We set-up programs

The kid drew an airplane crashing into a building. The teacher called the cops. The child was taken for examination. He said he saw it on the Tell-u-Veesion. It was in the VeeDee-o-games. It was in the Myou-sick. That it was in the Pain-tings, etc.

The glass in front of him was covered with a film of one-way privacy mirror. On one side the kid faced his reflection, while on the other a number of professional types diced with his fate. Probabilities and culpabilities. What could it be? They moved back and forth, texting their spouses, children, and lovers that it was going to be a long night. At the bottom of the glass, it read, "objects in mirrors are closer than they appear."

Outside the mother wept like a banshee and the father talked to authority types. The father stammered, "I filed Goddamn it!"

We paid our taxes and did our jobs. Perhaps we didn't do so well, but we did them. We paid and we paid. And, we set-up programs. We set-up goddamn it! We set-them-up real good.

The sister posted on the anti-social-web:
"What a snobby fucking brat! last night I cut my wrist and I don't get any of this sentimental revolution bullshit."

Underneath, the tectonic plates were slowly shifting.

The kid, given crayons and construction paper, reviewed his national anthem:
I pillage alleged....I gape a village...I ape..all...egiance...I pledge allegiance...

"look! look! let us examine...ah there! look, the form reveals the content, his scribbles...those jittery letters; the nervous system"

"no doubt his parents must be associated with a very powerful terrorist organization"

The child continued:
of...of...the Unit-

The sudden earthquake stopped everyone in their tracks. Everything loosened and came apart. Many attempted neutrality, balancing in place and maintaining their bearings. Lastly, the glass shattered, and the kid came face to face with his assessors.

Sketch 'n time: manikins & figurines

You see them around, these time-zoner's, flowing back and forth in their to-go bubbles of set disposition. Their movement yields an appearance that obscures the rigidity of their spellbinding trance-fixation.

These manikins, these...figurines, if you will, follow the trends and flow in the anti-currents of atemporality while being RF-Eye'd and computerized, effectively gauged and measured into a capsule that reflects a (com)pressurized profile--Sorted, stored data.

Your own ideas start to work against you because they (your ideas) supply others with enough precise information to manufacture the tools necessary for capitalization, and capitulation, through optic nerve exploitation.

The experts of steganography (forgive a mere fool for having used such a term) place their digital and physical foot-and-head prints all around us--in the space field of our immediate surroundings. Decoding the imbedded cryptographies becomes the task of the paranoiac, who mostly carves against the anticurrents of time. He warns of the subtle programming communicated in the plain open, but the words fall flat like tinkling cymbals and sounding brass, which makes good music for ridicule and for the mass: kshh-shh, kshh-shh, hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo, as Everyone satisfactorily bubbles in their uni-spheres.

The girl in the cute skirts expresses an air for times of past. She likes ye olden poetry and exudes a passionate desire for that type of romanticism of the late 18th century. She read to me from her mini-tele-phonic device, "In the southern clime, / Where the summer's prime / Never fades away, / Lovely Lyca lay." And What does the speaker in the poem mean by southern clime? I asked. A time of timelessness, she answered, taking in a full breath and exhaling to show her state of relaxation. Her friend walked in and handed her a poem. Her friend writes poetry. His poem alluded to the greeks, and the Geats, and their feats, and their massive fleets. What philosophy! what might! such tragedy, and comedy!

He said, I didn't even know I was doing that, ho-hum! 
She always smiled and pushed up against him. Look, could you help me in understanding this question. It was a simple answer, he said, as he pointed to the issue in her problem while the girl rubbed her breast on his forearm, which served as a repellant that caused him to push off as nicely as he could without seeming rude.

The other one, She eats her lunch while wearing sunglasses most of the time. She often waves hello and shows you her pearly whites. Her hair is in the shape of two braids, intertwined and sometimes tangled, which she decorates with a daisy. Her lips shine a dull red that matches the cherry lollipops that she likes to suck. She moves in and out from the Station of the Hieroglyphs. A place dedicated to the improvement of the written word.

There is another one. Her pale water colors mask the face that cannot hide the speck in her abstracted eyes. She recognizes the sawdust in mine. She comes in searching for Michaelangelo high renaissance online. She knows the paintings well. She seems to be the only one that truly arrests the time, if not for herself then at least for others. She's a walking paradox; her ability to become more than a sketch 'n time--manikin or figurine--renders her unto a time-space on a canvas of a still life. Guys go goo-goo ga-ga gargling gape mouthed and jerking with galactorrhea, praying and screeching Hail Mary.


At the end of the day, the lights are turned off. Everything gets unplugged, and everyone carries home their burdens. They plug in again, perhaps for a bit of distraction (who understands these impulses that drive our addiction(s)), and effectively forget about time. Some lose time. Some attempt to capitalize on time. Some even try to catch up with time. And detached because of a sense of senselessness, disoriented by a whirlwind, you see them the next day, with all the knowledge in the world and no sense of time in history, further trans-fixed in their bubble-sphere, reading ye olden poetry, singing in the rat-race choir of classics and ageless masterpieces.

Burroughsian Echoes

The text is a fleshy image. In the beginning was the word, and the bird is the word. The Chinese seem to have this figured out, so did the Egyptians. Word as image, like little birdies etched onto a tablet or parchment of papyrus. Blocks of information contained in a symbol that captures the thing and the abstraction.

You will be reading these image sequences that are void of any film. Text reflects an image, and indeed, words make up a symbol system that is ultimately recognizable as images. When one reads, they are seeing images in a film sequence. The point of this movie is to show you the real behind the reel, which may be nothing but a mere show.  So sit back and don't relax. What I am about to tell you is intended to condition, perhaps de-CONdition, your mind.

You have all the necessary equipment.

When you have a tool, it only becomes a matter of proper priming for my usage. With enough triggers, I may be able to establish control, but control implies a controller, which means a captain needs to be in the driver seat at all times. But a controlled subject becomes a tool irrefutably when the tool applies its usages and operations on its own. In other words, no control is needed for a tool that is ruthlessly, completely controlled. In fact, such a "subject," or rather object, can operate mechanically and automatically. With enough suffusion of proper imagery, the film can be set to re-play the word and verbs necessary for my, or anyone else's, benefit. In fact, when fully taped, the movie can replay and replay and replay and replay. Like this: replayerplayerplayerplayer. The thought or idea of control becomes foreign to the subject-object. Thus, full and effective control can best be seen in the object that operates under the impression of subjectivity.

The recording device is in your mind; the film records in your brain, in the hippocampus, the "hem;" What I choose to implant and impress will follow in these next images:

A clown on a date with a gorilla.
A monkey on a children's playground
Zombies on a train plugged into Computers
Animals packed inside line 70A from DTLA
Vultures tossing out bones of a lifeless carcass

These snippets of movies lack plot. They are but compressed images broken down to their savage nakedness. The point: to umask the reel. The real deal: Barbaric savages posing as civilization. With these snippets I have captured and recorded time, just like any other recording device. I have shown you the world as it is, as my camera has captured it. Brief, indeed. For the purpose of a brief point. Here's the reminder: The world has been darkened by Atomic Power. The world has been disconnected by the wide-web-inter-net-work. The movie has been shaped meticulously so as to render a tragic ending. This movie has no happy ending. All of the stories end the same: Death. You start at point A, then move through B (something interesting might happen), then you die at C. Look at the setting of your film. Look at the Actors and note the roles. The real transmutes into a surreal reel. Check the reel, then re-check it. Note the psycho enviro-science that is hidden in plain sight.

Do YOu REally think yoU DIRECT the fILm in your mind?

"My lover is experiencing reverse evolution...I don't know how it happened, only that one day he was my lover and the next he was some kind of ape. It's been a month now he's a sea turtle."
-Aime Bender, The Girl in the Flammable Skirt.