Tuesday, June 24, 2014

Transmission from submarine #14 eighth transmission

One day everything will be as it should be –Albert Ayler

Justin Beiber baptized in NYC bathtub

Hi is Lester there?
No, I think maybe you have a wrong number, but I will take a message.
This is Louise. I want to return the computer I bought from you.
Wait…I will take a message.
Hi is Lester there?
Is this a recording?
This doesn’t have a writing program, and I’m a poet you know.
Okay, I’m hanging up.
Hi is Lester there?
What it means to say a dolphin committed suicide
The government is investigating why your Netflix is so slow.
She caught herself in the mirror for the first time in days. She just guessed that they were days. She had no measure of time in her apartment. The apartment was bathed in pearl light, the air slowly pulsing with piano music. In the mirror she saw a woman with hair pulled up into a bouffant held together with a jeweled tiara and pins. Was her face caked in white powder or was it the eternal pearl light?
The table contained fruit. Pears and apples in one silver bowl. Grapes in another next to it. She ate the fruit. She never remembered eating anything else. Jugs of wine and scented water. The pearl light on everything.
A man moved towards her down the hall sometimes. She would see him always walking, towards her. She never remembered him arriving. She never remembered him leaving.
The dog sniffed her fingers and licked her hand when she lay back on the bed. She remembered the dog then. But she didn’t remember the dog any other time. It was a poodle with a silver collar.
Through the windows the city was in red light. It was always that color. It was always those birds moving over those spires and domes and always encased in red.

We can’t believe how different the cast of Orange is the New Black look in real life
Bravest guy in the whole world wears mentos suit, drops into tank of diet coke.
I see myself as the big fat spider in the corner of the room. Sometimes, I speak when I’m asleep. You should both listen. Occasionally, when we meet, I might tell you to go to Charing Cross road and kick a blind man standing on the corner. That blind man may tell you something, lead you somewhere.
-Harold Wilson
The pressure increases. A man savagely kicked by a crowd while waiting for the subway. Protests blocking tour groups. Facts we love to share with outsiders about the wonders of this or that landmark, or what they can experience or buy at this location, is overpowered by cries of unfairness. The pressure grows the violence grows. Every food choice becomes political. A bunch of ingrates, nostalgia for other times. Don’t they know there are bomb strapped young men poised everywhere to shatter their precious genitals. Cries of we don’t torture. But why do they bomb? Seal the windows. Put down your sign.

The simplest surrealist act consist of going out in the street revolver in hand and firing at random into the crowd as often as possible
-Andre Breton

We love the need to protest, we love this right, our presence is merely to assure everyone can safely, and in an organized way and in the proper place have their right to raise their voice a little and declare their dissent. The tanks and helicopters are just to assure the safety of everyone and for the continuation of business. Raise your voice. Provided will be a map of approved locations.
The camera finds her. There are tears falling down her face. She walks with ponderous steps through the yelling, the gas clouds, the sign waving, the batons raising and falling. Her face is covered in tears. She walks with a different movement as if she has no right to be in this location. Removed, but a solid presence, almost superimposed. She is cross edited with the political bleeding out on the sidewalk.
A man seated at the piano plays music. People spread around, signs down. Snacks and drinks were being shared. The selections were sentimental fare. No one critiqued. Strands of tear gas wisped past. Gas masks were nearby. He played Goldberg variations.  The sound truck drowned out the changes.

“No”, said the priest, “you don’t need to accept everything as true; you only have to accept it as necessary.”  Depressing view,” said K. “The lie made into the rule of the world.”
-Franz Kafka, The Trial

Leaves cast through a century’s ending light. Pine branches littered on the ground like seaweed. Leaves poured through the window, coating the floor in their rotting bodies.
The tide turns and the computers fizzle away. She lay on the couch feeling her blood buzz. The leaves encased the phone. The aquarium was a dark mess. She used her fingers to slide leaves of the pages of the book. She continued to read Joyce.

The surrealists were not good with women. That is why, although I thought they were wonderful, I had to give them up in the end. They were, with a few patronized exceptions, all men and they told me that I was the source of all mystery, beauty, and otherness, because I was a woman- and I knew that was not true. I knew I wanted my fair share of imagination, too. Not an excessive amount, mind; I wasn’t greedy. Just an equal share in the right to vision.
When I realized that surrealist art did not recognize I had my own rights to liberty and love and vision as an autonomous being, not as a projected image, I got bored and wandered away.
-Angela Carter

I am painting. Painting women. I develop ideal situations for them to lounge in, to exist. I avoid the cheap and tawdry. There is nothing exploitive about my women in my mind except for maybe the fact, that I a man, am painting women. I make them attractive in ways I find ideal, doing tasks that seem to hint at the independence of these women, their need to express themselves in the world. Like me painting the women, they are performing similar tasks, such as smoking in artsy cafés perched over a typewriter, about to apply a brush to canvas, operating a camera capturing the world I imagine for them in a similar way to the way I capture them. The odd thing that occurs is that every time I finish the face, the face that looks back at me from each canvas is that of a face I know. It is my own face.

“They don’t call us anything. They forgot we fucking lived here!”

Artificial vaginas are on the way
The dark side of extreme anal porn

In the name of Family and Fatherland, you urge the sale of souls, the unrestricted grinding of bodies
-Antonin Artuad

Different forms of life spread through the city. Alternative rabbit holes to disappear in.
The transient:  A series of strung together vehicles, they must have been shopping carts, baby or dog carriers, and bicycles, but draped in the accoutrements of this new life they had taken on distorted and radical forms. How this operation moves throughout the town is unknown it arrives in various locations as if through advanced science or mystical art. Objects are removed and spread to mark out the location of arrival. The wagons are circled as old movie westerns depicted wagon trains. Radio is brought out. A book is removed from some spot. The radio blares, the book is read. Objects are laid out in a cryptic order. A small snack of some nature appears and is enjoyed. The king of this environment resembles an undead replicate of rock star from the era when rock produced stars. He resembles any person who has decided to claim a moment of leisure. Despite some moments of scavenging during the day he must lead a fairly sedate existence.
People move through the park like they are being fast forwarded. Blurs of desperation and sweat. He can almost see the radio grinding into their heads. Pushing babies, in tight exercise clothing, walking dogs never seeing radio penetrating them. Grandma, he remembered grandma.  She always let him steal smokes. That was grandma, always busy with food and cleaning, radio always on. He didn’t realize till later what it was doing to him. He saw the gods on the hill, giant towers glinting with red lights. Three of them. More on further hills. Glinting gods carrying messages from worlds beyond. He had notes, he wrote in them every day. He kept seeing grandma around. Smoking cigarettes and dripping with static she burned plants as she passed them.  Tapes. He kept his radio plugged with tapes. No one wanted tapes much anymore. He found them left in curious places. He found them cheap at stores. Did anyone manufacture tapes or did they exist preserved from the time before. The time of tapes. Tapes did not bear radio waves. Tapes contained trapped moments of sound, isolated and not able to infect. He had been driven from houses and jobs. He had been hounded everywhere. Over and over she would appear. Grandma, her veins rotted black with radio and her mournful stare. She would peel paper off the wall, she would try to hand him that object clutched in her hand. It looked like a dead rabbit, but it sometimes moved. He must never receive that object. Sunny days, holding a book with his tapes on he felt decent, he didn’t mind anything, a simple snack he bought and no worries, he felt peace.
The vaudevillians: They are seen juggling in outfits that sparkled like foil. High ropes cast between trees in the backyard tiptoed across to the cheers of a dozen or so. Their red bus trundling up the street leaking a pall of dim fumes. Sword swallowing and flame dancing practiced in place of lawn mowing and checkbook balancing. Stilt walking down streets. Oil paintings of clowns, shadowy figures holding torches, visions of dust bowl vaudevillians traveling landscapes of freak shows, work gangs, public hangings, ku klux rallies, mad preachers, and geeks biting the heads of chickens. Suspenders, bowler hats, flowers in lapels, and roll you own cigarettes ornamenting a lifestyle from a vanished era, the travelling circus life. Caravans of joy bringing entertainment for towns ripped by wild storms of over tilled lands, moving from drought to drought, barely clinging to existence in the void, with this one bright evening of juggling, flame swallowing, and stilt walking bringing smiles on starvation nights. Weather reports out of the plains imply parts of this idyllic past may be pushing obtrusively into the future.

I always hope to be able to make a great number of figures without a narrative.
-Francis Bacon

Daniel laid the roses in a circle. Red dripped off the petals and stained the floor. The white figure sat in the middle of the ring, its features blank. Daniel walked back to the others with red hands. Gabriel and Michael continued to drink from the bottle. Empty stomachs rebelled against the whisky but they couldn’t stare at the food for too long. The figure began to stand with shaky movements. Daniel followed a gulp of whisky with a chicken leg. The figure dripped out new eyes and began shaking his hands, almost swimming, almost clawing.
I have a son.
Birds began to worm through Daniel’s cloth. Claws tearing fabric, feathers leaking out of rented cloth. His clothes tore away and he was naked. He ran and threw himself into the circle.
Gabriel and Michael continued drink as they watched this unfold. They stayed in their seats and felt the urine warm their pants.

The murdered forfeit their right to love this city like the rest of us
-Sesshu Foster

Four bearing the two in makeshift stretchers. The two in the stretchers would probably be dead soon and were too wounded to be any good. Six others up and moving though mostly wounded. Xochitl took the count as her ears rang. The artillery had blown their positions to the wind and most of her patrol upwards as ash.
The lifter had cracked like an egg and its guts became fire. She didn’t regret the shot. But her men had suffered. She knew blood was flowing out of her ears. She didn’t know if she would ever hear again.
People came out of the woods as they marched. At first they raised their guns expecting an attack, but relaxed as they realized that it was people fleeing the city. Someone had given them all white powder to sprinkle on their faces. Each one already looked dead. Xochitl wanted to ask them why, but was afraid if she opened her mouth, she would not even hear the words she spoke.

Boy finds mummified body hanging in spooky abandoned house
The real threat of Japan’s elderly…
American exchange student pulled free from giant German vagina.

Jane saw them in the field again. Heads covered in bags knotted at the top, making their heads look like bulbs of garlic or onions. They always carried guns. Their clothes were covered in writing. The same writing had been sketched on the crude signs that had been left all over the forest. They told of a war that had already commenced, they told of dangerous times coming. They said the forest was theirs. Jane liked watching those men patrol. They had such determination in their movements. She didn’t like the signs appearing on her fences. She didn’t like the footprints in the yard. She didn’t like the masks or the frantic writing. All the waters of the world will turn to blood. Our guns are our holy tools, our divining rods. The skies bear fire and ash; we bear holy redemption and blessed water.

We can’t believe how different the cast of Game of Thrones looks in real life.
The sexiest people in the world come from…

We’re an empire now, and when we act we create our own reality
-Karl Rove

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