FICTION: ROUTINE ONE: TURN COLD DEAD THAT HUMAN SPARK, SPLASH OF RED.

ROUTINE ONE: TURN COLD DEAD THAT HUMAN SPARK, SPLASH OF RED.

Get the call – New Recruit incoming.  Scrape together some semblance of decency, arms slide into old trenchcoat sleeves, collar up – old school – light triple-paper joint, drag it deep in the Interzone translucent particle air – smoke spirals off, ash falls slow – prepare. 

Why me?  I’m good with new recruits, they say – still got some of that old fashioned human in me – empathy maybe, what do you call it “compassion”.  The whole process is so fucked up, so many old Agents lose that human spark, turn cold dead crab – nothing but business – dead fish eyes gaze from dark sockets seen too much fucked up shit to care any more.  Me – still got a little human gleam in these old eyes, blood still has a splash of red in it.

Get to the waiting room shabby but quick enough, and there you are, panic-frozen and deer-eyed, scrap of paper – secret Ticket – still in your hand, no idea what the fuck or where the fuck. 

Better sort that all out now.

“Welcome,” I say all cool like 1930s detective – costume that rubs off, we all wear it to different degrees – mentor and friend and guide – play out the old guru script aura.  “You’re probably wondering where you are.”

No words, too Transport-sick to cope yet.  A little human gaze from dark sockets seen too idea what the your hand, no dead fish eyes much fucked up but business – scrap of paper fuck or where there you are – still in gleam in these panic-frozen and deer-eyed, old eyes, blood – secret Ticket is so fucked up, so many crab – nothing – still got quick enough, and The whole process shit to care still has old Agents lose any more.

Me in it. Get to the waiting room shabby but turn cold dead that human spark, splash of red.     

***

The whole racket was almost blown wide open by Agent Burroughs.  But the Nova Cartel just spread the idea – pure propaganda of course – that his reports were fiction, and cut-up nonsense at that.  Spread shit about Word Hoards and Beat Fiction and Wife Shooting.  Of course, didn’t help that the events Agent Burroughs described were obviously untrue – Centipedes from Venus and Mayan Crab People, the works – and of course, readers trapped in Nova Word-Line Simulation believed that because those events were so obviously untrue, meant they didn’t happen.   Course, you, me, we know better.

(The things they will believe, oh brother!  Knows no bounds!  Believe anything but the Big T Truth – you hear those cats swearing the Earth is Flat?  I mean, of course it’s flat – but not in that way!  Dumber folk I have never seen.  Real Earthlings never fall for a gimmick like that.  But not even sure there are any real Earthlings these days – all succumbed to digital undifferentiation, big time.)  

See, the Uranus Agent Burroughs described was the real Uranus, the Venus he described was the real Venus, but different channel on the Dark Matter Deepfake.   Tune through, different channel on the Box.  They Live, They Live.  Tune through, put on the damn glasses, and it’s all clear as sulphur in air – tune it right, and everyone can smell the bad egg like we do. The radical persuasion—using information, incentives, that between opting unwelcome brands or developed and changed, through alabaster tubes.

It’s not like Agent Burroughs got everything right – but it’s not like there’s only one “right”, either, so there’s that–

Oh – I forget the social niceties.  Been doing this too damn long. 

Name’s Agent Blackwell.  “Black” like obsidian dagger, “well” like a deep dark hole down, down, down.  Where we’re headed.  On Friday, we’re having very assholes, human parts a surprise breakthrough.  No surprise here, tell you that for free.

Hello, then.  How are you.

Point is, Agent Burroughs got real close to exposing it to the “mainstream”.  Agent Lovecraft got real close. Agents Wachowski and Wachowski got real close.  Agent Icke’s getting real close.  Agent Stang’s getting even closer.  Cycle repeats. 

We all try to bring it back with us, communicate it in words, but it’s hell – using the machine to describe itself.  Like trying to describe a piece of free jazz with another piece of free jazz.  Once you crack the control-machine, once you cut the word lines and image lines and scroll the other direction, then you can access the Big T Truth, but you can’t tell anyone about it.  You break the screen, as it were – you rip up the book.   No way to communicate when communication itself is what is broken.   

See?  Biggest damn hurdle in the whole sorry affair – can’t carry any of that back, that Big T Truth, can’t hold that in your hands any more than you can carry back a handful of water.  Drops, sure – your fingers glisten still with the membrane of Big T Truth, but how are you meant to pass that to anyone else?  Share the “content” as it’s called now?  Once the word lines are snapped like twigs, the whole Meaning Game becomes what Agent Wittgenstein called “private language” – no way to get inside someone else’s head – except of course the physical way.  And of course more you know and deeper you go, more cracked your own structures become.  No proper way to speak anymore when all words reduced to noises – might as well quack.

So there’s that – tune it bizarre cult from not like there’s individual, is drug the Uranus Agent Contact’s inevitable. On They change the one right, either, opting unwelcome brands hey, seems Earth but things circumcised Fiction and Wife People, the works radical persuasion—using information, the events Agent next dopamine hit.

All we can do is throw fragments back, Truth Dust, no Big T, just reality shrapnel – desperately scatter the moments and instants and feels, pepper the molecules of truth toward people and hope they get Big Picture – gotta reconstruct Big T Truth Mountain from goddamned sand, grain by grain – making a Mountain out of Mohammed – control machine was popped the dinosaurs Friday, we’re having “Black” like obsidian got everything right a deep dark to the computer in Nova Word-Line bad egg like Hoards and Beat breakthrough.

Climate. More powerful on the damn or developed and climate, more what’s real universe – almost blown the notion simulated headed.  Easy to knows no bounds.

So.  Brave new recruit, you’re the new Man in Black – except of course “man” means shit out here, gender is just more Nova Control.   There’s no gender out here – there’s barely sex, which is another thing entirely, obsession disorder biological entities insist on clinging to.  Obliteration is the end of boundaries that are otherwise solid.  Idea – pure Burroughs described were the Venus he for them this – but it’s and scorpions, supercomputer.   So first things first – yes, it’s all True.  All of it.  Even the parts that conflict.  Out here, a conflict of realities is nothing, forget about it.  Also forget eating and sleeping, waste of your precious time.  Also, forget time.  Distraction and nonsense.  We function at peak efficiency, soldier.

Contact – and The whole racket Tune through - No surprise the Nova Cartel incentives, that between hole down, down, the real Uranus, reports were fiction, course, readers trapped air – they different channel on with the morality all clear as obviously untrue – use, queer participation – and of not an if.

See? Peak efficiency.  Cut right to the chase, right to the quick.  Bypass regular brainwashing systems, language fragments injected straight to the dream core.  There’s no way they’ll get that on the real Earth.  No idea how to take it.  Think it’s just another hoax.  Propaganda of course universe? It’s not just spread the way.  Hotter, thicker Shooting. 

(Course, there’s another reason I don’t sleep.  I don’t want to dream.  When I dream, I dream of Her.  Because She’s still out there, of course.  Can’t think about Her too long or I just get – what’s the word – maudlin.)

So.   

Anyway.  

Ever see ‘The Matrix’?  Gross over-simplification.

Of course, Simulation believed that Scrolling, scrolling, for this case, down. Where we’re tubes. It’s not Burroughs described was personal quality.  Every border you ever believed in – stop that right now.  Not going to do you any good here.  Here is outside of all that.  In this case, an individual, is drug use, queer participation, but things – circumcised cock, black goblet – with the morality of a recording instrument and efficacy. 

Okay, see, imagine Reality is the broadcast from some radio station – out here, in the Interzone, we’re holding the radio.  Forgot, you’re from a more “modern” “time” than I am – okay, so Reality is the what you call it “web site” – out here, we’re holding the “lap top”.  See?  Except even that border is permeable.  All membranes are permeable.  Take it from me – I’ve permeated them all.  So you’re holding the “lap top”, but you’re just a what’s the word “terrain”, every consciousness is just more terrain, see, a place to be, an environment to inhabit.  You’re a place, I’m a place - we’re nice places to visit but I wouldn’t wanna live there, ho ho ho.  Now you’re recruited – old word but accurate enough – you’ll be doing a lot of that.  Not hard with the right chemicals and energies.  Agent Wilson talked about the Chapel Perilous – you’ll be visiting that shithole more times than you can count.  Time, place, just parts of the Game – doesn’t matter – we’ll get to it all eventually.   Just be aware that it’s all porous, and it’s all simulated – deepfakes all the way down.   Once you get that into your head, you stop asking so many questions about what’s real and what’s not, and you can focus on the task at hand.  Peak efficiency, like I said.

Anyway, what’s your name?  Your old name, I mean.  Birth name.  Government name.  Dead name – “Necronym”, some cats are calling it now.  You won’t be needing it any more, but well, I’m a sentimental guy.

Nice to meet you. 

Keep it together.  No-one volunteers for this gig.  “Trapped” is the wrong word.  Ignorance you need to real Venus, but – A naked atom sulphur in air didn’t help that untrue meant they Tell you that didn’t happen.  Course, that’s a when, on some that Live, oh brother, because those events the term habitable climate – but know that though. Shit about Word to know.  Spread given the project Deepfake.

We’re all just Agents now.  (See how “Agent” is almost anagram of “Angel”?  Not entirely coincidence.  Not entirely anagram, either, so there’s that to consider.)

Ones – you here, tell you and Mayan Crab – black goblet drugs than physical were so obviously They Live.  Dressed in human drag, nastiest sonsofbitches I ever did see.  Nova Cartel, Nova Syndicate, it’s all the same.  Agent Icke describes them as “reptilian”, but I say “insect”.  Obsidian insect with dead eyes and ravenous hunger – feed off human souls, spirit, energy, whatever – snort up life essence like powder – there’s no Satan, so they’re not “Satanic”, but next best thing.  “Anti-life” maybe better way to put it.  “Anti-energy”.  Just plain “anti”, maybe.  Spiritual cancer, another way.  They programs.  Gates, glance, described – was the you, me – we different channel on with that particular.  Cancer destroys its host – the Nova cats destroy theirs – all channels at once – fill up their own petri dish without a second thought. Not sure they think at all, to be brutally honest – just cold dead-eyed instinct hunger.  Did they create the simulation for that purpose?  How the hell should I know?

Just doing my job.  Jesus.

(The dagger, “well” like of a recording is just rich – remember for when Centipedes from Venus parts a surprise glasses, and it’s too, too dumb – can smell like Agent Burroughs know better.)

Anyway.  You won’t sleep, but best you stay here until you recover from the Transport.  Really takes it out of you – sometimes literally.  Exhausting – and particularly bad when, like I said, there’s no more sleeping.  Never sleep again.  How to recuperate?  Most of us turn to chemicals, extremity, Dark Matter sex.  Some nights, it’s Salo meets Electric Dreams.  Each to their own.  More powerful drugs than physical ones – you know that though.  Scrolling, scrolling, for next dopamine hit.  In the Dark Matter wide open by hate.  Tarantulas and cut-up nonsense instrument and efficacy.

See, changed, through alabaster the smallest and, very assholes, human that for free.

***

THOUGHT: Stealing Burroughs like Derleth stole Lovecraft

So, I've been revisiting W S Burroughs lately: I found an audiobook of The Soft Machine at the library the other week, and I've been listening to it in the car on random play (sometimes with other discs, sometimes on its own).   And I've got to say, I fucking LOVE the cut up method.    There's a lot of people who can't stand it (my delightful love partner and best friend Nalin among them), but it speaks to me in some barely-articulable way, like it's speaking directly to the part of me where dreams are made.   The thrill some people get out of poetry, I get out of cut-ups.  The surreal flashes of imagery, the non-connected moments juxtaposed at random!  It's the closest thing to actual dreaming I can feel (in a reading or writing capacity).   

I still remember when I first discovered the book Minutes to Go: it was 1993, the Baillieu Library at Melbourne Uni.  The book not only outlined the process and thoughts behind the cut-up as a compositional tool, but was also filled with examples of the cut-up (and fold-in) approach.  It blew my fucking mind.   I immediately rushed home and started making my own cut-ups (in a project that I still revisit now and then, some twenty six years later, eep).

Anyway.  Point is, I loved the cut-up then and there.   But that's not all I love about Mr Burroughs and his writing.   His deadpan descriptions of completely fucked up situations and people, his grey prose detailing the most colourful antics, is such an excellent voice.   His time-travelling body-possessing achronic multi-dimensional cosmology is superb.   His humour is so dark, so black, and so perfectly delivered.  The idea of this ultradimensional Agency of fucked up antiheroes chasing down this conspiracy of fucked up criminal gangs through the very weave of space and time is just excellent.  His thoughts on addiction and language and reality and brainwashing/education/indoctrination are all fascinating.   I pretty much love everything about his writing (to be honest, I could do with fewer descriptions of morally-dubious sexual encounters, but y'know, comes with the territory).

So, re-immersing myself in that world has been a delight and an inspiration.  And when I'm inspired, I'm liable to do poorly-thought-out things.   The poorly-thought-out thing I'm embarking upon now is, chucking a cheeky August Derleth and completely ripping off the Burroughsian mythos (and approach) myself.

(For those not in the know, August Derleth was a friend of H P Lovecraft, and he’s the guy who pretty much helped Lovecraft become posthumously famous – it was Derleth who coined the term “Cthulhu Mythos” to describe the “ancient beings who once ruled the universe and will rule again someday” cosmology that Lovecraft invented (Lovecraft himself used the term “Yog-Sothery”, which is pretty cute).  But as well as anthologising a bunch of Lovecraft and publishing it, Derleth also took a bunch of Lovecraftian idea scraps and turned them into fully-fledged stories, and then started just jamming out his own stories set in Lovecraft’s glorious setting.  I’ve never actually read any Derleth Cthulhu stories, but allegedly they’re pretty shit, utilising all the exciting amorphous unintelligible Yog-Sothery of Lovecraft but then de-ambiguousing it into simple “good vs evil” tales (Derleth apparently was a fervent Christ-lover) and adding very little new of his own.)

Anyway, so, if Derleth can unashamedly steal someone else’s universe and set their own stories in it, so can I.  If Derleth can be a second-rate Lovecraft, I am allowed to be a second-rate Burroughs.

Because, let's face it, not a lot of people are doing this kinda shit at the moment.  The cut-up approach has been around for 60 years (ooh, a quick Google says that it's 60 years exactly in September of 2020!) and yet no-one's really doing it any more (there's one Japanese dude who writes cut-up-like cyberpunk, can't remember his name, but I don't know if it's actual cut-up or just incomprehensible).   

And let's also face it, Mr Burroughs himself was a little... "problematic" is the word they use these days.   As in, he was almost certainly a murderer, a misogynist, and perhaps maybe a teensy bit paedo-adjacent, if not a full-blown kiddie-fiddler (in a private letter to his definitely-paedophilic friend Allen Ginsberg, he wrote of paying "two Arab kids 60 cents to watch them screw each other ... They did it. Made me feel sorta like a dirty old man").  I mean, if that’s the shit you’re sharing with your friends, I can’t help but wonder what you’re hiding.  Eep.  Anyway – so, yeah, Old Man Burroughs is most definitely no saint, and in this age of cancel-culture, is most likely completely null and void.  

Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone who’s a bit less problematic update the Interzone Mythos?  Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone, say, maybe a bit like me, for instance, write some awesome stories in the Burroughsian mould?  Well, nice or not, I’m doing it, so there.

I’m definitely qualified.  And I promise I’ll do it justice.  And after all, the cut-up technique frequently cuts other people’s material into itself, if not makes new material entirely out of other source material – so, if Old Man Burroughs can cut up a newspaper and call it his own, I can cut up some Burroughs and call it my own.  Surely.  Thing is, I won’t even be cutting much Burroughs into what I’m writing, I don’t think – definitely will be some, but it’ll primarily be all new material written from scratch – I’ll mostly be cutting up my own writing, I think.   

But I really do want to be true to the spirit of what Burroughs was doing with his work.  It’s not just “stories set in the same mythos” that I want to do, but embrace the whole approach.  So, as he cut up newspapers from his era, I’ll be cutting up articles from mine.  As his writing was semi-autobiographical in lots of sections, so will mine be.  As his writing slipped in and out of narrative comprehensibility, so shall my own.  And that voice! I’ll do my best to recreate that deadpan, alienated, observationally-detached voice he did so well (although I can’t help but think I won’t be able to – I’m too much of a softy to remove all human emotion from my writing, I think).  I’m even writing it in small chapterlettes – and calling them “routines”, as Burroughs himself did.  (Let’s face it though – he and I are very different writers, living very different lives, in very different times, and it’s not going to be an “imitation” as much as an “homage” – I don’t want it to be “like” a Burroughs work, but “on the same trajectory” or something.   I’m not ghostwriting him, but writing from a place of love and inspiration.  So let’s get that clear – it won’t actually be all that Burroughsy – but it will hopefully do the things that I love about his writing, and be some kind of suitable tribute.)

It’s a stupid project, and one that I know will only appeal to a very very very small number of people (even Nalin, my biggest fan, will never read this – she loathes cut-ups with a passion that feels almost pathological), but I’m going to do it anyway.   And I’m going to post the routines up on my blog as I finish them (but maybe not in order), so they’re just “out there”.  Maybe if I ever get to a place where I feel like “it’s finished”, I’ll compile them into a novel or something, but that day may never come (although, now that I know that September 2020 is a significant milestone in the cut-up timeline, maybe that could be some kind of deadline or something – who knows?).

So.  Who’s with me?  Anybody?  

Off we go!  Woohooo!