404 Documents, Installment Five: Interrogation.

(Read all 404 Documents)

The interrogation room was nothing special. An office conference room. The ceiling fan whirred slowly overhead and the fluorescent lights flickered, flooding the interior with a dingy and unnaturally greenish yellow hue. The man seated opposite me was husky, forty-something going on seven-hundred, and world-weary. I could tell this from the lines and bags under his eyes, like the rings on the inside of a hewn tree. Those sunken circles made his face seem like that of a raccoon's, which may have been comical in any other setting.

“I’m Agent Trevino,” he said, the tone of his voice doing nothing to dispel my narrative.

The 404 Documents, Installment Four.

In a similar way, all of us were having a Grand Olde Time playing dress up in our MotherHiveBrain issue hazmat suits, when - as if out of nowhere - sirens and loudspeakers blared through the acoustically reflective mall: STAY WHERE YOU ARE.

Everything froze and then broke into chaos, like a giant pane of glass that shudders for a moment and then POOF! explodes in a great huff of shards. Down the hallway, we could see a group of mall cops pointing in our general direction, throngs of those mannequin people pushing and shoving in all directions, and behind them stood real cops in SWAT gear. We all took one look at one another and tore off in the opposite direction. Ripping off our masks, we scattered down side corridors and into random stores, depositing pieces of our costumes in trash bins and clothing racks as we went.

The 404 Documents: Installment Three.

(Read all 404 Documents)

A week later I found myself staring at one of the many entrances to the King of Prussia mall from inside a gas mask. For those that haven’t had the pleasure, let me just say KOP is like the Platonic ideal of “mall,” which is to say that it is placid Hell on Earth, with elevator music. The 7th circle, fake marble, and all the people are display mannequins come to life.

It was a warm day in early fall, and I was a great deal more warm because the hazmat suit was less than breezy. I looked down at myself and shook my head. Was the giant bumble-bee screen print going too far?

Art in the Future: Fake it until you Make it.

As I was preparing my topic that was originally going to be on my successful attempt of time traveling from the future back to the present (which simply consisted of going the speed of light while facing the opposite direction) I noticed while I was visiting the future the direction that art has taken from our present day to the year 2089 (which is when I visited).

What you are experiencing now in media, especially online, such as quick video clips of people's cats, photoshopped images of cats and other cat-related entertainment and internet memes featuring cats is considered the underground (which is literally under ground in abandoned subway tunnels) "edgy" art in the future. Here is an example:

To Arms! Or The Joys of Psychometry

The streets are bustling highways of etheric energy gashed out in the astral-body of the Earth, as all modern cities are. One single strip of human consumption. Vast constructs programmed for profit and desire. Like a goat eating a sugar-coated pop-can, I take great delight in these creatures’ delicious little webs; but of course, the spider never catches me. I am a drop of dew among the flies.

I have found a suitable weapon…. Inside the “Silver Moon – Metaphysical Shoppe”. Shelf upon shelf of witchy mischief, profound revelations, and tales of sexual encounters with ghosts. Crystals harboring Atlantean spaceships within their etheric matrix, cauldrons emblazoned with leafy pentagrams, and wands made by someone’s grandmother.

The Apocalypse: a Romance at the End of Time

i


I should have known when I woke up in the morning that it was the Apocalypse. It had been the apocalypse for a while, but this was it; Angels with flaming swords, the firmament cracking, the sky on fire, seas running red...about what you'd expect. Just like I expected, it was the biggest surprise in human history, and of course, it all started with a dame...

I was sitting at my desk regretting last nights fourth bottle of bootleg rum when she walked in.
And by "walked" I mean climbed down my fire escape and jumped though the window. Somehow, I knew she'd be trouble.
"Can I help you?" I said, holding back a stream of profanities.
"That depends, are you Dr.Adventure?" she dusted off her tights,
"Maybe" I said "that depends whats chasing you through my window" I looked her straight in the eyes, then checked her out from head to toe.
"Oh, don't worry about that, I was just taking in my morning exercise, its faster than the train" She smiled.
"Well, in that case, Yes, I'm Dr.Adventure, how can I help you miss...?"
"they call me Action, I'm looking for a man." I raised an eyebrow
"maybe later, but I mean I'm looking for the man that Ended time"
"I didn't realize time was History..." I said, pouring two shots
"As of this morning" she said, taking her glass with a wink, "all time is NOW, didn't you feel strange this morning?"
"Darlin, I feel strange EVERY morning"
She continued, "humanity has undergone a mass shift in cognition, people have started remembering the past, as in before they were born, and the future."
"like i said, what else is new, where do I come in?"
She looked me straight in the eye when she downed her drink, "Well, now that we can remember the future, we know its your fault."
"Ha! you're welcome." I say, as the adrenalin kicks in, "so whats next?"
"Next" she gives with the full grin '"we have to make it happen. Our rides on the roof"
"Fuck yeah, bout time" I said as she lept back out the window . Told'ya, capital T. trouble.
This was Action girl, reality was fucked. We went to the roof and climbed into the machine. Nothing would ever be the same, it was the End of Time and the dawn of Humanity.

devotee

mounting the rhythm again,
i push.
stamping out fear through the soles of these feet.
a devotee screams, and shivers out;
a base bass of arrhythmic proportions.

in my blood. in my blood. in my blood.

i sing a song so old, only stones understand the sound.
the fires beneath, toss, and coil,
and I, and i, are alone in this time, this rhythm, this heat.
existing only for Mad Gods,
and the serpents...
writhing through the chambers of my heart.

Frater; I remember all previous incarnations in my co adjutant continuum. I have loosed the hold on the secondary personality. deliberately, and with malice. They lied Frater. I know they lied. What i do not know is if you are lying. I saw one of their cities Frater. Beauteous, and terrifying. Upper skyward spaces of exacting beauty, and control..rivers of pain , and suffering at their exalted feet. I danced Frater, i released the secondary out to dance. I will not contain her again. We are united in this decision. I have given my genesis to her, and have taken hers unto mine. I can hear you shrieking "Heresy!" from here Brother mine.... verify the truth of Councils intent. they lied. Did you? So Frater....what i have been assured was impossible, has happened. I am reliable Sorer no longer...i am the Serpent in this tree. Look to your selves...all of them.
"Et facto signo crucis canem solvit;
me timor invasit et vos et risit."

Anath Genesis.....?

P.S. Her name is Zanna, and she asks to send the following message to Council; "Go fuck yourselves."

Connecting to the 8 Dimensions

I am Agent Θθ 3.14159 a.k.a. Brian E. Thegele and I'm here to teach you about mental visualization techniques and attaining your Avatar Self through a Spirit Animal which is done through a series of scientific methods and practices that I've developed within the Metaphysical Science Arena which is located in the right corner of my meth lab in my mom's garage.

To achieve complete enlightenment, one must leave their host body and tunnel through a higher existence upon your Spirit Animal to your Avatar Self. This is done via meditation and a simplistic understanding of quantum mechanics and string theory.

I realize that those words may cause you to feel intimidated enough to be hesitant, but you should trust me. QM and ST aren't difficult to understand, it's just that the science lobbyists attach a bunch of overly complicated and meaningless arbitration to it and lose sight of what it really is. This is done purposely to prevent people from discovering the true power of QT. Which I have discovered and am about to tell you now, here, on the internet.

The Patients Run The Asylum

FROM FALLEN NATION: PARTY AT THE WORLD'S END

Scritch, scritch, scritch. The night nurse waddles through the hallways of the asylum on those god-awful rubber-soled shoes. Back and forth. I can’t rationally blame her pacing for my insomnia, but I do it all the same.
I feel the walls leering in at me each night as I roll around in my lice-infested bed, my eyelids clenched shut. They will probably look like two desiccated grapes by morning – swollen, sticky, and purple-veined – as I toss back the meds with bitter-tasting water. I just finished counting the blocks again. (There are 551 cinder blocks, 104 and a half floor tiles, and 25 asbestos-dusted ceiling tiles in my room.)
I was atrophying. No sex, terrible food, no music. There is no worse imaginable hell. Bored is bad. Bad for me, and even worse for the staff. I get creative when I get bored. Maybe those who tend the mental health machine are as much slaves as we are. I wouldn’t know, stuck as I am on the inside of the metal-insulated plate glass.
It’s “depressive ideation,” the doctors say, to think about the poisonous PCBs, polluting our bodies’ water by proxy. It is an “obsessive fixation” to mention the soil, leeched of its vital nutrients, leaving us all hollow as dried gourds. Granting dreams equal reality with waking was “magical thinking.” They had a nifty name for everything, and a real obsession with sickness. They saw it everywhere.
These things are just the realities of our lives, if we open our eyes. The lie is grinning talk show hosts, Prozac, the American Dream of normalcy, homogeneity, safety. The natural state of the human animal in troubling times is not happiness. Show me a man grinning in the trenches as the bombs fall, and I will show you a lunatic.
The first couple months, I was sure the story wouldn’t end here. I held out hope. I was, after all, just an overeager, idealistic kid. I thought I could break the cultural brainwash by hopping on a table with a toy gun and scream “You’re free!” Apparently that gets you a twenty-to-life sentence these days.
The terrorists didn’t just fly planes into buildings. Somewhere in that twisted rubble lies the shattered remains of this country’s sense of humor. I admit that the Shahada flag flying behind us in our propaganda video may have given the wrong impression.
Bottom line: ideas don’t count for a whole lot in this world, but on their own, they’re mostly benign. Ideals, on the other hand, get you a special jacket with one sleeve. Ideals get you shot.

I lost that idealism as months turned into a year. Our guerrilla street teams of lunatics – whole lot of good they were to the two of us that got hauled in. And Jesus was lost to us all, wandering endlessly in an inner world of possibility. I envied his Eden, where he was a she and all was as it should be. That wasn’t my dream, but I knew what it was to be consumed by an ideal. It sure beat the hell out of the reality that the doctors were trying to adapt us to. A world that deifies the flat-line of an EKG, a world without moods or personality, a place where stability only equals stagnation and where genocide and rape in the name of National InterestTM is fine, so long as you choke down the meds and ride the neon escalator to zombie-land.
Socrates said, “An unexamined life isn’t worth, living,” didn’t he? Well, a life inside a black box isn’t a life at all. Each day atrophies my soul. And with this goddamned three foot tall Venusian goddess squatting just behind my shoulder? – Cow teats jangling and flapping wetly, her breath sweet like honey and milk with the copper tang of blood – I mean, how can anyone expect to get any rest with that? It’s just not right.
Fuck is it ever hard to get to sleep around here.

Order the book now on Amazon!

Lilith

 

Lilith: Report.
Lilith in Fallen Nation.

Robot Circus Radio- "BRADLEY THE BUYER"/"THE ILLUMINIST"

Johan Ess presents Robot Circus - Episode Five (10-13-11) by Bradley The Buyer

The newest episode of Robot Circus with Johan Ess / Online Radio Show is up, featuring fascinating interviews with musical wizards Bradley the Buyer and The Illuminist so stream or download it before the thought police get you!

Fans of IDM, dub, industrial, glitch and breakcore will find plenty of ear candy here, plus an interview with yours truly on culture jamming, short circuiting the global powers that be, and art as a means to social CHANGE.

Initiated of the Order

Alexi

Nothing on the face of this earth—and I do mean nothing—is half so

dangerous as a children’s story that happens to be real, and you and I

are wandering blindfolded through a myth devised by a maniac.

— Master Li Kao (T’ang Dynasty)

Aleonis de Gabrael 

My first waking impression this morning was a hazy glance through frostbitten glass at an overturned trash can. The sound of a dog rummaging through the garbage. The gentle pattering of sleet on the roof. Doppler

shift as a car turns on slick asphalt. Sentence fragments, thoughts bisected in a 3 x 3 set of windowpanes on the far wall. If you’re really intent on a decent reproduction of the event, lie down and close your eyes. Imagine a chill sensation, a hazy image of a toe with overgrown toenails sticking out of the bed covers, and then a camera pan to the rusty trash can outside. Not a dramatic opening for a book, but it’s all this day

has given me.

mirrors

they cast me in a role and i become
(change the lipstick, change the hair…)
i am not i am not i
am not understanding you
SMILE
i am somewhere else i am
(LOOK!) i am (LOOK!) i am
stuck
(broken record. sorry. my mind stutters.)

who the fuck am i
are you
 am i are you am i are you am i
   are too am not are too am not are too
     nnnnkkkknnnnkkkknnnnkkkk
I AM NOT LISTENING
(shhh.)
i am so
are not (am too) are not (am too.)
it’s all about rearranging rooms.
toodeepkneedeepwaistneckeyes
i am drowning /says nothing/
 i look over at Him and smile. It will be better soon.
(?!)

Pennhurst 2

I’m here to tell you a story. It’s my story, really, and certainly not anyone else’s. Passing priest of the new psychological order. Wears the white robes, follows the arcane texts. Passes out communion. They call it an SSRI, but it’s all the same. “This is for my own good”? Swallow. [ ] will tell you quick before IT starts fuzzing, the moments get long, knottingtied to the air, painfully attaching you to the hollowness of this present moment with taut intestines. You still feel the numbness, you know? That’s a reassuring companion. Keeps you through the long days and even longer nights. Only this lingering sensation of numbness, of what has come before and no longer touches me directly, keeps me breathing, keeps me glued to this fleeting nothing, to this pale life. Yes, it has been said, I may be finished with the past, but the past is not finished with me. I am trapped, looking backwards.

Signing in

Floating in a sea of void-mind, the multi-dimensional framework of refracting and colliding worm-holes of pranic-force gently spins in place like a virtual-reality tour of mutating DNA. With my sphere of sight at once within and without, I observe my present position.

Midway between the chamber of diamonds

I am a disinformation Agent

From Rusty Shackelford
"The organization I represent is very real, though it operates under many different names because we have to keep them guessing. No. There is no grand conspiracy. I think we are conditioned to miss the obvious more often than not and opt for the fantastic or incredible. The best hidden truths are in plain sight.

I told him briefly of the interior design of The Plan: Let one hand know not what the other does, isolated cells operating largely independently of one another, no element of The Plan that is known by one cell is typically known by more than a few others at any given time. Ultimately, both sides in the struggle seem to play directly into one another, and at the end of The Game, the pieces go back together again into the same box.

I think I read that somewhere.

He asked me the typical questions: "Is Barbara Bush Aleister Crowley's daughter?"

"No, maybe. I don't know. So what if she is? Jesus."

"What do you think about Dan Brown?"

Sorry. Had to take a break there to eat half a dozen stale dinner rolls smothered in red wine vinegar and a pack of Slim Jims. And some sort of what I imagine to be fish covered in some creamy white sauce. FUCK am I ever itchy.

READ THE REPORT HERE