Upside downsidewinder cyclone

In this dimly lit room with dark red windows, the sun gradually boils me and the fan blows humid hot air into my face. I've been under a dizzy spell lately: this heat f-ills my visions with ill-usions~*~*~*~boiling and humidifying ~*~*~*~my dreams. During sleep last night, my red room turned into a time~/-/~space machine: I'm somewhere out in space traveling with Pazuzu in a black and red UFO abducting the "cosmic" race of Mextizokanos creating radioactive cultures.

Hovering above everything...sweat, blood, and tears cry out in the form of dust that has kept the ancient bones of children in its pulverized lands, slaughtered by land grants and megalomaniac dreams of holy missions. In reality, T.S. Eliot's handful of dust remains silent. Everyone knows everything: History is a blood filled rocket ship to Keppler-22 that moves like a boomerang in the hands of a neophyte. We're living in an upside downsidewinder cyclone and everyone is busy trying to self-preserve. My mom used to say...como alacranes. And I would think, we're not fucking animals Ma. I think that person was wrong.


Dehydration must be at the root of all this madness.
The Town of Our Lady Queen of The Angels and its inhabitants secured by countless mirage created by her Zanja Madre. A la chingada madre. A la chin. Al  ah. alah and her miracles giving plenty in the land of desolation.

                                                          (  ? )
                                                          (`,-'
                                                         _ o 
                                                       ( )_   
                                                       (  `\  
      .--.                                              \\//  
      )  (                                              )`")
____  |==| ___________________________________________  |  ( ____
     /__/|                                              |J |
     | | '                                               `"'

Tonight, I'm tossing and turning unable to sleep. I decide to compile my notes and enter another string into the web.

I sit to write about the frame of reference that my experience has accumulated, but I realize the blinding perspective of my very limited modality. I think I know a few things about theories and abstract principles, but next to crippling poverty and shadows of doubt, these learned things crack at the seams: that statement is empty. I do not even know myself and that is, so I've heard, the first step to recognize your frame of reference surrounding your circumstance: the background, the foreground, the lateral ground, and...whatever ground.

Identity possess' (and possess it does) a question that never seems to have an easy answer, unless, of course, one has found a sense of "self" through some sort of movement or deep self-reflection, thereby reflecting a rather bizarre morbid self-obsession, perhaps looking to others, or other things, to become like other people...those with a sense of someplace; students, cook, cashier, pilot, businessmen, janitor, etc...Perhaps the "truth" in identity is a reservoir of darkness. The truth is perpetual protest with a bunch of placards reading “fill this blank space” and "please please give me meaning and purpose!"

WE DEMAND FULFILLMENT. FILL IT UP. FILL US UP. FILL. F-ILL. F'kn-ILL.

Perhaps...the truth is temporary to our understanding. The truth will make sense and no sense. The truth is a Grotesque a la Sherwood Anderson. The truth will argue for and against G-d. The truth is a Plato full of cacahuates. That is your idea. That is your notion. That is your logic. Your mind will make something true and it can also render it false; all you have to do is believe in the idea and thenceforth you will find it in whatever you read, see, or hear and in whatever you see, feel, or touch."fake it till you make it:" the mind is a excellent thing to w.a.s.t.e.

ASCII art @ Chris.com

Free Your Mind and Your Ass Will Follow

Manglinguisticks

I wake up with just enough time to wash the baba off my face and rush down the hills of City Terrace to ride the El Sol Shuttle down Eastern and into Atlantic, hoping that some of the regular commuters are already waiting, and not rushing like me, which will give me a bit more time.

A veterano down the block warming up his time-machine Cadillac Coupe Deville shouts out, "running late again man!"

"Nope, Just on time! Hook it up with a ride!"

"Chale!"


I raise my arm and gesture a wave that communicates both whatever and later. There's no reason to the wave. I could've gestured nothing at all and left it a Chale. It wouldn't matter. Either way, I don't stop for anything and continue the morning rush down the terrace just as the shuttle starts coming over the hill.

It's the same commuters most of the time, though mostly everyone keeps to themselves. The "Chipster" Chic-ana with her quirky hats and long nylons listening to her i-whatever. The Doña and her woven poly-mesh bags. The kid that likes anime and plasters it all over his shirts and backpack with buttons, and a few others that have become part of the El Sol canvas. We snake down Eastern, up Floral, right on Mednik, left on Cesar Chavez, right on Atlantic and into the motorpsycho vroom vroom! of the day's grind. The concerted silence illustrates the loneliness and unpleasantness of the commute that tugs and pulls you with every commuter that steps into and out of the public transport. 

I catch my breath, feeling as though I have just reached the surface from being tossed in a riptide wave and unable to reach the surface no matter how much I flail and swim.

As I approach my destination, the illuminated red sign above the driver dings and lights up the words:

STOP REQUESTED!

I have enough time (and enough capital) to buy a cup of "fair-trade" coffee, ethically and responsibly grown, from Starbucks. The NY Times shows another story about TERROR and the LA Times echoes the rally cry. I continue the rush to work, feeling good and hyped up while remaining calm and collected. It's a an-other day in the news; it's another day of manglinguisticks, but before I start work...

I reflect on the fact that it's a nice day despite the...

Sedation stations that teach domestication through pacification of disrupting narratives. (un)Sound waves of media digital radiowaves amplifying and broadcasting dizzy amnesia spells onto the spectators. Consumers consuming hypnotic stories that suggest that change cannot occur rapidly and must be achieved peacefully and gradually, i.e. "respectably." These stories that show masses facing systematic (and historical) displacement and neglect, and which suddenly must forfeit their right for drastic action while the opposite reserves their might (and right) to crush and decimate, if not grind into attrition, the razor sharp edge of cutting ideologies and practices that dispel the broad-net-cast over the sea like an electric mesh that shocks fish.

These stories that omit the invisible parties which come to light upon disruption of equilibrium due to indefinite chaos: random acts of violence. To manage such circumstances necessitates concerted effort and conductors with iron fists. The orchestra allots a part for everyone to play and partake in the grand scheme. No Jazz unless its structured Jazz.

And, Management of imagined future visions precludes the social transcendent realism of the present in this eternal march to the grave of the blind leading the blind.

Traditional handed down leftist/liberal protest methods become ingrained into the daily programming of predictable rigidity: opening and closing of...business as usual--back and forth and to and fro and banshee echoes from the land of dead into the living catalyze the live stock into temporal movement(s); buy your Che buttons and quote Emma Goldman and recite MLK, revive and pile high the corpses of the dead; this is the only real revolution--clockwork construction zones that ossify one's place in dead space.

Ding!

Your Appointment has arrived.

Ding! Ding Ding! Time's up! Ding! Ding Ding! Treat Time! Ding! Ding Ding! Good Job, go home. go sleep.

Ding!

It's morning and already the outside claws at my walls; I take a peek out my window. Down the street a jackhammer breaks into a off-beat syncopation: the conductor has gone mad and has caused cracks and scandals with his unauthorized and wildcat use of the pressured drill. Surely, the right powers will come down on him in due time.

I close the blinders and veer into another window: Status update--"it's noisy outside." A knock on my door brings annoyance; it's a young kid dressed in monochrome black handing out pamphlets promoting Eternal Fraternity. I say thank you, cut him short, and return to my laptop feeling a bit guilty. It's my day off. Please leave me alone today, but not really...Do you have a temporary fraternity pamphlet?

I nuke some oatmeal and coffee for breakfast. I head out for a walk down City Terrace to rush the El Sol shuttle again. There's a farmers market on Friday's in Boyle Heights that has a curandero stand. His space is normally empty and he has all kinds of herbs, stones, and waxes for "healing" purposes. To be honest, I don't know why I go see him; I don't buy anything. Maybe I haven't found the right item. Maybe I'm too messed up from psycho-logical operations of regular programming to see the wisdom in this crazy fools ways. Maybe I'll just ghost hunt on the shuttle today. Maybe I'll just buy something. Maybe that'll make it all go away. Maybe i'll jusy maybe all day. there's the line--here comes the purple shuttle.