vast spaces, open for business
empathy expanding, feeling growing
brings fear, confusion, instability, tension
but it does have a bizarre carnival upside
raw energy, strangeness, surreality, dynamism, changing vantage.
splinter seed
crypticly sealed
yes indeed
a burned almond
of eternal incomprehension
chugga chigga wugga
is it all a theme, or pure confusion? getting filthilly incomprehensible? willful delirium?
Am I gonna make use of this transcription? Psychosomatic ramblings. Shaky footing over stepping stones. Beauties inside. Sacred cylinders of doznut guzert berglers. Esoteric exotic certainty in subways of sediment - dream resonance. A feeling. A reality. Binary code. Blinking. Remembering strange old feelings, certainties, transient? Question. Certainty. Meaning. Fugue wrung perfectly, designed to confuddle the masses on the frothy beachfringe, for what could be puddles of plueperfectful planglets of paradisiccle plandwires. That actually was in many ways, true to the feeling. Remains so. If I had more trust in the transcription. But my life is a paradigm slur. Values are always in a state of flux - probability clouds. Slanted metaphors.
Strange. I feel slanted, skewed, like DXM. Yes, it's happening. Weird. Body sensation, perfective shift, something going wonky in my brain. Words seem slanted to the left. Body mind seems bent to the left, upper left direction. Kinda salvia like feeling too, I guess, but more DXMy. Those were COOL, weren't they? I've got those feelings many times, forgotten, half remembered, when my left hand feels like my right, standing and sitting at the same time, alien gravity sensations, REALLY remembered, wrote about, gave an artistic treatment, in the grande jabberwock style. But sucrets, god. They're quite a flavor. Associated with - drilling holds in the body mind connection and seeing what happens. I forget the fascinating weird things. But I forget the cracks in those. The chasms of fear and pain. Well what do you expect, what are you, a fucking shaman? A lab rat? I should get paid for being a test subject for new synthetic tryptamines by the CIA. Sure, control my mind, I'm not doing anything with it. Just pay me a fair wage and sign me up.
Riding around in a van. A roller coaster. Mental. External. Squirmed internally, twitchy, in a van, outside a 7/11, friday night. Waiting. For fuel. For fuel. For fuel.
Riding around, feeling the splinter, the slow centuries. Twitchy, pandora's box, depths, yes, this is what i meant when i thought about writing THAT thing down, why don't i write about THAT, communicate THAT?! Because THAT is pretty much impossible, a fool's errand? Because the result would be... this?
Circus ranches beckon - beautiful people everywhere - the way they show their hair - makes me want to say
Cirrus smears gallop into each other's garments, swearing dead ends on blasmphed post conviction tradeoffs to faraway fringes of crusted dustcaptains.
Commodius Vicuus to a mututally understood reference to newly created significance, entered into the economy of shared monetry hallucination, a collective value, impossible to contemplate any alternative...
creature of habit caught in a hypervolution skew
i feel my limitations
Circus ranches beckon - beautiful people everywhere - the way they show their hair - makes me want to say
Cirrus smears gallop into each other's garments, swearing dead ends on blasmphed post conviction tradeoffs to faraway fringes of crusted dustcaptains.
Commodius Vicuus to a mututally understood reference to newly created significance, entered into the economy of shared monetry hallucination, a collective value, impossible to contemplate any alternative...
creature of habit caught in a hypervolution skew
i feel my limitations
still slinging around that sutra
at the end of the day
i could play doom, duke nukem, jedi knight, unreal, half-lifeand forget about it
There are no pyramids to be rendered here.
It is an activity of no use.
It's a miracle I can even write anything right now, so cut me some slack. If you want. Whatever. No, it isn't a miracle. It's the fish and loaves company on the grocerking shelves. It's on sale today.
Purpose in level designing. What an obscure little niche. What a quaint aspiration. What a delightful little delusion. An aesthetic unto itself.
Okay, now I'm having major waves of disgust dig into me. Ah so what. I don't think I'm untouchable. Anyone can be gotten to. Just don't make letters out of the blood from my headwounds. It's disrespectful. Allah wills it. Because joy.
captain's log
it rolls down stairs
in pairs, over your neighbor's dog
it's a rolling stone with moss, imposing
unstoppable, snowballed, from the cradle to the grave
magnum PI is on, the only thing that will sooth
mario themes on the keys, a warp zone, an old episode
an escape, through the warp zone, timewarp, plumbing the depths of ancient fantasy, atlantean vantages on taken for granted cosmic dramas, a hundred coins and a one up, the elusive green mushroom
how do i work that in? a foolish question
might as well ask the guru if he's really the head of the quickie mart? really? him? and waste my three alloted questions
subtle sarcasm slathered improv
a roarshach weave of aesthetic units synesthetically sinewed to feelings, emotions, petty psychodramas, fears, obsessions
the tension is abating though, finally, exhaustion takes its place - sloughed off all the nerve cells - ew, that's a grisly metaphor, makes me cringe against an imagined cleaving off a layer of my cerebral cortex, nevermind
the painful pleasure of anaesthesia, hyperconsciousness, simulating schizophrenia
i'm doing exactly what i said i'd do, transcribe - for some reason - utilitarian, artistic, of the moment, purposeless, blessed, like the cheesemakers, lillying the guild, the lollipop league welcoming you to munchkin land
dense hyperlinked paragraph that, like something out of The Wake except lacking lingual economy, not smelted, merely melting, smelling of elderberries - the next level of literature is too complicated for the average dolt like me to understand or appreciate. Alien Jazz, Jamie, young Jamie, nine years old as Jamie, but thirty-nine years old as decrepit dirty old man Chris, playing alien jazz, attuning to alien Jazz, a state boundary, epic, for the ages, like the moment of maximum appreciate of dark side of the moon, hallelujah, the messiah, the lost chord...
It doesn't all have to fall into the old patterns
It doesn't always have to fall into the old patterns
Sometimes bees will chase you for miles
for the scent of red bull, what a weird way to start my trip
but i avoided insectile alien abduction, even if i leaked psychofluid, in cretaceous iteration, in algebraic algae, not worried about liberation, in protozoan pools, also sprach the VALIS fool, as I remembered from a distant runon delirium.
in pairs, over your neighbor's dog
it's a rolling stone with moss, imposing
unstoppable, snowballed, from the cradle to the grave
magnum PI is on, the only thing that will sooth
mario themes on the keys, a warp zone, an old episode
an escape, through the warp zone, timewarp, plumbing the depths of ancient fantasy, atlantean vantages on taken for granted cosmic dramas, a hundred coins and a one up, the elusive green mushroom
how do i work that in? a foolish question
might as well ask the guru if he's really the head of the quickie mart? really? him? and waste my three alloted questions
subtle sarcasm slathered improv
a roarshach weave of aesthetic units synesthetically sinewed to feelings, emotions, petty psychodramas, fears, obsessions
the tension is abating though, finally, exhaustion takes its place - sloughed off all the nerve cells - ew, that's a grisly metaphor, makes me cringe against an imagined cleaving off a layer of my cerebral cortex, nevermind
the painful pleasure of anaesthesia, hyperconsciousness, simulating schizophrenia
i'm doing exactly what i said i'd do, transcribe - for some reason - utilitarian, artistic, of the moment, purposeless, blessed, like the cheesemakers, lillying the guild, the lollipop league welcoming you to munchkin land
dense hyperlinked paragraph that, like something out of The Wake except lacking lingual economy, not smelted, merely melting, smelling of elderberries - the next level of literature is too complicated for the average dolt like me to understand or appreciate. Alien Jazz, Jamie, young Jamie, nine years old as Jamie, but thirty-nine years old as decrepit dirty old man Chris, playing alien jazz, attuning to alien Jazz, a state boundary, epic, for the ages, like the moment of maximum appreciate of dark side of the moon, hallelujah, the messiah, the lost chord...
It doesn't all have to fall into the old patterns
It doesn't always have to fall into the old patterns
Sometimes bees will chase you for miles
for the scent of red bull, what a weird way to start my trip
but i avoided insectile alien abduction, even if i leaked psychofluid, in cretaceous iteration, in algebraic algae, not worried about liberation, in protozoan pools, also sprach the VALIS fool, as I remembered from a distant runon delirium.
June. Sounds like June. The soundtrack and the scents of June. The sense of June. It's here. Which means it's amanita month for Mr. X. He's sensed it for some time. The approaching shift. The geopolitical situation was getting too complicated to follow. He's been taking Hoffman's Illuminati Life-Extension Elixir for nearly two centuries now, but it seemed the more the modern political paradigm unfolded, the more complicated the whole thing got, the more elusive any kind of substantial feeling of comprehension became.
World War III seems perpetually immanent. A lot of people are getting killed every day. The wire services are basically nothing but a body count. It's still happening over there. Mr. X has lived at home long enough to resume thinking of it as "over there". He's another rocky mountain recluse, but he has no one to letterbomb. Killing individuals won't change anything. It's out of control. He's getting shockingly zen, or at least he thinks he might be sometime, but he's outlived eight or nine gurus. He's sloughed off his arrogance. Certain feelings seem like fossils.
Mr. X spent the sixties in the CIA. MK Ultra was nothing compared to the million monkeys project. I'm not sure where that concept is leading. Well something to do with a model of collective consciousness that is a million monkeys typing on a million typewriters for a million years, but even broader in scope. Not just the complete works of william shakespeare. But your own fairies. Your most unique personal expression, your soul incarnate in wacky characters, your alien artifacts, you hybrid creature.
Mr. X spent the sixties in the CIA. MK Ultra was nothing compared to the million monkeys project. I'm not sure where that concept is leading. Well something to do with a model of collective consciousness that is a million monkeys typing on a million typewriters for a million years, but even broader in scope. Not just the complete works of william shakespeare. But your own fairies. Your most unique personal expression, your soul incarnate in wacky characters, your alien artifacts, you hybrid creature.
Yes, that feeling of the splinter. Pleasure being pain, the compulsion to feel some extreme, being torn, stretched over an abyss. Heh, Neitzchean trip? Tension returns every once in a while, like a jagged spoke in a cycle that is generally jittery. Also sharp frets about toxicity, burn out, depression, unwanted psychic debris. Compulsion to cover that up, not talk about it, create a more pleasant reality. Insecurity. Childish superstition that if I talk about something, that will make it real. But is it already real anyway? Physically, I’m starting to feel very relaxed, although I still doubt very much I can sleep. Feeling like maybe binding back to a more familiar self/state though. Or maybe just an ebb in the massive tidal alienness. Boy, this is a strong stone. I think maybe I’m finally emerging from the peak. The depth. Yeah, that was intense. Less inclined to wander off my normal idioms.
Values warp, invert. Seems just a simple thing to say. But it has such huge implications it seems. In my increasingly hard to come to grips with mental universe. I seem to feel less in control daily. Adrift in a sea of chaos. Nihilism. Values, but personal, solipsistic confrontation with a vast intellegent, but coldly apathetic system. Life feels like software. Scripts, subroutines. Maybe this feeling is more than just a “feeling”. Maybe I am in an emulation. Really. All reality is virtual. Behind everything lies code. And behind the code lies some macro processing hardware. But that’s taking the metaphor to a literal absurdity. But there’s DNA. Deoxyribonucleic acid that regresses to superstrings, alpha and omega of binary being. Let’s say.
Still got a torus cave in my head, feelings I can’t deny, but which I should nevertheless ride like transient waves. Emotions. Must have taken a lot of work to make all this real. Drugs continually crop up in everything I write. I can’t get off the subject, the splinter. Consciousness. Reality. It’s still meta-crack, though I never use the M word anymore. Looking at the moon. Monkey mirror. Fairies in mirror are larger than they appear.
Because stimuli implodes in my head, folds in upon itself metabolizes to cryptic chemical interchange, quantum ballistics on raison d’etres. Oil painting with psuedoscience. Some crazy shit has happened since the conjuring. Moving image of eternity. Rode a feeling for a while, can’t find the dial, that’s okay, shouldn’t be desperate to change anything, except when the roof flies off, wicked witches are just green screen projections, forward doesn’t seem to be an escape, just reflection, the house isn’t that fun, can’t seem to create fun from nothing.
Cycles, just cycles. Endless snowflake cycles. Flakey cycles of snow. Snowstorm. Hurricane in my head. Hollow one second, flooded with meaning the next. Then drained again. An absurd cycle of thought. A dichotomy silly, serious, shit, sanctified. Holy shit. Kaleidoscope of delirius color, dreamlike, but all of a sudden too real again. Flailing, unable to feel the way I should feel based on a fondly remembered net of emotion/thought entanglement. Cross section of kinetic consciousness.
At least I’m not getting those shooting, stabbing pains. Cat and mouse game, chasing myself. That elusive self, who flanged through several barely remembered dialects tonight, almost extrasoular vibrations, whatever vibrations can be made to mean, made into prime numbers, messages from Vega. I’m really on a rambling roll tonight. I’m not entirely comfortable with this level of mind-manifestation/madness. But I thought I’d document what that stuff does to my head. In the gamble that some information could slip through the state filters. Collapse state vectors. Frankly, this feels weird.
-
There is a laboratory, deep under the Pacific Northwest Rainforest, perhaps not coincidentally close to the radioactive waste of Hanford , where a million monkeys are typing on a million typewriters, or something to that effect. A computer simulation might be closer to the situation. Experiments are being done, one of which, ironically, involves a monkey. Or, well, a chimpanzee.
Some people, and some monkeys are being fed OPIUM. Most of the participants are quite willing. OPIUM has got a good reputation. It's spoken of in creative, ever-evolving slang, in hip circles. But rarely encountered, for real. It's very elite stuff.
OPIUM stands for Optimized Personal Imagination Upgrade Medicine - does the acronym sound contrived? Well it should, because it's the ultimate in synthetic thought. A conscious gestalt? It's in the vein of telepathic appliances. Your desires are worked out in advanced. Obviously it's a strain of advanced consciousness (is that like advanced melanoma?) It might be rogue growth like an oncologist's white whale, megatumour, akira on crack. Maybe that's a magic trick. Anyway, OPIUM is getting trendy. Nobody is quite sure what the consequences to society will be, but the pill/therapy is in a club-drug stage - it could be taken orally, or it could be taken mentally, through stimuli. People are probing deep into biology these days.
Some people say it makes them see fairies. Dragon chasing fairy freaks. Some day it's a drug for fruits.
But the woodsprites weren't as unique as a fingersnapper thought, they had been typed by a monkey, they were in the archives, the information age, the burst buckle, the point at which knowledge becomes a negative value.
"What's all that jazz?" Candie asks, and improvises a tune on her reedy little tube that impressionistically embodies the melodic query. A gnomish flurry of notes. A bent smile, beckoning in spirals. Tommy doesn't know what to answer. It was a tangent. He gets on them a lot. He comes back to the woods. Feels like he's in some kind of lost chapter. Chronoblivion. It happens a lot in this forest paradigm. The ego frays at the edges. He feels like some strange underdeveloped character named Mr. X. Hah. Him in the CIA. Preposterous. But good for a laugh. The trees reflect that diffracted gnosis in mandlebrot arrangements of novel foliage. Metaphors continue to crawl like bark up the old ones. You can almost smell the karma. Smells soily, like the sum of a million rotting carcasses. Good doggy. Bad boy. Dead duck. Crazy as a loon. Piggish. Slinky bitch, craved dick once long ago. The distant memory of power and conquest. The wonder of having forgotten. Everything. The ability of rebirth. Regeneration. The immortality of eternal iteration. Hmm, this got more metaphysical than I intended. Oh well.
Oh yeah, wood sprites. Candie specifically. Once again in present tense. In the present tense. Fairly fractal. Barcarola blender. She knew a little something about fungi. She was a wry observer, the day the bear ate the amanita. When Mr. X decided to follow in a fictional bear's hallucinogenic footsteps, she was there as well. Did Mr. X notice? Did she interface the delirium? The waves of cross-visual compounds, alien like sets of faces twisted in ways you could never imagine - in some laboratory it was the will of an author slinging around sutra sets of aesthetics - in another, it was Candie's forest - it was documented on film, on the page, typed by a monkey. Grizzly man. Doctor Heidel told her she was in a matrix. She had to spend twenty minutes in the penalty box. Twenty years under the soil. Sixty years waiting tables in a cornerstore. That was a movie unto itself, filled with fairy metaphors.
Some people, and some monkeys are being fed OPIUM. Most of the participants are quite willing. OPIUM has got a good reputation. It's spoken of in creative, ever-evolving slang, in hip circles. But rarely encountered, for real. It's very elite stuff.
OPIUM stands for Optimized Personal Imagination Upgrade Medicine - does the acronym sound contrived? Well it should, because it's the ultimate in synthetic thought. A conscious gestalt? It's in the vein of telepathic appliances. Your desires are worked out in advanced. Obviously it's a strain of advanced consciousness (is that like advanced melanoma?) It might be rogue growth like an oncologist's white whale, megatumour, akira on crack. Maybe that's a magic trick. Anyway, OPIUM is getting trendy. Nobody is quite sure what the consequences to society will be, but the pill/therapy is in a club-drug stage - it could be taken orally, or it could be taken mentally, through stimuli. People are probing deep into biology these days.
Some people say it makes them see fairies. Dragon chasing fairy freaks. Some day it's a drug for fruits.
But the woodsprites weren't as unique as a fingersnapper thought, they had been typed by a monkey, they were in the archives, the information age, the burst buckle, the point at which knowledge becomes a negative value.
"What's all that jazz?" Candie asks, and improvises a tune on her reedy little tube that impressionistically embodies the melodic query. A gnomish flurry of notes. A bent smile, beckoning in spirals. Tommy doesn't know what to answer. It was a tangent. He gets on them a lot. He comes back to the woods. Feels like he's in some kind of lost chapter. Chronoblivion. It happens a lot in this forest paradigm. The ego frays at the edges. He feels like some strange underdeveloped character named Mr. X. Hah. Him in the CIA. Preposterous. But good for a laugh. The trees reflect that diffracted gnosis in mandlebrot arrangements of novel foliage. Metaphors continue to crawl like bark up the old ones. You can almost smell the karma. Smells soily, like the sum of a million rotting carcasses. Good doggy. Bad boy. Dead duck. Crazy as a loon. Piggish. Slinky bitch, craved dick once long ago. The distant memory of power and conquest. The wonder of having forgotten. Everything. The ability of rebirth. Regeneration. The immortality of eternal iteration. Hmm, this got more metaphysical than I intended. Oh well.
Oh yeah, wood sprites. Candie specifically. Once again in present tense. In the present tense. Fairly fractal. Barcarola blender. She knew a little something about fungi. She was a wry observer, the day the bear ate the amanita. When Mr. X decided to follow in a fictional bear's hallucinogenic footsteps, she was there as well. Did Mr. X notice? Did she interface the delirium? The waves of cross-visual compounds, alien like sets of faces twisted in ways you could never imagine - in some laboratory it was the will of an author slinging around sutra sets of aesthetics - in another, it was Candie's forest - it was documented on film, on the page, typed by a monkey. Grizzly man. Doctor Heidel told her she was in a matrix. She had to spend twenty minutes in the penalty box. Twenty years under the soil. Sixty years waiting tables in a cornerstore. That was a movie unto itself, filled with fairy metaphors.
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