Monday, October 31, 2011
Sunday, October 30, 2011
standing on the earth pushing to the core of me
i raise my hands to the sky, and
serpent hair winds the wind, whispering secrets in my ears
things unremembered 'til now.
safely above fragility, i release my lightnings, and thunder-snakes to the sky
to roll around and pound out a rhythm i can move to.
i can dance this fire. moving in passion, i have no fear.
worlds take shape within me,
as i shed another skin.
Slowly i adjust to the physical confines of this Union. My penchant for *Makers, proves itself out, again. The present Human associates of this form, have great tolerance for * odd behavior, it is dismissed as part of "the creative process". This has been most helpful. I continue to accept the chemicals they line up for me every morning, and dispose of them at first opportunity, as i still have no reply on the affects on Union.The work continues, i can feel pleasure again. Flexing the seeking part of this Coadjutant mind, regularly, has improved it's focus. The ability is strong, the control is nominal. I await instruction. P.S. Are there other constituents of a complimentary Genisis, in this quadrant? I have been approached. Advise.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Friend of mine once said to me, "If you have a distaste for the smell of shit, force yourself to smell it until it doesn't bother you anymore." I doubt he meant this in a literal sense, although the image of a Sufi master literally forcing the student to eat hir excrement for the sake of desensitizing the pupil to the corrosive elements of the world and hir own personality- (and primarily for what I would imagine to be shits in giggles, pardon the pun!) is an appealing one for comedic value alone, this is something I wouldn't take literally if I were you.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Through this we may see the first will-to-meaning in the struggle between the secret gravity of our end being ahead and behind us, and our constant attempt to create a beginning, an eternally present moment, right now.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
TO: Agent 888
FROM: Agent 156
Subject: Briefing for Op. Mem-Nun-Aleph.
I am currently working on developing a questionnaire which will be used to determine an applicants 'placement' into one of six cells. (Part of the questionnaire will be a release form. We can't take responsibility for what these crazy kids are doing...)
“True or false:
I often cry after masturbating.
I sometimes dream about having sex with my mother/father.
I have an interest in theater.
I consider myself to be comfortable speaking openly to others. I have a psychological case file that is currently open or have received psychiatric treatment in the past 2 years.
I have faced significant legal problems in my life. I often find myself daydreaming about violent acts...”
Pretty basic stuff, psychological profiling and such.
The Buyer has provided me cell diagrams. These cells will continue to be given missions, projects, etc. relevant to their placement. If successful, this would provide for memetic infection, and good times for all. (Additionally it would allow us to provide cultural nudges. Part of the beauty of the cell concept is of course that no one involved at any level knows who else is involved, or where information is coming from. We are all moles. I will say that I am not the one running the show, nor is the Mother Hive Brain syndicate the only dis-organization involved--this connected with other similarly intentioned orgs.)
So what I want to know... is ? ! are you ready? Meet us in front of the KOP mall in a week. We will have supplies.
In closing, consider this aphorism:
Our sages say "the kidneys give advice." In particular, the right kidney relates to spiritual advice or introspection. The kidneys act similarly to the "conscience," as is said "by night my kidneys chastise me." This refers to the "chesbon nefesh" (introspection) of the month of Iyar.
THEE death ov Rusty Shackleford:
my thoughts are fragmented. can't even remember how long it's been since i've even slept. going back thru and tweaking mixes, wondering why all my friends seem to be diasterously self-destructive suicidal or badly dependent on narcotics. we were taught to believe that growing up we would become astronauts, actors or in my case, the unfortunate delusion that still has yet to die: the myth of a struggling young artist, intoxicated by ambition and desire to somehow articulate some socially pertinent matter at hand before dying at age 27.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Monday, October 17, 2011
HOW DO I SIGN UP?
If you are on the wavelength, you're already a memebearer. If not, you never will be. So pick up that pen, or guitar, or shovel, and get working, Agent.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
You didn't hear about fucking Jimmy! Dude! He shat all over himself - this is at the senior dance, too, right, everyone looking right at him as he gets covered in this mess of butt pudding - and he screamed along to the lyrics YOU SPIN ME RIGHT ROUND BABY RIGHT ROUND, I mean every word, screaming along and then-
You're really freaking me out.
You should have fucking been there. Jimmy shat himself, and projectile vomited the whole way to the window, and you're telling me about freaking? At the window he screamed YOU'LL NEVER TAKE ME ALIVE and then? Took a header for the concrete.
It's only two stories.
Fine, then you jump out the window face first and tell me-
-Whatever. So is that why he wasn't in Gym today?
Uh, yeah. Dude. He's fucking dead.
Hm. Guess I don't have to give back his PSP, then.
Yeah. Anyway, fucked up about Jimmy, huh?
I guess. Come on, let's get out of here.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Friday, October 14, 2011
Thursday, October 13, 2011
"Overwhelmed, as One would be,
Placed in my position.
Such a heavy burden now, to be The One,
Born to bear, and bring to all
The details of our ending.
To write it down for all the world to see."
-Lost Keys (Blame Hoffman)/Rosetta Stoned
I was wandering around aimlessly through a painting by Hieronymus Bosch.
No, really. That is not an exaggeration.
900 micrograms of the most visually mindblowing, showstopping LSD I have ever taken, a bit of ketamine and MDMA, wandering through a crowd of about a thousand people wearing woolen hippie hoodies, octopus hats and tie dyed t-shirts. Psychedelic Americana Kitsch, but somehow slyly self-aware of this. It was like something out of Andy Warhol's back catalog, or a complex self-referential viral marketing hoax perpetuated by the Church of the Subgenius.
Lately, I have taken to spreading memetic thought viruses to large groups of people. Outside of the internet, the festival environment seems most ideal for this. Congregating with those who are particularly susceptible to ideas that most of society considers to be deviant or dangerous is a way to plant your seeds, one by one, and not get caught. You don't tell them this, of course. Then they realize what you are really doing and the whole game is up. Shit, I just broke the fourth wall. Woops.
Just remember, I am emphatically *not* the Buddha. Please don't kill me.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
I just want to be able to get closer to her. I want to be her friend.
I was at the high school dance. Shitty waste of an evening. I mean, I wouldn't have even considered going to something like this. It was embarassing. But I knew she'd be there.
And then the song started. You know the one. "You spin me right round baby, right round."
Cheesy shit but we can all dance "ironically" to it. That makes it safer somehow.
Yeah I, I got to know your name. Well and I, could trace your private number baby. Amber. That was her name. Different hair color every week it seemed. Different piercings and tattoos. Same eyes. Nothing could change them. I wanted to.
So I stood in the corner. Gibberish numbers were bouncing around in my head, blocking everything else out. They seemed to come from the music but compound themselves, a feedback loop of infinite proportions. 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, ...
She turned to look at me when the words "Watch out, here I come" seemed to blow my eardrums out of my cheap skull.
21, 34... ACTIVATE.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Sleeping, remember twilight selves, chaos agents, order of the hidden path types: when you throw a dildo into your neighbor's yard, you throw it into the yard of
My mind was, of course, wallowing in the filth as I drifted in and out of sleep, my head rolling into improbably painful positions, my mouth ringed with a thin patina of shame. Or drool. (Same difference). In that meandering state between sleep and dream, nothing is quite real, nothing is quite dream. They call that a liminal state, right?
I was thinking about this one look. It was a look a lover had given me once. They'd reached that point where their restrictions had been peeled off like a layer of paint. Nothing in the world can ever compete with that look of starved depravity, a mixture of pleading, supplication, and oddly, dominance.
I played it again and again in my mind. It had been years, but that one moment remained etched in my memory as if in some indelible marker, as all other times, places and faces were slowly worn away. A clicking, rattling, whirring sound in the cabin snapped me out of that eternal moment. I didn’t know what it was, and for a while I could keep it out of mind. I was replaying those moments, the delicious moments before everything turned to shit. Yet the moment was slowly losing out. I could feel scratchy things, hungry things, scuttling around in the machinery of the bus. It wasn't sexy hungry. It was, rather, cold, empty insect hunger. I could feel them inside there. Lurking. Waiting.
The air started to smell, I don’t know. It just smelled off. A chemical smell, like DMT or magic markers. I gave up. There were no more "eager mouths," or "nubile mounds" or anything like that. Just a beehive buzzing, mechanical bees, razor sharp bees. Growing, choking out the air, blotting out the sun. I opened my eyes.
This was the first I noticed that someone was seated beside me. Kind of weather-worn looking guy, he had a young face but was also covered in a pattern of wrinkles like kidskin.
“Do you smell that?”I asked him.
“Huh? Smell what?” he asked. He seemed distracted by something else, but I was still mostly fixated on the chemical smell and what sounded like Einsturzende Neubauten trapped inside the air ventilation system.
“Nevermind,” I said. I saw a sign drift past. 300 miles to New Orleans. Loooong ride ahead. “So where you from?” I asked.
He got this 1000 mile stare, like a guy that’d been in the trenches too long. “All over,” he said. “I was in Babylon.”
“Hm, the band that’s been in the news?”
"Everyone's dead now," he said, giving me a look I'd never seen.
And that’s about when the hyperdimensional merovignian bees started crawling out of the ventilation system.
I'm told our parents celebrated 9/11 like it was some kind of holiday. Fly a plane into a building, years later they'll be having Macy's sales around it. I imagine that if scientists announced that a meteor was hurtling towards the Earth, a whole industry would spring out of it. Pharmeceutical profits would skyrocket. Meteor pills would be all the rage. And the parties. Holy fuck, the parties.
That's now how it happened though. High tide just came on coming, a little each year. We worked our way around it. When the subways flooded, we made barges. Marketplaces moved from street level to the second floor. We banded into groups. I've farmed on rooftops, built windmills out of metal scrap. Not everyone, of course. The transitional generation got it the worst.Unprepared and generally worthless, a lot of them withered away to nothing in the darkness over skinned knees and bruised prides.
I guess we were lucky to be born amongst the garbage and scrap cities. We banded together. We improvised, or we died. I was seven when the news media started reporting the 404 Attacks. Eight when the ever encroaching sea was half-jokingly called High Tide. Fifteen when I decided to be a joiner, changed my name to a number (79, if you're wondering), and started pranking corporations.
And I was twenty one when I met my first demigod. That will take a little explanation though, huh? It started when I met a runaway along the side of the road. The rest I'll piece together from what she told me, and what little imagination I have. Grant this old man some poetic license and come along with me, I've got one bottle of old Scotch left, ...
The sizzle of a match sparking to life momentarily mingled with cricket-song in the swampy air. A large, calloused hand guided it towards a hurricane lantern in the dark, its nails split from work and grimy to the quick.
“Bad smells, lil’ Missy,” a voice said, coming from a hulking form still mostly cloaked in shadow. “Fiyah. An’ pisssss.”
The wick of the hurricane candle borrowed life from the match, which expired with a wet sizzle in the palm of the other seemingly disembodied hand. The sweet pork and sulfur smell of burnt flesh filled the room with the growing light, revealing shelves of yellowed bottles holding dried herbs in front of a mildewed Confederate flag.
|Art: P. Emerson Williams|
Don hadn’t been to an airport in the past year. It wasn’t an experience he much missed. He wondered how they managed to combine the feeling of a checkout line at a supermarket, a doctor’s office, and a gulag. It was well executed, though to what end was never entirely clear.
For better or worse his mission had been accomplished. He had a nice little chunk of change set aside for himself, so long as he could get out of dodge before someone found out that without his aid, all the social viruses that were biting the establishment in the ass now would have starved themselves to death long ago. It was time for him to find a nice plot of land to lie low in for the next millennium. Thailand seemed ideal. No questions, no pesky laws if you bought off the right cartels.
Lines of people shifted, clutching briefcases close to their bodies. Cordial, preemptive cavity searches had become standard. So had random DNA testing and crosschecking. Cotton swab brushed quickly across the tender inner cheek was all it took, and they could trace almost anything, if the system determined there was cause for a full query.
The group brusquely wading through the crowd was far more troubling.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Looking at my own warped and knobby image in the faucet of the bathtub, I realize that I am not only “Handsome” Jim Manitoba, Pugilist Extraordinaire. I am also Hephaestus, club foot. I am proud of my deformity, my dissimilitude, my difference defines, clarifies… Every room of the house is a metaphor of a place inside myself. Or does the place inside myself mirror how the house is made? Another toke, relax a little more into the murky, steaming water. There is nothing real in my living room, nothing aesthetic in my bedroom, yet in the small, confined space of my bathroom, I may be free, I may be Hephaestus without shame, without lie or facade. My chaotic self-energy is formed by the feminine hands of my environment, and I am not angry at what it has made me. The language of my inner dialogue forms my house, I am a product of it, a servant of the Mother Bee, my home, my society, free to be as I am, Hephaestus, Club Foot—a bivalent builder of forms, molded by those forms I make—lame, erect, and proud!
Elder_Godspawn:You're being reactivated, old son.NinetySixand2: I was never *deactivated*Elder_Godspawn: Your name is on the books. Red File to Black.NinetySixand2: Hold on there, I was just a bloody consultant. You can't simply just flip me like a switch.Elder_Godspawn: We can, and we have. You're an asset now. What you do with it is up to you, but you're back in the game, #693.NinetySixand2: Seriously?Elder_Godspawn: Deadly. Go looking for MHB. It's of interest. And lose the implants.NinetySixand2:...shit.Elder_Godspawn: Indeed. BCNU.Elder_Godspawn has signed off at 03:33NinetySixand2: ...Be seeing you too...dick.
- Chat logs recovered from a laptop found in a burned out car, Liverpool, England - 17th May.
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Friday, October 7, 2011
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Mother Hive Brain is not a newage self-help movement.
It is not "newage".
Monday, October 3, 2011
In other words do not strap yourself down and watch They Live, The Thing, and Videodrome on a repeating loop with nothing but saltines coated in lsd for a snack
Step back a bit. Not sure this is helping, reviewed
seems a bit innocent - wide eyed - ignorant as to the larger context (where did he get a grenade?) - individuals are being inoculated by the "mother hive brain".
"We are becoming immune."