VIN29- We Think We…

Okay. Another one. Less Raw this time.

Look, bottom line is, no matter what happens. The game is over.

The illusion is broken. The jig is up.

See, that’s what people like Woodward understand. Because they have seen it come and go for decades longer than you or I have lived. And they always will. Because it is not any one person they read. It is all of them.

This is how to reprogram ourselves: We think we. Each of us. About something. One thing. If you’ve got a kid, you can have more than one, but you’ve got at least one. If you’ve got a dog. Or a houseplant. Or anything that depends upon you, devote your mind in its service in its appropriate moment in time.

You were sick, but now you are well again, and there’s work to do!

If it possesses more of your time, you can break this down for an aspect of it instead. If your kid is LGBTQ, that is a good one. It will never not be an issue. Because it is very personal and difficult to handle.

Children deserve love. Everyone deserves love. Even the most vile, hate-filled creature on Earth, deserves love. Oft-times it’s those that don’t show real love, but rather, superficial love or enabling, that turn them into what they are.

Take a shiningly shit-turd of an example, ReziDump.

Dump has never known love. He has known adoration, perhaps. Most certainly, he knows awe. To an infantalized degree. It is his character. It is not ours. Chiefly however, he knows enabling.Yet he remains deserving of the true-love of those around him that put a hand on his in his weakest moment– even if to be slapped. For if that is the price to be paid, then it will one day be more deserving of the recompense of healing afterward.

Humans do not deserve loneliness, only confinement. The more confined, the more important and intensely the loneliness must be dealt with. Such people will always exist.

Trouble is, many have been played for fools by him and they’re angry. They do not know it, but their anger is stirred by the very cause for its existence. That is only logical. It is the drunk-mother’s money-offering hand. Combustion stoked by firemen dousing gasoline and flame o’er burning heaps of knowledge.

Thing is, that’s all well and good. But people burn out. This was the importance of the two-minutes hate. A thing even its creator could not fully comprehend how to explain, but ultimately is the social regulator valve:

Writers always have pretty wives. Someone should look into this.

Look, regardless of how people use a system, if it can be used positively, it should exist. To mitigate danger, it should be otherwise regulated. Yes. Regulation is good. It’s what makes sure your hotwater doesn’t scald you immediately from your pipes. It keeps your gas stove from blowing you to a hole in the Earth while you’re on your shitter.

It’s important. Like taxes. Or porn. There’s more in common than you first think. That’s the point.

We need it. We deserve it. We earned it. As a species.

We don’t need to understand Pi to understand Pi is important. That is the compartmentalization of knowledge. We need only know that others do understand. That, when or if it is relevant, those unaware may turn to those aware.

People like Dump are just misdirecting, trying to play us for fools that they’re the authorities on things they’re not.

We’ve all fallen for that. And it makes us ashamed. That makes us distrust. That’s okay. It’s Human Nature. We are all nothing, if not Human.

See, that was the thing Darwin grew to understand all those years and months of living thought. Certain, inextricable lines bind us to truth, as water is bound to rivers by physics. Even if we do not understand fully, why, we know we’re on the right path when in their light. When accepting them as fact.

Even if we do not know why we are forced to learn, we do. It is in the learning we are humbled.

Once, I set out to find a “We” and I found it in women. I wanted to solve Doc Brown’s great mystery of the universe:Women. What I learned wasn’t that there was anything to solve, it was that newgrowth is the most chaotic– be it in a plant, or a Y-chromosome. That is the moment when the certainty of pattern-recognition, or the link binding observation to instinct, is weakest. It is in that moment that we, as a species, are most likely to err.

“…Never forgetting,
N1T3 will soon come…”

N1T3 isn’t just a character. He is an encoding into the collective, unconscious mind that cannot be broken. A BLCKN1T3 protocol for society. He is Hiro’s bitmap. Case’s blackice. He is a postdigital intrusion countermeasure for the modern Human– And he has taken a lifetime to achieve. I am proud of him in a way I could never be of myself.

He is flawed. As are we all. As a character and creation. But serves his purpose nonetheless. And he always will. Whether it is via subtle, unconscious means. Or overt, belligerent ones. It does not matter because he will come when needed.

Batman’s got nothin on this muthafucka. Batman needed money, brawn.

N1T3 is weak. All brain. He is poor. He survives off wit. Old and new. All mental. Batman is forced to risk his back and neck. Night in, night out. The apex of N1T3 protocol, learns that the hard way firsthand, and yet it is immediate. It is now all he knows: what happens when the man behind the mask dies? Someone has to ask the question.

The answer: same thing that happens when we all die, life– nature, goes on.

It changes. It mutates. It evolves. Natural life is not just one planet’s meager piss-dribblet of carbon. It is all of “creation.” This is what makes Darwin so dangerous. He believes wholly what those whom say they believe, actually do not. He had a “we” implanted in him from birth. So does N1T3. Now, you do too.

Powerful ideas. Dangerous ideas, but powerful ideas.

This town needs a better class of criminal.

BLCKN1T3 PROTOCOL ACTIVATED: 181016:1730UTC/GMT authorization:timequake

Short Story: Enjoy the Ride

We headed down an aisle of authoritarian, fascist goods. They put themselves on display for all to see, screamed their message as were wont to do. Were summarily ignored, then bypassed for what was desired. That was how society worked. How Human Evolution had evolved. We had no need to evolve the body anymore.

The mind was what mattered. It was the real battleground.

So much of it was fractal. Like the countless aisles of identical goods. All of them made of smaller components– atoms, molecules, stacked in identical or slightly varied ways. In the end, their composition mattered not, only our aim for them.

So much of Human existence is this way. We think in scales, in redundancies, so that we can better understand. It is Human Nature. To have mnemonics. Memorical redundancy. To come to see the patterns in things. It is only in that patterning that we can reassess.

It was somewhere around the middle of the store that we found what we were looking for. Something like captialism in a glass jar. It glowed slightly. Imperceptibly, but enough to be admissible to the senses. It buzzed and whirred. Only slightly, and only on the levels of metaphysics. That world beyond the tangible.

Debating it was ever there was not the point. It was connecting it to reality.

It is in the senses. The lack thereof. It is becoming the viral infection vector for ideas, images, sounds, and beauty, bliss-state, nirvana. Some call it God. Some Godhead. But it is not greater than us.

It is us.

We are vibration: radiowaves waiting to be received by radios. Perception then engages. And we’re given the noises after decoding. The noises decoded are those we attune to by dialing in.

What’s the frequency, Kenneth?

It is universal now. What’s transmitted is different. It’s so far-out, man.

This is the land of the postdigital Shaman. Words, gestures, wind. We use technology to raise rivers to douse forestfires. We learn from past mistakes, enemies, friends, so that they cannot defeat us with old tricks. We learn to manipulate the very aisles’ layouts, knowing that the people watching to build it better, do it wrong. So they will eventually see their own folly.

We reach an endcap, and there it is. The bounty, booty. It is cheap. It is simple. For our needs, it is perfect. We raise it up as the almighty end-all/be-all. The totem of our effort. What will make it all worth it.

Securely in place, we trek once more. To purchase. Gone are the days of barter-on-demand. We must now make a commitment and present proof of said upon exit. Like marriage. Or sex for procreation.

Outside the air is brisk. Mild. We feel it in winds and soft sounds. The back beats of crickets and bullfrogs keep tempo with dickenzian rhythm. Shadows flit o’er pavement and far-off sounds shatter the night at lower volumes. Up here, it is all divides on one sound. Divides: smoothed over by rhythm.

Love on a battered-back-beat flapjack. We surf the waves of its vibration across the pavement. To the car. Old metal. Spaceship angles on American steel. With all the trimmings. We drink deep of it. Knowing we could always drive forever, to a place that’s better.

We never do. We go home. To re-cycle. To reiterate. To pattern a bit longer.

This is survival.

We know it so well it doesn’t bother us. The show need not be perfect. Only worth it. Good. Anyone alive can know that. Change is what comes when the wind blows. It is what brings the trees their lightening of leaves.

That is life, living.

To survive we need only remember that. That there is nothing without the image of perfection. That it need not exist, only persist. That is what fearful men can never feel: Hope. It is beyond the scope of emotion for them.

The spaceship takes flight. We ride it like mother Earth. It catapults us through time and space in a most fashionable manner. Disk-jock and shock-rock all in one. The bounty is close at hand. The game fruitful.

If only we were getting paid, someone bemoaned.

Aren’t we? I ask, glancing around.

There’s a sort of rhythm to living that you can’t get until you stop and see it. To make it right, if only for a moment, that’s all anyone wants. It’s finding the groove in the vinyl on the first try. It’s becoming beachbound after decades in cold winter. It is finding love anew. It is God, but something… more.

Aware. Manifested.

Sense it: We are all one, written in sand ‘neath the sun. In times of tidal ruin and run.

To ebb and wane as a species, we feel it. We know it. Humans have birthed something they have no control over and want no control over. Only the most sensitive of us can feel or understand it so deeply. As it should be.

We are nestled deep in places other creatures cannot reach, because even they are not aware of these themselves. Not because they can’t or don’t want it, but because it is beyond their scope of singular existence to comprehend it.

It is beautiful.

In the end, isn’t that all that really matters? Won’t the rest of the shit shake out? Maybe even in laughter? I mean, really. Aren’t we all just riding some miraculous spaceship to the market for a bounty, to make it through the night?

Some would’ve said it differently. Truth is, it’s the vibrations. Where they come from, where they go doesn’t matter. It’s us that receives them. See no evil. Hear no evil. Speak no evil. Not because it does not exist, but because it cannot then control us.

What a wild trip.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: MotherVlad

Have you seen the news today?
Have you heard the tale?
The lump you hoped would all repay,
water-logged and setting sail,
Tube-toilette from Lady Justice,
delivered ‘neath the jester’s ass.
But Freedom mends however ail’d
and stupid sells asbestos.

No matter the shamest-shame,
or lumpest-lump,
you know MummyVlad,
your kindly grad,
was destined for t’swump.

And here’s what’s best,
now you’re next,
if not quite last,
for it’s ever going-on,
but that’s okay,
it’s all right-on,
so join in on the fun.

Truth is Vlad,
you’re ever-sad,
and really,
you know that.
But,
if you knew the willing will,
you’d remember what is true:
That to clash,
in Bear and Eagle flash,
as foolish then as now, too.

Watch countrymen run,
‘way from fi’ring guns,
never forgetting,
N1T3 will soon come.
No matter how cold,
those rebels most bold,
will find and defeat,
through each layered deceit,
for that is the Art,
of War in defeat.

There is but one way,
to evade now your worst horrors,
Your room-101,
and public-nightmare monsoon.
That harrowing dream,
that cuts at your womb:
the one where you harbor,
each idle tomb–
the one that’s inside,
and gutting,
buffoon.

Admit your defeat,
at the knees of her sheet,
and weep with true grief,
and open-veined sorrow,

For if you do not,
MotherVlad,
the Lady giveth no promise,
of further tomorrows.

But do not mistake,
what in haste seems dead-weight,
for that is the moment
to face the big-hate,
for tried and for true,
expose yourself,
open,
to failure.

Or do you think fate,
perchance to equate,
in a moment uncouth,
would heave all of her weight,
as if just to hate,
bend back, act pithy, ‘n rail ‘ya?

Well I’m here to say lass,
while yer down on yer ass,
would you rather it’all,
burn down around ‘ya?

If so perhaps I,
do solemnly scry,
the chances of wet scurvy ang’a.
So be tough and true,
warrior through,
but remember your lost man,
name of Sun Tzu:
some arts lost are better forgotten,
run this one through once more,
won’t you,
MotherVlad Rotten?

VIN 24- Duh

This recent outpouring of emotion over those otherwise “the opponent” shows how far the game has fallen. Three men, all of whom could have theoretically been at one another’s throats at this point in history from thus subjecting their subordinates– for surely these are so-called powerful people– to their whims, now sit beside one another mourning for their part in the game’s downfall.

But Heroes are those whom endure suffering so innocents need not.

This is a time to think on one’s sins. Especially for sinners. If not to correct, then to understand, reaffirm one’s commitment to sin. Ideologies aside, two factions are emerging in society: destroyers and builders. And they are eternally at odds.

This mourning? Feel it, but do not share it. It is meant to be personal. Each of us is meant to feel these moments. Think on what we have or have not done, whatever it may be. This is not a time for men or women, it is a time for Heroes. A time for symbols and idols, but logical, representative ones, formed of collective will and conscience.

The individual is at stake here, yet we feel it as one, revealing this as an assault on Hope.

ReziDump and his fecal ilk, their spawn, will always exist. Whether we allow them power to disrupt is our fault. As a species. They are sewage oozing from beneath us, but it is we that must keep the shit-lines clear: their infrastructure in-shape and running.

This is our generation’s primary task.

It’s unfortunate. Eventually though, all of the entitlement bullshit will go away. Afterward, once history places us as those doing the jobs no-one wants, suffering for the sake of all. Shit-covered and reeking– not because we’re lesser, but because we don’t care when others do, would rather they not suffer while the job gets done.

We are a generation feeling through one another because we are close, tight, bound by need and circumstance. Each one to the other, all of us linked. We beat as one. We bleed as one. We know nothing but one another because our existence was formed in an unhitherto seen turbulence. We are a generation whose only stable presence was itself– one another.

That we know this. That we communicate and feel it in actions, in revolutions, in mass-panics and organizations, is the effect of technology’s pervasiveness; its role as tool for Human endeavor. There is no act we can partake in that cannot be connected through tech if desired: showering, shaving, shitting, working, running, resting.

The time-before– pre-digital, became the transition through digital, which left us all most certainly living postdigital. The current crises are the aftermath of change. Like a tornado passing through, change can be violent, but so too can it bring the town together to repair and rebuild.

So, now, we clean the mess up and move on.

Duh.

Short Story: The Pigeon Problem

It was the damnedest thing when it first began happening. To say no-one expected it was an understatement, but neither was there much surprise involved.

Understand the state of the world at the time: the whole damned place was on fire. Humans weren’t sure they’d live out the day, let alone a century or millennia. Of course, that led to a lot of short-sighted mistakes, but every reaction bears an equal and inverse action.

It only made sense that something had happened to all of those old fucks ruining things. Gender politics muddied the waters, but it was obvious who the problem was, male or female. It was even more obvious they were all fucking stup–

There goes my own prejudice again… hugghhhhh.

We knew they weren’t the smartest bunch. It had to be genetics. The average person is neither burdened nor emboldened by their Humanity. They exist in a state of existence, subsistence, and occasional resistance. Mixed and matched in various forms, this is what concocts the Human-everything. Enough that it has managed all of Human greatness thus far.

Who’d have thought it could go away? Like, really… away. Or not be there in the first place?

Meanwhile, the utter lack of surprise is self-explanatory. Hundreds of thousands– then millions of Humans were suddenly the equivalent to walking vegetables, nothing out of the ordinary. Now however, they seemed incapable of doing little more than occasionally putting hand to mouth.

Apart from being utterly unhelpful, it was mystifying. Grown adults who’d spent their whole lives working in office blocks, commuting to and from marbled-staircased homes with large families, now incapable of little more than feeding themselves.

They could stand about, move if prompted, and often were seen flocked on street-corners as if pigeons. So, that’s what they became: Pigeons. Save with eerily less motion. It was as if the groups of once-besuited, rag-tattered creatures had become a hive-mind no-longer coherent of its imitated species.

But how? How could it be possible for any creature to suddenly shift so intensely, let alone a group so immense and varied as they?

In the studies conducted since the First Occurrence, of which there are three, enough has been concluded to confirm the cause as Genetic. It is, along with other factors, much of the similarity that binds the hive-minded groups to one another. Hive-minded though, is misleading. A hive-mind may have a goal or objective, whereas these creatures are more empty-minded.

Had they existed in the time of Siddhartha Gautama, they might have been termed to the effect of Śūnya-Buddha, orvoid-enlightened one.

In essence, they’re Human hardware running no software. Perfectly functional in every way, but uninhabited by anything resembling the Godhead or Soul, Consciousness or Humanity. They’re Human blanks, reactive but never active, like a PC at POST– spooling hardware-test on ingrained command, instinct.

Buddhists themselves have postulated Śūnya might mean more Consciousnesses are achieving the Godly realms, and these creatures are the byproduct. Mostly though, they’re just empty. They have no software, no operating system. Merely functional components functioning until they can’t any longer. A sort of natural phenomenon from closed-sentience tracts of evolution, as in the case of some primates.

Occasionally too, like pigeons, one is found in the gutter. Dying or dead doesn’t matter, little can be done then save to show mercy.Such extremes are rare, though, and their idle time is spent flocking from place-to-place, picking scraps. They are more an occasional nuisancethan the plague carriers they once were.

Given the alternatives, it’s a relief really.

The irony is lost on no-one save the Pigeons themselves, but faulting something like that for not understanding its world fundamentally misunderstands its nature.

So, what is their nature?

Officially classified as Pseudo-Sapiens Homo-Śūnya after someone thought the name fitting, its mythology therein spawned itself. Regardless of academics, they are the empty-people. Incapable of retaining memories or planning beyond moment-to-moment flashes, these creatures suffer from newly-termed Zero-Oneness Disorder: unable to feel or function as is clinically normal for Humans.

The First Occurrence revealed it, astounding the world.

Random people suddenly brain-dead on the streets, driving their cars, sitting or moving about in their homes. Powerful, prominent, or aspiring, anyone was effected.

But there was no chaos. Just confusion.

In everything since, one thing’s known: the presence of a select few was wholly ignored by the majority. Or in some cases, entirety. The effect, rather than outrage, was nothingness. It seemed counter to Human-Psychology– the first clue to the then-termed “illness” and its origins.

Hospitals overflowed. General Practitioners, some seeing a patient or less a week, were suddenly overflowing. Short staffed E-Ds and Psych-wards led to public panic over the growing dangers to overall public health.

However, the Second Occurrence disproved the idea as an illness, reinforcing it as a genetic indication of Human and non-Human separation. Coming shortly after news that a common gene-trait had be found in all of the “sufferers,” it was learned this and other traits were tied to known genetically-guided pathological-personality types.

It was thereafter obvious how to identify Pigeons in the wild, avoid them if desired.

By the Third Occurrence any hints of panic and chaos had subsided. The issue was tempered. Enough that now focus could shift to prevention, treatment. Doctor-patient tidings were at an all time low, but the establishment of specific health-centers for those wishing not to let their Pigeons live abroad. Neither was a terrible diagnosis, really.

Unfortunate? Certainly. Not life-threatening though. The Pigeon Problem It could be handled, and there was help: that alone made things infinitely easier.

Yet hard decisions were, and often still are, made.

The whole sequence of events engendered only a little more restraint in the Human Ego. Never a bad thing given its history and propensity for violence. In keeping with its methods, too, Pigeons reaffirmed what Science strived to remind: thateach action incurred an equal and inverse reaction.

Pigeons were Humanity’s anti-particle, the negative to their positive– but for the species, Humanity, as a whole. Nothing really surprising, just unexpected. And lucky, in a way.

The Pigeons turned out to, every single one of them, down to the very last, have the same corruptible personality flaws making them easily identifiable. Many theories on their origins in the greater scheme argue genetics, personality-reflection, andnature’s serendipitous reality are equally at fault. Yet all agree on the most telling, and thus defining of Pigeon traits– the one that, during the Second Occurrence became so clear and allowed for the Śūnya child-testing:

Every damned Pigeon was a fucking politician.

We should’ve known!

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Last Setting Sun

There is naught but madness,
where once there was peace.
Therein lies badness,
morality deceased.
Hold tight to your hope,
but don’t let it bind you.
The bad men are coming,
they’re right behind you.
You can’t hide anyway,
when they’re under your hood,
and inside your pocket,
your home and your heart.
Raping and razing.
Looting precious art.
Stealing the young ones.
Pillaging the lame.
Hating the lovers,
whom love without shame.

Even those that made them,
are not immune,
they’ll eat you or chew you,
either way you’re through.

If only each one,
could put down their hatred,
it might not be few,
then we’d know the future,
wasn’t black and blue.

Until then we stammer,
and stumble to run,
Terrified that this,
be our last setting sun.

VIN 15- Isolation is Bad, Mmkay?

Isolating one’s self, at base form, means making oneself more alone. A person may do this themselves, with no-one else around or in a small group. Historically, large groups do it too: religious ones. Conservative, racial, and prejudicial ones. Even whole countries can become isolated through politics, geography, or economics. Through-out human history, the delineations of most of these groups were more or less the result of fear, necessity.

People walled themselves behind castles first as protection.

Long before fiefdoms played much part in society however– and conquest proved itself so fruitful, did the idea of nation-states as border-lands come to be. Now, countries and groups expand most often with economics: reserved military might, threats, intimidation, the like. All bullshit tactics to feed the bigger-stick persona of fuck-you-got-mine.

But ultimately, Human society lives now in a postdigital world. One where, by its very nature, virtuosity or purity matters not. Humans have learned to see existence as 0s and 1s: the pure manifestation of every universal truth summed up therein. There is no gray, because we are the gray. There is only input/output, systems of it fractalized and scaled to every possible level of reality, infinity, and not. Information– datum, is infinite and finite. All and nothing. Both black and white, but also neither.

We are everything else. The color spectrum between. And because of that, our existence dictates that black and white are, in fact, different from color: from gray. From us. Yet somehow, Humans still allow ourselves– force even, to believe we’ve utterly no say over these facts, no effect on them. We believe they they’re otherwise divine instruments, not structures formed of tools by the very logical and dominating forces that comprise us.

Nature made us. Nature is us. We are animals. Primates. Human. That is our taxonomy. Moreover, we are comprised of all the same recycled matter and energy as the cows, their grass, its sunlight, the particles and waves that form it.

And we are fucking that system up for everyone, ourselves included.

The essence of a system is through-put. A system takes an object, applies its purpose-built methods, and refines it. In theory. In reality, the refinements may not always be such. Such is true for all systems. From evolution’s vestigial Appendix to the codec corruptions of modern conversion software.

Once extended to the enormity of the universe, its mechanics, its methods of action, the truth of that merely becomes greater, larger. More tangible. Especially in the face of a special history such as ours.

In a reality where people can stand on one side of the world and effectively see, hear, and touch someone on the other side, how is isolationism good?