Capirotada and Menudo

Children wriggled and wailed as the man on the pulpit exalted the fantastic in fevers. With a few abra-cadabra's, the man in the suit and tie cued the crowd with a charisma and phraseology, and everyone applauded and danced and jumped, and pretty soon, even the adults joined the children in the wailing and wriggling. Everyone paid what they could; the show, after all, was free.

There was a funny looking man in the middle of it all, observing the whole thing from atop, watching everything go to and fro like a sea of hands. His sense of detachment made him feel egotistically maniacal, and he felt sorry for this. He got down and felt bad; he had no idea why, he just did, perhaps it occurred to him that everyone was fucked and everything was fucked, and even this idea gave him a sense of guilt, for what did he, this funny looking man, know about anything? to make such judgments? Who is who to say which is what and how much something means to someone if nothing to him?

He caught himself as a lump and moistness build up in his throat and eyes, he swallowed and breathed so as to contain the oceanic feeling. It passed; he felt regular now, meaning that he was again detached. He felt muddy on the inside, dry lips and skin on the outside.

He went to his Aunt's house afterwards. They ate Menudo and had Capirotada afterwards. Capirotada and Menudo. Most days were Capirotada and Menudo for this funny looking man. She showed him pictures of her younger days, but she couldn't explain most of them since she couldn't recall. Ay mijo, se me va la memoria. No worries Tia, he said, maybe it's better to not remember some times. She pointed out a picture where he was held by his mother, and his aunt was next to her; their hair was all fluffy; She combed her frail wires with her hand; she said, ay, would you look at that! my hair hasn't aged a bit! His uncle stepped into the living room and replied, me too! I'm as strong as an Ox! look. His uncle lifted the TV to show him. Now lift me, his Aunt said. Hmph! he replied, do you want to kill me woman!? beside, I'm tuckered out already. Then he disappeared into the kitchen to grab a Bud Light.

The funny looking man excused himself and stepped out into the porch; He remained in place for a while, thinking about Capirotada and Menudo. 

He recalled a time when the sirens were relentless, and where the helicopter would cut the air and send its' force thrashing down. And where the child next door, the one with ADD, always yelled weird things that no one understood but that made perfect sense to him, and he would hop the fence and find his way into the living room, perhaps in search of something he felt was missing. Where the phone would ring, and the telemarketer on the other side was but a mere a salesperson, and it was your neighbor, asking for a cup of sugar for their tea and coffee. A place where the wash would finish with a ping, and you'd throw it in the drier, which would whir and clank. And the stillness of the living room, where the television would be turned off, could still be heard calling you, so you would go to the computer and surf the net, but the dryer is done. ping. Then the house fire alarm would go off, fuck! you forgot about the tea kettle, as you would dash to turn off the bubbling the water and would run to the alarm and press the button on it to shut it off. Jesus! it's nothing, but it's everything. A place where you needed to stop the world.

it was odd feeling odd and feeling odd was odd, odd feelings, fee lingers

4:50 a.m. in a Denny's drinking coffee and eating fried dough balls called "pancake puppies." I read about the implosion of Capitalism and the commodification of spirituality. The state of affairs is in shit: violence, famine. I eat a pancake puppy and take a sip of warm coffee. It's all jacked and we've been hi-jacked. A pre-emptive manufactured condition raised on pop music and reality TV drama. The theater of operations indicates that we are losing the war, or is it that we are winning? I'm not even sure anymore; this uncertainty feels like an indication that my reality had been ruptured, dismantled, and reconfigured. The periphery lacks insight. My core vision lacks periphery. I am effectively blinded by too much. I can;t even describe the lamp that shines above me covered by some sort of 70's looking shade, meaning bell bottoms, meaning whatever 70's looking shade looks like.


4:55 a.m. it's been five minutes and my pancake puppies are getting colder. My coffee is now lukewarm. My toes are cold. no one is here. it is dark out. a few cars pass but I think it's only one car driving circles. Christmas songs play overhead: "joy to the world" etc.


I've not done enough to mistake my reality for a dream. I miss her warm touch. Her soft kiss. He laugh and smile. Her eyes grow distant when I try to talk to her; I am ineffective in the art of conversation and love. My relationship seems like a stroke of luck; i consider myself a lucky man despite the holes in the soles of my shoes. I tell no one of this hollow cold void. It grounds me and reminds me of the monolith beneath my boot. My pancake puppies are completely cold: 5:02 a.m. this coffee has grow colder. Tap water with food coloring and a teaspoon of creamer. Slurpee.


It's time for me to go; the sun rises. Today I did not sleep. A man desperate for some sort of help thought that I could help him and gave me some money for some advice. I doubt he heard what I had to say, but since he was entertained, he gave me more money. It was an odd feeling. and it was odd feeling odd.

Q

During the past 24 hours, movements and environments have gained a sharper distinction from my awareness. This has come from a breakneck shift. Jetlag disorientation.

I've noted:

Debris from crumbling buildings. Remnants of disappearing graffiti. Trace of repainted walls. Loose telephone wires. A helicopter that hovers still overhead, making its overbearing presence known to all below for 45 minutes. Dust and grime riddle the sidewalk. Wounded lug their belongings and drag their limbs across the rubble and cracked streets. Crushed cigarette packets and beer cans, empty artillery from a battle that's been waged carefully and gradually in war zones of Watts, East Los Angeles, Compton, South Central, and other communities. Glass shards and needles.

This occurs while everyone sleeps. During Spring, the chemical agent known as smog holds still, well into the Winter: the only difference is in visibility. This is simply one among many. 

Children of the ruins run around deserted landscapes; something feels wrong. Everyone is complacent. Conspiracy of silence. Everyone accustomed to everything. Desensitized. Numbified. Despiritualized. Someone should wage a battle for their conscious; Someone should wage a battle for mine; the only revolution. Que Viva...que...queue..quetza. Que que? 

Right outside of the L.A. County Jail on Cesar E. Chavez Avenue an ex-POW, a veterano, waits for the bus in his post-war uniform. He dons a pair of loc shades, perhaps from having seen too much and not enough, and he holds his head high and back, as though he has regained a sense of confidence and memory that bear down on his laid back strut. Leaning sideways, he lights a cigarette. On the back of his palm, the face of the sun sticks out its tongue, perhaps a reminder from a movida while in the pinta. He's full of cool and confidence. He's headed back home. He's headed to the Eastside. He's headed to Aztlan.

“I watched a snail crawl along the edge of a straight razor. That's my dream; that's my nightmare. Crawling, slithering, along the edge of a straight razor... and surviving.”

Image: Flesh & Body /// Likeness: Mind & Soul

Man's Origin: Image & Likeness

Genesis 1:26:

“Then God said, “Let us make mankind in our image, in our likeness, so that they may rule over the fish in the sea and the birds in the sky, over the livestock and all the wild animals,and over all the creatures that move along the ground.”

:Image:

A. “An artificial imitation or representation of something” (OED)

B. “A constellation, regarded as a figure or delineation of a person, animal, or symbolic object”

From definition A and B, the following may be extracted: Delineation-> “tracing out something by lines”

• Trace; palimpsestic.
• Ghost-an absence that is paradoxically present through a haunting.

C. (a)as simulating the appearance of someone, or

considered as unreal; (b) as compared in some respect to a statue or idol;

From Definition C, the following may be extracted:

• Appearance; disappearance; reappearance; vanishing

Finally,

Imago (Latin) “copy, statue, picture” from imitari, “to copy; imitate”

Imagier (French) “to form a mental picture”

re-presenting: re-modeling : re-re: dada data.

An Image seems to mean a hollow copy. 

:Likeness:

Like:

A. “Having the same characteristics or qualities as some other person or thing; of approximately identical shape, size, colour, character, etc., with something else; similar; resembling; analogous

G. “Of two or more persons or things: Having the same or closely resembling characteristics; mutually similar; 

- “One who closely resembles another.”

A "likeness" seems to mean a close resemblance to the original.
what or which is the original?
In light of Genesis 1:26, I propose the following:
Image = Flesh & Body

Likeness = Mind & Soul (Corporeal)

The tautology of Genesis 1:26 seems redundant unless one takes image and likeness as different terms and not synonyms. The outline above illustrates a few definitions on the terms "image" and "likeness;" indeed, both mirror very similar definitions, yet it would be a mistake to discount the repetition of any word in a text considered holy scripture as mere wordiness. In this skein, the origin of humankind (in Judeo-Christian terms), one may interpret, finds its source in the image and likeness that God made mankind in.

what does this mean?

this might indicate that the mind and soul are connected to the likeness of humankind and that the flesh and body are connected to the Image of humankind. The original sin gave Adam and Eve awareness of their body and flesh (image); might they have lost their "likeness" to God at that moment? perhaps.

Main point:
the emptiness one perhaps feels might come from the lack of "likeness" to the original. Something's missing; we have the image, but have lost the likeness, and this is the quest that seems to torture, and which might be why we propitiate a holy nada. 

Your Happiness is Our Business

~We interrupt your daily programming to bring you a friendly message~ 

     A vast neuro-network of widespread contamination has been slowly seeping its leeching tentacles into the collective brain. Scentless as odor-eliminating aerosol sprays, this complex organism makes its seemingly invisible encroachment further and deeper into the air and water we consume¹.

    On Mondays it makes way through the a.m. alarm clock and into radio and tv advertisement. Everyone becomes effectively gridlocked in smog and noise while pointing a finger at one another and speaking in tongues. In reality, they're possessed by the heavy metal machine. Possessed by an obsession toward effective dissemination of the invisible presence perfectly executed over the past 5 decades (maybe more) which has polluted virtually everything – animate and inanimate.

     Household toxic management programs implemented by official in suits actively seek out extermination of deadly substances manufactured by the Waste industry; a clever tactic deployed by SamIam (yes we will have radioactive green eggs and ham). Sam that greasy soiled diaper mildew producing pest – honcho of fruit-fly moth-eaten sewage system of live and active cultures, exhaling commercial air fresheners that coat nasal passages that masks smells and deaden nerve cells & fibers; heavy soil; heavy air; dead air; heavy water; heavy metal machine.

     On Tuesdays the structure subsumes itself with razor-blade precision by growing completely implemented into the aero-electromagnetosphere; a virtuoso could not orchestrate a superior symphony. By Friday and Saturday, many provisionally primed individuals render unto lucid amnesia; the type of living that demands sleepwalking until one forgets they're dreaming in a socially engineered motorpsycho nightmare. Pay the ticket; all's well; your happiness is our business. 

Along with a daily dosage of permissible software applications, a continual fight for a pre-emptive surrender of mind and body is being waged regularly via daily programming schedules. Please be sure to tune into your local pleasure centers and be sure to take a dose of pain-o and discomfort-o avoider pill. thank you : )

-----------------------------------------------------------------

1I'm not crazy; I've got evidence. I perpetually hear a voice in my mind that is not mine. This infectious plasmatic fungus sends subversive signals that make me think my own body and voice antagonize me, how? By implanting thoughts not mine. My body feels the septic intrusion. I think I am therefore I think therefore etc.

Theoretheatrix--ology

Theoretheatrix--ology:
a performance that aims for re-cognition of condition (dis-ease), and thereby for a trance-formation of subjectivity.

Setting (The Social Space-Field):
A building in process of construction. Scaffolds and platforms. 

Characters (Players and their Practice):
Agents from the Fractal bureau of Instigation. 

Plot (Deployment Scheme Gameplay):
A group of agents infiltrate a construction site and plaster posters and racial slurs all over the concrete, afterwards, they cover their work with paint that blends, and thereby camouflages, their operation(s) into the construction site. (sequel: We see the future inhabitants of that building inhabit the very words that were plastered long ago by the FBI).

Theme (Infiltration):
Structures that become internalized, inconspicuously, on the body.

Coherence Addicts

Circumstantiality, or rather "Circumstantial Speech," refers to a type of particularized, exhaustively detailed, and thorough speech that, while deviating from the main topic at hand with minutia auxiliary tidbits (whether one may count these minutia auxiliaries as significant or not might be a question of intention, for small details tend to illustrate what the major details cannot. An example: a person wearing a watch at a coffee bistro. What kind of person wears a watch? if described, the watch may speak volumes, thus the minutia might be valuable in that the intention of the detailed tidbits is to achieve a statement about the watch wearer. is the individual task oriented? why? what is the individual keeping track of? is the individual fashionable? what status does the watch convey? etc.), ultimately returns to the main point.

The Oxford English Dictionary offers the following in regard to circumstantiality:
Circumstantial quality, attention to details, particularity. 

The Oxford English Dictionary seems to leave out, or rather, disregard a judgement value, for the "free online medical dictionary" defines the phenomena as "a disturbed pattern of speech or writing characterized by delay in getting to the point because of interpolation of unnecessary details and irrelevant parenthetical remarks." This particular dictionary also points to a synonymous idea called "flight of ideas," which is a "nearly continuous flow of rapid speech that jumps from topic to topic, usually based on discernible associations, distractions, or play on words, but sometimes disorganized and incoherent" (these definitions pack too many worms in their terms (where the hell does that expression even come from? Well i'll tell you briefly. From what I gather, fishermen used to purchase bait in metal cans c.1950, and when the can were opened, worms would try to escape, and when that occurred, the fishermen had many a problems on their hands but a fish wasn't one (:P) anyway...back to the main point: circumstantiality.) disorganized, incoherent, disturbed, irrelevant, play on words, are all terms which telegraph the point I raised above in regard to intention, for these seemingly erratic and disjointed coherences may indeed illustrate a point about coherence addicts under the grip of time. Circumstantuality? ain't nobody got time for that, time is money. Well...

Money is not time

Empires Collapse

the world is craking and laughing

uncertainty is the only certainty, which is no certainty at all

The sun will eventually burn out

no one will witness it

everything will wind down (the gyre unwires)

everything starts and ends with me and you

consumed and gasping

We are already on the way

did that "poem" above make any coherent sense? ever read a piece of literature or observed a piece of painting that contain too much "unnecessary" detail?

Though this be madness, yet there is method in 't.

Wikipedia (the most valid source on the internet) adds that this type of speech is often associated with schizophrenia and obsessive-compulsive disorder. Ah, Circum (around) stance (to stand) -tiality now comes full circle:

Basically, too many details in explanation suggests one is crazy, especially if there is no return to the original point, if there indeed ever was a point to begin with. 

"His situation, insofar as he was a machine, was complex, tragic, and laughable. But the sacred part of him, his awareness, remains an unwavering band of light"-Vonnegut, Bluebeard (1987).

indirect misfire

The GPS lead them to a dead end, or rather, to an open space in the middle of nowhere. The hour was dark. The uncertainty of location triggered a quick response to re-situate into a sense of control, and the feeling of being lost was short-lived, so they drove around aimlessly, jumping into random freeways and entering dicey streets. Eventually, they found and re-entered the main road. He did not seem to have anything to talk about nor did she. Hands reached over and under, across and...there was continual indiscreet staring out of the windows that communicated a thousand screams, or nothingness.

They were a representation of (hyper)reality—a mere conditioned reflection throughout years of customary expressions and habitual gestures.

As an effective sleepwalker, managing the art of dreaming, this particular individual perpetually observed and discerned between mirage and oasis, and unable to locate a difference, he always thirsted for something beyond any immediate matter at hand. This nasty habit turned his mind inside out and outside in to the point of indifference, and to the point where his conscious was full of nonsense. a nonsense conscious.

He'd empty graham crackers until the box grew hollow. He'd sit in meetings, but his mind would float away with the breeze that swirled through it. A swim in the salty ocean would be a better spent afternoon than sitting in class discussing poetry. It was a question of being and becoming. Should he disturb the universe, or destroy it, was he even capable of either? Were any of these actions, if indeed they can be called actions, even possible? The day prior during a meeting, he stood up in the middle of the PowerPoint presentation and said, “excuse me, I'll be right back” and walked out.

Attempting the option of silence, he withdrew from social affairs; he no longer went to class; he stopped working; he stopped thinking; he stopped...and everything continued. He became a free particle that coalesced into and out of that field not bound by an external force, a region of constant potential, and there he remained. Free. Radical.

Processing sensation of experience into events, her agency became largely dictated by paranoia, and she resembled a vessel, a mere receptacle, where memories, after (re)formed, lived; In short, she seemed a coherence addict. And why not? How could anyone return to living after being visited by the dead? She tended to confuse existing for living. She avoided absurdity and nonsense; she almost always never sometimes returned a gaze; the only comfort she found in noise came from its static property.

They met each other. An accident. Destiny. Divine intervention. Freak accident. Matrix anomaly. Like the seeming reality and concrete structures that reflected off their flesh, solidity and even shinny metals contain star dust. The idea of their seeming clash ruptured the pristine, it seemed, but through the cracks...that's how the light gets in. They discussed theory and reality over a cup of coffee and laughter. Together, they formed, deformed, destroyed, and reformed worlds. They noted the inevitability of decay, and together they deconstructed networked silence-violence patterns and abstracted fears. After much speech, their mouths went to better use. Their philosophies and theories drifted and dissolved as they searched for wisdom in ancient occult teachings. When they'd meet, nothing could be heard but the faint chant of an ancient trance: “ohh...mmm.”

Reference:
Endnotes(zine), Aztechnograph.

Ticker Tapered

The Cut up Method on Schizophrenia

A quick google search on Schizophrenia defines defines the..uhm...state of mind..as follows:
"a long-term mental disorder of a type involving a breakdown in the relation between thought, emotion, and behavior, leading to faulty perception, inappropriate actions and feelings, withdrawal from reality and personal relationships into fantasy and delusion, and a sense of mental fragmentation."


I ran that definition above one time through the cut up machine here:
http://www.languageisavirus.com/cutupmachine.html#.UQcd8UrhkQ5


This is what I was given:
a breakdown leading from and long-term in to reality a mental the faulty and sense disorder relation perception personal of of between inappropriate relationships mental a thought actions into fragmentation type emotion and fantasy involving and feelings and a behavior withdrawal delusion

The latter seems more more appropriate.

Pay to Play

As extensions of a Kapitalistic institution, existence is pre-emptively conditioned by mechanisms that subtly coax one's desire to an attachment of an ideology that which an institution deems valuable, and in the Kapitalistic sense, they remain pecuniary. Thus, it seems that desires becomes polished so to associate a given appetite for "culture" and/or "refined tastes" with the pecuniary.

On a side note, consumption of non-consumption may also be associated with the "culture," or "anti-culture." In other words, it's cool or fashionable to not have that which everyone else has (e.g. a knock off pair of designer whatever in place of the genuine, or the lesser known brand). Hipsterism thrives on this type of "anti-consumption." 

Thus, desires do not only seem coaxed into the pecuniary, but also into the idea of "not having," or, rather, the idea that one possess' the luxury and class to not consume, which can be expressed through pirated or parodied goods and materials.

However we choose to expend our energy or agency, or our “quality time,” (to whatever degree we are indeed able to genuinely choose) is but a fabrication; by this I take after the Latin root fabrica, which means, from a quick google search,“something skillfully produced.” This skillful production relates back to the mechanism mentioned above (advertisement, education, desensitization, etc.) and it does not remain solely of materiality, but extends into the consciousness, and these two realms are not mutually exclusive, but rather dependent on each other. 

For example, the idea to purchase a trip to a foreign country registers as a “choice” one makes in order to experience a memory of forgetfulness but also a material experience of escape. One travels, and to some extent remains a tourist indulging in exotic/foreign culture, food, clothes, experience, while ideally entering a space of pleasure. The desire for such a trip can be seen as a by-product to escape the Kapitalistic institution itself while ironically feeding into the institution itself. From a privilege of leisure (a by-product afforded by the pecuniary) comes the ability to seek pleasure.

Dependng on the degree of knee deep­-ness in the shit, i.e. in the ideology, one is in, “individuals” register as cartoonish reflections of reality. One's consumption and “choice” reflects but a fabrication.

"your choice" is illusory and very real joke. 

The manufactured choices which one takes as defining one's self render themselves as ridiculous reflections. The million dollar watch worn by the leisured individual at the coffee bistro screams of pleasurable existence; this individual has the time to waste and he/she flashes this in the face of others whom in turn consume through observation the expenditure of pleasure and luxury in another. As much as we may try to not covet thy neighbor's wife (or property, and in some cases these terms seem synonyms), the distinction inevitable encroaches.

Thereby, and by and by, we purchase items in order to acquire the experience, and thereby acquiesce into the ideology of Symbol as Status (in the Thorstein Vebleneian sense) that which yield a particular experience. A product, and in some cases the lack of a product, facilitates an experience, and thus we want the experience and not necessarily the product. The product can validate. The product can superficially fill the void. And at the end of the day, the consumption only seems to widen the gap to attaining any sense of attachment to a world stripped bare of consumerism. What else would people do without their TV shows, weekend trips, and chit-chats of taste?

Once awareness comes (perhaps through education or some mid-altering substance, and indeed education can be such a substance) of such carefully generated mechanisms, reality seems bizarre, i.e. cartoonish reflections. Perhaps the key remains in co-opting the iconography and symbols that communicate Das Kapital.

In Re-structurization.
In Hyper-kapitali$m.

The next step for the Kapital machinery is the profit of experience. Purchase not the trip, but the experience! Take the pill or implant the memory, and voila! You just squeezed 2 weeks into one day and saved 20% on car insurance while you were at it.

Why go through the little things? Why deal with the headache of a receptionist? The navigating of local bus routes? the danger of encountering locals? The possibility of loosing reception, or your GPS, and feeling lost?

References:

Zizek!
Thorstein Veblen
Marx
Mi Vida Loca

The Big Matter

The brain exists as a complex neuro-network of computer circuits endeavoring to untangle and reconfigure so to achieve optimal performance; I think this is what would be called evolution, as to a teleological question, well I'm not too sure.

I am certain, though, about the limit and power in which language can condition an individual to be degraded, and upgraded, into either subject or object.

The language I employ here, and indeed employ as a ploy since I've been infected with Logocentrism, is primarily one of that seems to reduce the human condition into the technologic.

By technologic, I mean the manner in which we discuss existence in the mere Mechanic, namely, that robotic rhetoric which dawned upon humanity upon the gathering of resources and of redistribution. (The question as to whether these technological and mechanical features enhance or lessen the human condition is a re-occurring debate in many areas of academia, pop culture, subculture, etc.)

Early proto-writing systems utilized ideograms and pictographs for the storage and transmission of information (this is what we can deduce, for could there be another reason than communication that the human condition, a terribly lonely creature, would invent (or discover?) such a body of knowledge? this begs another question), which then attach a symbol with association; this process yields a compressed unit of information; a block of data, name your metaphor.

Surely there followed an era wherein recording of goods and commerce necessitated an invention for tracking and controlling, and, indeed, it is now known that Sumerians in system of symbols known as cuneiform were the first to utilize communication for documentation of agriculture and manufactured goods.

Invention (discovery) through necessity? or necessity of invention (discovery)?

Either way, the primary manner of communication seems one of coding, i.e. language. Thus we can see how the human condition is not so far from the robotic in its Mechanical and Technological affairs.

The above can be reduced to the following:
The biologic organism employs a coding (either invented or discovered) so to communicate (for whatever purpose) it's teleological means (if any).

Thus language, as Burroughs would agree, condition one to perceive reality in particular ways.
What I mean is that language in the brain allows for certain modes of thinking. Indeed, one seems limited by the range of expressive modes of thought allowed by the organism that is Word. Thus, there are particular kinds of questions to be asked at any given time in the history of metaphysics and humankind.

For example, an emerging curricula endeavoring through various fields in order to borrow terms and ideas from other institutions inevitably results in its own logical discourse, but first there must be dialogue. This newly emerged field of knowledge, while specialized and is thus concentrated, simultaneously tends to confine.

In academia, one would grow susceptible to the limit of this specialized language and thereby view the world in those terms, understand the world in those terms, navigate the world in those terms, and thus communicate in those terms.

We seem to become virtual people. In a virtual world. Living virtual realities. In virtual bodies. In our virtual nervous systems.

Reality exists within our perception, informed by our mode of thoughts that which is the product of coding. The program one follows is one's personal quest. That odd store or alleyway that beckoned your attention yesterday or some time in the future-past seems like a virus, an anomaly in your daily schedule, or what Neo would call "deja-vu," but so as to not allow an inter-ruption, your sense of order proves so strong and so concentrated that you ignore the periphery. The alley "program" was not fully developed for your existence and virtual reality. It might exists in and of itself, but that is not a matter of your matters, which is a wHole Other matter.

The question then remains as to how, or whether, these codices control or liberate us, and that, ladies and gents, is the Grand Substance, The Big Matter.


References:
Wikipedia on Sumerians
The Matrix (1999)

Photo-graphic

I forgot where or when I took these, if you can find the reference I'd appreciate a comment for citation purposes. These were taken from my laptop from a film short I saw depicting various images of Japanese erotica. 

Here we find a Japanese man entranced by the power of love that the lovely lady's heart emits. Together, they seemed to have reached a level of radiosextivity.

Here, the man miscalculates the heart; thus they are not radiosexactive. He's as hot as a chipmunk in a sock, but she is not having it. He takes a very, very deep, deep breath, and attempts to re-direct the situation into a mutual plateau by going in for the neck (clever chap). Will this maneuver work? perhaps, so long as he takes it nice, careful, tender yet firm.

Guilt? What have we done? It's ok, it happens to many men. What is really going on here? This certainly has more mystery than a Mona Lisa half-smile. Drop a comment, what is your take?

What did she cut? Why so serious? These questions and more seem to go through this seemingly blank veneer, for under the guise of calm, this femme wonders why she wore a santa suit. Where did the idea of a fucking santa even come to Japan? A seasoned picquerist such as herself cuts off ties to her surroundings, only to find that the outside somehow seeps into her mind.

Reference(s):
In the Realm of the Senses

It's a nasty thing being a human

My day starts as it breaks. The sunrise coats the dark as I gather my bearings and brush the mucus from my mouth while I shower, getting rid of natural odors from my abnormal sweating during hot summer nights. It's a nasty thing being a human. 

Construction work being done on the road alters commuters route(s). The bus I am on must make maneuvers around the renovations, which means I must take a detours. Public transportation gives an opportunity for one to temporarily be a sort of pg-13 voyeur.The driver snakes through alternative routes 

I remain in a state of half-sleep-half-awake until I arrive at my destination: a cup of coffee. At the shop, there's news about a shooting in Kenya on the television; no one pays much attention, it's routine—there is little meaning in a ridiculous situation when everyone is accustomed to everything. The only "normal" reaction to a ridiculous situation is a ridiculous one. Most of them face down nose in cyberspace and I feel suddenly down cast; I rush to grab the phone from my pocket. No text. No missed calls. No status updates. No chisme. These little nothings cover a larger nothing. It feels good to avoid the void, until it comes rushing at you 100 miles per hour, engulfing your sensations and subtly causing goosebumps and a sensation of absurdity similarly reflected in the tele. 

Re-Covery

I am about to enter a period of decimation. 

This word, recovery, however, holds much significance at this point, for I am about to cover material which I will have a lifetime to examine and re-examine--a decision to consider and reconsider as to the appropriate time to open up for revision.

But once again I am going to re-cover the loneliness I was growing rather acquainted with. The void in my chest, in your chest as well, that tends to get covered with TV programming, text messaging, gossip, etc. I was growing acquainted with this nada, but life calls and I must enter the race once more, which requires a certain degree of amnesia, a certain degree of recovery.

Re-covery.

Ironically, the term connotes positive affiliation; my macbook dictionary defines recovery as “a return to a normal state of health, mind, or strength” with synonyms such as recuperation, improvement, convalescence.

A return to a normal state. a return. What causes the departure? And why the return? What is a normal state? I wouldn't mind an in depth examination of these questions some day. At the moment, I humbly believe that the departure highlights a point of no light. A void. A nada. A loneliness. A point where everything is uncovered in nakedness. Lot's Wife. Eve. The mind's “eye” uncovered by the "I". The departure highlights a movement toward a somethingness. A realization of a nakedness, a nothing, a no-light, that has been covered, and re-covered, with a valueless existence.

The departure and a look back, a return; a decimation (for I argue that only a tenth is destroyed, or rather, transformed and re-transformed). Is it that the departure is too painful? Thus the return is yearned, i.e. the “normal” state, the recovery? Could it be that “recovery” does not connote anything positive?

I think I'm in perpetual recovery mode.
The echoes that bounce from my own walls become haunting banshees while the mirrors reflect a ghastly existence; and together, this “voice” and my “image,” reflect the uncovered void. A mere conditioned reflection decimated by the very loneliness that works hard at covering, and recovering, its own madness from the world. 

Aye, there's the rub-a-dub-dub.
Three madmen in a tub.

There is the irony folks.

The very “logical” and reasonable systems, e.g. law and justice, are mere conditioned reflections of a manifested voice working hard to cover up it's own illogical conclusions. The law is mad, but under the guise of law, all seems well. You cover, and re-cover, your madness by an obsessive compulsion to seem normal, to avert weirdness, to avoid a mistake that could reveal a vulnerable point (an entry into that no-light).

I've lost you.

Let me give an example: When a solitary figure holds a mirror to society, he is deemed mad. His or her rants are conspiracy and/or lunacy. The uncovered madness, due to a loneliness that is no longer covered, shows itself, but the gavel recovers. Law and order laughs in this persons face,  it fines said person, or issues a cititation to said person for, say, being a public nuisance,  and all is recovered.

 It's a sickening pattern, and it's genius.

I must sleep now. It's going to be a long Fall.

Goodnight sweet ladies

goodnight, goodnight.

References:
Mac book Dictionary

Blake's “Proverbs of Hell” in The Marriage of Heaven and Hell

Hemingway's “A Clean Well-Lighted Place”

T.S. Elliot, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” / “Hollow Men”

Nursery Rhymes

Shakespeare's Hamlet

Black (\/\/)Holes

Though I probably learned how to read in a formal, normal, situation, i.e. the institution, I don't recall being cognizant of reading except when I was on the move.

I don't remember why, but it was in a tan station wagon.

We were going somewhere, I don't know where, and I sat in the back of the station wagon. I remember my parents talking to each other (once upon a time) when I started recognizing patterns and symbols, such as a backwards “L” and “G” at a 76 gas station, or the yellow golden arches that made me wonder where the rest of the colors went and that resembled a pair of pointy cat ears that I would draw, at least when I wrote an “M.”

It was a time of freeplay. ah. ah. I. I say. I say sun. muh..muh...Muckdonald Duck. El Chicken Loco. Tony the Tiger, they'rrre grrr..iiime a break gimme a break. Daffy Duck: once you pop, you can't stop. Taz. Devil. Evil. Speedy. Transformers. Retransforms. Reformats. Formers. Form. From. rom. Robots in disguise. Can you hear me now?

I hate to admit it, but I'd have to say that I partially learned reading through the (m)advertisement industry (Alas! now you know why my writing is so great), but I guess on that same note this highlights the ideology of institutionalization: being waist deep in the big muddy; however in this theatre of operations, you don't need a “big fool” telling you to “push on”, nor, if effectively implemented, are you aware that there is a theatre, and indeed, you might even reason that there probably isn't one at all.

In fact, the “normal” situation would require that you go with the flow, as though there is really nothing going on other than the conspiracy you are constructing in your own mind.

Reading about Happy Meals came in similar familiarity as in repeating Mama.

I continue to read on the move; I read at bus stops or while riding the bus. Sometimes I read while walking. You may call this “distracted living” or “distracted reading” (perhaps still “strategic” or even “managed” reading?). There exists a number of issues with reading in this manner. The quality of comprehension and analysis may become poorer. One must learn to extract the essentials and never mind the rest. What is the claim? I don't need the details. Et cetera etc.

The current techno-digital age makes the idea of distraction and short-attention span something rooted in the information overflow which starts after that slip out of the maternal womb: Separation anxiety. Disconnect. Disco. Disc. Net. What is the claim? I don't need the details. Et cetera etc. (Here I've opened another can of worms: the longing for a black hole because of a personal black hole, a void, overfilled with noise. sexual innuendo intended (do we want to get properly /de/fucked?). I miss the olden golden times. Nostalgia fallacy. What is the claim? I don't need the details. Et cetera etc).

But it's the little things that count, supposedly.
The details.
The description of a landscape in a text that correlates to the mood of the character.
The quote you can utilize to support your claims.
Closely reading an ad, detecting the subtleties, and di di, di di, that's all folks!
(this is the proper noise. this is noise-wisdumb. this will help you de-fuck).

This “new” phenomenon of surge of information calling our attention and competition for our eyes, for me, started in that tan station wagon.

At times I feel I'm in that metal machine: a metal womb. It feels more lonely. I wonder what else I might have picked up that I'm yet cognizant of, or what kinds of things I might've soaken into the background, perhaps it's nothing but a black hole. Ads are black holes. Hyperlinks are black holes. Reading is a black hole.

My thought is a black hole.

I'll tell you more about this some other time, I've got to go (@).


References:
Looney Tunes

Advertisements
Pete Seeger, “Waist Deep in the Big Muddy”

Camaron Que se Duerme...

It was a morning of revelations.

In a state of half-sleep, I thought I heard my mother's voice, she asked...when do you go in to work today? I muttered something and dozed out.

In a rush to leave home a little early in order to try and get a workout in before work, I gathered my things and caught a shortcut down the railroad tracks that take me to that hellish bus stop that takes about an hour, that is always running late, for a bus to arrive. 

This time, however, I was early. When the bus came, out of courtesy I gestured the go ahead to an elderly lady whom was also waiting; She did not move. The bus drove off. I waved and hollered at it, but it kept moving,

My mother's voice chimed in, camaron que se duerme se lo lleva la corriente.

I grew hot, raging. Why didn't she move! I looked at her, wondering, and she just returned a blank stare; then I thought about the asshole bus driver and then re-directed anger towards him.

I then realized the only anger to re-direct toward the inside; why was I so upset? Should I be angry at the world or at myself?

The moment reminded of a scene in A Scanner Darkly, where the lines “the pain clears away the cobwebs” are uttered, and afterwards there occurs a flash, a moment of realization, whereupon one understands that the anger directed at another, brought about by the pain, stems from oneself. It wasn't the bus driver or the elderly lady; It was my stupidity.

I need a car and I need more money. Why haven't I acquired those things? and many other things? Perhaps my ambition for money and cars is not strong enough. Perhaps what I want is unrealistic, because what I can afford right now seems very little. Shall I take these as a blessing?

The pain clears away the cobwebs.

The pain reveals what is concealed.

no pain no gain.

In this way, it would seem I have experienced utter institutionalization. Circumstances seem to condition one to take their carefully crafted feelings of cruelty out on local citizens, i.e. "I feel wronged and I will take it out on the first person I see." This is blind fury. This is counterproductive-revolution. This is madness. This is two people fighting with each other for no apparent reason, or rather misplaced reasons.

As a Piscean, I sit back and allow the corriente to take me. Shh, ma. I want to go with the flow. I like sleeping, at least for a little bit. Wake me when we get there. I'm tired. Let me sleep. Things make more sense there. I don't feel in control there, yet everything seems ok. In this world, I am in control, in control of that which gradually crumbles. The dream world makes as much sense as the real world. What's that? Another shooting? What's that another kidnapping? What's that? Another corrupt official? What's that? Another war? What's that? Hu? Wha? Wha..z..

ah...but the world has its nice-ness to it as well; it's a matter of finding it or working at it. Mama said there'd be days like this.


References:
The Zodiac
Popular folk adages
Richard Linklater, A Scanner Darkly (2006) / Philip K. Dick

The Shirelles

I've much left to go; it's very dark in here.

Entropy, from the Greek root “en” (inside) and “trope” (transformation), in information theory, is a measure of uncertainty in a random variable. I know very much about very little, I think this might have to do with entropy. From what I understand (which is close to nothing), entropy has to do with properties of gradual decline in order, i.e. chaos and disorder.

Some (random variable) argue that in order for creation to take place, there must be a destruction of some sort, or rather, some sort of entropic transformation.

Today was a day of entropic expenditure. Energy was pulled from me in various ways. I was stretched thin and bloated to the point of exhaling "theories" on words and philosophy (the art of argument of what words mean and the reasoning therein). I shifted from one mode of thought to another, never fully developing the icebergs I mapped out to those asking for an outline.

poof! I uttered once and Pff! I scoffed another time.

I felt like throwing up; my body was sweating. I was hot and cool. I grew dizzy. I had trouble breathing as though I had a mouthful of cotton.

I made sense of all these things under Entropy; there is a change occurring, though I've yet to formulate an idea of why or how.

As though instinctually, the first thing I did when I arrived home was throw up. My body was asking for it. Since I had eaten very little all day, I found this strange because I reasoned that my body needed all the nutrients it could absorb.

I wish my mind could do the same: I mean throw up. Purge the impurities. But it all remains in the brain: deep memory.

All that stuff you try to forget and cannot formulate yet never going away and receding into memory banks that slowly blur into the background.

Somehow, I feel that this entropy is only the beginning.

The world breaks everyone and afterwards many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry (Hemingway).

Indeed, there is a crack in everything, or you will crack sooner or later, and "that's how the light gets in" (Leonard Cohen)

I've much left to go; it's very dark in here. 

"O faithless and perverse generation"

 I woke up "late" today, but I think I needed the rest. It's nearing the afternoon.

I crash around this part of the week; I mean, after a weekly routine of waking up at 6:00 am by an alarm clock, leaping out of bed like a horse from a starting line, taking a whiz, dressing up, brushing my teeth, washing my face, force-feeding (because I need to eat something), rushing out to fight traffic to get to a place where essentially I (you) make lots of money for somebody else and are asked to be grateful for the opportunity to do so, how in the hell would anyone enjoy a "good" morning?


Reference:
Charles Bukowski, Factotum (1975)
George Lucas, Star Wars: Return of the Jedi (1983)

Learn to Unlearn

I caught the northbound route.
I sat next to a young girl who held a text titled
 The Western Tradition.
She dipped in and out of a section called
"European Family Structure."
Her name was Maria from what I could read
In plain Engleesh

(con)Figuring This Out

The previous post was a rant, and this one isn't one as well.
That being said, there is nothing outside the (con)text, so don't read too much into it.


Reference(s)/Allusions:
Derrida, Of Grammatology (1967)
Derrida, "Structure, Sign, and Play in the Discourse of the Human Sciences"

• "If this is so, the whole history of the concept of structure, before the rupture I spoke of, must be thought of as a series of substitutions of center for center, as a linked chain of determinations of the center. Successively, and in a regulated fashion, the center receives different forms or names. The history of metaphysics, like the history of the West, is the history of these metaphors and metonymies. Its matrix-if you will pardon me for demonstrating so little and for being so elliptical in order to bring me more quickly to my principal theme-is the determination of being as presence in all the senses of this word. It would be possible to show that all the names related to fundamentals, to principles, or to the I center have always designated the constant of a presence-eidos, arche, telos, energeia, ousia (essence, existence, substance, subject) aletheia [truth], transcendentality, consciousness, or conscience, God, man, and so forth.
• The event I called a rupture, the disruption alluded to at the beginning of this paper, would presumably have come about when the structurality of structure had to begin to be thought, that is to say, repeated, and this is why I said that this disruption was repetition in all of the senses of this word." (http://hydra.humanities.uci.edu/derrida/sign-play.html)

Nietzche, "On Truth and Lies in an Extramoral Sense" 

• "What then is truth? A mobile army of metaphors, metonyms, and anthropomorphisms: in short, a sum of human relations which have been poetically and rhetorically intensified, transferred, and embellished, and which, after long usage, seem to a people to be fixed, canonical, and binding. Truths are illusions which we have forgotten are illusions - they are metaphors that have become worn out and have been drained of sensuous force, coins which have lost their embossing and are now considered as metal and no longer as coins."

Plato, Gorgias and Protagoras

• Socrates: Words which do what? I should ask. To what class of things do the words which rhetoric uses relate? 
• Gorgias: To the greatest, Socrates, and the best of human things [...]
• Gorgias: What is there greater than the word which persuades the judges in the courts, or the senators in the council, or the citizens in the assembly, or at any other political meeting?-if you have the power of uttering this word, you will have the physician your slave, and the trainer your slave, and the money-maker of whom you talk will be found to gather treasures, not for himself, but for you who are able to speak and to persuade the multitude.
• Socrates: Now I think, Gorgias, that you have very accurately explained what you conceive to be the art of rhetoric; and you mean to say, if I am not mistaken, that rhetoric is the artificer of persuasion, having this and no other business, and that this is her crown and end. Do you know any other effect of rhetoric over and above that of producing persuasion? 

"Rhetoric is to Justice what cookery is to medicine"

The Beginning is the End is the Beginning

First,
an invocation:
In the beginning was the Word, and the word was with God, and the Word was God, and...since we tru$t in God...in the Word we too shall trust the absolute symbol-signifier.

Well now comes an expression of depression. A cathartic Virtua-fart exhaling the good and the nasty. o que pedo? I want to write in blood and guts through digitized text inspired by holy texts. This is LA crypto-cult. This is my mind slowing down low low and feeling high high: Starstruck. and dazed and confused and blah blah blah.

I read a passage today that sparked millions of thoughts buzzing in my brain and, if expressed, would've sounded insane,

as though possessed and driven mad
by an idea.
Burnout Brainfry.

Think about it; I'd be in the psychiatric ward (or maybe I already am?), or if I play my cards right, I'll be placed upon a pedestal, peddling that "oceanic" stuff Freud talks about, or whatever else it is that helps people get through nowadays. 

Here's the ink transmuted into 1's and 0's:

"Beauty! I can't bear the thought that man of lofty mind and heart begins with the ideal of Madonna and ends with the ideal of Sodom...what to the mind is shameful is beauty and nothing else to the heart. Is there beauty in Sodom? Believe me, that for the immense mass of mankind, beauty is found in Sodom. Did you know that secret? the awful thing is that beauty is mysterious as well as terrible. God and the devil are fighting there and the battlefield is the heart of man."

-Dmitri Karamazov

can you dig it? boys with tits; equality does not seems like it.

I was on my way to the market holding Dostoevsky's epic. The AC at Ralph's brought a moment of relief. I walked over to the magazines behind a harlot. She seemed familiar, then it dawned on me. This harlot navigates through various channels signaling desire and curling her index in my direction. She sirens from magazine racks, showing the condition of a seemingly perfect physique, perhaps a heavenly body?

I recognized her from the gym.

She works out with a behemoth; She enjoys it. She loves it. She desires it. She likes it. it's full-filling.

Anyway, back to my original point, which is no point.

References/Allusion:
The Bible
Brother's Karamazov

The Smashing Pumpkins
Saussure
Reassure
&
Unsure