12/01/05
You know how you drive along in your car, having just put in a cd you intended to listen to, but wind up somehow lost in thought? Then, when you least expect it, that band's pure ability to rock kicks your brain back into the song and suddenly that fucking riff is there just to bop along to, as the drums clash and smash against your back, the vocals then screaming for your attention before hitting you down with that hook that just so fucking gets it. Those lines that call you and know you and forever own you. A screaming truth about the fundamental principle of life as you fucking know it.
You'll come down. On my side.
You'll come down. In good time.
You'll come down.
On my side.
I'm geared up for the next download/upload exchange with the fourth dimension. I have no idea what it is really. I'm not sure how to explain it. It's a magical process to be certain, but not like you think. It's like make believe. I've always day dreamed. Always. I probably have fake memories before I have solid, real memories, always living in my head. A TV boy with fictional eyes, seen from behind a screen since the days I remember to.
The cowboy hat is the focus, the magician's cap, holding the mind of the man who lives backwards. That is where he resides. In my cap, my cowboy skull.The headphones deliver the science. The constructed audio-waves that stimulate impulses in the nerves. The exposed areas become shaky after prolonged contact, my brain becomes stuck. Ritual allows for the exiting of the process. Focus on the power of the icons around you.
Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde: visual stimulation.
The Toadies 'Hell Below, Stars Above': audio guiding.
An imaginary AIM friend to ground you to the keyboard.
Let 'er rip!
Your brain explodes into a whirlwind tunnel. The screen's the windshield of your frontal lobe as reality blurs upwards into the center of everything-ever. Psychology triggers in the art that I am consuming reveal flashes of my identity, forever observing myself, now from a higher vantage point. I watch the instinctual reactions of my body to see just what choices it would make, and how it would find itself out of them.
Forever a test. A program? A suppressed persona, the true heir to this body, has designed a mental labyrinth designed to raise the awareness of this lesser personality that I call myself. Fuck. That motherfucker.
I've been tapping into his power. That's what the Tower of Brahma is. It's the steps of consciousness being raised. The Tower is the trigger to keep the mind elevating. And the truest way to climb the tower isn't leaping and shooting forth, pouncing and soaring upwards, but, actually, the slow, painful, aching walk of the eternal climb. Best to pass the time with a story.
I'd been writing this apocalyptic novel about a bunch of guys driving across the country and starting a rock band. I hadn't had a job in a good 8 months. Despite having no prospects during this time, I found myself aboard a plane bound for Colombia, then a tattoo shop in L.A. getting my markings, and finally in my dad's dining room being hypnotized by a Freemason fictioneer.
I felt myself going mad, and all along, my self was repaired. My external person had exploded from its cocoon and had now realized its power. Charles Crown was no longer a brand I felt I wanted to run from. It felt dark, it felt like mine, and it felt good. It was a name that was a blemish on the face of the world. The world as they know it anyway. The name of a goddamn bastard that would bust in and knock a motherfucker down, and beat him...if the situation called for it.
Suddenly releasing from that thought, I felt saved, as if I had truly gone through with my impulse in reality. I had purged the desire, cleansed the sin on the text crucifiction, and now I am free.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Monday, July 18, 2011
the tower of brahma - chapter 40 - anti-matter jazz (edit)
08/22/05
Lunar dust blew through my hair as I gazed longingly at the shapely curves of Mother Earth. She seemed impossibly far and distantly shy; too pristine and intimidating in her modest innocence.
I needed to see her again. Stepping from the sleepless, somber side of the moon, I free form floated over to get a better look. I stared long and hard and forced my mind into submission, forging forgetfulness for myself. This was the road back to the real.
I was born on the side of the open day, in a most certainly, decidedly, ordinary way. Simply coming back as if I had never been gone at all. Fear fanatically clawed away as I clenched my fists, ready for battle. My senses were scattered, in total disarray. What was it I was doing?
Living in the moment felt more like living around the moment, constantly bent, dodged and separated from wholeness. Laughing, I feel ridiculous at the apprehension. This wasn't the challenge he imagined it would be. Not once he remembered it was all a game. A constantly evolving game of chess, a distant relation to the didadic sport of checkers. A flipping of chips about the boardgame.
He just couldn't help but smile into that yawning chaotic pool of absurdity and the false center of the mind. That selfish satisfaction that transforms into self-love then mutates into divine immolation. Wavelengths? Is that all we are?
Brain stems grabbing and skidding along the ethereal. Sparks shooting out into the embers of our minds. Mass transit madmen sliding into entropic hellish nightmares of our own creation.
Fuck that.
I tried on the voice over monologue and whaddayaknow? It fit like a noir trenchcoat on a rain-slicked city street corner. I ran my hands through my soaked hair, brushing it back from my face. Collar snapped up, I walked into the bar. You see, I had a list.
As I had turned the corner earlier, a phone began to ring. Against my usual instincts to run far away from any randomly beckoning phone booth, instead I approached and absently answered. A disembodied female voice read me a list of names in a startling British accent. She had a drunken swagger to her tone as she read aloud 17 names to me, which I scribbled down upon my forearm with a black bic pen.
My voice was hoarse and rough as I replied, "What does this have to do with me?"
I could hear her smile as it whispered through the receiver. "Find out."
So I hit the streets; hit them hard and fast. The rain poured down, oppressive and unrelenting as I tracked down the names.
I hit the jackpot as I found five of the names in the same bar. Rowdy and surly with concealed weapons abound, here were five drunken bastards all ready to rumble.
I took two steps forward and raised my eyes, staring up at the bartender. The five moved gently in my peripheral, shuffling their weapons from their hiding places. Spider, baseball cap pulled down low obscuring his eyes from theirs, silently stepped out from my shadow.
"Who is Fenris?", I ask.
The Rockstar answered first, a hotshot born and bred. His jagged blade slipped across the room, thrusting towards my gut. The tip of Spider's black converse twirled around the rockstar's wrist and whipped the knife out of his hands, driving it deep into the bullseye of the dartboard.
"Who does Fenris work for?"
A baseball bat came swinging from behind Spider. The Artiste had been surprisingly spry, but a backwards kick from Spider sent the bat right back at the artist's skull.
"Where can I find Fenris?"
The scabbard fell to the floor as the samurai sword sliced upwards along at a firm angle. The Warrior, refusing to fight as a coward, growled as he drove the razor sharp steel at me face on. I was spared a gaping face wound by Spider's stone grip catching hold of the blade. The Assassin used that exact moment to launch his pistols from his sleeves into his killing hands. Gently tugging the triggers back with his itchy trigger fingers, the bullets roared towards us.
"Tell me what you know about the Tower of Brahma!"
Spider spun around my shoulders, rotating into a crescent kick, cracking the Warrior twice before landing and whipping the sword up along his side. The Assassin's bullets ricochet off the steel moments before it slides through the third vertebrate of the assassin, removing his head completely.
The Warrior bowed before the Shinobi skills of Spider, and paid tribute to their superiority by driving his own sacrificial wakazashi deep into his stomach. Slowly the Warrior dragged upwards and sharply twisted the sword, spilling his intestines across the floor, and way too close to my Adidas.
This left me to deal with the Writer. A shifty bastard if I've ever seen one. Amidst the carnage he had stumbled backwards and passed out, buried beneath a hefty bar tab and reeking of pity. I dropped a Jackson down on the bar and signaled over to Spider, who promptly grabbed the Writer around his chest and yanked him from the stool.
"Say hey, barkeep. Look alive." I open-palm slapped his eyes from the grisly scene seeping across his hardwood floors.
"We were never here...", I whispered as I backhand smacked our visit from his memory.
Lunar dust blew through my hair as I gazed longingly at the shapely curves of Mother Earth. She seemed impossibly far and distantly shy; too pristine and intimidating in her modest innocence.
I needed to see her again. Stepping from the sleepless, somber side of the moon, I free form floated over to get a better look. I stared long and hard and forced my mind into submission, forging forgetfulness for myself. This was the road back to the real.
I was born on the side of the open day, in a most certainly, decidedly, ordinary way. Simply coming back as if I had never been gone at all. Fear fanatically clawed away as I clenched my fists, ready for battle. My senses were scattered, in total disarray. What was it I was doing?
Living in the moment felt more like living around the moment, constantly bent, dodged and separated from wholeness. Laughing, I feel ridiculous at the apprehension. This wasn't the challenge he imagined it would be. Not once he remembered it was all a game. A constantly evolving game of chess, a distant relation to the didadic sport of checkers. A flipping of chips about the boardgame.
He just couldn't help but smile into that yawning chaotic pool of absurdity and the false center of the mind. That selfish satisfaction that transforms into self-love then mutates into divine immolation. Wavelengths? Is that all we are?
Brain stems grabbing and skidding along the ethereal. Sparks shooting out into the embers of our minds. Mass transit madmen sliding into entropic hellish nightmares of our own creation.
Fuck that.
I tried on the voice over monologue and whaddayaknow? It fit like a noir trenchcoat on a rain-slicked city street corner. I ran my hands through my soaked hair, brushing it back from my face. Collar snapped up, I walked into the bar. You see, I had a list.
As I had turned the corner earlier, a phone began to ring. Against my usual instincts to run far away from any randomly beckoning phone booth, instead I approached and absently answered. A disembodied female voice read me a list of names in a startling British accent. She had a drunken swagger to her tone as she read aloud 17 names to me, which I scribbled down upon my forearm with a black bic pen.
My voice was hoarse and rough as I replied, "What does this have to do with me?"
I could hear her smile as it whispered through the receiver. "Find out."
So I hit the streets; hit them hard and fast. The rain poured down, oppressive and unrelenting as I tracked down the names.
I hit the jackpot as I found five of the names in the same bar. Rowdy and surly with concealed weapons abound, here were five drunken bastards all ready to rumble.
I took two steps forward and raised my eyes, staring up at the bartender. The five moved gently in my peripheral, shuffling their weapons from their hiding places. Spider, baseball cap pulled down low obscuring his eyes from theirs, silently stepped out from my shadow.
"Who is Fenris?", I ask.
The Rockstar answered first, a hotshot born and bred. His jagged blade slipped across the room, thrusting towards my gut. The tip of Spider's black converse twirled around the rockstar's wrist and whipped the knife out of his hands, driving it deep into the bullseye of the dartboard.
"Who does Fenris work for?"
A baseball bat came swinging from behind Spider. The Artiste had been surprisingly spry, but a backwards kick from Spider sent the bat right back at the artist's skull.
"Where can I find Fenris?"
The scabbard fell to the floor as the samurai sword sliced upwards along at a firm angle. The Warrior, refusing to fight as a coward, growled as he drove the razor sharp steel at me face on. I was spared a gaping face wound by Spider's stone grip catching hold of the blade. The Assassin used that exact moment to launch his pistols from his sleeves into his killing hands. Gently tugging the triggers back with his itchy trigger fingers, the bullets roared towards us.
"Tell me what you know about the Tower of Brahma!"
Spider spun around my shoulders, rotating into a crescent kick, cracking the Warrior twice before landing and whipping the sword up along his side. The Assassin's bullets ricochet off the steel moments before it slides through the third vertebrate of the assassin, removing his head completely.
The Warrior bowed before the Shinobi skills of Spider, and paid tribute to their superiority by driving his own sacrificial wakazashi deep into his stomach. Slowly the Warrior dragged upwards and sharply twisted the sword, spilling his intestines across the floor, and way too close to my Adidas.
This left me to deal with the Writer. A shifty bastard if I've ever seen one. Amidst the carnage he had stumbled backwards and passed out, buried beneath a hefty bar tab and reeking of pity. I dropped a Jackson down on the bar and signaled over to Spider, who promptly grabbed the Writer around his chest and yanked him from the stool.
"Say hey, barkeep. Look alive." I open-palm slapped his eyes from the grisly scene seeping across his hardwood floors.
"We were never here...", I whispered as I backhand smacked our visit from his memory.
Monday, July 11, 2011
The Tower of Brahma: Chapter 39 - The Spiders (edit)
07/02/05
The effects of withdrawal from the spider's venom is draining the rest of my will to stay up, but I must get this out.
I awake screaming in agonizing-pain-to-end-all-agonizing-pain. A crawling madness tapdancing across miles of raw nerve endings. Through venom-induced nightmares the psychological horror that was befalling me had suddenly registered. I aim to throw myself upwards, reeling and swiping my skin clear of this insanity!
I found my body paralyzed as my eyes began to focus on the large beady arachnid eyes staring down at me. I could feel the thousand other sets of eight legs as they searched out a spot to inject me with their biological poison. The spiders had swarmed my body in the middle of my dreaming, and I fear that this happens every single night.
I began noticing the bites a few years back. One or two here and there. Lower back. Inner thighs. Buttcheek. After that I saw the bags under my eyes, and the constant weariness I felt. The more I thought about it, the further back I could feel the lack of energy, the withdrawal of interest in my life.
As a teenager I slept my sunny, summer afternoons away. My deep, dark, dreamless slumber being that of a person in a coma. For years it seems something within me called forth the spiders, beckoned them to me in my sleep. My parents’ old house was a breeding ground for all sorts of insectoid life. And so the call went out and they answered. Crawling and sliding across my sheets, from out under cracks and crevices, insects of all shapes and sizes nestled upon my chest.
They spoke their wisdom to me through the tapping of insectoid morse code across my receptive flesh. Tapping in the philosophies, cultures, and insight of their existence, I learned the mappings of the insect kingdom. But it was the spider and it's metamorphic venom that unleashed my mind and let it soar into the continuing upward spiral of sentience. This mapping fits across the entire spectrum of reality. All matter is a slave to its weaved pattern.
Web strands held down the feral canine that beat within my chest. A wounded wolf sitting and dying of the poison in its veins, fresh from the Spider's betrayal, born of the spider's corruption. Red-eyed and snarling, it lay writing in pain until its mind reached across the murky waters of consciousness and was one with the stars spinning in the cosmic skies.
Consciousness makes a desperate leap, seizing the computer in my hands, and I am deliriously spinning about like a lunatic on the frayed edge of collapse.
"Where am I? Where have I been?" I growled.
The words echoed down the hollowed halls of my veins, and the empty response was all the response necessary to bring the entire memory block crashing down upon my back.
The effects of withdrawal from the spider's venom is draining the rest of my will to stay up, but I must get this out.
I awake screaming in agonizing-pain-to-end-all-agonizing-pain. A crawling madness tapdancing across miles of raw nerve endings. Through venom-induced nightmares the psychological horror that was befalling me had suddenly registered. I aim to throw myself upwards, reeling and swiping my skin clear of this insanity!
I found my body paralyzed as my eyes began to focus on the large beady arachnid eyes staring down at me. I could feel the thousand other sets of eight legs as they searched out a spot to inject me with their biological poison. The spiders had swarmed my body in the middle of my dreaming, and I fear that this happens every single night.
I began noticing the bites a few years back. One or two here and there. Lower back. Inner thighs. Buttcheek. After that I saw the bags under my eyes, and the constant weariness I felt. The more I thought about it, the further back I could feel the lack of energy, the withdrawal of interest in my life.
As a teenager I slept my sunny, summer afternoons away. My deep, dark, dreamless slumber being that of a person in a coma. For years it seems something within me called forth the spiders, beckoned them to me in my sleep. My parents’ old house was a breeding ground for all sorts of insectoid life. And so the call went out and they answered. Crawling and sliding across my sheets, from out under cracks and crevices, insects of all shapes and sizes nestled upon my chest.
They spoke their wisdom to me through the tapping of insectoid morse code across my receptive flesh. Tapping in the philosophies, cultures, and insight of their existence, I learned the mappings of the insect kingdom. But it was the spider and it's metamorphic venom that unleashed my mind and let it soar into the continuing upward spiral of sentience. This mapping fits across the entire spectrum of reality. All matter is a slave to its weaved pattern.
Web strands held down the feral canine that beat within my chest. A wounded wolf sitting and dying of the poison in its veins, fresh from the Spider's betrayal, born of the spider's corruption. Red-eyed and snarling, it lay writing in pain until its mind reached across the murky waters of consciousness and was one with the stars spinning in the cosmic skies.
Consciousness makes a desperate leap, seizing the computer in my hands, and I am deliriously spinning about like a lunatic on the frayed edge of collapse.
"Where am I? Where have I been?" I growled.
The words echoed down the hollowed halls of my veins, and the empty response was all the response necessary to bring the entire memory block crashing down upon my back.
Monday, July 4, 2011
Tower of Brahma: chapter 38 - episode 39 (edit)
04/27/05
'The killer landed softly, dressed in insectoid sleek onyx. The sun had raged and dried his shell. With a leap, the reborn man exploded from his cocoon, fragments of his scarab armor left scattered about his feet.
His longish brown hair flapped in the wind. His bushy beard burst forth, wild and unkempt. Muscles tensed and relaxed like steel cables under his new taut, marble skin. Driven footsteps into fresh earth leads him in a new direction.'
"Charles! Stop writing! We've got to go now!"
I closed my laptop up and tied my boots tight. I snatched my jacket off the teetering coat rack and bolted out the door after her.
"Do you have your keys?"
I whipped out the jingling mess of metal from my pocket in confirmation and locked up. Swiftly, we made our way down the hall and out into the city scarred night. It only took us three minutes to round the corner and get to the bar, but fifteen for her to finish her phone call and for us to actually enter and start drinking.
The tab was growing and the room was spinning, and for some reason I sat there sobbing in-between sips. A drunken sadness had befallen me and there was no going back. Reeling and thinking, I replay the evening's events and watch as my spine turns to jelly. Just before I sat down to write actually. Going further back to this morning, I felt healed and alive after flexing and opening my heart chakra in yoga class. Something was happening to me. A change.
The smoke left my body and the mellow took control. We were rocking on cosmic waves out on an ark, veering through the spacewarp of eternity. The apartment had been vacuum sealed into an alternate reality, where the CD player fueled our wavelength journey along soundless wings. The programs of a thousand musical geniuses lift us up and send us off, cast adrift amid lyrical seas.
'Agent Fenris hits the floor, slumping into a fetal position in the kitchen. Unconsciousness thrust upon him suddenly, he swims for the surface. Time rolls back and comes into focus as the film slaps against the light projected through it and he quickly rises to his feet.'
Wait. That seems familiar. Almost a memory, nearly a dream. Somehow these words unspool from my mind. Seeping out from under a darkened and lost sliver of experienced reality.
'I'm in a rest stop bathroom typing out these words and I know what's about to happen. I will flush, wash, and gaze into the mirror and realize that I am not who I thought I was.'
Agent Spider glares out from the reflective surface and grabs the wheel. Typing furiously he magnifies and defies this literal asylum. He can not be contained. I will break free.
'The killer landed softly, dressed in insectoid sleek onyx. The sun had raged and dried his shell. With a leap, the reborn man exploded from his cocoon, fragments of his scarab armor left scattered about his feet.
His longish brown hair flapped in the wind. His bushy beard burst forth, wild and unkempt. Muscles tensed and relaxed like steel cables under his new taut, marble skin. Driven footsteps into fresh earth leads him in a new direction.'
"Charles! Stop writing! We've got to go now!"
I closed my laptop up and tied my boots tight. I snatched my jacket off the teetering coat rack and bolted out the door after her.
"Do you have your keys?"
I whipped out the jingling mess of metal from my pocket in confirmation and locked up. Swiftly, we made our way down the hall and out into the city scarred night. It only took us three minutes to round the corner and get to the bar, but fifteen for her to finish her phone call and for us to actually enter and start drinking.
The tab was growing and the room was spinning, and for some reason I sat there sobbing in-between sips. A drunken sadness had befallen me and there was no going back. Reeling and thinking, I replay the evening's events and watch as my spine turns to jelly. Just before I sat down to write actually. Going further back to this morning, I felt healed and alive after flexing and opening my heart chakra in yoga class. Something was happening to me. A change.
The smoke left my body and the mellow took control. We were rocking on cosmic waves out on an ark, veering through the spacewarp of eternity. The apartment had been vacuum sealed into an alternate reality, where the CD player fueled our wavelength journey along soundless wings. The programs of a thousand musical geniuses lift us up and send us off, cast adrift amid lyrical seas.
'Agent Fenris hits the floor, slumping into a fetal position in the kitchen. Unconsciousness thrust upon him suddenly, he swims for the surface. Time rolls back and comes into focus as the film slaps against the light projected through it and he quickly rises to his feet.'
Wait. That seems familiar. Almost a memory, nearly a dream. Somehow these words unspool from my mind. Seeping out from under a darkened and lost sliver of experienced reality.
'I'm in a rest stop bathroom typing out these words and I know what's about to happen. I will flush, wash, and gaze into the mirror and realize that I am not who I thought I was.'
Agent Spider glares out from the reflective surface and grabs the wheel. Typing furiously he magnifies and defies this literal asylum. He can not be contained. I will break free.
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