round and round and roundroundrouwndrown.

He was really into the Beats and their style and the 60's and all that "free spirit" peace & love stuff. He wrote in the skein of Allen Ginsberg to the tune of the Hydrogen Jukebox World. Language seems to often reflect the worldview of the user, and in this particular "piece," the language allowed for a given set of expressions that which the current time in history allowed. He wrote in the skein of Allen Ginsberg to the tune of the Hydrogen Jukebox World, but he inserted tech-neologism. An action, and equal and opposite reaction, an  equal and opposite reaction and a counter-productive action: Thesis-synthesis-antithesis-and so on an so forth and round and round and round and roundroundrouwndrown.

He asked me to read one of his "pieces" that described the real world, or something about capturing the "real"...something about the "thing in itself"....something about "no ideas."

After I finished, he asked, "how about it?"
And since I did not know, nor do I know now, much about content-form-meaning, and purpose, I told him that it was good. That it evoked some sort of sadness in me. He smiled and said "thanks." I wasn't sure if he meant it sincerely or if it was sarcastic or if he was simply responding in accordance with reciprocity. The doubt elucidaed a mild schizophrenia elicited by a type of capitalism that provides the paradox of a no-identity.

I'm horrible at goodbyes, and what follows is what occurred to me at that moment of departure: I waved and half-smiled and returned to my table, exhausted from self-induced awkwardness.

His "piece" reminded me that after reading Dostoevsky and Castellanos, I still had the audacity to write, let alone the audacity to speak on matters very unfamiliar and foreign to me: life.

And I mean the above in the very sincere. Dostoevsky made me bow to the Christian G-d and Castellanos helped make sense of the senseless, and versa-vice, and thus, everyday it's vice-versa and versa vice; up-down, bow-stand; left-right; no-yes-no; downside-upside-down. Is this real? Have I captured the "real" in itself? Oh! oh! oh! bless me! Amen! Amen! Amen!

All this and nothing until the movement reflects mechanization, a movement directed by the given factors--perhaps you may know this as "Historical Materialism." Tossing and turning, turning and tossing, all the while gathering an empiricist epistemological theoretical framework by which to approach and (re)examine the "current circumstance"--perhaps you may know this as experience. And this experience allows the currency that yields authority to speaker/writer/listener, and the currency gathers charge by the effectiveness of the experience--some may call it dialect and rhetoric, and those outside of the "enlightened" rhetoric and dialect and theory/theories of words, or "commoners," would call it mental masturbation, or crazy. The latter is probably right.

And it is the "current circumstance" which perpetually perplexes scholars and "commoners" alike, and it is the "current circumstance" that I am no expert in, and, thus, retell you, dear cyber-cruiser, that I still have the audacity to write, and write badly. worsely and worserly.

This writing process damages by tormenting. The act seems, to me, a 2, 3, rhizomatic street. But, the very structure I write in, in the "current circumstance," reflects the degree of (my) proper schooling and training in the written word. Indeed,  The language seems to often reflect, and neglect, a particular worldview of the user, and the language allows for a given set of expressions that which the current time in history allows, or so it seems to me, in my "current circumstance." 

Indeed, every individual possess a degree of development and understanding in accordance to the present factors. The content demands certain form, and vice-versa. But, this, this very "piece" is merely goobledygook for the "unlearned," and this is gookygoobledy for the learned, and vise-jaw-versa--(c)LOCKwork. round and drown. no one knows what they are talking about and when someone says something "smart" and everyone goes goo-goo-ga-ga, a common and popular phrase nowadays that translates into, "ah, yes! I identify!" a mere appearance of (ex)change occurs.

The outsider can serve as a mirror to the insider, modalities can alter and power can dissolve, and vice-versa. The other day I saw a man wearing a Rorschach inkblot shirt and I called him a racist! He replied, wot? and mumbled "babblebabble," a dastardly gesture no doubt!

All this to say, my e-confidant, that I am caught in the schizo-frenzy, a mild schizoid neonate that ate the advertisement adverse to self and incapacitated in the capacity to individuate, actualize, and realize, that I'm a nonsense talker phraseologist peddling pedantic semantic walking the tightrope and tap-tap-tap dancing along a thin wire for the greenback. 

Identity fostered and linked to the urge to consume, sell me an identity please. Commodify me. Abuse me. Rape me. Language is the name of my game. What do you read? words words words. round round rounding in a sea of words. Old Jameson, all "postmodernism in consumer society" type. The old whiskey type. Blended Irish type. Consume enough words and the virus starts to do its work. The "I" in "me" is where again? outside? a construct you say? incoherent you say? crazy you say? thank you? say you? you? what? now? nothing? no





I'm sorry for the digression dear cyber-friend and that after having tormented you with a dose of madness I hope you have not been decimated, perhaps you have not been touched at all! great, I am too tired to continue this line, or dis-linear mode, of thought. 

I will tell you the magical day that followed after having met my friend and his "piece" of beat poetry.



This particular day felt like a nightmare. Throughout my tutoring sessions, I saw the same person with a different mask every 30-minutes, each one of them linked by the common association of amnesia. And this amnesia was contagious...wait, didn't I just...never mind. How can I help you? It felt like a cruel joke: "Someone's idea of fun"

The day flowed along until I found myself in my little room, as though transported by some sort of surreal magical realism that modern realism does not allow.

That night seemed like an eternal Saturday night; in fact, it was suddenly Saturday night and the city glowed with warm oranges and reds, and the heat came out from summer night rock n' roll fever; Warm dance floors exhausted sweaty and salty and oh so sweet cries of pleasure and shameless laughter. 

from the hilltop I could hear the youth enjoy red wine and lose their senses...just enough to carry on a sensible conversation about how mad and obsessed love has made them.

I was there, observing and writing as a break from grading papers. My skin could not contain the desire to see the apathetic trees wave to and fro, persuaded by the wind to dance along to zephyr moods where moonlight swims. I started committing the pathetic fallacy. I wanted to shake the realism. Not because it was a "no" to nihilistic existential psycho-babble blah-blah-blasé, but because I needed a dose of fantasy, a dose of surreality and madness. I was already feeling crazy, the only option after having lost your mind, some might agree, is to see how deep the rabbit hole goes, or perhaps it was just the heat.


I raise my head from the counter and finish my beer. A sudden shift in my position that I attributed to residues of amnesia.

I am walking along Broadway Boulevard greeting the theaters that have been turned to Churches--The Million Dollar Theatre, The Palace, the Orpheum, the Los Angeles Theatre!

I walk among the defeated that face the city symphony of indifference: stale stench of wet tobacco and piss fumigate the butterflies away from the roaches and rats and madmen. 

I feel sorry and angry and superior when I bump into foreigners that call me foreigner and giggle hee-haw-hee-haw. 

My eyes start itching and out come moths. A spell of magical realism no doubt. Everything's too sudden. Everything unbelievable. Sirens bellow toward the Eastside down Sunset, a common playground for Eros, Dionysus and Ares. The West belongs to Thanatos, and that is where I'm headed. But suddenly I find myself on the hilltop on Grand Ave. Walt Disney Concert Music Hall. A stranger greets me, and it seems she's been waiting for me.

Her silhouette figure blends into and out of the shadows; she dances but there is no music. My eyes start to tear up. I feel weak and tired and stupid and like a terrible human being. I fall on my knees and she hurries over and lifts my chin and my eyes are now looking at stars.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" I utter through tears that I am still holding back. Choked cries. Angered. Hot. Steaming. Weak. Exhausted.

She continues dancing. Not a care in the world. I run after her.
Walt Disney Concert Music Hall madness. Fuck this. I've no reason to feel like I do; try walking through the dessert for 3 days without food, evading trucks with armed men and shinny badges. Try living amid a war zone with constant threat of a raid. Try drinking your latte without creamer. Try witnessing your parents beheaded by Khmer Rouge. Try having your brother prosecuted for Communism. Try being addicted to crack. Try walking down Skid Row on payday. Try hearing your mother's head crack against bedroom window. Try seeing your cousin sleep on the sidewalk bus stop (did you help?). Try having your father only communicate when drunk. Try not thinking about your self. Try not writing about others. Try writing about yourself. Try looking in the mirror. Weak pathetic fool. Try it!

I realize that I'm walking in circles. vice-(ver)sameness. I am reminded (by my very self! oh the "cleverness" of me) that I am just a damn fool. And I'm back in my room. Hot. Steaming. Tired. Exhausted.

From the hilltop of City Terrace, everything in this little room suddenly turns into a detached peacefulness too quiet for comfort. My throat dries up, trapped inside a tiny, stuffy room. Saliva soaks in immediately into my parched salty tongue. Ancient blood courses underneath my sweltering skin. Sticky skin and cracked lips beg for moisture. 

I'm surrounded by words. Books. Papers. Articles. A clear reflection of my inability to grasp words. A clear illustration that I am trying to understand words. Clear evidence that I am drowning in a sea of words. Psychosis intensifies when the first thing I find rummaging through the mounds of articles is an underlined text I once read on the effects of language and physical deprivation...Something about Frederick II, Holy Roman Emperor, killing babies by depriving them of language and touch.

A knock on my door and a voice behind asks me to go "check this out."
"The ambulance came for the neighbor. Something crazy must've happened"
"His daughter is hysterical...she's trembling all over the place"
"look! look!"

It was all too real. Red and white lights bounced off my wall, moving around and around atop the ambulance van. Inaudible words could be heard through static of radio walkie-talkies, and I drifted off to sleep, drifting into a temporary rest, and "pushing out," or "suppressing," or whatever you wanna call it, le tourbillion.

Strawberry Coconut Tapioca Boba

He told me that Yucatan meant "something like...I don't understand your words." He found this out from a book he read in the field of anthropology. According to the scholar, when the Spaniards arrived on the southeastern, northern tail of the country's fish-like shape, these foreigners misinterpreted the words spoken to them by the people already there, and in their audacity, which seemed to me a mixture of ignorance and a sense of entitlement, they designated to the land the title of Yucatan.

I wanted to tell him that Peru had a similar history, but I still need to read more books.That for the Quechuan people, to the day, "Peru" connotes disdain: a reminder of Spanish butchery. I remember asking a Peruvian cabbie about this, but he turned his head, as though shamed, and refused to comment.

What happened between me and the cabbie was Yucatan.

What was happening between me and this young scholar was Yucatan.

What often happens between two lovers is Yucatan.

What happens between the spirit and the academician is Yucatan.

And when Yucatan doesn't happen, we find the more "accurate" Yucatan--a piece of a beautiful country with beautiful people and beautiful songs.

We sought Yucatan, I think, as we walked over for a strawberry coconut tapioca boba. Discussion veered into alien abduction, black holes and time-travel. People testify to these events, he said. They're probably crazy, I responded...after all, who would remain sane after having experienced such events? I once felt possessed by something oceanic but passed it off as mania and held steady under my sweaty skin. Luckily, my sanity wasn't affected much...I think. Besides, there are less important things that tend to affect my mind, like work and rent, for man will not live by bread alone. 

I told him this, more or less (perhaps less). He chuckled. I laughed. We drank our Bobas and parted ways.

"Most Things Haven't Worked Out"

Stir-fry'd electro-execution

1.
It's break time and I rush over to the "Chinese Express" for a bite. I sit down and I clasp my hands over my perpetually pre-re-heated fast-food medley bowl of fried rice, noodles, and beef and broccoli. I inhale and exhale, attempting to relax amid a loud-mouthed conversation of a woman reminding her mother about it being high-time to realize that she (the mother) is not young anymore: "you can't do what you used to do anymore. face it, mama."

Above my head the loudspeakers play some pop song that echoes in my mind and bounces around in my jelly thoughts; a code travels and spreads through soundwaves that concretize an encrypted message which crawls about in my rotten ectoplasmic brain. It's insane, but I start to feel itchy under my skin. I scratch all over but I cannot find the exact location of the itch. I start thinking that it's all psychosomatic. And I sing the tune like a recording machine, "goog goo, goo," etc.

The day is filled with sentence after phrase after fragment and so forth that accumulates into a gradual possession of every fractured fiber in my frail consciousness (or lack thereof).

Stir-fry'd electro-execution.

I roll a mass of noodles on my plastic fork and chew away, gnashing sloppy oily tube-dough fibers into a mushy paste. Into my esophagus. Into my own tube-dough entrails.

I have to hurry back to work.

Letter after letter after chinese fragment: my mind feels fagged and shagged from the old in-out-in-out of up and down turn turn turn around meet and greet sessions of 30 minute assessment. My body is running on e-cigarettes and lukewarm coffee. The belly is filled with liquid that bleeds into my lungs. Gasping for air, I explain and ask questions here and there, at this point almost everywhere, about sentence after sentence after...

sentence. The thoughts on the pages are splayed and stretched hurdy-gurdy with parchments and particles of disarrayed and organized squares, circles, and arrows in a concert of static coherence. As long as a mutual understanding is reached, the various scribbles and squiggly lines work for all.

The mesh of text accumulates into knots, twists, and turns that reflect my morning rituals: Invisible bandages and bonds that binds together people and my coherence. "Buenos Dias Don Roberto" "Buenos dias muchacho, hechale ganas" "no queda otra! take care!"I hop on the bus for an early morning round of elbows, assholes and dirty nasty flesh packed like sardines inside a humid metal truck. Hot breath and unwashed mouths heaving holy spirits that awaken the dead. The gym is a walk in the park in comparison to these type of post-modern work-outs.


2.
The day is done and now the headlines do their work. I log on before I head home for a quick wander through cyberspace.

The news spreads information about certain disruptions of violent, but also of rebellious, breakouts of particular individuals. But I try to dig deeper. Attempting to realize that these "particular individuals" evidence the fruit of experiMENTAL labor. Compartmentalized and goo-goo-gaa-gaa spoon fed certain data for certain output.

Mathemajix: PsychoKem.

I keep up on the silent battle called the Bay of Twitter, an experimentation in cyber war over in Cuba. Over in the UK, E-Day: Project Underlord. String theory at work: attempts by the Almighty State Saviours (ASS) to "affect the course of political process in the country." These words taken from the Joint Threat Research Intelligence Group (JTRIG), part of the british intelligence agency, Government Communications Headquarters (GHCQ). For what purposes? Well, i'm still trying to figure it out, All this Input: Output, on my spare time, of course.

But I think it might have to do with population control. 

There is a group of NASA scientist and Mathematicians that have collected data on past and current trends to predict the future.

They call it cliodynadimcs.

The mathematicians have these complex models that chart historical trends regarding sociopolitical instability. The NASA scientist have concluded that resources are diminishing at an extravagant rate. The mathematicians predict that by 2020 there will be a great likelihood of a peak in violence.

...

And the preacher says we are living in end-times, given the recent earthquakes, etc.

Intellects or men of spirit, all seem to steer people into more artificially induced consumption of useless resources based on artificial wants and needs.

I start thinking that the Nazi's won after all. The U.S. took their scientist and their research, from everything to human experimentation and propaganda machinery manipulation.

Input: Output. Mathemajix: PsychoKem. it's going on online through little digital blue-birds chirping around every corner of the world and ad pop-ups in your social bubble network.

When I start making comparisons to Hitler's regime, I know it's time to shut down.

I need to stay away from the net. And, it's ability to induce and reinforce propogations of my self-induced mind virus creations. Stir-fry'd electro-execution.

There are various types of cognitive science theories that could pathologize and legitimize the "abnormalities" in my mental behavior (and with good reason too!):

The subject is psychotic. Clear case of delusion. He's snapped.
Clear case of apophenia and pareidolia. He's chasing moon rabbits. Persecutory delusion. Confirmation bias and Cognitive inertia. Oppositional Defiance Disorder. etc.

In these days that bleed into each other, time resembles a porous concrete curb.

And I don't have to travel to the "darknet" or by proxy to get the "surreptitious" information about collusions between money, power, and nationalism. The encryptions travel in plain sight, and sometimes there isn't any cryptography at all. No need to hide when the damage is done in plain sight.

I realize that I have been staring down at the curb the whole time, wondering about nothing, when a little roach, crawling in and out of the cracks of crooked lines and holes, called me back into the current time-zone. I sprinkle some breadcrumbs on the roach, who knows where it's been. I wonder if it is aware of how easily it can be stepped on out in the open; I wonder if it knows this?

3.
Everyday I walk uphill on Eastern Avenue past a painting that looks like Maria Felix; the painting of this woman is a bust; She's chopped at the breast and only her face, head tilted back and up, shows the Aztecan-Spanish features and rosy cheeks. Her Mestiza blood promotes the sales of a somewhat famous East Los chili brick, packed hot then frozen. "LA's Favorite Chili."

She wears a large black crown tiara, and she hangs a red rose over her left ear. The word "DOLORES" in white and red next to her.

My heart usually races at this point from the incline, but I look up to Dolores and I become distracted for a moment. The dust and foliage roused by cars and buses going uphill and downhill blast me on the face and peck my sticky skin. The whizzing VRrooom ZIiim adds to the whirlwind vortex of my dizzy spell from choking on dead leaves.

I finally reach my room. The small desk is cluttered in research articles and oddball theories from dark corners of the web. The only thing that reflects an image on my walls is a mirror. Everything else is bare. Empty cans of energy drinks line my shelve. I feel suffocated the more I think about the empty room. I have made no effort to claim it as mine. I refuse. I need not make an statement through extension, but the fact that nothing hangs ironically reflects a statement: emptiness.

And the emptiness intensifies, especially when I do not sleep at night. Tossing and turning. Seeing nothing. Feeling nothing. If there is any feeling it is that I feel stupid. yes yes...that must be it.

I recollect fragmented memories that keep me up (with these types of thoughts who needs coffee!). Was it the shattered glass in the middle of the night? could it have been the yells I heard coming from the walls? Or the banshee screams and bloodstreams that made my skin tighten and the heart stop, for a minute, as I rushed to the restroom where I found a little girl crying over a stream of her blood? Or perhaps it was the maniacal hysterics of a desperate mother yelling Help! Help! and running out of her home with a rag-doll child in her arms. Or the young boy waiting inside the car for his superhero that was getting wasted inside the bar?

Stir-fry'd electro-execution. These thoughts fill the emptiness with a loud silence. Where is my family? Lost Angeles. Dismembered. Dis-remembered. Severed. Dreams of drugs and violence. Not even in my own subconscious thoughts can I find sanctuary. Waking up with a feeling that something is missing. Dreams mean nothing. nothing. A Terrifyingly terrific silence of nothing (Actually, I probably dream (studied scholars state that we dream every night), but don't recall any of them, either due to terrible memory or the fact that my brain is filled with nonsense...yeah, probably the nonsense).


After a few days of irregular sleep patterns, the sense of senselessness intensifies. Headaches and dizzy spells shake my mind and eyesight left and right. Vertigo, I believe it's called. Entropy, I prefer to call it. Either way, it's all signaling a slow unwinding. A great fall, perhaps. 

But it's just another day.

We set-up programs

The kid drew an airplane crashing into a building. The teacher called the cops. The child was taken for examination. He said he saw it on the Tell-u-Veesion. It was in the VeeDee-o-games. It was in the Myou-sick. That it was in the Pain-tings, etc.

The glass in front of him was covered with a film of one-way privacy mirror. On one side the kid faced his reflection, while on the other a number of professional types diced with his fate. Probabilities and culpabilities. What could it be? They moved back and forth, texting their spouses, children, and lovers that it was going to be a long night. At the bottom of the glass, it read, "objects in mirrors are closer than they appear."

Outside the mother wept like a banshee and the father talked to authority types. The father stammered, "I filed Goddamn it!"

We paid our taxes and did our jobs. Perhaps we didn't do so well, but we did them. We paid and we paid. And, we set-up programs. We set-up goddamn it! We set-them-up real good.

The sister posted on the anti-social-web:
"What a snobby fucking brat! last night I cut my wrist and I don't get any of this sentimental revolution bullshit."

Underneath, the tectonic plates were slowly shifting.

The kid, given crayons and construction paper, reviewed his national anthem:
I pillage alleged....I gape a village...I ape..all...egiance...I pledge allegiance...

"look! look! let us examine...ah there! look, the form reveals the content, his scribbles...those jittery letters; the nervous system"

"no doubt his parents must be associated with a very powerful terrorist organization"

The child continued:
of...of...the Unit-

The sudden earthquake stopped everyone in their tracks. Everything loosened and came apart. Many attempted neutrality, balancing in place and maintaining their bearings. Lastly, the glass shattered, and the kid came face to face with his assessors.

Sketch 'n time: manikins & figurines

You see them around, these time-zoner's, flowing back and forth in their to-go bubbles of set disposition. Their movement yields an appearance that obscures the rigidity of their spellbinding trance-fixation.

These manikins, these...figurines, if you will, follow the trends and flow in the anti-currents of atemporality while being RF-Eye'd and computerized, effectively gauged and measured into a capsule that reflects a (com)pressurized profile--Sorted, stored data.

Your own ideas start to work against you because they (your ideas) supply others with enough precise information to manufacture the tools necessary for capitalization, and capitulation, through optic nerve exploitation.

The experts of steganography (forgive a mere fool for having used such a term) place their digital and physical foot-and-head prints all around us--in the space field of our immediate surroundings. Decoding the imbedded cryptographies becomes the task of the paranoiac, who mostly carves against the anticurrents of time. He warns of the subtle programming communicated in the plain open, but the words fall flat like tinkling cymbals and sounding brass, which makes good music for ridicule and for the mass: kshh-shh, kshh-shh, hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo, as Everyone satisfactorily bubbles in their uni-spheres.

The girl in the cute skirts expresses an air for times of past. She likes ye olden poetry and exudes a passionate desire for that type of romanticism of the late 18th century. She read to me from her mini-tele-phonic device, "In the southern clime, / Where the summer's prime / Never fades away, / Lovely Lyca lay." And What does the speaker in the poem mean by southern clime? I asked. A time of timelessness, she answered, taking in a full breath and exhaling to show her state of relaxation. Her friend walked in and handed her a poem. Her friend writes poetry. His poem alluded to the greeks, and the Geats, and their feats, and their massive fleets. What philosophy! what might! such tragedy, and comedy!

He said, I didn't even know I was doing that, ho-hum! 
She always smiled and pushed up against him. Look, could you help me in understanding this question. It was a simple answer, he said, as he pointed to the issue in her problem while the girl rubbed her breast on his forearm, which served as a repellant that caused him to push off as nicely as he could without seeming rude.

The other one, She eats her lunch while wearing sunglasses most of the time. She often waves hello and shows you her pearly whites. Her hair is in the shape of two braids, intertwined and sometimes tangled, which she decorates with a daisy. Her lips shine a dull red that matches the cherry lollipops that she likes to suck. She moves in and out from the Station of the Hieroglyphs. A place dedicated to the improvement of the written word.

There is another one. Her pale water colors mask the face that cannot hide the speck in her abstracted eyes. She recognizes the sawdust in mine. She comes in searching for Michaelangelo high renaissance online. She knows the paintings well. She seems to be the only one that truly arrests the time, if not for herself then at least for others. She's a walking paradox; her ability to become more than a sketch 'n time--manikin or figurine--renders her unto a time-space on a canvas of a still life. Guys go goo-goo ga-ga gargling gape mouthed and jerking with galactorrhea, praying and screeching Hail Mary.


At the end of the day, the lights are turned off. Everything gets unplugged, and everyone carries home their burdens. They plug in again, perhaps for a bit of distraction (who understands these impulses that drive our addiction(s)), and effectively forget about time. Some lose time. Some attempt to capitalize on time. Some even try to catch up with time. And detached because of a sense of senselessness, disoriented by a whirlwind, you see them the next day, with all the knowledge in the world and no sense of time in history, further trans-fixed in their bubble-sphere, reading ye olden poetry, singing in the rat-race choir of classics and ageless masterpieces.

Burroughsian Echoes

The text is a fleshy image. In the beginning was the word, and the bird is the word. The Chinese seem to have this figured out, so did the Egyptians. Word as image, like little birdies etched onto a tablet or parchment of papyrus. Blocks of information contained in a symbol that captures the thing and the abstraction.

You will be reading these image sequences that are void of any film. Text reflects an image, and indeed, words make up a symbol system that is ultimately recognizable as images. When one reads, they are seeing images in a film sequence. The point of this movie is to show you the real behind the reel, which may be nothing but a mere show.  So sit back and don't relax. What I am about to tell you is intended to condition, perhaps de-CONdition, your mind.

You have all the necessary equipment.

When you have a tool, it only becomes a matter of proper priming for my usage. With enough triggers, I may be able to establish control, but control implies a controller, which means a captain needs to be in the driver seat at all times. But a controlled subject becomes a tool irrefutably when the tool applies its usages and operations on its own. In other words, no control is needed for a tool that is ruthlessly, completely controlled. In fact, such a "subject," or rather object, can operate mechanically and automatically. With enough suffusion of proper imagery, the film can be set to re-play the word and verbs necessary for my, or anyone else's, benefit. In fact, when fully taped, the movie can replay and replay and replay and replay. Like this: replayerplayerplayerplayer. The thought or idea of control becomes foreign to the subject-object. Thus, full and effective control can best be seen in the object that operates under the impression of subjectivity.

The recording device is in your mind; the film records in your brain, in the hippocampus, the "hem;" What I choose to implant and impress will follow in these next images:

A clown on a date with a gorilla.
A monkey on a children's playground
Zombies on a train plugged into Computers
Animals packed inside line 70A from DTLA
Vultures tossing out bones of a lifeless carcass

These snippets of movies lack plot. They are but compressed images broken down to their savage nakedness. The point: to umask the reel. The real deal: Barbaric savages posing as civilization. With these snippets I have captured and recorded time, just like any other recording device. I have shown you the world as it is, as my camera has captured it. Brief, indeed. For the purpose of a brief point. Here's the reminder: The world has been darkened by Atomic Power. The world has been disconnected by the wide-web-inter-net-work. The movie has been shaped meticulously so as to render a tragic ending. This movie has no happy ending. All of the stories end the same: Death. You start at point A, then move through B (something interesting might happen), then you die at C. Look at the setting of your film. Look at the Actors and note the roles. The real transmutes into a surreal reel. Check the reel, then re-check it. Note the psycho enviro-science that is hidden in plain sight.

Do YOu REally think yoU DIRECT the fILm in your mind?