5/10/10
Art does not exist in a vacuum. That was the last lucid thought I had running through my brain as I scrambled to put down the information that was growing in my mind.
This book is something important. I'm thinking of something, devising a plan, scoping the pattern of everything that is and ever will be. The meaning of life, if possible, but exploring every mystery between here and there.
It doesn't matter if this work matters in any way with any piece of writing that has ever been created. Whatever came before was of its time, crafted by its influences, bending an idea through a symbolic pattern of letters from something called an alphabet.
And in English no less. By an American. From an historical aspect, what could be more removed from anything ancient and physical? Far from that battle of survival, wits and strength, tempered with wisdom and experience. The language was new, the country was new, it's people so diverse genetically, a true culturally and socially enmeshed mankind the likes the Earth has never seen.
We dwelled mired in the daily occurrences of pop stars, celebrity corpses, and mad branded icons of fame. We hungered for reality, senses sharpening, pulse-rate quickening, visceral moments. Some of us wrote those down, painted them, screamed them out with notes. We made Art. Abstract thought given form brought humans out of the darkness of their being.
Stumbling towards the bright light, the pretty flame, rationalizing with logic our hearts desires. We wanted more of whatever was beyond our grasp. We were two opposing forces spun into motion, still spiraling outwards from the Big Bang. An atomic birth, a quantum fusion, energy reacting, exploding into infinity.
Everything gets bigger as things get smaller. The possibilities are greater as our souls and bodies are battered and run down, kept occupied with a weekday task that allows us with just enough life left in us to drink our cares away. Our gadgets shrink in our very hands, digital landscapes opening up in our palms. You gaze down into the app that will become your personality.
A metal/plastic all-purpose personality storage device. Digital images, handheld video, mp3 soundtrack to score our descent. We simultaneously drop into Hell as our consciousness transcends to Nirvana. Our bodies rot, our awareness expands. Those left alive live comfortably, within gelatinous sacks filled with nutrient goo, wired for Blue-Ray, Plasma HD, 3D, stereo surround-sound, Hi-Def, Bluetooth Wireless Connectivity to the Central Router.
The last bastion of humanity. The 64 blobs that lie on the horizon, sitting in bunches sometimes, swatted into a ditch of scorched earth by some wandering demonic beast. I counted them out and checked them off. The devil wanted an exact number. Who's left?
And I was the errand boy. A younger self of one of these sad sack, re-wombed, pathetic examples of the last people on earth. In one of these bobbing water balloon eggs was me at sixty years old. Having become successful enough to afford my very own Armageddon life-raft, I apparently somehow pluck my 33 year old self, me, and plop him here after God's Reckoning.
A New York City picked clean by rotted, gnarled bits of bone that these monsters call teeth. Large stabbing, piercing, eviscerating tusks of mustard colored fangs. Bits of human carnage wedged in its gums, a discernible body part popping from a back molar as it screeches the deadening shriek of eternal damnation.
This moment is your last.
But its not. The devil has a deal. Live. Walk. Experience what's left of my race. Then sign the contract, get whatever I want, do a favor for him, and eternal bliss. Wait, what's the favor? I don't remember offering up my services in any sort of post-apocalyptic janitor, sweeping torsos and limbs into bins, clearing streets of bodies.
"That's not what I want." It really wasn't a big deal.
"Alright, well I signed...", I said. "What now?"
That's when he left me in decayed Brooklyn, shattered brownstones, a ring of rubble circling Prospect Park. The temple that was the Brooklyn Museum still stood, despite savage anger delivered to its columns by all manner of misshapen beasts. I had a free pass. All but invisible to their animalistic senses, their bloodlust.
It was here, besides a lake of hellfire, I found a stash of the orbs. Giant old pantyhose containers, the oversized Easter eggs, and inside every one was a blob of white chocolate. A rich executive of a company, the designer of the orb technology, the president perhaps. But each one had something in there that I needed.
I tapped one with my foot to watch it warble like a water snake, but it held firm, not quite the kiddie pool inflatable I imagined. Flexible but secure. It looked like something found in nature from another planet or dimension, totally acceptable sitting in a giant nest as massive leathery wings flapped all about me, their shadows dipping overhead, as if to keep me on task.
From my pocket I pull out the handheld that the devil gave me. It was clunky, old school, had heft and weight to it. Dark wood paneling, vinyl grooves, and a chrome finish. The screen came to life, flickering from Apple IIe green dot matrix, to 16-bit, NTSC to PAL, VCR quality. It snapped with my brain and I began to interface.
I went inside myself first. Realizing that the lump of plastic and metal was just a formality. Something that resembles what I knew in my life, the tech of my era, to represent an idea. Connecting electronically, which triggered the psychic link. And from there, I took aim, dead center of the oval before me, and fired.
9600k baud modem squelch.
Monday, March 26, 2012
Monday, March 19, 2012
Tower of Brahma - Christ, This is Easy - 62.c (of 64) [edit]
5/3/10
Buy a drink, blend in, slip between the cracks. You're a normal human being enjoying an alcoholic beverage. At a bar where people gather to consume and forget, a place where your past and these consistently shaking hands should be forgotten.
Confidence is hard, carrying a deflated ego across the world, hefting the bloated carcass of a self along the power-lines of my life. After Jesus was resurrected he assumed a false identity, scouring the land for all that he could fix and realign.
Now it's my time. I'm here, in his name, reborn in his image, sweeping over all that I see to enlighten and brighten against all odds. I know you hate me, envy me, and it's quite alright. I really don't mind.
I have a job to do. I am carrying the weight of everything else within me. So display your discomfort, explain your dilemmas, and know that I'm listening. I may not seem like I care, but I totally do. I want us all to be happy and fulfilled.
A few drinks makes it better. A smoke outside, a beverage in hand, the night's coolness set upon us all. Abuse of alcohol makes it easier to interact. Makes our fallible human nature that much easier to consume. It's better than being revealed stark sober.
I don't judge you, even though I do, but I love you all nonetheless. I know how hard it is. I've experienced it first hand as one of you. Talk about it all like it matters, dancing among the discourse, taking in the pain and beauty of every day living.
I will swallow it all and make of it what I can, I promise you that. It's my pleasure to be of service, my disrupted youth, my flock of helpless servants to oblivion. I put words down and make this all a bit easier to consume. It may not be to your liking, but it's all I can do to take in and digest the everything that surrounds me.
I creep out of the crypt, dancing before your eyes, breathing in the discord in your discourse. I shave my beard into a fierce goatee and slide into society. You don't see me here but I know that you appreciate my efforts.
You're welcome.
Buy a drink, blend in, slip between the cracks. You're a normal human being enjoying an alcoholic beverage. At a bar where people gather to consume and forget, a place where your past and these consistently shaking hands should be forgotten.
Confidence is hard, carrying a deflated ego across the world, hefting the bloated carcass of a self along the power-lines of my life. After Jesus was resurrected he assumed a false identity, scouring the land for all that he could fix and realign.
Now it's my time. I'm here, in his name, reborn in his image, sweeping over all that I see to enlighten and brighten against all odds. I know you hate me, envy me, and it's quite alright. I really don't mind.
I have a job to do. I am carrying the weight of everything else within me. So display your discomfort, explain your dilemmas, and know that I'm listening. I may not seem like I care, but I totally do. I want us all to be happy and fulfilled.
A few drinks makes it better. A smoke outside, a beverage in hand, the night's coolness set upon us all. Abuse of alcohol makes it easier to interact. Makes our fallible human nature that much easier to consume. It's better than being revealed stark sober.
I don't judge you, even though I do, but I love you all nonetheless. I know how hard it is. I've experienced it first hand as one of you. Talk about it all like it matters, dancing among the discourse, taking in the pain and beauty of every day living.
I will swallow it all and make of it what I can, I promise you that. It's my pleasure to be of service, my disrupted youth, my flock of helpless servants to oblivion. I put words down and make this all a bit easier to consume. It may not be to your liking, but it's all I can do to take in and digest the everything that surrounds me.
I creep out of the crypt, dancing before your eyes, breathing in the discord in your discourse. I shave my beard into a fierce goatee and slide into society. You don't see me here but I know that you appreciate my efforts.
You're welcome.
Monday, March 12, 2012
Tower of Brahma - U.R.B. - Chapter 62b. (of 64) [edit]
4/26/10
The beast rose from over a knoll, all snarling and slobber, hungry for flesh, the natural malevolence shone in its eyes. I froze in my tracks, silencing my body as it trembled.
"Bitches!" he screamed across the subways tracks, followed by incoherent mumbling, punctuated by, "Whores!"
The draft down the tunnel wafted the aroma of urine and a bar floor combo alcohol stench. A train barreled down the tracks, perhaps just a station away, shoving the air currents along the platform, carrying the man towards me.
His boots shuffled across the tiles, smearing Saturday Night vomit along like a slug. Drool slipped from the corner of his mouth, snot dripped from both nostrils, and I think he shit his pants.
Passing the row of empty benches between us, he shambled up in my peripheral vision as I tried to read. The words I was running my eyes over disappeared altogether, my concentration long ago broken by his outburst. He was nearly upon me.
The train light erupted from the dark mouth of the tunnel, propelling the metal mass towards my direction, the wind whipping up, sweeping over my body, the air curling below my nostrils. My eyes closed for an extended blink and I could sense the madman's hand as it reached out for me.
Someone stepped out of nowhere and thrust their arm forward, open palming the bum, ripped off his feet like crumpled notebook paper, tossed aside without a thought. I watched as the force left the arm extending behind me, into the frail and elderly body, the sick, weak flesh that was covered beneath dirty rags, soaked in filth.
The bum mouthed the words "Burn."
Or so I thought. Just before the B train shredded and splintered his person, obliterating his skeleton, pulping his limbs, grinding his organs into paste. It splashed up the front of the train as the driver shrieked in horror and slammed the brakes.
The train screeched, metal shearing metal, twisted whine of polished friction. The wind dropped instantly as the doors 'DING'ed open. A hand appeared on my left shoulder as a face drifted in on the right. It was him. Me. The last one. Smiling.
"Come on Charles. Time to do this thing." His left arm gently pushed me onto the subway car, like a piece of meat shuffled along a conveyor belt.
"What the fuck do you want?" Bastard.
"We gotta wrap this apocalypse up."
I knew he was right. Just as I knew that the derelict that was just slaughtered didn't matter. I didn't need to ask why, or proclaim the inhumanity of it all. No one was left to care. The human race was down to bare bones.
"Stand clear of the closing doors." Automated convenience.
I dropped onto the bench. The doors slid closed. The man came into full view as he held onto the pole. It was me in my sixties, maybe after I worked out for a few years and hired a stylist. Looks like I got my teeth done too. A rune tattoo behind the ear.
Bastard. A shimmer formed around him as the train chugged onwards. The car lurched forward and the space inside began to warble. All around me became fluid. It condensed, drawing me in, sucked down the drain. We built up speed and the bubble shrunk, pulled me up onto my feet, standing before the elder Charles Crown.
I pulled back, arched away from him, wasn't there an issue with two beings of similar matter touching each other? A personal paradox that'll bash time and space apart?
He saw the look on my face and smirked. We curled up in an oval lounge space, intimate and cozy, practically sitting on top of one another. And with a faint BOOOM, we banish ourselves from the material plane.
"Where are we going?" It was the only question I had on hand.
"Beyond."
The beast rose from over a knoll, all snarling and slobber, hungry for flesh, the natural malevolence shone in its eyes. I froze in my tracks, silencing my body as it trembled.
"Bitches!" he screamed across the subways tracks, followed by incoherent mumbling, punctuated by, "Whores!"
The draft down the tunnel wafted the aroma of urine and a bar floor combo alcohol stench. A train barreled down the tracks, perhaps just a station away, shoving the air currents along the platform, carrying the man towards me.
His boots shuffled across the tiles, smearing Saturday Night vomit along like a slug. Drool slipped from the corner of his mouth, snot dripped from both nostrils, and I think he shit his pants.
Passing the row of empty benches between us, he shambled up in my peripheral vision as I tried to read. The words I was running my eyes over disappeared altogether, my concentration long ago broken by his outburst. He was nearly upon me.
The train light erupted from the dark mouth of the tunnel, propelling the metal mass towards my direction, the wind whipping up, sweeping over my body, the air curling below my nostrils. My eyes closed for an extended blink and I could sense the madman's hand as it reached out for me.
Someone stepped out of nowhere and thrust their arm forward, open palming the bum, ripped off his feet like crumpled notebook paper, tossed aside without a thought. I watched as the force left the arm extending behind me, into the frail and elderly body, the sick, weak flesh that was covered beneath dirty rags, soaked in filth.
The bum mouthed the words "Burn."
Or so I thought. Just before the B train shredded and splintered his person, obliterating his skeleton, pulping his limbs, grinding his organs into paste. It splashed up the front of the train as the driver shrieked in horror and slammed the brakes.
The train screeched, metal shearing metal, twisted whine of polished friction. The wind dropped instantly as the doors 'DING'ed open. A hand appeared on my left shoulder as a face drifted in on the right. It was him. Me. The last one. Smiling.
"Come on Charles. Time to do this thing." His left arm gently pushed me onto the subway car, like a piece of meat shuffled along a conveyor belt.
"What the fuck do you want?" Bastard.
"We gotta wrap this apocalypse up."
I knew he was right. Just as I knew that the derelict that was just slaughtered didn't matter. I didn't need to ask why, or proclaim the inhumanity of it all. No one was left to care. The human race was down to bare bones.
"Stand clear of the closing doors." Automated convenience.
I dropped onto the bench. The doors slid closed. The man came into full view as he held onto the pole. It was me in my sixties, maybe after I worked out for a few years and hired a stylist. Looks like I got my teeth done too. A rune tattoo behind the ear.
Bastard. A shimmer formed around him as the train chugged onwards. The car lurched forward and the space inside began to warble. All around me became fluid. It condensed, drawing me in, sucked down the drain. We built up speed and the bubble shrunk, pulled me up onto my feet, standing before the elder Charles Crown.
I pulled back, arched away from him, wasn't there an issue with two beings of similar matter touching each other? A personal paradox that'll bash time and space apart?
He saw the look on my face and smirked. We curled up in an oval lounge space, intimate and cozy, practically sitting on top of one another. And with a faint BOOOM, we banish ourselves from the material plane.
"Where are we going?" It was the only question I had on hand.
"Beyond."
Monday, March 5, 2012
Tower of Brahma - I Saw A Mountain - 62a (of 64) [edit]
4/19/10
Valhalla. The point where two opposing forces begin to separate, water vapor eradication of eternity, one drop at a time, a shimmering sphere wall, ever expanding.
Charles Crown stands before the crack of all reality. A dividing of houses, life crumbles all about him, shifting rifts tearing itself apart.
Fuck, he sighs.
That's what it all meant. He's the one who first sees the bubble begin to burst. Nothing special, just happens to be him. No great destiny other than being first on line at the dotted line, the parting of two parallel dimensions, Strange savage Arayan Norweigan wolfgod, and myself.
The Spider sheds its skin, leaving behind a venomous grin, seeping with sinister lies. The weapon with which to kill the serpent. But first, escape.
Run for your lives boys, this chapter is at an end.
Valhalla. The point where two opposing forces begin to separate, water vapor eradication of eternity, one drop at a time, a shimmering sphere wall, ever expanding.
Charles Crown stands before the crack of all reality. A dividing of houses, life crumbles all about him, shifting rifts tearing itself apart.
Fuck, he sighs.
That's what it all meant. He's the one who first sees the bubble begin to burst. Nothing special, just happens to be him. No great destiny other than being first on line at the dotted line, the parting of two parallel dimensions, Strange savage Arayan Norweigan wolfgod, and myself.
The Spider sheds its skin, leaving behind a venomous grin, seeping with sinister lies. The weapon with which to kill the serpent. But first, escape.
Run for your lives boys, this chapter is at an end.
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