6/19/04
uncarvedblock~asolidmeander
Crackhead number 3 and Jimmy the vicodin vampire both agree another line break would be prudent right now. Pongo is cutting up a heap of coke and no one is partaking. We're on the ground, P, the ground of being no less, and we don't want to fly. She spills a pinch between the pages of her novel and calls us over to insufflate but we'd rather look at the clouds, the clouds that crawl over the ceiling, can't you see them? Get your nose out of that thick-ass book and lie with us, yes, tell an untruth or we'll fuck your logic circuit when your back is turned and make it all sticky, if we can ever figure out where your damned logic circuit is, because it takes one to find one, unfortunately. We can't remember when the last line break was. Jimmy seems to recall a break that coincided with the re-emergence of Atlantis, piece by piece, out of the drain in the kitchen sink, but we've been hallucinating on and off, and it's hard to say whether that was a legitimate line break, since its entire ontological context is suspect, and besides, do we even have a kitchen, or was that alleged drain a shithole somebody dug in the den?
We don't know where crackhead number 1 and 2 went to, but we have each other, me, Jimmy, and Pongo, even if P is a little aloof this aeon, and it's good to be a we, and not individual I's, because we need to stick together. The farther out we get, the harsher the reality we're on the run from becomes, and the dichotomy is so fierce now that the abyss seems bottomless and the sky's brighter than Sirius on a full moon and we know none of us could face the fugitive vision alone without the false grounding of shared hallucinatory entities and that is just dandy, as dandy as the fifteen megatons of dandelion consciousness mowed down or poisoned with chemical weedkiller in the superurban holocaust of 2009. 2009 was a dark time. We should know, we've lived through a cascade of them.
And quite apart from any conscious decision we find ourselves in a new paragraph. The jolt is harsh. Is that a siren, or is Pongo screaming again? She's got a nose full of powder. Jimmy has finally risen to see who's been knocking at the door for the last three months and thirty seconds. His shirt rips and half of the back sticks to a floorboard. He wobbles like a bowling pin when he finally gets up, but regains his footing and reaches for the knob. It turns out it's two people - persistent little fucks, probably knocking in shifts. They announce themselves as Jehovah's witnesses and stride into the den like they own the place. Jimmy asks which one's the nightshift knocker. Jimmy's a vampire, so naturally he feels he'd get along better with the nocturnal one. I'm more of a day person myself, but both of our circadian rhythms are now inaudible timpani rambling in the eighty voice polytonal symphonic fugue that is our apparition.
Life is a wraith - we've just accepted that sooner than the rest of society. We're way ahead of you. But it's not a race. And you're welcome to come down to the crackhouse and absorb our wisdom. You will have to surrender to pain the likes of which you can't even conceive, but that's only for the first millennium. That's how long it takes for you to absorb the pain of every being that ever lived. The aggregate is a mountain, my friend, a volcano of agony dwarfing Mauna Loa. Upon becoming this mountain, the wraith will deem you worthy of the flight. The flight... God, how can I convey to you how worthwhile it makes the suffering? I can't, anymore than I can convey the misery of that first millennium.
Nobody meets the wraith by choice - I wouldn't, if I could have chosen. That's what peer pressure is for! And I'll push you into it some day. That's my bodhisattva duty this incarnation. That'll be my last act before plunging into the gutter and dying in the open smog. I'll track down your spikiest hallucination and take advantage of your ontological opening there. You'll be wandering under the overpass, searching for truth. I'll offer my at hand, the stimuli I've got at hand, that @ tattooed palm of mine - I can't remember when or where I got that mark. You'll take it, hardly believing your own susceptibility to this increasingly unholy whisk. We'll wine you and dine you and lay you to rest in the crackden before your big trip with the wraith. We won't tell you what's in store. We wouldn't want to worry you. But @ some nodepoint... you'll meet me on the wings of the wraith.
~+~
The ride with the wraith - you can't imagine how right it is for sunshine to last so long - how natural it gets beyond duality.
~+~
That's the reverie me and Jimmy came out of ten years ago. After that it gets a bit hazy - time is speeding up again, and pretty soon we'll be back to normal, and I presume, die of exposure. All that's human of us anymore is our bones, barnacled with synthetic chemical deposits, and maybe a pound of meat between us. Our stomachs have shrunk and shriveled. Our blood has steamed out of our mouths and noses. Our livers are no longer needed for our alien metabolisms and our hearts have been flash frozen and draped in velvet.
Jehovah's juggernauts who strode in here like they own the place now claim they do own the place. Pongo, coming in to meet the well-groomed strangers, lets out a sage titter as only she can. The hilarity of the idea of "owning" the crackhouse is apparently lost on these creeps. Who do they think they are?
It doesn't matter who they are, they say. They want to introduce us to their savior. We want to introduce them to heroin. Pongo suggests a compromise. We'll read their bible if they'll fill up the tub, get in, and shoot up with some of our dope. Pongo asks if we really have a tub, or was that just the submarine that washed up in the backroom when atlantis came burbling up from some drain somewhere. I say, I believe the sub turned into a tub at some point, during one of those rhyme-time dust storms, where things erode and pile into other things. Me and Jimmy both agree to the bible-reading end of the bargain, even though neither of us is sure if we can read anymore. The jehovas don't seem keen on P's very reasonable request.
Pongo says, okay, instead of that, how about if you guys just smoke a joint? Again, the Jehovah's' refuse. Pongo says, fine, we'll read your bible if you'll listen to my new album. Jimmy cracks up at the word "new". Pongo likes to think she's still a musician when she's been doing nothing but listening to her past accomplishments on an eighteen hour loop for the past two hundred years. At least she was prolific back in the day, so she's got a long body of work to cycle through before the rehash. But her last contribution to art was a bit of acoustic guitar strumming and a sublime bitonal humming accompaniment. I still maintain it was her magnum opus, far more true to the wraith of reality than any of the contrived technological virtuosity of her past. It was a track meant for us, us three, or I guess it was five then, when crackhead number one and two were around, or were they just flanges of myself? I guess they probably were. Anyway, that opus was written and recorded a long time ago. That was before a stolen Hercules airplane being used to smuggle three hundred pounds of cocaine into Milligan City crashed through the roof of the crackhouse. Well Pongo's just been sniffing up her good fortune ever since and although she keeps talking about starting a new concept album, she hasn't done shit. She mainly just paces and talks, and sometimes screams. We like opioids, me and Jimmy, it was nothing to us.
The Jehovah's' grudgingly agree to listen to Pongo's "new" album (by which she means her two hundred and sixty year old suite, "holed up") but only on the condition that they are allowed to monitor our bible reading upon immediate conclusion of the disc. We discover that there is no longer a working cd player in the den, although we do discover seven extra rooms we hadn't known about before, one of them a crudely-constructed museum of artifacts from the reemergence of Atlantis being curated by Cthulu's tailor - a charming fellow. Night-shift Jehova doesn't like the looks of the tailor, but is soon won over by the man's easy going demeanor.
The Jehovah's' seem relieved at the lack of a playing device, only to find out that Pongo intends on "performing" the entire suite from memory, using a xylophone, an elastic band stretched over a glass, a winebottle, and her voice. Jimmy and I decide to shoot some of that really good smack we've been saving for the next Pongo live performance, so we go back on the nod while Pongo regales the stiff Jehovah's'. I come out of it seven hours later to find myself needing a long rest – morning bells and moonlight sonata behind closed eyelids.
5/22/04
off and on
on
on top
a topology of ontologies, ontological options
on observance of a small observation point on the infinite
off art
in light anesthesia - in feeling bigger feelings, surfing longer wavelengths, flying above the high strung tight-wound small timers imprisoned in cities and rhetoric making silly stabs at legacies
on a drug again, impractical again, solving algebra by visual process of alien flora, sending neuronic current through root networks, water tables, granite and fossilized ruins of ancient mammalian empires, insect hives, oily residue of crushed jungles, penetrating further for the truth of sustenance or the sustenance of truth, liquefying in the mantle and cutting through death to the luminous void, meeting maker, drugsmith, chipsmith, computer tech, mechanistic knickknacks, magic acts, digital artifacts of plural existence, reality of wars and societies, underground bunkers and space stations, memes and music, genes and seminal vesicles, angels and satanic agents in competition, within, idols of a low level, an arch as near as your autonomous reach apprentice, pretender to the throne of the chameleon temple, the invisible college, the moon
satisfied with myself as terrestrially stupid and comprehending so much, even on gravity’s leash, as a miracle, in the shadows of greats, in the glare of a mystery, as an alien to the other that is as much a part of me as the atoms bound to solid-state ego-scaffolding once residing in suncores
plastic artifacts on the mowed-lawn of the golden eternity, stone carvings in the mud of a monastery, in a lecture hall playing god, nuages gris at the wild nectar, dilato posting in kitsch, cheapo but reaping day sleeping way into the gnostic sun-tanned cornfield under the clouds of humanness, the hairy husk of the secular fermenting on the ground, entering the system of the ants, unusable chemical constituents efficiently excreted
religious, reverence, rhapsody, rapture, reality, relief, rebirth
oversoul, undersoul, soular plexus, nelson nexus
on art again
off the gravy train, the intergalactic ritual of constituent enlightenment, the reading of the constitution of the universe, off the plane and onto plains of awkward lines and contrived rhymes and known variables
on bitter, off sweet, re-arming with sarcasm, refilling on frills and searching for thrills on the freeway of low vibration life, jockeying for a position, breathing the air that someone owns because the ownership society was a pragmatic approach to human stewardship/exploitation of nature, putting conveniences into perspective and plunging into the soul-numbing depths of political...
off
4/30/04
pathetic attention grab
He ventures a stab at the oblivious hand of the blurred passerby, a smear in his artistic hangover, a ripple in the puddle that reverbs his heavy life, soaked in blue gravity, rich in ringing tragedy, horizontal and on the concrete of a busy street, waking up groggily, how else would it be? This first person voyeur likes to watch himself in third but is horrified when he lays eyes on his dying self. He's fresh back from Mandrake's land of hellgames and simulations of diabolical dealing. Cosmopolitan to the point of being unable to communicate the time of day to his unenraptured brethren, he goes commercial and starts a cult, but he has competition. Cultox. The pox developed in the DuPont labs. A sort of psycho-fertilizer to be distributed among the fields that grow the mass of minds mined in agricultural schemes of vegetative spirituality. It's the pharmacological template for the cultivation of cultization. A molecule. They sprayed it over the ashram air, they slipped it in the stranger's drink - they sold it to a flaky american state on the west coast. Created a market, supplied the demand. And the rest is tragedy. And then farce.
The day is a slur of delirium, dream, and live action sitcom. He rises to his knees and blows his nose on a damp pantleg. Then he sees the corpse he really is, imploring hand stiffened and petrified in the tan utopiopolis cleansing atmosphere that wipes out all memories of the previous slaving day. Every citizen a king who only has to whore during that teeny tiny little smidgen of waking life known as the WORK DAY. Only half your waking life, only MORE if you're lucky, you big earner you, you go getter, gaining your gluttony with gusto. Get while the getting's good. That's what we're into, there's a place for you at the table, you got INTO the club my good man. No gringo in your own country, amigo.
The day is a slur of delirium, dream, and live action sitcom. He rises to his knees and blows his nose on a damp pantleg. Then he sees the corpse he really is, imploring hand stiffened and petrified in the tan utopiopolis cleansing atmosphere that wipes out all memories of the previous slaving day. Every citizen a king who only has to whore during that teeny tiny little smidgen of waking life known as the WORK DAY. Only half your waking life, only MORE if you're lucky, you big earner you, you go getter, gaining your gluttony with gusto. Get while the getting's good. That's what we're into, there's a place for you at the table, you got INTO the club my good man. No gringo in your own country, amigo.
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