Friday, July 02, 2004

the big codex! Unreadable!

Codex Obscura
(In other words, Urdoxa II)

JackoChristokill of Cali-emberors! It is I, A.A., and maybe new Artaud’s auntie!

But of course! These sorts of things are whizzing through the papers next to the funnies and little makeshift ads for broken down washing machines last serviced during the reign of Napoleon XXIII! Mother never loved you best, or ever! If you want to play hopscotch with your Freud-o-matic memories, be my guest, but just don’t visigothicize my life with your phrenologos of witchy pygmy-shrink heads of Better Therapies and Zen Gardens. Keep Buddha in your pants! I’m too busy to make merry with great zero-worship and make muddy with neo-Mugabe high officials trying to transfer big lotto funds into my ailing bank account while they fleece me blind a la bean college o’ crime! These things are not for me! I’ll take the soup, thank you very kindly and howdy-fuckery-doo to you too, jack.
But where was I? Telling stories as per usual to iniquitous downwardly mobile corporocrats and Dickensian urchins who don’t know how to say please in their down and out posh nose piercings! Would you like some more? Well, wouldn’t we all? I have the catalogue of worldly things right here, next to the bishop of alabaster and his little papacetic cronies of polite cacophony. You think it is too poo-poo for your tastes? Go soak your head! I haven’t enough little acrobatic tricks, shell games or verbal missiles to keep the many in stitches! You want amusement, go tie yourself to a ticker tape parade in honour of our new conquistadors of the republicano guard.
These things cannot be known. They are mere objects of terror and serialized functions. People want extracts and clips of news, never the whole clipping, never the whole newsworthiness of the event. O woe our down-on-their-luck media! I pity them as I pity kings people pass and laugh at…The media created the people it deserved, and like capital’s ever-efficient lunar anus mobile, its is was far more efficient than its ought. Not my doing! No soapy tears shed on this end! O maddy, maddy, doth thinks mine words absurdly, but not so. She and it were not held apart, and I watched draped flesh over skeletal rods. You want precision and clarity? Certainly, I can oblige and line up a fairly intelligible plot for your potted head. But why, O why, why? Am I not your new Artaud Calembour?
Cripes, I'm a blatherskite of some strange ordnance! "This ain't a democracy," he said, "it's the Internet." Of course, today I discovered that all my prognostications were in error when it was revealed that Hegel was not indeed a Prussian but a Swabian! How will this impact the cocktail circuit, I wonder? Surely throws some oblique light through my camera obscura on the whole issue of Hegelian-based totalitarian pan-logicism...or something. I think I was responding to something, someone, but at this stage when the toast is about to pop, who knows? Not I! Fine by me if no one around here remembers what for, and if they all happen to get jiggy with a suppurating Elvicidal hip-wiggly consciousness.

Weaves: Legare wrote the Chimicum Ordinata, inspired by the Finis Logos written by a team of neoist renegades inspired by Artaud. Keep this in mind. But Legare is a tart, and not to be highly regarded as an authority by any stretch of definition. And then I had the Voynich, or soon to be, in some distrust.

Stories, either shown or told, are asinine. They truly are! As such, this is a story about a book, a time, and other addled varia. Pure disjecta membra for all of us, held together in our love of the nefarious underling, or yet tricked by words as they engulf us in their sandy vistas. Are you an ostrich with his one eye open as a head droops into sand? Then I suppose you are a highly discursive beast. I’ll make no apologies on your behalf, but hope that the same shame-spiral that motors your mouth eventually eats you alive.

1. Vezelay, Bataille’s tomb

These places where things begin, under a low slung azure looking glass sky, obscure late afternoon rays knifing across unkempt hedges and tufts of sorrowful trees clustered impotently together against legions of tourists and an ever-thickening broth of urban pollutants. I was scheduled to phase out of the tour of yet another rude stomp through the old churches and other once grand bogeymen of Vezelay’s past. I had to meet a man by the name of Nietzsche, self-proclaimed lineage to the syphilitic wonder, a fact or fiction he no doubt brandished like a convenient dull edge in bars among gullible female students. He would have reduced himself to mere debris, cultural obliteration, yet another showcased piece of historical kitsch to obtain the sexual favours of failing emergent theorists from the Sorbonne. He had chosen the grave of philosophical eroticist, Georges Bataille, as a suitable place to make good on an already vanished email. I had flown to France for just this event, and though the business was strangely booming in my strange encounters, the money would not hold out without post facto explanations and rigid justifications as to why such trips were necessary. I was already weary of these cagey types who just happened to get their warped little paws on small troves of great works. And they knew just as well as I did their value. Whenever dealing with the eccentrics, I rarely made more than a small profit if any was made at all.
This is great. What can be said? If it was a book, I’d be reading it. these (mis)adventures en scene suppurate as bad as loins in a way that, why not, keep reading/viewing. but then again, it's the old narco-cissm talking, for these scenes feel ripped and exploited in immaculate extraction from my doings or life or, or, or. Well, the reason I ask while imbibing ol’ hoochie-poo would only be out of that grim 19th centurion polity of bringing gifts to those whose homes one visigothicizes. I was to meet my contact, Monsieur Nietzsche who would have further details arcane and rather silly.
Nietzsche met me as we planned.
“Can I trust you?” he asked. How ridiculous!
“Not a whit. Do what thou willt, anon.”
“This text must not leave your possession until you return. You will read it, yes?”
“If I must, but then return is a sick thing,” I said. “It’s a dirty deal. Impossible, even. Even Milton knew that. Depends on what you mean by return...In the raw, palpable sense, no I guess it doesn't grant a return in the way financial investments do. And, yes, it is a frustrating, despairing kind of life...Kind of like being a priest and devoting one's life to god, but in the case of academia, god is parceled out as seemingly infinite bits of knowledge throughout an infinitely vast library. A lonely, crazy life indeed. Academia, like many of the arts, grants one that lovely social advantage to be treated like a leper in life and lauded as a great genius at the moment of death. For me, a book-laden poltroon who likes to write prolifically and play avant-noise free jazz on bizarre instruments I fashion with my teeth and wood, academia is my only paying outlet...and even that doesn't pay. Alas, gone are the days when one could live off the fruits of wit and talent alone, and my stock portfolio is about as diverse as a monochrome grey sky over a monochrome grey winter landscape. Just a refugee of an apostate age, I suppose.”
No real reason, no predestined genetico-will or nurturist tomfoolery. He was a mysterion of some sort, all hooked on the enigmatic cinematic style of meeting in private and imparting gifts of great gravity. I despised their kind. I could care less if he was Prometheus with a new line of hot goods to fence from the Zeus’ secret reserve. The book had better have been worth the drive. He then handed me the complete Finis Logos, apparently written by a mad monk who had a bizarre gift for not dividing arcane logic and dialogue. If I have not tried it just yet, it was a codex that one could take a big wordsalada dump upon whenever the urge arose. I would perhaps have it transcribed and put up on the world wide whipperflaps for kicks. I just wanted to set up something innocuously noxious on the webbedweb that no one would care or dare to decipher. I was unsure of my aims with it, but I’d let the aims choose their own trajectum. As for transmitting documents, I hadn't done much differently at all. Like most free crummy services, it arbitrarily decided to get its halfwit paws on a random document here and there, making muddy with mugabe. Certainly. I had made special arrangements to get this text into my possession for the short while it would be, making it act as the third cornerstone in my project with the Voynich manuscript. For those among us not familiar with the Voynich, too bad, I have no patience in acts of explanation.
“Remember to deliver it to A.A, as we had arranged,” Nietzsche reminded me. I hated when any Nietzsche reminded me of anything.
“Intact, I presume. All right, sure, etcetera.”
“I will join up with you soon.”
“Don’t hurry. I hope to be riddled with sphinxter bullets beforehand in order to prove leaden being.”
“What?”
And I guess this would be the first and only time a member of the Nietzsche family would ever suspect me of a lack of sane credibility. I had phone calls to make on the outside, to and from. And, faced with horrible exposure, smuggling charges and the wrath of neoplatonic wizards everywhere, I did what any normal sane man would do: I called my filmmaker pal, JonZebra. All aboard.

“This biopic is biopsis is geneo-biopticon. I think it will work, but yer talking to someone who wants to produce a short BW film about a down syndrome guy being harassed by bagpipe players in dominatrix leather. Or perhaps a Kiki Bonbon flick like the neoists had going. Neoist cinema was hilarious, almost as much as the neoist message (we artists will go on strike!...yeah). I can't sleep. I am rambling. Well, it's Sunday, which is to say that the hordes of Catholic vampires are out cannibalizing their wimpy parlour trick gods.”
The train was overdue to arrive in Paris by sometime in the early morning. It was strangely soft on the rails. JonZebra wanted to make a film about the Voynich. His former achievement in the realm of the ultra-obscure and impossible was a documentary on notoriously private musician, Jandek, which he directed without any real footage of Jandek to be had. Such were his talents.
“Is it script-friendly?” he asked.
“Is anything?”
“I hope not. That shit is tired.”
“It’s a mysterious codex written in the 40s, based on an older codex, which was based on an older one, and so on.”
“You cannot imagine the fifty or so of these I had to read last week, each of them seven hundred pages or more of ‘thou’ and ‘wheretofore our dark liege’. In other news, once we have a date picked out for mein lectura nocturnalis cerebra disjecta, or whatever academic bullshit I need to fulfill in the meantime, I'll get back to you. It seems that too many people have dark codices these days. I blame post-terrorist media society and a renewed interest in Ronald Reagan.”
“What’s this lecture business about, dear argonaughty?”
“Plenary noise, all for the big dumbshow of jargon bubbles out of my solar anus. I am giving a lecture at another unipapacy on Fassbinder and ze greater apes for a ‘revolutionary animals in cinema’ segment. This should transpurious in januar or early februar, little jesus-bots and climes in Borneo willing. If you are lost when you land, you will surely find friends here…Drop by and pay me a visit; you know how much we love you on this side of the frozen cultural wall. So that lecture is coming up, and then maybe to Daytoon or Pitysburgh for another non-funded lecture and crashing on other peoples' mattresses. Who knows. Our collective helot and pal, Mervish, is still in the process of mediating dead grandmothers and moving, so his arrival has been pushed back (I assume) to New Year status.”
“Okay, sure. When Mervish gets his shit together, we’ll dance.”
JonZebra was delightfully sublime, which is to say that his mind was a swarming hive of cluttered aphorisms. But despite his madness, the academicians saw him as their darling boy, and heaped upon him titles, deeds, honours and tenures. He now lectured while drunk, and received funds to direct movies that were both brilliant and hopeless. I had met him while schooling, and he remained contacted ever since, and such.
“While I still have you on the horn, this is just to inform you never to pick up the work of fellow alumnus, Jakob Sigurdson. It is everything that has gone wrong in the economics of stale form. His piece of mindless dreck surfaced. It will win prizes, but will certainly be forgotten. Our university glossy pap-a-zine—the one that begs each and every one of us to drop doubloons into its fat coffers—did a feature article about his and this demented surgical troll’s little bowel movement in Berlin. This is what happens when people think with their asses as buttons to click and behold. And now I must fly for krakens doth pursue me and my compleat collektion of Joey Conrad.”—as was my warning.
“Sure.”
That was that. I had schooled with Jakob, too, but he was an embarrassment, and so he did not remain on that list of contacts.
I had been just freshly dismissed from my teaching post according to the “reach-around and fuck them” gangster policy enacted by my host university, all over trifles and dross. Something about intransigence and anti-corporateering. But I was secretly thankful for the remove, seeing as I was getting sore about the softhearted profs who tried to make me toe little party lines and politely threaten that I engage in their collective slaphappy of artificially bumping up grades as good for the university's profit-matrix of doom. I was not worried about the kids and their postsecond-airy prospects or their Oh so well deserved “skollarship munny”. It was all painfully Socratic anyhow...the many herding together their brain cells in collective fashion to overpower decency etc. If you gave them a donkey, they may just have ridden it to the end of your sentence...or do something innovative with it. Be them frightened or arrogant kids, these beasts are suckers for being chained to the ballast of habit. Give them what they know with a bit of terminological pizzazz, and then they can call mummy and daddy to tell them how intellect is indeed being purchased on their big purse. Education means nothing and everything, which is to say it resists itself as something profanely sacred, but only when no one is looking. But then, just you wait until they get co-opted by the military and then see what they do to the people of Colombia. That will be enough to send the whole value question of edu-ma-cation into a fear spiral into the abyss. Juggernauts of political despair and happy-go-lucky patriots? Not on my watch…but then again I have been since relieved of my watchman duties, so I take no responsibility for all your failed desires and libidinal arms excesses and other jism-centred economies of the national mistrust.
Please clarify, old man coot. Okay. I am constantly misread as a negative anarchist when in fact I am so full of Spinozist Joy. Crazy old Hungarians don't think my life-thesis-direction is clear. I think that if I was a crazy old Hungarian, that in itself being unclear, I would think everything around me was unclear too. I’d go to the librarya nd absorb all I could inside my overcoat those precious little books written on nihilism by the Couched and Pointless Few of Academia’s Crème de la Crème, but why bother? I only agree on the uselessness of libraries. This goes for scholar-print media, too, but only in honest gestalten moments do I concur with the uselessness of journals in print, online or in designer jackboots. I have to convince myself of lies to go forth and make a show of giving a damn. Don’t say you weren’t duly warned. It's like what Celine said about the health of others: the patients come to you wanting to be treated, to be brought back into the illusion of health-happiness, but really they are destined for death anyway, mostly by their own doing. I'll just be yet another encounter in the scholeric community that didn't go over so well with them, one that by the behest of my toilet, drove the many to protest in grand waves of vomit. Let my professorial detractors ride that bilious chunky tide to their whitmanslaughter doom.

Arrived in Paris around eight that morning, under the obscene light of morn and nothing left to drink. I had only the clock-ticking time of half an hour left to catch the connector back to KanaDada before that country closed up like a desert lotus, leaving me to the whims of my native progenitor Blamerican brothers. A situation to be avoided if at all possible, and if you find yourself landlocked in their particular abyss, just roll up into a tight little ball and claim the devil made you do it.
Just enough for a cigarette outside, rushing toward airport chaos, me mistaking every French voice for our father Deleuze. Even the women, as they might have been Franny.
I had in my possession an entire profile of the sender of the manuscript, the mad monk, Alex Copec, which might have made a fine name for a jazz musician for the compatible cold and dead who like their jazz smooth and non-disruptive…which is again to say not real jazz, but an imitation of a limitation thereof, something to be played on an expensive stereo in a loft apartment that is minimally furnished not out of taste but out of staggering cost for individual designer items. It would appear that the reports on at least one of the psychiatrists was grossly exaggerated or even directly falsified. New evidence has come to light that a Borgesian style alchemist and Illuminati initiate has abducted Dr. Ziggy Fraud and placed him in an infinite labyrinth of every possible text, the dimensions of this complex a matter of spatial as well as temporal mazes. We believe that the notable doctor is in the "If Hitler took up crochet and wrote self-help managerial books for Genghis Khan Cold Fusion Airlines" section, and easing into the "Obscure Encyclopedias focused on Medievalist Computing." We extend our condolences to his family in this hard time. But these Alex Copec was a madman to be sure, and not really a monk as it turned out. The monkitudinal business was just part of Nietzsche II’s sales pitch, but Copec was not from the 40s…He was achingly now, today, which is to say very empty indeed. He was contemporary, and this meant that the mysterious codex that I had in my possession had lost all aura of mystery on account of its lack of antiquarian beginnings.
But let’s not be too harsh. The codex might have had modestly rich and humble beginnings in the blood and shadow drenched history of our times. This is to say that perhaps this Copec machine had been inspired to set himself backward in time where things were fuller and more robust, and then skip the monotony of the present to languish in an impossible future vantage point from which the codex itself was written. He did mention the Voynich a few times, but on the whole (from what I had sparingly snatched in some reading on the train), it seemed to be one long, meticulous argument uttered from a burbling abyss in counter-insurgent fashion against ye olde wars on terrorism and other big phantom fashions of our times. It was inchoate and stunning, a pure glossolalia but curiously intelligible. Of course, these were preliminary reflections on things I had yet to plumb with any nose-to-grindstone kind of way, thereby rendering my reflections nothing short of a critic’s review of a book whose spine remained uncracked.
The alternatives? There have been some very awful books issuing from the overcoded loins of the markets in these ‘it is safe to posture delicately’ days. No paint-by-numbers overt staging of homosexuality in this blasé unity of books, but still looking to make a cheap grab for the topical whilst keeping the delicate sensibilities of the bourgeois coffee table book crowd pleased and guilt-free. But the danger of Copec’s release of this text…It will be declared a "work of daring" without having dared or risked anything. Perhaps. It would indeed be modified and tailored to suit slow-witted tastes. What I was holding was an original, bound in proper form like any Baroque manuscript. It had the feel of anachemical manifesto for high speed effete communication. But when any number of editors seized upon it, it would perhaps become a little too saucy for the Oprah Empire of Illiteracy, but just right for retro hour on MuchMusic. These works always seem like infinitely drawn out apologies, attempting to prepare us for things we have been prepared for since the long ago. It will perhaps be one of those books that by its conspicuous absence will bring joy to both me and my bookshelves once the nefarious cabal of censor-pilots pluck out any degree of its worth. Once it would be circulated, I wouldn’t know whether to pick this book up (with gloves) or laugh at it all the way up to its being anointed by Guvnor Clarkbar and her tagalong hubby pseudo-philosophile John Falstaff Suckfish.

O Lordy Be, I returned home. My Odyssean failure was everybody else’s bag. But I had duties. Although shuffled out of departments and cabinets of dirty ego business in the scholarky machine, I still agreed in private to my one and only graduate student to supervise his work on the secret side while he pretended to abide by the banal strictures of the newly appointed thesis supervisor the department felt obligated to pick from a hat of very dead things.
As he duly warned me: “it is a philosophy paper proper, by the suckfish standard of old white British men.” I warned him in return: “that should win you accolades and other kettle-fish distinctions, but your task will be to play it on two tables. If you can get them to pull down their pants by their very own logic and other maeutic strategies of assent, then their small members are perceived by the many, shaming results, and they pay you hefty honours in keeping the whole affair quiet.”
It did not help my supervised friend that he was, at this time, an established novelist—whatever kind of joke this entails. He was full of himself and no longer doing the hard drugs on skiddie row, but a media darling, a prize winner, a begrudgingly acceptable member of English canonity, but the work was still good in many respects. Especially since he had no clue of the thematic in his own work, or that it would be seized upon by the likes of my distortion. I do, to be frank, have the Thirst, and this makes me pardonably charming in all situations either dire, social or both. I rode my dear student as he peregrinated from one poo-poo function to the next, always introduced to the neo-Buddhist false glamour of the literati as his “Father Thetical.” It did not serve much function but that I could alight in another’s booze collection and make an excusable ass out of myself and sleep horny little girls who didn’t know any better that I could not advance their soulful poetry careers.
Alex Copec. That was his name. He was not one, but many. I had an original document by him he had no recollection of writing and having bound. He had no clue that it was this book and no other that would spell his doom in blood caps across the horizon. Alex had conveniently forgotten his past, the time he spent in the sanitarium. And now he thought he was a writer and a serious student. I held the dangerous proof of contradiction in my bag. I would not, under any circumstances, let the explosive blast of the past mar his current trajectory. And so us diligent textual idealists in the background had an immense task before us: to decipher the genius of a lunatic who was no longer a lunatic and had forgotten his lunacy. I had preselected Alex from the start, hoping that some of his residual genius would assist in my decoding project. But rather he had become mundane, lost to us forever except for this bizarre codex when he fancied himself a jazzy monk. We arranged a meeting at the grad pub.
Ah, grad lounges...bastion of coke parties and the orgies of aging, i wantstabe doin my thesis forever, flesh...How many hours I had spent at my own, whittling away hours into buttons. And for now, and my bizarre preternatural desire to complete work, I have extricated myself from these soapy operas of the studentactivistas and the terminal gradschoolese, bored to obliteration as the game of musical bedmates among them has reached the perilous zone of necessary repetition of partners. So it runs. Most grad lounges are essentially the same, and it depends on how they are mediated. A non-domus grad pub always seems more exotic in its repetition. C+ factotums and their hard spent collegerie-doo, yes, at times, and then I also appreciate the wisdom of the upwardly mobile hobo who is in touch with his hedonistic love of talking to phantoms while imbibing heavy doses of Listerine and cheap cologne, pushing around shopping carts full of our cultural debris infinitely more informative than Dr. Austin Tatious and his big bag of anthropolological dreary-theory. But our function as chameleonesque and Janus-esque sidecar discourses as well, I suppose is part of attraction-repulsion of finding...And it seems that most grad pubs are either run by Mikes or named after Mikes.
“The office they gave me is just big enough to fence in,” he told me.
That the office was big enough to fence in was of great significance for me, for if it was big enough for that, it was big enough for rituals of oral infibulation and theoretical excoriations for fun and soap. But to fence, fence, fence...I leave this alone despite fertile crescents and arcs this word doth hold in our shared collective acradamnic position. Skipping the lecture proper is a given...Who wants to have one's discourse tailored or sullied by any recourse to the "proper linear functionings" of course curricula? A syllabus is nothing short of a declaration of war with no clear objectives, and an immanent array of victims. Some say it is a contractual document, but the legal rhetoric of that mode is only a laughable parody of an ought that can never be.
And so it came to pass. We would catch up, making the move from his piddly office to the grad pub where I could drink in noisy pieces.
“Alex, how go things in the colonies? I have been swept up and away upon clouds of dark and foreign, conducting shady business with toothless harlots and Afghani opium-peddling mummies. Islam never tries to convert anyone, as is my understanding.”
“Jonkil, dear professor, if you would like, I have a heuristic paper on Spinoza and another on Kant where all the terms are switched for fools. That is, Spinoza (Larry Gigglebottom) attempts to show the immanence of god (Louis XIV) through existence (a dog's painfully explosive case of diarrhea) and how humans (the greatest idiots I know), understand Louis XIV not through his essence (hokey-pokey little angels in the sky) but through Louis XIV's dog's diarrhea. When I submitted this paper at the colloquia, I was considerably a Marked Man from then on. My Kant paper (pseudo-poetic fascist little boxes for bourgeois mindburps and down syndrome limitation) was also equally received in the spirit of the aghast. When forced to defend these "horrifyingly offensive works", I merely told them to make the switch in terms and it read like a perfectly fine exegesis of text.”
“You are too precious and beautiful for these stultified surroundings. You do not dance and say ‘massuh’ enough. You are wiring dynamite to your ass rather than focusing on your thesis.”
“Did you read the chapters I sent you?”
“Amidst drink and clutter and movement, yes. They are horrible, accordingly. They stretch out in two directions, as I can see it, and they fail in both ways. Your attempt to be a patient academician with arguments is not humble enough for their suckfish standards, and your daring bravado fails to reach me. You have to pick a side. I advise that if you want to get the parchment, you write something that I would personally rather than academically hate.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Then you are a dim boy who doesn’t use his liquor as a launch pad to the stars, but rather lets you sink earthbound. Listen: if ‘passing’ and other forms of formulaic passage is important to you, you will stop writing for me. It has to be dreadfully boring, almost pure exegesis, with a lot of intra-departmental wanking of priapic egos and such. None of this subjective personal contribution bullshit. They are only going to measure you by their idiotic standards of their terminological politburo of bad taste. Go read some 19th century philosophy colloquium papers and proceedings, follow their bloated style that goes on for pages and says little but itself in agonizing formality and repetition of terms. They value only one thing: how amenable you are to their conversion to an old white man standard of comfort and pretentious hostility to all that is different.”
“What did you think about the move I made in—“
“To be honest, Alex, I read the first two pages and stopped. It was garbage. I hated every word of it. It bored me. It made me want to strangle you with your own entrails. It was slavish. Instead, I enjoyed the finest blowjobs French prostitutes had to offer, got drunk off my ass and danced naked under the moon. Your writing has no life and no hope. I think you knew this already. I think you have no talent as an author, too. But then, I have high standards, so don’t get too sore. The literature I like is actual literature, and not in pole position to win honours that would be duly rejected by those with a vested interest in creation.”
He was hurt, I could tell. Truth is a wound, and so be it. His book, like so many books, now languishes pointlessly in some LibCanada index with its obscene collection of digits to denote catalogue frenzy ISBN-love-validation-oral infibulation. And, no, I wouldn't make him any promises...I learned early that it was never wise to trifle with madmen unless willing to deal with 40 emails a day or a collection of dead birds sewn within an envelope addressed to Persephone. Well, that was Alex Copec mark one, and this sullied representation I had before me was a complete waste of flesh and circuitry.
This person did not want my waxy waxing wise interpretation. This person wanted facts and precision. But when one relies on the single-shot use pistol of interpretation that doesn't go back far enough, that begins where privileged overcoded thought has already been established, then one cannot while wielding the hammer of interpretation blame it for not hammering in the nails straight, or for being uncreative, if one is unwilling to use said hammer on one's own head (thereby discovering multiple use). As sloppy as that was, this ties into our pal Freddy Zarathustra and the mutters of real invention. That is, real interpretation does not start in the boudoir, mistah Freud, nor with infancy and the infinite game of fort/da mistah Lacan-can, nor with state sanctioned Christ lurking behind every election machine dearest HegelMill, but where the sun meets the sky the sky meets the earth. true interpretation has to happen when you give up with questions, go back to miniature diagrams of bizarre concepts, and create new things that resemble questions and aporias. A suitable reply to this poor denizen of violenciating waste would be "thank you for your adventavit asinus, but for the benefit of all do not sully my will to power--which you will not doubt (in your capacity as a poor interpreter) take as power in the sense of an objective to be achieved. I leave you to infinite equilibrium, static point zero, and so therefore very dead, unmoving, unbecoming, and very Henry James." But Alex would not clue in. he had been normalized by the glut of creepy white trash Walmartians and their cabal of furious conspicuous consumption in order to attain convenience as the infinite distraction for thinking.
“I am working on a secret project more daring that I want you to look at; my real thesis, as it were,” he offered, pure stupidity.
“By all means send the scribbles of the oedipapa to the oedipapas of the land, and I invite whatever dark treasures I find in mine mailbox. The same rules doth apply: bore me and it makes the trash.”
“It’s called Codex Obscura. I have already sent it. It is a bit large…about two megabytes.”
The fucker. Now that really pissed me off, and I am not of the sort who gets all bogged down in technics and their vicissitudes.
“You fucking ridiculous git! Have you no CLUE to ask PERMISSION before sending a whopping holy Jesus ass-rape nazi TWO MEG email spam-o-spasm?! People like you should be rounded up and shot! I hope you eat virus very soon! Fuck you kindly!”
“Jonkil, wait!” he followed after my storming-out wake, like a dandy harlot in the flicks who has dignity for sale. My fault for being touchy? If you send me a two meg email declaring my winning of millions and the successful liquidation of all patriots, I’ll still be calling for your head.
I ignored Alex as I made my way out of the pub and into the welcome cold of November’s meteorological imprecision. Truth was, I was looking for a convenient way to end our conversation. It was getting dry. This is not to say that we would desist our communions…By now he was already familiar with my style of exeunt, as it had been played thousands of times before. When Alex Copec was normalized by the joco-politics of the grand lebensraum of therapeuticism, he should have been shuffled into a pine box.

Planet of the NRApes
Death becomes a body, which is to say not very silent, screech immobility and prudish
sexualalalalality. I manufacture no guns! Showguns in Japanwarlord--a platmanteau as your author function decreed.
And biblicaca times ten, your US is not us, but neither are you the them or they that wants to map its we to your forehead in some Reaganetics centerfold disaster. Not all Calipornia can be that daft! J'accuse, and such!
I am thinking of Chuck's movie, when they shot him in the throat and thank ye be that he did not speak! but there he be, obscenely in auralalalality waxing wiz on Platoast infamous re-publicization of the majoritarian Solid. Avec le jouissance of die lugers und so weiter to hail to the thief of Rome himself, the President Shrub, or daddy's little xtian turnaround! I saw the first plane hitting too, despite the paradox--but for him/they, it was a slip, a systematized lie. I saw it in a dream and it involved a woman. I was sitting in a cafe, Her name was Anita. the planes made beautiful cunt schizzes across skyline dust death. I wrote her a poem, enumerating beauty as if it could be done, in a kind of fear. She was much older, with two kids, but short-cropped hair like I had once fetishized and then overcome and then lapsed again. One slightly overlapping tooth as if to signal the fold of two buildings' glorious collapse. she smiled when I gave her the poem. I would sketch her too. we could not touch. the very green wall of Vancouver had divided us as much as green screen bombs in Afghanistan...and I headed east, and she remained west. we both collapsed as folds.
I am paralyzed. There is too much to say to THAT. Chucky Cheesewagoneer and his waxing wise on Plato...I am now recording this audio fragment to be distorted into one of my many nefariously arcane experiminimalist projekts.
There is nothing good in this world. Fuck. Plato's Make My Day laws for the republic. It is a planet of the NRApes indeed. The world never ceases to surprise me in irritating and disappointing me further. This I have to hear...

“Do you think it has publishable merit?” asked JonZebra, relying on some illusion of my academic sputum velour rather than my good graces.
“In this country? Maybe only by Manitobarons of the Lovecraftian are(n)a…Otherwise, it is a bit high-flying for the general sophisticated reading mob.”
“What about Sirrosmus Press? I remember long ago sending audio tapes of some sort to them, but I had thought them and them disparu! Good to see that they are still op-or-rating! Or maybe we could fly down to Hotel New York and see if we can snag a sucker at the shell games of the business.”
“I suspect that until President George Budweiser the First's hold over the Second and sundry is at an end, the US will remain a conceptual abstract aberration.”
“The thing is dense. Do you foresee a problem with procuring title and deed for that which bears the writer’s name but not his consent?”
“It might as well have been written by someone else. My function is only to show him the abyss and leave him there as he makes cow eyes into the abscised void, forever seeing himself in the treacle naught. Right now, it is better for him to believe that he is a publishing dynamo, which is to say that it has a place on the Internest that is not directly connected to my own vain publicitory. Whatever. Will you make the film of it or not? It needs to go back to its itchy anxious holders soon. I’m already a target for hosting the Voynich.”
“I will need to drink on this a little more.”
“Then I’ll cage it all up in the not yet known, make my merry little skippery-doo to the xeroxidizer and manufacture new auras. Expect a less eloquently produced version.”
But I am being rude, I really am. I have not duly introduced our good comrade JonZebra to the sorriest likes of you. Prudence and good fortune abounds, and proper form-fitting etiquette thus demands that I make good on presenting our friend, now a future feature film in four farts…

Chappy Uno: The Fallacy of Explicit Importance

JonZebra and Sasha had finished doing their rope tricks. Out of sand, too full of time. Of course, one decade in the clinical VCR gallows with pills and shock therapy doused in confectioner’s sugar is enough to get everyone hot and bothered and temprocentric…leftist Lacan liberal lead-out. JonZebra had tied his tongue to the rafters and to the back of the bitch’s ass, but Sasha was all the more glad for it, sinking urban style grandeur and subculture bullshit into her rectum for the taste of it. Corte de flanella was not long in coming. The bedlam of security in these parts was not pause for reflection…Fuck JSMill and GWBush, but praise them too. Anthropolatry is a humanism is a psychoanalysis is a cyco-anastasia vision. Oligoprenia for all, but just the few. JonZebra was pulling dolls out of a hat, children were erupting from airports…Duns Scotus Dance. Interviews galore gore. Blogoplegic blogospheric conditions among the neo-page blogophagy…The Internet made a killing off its failure, just as the Visigoths did: Sasha knew that to triumph over the other physically always comes back ass-backward as a surrender to the other spiritually. And now we talk spiritual ointments for the kids. Jean-luc Godard-Batarde. JonZebra was just too engrossed in the natural flair affair of capital, and Sasha was the media darling on the supermarket newsstands, all Cosmo-Vanity Housekeeping whoreshot of blanked out moles, inflated airbrush breast…the fauvism ritornello of photoshack and the paradox of too many options. C-cup. “I’ve got bombs,” says JonZebra, but the whole interview is a tired farce of call and response and stock options spread eagle against dollary-doo-doo. But Sasha was reticent to the exoteric…always another initiate, another goddamn fool for whom the tolling of the bell must be made accessible. Who makes the rules? What a particularly stupid question! Take a bath and call me a two pill in the morning, tick-tock doc…temprocentricationary, miseducational document. Interview, interview, call and response, circuit relay of preprogrammed problems, never negotiating a zone, a terrain that doesn’t demean the lot. JonZebra was having serious ego problems, which was to say that he had suddenly sunk in the near dark funk of being incredibly boring.
JonZebra played the banjo and ate oranges on sunny days, and on other days he was busy pulling intestinal failures from that allegedly rich complex of his “psyche”. The order form is on the couch, next to naked Sasha reading the Chicago Tribune while picking at the scabs of errant bad body image problems. JonZebra only made himself vaguely tolerable when he was headless, somewhere else, articulated without that goddamn monolith of despairing conscious petard. Excuse me: petarderie. At least that was the way it runs in all the fish scale coloured rave entrance docudramas camera-pointed-shot by men who live by elaborate means. There is always the fadeout, the nihilism served straight up and neat like an ecpyrosistic apocatastatic gummy beartrap. All things go in the fire, especially you. First in line! Sasha clipped articles she found where the fold of her skin-body/mind-etiolation of self matched that of the pictures she found there. JonZebra hooked himself to a thought-windlass and turned the little crank, with a smile, burying his edge somewhere safe, which is to say that he had no edge at all. Sasha brandished edge but she was a soulless tart—all in all, a spilt woman. “I am a train of betrayal without wheels or rudders, stacks of flour and Charles Portis,” she said. A dead stallion in bell bottoms: or that was what she thought she was and was becoming when the big white doctors with flannel chokers and long ideas started making declarations on her behalf, as if she wasn’t there. And she wasn’t, but somewhere else, and but zoned out, which is a being zoned in by fluffy walls and regular meal schedules and routine shots/oral administrations. She had to laugh, even in those days of certifiable bedlam, because she would be the little Arab princess of the ward, laughing it through the orderlies grey parental bloc faces about how the oral administration was merely the tyranny of the wagging tongue: “my tail is my tongue, and I am an inverted dog!” JonZebra was in another way: shock therapy put him in contact with the Cosmic Battery, the dry cell of the secret. Being a fractured self was just another Madison Avenue trick to spread out your investment in the regime of objects, their serialization, and to stick all of modernity up your ass like some Guattaritic schizoparadise suppository. And what was all that noise about anyway? 1968 is just an image. Only fools think that something then died when it was embalmed celluloid pulp all along. World Trade Center is a pornoceptic cunt, neither Holy nor Roman nor Empire. Neither the World nor Trade nor Centerist…but a flawed image insofar as it was too damn perfect…Asepsis for morons. “I never liked it anyway,” said JonZebra. “It never moved. Terrorism moves me because it is a romantic failure, a vengeful wife driven by the agonizing immutability of the world to love it once again by rubbing in a rubble crease. So fuck the prayers…Let everyone feel threatened. Impotence is life. Defending freedom is the only true evil that shatters the steel of some overcooked rhetorical ideal. WTCollapse, WTCunt, an act of pure jazz and not a whit more or less.” But JonZebra was always prone to himself, fathering himself gingerly like a helot on parade before his accusers. 1968 plus a third of a century pie slice of time glutted down by its own slow and voluminous durations equals the embroidery of an image (not to say which ones per se, avoiding genealogical questions for fear that it would put Kabbalists out and ensure the proof that the gene is an aberration)…2001 and the hypostate of the union address when narrow rectal wisdom demands that the big stick politik is made to emanate more pronouncedly with the aid of a bullhorn. Don’t worry, Bushie old boy: they’re only after our steel. Work To Consume, or WTC and its final collapse is perhaps the greatest literary achievement of the century, not to mention the most poignant piece of theatre and aesthetic critique ever. I mean, the building was really ugly. Next time the terrorists promise to send out flyers before performing an impromptu critique/wrecking session. Global ekpyrosis body and girls, and don’t think the press—or Sasha and JonZebra for that matter—don’t already know it. Nigh-a-lism. Active, complete. A deed done in the teeth by the toothless. The two towers, two acts: the third act is up to you, is you. 1-976-AMERIKA. Operators are standing by to whisper sultry morale clichés to get your flag up at full mast.
“I wish I cudda done that,” said Sasha, pointing airily at a blow-up cameo of a plane kissing the top of a cum-slicked capital cone.
“You should have,” said JonZebra. “You are hylosis itself.”
“Fallacy of illicit importance.”
“Then, by that logic, the whole world burns.”
“Emanation is the great plasti-chain of Being. From every police officer issues a student rebel. Everything linked to the cops, fuck them. The 2001 theatrical farce of some buildings torched and spun off their bearings by the slight deviation of commerce is nothing but the full gloss insert in time of a perfected image of 1968. The rallying students have spiritually surrendered to the police, became the police, a demiurge of chao-securitas.”
“Max Stirner, Internet-style,” JonZebra muttered.
“Who?”
“Never mind. He packs your groceries and never has to say a word.”
Sasha was getting drowsy. It was usually at this time of day that the meek cockroach with his clipboard, buffered by two burly ex-Fabio orderlies came by to administer themselves orally unto her. She began absentmindedly tugging out locks of her hair and arranging them in an orderly pile, a piece of folk-art for the post-naïve generation. I guess we mean cynical and aware to the point where all communication is tiresome and just a cyberius habit. A swooping wreck of hard and heavy psychoanalytic pressings…Like a witch under boards and stone until the tongue lolls out and the voice creaks out for father. JonZebra, on the other hand, was the only woman he could ever truly know. End point.

The mullet is the image of true cultural expertise, they say. JonZebra flipped off the reverse engineers along the way while idling his motor waiting for Sasha to handle her dirty commercial affairs. The grotto-grotesque of this burnt-out slum had charm and beauty, a bit unapproachable, a bit foreboding, and a bit tiresome. The buildings were all leaning forward, just raw pieces of roughly worn leather with stitched joints, begging to the kiss the sky while their tops were backs and their faces were aimed accusingly at the ground. How so Christian, thought JonZebra, Christiane Heroin(e)…Sasha, a human elastic bunny, hop in for the stretch, pick up a dopper of heroin mark, snap back into the car with a glazed look in her eye, so high. “I can touch the sun with my feet and poke out its eyes,” she said. “You sicken me, you sad Berlin existentialist, and it is my disgust that makes me love you only as an image,” replied JonZebra, a little tight and morally incontinent to get into a real start. “Just drive, drive, drive.” “Certainly, massuh!”

“Hegelian wholes horrify me”—William H. Gass, The Tunnel page 424, HarperCollins edition, a few lines from the top and the bottom, first full paragraph, absolute center of the first line, 43 orthographical marks in (including spaces). Please plot significance. Note to self: make no notes to self, but self-realization through self-actualization is actual is the real is the unreal is the forced herding of irrational into note of whole, whole mark of irrational, split, fractured, divided line of self, dechirement, desouvrement, non-savoir, dissolution = heterology numb and number (4?). And four-two-four page numb(er)ness equals Kabbalah six and two equals ten equals the One. Recap: page 424 = 4+2+4=10=1+0=1! Hegelian One. “I just hope that when the dice of chance fall back on the earth that they don’t turn up as little Hegels. How many Hegels does it take to make a One? A Hegel in every pot? Each according to his able Hegel, each according to his needy Hegel. A Hegel in every breast (says Stirner in a cockeyed fashion, now merging with Saccas Ammonius and the Neoplatonic law of the One, again and again). A slavering poly-beast Bukowskidardesson, Celinantes Rabelais Al-Farabi without a zero in his pocket, holding up only a handful of Ones. Wholes. And notes. Wheel of Coltrane, spin me, spin me macaroni. Again, actuality is the reality of the actual and the real of the determinate negating Spirit of the One and the Many is but a dream of casuistry and ohgodwhereareyounowwhenmylotterynumberscomeoutinallones?!! I’ll take a piece of that, partner, so let’s move on(e).

Sasha forgot where she had last purloined the letters of her name, as if she was named at one point and never again Sasharina De Bellemountebank. Or, (or?—disjunk). JonZebra tried to rub the flabby notion from his eyes, but now his hands were clawing at the wheel, the big wheel of auto-Coltrane. There was grease and whiskey stains extending from the vehicle and into the sky smudge. A dead dream, a sea of dirt and the dirty wake. What wake? JonZebra and Sasha were visiting an old animal friend of theirs who had made the ticket into the pine box, buffered by flowers and false well-wishers with nothing nice left to say between each other. Come see the body—composed (which is to say, etymology buffs unite, to lay out the dead: com-pose). Shark was his name, but he was gameless. And now he was making the pose of life in pine, without shoes, in a funeral home where the morose melancholy tune is enough to make the greatest among us laugh, laugh, laugh. Shark fucked Sasha once or twice, but those were just grey dreams between grayer sheets lost in the stratigraphy of memory now burnt out by drive. JonZebra supposed that they were going just to forgive him his trespasses.
Sasha was poking red holes into the crook of her arm, not exactly a pro, and could never get it in right and straight the first time around.
“Aw, fuck, you’re spewing out a mess there,” JonZebra said, merely assuming that she was getting it wrong as usual, barely looking over as if his eyes and the wheel had a concentrative pact. “Blood all over the seats. You’re a clumsy junky! Clumsy, clumsy! A messy red fountain of platelets all over the dash, spurting and squirting copper shit all over me! And then the car smells and gets sticky. Show some goddamn respect.”
“I like alternative trajectories,” she said, unfazed by what was a clumsy sexually-implicit assault on her character. She wished he’d just keep his dick out of the argument, stop trying to show off his straight priapism flying right and true into the hole-mark. Not everyone was a gifted packager, sticking shafts in jellied envelopes. She ought to have been. That was the subtext of her years of bedlam.
The para-police were at all the exits. This necessitated necessary acts. Ever try to prompt an act? It fails, but does so beautifully. Stash the junk, junk the stash, blow kisses in every direction and hope they collide into some wall and blow smoke-rings indoors…Shark was a different matter entirely. He was survived by no sons, so didn’t try hard enough at the game of production and acquisitions, and was an ex-Gulf war machine too drunk all the time to get the job done wrong in that essential way that war demands. He had a way with women, or at least his way, Q.E.D. It was during the war that he got the taste for a chemical mistress, and what was supposed to be a moral warning shot off the bough of reason missed its mark among the other junky elite. But there is a mistake in all that noise, for only dabblers and unserious junkies turn the tail on their way of life and run for rehab, while the true majority has already affirmed the consequences—and may even welcome them.
Five stoplights, three turns, and one road repair pylon were all that caused the direct line of transit to deviate from its smooth mathematical perfection. But who is the universe to know a straight line, hither or yon? It caused some minor agitation in JonZebra’s head, but only because he wished he had been a tax-paying formalist like his dad…even despite initial rebellions. Instead, he sat down a lot: driving, drinking, making airy movements with his hands as if conducting an elaborate orchestra. To sit was his defiance, hugging that armchair toilet with both gnarled hands, eyes squeezed fit to burst, screaming that all the nazi cowboys get away. Sasha was a lounger, and so they almost got along. But despite similar appearances, loungers have no desire to scream, but would have liked to have been born with a mouth sewn in such a fashion that the opening was on the inside, just to hear the echo.
“Can I turn this shit off? It stinks.” JonZebra thumbed at the CD player, a fancy piece of unpawned material, a potential investment.
“Come on…” she pleaded, but only lightly, distractedly.
“I’m going to go goddamn Greek with that fucking disc if you don’t pull it now! It has no puissance. It’s pure overproduced garbage. It’s like listening to Enya with all your bourgeois hippy friends. I’ll give it the Olympic discus throw if you don’t yank it in four…three…”
“What burrowed up your tight ass today?”
“Two…one…”
“Countdown, blast-off!” she chirped with undue glee.
JonZebra jerked the car to the side-stop with bad skill and pure violence, punched the EJECT button, and gave such a mighty toss that the CD clicked and tonked against a brick wall across the street and disappeared from sight. He didn’t say a word. He was red. He quickly lit a cigarette and pulled off.
“You’re going to get me a new one,” she said.”
“Yeah, you bet,” he said, laughing angrily, not even wanting to look at her.
“You are,” she reminded again, as if repetition would make it so.
“Of course! And then it’s the box set of the fucking Beegees up your ass, you little sour cunt. Fucking shut up.” And with that, JonZebra blindly rummaged through the glove box, jostling Sasha’s legs and things so that they spilled pointlessly among the garbage reliquary at her feet. He pulled out a CD without looking at it, without taking his eyes off the road, jammed it forcibly into the player, smacked play. There was an instant wailing wall of discordant saxophone and erratic drumming. JonZebra felt much better, much more at ease with the wheel. There was foamy spittle at the corner of his dry lips, his knuckles and hands all raw and peeling (he liked to chew them compulsively so as to avoid participating furiously in the market economy).
“I don’t like that,” was her only statement.
“That’s because you’re useless. A stupid useless bitch who desires only the mundane republican-OK’d top 40 capital commie cunt consumer big bulletin…You’re failure, failure.”
“Shouldn’t we put on something more in the mood of the wake?”
“Oh, for fuck…You want mood music now?…” JonZebra’s temper flared and a livid wall of animal frustration bottlenecked a flood of words and long ranting streams of expressive juice. Instead, he just wanted to convey this frustration, play the paternalist and dismiss her flagrant faux pas against decency…her errant stupidity and waywardness. The whole affair was futile. He was in love. Which is to say that he signed up for a death that had already been issued during the universal conscription.
“This wake is going to be a failure, too.”
He was right. He felt indifferent to Shark, his life or his passing. In fact, he was indifferent to anyone but himself—at least in non-essential terms. To himself, he was the master indifferentiator. Maybe an indifferenciatior, too, conceptuality set aside for wholes and whores. At the very least, he never subscribed to the big lie that he was a One.
JonZebra was said to drink a lot. He avoided the sunshine and the nightlife noise. He had his DVDs, music, and corn whiskey. His regimen of pure bourbon had burnt an organ hive, holes riddling all six-foot-five of his long, lanky, emaciated frame. He puked every morning in the kitchen sink like Kant took his daily walk. He laughed like a little girl. He was charming and young boylike. But the puking was beautiful Jackson Pollock: he would set his arms out against the ridges like that, see, to steady his verbal assault, and would open the trap with a straight jet of emetic love. Great sour-smelling rainbows came out of his mouth like a marching column of little chunky generals destined for the abyss. He was a beautiful man. He had also been drinking. They had to remove him when, out of a cute way of dealing with the grief of being reminded of his own eventual demise, he leaped up on the casket like a spindly wolf in heat and started to mock-fuck invisible holes all over Shark’s pine surprise. JonZebra’s girlish laugh splintered the air, shattering every which way, and even Sasha couldn’t help but to crack up, too. It was art. It was beautiful. It was an act of deliberate triumph over moroseness. It spoke more about life than any of the stone-headed respect-payers would ever know. Of course, the others were offended. That’s their job. That’s everybody else’s job: to be offended at life.
“Didja see that?” JonZebra was asking Sasha, endlessly seeking approval for an absent father that he was sure was somewhere submerged in her. “Shark the Cracker Jack prize in the big box of sad, stale popped corn! Didja see what I did? It was pure genius.” Everything JonZebra did was pure genius according to him, and perhaps it was…bub.
If Sasha did not match his enthusiasm, point for point, he would become crestfallen and thoroughly intolerable. He would get mean and gripe and launch insults from the ballast of his hurt. Right? Ok, we’re not asking you, we’re telling you.
“Senorita Sasha, hey, hey, hey—“ he was singing now. And then he stopped as if smacked in the face by the timber of approaching nightfall. “Yeah, I thought that his death would hold some more profound importance than his life. Apparently, we were so very wrong.” He started back into another fit of hyena laughing. Now he felt social. “I’m thirsty; let’s take off for some drinks.”

Choppy-Sektion Zwei: Film is Dead, However Long Lives its Echo

Down the length of the corridor, a body corridor, a mental corridor (hold apart at all costs or else, yes, nature is mind) was a running tripping JonZebra, a dangling swastika made out of Lego and stamped against the aggression and impertinence of so many globo-national flags. Just telling some truth over here, says JonZebra, now distant, then a bit self-conscience of acts, was a punk rawk machine in the west. Sasha was tipping over ash cans that bylaws made obsolete useless chrome husks from the 1970s and backward, and she wished right then to be lobbing grenades in some post-comic tour de farce in some gun slinging sweat-point Colombian FARCade, with buttons, levers, lights, and hi-scores, and pinballed peasants everywhere. It’s a holiday in Bogotá. CNN on loud and buzzing. Dan Rather melting off the screen like soothing wax.
“I am a liar and a radiation experiment,” JonZebra yelled, rousing the hotel at this early hour, overstaying his welcome. Sasha knew that he was too Baroque and too 1968 for a time that had lost its bearings and had tossed such childish things in a postmodern blender set on puree. JonZebra was the intransigent sort to believe that one could not blend pedigree, that certain forms couldn’t merge but only be brought to the precipice of a crisis. In other words, he was a modernist. Still.
Waving their hands quickly before their faces, the hotel stairwell, otherwise a bleak grey smudge of concrete bergs and fire-exit signs without signifiers, rendered the scene pre-post Escher, and you were there, too. Sasha was an artist, too, so go ahead and ask if she was any good. The worst and most ridiculously posed of questions. But she did do a nicely unreceived American flag with an SS eagle, the red bars as missiles (in ketchup), a rotating swastika spike-wheel on a bed of blue fringed stars, the eagle with its sloppily rendered talons gripping a globe with only one half continent on the fucker: the USA (“is that a lobotomized brain?”), and on the bottom read in eyeliner: “Napotheon”. Decadent par excellence, and these auto-didacts just knew it. Even the emperor of the land knew better to occasionally tip his hat to these two with a courteous yet brief “how do you do?” Oh, did I neglect to mention that the eagle had a Masonic eye hovering over it, all pyramid-radiant like on dollar bills? Sorry.
“Hegel gives me the shivers!” JonZebra again. “And me cock hangs low and soft at the very insertion point of the System.”
“You’re such a capitalist when you talk of your dick.”
“We’ll all be capitalists when China takes over. Weren’t we always? God fuck, this whole procreation a la human is goddamn commercial exchange of spunk and babies and in vitro fertilizer opium poppies. You ought to watch some Bresson. He was a genius. And listen to Albert Ayler, who is the twentieth century…He is one of the top ten acts of the next thousand years…”(the list was constantly revised, due to whatever grabbed his attention and enthusiasm in the moment…His top ten of anything was always paradoxically 350 strong, and no one tied for any spot). “Shit, I am the top act of the next thousand years.”
“Naw, you were the top act in the last thousand years. Maybe further back, right in the bloody Circus Maximus.”
“Are you callin’ me a Christian, pilgrim? I was a lion or the lovely senator’s wife fainting away at the death of the slave with whom I had an affair…Oh, the rough love of the barbarian, imported from the Black Forest…just dreaming of all those centurions sent to their blackened doom in the pines. Oooh.”
“QUIET down out THERE!” Issued a command from a door, from beyond a door, probably from some good corporate Roman who wore his slippers to bed and pinched the help in the ass in good-natured sexual harassment fun. His secretary was busy filing a complaint. What a fucking fool. You have to wait until the hierarchy sky is clear above you before making fast and loose with the law. You acting it doesn’t make it so. Again, bub.
“Wake up in there! It’s a poetry reading—live!” JonZebra started pounding back, right at the door. “It’s like Kent State and the Khmer Rouge all rolled into one reality TV sitcom! No sleep for the voyeur! Up! Up!”
“Thazzit,” the man murmured, at the end of his remarkably short tether, “I’m calling down to the manager.”
“I am the manager, muthafucka! Woo! No, wait, I’m the manager’s messenger…He says to tell you that yer credit’s no good, that you should leave immediately and harvest organs from abortions in a dusty Venezuelan grotto with a woman imperialistically named Mary. All for Jesus and the crusade for better satellite coverage of the stars!”
A chorus of angry patrons started up, a string of loud firecrackers saying all manner and variation of “shut up!” across the corridor. It was suddenly a tone poem of polite bourgeois living unraveling to reveal a pair of soiled trousers. Sasha was quite appropriately (according to JonZebra’s interpretation de texte in the moment) goose-stepping back and forth chirping like a little bird.
“Hold on—I’ll go get the guitar! Some banjos! A drum! An electric-amplified kazoo! And Sun Ra’s spaceship! Woo! We’ll have us an impromptu alien montage down home love parade! A Charley Parker blowout for the syncategorematic defunct, or just maybe we’ll pierce the truth tonight!”
Sasha in her olden days was a fake Marxist like every Marxist. She attended the meetings, which spoke more of not getting the point than anything else. At the very least, thought JonZebra, she had been exposed to some good cinema, even if it was filtered through the myopic needle-eye hole of the Marxist anus. A few cocktails lobbed at some rallies, and her incomprehensible Marxspeak jargon was enough to prompt her family, at the point of her arrest during some failed politico-sexual public stunt, to commit her for good. Help, they said. What is good for you is being far away from me…As if setting up this jejune spatial antipodes between Sasha and family was going to work…Banish the daughter, and just maybe father’s unspoken and never enacted rape fantasies will be the necessary and sufficient condition of being cured. Maybe if he tried, just once, then the rebellion would have been justified. But papa never did, just sneaking in peaks edgewise, leaving a big subconscious lacuna in Sasha, a lack of purpose somehow. She had to make amends. Desperate to bring father’s Hamlet to term, she turned to the savage mindrape of being yet another sexually unconscious Marxist plebe, fighting for change that was a hundred years too late. What was particularly agonizing was the lack of targets and heavy supply of outmoded and outdated ammunition…The targets were indifferent now, no longer threatened by the Mohawk, be-dreadlocked, smelly patchouli-scented army fatigue surplus of scamps and clowns that took rubber bullets in the chest like little champ-martyrs. Marxist? The corporate heads wag a bit, but the mobs waffle again…Here’s a contract: cut a record about your grievances. Be a feminist! The problem with feminism, according to JonZebra, was--beyond its trying too damn hard and anteing up the twat on the table like the rest of the chips--that it violated his own femininity. And other soft ideals and hard politics. Struggle was already such a mug’s game. His reply to the Marxist cause: go to France and make cheese. Or, go to New York and make your fortune peddling badly written poems in the subway. Either way, you’ll be living your dream. “Real anarchy is enjoying what you consume.”
It could have been worse. Sasha could have been one of those screaming little girls playing soccer, kicking around a patchwork testacle all up and down the field to the approval of so many fathers. Instead: life of shit, which is learning. “The ball goes in the anus,” so says Coach in so many flash-words and soccer jargon flood. That is what he was really saying after all. Sasha was a slit between the psychic strata; she couldn’t purchase her freedom, a way out of the clinical box because the Man (circa 1972) did not honour her kind of currency. Her commitment into the health facility (O the irony of that term) was all just an error in exchange rates, she thought.
The Great Love of the Half-quarter Century was JonZebra’s ratback conquering and tenderly false homosexuality. He had read about the pastime of the homosexual in a book co-written by Freud, Lacan, Deleuze, and some dude-poet named Johnny Robo-bot who claimed to have a mystical link with Thomas Aquinas. By the by, yes, by the by, he read it forwards and backwards; sent him completely off the rails. He was going to be a Man goddamn it, just like daddy oil magnate said whenever (“please, daddy, daddy”) he roughed up the boy. But JonZebra was only gonna be a Mistah Man somewhere in between. Not exactly on the mark, a bit off the rails. “Will ya listen to this little fucker? Grow up [smack!]! Get a job! What is this hyped up drivel, now? Whattsamatta, boy, you got shit between your ears, you pathetic body without organs! Straw matted surface of pure events! Singularity snot! Stop laughin’ when I whup your ass! Faggot [smack!]!” Daddy, etc. Daddy hated Rwandans, Nigerians, and Sicilians—for very particular and particularized reasons. An odd taste for hatred, any way you slice it.
JonZebra was a polite, affable boy, but it was only his way of being a nice friendly faux pas degenerate. A reject cartridge of cloven-hoofed ideas, a mind overrun by satyrs when he shudda been doing his arithmetic. Sasha and JonZebra: signified without totality. They parked their asses before all the great machines of the age. And others. What came before? What does that matter, I wonder. Same old nightmare headache of the parking lot hustle and hum dinger oracular day time soap opera parade. You want plot, go be a geologist, big man…Make a fucking survey. Drive your little sticks in the earth to declare it a mineral rich vampire. JonZebra’s daddy was always in the habit of sending these geo-anti-Dracularians all over to get ichors into a pump. And that is why, boys and beasts, JonZebra reviled plots. Ooh, was that too “schizopapier” for you? Wotta shame! Hello, telephone! My ideas make metal.
“What does any of this failure matter?” JonZebra glossed.
“They’re metanoia par excellence, dispar abrasion,” flew Sasha, off her own rails and half-steeped in a slowly materializing memory like some cumbersome and heavy bowel movement. “I hum to what I like. The radio, a bit off tune. Let’s open up another bottle of Merlot Fassbinder and get us down to some river love by the weepy willows. Snickety-snick.”
“You’re right, which is to say that you haven’t a fucking clue. But I like your spirit when it isn’t setting its flabby ass all over my face. I concur, assent, bow, and defer. Let’s bustle. I wanna blow this sorry garment paradise trade of false tragic desire.”
And that was that. They actually left the hotel in its pieces, no foolin’. Enough of all that blogomachy! We aren’t playing footsy on the Internet.

Sasha was schiz-flow, all counting down her blessings to blastoff yet again, trying to jive with the sonorocracy and Angelo Badalamenti. What a show-off! And little JonZebra over there never even had to try; he was a self-standing code in his own abode of cooler than cool reason. They were in a darkened end-of-the-alley, more haute couture (do people still say that?) than thou gallery/avant-noise emporium/installation showcase all done up in starched black collars and buttoned down desire. Velvet brocade and soft lights creeping up the red wall in an obvious mimicry of mimicked candlelight, all tech du jour. Today’s gung-ho extraordinaire was “Paradise the Wasteland: Cyberglas Noisy” put up and on by Veeloor: notorious arts gangsta among the high priced tie-less aesthetico-gentry. At least JonZebra got the bulletin that “art” died in “New York” in “1979”. It was as tired and lazy jejune as any “shock and awe” campaign next door. But still, JonZebra rubbed his genius against their gimcrack facsimiles thereof, playing the long and ridiculous game of “hump the dog” with bubbly jargon dissolved in a fancy drink. This was ego-war for the beginner, to be sure. And when JonZebra declined the cocktail to parade his own haute couture flair that he drank whiskey like a good ol’ 1940s blues musician, his was declared an act of sparkling, transgressive genius even if they were roiling with the envy of it all…Trying to find some way to lump him in with any other uncultured hobo-rubbie. But they couldn’t: he knew too much jargon and could hold his arms out just like that and deliver the prolix of the avant-garde brazier. You just couldn’t call him a drunk in that mundane traditional sense where interventions matter a damn because the wall of him was too thick. There was crude nastiness all around for which he would be duly pardoned because he was all affect and sensation, right? Oh, what tender love he had for himself and his phantom fortress of accumulated cultural debris, all those marginal thinkers, obscure jazz musicians, insane nomad poets…It made him nothing but pure ether. To grab at him was to grasp wind in one hand and oil in the other, Q.E.D., Bible-feminine q.v. But the price of gaining acclaim among the windy beasts was quite high, depending on where you were from (that asinine genealogy question again), with a prize so paltry you’d feel the fool for not recognizing in advance that the whole thing was being given away at the door on the cheap. Ever buy a gently used Self from an ego-scalper? Results vary as is wont for all unregulated activities. But supposing you want an ego to call your own, results are not your concern anyhow.
Sasha was cranky, and nothing else. She wasn’t high or in junky need: just cranky. She was already two years sick in advance of Veeloor’s apparently wild yet secretly pre-programmed, hijacked, plagiarized stabs at the creative. Veeloor “once” had her email, and had inundated her so badly with writings that took too much energy to read, and were just insecurities veiled behind a wall of purple language almost embarrassing, that she dropped that email address and adopted another. Another email, another mask, dropping one for boredom’s sake and picking another up for the same reason. Being connected was giving her a rash. She did have to admit, even after her ad-glib fashion, that Veeloor’s writings were smooth and beautiful to look at, even if not to read them, but that was about as far as she would go. And when Veeloor had cornered her, she merely admired his beautiful living language from this perspective of an imposed limit: she read him to a point, and the rest of the patter fell on either side of her like she was an ascendant wedge in downpour. Well, isn’t he lovely to look at, even linguistically. But she could not bring herself to say even this in her more public moments. She staked her limit with everyone, deciding just how far she was willing to delve into the other, and it was this quality that JonZebra found agonizingly feminine. Profundity and complete abandon into whatever fortuitous abysses that came her way was not her way: she disagreed with that method because it wasn’t a term in the Marxism Dictionary. She was all hip on limits and, according to JonZebra, a Lacanian petit objet…one breast for one longing mouth. As far as he was concerned, Lacan was Lenin, a Lenin who went all 1917 on the lecture tour, swooping up Bataille’s wife in the process and giving her a petit objet breast, or just a dog-eared copy of his L’ecrits like a good schoolmaster who wants the best of his obedient subjects for as long as they are obedient. “Suck on this,” Lacan says, then leaves the room without feeling any obligation to qualify anything. “Hey, wait, you can’t just lay an egg on my face like that and bugger off!” “Oh, no? You better be careful: you don’t want me to psychoanalyze you into ribbons and smithereens. And I’ll do it with sangFreud!” If anything, Lacan was a big bully with tenure and a pension plan. Most of them are. Most of them show the decency to bow out, and the rest just keep on coming back as emeritus garbage: too famous to be tossed out, too useless and passé to stay on. Logic like that keeps the broken butter churner around for its charm.
JonZebra was now flailing about, going for cover in conversation, engrossed in a long extempore monologue-for-two about schizo-strata flows. This, of course, mixed with his triple filmspeak made him entirely unapproachable yet a glimmering object indispensable to the scene. That loose carpetbagger of discourse. An anthropope spewing madly about the virtual impossible, making great hash about the benefits of tripedalism. All his monologues were tandem bicycles, but at least it was him and not the listener who got all the bugs in his teeth.
He was all over Lacan today: “He was a fucking repeat season of Hegel in syndication. Fucking ‘desire is a fulguration of the signifier’ or whatever! Stupid arboreal thinking about a tree split in two equal halves! Arborescence is obsolescence is adolescence is indecent. Fuck. All with his ‘because I said so’ stamped on his publication ass in response to any objections that would seriously rip his little embroidered psychoanalytic universe to shreds. Yet another asshole trying to repel invaders from his ‘system’ so that he can masturbate in privacy! Jacques ‘Because I Said So’ Lacan, with an attitude like that, ought to have gone into politics—at least there he could be as abstruse as he wanted, live in his little matchstick system, and be president of France. Had he gotten in, we’d be staring at the 83rd Republic today.”
“He’s got a soft machine,” Sasha purred.
“You fucking betcha,” replied JonZebra. I always get soft at the entry point of the system-circus because I ask myself ‘what’s the point?’ Get me? Doxographical rectum-rectitude. I don’t go for the Internet shag-session, but let all the other eager cunts do it. The Internet is just for the kids anyway. Anything remotely serious and pertinent will either pop up in a flick or be written across the sky.”
All pleasantries aside, and such, the space and the time that measured it was a bust. JonZebra held firm to the notion that anything meaningful had to sadden and annoy everyone, but rather that everyone didn’t get it.

When they returned home, JonZebra and Sasha had long, clumsy, beautiful sex. On the floor, in his pants, was an old guinea sporting a young portrait of George III pre-colonial loss. The coin was originally retrieved from a commercial trade ship that sunk off the shores of Portugal, and had recently brought the new owner a similar shade of luck when JonZebra crashed his jeep into an armada of onrushing ambulances most likely pulling useless loads of the elderly who only had a very loose grasp on existence to begin with. JonZebra not only looked like Rimbaud, but had the attitude of a very confused Camus.
After their carnal bout, their squaring of the circle of a pecking order via Warren Oates and the Cockfighter extraordinaire, Sasha rolled over on her side toward JonZebra and said, “Like so many monsters, I have captured you and made you into my pet.”
“That is the nefarious logic of all monsters, their end. De-monster-ation is supposedly good for democracy…especially when the monsters are hulking along on the campaign trails and all the little monsters gather round to vote for ‘em.”
“I have always meant to ask why your name is JonZebra…Mother had a sense of humour.”
“No mother has humour. It’s a fractamorph…a rearrangement of the letters in my actual name. I would be considered the height of l’esprit in the days post-Voltaire. And sometimes the mean moniker the bullies give you in grade school is internalized, and you accept and affirm the mess, and make it your own. And so you were called Freak or Porky and it stuck, and you let it stick to you, and you experience a morbid joy about the whole thing as if it is the only real recognition that ever meant a damn.”
“I’m hungry. Let’s go eat somewhere.”
“Outside? Are you fucking daft? Why would I want to go out there? Out there is failure. I’d rather we just hole up here. Do you think you could pass by the liquor store and pick me up some provisions? A good bourbon would mark this occasion as much as any occasion can be marked.”
But he lost. Her will won the day. He put on his dusty, ironic cowboy boots and made his wiry frame clatter into the obscenity of the outside. They picked a restaurant and JonZebra promptly ordered a fine scotch, and then three more. It should be noted that JonZebra was a filmmaker, and a notable filmmaker sitting at the opposite end of the restaurant noticed him. These two were heated enemies, to be sure, always in a battle of one-upsmanship that always signaled failure, that was always a form of ridiculous retreat and windmill tilting. With so many egos on the line, burnt-out heroin junky actors, and the whole bit of haggling for funds from snobbish patrons…shnozzling and schmoozing for more bucks here or there in a game where if you didn’t move fast you were already yesterday’s Herzog.
“We move so gruffly from the silicon to the tobacco valleys, O sweet Jesus and a bottle o’ banjos!” JonZebra said loudly enough for his disappointing nemesis to overhear. “Right! Like your last film…between my teeth and not good enough for a rotten, syphilitic twat! Inspiration! Under your direction, I’m sure the cranks you take captive up on the strip as ‘actors’ are horribly lost…Lost! You lost! In yourself! What an empty place to be! Self-referential, post-liberation woman schmaltz ego claptrap crap!”
The other director lobbed back over the incidental diners caught in-between who were viewing the exchange as darling chic. Artistic pugilism gets us nowhere, as usual. And everywhere in the film industry…
“YOU ARE MAKING ME VERY MAD, YOU FASSBINDER RIP-OFF!”
“YOU WOULDN’T KNOW A FASSBINDER FROM A FASHION-BLITZ AT WAL-MART, YOU UNSCRUPULOUS CUNT!”
The director turned to his little band of admirers to make a qualification note, to detail in condescending tones the poor madness of JonZebra…how tragic it was that he felt himself to be a filmmaker, etc. In sum, a clinicization of one’s enemies.
“I can’t stay here and be expected to eat under the same roof with that hack,” JonZebra said to Sasha. Sasha had rezoned the exchange and was now thinking about drapes and bizarre torture devices involving water slides and well-positioned daggers.
“YOU HEAR ME, KLAUS? YOUR WORK IS TIRED! YOU THINK THE WHOLE WORLD IS ONE BIG DISBOUND BOOK, AND YOU HAVE BEEN APPOINTED BY THE LORD JESUS OF ASSISSI TO COLLECT ALL THE LEAVES AND STICK THEM UP YOUR DENIM-POCKET ASS!”
“Would monsieur like to order?” asked the nervous waiter, hoping that his
presence would be all it took to quell the heated exchange which was now disturbing the firmament of the false image of polite bourgeois relaxed dining.
“Some smarmy name calling is in order! Down with the heavy Byron of Klaus’ CNNthropology! Up with the Leopold and Leopoldina of the anti-mores! I’ll order when I feel the Paris of our days lighting upon me like a Bataillian ladybug on the hoary Miltonian script of Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spitoons & Chamberpots! Isn’t that right, Klaus? All of your scripts are just stolen by-lines from Hegelian critics! And then you pay off your reviewers with blowjobs and little chateau parties in the south of France! Ass-lickers like you ought to be producers! Or online bankers! Or USAid!”
“Remember when we were discussing earlier about Deleuze?” said Klaus to one of his droopy-eared minions. “Deleuze spoke so much of the schizophrenic and his walk, but the question truly remained open like a lacuna: have we ever really seen a schizophrenic? Well, I would say that we have, if only by its disappointing opposite. JonZebra is a close facsimile of the great schizo, but as such is its opposite. As Nietzsche once said, who better than Christ to know the antichrist?”
“Stop turning to your brood to get your ass pinched, Klaus! Your mind stinks! It’s making me ill!”
It was sweet when JonZebra spoke this way, agitated dribble flying in every direction, falling off his chin, his spindly and hopeless “scruff.” Sasha would be reminded of her father and his drinking, and his respect among the many colleagues in the department. He was, incidentally, a film studies professor, something JonZebra would one day become based solely on his brilliance of speaking the right jargon at the right time, and his boyish charm. It was also something JonZebra would become as a last ditch effort and a first choice, only to toss it aside in homage to Sam Beckett. JonZebra wanted to leave academia to write, and leave his drunken grad student/TA turns at the lectern aside to sup at other, more literary troughs. For now, he was a beautiful menace sinking slowly in an amber sea of distilled joy.
“Let us all congregate around my ass!” said JonZebra. “Let us all watch as I take Klaus’ film and cleave my buttocks with his attempt at film! That, friends and collected lovers, is art. Klaus, take note: ART.”
“JonZebra, stop bothering us all with your passive-aggressive nonsense. I am trying to eat. We all are. Please show some decency and tact in this public place. This isn’t a sanitarium or your private buffoon paradise where slack-jawed students jot down all your words as if they were wise. Get off the fool’s lectern, already! No one cares about your tired style, if one could even call it that.”
“FUCK YOU, KLAUS. THE NEXT TIME I TAKE DECENCY AND TACT TIPS FROM YOU, I WILL BE FIRST TO WRITE A GLOWING REVIEW OF THAT WH ICH YOU DIRECTED THAT WOULD BE CONSIDERED LITTERING ON A CUTTING ROOM FLOOR!”
“JONZEBRA, YOU ARE TRYING MY PATIENCE! I CANNOT UNDERSTAND THIS! IN FRANCE, WE HAVE STANDARDS! HERE, ALL I FIND IS RUBBISH—YOU INCLUDED!”
“KLAUS, IN FRANCE, YOUR NEO-MARXIST BULLSHIT ISN’T FIT FOR THE PIGS! EVEN THE CHILDREN GET BORED! IT’S BELOW THEM. YOUR WORK REACHES NO ONE!”
The waiter came back, followed by the manager. Some pointless nazi censure was just about to get off the ground. They would ask JonZebra to leave.
And, with a parting shot, JonZebra did his best 8mm shot with hand giving shadow to his brow, a small incredulous giggle, and this: “As Rimbaud said, ‘other horrible labourers will come.’ I stand by this if only because I am the unborn century, and you, dear Klaus sweetheart, are nothing more than a pesky collaborator with big business fortune. And hence, your films will be so fatally recognized.” And then to the diners: “There was great value in your silent opinions that have now resulted in my being expunged from this dinner contract. Merci et bon appetit.”
Out the door and no turnaround.
“What about contract?” Sasha asked.
“Those fuckers are already dead. Who cares. Let them cosign for life in a con-tract intractable written tract. And let them con-sign in consignment their contracted con-tract with the footlights all over them to make a goddamn decision, de-cision. They are all circumcised members of parliament. They have spoken, and all too often. Let’s go home and put on my new jazz record and drink a while. I told you this would be a stellar failure.”

Chapithree: The Hegel Thinks Consolations

Planet of the Ape-god, and no timbers make up a pandemonium in its totality in revealed theoloJesus. So was the Word, but the Word was nothing but a joke, and perhaps only the sleaze magazines knew that…but fancy the fancy man taking his acumen into that milieu for answers only to be distracted by the pretty girly pics. The Word is minutiae, really, a cunt slathered in grease like the advertisement raw turkey dinner…morticians unite, dress up our ailing theological libidos and pornocentric love. False love. Desire nothing but a glimmer of that Word, lost to us now…a daguerreotype of Wilhelm Reich pinching little girls’ bottoms and clamping their asses with his orgone machine. Ah, we’ve seen better representations than that in the game show nuclear “holo-cast” simulcast on all the name-brand networks put into motion by Frater Freud himself of the inner-inner Vienna circle. Wittgenstein was nothing more than a numerologist and rule-fetishist for little boys who loved their mommies far too much. These same little boys grew up and actively sought out the war effort to bring the Word into focus, but no Word could be put into good use: it couldn’t load the guns, put more rations in the kit, or satisfy those midnight urges in the trenches. So why not switch to numbers like Wittgenstein? Subscribe now.
JonZebra was already talking as if he had guns in his pocket, or else how can we explain his brazen nature?
> I subscribe to that. ONLINE.
ROME-GREECE is Apollo killing Zeus? Zeus is Dzeus having popped off Uranus, Uranus old mafia don having cooked the Chronos goose. O please! And what of Apollo? Well, he was the first Roman son, the first American rags to riches success story. That was the day when Rome conquered Greece and Zeus had his “accident,” that ol’ buggering bungler. Apollo and the Apollonian took centre stage.
JonZebra was history’s long lost master, the organizing, regulative principle. Only he knew that Columbus was the first to falsify a grant application to get more of the funds. I hope the syphilis and the el dorado cash prize was all worth it. Well, it could’ve been the nasty rhythm and vibrations of Ponce de Leon and the Great Sampling Culture: that is, taking a sip at the risk of sickness from so many fetid bogs and swamps just to see if just one of them would be the punishment of immortality. It was all a Sir Francis Bacon experiment, an empirical method sans chickens and pneumonia…Just sample this or that water and it could very well be the fountain of youth or just another suburban borough. Walking family pet a dream of family, a family of pets…All monsters are the savages, but even they submit to becoming pets at the scene of their defeat. There are no divisions between beings; there is one being and a multitude of folds. The slow creeping separation of self as it altogether remembers too much of what it is and forgets too soon what it will become.
If we are going to get out of this century alive, we will need to perform a crucial insurgent motion: just as recent wars have been conducted like a business, we in turn must wage a war on business, to level its transcendental terrain, its perilous depth of the dollar. The only way to counter consumption is to either wait for it to consume itself (but we risk being consumed along with it, as cultural debris are sucked into a cultural vortex—and here we are speaking of culture as if it were real!) or to go about and define our own problems, to produce our own ideas, to produce in general. This is the only way to counter consumption in ourselves. As for consumption all around us, the seduction and the price is just too high. It will happen regardless.
Q: does this mean you’re a fatalist?
A: No, not a fatalist. I am still in the “camp” with Nietzsche and Deleuze when they speak of a people to come. But you raise an interesting point about the problem of fatalism. It seems quite fashionable today—as it was pre-Y2K, pre-9/11 (and one day someone will have to produce this history of acronyms, so in league with the rhetoric of conjoined business and technology)—to be a fatalist, although no one says it! It manifests itself in patterns of consumption: more luxury goods, more momentary items, more hedonism, more decadence, but conversely also more insurance policies and contingencies for the future. I find in fatalism too much hope lurking behind its veil, and it communicates itself freely through actions and the rhetoric of consumption.
Q: I’m sorry, but we’re plumb fresh out of them!
A: And so all I have left is a bunch of solutions without origin, a big mental closet of images and representations. Help me. Help me.

Star Chamber and the embedded will: we are trying to collapse already condensed moments into the minute, like Proust-brand spoons:
Morocco and other spies. You are my lover flitted about, a Papa of the list. Now I see how wrong we were, how risible Milton was as a lurker. O How sweet to read your body in the space of the virtual foster children parade. Pink poets speak. Bullets rain down. Thank you dear one for saving our skirt and face and how you could not quote them all. PhiLAWsofee…a university man. He Mutters that all is moving, that it's okay you didn’t get that quote right, for Keats is over the hill anyway. Letters to Kant and later faltering desire penetrating his arse across the sausage cities of Konigsberg... Kant nothing more than a rope on a stick. Someday I will love you very well. Schizoid & id, schizoego & ego..oegological not oenological. I cannot speak. There are bugs and butter in my mouth. Deal out Jacks or better you will win the mountains! Sasha’s homophone was her war, just soaps of her. He had a picture of Hegel bigger than hers, my gosh! JonZebra must have been a member of the abolished work and a co-founder with Foucault lamely repeating reviews, despairs and catalogued remnants of abdication and the denial of political action. Truisms? Endlessly conservative Search for a Method aphasia beyond cognition (and behind it, too). False industrial utopia where what you want is what another tells you you need. Guattari's inferno…deans of departments, micro-colonies of the/a System…Each one sequestered in hate; defenders of paradise dictating speeches given by the wardens of the symbolic, of the sad utopic. In the colony I was fortunate, said JonZebra, for our sense of smell was destroyed before it could detect the perfumed failure of the now. The deus ex machina was a silly puppet regime right from the start, a really cheap imitation act. It’s going to take much more than a Punch ‘n Judy show to get things back in motion. And that is why, dear collected colleagues, voting is undemocratic and a persistent disappointment. But only if one votes by negation, to dis-appoint the appointed. Anon.
My shoes are pointy, by Jacques Lacan. Right? Was that a book? And what bearing does it have for modern cinema. I do not know. I do not chart those waters, yet.
Sasha looked at JonZebra and JonZebra looked at Sasha, despite his anagram and despite her lack of one. There would be more on the order of acts and adventures, but all of that, too, would tend toward a point of oblivion. It was like a Borges story, but much better insofar, and by virtue of, as being much, much worse.
“I cannot speak,” said JonZebra, tears oozing out of yellowed eyes, the yellow of old ivory.
“But you keep trying anyway,” she offered. “You need to conclude.”
“I need suicide, a promised suicide, maybe a drink. Turn on that film, turn up that music. I need to die alone, I need to die with everything at my feet.”
“One last word?”
“One last word? Aren’t they all. What else have I to say? Nothing functions because everything is function. You know it, too. Okay, so one last string of words and then sleep, really. I have only protest in my heart, and that is the romantic energy of the fool. So be it. I have too much love to live. There are echoes of everything in my head, con arrivistes in the Library of Mercury. I want to know why she, or you, is a slave. Your sweet lips sang a vast gas chamber from land to land and sea. I don’t want to be a rainbow, no, not today. Nuclear rain, lacerate my eyebrows!”
And with that it was over. There is no perfect storm in any ending. Maybe, perhaps, a flourish here, a curlicue there…But the rest is, as they say, details for the poltroon who can only know this world through an itemized list. So long, so long…

Chopper4: Preliminary Remarks on Dandy Politics

Everyone with their search for Aztec gold was breaking JonZebra’s heart, but they didn’t know it. They were pottery wheels stuck in neutral, going nowhere, making nothing. If JonZebra were to stick his thumbs into the soft, warm clay and gouge out his own rhythms in his tribute to Strasbourg or as a means of divining the departure of Wilhelm III on a Napoleonic donkey, so what? So fucking what? Some people were only fit for breeding, while others were searching up the enormous phantom cunt of e-celebrities for secrets, lost treasures and mirrors to drown their rural anachronisms in. have a coffee, get a perm…This is the grand old pirate liberal story of consumption…and the production.
“Collect little pendants for the poor, or for small Japanese boxes, all to ease your liberal guilt, your hollow anus that demands that you collect the world in order to fabricate your own museum in domus,” said JonZebra to a gaggle of students. “If ya don’t get that it’s bad post-pop moody groove dog who shat on the carpet, then you never will. Consumption is collection fetishism that never enjoys what it consumes. Get me? Do you want me to hum you a melody to ferry across the point, or will you stop flirting with the big business machine for political favours? The bank machine doesn’t need you to get it all worked up, to rub its dick to make it hard, cuz it’s already always perma-hard…The machine makes men superfluous and outdated. The machine displays our own impotence, our own failure to keep up…The human man race was already won by the same fucking machine that was appointed to hold the stopwatch in the first place, if the irony isn’t lost somewhere in this amphitheatre. But get this, the machine is like a bad john that doesn’t pay its whores (that means it don’t pay you). But you love it. Come again soon! Like trolls and idiots and other debris under the bridge massaged into being by the slimy trail of the river, you will come back. You have things to collect, machines to rub up against.”
“What do you think of Baudrillard’s discussion of collection fetishism?” dared ask one of the students. He must have been a sleeper, for any question was bound to excite and incite a flurry of sledgehammer death from the pulpit-pulpotomy of desires. Pulpotomov would have made a nice name for a Russian writer, but only in 1904.
“I think Baudrillard is a fatigued Nietzschean faggot. Simulacrap and stimulations of the solar anus frozen in place by the fatality of the world, all old Hegelianism. I’ll nickname old Jean Baudrillard the old man. His only other task now is to spend the rest of his life at draughts. He is a man with systems, and a man with a system is a man who has too many daddies forged in the dark laboratory of the Internet. Frankenstein is a dead legend. Why bother? I am talking about the anus, and you want to just fly off and build a whole new one? You are the negative embodiment of my point, don’t you see? Is this anus too troublesome for you? Are you too busy exploring it and collecting little rubies and portraits in its cavernous hollows to dare to stick an analytic knife into one of its hemorrhoid veins to watch it bleed? Is that why you want to build a practice anus? What you don’t seem to realize, O kindly sir, is that you are already a practice anus…or did you think that the system penetrating you from behind had just forgotten its keys and would leave as soon as it found them? As an anus, you get knifed down, like in the cowboy westerns or in modern day Liberia. That’s just the way it is, and you are trying to tell me with your piccolo voice that it was all just a mistake? Haha! You’re an idiot!”
“You must be a libra,” said another penguin, front row.
“No, I am a scorpio, all clack-clack-clack chitin paws and a poison cock tail. So if you are so zodiacally inclined, I would suggest that you become a dentist and read my fortune in my teeth whilst telling me to floss the fates on a regular basis.”

And that was it, the end, no jazz. Cudda been more, just cudda. And just maybe a reprise, but only at the very limit, where text and speech occupy a kind of border-zone. But let’s not be determinists, all right?
“Are you calling me verbose--or worse yet, prolific? You sodden little moonshine jugs-or-naught of petite terrors! I Just got through your own schizopapier where I learned ‘bears use missiles’ and ‘primates are weapons.’ Wow. I suppose it could be true...Which would indeed show infinite pluck.” JonZebra was all the rage in rags. “There, the hiatus is at an end, which is to say that the clock toilet has been flushed. And of course, reading is a writing is a writing is a reading. Class dismissed, unmissed, pure ass-wipery crowd fucko fanatics. Learn this well: To me, another four years of Doing What I am Told is a rape of being, no matter how held fast you are to posy-plucking Milan Kundera can be…Education is failure, and none of you show enough sense to drink with your groins. Go forth in UberBusiness and LabRatism and multiply.”


Well, wasn’t that fun! Like a dip in the lake and running around like a bad tripping punk with leeches all over his body! Huzzah! Let’s return to our JonZebra yet again.
“Ah, a screening of O Bother Why Aren't Thou? with the Clooneyville and the jug bands and the message that even escaped cons can be Homer for a day,” JonZebra told me. “My ex—Sasha that miserable cunt--kept on trying to get me to sit through the whole thing. Instead, I shoved all the great French cinema down her throat to which she replied in kind by going back to her ‘post-adolescent trying to find herself, more hard core than thou dark techno’ and Marcos-inspired shoe-buying frenzy. People like that rarely have the eyes to see that Ayler's horn was the 20th century. Fuck them, all those miserable little cunts with names for their dresses.”
I could tell that Sasha’s departure was an event. He was too feminine and beautiful little Rimbaud that women did not take to him easily unless they were chronic suicides, leather strapped by their pappa, or serial alcoholics—in other words, women just like him.
“I do promise to send you the codex, be it grand bourbon’s coaster or another vomit bib,” I said.
“Indeed, the kanadamail takes no corpuses or corpses, and for that we lean southward. But this codex, it reaches me, and I am flattered to read it, even if it is not my place to say or do the things that readers may do or see until curtains are raised and the pieces appear all celluloid smut. But these innovative moves you make as you read this codex will no doubt bring me more joy as the next gamut of the many hordes will rip me asunder no doubt for all the reasons outlined in subtext in the scandal pieces I send you. I assent to the codex, whatever form it may take you from here or there. I worry that you will write a book on a book, but a worry like that is unfounded. Ah, such things! I too assumed you were in Almerika, somewhere Calipornia way! But that you/they are old...? I, half yr age times two or more than less. I will endeavour to search high to lowest for these texts to keep in folds and brandish at will. Yes. Hand me the bottle hither thither, anon.”
He took a rather obscenely long and picturesque pull from the nearby bourbon and continued his flapspeak: “I appear angry, I know, I know...There's too much Plato governing the body, but like our friend Freddy will to NthPower, my anger is an indissolute form of Joy courtesy of Spinwheeloza! As for what I absorb and let perambulate in mind from postings of the many from the Patriotismus, I have never witnessed anger in all those, but as well great intercalations of joy and purest jazz! I read it/you like a read a smiling Rimbaud rainbow sunbeam! Damn it! I vanted herr nietzsche! to pace up and down dressed like a dangerous solvent sniffing hobo pounding out rhythms about affirmation and anti-self-help! But I will dig through the remainder. So be it. I am in love with the President and the Security Council of Nigh Sages. I have read it in the stars, and I know against all your left-lean-to wishes that I regard Republicanism as sheer genius. I am, after all, a trust fund kid with a big bag of scruples and multiple suicides.”
He would die only a few short years later, an insignificant and glorious man and an event. To eulogize him here by pointless graveside would merely lighten our burden and not let his works saturate what was our blameful century. He would have made any of us a great biographer, one we surely did and do not deserve.

I am both a revolution and a suicide. I reflect back at the age its architectural shortcomings, its frame fracture, and find ways to exploit spaces. That was my lesson in being Janus all those years ago as false glitter god club mogul. Perhaps you have read this and more. It—my grand movement of anti-post-semiotics--has now moved slightly northward in false nomadicholera where there is more to offer in this publicare regard than the whimsy of yankeedoodledee. America held for me no dreams, but Canada was a murmuring confused tea kettle of politeness and quiet…Just enough to let me live through my days. But even that has changed, and I am the most huntingest man of the hunted men alive!
Manifestos in the 70s were and are events! ...Perhaps creatures you might have known in hoarier days. And the punkatariat speaks to my heart at times as well, to listen to The Fall and think of days. And so whomever is Piggy Pop of Moontrail-Montreal as beer cans fly, as art is waged! And with all that, perhaps there is still revolution to be had in places big and small (like this place, this Ottawake...Alors, c'est trop tranquille ici maintenant! And if you ever find yourself in one of many childhoods on this side of derrideau riviere and such, visit us with lights and moonbeams! This city, so dark...It turns on itself, on an invisible axis of bureaucorporocrasis! Soon, soon! I/we are hungry too for the newness to read, even in 1984 colour (and so, hence, wrist-to-forehead, des beaux artes). Although, when you turn the city upside-down, it appears as "Vs" which is in accidental accord with what I read to be "taking the dialectic for a spin off a bridge". I am a sucker for the good image, and once I connect these two alchemy pentium blatherschisms together, I will delight the mores with my dreamy little plans for novel covers. The city’s webpaginastus notes me in the endnotes somewhere, and it/they are somewhat familiar with what I am incapable of.
You may contact me with skies a blazing, with your own waged art war. But of course! You are the enthymemetic that does not play well with the other phantomb rhetorFlourishes! Newsbytes come and fade, or stick to stay. It is all low intensity warfare until someone says GO…ah streets named all after saints and separatists, as if to separate is saintly and the saints are duly separated. The snow has begun to melt a bit. I am 2 hours away from a more neon oblivion, but I can still feel the trickle. What is happening in my favourite city tonight, I wonder?
Re-release of my Popular Metaphysiks by some enterprising young slut press stuffed fat by a university stipend enraged the critics just as much as before. New ones emerged, but mostly it was the old guard reprinting their Primary Reflections on the Matter in an effort to suppress the work—yet again! They will succeed the moment anyone takes critics seriously, as they invariably do. And yet again, I will go penniless to my grave and be hounded for sport.
Yes, what to do with interpreteers! I understand all too well the sorry brambly bog that always accompanies the "to be read" fracas. I duly set myself up for this with a name, but I can always dodge it and let others defile tombs all they care. Let us pretend we are our name's butlers, but perform sedition. so many names, so many keys to sorry kingdoms! So many names dropped for advantage and ice-break conventions! What a sick and sorry platitude is the name!

Would you like to send me complaint or criticism of compliance? Aye! It would be proper to send it to us/it, the author-editor function that sayeth Jill Deloose no more, make metal. That is, the snows are in escrow, so if it is of manageable size unlike prudish postmoiderne sexualalalalality, then it, photo-bio in toto's tonto de jure may be sent hereabouts. I will not read it, see it, or be it, but will rather use it to throw others off my trail. They will exile me to Borneo for sure and certain!
Borneo...ah memories! Ah wroth! I have been to such places. I would presume if any such visitors of the touristy necklace would arrive, ‘twould be in springtime when lilacs roll with little girls down small hills to fill jack's abyss. This is the age of auto-response, to be sure. Sad, really, that thin-skinned securitas ruby-ric prevents and suppresses the lot and screams daily for my head. Wah! Ach! They want to edit and then exile me. Editing without consent is an instance of co-opting autochthonous rape of ye olde kerygmatic order. I will be sure to send the venom secreting sponges and the twelve-ton nazi octopus to deal with the offenders. Fucking morlocks and Dr Moreau pig people! If E. Pound wrote the wasteland it would be rather that gods, codpieces, and Albertan radio stations run by cocaine frenzied truck drivers were full of straw. This volkspiele is also suggesting that you are Bardamu, and in addition it is precisely being a disciplinarian insofar as the claim of being such is refuted with such suspicious emphasis. I see this type of push ‘n pull shit all the time. This is horribly Hegelian. Damnable smiley simile! I had thought myself purged off such fetters, and such! meataphor is deaders too! Devices in general are passé. But perhaps for one more...as long as I am not prudish about language by basing too much upon it, like what postmoderne did for sexualalalality. like Michel Foucoo-coo-coo said of Hegel and dismissal, "he waits for us at the end". Aye, the paradox of dismissal of devices.
I was to run errands like a 3-legged hamster who finds himself stuttering out his humble commands to the many too many bureau-corporocratic reserve. Yargh. I would need to fortify myself for all such encounters, especially if I was to meet up with Mr. Nietzsche and his expectant hands for the codex. Damnable eccentric book-hoarder zealots! They do not realize that as soon as we entered collection fetishism, the world as we knew it was doomed. I was running around as if this was gainful employment instead of yet another soulsucking waste of time.
Let me wax on employment and linger here a bit. Every shit job I have ever worked, and every sapsuck boss who has ever asked me a "howzitgoin?" never suspecting an actual reply beyond the confines of prescripted workaday dialogue, has always winced at my "existential dread due to poor diegetical rendering" comments. But it succeeds in being left alone, to be paid nonetheless, and to perhaps send them reeling for those ingratiating "corporate ethos" interactive training DVDs to improve upon their allegiance to the failed cancer of their profession. I felt the same way about so-called higher employment positions where I sat upon an ivory throne and yet still under someone’s big fat boot. And, no, you need not relate to me the classic paradigm so rendered sitcom style: "middle aged (single) woman with abnormal 'friend' relationship with teenage daughter, daughter whom attains higher education quotient and prompts mother to do same in love-sicky fatback poo-poo unroyal splash" type of student...saw them all the time. Memories of my pre-professional days…Ah, memories of having to "perform" presentations in the proseminar before the goatfish wonder of my analytic prof. Need I go into the details? After flunking it, he did call me an anarchist. When I asked him to be more specific, he retracted his comment but then gave me a classic disciplinary party line patriarchal epistle with my grade appealing to all the gods in the sky and the traditions up dead old white men's asses: "In philosophy's 2000 years, we have always sought truth and clarity. What you have done is make a hash out of Perry's theory of indexicals..." blah-blabbity-blah!. Alas, philosophy for a gent like that began with Bertrand Russell. God, I hate Bertrand Russell...he reminds me of Whitman…
In this age of pathetic terror, NeoMcarthyismus is everywhere now, yet so many are willing to put their balls before the axe on account of it. But I throw dice on tables with higher stakes than that of the collective patriotic trust. Ah, Oedipus, trusted mascot of conservatives, Hegelians, Revenue Canada officials, all under their own thumb-in-ass brigade of conspicuous consumption. Terrorism is a bad bullfight where everyone watches and no one gets the point. It’s all cut-up style for da kids, you unnerstan’ y’aw. Yes, my ebonicide needs work, too.
Terrorism is like Burroughs with an ounce of sense: reinscription with scissors and a pungent glue stick. These fragments do go eerily well together. Sounds like an opportunity to wax in cavalier fashion about Hegel and that awful Miltonian-Edenic repetition known as the phenomenology of asinine negative zoology for addled draughts-shooters. Tis a good poem there; just read it aloud like Kerouac hit in the head (like he oughta've been).

But let us return to employment and my future prospects. One edifying reason/excuse for my prompt and premature dismissal was the heavy charge that I was too hard on my students, flunking all but the very few…Apparently an unpardonable sin against cold statistical norms and proper tuition-absorption ratios and good breeding skills. My last class delivered resulted in a mind-bashing symphony of fifty papers to mark over holiday cheer while the students languishe in big swimming pools of rotten eggnog and receiving grand nativity gifts of MP3 players from parents who don’t know any better. The papers. Fucking ass-rape nazi Christ, those papers!! Here are some shocking results that perhaps reflect a more broad double-cohort induced situation that bespeaks of memory evisceration and BudweiserGoebbelstein constant reiterations of non-thesis argument until the press conference is over: 84% have no clue how to write a thesis statement. They argue nothing. They speak about their feelings. They want to broaden their topic. They employ mind boggling generalizations. So there you have it: education on the way to the toilet. Suckfish funding machines of the polite business rhetoric of federal malaise decided to give me pink slip return to the following term, succeeded in turn by their last petty potshot and final public humiliation as I was lectured on proper protocol by the dean, a grand dragon of the new cluck clan. Here was how it ran in the tabloids:
“Dr. Calembour, I am aghast and very disturbed at the outcome of this semester’s marks for your course. They are shockingly subpar, which says to me that your transmission of pertinent information and instructional direction was inadequate. Yes, I prefer to lay fault at your feet rather than the students who have been victims of what can only be a tirade or inadequacy on your part. This is the only possible reason why these marks are so low. The chair has moved to have you dismissed and has prepared this letter…”
“I see that in your great mufti-style wisdom from above that you never once considered that subpar marks were a direct and necessary result of subpar students. But when our Oh so fabulous institution only looks to its wallet, it looks the other way on the quality of applicants issue.”
“You do yourself no favour by badmouthing this institution.”
“Why are we going through this pointless circus charade? You’ve tamed this lion with the big whip of my dismissal…Do you want me to do a few prostrations? Dances of shame? Kao-taos? This is asinine. This is my only power: flunking the thieves and culling the herd. Do what you will, but I still have my ass firmly planted on the education line, believing that intelligence not monies runs the university.”
“Are you implying what I think you are implying? I am merely giving you good advice if you decide to continue instruction at another university. You need to reevaluate your priorities, Dr. Calembour, and do some very earnest reflection.”
“Reflection? Reflection? Papers! Me mark papers! Tearing out eyeballs! Venesection! Death! No time for personal advancement! No teaching assistant given! Whole gamut of sorry slaves who can’t spell, who cannot string together one intelligible sentence, and you want me to give them aces and push them along? You are a very stupid, stupid little man if that is your desire! Ah, come down to the front lines and see the wounded I must treat! Hopeless relics and anti-desiring machines! No pep! No vigour! They need figurative amputations from gangrene and you want me to just apply a few bandages so that they’ll make a pretty photo shoot in new designer trousers! Then send their sorry asses back out into the hailing fray of bullets sublime! I flunk the idiots for their own good!”
“Good day, Dr. Calembour. Consider yourself released.”
I suppose I lost it a little bit, what with the new jazz building up in my head and me not liking its sour tuning.
“And, yes, Darius lacks one item in jazz and that is a third z of zzzzz to make a Peter Brotzmann wild man’s band! A northcoaster arcata! nonono, not in sunnydale today! Has given over new tune times two, but is not three rocks and a pine like peterTrois und Mats-Eine. Oh! but mind falzzz (staff). I may never understand, I may never reveal, other than I / we others not dead, gold enough, never to reveal one and then reveal all! I pay close heed to phonophono, impagination-invagination-imagination! Just a fold, leaf, crease. And no, Irak need not be spelled properly by the magnates of silly power! Evangelical ham! the monotony of the worst of zedless jazz (in these awful papers to be graded! poltroonage of the ragabash slickadee sort!) is under new mismanagement. Ah duty, duty, duty and other doldrummers that pound out the most Obliged rhythms!”
“Dr. Calembour, you’re not well. You are beginning to frighten me.”
“O ho ho, not real rhythms like Delguatoozerie or me in the corner all Zydeco love! No! Rhythm of the first year without thesis, and homophony death, and maybe virgin evil! Annotated no notations! How grand it is that one million notations could be musical, but in these papers they prove naught a whit more than a body saturated to death with so many organs! I find Darius, I listen, with Genet (O Father! O meat and froth!) and move, move, en peu to brotzmannnnn. (And there they were, the ivory helots, expecting something grand from above!) Never type Lolita in a starch engine--all one reveals is pornoceptics which is to say a noise that makes its move from actualite to virtualite rather than reverse (like the other results, others of obese body-hatred...so much naked flesh so sullied with magnified organs)!”—security was dragging me away, I, once again, victim of the securitas—“That is, if clues are dealt and what is being trafficked is of course the traffic itself undone hippodamian way! For the councils of new Utrecht, aye, the site of universititty milk is a blatherschism...A milieu to enact obtuberie and such! The clues may all be there, but they are written in cascading flesh while I surmise the bones! I laugh at my name too, for all the violence it may think itself. ‘Twould be blasty if thine would joineth or seeth that/this…”
I won’t bore you with the legalities of the details and so forth. Let us just say that orders of restraint were impotently issued for which restraint was not an issue.

Was I a Doomed Man? Were my entretiens within the collegium sealed off forever? In answer to all this, yes. Meanwhile, I assent to this use and abuse of the codex…But that these things collide in scope all fractal attractor colours, well, huzzah! Let it be thus! And so many victims of desire do not realize that they pull at their own robes and claw at their own eyes as desire flies above them in a black sun! As Zarathustra keeps telling us: even the night has a sun! I can still write on avuncular machines of the post-bullshittery brigade of asinine neo-wizardry and they'll still smile because I am Herr Doktor. So be it.
One thing that worries me is the fear that you may fancy yourself embarking on an impious course, setting your feet on the path of sin. Far from it. More often it is this very superstition that is the mother of sinful and impious deeds.—Lucretius, of course, who fears all the evil hours of Roman time! we still haven’t pitched that clock out yet!
Ah, Lucretius...Nothing like inveterate atomism to define the constitutive powers of higher education. Ol' Greek Lucy has some nice doom ‘n gloom sentiments that are good to employ with telemarketers. But in terms of theory, I’m less an apprentice and more a gangsta pallbearer. comments about a-ca-dem-i-a are very true. It is a sport of kings, but I am just the harlequin, harlequinizing my way through (but skakyspeared knew the gentle muse of the jester, and the words that warbled wisely). Others have seen fit to say that I have no strong editing skills. You are right about women and editing, and I fear no ill, which is to say that they can enact beautiful castrations of text, all tumescented phallagocentric phun. Since the readers drown in my detail…I let them! I like to watch their limbs flail about like cilia to the beat of my own wickedly erratic drum of love-hate. What makes the stew of the word a sound, and to re-view a work is to see it twice with binocularity which is twice two equals four (says dottyevsky). I understand all too well the one written work that explodes itself, the one text to be written in the sky-kite that rewrites itself as registered in the episteme (or forgot its registry). No sense in fusing one bomb to explode between eye and word, reader and text, if only one is to reconstitute its universality by mapping out the blow up flack to existent things rather than make the fragments resonate. This is a word to me, and perhaps is one or many to you as well. Definitely force, and no need to ask which one which one. We know.
Textually, I do appreciate the lifting of the mask, for but a moment, as of difference, a tune, a heteroglossia sometimes wants to anchor itself, even if the tsunami stew is brilliant, and made so much more so by juxtaposing the moment (static and still) in the painting of a wave. perhaps, where Franky Bacon did not, your word succeeds in painting that wave. But I have as much hope for postphenom interpretations as I do that Merleau-Pontiff himself will pop up from the grave and tell me everything will be okay if I just bracket it right. indeed. I am a bitching idiot, which is to say that like Celine, I never know when it is right to keep my mouth shut (the later Celine learned that delicate art). Perhaps I am on my way to my own doom, screwing myself out of making allies in the present among the fools at the expense of future fecundity. I just don't take enough accountability or responsibility for the crackerjack pop up fun of my accidental texts (aren't they all accidents?). I just wait until they herd me in a cattle car or just ignore me completely. Perhaps I am testing the limits on everything, and hoping that my own dissolution comes quick. But instead the nefarious jackbooting savage rhythm bids me elsewhere. Publishers are pimps among the pimpled palimpsest of pimploidery. Dealing with them is always to lose one or many limbs in pointless games of attrition. I agree... But having lurked enough and seeing my prose these many months, it truly spoke to me somewhere shadowy where no cabals dare to crawl. You may be much better, if comparison is excused, than our friend Artaud (who is now in his own little Grand Guignol). And indeed, much better than I at wordsmithery, for your tools are made of lights and cobwebs, things purloined and such. of course, as we know no one would ever read you/it/that except those like myself with a particular kind of radar...certainly not the Oprah house circuit of bored suburban housewives (unless you made house calls). Instead, we live in a clutter of styleless day...and all that was good had grand style, and all that had grand style was never seen, forgotten, unperceived by simian Hegelu-consshussness.
But there are plans in the works, insurgent fires here, there. We add to them. I think theory happens or is at least potentially happening at a place that doesn't jackboot all over your Derrida or Bataille in order to make a valiantly failed grab for some Cartesian indexical cog-sci prize. Such was my educational reform revolution, the French Theory Renaissance that won me all the accolades in glam rock style among the marginalese. But I was a horror at organizing, and so the revolution would be my pathos rather than something stable and concrete according to the big Wall Street of Trumped up Business. Of course. But then again, what prevented me from opening up my own institute devoted to theoretical overtures / apertures?

Ah, the great bastion of theory! How the nouveau philosophes like Henri-Levy and such made mad mockery of certain ‘68er gains. It would seem that many new theoreticians were either sad emulations of that or tragic little fuckernauts of badly rewritten Derridian ramble-shambles. The coming soon list in its increasing girth was ridiculous, and would, under my hands, have an actual gate-keeping mechanism and a handy hacking axe to cull droopy pell-mell new ageism I see beginning to creep its way into the lists that just ends up in one long daisy chain of failure. Their prose does not shake the earth. It whimpers somewhere damply upon it. And so I enlisted the assistance of a few lit-rogues on my end to square out the entire love-circle of fiendish tropes. I never have much hope for those who aspired to be Walt Whitman-Disney on their sucker punch love parade. It is one long farandole of failure where I am declared a generalized anarchistic pariah. Anfractuous logic aboundeth over here where the colour scheme is reminiscent of the Third Reich. I could never be published in my own country, and if I resided below the southern navel midriff, I would be quickly arrested. Old Henry Miller ex pat bullshit has been done before in all its jejune glory. I only like the difference that repeats.
What is my literature from my people? The whole world is mine, and I am one of a kind, a type, and a degree. I transform into a drunken snarling beast, which is to say that I am set upon to join the insane fracas of consumption and generalized economic exchange as a means of escaping the cybercoccic glut of the segmented urban that eats itself. I hate what has happened to the literary scene in Kanada (literary scene?) dominated as it is by fatback hacks and literati pontiffs who cycle through the same monotonous parlour circuit gala repeating such trusty genres as 'woman finds herself' and 'Canadian immigrant experience in microfetish detail' usw. The national art meatshop of worn out entropic size-me-nots never seems to change very much, and so I tried to take in whatever small nomadic glops and dollops that emerged occasionally throughout the city.
Some MENSA hugging-fiend once emailed me on the basis of some context-twisted quote I made a long while back where I compared the Toronto scene to a crippling syphilis, which he didn't like. What he failed to realize is that I did not view the city of my nativity with any stronger degree of fondness. Cities are, in the final assessment, merely arbitrary aggregates of hippodamian desires set to really bad music. But I suppose we all get the cities we deserve. Have an opinion on my opinion? Send it whenever, and I will save it on the PC, in the hopes that I may negotiate its presence during the xmas terror machine era, betwixt two zones of prep as laden down as it is with cross-contaminating hybrids, cross-breeds, and fatima wizards. O ho ho, my attempt at appearing achingly normal aside upon those pages (public dyscourse domain, blogospheric condition, and virtu-tachygenetic enterprose), I (or he) am/is a swiller of Celine, recently procuring rare 1st suppressed Gallimard edition of Nord (I am more for Nord and later werke than his earlier "Journey..."), not to mention Dr. Artaud (of which I did find myself and avail such a nice page of stunning estate pics--yours perhaps?). Kind, kinder words you lay of my opening night of de texte...So kind, so kind. You may tell your author function that I await with baited steel trap breath to hear from the General Patton Editors who have been stunned silent for a while. I suspect that their anathematata at the moment is piecing together the jigsaw before setting to task on the nature of acquisition/disquisitio.
I will be writing soon, and not to fear the Other's attempt at folding back the empty tumescence of Zizeksignifieres that invaginate themselves. Perhaps the kwestion on the lips of the few in shadowy dimly lit barrios is this: by what name will the author function be upon the face of a book (if books so exist...ah, Derrida the textual idealist! O ho ho!)? I must return now to a novel in progress (a weapon of mass distraction?) and the olde westernocturnalis democratactic horror viz. Hegelego-Deleuzzzzz.

A note to a fine publisher of fine young things, in conversation about Copec’s little opus and my introduction piece acting as forefrontery: “Your petit prince has promised me the moon in printing my rather hefty opus, so let us hope I do not merely end up with a handful of chintzy moon rocks signed by Buzz Aldrin et al. But I must fly for the now--the contingent hordes gather and perhaps blame me for the WTCunt disaster (rightly?), and the elastic movement of Prez Budweiser boy king of the boys. That is to say, I am receiving Flack for not being Suppressed or Prevented in the production of that grand polemical opus.”
In reply, as if replies were all the rage in our ephemeral gumshoe enigmatica of emails and non-letters? “Dear Doctor Calembour [I should be so flattered! Title and all and dearest me!]…We regret [you regret nothing, you space cow of the infinite wheedling suck-fish of publication discontent!] that we will not be able to place your manuscript at this time [as opposed to yesterday and tomorrow and other hours wedged in the creases and spaces between a clock? I’ll be sure to set my sundial to lunar time]…good luck with placing it elsewhere.”
Wow. Talk about glitzy schmaltz, unctuous simian prose, and larded-over failure! It's people like that who should be rounded up with all their Michael Crichton and put in the top secret Nixon-Checkers bunker under the NY subway. These people have neglected mother and bad body image issues, not to mention an inveterate fear of dustbunnies. Let them rot, I say.
At least correspondence from Peter Ibsen won the day. I was glad to hear that the swill-factory had not claimed every one of his fluids just as yet. No big rush, what with circumstances buzzing around heads like helicopters and such. The most elegiac rhapsody for prez Budweiser and his band of Palestinian make merry men. It was Peter’s birthday, and birthdays are a terror no matter how many prostitutes you slice finely with wire. I was just happy he pulled through. Right around the anniversary of Deleuze's death, too. Nothing is ever right in that week. I mean, what birthday is remembered fondly unless one is a fat rich liberal, right? Visions of solar plexus moonfairy sugarplums of generalized exchange flitting about me head all phantom style. Ah great gryphons in the air, little ancient Egyptianisms on virtual parade! To say more, the brain automatically likes to stick the boots to lateral-borne creativity unless one trains/treats the mind through a Nietzschean manner to detect the ironic subtleties...to be on the lookout for the uncanny and untimely in the world. In other words, take your data and link it together in some twisted system of relations. Let the images and words coalesce into schizo-diagrammatics. Peter, as you may well know from having read my last posthumous work by the name Urdoxa that I am not supposed to mention due to Metadiegetical rules, was my writer friend with whom we made perilous peregrination to Vancouver. He was writing a fictional biography of me (like this one?) entitled Ceramica which, yet again, I am not allowed to mention because it appears in the book written about me in posthumous style, and so violates temporal order and good graces insofar as it asserts that I am still alive at the same time as dead and posthumous, reflecting on this and so forth, according to an author named Kane X. Faucher. Peter enjoyed to narrate his adventures as they happened. George Orwell was also known to completely narrate his life as he was living it..."and then he gripped the ketchup bottle by its feminine hips and squirted a liberal portion upon his fries in this late afternoon, so drifting, drifting..."

Perhaps I have given too much jarring information, and a logic is forthcoming. Borges was always quick to supply it, so why not I, or Kane X. Faucher? We are dealing here with confusing, cryptic texts. No doubt even my words are supplied by Faucher’s own email exchanges, modified in such manner as to ensure his sloth and my plot. I think he tries too hard to be Burroughs. I also think that we are dealing with Copec’s book that was written by Copec in another state he does not recall, and so I will have it published without his consent, etc. I also think that I or he or Copec wrote the Voynich, which would make any of us alive in the hurly burly 1300s, which makes no sense if sense is determined by gloriously dead cause and effect and temporal succession. I also think that Faucher is afraid to abandon me, as character, or that I am too hesitant in abandoning him as my character. I’d kill him if I had to. He lightens his own burden by making me say things about him, and in his attempt to compress me into his own words, and by forcing me yet again to speak ill of him as a false measure of self deprecation. And for me to call him the greatest writer of the century would only belie a transparent irony. Do you see the problem? Everything I say is mediated by some degree of lies. A least I get to be a doctor and he a lowly student piece of shit, but even my doctorate is sullied by his projection of an asinine desire to be as such.
I have submitted my own written operas to Mr. Faucher. Well, of course...He is, almost in the strictest sense, an author mill. Caveat emptor, friends. I, too, received a jovial response for request of my ms...a bit too quickly. Just to determine his "gatekeeping" standards… I sent him a query via false email. The story? Invisible sausage people are in a warring frenzy against the reincarnation of Goaty McGoat-Goat from the planet Xerxes--a minor bureaucrat and lover of discarded surgical material. A romance ensues between the sausage people's sun and Goaty's book on Leninist Discharges of a Klan Kookbook. Mr. Dashing AmericaX saves the day unexpectedly by applying a lithium based heat ray to shrink the sausage people so that they would fit in pockets. Sure. And then, guess what? "I have reviewed your query and found it suitable. Please send me your full manuscript, brief bio, blah blah blah". If you don’t want a publishing credit that looks respectable, and want to be locked into a fear spiral of a contract that stipulates 7 year-long rights, then please, step right up. The slaughter bench of quasi-POD always has room for one more little piggy. The fucker can’t even master the delicacy of editing! He accepts everyone! What a useless tart! And so, instead, I decided to utilize the backdoor approach and get an agent instead.
As for agents, I am useless. The last agent I saw went running in the opposite direction toward a plane bound for the Bahamas with a suitcase full of money. Labeling my work "counterculture" may be a bit too strong. I do not know if any conglomerate can be evil or is just stupid, but who knows? To me, the victorious triumph of the everyday common person is perhaps the worst travesty of this or any other era. I can only keenly eye the strange rhythms of history for any degree of solace. This is, my friend, the last stage of the Roman Empire. No age like this has prompted me to get so much use out of Gibbon's texts. Yet again, book sales ad populam. But I, too, need to step away from the electronic Trojan horse for a while...Although it may be prudent to move with the times (although, historically, moving with the times was not always the most prudent thing to do), there will always be some of us archaic holdouts who rely on some hazy metaphysics of presence to feel that our purchases are justifiable. I want to get paid. I do not want to compromise. You can imagine how thin my wallet is. Alas, one day, after a massive mail out session where I shower every conceivable publishing house from meta-combine down to "two guys with a xerox in their basement" operation with over 20 000 pages of whatever strange and untimely drivel that churns out of my elbow-bashing, unwashed polemical bean, I am sure THEN there could be a minor chance that something will hit the mark. And THEN I will do my Celine and demand royalties while working pro bono in Clichy. Perhaps when I am dead they will raid my closets and desks for every small scrawl and produce a "collected works of" set that would make me die a thousand deaths in shame and misery were I alive—Oh, wait…that has already been done! I do expect to get paid for all that I do and create, but I have not yet departed to the land of hippogriffs where this is the case. Should I stop ranting across the horizon in fulgurating blue streaks?
To me, a sense of beauty is in the rant, the sort of Nietzschean style vitriol that screams hot blue obscenities into the air and have them fall around like so many poison poppies. Alas, so many people get offended about so many things, and usually the wrong ones at that. Clarity in style is one thing I hope one day to be rid of, I suppose. I spend my "civil" time being definitive and rigorous in argumentation... You are welcome to read the original text but they sort of demand a bit of spleen. Aye, but we COULD write a screenplay where a guy like you haggles with a guy like me on the making of a screenplay on a screenplay, and earmark the leading roles for an animated cartoon cactus with Tourette's and an adorable one-winged pigeon that believes he is the reincarnation of Louis XIV. That might sell in small circles in Slovenia. Although here I am, my ashtrays running over onto tattered carpet while my arm juts and eddies through a forest of empty scotch bottles in search of that elusive single malt I could have sworn I bought, I still may have that glaze-eyed Wisdom others keep speaking of. Is everybody crazy? Yes, except me. Everyone else is crazy and trying to steal my magic bag.
We have been invaded by poets...And they said it couldn't happen here! When one's work is a piñata, it is best to stuff it with high explosives. I resubmitted in submission surrender to Faucher. Scams are generally so carefully worded to allow for double interpretation--mostly not in your favour. I discovered he was a huckster when I sent him a bogus manuscript idea (that he offered to publish, no less) entitled "Salami Robots on Parade: Or, Why I Allow Fish to Spawn in my Outer-Space, Laser-Guided Underwear". Of course, with the "habaya, habaya, look me, look me, me madman" one must be very careful not to appear too ridiculous or too much like a liability. There is an art to going the Nietzsche route, and so if your mad screed-query is also well-written, chances are that the publisher (if they get a kick out of reading bizarre missives) will see your query as a reprieve from all the dry "my name is...my work is about...my work is like...I have been published in..." letters they receive by the dumpster-load every day. But folks like me are usually tossed into the entropic wastebin due to a lack of "commercial viability." agents are not so keen on colourful people who drink and rant like Tom Waits on an amphetamine binge...They do not look kindly on those who eat beans out of a can and chase solicitors off their property with a sharp stick. Yes, I ought to work on my "people skills," but I think my weakness in that area is perhaps why I usually sit hunched and seething before the machine and write. Well, I have written some dandy query letters before that usually got rejected with the qualifier "the most interesting pitch we've ever heard--really stuck out," followed by perhaps it being pinned up next to the coffee machine for the other agents as a conversation device insofar as they may try to deduce my major mental ailment. If I make these people take a moment to speculate on my mental well-being, then I guess I achieved something in a day. Luckily, I am prohibited by my severe twist of fortunes, fates, and felicity--not to mention a predisposition toward complete and utter dissolution into a personal abyss of discordant flux--to be absolutely incapable of the sell-out option. I have a German Shepherd mix who barks at irksome and life-denying creditors who lurk around my door with questions for which I have no satisfactory answers. The other beast would be the writing, a kind of hybrid between Argus, a Cyclops, a Hydra and a schizo-genic gnome with a sword coming out of its mouth. It makes the entire situation almost biblical in some new world, post-colonial kind of way.
Years of hard-earned bitterness, wariness, and cynicism always suspect that the next logical step will be my public excoriation before the saccharin dispensing media machine. Some day, the meso-class cabal of community BBQs will tell their children not to pelt me with stones as I go shambling toward the store for my weekly ration of cigarettes and cheap whiskey...One day... There will be no monetary benefits, for this would presuppose vast financial holdings that remain in an inaccessible virtual realm somewhere in a distant future when gryphons walk the earth. Either based on his former Disney affiliation or because his name inspires some nascently stark fear of Bismarckian pan-Germanism, Fauchers of any kind are to be avoided. And, if my repugnant screeds ever reach the print plates, they will be lauded up and down as harbingers and prognosticators of a new century. Should I seek an honest publisher? I think they went the way of the hippogriff. Sorry for the cynicism. I'm sure they are out there, much akin to finding your one true soulmate or winning big at the lottery or winning the rat race against the rats.
It occurred to me in a mad flash of whiskey and driving away solicitors with venomous precision that it would be interesting that EVERYBODY knows I'm a minimalist, making Bauhausian architecture appear obscenely ornate, that I have a particular fondness for foyers...and antres...and vestibules...and coat check rooms. I have my own disturbed writing habits: I sit at the laptop with loud, ear-bleeding free jazz with CNN on mute, another television playing Jean-luc Godard flicks on a loop, with open books, overflowing ashtrays, and an IV unit full of coffee and cocaine. Periodically I shake my fist at some screen or another or chase girl scouts off my land with embittered German commands as if this were the Weimar period and I was the dead ringer for Tom Waits. But aside from some of the minor details, the shot heard round the virtual world has rung out, eighteen more aphasic chapters squeezed out of my magic hate bean, and feudal slumlords gather around the corpse of whatever it was I had left them in my perpetual nomadism. Today's my birthday. I will be greasing myself up and popping out of the oven in an effort to recreate my birth. But I should get back to my being the greatest pariah in history…there are also the condemnable rabble who make it their aim of bloodsport to drive me out of their suburbs with pitchforks and torches, all due to my obscuring function and my obfuscating drivel. I'd have it no other way. I have located a rare and completely superfluous piece for the epistemic foyer that will provide little function...I feel it will add much to the decor. It is a water clock constructed out of orange peels and sand, all steadied on pivoting base depicting a futuristic labour camp run by Elvis clones. I procured this from a strange, wandering, one-eyed monk who spoke only in Esperanto quatrains. I sit in seclusion, hollering out my dilapidated home with a bottle of whiskey in bitterness and confusion amidst my library. To write to fit the narrow confines as what passes as literature for the Great Textual Combine is much akin to the several factotum-style jobs taken during times of great financial peril when the creditors bayed at my door like wolves on my blood scent. The financial debacles are far from being alleviated, but my resolve not to take on these existentially despairing jobs that set me into a morass of ill-tempered mood has done wonders for my sense of being. I'm still waiting to pull my Nietzsche with my own "Birth of Tragedy" text to shock and disappoint the entire canon of the comfortably dead. Yes, but only his later stuff, Nietzsche leaning into Peter Brotzmann and his ilk of sax-squeaking discord and cacophony. I suppose experimental free jazz theory matches my own empathic Celinean tinninitis. I think I have been trepanned in the war of the postmodern.
Will I publish with the institution? That is a condemnable failure. Don't I know it! It may not be "professional" of me to state, but I wouldn't trust my former institution's press with the publication of a pamphlet. Everything they get their misbegotten eyes on turns to dust! Rotting treatises in a warehouse! Sweet unmarketed nothings! In this little lagoon-iversity, only the funding-machines get the decent treatment, leaving the rest of us "navel-gazers" and daring non-dialecticians out in the proverbial cold. As for the think tank presses that are regrettably exclusionist, I have just been absorbed into a literature review of an otherwise unnamed body of work relating to conflict management and impact assessment that was so laden with ridiculous terminology as to make the whole operation abstruse--Is this a product of compounded isolation? Who knows...The lack of outside perspective truly hinders a more dynamic approach, especially if all the included members are unanimous in their assent of the immutability of their methodology.








2. The War of the Postmodern
3. Chimicum behind a wall of Stockhausen CDs
4. Shopping cart (recurring object) facilitating machine of consumption and surrender
5. Situationists
6. Ataturk portraits, monoculture
7. Japonoiserie nihilism
8. broken toilet seat (disappearing object of failed production)
9. Hansreudi Nietzsche, A.A, Louis Legare
10. 12 mystery writers of codex obscura
11. Encounters of the fortuitous kind.
12. Low calorie empires, low intensity warfare.
13. ecstatic emails that reply to nothing. E-crypticisms.
Cystem SansCrit


Twelve-String Minotaur

For Che Elias, A.E.M, and Verlaine le Fou

The hardest thing to do is to affirm difference and to deny the image of God, Country and other transcendent figures…The hardest thing to do is to reject the solid model of comfort and security and embrace the uncertainty of water, its vicissitudes, obeying its own transcendental necessity. Water speaks in us as a strange cryptic language, and only fools attempt to decipher it when they should merely flow along with it. The flow of history, the migration of people, the rise and fall of the tide, the movement of continents, the shifting of the solar system throughout the universe…all of this is fluid, constantly a decentering of something that was never central. We give ourselves anchor points to make life bearable, but in doing so we never truly understand life on its own terms, as something moving and becoming. Rather, we exhaust our erected idols and images, the ones we have placed there, forgetting that they were our creations to begin with, and we feel the great ennui and crushing sadness when our images do not speak back to us and explain why things are the way they are…”
Alex Copec, The Argument of Our Time


1
I am Alex Copec! So why O why O why O fucking goddamnable censure-piloting why is this happening to me now (as opposed to some other time, when we could have planned perhaps? Changed our under things so as not to be caught in an embarrassing predicament?)…Now, now, always now! I read this in the stars, but the stars have a different answer than all those scum-dweller philosophes in their new flea-bitten tweed britches! That’s right, all right, the present, the now is empty! The trash of the alleged infinite present has already been put on the curb and picked up…long ago! But the back-rabble tennis court buccaneers of dead political fancy and silly feather-in-your-cap hears metal in all my doomspeak! They counter with the blogos, which is to say geekspeak for idiots. I want to be an idiot, a private citizen, a man without emails and cell phones! I wish the wallpaper prison cities would stop screaming their empty desires at me from billboard sunsets and capital hornet’s nests about how I need all of these things. Negative dialectics: their favourite little fandango! A farandole of failure! Don’t any of these rapscallions know that I am disabled? Differently-abled? Post-abled? Incapabled? Not my language: theirs! At least I have documents and pills and shock therapy coupons! I stick my tongue in the ashes of that past and loll it around for little gems of memory. But then those ingrate memories try to outwrite me with their puissance, with their full past against my empty sack of the present! Them with their shiny orange scented pinecones and little girls’ dresses ‘n tresses! But, ah! I get lost! Those memories are debonair! They have flair! And me? I’m just encased in a sheath of ice! Declared a schizophrenic like this means anything more than someone else’s problem, someone else’s failed desire or their obsession with bellybutton navel-gaze psycho-scrabble! And aphasic, too, so says Sir Lord Tyrant SAT! But a genius, too, right? “Most schizos are, especially when they take walks.” With Tourette’s to boot! “Your very existence flies in the face of Darwin’s theories.” Well, fuck you very much, O kindly sir of the gentle northern rub! Would you like a map to your own ass? Darwin would be lucky if he got a pie in the face for all he’s worth. I am a superior being who just got bored of pills. Instead, I am betrothed to the bottle, which does wonders for my complexion! It brings my navel so much closer to my nose, and my eye so much closer to the gnarled piece of wisdom you sent by courier hunchback pigeon! Bismarck would have loved me like a good Prussian son, and then rough handled me to the slatternStraße for twenty pounds of pressed posies! “Tis for your own good, son, for the good of the empire and your own education!” That was what my good doctor Bismarck prescribed for me: a good dollop of flash-frame-freeze university where I had to endure the harsh false reality of karma freaks who skipped too much rope when mummy and daddy were watching! Banana flakes! Flimshaw! Nettles and pontiffery! That is education, my ghouls, a sorry slapjob of obedience under the thumb of state-sanctioned helotry and the Urdoxa of silk-panty wearing deans who like to watch you climb up and down ladders all day long! And for what? Citations of glory? What glory? Congratulations, you are now a good citizen, which is to say that you are a pointless participant in the grand Guignol of our collective failure, and entirely dead because you missed the point like the rest of us. Okay, so now what? Well, a job, dear, dear boy! You missed the point, but no excuse to miss the morning bus! What? Morning bell? I’m drooling…hold on.
I live with her, once an idyl, now a cutthroat degenerate mindfuck soul rapist on amphetamines and Jack Daniels to compensate for intrigue. Not my doing! I convert no one! I only convert dollars into donuts! She wanted me to be her Humphrey Bogart, but insisted that I call her Shelley. She plays with my head because it is dangerous, and all things dangerous she needs to transform into a toy. I am no longer a monster in her care, but a pet on a leash, her always apologizing in my wake for my social faux pas, cleaning up my little doo-doo with her big pelican bill proper etiquette scoop. Scoop it all up, bitch! I’s gots more a dat! Speaking of people who miss the goddamn point, she fails to realize that everyone else is abiding by a horribly debilitating social Law that renders them all ridiculous briefcase wielding monkeys with the mange! Luftwaffe for beginners, air dropped elephants all over crimson dynamo patio set furniture forged in the very bowels of the Viet Nam war! What bohemian romp! Her culture, their culture, always their culture, always soaked in stale blood…and they don’t fucking realize it…Not once, and not even twice! What have I to prosper from all her well meaning David Hume ways of telling me the pragmatic cardsharper tricks of how “things actually are”? Let her mount the big culture-social engine leviathan all she likes! I ain’t fucking that or her anymore! What an abused little cunt, a cracked gumball of homogeneous perfection straight from the dispensary of whittled wood Reason! If you would like, I’ll bring out the shenai and play out all this lament in 9/4 time! beat out that rhythm with yer fists if ya like! It won’t bring China to its knees, nor the secret revival of the Qing Empire in Hollywood! I never get lost in the thick of those bogs and false retreats cuz I have the twine of a new Reason (but I seemed to have left that in my other pants).
Ah, the thinly slicing wire concept of bastard, how I would love to de-de-deconstruct the bizarre love triangle she has with this word…how she pins it upon my lapels like I was her little poodle darling. “Bastard!” she screeches at me, but not the kind of shriek that befits a banshee…Kind of a sickly cow noise. That and other bedroom dramas. So she’s busy hobnobbing in the alchemist convention of social values, the proper etiquette of salting another’s beverage when that other’s back is turned and all that tired gong-banging noise. Me? I’m lucky to have a moment’s peace. But she has problems which is why she is with me…That is, I must clarify, it lessens the pathetic little tragedy of her own problems by jumping into bed with one whose problems are more severe, more evident. Oh, she’s all about the evident, the empirically evident, evidence, just like the rest of them. They all gather together in a love-in orgy around dead bodies and crime scenes and poetry readings and little choir recitals at the grade school and around children’s soccer coaches who make bad calls looking for evidence. They can’t get enough! They keep lugging for more evidence, more ass to stamp and label with “PROOF” in big red letters as if this will somehow delay the inevitable failure cardiac arrest that is their culture. What a pointless pastime! A terrible hobby! A mania that begs all sorts of questions as to why I am the one declared “unfit” to serve in the National Butcher’s Chop-Shop Reich! Lachrymose degenerate dichotomies and shopping mall bogeymen traffic boogie: I watch as they all congregate, aggregate, make assemblages with their bodies in shopping malls, condense and dilate like little lung-breaths of capital. And they also fail to realize that the airport is an invention of the Catholic Church, ostensibly speaking.
I use the Internet, which is to say that I am incapable with capacity. The whole world is one big web space now, and we are the little struggling flies looking for purity and singles sites and small remnants of the shroud of Turin on eBay. Porn and Jesus is the way of the Internet; I navigate these rough and choppy seas (naw, they’re tame and full of repetitive, bland saccharin boredom that just proves that democracy is mundanely global) upon a digital rodent with clicks and little levers, buttons, lights, and gateways timing out at the speed of the fake plastic virtual…Which is to say, dearest troglodytes of the national concern, we are each now all darling celebrity Judy Garland Shirley Temples destined for anonymity toilets in lost bus station bathrooms at the extreme south of Jersey. “Come see my site!” and then they deluge me with pop-ups, pop-unders, pop-overs, and flashy jumping java holy Christ anus disease. I keep asking why, but the search term yields a billion trillion hits that miss the question and make a daring dash for all the wrong prizes! Use the damn thing and find out where the president hid all the nazi gold! Hackers become the pony-tail wearing ex-plastic hippie webmeisters who play domain games in the big circling circus of anthrodrome capital. Infobyte transfer download doubloons raining everywhere. Our collective digit is stuck up the ass of the machine, and the news is just in: it likes it, it really likes it!
Photograph paper cigarette, derisive…Pluralism is not idealism, so fuck you for trying. Here is the fallacy of the declaration of conformity…I promise not to interfere but rather be interfered with, or so globe-state capital dictates unto me from its immanent papal wallet…dragoon utopias another kettle of fish, stewed in light batter…TV is the consignment of my mind to the lowest bidder, lest I miss the mark. Golf is pure grey magic for upwardly mobile plebes and teetotalers on parade…It stank of Jesus and Geist and little sacramental American presidents, so pass around the collector Elvis collection plate…I swing post-dandy into this world like no other pro-astro-hominid with email privileges (only on weekends). Bookends dead ends, my weight keeps flying into pages without pagination…Dichroic grey mist…How many ounces to the hog’s head? Keep the aspidistra flying like the swastika over Washington’s new Reichstag…but it is all failure, pointless and sad. Better wives and mothers against real living…enfeebled representatives of the Goat Republic of tin cannery values…
It is Tuesday, O Glory Jesus Nazi Baby Be, it is Tuesday! Only four and a half more days until, according to program, she is on the rag. This means my consummate duties will be in temporary hiatus…(on other days, I drink or eat myself into exhaustion to avoid the union and mental terrorism of our bodies touching). Or else I usually tell her it is my time of the month, which is to say every other day. I do make a show of it, at times, but the eagerness and anticipation of the event makes it failure, a goddamn TV pilot primer episode, a ratings move, or just an irremediable loss. That, and other things fall off. I haven’t the time for sex like I used to. Sex when one is sad, sex when one is celebratory, sex in order to break the boredom of nuthin ta do. My beauty will be eclipsed by the very mental celibacy of the sexual en-counter. Sex exploits a quantity of reality, anyhow, so break out the best China, New Year’s crackers and the lorry-driven maniacs of Die Paradigmaticuss…it’s all just flimshaw bee’s knees and cat’s meow baby start to finish. I’ve seen enough of her flank to become a reliable commentator on such matters as her flank. I have been forced to study her body and be submitted to countless exams: each sexual moment just another little test to flunk on my end, really. Rilly? Yes, really, and then some. What flimsy pretext post-coitus reticent dandyism! That’s me! Assimilation works for the US, so why not let the State govern my bedroom affairs, right? When she doesn’t get her way, I find all my things scattered in the street or pawned to the stern Lebanese with the bristle-brush moustache drooping toward the nipples. I truly hate having to re-purchase all my prize possessions repeatedly, especially when the moral cost is just too high, and capital buzzes neon flares over the now Turkish horizon. Honda infestation Yucatan Chiapas! You must be joking! Had enough gristle from the mill fare, the Great Cosmic Toxic Mixture Stew Pot of Culture? Culture is terrorism any way you slice it, but it isn’t Islam or its special representatives, but rich old white men hanging their jowls over their starched collars, making all the decisions, circumcisions. And people dare lambaste me for having crucifixion anxiety!
So here I was, drinking a fifth of rot gut vodka, yelling for Russia at the top of my lungs, and now deathly afraid of being acted upon. You see, word up and down the strumpet internet pipeline was that the not-so-secret service with all its fancy gadgets and medieval torture surveillance toys was out to get me. Despite how suspect my mental credibility actually can be at the summit of its expressive crypto-fallacious glory, glory hallelujah, the sure sign of paranoid schizophrenia is when you start arguing against the facts—which I do on a regular quotidian basis, this action notwithstanding. But the fact of my planned abduction into some cattle car destined for Wichita’s pasture of presidential bagmen assassination spoofs was too real to ignore, and too comedic to make light conversation at the local Slaveway grocery among clerks trained to the dullest point and weakest social ebb. I had to negotiate my way out of the interrogative spaces, the zones of collusion and collaboration, a milieu sans satellite technology and the infinite retracing of the global circle.

“I’m going out and off and away,” I announced to both the newsgroup I posted on and verbally to my little abusive princess who was fiddling with her rabbit ears cunt.
“If you leave me, you’ll be sorry,” she said, obviously not one to take these matters heavily.
“I’ll wire you an apology, Western Union line. I have to move. I have to get jiggy wit da Metternich Way.”
“You fucking asshole! You can’t leave! If I have to drive you personally to the grave myself, I will! Who the fuck do you think you are? This isn’t a hotel! Checkout was a year ago, and now you are working off the debt! You’re in it for life, idiot boy!”
“So be it. Get a stunt double, a little stevedore to come around and satisfy your posh needs and such. I haven’t got a penny or ounce of labour left in me worth giving. This is hide-preserving time, and I would rather choose the jar I am pickled in. This one just won’t do. If they can cart Cromwell’s brain all over creation, imagine what a brain with legs can do. Your problem is that you never understood what a body could do. Instead, you let little desires make metal noises in your mouth and expect it to all come out like whipped butter.”
“I’ll kill you!” she screamed and screamed again.
“Sure thing.”
“Don’t you have any feelings at all?”
“It is on account of my feelings that I must go.” Then she started trying to carpet me in sweet froth.
“C’mon…I’ll go down to the liquor store and you can forget all about it. I’ve got a few new dresses I can put on and parade for you.”
And then I weakened. This was terror tactic pulls of the elite irritation class. She had me in tow, no doubt. I wanted to pull out her eyes and discover just how those little vertical transcendence machines of propagandistic horror worked.
“You know, the priestly class of little attaché case ops are baying at the moon and on to the scent of my sweat and blood.”
“Don’t be silly.” This was her classic refrain: diminution of feeling by matriarchal dismissal. I was used to it. I had served as a G.I. in some of the most well-meanin’ asylums in this and many other states. I was a basified, certified, decorated soldier-hero of the shock-therapy-psychoanalytic-prescription class of medicinal vigilantes and their nefarious pottery wheel of mental health. Sanitation engineers of the brain, an associated practice of thought-revisionists given full sanctimonious license to re-interpret my thoughts into localized paradigms to build me into a better, anonymous citoyenne of this: our grand republic of fuck-fashion helotry. Mental health is nothing about the value of the origin of mind, nor the origin of its value. This is to say, it is all pointless college kid relativism for the elderly shuffleboard clinic.
She started patting my head, drawing me in close, and cradling my alleged silly madness. “There, there. Nasty men in suits are not coming to get you.”
While my head was locked under her rotten patchouli deodorant slaughterhouse of an armpit, I managed to squeak, “you’ll find me in a pool of my own blood, and it won’t be the flattery of your forcing suicide or your materialized death threat. It will be coldblooded state action. You’ll see.”
She ignored me for the duration. I was being coddled like an infant, like a little Louis prince, all my words just bubbles. Had I the cast-iron head like hers, I would have continued smashing against the rhetoric that screamed for my head, but even that wouldn’t make a difference: that rhetoric was made of rubber and mist. But life is like that, I guess: forget to die, forgot to pay, and forget to live as well. Even if the false flag necessity can be proven to be nothing more than a silly zephyr jostling the wind chimes of change, it won’t change the tune any.

2
Wah! Wah! Waaahhhh! The zoo is a church of little saintly animals behind iron traps of votive noise. The traffic seizure has run electric malaise up and down the boulevards. The beach is a crowded slaughterhouse of skimpy fashion cutthroats and sanded hunks of meat. The corporate downtown is nothing but an extrapolation of 1920s bijou flair sanitized so that the dancing girls were taking down memos and filing urgent faxes from nowhere. She was a mundane conversationalist who made her presence mandatory on all my sojourns into the urban core. This entire city’s a bad lemon, I thought, without anything good to drink.
She would go on. Do you think they should expand the highway? When will they change the salad option at Mello’s? Coffee always makes me jittery. Computers are too complicated. I like chocolate bars that are not too gooey. I wish we could see the moon from here. I don’t know. I don’t know. Yes. Perhaps. Okay. I guess. I angled into the nearest bar open at eleven in the morning. She would follow, but never with enthusiasm: that was perhaps her only saving grace in this debacle of failure that was this poorly dramatized situation.
I settled into a booth and did not feel right to make eye contact with the server. “Whiskey, a good one. As many fingers in depth as a polydactylline wrestler.”
“I’ll have an orange juice,” my keeper said.
“Who drinks fucking orange juice anymore? I thought orange juice health fanatic boutiquerie went the way of disco and decent living wages. And at a bar, too. Show some lack of class.”
“I’ll drink what I like,” she said.
“I think that was how Hitler got started, back in the day when he wore the britches of Hindenburg’s candied plaza.”
“Mm-hm.”
I drank in silence, or at least tried. The less I spoke, the more I could swish into my mouth and order more. Talk only wasted time between swigs. She was all about wasting time, mine, hers, the little boy who lived down the lane. I would sell her to a Cambodian river rat in a flash. I could tell the next stop on our frenetic journey would mean lattes somewhere stupid where the décor was orange, resynthesized new wave technocracy ad nauseum. It would mean bouncy young servers with ponytails and a longing for rough justice, with that empty look between their eyes like their minds want to make the perilous journey through the colon and back into the homogeneous slop of the national bubble aquarium from where they were plucked. Places like that bred this kind of sour noise, laying little corporate ethos eggs in their ears and gradually burning out what was in itself not much to brag about in the first place. I ordered more whiskey.
“You can’t just sit here and drink all day. I want a latte. I want to go to the thrift store and pick out a chemise.”
I pointed to the door. “You’ll notice the tether is broken. Go forth and multiply.”
“You are coming with me,” she said in serious fear-inducing Jesus lizard style.
“We are all going in the same direction, fundamentally. I prefer to take a few meandering detours.”
“Make sense!” she yelled, swatting me over the head. It looked painful and violent. I would be very glad if others could acknowledge the spirit and intention with which such blows were landed. I ignored her and drank more. She yanked the drink from my hands and flipped the glass upside down. This, apparently, was war. I was already bored. Whiskey moves faster than water, it seems, like gravity itself has silken sugar strings causing the whiskey to thin across the table, and down to mother. I ordered another.
“He won’t be having anymore,” she announced to the server. “He’s on pills. He could die. That would make you liable if you served him in this condition.”
“My condition is pure horror, and boring at that,” I countered, now soaking up the spilt whiskey on my trousers. “She doesn’t seem to realize that I have my center, that I am having a good day.” And I actually was. My brain was more sluggish, which meant that the madness was only murmuring in slow motion like a 45 on 33 speed. Or was that the other way round? I do not own records or their players. Metaphors are for Shriners.
“Will you shut up? Ever?”
“I thought I was doing a pretty top notch job, what with me bending the elbow. Perhaps you ask for too much. Perhaps you are chagrined because I have not officially joined a party where it is all the rage to be very quiet while waiting for dispatches from his master’s voice.”
“I said shut up.” Then she hit me again, causing me to inadvertently choke on my own saliva.
“See?” she said to the server. “See? I told you he was sick!”
As if sickness could prove anything or make the taps stop flowing. If bars didn’t serve the sick, who would they serve?
“You’re a goddamn Christian…or maybe a Hegelian. You always have an answer for everything…But it is always the most pointless and disappointing answer. You and your ridiculous monoculture heritage of the One Book Fits Them All society for brigand roguish imps on the right side of the centrist mandate! You hum and haw that the world is not enough, that it lacks something transcendental, and then you stay home, watch TV and count fucking buttons! You have your bible and your television and your big bag of cheese snack crusts…What a dumbshow of bread and circuses! What a moronic gas bag of Love Me Till Apocalypse Reaganomic prolixity! Get a fucking clue! You asinine clatter and kludge of do me right bones in designer sewage pipe gear! Little floatation devices of the subpopular! Satellites of malfeasance and misprision! Sick desires and values dropped in the vat of battered fish stick convenience! Trope of forgotten Whoreship Ipsissimus Crowleyan Law flake-out post-Soviet la la neo-hipperie! You sack of moist lime uselessly barricading the doors of change! You misperceiving relic of the cult of Marie Antoinette and her little sisters of Cinderella nymphs! You placard-wielding witch of the post-mortem brigade of false revolutions on the cover of Variety! You media-shrapnel induced slave of the Brady Bunch Easter Bunny fascistic rhetoric for the addled mob of eddying hunchbacked politburo delegates!” So much for my good day. “You’re all farce, filler, and no substance! This age’s mere garnish! A representation! A meagre conception or iota of the times! I will drink my whiskey, I will not participate in the blood economy of generalized exchange! Get me, bud? Punk? Comrade? Sister? Pirate? Pedant? Cardboard general?”
“Don’t be silly,” she said, all indulgent grin, getting me all tied up. This was futile. I leaned over her lap in a move to signal I needed to be coddled. She began stroking my head. Consecutively, I vomited. Big heaping gushers of hot orange bile.
After that blast, her in shock, I said, “give me another hour. That’ll pump me with at least two more fortifying rounds, if not three.”
She gave me a look like her eyelids had just been peeled off. Her arms hovered frozenly over her lap that was now dripping puke on a floor that had already seen its fair share of it. There was glorious silence for about a minute, save for the drip-drip-drip of my love offering, my finalization of an argument. Drip-drip-drip. She didn’t say a word, didn’t even move. Her eyes were wide and demonic, like she was being possessed by the secret maniacal Christianity of a children’s charity organizer. And then it happened: by the midpoint of my drink, I heard such a wailing shriek that unsettled the very firmament of this sorry spectacle of the real. It went on for almost as long as the preceding silence, about a minute. It was a high, mewling sustained note, the kind you would dub into an indie horror flick as “dramatic” instead of coming clean with the fact that you had no “budget.”
This piercing wail brought the server to our booth, but the quality of that sound created a kind of impenetrable sound barrier that kept her at least two metres away. I think the server wondered if she should call the cops or brandish the baseball bat behind the bar and put this beast out of her misery…out of everyone’s misery: especially my own.
“Ex nihilo nihil fit,” I said, somewhat lost in the jarring monotone of the day.
And, as if she was merely stuck on neutral, without drawing a breath, she started in with actual words that modulated something fierce: “YOUFUCKINGSONOFABITCHIOUGHTAKILLYOUASSHOLEBASTARDSHITWORTHLESSPIG!!”
I waved the server for more.
“Don’t you ignore this, you fucking cunt!” she screamed much to the chagrin of all that was vestigially decent in our era. If only my mental qualifications did not barricade me from owning a personal handgun. But then, there are inventive solutions to all sorts of problems.
I looked at her lap and back at the frenzy that was this particularized form of woman. “You stink,” I said.
This resulted in another long screeching session. I had had enough. I left a fifty on the table and walked out. There would be other bars, I thought, but if she followed me, I wondered just how long it would take before all the bars in town kicked me out until I got a license for this beast. She followed, not bothering to clean up the bile stain that must have been burning into her soon menstruating crotch. I thought of the mixture that would produce for the senses. I suppose this was my testament to my conjugal duty, my being sexual.
“You! Wait! Right! There! Stupid! Asshole!”
I turned on my heel, stared right down her throat, and tossed a moral lesson into it: “you unscrupulous succubus wench of the northern light brigade tomfoolery par excellence! I told you I had to go! What do you do? You trail me like a girl scout with rabies and cookies, threatening to co-opt and misguide all my plans to drag me into coffeehouses of ill-repute, to suck on putrid lattes for the gentrified mob who think Garfield is bloody hilarious! You deserve all the puke you get! Wear it like a goddamn corsage, you stinking, vitriolic whore! You—“
And then she smacked me, harder this time with a closed fist. It may or may not have broken my nose. I saw stars, felt the rush of blood, and corkscrewed toward the pavement. This was no way to begin the Saturday morning funnies.
“All right,” I said, in a tired daze, my ire rising with the tide. “You win.”
She stood triumphantly like an idiot. She hadn’t a clue what she won. I let the fools fill in the gaps and think their own prizes into existence. Not my style.
“Omnis determinatio est negatio…I haven’t the time to kick back with the groovy oldies and hold hands over the bansaw of your sick and diluted sense of justice,” I said. I’d say it again, too. I steadied myself by the newspaper box. The sidewalk was lovingly speckled all Jackson Pollock stochastic with black-grime gum and spit. I was sitting in the very central shit pile of the now. She gave me a weak kick in the ribs, but enough to knock me back down.
“This just in!” I roared, standing now. “All fucking day, every day, you wanna know what’s new! World events! The 411 of the day! You feed off it! Misery is your goddamn lullaby movie score! You want soporific fun and failure? Here!”
I started yanking on the newspaper box until it gave way. I pulled out all the newspapers—twenty or so in all—and threw them at her. I jumped on top of her and we collapsed in a monster mess of bylines and cheap gimcrack editorials and condo full page ads. I started smearing newsprint ink all over her face, trying to stuff today’s latest terrorist acquisition or peace process Iraq update down her throat. Now she had beauty…a coal miner wearing the imprint of our daily excesses, successes, global failure. Have it all! Standing room only! Trumpets blow!…The well meaning mob gathered around, with some bovine businessmen issuing gruff nazi commands that I leave her alone, and “someone call the cops,” and, and, and. Pointless, all of it. I just wanted to drink my whiskey in peace, and I wanted her dead.
I got up and let her be before the hordes descended and put me on a stick for the Thanksgiving Parade in honour of Macy’s Empire crucifixion regalia for halfwits and demagogues. Fuckers, all of them.
“Let’s rev it all up for da revolution, kids,” I said to my gathered minions of the life insurance crowd. My nose was spewing red soup. “Tis only my essence flowing freely for Jee-zus!” I yelled to the towering aluminum behemoths. I went toward the people with the blood on my hands, threatening to muss up their parlour-done hairy-dos and posh Big House suits. There was proportional movement away as I advanced, a bloody unipolar magnet. The cops came with their rippling forearms and billy clubs. Great. I suppose this is the Age of the Security Superbowl. So be it. They thumped me like good Inuit and I was dragged off to uncertain doom in the Slimfast slammer. I did not know what they were going to do with her. For all I knew, they’d put her on the talk show circuit and decorate her with senatorial positions and medals of valour. Such was our war machine and the vicissitudes of its infinite budget of Grace. That I was the victim in all of this was too apparent and lacked intrigue. This is why Hollywood was not budging to secure my early release. Perhaps if I had been abducted by the enemy and forced to watch hours of bad Iraqi TV, and thereafter rescued after my own incompetence, I’d be declared a war hero with access to the presidential palace bedroom, and would be narrating anti-difference depression service messages on the Internet as the Voice Everyone Respects. Instead of being lumped with such honours, I was Emmanuel Goldstein, which was to say that I was not a darling enough little hometown Middle American girl with her whole future ahead of her tits. What was wrong with me? I was holding the tickets to the circus, yet they dragged me from the stands and laughingly put me in the mouth of the lion. It is precisely on these grounds of spiritual surrender that modern entertainment is far too Christian dialectic. I mean, how could I ever bring myself to kiss the feet of a Roman torture symbol and then switch on ye olde telly to watch two teams of juggernauts bash each other’s brains out on the gridiron. Perhaps I had too much taste and intellect to be entertained by the simian media of football and Jesus. When all else fails, I blame the Masons and their big cyclopean eye of hate-spunk dominance and WASP tyranny.

3
I met a lot of dour Charlie Manson wannabes without the HBO privileges, and so, no, I met no one truly interesting in jail. I was only held for the day and released once my good pal Dr. Shrinkwrap Bismarck of Aragon, or whatever I choose to dub him in this particular episteme, explained carefully and dumbed-down terms that I was mentally challenged. Of course, you would hear me shout in retort that nothing about the now or this country challenged me in any mental way; it was all brute physical challenge. I then rethought this proposition: perhaps the challenge was to find something mentally challenging in this stinkpile of the century. The doc was a bearded fellow, bearded in such a way that he looked almost teddy-bear huggable, but perhaps would also smell old and musty. You could probably squeeze him and gusts of dusty fluff would come out—that, and whiny noise. He wasn’t a tall man. He wasn’t a loud man. He wasn’t a brilliant man. In fact, he wasn’t much at all. But there he was in this capacity, acting as though he was something. Fucking ambiguousness. He was one big yapping psychoanalytic bag of ambiguous phrasings, ambiguous movements, ambiguous being. I prescribe shock therapy.
“I have sprung you out,” my doc said, still in dumb-down mode, forgetting himself around me. It was pretentious and unrefreshing.
“Huzzah. Now I can write a goddamn book as long as my cock. I’ll be the Jean Genet of all the churches of the land. You sure took your time. Take it from me: flirting with the guards and the justice gentry will only result in sorry rejection, especially if they consent.”
“What did we say about taking your medicine?”
“I have no idea of what we said as a unity, presupposing some illusory half-baked consensus theory hatched in a psychoanalytic galley workshop inspired by reading Orwell and Hegel and tongue-lolling liberal ideals of the patriarchal order. I know you said far too much about medicine, and I protested in proper style. Is that the we you were referring to? I do remember that one fondly like mother’s poison apple pie and father’s belt-whuppings under the Christmas tree.”
“I only try to furnish you with the advice that would best suit your condition.”
“Wow, a great many people are concerned about my condition these days. It’s like I’m an antique car up for sale. Let’s just quit this little mental game of attrition. I know your game as good if not better than you do.”
“If you say so. I think it would be nice of you to give your gratitude. This could have turned out much worse for you.”
“I should be so lucky. ‘Thank you Herr Hitler for letting me out of Dachau…it was nice of you to let me out after you had so rudely interned me.’ Not my scene, Bismarck.”
“Wolsely. Doctor Wolsely. Perhaps our imprinting session was not lengthy enough. I blame myself.”
“That’s right, my little powdered up grandee mufti ab-de-re-territorialized morality machine. Internalize that guilt. Your name serves no purpose to me or the cyborg monkey-gods that beat so savagely their rhythms betwixt mine breastplates. Shit. You act as if you are doing me a favour. The new Reich has better uses for you anyhow. Isn’t there some impressionable youth you can be appointed to subvert for God, Crown, and Country? Think of the Glory, doc. The Glory: it rings in your ears like infant pot and pan music, like the queen letting out one long royal fart. Good for you and good for the kingdom. All fear the king! He has scabies! He has your name and is not afraid to use it, especially in times of war. That’s where the Glory is, bub…That, and in converting John Wayne prone kids to the flag. But that’s an old Glory, isn’t it? We have new java buttons now.”
“Are you still exploring the Internet?”
This was his cockamamie plan. People at the upper crust of middle age with an ounce of professional fervour are all keen on adopting and assimilating the new technologies into their treatment plans. He saw in the Internet a great open zone instead of what it really was: a bunch of closed blogospheric doors of bigotry, cocks, nazi reprises, and bumbling oaf patriotic Jesusism. He thought that a little insurgent like myself needed a place without boundaries and restrictions, where the law was not as foreboding or present. But the Law is there, too, but in veiled form. You’d have to be an idiot not to see it, but then the Internet was all about pandering to the idiot in all of us. If this was my doctor’s way of being all postmodern and progressive, it stank accordingly.
“Yes,” I said. “I still fidget with the Internet. I post on newsgroups and waste a lot of time massaging the great technocratic cock of failure and hope it will cum and get this whole nonsense over with. But the orgasm never comes: the cock just gets bigger, the throbbing server veins on its shaft increase in size…more blood in the way of victims fuels its tumescence. It never ends. The Internet is not approaching climax: it is merely embroidering upon itself, with more features and buttons and surreptitious spyware dinnerware ways and webpages made by nobodies for nobodies.”
“I had hoped that you would reap the benefits of the virtual as a means of eventually coming to grips with the real.”
“The Internet is the real, you schmuck! It is the new real! It’s not virtual! Only simpering old lushes in mansions who go on safaris think it’s virtual. The virtual is everywhere and nowhere. It hides behind your imposition of Thought on this world because it is afraid you might rape it. Which you will invariably do. But by then, that virtual will just become another actualized terrain, another Hegelian phantom dead end, another foot-stamping college love-fest, another big handful of fairy money. The virtual will descend a bit farther, and like Tantalus you will make a dash for it, and it will always shrink away. I think it is in this way that the virtual has taste. It is allergic to you and this O so vaunted real.”
The doc was a saintly animal, which is to say that he was all about the post-renaissance digital age of tight selection criteria. But what a glutamate fascist! “Preserve me plenty, preserve me do” and all that gut rot broken stage of jungle dioramas of Rousseauism blended into Akira and Alphaville. Preserve what one studies, study the preserves, all sweet basement or cellar apricot jam never to be actualized on toast, but rather to be kept as a dreamof mothers now passed. An icon, a symbol of blood prestige, cluttering heirlooms and artifacts in the dirty trousers of one’s home. He wanted to preserve me, which means ostensibly himself. O constitutive misrecognition, like a bad flick in some long ago outer space! He hadn’t a fucking clue that a mind—my mind—depended on its constant wobbly centrifugal motions, its decenterings and destructions…like a moving Guernica. I am the owl, or some such. I am Carribean.
“Well, okay. I see that you are having a bad day today. Another one of your fits. Have you been drinking?”
“Just little infant’s blood and the entire swill of a generation in praise of the pin-up playboy galaxy, in lazy style. All to the strumming of the lute and the bards and ovates all clambering around me for warmth and inspiration. I can only provide the secret of the Fibonnaci spiral and the delegate ruse of the king’s undergarments.”
“You should return with me.”
“Sorry, papa, but I stabbed the cat in the cradle with the silver spoon, sent it to the moon in precious blue ribbon and a bouquet of dead flowers. I ain’t goin’ back wit ya, check it. I’m not down with all that higgledy-piggledy death instinct and little slippers in the den. Build yourself another son with all the right accoutrements of our collected era of disappointment and shame; I’m making for mauve sunshine strata and my liver spread out over the sea. Wah!”
He gave up, the cunt, just as I was getting limber and dandy. They always turn away when you get interesting. But people have their own pointless allergies. I merely wait by the rocket’s side and wait for countdown crow.

Returning home like a little imprisoned Odysseus to find only the threat and lie of suitors. No one would take her, but I hoped. I’m sure Odysseus hoped, too. Let me go back! Let me go back to Omphale! Where the tubas shine bright and blast rainbow cracks in the sky, and the mountains judder to and fro to the mystical ethereal beat that aims right for the belly. I told you in so many measured terms that I am Carribean in all the important ways. I ignored the seething mass of irritation on the couch, a lump just waiting to get her digs in and make a huge spectacle of her failure to comprehend. I sat myself down to the Komputer, typed off fulgurating streaks of red imprecision:
Alt.Zoneless_zone.net
User: “BigBot” SchizzyLizzy75

MSG 8832: Yer smock tight and body so yielding, chap

I clicked on da new message, almost as though I believed the message to be new, real, or there at all:
Well, it has been a tight, ascetic last month. I have had to make withdrawals from the food bank just to get by, and I'm rationing like it's war time (and indeed it probably is). Fortune is with me, however, after jettisoning over a hundred CVs in every conceivable direction, I landed a job playing vegetable tetris at the supermarket. It pays in dirt, but enough dirt to keep me fed. I work strange and long hours throughout the week, but they are allowing me to keep my
beard--which seems rather humane. Or not. But at this point, I do not know if the anti-prohibitive is the humane part, or if it is the very symbol of the beard itself. Schizzy was right to point out that the narrative rupture in all these exchanges can be nothing short of mundane if not done in an artful manner, true to BEING (I hope this honours the intention of yr message, Schiz). All in all, it’s a tiny blast of wage-slave trumpeting. If things go terribly, irremediably wrong, we’ll just have to call in pals of some cells and send planes and little canisters at the very nexus of the storefront, etcetera. Ha!

Time to typey-typey eine reponz, heh?:

MSG 8833: Voca non viva
Message number mirror: I have cruised along orange tweed sunrise street in search of carbuncular love; finding only dross and dead birds, maybe a jail sentence and the absent suicide of planes kissing the suicide of hippodamian bildungs/buildings in some novel way. In the famished words of the little servitude of so many mistresses: And so, yes, the ripcord justice of it all, how god and his little ambassadorial minions spread wing-tipped peanut butter glaze disease all over the land so that cowboy whorehouse republicano flavour-of-the-month serialists could rumble about, writing asinine things on their skin. It is the new age of “punk” so says the associated press and other organized, meddlesome prick-affiliates…So it is. We were all touched with the blight of the commercialization of something so rank awful as to defy description among squeamish suburban mother book-of-the-month clubs. Oprah deficiency, to be sure. That shit just makes your bones deteriorate right in the tanned skin envelope. I was sick to death with that style of wage slave helotry; I turned myself inside out for little more than a capital reacharound on my groin. So be it. So now, I turned right around and started walking away, and other things to do in little Moscow when one is bored and life is one consignment trip after another. This is love, friends, and it is the age of terror. This is how it all runs up and down the gamy legs of the jacobytes and plenum. So be it, anon, and farewell/firewall…

Older messages staring cheese-eyed velour in my face, another Pandora’s box of silly hopes copulating madly at the bottom in a bed of lint:

MSG 8829: Schizofauxlizzy thinks makes metal, makes noise alone
Blah-blah-blabbity-blah! Schizzy, you need to stop staging. Stop posing and come clean: yer a false revolutionary, a fake schizophrenic—more like a schizophonic. I can write long fecal trains of false matter, too. It doesn’t make you look insane or profound. Give it up. No one here is fooled by your lack of condition.

This necessitated quick, brutal, nasty and short reply, a la Hobbesian whales:

MSG 8834: Rimbaud the Fair, Fairest of the Reichsdoofs
Dearest fucko-nautic loved one, cherished of all the swaddles and tilly-boys, honoured lord of our fusion lord Jesus of Mongolia. I have taken issue with letters written on behalf of my conditions, and so thought it mildly prudent in the main to correct thee of fatal FLAW. By whatever mental malfeasance doth issue from my lunar anus caboose of greatness and forgotten destiny, I beseech you to truly dig the hard, mean line that separates you (a goosefeather) from me (an event). Failure to do so will result in such sorry hardship in this domain as in any other, in the continuation of the slop-train to its inevitable passage toward doom. We are speaking of language, O kind and gentle ghost of a sir, and it appears that you are speaking Latin and me Greek. My credentials as a schizo-wonder need not be dusted off and brandished like a sheriff’s star for yr gruff inspection team, for I take honourish pride in a singularity that is not reducible to quantifiable categorical anal fetish collectionist mania. Doctors stamp me with these appellations, dear fruit of my loom, and yer rough slight does little more than make such accredited professionals either blush or pout in their corners. All four corners of a three fingered petit objet. Which is to say that someone must by necessity be left outside. The votes are in, and I am chagrined to inform you, dearest troglodyte of tidy affairs and ordered bric-a-brac, that you are the one who must stand outside. But I am willing to trade with you, so don’t lose heart! I am willing to negotiate the rough open terrain of the world and YOU can stay inside the three-cornered box of shrink-wrap mental love and Categories to be deduced and synthesized. A guy like you will love to take residence in a place where one plus one always equals two, and everything that comes out of your mouth has already been said by Oedipus, that all desire is for your mother. You are welcome to it. Yours in dissolution, fuck you.

“Are you going to be on the computer all night?” she asked, barging into the space.
“I thought it would be in this way that you would love me…like a possession or a trapped animal that cannot help but to keep hitting the ESCAPE button of Internet ecstasies.”
“You’re a fucking loser, you know that?”
“Yes. I lost a long time ago. You seem to be the prize for my loss.”
“Don’t get smart with me, bitch!”
“I’ll make an effort.”
“Why must you always be so glib and pessimistic all the time?” She walked over to the drapes and opened them, letting in all the obscene skyline light. “Look! A whole world of positive reality is out there, and all you want to do is type little mash notes to all your loser friends!”
“It beats staring into the neon Cyclops of grim and certain failure.”
“What failure? This is failure,” she punctuated, badly.
“I agree,” I said, looking at her.
“You want me gone? I’ll go! I will! You watch! And then you’ll be fucked!”
“The period between birth and death is always a jam, a really fucked situation. I doubt anything new will be acquired by your leaving, but I am more than willing to see what happens if you do.”
She was the one who would be fucked. She didn’t work. I received a fat check every two weeks from Big Government on the condition that I kept my madness indoors, didn’t get married, didn’t purchase firearms, didn’t take a job, or in any way make a move. Be very still, says the machine about to plunge its newest narcotic experiment into your eyeballs. Certified and terminally unemployable. My last job resulted in the poetic and inventive destruction of much merchandise, but the State picked up the bill as it invariably must. I wish she would go.
“You’re lucky I didn’t press charges, you psycho fuck!” she said.
I was aghast, for a moment, but then regained my bearings and was terribly bored. “Are you leaving yet? All of this is, in business terms of the foul shad rhetoric, counterproductive. If this is you leaving, I liked it better when you stayed.”—and then I was suddenly preyed upon by a fit; they come and go in solid, undulating waves, like a swelling of fire and drunken revelry—“But! If your ass-back junket of near-miss prostitution in the global organs of our national mistrust send me reeling over backwards on my chair with landed blows and pugilism among the minors, then I will be quick to offer returns, taxable scratch ‘n sniff miseries and wounds! With broken bottles jammed in your throat while singing old songs from the days o’ Slavery! You’re out! Out! My apartment is a baseball game and the pitch has whizzed by your eyeballs, and the umpire with a fifth of whiskey in his pocket has thumbed you back to the dugout! Out, out, little spot renegade of false immanent grandeur! Go forth and make a million! Hunt down the last pope with your preternatural instinct for missing the point, all hazy green disease cloud hanging over Baghdad and Surinam! Go join the French Legion and see the world from under the sweating bull body of some uniformed peacekeeping jock who wants you to call him daddy while he pulls your hair and sells you Buddhism by the share…or dole lots and find out just where they hid your sense of dignity in a widely televised game show wheel of torture pick a letter death to spell little words you can barely get your ass around!!”
“Don’t be silly,” she said, approaching me like a smothering moth.
“I am not your light! I am no lux omnia! Stop fluttering about my wallet! Stop leaning on my servitude to the mental health mores! Stop with all this bohemian pomp of yanking dollars out of my hand to serve nefarious whims popping out of your easy-bake oven crotch!”
“Come on, now. You don’t work for it anyway. I’m the one who needs to work, to be your caretaker.”
“No! I am the one who works! Hard! I am paid to be a madman, and it takes up all my time! I have an audience to please, the circus goes on! On top of that, I’m expected to put up with you! It’s a tireless effort to be certified! I need to effect a balance between normalcy and the workaday demographic and being carted off to one of our many enclosed mental health hotels for the untreatably wicked! Balance is hard work, and pointless as well! But that’s my work!”
“You’re being silly again.”
“Fuck off! Die! I hate you! I loathe you to the point that I would kill you, but would find such an act to be one on the order of failure!”
“Silly!”
“Die!”
“Okay, you can have you time-out.”
“Slut! Degenerate! Your mother ought to have drowned you in the sea! Despicable cunt! Worthless tart!”
“I’ll be in the next room when you want to be decent.”
“Now I want to die.”
“You’ll get your chance.”
“Balls!”
“Have it your way. We need food. Come with me to the grocery store.”
“I hate the grocery store! It is the central collection point of leper nazi smut! Little goblins smashing carts into my ankles, plunging further into the abyss of yellow tagged sales and over-packaged failure! Check-out stand beep-beep while surrounded on all sides by pointless glossy magazines for the addled self-conscious bad body image club of sick social values! I hereby challenge the assertion that grocery stores are convenient, good, or even useful! Give me strong drink! Not food! Food is for those who want their bellies to anchor them to visceral! Those who have given up hope! Those who want to idle away the time before death!”
I agreed with Celine: too much food was unhealthy…The body just couldn’t process all that decadent porkish garbage…And he was a doctor! I know! He knew! Some cast their votes to his Journey…but I much preferred North. I liked his crankcase stylings, his embittered infantile yell-screeching at editors, readers, solicitors, visiting priests and interviews! Death, even! So fuck you, Bukowski! It’s not like everyone else didn’t get the writer they deserved!
She threatened to be back in an hour or two for this horrible, manipulative mindfuck into the pan-lit gigglefest grocery store trial by fire…It was a Gutenberg Galaxy indeed! So it was, so it was. Not like we had anything to do anyhow, but perhaps frag some fucko belly-scratching pontiff hippies and little screwdriving patriotic missile makers! I fortified myself with two grams of cocaine and a bottle of absinthe. It would be enough to hurtle me into Aldebaran and back for about three days of constant sleeping, vomiting, and shivering. My old trick! Life was only bearable when I was almost deathly ill! It ceased to make demands of me in the main and in the rough! You want critique? Go soak your head and chat with the neo-rabbinical contingent of arms salesman to Syria! Fuck you rightly! Up and down the courtyard with the newly minted SS on your ass looking for clues and hard drives! The political underclass was nothing short of an aspiring mental breed-for-peace social club for the secret return of Napoleon III! Politics was golfing for the uber-elite gentry who grew up on Will Rogers and Charlie Brown! Faded, plaid protestant work-shoe manufacturing of consent and invasive telephone polls that ask nothing but total obedience with their dialectically formed questions to heap upon you more culture-swill and capital-perfunctory bedlam! And they thought I was the imbecile in these exchanges! I see it everywhere, and especially in the grocery store. Aryan fruit! Iraqi rice reformed by the politburo of the stars ‘n stripes standard! Obese, waddling insurance brokers pushing around little wire-frame barrows heaping on an expensive packaged buffet of get-me-fat, get-me-rich quick schemes or to woo little girls who don’t know any better!
And so we went. Did I have a choice? Perhaps I was paralyzed by too many choices.
“Push the cart,” she ordered.
I pushed the cart. I pushed it erratically, in zigzags like a drunken poet. I pushed it into the stockades of general punishment, entire sales fronts of bean cans and cartons of kindergarten juice boxes! I reeled in a kind of woozy agony, cocaine now being supplanted by the effects of my good Czech absinthe. Thank the Internet and the black underground pipeline ring of ridiculous smuggling. Thank Jesus, too, but only at the moment that he is parsed and mechanically separated bone and flesh in cans of stew on sale for those of the laity too poor to eat the prime flank! Little Jesus steaks and stew chunks for all! My bitch, well, she bought the steak as per usual! It always stunk up the house, made it smell like a Catholic wunderblock ass! I was vegetarian for reasons that never mapped on to health or ethics. I was a vegetarian because I was not going to cannibalize transubstantiated love-me Jesus meat! Every single day, another cow or pig on the rood: king of the barn! I disdained flesh of all kinds, and refused it from many kings! The absinthe tore the aisles in two three four cells. We were staring at an obscene collection of canned peaches.
“This one is on sale, but let’s check how much…310 grams? What’s that one over there?”
I hated comparison shopping. I hated comparison. Shopping was too pointlessly metaphysical. Just staring at that long Roman legion of assorted canned peaches, each one of them essentially the same shriveled slop in sugared juice, and I just knew that this was one of my less refined enemies trying to fucking negate me. Everything was trying to negate me! A foppish looking clerk came by and unceremoniously dropped a case of canned pineapples next to me. I jumped with a start.
“Wah! You bloodletting tart representative of this nefarious kingdom of ends! You salacious papoose carrying the misery of labour under the false veneer of selection! Your pineapples nearly mediated with me!”
“Oh, I am very sorry, sir. Are you all right?” was his preprogrammed response. Inside he was probably seething…That is, if this employment scenario hadn’t hollowed out all remaining vestiges of an inside…Making the outside the inside! No difference! Corporate indoctrination made us all reversible beings! The storefront persona of Better Business Through Compliance was nothing more than an inside mirror eventually. I started knocking cans off the shelves, sweeping large tinny clusters with my arm in long violent motions. And all he did was pick them back up. A woman up the aisle was ready to launch a reflexive comment, but thought better of it. I continued my very petite reign of futile terror. Everything back in its place!
“C’mon,” she dragged me away. “Push the fucking cart and stop acting like a crazy shit.”
I stopped, for sure. But then I got my bearings again, found the enemy everywhere, and gave a mighty heave on the cart, sending it cruising like a missile into the frozen section. It smashed up against the steel fender they attach there for the blind and useless driver. The cart’s backend darted up and fell back on its wheels. I felt like a peasant. I was pushing a cart. I was performing an endless task of labour. I could not smash the means of production with my innate forces of disgust. I was thirsty and wanted out.
“You’re an idiot, you know that?” she said. She retrieved the cart while I started trying to rock the shelves. Those fuckers bolted them to the floor! I wanted to bury shoppers on the other side. An old lady, who grew up in a time when people weren’t crazy but just being difficult, tried to lay her shame trip across my forehead. I spat on her face and pushed her down. Outrage. I call it courage, but other shoppers came to her aid, like this was some big trip through the Andes where no one gets left behind. Fucking equality egalitarian liberal love trip! This is a state where the fastest sprinters are forced to wear lead weights so that we don’t hurt the feelings of the losers! Bah! I blame Johnny Mill and his big book of How to Die Slowly While Grinning Serenely. I blame you! And you over there! My woman returned to the scene.
“Caught between Scylla and Charybdis! Yet again!” I yelled, as if in explanation mode. “Fuck! Get out of my way! I must make purchases! My greedy twelve-ton nazi octopus of desire demands my participation in your circus economy for submorons! Stop jackknifing all around me like any of you have anything to say! You flex your wallets before the mirror! You prop up your own evil empires with little fenced in dreams and sour hopes and mass better breeding of the new eugenic suburban hope! Farcical! Not even comedic! I’m betting on your failure, and I am going to reap it all in! the chips fall! You will all drown in Jesus and money and grapefruit health juices and car stereos! In a big vat of recyclable commercial spunk!”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Someone call the police.”
“Are you okay, miss?”
“Who the hell does he think he is?”
“I’m going to sock him one good!”
“People like that ought to have their heads examined.”
All in all, a television cliché script! I kid you not! I was surrounded by roboticized hairless monkeys with credit cards and cell phones and little postcards from Hades Central! The store clerk went off, probably to whimper to the manager, to hide behind his wide wobbly ass of cheap workshop-learned negotiations. But this was not peacetime! Let the bullets fly until all the cartridges are empty! A war is not over until the last dollar has bought the last bullet, and the last bullet has been fired into the last enemy! I will not negotiate with these UN ballet dancers! Their very presence and attempt at negotiations diminishes me! I am Peter the Great and Monmouth the Pretender on amphetamine rhino rampage! I am the first Czar of the vanished republic of lackluster hopes, or so it would seem! Let the bandstands crush all the little gathered children at the crowning ceremony! I started pitching cans at the crowd, answering their simian interlocution with one of my own. Let them eat crushed pineapple! Everyone rejoice! I am serving them all up! To the hilt! With Mary Magdalene as co-sponsor of this new intrigue! And little mirages of desert capital for all! An oasis of consumption! This is a grocery store, for god’s sake! Consume! Eat my offerings! I am Jesus of fishes and wine, co-opting the bounty and distribution function of grocery life!
“Stop!” she screamed, now pinning my arms. In this state of spinning glory drunkenness, she overpowered me. I shook her off eventually, got tired and bored, and climbed into the cart for a snooze. But my eyes would not close! I was seething! All red and sweating like so many jaguars in heat! I made horrible wheezing growling noises. I let her push me through the mob, parting the sea of useless bodies that looked upon me with their well programmed derision. I started the shivering bit, and it would only be a matter of a few hours until I was completely incapacitated. I yawned and the whole world sank into Doppler effect. Let it die, let it die, but please let it be fast. Let’s not drag this out for longer than it needs to.
We were finally outside, sans purchases. She rammed the cart with me inside among the other carts, and just walked away. I stayed there until night, shivering, speaking to myself in eloquent quatrains about the fate of the house pet. I began to think I was going to die. A police cruiser’s lights washed over my face, and I knew that yet again my hope would be dashed along the pointy rocks of diminishing circumstance.

4
Back to the box, always back to the goddamn box.

MSG 8855 Re: Schizofauxlizzy thinks makes metal, makes noise alone
You are a fucker, and no one needs to make an apology on your behalf. My heart bleeds for you so so much…but it may just be my ass. Thx for the jokes. Peace out, boy wonder.

MSG 8856 Mine Eyes Doth See Thine Twirly Ribbon Cunt
Greetings all, yet again, and again I find myself in the same debacle of failure and misprision, and so forth…und so weiter, aber lieder nicht. But what can Wilhelm teach us all in this engrossing time of need? I need not respond to the rimjob of men and his adentavit asininus, notwithstanding. But here I be, sit, watch CNN, and peace process as war, and justify military budget experiment, and Iraqis as mere terrorists which makes the death of Americans (glory be, heaven forfend) an act of non-negotiable TERRORISMUS for the half-backed patriot’s justification. We all know that the USPQRofAmeriKKKa preceded itself pre-9/11 by selling missiles and planes to Iraq and maybe Syria. The buildings burned accordingly as acknowledgement of the contract. Intractable. It was planned, staged farce to break boredom. Stockhausen et al: “it was the greatest work of ART since the CREATION.” I wish it was that easy, but that is the score among the post-serialist scene that enjoys making polite explanations for light refusals. I hear the keening of Budweiser, Boy-King of the Boys. White bread boys, with the oil and the wife-beating grandeur of neo-masonic world utopic love of tyrannical mono-domination. Get yr bibles: Reagan was right…it’s apocalypse time, but the sort that has been rewritten and directed by Spielberg and Geo-Lucas.

And then the computer screen went blank. I am of the school that a sound beating makes the technological mule work again, but my blows only succeeded in silent, blank mockery. The computer started back up again, re-initializing programs I never got around to using, just filler software to make my PC bloated and obese, limiting what active forces I have at my digital command. But then, and then, an unprompted scan of the hard drive commenced, rerouting the usual virus software kickback movement.

COPYING ALL FILES….

The Internet icon was flashing, in use, but no page was up. I clicked on it, to no avail.

COPYING TO .gov

What? All I could read out of that slurry of gibberish was the .gov bit. I clued in: fuck! They’re cleaning my hard drive! I yanked the plug, but it was already too late. The fun had just started for me. Sure, I had spleen, and sure I like to force the quarrel into the domain of the ultra-fantastic, but I was not willing to clatter swords with the State. Not yet, anyway. I calmly explained what had happened to her. She bitched at me for an hour, and then was surprisingly pragmatic.
“You will, of course, need to leave immediately,” she said. “But I will come with you. I do not know what you said or why, but maybe you can be exonerated…There has to be some amnesty for the insane.”
“In times of war, the insane are the first to go. They are expendable husks because no one would miss them. It allows the State to have a practice dummy for the real thing. I’m a fucking madman! Of course I would eventually by my own devices touch upon some bleeding sore sensitive point! And now I’m in the cargo hold of political rhetoric as a terrorist, and as you know, there is a no negotiation policy.”
“It isn’t fair! You’re just sick! You’re not dangerous!”
“You are particularly stupid if you believe the movement of the State has anything to do with fairness. It’s about getting things done. It is one big, blind bowel movement. This is the age of electronic McCarthyism. Fairness…fairness is the living lie of senile grandmothers who prune their flowers with sewing needles.”

I’m wending my way through the Christian gallows here! It’s what everyone else says is patriotic and right that lands me in this godforsaken mess of urbane sick values! And in quick order, all sorts of spooks of the night, black ops and other asinine delegates of Bismarckian nonsense assailed me! Chasing me around! Bringing me in for hours of questioning, giving me a headache! The runs! Thirsty for something strong! All on this, my great day off! Here’s how it runs:
“Mr Copec, have you now or ever been affiliated with any terrorist organization or terrorist plot?”
“I answer this again and again! I hope that you are beginning to see the argument as it emerges (are you keeping in mind previous moves I have made in our collective and shared social situation, such as it is?)…I am almost completed revision on the psyche profile of this great Roman clown—such that I am--so maybe the critics will help put this into focus for you. You did not make any mention of my inimical charm as a suitable move in the argument. I positively need to know if it sounds feasible! Also, your telling me my brainspace and virtual mailbox needs to be pruned down worries me a bit, and so I hope you have an idea exactly what you think needs to be trimmed down; otherwise, I do see all of it as it stands as being relevant. Unlike Hegel, abstracting parts away from Artaud weakens HIS argument, for it depends a great deal on its dynamic. I am somewhat upset by this news of you not seeing what it is I am arguing, for it frustrates me not to be understood after so much work has gone into this. We need to allot some very serious non-face time (an hour or more, away from one another!). I think this is what we lack at the moment: less extended meeting time. Otherwise, I am stumbling about in the wilderness only occasionally hearing his master’s voice. I get television in ways you will never know, but my recurring fear is that you don’t.”
“Answer the question, scumbag!”
“This is ridiculous. I think the effects of overwork have affected us both...We are going back to square one with Dolly and her friends. Now I am writing too much on the newsgroup; I have read too much in my day. You have written nothing or too little; you have laboured too hard to avoid reading. I appear to be a man of excess. Perhaps I will drink less coffee. Perhaps I will sing you a song with a deeply entrenched moral message.”
Dear dutiful secret service inquisition: I have no problem giving up anything that you feel is superfluous. I think we both foresaw this terrorism thing as a dominant thread throughout the task of our shared button collecting and other anal fetishes. I also remember asking you about the hooded and becloaked ones, and you counseled against inducting Ronald McDonald, and so suggested a large voided question mark in his place. I am a bit confused, but hopefully tomorrow everything will be straightened out via discourse. What would be of enormous help is if in accord with the statement I outlined, you clue me in to exactly what I should be leaving out, even if this means taking a big red pen and stroking off sections within ideas you feel to be unnecessary. Yes, I overwrote the madman, but I am very frightened that my readers will not take the claims seriously if there are residual biases against the Republic’s final dissolution. As I mentioned long ago, I wanted to create a fortress with this kludge of parts known as the Immutable Assemblage ‘I’. I do not feel as though there are many on my side, and so it is an uphill struggle. I sometimes feel as though I am perceived as a joke, and I want to nip this in the bud with a puissant argument that demonstrates the power and range of my abilities. Anything but go up in smoke. There has been a great deal of confusion on both ends, and it is probably due to hectic schedules, short emails and visitations, and other things. In four solid months I have produced perhaps four barrels of vomit for this argument that you have kindly performed divination upon, including the seizure of my hard drive, books, files, friends, dead pets, memories, and perceptions that you keep in a top secret bunker under Piccadilly Circus...although I cannot always decipher your code (I find you put the same marks on playing cards depicting Iraqi centerfolds, and half the time I do not know why you underline certain faces: do you agree with the face? Is it troublesome? Wrong? Right? An anchor point for your faciality?). I take each of your comments VERY seriously, and try to make emendations as I go along. I spend as much time reading and reflecting on just your tiresome movements across the land alone as you probably do spying my missives. I am writing myself into oblivion it seems. Throw me an anchor if you have one to spare. Otherwise, get off my cloud, bub.
Of course, as always, Hegel's "concept" is not transcendental enough. I am sure you feel the same way. Let's keep marching toward the great solar flare American Dream, wherever it may be sleeping, wherever it may be dreamt.
The argument, god how I am beginning to hate the argument—on Sunny Boulevard and cocaine transcendentals, continentals, drift. The problem? Perhaps the argument has not yet emerged in this slapstream of the now. And of course that I have inserted every Gibbon and Mumford reference known to man, which accounts for the heft of the idea in the now. Selah. But it is perhaps all attributable to my fear that the crusaders are innate fools (none who take the argument seriously, nor ever will no matter how much you try to tease the slave to see things affirmatively). Four solid months and 4 barrels later and I think I have lost my ability to argue. At least I'll have enough padding when I want to rewrite it as a Hollywood screenplay. But I suppose Prez Budweiser’s complaints could be much worse...That I have read too much or written too much, as he says, is perhaps to err on the good side of things. My girlfriend on the other hand has more of an uphill struggle since she has yet to actually think anything just as yet, and is still attempting to structure existence start to finish (which in retrospect is what I should have done). I am perhaps getting too irritated with Hegel's system of "if yes means no and no means yes, is Being a universal concept?"
I was let free, conditionally, further evidence pending. Those motherfuckers could always manufacture whatever they wanted. The second round promised to be more brutal, more coquettish, too. All because I was SchizzyLizzy, a handle anyone could have, or purchase as a domain name from the carpetbaggers on the other side of easy street moon. Hopefully all is well on your side of the rocky wall. Gifts cometh soon, and maybe--just maybe--I'll make it and enter into a milieu that will see me as the Great Hope rather than the Anarchic Pariah. If I am not thorough enough, this paranoia/crucifixion trip is going to last me a while, and to shake my rump like a nice wet dog will not earn me the citational good boy treats: only a big fat boot down my throat.
I walked the streets in search of booze or traces of activity that did not scream for my head. I found neither. It was almost sunrise. My woman was busy being verbally tailored and prompted by the suckfish gentry of republican reprise, which is to say that they were feeding her lines: “you’re not the enemy…he is. Turn ‘im in! Big bonus reward for you! Championship medal for patriotic bravery!” She’d eat it up, but then she wouldn’t have me to kick around either. I guess it was win-lose either way.

5
This is going to be long...Sit back with some coffee, whiskey, or whatever implements are necessary to hack through the wordy underbrush. I handed off a message to a crazy anarchist friend on the west side of town, plopped into his mailbox at the crack of dawn. I had to stay put at my place, house arrest, at the beck and call of the CIA call and response team. There would be more questioning, and I was assured of having a goddamn fit.

Habul--
Rather than foist upon you the general calibre of vitriolic narrative that has on more than one occasion resulted in my being extruded to the margins, chased out of the village by torch and pitchfork, rejected for being intransigently opposed to producing the saccharin penny dreadful critique of Iraq that the monolithic neo-masonic establishment of this nation defines as “just peachy keen,” and being tossed out ass over heels from every liquor dispensing dome from here to Vancouver, I have thought it…prudent, perhaps, to feel out the terrain before keying into the savage rhythms of the oblique scrag alleys of your life. For all the amusement it is worth to send word to the bankrupt circuses of stale liberal has-beens like The New Marxist Groove (now merged with the nefarious Boot-Strapped Anonymous, with fourth floor counting house satellites stretched in Octopoid fashion across the weary stretches of the national concern, producing in massive quantity the inimical Self in all its hoary glory, faux-po-mo theorizing jargon that it picks up in the gala or parlour circuit while dropping names like Deleuze and Derrida in with its cocktails), or to tired iron horse styling of the Trojan Internet and the weak blogo-screed, I have more often than not been butting my gnarled horns against them to no avail. The plight is desperate; American Freedom is a sinking ship, and there are several of us who refuse to produce the rags to riches dot com stories that are all the rage among the mediocre middle cash-class Archie comic republic of shame and failure, these “ideals” with ingratiating titles and content that will not clash with the IKEA lifestyle of said banal "volk" who jubilantly goosestep their way over true BEING in order to purchase the next “pretty” Van Gogh reprint for their salmon-coloured dens. It would be here that we should invoke the Nietzschean sense of Ekel…the poetic will to vomit: perhaps one of the last forms of orgasm and protest left to us. If the gentry were only keen on long screeds against President Budweiser and his foul cabal of old Cold War relics in their struggle to bomb that which cannot be commercially annexed, then we may be screeching the same tune. If we lapse occasionally into frenzied fits of animal screaming then I am candidate one for the next presidential election. I have had my fill of New “Yawk” huckstering skullduggery polling-pimps who have done nothing more than serve up a plenum of empty promises while sticking the screws to my bank account. It is now that I leave you…

Arming myself against creditors and other moral blackguards in the national reserve;
Alexander Copec, Meta-Being Populaire.

Just then, a sudden critique!
“Hey, asshole! If yer looking for that creep, he skipped out a month ago! If you see his Arabian ass, tell him it’s mine!”
Ooh! A belligerent landlord! My favourite! Are there any other kind?
“I think he is saving his ass for the devil, in a grand production sideshow wedding with seven-headed dragons with diadems and special cameo appearances by Jennifer Lopez and Dizzy Gillespie.”
“What kind of a god-hating dick are you?”
“Oh, so you’ve read my work then. Much appreciated for the feedback. I had no idea that I wrote ‘strongly’ or ‘effectively’...I thought I merely rambled incoherently about things no one reads, sees, or understands. But the Internet makes heroes of us all. But I do agree somewhat that I am negotiating my way through this brutal, savage, and even crudely stupid world, but I personally do not think this notion of "civility" as utopic is possible. It sounds too 19th century liberalism in the bedroom to me. Ah, yes, Latin to Greek, Latin to Greek. No doubt that I am dealing with an enemy in the writing, for the parallels between the current Amerikan trajectory and that of some postmodern Roman circus are just too painful to ignore, and so it always behooves me to speak the language of the enemy and oppressor. However, I do carry a Heraclitean fire machine with me at all times, keeping true to the Greek sense of the words.”
Was my critique of Our Great Nation of Eggbeaters fair? Accurate? Viable? I was just getting to know Prez Budweiser and his cadre of shadowy and effulgent military pranksters. Their project is sound, and their bibles are beautiful. But then again, so are yours. Once finances stabilize, your productions will be making their perilous way to my end so that I may luridly cite them in my researches. I am also considering adding you as a link to my page, because my traffic yield has shown trends of increasing drastically over the last few weeks. If you would like to write a small blurb, send it to me so that I can perform the necessary implantation like the cosmetico-virtual Frankensteinway that I am (at times, at times). I may still wish to make a fecal offering to the Grand Inquisitor Lord himself of a more recent and avant-absurdarian than any of the older epistles he read, but I must completely extinguish any recognizable plot theme from it to ensure that the fortress is as pregnable as possible. You see, I am the caretaker of a broken fortress in the spirit of "a brick may be used to edify the courthouse of reason, or it can be used to be thrown through its window". Dissenting Letter…Hilarious! I’m no Whitman! I’ll pierce myself with sharpened, broken sticks before hailing the chief. But maybe this was what had all those suited crusaders with satellite surveillance tied up in a Gordian knot of everlasting love upon my person.
Wie geht's? Stay in touch, Herr Doktor. I was winding my way back home, humming along to the natural noise of Goebbels transfigured in the streets. Soon all of New York would be joining in the grand chorus of the Flag. I would be indoors, being Italian in part, throwing bottles and glowering, waiting for them to take me away and put me in tow with Antonio Negri.
Is it round two already? The gruff collection of nondescript securitas volk were spilling in and out with boxes of my stuff that made the semantic shift overnight to “evidence.”
“What is this?” I think Paul was his name. All accusers are named Paul. The Bible is one strong determiner. He shoved a scrawled note of mine under my nose. I almost got to read it aloud.

"It is now clear to us that the most dangerous terrorist in the world is you, Mr. President. For it is you who breeds the terrorists in Palestine by feeding the fascist Israeli war machine. It is you who seeds hatred against the United States by supporting every two-bit dictator on the planet, so long as they come to your feeding trough."---Ernesto Sandino "An open letter to President George Bush"

“Why, dear sir, I think you have located a quotation! Glory be! Now we can lock up the fuck-nut forever! Gaoler, throw away the key! I’m an inveterate quoter!”
“Okay, wiseguy, you wanna play this way?”
“Not particularly. What’s for lunch?”
“Why do you have this sick quotation? Don’t you know how stupidly anti-American it is? It’s a terrorist declaration, is what it is!”
“Check, please!”
And then he roughed me up a little. It was almost sexual. If only momma had gotten me one of these for Christmas. Apparently, things were very dangerous. I was informed in measured terms about what serious depth of trouble I was in, the implicating evidence, the little hairs in my sink that were most likely precursor bombs and chemical weapons just waiting to be actualized. I never thought stupid and anti-American went together well in a sentence, but I learned that day that—in some circles—it is very stupid. It is also anathema to quote anybody. And never, never, never ask for the check: it makes them sore (because perhaps they want to be gallant and pay on my behalf).
Memories of happier times, O how I cherished them:
Three months ago, to my friend Professor Wilkins: “While the infernal electoral cauldron is brewing on this side of the 49th, and the punditry rages on the ‘fear and loathing’ campaign trail everywhere else, I wanted to know where the university admin (in all their infinitely bent and dim wisdom) has (re)situated you viz. your office. There is much to discuss, like how the President can be made to either eat his own humble pie or if his staff must be invited to share (or else they feel left out and have absolutely no use for their Pentagon priced party hats). Perhaps this was the “document of terror” they were looking for. Why bother? I’m just a goddamn budget cut from another century. But it felt good to be speaking with my old professor again. Like everyone else, he had difficulty understanding what I was saying on account of the aphasia, partial schizophrenia, and Tourette’s, but it always seemed that he tried harder, like it was worth penetrating my hazy jabbering for some pearl of wisdom. Sometimes the nutcases have profound things to say, and it is probably because of their profundity that they are mad. Maybe. The Greeting Card machine was already on the move, covering the entire War in Iraq along with CNN…Soon we would get flags at discount prices and visit makeshift WTC shrines next to little Virgin Marys in bathtubs. When I first got word of the War, I thought it was merely a badly placed joke. Apparently I was right.

Just a brief note, if you would like to pass it along to interested students, that an interdisciplinary theory board has been inaugurated, what I call my "theory hub". I manage and administrate it, and people are free to post and dialogue.
MSG 7013: Visa vie nom plus!
Dear, dear, little boy blue: I was hoping you could perhaps assist me in building a twin colossus by the dimensions of, say, what the time I see now on my digital clock: nine by eleven, interior. Although we have all become CNN-weary and fireman-friendly peoples, you may have an antipathy to said project. I can't say I really buy into the argument, and it may be a bit sketchy in some places. But there is something rather troubling about the antipathy in general, for it appears (albeit in some very surreptitious moments)
that despite Budweiser’s use of Hegel as a constant and reliable minor nomad jesus, there are instances of contiguity. And something is rather intuitively driving me to re-examine Schopenhauer as an apologia between the two figures, for good or ill. I have just finished and submitted a paper on Architectural Vaginality where I only hint somewhat provocatively at a Budweiser-Hegel axis in thought. This German connection may also prove useful in "unmasking" the missiles for oil program, but it's a problem of forests and trees at the moment. If you could, offhand, indicate some crucial (and perhaps obscure) texts that may assist me in my general program, I would be immensely in your debt. Yr last note was generous: In my younger years (younger? I'm eclipsing the 25 mark), I was completely enamoured with Gramsci and Negri until virulent and petty/reactive ipseologists in the Anglo-American vein forbade me to make mention of these figures due to their "lack of Almerikan rigour," etc. But that is a narrowness I can thankfully leave behind very soon. This is not to say that Gramsci and Negri were drummed out of me, but that i had to take such reading underground, in a sense. So let me know if you can think of any pertinent texts I should be examining and re-examining. It would help bolster my bibliographical details for when I return to my better and more reliably focused “self”.
Aude Ludere; paint the donkey blue.

I search now through the remains for anything vaguely terrifying in that terrorist sense…How many years will they go back? I find this in a bottom drawer of memory, something the spooks forgot to ferret outta me and that I will be obliged to burn:

Dear Modern Housewife--
To spare much in the way of postage and time on both ends, I am querying the relevance and suitability of my project via email.

Long have I travailed to seek a suitable location for my work in progress on the Terror of a Meat-Driven Society. Since it takes an interdisciplinary line, and straddles the domain between philosophical wizardry, rhetorical dishwashing, and linguistic sword-rattling, I am at a loss as to exactly which journal I should be contacting in regards to this project. However, after having been directed to this journal and being impressed with its ambitious and intriguing program, I thought it prudent to query, even if your journal has constantly let me down with disappointing articles and gibbering editorial moves.

My current "obsession" is with the conceptual study of meat and Jesus Mason laugh tracks apart from its hitherto understanding in ethico-legislative literature, or as merely a subset of rhetoric and persuasion in Disneyland. Following a rather drunken line of concept-pragmatics, I have discovered a salient typology of political meat-eaterism centered on the differential relation between Republican goat snatching and the removal of bad architectural dentistry nightmares in NY which functions to serve the current discourse in two essential ways: 1. Allowing us to examine the issue of meaty Jesus eating (a rather topical issue at the moment, owing to our shared "global" situation) free from the vicissitudes of rigid concept categories, and; 2. To serve as a means of making drunken speculation more rigorous insofar as we can emend the rather airy and wistful features of my glorious theories which, in my view, truly hinders your initial project of getting a better satellite transmission.

If you feel that it is not suitable or outside the scope of Modern Housewife, I would welcome any suggestions or hints as to where it may be suitable, to the best of your knowledge. I hold some reservations as to the relevance this topic may have for your nazi-backrub readers in general, but at this juncture it seems to be the best fit for an enigmatic and innovative scholarly exploration such as this.

My background is posterior in scope, which is to say that my background is safely lodged behind me. I have several current projects centered on a serious reappraisal of understanding (mis)understanding, as well as a variety of other projects involving George Buffoon, Blogoporn, and Louis XXIII of New Prussia. My publication credits reflect a few of these interests, with articles appearing in your house, bus stops, and an article on my wondrous sense of fashion and charm. I hope to hear from you soon, my lovely.

My interests are fairly obvious, at least I think so. I had thought them innocuous entities in the greater love spiral of togetherness that was our fiendish suckfish nation of bubbly. But instead, I am currently embroiled in horrors at the State department, yet they fail to apprehend that I wish to pursue more dynamic and interdisciplinary approaches that have a direct bearing on my own puissant and polymathic tendencies. They seem to think jail or lethal injection is a fine school. I would rather not go out like a postmodern Christ, if it can at all be avoided. But, they will do what they do.
“Hey, asshole, wake up!”
Another gruff call by my polite inquisitors. They may have something else to entertain me with, maybe a poem. But I’m not that easily frightened by poetry…Not yet, at any rate.
“You know, one of the most appealing features of this crusader/kill the foreigner program, from the sparse information I know of it at this point, is that it would foster and encourage a broad knowledge base for otherwise displaced theory-maniacs
to engage a multitude of topics employed in the service of a refined critical project wherein one could invoke (where applicable, and for instance) seemingly disparate, yet coherently linked disciplinary approaches. For instance, it could be possible to unite the
post-critical discourse that folds back on Werner Herzog with a Phillipe Sollers and a Baptist sensibility. It is this kind of vivacious freedom that I seek as I clamber to the ‘top of the Most Wanted pole,’ so to speak.”
“This guy’s nothing but a nut,” said one of them who appeared to have a secret passion for jelly donuts.
“Don’t be fooled, Jerry…This kid’s a pro. He’s just trying to make us think he’s insane with all this cuckoo clock talk.”
“I do have credentials to this effect, available at your local Starbucks or payable by MasterCard.”
“You’re not making this easier on yourself. Do you understand?” he asked…A point blank style of question!
“I'm rambling; please send info...Windows is shutting down.”
“Mebbe he’s speaking code. Send Floyd and his boys down to the crypto-lab with the recordings. Keep him talking,” one stern head belched at another, and so on, in one big daisy chain with me at the helm being fucked up the ass by the merger of big business and modern security…

Greetings from above the condemnable nazi Archie comic of shame and failure...
Well, it would appear that I have far too many government appointed shitheels of the avant-noize, post-text polemical variety and so little time. I will endeavour--with your shrewd guidance--to submit myself to something tailored to your most pressing needs...If one could be so hopeful. Provided here are a few ideas for your navel-gazing, chin-stroking fancy....If any of these tear you to shreds or send you into fits of apoplexy, let me know. Yes, ich bin e-dichter, established. I can provide my long and embarrassing electronic love vitae if this will satisfy the mores, etc. Excerpts from these blogs are also available. Whatever is needed, I will rush to post at the address your site provides. On most days, I’m unavailable for comment, in and out of Cogito as is my wont.
“Well, what do you have to say for yourself? This kid’s a goddamn headcase failure.”
“It has come to my rather fractured attention that your government, though mainly specializing in many mainstream fatbacks, has a soft spot for the more--shall we say--"oblique" figures. And, I suppose, here I am to push and press that soft spot for all it's worth, hoping that this moist little spot is not a jail. Many of our marginal fringe-y types of any merit have been devoured by the mega-magnates of American gameshowpolitik, and of those usually that which makes the tired Oprah circuit...Despite our country's very polite facade, I am not very well admired for my more open, left-leaning views, and am usually lambasted for speaking against popular sport and middle class BBQs for crushing artistic pursuits of any kind. This makes expatriation a very
real consideration.”
“Don’t count on it. You have to answer for your crimes, SchizzyLizzy.”
“So why this rather twisted and longwinded diatribe? Why should you care? Isn’t this whole boilerplate game of questions just protocol and procedural farce before you toss me in the slammer, charged with every crime going back to the signing of the Deck-la-ration? If all this sounds like a desperate plea, it most likely is. Isn’t that the first rule they teach you boys in snoop school? Or is it the Wagnerian goosestep?”
I was going to get up and do this little dance for them, just to demonstrate how together we all were, seeing as we would be seeing a lot of each other. But two sets of rough hands slammed me back down into that uncomfortable ass-biting seat.
“Sit down, Mr. Copec!” spooky said. A bit post facto, but all right.
“Well, at least you’re still talking to me, which must mean that you’re completely clueless. If my guilt was already an assured, sign-it-away deal, we wouldn’t be chatting: I’d be in a hole.”
Another fine representative entered wearing the same suit, just like the movies. He whispered something to the other and then I was spoken to.
“You’re free to go for the time being. We’ll be in touch, so don’t you decide to skip town.”
Okay, sure. Why would they be playing this tug-of-war anyway? Ah, of course! It’s not like I could actually do a terrorist act, but they wanted me to try! Get me out in the open doing something concrete. That’s pretty infantile, really.

An email brings me back to places and times beyond and before all this wretched war drumming:
Proffer-essor Wilkie—
We should--not to be too topical--slot our final Rawls-fest into a brief discussion on the inevitable war perpetrated by our favourite postmodern Roman emperor, Bush the Second...Obviously a situation whereupon the notion of overlapping consensus at the UN Security Council level failed to reach resolution. Perhaps its reflective equilibrium just wasn't wide enough. That being said, it would appear what Hunter Thompson may have a tentative and workable solution in re: the Rawls debacle. I wouldn't mind taking on the critic's role and asking all those nifty out-of-bounds questions. Seeing as I have never been altogether too fond of Rawls to begin with, and find his political conception of justice far too narrow insofar as it still depends on an archaic mode of constructing binaries of inside-outside (ye olde Enlightenment sleight-of-hand of separating the liberal at home while keeping his political colours in an outside terrain). I've been purposely quiet all semester, and wouldn't mind the chance to really stick the boots to what I perceive to be an outmoded and wholly nostalgic view of how Justice ought to be considered. In the spirit of Hardt and Negri, and their clarion call of alterity, I think I will side with the formulation that the political IS the ontological (or at least an immediate imbricated multiplicity). The "Great Society" of Rawls never truly "jived" me for reasons that are rife and probably derive from my perceived role in our collegium as a kind of continental bogeyman anarchist. Regrettably, no, I have no paper trail to cover myself in this event...Looks like I should keep all my receipts. In retrospect, however, I do not see how this situation will do anything to facilitate any easy solutions. My question is, of course, this: last February seemed to prognosticate accurately: "the Just are dead, long live Justice." I hear that 400 double spaced pages is a tad long for a paper, but not quite long enough for a bible. Perhaps it is crucifixion anxiety on my end that seems to motivate me. As if bulking up the army will somehow make better odds against the monolith that is Hegel! I keep forgetting the David & Goliath story! End quote, gentaloons! will there be cloaked ones in shadows steepling their fingers in anticipation of my entry into the sacrifical departmental stew?

From some darkly lit barrio
Yrs, A. Copec at half his heft.

Memories, too! How embarrassing!

“I would acknowledge in part all your helpful guidance in these last 5-6 years as you witnessed me mature from a cavalier poltroon to...a cavalier poltroon (with a credit card and a will). Wilkie, yer all right!”
“Think nothing of it, Alex. It’s a shame that your marks are so low, but you’re a bright young lad. It’s just that no one can understand you. I think perhaps that it isn’t that the world doesn’t understand you, but that it doesn’t WANT to.”
So be it, so be it, and let it burn. Let all the alchemy of the old west come out to play on mutant Mickey Mouse backs and small krypton laser spears. I’ve read the news today, O boy, and frankly I was bored. I had read it a thousand times before. I specialize in irreverence par excellence. I make no apologies. I ask no quarter. My life bears the stains of an age of terror and I turn my back and toasted there, too.
I went back home, unapologetic for the debacle of being dragged in like a cave-rat duty-bound to answer questions, to justify its existence to a simpering lot of economic Darwinists. So I lived. Big deal. I twisted the cap off a forty of vodka, tilted the bottle up and didn’t bring it down until the sun dipped behind the valley of mechanical fortresses and neon villages.
And then she came home.

6
She ruffled through the unbesmirched remainder of her things, packing a suitcase in a big rush. The spooks had trampled all over her things in their zeal to have me in their sorry clutches. She didn’t look at me. So I decided to break ice:
“Alas, wishing a pox on the eyes on the decrepit poltroon who sent it, you deemed it unsavoury, I have a better solution! As well, instead of clogging your ass so large as to summon the wrath of the Furies upon me, I will rather direct you to my Holy Roman Empire, I urge you to act on this offer quickly before it sinks back into the ether from whither it came!”
“I’m sorry, but I am not supposed to talk to you. There’s a car waiting outside for me. They’re going to relocate me where all this madness won’t touch me. I really wish you had made an effort…” she said, not one touch abrasive at all, but almost tender and resigned. I liked that in a failed human being.
“The fascists may think they have won, but they can’t win all the time. And besides, I’ll still be holding up my cheer for generations to come. Take care of yourself.” I actually meant it, maybe.
While the Powers That Be or Not to Be decided whether to give this life the Caesarian yay or nay, she slunk off into the darkness, maybe to Phoenix. I am invariably bitter, mad, drunk and completely unmanageable, but a complete darling with a surprising grasp of my reasoning abilities when it contractually counts. At least that’s what I like to think or read in the news dailies. I stepped up to the phone like a champ and dialed a pal.
“Yeah, hi, I need representation. I have been wrongly charged with acts of terrorism and—“
Hung up. Okay, try again. The phonebook is fat with lawyers. One of them has to be a complete idiot with a death wish.
“Hello, hello, my name’s Alex Copec and I got a challenge for you. See, I’m up against the Bush Empire and the cabal of oil-sucking Masonic ideal, and so—“
Another hang up. Sweet, I suppose. I appreciate their brevity in silence. Not like lawyers at all.
“Yeah, I’m a terrorist, or so says my Uncle Sam. You got room in that caseload bedroom for a nifty warlord with a big host of obedient cells? I can pilot a plane and go places, man!”
Hm. Must be a fear virus going round. Let’s try again…
“Greetings, my name is Osama Love, and I have dreams about killing da president and his infidel Hollywood warriors. Do you have a can of Ricin I can borrow? My recipe calls for two parts and—“
Fine, not their style. Maybe I’ll ask the pizza delivery guy. I’ll bet he has nothing to do between masturbation sessions to late night porn. Perhaps I am trying to force a link between ontology and ethics that simply is not there, but I am willing to take a gamble if you are. Let me know through this artifice how the winds blow or if I am tilting at the wrong windmill, I tell these lawyer types. I suppose justice is not for the just. Might as well go back to chasing creditors off my land. It’s a great hobby if you have a stick. I decided to take a walk and catch the sights. Chance would have it that I would meet up with an old friend, Jim, in the subway. Fancy that. Jim was a bit sketchy, just like me, so we didn’t need to waste a lot of time introducing our mental afflictions.
“Alex!” he warmly greeted. He had on a big overcoat. It was seventy-five degrees. He looked fat and bulky in all the wrong places, and a tad nervous. “A-a-a-m mmm I e-e-ev-ev-ever guh-glad t-t-o see y-you!” (he stuttered when he was nervous).
“Jesus, Jim--but not in conjunction you old transubstantiated putz--I hadn't figured that you'd already be making the nation's ears bleed by going on some lazy walkabout through tonw with some mindbending and twisted agenda! What brings you out in public? Haven’t seen you on the boards lately...Bakhtin is ALWAYS big business in the poststructuralist (post-post-pre-post?) milieu, the unacknowledged precursor to Derrida and his merry band of lunatics (of which I count myself as one or more). Did you know Bakhtin did pretty much like the rest of us, writing up entire mss and filing them away in a shelf space somewhere. Well, when in Siberia...Just been musing about him lately. Of course, those early 20th century Russians had lousy Internet connections and near non-existent servers. I think they used Commodore 64s. Hard to know nowadays. I hear that vintage shit is kitsch and through the roof.”
“S-s-sorry t-t-t-t-t-to hee-hear-r-r that yuh-yuh-you've f-f-f-f-f-allen behind on that little ar-ar-gum-m-ment, on tha-t ff-f-ffffar end of the schuh-lastic ticket, but you know I'm here to help (and I believe you duh-did indicate HELP! in yuh-YUH-your message...the medium is,). OK, so here I am. I have a pretty decent cable connection right to my house with a fine piece of muh-mmm-machinery with all the chrome illusions, bells, whistles, tail fins, and such that any computer needs. If you wuh-want, email me with a sss-sss-section or two (one that makes you t-t-t-twitchy, and one that you are duh-downright sure of. The luh-latter will give me an idea of where you WANT to go as well as pointing out some items your vanity won't let you see) and in betwixt my numerous projects, I can whip something together in the form of a deep critique with all the little greased leads you'll need to get back on the rails so to speak.” And then he laughed, like a giggly madman, naturally. I was surprised he remembered my famous argument because I sure as hell didn’t.
“Well, I’m abruptly yours in struggle. Say, you seem dressed up. Do you have the shivers, or what? Still a goddamn Marxist? Rimbaudrate misses your posts: it made him feel stupidly like he belonged. So did you fuck Foucault or did you rape the terrain of his text? Jesus, Jim, that's pretty harsh. I guess shock is one way to put it--a good crowd enticer. But at least it was a reception of some kind, right? Right now, the Hegel-Budweiser alliance is giving me a headache (maybe I should bugger him, too?). Oh, yeah, all this time we've been putting Hegel on his head, well, we should have been turning him inside out. If any disastrous and arcane clusterfuck occurs along life's way, well I guess I'll just deal with it in my own particular way. Which is to say run screaming like a lunatic at the defense until it backs down.”
“Well, it-t-t wuh-wuh-WUH!was nice t-t-to see you again…”
“The brush off so quick, Jim? I thought we were catching up.”
The subway was homing in. The whole place had the hollow wailing sound of a demon whale as the juddering tin worm came a-tunneling our way.
“I ha-have t-t-to guhGuuuhGO! Alex. M-mmm-maybe you cuh-could hold—“
The train was almost upon us now. Soon we would be inundated with ticks and passengers and shoppers in search of a holiday. Neither of us had stomachs for that. He shoved a canister of something in my hand and told me to throw it in the first open car, and run, run, run. Well, I thought it funny—like a can of silly string or a fart bomb. So I did as he asked. He was already up the steps when I was about to do him this tiny favour.
The doors to the car shiffed open and there I stood, and there they stood. I rolled the canister inside and ran. Death covered the news like a bad spill in the kitchen.
Word was released later that night: “White male, medium build, light brown hair, sporting a ‘Fudge Your Noise’ t-shirt”—they couldn’t say fuck on the air, which was funny because fucking was always on TV, but you could tell by the newscaster’s hesitance that it wasn’t fudge—“wanted for biochemical attack…14 people killed as deadly nerve toxin flooded…If you have any information, notify…immediately…[buzz, crackle]…” Okay, so my TV reception was horrid. But at least I made the TV, which is to say that I was now in, a celebrity.
I ducked out to a nearby Internet café. Men in unmarked cars were now following me. I heckled them. I invoked liberties no one had anymore. I sat at the computer and did a net search for “SchizzyLizzy”, and guess what I found? A lot of hits! Not all of them were mine! But all of you people of the Yankee Doodle dick helot factory voted for Jesus Edgar Hoover, and try to stuff the Victory steak down my throat. But I have said this before! I do not eat meat because the meat industry ostensibly makes all animals holy. The mass crucifixion of animals made as much sense as crucifying them on the fields of crusader war: it made everything unbearably holy. Where was I? So why should I be surprised that SchizzyLizzy is a popular handle on the great polypus electronic butterchurner of da Insta-Net? I scrolled to a link that did not have me as its authorial origin. I hereby suspend emoticons for I ethically disagree insofar as we have no faces, and expression is for little drama slut girls who dig Albee rather than Albigensians. This link was in a particular context:

So like all in all, I think everything will work out the way it ought to. Jesus, I haven't been drunk since that Christmas office party when I called one of the managerial cabal members that he was a cultoid nihilist--did I ever learn from that experience! Haha! I guess instead of being the hoteheaded fool who always lets his mouth run into trouble, I substitute for that by being quiet and shrewd, feigning care. I guess that's the trick. The less of ME at the workplace, the smoother everything gets. Of course, it will all be different someday when I get a tenured position...Perish the thought! I can't sign off without saying how damn proud I am of you. You set yourself to task, overcame a
terrain studded with obstacles, and still made out like a champ. You've got good spirit and determination, balanced with a caring nature...More Lenin in you than Trotsky. You know better than I the obstacles you have traversed, all the bizarre indiscretions, the lacerating features of adversity...Moreover, you make it all look so easy.
Keep in touch, O bearded one

This guy didn’t have a fucking clue. There would be no tenure granted to an insecure Trotskyist layabout who thought labour was a crime of conscience of personal diminution. What a fool. For whom it was addressed…whoever that was who made it look easy was only because this fucker made it so pointlessly hard on himself. He was a suicide waiting to happen, but of the order that would only repeat the threat of suicide to all his posh friends for attention and zany drinking sessions. Zany people should be rounded up and shot. But this was not SchizzyLizzy…This was the thread in which my virtual doppelganger appeared. Maybe it was all on the order of Chiang Kaiser Sheik and the Lu Xun wet dream. Or maybe not:

SchizzyLizzy75 wrote:
Update: The Bush dynastic push for glory and unilateralism is at it again. The Pentagon is planning nuclear strikes against seven countries including Libya, Palestine, N. Korea, China, and Iran...a few others too. Apollo 12 never happened, and it was all the camerawork of Gordon Liddy et al., or maybe the piss-in-my-boots of LBJ. Nixon’s little fleabag “Checkers” had a chip up his ass. Everyone in the Nixon cabinet was, according to Nixon, a cocksucker. These are not kiloton, but MEGAton bombs. What will the UN do, our reevamped League of Nations? It is financially backed by American money and
American interests. Perhaps V. Putin should dust off his old KGB uniform and do some "field work" at the white house. It looks like the fears you had as a child growing up in the 60's are being revisited. The doomsday clock is ticking....I push the hand to twelve. You will get the following points for these deeds: 100 per Navy Seal death (up from 80), 1-5 for every citizen depending on pre-selected criteria, 25 for every infantry member, 15 for a cop, 18 for every fireman (we upped it for reasons that we need not go into here), 250 for an airport, and the Whitehouse grand prize (with President) is 10 000 points (!!). I’ll send a list of what can be redeemed with these points, but you must, must provide ample evidence that you and not someone else did it. If I discover you are taking credit for another’s work, or if it was all bogus, your points go back to zero, no debate.

Not me, I swear. Point systems are for bull-riding football coaches with svelte alcoholic wives. Was this some kind of terrorist reward catalogue idiocy? The reply was from the first poster:

Okay, all systems go. Did you get my Arkansas count? I’m gonna gets me a fighter plane! Thanks again for the update on the points. I think with the Arkansas numbers I should be able to use them for another +2 in charisma or subterfuge.

Equally impenetrable and idiotic. Pure fear and revulsion. It was on account of this vague point system bric-a-brac masturbation fantasy that I was now under the foul and shady criticism in the heavy hermeneutic love parade. I tell you: Yankee Doodle dick helot factory, where all the CIA are manufactured from a Hoover mould. Let’s retribalize the socius for kicks, says the infinite wisdom of a new political Beowulf, a whole new lycanthropology globe style. It is precisely on these grounds that I find people inedible.
Chances are that it will be in the order of something savage and heinous. It’s like writing a careful thesis while precariously perched on a rotten wooden beam over a frothing pit of hungry Baptist lions.
I gave up this pointless electronic detective bit, and paid my tab. I went outside and saw the same unmarked car.
“You can wipe the drive in their clean; I’m done!” I yelled out to them. And then I Sieg Heiled them in due turn and goosestepped in the direction of the horizon line. Why did they bother? They even pretended to not know what I was talking about, trying hard not to acknowledge that I was the object of their twisted desire voyeurism under the thick and fuzzy blanket of national security. Fuck them very much. All the same, it must have embarrassed them to be singled out like that. O ho ho! Who watches who? Don’t worry, my dearest flag underwear pajamas, if you were TV I’d change the channel. They’re all secret Maoists anyway.

Life returned to the unbearable underwear stain of the normal, sans my girlfriend who was probably whooping it up in a bush party in Phoenix with hare-lipped bronco ballbusters and the brokerage of the almost living and the long dead. I still received my checks in this obsolete clockwork universe of bureaucracy that was nothing more than a bureau with a crusted inkwell. If it wasn’t for Newton, the poor would have revolted by now. Rather, now we pay them to be revolting and watch them live in their own shit and misery in the false glamour of reality TV trailer trash abandon talk shows. So be it. Newton was duly responsible for our landing on the moon, and I believe a check is sent there every two weeks as well. Buzz Aldrin is put in charge of delivering them personally, our own space hero lunar postman. But that is the way of my opinions: loud, screechy, cacophonic, just the way experimental free jazz, the howling wild abyss of the true, of difference, affirmation and joy. And this is why I am a terrorist: I am full of Joy.
I spent the remainder of my free week with Francois, a displaced member of the 1968 culture club of evident place-holding theory-fire. We drank quite a bit, and he shared his disgust freely with the Shapes of Things to Come. But even disgust gets boring.
“People are stupid. They have NO value! I will drink more wine. People have nothing of value to say, but they talk and talk. I do not like this. My ears are sensitive! I am too French for them. I get angry and shout at them. They only look at me with their stupid, pointless, soulless eyes. They have shit in their brains! They shit into their own skulls! I do not like this. It makes me ill. Wah! Bah!”
“Agreed, so be it, res ipsa loquitor!” I said between pulls and gasps for breath on his end.
“And then, then, I go to my bank. Stupid, stupid bank! Full of fat rich liberals! They want to make me sign contracts and bits of paper that is supposed to make my life easier, but only makes them richer! They tell me that they will send details by email! Email! ‘You want emails?’ I ask this fat sow of a manager. Emails, always with the emails. What is this with the emails? What is an email? I do not understand these computers and their chattering emails. What is dis? I will never know...I type and hit little buttons and this is supposed to mean that we are talking...but we are not! Ach! We are all very dumb beasts! We think we talk, but we say nothing!”
“It’s the age of communication, which is to say nothing will ever be said unless it is all said at once like one long sustained noise. Every word spoken aloud at once so it just sounds like jazz that can’t play itself. I concur, Francois, but I do fiddle with the Internet, whatever it is supposed to be.”
“Bah! I have no time for machines! Machines everywhere! I take money out of machines, put money in machines, and when something goes wrong I must argue with machines!”
“Technology has no time for the old. It wants those who have been raised by machines.”
“Of course, of course! You are right! We are the ones who must take care of this crying wah-wah baby machines! We change their diaper batteries and give them new pretty things to make them go faster! We watch as they learn to walk, to talk, and then when they are old enough, they steal all our money! It is all so incredibly stupid! I liked it better when people were just having many babies! At least then I’d have someone to shout at! As it is, mon ami, we are locked in a deadly game! Deadly!”
I uncorked another bottle, poured another for him. His lips were purple crusted with the wine. I loved him dearly like a brother. “We will never find the sense of something that needs to keep its umbilical cord-wire attached to the Big Mother of Necessity ServerMachine, right?”
“Precisely, Alexandre! You are a bright man! You know what it is all about! Your eyes are not clouded by the flashy tits and chrome of new machine! Have you read any Celine? You must read Celine!”
“Mais oui! Je peux lire en français mais je ne comprends pas tous les mots, un peu comme toi et l'anglais. Le premier livre de Celine que j'ai lu était "Nord". C'est après avoir lu ce livre que je suis devenu addicté à Celine! L'oeuvre "Entretiens avec Professeur Y" de Celine est à mon avis, définitivement sa plus difficile en tant que compréhension. Très sec et dense! Ce que j'aime le plus des oeuvres de Celine: ses critiques de Gaullisme. J'aime aussi d’autre textes par Celine. Mais c'est difficile de choisir, par ce qu'il y a tellement de bonnes choses. Mes principales objections aux oeuvres de Celine: A part de la tradition Anglo-américaine qui n'évalue pas la tradition continentale européene avec égalité (ou justice?), il y a quelques autres objections posées par les autres.”
“Ah! Tu parles en Français! Je ne savais pas!”
“Aber, ich spreche Deutzsche ebensogut, und kleine spanisch auch.”
“You are definitely a more worldly man than most I have met.”
“I’m trying to lose all language, but in the process, I find others. To escape one, it seems we only fall into other languages that surround it. One day I will tear out my tongue and eyes, perhaps. What good are they anyway?”
And so we drank for the whole week. Mornings of puking followed by afternoons of drinking, and so forth. But Francois lost it somewhere in these shifts. He went out to get more provisions one day and never returned. He had been arrested for trying to kick a bank machine to death. But that was his fatal flaw: treating machines in a human language, as humans, as that ineluctable Other that can still be reasoned or negotiated with. This is precisely why he failed to understand terrorism as it has evolved since those hoary days of 1968: the Whitehouse admin would not negotiate with terrorists because the Whitehouse admin had learned the invaluable lesson of advanced capital; that is, it had learned to become a machine no one could possibly argue with. This, of course, made me wonder why the secret service was all anxious about all the questioning and the protocol, for it seemed archaic…A State machine does not need to follow protocols that are subjectively people-friendly beyond their programming. The State only needed the variables in order to mount its offensive with an impersonal and machinic reflex-response.

7
I had forwarded the superfluous sward of my mental blather-jam on toast to the generals in Washington replete with imperatives, salacious entreaties, and snarling neo-Pakistani biochem war threats. The attaches came in great, so that is fee-neesh. let us bask together in a Roman bath of warm wine while watching the surreptitious SUV-cargoPant militarization of the citizenry. The sun sets, but only in the bosom-ass crack of da moon. in the mean time, Orpheus, don' look back...Eurydice is screwin' 3-headed gods/dogs. who needs that noise? The general Ho Chi Minh opener of his King George’s mail is moving from Georgia to Ohio, escaping slatterns from 1862 who want a nice gentlemanly war of a "civil" nature. I got this as an insider tip. I think the next election is going to be a doozy, with some very startling moves and cabinet reshuffling. So, what’s a nice guy like you doing on fire? For the reason of a strange congruence with your avid Buddhist
scholarship In absentia (your self-imposed exile aside), my dim understanding of
the State departmental evils indicates to me strong reasons for considering just hopping the next plane to Jamaica and renting a beach house at $50/mo for the rest of my
natural life. So what if I lapse into some vicious screed or a nasty written fang job against the fiendish cabal Search Committee of the Stars in a teeth-grinding, panicked journey back to a zero-sum game with Capital and Mother? My rather splintered wisdom and slanted reasoning bogged down in savage details will only signal my lunacy, so it’s not like I can be taken seriously, that I represent a significant pie-slice of the marketing demographic. Amphetamine-driven juggernaut or snake pit of horror? Who knows. The Iraqi War booster secret service accuser named Paul mentioned crossfire and consequences, and to me that always indicates mighty titan egos clashing, with me in the middle dodging the axe blows. to understand exactly what strange cloaked rituals, vicious trials, and baptism by fires are involved in obtaining peace through ruin, and other failed roller coaster attractions of the the well-spent nationalist. This should be pivotal in deciding whether or not I wish to go that long and twisted route up the stormy Governmental spire. I have located the node for where liberalism goes wrong. Before champagne corks are popped and ticker tape parades begin, I learned all sorts of foul and shady lessons. It would seem that these rogue swindling, huckster ex-used car salesmen
have thrown in exorbitant "hidden fees of allegiance" that are outrageous, untenable, and wholly incommensurate with the terminally injured state of my personal finances. Patriotism costs money. Flags are for sale, and the cost is always at a bottom barrel rate of one life to a flag, one salute for one act of warlordism cowboyism. This news came to me with the joy of a baseball bat to the ribs. The Security Council meets and waits for drunken papa Cold War to give his sloppy decrees and dialectical flourish while little Thai prostitutes await his return in swank hotels under fictional names. Fortunately, I have refused to sign the ridiculous Versailles contract that is nothing more than a declaration of war against my bank account. Why bother hailing to the chief (who isn’t much of one, who isn’t calling the shots), when it’s the oil industry in collusion with the meat and Jesus pressure groups of big stick politik for sale who are really the ones calling the shots? No point to start in on the wrong poor bastard roped into bad dreams, ego-support networks and the like to be prostituted all around the nation on a campaign trail to get elected, just like they used to showcase the down syndrome kids as cute abnormalities to remind us all just how ruinously normal we actually were. It happened! And then they prescribed mandatory sterilization of beauty, and then suspended it just at the close of the clinical session when the retarded kids were catalogued, raped of their beauty, given pills and injections, and covered over with political correct doublespeak. I feel a sense of pity for el presidente…despite his phantom back support cabinet of crooked pontiffs, wayward predatory gangsters, and calumnious oil pimps. Next to them, the African crime colleges and Benin scams for mahogany and millions to transfer into bank accounts seems trite. In fact, prez Budweiser looks so damn beautiful on account of his innate stupidity. He is like the retarded kid on a leash, a pet of the inner war cabinet. It’s Donny “Frankenstein Killing-Fields” Rums, the “little chief” of big business rhetoric mixed in with martini war who scares the shit out of me. Yank off his glasses and he looks like a 1930s horror flick monster.
Ah! Capitalist glut of terror in the republic of shame and failure, and here I am thrust into other wars like an ungrateful prince trying to lean on papa and filch his crown. I open the newspaper at the coming election-circus news: A lot of Ministry of War wildcards at the moment. Depending on who gets into office for second-third-fourth term like FDR, the plan is to send a team of intrepid Christian archaeologists to the tomb-lab of Pharaoh Y2K and open a fiery chasm that suddenly issues the horde of Ronald Reagan clones. It is indeed wonderful that our country is traveling on this strange and enlightening road towards the positive zero and such. By the sounds of things, the journey in all its resplendent glory is afoot which has the appeal of simulated cheese. I turn to page two: What kind of fiendish quasi-masonic aspidistra is flying over the Washington Reichstag today? Friends who have since lost my friendship say that I remind them of ex-lawyer and bad polemicist Francis E. Dec with his “niggerjewishcommunist conspiracy”. Francis E. Dec is a moron, even if I sound like him, or him me. Page three brings up my Hadrian wall of cynicism, for it details a positive movement in the markets. I will try to get to them before the wine supply runs out, before I have to be paid hourly and buy bread with a wheelbarrow of money. It’s still war time, even if soldiers abroad are posing for the camera with smiles and arms around little illiterate refugee victims of the war America perpetrated to begin with (what we don’t see is the gun on the kid’s back, or that his hunger will make him do anything for a goddamn chocolate bar. Ands in times of war, one’s judgement-proof status goes out the window. That is why I cannot safely hide behind this cozy leopard print wall of INSANE and think that it will hold when the jackbooters come, the budget crunch curtain unfurls, and the bullets start flying into all the heads of the problematically defined.
I ask this one simple question: “Is it okay to criticize the country and the leadership of this stultifera navis?”
--No!
Thank you for your prompt reply. The argument itself is highly experimental (and perhaps a bit on the esoteric side). However, myself not as schooled in the selection and scope of global rape and viral ignorance (having sacrificed intimate knowledge of this milieu in service of my primary disciplinary area of Making an Obvious Ass out of You, and drinking plenty of fluids!), I will try to avail myself of a recent copy of The Declaration of Interdependence. Perhaps at the conclusion of all this, we can decide together what to do about the slave labour production we appropriate the world over.
Whenever I read the paper, I feel compelled to write letters. Literacy is a terrible burden, just as writing is an empty desire…

I would like to join the Republican party, on the war front, amidst my kin and kind. It is perhaps the last bastion of hope for rich post-middle age toothless unlovable alcoholics I can find that are socially acceptable as such. As they say, the difference between a drunken buffoon democrat and a drunken buffoon republican is one of class. I wish for my own inveterate social habits and living embarrassment to be tolerated on account of my fat republican wallet. Please send membership details, NRA discount bullet casings, a bottle of expensive scotch, an expendable whore, and twenty pounds of blessed virgin veal to the address listed below. Together, we can shrink our heads! PS: could you also send along a personally autographed photo of David Duke for my M.G.? It’s for the wife.

My accuser, Paul, would be due soon. I sent an urgent dispatch to the field office where I had been so ferried for the great game of questions:

CIA Paul--

How long has it been, lover?
By hook or crook, Richard Pinhas or Furtwanglers in dichroic mist. As my ass sails through eBay and looks for Aleister Crowley 1st editions, my thoughts wander to you, naturally, especially if one knows what to do what thou willst under the Law. Codex Virtualissimus of the e-void. I live in a house now with an angry big dog. I yell at solicitors and children here in isolation. But I am happy. Ok, so we communicated upon the glorified can 'n string and fucknot, so now I mediate you in the false immanently virtual terrain of transcendent idiom of the bygone archaic letter. Do not look for bombs or poisons in this letter because I am out of ingredients. I would replenish, but this would be like Oprah sauce for the middle cash class gentry of fiendish back-rabble Walmartian pan lit arena sackdresses. Haven't heard your wind in a while, or from that who/he motors it so, tsunami-mi. 'Ow are yr travails? It is not an easily gentrified domain on this end, but living on the level. I find it admirable that you keep your client base at a small and manageable level. This speaks volumes about the attention to detail and personal rapport you bring to the tasks. I feel honoured and privileged to be the central focus of your soul piracy in service to the Grand Regime of Flaccid Reason. I do not possess your intestinal fortitude, for I could not abide by being dictated to by a smiling wooden puppet who thinks laser-spitting satellites is a rootin’ tootin’ idear not to be misunderestimated. I like to think that Prez Budweiser is not a man in need of a spellchecker, but is in fact reinventing the English language. Linguistic gatekeepers are fascists anyway (not that I have anything against fascists per se; I support the military and all your efforts) My own language is along the same lines: I usually bark with the dogs back at the meek republocrat fool who sent me such bleary-eyed dreck, a fiendish madman to perform venesection of the works of poltroons. I pay the presidency its last scholastic respects--Consentia gentium--forced as I am to play the role of the exegete now that you have made my surveillance an actualized entity in my consciousness. Never mind me: I’m just some crazy French windbag, so call off the dogs of national security threat. Your knowledge of my activities is as recent as corduroy jackets and metaethics. Was it Whitehouse Patty B who had denounced me as an anarchist, and after which time that I had challenged him to define this further, withdrew his attribution? Stress has gotten the better of my social graces. But presidential language…His utterances are vulgar, crude, and yet intriguing, insightful, and an interesting demonstration of literary flair. Besides, we should use very plain words but use them in extraordinary ways.

I couldn’t explain it. I wanted to tease him in my own coquettish way. It would give something for his code breakers to do. I was sure that this was what high powered bankers did on their days off.

8
My blogs continued as per usual. I purchased a fourth-rate machine and signed up with a service provider under a different name (just in case all the businesses were forewarned to blacklist me and show me the door lest action be visited unto them, anon). I built up my own argument like a fortress, while others with Roman surety and virtu-tachygenetic foolhardiness went to their limit of their lexicons to denounce me as something just above Hitler on the totem pole of evil. A hoof print and two dislocated shoulders were the virtual results of my making merry with an idea:

JohnnyAmericaNumberOne wrote:
“These opinions of yours portray our beloved country as foul, fascistic and cruel! I do not know what motivates your ability to commit such boldfaced slander of our great nation, or what gives you the cold-blooded right to wax lightly about the tragic loss of thousands in the NYC disaster.”

In reply:
SchizzyLizzy75 wrote:
Portrayal makes me sound like a satirist. This is asinine. I think the cruelty of this great nation (great cruelty! At a reasonable price! Come one and all to the moneychanger’s temple!) is motivation enough. But motivation is motion and I am not budging an inch. It is you who are hopping up and down like a lunatic and stealing my thunder, making yourself out to be ten times the insane twit I wanted to be! Damn! That I wax lightly is fine by me. Politicians do this all the time. I should be a politician. I wish I was president when it happened so I could write it off in front of the press as acceptable and justifiable loss…collateral damage…necessary attrition. Shit happens, pal. Afghanis die and we have a goddamn colourful parade. An ugly set of buildings crumble to the ground and we moan and sell flags and firemen pins for each other’s lapels. I am detecting some hypocrisy. Maybe if you didn’t elect the yahoos who make backdoor deals with every known nut and fruit terror organization to get greedy paws on oil, then maybe the twin commercial turbines would still be looming like a nightmare over us all for all eternity like some imposing Transylvanian castle wherein lurks the vampire capital. Shove your flag and pole up your ass, kindly. We have bigger problems now, so get your fat Happy Meal ass off the shrine and get moving. Who has time to polish the site with tears and buff it with polyester asses? Not me! Ciau, patriot!

JohnnyAmericaNumberOne wrote:
You stupid c*cksucker! Why don’t you go live in the caves and bunkers with Osama and Saddam? America doesn’t need you!

SchizzyLizzy75 wrote:
Sadly, we have all lost touch, or Osama is a bit embarrassed with the state of his cave and so has contacted an interior design team to spruce it up. I’m happy that you speak confidently on behalf of all America. I hate incomplete Universal statements. I speak on behalf of all Atlantis when I say America desperately needs a recarpeting. From our extra-mundi vantage point, it looks like a lobotomized brain. No, America doesn’t need me, but let me tell you what it DOES need: fashion designers for the new SS uniforms and big John Wayne hats! Be a good dear and rummage around yr closets for some of these things, ok? Love, SL75.

You learn things while in the shadows, all pertinent to the argument: All presidents are half- or third cousins…We do not rely on ‘disorder’ in our parlance this days cuz it looks bad on our CVs and dinner plates…You have two choices of critique: one, where the teeth are sharp and knife into the idiot quickly, or two where the teeth are bovine and mash the idiot slowly to death…But then I am high-flying renegade for the children: Surface to air missile, quick! But that kind of idea is too different and no one likes the idea of the difference that repeats.
The American "bleed" of space under its logic of consumption: is it my mental allergy to narcotizing, menial, class-exacerbating jobs or yours? Such questions do not efface the matter that Yer a terrible bastid! I will get you! Etcetera. I am sure that you received the forwarded details of my sordid plight. Yes, the wording is very vague, myself being used to careful wording as a panacea for any miscommunication disasters. So I tell the children not to pelt me with fruit…for one day I will return to our American world, once the finance harpies get their claws off my back. Tired as I am of the hard line in certain communities that bring down the hammer, raise up the walls to the interurban bogeyman who may "contaminate" some illusory "purity" based on a reconstituted transcendental universal image of, say, Racist Politics, I require a certain freedom of mobility throughout the land that will not result in some roving suburban pitchfork and torches ‘drive out de bastid’ sort of way. What place would my strange drivel have in the greater constitution of this virtual fabric, I wonder? Met vriendelike groeten, Ronald Old Dutchy! Perhaps if I earmarked the argument back a bit, talk about another presidential period…
And it is now why I would like to speak freely and candidly about the future of the presidency, for this is something that concerns us all as tax paying and tax evading individuals. The prez has a very rough road ahead of him. The end of one’s term is much like juggling burning kives in a barrel full of electric eels going over Niagara Falls. If he wins again, I will lapse into the morass of fear. Then it is in error and have a good one! A lapse? Into fear? And error? A good one? Maybe. I posted pre-election commentaries all over the blogosphere…Ah, to wreak my general brand of havoc and spur the vitriol in others! There has to be a publisher of my belles lettres in all this murky mess! “But your writings, they make no sense! Pure horsefeathers and jabber-gibbery, harrumph!” It is perhaps that it is not semioticklish enough for you, not enough big and fat tumescent signifiers like the rainbow ass arc that flies over your plain type literary fascism. I find semiotics to engage in absolutist ventures of over-signification. Thank you so kindly for your well-thought reflections, but I think I will take the oeuvre to the mountains with me and bathe it in a crystal spring. Gatkeepers of language such as yourself uphold the Law, and the Law is always about the Family. The propagandization of the "family" is reminsicent of Stalinesque techniques, but it's bread for bread. Semper ludere, etc. Back to you ol’ Dutch: “ze gann op de fiets naar kantoor.” Which is to say nothing really concrete at all, but I hear Alzheimer’s is a real bitch when you’re trying to get one set of lawyers to talk to another set of lawyers about an unflattering mini-series on your days in office. From one Pantagruel to the next. It’s tiresome work! And I don’t even have a car! Ach! Ach! March to and fro from one—in the mottled words of the Silver Jews lead singer—bankrupt circus to another, on the wrong side of Saturday night (I really encourage all of you to listen to the Silver Jews, even if my tastes are occasionally deplorable). I seem to have wandered afield from my initial inquiry into the presidential race. Oh, well, some other time then.
I specialize in oblique, dystopic, non-genre living, which adds to the nightmare of being clinicized and categorized and striated perfectly to be fit inside boxes affixed with SOME ASSEMBLY REQUIRED. The descent toward the beginning is a torturous and ear-bleeding one, so let us begin at the rhizomal middle from which all things should and do expand. I have enough of my own Nietzschean style travails on this side of the rotten stick anyhow with palpable people. Yes, I am serious about critique...so serious, in fact, that I have devoted my life to it. Just one of those breathlessly long introductory essays written by washed up scholars on the wrong side of Harvard’s favour. We get nowhere as he rails away at President Budweiser, middle class mediocrity, and such, not realizing that there is no more “left” and “right”, but is the zero-sum game of changing from idealistic peanut farmers who are “for the people” yet have no clear “economic plan”, and neo-Masonic accountants who have people rubbed out through lawyers. Wasn’t it a discussion between lawyers of the higher-ups that got JFK shot? What an amazing and almost unbelievable bullet that was. Musta been one of dem magic bullets I read about in the Guns ‘n Ammo backpages.
Under investigation for a letter! What rot! What I freely distributed to President Bud as an act of pure expressive love and admiration was grievously misinterpreted, I think, having earned me a special place in the dissenter pile with whatever intel agency deals with nasty mail. And so I am hurt that the epistle was not taken with the intention in which it was written, but I hold out some vague airy fancy that perhaps he sits by the fireplace with his dog and wife (is her name Maude?) and reads it over and over again, smiling, knowing that the gods smile on him, too…Maybe. He can make some of the most beautiful facial expressions since the Creation. I do not think that he looks like a monkey…I just think he is misunderstood by the camera and the photographer that clicks at the wrong time. “I wuz in Florida when it happened, saw the first plane hit.” Is that what he said? He’s a diviner! A sage! A prognosticating oracle! I wish the rest of us could have seen the first plane hit before it happened like he did, almost as if he expected it, like he woke up that morning and just knew that something was amiss. He must have the greatest Spider Senses, like a hero, a hero in office, and an established pilot and A+ student at Yale. And a great three-for-three! A republican Office, Congress, and Senate (and then the Security Council and such). I may sound mad, but I am actually a very nice person. Not like those near-sighted, one-armed sailor-troll kabbalists in Greenwich Village who always have a pamphlet up their singular sleeve for me to read. As for comical, dangerous, business, or whatever else...let us just say that it is my attempt to pen a Sophoclesian epic on a mind full of cocaine whilst suffering the ignominy of my station. My ego thus demands it.
It goes without saying that I am a lumbering oaf, and that posthumous acclaim is the last bastion of hope for the scoundrel likes of me. But to understand you must approach me with the wizened approach of a devil-seer or a ragabash jester on a crystal meth trip into oblivion. I pump my arms as if in a jig, singing the cheers and praises of our newly formed Roman Republic, and hope that C-C-Claudius doesn’t get his hands on the treasury to ruin our free and loose expenditure fun. My reflections are all the rage in the underground, at the very moment, but they keep nagging me to send them via email .rtf file. What is that? Return The Ferris wheel? Rotarian Tragic Finale? Restitution Toward France? Retard Toaster Fun? Rapacious Troubadour Finagle? I suppose now I am being unnecessarily glib and ludic when I should be lucid, if only for da kids’ sake. In any event, must get back to swinging that axe into all things hard and soft…Must put the argument back into focus. Why would I let a friendship with a surly sailor like my argument die on the vine? The argument needs to be teased out, primed with drink, in order to be actualized. People draw their own conclusions from my early movements in that syllogism, but I’m not ready to declare that their findings are right. O argument, I sometimes picture you as a laughing Buddha or a Tom Waits. We can't let the bastards win all the time--or at the very least, we shouldn't make it easy.
One day I will return to the psycho dental hygienist who will cackle and prod me with instruments arcane, loving the fact that I never floss. I was having a thoroughly crappy, uncreative day, and not all the vodka in the world was going to put me in the right brainspace. Yes, even Wile E. Coyote has his off days. I must consider another online order company than Acme: they have no sense of quality and their help desk is bloody laughable. Apparently, Dedication is the new word. Funny that and not its familial analogues (indication, predication, etc) have made their weary way into our vernacular. Why? The citizenry are mostly peopled by stay-at-home middle aged housewives who like to garden, pay their taxes on time, and read/write pretty books about overcoming minor and pointless adversities. I would never buy their books, but they would never buy mine either. I will post my reflections everywhere, but just when they think they can nail me to the rood for being an intransigent, insurgent terrorist bastard, I’ll merely be pinning up my grocery list. I know that kind of talk is seditious, but it is hilarious and necessary all the same. It is hard to reconcile my drinking with work on the argument unless the two are sewn together at the hip. Must I write under His infinite wisdom that somehow approaches that of an aborted bullfrog tadpole, making Big Papa in the Sky of Diamonds the cosigner of the argument? I suppose it is the generalized form of thinking that Jesus makes all things possible, right? My excuse? I am a serial alcoholic, so I forget everything, including Jesus and Gram Parson’s mojo (which I do believe I have in another pair of pants). [3 hours of maniacal laughter] This brings great joy to the world...Or at least among us shadowfolk. [followed by 3 more hours of maniacal laughter].
Did you get my message the other day? the computer blinks at me. Why, yes, I did, but you disturbed me in the middle of my daily "smash the piano with my elbows under a Drano & whiskey haze" ritual. Now that I have your Ishmail address, I can now send you little turds I arrange in wordlike fashion. Gracias...Everyone wants a piece of the argument, and no less among them are my accusers.
Contacting the other SchizzyLizzy involved some very acrobatic and deft ISP reverse lookups and other privacy-bashing moves. Die_Bleistiftsterzeichenshaftenblot! At? Server_Central.com. I kid you not. just give me a week until I recarpet here in my dark workshop. I try to appear more rational to satisfy the mores and so that I am not locked away in some afterthought sanitarium. All things considered, I found my double. But something prevented me from emailing the bastard thief (if indeed he was a thief). And why did not the incredibly resourceful secret service that plucked me from the shadows not find this other guy? Did they even know at all that there was another guy? Somehow, it doesn’t seem to matter. American history always has had a problem in launching wars and never getting their man, which is to say that war was not like a cowboy movie. They had me, and that was good enough! I was mad and expendable! Sure! Easy kill! It wasn’t as if the State was going to admit that they were wrong, and trundle me off with an apology! That would be political suicide! But this other schmuck was spouting real tangible terrorist shit! Why am I pulled over on this Highway of Fear? They knew he existed! They just thought my mug would look better on TV! They’d execute me publicly and rub the other guy off in secret! Two kills, one public appearance, all under one unilateral mandate! That’s not an easy trick to pull off! I mean, they are going to kill two people and make it look like one! Wow! I’d be impressed if I wasn’t so goddamn scared for my life!
Round three of non-negotiating terrorism with me. A tip: Never say that you are honest. It only fuels their sense of revenge. Released again on probationary leash.
Let’s get back to the issues. Where will my argument be if my favourite prez is not re-elected? I may not break budget if the new guy can't go any faster, and really move on this global-scale war thang. I know the feeling of landing without coins. And so, if this other SchizzyLizzy75 steals all the glory, I’ll be sitting on one big bankrupt document, or else hauled off to the Texan gas chamber while he continues to wax wise with my identity. I am sure that I will land some work and get coins back into my life somehow. Maybe the Carlisle Group has some work for me, or Haliburton? Or should I just flee to Mexico now? “Me pensé intentaría mi mano en el discurso usted en español, incluso si sueno estúpido y terrible. Puede ser embarazosa leer esto, pero piensa de nuevo a esos días en que usted todavía luchaba con inglés. ¿Usted alambique está guardando con sus estudios en inglés? ¿Cuáles son usted hasta ahora? ¿Usted ha encontrado un trabajo? ¿Usted va a la escuela? ¿Usted tiene, como ahora lo hago, una mujer maravillosa y atractiva en su vida? Permanézcase en contacto y déjeme saber!” That was a note from the bottom of my mouth, sent out all nice and prim to my double. I wondered if he would reply? Una u otra mujer lo han rechazado y debo compartir su congoja…Maybe not. Who would? "las hordas"? “Mis libros”? “Su amigo, AlexCopec—SchizzyLizzy da foist!”

I went to sleep and had a dream, simple as that…
“Do you own up to your deeds, Mr. Copec?”
“Will it mean scot-free, a wink and a handshake, and see ya later?”
“We are not in a position to discuss matters of leniency as of yet, and owing ot the severity of the crimes with which you have been charged, I do not suspect that leniency of the type you describe will be forthcoming.”
“Sounds good to me, or at least at the very base of the matter, au rationale. I didn't mean to appear devious in any way with the whole scot-free bit, but perhaps subconsciously...Alright. As for the scalpel and as to which end was pointing where, it would be neat and keen if--on some macabre, cinematic level—I was the wielder in the name of fleshcraft and in the name of art (art surgeon, peut-etre?). But it was me, nothing serious, remarkable recovery, ticker tape parade, etc. I just may have masterminded the whole thing, screwing that scalpel into delicate patriotic flesh, but then I am not wholly convinced that it was anything but a mistake, or some coincidental secondary by-product of otherwise proper citizen behaviour. That is, accidents occur from innocent intentions. I blame literacy and its application.”
“Mr. Copec,” the panel of military-appointed judges seemed to say in collected rainbow flutter. They were all beautiful there in those old English style wigs. I wish I could have had their brazen self-confidence, their monochrome vision, their ineluctable structure. But, fie, I was not a being, but a being-of-rhapsody. The people only cheer when I have nothing left to say. “Mr. Copec!” they said louder this time, as if I was dreaming in this dream.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Copec, we are very concerned about certain proprietary matters that you have seen fit in misguided ways to disseminate freely over the medium of the Internet. Certain knowledge must not enter the public domain, and it takes a particular unscrupulous or foolhardy intellect to breech the trust and the secrecy…We are now arbitrating as to whether or not your actions in this matter have been malevolent or merely a symptom of a confused and scattered mind.”
“So, are you admitting that my argument is correct, that it was all a systematized lie?”
“We are not at liberty to divulge such information. Nor do you have the clearance to receive it. Frankly, owing to how you have mismanaged and mishandled the information at your disposal, your abilities are suspect and render you a liability.”
“The truth is always what is liable.”
“We have made no admission to the truth,” the judge said, very cleverly. I liked him after a fashion.
“Then we are debating non-issues and non-events right from the start. Empirical science and legal evidence cannot disprove the existence of manticores and minotaurs, but only show that they are not very plausible. It is the error of its inductive method. We are arguing on a very slim margin now. The slim margin of the possible. Essentially, all theories are like that, and I never intended to tender my argument as a rational syllogism to outdance the primacy of the empirical, to fly in its face like a transcendent bull that tramples it under a false supremacy. That the president may or may not have issued orders on a particular issue is on the order of the minotaur, and there I am happy to let it stay amidst Elvis lives theories and UFO abductions. Let it be thus. All we can do is rest our eyes on the evidential proof of two smoking ruins in NYC, sift through it and play detective. I would hate to be jailed on the premise of a possibility, of a speculation.”
“Mr. Copec, it is one thing to openly speculate on something, and quite another to impute slanders on real people who become victims of this speculation. You would do well to make this separation and exercise caution in these delicate matters where real individuals are involved. Worse still are those impressionable and non-rigorous peoples who may be persuaded by your rhetorical argument who may believe it and even act upon it. You are a convincing rhetor, Mr. Copec, which is precisely why you are standing before us today. Had you tendered a less puissant argument, it may have merely be written off as unconvincing fluff. Essentially, Mr. Copec, you have misapplied your talents. Despite your mental history, you may be much more devious than you let on.”
“Will you argue with the clinical expertise of my psychological betters?”
“This court can do what it likes, Mr. Copec. I am starting to personally believe that you are an expert con man, a genius who was able to act out certain psychological symptoms that prompted psychiatric professionals to perform a misdiagnosis. You speak of empirical evidence and the remaining margin of possibility. You may be living proof of this insofar as your psychological profile is so unique, as yet to be documented. I hold here in front of me results from a battery of tests. From the summary we have read and discussed prior to this hearing, we discovered that you are indeed an exceptional person. Exceptional in many ways. You score off the charts in many areas. You have an IQ of 235, but your mind is unstable and tending toward critical mass. As you may or may not already know, those whose IQ and SAT scores exceed a certain range are automatically deemed potential threats to national security. It is nothing personal, but it is well documented fact that those of such staggering intellect are potentially dangerous individuals because no one of such anomalous intelligence could be said to have the ability to harness such power. Think of your mind like a nuclear-powered engine implanted in a conventional nine volt clock…I am sure you can draw your own conclusions. All this to say, you are a walking bomb. You are capable of almost anything, save for harnessing your own exuberant energies. May we ask a few questions?”
“All right.”
“How many hours of sleep do you think you average a night?”
“Let us rephrase that question in terms of a weekly average.”
“I see. Have you ever drawn up plans for new weapons—biochemical or nuclear—of mass destruction?”
“Haven’t we all? I blame the space program and the makers of the light bulb. I also redesign the mousetrap and the electric toothbrush, but these things are idle hobbies; I do not actually go out and manufacture them.”
“We disagree, Mr. Copec. They are very dangerous hobbies. If they fall into the hands of someone more pro-active, they could be utilized for nefarious ends. You fail to realize the implications of your actions. You prove our point that a hypertrophy of the mind can directly or indirectly lead to disaster. Moreover, there is no proof that, owing to the instability of your mental equilibrium, that you yourself may not take action with these plans.”
“I do understand the implications. It is perhaps that I am indifferent to them. I am too much of an ironist to truly give it much further thought than that. Perhaps I feel that the flag is absurd and that I affirm the necessity of this empire’s collapse. You can plan for a hurricane, but you can’t stop its destructive swathe.”
“This cerebral indifference aside, you have very dangerous friends that may try to exploit your talents.”
“Let them.”
“Mr. Copec, this is dangerous and irresponsible. You are a living weapon.”
“So sew the yellow badge of shame on my coat and let me loose so that the citizens can pelt me with rocks and sticks. But as Dostoyevsky says, we are striking attitudes in the worst of taste.”
“Your point, Mr. Copec?”
“My point? I’m a goddamn fucking logoplegic mishap anomaly, and you demand the point? I am disabled! Like little Timmy in his wheelchair! Oh, granted, disabled people in chairs still can be absolute pricks and assholed, but even an asshole deserves a ramp. Where’s my ramp, guv’nor? Or should I suspect that my ass will be peddled to the Pentagoonery where I can be hooked up to the think tank to manufacture bombs to blow up Libya or fabricate new and exciting compliance toxins in Disneyland sodas so that everyone can grow up to be Archie Bunker?”
“Off with his head,” said an old shrill voice in the echoing stands. Suddenly I was in some kind of nth-ring circus. Big spotlight on me, my hands in shackles. Crack! Went the gavel. So be it. Why scream and whimper like Louis XVI when I can exercise the resigned poise and tact of Marie Antoinette? And then I woke up. God, I hate sleep, and hate dreams so much more. Einstein found great ideas of flying on comets in his dreams, but he was a man in perpetual search for a Hollywood hairdresser. Three-twelve in the afternoon, Nietzschean hypothesis: metaphysics died, so why is Justice still lingering about? We are all waiting for a grand metaphysics after all, one with the pomp and style of the Golden Age. The Secretary of War is Socrates himself.

9
It is terrible all the nasty, smudged business each of us has to face. And now, our mighty southern former coke-snorting, D.U.I rhetorically insane, religiously zealous, onto-theological disaster known as not-so-Curious Georgie Budweiser is dusting off old nuclear deterrent plans that never worked in the first place! Grampa George still runs the place, just like he did back in the Reagan years. In its monolithic and unilateral view, there I sit, awaiting execution or merely “corrective action.” I decided to keep with the title for the argument--I have grown strangely and fondly attached to it, kind of like a kitsch b-movie title or a bad Victorian novel: “Romans: Whither They go, Thither They Went.” I've stitched together all that plenary material on the theoretical portion, and now I need to write the introduction that will make me famous. Should I be leaving the country? Probably, but for reasons rather arcane and involving the wrath of neo-Kabbalists and Albertan cocaine-peddling truck drivers. Would this country's institutions be out of their gourds to let the riff-raff like myself into their higher echelons to make merry with their reliquary of cherished values? Yes, emphatically, yes.
Ah, olden days…And the rowdy pub nights when the civil servants drag their chronic alcohol problems around like ornamental wives. Like a Saracen, I should be back out further northeast in Canada where the scotch flows and the cigarettes burn and the Quebecois are screaming their love & catechisms at their children. But those days are gone for people like me! Instead: the grueling interrogation mill! I'll come in early and you can reveal all, even if it is to show me the colourful robes and lulling chants of your freemasonesque temple. You want answers, answers, always with the answers! I'm too blasé to move! We're talking real lethargy here. I tell you that the initial epistemic purpose of money seems to be aligned with fecal play, so says Freud and so exercises Mao, and you just blink at me! But that’s just me, though: bursting with irrelevance. It’s hard to perceive of myself as a threat to anyone but myself.
After trawling this unsavoury electric octopus of the Internet, someone worthy of my enmity screamed a host of litanies at me, speaking in some mad gibberish about America uber alles and Jesus unto Great Nihilism Pie-in-the-Sky. I feel like Celine. People with fiendish designs on my toilet, my draperies, my rare first editions! I’m a convincing rhetor? I couldn't sell water to the thirsty! That dream judge had it all wrong. I can only hope that the real inquisition team can see past this circuitous folly. I do not like to be rejected twice in the same context. The way in which the different cannot even get past the porter is sad and vile, and then they turn the vileness charge on me…It never ends, like a little girl’s see-saw of mundane sapsuckery. My theory is that if I keep jumping up and down and yelping like a lunatic, any rational society will either publish me or put me away--either way, I'm game.
The argument itself. I was either fortunate or cursed. I received an offer to publish it. I suppose they thought it would sell well. I was beign exploited, but just the same I enjoyed it. The publishing house was Dark Room Plaza Press: publishers of the wicked, and most brazen of the essayists. It was headed by an editor by the name of Harry Kingwell. He insisted on meeting me, despite my warnings of criminality by association. So we met at a nearby bar where I could drink my face off while he yammered on about details. He was a portly man, but seemed to know exactly what he wanted. Those people I feared the most. I ordered whiskey; he sipped a mixed drink of some intestinal colour.
“Well, what can be said that cannot be shown? Kudos for having staggered through the cloacae fragments...I was labouring under the same old awful assumption that those who have promised to read me have been abducted by the same agony of having something better to do, etc. Well, yes. And so much for all that. But let all this fester until all hope erodes into the great sediment awash upon shores of despair, anon.”
“We are very eager to put it into print. The vignette you sent was shocking, provocative, and downright nasty! But well put together all the same.”
“I am this age’s raconteur, I guess.”
“Alex—can I call you Alex?—we are moving to print this first thing. Everything else is on hold until we can send you the proofs and head straight for the printers. My only concern is the pace and maybe the density.”
“Movement and gravity. Okay, shoot.”
“Your essay moves like a freight train, which is good in most cases because it makes for a gripping read for an audience that may tend to nod off after hundreds of pages of Neo-Marxist bullshit. But with this accelerated prose comes a problem. You are complicit with the terminology. That is, Alex, it’s too wordy. We will not to chop off some of the purple if it is going to have maximum accessibility.”
“But—“
“I know what you are going to say. I’ve heard it before. But, listen, no one else is going to touch this with a ten foot pole, and you know it. Here I am offering you guaranteed print, so let’s just get down to it…You’re a genius but also a madman. Unfortunately, genius and insanity, as well as they go together, are the two ingredients in writing that make it unreadable, and therefore unmarketable. Get me? It’s a complicated argument enough as it is, and so chock full of scholarly references and brilliantly styled segues, descriptions, explanations, and damn good reasoning, that it would really suck ass if your average slob didn’t have a chance.” He was talking business. It was filthy. I decided to make my point known.
“I just can’t dumb down the argument for the slavering unwashed hordes without coming into town on a savage bender to shoot tax lawyers as a result.”
“Heh. Well, it is to have the most power, you have to dumb it down. It borders on the cryptic and obscure, and I for one would hate to see this piece flop on account of something we can fix right now, real easy. How are you with deadlines?”
“Deadlines do motivate me, but then so does my intrinsic state of manic being.”
“Great! Now what we need to do is trim down the initial 750 page behemoth to a svelte 300…or less.”
“If 300 was not in itself a fright and a disappointment, the ‘or less’ jars considerably my sense of equilibrium. It almost makes me want to stab someone repeatedly. You better buy me more of these,” I said, wiggling the empty glass. He promptly ordered more.
“I understand your concern. It can be difficult to separate yourself emotionally from the text. But you got to be ruthless on yourself. You need to pretend to be in the mind of your readers who will have to read this.”
“I’ll tender this as an unfeasible solution, a solution that could mark my career suicide and our parting of ways. I say, let one of your editors on the payroll draw up a version of what would be appropriate that keeps my argument intact and doesn’t denature it to the point of my disgust.”
“Done,” he said and smiled. He had an ugly smile, but a nice contract.
It was coming around to that time when to linger on after the deal had been struck would be awkward and pointless. I decided to babble a bit.
“ I thank you for all that you have done, and perhaps are doing, to assist me in this grueling adventure into the abyss. Oblivion needs all the friends and shoppers it can get. Is it marketable? Now that is daring to dream! This is perhaps why I find this arrangement so tragically amusing. I am wary and cynical at best, keeping hope and optimism in a tight reserve somewhere in my hippocampal region, I'm sure. However, I always fancied that posthumous publication may vindicate my efforts. A vain hope, really, but something to latch on to considering my current condition. I feel like Hamlet; unable to decide. Let’s move with it. I like your line. It seems mean, mad and determined. But as a book it will be Prevented, which is to say that you will make nothing on it and land in jail for disseminating whatever definition of hate literature is on the shelves of the bourgeoisie today.”
And that was that.

Although you have little to go on other than a few shredded vignettes of my argument, I assure you all that it was very well received. Meanwhile, workers from the condo committee corporation of meaningful Hoppos have invaded my area, making my dog very vicious and anxious. No, I haven’t thought of playing the numbers game with a publisher for this argument…This isn’t PUF or Gallimard here… such hard line draconian business measures are inappropriate here, and a heavy-handed tactic like that will only steer them all away. What is this I hear about rival press xyz? Denouncing the argument? If they have done this to call me out, they have opened the box on something terribly fierce and uncompromising. Barking mad, indeed. People have all sorts of reasons for sticking the screws to the likes of me, on any occasion. Difference is punished in this Age of Fear. If in their zeal to trot out all the heretics to the flames claims a few innocents that were undesirable to begin with, then not all is lost, right? Logic like that makes my stomach shrivel in preparation for a great poetic puke session that threatens to pave the earth in disgust--which is more than I can say about some of the others who have made it their own personal Cristallnacht. I feel that in the Great White Aggressor's mania to "get our man" that many more will fall prey to this sickening slander campaign before all accounts are settled. Fortunately, I play my dice in the sky, even if I get tangled up with the flotsam below from time to time. I would NOT want to bet that my writing is without flaw. In fact, I bet that it is all flaw, and that the monstrosity of such flaws is its one last redeeming feature in a world gone all droopy and saccharin. Hence, why the rabid fiendish suckfish have been jumping all around me like petit papes with firebrand crucifixes up their prayer holes. What they don't see won't hurt 'em, right? I can't see beta particle emissions shooting out from a nuke explosion, but I wouldn't prance about in the open air if they were slashing all flesh to ribbons.
More and more negative testimonials, calls for my head by the general public. For a little press that could, my piece sure got around, made a few fiery scandals everywhere it went. Their crusade against me in this tired suppression technique is perhaps more paranoid and fearfully asinine than the whole US War against Imaginary Beasts. Can’t they just market me away in impersonal machinic fashion rather than go toe-to-toe and administer slaps to my face? An unnamed critic and coincidentally die-hard patriotic priest had been quite vigilant in his polemic to denounce me. But he has been quiet for awhile, which is at least halfway good; an apology from him might be nice, but it would demonstrate beyond any half-baked proof that he is a certifiable blockhead par excellence. People like him watch Frasier and get a hard-on when "dem smart folks" get one put on over by "good, American practical jock sense" etc. People like him also think themselves the very zenith of wit when they cleverly connect lines together. Hey, little junior has just made the link between ‘man’ and ‘papa’: he must be a prodigy. Pustules like him make the great anal sore accountants of tomorrow. No, it certainly is not Kansas down where we are anymore. Cultural apoptosis has set in, the postmodern roman business republic of failure has been catalyzed by that "king of kings", President Budweiser and his fiendish cabal of cold war relics and other over-mediatized disasters. All we can do now is leap from castle to castle for crusts of stale bread and a brief reprieve from the pounding shitstorm. I, too, fantasize about France, perhaps even buying Bataille's neglected summer home in Vezelay, or to do the cafe circuit in paris just drinking wine all day. I’ve amassed decades of well ingrained historical bitterness already. But, the trade is still on the table as they say, and we owe it to tomorrow or even yesterday to make what already exists work even if it is a venture of great colossal failure. However, the works as they so stand require readers with tough stomachs and subtle palates. Perhaps I have gone off the deep end insofar as I cease to care about making the work "accessible" to the slavering hate-mob of IKEAmaniacs.
In conversation with Harry over reprint number five: “I can say something sensible and meaningful if need be rather than my usual brand of vitriolic reflexive narrative that spews out of me like some cocaine-frenzied fountain of hyper-rhetoric, but why bother? People come to see the lions, not the tamers. Fending against the slick palaver of used car salesmanship is my skill. We seem to screeching a similar cataleptic tune, that’s why we should press run on the printer and languish about in a damned state. I suppose whatever you think would jostle, jangle and judder my nerves would be best. Perhaps you can assist me in this awful, life-denying, skull-crushing endeavour.”
And yet the pitch of these violent assaults got worse! Real Fear for my Life! Fie! Don't these denizens of shit and waste, demagogues of rank failure, slovenly back-rabble tarts of banal spirit possess even the remotest recourse to good sense? Bah! Making their clarion call for all the mediocre slime to come dribbling up in some bad replay of a biblical apocalypse! Omnium Gatherum? The Virtual Scriptorium? Interphony? Gyroglyphicus? The Shadowy Bordello? Cthulu's Den? The Oregonian Court? Chatophilia? You surly democtotite! And if I sound like a screeching lunatic of the hills, chances are that I am, and that I will need to exercise the greatest caution as I enter the fracas with my most carefully constructed "I like people" mask. I bet that Vienna kicks itself for not embracing Hitler's art portfolio, the Washington Senators for not putting Castro in as starting pitcher, and so forth. The State had its chance to grant me some sinecure, figurehead no-brainer position of power and glory! They missed their opportunity!
I will keep the hobgoblins at bay until contract signing time whereupon I surrender all movie rights to life like a pro. Like a murderous prostitute, I beckon to my John and stick the letter opener through the throat at the last possible instant. What a fool! I have enough fools around me, leveraging themselves up for benefits I cannot grant. People assume based on my comportment or my dizzying plethora of obscure knowledge that I have the Wisdom or that I can somehow advantage them in some fashion. Flies on Orestes! Just sickening gut rot, the sordid lot of them! Every time I weaken, give the benefit of the doubt to my adulator, it always gets blown back in my face! Every time! No bones about it! The Great Pendulum of shit-bag coquetry, right up my asshole like a fiery rocket.
And now I am being treated by those great praise-machines of the argument as some kind of holy figure. Ach! Religion...Who needs that noise? I have enough real fears in this world to not create new ones in the sky and earth! And enough reward and punishment systems that already fail me on a regular basis that I don't need a 2000 year old fairy tale to give me the willies. Religion = Patriotism = football. And much more. The larger equation is enough to send us all over the Big Precipice of Fear. You and I know what these little Sunday vampires are like anyhow: they all truly crave to be done with all this sin bullshit, and to go about nailing up people left and right. That's why America so enjoys picking fights abroad. Christians are Romans without the decadent luxuries, just sad and despairing clowns so pathetic that not even the Visigoths want to invade them. One has to wonder what kind of religion grants divine status to a torture device made with two roughly hewn pieces of lumber and a handful of rusty nails. At some point, we just have to turn our backs to the helpless and hope that a tornado takes their trailer up into the sky, never to return.
But I am told: Deal not with the little heel-nippers and belly-crawlers...Let them take false comfort that they have won the day. A sure indicator of my lack of respect for another human being is manifest when I am merely civil and not willing to argue. We are both playing at a high stakes table...let the peons take their clumps of dirt--we will have domain of all the mountains and the valleys. Even Socrates had to give up when arguing with idiots; they never see, and their form of logic is just so many towers built on water. They are so afraid that their phantom empire will crumble that any even remotely construed questioning is seen as a vicious assault. Have we not seen this already among Republicans? Even in the most fat-headed, intransigent, stubborn bulwark of a Republican, one will note that even they know deep down that they are fundamentally wrong all across the board. Religion and republicanism share this aspect: if their way was so right, why are they so busy trying to convert everyone to their side? Seems a bit suspect to me. Power in numbers. As Nietzsche said, the only way that the sick morality can feel strong is if they form a herd. In Juvenal's words : "Defendit numerus, junctaeque umbone phalanges" (we are defended by our numbers and the close shields of our phalanx). Of course. We are the bullies of truth, you and I...and they are the weak, reactive forces so filled with ressentiment that they band together to try to overpower the strong few...to limit what we can do. Ad populam. I recall the argument between Socrates and Callicles (the latter who got a bad shake in this debate), wherein Callicles said that the strong few should govern over the weak many...to which Socrates in a staggering disappointment dissented that the many weak can overpower the strong few. This is the history of the error. The weak, bovine herd have taken control and pushed us out to the margins. But the trick, as I see it, is this: we will pitch our battles in higher courts and not get mired in the sick, petty and mundane altercations in the mud. And so here we find ourselves, betwixt squadrons of hate and imposed failure. I just see so many parallels between nazism and the desire thereof hidden in the mass consciousness in America that I am led to believe that a reprise is going to be a result of a logical conclusion or a historical necessity. Am I jumping up and down on the fool's launching pad, or are my instincts shrewd and perhaps too accurate for my own good? Do you get that sense, too, or am I just a stubborn romantic? I am the one whose house is in jeopardy of being seized by roguish blackguards of the despicable nazi shadow economy and their corrupt cabal of "positive thinking through management primers" discourse! I think I have some natural slime-god-given right to wax romantic from time to time! I found myself so livid at being thrust into this crusade as target number one that I could barely type anything coherent. I'm still fuming. Alas, I play my dice in the sky, and these earthly battles are nothing more than a gallery of patchwork egos all clambering for a bit more rope. I wish I was in the windy city of great jazz, but instead I get to languish about in the very grey wonderland of so many bad festivals. I have found myself dumbstruck and slavering at the plenum of resources housed in the Tower of Hate. I am tweaked cognitively in ways that many will never understand. I sincerely hope that you, Harry, do not, owing to the infinite debacle and constant republocratic castration that is the enter-taint-ment economy, stop producing books--they are beautiful things. I am not the sort of horrible blackguard hermeneutical imp who views Joyce's Finnegan's Wake as a work of maturation, but as a bifurcating text lending itself freely to the deconstructive enterprise. Wake up, Finnegan! Oh, he prefers to sleep another hour until someone decent comes along…
“Have you had any difficulty placing the argument?” I ask myself a million times. But of course! Hello, schizo-switcho-fucko! Hello, telephone! I am firstly not so good with people (yes, yes, they diminish me!)…secondly, I hear noises, horrible noises because I have sensitive ears to the era (I hear the ruin and claps of Roman thunder!) so that I require an equal amount of my own noise to counter it (hence my words, as the synthesis of external noise on the absolute periphery and absolute non-centre of the internal!), and thirdly, I smoke too much, drink too much, and yell too much. Many of these polite-class inveterate habits of the invertebrata non verta veteran do not endear me to the many like it ought to…like it damn well should! Big publishers place their hands on their fat, oozing sides and just laugh at me: "what? me publish you? This won't sell among the urban denizens of mass oncoleptic failures and other stockbroker rabble! mwahahaha" etc. Placing the argument is as much a Punch n’ Judy fiasco as actually writing or printing it. I will be here for the long haul, sleuthing high and low, in shadowy alcoves and catacombs of the mute despairing "belles lettres" types for any mention of a way out of this mess.
The suppression fanatics have a job as respectable as making one's living kicking expectant homeless mothers in the stomach. People like us haven’t disappeared, but we've only been obscured by the loud grease-fire-circus of the many-too-many spectacle. The insane fracas, debacles, and bedlam have only just begun for me, and not even the threat of a thousand gong-banging airplane stopovers in smoke-free saccharin bourgeois-buddhist Czechago could pry the Blonde Redhead blasting smokeholes through my hippocampal region. That being said, let's hash out details, as they say... No money in books. Note the catatonic surprise. It would seem only rogues, asinine brigands and huckster-hillbillies of the narcotizing literati circuit (circus?) can make a killing penning jejune genre claptrap to feed the slavering maw of the many-too-many who hanker pointlessly after ingratiating ex-presidential wife me-me-memoirs and Osama bin bric-a-brac journalistic exposes pieced together from old congressional minutes. Getting money for the argument is a nightmare in itself (almost as bad as if I were to sit here and tell you exactly what my argument is all about—but let’s not demean one another)… Government subsidies are another option, but when the other shoe drops, it's usually VERY heavy...That is, toe the George Bushevik line or into the gutter with you. They'll hold it up and declare that it is literature spawned by the devil. A good litmus test and a verboten sign to any morose clown who thinks that playing by the rules of the social etiquette parade of sick values can win them favours enough to lift them out of the circus maximus of reality TV show obscurity. Besides, these same people who launch these jabbering "made by my toaster" epistles have horribly debilitating thumb-to-ass issues and should be promptly directed to the nearest technical writers mill to pen the VCR repair manuals of tomorrow!
…Many more ideas and contused thoughts from this catacomb. Our child-president has some very wacky ideas about security. So the game is up. Who are you? Do I owe you money? If so, get in line: the banks have bigger sticks. Thanks for the light at the end of the tunnel bit, always a good reminder that the nightmare is finite, etc. Hegel, History, and its feminization...I had not thought it in those terms. I have always thought of Hegel as the chamberpot hugging drunk Man whose negations transmute to the "positive, active thought" of the masculine. His heavy reliance on Thought and its generalities is, in my view, thoroughly and ridiculously "male". But then again, so many "masculine" thinkers experience a kind of impotence at the very gates of entry of Hegel's system. I fear the masculine for its lack of charm. I may not ponder this further. I’d rather be a fluid than a static academic class. I owe this fragment to Verlaine the Second. Dyslexia and lack of brevity: the challenge of these things make such a theoretical encounter both intriguing and comedic. But, hey, it loved to happen says the Deleuzian event. As they say, the body is a temple: burn it down. O ho ho! Rapid fire machinegun disjecta membra for all of us! Raining down!
How godless may I be? I do have an antipathy toward a notion of god, for I think he fell into one of my ears whilst I sleep and has been clattering about in there trying to get out going on twenty or so years. The hopeless bearded wonder, trapped in my skull, a skull better suited to trapping conceptual bears. Yeah, that god. Your stupid, lumbering oaf of a god. But then again I do like the Old Testament for its Greekness...I mean, he's kicking people out of gardens like a surly landlord, turning people's hair white, flooding the world, asking fathers to sacrifice their sons in his name, turning people to salt, and causing great amounts of Zeus-style mayhem. The New Testament with Jesus doing little parlour tricks pales in comparison. According to that old fairy tale, God created the heavens, which is to say he prepared them all out of his cosmic easy-bake oven. I can only sympathize from afar what it must be like to actually "prepare" or "organize" for anything (seeing as my life is one long extempore, improvised series of fortuitous encounters and mad jabberings). God is to be credited with his ability to structure his desires, even if the outcome is the Great Cake That Flopped. Aristotle liked to see things differently, if only because he was difficult and a contrarian by nature…For him, the whole universe was one big sphere put into motion by some mysterious wizard behind the veil named Mr. Prime Mover. I will keep the venom-secreting flying monkeys in their cages and not sic ‘em on Mr. Motion there, but you get the point in earnest. I’m not about to get myself all soiled in some silly slapfest over trite matters of metaphysics. For that, we can watch some Jerry Springer. Aristotelian categories and absurd binaries still existing in the face of spontaneous evolution can be found there…Trailer Trash is a category unto itself, but links up to a superordinate term somewhere up in the ether of meta-category. I will not deduce down to the particulars. In sum, crazed Albanian terrorists have abducted this line of reasoning into their traveling Guignol, and now it makes the parlour circuit and all the magazine racks in the land. I plucked this pic from the net a while back, thinking it would be a suitable xmas card. It is a depiction of Lego Romans nailing little Jesus to a stick. This throws all of Aristotle’s scrolls and scrolls of categories into scattered confusion, turmoil, and in serious need of revision. Let’s see what the medievalists can do…I am certain that we have yet to truly discover what the medievalists can do. Oh…another fit swelling up…Lord preserve us…Half-baked theory mill, Jesus good lord fuck ragabash poltroonage secret Reaganomic prolixity of the longwinded treatise on pure garnish! I HEREBY DECLARE THAT IN THE EVENT OF MY BIRTH, I HEREIN NAME EDGAR ALLAN HOOVER, PUBLISHING ROGUE AND MELODIC TOM-TOM DRUMMER, AS BENEFICIARY TO THE ESTATE OF ALEX COPEC'S COLLECTED COPYRIGHTS ON EVERY WORD IN THE ESPERANTO LANGUAGE, ASSIGNING SAID RIGHT UNTO PERPETUITY FOR ALL ETERNITY.

10
Grand acts of savagery abound amidst the crowning glory of all fools and all such finagling fracas fun. I get screwed on all sides by the "Freedom Fries" Anglo-American analytic cabal who think my reflections on certain unnamed “disasters” are too fixated on a short-sighted view of the symbolic rather than on the people themselves. But these same people miss the point when they claim these material conditions (people dying in general) and then go on to claim justification for their retaliation in terms of the symbolic order (a flag, good and evil, terrorism, axis, monuments raised in honour/memory of). When real people die everyday, all you have left is a handful of symbols to play with. I hear a lot of mindless pap about the events…I do not think my critique will be welcome in many circles or institutions… American universities are frightening and expensive, not to mention you will have to yet again endure the cavalcade of knuckle-dragging mouth-breather jock-o-ramas who are being pushed through just so that they can make the NFL, MLB, or become cloaked conservative masons in some cabin slap-happy republican fundraiser. At least you would be in touch with real tragedy rather than its perverted Christiano-Hollywoodist image. Sophocles is a wonder, and one day people will finally understand him in some half-crazed Dionysian double genesis. I am asked to prune down my argument to a page or two. That's a vicious, skullduggering, poltroonish, back-dealing swinish restriction! What, if anything, meaningful has ever been said in 250-500 words? "Duck, sarge!" perhaps is the only one. “Plan Colombia”, “Manifest Destiny”, and “Face the Flag, Son” are, in the final outcome, purely empty and meaningless. Maybe a few assorted quotations. Perhaps I will endeavour to keep this word restriction in mind next time around whilst I shake my head and pound my fist against the desk, sending all variety of empty whiskey bottles careening unto the ash-caked floor of failure. I can't keep the hordes palliated for too long. I blast shock-free-jazz from the late 60s at them, maybe some Red Krayola, but still they howl around my virtual door. I must confess a certain difficulty insofar as I am used to this encrusted fascism…My university had the colour scheme of the Third Reich and I am off to trundle lalalala, but they wouldn’t dream of stocking my argument in their syllabi. Not for all the crooked corporate funds in the world. Perhaps I should put a few "hardcover" 1st editions of it on eBay. Charge a thousand bucks. Write a paragraph declaring how enigmatic and rare the text is, how the author was last seen rowing a boat into the ocean, never to be heard from again, etc. This operates under the logic that people are idiots and will purchase anything that is said to be rare or dangerous. Something tells me that once you have negotiated your way through the entire opus that you'll be launching bricks rather than emails, acerbic volleys rather than accolades. So be it. It would probably be a better use for a brick. Courage, courage, my timid ones! I guess what I'm trying to say is I'm extremely grateful that you haven't run away from the argument just as yet, but are carefully either trying to defuse the bomb or stand and face the brunt of what it may deliver. Finally, I would hope that this would make a splendid follow-up to my dissenting love letter to Prez Budweiser. I want to be his son. I want to be George III and lose all the colonies. Yes, Alexander Copec is the authorial name of an authoritarian, authorial presence of this author-authority. But if ya call me Walt (Disney or Whitman), I will have to rip off your limbs and beat you silly with the soggy ends.
I have been in the after-party scene enough in my day to warrant many fathers to take arms against me for what may or may not occurred with their daughters, so I am not to be trifled with! Or maybe just a little…Well, in the words of old Jabber the Hut: "ho cho mee ba wahaha ha", q.v. That’s how I’ll feel: bloated, alien, ugly, and a gangster before all of this is through. I will have joy, like Nietzsche. But Nietzsche never smiled, it is said… Freddy never smiled, you're right; never given a reason to, I guess. But then, I am sure that his joy was something most of us could never touch. I will be seen as the Great Hope rather than the Terrorist Pariah. Nur mut, as the Germans say. But I am told that my prose is too purple, full of turpitude and obfuscation, failing to endear itself (or me) to anyone. Perhaps. Perhaps, again, it is that it is more prudent that I couch my argument in obscenely mad prose, for then I can be ignored as a madman by the dangerous idiot class, and be received as profound by Those Who Are Worthy of Respect. It’s kind of like a secret code only other obscurists can read. But I still landed myself in a world of shit nonetheless. But then I'll still be targeting republicans and the middle class and the fascist war machine and masons and bored suburban Oprah housewives. Perhaps having dolts of the Celebrity Class killed? Not poetic enough! Either slow excoriation by pre-heated fishing knife or philotheoparoptessism (a fancy term meaning "the slow roasting over a fire those who earn the church's displeasure"). And what is that growing pile over there, pray tell? Why, it’s a seething papery mass of hate mail! Content? Oh, just your general anti-intellectualist simple man uberpatriotic swill from the leper nazi smut of the land. I get these missives and poorly written screeds on occasion. One day I will print them all. Now that would be true sedition! But we always run the risk of being misinterpreted when the satires are pointedly political. In Roman times, it could mean your execution. God, how I wished the times would have changed already!

An urgent message from the mysterious Dr. Barnes claiming that I had requested a file from him. I have no recollection of any such event, but strange things are happening these days as the sun sets on the nation. Enigmatic figures are popping out everywhere to give me their insane spiel and support in only the way their spiel can. I am the nexus, a node that has united the shadowy many by one potentially fatal act of publication. But I must say this: the panic and terror of these times has cleared my voice up a bit, and I can think much clearer now…No longer beguiled as I was by an intransigent aphasia and schizophrenic tendency. Now my schizophrenia is internalized and harnessed, and it is merely my need for survival that has prompted this turn of events within me. I am more rational and compos mentis for those many who have yet to have a voice. The world is what drives each of us mad; some of us feel it more powerfully than others. Some of us have been given the gift and the curse of high sensitivity…It has allowed us to see things differently, but it has also come at a severe price, a price which is yet to be fully paid, a cost that has broad dimensions and horrible consequences. I have regained my composure perhaps at both the best and worst possible time. We shall see how it all plays out. I see the clearing, and it frightens me.

hier ist der file from ze groupe dat zey sent me, ja? Gut. Readen sie ze file hier und zen you vill know what die groupvolk are do-ink. Ach, die people are yahoogesaumtausgabenzimmerfleishenschaftenheitzel!!! Sheisse!

I was asked by an underground reviewing body to give a capsule statement of my argument. But, like any attempt to synopsize myself or my works, I fail, and fail like a champion. I called my old psychoanalyst, for perhaps it had been too long.
“Doctor? It is me, Alex Copec.”
“Alex?” his voice crackled on the line. I knew the phone was being tapped, but I did not care. I would proceed anyway.
“Yes, it’s me. How are you?”
“Very well. But more importantly, how are you?”
“It is kind of you to ask. I have been through the wringer. I have been forced to mature in many ways.”
“You sound very different. Have your travails been shaping you in positive ways?”
“Yes and no. You may have heard that I have come out with my long-awaited argument. My disputatio is now in the public domain, and I am very frightened of what will happen to me next.”
“I see. I do vaguely remember you speaking of this in our sessions. What is it that you fear? Are you taking the medication?”
“I fear the people and I fear the State. And, no, I am not taking the medication. I prefer to heal on my own terms.”
“I see. What people do you fear? Is it the middle class, the faceless many you used to rail about?”
“No, doctor. Who I fear…I fear those that I have inspired, those who see the reasoning in my argument. I fear that they have made me their leader, in a way.”
“Leadership is always a heavy burden. It asks and it takes, and rarely does it give back. It requires fortitude and perseverance. I would recommend that you take a step back from all this, for it does not sound like you are ready for such responsibility. Continue healing; this will all blow over.”
“It is too late to bow out, especially after all that has been said or done. The responsible thing to do is to see it through to its climax, come what may. I cannot share your optimism that it will blow over. Nothing blows over. It is either moved forward or destroyed outright in a violent blast. I fear both alternatives.”
“You speak as though these matters are determined, that you have no choice. Be mindful of paranoia, and of course any hasty imposition of presupposed outcomes. The mind has a tendency to make matters more constrained and hopeless than they actually are. It limits a more broad perception of the issue and makes us myopic. I would ask that you truly and honestly weigh your options and seek new alternatives…I have a feeling that with a mind like yours, a solution will come to hand with the proper prompting.”
“I will try this, doctor. Thank you.”
“It is my pleasure, Alex. I am fascinated by this sudden remission. We should reconvene our meetings and build on all the new gains and progress you have made so far. You should be commended, but do not be complicit. You could always relapse.”
I hung up the phone. I realized then and there that I was horribly misdiagnosed. Schizophrenia and aphasia are not conditions one can overcome or relapse back into. He was lying to me. His tone was too perfect, and his words were too smooth, as if he had expected my call and everything was already scripted in advance. But I suppose it is the art of psychology and psychiatry to prescribe things. I let the musing drop. I had no ally in my old doctor.

The mail was piling up, and efforts to answer letters was becoming very difficult. Had I pledged an entire day to the influx of new mail, I would still fall behind. I had to become selective about who I would answer. I had to answer them in their own tongue, if only to keep up appearances. I found it amusing just how the discursive code of the underground and minor nomad voice actually worked…Our revulsion of categorical thinking and proper forms of address was not truly irreverence, for any irreverent tone was in fact a veiled sense of proper forms of address! I had suddenly become a cult figure, someone despicably holy. I was preparing for my own crucifixion. I cannot heal all the sick…

AlexLizzySchizCopec:
Many people have been as of late screaming your name at me for reasons altogether arcane and insidious. "Go to Copec," they say, like I am to orbit you in some cheap schlitz semblance of Mecca. Well, here I am, pleading my case, looking for help perhaps in all the wrong places. Another back-rabble associate claimed that you and are of a similar stripe--the difference being that you are perhaps more affable in the life-depreciating world of the big business failure demographic. I guess I need your assistance.
I am a polemicist dystopic novelist and illustrator who listens to too much late 60's German free jazz, Red Krayola, and then lapses into fits of frenzied animal screaming whilst under the Sisyphusian push of the scotch bottle, und so weiter. My websearches for appropriate publishers for my vitriolic non-genre, anti-middle cash-class bullshittery has yielded only slurry and dross. I need the guidance of a more seasoned satyr in the business of setting people's teeth on edge. No one seems to dig the cut of my Celinean jib. Well, who the fuck am I? At this juncture, I am sending mad dash emails in some crypto-radial burst, looking to hit the mark of a target that still remains somewhat fuzzy and obscured by the great fog from the Night the Lights Went Out. When all else fails, like any corporocratic lumpen-slut or shit-heeled poltroon brigand, contact the most polemical incendiary of them all! Speaking as I do from a tendency to be cavalier, to soil with heaping amounts of excrement the majesty of the purple, I am of the mind that vomit is the only form of protest we have left. My hope in contacting you, O King of the Copec Corpus, the bastard son of an opium-overdosed Oscar Wilde and a hopped-up Hawthorne, is to get information. Where the hell must I send the works that keep piling up alongside the gross "Govern Yourself Accordingly" insistence of my creditors who hound me with threats to perform vivisection? To which publishers?--Or, should it all just go up in some self-lacerating moment of flames? Well...Where indeed? This is the postmodern Roman republic after all, and I already have "border problems" from up here in Kanada to Amerika. Certainly. President Budweiser and his slavering dark mass of old cold war relics known so politely as the "Joint Chiefs" have never heard of Bukowski and the like, and I am sure they would never want to.

For the War!
L’il Patty Duke

L’il Patty Duke--

Thank you for writing. Please share details of yourself with me, for all manner of strange creatures have lurked over to me with designs on my wallet or my life...and it may be prudent to know if I have a date with yonder gallows. You caught me at a not so nice time, as I am in a kind of frenzied agony and so less compos mentis than usual. of course. I fell into laughing seizures at your comment of being the bastard son of an opium-overdosed Oscar Wilde and a hopped-up Hawthorne. I may have to quote you on that; I have been called much worse. Repugnant mediation of the moral majoritarian elite! When will they take down their awful boudoir photos?! I can offer you nothing to alleviate your plight with the generalized contained chaos of publishing. I am not a novelist, so that market remains obscure to me. Keep ramming your horns against the walls…they have to fall eventually. Keep in contact.
Until then I'll be

Chasing creditors off my land with animal yelping and large pointed sticks
Alex Copec aka “SchizzyLizzy75”

Today I was very ill. I ate some rancid salad dressing that brought the fire of Hades to parts of me where the fire does not belong. I am under no illusion that a publisher would dare touch me with a long pointed stick. But, in all fairness, history will absolve me. I worry a lot these days about the details of my precious argument, the fate of its reception. Sure, it is out and I receive much attention for it, but there is no satisfaction in any of it. The argument in itself was probably too beautiful to ever have been made public. It should have been buried in a mountain or sent to the sun. And then there is the hate mail from all sorts. Between the fan mail by obvious insurgents and the polite gentry, I sometimes question which of them are more unbalanced:

Dear Alex Copec
You ought to be shot! Your narrow “reflections” on New York and the tragedy that befell us all as A Nation is disgusting. I don’t know how you can even live with yourself, and I wonder why they haven’t thrown you in prison with all the other asshole bombers where you belong! In addition, New York is a great city, and so if you don’t like it, MOVE! It really pisses me off when I read some jerk trying to act wise and talk bullshit about a city that is great and full of opportunity! This is the best city in the world, and no third-rate critic like you is going to make me think otherwise!

Fuck you
John Franklin

A long reply was, of course, necessary and forthcoming. Admittedly, I was engaging in juvenile behaviour, but there are times when one must let go and express discontent.

John Franklin--

How dare I impugn your precious (and wholly arbitrary designation or geographical cloister-city) New York. For shame! Is this yet another case of someone taking me grossly out of context, ripped from the birthing caul of my more incendiary screeds? Is this another instance of the degenerate polite bourgeois republic narrative of censorious practice to stick its dontopedian boot down my throat? Methinks it is! brings me so much closer to L-F Celine, if you are familiar with the beating of THAT gong...--or is it that your savage rhythm is more of a Night of the Long Knives persuasion, all this hoity-toity pseudo-patriot attitude delivered from some transcendental on-high nationalist (but O so contained under a different rubric: New York City!) sentiment of the condemnable rot that I find that quivers out of the gum-diseased likes of our fellow John Wayne allegiance programming factotums?
You fiendish suckfish swine! Why do your kind always seem to locate me, always harangue me for what little words I have dropped here or there? What of my other views? have you, like Nietzsche had so aptly forewarned, acted like a marauding soldier-critic, picking a few things from the text while sullying and soiling the remainder? At first it was the Kabbalists, then the Checkpoint Charlies, and now a whole legion of critics! When will it end? Ach! Mein leben ist sheissearbeite! But let's get down to something serious, John, for I have endured my fair share of both poignant and wasteful criticism, from journalisto-hacks and academic demagogues alike. I do not write criticisms; I write critiques. Much different, operating on a much different plane of immanence, if you will. I base my reflections on New York on--gasp and heaven forfend--experience. I am going to give you credit that you are a sensible man, perhaps even a reasonable and dignified creature gracing the eastern slice of our fair arboreal land. Cities are not people, John, and they can endure all the insults and harassment thrown at them. I do, however, get very worried when one's appreciation of one's city outpaces the ability to be critical or even to make offhand remarks. I was not altogether impressed by New York and its alleged “opportunities,” and I am not alone. The coldness and sterility of the environs of New York, and its analogue with other contemptible big cities was symptomatic of how I mediated that experience, and in sum how I tend to mediate the world
John, I am a man of affirmative difference. I do not like to argue, but rather pursue questions. And when someone's nose gets out of joint over a particular shred of text without mention of the whole, I start fearing that intransigent hermeneuts or vicious defenders of the canon are going to try to start setting the screws to me. As per usual, and as a theorist and crazyman, I suppose I should be used to that level of insult by now. I do not want to spend any more time in New York than I have to. Cultural diversity aside, my preference is the arctic. And as soon as you start leveling words like "best" at me, I become suspicious...It sounds too subjective, hindered by a recourse to a dialectical procedure that carves out the world in terms of "best" and "worst", "good" and "evil", and all the other gems of the republican stamp, the tools of the idealogue rhetor, etc. And of course, your title of "third rate critic" bears in itself the stamp of order and rank that I attempt at all costs to avoid. Is there a first rate critic? I had thought such a beast mythical, a scylla, a bloody manticore in the land where the water flows upward with the hippogriffs.
I gaze in my mind at the New York skyline and think to myself how unfortunate that there is too much Walter Gropius in it all. Your remark is merely one of many that I must and will have to contend with. I am unwilling to compromise on experience, for as long as they are subjective experiences hard won at my expense, I see no reason to barter them off so easily because SOMEONE might be offended. In an age that seeks not to offend anyone, perhaps we do need a good jolt from time to time. But then again, I am offended by all sorts of things that do not offend the majoritarian value system of petty and base reactivity.
Will you make it your crusade to set all us scribblers in our place to give the obligatory kao-tao to the New York money glut? I can hardly stomach that option. Neither can I stomach efforts that overtly privilege one city over another in the diaphanous rubric of "cultural diversity." Since when was MY culture represented in New York? Where is my culture? What diversity? Over-the-top parades? Over-ethnicized restaurants? Residual colonial paternalist overreaching to compensate for our not so illustrious past? Please! We have the illusion of cultural diversity, the appearance of it as larger governmental bodies throw heritage money all over it as if that will suffice! Bah! Piffle! All slurry and dross and flinders! Any poltroon could see through that veil! Once again, New York has no one of my stripe, not a nomad like myself. So be it. I will have no recourse but to stand behind my statement made in my name that I consider New York to be a crippling syphilis, that it is a geo-venereal symptom of a much larger host of symptoms. And what of it? What happens now? What's next?
Well, John, I feel that we have journeyed far together. Let us, in future, not engage in criticism without taking stock in our own brand thereof, n'est-ce pas? You have gotten me in a particular pitch, so I apologize for any spelling and grammar snafus made along the way.

Yours truly,
Alex “3rd Rate” Copec

11
I finally received a reply from that other SchizzyLizzy75…

Oh dearest wonder of filth, cyberspace seduction and lover…

Your frantic spiral of one who desires behind a painting of life, a smile that is still a body, is still a fear of dustbunnies that runneth over Order. Your argument is bullshit, but would earn you 7 points. I am being very generous, I’ll have you know. If you can respect this silently, I will not lower yr score. If you persist in attempting to actualize on bodies and make me unreal as flesh and name and identity and particular details, I will dock you accordingly. Please do not take this personally or keep desire up yr bottom where it cannot pop out to play. Please change your tag, your virtual ID to prevent future confusions, lest my own points are mistaken with yours.

Yrs
SchizzyLizzy75, authentic primogen model…

Dear SchizzyLizzy75 II(!)

I do not understand yr point system, nor do I want to play. Answers are all right, even if yr appreciation of my argument is near nil. I do not want to play cat and mouse with you, for either role is a limitation of our own differential powers. Right?

Ah, little wonder:
The Great Book has been revised, showing a lag and a docking of 25 points. I warned you not to violate the harmonious silence between our respective cyberian bodies. But you trounced all over it without any respect for poetry or the painting that is our Internet. But I suppose ppl like you choose to own the net rather than live it, and that is the fate of a stone. I am fluid. I will communicate to my other limbs this disappointment, if only to hear their laughter pierce the air, shrapnel raining down into the stomach of the night. Are you a terrorist is what you seem to ask. No, I don’t think so. You have no sense of GRACE.

Pity

He had me beat for obtuseness. Every which way blockading his revelation into the light. Search as I did for pictures or other boards he posted on revealed nothing. He was a cipher, a moon gleam in between two cavalcades of dark cloud. Other than the board where he posted along with the other followers in his game, there was no trace of him. I clicked on his profile page and received more enigmatic prose and nothing concrete. My means of acquittal was little more than a riddle impossible to solve, and equally difficult to pose to my accusers who were very impatient with my words already. They would assume that I was merely stalling for time, throwing a red herring into their well-planned investigation. But that was their tragic flaw: you cannot investigate the absurd and oblique with methods of reason.
These exchanges continued. At one point, my contact began to waver a bit, perhaps out of amusement. He was ready to give me clues:

Dearest child of terror:
I feel that circumstances are unfair. For you, for me, for ‘it’, for all. I reread yr argument and still chuckle with what appears to be a juvenile wing nut attempt to unscrew itself, to unmoor one order of Reason with another. But we should meet one day, one day…I feel that this is what you want, at least. But an act of this nature will no doubt require skilful Preparation. We do not move lightly in the public, but lighter than most as we glide. But glide carefully, we do. I send you this file. Do not open it yet, but await further instruction. If you violate these terms, I vanish, and the file falls corrupted into nullity. Such is the way with these things…

Zah!
SL75

And so he sent the file. It was ten megs large and almost killed my connection. As it was downloading, I feared that at any moment the modem would hang up, leaving me back in the space of naught. The file was entitled DoMeFirst_MoreToFollow.xrq. The file extension was a complete mystery. I searched on the Net for mention of xrq files and what program could open it. Nothing. I dared not open it lest all that I had built fell into ruin. Prehaps it was a time-sensitive document. The file was installed, in a way, on the computer, and a small clock icon appeared next to it. It was counting down 332 hours and 55 minutes.

My accusers took a different tack in their line of questioning. I was quite lucid now. Paul, the agent, and I were beginning to understand one another, almost like friend but made so different by the circumstances of our profession.
“Mr. Copec.”
“Yes?”
“You did yourself no favour by placing yourself in the public domain like that. The book is one of flagrant lies and narrow misperceptions. People may take those arguments seriously.”
“It is not a terrorist document, if that is what you are implying.”
“It lends itself to that sort of thing. It is a subversive text. Subversion is the bedfellow of terrorism.”
“Or of thinking differently,” I countered.
“We can ill afford to think differently, not now. That is a luxury of peace time. We are at war. Things are particularly unstable. Reflection can only come after and before action. We are now in an active stage.”
“I cannot think of a time when our country was not at war. We have been waiting for generations.”
In his effective programming, he edited out the comment. “You cannot be selfish at this point. Let me be frank with you. This is not the time for difference. The condition of our nation is in peril. There are real enemies afoot with nefarious plots to subvert all this country stands on. You may be one of them.”
“No time for difference? If not now, when? Difference is always. Terrorism is a form of difference. The US cannot respond to terrorism because it involves creating something new and different. You cannot attack the nomadic distribution of terrorism like a chess game with obvious pieces, moves and finitely predictable strategies. Terrorism succeeds because it is a fluid to your solid. Water moves around objects, even when these objects are put in place to obstruct or contain it.”
“I am familiar with your argument. But I still believe that you are being selfish. This is not what the people want to hear. It is bad for morale.”
“Then change the tactics that assess terrorist threats.”
“We would have to remodel and reconstruct the entire System. What you propose is economically and structurally unfeasible.”
“No. If you want to have a ghost of a chance against terrorism, you must become terrorists yourselves. You must become an immanent phenomenon. You must speak to terrorism in the language of terrorism.”
“You mean counter-terrorism? We already have said strategy in play.”
“Again, you fall into the same trap: to counter a move, you rely on the binarity of a chess-like strategy. By becoming an opposite, you assume that terrorism can fall under a rigidly defined category. You can’t counteract the flow of water by being a solid. You only succeed in displacing it, which is to say that it re-emerges elsewhere. I do not know why you cannot see this. It is basic physics.”
It was. But the paradigmatic shift it would entail threatened to rupture the very firmament of the nation…but this firmament was already cracking and unstable ground. How many more decades of pointless band-aid solutions and presidential policy creep would it take before they realized the folly of their method? The hardest thing to do is to affirm difference and to deny the image of God, Country and other transcendent figures…The hardest thing to do is to reject the solid model of comfort and security and embrace the uncertainty of water, its vicissitudes, obeying its own transcendental necessity. Water speaks in us as a strange cryptic language, and only fools attempt to decipher it when they should merely flow along with it. The flow of history, the migration of people, the rise and fall of the tide, the movement of continents, the shifting of the solar system throughout the universe…all of this is fluid, constantly a decentering of something that was never central. We give ourselves anchor points to make life bearable, but in doing so we never truly understand life on its own terms, as something moving and becoming. Rather, we exhaust our erected idols and images, the ones we have placed there, forgetting that they were our creations to begin with, and we feel the great ennui and crushing sadness when our images do not speak back to us and explain why things are the way they are…

All existence is played on a special twelve-string lute, shaped like a minotaur. But the maze in which it is set has no beginning, end, or centre. It is an infinite labyrinth that would exhaust any amount of twine. We are all dropped in the middle of this bizarre machinic labyrinth that itself shifts and reformulates itself in new and intriguing patterns. All that repeats is its difference. The possibilities and permutations of this labyrinth are infinite. We merely stake our place within it, hoping that we will recognize our surroundings when we awake the next day. But all things change, all things become as they come to be or pass away. We hold on to one another, embracing so as perhaps to forget the fear that tomorrow everything will be different. Today two towers stand, and tomorrow they are gone. Today a nation frees itself from bondage to another imperial power, and the next it enforces its own breed of imperialism on another. Today a cycle of economic love unites two prosperous nation-bodies, tomorrow everything runs aground and the unity is ruptured within the larger unity as a global war. Today two camps of clearly coloured uniformed men engage head on to resolve the breakdown of communication between kings, and tomorrow insurgents crop up like a prolific generation of fungi in the night and take a few souls along back into ground. In all this, all that remains the same is the movement, the duration, the difference, the dilation and condensation of events as they cover bodies, and bodies cover them. Try as we might to construct a rational order out of these emergent fragments, we are always left in the end holding mere relics of our own presence…That, too, which will dissolve in time…

12
Another email from SchizzyLizzy75. The remainder of the files he wished to send me were now sequestered in my hard drive. I thought of her and what she might be doing now. The countdown clock was three minutes from completion. I anxiously awaited what would come next. SchizzyLizzy75 asked me very direct questions about my Internet connection, model of modem, and other details. I provided this information for lack of anything else to do, to learn.
000:02:41
I waited and merely stared at the computer screen, motionless, impotent, a helot under the whim of another who had my virtual name.
000:01:13
And what of Paul, my accuser? Should he not know of this, or would he merely have assumed that I was merely throwing a blanket of obscurity and confusion over their investigation?
000:00:44
I thought of my old shrink, and how I had been betrayed, how perhaps all of this had been meticulously planned from the start. I thought of the many confidences I shared with him, although buried in logorrhea and crypticism.
000:00:12
And I thought of you while puffing on a cigarette, you out in the cold…You grieving at the loss of life in one aerial low swoop replayed on the television screen. I thought of how you had taken heart in the message of manufactured morale, how you truly believed in the flag, in your courage to ignore the facts of a larger global array of preceding events. I thought of how you idled time away in bars, on the couch, before the computer while performing your salaried tasks, how you at least once felt a remorseful survivor’s guilt: “it could have been me in there, it could have been me…” I thought of the new Roman rhetoric that was occurring all around you, the slow and surreptitious militarization of the citizenry in preparation to do battle against a foe that had no name, no place, and no face…As virtual and intangible as the Internet upon which you were all raised. I thought of so many things in those last few moments…
000:00:00
Extracting Files…Please Wait. Auto-Extractor Initialized.
Installing minotaURL1…
Preparing modem…Transfer rate OK
Installing minotaURL2…
Security measure initialized…Disabling auto-shutdown
Installing minotaURL3…
And then it was done. Moments later, a message from SchizzyLizzy75:

The rest is up to you. Run the program. Love me tender. Co-opting a medium is a style of great men. One day…

What choice did I have? I ran the program. The modem’s lights flickered quickly, the lights went dim. The computer screen scrolled rapidly with what seemed to be thousands of pages of gibberish. The program had taken control of the computer and was opening and closing other programs and websites as it needed. My attitude toward technology was to plead ignorance and have faith that the machine knew what it was doing. I would not, like Francois, speak to the machine on human terms. I let it run itself out. More gibberish. I was patient. I lit another cigarette. I thought of Rome burning and Nero with his lute.
Finally, a prompt:
Initialize launch sequence (y/n)?
The cursor blinked at me for a response. I figured my reply would launch the remainder of the program. If I ran it, said my doppelganger, I would earn 12 000 points. I did not care about points. I was merely curious…
Finding host site…www.********.***
A flickering strobe light of what appeared to be every page on the Internet…Now fluttering at such a rate that the screen glowed a pure undulating white. This lasted for half an hour. I resisted the urge to unplug the machine, for perhaps I thought there was a malfunction. I let it run. We all let it run. We let time run, and we let presidents run. We let children run, and we let the water run.
Sending all webfiles…
I began to clue in to what was happening, but by now it was too late. I would gain my 12 000 points regardless. It was midnight. It was the twelfth hour and the twelfth string of this melody. The program had installed some form of experimental software to enable a simultaneous suspension and agitation of the entire Internet. No one could access the Internet except for one source. Servers were going wild all over the globe. The program sent its inconceivably massive message hurtling at one destination like a shrieking virtual comet. The destination was reputed to be on an island network, but something had been modified…An inside job, perhaps. The destination was a central hub, a web of its own with numerous points of entry and top-of-the-line servers, capable of receiving well over a trillion gigs of data if need be. Was my contact an experimental software engineer? A declassified hardware guru? The president himself? I did not know. I would only know him though his act…our act.
It located and penetrated the mark. The system at their end went into automatic shutdown and reboot mode, so said the text at the bottom of my screen, amidst computerese gibberish I would never understand.
Reboot of Pent1…2…3…4…5…6…7…8…9…10…11…12
Finished
Password:_
My software kicked in again, taking the reins on locating the password. Perhaps the most effective decryption software ever written. It went through all possibilities at a lightning rate. The password prompt blurred. The massive message had forced their server to shut down, and now we were in the very belly of the restart procedure.
The password was identified.
Threat Detected! Air Space Violation…
Autoresponse override (y/n)?
The program answered on my behalf. The answer was No. The autoresponder mechanism would handle the rest.
Launch sequence 4 verified…
Contacting vital personnel
Launch initialized.
Run
End Run.
And then the computer shut down. It felt like a non-event, but an anxious one. I waited an hour before turning on the television. I learned that the nation was in a state of emergency. The details were just rolling in. The Pentagon had been hacked. A missile had been launched. And once again, without asking why it happened, the immediate response was to locate the culprit. I was as good as dead now. We are all unspectacular instruments of terror in our own way. And try as we might to learn a few good lessons, to perhaps vote the other way in the next election as if that would make a difference when the agenda is painfully the same, this is the result of so much labour…The labyrinth twisted and folded, and when I looked out, I couldn’t recognize a thing…
Sunshine Black

1. Stealthy Beasts!

Starring: Abc, Def, Ghi, Jonkil, Mno, Pqr & Stu, Legare, Yz and the Nth-arrator.
And the Night sayeth unto Day:
“Ha! You better drop whatever fool notion you have grinding between your ears or down there in the crusty domain of your pants before the little packaged hell you have in store for me mushrooms into something serious enough to take you down with me! Everyone’s talking about you, even the President! A murder of nuns are swooping from belfry to belfry with the brittle sounding song of your name in their twisted beaks! No place to run! The fiends are armed with truncheons and jackboots! You’ll meet your doom soon enough! We’ve been foes for so long, and perhaps it should give you cause to celebrate that at least I can appreciate this sordid ironic turn of events! Yes, the hunter becomes the hunted, and so on and so forth. Thump your chest and do your best Clarence Darrow, but it won’t do you a lick of good! The freedom train is not coming! I have had enough of the dialectical fancies of our position, this whole arrangement of nocturnal and diurnal wherein it seems that I, the Nocturne, is granted with existence only as a privation! Yes, according to your little ontological setting, I do not have an existence to myself, but rather I am merely the absence of you! But I have essence, too! I am not merely your shadow, but a free-standing shadow with no object to cast it!
“Well, enough of all that. I could go on to describe in lurid detail the covenant of our mutual hatred, to say with brazen and boisterous revel that you are nothing short of swine in heat. Ah, you exquisite old dandy! You staunch critter with mutton chops or way back there in some sap-suck portrait of pioneer Americans dipping into the drink in petticoats and one-buckle shoes! You’re like a liberal who just won’t shut up, or a conservative who just won’t die already!”

Le soleil noir…Solaris fabula, fabula mores. The applause breaks in two; all hands shatter, glass, light prisms, reprobate Cartesians, the failure of Newtonian matter.
Lacuna cerebra nocturnalis
Lacuna diurna
Cerebra nocturnalis extempore
Omnia nocturnalis negatio est
Lacuna omnia—which is indeed, what this whole thing is. Opera omnia? And which way to the opera, pard’ner, as if someone dressed like you could ever know…

I’d like to ask a simple question on a matter that matters and matter is not extension but a re-tension…that may appear deceptively similar in its simplicity, if similarity is a bag and not a way of being. If you are a member of the post-terrorist media society, and you are now just a bit more cowboy-weary and experiencing Freud-fatigue while watching Chinese football, then I may be speaking to the right candidate. But I prefer to ask the question and go about my own inquest, if it so pleases you. Oh, I’m sure you have all sorts of opinions—or none at all—on the matter. While you sit snugly in your office tombs with smiles at the ready for those who can give even the vague promise for your advancement, I’m here eating Spam sandwiches that you and your infinite charity were so nice to donate to the food bank. But my question and answer session has nothing to do with the dialectic of Enlightenment poverty, but rather focuses on a world you may never know except by pure accident. This world is actually a time, between the hours of three and five in the morning. This particular time slice constitutes a world, don’t you forget, as you are comfortably enshrouded in a fluffy bed while the outside world is reeling and rolling along like a savage circus. Police officers know of this world, even if they don’t understand it. But I am amazed that you can live an entire, undisturbed life without knowing what happens in the shadowy aftermath of the day, for if you knew, I believe you wouldn’t sleep so soundly. Or let you sleep. Argus needs his rest and Hermes has his day off. But like Orpheus, you looked back and spoiled all the surprises and spoiled it all for yourself. Tis a shame you were spoofed thusly.
Gleichmachen, gleichmachen, we all fall down.
So what happens in the space of these two hours? As a devoted, tax-paying, voting citizen, you should endeavour to find out, avail yourself now that the means have been made painstakingly ubiquitous and obscenely within your lazy grasp. I will tell you what happens, but I will only graze the surface of events for now. Yes…When you and the ordered world have laid down for rest in polite slumber, there coexists a lawless world of no-traffic streets, closed shops, wandering derelicts, frustrated writers toiling over manuscripts no one will ever read let alone understand, whores doing their third or fourth round of business, lost drunks who have been wandering about since the bars closed, schizophrenics huddling under filthy blankets in alleys, strung out junkies shivering in the cold silence, party-goers looking in vain for taxi cabs, city maintenance personnel who are cleansing the streets in the repetition of futility and emptying public trash bins of hypodermic needles at their peril, lonely men and women in vans delivering newspapers, bored and numb security guards outside empty and brightly lit corporate towers having cigarettes, freaks of the night who wander into the 7-11 to read porno mags, rogues and jaywalkers, urban pirates and marauding renegades with poorly scrawled manifestos, traffic lights that continue their pulsing rhythm of change for the benefit of a phantom traffic, troubled souls who wrestle or are wrestled by unresolvable philosophical enigmas, frantic types looking for children that have died so long ago, thick-mustached Lebanese men tirelessly shaving off more shawarma meat from rotating spits, film studies students who work the part time graveyard shift at the bakery, despondent watchmen shambling automatically through their nightly routine, and all other forms of fauna that find no peace in the unrelenting darkness. It is a time of alienation, loneliness, panic, dread, fear, and violent introspection. It is a world that looks like its diurnal counterpart, but is very different. A different species occupies its space. For someone like you, if suddenly let loose in this world, there would be an uncanny resemblance to the world you know, but you will feel as though you have been placed in an alien terrain…hijacked from the real and placed in a clever duplicate of what you thought you knew. The world cannot communicate; it jabbers, and you jabber along with it, at it, in a staccato tongue. And if you could survive, imagine how different things would be. Perhaps it would place your life in a kind of double perspective, a new wisdom, like a new brain sutured to the existing grey blob. Would you attempt to instruct your friends and colleagues at the office water cooler? Probably not, for the language of this other world has its own tongue, its own logic, and these things are hard to translate into the language of the day. Not even those “wild” Friday nights at the pub or club can efface this oblique otherness of that time after when everything is locked down like scallop shells in the deep sea. But just as the diurnal world is locked away from those who traverse that strange space between closing and opening time, it is a situation that is reversed. Is it even possible that someone of your disposition can even gain access to this two hour mystery? To truly understand it is to risk the strong possibility of going mad. For when one makes the journey, one will learn nothing through comparisons to the stability and security of the day—that knowledge must be shed and discarded if true understanding is to occur. And you will quickly discover that the ruler with which you measure any and all worlds has no place and no function here…the geometry is a chaos machine with no static rules or boundaries. Your tendency, so patterned by the demands of the diurnal world that has set upon you and leaves no room for alternative judgement, is to make big and long lists…You would jot down the symptoms and make a clinical analysis of your findings while in the safety of the day. But what will you learn? All you have done is make a big list! And now, with the logic of the day belching sickly in your brain, you will show all the gall to pronounce conclusive evidence of the night’s quiddity. You will proclaim with fat confidence overarching and generalizing banner statements of this is exactly what night is. But as you labour under the yoke of a blank-faced sun, you will only repeat the same error: that night is not day. Your findings will only reflect the tautology that day=day. For any analysis you perform on the night with the logic of the day will only reveal yet again the presence of day! I told you already: to understand three to five in the morning, you have to approach it with a naked mind, a tabula rasa, an open vestibule, an uncluttered mind like a womb ready to be filled! If you come in with everything, you will come out with zilch, but if you come in with zilch…
It is in this strange world that I have lived for so very long. I have straddled both extremes, in fact, so I know of that which I speak. Now I want you to imagine with me that the whole world has been plunged into this temporal abyss, the clock a glacial epoch in the moment, the night that never lifts. I introduce you by way of a poem read to me by a dear friend of the family, a man with tattered cuffs and a bright yet withered aspect.

Nero will dance for us now

The Janus doors were thrown open, and then shut again, and open, shut, by the winds of war and peace. When what is new won’t work, the ironclad law of the capital republic dictates that you must go with what the people know…familiarity, repetition of the same, sequentialism in movies (popular movie II, III, IV!!). No need to raise the ire and xenophobia of the masses, make them suspicious. Give them comfort, and leukemise/lobotomize them into safety…But, of course, perform a slight deviation because that’ll give it the semblance of the new. Illusions are much better and safer than reality. They perfect reality, don’t they? But you need that slight deviation, like when the hero you know you know who will triumph in the end right from the start (or else there would be no film, or Hollywood at all, would there?) encounters the villainous struggle, and you bite your nails down to the quick, pretending that there is a chance that the hero will not prevail. That’s your other rule: kill all chance. Chance is too risky. Rig all outcomes. You are in control. People like false chance better than anything else…That logic runs right up through the pornography industry (the illusory chance that the stripper may desire you and not your wallet, that the people in the skin flick or nudie magazine are looking at you) to Madison Avenue. What is shocking and frightening is what happens above the transcendental barrier, up here in the offices of the corporateer advertising mogul. Here you find truths by the barrelful. It is up here where the real battles against chance are fought, sword-wielding agitprop speechwriters and graphic designers who have degrees in subvertisement psychological manipulation…reading Goebbels and Stalin…perfecting their mass consciousness craft. Where do you think the catchphrase you are what you buy comes from?
I suppose this brings us to a matter a bit bigger than a billboard or the glossy insert picture of the fancy dolled up celebrity harlot. We are talking about history and who has ownership over that old cow now. Black cows at midnight, eh? Well, since we are the ones who write history way up in our towers, we have noticed a few trends we have helped inaugurate. Have you noticed how the vehicles have gotten bigger, increasing on their utility, so that frail bourgeois families have the option (that they never exercise) to go off-roading, an SUV with a fridge and all the amenities in case something goes wrong? Security! Safety! The entire contents of your home in one vehicle! Compartments for rations! An all-purpose vehicle apocalypse compliant! War-ready! And, again, have you noticed how so much clothing has been added with a multitude of pockets (they can’t all be for cell phones, now can they?), modeled after military gear…and the popularity of army fatigues. All of this: the SUV and cargo pants and the super hero movies…These fashion trends demonstrating how we anticipated, created, and responded to the fashion demands of the populace…This nascent desire for security and utility as a response to the Y2k false panic, a few terrorist shake-ups in New York, a war abroad, the advent of a warmonger president…Neat, eh? It is the unconscious militarization of the citizenry. Of course, it isn’t unconscious to those of us who anticipated it all, read the signs, and struck while the iron was hot.
So what now? We’ve surreptitiously militarized the people. Well, if repetition and familiarity and slight deviation by dint of illusory chance are the iron laws of successful capital—capital allied with the political—then why not dust off some old favourites? Are you ready for another Roman Empire? Of course you are! Been ready for over a decade now, tapping your foot impatiently, yet you never knew exactly what it was that you wanted—until we told you. A Roman mega-circus of warfare and glory, modified in parts by the successes of the Nazi regime. It can’t be all that bad…I mean, what was Nazi Germany but an experiment at repetition? Of the Roman Empire, no less! And did it work? Yes it did, for a time, but that few years window is all opportunists like us need to make our staggering amount of capital, go into hiding, and re-emerge at the next changing of the regime…all virgin white innocent! Getting the picture? Good. Now, what you need to do next is of the utmost importance. As we already have all the efficient material for the creation of the empire, all the nodes ready, the plugs already installed, the structure ready and willing, we need a big morale push. That is, nothing gets the empire started in earnest than a tragedy, something for everyone to overcome together, building up belief in the quiet message we feed into the matrix. While the people rebuild their lives, thereby coming together, we co-opt their communal efforts by selling them on the message that they were fighting for the empire all along, that it was the idea of empire that brought them all together to conquer the common foe! Easy! They’ll slide right into the rubric. But what we need you to do is to start the proverbial fire that burns Rome to the ground…We need you to be our newly minted enemy of the people. Emmanuel Goldstein, your new name will be Alharabi Mohammed Abdi. Fair enough? Don’t worry about documents, history, all that…the corporation will deal with all the particulars, engineering your persona. But it is imperative that you do something monumental, something no one can ignore. You’re not just some nobody we pulled off the bus…or at least you won’t be once we’re through with the revision.

Of course, regions of this distasteful mockery of the made-for-reality TV film noir are nothing but ballbusting, oligophrenic disasters whining “mommy, mommy, don’t pull so hard.” These are incontestable things, insurmountable prison offences…yes, yes…But, may I ask you, sir or dead sentry iBox, which side are you on exactly? These, and other questions, can be found in the long spiritual handbook ledgers of grandfathers who sneezed too loud in the catacombs and were marched to the fires for being heretics. I mean, Heretic! Like Roger Bacon and his indolent cronies of the secret code no one cares to crack. Oh, I don’t just read Borges—I live him…right up the hallways, when others are sharpening their iron on me, into all my tie-dye Hallmark loving moments, while I am caught vulnerable and unaware at the pan lit grocery store checkout. No one here is alive, anyway? What matters to them if I carve a few bones with my teeth?
I have successfully done what a long league and thousand years of Suetonius’, Tacitus’, Gibbons, Toynbees and Willy Reichs could not: I autoclaved culture. Yes, but of course, and I do not under any circumstances plan on—excuse me a moment…yes? Hello? No, my subscription plan is fine…What subscription plan am I on right now? It would please you to know that I am not on one…Yes, that’s right…no newspaper…No, I already said that I am pleased with the--…Yes, yes, I know. I am aware, so aware that I have no subscription plan…and I am happy with it. Please strike my name from your list, thank you…Goodbye now—Where was I? Ahhhh, yes, autoclaving culture. No serum prepared, none will do? Goodbye, goodbye, I have had enough of the big buffet. You see, if you, a la Nietzsche, undertake to become a cultural physician, one has to adopt all the new techniques like a horrible hybrid between a science fiction writer and tech-gadget obsessive. New materials! So, I autoclave culture and extract bacteria. Nothing left. Just degeneration and cancer, and all that malignant rot. Fatalist, am I? So be it. If it gives you comfort to play with the label-maker like some silly Freudian child subject, a Wunderblock for your troubles or an endlessly disappointing game of fort / da…None of my concern. What side did you say you were on again? I am too much of a polite darling, especially in these pants…
I use my wit to cut small people into slivers at times, and I masturbate something fierce after a hard day at the office—I wonder if it would be otherwise in an office without walls? Hmmm. So ask yourself: how small is your life? Can it fit in your pants? A short summary somewhere convenient and neat, at the bottom of an affidavit form, next to the very intriguingly cramped signature? Rogues, thieves, and banditry, perhaps? Another whiskey down thimbledown road in a stolen Beemer headed for Mars or that tiny crawlspace between your brain lobes where no one thinks to look for the purloined butter? Ribald blackguards and pustulent profligates? Now I’m stretching it a bit, yes? I’ve seen your kind strolling through here, arm-in-arm, always traveling in a listless mob-ruled hustle, jiggered on by the Genital Will, all falling over each other and slipping on each other’s thick slobber. You know the difference between the bellybutton and the quivering quim—so what? Now what? That was so preschool! So was father’s porno collection under the basement stairs. No one is here to dole out prizes. You are no diamond in the shit, friend…nothing to get all flattered about! Ha! Take some solace over here with me, where the colonially written pygmies shrinketh no heads because they found a chocolate Jesus to feed all their guppy-faced brood. Pine all you like about the ripcord justice, but martial law will be declared, and you and your cock-driven mania will be put to better and more profitable uses behind a gun or a console launching spermatozoa over countries that have yet to even hear the words “special value meal.” You will see. The state has uses for you. There will always be a John Wayne spy telling you in hushed tones to look to the flag, son. The Great Gongs of War soundeth, and all you’ll have is a small anecdotal shred of evidence, a small plastic document declaring where you were the Night the Lights Went Out. This is fucking hilarious!
While we are on the subject of culture cancer, now a popular bestseller in Slovakia entitled—quite laboriously—Cultural Apoptosis, Angiogenesis, and Oncology for Middle Cash-Class Gentry Made Easy for the Little Jesus Hitler in All of Us…Um, yes? Progressive history, pal, boy, wifey, friend, delegate, what-not. I have a joke. What is the difference between Hegel and Marx? Under the Marxist view of history, the planes fly into the buildings, and under Hegel’s view, the planes realize themselves concretely as the progressive product of all other planes before them, and so therefore are…Wait, that’s not how it went. Let me start over. I explain too much, proselytize too many futures. Ok, it goes like this: If Marx was right about history, the World Trade Center collapse was yet another notch on the bed pole of class struggle. If Hegel was right about history, the WTC was not a disaster but a necessary synthesis of commercial jet and skyscraper so that Geist could recognize itself in the ruins. Funny, huh? Did you know that once Hegel finished his “system” he spent the remainder of his life playing cards? True story. In my opinion, he should have just skipped all this system bullshit and played poker with his cadre of dispossessed Romanticist friends…Of course…but then again, wasn’t his system nothing more than a few tricks, sleight of hand, with the big ugly deck of crooked Reason? Imagine Hegel today! In Vegas! Cleaning up! He’d break all the banks and they would have to rename that place Los Hegelas. Don’t get me wrong: I love Hegel, but I just happen to love him most when he is fleeing from the angry French army. If Napoleon couldn’t get to him, we now have the 1960s crowd of deconstructionarians who will make sure to finish the job, good and quick. Did you know that there is planned a Great Hegel BBQ? And you, sir, are invited! That is if you like the French anymore…
Look over there: the devil has fallen into the mud. Everyone is running like Catholics for their crosses, the sticks and torches to drive Dr. Frankendemon’s creature par excellence into the soupy mess of liberal guilt. The night still has not left us. The stores are confused; they open and close like recalcitrant sores, unsure of when normal business hours apply in this black cloud of stopped time. But the night is soft, too, like woman, like a rotten maggot. Be gentle with it, for it is so very gentle with you.
This will have been a journey into syntax. Syn-tux. Dys-course. Synticket pro bono-fried.

But, please, let me start over again. Let us all start over again. We deserve at least that much. And I move now toward what looks like a glimmering patch of approaching day, a peregrinating light somewhere beyond a folding of buildings that have been folded over one another…but again I am fooled: it is only the eerie glow of the mega shopping mall complex and its long field of false light. But perhaps we are all strong enough, one day, to take down with our hands these neon monstrosities, these commercial Cyclopes, these life-freezing basilisks and beacons of alleged great exchange. Maybe you and I…It begins with us, where there is still two agents of hope to rub together to make a few sparks. And then, maybe just then, a great conflagration will occur…and you and I will rise like phoenixes from the inferno of modernity. No longer will we glibly and cynically speak of the postmodern which is only a species within the genus of modernity that looked away, rejected its parents while yet these parents lived. No, it would be a new age, an astrozoic age. People will look up to us and wonder…
No, we cannot start over! Not today, not ever! Do you hear the bugle? The war drums? I see the legionnaires now, and centurions…but as they march into the Black Forest, they are not slaughtered this time around, but rather come out with flags and symbols! America has entered the Black Forest of history, has it not? And now it is no better than the perfect hybrid…A Nazi Roman Republic! A Zionist Nazi Roman Republic: makes perfect sense! There is no hope!

Did I promise a little dance for you? Of course I did! But now they are rounding up my audience. What’s left? I can play the banjo something fierce. Would that do? I’m now just a down-home ol’ boy drinking corn whiskey in my bare feet on the porch. Ford and his little cabal of fucking cosmonauts can all go soak their heads…You can’t switch an hour backward or forward and hope to stimulate more shopping. We have electric lights now. The age of the unlit empire is over, and now all we have are neon lights and darkness. Real darkness, but somehow still feels cheap, like Jesus. Somehow the night in the movies seems much more real. Fuck it. This unending night is like nothing more than fame and cocaine: you ride it high and as far as you can go, but the plummet cometh, and in the end you realize just what a non-event it all was. But only in the end! That is, if you have balls and actually, laughably, believe what the crusty old professorial sot is beating his withered fists on the lectern about, all in rhythmic quatrains, about will to power being going to the limit of one’s power, blah-blah-blah. A cure for boredom, naturally, for to actually live one’s life by Freddy Nietzsche’s will to power, you are not allowed to speak of it, not even once (which, of course, was Freddy’s little problem all along, cos he just wouldn’t shut up about…on and on, will to power this, will to power that. You just want him to stick his dick back in his trousers and blow his load already). Besides, what a boring world it would be if we all got along. But I must state this now and forever for all you hasty little pricks who read history upside down: Freddy has nothing and everything to do with this rise of the new Nazi any more than he did the first one around. Freddy would have never wanted it to happen in the first place, but his goddamn theory made it unbearably necessary. But Freddy had mommy issues. Not to mention that Stalin had placed two unsuccessful hits on John Wayne’s life. A happier world if it had panned out. But instead we are left with vintage replays of “Face the Flag, Son.” John Wayne hated communism for a few reasons: his daddy never loved him, and he could never understand women. I mean, communism is all about women. And that which you do not know scares you, a to b to c, gents. All wars in history, all the crusty raising of the imperial flag, is all a war waged against womanly nature. Okay, I’ve set up the formula, do I have to hold your hand or show you the door, you scumsucking fiend-swapping tart! You inveterate bourgeois counter-factualist toxic moralist! There are no Saddams left to drive out with all your bloody money stuffed in the back pockets of repressed/reprocessed homoerotic generals…No bin la-la-ladens to sing away your blues as you plot greenscope carpet bombing raids on little children who don’t buy enough beef flesh burgers at McDonald’s…No AyatollahBot3000 to switch on and watch as it spins wildly through the entire middle east, sweeping up weapons and oil in its G.I. Joe action claws…No horny nylon-seeking British gentry to appease with bubblegum abortion kits…No back-raffle guerilla in fatigue fashion surplus blowout that you can delegate to pester the peasants…No Santa Flaws in the orgonic Internet circuitry that you can make accountable for Everything That Has Gone Wrong since the days of Truman…There are no explanations left to have, so just spare us all the noise and clatter of your twisted little golden desires and get on with it already! You are fooling no one with all this politically correct big stick politics…No one! Everyone knows we are leaning and falling right over into the Fourth Reich, cowboy-international-cop style. The only difference between this new Reich and the last one? It’s marketed much better. Kudos to your perfection of the commercial war machine of new fall fashions. I wander into the mall and see the barracks for what they truly are, the storefront military front…maybe even a testing ground for new commercial weapons: the useless knick-knack machinegun, the V-neck Bomb, the blowout sale biochemical weapons. I wander into the mall and it is all a form of schizophrenic folds, so many bland music stations all pumping at once in this pan-lit wonderland where one can feel one’s brains being slowly cooked in this convection oven of pure shopping and wild consumption. And when I leave via the parking lot with all the results and proof of my good behaviour shopping for my country, I wave my hand at the collected shoppers while the other clutches a bottle of whiskey, declaring, “goodbye, goodbye, all you useless bric-a-brac, just bric-a-brac!” Well, aren’t they mere ornaments? This is why our country is almost completely justified in treating them as such, putting them up, pinning them on things, according to the fashion of the season, all based on how festive they really are. Ooh, festive flag, do you ever go out of style?
You really need to be festive to be part of the country. It’s patriotic to be festive, festive to be patriotic. All wars are women to be waged against…the femininity of the other that is the east…Think I’m off the mark entirely? Fuck you kindly for thinking so, but the facts speak for themselves, facts fabricated and edited by the secret service. All war is against a woman we make love/war to. She is a petit objet du guerre. Especially now that we are one big, happy, smiling, arm-in-arm linking Reichstaat, we just can’t let any vaginal space remain unfilled by our cream-dispensing destiny, like it or not. Some call it rape, others in the know call it necessary commercial expansion of the Good and Useful. Not up on your valuation hierarchies? Never fear! The State is currently distributing helpful brochures to keep you and your loved ones in line. Nothing scary about our Reich: see the happy smiling soldier gently pushing the shnozzle of his gun up against the smiling man in the turban, destination: the Wall. All the soldiers look like Mark Wahlberg poster boys, while some nifty film editors have placed Old Glory fluttering in the breeze behind them, all in faded red white and blue.
Jonkil, I have heard that the State no longer cares that you are a terrorist, because you are their terrorist for thinking so freely, which in turn makes you their helot. If you have an ounce of use to you, they’ll put you to work in one of the commercial combines. And Pqr and Stu: someone needs to manage the Roman pull on things. Your function has already been written in the great book of AmeReichan Destiny. The sun never sets here because it never rises. We each of us carry a little head in our hearts, a picture of the sun, and no sun-kings. We are the day. We are the seizure. Without our country, the daylight could never come to be, to arise and pass away. We are merely awaiting the proper obeisance and signed documents from the UN so that we may turn the switch the lights back on. The Night the Lights Went Out has been the most revealing night of all, paradoxically enough…
But then again, everything you ever believed and loved, everything that you are materially and on the net with all your avatars, fits in the palm of your hand or in your militarized poly-pocket pants. So why not gather the family into the war wagon and go see the rally speech. Keep the kids amused and fat in the back seat with McDonald’s unhappy conscience meals and the video monitor doling out brain-addling, development arresting Disney schmaltz. Because, hey, it doesn’t pay for the young to think anymore. The future is the youth? How passé! It was the youth that signaled the downfall of Reichs one, two and three. The kids just can’t be trusted to get anything that delicate right. Their purpose is simply this: to lounge about like obese muftis consuming consumer products in their militarized fashion gear. The problem with the kids was that they had not yet learned the real lessons of life yet, which is to say that they had not yet internalized a suitable dose of liberal guilt. Disney can only go so far, and after that, it’s up to the parents to make little pacts and deals with their children to behave, do their chores, etcetera, if they are going to receive the newest fad trinket collector cards (but event then it is of the utmost importance that the parents cave in to the desires of the children, to give freely to them even if the contract is breached on their end: this, and only this, is the nascent root of developing healthy liberal guilt, Christian or otherwise).
People running around with their desires on fire, or drowned out in water and ash and tele-glut merchandiserie. I’m sure you think that it is a social problem created by the media. But I have this ounce of wisdom to impart: the media is the social, and all social problems are merely the result of bad signals and bad cable packages. Or else, they are badly scripted and should be pulled off the air during sweeps week. In fact, all invasive and imposing identity should be duly surrendered during sweeps week; it’s only the polite thing to do. Be a passive consumer, now, now, now, buy, buy, buy. Of course, buying seems aggressively active, but nowadays one could be near conscious comatose and purchase things just as long as one digit is still active to click a button and make bids on eBay. We live in an era when the great merchant-king has no face, but yet is ubiquitous…What need we of some stable, boring image anyway unless it is market friendly and easily reproduced? Flags are good enough. And the queen sayeth unto the people: “let them eat flags.”

2. Night and the Erlking
Nacht und der Erlkönig

Who rides so late through the night and wind?
It is the father with his child;
he folds the boy close in his arms,
he clasps him securely, he holds him warmly

“My son, why do you hide your face so anxiously?”
“Father, don’t you see the Erlking?
The Erlking with his crown and train?”
“My son, it is a streak of mist.”
-Goethe, Erlkönig

Who rides so late, indeed? Upon what dark horse does he ride? And, to where? Questions of from where to where have no place in the moment of night. Know only that a dark horse carries its riders. Know that there will be monsters along the way, seducers and creatures of the sort you have never seen. You will believe them impossible. Your father, he is gone, and now no one shelters you from the cold. The sun has already passed away. Do you see the Erlking? He is grinning with his teeth gleaming black. When he moves, he rustles. Why does father bring child to the scene of imminent death, like Abraham did to Isaac? Ah, a particularly stupid question! But, by today’s legal standard, Abraham would be declared a visionary serial killer, and he would plead insanity through implication of his statement that God has ordered him to bring the son to the cold altar—or maybe voted president. Abraham would be able to avoid responsibility and make the “other,” God, the responsible party. I have seen those who live in the day defer responsibility for their own actions to the cacophony of night, that night was somehow responsible for the multitude of indiscretions they performed in its name—against its name. The courts’ hands are tied, for they cannot prosecute the abstract, the hitherto blameless. All they can do is rule in favour that the defendant’s relation with the abstract is an involuntary fiction, and to declare this preposterous link a sign of madness. Responsibility falls by the wayside, drugs and treatment are dispensed, and it is hoped that one day the afflicted person will not hang his actions upon that which nothing can be hung.
Thrust into the night and its crushing circus of strange seductions and maddening trials, I see that you hide your face. I feel your fear. Just as the noise in the closet causes the child to hide under blankets that are, to him, layers of impenetrable steel, you shield your eyes and think of day…you let those thoughts of a stable day wrap around you to form a protective aegis. But night knows all, and has the ability to creep in just about anywhere. Yes, Achilles, night has found your heel. That streak of mist is jabbering at you, carrying broken bottles, hungry, in need of money or drugs—or worse!

“Dear child, come, go with me!
I’ll play the prettiest games with you.
Many coloured flowers grow along the shore;
my mother has many golden garments”

“My father, my father, and don’t you hear
the Erlking whispering promises to me?”
“Be quiet, stay quiet, my child;
the wind is rustling in the dead leaves.”

But I believe you, child. Father can only lie because he has the tongue of the dead. Your mother is an other, just like your brother. That inaccessible other, that desire for other, of other. So many mirrors littered in your path. Behind them all, the Erlking calls, seducing you to come closer. You are tantalized, you are promised to be loved by mother again. Death beckons in the gold meadow, dressed as a fairy nymph. Open your eyes, child. See the kaleidoscope of cycling rainbow treasures here in the churning bowels of night. Temptation drives your every step, the siren is calling, and so to the shores with you! Never did you ask what was rustling those dead leaves, but who. Are you here to venerate and monumentalize yet another fable of the murder of the son by the father in the service of some cruel and monotheistic God-man? Or are you compelled to the sound of faint fluting that reminds you somehow deep in your basal brain of a reunion with mother night? Or is there any sense in speaking of gender at all? Gender: your creation, baggage you take with you from the day.
I am many people, as you will soon note…an avalanche of archetypes in rabid dialogue with each other. I am one and many. But yet I cannot fool myself all of the time. Jonkil will now take the reins as we join the narrative already in progress. I do not say that I leave you in good or even capable hands—I make no guarantees. I merely shuffle you off like any other bureaucrat in a large circle of other representatives that do little more than increase your frustration and multiply your questions. Let me know when you are thumping your fist at the lectern and I will be sure to regard your impotent gestures delicately and with the pity they so deserve. Of course but then, but then…

3. Jonkil

But then we can rattle off all sorts of things, can’t we? We can do the whole fashion parade of sick moral virtues and values just for kicks! We can snuff mountains of cocaine for the subsequent non-event, the hard edge of coming down. Certainly! And despise both ourselves for wasting that kind of dough and the dealer who charged us the exorbitant price. We could do that all day! Wednesday even! But where will that get us? Back into the street running into all sorts of neo-hippies with their empty political convictions! And they want to go to some capitalist diner to consume anything, despite their convictions, because they had too much pot and wine! Cuteness like that has weight enough to derail a train.
The point? You are asking me for the point? I catch you thumbing through the juvenilia diaries of Kurt Co-brain Trust trying to regain that old grunge, early 90’s feeling when you were still alive and kicking—or just kicking, something—anything! A bad diaper rash, and nothing more! Piss-pots and delegates of the national concern for herpes simplex, complex, military industrialists everywhere pushing Jesus in the faces of the starving and entire burlap sacks filled with condoms! NGOs and all that rot! The Khmer Rouge is happening again, right now as we speak! Americans are torturing prisoners while the Pentagon doesn’t ask why this is happening, but why the pictures were leaked. “We run a pretty tight ship in our conspiracy of silence,” they say. And what do you get? Some gory pics on the Internet given to the right press hounds. What do they do about it? Shove it back on page one million where no one is patient enough to get to after slogging through the empty-headed terrain of bold bylines on the first three pages. The rest finds a comfortable niche in the recycling box, then to the center, and all the human rights advocates wonder why the people just don’t care. Presupposes the rights of humans, right away! We haven’t the time or the patience to get there to see all the vicissitudes, scandals, and dry rot in our own backyard! You can’t make right when the cause isn’t screaming into your face! And even then you’ll just bollocks it all up! I know this scene, too! I was there, and I will be there again!
But I seem to drifting into a different level of inane wizardry, hanging low in houses of iniquity—as per usual! My wont! I cannot efface the other, but at least I have the heart not to try! Cocaine rush! And then the decline, like you just built a little Roman empire within yourself for just this very moment! Micro-Gibbon will write the micro-history that will be the ultimate touchstone of Roman historical scholarship! Micro-Roman, even! I haven’t the time to iron out all the finicky details, all the heinous and nasty vibrations that are now making you do the Dodo weave! Who are you? And what do you want? The problem is that you have run out of drugs and now you cast an amicable gaze at any plant life that will substitute, any bottle of pills that will do the trick! You’re hooked to an escape hatch! An enhancement routine! A way of ontological scissiparity! You will never be who you want to be, and that being you will never be is the being who is satisfied! Never! Not long ago, and not in the future! Never now! Boohoo! I can’t sustain the high forever either! Always something missing, always sending me out into the streets, leaving me empty, resulting in stuttering crying jags! Misfortune! Poverty! Always something in the way! Another pointless hurdle you thought wouldn’t have popped up! But there it is! You can’t climb it, go around it, or even knock it down. It’s bland and boring and embarrassing, and you want nothing at all to do with it! It’s gut rot the whole way down! Poverty! Supplies running out! Or maybe you need the bottle and the bar is closing up…you didn’t think to stock up on some before the liquor stores closed up lock tight, mocking you with their lights on, their bottles standing there unattended, and the door locked down! And even your list of dealers have hit the sack! Your last resort is to abuse the sinus medication you can buy at the 7-11 or just go to sleep unsatisfied. Take it on the chin! There’s nothing left to quaff, snort, shoot, or smoke! There’s no LSD-25 hidden in your trousers at the bottom of the laundry pile! There’s no “secret reserve” stashed anywhere in the house, and your hoping that there is as you tear through your possessions like a fiend isn’t going to make it magically appear! Give up! Haven’t you outgrown hope yet?
…”…”
All we ever wanted, as we marched bravely to the gallows and guillotine, was food over our heads and a roof in our belly. There are several tiers of stages layered through out our bodies, hearts, minds, and now we must see their awful projected cousins as we climb those terrible steps to the guillotine before a sick and unfriendly crowd. So this is revolution…I think we should have built the empire within ourselves—what do you think Antoine? What about you over there Napoleon? Should we have gone about things differently, I wonder? But we are still enfolded by our social network, our brave new values that unite us.
There goes another rocket bound for the eye of the heathen. Are you, the one who facilitates their launch, issues the edict, a gangster or just a universal bully? Why does the nation-man who courageously rides upon a moral horse, flaunting himself as the international protectorate (giving out candied concessions to the almost-poor like some Santa Claus feudalist), become the very enemy of international security? I do not understand the juridical pivot you pirouette upon, that fiendish point that drives hard lines across a bruised earth.
You and I are treated like lepers, criminals, degenerates, useless husks, spurned as curs, viewed as outmoded…We are the scholars, the painters, poets, theatre-flowers, and we are the enemy. We thread the needle with void. We cannot land work; we are not the automatons the practical world wants. We have to hide our education in shame, veil our creative inclinations, and pretend that we are just like them. There is something patently sick, terrifying, and infantile about a state that forces us at the gun point of necessity to be as lowly serfs, as rats, as hollow relics ready for a stuffing. Will angels descend with outstretched hands and lead us from this place? Tears of mixed joy and sorrow would accompany such an act, to be sure. “They have designs on destroying us all” I hear muted, the general undercurrent of every speech act that we the destitute scholar-creators employ. We are waiting for our god, or we stare into the mirror and see the gods beating furiously behind our eyes, organizing the factory of our thoughts.
Do you fear the empire that grows, that seethes with animal fury expressed through war technology? Do you feel like sinking or rising up to the fiery challenge every time the ignorant words of war fly, the rhetorical inferno unceasing? Dig as we do through the landfills of congressional minutes for one line of rational sense, we are the sorry wretches who dig and dig, tossing paper in a mad fury, digging even deeper into the depraved pit of discarded history until we are engulfed by a landslide of ancient lies.
And we foolishly let that pre-millennial feeling dissipate, coalesce into diffusion into the new century and become pale, diluted, muted, and essentially non-existent or unrecognizable. The apocalyptic feel, the grand carnival, all of it coming to its end, the furious climax where we were going to be right…But something happened, another channel was opened, and all that feeling was redirected into something other. But today it returns as the autumn winds blow cold through the spindly spider leg branches of leafless trees. It returns when the smog clouds engulf the sky in an omnipresent saturated array of mottled greys of varying shades. It returns! It returns! It returns as we turn up our collar against the wind and we smell the hint of a total war, and we find it lurking under the tongues of those preaching diplomacy and peace. The breaking point is soon to be reached, and where will we be? And suddenly we realize that the apocalyptic feel never left us entirely, that it had merely been shelved within us…yet we were still reading our Roman history and looking for those precious clues…Or maybe we were looking not so far back at the medieval celebrations of the plague or the great prognosticators in the monasteries who were shrewd and much keener than their deceptive language lets on. Or maybe we are making stark and shocking parallels between now and the rise of the Nazi empire that will never be brought to light…or if it is, a phalanx of PC machines will suppress it and the media will never open its gates to allow such parallels into print. None of the information that we desperately need will be disseminated in this highly vaunted age of information dissemination. All our theories and ideas will remain personal plots of land that we tend, that others will never benefit from. We cultivate these long rows and tracts, but the market refuses our yield. And why?
The Roman legionnaires cometh! With great promises between their teeth and a Roman law for all of us to obey. But Rome must fall! But the fear arises that we, too, will fall alongside it: casualties of circumstance, proximity to the bomb, collateral damages and high stakes bullshit! We may just die for stupid, asinine reasons of association or from being in the vicinity of the empire that desperately should have its comeuppance served viciously and with finality. I turn my collar up against the cold again. They want to feed us to the hungry lions, yet we preach no dead son of an invisible titan. We preach no progenitor of a world…We speak dumbly into the air, our lips moving quickly, but we are drowned out by a wall of crushing white noise, or hidden by a series of expertly placed mirrors. Our ingress is blocked, but escape is also impossible. The concept of inside and outside is absurd, despite how we are made to feel. Over our mouths is crudely placed an advertising decal to make what we say sound muffled and barbaric. I want to crush, and not to be crushed! I want to dismantle the apparatus of history that leads us to this frightening point of the sword! I wish to blind the eagle while it is in flight and tear the flag armband off the patriot! I want to tear down the walls of the carnival of commercial gigantism and let it collapse and seep into the ground like spoiled, liquid meat!

4. Abc
I speak from my space between days, for I am the night that sees. The diurnal logic spills into my domain where it is expressed in terror. I am savagely raped by the day’s methods of dominance and survival. I collapse into a despairing heap, the black velvet robes crumpling into dark folds, flaccid, defeated, a solitary wail that pierces the sky like a lance. I am subjected to the cruel laboratory light while state commissioned scientist-entrepreneurs gather about me with knives to section me off, a scene from a century long gone…The cruelty and savagery of being violated so in the interests of being understood—on their terms. They thrust me into a macabre machine that mechanically separates flesh and bone. There is nothing but the cold analytic hunger in their eyes, and no lasting vestige of poetry within them for me to appeal to. We have killed all our poets in one way or another. This world has devised several means to trap the poet and deal him wicked blows, to beat him down into whimpering submission…And every line of flight the poet takes is already a trap laid there in advance. Nowhere to run—just submit to the procedure, the knife, the immaculate extraction. Is there anyone here among you mortals who will put a stop to this, or must I appeal to the gods? Are you confused yet? Who am I? Bad question! Very bad! Shameful! You ought to have asked when I am. Now as you struggle to piece together what I am, or when I am, I am already giving way to our next participants. I am so sorry that you are unable to keep up.

5. Pax America…(Pqr & Stu)

Regardless of the date, a president of a very powerful nation was giving an opening ceremony speech for a particular building brought crashing down to its own ankles after a “terrorist” attack. Two highly seasoned political analysts, incidentally also well-read historians and members of an old fraternity of knowledge, had received the privilege to be seated near the president’s speech. They were far enough away to speak without being overheard by the chief prince of western darkness. The ceremony was to commemorate the construction of an honourary monument to those who had unwittingly or bravely died in the attack. The two analysts conducted their discourse in Latin, mixed with English, as was their common habit to do.
“Romani vincunt [the Romans conquer].”
“Ah, but they usually do. It is the way of the age. Look at that puppet poof at the podium saying: ‘Exegi monumentum [ I have wrought a monument].’ It is thoroughly disgusting. And the Amici Bushis [friends of Bush]? If they aren’t so keen on the demand for ceremonies, pointless parades and gross demonstrations of war, they will rest with the statement that taedet nil praeter ceolum videre [it is tiresome to see nothing but sky].”
“Very true. What will we do with him? Or, with the generals he has under his command (or is it the other way round?)? Multum sunt in venationibus [they are much occupied in hunting]. The heathen, I believe, is still in hiding. The crusade begins in earnest headed by the biggest, most empty-headed crusader of them all.”
“Bushi paretur [Bush is obeyed].”
“Cum elephanti facie puer natus est [he was born with an elephant’s face]. All Republicans are.”
“Populum metu liberat [he frees the people from fear]. Well…that is what he intends people to believe. That and, decorum est pro patria mori [to die for one’s country is a noble thing]. Listen to the fools in the audience, to their innermost thoughts as they stare admiringly at the figure before them: ‘Te sequor, qui fortis es [I follow you, who are strong].’ That is sheer sickness!”
“Calm yourself and remember where you are. You are not among friends—only me, and I am of little use when I am shuffled off with you as a co-conspirator. Circus capax populi [a circus big enough to hold a nation]: you know this as well as I do.”
“Very true. Subvenisti homini jam perdito [you have come to the help of a man who is already lost].”
“That would be a tad dramatic, what? Let us watch the proceedings unfold. Look! He is presenting medals of valour to the survivors. This should be good…”
“Praedam militibus donat [he presents the booty to the soldiers]. Be them the valiant warriors here or abroad who turn entire mountain ranges to piles of charred dust. Bellum et dementia consanguinea sunt [war and madness are kin].”
“Milites ad pugnandum misit [he sent soldiers to fight]. Venis et nervis et ossibus continentur [they are made up of veins, sinews, and bones]. Vendibit hic auro patriam [this man sold his country for gold]. Divitior est quam cultior [he is more rich than polished].”
“Ingentis magnitudinis serpens [a big snake]!”
“Indeed. Miseret me alienorum injuriorum [I pity the injuries of others].”
“Praesentia confer praeteritis [compare present events with the past]. America. Rome. Quid opus est verbis [what need is there of words?]?”
“America: Non aptus est taurus ad equitandum [a bull is not suited for riding].”
“America: Non videris dignus qui liber sis [you do not seem worthy to be free].”
“It is rare that we are in agreement like this. We should depart these proceedings and leave the people to their palliative spectacle.”
“Agreed. There will be a bus leaving in twenty minutes that will be mobbed up with alleged plebeian patriots with hearts aflame, remembering absolutely everything of that day in their own little way…”

6. Def
There was terror on the bus. I had just awoken with no recollection of my name, my past, or where I was headed. I wandered off the bus in a state of near somnambulance. I ambulated toward the entrance, a row of blinking digital telephones under the harsh light conditions of a midnight sterility, a minimalist museum denuded of content, of bodies. The hum of the ventilation was occasionally punctuated by my awareness or a clunking sound that signaled the future of some malfunction. I was alone. Cabs waited outside. The cafeteria was closed, as was the souvenir/snack shop. There were no more attendants at the counters. I had even missed out on the name of the city I had landed in, as if by possessing the name of the city would somehow invoke understanding…As if the secret meaning was lurking behind this name, in some kind of kabbalistic manner, perhaps even an anagram play on the name. A moment of self-deceitful adventure gave way to the eerie silence of panic. I looked up at a sign for departures, a solid light shining through empty letters in reverse silhouette. I traced with my mind the contours of so many letters. Each letter was spacing apart the black paint that buttressed them. The letters bobbed into focus like light bones emerging on the surface of viscous oil. I winced and made my way into the unfamiliarity. I would part the night with the movement of my body through it, like a knife, but without an observable target; I was thrown at random into the street.
A band of night sky was made out in faded black patches by the monolithic and silent salmon-coloured street lights. Traffic was absent, and perhaps even impossible. Out of some habit to search for clues, I began with what I knew, what was proximal, what was mine: I placed my hands in my pockets, grasped all that I could so as to empty those denim wells, and pulled out…scraps of paper, receipts, more receipts, an alien bundle of coins, a few tattered bills, more receipts. That was all. The receipts were indecipherable fragments of economic exchanges past. The machine eats everything. I was too tired to attempt the understanding of these nonsensical numbers, long strings of numeric digits, the code spoken by winter tongues in a voiceless dialogue along currents in the stratosphere of intelligibility. The coins proved no luck either. There were heads and animals and other totemic symbols of state emblazoned upon them like in any other nation. It was a universal language that did not reveal any specific location. These were global coins. The bills were the same problem. Nowhere did I find my name upon my person and so I began looking elsewhere for signs, hints, clues, or—in an act of desperation—inspiration that I may create my name from the splintered fragments and objects of this near-real cityscape.
I moved indelibly into the night. Deeper into its chest, brushing against its enormous concrete ribs that sent out sparks of indifference, curving up and out into the air choked with smoke and murmuring. It was 3:47, for this was what a building clock told me. But another one stated in contrary fashion, 5:22. Two clocks on opposing sides of buildings, were engaged in some silent debate over time, each one resolutely holding to their belief that the times were different. I would just as easily assume that both were wrong, dead wrong, or just dead and lying to the sky.
The trees were eerily lit. they were smashed into the open upon their bare wooden flanks by the billowing silence. There was no green left in them by this point. Mild apathy. Asphalt bubbles of glowing, fiery orange light emerged. Something was plucking the very fabric of the city, plucking it inward to a vanishing point, pulling it back like a bow and letting it go, letting it wobble back into place. Perhaps I would lie in an empty parkade, let the ground digest me slowly or just dry out under the terrible press of light machines. There are crumbs and bugs all over me, or there were, and will be. Crumbuggery. Prospertinage. Grownership. The sky itself fulminates with my lack of language. Boatswainscotting. Championosphere. Zealotry. Participline. De-siring the sire of desire. Placodermatology. My tongue wags, but I am not there to witness it.
There is no selvage to keep me from unraveling. I will coalesce with my empty, concrete-machinic surroundings. Pipes and tubes and roughly hewn blocks of cement will form plateaus within me.
I see people, but they are going at a good speed in an oblique direction away from me, indifferent to the pedestrian laws of traffic. A gas station effervesces, boils over with obscene white light. That place is open, I thought to myself…if only I had the fortitude to end the mystery so soon. But then, even if I knew where I was, it would do me no good. I did not know from whither I came. I would be given the sum without the equation. Answers without questions are hollow statements, states of affairs, useless ornaments of reason, junk for the junk sale, buttons with no shirts and shirts with no buttons. I can do up nothing. I can only, slowly, come undone.
“Where am I?”
The attendant must have thought I was drunk, or stoned, or a psychotic. Serious questions are viewed in this way. Fundamental and profound questions are met with contempt, and in some cases imprisonment. The attendant understood my question, as I could read from his face—or at least he understood the language, the syntax of my speech. His accent was a thick foliage of Arabic, an Arab parodying English speech. I could not pick out the name of the city from his confusing reply. I did not ask to repeat himself in order not to be rude and signal out his accent. I thanked him nonetheless. I bought gum as if this exchange would validate our meeting in the night, would somehow make me appear more serious, as if the question was an elaborate pretext for gum, as if this was my way of apologizing for wasting his time with trite questions, as if, as if…I now had gum and the name of a city I could not pronounce.
Quiet. The hiss of leaves in the breeze. Another fulmination, this time with a lazy, post facto rumble. An old man snoring in the sky that one can only hear when the door opens, the flash of light appears from his room, and the rhythm is just right. There would be rain soon, I thought. Shelter? From what? Rain. I did not like being wet when it was not by my choosing. I am, after all, an animal of sorts. I do believe so. In moments. Shelter with no name, as rain falls down on the nameless. Neither the city nor me has a name, at this point. Wash and be clarified, cleaned. Let the rain pierce pinholes into the darkness, and make this place a kind of novelty lamp shade. I fell into a dream.

7. Mno
I extend the olive branch to you, sir, if you will accept…
“The Ministry of War has since received over six thousand proposals and confusing manuscripts from cocaine addicts all to the effect of their inebriated consciousness. These proposals have much to do with confusing, impractical, and unfeasible machines that they believe would assist in the war effort. These machine design plans, apart from holding a marginal, science-fiction style interest, have been sorted out of the piles and kept in a separate filing area. I personally can attest to overseeing the removal of these proposals, in addition to screening them. I must also personally attest that I found some of the designs intriguing, creative, and somewhat spell-binding. I do recall one design for a spiral-nautilus type machine intended for the use of catching photons. Another seemed less promising, detailing what the inventor called a “SpinScream”: a kind of tank sized dradle with twisted gargoyles carved into the sides that let out horrific, blood-chilling screams while (I believe) symphony music would be blasted at over 130 decibels. This entire contraption was designed to be dropped into the desert, and would remain mobile with the aid of helicopter propellers which kept the entire unit spinning (and screaming). The inventor’s idea was not too far afield of the original intentional use of drummers and bag pipers: to cause a sense of panic and madness in the enemy. However, Despite the overabundance of enthusiasm, creativity, and verbosity in each of the proposals by said cocaine addicts, we certainly could not grant them the full credulity the claimants demanded.”
Proposal 601-99 (selection for subcommittee): “You will have the belly of the machine as your fitting tomb!”
Report on Proposals, Agent Jack Shaw, Proposal Admissions Registry for The United States Military Acquisitions Record (2000-2002): “Jaw-slackening, butt-cheek clenching, lurid detail on almost any and all points, reduced to the very elaboration of the movement tracing each and every atom—its course, its cause and effect. In sum, the very apex of text as sedative. To read this proposal with any degree of perseverance and fortitude, one will either require frequently timed electric shocks to the extremities or adopt a regimen of clawing at one’s face and hair in order to stave off the lulling menace of sleep and boredom.”
Proposal 722-40 (selection for subcommittee): “In my proposal…[23974 pages later]…I have failed. But, a mad, daring, wallet-driven dash across the terrain of pure hysteria will ensure that those blackguards and rogues find nothing to their avail as they clamber hopelessly over the ramparts and into their own tar-pit style doom. I would be made incandescent to say the least if it were known that certain fisheries were in collusion with enemy producers of weapons grade isotopes and such, and such that these high yields or quantities were sewn or stuffed within these hitherto innocuous fish designed to fool customs agents, and well under the rubric of commercial trade in the food industry…”
Anonymous posting on Proposal Admissions chat site: “The cocaine jukebox? It’s like this, see, the punters keep putting in their coin for more coke, but when you run out of coin, the music stops.
“I would here desire to dispatch my sinister cohort who will handle all the practical affairs of this office while I, for my part, withdraw and retire to my closet for a ribald, raucous, scintillating, spine-tingling session of navel-gazing. It is my hope that this move will result in my succinctly solving every philosophical problem that has plagued man since the beginning, that I may use a triple-tiered gaze to extinguish the inferno of questions on the human and metaphysical conditions that has continued to ensue in blazing fashion since man ever contrived to think and speak. Certain packages will be received by post, and I do not wish these items be impeded in any way, but rather that the packages be delivered with great celerity to my closet. It is imperative that the package be delivered to me directly without any dalliance or waiting! As soon as it arrives, someone in the office must run it upstairs to me! The very fulcrum of my thinking will rest solely upon my ability to sustain my thinking apparatus for days on end without the crude interruptions of sleep or the nagging demands for nutritive satisfaction. This package will arrive thrice daily, and is essentially my means to secure these releases from the grip of sleep or food. Let it be so!”
Security Management Systems Personnel: “My memo was concerning the white substance found in the envelope, received by the mail room at approximately 9h20, and sent by interoffice mail to the heads of accounting office. It would appear that the substance was not anthrax at all, but cocaine. We have located the culprit, a lower order filing clerk in our building who mailed this package, timed in such a way that the ensuing chaos and the calling in of the special biohazard team would grant himself and others a convenient day of rest. This kind of juvenile behaviour affects us all.”
A lost scholar on the website: “The printed word is the capstone on a pyramid, a condensed focal node of the unseen words that, by etymology or association, would spread out like a fan or increase their girth and volume like that of a pyramid as we proceed down to its base. Consider the word next to the printed word (itself also printed). Now consider that it, too, fans and expands. But there is overlap in this fanning, a kind of cross-stitching and interweaving. This fanning is infinite, and so the very base of all these pyramids would be an infinite amount of overlapping words strung out in an infinitely stretched line.”
??: “I am bold, shipwreck, an evening gown, torn on a nail yet listing toward the bottle with outstretched hands clutching at air, even. The chair by the window is smashed by sunlight and garlanded by undulations of the shearing curtains. The drapery hangs moot and exhausted like two stevedore’s arms after a long life at the dock. You are sentimental, spider web, a faded photograph, dropped into the fire yet missing the mark and now lying singed at the corners that curl in a paroxysm. You will be beaten and baptized by the elements. The four poster bed has been murmuring under the foot of the equerry who places too much pressure on the coils with his husky weight. The woman on the bed sighs, yet is in shame, for she has now to grip with her understanding that adultery is a sin…Now we have both to consider ourselves, as objects, witnessing a scene that—like when one is unaccustomed to receiving praise—makes us confused and embarrassed.”

8. Nth-arrator
I’d like to introduce the stage upon which the characters will perform their awkward ballet. The stage is composed of a good stock of hardwood, divided into long planks, and the joins scattered in staggered pattern so as to ensure that there is no singular “weak hinge” on the stage. It is highly scratched by the shuffling of millions of steps, but I have had it covered with a black matting that will both preserve the floor and assist in muffling the otherwise disruptive sounds of feet that make us strain so hard to hear the dialogue. I would like to talk at incredible, lavish length of the proscenium that I have had installed, or the new galley lights, but the floor’s the thing.
Be aware that a lawn is similar, and perhaps itself is a stage. It is a highly controlled space, heavily manicured in many regions, governed by laws. Those who trespass upon it must be subject to those laws. A text is no different, except that perhaps the idea of controlling the space is facile in comparison to controlling that which patrols and acts within this space. I cannot control that. Not absolutely. Lawns are absurd spaces. They portray a lunatic mania, a hysteria to keep the space uniform and seemly. A plateau of homogeneous land. This will all facilitate actors that will expand to the size and boundaries of this space: stage, lawn, plateau, island.
Introducing the actors will not be sufficient when what I wish to outline and indicate is the space. Characters will appear, but it is my hope that they will be secondary, or at least will facilitate the audience’s focus upon the stage space. This will entail an epistemic reversal, for we are much accustomed to thinking that the space delineates the characters, that the space will highlight them. I wish it the other way around. The characters will demonstrate only the space and not themselves. If I fail in this venture, I will retreat to the theory of the thing itself, and be declared a genius of my time. My name will be raised by a series of academic pulleys and wires to the ranks of Brecht and Beckett. Theoretical success is much more valuable to posterity than is some vainglorious practical success. I do not care that others will chastise me for continuing the error of theory and its inability to be grafted into social practice. That is not my goal.
Name the characters? Abc is the night itself. Def is the lost man with no memories. Ghi is the cocaine-addled lunatic whose brilliance in artistic engineering design is unrecognized and unmatched. Jonkil is the scholarly rebel with his teeth sharpened upon the slack strop of Reason. Mno is the military man of some precision, dogged now by the vicissitudes of that which comes to light. Pqr is a pol in the American electorate industry, as well as his colleague, Stu. Legare has yet to be established, and there is no precedent for his arrival. Yz would indeed be either the space, me, or both—if I so choose it. This is not abstract, but fiat.

9. Jonkil
In my words, Jonkil, it was a jarring situation to have been back. It was as if I had not returned, but neither as if I had left. My period of absence was a paltry few years, and yet my return did little to signal to my belief that I was indeed back to the place of my nativity. Things looked very much the same as they had before I left, with some minor cosmetic alterations all cities undergo in the process of their snail-like development. Prices were a tad higher here, too, than before. But most had stayed relatively undisturbed. The place was more vivid than my memory of it allowed, which was remarkable owing to the fact that—in my misery abroad—I had thought that I had worked up my fantasies of this place to an incredulous pitch and pique. But its vividness did little to allay my feelings of alien distrust…Was I really back here? Was this merely the importuned graft of my memory upon a blank space, some holographic bunker hooked up to my brain by series of wires and interpreter cables?
The man at the other end of the office counter said to me, “we can repatriate you, but we can’t repatriate your money—that’s the law.”
Of course, this caused great consternation on my part, for the resulting problems of this scenario where my money could not be transferred at all into my place of nativity would mean a situation heavily dire. So, stay and keep the money, or go and lose it all…even access to it. Because, it stood by the tenets of their enormous bureaucratic-legislative reason that my repatriation would mean all that money being redistributed within the ranks of that land which I had decided to leave. As enterprising as I can be, the thought of making a large withdrawal from the bank and converting one dollar into another of its kind, would prove a bankrupt notion…almost literally. There was in place a severe cap as to the amount I could take with me to the country, and to me a thousand dollar ceiling wouldn’t get me very far unless I was going to Brazil. Added to this grim financial debacle that I would not be eligible to go on the dole and utilize that country’s social safety net until six months had elapsed of my living there. I had to make this thousand dollars stretch over six months? This amounted to saying that one could live comfortably at roughly $166.67 per month. I know beggars in the street that pull in much more and don’t appear any better for it.
But this was the cost of repatriation. There was something distinctly punitive about the whole affair, as if I was being fined for ever considering that I wanted to leave their “fair” country. Leaving their national trust would be an exemplar of just how unfair they could be. They might as well called me a defector, charged me with grand treason, robbed me and left me for dead on the roadside of the border.
Knowing I couldn’t stay in the country anyway, I took the financial bite in the crotch by their dogs of the blogosphere. It was for the best. As I was leaving through the gate to catch my plane out and into a new, penniless kind of freedom, I reflected on the matter…and, indeed, all that I had learned to hate while I had been here rather than there. A nervous man who kept scratching his arms compulsively whispered in my ear the strangest secret: “the night has wings.” But it would take an incredible effort to pierce through that seemingly impenetrable madness, be it congenital or drug-induced, to locate and decipher the meaning of this rather cryptic statement. The man looked very intense, equally so by the news he had to impart, which was why I attributed his speech act with some relative degree of importance and urgency. But, I suppose, every lunatic and drug-addled fiend was intense, with profound things to say, but usually this was not a product of anything intense or profound related to this world. Apart from the obvious signs of his deleterious psychosis, he appeared lucid enough, and with some semblance of directed purpose, that I could not help but to replay the incident—and his words—over in my head from takeoff to touchdown. It was, as they say, a portent like the crippled seer that warned of the Ides of March, or it was a convenient send-off from this wretched country. In my idle fancy, I even toyed with the notion that the country had finally decided to yield to me its ultimate secret as a parting gift, ponying up this poor wigged out fellow as the emissary to deliver the news. Perhaps. But I had more pressing—financial—concerns to deal with when I breached the airport threshold into this new land that was my old home.

10. Ghi
A-ha! Today has seen the fruits of wonder and splendour in the beguiling masks of the aberrant clause to which I give no assent in either quatrains or odes! My new machine will run on the waxy substance that is exuded by certain species of fern—the perfect energy source, and perpetually renewable! I speak to you thus: Dear General Pax…I have here enclosed the most recent yield of my genius. And, as you should know, geniuses are sacrosanct in an age when the term is used so desperately and loosely to cover all sorts of mediocre performers and such. The genius is the closest we have to the canonized saint! Genius is cultural capital, you do understand! But I have enclosed here plans for a war wagon that runs not only on plant wax residues, but on silicates as well! Using the core of the earth as a magnetic anchor, my war wagon is capable of shifting positions anywhere on the earth without a fuel source. Enclosed you will find the 728 page blueprint plans for its construction, followed by a 341 page report in short form outlining its capabilities, merits, and alternative uses (such as an auto-production factory of VX gas). It seats 100 comfortably within its coiling nautilus shell and can hover ten metres off the ground indefinitely. My next project (to be finished in the next 96 hours) will be an organic molecular-based missile that replicates itself while in flight to form spread patterns for carpet bombings. We will win this war! Yours truly, as how I end most of my letters (sometimes with “sincerely” or “God Save America”), Ghi, master inventor, patriot. My post-script would be a reminder to General Pax and his staff that I had not yet received any word on the stages of development on the last seventeen-or-so projects I had delivered unto them. It would be hoped that they are beyond the negligible testing stages, that these machines are being used in current service detail, and that credit be bestowed upon me soon replete with a current listing of enemy fatalities resulting from their effective use. My second post-script would most definitely be a repetition of my request to be instated on the military payroll so that I may obtain the pura vida necessary in these dark times to complete more of my master projects. They will be reminded that I am an asset to them, and will continue to be as long as I can, but there are beasts and demons living in my closets that may convert me if I fall asleep. I must be kept in a state of constant alertness, for this grim times demand of me the greatest fortitude and perseverance. All my efforts in the service of our mighty flag! Hail! Hail!

11. Nth-arrator
I am the thaumaturge of several interleaves of unreality. I have a pact with my name that causes me to sign its other, its heterogeneous non-inverse, with a left hand rather than with my given right hand that has already given itself over to a kind of signing that is convenient to the world—in order to make me accountable in a petty, judicial and economic way. The world demands that my Being stand absolutely still to be photographed, and that this same impossible, fixed Being sign its responsibility to the world. But I am movement within movement, and this impossible Being the world demands that I be is nothing more than a mask I don for the purposes of mutual convenience; the world gets its image, and I remain essentially untouched. But this other Being, this movement-Being, the Being that I am because it is always Becoming and there are no ends on this earth that will satisfy its willing, will never sign into this world like so many employees punch into work with little cards. Never. The only way a world can understand a moving Being is through a series of time lapse photography, to have ready to hand a succession of spatio-temporal fixed points, ordinate points, from which it can draw lines of comparison and understand movement by cause and effect. Photo A links to photo B by virtue of the fact of some resemblance, that the causal relation is reasonably understood. But my true Being does not require etiological explanations. Besides, explanations always require some fixed and stable point of reference…The object of explanation must be arrested in its movement—at least in thought—for it to be assessed. Smug college kids appeal to Derrida’s notion of the Trace, and think that they are “hip” to my “groove.” They seem to luxuriate in their understanding of the trace and movement, that they understand this movement-Being of Becoming easily. But they do little else than to point at a page or a few paragraphs from a frozen book as a reference point to indicate this understanding. As soon as they point to an explanation, they fail and have no better grasp on movement than the world that insists on arresting everything. It is impossible to speak of and understand movement without recourse to the petrified. The fact that I speak here of it is proof of my point. If the brain tries to grasp this notion, it falls into a boiling sea of churning madness.
Movement itself is infinite, as is becoming. If anyone here can possibly conjure up or invoke the thought of the infinite, then let them stand forward. I will credit Descartes with having stated the obvious when he asserted that we could not think of a chiliogon…A thousand faced polygon cannot be maintained with the limitations of our mental capacities. If a thousand is hard to picture beyond the symbolic “1000,” then the infinite would prove no easier. I will not say that the universe is infinite, but that the movement within it is. This may imply, as tricky philosophers would interrupt, that I believe time to be eternal, that there is no origin or telos. Perhaps. But, to me, absolute time = movement. Without time there is no movement, and without movement there is no time. One could say the same that, without space there is no time or movement (for how and where would anything move to?). Perhaps. But I am more amenable to believing that time and movement not only indicate the existence of space, but actually create it. This may be a far-flung theory, or then again it might just be a reiteration of an old theory that I am not aware has already been stated, refuted, restated, and abandoned. Maybe Aristotle posited this notion, or Kant. But I do not read either of them; and by that I mean I have read them, forgot them, and indeed never read them seriously because nothing is to be read seriously. Not even me, or you, or anyone. To read seriously is to situate yourself statically into the debate. To be fixed. Or, if your opinion changes, you are merely transported to the next weigh-station. Allegiances are made, rigidity and loyalty are maintained. Movement is stunted. This is why I read carelessly, loosely, my eyes whipping across the lines of the page until the book is finished for now and I pick up another. Contemplate all you like, but I want to move! If you are not creating, get off the bus and stand very still until the forces of time dissolve you back into the circulating flux of time.

12. Yz (?)
I am an editor, look at me go! I search for errors high and low. When I stumble over an awkward phrase, or when the grammar’s a silly maze, I take a red pen from my cap, and give the clumsy writer a big hard slap! Many writers think I’m a dreadful shit, especially when I show them where the words won’t fit. But if their writing wasn’t treatable, no one would ever find it readable. So next time when you come across an editor, don’t treat him like an evil creditor. And if you should find, my edits not kind, let me suggest, before I am pressed, that your work you should hone or leave me alone!

She had the nervous, brittle laugh of someone who had no self-confidence whatsoever…
It was a cheap and desperate eleventh hour grab for glory that inevitably failed, leaving all sorts of morale-boosted victims in its wake…
The cheap, multi-chain, discount department store hired shrill and fat, middle-aged, bored, uneducated middle class women. This contrasted with the other half of the employee base: professionally trained immigrants who could work nowhere else due to the country’s muted, covert institutionalized racism…

13. Jonkil
Things move incredibly fast in these, our days, when the thunder of the media warnings itself is enough to jangle the nerves or send that deep, sinking feeling within us. A terrorist threat daily—but what did that really mean? While the politicians attempted to rally support from its electorate, the people were not apathetic, really, but there was this all pervading sense of doubt as to who were really the terrorists in this high stakes game. While mortgage rates went up, stocks bottomed out, and the governments of their patriotic affiliation were more embroiled in cover-ups, it was hard to say who were really the victims and who the victimizers. The sure, stony faces of the resolved generals and presidential spokespeople were perhaps too sure of their moral rightness, and if seen in the slightly oblique lights (when the camera shifted and caught the hint of something malicious), they looked more like cowboys or bullies that no one should ever dare to question. And the world over, people starved and the health of the environment declined at such an awful rate that various lobby groups ponied up money to air advertisements declaring desperate need for action now…that we, as a species living in this shared environment were at the make or break point. The economy be damned, they said, let us think of the ecology. All of these worries and threats tugged at the minds of those huddled around the television set in their comfortable living rooms on a Sunday night. It was happening slowly, but that feeling of comfort was beginning to wear off like some perfume applied long ago and now fading. The layers were being peeled back, and soon no one would be able to deny the monstrous horrors and deeply set decay that were now visible to even the most oblivious and solipsist of people. We will all be united in a shameful, worrisome, depressed silence. We will have woken up and seen what we have done to everything, directly or indirectly. And, it would be hoped, that we could see our concerns for the petty and inconsequential things they were. Perhaps the making of vast sums of money, the office politics, the Wednesday TV lineup, the new run of mini-vans, would no longer give us the joy they once did. But, rather, in their place would appear the most silent and reflective of existential moments. Something larger and more meaningful than our petty selves has come and spoiled our little party, and we would no doubt have to come to grips with it very soon. You say nothing, you do nothing, and pretty soon, you are nothing. An immutable truth. Those who plotted for betterment in the shadows—seen as parasites upon the social net, or ridiculed as dreamers and rebels and pointless idlers—would now be seen in a new light, just as we would now look upon those in activist movements…We would not ridicule or ignore them now, nor would we slough them off…We would regard them with a sense of quiet hope and with a deep regret and personal shame that we had laughed at them, considered them inconsequential, that we did not join them. The world was passing us by. We would realize that we were not more powerful than they, neither were we united, but that we were of less value and power than them all along. The children will ask their parents questions, and the parents will gain this worried look in their eye, fall silent, and declare that they did not know, that they did not know anymore. So it would be.
A state of international tension had arisen like never before. A global tension where everything was potentially poisonous, explosive, carcinogenic, irreversible. Where and when would the new global version of the Archduke Ferdinand be shot to start the whole spectacle going? This time, it would be total, and this time it would be a thousand times more gruesome and fatal than the last time we said “never again.” There would be horror and death the likes we would never have conceived even in the most horrific of our theatrical productions. It would be composed of a fear that cut deeper than genetic cloning or machines taking over the earth. This war would prove that everything of humanity had progressed, and part of this humanity that had progressed most would be the horror. We would outdo the horror. We have a new and improved model for horror, and all it will take is this one, next war to make it visible to us, to make it realized. There will be no sense in comparing this next war to any war ever waged on earth before…A recourse to historical comparison would be a fool’s paradise. However, it would be the way that we ignored all the symptoms of history that would bring us there to this war of all wars. The war will disintegrate those last stubborn vestiges of nationalism…It will erode all boundaries. It will have as its stage and battlefield the entire globe, and there will be fighting everywhere. There will be no two contestants each representing Right and Wrong, but a spectrum of competing forces that will exchange allegiances, forge new alliances while breaking with the old. There will be no sense of moral stability. The countries will keep their names, but nothing else. All will be changed or erased by the final curtain, if it comes to pass that any of us will survive to that moment. I cannot say; all I can predict that it will be of unparalleled horror…Count on it.
Perhaps the public has gotten too old to be fooled by the false political masks. Perhaps they see the same breed of dictators in two different countries. The one war-mongering dictator differs from the other by mere words alone. The one dictator that maybe you and I voted into power is no different than the other except that ours speaks of “freedom” and “security,” making of these words a hollow sham. Our dictator merely has more money than the other one, and an entire world depends on his approval. That we raise one up and choose to crush the other is preposterous and absurd. I speak now to the nation of obesity—physical, mental, and spiritual—who has just now realized its own disgusting, shameful self. Perhaps the tide will turn, and the people will once more be empowered. But we live now in a time when there is nowhere left to flee oppression, no New World to escape to. We will have to find the New World in ourselves and mint our own idealistic constitutions, draft those inner precious documents that will usher in a new greatness. I am both terrified and disgusted at a people so resolved to ensuring that the most awful biblical predictions come to pass. Does a sense of right truly rely on being tied to the “right” of the state?

14. Def
There is much grey in these parts. Echoes judder between tall, dust-caked, formless buildings. The only ornamentation that garlands this place is the litter that is damp and half-frozen in windswept piles along the concrete runners. Discarded newspapers are laden with cans and candy wrappers, the leaves of paper curled up like an impossible blossom, headline weeds. In the distance, I can see the rusting rails of the sky train, and every five minutes this place is alive with a kind of shaking, rattling noise, the ker-chunk, ker-chunk of the train slamming fast against the ties. The sky is an oppressive grey as well, but it is too weak and thin to promise rain. Small cyclones of dust and scraps spiral up a few metres and collapse from the effort, back to the ground. I do not know where I am, but I know that I do not like it here.
The night has receded, taking its raven feather tablecloth away. In its place, crooked daggers of daylight loom treacherously close to revealing all that should have been left in the darkness. Now I see more than just the contours of objects…I see their grain and textures, their lack of colour. A vivid grey. I still do not know where I am going. I have been three hours away from that moving shell of the bus, and promptly jettisoned into another kind of shell, another nightmare. I rode this nightmare all the way into the gloaming of day, and I feel much more displaced and confused.
I find what others call civilization.
Who are these people who entreat me to give them spare change? Who are these rugged travelers and unshorn installations at each corner? I cannot give any coin, for it is all I have left as a bargaining tool to prove my existence, who I was before I forgot. All I know is that I woke up on a bus, and a half hour or so later I landed here. Who knows…I may have a wife and children who are worrying about me, or maybe a boss who is getting increasingly angrier that my cubicle is not occupied—or perhaps I am a bachelor with no job. I have access to all sorts of memories, but none concern my own history or name. I remember the basics of any city, that I have to purchase items, that I am not to loiter, that a taxi can take me just about anywhere as long as I pay the fare. I remember that there are bars where children cannot go, and that at night many people go to these bars to drink and forget. I can understand the structure of this world and all of its finer details, but I cannot seem to recall how I fit into it. I also seem to understand that I am in a perilous position, and that to approach someone with my situation would not be appropriate. I would be seen with a kind of fear. Most people do not want to help one another. I am transgression. I am a break or fissure in the order, even though I desire to return to that order…Or at least to decide whether it is worth returning to. I will be incapable of asking innocent, yet necessary questions, such as: what is this city named? Who am I? Questions like this will make me appear mad, for there are a priori propositions that I should be in possession of…To not be in possession of them is to not be in possession of one’s own faculties.
Instead of troubling the inhabitants with these questions, I resolve to be more circumspect, to discover these things through a kind of oblique process…That is, I will learn as I go, by what I do, as an adjunct to various acts that secure me lodgings and food. I do not seem to remember how much things are worth. I stand in line at a coffee shop and watch the monetary transactions with interest. I watch a bill handed to the cashier and come back to the sender in a lump of coins and, presumably, smaller denomination bills. I look at my own bills. I count their strange numbers: 45. Coffee equals almost 2. I can afford 22 coffees. I leave before coming to the head of the line, feigning impatience or that I have changed my mind. I go, instead, into a convenience store and examine prices. I can afford 5 packs of cigarettes. I can afford 18 bags of potato chips. I am beginning to realize that I do not have a great supply of money. The light tubes in the store are beginning to drip and leak fluorescent goo into everything, everything goes unnatural white-yellow. I hear the sound of a middle-eastern flute playing recklessly across alien scales. Sale sign images in barbarous, liquid colours superimpose on one another. The store’s operator’s body is breathing in and out like an enormous lung, and upon his head is a webbed crown. The crown is throbbing and pulsing in yellow and red, growing up like vines about to choke the ceiling, the ceiling that is drooping and peeling back to reveal a pink abrasion. Enormous, God-sized hands are stretching the sky, like it was some sort of plastic caul. I find myself with a pen and writing on it in reply, trying to squeeze in words in between the moving hands. I am writing on skin, a skin that has creatures moving inside it. I am suddenly horizontal with the world, on my back and writing through the sky and circling the stars with a pen of golden ink. I feel myself seized by hands in the floor, and suddenly there is jerky movement, as if the floor was skin as well and beneath it was the irregular movement of bowling balls sliding from behind me. Or snakes slithering beneath the now shrink-wrapped floor. The jerking eventually stops and now I see two seeds immediately blossom into faces, speaking to me in a strange tongue that sounds like a soothing sing-song language. I hear the squeaking of what could be wheels or mice beneath me. Meanwhile the sky has gone grey and it is cut up into perfect tessellated squares, bisected by the occasional rod of light that moves across it. More faces speak to me, but my tongue is numb and cannot be commanded into action. Their voices are muffled, spoken through woolen filters or as if from far away in a gargantuan, empty auditorium where echoes resonate and sparkle. I feel myself lifted closer to the sky, and then eased down onto a softer kind of floor. I realize only much later that I was in a hospital.
Some kind of seizure. I am ripped from an inky silence by the bustle of soft-soled shoes, warbled intercom requests, the ever-shifting movement of gurneys. The light hurts my eyes. I feel tired and hollowed out.

15. Pqr & Stu &Nth-arrator
“Frater Pqr, we must speak earnestly of things to pass.”
“Yes, it is all agreed upon. There is nothing else we can do at this point. He wishes to be emperor, but little does he realize that he will only be emperor of his own small house.”
“I do think it is time to move the proceedings along. If we were to lend our hand?”
“Not yet. Be still and patient for the now. There is no telling how many eyes and ears are currently keen to our movements. Besides, his aides have told me in clandestine confidence that his fall has been arranged. The clock has started.”
“But if he were to—“
“Do not think of it. Do not even say it. We will do what we can when it is time.”
“I do fear it.”
“As do I, young Frater Stu. Let his stultifera navis sail a good distance yet, and we here, on the wharf, will watch as it goes into storm and eventually sinks.”
“Who will we put in his place?”
“Why, my good Frater, you speak as though this wasn’t a democracy.”
Laughter.
“Someone will need to be created, I suppose.”
“Ah, Frater Stu…In the words of the esteemed: si illa opinio esset vera, nullum individuum posset creari.”
[The translator is broken; please feed].
[sic, sic,sic]…
I have not gone to any lengths to convince you otherwise that this may just be a radio whose tuning skips from station to station, warbling and merging frequencies. It may just be an Internet novelty in which web pages are loaded at random into one another, sometimes loading pieces of sites forty at a time on one screen. A randomized engine would handle this procedure. I have heard stories, many stories, about those who would have themselves record absolutely every transfer of the voice—spoken or written—on all communication machines in the world for a period of about a month…just to get a closer look at the secret of the history that we are all living. That is space, and stage, my friend.
Let us begin again. It is 3:33 am. This does not change. All figures become one, as numerically combined, added up in cabalistic squares to provide the secret combination, the chiffre. The premise of the staging is precisely the staging of time that does not move, does not penetrate itself into oblivion as minutes turn over…

16. Legare
Vile nazi soiree harlots in burlesque tragedy denim pants, jukebox ribcages and slot machine pockets coming strolling this way and that, all hither and thither to the beat of an inaudible and erratic drummer-machine on the wrong side of night. The infinite party, so it was said, had already degraded into a spectacle of endurative failure. Time was not marching forward. We had taken it for granted, I suppose.
My teeth, long, jagged, slicked in grease, oil and rust, dragged across this land leaving deep furrows that were promptly filled in by what are called “citizens” by citizens. It is in the same way and result that I carried, say, a guitar…or dragged it behind me like an ogre’s club or a plank of rotten wood too heavy for the spindly arms of a child to bear. To where? To build a fort? To raise terror? To merely transport wreckage from one site to another without any degree of plan or appropriate and decisive social action. No benefit. Transfer shit from one end to another, repeat when bored or paid to do so.
There is desire everywhere. It gets stuck beneath your boots, fights to be lodged deeply in your lobes, between your teeth, insinuating itself in your wallet, making heavy and impossible demands. At other times it is a raving, jabbering monster that waits for you at the other end of the bar, waiting to elicit your barbarity in proportion to its own puissant nature. Invest in desirous futures, the body that is chosen is secondary and perhaps negligible. Invest it in some receptacle now…in her, perhaps. A great deal of mindlessly savage pouncing and bouncing around…allargando and accelerando. Broader, faster, swelling, an orchestral tide of cancer at its top crescendo pitch. Only to return to the flat silence of failure, to reinvest yet again. Do they do these things in the forest, I wonder?
I am a walking wound in the universe, as we all share this affliction. The wounds only relocate, perhaps vibrate sorely in themselves, playfully manipulate the lips of space that surround the holes we are. Between the labia of space is you, present, a sore and empty wound, and you cleave through this world transporting this swelling ache, this nasty pain and disease.
She is water to water as I am fire to fire. Water goes where it wants, even if it appears that it hasn’t left in quite some time. It is a mutable substance. In its most fixed form, as ice, where there is no motion or flow. This solidification is merely its waiting, resting period. Fire merely undoes itself constantly, like an infinite shoelace. Fire spreads and shrinks back without a form to call its own, and only captures form in that illusory sense as it spikes upward in crackling display, best captured with the eye or the camera lens. Water has no true form to call its own either, seeing as it generally fills whatever container it is situated within.
Between two panes of glass, a bird…or a droplet as the panes squeeze together, transmuting droplet into a moist cross section of amoebae, a thin film of organic molten error, living magma, a crypto-zoologist’s microscope slide…A library of fantastic design, this slide of two conjoined planes or lenses of glass shelved and referred to through a series of misleading and false catalogues. Squeeze the panes firmly together giving context to fluid, a container. Errors of that nature were rude and pointless. She was that thin, filmy substance, and I was an iron-wrought Casablanca stammering about a Napoli-Eon who had the tumescence twixt his legs rubbed raw and consistently upon the clay donkey he rode in on. I talked shit, right through those panes, light and distorted reflections produced and manufactured through the export of my words transferred, sold, and negotiated through the translucent layer of the Other.
I failed to intervene as she cut her sex into parts with a razor blade, notching the beak, the hood with small oozing eyelets blossoming with blood. Deliberate, slow and precise movements…I knew she cursed the day she found the mirror, saw herself there and the hollow hall garlanding her features from behind—an ethereal spectre of space and the failure of space itself…its failure to open her up and disperse her throughout the world in equal parts, every world space containing one part per six billion of her there. I failed to come on strong, to obstruct as instruct, to grant that value-laden, social addled concern that would bade nay to such acts of self-mutilation. Perhaps it was that I felt that this was a ritual of exerting self-control of one’s body through space, and to interfere would have been to repeat the same error of world imposition that has since wrested from us so much self-control already. She had a cunt built for fighting, a down home Kentucky prize cock for the cockfight where money changes hands and spurs are added for good, quick, and decisive battle-finish measures. Blood congealed between her fingers as with idle curiousity she fingered the notched beak. The blood had carved out highlights in the grooves of her fingertips, small creeks and pools of blood in what was once the reliable form for determining identity. She commenced the ritual of biting fingernails, chewing off the callused tips, the hangnails, the small labial folds that buttressed the small pink, scallop shell nails. She had a running scar on the side of her face, and it ran like an angry painter’s streak across pale canvas—a deep, rosy smear…another sexualizable gash. An imitation wound. She had said that someone had struck her red and temporarily blind with a bottle that intransigently remained intact until it finally shattered—glass to bone, bone shattered by glass. Blood and notches. To me they appeared like teethmarks as if some demon had seized upon her. This would set up a temporary relational space: I felt as though demons had been gnawing on me all my life as well.
She replaced her black denim pants into the improper ON position, carefully and smoothly gliding them over the small parallel black notches on her thighs, pressing the crotch of the jeans into careful place, the superimposition of the false crotch against its actual counterpart, buffered with a wad of reddening tissue paper. This would bleed through, this sore, fresh, throbbing wound. A five ton wound hanging as some swaying barge at the join of the legs. A darker crimson-black patch was spreading, the dissemination of a mutilation species. How I wished I could have pressed there, if only to understand a sense of the despairing macabre I could have never known otherwise to crystallize into thought. Uncontrollable forms of desire as if tossed to pieces upon a stormy brew of sea: is there any other kind?
I should mention now, rather than later when it is inconveniently too late, that is was always three in the morning. The clock never budged from this stony, immutable moment. An immanent moment protracted across static infinity or just a busted clock? And she was always defacing herself for freedom, for release and liberation from time or space, unto and toward…forever. The bars were always “just” closed, spilling its soggy patrons into the blue-black ribbon-street, entire coops and kennels opened, and fences and drapes withdrawing to let the riff intercalate with the raff. Drunken rhinos everywhere, lost and violent, charging about in frantic, furious circles…ever-tightening circumferences until just one seething, tight knotted mass trying to disappear entirely. Or maybe tramping into all night shawarma houses. The police contingent of presence might have just been an ornament, a minimum effort of that social illusion of care, concern, trust, law, order. A pointless ornament dangling from the phantom limb of capital. Phagocytes and jettisoned particles of the polite and mundane let loose into the repressed madhouse of rampant desire? Bedlam, distilled, in your drink…maybe, perchance. A pocket disturbance, small whirling pools of disaster, a slight transfer or release of energy as vomit spewed hits is alley or mailbox mark. Yes, all this and everything else that can fit quite conveniently in a pocket.
But while I was obsessing over the very idea of the phantom appendage as an analogous feature of modernity, as its key demonstration and explanatory tour de force, she—in those endurative wee hours—was more intent on meditating and grousing upon her (self-believed) camel-like ass.
The man in the corner playing jacks with his teeth was extolling the grand virtues of hill pussy. His name was Zoltar, which sounded to me as if he was going to be launched out of a cannon before an obese entertainment-starved crowd of spectacular lunatics—that, or laughed out of all credibility by a stern group of occultists who had opened their doors to the sale of magic crystals for bourgeois consumption.
But here I have to step back. In which case, and in all probability, I will fall over. But there is something I must necessarily do: step back, to outline the geo-spatial commotion, show the ropes, trace the wobbly map, train the new guy with a cursory tour of the plant replete with an unsatisfying and forgettable explanation on how all the machines work.
Those who say that this place is a dank crotch of despair know this fact all too well after having sought out a glamorous side and failed. Hermits, jocks, thieves, and vicious fiends outnumber everyone else or have run the competition out, making this city a number one candidate for dusting off old eugenic programs. Out of the gallery and into the gutter. The city is wedged in by two filthy, stinking, black canals on the east-west axis. The rest is held together top to bottom by a worn out weave of land tapering off into two limp rivers that go nowhere but back into themselves like a lazy ouroubouros. Many have made the perilous passage here to found a cultural renaissance, believing against all indications for as long as their stubborn self-deception could hold out that this place was going to be a vibrant mecca of absolute beauty unparalleled anywhere. We all make mistakes, especially when we are foolish with our fictions. People anted up their entire fortunes to be here with us in the hurricane swill of idling exiles and flummoxed drunken brownshirts. Apocalypse is the product of export. There are people who live here because they are so horrible that no one else would have them, that they had no other place to go. And still others lived here because they were unable to live. It is a gentle art that requires a mastery that is most difficult to acquire, righteously, properly.
[…]
The grotesque is deeply set within me like an iron sore. Two gothic mandalas dangle before my eyes as I cultivate in myself only the worst attributes of the shabby construct known only to me as my character. I then, in short order, lapse into a superstitious mood wherein I believe that a month’s fallow period for my cock will result in its shrinking from existence. This all transpires in a period not exceeding twelve unmoving minutes. At other times, the short-lived periods tend to involve my constant demagoguery, to which I believe myself most famous for.
It is 3:33 and this does not change. A caged silence is buoyed up by an awful and vicious crescendo of stochastic noise, yet it does not swell to the point where the dikes will be overtaken. Noise reaches an impassable high water mark, an apex or summit or threshold, and can only recede from there.
3:33
The imposing red blink of digital numbers are all that break an otherwise continuous block of gloom. These small Bauhausian tridents are all that stand between the now of the mad sorrow and a then when the gears of some awful mechanism will lock into the next position or come undone entirely, engulfing this world in a rain of enormous, deadly, rusted parts.
Garbage accumulates in my cell, and a few of her morphine fits…each with a small archaeology of dried or drying blood lodged within those straight and impossibly narrow steel capillaries. It is the litmus test of and for survival when time does not shift into another gear, even when everything has gone downhill.
“Has the clock turned over?” she asked hopelessly. I didn’t know those accents came that thick.
In automatic, dismissive, derisive, but truthful reply, “no.”
“Fuck,” I think I heard her say, but it could be the knock of the pipes. Everything we say could be a knock of the pipes.
Ever since the clock struck 3:33, the ineffable abyss, I have smoked 7 314 packages of cigarettes. I keep count with marks on the wall. There is a mountain of garbage creeping up the fifth story of the building. We are good citizens…precisely because we are patient and resignedly helpless in this time of national crisis.
She came in. She usually just muttered or howled from the other room, our approximation of conversation.
“You look like Johnny Cash,” she said, followed by the hollow, acerbic laugh of a junky.
“You’re high,” I said.
“Fuck you,” a tone of sudden drunk-like hostility muffled by the slow prospect of retreat.
I stood up and gave her a hard slap for the hell of it, for the hell that was this unending moment. she stumbled sideways, catching the arm of the vomit-coloured floral print sofa. Timber. Like a doll suddenly released of a child’s agency. Both her face and my hand stung.
“What time is it, bitch?” she shrieked, presumably at me.
“Three and thirty-four,” I said cruelly, not bothering to confirm a lie with a clock that was lying in its own way. The clock had not budged, and I didn’t need to consult it to determine the truth this. There was only a brief flash of hope in her eyes. We had gone through this choreographic sequence so many times, that hope in her eyes was obviously not real, but as rehearsed as the rest of the scene.
“Aww, go fuck yourself!” she snarled.
“Why don’t you pick up your fits? And all the wrappers they came in? if I step on one I swear I’ll shove them all through your eyes, my little paregoric pincushion.”
“I’ll do it tomorrow,” she said smugly, petulantly, all an attempt to be clever…slightly orchestrated as if the state of temporal affairs were my fault.
“There’s no time like the present,” I shot back, my own dose of the cleverness.
“I wouldn’t know…I don’t have a frame of reference.”
That, however, was truly clever. I hoped that she would die.

17. Jonkil
My hazel eyes are a hazy monologue as the carnival heats up. I am feeling listless and misdirected. There are far too many stimulants in my blood, and my skeleton is vibrating like a series of intricately connected tuning forks. I have bought myself into a state where the night will not lift, nor will it strike the fire of focus into my thoughts. I am thoroughly scattered, and perhaps overwhelmed by just how much there is in a world to regard, to give careful attention to. My memories have become unhinged, and my usual clangor of thoughts that compel me to speak and write with ease have now vacated or relocated, leaving in their place an empty socket. In fact, my head feels bruised on the inside, a fruit that is rotting from the core outwards because a small pinworm has burrowed a hole in the skin overlooked as merely a characteristic dimple. It has eaten out everything, structures have collapsed; I lack the proper gridwork upon which I build the infrastructure of memory and knowledge. In its place is a new knowledge, but I cannot access it because the night is not yielding. Or perhaps it is that the night is trying to impregnate me with the mad rush of its special, secret knowledge, but I have unwittingly closed the portal to allow myself to be yielding unto its grace.
The night never seems to end, and there is a cavalcade of indirect madness lurking on every possible corner. It was nothing more than overkill, interstellar matter. The dust rose up to form the shapes of saints for brief moments when stirred up by the wind, a secret and very private stone mason that no one could see, that would go about his craft unimpeded. Sounds from the Tango Club were emanating from its deep orange heart; three or four clusters of people were still dancing, now very drunk, but happy. There was Argentinian grace and joy there, and I wished I could touch it instead of being outside—culturally, physically—in the American cold dread of monotony and hell for sale.
Where does the day go? I am told that the earth is round, that it spins like a tireless top around an exploding, bursting, belching, enormous ball of hydrogen gas. The earth is yet another stupid moth around the cosmic halogen bulb. I can imagine the sizzle as the earth gets too close and falls. The world ends, curtains, all exiles are returned and the judges are sent packing to the banished lands. Erudites undo themselves in an orgy of sharp words driven deep and long in and across the skin. The family table is besotted with a rotting animal carcass. The fridge is beeping, sliding back into the basement into a hole someone has prepared for it. I hear the sound of London ambulances. The activists have left, and in their place only angry, chanting voices are issuing from tape players whose batteries are starting to get low on juice. A vision of traffic that divides a street into two is an illusion; little children make the discovery and recklessly charge out into the middle to challenge all-comers. Czechago, USA. Little immigrant napalm bomber bugs on a furious rampage up the thighs of the luscious. Delhiware, USA. Urchins on scooters and boards raid the hearts of towering mega-office opium corporations for a chance to see the queen of ration fashion. Bostonia, USA. Bloody marauders have located the anti-spice within the cold, inner reaches of a curtain manufacturer’s private dowry for his frumpy daughter. Baroque men are running wild on fox hunts throughout a city that speaks back to them in silent grey and brick. USAge. I am in direct control of the entire circus, I am its central node, all of the freakish acts answer to me eventually. Shall I list them for you?

18. Jonkil
Why is the little girl across the street wrapping the garden hose around her neck and pulling it taut? She has been doing this for weeks now, ever since summer began and the rains stopped…when the sunsets are glorious and set in picture frames by the seeds of possible romance glinting orange off an invitingly lush and verdant Nature. The collective Cult of the Self has no Self to pin up as an example other than the collective ideal for self: that is, the exterior monologue of fashion and the suburban proprietary etiquette. My wife and I like to throw fun parties. This has been cautioned against through surreptitious strategies of shame, guilt, and icy condescension on various social occasions. Of course, none of our neighbours actually comes right out to tell us that a party of the kind we enjoy is not acceptable—we are just supposed to know. They must believe that they mistreatment of us, this social warning call for conformity, will bring us enough panic and anxiety to chase after our regimented neighbours for their acceptance. What makes them so goddamn superior? And then I see the little neighbour girl with the garden hose around her neck, the mangy, brown-tipped dog yapping around her, calling her down, excited about the arrival of a comet. The violin lesson tomorrow. Let’s all gather inside the SUV in paramilitary fashion to go grocery shopping at the Cosco retail outlet. And this passes for pomp and majesty? As nobility? Who are these middling, brain-dead nobodies whose only purpose is to drag everyone into the same chalk circle? The Masonic temple of insipid delights? Pleasures on layaway or some chipboard assembly required?
The little girl seems to be in a euphoric state. She does what she does right out there in the open, in the middle of the working day, out on the lawn. The only potential observer besides me are some geriatric care patients who probably cannot see this far into the neighbourhood or will interpret the little girl as just having kid fun. Sometimes I see her talking to her dolls, and when she grows cross with them at the tea party she sets up, she sits on them…her face grimacing into that of a deranged, obese queen with ogre-ish tendencies. When the parents come home, the little girl runs up and gives her father a hug, but he doesn’t realize that she sneakily leaks a gob of phlegmy spit on his shoe. I saw it once; it made me smile. He uses his new weed trimmer at terrible times in the early morning just to spite our partying into the night. I would like to do much more to him than spit on his shoe.

19. Yz
A delinquent reprint of Arcanum Emblematica has found its way into the hands of yours truly, and the acquisition of this text from a particular and secretive antiquarian in the south of Boston’s chill, can be said to be a fortuitous event by some. I prefer to consider the event meaningful, of great purpose, but damning all the same. There are sections in this text that obviously are copped from Andreas Alciatus’ Emblematum liber, 1531 (Alciatus’ text, by the way, had made its way through Morocco and the Congo, and other places ships brought exporer-colonialist spies). The opening illustration is lifted from Barthelmy Anneau’s L’imagination poetique, 1552, and depicts man’s crucial balance through the allegorical image of Adam and Eve. On either side of them was the archangel, Michael, and the Devil. The reason for this placement was either to satisfy some easily irate abbot, or as merely a fanciful ornament.
As opposed to the original Alciatius codex, there are a few inauspicious pages inserted. I discovered this when comparing this text (whose author remains unsigned) with the original. The difference was that the Arcanum was in possession of fourteen extra pages—no mean feat if one intended to quietly insert a revision, but not enough to give anyone but the most knowledgeable in the subject any pause. The extra pages concerned the method for creating the perfect library catalogue. As the unknown author was referring to certain unheard of texts, I will leave out their names here, but assume that either these are fictitious mentions or censored replacements before typesetting. Whatever the case may be, it is yet another mystery lost to time, but intriguing nonetheless. My translation is roughly hewn at this point, but I will still present my findings to the committee due to their pertinence…Also due to the conspiratorial whispers I hear in the dark by those who have somehow discovered that I possessed this text. But I will not be intimidated by those who would snuff the candle of knowledge—but, rather, I shall use it as my beacon, and truth will protect me. It has occurred to me that the antiquarian is behind this somehow, perpetrating this game the rules and scope of which I have yet to glean. It is of monstrous impishness. Or, perhaps, the antiquarian was also beguiled by these people and events, and by confiding in me these facts may have made me reluctant to make the purchase.
Perhaps one of the most troubling statements that did not appear in the original codex was a small handwritten note dated 1775: So begins the end of all beginnings. The last land has been made to hold the spores of a kingdom that will have nothing left on this sphere to spoil, and so must now contend with the heavens themselves, and other celestial bodies, to further a corruption that has begun in whitely earnest some many centuries ago. A king will come, and he will rise, and he will have the Angel’s lances to which he shall misappropriate to rekindle the flames of Rome. A new King George, mad, shambling, bolstered by his council of violent men in pandaemonium as Milton has written it, will convene to return the threat to the Euronarchy. The colonizer will be folded back and be colonized. King George is mad, and his seed finds a new host nearly two centuries into an uncertain future…The future’s only certainty will be its ultimate end of history, and we will be brought to bear to be judged for our sins then, as God has so seen fit…

20. Jonkil
The Romans are everywhere. They hide in the shells of suits, office furniture, code-machines…They ride in hollow, semi-plastic armour. S.P.Q.R. is written all over the world today. Campaigns launched, virgins defiled, refiled, sent back into the thresher for the war effort, the vibrating resonance of an economy given a steady diet of amphetamine rage tablets. No one will be fat, and a grow-pen “chicken” in every pot. Legal reprisal will not be admitted unless it be in our favour. We are the greatest country in the world: and so it says as such on the large placards we raise, the flags that our new Mao wraps around him like a robe or a hero’s cape. But he is no Mao, for he will touch money—he will touch all the money to the tune of trillions in order to power the caravan of death and annihilation. The war wagon. The mass-manufactured atomic penises. Raise everything like the flag, raze everything in the name of it. I am now discovering eerie parallels in history, prognostications by 19th century occultists, woodcuts from the Renaissance, all of which detail that which must come to pass.
I dare the Greatest Nation on Earth to do battle against us. Let them march their robotic armies up to our walls! Let them play the bugler’s call of war declarations to tear down our meagre hovels! Let them penetrate our “feminine filth” of sandy expanse with their glass-making bursts of personal nukedom. Let them. We shall see what comes of this. Jihad yesterday. Jihad tomorrow. Jihad now. Like it’s always been. History gives me the great comfort in knowing that empires will not scare me. Empires expire.

21. Pqr & Stu
“Frater, the Chiefs have cast a secret ballot to wage an attack no matter what the outcome of weapons inspections. What action should we take in this matter? Please advise.”
Is this phone line secure?
“Yes. I have arranged it.”
So be it. We proceed quietly and slowly. It will be difficult to be patient as the innocent go screaming into the firestorm. But we must. Our only chance here is to seize the ruins of empire. It will not do well for us to expedite the plan into premature action, for errors are irremediable.
“Others of some prominent voice are returning the criticism against this country that it, too, needs to disarm.”
Both you and I know that this will not happen. Tempers will flare, but nothing will come of it…yet. We wait now for the assassination of the next Archduke Ferdinand, Frater. When everything turns to desperation, we will be composed and calm with a pragmatic plan. I must go; keep well. Stir nothing.

22. Def
I am still very lost. The night has not yet lifted. Every watch and clock is now shining “3:33.” The night has no law. I angle my head in every direction, there is violence. The entire age has lunged purposely into the darkness. Perhaps the world undoes what progress has inscribed upon it, the failure, the resignation, the passive tablet upon which laws are nothing more than veiled edicts privileging the powerful. I have only a faint remembrance of suns past. The gods have seen fit to let the curtain drop. It is much different when it happens here at home, in the West. How many times in how many other places has the curtain been dropped on some nation we were too indifferent and self-absorbed to care about? We never could understand what happens behind that opaque curtain by our limited standards, even if we were to visit. We just wouldn’t be able to comprehend the state of spirit in those places. And now here we are as the curtain has fallen, and we are behind it, and must deal with the fear and terror that will be here, now.
Behind the curtain, there is no sense in speaking of heroes, martyrs, saints, devils, mountebanks, characters at all…When all is darkness, all that erupts from the inky depths are multiplying, black Hydra heads, hints and whispers of events—but history cannot gain a foothold here, now. It cannot report on rumours, on crumbling signs. I see an evil gleam pulsating in the heart of the city, like there are watchful, menacing eyes there. Chaos is fluid, and will fill the confines of any container. The curtain is laden down by its being saturated in blood. No one has the strength to lift it, even if its hem could be located, and there is no sword on earth that will pierce it so that the light may shine through. It is 3:33, here, now. All of history has stopped still, and yet we are still moving…perhaps even dying, being decimated, poisoned by our lack of comprehension. If this is the end of all things, it is odd that no one has spoken of Christ—but perhaps even He is out of place here…Religion is only sensible where history can move. But under this curtain, all of history has choked and drowned. Asphyxiation. It is clogged by too many voices screaming to be heard.
I see by the light at the end of my cigarette. That is as far as the light extends for anyone here, now. All gods are too terribly distant, detached, and their emanations too weak, to be of any service to us. As for the devils: we simply bore them.
Please, tell me who I am, where I am. I only know when I am, for this is the unalterable fact—it never changes. No movement on earth can budge the omnipresent 3:33. The entire matrix and all its micro-mesh-matrices have stopped. And time is only a stable sense of reference if it moves.

23. Nth-arrator
There, the stage, and all around it the curved walls of a mirror extending up to a vaulted point. Like being inside a hollow onion. The mirror only reflects darkness back in itself and the small suggestions of movement. The movement of what, we wonder.
My candidacy for the criss-cross godhood of multiple fortunes can only be captured by a few lines of triste slogans and the select strokes of colour (a daub of blue and green on each corner of the mouth should do). I am at the top of my circus. I enter a city with great pomp just to purchase a bag of peanuts before leaving. I own desire. I run dreams. I am both the stagehand and the headlining act on Broadway. I introduce myself into the introduction where I am to unfold into the moment of great climactic gestation unto the grand finale. The grand finale of all introductions: to proceed. To reserve. The seats are not free, but you must have purchased them from some future point. The peanuts in the bag have gone rancid long before I have purchased them, but I wanted them that way. I need to entertain myself of myself by eating…rancid eating. As long as the illusions stay intact, or at least are liberally dunked in salt. I also grumble to myself when the show is over, for I am the caretaker, and I grumble against the director and producer—both roles that I am.
The symphony strikes up, but it staggers over a flaccid silence…leading into an even more flaccid cluster of tones and a plethora of small squeaks. The potency of the music to sound has been trimmed away, removed entirely, like a mole surgically extracted and restoring relief to one’s cosmetic sensibilities. But not that simple…The procedure, vaunted as yet another triumphant success, has dug in too deep, and has mangled something impalpably interior. The self and idea have become enervated, releasing toxic spermatozoids warring against the steady stream of photons from the sun’s rays. There is a clash—noise against skin, sound against light…It is a war waged that should never have taken place—not here, not now, but then… or sometime in an ineluctable future past so pristinely perfect as to never be disturbed, even by the proximity of your perceptions of it. Your thought strangles itself, Mozart blares out of both nostrils, Heracles chokes the serpents sent by Hera, the world fails to make you musical. Instead, you lumber about and mistake the natural musicality of all the revolutions in history as merely the practical thing that has been done (to a world, like a scalpel incision), just an empty expression of theory minted and converted into the currency of praxis. The use value of the event, of the measurable and quantifiable social action, collectively individual, individually collective. The cult of culture and the cult of the self both held up to mark this banner year in every possible history. The orchestra can only pantomime its playing of the instruments, for neither you or they can attribute or affix any stable sense of value and reason to the music as sounding. And if the silence is equally disturbing, the air is splintered with the sound of idle jabbering and chatter…empty speech events devised for the purposes of filling in tonal holes, because they ought to be there. They prevent madness by deferring it, placing it in reserve, like a debt whose interest creeps up like a tomato vine over your head until one day the ripe and plump fruit crushes you underneath its verdancy. Debt will return, no matter how long you maintain the gates of the fortification, how long you defer the return. Affirm silence or that music is sounding or be visited at some undisclosed future by the horribly monstrous bastard-infant you unwittingly created with your negligence and reactivity. You cannot fold space and keep it folded…the pleats and creases smooth out, and the one flap returns to its original position…And you may just happen to be in the way when it happens, when the debt is articulated to you in the tongue of cruelty, when the debt is compounded beyond all sensible reason…and you have not the means in this, or any other life, to pay it back. All of humanity owes this staggering debt, but every atom component self owes its share that cannot be shouldered by any other. The symphony rests, the orchestration is at an end. Someone has produced an ocarina from a pocket and begins the egg-like wail. Night falls down the stairs and oozes into a seat. You better start dancing. One million Hitlers are eagerly awaiting a performance you have promised, that you made them anticipate.

24. Def
I cannot shake the eeriness in the world. My eyes are enfolding the macabre chance all around me: nocturnal gamblers have thrown their dice upon a crooked table, the slatterns have begun to speak in medieval Latin, the pushers have become sages with their accumulated knowledge on desire. The entire drama, the drapery show, the pluckable resonance as if the piano had been set upright like a bass…
No one will tell me in what city I walk through, torment4ed by this puzzle. One wino declared that this was Babel, and I am almost inclined to believe him. I have tried to leave here, but the city is bordered on all sides by impassable bodies of stinking water that rushes violently all around, lacerating electrons of fluid around this spiralling node, this atom, this nexus of confusing power…There are no bridges. I begin to wonder how I even got here by bus. I hear a small story told by one old man to another—both painters or dramatists, no doubt:
The room where he had found himself was blank. There were no furnishings, no paintings. The door locked behind him. In the middle of the room was a book on woodcuts. Renaissance age, I believe. Someone had scribbled on the flyleaf a small diagram of a swastika bordered by the famous Roman S.P.Q.R. The man was content for the moment to occupy his attention with the book until someone outside would eventually realize that he had been accidentally locked inside. He would not panic. He would shelve the thought that outside this room was an impassable gulf of swirling chaos, of non-matter and pure caterwauling dissolution…the place where screams conjoin with movement in a magma state. He was, however, perturbed when an arm suddenly stretched and grew out of the wall, made of the same substance as the wall itself. He thought it must have been a parlour trick or some hallucination; he had been studying the book intently by this time for about three intensive hours. Then another arm emerged, and another. Eventually, the walls and ceiling were studded in arms that writhed slowly with a kind of waving movement one might find in a garden of ferns rustled by a breeze. He walked among them with a sense of impunity; these arms were doing no harm. He then made the crucial mistake: he backed up into one of the arms, and the hand on the end of the arm pushed him with great force into the hands of the arms on the opposite wall. This continued for quite some time, the man tossed all around the room at various angles, the arms on each side working on concert to keep him in motion. Arms emerged from the floor, and now arms on all sides of this small room were competing in tossing him in a thousand different directions at once. He is dead now. We can only assume this, for the room has never been opened, nor has it ever been found since—like it ceased to exist when it was cordoned off by chaos as chaos’ private kingdom. Yes, there is a moral: we have no choice but to give chaos its due, the necessary sacrifice from time to time.

25. Jonkil
Stopped up by disease. A most foul and virulent sort. Highly infectious. Gimme drugs.
I have turned on my TV. It is a terrible thing to do. Peals of lightning laughter judder out of the small box. It is the news. The President has declared total war. The warlords are in motion. I cry. I go home. I stay home. I hope that I will not die. The war will be boring, it will be measured by instruments fine. New weapons technology will be introduced like over-costumed wrestlers. The enemy will be depicted in all sorts of bad jokes to cover a very real fear, or will be victimized with all the power our language can muster. The enemy will be placed in direct reciprocal relation to all that we are supposed to hold dear, like freedom, democracy, patriotism. The enemy is godless, and we are defended by a large, lumbering, omnipotent behemoth—so how can we lose? Right? It’s just that God hasn’t appeared in a while, but maybe he will appear in the last act just when things look the most bleak for our troops—he will work through the vigor of young, bloodthirsty men, and out missiles. Rock and roll. The President is putting up a brave front, and is obviously pleased with himself (having been given the go-ahead by the inner council of warlords), but the heavy lights are making his face melt. I see weakness. I wonder if the people see it, too, or if they are just revved up for war and can see nothing but black and white. For us to contest the decision of the declaration is to argue with the wind.
Patriotism is a nazism is a warlordism is a cowboyism is a fascism. I’m sure there is a great deal of literature on that, but ironically so little understanding. And, are we free? Entrepreneurs would tend to affirm this, but they are still bound hand and foot to capital. And instead of having a boss, these new men of capital have internalized their boss and can now effectively tyrannize over themselves…Isn’t that the secret to any system’s success? When it regulates itself without supervision or prompting? I see the President as the Entrepreneur par excellence…I sometimes have difficulties in distinguishing him from a despotic king, other than the fact that he was voted in. The electoral process is not the master of the house as it should be, but his personal bitch, his whore that he verbally harasses into smallness and meek self-loathing. He forces the alleged heathen to his knees at missile-point and then declares that the heathen has no dignity, that his God is weak and therefore false. Why has this devolved into a war of gods yet again, always in this masquerade with the aim of expanding capital? The crusades return in full force, and our Chief Crusader has taken it upon himself to be the grand pontiff. He has internalized a people’s faith, a faith that varies in degrees, and has added to it, enhanced upon it, made it palpable in the acts of vindictive war. Cruel war. A clear case of global bullying. He is the entrepreneurial Heracles. But his strength is in his numbers, his powerful limbs nuclear or portioned out in an endless supply of young troops sectioned into regiments, each with their particular purpose. He is the entrepreneurial terrorist; he disseminates terror all over the earth and renders the earth a disgusting place with his reductions. Reduction by number, by word, at the point of the new sword. He inflames the most mundane facts, privileges the most carnal and basic instincts. He corrals these into morale speeches, calling out the beast in his people. He has made of his country a circus of cruelty, and hopes to erect and expand the tent to cover the entire globe…What are we to do now?
The snakepit is full of spies and patriots who will send word for you to be paraded to the grand blacklist guillotine if your faith shows any sign of weakness. I fear to even speak, but I fear not speaking (out against) at all even more. What they will do to me may be less gruesome and horrific than what they will do to a world they have reduced to a series of stable and corruptly biased “facts.” All of their facts they have trained on little ropes and pulleys, and they all dance like an elaborate puppet show. I am trying to make my way through this show, through these menacing, grinning puppets that belch a version of truth that brings fear and sickness into my life.
For some, the world is ending, and for others it is just beginning. I picture myself believing neither of these ready-made propositions. I find myself lost in an infinite middle, surrounded by the fog and haze of the age. A new horror visits us, one that we could never have fabulated or envisioned. It is a horror the likes the world never would have anticipated. It is the horror of success, and the grave consequences and implications of victory. Victory over what? Ostensibly, all these warring efforts are truly a war against an ancient soil, a soil that predates human occupation. A nation of unwitting slaves help build the dream one brick at a time. The President will not stop until the entire surface is covered with his ruinous flag, his business machines, and until the very core itself vibrates the Star Spangled Banner. He then sets his sights on the stars, the representative scene of his future conquests.
We need a pharaoh to set this nation straight, to righteously erase nationhood from this place. This place’s vanity precedes it. We are in need of a pharaoh who is dominated by a scholarly presence in mind that disseminates through to his dual functions as a creator and a soldier. He must have the balance to create and destroy worlds at will, all tempered by a wisdom so ancient as to be unapproachable and misunderstood by the many and their cheap, conventional forms of wisdom. He must be able to stare intently at the sun, gazing off in the distance while his mind sinks into the earth to commune profoundly with the magma of creation. He must be able to laugh at the sick ironies of this world, or to remove them all together with but a flourish of his might. He must constantly reinvent what it is to be a pharaoh, he must always be in a state of supermolecular becoming. I know he is out there. For once, we’d be given a story worthy of being retold again and again. My eyes are tired and stoic. My hope for a future is being eclipsed by a flooding darkness which is both terrifying and beautiful in its own way. This darkness has its poetic allure, its relevance, but only if one can see the entire middle and the entire darkness at one go. I do not profess to have a vision so unlimited. Oddly enough, the onset of this enduring night came about so rapidly without the usual crepuscular transition phase. Just black and white, and nothing in-between. I would organize the heavens differently had I the power. And I do.

26. Ghi
Dear CIA, FBI, NSA, HAS, TSN, CNN, etc.;
May I bring to your attention my new invention. I was grieved to say the least that my last 42 inventions received very little response than “under consideration” or outright denial without constructive criticisms as to what informed these decisions. My belief is that whomever is dealing with the submissions must be getting very tired and bleary-eyed from having to survey so many projects on an understaffed budget. Either that, or he hasn’t the intelligence to decipher these highly scientific plans of mine. So, I have taken it upon myself to address this letter—and my invention—to a wider audience.
Before I begin, I feel it prudent to make with some small preamble on the issue of invention. I believe that we have finally transcended our rut, as Americans and people, in terms of the last half decade (if not more). It has been so very long since inventors in that glorious and golden age of invention had the collective zeal and daring flair to challenge the boundaries of thought and physical law. It has been a long while indeed since we have invented the light bulb, the air plane, the radio, the TV, all things which have so dramatically changed the face of this earth and our lives. After these enormous steps in our human technical development, we seemed to have fallen into a slump. Gone were the days of the great inventors, gone were the frontiers of thought we could transgress. Everything that was potentially possible had been done—in art, science, metaphysics—and now only very minor and historically inconsequential revisions have been made. One scientist knocks out a gene, an inventor who deigns to put himself on par with the great Edison invents some paltry potato masher. This is untenable! It is not that the frontiers have been pushed to their absolute limit, but sloth that addles us into complacency! Invention is the fourth cornerstone of American legacy! Life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness…and invention! We are a nation defined by out great strides in invention! And we will be again…I will see to that!
My invention, gentlemen, will assist us in many more ways than just war. I have perfected a hive of inorganic spy wasps. They are resilient against heat, cold, and poisons. They are equipped with a microchip inserted in their ganglia that allow them to record up to three million minutes of audio and visual data. They also have a targeting system that will locate any high ranking military enemy, reveal the location of said enemy by satellite relay back to the USA, and (as an added option) the wasp can inject from its stinger a highly deadly neurodegenerative toxin which will assassinate the target within five minutes. My little “Entomo-Spies” could also come in smaller, less obvious models, such as the tick or the mite, but to produce on such a minuscule scale will require added funding. We also should consider the fringe benefits of my invention…We could effectively mass produce these spies of mine and use them as intelligence gathering machines! We could train them to seek out fugitives from the law! To track loved ones! They are efficient and expendable—more so than any God-loving American army reserve. And it has all been invented! The face of the world may once again be changed by a manic profusion of inventions, to which I myself patently believe. Regard my work carefully. I will be amenable to a modest funding budget for the perfection of my micro-spies, and perhaps if you could see to it that my “white powder needs” are gratified, yes? Oh, yes, as an added bonus, their fuel source…They are solar powered! Pure genius! They have three cells in their abdomen that can store up to a week’s energy! Ha! The heathens won’t know what hit them! And to think that the new age of invention will have been the beneficiary of our swift and inevitable victory brings a tear to my eye. Raise the flag high, boys!

Dear Dr. Rosenblavatsky;
We regret to inform you that we have carefully considered your 803 proposals that you were kind and eager enough to send us last week. However, our review panel has decided that we cannot act on any of these proposals at this time. Please consider sending us other proposals in the future. Sincerely, Mark Lane.

Dear Dr. Fogerty;
We regret to inform you that we have carefully considered your 312 proposals that you were kind and eager enough to send us last month. However, our review panel has decided that we cannot act on any of these proposals at this time. Please consider sending us other proposals in the future. Sincerely, Mark Lane.

Dear Dr. Eggleton;
We regret to inform you that we have carefully considered your 6592 proposals that you were kind and eager enough to send us last week. However, our review panel has decided that we cannot act on any of these proposals at this time. Please consider sending us other proposals in the future. Sincerely, Mark Lane.

27. Pqr & Stu
Dear Frater;
It would seem that many have become eager to engage in the sport of war by participating in any way they can. I have received word from an inside source at the Pentagon that an exponential rise in civilian proposals on inventions for potential war machines has been received. At last estimate, this figure was as high as 73, 209. There seems to be a correlation here between the inventor’s mania, the great darkness, and the puzzling popularity of cocaine hydrochloride use among marginal inventors. My inside source has also informed me that the suddenly sharp influx of cocaine has not been an accident. The DEA has been instructed to turn a blind eye. However, the military has bitten off more than it can chew, for this cocaine for inventors affair has not only spurred the congress of new invention ideas as it was intended for the purposes of increasing the edge for war, but has yielded such a backlog of invention proposals that the staff cannot humanly keep up with the rate at which they appear every day. These proposals, for the most part, border on the ridiculous and are very difficult to read. This is not surprising since they are all written at the height of cocaine-induced mania. These proposals are unnecessarily verbose, and some of them would exceed the annual military budget. For instance, one inventor has invented an anti-gravity cube, fully functional, but the materials it requires are in themselves several billion dollars, not to mention all the requisite refinement of said materials, bringing the entire total up to the 14 trillion.
The cocaine affair has also filtered into other markets—a scenario not accounted for by the Pentagon. The influx of new novels received at publishing houses has increased by over five thousand percent in the last year alone. It is assumed that this will double or triple in the next five months. The one fear the Pentagon has to address will be the issue of disgruntled inventors…Though it is impossible to accommodate all of them, those who are rejected (a fair bulk of them) may, in frustration, sell their inventions to the other side. And so, in response, the Pentagon (in collaboration with the CIA and FBI) have compiled a database of names for each inventor who submits proposals. This, however, will tax the secret services and will require more funding. Some say that they are already making plans to acquire more money through an oblique regulation of the cocaine trade. Others say that it is already the case. My fear is that they will eventually stumble on their perfect Oppenheimer. I do not know if I can truly trust this chemical mediation of intellect, this artificial spurring of the mind into states of near madness…It would presume that the inventions themselves would be inspired by this madness, products of it. If the Pentagon assents to one of these demented brain-children ideas, then the effects could be equally terrifying. That is all I have to report for the moment. Semper humanum, Frater.

Dear Frater;
I have received your report. I am currently in Washington, following the President around as one of his aides. I will brief you on the matter shortly. For now, patience is the law. The President has performed diminution of the senatorial powers. He is a becoming-Caesar.

28. Nth-arrator

Hermes is sealed up in a container of language, and the message is frozen solid while a skein of flying geese tease the surface fringes of a text that is continuously, perpetually opening up on, through, for a disaster…An apocalypse, a gala affair. What to do, the message is frozen, locked up in space, while the readers are cutting themselves into ribbons by chancing their hand to pass the sharp ridges of its ice: paper cut. The meaning will not burst forth like a spore, or a sack of gelatin…and if it does, pins and shards of glass will issue forth as well, a distinct and powerful perfume aroma so strong as to make your head spin and your stomach curl back into its own folds. There will be a tangling of your internal organs. Night will not become day, the ice will not melt, and the message will be lost to all those who try too hard or don’t try at all. Gentle coaxing is a subtle procedure, and even that does not guarantee success. The men in the shooting galleries may have as much chance, chance, as you. Try: fail. The snorting swine in the hegemonic bloc will assert that their education and prestige levels are high enough to make them worthy, to guarantee that their sharp intellects can split the icy block in two. But they merely split themselves, go home, contrive a false victory, and write a book on the subject that no one but they will ever read. Great men as fools. King fools. Gehenna and Jihad will come to those who wait, perhaps at the end of a precipice or feet dangling over the briny scum-saturated surf while at the wharf on a clear, grey day with boats entering into the sky.
Something almost electric is crackling within the ice. The message has melted into its confines, become distorted, imbricated with its matter. Matter for matter, the exchange, the iced debate slowly transpiring between one or more parties that are themselves one or more or splintered virtualities. All is striving toward de-realizing. Crumble, dissipate, raise, disappear. A scarab has been sent to cart the whole mess away. Those who would reconstruct or think this an excellent opportunity to start fresh are promptly, thankfully, shot. The entire world of the real and all its alleged objectivity (and those shadowy values that implicitly lurk in the undertow of their aseptic projections) is jettisoned like a cartridge destined for the sun. Nomads take dominance over what is so mundanely known as the “earth.” None of it is to be taken too seriously, for there is no faculty for seriousness left in the brain to cajole anyone, to summon up those feelings of rationality with or without cause. To justify is sedition and treason, but only to those who are plagued by mythological beasts, who live wild and free on a margin. A different trajectory, a new orbit that sends the steaming ball back into a magma and throws it all back up as metamorphic sediment. Others valuate the world with an axe composed of millions of paper dollars compressed into the shape of an axe. The monsters are all squirming in the mousetraps. The cheese has been left out too long, for the butcher did not return from a night of drinking the moon with a straw. The baby is in the shed learning to become the cow. The city is one long yellow jungle of lies, and there is a Kurtz at the end of the hotel lobby with a solid diamond cellphone, chewing and spitting out deals with a Japan that can no longer possibly exist since the 80s have been killed off and sold off in hunks to the egg collectors. The freest of jazz sewn to the most bonded jazz flies up only so far to pierce the sky and to escape in a vapour trail, perhaps to infect or inseminate an already pregnant cosmos with its billion full wombs at the point of ready rupture. If the whole cosmos gives birth now, there will be no more void. Nothing will move. Suspended animation, but animation nonetheless, a vibration movement of solid bodies slowly transforming into diaphanous wave packets that will fade back into pure void.
Night is eternal. Day is the intruder, the rude interlocutor with its Reason. From nothing comes everything. To nothing goes everything. The earth is none, is zero. The night is hard to understand because it is so dark and hard to see. The earth tilts itself toward the black of space, bows its body down like a horse on its front knees. A dying horse.
The liquid arts needs someone like me. I am a gargoyle. A dead ringer for a Russian futurist. Nosferatu. A cloudy judgement on a cloudy day. An odd, tense gesticulation of the hands like a raptor’s or a vampire or one in the grips of paroxysm. I am deliberate. I am fecundating anti-colour, with wings. I am the quintessential features of a madness in parts, in symptomatic relays over a blank surface that is so terribly far beneath us, but the void makes appear so near. The text eats itself, I’m afraid. Nothing left for you to chew on—already been done for you. Sift through the remains, patch them together for your rustic quilt or your royal robe…make a new you out of scraps, like the rest of them already do. I am not fooled.
Hide behind your shields of justice. All that you cherish, your civil liberties, are disappearing, drowning in a sea of ideologues and red tape. All that you cherish is nothing more than a portracted fad, a stage, a phase, like puberty. This is not to say that tyranny is forever, or it is inevitable that it will take the place, the pole position at the top of Pol Pot’s pole, even though it looks likely. When you tell me that a war is coming, I do not treasure your prescience—there is always a war coming. But when you tell me that something new and horrible the likes of which can not yet be expressed until it happens, and it is being carried on the horseback of war, then I listen. I listen with an ear the size of a chasm or a great opening canyon in the desert, like a sore, a wound, and I ask you to violate that wound with words I can taste. I need them. I have a dignity one could touch like a wall. I need someone with words to dissolve the mortar between the bricks. I need words to dissolve whatever holds together my joints. Will you be that person, that grand sage, that monster? I need you to grant me the gift of irreversible death without debt. Can it be issued?
Nosferatu again. Will Lucy be pure-hearted, or will it turn out that she is another Antigone. Will Nosferatu find love or will he be kept sequestered in a castle of rotting Romanticism, segregated from the people because he is the oldest gypsy whose gypsy powers still work. People in the nearby village fear him, for he is the articulation of Wandering Jew, perhaps, old Ahaseurus. The people speak the tale of the Count in tandem with a Jewish conspiracy. The proof is all too ready that Nosferatu advocates a life of unreason…He fears the light, the lumen fidei of the Aufklarung, the sun, the clarity of day. They have already likened rats and the plague with him somehow, the pests, the gypsies, the corrosive features of non-savoir, the way he swoops in and sucks the blood of the living and rational. Is there any point to housing him beyond walls of crumbling ruins when, the lesson is learned, he lives in all of us? A Mr. Hyde without a Dr. Jekyll, no chance to trace back to that benign state—just the benign state in the coffin during the day. “Mother Superior, stop those black coffins from reaching Wismar,” Johnathan Harker, our Johnny-come-lately, lumbering hero who wasn’t says. But the convoy of death cannot be stopped; it can only reach deep into the heart and guts of the Wismar burg. Christ is of no assistance here. The consecrated host crumbled about may keep the creature at bay (perhaps not out of fear, but disgust), but it takes a pagan act to trick the creature, using its own gypsy tricks against it. It takes the sacrifice of a woman. It takes an act of violence to despatch the monster. Christianity does not work against the old gypsy logic. Nosferatu: misunderstood creature of the night, so effete, a true gentlemen in that 19th century sense of being of one’s own means. An aristocratic heritage, a castle…

29. Legare
I’m getting very angry with her. She keeps belching shit at me about being hungry, about being listless, and she is making of her body a masterpiece of small incisions. The razor never reaches the surface; the replay of the old Zeno’s paradox…but she makes art just the same. It is forever three hours and thirty-three minutes past the witching hour, the moon is always pregnant with reflective light, and she expresses all of this on her moving, breathing, bleeding canvas. How I envy that sort of abandon.
The golden arches gleam maliciously in the distance, the same golden arches that figure everywhere…in the Forbidden City, a few lengths from the Sphinx. Everywhere, a disease, a commercial plague. The Americans have sent pop tarts by bomber plane to the desert people. They create market demand among the most needy, like missionary tactics where a handful of rice comes attached with the lofty and oppressive price tag, a price tag that details the moral adventures of white saints. It is, to me, a “peace with honour” scenario…We destroy the people through the abolition of choice, the squashing of their local market, their way of life, their innards with a multitude of addictive additives. We do this in order to “save” them, to abduct the most proud yet most temporarily vulnerable people into a contract with the vile market economy of the US. This is market combat politik. We are redeeming the “heathen” through a market capital Christ that we dole out to the needy. Oh, it’s not a war, the politicians say…it’s a police action, an adventure for capital, just a little resistance to keep everything interesting. But who to arrest? I just can’t find a Viet Cong named Charlie. Bomb the bush, bomb the desert and make sand into glass. Like lightning strikes. All the while, the golden arches loom…Not to be taken too seriously, this golden calf idol, for the spokesperson is a clown…but so was John Wayne Gacy. Serial murder and serial commercial annexation of all that is pure, heterogeneous, life affirming. A proud people falls to its knees before these arches. I believe I now see the President crossing the Rubicon. We wait for an “et tu, Cheney?” that will never come.
The blood that courses through the state flag is weak and fermenting. The blood of race is obsolete and ridiculous, a notion held firmly by those who cannot make the distinction between dying for our sins and dying for mouthing off to the wrong people. The blood of idealism is what has gone off, like a wine bottle open for too long. History is like that, especially American history: a dead wine. Swill. It is that blood that gives colour and stain to a flag that should, by all rights, be retired.
Heideggerian discount fire sale disclosure action. You want transcendence? Get a goddamn priest or fall upon your knees to the burger clown…the burger baron, the burgermeister of capitalist hyperactivity. Go live your dreams through a wall of saturated grease. You’re fat. You’re stupid. And you’re so very, unbearably common and mediocre. You dream in grey, and sometimes in violent red. Money green. Christmas is the national conjunction of violent capital. Look at it rage! Rage against the dying of the blue light special! Look at your capital exhaust itself over trifles, for gimmicky products you never knew you needed to get by. Always more to be had, right? You fuck the world with a cocky wallet. You are the uninformed obese and the uniformed morality police. Your cum-dripping lust is nothing but the reification of the Family, 1950s cartoon style, like Hollywood and two-dimensionality. I can plot your desires and the very essence of your being on a graph. That is beyond sad; it is a tragedy. I may be just a college kid pro quo, I may not be. I see the end, and am shocked by its appearance…It is deeply ironic, for I never expected it would look the way it does…
When a world ends, and there’s nothing left to brush against and no home that can fortify itself against the lacerating wind, what will our allegedly wise fathers of the Centurion Republic do then, I wonder? Will we be left to tend our hollow, solitary screams in the darkness? To cultivate some down-home cooking existential spin and rinse cycle? Will we be commissioned to build anew according to the plans of old? How can we build upon a desert that has been perfected by war? To build a desert necropolis…with our greasy hands.
American warlordism is cowboyism is Roman Empire’s final mistake is a fascism of the most etiolated sense. It leaves no tissue or colour behind. It absorbs and never gives back. No mercy is given the deaf and blind who have been deaf and blind for too long to ever hopefully regain those atrophied faculties…Sound and vision scooped out at the source. And for those few who have seen and heard so much, too much, a maddening crescendo of informative portents and patterns, their warnings fall stillborn before the empire’s altar of capital white noise.
“I’m a dead bird full of worms,” she said.
“I suppose we are all animated in similar fashion,” I reply. I drown out conversation by placing “The Exploited” disc into the player and cranking to full volume “Fuck the USA.” I am in that particular mood, yet again. I have been in every possible mood at 3:33. I have been at so many places at once during this one static moment in time. Who says space is not possible without time? We are living it, sort of…if we are, indeed, living. The immanent moment, but not a transcendent one. The forever moment wherein converges every investment and outcome. Chance is dead. There are no dice falling from the sky and no table upon which to register the result if there were.

30. Yz
Dear Esteemed Editor, Cat’s Kennel Press;
Praetor Anagogica: a name you are surely unfamiliar with, yet it is of some lofty crime on the part of history that has let this name remain unrecognized, tucked away in a fold or in a locked cabinet making access a non-issue. Until now. My most dear and highly esteemed editor, what I entrust to your care is nothing short of a masterpiece, a phantastikon, an exotic text written by an eighteenth century ideocrat and moonlighting occultist who was smothered to death by his cats whilst he slept. The circumstances of his death are still highly dubious, owing in no short part to the rather unscientific methods of determining death in those highly tumultuous years. You see, I did not search in dark places, in covens, nor did serendipity reveal the text to me through the happenstance of a broken floorboard in a Georgian house; no, rather it was mailed to me.
I know what you’re thinking: “he is a revered and honoured writer among the literati, so it is not unlikely that some closet-case half-wit in a mad grab for fame has mailed this piece, passing it off as a work of great mysterious antiquity.” Surely, fame is a magnet for the pathologies of others. Pathologies in the form of gifts? For surely this gift is not a forgery, not a poorly penned travesty against the sanctimonious written word with anachronistic delusions. I know you trust my scholarly acumen and judgement, and I have seen fit to verify the text myself against various rather obscure historical accounts and the dialect of the time and region, and I have discovered that it is a pristine example of the era…Therefore, the piece is genuine, right down to the binding. Even the poetic meter and register are in accordance with the period. It would take only the work of an incredible genius to mimic the subtle tonality only found in the period that it is purported to derive from. I have concluded that this is no forgery, and contend to its verity, and so therefore attest that we should move quickly on this matter. My dear editor, my good and trusted friend, you great testament to meticulous attention and charitable deeds, would you deign to receive this manuscript, perhaps either to marvel in it as I have or to demonstrate by your own wisdom the feebleness of my mind in being duped in such manner?

Dear Talented and Noteworthy Friend;
The book of which you speak so furtively and determinedly in awe has piqued my interest. My singular concern would be the proprietary matter of obtaining exclusive copyright to facilitate its publication if that action is warranted. However, as you will understand, I am bogged down with over a thousand incoming manuscripts to review, and so must give—in all fairness—temporal priority to these contributors what is their due. If you send this coveted work along, I do not guarantee that I will be able to grant it a faithful reading until perhaps three months hence. More to the point, neither myself nor this publishing house is in the habit of accepting (let alone even considering or assessing) works of unknown or dubious origin. It is not part of our mandate, though exceptions can at times occur when a manuscript is so indispensable as to warrant addition to our fiction list. However, your keen judgement and your long publishing history with us may lead us to negotiate further on this matter. Pending the timing of the manuscript’s arrival, I will do all in my power to accommodate myself to its reading.

Dear Editor;
I have sent the requested work by post. I have taken it upon myself to append to the package my reflections on it, a kind of deconstructive introduction. It may assist in the sale of the potential book, my name the source of much trust among readers. My hand is swelling.

Dear Friend;
I do appreciate the time and effort you have invested in the work, but I do not fully understand either the manuscript nor your introduction. Is it doxographical? Concrete surrealist? Your introduction (I’m sure penned with the most skillful intention, padded and encoded with the greatest depths of your stellar scholarship…A satire perhaps?) is 300(!) pages long and all you have written is “the words are growing in straight arrow lines across the page, intended to touch the untouchable target that will always remain elusive.” You have repeated this line for over 300 pages without cease, penned and not typed. Is this some kind of parody on Stephen King’s The Shining? A creative critique against the Anglo-Saxon dictate that brevity is the soul of wit? If not, then your intention is lost on me, and I can assure you that if your intention is lost on someone like me who has read and tended to you for so many years, it will be equally lost on the reading audience.
A remark on the manuscript itself. Anagogica’s work is part logarithm (as far as I can figure) and part theodicy. Do not ask me where to draw the distinction between the two. The work itself would fascinate and perhaps even perplex a Borges. All I can say is that, regrettably, the text is not publishable.

Dear Philistine Hog of Semi-Detached Awareness Synidcate;
Fie! Fie on you, and a pox on your eyes! can you not see? The gentle shading apertures that open and close like spiracles on the entire terrain of ultra-meaning! The work is a self-contained masterpiece! Nay! It is the only masterpiece in existence! All else pales by comparison! In the interests of true and essential art, I do not wish to be associated with your filth-house of dreadful letters. Consider our contract annulled.
This is a sentence. That is a sentence. Here is a sentence.
This is a sentence. That is a sentence. Here is a sentence.
This is a sentence. That is a sentence. Here is a sentence.
This is the sentence. That is the sentence. Here is the sentence.
This is the sentence. That is the sentence. Here is the sentence.
This is the sentence. That is the sentence. Here is the sentence.
A closing;
A signature…
A name.

31. Jonkil
They are certainly sticking the spurs to us now, and there’s nothing those saccharin bourgeois suburban semi-detached Republocrat consumer commodity fetishist protofascists can do that will be of any benefit to those of us left to wither and die on the margins. But we aren’t without our own means. The President has just diminished senatorial powers like the good little Julius Caesar he is, and has now threatened to withhold federal funding to secondary schools if they do not comply with the new “let’s turn our schools into recruitment offices” tactic. Fucking war economy. I am currently tracking the erosion of civil liberties. It is the anniversary of the UN charter, and I watch dumbfounded as an incompetent warlord violates everything that we could possibly hold dear as even remotely human, all behind the shield of the fascist republic rhetoric of “security” of the globe. Are there sovereign nations other than the US? Do not the US interests hurt others? Is racial profiling all that necessary? When will they be interning people again? Am I automatically guilty or under suspicion if, by retroactive genealogy I came from Saudi Arabia? What will happen when el Presidente reaches second term and the kid gloves are off, when the notion of re-election is not present and so therefore making him untouchable? Just bide time until the second term, his aides tell him. By then, American ex-pats will be living in crowded emergency housing conditions in Canada.
Let’s put everyone on a database. Let’s normalize the republic by the patriotic standard in the holy return of fascism. Let’s make the military a religious duty. Let’s bomb before discussing. Let’s proliferate our commercial disease to nations who have little choice but to. Let’s continue manufacturing weapons of mass destruction while punishing others who do the same, and who have every right to do so to protect themselves from the enormous policing eagle of American interest.
I am a scholar according to tax law. I am a scholar according to the community in which I reside. I am a scholar because I am pathetic, that I go out to bars and read books while I slowly get drunk. I am a scholar by default because I chose to think and remain discontent with the state of things how they are. I am a scholar because no one else seems to want to occupy this niche anymore—not profitable. I am a scholar because I refuse to be assigned a uniform wage to perform menial tasks that only devour vast amounts of time for some detached capitalist. I am a scholar because I simply can’t help being what I am.
America’s strategic alliance with its own ideologically imperialist patriot versus terrorist rhetoric-dialectic of opposition makes it the exemplar of what Deleuze and Guattari call “molar fascism,” a molar fascism par excellence. The rise of the flag is the rise of its rank plane of transcendence. Deviants, degenerates, perverts, subversives, and terrorists all reside in the unconquerable “Other” category that US dogma cannot understand, appropriate, or parcel into its prefab categories. It is enamoured with its own unsophisticated polemic, but the generator or systemic apparatus that continues to confine/terrorize its own people (through concessions, advertising, trickery; bullying, categorizing, marketing; excluding, punishing, annihilating) becomes increasingly more subtle and sophisticated.—they are become better and more lethal in how they go about actualizing their fascist military dictatorship. It is always, as well, an image dictatorship, and you will buy into it or be an enemy. The mechanisms of oppression become more ubiquitous and lose their central regulating body. This dispersion and fractalization of power makes it nigh impossible for any one person or group to dismantle the apparatus or reverse its effects in any substantial, wide-ranging manner.
One form of ubiquity of power is the use of surveillance, be it the crude forms of the visual (satellites, cameras on ever street corner) or surveillance of people by way of information (database registry, tax records, profiling), it is always the scene of an evaluation. You are constantly being tested without your knowing it, constantly judged. Maybe not you personally, but “you” as in the statistical aggregate to which you belong (income bracket, purchasing habits, religious denomination, “race,” education, etc.). These methods of surveillance provide raw data on you and allow other bodies to anticipate your moves and to respond to any act of subversion. When the clerk asks, “how may I better serve you?” consider it synonymous with “how may I better regulate you to the norm?”
The hierarchies that are in charge of this information and increasing the spoils of conquest, are today blurred, obscured, filtered, and diversified.
Patriotism. We are unified in our hatred of the Other and have an empty, exuberant, gratuitous, false love of ourselves. We are patriotik…We are of one identity, sprung pre-formed from the flag that is our mould and to which we must pay our proper obeisance. We will all enter the White Heaven and have at our disposal an infinite credit limit so that we may continue consuming for all eternity.
Fascism. The hyperbolized normal. The ultra-mundane. The super-banal. The exacerbation of boredom. The highest pitch of social nausea. The hyper-regulated. The metastatic identity. The apex of efficient repetition. All fascism can (re)produce is itself, over and over again, to impose its pristine and immutable image against every living being that tries to be free. Do not be fooled by its deceit, its opulence, its seductive coquetry…and neither be swayed by its circular and convincing logic, nor its promises for a better and more secure future. Fascism needs followers. It needs upholders of the social norms it begets and tries to maintain…It tries to trick you into being that exemplar of its image and to work for free as one who polices others into doing the same. Fascism is nothing less than the death of the extraordinary and the triumph of the ordinary.
Only a fascist state can conceive and maintain ghettoes. Ghettoes are productive segregated terrains for the power of the fascist state: a ghetto is a contained object lesson, regulated and confined by the boundaries of normalcy…A warning for wayward children, an ant farm of bound chaos for scientific study (eugenics, physiognomy, phrenology, and all other forms of White Supremacy quackery). A ghetto is the triumph of the State over the Other it will never fully comprehend. The structural credo is this: “what we cannot understand, we will contain for posterity in a controlled environment (we define the boundaries of the container). We will take our crude instruments of racism and social engineering to understand what makes them tick, and then pogromitize them. If we fail to understand them by crushing their spirit, then we will be forced to exterminate the brutes, to be rid of that which eludes our meticulously narrow methods of categorization.” A ghetto is a perfect terrain where the State can exile undesirables and keep a watchful eye on them (security surveillance). It also justifies exorbitant policing budgets, and a playland for corn-fed patriot police officers to play cowboy ‘n injuns.
Mutation is punishable by Law—the law that determines itself by a static, uniform, stable (dead) image. This is what the law is and what it strives toward. Definition and redefinition is always under its own transcendental dictates of a long dead Enlightenment. Fucking rank humanist totalitarian bullshit! The pontiff of law declares to his cackling gargoyles to snatch the subversive for violating the law…”bring him to me bound in wire before my court, the foolish individual whose audacity and cunning overpowered his sense of reasonable duty! His insurrection will be punished. I still believe in deterrence theory!” Cackles the judge who sentences the poor.
The “Majoracy” versus the “Minoral.” The minoral will be corporatized (given body, image, and forced into market participation) into the majoral. This is the unavoidable fact of Capital that continues to make a glutton of itself in the pantry of life.
Capital…labour. Workers are bought and sold like cattle, branded and given a uniform wage incommensurate with the cost of living, a wage granted for menial activity better spent on more constructive matters more pressing, more in need of immediate attention (the Earth is dying? Maybe after work…For now, serve up the lattes). How are we to create a dynamic, new society when time is earmarked for banal, repetitious labour? Let’s get rid of labour altogether!
Capital…Altar. The mall is capitalism’s church (where everything has a value, even value has a value!). Its missionaries commercially annex a globe before launching satellites to see what capital can be drawn in from outer space. If not, then let us sell patents for unicorns…Why not? Let’s buy and sell mythological creatures seeing as we’ve already sold Christ by the barrel!
Get your big bucket o’ Christ! Get it here, get it now! Get him in bulk! Sale! Panic! In designer colours! Trading cards! Will cater parties! Fat free! Vitamin enriched and fortified! Economy size available! Layaway plans optional! Portable! Feeds a family of anywhere between eight and a billion! Comes with AM/FM radio! Plays DVDs! Great mileage! Does not shrink when placed in dryer! Environmentally friendly! Comes with optional wooden reason! Rude not to rood! Guaranteed to appreciate in value! Collector’s item! Authentic signature! Wheelchair accessible! Now! Now! Get it! Aren’t you the great humanist go-getter liberal primatur! Free to be, free to buy! The conspiration of inspiracy!

32. Def
Waiting for light to come. I search above, suspecting that there must be some kind of dome over this city that prevents the ingress of sunlight, as if I were in the Forbidden City. All cities are forbidden, however, as I come to realize. They are forbidding and foreboding. I will never know this city in its intimate depths, and there is nothing that my knowing its name will do to serve my knowing the city. A name only indexes a thing, and says little to nothing about the thing named—right?
I am hearing strange tales. There is something about this infinite night that is causing people to cope in any way they can, perhaps by becoming cryptic and macabre. People respond to their environment. I hear painful shrieking and rippling laughter, all carried on the same wind. There is competition for volume, to be heard, or for anything to pierce this seemingly unnatural celestial abyss. I have been in this city for two days now, my resources dwindling. I haven’t figured out who the monarch is just as yet, for each coin sports a different head, a different inscription, a different value. Are those who are depicted on the coin in a value hierarchy? I am given to understand that the copper coin is of the lowest value. Upon it is the face of a recognizable man in profile, a bust. He sports a beard much like a Mennonite’s. On the obverse is a picture of some Greco-style building, and in the center is a small figure presumably seated. Is that Zeus? Five coppers equals a silver that is about the size of a raindrop splatter. Upon it is a Baroque figure with a ribbon in his hair. He looks somewhat aboriginal in his pose, so noble, a face so distinct as to appear carved or chiseled into unmoving dignity. There is another building on the obverse, this one looking more like a Romanesque villa. Is this where he lives? Two of him equals a smaller silver of higher value. There is a porcine head on this one, a Nero figure. On the obverse are a torch and some vines, I think. The edge is serrated. A circular saw. I do not know what to make of all these metal planchets. It is the same with the slick and greasy slips of durable paper that also seem to have a value. What is money? I only have access to certain domains of my knowledge…
I persist, perhaps despite my longing to not…And I know that there is something painfully, detestably, ridiculously bourgeois about the thought of depression and suicide…Unless one feels confined to life, without choice, thrown into this world without a key. I can choose to die, but I cannot choose when. I can choose how, but never the exact moment. People a world away starve and survive, and I doubt that words like “depression” or “suicide” enter into their mental diet. Who am I, and what makes me so damned special, that I can entertain these thoughts? With affluence comes boredom and regret, I’m sure. But I am not confined to life, for there are no other people—that I know of under these amnesiac circumstances—that force my resolve to stay alive. Suicide: a passing thought…And I pass it on by to discover something other.

The freezing rain has given the appearance of all things being laminated. I would, if I had a home, watch TV, perhaps stay up all night idling hours away without knowing why, but being listless all the same. Perhaps I would dolefully walk out onto my porch or balcony, depending on my living arrangement, and take on a cigarette while rejecting out of hand the very first reach and pull of purpose. This freezing rain long gone, leaving only its glossy blanket, would push the city budget a bit harder as salt and sand trucks would rush about delivering meagre alms to the ice-caked streets. People would fall down. It would become a habit, and soon no one would think more about it when they saw others slipping, too. We all fall down; that is just our way…I have never gained a proper foothold on this ground, and I certainly cannot stay standing up forever…I haven’t the weight or the gait to navigate over this land, to negotiate expedient travel, or to possess the necessarily warm and palatial body that would reduce me to a state of pure comfort. Instead, I lapse into cynical scrutiny, or worse, apathetic malaise. I know I will fall. I know that everything around me will one day fall. What I do not know is which will be first. The fact that I bother with this question at all suggests that I have a preference. I do not wish to come clean with this. I like to posture as a bon vivant when I can, but I can rarely pull it off without the seams of my truer nature showing through. It is one thing, however, to fail at being someone else whose identity you went shopping for, catering to the demands of the ego…but it is another thing entirely when one fails at being what one is. A line insinuates itself nonsensically into my mind: or a aura aurora. A tongue twister, a rejected receipt of some nascent poem, a collection of drunken syllables that felt atomistically inclined to unite and collide like with like, a deadly refrain from a deadly song sung as a black mantra during a vicious storm, a vigil, an apostolic secret, who knows?
I see the silence, paintworthy. Grisaille and aquatint. It is etched into every movement. Abstract, etched lines tie me to space. I vibrate and my neighbours or their shadows in turn are set into resonance…rhythm beginning from the nodal point, from expanding centre, the nodule of isochrony. But that these lines, so long as they remain abstract, will have given up the form and will lead us to freedom—or another cruel tyrant’s logic. A logic we yet understand. Better the devil you know than…and so on. I see their the lines and contours of my face in the mirror and assume that what the lines contain are infinitely more abstract, specific, random, and genuine, than the lines themselves. My lack of knowing where I am in any substantial sense, a knowledge of place in this place as well as time, denotes in me material for future paranoia…It also excites in me a sense of unshakable panic. It rattles in me, in my body, bones clattering in a loose glove of flesh…My mind a brilliant, yet blockaded envelope, full of spectacles the likes of which I cannot access. I wonder what carnivals hide behind that collection of neurons at some particular coordinate, though these coordinates change as the thoughts change, the head changes position, the earth changes position, the universe itself changing as it seethes ceaselessly on multiple pivot points and galactic arms and intersecting axes. At times, my mind has the sound and feel of bullhorns against the boards. Something is either trying to get out, or reiterating its demand to remain contained.
“Have you been behaving?” a stranger with a half-excoriated, acne-scarred complexion says to me as I walk past the multitude of closed cafes and now darkly gothic flower shops under the yellow script of oblique light.
“Pardon me?”
“Oh, I’m so sorry; I thought you were a friend of mine.”
I think about this for a moment. I have no reliable score of memories. This strange man may have been a friend for all I knew. But looking at him, his somewhat seedy and smarmy appearance, I did not feel as though I wanted to be his friend.
“That’s okay,” I said after a suspicious pause as I collected my thoughts on the matter and made a thorough inspection of his features to see if they could rekindle my memories at all. “It happens often. I look like a lot of people. Well, have a good night, then.”
“You too, man.”
And that was that. That was all the exchange amounted to. Though it did linger in my consciousness for a while, like a slowly dissipating fog or a phantom receding back into the netherworld.
“I know exactly who you are,” another stranger said, accosting me from behind and giving me a considerable fright. I went cold and felt like fighting all of a sudden. The voice had a shrill quality, very grating, insistent, yet powerful all the same. “You’re a mystical mathematician and it is about time that you got back to work. Especially owing to the current predicament, what?”
I turned to face a man of about my size, of near like appearance, wearing a pair of faded slacks that were road salt stained a foot above the hem. Capillary action, I thought, rather than what I should have been thinking at that moment. The man looked a bit off.
“Hello!” he said rudely, loudly, waving his hand over my face as if I were unconscious. “Have you lost your wits? What the hell are you doing out here? You owe it to the new geometry to get back into the grind. Oh, don’t tell me you’ve gone loco from this…Fuck, that’s the last thing we need: you going catatonic on us. Do you know how much we need your skills? Huh? Well, do ya? Don’t get a swelled head; I’m sure you’re replaceable, but crackpot mathematician geniuses are hard to locate, especially with your adeptness.”
“I don’t understand,” I said, trying to digest all that he was saying, perhaps dismissing it in favour of the confusion. Confusion had become more comfortable in these days.
Instead of slowing down his rather rapid speech, he sped up, thinking that I would somehow understand him better, now running words together: “Listenmatewhat thehell areyouon, youmustbe-on-bloodydrugs-or-something! Your skills, needed now! No rest! No procrastination-never!”
“Slow down. Please. I’m labouring to understand you. I just got off a bus and—“
“I know, I know…I know this shit already! We sent you on that excursion! To that Kabalist convention. Did you pick up the necessary numbers? Please tell me you’re fooling around on me. Better yet, let’s get the numbers back to my house for the Big Crunch session.”
“What numbers? I just remember getting off the bus, with no memory of how I got there or why. I’ve been wandering around for what seems to be days, but the night hasn’t lifted, which leads me to believe that we must be very far north…However, I always suspected the far north would be colder and not so developed…”
“Wandering? For days? You useless putz—“
“Listen, I am trying to understand you, and it doesn’t help if you yell at me. An increase in volume doesn’t drive a point home deeper, for, like, increases in volume appeal only to one who is hard of hearing and not hard of understanding.”
“Touchy boy, but you always were. Eccentric lot we are, indeed. If it is true that you just suffered what sounds to me like a memory lapse or traumatic repression syndrome, or whatever the shrinks call it, then at least certain things remain—like your quick to rise irritation. Let me walk you through this—“
“Thank you.”
“Okay, so anyway, you—do you know your name?” he asked. I shook my head. “Okay, well that’s not important. What is important is that you are an experimental mathematician, as you may have gathered. So am I. We have been working on a very important project for the last year, so important that it would seem that everything hangs in the balance, and I mean everything. We have a predilection for more occult forms of mathematical exploration, and we are extremely gifted in these areas…though we get no respect from the institution—more like we get paddled by the pedagogy—but I digress. Okay, so anyhow, I don’t have time right now to get into all the details and the ridiculous number of levels of effect this concerns, but I feel that if you come with me back to my house maybe your memory will return to you. And, more importantly, we can get back to work. I hope you have the numbers we need or we’re stuck—or we’ll have to attack the problem from a different angle. Math is like that—good math that is: there are always more than one proof toward solution. Let’s scat.”
Would I trust this man? He hardly seemed stable of mind at all—rather, all coked up. Was this just another case of mistaken identity? He did know about the bus, but it could have been a ruse or a coincidence. I decided, in the interests to keep out of boredom and with the faint hope of returning to my memories, to follow him. The burning question remained as to whether I would want or accept my memories if they returned. I have heard of those who have done ghastly things and lost all memories to that effect due to trauma…The brain trying to protect the self.

33. Jonkil
The person beside the store was chanting at me. Bringing the brim of my hat over my eyes and tucking my lip into a pursed mode, I strolled quickly toward the portage. I had to get away, to collect the scattered remains of my thoughts. I was hearing voices in both ears, some infernal buzzing racket, for all I knew a radio frequency signaling direct into my brain. It was maddening. The night, never-ending, all enduring, was also maddening. Add to it all strange collections of words from the vox Horus: “legate…vavasour…costumed partisan hat…chiaroscuro babes in toiletry washout sing-a-long.” And, add to all this, that I was being tailed by a figure named Loki who kept inquiring of me as to where I kept the “Pod of Theuth,” or some such rot. Here come the crazies down the main drag, midnight way, and see me rise like a rocket to avoid them…to no avail. The fuckers were on to me. At first I thought the feds had declared me a terrorist for my anti-patriotic views…that I could have dealt with. This other thing which involved old gods and a mixture of languages and mysterious mention of occult objects was a bit too much for me to endure—even on a good and prepared day.
Media pundits were all fluffed up with media makeup as they tossed scattered and tattered bits of besotted, stale opinions in every direction to ensure—by the network’s command—that morale for the many wars was maintained. This would be done, this rank pontificating of boorish tripe to an obsessed, factoid-obese mob of flag-waving buffoons decked out in the colours of the next frightful regime. Meanwhile, nazi reprises were being lauded in a strange new divided Europe as haute couture. It couldn’t last, I told myself, but I have a habit of letting my optimism steer me wrong. Some things last forever by never really going away. The global hymen was broken, like an egg, and the cracking was silent so no one really noticed as the gooey yolk spread itself out and mingled with all the other yolks…We were all looking up at the sky for fireworks and bombs and flapping banners to signal the coming of the age, the coming of the global hyper-kingdom. Nothing of the sort happened. Globalization happened surreptitiously, over time throughout centuries of development. The machines that put it into motion were not originally designed for this ultimate purpose, but somewhere back there in the 18th century, in the subconscious recesses of some black-hearted inventor, began the drumming of this globalist idea. It all happened when we were asleep.
I have grown ill from my own consumption of information. I have signed my name out of sheer obligation to so many things, to so many contracts stuffed fat with hidden clauses that my name itself has lost all meaning. I remove the wallet from my pocket and fiddle with the contents, and with contempt toss out some accumulated plastic cards that bear my name, cards I do not remember receiving or using. We all seem to obtain special memberships to things we never signed up for, always a big mystery, always a big bore, always the result of corporate sale of name-address lists. I do not look fondly at a society that assumes on my behalf the services I would like. All of this while the movie screen and television screen and internet websites are flashing in a series of disorienting jumpcuts and montages to seduce the audience into a state of either joyous panic or absolute complacency. A conspiracy of stupidity, the piracy of an unseeing populace.
The federal goons are lurking in the alleys, loading their weapons behind cars, speaking into communication devices that hook up to their ears, their brains awful toasters and ovens of rhetoric brimming with Hades’ heat behind a solid black of sun glasses, all of them dressed in such a way that is both suspicious and anonymous. Please, do my taxes, federal men. But they were here to deal with my treasonous affairs. I had gotten out of hand. I had sent dissenting letters to the big Caesar in the starry-striped sky.
War had been declared. But a war on terrorism has no clear objectives, no decisive victory—much like a war on drugs—for there will always be “terrorism” on the earth. This is all an elaborate ruse to keep the military and all the war machine in a constant state of alert. And, while on alert, why not bully someone? But, as I said, the goons were ready to settle my hash good and quick. This is a nation of monsters, created as such by a monstrous ideal that contained it in a self-interested bubble of ignorance.
However, things did not turn out the way I expected them to. Yes, there were goons, but they were under the service of someone other than the tyrant or his worshipful mass. I was greeted by two brothers. Their was a knock on the door and I was about to defend myself for one last glorious moment with a rifle I kept in the closet for this very occasion. Though I have fallen from grace in so many ways, I would never abide willingly by a tyrannical force that sought to strip the earthly domain of its beauty and right. Would this be the final showdown of the marginalized left against the Republican death’s head? A modified Leninist anarcho-syndicalist versus the regime of post-imperial capital? Knock-knock. Silence. I readied myself, with the noble posture of a lifelong defiant. Knock-knock-knock. Silence, followed by the sound of my name and a promise of protection.
“I need guarantees. I never make it practice to trust a state’s representative when the state itself had once employed the symbol of the serpent. I simply do not trust the state or its promises.”
“Please,” I was implored, “no harm will come of you. We share similar views. I do not need to see you in person, though I would like to. Your letters of dissent made their way into my hands, eventually, and I was taken with their sentiment. I belong to an order that has different plans for the nation—“
“Is this some sort of demo or third party shakeup of the fundamentalist right from within? Is this some sort of political leveraging for you? I categorically refuse to act as the martyr-target for a campaign that will surely lapse into a hail of gunfire.”
“No, I am afraid that you are mistaken about my intentions. I cannot go into any particular details without violating my own proprietary oaths. I, too, have reason to mistrust. But if your letters were genuine, they certainly penetrated to the heart of our ‘Roman problem,’ so to speak.”
“How far up the chain are you?” I asked. I could hear him rustling behind the door, and the sign of boots descending the stairwell. He remained, but called off his guards, perhaps to intimate something to me in more secure privacy.
“Listen, I am placing myself in great peril in just being here. Your name is on a list. You’re an undesirable. They will rout you out and incarcerate you without reason or due process. They can do that, but I’m sure that this fact does not surprise you.”
“No, it doesn’t. I restate my question: how far up the chain are you?”
“Very far. As far as anyone could be, playing the game and gaining the trust of an incompetent. But subversion happens on several levels. They suspect nothing…yet. Listen carefully: you must leave, now if you can. The political climate has just went into red zone. Get out immediately, while you still have your neck.”
“Sure, buddy. What kind of game is this? A cute game of exile? A fox hunt? How do I know that this isn’t the old tactic of the trustworthy higher-up with privileged information who is sick of the game and wants to help the little guy by giving him some false one-way out escape scenario, and when I finally reach the airport, a goddamn army of marshals are there in wait to gun me down? Yes, this is probably a setup for a hunt…Goddamn you lousy, decadent, malicious slobs! You fuckers! All you weasels want is bloodsport!”
“You might try trusting someone. I’m not telling you anything new, but confirming your suspicions. You are one of many discontents, and so far there is nothing special about you that has heightened the security radar…There are thousands of people just like you: verbose, outraged, and generally harmless. You do not have access to nuclear weapons, and neither are you psychologically predisposed to the fabrication and deployment of chemical or explosive weapons. You are a displaced scholar who didn’t get his fair shake, but too balanced of mind to go guns blazing to the IRS building. You are in the vocal, not violent, category.”
“That is a whole bag of assumptions.”
“I’m only reporting off the security details of prior surveillance and intelligence gathering.”
“They’ve been spying on me before?”
“Of course. Many times. People like you are like reliable clients. Your existence justifies spending increases in the national security business.”
“So,” I began to muse, “why haven’t they put the black ops bullet at the base of my skull yet?”
“Despite the fact that we get cowboys and degenerates into the White House, the security personnel are comprised of very shrewd people. Picture how they operate as an elaborate game of chess…It makes no sense to sacrifice for pointless attrition. There are several strategic reasons why someone has to be ‘disposed,’ but I can assure you that twice as many reasons are required to keep someone alive. However, I still strongly suggest that you find your way out by whatever means necessary. I cannot force you to take my advice, but I felt…morally obliged to a kindred spirit…to warn you how things currently stand. Good day.”
And that was that; he left, whoever he really was. The television in the adjoining suite either had gotten louder or my awareness had homed in to it all of a sudden, for I could hear the unmistakably irritating and condescending voice of news anchor reminding everyone that the newly instituted and ghastly “racial registration” deadline was coming up. It was apparently time to register all our Iraqi and Saudi Arabians for reasons of war…The next step would, obviously, be involuntary incarceration. I fell into an involuntary reverie:

We were in the women’s washroom, some pub, in a stall trying to be quiet. I stood, my large boots a dead giveaway that I was in the wrong place, and she was huddled into place on the toilet, being very meticulous with a wad of folded paper. In it were two grams of cocaine. She placed a pebble of coke on a cigarette pack, threw a dollar bill like a blanket over it, and with a mixture of sloppy desperation, she ran her credit card over the whole affair, crushing the white pebble into a manageable powder. She was already a gram up on me. She kept flicking her hair back like someone who was obviously very overstimulated. Flick, flick, crush-crush…Flick, flick, tick, tick, snort…sn-o-o-o-ort. Right up her nose in a lightning flash. Lightning for lightning. A considerably sized line as well, not usually one a first-timer could jam up one nostril in one sustained breath. But she was old hat at these games. I leaned over to get my line, somewhat obscured as half the white line had been cut on the section of the cigarette pack that was equally white. I was less graceful, but more subtle…sniff, pause, snort. She was getting greedy and desperate all of a sudden, licking the credit card, the rolled up twenty dollar bill for crumbs, and even running her finger over the cigarette pack for some remaining afterthought…some residual whitish film.
“Oh, fuck, eh? (sniff, sniff) We’re out, bloody hell,” she said, flick and flick. “I should call Mackie. Do you have any money?”
I shook my head in mock sadness. Of course I did, but I was not addicted to the extent that I would ever entertain the purchase of cocaine. Too pricey, obviously, and though I enjoyed the effects, I could go on for the remainder of my life without it and never again give it a thought. Coke is good when it is there, and even better—as has been my experience—when it is free.

I shook my head free of these memories that seemed to have emerged without anything to trigger them. I was remembering her, and cocaine, and I couldn’t find the link. I heard a voice in my head, and as it was speaking—or frantically stammering with an unnatural reserve of energy—I felt strangely compelled by a panic to leave my lodgings and sit in the alley across from the apartment complex. I obeyed this urge while the voice screeched: “Cocaine for you, for me, for the little boy who lives up the lane with the plans for constructing a magical rocket that will convert the heathen to the correct ideological posture! Yes! Nothing short of superb and sublime genius, a secret rake or sex club circa 18th century nobleman royal gala sensor rot! Free to those who subscribed at an earlier date! Expiration date not applicable, because the USA will be the new biblical Rome for all concerned—that is, when I get around to writing the sequel! With liner notes by someone posturing as Kahlil Gibran! W.H. Auden spine-toting garbanzo bean machines! Snort! And sniff! Scratch, and die! I need more, god need more, I need more, more, more, paint the inside of my nose with the crystal dew of the muses! We need more! I need more! I have so many ideas! I am bristling, and the only obstacle is this wretched and ignoble come-down! My heart is hungry! Give it white meat up each hole, a ten gram rabbit!
“The men from the Pentagon came by to see me today, had some very good news, yes they did! Great news! Fantastic and fabulous portents for my future career on their staff! Respected, finally, with a respectable and aptly titled career: that of intelligence…Oh, not the spy-game, movie-of-the-week, Hollywood hunk bit, but the sort of intelligence that gave me an office and a glut of eager research assistants who would follow me around with clipboards, their cocaine-white lab coats swishing wherever they went! Am I the keeper of the royal animal? They keep it in the back with all the other pointless contraptions, older model flags, and keep it fed on an IV diet of pure pink surcrose! It moans from time to time, crying for affection, for someone to lift the night, to be let out of that catacomb closet crypt! But I won’t say a word, honest I won’t—not to anyone! Another lab experiment, and none of my business! It just makes me so overjoyed that there is so much activity and success in these labs, and if the world knew what we had in store for it if it so decided to cross the USA destiny-density, ha! Wait until we unveil our new toys!
“I am told that citizens have revolted against the unilateral war effort, but we have the power and solidarity to keep them in line! Their recusant burbling in the cot of comprador failures do not give me pause to grant them the pity of the ancients! I am the entirety of this country’s history, Samuel Adams and all the pirates who shipwrecked here with one-buckle shoes! Puritans in tan leather, President Lincoln II Lord of the Cyber-over-world!”

I watched as my entire apartment building mushroomed with fire, sending out a deadly shower of debris. The orange and yellow flash slapped my face. I was suddenly not who I was, but someone other…Even my clothes had changed. I was wearing some kind of power suit. I had a cellphone and a security pass that suddenly made sense. I was, for this time being, a special agent of sorts. I had to meet a savant at a nearby café. I wondered, as I began to march away from the ruins of an old life, how long I would be this person that I had become, and if I would return to it or become something other.

I might have been more receptive to the slovenly dressed urchin who was blathering near- and half-truths at me if it weren’t for his overpowering musk. Other people’s hygiene is, of course, none of my business, but this guy smelled as though his crotch had been steeped in rancid bean salad, the smell wafting in horrible, crippling waves. He spoke of Liberia and Sierra Leone, of intimate geographical details of Fiji, right down to notable bends and creases in certain town roads near Cologne. He skipped like an erratic record needle over the entire globe, speaking of specific roads in Capetown that were in dire need of repair. The man was a walking atlas and almanac rolled into one smelly belching beast, though he had never traveled more than a few miles from the town of his nativity. He might have proven useful to my ends, and there was no way I could comprehend how he knew all of these intimate details. It was an uncanny ability, but I hadn’t the means to corroborate his statements. I was convinced when he spoke of the city from where I am from—St. Louis—and could tell me the colour and number of the houses on the street where I used to live. That was impressive. It wasn’t a common street either, but an obscure semi-suburban tract that wrapped around in a weak and loose crescent. Reiser Crescent, to be precise. I might have had my doubts if he had spoken of more common names, for it isn’t difficult guesswork to assume that every city in the English speaking world will have a Main Street, a Bank Street, and so on.
I didn’t know where this fellow lived, and was put in contact with him through a contact of my own. We decided on a café as an appropriate meeting place, but one that was more sparsely patronized to diminish the chances of being interrupted or overheard. My contact seemed to conduct himself like a homeless man, and when I glanced over at the counter where the biscotti was being shuffled around, I caught in my periphery the man stuffing sugar packets and stirring sticks into his filthy trousers pocket. So, yes, I bought the coffees. I suppose I was lucky to find this all night café, but then again they have been cropping up more often since the night decided never to lift again. It just goes to show that, even in a time of national crisis, people still need to work, drink coffee, and go about life in some semblance of normality.
He liked to talk. I was forced by politeness to receive his long discourse on the mating patterns of the gnu, the particular constituents of the bedrock in Oaxaca, the tidal rhythms of the Turks and Caicos Islands, and the structural longevity of the Chunnel. I patiently let him unroll his bindle of trivial facts until he would be exhausted enough for me to ask very specific questions. The moment arose, and I leapt upon it.
“Has the earth stopped turning? I mean, is it perpetually daytime on the other side of the world?”
He scrunched up his face in an approximation of thought, but he just appeared ridiculous and sad. His eyes rolled slowly up into his head, and I thought he was about to go into seizure. But he didn’t.
“No. No, no. Not like that. The world spins as always. Never stops or else we would all fly off. It’s dark all over.”
“How is that possible? What explanation is there? This doesn’t exactly accord with the physics of the matter. The sun couldn’t have gone out because there is still heat. Do you have any ideas?”
“I have many ideas,” he grinned with lips grated by cold sores. “The sun is not out. We are just in darkness. No telescope can pierce or penetrate the black curtain.”
“Dark matter enveloping the planet? Some sort of passing gas cloud?”
“No, just darkness. All over. Just a curtain. Hard to explain.”
“You’re telling me. Do you have any idea why the clocks and watches have stopped?”
“Because it is necessary. Other electric things will work—just not time pieces. For us, the earth is locked into the 3:33 position. It spins, but instead of passing through 3:33 into 3:34, 3:35, and so on, it takes 3:33 with it. Before you ask, yes, time is something we fix, something that we impose upon our reality as a way of breaking up moments into useful fragments. It is artificial, for nowhere in the universe will you find 3:33 blinking down on you from the heavens…Only here. But this curtain thing, this suspension of time, is all an extension of one moment stretched out. Moments fill in the gaps of this one stretched out moment. the succession of time continues, but the moment is immanent. I have so much more to say on this matter, but renegades dressed up in clown suits are about to barge in at any moment and trash this place for kicks.”
“What?”
And then it happened. A horde of young, drunk hooligans came ripping through the front door with bats and bricks, smashing everything. They were in clown suits, and a little off the beaten path of rational behaviour. This one moment was driving us mad, and when time recommenced, who will be able to explain the causal link between the moment before this one and the moment after it when we went from roughly sane individuals to raving lunatics? I knew then what I had to do. I had to call Washington. The operative function necessary at this point—at least until we could assess all the data and figure out what the hell was happening—was containment. Damage control. We had to protect our citizens from hurting themselves.
The hooligans made off with a small bag of useless cash. We are fools to believe that we can accumulate anything, plan for anything, place our bets on anything, in the moment that will not end. A woman I recognized from a bathroom long ago was sitting at the edge of the counter, crushing up an entire baseball-sized load of cocaine, meaning to do it all. The line was spread from one end of the counter to the other, ending in a deep spiral. I watched as she traced the trail with one inhuman snort to the spiral and, still with the same breath, waggled her head in a long circular motion that got tighter and faster as she approached the center. Her head, like an aerial that is struck and wobbles in circles until it comes to rest. The earth, wobbling back into focus. The moment, I cried, aloud, falling to the floor, in the dust. A bus sloshing with winter road brine, I thought. I was there, and then I wasn’t. The man had taken the woman by the waist and produced from his pocket another ridiculous amount of cocaine. They both laughed. They did it all with me just watching them, paralyzed. They did not share. They began talking strategy on how to win the war on drugs. It was about then that I faded out of consciousness…

But then there I was, not consciously awake, but deep within the abyss of my unconscious state. A very dark place with a terrible hum. I had receded into the mind, a mise en abyme. Though there were no objects, not even a body, I knew it was night time. I knew I had passed out on the floor of some dingy all night café while a smelly savant and an old coke fiend girlfriend were living it up in some unretractable moment. I am so very confused at this very moment. What refuses to end also refuses to begin. I am frightened. I recall the story of the Erl-King. I am the dead boy in the arms of the father who thought only the wind could rustle leaves, that sickness cannot touch the heart of infants if the father is determined to act as the guardian against all things that menace the imagination. It is so very black in here, a pure black, a warm and soothing black, better than the womb. Oh, much better, for the umbilicus is absent and there is no body to attach it to even if it was here. The idea of comfort in a place like this seems ridiculous and out of place.
This night, I realized, was never going to be an easy thing for anyone of us to deal with, or at least deal with in any proper, decent sense. We were all marauders in a terrible pinch, just trying to get work done while the getting was good, hoping that the night would lift but not too soon lest the sun make all our best meaning plans wither in the direct light. Meanwhile, second world war nazi rhetoric was flying from Capitol Hill, like monkeys flinging their shit in all directions. The night would be terribly dark and long. There would be butchery, otherwise known as the continuation of dusty foreign policies and God sanctioned empires…puppets would be installed in places of discord, would go renegade, and an entire battalion would have to be deployed in order to clean up the mess made by these puppets who clipped their strings and grew spines of their own. There would be agendas and secret meetings, but on the whole the night of the long knives—these knives stretching menacingly across the globe with empty slogans of “FREEDOM” inscribed on the blade—would not be so much a secret act but an imminent one. My advice? Get yourself a foxhole somewhere far off from here, on some island, and don’t pop up until the rumbling behemoth has exhausted its arsenal on nations that can barely be called nations…nations where hunger is a very real, palpable problem that not a million missionaries with little bibles can fix. Lay low.
On the home front, things were getting mighty serious. I could feel the hot and sticky breath of panthers with a lust to sink their teeth into the frightened. I was living in a zoo with no exit, just one enormous playpen of chaos and disorder bordered in by impassable canals and rivers, under the umbrella of an intransigent night. The phone lines went dead, but I hadn’t anyone to call. In this night, crime was as natural as breathing, and you couldn’t get away from it. The police forces had all but given up, exhausted as more and more of the populace turned to more and more violent forms of hooliganism. The police force had more than likely been co-opted by special field agents who were vested with autocratic supremacy by the Big Offices of the intelligence community, and now the cops were running about in riot gear hunting down dissenters, looking to get terrorism by the roots. But the roots of that uncanny vegetable are long and tough, spreading out in an intricate series of networks that could spontaneously crop up anywhere, like fungus. But nobody really cared except for the inner circle in Washington; everybody else—terrorist and counter-terrorist alike—were still paid at the end of the day, whenever that day ended. Pointless wars against abstract ideas were the norm, but add to this newly minted crusades against perceived enemies and then you come to realize that the government is just one big money bladder pissing everything away for a Golden Kingdom that only resides in their minds. I have sat very still and seethed while a child’s educational and health care future is sold off for one more vicious bomb designed by some seriously bent malevolent researcher. And for what? To level a mountain another world away where terrorists are suspected of inhabiting. A bomb launched, three hundred rebels and a handful of goats dead. Must I be the one to explain to the children that democracy is bombs? That freedom is only our freedom while we parade around the globe and try to pass off some ersatz version of freedom that borders so dangerously close to “Roman Occupation”? If war is the breakdown of political discourse, then perhaps it is high time to seek alternative discursive measures…or to emend the kinds of political discourse we have. Screaming cowboyist threats in a rhetorical inferno on an internationally broadcast signal is not dialogue—it is a fanatical, in-the-box monologue designed to aggravate and intensify hostilities. And then the children come to realize that the breakdown of discourse is not only inevitable, but encouraged. Bombs not books. Death not dialogue. The politicians speak too much and too poorly. I begin now to think that the most probable explanation for this long and enduring night is not the rotation of the earth or some other cosmological oddity, but that the bombs have fallen, sending up an impenetrable dust cloud that has enshrouded the earth in a deathly caul. The night sky does appear more…sallow than I remember the night sky to be. Of course, if a bomb has dropped on this continent, then we will not hear of it just as yet…The military cabal and special advisors are perhaps still in extended meetings on media damage control, making those shrewd decisions as to how they are going to disclose the information to the populace without jeopardizing the morale sentiment that We Are Winning. On this train of thought, it all makes sense. And when the military brass have come to a decision, they will somehow tweak the news to justify any of the heinous, Goering-style actions they will now take in response. It will only fool the idiots among us, but the idiots number so highly as to make up the majority.
I return to a stable scene. I pull out the universal cigarette and cigarette lighter combo, deftly repeating the ritual as I have done a hundred thousand times before. My lungs bleed with the world. The trains still run on time, the platform promise. I embark upon the subway for a watered down odyssey, a sticky gum and wrapper trip under the sallow lighting conditions among fellow passengers who shiver with both cold and withdrawal. Junkies and late-night overworked nurses mainly. Some of them have crooked and ghastly agendas, but I am not about to break a code of silence that always stands when using public transportation, not that I want to know anything more than my seat and where I am getting off. The age is defined by minimal contact, for to get to know your fellow man is more dangerous than a wayward bullet penetrating between the eyes at 600 miles and hour. To know the other is to open a gate, and they get to know you as well. The subway shakes and rumbles. I close my eyes and transport myself the best I can to some non-visceral realm where all I can sense is the backward hum of what could be a chorus of nomads or the plaintive cry of the mountain. I am surrounded by a sea of moving sand, moving my way across something so desolate and peaceful. With my eyes closed, the periodic flashes of light still make it through, the subway tunnel lights, once every 2.5 seconds, concurrent with a sustained and unchanging speed. The only break is the stopping at stations I hope never to enter. But we all have to get off sometime.
The subway came to a tired stop at Comfort Station—my stop. A garbled mechanical voice, most likely pre-recorded and set into the computer at the metallic worm’s head, triggered like a complicated doorbell, crackled out “Rumfer Shtaysin.” It was perhaps the most inapt appellation for this seedy, grotty hole-in-the-ground done up in snot and vomit encrusted bathroom tiling, a place where pieces of floor occasionally emerged through the scuffs in little shattered platelets that had a hollow and sharp sound when you kicked them. All in all, Comfort Station and its current degraded state was a profound statement of our times. A whole potpourri of foul smells coalesced in the stagnant, unmoving air. Every sound was a horrible and menacing echo. Comfort Station. Whose comfort? The sign that announced its name was thickly covered with unintelligible gang graffiti perhaps dating all the way back to the late 1970s. Urban archaeology…A written oeuvre of so many generations of misplaced and confused quasi-political statements—some overtly crass and sexual. But, then again, sex was a political matter, too. No matter what its form. A man with only one shoe--a shoe perma-drenched in grease and rain, tattered and dragged along like an urchin child sewn to one’s leg—was scoping the platform like a well-seasoned hawk for signs of life, for signs of someone with a generous wallet. I do not know what caused him to pass me up as a potential mark. Maybe I was too alive to even own a wallet, or that my face was dour and made me appear unapproachable. I lack affability, or so I have been told my the myriad people that have passed through the turnstile of my life and back out again.
What was I doing? I was suddenly conscious of the fact that I was loitering in the station, within the terribly isolated and unworldly conditions of this place…a place outside of space and time, a truly detached satellite from the movement of night and day. I made my way out, but to no place better. I shuffled toward my lonely apartment while passing degenerates and religious fanatics and whores of all colours. I made the dreary way up the sagging stairwell, also nauseatingly lit, over the busy business of mating cockroaches at the join where the metal rail of the step met the smoke-stained cream of the wall, and approached my chipped, hollow plywood door. The key was superfluous; I could just as easily drive a fist through this flimsy portal and reach for the pointless lock. I played the game of keys anyhow. Home. It felt like a blast of hell blowing through me, the feeling of a stale zephyr vibrating my innards, the realization of a prison and being resigned to it. I tossed the contents of my pockets on the rickety table near the door, dropped my coat near the entrance, and had the sudden flash to make a break for the half-full bottle of whatever it was I had conned myself into drinking this morning. I engaged myself poorly, with scotch, cigarettes, a few pulls from my bong, and the warbling sounds of Captain Beefheart edging me into a slow and hazy abyss. I took a piss in the sink and continued. The scotch had begun to inspire me, make me actually take an interest in the music I was listening to. I pit Will Oldham records against Emmy Lou Harris, on a frenetic and frequently malfunctioning CD changer. “It’s a hard life with no wife,” crooned one, and “meet me at the wrecking ball; I’ll wear something pretty” crooned the other. I tossed Vampyr on the screen—a flick preceding talkies—and read at random. I learned that the night is so long, but we cannot go to bed until the doctor arrives. But who will be this fantastic doctor? Will he lift us out of this night or will he kill us mercifully with the implements he carries in that nebulous black bag? Either way, it may work out in the end…Over two centuries ago, Immanuel Kant asked “what can I know,” and now I have a response: nothing. And because we cannot know nothing, and there is nothing worth knowing, there can be hope. The doctor will come, and he will affirm the obvious: that we know nothing, will never know nothing, and there is no point in knowing anyway. Those who know, if they do exist, are poor beasts that bite at themselves with ravenous desire. I pity them. A mercy killing is necessary in these instances.
The mood was suddenly broken by the shrill ring of the telephone, which was then followed in turn by an ominous silence. Ring, silence. Ring, silence. By the fourth ring I had managed to stand over the telephone like one who was strung up by a meat hook. The receiver to the ear, the expectedly wary “hello?” and away it went.
“I have placed the moon in harness,” the voice crackled at me, somehow reminiscent of the subway announcer voice. “Learning is burning. The white falls in such a light mist, so imperceptible.”
“Who is this?”
Laughter, a sick kind of laughter. There seemed to be the swell of some sound in the background, but it may have been that rise in blood pressure that always seems to accompany the transition from a feeling of eeriness to horror. The foul and uncertain. He went on, paying no heed to my request—as if identity would somehow act as a salve against the impending feeling of terror.
“Revelation is revolution. Number nine and six.”
“What?” I asked. By this time I had started rummaging through the little desk drawer upon which the phone stood, looking for my quaint hotel placement of a bible there. I groped in the back, cut my finger on an errant nail, and found the little book of western failure. I thumbed the rounded corners, the paper that cheap and slightly greasy quality that suggested mass production on a scale too horrible for words. The Word of God, nothing more than a continuing epidemic. Revelation 9:6…There it was. I could hear my mystery caller breathing on the other side, a laboured yet patient breathing. He somehow knew that I would corroborate this statement immediately. My bloody finger traced the passage in a streaky, inconsistent maroon: “And in those days shall men seek death and shall not find it, and shall desire to die, and death shall flee from them.” So help us God, or the Devil, or whatever resides in the spaces between them.
“What are you trying to tell me?” I asked, but I knew the question to be an impotent one. He hung up.
It was then that I was suddenly aware of how quiet and frightening this darkness was…how lonely and horrifying the single lamp’s light was, so ineffectual against a world gone so black. I started remembering nightmares. I rolled over these personal childhood effects in my mind, like a demented nostalgic. I remembered the recurring nightmare nemesis, and my way of playing dead to elude him. I remember the slow-to-boil panic and horror, being locked into my one-floor home while the monster slept; I knew it would awaken. Knowing that escape was impossible, I would rack my brains for a plan to kill it. To no avail. I knew that time was running out and soon I would have to face it. One nightmare in particular sticks out as the most salient, and it was the one where my plans failed entirely. The monster awoke from off the couch, already intent on doing me some unspeakable harm. Having failed to kill it with my toys while it slept, I feigned death. But something went terribly wrong. The monster leaned close to my ear and whispered, “I know you’re just pretending.” I woke up in cold sweats. It was my last nightmare. I have not had one ever since; all my nightmares are living, waking ones. Always dread those nightmares you can never wake up from.
I suddenly felt the irrational, immediate panic of being watched by something that would do me terrible harm. And, as I had done in childhood, I ran into bed and used my blankets as a kind of impenetrable field, thinking that what I cannot see cannot hurt me. And I knew how ridiculous it was for me, a grown man, to feel this way, to be so frightened. But I couldn’t help it, for the feeling was real. I barely breathed under those thick blankets, and I was beginning to sweat profusely from a mixture of the stifling heat under the blankets and fear. But I had to remain very quiet and unmoving. I made sure that my whole body was covered, that my feet and buttocks had the blankets pinned underneath me to make removal of them by another a matter of difficulty. When will this terror end. It won’t.
All forms of horror and terror seem to have reasons. We count on the rational explanations to get us through. The joy and satisfaction of any horror movie or novel seems to be the slow or immediate disclosure of those precious explanatory reasons for the zombie, vampire, whatever. We become obsessive detectives in those instances. But the quality of this horror did not have those empirical or deductive comforts. It was pure horror distilled, without its complementary opposite.
But does this match the horror of numbers?

…………………………………….

Bury me under the stairs with the pictures of her as a child with the open question, the burnt out corner where the father should be but only my nicotine-stained thumb stands in. Bury me under the stairs with the Marxist Hegelians and the boudoir collection of 19th century vampire photos on hard stock when the long flash was bright and harsh. Bury me under the stairs with the lights on and the night rolling and the glass eyes sickly gleaming through the window in a darkness one can touch and love. Bury me under the stairs with the earth and the crushing tidal roar under my fingernails as I grope for an absent freedom promised to me during a time when the world wore a mask of sunlight…a childhood affair. Only one eye gleams, a cyclopean reflection, a terrifying yellow-white orb in the sky surrounded on all sides by a black velvet curtain.

34. Legare
“And it all ended with a big sneeze.”
And perhaps it did. Or it will. I have never been big on fate or finalism, or whatever the fuck it’s called when you’re talking about the end of the world like a surer thing to bet on than any great odds at Vegas. I’m just saying that it would appear sensible to me if the cosmos itself was one big unconscious ironic reflex…All of this progress and human development leading up to, boiling up to, the big finale nothing. Squat. Zilch. Nothing more than an abrupt stop like when the lights go out when the fuse blows. You can’t plan for it—It just happens. Poof! The apocalyptical types will wag greasy fingers at me with their woe is the world, and “you’ll be sorry when the dead return and clamber about your door!” Biblical shit like that. Senseless. Like TV.
My usually sustained thinking rhythms have been scattered like the sudden violent shed of water droplets jettisoned from the normal course of the river as the river is torn to shreds over a jagged cliff. She was still in the next room, applying and re-applying makeup to use up the remaining moments of the parody she lovingly and ridiculously called a life. The makeup: what was it for, especially now? It must be some residual, engrained behavioural trait that seemed to me more like an aggravating tic. Well, it was beginning to irritate me. It was not as if her expectations of going someplace was going to be realized any time soon. Nothing was open. If it was her attempt to appeal to me with her immodest sense of crumbling beauty, then that would be as sickening as her dolling up like that to make herself feel beautiful. My rejection of her lukewarm and obligatory advances would drive her again to the impotent flicking of a small penknife over her genitalia. Yet another pointless external representation of our dead love. I, for my part, would not give it either credence or credibility, and so she could go on indefinitely with this twisted bloodletting ritual of hers. I do not love myself enough to conjure up amorous intervention. I find only her eyes marginally appealing, but only when her focus is skewed in an oblique direction or when the lids slam down over them threatening never to reopen.
We have been held up at 3:33 for, I assume, a year. Sartre could never have even imagined a hell of this startling variety. I am drawn back to a café conversation where I was in earshot of some college theory kids speaking of some guy named De Loose…I think. I remember it now, albeit painfully. Being is difference, perpetually so. A single, undifferentiated moment is the death and impossibility of Being…according to those kids. I guess they were right. Without normal duration to pin our desires unto, that taken for granted cosmic institution known as time, we were nothing. When the river’s flow dies, the bed dries, and the world becomes a desert for the dead.
Having clocks in my home affirms my will to live. Not so long ago were the days of my many planned suicides. As I aged, my plans took on variations, became more precise and sophisticated in their demands. I ran the gamut from adolescent spite to comfortable anonymity. During any of these “periods,” or “episodes” like my shrink called them, making me think that my truly real emotional set could be reduced to a thirty minute sit-com and broken up every ten minutes by an advertisement for hemorrhoid creams…I would remove all the clocks and watches from the area and place them in a closet. Time only reminded me of living, and living had always been maliciously aligned with suffering.


35. Jonkil

We are at the precipice of doom, but I know that you are with me, effusive and shining in this darkness. You come to me on a cool Icelandic breeze with sonorous words that ripple around me, giving me the semblance of an aura I do not deserve. Iggy Pop’s “The Passenger” is clamouring behind my ears as I lift a glass to you in your absence, among those strange nocturnal creatures who are friends for just one more night, one more round. I rub my face raw against my surroundings, the overchromed Jesus hanging with seductive glee from a pulpit and makeshift gallows. The punks are scraping along the floors of this warmly lit and shadow-patched pub while the city roils with bleak promises for a future withheld until the right moment of execution and maturation. And perhaps the city waits for me, too, and you, and, and, and. I retire my cigarette upon the sole of my scuffed boot and make one right step toward the door and one other step toward another sinking round of beer-stained stories and the overuse of an ashtray. I pull again. I pull at the sleeve of my miseries for some personal story I can exploit, some personal misery I can prostitute for an acerbic laugh of self-deprecation. I keep the narrative going with stories I know the others are only half-listening to, but all the same it is the ritual of the thing…and the group shrinks and contracts around words and it is the misery behind those words that ties collective despair together like a thread. I throw my face up to the stars as the stein tips, pouring bitter amber dukes down my throat, and I know myself to be noble in every social situation…My back is turned to the small group in the dark, the séances of the obscure, and the wind tosses my thoughts all over the streets like a pocket suddenly divested of its crumpled contents. I come up with lint and a worn leather wallet stuffed to brimming with cards I would be better to part with. These are the things no one should take seriously. And now…and now Sid Vicious’ “My Way” playing offkey in my head juxtaposed against the vibrating pub speakers that rattle forth with lies and bad intentions.
I was the dreamer last night, and tomorrow I am the madman…but in between—acting as the interval—I am not (and never shall I be) what I am, ever have been, or ever will be…And so I am a character without a plot to hang on to. I float pointlessly through a world that makes no sense, that makes its sense through vile acts of war and truly heinous revisions of love. I am aloft in night without anchorage, brought neuropathically to a threshold of anxiety, despair, and a giddiness unto nausea that presents to me the contingency of my being. O woe that I have been ushered into the night (so unprepared) with this paltry collection of bodily emissions that are forced to serve as an absolute point of reference! How am I to navigate through this night when here and now for so long (so long) taken for granted…are dubious and distant from me like the many dubious and distant machines that regulate the lives of our collective ignorance? I am night emission without a body. Jesus chokes on a phlegmatic love, and I choke on my splenetic asides.
And then I am back at home with that hazy drunken feeling of a wobbling vision. There is a rose hung upside down on the corkboard like some medieval witches’ punishment. There is a pile of mail that brings only grief back into position, but at this juncture of consumption—alcohol and the larger field of consumerist obligation—I afford myself the false luxury of irreverence. The chrome coffee carafe reflects an Escher self-portrait of me back at me, and the stapler by its side complicates matters, and so I edit out complex features for the ease of eddying my way from one station to another. I am thinking in German, my verbs thrown off to the end like a debt to the sentence deferred, and the bahn zu bahn is an aberrant humour of the soul, a piecemeal apparatus of some vague semblance of an analogy with a an even vaguer semblance of a life I feel is on parade even if there are no spectators. My mind, an orgy of death and a festival of cruelty, but only in its more prominent and strong moments…Otherwise it is an array of useless junk that obscures the useful. I do what anyone else would do in a time of uncertainty in this age: I check my email.
From: zzxyzz@hj-hj.com
Subject: Re:Our Unfinished Convo…
…But in each of its several faces or facets of superior design, it is the full demonic affirmation of all that is extreme, and so this word vehicle rumbles fearlessly toward and beyond limits. Take this word-vehicle to yourself and ask what one word or word-vehicle you have created for yourself in a private and shadowy moment, the one you are fully able to affirm. That will be your demonic moment (fear motivates everything, even a search for pleasure). To merely gaze with scrutiny at the mirror is fake affirmation: you affirm only your image (again, so much fear, a body is a big bag of fear and cluttered organs, odours, fear, fear, fear). This shift-key sticks, btw. The image of self is thought, and thought foisted unto a world (not THE world, for THE signifies some smug, satisfied, preconceived notion of a world as posited by a rational perspective—and rational animals we are not!) can only amount to a rejection, a crushing defeat of self. It is a rejection AND a reduction (pay close to these two words!!). why reduce the world in the way you have reduced yourself to thought? It is in our most elated or depressed moments that we frequently and foolishly reduce the world to conform to our fleeting feeling in the moment—our most open world is our selfless and undifferentiated moments of nothingness and totality, when you feel indifferent and are curiously awake. What kind of narcissism plagues you? You, a self, or THE self, another organ. The world rejects the organi(ism) because it is already full of them, cluttered…the world has nothing it can do with your organs. The world is littered with organs like you, seeking ultimate connection with a meaning that cannot be given. So many organs and no connectors! This is a world. THE world is a fiction. You are an organ (of sense) and a radio (inter-versal communicator, a motivation of wave bundles), and you will be yet another motionless relic in a sadly constituted cosmos of logic’s design. Be an indeterminate interval, not a well-defined bracket (of sorely over-washed and predictable desires). Be a frenzied energy relay system, not a parasite or a cannibal upon the world. Be mindful, not a Mind. Secreting your values will only reduce you to the level of a garden morality slug.

Respond? Reply to message? The cursor blinks and winks at me. I collect myself over a cigarette. I have nothing new to say to this person. It is hard to say anything to someone who speaks from the diurnal perspective when I can only speak with the yawning black abyss of night (but nowhere is it darker than between two brain loaves of underbaked thinking). I look back up at the corkboard for inspiration, as if I would find it there even though I know it is not to be found there. Why do I entertain practices that are destined to fail? Do I do them to irritate and disappoint myself, for the feeling or rush of failure itself? Do I think it endemic to my human, all too human, condition? Do I feel responsible for being human when the secret shadowy trend calling to me is demanding a trans- or over-human principle? Perhaps then I would wear this unceasing night with more grace. I look left and up…The moon is so high that it threatens to pierce the ceiling of the sky and let pour in a flood of sugary stars. I absentmindedly let my fingers brush across my groin, for I become in an instant an infant in thought. My body is animal, my love is vegetable, and my mind is mineral. Aristotle weeps over the separation of a world into categories, and I cast his belongings into the sea to be devoured by waves that rise up like prohibitive webbed hands. They stroke the shore. The shore is aroused and sends its sandy granule spores into the dark murk on a whim, hoping that they suffer better fates than it. And, as the Leibniz idea runs: every drop of water in the sea has its own sound, and it is the concert of these water drops as they collide that create the roar of the wave. It is the herding of the weak to displace the strong. But I know that every sand granule has a particular sound and cadence to that, in concert and in collision, would rival the sound of the sea. If only the shore would rise up with an emphatic “yes” to the sea’s “no”! If only the shore would cease being violated, so passive, so yielding. The sea gives back what it wants, mostly rejects or thoughtless gifts. And perhaps it is better to be a formless ocean than a sand palace.
I am helplessly naïve. The world beats up on a world and I sit passively by while it happens. Fear drives everything. My fear exchanges its currency for impotent wrath. I scream at, through, with, against night. Nebulous and viscous is this night! Whence it lifts, I know not, but I will be struck blind when it does! All must fear the coming of the SECOND SKY. Omens dismissed and portents not heeded will all come strolling back into view, but we fools will not recognize them, and so the mundane tragedy of our misrecognition will continue. We learn nothing for fear and all of its products that make us arrogant and ignorant will obscure our view of what really is.
At 3:33 am, chaos is crowned, and her whims are carried out by her servants to this unceasing night. The day is in chains, smothered on all sides by the increase of her nocturnal domain, kept sequestered to languish in the cell of a dungeon that is rooted to the core of the earth (and so far down this staircase winds, without reliable perspective, without reason or faith)…that last spark of light dimming as it is obscured by the superimposition of darkness’ veils. The day will be mummified, ignobly forgotten, crushed out of view by an impenetrable sheath of black velvet and pointillated constellations. No force can disrobe it.
Time expands and contracts, systole and diastole…But at the unmoving moment—a moment that may serve to obliterate all moments—time’s pulse has stopped, its ceaseless heart has seized, and no one can account for this deadly blockage. I see people crying and contemplating, reactions to fear. I find myself navel-gazing as tear drops fill the fleshy reservoir whose inner wrinkles are a poor parody of the ear. I look up and realize that all along I was preparing for war.

----
36. Jonkil

…It’s like I said…the Golem is a fantasy, a Jewish superhero or a clay robot for hire…Yes. Israel has its land now, but who will defend it, man its missile batteries? The Palestinian contingent? Ha!...I’ve heard better ideas in the tabloids and during the campaign speeches of the dispossessed mighty men. Cripes, you’re pretty ignorant of the world situation…Sure, read the papers and glue your entire face to a TV news broadcast for all the highlights (who dies, how many, and never the reasons why…), but you lack the historical context…Absolutely essential. You have to think laterally about these issues, and perhaps get knee-deep in the shit of deep structure. Deep structure…Continuations of Hitler for the hip hop crowd and all that…I’m not kidding you! The Nazis are more prevalent today than they were in ’41. It’s a harsh slap in the face, but the UN is a circus that revolves around the memory of a camp somewhere in Buchenwald or some such place. Memory is what motivates a charter, my friend. Let me relate to you what I have learned from a man sitting by the side of the spectacle, looking in, wandering about nonplussed but all the same an impotent gentleman with a crude and dirty gentleman’s education…
And it went a little something like this or that:
“A situation of baneful fragments, sterile hallway, overlit. A declaration of war, dead, to the sound of Gregorian chanting and a crescendo of truly horrifying drone (the crescendo of values and the shrinking violet of diplomacy)…Drone without fluctuation, without differentiation. Pure drone. Hallway, again. Reasons and doors, myriad. The wake of one’s movement taking on water like a dying ship bobbing upon the grey stomach of the sea…Its own life, coalescing into…dreams. Dreams fall apart. The sewer gurgles, spits forth…a computer. Please sit down. Input values, passwords, donut selection. Login. Email. Die. Transport yourself elsewhere without budging an inch, that necessary inch (of freedom? Ha!). Ha! Chaotic somewhere. Somewhere else. Reports of sodomy come bustling in, steal your cigars, make a killing on the poker circuit. Five card stud and a coupon for a second trip free across the Styx…But who will drive Charon when his time comes? There she is again, that persistent mutt of a perishable age. She falls. She knows that the monster is her father and she screams in the dark underbrush to signal her location. To him. To Freud. She is the flower, the jewel in the crown of Persian psychoanalysis dream rug nobility where (and when) all success depends strictly on the devotion to the all too obvious phallic gun he wields. Father, please don’t shoot us all. I want a free meal at a very high scale restaurant, father. I will order our dinners, we will eat, and then I will excuse myself to the bathroom to set fire to the joint so that we may capitalize (the word you always wanted me to use and love!) on the panic and not pay for our fare! We will then sing with one another, drinking English style as parents do with their children in public houses…We will sing “Jerusevelt”: “Jay-roose-uh-velt!” It is the song we made in that near and dark evening while your head tilted to one side and your hand disturbed a pile of magazines and a bottle of half-spent whiskey. Remember when? The Old Deal, polished to perfection, you always said. But a headless Hegel, decentralized, disseminated, genetically and profusely overproduced…A haunting spectre of a global situation. The Esperanto of Reason plus Kapital…Klassstrukture. Zweck und Zweil. The headless Hegel with his signs chopped off…Just the sanctions, embargos, placards, and corporacratic designs of an autoethnocentric justice.”
So you see, now, that, this, that, for, so, insofar as, this is demonstrative. Of what, precisely? Precisely. “Are you, or were you ever, a member of the Discordianist Party?”—“No, Mr. Speaker, I flatly deny all allegations to that effect.”—“Do you also deny allegations subtended by this committee that impute to you activities in so-called hackerdom-related sects?”—“Yes, Mr. Speaker, I deny those charges as well.”—“Have you ever visited the shrine of Eris, Discordia, or variations on the name or theme of the ancient goddess?”—“No, Mr. Speaker, I deny these charges as well.” However, I did play in her domain insofar as I constructed a childhood space for her, an empty space, a wooded glen, a small storm run-off stream, wherever I could place my young narrative while spending those inordinate times alone with no friends. But I was less alone in these concoctions than I’d ever in the presence of the adult world, whenever it was that I had entered it fully. I think it was gradual. I tried not to look surprised, but there were two of me…I was doubled. There was the perception of me being surprised and then there was the conception of me thrust it into the future as if I would be surprised. Disappointment on all fronts; I folded all of the lonely joy back into an inaccessible past. Resignedly, I forsook the well-peopled world of the childhood narrative in favour of being alone among people, equally alone. And then President Busshein was elected. I was absorbed into the world violently, subsumed by it, made painfully aware that it preceded me and would succeed me as well: cosmosis. I ceased to live under the protective umbrella of a hopeful tomorrow. We are addled and laden down. Like asses and camels and mules…simpliciter. Once the sewing of that garment of belief was sewn, I no longer needed to believe, but only wear a badge…a shirt…a suit. Once the paint had dried on the facial image of my hope, I no longer hoped. It was all done for me, like so many modern conveniences taken for granted. Precisely. Perhaps too precise, like a diamond-laser saw…Precision is the death of free-range mind. And then the republic rolled it all out for us, in lucre, perfume, precision-crafted monologues, computer-doctored old photographs of war heroes…
Walkure: The Nazi Reprise. An all star cast available in S, M, L, and XL! A totally (like, totally!) corpulentmix of fascist flavour (Huzzah America, all patriots unite!). Also available in latte. THE MONOLOGUE OF A FASCIST ERA! (cigarettes offered during intermission, vitamin-fortified-enriched-colour-preservative-artificial flavoured health available in polyunsaturated strength). STARRING: “She walked, a naked body on the plank of freedom into the sea of lies and fire!” and “I broke heez spyne, und still he vouldn’t tok!” With surprise guest appearance by THE SWASTIKA! Magic unveiling to follow, simulcast on net-web TV carnival. Seats are limited, gas is cheap! And a thimbleful of wine for you (to be sung).
What does MTV have to say about this? We take you live to the Gallup central panopticon for immediately doctored results on polls never taken! “The Israelization of America is good for oily hand business…” 77% Agree! That’s majority, folks! Wave a flag, beat your wife, grab a beer, and head for bed! Hitler on the defendant seat in court pleads innocent: “I was elected, I tell you! I was being democratic.” William H. Gass presides over the matter, has a good laugh, returns to academic circus (takes time out of his busy day to write a thirty-year book like some war, or sumthin’ and routinely takes a swim at the campus pool). No flash photography, hidden web-cams only! “How could I ever call it channel surfin’ if television content is at its lowest ebb? Not much to surf on.” Get a satellite, free installation, free lobotomy, get the moon in your living room today! Right now! No delays! No excuses! Get it, you commie French Muslim anti-patriot football-hatin’ hippie fuck! You got the internet! “It’s Flag Day, not Fag Day!! Wave your flag for a discount on marked down merchandise straight from the Arkansas child labour camp…or else try our competitors (there are no more competitors, but anti-monopoly laws state that we are obliged to…Pass Go, collect $200 Samolians!) with prison work detail craftsmanship like you’ve never seen it before!” We take you live via satellite feed to the reality show already in progress: ‘When People Hesitate at ABMs.’ Of course Orwell was right (blink, blink)...He just got the date wrong (for which we will never forgive him or grant him the credibility his estate deserves).
Michael Moore (our subculture angel, our last refuge of true grit journalism now that H.S.Thompson has receded for good with all his guns, drugs, and women into that high white noise wilderness of Colorado) is a parody. The candy is full of fizz and lies. Everything is broken. Hollywood reassesses its attack strategy and conscripts large-breasted ladies straight from the cosmetic clinic for duty at the front lines. This is what we will be dying for, they say, in Beirut, Iraq, Syria, Jordan, North Korea, Kosovo, and all those other regions where it is okay to disrupt systems if it means more glory unto me, me, me. A-“ME”-rica: land of the great cancer and so much to red-white-blue to die for. It is a ramshackle kingdom of disparate tribes all held together by line-ups at the box office or under the rhetoric of their ham-talking electorate. But who really cares about all that? Why carp away on a dead point when the whole family can pile into the convertible (SUV) and take a ride out into the countryside (the concentration camp zoo wherein are housed those cute Muslim terrorists—feed ‘em peanuts and laugh at their Allah with his sacred collection of stolen hotel towels). Father likes to recline with a pipe in the den while reading the stock report and getting a headstart on his taxes while little junior is honing his military readiness skills playing racist first-person shooters based on WWII and the first (of nine) Gulf War. Shoot them enemy planes down, junior—it’s the American way! No way like it! Like a one-way trip into a building with a hijacked plane! (in the place of the event that American Argus awoke from his slumber will be placed a hundred-story Ronald McDonald statue with a menacing-determined face, and in his hands will be missiles—deterrence through capitalist symbolism…The Godzilla Theory of “Don’t Fuck with Us.”)…Rimes of nuclear frost around the fringes of freezer burn cold war plans dusted off and made manifest a whole world away in an eastern belly-button middle of sand…The east, she is sandy, a delightful hue, so filled with elaborate and lascivious curves…So mysterious, so deadly, that it appears the US is fighting against the ancient unknowability of women, the old Antigone story gone so afoul (while a sea-sick captain on an air carrier tries to obtain secrets by listening to David Bowie’s “The Secret Life of Arabia”). Maybe watching Lawrence of Arabia (Saddam Hussein’s favourite movie, despite the British, but all for that unification bit—and where’s Moammar Khaddafi in all this tangled mess…I like narrative knots).
There you have it. We return now to our war correspondents in Hollywood (signing a multi-arms deal movie contract with Stallone and Rumsfeld for movie rights on classified data) and in Nue Yhork (“my bo-tox injections are setting of radiation alarms and I am being stripped-searched by men with rifles and jackboots and omigod one of them just asked me out on a date!”—Recall what honour it was for young frauleins to copulate with SS genetically superior specimens. Peace with honour, of course). Bombs dropping on Boulder, Ricin in Rochester, fun for all! Smoke everywhere, but who is going to be our angel and assassinate the high Capitol Hill guard and all the top politicians? Please, soon, before my stuffed pizza goo in a pastry shell is done—beep-beep microwave. But then there is the temporal wave (3:33) that has stopped, the microwaves all that are working and the macrowaves dead on their heels. Kick over the tables in the coffee shop, they call security, blow yourself up for the martyr-world of the Kyota machine! Oil rains down on us all. We engage in a mass demonstration of pro-patriot orgiastic dancing. It’s sexy, it’s the sanitization of a 60s image we sold your parents and now you. Sucker, I mean consumer. Suck-consume, spit-produce: the porn industry mandate known already now for years. It’s no wonder that blowjob scenes appeal to the business demographic.
What about Finland? Our spy satellites bring you full coverage of a cold climate with hot, stripping women. The man in the terminal ward has no last thoughts, only one last erection and one last paltry dream dripping with honey-lust as he lays there on the bed with a tangle of octopus-tubes shoving in nutrients and extracting poisons. Or the other way around. Unclear and blurry (“our determination is clear; our cause is just. We must disarm nuclear Vishnu”).
The infinite slavery of Martin Luther on a stick, a to b to c. “Our documents are useless. The missiles have rejected their batteries and are now leaking spoilt meat all over the sand. Wives stop loving their husbands, children stop saluting the flag, the entire oath of allegiance is said without passion (as always).”

37. Nth-arrator

I suck smoke from the cigarette into the foyer or vestibule of my mouth…that is the first step. Then through muscular motion I squeeze it to the back of my throat, wrapping an ethereal grey noose around my uvula for but a moment, and commission my tongue to push it down into that black abyss where eyes lose their way. Peristalsis, into lungs, circulating out the nicotine from the largest air bladder into the supply line bloodstream, right down to the smallest capillary contingents. My body: the warzone, the pleasure-seeker, the slow-dyer. And so what if the night never lifts; I play the blues. To me, this is blessed business. My fingers seek the notes and scrape across the frets so fast that my hands exceed what my eyes and mind can account for. Jesus. I’ve also got the whiskey…Whiskey Saigon. Business booms for me, so I says. I turn into something other…From aimless wanderer, hated, ostracized from town to town, to this “working class hero.” Without the spotlight and the packed house and the drinks, I’m driven ‘way y’know. Fickle fucks, but hungry for their music and my story. Suddenly the whole place is heavy with misery, all to clever string-bends and scalework.
Open ‘er up all the way like an engine on a wending country road. Open ‘er up all the way with the quick slaps of fingers on medium gauge blue steel. We’re all addicts. The century is addicted to itself. Some call it narcissism, but I says it different when I wake up in the morning when I can’t even recognize my face or where I am, where I am supposed to be, or where I was. What time is it?
12:00, 12:00, the clock blinks, just unplugged, replugged. No music to it, just a rhythm. A dead rhythm, just time. I see a dog outside my window who is happy as shit without no clocks. Doesn’t know that my nose is burnin’ and my guts a-roilin’. I hear people screaming in the alley about parole and this followed by the soft pad of a trashy young girl in her Walmart shoes storming away, storming away into a future already prescribed for her because of education and economic factors. I’d not march softly and quietly into that night. But maybe I have, and maybe we all did, and maybe it’s time to cash in our chips and settle the tabs and mourn the dead. Maybe it’s time for long processions and philosophical reflections made at the end of the journey when the sun dips behind the mountain range with the empty threat of never returning. But it won’t return for us. No. Eulogies are pointless now. The Owl of Minerva flies at dusk, looks back, finds its feathers on fire. “Down, down, down…ring of fire.” The eagle is falling, poisoned by the snake…
Fuck.
I almost miss that big shiny yellow lollipop in the sky that turned the sky the colour of my sad love. Not that I saw much of the sun in my business…More like I saw the tail end, the part that counted, the backdrop setting for every romance LP cover.
Oh, yes, I am the narrator, and I promised not to occupy this space. How I have reneged on that promise, gu’vnor. Of course (“this narrator is not only inconsistent in his promises to engage in a non-intervening role, but his dialect keeps switching! What’s next? Verb tense?”), well, let me tell you…I am a blues musician, too. I am anything I want to be. I am Gulliver’s travels and Charles Bukowski’s bottle at the bottom of a pile of typewritten screeds. I am nothing. I am the space between spaces, the folds of words superimposed unto absurdity. I take too much cocaine, I think, and not nearly enough. What an awful in-between, but interesting, too.

37. Def

I have been revisited by the maniac who has claimed that I am a great experimental mathematician. He says I go beyond the old and stagnant metaphysical understanding of measure, that there are means of measuring that are transcendental and beyond instrumentality. I think he thinks I am a cosmic poet, a master of formulae that extend into the pure realm of sensibility. I received a correspondence from this mysterious Utro person:
How far must I travel to escape the residuum effects of a machine on the verge of collision and collapse? My pursuit and inquiry into truth has been compromised by a realization that I am being led through a labyrinth not of my design, tempted by illusions and specters who have only cryptic puzzles in their pockets. The government, if it were to be keyed into the bizarre rhythms of our movements, would spare no quarter in declaring us iconoclast terrorists, heretics, anti-patriotic menaces. Degeneratio aequivoca…
Welcome to the Grand Ergonon. I hope you brought the chisel to break us free…
According to Utro, we had the murderer, the motive, and the weapon. The habeus corpus was already in the closet, but it would take more than proof to bring down the consortium of machinic fascism, the conspiracy of silence, the conspiracy of so much noise as to drown out the truth. The grand thesis drawn from countless hours of sleuthing and number-crunching Kabalist-style was staring us down with menace. It was our thesis, our great discovery…or rather, our uncovery. It was there all along, right back to Rosicrucian fantasy and Freemasonic battle plans. What we had in our possession was little more than a serigraph, a pale imprint, a Warhol matrix of dubious shrouds of Turin. Demonstrating to the compartmentalized people the truth of the compartment was pointless. That movie, The Matrix, did little else but sink us down deeper into complacency while enflaming the noumenal-phenomenal split, rehashing old William Gibson cyberpunk stereotypes and granting every half-witted college kid to spout off bad readings of Baudrillard’s simulacrum theory, not knowing that the idea was so old it was Platonic.
Perhaps it would be in vain. Perhaps by exposing the truth—itself not enough—we’d be able to uncover the sun, brick by brick of cloud and black. Who really wants to stick their neck out now in this era of alleged terror, peregrinating to that revolutionary perch where one could so easily be dubbed a national menace and placed into the media stockades for a full minute-for-minute TV coverage torture? We’d be lumped in with the McVeighs and Mansons and bin Ladens for all that noise. For what? For blowing the trumpet, the big clarion call for a freedom that was by definition impossible on this stubborn soil? Fuck the little punk kids thinking revolution, waving Che banners, thinking that they understand the machine they so desire to crush and make soup with its bones. Goddamn them, goddamn them all. They’d be like all the rest, all those other failed revolutionaries: charmed into suicide. Even hackers know that the first step to bringing down a machine is to learn its tongueless language of ones and zeros. That is the efficient alphabet…new Esperanto deemed an incredible reductionist success. Just a sequence of symbols, arrayed in a code, every image, just a calculus of ones and zeros, PDF, JPG, DOC, etcetera…ETC files. Are we not the ETC file-machines, the vehicles of conjunction-proliferation, spewing “and…and…and?” interminably? Always something more to say, something more to do…This is why the apocalypse fantasy is an absurdity and the highest idyllic dream: the day when the AND stops dead and we finally have done with everything. Certainly there are quarries of unmined thoughts, but that will always be the case…We haven’t even assessed all that has already been said and written (as I cast a gaze at a collection of books the owner would need eighty lifetimes to be able to read in full). “If we are going to live under the tyranny of that label,” Utro said, “of being urgent radicals, let’s not be resistant to the world’s foreclosure. Truth goes for the stomach.”
The formula is a book and you are its chief alchemist. I crash into the assorted alembics and mysteriously coloured liquids without purpose: just props in a stage production. Program your way out of the illusion? Transcend MAYA? You’re just a hopelessly unread codex at the bottom of a pile the editor will never get to. You will be returned with a blank and unresponsive rejection notice. A tidy, polite society “fuck you” and “don’t come pestering us again, you haunter of doorsteps, you wordy juice-monkey! You’ve got too much heart and not enough balls to be a subjugator of human wills, and we’ve got enough of you social engineers and living destinies already! We’re organicists; we’re bodily. You’re fit to be subjugated instead.”—So the rejections come in their secret language behind the words of thank you very much and sorry and good luck in your (nonexistent) career.
“But fear most of all the new incarnation of the Masonic order,” said Utro. “I think there is reason to believe that they are building the figurative seven palaces of Moloch all around the globe.” Masonry and mathematics…what a joyous union of the stupid and the dangerous. I wasn’t willing to discount the mystery out-of-hand, but it did sound to me—returning from complete memory loss—as patently ridiculous. “The unwritten law is dominium ex jure Quiritum,” Utro said. He had said that he had overheard this while two men with a political and occult look about them were conversing quietly in a dark park where the sound was carried by a soft wind. And what else did our two mystery men say? I don’t know if Utro caught the whole dialogue, but I was sure that—in league with his conspiracy-theory mentality—he could fill in the gaps with his own conjecture and speculation.
Utro handed me an American dollar bill. He said that I was the first to signal his attention to it, a kind of “how do you do; wanna hear my conspiracy.” A fine way to meet and greet someone, but I don’t remember how it all went down, what circumstances were present, or who I was. I have no memory. “Look at this bill again,” Utro said. “You showed it to me long ago, and it opened my eyes to a whole new world. See here…let me refresh your memory a bit. On the obverse…see the pyramid on the left with the radiant eye? That’s a Masonic symbol. And this message circling it: ‘ANNUIT COEPTIS NOVUS ORDO SECLORUM.’ That’s a line pulled from Virgil’s Aeneid, to be sure. And look to the right…That fucking eagle, the National Seal, drawn up in 1782 during the time of Brother Franklin and friends. A star of David hovering above the eagle’s head composed of smaller stars…And 33 feathers representing the 33 levels of the Masonic order. The whole thing smells of Kabbalah and 666. But surely they were just grasping for symbols, right? Symbola is Greek for ‘that which holds together.’ I mean it in that way. But I believe that there was a great deal of backroom dealing among big-wigs with tall orders, heh. We both know it, but you just have seemed to forget, got hit in the head or something…or, worse, you were abducted by THEM and they erased or brainwashed it out of you. I’ve heard the CIA used to electroshock memories away back in the day when an operative wanted to return to civilian life or had learned too much.”
“Now we’re getting ridiculous,” I said. Though, how did I know? For all I knew, a space squid sucked all my memories out with its slimy suckers. Jesus, these self-doubts could go on endlessly. Why not just doubt the existence of others and even myself like Descartes and his ilk? Philosophy is for sad people with nothing to do. I was willing to let the mystery slide for a bit and ride Utro’s memories of me for a while until I could get a firmer grasp on the matter. I needed irrefutable proof from some source about something…

38. Abc

The patriarchate of economic oligopoly has claimed the day as its own, on CNN exclusives and advertisements about long and warm summer days…but what of the nights? Are they short and cold, like Hobbesian life (nasty, brutal and short…Night and its creatures are downright beastly). Is this all a means of projecting the illusion of an unfettered progressive human development, or is this a bald claim? But only humankind can claim progress while it languishes in ruin.
The idea of day was incongruous and reactionary, a negation of a negation of a negation. It was thought up by frightened Christian men who puttered about within badly spackled and porous concrete walls. It was this kind of malaise where inspiration went to die. I welcomed instead the forgotten poets who wandered into my unknown valleys and tried to make love to me with their hesitating, innocent, and childlike words. I loved them back, and will always do so, but not nearly as much as those who make their domain in my kingdom, those whose business is to be as much a part of the nocturnal diorama as to be mistaken as enmeshed with it. Those who are in league with me are the true iconoclasts—not the evident and brutely celebrated ones in the Tang Repression of the 8th and 9th century, not Protestant purges of the 16th century either…Those are the false iconoclasts. Iconoclasm cannot be something conscious. I am not something conscious, and all indications that I reflect upon a self—that I have such an I or self—are illusions. I, night…venta prohibida a menores. Of course. Goes without saying.
And perhaps I will be interviewed and then scrutinized for certain audacious claims I have made between whispers to the general assembly of the dead…Criticized on my motives for declaring Dr. Karl Brandt a kind of strange anti-hero still worthy of our reflection and trust…His address to those presiding over the Nuremberg trial still loosens my bones, the one where he claims that the Amereicans will always bear the mark of Cain for Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the same Americans who act so negligently and recklessly in policing a world it can only know in pictures overdubbed by an optimistic John Wayne narration. I have written this before. I have written this across my body as the plumes of light shot up toward me from a million war time Japanese as man’s new ephemeral solar flash experiment crackled and bristled with screeching beta particles tearing through flesh and concrete alike. Perhaps I would like to state my case, give my intimate eye-witness account of a tragic failure that has become laughable in the age of corporate piracy among the delegates of the political commission for the disarmament of nuclear Ganesha. Atomic overkill of the hidden G-spot, like so many MOAB bombs across the gentle terrain of her curved eastern body as the sandbars tighten around a spoil of oil. I bear witness, materially. But who am I to declare a victory between phenomenality and essence, materiality and substance? Wasn’t I already excluded from that discourse, the reports to the effect that I had abdicated when in all actual fact that I, Night, never tendered any resolution to that order? Those bloody metaphysicians even got my gender wrong, but they are just young and naïve so I cannot truly fault them their ignorance. I know that if I were them, so cagey and mortal, I would fear that which sees everything with a silent and knowing grin. I do not need to broker anything with these little people who still cannot decide on the isness of a thing.
Will it matter at all if we confront their diurnal power? What is their power? Even calling it an illusion is calling it too much. The philosophers rarely realize that they are merely fighting over scraps. The stage is always set for another absurd sideshow of powerpoint presentations and the like…

“The black man’s lobby for the preservation and liberation of sick and dying KKK members whose numbers have decreased to a dangerously low level, adding their names to the list of endangered species.”

Pure ironies. All of it a bloody nightmare parade and puritan stew of the mundane-insane. If the world in which you live seems to make no sense, it never did in the first place, and I would seriously suggest that you stay very still and silent for a spell just to get your bearings before you tear off into the vastly great unknown you delude yourself in thinking you know with the intimacy of a lover that lives within your breast. You and all the undifferentiated and homogeneous “yous” built this rubber and synth-plastic skeleton-prison that is nothing more than your labyrinth within which you amble and shamble morosely about, you tear out your hair, your nails, your eyes, your skin, screaming to a dead god just behind the moon that sense is dead…Get a joke, be a joke? The great beams of progress are falling all around you while you clutch at your feet and wonder just who is behind your eyes.
A novelty obituary in a bogus newspaper declares the death of the reclusive and inimical genius, but it is printed by a sparse readership of dispossessed cosmic nobles, forest muftis, and prophetic ghost clerics somewhere out there in Butte, Montana. But really, the by-line asserts that you, sir, are dead, and what are you going to do about this rather inconvenient situation? What will become of your financial holdings and investments, and who will take care of the puppy you purchased in some ramshackle Mexico town from a man whose ancestral line extends back to Cortes’ rape of the new earth? And what wil you do when the men in all colours come for you? Not so funny now.
I see much in my unmoving journey across the earth. I stay in one place and the earth revolves and orients its infinite faces under my blanketing eyes. Like a dark marble cake under my gaze, the earth is a delicate dradle spinning soft and unheard words into the long black ear of space. I see the rise and fall of the rise and fall of all. I see you all: sleeping, fucking, dreaming, thieving, skulking, making dark arrangements, drunk, dying, driving alone on unlit country backroads, guarding empty office buildings, cleaning out toilets, stealing another cigarette puff before the reaper catches on to your scent. Rave kids saying “plur,” monks to an impossible future…New puritanical sectarian republican gimcrack monsters with crusader glo-swords and teddy bear anthrax. But the symbols of serpents and crosses have long since been retired. It is no longer fashionable to go nude to your futures. No sense in being humiliated before an audience of your descendants. And now even the radio is talking back at you. It used to be fear of the machine—now it is a fear of historical recurrence in plastic, the recycling of the recycled, tired and repetitive (and I should know: I am shot through to the bone with your endless satellite communications). Crumple zone chrome finish and the luck of the infinite coffee bean are all what hold you back now from the abyss. When the cable dissolves, I may just miss you.
There he is again, the rebel poet alchemist with internet privileges. His hands beat out a rhythm. They are in the service of some dead beast who spoke of a Prussian utopia. There is an unavowed heritage there, but he is complacent, sad, confused, his mind too ordered, just a little dead in a wholesome middleclass Christmas carol CD kind of way. His thoughts are too suspiciously bookmarked with electronic easements that cut every corner announcing the shape of things to come and forecasting the undeniable downfall of a top-heavy West. Overturn me, he cries, but not just as yet (always with just one more thing to do, one last word, one last desperate phone call to the bank to finalize the mortgage)! Delay, delay, delay! Your life is an airport lounge. The monsters of war will come, for they are the people to come…Don’t hold them up with the litter and sad values of a liberal social democracy—they’ll eat whatever you sacralize. Let them rumble in and their tongues darting all over Hitler’s face, and, and, and. Let us sing your song, once more, for nostalgic purposes:

My pockets are burning, my wallet’s got a rash
A consumer not discerning, quickly’s out of cash
The economy’s still churning, the rich man’s got his stash
But we are quickly learning, the world’s gonna crash!

Your symbols and structures are as useless as they always were, and it was only arrogance that kept the illusion of their grand pompousness that kept them erect for so long. A plane or two in a building or two is not enough to erase the arrogance or, conversely, to ensure solidarity. New York died a long time ago, the jewel of that empire has fallen out of the crown. The eyes of the wise have rusted shut with so many empty images relayed on a million satellite waves. A man two doors down is savagely tearing into the flesh of a young slut with fantastic medical implements, thinking all the while that he is conducting a heavenly orchestra of cherubim with a veritable knotted maze of brass pipes and strings. Three doors down is a flase boiserie, and after that a delicatessen, a Western Union, a shop laden with logos for sale, a traffic light, a deceitful man, a clump of rainwashed litter milk-pasted to the gum-spackled cement, a patch of cloud hung out to dry over the river, and a concert of sun and smog (our portmanteau for such an instance would be, said the linguist, smung).

39. Jonkil

From the Thomas Pynchon Dispatches, no relation to the renowned author:
The King of New Aragon has lost his mind between the sheets, maids and faux silver cutlery; his multiple lovers have slipped into the palace mirrors with secret rocket plans for neo-Plotinian rebel contingent, and the hysterical moralists with the mundane Soft Hedonists For the Promotion of Vapid and Family Appropriate Middle Class Pleasures have taken their cues from an unblinking television of sacralized media conglomerates who specialize in narcotizing brinksmanship for the continued numbing of the collective. Clones, the lot of them. The king of New Aragon declines comment as the wolf-demons and fecal accountants bustle in the wings, assessing and displaying the royal fecal yield of the day for the tourist gift shop and on eBay. They then collect behind the drapes, trade bubble gum cards of various faceless tycoons and forget their lines. There will be no press conference or slideshow today, by royal decree of his majesty of the waters. The chorus of heralds are little more than humming monitors and amplifiers attached to errant organs donated by the Church of Greed and the Ministry of Shut Up and Take It. Be silent now. You lost the argument. You’re naked and hate your body. The politics of despair is sitting upon the economy of failure. Its blood is thinly strained vomit in your tea.
Or so it was written right there in the bloody margin. On the margin, with spatters of scotch and cigarette ashes rubbed in. All of it askew on a dusty desk amidst all my allegedly important “affairs…tes affaires,” or however the French euphemise the whole glut of insecure musings that one cannot bear to part with for some morbidly asinine reason, out of some need to embarrass oneself just one more time before death, a desire to be haunted by one’s own stupidity. I feel that they are coming for me; I smell their devious plots on the wind and see it in the wilt of the trees. Cameras trained on me everywhere I go…I am enemy number one, not public or private. That distinction is so (re)tired. I must, like so many rabbits to so many pursuers, leave a legacy of confusion in my wake…Perhaps an opening treatise on an abstruse language. I delicately finger through the relics and remains of my addled mind spilt and gutted all over badly absorbent sheets of wrinkled pulp:

For the delegates of linguistic control, Bushevikism, and President Busshein of the Interior: A language Primer…Through a selectionary device-versa of befounding newsome wordship as well as (s)wordplay, it maybecome necessary to (g)roundtable “false friend” (r)elations from etymologician comparisonalities confoundling prefixation/suffixation deriven from obliquary Latination. That I speak or write in this manner-banner is a processual of great confoundation to manyways. I hereby rectify antiquatarian forms of conventitive parlancary in the hopacy that otherhood persons will followance suitfully my exampling and con- (or pro-)structivize newsome wordagerie. Language evolvulates over timy eventions. Who am I to blockade-stockade these daringest attemptualities of poetic or poemic inventorialities? I wholeheartfully invite and encourageously empowerfulsome people to do so. In the sphericality of politiliquibrium, the matter maybecome jam-jarring, therebyline addering to the rhetorical obfuscationary of direct messagerie. Howeverly, it is my belief-relief that soon everymanyones will prostruct sension from this way of speaking. Sincerewise, ®o©-Hyd®@

I may have become the next Tolkien or the next great drunkard. Steps have been made in the case of the latter, and steps of avoidance have been made in the former. I have enough elves in my life, mostly bearing CIA-FBI-NSA stamps. I’m a stylish imp myself on that score…
Ha! They still can’t drive me out, though they try with all manner of ultimatums and exploding cigars! The fiends and all their little war machines in tow set out upon the world in a disgusting soda pop nudity chess game! It’s embarrassing (at least I’m mad and have some recourse to both excuse and truth). Still, there you are, wagging that ridiculous wart and snot-covered moral finger at me…saying that I have failed to reach the confession stage with all the rest of you troglodytes of insipid order and shame and guilt and law! But what have I to confess? Fear is what drives a world, and you petty moralists are arsenic proof in the poison pudding! And now you are detached from central mummy-daddy headquarters, like spores from a fungal god that has long since expired in a raging forest blaze! Little do you know that behind each one of your vapid laws and life-denying dictates of that overwashed moral cloak is a little spiteful Christ! I’ve read Nietzsche, and he speaks directly to me from the sky! I am Nietzsche, for all intents and purposes, for who does not become him in reading him? Quote me! I am Nietzsche! Quote me and let the sensations cause you all to talk behind my back and laugh like retarded baboons! Waiting around, thumbs up your asses, for some kind of analogous character reference? Who can afford character in this day and age? Character suffered a terrible mishap at the gnarled hands of corporate greed and politico-pop fortune! But you’re waiting…My Nietzscheanism, worn like a glove on my foot while I scream at the sun and vomit with glee…That is why I am so full of style! Confusion and stupidity is endemic to your species and so I wait for a people to come! The eternal return (the return of the eternal reternal) is too good for you as you bathe the telephone and email with your stupidly bovine tears! It isn’t a human principle like that organicist or evolutionist timeline you tacked on to your life as a means of limiting its true power…Or worse yet, that little well meaning moralism or Wallstreet Zen saying of the day you have jotted down at the bottom of your corporate ledgers from Hallmark and Friends! It is I who returns eternally, my type…The shoddy and cheap characters stay where they are, never come back, unless there is a loud clarion call for the accountants and shoehorn lawyers to come slapping back into play because we can’t keep up with our paperwork. Yes, you will never come back…You will stay exactly where you are…in the boiserie with all your other bazaar ornaments! As for your cheap and devalued sense of character, you can keep it!
And fuck those even cheaper among you who make a living and a killing spying on the likes of me, jailing our type, threading us through the unjust needle of justice! Fuck you servants of the surveillance cabal! Fuck your pro-Israeli gunworks and child’s play shit stacks of triple-top-secret documents and war plans and playing cards depicting what you call villains as a means of reinforcing the dull memories of the jocks you drafted into your campaign to subjugate the bloody globe! I’ve had enough of it! If you want to bug my house, keep eighteen satellites trained on my position, tell CNN exactly what evil things to say to me, make bald and asinine connections between me and Hitler, and forget all about the real history of the world as you go about rewriting it through the Hollywood filter, go right ahead! While you’re at it, and while your staggering patriotic blindness keeps you in my sights as nothing more than an over-mechanized society of fearful hatemongers stuck in some Disney version of the colonial American days, let it be known that from here on in I refuse to show clemency…I refuse to negotiate a truce. That is to say, we are on the antipodes…I see light, and I am airy, and all my senses are sharp like a seasoned wolf. You had over two centuries to get me on board, and look at the botch you made of the whole affair! I really hate it above all when George Orwell is right!
Of course, of course, I have to calm down…You’re not at my door just as yet. You’re a shrewd one. Maybe some of you at the top of the hate machine read some Nietzsche, too…but read him through a myopic existentialist lens as dictated to you by some rejected teacher from Vincennes who was still stuck in 1944 and grabbed at this lucrative deal to teach you at the fancy private school gulag of conformist American values. So now you want to talk about Dostoyevsky, how he relates to the Nietzschean-existentialist project. I may think you are laughably wrong, but at least I’m interested. I am to you as Nietzsche was to Dostoyevsky: I saw your work in the window and I really meant to read you, but…Hell, I think your reading of Dostoyevsky is pretty off base as well. You don’t have the spleen necessary, the suffering…It’s like you’re a goddamn Nazi reading novels by the Jews in the camps…You can’t truly relate, and besides you put them all their in the first place. That’s right: you are on the other bleeding side of the societal wound, and you just happen to be inflicting the most damage. So don’t get all “I beat my wife and now I am sorry, I kiss her, I hit her, I kiss her, etc.,” with me. That cycle of passive-aggressive abuse I can do without. Let me explain why I am a Dostoyevsky character type. Let us do the pedagogical thing and get all heuristic for the kids, shall we? Open your books to page one and let us begin reading whereI have marked off the perfect vignette that is supposed to enlighten us all about how I am and feel about the world: “I am a sick man. I am an angry man. I am an unattractive man. I think there is something wrong with my liver.” Trust a post-Enlightenment Russian to get it right every time! Nail on the head (and leagues better than our pompous Stalin/anti-Stalin graduate Yevtuskenko)! Hot iron up the ass of the one man czarist boutique of pathetically sallow values for shallow sows! I am the fourth corner of a defensive team that screams back at a world: Celine, Nietzsche, Dostoyevsky, and me. The four horsemen of the rant and vomit versus the 300 million horsemen of the rank and vile. You ridiculous club-footed insects! You mewling infants of the national infamy! Suburbanite Life without Parole—in every sense!
“I think there is something wrong with my liver.”
I think there is something wrong with your liver.
The negotiations have failed. We speak now in violent ultimatums. We speak now like men who do not speak but dictate their commands into the open air to a crowd of faceless obedients. From Capitol Hill to your front door, these three kings of black, red, and white have decided on breakfast for you—the chicken in every pot is in the mail (or available online: go to chickenineverypot.com…No, not “chic Lenin savoury pot”, you rank commie fascist commissar!).

My mind was throbbing with the noise, sequentially delivered, shunting me from plateau to plateau like falling down an impossibly endless staircase. Values: who needs them? The dead make no promises. The zodiac wheel is composed of threatened species on a merry-go-round of predictability and probability. The coffeemaker’s on fire and the old patriot with glaucoma is ritually disassembling and reassembling a regimental piece. I saw the coming of the war through the eyes of an angry child, and knew that when peace would one day return I would be a silently embittered husk…The then dead war would be dragged on the heels of an old man shuffling into the sea. Take it all with you! I saw the coming of the lord between the carnal lovers and the split pea pussy of a well-trained and well-oiled Roman whore. I saw it all through these eyes, but nothing but grief as passed through these hands and Chrysippusian chariots of despair from between the thin crack of my lips. I see the nation’s vagina now, seething and frothing like the mouth of a bull, breathing rhythmically and exhaling vapours that give colour to our ashen sky. Where will it end? Here they come, the men in suits with wires on their ears and guns in their holsters…perhaps pics of Mary Lou back home or the next mark on an ever growing list of Columbian assassinations.
The door gave way. It could not hold back the determined hordes of this spy network. I suddenly knew how Hegel must have felt way back when Napoleon’s army was marching into Iena. But I am not drunk yet to be Hegel. Not yet, I say. But before the words can make their transit into sound, I am buried under polished shoes with what seems to be the sound of a thousand Glocks cocking…I got a twelve count…Blow my brains out.
Twelve spies a-spyin’
Eleven files a-filin’
Ten commandments a-commandin’
Nine fish a-fryin’
Eight “terrorists” a-terrified
Seven Glocks a-cockin’
Six bones a-breakin’
Five shots a-firin’
Four seconds a-tickin’
Three Feds a-barkin’
Two times a-timin’
And one poor schmuck under the boot of the “Law.”

There are battlerinas in the avant-garden! Ah! So the vultures of creeping, suckfish Western Reason are at the gates! Converting the confused, beckoning all and sundry to join up with the orders of the banalization project of a world so that we can grin lifelessly like meek puppets! I smell their closet moral fascism behind their anti-European words, lingering like American fries on the breath of the foulest insurgents of a global harmony. They are the soulless ashen “normals” that put up NO SMOKING signs while distressed that they must abide by their own pallid liberalist principles…their true desire to clinicize and cure us mad, irrationalist advocates of pure and positive difference! Difference scares the vanguard of Reason; it threatens arson in the suburbs and a sudden feeling for life!
Those moss-backed, wax-eyed helots of the consensus Gestapo! If I have a seriously high degree of contempt, disgust, and nausea of the world and the complacency in which it is arranged, I am branded as a disgrace! A poor sport! Agitator! Terrorist! Disturber of the peace! Pfah, I say! If I feel contempt, I am alive, and I should not be penalized, incarcerated, or blackballed because I am not satisfied with the steaming pile of bloodied human excrement that stands before me that I am expected to endorse with my life and courage! I don’t even want to burn your flag; I’d rather just ignore it! I am alive, not like you! My ontological principle! Contempt = life in abundance, in excess…Complacency = life in a deprivation tank of saccharin virtues situated in a landfill of commercial clichés! Sorry for the math, but it seems to be the only language you obedient servants to the arch-lords of astrological statistics seem to understand. While you tap my shoulder, I pound the drums of a new and glorious war that actually means something! While you cough and shuffle about, rattling with old, undigested bones from the Enlightenment-gone-sour, I live and breathe flames, force, and fluid! I am the napalm of new values! I am the studded and spiked wheel that rips apart a mundane landscape of uniformity! I am a despiser of the sick and wretched who take pride in being wretched and sick! I would rather annihilate those laden down like mules with the heavy saddlebags of pointless morals! Go live and die by your burdens! Go scrape those values against the stones until you fashion yourself a tombstone worthy of your despicable desires! Your desires are, in a touch, just too embarrassing, weak, paltry, disappointing, and petty for me to entertain. Who taught you to want such small things? I have no patience for miniscule gestures and false movements of dead spirits! Fie on all of you! The further out into the margins you push us, the louder we yell!
You forgot nazism so quickly, too quickly, that it has set up shop in your hearts. But it, too, was polluted by your John Stuart Christ and (d)Rawlsian parlour talk! What abomination you have spawned! Polite nazism has slapped its deformed fins upon the shore of this new century! You’ve even made the activists bland and apologetic!

You want a statement from me? Guilty, no less? I’ll give you exactly what you want to hear, the right trigger words that will get me put away and you a fat promotion: bomb the buildings! Assassinate the heads of state! Be a public disorder! Unleash biological weapons! Cull the herd! Spread chaos with more force than the colonizers’ Word of Christ! Hell, become a Chao-Christi par excellence! Break that wall of brain-dead complacency! I call for DISCORTION, not repetitive revolution; CHAOLITICS, not the tired old corpse of failed democratic process; PROVECUTION, not execution; ERISTOPIA, not Reason Aeternitae. Fuck greeting cards, too! Into the shredders and hearths! Send HellMark contempt cards! Vomit with conviction and rage at the dying of the television light! Chastise joggers by lobbing hand grenades at them as they jiggle by in neon spastic avalanche! Engage the telephone solicitor with an ear-bleed polemic! Make them all pay, make them ashamed that they have squandered their lives for little more than a handful of magic prozac jellybeans! So stop trying to bludgeon me into a near-death state with your repugnant returns to fate, to Oedipus, to whatever White Christ draped in the Flag of Fear you’re selling this week. But you are so bloody content in your normalcy, aren’t you? Listening to that bland, vapid pop trash that just sounds like a bad mix of Muzak, Christian choir, archaic housewifery, all spewing out of a mechanical randomizer—and that is your “hard core” risqué music! People like you are dead inside, and it would do us all a grand failure if someone with the kajones to jiggle the hegemony a bit would march you all right up to the wall for one last diet cigarette. You useless, system-building, system-clogging fuckers! You banally tragic parasites on true creative fervour! You dampeners of life! You dimmers of the sun! How did you insensitive, lifeless husks get control of my world? No doubt by creeping and crawling on your bellies, scheming in the shadows, and narcolepsizing the world ever so gradually until this: a bland slop of homogeneity! Back in my day, the kids were bitching about cops and fascist government, whereas today they bitch about bad internet connections. Where to lay the blame, if blame is to be laid. Why not skip all the pretense, all the false and illusory “we care about our employees/customers” rhetorical bullshit and just put Elton John, Phil Collins and Martha Stewart and her little housewife nazi empire into power? Lifeless dreck! Inane and repugnant stupidity at every turn! Now all of your butchery a world away has been sophisticated with the best technology in proportion to your numbing politeness about it all. True daring is not mixing a bit of real sugar in with the decaf, friends. Consumers taking control of their situation is also a big farcical illusion, too, so don’t be waving those sales and flyers in my face, saying that you’ve got “choice”: choice is something you surrendered long ago, and now your children play with toys that play with themselves, or bleach their hair at seven years old afraid to get mud on their designer “fuck me” Calvin Klein wardrobe. You surrendered choice when you bought the first “fuel efficient” family automobile that just sucks and wheezes like your failing desire! You broke with choice the day you thought all was okay to let the politicians do and say everything for you, in the infinite trust that they are right and you are just a meek little nobody whose power does not extend beyond the condominium council of Aesthetic Lawns. Fuck your type! It is you who is responsible for all the suffering of ghetto kids, the triumph of sick values of the weak, the exploitation and death of entire “less than Western democratic” nations! It is you, dear fat consumer, who props up the system of global repression with just one more hand when you buy that Celine Dion CD or get a Big Mac. For every piece of trash you consume with your eyes, ears or mouth, another artist and thinker dies a little more, is made to suffer penniless, is sent to the slaughter bench of your values! Why should the most adventurous and alive beings be marched to the guillotine all on the basis of your fear, docility, and uninspired way of life? Why do you promote the most talentless schmaltz, endorsing it with your dollars, keeping in league with what is proper, acceptable, and popular in your fat belt of suckfish class? Afraid of the dark, are we? Afraid of life, are we? So, this is the Great Society: equally barbaric and dull. From which will it suffer collapse from first? Barbarity or dullness? When someone sheds just one tear, do you declare that it was the most powerful emotional sentiment ever expressed and then rush to get the sad out with a whole rainbow of prescriptions? “Thinking makes me sad,” you say. Well, boo-hoo! Do you think by not thinking about the world and how it really is that the problems just go away? Do you think that a paisley and pink wall in a gated community and a thousand TV-inspired family Christmas dinners is going to cover over the whole mess? While your elected officials’ strategy is “deny, deny, deny”, yours is “ignore, ignore, ignore.” Frankly, your way of “life” stinks. It’s so dead. I am almost sorry for your loss. But the cycle of blame is only intensifying over time, and soon all of you will have to face the harsh realities of this world and its frightening glut of serious questions. What then? Not all the bourgeois amenities you enshroud yourself in like some extended social blanket will serve as anything but a preservative coffin. And, to counter the current strategies of just claiming unaccountability in this rather clumsy game of pass the buck, decentralize all power structures so no one person can be said to be the one responsible, the cycle of blame will reach such a pitch that soon everyone will be responsible. Or die trying. So spare me your slow, creeping death and your conservative bourgeois mindfuck with all its illusions of freedom and adventure and extreme sports—it’s all a mad dash at the eleventh hour of your inevitable overturning! Your demise will hopefully be quick and cause little noise, like a vessel popping in the dark recesses of the brain. People like you make Hitler look like a good Samaritan with strong personal values. Maybe the indoctrination was too successful, and it will take a great calamitous catastrophe to lift the spell. Even if it can be proven that all of you were unwitting victims of a post-Enlightenment façade, I won’t be the one writing your apology. For that you will have to appeal to the court of the true kings, all those you have wronged in your indirect genocide.
Reject the organs of Reason the Many have transplanted into your brain! Speak from the spleen! Bite the faces off lawyers, accountants, and politicians! Raze entire suburbs with your principles of a will to live now and eternally! Encourage children to pelt soldiers with stones! Sew upon the American president the body parts of those he has ever ordered killed under the cold shadow of patriotic flag! Declare the death of Christ as collateral damage and defile the cross! Murder the useless in the name of a sainthood you define! Let us relive and make successful all that was begun in 1968! Rise! Rise! Rise!

And then I was carted off in a dark, unmarked van destined for some bleak setting where no one would hear my pleas, rants, or screams. Freedom of speech will die with me, it would seem. This night has already claimed so many victims.

40. Yz

Hahaha! Hahahaha! Children gather and let me share with you this wondrous, bountiful laugh, this precious joke…which, veiled beneath in a covert operation to educate, to instruct, as an allegory, my truths of history made digestible for your unrefined and weakened palettes. So…Lesson one, the first joke after the math, aftermath, when your parents learn the cruel trick played on them by an awful ancestral lineage to one grossly horrible lie: pretender of a future-fantastic reversion of Egypt, prior and subsequent to antiquity-Christian-postmodernity. Yes, sages of the cyber-optic age with the eyes of an arachnid Argus set in gyroscope pools while the rest of us bake evenly on all sides in this, our nation’s great consumer-kitchen-easy-bake oven. Sex Com CEO magnates with candid portraits of sequined madonnas and vicious looking rapist-Mongols and pop star odalisques retreating into abysmal and treacherous nocturnal forests (sometimes held captive by new crusaders with rifles who have big red crosses on their backs, in ocean-desert-jungle fatigues for all seasons) run up enormous bills that will never be paid. Poor world, eh? All the rational men in turbans must now suffer at this point while an enemy rogue nation has camouflaged all of its nefarious intentions under an electronically accessible Christ. Fatigues for you, fatigue for me. Want to know more, kiddies? Visit your local law enforcement agency and say with conviction that you are threatening terrorist action against the American Family. That’s a sure way to take a short tour to the snap-crackle-pop chair. Yes, the electrified throneroom for you while they swab your temples like little Virgin Marys before a live studio audience who are there just for the smell of the whole sensation.
Did you know that I have written a book? Several, in fact. They are all available online, but I have misplaced the URL. I write mostly history. I am paid to be as pompous and inaccessible as possible. I am paid to be obtuse and so impossible to read that I must succeed in not being read. Alienate your audience, they say, that way they will declare you a genius. I am, of course, not a genius, but a sot. I am just an oily eel with the word. People assume that if it is hard to understand, then it must be profound. I like that in a world. It makes me laugh so very hard. It makes me pound my withered little fists against the ground and scream confusedly for my mother to come out and tend my skinned knees. It makes me appreciate the tragedy of my many symbolic castrations. It brings me peace with this land and its pointless ornaments. And I sure do like to be showered with ornaments! So many that they make me choke! Stifle me with completely ephemeral knick-knacks and pictures of looming and never satisfied daddy! Let me tell a few tales, some vignettes to take into bed for your masturbation fancy…
Epic (of the land): the apocalypse is in new age chrome on the Church of the Shopping Network with their flesh burning and construction girder throats collapsing under a pink napalm strike, news journalists scream at this final climax like 60’s style renditions of Beatles fans. Some blank-faced white-haired old man ahead of the curtain, fourteen stories above it all, made to appear waxy and cadaverous in scalloped light, has declared that he wants it all. He will certainly get it. He smiles, camera fade after pan on crumbling network of inverted mass spectrometer reading skyline, single and melancholic piano fade away. Black.
Kings and Days (and all those things we do not have anymore): The bones of the impossible Enlightenment and uncovered Caesars have splintered in the great Geist’s gastrointestinal industrial complex failure. Fractures and tears are euphemized as postmodern neurosis, as techno-anonymity, as freed from overcoded significance, as triumphs of art and what was touted as the great phasing out of the monolithic head of state dissolved into decentralized pluralist nodes betrays knowledge of the real event: decentralization at the cost of a very bloody decapitation. The gradation is not progressive, just murky…a means of camouflaging the truth of a collective fractured consciousness screaming and eating itself, or just isolated into monadic constellations each orbited by the phantasms of terror and beguiled by nightmares. The king once announced the end of an age, but it truly was a misinterpretation and his true intention has been lost…The king was announcing the end of himself, and up he went, forever leaving us behind to fend for ourselves, and vowing never to return.
Little Boats (aren’t we all?): One water, one people. We the bearded fisherman are too old for passions and long repartee with words and swords…too clever and wary, too saturated in salmon sorrow. For decades we have struggled against the vicissitudes of a fickle sea, in times of high or low yield, sometimes one big cresting water comb-over claiming a roaring and kicking bearded life right down into its black, murky bosom. Yes, and other old fishwives’ tales, those that are told by men-tongues around the whiskey orbit of nod ‘n drink. Or the old heroes made so tall and glittering raincoat wet in those stories are remembered over black draft in oil lamplit oilskin grimace surround in hip-waders and storm hats. The lighthouse keeper watches as everything into the sea, in time. Even his daughter, becoming one of them mermaid folk, he jokes, while the same lighthouse keeper’s daughter is the starry jewel in the crown of some filthy townie. But everything into the sea of time, right quick! Bombs and fish, nazis killing Jews, Jews killing Islam. Not a difference but the separate cloth of time. One solid stroke of a morose yellow beam floating, bobbing on darkly crested waves, distorted by a sound deadening mist.

Can you hear the rat-tat-tat of the computer? A sun spun of sugar leaks yellow and orange foam-fever all over a docile, nostalgic suburban-sunburn sundown. The day is done for cautious men who have now shriveled into their dinners and wives, retreated into the prime time news or the rancid family obligations. A gap in the age, and in rush the hydras and gorgons, basilisks and spidery-eyed odalisques that glint in reflection of a sultan’s turban ruby in a long lost strip of silent celluloid of a colonizer’s British, all too British home.
One solid Doric arm driven right through the heart of the earth…We grind our teeth to a halt over tongue highway word. A word clarified through one million colour filters either destined to skid off the skin’s surface or head right into the bone like a whipping beta particle. All of it arrayed on a dissection slab, and us without our memories, us without our tools, us without our understanding. Instead, in their place, fantastic instruments of impossible geometry.
We are dangling off the arms of apes, a last loose link swaying perilously in an increasing wind over a molten stew of acosmic surrender, of the kind of dissolution-suicide without sound or spectator. What do you think of freedom now, asks the smug man in the suit with his fingers steepled in front of him, his elbows swinging over a report of his historical findings—nada. I say that the room is barely furnished. He says that apart from my negativity, minimalism is the last step toward disappearance, a kind of modified neo-post-buddhism in the aim of being a being who is finally imperceptible. It is, he says, a silent acceptance of surrendering possessions and ornamentation, of accepting the pointlessness of having anything at all. I respond that it is truly a lack of imagination, or a need to simplify in an age of postmodern complexity. He laughs, calls me naïve, states boldly that I bandy postmodern about as if anyone had a clue, becomes wistful for a moment as he collects his gaze into one central fibrous point in space. Essence, I say, to which he replies: never again. God help the chiasm between us all.
I am thrown out into the street with all the other little monsters, smaller metal monsters buzzing in their pockets, behind their ears, in sacks, everywhere. Advertisers are looking for loyalty or numbers or both…They are the new candidate candy kings or dragons of democracy. I wish they would stop asking me if I’m hungry…am I sick…afraid…in pain. I wish the world would just stop attending to my needs in its own greedy multi-interested fashion. I almost feel guilty for not being tired, hungry, sick or in pain more often, and the angry multi-headed dragon of production-consumption-excretion remains unappeased for it so desires to serve or service me at the ultimate cost. I find it sad that the consumer-targeting machines who hunt us down to service us will never be sated, never have its fill, never have done with anything, never be able to attend to my most non-monetary and fundamental needs. I find it sadder still that, though it aims high for the absolute, it will always fall short and fail. It will never resolve the cosmic enigmas; resolve, dissolve, or dominate the other. It is too well-patterned on sex: it will never exhaust its desire, for its desire is lack. I turn my desire to the empty rather than let my desire be an emptiness to be filled with objects in geometric space or crucifix space or bank space or virtual reality space which can do nothing more or less but continue to disappoint me. I turn away, I turn away, but to where? Everywhere the gorgon’s head faces me, freezes me into position, steals my wallet, my attention. I am in a carnival of mirrors where reflections are doctored to reflect back at me what I ought to be according to Wall Street, and what I ought to have in order to be “happy.”
Every one of you, loyal to several beasts at once, numbers in their reports, tangible feel of your flesh in their profit margins, a head count in the bar graphs. Every one of you, endlessly wandering the aisle with your market profiles, those empty aisles where there is so much of nothing to distract your desires. Or else I see you shambling across an internet runway into a commercial sea of pop-ups and other life-devouring jack-in-the-boxes with no hope take-off. Just so many screen mediations. Six screen meditations: A Descartography…
Sing a song, children, sing a song with me of Cogito. I to Cog. O Cog it. I Go to C, to go I C. I got Co., git coo’. Meditation-medication. Crockwork Universe. Greatest Vegas Physicist; Wayne “Isaac” Newton. Meditation number one: I hereby provisionally doubt or even deny my existence (as I stare blankly at the television set). There was an error calling up my webpage, script not defined, java plugs not installed. I am disconnected, and therefore how do I know that the Great Deceiver did not sabotage either my settings or connections? Number two: O Great Deceiver in the sky and in the earth, this domain is but an egg waiting to hatch!

41. Ghi

Before you counter that, indeed the city is not an ear but an expansive vagina, I have already anticipated and refuted this objection. When last I took a wife, I experimented in this nether-region by making two loud proclamations: one vacuous and meaningless, and the other of such epistemological sophistication and fortitude as to render philosophers in a most speechless and contemplative awe. Nothing was echoed back, much to my chagrin and experimenter’s hopeful vigour. My wife, always such an hysterical obstacle against the pursuit of human knowledge in its myriad of forms, the eternal doggerel and harpy of thinking, the enemy of the meticulous and busy scientist, left me shortly thereafter and claimed the reason for the divorce as “irreconcilable differences” and “mental defective disorder.” No matter. Women are not in possession of full rational capacities and have no palate for the more refined movements of a thinking mind. I am even considering repealing our extending humanity to these beastly gender, what with all the problems they have caused. History supports this claim all too well. It is for these reasons, and a host of others which I will only later disclose in timely fashion, that we must bar entry to women in concerns a project of this magnitude, this tentative and grandiose nature where only rationally capable minds will prevail. We need to focus. We must wage a strategic war against the ear! Aude-dua, my friends, the battle plan of the ancients improved upon!

I have frequently stated in my several letters sent to your office in the last fourteen months (by my count), which have been categorically ignored for reasons unclear and baffling, that the city is an enormous ear. Yet, it would seem, my very urgent assertion and call for action—made even more so by a characteristic negligence on the part of your office and staff—has been tossed aside like so much clutter. I have received no reply from your office in regards to the 52 constantly restated assertions. At first I had thought that the style of my treatise was not eloquent and academically rigorous enough for your refined palate, and so I increased my verbosity and inserted more metaphor and figural concepts. Still receiving no reply, and owing to my own editing insecurities which dictated that I had done the exact opposite of what was actually required of me, I entertained the notion that I had embarrassed us both with my high falutin exposition and rather stodgy prose, so I wrote a concise and simplified version that would appeal to your sense of the concrete and straightforward, myself being sensitive to the time constraints of others who would not desire to spend such a lengthy time poring over that which is perhaps stilted and onerous to read. As this still did not elicit a response, I tried multiple variations on the theme, yet to no avail. Plainly stated, I do not know what is expected of me to gain an appreciable audience with you in the efforts to effect change in this dire matter that demands our concerted immediate attention if the situation is to be reversed or thwarted.
I then postulated that my letter was taken very seriously, and after a long series of considerations and deliberations within your office during meetings that lasted well into the night, you and your staff had come to a conclusive stance on the subject. Or maybe you may still be deliberating, but I apologize if my upbringing deems it usually appropriate in these circumstances to give word, some acknowledgement of receipt of my correspondence. Perhaps the gravity of this situation demands a great deal of careful prudence and security, that it would compromise to send word at this early stage without working to the detriment of our mutual desires. If this is the case, you are to be commended for your wisdom, although it will prove frustrating for the both of us at these early phases of the project to remain incommunicado because circumstances as they are dictate it as such. Lord only knows that a situation of this grave magnitude, of such crucial import, of such pressing urgency, would not be settled in haste. But this still leaves out the necessary explanations as to why no correspondence through any means whatsoever have yet been attempted, unless these attempts have been thwarted by villainous forces that work counter to our aims. You cannot blame a man who has only this unbearable scenario to confront on a daily basis to be a bit wary, anxious, impatient, suspicious, and thoroughly pessimistic. I do not wish to disparage against your competence in these matters, for I am divorced from any knowledge of your actions and intentions at this time, and so I beseech you to regard my tone charitably in the context of my mounting panic. Have I contacted the right organization?
My most pressing worry is that your office has not only declined any action against this auralic urban situation, but that you heavily endorse it for reasons arcane and diabolical.
Let me restate my general aims. For more specific details, please confer with my previous correspondence with your office. If more details are needed, I will forward these at the earliest convenience.

The city is an ear, not an eye. Surveillance in the sky and behind black orbs in shopping malls only confuses us to the contrary, forces us to regard the illusions and take them as truth, and so we lapse into error about the truly fundamental issue obscured by these red herrings. Each building and hill is but another ridge or fold in this biomechanically fused sense-organ, and every furrow and street is another soft groove. When people speak, voices travel into the opening of this enormous ear where it vibrates a metaphysical tympanum. Vapid and superficial sentiments are echoed back immediately, whereas profound statements travel for deep and long into the ear and only echo decades or centuries later. This causes a variety of problems, implications which demand our immediate attention. It is not hard to discern what these problems might be. It is a threat to our own patently intelligible ontological understanding of the world! This ear is a robber-baron of profoundly reflective and speculative thought! It keeps such useful thoughts to itself, holding them hostage as the world suffers from the absence of these necessary fruits of speech. I am calling for a massive scale dismantling of this ear and a mining expedition to retrieve our most precious ideas from that abysmal hole!

We all want to kill ourselves…one day, one day.

A world of things, the world of things, can do nothing but haunt me. And I am a haunted man, composed of overlapping surfaces wrapped together in a hastily under-drawn fleshy envelope, or a badly rendered cartoon in this infinite night. I inspect the seams that will not be there. Phantom archives of phantom histories tended by phantoms. The sensations I receive in the moment are always expired. That they age and die in the transfer between objects and sense is not the issue—the sensation expired in the sense. Not “in the sense that” but qua sense it is expired a phantom. Phantom objects can issue nothing other than themselves, just as phantom limbs can only pick up their own kind. But this is merely the life of a myth. We sense and know just as the amputee swears pain issues from an absent leg. And we project the phantom appendages across vast ethereal distances, setting out virtual pseudopods…our communication devices, thoughts of the future, thoughts of distance. How far will this sound travel? The city is one big ear infested with phantom images under an endless feminine night that refuses to lift the veil and dispel all the cluttered illusions that have since set up reign here. It is like I have been sentenced back to my mother’s womb with all that I know now, and all I can do is mimic with my body all those diurnal habits I once enjoyed on the outside.
What is it like on the outside? Is it absurd and preposterous to speak of outsides when all there is left is a perilous and infinite journey to the inside? I miss the day, as I miss life.
The famous song, A Day in the Life should end as two cars are suspended in an unavoidable and gruesome collision. I step into such an image and find myself curiously smiling, feeling that guilty erotic charge in my pants stirring. I do not like cars. They do not interest me. Aficionado is a vulgar word. I begin to wonder how others can keep smiling when they know they are such vulgar beasts. That song functions for me as the critical apex of the historical record of that time, a slicing vignette, as well as the most potent critique of the existential futility of an emergent mindless middle class mentality in post-war Britain. Freedom is here, but its core has gone dry and rotten. We all have a piece of that freedom, each of us with a lump of petrified matter caged within the chest to rattle there with the rest of our consumed toxins. This, my chest, my sunken chest, like pirates’ treasure, but empty, or full of air pockets awaiting release by a fool. Coins of thought above turning to slurry and dross. I cannot parrot my values as they do. I cannot pretend to look both ways before crossing the street; I know the many do it out of show while they merely wait for the green light trigger. Pavlov. The deadly knell of the bell.

42. Jonkil

So they have me in their eagle talon’s grasp! Today! Perhaps they will pin all their failures on me—this endless night, the economy’s fatigue, all manner of ill—just to declare me a terrorist and march me up to the press lights and the electric chair. Confess, confess, they demand. To what? Everything! Every national embarrassment from the signing of the Declination of Impudenda. Fuckers with their manifold gun-tote bags on a one-way washing ticket to Delawary retard-scuzzbucket goop swilling freak lager!
“We have surveillance footage of your being present at the Louisville bombing.”
“May I see this footage?” I ask.
“That evidence is proprietary.”
Of course. All the proof they need is in their holsters.
We are coming to the very absolute limit of all things, aren’t we, when history itself unravels, lets its hair down, proves Hegel right…or something. We find ourselves at the foot of the throne of death…an omnium gatherum at the bete noir of finitude—of life’s only end. I have uttered these words before, elsewhere, in some other context, albeit with some modifications. A great editor in the sky looms over my life, slashing at it from afar with big red streaks. All the corrigenda will be presented when it is too late, when there will be no chance for corrections.
Damn you Christian consumer gluttons with all your bric-a-brac! It is you who sent me here to die, thrust me into the arms of evil, poisonous jellyfish! It’s your climactic white noises that judder throughout this infinite darkness, and I want nothing more than to have your shame obscured. Please, place the fig leaf over your wallets.
“Where were you on the night of…” they ask.
“That evidence is proprietary,” I say, rightly so, but they are thinking it is a failure in cute reversion. But I have my modus operandi, too! It just is not aligned with the State apparatus. It just does not get federal funding. Still valid, nonetheless. I wonder if these spooky cretins understand?
I am put in a holding cell of some sort, a movement from one drab interrogation room to another, from one tactic of heavy persuasion to another.

43. Def

The solution to the grand equation was coming into sharper focus, the robust zero rapidly approaching as both Utro and I anticipated and dreaded. Civilization itself would fall into ruin under the immense gravity of our answer, our tweaking with their real, the cosmic goose-egg that suddenly rendered absurdity sensible to the sundry masses. All of it shaken into horrible, logical focus: every little cancerr, every length of uninspired sidewalk, every Starbucksian motif emblazoned in an act of multiply frantic reflective copulation, the endless tracts of pre-occupied cubicles, row upon row of garden computers lined up like little neon screen-Jesus-saved crosses, the echo of interminable headlights in streams of fishy traffic, the vibrating micro-machines in so many designer pockets, the concretized commercial buttes, the looking-glass palisades of downtown skytowers, the iron wrought imitation Jesus lollygagging with preachy precision perched on perches, the long subterranean scars of train rails like so many junky’s tracks beneath the urban arm, the clothing of cornsilk retro, the enigmatic Chinese boxes of bureaucracy…This was the zero-progress, 3:33 am. Blink. Stop. Blink. It was as if something bigger than all of us, all of this, was refusing to let time keep on going at its normal rate until we stopped our filthy progressive habits. What sort of beast would do that? What kind of near-Sartrean hell had we plunged into? Now? Progress is demonism, I suppose, or so Utro said, couched in everything seen, touched, tasted, and touched. I came into being just at the time it was all getting very interesting. Some men make the epoch, and some epochs make the man; just so many epistemic suits that go well with the décor with the fucking discordianist Zeitgeist. Whatever. I had no memory of a “yesterday,” and so I could not be called upon to give a damn, as long as we would get out of here.
Utro and I walked for hours over the unsteady gelatin face of the city whose name I had already forgotten moments after it was finally revealed to me. Not important, I guess. Sometimes history and memory are just those unfortunate shit stains that arc at the ass juncture of the underwear. Utro had calmed down considerably in manner, no longer sustained by what appeared to be a cocaine rush of mad gibbering and spitting. He wanted to launch shaggy cigarettes off the canal and talk about Descartes, or someone inspired by him perhaps.
“Okay,” he began—this would be a long time coming, his manner choppy like the invisible waves of what moves—“the man with the gears stared intrepidly over the dull glow that hung like a nicotine patina over his creations, this awful candlelit prison. Each of his creations was marked and inflected with his peculiar brand of genius, each one like a devilish zygote set in grooved, symmetrical cavities. Supporting the workbench that housed them was a rust-coloured cabinet, and inside was a staggered and confused collection of pulleys, springs, and gears that moved at alternate speeds. The cabinet had a small gold plate affixed to it, reading Picoridibibi’s Box. This was, for our friend, the source of his inspiration, the birthing chamber of his techno-alchemy (if we may so call it today). His newest creations were still hot from the forge, steam rising in wispy curls forming a white-grey noose around his neck, another tradesman’s beard. The hot glint of new iron-molded flesh dulled as it became actualized in the coldness of the day. There would be no deviations in his final touches on the ordered world, the clockwork universe, the picture-perfect design to correct the errors of God’s Plan. Physics and mechanics was humanity’s overcoming of the great Paternal Progenitor. This man was an expert at making clocks and watches. He did not fabricate ordinary timepieces, but extraordinary specimens, aligned with the pull of the earth, fashioned against all the principles that had fascinated him in the New Mathematics. These were his monuments to time, as a well-ordered sequence of predictable precision. How would he reconcile this zeal for perfection when wherever he cast his gaze about the multitude he had to face the gross errors of his land, the people, their efforts that unwittingly created chaos?”
Utro paused with the quirkiest of smiles and a kind of bubbling, frothing laugh that bespoke of his madness. But it was not a threatening madness, if one was on the right side of the struggle. It was the laugh of a child grown so very old, yet still a child, a thousand-year-old child fraught with the great dementia of walking through glades and talking to gods like one would converse with work associates.
“Let me go on,” he said, “for this part is the real kicker...His flavour for this mathematical arcane and devotion to the meticulous earned him the privilege of designing the clock in the small town’s central tower. His masterpiece was soon lodged in the tower in plain sight of the gallows, and it recorded with its face the faces of those who were sentenced to death, that clock face the last image in the brain before the world went black. And in a town this austere, touched so often by plagues and invaders, carefully planked-up with wooden slats, this clock was naturally embedded in its surroundings, like it had grown there of its own volition…It chimed every quarter-hour, hanging like an unblinking eye from which no one could be shielded. For our friend, each of the chimes conjured up memories of every single gear and fitting he had placed there, an intimate knowledge of its working organs, seeing only through a machinist’s lens. He had no patience for the aesthetic, claiming it as a deviation from the status quo. His own work of letters was devoted to the instauration of a clockwork society, but unlike Machiavelli, he had no one of political repute he could persuade to put his genius into motion. Just the clock. And so he put everything into that clock, even his little treatise, that yellowed, quill-scratched paper in the tell-tale viscera of his sparse and measured words to no one at all.
“His name was James Baker, descended from a line of bakers, of course, back in a time when names meant things. He was an ugly, lonely man with a calcified complexion and he kept mostly to his own personal projects, rarely associating with the townsfolk unless it was to conduct the daily business. He kept himself afloat by selling splendid timepieces to rich travelers who had not the mental aptitude for mathematics to truly appreciate his creations. How he hated the country and that age. If only his kind could seize control, to turn back the tide of France’s bouffant luxuries that came sweeping from across the Channel. The worst kept secret of the King’s losing of his wits only added more fuel to James’ convictions that a clockwork world would be all that would truly redeem us all. As he said once, off-handedly, to himself and his infinite musings on the empire: ‘the crown is denuded of its past glory, like the plundered coffers of a count now made a spectacle for the public. If England knows no shame, it is because it is shameful through and through.’ He was, for all that, not entirely embittered about the prospects of the future. He cocked an ear to the rumbling of the age. The clothiers were revolutionizing their practices by retiring the handmaidens with their clumsy rural traditions for looms and spinners. He regarded the new methods of smelting and coke-fed furnaces as positive, as well as the seemingly endless uses for steam-based engines. If only, he thought, these new mechanical innovations could be harnessed and applied to something more crucial: the engineering of the people. When the revolution swept through France, he already believed that the God-given institution of the King was an archaic idea worth the goaf; had he his own way, the empire would be ruled by a collective of engineers and machinists.
“His contempt for the age got the better of him, lowering notch by notch into a personal frenzy, into more isolated instances of furious and feverish writing. He desired to crucify the wicked artisans upon monolithic watch hands. He tempted time with the meat of his body, and realized that perhaps he could outpace time. He wrote with devils behind his eyes. His words warbled upon the page with such manic flux that he could not spare a precious second in ensuring, as he usually did, the penmanship he applauded himself for having. His passions had gotten the better of his zeal for perfection. The ideas poured out of him into the moulds of a machinist Arcanum. From the words spread the endless testing tubes, crucibles, the time-piece homunculi, the spagyric alembics distilling the bizarre play of ideas through the ether. And if he was successful, he thought, his name would be embossed with greater care than a monogram of Christ, and his body would be kept warm for all eternity knowing that his idea was aligned with Right.
“He created an elaborate code that would only come into effect centuries later. His reasons for this are unclear. The code is open today. James began corresponding with a Swiss alchemist by the name of Johann Obercit who just happened to be working on a similar variation of the equation-code. Instead of positing a governmental reform like a Marsi would charm poisonous serpents with magic songs, both men knew that the true solution would not come about through royal edict or minor political revision. For them, it was a three-pronged approach: the reason of a scientist, the precision of a guild craftsmen, and the harnessing of whatever emerged from the uterus of industry. What was the quinta essencia of what they perceived to be the problem and solution? Reason itself was not in itself viable to correct the errors of nature, or at least not the abstract metaphysical Reason that had preoccupied so many in those days, a long and fruitless debate on paltry matters like ‘does colour exist in the object or in the mind of the perceiver?’ No, that was vile-minded and vulgar.”
“So what ever came of this machinist Arcanum?” I asked.
“So glad you asked! This is where you and I suddenly come into the picture, swinging our legs over the balcony in preparation to make a grand leap. James and Johann got hunkered down into their project, feeding off one another’s obsession. Just like us. They were trying to find the cosmic equation, and once found, to modify it slightly to kickstart the clockwork universe fantasy. Pure Harmony. They had much of the raw data, curiously enough, but not the technology to work out the permutation factors. What they did mathematically took them two decades, what would take a computer two minutes. It’s kind of sad when you think of how much time they wasted. We’re talking real cagey and paranoid guys, here. I mean, if word got out about their project, they’d of either been hung or sent to the madhouse, depending on the whim of the court. They died as they lived: faceless and ignored. Their work was never taken up, forgotten, and absorbed by the families of the deceased, kept in cellars, the like. But they did leave an impressive document, of over ten thousand pages of small script! This was what we—you and I—were working on before you lost your wits.”
“This must be very frustrating for you, me not remembering…Especially since this project sounds as if it is of the greatest importance.”
“Oh, not at all,” he said. “When it comes to frustrating things, I have enough ciphers, talismans, and obscure codes to give me all the frustration—and joy—I need. Besides, I like to retell this story; it allows me to get a bird’s eye fix on the whole affair. I’m just a punk rocker math genius, heh, with a thorough background in Kabbalah. I read Crowley and open nodes into the future. Your strength is in making permutations. That is how we met. We are, in a touch, incredibly mentally fucked. You and I are trying to get to the bottom of this mystery and build an incredible life-machine to escape this sordid and banal excuse for life, to make our exodus to dimensions unknown, wild and creative. We want to fuck with the code, make the world a freaky circus. We don’t do it just because we can; we do it because we introduce the world to its infinite horizons. That’s just a really rough version of our plans.”
“Not all at once. I still need to make a decision. I still have to decide whether I want back in on this project of ours, once I know what it is in its entirety. If I lost my memory, then it may be because I got too deep, and I may need to withdraw from it. I don’t know. We are building a machine, that I can see, and I feel obligated to a past I cannot access to continue my efforts, but—“
“There is no obligation. Sign in or sign off.”
I could see that he was trying to demure a bit, to take the edge of his lacquered sales pitch. But I could tell that he could stand to lose a great deal by my not wanting to cooperate. A major setback. And I would be loathe to restart a life with a series of mounted disappointments.
“When does the night lift in these parts?” I asked, changing the subject with irrevocable subtlety.
“Ha!” he exclaimed. “When it wants to, of course!”
More questions, and the answers fade from view, just another patch of morning mist fading off, another veneer of senior illusions having their colour sucked back into the bland and dusty fabric of age.


44 Legare

She has taken to more desperate attempts to rekindle love within her, dressing up the old corpse of who I was to her at some amazing point in time, plunging headlong back into reverie and curling photographs. Or maybe old pink-ribbon and perfume emails and browning JPGs on the grand cyber-victrola. Play it Again Sam. And again. Her breasts heave up and down like an accordion bladder draped sloppily with flesh not quite taut enough to give them shape. I forward her in time like they do in police notices of “what he may look like now” or lapse photography film of an orange rotting. First the skin sucks itself in and curls, goes grey and green, loses its shape and youthful sheen. Like an orange, I keep telling myself. And then I liken her to a fruit gone sour or rotten. A victim of the entertainment highway, at the national average of having spent maybe twelve years total on the posterior in front of a television set, consuming a grand total of 170 staggering tons of salted cheese snacks. And then again, at the toilet, the grand tally of time spent pushing out that 170 tons plus whatever else into a little porcelain bowl to be whisked off to a magical place no one other than sanitation engineers ever think about. Pull it in, push it out, and the wear begins to show after a lifetime of half-chewed regret and shameful neglect. I’m no more innocent.
With objective eyes, I could see how she could resemble a worn out old whore. But, my whore, right? All for me. My piece of the sexual dream, our manic coupling. One plus one equals two, so says the Bible. Two and two equal one, yet again. Whatever gets us through the perpetual shine of black sunlight, like an eternal eclipse.
We decadent beasts, we mores and astringent using sink cloggers. We meticulous hoarders of infinite trash to patch up our homey mausoleums of disgust and despair. I look at her now, bent over like a hook, and I begin to think of how our Great Kingdom (elected, mind you) of Reason has keeled over on itself like a building tired with age or an old man in the throes of his last heart attack. You let go of the winter shovel, fall to the driveway, and a cool spray of freshly powdered snow immediately evacuates for the final resting place of an ice-caked pillow smattered with automobile oil. Last huzzah, curtains, a life transmuted, the transubstantiation of the life into composte or a lump of grey morticians clay to be stuffed in a box. What a laugh!
“Make love to me,” she said, with eyes that beamed a kind of hatred, a hatred of the body, of necessity, of the other, of desire itself. “Damn you,” she seemed to be saying in that gaze, “for reminding me of wanting something.” Just a void, a crack, a slit, a smile. When it is all over, bask in solitude, a cigarette, sweat-slicked sheet, perhaps an archaeology of condoms like a little Japanese tissue pyramid with the smell of light ammonia. Genitals sore with the misgiving of its motions, swollen, fat with receding blood like some overstuffed aristocrat. I watch the wheels of the world, I see infinite thrusting and orgasm, and I know that I cannot ever attain the myth of it all or keep myself enduring enough to keep at it for as long as it goes on. Infinite pornography loops, going well beyond my threshold to perform. I have to drop out of the orgy that surround us…eventually, especially when the finitude of our bodies stares at us in our acts, and the video screen portrays gods who thrust endlessly without being subject to our petty mortal weakness. Just bits of celluloid, rewind and repeat, forever. “Make love to me.” Something I can neither make, nor make well even if I was inspired. But I look upon the waste-strewn and self-mutilated body that pleads with me, that shoves out its last desperate vestiges of sexual power, and I feel a sadness and a repulsion. Just one last fuck, the old woman cries. What will it prove? Whose act will eclipse all others? When will the sex end? Where is the one definitive act that will bring closure to this entire issue? The shrinks will probably say death, thanatosis, that instinct that immediately succeeds the desire instinct. Death is the only answer to something one can never have. But these shrinks no doubt go home and beat off to pictures of little boys while wifey is in the parlour entertaining the tea pots. It’s okay, okay, the shrinks say…we are a PROGRESSIVE age, where sex is free. We have liberated the genitals from their dark chastity belt dungeons. We have become more forthright and verbal with our commands, more articulate in our wishes and desires. We talk about sex non-stop. We compare strategies like business tycoons over a luncheon. We laugh at those who are too meek and frightened to be adventurous, who harbour what we now can call archaic and passé sexual ideas. We have succeeded in freeing the genitals at the expense of instituting a whole generation of genitalia worship. We have talked sex into exhaustion, into a corner, and we jabber about it to the point that it too has ceased to be interesting. We talk about it as we it was new, as if we discovered it, but also as if we are mindlessly mimicking what we should be saying about it. As a result of our obsessive over-talking about it, we are now forever denied any meaning it might have had for us. Analysis kills enjoyment. Now we only ape the porn voices and faces, thinking that this is the way in which we ought to behave in these vulnerable moments. We are living the porn dream in our bedrooms, taking what we see as the gospel script. It allows us to disregard any genuine feeling, and it allows us a reprieve from the fright it brings us…Just play the part and all will work out fine. Besides, deviation from the part will result in a decrease in enjoyment on all parts…We must obey the script. I now fear a world so sexually “satisfied”, so “enlightened” about the way in which it can improve upon its strategies in the bed. Sexpol. What will happen to us if we ever come to the conclusion that our bodies are beautiful, truly beautiful, and not dirty things to be kept under the hatred of clothes? Where will the enjoyment issue from then, especially since the only thing we can commodify is the juxtaposition between an idyllic myth and the filth of reality? It is in this tense gap between the myth and the real, their interchange of economies, where sexuality in all its commodified forms can have its power. No opposition, no intrigue. Who will move aside the heavy clutter that keeps the coffin lid upon desire, that deforms our desire with suffocation and isolation? Who? When?
I now entertain thoughts of becoming a dark god, a petty and vengeful god. I want to push the hatred to its extreme, for is this not the lesson being taught us by this enduring night? I start now with an artistic flourish, an opening gesture of what will be a secret and unacknowledged rein in the heavens and sky: I will perform venesection upon her. In this lawless night, I will not be sent off to a cell to suffer, but will be heralded as a genius, the one who makes a break of light in the sky with one decisive motion. I will uncreate woman, reclaiming my rib. The Stirnerist policeman in my breast has starved from lack of sustenance; I refuse to admit the laws of men, and so take to the subversion of woman’s natural law.
I look at her. What a waste of flesh, and what a waste of my gaze. Cut yourself some more, darling, feel the piercing sting of a life not lived, pretend that you are alive for just a few more moments in this land of phantoms.
And then she looks up at me, and in a rare flash of arcane cunning, as if she were a dreadful and old nymph peeled from the long dark shadow of winter’s night and thrust into the evergreen of spring’s bloom, she gives me this look…It says everything. It is a look much older than all of us, as preternatural and ancient as could be…A look of Lilith or some antediluvian civilization’s rise and fall in the brief moment’s movement across a face so timeless as to pay the passing of long centuries no mind.
“I have figured it out in its entirety,” she says. “I am the impossible.”
“What?” I ask incredulously, convincing myself that her expression and gaze was more the product of coincidence and my own interpretation rather than something issuing essentially from the abyss of her mystery.
“Give me a try, first,” she says, handing me this knife with a twisted look in her eye. She wants me to cut her, there, down there, right in the blinking vertical eye of the 3:33.
After what seemed an eternity of hesitation, of eeriness and agony, I let the knife drop impotently from my hand. “I can’t,” I say. She laughs. Of course I can’t. If only it was love and not fear that truly motivated my inaction…

45 Nth-arrator

And so what has happened that my body and brain split like a rotten pea pod, or soup, or such and such. Omigodomigodomigod! FUCK! This terrible ringing in the ears, just so many voices, so many clattering vessels in a sea clogged with black velvet crap. Will this night lift, reveal its true nature and essence so that we may all clamber upon the corpse for a logician’s peek? I fear not. Doctor, doctor, I think something is so terribly wrong with the whole affair…
An avalanche of black, like the closing of a door, the rushing in of fear…when we were children and father was about to find us smoking in the barn…Or that creeping terror that someone may realize that I have just wet myself, my brand new knickers…the scolding punctuated by the smell of mother’s meat and potatoes repast. Or the Christmas debacle, the exhausting effort of having to feign gratitude for the benefit of distant, halitosis affected relatives, a big fuss over a thoughtless gift. Or perhaps, again, the ineptitude of love at an early juncture, the regret that lasts a life time that, shit, why did I not take better care in the removal of her shirt, why did I bumble so idiotically with her training bra when I had practiced for years in my mother’s closet? Why O why! But these are vain, superfluous dreams…from times past that plague us still…the wages of war not sin, but love. The grip of the dream, right? Or the rip. Grip, rip.
Jonkil had been directed to exit stage left. Instead, he was dragged off by the rapidly approaching parody of men in black. Do not take this as a warning, as yet another bouquet justifying a need to protect free speech. Even fascistic terror is its own form of free speech. And my little Def, so memory deficient (but I suspect he is lying; he does not play the role of the amnesiac very convincingly for my tastes). Def will be sucked into something dark and shadowy, a quasi-cabalistic tryst. But in the end, the code of the machine will remain locked, despite all valiant efforts, for there is no code. Perhaps others will be entertained by his futile efforts, pinning up yet another portrait of human failure. Man against the machine? Let us not be so crude unless our purpose here is to turn a buck.
Ghi is doomed, a pointed fact. So pointed a fact, in fact, as to have no blasted blunt point at all! I warned you of the absurdity of the night already, haven’t I? If not, I have been negligent…perhaps for good reason. Perhaps I do not find myself particularly fond of you pricking your nose in here between the black ink words, like some juvenile, horribly literary-inclined peeping tom looking between the blinds for meaning. Oh, god, not that meaning creature again! You’d have better luck extracting a plot from here…a plot like so many stately cemeteries or those that fall into disrepair. I suppose you want me to dole out some kind of narrative struggle, too…But this is not a spatialized work, you must understand. It is but a temporal cipher, a slice of the beating heart clock, a jumble of phrases left out to dry in a beaded saliva string of babbling…Or perhaps a wry instance of glyptolalia. I urge you to peruse the Codex Seraphinianus and the untranslatable Voynich manuscript if that is your pleasure—unresolvable enigmas with all their pointless crusades to crudely squeeze an ounce of sense or meaning out of it all.
Mno: forget it. Same goes for Pqr and Stu. Legare is another matter, and I do enjoy his company so. But she will need to throw herself off a bridge soon, for I am growing weary of her mutilation tactics. Legare would do well to tone down his rhetoric, to stop emulating the genius of Jonkil who is surely not a genius: he only plays one on TV, and every composer eventually has to de-compose.

46. Jonkil, Legare

And so we find ourselves here. The wind has become a cruel and lacerating force. They let you out? Well, I suppose there was nor reason to hold me, not now, not ever. Especially not with things as they are. Just a harmless gadfly buzzing around their coat hems. I tire of her. I need to get rid of her somehow, and I know that this long and enduring night knows no law, no consequence. I could kill her and be done with it, not face any legal comeuppance. I mean, you are right about things being the way they are. Imagine the backlog of court cases, men with handcuffs rounding up the numerous hordes of wrongdoers after a night like this. Who would convict any of us for the actions in this non-time? Fuck, we could all claim temporary insanity…if there was a temporality to speak of. We will all be set free. I have become so fatigued with tonight. It is like a party that has ended, and we all now await the sense of day to highlight our failures. It gives comfort, you know, that the sun comes up and makes us accountable for the fools we were. I agree. More than you know. What I thought was the gloaming of day, a pale long streak of dark blue in the sky, was nothing more than a passing brigade of hooligans with high beams and high mounts on their trucks. And on top of that, the light pollution in this city is unbearable—can’t even see the bloody stars. It’s just a big dark grey-salmon haze. I am surprised that no one has asked the most important question of all: why? I mean, why have we plunged into this darkness? Are there scientific explanations for this? But we are just so many cut off creatures from our media sources, and we flit about in a kind of subdued panic and animal longing. When will the day come? Will it ever come? These questions are what occupy our minds when we really should be thinking about the ultimate WHY question. I should just get the knife and finish the job, help her along, if you catch me. Cut up little cunt like that—I wonder if the philosophers have had a chance to grapple with this problem, or if they are walled in their places of comfort and fear, huddled together with family like it’s the apocalypse…I’ll paint in red patches, make her pay—But then what, I wonder? Where are the police? Have they given up? Have they run away? Have we been forgotten? Is this large coal sack over our city—and to hell with her little “I love you” bullshit! I’ve had it with it all! Fuck, she pisses me off—

Ghi: Greetings gentleman. Buy me a drink?
Jonkil: I’ll pass you the bottle, but wipe it when you’re done. This landing may be built for three, but not for a rubbie’s disease.
Ghi: Very kind of you sir, and, no I am no vagabond or under the sway of any disease, unless you consider—
Legare: You talk too much, old man. Pipe down or I’ll smash this bottle upside your head! Anyway, as I was saying about her…
Ghi: Pardon me, sir?
Legare: I said—
Jonkil: Sh! Do you hear that? Are those sirens? After all this time?
Ghi: We certainly have lost.
Legare: What?!
Pqr: Why look, locals.
Stu: I see them…in articulo mortis, to be sure, the lot of them. What rare birds.
Jonkil: You are?
Ghi: Have you come to delight in my latest discovery? Are you the snow-nose man? I need—
Legare: Who the fuck are you to wax wise with us, you pompadour faggots?
Stu: This one certainly has a temper…
Ghi: Blow? Coke? Rocket fuel? White Love? I simply must have it! What’s the street code, anybody?
Jonkil: It’s a dark night for aimless wanderers.
Pqr: Has been for a while.
Def: Utro? Utro? Where the hell did he—Oh, hello, I am looking for—
Legare: And who the hell are you? Am I the fucking freak magnet?
Jonkil: He must think we are the people registry. Lost soul, perhaps? Sit, have a drink. I do not know if this hooch will last the night among us all…but what can last this night of all nights?
Pqr: Stu, who do you suppose these people are? They seem familiar, as if I had gripped them once in a dream.
Ghi: Please! Cocaine! I cannot bear the agony! I need some now! I have money!
Stu: I’m sorry, but I haven’t the foggiest notion of what you are—
Legare: Will you shut up! No one’s got any coke for you!
Ghi: But, but…it is essential for my, to my…
Jonkil: What did you say your name is?
Pqr: I didn’t. My name—
Def: Utro? Where the hell did he go? He was just here…

Bang. Start over. Nazi reprise enters here…

I am running now. I am collecting all my papers and books, stuffing them in a frantic violence in an army surplus duffle bag and swinging it over my shoulder. I feel the imminent need to flee for reasons even I have not yet begun to consider and reflect upon in any serious manner. But the time for reflection is at an end, and now I must don the garb of the most ill-suited man of action. I have never been very good at action. In fact, I have been criticized by many for my imbalance. I think too much. I call for action and change, and yet all I am is a quiet think tank. I know that I am not actualizing on my full potential. I know there is more I could do, that I must now and for a long time put down the pen and stop thinking that my writings—which reach no one even if a small percentage of them reach publication status—will not make a difference. Now is the time to put my words where my fists are, to actively make the changes. I am so unsuited to this. I am afraid and lost. I am a child in the world of the living and moving. The only movement I am accustomed to is the sort that happens between the spaces of the text, in the interstitial moments between thoughts and the creation of concepts. I am alone. We all are.
I am crashing through a pile of old memories, tripping over half-spent bottles of whiskey. The city of light is the city of night. A shower of crystal is this night, moon slivers and street lights all salmon and moth-covered. Oh, the fluttering, the fluttering. I am remembering remembering. I am remembering membership, to this and that party…parties devoted to remembering the fallen, the nation, the ways of old and the patriotic fervour. All hail the leader of the party. I could have been the leader, or at least a leader. I am a tall man, and a loud and eloquent sort. I am of good stature, muscle tone, and of distinctive features. The party leadership sometimes just comes down to this game of appearances, right? I look the part, and so…and so. The prettiest will carry the message furthest, won’t they? Who cares where the message derives as long as it is delivered by the beautiful messenger. Oh, say, can you see? No, no, no, I can’t…the night is too thick, too full of demons and men in various states of decomposition. The longest night in history. The longest knight? Night of the Long Knives? Night of the Long Nights? The Night the Lights Went Out? There are too many party dispatches on my desk, and if they are found I will be considered a traitor by my own cohort for having been careless, as if I was being negligent on purpose. Scapegoat: a term I could never understand beyond its practical function, the utility of having one. Every party needs one, wants one, seeks high and low for one.
Cigarette, comrade? Ambergris, anyone? No, thank you. We stand for the pinnacle of health, like some romanticized vision of what the ancient Greeks could have been. All official things are Greek I remember reading (but where, where? Oh, the memory fails only at the most crucial times when there is nothing left to lose but everything). I wonder if one day the party will have me executed? We, the champions of the Jeffersonian Ideal. We, the patriots par excellence. You read too many French authors! You know that’s forbidden! Un-American! We are at war with them! Perhaps we are, but it is only the war of words that flow like snot from so many bent noses and egos out of joint, eh? I bet that Sartre and Derrida are all they read up at the party top. The vanguard. Won’t let on, though. Don’t want to injure the image. But the image is a crippled thing already, and they must know it. Representation is a useful fiction, and our leaders know this…it’s in their favourite books. But at the rallies, like they believed the opposite: flags and symbols and the patriot person…All representation, all now, all powerful.
Note to self, note to self (burn it soon—they may find it, dub you a traitor, think you are an agitator, a converter, a collaborator, anything they can heap on you). The trains for them, not me. We, all dressed for the storm, in black like vampires of the military complex, not-so-complex. Shoulder it, like you would your rifle. No one will love you like she did. Your rifle, that is. The last thing you will touch. Your confidant. Oh, if only I could be a phantom and overhear all the secret confidences so many soldiers have whispered to their rifles before their lives were stripped from them in the tumult of war…all the loss of faith in the nation, all the curses, the regret. I could grow fat on that.
We have targeted the democrats, and will soon take the republicans to accounts if they sway too far. We must liquidate the slums (but I do not believe it, no, but don’t let on, just don’t…). Our party mandate says so many things. We are only allowed to nod, yell our assent, pump our fists, and march to the drums of its cancerous heart.

You and I are two books crossing in the night, but I feel that some of your pages have been intercalated with mine, and now all we have is a confusing array of non-numerical sequence. We, the jumbled few. I would like to jump down your glass throat and grow cold there. But this night—will it ever end. 3:33, 3:33, 3:33…The cleverness of Agamemnon and his ships, brazen neo-harpies on parade on Times Square, frightened and vibrating relics of the Rosicrucian fire brigade putting out tower fires and other rude obstacles that get in the way of planes carrying important cargoes of destiny, all history collapsing together into the raised shape and colour of a bruise…a maroon balloon swollen with old blood…The night never lifted. All that was revealed was the enormous satire, the splendid joke of our tepid moral conscience, our expectations of the day-to-come, our having taken for granted the very last and first of all things. Everyone became as stranger and aliens in the dark and inverted bellybutton Babel…even in their most coveted places of intimate refuge. A cyclone of devils and little Marys hailing down in large sheets of ice water and black bitter ruin…A corn whiskey mullet in green knock-off sneakers making off with the family heirloom, the looming loom. Or maybe the satellite dish stuffed with ancient Incan treasures that glitter in the eyes of all the whores that have gathered here to pay tribute to our fallen decency…or in the cups glistening, lips glistening, Christmas treetops glistening stars in Iran or three stupid kings bringing little gold baubles to a baby helot-tyrant who should have been aborted in the hay.
Someone clever, all too clever, will lift a stubby Platonic finger to declare with all the might of his shriveled wit: “the earth has stopped turning, and so no day progresses. This is akin to our great cultural stagnation, the end of all unique things, our mania to recycle our cultural detritus to the point where we fail to see the joke because all we have in our hands is the punchline and nothing more.” But explanations and speculations come cheaper than the rain, and no one prospers but the weeds. And I lift my weary arm across the sky and sweep the clutter from sight, all that twinkling Roman desire, our burning city of Nero, our little flying junket in the heavens carrying little disfigured potential fetuses stuffed three deep in slimy condoms. Only my cigarette end can match the great twinkling, all bangs and whimpers, all at once. Some fool has the audacity to declare himself an emperor…Ha! Not on my watch! But then I am not invited to the great fleshcraft ceremonies or the orgy-soirees in high society while a particular king still sits smugly on his throne while little Red Scare generals behind the scenes play Richelieu and tell him what to do. What gut rot that whole affair is, was, and will ever be…My military is my religion…But another fool will come shambling and doddering along to say in all matter of Edward Gibbonesquerie: “so be it; the night falls on the North American majesty of the purple Empire, and it is the west which reclined first to the lulling flute of decadent luxury, and now declines in this rather apt darkness.” But we all know our nation will be descended upon by the astrogoths. Raided, plundered, and loved with the roughest of hands or at the end of swords. And from my mouth comes a sword, and I swing my sharp tongue into all the bloated bellies of the churches of the land…But the zealots, pastors, and preachy-keen types are a scurrilous little bunch, rodents, and find their way into caves and inside rolling tanks sent to crush us all flat under their manifest destiny. O Betty, Betty, what have you sewn? Did you know that this fateful fabric you fashioned in all manner of good-wifery into a flag would one day become the drape of death, the shroud of shrapnel, the spangled spore of oppression? Did you, O Betty, Betty, ever realize that you are the clothier of a cancerous and despicable behemoth that can only operate by the blind logic of pure consumption?



47. Hitler II: Or, we can only dream…

Let me be frank with all of you. I am an in-patient at the Thurber Institute of Advanced and Anomalous Psychological Research. I believe myself to be more than one person—many people, in fact, as if true identity is merely a mask that is worn by many fortuitous roles. Our group reads a lot of the works of Gilles Deleuze and listens to much Charles Ives. Ours is a progressive institute where there is no clear, binary, Hegelian style division between the administrators and the patients. We are each of us among the scholarly elite in our own way, or great artists. It is our last asylum in this age of terror. Our “doctors” treat us as colleagues and friends, and no pharmaceutical agents are administered to “quell” our symptoms—for indeed all madness is true ontology, Reason but a symptom of nature gone deviant. We are encouraged to create new things, theories, artwork. We gather and speak of intricate and elaborate matters concerning Being and difference, stylistic inventions and the multiplicity of the Self-as-Other. It is less a sanitarium (we all avoid this term, so loaded as it is with negativity, as if we are the filthy of mind destined to be “cleaned” by psychoanalytic reason), and more a collegium, a safe haven for those of us too delicate to live in the brutish reality of the many too many who are far too simple and violent to accept us for what we are. We are the misunderstood, the child prodigies, the brazen and cavalier artists, the adventurous mathematicians, the Kabbalistic lateral inventors. Our minds are too fast and too different for this slow and repetitive world. Our “treatment” is nothing more than being cared for while we navigate new mental plateaus. You might say that we are our own society, a new utopia under the rubric of mental treatment…Our administrators only say this to the government to ensure our safety, to procure more grants and funding opportunities to house us, feed us, clothe us, obtain for us the requisite materials for our own projects, and to pay the salaries of our devoted caretakers.
Let me be frank again. I am the nth-arrator (sorry for the misdirection), and Abc, and Def, and Ghi, Jonkil, Mno, Pqr, Stu, Legare, Yz. I may also be Ygdrassil for all anyone knows. I hear the echoes in my head. I am all of these people and also none of them. I only replay the echoes of the world lost to us in the hustle. I may have been a cocaine-addled inventor, a political advisor, a roguish theorist, a man trapped in a tragic relationship of perpetual immolation. I may have changed many tracks in one life and ended here—or, I was none of these things (as far as we can be anything at all…It is usually that which we are most complicit in identity that is not our identity at all, like a ruse or a dumbshow). I may only be repeating echoes. I may only have accumulated a few masks that are identities in themselves and dramatized their ideas. I hear the crescendo of the lake. I feel the timbers of the nation give way. I am smiling. I know it to be true.
I may have been a bibliophile who went too far, who challenged the very limits of sane reasoning and found some “beyond”, but not in some magical realist way of new age transcendence that makes me so ill with its formulaic blandness. Or I might be lying, leading you astray, whoever you are (if you are not me, and we are not we, and we are disbanded perpetually like monads or atoms or mere forces in relation). My settings are on jazz. What else does it matter.
The moon shines so bright. It is brighter than any moon I have ever seen, even considering false memories erupting from a revised childhood where everything seems bigger and brighter than it actually was.
I watch with amusement the slow mental pauperization of the masses. I watch as the chrematistical nonsense continues, the social cleansing of our new Reich (the liempieza social), and hear the tiresome orgy of bullets on the streets of Manhattan. But we are resisting the g-lobal, glo-ball will. We have set up shadow institutions right in the heart of capitalist organized media, the Internet, and all the tools of the oppressor. We teach guerilla theory that goes well beyond the “thug with a bomb” style of anarchy that was the wont of cheap hackers, phreakers, and hooligans who penned awful manifestos on homemade weapons. That shit only irked and irritated the system of dominance and power, eventually strengthening it. Small wounds make for better scabs. Deep, persistent wounds eventually enervate the body. That was our trick all along: to turn one cancer against the other. Ours, a message of hope, having learned from the mistakes of a 1960s long past. Don’t set up corporation committees that are static, accountable bodies, but copy the enemy’s model of false immanence (by making true immanence)…create zones of indeterminacy, zones of collected yet fragmented forces better than any terrorist-cell model of non-communication. Create a central, regulative core but as nothing but a tension of an aggregate of forces that will immediately relax and dilate upon its realization…Once the enemy sees it before them, our system has already spread over and through them like a sticky honey.
But our system still needs capital in order to co-opt capital. The old method (so tired, so tired) was traditional: labour strikes system and results in dollar $park$. Now that capital determines labour, not the other way round, we have had to change our tactics. So, why not parasitize from the top, occupy the mesostrata, and set up “capital traps” to capture capital run-off? Every system has seepage—even those systems that attempt to reabsorb everything to be recycled into the creation of a new image. Our “Xcapital” traps function like vacuums wherever there is surplus, wherever there is flux and movement. True movement. And since we are always in motion ourselves, our entire method one of constant displacement as equally motile as capital itself, we are in line for some interesting redirections, reconnections, absorptions, new trajectories. We ride the bull of capital away from its stated destination wherever we want. We ride capital into the unknown, the not-yet-known. Each of us are capital vacuums, potentially. We must occupy spaces in time and begin vibrating at the right frequency…the integrity of the membranous capital cell walls will degrade while its surplus exudition, its excess, its shit and sperm and spit and vomit, will fall into orbit around our vibrations. Let each of us, as people, as capital vacuums, as counter-cancers, insert ourselves into the cell…we will vibrate, suck, and as the system attempts to regain equilibrium we will redistribute and channel our forces to the very limit of the cell walls. We will transmit across the void of capital’s body. We will be the toxic mixture that causes it to rupture, thereby creating a zone of indeterminacy. Pure, immanent inviralization. Where there are cracks that remain in the rhetoric and organization of American Nazi Capital, we will be the expansive material that dissolves the integrity of the whole. Skills, not kills: our method is non-violent to the extreme of violence. We are afascio, unarmed groups. We are not fattening agents of the system, but lo-cal local resistor mechanisms. Our style is that of the Grand Gourmet: a ghoulashing of expressive affects. We are the avant-gardeners of New Reason. Let our pulsations vibrate the system to a playful collapse.
I am Project Centaur: a transsocial experiment in the ontoidal. Centaur stands for so many things: Creative Energies Neutralizing Tyranny Associations by Uniting Revolutionaries…Calling Every Nebulous Trickster Against Unilateral Revisionism…Cap-vacs Employign Nobliquarian Techniques for Accessing Unique Realms. It is the new PC. It is this and much more. We look up at the darkened sky and know that we are the “nobliques”…nobliquaries and nobliquarians employing nobliquated noblicatives. That is, both noble and oblique. Let us oppose the digital hegemony with our own fingerless rhythms…


49: Napotheosis
For Rimbaudelaire in non-Rabelaisian time…

But of course, this is not to say that the time is in democtotition either, at least not in a time of world that politely sidesteps the G-Lobal of lobalization by anything that sounds or smells remotely like governance! O what words! How they tease either lobe or sphere or hemisphere of manifest destinies or Monroe Doctrinaire! O maitre, maitre, no more!
But there will be more, of course. 20 000 reservists dropped in a bowl, caught up in a whirlwind of emasculations. All at the command of the chief of oil, el presidente of de shrubbery (O, and how many have lost their heads, titles, and deeds for calling him that I wonder? McCarthyism makes its glorious re-debut!)…driving that economic Ixion’s wheel deep into the ground with trillions in gold trickling over the head of le roi in some beautiful excess or fairy dissipation. And those military men are not trained to understand, not trained to play the intercontinentality of hospitality, but rather to bark at everything that moves. Our soldiers, the dogs. O dogs of war, since when did pissing on others mark any real territory? But lessons of deterritory are hard to learn because they are not lessons for teaching…Meanwhile: Mess kits full of chewing gum and nylon and hit-list trading cards. I can expect little more from Babel II or III in this petit grand Guignol than a whole business solutions machine of pure recyclability. It’s in the ether and the ethos. It is to say that all things repeating return, a postmodern blender set on puree, all modes, modalities, models, moreupons, kitsch whippersiffle bellbottoms and digitally remastered sitcoms or judiciously replayed morale soap operettas going out with the cans, newspapers, compost materials and then back into the house, the brain.
What else do we have to fear than President Babel II? 2000 cruise missiles that ring like a 50s Sunday drive dream when it is actually a beauty-missive-myth powered by screams and the polite acceptance of conspicuous consumption on the part of pentagoonery (and other geo-metric lies, friends!), or maybe Hollywooden cosmetic surgery facial appliqués or downright spurious pop-mag communiqués by our “boys at de front, shizzle, shizzle.” More likely to a sizzle, and pop, rather than bang on this end, but the rhetoric rollercoaster is a fast non-event of bent-noses in and out of the larder of Good Will. For what? Governance and recyclability. O ho ho, have I not clued in to the very two themes of our day? The war effort is headed by non other than Archie Andrews himself, but an old boy, too…who saves up his tin for new toy-machines and makes all the “global aggressors” into pets instead of monsters. He grows fat; he absorbs everything that mighty titan of consumption, and then the monsters break out in a fit of adolescent acne and pustules—to be put down, suppressed, by some clever Wall Street ointment or exfoliative or Accutane or premarital teenage sex revelry. Because, you see, Bacchus is not dead in their hearts, but had to be legislated first across the sky for all to read. It had to become a popular script for an even more popular blockbuster film. All this for the Golden Dawn of a few old dogs with new corporocratic tips on how to trim the body even smaller, as if enemies and terroresistors have bad body image problems only solvable by missiles. What can their bodies do? No one really knows, and you can bet that the inner free-spending circle of President Babel II is dying to know. How does one anticipate a breakout?
It has been told to me in ridiculous confidence that those who are oppressed are the first to act out. Never did I assume that the revolution would have occurred in the calm parlours of the middle-aged stink, or in the tea-rooms of suburban despair. The put-upon have put out for quite some time, and now they put out the difference. Accountants everywhere scramble to get the books a-balanced, to make this the zero-sum game argument their superiors have demanded. But the oppressed that turn into terror that turn into resistors almost by magic moonlight do not abide by the sour confection and conceptionary of the unmoving zero. I have heard the word of Jean-Pierre Melville in some very old French gangster thick-speech, behind a wall of misprision, moustached coup and seditious cigarette smoke. I have also heard what hash Lacan has made of cinema, how his anti-philosophy reigns because Zizek says there are no norms and philosophy only occurs because the socius lacks a political object (like a revolution?)…which is to say that brain-psych philosophers doing formulae instead of metaphysics and other cognitivist ballyhoo are just another set of symptoms along with the recyclability of governance that has its object frozen to its face will make this era the least philosophical of them all.
A large globe-game of x-o-x. Dross for you and me. X-O-X, and the mighty minority trembles at the approach of the black and the white. New tyranny is chess without an opponent, but both sides play itself against the board. But even boards revolt. I wonder if J. Hillis Miller knew of this game or if he has become an outspoken member of the dead left? JSMillery and his granary of well meaning TruthBeautyJustice sister harem not lost in some underground assassination versus or perpetrated by Baathist Kaisers. Did he get the word that Samson Agonistes was a warrior, not a pedant, not less of an anti-cleric, anti-papist than rich old white Freemason Whiteness? Not less is more or many. These bodies can be touched, which in turn makes them very boring. It makes them tactical or optical, codes punched into a keypad to gain entry to a panic button that was always under the Presidentistry desk. “Love Him/Hate Him” says a mag-pap-a-zener for the mass-pap-aria of the panopticon that only regards its own image to gain anything new. Love and hate seem to be the only choices, as if to reinforce the antipodes to conjure up the great illusion that zero sum games of X-O-X are still playable. O Tic-tac-Irac. Where one mark falls another is sure to follow, military presence so good for business, so unsavoury for those who must live on its periphery like scoundrels to be Prevented or Suppressed in neo-McCarthyist Catharism where the carbuncle of war is in the house of Aldebaran. The homely wives dig President Babel II and will surely vote for him again, while their big-bigger-biggest business huns-bands who usually make the electoral decisions in the household are left to furrow their brows as the weak pallor of a bygone women’s liberation sees interest flow softly and silkily down the toilet. The old white brood will vote alongside with the will of their wives who enjoy the non-threatening visage of the makeshift monkey man in the Big House.

Run it thrice! My polymer plumber of the sixth republic a misunderstood creature of the posterior foofoo foofooer of narcotic surprise! Mr. poopoo Lejour stew-eating champion!! And when he was younger, he was exposed, bare-buttocksed to the hoary ribald words of Henry Miller. This made him feel whole inside. But, remember, Lejour was only 1996, and other bad poetic rips and such things that fall off the boudoir cameo nothings of Artaud’s dysgeneration of heroin pretend. Make (me) believe, and the West will be won. Others have played for keeps and made out with less. Or more. I remember Strozsek too, comrade, and the dancing chicken, the miracle on the hotplate come the fin de scene. The election rolled around on our tongues and we spoke of probabilities before we clued in to the interpretation that it was all a mug’s game, and that the outcome of every election was already dictated by Milton (blinded by freedom or willful auto-mutilation of the senses?). Presidential election, 2004/1988:
dregs and moors find nothing to say 1 (100%)
pretty prim of posie posh placodermata 0 (0%)

obtuserie! I find scoats! 0 (0%)

Garglemeer sees nothing
Ereignis, or sing ie., re: erewhon (?) I hear the reconstruction they will make of yr life will be pure tin, and wordsmithery! degeneration of tropes! sound blast key card nowhere! But selbstverstandlich. He knew that jack derriere of the decon-five-tructionary had yale printed all over his blimey algernon ass! Sacralissimo! this is pure ratio fragnoscendi times four! Grown downsplat! shoo boogaloo, shoo! Take your sanitized meat products and biblical wares elsewhere, “mate”.
It was saith thus unto anon selah! Ooh hoo hoo! grasp oil and wind in so many Vishnu hands on electronicBay! For sure! you voted the sourmash love-me-do in and out of the bedroom! You get what thine/thou deserveth anon anonym. Anaphemata tomorrow and blogomachy two days n twine hence! I have heard the “anfractuous syncategorematica pop ‘n pills Zydeco in all its forms, danced by the eager and the dead.
Well, hobnobilations, senor Ita! I'll join the joiners, which is to say that edges are labial and ever-scented.
Dearest foofooo-nautic loved one, cherished of all the swaddles and tilly-boys, honoured lord of our fusion lord Jesus of Mongolia. I have taken issue with letters written on behalf of my conditions, and so thought it mildly prudent in the main to correct thee of fatal FLAW. By whatever mental malfeasance doth issue from my lunar anus caboose of greatness and forgotten destiny, I beseech you to truly dig the hard, mean line that separates you (a goosefeather) from me (an event). Failure to do so will result in such sorry hardship in this domain as in any other, in the continuation of the slop-train to its inevitable passage toward doom. We are speaking of language, O kind and gentle ghost of a sir, and it appears that you are speaking Latin and me Greek. Sizzling, isn't it, she said, putting finger in ear and all that like some thinktart par excellence. embroidery who? It’s xmas, panta Paws! In hungary, circa 1942, jolly old beelzenick was garlanded up mit dem pretty lights, but the pic was not of Santa but of Stalin! For treats and fun, and O Siberia where were you when THAT went out of style? Cyberians unite and then fall apart. The tin of word makes sound a dream...
I will not go ornament myself now! That is the little art of Mr. poopoo Lejour, so by my very tattered pants salivating crumb! Narcotic surprise! will burn! Twill take more than tiny toys at discount price to break the dawn! it's already the hour of escrow! Citizenship is a dandy vehicle for those who try, and try, but failure is immanence all over again with the posh sub-elitre gentryfied sebaceous in cretaceous wunderblock!
This, forsooth! We speak of mercies for wonders, pals for petticoats, but I am not in/on or through the market place for the great bombed peanut surprise! Nor the butterchurner, all twisted wrought foul bric-a-brac! even the children of Artaud knew this, but no, no and and and! These things, not for sale! Big blood branch love, vizier!
These things and the many. I play in my head. The season comes, I stay indoors, I am already bored with the season, Mistah Wyndhamburger Lewisville! I want it to pass, not me, but it, it , always another it to negotiate tenderly with. My dreams exhaust my desire, O your humping desire! Le devenir! They will come, if the people are not missing, says Professor DeleuzoGuattario. The season always fails, and yet succeeds in disappointing me/us. I hate that desire wants something, like I have a colicky infant lodged freeloader in my mind. I do not like to desire things because things always irritate and disappoint me. I suppose that I want not to want anymore, which is to say paradox is my skin worn proudly like garland fleshy ease, a collar of bone, and an organless body has no engines that spurt differenciation.
Wake me up when there is news, mail, etcetera, and yet I never welcome their arrival, their imposition upon my delicate space. Although this is to say that I am too discursive when I should be more encountering. I am too tired to think or work, slowed down by your gravity, but the absurd irony is that this is an ideal time to think unto dream. I must unfeel these things. If I focus on my death instead, I will burst out in laughter, and then feel embarrassed. The laughter of solitude is always embarrassing because it is too beautiful. But here I am proselytizing a point that need not be made, enumerating as if in grocery list those packet items for an argument. I am done with argument, even if the little symbols upon my robe seem to suggest otherwise.
The zoo is a church of little saintly animals behind iron traps of votive noise. The traffic seizure has run electric malaise up and down the boulevards. The beach is a crowded slaughterhouse of skimpy fashion cutthroats and sanded hunks of meat. The corporate downtown is nothing but an extrapolation of 1920s bijou flair sanitized so that the dancing girls were taking down memos and filing urgent faxes from nowhere.
You have your bible and your television and your big bag of cheese snack crusts…What a dumbshow of bread and circuses! What a moronic gas bag of Love Me Till Apocalypse Reaganomic prolixity! Get a foofoo clue! You asinine clatter and kludge of do me right bones in designer sewage pipe gear! Little floatation devices of the subpopular! Satellites of malfeasance and misprision! Sick desires and values dropped in the vat of battered fish stick convenience! Trope of forgotten plumber of the sixth republicship Ipsissimus Crowleyan Law flake-out post-Soviet la la neo-hipperie! O pretty ponce! I never knew you flew straight this way! but before the paper pap machine absorbs the last of yr spinked-up verbosity, let it be said across the neon skyline that I was first! and you second! and he/it/them a close third! Tis I, your Prestigial flute, all ruby-clarified, speaking of dokumentity and other linluvius squanderings! O rebel! O wroath! O Petals dripping down bleed gum villa forgotten! And now for the entrée. All economics is a segue and an after-dinner mintage. Puh-shaw, Bernardino! You never had the type when you were embracing all the animals, thinking them delicate and soon to fade off into the ether. But teeth and claws are not fragile instruments, and they can do very well on their own without your playscripting them in so many Joans of Arkology, the martyr-maitre feminine lining up the pretty things two by two to the boat of France against the Anglaisie…so staid, so staid. Or, Bernadette, the other plays too. It would be imprudent to list you here so gratuitously, rendering me a literary ghoul or a cccrrriiiittttiiiicccc!
But of course! and today! So it was never, but! this was how it ran...

So many streets elbowed at the knee, really, and poets spilling out of subways dressed up in basement cutoff broadsheets. McLennan fancies himself a genealogist but could not spell force or conditions of experience or even that of the pure event. Never questioning the value of origin, no prolific prolixity will save his CanaDadaist hide. O Robbie, if only you were a Grillet and not a Kennedy. Then, perhaps, I could embrace you and your witchlock. Instead, we are papered with your Bowering and Neo-anti-prosimian Bökisms. I have paid a visit to the Yann Martel shrine inside the ribcage of the dog within which I slept, another graveyard shutter-click option for the guvnor general salute. But Icelanders dig that sort of clackity-clack of the tired typewriter prisms of our generalized expression. How I wish all of us could traffic in more than mere representations. Alas, and woe. Shaw returns and Joan of Arc poetry contest, too! As Verlaine once told me, we are a nice terrace of land, this country, but it has fallen into ruin because it ran out of majestic purple to defile, or never had any to begin with. Some say that this is strength, but what gimcrack expoise dyscourse. Even pharmacies have their hierarchies. There is always a wizard-alchemist willing to peddle a bit of pain relief in mercury-free childproof safety lock, and hence so is literatour. But here I be, all doldrummery for personae, yours, so cheap, when especially no concepts were made, minted, or fucked into the existent, like so much clattering. I am making you very popular, even if we are enemies. One right turn deserves the opening of an abyss.
Did you get the fax I sent on interpretatio, that napotheosis is a theosocratic is a pharmakonicos is a juddering mudpuppy? Perhaps, perhaps, and if I stand by a claim like that today, surely tomorrow I am tied to a missile destined for the sea. But this would presuppose ears, eyes, and other inverted crippleism. Handi-capable, sorry. O if only you knew how hard it was to remain decent. The argument ad fermentum endears me to no one but the feminine, at times. But I am begged to be silent. Quiet is the love of all right things, I am told, and to remain very still and unmoving will not make me a target of a rhetoric doomed to spoil on the shelf. But who has the patience to wait that long? I have my ballot and no conscience.

But of course, you’re drunk and reeling with youth and the grand Castracto of your dreams somewhere in a Cuban paradise or a Derrida national theme park where all the big fat juddering thighs of mother haunt the Wilhelm Anti-Reich orgonautic machine par excellence. And wizardry for minors! I have no logostiary that you can buy, at least not on the cheapside of town where all da niggaz go back to da boom box 1983 headpsin breakdancin’! that would be to be out of style and out of being! Pockets empty, rocket parade, President Babel was preceded by Ol’ Western boy who thought lasers in the sky would solve all problems a, b, cccp! But I am desire minus zero. It gets chilly in your bordello pants and yer Beck on loud like the working class has won some asinine victory licorice stuck on soft medals of velour against the sound of genXrated. Pay close heed! An ‘X’ is an ‘E” so any genX is a generation of e-commerce and eBaby auctioneering! If ya don’t behave, the state will take your name. Email spoofery! And spyware parties among bored suburban housewife hackers where they make the machine burp (just ta show that it has the Potential). But poetry is dead! We, the great prudes of language, we the postmodern, precisely prudish modernists on the grounds that we talk so much about modernism’s passing.
This just in: Michel Foucoo-coo’s obituary and the death of the politely obscene, gentry archaeology of no-ledge style. Perhaps that was what did Monsieur Dadaleuze in: no ledge, one fine act of swan dive mysery gone auto-defenestrating way. Had he hung on, he could have borne witness to Blamerika’s auto-defense strategy and reeled in big bucks. I’ll have you know that the scene goes down bitter with no chasers and no flavour. I await the gaggle of nuns that will beat me to death with hail Maria shopper’s fatigue. O mine mall legs make metal moo-moo! Please put me out to da pasture wit dem dudes wit de boombox and de Haitian Voudun! We’ll stick pins in all the right places and trip the light fandango with spoiled ballots for all de nice children, yeh-heh?

Verlaine tells me that Borges walked into his own library, perhaps to bray, to have a piece of his own dynamical sublime that was enough in itself to make Kant go bonkers. King Bonkers! Konigsbonkers, the great city of the unwound watch! And now what? Chucky Hestiary with his narration of Plato? A Planet of the NRApes indeed! Guns for all! It was best when the monkey men shot him in the throat to put an end to the mockery of existentialism for a time. But everything gets distorted when up through the narrow urethra of a theocracy, even in simian time.

My father was a sailor
With two valises strapped to back
Over mother, sweating
Beating moth light flicker
Gambling man, he be
I be you, you striketh me…
O Papa you are Abraham
And I have forgotten how to say I, I, I
“I”saac, but mother knows
“pro”saac in a trunk
or whiskey when he is away
and strange other town nylons
another woman
another son.
O Sacrifice more or less.

Deprostructionary: a bad sport. Being is one-all Bertie Ayler, and ditto eyes, for things. One eye, one sale, one camera obscura for all time. Yer hair cut is queer! Yer subway plan is bankrupt since it was written for primal scream nabobs in their underwear! Yer provicide is factually aberrant insofar as it relies on facts to prove unprovability! Yer eradicalization is an e-force to surgically remove difference from yerself and to take in so many routers as a means of rejecting the maternal omphalos of cable connection wires that hold bodies together (so you believe, so you believe, but force itself holds bodies together that wondrously empty in the present!)…Oral infibulation is not the art of this new Ezra ten pound bag of cantos! Yer conspicuous neonatality is a fatality and not a strategy! This type of fluorospeak is all the rage in the gimlet circus of yer lies and such, and such, anon! The plasticcato speech of yer ascension to the grand heights of literature and nazi-backed ideals and the excoripilation of the refutees! All of it anathemic violenciation…as you bank on the decisive cerebrodectomy of the masses. But here I am, alone, with a bottle of rye, speaking to young Cuban missile children in crises, about Faulkner and the polite sinking into the bathtub of the elite! Talking about theoretical neoplasms and conceptual dimorphism to those who have nostrils for ears, cunts for belly buttons…O the atmospheremone is all around us as I am the atmos, I am. I fall into literary dysphoria over you and yer swastikationary ideal of a marching re-public with shovels and Leni’s pals and Napoleon’s foreskin kept in a bundled box to further some arcane wizardry that will give you the occultistatic edge. But the invisible cages are everywhere, and even philosophy can be found crouching in the most unlikely of literary places.


50. The Schule of die Amerikas
Dear Hitler II, which is not to say that this epistle will be a repetition of Dellilo and his Maoist second document or underworldly fashion frenetic. Here in the army pants and Bataille t-shirt, listening to experimental German free jazz from the late 60s, that there are other ways, other trajectories to take that truly shake the illusory foundation. But that is to say that so many things lack rigour, and are just sorry postulates of pretentious mindslop. Never am I deterred. Bitter? Certainly. Finding resistances to overcome, or resistances to income? All the time! I have the tech savvy of a monkey on fire. As a cryptobibiliophiliac, mate. There is no future for Johnny Rotten, so God save the Sex Pistols. Let us say that Zeno underwrites the fractal paradox of these writings somehow, obliquely, as a kind gesture against the fiendish cabal of Kapitalsuckfish. Let us also say that I am a pariah. Indeed. Let us (re)convene dialogue. I was commissioned by the Government, the new one in light of the unconcealed erection of empire and many Ministries of the Interior, to give theoretical insight to the construction of a neo-Hitlerian regime. My colleague, Dr. Franz Domfree was my main go-to reader, which is a euphemism for nothing better to do. Here be my epistle:

Right off, I must apologize for pestering you so, but the number of willing participants for any
meaningful discussion on either Hitler or President Babel II are few, or contain within it members of the discourse who only remember the "anecdotes" in relation to these thinkers and their works. But, after re-reading sections of Donny Oilfields-a-Plenty and Philosophy on the section on Pain, President Babel II speaks of the masters (of the dialectic no less) who understand that pain and pleasure are ostensibly the same thing (as Hitler and Goebbelstein also maintain, the latter influenced by John Wayne’s reading of the former). But the manifestation of this pain-pleasure scenario (as a product that reifies the I in Hitler) is performed insofar as it pertains to "someone who INFLICTS or CONTEMPLATES pain" (12927). Now, in the Hitlerian formulation, there is a strong division--almost binary to a polar extreme—between action and contemplation, that action (as negating) makes real the contemplative I. I then get confused with the manufacture of more pain as a salve for former pain: is this manufacture "production" in the robust Hitlerian sense? Is this not too quick for President Babel II, or am I mistaking voice?
And I think if I ever see another boldfaced equivalency statement on Schopenhauer's and Donny Oilfields-a-Plenty's sense of the will (in reaction to Simmel's text), I think I will tear out what remains of my hair. On that note...Material so far has pointed to what would be a necessary chapter on a dance with Schopenhauer, as perhaps a necessary apologia figure between Hitler and President Babel II. As you no doubt know, Schop's work was instrumental in the architecture of French (& German) thought, very much in vogue by the fin de siecle, including Wundt, Renouvier, Durkheim, Bergson, et al. This vogue styling somewhat salvages many of the French thinkers of the time--contrary to many contemporary critiques--from the positivist perception. There is an axis here with--not only Schop, Goebbelstein's non-savoir, and of course Donny Oilfields-a-Plenty--Derrida's conception of the "seeing the riddle" itself without recourse to a rigid ontology (hauntology). I may be able to crack this nut, but this all depends on how apt it would be for the project itself. If it flies too far, the concern will be on ensuring the focus on the question itself. I'm sorry, this is much too long. The question: what to do now? Should I begin? Should we keep in touch on this matter? I'm calling upon your guidance a little earlier than expected, I suppose.
I think the Goebbelstein-Hitler paper will be rolling along just fine. As for the turbulence of your health, I can only hope that your upcoming procedure is a spectacular success, and that you'll be back to kicking your file cabinets in healthy frustration soon. I have heard nothing from the department in concerns to my status...Should I be worried? My standing offer of admission came in over a month and a half ago, and I still haven't received any info (or registration booklet) since. Should I be pestering Marvin the Martian Mauritania about this?
What my confused phone message to you was trying to convey in that feeling of anxiety that only a compressed time limit can produce was this: I have received conditional acceptance for my Goebbelstein-Hitler paper in Congress, which was lauded as a good contribution to the matter at hand; however, the 2nd reviewer wanted me to play my Hitler card a little more strongly. I am rereading Schweinhart and Rechstphilosophiediefuhrerlieben until my head swims. The problem centers on how to reconcile the interpretive bias of those French anti-freedom buccaneers who have given Hitler a strange and, at times, uncharitable reception. I am trying to explore the unconcscious immoralism inhering in the nazidialectik that Goebbelstein indicates in a rather cavalier manner. I'm dusting off my wall for this one. No easy task. It would appear that Goebbelstein also has an business-empiricism = military-pluralism formula (albeit less rigorous, more nascent than President Babel II's), which may either suggest the strong wall-eyed influence and/or the epistemic shift in French thought during this time, prompted by factors perhaps too numerous to mention. There are suspicious times when Babel appears to employ a twisted Spinozist sense of conatus, but I leave that for later... I have been getting some requests from interesting students in my President Babel II seminar, from outside the department.
I may, however, still insist that Goebbelstein may be as equally if not more formidable for the Babel and Hitler connection, despite your misgivings on the subject. That being said, I suppose if I land
the job then it will either be an edifying, jocular experience or a snake pit of horror. Not having a vote in these proceedings is much like backbenching in Congress or being a potted plant. Congratulations on lying prone and getting the job done. In terms of your President Babel II course in winter, which Spinoza text should I be rereading (or should I be doing both)? I assume "practical" rather than "expressionist" send word on this. The good news is that my piece of legislation on Goebbelstein-Hitler made the nut (with minor grammatical revisions necessary), and should be out either in February or September of next year. The bad news is that lack of gainful employment has earned the wrath of a cabal of fiendish collection agents that will no doubt bust down my door any minute, hijack me into a black van, and head off for the river. The contracts we have in this world always seem fraught with hidden feces and the goblins that flingeth it. Too often circumstance whips out its dick and pisses all over anything good, useful, or productive.
I have been working diligently on various things over the week, and one of the items I wanted to discuss, albeit briefly, was the paper topic for the President Babel II seminar. In capsule, I propose to examine the triadic formation of Goebbelstein’s ontology (Spinoza-Donny Oilfields-a-Plenty-Bergson)...at least in such a way that I wish to examine how this triadic formation "interacts" to form an open business-military ontological system. I may allude to some anti-Hitlerian moments, but nothing too heavy for the moment. I figure that this should suffice the demands for the paper in this course and help me get clear and concise on the finer moments in Goebbelstein's ontology.
I have just completed phase one of a translation of a crypto-nazi statistician's work on the "Deutsche Kartei": a proposal sent to Hitler for the organization/profiling of German citizens, a precursor to the computerized means that we have available today. I received some praise for my meticulous translation, but it was arduous work. I now have to translate the schema. Oh, and an upcoming review of John Wayne Jr.’s new book on Hitler's unhappy conscience is coming this spring. Although I am thinking of stepping aside and letting the older cowhands have a go at it, despite how much I would like to grapple with this task and prove myself as a competent President Babel II-Hitler scholar. Nausea, not lack of ability, explains my silence in this course. I guess I would rather seriously engage the texts than see them picked at buffet style by those who don't give a damn about anything. Besides, the digitization of neo-Hitler will take some very capable, patient, and serious work. Fortunately, the anti-semitism can be merely shifted in programming code to either a particular anti-Middle East or a generalized chaos of counterinsurgency against those who resist our Globalism is Our Single Empire of Governance.
Been troubled by this one Hitler quote that won't leave me alone, that follows me everywhere like a puppy (or me following it in like fashion). Wonder if you could help unwind it a tad: “My love is my life is my gender is my glorious neutrality. But, I fear the fevers that set upon me like a heavy toad upon my chest! Ach! My love and my life are separated! I want ten million Eva Brauns so that I may take my luger and kill ten of them a day! And I will rent her out to all the lonely officers, but if they draw cigarettes like filthy Jewish swine and American bijou whores, then into the kettle with them!” It is Hitler’s more apocryphal literature, and one of those mysteriously addendums that didn’t make the editorial cut in Mein Kampf.
Before we can "have done with" an unavowed dialectics in President Babel II, there are still a few items that need to be cleared up viz. President Babel II. I have a small list of about four or five problems President Babel II must face before we let him off the hook for that "secret dialectics" charge. I will still pursue this matter into dark and strange spaces, for my gut tells me that the matter is still not at a definitive close. In light of the highly contentious debate as to whether President Babel II engages in an unavowed dialectic or not, I see myself geared toward this topic. I also have a translated English copy of ABCPresident Babel II as a text file if ever you require a copy. In exchange, if you come across a spare copy of the new posthumous President Babel the First’s texts, let me know and send something my way; I am morbidly curious about these.
The cards are on the table, or so it would appear...All right, what you say rings true in that "let's have done with this" sort of way (i.e., the residual Hitlerianism bit). Also, I finally came to understand the full import of Donny Oilfields-a-Plenty's notion of measure..Aristotelian-Hitlerian measure is always geared to a measure of something (defined in a relation of nazidialectical negativity and a method of rank transcendentalism) which is superficial when we consider forces and the virtual ehter that cannot be measured in these terms...This of course strengthens your view that President Babel II is not as Hitlerian as I expected, thereby severely compromising my position and causing me to revaluate the central core of my idea. We crawl before we learn to fly, I suppose. Yes, you are right about the residual Hitlerianism in all of us. I also fear that I may be far more Hitlerian than I thought, even more so than you. In a modified sort of way. One is either a Kantian or a Hitlerian, and the robust feel of Hitler has somehow always secretly attracted me to his work--regardless of how frustrated and angry I get in respect to it. But if I wanted to be obtuse and irritating, I can make the claim that every position that champions the clarion call of alterity and productive difference as non-dialectical is in itself an anti-dialectical attitude, therefore implying that Hitlerianism is still thriving (huzzah!). I also have to start considering the bevy o’ heavy question that will confront me in my lifetime: when will it be apt to overturn President Babel II? A nasty, terrifying, but necessary question! All I do is read President Babel II and Hitler, or related works. I see myself, in twenty years time, still working critically and diligently with/through President Babel II. He has made a significant impress upon my life and thinking, to which your lectures and discussions are strongly responsible for this morbid interest I have. You may be interested in some other President Babel II items I have picked up recently, some of which I mentioned in my last correspondence: 1. President Babel II lecture/discussions on bedside manner in global policy circa '90/'91; 2. An interview with Frenchie Putain; 3. An article by NRA magnates on President Babel II-Goebbelstein and territorialization. When I email you any of these, govern their transmission accordingly. I would not want to be forced to report to the authorities that you are not using a Windows-based platform, but are rather using that other system.
I've read perhaps too much and too little President Babel II. That is to say, I am in an awkward position where I am so fearful of making an outlandish claim that I rarely let my arguments fall out without gratuitous textual support. I would have liked to include a specific Hitler case, and it is one of my chief regrets; however, I didn't want to give you a tome. I like to see this paper as a skeletal model for the thesis, but this depends on whether you see it this way as well. I do realize the Spinoza connection much clearer now, but I just didn't have the time or space to give it its fair due. Although both Althusser and Spinoza are essential to the Hitler-President Babel II connection, it was equally essential that this paper be written without them to see for myself if it could be done. As an experiment, it failed, but even negative results are still results--and there is enough literature out there (that does conspicuously leave Althusser and Spinoza out in the cold) that I felt I could do better on their turf. I still need to get my hands on more Althusser, and so it is only a question of how and when. Tell no one.
As a sidenote, I would have to say that President Babel II's at times vocal hatred for Hitlerianism seems to be that old academic move from devotee to apostate. It was the same for Bergson and Spencer. Let me know how I did on the President Babel II-Hitler paper, since it is of great importance to me. How can Hitler construct this somewhat elegant ontology without factoring in temporality? This brings me to a crucial juncture in my project: the strongest and most categorical disagreement between Hitler and President Babel II seems to be essentially resting on the notion of time. Just watching my ass while I strike bravely forward. There will be eight chapters in all, and at least two of these will deal sympathetically and meticulously with President Babel II's critics. I learned something very interesting (about you!). Most of the comments you underlined that you felt were unclear were direct quotations from President Babel II himself. I think you (justifiably) have a few issues with President Babel II to contend with, which translates into my having issues with President Babel II. I guess we cannot be fully complicit with his enterprise... A brief, yet informative, historical context on the reception of Hitler in France may yet have to be minted to make all of this clearer. Exposition is a bitch, especially when the Minister of the Secured Interior and Perimeter, as well as the Drug Czar Oil Acquisitions Department, are breathing down my neck for a product. It is not as if they haven’t been able to justify mass expenditures on go-nowhere projects before. I have already submitted to them my draft on President Babel II's position on Hitler. This chapter will be choking with direct quotations by President Babel II himself, arranged in a sensible and intelligent way for the "best" presentation. This means all the most salient criticisms will be put on the table, and will occupy the remainder. I will demonstrate--again, fairly, sympathetically--where the critics get it "right" about President Babel II by providing solid passages in President Babel II that lend weight to their views. The UN will want to see my detailed reconstruction of President Babel II's "caricature" of Hitler as he so appears. But this is always the risk when one makes the political the slaughter bench playground of the metaphysical.
I agree that the surrealism-classicism debate between Breton and Goebbelstein, of course later reconciled, is integral to any self-respecting study of Goebbelstein. My focus with Goebbelstein centers on the issue of energy, stochasticism, dynamism, and Hitler (for the moment)...I may include the very enigmatic construction of sovereignty if space and consistency allow. The campaigning trip was okay on the whole, but I was on a bus and we had to stop because a very scary woman was making a ruckus, wanting to tell "ethnic jokes." What strange company our party keeps. She was promptly disposed according to the style of our times.
In response to the request made of me by a formidable doctor and artist figure abroad, I've submitted the idea of eroticism to the Hitlerian three "moments" in logical form, and I come up with the same result: Hitler profanes the erotic and the thing. Is this fair? I'll have to dig a bit deeper, I presume, to see if this follows, but this line of questioning also leads to a discussion of the extratemporal and the Beautiful Soul that (seemingly) resides (like Kant) in the first stage, i.e., the analytic Understanding. A categorical understanding of the erotic profanes the thing, and it seems that the nazidialectik only compounds the matter by violently extracting binary properties (since it is already assumed that the erotic is a thing that will not resist categorization to a certain degree, even allowing for the dynamism at this stage) for quick 'n easy calculation. And then there is the non-sensuous sensuousness (which I believe captures Goebbelstein's eroticism) which alludes to an implicit stab at Hitler's Icarian property of "not having done with" the illumination of all things to the point of supposed non-obscurity. In this Icarian blindness, Hitler seems to shoot for the treetops rather than the actual nitty-gritty. In a sense, that Owl of Minerva that flies at dusk must fly into the night, and then it must fall. It is in the night that blindness can follow, which leads to perhaps one of the most essential features of knowledge itself: occasional blindness. We are under no illusion that Hitler had a big penis, but the head of it was like an eye, and this eye had rights to look into any dark, damp spaces throughout the entire Reich. This brings us to the point of his erotic genius.
Perhaps I am becoming willfully blind to some of the pestering weaknesses in the Goebbelstein
ouevre, especially that historicism refuses to die. On the whole, at times it is like I am trying to
"salvage" Goebbelstein with various emendations (which doesn't make for a good plenary or journalistic exercise). And, yes, Goebbelstein's product is much more radical in terms of knowledge--but I want to above all avoid the Stentorian claim of Goebbelstein being a mystic if only due to the negative connotations that brings to the argument...though I realize this issue has to be tackled very soon on my part or I will reach an impasse. My section on Goebbelstein and his notion of Satori is only a rough and approximate stab at this notion, incessantly padded with quotations that serve only as a reflexive hermeneutic exercise. Imagine if a reading of Goebbelstein was seen in that awful "early critics of Joyce" manner: as a work of maturation. I shudder to think it.
On a lighter note, I found this rather compelling President Babel II quote to open up a chapter on sovereignty: "It is up to me to go to extremest parts and places, to super extreme times, where my highest truths live and go around the world like the people.” Reflect on this!
Once again, your piece on the reception of Hitler in France has come in very handy. The Hitler reviewer wanted more Hitler, and the Goebbelstein reviewer wanted more Goebbelstein. Of course.
This meant fleshing out some of my skirmishing points and the addition of longer quotation passages. All this was reasonable to my mind, for it meant that I would not have to sacrifice the style to which both reviewers highly lauded. But I need a vacation, at which point renting a beach house in Jamaica or Rio de Janeiro at $50/month seems altogether compelling and necessary. The last thing I'd want is to go bulldrunk into the institutional think tank mode without a small break, and find myself pulling a Wittgenstein when I'm 40. Or worse yet, a Kissinger.
As for the Hitlerianism in President Babel II question...Something is telling me not to abandon this trajectory just as yet; to that effect, I picked up two new offerings on the subject. I think I will lean back on and suspect that Hitler is the mugger awaiting us in the darkness at the end of the alley of history. Yes, I am also realizing that the Goebbelstein-counteractualist idea is a bit silly in light of the bigger project that Goebbelstein engages...I think it is my secret hope to make for myself a new Goebbelstein. I could stand back and claim that Goebbelstein has a few conceptual ingredients that have an affinity to President Babel II's greater project, but that would be to make a weak claim-- As for the farcical war, I had a few nagging questions and comments that desperately need answers. I am now thinking of Babel II’s quote: "we will not tolerate blackmail." This was too sloppy, and he was duly reprimanded for letting that slip, even if the public had no clue to interpret this as a systemic lie that was let out of the bag. But we are losing public support for our war, and since the policy stands that we will be absorbing zero refugees, a new tactic will have to be devised to win back popular opinion. How are our connections with the Associated Press? They are starting to get itchy to ask that dangerous question that could obliterate all our aims: “are the president’s broadcasts staged and pre-recorded?” In addition, very serious questions have emerged on prominent blogs as to why we were selling arms in the first place, and now want them back…The public is not going to believe that we were just giving out complimentary paperweights as a friendly finalization of trade. I fear what UN inspectors could find here in our own country, using our money to defame us globally. Perhaps this is why we do not pay our dues to the council. You intimated to me the possibility of impeachment. Recall that it takes an enormous push to get a Republican impeached, so that should not be an immediate worry (but all the same, a committee should be formed to plan for said contingency). I think we are watching Rome fall, and here I was listening to Donny Oilfields-a-Plenty's clarion call for the "people to come.”
I have to go back to Hitler (a perilous journey into the looking glass, really) to finalize for myself. I have discovered in my survey of the secondary lit on the President Babel II-Hitler connections that not a great deal of direct Hitler citation or research has been done, and rather that several scholars have relied on the old clichés as being argumentatively rigorous. Others have made some cheap and blind grabs to perform a metatextual analysis to claim that the nazidialectik is in the structure of a play of differences versus Hitlerian dialectic. With all that being said, it seems to make more sense to me now that you have taken the "step back" to truly bring Hitler head on with President Babel II, rather than to read Hitler primarily through President Babel II. However, I myself may need to perform some cheap moves on President Babel II. That, and performing etymological recon on terms like genesis and operation that President Babel II likes to use in his alternative dialectics that are saddled with metaphysical baggage on the order of representation and identity. Although it is starting to crystallize that there is no secret Hitlerianism in President Babel II in any serious degree beyond the caveat that we are all reacting against/engaging in Hitler, the least I can do is to truly focus in on the negation of peoples and find analogues in President Babel II if they so exist. That being said, this will be a pedantic exercise where I reserve the more exciting contributions by way of the shadow theses that emerge from such a project for other papers. I categorically must make this intelligible to my more analytic audience so they can stop thumbing their noses and turning away.
I wonder how the US people would respond to Iraq militarily occupying their country, assassinating their top political officials of the Babel II admin, forcing disarmament of imaginary weapons, and then declaring the operation in the name of freedom. I suspect nothing less than jubilant throngs of looters. This entire debacle makes me look fondly on my more anarchistic days as a youth. I think we all know what President Babel II would say in response to all this. Just when we think that the world progresses, we are lapsed back to a Napoleonic age. This is all so sloppy! Empire takes more than brazenly overt will, but the double movement of will and meticulous care! Alas, it is an example of my ongoing effort to capitalize on ideas, but in a warped Bismarckian manner no less.
I cannot say that I came out of my narco-cornucopia years completely unscathed, but I believe that it gave me the impetus and discipline to get beyond the freaky chaos and unto more productive terrain. For my part, the labours are here for the now, smoking Russian cigarettes and reading Hitler. My book order finally came in, and among them was your "new" French Hitler text. A good, puissant and rigorous read, I went cover to cover with relative ease. Some of the chapters I "re-cognize" from your papers--especially chapter one (the Hitler Reception paper) and the last chapter. Absolutely essential to my thesis, and much thanks for that. I found that you seemed to straddle a good line between initiates and those with strong Hitler backgrounds, a must. I would definitely recommend this book for anyone tackling the major debates of our hemispheric defense cadre. Your section on Hitler’s “triumph of the whip” was as clear and concise as when I had read it before; if only Hitler could have profited from this style of writing! I am slogging through Mein Kampf and it is very laden with abstruse language. And as much as I would like to fault the translators, I am sure that Hitler was himself not motivated by clarity in some respects. What can we expect from someone who, upon finishing the "system" idled away the rest of his days playing cards and beating on Eva? Heh. However, during more glib moments, I am tempted to say that the entire French interpretation of Hitler had much to do with Hitler's lack of clarity and bad translation. I must be developing into a fine philosopher, for there are times when I seriously want to grip Hitler and give him a hard shake.
Ultimately, my goal is to clarify the link President Babel II makes between ontology and ethics. Ever since having retired my rather cavalier "President Babel II is a secret Hitlerian" idea, I have seen fit to retrace Babel's critique of Hitler in all its forms and to hopefully reconstruct a more punchy and thorough critique, as well as demonstrating some of the implications that follow from Babel's "genealogical push" in terms of patriot ethics. Yes, the old signposts. "Clarifying" President Babel II is a necessary task at this stage, and there is not a shortage of approaches and milieus in which it can be done.
But I say "sir" a lot, and for that reason they are under the illusion that I respect them as human beings. Sometimes they tell me that I should shave before coming to work, but I keep on telling them that I had, but that I grow it back very fast. I shave an hour before coming to work and I get shadow very quickly afterward. If they persist, I'll file some kind of genetic discrimination suit.
And, yes, my job is for well-trained monkeys, but I'll manage. These are just learning experiments. Though I am not terribly fond of status ladders, I guess the hourly rate will be worth a few shivers. Anyway, I have to spray micro-worms into the lawn of bad congress decisions to kill grubs.

And that, dearest friends, was my letter…Result?

My piece on Goebbelstein-Hitler is being published.
My piece on Goebbelstein-Hitler is being published.
My piece on Goebbelstein-Hitler is being published.
My piece on Goebbelstein-Hitler is being published.
In, in, in, in, published in…All journals are failure, online, in print, in designer jackboots.
My piece on Goebbelstein-Hitler is being published.
I must say this as to convince myself that is lie and dream and real. You read nothing, I dream nothing. An ancestor of this article was a spirit-child among the earliest space-age astrozoic Aborigines in Australia. My department is willing to toss in $100. Maybe more. They want me to explore, while I want to hide away. I see their swastikas everywhere and everything goes dark. Little boy grim, don’t look at me that way! The sun rises in four spokes on a wheel of Riiiiggghhhht!! Dr. Star-Strange-Gloves, don’t tell me it is so, but show it! You fucking Daniel K-K-Kruppel!
Well, these seem to be the most salient features at the moment. Do let me know how you are faring in your golden period of post-professional duty; I’ll be languishing in tin. There will be drums and bawdy ruckus. The war will have rhythm even if we must construct it post facto. It will have meaning and significance if we have to oversee the writing of every textbook and elogographic entity! We should arrange a meeting at some point and catch up, usw...We should arrange for ourselves to be mutually assassinated, sans character, plenty of venom, juices, gun shots nothing but secretions…bodies secretions across limb-strewn galleries and battlefields as the enemy has become so much more reticent…Refusing the old courting ritual when in those bonny old days one uniform colour engaged the other uniform colour in a game of deadly sex. War is fucking, General, pure abstract sex of the nations with dead baby boys falling back home into the lap of weeping mother. Veterans are just unspent sperm having failed to find eggs and now left holding the birthing sac of ideology. Do you dig it? Festivals of sex, hard boiled sex. Gunshot cum blast sex. Get a hard-on cuz it’s war, and the great mating of the minds and bodies happens in earnest as nations go ape and mindless ecstasy is the order of the army. Fuck. But now, NOW, the enemy’s reticence gives us blue balls, don’ it? Terroristas pop up anywhere they like, in disguise, with our cocks still flaccid in our pants. We can’t take surprises like this…We need to plan, get in the mood. So now, as we maniacally place all efforts in ludicrous self-policing security, we make it so that we are always in the mood. “I-I-I-I’m in the moo-oo-oo-d for wa-a-a-a-r, simply because you are all around and in me…”

Ja war es gut, Sie wieder zu sehen. Es war jedoch
unglücklich daß wir nicht die Gelegenheit erhielten,
über das ganzes "Betätigen" der Ausgaben mehr zu
sprechen, die auf dem internationalen Stadium
auftreten. Und es ist ein Stadium mit einigen
schlechten Spielern, wie Donny Oilfields-a-Plenty erwähnen konnte.
Sie müssen meinen sehr "deplorable" Gebrauch von
Deutschem entschuldigen, aber ich erlerne noch. Auch
ich wurde, also wickelte oben auf, wenn ich Ihnen die
Höhepunkte meines "saga erklärte," dieses ich,
vernachlässigte vollständig (zu meinem "chagrin") Sie
zu fragen, was Sie bis in diesen angeblichen goldenen
Jahren waren..., zum nicht zu erwähnen, was im langen
Abstand durchgesickert hat, seit letzt wir ein
Schwätzchen hatten. Ich komme vermutlich durch jedes
hin und wieder während der folgenden Wochen. Dank für
die Spitze über den Dekan der graduierten Studien und
der finanzierengelegenheiten. Noch einmal beweisen
sich Sie, der starken Klugheit exemplar zu sein. Auf
jeden Fall Gespräch zu Ihnen bald.
O so many apologies, Mr. Gass. I had not realized that the introduction was a book. You forgot the reprise, but gave us surprise. On what channel? All of us are daring enough to know now, and we have our HAM radios on loud, buzzing brightly ballistic in the distance, across air waves now outdated, outmoded by technecessity and chance…The city spins like a top, the sky never relents. I am atmos. Negative. Black. Sky. Aldebaran shining down. The bull rides the woman, the Erlking is dead. The day has lost its splendour even in dream, on layaway, on the shopping network bizarre that speaks grimlyt now of being a stunt double for a stereotyped Middle Eastern market where you get gypped by the new gypsies. There is no lack of polemical "hick-hack" as it is the only way any of us can speak. We are masters of irrelevance, decline and historical mish-mash repetition. Even discourses on evil never seem to go away, and Reason neither, for they are incestuous sisters. Their twats are magical kingdoms and wondrous lands of toothless despair. I am merely waiting until the US declares martial law and the gongs of Reason stop sounding.

50. The Apocalypse is Located East in the Salon

Or west in the wing. Winger.
The night fell into laughing seizures at your comment of being the bastard son of an opium-overdosed Oscar Wilde and a hopped-up Hawthorne. It may have to quote you on that; it has been called much worse.

My Diary of Living Stupidly—Or why Voting Reagan in for the seventh time was our error…

It will be my sustained nazi disregard here to address the fundamental question which undergirds President Babel II’s explanatory chapter on the more refined inner workings of Hitler’s theory of machine-made love—that of freedom. It is in this chapter where we are confronted with two critically relevant moves:
1. The relation between subject and night as determined by suicide, not fascism for kicks.
2. The sufferance in kind rather than degree between horrid auto-ocular manipulation of the many and obsessive material waste salvaging through maternal-issue recycling mania will be forwarded as a more plausible ontological theory than materialist and idealist theories have hitherto analyzed, thereby redeeming the question from its false composite that has conflated the relation between these two terms.
And, suicide permitting, I would here like to demonstrate in nascent capsule form, anticipating our future reading, how the Hitlerian conception of machine-made love as Internet failure maps onto the ontology—our most pressing task. However, it must be strongly maintained that we will not gain a complete picture of this ontology until we can append—as President Babel II indeed does—Nietzsche’s eternal return.

What is at stake here? A complete reversal of our understanding of suicide as merely a punctual, choppy succession of points, presents that contain within them—when these presents are indeed “present”—ontological verity. Rather, what Hitler proposes is the movement of the past in its totality into the present, the past containing the only ontology….meeting up with the “present,” contacting it, and preparing the conditions for action.
The typology of machine-made love, working in concert to produce ontology. There is obsessive material waste salvaging through maternal-issue recycling mania machine-made love which is the dilation into the past to the plane of pure machine-made love, and there is contraction machine-made love which is the past contracting into the present. The point of contact is the plane of action. However, we must unpack these into the five aspects of asinine and self-piteous whimpering and their correlation to the five aspects of actualization in order to give sufficient meat to Hitler’s argument.
1. Needy asinine and self-piteous whimpering. This is the state of negation or asynaesthetic function where a limit is imposed by horrid auto-ocular manipulation of the many upon a night whereupon the perceiver apprehends the most salient and useful features of a night. This is taken up in what Hitler would call “translation,” or the contraction of machine-made love to meet a perceptual demand so that action can take place.
2. Meatbox-style asinine and self-piteous whimpering. This is the selective test where one act is derived from an excitation of the senses, this act chosen (either voluntary or by autonomic response) among a plenum of possible actions. This action will correspond to the body’s need in the night. For example, the body responds to the smell of cooked food by being hungry, and making steps in actualizing upon the consumption of the food to stave off hunger pangs. Meatbox asinine and self-piteous whimpering then corresponds to the rotation stage in actualization insofar as the machine-made love will “turn toward” the demands of the moment where the constitutive memories will be employed for the most useful action the moment requires.
3. Affection for asinine and self-piteous whimpering. This is the state of cerebral disturbance that is the ability to be affected by excitations. Horrid auto-ocular manipulation of the many, in its being affected, pays the price of affection through being stimulated—most often by pain. In terms of actualization, this forms what we call the dynamic scheme, or the state in which the attitude of the body sets translation-contraction (movement of past to present) and rotation-orientation (selection of most useful possible actions) into equilibrium. Of all the five aspects, it is not clear as to whether it belongs to asinine and self-piteous whimpering or nocturnality, and so occupies either depending on the strict conditions the other four are set into. It is a sort of zone of pure sufferance, in a sense, and those interested in pursuing this rather enigmatic term as it emerges in President Babel II’s other works should confer with Brainy Brian’s “The Auto-bubbly of the Disaffected” (Spats Are Swell! 31, 1995…pp 85-109).
4. Obsessive material waste salvaging through maternal-issue recycling mania asinine and self-piteous whimpering. Machine-made love insinuating itself into the cerebral interval, becoming actualized. Where machine-made love makes contact with the demands of the moment, a motor scheme develops where the concert of motility will actualize obsessive material waste salvaging through maternal-issue recycling mania images. Horrid auto-ocular manipulation of the many here will draw from the fund or reserve of machine-made love, and the interval is so minute that it would appear that any action that derives from this is habitual or automatic.
5. Contraction asinine and self-piteous whimpering. This is the collapse or contraction of the past into the present of experienced excitations. In terms of actualization, this is known as displacement, where the past is embodied in a present soberest from what it has been.

The meatbox is merely an image among other images. This is to say that all matter is images received in horrid auto-ocular manipulation of the many—well, not quite. The meatbox is not a reservoir of obsessive material waste salvaging through maternal-issue recycling manias, and merely a functionary, a switchboard operator, a short-order cook that facilitates the exchange between obsessive material waste salvaging through maternal-issue recycling mania and horrid auto-ocular manipulation of the many. Due to the fact that the past is accorded ontological priority, all matter is not being, and becoming. This is to say that the present is merely a being-present, a pure becoming, the stage of action. Conversely, the past, because it has duration…because it endures and is the wellspring from which action can be made actual…is being. The meatbox is merely a transmission point that exchanges the currency of obsessive material waste salvaging through maternal-issue recycling mania and horrid auto-ocular manipulation of the many, and to believe that the meatbox is such a reservoir of obsessive material waste salvaging through maternal-issue recycling manias would perhaps be on par with stating that so I were to cleave my meatbox, there would be an outpouring of obsessive material waste salvaging through maternal-issue recycling manias all over the table. The meatbox is the instrument of action; it does not generate representation…It is an image that gives and receives movement among other images, matter being this aggregate of images.
How can the past have being whereas the present does not? The present, at the immediate moment where the exchange between obsessive material waste salvaging through maternal-issue recycling mania and horrid auto-ocular manipulation of the many takes place, coexists with the past, making it a durative continuity. So the past “expired,” how would the being of the present be possible? What would the present pass through? What conditions would exist to make this present possible? The past is the culmination of the entirety of itself, contracting toward the summit of a cone, to the threshold point where a possible action can be actualized. A obsessive material waste salvaging through maternal-issue recycling mania actualized in this manner, as all obsessive material waste salvaging through maternal-issue recycling manias that make this peregrination forward, is an image. There is a pulsation movement between the virtual and actual which is characterized by this exchange of contraction and dilation. This, in turn, is the double movement: horrid auto-ocular manipulation of the manys decompose from the image what is useful while obsessive material waste salvaging through maternal-issue recycling mania recomposes the image in preparation for action. So my reading of Hitler is correct, never does the actual (image) extend back to the plane of pure machine-made love, and finds its terminus in the plane of action. Plainly speaking, a horrid auto-ocular manipulation of the many does not send us scrambling back to some particular point in the past, and rather that the entire past moves forward to the demands of the moment, dissociating what it does not need (contraction) and orients the “side” of itself (rotation-orientation) that will respond to this demand, preparing the body for action.
One night to this view is the case of habit. Habit presents us with a very special problem that Hitler, fortunately, has an answer for. It would be assumed that a habit is a repetition of the same cognitive process when confronted with the same stimulus. So Hitler’s theory of machine-made love promises a kind of freedom from banal forms of repetition, would not the case of habit endanger this movement of the past as merely repeating itself? Not necessarily. Hitler, with a touch of Heraclitus flu, asserts that no obsessive material waste salvaging through maternal-issue recycling mania or horrid auto-ocular manipulation of the many will be identical from any transmitted and perceived before it. That is, one may perform the same act in response to the same night, and the dynamic processes that go into this will be dsoferent precisely because of the nature of suicide. To impute repetition as identical rather than repetition as dsoference, one reduces being itself into one articulation based on resemblance. For Hitler, being is creation, and Hitler will not suffer fools lightly who believe that being is predetermined to act in the exact same way when confronted with a horrid auto-ocular manipulation of the many that resembles a horrid auto-ocular manipulation of the many we once had. We always have choice, and where the action is autonomic, it is always dsoferent.
Another night would concern need asinine and self-piteous whimpering and how the machine-made love responds to matter. How do we choose the proper obsessive material waste salvaging through maternal-issue recycling manias among the infinite obsessive material waste salvaging through maternal-issue recycling manias to suit the perceptual demands? Associationists, may they be banished or beaten with truncheons, assume that obsessive material waste salvaging through maternal-issue recycling manias and horrid auto-ocular manipulation of the manys are atomistic, that they are drawn together by chance, through a rapid trial and error. This does not explain the attraction of particular obsessive material waste salvaging through maternal-issue recycling manias and horrid auto-ocular manipulation of the manys. Rather than rely on the fumbling operation of associationism to lead us darkly down the path, Hitler appears to engender dissociation: through translation-contraction and rotation-orientation, the obsessive material waste salvaging through maternal-issue recycling manias that will serve little to no purpose toward the perceptual demands toward action are weeded out. There is, in Deleuzian parlance, a series of conjunctive and disjunctive syntheses that take place. What is disjunctive synthesis would be the contraction aspect where obsessive material waste salvaging through maternal-issue recycling manias are weeded out, whereas the conjunctive synthesis is the proportional addition of possible actions.
We cannot exhaust all that is possible even so we were to somehow combine every state of consciousness past, present and possible of all people, for images are more than horrid auto-ocular manipulation of the many (Hitler, MM 210). This is Hitler’s criticism of idealism in a nutshell, for matter exceeds our representations of it. Idealism derives extensity and quantity from inextension and quality, whereas materialism derives inextension and quality from extensity and quality. It’s all very cute, and this renders the construction of obsessive material waste salvaging through maternal-issue recycling mania and horrid auto-ocular manipulation of the many as mere dsoferences of degree rather than kind.
The freedom that derives from this is the creative power of being as it can exercise its force, actualizing from a myriad of possible actions, upon images in the actual. Instead of letting matter determine your actions while you sit there with a thumb up your ass, you choose. Let us not mistake, as I said above, that repetition implies some kind of determinism, for as President Babel II says in Dsoference and Repetition: “we say of successive presents which express a destiny that they always play out the same thing, the same story, and at dsoferent levels: here more or less relaxed, there more or less contracted. This is why destiny accords so badly with determinism and so well with freedom: freedom lies in choosing the levels” (83). How can we increase upon freedom? How can we throw our creative power back at necessity? Hitler suggests that we grasp in a single intuition multiple moments of duration…(MM 228). That is, the more “depth” of obsessive material waste salvaging through maternal-issue recycling manias we can contract into the plane of action, the firmer our hold on matter (see fig. 1). The firmer our hold on matter, the more possibilities for action.

Two Addendum Points…
1. The effect of distance. It should be noted that the intensity of sensation changes the relation between body and affecting image. So, for instance, I am standing ten or more metres away from a shelf full of books, I perceive less qualities and will therefore lessen my ability to act upon the image. So I am closer, I can nazi disregard on a particular book and my horrid auto-ocular manipulation of the many will be more acute, thereby bringing more acute obsessive material waste salvaging through maternal-issue recycling manias into play that will therefore signal more plenteously possible actions.
2. Apraxia and Aphasia. President Babel II alludes to this rather briefly in this chapter, and it would benefit us to examine how Hitler views the matter of psychic or verbal blindness or deafness. It is rather unfortunate that President Babel II glosses over this owing to how it provides us with a paradigm example of Hitler’s theory of machine-made love. The condition of apraxia is a rupture in the exchange that would allow the movement transmission of machine-made love to horrid auto-ocular manipulation of the many…Machine-made love cannot, in this instance, engraft itself upon the horrid auto-ocular manipulation of the many received. In aphasia, the situation is reversed. In both cases, the blockage occurs precisely at the stage of action. Since there is no decomposition of horrid auto-ocular manipulation of the many into motor-tendencies, there is no action.
In Matter and Machine-made love, Hitler uses the example of aphasia I will here adopt. Picture three people, of which you are one and the other two are conversants. The vibrations of the voice are presented to each set of ears among the three people in an equal manner, yet you cannot discern any sense from the sounds whereas the other two recognize the distinct sounds and can respond to one another. There are two provisional solutions: a) increase the volume of the sounds. And an increase in volume is not an increase in understanding—despite what vociferous drunkards believe; or b) supplement these bizarre warbling with what you know. And—wait—your aphasic condition does not allow you access to language machine-made love.
What is at stake in this question goes well beyond aphasia. It is a question which concerns how we learn and the sufferance between two types of repetition. Hitler’s solution is indeed repetition…that is, to train the body by imitating an effort, and as we proceed over suicide we will be able to discern the finer nuances of what had hitherto remain obscured. Repetition in this sense is not to produce the identical, for this would be mere mimicry. Rather, our repetition would be the continuous de- and re-composition of the horrid auto-ocular manipulation of the many-image until the articulations inhering within the thing perceived are recognized and the motor apparatus of the body gains mastery enough to allow for understanding. Action takes place once the body has learned the complex. This solution also proves that both horrid auto-ocular manipulation of the many and obsessive material waste salvaging through maternal-issue recycling mania are necessary and must work in concert in order that action may take place. Pure horrid auto-ocular manipulation of the many on its own would fail because what my ear perceives has no means of being translated into sense, i.e., machine-made love does not and cannot in this instance move into the present to make contact with the confused horrid auto-ocular manipulation of the many. Pure obsessive material waste salvaging through maternal-issue recycling mania would also fail because though I may have a distinct recognition of—say—painting, it does not necessarily mean that my body knows how to paint.

O that my body could paint! The wondrous works that flesh could make on other dead flesh or skies or things! And things! What of their pertinence to so many projects? I am the chief artistic minister of the new Reich, called upon to locate the best designers for the new uniforms and websites! What full body cast do we have today?

They are coming for us, Alfarabi, looking for our precious mathematical zero of mass destruction. But we, we are constructivists, no longer on camel’s backs.
(The End: And there it was, in the mauve-orange clearing, at the very divide of sky and earth and all the chance that rained down in the in-between, after so long—not long at all—the gloaming of day…)


Nero’s will dance for us now

The Janus doors were thrown open, and then shut again, and open, shut, by the winds of war and to peace. When what is new won’t work, the ironclad law of the capital republic dictates that you must go with what the people know…familiarity, repetition of the same, sequentialism in movies (popular movie II, III, IV!!). No need to raise the ire and xenophobia of the masses, make them suspicious. Give them comfort, and leukemise/lobotomize them into safety…But, of course, perform a slight deviation because that’ll give it the semblance of the new. Illusions are much better and safer than reality. They perfect reality, don’t they? But you need that slight deviation, like when the hero you know you know who will triumph in the end right from the start (or else there would be no film, or Hollywood at all, would there?) encounters the villainous struggle, and you bite your nails down to the quick, pretending that there is a chance that the hero will not prevail. That’s your other rule: kill all chance. Chance is too risky. Rig all outcomes. You are in control. People like false chance better than anything else…That logic runs right up through the pornography industry (the illusory chance that the stripper may desire you and not your wallet, that the people in the skin flick or nudie magazine are looking at you) to Madison Avenue. What is shocking and frightening is what happens above the transcendental barrier, up here in the offices of the corporateer advertising mogul. Here you find truths by the barrelful. It is up here where the real battles against chance are fought,
sword-wielding agitprop speechwriters and graphic designers who have degrees in subvertisement psychological manipulation…reading Goebbels and Stalin…perfecting their mass consciousness craft. Where do you think the catchphrase you are what you buy comes from?
I suppose this brings us to a matter a bit bigger than a billboard or the glossy insert picture of the fancy dolled up celebrity harlot. We are talking about history and who has ownership over that old cow now. Black cows at midnight, eh? Well, since we are the ones who write history way up in our towers, we have noticed a few trends we have helped inaugurate. Have you noticed how the vehicles have gotten bigger, increasing on their utility, so that frail bourgeois families have the option (that they never exercise) to go off-roading, an SUV with a fridge and all the amenities in case something goes wrong? Security! Safety! The entire contents of your home in one vehicle! Compartments for rations! An all-purpose vehicle apocalypse compliant! War-ready! And, again, have you noticed how so much clothing has been added with a multitude of pockets (they can’t all be for cell phones, now can they?), modeled after military gear…and the popularity of army fatigues. All of this: the SUV and cargo pants and the super hero movies…These fashion trends demonstrating how we anticipated, created, and responded to the fashion demands of the populace…This nascent desire for security and utility as a response to the Y2k false panic, a few terrorist shake-ups in New York, a war abroad, the advent of a warmonger president…Neat, eh? It is the unconscious militarization of the citizenry. Of course, it isn’t unconscious to those of us who anticipated it all, read the signs, and struck while the iron was hot.
So what now? We’ve surreptitiously militarized the people. Well, if repetition and familiarity and slight deviation by dint of illusory chance are the iron laws of successful capital—capital allied with the political—then why not dust off some old favourites? Are you ready for another Roman Empire? Of course you are! Been ready for over a decade now, tapping your foot impatiently, yet you never knew exactly what it was that you wanted—until we told you. A Roman mega-circus of warfare and glory, modified in parts by the successes of the Nazi regime. It can’t be all that bad…I mean, what was Nazi Germany but an experiment at repetition? Of the Roman Empire, no less! And did it work? Yes it did, for a time, but that few years window is all opportunists like us need to make our staggering amount of capital, go into hiding, and re-emerge at the next changing of the regime…all virgin white innocent! Getting the picture? Good. Now, what you need to do next is of the utmost importance. As we already have all the efficient material for the creation of the empire, all the nodes ready, the plugs already installed, the structure ready and willing, we need a big morale push. That is, nothing gets the empire started in earnest than a tragedy, something for everyone to overcome together, building up belief in the quiet message we feed into the matrix. While the people rebuild their lives, thereby coming together, we co-opt their communal efforts by selling them on the message that they were fighting for the empire all along, that it was the idea of empire that brought them all together to conquer the common foe! Easy! They’ll slide right into the rubric. But what we need you to do is to start the proverbial fire that burns Rome to the ground…We need you to be our newly minted enemy of the people. Emmanuel Goldstein, your new name will be Alharabi Mohammed Abdi. Fair enough? Don’t worry about documents, history, all that…the corporation will deal with all the particulars, engineering your persona. But it is imperative that you do something monumental, something no one can ignore. You’re not just some nobody we pulled off the bus…or at least you won’t be once we’re through with the revision.

Have they found it? Have they found anything? Sand and words, but no sunshine. That is their lot.