According to his own testimony, he used this composition - written for the left hand alone - as a “dumping ground of dishonesty.” According to his later testimony, sworn under oath with hand on the alternative bible, the opening motif symbolized the pain he came to feel continuously in his genital areas. Its development signified its ironic relation to his humiliation-triggered rage - All in stark contrast to the suspected trigger of the pain - which was sexual arousal.
The rage was not discernible, according to critic Pretentious J. Idiot who attended the premiere. His view coincided with the consensus, and he claimed credit for this movement in interpretation, which became the popular and monopolized view. The Composer didn’t know it at the time, but this alleged indiscernablilty was to indirectly enlarge his already bulging rage and assist him in his next project, the “Symphony of Rage”, in which the rage generally was agreed to be discernible.
That dumping ground of dishonesty was not forgotten by its now abandoned champion though, one mediocre pianist by the name of: A. Champion. Having lost his right hand in a voodoo-related assault, A. Champion, a former pseudo-virtuoso, famous for his ability at faking stupendous virtuoso effects, had fallen into obscurity after this hand-loosing episode involving voodoo magic, and had become even more mediocre. What didn’t kill him was only making his already shabby technique weaker...You can’t play double octaves with one hand.
What restored his confidence and drive was his sudden flash of inspiration to commission a personalized concerto from The Composer. He had witnessed this composer’s ability to make use of pseudo-virtuosic effects, mediocre technique and senseless keyboard pounding in his highly controversial music, and was certain The Composer’s style would fit his last remaining hand like a glove.
Bad pianist and controversial composer collaborated together on the concerto. A. Champion began working rigorously to perfect his left hand octave technique, while exploring a transcendental right-hand stump method for perfecting his “senseless pounding” technique (see The Composer as pioneer of stump-music, article 7:889) and his confidence grew daily. The Composer made use of A. Champion’s technical innovations in his piano writing, at the same time waving off the morphine and alcohol offered by his roommates to dull the pain in his throbbing genitals. He was attempting to focus on this pain so as to express pure, undiluted rage in his most important work to date. As he later revealed in his autobiography, he had great difficulty focusing on the pain during this period, as his mind was still in the quasi-meditative state from the retreat he had escaped from in the mountains of the Newfront polar region. This inability to focus is most likely to blame for his expression of rage being said to be indiscernible when the work was finally showcased.
The Composer appeared to be euphorically pleased (despite his eternal cringing due to the genital pains) after the last note clump had been whacked out at the Carneggie Hall premiere, in 3087, however, the applause expected by the two collaborators didn’t come. Audiences held the work to be a shallow showpiece of pseudo-virtuism, and felt that the concerto was too heavy on the left hand octaves with not enough focus on the right stump thumping.
A. Champion continued, doggedly, to perform the doomed concerto on an American tour, but his inspiration, The Composer, fled this sad, critically-rejected caravan of performers in disgrace and turned up in Australia, renouncing his former praise of A. Champion’s formidably mediocre technique and denying any association with the man who continued to perform his left-hand work. The Composer went so far as to renounce the work itself, which reached ridiculous heights when, during the course of an interview in Time magazine, he denied he had ever written such a work, and it had only been attributed to him by rumour mongers. His current compositions, targeted at the mainstream drug users, were highly successful and earning him vast royalties, so he considered it artistically safe, at the time, to hide from the early accomplishments that had gotten him where he was today.
A. Champion and his small cabal of crazy Composer freaks, relentlessly continued to invade concert halls and force-feed the public the early and controversial music the Composer currently wished to forget...Until, one day, they walked into a trap.
The Composer and several members of the Establishment, determined to silence these renegades once and for all, lay in wait at a theatre suspected of being the next to be hijacked. Sure enough, A. Champion and his orchestra barged into the well-guarded hall, filled to the rafters with A. Champion’s loyal audience of drug-zombies awaiting the premiere of The Composer’s new ghost-written work: Divine Intervention. A. Champion’s band had come to play the old warhorse they had made their own: The Piano Concerto for Left Hand and Right Stump.
The Composer’s gunmen stealthily took up positions in the balconies and boxes while A. Champion’s armed orchestra got the rioting stoner-audience under control. They took up positions on the big stage before the public and as a show of good faith, dropped their weapons as the performance began. As soon as A. Champion began pounding out the opening flourish with his left hand, the snipers in the balconies began brutally picking off the conductor, first violinist and lead cellist, while the under-cover ushers, wielding flame-throwers, sprang from the dark corners of the hall and began torching Champion’s startled guards who were walking up and down the slanted aisles patrolling the audience.
Only two rogue bassoonists - who had illegally modified their instruments to include AR-15 assault rifles - got off any shots as the bloodbath began. Gunmen in the lower balconies were raining machine gun fire down on the orchestra, sending one-hundred and thirteen writhing players sprawling all over the blood-smeared stage in their torn black uniforms. The soloist, the immortal A. Champion, stumbled off the bench, trying to take cover under the legs of his instrument, but he was riddled with gunfire as he stood, helpless, in front of the violently splintering piano, blood and woodchips flying around to the sound of bullets ricocheting off its metal frame.
The audience was on its liberated feet, cheering their approval of the massacre. The screams of the crowd nearly overpowered the gunshots.
The Composer couldn’t help but stare as he looked into the eyes of his former champion, through binoculars, in his private box. He couldn’t help but lock eyes with the dying Champion, who seemed to meet his gaze as he dropped in front of the hobbled piano, wide-eyed yet uncomprehending. The last thing he saw was A. Champion’s exposed right stump, only recently ready to play, now inert and horizontal on the floor. Then he was rushed out of the building by his men, cringing due to his currently flaring genital ache, and fighting off the initial pangs of guilt that would eventually drive him to suicide, and ultimately - Hell. Eternal damnation.
The burning audience members - started from poorly aimed flame-attacks by the ushers, were lighting up the whole crowded inner sections of the seats. The cheers of unburning crowds now mingled with the screams of the burning crowds, the sporadic gunshots of snipers taking headshots at still-living orchestral players, and The Composer’s men rushing out of the theatre while beating any civilians in their path with the butts of their MP-5s to clear a path to the doors.
A. Champion slumped to the stage in three stages. First, the stumble back as he was hit with waves of bullets from multiple trajectories, then the sinking to his knees after he was done dancing, the a final fall onto his face as his brain went dead and his body, limp. His blood poured out of his chest, abdomen, arms and neck. Then his head was split open like a melon, from a sniper taking one last shot and he bled from that too, in addition to leaking out brains. It wasn’t long before his body was consumed in the fires that were now raging throughout the hall. He saw The Composer in Hell.
10/17/04
Well, uh, guess I have a blog now
I'm supposed to be a writer, so I guess I should write. Well it's inspiring to be out of kitsch. Maybe I can lure some anonymous cowards over here to honeypot with my own cryptic maneuvers.
9/22/04
Tetris as Godgame (prima-fractal)
You rush to open inboxes and scan for feedback to your posts, but you’re greeted with a digital void. A long string of zeros with no binary counterpart to be seen. Not a 1.
There is some disappointment in the first stage of the afterlife – it will pass as you settle into the hot bath of nirvana. It takes some getting used to. You do realize you’re living in a fractal, don’t you? Endgame – after death in Tetris – a level 17 premonition. You got a high score – as high as your hero. You equated his level of experience and appreciation and utilization of life with level 17. 10 you called “average” – everyman. You got past a fuller life then 50% of human beings. 15 was the celebrity mark. It symbolized an elite, an extraordinary person. 17 was your hero, a spellbinding orator, a connoisseur of sex drugs and rock ‘n roll, a man praised and vilified, who died young but wise - a man who came closer than anyone to the secret. You tied with him. You used the force. As the blocks fell faster and faster the game became frantic, until you grew satisfied with your performance, let go, and went with the flow. Surprisingly, the flow took you further than you imagined it would, and you hung on in productive and artful block-clearing activity, but as the end seemed more and more inevitable, you met it with peace. You closed your eyes in a sort of self-administered euthanasia, still going through the keyboard-manipulating motions but delegating the playing to the tired drones under the cerebral cortex. When you opened your eyes, the black screen of death was the view, filling the blank and sealing fate. Now here you are – writing about it. The first thing the dead do is write a short bio with all relevant information. The rest – well, you’ll find out. First, sleep. It’s been a long day. Evening flourish of the mortal microcosm.
8/10/04
Kinetic Synesthetic Calisthenics
Tub of wealthilicious goodness fills a rosy hosy hitbag POW! Bravura begins babbling into a valley of whooly hudgington suds – I mean, hoe lie shitcushions ov dindulgent zinzillious frazma porpus! Phased up with ju-jastars paragemelized to planuit trentehba snolshe – elaughs into a well of wonderfulous cryptstyches.
Perupito wants his noble
Perupito wants his noble
Harp flowers and flute fruit struck a solid moonshot.
You think they’ll tell us a TENTH of this EXISTS?
Kinetic Synesthetic Calisthenics, do you get it?
Kinetic Synesthetic Calisthenics, do you get it?
The personal dissolves in the public and the public dissolves in the person. The first personifies with its myriads, kinetic synesthetic breakneck hit-the-deck calisthenics. You turned a key most graciously, and prestidigitatiously slap-spun into a receptive state of post-chrysalis wisdom, de-programmed, dropped out of life’s insular high school – elementary dear Watson, here’s George Jetson!
Flexes hustle like the diamond sheen of rainbow-colored crayon trim. Beyond word games, nerds lose fame-claims. It’s an uh... uh... unholy product, unsure of purpose or status. This thingamajik is losin' its mojo and a hojo is the only place to go to sleep tonight. A hobo with telepathic link to satellite is relayin' the gnosis as a ten gigabyte soundbite to show to you foo's, and replayin' the relayin's in the cards for guardians of this overpaid, overplayed, and splayed-open orifice. Muddy bank quakesand slander and other buttered blunders.
Golem Gargoyle's putting on funny faces, impressions turning inside out, navel gazing, lazing on the government's dime, bailed out by a benign anonymous benefactor, adding machine fortune buying the morphine script, unknowingly stewarding a generation and a half into a black hole. We're not sure what happens at singularities. Physics theories fail and our most stately maths open their doors for svavey swangluage and the hogglesworned scronger. Why pay for it in the currency of grating and bated breath and death and taxes when you can collage yourself in a kartoon's lunar member number? Hunger's food for the last rhyme to klept common time and ensnare it for its insidious sedition of the un-literal demise of the tyrant of Reason's raison d'etre.
Tempis flows, goes where its liquid will - even as common swill... liquid will, in a democratic mandate. Heavy like dropping politics, like competency, efficiency, community, majority. Gravity of the non solid. The silent masses. Molasses. Sugarry molllasses, lillly gilded flllow, kinetic synesthetic nonsynthetic calisthenics, do you get it? Do you know what it means in a cartoon of sleaze? Do you st-st-st-st-stutter like a po-ly-s'lla-bic butcher? Do you jerk to rigid meter like a faux-aesthetic slasher?
Why are we back here, among the black sheep? What did the ingratiating lamb say, as he was herded through the rocky pass toward an unknown future, something grinding in the rusty distance, and facts that will flatten all remaining spirits, and shake you till you puke in counterpoint.
There's still so much the whole subterranean horde could say, writhing and wriggling unconsciously under under under or hyperconsciously over over over the line, the green beam in the sky, the laser shooting straight up to the deities, the tight wavelength thrown up from a nest of beady-eyes with audible language, giving everything the quantifiable treatment, inventing truth as a sequel to the best-selling deity device, being gods and redundantly inventing one in prudent techno auxiliary - anthropomorphically genderizing him - a little voodoo god, and we stuck him with pins, and we tortured ourselves, and burned him in effigy, but we still carry our dusty old voodoo god around for kicks, and the blasphemous kids kick that god doll through the dirt, and the pious guys beat off to the voodoo god, god's hall, god's doll at the foot of the altar in gleaming white pseudo-pristine parodies of purity, phony tinny church strains, organ drones, crappy trances, poor man's theology, clingy faith of the spiritually impoverished, with the best stuff still surging IN OUR ninth hyrda HEAD - accessible easily this decade, the key to the turntable, rebel’s fables and escherian territory, scary but it fits your mind like a glove.
I come back from the rhombus palace to offer an image of your unique snowflakiness melting in your seats and booths in pan-sensorial mirror-cloud reflecting the genesis of your gemstone shitting oversoul asshole cause the rhombus King, he loaded me up with incoherent koans to litter your discriminating culture-mire, and it's okay cause they'll all sink to a less visible stratum. The Rhombus King throws me off balance with synesthetic calisthenic feats, sweeps me off my feet, bottles my motor control for sale on the foreign art market as I wobble to a balanced lopside on the mundane plane, stumble into a sticky brown puddle, gaping at the crack in me, that isn't all that deep really, that isn't letting all that much light through. “What was in that hole?” He chortles, all the way to the cosmic welfare distribution office ocean.
7/15/04
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