Signal/Noise

Stand-alone and Installment 13 of ScriptureX. Partly a satire of "Peaceful Warrior."

Tussling's not as much fun as it used to be. Heavy-lidded bored nihilists in low-slung vehicles might blow you away in a hot-lead chill of misapprehension.

 

Me, I'm invisible, ancient, young.

 

I might embrace those prismatic centuries and their poignant aromas, flavors of the chronic soul search. But I'm not nostalgic, nor sentimental. Romantic still, but steeled by the hard schools of spirit and street. Reversing the polarity of remembrance and forgetfulness -- waking up is remembering Source and forgetting habitual claptrap egoity. History's the stage-management of forgetting Source and remembering habitual claptrap egoity. Houston, and all other populous clusters, we have a problem.

 

The war on war on war on war wore on.

 

Signal-to-noise ratio, violence de l'amour, violenza di amore, violencia ante amor.

 

Weapons of mass distraction.

 

While my guitar ideogrammatizes. "Activated noosphere or decimated necrosphere," posit some. Since either/or reductionism is never realistic, I favor permeative psiosphere of emotive depth and span. Hi-context hot-screwing the living dead.

 

Last night a fiery being of golden-orange countenance and eyes of galactic vortices spoke to me in bone-resonant ultra-stentorian tones:

 

"Call me Kosmic Khrist. Who you are is not who you think you are. Molecular contraction is not the golden rule. Making a living does not preclude living a making. Jesus will only save you as your own emergent authenticity, as your subjective evolving self -- not as a politicized icon of fake historicity or callow religiosity. The desert of the real redeems when quantum felt field pervades the pores, the breath, the soul, when molecular awe prevails. Then you turn your old world inside-out with a fierce smile. The empire of rapacious lies is a house of cards. Deal. Word made flesh. Dud. Word made flesh. Dud. Word made flesh -- ah, good one!"

 

Meanwhile, the relentless Gahan Wilson cartoon of ordinariness continues. Macabre icons of antiquated idiocy drool on the airwaves.

 

Follow the droll quasi-contemplative, ever in casually subconscious enemy territory.

 

Signal-to-noise ratio fluctuates. Warlord operas are the dark shadows of our collective lies. Valor lies in the herculean lifting of the creaky cobweb ramshackle "reality" base.

 

Eros-Thanatos goth f**k bein' what it is, let's redefine the war.

 

When you arise from sunlight breath rejuvenating and elucidating your molecular stance, who is the enemy? What conquest is demanded from the warrior-king's valorous heart? Not the amazing hummingbird moment, not the blue-black mystery of sudden crows, not the smiling merchant across the street. Sound signal dances with the noise of imbecilic car alarms, that noise pollution added to the already fuming metallic eco-culprit. Then a streamlined signal from the stoic streets, ever-changing, ever the same.

 

It's the abstract tower, the cynical machine of global capitalist appropriation that casts the murkiest shadow. Interlinked entities comprised of sociopathic legality (corp. personhood, without the responsibility), pillaging the planet in the name of their stockholders, then when all else fails, pillaging the f*****g stockholders too. All veiled beneath the lie of free (monopolistically unfair) markets. Noise rule. Unartful. Signal war's the most powerfully harmonious OMMMMM overwhelming the noise of necktie agendas. Necktie party's a lynching. David's surreal and Goliath's a bloated gasbag. Does the right stone slung kayo empire or open its dormant third eye?

 

Mayhaps the kayoing of empire accords with the CEO's resigned pleasure in the Earth Mother's flaying cat-o'-nine tails.

 

But that's old hat.

 

Imagine your friends and lovers dematerializing just when you'd formed bonds, holonomic fade in a 30-day honey bee span. It's part of the warped aperspectivality of slipstreaming existence, that anti-picaresque vortex of manifest possibilities. Five centuries.

 

It's how things are for everyone anyway -- amped to escape velocity and

left-field parallel realities.

 

I hold on to her hand; we're in two different worlds.

 

I hack the reality membrane that keeps our bodies apart. Her virtual curves sleekly flow in silent joy. Humility, awe, fearless desire=joy.

 

Now, just keep the f*****g Kryptonite apologists away from me, and we'll have some fun.

 

Shock and awe in the make-love-not-war zone.

 

All along the watchtower the snow leopards f**k.

 

The only way out is thoroughly through.

 

Funny when the counter-noise is the signal.

 

>>> 

 

He signals interest with smolder-gaze smile, and short-hand wave. She hurls a bucket of meat from across the swank bistro room, instantly winning his carnivorous heart. It’s filet of tender thighs, still quivering, his favorite.

 

The other dining patrons are unperturbed, as the anti-grav beam in the floor has the flesh pail floating from cloud nine.

 

She doesn’t stay to see the meat meet Snake-Eyes. She’s on her way to learn smoke signals from an old taciturn Indigenii.

 

He sets the meat bucket down on the table, taking a call on his iCan, retro-cell on a string.

 

She had come to this town to be nobody, but instead became a holo-star, her innate mega-wattage burning through her bushel-basket o’ anonymity, spirit beyond the pale.

 

“Yes yes, “ he exclaims over his iCan, “It’s for the No-Age market. Yes, that’s right. It’s called The Way of the Warful Peaceior. A quimnast who breaks his woody attempting a difficult spin maneuver during a spirited bout of intercourse is told by doctors he’ll never f**k again. Moping around this vegetable oil refueling station, with its shamanic attendant, Cockrates (who appears in Pan, the quimnast’s dreams silent and sudden; has a hidden vertical leap of 15’ in a nanosecond, during which he transmogrifies into a cockatrice, legendary serpent with deadly glance hatched by a reptile from a c**k’s egg on a dunghill; and can catch greased d****s hurled fast his way with eyes-averted aplomb), Pan finds himself engaged in a rehabilitative training regimen under Cockrates’ baleful eye. Pan’s ‘training partners’ avail themselves of copious amounts of Cockrates’ recycled vegetable oil, as Pan’s conspicuous c**k splint makes coitus more like a visit to the gynecologist than his former quimnastic swoon-inducing virtuoso thrills.”

 

The voice on the other end of the iCan emits sounds of involuntary creaming.

 

“Yes yes, isn’t it wonderful? Oh, and get this, I’m reading from my notes: ‘Quimnastics becomes mnemnastics when the warful peaceior becomes Source in the quivering orgasmic vortex,’ proclaims Cockrates, station to station, stations of the X, regenerator of lost acausality. ‘The peaceful warrior attempts to align his egoic psycho-physical dynamics with the Tao. The warful peaceior is the mad edge of Tao’s creative potential.”

 

The voice on the other end makes gurgling noises of Homer Simpson-esque drooling.

 

“Right, it’s great!,” the man continues. “Then Cockrates evokes the famous crazy wisdom myth about Lord Shiva, destroyer-liberator in the Hindu trinity coming into a village and hacking everyone to pieces with his sword of awareness before sitting on their corpses in profound meditation. Cockrates asks: ‘Is Shiva being a peaceful warrior or the ultimate warful peaceior?’”

 

Silence on the other end of the iCan’s string. Then, “Um, what lesson is gained from such an image of monstrous violence?”

 

“There is no such thing as a separate entity in the wild field of Consciousness Itself.”

 

“Hmmm. . .”

 

“We are all already dead.”

 

“Wow.”

 

>>> 

 

Meanwhile, the she of meat-bucket hurling is standing on a high plateau watching 0s and 1s smoke-etch a clear blue sky.

 

“Cockrates,” utters the low-rumbling voice in greeting behind an outstretched hand.

 

She shakes the strong hand, gnarled as an ancient bristlecone pine.

 

“0s and 1s?” she says, staring up wonderingly.

 

“Yes,” answers her smoke-signal mentor. “Even Indigenii have gone digital.”

 

>>> 

 

Back on the iCan cell phone, the man is further explicating his understanding.

 

“See, the Shiva hack job is not a poster for religious violence – it’s exactly the opposite. It’s a paradoxical X-ray of the human psycho-spiritual condition.”

 

“How so?”

 

“The Fire Will Have Its Way. We are all contents under pressure. Pressure from without, pressure from within. We also ARE the pressure if we are of a certain evolutionarily ambitious turn of mind.”

 

“Continue,” offers resourceful voice-on-a-string.

 

“Understandably, everyone takes a chill pill, goes jogging, f***s their brains loose, prays smartly or superstitiously, meditates to equanimity under the pressure of without/within/enigma. This warful peaceior is about the always already free awareness in the world, the nondual in the dual, militating in the midst instead of merely abiding smiling on the faraway f*****g hill or always redundantly ‘learning’ the same fundamentals, the Millman/Castaneda stooge wherein the teacher is always about the obvious and the student is always aggressively stupid.”

 

“Wow.”

 

“That’s the flaccidness of the new age enterprise we abhor here.”

 

“To say nothing of fundamentalist excrement and postmodern splinterbabble,” catches on the string-along other.

 

“Well said, invisible man. Now I’m hearing “warful peaceior” as an electronic alien musicality, the artful rewind of its skewered meaning.” He the she named Snake-Eyes taps his forehead, still on the trendy iCan string cell. “Not too geeked out though. Nix Coneheads, Devo, R2D2, whatever. More like a cello being fist- fucked by a theremin. War-ful peace-i-or.”

 

“We’ll mix in my paramour’s cum voltage.”

 

“Excellent.”

 

>>> 

 

“Asiatic shamanic erotic overdrive blah blah blah,” Cockrates blathers while tossing a frisbee her way.

 

Languid slo-mo her golden thighs arise, spread, expertly catch the spinning frisbee in her ever-moist hot clasping cooze. Cockrates holds up a “11.0” sign of quimnastic judgmental excellence, in the “higher-volume” spirit of Spinal Tap.

 

“That’s why they call it a snatch,” Cockrates further offers, approvingly.

 

>>> 

 

Yes, the film scenario being pitched on the iCan overlaps with a real-life chance meeting.

 

There remains the bucket of meat.  And the enigmatic anonymity of he and she.

 

Hinging on the shoulder to the wheel.

 

He meets she over Cockrates’ tales of the abyss.

 

>>> 

 

Meanwhile, the Sir that is I receives fresh naked soul signals from the legendary 7000 miles away, an exquisite new Precious arising from the Venusian sea-foam.

 

7-league boots toward the future secures a shamanic transformation.

 

500 years of psi-fi time-space slipstream wrenching hasn’t cured me of treasuring jewel-goddesses of scriptural visitation. Her yielding’s the soft noise of love.

 

Author's Note

See Description.

Reviews

[Nik Dendera]

"Me, I'm invisible, ancient, young." Love that line. And the reference to Spinal Tap.

Never one to disappoint, this jumps right in. Quick and snappy word play and what could be deemed exaggerated verbal explosions, confuse yet clarify.

Your trademark literary backflips and summersaults once again provide me with something to get my teeth into. This is an unrelenting, intellectual onslaught which no one else on this site has.

As always, great to read. I'll do my best to catch up with more of your work (I know, I'm s****y when it comes to that!)

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

Dear Peace,

Thank you for the comment and for directing me to this installment. If you sent a read request previously, I apologize for I don't recall. I didn't deliberately neglect you.

Now ...


"The war on war on war on war wore on." I love the repetition of the war on war on war on war ... it's repetition does wear on, and I think the way that you ended the line is sheer perfection.

"Making a living does not preclude living a making." Very poignant, very true, and something to really think about.

"The only way out is thoroughly through." This is so true of so many aspects of our lives. The words resonate with truthfulness.


“The Fire Will Have Its Way. We are all contents under pressure. Pressure from without, pressure from within. We also ARE the pressure if we are of a certain evolutionarily ambitious turn of mind.” Once again, this pertains to so much of reality, to which we can all relate on some level or another.

Languid slo-mo her golden thighs arise, spread, expertly catch the spinning frisbee in her ever-moist hot clasping cooze. Cockrates holds up a “11.0” sign of quimnastic judgmental excellence, in the “higher-volume” spirit of Spinal Tap.

“That’s why they call it a snatch,” Cockrates further offers, approvingly.

LOL! This is extremely clever. You have the neatest way of bordering on vulgarity but always just not.

"500 years of psi-fi time-space slipstream wrenching hasn’t cured me of treasuring jewel-goddesses of scriptural visitation. Her yielding’s the soft noise of love."

Cockrates say you think with wrong head. :) LOL!

As always and ever, you and your writing are terrific.

Linda Marie

[NoneOfYourBusiness akaK..]

crazy gorgous surreal dive sprinkled lavishly with irony~!!!~ submerged hindbrain deep in your twisty grammatical oceans of candy coated divinity~~~~

oh my am I glad I plunged into this~


Weapons of mass distraction.


says it all says it all~ humanity in your hands unwound from its own conceits expertly!!!~

[Vague]

The thoughts here travel through everything, unafraid to mix, "unacceptable," combinations of things. Everything is par for the course; we just forget sometimes. I left this piece feeling satisfied.

[Gandré]

Bull s hit. Pretentiousness. then.........wanting......and getting.....sci fi in format. luv it.
hippiee-style-ancient-all-are gone.
/I play the German Literature Pope Marcel Reich Ranicki:
what a f**k!! this guy needs 100 over the knee.
Words are not bowls like strains and look. They just are!

[Roxy]

Wow
Your literacy is absolutly beautiful, I can really sink my teeth into this and expect a great bite, it had shocking parts that were spicy and harsh, but ended sweet and flowed like those words were made to form into a sentence by force.

beautifully written
thanks

[Siddartha Beth Pierce]

Oh yes, this is a compelling piece of writing that travails through such a myriad of sexuality, duality, post-modernism and sci-fi that I am totally thrilled and enraptured by it as a whole. Thank you for sharing. Totally enraptures the viewer in your voice that is totally ORIGINAL! Well done.
Light,
Siddartha

[Billy Baphomet]

Whoa. . .fasten your seatbelts and prepare for forced rapture. Goddess has "cum" and the orgiastic rites of left-hand zen bring revelations that no koan can.

I loved this my friend. It reads like a zen koan. . .but more relevant, since it is being scribed by one who I would gladly call a post-modernist monk.

What is funny is I am actually quite tipsy on wine (my favorite psychoactivating pasttime) and this piece gave me goosebumps. . .my body's sure signal that higher planes have been accessed. Beautiful work as usual. You are an inspiration to me sir, and I thank you for scribing your paradigms for mine and others' musings!

[Conner G]

This reminds me of something William Burroughs would write during some nuclear war apocalypse fallout type situation.

I enjoyed, very surreal and great description!

[octane143]

I am always thrilled when I receive another installment read request! Your intelligence and humor is unlike anyting my limited intelligence and cynical humor has read before. I love the Kosmic Krist and your descriptions are amazing, makes me wish i was her and there experiencing them. Really make the reader thinks, even just the simplist of lines:
The war on war on war on war wore on.

Weapons of mass distraction.

"That's why they call it a snatch," Cockrates further offers, approvingly.

As always I leave deep in thought! Another great installment!