Excerpt 151:
SODA-POP! (-UP) SODA-POP!…
The…’thing’…was more than a portal, it was a holding space/time incident with multi-functional, Catasplenic Neural-Encapsulation Prioritauthoritary-Panlocational Elements (CNEPPE). Memorprompt, Headwrangling, Threadfeed, Absobleed & Dinglutely Apps whirring away in some fortified background-castle high up in supraterrestrial cloudspace. It became a space where I could command a conglomerative thought gamut that could be collated into semi-diverginal narrative aspects that threatened to rip open the atomicatical heart of the Currently Running Narrative-Saturation (CRNS). Whether it was the good ship Fate or the pedalo display team of Coincidence, I found myself almost duty bound to sift through relevant memories until some sort of truth regarding what I was doing here and what the fuck it was leading to, edged over the horizon. I was half-searching for a button that would get me out, but I knew, really, that I was the button.
For the duration of the most crucially important moment-string of my life; I’d become a puppet in a ‘thing’. We don’t get to understand; we just get the intuitive ghost imprint; the fossil left over from an intangible existence that might or might not be, in some other, unattainable, space. I can only speak for myself and even then I find sometimes I have spoken out of turn, but it is funny how information gleaned from sifting through the mighty collective unconscious ocean brings up stuff we didn’t know we knew already.
We share the route of all life… All of us track back, all living matter, to the first life: the Chickenegg or Eggchicken…and our internal data collection storage shares the same foundry of culture, sub-culture and culturalesque artefacts (AKA Humanity + Nature). And we all know this if we allow neuroactivity the time and space…to do what our collective neuroactivity does best.
Our matter-of-fact orchestration leaks the reediness of woodwind, it roils with barking percussion, and heaves with cyclonic passing wind from the embattled brass. There is no perfect note, even though there is a perfect silence between notes, in which we are stuck; in an eternal chase for the infinite…that will end when we obliviously discover the true meaning of silence…
My salvation was always going to be where my thoughts took me. I am the guide of my own thoughts. At least, I have that; thoughts: the last refuge of a demi-god!
Despite the alienness of being inside a giant vagina I sensed the familiarity, above the obvious metaphor of birth, that the system in which I was snared was a system that was controlled by my own imagination that had lost control of itself and needed soothing and putting in order; this was a form of focus puller. My life had been blurred but I couldn’t see it, now sharpness was coming to visit and the world would never look the same again, whichever world I ended up in. I just needed to create a world, real enough to convince my systems to update. So I consciously decided on the initial depiction of a foreign looking street that had nothing specific about it… I was apparent, at least to myself, outside the faded entrance to a hotel that smelt like it had been family run for numerous generations. A nasal undertow suggested that the family had lost control for some years, a note redolent of war or occupation, and then regained it with a determination to never lose it again.
I entered, dawdling non-committally… stopping at the leaflet stand perusing the wares, decoding as I studied first alphawhimtactically and then nomenstipherically for clues and any clues that lay behind the shadows and shading of the typical extant clue species that was present.
Not finding conclusive evidence (clues that glued) and branching out in multiple dead-end speedlessness avenushutes, I turned to the foyer’s loungettesque reception area semi-table where I picked up and ploughed through the hotel’s glistering-pamphlet of illusion that was so far extruded from reality that it poked its nose into a hole that punctured the air in the fantasy quarter of Code City. I was on to something that I was up to bloodhounding the heck out of.
I was expanding with code-bulging alacritudinousness.
With no particular suddenness, I turned, to be aforemet by three grown-up children appearing with matching faces as though they were three twins ill-twinned in size; working together for the good of the hotel complex. A human barricade stopping any metaphorical frostbiting of metaphorphical extremity abandoned digits; chaperoning all potential antagonising foyer-frontmounting.
I saw with momentary clarity that what I seemed about to them was far from what I seemed about to me. The silence would have been awkward had I not been working out (in the expanding background of my mental kingdom) several adjustments regarding my place in the world and how I projected the part of my aura that could be engineered.
Someone coughed.
‘I struck out with a view of the summit…ended up back at the beginning…unable to see further than the mist in my head,’ I said, not knowing what kind of retort my uniformed opponent’s faces would muster. I needn’t have drascticised with such a gaping hole of worry; well-intentioned smiles pervaded in triplical synchrony, kind instructional words I can’t quite remember, but all hotel check-in based.
‘Room?’ one said, ‘one night?’ another, or the same, added. When one of them said the word ‘keys’ my code gearbox snicked into third; I revved a little, hoping not to be too noticed…
Was stuck in third down the main straightaway…and…then…
I found myself de-stressing in a bath of tap-water, reflecting, having showered with inadequate pressure and feeling trinkled over at best. I’d made progress. I had reached safe harbour. I prepared mentally for a short but crucial collective unconscious snooze. Touching bases with an ever increasing foundation.
Caught napping. Not just by myself as me, but by myself as others. All relevant versions of me had been summoned and assembled. This was a momentous inception of momentum. We needed weight to counter the unbearable lightness of being. Fate winked, unfashionably: but we were going to get the cake…biscuits were old hat and new hats were ahead of old hats…
In a coded memory shorthand the official narrative was circumparalaxed by extraprogressive retroversional heckleclock tockfluster; fast forwarding backward; pausing; rewinding with extra-interfluctutationary re-gabbulance (and semi and sub repregabbulance factors). I could see what I was meant to see on one channel. I could also see what no one on the control side could see. I had a double-vision split by my (still as yet unnamed) viral-bug-infection Superpower. Where once I could see, now I could see twice. Occular double-up… Conscious Visual Coupling (CVC). With Unconscious Virtual-Visual Duplication (UVVD). The Mecca of Perspectives (MoP).
Anyway…
Patchquilted from investigative work conducted by one of Tiny Guy’s manifestaliastations, we vividly remember, as though we were there, postwar Kokura, Japan. A team of scientists and technicians whose Nagasaki and Hiroshima homes had been cut off, gravitated together in a deep psychotic need for vengeance. They were exceptions to the rule that witnesses to nuclear holocaust were broken into pieces of frozen fawning. For whatever reason they had a shared walls-of-waves-of-will that would not subside until some kind of warp-driven semi-compromised satisfaction-adjacent revenge was dragged into the welded glass surface of the town square of Justiceville…
They’d meet in a makeshift tent in a dry-teared world of makeshift-and-shrug. You can’t imagine it, but you must try. As they refined what vengeance looked like as fulfillable prospect…a plan formed that although distorted and deformed it would serve a purpose. They needed to do something so that’s what they did.
It started with subliminal techniques they’d been working on as a weapon. (We’d all forgotten most of them had been working on a mind-control weapons system that was to be delivered via the consumerist’s advertising methods, straight to the US people subliminally.)
Altering emotional states, suggestion persistence, mind worm manipulation provocation initiatives. Decision making track change psychology. The actual techniques laid dormant because they could not connect a functional delivery mechanism…save the ability to pass down the vengeance and responsibility of the next generation to keep the revenge cool until it was time to serve in cold blooded exactitude.
And so the Choir became a registered cult in order to pass demands of restorative justice to each evolving generation in perpetuity. With the proviso that as soon as the means to exact revenge became facilitatable, the Choir should be unregistered as a cult. Cults were bad, bad is good in a bad situation, but bad is no good in a good situation. [translated]
When mechanical and electronic computers, developed out of WWII panic and arrogance, began to show promise as a tool for industry; a kernel of the revenge strategy best suited to rolling out formed. The caretakers of the Choir were notified and ‘cult’ status deregistered. Unhinged heads rampaged on the level playing field of a society that had changed beyond recognition. Not that anyone knew what the old buildings behind the new facades housed. The code that had remained dormant and the decipher-ware that was even dormanter were both orchestrally manoeuvred in the dark. We suspect it was Hewlett & Packard’s early work that had been infiltrated by an astute wing of the choirbird. And this was before anyone could have known to what extent the globility of electronic communications would cognitively invade the species.
All the Project for Just Vengeance needed to succeed was for the deciphering means to be subliminally transmitted globally. And, over a period of decade the world’s unconscious minds would be code ready. When the code came, everyone would decipher it unconsciously without concern or gripe. But the effects would be varivastly extensographic; creating an emotional wave of manipulatable behaviour; molten thought cast in a dye of the Choir’s vengeance.
The world’s population, would be, to all intents and purposes, programmable at the soda-pop ad flash of a coded command.
