“By dint of its literal form, a symbol is a representation of a symbol and other than what it is said to indicate.” — Fadia Bulus, Untold Signs
The chequered floor of the Freemasons gleamed with triple action Flash in the evening around 9 o’clock after a maid scoured the room.
“This way lies paranoia. This way you either know too much or too little. I want someone to haunt me.”
The narrativising subject surveilled its reading materials: “The more I read, the more I know.”
But there could be no precedent for the un-known. The gap between elite self-assertion and the capacity to control social settings which rendered self-assertion feasible meant that the post-social mediocrity lessons generally thought to be personal were rather more commercial.
The failure to appreciate the differentiation between sleeping and waking or night and day remained the single most limiting retardation. For no art was without poetic aim. So, Earth’s repositories would be surrendered to Eros.
In a marketplace Samadhi, an interminably, revelatory Tantric absolution: unedified temples to the unknown were infinite cyclical furnaces in the ecstasy of oblivion. The flames of ignorance had been cooled by conscious brains awake to the interpenetrating subterfuge between coinciding portraits, synchronised via the incalculable oblivion bestowed by their portrayal.
Belladonna’s laugh was a tonic which won the silence.
A scrawny creature tip-toed across the town square under the light of the giant TV screen. Its head poked through the doorway of the municipal hall.
“I have lived amongst them, I have seen their sorrows and felt their shame. I am the product of a mind control programme, the result of a psychological warfare experiment. I am the unseen multi-terrain pattern of the Genetic Council.”
Hypnotic muzak played for those men and women it made easy to sway in their seats. A bride and groom shared a solemnly shy smile. A farmer pushing a wheelbarrow full of fruits for the harvest festival scurried towards a hotel restaurant.
In Debenhams, talkative and perceptive, leap-frogging over emerald-encrusted handbags and shedding its skandhas, the psychosomatic formless tree trunk of ratified desires turned to pulp for recycling. In the rain in a field of mud, a quick fuck, an hour of bewilderment, a beard of snakes, a needle, a shroud over the hidebound mockery of the Sabbath. In the crucible of the overcrowd, whistling crap raptures, a statue was in baptismal ruin and would allegedly be on standby for limb replacements.
For a stick was as good as a brain. A symbol was symbolic because it meant something else.
“Even if you have a dead season still it will shine.” The role model went incognito.
Dialectically primitive or cultured, after exogamy the tactic for a new silent blood would be tempered in the forecourt. Shunted into a dark wood where sparkling feet pointed to bliss, resolved in wounds both scientific and religious, the skins of the bodies of the accumulation were unpeeled like fruit. Vermillion rose petals flew out the disembodied heads of the clan split open by mystic terrors that rose apart from science and religion.
The fortune-dweller in a Dracula mask took away our truth of the age drug.
The slaves of language believed there was a fixed correlation between words and things and that the world was reflected in products of language and vice versa.
“I am surrounded by plagiarists! Those greedy and ambitious thieves of my soul!”
From the trunk environmental facts emitted a fluorescent green light. Drones floating through the streets were driven by ploughmen or scholars with hooves or claws, possessed by another’s voice.
“Let us return to love and love can stay in love.”
Nas was looking for the signs of the means of escape. At the same time he was trying to escape from looking for the signs, all of which was uncalled for. His raw expertise transported edible cones into an intelligent tweed inflection, and as he fed his brain with scholarly, meddlesome attitudes, he got sucked into acquiring certain ancient specialisms.
It made no sense to embark on more escapades into the known. Without the proper means and resources, N could do nothing except wait. Wait without waiting. All he had at his disposal was the certainty that the opportunity to make the right decisions would no longer be required.
Thenceforward, the neutered transparency of N’s escape was perfectly planned, cut as it was out of the glass of a mythic beast’s eye atop an old tower, a folly which architextually absorbed the illuminated teardrops of belief and power in byte size chunks, each emboldened by those before, recycled in centimetres along the coastline.
A metal diagram outlined the swerve of the river as it embraced the front of the mountain. A sapphire praxis appeared within the anomalous line. A hand burst through a wall to serve water which removed all threads of infection.
N unearthed the vessel and was purified in an austere cubicle. A gore-filled fear-hate was transmuted in acrobatic nature preserves, in the oscillating petrified lakes, and similarly hazy, a contactless incandescence quietly invaded those with faith in and knowledge of the known.
“Your pleas for compassion and dignity do not persuade me. Your promises of delight and money are not seductive.”
The depraved, vicious bastard parasites who clung to and clawed at the sink with their sullied foreheads and raised slothful fists that punched the water, were floating freely away towards their very own event horizon.
B talked about the changing of the seasons, volcanoes and the ozone. When she spoke, it was as if her heart was so empty it reached out silently to no-one but herself. N was null and void, a robot, an imposter, a copy of a copy. The conversation drifted into a debate about juice running out.
“Excellent product,” wrote the woman in the smart car as she parked it in her garage.
The fabricated evidence for pseudoscience was said to be for public consumption yet it remained private amongst pseudoscientists. Rather than discuss pseudoscience at their conferences, they conspired to figure out how they could produce more evidence of the fact that they called themselves pseudoscientists, which they proposed would be circulated amongst other pseudoscientists.
Cyberpunk returned: “I was like, are you serious?”
Lodged for a time in marginalia, N found himself propositioned by one whose avoidance of the moral imperative was not due to poverty or riches but illumination. The prime subject was swayed by promises of a shared consensus in which all agree to compete for reward by obeying the rules of a game they know is rigged.
As he dropped plaster into a mould a few thousand butterflies fled from N’s abdomen. He animated a dog and a gun hovering before a backdrop of the solar system.
Gathered around the candles, various characters prayed and sobbed spontaneously and melodiously, their chins up. With ductless tape on their mouths they appeared before the foreman with their Kirlian photographs, unchained to the bedposts as they punched in the numbers, unwound from the Quaaludes and turpentine at last, freed of the dialectical shift between twilights.
The irrational nature of the images of all these characters seemed metaphorically illegal. Some of the portraits were left abandoned and dilapidated, their frames inhabited by waifs and strays, spindly creatures liable to wander into roads unconsciously. The politics of the depiction of their existential promise turned clickbait in the scramble for coats.
Without the phase-shifting properties of no-time, in the underdog replica of the paragon unit, cobra-headed and steely-eyed, N made a few ripples in the encircled panel of the flat earth chronicles. They looked like exorbitant sheep glistening with the gravity of a portal.
He had it all figured out. Stopped running the code. Tonight was going to be special.
After injecting the guards with some extra-sensory deception, N broke out of the Panopticon. There everyone was just paying attention to auditory hallucinations which were duplicated in the witnesses.
But it was futile to search for moments in which to forge a truce or proffer a duel between wings to disentangle them. It would be dangerous to hark back to the pitfalls of knowledge without adapting to the telethon.
Now consent would be granted by the wish of the emblem of the great unknown to traverse the threshold of the unforeseen.
An extraordinary cancellation of bromides was achieved. The sovereign incubator looked like a computational mole, and in the genuflections of frost and sawdust, in minute depictions of miracle after miracle in the dewy, glass-eyed garden of automatic immediacy where resplendent dayglo and neon grew towards the moon in unison, that which could not be asserted would not.