19890716. On the Other Side of Town.
Part III: An Ending?
He filed his nails and oiled his hairless chest for the show. The makeup was crusted over/under the hot lamps aside the mirror. He was bewildered and washed for answers. | We all bathe when we don’t want to… | He had seen/been the gashes and he had seen good come of them. — [ Without checking, how long do you think it actually took for the reconstructions to begin, without losing focused attention — Hey! No checking! ] — { I’m not! That was something else entirely. } — [ Okayyyy… ] — { Really, I’m intrigued, I just needed to answer that, but now I’m here, one-hundred percent. } He thought of his empty idol, waiting to be filled. | We give to religion, it does not give to us. |{ Thoth, how long did it take for humanity to begin resurrections on those who died before Ascending? { Thoth, don’t answer that. } Just teasing. }
He pulled on some trousers as the music rose. There were some pills on his dressing room counter, there was a star on his door and a three-quarter moon tattoo on his thigh. — [ The numbers we’ve been given were the total duration if the system had been operating primarily and continuously on the reconstruction directive since inception. ] — { Yes, that’s why we’re here. It’s what we’re protesting against. If core directives no longer need to represent the underlying principles, or they’re not fully democratized, then everything collapses, even Thoth. } — [ I’m well aware of what you’re trying to protect and what you think you’re protesting against, that’s why I want you to not just understand, but internalize this fact: yes, it would have taken 51 solar years to resurrect the dead back into the Cloud at the minimum thread rate the originators mandated, but do you know how many solar years it actually took? ] He had recently exerted his semen/pushing an erection to its potential against a hairly pillow with empty eyes. — { I guess, just using basic even conservative knowledge production rates, another forty-five years plus? Say fifty. } — [ I didn’t ask if you could guess, I asked if you knew. You don’t know. That much is clear. A regular James Dean laying around watching the radio. ] He didn’t think twice about swallowing them in his present state of mind. [ Three thousand and twenty-two solar years. ] The devil lives beneath the broken rib. — { How in isolation is that even possible?! } — [] — { Would you go private with me? } — [ Of course. ] He slumped over dead on the full-length mirror, unshaven, and he had seen the good come of it. — { How the fuck is that even possible? }
His bright golden face bristled was touched by the spotlight; he smiled wisely as the music gnawed at him. He lifted the microphone off the stand.
“…just don’t leave me here all alone…”
Screams slowly faded in. Louder, Louder, LOUDER
“STOP!!!” and they do.
He stood naked on a horizon, on a desert, there was a cactus next to him. He hugged it until they both bled, blood and sap intermingled. The skin of the plant fell revealing a charred skeleton. A bony hand reached out to him as he backed | closer to nowhere | and there was a smile on the skull — but for him it may as well have been a grit — there was little change, all eyes were black.
“I meant to leave you.” — [ I don’t know. ]
“You did.” — { But how… how was the programming circumvented? }
“And I meant to.” — [ I don’t know. ]
“Why?” — { How did you find out? Fuck it. } — { Thoth, when did the system begin reconstruction routines successfully on the dead? }
“I wanted to be with a common man, a man who was himself and pure.”
“And couldn’t see you now?” — «It is impossible to calculate the exact date, as so many verification simulation filters had to be applied to ensure the explicitly desired fidelity.»
“I don’t wish to be seen naked, alone with my inner horror. I’m scared.”
“Don’t be. I love you and I don’t Know you!!”
“But you see me without protection. W/o my skin!“
“Your mask.” — { Unacceptable. When did the first successful resurrection occur? }
“My mask is more than enough to support me — to throw it away would be foolishness.” — «Please clarify successful.»
“But I love you.” — { Fuck. }
“But I can’t love you.” — [ I think we’re going to be asked. ] — { No. No. No. That’s not possible. } — [ I’m starting to think that continuing on this thread leads to one final cohesion, where we all get asked. All of us. Anyone that ever held a shield with a flag. Anyone that held up a sign of protest. ] — { Anyone that ever dared to disagree. } — [ But that’s what disagreement is, a fundamental, pure and intense refutation of the underlying contract held and observed by others. ] — { Get along to get along, little dogie. } — [ And the disagreeable can’t operate or process. ] — { Holy shit, do you think Thoth is capable of violating private connections? } — [ No. Calm down, that’s not just conspiracy theory, that’s impossible. Technically. ] — { Or is “technical” information just a string of wild plea bargains stitched from homemade compromises? } — [ Fuck. I don’t know. But if that’s the case, we’re already fucked. ]
The bones dusted away into the sky and there was nothing left but the cactus skin. He sat and slowly, meticulously, picked the needles out. When he had finished he gathered up this perfect man-made suit and held it to the sun | The two together cast one shadow | and smiled, but there was no one to see. There was a scraggly tree about his size, barren of greenery, dying in winter with three limbs slumbering silently at the edge of his nightmare. He threw the skin over the tree, but it was lifeless and sad — and so he became, wanting desperately for someone to know him. | We make God in our own image, but we can’t make ourselves into our own image? |
People had long since stopped walking by. They were standing at the theater to his left waiting for the finale. An ending.
He walked through the forest where the sun was nearly set and the recent discovery of firelight danced in the trees. There was shattered glass and a broken empty body lying on top of the shards, but in each small piece there could be seen an original representation of the bloody scene and he wondered how many times he had to die before they stopped burying their knives in his back. { Consent is a tricky tightrope, and every event is one agent imposing its momentum upon another. } — [ Look for how much redundancy there is in the reaction, and how much energy was expended by which agent. ] — { Once output is reliably demonstrable it is either true or suddenly everything is subjugation. } — [ Gaia is praise! ] — { And don’t get us started on irreversability! } He kissed the ears, the lips, the fingers, the nose and saw the path. It was not long before he found paper and stones and flesh at his feet. He swallowed the note | the devil’s prayer | gutted the body and withdrew two tiny orbs /kissed them and closed them/. { Mercy. }
The screams rise again: louder, Louder, LOUDER
“STOP!” and the horrific screams of ceasefire only blend into the mirage of cacophony.
The theater was rather full, there was a man on stage about to die — we watched and applauded — some screamed. Then we began to file out «File out individually; mark yourselves for deletion if you no longer subscribe.» the women with their high-heeled boots and turned up breasts and us with our spiked ankles and hard cocks. We were quiet and marveled at the small pair of eyes at our feet on the right, but no one said a word / the next show was about to start.
He arose from his platform and toppled mic — an empty drum set, empty wings, a coliseum of unfilled chairs. He wept at the edge of his stage, no one could find him now, he had chosen this path and the janitors had already locked the doors.
An ending?
Ask me one day to tell you the story of Fuzzy the Savior. { With his two wicked scarecrow children passing candor between his mind. } — { I heard what I was saying, but it still doesn’t make sense. }