Excerpt 156:

Last Night I Dreamed I was in Llareggub Again

Noticeably there’s pre-Sybil and post-Sybil; there’s during Sybil and enduring Sybil… But there is no scenario in this narrative where there is no Sybil. She is intrinsically interfabricational and immoveably ingrained… I forget who said that.

It was true… Sybil wanted a word…with me…the word was out and on the street… Word boots on the ground pounding out seismic synchronicity… Then I woke up, probably the most involuntary awakening yet.

Attaining a makeshift balance of sorts…

I switched off the nausea Sybil made me feel because I knew it was an imposed reaction to keep her at bay. I wanted to hear, for myself, consciously, what she had to say…as forbidden as the whole bizarre interaction seemed. If us animals were not disgusted by shit the bacteria would have killed us off the long ago and taken over. All I knew was that words were heading my way; words about words were being bandied about… I needed actions to step in and convert the bandying into a scientifically clad sensical form I could listen to; to slap and bind the word sense of the communique onto the secure hospice of documentation.

And so it was that I found myself slownding into a saunter that was carrying me along a street; a three-quarter saunter, relaxed if not relaxing; familiarity danced with strangeness; an intimidating intimacy… Memories began plucking themselves like a mandolin with its own built in mechanical hand with biological fingers. 

After a while…

I stopped…and there I was: in old ripped and faded posters… A past life had had me as a component of a band…we’d called ourselves, the Banned, we’d been called the Clues, but as we didn’t have any… Not all the details were visible but there was enough juice to rally further juices into a welling that began to swell…

I’d stopped in one mode and started off in another.

I tapped my feet, involuntarily at first, a foot move that anxtified the general mechanics of the current saunter arrangement. My leg department was loaded and ready to fire into an altogether more purposeful gait, related to the shuffle family, but supercharged, if my foot orchestration should require such a rarified form of hyperperambulation.

I pondered out of necessity and curious self-involvement…

I mean… I wasn’t musical, but then it dawned on me through thick and creamy cloud created by my own resistance to upward mobility, that the Banned’s previous incumbency at the Grand Royal Dive and Thrive, Kitchen and Washroom had been so successful that my return could be weathered with aplomb. I was a faded star come back to squeeze what entropy evading adoration remained in the fading audience.

As flotsam of solid memory junk returned in a flood of recollection solution this one review came back to me: a blank page. It was considered, at the time, to be the finest possible review of our work that could have been put into wordlessness. Of course, nowadays, it would be considered a load of pretentious shit.

A freshly posted poster touted a new venue with lavishly livid art-boundary-cheating typefaces: The Wordville, a venue among venues, which I was approaching and preparing to dock with before any other plans materialised so I guessed it was the point of rendezvous. As the Yesteryear in my mind did a flailing jig on the dancefloor of memory; the dance died down; the dance floor sank without trace… I switched lenses and entered The Wordville; I focussed on my pre-ordered wordsoup and previsaged word-side-salad and hunk of crusty word-bread that threatened to speak the legs off any table I chose to sit at. I slipped down the grip-grinding steps as they rose behind me. The Wordville, where words were worth waiting for… I chose a table and sat at it…waiting…unaware of much at all…waiting… switching to receiver mode…watching, being watched…waiting…

Sybil’s august presence was sudden and abrasive. Behind her, shadowing, an unexpected Atoll Goodmanson. I swung from aghast to pleasantly surprised in a blinking wrench.

I didn’t know it then, but the ‘word’ she wanted with me was code for her selling me the idea that Atoll was to be a roadmap for travelling from A to B in the Matrix Hinterland (cover name for an otherwise unnamed and undetected hypothetical operating world) that was hitherto untraversable or even imaginable. It made no sense at the time. The idea of him being a roadmap was then intended to be developed by my own Typical Thought Reaction Chain Interference (TTRCI) into an actual/metaphorphical ‘road’ that was to tunnel back up the levels to arse-jump the isolated game directors, (although this theory turned out to be way off it served a purpose).

Atoll either disappeared into the shadows or became one. Sybil led me to some stairs that descended through a dozen secure doors and tight corridors and chaise-longed antechambers to a below-ground room that had the qualities of big and small that fluctuated into the concept of it being highly adaptable. Like practicality was its middle name. There was a small window in that basement of basements that stood behind a scene woodenly acted by motionless; midmotion child’s dolls; female’s behaving barbarically towards a lone male. It was not clear whether any harm was being actuated that could be effectively de-actuated. I was beginning to try to work out what was going on in the scene, not wanting to, but doing it anyway, when Sybil, who had become an enchantress of no mean feet, became all the more enchanting by sweeping the dolls away. She looked through the window, then gestured that I should look through it as she backed away and sat on an inflatable chair I rather fancied sitting on myself.

‘It is a kind of regeneration of stored’n’stacked memory pulses to create a best case scenario of what really happened and how it relates to inter-related-relative-interaction moving forward… They keep us from the truth but we have the technology to create the next best thing, Truth’s neighbour,’ she said, becoming more or less informal, de-augustifying; quartering the demigod vibe into eighths… ‘Ersatz Truth sipped from a leaky cup is better than no coffee,’ she stated, my mind setting about any code spurffing potentiality with metaphorphically oriented deciphering module node application.

Then, in an unsurprising haircut of events with a surprising fringe of nuance…

Sybil closed me down by becoming oppressively enchanting…she was blowing me off course and to prevent further harm everything went dark.

When it became light again she was different… Had someone had words with her? She was the proprietorial boss of old, distant, unresponsive, but when responding unpredictably she was close-up, pushy and insistent, at her meekest… Leaking threat obscured itself behind a frizzy welcome mat stained with blood. She lent me as much space as she could spare for me to operate in, and then, once her face had settled she gestured for me to take my eyes to the window and experience what the phenomenon the other side of the window had to display. But I had got it wrong, she didn’t want me to spectate; she wanted me to open the window; to crawl through and participate.

So I did…

I joined in and there was dancing, both real and implied. Surprisingly, yet with a caked-over stance of predictability, I became the point of the act; the play within the play: a mystery biography in dance. I became so mysterious that anybody could’ve guessed right that it was me; I was the pivotal one, the central character bringing the balance back to a normal state of eccentricity.

I was sort of having fun at a conscious level, while at a partially conscious level, serious talks were being had. I could sense what was going on. They were trying to tell me something in a way that the omnipotent ubiquitous forces cast by the oppressive overlookers could not digest. I remember thinking: good luck with that…

It was clear, from what they were hiding in plain code, that the manipulation from the top; from the other side, had me in a firmer grasp than I had the ability to imagine. What this, this thing called experiential reality could’ve been, I thought, and in fact was, was an Education Farm (EF) in some laboratorial conceptuality, where my seed was sown and my sprouts trained and my growing forward was fabricated for ticking boxes signifying pre-ordained agricultural human development. Dance, as a code projecting medium is one of the best. Not easy to decipher, but awash with spaff-splurges aplenty and more plus besides. And mime’s descriptive potentiality in the code comms matrix had a second-to-none characteristic that had shine-through mass appeal with a kittenish, puppy lining.

As code ran at me I head balled it into decodified data-strands and allowed processing to fulminate itself into culmination files ready to execute an internal mandate of self-modificational prefabrications. Not consciously, but doing it anyway… A wrecking ball swung at foundational structures that informed my fundamental perspective… Full appreciation of who I was to become was not possible, but who I was as me playing the transitory me travelling inexorably towards my goal was exceedingly helpful at this juncture.

My installed sense of being universally abundant took a side shunt; creasing my armour… Via mime and in-line, foot-fancy jigs with hip swindling supplocity they painted a picture of the in-transit me as, some sort of novel complex of synthetic conscious intelligence. A recurring hook within the theme pointed towards me being a being who was being prepared for global government by integration into a world wide quantum system. The adding-on of me, would create the first bio-mechanical, Quantum Assisted Semi-Artificially Intelligent system. What that meant was not yet released into the general cognitive arena… I would have to change from a normalish person into a megalomaniacal omnitwat with infinite simultaneous node capacity: a monster…

A tap dance broke out…arms flailed…knees cycled past each other like ships in the night…and a overboring, narrative through-line that over-wrote everything that had come before, drifted in through my thought-orchard like the melodic flapping of a pegged-up Summer dress rippled by the breeze of elucidation. I had a lot to chew on as I climbed back through the tiny window, knocking over the dolls who were keeping my otherwise omniscient perpetrators entertained and unable to track my awareness. I was electrified by a sense of needing Sybil and having to protect her from the puppeteers who did not, I presumed, know of our interactions. Post window-dance-mime-dolls I was certain that the deceit I maintained in harbouring Sybil was a necessary one.

Back in the big small basement room…

Sybil had gone, but she’d left a vibe only I could detect. It spoke volumes; it told me that if I stood still, sleep would come and ride its dribbling arse-bike all over my prepaid cemetery plot.

I woke up, and for once had a concise carry-over of mindstate that made me feel I was gaining traction.

Yes.

Wow! 

The drug of realisation coursed through my being… I certainly knew things I had no way of knowing, and I didn’t want them to know I knew. I managed to feel sneaky without transmitting sneakiness. Sybil’s insistences had eaten away at my naivety. People-pleasing had lost all pleasure for me… I dropped the attentive servicing stance and climbed upon the ladder of deceit… Yes, it had snakes on it, fine creatures, but slithery is as slithery does.

I think they must have had suspicions; them…the…them…but the misted window of doubt obscured the direction of certain of my intentions that I was keeping so close to my chest I could not be party to them myself.

As armed as being informed had made me there was no resistance potential on the horizon; no overt rebellion at hand. I had to maintain my act as a conduit… my role, as they saw it, was to take detect code, take it apart and reassemble it, utilising various unconscious programs. That is what they thought. My shielded conscious thoughts were undermining everything that was functionally controlling my oppression. They would say that I was infected by Sybil. I would say that the infection they had given me was being treated by Sybil’s correctional ministering, but perhaps not to their faces, should indeed, they have faces…

The experiences they were putting me through were so I could act as a conduit between them and the vast unconscious systems that constituted my existential framework… I was not an individual but a network. But my consciousness only functioned in one node of the network at a time. If I could break out of the nursery and operate all nodes simultaneously before my whole is programmed to service their nefarious outcomes, Sybil and I could get married and have children…(which was nonsense; I don’t know where that came from).

Every time I wake up I think I am at the final level. Always, always; the knock on the door; the bitter Truth shafting in like sunlight, creating constellations of dust particles starring on a canvass in which they are normally trivialised by their own size…

‘Wake up in ten minutes,’ Sybil said, her voice the only sign of her, ‘and I’ll surface in you again, but you must authorise me without detection, watch for traps.’

I needed to work on what she’d said to make it fit into a narrative that had go-time revved up and ready to race…

The next time I saw Sybil she was conducting a seance within a musical act within a play. She was invoking characters she had made up, basing them, lazily, I thought, on Tiny Guy aliases to help her build a sophisticated, multi-levelled picture scenario.

The act carried round balls the length of abnormally elongated football pitches laid end to end to the Moon and back several times. But after a few too many anomalies causing foundational cracks in the Greco-Roman pillars of respectability, she shelved seancing and switched to blatant deus ex-machina fantasy… All her input and output now was provided via her ‘still born twin’. Who turned out to be none other than the Professor; a character I was so au fait with we practically shared the same hut in a woods we’d purchased the land deeds for together, with money we’d won on the lottery, while doing a two-manned conga; drumming the big-win-gong-bang-bong. That Prof… Il Professore blah-de-you-know-who etcetera…

Sybil had been saving up information for a rainy data storm. The conglomerated backlog could only cause a twisting of my intended narrative and the type of fall that entails ambulancial retrievement and specialist editing.

Sybil was garrulous…to a degree that made me forensically listentatious for once. I was also a long way from sleep…a good plan was to wake up and when I did, Sybil and I were in an office that was veneered with industriously minded sub-plotting…There were people, but somehow their consequence had been minimised… Sybil had a few things to say… She cleared the room, hardly suppressing her bubbling confidence led arrogance… Her high-horse unfurled its wings as she polished her bronzed-ego. We were alone again, at last. I had to maintain the act and pretend she was a figment of my imagination that amounted to self-directed auto-echo-chamber-chatter with mundanity scrawled all over it with cheap pencil lead.

I wasn’t expecting the world, but my expectations were continental in scope… 

Then she started: ‘To some, money is God, no small god; no dinky deity he. They gaze into the eyes of God and see stout green dollar-signs monogrammed by the greed reflected from their own eyeballs and feel, momentarily, eternal satiation… This is just a belief… It is such a belief that it bulldozes the establishment of a malignant hill to unwittingly die upon; a death mound stuffed with cash-mattresses; a grassy knoll of filthy lucre.’

At that point we both yawned like bored holes. There was nothing new here….the new, if in fact it existed, was around the corner sighing and adjusting its costume. I don’t know which one of us started it, but it was obvious we needed to wake up before our deep-sea-diving clad torpor sank through its languid descent to the world of snoozing bubbles at the shipwrecked seabed graveyard…

Were we against wealth, or for it?

Continuing with seamless nonchalantism, garnered from eons of yoga positioned meditation, she guided us towards a gentle awakening…she lit candles and chanted…with metaphorphic outwardboundedness…

Against it!

…and then said, ‘have you heard the name Gyles Tidy? He was one of Tiny Guy’s analysts. He claimed that if one (anyone) suddenly possessed superwealth it would cause their days to condense into a limited and limiting space. Their time would necessarily contract; disable them from being able to do anything of much at all relative to what wealth had promised them. 

‘We all crave the resources, at times, to tick off what we know will remain as ‘if only’ dreams to us. Yet, resourced up to the max, all the things we’d expected to transfer from dream to reality become slippery. You can only watch as they ebb away. You cup your hands and the liquid dreams run out of your grasp. Life accelerates and rushes past flipping the middle finger. This is the Terrible Time Machine Stuck on Fast-Forward Paradox, in action. It is brought about by too much wealth for the stone-brained modern ape variant (Homo Greediarse) to handle.

‘This desperate sense of lost-time-space registers on the grief scale… if only Time had a more accessible mechanism… if only Time could give you a break and allow jet skiing, mountaineering, sailing and snow skiing in one afternoon with an envelope big enough for extension-granting time-stamps… a lavish re-metronoming of Time’s staid duty…

‘Where does enjoyment go if you have to rush your performative stallion-cum-pony-prancing in the finest threads, in the fastest, reddest, horseless carriages, the most expensive restaurants, shagallnight, and be up in time to catch the launch of the latest shiny thing…followed by new found hours of fixed-wing and rotor blade flying…even a hot air balloon romance before brunch. And what a fucking brunch! A triumph of consumerism. A pack of regretful Enjoyment-Puppies mobtrail after you like lost wolves’ hearts, breaking with chronic abandonment, chewing out your soul as they nip and nibble at your ankles of ambition. Be careful where you step and how you step…golden steps are slippy with dribbly, nibbly, abandoned wolfpups. And scattered diamonds, hard-hearted and vacuous, are ready to rip the flesh of those who stumble and fall.

‘Too much money equals too much stuff to fit in the basket of Life. Wealth doesn’t bring time-disencapsulation parameter dilation or re-birth into a less invidious timescape.’

She had made her point and she kept reproducing it. This must have meant that code aromatics were piquing. I just wanted to escape by waking up, this was probably code stress overload, but could have had any number of other causes.

‘Get to the fucking point,’ I shouted, as involuntarily as a fart-sneeze-fart-sneeze-burp-cough…sneeze!

She jumped, information supply chain wise, almost imperceptibly and then sucked on the gnawed out vein, down the cavern’s wall to the climactic goody bag as if I’d not said anything, which was best.

‘A solution that the moniest of the most monied have tendered as their excuse for high living with low ethics is: Using Other People’s Time…’ 

This provoked in me a silence response that progressed everso-slowly into a nodding of the head as it dawned on me what she was trying to say, (with the eloquence of a moustache that had left its liptop home to run away with a slug circus).

‘Paying for your own private doll’s house of fun was the answer to expanding your time allotment by leasing the time of others. Godstrand had been motivated by stealing the time of others to create a world where the privileged few could bask in preternatural time consuming zones. A, let’s make Humanity great by sacrificing 99% of people, because we can, scam… All Godstrand needed to do was get inside the collective conscious…to manipulate and control it.’

Sybil did not want to go any further, until I had caught up processing wise, so she dissipated and peripherised. While I woke up in some godforsaken hotel room that turned out to be the Tricylce Factory Hotel and Velodrome. A pamphlet sat on the side table that creaked as I turned to reach it. The Story so Far, it read…it was padded out with obvious code spewling that made me wake up, eventually… in the interim I head-handled the contents with care, it said: Kokura Choir = vengeance, NASA = greed, NMBS = super greed and unethical hypergain at the expense of others, Goodmanson & Godstrand = (?)

I woke up and found myself stuck in an infuriating and furious masturbatory conundrum with a side-fringe of intracontrametasupra backwards mind-fuckstrangle. I was mired in the job at hand, but freedom pre-dawned on the tepid horizon. This brave new world of answers beckoned, loudbursting with promises of starkly elevated epiphany. What I couldn’t work out I could make up… Reality and me, we’d ride the wavecrest of whatever liquid really filled the oceans…and lash the planet’s beaches with whatever the best thing was, in that context…And so the best laid plans strapped themselves into the electric chair-cum-ejector seat…

Do not go gentle into that dark black, bible black, deep, salt and silent, black bandaged night…