I'm at Molly MaGee's. Saturday night. Johnny Cash playing to the patio, walking the line, keeping himself sane, while America hunkers down, lies and misdirection flying thick and fast in the eye of the Cold War. Somewhere in time, there's a Russian girl trying to catch my eye. Another place, another time, and I'm lighting Elena's cigarette, her eyes gleaming turqoise within the flame. Now I'm drunk and puking my miserable guts out in an alleyway somewhere in San Francisco, clutching my side because it hurts like I've lost something very important.
The stars move on and keep on going. In circles, in spirals, constellations morphing into mocking figures, leering at me, smug like only the dead can afford to be. And I'm on my back and not moving, not getting up, lost in time, lost in space, miles away.
And I'm three years ago, eight thousand miles away.
Then I'm here, here and now, but you've gone and moved away.
This is the tragedy, here in the now, even though I'm here I'm still eight thousand miles away. Two years ago and counting backwards all the while. Now its one, now its two, and three's the worst of all, 'cos I haven't even met you yet and everything is telling me you're coming in fast. The sun shines through my window one day, and the light is strange, translucent, as if filtered through your hair. But surely you must see, this isn't how it could possibly be. Because you're still one year away, and getting closer all the while, and wherever you are, you're certainly not here.
Apple-cinnamon jam, and toasted bread and melting chocolate, and the taste of your sweat in the hot summer heat of your room. And I'm seventeen months ago, eight thousand miles away. And this is here, this is now, I'm three city blocks away but you've gone away again I don't know how far or how long.
Not that it matters, 'cos my chains are learning and they're tight and they're binding and they keep me still. Tied to two years ago. So many miles away.
When are you coming home? Not that it matters, I'm not really here, this isn't me, I'm just a pretender, shadow in time where's my light? Even moths know that they will burn. Me, I'm just a passenger, trapped in a temporal Moebius strip.
A smell, a taste, a fragment of memory, and I'm gone.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Monday, May 18, 2009
Silence and sleep, like fields of amaranth lie
A shadow slips through the night, flitting across the street. In the half-light of the waning moon, the figure is barely discernible, but we can see that it is a tall, man-shaped thing. The stranger seems to hesitate for a moment, as if unsure of whether to go down Main, and then turns left down Beale street. He reaches the riverside, and climbs over the embankment, wading into the shallows.
The sun beats down about his head and shoulders. Sweat mixes thickly with white face-paint, and clots into his synophrys. His lips feel chapped and thick under the crimson lipstick smeared over his mouth. Feet hurting, the slap slap slap of his oversized shoes on the pavement becomes a mantra. He marches on. Ti-i-i-me [slap] is on [slosh]my [slap] side…[slosh] yes [slap] it is [slap-slosh]. The gasoline sloshes in its jerry can, happily syncopating the rhythm of his shoes.
The night is young. He runs a hand over his scalp, feeling the smoothness of it. It pleases him. He heads down towards the waterfront, walking briskly down Folsom. He moves with a certain confidence, sure of where he is going, and exactly how fast he wants to get there. Striding across Spear street, he looks up at the bay bridge looming overhead, like a leviathan in the fog. It pleases him.
He stops in the middle of the square. People are milling around, busy with their daily routines. He reaches into his pocket and takes out a) a book of matches b) a piece of green chalk c) a feather.
Nobody spares more than a second glance at the clown in the polyester suit standing in the middle of the square. Not even when the clown plucks a feather out of the air and draws a green circle on the ground, around himself, precisely 4.5 feet from the instep of each flappy foot.
A vulpine smile reveals crooked canines, flashing in the moonlight. As if competing with his teeth, his knife glints in the dark too, for a brief instant, before the blade disappears into the woman's entrails, like a thaumaturgist's trick. Now you see it, now you don’t.
The gasoline soaks right through his suit. Passerby halt in their tracks and stare at him, stupefied. He glances back morosely, an exaggerated expression of pure longing on his face. Then he sets himself on fire.
A single drop of blood drips off his earring and onto the toe of his shoe. His face smeared with gore, he chokes back the thick, sickly sweet taste of menstrual blood, and a howl gurgles its way out of his throat. Echoing into the night, he announces his presence to the audient void.
The harbour is silent, the world asleep. A body floats down Wolf Creek, drowned in whiskey, or river slime, or both. A whore leans against a doorway and watches the shadowy figure make his way up over the embankment, onto mud island. The light from the tip of her cigarette is twice-reflected in the blue of her eyes. And behind the wall of sleep, all is silence, silence.
***
The sun beats down about his head and shoulders. Sweat mixes thickly with white face-paint, and clots into his synophrys. His lips feel chapped and thick under the crimson lipstick smeared over his mouth. Feet hurting, the slap slap slap of his oversized shoes on the pavement becomes a mantra. He marches on. Ti-i-i-me [slap] is on [slosh]my [slap] side…[slosh] yes [slap] it is [slap-slosh]. The gasoline sloshes in its jerry can, happily syncopating the rhythm of his shoes.
***
The night is young. He runs a hand over his scalp, feeling the smoothness of it. It pleases him. He heads down towards the waterfront, walking briskly down Folsom. He moves with a certain confidence, sure of where he is going, and exactly how fast he wants to get there. Striding across Spear street, he looks up at the bay bridge looming overhead, like a leviathan in the fog. It pleases him.
***
The sun. Warm. Love the heat.
***
The sun. Warm. Love the heat.
***
He stops in the middle of the square. People are milling around, busy with their daily routines. He reaches into his pocket and takes out a) a book of matches b) a piece of green chalk c) a feather.
Nobody spares more than a second glance at the clown in the polyester suit standing in the middle of the square. Not even when the clown plucks a feather out of the air and draws a green circle on the ground, around himself, precisely 4.5 feet from the instep of each flappy foot.
***
A vulpine smile reveals crooked canines, flashing in the moonlight. As if competing with his teeth, his knife glints in the dark too, for a brief instant, before the blade disappears into the woman's entrails, like a thaumaturgist's trick. Now you see it, now you don’t.
***
The gasoline soaks right through his suit. Passerby halt in their tracks and stare at him, stupefied. He glances back morosely, an exaggerated expression of pure longing on his face. Then he sets himself on fire.
***
Open sky. Taste of the sea on the wanton wind. The smell of her perfume, carried on a breeze.
***
***
A single drop of blood drips off his earring and onto the toe of his shoe. His face smeared with gore, he chokes back the thick, sickly sweet taste of menstrual blood, and a howl gurgles its way out of his throat. Echoing into the night, he announces his presence to the audient void.
***
I am a bird of prey. Your poets and visionaries write odes to me, and what I represent. My eye sees all of creation, and all of creation fears my gaze.
***
I am a bird of prey. Your poets and visionaries write odes to me, and what I represent. My eye sees all of creation, and all of creation fears my gaze.
***
The harbour is silent, the world asleep. A body floats down Wolf Creek, drowned in whiskey, or river slime, or both. A whore leans against a doorway and watches the shadowy figure make his way up over the embankment, onto mud island. The light from the tip of her cigarette is twice-reflected in the blue of her eyes. And behind the wall of sleep, all is silence, silence.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Life is not a box of chocolates.
Unless some of the chocolates are poisoned, some have worms burrowing into the nougat-y bits, and some are actually just attractively packaged ca-ca.
Life is a constant struggle to actuate our own reality. Our consensual reality du jour. We strive and struggle to survive, most of the time making it through the days like sheep, eyes and feet fixed firmly on the ground, wallowing in the banality of it all without even realising it. Leading the life of man, "solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short".
But at night, when we sleep, we can dream. In that realm, gravity holds no dominion. When we are in the space between, we can let go of everything, and learn to fly. Dreams are our doorway into the infinite possibilities of the multiverse, the place where ideas come from. Ideas can be fragile things, ephemeral and fleeting, but once we embrace them, give them room to take root and grow in the fields of our mind, they can lead us to the very edge of the horizon. Bringing an idea into the real world is akin to venturing beyond that edge, breaking from convention and pushing the limits of our horizons.
The realisation of an idea is a beautiful moment. Quite literally, entire worlds turn in the balance, in that terrifyingly sublime interregnum. What was once in the future, is now here in this reality. Hence, via corollary, as corny as it may sound, the future is here.
And when the true future hits, it causes shockwaves to ripple through the very fabric of time and space.
The advent of a true future is an event of revolutionary proportions, by the very nature of its existence. Sometimes the revolution is small, affecting significant yet minimal change. And sometimes the magnitude of the idea causes a revolution of such impressive proportions, it has the potential to become the new zeitgeist.
This is after all, what the history of our species teaches us. This cyclical change is the basic principle, the very politics of our evolution. A revolution, then the slow rise to equilibrium, followed by a brief period of stability before decaying into stagnation, and then..another revolution. Another revolution... like the wheel.
And sometimes.. Just sometimes, perhaps only once more.. before we evolve ourselves right off this plane of existence.. there comes an idea, an image, a neo-archetype of such absolute brilliance… its like the gnosis of fire.
So get up off your arse, and go make something. Act out an idea, paint a portrait, write a book, create an equation, compose a song, start a fucking revolution, i don't care what you do. Just light the fuse and run like crazy. Immanentize the goddamn eschaton. Go!
Life is a constant struggle to actuate our own reality. Our consensual reality du jour. We strive and struggle to survive, most of the time making it through the days like sheep, eyes and feet fixed firmly on the ground, wallowing in the banality of it all without even realising it. Leading the life of man, "solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short".
But at night, when we sleep, we can dream. In that realm, gravity holds no dominion. When we are in the space between, we can let go of everything, and learn to fly. Dreams are our doorway into the infinite possibilities of the multiverse, the place where ideas come from. Ideas can be fragile things, ephemeral and fleeting, but once we embrace them, give them room to take root and grow in the fields of our mind, they can lead us to the very edge of the horizon. Bringing an idea into the real world is akin to venturing beyond that edge, breaking from convention and pushing the limits of our horizons.
The realisation of an idea is a beautiful moment. Quite literally, entire worlds turn in the balance, in that terrifyingly sublime interregnum. What was once in the future, is now here in this reality. Hence, via corollary, as corny as it may sound, the future is here.
And when the true future hits, it causes shockwaves to ripple through the very fabric of time and space.
The advent of a true future is an event of revolutionary proportions, by the very nature of its existence. Sometimes the revolution is small, affecting significant yet minimal change. And sometimes the magnitude of the idea causes a revolution of such impressive proportions, it has the potential to become the new zeitgeist.
This is after all, what the history of our species teaches us. This cyclical change is the basic principle, the very politics of our evolution. A revolution, then the slow rise to equilibrium, followed by a brief period of stability before decaying into stagnation, and then..another revolution. Another revolution... like the wheel.
And sometimes.. Just sometimes, perhaps only once more.. before we evolve ourselves right off this plane of existence.. there comes an idea, an image, a neo-archetype of such absolute brilliance… its like the gnosis of fire.
So get up off your arse, and go make something. Act out an idea, paint a portrait, write a book, create an equation, compose a song, start a fucking revolution, i don't care what you do. Just light the fuse and run like crazy. Immanentize the goddamn eschaton. Go!
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Radio Mash Up Mini Mix : Tales from the Desolate, Lonely, Soul-Crushing Parts of Rev. Joshi's Travelling Salvation Show
Yesterday, I discovered that the second hand computer speakers I picked up at the flea market have unshielded wiring, which means they can pick up radio signals. I unplug the lead, and a flood of sound erupts. At night, like barely heard snatches and whispers of conversation from another room, sibilant and strangely soothing. This morning, a Chinese news radio station intermingled with the signal from a frequency playing Chicano holiday music. A glorious cacophony that permeates the air, and envelops me in its warmth. Blissful, happy, I sink back into the bright red couch, and close my eyes. Through some strange twist of karma, though I'm asleep, I can still hear the radio play. A monotonous, droning voice is reciting a string of numbers. Could it be? After all these months, a transmission from the dreamlands? I strain to listen, and manage to make out the following curious lines, amidst the static.
The transmission ends, and a weird noise, like a deranged monkey attempting to violently copulate with a theremin, takes its place. I wake up, discomfited and unconcerted, my forehead covered in sweat, and my lungs on fire.
What does it all mean? WHO is responsible for these messages!
The transmission ends, and a weird noise, like a deranged monkey attempting to violently copulate with a theremin, takes its place. I wake up, discomfited and unconcerted, my forehead covered in sweat, and my lungs on fire.
What does it all mean? WHO is responsible for these messages!
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Bukkake for the misanthropic psychonaut soul.
This is the winter of our discontent. At times, snow falls, and at times, darkness. How much longer do i seek you, o proud and taciturn, house by house, door to door? A swarm of maggots for your corpse. How much longer, corner to corner, street by street? I dont care if you dont, I wont say it if you wont say it first, I advance to attack, your terrible armies with banners, you implacable cruel beast, I cherish that coldness which makes you even more beautiful, ha doo doo doo shaking like milk turning over blue. lets go to bed. Tahir ul maulvi had it pegged just right. So, to begin.
Strapped in, launching hyperstitial metatemporal probes, beta stage boosters at maximum thrust, guidance is internal, leaving terraspheric field in t minus eleven, ten, nine, nine, nine, eight, eleven, eleven is what it was like to see the face of my own stability, wearing shadows, the reflection of my own reflection distorted and eleven, nine, eight, seven, moving me with a sound, opening me within a gesture, eleven, holding a light, lead me through each gentle step, step by step, by inch by loaded memory, thine oils, the chief spices spikenard and saffron; calamus and cinnamon, with all trees of frankincense; myrrh and aloes, til one and one are one, eleven im heading back home, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, four, four, four-ty six and two, eleven, eleven, ignition sequence starts, six five, four, three, two, one, supernaut!
(If i were a cinnamon peeler I would ride your bed and leave the yellow bark dust on your pillow; but I being poor have only my dreams, tread softly)
Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples; for I am sick of love. A book of verses underneath the bough, a jug of wine, a loaf of bread- and thou beside me singing in the wilderness. In the cities, a Lovecraftian nightmare, all steel and concrete and ineffable horror, angles that bend and warp the mind which dares conceive of their reality. But nature does not use steel. Or sharp edges. Abandoning the established paradigm of construction, we must learn to recognize the patterns in the dust, in the death throes of every moth in every flame. Tracing the spirals of the moth smoke, we are confronted with eternity.
It is in our nature to seek out the unknown, to spiral out, to ascend and evolve. Past and present, we are all made of stars. Quod sum eris, we are all in this together now. As below so above. And beyond. Restoring sight to the blind watchmaker, we must be the eyes of God, not dead but dreaming, like Cthulhu who sleeps dreaming in R'lyeh. I'a! I'a! Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn. The goat with a thousand young waits below, and the great hunter, above. For us it is to seek beyond.
N=R*fp*ne * Fl*fi* Tc*L
And what is life? The criteria by which we judge our surroundings must be flexible, open to change. Without change, we stagnate, rot, and decay. The Earth heaves across the heavens, marking time, the grim meathook descending ever closer, swinging over all the rot and spoilage. As we pile it ever higher and deeper, we make a leprous, desperate grab at the high blue vault of the heavens, begging for a purge, a great upheaval of the continents, the cities, the filth. Im praying for rain. A black hole sun to wash it all away, all of the everything. We must needs the cleansing waters. There are no inbound messiahs like '. (int)$value . "' and c.categories_id = cd.categories_id 君達の基地は、全てCATSがいただいた。Prep launch codes u7#
and cd.language_id='" . (int)$languages_id ."' order by sort_order, cd.categories_name D4#@ 这是bukkake录影
lock cmpxchg8b eax not a typewriter p0d b4y 9or al p;es RET o9 pod bay doors HAL! そろそろ終わりだろう ed_func_nullll$#% 42 t4k33 0f ev z0g gIz 點擊這裡得到瑞克滾動 ytmn.d.
MANDALA#0: Possible thermal failure (MANDALA on fire ?)
Strapped in, launching hyperstitial metatemporal probes, beta stage boosters at maximum thrust, guidance is internal, leaving terraspheric field in t minus eleven, ten, nine, nine, nine, eight, eleven, eleven is what it was like to see the face of my own stability, wearing shadows, the reflection of my own reflection distorted and eleven, nine, eight, seven, moving me with a sound, opening me within a gesture, eleven, holding a light, lead me through each gentle step, step by step, by inch by loaded memory, thine oils, the chief spices spikenard and saffron; calamus and cinnamon, with all trees of frankincense; myrrh and aloes, til one and one are one, eleven im heading back home, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, four, four, four-ty six and two, eleven, eleven, ignition sequence starts, six five, four, three, two, one, supernaut!
(If i were a cinnamon peeler I would ride your bed and leave the yellow bark dust on your pillow; but I being poor have only my dreams, tread softly)
Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples; for I am sick of love. A book of verses underneath the bough, a jug of wine, a loaf of bread- and thou beside me singing in the wilderness. In the cities, a Lovecraftian nightmare, all steel and concrete and ineffable horror, angles that bend and warp the mind which dares conceive of their reality. But nature does not use steel. Or sharp edges. Abandoning the established paradigm of construction, we must learn to recognize the patterns in the dust, in the death throes of every moth in every flame. Tracing the spirals of the moth smoke, we are confronted with eternity.
It is in our nature to seek out the unknown, to spiral out, to ascend and evolve. Past and present, we are all made of stars. Quod sum eris, we are all in this together now. As below so above. And beyond. Restoring sight to the blind watchmaker, we must be the eyes of God, not dead but dreaming, like Cthulhu who sleeps dreaming in R'lyeh. I'a! I'a! Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn. The goat with a thousand young waits below, and the great hunter, above. For us it is to seek beyond.
N=R*fp*ne * Fl*fi* Tc*L
And what is life? The criteria by which we judge our surroundings must be flexible, open to change. Without change, we stagnate, rot, and decay. The Earth heaves across the heavens, marking time, the grim meathook descending ever closer, swinging over all the rot and spoilage. As we pile it ever higher and deeper, we make a leprous, desperate grab at the high blue vault of the heavens, begging for a purge, a great upheaval of the continents, the cities, the filth. Im praying for rain. A black hole sun to wash it all away, all of the everything. We must needs the cleansing waters. There are no inbound messiahs like '. (int)$value . "' and c.categories_id = cd.categories_id 君達の基地は、全てCATSがいただいた。Prep launch codes u7#
and cd.language_id='" . (int)$languages_id ."' order by sort_order, cd.categories_name D4#@ 这是bukkake录影
lock cmpxchg8b eax not a typewriter p0d b4y 9or al p;es RET o9 pod bay doors HAL! そろそろ終わりだろう ed_func_nullll$#% 42 t4k33 0f ev z0g gIz 點擊這裡得到瑞克滾動 ytmn.d.
MANDALA#0: Possible thermal failure (MANDALA on fire ?)
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