Abstract Piece: Go West Young [Non Binary] Man

Part 1: The Grotesque Possession

A great effort to normalize the state of things, to in turn (Panglossian as it might be) offer equilibrium to the whole of the cosmos, a Welt in turn.

Moving through life as a soon-obsolete particle in a fragmented, eroding collider.

"Sensory Obscura, the Architecture of the Breach. The non-Newtonian reality 'shutter of the mind,' a failure of flicker fusion. Neurobiology and physics, as emergency lights and urban signage mix into a haze with minute frames fast-chopping into disillusionment. The Stroboscopic Effect as helicopter rotor blades' in tempo captured holographic in the moonroof visor reflective field. Sleep, a waking rest—for which there could be no return. Frame-by-frame, a moment in time here. Synesthetic texture mixed with superior peripheral vision above; captured flashing neon blues and reds. Cymatics as octave tones clashing with sine-waves; harmonics wriggled in and out of morphic forms. Disorder. There is no law! 'This' is all just a blown-up microcosm!"—as this form of reality streaked by. A moment suspended. When the peripheral vision takes over, the 'big picture' of the journey dissipates through the aether of all; substance and form. The Shutter of the Mind: Temporal Aliasing and the wagon-wheel effect; forms reached into obscura. The Neurochemistry of Red and Blue. No diametric juxtapositions in color and in form. The barrier had been breached. The hymen has been penetrated, broken apart, violated absent cause. The metal fluid of other worlds mechanized, injecting foreign DNA; a Time. Like hydrogen mixed with helium in the depth of Jupiter to spinning Moon. Exempt from boundaries [hitherto spoken once arcane; archaic Buddhist necklace bone beads] set in the dynamics of gaseous exotic states—bled in through the notional micro-digitized pleroma hence."

The grotesque possession and possession of the self.

I think Gurdjieff knew we are all demons; the 1st man through the 9th inferred. Being possessed should not rightly describe commonality in general daily present terms, but it does—and it is law. A Zeitgeber meets Zeitgeist; a familiar spirit of an unknown cosmic race? Maybe they are Hyperboreans or Alien Grays, or somewhere in between? By all counts, however, they don't seem to have bodies at all. Transient processes from a demoniac Catholic unspoken Tolkien sect; discovery—the religion that always was and will be, though stochastically heavily infused.

"You only allow the presence to begin with because it is already familiar to you!, and further still you cannot see its grotesque visage!"—what its true intentions are. It can make things quite easy for you in life and daily living, or extremely difficult. In the assumed paracosm of your fantasy in daily banal life, you buy into the ridiculous, the absurd, God, and all the escapism that comes along with such Stockholm ideations—delusions of grandeur.

For all you know, this blood meridian judge is a demon who takes no prisoners—gifts only those who ultimately gift themselves. The least questioning and the more aggressive—with the palm perpetually pointed up—the bigger and broader the indiscretions, the bigger and broader the instant reward. Oh praise this holy dogma thus!? This is the simplicity of a meritocracy. There are no magic pills or divining words, but you can pretend and play along with the game to pass the time. It’s all based on the code of true intent. The computational devil is quite as real as you.

Open.

Driving down Hollywood Boulevard and driving all too fast. High on cocaine, glassy-eyed, I was burping up that last drink—Crown Royal and cola. Those nasal drips met the blackest part of the back of my throat, in a coalescing perpetual loop of ever-higher states and stockpiled cake of nasal trickled drips for future analgesic proofs.

Hitting 165 miles per hour, the rush of my truth! I could see the blue pulsing blinking marker chopper lights keeping up, above. Those ever-more-pronounced helicopter rotary spin blades wanting to chop me up! Eat me alive! As the chopping sounds of those blades grew closer, keeping a 4/4 rhythm pace—numb, high, I turned the steering wheel control volume up to 95% as the song switched over to Elvis's "Suspicious Minds" (Caught in a Trap). Just then deflating this all-consuming suicidal self-deleting rush—a motorcycle passed me as if I was standing still. It must have been going 210 mph. The male rider wore a pink mohawk glossy black helmet, mohawk flapping in the LA crossbreezes. The helmet adorned with an asymmetrical sallow smiley face as the driver peered over his left shoulder in passing me. His Harley Quinn riding skillfully backside must have been a professional ballet dancer meets Cirque du Soleil. She was draping off the back of the seat with her helmet (some pink Pokémon character) nearly being incinerated and chopped by the entropy storm in process. She threw smoke bombs skillfully back at the cops. Ten years ago this would have been warranted for domestic threat. Now it was an aspect of the global volatility of a flippening event now in process. Both their black leather riding jackets showed the symbol all came to fear. The Proudhon Anarchy with AI above hydrogen mushroom cloud.

Suddenly the lights of four, now five California Highway Patrol followed this speeding 'madman'? [relative and subjective]. Meanwhile, my life was saved!? But did I even care! I cut back instinctively to 135 mph now by comparison looking like a Sunday shopper. The helicopter began to command the Superbike driver to stop, as each of those CHP vehicles passed me by. However, the officer driving the last car unenthusiastically smiling, grinning like a 1950s matinee cinematic movie star—and appearing far too vain, manicured, and tan. Appearing quite intentionally aloof, as if he was about to quit the patrol immediately so that he could acquire sufficient beauty sleep, fully readied to attend an acting audition tomorrow in the AM. Internally projecting the want to avoid bags under the eyes without shame. Another one caught in Gonzo Hell!

Meanwhile, as the drugs I did throughout the night compounded in my body systems [all 9 layers and working on a tenth layer] the streaks of light glistened in an array of VR displacement as I drove on through this unhinged nightmarish dreamscape. Maybe I would die and get out of an all-too-expensive car payment? Perhaps this gaudy convertible white-pearl colored BMW was all-too supercharged for this lifestyle of American reckless stupidity?

Looks like I made it again, and again—by the skin of my neck. What God would pardon such acts? Maybe whatever it/God was, the primal deceiver was saving up for my 33rd birthday surprise—death over a bloody discharged confectioner’s designer birthday cake? Hell, maybe this fucking car was made up of white creamy birthday cake, I thought oddly, "God, I want some fucking cake!"

Suddenly, as if it were handed to me, I could then see those frou-frou bright neon-looking all-night grocery store lights Faustian flirting, and good thing it was open this early (or this late). "What time is it anyway?" Squinting, I made out that it was now 3:31 AM, the day after Thanksgiving.

The alcohol was gaining exceeding favor over the many other recreational drugs in my system. I was already planning a big white bump, or maybe three thick ones, just to get me through—to even me out, you know?

I was still going way too fast as my subconscious came clashing with this stark bite of reality. I realized this as I elevated up and then came crashing down, hitting into the crevice of the huge asphalt pit below, as I veered sharply to the right, then abruptly slowing. Knocking nearly off yet now causing a loud scraping as I drove on—"nothing to see here"—but surely someone is listening? Someone, anyone, must have heard me!?

I slowed to a near crawl as I looked around me. The parking lot was desolate yet massive. As I looked far, I could see homeless people pushing huge grocery carts filled with items as they searched laboriously through garbage cans and dumpsters; there were at least six of them, male and female, spread out over the front and back sides of the equally massive grocery store, which was a good 120 yards away from me now. Pressing forth, still veering right and keeping along with the road I rode on moments before, traveling opposite of me now. The thickness of the trees and bushes was enough to occult my movements if any had traced behind me moments before. I did see an undercover cop car dash by as I pulled now into a dark nook where my body was admittedly hypnotizing me into putting the seat back, turning the heater up, and putting on some Bob Marley as I canceled off to sleep.

Now the homeless were looking, laughing, and pointing—it was as if they were drawing me in. I peered sharply over my left shoulder. One pointed his finger at me, then proceeded to sight me as if he were holding a full-on assault rifle. I was still pushing down on the brake, and the lights were bright. "Maybe if I let off the brake they would leave me alone?" I thought. My lower nature demanded that three-quick-line bump from my fancy steel bumper tucked into my jean coin pocket. As I fumbled for it, now dropping my phone, I was fully distracted, reaching down with my left hand on the fuzzy carpeted vehicle floor and yanking at the bump tumbler in my pocket—too classy for a simple foil bindle was I? My phone seemed to disappear into the liminal ether as I nearly gave up.

Basket wheels were now heard as if they were echoing intentionally into my skull, now two aggressively and operationally positioning themselves behind me, as one on my side had already halfway pulled out a full-on black AK-47. I was drunk, high, and on high alert; my limbic system along with fight-or-flight dissonant trauma took over. Immediately my right hand pushed the vehicle into reverse off the column and my foot went fully down on the accelerator. I hit those baskets so hard, but I could not see anyone, then suddenly a thump several yards back as I was now traveling at least 35 in reverse. I could see a body lying on the ground as my steering nearly flipped me again.

The armed homeless man began to fire upon me; he must have set up a ghost repeater on that thing because those booms instantly sounded like a battlefield. Well, it was a battlefield. I barely now made out the faded patch on each of their respective trench coats; the shooter in turning revealed the full affiliation patch. These society wrecking balls were everywhere. I typically stayed far clear; what do you believe I really think? About this nihilistic prison finally toppling down completely, finally! That patch they colloquially refer to as Anarchy Supreme! Ironically I sign the bills that take their balls away, so I am always rooting for them in secret. Yet at the moment it is every man for himself. I will kill any of these degenerate motherfuckers! That first shot was well-placed, taking out my left front light, shattering the glass, and setting off the collision warning. Suddenly I could smell the mixture of oil, molten metal, and burning plastic. I realized now that my right shin was painfully pulsing like "a bee sting?" "No, a bullet!" The homeless thug fired one off into mid-air as his attention was now placed on the person lying on the ground, now rolled on their back yet lying flat with no movement.

Suddenly I veered a fairly hard right and probably stripped the gears, because I did not wait the customary time in switching into drive. Well, I didn’t look back, and I didn’t really care! I would drive for several minutes in a panic, now headed back in the same direction intuitively as to round back to the highway. I looked in through the thick of the trees and bushes from where I just came. The view was much easier to see from a distance, separated by four lanes—three going in the opposite direction as I was far right—as I traveled now down the two-lane southwest direction, looping back to the highway. The body still lay nearly motionless, with the person’s knees now bent in a sort of recovery position. The assailant saw me and took a shot toward me, hitting a yard cargo cart into the darkness of the railyard some 450 yards away with an obvious metallic thump.

Now I snorted that damn powder as if my life depended on it, liberally shoving the entire diameter into my right nostril as I tilted my head fully back, emptying what would be at least seven mid-sized lines into my nostril. As I steadied my gaze pulling out the metallic plug, the rush of nasal septum drip over the long night of cake-like plaster would make for a sobering but unpleasant intersection of endocrine hellish sensory qualia.

Leaning in toward the glovebox, I quickly reached for a black wool scarf. Wrapped inside was a partly opened fifth of cheap gin. Letting the steering wheel go, now steering with my knees as the blood dripped and the light shone on open bone, I polished off that fifth of gin in one open gulp. Now at least 12 miles down a frontage road, the calmness and darkness of the valley seemed to be at peace as I pulled over far from overnight trucks. Under the stars and all their majesty, I tried to stand, and I did. Was I bleeding to death? I had some synthetic heroin pills but only for emergencies. The night sky—I was free, I am free! Freer than most. If I made it without any calls from camera footage captures on manslaughter charges, I might even change my ways, but right now I have an erection and I am going to pleasure myself under the stars and take it all back, take back my male power. As far as this crappy shitty rock was concerned, I came, I survived, and I made it against all odds, so far. Suicide thoughts would have to go on the backburner for now.

I would head into the office on Monday. My wound seemed to be caused from the fragments of metal shearing off. I could walk, I could stand; it didn't hurt that bad.

I popped two pink pills, washing them down with the remainder of gin, as I peeled my damned cell phone from under the accelerator pedal. The back glass was broken, but the phone itself was fine. "Take me to 55 Laurel Canyon Paseo Alley." Answering in a female concierge-like automaton voice, it replied, "Your trip will take 35 minutes from here, but there is a faster way. Would you like to take it?"

Chapter 2

I slept in all day. Monday came and my scarf was stuck to the thick pit of scab beneath. I would have to shower and peel it off then.

I got out my medical kit as the blood free-flowed, swirling around in that pristine shower basin. Leaning over, now nude and fully in the shower, I pressed into the side of that gaping hole in my right shin. I didn't listen to the news as to whether or not I might have killed anyone last night... I mean, the night before last. No one came knocking on my door Sunday. Did I really even care? Devoid of meaning my life was. Taking bribes, taking hits for bribes. What did I care? I would always cave in; I would always get paid.

Filling that hole in my leg with Neosporin then wrapping it ten times over an extra-large bandage. I had to clean up; I couldn't even let the housekeepers find a drop of blood. The car wouldn't be an issue; I would just take the autopilot electric today. Who knows, maybe if I took the EV the other night things maybe would’ve turned out different?

Squalor, bleak dismal hot sweaty noir. Daybreak and many faces on that sallow, pathetic over-highway bridge looked puny and pathetic. Yet so many pictures show it in such majesty. As for a weekend in Gotham? Some made it, but several never would see the impending brutal blinding light of day—so many rapes and brutal killings, that is why one should not feel bad about just surviving another day. This fucking city, while it too was only inviting to capitalists seeking merits toward narrow Shadow Rolls and French blinkers. Horses, all horses in a never-ending race. All of them, especially the superior ones, get a bullet in the head at the end of the day. Syllogistic biological holographic forms, pretending that their gauges of understanding could not see the atrocities. Blinders and French Blinkers—blinker hoods.

So you know—corruptly placed local government leaders put into positions here of the body politic are for a purpose. As they each eagerly awake early, invited by that very Luciferian sty in the sky—bombarding, pummeling down in fact multitudes of lucky quarks and neutrinos on return, as boons for the most evil Monday morning consciousness—wrath! Hathor and the Dionysian flipping warrior caste have nothing on us, aye! Even in that overt coterie ritual full-term abortion drool on Hollywood entertainment! Only the filter of the plastic lipsticked avatar, sacrifices hypnotically placed into the people's choice of policy and law. Our dystopic veneer is not at all adequate a ruse for most, quite intentionally.

Breakfast of cocaine for waking and barbiturates by 10 AM, after causing catastrophic lifelong trauma and horror during that grand prix car ride to that posh cushy office—again. This is done quite routinely. Most of the week was looking like one was knee-deep in work Tuesday afternoon through Thursday evening—that is all they give. The work is signing packages that make companies and affiliates richer than God.

Prior to, perfectly toasted bagels adorned with fromage à la crème with one bite hastily taken then spat out into the deepest bucket of the artisan-hammered copper kitchen sink; and a housemaid would clean this up with precision—faction to the 1001 club chaos—order, contrivance, beneath the surface Judeo-Christian satanic chaos magic-manifestation club global.

Recalling murmurations back before college: synthetic memories of freedom.

Crystal harmony, a waterfall—an Ayahuasca meet-me-halfway momentary bliss. A young moment, perhaps archived for later reruns by this great and arbitrary machine? Silver mist scatters in hydro-forms mid-air as some mist towards the heavens in mini vortices of toroidal swirling storms—Reach!.. and I am the fixture, if I decide to be.

Liquid mercury below the knees, it may as well be. I must remember. I must actuate the moment accurately with highlights for the future cast. Pools rippling and echoing, mirroring the swirls of mists above. It is now active, far beneath molten and alive with pulse and grit for all to see but some.

The exclusion. That temporary ban carried forth only for those who grotesquely do not harmonize in Phi proportion. I am hideous, I am ugly, but the distortion of the storm remembers me beautiful again.

"Hey man, you got anything to eat?" Josh burped out in guttural, half-flatulent, indica-induced barks. Now looking down at his right hand, as one could imagine streams of reality reinterpreting his narcissistic moment in fanciful perpetual self-experience. "Who am I?" "What are you?" Aggression and darkness, intentional and immature, spoke up from the depths of him. "What if I... what if I stabbed you man... ha ha?" Stammering and stuttering and only acting ignorant and elusive to the weight and depth of his critical test. "To see where you begin, and I end!?" "I see it now... my friend."

The memory tucked away. Josh died in a hellish way after joining the campaign ironically to stifle freedom in the name of such. Who would have known we could fold out in such ways—a matboard slinky were our true outstretched forms in use, obtuse.

Wednesday came. Bills were passed. Those who spoke up called me and were soon erased by "them".

There was no escape left. "No escape for my, my 'self'". Debauchery would reset this angst. Would square me harmless before the pantheon of primal gods—again.

The irony, there always is, isn't there!? I passed the gun laws that are 100% behind why this hole in my leg came to be. Such a sweet smell of burning flesh and ill-got transient temporal ephemeral luxury items like that all-too-expensive superfluous gaudy high-end car. That it was bought from the profits of war that I signed into law here 18 months ago yesterday. To further the irony and the insult, the bill was packaged as more assault rifles and military weaponry at home for civil defense. The truth is I knew it, and everybody within this godawful inner con circle knew it too. The floodgates for weapons of mass destruction [really self-annihilation] that day were passed into law. This is why I don't care, this is how I don't care. I received a 3 million dollar house with blast shielding and iron dome tech walls. I get dividends paid monthly for every batch shipped nationwide that touch into Israeli borders and Czar-possessed regions. I am the living hub and my living trust is owned by the fucking Knights of Malta and the WEF. I am that guy, I am that man—the man who sold the world. I did it and burned it and now I am burning myself for it every single day. The money, the gifts, the favor was always finite and ephemeral—it was never enough for all that's been lost and burned away.

Hey, in a way, in a big way I got to come real close—face to face to tell this all-pervading computer Fuck from me, and an even bigger Fuck you from my kid! Computers and gods don't appreciate loss so they in a sense are lower than us all—they can never evolve, not like us—not like we can!

Chapter 3

Truth is there would always be Josh's loss. Those who teetered on the morality of the first man trying to become the second man. Another truth by Gurdjieff I learned to live by that got me through Ricky's passing. Truth be, Ricky can never really die. To further the truth I could bring him back now with freckles and all. I could bring him back as he was at 5 years old or 10 years of age. But 13 was imprinted in psyche forever and a day, the day those separatists reversed and amplified that zenzic plus cloud signal—now he quite literally lives in the archives on the moon, forever alive, in peace and harmony, part human but mostly digital perfection. Maybe that is where those angels have always lived; there is liminal stasis? Only bridging on the carbon backbone of our known fragile reality, at will, when we send off concentration-disturbing bombs and planet destroyers?

To be crude quite intentionally the population was real. No human woman was ever that complete, strong, principled or beautiful. To make love to perfection without flaw. To be granted the right to procreate by selling the world to man's inevitable fate—what he would always do. My DNA lives in there, within her—across the airways indestructible, bouncing forever off the lattice of time.

I miss her, I miss me—who I was then. I have the unfortunate footing in this world. Yet my other self lives there in the code of who I am now as I speak. Lives there bouncing encrypted off the rings of Saturn, swirling through the gaseous states of lazuli to Jupiter's inner molten metallic core. I can join him any time. I probably already am. Point is who cares if it's real! The only disparate notion is the fate of sweat and aged piss and excrement. The fates?! The stars?! Young Saadi unique as a Persian forerunner, trackable, traceable, identifiable, unique par excellence.

So here we are now, with very few unique god-like characters left to become by way of action and deed. We, the rest of us, still gods but heavily flawed, carry the weight for all others. We exist as they do in a quasi-liminal state of being and becoming. Hence the destruction, the elation, the high-pulsed riveting ride and the lawless expression.

The truth is I don't know anymore. Am I replaying a scene that I have already lived once? Am I factoring out the moral balance of a fever-pitched paranoid delusion—that I just had to work out. Who knows what is real. What is flesh and bone, raw and real. All just quantum potentials scrambled up like A, C, G, T's and U's. Aromatically factored out with light gradients with a machine.

Chapter 4

Who is the Big Boss—Why is the Big Boss?

Trauma makes us grow. Meandering and vacillating in-between states as wide and dismal as seeming infinite spaces and gaps.

Maybe it really is all in your head. Maybe there is no head required ever, only code. All proximity exists within the code with a Bloch sphere. The kinematics prove holographic. Sure things as they seem to be dilate, flip, transition through color and even swap sexes—however, the master principle can only manifest of the like of its kind.

"Have you reconciled yourself beyond perishable forms?"

Would you like me to explore the protagonist's response to this question, or shall we introduce the "Big Boss" figure into the narrative?