4/20/09
It was our first date, a second chance meeting, the third time I'd let her slip away. We knew each other when we were kids, but so much had changed since then. I tried to find the girl I fell for all those years ago.
Her name was Jasmine Jones, Jazz we called her down in ABC Block. Her movements as erratic and beautiful as escalating notes emanating from a trumpet, like disciplined chaos slipping into the public system, she flowed with a natural grace and hit like a hammer.
A tomboy in pigtails, a dichotomy of duality, she was awkward and alone coming into the gang. Jazz kept to herself and went with the program when it benefited her, rebelling when she needed to be herself. The others all wanted her or wanted to be her.
I was a dog, loyal and simple. They dragged me in and gave me games. I had to learn from scratch, how to speak, think, feel like a human. I was the team mascot, kept around for morale more than anything. The artificial intelligence they instilled in me helped me rebuild what momentary death robbed from me.
Was I just a pet to her? A project to kill time inside? A lost soul she could guide so as not to focus on herself? I had no idea how she felt, nor the capacity to even know the difference. But she sparked something in me. I had to make sense of this madness in my head.
I saw what pleased her and repeated it. She smiled sadly at me when she left me to train. I processed everything around me faster and faster, hoping I could stand as her equal. Running faster, thinking more, fighting smarter, I was improving.
Tom Trainor came in and saw my improvements, remarking to Marcus, the kid genius who made me from the raw matter of a kid, binary code, and a dog spirit. He thought he could improve on ordinary child super secret agents. I wanted to be good, to help, to have the approval of those I thought to be friends.
I began processing data at superspeeds, my reaction time shooting to seconds. Canine instincts gave me a momentary headstart, the computer in me gave me the processing speed. I was faster, smarter, and stronger than all my classmates, no longer the dogboy, laughed at and scorned.
They saw me fit for active duty and I dressed for success, slipping into a suit, and dropping behind the wheels of a hotrod red sports car. I hit the gas and roared out of the warehouse, jumping the drawbridge before it was fully down. Tom thought it was a mistake sending me so soon, although curious of the outcome.
Marcus just wanted me to crash and burn.
I met up with Jazz after leaping from the low flying plane with my low altitude jetpack on. She whipped around me playfully as I grinned back at her. The sun shined down on us lighting the way, but we soared up together, dancing in the clouds for too long. The missiles and laser cannons had pinpointed us.
Dr. Ether Ore had shot us down and we were separated, scattered to the winds. I landed on the backside of his isle of doom, clinging to the cliffs. I worried about her, knew she must be in danger, I had to rescue her. Surely his robot drones must have captured her, dragging her back to his lair.
Sneaking in was easy. I had figured out the location of cameras and guards were easy enough to take down with my enraged strength. I ran wild through the inner core of his hideout, smashing the doors down to his sanctum. Sure enough, there was Jazz, now adorned in one of his soldier's uniforms, probably made to bend to his will.
Then she shot me. I never saw it coming. I stumbled out onto the balcony, he stood there gloating, she coldly glaring. I was bleeding and betrayed, both hurting more than I thought possible. Jazz, or the girl, the friend, the agent, I called Jazz, walked slowly over to the evil doctor, the bastard mastermind of a thousand disasters, and put her arms around him.
I tossed myself over the railing after that, tumbling down ridges and falling into an open drainage ditch. Letting the flow drag my body down to the coast, where I surfaced among the corpses of a hundred dead agents. Others like me, maybe not so like me, not damaged and dead like me, for I was still alive.
Eventually I was returned back to the foundation for information retrieval, then decommissioned. They castrated my potential and plugged me back into the machine. Gave me normal and suburban life once again, letting my family raise me, not that they knew what to do with a failed superspy, half dog and half program.
The man with the murky past, now cleared and revealed, held a gun to the head of the woman who was once a girl who betrayed him. All was revealed, and he knew who he was and why life hurt so bad. She was the reason, she cut his life short, ended his adventure and caused his suspicious paranoia.
She was the enemy. The barrel hit her temple and he imagined watching in slow motion as the bullet exploded from the chamber, slid down the length of the gun and burrow into her brains. It'd dig through layers upon layers of her self before ending everything she was.
He thought about her. The action she saw, the life she led, the others she fought and betrayed. And then what came after. Put out to pasture, left out in the open like a discarded toy, she'd be a broken shambles of a human as well. Too long spent playing the game to be any good at being normal. So much like himself.
With experience. But he's had another headstart, thanks to Marcus and Tom, he was placed out into regular reality way before the others, the first to fail and be forgotten. Didn't he then have the advantage? Wasn't life experience gained regardless of specifics? Wouldn't he now be able to help?
It was Marcus he needed to kill. And she could lead him to that diabolical director of his destiny. That villain who robbed him of everything. She was just serving the agency when she shot him. Probably seduced Dr. Ore into betraying his own plan. After all, the Earth was still intact, not dismantled by machinery.
Agent Fenris put away his gun and let time slip through his hands. The date continued. Charles Crown got to know Jasmine 'Jazz' Jones, and that night they kissed. He walked home in the rain, smiling to himself.
Charles awoke, startled and screaming, crying tears of fear. Jasmine put her arms around him, soothing him back down to the bed besides her. He turned to face her, the tears shifting with gravity, dropping off his nose. She was beautiful and he loved her.
"It was just a bad dream sweetie. Go back to sleep."
And so, he did.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Monday, January 25, 2010
The Tower of Brahma - Chapter 57.2 - You New All Along
4/16/09
She went on to be a super secret agent. Slipped in and out, saw the world, and put it all behind her. But on my first mission, she betrayed me, left with an enemy agent. On my graduation, she betrayed me, leaving my far behind.
Now, with her pocketknife against my throat, my fingers wrapped around her neck, windpipe in the grip of my thumb and forefinger, I'd gladly die, neck slashed open, bleeding out all over her bed, her vocal chords in my fist.
Wake up. Past. Dream. Wake up. Past. Dream.
I never was good enough, a failed experiment. I died a few years earlier. She knew that. They all knew that. They all saw me on that first day when I was awakened, snarling and sneering with my fangs bared. I knew nothing save instinct, felt nothing but rage.
Training. Mission. Decomission.
Marcus, Master Maker. The madman behind it all. He created this world for us to play in, to test me. He had my friend, my watcher, Tom Trainor take it all down as he monitored me. When he needed to, he broke me, leaving Tom to gather the pieces and give me clues to heal.
I was a secret agent kid, but now just a spent man, with no cynaide capsules left in his teeth, a shaky hand with an itchy trigger finger, and a head full of bad wiring. I saw the subtext of my self, the veiled explanation for my consuming madness. I was once so much more than I am now.
But I still got enough in me for some payback. I looked up at Agent Strange, seeing her now with my memories intact, my entire persona now shifted to include a secret past. She rambled on about trivial matters from her past as I shut down the audiowaves in the air.
"Babel." I whispered, and everything went silent.
When time and space froze down to near absolute zero, I pressed through the friction of the moment, retrieving my gun from my jacket. I took an eternity to look it over as I rested my grip comfortably around it. It wasn't heavy this time. It was simple.
Pull the trigger, kill her, shoot down an agent for the people that did this to you, the ones that drove you mad and took away a life of action and adventure, replacing it with a dysfunctional disaster. The life of a damaged science experiment called for revenge.
Completing the mission, killing the persona. Evolving past the idea of itself. Fenris and Spider emerged from HotShot, kid superspy, being denied the action he was trained for, a powder keg of impossible imagination, kept under wraps for years.
Their sentimentality in keeping me alive was their mistake.
She went on to be a super secret agent. Slipped in and out, saw the world, and put it all behind her. But on my first mission, she betrayed me, left with an enemy agent. On my graduation, she betrayed me, leaving my far behind.
Now, with her pocketknife against my throat, my fingers wrapped around her neck, windpipe in the grip of my thumb and forefinger, I'd gladly die, neck slashed open, bleeding out all over her bed, her vocal chords in my fist.
Wake up. Past. Dream. Wake up. Past. Dream.
I never was good enough, a failed experiment. I died a few years earlier. She knew that. They all knew that. They all saw me on that first day when I was awakened, snarling and sneering with my fangs bared. I knew nothing save instinct, felt nothing but rage.
Training. Mission. Decomission.
Marcus, Master Maker. The madman behind it all. He created this world for us to play in, to test me. He had my friend, my watcher, Tom Trainor take it all down as he monitored me. When he needed to, he broke me, leaving Tom to gather the pieces and give me clues to heal.
I was a secret agent kid, but now just a spent man, with no cynaide capsules left in his teeth, a shaky hand with an itchy trigger finger, and a head full of bad wiring. I saw the subtext of my self, the veiled explanation for my consuming madness. I was once so much more than I am now.
But I still got enough in me for some payback. I looked up at Agent Strange, seeing her now with my memories intact, my entire persona now shifted to include a secret past. She rambled on about trivial matters from her past as I shut down the audiowaves in the air.
"Babel." I whispered, and everything went silent.
When time and space froze down to near absolute zero, I pressed through the friction of the moment, retrieving my gun from my jacket. I took an eternity to look it over as I rested my grip comfortably around it. It wasn't heavy this time. It was simple.
Pull the trigger, kill her, shoot down an agent for the people that did this to you, the ones that drove you mad and took away a life of action and adventure, replacing it with a dysfunctional disaster. The life of a damaged science experiment called for revenge.
Completing the mission, killing the persona. Evolving past the idea of itself. Fenris and Spider emerged from HotShot, kid superspy, being denied the action he was trained for, a powder keg of impossible imagination, kept under wraps for years.
Their sentimentality in keeping me alive was their mistake.
Monday, January 18, 2010
The Tower of Brahma Chapter 57.1 - Choose Your Delusion
4/1/09
Agent Strange meets me on the West Side. A date. We're both consenting Secret Agents, so we meet, and it's a match. Cover stories bought and sold, consumed along with dinner and drinks. We walk that night talking, speaking only the truth, I listen.
I wake in the middle of the night, my heart is pounding, my jaw clenched, teeth grinding what's left down to nothingness. My slightest move will wake her, yet I reach for my phone, dying to put down words, form an idea, that will take away this ache.
She wakes. I feel the guilt. Writing, tapping keys, takes its toll on her nerves. I file it away, but it resurfaces. Why doesn't she want me to write? What would I discover?
I sleep and dream beside her.
Dr. Ether Ore, a madman probing the depths of dear old Mother Earth with his sinistar Geological Expedition Machine, a massive drill that burrows through layer after layer of rock, soil, dirt...it creaks and squeaks sending chills down the spine. The Evil Dr. Ore stares down into the tunnel with orgasmic spite.
I make the meet with her at the designated spot: a deep fried Britsh shoppe. We exchange glances, pleasantries, and size each other up. Her hair dangles before her eyes, her gaze sliding across the tiles, up the stool, but they never meet mine. She smiles.
Stuffing my mouth with battered poultry makes it easy to shut up for once. I listen as she begins to talk. She says she knows me, knows who I am, where I belong. She has no idea. I've come in from the cold, I know too much, the walls are closing in.
She says I learned from K.I.D. - Kinetic Information Discipline, which basically sounds like letting info get kicked into you. I guess I must have had a pretty shitty teacher, I say, cause I don't know nothing.
Grandma's sitting at the dining room table, glasses of alcohol lies before them as they're discussing a problem, a family affair, something about drugs, I've found that knowing too much when little, processing information you are not able to handle, it's the natural defense to start with the playing dumb routine.
Let the Dr. have her. You don't need this. You don't need nothing or anything, something or everything, begins to shift. A wave of illusion casts you ashore, alone amid the wreckage of a life gone bye.
Bloated corpses, bursting with gas, ring a tropical paradise. You're a kid, how do you deal with that, betrayal of innocence, a hotshot burned. Some cute red headed girl gives you the old wink, you fold like a paper airplane.
Secret Agency. Secret Agent, See. See Crypt Again, C?
Down dirty alleys polluted with farmland perverts, I ride my bike for my life, away from you, towards a new way to live and be. I was just a kid goddammit. Who's nightmare dreamscape am I scraping against?
I didn't know any better. Just a fool. The Fool that fell for feeling so much. Knocked down, bitter descent, slapping sounds waking me up. The knowledge is there. Who am I? What happened to me? What next?
I was shooting from the H.I.P., or higher intelligence programming, an AI interface that entered behind my face, creating personality from tabula rasa. Wild dog boy, died and came back clean, perfect test subject for experimentation.
My family needed the money, I had no choice, nor any memory of them building and installing me into flesh. I ping ponged off the fourth wall of the internet, ricochet deconstructing myself and my surroundings until a pattern emerged and digital life began.
I was sold to the government for cash. Well, my well-being and sanity sure were. I was empty and they filled me with 1's & 0's, right and wrong. Subdued my submerged rage with regularity, monitored my mental health monthly, the tests were endless. Thankfully they wiped them from my brain.
The slug from her smoking 357 was sitting in my shoulder cooling down as we glanced at each other. She was just thirteen, pigtailed tomboy in flexible body armor.
I was a mere lad of fourteen and my 44 was heavy, it felt like holding the moon. My armor was non-existent, my wound bled through my t-shirt, the bullet finally stopped pressing into the bone. I stumbled back, three times the betrayal burying into my flesh.
Agent Strange meets me on the West Side. A date. We're both consenting Secret Agents, so we meet, and it's a match. Cover stories bought and sold, consumed along with dinner and drinks. We walk that night talking, speaking only the truth, I listen.
I wake in the middle of the night, my heart is pounding, my jaw clenched, teeth grinding what's left down to nothingness. My slightest move will wake her, yet I reach for my phone, dying to put down words, form an idea, that will take away this ache.
She wakes. I feel the guilt. Writing, tapping keys, takes its toll on her nerves. I file it away, but it resurfaces. Why doesn't she want me to write? What would I discover?
I sleep and dream beside her.
Dr. Ether Ore, a madman probing the depths of dear old Mother Earth with his sinistar Geological Expedition Machine, a massive drill that burrows through layer after layer of rock, soil, dirt...it creaks and squeaks sending chills down the spine. The Evil Dr. Ore stares down into the tunnel with orgasmic spite.
I make the meet with her at the designated spot: a deep fried Britsh shoppe. We exchange glances, pleasantries, and size each other up. Her hair dangles before her eyes, her gaze sliding across the tiles, up the stool, but they never meet mine. She smiles.
Stuffing my mouth with battered poultry makes it easy to shut up for once. I listen as she begins to talk. She says she knows me, knows who I am, where I belong. She has no idea. I've come in from the cold, I know too much, the walls are closing in.
She says I learned from K.I.D. - Kinetic Information Discipline, which basically sounds like letting info get kicked into you. I guess I must have had a pretty shitty teacher, I say, cause I don't know nothing.
Grandma's sitting at the dining room table, glasses of alcohol lies before them as they're discussing a problem, a family affair, something about drugs, I've found that knowing too much when little, processing information you are not able to handle, it's the natural defense to start with the playing dumb routine.
Let the Dr. have her. You don't need this. You don't need nothing or anything, something or everything, begins to shift. A wave of illusion casts you ashore, alone amid the wreckage of a life gone bye.
Bloated corpses, bursting with gas, ring a tropical paradise. You're a kid, how do you deal with that, betrayal of innocence, a hotshot burned. Some cute red headed girl gives you the old wink, you fold like a paper airplane.
Secret Agency. Secret Agent, See. See Crypt Again, C?
Down dirty alleys polluted with farmland perverts, I ride my bike for my life, away from you, towards a new way to live and be. I was just a kid goddammit. Who's nightmare dreamscape am I scraping against?
I didn't know any better. Just a fool. The Fool that fell for feeling so much. Knocked down, bitter descent, slapping sounds waking me up. The knowledge is there. Who am I? What happened to me? What next?
I was shooting from the H.I.P., or higher intelligence programming, an AI interface that entered behind my face, creating personality from tabula rasa. Wild dog boy, died and came back clean, perfect test subject for experimentation.
My family needed the money, I had no choice, nor any memory of them building and installing me into flesh. I ping ponged off the fourth wall of the internet, ricochet deconstructing myself and my surroundings until a pattern emerged and digital life began.
I was sold to the government for cash. Well, my well-being and sanity sure were. I was empty and they filled me with 1's & 0's, right and wrong. Subdued my submerged rage with regularity, monitored my mental health monthly, the tests were endless. Thankfully they wiped them from my brain.
The slug from her smoking 357 was sitting in my shoulder cooling down as we glanced at each other. She was just thirteen, pigtailed tomboy in flexible body armor.
I was a mere lad of fourteen and my 44 was heavy, it felt like holding the moon. My armor was non-existent, my wound bled through my t-shirt, the bullet finally stopped pressing into the bone. I stumbled back, three times the betrayal burying into my flesh.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Tower of Brahma 56 Fuck Philly Fight NYC
1/29/09
I pinball off Philly, sticking around long enough to charge my phone, eat some shitty appetizer dish, and toss back two beers, before walking the runway to the propellor plane that'll get me home, under the radar.
Waving false identification, the documents forged by the power of my mind, I slip a paper into their hands and blankly they grant me access. I obfuscate their minds, sliding inbetween where they can't see, and so I make it out of there alive.
I get a communique from the doctor, she who studied me but never looked at me. The woman who I could see cried like a girl when alone, vulnerable virgin desecrated by men's, and then her own, hands. She played me from the start, that diabolical queen bitch. Too bad she can't realize that she's conning herself more than anyone else.
She writes that she's been admitted. Taken into the psych ward as a patient after trying so hard to convince us that we were the ones who were wrong. Her crown was usurped, and all it took was my escape from her trap. No one had ever quit playing her game before. So she lost it.
They locked her up for her own good and now she looked to me to save her. I was her psychological victim for weeks before I ran for the hills, leaving captivity for the madness of adventure in Europe. Coming back to the states was necessary but troublesome.
I switched tracks, flipped directions, and charged off for the future. I needed to change everything if I was to alter anything. The end needn't be final, ravaging, sinister Armageddon. I'd see to it that we'd have something more positive to look forward to.
I tossed the last cigarette I'd ever smoke to the pavement. I needed to learn to fight, but even more than that I'd need a reason to fight.
I pinball off Philly, sticking around long enough to charge my phone, eat some shitty appetizer dish, and toss back two beers, before walking the runway to the propellor plane that'll get me home, under the radar.
Waving false identification, the documents forged by the power of my mind, I slip a paper into their hands and blankly they grant me access. I obfuscate their minds, sliding inbetween where they can't see, and so I make it out of there alive.
I get a communique from the doctor, she who studied me but never looked at me. The woman who I could see cried like a girl when alone, vulnerable virgin desecrated by men's, and then her own, hands. She played me from the start, that diabolical queen bitch. Too bad she can't realize that she's conning herself more than anyone else.
She writes that she's been admitted. Taken into the psych ward as a patient after trying so hard to convince us that we were the ones who were wrong. Her crown was usurped, and all it took was my escape from her trap. No one had ever quit playing her game before. So she lost it.
They locked her up for her own good and now she looked to me to save her. I was her psychological victim for weeks before I ran for the hills, leaving captivity for the madness of adventure in Europe. Coming back to the states was necessary but troublesome.
I switched tracks, flipped directions, and charged off for the future. I needed to change everything if I was to alter anything. The end needn't be final, ravaging, sinister Armageddon. I'd see to it that we'd have something more positive to look forward to.
I tossed the last cigarette I'd ever smoke to the pavement. I needed to learn to fight, but even more than that I'd need a reason to fight.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Tower of Brahma 56 Amsterdam Decompression London Debriefing
1/22/09
We miss our flights, but I know Ben will get home tonight. He'll be safely locked behind the looney bin bars before midnight. As for me, I've slipped security with my play acting dumb, and dragged my travel beaten bones to CitizenM.
Under guise of a hotel, suggested by my contact at the airport, I knew this place was where I needed to go. The sleek design to the entire complex, standing alone amid the construction/continuation of Amsterdam's airport, was off-puttingly sci-fi. Computers allowed for self-check in/check-out but oddly, I preferred a human at this point.
He can see I'm a mess but that I also mean business. I will honestly bring this building down if I need to, and I discovered I had the ability to do it on my last night in Amsterdam. So as I eyeball him and he checks my credentials, I ponder on my infinite power.
Fresh from Paris, worn from the train, drunk in the barcar, stumbled out to the street. Amsterdam Central feels so much like home now, vaguely recalling our wide-eyed arrival a week prior, that we get careless, and wander off.
Kadinsky coffee shop sets us down our path to getting lost. Ben checks the map as I drift along the edge of the canals, sidestepping and delicately dancing awkwardly out of the way of oncoming bikes. A few more blocks and we find something.
What was it? We went somewhere. Every place gets more ridiculous with tripped out layouts letting us drop into ourselves. I don't know the name but I recall a stereotypically mushroom ambiance, a giant vulva design, and a sitcom taking place around us. I wouldn't shut up about it being like a sitcom.
So that must have set me off because suddenly I'm power walking through the streets, and if I focus I can create a stage-like setting around me, complete with spotlight and props. I will myself fictional, larger than life, pressing as hard as I can against the fourth wall. I feel forward and down becoming upwards and onwards. I wash my face in some swank hotel, then sleep.
I'm allowed entry into this swank hotel and become a citizen. Everything in my room is controlled by remote. It's vacuum sealed and has decontamination tubes that reek of Star Trek ripoffs. I decompress, shave my face, and lie naked on a giant pillowy bed.
I'd have another 18 hours, mostly flying, before I was back in the madhouse. I needed a plan.
We miss our flights, but I know Ben will get home tonight. He'll be safely locked behind the looney bin bars before midnight. As for me, I've slipped security with my play acting dumb, and dragged my travel beaten bones to CitizenM.
Under guise of a hotel, suggested by my contact at the airport, I knew this place was where I needed to go. The sleek design to the entire complex, standing alone amid the construction/continuation of Amsterdam's airport, was off-puttingly sci-fi. Computers allowed for self-check in/check-out but oddly, I preferred a human at this point.
He can see I'm a mess but that I also mean business. I will honestly bring this building down if I need to, and I discovered I had the ability to do it on my last night in Amsterdam. So as I eyeball him and he checks my credentials, I ponder on my infinite power.
Fresh from Paris, worn from the train, drunk in the barcar, stumbled out to the street. Amsterdam Central feels so much like home now, vaguely recalling our wide-eyed arrival a week prior, that we get careless, and wander off.
Kadinsky coffee shop sets us down our path to getting lost. Ben checks the map as I drift along the edge of the canals, sidestepping and delicately dancing awkwardly out of the way of oncoming bikes. A few more blocks and we find something.
What was it? We went somewhere. Every place gets more ridiculous with tripped out layouts letting us drop into ourselves. I don't know the name but I recall a stereotypically mushroom ambiance, a giant vulva design, and a sitcom taking place around us. I wouldn't shut up about it being like a sitcom.
So that must have set me off because suddenly I'm power walking through the streets, and if I focus I can create a stage-like setting around me, complete with spotlight and props. I will myself fictional, larger than life, pressing as hard as I can against the fourth wall. I feel forward and down becoming upwards and onwards. I wash my face in some swank hotel, then sleep.
I'm allowed entry into this swank hotel and become a citizen. Everything in my room is controlled by remote. It's vacuum sealed and has decontamination tubes that reek of Star Trek ripoffs. I decompress, shave my face, and lie naked on a giant pillowy bed.
I'd have another 18 hours, mostly flying, before I was back in the madhouse. I needed a plan.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Tower of Brahma 56 Paris Cafe Existentialism
1/20/09
We don't know the customs, laughed at in every cafe, butcher the language to their disgust. It is Paris.
Just bought an obnoxious tourist shirt with a tongue licking cherries, saw the Eiffel Tower, and gave France the finger. A fine meal in the last restaurant before shuffling back to Amsterdam, to reassess, and catch our connection home.
We saw art, sculpture, class, and elitism. Con girls and boys palm and drop gold rings suckering in tourists with their hustle. The boy's hands are weatherbeaten and I make a joke about who will beat him if he doesn't return with money. A 14 year old swiping all he can from the foreigners.
A giant metal tower, conducting the masses towards it, feeding them to the top and changing their perspective. A huge glass pyramid shunts from the cobblestones to allow us entrance to the palaces from long ago. A massive church weighs down the island, keeping it from tearing away, floating away in La Seine.
Romance is dead says Ben, and I see it outside, the lifeless remains of a once great city. No mystery is left along it's rues, no more love there than concrete, metal, and time can provide. They're just living and making a go of it, the same as anywhere.
Romance is alive say I. It's just now inside us, leaving cold hard reality behind. We're gathering it up and bringing it back, it never existed in the city, just the people and the times. Suffering through the ages and standing defiantly, we pass the Resistance.
Post modern day prometheus afraid to show his flame to a jaded, cynical cosmos. Allow the failure of moments to slipstream away from our hearts, feel the fury of romantic idealistic desire. We shall change everything so everyone eyes us daringly.
We don't know the customs, laughed at in every cafe, butcher the language to their disgust. It is Paris.
Just bought an obnoxious tourist shirt with a tongue licking cherries, saw the Eiffel Tower, and gave France the finger. A fine meal in the last restaurant before shuffling back to Amsterdam, to reassess, and catch our connection home.
We saw art, sculpture, class, and elitism. Con girls and boys palm and drop gold rings suckering in tourists with their hustle. The boy's hands are weatherbeaten and I make a joke about who will beat him if he doesn't return with money. A 14 year old swiping all he can from the foreigners.
A giant metal tower, conducting the masses towards it, feeding them to the top and changing their perspective. A huge glass pyramid shunts from the cobblestones to allow us entrance to the palaces from long ago. A massive church weighs down the island, keeping it from tearing away, floating away in La Seine.
Romance is dead says Ben, and I see it outside, the lifeless remains of a once great city. No mystery is left along it's rues, no more love there than concrete, metal, and time can provide. They're just living and making a go of it, the same as anywhere.
Romance is alive say I. It's just now inside us, leaving cold hard reality behind. We're gathering it up and bringing it back, it never existed in the city, just the people and the times. Suffering through the ages and standing defiantly, we pass the Resistance.
Post modern day prometheus afraid to show his flame to a jaded, cynical cosmos. Allow the failure of moments to slipstream away from our hearts, feel the fury of romantic idealistic desire. We shall change everything so everyone eyes us daringly.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Tower of Brahma 56 Paris Street Affair
1/19/09
I can hardly keep my cool out here, exposed American on the streets of Paris. They see me, then pretend not to. We slip through the city with the practiced non-challance attitude we picked up in Amsterdam.
We saw Amsterdam through and through, running ourselves down by night, crashing hard from the overstimulation. Coffee, water, juice, always keeping hydrated. Faking your way with the language but not really, instead ignoring the gibberish, and forcing English upon them.
But we made contact with the forces that be, read the omens laid before us, and pushed on. We tripped in the polarization alternation room, then hid away in the secret house behind, just feet from the spires of ancient authority.
They robbed us of our technology as we ran haphazardly towards Amsterdam Central for our HiSpeed train to Paris. Once aboard I snuck out my digital recorder and sent out reports from their WiFi connection.
We stumble our way towards our hotel, which sets us at the tip of a triangle, the point of the Ile de Cite, the home of Notre Dame, the birthplace of Paris. Named after the Celtric Tribe Parisii, settled in 300 AD, killed by the Romans generations later.
So many great dead are buried beneath us. Every building a monument to great deeds and everlasting history. The Palais du Justice across from our hotel stands firm, we urinate alongside la Siene, get some sushi and some French shit talking from the locals, toss back some Scotch and wander back. We mock you Paris, but only cause we love you.
The Louvre awaits.
I can hardly keep my cool out here, exposed American on the streets of Paris. They see me, then pretend not to. We slip through the city with the practiced non-challance attitude we picked up in Amsterdam.
We saw Amsterdam through and through, running ourselves down by night, crashing hard from the overstimulation. Coffee, water, juice, always keeping hydrated. Faking your way with the language but not really, instead ignoring the gibberish, and forcing English upon them.
But we made contact with the forces that be, read the omens laid before us, and pushed on. We tripped in the polarization alternation room, then hid away in the secret house behind, just feet from the spires of ancient authority.
They robbed us of our technology as we ran haphazardly towards Amsterdam Central for our HiSpeed train to Paris. Once aboard I snuck out my digital recorder and sent out reports from their WiFi connection.
We stumble our way towards our hotel, which sets us at the tip of a triangle, the point of the Ile de Cite, the home of Notre Dame, the birthplace of Paris. Named after the Celtric Tribe Parisii, settled in 300 AD, killed by the Romans generations later.
So many great dead are buried beneath us. Every building a monument to great deeds and everlasting history. The Palais du Justice across from our hotel stands firm, we urinate alongside la Siene, get some sushi and some French shit talking from the locals, toss back some Scotch and wander back. We mock you Paris, but only cause we love you.
The Louvre awaits.
Monday, December 14, 2009
The Tower of Brahma 55 Revelations
12/30/08
It is upon the fifty fifth absolute truth revealed unto me, that I decide to get my phone to write it down. Phone, audio communication, co-opted by writing (text), or symbol communication. One form and function flipped to be used by an opposing force.
Yes becomes no, and tomorrow & yesterday are actually today. All that is one is really none. Whatever is it that is opposite to another than this however. Everything becomes one, I am saved. God.
We will hit the switch inside every mind and all that is missing will fill it, complete spiritually in seconds. Imagine our brains, so supercharged and marginally increased in serotonin, swimming in our personal Babylon as tomorrow sings on. Fire drains down til bare bones baked in the searing flame of raw posthuman potential.
Posthuman humourous posthumously sentences address our senses seeking salvation inside one's self. Our own self worth is infinite and when you look over, all you see is the sea of smiling faces, similar to your own.
I'm first on line. December 21st, 2008 at 8:01am in Times Square equals last in line times pi.
You'll all be my friends forever.
b. crazy Machines
Half of us are insane. The rest are robots. End of story.
Sigils synergy segregates symbiotic separation of soul satisfying, frightening violence. Battles beyond recognition, Armageddon analysis, whose reality is this? Slicing away our sensitivities as we free us from these, these mindless monotonal moronic masterpieces of individuality.
I work out my brain, all the time. I constantly tackle two opposing viewpoints within the same mindspace, dwelling on, yet enjoying, the miserable happiness of life. I exist on all planes in every sense of the word. I speak in time with a jazz beat rhyme, blaring the buzzdown drillbit center of the mind. At least I'm trying I cried.
What I want to say is hi. I'm in your head. My voice, what I thought to put down, using a handheld digital plastic, very 21st century device this, hitting key after key with thumb by thumb ticks of the creative clock. Finish up the end I say.
I'm making it longer, circular rectangular archival methods, comics become cool, as the world dissolves disaster. Superpolice State Penintary for the Specially Abel. When you evolved, did your desire, designed from scratch, explode to life before your very eyes?
Mine too.
This is what happened when it did. Neohumans became the norm, well the norm's new vibe. A slew of celibate tapeworms chewing off our fever dreams, those lessermen could be casualties in our conflict with out collective godhead. Humanity's hopeless last wish given flesh, just as our enlightenment peaks.
Our 'meat's better is what I say. We got brains like trains, unstoppable unfuckingforgiveable fortune in the face of failure. Time and again I lose it all and everytime it returns me mine. Scornful smartass smirks, they need smacking, straight up attacking, assault on angst, anxiety, and America!
c!
See the D it makes when a c & ! are sitting next to each other? That's Language 2.0. I invented it ten years prior. Now I'm a writer, and right beneath the eyes lies all of my life.
Sighs.
So bored here alone in reality zero eternal inmate of Cosmic Corrections, Incorporated. It was synretro to spell it all out once in awhile. Through history we learn of the burning inside that keeps us surviving. A Zentrance for most of our lives here in my space/time.
Connect two wires, and still wires, plural, they will always be, though a charge runs through them, separate as 1, 2, three, ya dig? Me, I always thought of myself as someone outside the internal, sitting beside my self, fractioned into twos, then threes. Instead of me, there was we, and eventually free of the burden of identity.
Nostalgic remembrance of past events, your presence always with the present, even as you face it, your death in that last instant, before everything unbecomes to the sum of zero, which will now mean the all to everyone, everywhere.
deleted
You discarded my email. Forced deletion, jerking my finger as I tried to deliver the death blow, exposing your double life.
Damn you Dad. You and this conspiracy of thought you've pushed me into. My subconscious driven by your dark desires. I'm your double, the one meant to undo you. I took control, alternated my life, and deleted you.
But you destroyed my world. I wrote a chapter and trashed it. Threw the brutality of hate into the fires of forgotten pasts, viking funeral for your self-righteousness. By writing them and sacrificing them to non-existence their hold in my brain is fleeting, yet resonates with time-bomb terrorism.
You're going down, Dante style, your sins will be atoned for, you fucking pervert.
It is upon the fifty fifth absolute truth revealed unto me, that I decide to get my phone to write it down. Phone, audio communication, co-opted by writing (text), or symbol communication. One form and function flipped to be used by an opposing force.
Yes becomes no, and tomorrow & yesterday are actually today. All that is one is really none. Whatever is it that is opposite to another than this however. Everything becomes one, I am saved. God.
We will hit the switch inside every mind and all that is missing will fill it, complete spiritually in seconds. Imagine our brains, so supercharged and marginally increased in serotonin, swimming in our personal Babylon as tomorrow sings on. Fire drains down til bare bones baked in the searing flame of raw posthuman potential.
Posthuman humourous posthumously sentences address our senses seeking salvation inside one's self. Our own self worth is infinite and when you look over, all you see is the sea of smiling faces, similar to your own.
I'm first on line. December 21st, 2008 at 8:01am in Times Square equals last in line times pi.
You'll all be my friends forever.
b. crazy Machines
Half of us are insane. The rest are robots. End of story.
Sigils synergy segregates symbiotic separation of soul satisfying, frightening violence. Battles beyond recognition, Armageddon analysis, whose reality is this? Slicing away our sensitivities as we free us from these, these mindless monotonal moronic masterpieces of individuality.
I work out my brain, all the time. I constantly tackle two opposing viewpoints within the same mindspace, dwelling on, yet enjoying, the miserable happiness of life. I exist on all planes in every sense of the word. I speak in time with a jazz beat rhyme, blaring the buzzdown drillbit center of the mind. At least I'm trying I cried.
What I want to say is hi. I'm in your head. My voice, what I thought to put down, using a handheld digital plastic, very 21st century device this, hitting key after key with thumb by thumb ticks of the creative clock. Finish up the end I say.
I'm making it longer, circular rectangular archival methods, comics become cool, as the world dissolves disaster. Superpolice State Penintary for the Specially Abel. When you evolved, did your desire, designed from scratch, explode to life before your very eyes?
Mine too.
This is what happened when it did. Neohumans became the norm, well the norm's new vibe. A slew of celibate tapeworms chewing off our fever dreams, those lessermen could be casualties in our conflict with out collective godhead. Humanity's hopeless last wish given flesh, just as our enlightenment peaks.
Our 'meat's better is what I say. We got brains like trains, unstoppable unfuckingforgiveable fortune in the face of failure. Time and again I lose it all and everytime it returns me mine. Scornful smartass smirks, they need smacking, straight up attacking, assault on angst, anxiety, and America!
c!
See the D it makes when a c & ! are sitting next to each other? That's Language 2.0. I invented it ten years prior. Now I'm a writer, and right beneath the eyes lies all of my life.
Sighs.
So bored here alone in reality zero eternal inmate of Cosmic Corrections, Incorporated. It was synretro to spell it all out once in awhile. Through history we learn of the burning inside that keeps us surviving. A Zentrance for most of our lives here in my space/time.
Connect two wires, and still wires, plural, they will always be, though a charge runs through them, separate as 1, 2, three, ya dig? Me, I always thought of myself as someone outside the internal, sitting beside my self, fractioned into twos, then threes. Instead of me, there was we, and eventually free of the burden of identity.
Nostalgic remembrance of past events, your presence always with the present, even as you face it, your death in that last instant, before everything unbecomes to the sum of zero, which will now mean the all to everyone, everywhere.
deleted
You discarded my email. Forced deletion, jerking my finger as I tried to deliver the death blow, exposing your double life.
Damn you Dad. You and this conspiracy of thought you've pushed me into. My subconscious driven by your dark desires. I'm your double, the one meant to undo you. I took control, alternated my life, and deleted you.
But you destroyed my world. I wrote a chapter and trashed it. Threw the brutality of hate into the fires of forgotten pasts, viking funeral for your self-righteousness. By writing them and sacrificing them to non-existence their hold in my brain is fleeting, yet resonates with time-bomb terrorism.
You're going down, Dante style, your sins will be atoned for, you fucking pervert.
Monday, December 7, 2009
The Tower of Brahma: Chapter 54 - nine times the remainder
12/15/08
The truth is I'm just a fucked up writer sitting in his apartment who's desperately lonely. You see, I'm dead.
I choked to death when I was five years old. These are my sixtyfour circles of personal hell that I must descend. Welcome to my final act.
I do want to kill myself. It's become unbearable. I've dragged my aching bones past social anxiety. I can talk to you now, but I cannot communicate. My ideas don't fit into consensus reality. I don't know why but it makes me heave with sobs.
Back spasming, feels like you could be laughing, but there's a release of tension around your eyes, and tear ducts flood. If you can imagine something sad, listen to the saddest song mix you made, maybe you'll be blessed with the salvation of release.
To feel. To sleep. To not cuddle the blanket around me, alone, again. The way you wanted it. The way you knew it always would be. You fell straight down. Didn't touch anyone for miles, then bouncing, and skidding, ricocheting off one another, a hand slows you down, reaching out, those last moments with lost memories, til your friends, til your family, stop you and take hold of your hand.
Hold on son.
Is there hope for me? Can I be redeemed? Can any one of us? I save you, and everyone must save me? If I don't die, then I must live. A program switch hits my brain. Have I hit rock bottom? Is this what it looks like? Another cave, lost among urban decay, glittering the ugly, the geek, the dork...your terrain.
You chose to be one of them long ago. You told yourself, and others that it was indeed a choice, not to play basketball with the jocks, but instead find role-playing and comic books. Where were you before then? A mindless observer. A mimic.
Brain death restarts the humanity in my people. I don't know who we are, or where we come from, but my father knows exactly what I mean. As did his father. Giant turbines groan endlessly on in our minds. Something started our intellectual evolution, a program written, hypnotized through spectacle, encoded on our neurons.
AC/DC switch currents frequency simulation reverse man. Press the button and make it happen. I rid my life of the abscesses of my soul. I cut back on coffee, and I will quit smoking, never, but yeah I should.
I want to love someone. Honestly and truly. I want someone who's looking for someone. To give themselves over to me and me to her. In every single possible way. We will be perfect symbiotic erotically charged pistons firing psionic bliss. One being who is love unbound.
I hope people can appreciate this book. It would mean they appreciate me. And if at least one person gets it, or gets anything, from this book, then I have done my duty as a human being. Crafted my ideas into form and function to move you and tell you my story. This is me, hiding behind words, I hope you like me.
The truth is I'm just a fucked up writer sitting in his apartment who's desperately lonely. You see, I'm dead.
I choked to death when I was five years old. These are my sixtyfour circles of personal hell that I must descend. Welcome to my final act.
I do want to kill myself. It's become unbearable. I've dragged my aching bones past social anxiety. I can talk to you now, but I cannot communicate. My ideas don't fit into consensus reality. I don't know why but it makes me heave with sobs.
Back spasming, feels like you could be laughing, but there's a release of tension around your eyes, and tear ducts flood. If you can imagine something sad, listen to the saddest song mix you made, maybe you'll be blessed with the salvation of release.
To feel. To sleep. To not cuddle the blanket around me, alone, again. The way you wanted it. The way you knew it always would be. You fell straight down. Didn't touch anyone for miles, then bouncing, and skidding, ricocheting off one another, a hand slows you down, reaching out, those last moments with lost memories, til your friends, til your family, stop you and take hold of your hand.
Hold on son.
Is there hope for me? Can I be redeemed? Can any one of us? I save you, and everyone must save me? If I don't die, then I must live. A program switch hits my brain. Have I hit rock bottom? Is this what it looks like? Another cave, lost among urban decay, glittering the ugly, the geek, the dork...your terrain.
You chose to be one of them long ago. You told yourself, and others that it was indeed a choice, not to play basketball with the jocks, but instead find role-playing and comic books. Where were you before then? A mindless observer. A mimic.
Brain death restarts the humanity in my people. I don't know who we are, or where we come from, but my father knows exactly what I mean. As did his father. Giant turbines groan endlessly on in our minds. Something started our intellectual evolution, a program written, hypnotized through spectacle, encoded on our neurons.
AC/DC switch currents frequency simulation reverse man. Press the button and make it happen. I rid my life of the abscesses of my soul. I cut back on coffee, and I will quit smoking, never, but yeah I should.
I want to love someone. Honestly and truly. I want someone who's looking for someone. To give themselves over to me and me to her. In every single possible way. We will be perfect symbiotic erotically charged pistons firing psionic bliss. One being who is love unbound.
I hope people can appreciate this book. It would mean they appreciate me. And if at least one person gets it, or gets anything, from this book, then I have done my duty as a human being. Crafted my ideas into form and function to move you and tell you my story. This is me, hiding behind words, I hope you like me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
