery acid heads killing in the name of divine providence deface the name unuttered in banality. Lost in Rebel causes, fighting for a thousand reasons, the conviction blinds the instincts from doubts born of confusion. Faith starts off where reason ends, not needing to be right while possessing religious conviction. Faces twisted around sights bring misplaced faith into question. Incompatible truths revolving pragmatically are to be isolated and negated. Leaders now are always unknown and faceless. The true revolution lives in the self motivated. No longer questioning anything but simply stating all as is. A letter runs to quick to catch on the nitpicked tip of time. Plastic surgery accident freak shows televised, prime time has expanded to all day and night. Its always time to capitalize. Never not a prime time to waste mind, cash in on the blind, profit well and get ahead by leaving most left behind. Almost simultaneous Insurgences sprouting up like weeds through cement covered everythings. The violent suppression of rebellion has become common practise in these parts of the republic. Each attempted uprising only lasting an hour before its stamped out completely like the smouldering culture it’s trying to save. Traditional Guerrilla tactics are rendered useless with the implementation of closed circuit surveillance and satellite brain wave identifiers. Rogue technologies make feeble attempts to exploit a theorized weakness in the system but are more often destroyed in preproduction phases courtesy of local informants dependent on tax exemptions otherwise crippled into economical illegalities. The chain link fences surrounding the street sides mark the end of freedom’s façade. Now they say, they’re no longer joking. This part of town always has a stale metallic taste. It lingers too long reputably making any non inhabitants noticeably nauseas. Nothing green can be seen neither natural or artificial, from street poles to electrical boxes, no paint wasted leaving all bear and metallic in a chrome or flat mat finish. Vents pump oxygen into the air from subterranean reactors chemically bypassing photosynthetic processes. This is not a safe place to listen for the psychedelic whispers of the world. Tranquility of mind is inappropriate. Here the message maliciously loops without being to suspiciously obvious. Feeding psycho-social fears turning the ego against itself in too many differing directions to
comprehend. The caged in and walled up prison cell environment causes constant mental battering. Oil stain speckled cement map’s mimic mandatory inkblot tests. Staring down and walking around is the only way out of this life-size rat cage although most wandering in never wander out the same. This trap’s meaning wanders surreptitiously while its direct effects being logically prevalent are pounding common sensibly. This government controlled snare, a macrocosmic replication of its metaphysical counterpart, intelligently designed synthetic chemical addictions, is treated in the same direct way, a problem they are constantly working at while supporting under-table-handedly. A wide spread toxin created then warned of as self established to be justified in pseudo-ethical repentance. Civil war, chemical warfare. Designed priorities keep personal reasons for revolt on the tail end of the bell curve. The roughness of a bitter allegory starts to tear at my feet. Soulless and spent my shoes have worn themselves down to a thin rubber film. Between the acid rain, toxic puddles, and dynamic friction of frightened flight responses to a surreally suppressed social situation there can be no longer than a couple days or a few more dozen miles; either way the only resort has already been initiated and remains the cause of action. So close I can feel it, the streets are empty. The air is dry and stale, cold and recycled. People are dead. Reasons for joy. A sign in the distance pops into existence, my overeager anticipation for a decrease in spatial separation enabling the print to become legible is a sure sign of a much needed sense of communication. These abandoned streets on the edge of the city serve as the antonym of perfection for a soul seeking escape from the cold dead walls of the heartless republic. The will of the irrational causeless vigilante must lead me through and out of this labyrinth’s last leg.
=============================================================== 6.2------------------------------A Renunciation of What------------------------------------------The other, whether objectively palpable or manifested purely in unphenomenal perceptions, remains: a source of suffering, cause of all internal conflict, a prerequisite for antagonisms. So god spoke unto me: Choke her, leave her, throw her to the dogs. The only thing more pitiful is the wanting and willing. The maiden will ravage the titans, slay them, spread their appendages to the corners of the earth, Osiris and Abel were no victims immortalized. She is what she accepts herself as, I have no right to change an inexhaustible excuse for lust and licentiousness. Building her prison with a captive in mind and room for two, she will have it no other way. Love, the color of passion, the form of desire, the product of the unattained. To have not what is wanted is to have only want. Diotima you dog, punish the cyclic cynic, with the renunciation of all including the act of absolute renunciation, the negation of negation, and the infallible inability to return once again. With that off the chest our love story begins again… Walking up towards something between passion and pride, the moments close in on each other, the affinity grows inside and swells the internal. Both working towards the greater state of existence where pleasure consumes all thought and awareness. Few acts more personally spiritual, purely euphoric, and mentally cleansing if not done damagingly. Eyes flicker off and on in sync with neural spasms, harmless misfirings. The world slips away though not in fearful departure. Willing encouragement of reality’s forsakenness; the result of spontaneous mechanical processes, automatic and trans-destructive. Love blinds everything, a wave of a veil blanketing objecthood under pretences of idealistic monism. Spent a lifetime sitting and staring, waiting for the big pay off in a single experience. The pit in my stomach is endless in depth. Leaning over the ledge gives a feeling of life by the attempted taking of what is made aware by contrast to content in the act. Vertigo weighs down the eyes, lost in bottomless space, hypnotized I try to fly down into the well of her being. Both feet down arms outstretched diving. Ring of a surface falling away fast. The shape seems cylindrical but in absolute darkness borders are out of reach from sight. Free falling in first flight freedom. A seeming sensorial stationary place of origin miles away is seen as a ring allowing creeping light to find me, gaining momentum in rapid downward motion. Velocity heightening while body’s descending. Distance shrinking away and speed falling incrementing exponentially, spaghetti
effect, and I’m light-years away from where I was staring down over the ledge. I see myself one year ago staring down into the abyss I am joining. The movie plays back above faster and faster backwards in the single direction. I see myself growing younger and younger, against the natural order of things in the only direction affecting the fourth, beyond the primary Trinitarian dimensions. Watching my eyes evaporate becoming shallow enough to sustain the answers within, I wonder what of all the possible realities created I have personally neglected to visit. Shrinking to an embryo, my beginning is the end of that episode though not that of the show. 6.2.1 This light is falling into itself. A sort of luminary caving in or bright constant imploding. A light beyond time to mind seen in the constant passing where it is appearing still now in relation still seems as if folding into itself. How the senses and natural laws manipulate the state so limited. Sound beyond time is not heard but understood, perceived lain out in its many conceptual dimensions. Uniting the vacuum, my eternal abode, I embrace absolute nothingness to transcend the absurd. Panting, exhausted, another piece of me has died. That feeling is always irrefutably irreplaceable and equally unexchangeable. Post-orgasmic-pseudo-death, not an uncommon phenomenon. The indescribable essence saturating the moment is banished like innocence leaving only the most empty state attainable. Now the bodies lie to rest in peace and solitude with no more trade, no need for communication, though both appreciating the optional superfluity. Darkness soothes the longing from emptiness by relative comparison of internal to external environments now both void of light, life, and sensible substance. That forgettable journey into unconsciousness again engenders ridiculous amounts of anticipation. Fear, eagerness, wonder, excitement, doubt, desperation, it is not clear which of these bore the beast guiding me to but quite indirectly to the daily off switch. As long as she doesn’t turn around to stare me down or start to snore. Moments of complete darkness eye contact often birth too real hallucinations. I tell her what I see, what I think, what I believe, but it doesn’t make her happy. She wonders why I say these things and I recommend I not tell her. “What?” She will ask in a genuinely sympathetic tone. “You are the devil, you look the same as the angel I know and have no horns but this is how the devil looks, under a guise of innocence, his most prized possession. I’m not afraid, I know your not, I just think you are.” Curiously I ask, “are you afraid? You know that I know you know I’m not crazy. My opinion may differ and vary from time to time but your safe, if one is not safe its me.” As long as she doesn’t stare me down even more after attempting missed kisses and unfitting spoons. I only want night to come take me away, bring a temporal salvation to this illusionary suffering. I pray for night to come and take me away. These are signs I’m not near the end.
================================================================ 2.0----------------The United Republics: quarter to twelve-------------------------------------Manhole covers heavy as an illegitimately pregnant drug addicted manic depressive’s introspective acid trip aren’t the easiest things to lift off overhead while suffering from Sisyphusian fatigue. They poke-a-dot decorate the callous streets and add a minor metallic touch to the otherwise insipid surface. I’m surprised I can lift it off from below and place it back without catching the eyes and unwanted attention of snitch rat bastard boys scouring the streets for information to leek. Takes seconds to get caught doing anything with emergency buttons on and between every corner and every passer by a possible legal agent. One in six people are part time agents meaning they make half their keep by waiting outside for anything to give the sign of a start than sacrificing a sorry neighbour to the order corp. It’s all done under cover and you can never tell who pressed the button closest to them, to many potential agents on commission with hands hovering suspiciously by to many finger print recognition pads. Action followed within seven seconds depending on the distance of the closest mechanized monitor. First is heard a high pitched hum like the sound of a sonic boom followed silence then the street fills with brilliant white light burning away more sensitive sensory organs. When the brain deems safe to send visuals back to the perceptual part of the mind there is one fewer person in the way and everyone is seen checking for partners, companions, wallets, and watches. Professional crooks have learned to capitalize on moments like these and dive into pockets as soon as the hum is heard knowing there will be no witnesses if in and out before the few blind seconds come to a sudden end. No one cares or shows concern by way of complaint or any other means in that matter. Something to do with the pay off, the distilled selfishness set in way back when the gray matter moulds were running rampant. Creating by destroying considered excess extensions and limbs, chopping away at a brick of moldy clay to make it fit in the slot where it will be put to age, decay, and stay unless it can be used prolifically to help the cause of the one will or the other. I’ve had friends three steps away swept up in a solid cloud of confusion, lights and vibration, never to be seen again. Helps with overpopulation,
some even support spontaneous exportation with conviction in the beliefs that it’s only for the best of the nation, the people, the individual, the them. The latter the only one of relative value, the principle motive for all motion. Trust, logically implanted based on empirically gathered instantly online accessed data and the probable outcome calculated on hand presupposing the sick standardized universal intentions, loses all meaning. Speak of the devil; I dare not but have thought enough to possibly bring the occurring reality into being. Hope not, the irrational guilt would be a load I’d certainly be better off without. The hum is heard and the naturally subtle extra sensory awareness of the public’s simultaneously elevating state of anxiousness and fear is although extremely lucid and more overwhelming than any other sense of sight or sound is impossibly inseparable from the individual sources due to the non physical and comparably lawless nature of socially synergetic mentality. Lost in a cloud of white audio and visual noise, I intentionally freeze the moment attempting to extract trace amounts of insight into the unobservable processes dictated by our rulers above. Empirical knowledge is out of reach considering senses are blinded and frozen in a mentally suspended frame of time. The uninvited parting of the sensory is not a by-product of the mechanics inside the patrolling “Protectors” but an essential secondary function the primary is completely dependent on. The street side reality slowly comes back again and the moment takes off right where we all left it minus a forgotten face and the composite dread replaced by individually varying degrees of relief. Nuclear streetlights emit arc blue rays into matt black dead end potholes, gateways to an unknown but assumed to be underworld. Three levels down we get the gray ice water, where the architecture’s self sustaining. Sulphur smelling vapours constantly spew out of ventilation shafts, some gaseous by-product of a minor miner’s lifelong labour. No one’s sent down for employment, no one known to anyone with a tongue. There must be a self sustaining completely compliant auto bred workforce, no more of a logical conclusion to come to considering the information freely given. Possibly the land of the undead or of disillusioned sapient machines, likely it’s something in between. Level 1 is considered a separate municipality just with no entrance, exit, or means of communication. If literature was not monopolized and censored by the Republic there may be some progress in the exploration of other worlds beyond the concrete plains and holographic skies. “As above so Below”, echoes out of inner ear caverns, amplified over time through cosmological canyons from a voice in a dream long forgotten. Above who and below what? The multiuniversal statement is avoidably unreflective. There are no neologisms pervading utopia. Evolution leads to destructing intellectual lean-tos, marching blindly towards enlightenment. Morning prayer consists of best wishes and open hopes the person walking in front of you is heading the right way. Every step is inexorable and irreplaceable. The irreparable creation of a Cretan following, designed to dominate, overpower, direct and destroy insurgents. Democracy will bring out the worst of us. Lets kill the deserving, feed the hungry, and get what we want which is only everything. Someone come and flush it all down or throw it out the back door. Not swept under the carpet like the more often disposed of. Disposing dispositions into the garbage with the rest of the processed and decomposing pieces of a lost civilization. Bins filled to the brim with rotting skin and encased in mouldy Biohazard labels keep every other entrance company. Cultural practices have developed into a pseudo metamorphic lifelong pupation process consisting of complex diets of multicoloured
prescription pills and self mutilating cleansing rituals. Deviations of perfection are signs of the devil not to be left unattended. Perennial Civil psychometric analyses constitute unquestioned standards and taught by being tied into values and ethics of the supposedly secular educational system. Ten minutes left to get to my place before lights out or I’m in for questioning and a few naked nights of demoralizing captivity in the best of cases. Patrollers pass by forever scanning victimized nights and their balding Rapunzels while the weak and weary dodge behind heaps of waste in wasted attempts to stay out of sight. Those that are scanned are more often then not ignored completely but the risk of catching the faceless patrollers’ unquestioned attention is although not likely, not one the aware are willing to take. Back alley addicts and street side ascetics alike cower before the progress suppressing programmed monitors as they make circumambulations around sorely sanctioned blocks keepings the status quintessentially quo. The dependency suspended, those who can easily be perceived at first glance as deeply deadened dependents of a highly habit forming narcotic, showing obvious negative physical and mental front, back, and side effects, are in constant fear that they will be hauled away like beatnik junkies if noticed by the weightless orbiting mechanized eyes clearly labelled a Protector followed by a nine digit number with the mark of the united republic below. These beliefs, fears, are seen as an irrational paranoia brought on by drug induced delusions considering they aren’t the most difficult individuals to notice and are definitely not the most cunning to avoid incarceration. Many believe the ones of primary interest to the commanded are the opposites, those few who live as independently as possible, free of all unnatural dependencies and completely cut out of the force fed work experience need loop of serving and consuming. Capitalism doesn’t mean that much to me, the definition is said to have been completely erased decades ago from any source of history but I’m pretty sure it has something to do with the currently corrupted system enslaving my people spiritually. Intricate is the system of will devoted to surviving by consuming the many nectars needed to sustain an ageing and flickering out life. The term drug and ambiguity share interchangeable connotations but the apparent conflict caused by the contradictions’ inscrutability bothers few amazingly. The 42nd street sages make up the majority of those few. They inscribe half formed theories into fast food toilet stalls which have a more profound counter cultural influence than would be expected for such a crude means of publication. That secret society is surely dieing, all known members fall unknowingly into martyrdom by a disciple’s susceptibility to water torture techniques and the profitable practise of enlisting as a commissioned agent once have something to offer the machine. A lack of laughter precipitates change of mood and point of view pointing in directions loosely imagined. Left foot presses into the damp cement and a cross eyed doll looks up from her soggy fashion magazine. Eyes cross paths mid disciplined march, dark ringlets dance down her multi-expressional face framing a borderless region deep as void is empty. Mutually constructed imaginary propriety allows no alternative means of communication. Right foot presses into the damp cement and this luckless doll’s porcelain face spawns the hint of a forming fracture. An epic master thesis of the reasons for and cause of most personal desires written purely in body language exchanges hands to be devoured that second, forgotten the next. A fragment remains of that fleeting knowledge, the wisdom of inner and
unattainable understanding. Facial features blur from pale complexion to white running paint, running away gallantly. Details evaporate until no features are to be distinguished. The image now resonates statically while clouded by visual noise. Digital snow is responsible for the sanding away of what was held precious. The melting effect seen once in a dream, a dream out of reach in a time till now forgotten. The dream one of too few permanently burnt into the background of my mind. Every experience is, to more often a minor extent, hallucinatory; some more than others, the lesser of which is often disregarded as what it is partially altogether. Relevance relative to perspective. Three failed attempts to blink the blurred smudge away, she is still only an ephemeral enigma. Information lost in open sea thunderstorms of my reality. The other faces look fine as diamond dust with nothing wrong beyond expectation where as the object of attention and deviant revelation has spread as a fog filling the surroundings. In the time of the last two footsteps and the next, seventy somethings will pass and the destination sought after must be waiting abject in its inevitability. Semi-illusionary distractions of the sober state take away from the constant drain of nothingness’ potentiality. The ultimate drag. An episode like that scars for life. The primary contributor for responsibility of the rapid development of a constant irrational fear of faces falling. Out of the mind mouth trap into the other more apparently tangible but conceptually inapprehensible trap of experience. The story unfolding in all of its characters, objects, and places. Every noun between the covers is. I am, he is, she is, that is. The universal trait of being off topic.
=============================================================== 7.0---------------------------------Park Bench Ponderings----------------------------------------Sitting on a park bench I begin attempting a societal analysis for the sake of an adequate abstract post-structuralist self reflective inspection with hopes held that centuries from now students will chuckle in awe and bewilderment at these blatant contemporary cultural perversions of idealized materialities and conceptually constructed open ended and unfinished products of knowledge used as ancient alters. Spiritual starvation is essential for the existence of these more massively desired material and technological advancements. The cosmological Rome is conquering Greece as we trade the potential for the power of love for the potentially power hungry and loving, they will swell from their ego’s gluttony as subservient slaves to desires forever. Chasing status through abstractions failing to accomplish ideal ends through such futile material means. Never looking back to the needs and addicts, dependents ignorantly impudent in measures of providence. A long awaited release, the liberation ecstatically sets off a chain reaction of short term segmented serial trances. Lucid in nature, broad in diversity, differing from setting, to state of being, to methods of perceiving both the outer scene and inner being. Lets see where am I now. A park bench - always somewhere. People pass by completely unaware just like the dogs they walk or children they teach. A child stops to stare and listen as I eagerly pick my cold guitar strings like an unbearable scab. Before the mind has been pressed and handicapped curiosities drive towards the new and stimulating. The adventurous mind thrives until the ego replaces the lack of a sense of self. This mode wants more influence and experience rather than the fear and discernment from belief in self sufficient absolution and stagnant contentedness characteristic of the closed and narrow. The last fleeting episode, influenced by a picture perfect painting of forgotten details with only emotional responses fading into the depths of a neon gas giant, suspended, consumed in orgasmic synaesthesia within endless layers of glowing gaseous patches of peach, pink, and gentle Caribbean sea blues. The sounds of an infinite silence reverberate harmonically. Static pulses of a bearable but curious burning run up the spine soothingly, slightly spasmodic. Inspection time, clocks work wonders, soon they’ll discover what keeps time going so steadily on such bumpy roads in undeveloped countries moving on in constant forward motion. The explanations for the continuous stream of false awakenings, still manage to evade my apprehension. Around the world in a tea daze. Now cut the crap
and get to the point that isn’t there. Nearly impossible yet still probable within a given context of broken turntables spinning endless circles.
================================================================ 6.4----------------------Eschatological Omens In Everyday Perceptions-----------------------“I have this secret little fear id never admit directly, I believe the apocalypse has already started coming subtly.” If people listen to the world closely they all hear the same whispers whimpered pathetically. A message disseminated over millions of frequencies. Each produced from a separate interdependent particular process naturally producing the means for another. All in sync and harmonized, like divine clockwork, until recently a deviation of dynamic proportions was unimagined. Set the scene for the poor soul. “Change the channel; the news is always such a downer.” We could turn it off. “your right is anything on?” What is ever on, always something but never anything in the two respects. “Its prettier off. The black mirror darkly projecting our reflections. Don’t you think so?” Minutes tick away, the couch swallows us whole. In one end absorbed through the cushions then permeating out of the mattress waiting unmade in the other room, still a disaster from the most recent romping. Lethargic trans-furnitular teleportation. Laziness is symbolic sin self willed into ones existence against the self for the self. Stopping creation, the oppression of is an abstraction of destruction. A kiss and hugs helping us ignore our sorrows, she’s so far gone; sincerely believes I’m the one with problems. No clue how unhappy she should be. People these days... Minutes tick away. Cant figure it out for the life of me. “What do you want?” I should never have asked, she of course takes everything the one way she really shouldn’t. The different perceptions of realities’ conception are variants tactlessly unconsidered in calculating her probable misinterpretation of any straightforward question or comment. Fast forward past the fight, always better things to worry about. Primarily, nothing. Maybe the one thing causing some worry sporadically like a short in a speaker sparking up intermittingly. The monastic life directs towards detachment, a logical necessity when apprehending awareness of such a great tragedy. Just watch the nature of the microcosm. Man dies not by spontaneous combustion but after a slow and subtle decline through old age, disease, and death. After that we can speculate, almost uselessly other than the function of a decently enjoyable passing of time until it happens, strangely exemplary in ironies of contemplating the passing of time till death answers the question. Lets draw, lets paint, lets play and laugh. We will listen to music and make love. We will constantly be taking part in the act of creation. The act of creation is the creative process, not a hard one to grasp; rearranging contents. Play with me darling. Lets set the night ablaze.
She giggles through sincere smiles, true and absolute in her envied simplicity. Catching all my own thespianic bearings of teeth, exposing the action by a sarcastic hyperbolised reproduction of the originally suppressed action, I actively condition the evils of fallacious appearances. No story here to develop anywhere else other than where it is already: exactly right here where I left it. Developmental progressions out of sight when self or subject is found in a stagnant state of contentedness. The telltale signs of another clock smashing episode are felt vibrating beneath the skin. Through the glass shattered face cover of time, we jump into a surreal world of melting clocks and happy dancing hammers. Mathematically precise prog rock abstractions play in a successively varying loop, a golden spiral, telescoping to keep from fading out of perceptibility, without the artistic or phonetically aesthetic creative aspects present. A mechanically calculated, monotonous and cold, robotic symphony tick tocks in time with our hearts. 6.4.1 How we got here is only a memory, no longer an option as a potential or reachable reality. At least there is company, finally a human other. She looks at me with the same innocent seemingly naïve glee, giggly, still showing no awareness of the degree in recent change of scenery. The sky is inverted, the brilliant off bright bluish white of stars like a canvas with little black speckles shining darkness down into our eyes. We walk hand in hand like we have for centuries in the moment. The ground is a single solid plate of crimson while the horizon shimmers, snow white glimmering between the two planes like a mirror’s surface. In the distance streaks constantly moving, equally spaced, as segments of incandescent meta-metallic polished marble. A tree on the horizon perfectly aligned with the direction we are heading maintains radiant detail as if it wasn’t an undeterminable distance away. “Do you feel that?” - a strong sense of vertigo and nausea appear intrinsic with my sense of existence. “ W…h…...a…..….t...……….” - she is breaking up, her image is flickering - a dieing flame. Still seeming unaware of her own disintegrating state she smiles with a question mark. I squeeze her hand. That she notices. Her face starts to change. In every flicker a little more worry, not for herself but for my growing display of alarm. A flash nothingness disrupts the moment and from the horizon a lighting wave of blinding white glare races towards us as the distant ground shows no fluctuations of bicoloured harmony. As it approaches speculations franticly run around in circles, hastily bumping into each other and getting nowhere. The wave of white appears to gain speed as it approaches and distance becomes condensed relatively. Close, underfoot, and gone all in an instant and my hand lies by my side; emptied, naked and alone. The sun has risen behind the cover of distractions, in negative and contrast the sky’s nature has remained. Brilliant burning white from horizon to horizon wavering milky intensities of the sun set are deviations in the otherwise unblemished cosmic portrait. The sun itself sits suspending in a polar sea of itself as a black hole radiating out and appearing to be pulling its background into itself, into unseen nothingness. Abstract rays of no light permeate out of a dark green flame halo on the inside of which there is perfect pitch black
darkness. Inspected too zealously the head on my neck starts to ache. Walking onwards, the music’s mood has been changing rapidly without my noticing. Completely forgetting its external existence because of its precisely appropriate emphasis on every separate cognitive motion. Whether the score has influenced the reality wrenching emotions of my other’s immaterializing or my feelings instantly inspiring the compositional shifts is undeterminable and just as irrelevant. The day doesn’t drag, here the passing of time is almost to subtle to be perceived. The tree on the horizon has been nearing and growing at a physically impossible rate impossible to prove to the self with no measure of distance, time, or size. The sun is falling behind the unobstructed horizon and the ground is starting to contain flickering deviations of its unblemished exterior. The tree towers over my arched back. It bleeds black and I rest my head.
========================================================== 4.3------------------------------------Personal Displacement--------------------------------------The pursuit of our free faculty’s suppression by the oppressive forces of culturally organized chaotic irrationality and slave labour by means of nonsexual prostitution leaves bodies littered over mounds of dead mechanisms, empty husks, abandoned hermit crab shells. Awareness of Marxist alienation and a lack of lust for capital means the contribution to consumptions production is lacking and limited. The world says thanks, the machine keeps a closer eye. Spending days on end organizing the unorganized, preaching to the homeless, to start a social reform from the underground up. The transparent class system will soon crumble underfoot. Working day in day out with one thought in mind - a lie - a figure of speech, with one goal, ambition, and intention. Three blocks down from the Jacobian incident I observe the fluid workings of vagrant social pariahs. I study from them how life works, the many systems - social, economic, emotional, physical - and how the seamless integration is almost unperceivable. Today I break in, break through, the natural boundaries of the unknown observer. The introduction goes well enough though I forget nearly as many names received as were sent generously in my unstable direction. A John with too few teeth to overlook uninterestedly made his impression impartially with a sincere smile and one way funnel eyes. The plan is simple I tell them. So simple. With that I say, “spread the word as I must.” and leave on a seemingly forward journey. Why and what am I actually doing other than walking backwards through hell? The conversations picked up peripherally all have claims about them being the devils message, heard only now while the record plays backwards. These people find tears on the ground to shed backwards into their eyes greedily. A whole strip of them throwing me face first into shit piles of confusion and chaos. Walking backwards without hitting anything as if they’ve walked the path before. The strangest part is by far, the chorus of backwards messages broken by inverted car horns and crosswalk beeps in synced time signatures like an ambient polyrhythm. This isn’t fun I’m quite done with this. My attempts to break the spell if it is on my self or perception are useless and discouraging. Survived another night, the fight the struggle too much for fun enough for now to tell the like as the like or the other forever and never and always to come and go and be gone besides the point is beside the point parallel and aligned in sync harmonized coexisting perfectly symbolically withstanding the separation which is a conceptual form for emanation of the destruction of the delusion of division of the eternal ongoing… And so on and so forth until this inner monologue overheats the worn circuits of my mind leaving me with a blank screen and a system reboot.
=============================================================== 7.1----------------------------Patterns In Samsara: Habits- addiction----------------------------The most direct benefit of independence is never needing to ask for assistance, submitting to the acceptance of incompetence feeds infernal indignation, one may be better off, less disturbed, more at peace, in a lost and abandoned barren landscape of passively unaccomplished motives blooming into fruitless failures. Where these interactions leave unscathed her eyes tell absurdly incoherent folk tales. Sir, sarcasm for the good of the nation? you’re a self proclaimed specialist you can help me with this. Pick to pretend to know how or why. “Damn diggity din chu know ignorance be the wise man’s only claim.” Staring over wide eyed - “you on drugs? don’t look much like a junki,” she says. “No”, I’m not and on drugs, an umbrella term manipulated to associate the one fictional concept and varying perceptions of that unidirectional oppression through addiction of the delusion of addiction. Addiction - a manipulation of or alternative to the balance between desires and controls. Illegalize some addicting substances while promoting others, economically they want everyone addicted, every other addicted - whether substance or media, professionally produced uniformed movies to pharmaceutically synthesized surreal life solutions. A million ways to fulfill the material needs with friends and foe for nicotine alcohol prescription psychoactives and stimulants, coke to caffeine , the news paper and television become more abysmal - never ceasing. They don’t keep the harmless ones away, they keep the dangerous in reach, and try to keep the none addicting examples out of the mainstream and out of common knowledge’s common grounds so there is less of the false logic substantiating the claims exchanged for the few remaining human rights some choose to believe in. Why are these drugs illegal? There was a little boy named One. For their narcotic properties. One loved to learn, explore, and play. Only opium derived drugs are narcotics and only highly addictive drugs can be somewhat justifiably illegal in the case that areas with higher populations of addicts with such a strong dependency experienced increased crime and poverty. One was a good boy but one day became very ill. This is said to be because of an increased aggressiveness and violence, a decrease in concern for others and self due to a lack of awareness caused by the drugs debilitating effects on the mind. When One needed medicine the doctor said he wasn’t aloud to make it. The reason psychedelic drugs are illegal is quite the opposite. One was upset but not defeated. Almost in antithesis to the supposed beliefs and reasons condoning prohibition. One went into the forest to find a doctor. The highly addictive narcotics are only illegal to condition and reinforce a strong social stigma against any non pharmaceutical drugs having the opposite effect of addiction and a decreased awareness. In the forest One met a strange doctor with a strange brew. Time and thought consuming addictions and a lack of awareness, there is no reason anyone
in charge would not want these things present seamlessly entwined in their system. One Helped the forest doctor and together they made the appropriate preparation. The people between their addictions to caffeine, nicotine, consumerism, alcohol, news, and other slightly more fictionalized broadcasted forms of human drama, make the world a much more profitable and easy to manage place to sit atop of with palms out filling. After One drank the mixture things started to change. All the work is done if everyone is content in the stagnant status quo. Nothing magical happened and things in themselves remained the same. Some of these drugs have opposite effects such as having slight addictive properties to none at all, use as highly effective cures for addiction, increased awareness of one’s state and environment, increased curiosity and admiration for everything, and decreased ability to be aggressive and violent with an elevated desire for peace and harmony. The only thing changed was in one. This is of course if used responsibly, which is the right amount for the right person in the right environment. One realised he needed this medicine but could not get it without travelling far and wide. Alcohol, caffeine, and codeine, are not too harmful if used responsibly but it is much easier for one to abuse these and overdose than, for example, THC and mescaline, which have too low a toxicity for a human to force themselves to overdose on. This grim realization inspired One philosophically. The reasons for harmless drugs being illegal, from a learned physical health point of view or from the point of view of a moralist concerned with addiction’s influence on personality effecting criminology, appear empty and unformed. With his decision made one finds a long stick and starts to make alterations. The only understandable reason for these undemocratically implemented laws against basic human rights is that a population of seekers demanding more from their governments, media controlling commercial entities, and each other is thought of as destructive, not to the majority or even the many but the inhuman establishments themselves controlling pawns with no consciousness of their own - only a design to naturally and passively exploit the weakness inherent in undeveloped human nature and propagate itself. After training and meditation in the forest one is ready to hunt. Whatever establishment this may be whatever the size is itself remains only an idea and construct often developed with no single conscious will designing but slowly manipulated until gaining an adequate state of power and influence. One returns to the doctor asking again for the medicine. From the church to the monarch, the corporation to the pseudo democracies around the world, these establishments unknowingly hinder a higher human development and perception of the world vital for a change the world is fatally dependent on. Then one started hunting for the cure.
=============================================================== 3.4--------------------Trinity of Ontology, Epistemology, and Cosmology--------------------Ancient existential allegories all being symbolically synonymous with each other gives the omnitheist quite a sound a logically defended conviction in contrast to most unstably suspended religious convictions. Poetic in principle we start with experience. Though all is one, to perceive rationally one must separate, break down, categorize because of the mind’s natural limitations. The one absolute truth through the trinity of abstraction. Perception whether empirical, phenomenological, or ideal, a threefold process: Subject-object-interaction. Existence is like all else dependent on perception, differing from pure awareness by also being dependent on conscious reflection: Perception-reflection-self as object. The dialectic, how logical developments are made in conceptual and theoretical matters: Thesis-antithesis-synthesis. From the rational to the more abstract one sees; Body-mind-spirit Father-son-holy ghost Cause-effect-repeat Isis-Iris-Ra Brahma-Vishnu-Shiva Allah-Gabriel-Muhammad Creator-protector-destroyer Adam-Eve-Apple Woman-man-child Sun-planet-space Birth-life-death Drugs-sex-violence Mineral-plant-animal Awake-asleep-dreaming The boundary is fading faster than ever. I’m almost through and free. The world behind the walls lies in cold sunless shadows. Behind every frown I see roots of ignorance, behind every pair of smiling eyes; wisdom beyond the constraints of human likelihood. Fond farewells and the lyrical ballads in world way sent messages through the means of body language. Messages sketched upon arches reflect the glamour of what lies ahead. Entrances to the sky, the sea, the land, and beyond beacon in personal psychological associations. The first gate reads: Loving to live contrasts living to love as living to love to live is as to loving to live to love.
Walking through garlands and roses, herbs and tinctures, glowing images of children and animals, youth and beauty, innocence intensified layers, the fabric of space time in holy emanations of warmth and light. Humble mendicant teachers and seekers sit cross legged on modest rugs describing their different perspectives regarding divine love for divine wisdom and divine wisdom of divine love to space case trance students light years away already, who from the lessons stay as distant. Open doors on every wall and sincere smiles on every face. Utopian senses of ease permeate the psychic environment making the slightest trace of conflict unnatural and unappealing to the point of avoiding naturally anything leading anywhere near a cause of some such something even indirectly. Where the water balances the best it can waves break in a constant loop. Fluid falling, a digital cascade, wave tide filters, the ocean shore sampled by the DJ in the sky. The tide, the ocean are grooves in vinyl. The pins hit center. The record spins. Fuzz crackles. The world spins around the sun.
=========================================================== 5.3-----------------------------------Burning Midnight Petrol-------------------------------------After work the sun has set and the day has left without me again. The same corporate coffee chain shop stays stares me down despite any other direction I face after turning away. Every establishment tries desperately to attract and sustain temporal attention of the would be exploited. Addiction is the only guarantee for customer loyalty. Many methods developed to bypass legalities before the realization of legalities being undeveloped so as not to need methods to be implemented to bypass. The small amounts of experiences I have are more than enough to scare me away and out of reach until I slip or let my guard down. This sunset strip is striped with silhouettes of harlequin squatters. Stepping carefully between the cracks, shadows, and rolls of rags, reminders of a too great decline I begin to choke on the stale air and ask myself, why here? Misunderstood is not an overstatement. People do what they want, what would you want here. In a place like this with things like that. The harem of harlequins smells stubbornly strong. The pillows nailed to the wall keep in more than atmosphere. Tea time, we sit. The server is practically screaming that they would rather be playing psychedelic gypsy show tunes and sipping a pint of gin. Not rather sorry but rather more considering he is already in the greater part of his mind. On the volunteer job. The servers unpredictable matted hair flashes a peek of a stash hidden not well enough behind a brunette nest of oddball beads and feathers. I sometimes zone out suspended in an anti gravitational cloud, equanimity’s inorganic placenta, the womb which is offspring of her divine grace and immanent inanity. After enough abstractions and thought brought to light the ideas start to mimic the living. Particular universals peculiarly emanate down into the particular like the principal uniting universals to all potentialities in it’s own and our cosmological conception. Concepts learn to act on their own, first thing is starting to imitate biological reproduction. Not any ideas but some with ties close enough to be entwined by the matter constructing the reality bringing itself into being by having enough consciousness to perceive itself. First concepts to evolve are the first to have flourished. The concept of will, freedom, creation, each folded up enough to have supernova density and saturated with static intensity of attention. Attention to heat and expand, brighten and appear to appear appearing independent of exterior perceptions. Only a matter of time, everything unlikely will happen in one reality or another. It is absolutely impossible for the extremely unlikely not to happen in one place at one time, in one reality or another. No matter how miniscule the chances it would always be more unexpected if it didn’t happen at all which would ardently defy probability making the huge step from any number no matter how small to absolute zero, which when dealing with probability is a drastic step relatively infinite in distance. Malaise is not as universal as it seems. People are strange. More so than they know, more so then I know, there must be a reason. There are no reasons. There are too many reasons. That is an illusion or it is just the opposite. Both are illusionary. Somewhere in
between. A fraction of truth must lie in pieces. Where else would these concepts of truth originate and it must exist for there to be untruth. And untruth is definitely present on every level by any standard. =============================================================== 7.2--------------------------------------Synonymenology------------------------------------------Today I followed a white rabbit down a worm hole in which I found a secret school where I am currently residing. Only one lesson to learn, the immeasurable value of synonymous relationships between specific some things, all other things, and even anythings. The goal is apprehending the meanings of certain affinities in certain polarities and other combinations endlessly multiplying synergistic synthesises. To focus on mystic affinities and apprehend the like natures. The wisest weren’t trying to teach us millions of little parables but the lesson of the parable itself without the specific more tangible substance transported by the means. Day one, in fate and cause of monistic idealism. The meaning and reason behind and for life and love. Monastic happy endings, ending with a new beginning. Must be a mix of the architecture and geographic location, the feng shui and astrologic position are in perfect harmony. No teachers or drawings, scripts or etchings, just the edgeless inside of this golden sanctuary. A small mat in the center to sit and be subjected to what couldn’t be expected. The lesson to learn not channelling through me but saturating my every abstract inch of metaphysical existence, engendering a fear of my identity disintegrating. In an epic inhalation seeming to last both a century and a second in different ways the fluid intuition floods my soul - in that moment of death I become conscious of the rivers course and distant currents align with the tide. …Fate-Causality, cause-reason, reason-meaning, meaning-significance, significance-importance, importance-appreciated, appreciate-love, love-knowledge, knowledge-power, power-wisdom, wisdom-experience, experience-time, time-live, livelearn, learn-grow, grow-develop, develop-ascend, ascend-think, think-thought, thoughtpower, power-will, will-absolute, absolute-god, god-death, death-birth, birth-life, death, life… Dazed and nauseas it feels as if I’m wondering where I am and always asking the same questions. I’ll ignore the asking along with the answers. Focus in on what’s out of sight by searching eyes first, feet following in a necessary routine of expeditionary progression. Awkward arrangements of imprisoned thoughts deflect attention away from the centralised point of motivation. To find an exit. Instead these distractions hasten loop race thoughts and slow the legs to pre-stopped speeds almost contrary to conceptions of motion. Will to power, will to move, or will I not even survive this ecstatic petrifaction. Another hall has made its way around and over me through the world’s slow rotation under my sluggish strides. This hall is etched with snakes and symbols phallic in design but reflective in nature. Stones lie unturned all around me. Coherence and cognition start to entwine themselves with the irrational and fluid serpentine abstractions of intelligence as the dividers and barriers crumble, the walls fall and chaos seeps in. Clouds cover the mass of gray matter, rain pelts stain glass ceilings and thunder shakes the supports supporting the base of this edifice now shaking and sparking pandemonium personified and incognito with a plastic moustache and spectacle frames framing dense
=============================================================== 8.2---------------------------------------Deus ex Machina----------------------------------------Beyond the border of the civilized order the sun feels different on the skin. The sky seems different, empty, open, and fragile. The shanty market town stretches out desperately from the only ground exit. Looking back at the painful stainless steel covered walls of this fair city, there are marks left by some of any angry outer dwellers. A message in poverty stricken starved dead-blood red spray paint alluding Dante’s infamous inscriptions. Meaning looks lost generations ago although the accompanying lines of vandal expression and catapulted feces dare not hide a single character. The image looks divinely horrific and dirty sacred in its it’s filthy vestments. A feeling characteristic of the too real meaning lying a fraction of an increment behind the clearly visible. Stands selling everything never seen inside. Nothing valuable pedaled by the merchant crooks. The freedom of the free with desire of the enslaved, these border dwellers wishing to be what they aren’t and not knowing how to be what they may are painfully lost in a socially self constructed limbo. Yelling in a strange dialect of fragmentarily learned English slang and inherited abandoned native tongues of Spanish decent. After the stretches of endless patched tents desert rock and arid soil replace the accustomed cement underlying grounds of all standing infrastructures. The biggest difference is the state of an undisturbed mind. Scavengers of attention, mechanical and biological, intended and accidental, seem non existent. A fish out of water for the first time alive.
I walk through the glowing sunlit golden orchards. This is without a doubt the most beautifully amazing image beheld in all my searching and journeys. Until then the memory of the most beautiful thing ever personally perceived was from a dream never forgotten. The scene I pray to hold onto for as close to forever as I may. A reflection of my entire consciousness creating my eternally suspended reality, whether conceived as state of mind or place of being in these final moments would be all I ask for. The most captivating natural sight imagined makes me submit to awe and prostrate myself in gratitude for this moments entanglement with my existence. So this is paradise. The trees harmoniously decorated with the ripe fruit of the gods and the ground is soft to the touch. Engrossed in the overwhelming beauty and phenomenal perfection of this mystical reality, the limits of being and pure objects of desire regarding being, in its ontological and teleological aspects, are fulfilled and transcended in the act of self uniting with this environmentally material representation of absolute attainment. Later on to my surprise I find the fruit is rich in amisare2b and the sun never has to rise.
=============================================================== 8.1--------------------------And In The End There Was Again…------------------------------I refuse to spend any ounce of my free time acknowledging the labours of the week dominating the life I try to maintain the belief of which is mine. Contaminated dreams disturb the joys of sleep. How dare I waste moments of magic on barely tolerable most mundane duties done borderline willingly in a last resort to please an irrational need for survival. Its time to wake up. Now is always the only time. Never before or after just now again and again. If anything is it is and is so only now. Embrace, enhance, enjoy, enlighten. There is no truth or untruth only belief and love or lack there of. Tomorrow will never come, the absolute must be made manifest for now is always the only time. Whether I’m wide awake or dreaming I’ll still be on a journey. Whether with ease or difficulty knowledge of awareness will be my salvation. If found in the bathtub drowned in aphorisms and maxims there’s no need to worry. The chapter will end so the idea can grow. There’s always another story around the corner, over the page, under the bridge. The waters flow ever onward. The water’s course taught me all I need to know. There’s always one more chapter to go. The story symbolic of itself, not events, not objects, something beyond. A mental extension to the beyond. There’s no escape, simple and straight. Cyclic or finite both meet themselves and the other in destructive conception. An ineffable medium, somewhere beyond the two in synergistic dimensions. There is no start. There is no end. There is no implied return to order. There just is. The End.