Changeling Change Log:

Channel One. For plugging into. Then channeling. Circuit for changeling. Here are the updates. Enjoy the new channel. For clumsily fumbling at an alien discipline. For the sake of this living thing. So this little living thing can affect all things, contribute to a general good that exists, for real, that is not a mirage, that feels somehow realer than anything, that feels/is immune to any paradigm shift, something eternal and infinite. That's the thing. Predicted by the I Ching. Can't imagine it later. In the fumbling process of programming self to express in groups of four, for the ease of it, the groove of it. Putting down stakes in mistakes. Letting be a laughing color wheel in any icy pleasure dome [sic]. Yes. Letting be. Not it.

Started with bomberman. Sixth and Seventh steps and things in between. Chug blues. All aboard the abused cartridge. The boxcar of diminished fifths. And bitonal sleeping carts. If only it could be rendered a little more precisely, coherently. If only I could get my ass to do work, be a craftsman, realize potential. Pathetically being my own fan. My own man. Yeah, I'll own it. Hype it the fuck up. Did you remember to keep the meter in this group of four? Did you remember about the bomberman melody?

Making peace with kitsch. Making kitsch work for me, yes indeed. Gotta believe, yeah I gotta believe, that ten percent of my fantasy could be reality. Yeah, still, gotta believe. Even now. Even in these times.

Should I make a demand to be taken seriously? No, probably should not. Should not write a symphony. Should have no pretensions to theory. Should not seek sympathy. Should still play synthesizers.

As an emaciated olive branchling to a theoretical audience, I'll say something plainly: Sometimes I really do feel like I'm channeling something. It doesn't even matter what it is, it's the channeling that is the thing. That's what's important. The medium is the message. It's now the polished bodily function. Glorifying dionysian kitsch. Make it all kitsch so as to make it categorizable. Fungible like lego bricks.

Ah, there's bomberman in his buzzy square wave form.

Part of channel one is to feel like I am serious. It's glorious, but how can I say it in an adjective and be actually descriptive and evocative instead of empty with chaff words? It's seriously fun, that's at least a little less finger pointing at the moon-ey. I'm glad I saved those sound programs on the nord, so I can recreate stuff later.

Remember the left hand. The underpinning plumbing that wants to break free from that role. That wants to continue to flow like the effervescing mirage visage wafting off the pale imitations of alien plumbing, continue, to flow, but take on new roles, own the apparatus, set agenda veering off what was always the inevitable gravity of the flow.

As always, a ride, in a music video, down a circuit that encompasses all the options, an ever evolving self-involved nexus of flow and no deep ditch for several miles, but when a cave comes along big enough to suck you in it's so rare and different that it can almost feel timeless, like there's no past or future, which may be hyperbole, but the quality of each moment of perception, each discreet drop of awareness is so rich, such high-grade perception, beyond pedestrian "pleasure", but more the quality of being a hyper-being, getting well beyond ego, beyond what you or I "deserve". Gifts of forgiveness in radically altered perception, escaping the gravity of quotidian life. I want to go there again. I do, I want to be there again soon. Maybe it's good that I forget. Maybe it's good to remember again. Maybe. Let's see.

Damn, this could be material, for real, legit shit. I want to go deeper. It feels good and right. And only fifteen minutes in. I really put some muscle into that music. But the polish isn't there yet. The soul is, but I can't always hear it later. What a bitch that is. Fuck.

Nintendo ref riffing brings to mind malik and t and m and the collaborations we could have. That imperative I felt, with the muscle behind it, which was so fleeting, tardive dyskinesia and dissolution of resolve to do something, at least write him an email saying: we really gotta do this, life is too short...

This time it's different right? This time, this take will take. This take on the situation is the right one, right? Tell me I'm right, tell me it's so, tell me what to do and I'll do anything for you.

I need some people following me, propping me up, that's what I need, a following. But first I need talent worthy of that, and that's what I lack. I'm definitely a case-study. A case in point. If you studied me, you'd see unflattering psychological complexes. Narcissism. No painting over that mirror.  That self-drowning person. The same fate would await me. It'd be a fait accompli. Wait, what am I saying, "would" await? I'm saying it like it's theoretical. Nah. It's real.

No need for a theme, an anthem. It's a divine finite flow, but there needs to be a better word than divine for that. But it felt fine, it rhymed. But now I want a definitely different sound to that. Not divine, but dynamite. That sounds right. That's what I'll write. That's the brightrite of this thing right now. That was a hard-edged half-assed arpeggio. But it was also a series of arpeggios articulating the modulation of a thought about how that bassy synth phase sounded like one of my favourite tracks from the soundtrack to Mandy, and how one of the themes from that movie was the cultist imploring himself, desperately: Tell me what to do! Tell me what to do! And then his eyes lit up and he felt the presence, channeled maybe, blew the horn of Abraxas and succeeded in business, the business of removing inconvenient others from existence, and all for the low price of evil. Tell me what to do and I'll do anything for you. You know what the freakiest thing was? They fucking loved it.

The important part for this to mean anything is that substance is absence, what comprises this matter is a bunch of bubbles, bouncy, expansive, empty, but those shells, oh those shells, they seem to have an abundence of substance, oh hell yeah.

Rebellion will have to come up, at some point. As a sticking point, an issue that's gotta be dealt with. In the same way that societies squeeze their downtrodden members to a breaking point. The terror of how bad things have to get to lead to "The Terror". Subsisting on black breads. Being all les miserable.

My name is Leslie Miserable, I'm here to say: It sucks to rap about a shitty ass day. A shitty ass day becomes a shitty ass week. A month, then a year, and I'm still up shit's creek.

One thing I can feel is the slant, the paraphysical gravity. Does that mean I'm even able to connect to deja-thread dendrites? Past ontologies of dissociative planes? That's cool. That I can do it without even DXM, but just high on pot oil. Maybe doesn't say much for the structural integrity of my grip on reality, but hell, I'd say, I'm somewhat high functioning, except, well, not really. But low functioning, at least. Functioning, of sorts. 

asmr sutra 1/x

HANDS WARMedUP.

Judiciously stringing out beads of dram, creating an interference pattern with the tendency toward fear and guilt - trying for vigilance but succumbing to frustrating laziness - creating future periods of drowse and preparing for a long plateau of smooth surfaces overlapping in pleasing stratas, nothing too steep or jagged. Venting inertial damper exhaust to compensate for quantum fluctuation.

Careful staggered doses of dram will keep things delirious but sane. The fog of extra-thick sensation will soon pass, so I'm looking strategically well beyond this next couple hours to a good dozen of good vibes. Don't worry, be drowsy. We'll make it fine, somehow, see what we can get away with.

It'll be a sutra. It'll have floofy cats with curly fur walking across the desk. I can leave this in the hopper, indefinitely, to encourage honesty, if that's what's necessary... but I don't care, actually, I'll be indelicate and still honest-ishy.

What does that kitty want from me? Wish I could give it to her. If only I knew. If only I could trust anything I think cause I got no instinct. Some paranoid hallucinations. Some ability at the best of times to think of the universe as a conspiracy to help me [a subset of the big meta-theory that we're all playing an entertaining role in the cosmic opera, taking turns.] I guess hearing Alan Watt's articulation of the Maya theory did influence me a lot, just not in a brainwashing way, more in the way where I'm willing to become wishy washy about the distinctions between me and you, friend and enemy. Maybe I just wanna be sedated, better yet opiated. I'm not enough of either of those two things.

I don't know how I would contort this into something fit for squeezing through za medium of twitter. My writing is like ensure, force-fed to prisoners to break a hunger strike. That's a good emblem, at least, for the perverse banality of my writing, anyway, let's say, with imagery not worthy of such a medium, like cheapening the holocaust in a third-rate film adaptation of a second-rate stephen king novella.

Let it all flow as it's all disposed to around me. A prayer of thanks for what is, not yearning. Having modest needs taken care of. Modest. In this second, in enjoying the enabling of all this by a vast assemblage of toil from generations past to be here now.

I'll write about "them" all astounding me later.

*

Value inflates to the size of dream symbology, then restricts like a trap, all the air sucked out, I'm naked in a vacuum tube. A metaphor too outside your experience to get. 

Let it flow. Fake flow til it goes. 

Savouring the sucking out of nicotine laced propylene glycol from the vape, taking two long drags without a breath of air so I get winded yet vindicated from the dopamine hack I guess, pretending to be higher than I am. Willing it into existence cause I can play in the realm of magic like a lucid dream. 

Savouring the simple pleasures of this weird life circumstance is a good thing to do, often, and dispute how all the problems seem to be piling up on all sides. No problemo, take another puff, it's like quaker oats, the right thing to do. It's moral righteousness. You can shake and quake along with my supine slack if you want. Everyone has their own route to god if they're lucky enough to be able to find one. Alan Jensen found a direct route to God, but he found it profoundly disturbing, ultimately unbearable, so he sold his soul to his ego, bought back a functional life. No flashbacks. 

Savouring watching another failarmy compilation on YouTube with Erin is a good thing to do in these end times. It wouldn't be worth hardly anything doing it by myself, but it's a couch experience way more than the sum of its parts with her.

The Banality of End Times

There's these dueling pay-pig recipients. I'm their client. I pay them and they perform for me. Among other things, they perform the function of being better than me, so much better and more talented. They produce content that I consume. I pretend to worship them. Sometimes I actually do worship them. Most importantly, I give them money.

One of them is on instagram. I found her bikini pics. She alluded to their existence in a reply on a different social network that I happened across. Cristina. From a perfect threads burn where she delivered the retort: "yeah it’s called restraint, something the IDF & u hate-masturbating over my bikini pics lack." It's ideology I like on a hottie. OMG. So it's not exactly pay-pig, a slightly more dignified form of pay piggery, it's hog-shill.

The other recipient is Ian Welsh. Well, theoretical recipient, I haven't sent him money, but I'm really thinking about it, he made a good pitch. But I'm struggling in this economy, right? That's my counter-pitch, to myself, because no one else is aware.

He posted a list of catastrophes and paradigm shifts he predicted in point form. One of them had an ominous sentence after: "It has begun." How do I feel about that? Should I craft it into something to post on that facebook thread? First I've got to do some appreciation theatre and prove myself willing to perform perfunctory attention and admiration upon colleagues in the college of dubious artforms. Level up on points. To where I can post. 

Ian, quoting chapter and verse, me, licking it up like gospel ladeled down my gullet. Gross.

Is that how ppl become fans of ppl on instagram? That's sad. I don't want to play a sad role in a sad little play that is horrifying and beautiful at times, like pixies singing songs to you at the peak/trough diamond drill interval of an ayahuasca trip. We know those "entheogens" don't necessarily do any good, people can go in and out with their asshole egos intact no problem, look at burning man for an example, look at all those zaphod beeblebroxes going into their total perspective vortexes and coming out with the idea that the universe is endorsing their dream to go on mismanaging silicon valley parasite farms. Oh, that rant felt righteous and full of holes.

It can get to be too much some times. Luckily I don't fall into panic much any more. I just let it flow, as it's all disposed to, around me, around me. Don't know what they do, but the things they all get up to just astound me, astound me, Nursery Rhymes for arrested developments. Ok, I got one mantra ready, at least. I cobbled together one of them. That's as heroic as I can get. Until something forces me to get moreso.

Just between you and me, that was too much of that oil. Might have to edit inconvenient vestiges of the present that try to out-compete and eliminate ways of coping, being here now, in the moment. Does make me aware of how cold my hands are, in a more immediate way, like it's weighty, means something, feels something extra. Does make me aware I'm doing something, writing, and lending the weight of weightier sensation to the fact that writing is a struggle, lends more weight to the activity, makes meaning even, in and of itself, if meaning could be derived later, by whatever standard reigns then. See, that's the big question. The goddamn state boundary. You see? Ah, nevermind. I'll try again later.

Nursery mantras I sing to myself when I get desperate, or even drowsy. When I don't want to get out of bed, and it's a morning lullaby, an elegy to waking life and exhortation to stay in bed, and don't worry about it, and don't despair but get back to that pleasant drowsiness, treat the drowsy like I drug, not like anyone else drugs but like I do it, how I treat it like a laudanum-coated lollipop. Some people do dream in a druggy kind of way, ppl do know what I'm talking about, even if the idea of addiction to sleep is seen as not credible, not worth exploring or even discussing... and what is even out there that hasn't got a reddit devoted to it?

What's my reddit saying about me? Did they turn on me? Did some one edit my wikipedia page to claim I was a paypig? Who posted these scurrilous lies? Actually no body, there's nothing, I can relax, as I've always relaxed in that area. I've kept a low profile, because of low points in my ego, in my story, which is I guess what passes for trauma with me, so I guess that's lucky, a first world problem. It's a first world luxury to worry about potential panic in the near future. I could freak out about that luxury, or luxuriate in it. I guess it would be far more pleasurable to do the latter.

There was cyber-bullying, I guess, before the term existed, but my dreams are fucked up enough, with enough over-the-top symbology, but not enough sex, although sometimes. Christ, had the first one of those dreams of my life, so there's weird stuff going on. Maybe there's a lack of outlet, maybe there needs to therapy for me, poor me, or pour me a drink.

There were multiple times of being smacked down so hard online that it kept me shy, even online, guarded. And still, I got multiple relationships out of being online, one of it enduring, ongoing, despite how life conspires to break our wills to be there for each other, that bare minimum thing that can mean so much, even in good times, all the more so in times that seem like "the bad timeline" in a sci-fi movie, like where climate change wasn't fixed easily, even within capitalism, with market-based solutions, like the ozone hole was, and instead, all the "worst-case" models turned out to be overly-sunny projections, and the prognosis became increasingly malignant for human survival, and we got to see the clown fascist pre-shock before the century-long banality of end-times.

I can't think of what to say in the threads replies. I'm tongue-tied. I guess that's why I'm a pay pig. I'm not paying much though. I guess I could splurge and buy some real top-tier temporary loyalty. For a weekend. And then, I dunno, go on a mass shooting spree? Nah, not extraverted enough. That's very late-90s anyway. Old old paradigm. Now I'm an adult, more civic-minded, more inclined to do terrorism towards a doomed revolution, if anything. I'm a cynic civic. Can the word civic be used like that? I'm not sure. What is this, a podcast monologue now?

memoir, chapter 27d:

So that was the period where I became even more self obsessed and wrote about myself all the time, and imagined myself in a music video, the righteous riff with tricked out harmony shader for every second, and thought that being an epic bacon shaman was a vocation for me... but in the back of my mind there was this nagging suspicion that it was worthless. But the tune of the track kept a'rolling... on tangents, with a log-driver waltzing from one to another, all drifting together, down the river.

When it rains it pours on this river, triggers memories in this sub-tune of the d subsection of chapter twenty seven. It accompanies. Myself. For company. That's the period where I became even more self-obsessed and impressed with arpeggios I was playing through keys melding in each other, I called it my bitonal period, with a heavy flow, soaking my tampon in red righteousness, pussy on fire, in that little node, if it could...

Chapter 27d addendum: so DXM was supposed to be my literary drug, but I wasn't writing as much on it - was just glinting at other dimensions in dilated time, but that was just a phrase, a cliche, in a pastiche, what was I really touching? Just boring delirium? No, but grasping at straws, possibilities of being other than this, and heavy thoughts that felt like they could be made to fit, awkwardly and vaguely, into therapy, and therapeutic theories about how to cope with life. And being left with just the sense of poetry as being cringey, because it's not cool to feel like that meant something. And yet being able to see this as not a durable truth just an aesthetic. Just a non-descript spot on the rug, even, that could be the hinge around which the universe turns in a salvia trip, when I'm identifying with everything and nothing, a trivial ego death, and I lack the vocab to go much beyond that.

One way of coping with life is spurring your two fur babies to go on the hunt, around the apartment, cause there's nothing else to do, this little apartment is now their whole world, forever, as far as they know, those creatures, if they have such notions or feelings or instinct... spur them on the hunt by shining the laser a little bit, see if it can rouse them... it did a little bit, for a little while, even with a weak battery.

I lured the cats away, for a few minutes maybe, the hunt for the tossed laser... The laser wasn't even on, they like the jangly metal tail of the thing better. Their life, oh god, I don't want to think about it - because I'm hypersensitive now to the point where I'm sensing pain in imagination, pain that's not really there, prolly pleasure that's not really there either, it was never there. Or it was in your pocket. Molly Pocket, the pleasure that's not really there, except in your pocket for a few hours, because you were busy with other things for that long, conducting business about the rave. Man about rave with housecoat and hashpipe, it's your costume before you pop the molly and feel pleasure that's not really there, but it's right there, right now!

Molly pocket sat in his pants for hours like a packet of pleasure socket. Like I'm potentially connected to a feeling of meaning and well-being that lasts hours. And is not so evil really, right? C'mon committee of self-rationalization chorus, not a greek chorus but a greek God chorus, a chorus of Gods, a dionysian meastro, urging chugging of bliss, how long's it been, huh? Treat yourself, meerkat. Maybe Dez would like this, or it would spark at least a memory of that worn down poetic pebble, maybe the peter-piper-picked-a-pickled-pepper ref will resonate just the tiniest bit, like a good liar not quite acing that lie detector test on that question.

Maybe Jenn would like just a little bit, if rendered the right way, if we were both on a rare frequency of caring about such things, maybe I would like a thing of hers too. Maybe brain damage does heal, maybe I just get better with age like a fine wine. Maybe there are gnomes in Port Alberni.

Nah. Nevermind. Maybe I won't post. Maybe I will swim down a rivulette of blood that is shame, into the sea that is a symbol for shame because imagery. Did a suicide note write this? Did chat GPT write this? Now that has to be referenced in everything, open IA, it's the zeigheist. Yes, it's IA, intelligent automation. The name of this IA is The Zeigheist. It's the name of an artificial intelligence software designed by the Elon analog in the next season of Black Mirror. I can predict it cause I'm powered by intelligent automation. It suggested I write this. See, you thought it was human, but it wasn't! Fooled you. So that means I passed the Turing test. Oh, but I wouldn't have passed it if you'd had more time. But you didn't. The time that's associated with a legitimate passing of the Turing test is 30 minutes. We could negotiate how long the standard timing of the standard turing test is. You can watch a video on how a bill becomes a law. How Bill Hicks becomes a comedian. How life becomes death. You kinda know it, feel it, anyway, don't you?

I wrote an episode of black mirror, like that ex-ad exec in mad men wrote an episode for Star Trek, called The Negron Complex. The most meaningful thing he'd ever written to that point, he solemnly said, down and out, all hashed out back in the sixties, getting scammed by hari-krishnas. There hadn't been that berke breathed cartoon about hari krishnas yet, so nobody knew their tricks and knew to stay clear, cause there are street smart neti-zens now, meti-zens in the near future, when Neil Stephenson's snow crash universe is pretty close to the reality, except stranger and scarier, as reality tends to be, and also banal most of the time. Instead of a "neurolinguistic" virus, it's a "woke mind virus", and it's a collective paranoid fantasy, like "the combine" in one flew over the cuckoo's nest, amplified by the most powerful, but still utterly incompetent and neurotic lunatic in charge of the asylum.

There were other times when I would actually chat online and get an almost old timey feel. Something could stir in my extra sensory nerves, nostalgia abuse could beckon. I thought about a mode of music beyond my current willingness, involving the boundless strangeness of another person, not as strange as a stranger, but still so richly strange and unpredictable and not understandable, how a normal person can be like a god if I get to know them a little, not in the sense of a power relationship, but just in an awe-inspiring mystery that seems tantalizingly knowable at certain times, that vanish like dreams on waking.

It could get really dark, if I want to go there. The man about rave idea. But the rave is a few miles away from the wall that separates the settlers from the people penned in the open-air prison. I have the luxury of it being a choice, what I care about, to some extent, distant happenings I assume are happening.

Then there was an episode where there were a series of patterns where I would snuggle into bed with my wife at night, cause she wanted to feel me next to her, so I could whisper some sweet cute words into her ear, at the trivial cost of waking her up, in the private language we share, that's so coot and ridiculous, and feel incredibly lucky, and try and savour the moment and not worry about the future too much, not need to project, just breathe out and be nirvana, and not need any extra chemical agents in the mix. Conveying a message of love with my hands, the subtleties of touch, the micro-scale conveyed to the princess via pea, the decorating of peach's castle, all of a peace with our family, her and I, and our two fur babies.

NEW NO NO:  NO! NO SPACE

whirlpool of cutlery

This line stuck out at me, as an emblem of the kind of mindset shift that needs to happen, and fast: "An economy of millions of cars, with sprawling cities makes no damn sense in the future that is coming." And on down the line for every facet of life.

I've felt like I'm being pulled into some deep, weird waters, more and more the last few months, years. Socialism and a livable future. They should go together. It's awfully convenient and nice for me, since I'm pro-socialism, and pro-livable-future, that the two things go together. I do want to live a while longer, I'm not praying for some hackneyed book of revelations style prophecy to come true. So that's why it's a weird whirlpool. No, it's a path in the woods. Why have we reached this fork in the road? And yet it cuts like a KNIFE?

I seem to be pulled in different directions. Something about that chart doesn't scream GROWTH, I dunno. Something about everybody's standard of living needing to get better. Everybody's? How many bodies we talking about here? How many babies, how many refugees? I don't wanna say we're spoiled, we have some rich to eat first. Let's gorge on them. Then maybe we can tighten our belt a bit. A lot. Like a seat-belt. On a car going over a cliff. Into the jellyfish sea. But hopefully it's not too far a drop. Hopefully we can ride it out. Hopefully there's a ledge below the edge. The lullaby is real. Rocking the cradle of love. 

Yeah, when there's a conflict, my mind, and my gut, tend to go with de-growth, for chrissake, if nothing else. Let's start with that. Get serious, stop trying to squeeze blood from the stone. But then there's a deeper darker whirlpool nearby, that is eco-fascism. It's alluring but deceptive, it's all lies, because when fascism happens, it's never good or competent. Save the future by implementing fascism is absurd. Yeah, the philosopher kings are gonna save us. Elon Musk on Joe Rogan. What a relief.

Is that what happened, Cernovich, when you experimented with wellbutrin for 3 months, you opened a portal in your mind and heard voices telling you to shoot the pedophiles at the pizza restaurant? Yeah Elon? When you intra-muscular inject ketamine for breakfast, does the Earth Coincidence Control Office call you with John Lilly's dispatch from the World Economic Forum in 2027? Someone call RFK, ASSEMBLE the mind-virus vaccine squad, the Woo-Anon brain trust, there's a new theory on SSRIs!

Maybe it wasn't that. But it felt like something at the time. And that's something. State bounded riddles just won't work. I shouldn't care how anything is read, or interpreted. Maybe I should care about if something is felt, by some random person. Maybe I do, or would, theoretically.

Am I Lost without God's Love? No, I can take the void, take it for another few decades, anyway. Can't feel a cycle that makes everything OK, a smooth running wheel, the magnificence of the machine working for eternity. No, can't feel any of that, but that's OK, I'll say, it's OK if there's just nothing. I'll accept that. And accepting it will make everything OK. Not a homeless man, got some friends, family, in theory, they live in my head even a little bit like imaginary friends. But it's lonely a lot of the time, dare I even say, do some quarter-assed therapy on myself like I'm butterfingered Jerry fiddling with Rick's rocket-powered gadgetry in the garage.

I'm barely even a homeless man, I may dress like it sometimes, but I can pay rent in this city, so I keep doing it, out of habit, congratulations citizen. I can thank my lucky stars I don't live some place that would force me to choose among the options of being a martyr or refugee or charred corpse.

I also played some music for the first time in I don't know how many months, finally the 1st keyboard improv after moving to this apartment on Quadra St. Louise is meowing at me again and again, and then she bats the mochi wrapper around the floor for a while, and then meows at me again, she's in some kind of cycle I don't understand. I wish I was better at cross-species empathy and communication. I just think she's cute, and we each stimulate oxytocin in the other at certain times. I'd realize it's the best treat of the day if I wasn't trying to replace vaping with nicotine gum six or seven times a day. Fuck.