*Ha! I saw your spoiler post in the week, Clicky… /lights up and smokes… You are really enjoying this US election, aren’t you…*
*Eww, that’s what that smell is… /wrinkles nose… Go and have a bath. I’ll take it from here…*
Happy Halloween, Dear Reader 😀 Today we are delighted to present for you my short story from Underdog Anthology XII: Mask-Querade…
… called ‘What Time Do You Finish?’. Now, if you like it, Dear Reader, you might want to invest in a copy of the anthology, as it is chocked full with stories far creepier than mine. Enjoy! 😉
What Time Do You Finish?
By Roo B. Doo
It is said that Halloween is the time of year when the veil between dimensions is worn at its thinnest. In the year 2020, when a global viral pandemic, violent rioting and supermarket socially distanced queues dominated everyday life, that boundary thickness could be considered as flimsy as paper medical face mask. Why, an errant finger could easily pierce it.
God adjusted the mask across her visage, hoping no one would notice the ragged hole, and also that nothing too nasty had fallen through the breach on her sweet breath.
“How the hell am I supposed to know when we are?” Death snapped and glared up from inside the impenetrable blackness of his cowl at the three ominous figures surrounding him. They stood huddled at the junction of Great Russell and Bloomsbury Streets in London’s bustling West End. It was night, it was cold and, save for the motley quartet, the streets were completely deserted.
“Becoz yur Death,” the first figure hissed and bared vampiric fangs. Famine appeared tall and angular, dressed in a tuxedo, silk lined cape, and with a countenance so pale, it could only have been achieved by avoiding sunlight at any and all costs.
“Because you have the contraption,” the second figure added angrily. War appeared to be a smart businesswoman, confident and aggressive, in horn-rimmed glasses, sharp suit and infinitely sharper stiletto heels.
“AAAAAAAGH!” the third figure groaned as a fat, black housefly zig-zagged across a sunken cheek, before disappearing into a filth-caked nostril. Pestilence appeared to be a zombie; slack mouthed, grey decaying flesh and milk white, opaque eyes.
“No, Pesto, I don’t know what happened to the horses,” Death answered his rotting companion. He pulled himself up to his full height of three feet and three inches, retrieved a battered Psion organiser from beneath the folds of his robe, and unsheathed it with a satisfying pop. “I don’t understand it,” he cried, “transport’s always been laid on before.”
War, Famine and Pestilence stood in silence, watching over the diminutive but perfectly formed grim reaper, as he punched the keys of the electronic organiser with a gleaming phalange, and waited.
Click. Click. Click, click, click… click.
“Well?” War said impatiently. “We’re in London, that much is for sure. The British Museum is over there.”
Pestilence’s body did not move a single rotting muscle, but his head turned an unearthly 180° to follow the direction that War’s crimson painted talon was pointing in. “UGH WAAAGH AAAAAAAGH!”
“Ve don’t know if ve are zupposed to go zere.” Famine reached out and clasped either side of Pestilence’s head, twisting it back into a front facing position. “Ve don’t know vy ve are even here. Death, vot iz taking you zo long to find out?”
“Wait…” Death did not look up.
Click. Click, click. Click.
Death peered hard at the tiny screen on the Psion, before shaking it hard. “I dunno. It’s not working. Maybe the Cosmic Consciousness Neural Net is down again,” he said with a shrug.
“Argh!” War howled. She reached down and grabbed Death by the front of his robe and lifted him up to face height. Behind her glasses, War’s eyes blazed with fire. “That’s just brilliant! Ace! Fun-fucking-tastic, Death! What are we meant to do now?”
The dead weight of Pestilence’s arm slapped War on the shoulder. “WAAAGH UGH!”
“Yez, yez, yez, ve should all calm down,” Famine said smoothly, pulling Death from War’s tight grasp and setting him back on the pavement. He plucked Pestilence’s arm from War’s shoulder before she could rip it from its socket. “It does no good for uz to get agitated. Ve need to zink vot haz happened.”
“Exactly right, Famine,” Death injected in agreement. “Let’s look at what we do know.” He pushed himself free of the huddle and turned to face his companions. “We’ve got War, Famine, Pestilence and yours truly.” He began to glide, circling the trio. “The ultimate harbingers of doom and bringers of great tribulation. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse-”
“Sans horses, indeed. Most irregular. Literally dropped, without warning, in the middle of London-”
“Clos to ze British Muzeum,” Famine interrupted.
“Correct. So we know where we are but we don’t know when we are-”
“Late twentieth, early twenty first century, I’d say, from the smell of the air,” War joined in. “Plus it’s night time and it’s bloody freezing.”
“A winter’s night, yes. Probably accounts for the lack of any activity about-”
Death glided to a stop. “Your right, Pesto; there should be people about, even in winter. A big city like this produces lots of traffic-”
“Yez,” Famine mused, loudly tapping on his fangs in contemplation. “No motor vehicles hav passed by since ve arrived.”
Death nodded slowly, then looked up at the sky. One by one, War, Famine and Pestilence followed Death’s gaze.
“Nope, too much cloud cover and light pollution. I can’t see any stars to work out when we are.”
“I have a very bad feeling about this,” War whispered hoarsely.
“WAAAGH AAAAAAAGH!” Pestilence groaned.
“I agree, Pestilence, my dear friend. It haz to be a mistake,” Famine said solemnly. “An accident.”
“Possibly. We’d better start walking,” Death said and glided away down Bloomsbury Street, in the direction of Covent Garden.
War, Famine and Pestilence looked at each other and muttered darkly.
“Hold it, short-arse,” War barked. “Where exactly are we walking to? I can’t go far in these heels. They’re fucking murder.”
Pestilence dropped a shoulder and lurched awkwardly after Death. “AAAAAAAGH WAAAGH AAAAAAAGH!”
“Seriously? You’re going to follow him?” War shouted after the hunched and shambling figure of Pestilence. “You’ll disintegrate before you reach the end of this street, you noxious pile of pus! ”
Famine took War’s hands between his own, bowed deeply and lightly kissed her clenched fists until they opened. “Don’t vorry, my dear lady. I vill speak to Death.” Gently, he tugged on War so that she tottered forward with unsteady steps. “Please, come. Valk slowly. I vill talk to him.” With that, Famine turned into a giant bat and flew off in the direction of Death.
War roared with frustration but continued to follow the others. “I have Birkenstocks, you know. Why couldn’t I have manifested in my fucking Birkenstocks…”
Death heard wop-wopping wing beats approach from behind, and felt the change in air pressure as Famine flew over his head. He glided slowly until he reached his suave compadre, who stood in the middle of the pavement, arms wide, cape billowing and fangs bared.
“Death, stop please,” Famine pleaded. “Vor and Pestilence are in no fit state to valk far. Look.” He gestured back to the way they’d come. Pestilence jerked along slowly in the middle distance, with War following on behind, daintily sidestepping the trail of fleshy ooze left in Pestilence’s wake.
“Death, Death,” Famine cooed, “You know ve vould valk to the ends of ze vorld vid you, but you must tell us, vere are you taking us?”
Death paused and looked up, appraising his companion – Famine: always hungry, never sated, forever empty; his vampire appearance was more than apt. Pestilence, too, in zombie form was unrelenting, poisoning everything, even the very air. War, however, was a puzzler unless she represented a battle of the sexes. Should War shatter the fabled glass ceiling, Death was certain she would then set about slitting every available throat with the deadly shards.
What about me, though? I’m exactly the same, I haven’t changed, Death wondered. The inside of his skull began to itch. He sighed and shook his head. This whole situation was wrong and he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing something. Something big. Something important.
“Death?” Famine snapped his fingers rapidly. “Vere are ve going?” he demanded.
“To the Embankment, Famine. To Cleopatra’s Needle.”
“Ov course!” Famine slapped the palm of his hand against his widow’s peaked forehead. “Ze ancient Egyptian Obelisks of Time! Ve can return to ze hintervorld by way ov Cleopatra’s Needle! Zat iz super fine zinking, Death. No vonder yur the leader.”
“I-” Death suddenly cocked his head to one side. “Can you hear that?”
There was a low rumble in the distance but it was gradually getting louder, moving nearer. Death and Famine watched as at first, War turned her head to look behind, following the direction of the sound, then Pestilence slowly shuffled round to see what was making the noise. Further back in the distance, Death could just make out a dim rectangle of orange light, floating closer through the darkness, getting brighter. War began to wave her arms and shout.
“AAAAAAAGH!” Pestilence bellowed.
Death and Famine glanced at each other before racing back towards Pestilence and War. “Taxi!” they shouted in unison, tinged of relief.
War, Famine and Pestilence sat in abject silence in the back of the taxi; the three separated from Death and the taxi driver in the front by a transparent sheet of plexiglass, with only a narrow slot cut into it for the exchange of money.
Excuse me while I light my spliff…
“Spliff,” the taxi driver sang along to the bassy sound of Bob Marley and the Wailers coming through the speakers.
Oh God I gotta take a lift…
“Lift.” The taxi driver turned toward Death and gave him a beaming smile.
From reality I just can’t drift…
That’s why I am staying with this riff…
“Riff.” The taxi driver chuckled and tapped his hands on the top of the steering wheel, in time with the music. “Easy Skanking. Hell, I love this song.”
Death looked out of his side window. The feeling that something was wrong had only intensified as the empty London streets rushed by. He cursed the broken Psion organiser tucked inside his robes. Bloody useless technology. Give me an hourglass any day, he thought sourly.
“Good party, was it?” the taxi driver asked.
“Huh?” Death replied, perplexed by the driver’s question.
The taxi driver laughed. “The fancy dress party. Your costumes are sweet. I thought the government had cancelled Halloween because of the Rona.”
Death stiffened and the itching inside his skull increased. “Halloween’s been cancelled?”
“Yeah man, Christmas too if we’re not lucky,” the taxi driver replied.
“What year is… it?” Death asked slowly.
The taxi driver sucked his teeth contemptuously. “What you mean what year is it? It’s 2020, child. Where have you been?”
A burst of realisation exploded through Death’s train of consciousness: It’s 2020: the year anything happened! The year when pandemic waves of Coronavirus and Karenitus swept the globe, resulting in lockdowns, economic disaster and civil unrest. Things are starting to make sense now! Even so, the itch continued to irritate the inside of Death’s skull.
Cigar smoke suddenly filled the front of the taxi. Death coughed and tapped on the sign affixed to the console. “That says ‘No Smoking’.”
The taxi driver grinned at Death, a smoking cigar butt jauntily perched from the corner of his mouth. “2020, child. Donch ya know the saying? ‘A smoke a day keeps the Rona at bay’.” He laughed heartily and bounced up and down in his seat with mirth. “Besides, who’s gonna stop me? Look about you, my small friend. There’s no one around to say shit about it.”
If Death still had eyes, they would have been rolling round his ocular cavities. “Hey guys.” He shouted to the others through the slot in the plexiglass. “Problem solved: it’s 2020.”
“Tventy Tventy! Hellz Bellz!” Famine exclaimed.
Pestilence gave a guttural groan. “WAAAGH UGH AAAAAAAGH!”
“Yes, but what’s the date?” War demanded nervously.
“It’s the 31st October, sugar,” the taxi driver called back. “Happy Halloween.”
The taxi stopped at the end of Temple Place. In front lay the deserted Embankment. Along side it, the river Thames flowed swiftly past, glittering lights shimmered on its rippled surface, as above the clouds began to separate, clear, and finally reveal the celestial occupants of the night sky. The taxi driver nonchalantly flicked a switch on his dashboard, locking all the vehicle doors with a loud clunk.
“Oh no,” War murmured gravely and pressed her hands hard against her stomach. “No, no, no!”
“Vot iz it, Vor?” Famine asked with rising alarm.
A shaft of moonlight hit the taxi as it slowly pulled right out of the junction and onto the empty Embankment, illuminating its interior. The Moon was bright, it was clear and it was very full.
“It’s my monthlies,” War whined, sliding off her seat and onto all fours. Her jaw elongated and wiry tufts of fur sprang from her gnarly brow, knocking War’s horn-rimmed glasses from her face. “I don’t fucking believe this. Why nowOOOO!”
“Now this is a great song. One of the Skipper’s best,” the taxi driver exclaimed, ignoring the howling and growling, and blood-curdling shrieks of panic coming from the back of the cab, as the previously smart and professional War transformed into a ferocious and carnal beast. He turned up the volume on his stereo and began to croon along,
Until the philosophy, which hold one race superior and another. Inferior. Is finally. And permanently. Discredited. And abandoned. Everywhere is war. Me say war.
“Vot? NOOOO! Get avay! Get avay!” Famine screamed and impotently fumbled with the taxi’s doors handles. They were securely locked, however; there would be no escape.
Death sat stock still, strapped in tight and listened in horror to the sound of Famine and Pestilence being ripped apart by the slavering jaws and slashing claws of a werewolf that appeared to be War.
“How’s you seat, child?” the taxi driver asked slyly.
“I’m not a child,” Death tersely replied.
“UGH!” Pestilence’s bloody fingers abruptly thrust through the slot in the plexiglass, twitched once, then lay limp.
“I know, I know, little man. No offence intended.” The taxi driver continued. “That space you’re occupying used to be for luggage, but times are hard and last year it was converted into a child seat,” he explained. “Good thing for you, eh?”
The heavy silence that fell between the driver and his passenger was punctured by the sound of wet chomps and crunching bone emanating from the back of the cab.
The itch in Death skull stopped, but the very fabric of reality now took up its cause.
“Scratch?” Death asked tentatively.
“Who else you expecting?” the Devil, who appeared to be a smirking, smoking taxi driver, replied. The vehicle slowed to a stop next to Cleopatra’s Needle. “Now hurry up and spit it out. It’s time for you to leave.”
Death paused; it felt like eternity. Finally he asked, “Why?”
“Why?” Old Scratch puffed on his cigar, the shit-eating grin never leaving his face. “Why, Armageddon, little man. What did you think this is?”
Death was flummoxed. In his long existence, he had never been flummoxed before. It was a new sensation, but not one he’d ever longed for.
Old Scratch patted him on the head, then reached up to retrieve a folded piece of paper from behind the sun visor. “I got a letter last year, see,” he explained. He unfolded the page and glanced down at the childish writing on it. “From a sweet, innocent child. A touch dyslexic, but with the purest soul ever to inhabit a human body. What could I do?” He offered the letter to Death. “My heart just melted.”
Death took the letter from Old Scratch and began to read aloud: “’Dear Satan. My name is Molly and I have everything I will ever need. Can you please help everybody else in the world by ending hunger, pollution and war. This is my Christmas wish. Thank you. Molly Darling, age 6. P.S. I hope you are well.’”
“So considerate and polite,” Old Scratch sighed, taking the letter back.
All the stars in the heavens swirled furiously inside Death’s skull. He mentally grappled with the raging storm, searching for a handhold on his sanity. “War ended Pestilence and Famine, but War isn’t dead.”
“You sure? Can’t hear no breathing back there.”
Death swiftly unlocked his seatbelt and stood up on his seat. The plexiglass was no longer transparent, but smeared red with blood and gore. He pushed the dead fingers of Pestilence back through the slot and heard a splash as the severed hand they were attached to thudded to the floor of the taxi. Death peered through the gap and saw War lying naked and smoothly pale in the bloodbath. A chunk of half chewed greenish meat fell free from her lifeless lips.
“WooEE! That Pesto sure was ripe!” Old Scratch said, opening his window and flicking out ash from his cigar. “Bad meat. Never eat it. Always, always, insist on fresh.”
Death pulled away from the sight of the abomination in the back of the taxi and sat back down in his seat. “But how can it be Armageddon if War, Famine and Pestilence are gone?”
Old Scratch punched the numbers on the keyboard of the dashboard fare display. “With no hunger, there will be obesity, so humanity will become slovenly and fat, lazy and satisfied. No war means no competition, no goals to achieve, so mankind will lose its desire to better itself. And the elimination of pollution is a sure fire way of killing any human creativity. I give the species ten years, tops.”
“But there will be death,” Death whispered softly.
“Oh indeed, you’re still needed. You have a busy time ahead of you, little man. That’ll be six six six.”
Death snapped his head back to face the Devil in the driver’s seat. “What?”
Old Scratch laughed and pointed to the fare metre. “Six pounds, sixty six.” He gave a phlegmy cough and waved Death away. “Just kidding. For you, child, no charge,” he said gleefully.
*Ah, that’s much better, Clicky… /stubs butt… Do try to keep clean…*
We hope you enjoyed the story, Dear Reader, and that you will consider purchasing a copy of the latest Underdog Anthology…
*”By the book”… /thinks… Who was the 37th President of America, Clicky?*
*/rolls eyes… Elementary, dear Clicky…*
… And may the rest of your Halloween we kenned be spooky. Have a Song… ❤
Today we have a new missive from Cade Fon Apollyon for you, Dear Reader…
*Wot?! That was on my Twitterfeed just now, Clicky? …/lights up and smokes… Blimey, spectacular timing…*
… I’ve been getting some ‘Die! NO! Sore‘ syncs this week, Dear Reader…
*/genteelly clears throat… Yeah, Cade and I ended up remote viewing ‘Jurassic Park’ together, but the syncs started before that, Clicky…*
… that started with a ‘Timepool‘ tweet, that wasn’t about ‘Dye Nose Ores‘ at all…
… but I did recall a rather striking magazine cover image that I saw in 2016…
*The germ on our minds in 2020, Clicky? …/raises quizzical eyebrow… They do say the dinosaurs were wiped out by an extraterrestrial impact…*
… I decided against replying to TimePool’s tweet with the Der Spiegel image, when shortly after Cade suggested we remote view the movie ‘War Games’ together, from 1983. To my chagrin, I’d never seen it…
*Dinosaurs! You could of knocked me down with a feather, Clicky. I was not expecting that… /flicks ash…*
*Did he say the T-Rex is the essence of chaos? /smirks…*
*Interesting. I wonder if Stephen King is familiar with Nietzsche… /sigh…*
… It got me pondering, who are today’s ‘Dine Azores’?
*Fuck! This missive header has gotten way out of control, Clicky…*
*Good thinking… /stubs butt… I’ll make it a two parter. Better get a Song…*
Apols! This post is already far too busy, so Cade’s actual missive will appear as a Part 2 post tomorrow. Have a Song whilst you wait 😉
*No, no, the other one, Clicky…*
Dear Reader, the following missive from Cade FON Apollyon, a.k.a. the Okie Text Us Devil, arrived yesterday…
*Cade and me remote viewed that movie on Friday night, Clicky… /lights up… Love a bit of ‘itchcock, me…*
*No, Clicky, knot that diseased clap… /drags… HITCHcock…*
… Apols! I didn’t have time to format it for posting then…
*True… /streams cloud of smoke… It appears Cade has been chewing on the idea of paper, Clicky…*
… BUTT! It’s ready for you now…
*Is that a pun on tool/cock, Clicky? …/arches eyebrow…*
… Enjoy, Dear Reader, enjoy! 😀
PEACE SAYS OF PAPER
PEACE IS OF PAPER
PEA CIS OF PAY PER
PEE ZIZ AH VAPER
PEACE IS A VAPOR
Pieces Of Paper
Whadda ya think peace would say of paper?
We write out some peaceful accord on paper, we sign it, date it, maybe stamp it with some ribbons and/or seals, shake hands, give out copies of the thing, then marvel at our own significance. But paper hasn’t been around forever. Depending on who you ask, and depending on how technical they may get about what “paper” actually is, paper may have been invented by any number of people at various times in various places around the globe. The general consensus being that paper has only been around in various forms for a coupla thousand years. Before that it was chicken scratching in clay or on rocks or maybe even on copper plates. And before that? Welp, it appears there wasn’t any writing going on. The peeps way way back had an oral fixation, and little, if anything, was written down.
What I’m getting at, is how long has the concept of “peace” been around. More than that, what does “the expression of peace” mean. Does peace require some secondary something in order to be real.
^DJ Cummerbund – Play That Funky Music Rammstein^
I bet you know your country very well. Prolly know where it came from, what it’s about/what it stands for, what it is capable of, and what it is incapable of. If you are patriotic, you’ll know there is NOTHING your country is incapable of.
One might read that article and think that the United States of America and its peoples are more than capable of not holding up their end of a bargain. Agreements are meaningless to Americans. To be fair tho, here in the year 2020AD/CE, all the people who made those agreements are dead. The old people who never knew me, nor would even know that I would ever exist? Why should they get to speak for me? They have no idea when I’m alive nor what my needs are, so how in the hell can they possibly be so bold as to think they can speak for me. Takes some serious balls to tangle future generations in your own wicked web(s). Oh, and before you get too heavy on picking on the USA, may wanna do some digging in your own country’s past.
May even wanna dig in your own personal past…see what agreements you have and have not adhered to.
^Aldous Harding – The Barrel (Official Video)^
Best way to enslave someone, is not to tell them. Stealth slavery. Oh sure, you’ll see all kinds of signs that this slavery is very real and not some modern myth, but you’ll dismiss these signs. Suspension of belief, because the truth is too horrible to contemplate. Afterall, the lie that is perpetuated whilst remaining unspoken? Yeesh…fucking horrible thought.
Take your billions and jam them up your ass…we want the land.
^Dirty Projectors – Inner World (Official Music Video)^
You’ve got the freedom to do your own thing(s). You’ve got the freedom to play the game(s) your own way(s). Gotta admit tho, it’s rough. The temptation to get up on that big stage and perform for the whole world?
Your own act works great for you, and you begin to think everyone else ought to be dancing your own personal jig. And just like that, you become the very thing you supposedly hate.
^R.L. Burnside: See My Jumper Hanging On the Line (1978)^
I’m 52 years old, and I’d imagine that I’ve gone through a shitload of paper in my time here on Earth/Terra.
Q: Where is all that paper now?
Even if I had some of the paper I’ve used over the years, it’d prolly be tattered, yellowed, crumpled, ink smudged or faded, and whatever was written on it prolly wouldn’t mean the same to me today that it did back whenever I first scrawled on it. It is with that in mind that I wonder what paper may think of itself with respect to whatever is written upon it. And at its core, I wonder what paper writes upon us. How does this tangible material called paper somehow solidify the abstractions that we each of us are capable of (like peace).
I guess I could be all dour and espouse that paper might think us all hypocrites. That what is on that paper is unlikely to reflect what is in our hearts. Yet here I am, day after day, spilling my guts and pouring out the contents of my soul as to exactly what is in my heart. So why am I so goddamn skeptical about others. Why am I thinking that any declaration of peace, is actually a continuation of war by other means. And why should I care what a piece of paper thinks about what is written on it?
Paper is a dead and lifeless thing
^Khruangbin – Pelota (Official Video)^
Mentioned the fact that I’m 52 years old, only because that’s supposed to mean something. Have no idea what it’s supposed to mean tho. My mother is in her 70’s, she thought I was an immature prick when I was 2, when I was 8, when I was 11, when I was 25, when I was 39, and prolly still thinks I’m an immature prick now. I have no idea what any of that means other than “age” supposedly means something.
In this instance, the fact that I am 52, and the fact that we live in a consumerist age, must mean that I have used more than my fair share of paper over the course of those 52+ years. Might also mean that I have an accumulated knowledge of paper and its usages. Like say, that paper mill near Shepherdstown West Virginia.
God DAMN that mill stunk
Have no idea how anyone can possibly stand to work at one of those places, let alone live near one. I could barely stand the fact that I had to drive by it twice a day, and if the wind was just right, the fumes came right across the road and you had to drive through the stench.
Wait…what in the fuck was I even talking about? Oh yeah…old paper(s).
^Shamir – On My Own [Official Video]^
Submarines don’t have anchors. Every type of ship or boat has an anchor, but not submarines.
^Phoebe Bridgers – I See You (Lyric Video)^
Anything “off-the-record” should be considered subliminal messaging.
Anything “off-the-record” should not be considered subliminal messaging.
Anything “off-the-record” should be considered.
Anything “off-the-record” should not be considered.
Was just thinking in terms of “permanent records” and “book of life” kinds of stuff, and was thinking about the concept of pretty much everything being “on the record”. It got me to thinking about how one could ever possibly hope to keep something off one’s record. Got me to thinking about whispers. “Between you and me” kinds of things.
Q: Is intimacy nothing more than tactical maneuvering?
Roped in to the “insider” circle, via “privileged” information, and now you’re nothing more than another plaything twisting in the breeze by those who cause the wind(s). Let’s back up a bit by adding “knowing” and “what it means to know” to our thoughts here on the topic of “off-the-record”.
^Fontaines D.C. – I Don’t Belong (Official video)^
Everything we think and/or do likely creates a transaction record of some kind. We may not always have the ability to actively recall a specific event, but that does not mean that a particular event did not happen, nor does it mean that a record of the specific event does not exist.
EX1: You’re driving down the highway, you see a billboard with an image of hot chick on it, but you really pay no mind to the billboard, nor its contents any mind because you are focused on other things.
EX2: You are cruising through various blogs, you see an image of a selfie from a hot chick in the comments on a particular blog, but you, for the most part, pay it no mind because she’s WAY outta your league.
Both of these events are transactive and/or create a state of transactivity, so there is likely a record made of each occurrence. As to why you may not be able to actively recall the memory via this transaction record, welp, we were dismissive of both events, but appear to have been dismissive for different/varied reasons. Maybe find some other constants. Both events features “hot chicks”, and both events feature you yourself. Why do you have eyes for 1) hot chicks, and 2) hot chicks who are (potentially) interested in you. Whether you realize it or not, you seek to connect with someone. Chances are good that someone is out there trying to connect with you.
Q: What are their intentions?
A: What are your intentions?
Life is quite fun, eh?
^LA Priest – Rubber Sky (Official Video)^
Swinging back to the original thought of “off-the-record” types of stuff, being honest with yourself about your own desires seems to be quite important with respect to not getting lost. Being able to identify messages, who is sending them, and maybe even why. If you wanna be part of the inner-circle and be “in the know” and all that good stuff, welp, how much consideration are you giving to what others want in return? People are unlikely to hand you the keys to the candy shop so you can run wild and grow fat on the sweet, sweet sugar of the proprietor’s labor. They built that candy shop. Stocked it. Occupied it. Loved it. And here you come along and want to loot it? Ravage it? Get all of the reward with none of the work?
^The Chemical Brothers – The Golden Path (Official Music Video)^
If you hand someone an eraser…
…that same someone is likely to do some erasing.
Q: Is this akin to deleting official emails, burning and/or shredding documents, chopping up bodies, wiping off fingerprints, filing down serial numbers and/or covering up evidence / tampering with evidence / destroying evidence?
A: ? DOH! ?
Just seems to me that we are on a path to removing a lot of the tangible “proof” we, some of us, seek. Cept by word of mouth of course. Hearsay and conjecture. You know…conspiracy theory.
^Nine Inch Nails – Closer But It’s Funkytown By Lipps Inc.^
Where there is smoke, there is…well…there’s only…
The fire(s) are being concealed (assuming there even is a fire). There may also be some interest in concealing the nature of the fire(s), who started the fire(s), why they started the fire(s), etc.. Just occurs to me that maybe, just maybe, some people are doing the work of others, perhaps without even realizing it.
^One More Time^
Painful stuff is painful. Painful stuff from the past remains painful irrespective of the distance(s) between here and there. We like to block, we like to forget, we like to heal, turn negatives into positives, to move on…
I get that
But when that painful something is erased, is forgotten, when that something is lost in time, we lose our bearings. Forget why we are the way we are. Not only that, it creates a void for future generations. Voids are holes. Do you really wanna be responsible for creating those holes for children to step in? Because they may come looking for you someday and demand answers as to why you tried to conceal truth from them. And let me tell you, when you’ve no evidence to justify and/or back up your actions in ways that is satisfactory to them? They’re likely gonna think you’re being untruthful. They may want blood.
They may even feel justified. Afterall, you created solutions for yourself, which created problems for them, and you left them in the dark in the process. Or worse, you may have tried to get clever and create some revisionist or alternate history type of narrative that was complete bullshit.
Lots of peeps like to espouse that if they had a time machine, they’d go back in time and rectify all kinds of missteps and wrongdoings. The problem is tho, had you not made the missteps in the first place, you’ve no way of knowing where to go in time in order to fix these perceived fuckups.
Worse still, you create a paradox by going back in time and erasing the misstep. If the point in time for your destination no longer exists because you’ve erased it, that means your point of origin never existed, which further means you now have no idea where you came from, nor where you are, nor what you are doing, wherever it is, that you find yourself. This may ultimately mean that you are likely to do the same exact shit you just undid. Which means you are gonna wind up right back where you started. Which means you are gonna go back and undo what you did.
^Toro y Moi – Ordinary Guy (feat. The Mattson 2)^
Death? Yes, I can think of some reasons for “death” to exist. Many reasons. And prolly not the reasons you may be thinking of either.
In this instance, I’m thinking of death being (potentially) a portal or exit from a loop in time. Albeit an extreme one, but at the same time, I can think of some reasons that some may “pray for death” when stuck in a time-loop. Or worse, stuck in a time-knot. Or worse still, stuck in a looping time-knot.
Simple…the entity in question becomes aware of the loop and/or knot. When we get stuck in loops, we want out. But we gotta become aware that we are in a loop before we can begin to explore egress options, and depending on how scary the experience of becoming aware of being stuck in a time-loops is, we may first jump to some pretty fucking radical escape options…like death.
That said tho, one would have to take into consideration that one is becoming aware of the time-loop(s), becoming aware of their place(s) in it/them, which means that a change of some kind is already happening. “The same” is no longer the same, and there is a divergence of some kind within the architecture of the loop(s). With this in mind, one would need to pause for a moment, and consider what it is that may be effecting this change/these changes in your little looping time-space.
Is it possible, that something, or maybe even someone, has become aware of your plight, and is trying to get you out of your loop? May wanna give it some thought before doing anything hasty or rash. Just because Death is coming for you, don’t get all anxious and angsty. Don’t wanna make Death’s job too easy now, do we?
^Miradors (Lane 8 Remix)^
Ever wonder if this whole “confounding of the languages” thing that went down at the Tower Of Babel may have actually been an act of benevolence? Like, these dipshits were attempting to build something that was gonna reach out into space, and this was thousands of years ago when building codes, construction techniques and engineering specifications just…well, they may not have been what they needed to be at the time in order to build this “tower to heaven”.
Oh sure, it was gonna be a “tower to heaven” for the poor fuckers inside of who were killed when the damn thing collapsed, but that’s about it. So what I’m wondering is, maybe some wise motherfucker came up with a clever plan to stop the project before the damn thing collapsed under its own weight and killed a bunch of people. Not to suggest that people back then were idiots with regards to construction because there are all kinds of ancient structures which prove otherwise. But at the same time, about 350 to 455 feet seems to be about the best they could do.
Maybe a subtle way of encouraging them to seek other methods of getting to Heaven was by making communications difficult.
Let’s not look at the obvious here…
…let’s look at some of the underlying.
You live in the year 2020. The world is on fire. As the world burns, you find something from 1551AD which says the world will be on fire in 2020AD. In the present moment, Nostradamus’ predictions really don’t do you much good because they’ve already come to pass. However, this does present an opportunity for getting eyes to point towards soothsayers and prognosticators. It was foretold that we’d be in this mess, now here we are in this mess, maybe what we should do at this point is find us some mystics who can tell us how to get out of this mess.
Best part is, it really doesn’t matter if the mystics and psychics you find here and now are right or wrong in their predictions either. What matters is that mystics in the now have some work and an income for the time being. Another method for having to rely on others to tell you what to do and how. Prolly when also.
^Klangkarussell – Time (Official Video)^
Speaking of revisionism, found this documentary below last night, and it states that the great extinction event of 65 million years ago was not caused by an object hitting the Yucatan Peninsula, but rather by a super volcano/hot-spot in India long before India was the India we know today. I only made it to 32:27 into the video before abandoning it. Vid isn’t bad, just not very good. Certainly had some interesting concepts, and not just the obvious.
^A Volcano Odyssey – Full Documentary^
Ellen Ripley: UFO Investigator
Ripley never actually visited the alien ship in any of the Alien movies, but I do wonder if Ripley could actually be considered a UFO Investigator. Or is she more of an ALF Investigator? NTI Ambassador? ET-Human Relations Attaché?
At this point, you may be wondering why I’m wondering if a fictional character named Ellen Ripley could be considered a UFO Investigator.
When I read that tweet, Ellen Ripley is the first thing that popped into my head. Why? Welp, upon reading that tweet, it occurred to me that very few characters in the Alien films actually wanted to have alien encounters.
In the first film, they had an unexpected encounter with a UFO, and from then on it was a string of unexpected encounters with ALFs/alien lifeforms. Very much parallels what seems to happen here on Earth. Except now we have a whole slew of people who have not had any personal UFO experience(s), but want to have one. Prospectors. Wildcatters. Speculators. Investors. Settlers. Getting out of where you are, in favor of some better something over the horizon. Goldrush fever boiling the blood of many who want to have that experience of actually finding for yourself what others have already found/experienced.
^Yello – Goldrush I (1986)^
Read through the comments from the tweet above, and it would appear that the video the dude was seeking with the “European, middle age, Caucasian, stout, very polite and professional sounding lady” has been located.
Have not watched the video, BUT, I did skip through it and stop at various points in the PowerPoint presentation to see what she’s talking about. She’s gone deep, and she also seems to be talking about a lot of things similar to/along the same lines of where this particular missive started. This will necessitate that I actually watch the whole video, but 2 hours and 19 minutes?!?!? Jesus H. Keyryst…even tho’ the vid appears to contain some interesting info, that’s quite the time investment. I may have to recruit someone to watch it with me. Anyone out there wanna spend 2 hours and 19 minutes watching that with me? Maybe some time after in discussing thoughts?
^Haim – Gasoline (Audio)^
You fucks can’t even get along with the neighbors you have right now. How in the fucking hell are you going to be able to navigate the complexities and nuance(s) of interstellar politics, when you can’t even figure out how to reach a resolution regarding preventing your neighbor’s dog from shitting on your lawn, or your neighbor playing their music too loud, or maybe “suspicious” people lurking in your neighborhood?
Not to mention that many of those in “the UFO community” tend to be either a bunch of pretentious and elitist pricks hell-bent on making a name for themselves, or individuals who are so goddamn paranoid that they trust nothing and no one. You really think that extraterrestrials are gonna consider you some kind of goodwill ambassador to liaise between parties when you treat your own like shit?
I think not
Perhaps if the extraterrestrials are hostile, then yeah, you’re prolly exactly who they are looking for. But other than that? Nah, prolly not.
Mystery = SOLVED! Next?
^Land of Talk – Diaphanous^
Just stumbled onto that image, and the first thing that I noticed was energy moving outwards from a central point. Made me think about a recent video from Smarter Every Day where he’s recording a weed wacker in slow motion. Prolly should see from whence this wing-flapping image emanates, and what they are on about.
Hrm…they’ve got something in there about sine waves, but nothing on angular acceleration, nothing on aerodynamic drag, and, in fact, nothing on aerodynamics at all. No mention of acceleration, only one mention of speed, and no mention of rest nor resting states.
Q: Do pixels accelerate?
I guess I should also think about electrons and whether or not they accelerate, and I should also think about photons and whether or not they accelerate.
Yeah, within a computing system
How representative are bits and bytes of the things which they are attempting to describe and/or represent? Also wondering as to the transmutative processes all the way from generator to retina. Lots of interpretive processes in that chain.
At rest, and in motion, simultaneously. Me thinks that at some point, if you are not taking into account some of the more finite vectors to which matter/energy is susceptible to, you are going to encounter loss which is inexplicable. I’m thinking mainly in terms of data loss here. Electrons which are vanishing, but should not be. Your architectures are worthless if you are not taking “invisible” hierarchical systems into account. And you are really gonna start kicking yourself when the signs were always there, but you ignored them and/or chalked them up as insignificant and/or insignificances. Perhaps even aberrations or maybe singular events unlikely to ever occur again. Better get a longer calendar if you wanna be sure.
^Khruangbin & Leon Bridges – Texas Sun (Official Video)^
Assigning a role for gods is prolly a bad idea. Like, putting God, gods and goddesses into a box = bad. ‘Cept of course, we already do this.
If am am “good”, a god behaves this way. If am “bad” a god behaves that way. Kinda weird to think of it like that. No matter what I do, I am dictating a god’s behavior. Prolly all their miscreantic minions too. What’s that? You don’t think God/gods/goddesses minions are villainous? Welp, keep that thought in mind when “good” comes banging on your door at the behest of some divine someone, and accuses you of not being good enough. Or at least “you are not good” according to their standards.
Q: Who runs this show?
Not only that, but is whoever has been put in charge deserving of obedience? I seem to recall that there are multiple references in the Bible as to Lucifer/Satan/The Devil being put in charge of our planet, but why is it that someone would be put in command, with specific instructions to the underlings to disobey the commander? Seems to me that if someone is given authority, you obey that someone even if you don’t like them and even if you are told not to obey them. And who is this fucker who is putting people in charge, yet still running the show? Still saying who does what? Not only that, but some of the stuff in the Bible is kinda confusing as to who exactly is being referenced with respect to who is in authority.
‘Now is the time for judgment on this world; now the prince of this world will be driven out.’
What’s confusing about that verse (to me) is that Jesus/Yeshua was talking in a context of predicting his own death. And I dunno about you, but “death” is certainly a way of “being driven out”.
So who the hell was Jesus talking about? Lucifer, the Prince Of Darkness? Or Jesus/Yeshua, the Prince Of Peace? Lucifer was kicked out of Heaven, and Jesus/Yeshua was kicked off Earth/Terra. So who in the fuck is being referenced in that verse? Is there some kind of leadership exchange program/training course going on here on this planet?
Anyway, I get the feeling that we have a say in who is running the show.
^Widowspeak // Breadwinner (Official Video)^
!!!HAPPY INDEPENCE DAY AMERICANS!!!
I’ve been writing on and off on this thing for several weeks now, but last night, me and a certain someone got to talking about some stuff along the very lines of the above. One of the things we talked about was “the Universe experiencing itself”. Primarily, my counterpart was talking about the Sophia Myth from Gnosticism and/or Sophianic Myth or whatever in the fuck it is called, and I countered with how most people seem to hijack that notion with only happy and flowery stuff.
The basis of this myth (as I understand it) is that a deity created Earth so that she could experience herself and her environment. So that she could know herself and what she’s all about. Fair enough. Makes sense considering that within a void, the creation of sensory input to provide feedback over time as to where they are and what they are?
Yeah, makes sense
That said, most of the people that I’ve encountered only speak of this concept as if it were some wonderful and marvelous state of eternal happiness and balance. Nevermind that these same people seem to give no thought to what it took to achieve this state. They speak as if all you have to do is adopt their manner of thinking, and BOOM! Everything is perfection.
I’ve given this concept some thought, and I look pretty goddamn far down the road and see some shit that is in no way, shape or form anything even remotely happy. To relate, I’ll pass along the same idea I passed along to my counterpart during the conversation.
^Clyde Maxwell’s blues (1978)^
This is vebatim what I said to her last night…
‘Imagine you are immortal. You are here, on Earth. Eventually, everyone and everything dies. Later still, our star goes nova and the entire solar system is gone. Just you are left, floating in the void.’
Now, last night I was thinking that not only are you incapable of dying, but we’ve completely neglected other factors. First being, one is only incapable of dying so long as one does not die. Meaning, you have to travel a pretty goddamn long path in order to “prove” that you are immortal, not only to others, but also to yourself.
Second being, we’ve no clearly defined parameters as to exactly what death is and what dying is. There are some who believe that going without chocolate may in fact be, death. Going without human contact is death. Going without television is death. And something else along those same lines which I was thinking about last night was you as an immortal and your own requirements. Like say, what if you, even as an immortal, are required to breathe or to eat. Would really suck to have a burning desire to breathe, but the planet which provided you the environment giving you the ability to do so has been completely blow away by a star gone nova. You cannot breathe, but you also cannot die. Hold your breath for a while, and once your lungs start burning, you tell me how long you think you could endure that sensation sans either A) breathing, or B) the escape of death.
Not a pleasant thought
God only knows how long you are to drift in the void in this state. You could potentially drift forever without encountering another celestial body of some kind, let alone a body that provides you with the things you need.
This is prolly where a lot of our fucked up ideas about omniscience originate. We think only in terms of 1) the more or less comfortable environment which we now occupy, and 2) what we personally would do with power if we had it. Trouble is, we tend to be thinking in terms of what we would do for others or do to others, here and now, rather than thinking way the fuck down the road. We think if we right a few wrongs now, everything else will be OK in the future. Things will just work themselves out.
Welp, I got news for you. Once you become immortal, there is no future. It got erased with your mortality. You can be forever old, and you’ve still got forever to go.
^Future Islands – Seasons (Waiting On You) (Official Video)^
Hey, not trying to be a downer. I’d like to live forever and would have no aversions spending a good majority of that time with my face buried in your crotch. Assuming you wanted me to. And I’d need to come up for air now and again. We’d prolly need to stretch our legs on occasion. Get some sun. Maybe go out for dinner, maybe take in a movie, or maybe a play…after showering of course. Those sheets prolly need a wash. Then right back to it.
Q: What the fuck are we doing, and why the fuck are we doing it?
A: Not a clue.
Sure can be fun tho’. Sometimes.
^Alvvays – Adult Diversion (Official Video)^
^Skinny Puppy – Dal^
*/squints… Is that a pun on flower/flour, Clicky?*
*WTF is Leggy doing up that early on a Sunday morning?*
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Have a Song ❤