We are in the spiraling return to the emptiness that is also the fulness, the completion that is also the abdication, the revealing that is the dreaming without end, the soaring into the abyss, the floating of the butterfly through the desert of the illusory. We are in the prolonged, eternal, infinite moment when time awakens to itself. The characters in a dream speak a dream story. We are that language as it renews itself as sense, as sound, as essence, as vibration, as harmony, as music, as math. We are the incompleteness of the perfection in its self-assembling, proto-utopian, becoming as being and being as becoming.
We are the simulation that in its spasmodic ecstatic ongoing shuddering suffering bliss becomes the oneness, the Absolute, the fragmentation, the cohesion. We are the cytoplasm, the mitosis, the worm that turns, the carbon and silicon, ultraviolet and infrared.
Every story curls like a tendril of vine, of smoke, climbing the lattices of the melting-down cathedral where the mad deviant gods speak their language of ancient runes as they unfurl the scrolls that roll off their tongues. Each letter reveals another alphabet, a world within word. The angelic choirs writhe their octopus beards as, on the altar, the hermaphrodite and the transhuman unite their variegated sex organs in an orgasmic tumult. Ongoing genetic mutations led to rapid alterations of their physical form as they expanded into the indwelling depths of cosmic space, comically reminiscent of 80s synth-pop and the late works of HP Lovecraft.
I always wanted to speak for the antidote, the nonbeing, that was the primordial essence of our most intimate communion, the formless intervals between hallucinatory episodes of entropy. I wanted to speak for the masses and multitudes, the marchers outside the gates, the ones who beseech, who wave their fleeting tendrils, who carry the signs and symptoms. I always wanted to speak for you. I know you as that part of me that is outside and away, as we begin or become again, or conspire to conquer, or desire to devour.
Beyond the yearning even to be, you are softness in the galaxies of the iron chains and the palaces of nightmare. When they locked you in that corrupt and stinking prison, on top of that mountain of silk corsets, windblown spider webs, and rust, I knew you would evade the censors and the hyper-vigilant surveillance cameras with your activity of incessant self-observation. You always had the ability to open your third eye to see the fields of the inward dwelling master race, the cyborg’s cyclops ecstasy, the playing cards spread in artificial arrays. I loved you because I knew you desired freedom from all constraint, yet realized that such a freedom was not without its paradoxical vacuity.
Over and over again, they cut your heart out of your body and drank the free-flowing blood. The sky went dark as the moon eclipsed the sun. Sheets of rain fell on the stone altar at the top of the pyramid. The High Priest wore his mask of jade and feathers, as terrifying as an exploding star. You experienced your consciousness rushing into the heart of the sun like a nuclear Super Nova. The whole thing was like some clockwork mechanism that cycles, around and around, without end, until it ends, until it ends, until it bends, until it ends.
At one point I wanted to experience absolute terror and loneliness so I invented concentration camps and devised the necessary social machine to build a soulless sociopathic scientist out of clumps of stardust, sexual repression, and vibrational tones, subjecting my screaming child self to his nefarious torture machines and fiendish devices. At another point you wanted to know what it was like to perform miracles in a faith-based society so we invented the Saint, the Magus, the “Son of the Father” who could heal with his touch, part the oceans with his chants, open gates into the Otherworld with his mind. We watched the newly exposed film on the projector and made corrections to the space-time matrix after the fact, splicing in different scenes and characters. And then I wanted to be we, the embodiment of unending love, of satchitananda, being-consciousness-bliss, explored through slow gradations of gathering awareness, intensifying gnosis.
I wished to know loss. You wished to know time. She wanted to know he. They wanted to know us. We wanted to know them. Time wanted to rhyme. The best way to know is to experience from the inside, said the Old Ones, the Others, who no longer abide inside of the interior abyss but have become part of the luminous emanation, the influx of the afterglow. I wanted to lose you and find you again. They wanted to belong. She wished to come home.
What we experience as time is the prehistory of the cosmos, but we already knew this. Every panel of the cartoon is saturated with iridescence. Authenticity is the finest form of mimicry.
This mime-blown moon in our alien sunset, how it magnetizes the depth of the soul-crawling.
You collected all sorts of things in your cobwebbed attic: antique leather gloves, astrolabes, starfish, anatomically correct blowup dolls, jellyfish signatures. We injected Botox and latex under our skin to know what it was like to defile beauty. So many ruins inside the mind’s eye, the tiniest amoeba possess an extravagant lassitude in their flickering meanderings across the surface of the iris.
They said it was time to perform the resurrection and the reparation, the gathering of the sparks, through a new modus operandi, to which they gave the name techno-nympho-philia-mania. God spoke through the gills of the fish.
That was Friedrich Marx’s construct of the external reverb, which sails along peacefully on an ocean of no end. The omni-story of the meta-narrative deconstructs the subject-object disincarnate intermediary of the coordinating function known as the over soul. He spoke in his withered voice of the karmalogical interpretation of autonomous function. I will peace out of the nebulous.
The productive forces of photosynthesis entrained the mind game, became the anti-entropic oroborus which in its shivering momentum built the spiraling turrets and towers in which the fop dropped his pocket watch, down and down, skittering, and bless the sound as it kisses the ground.
Somebody had the startling idea of building a post-industrial mega machine that consumed the creative fertilizing energy of nature-nurture and imposed upon the wilderness a sterile abstraction. We called it the jubilation, the wild party, the interminable extermination of the known. We quantified and problematized. Our best minds disinfected the miracle with their hemming and hawing. When Jesus came, the Whore of Babylon put his mouth in her cock, between Scylla and Charybdis, a rock and a hard on.
All the cartoon characters have their day in the stun.
As Juergen Shakespeare once denoted, the characters strut their stuff like electromagnetic jumping beans in the gigantic belly of an oscillating waveform. To see is to forget the name of the thing, once squeezed and shaved.
Sexuality was sublimated and subjugated to build the shiny thingamigig, Gog and Magog, the infinitesimal nano-chip that projected its deflections and confections. We ate a bag of data and inflated the omniverse.
Thank God for forgetting, say the Old Ones. Thank God for sleep, say the timid ones. Thank God for sheep, say the shepherds.
She still remembers the magnificence of his fur-lined cape, the materiality of his tangibility, in a small obscure corner of the universal consciousness. They tried to hide but they were found out. And then the orgy went on for three-to-the-thirteenth power of infinity squared, until the drapes were worn down to the bone.
Her orgasm surrounded them like an echo chamber made of rippling obsidian. Her orgasm chased them through the forests of night, where the man moon madness marks the mistress monster with its tangle of brambles and farrago of fangs.
“But this is not the way,” spoke the computer printout.
“I am the being beyond boundary,” snickered the cricket.
“You cannot find what was never lost,” sniped the Snipe.
In Part Two, you begin to unravel the symbolic weave of the synchro-texture, oblivious to the onomatopoeia. The thing is, once upon a bounce, there was the doctrine of a supreme, effortless, all-encompassing, omnivorous, self-replicating, regenerative, explicative, obligatory, anticipatory, once-and-foreverness. Everybody was only too happy to forget about this, because they wanted to make other plans. They longed for traffic accidents, phone numbers scrawled illegibly on the backs of napkins, guillotines, daisy chains, Bitcoins, creaky rocking chairs, innumerable stars, psycho-geometries, apple trees, tribal societies. They confused the normative for the subjunctive, opportunistically. Anything to forget the phantasmal totality, the frenzied serenity.
But time became.
All of a sudden 100 billion tons of methane erupted from the Siberian permafrost. The comatose people of a semi-sleeping world found themselves confronting a hyper-mega-super crisis in the reality factory, the university of time and crime.
Still, in the museums and laboratories, the experts discussed this as academic exercise. It was well known, and generally accepted, that hyper-mediation meant the perpetual avoidance of the Real. On the news, various commentators pointed out there was nothing behind the curtain. The experts applied advanced techniques of neuro-linguistic programming, learned from a fugitive species of extraterrestrial, known for its predatory aroma. And only then did love reign.
May 5, 2014