Doin' the Clockwork Cockroach

"Yes yes yes, there it was. Youth must go, ah yes. But youth is only being in a way like it might be an animal. No, it is not just being an animal so much as being like one of these malenky toys you viddy being sold in the streets, like little chellovecks made out of tin and with a spring inside and then a winding handle on the outside and you wind it up grrr grrr grrr and off it itties, like walking, O my brothers. But it itties in a straight line and bangs straight into things bang bang and it cannot help what it is doing. Being young is like being like one of these malenky machines.
My son, my son. When I had my son I would explain all that to him when he was starry enough to like understand. But then I knew he would not understand or would not want to understand at all and would do all the veshches I had done, yes perhaps even killing some poor starry forella surrounded with mewing kots and koshkas, and I would not be able to really stop him. And nor would he be able to stop his own son, brothers. And so it would itty on to like the end of the world, round and round and round, like some bolshy gigantic like chelloveck, like old Bog Himself (by courtesy of Korova Milkbar) turning and turning and turning a vonny grahzny orange in his gigantic rookers."

"This one's a doctor / This one's a lawyer / This one's a cash fiend / Taking your money [...] One year / Twenty years / Forty years / Fifty years / Down the road in your life / You'll look in the mirror / And say, 'My parents are still alive'"


Work Cited:
Burgess, A., A Clockwork Orange (1962)

Mezcafe with a little spam.

The second cup of Cafe con Leche with the shot of mexcalli threw my sense of orientation into a cohesive misalignment. The world tends to make more sense after a bit of Mezcal and Coffee and Milk. Well, it probably doesn't either way, but the concoction makes it seem so nevertheless. Ancient voodoo Aztechnomagic. nomagic. noaztech.

Illusions help dispel the layers of black majix: for a moment I become a megalomaniac and recount the counter-narratives that have been crushed by the canons of a foreign warship which decimate a people and re-structures their lands for them, or rather, for themselves. Puro desmadre. A history of desmadre.

My mind, and thus reality, is constantly shattered by narrative of destruction: Yesterday, I shamelessly crushed a cockroach with the worn down elastic rubber sole of my red Doc Martens! Death by Footwear Inc! I looked quite fashionable doing it too! wacha! I'm huaracheando now, gotta set those rubber boots aside. Fashion is violence.

And all this popoyotl hits the fan, or rather affects the mind, when the mezcal runs its course. I start to connect dots and make sense of senselessness: here and there, everywhere, all over, this place and that space, and every which way...everywhere and nowhere in ahuiclandia.

The yottabytes of information that has been kept alive through the blood in my grandpa's veins (and his grandpa's grandpa) brewed into a ceramic cup. One must have gratitude for the "ancestors" and all that cal, to quote Burgess.

"Tu abuelo...hm! no hombre!" my aunt would tell me, "sin duda, desayuno seguro con cafe y tequila".

Pura Borrachera, I used to think to myself (I mean, who else would I think to? you?). Mexicans and their drinking! Mexicans and their fiestas, quincianeras. Their "rancheras" and "corridos." oh yeah, Mexicans and their Guadalupe Hidalgo, and their Tijerinas and Joaquins and Chavez. And their lynchings. And their miseducation.

This old man, however, he plays none. He controls the drink. He would probably be a powerful sorcerer in another time. The man still lives. 79. still drinking his tequila and coffee. He visits, but I think it's bad for his nerves. I'm not sure if anyone notes this;  in the land of the free, he drinks more, and the metal bird racks his nervous system. He needs to stay in his tierra. I'm surprised this latent shaman of an old man can yet handle the shifts and travels and parties and foods that surround him when he comes; the relatives flood him with constant meet and greets. The strange thing is that he is moved about and hardly mingles while everyone else gets into the mitotes. The old man can likely testify to a history of Desmadre.

Where was I? oh yeah,
The second cup of mezCafe and milk that brings it all together...I mean, I think it does. No wait...it's really the vodka that brings it together. Whisky will sometimes do it, but tequila and mezcal will just get you drunk. Then again, the other two might do it as well.

...I don't even know what I had anymore...and whether it's corn (maize), wheat, agave, barley, grain, or potato potato, I need to get my spirits straight. To be honest (I mean, if you can really trust this narration of disorientation), the chingadera that tends to blunt me in the brain, or lack thereof, with desmadre would be the technosphere.

The netz provide an escape while casting a spell that forms a trance of my reality: I'm a laptop infojunky surfing the innerspace, and I'm a terrible surfer. I read nothing but fiction. There is a popular story going around right now about an unarmed black kid in America that sparked a potential revolution. The resulting (r)evolution of state versus the people in a clash that had never been. A story immediately expunged for containment of contamination in the nation: Federico's ghost yet sticks up the middle finger from another realm in an-other time and place.

Another one follows a former NSA operative through Moscow and his attempt to wake up people in the U.S., but since America likes to sleep, all efforts go into tracking this fellow funny man; it's quite a suspenseful story.

There's an ok one about a small country being bombed to rubbles; you really got to read in between the line in this story. 

All great fiction. And, my daze consists of figuring out who, or what, writes these stories. I've named him/her/it the Magnificent Scribe. Sometimes I stumble onto crumbs of encrypted clues that help me figure out the 1's and 0's behind the cloud and the (seemingly invisible) p1ace(s)pace(s) of the hidden codex blues. But that's a blog entry for another day. Earlier today, codename Xoaltecuhtli sent me an e-mail with the subject heading "I know what you've been reading." A bizarre e-mail, and I'm not sure why the aztec god of sleep would be interested in what I am reading, or whether Loki is really messing with me on this one. 


...


It's all spam. The world is a big ball of roundly canned spam, manufactured by fashion ink.: Huitzolopotchli decked out in celestial cybergear. HuitlzoloPocho the butcher, coming to spam your shit soon. Buy your buttons and "tune in and drop out" and all that jazz and all that fad. Cafe con Leche and a drop of Mezcalina to help you get things crooked, to help you clear away the cobwebs of smooth silk--thin and invisible to trained eyes--that often stiffens movements the more one tries to disentangle. Realigment through further disalignment coz the aligment is a black majix brought to you by fashion inc.  Check out this Roethke! Oh, you don't know Roethke? Eat this mezcafe with a little spam and explore the void. What's the matter? it's only empty space! Desmadre and Jodidas, and a little spam. 


Goodnight cyber-voyeur, goodnight.