07/11/06
And suddenly I wanted to kill.
Who was this? An assassin...
Not likely. I thought this was a madness I was catching but reality is the pain that forced me into insanity's fair arms.
She made me a mad sexy one, rebirthed through beetle recycling, and ready for damage. Tossing down the pieces, staring madly at the fortunes of trinkets, I saw the secret of the universe revealed unto me.
I have a countdown to solve the riddle. I can't wait til the final nail-biting seconds to defuse my literal existence. The answers must be found now!
But regardless of pace, the journey unfolds as it does, not as you wish. The signal is vibrating the tether in the centre. It shakes loose words, broadcasting them to acres of neurons, snapping puzzle pieces of sanity onto the coffee table.
Coffee table...I'm drunk. The future? Past? It feels like a memory and my consciousness lets go and I get into the pilot seat and scream and holler as I whirl my empty vessel into the night, headed straight downtown.
To the ground, laid down, and then up again until you're laughing in all of their faces one by one. You look around and they look upon, smiling down and across. Penetrating glances, glaring prances, fairy dust dances with phallic accuracy.
Jokester, prankster, playing the games but I forgot that I told myself not to remember anything so as to fool us all straight into the game. Our nights and dreams is all, it seems. Battle bravely, defending identity to its bitter end.
The girl dreams of the boy and he of her. That heart can't take the hurt, so, in hiding his dreams among the starry skies he rises and falls again. He knows, wanting to amuse and bemuse his lovely muse, so tries but fails to maintain his place. Quests for longing, meaningful masterpiece of my eye, I've gone inside.
Brainwash the self into betterment. Bridge that gap between perfection and yourself. Buy into the scheme that you've made to live within. Learn the rules and have fun. Further instructions lie...
Monday, July 27, 2009
Monday, July 20, 2009
The tower of brahma - thirty4 - existence is futile
05/08/06
On the inside of my favorite book I found a collection of paragraph length prose scattered on seemingly random pages. Below is the collected words strung together. I hope it helps me make sense of this...
Gone is the boy that marches like a beast. Slipped into and then born anew, I am left and right. Odds and evens are added together creating poisoned man, complete man.
I'm not supposed to have this in my head. Its vulgar honesty is infecting my morals. Refusing refuge from the scarring truth I mangle my brains, mash my bones, and confuse myself further.
Two are down and the third is most important. It's the final movement that defines your choice. The last ark that careens through the sky and lands upon something that is different from the starting point. Shoot the hand and cry again, but fight through it and place it on top.
You made your decision and the plateau is relief incarnate. Rest a lie, sleep a dream, live the life and skip it all. You've made the moves and there's no going back. Started unconsciously can warrant no blame. Flames scorching the Earth, Liquifying the Sky, this is not what you did, it's what you chose. Or rather what chose you.
Hand it over. Accept no blame. God did this; his Universe, his rules, your life you lose. Orchestrated construction of eternal damnation: Celebration! Father forgives the weakness, cowardice, innocence, and common sense.
Did the devil dance in your eyes tonight?
In the end it's yours. Do with it what you will. Feverish impulses of sanity bursting forth from your flesh covered sixth sense. It's rumbling beneath intensifying, igniting, and ignoble.
On the inside of my favorite book I found a collection of paragraph length prose scattered on seemingly random pages. Below is the collected words strung together. I hope it helps me make sense of this...
Gone is the boy that marches like a beast. Slipped into and then born anew, I am left and right. Odds and evens are added together creating poisoned man, complete man.
I'm not supposed to have this in my head. Its vulgar honesty is infecting my morals. Refusing refuge from the scarring truth I mangle my brains, mash my bones, and confuse myself further.
Two are down and the third is most important. It's the final movement that defines your choice. The last ark that careens through the sky and lands upon something that is different from the starting point. Shoot the hand and cry again, but fight through it and place it on top.
You made your decision and the plateau is relief incarnate. Rest a lie, sleep a dream, live the life and skip it all. You've made the moves and there's no going back. Started unconsciously can warrant no blame. Flames scorching the Earth, Liquifying the Sky, this is not what you did, it's what you chose. Or rather what chose you.
Hand it over. Accept no blame. God did this; his Universe, his rules, your life you lose. Orchestrated construction of eternal damnation: Celebration! Father forgives the weakness, cowardice, innocence, and common sense.
Did the devil dance in your eyes tonight?
In the end it's yours. Do with it what you will. Feverish impulses of sanity bursting forth from your flesh covered sixth sense. It's rumbling beneath intensifying, igniting, and ignoble.
Monday, July 13, 2009
the Tower of Brahma - thirtythree - hourglass + gear = fractal wormhole
02/26/06
I recently came across this Tower of Brahma piece scrawled in a notebook. The notebook itself is partially burned and contains a handful of entries I don't recall writing. I believe these to be written while I was binge drinking when I first moved to New York City.
It took me 3.14 seconds to discover the universe's secret plan.
Imagine looking at a circle painted on a wall. Except it's painted on a piece of paper on the wall. Someone lifts the bottom of the paper and the circle starts to distort. From there your mind drops down a floor, landing softly. Here, the circle is a sideways hockey puck on a small stand. Another person lifts the object off the base and then it starts to turn. The tailend comes into view and you see it's an hourglass that was set on its side, the sand evenly distributed among the two glass cylindrical domes. Your mind rollercoaster plunges into the hourglass and microscopically picks out the center of the glass tube where we see every grain of sand as it goes to the lower half. Each one of them by their self, as millions, possibly billions, pressed forward on towards the bottom.
You slip into the idea of time itself. The twisting of grains of sand spinning themselves into your modern context of the idea of time. You think of a clock face. The ever faithful arms clicking out the time for you forever. The endless circle of gears rotating round and round clicking out moments one metal twist at a time. The clock explodes from behind and the gears and springs and grease are sent spiraling outwards and towards you. It's around and around and back again as they travel slowly in a slo-mo scene.
Thinking this helps see the inside of the fractal lifting procedure which is currently being applied to your person. Please do not be afraid. This is a fairly harmless procedure that we are conducting.
Please enjoy the music.
The drilling continues and burrows into your mind.
You've seen a fractal right? You know what I mean. The trippy spirally pictures. Hey maybe that black light poster your stoner ass roommate had in your apt in college. No, that conch shell you found at the beach, with its oceanic recordings whispered among its grooves. Nah, the shore lines themselves, the seas carving away at the earth in a rotating and repeating pattern.
Those are fractals?
Why sure! And what's even better is now you can see the fractal lifted from off the page of our known reality! Congratulations and thank you for choosing Tower of Brahma for your enlightenment needs.
There appears to have been a title that was completely scribbled out. Although obscured, we believe that from the impression on the page below it had read "CRUCIFIX A HIT SON".
I recently came across this Tower of Brahma piece scrawled in a notebook. The notebook itself is partially burned and contains a handful of entries I don't recall writing. I believe these to be written while I was binge drinking when I first moved to New York City.
It took me 3.14 seconds to discover the universe's secret plan.
Imagine looking at a circle painted on a wall. Except it's painted on a piece of paper on the wall. Someone lifts the bottom of the paper and the circle starts to distort. From there your mind drops down a floor, landing softly. Here, the circle is a sideways hockey puck on a small stand. Another person lifts the object off the base and then it starts to turn. The tailend comes into view and you see it's an hourglass that was set on its side, the sand evenly distributed among the two glass cylindrical domes. Your mind rollercoaster plunges into the hourglass and microscopically picks out the center of the glass tube where we see every grain of sand as it goes to the lower half. Each one of them by their self, as millions, possibly billions, pressed forward on towards the bottom.
You slip into the idea of time itself. The twisting of grains of sand spinning themselves into your modern context of the idea of time. You think of a clock face. The ever faithful arms clicking out the time for you forever. The endless circle of gears rotating round and round clicking out moments one metal twist at a time. The clock explodes from behind and the gears and springs and grease are sent spiraling outwards and towards you. It's around and around and back again as they travel slowly in a slo-mo scene.
Thinking this helps see the inside of the fractal lifting procedure which is currently being applied to your person. Please do not be afraid. This is a fairly harmless procedure that we are conducting.
Please enjoy the music.
The drilling continues and burrows into your mind.
You've seen a fractal right? You know what I mean. The trippy spirally pictures. Hey maybe that black light poster your stoner ass roommate had in your apt in college. No, that conch shell you found at the beach, with its oceanic recordings whispered among its grooves. Nah, the shore lines themselves, the seas carving away at the earth in a rotating and repeating pattern.
Those are fractals?
Why sure! And what's even better is now you can see the fractal lifted from off the page of our known reality! Congratulations and thank you for choosing Tower of Brahma for your enlightenment needs.
There appears to have been a title that was completely scribbled out. Although obscured, we believe that from the impression on the page below it had read "CRUCIFIX A HIT SON".
Monday, July 6, 2009
The Tower of Brahma: Chapter 32 - the Widow's Son
06/13/07
I had a gun to kill my father. I brought it over one night that I stopped by for dinner. Delirious from the continuous bombardment of my senses from living in New York City; now I was home.
Sitting across from my father I knew he must die. That it was he who orchestrated my life so far. That he manipulated me and was grooming me to suit his mad plans.
I had no idea what those plans were but I shook off the veil he had his brother cast over my mind. I remembered sitting here at this table in the past, or is that happening now? Someone, white haired, yet young, is on my left speaking in slow concentrated syllables lulling me deeper into connected confusion.
They were babbling on about honoring secrets and I saw things before me that seemed commonplace yet complacently antagonistic. I sped up my internal dialogue and began telling myself a story about Agent Fenris and Agent Spider.
They went West to find a place where they could develop their talents. A place where they could reinvent themselves and set themselves up as kings. Alone together, they suffered the elements, braved the world, and found a kingdom. They shared a telepathic conference room where they formulated a strategy.
"Conquer the self my boy. We'll have a new one ready for you by the time you recall all this."
So, here I was, back in front of the man who turned me against myself and he was going to pay.
"I remember when you invited me here. I quit writing after the last time I visited."
He just looked at me. Empty. Was he even my real father? A plant? A brainwashed sucker forced to coerce me into going along with their diabolical plan. The gun was heavy in my lap.
"Why did you do it? What do you get out of this? God, say something!"
The gun slipped into my hands. My arm snapped into a locked position. Hammer cocked, trigger held, and yet no sign of anything in his face. He'd have to be held accountable. He must.
"You goddamned sonofabitch. This ends now. I won't be used as your pawn."
He stood up slow, pushing the chair back with a slight groan against the wood floors. Marionette muscle spasms jerked his body simulating life. I thought about pulling the trigger. About killing him, or this hollow shell of him.
"You'll never get my book. I just won't write it. Or I'll write it in defiance of all you stand for. Tear down everything that is structure and math and the mechanics of us. Chaos is my lord and I am here to deliver his wrath!"
Caress the trigger back, banging blasts of shells emptying themselves of all they once were. Closing the distance between us, friction scorching the specialized bullets, forging them into spears.
"I hate you!" I screamed. It resonated within the bare walls of my former home.
My father lie dead, hunched over the table, bleeding out like a stuck pig as the saying goes. I felt nothing, but wasn't numb. It was easy in the end. An afterthought as I cleansed my palate of the bitterness of my childhood.
I felt free, as if my back had burst open and wings had erupted forth from my pain. My nefarious enemy was now slain and my mission was complete. My mind was my own again. I had become a god of delicious apathy.
I awoke in the past, at the moment of hypnosis. I looked over at the fictioneer, as he referred to himself.
"You'll feel a bit disoriented for a few hours, but nothing a nap and some fluids won't wash away."
"You made me kill him."
"I'm not dead, son. I'm sorry. I mean brother."
I turned to my father's voice and saw that he was looking at me, smiling.
"I'll kill you. The future. My book...it all goes horribly wrong. They'll hate me in the end and persecute me. What you're asking me to do is to give up everything for this plan..."
"Just as I have, and he has...” he said motioning to the hypnotist. "We killed our own."
"But I killed you! It was a vision of the future, I only dream of the future!” my voice was flushed with a madman tremble.
"After today you won't remember much of what you saw. You'll know there's a list of people to find, a story that you'll need to tell your own way, and the core secrets of the universe we've crammed in that head of yours."
My dad glanced down at the Mason symbol in his hands. "As for my death, well, we'll see what comes. In the meantime, you are now free.”
The faint sound of someone counting down backwards was clashing against the trace memory of holding a gun in my hands. I swam in the true rage and hatred I needed to end the life of god and to begin the death of man.
I had a gun to kill my father. I brought it over one night that I stopped by for dinner. Delirious from the continuous bombardment of my senses from living in New York City; now I was home.
Sitting across from my father I knew he must die. That it was he who orchestrated my life so far. That he manipulated me and was grooming me to suit his mad plans.
I had no idea what those plans were but I shook off the veil he had his brother cast over my mind. I remembered sitting here at this table in the past, or is that happening now? Someone, white haired, yet young, is on my left speaking in slow concentrated syllables lulling me deeper into connected confusion.
They were babbling on about honoring secrets and I saw things before me that seemed commonplace yet complacently antagonistic. I sped up my internal dialogue and began telling myself a story about Agent Fenris and Agent Spider.
They went West to find a place where they could develop their talents. A place where they could reinvent themselves and set themselves up as kings. Alone together, they suffered the elements, braved the world, and found a kingdom. They shared a telepathic conference room where they formulated a strategy.
"Conquer the self my boy. We'll have a new one ready for you by the time you recall all this."
So, here I was, back in front of the man who turned me against myself and he was going to pay.
"I remember when you invited me here. I quit writing after the last time I visited."
He just looked at me. Empty. Was he even my real father? A plant? A brainwashed sucker forced to coerce me into going along with their diabolical plan. The gun was heavy in my lap.
"Why did you do it? What do you get out of this? God, say something!"
The gun slipped into my hands. My arm snapped into a locked position. Hammer cocked, trigger held, and yet no sign of anything in his face. He'd have to be held accountable. He must.
"You goddamned sonofabitch. This ends now. I won't be used as your pawn."
He stood up slow, pushing the chair back with a slight groan against the wood floors. Marionette muscle spasms jerked his body simulating life. I thought about pulling the trigger. About killing him, or this hollow shell of him.
"You'll never get my book. I just won't write it. Or I'll write it in defiance of all you stand for. Tear down everything that is structure and math and the mechanics of us. Chaos is my lord and I am here to deliver his wrath!"
Caress the trigger back, banging blasts of shells emptying themselves of all they once were. Closing the distance between us, friction scorching the specialized bullets, forging them into spears.
"I hate you!" I screamed. It resonated within the bare walls of my former home.
My father lie dead, hunched over the table, bleeding out like a stuck pig as the saying goes. I felt nothing, but wasn't numb. It was easy in the end. An afterthought as I cleansed my palate of the bitterness of my childhood.
I felt free, as if my back had burst open and wings had erupted forth from my pain. My nefarious enemy was now slain and my mission was complete. My mind was my own again. I had become a god of delicious apathy.
I awoke in the past, at the moment of hypnosis. I looked over at the fictioneer, as he referred to himself.
"You'll feel a bit disoriented for a few hours, but nothing a nap and some fluids won't wash away."
"You made me kill him."
"I'm not dead, son. I'm sorry. I mean brother."
I turned to my father's voice and saw that he was looking at me, smiling.
"I'll kill you. The future. My book...it all goes horribly wrong. They'll hate me in the end and persecute me. What you're asking me to do is to give up everything for this plan..."
"Just as I have, and he has...” he said motioning to the hypnotist. "We killed our own."
"But I killed you! It was a vision of the future, I only dream of the future!” my voice was flushed with a madman tremble.
"After today you won't remember much of what you saw. You'll know there's a list of people to find, a story that you'll need to tell your own way, and the core secrets of the universe we've crammed in that head of yours."
My dad glanced down at the Mason symbol in his hands. "As for my death, well, we'll see what comes. In the meantime, you are now free.”
The faint sound of someone counting down backwards was clashing against the trace memory of holding a gun in my hands. I swam in the true rage and hatred I needed to end the life of god and to begin the death of man.
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