The first day, It rained.
With clouds swollen like tits on a trash dump sow, It gathered its juice. Piled it on, swirled it up and around. You could see the point of saturation just left of Saturn if you had good, telescopic eyes. All of the piss and tears of generations of astronauts, intronauts, extronauts, pyschonauts, and robonauts gathering in a mass of roiling void goo.
The Earth was nothing but a giant space worm’s second heart, abandoned after an interstellar weight-loss fad took hold of the sector. We had all wanted out, but of course, having left, it was time to come back home. And It always rains on moving day.
There is a difference between the nihilism of someone who has searched the Universe for Something and found Nothing and someone who has searched and found a Something so vast that it may as well be Nothing as incomprehensible as it seems. These are the same Nothings, the first person having gone East and the second West before converging. It is the journeys that are different and what they see along the way that will shape how they react when they meet and how they speak of Nothing.
And then there is the nihilism of those who are told that there exists Nothing and never have the balls to jump into the Void to test it out. This is the nihilism of a slave who, told that only Death awaits him outside the fence of the complex, decides to never leave and to endure his suffering. And Death finds him anyway, not believing in fences, and steals his battered soul from his aching body and throws it into the Void after all.
The text squirmed against the yellowing page, either from weakness of the eye or a trembling of the hand, or I had found the Living Ink. I closed my eyes, but still I could read the text, as if my eyelids had become invisible or the text itself had burnt its way onto my retina.
Minutes passed before I dared comprehend what I was reading: a mundane list of chores that some ancient farmer had jotted down against faulty memory. We had been taught that literacy had belonged to a privileged class in the past; how had the farmer learned to use the Ink, let alone had such a quantity that he would waste the wonder on a simple list to be crossed off and disposed of?
I touched the paper to my tongue before I thought about what I was doing. A prickling and the stench of old fruit gagged me and I bit down on my lip, drawing a bit of blood.
Did a word get inside? I felt my stomach clench. Wasn’t the last item on the list “Organize Fuck Cattle”? And now just “Organize Cattle”. I must have read it wrong in my excitement, a sort of reader’s Tourette’s. Or did that “Fuck” slip right in my chewed lip?
I would wait. Sharpen a small knife. See where it went, what it did. If it stayed in my lip or spread. If it went for my brain, I would have to cut it out. I knew that much.
This lady looks like a witch.
“What?” The word like hot meat hitting the ground.
“What?” I said, having said nothing, but wanting to try it.
She started in on her damned incanting immediately and I stood up to leave, but she twisted my arm with her sooty hands and grabbed at my skull. Got a hold of me. Pulled something out of my ear that I never even saw so fast did she pop it into her mouth. Rolled it around her teeth with her tongue while making a noise with her throat that sounded, in the wind, like:
Half of my body felt lighter, the other half pulling it towards the ground irritatingly.
She laughed a thin he-he and fucked off, out of my life, with something from my head being broken down by her saliva and jaw friction as she walked away.
…and this forum is a toxic waste dump of the mind. As soon as thoughts form, they begin gumming up the pipes and sticking to the Filter. Slowly, like mildew on a sponge, comes the blockage and soon enough I think only shitpisshatepus.
The goal is to write like a drunk vomits: when the soma goes sour and turns a bit to the left, the only course left is Total System Purge, gods be damned.
If only my mind had a mouth that wasn’t my mouth and fingers that someone else had to watch as they type. Perhaps someday. Right now, the focus is on breaking up the televisual scar tissue and FM radio scabs, flushing the crust away. I wanna hear this brain-baby squeak when I rub it.
As a Mind, we make assumptions every second of every frame of our life and the mutants quivering in the corner of your vision, the dark troll face on the tree and the kitty in the concrete swirl, make up as much of the world as misheard unheardities and misfired emotional response. The mind is a storyteller, but a storyteller who fills every space of your head with mad juxtapositions and nightmare seeds [and how the angels laughed when he spoke of mustard when he meant nightmare]
With text, the patterns repeat as words with the same letters in the same position are set up for an infinite dance with partners being flung to the ceilings and recollected as they fall.
And when we misread, we spark a light to a new universe, unique to the patterns etched into your inner skull with your brain the map and the vehicle. So we must pay very close attention or perhaps wander a bit farther into the weird hole behind us that we may never see but is always there, waiting for our eyes to grow out the back of our heads and behold its black depth.
And so it begins, the overstretching of One that seeks to grasp Others and take hold.
An experiment is taking place on these pages: to see if script can, when interpreted by an Other, graft itself into the fleshy parts of the brain and become a canyon in the desert of mind. Can mere words become a virus again, usurped as they are by sterile mass-image-orgy-gimme-gimme-now anti-script?
Having edited my own meat static, I will attempt to edit the process Youniverse-X with nothing but the symbols reflected now in your eyes.
Let us begin.