RED STAR NOTE iix
(Here we have: the ultimate evil: pink porcelain fingers behind the mist of an oval mirror depicting certain facial gestures rosying up on its fogged glass: Tardigradeal shimmers of energy floating in emulsified pods through the entire space of the room, through the mirror: ceaseless subcreatures—immune even to the vacuum of space—which live infinitely; were they subjected to the utter trial of Life Boredom, however, it would cause them to freeze insularly, microscopically, stranded out into the plumes of white jet vapor of space thrush like entropic little digits and symbols into a matrix or iterative algorithm in another more abstract state of being until it is time to once more land as ash and dust to eggs like white pearls which in turn submerse and release little Tardigradeal suborganisms to the nether of any reach of any place in existence. Their apertures are fully widened now, I think. Do they see the skulking madman in the mirror’s purview’s far periphery, behind that yellow couch, face covered in tar completely black with rugged patches of green skin fraying cuticle-like as pustules festered to light-ray discoloration and a large green-splattered grin revealing yellow teeth half-rotten extrudent from black gums. ¶ This is the song of our forefathers; this is the song of the vindicated wretch: They heard ghouls that night, in the town-car, driving slowly through the pathless cemetery shortcut. It had been objective to get to the matinee an hour early to chat and maybe snort a little coke in the bathroom with the Ronzalosas, the kind of tooth-whistling slowness with which the thoroughly already-drunk smashed Sven Illness applied his Parliaments’ recessed-filter-compartmentalized .4 grams of sugary powder-white Snooow-Fallen “powwow,” one to each nostril, before a violent nasal-inhalation-“snorting”-related struggle after which inner cord is strung loose by the cerebral avalanche occurring in segments (as if archeologically preserved for viewing by further generations) as if lilted to a sweet silted riverette in which the water is cool and soaks your clothes with the warmth of saw-of-sun’s emitting rays blushing redly into your cheeks as a faint breeze stirs through the off-aways cattails and rivets of flapping clothes on clotheslines of cords, held up by clothespins so as to emphasize the garment’s unfurling fwaps as the breeze picks up at the windbreak, so much like when opening eyes to the visual fuzziness of bathroom light on slick bright tiling as faucet’s leaking steady-flow into the sterilized-white sink centered by silver clam-shell of porous emergent drain pop-up stopper actuated via sink’s faucet’s rear assembly’s tall lever, there is the giantesque la’awyer mozying over to the urinal to take a quick piss before Preperations for the litigants of this fine establishment’s managerial staff [The man in the stall at our prospective bathroom’s far rear is far too engrossed in the whole lurid process of audible indigestion, an inner-head dialogue with the Angel of Toilet-Context Alarm, her tiny fairy robe of pure-white coked-up leg-stridulatory anxiety really only making the matter worse, increasing bowel-anxiety, which in turn makes him physically aggravated in a far-away way, living inwardly on some darkly suspended grassy plot on which a chocolate cow chews cud, beneath dicrotic intravenous pain as the whole fart wells out, that long-overheard echo of PWOOFT! crashing as a wave crashes odorously heavily into the distending attended bathroom.]. “Why am I even in here right now?” Nebraska Illness is pinching her noes while she speaks, creating a vocal effect something to the effect of a cartoon mouse doped up on some serious benzoids. Sven zhuzhes his head this-way-that-way arching back raising arms in a stretch which lasts for a full unblinking moment as the instant of sublime grace and utter Philemonic serenity as tap continues pouring dripping soundless-nearly to the void of white noise which comprised the setting’s auditory background, for the most part. “There is a reason it [yawn] is called the men’s room [prolonged yawn].” / “Oh, really?” / “Man as concept, is what I’m saying, bro; everyone is a man; everyone is accepted into manhood; Women are men; Trans people are men; Men are men. You get it. Everyone’s a man.” / “What the fuck kind of misogynist shit are you on about now.” The roar of the bathroom’s door’s hinges’ squeaking croak as the la’awyer leaves post-micturatively with a broad pink-balmed smile on his face issues mid-conference such that as Sven is tucking away one of his filter-emptied cigarettes and beginning to light the other in his mouth, they all look at him. Empty, distant smile. Nebraska wants a hit too, is the agenda. He gives her a Parliament filled with nose-candy. Mariner Chief is there too, tall and drab and reserved to a sacred level inside his massive orange bubble jacket. He had thought that if he wore the bright orange bubble jacket, maybe he’d be more noticeable; this has proven not to be the case. The point is this: as cube lens grows out from his pineal gland to wrap abstractly around his head, massive cube of headspace, and the true vision dawns on him brightly from the square before him, everything else of the bathroom silent and vacuous, untenanted by any soul. And so then we have simpleminded Mariner here looking through the cube lens’s foremost square to a paradise recentered: the white static slush: our speaker has come on video: … ¶ His face is a white-washed stone, hair frayed dangling below shoulders gray-and-white altogether in-ponytail, staring into camera, blue jacket over cream buttondown and long snakeskin tie of black drooping out of frame as the camera actually zooms in on his face enframed in grayish-white speaking thusly through a nasal thrum: “My children are all dead now. It has come to me in visions that the Reaper will not show mercy when it is my time. All I have left is my telepathic goldfish, Moana.” CUTS TO: goldfish bowl housing a fat black celestial-eye-bulging fantailed specimen accompanied by an inner-aquarial seaweed apparatus and ruined castle-ette from which it rises darkly suspended emitting a sort of light from through the vivarium into our film-set’s room, here. The vivarium’s scintillating spatial stomping-ground solely inhabited, lived-in, by Moana, dark emblem on-fire sent blue-lit at the partial distortions the water’s magic induces in the still flaked waterlayers of available space. PRIMER arrives in a blue file-folder on a pile of earth sitting untilled at the camera’s rightmost periphery, is the thing. PRIMER being, apparently, like the silken sheets of data spread over the Managerial Assessment Doctrine notebook’s prolific “Leave Every Non-Equitable Submarket Behind!” ideology, perpetuated by squads of theoretical physicists dedicated to maintaining the mesospheric blessing-shield of the earth: nothing attached to anything: entropy. While large double-helixes spin on the energy of numerical inertia and endless seek perfect-circle pirouettes for forever: through death, beyond the fourth dimension, words lifted as if on pure-will from the darkened sand of Our Heavenly Beech’s cooking UV-reflecting façade. Point being that as camera turns back to our speaker he is already far-gone on some intravenous superchemical shit, eyes swollen-red blank rasa shifting meagerly for the camera’s lens, which it can’t find. There is a Pisces Pin on his blue coat’s breast pocket, a symbol of his true intercult affiliation: two fish, circling, as unending loops of their collapsed form. The pin is green-and-black, fish inscribed spinning luminously on the enchanted item.[i] What’s more is the degree to which it seems as if this is almost an entirely different person: hair somehow more artificial-looking, more dead, and mustache less hirsute and fewer pens in his breast-pocket and the window-behind’s landscape tornadically scourged n gray, moving slowly disastrous. For further information, the viewer has to refer to a small pamphlet in the file’s coat-pocket, which is visually displayed on pauseable stills on a separate VHS Cassette.[ii] All we know of the author’s death besides visual evidence is what we are told in the final two minutes’ block-texts floating down-/offscreen into black oblivion: The scourge of nuclear winter’s bleak radiation falling now besides our end urges onward the need to jump from the burning building of life via self-immolative burning; and though this is all part of the narrative’s protatic exposition toward something like a distorted image foreshadowing some great inner pain or what-have-you, there is the scent of abstractions: the rope for hanging, fastened to the rafters, that the Bohemian blonde in his naked-chested shirt suddenly arises reincarnated from our speaker’s candent ashes into the text. Yes and yes and yes again to all questions sent though the door; I am done lying to myself about handling things. He says many many things: that this is parallel textual self; that there are even other selves beyond that, with their own digital numeric statistics and personalities: Blonde “Pegasus-Form” Bohemian, Bewbz, Vanilla Billy, Cryogenic Sleeper, etc.: many many more, possibly. The infinite warehouse of Norwegian chimpanzees set down at their own individual black Remington typewriters to dictate their own individual streams-of-consciousness textually, with monkey-ESL-oriented pamphlets of toiletpaper littering the floor of thrown excrement-gobs in infinite rows on broad metallic tables which go on forever in width, forever in access-aisle’s length. This is our own Abstract Wall: the text as medium through which each individual synapsis contributes to the mind’s eye’s allocation of the symbolic-combo.-iteration most apt to communicate one’s inner data effectively, really, both palpable and not, an effervescent cognitive object propagating copy-definition simulacra which are stored in the physical world.) Loppestre’s[iii] reserved gentility takes on the form of a mammoth red-clawed monster feeding on dead stuffs, deeply submerged, nakedly feeding, dying at an ever-so-slow rate, giving for spirit to overhead water’s ascendant volume, two things in one: the saprophagous mauling and water-slowed bits of sickgreen aquatic-arthropodal float off scavenged into the dark far-off space. We have the stage-manager onboat calling action through a large silver bullhorn with antennae-flip-phone inhand communicating to the Director’s dictator in Morse-code via feline meows (: .... . / .- ..- - .... --- .-. .----. ... / ...- .- -. .. .-.. .-.. .- / -... .. .-.. .-.. -.-- / .--. . .-. ... --- -. .- / .... .- ... / ... . .-.. ..-. -....- .. -- -- --- .-.. .- - . -..,) staring at screen displaying relayed underwater-camera-footage as AAD Victor Slopedick scrawls maddeningly into a large sticky-note-extrudent notebook in miniscule cursive which manifests as his own private inner lingual notation meant for his lenses’ eyes only. (Continue to FN 19Ψ for this RSN’s Data-Entry-Report.)
[i] All true-‘n’-blue Pisces Pins feature the Moving-Image Enchantment courtesy The Great Purple Witch’s LSD coven.
[ii] This particular VHSC involving a four-minute-fifty-one-second interlude wherein the author actually ripples into flames on-camera, the distorted melting lens’s recording through severely diffracted light-obstructions all fuzzy and fish-eyed depthless as the self-immolation ritual dissipates into a smoked corpse.
[iii] Old-Eng. for lobster, from “loppe,”: Latinate, spider.