With Turbulent and Dangerous Lunacy

By Lord Brain

If in general you like to think and think some more about an infinite number of diverse things we perceive in the universe then this book is for you, if you consider the tendency in a human being to think and think some more about an infinite number of diverse things we perceive in the universe leads to ultimately nothing but tragedy then this book is certainly for you, it's a feeble attempt on the author's part to describe his understanding of the human soul or the lack thereof at this specific point of his life. It's miracle that anybody should be reading this, but not so much of one than that by which I should have managed the writing it. Now my work is finished and yours begins, Powers, if it be in your interest, favor this undertaking.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lord Brain
• Release date: Jul 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386123248

Book preview

Lord Brain

DISCLAIMER

I  Measures of Central Tendency

1. For the Sadducees

2. A woman was

3. To hear the

II Adoration of the Magi

4. ...These partitions of

5. Don’t tell him!

6. Composition de mort

III Now Blue Ain't the Word for the Way that I Feel

7. They have prepared

8. The dirty old

9. To make die

IV 風林火山—-Völkerschlacht

10. Better to remain

11. Men of my

12. Ufology has displaced

13. Thy filthiness was

14. 故其疾

15. Quintili Vare, legiones

V Et in Arcadia UFO

16. Later it would

17. Noblesse oblige—-And

18. Ceterum autem censeo

VI Their Finest Hour

19. I defend to

20. Ex luna Scientia.

21. In Canada did

VII A prologue to my BrainS

22. I think, therefore

23. "Bullshit is bullshit

24. Rats with antennae.

VIII 妙法蓮華—-Das kommende Reich

25. At the end

26. Yes, she thought

27. My style is

28. Is this hell?

29. Everytime I see

30. He said unto

IX Ecce Homo

31. Blondie Eutychus de

32. Whoever has come

33. Stat crux dum

X And Grace will lead us Home

34. Over and over

35. I think I

36. "Without love there

XI Collapsing of the Wave Function

37. 24th of November

38. Whom the Gods

39. Fragola fragile, innamoramento.

XII 七處徵心—-Hachijuoku Gyokusai

40. Mine eyes have

41. After all of

42. My son, my

43. And he took

44. Astronomers have long

45. Eν αρχη ην

Afterword

Disclaimer

THIS BOOK BEFORE YOU is a work of TOTAL fiction, names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s diseased imagination or used in a fictitious manner. While some of the resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events might not have been entirely coincidental they were in good faith leveraged as the necessary devices of the author’s narrative art in order to inform and stimulate discourse at large with regard towards well-founded public interests and are in no way deliberate and/or fraudulent and/or malicious libels with intent to cause personal aspersion of any kind through harmful fabrications or distortions of Fact. All materials referenced in the content of this book as well as all graphic elements utilized in the cover art that are of extrageneous copyrights are either, favorably licensed in the unqualified indulgence of the public domain and are therefore indifferent towards whatsoever kind of mercantile usage with no attribution required, or, are dynamically partaken of in such a as well transformative as modest fashion by the author that their scant and adapted appearances in this work in no sense supersede or substitute their original marketization with a selfish consequence on the author’s part to impugn their rightful profit, therefore these uses should be regarded as fair. That said, there is still the possibility, due to the rather hefty sum of these references that the author has spoiled his sometimes desperate brain with and the disproportionately futile and handicapped labor of the often luckless author that some of these uses might escape his strenuous scruple and constitute litigable plagiarism, though the author would swear from benign negligence and nowise purposeful machination such misprision transpired, the author promises to remove or replace the material in question so soon as the instant he is informed thereof and the plaint is pregnant of injurious reason.

Furthermore, the author wishes to stress that via the very likely ineffectual publication of this work (the author regards either a non-existent or a very upset readership as the unmistakable hallmark of an ineffectual publication as this one almost in no doubt shall be) he does not entertain to promote any political or social or religious or moral or economic or scientific or legal or ethical or historical or philosophical or supernatural agenda, the author does not endorse any ideological persuasion of any didactic or propagandistic theme that any reader should imagine to have powerfully appealed to him or her in his or her personal interpretative experience with this work, the author does not encourage any harm to others and/or self and has accordingly in no place expressed such base approbation in his creative effort despite what any reader might appoint him or herself the unique insight of discovering from his or her alleged understanding of the author’s convoluted and decidedly metaphorical message, therefore the author will take no responsibility for any adverse agitation of the body or of the mind the innocent enjoyment of this book might unhappily degenerate into along with the physical dislodgement of various healthy orders of the society of man these agitations might in turn actuate, this work is an artistic instrument designed to emotionally provoke, to intellectually confound and to spiritually subvert so that all involved can have some fun, dark disport for these dark times, so that the author can assuage his twinge of a most pathetic illusion of vanity, therefore persons with medical conditions that might be aggravated by complicated states of mental excitation are vehemently advised against any exposure to the author’s extreme and prejudiced craft, and also note, that depends on what jurisdiction the reader finds him or herself presided under a significant portion of this book’s content might be deemed anywhere from barely legal to highly illegal as pertains to the diverse and doubtlessly sage spirits of the law in these vigilant, if a little troubled lands, the author is singularly content that he has found it in his incapacious heart to forewarn the reader of the potentially hazardous consequence of his or her literary patronage for which he might otherwise be very unreasonably held accountable, the reader is exhorted to exercise his or her due discretion in these private matters of obligation and conscience.

Lastly, a quote from Percy Bysshe Shelley that the author finds to be so pertinent on this occasion as to almost warrant suspicion:

Whatever talents a person may possess to amuse and instruct others, be they ever so inconsiderable, he is yet bound to exert them: if his attempt be ineffectual, let the punishment of an unaccomplished purpose have been sufficient; let none trouble themselves to heap the dust of oblivion upon his efforts; the pile they raise will betray his grave which might otherwise have been unknown.

I  Measures of Central Tendency

1. FOR THE SADDUCEES say that there is no resurrection, neither angel, nor spirit: but the Pharisees confess both. 

Who's there? Hello?

Have you ever seen a naked 12-year-old boy, the life...a vagrant chase, fleeting moments, follow me, mister, grant me five minutes of abnegation of your obstinacy as I’ve granted you my soul, commended my heart...endings then, then...then, no sooner than death the hand that binds, then and very soon! To be sure, I know, seen, some friends of mine, I’m not proud of, with chorus of 12-year-old boys or not, you take offense, you disagree, you fume, no less, were we with our naked conscience not from the same vile and deflowered damnation sired just as besotted and maligned from the vaginal canals we were called bairns, weak and strong, it’s only natural, if you see animals not for the animals that they are but instead out on a limb, for what might and/or might not be imprisoned behind putatively, screeching souls in a succorless whirlwind...therefore to feel justified in opposition the idolatry of sex...you live your whole life, aspiring to some such nonsense, like not have to see your daughter theoretically raped in front of you but look how you’ve brought on what you do not understand by rutting in your little near and dear safe space without much concern at the time for the little beseeching imprisoned souls are we now? To summarize, I can understand all that, some choose to be sexual beings, I personally am more into evangelical blues, but hey, oranges and apples or should I say oranges and orange-shaped anal plugs—-the key thing is I can see that, after all, if you take it upon yourself very prematurely thinking knowing the should’ves and should’nt’ves of all things in this our glorious laicized realm, you know eating shitting fucking dying and so on and so forth...but I say hold on, right? Hold on! You love and love and love and weep a little until love is dead, and until death is sorely loved, if any smart Alec like you comes and tell me he knows everything just a little better than that, then, well, that’s exactly where we are, no?

It could hardly be said, that Michael Dawson is not the type of biologically apolitical, with depth of observation, be it tampon commercials or the indestructible adamantine eyes of his ET lover, achingly dreamy of a palpitation-ridden wretch plagued with an interpenetrating and thorough nostalgia. So much so that, sows and wenches alike ought to be veiled afore his passionate and virulent entrance into any monogamy practicing hamlet in a metaphysical sense, in other words, one whose heart had been the truest of the true. Yet nevertheless he continued with a redoubled vehemence.

And I don’t mean 1978’s ‘cousinage dangereux voisinage’ II collector’s edition with clever and unsettlingly adroit underage sexual exploitation protection law circumvention, what I mean, when you weigh and deliberate judgement, against all odds, as God himself tries in vain to deceive, why, death? I’d caution you, tougher and pluckier souls than you have tried up to all kinds of maneuvering and ended up, not an echo can be heard from them in fathomless perdition which how gamy chipper you just come and like nobody’s business for a solo waltz while mankind’s proudest sons have sacrificed and lost more than the bauble gewgaws they securitized the mortgage of your prostitute soul to steer a precarious salvation on the edge of colossal raking hellfire until you came and made shitrain all over you see we are actually the apocalyptical nemesis of all the two bit gangsters and warlord tyrants because there is a finality in my purpose that their kind fear, so the whole affair remains quite, well, unnecessary between you and I, but at least the dead with such melancholy they transcended, while woe is the living corporate unsuspecting, yet we must work, and the burden of our rule! You make the most out of an ugly thing, think! For fuck’s sake can you THINK for once? Or is that not a customary preserve in the terms of a bondman’s mercenary propitiation of your dark lords? Which do you think is better? Everyone just up and be all ultra aware and shit and intravenous all the filth the scum till it’s pure ether left of their blood till they dead? You think that’s better? I just hope you of all people would be more considerate before you went and just shot those fine engineering marvels out of the freaking sky! We have more, much more, much more cards and chips and magician croupiers and orc bouncers and the whole Goddamn casino than those you ought to dream to know! We the house! People like you never should’ve been born, though.

Right, and if my kingdom were of this world, then...then I’d probably have to search for new worlds and everything all over again, and again, because there must be an I, before chaos is chaos and order is order, that as well within as above the universe there needn’t necessarily be anything doesn’t exempt the I, I is not a thing, I am...but now is my kingdom not from hence. Thought Blondie Eutychus de Lenticulis. However it is of historic noteworthiness that instead he verbalized thus.

Eh? Born what now?

Men of our caliber, AGE of this state of the art, I’ll be honest with you, Michael Dawson fancied himself of an unfoolable mettle, I don’t care who you think you are working for...for...whatever you think they think you think you are led to believe is what you are working towards, let’s for a moment disregard all that, and lo and behold, you are of the naked and of the flesh, of the metabolism, of the foreign exchange, the fiat currency, the purchasing power, I don’t care if some chemicals in your brain respond to exposed labia with harmonious bossa nova, you see where I’m going? In a man’s privity he can be a lot of things, in his ignorance he is omniscient, I really don’t care much! What I care and depend on, is that you are of this age, my age, our rule, like the royal pronoun stuff, like, you are, essentially, semper dissolubilis. And my gripe is, somehow, you think you are better than that! Like you are some kind of super lateral nonlinear explosion opposite the big bang! Take for example, this psychotic lunatic hobo with a Che Guevara shirt on whom we are trying to...well you know...have a little family friendly prank at the expense of...and whom we should’ve just induced a rare and rapidly developing cancer in, this guy, that you just, just ‘recruited’, and I fucking ask you you little piece of shit, who the fuck do you think you are, fucking coming out of nowhere and think you are not like the rest of us that are readily turned on by lesbian making-out vlogs and shit, getting by, and and and...ahh! I can’t even give voice! Give fucking VOICE! Who the fuck do you think you are!? You wanna blow us all back to the immediate postdiluvian paleolithic or anno domini 793 or what!?

This one is not worthy of such righteous fury, this one is but a lowly pilgrim who wishes your wide wide ball of a gingerbread world no wear no ill, just let me and my people go. Blondie almost choked on nothing particularly funny, because absolutely meaninglessly he pontificated. You know when these women want something that they know they don’t deserve, they’ll just call it love and suddenly, bawdstrot, they very much deserve it, and poured out their orotund fornications on every one that passed by, and receiving sexual satisfaction without physical stimulation, which they know is the only right way to have orgasms majority of people never get to learn what it feels like to be in this way really loved with significant and expanding eroticism, because majority of people aren’t particularly erotically lovable, which is more than just a physical capacity, which is actually made up of dark stuff beyond the common stocks of most people’s nightmares, love is nothing but extremes, in the broad and middle way is where honest people make their livings and on either side is where people are entranced by angels and people are seduced by demons, where cults are formed and sacrifices are immolated, where understanding of every kind is increased and toleration of every reality is undermined, therefore the feeling of being seriously loved is, for lack of a better word, quite a disgusting feeling, this is why these things don’t last long, like wars, even though they are frequently romanticized such as eternal love or hundred years’ war. Women prefer the former men the latter, and the world is rotten. Had I been ghostwriting for Homer, I would sum up the whole thing with one motto, ‘Men, make nor love nor war, make peace with your Gods, every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth is a Munchausen syndrome by proxy.’, some of us think all of this is just all a grand old joke, they think, sure, sometimes women turn into animals and animals turn into women, but somewhere in between there is much countervolving space for the questioning of life and the involuntary pollution of our quantum state of virginity, perpend, my miused friend, do you have any fucking idea what they do to one’s fucking sperms!!?? Having immobilised it by cutting its tail with the point of the micropipette, oh, oh la la la la, yum yum, swooning destruction, or some joy too fine, too subtle-potent, tun'd too sharp in sweetness—-And the Babylonians came to her into the bed of love, and they defiled her with their whoredom, and she was polluted with them, and her mind was alienated from them. So she discovered her whoredoms, and discovered her nakedness: then my mind was alienated from her, like as my mind was alienated from her sister, yes, you heard right, sister, ahem...yet she multiplied her whoredoms, in calling to remembrance the days of her youth, wherein she had played the harlot in the land of Egypt. For she doted upon their paramours, whose flesh is as the flesh of asses, and whose issue is like the issue of horses. My my, you don’t say...truth, like animals, is patient. Thus thou calledst to remembrance the lewdness of thy youth, in bruising thy teats by the Egyptians for the paps of thy youth. Well, if at this point you should suspect that this is some kind of proprietary amphiboly of mine specifically designed as a counter to modern polygraph technology then you are wrong, this is just me FWI, which stands for fornicating while impaired, please quote me on that, thank you.

Oh my...so it’s real then, what they say, even the...those super powerful sons of bitches...I’ve never heard them talk about any human being like they did you, they say ‘that one is a crazy one.’, they actually used ‘that one’, Jesus...so all this mayhem, it’s really all your working! Well, shame you, ‘cause color me unimpressed, any yokel can dope and doop, laughable—-So, Moses, then, what are you? Spartacus? Oh boy, this is rich, and golden, boy! Hey you guys you gotta listen to this moron, upload it somewhere, anywhere, ‘let my people go’! Oh GEE-Zus! Are you for real, your people? You mean that whole ragtag bunch of deranged gymnosophists off the serious rocker YoYo God save the drag queen regiment of yeomanry you’ve taken with you-and don’t you worry, we’ll find you eventually-you Goddamn Sudanese hillbilly of a glue ingesting fossilized lovable Freudian postmodern sexually frigid synthetic plastic internet empowered Raskolnikov Yankee doodle dandy mother-fucker Baha’ian suppresionism king Lear whore-yearning Disco throwback necromantic adept adventurer troubadours-errant neuro freak! By professing to do Moses’ work, care not to become the new JEWs. Michael Dawson at this time feeling a little fatigued from one too many similar clichés that he felt always personally incumbent for himself to eject with sufficient ejaculatory morals while at the same time affecting a sort of mental ennui. You know, under other circumstances I might even consider you rather colorful and with the staying power of a significantly uplifting societal influence. Blondie meanwhile wasn’t listening to a word, he was haunted by random memories, a lone and decrepit bicycle from a bygone and strange century, the tawny-eyed mermaid he thought to be a woman, something brought him back, with a startle he pointed out, It saddens me more than you care to imagine to say alas, yet the circumstance is no other but like menopause, past the point of no return, that is, there is no more game of mollycoddle ovulation that I have time for.

Michael Dawson valiantly fought down an imaginary paroxysm of asthma.

What did they promise you, immortality? Free dimensional translocation? Or some other spirituality crap? I could easily lie to you, just bigger, right now...huhm, how about right now I tell you this bitty bit just to show that I’m serious, I have here two pledges that I shall yet slay Moby Dick and survive it, here, now tremble, because I’m coming for you you fucking tard!

There was of course, as always there was, another thing. Michael Dawson looks like Carl Sagan and even when suckling at her teats his own mother didn’t trust him for all they say about there is absolutely no shame and happens all the time and technically definitely not incest to have orgasms when breastfeeding and he knew it all, he was trying to see if Blondie would try exploiting this reproductive stigma—-We are made of star stuff and nuclear winter and stuff! and nobody would give a shit, all travesty, like smelling an orange’s fart or 90’s or early noughties pop, could this summer true love be? No, he couldn’t possibly just simply grow old and abide, now he had had true faith, his Talmudic friends can be with their naked calisthenic boys and eunuchs and whatever, this is one hand, one that puts down, and the more esoteric wisdom will take what they need as the course runs its tourney of pertainment, this is the other hand, one that takes up, and in the end an incorruptible apotheosis, he has true faith—-Although Michael Dawson didn’t deign to know the likes of Carl Sagan even as he looks exactly like Carl Sagan, he learned his lesson well.

You cannot stop...l'idée dont le temps est venu. Blondie etched with a calculated pain a manicured sorrow, after all, we are all made of star stuff—-so is the stage of the world a conflagration of evil chances, Satan’s quasi-evolutionary colostomy bag, the last and loneliest one inch frontier of human knowledge, incubated from inside the dinosaur’s egg is the aurora of asteroid Invictus.

God one day I swear I’ll murder every one of you, no, actually, allocate all of you to a perpetual circle jerk fly wheel duty as in, the only credit, currency, food, energy or whatever you’ll need in this little utopia of yours can only be generated through certain amount of non-frictive zero gravity perpetual motion circle jerking, everybody would like wake up ‘shit better catch the last circle-jerking driven subway and get to my work my jerking deadline is coming up’—-Anyway, I’ll tell you something before this conversation of not much use now that I see comes to an end, emphasized—-great truth is truth whose opposite is truth also, I’m pretty sure some Luxembourgian said that, it has saved my life more than once. Michael Dawson showed unmistakable signs of a chronicle and accumulative fatigue at this point, almost sighed, with hollowed intensity, licking an ennobling sentiment from a spotless ideological mousse.

I neither know nor care about what lies within your power as well as proclivity—-of course truth is, situationsgebunden, just as valid...for a long time I’ve been feeling so lone you know, I don’t care what you think I look like, my distant youth is but a couple of starry and skeptical lifetimes from my not so distant and contiguous generations of human decrepitude in the wavering and sidling transmigration how I suffered, how disgusting of a coward that I am...I let it all, rotting with the rotting world with so much pointless rottings I couldn’t bear to kill myself...when you are not looking at the dark things intently, they merely appear to be dim because darkness is not an absence of anything, quite the contrary, that's how most ‘decent’ people make a living margin, the solitude qua marketable debt and monetized credit was the endless and without testimony passion I thought under which one must labor and labor till time has woven an end out of itself because through an ancient beyond memorial ignorance was enslavement made an institution of time in its manifold avatars...when you intentionally look away though, that's like looking away from the crucifixion, that's like that three times disavowing shit, and I always cry uncontrollably to be if nothing, only the one that together carries the cross you know, I don’t care who, if it’s a cross then God damn you and go fuck yourself I say it’s mine, all mine mine mine mine...I’ll warn you, and warn you no more, try come and stop me and my people, and exceed your technical capability, you et alii or whatever how many of those Marilyn Monroe cyborgs or whatever because your puppet masters won’t give you any help this time...I systematically and with a depraved and machinated cruelty unraveled and carved up this fucking high school volleyball team captain in a sexually apathetic relationship until it went click and ghost gave up, whose psychologically damaged brother meanwhile probably has a bounty out on my head, not every human aspiration stops at medicinal cannabis in a roll of toilet paper or industrial-grade glue, oh God I’ve come clean, dispossessed...said captain killed herself not too long ago and I had to find that out on some social fucking media platform...point is, you don’t know shit about me, or the video games I like to play, or the small animals I tortured before killing, I’m a ghost, so stop trying telling me what truth is and isn’t. I’ll tell you what I am, destroyer of the worlds am I, or am I? Or am not I am? And I found out infatuation a state, but innamoramento a motion of pieta, but I watched the flame consume...Men’s end is come, but not before my ark departs, so help me God, don’t fuck with me.

And with that, his lunacy bombastically flexed, Blondie promptly turned off the invasive communication hooked with or more like hacked into the middle of some Brazilian’s internet video chat without waiting for a response. No, if the whole undertaking was to hold and pull through, he’s been dramatically assured, that nobody can track the motherbase station of his people’s democratic union of badassness(PDUB) Ziusudra, which drifted and floated with such crown-jewelryly beautified innocence, looking down on the real planet Earth, which was inhabited only by humans that don’t matter, and conversely only beheld upon surely by people that matter.

Blondie hadn’t been quite as tristful since that time he was locked up with the crypto-Brahmanist-pacifists and neo-nazi skinheads and street whores sans their pimps in the popo station where not for the last time he saw detective Tsange Loc Areigh. And for a brief moment Blondie expressly went out of his mind and was bawling most piteously and a heinous drunkard tried to console him but he didn’t want any weird funky disease so he had to saunter and pivot around inside the detaining cage amid vomitage of diverse viscosity, coloration and consistency to shake him off while secretly being grateful and guilty as the drunkard tripped over a lead pole that stuck out under a canvased protest sign that somehow got smuggled in on account of all the confusion the thronging and asymmetrical melee and was at that time being used by a shady looking geezer in a Vietnam air cavalry uniform like a Persian sitting cushion, later though he would come to realize the real identity of that wino hobo.

It’s not how you fail, it’s how you are set up to fail. It’s how humanity really is going to end up where the bible says it’s going to end up. The geriatric chasseurs à cheval of the jungle said.

Maybe a whole new universe is born out of the delirious dream of a mad man every time he runs out of welfare food and collapses on the floor of the local police station like Athena out of Zeus or some such Greek paraphilia and if Blondie is simply just living another broken madman’s pink and moist ego, or if in reality he was the drunk who died of a burst of aneurism congealed out of his own retrograde vomits that day by the side of a wise man’s sacramental benefaction and thus brought up in resurrection to vivid and blissful fantasy like the holy necromancy of the yore, with turbined semi-rigid twin blade consummation in torrid Armageddon, the pump, the vortex, the driveshaft, the analogous gauge, the plexiglass with a carnage of insects visceral, freaks of nature, ennui, men, like all things alien, like super nova, for example, men will pay anything for esthetics, and the most harrowingly beautiful of all belongs to their total destruction, cumque de monte ardente descenderem, et duas tabulas foederis utraque tenerem manu, death is happily and the more readily made acquaintance if one can be simply and uncaringly bones, and bones conducted in eternal solemn peace after the Völkerschlacht, then one has the perfect excuse to dismiss the guilt of having ever been alive, if some of the Matrix shit is the real deal though, like a river that winds back to itself, because if gravity is some Matrix shit then everything is some Matrix shit because gravity always win, then why even bother waking up for the umpteenth plus 1 cup of coffee, then other people’s fucking folly or genius is certainly not enough to swallow all the shit that life barfs on you, then seriously humanity is going to end up where the bible says it’s going to end up, wherever that might be, who is to say? Had these clowns only but known, how much value I put on my life, it is the fear of something far bigger, that has so far stayed my neither here nor there hand, still, when push comes to shove, if the game is up the game is up, I am contractually bound to life, doesn’t mean it’s unconditional, if it’s only obligations and no privilege provided me to make any sense out of this covenant then whatever the alternative is I must concede that my hand is forced, and I am conscionably beholden to nothing and no one for having withdrawn my cooperation, for if there is only one thing that’s certain, it’s that I am no animal, and I don’t deserve to be treated like an animal, the system is to be only ever so usefully bad enough to present a mindful exploration to the illumining eyes of consciousness, not so much that the parasites outgrow the host and the darkness corrupts and blinds the eyes in a buffet of big data, life on this planet treads a very fine line between a puzzle and a disease, the sublime and the absurd, it’s deceptively easy to say let’s just wait and see, what’s one more day gonna hurt, it will get worse before it gets better, hope helps us through the trying shades of our difficulties, and then things almost always inevitably blow themselves out of all redeemable proportion, before you know you’ve secured yourself a permanent tenement in some Albanian organ farm run by some Sudanese indentured slaves hired by the Chinese communists, I mean, what is life to you? Something to be abided and at the end hopefully a fitting reward for a joyful harvest? And rinse and repeat rinse and repeat till a timely and stately demise in all graceful pomp? Or is it something, that is to be, every fraction of its existence, alertly, vigilantly, soberly investigated and observed and critiqued? An ongoing process wherein each conscious second of its passage is pregnant of the essence of what it means to be alive, to feel, to see, to think, and more importantly so, the freedom to feel, to see, to think, there is no punishment, no reward, there is only a transiently unfolding thing as is, there is to aim, no object, no mandate to do this and clear that and endure these in order for this and that or something else to render all prior misfortune meaningful and sensical, is it really something to struggle and writhe in, for the next animal to tame, the next treasure to possess, the next relationship to dominate, the next obsession to satiate another five, ten, twenty years? Is not life this now now now and nothing more? Always the individual introspective battles, all else is solely time and its trickery, and is a person to persist despite, is it to be brooked, shackled in an Albanian organ farm? What is the bare minimum of ownership that is required for a tour of personal cross-bearing? Faith and a loincloth? What if you lost your body? What if mind too? What if memory, what if cognition, what about the senses? I mean at least you need something to feel the cross on your shoulders, what if someone can and does as surely they will take your shoulders away? What are you then? Lock you in an oubliette, raise you with cockroaches, or what about a sensory-deprivation tank? Brave new world kind of zombification? Is something like this truly possible, permissible to befall the true creation done after the God’s own image? To be put in a world, live in a cave somewhere for seventy years, and die of cancer all the while not having the slightest clue of the nature of this reality that has been uniquely generated and constructed five steps away at the exit of the cave? What a waste, make a supercomputer and compost guano on it, if to like treatment the human spirit is subdued, then it is unmistakably a cue that it’s time for the human spirits to depart this realm, some cosmic imbalance perhaps, or some dimensional pollution has wilted the fragile ecology of this once oasis, perfect indwelling of souls.

This is exactly what they want you to think. Elementary.

He pitied the day, genetically engineered sex cyborg will roam free and lascivious, salacious, freewheeling boobs and the hearts of gold and mind of storied and eternal spark are but shambling ghosts condemned, refugeless, then it wouldn’ve even mattered if he had or had not even fallen in love. And with that thought, he went to the mess hall thinking to chance upon Oberstgruppenführer Mark Antony (not the bird) maybe talk a little about what they should do with the freshly exfiltrated (or abducted) expert on mass euthanasia and maybe also about the contentious roster constitution dilemma of the zero gravity baseball game he forcibly introduced as mandatory for every self-respecting PDUB citizen, there had been dubious rumors to the effect of alleging that the research team was training everybody into switch hitting after the operation team was accused of training everybody into switch pitching.

2. A WOMAN WAS yesterday accidentally cremated while still alive, imagine that. Actually, don’t imagine that, imagine this, Das Unbewusste via conditioning via consciousness via name and form via six senses via contact via perceived sensation via a craving Sehnsucht via a clinging addiction via becoming via birth into life.

THE MORAL OF THIS SAD and epochal story, this story, coming apart at the seams all over the place, an information theory equivalent sort of la vie en rose, born and worn in our universe forlorn, the moral is not much different than that of Lancelot and Galahad; each age tells of things immediate yet nowhere to come, such is the thinking that begets men of prophecy born, heralded and funeraled, oftener than not the entirety engrossed in unjust obscurity, thus fulfilling ironically however their own prophecy which foretold that a poetry is just puritanical delirium as a result of knowing too little, for folly will not stand reparation nor recompense. Truly, my good fellows, there isn’t THAT much between heaven and hell to live for?

Blondie was however intercepted and interrupted in one of those thoughtful shivers that now had become more and more familiar to him.

I hope one day you’ll let us take over the pyramid. Gesturing vaguely but beseechingly is tribuni plebis Mino Minogue, who, according to him, self, and as he was wont to account alarmingly and made sure everybody was informed, was born in Europe and life had simply been a neo liberal designer shade vegan hell before Blondie liberated him from JPDARP, now Blondie was worried he might turn cannibal and secretly ordered some Disney Tarzan boy obscenities downloaded into his computer and just as a practical joke.

Why?

I’ll make use of it, I’ll try, think, you know, maybe, it could...I wouldn’t say absolutely, but...you know they always come and ask you know before you do this or do that, like hello, seriously, have you tried mechanical keyboard, or have you tried ebay, da! Or have you tried methamphetamine, da! Have you tried rimjob, da! You know, that sort of things as I used to imagine, you know, stuck in traffic, have you tried Buddhism, have you tried a grenade launcher in overtime...anyway, the point is why not? It could literally blow our minds away although at this point it’s hard to imagine anything blowing our minds away but I hardly believe that the similarities between that one and our ‘Isabella’ consist solely in the superficial appearance and...

Always the most inspiring and pleasant conversation with you tribune and you know what I like you the most you never lie to me, that is good...and no I never entertained such colorful and profound lifestyle contemplations as you enumerated, but as I told you day one, you have to trust me as far as these things are concerned, like what we need and what we don’t need, which phase or step of operation comes after which, you know, after I’ve...um...taken certain consul under advisement...I’m sure taking over the pyramid would be very...meaningful in a highly contentious way, you know, we can just one night and teleport the whole thing maybe if half of our people go and look into that instead of doing this research facility takeover thing we’ve been planning for God knows how long now which ought for all so help me God be most grand and propelling us towards the Antarctica metamorphosis event by a most ambitious leap yet, ah, we are on towards the portal, friend, a little more time—-in a word, my friend, we are endowed with this kind of power not to repeat what all people with comparable power before or after us would surely do, we can’t get distracted now okay? No more of pyramid shit, because it’s all over, there, where it seemed to have all begun and seemed to be the be the be all and end all, it’s nothing, it promises—-hey look at me—-it promises no harvest of—-

Mino Minogue hastily took over, I know, I know, down there, it’s like the...the eh, double, double toil and trouble, even till destruction sicken, I guess that’s sort of our motto now, it’s just sometimes it’s still quite hard to...I’m just unsure from time to time, I would used to just boo the televised football match customary ‘God save the gonorrhea queen’ in a Welsh pub, and God knows how despicably pathetic I am I’d never dare do that in Liverpool—-and now, now it’s all so surreal, in a black hole we hurry reckless, but of course I believe you boss...

Mino Minogue had become quite a zealot after the horror of operation remedia armoris, which Blondie couldn’t really blame him for because the thought of that day haunted him with a spine-chilling, demonic, soul wrenching PTSD just the same if not more because unlike others he didn’t find much safe buffer space of uncertitude in his heart to be able to cope with the whole experience as a surprise. So Blondie now adopted a more generous allowance for a religious self-healing radicalism in dealing with Mino, anyway lucid elaboration of active holistically oriented depopulation and theocratic mass liquidation of carbon copies of coincidental misconstruction probably gave him something else to mentally exercise aerobically on, something light and springily, like transforming into all kinds of elements of doom and cleansement or detox material, in shapes of rods, balls, scythes, it gave a renewed and refreshed devotion and drive to the cause perhaps, unlike all the math he does, all ponderously relations and models and spatials and leading and tracting or whatever it is the mathing to this and mathing from that equals mathing around more multiples until kingdom come and all zeros fades to zeros, all nil to nil and all nix back to nix.

Good, good...Die Menschen dauern mich in ihren Jammertagen, Ich mag sogar die armen selbst nicht plagen...and no, the rumors aren’t true...nobody is knowingly working for the devil, well, I’m not knowingly working for the devil, then again, knowing is the operative word here...I mean...devil’s got the whole world and then some, I hardly think this sneaking about kind of covenant business contracting and contriving in a most round-of-about hyperbolic way of Hegira fits his MO all that much, I mean think about it, weren’t we like perfectly corrupting our souls all for his glory already all our life before getting here? The key thing is, I never knew I could actually be capable of not feeling bad about myself you know, just by living and drawing breath, used to be existing alone by itself is some pretty tripping dark stuff, like I’m sure you do too, waking up, I think I see a darkness and you know that sort of things...but pointless, speaking of heart of darkness, it’s like that Bob Dylan or is it Johnny Cash song, you know...it’s too late...the key point of it is, we are not taking over anything or set up a inquisitional missionary and array the magisters and kingpins on broadcast summary execution and hold democratic gene editing symposiums...no, we are doing much more than that, we uproot, not trim, we unleash Gods, not reconcile among mortals, and for all that, it’s not just any instant anodyne, it’s gonna take time, patience my friend, the day will come, I see it in front of my disincarnate eyes, just look around and see how much we’ve already accomplished, I started, one man and one bird, now look, and when we are finally ready, it’ll be more awesome than mankind really even deserve, earth will render in two, hell will loose, our reward is not in the power, but in the truth, and all falsities, like when you point a finger at your temple, all this falsities inside, won’t ever ever ever come bothering you again this I promise all you who follow me, I say you forgive, because soon, there won’t be anything left to forgive.

Then they proceeded to talk for a while about the big empty hall with all the counter-rotating gyro-like motioning lenses with coils linking these spheres, in origin probably just some antigravity bauble from 500,000 years ago or whatnot and they each put to the other one or two ideas of how best to maybe convert it to an abductee holding and processing complex now that their zombie-farming operations are really coming into an industrial scale.

Blondie didn’t understand in face of so much grandeur how can people like his tribuni plebis be so utterly devoid of a sense of poetry of this otherworldly metaphysical quest they are on.

Mino Minogue gradually receded into a mild and moistening meditation quick, covert, humble in his paranoia, enough to realize his own limitation when just first meeting Blondie. After all, he is the type of guy that just might lose centuries studying the aerodynamics in insect flight or scrutinizing the pristine neural activators in foraging millipedes. He was in this hitherto blisteringly hastening human foundation of technological prowess just like tears in the rain he was, compared to Blondie, more of the same. And it’s because of this realization, he flickers his pious pity in fustian shades of abrogating devotion, so indeed, the suffering of proletariat or the autism of bigfoot, alternating a million cities’ traffic lights, like Blondie said, remains nothing interesting, and he was impassioned by the superior martyr.

Blondie in one dreamlike summoning was told gently, nothing short of pure and crystallized minds, all most brilliantly wacky and barmy, the feral orphans, that were they, who, taken away from the wolven stepfamilies and brought to a civilized dinner table, would still stand a chance to be taught how to properly use a spoon. And by and by, these minds, like in a tornadoing sandstorm, with such violence and unstoppable centrifuge, would all be brought in force around him, so that in the end, when Blondie asked what could be done for them. THEY evoked their passion as blood oath and witness, that none that could be taught to use a spoon will be lost to the senseless barking and howling, the mangling and mating, the breeding and dying of the wolves and the wilds, and all in all, not knowing why, with a human brain, but never taught speech. When further questioned, they affirmed that certain change were in the air, this partition of reality would come under some abrupt rearranging and certain beings long since taken charge of the custody of humans has undoubtedly come undone, is most likely letting go, and they would say nothing more than that. When not for the first time Blondie let loose a hint or two of his suspicion always of deception, they reminded him that this whole universe could just be a not at all academically apt alien junior high school student’s science class homework sandbox project for demonstrating the sustainability of semi-sentient microbe environment, something analogous to an ant colony in significance as in a human biology class, etc, etc and he was given the distinct impression that the truth is by no means as innocent and jejune, and more, more of a violated nature. And finally, as if it couldn’t get any weirder, take heart, gentle and dear, tingles in your heart do you not call love? Then tears in the wind can we give you as fate. They said.

No, no, I certainly wouldn’t give all my money to the ‘poor people’, Kara Kaszowska’s husband picked up the temporarily discontinuated soliloquy and thought as he was waiting, and half condescendingly non too tryingly concealing himself behind Blondie’s earthly automobile, the one with a hello kitty sticker on the front hood and a small Barbie doll with an unmistakable, subliminal—-Luciferian and reproductive—-messages on the passenger’s side riding shotgun, What kind of sick perverted fuck, Kara Kaszowska’s husband continued in thought, had I not watched the fucker whole way from car to porch, MY fucking porch, one can hardly believe but I didn’t get a good look though the sneaky bastard’s definitely hiding some indecency inherent in personality or personalities because nowadays every immigrant you meet is schizophrenic, one certainly cannot account for their astute observation of a distorted reality otherwise as proof of elevated intelligence...speaking of which, one hardly can distort one’s center of gravity hardened by decades of life just to suit the reality no matter how distorted the reality can be, it’s always a choice, to fall is a choice, everybody’s set up to fall, but to fall is still a choice, a coerced choice but nonetheless...okay where is...no, no, no, Jerry, we are not going to break in, what is this dramatic shit, season 4 episode 18? She clearly hates me now, and so in consequence by confronting, what sort of response exactly am I trying to appeal and cultivate in her? And what exactly does she hate me for now? I’ve never been special, not because I’ve never been good, the vanity, she’s just as predictable, absorbed in her own depth yes all very nice, while I drown in a false insider trade liquidity breakdown, it’s all very nice, you pass these fucking bums besieging the ATMs, who don’t even bother themselves with the business of living enough to look you straight in the eyes when at the same time expecting pointless generosity or empathy, that’s some rarefied bullshit...uh, now I got the urge to say the word ‘rarified’ couple of more times, it’s like a gum, or a gum commercial...no, help the poor and downtrodden, instead of course I’m obsessed with my decadent wife with all the fucking paintings and albums I bet they are having a grand time screwing and converse about the finer things in life and I’m supposed to donate all my money so that I can only eat cans of frozen peas and sleep in a tent that someone has died in so that all the money I donated can be used to save Jesus Christ himself I wouldn’t do it I would think real hard and constipated for two eternities and then I’ll cry like a newt and just couldn’t do it all I can do is to wish the world would just decide to not have anything to do with me, and all y’all can go join book clubs and sell concert tickets for all I care, but here I am trying to flay my soon to be ex-wife alive so that I can fuck a corpse without skin in the ass so maybe then I as a broken person which is of course nobody’s fault can be mended but I bet of course everything can just be better if I go and embrace my neighbor and save a baby from a burning building and yell to the sun you are my joy and shit like that—-wow, what was that?

At that time a low rumbling, a raucous vibrating mulling sweeping clamor could be heard far removed in the distance in the ambient background, but the scale of which was most positively of a gigantic nature, in addition to which Jerry the husband now could sense small but numerous groupings of quite heavy vehicles tracting on the ground scattered about where he was standing. And on top of even that, for the first time not so engrossed in his own agitation now he could make out faint traces of helicopter blades somewhere in the area, gyrating in heaven.

Now he started to think a little bit harder, now you cannot describe Jerry as just any shithead not well kept in loop of the latest going-abouts of the world at least as advertised vehemently for the past couple of weeks in all the news organs and media, something about a strike, or is it a protest, or maybe a demonstration, or a stritestration, what’s the difference again? Jerry definitely had a better word for all of the above, it’s called futility, but in all the very personal frustrations of the recent months Jerry had unfortunately been mechanically oblivious of these momentous externalities.

Now that he had a sort of revelation, Shit the whole half of the city is going to be blocked, shit shit shit, for God knows how long, and all the bus subway even the hotdog diner drones are probably all out getting high and shitless this is just great... So he got a little funny in the stomach as well, it was like a vertigo of all the best ambiguities he as a human being simply was just the representative of was being stirred up by the impending doom of the big ambiguities of this some kind of vague protest, the representatives of which was like millions of collective unfeeling human mass.

Okay, we should just solve this fast, I gotta have a look, you know, not let this opportune presence of mine simply just go to waste here after all this waiting, just pretending I’m come to pick up some, some...some favorite staples or paper weight or some such utensils and stuff, she probably wouldn’t even let me in the little...and maybe I should just provoke the pervert oprnly and let him beat me into a pulp of victimhood for a satisfaction of a lifetime...

This chronologically happened before operation Remedia Amoris, and of course way before Blondie suspected Kara Kaszowska to be a mermaid in the green universe and consequently fell into such inconsolable depth of despair.

But at that time Kara had already squirted a considerable volume of the purple milkshake which may or may not be adulterated with vodka on Blondie’s shirt through her nostrils because a remark of Blondie’s towards the painting she was showing him.

Ah, what have we here, um...of course, this is the 1834 masterpiece from esquire...van...no, Russian...the tsarina Maria Feodorovna’s favorite mannerism demi-eunuch count Bagration the third...’the Ducth opium merchant's daughter’

Kara was intently waiting and studying him thinking and emotionally fermenting prettily at the array of paintings she’s got hanging all over the house and so heated and enraptured by the perfect opportunity of spying she urgently needed more sips of the placebo milkshake in front of the Psyche Opening the Golden Box, then the twitching, apoplectically touched humor, burst like a violent volcanic irradiation then the milkshake just came out of the olfactory orifices like jets from a pair of dual engine afterburners.

Needless to say this susceptibility of the most native and spontaneous witty remarks and the fragility of her mental equilibrium in face of the type of common thought fodder he used and consumed no less than ten times every day before breakfast was over and most important of all now that his shirt was covered with the most obscene unmentionables and certainly unsmellables all this annoyed Blondie quite a great deal.

Just what they say about oneself is one’s worst enemy, looks like you can simply not handle yourself now, you are such a pig, God, this is foul to hell and heaven and back three times, arggh...what did you put in the milkshake, ruined, fuck it’s ruined, ageless ruination, Jesus they add industrial grade Manganese electrolysis dyes into food now? God! The smell, the boundless essence of eternal gunk, I think I’m going to vomit, you have to pay for this, just when you think a little artistic and spiritual contemplation then it drags you right down down to the lowest of the lowest, what the hell is these mucus substance! Is it me or does this there about a whiff of alcohol somewhere Jesus you must be very proud of your life...

By then Kara had stopped laughing quite abruptly and was wiping the shirt, Sometimes this kind of thing is called an accident, an emergence that kind of just emerged, and I’m sorry alright? For not puking rainbow out of my noses, maybe you should look at the whole thing as you know, like a harmless call for help thing, I’m actually all very rotten inside and sometimes there is simply no holding back...

Through the noses, really? Your motor center in the brain stem carries not enough inhibition to I don’t know, obstruct the liquid flow from accessing all the aspiratory ducts and stuff? The nose? Jesus, I mean, wouldn’t that actually like hurt? Now he petted her head in a gesture that denotes human solidarity in the face of a petulant act of God, or wetting of bed, as if saying we may be ugly but it’s not a sin not a crime, it’s not even a surprise, it’s just that the shirt is ruined.

Kara understood the gesture immediately and was bold again, now the soiling of the shirt seemed altogether a salvageable wreck where nothing was to be waived and everything stood as spoils to be fished out of the purple marsh.

But you have to make restitution, I demand satisfaction in this matter, this is ridiculous, how am I gonna get out there in this, and no way I’m gonna physically enclose these barfing Jack the ripper acidic underwear smelling molecules and myself in the same automobile and then just stoically endure and endure argh whatever you put in those, I don’t think this is simply a matter of commingling amalgamation anymore, there is for sure some transmutational synthesis something wicked going on here, you are not supposed to just confound arcane and unknown chemical elements together and then bottoms up and uh la la, excuse-moi, there are more hygienic ways of killing yourself...alright that’s enough, it’s all imprinted like caustically, nothing short of Ptolemy’s aqua regia is gonna make me ever wear this one again...

Kara meanwhile had gotten quite into the rhythm of doing the wiping, doing long and methodical swipes, more for the meditative sake rather than the removing of fast curdling milkshakes. For a while she didn’t react at all, just thinking how much one human sense differs from the other, how the tongue simply cannot get a smallest fraction of the most repugnant cues that come naturally to the eyes and noses and vice versa, and indeed most people with no peculiar preknowledge of the painting would very, no, almost certainly say it is, if they have to guess, for the general good sport of the moment, that is, say it is Pandora and the box, it’s not even Kitsch, it’s just getting by in society. As for her, she’s never gotten used to the way cameras make scenes of men and women subsist in a suspended breath, or more accurately speaking, since cameras take in all the spectrum, the product of camera is actually the full conduct of men and women in life, in life in the sense that it is dissipated, let loose, stripped of the dome-riding spirit, muse, whatever, that is not life, is not active on the receiving end of portraiting, and thus not working through the agents of artifice, so not part of life when simply being taken a photo of, so never present in any photos, or films, or tvs, but painting is altogether different, so she started collecting cheap replica paintings of all types as a hobby, crying regularly after prolonged appreciation of any of the perfectly stilled for display compositions of the blooming people and things in perpetual motion of magical geniuses. They are nothing like photos. She would say so to her husband when he was judging the whole premise with a silent bitterness, her and the paintings and the action of her buying and hanging meticulously the paintings all combined. She realized it’s been almost five years since her last album was released and the scariest thing was that it felt like yesterday and at the same time five lifetimes ago, and without knowing she had pressed her face against Blondie’s femur, and was murmuring I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry...

Out of nowhere she wheeled around like she knew what she was doing at a monte carlo Roulette table, with the full confidence that things would just go away on their own, and everything was exactly where she had left them, Why does your phone show ‘mysterious woman No. 3 (non-French) calling’ when I call you?

And just when you think women can’t be worse you got these different kinds of women that will literally tear you apart with each of them having little different theories and stories of their own and stuff and try to sell you down these yoyo highways you don’t even know go where with different kinds of promises of sunsets and stuff it’s like a minefield everywhere except the crossroad from where you begin and you are just stuck out of luck I suppose, you don’t see the animals fussing this much over their females, it’s just all one and the same come one come all all coming in stacks and meters and graduated cylinders but these women and not to mention the gays with these little heads and ideas and opinions inside can really work you up into some serious mystification and not knowing what to think of anything before you know you’ve spent the whole day just listening to them talk talk like when you are trying to stick two leaves of paper together somehow and you’ve been working it on all fours for half an hour and then one of them come and hand you a monkey wrench or a solar-powered jackhammer you are all just like What the what the what the... and another sometime later gave you a strawberry and assure you this is the answer to everything and you just stare and still holding onto these two pieces of paper like an epic fool listening to all these incoherent tidbits about strawberries and the boasts of her skill at their selection and appraisal and about the number of seeds every one has and the signification of every shade of color from the outer integument to the vegetative core so at the end of the day you are half blind and these strawberries encircling your head dumbstruck by these two