Friday, April 25, 2014
Monday, April 7, 2014
Stir-fry'd electro-execution
1.
It's break time and I rush over to the "Chinese Express" for a bite. I sit down and I clasp my hands over my perpetually pre-re-heated fast-food medley bowl of fried rice, noodles, and beef and broccoli. I inhale and exhale, attempting to relax amid a loud-mouthed conversation of a woman reminding her mother about it being high-time to realize that she (the mother) is not young anymore: "you can't do what you used to do anymore. face it, mama."
Above my head the loudspeakers play some pop song that echoes in my mind and bounces around in my jelly thoughts; a code travels and spreads through soundwaves that concretize an encrypted message which crawls about in my rotten ectoplasmic brain. It's insane, but I start to feel itchy under my skin. I scratch all over but I cannot find the exact location of the itch. I start thinking that it's all psychosomatic. And I sing the tune like a recording machine, "goog goo, goo," etc.
The day is filled with sentence after phrase after fragment and so forth that accumulates into a gradual possession of every fractured fiber in my frail consciousness (or lack thereof).
Stir-fry'd electro-execution.
I roll a mass of noodles on my plastic fork and chew away, gnashing sloppy oily tube-dough fibers into a mushy paste. Into my esophagus. Into my own tube-dough entrails.
I have to hurry back to work.
Letter after letter after chinese fragment: my mind feels fagged and shagged from the old in-out-in-out of up and down turn turn turn around meet and greet sessions of 30 minute assessment. My body is running on e-cigarettes and lukewarm coffee. The belly is filled with liquid that bleeds into my lungs. Gasping for air, I explain and ask questions here and there, at this point almost everywhere, about sentence after sentence after...
sentence. The thoughts on the pages are splayed and stretched hurdy-gurdy with parchments and particles of disarrayed and organized squares, circles, and arrows in a concert of static coherence. As long as a mutual understanding is reached, the various scribbles and squiggly lines work for all.
The mesh of text accumulates into knots, twists, and turns that reflect my morning rituals: Invisible bandages and bonds that binds together people and my coherence. "Buenos Dias Don Roberto" "Buenos dias muchacho, hechale ganas" "no queda otra! take care!"I hop on the bus for an early morning round of elbows, assholes and dirty nasty flesh packed like sardines inside a humid metal truck. Hot breath and unwashed mouths heaving holy spirits that awaken the dead. The gym is a walk in the park in comparison to these type of post-modern work-outs.
2.
The day is done and now the headlines do their work. I log on before I head home for a quick wander through cyberspace.
The news spreads information about certain disruptions of violent, but also of rebellious, breakouts of particular individuals. But I try to dig deeper. Attempting to realize that these "particular individuals" evidence the fruit of experiMENTAL labor. Compartmentalized and goo-goo-gaa-gaa spoon fed certain data for certain output.
Mathemajix: PsychoKem.
I keep up on the silent battle called the Bay of Twitter, an experimentation in cyber war over in Cuba. Over in the UK, E-Day: Project Underlord. String theory at work: attempts by the Almighty State Saviours (ASS) to "affect the course of political process in the country." These words taken from the Joint Threat Research Intelligence Group (JTRIG), part of the british intelligence agency, Government Communications Headquarters (GHCQ). For what purposes? Well, i'm still trying to figure it out, All this Input: Output, on my spare time, of course.
But I think it might have to do with population control.
There is a group of NASA scientist and Mathematicians that have collected data on past and current trends to predict the future.
They call it cliodynadimcs.
The mathematicians have these complex models that chart historical trends regarding sociopolitical instability. The NASA scientist have concluded that resources are diminishing at an extravagant rate. The mathematicians predict that by 2020 there will be a great likelihood of a peak in violence.
...
And the preacher says we are living in end-times, given the recent earthquakes, etc.
Intellects or men of spirit, all seem to steer people into more artificially induced consumption of useless resources based on artificial wants and needs.
I start thinking that the Nazi's won after all. The U.S. took their scientist and their research, from everything to human experimentation and propaganda machinery manipulation.
Input: Output. Mathemajix: PsychoKem. it's going on online through little digital blue-birds chirping around every corner of the world and ad pop-ups in your social bubble network.
When I start making comparisons to Hitler's regime, I know it's time to shut down.
I need to stay away from the net. And, it's ability to induce and reinforce propogations of my self-induced mind virus creations. Stir-fry'd electro-execution.
There are various types of cognitive science theories that could pathologize and legitimize the "abnormalities" in my mental behavior (and with good reason too!):
The subject is psychotic. Clear case of delusion. He's snapped.
Clear case of apophenia and pareidolia. He's chasing moon rabbits. Persecutory delusion. Confirmation bias and Cognitive inertia. Oppositional Defiance Disorder. etc.
In these days that bleed into each other, time resembles a porous concrete curb.
And I don't have to travel to the "darknet" or by proxy to get the "surreptitious" information about collusions between money, power, and nationalism. The encryptions travel in plain sight, and sometimes there isn't any cryptography at all. No need to hide when the damage is done in plain sight.
I realize that I have been staring down at the curb the whole time, wondering about nothing, when a little roach, crawling in and out of the cracks of crooked lines and holes, called me back into the current time-zone. I sprinkle some breadcrumbs on the roach, who knows where it's been. I wonder if it is aware of how easily it can be stepped on out in the open; I wonder if it knows this?
3.
Everyday I walk uphill on Eastern Avenue past a painting that looks like Maria Felix; the painting of this woman is a bust; She's chopped at the breast and only her face, head tilted back and up, shows the Aztecan-Spanish features and rosy cheeks. Her Mestiza blood promotes the sales of a somewhat famous East Los chili brick, packed hot then frozen. "LA's Favorite Chili."
She wears a large black crown tiara, and she hangs a red rose over her left ear. The word "DOLORES" in white and red next to her.
My heart usually races at this point from the incline, but I look up to Dolores and I become distracted for a moment. The dust and foliage roused by cars and buses going uphill and downhill blast me on the face and peck my sticky skin. The whizzing VRrooom ZIiim adds to the whirlwind vortex of my dizzy spell from choking on dead leaves.
I finally reach my room. The small desk is cluttered in research articles and oddball theories from dark corners of the web. The only thing that reflects an image on my walls is a mirror. Everything else is bare. Empty cans of energy drinks line my shelve. I feel suffocated the more I think about the empty room. I have made no effort to claim it as mine. I refuse. I need not make an statement through extension, but the fact that nothing hangs ironically reflects a statement: emptiness.
And the emptiness intensifies, especially when I do not sleep at night. Tossing and turning. Seeing nothing. Feeling nothing. If there is any feeling it is that I feel stupid. yes yes...that must be it.
I recollect fragmented memories that keep me up (with these types of thoughts who needs coffee!). Was it the shattered glass in the middle of the night? could it have been the yells I heard coming from the walls? Or the banshee screams and bloodstreams that made my skin tighten and the heart stop, for a minute, as I rushed to the restroom where I found a little girl crying over a stream of her blood? Or perhaps it was the maniacal hysterics of a desperate mother yelling Help! Help! and running out of her home with a rag-doll child in her arms. Or the young boy waiting inside the car for his superhero that was getting wasted inside the bar?
Stir-fry'd electro-execution. These thoughts fill the emptiness with a loud silence. Where is my family? Lost Angeles. Dismembered. Dis-remembered. Severed. Dreams of drugs and violence. Not even in my own subconscious thoughts can I find sanctuary. Waking up with a feeling that something is missing. Dreams mean nothing. nothing. A Terrifyingly terrific silence of nothing (Actually, I probably dream (studied scholars state that we dream every night), but don't recall any of them, either due to terrible memory or the fact that my brain is filled with nonsense...yeah, probably the nonsense).
After a few days of irregular sleep patterns, the sense of senselessness intensifies. Headaches and dizzy spells shake my mind and eyesight left and right. Vertigo, I believe it's called. Entropy, I prefer to call it. Either way, it's all signaling a slow unwinding. A great fall, perhaps.
But it's just another day.
It's break time and I rush over to the "Chinese Express" for a bite. I sit down and I clasp my hands over my perpetually pre-re-heated fast-food medley bowl of fried rice, noodles, and beef and broccoli. I inhale and exhale, attempting to relax amid a loud-mouthed conversation of a woman reminding her mother about it being high-time to realize that she (the mother) is not young anymore: "you can't do what you used to do anymore. face it, mama."
Above my head the loudspeakers play some pop song that echoes in my mind and bounces around in my jelly thoughts; a code travels and spreads through soundwaves that concretize an encrypted message which crawls about in my rotten ectoplasmic brain. It's insane, but I start to feel itchy under my skin. I scratch all over but I cannot find the exact location of the itch. I start thinking that it's all psychosomatic. And I sing the tune like a recording machine, "goog goo, goo," etc.
The day is filled with sentence after phrase after fragment and so forth that accumulates into a gradual possession of every fractured fiber in my frail consciousness (or lack thereof).
Stir-fry'd electro-execution.
I roll a mass of noodles on my plastic fork and chew away, gnashing sloppy oily tube-dough fibers into a mushy paste. Into my esophagus. Into my own tube-dough entrails.
I have to hurry back to work.
Letter after letter after chinese fragment: my mind feels fagged and shagged from the old in-out-in-out of up and down turn turn turn around meet and greet sessions of 30 minute assessment. My body is running on e-cigarettes and lukewarm coffee. The belly is filled with liquid that bleeds into my lungs. Gasping for air, I explain and ask questions here and there, at this point almost everywhere, about sentence after sentence after...
sentence. The thoughts on the pages are splayed and stretched hurdy-gurdy with parchments and particles of disarrayed and organized squares, circles, and arrows in a concert of static coherence. As long as a mutual understanding is reached, the various scribbles and squiggly lines work for all.
The mesh of text accumulates into knots, twists, and turns that reflect my morning rituals: Invisible bandages and bonds that binds together people and my coherence. "Buenos Dias Don Roberto" "Buenos dias muchacho, hechale ganas" "no queda otra! take care!"I hop on the bus for an early morning round of elbows, assholes and dirty nasty flesh packed like sardines inside a humid metal truck. Hot breath and unwashed mouths heaving holy spirits that awaken the dead. The gym is a walk in the park in comparison to these type of post-modern work-outs.
2.
The day is done and now the headlines do their work. I log on before I head home for a quick wander through cyberspace.
The news spreads information about certain disruptions of violent, but also of rebellious, breakouts of particular individuals. But I try to dig deeper. Attempting to realize that these "particular individuals" evidence the fruit of experiMENTAL labor. Compartmentalized and goo-goo-gaa-gaa spoon fed certain data for certain output.
Mathemajix: PsychoKem.
I keep up on the silent battle called the Bay of Twitter, an experimentation in cyber war over in Cuba. Over in the UK, E-Day: Project Underlord. String theory at work: attempts by the Almighty State Saviours (ASS) to "affect the course of political process in the country." These words taken from the Joint Threat Research Intelligence Group (JTRIG), part of the british intelligence agency, Government Communications Headquarters (GHCQ). For what purposes? Well, i'm still trying to figure it out, All this Input: Output, on my spare time, of course.
But I think it might have to do with population control.
There is a group of NASA scientist and Mathematicians that have collected data on past and current trends to predict the future.
They call it cliodynadimcs.
The mathematicians have these complex models that chart historical trends regarding sociopolitical instability. The NASA scientist have concluded that resources are diminishing at an extravagant rate. The mathematicians predict that by 2020 there will be a great likelihood of a peak in violence.
...
And the preacher says we are living in end-times, given the recent earthquakes, etc.
Intellects or men of spirit, all seem to steer people into more artificially induced consumption of useless resources based on artificial wants and needs.
I start thinking that the Nazi's won after all. The U.S. took their scientist and their research, from everything to human experimentation and propaganda machinery manipulation.
Input: Output. Mathemajix: PsychoKem. it's going on online through little digital blue-birds chirping around every corner of the world and ad pop-ups in your social bubble network.
When I start making comparisons to Hitler's regime, I know it's time to shut down.
I need to stay away from the net. And, it's ability to induce and reinforce propogations of my self-induced mind virus creations. Stir-fry'd electro-execution.
There are various types of cognitive science theories that could pathologize and legitimize the "abnormalities" in my mental behavior (and with good reason too!):
The subject is psychotic. Clear case of delusion. He's snapped.
Clear case of apophenia and pareidolia. He's chasing moon rabbits. Persecutory delusion. Confirmation bias and Cognitive inertia. Oppositional Defiance Disorder. etc.
In these days that bleed into each other, time resembles a porous concrete curb.
And I don't have to travel to the "darknet" or by proxy to get the "surreptitious" information about collusions between money, power, and nationalism. The encryptions travel in plain sight, and sometimes there isn't any cryptography at all. No need to hide when the damage is done in plain sight.
I realize that I have been staring down at the curb the whole time, wondering about nothing, when a little roach, crawling in and out of the cracks of crooked lines and holes, called me back into the current time-zone. I sprinkle some breadcrumbs on the roach, who knows where it's been. I wonder if it is aware of how easily it can be stepped on out in the open; I wonder if it knows this?
3.
Everyday I walk uphill on Eastern Avenue past a painting that looks like Maria Felix; the painting of this woman is a bust; She's chopped at the breast and only her face, head tilted back and up, shows the Aztecan-Spanish features and rosy cheeks. Her Mestiza blood promotes the sales of a somewhat famous East Los chili brick, packed hot then frozen. "LA's Favorite Chili."
She wears a large black crown tiara, and she hangs a red rose over her left ear. The word "DOLORES" in white and red next to her.
My heart usually races at this point from the incline, but I look up to Dolores and I become distracted for a moment. The dust and foliage roused by cars and buses going uphill and downhill blast me on the face and peck my sticky skin. The whizzing VRrooom ZIiim adds to the whirlwind vortex of my dizzy spell from choking on dead leaves.
I finally reach my room. The small desk is cluttered in research articles and oddball theories from dark corners of the web. The only thing that reflects an image on my walls is a mirror. Everything else is bare. Empty cans of energy drinks line my shelve. I feel suffocated the more I think about the empty room. I have made no effort to claim it as mine. I refuse. I need not make an statement through extension, but the fact that nothing hangs ironically reflects a statement: emptiness.
And the emptiness intensifies, especially when I do not sleep at night. Tossing and turning. Seeing nothing. Feeling nothing. If there is any feeling it is that I feel stupid. yes yes...that must be it.
I recollect fragmented memories that keep me up (with these types of thoughts who needs coffee!). Was it the shattered glass in the middle of the night? could it have been the yells I heard coming from the walls? Or the banshee screams and bloodstreams that made my skin tighten and the heart stop, for a minute, as I rushed to the restroom where I found a little girl crying over a stream of her blood? Or perhaps it was the maniacal hysterics of a desperate mother yelling Help! Help! and running out of her home with a rag-doll child in her arms. Or the young boy waiting inside the car for his superhero that was getting wasted inside the bar?
Stir-fry'd electro-execution. These thoughts fill the emptiness with a loud silence. Where is my family? Lost Angeles. Dismembered. Dis-remembered. Severed. Dreams of drugs and violence. Not even in my own subconscious thoughts can I find sanctuary. Waking up with a feeling that something is missing. Dreams mean nothing. nothing. A Terrifyingly terrific silence of nothing (Actually, I probably dream (studied scholars state that we dream every night), but don't recall any of them, either due to terrible memory or the fact that my brain is filled with nonsense...yeah, probably the nonsense).
After a few days of irregular sleep patterns, the sense of senselessness intensifies. Headaches and dizzy spells shake my mind and eyesight left and right. Vertigo, I believe it's called. Entropy, I prefer to call it. Either way, it's all signaling a slow unwinding. A great fall, perhaps.
But it's just another day.
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