NOW YOU KNOW THE GAME?

IT'S BURNIN HERE!

are you tired of being lied to?

"Writing" And The Necessary Art Of Lying

Interlude II:

Writing is the necessary art of lying but the writer finds truth amidst his own lies. Writing is the art of self-deception but the writer creates his own identity in his writing. Writing is the performed life hiding the secrets of the unperformed life. Bad writers are those who show you the thinking of their thoughts rather than their thoughts. We are surrounded by bad writers today because we have so much referencing (posing as thinking) and so little true thoughts. True thoughts, genuine ideas, split the world and scar the brain. It's far easier to simply think the thoughts of other successful people after them. When we lift several lines from people, we call that plagiarism. When we write entire blogs, entire books even by quoting other handbooks and Wikipedia, we call that research (and probably get awarded PhDs.) There are analysts and reviewers. There are those who do nothing more than to post (bark?) their puerile comments on other people's blogs (once more, with spirit: NOBODY ASKED YOU TO COME) demanding explanations and interrogating writers. Why an explanation when the writer is an obvious liar? A charlatan? A clown? The punchline of the joke comes when he's taken seriously by readers (who weren't even asked to read his writings in the first place). Frederic Wertham was not the first, nor James Dobson the last. People with tender consciences who are easily offended. People who analyze, systematize and fit everything into tiny, convenient compartments for easy referencing (or anathemizing). Puppets who dance to the tune of mental control by those in power. Dogs who suck up to the higher institutions of non-learning to gain their degrees. Parrots who repeat whatever is told to them. Fools who appeal to the civility of "accepted behaviour" in society. Idiots who believe that order exists and that it is their holy calling to preserve the sanctity of said order. This is a world that bleeds artists dry and sucks up the lives of true writers like a cancer. This is a world where the true writer, the true liar who speaks in prophetic tones, the truth-teller and the seers are called upon to sunder in two with their words, to scar the forests of the world with the sheer blaze of their passions. [I write this in Arkansas, that degenerate city that festers like a boil on the consciences of the SIN cokeheads...]

"If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing, or sing in writing, then don't write, because our culture has no use for it... Life is a process of becoming, a combination of states we have to go through. Where people fail is that they wish to elect a state and remain in it. This is a kind of death... Life is truly known only to those who suffer, lose, endure adversity and stumble from defeat to defeat. " - Anais Nin

The Black Room In Arkansas

I gave up looking for the cat and found myself back in Dalia's apartment. Quite unsurprisingly, Dalia treated me as if I only went out for a stroll. I was gone for about three days actually. But then it's not as if I owed her an explanation or anything - and, to her credit, she did not ask for one. We had lazy sex in the afternoon - by that, I meant that she did all the work as usual. I just laid back, half asleep. After that, she was exhausted. I got up to wash off the black lipstick stains off my cock, sat on the sofa and read "La Philosophie dans le boudoir" and an issue of "Omega The Unknown". Interestingly, this is probably the first time that I was awake in this apartment during the afternoon. Couldn't really tell the difference because the windows and ceiling have all been painted black. Dalia is just that kind of girl. Her snoring was about as loud as the Nina Simone record playing in the stereo. Nina was snorting and Dalia was snoring. That was the background noise to my reading. I read for three hours straight while listening to Dalia's snoring and Nina's snorting. The whole thing had a calming effect on me. Like I'm surrounded by life in a room that celebrated the blackness of death. Like I'm swallowed back in the womb but trying to suck every bit of nutrient to stay alive. Freud would have a ball. Me? It's probably just post-coital euphoria. In the evening, I took Dalia out for dinner. She had a steak. I thought she was a vegan. But she sucked on the steak-juices like a demoness from some old Japanese monster movie. I tried to look away. Was she sucking me off like that just that afternoon? No wonder the French explained the climax as a "little death". Here was a cow killed in order to feed the appetites of another cow. It was sickening and I lost my appetite. I drank some apple juice and left my steak untouched. To her credit, Dalia did not ask me about that either. Truth is, we don't really talk very much. I don't have any money so Dalia paid for dinner. Went back to her apartment. Dalia put on some old Spanish frock and danced around the room. I took a photo of her using her instant camera. She continued dancing while I dozed off to sleep.

"Do not seek the because - in love there is no because, no reason, no explanation, no solutions."
Anais Nin

Deena Metzger: The Unperformed Life

MR MORRISON AND THE CAT

Making the best of a tight space, Mr. Morrison cozy up with the cat and read Frank Miller's Dark Night. If the cat can talk he would make Kitty Pryde appear but a japanese girl has since assume the cutesy role. Sesame street bed slippers and all! So in the dark, illuminated by the gamma glow that Dr. Banner fears, Mr. Morrison dreamt of greatness with Klaus Janson and Lynn Varley but that was just radiated wishful thinking. Meanwhile the cat saw the value of feline radiation when he saw a shot of the curvaceous bodylicious boothumpinhipjerkin-all-over-vibratin Selina Kyle. Mr. Morrison prefers Halle Berry but pretends to just tingle a lighter shade of green. I mean it was a small box and there's no avoiding an accidental ejaculatory misfiring trajectory in such cubed fantasy. So, Mr. Morrison and the cat cozy up in the best of the tight space, reading Miller's Dark Night, having a good time, stayin alive undead. Not necessarily in that order though.

Professor Erwin And The Cat

Interlude:

Professor Erwin had a cat once. Maybe the same cat that jumped into my bedroom. Maybe the same cat in Puchong. Maybe the same cat that got me into all this mess. Who knew these things? Word has it that Professor Erwin tortured the cat by putting it into a box and poisoned it. All that just to prove a point - that before the box is opened, the cat is simultaneously dead and alive! As far as I was concerned, Professor Erwin was really several fries short of a Happy Meal. He's like the Marquis deSade. Only he tortures cats instead of pretty young girls. There should be laws against people like him is what I think. Over beer and pig-knuckles, Professor Erwin explained to me, "One can even set up quite ridiculous cases. A cat is penned up in a steel chamber, along with the following device (which must be secured against direct interference by the cat): in a Geiger counter there is a tiny bit of radioactive substance, so small, that perhaps in the course of the hour one of the atoms decays, but also, with equal probability, perhaps none; if it happens, the counter tube discharges and through a relay releases a hammer which shatters a small flask of hydrocyanic acid. If one has left this entire system to itself for an hour, one would say that the cat still lives if meanwhile no atom has decayed. The psi-function of the entire system would express this by having in it the living and dead cat (pardon the expression) mixed or smeared out in equal parts. It is typical of these cases that an indeterminacy originally restricted to the atomic domain becomes transformed into macroscopic indeterminacy, which can then be resolved by direct observation. That prevents us from so naively accepting as valid a "blurred model" for representing reality. In itself it would not embody anything unclear or contradictory. There is a difference between a shaky or out-of-focus photograph and a snapshot of clouds and fog banks."

Word has it that someone tried to rescue Professor Erwin's cat once. The gallant man was Smedley Faversham. Some said that he was a time-traveller from the future. Some said that he was a charlatan. Perhaps the cat brought him here, like it did me? Who knew these things? Anyway, he pretended to conduct an interview with Professor Erwin (just like I did). During the interview, Professor Erwin mentioned that he was visiting his friend, Max Planck and entrusted his cat into the care of Smedley Faversham. Smedley was overjoyed. It turned out that the dead-alive cat was hidden away by the shrewd professor and Smedley was entrusted with Mrs. Erwin's cat instead. Silly Smedley tried to run away with the cat but not before Mrs. Erwin returned. To hide from Mrs. Erwin, Smedley and the cat accidentally locked themselves in a cabinet with a Geiger counter, a vial of acid, and a hammer! Turns out that was exactly what Professor Erwin planned all along. In fact, there was no Mrs. Erwin - that was all part of Professor Erwin's ploy. The results of the experiment was never published publicly but it's safe to say that both Smedley and the cat were simultaneously dead and alive in the cabinet!

ANOTHER CAT BY MR. MORRISON

Grant Morrison had a future shock and landed on Puchong planet on a cold dark night where cats roamed the alleyways and wisma ioi was hosting a eat-all-you-can pasta parade. Not necessarily in that order. Mr. Morrison saw the Blob and Lazarus Churchyard faced off, with Blob downing every concotion of pasta put before him, while Lazarus was putting to rot everthing he touch. It was a dead draw until Blob farted and out came all the processed linguine. So the old undead won the prize for a whole year of free eats at all Pastamania. He celebrated by vomiting into the soup of the day. Mr. Morrison taught that was a good idea and had Frank Quitely drew the whole scene. The inks was handled by Geof Darrows but he being Geof Darrows added depth instead and the vomit scene became like Sri Petaling at peak hours. Time was, one can take the lrt and jumped the metro and skipped home. Now, there's no telling what other retelling Mr Morrison is going to come up with on a normal day Puchong scene where 30 minutes brings you home into a 13 part filth of a mini-series where you have to stroke a cat, masturbate and immerse oneself in shadows just to reach home! Mr. Morrison has these things for cat. said it bring out the animal in him.

Cats in Puchong

This armoured feline tore dumb GI Joes apart. Just ask Frank Quitely. He was cornered on cold dark night by Mr. Morrsion while walking through a David Llyod scene with exploding torsos and flying entrails. cats in the blogs? This is far, way far from arkansas. Mr. Morrison said he will revamped Puchong into a 30 parter with tuiton center managers and engineers as bit part characters and several full page splash of exploding theologians and decapitated docotrs. Geof Darrow had been summoned. Some said this is just another version of a bad plate of Chow Kit mi-hun kueh. (Business starts at 12 midnite, go there and tell the fat ass auntie Pltypus sends you. ) Most just agree its a case of the the traffic going to the dogs. Meanwhile down south, manicured playmobiles are driven by engineered doctors on pay-to-drive circuits. And despite all the best of social de-engineering, the traffic still look like Isaiah on a bad hair day. Blame it on the reformed barbers with their "The Dummies Guide to hair cut" or "The Idiots Guide to Sweeney Todd". Mr. Morrison, even he, would be retconned to label hell with the multiverse of expandegesis of neo-transient plasmatic orgiastic bela lugostic mr bombastic low low low bookend la-la-lalistic exepornagraphistic execonstipatic exelunatic exevomistic exefartistic exe-ejaculastic bomb. Mr. Morrison is safe in Scotland and have never molested John Knox. He believe in giving it as it is but not necessarily in straightlinear but you get the point. He has not written any handbook. On a brighter note Mr. Morrison's Mystery Play is now a southern reality show, daily pay-to-view extravaganza. Patience is required as the reverential characters sometimes takes some effort to realized that the have been lied to. Just watch the comments section for snippets of the Mystery Play. Mummy's boy even allowed a cameo, powdered bums and all.

This is how Richard Fell would look if it was written by Mr. Llyod

Map Of The Stars: A Play In Arkansas

"Once upon a time you dressed so fine

You threw the bums a dime in your prime, didn't you?

People'd call, say, "Beware doll, you're bound to fall"

You thought they were all kiddin' you

You used to laugh about

Everybody that was hangin' out

Now you don't talk so loud

Now you don't seem so proud

About having to be scrounging for your next meal."

- Bob Dylan

I woke up in a dark room. Not a hospital. I'd recognize the medicated smell of hospitals even in my sleep, what with being married to a nurse for fifteen years. It was a dark room. I was on a broken-down chair and there're broken chairs all around me. Not sure how I got here. Only light in the place was on a raised stage. There were two old men on the stage. It looked like they were rehearsing for a play or something. Were they actors? Probably more has-beens. I've been meeting them all the time throughout this weird trip. Has-been artists, has-been Gothic chicks, lives discarded like used condoms, beliefs shattered by a world that doesn't even care anymore. Maybe that's the whole purpose of this weird trip? To stare into the abyss of lost beliefs? To search in that part deep within us that is not consumed by the cynicism and apathy of our times? I don't know. It's been years since I was philosophical. These days, it'll be a miracle for me to even stay sober. I mean, what kind of an idiot follows a cat to Arkansas and ends up with a lacerated knee? Anyway, here I was. In a dark room watching two has-been actors rehearsing for a play that will never be performed for the general public. It's almost voyeuristic. Like I'm privy to something that was never meant for my eyes. I don't know. My head was still spinning and I was struggling to focus. Must've lost my glasses on my way here (how did I get here in the first place?)

Actor #1: How should we play this?

Actor #2: Let's just give it to them. The strait and narrow.

Actor #1: I'm not doing Godot again. Besides, ain't nobody interested in that crap anymore. Waiting forever for some idiot who never arrived.

Actor #2: People used to think that Godot was supposed to be an allegory for God.

Actor #1: Let the public think what they want. As long as they buy the tickets. 'Sides, you and I? We ain't paid to think. We just deliver our lines.

Actor #2: But Beckett said that he never meant for Godot to be God. Otherwise, he'd simply call it Waiting For God!

Actor #1: Who gives a flying fuck about that old perv Beckett anyway? Word has it he was a virgin all his life! Crazy old coot.

Actor #2: But we don't even have a play. No script. No audience. Just us. Actors on an abandoned stage.

Actor #1: I thought we brought in an unconscious Chinese bloke?

Actor #2: And that's our audience?

Actor #1: Who cares? We've got a job to do, let's do it.

Actor #2: Maybe we should do a retcon of Godot. Y'know, like an Ultimate Godot. For the post-literate crowd, I mean. Add in more angst and more MTV. Mix it up with an identity crisis and throw in some shit about the loss of beliefs in this generation.

Actor #1: What's a retcon?

Actor #2: I thought you weren't interested in the intellectual side of our plays?

Actor #1: Still ain't interested. Just askin' ya about the meaning of a word s'all!

Actor #2: Oh, all right. A retcon is an update on a familiar theme or character. Usually done in order to repackage and sell something old to a new audience.

Actor #1: You mean like the Bible?

Actor #2: Huh?

Actor #1: Y'see, in the Old Testament, God was all fire and brimstone and shit. Then in the New Testament, he's all about finding lost sheep, raising dead Lazaruses and chatting with women at the well. The Old Testament God probably wouldn't be very popular with today's demographics, eh?

Actor #2: 'Cept probably with those Al Qaeda folks and Christian Fundamentalists screaming for blood to be spilled everytime a gay-parade is in town.

Actor #1: Exactly my point.

Actor #2: But y'see, the whole thing about a retcon is that it has to make sense. That means that the intrinsic part of the character must be retained - just that the whole packaging needed to be made more palatable to the tastes of a new generation.

Actor #1: So we doing the same with Godot?

Actor #2: Precisely. Got any ideas?

Actor #1: Maybe do it like a medieval play version of Godot. Play down the existentialism and play up the morality side of things.

Actor #2: But Godot still does not appear. I mean, the whole intrinsic nature of his character is to NOT appear, right?

Actor #1: So a successful retcon means that Godot retains that intrinsic element of NOT showing up. Exactly.

Actor #2: If he doesn't even show up, why bother with a retcon even?

Actor #1: Does it even matter? Look around us. We don't even have an audience!

Actor #2: Sigh! Time was, we used to pack the halls. Do you remember the last time we played Godot in Folsom Prison?

Actor #1: Not Folsom. That was Johnny Cash. We did it in Rykers.

Actor #2: I meant Rykers. Wasn't that what I said? And who gives a damn about Johnny rockface Cash anyway?

Actor #1: Hahaha! Exactly my point. So in Rykers, there was this particularly soulful inmate, remember? And he was like all sobbing and screaming after the 3rd Act.

Actor #2: I remember him. Backdoor Jim. He sodomized 32 Altar Boys. Used to be a Jesuit or something. Did you know that he wrote me letters every Saturday for 3-4 years after that play?

Actor #1: Really? I didn't know that.

Actor #2: I read the first dozen or so. Never opened the rest. All sorts of existentialist shit in there. He was saying that he never chose to be a Jesuit. It was all his parents and Catholic schoolteachers. That he watched our Godot and realized that he's been had. That his life felt like coming into a movie right in the middle - missing the first and the last parts. And that the middle had a hole that he was trying to fill.

Actor #1: That was his justification for filling the a-holes of Altar Boys? Huh? Not that I care about Altar Boys, of course. Just sayin' is all.

Actor #2: I don't know. People read all sorts of things into these weird, absurdist plays. I mean, Beckett's been analyzed to death by pseudo-intellectuals and academicians everywhere.

Actor #1: I get it. Maybe we can retcon the whole Godot thing to feature an academic analysis of the original Godot play. Then the stupid blokes can go on and on analysing the thing and Godot never even show up! Haha!

Actor #2: And Backdoor Jim appears in the last seen to sodomize all those silly academicians.

Actor #1: Curtain falls.

Actor #2: The End.

Actor #1 and Actor #2: Bueno excellente!

"You never turned around to see the frowns on the jugglers and the clowns
When they all come down and did tricks for you
You never understood that it ain't no good
You shouldn't let other people get your kicks for you
You used to ride on the chrome horse with your diplomat
Who carried on his shoulder a Siamese cat
Ain't it hard when you discover that
He really wasn't where it's at
After he took from you everything he could steal.

How does it feel
How does it feel
To be on your own
With no direction home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?"
- Bob Dylan

Papa Was A Rolling Stone: Arkansas Wanderings

I'm starting to think that the cat doesn't like me very much. That this whole "on the road" thing in far-off Arkansas is really the result of a grand cosmic joke - in the grand tradition of cosmic jokes like placing a snake in the garden together with the first naked couple. It's the grand test of faith. Job passed with flying colours but I'm no Job.

After leaving Dalia's apartment, I tailed the cat passed five or six blocks of shoplots. The cat slipped into an alley and disappeared again. I tried to chase after it, slipped and grazed my right knee on shards of broken glass. Hurt like hell. I was wiping blood away with my bare hands and trying to get up. No such luck. Coupla kids passed by and stared as I tried to crawl back to the main road. I must've looked really weird to them. Chinese guy chasing a cat into an alley and got himself badly cut as a result. I passed out.

To be continued.....

A Dalliance With The Unknown: Arkansas Blues

I met Dalia on Sunday night. Goth chick high on MGH and singing about Bumpo Carnation. We talked. We drank. We slept. We fought. We tore each other's eyes out. Another bad fling in a string of bad flings since I got to Arkansas. The cat reappeared on Tuesday morning. I was nursing a bruised eye (not to mention a bruised ego) and the cat gave me the look. I'd recognize the look anywhere. It's the kind of look that your parents gave you if they found out that you were more interested in girls than in your schoolwork! The cat gave me that look. If it could speak, it'd probably be saying something like this: I sent you on a spiritual quest and you got hooked up with a Goth chick?

I sat there ashamed of myself. Not because of the Goth chick. She was pretty hot. She knew all the Bumpo Carnation songs, Poppy Z. Brite novels and she was high on MGH. It's not everyday that you get all those elements in one leather-bound package marked with black mascara! Anyway, the cat beckoned me to follow it again. I got up from the bed (actually it was Dalia's bed but I've no idea where she was after last night's bout). Pushed aside the used condoms and old newspapers. Accidentally stepped on a Bumpo Carnation CD cover and shattered it (Dalia will kill me for this), pulled up my old pair of jeans and followed the mysterious cat out of the stinking apartment.

I cursed under my breath. Why am I still following the damn cat? I should be getting home. I've got no money, no phone, nothing. Perhaps I'm too tired to think. Dalia was like a vampiress sucking the life out of me. La Tey warned me about Goth chicks the last time. He was at a Neil Gaiman signing in Borders, Singapore. I told him to keep a lookout for Goth chicks. He picked up two Gaiman books and stood in line. But the Goth chicks all looked like failed plastic surgery victims. In fact, he could've sworn that some of them were last seen in the Mos Eisley Cantina. Maybe that was why he turned to Thai and Spanish chicks after that. As for me, the last thing I remember was walking out the subway with the art-exhibition. Standing outside the Hegre Studio, a Swedish girl in furs (and wearing a Santarina hat) walked past and asked if I was an artist. I nodded (an outright lie, I know - but you'll nod too if you'd seen the Swedish Santarina!) We started chatting and very soon it was pretty obvious that she modelled for Hegre Studio. She introduced me to another fellow model - Dalia. The rest, as they said, was history.

That's the story of my life - premature ejaculations, pillow-fights and silent-breakups. Broken CD cases and used condoms. Another apartment left behind. Another affair to haunt me the rest of my days. Brian May was right - "Too Much Love Will Kill You - In The End". So I'm back where I started. Stupidly following a cat around Arkansas. I want to go home.

To be continued...

THE COVER SAYS IT ALL

"We have been happily borne or pehaps have unhappily drag our weary ways down the long and crooked streets of our lives, past all kinds of walls and fences, made of rotting wood, rammed earth, brick, iron railings. We have never given a thought to what lies behind them. We have never tried to penetrate them with our vision or our understanding. But this is where the Gulag country begins..."

Solzhenitsyn

I was asked why the 10 + 1 after declaring Siberia for ages. Even Solzenitsyn knew the score and just stuck to autobiography and a few commentaries. In the ice cell of isolation what need have one for mindless graphics? The best I have seen are the "Prison Letters" by Bonhoeffer, that shooked a nation and bought down a whole school of theology . The collected archives added in the "Prison Poetry" with meditations on Psalms as a commercial retcon. It sold. The theory of isolation brings out the literary genius in most exiles. I read the 3 x Journals of Gombrowicz while awaiting the blade to fall. Life was Martin Road and a 9 to 5 warehouse sorter. The heat was a bitch and nearest toilet stank. 3 containers a day. That was what I was told. Nobody said anything about the crushed 20 x 20 cartons inside to be sorted out. The old school that was my co-sorter was Spider. He stank like the toilet and was always in heat. One time he came in with his head shaved bald and singing the saints are a marching in. We all knew he was somewhat out of it but no one even suspect he was suffering from a brain virus related to a sexual encounter he had in Langkawi. So this half dead spider stank and sang while I read Gombrowicz. I wonder why that's not a bad thing.


Darick Robertson came into his own with cover #5 for Transmet. The 10 + 1 was sold on this cover alone. Same for Hickman's Nightly News and Wood's Channel Zero. Don't believe the lie. You can read a book by its cover. Read the cover: This one stank of Chow Kit. This one stank of Jaybee. This one stank of Clementi. This one is Santa Cruz. This one is Stephanus Daedalus Tawau. This one is Puchong. This one is Sengkang. This one is Pasir Ris. This one is Jalan Gasing. This one is S.E.A Park and SS2. This one is Ipoh. This one is Potong Pasir & Hougang. This one is Penggarang and I stood at such a five foot way on a hot December night. This one is Chongqing when everyone has gone to sleep. This one is Joo Chiat. This one is Race Course Road at night. This one is Silibin. This one is Menglembu. This one is Sitiawan. This one is Pulau Tikus. This one is Bendemeer Road. This one is Bencooleen. This one is Beluran just 20k off Sandakan. This one is Teluk Ramunia. This one can be found at Teluk Blangah. This was abandoned at Pasir Panjang. This one was found at Brickfields. This one is old town. This one is Sentul. This one is Chaar. This one is Layang-layang. This is Gulag country.

"And those who, like you and me, go there to die, must get there solely and compulsorily via arrest"

Gulag Archipelago

SPIDER IN DEPTH

If you look deep enough, I swear you can see the driven drivers in their doctored playmobiles playing out their engineered lies. And they pay for the drive. Suckers.

Spider says: Listen

MOEBIUS IN DEPTH

follow the herd

Frank Quitely and Geof Darrow were deeply indepted to Moebius for the depth scene they brought to Delano's nightmare and Miller's fantasy. The depth charge explosion of pages were due to this dude's art. If the modern day city swallow you up, then show the city's guts in all its gore. Let the details tell their own stories.

believe the hype

Hard Boiled can be too much to stomach while 2020 Vision can induce nausea. It was Warren Ellis who showed what can be done with blokes like Darrow on blokes like Jerusalem. Once that door was opened with Delano's vision, the haemorrhaging details of Frank Quitely kicked off whatever was left. This is the hard look into the depths of a futurepresent that Moebius long ago saw. Collect them all if you can.

It is obvious, collectors one shot like these are hard to come by.

GEOF DARROW IN DEPTH

Nothing is as it seems:

Vachss spun the tales without battng an eye,

everthing is as is.

Darrow's cover tell the stories

in each detailed windows.

Hard Looks

- you can actually read a book by its cover.

STRAY DOGS FROM SIN: REDUX

A version of a SIN-city barking canine.

Action:
Bark behind safety of closed windows.
Leave no evidence - close blinds after barking.

GOT ME A RAT!

are you tired of being lied to?

BEN TEMPLESMITH: ONE ACT-SPOKEN WORD

FELL

frank miller's sin city is pussy

compared to this nightmare.

snowtown - feral city.

once you cross the bridge you stay.

this is richard fell.

his story.

there are wild dogs on the streets

there are pigs in the apartments

there is filth on tv

and there are streetlights that

reveals all these dirt.

on one side the waters

dark and omni present

on the other

the playground

dark also.

this is closer than you think.

FELL.

Brian Templesmith does not pay for his drive.

He has no patience for mongrels.

GEOF DARROW: DON'T DRIVE ERP

Frank Miller's version of driving in SIN. The road whoring pricing system makes a prostitute of very driven drivers in their engineered playmobiles. Pay to be driven. Geof Darrow lost his cool with the script. Now, why is that not a bad thing?

Read: Hard Boiled, Dark Horse

Watch: Hard Boiled, John Woo

BEST PLACE TO BLOG

Seoul

Wibro City

city-wide wireless

zoom.

still punching your laptops in SIN?

eat dust.

This is Seoul - wireless heaven,

a snap of your Samsung

3-2-1

u enter

WiMax

zoom.

don't bother catching up.

'ROUND MIDNIGHT

Thelonius Monk Quartet

MONK at JEREMIAH

Thelonius Monk - Epistrophy

ORIGINS: QUITELY, TO BE FRANK

contents: propaganda

You know how it sounds, a metalhead who's suddenly seen with a jazz cd. Or an engineer reading Lovecraft. Or a tuition teacher who pull the graveyard forecasting futures and trade. The last one is not hard to imagine. The engineer is at best an anomaly but now frequently seen at MPH slaving the new york times bestseller list. I mean everyone want to be IN. That leaves the metalhead. It's a widespread disease of integration, there's no loyalty to genre now. Once, if you are indentified as a brudder you live and die a brudder. Now, you listen to what sells.

So that year, I had just came out of the plot of Extinction and the other X-overs many times over. The one shots were piling and I was smug. There, i said it. I mean full painted glory - Kent Williams, Jon J Muth. Frank Teran? Had them all. One shots made great collections, so I was smug. I don't know and I don't care. I just like the art and if the story don't suck, I kept them. The rest burned. Pity the poor sobs who had to slave the monthly issues. Then came the explosion of chest and such tiny waist formulas that calls itself Valiant and Wildstorm. Then more were enslaved, I mean some sobs just collects anything. So you change the costume and make them street speak and make the pages glossy. So? Fuck them all. I was digging the archives for Lynn Varley, Mike Mignola, Sienkiewicz and other such legends. My one shots continue to pile. Then I was seen with Moebius... One can call that a second coming. Stan Lee call it a Silver Surfer tale. I got a steal for the still unheard and unseen sci-fi shorts that Moebius hand painted. Smug? Yeah, I said it. Then 2020 Vision.....

you are a puppet

First, Frank Quitely. The disturbing image. The unrepentant gore. The full page indisciplined no-rules panels that were strewn all over the place. You would hate it at first sight if all you ever encounter was: Madam English Tea Christie and a clean shaven Obelix. How on earth the muscles don't bulge after years of carrying menhir is beyond me. Anyway, to hate what you see need a certain level of bias, prejudice and conformed acceptance of certain world views and vice. One has to questioned if the vice part were a little light in definition. That was a yesterday that was yet unexploded. Frankly, the images quitely seeps into the mental pores like a virus that need to feed. So the world as one knows it, divided neatly into two zones - one where the rich dwell, and the other, filthier, unhealthier place where all the nobodies stay, become integrated. Even metalheadz were listening to Coltrane, Hawkins and Monk. Epistrophy anybody? Once light is shined in darkness, the old colonialization must ceased. What the affluent says can be opposed. What those in governance demands can be rejected. Alex Woycheck can be seen & heard without censors. Jamie Delano can tell a tale without giving two hoots to retards hiding in dark cubicles. Make that another hoot to full frontal lobotomized opiate freaks. (Nietzche version of 'opiate' for the less educated)

u r manipulated like a puppet

Alex Woycheck saw the plunge. So did anyone who actually viewed the crazy panels through his first person perspective. If Ellis can get away with Spider Jerusalem, any other brits with a tale to tell would jump in with his own version. This is Jamie Delano & Frank Quitely and a few other art people, their take on the apocalypse. It's life and it's not neat. Alex Woycheck, a generic nobody who has lead quite an interesting life, but loathes his present one because of the well off and power hungry people of the city. This could be tampines, this could be damansara. Heck, this is marine parade and ang mo kio combined! This is Puchong and S.E.A Park! This is Sungai Siput but Sami veloo lost long time agao... This is neu yorke. Hell. Pity the poor sobs who still suck up to the white shitheads and collect their turds for keepsake. Ah, colonialism you have returned! What mighty entourage you have! Why you even have a puppy... So, civilisation parodied in panels with crazy graphics while real life ooze turd from recolonialised mutants. If their pathetic existence really meant anything, Frank Quitely would have drawn them as herpes infected sodomized followers of other such gonorrhoea infected stinking morons waving their labels like flag day.

So, in the blogs we have seen the neo british india in southern island demanding monopoly for their brand of beliefs. You have to agree. If you blog you must take on the imperial labels. If your jesus speaks than you must label your jesus in the green truth of the neo british india company. They will trawl the blogs for dissenters and beat up such indian or moslem or china traders who just want to feed their family. They will googgle your blog for correctness and demand that you recant you political incorrectness. You are the bastardized children of Bush. Their threats are manifold but typical of colonial lack of inventiveness. If in doubt, they invoke the seal of royalty and send the damned to calcutta. That was the rule. That was the line drawn. Till their ships ran aground in the rocky shores of a graphic novel, drawn less than neat by this Frank Quitely. As in Woycheck's city, the power-seekers were infected by the uniting of plagued folks; the colonial bastards were summarily infected, hexed and rubbished. Their residue can be seen in the floatsam of Kranji at very low tide. Word: if someone wants to beat you up down a dark alley - and I pray no one ever does - you might tell them you're HIV-positive; if they have a brain cell at all they'll then walk away, and at least some good will have come from such a catastrophic nightmare.

no one cares for the truth.

Some turd for brain neo-colonial labelled-mispelled moron actually walked into such an alley some months back. His face was pushed to the floor. You will need a Quitely to draw the content of the floor to know the trauma this sick puppy has since acquired. The sequel? Like a dog going back to its vomit, the puppy wanders back. The truth? A puppet manipulated by lies.

Truth: I have not bought (again) 2020 Vision yet. It's a capitalist cage. You can't beat the system. The trade is cheap but in cheapo black and white. The single issues reamain in glorious paintwork and can be available for a bomb. Capitalist pig! This the lie. Either way you lose.

Are you tired of being lied to?

WORD: WARREN ELLIS ONE ACT - A BAPTIST PLAY

BAD SIGNAL: On Friday June 27, I'll be doing an onstage appearance in conjunctionwith the Wizard World Chicago convention in Rosemont, Illinois, byarrangement of Avatar Press.
The thing is happening at the Donald E. Stephens Convention Center --
http://rosemont.com/meeting/meet_desc.shtml

If a baptist- mini -stirred were to learn something, he would be at wizard. Yeah, popcorn and coke. Never mind. Just cola will do. Sure get the publications but make sure the suits are all hidden. No serious independent reader would like to to be told he been word-ed and press-ed into a mold called ministry. Anyway, if Warren Ellis were a baptist this is how he will conduct the show. A one act stage performance. Weep. People will think it's the Holy Spirit.

The event is free. It is my understanding that you do not need a conventionticket to enter. So, whether you're attending the convention or not, youcanshow up for this and get in with no problems.

Lesson no.1 get the brainwashed mass in. Don't let them think you are capitalist pig. Even if you are one, hide your knuckles. Let them know they are part of a convention that will change the world. This sells. People think they still can change the world. It's a capitalist thing. Open the doors, let the herd in and sell them the manuals for a convention speacial of one hunrdred and maybe fifty more. So even if they don't attend, they get this heavy tome back to add to the other tomes from convention past. One tome at a time. One brick at a time, hide them behind convention walls and use sublimal messaging from Pink Floyd for credibility. Who would figure baptist actually are changing the world? One herd at a time. People would think its the great commission.

Important point. I will be smoking onstage. You will not be smoking inthe convention center. This event has been categorised, believe it or not,as performance art. As having access to nicotine is essential to myperformance,I have been accorded the right to smoke. You will all have to suffer.

Did I say warren Ellis is a prick? Ellis IS a prick. Do you know convention speakers get stage preferential treatment? They get to drink diet coke. So they get to prance around in their suit and monkey tie, showing off they newly learned hip-hop YOs! while sounding still like a half-fucked baptist. And guess what? The herd actually YOs back! People would think that is good preaching. The manual sold on preaching said so.

The format for this appearance is Q&A. the herd moves in unison This is where I take questionsfrom the audience, and then ramble on at length about five other thingswithout even getting within the same zipcode as your actual question.So, there's no prepared talk this time, it's just me cueing off questionsfrom the floor, telling stories, and pretending to dispense The StarryWisdom while actually telling you nothing of worth or relevance.

Just when you thought it's safe to speak up, they put a boot in your mouth. Some independent type would ramble about puppies, whore and Da Vinci tee shirts. That is considered a renewed zest for authentic now-existence. People would call you contemporary. For a baptist mini-stirred, the heavens open to unleashed a grand opportunity for him to ramble. Q & A is actually the orgasm peak for ministers who have kept it inside too long. I mean Warren Ellis sprayed his audience didn't he?

**Well, who says a baptist can provide an immersion experience?

Also: yes, the story earlier changed versions a couple of times. What eventually came out was that although,naturally, the circumstances reported aren't matchingthe various stories circulating through back channels. so I can't get into this as deeply as I'd like, but this is interesting for a lot of reasons, none of them good. Sadly, I don't think all this summarize a convention expereince. As for the one act herd trooping off with this newly purchase convention special, I think they're goingto have a very good day tomorrow. I hate this. I dunno. I might read a bit from Ellis or something.

This has been WORD: Warren Ellis One Act - A Baptist lay (er, play.)


are you tired of being lied to?

WAYANG KULIT

u r being used

the shadow

mindfuckedmorons

reveal puppets

manipulated

by hands

unseen

are u tired of being lied to?

Bima

apppearing with darkness

illuminated by

light artificial

movement expressed

through shadow

r u are a puppet?

creating theatre

of kings

of princes

of war

of love

of gods

of demons

played by puppets

u r used by others

manipulated

by hands unseen

appearing with darkness

cast in light artificial

u belong to the herd

puppets

appearing in shadows

as theartre

fear in motion

wake up

THE LIGHTS ARE ON.

Wayang Kulit

what is your fear?

mindfuckedmorons

HEY YOU

.

.

.

are

you

tired

of

being

lied to

.

.

.

.

?

Dazed & Confused: Touring Arkansas

I spent a night next to a street bum with donkey-breath. He had a placard saying "God Is Dead - Nietzsche" and a beat-up copy of "The Lord of the Rings". I kept trying to explain to him that hobbits aren't gays but he wouldn't believe me. Then I read "The Houses of Healing" chapter aloud to him while he slowly dozed off to sleep.

In the morning, I woke up and saw the cat again. He looked at me like I was queer or something. The bum was gone. The cat had this towel tied around its head (see pic above). It gave me this stare and beckoned me to follow. Stupidly (and cursing myself for it), I got up and followed it down a subway tunnel. Is it just me or do I feel like those idiots in the first "Superman" movies looking for Lex Luthor's lair?

Turns out that the bum was there in the subway tunnel and he was putting up some kind of art exhibition together with several other hobos. I started talking to some of them and before long, I realized that the cat was missing again. It'll reappear soon. That I'm sure of, at least. In the meantime, I spent a couple of minutes looking at some of the more interesting pieces of art on display:

The earlier bum that I spent the night with was responsible for this piece. It was a self-portrait, he told me. Howie Lewis And The Subway (did I mention that he's "Howie"?). He used to paint buildings and trains. This is the first time that he painted a person. I stopped him midway through an impromptu speech that he started about how he's a person caught in the middle of the intersecting networks of trains and lives - yet having no life of his own. Usual bum-existentialist complaints posing as deep-philosophies. Deep but not deep - like the Nietzsche quote that he sleeps beside every night. The next two paintings were even more interesting:

This one was done by Gorny-Dork (I learned later that "Gorny" was short for Gonorrhea). He was in Vietnam. He painted this in memory of a friend who "saw the Light" (his words) towards the end of his Second Tour-of-Duty. I wasn't familiar with Vietnam War history. He talked about "My Lai" and "Hamburger Hill". I listened without commenting. Then he told me about how this bloke called Preacher Ray who was always going on and on about Jesus-this and Jesus-that. "He was a pretty decent chap", Gorny told me, "but perhaps not hardened up enough for the fuckin' war!" I nodded. "He should've gotten married to a nice girl back home and became a preach'r or somethin' but they had to ship him into t'is hell-hole..." He came back with his faith dashed and his Bibles burned. Then he put a gun to his temple and blew out his brains. "Fuckin' stupid, if you asked me," Gorny continued, "but that's just the way it is..." I could see a tear streaking down Gorny's face. I moved on to the next painting:

This third piece was done by a drunk called Swampy (nobody knows his real name). He's sober for exactly 25 minutes every day. He's fast asleep next to this painting when I approached. "Don't wake 'im," Gorny cautioned, "last guy who did got his teeth kicked in..." Howie explained that Swampy used to be a Marxist and one damn fine artist. This piece he did was called "Well-Fed Karl". For some reason, he got disillusioned by it all, burned his Manifesto, mixed the ashes of the burnt book with Dr Peppers and forced his ex-girlfriend (who was anti-Marxist) to drink the ashes of the burnt book. The girlfriend was a blonde who had great big boobs - that was the only reason they got together in the first place! "God knows it had nothing to do with ideologies!", Howie remarked. His girlfriend was forced to drink the strange concoction and he collected her shit in a plastic bag. "That's what Marxism is today," Swampy used to explain to his friends, "devoured by Capitalists with their blondes and boobs and shat out into a plastic bag!" The girlfriend got the cops to nab him not long after and he spent the last 4 years in the slammer. I stared at Marxy in the painting for a while. After that, I bade goodbye to Howie and Gorny. "Gonna continue the trek to Mordor?", Howie joked. I smiled back.

I was going to look for the strange cat.

This crazy tour is turning out to be like an old Moody Blues song with all its pretensions to spirituality and meditations. Homeless fucks who once believed in something very deeply but living in a world where ideologies mean crap. What matters are degrees and doctorate theses -don't matter if you don't even believe the shit - so long as you can put it into a book and sell it for SGD150. In my opinion, Swampy's girlfriend's shit in a plastic bag or Preacher Ray's brains on the floor are worth far more than a stupid doctorate thesis. But that's just me. Ain't gonna convince many people in this unbelieving generation.

Where is that damn cat?

HEY YOU,

.

don't be a puppet.

.

READ

have not read this?

BELIEVE THE HYPE

the programmed generation:

Are you tired of being lied to?

DISINFECT

PURGE.

THIS IS YOU.

WELCOME TO THE HUMAN RACE.

IS THIS YOU?

Still Lost In Arkansas - Blame The Cat

Stupid cat jumped into my bedroom and now it's gone. I'm still in Arkansas. Talked to a cop who was biting down on his hot-dog. Told him what happened. He started talking about incest and other shit - something about some bloke called Pietro. I couldn't understand a word he was saying. The cat was nowhere to be found. It looked something like the one in the above photo - but a little wilder and more mangaesque like in a Joe Mad artbook. Some black kid is rolling a baseball into a hole in the ground right in front of me. I must be thirsty. Tell me how to get home. Please.

An Entry From Arkansas

I was walking about in my room last night. A cat jumped in the window and the room disappeared. I woke up in Arkansas and I'm still trying to find my way home. Can anyone help?

REQUIEM: DANNY TEH LOVES ALFRED CHUA

ignorant fools

you have no idea

who you are dealing with

as a fool you came in

like a fool you wil be hanged

*

you can change your name

you can change your face

but your foolish pride

betrays you

your ignorance expose you

YOUR PRIDE WILL HANG YOU

now the mark is on you.

ignorant fools

from a small island

you came

to your small island

return in shame

my MARK

is on your name.

*

ignorance

*

pride

*

self-bondage

*

**all bloggers same warning applies.

Face of a Phoenician god

You stupid academic Christians boasting about your correct Greek. THIS IS THE FACE OF EVIL! And the only thing you are doing is writing academic thesis to show the world how well-read you are? Or inspirational rubbish to soothe/numb the senses of the adherents to your religion (opiate)?

Project Gutenberg by Douglas Rushkoff: A Review

Read through Project Guttenberg by Rushkoff This is the link to the free ebook:

Gutenberg
This is what I think of it.

Gutenberg refers to this guy who invented printing. But what has it got to do with Rushkoff's open source renaissance?

The story and myths of the ancient world has always been a way to manipulate the masses. The myth of the reformation and puritans are one good example. The masses are manipulated by stories of those in the hierarchy to cement the power. The myth of fundamentalism strengthens the grip of the religious leaders. Whoever controls the stories controls the people. It is the same idea when Gaiman says that gods cease to exist when their stories are forgotten. The power of the gods is their stories. Then it naturally means that whoever controls the media manipulated the people. In the past it is oral tradition, heroic poetry and also the singing of the bard. Not long before printing was invented and it means that the reach of the stories became even further.

And then we came to the 20th century. In this era we see the coming of the technopriests. The box becomes the medium to channel the stories. The technopriests controls the content.

This is related to the idea of memes. Joseph Goebbels, ministry of propaganda of the Nazis said that if something is repeated enough times it becomes a reality. That is the magick of memes. The memes are the ideas prevailing in the masses, and this it in turn dictated by those who controls the media. Up to this point the power is still a top down, hierarchical approach.

This of course is the work of the brotherhood. Rushkoff wasn’t too obvious about it but the allusion is there. The memes enabled the US to justify the war against Iraq in the illusive misguided nationalism, religious piety or fear. Than it forces people to take a stand. This is how the memes were used to create the problem-reaction-solution. The solution of course was human sacrifice in the millions, and unnecessary economic burden to billions, but untold profits to the few.

The birth of the internet enables interactivity. As such we can become our own priests as well. Open source then is not just a computer software term. He applies that to the law, and even to the stories that once directs the masses. If that is the case then the memes runs in a chaotic and anarchic way. His analogy of the slugs shows that beings can react with solidarity without a hierarchical (reptilian) control. Open source, as opposed to closed source goes from bottom up against the original top bottom intent.

To add to this, for example religious fundamentalism, or institutions, is essentially a closed loop system. This is derived first of all from 2 sources. First of all, the belief that justification is secured by adherence to a creed. This helps to make knowledge closed via the irrationality of fear. Anyone who is deemed to have strayed in his creeds is therefore in dangers of the fires of hell. It follows that the religious will have to invent hell which has nothing to do with a Judeo-Christian worldview. The fear of hell helps to define solid boundaries for the sheep to never stray. The second that it has to adhere to a closed source of 66 books termed the “canon”. The canon finalizes what is to be read or considered authoritative. Anything that is outside of this is to be questioned; therefore the religious fundamentalists do not anymore seek to learn further truth anymore. Then knowledge is forever static to the evangelicals.

Therefore it created an easily to be manipulated masses. In America the religious fundamentalists was easily manipulated to support the agenda of mass murder, either in the Middle East or South East Asia. In Germany, the religious leaders were the ones who endorsed the First World War. The masses from this group will never question social programming like the extreme respect on paper qualifications, or what exists in mainstream media.

What he proposes is that the top-bottom approach will not be the only way that the people on the top can benefit. He is really saying that the brotherhood is so obsessed with the exploitation of the resources of this world for its own benefits. Take for example the overdependence on oil, not because alternative energy is not available but because the brotherhood controls it. This, Rushkoff explains a closed source model. Same as currency flowing from a dubious federal reserves. He also, like Icke sees the evil of the currency being dictated by a bogeyman, that you have to pay back bogey money + interests that doesn't exists. Same as Tesla's free energy. He was one of the first to advocate open source technology, but he was of course opposed by JP Morgan, because this open source will undermine the domination of the top echelons. Rushkoff also proposes open source to currency (print your own money!). Then it is free from the speculation of the illuminati. He indeed shows a probable solution to the worlds problems.

It eventually means for humanity to create their own story, against the bloodthirsty and greedy attitude of the brotherhood. Let the economic system that is esoteric be revealed and reviewed through open source. But are we truly free to write the new chapters? Rushkoff asks us to declare that we are living in a just world already right now, instead of looking forward to it in an unjust world. The change must take place then from bottom up, the change in memes of the world.

What do I think of this? It seems that this guy is trying to beat the guys at their own games. Use the internet, media that has always been used for propaganda to have a reverse flow effect. Do people realize this? Do people know that the current economic system needs reform, a dog wagged by its tail? I don't know. But what he writes seems to be plausible.