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lab report 22-2

In the Autumn, when the veins of the trees go dead in preparation of the cold winter, as they retreat from within and pool their sap, the little, thin, fleshy leaves drop their microcosms to the Earth.  Luckily, they are pulled there by gravity and forces unknown, because, so brilliantly beautiful as all of their unique, individual living universes are in the prettiest of colors, still vacantly alive somehow as they independently live on their garnished life force, falling to the ground and settling and eventually disintegrating into the cosmos as if the universe itself ripped it apart and desired what it could grasp, they are some kind of temporary thing.  Maybe the living leaf, compartmentalized in organization and hierarchy is redirected to dimensions, math, and parts unknown, to be recreated and eventually born again.

We are dazzled by them, dazzled by the whole stuff of life, pinwheel stars spinning in our mind’s eye as we contemplate the things of which we are wrought.  Chalk outlines on the appeasement of nature in our memory. I state this case to you plainly, so that you may see that we are alive, not dead, yet one day we will fade into the echoes, as it were, so let’s you or I live and be pretty or beautiful for monsters we cannot even comprehend, to be recreated and eventually born again, leaving behind ne’er a whisper in all the seasons past.  The leaf, it fades or not, all these changes, permutations and redirects of living matrices tells us that this living force of which we share and are of a part, set against the enormity of a black void in which exists nothing else recognizable as life, let’s you or I hope for something better.

horse channel

Hi, and welcome to the fantastic balloon party after-parade, where celebration is a matter of what hour it is.  Have some buttered crumpets and some tea, my dog, and listen as I regale thee.

let us find this little pinhole reality, let us look through the burned cresent of eclipsed moons, let us journey through these insides of wires, tubes, electricity and marketing.  I tell you this, I tell you that, quickly these people throw up their signs and I say to thee SILENCE.

Let the winds work in your advantage, if you would be such a person as to need the sustenance of the earth, air, wind or fire.  I can leave not a word, not a word upon the brow of such a man!

They flee, they turn and run and hide and live and invent their society in brand new directions as we travel on and they leave us alone.  I have put them aside, you have believed it, it is fine.  Let us finish our sips of tea and go about our business, exchange for exchange, and we have had it.

flat carpets and the tide

listen:  i’m not trying to put one over on the goose or get started where I ain’t already been.  Everybody’s got trials by fire.  Each person goes through the bladed gamut.  I blast these keys and print the words on this electro-paper at forty thousand (40,000) caricatures per second.  It is like you or I are at the carnival and I am sitting there playing my music faster than the speed of light.  It’s ok.

It’s ok that sometimes people take us home to church.  It’s okay to be a renegade, picking the locks of the cathedral and then tickling the ivories of the piano’s board.  Get up and ring the bell at the top of the tower!  Ring through the hillsides, exult, cry and exclaim to the Heavens!  This is quite a possibility, should you only believe.

The church is old and abandoned, so who owns it?  God.  Not that he’s happy you’re banging around so scarily.  You’ll wake up the dead, he says.

Wake up the dead! we cry.  We run through the tall grass, the fields of glory and scream Wake up the dead!  We holler and whoop at the top of our lungs.  Wake up the dead!

No.  We don’t.  The sun set’s up it’s purple departure and we are not going to do this.  Not now, and maybe now that we were so enraptured with this vision, not ever.

 

capital blues

On an alternate Earth, another life supporting planet somewhere in the galaxy or cosmos, exists two little alien children named Xpptl and Pirmarn. They are both friends in the way we’d understand it here on Earth.  Their dark, lizard like skin provides them adequate protection from the elements and these people tend to have fatter bellies than us hairless apes. They had large pupils and copper colored irises as the light from their Sun was much farther away, these eyes helped them see things as we would on their, by our standards, darker planet, during the day.

They were playing a game called Gimbal and it uses a board with stones and magnets. You moved your piece, either a stone or magnet, depending on your turn, and the magnets were marked with their poles, so you could also flip the magnet to face forward or back. The object of the game was to capture all of your opponent’s pieces. It is quite a fun past-time, especially for these two little orphans of their village, as in their culture, a child was a child of the world, not of the parents, and so the village’s children were taken care of collectively.

They had hair like us, though their rugged and dark skin did not seem like it would be so. They had two main eyes of which to see, with a cluster of smaller eyes supporting them, each large iris surrounded by smaller eyes to view varying wavelengths. They love the game of Gimbal and would play it everyday.

sunshine the abacus

In one little slice of the pie, one little, lonely corner of the universe, connected to the all of everything, but separated in detail was a finished basement and a storage closet. Connected to this storage closet by reasons of life, emotion, and metaphysics, were some board games, but most importantly, a book.  This book was not stolen, but found by a young child who lived in the slightly larger, more furnished version of the closet, a house which sat on top of the closet, with some bedrooms with their own closets, and this surrounded by a ball of water vapor on a planet called Earth.

This young child’s name was Paul.  He had two older siblings, Priscilla and Finn.  Finn was the oldest, a young boy of barely 12, and Priscilla, with dark hair, was 8.  Paul, himself, was only 4 or 5, maybe 7, but if you asked him, he could tell you exactly.

The three had found the book, although Paul had spotted it, while playing in the wilderness outside of their neighborhood.  The wooded area surrounding their home probably went on to the whole ends of the Earth, they figured.  Finn had mentioned that there was deserts, and some oceans, so this probably wasn’t true, but Paul and Priscilla both shared with each other that they thought this idea was pretty cool.

They knew, as kids know, that this book was in some way, shape, or form, a magical book, in the sense that it would share, with any person who read it, a special story just for the reader.  They discussed this at great length on their way to their home, as the book ended up in a basket of laundry next to the dryer and eventually moved into a closet.  It was stored with games, plastic bins of markers and pens, and some holiday decorations labeled in cardboard boxes.

Later on, maybe two weeks or ten years (as it felt to children) Paul found the book (again) and brought it to Priscilla and Finn. “Let’s open it!” Paul said, as he ran into the room in his cool superhero pajamas.  Finn was sitting on his bed and Priscilla was coloring.

“Ok,” said Finn, and they all gathered around on the carpet and opened the book to read what was inside.

Paul, unable to contain himself, started first.  “This book was found by Paul Wakesfield on October 11th, two Wednesdays ago.  He was really excited to find this book and he totally had forgotten all about it.”

“Wow!” Paul said.  “That’s what happened!”  Excited, he turned to his older sister.  “You go,” he said.

Priscilla looked down at the book.  “Priscilla is currently reading this book.  She has dark hair and is only 8 years old.  She has a lot of fun most days, but some days her brothers tease her so bad that it makes her want to cry.  She wishes her brothers would be just a little bit nicer sometimes, but she loves them.”

“Oh my gosh,” she says excitedly, and Priscilla and Paul turn to Finn.

“What does yours say?” Paul asks.  “Is it vikings?  Pirates?  Robots?  Flying cars? The stuff it has said so far has been pretty boring.”

“Yeah, this is boring guys, come on,” Finn says and he closes the book and gets up.  “Let’s go do something else.”

Later on, as Finn is lying in his bed, looking at the moon through the window in his bedroom, he sighs.

The book had been blank for Finn.  He wondered what it could mean as he fell into a deep sleep.

The book was no longer in the house after that night. It went back to where it came from, or maybe it moved on to an alternate reality, but it was forgotten by the three, as they grew up to live rather nice lives, though Paul continued to find life a little boring, and did most of what he could to make it more interesting for everyone.

 

t-bone bowl

Cheer up. This hole of reality is a pit of darkness so deep, there is no return, a lot of people check out, don’t be one of them. Their vacant eyes and absent souls acting on muscle memory, going about their day. Ha ha, I’m just kidding, that’s all of us, to some degree we live out our souls, or we become one with this stuff of this place, maybe both, it doesn’t matter. I can sit here and pack boxes all day, in a giant factory, that releases these boxes to the wild, in some alternate dimension.

Obviously, my escape is my imagination. I’m not necessarily trying to escape reality, but I find it all to be very mundane. Eat, sleep, watch, sleep, do, sleep, eat, go on a trip. Have fun, have friends, chill out, fight sometimes, make up, be alive.

These are all the lessons of the mortal coil, as we spiral are way out. That’s why we talk. That’s why we communicate, we’ve got these bigass frontal lobes chock full of wizardry, and in this we dispel the rumors of a terrifying existence. Lightning oceans washing up on the shores of monoliths of experiential data, splashing back and freeing our fears, releasing the monstrosities of self upon the rubber barrier of what’s behind our eyes, bouncing back and scrabbling before they get sucked out through the mouth.

Splish, splash, I spit hot fire, tasting the absolution of these night terrors. Believe in some kind of cosmic universe where we are no longer set to be chained to the slavery of modern physics. Maybe I’m reborn genetically altered, or maybe they bring us all back to a much larger, futuristic universe that we all can be supported in, and we’re just preparing the way.

The substance of this place is dynamic. One iota of it, say, the atom, once sundered, releases chaos larger and more magnified than you can believe. We’ve pushed our fingers against the membrane of this place and poked a hole to other side, it’s just true. Welcome to the after-party. Does our guilt make us cower in the event of this towering tree of spiderweb glass cracks we have rendered onto our Earth, burnt hole fragmented and unraveling?

I don’t know.  I mean, it’s kind of cool, but I’m not particularly worried about it.  Everyone can sum up their fears, worries, aches and pains into a general feeling of malaise, and all I mean is cheer up.  It’s brighter out there than you think.  There’s laughter, smiling, people genuinely getting along and it’s inspiring to at least one of us, so be one of those.

cold addition

“Alright, hand me the scissors, some more straw, a blowtorch, that paint, some do-rit-os, and a cold, frosty, green lightning from the mini-fridge, yo,” said this one guy.  “Alright,” says the other, more empathetic fellow, since he listened more and talked less.  This other dude, who had brown hair and was generally shorter than the taller fellow with all the demands, gathered up all of these supplies and dumped them unceremoniously onto the desk in front of them.

“Here’s all your shit, bro, what are you doing?” he said.

“Dude, don’t fizz my cola,” taller, lighter-colored hair guy says, and cracks open his green soda.  “You are harshing my mellow something fierce,” he says.  “Listen, I’ma show you what this is all about, come back here in like two hours, I’ll be done,” he asks.

“Tight,” says the brown-haired youngster.  He goes off to play. Eventually, the ball that this kid and another were playing with got kicked under a car, and it was wedged so tightly, they could not get it out, not even an adult could get it out, so he wanders back to the shed that Kid 1 is still in for some godawful, horrible reason, because it was a really cool day outside and it would have been really cool if Kid 1, who’s name is Spencer, had come out to play, too.

Kid 2, brown hair sappy boy, who’s name is Jeffrey, but for your purposes, you can refer to him as J-dog, enters the shed again and asks Spencer, “Yo, was crackin’ homie?”

“Not much,” says Spencer.  “I’m about done with this,” he says, and puts down the blowtorch.  He lifts the mass of stuff on the desk into the air.

“This is called a motherfucking ‘effigy’, my bro.”

“What’s that?” J-dog says, clueless and caught in the headlights.

“This is an effigy and I’ma show you what it’s for,” Spencer says.

“You’re kinda scaring me, dawg,” J-dog says, but he blows it off and plays it cool.  A light tear rises in his eye, but he wipes it away.  “I mean, come on dog, you’re mom’s from Indiana, bro, quit clownin’.”

Now Spencer is clueless, and all of time stops, so I can step in to explain what’s going on.  You see, J-dog thought that the word ‘effigy’ was from a foreign language and he’s probably right.

Look it up.

So now, Spencer and J-eez-us are strolling down the way and the sun is setting.  The effigy looks to be a scarecrow made of some burlap and staw or something, and Spencer’s also got some rope on him in the shape of a noose.  They find a tree and Spencer strings up the sackman to hang from the tree with a noose around it’s neck and he starts beating on it with a stick.

“WHOA, MAN,” J-bird says, because Spencer has obviously blown his fucking mind.

“Whoa, you’re beating a stuffed dude hanging from a tree by a rope around it’s neck, that is too fucking far out for me, man,” J-dog says.

“I know,” says Spencer.

He beats the thing a few more times, then he lights it on fire.

“Dude!  It’s a flaming, hanging man from a tree, bro!”

“Yeah, now watch this,” Spencer says.

He starts beating the figure again.  Flames and embers burst from the strawguy and little pinpricks appear on their skin.

“Holy shit, dude!” J-bro says and they fall on the ground laughing and rolling around.

After some time, the strawman has pretty much burnt up, and nothing else around the thing had caught fire, due to Spencer having been prepared and possibly once a boy scout.

“What was that all about,” J-dog says, propping himself on his elbow.

“That haydude was totally a physical representation and manifestation of all of my deepest fears, hates, and worries, all rolled into one entity.  It was cathartic attempt at rationalizing that this truly is a cold, uncaring universe, but I still have the warmth of heart to go on, I realize.”

“Thank God!” J-dog says.  The two guys go get icecream afterwards.  At some other part of this story the cops had shown up and arrested the pair and they spent about two nights in prison before being seen by a judge, at which point they were given probation and a slap in the face, because in that town, you were allowed to slap people in the face.

 

The End

 

plastic box for wetware

Charting a course through the stratosphere, we are fifty parsecs above land, no activity port, we are cleared for destination.  A man lands his foot to the pavement, his shoelace is untied.  A piece of gum sticks to his tread and now he is pissing out dark, yellow vitamins in the alley of some long-forgotten and abandoned landscape, where the sun is dripping brightly, the green is somewhat burned around the edges, and the ribbons fly through the air.  We’re landing, sir, comes a voice from within.

“Yes, of course, let me make myself more presentable,” says you, the person that this is about.

“Make yourself comfortable,” comes a commanding voice from deep in the cockpit.  You are still dreaming of dogs chasing cats through the clouds.  “Will it rain today?” you ask, and no one replies, because no one knows.

You do.  This is your life.  You are in control.  You want it to rain?  Snap your fingers.

This seems like so much, but it really is only just a little thing.  You can’t bother yourself with worrying about the rain, you’ve got other fish to fry.  Big, hefty fish, big, hefty fish flesh and fire.

“Where am I headed?” you ask.  You don’t ask this, you don’t want to ask this because it might seem like you have no idea what is going on, what you are doing, or what your purpose is, and everybody else seems to be just fine.  You keep this question to yourself and leaf through a small notebook you had placed in front of you prior to any of this happening.

“Certainly these notes to myself should clue me in as to what is taking place,” you say, and you leaf through the pages.  They’re blank.

“Well, I guess I was supposed to do that later on,” you remark to yourself sardonically, as you pick up a black pen that you must have intended on using and fulfill the prophecy you had set forth from the get-go.

‘Figure out what is going on,’ you write in the notebook to yourself.  You then scribble above this ‘Step 1’.  “Hopefully there are more steps to come,” you think as you close this notebook, immediately forgotten, because you have arrived.

The colors of the area you are in fade, you find yourself seated at a table with yourself.  “Hi,” you say.

“Hi, I’m you.”

You guys get into a deadly fight.  Blades flashing, is it really the time for you to die?

Not by your own hand, you think.  The tempest is over.  You sip your coffee politely as some more people line into the room and discuss current events.  Certainly you must play your part, then.  You flip through your notes and find your purpose.  How easily to follow simple, one-step rules.  You snap your fingers and thunder strikes.  Now everyone is batshit scared, but you’re not, because you don’t have the foggiest clue what has happened, but you are resolute in your determination to get to the bottom of it.

“When you snapped your fingers, it started raining,” says one of the people.

“I know,” you say.

“Are you a magician?” one of them says.

You think for a minute and tell them “No.”  Crisis averted, you go back to sipping your coffee.  They don’t used to make mornings like this, but you resolve to get to the bottom of that, too.

Your name is Larry.  You live in a country on the planet and are given to flights of fancy.  You drink rum with juice at times.  You are also forgetful.

tardy tudie and the cleats

I think the crowd prefers things cut, dry, pre-packaged, instant, supported by gobs of money, and in their face. It would seem that way. Maybe not, maybe just the big media machine does. Learn from the valuable predators, the resourceful omnivores, the cotton-candy puffery and wild baboons. Learn from the skies, learn from the voids that shape and define us. Do we learn from the blade thrust into our chest, or do we learn that we are now going to die? Take advantage of what does not harm you and watch it grow. Plant the seeds, reap the harvest, keep watch over your things and guard them so, limbs or space vehicles, whatever is in your charge.

Think of your day, think of the random conversations you may have or have not been a part of, and you’ll have an idea for the orthodox and how often is the word ‘wisdom’ ever used?  Maybe 1 of 1000 words, but that’s also a probably extremely high probability.

Anyway, my point is, the masses sure know how they like their content. Cut, dry, seasoned with the times.

Wisdom wouldn’t be wisdom, if everyone heard it.  So you can’t really blame someone for not having it.  People didn’t make themselves the way they are and some people go so far as to say that others are going to pay for it.  Sure, back in the days of high survival, it was good to have a bloodthirsty mindset.  But now?  Now we all live in soft linen and robes and things.  Ease of transport, quick of cash.  The heated air or cooled comfort of the indoors and pleasurable.  We live in palaces, my dear, compared to so long ago.  The truth is always in fashion, the seasons?  Changing tides.  It is history in the making.

I don’t worry about it, I guess.  I don’t know if you do either, but I guess it doesn’t matter to me.

I’m not responsible for this.  Neither are you.  Neither is any one lone individual.

But here I am, one lone individual, cutting a cloth against the tidal wave of no responsibilities.  Crashing the shores of desolate moons, waylaid by principle and fear.  Blank, stretched white canvas on which to dash my ink. I write with fervor and intent, maddened and hungry for law and order. A wild beast, set free from the constraints of physics, laying my hands upon the ethereal and watching, and waiting, fighting against the tyrannies of being set free.  Many people confuse the wild and the civilized.  Many people get confused about what role freedom plays in a world not of our making.  Listen to me, I didn’t even make my own body.

I grew it!  Someone dropped some shit off in the lab and I definitely applied the right lighting to it, that’s for sure.  Once it was put in my charge, I was responsible for it.  I don’t abdicate responsibility, I choose to be free.  The resilience of reality ensures that I am reckoned with.

john and the beanstalks

Men lurking around a field because they’re going to go at each other with swords, blades, knives, shields, helmets, mace, rocks, sticks, name-calling, basketball hoop, these dudes are going to win, either them or they.  Blood or sweat will flow or both.  Someone yells out “Peace!”

“Peace!”

“Peace, gentleman,” is called from one of the sides of the green grass meant to darken with evil sky and rivers of blood.  A technical is called.  Generals rear up their horses, plans are dashed and folded, computers start crunching long, big, heavy numbers.

“We call for peace between both of our sides!”

“Fuck off, we need to eat,” says the others.  Instantly branded criminals, they kick the shit out of the other dudes until they scream bloody murder.  Howling as they receive the eternal beatdown.

No.  Wiser and cooler heads prevailed from the other side.  It is just a mirage, a bloodmist that falls over the eyes and minds of both teams.

“Why should we relent of our contest?” or some words depending on where this is and what exactly is going on.  “Why should we not fight?” they say, for clarity.

The reason these guys are going at it is circumspect, here.  Obviously, they feel a need to beat.  These are the lines drawn in the sands for men.

“Because we don’t need to, anymore.  The reason to do this has been called off.”

Everyone packs up the stage equipment and lighting and they all go home, no blood thirsty necks torn today.  They go home to their wives and children and live great lives.

 

The End