Excerpt 158:

Reading Between the Lines of Unadulterated Propaganda

The isolated Atoll Goodmanson had been put away and forgotten… His predicament response energy joined arms with Fate smiling up and down in a line on the spot. He carried off his role with auto-performed-precision because any deviation would bring to the front of the centre of the stage an off-script, narrative-angstrovexation, a fervent gonoplacefullness, a semi-inward self-oblivion, inspecting the troops for internal armageddon; a mere puck in the sport-cudgeling of the mildly chronic sadist, a sponge, living on the reef of a dead planet…in the dead Universe…

Atoll was remembered, in the overall Scheme of Things (ST) because Sybil had made Provisions (P). He was festering, pestered by the relentless suppressed resentfulness. But you’d never be able to tell. He put on a bright face with the lumens of a mid-run stage-trooper.

I found Atoll, in a cage within a cage: the theatre where he performed was sealed, I checked, the stage held him in the spotlight that was a searchlight from a tower on the fenceline in the dark… The audience drifted in and out with the whimsicality of a whimsically imagined audience; flocking shadows in jerky slowmotioned murmuration. And on the stage Atoll was incarcerated in a shame-enhancing confessional box; a stage-crafting borrowed for Lent from a desecrated church, flanked by a gaudy pew from a relentlessly reimagined secondhand store…and within that cage, an inner cage of restriction; the Product of Assassinational Programming (PAP). Because the confessional box was also partly in his head, deprogramming had the power to free Atoll, but what programming and from where. All those able to gain access did not know the programming language, the language spoken only in a tongue of truth with a mouth pumped by lungs of knowing. I would wake and wake, I willed invisibly, and one day wake up back here with the knowledge to re-program. Atoll was the key and I was the lock as far as I could push story boundaries and adapt personal characteristics values: as far as I could stand in the way of the narrative and make it go round me…

There wasn’t much I could say about Atoll Goodmanson, until, as luck would have it, I woke up, just on time, in a media newsroom that seemed to be dedicated to news surrounding and abouting the everywhats of Atoll Goodmanson and most Goodmansonlike and Atollesque attributional perriphetamine leached arrogostafils, so to speak.

In the long darkened room faces dwelt in monitor light from the screens that covered one wall. What I was looking at was puzzle-pieces of information that if put together would reveal the overarching biographical narrative of Atoll’s life. I played with the idea that one monitor; showing a darkened gallery with people lit up by monitors was switched off, but it was more likely that whoever was behind all this (we only ever saw penciled annotation marks) wanted the participants to know they would not go unmonitored. 

I was filling up with datatrue factcode like I was at the pump… the quantity and quality of information had the potential to set up a waking moment that could lead to a golden pot of answers… the kind of bingo that once called brought the deeds to the bingo-hall… On a more cautionary note, though, code was being angularized then deangularised, half-angularised and semi-deangularised right before me like a bitch howling disconcertedly at a wolf with Siamese kittens.

I was hyperpresent despite not being there in the flesh. I’d considered being invisible should I stumble across a dataflood and that was enough for it to be so; invisibility visited itself upon me with a vacant transparency that quelled any potential outside input.

On one screen, a documentary about ‘the boy in the bubble’; mainly NASA opportunism dressed in goal-led corporate philanthropy, saturated in scientific mumbo-patronising-jumbo. On another, a split screen playing the union of G & G and the labs they built to save the world from anything the world had to throw at itself on one side, and on the other, an exposé of the nefarious riot of criminality and moral abandonment the laboratories had forced upon an innocent world. While the left side sang praises, the right was an amplification of the block rocking beat of invidious doom. Truth, if that was your bag, laid somewhere in the middle; oscillating in the split-zone pixel-border… A concerned and reserved doculogue showed the Obama administration’s creation of the Midway Atoll National Wildlife Refuge, another, the nature reserve construction-site digging deep laboratories for G & G labs to invent and create in without restriction… One of those creations, triggering and heart thumping, was, overtly, the ever more mysterious the more you looked, bubble boy: just a boy in a bubble, became just a boy being abused by his care-givers in the name of science.

A journalist turned screenwriter who visited (Sand Island) wrote a screenplay for a horror movie about a journalist visiting the island and never returning, but it was in production hell and the screenwriter was busy turning into a novelist who would never be allowed to visit the Atoll again.

More in-depth, if that tickles your fancy: an investigative journalist from the Tiny Guy strain unravelled the knotted laces of truth about the real boy in the real bubble and the megalomania and extreme narcissism that topped the list of no nos that had been given a green light to prance around like pretty little yeses toting water pistols loaded with urine.

The screens spoke, I listened, but then I had to ask myself whether I had listened at all… I to realise that my memory loss was integrated with my  information processing activity. So, reaching a height of comms-enbadgerment confusion and intensifying simultaneity of data drench, I woke…

Surveying my surroundings with a gentleness that called out for peace to be given a chance; my repairing mind cast micro suggestions about decor and decoration, which I ignored and let settle before expanding my scope of awareness. There was much to be aware of in the seemingly air blimp sized warehouse space peopled by bright, fun-addled youngsters who popped up and passed the entrance to my small boxy office sanctuary at a busily industrious junction atop some old iron steps modernised by innovative renovation, without so much as a slight unnoticed peripheral acknowledgment…

I looked and there was no me…

I considered that my invisibility was a form of self-abandonment… I overcame this setback (tried) with a barrage of empathy and self-compassion… 

Perhaps my visibility would express itself by being the object of the curiosity of others advanced by my expression of loud moaning… But my fear of others triggered an immediate sensation of endangered flight…So, I flew and during that process I woke, and I woke like I was really progressing along the line of speculation towards a whole heap of I told you so… At first I was unsure but just three words named the place of my awakenment:

The location being: spoofed.offices.fright:

Midway Atoll; on the ground, in trepidation…

I had hardly began roaming around before I was startled by a fellow traveller, or worse; a mutually stuck familiar stranger who I could not place anywhere but here, who I knew existed elsewhere, or, at least, had. I suspected he could have been a relative of an earlier Tiny Guy alias, left over and unlisted. 

‘Turn from this road back to the track,’ he said. He knew more than he was saying, his timbre told me so. He made a series of speculations that were endpointed with ellipses…the impetus of which thrust me into a memory reclamation funk…that played out thuswise:

The scene: Atoll’s Playhouse, the Arty Quarter, Stockhouseville.

The auditorium could be said to be both emptying and filling at once; both familiar and alien….the ghosts of the Gaza children, limb-to-head ratio out of whack: none able to pass…there’d be unfinished business; a business flight in the air…where the Devil (or one of his, or her, most trusted bastard-motherfuckers) rained torment; the leaky umbrella of Justice unfit for purpose…living-dead time elapsed waitfullly: what did the world have to say? And the answer is a ghost of a devil, perhaps THE Devil incarnate… The jury is out to lunch and babies’ heads are on the menu…and all over the tables, flooding out of the kitchens…

Atoll looked out audience-like at the performance off-stage… Seat-dancing sinews muddled forward through the mire of impediments, holding pieces of other children and babies certificated with official stamps of Innocence. They sang songs of loud bangs and rubble, pain and suffering…an illogically alleged racist slurs against their killers.

In them, Atoll saw his own reflection. It was privileged and massaged the reluctant self-pity rejection valves to toot with steam. He’d had it good, he could see it now…he had just been comparing himself to a whole other level of victim. His relative ease brought forth garlands of ambition and questions of how they could best be arranged. And they could be arranged mighty fine…

I stood next to Atoll on stage invisibly, but my silence could not keep still. He then said something cataclysmic, to me, and it went along the lines of

‘You are me,’ or, ‘I am you.’

You are me? I thought…

I am you? I thought…

Both fitted well into mutual inclusion theory… I actively rejected the theoretical scenario, though, up to the point that it came back from the lab: positive, truth-laden. I was he and he was me, we were one and the same, but different. My master, Truth, who will bring victory in the defeat of all false masters, coded up the ambience and made known by instinct what should be known by the privileged such as myself and myself as Atoll.

My superpower was clearly, not being adulterated by Confusion. Was Atoll playing me, or was I playing Atoll? 

Then quite unexpectedly suddenly but with a wake that trailed, rippling with predictability: floods, and waves and waves of floods and waves and waves and record flood levels: the memories rocked up, rolled in, sexed and drugged up the place like a devil-vicar’s day off:

I was born to scientists as their experiment…

I was programmed and manipulated and genetically modified…

I had been sent to work the doors of the elite club that would cater for the wealthiest souls by creating a perceived reality in a hyperreal-world constructed by satellite-tech connections; orchestrated by neuron command-and-control nodes, facilitated by the latent brainspaces of the unwitting masses.

My mind had been engineered to be the entrance point…my function to guide people in who were on the list…

Except, a shadow me, probably caused by a bug or glitch from, as yet unknown sabotagers was preventing the Cerebral World from going live. Somewhere, some very unhappy rich-list toppers were being stored in a queue for a rebirthing experience that was buffering nowhere soon on an infinite circular loop.

Even though my auto-suggestion was switched off I still woke up, predictably, lodged in the queue, billions invested, seeds of doubt burnt, narrative rivers abridged with detours…

I gave myself a quick whatashamenevermind and woke up in a chronically logical place: the cafe at the the marina, the Dry Canal Bed and Breakfast. The name above the door: Judith and Kirk James…