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Re-post:

CLICHE GUT-WRENCHING EPIPHANY

MACHACA

It's Sunday evening and I'm sitting here trying to make sense of everything. And trying to make sense of anything is were I usually go wrong.

I return to my Aunt's from a month of being lost in the decay of the city, feeling the grind of effective skull-cracking and mind-numbing distraction in self-hypnosis, but the good thing about entropy is that everything is merely transformed, supposedly. I've been playing part-time contortionist, bending over backwards for sustenance as I struggle through hypoxia against pressurized rib-cage and suffocated lungs, squeezing between people as they elbow my waist and hip, step on my feet, shove and push me off curbs into traffic/trains/masses of crowds...sort of like the shameless madness that takes place in a playground: kids laughing and bumping and elbowing each other, having a good time and playing games. 

It's the feeling of being ripped off and cheated that brings forth an onslaught tide of paranoia and worry, and as I contemplate what I will do with the five dollars left to my name before next paycheck,  my mind is occupied with the time I saw my father through the iron bars of the kitchen window--his scattered Chalino Sanchez CD's and those drunken Sunday mornings of him listening to corridos while my mom silently went about her chores. His life could probably be summed up in bars. 12 bars. Iron bars. or just bars.


But the past is gone, supposedly, unless it haunts the present...I must be some sort of masochist, sadist, a payasito, losing time over something I have no control over; I should be more concerned with the 5 dollars in my pocket ("trying to make a dollar out of fifteen cents"). I sit in my aunt's dining room, re-attaching my thoughts to my body as my aunt knits a bufanda in the living room. I feel lost and confused:
THIS IS THE MOMENT OF RECOGNITION
I AM SUPPOSE TO "REALIZE" SOMETHING ABOUT LIFE
INSERT CLICHE GUT-WRENCHING EPIPHANY HERE


My Tia looks over at my face and she already diagnoses that something is wrong. She must note it in my abstracted eyes as she gently weaves her threads. She gets up and starts a kettle and soon comes out with a warm cup of something. Ten mijo. Tomate esto. I don't even ask what it is. She knows I need it. I want to cry like hell and tell her everything, but she never asked to be my mother; I want to spit out the implosion of my guts. The whirlwind in my mind from years of being pulled apart: a time here with my mother, there with my father, a minute with a friend, my brother and sister, somewhere; this neighborhood, that park, half memories (or neglect) of domestic violence, blood in the playground, knocked out, suddenly 12th grade: all of these scattered pieces of me, pieces of a large canvas that didn't quite fit in anywhere, that didn't quite sit well with the other paintings, something always seeming off-putting about the piece(s); Everything fleeting and receding before me like a mocoso riding the merry-go-round and reaching for the Gold ring that doesn't even exists; the more I reach the further it all distances from me. I want to tell her of the loneliness at night. The feelings of suffocation. The aches from sleeping twisted. The nightmares. los nervios. But she knows all of this. She watched me grow up...from a distance; she's known the damage inflicted by my own family, "victims of circumstances," etc. Boo-hoo. I swallow the emotional lacerations and mind tearing injuries down with the sip of a warm tonic. 

That tonic, years of curanderismo and remedios caseros restoring what has been lost in the motorpsycho nightmare of living in the "postmodern." Gracias Tia. I owe you more than I have, which is very close to nothing at all, and it makes me feel ever sorrier for having not a single thing to offer in return, this intensifies the fucked up shitty feeling inside that I mask with my composure. She asks how is work and school, and I want to tell her that the education system has told us that we can win the jackpot; that we can live large as hell with an education. When they ask you, "what do you want to be when you grow up," no one ever says nothing. No one ever says happy. No one ever says I want to find out why there is a man that sits all day on the sidewalk and pushes a shopping cart that contains no groceries. Instead, I tell her that everything's fine. she knows this is a lie. She understands my discomfort of being open and, instead, we talk about the past, leaving out the pain and remembering only the good. I wonder if she does this for me? Then I think of my selfishness; I feel worse. 

With time, even all the bad perhaps starts looking good, that it, whatever it was (look at me I'm full of cliche's today), wasn't a big deal, and perhaps with time you realize that even that distinction was, as I've been taught to analyze and repeat, a "false dichotomy," and then you think about the past and Hitler, and Pol Pot, and Bush, and maybe you say, it's not so golden, and you remember a poem you read by someone that talks about "nothing gold can stay," and you say...fuck the past and it's nostalgia, and its' nostalgic fallacy. Then you forget that nonsense and realize you're thinking about the past too much, so you revert to the present. The present, despite the pain, will look good. "It'll all work out," she tells me with her laughter as she recalls a time I danced as a child. Y le dabas con tus botas, vuelta y vuelta.


I CRACK A SMILE

...

She tells me to visit her friend, the sobadora. You need it, numskull. I need it. I need a good pummeling from the unauthorized unlicensed psychotherapist bone specialist. She makes house calls, fixing twisted ankles, knees, and backs. Mangled nerves and hip pain. She'll re-adjust what has yielded to attrition and gradual wear and tear of bone on bone from running with an M-16 and a rucksack in the mountains of Korea; metal, flesh, muscle, fibers, wires, radios, static, noise, frequencies, shocks, taser guns, and strangulation. That time I took off my mask in the smoke chamber and shook and sneezed and shook and spewed and coughed "kackckcakcakk" until all that was left was a sack of meat: a brute and his foamy orifice; I coughed and shook and coughed and sneezed and shook once more until I lost control, until I lost my name, until I lost my body, until I lost my self, until I lost everything, but Uncle Sam gave me a new and improved one: a well oiled green lean fighting machine. One with a sharp mind and ready for bulleted presentations with snap judgement ready to take the initiative when necessary. This new body. This newbody. This now body. This no body. This no thing no body. This mere Nomenclature.

I STRETCH OUT MY ARMS AND LEGS, YAWNING. ＼（´Ｏ｀）／

Feeling lost in the post-postmodern sense makes no sense at all. I need healing. I need yerba buena. Ruda. Vicks Vaporub and "Broncolin."  I need to go to Misa, my Aunt reminds. My Aunt never misses Misa. She's a mixture of ancient remedies and ideology of foreign Gods, and together they concoct things like chia-nopal & Kale smoothies, or blowing smoke in one's ear for an infection, followed by prayer to La Virgencita Guadalupe. 

My Aunt needs to go to the doctor; she has an appointment. Before she leaves, she informs me, Ay! tengo que ir otra vez. Mijo, let me tell you...the doctors, all they do is give you just enough medicine to keep you going back for more, and if they can't do anything, they seem afraid to admit defeat. These doctores. Many times it's not even about the illness; the treatment adds to the illness, sometimes even becomes the illness.

She's been on a steady diet of pills for as long as I can remember. Her cabinet is a motley of prescription drugs and Mexican medicines from Tijuana. She's been going to the doctor, and they give her more pills. more and more pills. I imagine a doctor with baggies of pills hidden underneath his long white lab coat, popping them into mouths and making addicts that come back for more, praising hallelujah and lifting their arms and opening their mouths for more.

I, as well, get ready to head out once more. Next week I won't be returning. Next week I will go completely though the process of pulverization. Next week, I will send her letters and information through my cousin via text message, letting her know that I'm ok. Letting her know that I'll be back when I can offer her everything, which is probably never...Letting her know that I am looking for my mother, her sister, and that when I find her, I will try to bring her to her; that I will try to mend the bridges; that I will burn the bridges; that I will build the bridges. That I will be ok even if I lose my mind, even after I run out of my dollars anc cents, because I carry a crucifix in my pocket for good luck, and because every morning I open the blinders, just for a little bit, to let the sun in from the City Terrace hills.

Bodysuit, MeatFlesh, MeatSystem and Brainspace

As most things occur, it happened while I was totally unaware. I'm perpetually lost in the shift, like that one time I took a dive, on a dose of pendejismo, and was tossed and twirled by Poseidon's trident. Picado y tirado! Chingado! I need less pendejismo (or more?), but I tend to gravitate towards it. Even when I don't try, my mouth, my limbs, my eyes, they twitch through my nervous system and make movements that give me the illusion of total control. No excuse. Ya!

But on that day I was 100% saavy! (well, at least I think so!). Point being that I was lost as usual, though I thought I possesed complete agency. So, there I was at the "cybercafe"...first time "entering" the "user" realm. After gaining access into the stock room, the "barista" started removing wooden so to reveal a dark path with lights and tidbit clicks and lights coming through. "g'head man, let's go. Already told the Tek". I walked down into the shop for a so called "upgrade".

With Coffee IV's hooked into arms, customers also had brain zappers: battery hooked electrodes that transmitted transcranial currents directly to the brain. Wire and tube conduit lines all over the place. The JAVA JOLT Collective, a counterculture subculture of Bio'lectricks underground, had much to do with the unconscious submittal of free will and one's humanity as it did with the Con-global amalgamated publicity that was pushing for a trans-humanist and post-humanist utopia: "be more than human--become god-like." Gain more freedom by expanding your human capacities. It's always the quest for more.

Anyway, these two cats. They were running "low-batt" on synthetic telepathy interface, so their world was becoming "normalized" and mild panic would often set in from not being accustomed to existing without their d-vices. They twitched and whispered to one another, perhaps about me, perhaps about the blurs, perhaps about Con-global.

"Juice me up man, 54gigz" said one.
"muh..muh...Me too," said the other.

The Technomancer handed them chargers and they went in to the zap-stations. The automated robot came by asking the two if they wanted anything to eat--they each ordered a bowl of mush injected with all the essential vitamins and minerals necessary to sustain their meat-systems. 

The JAVA JOLT was the place that these two meatheads would engage Project Genesis, an experimental updgrade that supposedly lead to machinery consciousness, and also a rumored myth throughout the GRID  (i.e., the space formerly known as Internet^3). When the robot came by, they quietly seized it by shutting it down via an EMP disturbance; they proceeded to hook wires and nodes along the bots' exo-cortex.

This gave them away, at least to old systems like myself. When I walked in with my obsolete e-Goggles (and nearly obsolete state of existence), I noticed a glitch in digital space--the augmented space in front to these two individuals appeared like static, with tracking lines distorting the zap-station like an old VHS tape unspooling and slowing to a mesh inside an old VCR.

I walked in on a desire to get the brain-download bio-upgrade: a tiny computer that hooked into the brain's dendrites and axons which tracked synaptic activity and allowed for "total deliverance from meatspace;" at least that was what I understood from crypto-collectives threads in darknet forums. The d-vice, located behind the ear, seemed like a very complex operation, but with modern technology, the operation was made easy-- all you have to do is press a button.

The Technomancer looked at me suspiciously, understandable since I wasn't a regular. And, as I was inquiring about the upgrade, two young punks dressed in monochrome black ran past me. The tek-no_man followed in hot pursuit: "oy! you two!"


So now I'm here...

in this unfamiliar space. Everyone is hooked into the zappers and is oblivious to what is occurring. I hear an automated bot going haywire. If it had any, it looked as though it was losing its "mind," but little did I know, and was later to find out, that, in fact, it was gaining a "mind."

(p_art 2 shall be uploaded in (an-other-ti-me) and space_[frame])

[an-ti-me-other-an-ti-me-other-an-ti-me-other-an-ti-me-other-an-ti-me-other-an-ti-me-other-an-ti-me-an-ti-me-other-an-ti-me-other-an-ti-me-other-an-ti-me-un-tie-me.]


Also, an overdue, perhaps "illogical," R.I.P. Leonard Nimoy, aka, Mr. SPOCK

Interesting!

Clip Source:
Star Trek TOS episode 2x24, "The Ultimate Computer"

Nothing new under the sun

Break time. At the AMPM. "100% real beef" hot-dog. "High voltage" coffee. Deep breaths of "relaxation" while gasoline fumes season the mushy gulps of bread and meat down my throat. sludgy sustenance. Re-fuel for the grind. Sentence fragments reflecting my fragmented mind. Broken record: I've written about this before. What's new? nothing new under the sun.




Here, how about a story?  "psy-fi"....


Setting:

• c. 1968, the parallel omniverse

Situation:

• The infamous West Lost Sit-ins. Student protest, refusing to leave school. Want to start their own curriculum.

In response to rotating cogs of a people generating a sense of self, the Fractal Bureau of Instigation, which deals with nu_clear visionary Narkotraffik, launches Operation Institutionalized Re-vision: OIR.

The F.B.I., cutting edge mafiosi equipped with the latest in crypto-low-tech: drones duck-tapped with cobalt-45 cocaine and radioactive marijuana, are a very highly organized body whose job it is to keep the neon black market revolving; it needs this invisible, darknet ecomony to name countless excuses to pin down guerillas, rebels, and any faction that works towards autonomy and awareness by labeling such groups as "e-terrorists" and dissidents. By invisibly controlling the black markets, pinning blame and justifying illegal detentions were made easier. Operation OIR aimed its sights at shooting silent soundwaves through AM/FM radio that would effectively disturb the solidarity of the sit-ins. In fact, many would be urged to walk out en masse. Walk out as a means of transforming the system from without. A statement. The Fractals worked toward implanting these "walk-out" ideas in every minute structure of reality. 

You see...

Many people live Somewhere. Some live Nowehere. And if you're anything like these students staging sit ins, most of your days are "lived" Otherwhere--blind spots behind the periphery, a plasmatic space where denizens of _____ dwell. It's a space where souls float and where cognizance and awareness gain form from the phantasmagoria of plasmatic space. The unconditioned space of Otherwhere floats in eternal creativity, at least it seems that way. A sacred coil that evades discovery with every turn that attempts to reveal its phi-psy-cal structure.

The F.B.I. has been trying to to pin it downl. Make it a science. Exploitable, Deployable. That's where the sit-in's come from. That's where your dreams dwell. Childhood forgotten trauma, there. Memories of pain and doubt. The F.B.I. and its mad science, trying to figure the Otherwhere out. How could it do that with these students disrupting the ebb and flow of progress? Re-programming was top priority, and the Otherwhere held the key (at least that what they thought was the source of the disruptions). no no no, reprogram them and let them settle, or call for "appeasement," for after the hormones are gone and they settle into their virtua-machinery of a comfort zone existence, they won't really care (unless it feeds their ego); after all, just be thankful you live the the United Universe of America. 


I've been observing this from the sidelines. I'm a neo-universe wormhole space trekker. Traversing into and out of the pores, orifices, and rectums of time-space. I hear the FBI tapping and the students marching. Prufrock hides behind me.

I'm trying to figure out the plasmatic "blind" space myself. The Other day (indeed, an "other" type of day), a blow of -ism hit me in the face whereby my neck twisted so fast that I caught a glimpse of a shadow that looked pale as a ghost, and then it disappeared; I haven't been able to see reality the same since. It might be the Fractals at work, or it might be Otherwhere...after Operation OIR I haven't been hearing, seeing, thinking things too soundly. I think it's just that I have nothing else to write about nothing else to write about. write about. Nothing new under the sun.

#chale