spacewalker

The whole absurdity of life and its all too seemingly designed, deceptively random, distribution of violence came into full perspective for a moment as I perceived the playfulness of children on a cloudy evening.

They ran around, over, under, and into the labyrinths of steel bars and plastic swings, sometimes barely missing a head-on collision with each other or the structures around them.

They twisted into and out of the monkey bars, playing and laughing shamelessly without a care in the world. Their innocence quickly shifted to violence, and then suddenly turned to forgiveness, and finally reverted back to playfulness.

Some remained in front of the swing, declaring themselves the slide kings: You may pass, you cannot; you are too ugly, and so on. Since many others simply ignored these "slide king" kids, they whizzed by and slid down before they could be caught; this angered the one's playing superintendent, but after a while, when no one was playing their games, they switched their tune: they grew angered and attempted to force the rules or started playing with everyone else.

Some tripped, hit their foreheads, but stood back up and joined the ensemble of shameless laughing and crying.

The see-saw went hee-haw as groups bunched more than 4 onto each side, crushing and suffocating each other and laughing.

A group came out from behind the steel rock-climb wall and ran past the two biggest kids that were arm wrestling; the group was chasing a boy and a girl. Leave us alone, the girl yelled, and she threw sand at them while the boy pulled her another direction; it was merry and all in good fun.

Some got mad, some got even, some got lost, many got lost. Those lost turned to each other, and then to another who pretended to know what was going on, for directions. You stand here, and wait, and wait, and renew your strength, and I will be good to those who wait, he said, as he went off to venture into what grounds he could cover.

The playground asphalt grew hot and terrorized their tiny feet; they hop-scotched and hoped for a stabler concrete that could easily provide better footing. They gathered, I fancied, and marched over to the parks and recreation office, demanding better play-grounds. It's not fair, and you exists for our needs they chanted. The man in the coat, bowler hat, and tiny mustache replied, Kiddies, listen, life is not fair. You must tough it out and be brave, face life! like me!

As I was lost in this tiny thought of children protesters, I heard a voice calling;

Hey mister! hey mister! a young boy yelled as I looked up at the sky in confusion and awe. What am I doing here? Pass the ball back mister.

I kick the ball over to him, and he resumes the game.

I start walking back home and on the way I see a police car pull over a man dressed as a clown. Nearby an elotero squeezes his horn hahh-hee-hahh-hee and his cart trembles over the pavement of cracked and pothole riddled asphalt. The clown glances my way and he looks awfully sad despite the make up on his face that outlines a smile. The officer approaches him, shining his flashlight. He makes the clown step out, asking why he seems to be acting so strange. The man replies, "ain't you ever seen a clown before?" to which the officer replies with a bludgeon to the man's forehead. The clown starts wobbling like a penguin, dazed from a blunt pop-pow to the skull.

I start laughing and the cop turns his thirst onto me, giving me a wide smile. Soon, more cop cars arrive in their black and white time capsules to get in on the clown.
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My sense of de-arrangement intensifies and, surprisingly, after so many years, I still stand in awe to the commonplace of the subspace and the no-space of alien-nation(s). .         .              .        .          .                 .        @          .      .         .              .        .          .                 .                  .                                     .     .              .  
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These black and white sources of 19th century romanticism and raw, unreserved experience mete out ka-pow's and thwacks with extreme prejudice on mere chance and whim to complete strangers. 

They patrol the battleground of concrete jungles and surveil the run-down structures of cracked houses and creaking apartments. Some of the dwellers, properly pressurized, grow compressed and depressed, reflecting the violent condition of the madhouse and gradually metamorphosing into monkeys, dogs, cats, and rats; this tends to justify confinement into a kennel.

They establish their presence and set up centers of power wherever in whatever patch of asphalt they choose. This is Rodney King. This is deaf-mute beat by being misread. This is pre-emptive attack that aims it's violent force beyond the physical. This is discipline and punishment. This is madness. This is shameless. This is comedy. This is where I lose any sense to try to make sense of the irrational. This must be something I simply cannot comprehend. This is something I refuse to logicize. This is Kurtz. Over. Kurtz, do you read me? Kurtz's turds, Over. Oh, The Joy! The Bliss! This is me running fucking wild in a tight uniform and a hard-on for sadism. I am not the saint, or the devil; I am the clown and the cop...I am here for you! They might not know why they are patrolling and going to meetings, but I do, I'm here for you!

To Protect and Serve, Law and Order, in the name of Justice, Equality, and Freedom. yatta yatta.

Power to the police! power to the police! brrr! I raise my fist, they raise theirs. We are all together in this fight! yatta yatta.

Together, we will re-form! follow me! I am the KOP! pop pop! yatta yatta! I have the new rules, no rules! follow me! me! me who is you! You who is them! them who is we! we we! we we we! ya ta! ta! ta!

I will show how you how all these terms ring hollow against the crack of a polycarbon club to the skull. I will fill your nights with music and joy! My baton will make the night sing with the crying screams of clowns and laughs of power drunkards! together, yes together! In our tight tights. Sweaty and warm and oh oh oh! yatta! ya! ya! ya!

You see...
After the cops haul you in and take you to the madhouse. You have the right to remain laughing. See...They, the warden and the criminals, must return to their lives and head back to their houses and children, if any. Stainless steel cells, concrete walls, wood or plaster...it's all in the design.

One in the same, it's all insane, the one reflects the other in some manner and vice versa, only the label differs, only the name, which go by other associations but smell the same...it's all in the design:


~LAPD X3 VATOS LOKOS~
CHIEF AZUL
MISTER PAYASO
COLONEL KURTZ
~DO NOT PASS GO~


This madness reflects the nonsense conscience of a war torn vet, which, as "professionals" might add, makes much sense when taking trauma into account.

I should do something at this moment, but an immediate response invites a justification to bludgeon me directly...it's all in the design. I don't know very much about this law that they profess and have sworn to protect. I continue down the block minding my own business while everyone peeks out for the chisme. 
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                 .   .    :        .              .. .         .     . 

I'm out here, spacewalker, without any sense of place in the nospace of subspace. In a galaxy far far away. In a barrio in an other time and space. Consumed by the mechanix of gravity and unprovoked pressure of external forces. Is this God? the Great Unsettling that took place 13.798±0.037 billion years ago? Things tend to move in this manner: For every reaction there is an equal and opposite action, according to the Laws. Even more, for every reaction there seems to be the illusion of movement and action. Masked underneath the revolution exists the fractal that revolves around and around we go, where does it stop? nobody knows...

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This life deals unconditional doses of pain and joy, equally and without reserve or regret, but somehow I'm convinced that the grand architect is out there, to lunch somewhere, will be back in 30mins. I see it in the language that carries a structure that promotes a type of subjectivity that conditions the manner in which the public receives information (this language thus renders the subject object), but these are just "learned, cultured" theories inculcated in institution of big brain ink. Reduction of Eduction for education stations, Althusserian state apparati, I think (or do I?).

If Bill Burr where there and saw what I saw, he wouldn't be surprised at the extended whacks of the State via police bludgeon. Bill Burr, The Cosmonaut of Inner Space, that so called Godfather of Punk, would remind that the Word impacts the nervous system. The Word impacts the barrio, my community, through the forceful reminders of its power in the Black and White ink of blunt force trauma. The Word, palabra!

Here, look there, Pornification of the nation! Sex and Violence! Sex and Violins! Sex and Vile! Can you feel it? of course not, the nature of its power remains in its cunning subtlety of neutralizing with the internalization of Word. I see it in the language that carries a structure that promotes a type of subjectivity that conditions the manner in which the public receives information (this language thus renders the subject object). If Bill Burr where there, he wouldn't be surprised at the extended whacks of the State via police bludgeon, nor of the current findings in neurolinguistics. Bill Burr, The Cosmonaut of Inner Space, Godfather of Punk, would remind that the Word impacts the nervous system. The Word impacts the barrio, my community, through the forceful reminders of its power in the Black and White ink of blunt force trauma.

Here, look there, Pornification of the nation! Sex and Violence! Sex and Violins! Sex and Vile! Can you feel it? of course not, the nature of its power remains in its cunning subtlety of neutralizing with the internalization of Word...

...fuck the revolution! 

Fuck it! look...here are some more abstraction reactions.

There is a discarded leaflet beneath my sole. I pause to pick it up; it contains formulated text that convey the message of a new age of spiritualism.

There are many of these new age spiritualist wandering nowadays preaching that the Spiritual age is at hand, and that it is time for a wake up call, and that the way we are living is not healthy for the earth, but they are lost in the inner space. There is a quote by some so called Krishnamurti: "It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society" ha! haha! hahaha! hahahahaha! No wonder I'm so ill at ease. But I'm not sick. There is nothing wrong here. This is the program. This is how it's been.




The Iron and the Intellectual still rule, mightily, crushing the airheads and awarding those able to best manipulate the Word-organism to entertain and enthrall and spellbind. That is why I pray every morning, I plead the 5th and concede to a shell of a man, I am too weak and too stupid to open my mouth in the age of the Iron and the Intellect:

Sana sana colita de rana! Everyone! Sana sana colita de rana! Sana sana colita de rana! Sana sana colita de rana! Sana sana colita de rana!Sana sana colita de rana!Sana sana colita de rana! Sana sana colita de rana! Sana sana colita de rana! Sana sana colita de rana! Sana sana colita de rana! Sana sana colita de rana! Sana sana colita de rana! Sana sana colita de rana! Sana sana colita de rana! Sana sana colita de rana! Sana sana colita de rana! Sana sana colita de rana! Sana sana colita de rana! Sana sana colita de rana! Sana sana colita de rana! Sana sana colita de rana! Sana sana colita de rana! Sana sana colita de rana! Sana sana colita de rana! Sana sana colita de rana! Sana sana colita de rana! Sana sana colita de rana! Sana sana colita de rana! Sana sana colita de rana! Sana sana colita de rana! Sana sana colita de rana!

Someday, someday, keep patient, I tell myself. And good things yatta yatta. God helps those who help themselves, so I'll help myself to my goal at any means necessary. Paradox? perhaps, do you know the mind of God? just wait and see...Silence is consent, silence is golden, Silence is...Paradox? perhaps...just wait...just wait...I'm reading my pedagogy of the depressed..."come on Harding, play the game. Play it!" they tell me, I say to you, that I say to them,  "I am playing the game! Cease interrupting! I can't concentrate!"...."play the game! c'mon play the game!"...just wait, just you wait on these empty threats!

I looke away from the smile and arriving cars. Behind me, a man screeches and weeps. There are muffled words struggling to escape the throat: mm...pp..ppl..ppoleeesee...ay!!!!

I walk forth to the sound of static from radios and silence of no wind. The moon seems beautifully bright tonight, delicate and perfectly floating in its wandering, plotted, plight.

I shake the pathetic fallacy blues and walk toward further nonsense. I walk toward a joy and a pain worth living. I get my head out of the clouds and start focusing on the walk toward production and reproduction. There is much to do, I must hurry up. Goodnight, good bye. There are places to go and angels and demons to meet; I must perfect the art of peripheral movement. I must find, carve, fill with meaning and purpose out there, here, somewhere of nowhere. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, all lepers, rejects, cops, and clowns go to heaven. There is nothing here now. nothing but kipple. junkware. Go forth now, go forth gogogo! go forth and seek the lotos for all I care. Good night and nighty night. tick tock tick tock.  See you in the front lines. Ta Ta!

Reference(s) and allusion(s):
Franz Kafka
Harry Gamboa
Ken Kesey
T.S. Eliot
William Burroughs
and other's I definitely forgot.

tomorrow & tomorrow & tomorrow

The sugar cherry plum, she bit, turned into a sweet kiss that preserved the salt on her tongue to bittersweet reminders of what some might call a time without time.

The lips became a bit numb with a thousand tiny pricks that pulsated from within, and the back of my throat itched as though a feather lightly motioned up and down.

You may consider it luck, and in some cases not quite, perhaps a curse...but in every drip of her kiss I suspend momentarily, eternally in a second hand that beats the time away and worth every tick--it suck'd me first, and now sucks thee.

When two merge to one, there is an attempt to defy the laws of physics...gravitational attraction counters metaphysical repulsions. The harder we hug, the more we push each other away. Softer. Gentler. She said. 
I apologized for my dagger hands and poison kisses. 
It's by virtue of my existence. I'm working on it.

What does a kiss mean to you? she asked...
everything, I said.

What's the matter?
nothing...

Our eyes locked, attempting to unmask the meanings and purpose of meaninglessness, and all the ideologues that fill and re-fill.

the...chemistry (if we could all it that), contained the capability to dissolve the corrosiveness of reason that reduces, crystalizes, and justifies: 

I apologize, you see...
and
What happened was...
and

Underneath the camera God-eye of the State, and among others' engrossed in their PDA's, our images flickered together, forever, and entered into the cloud database, two bodies dissolved to figures woven into the seams of an intricate network--the information angels, not half so happy...Went envying her and me.


...


We closed our eyes and at the moment of a blink, you were gone, as if taken away from me.

..   .then...the...shades..

.. .   .   ..and tomorrow, & tomorrow & tomorrow...
     .

I waited for a letter from the postman who delivered nothing but crossword puzzles.

The photo in my wallet, gradually faded, and eroded at the edges, thus revealing the glossy blank shimmer behind the monochrome images.

Until...

I thought I found you, once. I tried to remind you, of a time of mysticism and cynicism, about cherries and roses, and angels and demons, about metaphysicks, falsettos and vocal cords, oh oh oh oh...ah~

Look, I'm reading this book about love and poverty, and war.
let's talk it over over some coffee.
no, I don't want to talk about that, you said, gripping your purse and putting on some glasses.

You said that you couldn't go through that insanity again, and that I should be in an insane asylum, and that you felt sorry for me, because I needed to be cured, I needed to be cured real bad, and that the only reason I did not recognize my condition was because everyone was suffering from that which was commonplace.

What is the medicine, I foolishly asked.

And you vanished and left me in the body of your exhaled smoke, holding your ovoid necklace and filling my lungs with hot air, and feeling, for the first time, exhausted and abandoned.

My eyes grew pitch black, and shrank in the light;

29 years of non-stop heartbeats, and who knows how many more, always pounding and pummeling away, without break. The mind takes to respite, but the heart, the unremmitting persistence of the heart, was enough to cause me to feel "pins and needles" with its' rhythm being thrown off. 

the doctor diagnosed, and declared,
your nerves are damaged. 


It was now just a matter of time... 
my reflection grew pale, nearly white, and my day's were filled with nothing but clarity. 

I floated around crowds...

...commonplace...commonplace...I uttured and muttered here and there like a diseased and traumatized man haunted by the past, locked inside a re-ocurring nightmare.

HERE IS A CONCRETE DESCRIPTION OF THE LONELINESS:
(pro)NOUN(ad)VERBADJECTIVEPREPOSITIONCONJUNCTIONDETERMINERandINTERJECTION ALL SYNTACTICALLY COMPRESSED WITH SURGICAL PRECISION.

HERE IS THE UNDERMINING OF MY VERY TEXT IN TRYING TO RELATE SOMETHING I FIND HARD TO FEEL, INDEED, HARD TO FEEL.

"Blues is easy to play, but hard to feel" -Hendrix


References:
Poe, Donne, Suzuki, Hendrix and @

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.

In the Form. Minus the flesh.

He wrote "academically," trained in the art of seeming objectivity. After years of writing in that vein, which the institutions demanded, he possessed a better, more intimate, ability to divorce his feelings from his writing at whim. Detachment and observation through separation, decompartmentalization station in his pressurized head full of nifty analytical (s)tools. His sentences would go from, “This film was awesome, very inspiring” to “Through careful camera technique, the film illustrates a unique adaptation of the American revolution by emphasizing perspective and angle. The actors supplement the movement of angles and corners through subtle yet superb interaction whereby the audience seem to be merely voyeurs into the intimate lives of the characters, nay, humans on screen. Anyone viewing the film will be instantly, if not highly likely, influenced by the powerful display and careful handling of both directorship and amazing acting which pulls the viewer in through a seemingly invisible gravitational pull, yet this merely, nearly, magical pull is but a superior handling of setting props and perceptual technique which manipulate the viewer into the directors' world through the periphery. Indeed, every move has been perfectly executed to effectively render the viewer with just enough stimulation so to carry them into the simulation. They do not merely view the film, the are drawn into it! inspirational! sensational! stupendous!” These were his days. Daze in deed. his wear and tear. 

He wrote in this vein for about 27 years. Words became wurds were werds were akward and linked to ward his lengua whereby it became carefully and gradually whipped into shape. English languish only. And when asked about how he was feeling at social events; his brain fried as it fired a multitude of synapses that chemically altered his biology, and so to the rest of the crowd he seemed “weird” as he stood still experiencing the subtle changes in his body. He was feeling ok, he'd say to himself before actually stating it, just to avoid being socially inept. But was he? He questioned. Indeed, what was he feeling? 

He reasoned that the given circumstances, i.e. party, music, people, wine, and conversation, indicated that he should answer in the the most neutral yet positive reply: he was ok. After all, the variables indicated that he should be feeling ok. Indeed, he would reach conclusions in regard to seemingly simple questions in this way. He'd reciprocate and repeat, “and how are you?” performing the perfunctory functions that reflected the appearance of movement yet covering the petrification he felt as he coalesced “into the crowd.” He was one of the people at the party. He was having a good time, he reasoned, and his reason reasoned that this was a reasonable response. He carried most of his days in this vein; 27 years, writing in the Academic skein. In the Form. Minus the flesh.

On his way home one day, he took out a note he wrote on a memo. He tossed the text into the ground and proceeded to grind the words into obliteration. He pulverized the memo into objective dust seemingly detached from any biases and/or emotions. Nothing seemed left but specs of ink on shredded pieces of paper upon the concrete; indeed, only the bare, critical and fundamental, parts were left. No pathetic fallacies. no subjective bias con_text. fair. reserved. preserved. observed. almost Zen like, something that had allow the feelings to pass, having "exprienced" them, now had flushed out the pleghm, and made it nice and neat and clean and bright and right and w... and thus, the memo had been stripped and ripped, as it lay shredded in tatters on the sidewalk. He took out his hand sanitizer and squeezed some of the sterilizer that he had mixed with drops of bleach onto the remaining shreds. Like a virus, the small pieces of text replicated yet grew larger and words started to formulate--culture, taste, class, refinement, objectivity, scientific, rational, etc.--until a wall became erect in front of him.

He took his lighter to this wall and started a massive fire. Afterwards, he started rolling around on the dirt. He low-crawled and simulated holding a rifle in the middle of a battle, in the middle of a theatre of operations. He was engrossed in his mania. He spoke in tongues, it seemed, but he was really trying to vomit and spit out obscenities. pinche! he spurted. chingada! He contorted on the dust, a cloud of brown around him. phu-fufifofa! kakaka! He felt alive, and pained. Rocks scratching his back. He started speaking in tongues: logicdictatesALAHchingadawithUrlogic!ayayaya!ay!are! arrre!yesma!nopa!nopal!nonopa!yesma!sisima!ay!ay!

aaaaaahhhhhhhyyyyyyy! he, at last, gave out, exhausted. Crying. tears. in the fetal. in the flesh. 

The ambulance arrived with their big red cross. Ave maria! said an old lady passerby, gracias a dios! As the paramedics neared, he motioned his arm up and down and his tongue licked his lips as his eyes stared at who knows' what he was seeing or imagining.

They calmed him with an an_aesthetic. They pumped him with Nitrious Oxide. Si Si Si! he repeated, "I can Si! yes, si_r" he said as his seemingly self-induced seizure of convulsion and foaming at the mouth began to receded. He was placed into a suit and tie. He had to report to a boss whom wore a white lab coat on a daily basis, which he found a bit weird, but did not question the boss's disposition, and he'd give status updates on his well-being. I'm ok, he'd report. I'm feeling ok.

McGovernment

The Telesthesiac communicates not with the body but through digitized extensions of the biologic faculties; in other words, he/she...it, the subject communicates (if at all) and takes the world in, through the tele-the “far off,” as the Greeks call it, according to the Oxford English Dictionary. The digiztisiac: an organic mechanistic operant conditioned in the "far off". 


Since the telesthesiac takes the world in from a distance, using commodities such as the (mobile) telephonic, the television, the modern telegram—e-mail, etc, some might even say that there exists the potential for telesthesia anaesthesia. A condition wherein the the subject becomes object, an occurrence wherein the highly manipulable subjectivity, filtered through the "tele," becomes suggestible, thus existing the possibility for the telesthesiac amnesiac.

The sensory input becomes easily manipulable by the McGovernment. Have it your way at the Burger Kingdom. Your world, your side of fries and minimum wage. Eating dollar menu meals; the telesthesiac amnesiac. Happy world. Happy tummy--teletummy, teledummy. Happy meal; happy-go-lucky--telefunny; curly or regular? I'll have me a New World Order numero Zero. a la chingada. Teleshopping taking my telecourses living a telescopic existence teleporting via teledevices. Roads are under McConstruction, detours direct towards the Telepathy re-programming Zone. One McTelenation under value meals and insurance policies. Teledrugs for the telenarcs. Telenonsense. Telecrazy. Telestupid. Telesorry. Teledumb. Teleracist. Telesexist. Telecontroversy. Telenothing. Tel enothing. No tele. Tonight. No thing tele. Tel no thing. 

He mutters "mummum" and sometimes crawls on all fours

Today in the News...

"Zero-tolerance" policies have transfigured children antics and pranks into terrorist acts that increasingly criminalize "doodlings" or "tantrums" into psychological disorders and legal issues. This type of ideology facilitates the "school to prison pipeline." Somehow, I escaped the streamline, but it was through the aid of big brother. Indeed, thanks to uncle sammy and big bro, I was provided an ounce of a chance to suffocate among the rest.#comeatmebro

In other parts of the world, a Malthusian Catastrophe hit "critical mass," as a society faced a forced return to subsistence-level conditions because their population growth had outpaced agricultural production. The political body of local government also hit "critical morass" as they found "difficulties" in their assessments of assets to distribute and in ways to figure out a manner to clean up the unfortunate mess.

A man has lost his mind a few blocks down from my house; he lingers, and he mumbles to himself verses from an old biblical song. Everyone stares at him from the comfort of their homes, myself included. He mutters "mummum" and sometimes crawls on all fours; he seems to be looking for something in the cracks. Moreover, the Grapevine news co. and Team Comadres Chismosas received reports that a young man also lost his mind in the middle of the night yesterday, dazed between sleepless days and late night coffee shops that were poorly lit. There have been quite a rise in these types of events, reported Comadre Sota to Comadre ada.

It was a tragic day in America today; there were no reports of the lady that's been missing from her fruit stand on Flower Street. On a good day she'd give you the fruit medley for one dollar. She came from South America to find a better life, but instead she found a long line that told her to sell fruit while her dream was being processed at the Institution for Creating Equity. Many still wonder how she could get fall fruits in the winter and spring vegetables in the summer, rumors spread that she was in cahoots with Bigwig-Large-Major-Major Corpo-rations which harvested, manipulated and mass produced produce at monopolizing levels; perhaps a dirty deal went down and she got the "short stick."

Sound beams and silent noise replaced tear gas and riot guns today at a massive demonstration no one heard about or was even aware about; news of any of this floated down Temple and Grand near the Cathedral of Our Lady of Angel's Mausoleum in the form of a bystander everyone took for a homeless crazy bag lady. She mumbled that the church and state met in the crypt. That they all dwelt in the house of the lord. That they all laughed over the dead bodies of saints and martyrs; that there were no guardian angels to protect the demonstrators. That when the event occurred, no one wanted to see it, so they didn't see it; she said this while supplicating for change, which everyone confused for Washington's coins and green pieces of papers that read "In God We Trust," some paid no attention to her, not wanting to see her and so not seeing her, thus effectively rendering her existence non-existent. To this day, she occasionally yells about a noise which no one else seems to hear.

No one cares about the rising price of tea in China because they are too tired and anyway everyone knows why the price is rising: the same ol same ol, and so no once really cares or sees a point in discussing or making a fuss about the same ol same ol; it's like making a big deal over civil rights issues, it's like making a big deal over Japanese internment camps, it's like making a big deal over the Gulag, It's like making a big deal about El Movimiento, it's like making a big deal over Armenian Genocide, it's like making a big deal about poverty and crime and violence: same ol same ol. #that'slife#lol#selfie#lovethyneighbor#comeatmebro

And goddamn it, I must overlook, dear reader, the massive murder and death by hunger and malnutrition across the country and the globe because I'm late for work. Also, no, I am not a "foodie;" I only take pictures of empty plates and play a guessing game with my followers on the internet; I have five million friends. They each have quirky guesses: you had a quiche!, you had a crepe!, etc. the truth is I usually walk into restaurants and take pics of already empty plates that people leave behind; I look for a particular lipstick that I once saw on a napkin in a bar in Downtown L.A.

Today, a kid shot his mother in the back of her goddamned head. When asked why he did it, he said he wanted to see the color of his blood. Psychologists were amazed, and he was allowed to return to his videogames as doctors continued their probing and analysis. He must be observed in his natural habitat they reasoned. We cannot reach a conclusion, yet. Who knows the causes of these types things? surely, I don't. In the name of science and progress we must continue. We must tame this...this...We must unlock these types of fanatic and extremist outbursts and attack them pre-emptively, before they attacks us again. Control and utility is the key here ladies and gentlemen. Control and utility. #ftw#IdoWHATIwant
Kids are no longer asking why the chicken crossed the road but, instead, have substituted more philosophical musings, asking what in the hell is a chicken doing in the road in the first place. Indeed, kids are making more sense nowadays, and why not? with their technological devices at hand, who needs to explain anything?

A pharmaceutical company revealed today that they spread the rumor of nervios as a disease so that they could only make profit off of schoolchildren. Another pharmaceutical company released a statement, saying, "we are sad to hear that the other company pumped drugs into your children. We have the cure and answers that you seek, please buy our pills as it not only helps cure nervios, but it does so without harm; after all, the pills are merely a placebo and so you see...out products merely work with you at the psychological level." Sales went up thrice-fold!

A woman was raped and now pants are being worn, denim in particular. There were some other items created, like the "anti-rape" underwear. The inventors claim that it will make women feel safer. They sell for about 50 to 60 dollars a piece--not bad, considering one's well-being is at risk.

A young man in China thought he could get away with mentioning Tiananmen Square in an online thread by utilizing foreign applications that allowed for e-mail accounts and creation of "anonymous" usernames. Company X claimed it held no allegiance to China, but that it had to comply with local law, and since company X offered its services in China, it soon handed over a list of names of individuals whom were later visited by Chinese officials and sentenced to hard labor.

The latest blockbuster was a flop since it did not appropriately blow things out of proportion. We need more chaotic disruptions; this film makes too much sense and one can easily predict the outcome; it lacks suspense and relies too much on Aristotelian unities. We need more extravagant lies to make the film believable. Critics varied in opinions, but all concluded that the film needed more of nothing. 

By god almighty! the chip is now available! the one with the capability to be placed inside the young minds of the sharpest individuals so that they can be sharper. Many have lined up at the Major-Network Co. located in Silly Con City to volunteer for experimental surgery in the name of the techno-bio-magical banner. All for one and one for all! together we shall explore the deepest expanses of the brain hyperspace and conquer! The chip! the chip! hip hip hooray!

With one gain sometimes comes a loss; Indeed, the Wong-Baker Faces Pain Rating Scale will no longer be needed as scientist have developed a more accurate manner to measure pain...and consequently, love. Many couples have flooded their doctor's offices. Also, divorce rates have recently reached an all-time high. Doctor visits are now a hot spot for first dates.

A waitress in the middle of America worked the graveyard shift and was treated shitty by various customers. She forced miles of smiles, and often thought about her children at home and her fatherless past. She sighed at the end of her shift, happy to head home and finally get a bit of rest. Unfortunately, while her favorite song played on the radio, she dreamed her way onto the front lawn of some yuppie neighborhood, but it did not bother her. In fact, she laughed hysterically about it all, and the courts deemed her mad, but she still had to go to jail.