Yes it has been 9 years this week, on Tuesday
when it was a Thursday that this eruption happened…
And yes I am still angry about it
because there is no karma for the doctor or anyone
who refused on a basis of: well, how is she going to pay
in fact that is how we conduct our lives and karma never had a place in it (nor does “justice”)
because that is the existence that we live in
that is life or better yet, this is how we care in this reality
but yet we get to use these marks of distinctions, yeah we get to ware it in, on our bodies
a comforting luxury which is karma, a revengeful occurrence that never happens
but yet we depend on its miraculous occurrence to be an omnipresent eye
so full with all the energy to see all the small things, and the moments before
Anyway, because “anyway” means a lot
I wrote this for you Mommy: DEEP CRY
never hanging on the horizon
because bold is an is not an example
through the mist
the beautiful dew
when everything is 3 years prior to 5 years earlier
maybe a forever which sprouts today…
It still smells like yesterday, dull with its fresh aroma
sleep still daunts
awakens even as
it is not just numbers
, found fondness
as a discovery that leaps into happening
with a vacant wonder
the want to crawl towards letters.
I would like to write a letter
not an email but a letter
saying all you never wanted to be a liability of
And Sorry would be my ending refusal
It is an example
ON LOCATION: BISCUIT!:
“oh god, bless me with secret acts of mischief, pleaseeeee: forever this, and with this stupid human. Back to you Mittens!”
“Hey Biscuit, saw you chilling, but I look soooo good at pretending that I’m not… It’s like I’m poetry!” Back to you Mick.
“Thank you Mittens and Biscuit. Yes, I am your broadcaster, Mick Murphy with The Cat Report. I am unusually orange… But, stay tune, I hear the pigs oinking up with their new single: A New Way To Walk.
Jovany runs to the window. Still shaking from the fright of her dream, she hopes the imaged of … will disappear and instead she can see, and lose herself in the imagination that everyone talks so fondly, so deeply about how the whispers are so secretly happy…
At 3:00am, she anxiously losses the covers aside, and runs to the window. Still shaking, and completely soaked in her own sweat, she peeps through the curtains wondering if the man whom she believed was following her all day was outside waiting to come and take her away.
“Babe…” Eva still half asleep, her hand aimlessly searches for Jovany’s body in the covers. “Are you ok? What’s wrong?”
“He’s out there waiting for me.” Jovany says.
Eva sits up in the dark and asks confused, “Who is waiting for you? What are you talking about?”
Remembering that she had not yet revealed anything to Eva, about the man she keeps seeing everywhere she goes Jovany reluctantly abandons her watch at the window, and slowly returns to bed.
“It’s nothing… I just had a bad dream.”
“What was it about?” Eva asks fully awake, turning on the nightstand lamp. She puts her glasses on, and sips some water.
“I kind of don’t understand it. I see my hands.” Jovany says, and then lifts her left hand in an attempt to examine it. “Then I bite off my finger and eat it.”
“No, just my index finger. What do you think it means?”
“I don’t know babe.” Eva says and flops back on the pillows. “It was just a bad dream… Go back to sleep.”
She lives in fear. Fear of the front door not being locked, even though she checked it three times and almost missed the elevator; the iron left on, losing her keys, her wallet, her phone… Being left behind… Mostly, it is a fear of being exposed. That she is not to have any of these things. She tries to be extra diligent about the life she has accomplished, because who knows when they will come and dissemble it all, she tells herself.
She has a routine.
Everyday, she says out loud, “I locked the door.” She checks her pockets numerous times for the keys, phone and wallet. She closes her eyes and goes back in time to when she unplugged the iron and put it away. The iron and the door are the most difficult, since the urge to check could never be satisfied once she’s left the apartment. She did once consider calling the Super asking him to check her front door. She revisits these moments again and again. Even if she’s late, she stops to do these little things. But the catalyst for these anxieties, the one that she is powerless against, but faces daily, the calamity that solicitously provokes these compulsions, is the day they will discover her secret. The police will be waiting to ambush her at Fun Time Toys, where she’s a Sales Associate, or late one night while she’s walking home. What would she say to her boss, or better yet what would she say to Eva?
“Late night with de lady?” Ursula jokes, as Jovany walks into the staff room 30 minutes late for her shift.
“Hardly…” Jovany says fatigued because she never went back to sleep. Troubled by the dream and the mysterious man she kept seeing, she kept wondering at what moment the mysterious man and his forces would believe that her guard was down and she was asleep, so they can spring the invasion. As the alarm clock blinked each minute, she kept imagining that it would be now, that the front door would be broken down. In a frenzied state of bright flashlights, they would be dressed in black, armed with guns pointing directly at both her and Eva’s bodies.
“You know, they’re going to write you up for this. Um, it’s like the third time this week.”
“Yes… I know!” Jovany says slamming her locker.
“Wow, hold up… Just trying to help here, hello!”
“Sorry… I had a rough night.”
“Ha, who you telling? You look it. Walking around like you’re a zombie half the time. What is up?”
“I had this really weird dream that kind of just fucked up my night…”
“What do you mean and?”
“I have fucked up dreams every night, and I’m still here on time. And?!”
“Haha, well I just dreamt that I bit off my finger and eat it.”
“Hmm, definitely something you would dream about, Jovany!”
“Funny… you have jokes.”
“That’s all you need, guts and funnies!”
They both laugh, Jovany especially as she turns to Ursula buttoning her work shirt. At that moment, the want to share the weight of what has been troubling her became less crude and sicken by the lenses of fear, but as soon as she was ready, another co-worker walked in and disrupted the now at eased trust.
After her shift at Fun Time, the plan was to meet Eva at a theatre on 86th and West End Avenue. Like everyone, she was looking forward to the end of the work day, and she was especially reminded of how much better it was to actually exist in a city where she could travel from Inwood to Coney Island without needing a car. A city that you can find the most random of cultures mingled with a hegemonic view of what a dream means, she thought as she walked to the train and relives the moment she had with Ursula.
They were going to see a performance. Jovany was early and Eva as usual was comfortably late. So Jovany decided to walk around the neighborhood, maybe find a bookstore or a coffee shop to sit and read. She found a chain bookstore. She awkwardly went in, hyper-vigilant as the security guard looked her up and down. She nervously played with her left earlobe.
Knowing that the bookstore had a coffee bar with a seating area, Jovany headed straight there. It was packed with readers. Tense, she pretended to be cool, walking to the nearest section, Photography, casually glancing through the aisle. She thought maybe finding a corner where she could just sit and read her book would be enough, but nowhere looked appealing. She returned to the coffee bar, her face bathed in sweat. Luckily, there was an empty chair. She sat between two people perusing books.
Shaking her left leg, she uncertainly pulled her book out from her satchel. Her leg stopped as her eyes stared intensely at the book. She suddenly had an epiphany of all sorts of realistic illusions, which made her incredibly self-conscious. Looking around, Jovany thought if she now tried to leave with her book, it could possibly be mistaken for theft, and her secret exposed.
She assumed no one would believe the book was indeed hers. Quickly, as her left leg continued with its rapid shaking, she flipped the pages searching for the receipt, but to no avail. Stopping to pull on her earlobe, she then rummaged through her satchel hoping that the receipt may have slipped out. There was nothing but a wool scarf, fingerless gloves and a battered journal. Just then her right leg joined in the shaking.
She believed that even though she was dressed “properly”: a button down shirt, clean sneakers and pressed trousers, she was still in a ritzier part of town. She was still black, still showing off on her right forearm the tail end of a red dragon sleeve tattoo, still generally assumed to be a guy, still suspect, and still had a secret.
“But what about all these people, surely there’s someone here who brought their book just to read? And besides, an alarm won’t go off if I walked out with MY BOOK, right?!” Jovany said to herself trying to calm down and read in peace, but reading was impossible, as she constantly reached for her earlobes. “That may be true,” the rant went on in her head, “but I purchased the book at another branch, which means it most likely is in stock. And besides myself, there’s one other black person in the store.” She looked across to the periodical section and stared at an artsy looking gentleman thumbing through a New Yorker. She then reminded herself, “This isn’t the 1930s…. And it is New York City.”
Jovany still couldn’t help but think she’d be arrested for stealing, because someone saw her put a book, hers, in her satchel. She imagined the plain clothes cop standing by the staircase, with his gun clipped to his side, would stop her and she’d be escorted to a backroom, where she’d be given one phone call. She’d call Eva of course hoping to explain everything before the police exposed her secret. She’d have to tell Eva the truth. It’s then and there she would lose everything. The life that she wanted to have with Eva would vanish with just that phone call.
“Or maybe I’m getting ahead of myself. Since they’re thinking black guy/woman stealing a book. And nothing about my past will come up. I’d call Eva and once again her whiteness would justify and rescue the reason I am in an all white environment.”
She thought it would be like the time when they started dating. Jovany had gone to a party with Eva in Maryland. She remembers the stares and how she wondered which was it: was it because she was black, or was it because she was black, looked like a dude and was with Eva? She remembers the one drunk guy, drunk enough to reveal his true opinions. A friend of Eva’s from high school. He questioned Jovany as to whether or not the jacket she was searching through was really hers. She was looking for her lighter. If it wasn’t for Eva’s intervention, things may have ended badly.
Jovany continued to imagine the worst, and instead of being hauled to the backroom, she’d be asked to pay for the book. She checked for her wallet, for cash and her visa card. “That’s ridiculous paying twice for the same book. And the shame… Being called a thief… If I could remember where I put the fucking receipt.” She knew she kept it somewhere. “Where is it?”
Jovany was pretending to read as both legs were shaking, and once in a while she pulled at her left earlobe. She wondered if the white woman sitting next to her would ever feel suspected and think like this? “I wonder if I were white, would I still feel this way? Probably not. I wouldn’t think about race, maybe class… Maybe I’m just too paranoid. I mean, Obama is President…!
I could just leave the book on the coffee table. But I really want to read it and I’m not buying another copy. I could borrow it from the library, but I love marking off my favorite passages, phrases…” Jovany’s time was up, as she agreed to meet Eva at the theater for 7:00pm and it was now 6:50. She supposed, if she got up and left the book, she wouldn’t draw suspicion. “But it may look incriminating if I just leave it there when it was in my bag. It may appear that I thought about stealing the book and at the last moment decided not to. Ugh, well I can casually leave it on a shelf.”
Jovany got up, put her satchel over her shoulder, and she walked to the literature section to shelve her book. She told herself that it was the best thing to do, but at the same time she couldn’t believe she had succumbed to such fear.
“Maybe one day I’d look back and laugh, a very sour laugh. Who really steal books these days?” she thought.
Maybe the maybe is not maybes
An actually knowing?
Which involves a lot
a which that is distinct?
a belief which belongs with the ungamed, weak minds?
A hysterical involvement
a which game came
of none never wanting
because it is what we want to traffic as a signal
the hysterical idea of game-d: clutters of pre-supersedes
a blinding symbolic
a message that is enunciated in
into its example marks.
Does this reveal GOD’s presence?
Does this reveal god or jesus’s pain?
Even as an emancipation from you?
Does it reveal a gleaner that is
hanging in a run-on sentence
for why black death existed?
Unless, of course, the mark of the Black Death itself represents an occurrence of urgency of emergence: “we” probably already had such a “luxury,” a magic which we were (oh wait, you were) had got by… The great burden to ignore ignorance?
of incurred indifference
occurrences without a balance sheet
a longing that was never heard of
We use to call it the Devil’s work
Lags in your disaster
haunting dead bones
fully displaced as yours
Your mysterious head
is guillotined by the machine’s riot
A rattling of desperation
in hymns, in fucking tongues
In the moist unexpected
because the inside exists
even with the appeasement
safety pins cannot
be a cure for what you fear as “divine vengeance”
A damning denunciation
which never had
No one ever asked:
What do you want to do with your life?
No one ever envisioned her
beyond the thought: bearer of….
When she finally realized
that loving yourself exists
She was joyful
She did not have the thought:
No chance to see a lock of loose
hair fully grey to decide color…
Not The Invited…
Why the fuck
Should you even
Remorse about it
You were not there
In fact you never showed up
So why show up now…?
Still peeking, even while it hurts
still wandering like it is meant to be
when the worse is not even death…
A craving carried in such unknown
can you remember how to stand why?
Such a certain frequency
affecting that every piece of being… ?
Heaven does not want my blasphemous beautiful ass
and I do not want heaven’s pristine bullshit…
Why should I rationale ‘berth,’ particularly in the function of, as Aaah?
Is it because of a special set of things of terms?
Are not we all these special set of terms of things? ADULT
Are we capable of not accepting them as absolutes? ADULT?
Could we, could we communicate without entrapment? CALL THE POLICE
Sometimes positivity is not useful, since it does not have anything to do with healing. Neither being positive or negative has anything to do with healing, because for one, healing is active by itself, it is an action of itself. Positive or negative are adjectives, stagnant, inactive, placements, which needs a verb to suggest movement, the verb “being” to fully achieve what they want to mean. Again, useless!! Useless, in terms of healing.
I am reminded of a physical injury which I am still yet to fully recover from. Last September, during a performance, I injured one of my fingers. I remember not feeling anything at the moment when my knuckle smashed into the rim of the drum. I remember the blood however. The blood spurted everywhere, and kept flowing excessively during the entire performance. I kept going and it is possible that the mixture of excitement and nervous adrenaline may have been the reason I felt nothing when the impact occurred. Of course, my finger eventually stopped bleeding, but the pain of it, the pain of the internal injury still has not stopped… Granted, the pain is not as intense as the beginning days of healing, but my point is that it still has not fully recovered.
I remember being concerned whether the injury would affect and hinder my playing the drums, because I could not bend, flex the finger without experiencing severe pain. I can do it now with at times not much pain, but the skin feels like it would tear apart when I bend my knuckle, because the injury trauma occurred at the joint. I wonder when and if it would fully heal…
I believe the reason this incident reminds me of positivity and negativity is that the healing of my finger has nothing to do with being positive nor negative, but it has a lot to do with time, enduring the painful process of getting well… And getting well never ends as long as you are alive. Who knows what other aliments will develop because this injury has now opened a vulnerability to other painful unrest that is perhaps outside of the normalcy of wear and tear, maybe in addition to wear and tear because I still drum.
I am starting to believe that the reason there is a huge encouragement and push by others to recommend such desires in fruitless statements: be positive, being positive; is that possessively, they do not know what else to say, but then there is the self interest involved in those exertions. Because no one wants to be around sadness. Not even sad people want to be around sadness.
I am a sad person, and I know that I do not actively seek sadness, even though sadness has been my companion for the vast majority of my life. I guess that statement, “misery loves company” is really an untruth, and a true misunderstanding of circumstances, and as well how we are together and how we are not…
The group that I go to every other week had a holiday gathering which was organized by my therapist. My therapist had everyone talk about what they were thankful for, talk about any goals they had achieved or they are working on. This was an incredibly difficult exercise for me to sit through, because I listened and felt the pain and struggles that my fellow fighters are going through. At one point, I wanted to leave because it made me feel even worse than I already felt, to hear such pain and see the tears, the blood. I said inside, I do not want to hear this, and that is key in my argument. My internal thought of fleeing and statement of, “I do not want to hear this,” is what is happening with this collective suggestion of “be positive,” “being positive.” A very vague remedy for pain which is not uncertain. There is not an uncertainty surrounding pain. This vague remedy just leads me to believe that it is a hot air balloon of self interest. And because it is so vague it leaves so much room for labeling/defining actions that are by chance ways of healing the hurt as negative.
There is not a formula for healing hurt, at least internal hurt. I have not discovered a structural format for erasing hurt. It seems to me that “be positive,” “being positive,” tries to attempt this almost impossible science. To go back to my finger, because I found that my observations on the healing process of my finger was and is poignant, and if I am going to believe and entertain that there is a science to healing internal hurt, then I think observing how my physical body heals is the best point to start.
Like I said, time was and is crucial. I let my finger do what it needs and is capable of doing at the moment, undisturbed. I let it rest. It is like what a friend told me once when we were discussing this very subject about positivity. And she said that it is like having the flu, you let it run its course. I could not agree more. But, I also recognize that many of us cannot afford this run its course, because we are constantly weighing which is more severe: losing a finger over not having anything to eat? These are both impossible states to be weighed against each other. It just breeds more sickness and there is nothing positive to breathe about after deciding that yes maybe my finger is not that important.
But anyway, I was also active in helping my finger try to heal. When it was capable of doing basic movement, I did those small attempts. The physical wound had made new skin, and it seemed like the internal hurt that the joint experienced needed to start its process of healing. Whenever I could, I made small flexes. It was almost like I was reminding my finger that it could perform such actions. It was painful, but I endured the painful process of getting well. After a month, I noticed that my finger was improving. But all of this would not be possible without time.
If I were to apply this process of healing to internal hurt, who knows, maybe it would work. It seems more plausible than a vague remedy of a saying.
One of the things I noticed that seems helpful is being listened to without judgement, because like I said, healing takes on ways that maybe viewed as negative. I have been trying to heal for a long time, and now what I have noticed in a false adoption is my inability to physically cry, even though in my dreams I am crying and inside I am crying. It is deadening to not be capable of simply crying. But in my act of being positive, I walk around with a smile and I laugh. People like you when you do these things. You can get a job if you are doing these things. Which reminds me of another saying: “Fake it until it is real.” Which just seems to share the sameness of “to be positive.” Except, it is also deadening to fake what you feel internally and there is nothing healthy or healing about this practice. I understand that there is a consequential backlash to this, but honestly, if I have to fake how things are in order to get the help that I need, then this whole thing is just stupid. Because it is not a game, an equation nor a sum.
It was at my group’s holiday gathering, and a fellow fighter was totally choking up and holding back her tears. You could see that she was; it was clear that she was trying to be strong. Another fighter got up and walked over to her and just genuinely hugged her. The tears flowed freely, and another fighter got up and gave her tissues. These little acts were powerful and may not have include a self interest. Most important, it made this fighter feel less alone and stronger in the process of healing. Crying is important in the process of healing. Yes it does involve enduring a deep pain to cry, but it is like with my finger enduring the physical pain of basic movement which actively helped. The brain is a muscle and actively doing activities helps, but the mind is totally under-discovered for each and every individual. Is not that what makes us unique? So if the mind is in pain, then the entire body is dying.
Another facet of “be positive,” “being positive,” positivity that is stifling and deadening is when your experience of pain is being compared to another’s. The thought that comparisons would present movement that is healing is a lie, a complete lie, which discounts both you and the person you are being compared to, to their experience.
I did not realize that the experience of severe pain was measured on a quantitative benchmark… I did not realize that the experience of pain was an item. This is where comparisons of something that is internally felt become deadly, I think. Because there is firstly the assumption of an imbalanced pain, one which only happens when considering Capitalism. That you are better off than that person, a dynamic that is based on so many fallacious illusions, hate, and is just hurtful.
It is a hurtful, fallacious illusion equating your experience of what may seem like the bottom to you, to what you project as worst than or the bottom of bottoms for someone else. And this does not have anything to do with having a Zen thought. The idea of bottom suggests that you are dead, while you are still alive. Being dead inside and walking around alive is a horrible feeling. There is nothing positive about such a state. So how then, feeling good about your bottom is positive just because it looks better than the bottom of someone else’s plight?
Bottom does not invite the possibility of healing, because it is supposedly fathomable. Bottom presents no movement, no process, while living to heal is unfathomable, which makes this idea of bottom incongruous. If we are to entertain this thought dynamic that, “at least I am not this person who’s bottom is worst than mine,” then we have no idea about compassion, empathy or even sympathy.
As I said, this comparison discounts both your individual experience of pain/hurt, and as well the other person’s, who you think their bottom is worst than yours, when they may not even feel like they are at their bottom. This process of comparing then becomes an insult for both individuals’ dignity, because this has nothing to do, or even comes close to addressing the real reasons. It does not even allow another perspective, but it however supports an ideal of self interest in the most negative of ways.
I am wearisome about positivity… There is a place and time for positivity and as well negativity, but not all the time, and honestly we have not achieved that thought of positivity collectively to even celebrate/adopt its notions. Most and many people are not capable of experiencing both mutually. So since positivity has not been defined “correctly” in a process that is helpful, in its role during the process of healing, it then becomes a typical band-aid: unrealistic, un-pragmatic, un-exerting any empirical evidence as a real scientific methodology for healing hurt.
What seems real, pragmatic for me when trying to heal, what I have discovered for myself is having TIME. Time to learn how to cry, to endure the feelings that are living inside, to understand them. To have TIME to learn new ways of coping, since some wounds are more severe than others. I am not undermining resiliency, but resiliency is very individual. It is even individual when you consider your body, and how it heals. Like for instance, going back to my finger, this was not the first time I have had an injury because of some activity, but this was a serious wound that I could not even go get checked out. It has taken a long time for just the skin to grow again, and stretch over, for the wound to close itself up. During this time, while skin was trying to reach each other, where the gash divided them, I worried that the wound would never close, but it did. It just took the understanding that time was necessary for the separated skin to really heal and grow again.
The word “radical,” and its wide-spread usage and thought really bothers me. There is nothing radical about exposing a premise for its shit, that has been consistently been challenged, and has been shown that the existing argument (premise) to be shit. If not hateful, if not just completely ridiculous … How is it radical then, when it is known that the well implanted whatever (shit), which brought this product (premise,shit) is exclusive and has been dismantled in thought (solely, but continues as a prosit… Infinity!), demonstrated that the previous way was an array of how useless the “scheme” was/is to begin with?
Am I an item?
Maybe radical is synonymous to what a grunt would mean, like branding a FB or whatever social media post with radicalism? And even then, the question is whose grunt gets to be synonymous syntactically and in the patterns of an invariant (both as a constant and a supposed anomalous reaction)? The young, the not so young, the dead? Even though it is catchy to say and attach “radical” or any other word that has not been manipulated into the wider world of catchy flavor? Maybe, “attacking previous shit” is a better branding/label thought on how reactionary human behavior is, and how much shit we have to account for, being “human, humanistic!” throughout history (some only recently joined the bandwagon group, and are now supposedly recognized as “human”)?
Maybe the word “discovery” is more useful as a word for such circumstances? Less catchy (likely, honest? An open air that discovery founds and may involve “I” since it already exist), but more relative and with more crunch!
After their journey is done with refinement, sugar pops. Sugar pops, because they look like granulated sweetness, and then I swallow and wash down. Such sweetness of theoretical arbitration, statistics that are yet to be unfolded, tumbling with glorified as an aftertaste. And then defeated by more theories of difference, cascading through veins, scampering to the heart…
Am I going to work now? And the blunders, the random blurs, the ones that are particularly strong with their pinch, somehow sensing something else, are they going to tingle with joy? My lover, Paramour, angrily disapproves of my disposition. She said I had to have some faith. I laughed at her, because faith has just been a place I go when there’s nothing else to believe.
This is my second week, and apparently the sugar should have kicked in. I can’t say that I’ve noticed an unlikeness, but then again, maybe I’d have to dissociate myself from myself to really see what I look like.
Did that sentence make sense? Am I making sense?
You must be.
Well, this is just a draft anyway. I’ll return when I have another fever. With fresh dying eyes, I’ll imagine a field filled with the abundant gleam of futuristic flowers and rainbows.
There’s no reason to get upset with the future… It has not done anything to you.
(Not yet, haha…)
What was I talking about? Oh yeah, dissociation.
But aren’t we doing that right now? Maybe the key is to look at how people around you react when you do something, anything.
(Maybe you should periodically make yelping sounds, hahaha).
Ah, now that can be informative.
Even if it’s based on assumptions, it’s informative?
(Okay, this is boring).
There’s some level of knowing, there are tells.
Maybe I should talk about my visit to the Cognitive Corrective Repair Clinic (CCRC), and the three words to remember: red, shoe,…?
Yes, Yes, Yes!
(Like you remember the third word. Yeah, what’s the third word? Come on now, don’t disappoint, Haha.)
It was the analyst’s recommendation that I visit the CCRC.
(Like that would change anything. Solitary, maybe. Insular, always. Vacuum, yes! But what’s the third word?)
The analyst worked really hard, do you remember how small your eyes were? The precipice?
The precipice, with all those thorns, tearing into miles of enduring. They were red at first, a rose bed, a red shedding into decades of shameful scars… (Yes, don’t forget!) It may have been, in its recall, telling me what I need to know with its years of revealing, ridiculing blossoms. But I still believe in what is unexpected, happens next, if anything I’ll have more data than before.
(Yeah, but what type of data: spam or recycled ideations?)
Idempotent, Idempotent, Idempotent!
At the CCRC, the receptionist with her four screens; two for maintaining the live records of all old and new seekers that’s directly linked to the Health Corp–the global health cartel–, and the others for calendars, directories, notices, announcements; she didn’t believe my clean suit was exactly that, clean. I was the best well-dressed seeker ever. Unfortunately, I didn’t win a prize for looking functional. She could care less that I wanted to look good, especially if they were going to probe my mainframe.
Well, maybe it’s because the receptionist thought you were a guy.
(Come on now, no more sidetracking, and who is this talking? There’s no more room for You… The room is filled!).
Focus, focus. Hocus, Pocus!
Okay yeah, the receptionist did label me “sir.” But it could be that she’s a Neo-Luddite, against all forms of advancement, technology or otherwise, and refuses to do an upgrade.
Then, how is she not relieved of her post? How is she not relieved of her past? She’s not relieved of her post? Relieved of her post? Her past? Post?
(It’s the CCRC, and no one gives a shit).
Maybe she apologized… At this point, I really don’t care!
She didn’t. Didn’t she? Did, did, did, did, did, did, did, did, did….
(Whoever you are, shut the fuck up!).
Can I at least say, most fun all week!
This is besides the point! The receptionist didn’t listen to the sound wave sent to her, which said loud and clear–I was on my best behavior.
(Haha, I guess cheating, and by that, practicing using a simulation, rehearsing a script does not guarantee anything. Haha.)
I was there to see the Scientist. But the receptionist heard what she saw, and I was chased by wild geese. (Wild geese? Sure.) They were pecking my calves as I tried to escape through the double locking doors. (You never had keys for anything anyway. Lol.) With the aid of a lost janitor, I survived the trap doors and came right back where I started: at the receptionist’s desk.
“I’m here to see the Scientist,” I waved again to the receptionist. She informed me that I had given her three different characters, “And each of them are unique you see,” she informed me. Defending myself was useless even in my clean suit.
Well, honestly your hair was still quite messy.
I was waiting since 8:00am, and it was now 3:00pm, and because I was gone for awhile and the reprimand from the receptionist after, I lost my place as just a spectator. I had to sit next to an elderly lady, whom, every five minutes sent a loud wave to no one in particular, “How long have you been waiting? I’ve been waiting all my life. I’ve given up on my mainframe.” I decided to move to another empty space.
There was now a guy waving to the receptionist. His eyes were bloodshot. His wave was loudly impaired as it kept buffering. Like all of us, he came because he wanted answers. A Scientist arrived and gave the guy a survey:
- When was your last…?
- How much….?
- Do you get the…?
- Have you ever….?
The Scientist waved that there wasn’t sufficient grounds to conduct an experiment, because this seeker, the guy, did not have any toxins seeping out of his pores like vapor. I instantly went up to the guy and offered him some Prosecco, the good kind, because he had a reason to celebrate.
(What? That didn’t happen. You couldn’t even look at the guy. And where exactly were you hiding the “good kind” of Prosecco?)
Well, if I had Prosecco, I would have offered it to this guy just so toxins could seep out of his pores like vapor!
(Stop with the superfluous lies, and get to the point.)
What? Where’s the point? There’s a point? Isn’t “is” a point?
A woman about my age approached me. She looked normal, I guess.
(Oh come on! She seemed too content).
How can someone seem too content?
I wondered if she was on sugar too. She waved, “Excuse me, sorry, but I don’t think you should sit there. There was this guy sitting here, bugs were falling off of him. I think they were living on him.”
I leapt up immediately, as the elderly woman like clock work chimed in, “I’ve given up on my mainframe. How long have you been sitting here?!”
I then thought, perhaps she (the mirror, the true normal one, that you could never aspire too, and can’t!) accidentally broadcasted a corrupted simulation. Sometimes if the software is corrupted, simulations can become infected, and things like bugs may appear to be visually real. I guess the corruption might just be that good, but it will simply torment if it isn’t applied to a particular purpose.
(Maybe the sole purpose is to “simply torment?” And you had already decided to believe that bagbiter. Spaz!)
Of course I was scratching myself.
(You’re such a compooter! If it wasn’t for me, you’d still be scratching, ha!)
By the time the Provisioner came, I was over stimulated and couldn’t focus.
Fruit loops, you’re so cool
Trick out your hu-la hoops
Hahaha, I love that song! Where did you get the feather boa, and the hula hoop?
Girrrl, you don’t want to know.
You’re just jealous because you couldn’t look this damn good in a pink leotard while doing pirouettes…
(I’m going to swat you, I’m so going to swat you!)
Hocus! Pocus! Shazam!
I was hoping for a Provisioner maybe to come instead of The Scientist…? (Repeat after me: Maintain eye contact. Simulate before you wave. Make sure it’s logic and not the absurd.) I wanted a Provisioner here.
(Even while you shouldn’t trust anyone? Introducing: The Provisioner, right here, and right now.)
Whatever! I’m still telling the story. I’m still in control…
(What makes them exactly different?)
Provisioners are the middle ground, genuinely kinder and seemingly interested in more than control supplements.
(Let’s not forget that they are “people” with falsities of their own, and are learning from a book on how to care, yay!)
“Can you just shut-up! Shit!!” I said out loud. The Provisioner looked at me, and then continued inputting.
(Fuck! You asshole! They’re going to lock you up. You need to get out. Now!)
Don’t make me panic. It would just be worse, don’t! She looks tired anyway. Really tired. I need to smile.
The Provisioner did some test runs (Are you a car?), and gave me a survey (hopefully you won’t be like Prosecco guy, haha). And I’m not going to fail. Not going to end-up here again. (Well, you might, if you don’t listen to me!)
“These are always the questions: when will the crash happen? Is it gradual, or just an immediate complete collapse? Did you prepare? And if you did, how well did you prepare? Can you quantify it? Is it qualitative once quantified?” There was a pause, and then, “Are you transitioning.” I laughed. The Provisioner apologized for making me uncomfortable. I wasn’t in the way that she thought, but I appreciated her attempt at inclusion. She prompted those three words to remember.
I said, “Red, shoe, …?” I couldn’t remember the last word. I must remember the last word.
Not sure of what or which, since there are many tiny variables involved with the infliction of a spark. Just a spark of the uncomfortable, that leads to a notoriety of importance. Maybe it’s the weather. Maybe it’s an id-logical form for weather: a meteorologist’s methodological attempt for predicting and thereupon facing a stream of fluctuating accidents to collect alongside a hyperbolic view for what was meant to be proven. There’s going to be sun tomorrow, even while being chased by vampires.
(Good for you that you’re so smart and everyone else is stupid! Maybe everything that you believe, that makes you so fucking smart, or fucking stupid will be a lightning bolt once you’re dead and leading you to whatever! Gleeful sounds everywhere, because you’re so fucking smart, and everyone else is fucking stupid… Dumbass!)
I overheard on Good Morning World, that there was a cure, that for most, the change in spells and owning a pet will xandu, xerophagy these times of caustic, dysphoric Black Bile afflictions. Or maybe sugar pops will be the cone’s coin for the end, and its recurring nightmares. Maybe there’s a mixture for all these things: Weather, Black Bile, Vampires. Nightmares of a panoramic dysphoric? (Dumbass!)
All I remember was my heart and mind were in a race together, which can go faster than my motions in real time. And all I could hear there, louder and angrier than ever before does not have any sympathy, nor any trace of my love for the things I learned while I was most broken. There was not any space for that.
(Well of-course. You believe when I know it is occasional. Like a season you have plums. You don’t feed in half belief when you know there won’t be any plums. You don’t believe in something that does not exist. Why would you?).
That’s because you wouldn’t stop talking.
(It’s what I do best hon. You wouldn’t clip a bird’s wings, or lock him up in a cage when flying is the best thing he can do? Or would you?)
Paramour was already dressed and trying to ignore the pace I was going at. I was rambling something with conviction, and she casually agreed. I felt her kissing my cheek as I laid on the sleep levitator with my eyes closed, head hot with information. I then heard the front door opened and closed. I wanted to beg her not to leave me alone with him. But I didn’t want her to worry. I told myself to suck it up.
He was rummaging through all of the clouds of possible infinites. Like a defined motion, he swung and laid eggs on each cloud. Until festooned on the rotting ones, he felt sure I couldn’t escape their viruses.
(First, you’d be relieved from your paradox, and replaced by many small, but very distinct diversiform fragments. After a month or so of no harvest moon, Paramour will leave you for Atlantis, the Information Scientist. LOL! You’d have to move out, but where to? You’d probably end up like the homeless woman you see everyday at the teleport. Hair all in a mess like it never ever saw a comb. Dirty with duck tape wrapping around your infected leg. And yes, you’d scream, dance, and do whatever for anything. You know, she’s probably around your age. LMAO, destitution really sucks. Eventually, you’d lose it and assault a pedestrian. Then finally, you’d be banished. Now if you listen to me, things won’t have to go this far, don’t pass go, don’t collect $200 won’t even have to apply to you ever again.)
Knowing what his solution was, I decided to wave the analyst,
“Hello, hello…,” and then my sonic Bluetooth chip lost the signal. I waved again, nothing. And again, until finally the analyst waved me back.
“Hello, Nicodemus?” Here is where everything becomes a blur. All I remember is my head overheating. And the door was letting in five Robo-commandos. I offered them coffee, and waved, “Do you like micro-organic eggs, scrambled micro-eggs?” They were indifferent. But really, was it me, or him offering Robo-commandos coffee, waving if they liked micro scrambled eggs?
(What does it matter now who offered them coffee, and who gives a fuck of micro fucking eggs? That future is dead.)
Getting down to the console hub area, the built-in support was waving with five more Robo-commandos. I wasn’t embarrassed then. No, in a strange way I was excited, but I wasn’t sure what I was excited about. We were getting close to the door, and I was trying not to trigger my flight simulation program, where I run up the block as fast as Neo from the Matrix. So, I created a simple pop-up code in my mainframe, a cute funny distraction that waved, “I feel like one of our luminary deities needing protection from the Web-Paps with their web-cam eyes waiting to take ‘The Picture’.” One of the Robo-commandos, however, read deeper in the code of the cloud, and overrode the code I was using to distract them. He demanded that we wait in the lobby for the airbus’s arrival.
(Ha, like anyone ever outran a Robo-commando, at least not all 10 of them in a hail storm.)
On the airbus, I was incredibly chatty with the Robo-Emergency Action Figures (R-EAF). I was hoping to overload their inboxes with instant messages. I’ve never been that chatty even in a chat room.
(That’s because you could have never cloud that up by yourself. Using your tabs as an evasion tacit to open up chat windows instead of going into a sleep mode which you cloud could stop them…ROFL. Don’t fret my darling, we’ve been through this before.)
Oh my darling
Oh my darling
Oh my darr-ling alkaline
You are lost and gone forever
Oh my darling alkaline
I do not know what this folk reference is suppose to mean, and when did you learn guitar? Either way, you may not want to be involved here …
I’mma just lightening up the clouds! Just lightening up the clouds…
And did that really help? Like we could stop their advanced cookies from tracking those cloud waves, as they ran a diagnostic on my cerebral cortex.
Even with all the pop-ups, they read those cloud waves and they made their assessment, and gave no reply to my invitation for coffee that day. At some point, one of them asked if I had anyone they should contact. I sonic waved Paramour. She was in high court when I interrupted with my inappropriate euphoria. She panicked as I laughed nonsensically.
Once I arrived at the Panopticon, I waited for my preliminary interview. Robo-takers (RTs) did the interview. RTs never make eye-contact. The first RT ran a diagnostic on my mainframe. Questions that I rudely re-routed to the RT’s inbox. Useless. I was becoming more anxious, looking for ways to escape. Once the preliminary interview was over, I was whisked away to my second (yeah, this is a job interview!), where I was asked the same questions again. I gave them shit (good for you for showing, demonstrating your worth, idiot!) for the obvious lack of communication between their servers. I was becoming less charming and entertaining, and more irritable and a nuisance. I kept pushing escape buttons while the RT scanned my body for any irregularities. They wanted to make sure I was healthy enough for the experiments that the Scientists were to perform. They discovered that my heart rate was unusually high. I joked that my unusual heart rate was due to probing overload. They asked if I used any accelerant RAM. “Never, only elixirs. Accels would completely overload my mainframe, and I’d crash,” I giggled. It was becoming difficult to sit still and to hold back the laughter.
They took my Earth shoes (Earth shoes? Haha!) and gave me their socks with traction at the base. Then, they escorted me to the hermetic cluster, where the others were. (“Hermetic cluster?” “Others?” You’re just like who they are!)
The Panopticon was exactly what you’d think a Panopticon to be: with us, there were RTs locked inside the circular space of the Panopticon, and even though the watch tower wasn’t high above the clouds, the eye was still capable of seeing everything. Somewhat like the eye of Sauron from Lord of the Rings.
(Glad that this description is so depictive in its details of what exactly what a Panopticon looks like… Maybe we need the guy who actually thought of this first to come back alive and draw a better picture of what it looks like. Maybe, just maybe we need a prison inmate’s perspective…?)
I was introduced to the head RT on shift. His face was emotionless and cold (what happens can never be predicted by what you assume or expect! You can continue to try however, haha). I timidly walked into the cluster, where everyone was downloading. There was a woman waving loudly in a thick Brooklyn accent,
“I’m not going to stand this sort of treatment anymore. For 20 years they’ve been probing me. I know the Governor, wait until he hears about this.”
Then this kid, who couldn’t be more than 18 yells back, “Shut up already!”
“All these probing and experiments… For 20 years… I refuse this non-sense.”
“Well then go, no one wants to hear about it. Damn yo!”
“Do you want an apple?” A guy with a huge scar across his face waved me. I was startled by his sudden appearance, and didn’t dare look him in the eye when I waved no.
(Hahaha, that’s because you were afraid. And he was completely harmless).
Even though internally I was looping out, I maintained all of the impulsive neurons signaling that I should start singing a song, like the one my mother sang everyday, “Oh what a friend we have in Jesus.” The giggling was insatiable, the worst to subdue. But I was still in control. I wasn’t going to give up. I remember the old woman at the CCRC. I started to giggle a little. I took a deep breath and mumbled. “I’m not going to give up on my mainframe.” (Maybe your mainframe will give up on you. What then? My solution is your best bet.)
“Just shut-up, alright.” I said aloud, one of the RTs tried to scan my clouds, but I caught her eyes just in time to divert to another page.
Knowing was terrifying, knowing that anything could happen to me in the Panopticon. I had to get out and before sleep mode sat in. My head was throbbing, like the walls of the skull were closing in on everything pertinent for a muscled escape. I waved to the nurse, “How long are they going to keep me?”
“If you do exactly what we say and take your control supplements, you will be out of here in no time.” I got the feeling that it was a hologram I was speaking to not a real nurse.
In the Panopticon, you’re allowed 15 minutes on a regular payphone. I called the analyst, “You have to get me out of here. I don’t belong here, my mainframe is salvageable, but if I stay here it will die.”
“Nicodemus, do you remember our agreement. Do you remember the contract you signed? Pause. Well do you?”
“I do, I do, but this isn’t the time for contracts and who waved what. I can’t stay here.”
“I’ll see what I can do, but I’m not hopeful. The things the R-EAF discovered on your mainframe were disturbing.”
I heard my entire title being waved, “Nicodemus of South America,” I turned, and it was the head RT.
“You have a visitor,” and he escorted me to the visitor room that was covered in spy-ware. It was Paramour. We embraced. She looked like she was about to break down. I held her firmly.
“Are you ok?”
“Yes, I just need to get out of here.”
“I spoke to the analyst… She doesn’t think they will let you go. The things on your mainframe make it less likely. Do you remember what you waved?”
“No. I lost all the footage for some weird reason. It’s there but as soon as I try accessing those scenes, my memory starts skipping or freezes up.”
“Your mainframe is getting worse.”
“I know,” I snapped, and then quickly held her hand apologizing. She started to cry.
“Para, please don’t… Not here… I’m sorry you have to see me like this.”
“I do not think watching Star Raiders is going to change the chemistry. For the time being, I may find appeasement, but am I to propitiate that I’m suppose to watch or do something constantly throughout the every millisecond of existence, something outside of what is “real,” in order to stay in that moment of changing that chemistry? Maybe I should be a Star Raider if that’s the case. It says by the way that you are an enabler of fallacies, and you have not fully understood anything. Just to be clear, since everything is repeated in a vastness of pick and choose jumble: the which and what are going to end, and supposed will be a happenstance for those severity of which, what, when, why? As again and again, even while it is supposedly over, in the after awaken-ness of dreams perhaps, so it is locked in mainframes as a touchy space. That still reboots along with the semblance of progressive ideology? When blankety-blank dirt is never silent, nor captive to accursed, ill produced amnesia.? The idea of sleep is not even a possibility, unless in complete death. You might want to differentiate, or possibly rethink these ideas? These long held ideas of what relativity truly exhibits: an unknown form, which we make up as walking and trying to understand the language of a bird. Because it is a necessary illusion of many allusions to what is supposed. Resting is maybe a better thought. Daily resting. And clearly I have rested on this idea of sleep, and if you cannot provide something other than watching Star Raiders to the most simple of a long list, then I proved my point of why I should not be here. Also, if I am going to have to depend on fictional pictures as a means for escaping my own friction, then those champions should at least know how to act honest. Like an actual human being… Not like an android, but a human being or whatever that is. That’s just my first thought to your recommendation.”
There is nothing kind about existence. What you ascribe as not being a human being is exactly what is human, maybe you would have better success saying adult: learned, learned, learned…
Certainly do not agree with your solution, Eye! Certainly not, and Trevor is on my side by the way…
Wait? What? First of all, I don’t go by that name anymore. I am Shangó…
(Found yourself, lately?)
Excuse me…? I was not finished, and I will use my double-edged axe to cut you!
There is no need for that Trevor… I mean Shangó. There is a thing called logic.
Glad you got it right the second time bitch! As I was trying to say, I have no alliances to anyone, and that clearly seems more logical to me, Claire!!… There is no remedy for chaos, and that is why I’m going dancing. If you want to come, and I mean CLAIRE!! Not you Eye, you’re welcomed to join.
(I am THERE, dumbass!)
“All of this is exhausting.”
“What do you mean?” The Scientist asks.
“All of this fighting.”
“Who is fighting?”
I am not here to prove anything. What I really want does not live here or any of your places.
(Oh, so special… Maybe make a story time special for everyone?)
I don’t want it. I don’t want yous, because all that is awful lives in yous… I don’t believe in after… I don’t, but I want to be burnt, just so I know for sure that I will never come back here as anything.
(So, so pure, and such innocence derived…? But anyway, glad though that you finally realized what I was saying.)
Seeker became self conscious once brought to her attention that she was sweating. I believe this is related to my question on the subject as to why and what she believes led up to her arrival here. As much as she tried to hide her agitation, Seeker seemed to be in an array of dialogs with herself. Seeker inadvertently mentioned the following characters: Trevor, Claire, and I believe Paramour. Also mentioned, CCRC, Robo-commandos, Scientists, and something regarding either her physical eye or “I” as in herself, which apparently plays a key role? We examined Seeker’s eyes and they were completely intact and functional. Seeker seems fearful of revealing the most common of things, such as domestication. It seems Seeker is mostly disturbed by the past, and tries to dissuade any questions that are related to the past? I believe that is a starting point, as Seeker’s thoughts were clearly interrupted, and she seemed to have struggled with an answer when asked again, “What brought you here?” Seeker is apparently aware of some sort of pattern on avoidance, and clearly has trust issues. I believe we will find most of the painful things for this Seeker to reveal with this question. As it is also obvious that Seeker is not telling us everything. Seeker blurted out stop randomly several times throughout the interview when there was no one there. She however immediately looked at me when I made her aware that I heard her, and that was the first time Seeker actually was capable of maintaining any eye contact. My assessment is that Seeker is hiding what is really happening internally in order to get out. My recommendation is that we keep Seeker here for more assessment. I think Seeker Z1010101010101010101010101010… is a great subject for our research!
Why is something that is an annoyance a “pet-peeve?” When I think about the word pet, I actively, lovingly touch fur or watch my cat (my pet) do miraculous things. Peeve is peevish with agitated reactions or just a complexity for a constant state of being in a realm of annoyance, meaning agitated. It feels like a collapse of two extremes of unrelated emotions, since I never want to pet my peeve. Especially when it is isolated with a dash in between, I kind of just want to either ignore its buzz or just whack it like I would a fly. “Pet-peeve” is an idiosyncratic, neurotic, passive aggressive want of attempting control of something that cannot be controlled. Even as dense as a Germanic language, English still ends up being as stupid as its formulaic gratification of being right, better than… The compounding of two unrelated meanings that are juxtaposed, and are separated by a simple dash, or without, suggests, randomness, a coinage that survived the stage of gossip in a pre-existing internet world, these words that historically symbolizes some kind of “this occurrence” of bringing together a verb/noun with another verb/noun, “pet-peeve,” a reactionary attack to I dunno and I kind of don’t give a fuck on its etymological existence of how it became established from possibly being slang to accepted usage. All I need is a door with a knob to turn open, a physical door, maybe even a window to crash parachute on concrete face down, to separate myself from whatever it is that annoys me.
*** This title makes no sense. But whatever!
Ignite the wrong
the not quite quiet dead
that cannot be remedied
by places to place which burns…
With mighty fire
which cooks everything down
to a commonplace boil, moderate, indecorous…
Exist, may want different boxes of a place
for each and many of these hurts:
Do not place certain wrongs together
they are each inflammable difference
as a burn so deeply worn
will spark on threads so easily vulnerable.
Will there be an over occupancy box for trauma
once the wrong, the wrongs eventually run out of places to hide?
The esteemed regard
estimated in a held possession
of precious numbers…
Stifled in its infinity
a box, stilled, contained
with desired importance
so cherished in great value
Fire spooked my desires
balked flames of wilderness
Dream into a flame
that fleets towards an edge
that shivers strong in the wind
the desert’s dry wind
Ready to mean
Ready red feathered herring?
Since I’m not a magician
I’m not going to rob you with illusions
alluding to what miraculously went missing.
Since I’m not a magician
there’s no glittered confetti
at the end of each act
since time lacked any patience
to steal your heart or mind away
you might want to depend
on all the comparisons
you were told would
make you subjectively better
and then call it FACT!
In the perpetual hum for purposeful sound
in the perpetual sight of recurring triggers
in the cerebral cortex where it all begins
rest, and arise in distortion, I’ve located
the injury that can never heal, and has now
grown into a germ, a seed that multiplies
that yawns at its clones, admiring its progress
reverberating proof for its recurrence.
Disguised as neurons, spreading its message
holding the nervous system hostage, it clings
to the mind and develops a language, its own
trapping the heart of memory, its function is to
inhabit, to encumber, to ill assess. I’ve discovered
when it became The… It occurred simultaneously
with the struggle for words to dissect the point of
these proofs, but my discovery was too late, The…
created its very own elaborate function, a syntax.
They tell me there’s still some purpose for its existence
an invisible membrane, which when made aware
acquires a self conscious bruise: a quick kill for a study
of overreaching steps, spent too much in a cocoon for self analysis
falsehoods for comparisons, error messages prompting no end
never having a place, a cause as faceless as an unknown not.
And like the study of broken, it still makes a whole.