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.

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____  |==| ___________________________________________  |  ( ____
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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