Tuesday, July 29, 2008

cadavre exquis

back in March, I received a dazzling Fa-bo transmission from Alain entitled simply: "story take it where ever you want". enchanted by both his high-arched concepts and his rich, sensorially transpositive but devastating descriptions, i gave to agreement that this would be fun. turned out that the exercise became a new way to discourse about how we were navigating -and venerating- our most recent wounds. a romantic bleed if you will. for what it lacks in cohesion it gains in bombast. the correspondence lasted for about 9 alternating segments.

Red dust on blue winds and she sifts for golden sea shells upon a seemingly endless coast...where the waves in delicious foam don't move...a small wooden table where she paints impressionist canvases of the sea ... with a bowl of oranges and pomegranates and cinnamon scented turkish coffee to fortify her...the wind still speaks in a secret language and sings children lullabies and operas and declares immovable prophecy. The birds call to an invisible paradise and small temples litter the coast and sometimes a putrid half eaten fish carcass washes up and she kneels and worships it and then casts it back into the waters...when the electrical storms come, warm and moody , they cast their secret shadows upon the glittering indigo horizon she breathes in the ozone and cries for what she knows and then shouts and does cartwheels and remembers what the world was before it ended...

These were but a few of her daylight activities.
He called his surveillance system The Eyectopus, a clumsy nominative approximation of its dendritic sensory network. He could leave it unchaperoned, allowing him to work his target from another vantage, and then review the tapes later. It eased the boredom of his job, though experts in his trade, many of them his peers, went to extremes to explain the critical and functional role boredom played in their profession. Boredom was thoroughness, they maintained. But he cared not a fig, and spent many wild and loose-clocked hours in activities meant to attract her attention. 'Survey this!' he appeared to be saying to her. From the breakers where he played in the surf, he could see her shape on the reed-rustled dunes, a singular point around which the creased skies and verbigerative waves accreted. She became like a radio to him, left on in a room otherwise devoid of human presence. From a wind-withered ridge, she'd overlook the waters, standing braced as if hunting fowl, and he'd tread water for hours, buoyed only by his dogged instinct to find the trophy for which she seemed to so hungrily search.....

...though he was wide eyed with hunger and demonic with godly love, eyectopus was his child , the immaculate starfish , the glittering gem of his precious techno emotional crown ... like a prism of divine light it expanded into a rainbow...eden like... in that it reminded him that the paradise of art and love that he sought was forever gone, and the technological nation of Yacmar would rise and rise but the precious source of creation, the soma of modern life...real emotion... had been usurped by the cold calculating monolithic...mind... and he wept in crowds of robots automated and listless and lifeless who looked on mute and dumb as if a lost tribe upon a wasted burning napalmed shore of a former lush jungle fertile with secret emerald magick...the muse of light...the beacon of life, the frequency of intimacy, joy and humanity faded like a blue sun...in ivory golden tones ...and the moan of the celestial winds and black angels lent their wavering voice to his search for a god to resuscitate...

He recognized his sickness in her. Every nerve that connected them had been pinched tight by hypermediation. Trapped in the segues of their carapaces. Cinched tight by their exoskeletal yokes. She had become more than him, but by virtue of their solitary communion, less. Yacmar, the nation that had homogenized to the point at which entire cities yawned awake, and ripping themselves from the ground, stood up on giant feet and roved the Earth in plunder. On occasion, these massive automatons would lock in combat, but this warring was only a disguised act of merging. It was designed to extirpate, for what other objective could there be? Simply disguise the grim future of mind, that of deindivuation, by the destraction of intractable war. Blame your foes for spiting your individuality by being not you. And forget that the only difference between soldiers and terrorists were that the soldiers got paid. She, daughter of the empire, knew this all too well, and one day made her terrifying decision: She opened a hatch in one of the creature-citadel's abdomens, dropped through, and avoiding the offal that spewed from its base, picked her way through the digested lands in search of the Water Gypsies. He, commissioned for what was mistakenly construed as obeisance by a thin-lipped Yacmar agent, was tasked to find her. And bring her back.

'bring her back'

the intention was with surgical precision, digitally implanted in his computer enhanced emotional network...the god voice...the priest therapist... looked at him with reservation and wondered why he had been chosen for this perilous journey after all was he not a 'skipper', did he not dream unreal irrational logics...was he not better suited to be a code breaker... such a low frequency spirit that enjoyed coasting like an opium addict in netherlands of no importance,a vampiric krishna! A low learner who still worshipped the moon and earth and stars even though fifty class m planets had been discovered in one month of old earth time...

'there will be no holy grails'
'you will eat and shit and stare ahead transfixed'
'god has died...magic is science...is power'
'your queen has abandoned Yacmar...we knew this would happen,'
a solitary tear barely perceptible formed like a cosmic star at his tear duct.
'you are expendable...you chose to love in this world...we reserve that duty for the next...so you have been chosen...now you will show us your love'
little orbs of pink and green energy clung like weightless water to his eyes and heart region...
'you do not know how to surrender and for this we are grateful...bring Oshea to the edge of the luconian desert where all the rovers congregate and let her hear the voice of recreation...

he knew the voice would erase all her memories and make her a child again...so she could begin the reconditioning process...'may she remain damaged forever!' Are we not all wayward children.. are not angels bound to abandon us eventually...so we can each experiece the god moment...the weightlessness of being completely primordial and alone again?

he scattered his thought in symbols and let them reconvene in his heart, this was how he produced arbitrary visions ...and the stars moaned, and the sun smiled, and the deserts broke down and fish crept near the shores and leapt into heavenly light because they knew the inevitable truth that love itself was on the verge of expressing itself through

His expendability was that of a solitary indivisible in an infinite series of spines vomiting more spines. For all he was supposed to know he was just an operative. The meat casing for the delivery of an idea. Nothing special. Everything normal.

But he'd 'skipped' to get here, recanting time so that his present became the past, and his memories the unformed future. He'd spent a month in cerebral quarantine in an attempt to ready him for the skip. The isolation breaking his attachments to a phase of a world he'd never return to. Or so it was supposed, for the notion of time-travel altered all measurement of valency and left conventional ethics with the boatman who casually disposed of them in the river Lethe.

'Bring her back,' they'd said. 'Bring your mother back to Yacmar.'

'o mother'
'god preserve my soul for what i do'

The Luconian desert glittered in specks of crimson and gold as the sun set and the slivered silver faded crescent moon shone luminent over the long horizon.
The shrubs and fauna glowed a radioactive green like some mythic reptile
and he held her by the hand and all that could be heard were their shallow breaths as they ran...no historical exodus could match the breathless love of these two lovers united...was she a mother, a sister , a lover, or simply a god materialized from another dimension, it did not matter no barrier from the present life could take away the urge to run together, to escape into the dreamlike mist, to become absorbed in the golden fields of immaculate lotuses , but she was already reprogrammed he had failed , the Yacmar systemizers had found her three earth seconds before he could commune with the central all knowing eye...he had been recruited and all had progressed as planned ... but who was the hero, he who knew all and tried to change it or those who enforced the strictest rules of time to the atomic millisecond? Oshea had always been a renegade and double agent and deeply flawed in some mysterious divine manner , she was a fallen queen but all empires had to fall and this was the crown jewel of Yacmar that they needed their queen to bring their own knowing to an end, to silence their own evil and ingenuous plans to break the back of time, like a dying sinner they knew the light all too well when the dying breath beckoned them to the otherside they cried for renewed life through surrender...but Icmot was beyond the eternal dance of devil and god , of sun and moon, of life and death...time was a figment of some sentient race imaginations but beauty, love and unity stood above like an demonic god, or beautified lucifer who refused to follow the heavy conventions of the gods of the absolute, yes there was no hope the struggle was endless, the love of the conqueror must fade and the father will always reign supreme but for the moment when two twin souls pierce the veil of the forever with the unending laughter of having known and the clear song of victory of having overcome all others then...somehow something would transcend and so they ran like refugees into the still silence of the desert and with the magnificence of two suns they shone...immovable and infinitely devoted...

the hiss of sidewinding sands covered their tracks as they strode in the wind-shadow of the pack mule. the clank of the pots and the occasional sigh from the beast were the only perforations in the madness of quiet fury they willed themselves into. the sand was red with rust from the oxidized iron of weapon dust, and their landmarks were the harrowed buildings of a people lost, standing broken and lonely, like corpse fingers apportioning blame. they seldom spoke. she seemed to be a dream within a dream, her self-assurance and autonomy possible only through willed ignorance. he kept his attention drawn to practical gains: feeling the mule's muted ability to find water and cropped greenery; the collection of desert jetsam as fuel for their night fires. they saw noone on their haphazard path, though once heard the scream of engines in combat high above their ordeal. at night, he'd lie awake and attempt once more to please her with stories. of her future majesty, the mystery of the father she would choose for him, her breath of life that would be celebrated by the entire empire. and then, exhausted and embarrassed by her silence, they'd drift into the scrabbling sounds of the desert as the timid, big-eyed animals arose. neither of them could fathom the true danger of the ruins that provided their bivouac. that this mutated landscape might have horrors that muttered in the lost corridors beneath its sands was unguessable to either, until one particular night....

the sky was a breezy one hundred and ten degrees, an algorithm of skull and bone really, dry deserted heat, heat so hot that it made frying pans scream like tea kettles and lizards sing like chameleons on fire...a chamber chorus of high sharp symphonic alien like trance goblin rock played by trolls in lutes screaming 'stop the revolution' stopped in celestial perfection and a crimson gem was brought forward by two elvish creatures...there obviously was a little psychedelic property to this place...the stars spread out like dancing starfish in an aquarium of black n gold and sirens with pinkish hued skin chanted songs of blue... of water and sky and communication... and the trinity of two was accomplished in an instant...the love making broke out like a southern lynching everybody new it was coming but in hindsite no one could stop it...and never had the musty brown and auburn shadow streaked craggily ruins looking slightly orange at dawn been so pink with afterglow!The image of an empire hanging by a thread loomed over the passing days...they were merely termites, gnats, lice or even dare i say mosquitoes in this sodom and gomorrah which made the eastern wind that graced there cool dewy skin at dawn even more gracious and there escape even more blessed...their brown skins moaned with hot red pangs of heat burn but they would cut cactus and use the soft melon like interior to salve their wounds and even in this there was small glories ...
they found desert fruit...buried several feet beneath the surface of the parched earth and enjoyed it's tough leathery peel...with juice running down their faces like upon a child's cheeks they began to laugh and dream of the sea...'if only this sea of stars could rain every day' she said and he of course dreamt of wine which quickly deteriorated into pitchers of beer then of course water...clear cool and clean...the only liquid man has every needed truly began to impinge upon this romantic interlude...'what is an empire to a queen, when i am neither a worthy king nor prince...we may actually die of thirst' a buddhist sun set was taking place, one twangy flower red and green hung low and smiled like an emerald at the crow of silence that descended in the sardonic face of the sun...they ought to have known that beneath the surface there was not only water but they would soon discover the city of Oshante which translated from the desert rover language simply means 'floating water lotus'...

Wednesday, July 16, 2008

"The Heat"

Anjulie is the daughter of one of my mum's close friends, and I think she lives in the Toronto area. While I've not heard any of her other songs, this one gives me shivers.

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

euphrenia - live here now

So I am now in BC. I live here.
Somehow the public parts of me got tanned without going through the stage that usually makes me look like a blob of mayonnaise that was held down and pink-bellied. Somehow I am buffing up. Somehow my mind is enjoying itself. Somehow I can see past myself to the greater caravan. Somehow I ate sausages every day for 10 days. I just ate one, and it tasted like bad breath, so I'm done with them till Beerfest.
I went on a wine tour on Sunday. It was my birthday. On it, it occurred to me that:
1. 'debauch' finds itself from Bacchus. well, obviously, but it'd been a tacit connection for me until then.
2. white, heterosexual cliques are not much fun in confined spaces. when sober.
3. a lot of wine sucks, but the people who make it are rich so the tasters are nice about it all. it stays freer that way.
4. due to their environmental sensitivity, rose bushes are planted amongst the vines and used to detect potential plagues or diseases before they occur in the crop.
5. people hide their most egregious infidelities behind their most cherished and celebrated values. the universality of this both horrifies and fascinates me.
6. everyone else here finds the story of feet washing up on beaches interesting too. though i still think calling the foot-falling-off-and-floating-away process 'disarticulation' to be a bit abstruse. 'yet another case of anaquapodischism has been reported upon disarticulately.'

Yes, I'm still unemployed.

"It's the sick oyster which has the pearl"

Previously, on whomunculus, S'Mat! mentioned that he'd peel back his onion and, through some sort of exegetic exercise, recall some of his more emotional memories in a series of blog posts.
Well, now he will not.
I spoke to him and advised him against privileging a liminal plane such as this with images of such tender import. Emoting is one of the few distinguished human arts, and should either be portrayed to friends, lovers and diaries or be written for the stage and then optioned into a Sir Ben Kingsley movie. You see, while shouting your more mulluscoid moments into the noisy, brassy internet has buckets of cathartic value, it readily becomes grandstanding. S'Mat! will speak into this medium one day, perhaps when it is palpably the greater neocortical reticulum, but meanwhile he will return to the first person for more post-narcissistic rambling.