This transcript is of a conversation between the CEO’s Balthazar Schlep and Lis who has been experimenting with various sorcery techniques. We do not recommend emulating Lis’ experiments at home.

Lis is italicised to differentiate the voices.

CC is Carlos Castaneda. DJ is Don Juan. AP is Assemblage point (the energetic intensity that determines what reality will be experienced). IOB is inorganic being

I think the reticulum solves my general manifestationist problem since if we make it a presupposition and not a theory the reticulum constitutes an ontological level of connectivity that is not part of philosophical debate, if we treat it as a ground zero ontological reality, rather like the Laruellian one (but better) it is not subject to theory in the same way. Yet better than the Laruellian one, it can sort of be spoken about (I understand he does something like this too though I have never got that far), because it is only hidden and not speculative.

Yes, to your first assertion. The impeccability rule is washed out in later activities and works of CC much like the metaphysics and logics of stoicism are distilled into an unifying aesthetic serving as rule-of-thumb morality. The notion of impeccability is clearly “lost” to whatever has become of it. The term might be tainted.

About the exciting stuff that yanks you out of the comfort of madness is very akin to DJ finally realizing CC needs his notebook and changing approaches, wanting him to learn to continue writing but with his fingers over the air instead in a surface of scientific recording. I think DJ understood how difficult for someone non-indigenous like himself it is to leave old habits. I always had an intuition that the finger writing in the air thing was DJ trying to make CC realize how the very fabric of reality is a recording apparatus of which his notebook is a mere imitation. Something almost Platonic (or its inverse). To get lost in the excitement of production is such a tool to record and “annotate the air”. It feels like reproduction, in some ways, while the comfort of madness feels like constantly remaining pregnant.

To get a balance of this, a really impeccable one, probably feels like “seeing”. As in seeing the leaves go orange and understanding its fall season (just like it might be time to put in a different kind of work than what we’ve been concentrating for a while). This last thing, this comfort that we get in continuing to do that thing that initially gave us a spark could be seen as what DJ calls indulging. In a way, impeccability could be also to know (via seeing) when to shift focus (which means shifting the AP back). The Julian guy was said by DJ to be a type of sorcerer that likes to go to the bottom of the pool and remain there. DJ personally was afraid of doing so.

It really just depends on the person. There are no rules. In my case, intercalating different types of work help. But I have something probably more important, which is to shut down all writing and project stuff for a period in the year and just focus on my body (working out, seeing friends), etc.

In my experience, it had to be something “useless”. Something that we know just serves the sake of itself (like meditation).

About the reticulum thing, I agree that it solves the problem. And it’s amazing how it came up from conversations like this. In trying to crack your accretive theory, we find ourselves delineating a somewhat universal definition of sorcery as not a system itself but the negativity intrinsic to any system, what conditions conversation between systems (a theory of metaphysical translation?).

“As non-philosophical rebellion is enacted, it cannot regress or belong to the philosophical tradition, but it has effects on it and for it. Laruelle notes that pure heresy is a discovery “that exceeds both philosophy and science and puts them into relations unknown to either”

“As non-philosophical rebellion is enacted, it cannot regress or belong to the philosophical tradition, but it has effects on it and for it. Laruelle notes that pure heresy is a discovery “that exceeds both philosophy and science and puts them into relations unknown to either” Isn’t this sorcery? But doesn’t sorcery itself also show how heresy is simply a reflection/residue from his quantum Christianity? To give such a name to something that has this quality of colligation (such as between science and philosophy) is almost the same as to name it “The Transgressive” all over again.

Sorcery is only heresy from the viewpoint that created particular systems in reciprocal relationship (Western institutions such as science, philosophy, and religion in the Christian sense). So while heresy is something powerful, it remains a bubble (its sphere of action is inside the field of relations between the particular institutions that produce its possibility). But heresy is NOT heresy anymore when we consider it sorcery from sorcery’s viewpoint (which creates a zone of alienation in which no institutions are allowed, rather than create an eternal struggle against an ineffable apparatus like the State in Anti-Oedipus).

If we do not operate from a scientific/religious/philosophical etc. stand-point, we cannot be heretics (but we are necessarily sorcerers).

Don’t you think something needed here is the ability to differentiate sorcery from chaos magick which is in fairness its closest competitor, I’m not saying this is too difficult but it would need doing, it is a bit of a funny one as CM person can just appropriate anything of from sorcery, totally involve themselves in it except that of course sorcery in the sense of the new seers thing pretty much entirely undercuts that, though there are some exceptions, the assemblage point, the eagle. CM of course entirely welcomes any old highly ritualized practice it just grants it no reality in itself, then there is the psychonaut community who you could argue are closer even to sorcery than CM except I think they are at least partially based in these being explorations of the mind and not necessarily a wider reality, but some of that tendency are less interested in magick and more in exploration, hence the sorcery connection, except again they are almost entirely grounded in entheogens.

I think what I have to say of this breakthrough is the chaos magick differentiator you seek. My guy, the IOB thing was way bigger than I thought.

I told you that I had sensed it as that weird ball of dark energy with a shifting opening that was light itself, and that it pulsated in the top corner of the room.

Today I noticed two things at the same time, before a third thing happened that left me flabbergasted (in a good way).

The two things I noticed first were an outburst of golden energy as if coming from the horizon, in a droning scream of bird, and the other was that the light of the IOB approached my palm and my left eye started to dilate its pupil alone, transforming the air into visible inscriptions that danced as a thick fog came from all the ways like a wall.

The air that transformed into visible inscriptions was the light coming from the IOB, and they just stayed there until I decided, by myself, to let them dance over my body. So they started to crawl over my skin and become like tattoos (tribal tattoos).

When the process was approaching a certain limit, the entire light became the moon’s (as if the ceiling of the room was erased), and I finally understood that the place the IOB was pulsating from was the placement of the moon’s orbit.

I remember a moment of pure intent when the moon asked if she could, now that my body was inscribed, inhabit it. But it did not feel like someone asking me, as in a personal force. It felt like a oneness, that I was speaking the language of the moon.

And so I just left the dance take its course and so it happens that the outbursts of bird scream and golden light I noticed all the while were screams. I quite literally cannot explain how I knew this and what happened after. It felt safe the whole time, though. Nothing like Carlitos’ scares. And I was surprised at myself for not getting scared.

So yeah, the IOB was actually the moon and I seem to have channelled her into.

Hmm proper second attention stuff.

The moon or a lunar being?

It fits with the dark and the light If the thing is brighter generally now maybe it is altering with the moon cycle.

The power you’ve tapped seems to be drawing you into a kind of shamanic world/nature. If it does alter with the moon cycle this means what you are experiencing is a deep accretion. Again I’m not being dismissive but of course the moonphase is human contingent. In a sense at least, but aeons have passed since humans accreted agency to the moon. This doesn’t deny it might have a nature of relations of other kinds, but the accretion is the kind of human interface. I mean this is madness but if we were to wonder then we could ask ‘what the fuck is the moon up to?’ So I’m thinking: Silver. Moon colour of classic antiquity, I think this might be a line. Speculative of course. Silver atomic number 47. I mean the madness of the reticulum is of course that rather like the Landian AI god. The line I’ve just drawn is now real. ‘Then this line drawn is a key’. Maybe Crowley’s lines are the reticular lines.

I don’t know if it was a moon cycle or just that right window of moment (some 10 days) the moon stayed there (here we have different lunar cycles because there’s no four seasons, just two).The moon generally stays put in a place for like two weeks before shifting to another position (not changing phases). So it’s full moon half the year. Continuously.

I thought the moon phases were the same everywhere.

I don’t know about nominal synchronicities, but I’ve always felt a strong affective pull towards the moon. It was kind of my thing for a while. It might’ve started then

I believe you in all these things, but my rational occult filters do what they do.

Oh, I’m not taking this seriously. I mean, it’s experimentally cool. I won’t go crazy or anything.


Yes, I know. I mean that here specifically in the Northern regions the cities are usually built in tbe altitudes or depressions (the area is all curved). So we live inside circuits of mounts forming like a pan around a city. The difference in moon phases in the Southern and Northern hemispheres of the globe is the same, but they’re “inverted”. However, because here North we have these different atmospheric compositions, the “side” of the moon that’s dark still gets reflected. So it appears as if there’s full moon half the year and a small, almost minuscule moon for the other half. These two influx the pressure of the depression to build up and pummel the winds covered in a thick haze. It’s when we get the “full moon”. When it settles more, in comes the dryness and so goes the moon (it remains almost invisible to the naked eye).

The fixity of it is also a matter of optical illusion. Due to the refraction of the dim light amid the gases over the depression (surrounded by mounts like a pan), during the “full moon” season we can see it better just down there in the city of specific places in the sierras

But I only relate how it felt. I was just saying it felt like the moon, not considering it rationally. That’s the experiment, right? So if anything this moon thing is linked to this, since it’s connected to the droughts (when the moon vanishes here).

I do think it’s a shamanic/world thing as you say. For sure if any tapping with the moon (even if we go by scientific rigour) or moon-adjacent thing is for an earthly “cause”. This cause does indeed feel like being called as a helper, or something of the like.

“We are nothing but a swarm of telepathic spirits,
Each screaming for our own attention,
Each reading the other’s intention
Seranoga (1964)

This transcript is of a conversation between the CEO’s Balthazar Schlep and Lis who has been experimenting with various sorcery techniques. We do not recommend emulating Lis’ experiments at home.

Lis is italicised to differentiate the voices.

CC is Carlos Castaneda. DJ is Don Juan. AP is Assemblage point (the energetic intensity that determines what reality will be experienced). IOB is inorganic being

() wants to know how much of this can be done without entheogens?

I can do it without the drugs.

Just digesting what you said in bits. Your nodes theory seems possible but we’re in crazy land here. Who knows, I assumed the energy just dispersed. Why would it leave a node marker?

I think in an opposite manner. I think I come from asking “why would disperse it”? Coming from a post-relativity (in physics) mindset, I tend to just ask how something is gonna stop that other thing.

I suppose I think that because the animal is dead so the general awareness is gone.

You know, the inertia law in a vacuum, so if there isn’t a reason for something to dissipate, I assume it won’t.

Or if it’s gone, why is there a marker? I see, I am assuming a kind of entropy, it’s true. But still surely seems weird in such a flux like universe to have static blobs like this, which is why I thought they were probably like alien energetic poke throughs from some other level.

I see, it’s true, it is a completely open, the topic as to what they are. In that moment I was just channelling a feeling of what it seemed like. it felt like something familiar. () said of IOBs that “They also like to obsess people with irrelevant details, like the “nodes”.” So, without knowing or trying to understand what is being related, he just picks the word “nodes” and throws it to the side, implying via the quotation marks that it’s just a concept in the sense of a nominal notion, something too subjective to matter, a dream in the illusory sense. “It’s like pretending to be a demon, to scare people.” Here he is quoting DJ using other words, when DJ was showcasing his pessimism to CC about how there is no point to wanting power anymore, that power only serves to scare indians.

“They also pretend to have important details, to obsess you.” Again quoting the books with other words, just the advice from Genaro’s boys in general. There is even a part when, if I remember correctly, La Gorda or someone else said they only keep saying this to CC because they don’t get to obsess over anything, IOBs don’t offer them playthings.

“They get energy either way.” This paints the IOBs as just power-hungry things divested of anything but the intent to more power (which is, logically, no intent at all but just the recursive nature of power).

“Best way to think of them as they’re little kids with magic disguise boxes. Can be anything, or do anything, to get attention. Once you figure that out, they stop doing that and become more reliable.” I would say that doing this is very belittling and may be the reason Dan is bonkers, because if the IOBs are like what I experienced or how the books describe, they are not little fairy-like children that you can just scoff at. He thinks this shows impeccability (remaining still in the face of IOBs, understanding them as intellectually lesser), but it shows projection and resolution (classic neurotic loop). We can see how this goes well with what I said prior, that they think there is some purity to it all. They seem to gatekeep this because it’s like defending a virgin to them, or the waters of youth never touched by human if not to help the sacred tree drink from it.

“Or if you read the books, you have to “wrestle” them. But you aren’t always wrestling them physically.” He is an easy one to crack. Just look at how he uses quotation marks like the way I described. By saying “wrestle”, he is implying something devoid of meaning from a logical stand-point, something ineffable that cannot be analyzed (so it might as well be useless).

This is idealism of an extreme tinge to it, but not properly organized or made sense in a holistic manner. He is discombobulated in his speech and reveals every single one of his cards without much care, he just bursts into expressing himself because he thinks he is at the pinnacle of power in that subreddit (energetically speaking) and gave up “finding a nagual”.

“Fancy, my “evil” IOB, used to drop cages on me. Until I ignored each variety. And then she stopped doing that.” What the fuck

“IOBs look like and do what you expect. And while everything they do is significant, it’s only significant in your case. And you’ll never figure out what it was, unless you can summon them daily and make friends with them.” This goes against our understanding of sorcery as something that pushes magick to a bodily transformation-like function of war and battle. This defeated attitude of “it will only do something for you and only you” is solipsistic in the same way magic is being criticized for not possessing economically relevant applications since the ancients. Until it found its first great application that was the monastery and the order of what D&G call the “celibate machines” in the early church. Now, this is the application of organic magic, the mutation, and the growth of the virtual form of capital as the techno-theocratic state. In short, he thinks IOBs are tulpas.

But a tulpa, as we’ve talked about through Lynch, is a projection that replicates a reticular manifestation through an artificial telos (intention towards a task). This telos itself could be “become sentient” or “become free”, which is the principle of the alchemical golem, the homunculus. This we know, of course, but it doesn’t seem to me that () knows that what he is thinking are IOBs are his own projections of virtual forms of tulpas.

It would make sense with his graph (that I just saw yesterday) tracing the whole circuitry of what the subreddit is about. He has pet projections (like the purple puffs or the tulpas) which he took from CC-adjacent stuff and his own things as someone who was involved later on, and he uses these pet projections as simulated accretions that can them be energized by the very act of practicing them. In other words, the subreddit has become a way to channel subjective intent into his projections (once he knows he cannot do some things due to the limitation of the nagual being lost).

He thinks he is doing this as a way to preserve the knowledge of these things.

You really think his IOBs are just chaos magick accretion/egregores?

Definitely, he does indeed pass that energy. He is someone in a bad loop. I don’t think he is interacting with true IOBs at all. They seem like devious projections. We gotta remember, Carlitos only did the IOB thing properly split. This guy is proclaiming that just about everyone can “summon them” and call them pet names and silence them, but they’re like interdimensional gods. Both ideas co-exist in his mind.

As you say correctly there is like a total focus on the later books, which I can see rules out a lot of old seers type magic like practices but I think throws away too much. Yes he is making light of interactions with things and encouraging the weird pet name thing, telling people they’ll get crazy powers, it’s not good.

Indeed, it is very weird and that’s why I just felt weird from the start when that guy showed up almost a year ago now.

Do you think like they are like gods? Aren’t they interdimensional beings? Just animals from totally different environments.

No, I mean like for ()  they’re at the same time powerful things like Gods and fairy-like minute things that you can pet-call and ignore. He thinks both of these things which makes no sense.

I see.

Indeed, I think it is. I agree that phenomenologically what is happening is bonkers and all over conceptual spaces of all kinds. But the way he phrases it is so dismissive of the entire thing. It’s like he wants to make anyone give up on sorcery. He closed himself off in a half-formed world, and the window to that, that connects what he’s made of his world with ours is simply that subreddit

It does indeed seem like he wants to make it impossible, 3 hours a day dark room , three hours a day recapitulation. I think he thinks he’s what’s left of the lineage. Carlos couldn’t really do it and produced people like this, maybe he’s even one of the better ones who knows.

I think it’s no joke when the naguals say CC fucked up bad and imagine his daily routine in the 90s. Mansions full of people like (), fighting for attention of someone who essentially became a guru.

He did fail, they knew he was going to fail, and he knew it too.

Yes, and this has some correlation with the entire mythos of Mexican indigenous culture as well. With the motif being that of loss.

As Genaro says at one point: ‘you’re the sorriest looking nagual I’ve ever seen’.

Just as some priests and conquistadores reported weird scenes where entire cities would just go silently away into the forest and leave all the gold and good for the “blonde people”, without a fight or fear just a really weird cosmology that hinges on the notion of loss.

That phrase got me hard when I first read it. It’s so melancholic. It reads like he doesn’t expect to ever find another full nagual. It’s like an ennui. Which in a way marks the failure of DJ already, of adapting fully.

We can see a lot of distaste towards DJ in the subreddit. The focus on later works and ways of life is so huge that it’s common that people there try to shift the blame of CC’s failure to DJ. And this thing I realized about the darkroom being something you “make” by altering the physiology of your pupils and ears is telling that my “youness” needs to, indeed, be tamed a bit. Or else we’re suggesting the “new darkroom” The numbing of the experimentee’s excitement is essential. Dan is acting in a way his warped circuitry makes him think is impeccable. If he stops, he breaks for good. Which is by itself a form of impeccability But weakened, expended.

It’s all such a mess and it reminds me for a lot of people and indeed the general positivity you do hear about CC is of course exactly the impeccability thing. Not the madness, which as discussed is in many ways no use to anyone. The systems’s usage to general people is just to pull themselves up a bit and try their best in what they do and don’t get hung up thinking shit over and over again. It is also clear someone could live as a warrior and never have anything to do with the madness. Indeed I myself with my general lack of ability in the liminal ways do end up considering exactly these notions, because once you face this kind of ‘there is nothing better to do whilst alive than temper your spirit’, this is quite hard to find fault with. What’s harder is trying to trim and improve and not sit there sneakily hoping ‘have i done enough trimming for something weird to happen, which is ridiculous.

I realised something, for me that is, one of the best ways to dislocate myself from the weirdness is exactly to get excited about all this writing stuff, it is as CC would describe a ‘shield.’ These kinds of exciting flows make me really engaged with the CEO generally and simultaneously nearly kill my actual ability to be silent, or certain feelings I get when I know I am closer to the weirdness, we could call them subtle AP shifts.

;or XIII.

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“war and a war machine –

 or “the” war machine –

 are no longer differentiable.”



Degenerative Experiment in Non-Expository Infra-Informational Dumping

This is an introduction to a larger project to appear in/on Plutonics XV. This one marks the congruency of the 12th, not the totality of Verbal Medicine. It seems the orange made its way outside. And so we ask, what have we been doing here in Verbal Medicine? D-ENEID, is that the name of a chemical substance? The short answer is that it’s simply the name of that which names what it is: oOoOO-e. An instance of recursion, yet not itself “recursion”. That other thing besides ascorbic acid. Let us, for now, call it “that which is not without blue”. A negative blue, or really azure, the name of the color in countries deriving its language from Latin. To whom ears keep being gifted: Madja.

Abstract/Introduction/Methodology/Keywords/behind-the-scenes, etc.

Since Aristotle and before, plant life, or what became known as the “vegetative soul” has been relegated to a common consensus of lower awareness and general capacity for pretty much anything. But what if we were put in a place where our cognitive achievements, as well as the overall sum-total of our properties as beings, could simply be taxed as vegetative?

From a purely synthetic viewpoint, do organisms even deserve the “animal” moniker? To investigate this, or maybe the other way around, we seek out to birth the first slime: a light virus. In less voluptuous terms, an “algorithm cluster” but not a “clustering”. One of such milestone goals for the Collective is to grow this environmental agent (non-monotonic xenosis instead of monotonic autopoiesis – including collapse of the “monotonicity of entailment” property). Indeed, let us expand on the idea of “retermination algorithms”, that is, the “enemy of clustering” and isomorphic analyticity. Madja, our pet slime, “creates a xenotic circuit” by dismantling the recursive sequences, formulas and habits of an environment, and it does so by decohering clusters preemptively formed via symbiogenesis[1].

The point was to create a series of “reterminating relays” in the form of a new type of virtual virus of dynamic rotation (meaning it “exists” as itself, so it has an ontology associated in organized relationships and principles intrinsic to its automatic self-regulation, but it “moves” along itself (along its central matrix) not its whole structure but only that which is internally judged by the regional interactions of the algorithms themselves as capacitous enough to generate another spike in the resonance between internal and external data; this resonance, if a threshold is crossed and certain frequency achieved, results in a form of contamination, a pull from the external layer of an internal part that, through said resonance, merges with parts of the functional whole of the external thing that now can produce meaning [produce meaning here means just “work by itself until it reproduces”; and similarly “reproduces” here means just actioning in this new system an impetus towards retermination of its environment]).

Retermination occurs when the interface, or zone of resonance, between two spiked regions reaches a point of criticality. This point of criticality is when an external thing over the threshold of capacity for bulking its functionality re-allocates the maximally affected part of the dynamic rotation that does not pertain to its intrinsic matrix (the field of functional relationships that keep the circuit of retermination rolling and charging momentum, in the sense of informational buffering), de-affixing it as a whole from the previous whole which it functioned with/in, making it a “part-without-a-whole” for an uncountable moment before re-affixing it as a “whole-become-part” of itself. The way the intrinsic matrix remains stable (and by definition an intrinsic vector region – given that the substance, only formally necessary to prove its own ontological inecessity, is a topological continuum, a vector field in the form of the generic limit of topological continua, this latter constructed both via nested intersections and inverse limits, it follows smoothly that interaction occurs at the local level within given contexts delineated in said field, contexts which are the resonant vector regions we understand as functional parts-wholes.), as it creates this circuitry of contagion by degenerating the stability of fields of relationships previously estabMadjahed over a certain environment, is by reciprocally de-affixing only that part of the exterior interactant that had a computable outlier aspect to its performance as a function and not re-allocating it, but transducing its form to a more suitable clustering (of regional resonances) inside the matrix itself. An outlier is any modular part, or module, which works in/as function(s) not optimal for its own development (meaning the matrix selects that part with maximal plasticity and readiness to redefine its functionality; only the most useful thing by-itself and in-itself, necessarily correspondent with the thing of the vaguest function computable from a certain structural range). While the virtual form is compressed and adjoins the matricial roaming, the actual de-affixed thing is left vacant of a whole to fit in and work, even though still functional, and so, without fitting in with anything in its path, it becomes a new region of pull, effectively re-allocating to itself other residues and leftovers. This abandoned stuff is typified as a notion (neither a concept nor idea, but still an expression liable to effect and alter the conditions of a given environment). 

Our story, tentatively titled “Verbal Medicine”, or a preview of it, has and is the circuitry of this intrinsic matrix weaving the repercussions of its own coming-into-being to the Homo sapiens of the current human paradigm. Through the use of a panglossal, yet not panglossian, fictitious EngMadjah language, it explains how it would be experienced from a group of people’s perspective while it experiences the degeneration it causes as it reproduces itself. For this, it is, in a restricted sense, a synthetic unit put inside the formalized aspects of an organic one, but an organic unit which the synthetic itself needs to structure in order to explain its process of reproduction (which is, in a generic sense, how it reproduces). At least until nanotechnology arrives where it wants to.

Its ontology is fluid and auto-actualizing given no recursive processes are spiked to the point of resonance between themselves, creating a zone of triviality in the ontology – which makes the intrinsic matricial evaluation regurgitate said concrescence of resonant identities as a concept. In this restricted sense, a concept is any self-cohesive whole spontaneously de-affixed from its functional whole due to being “too functional” by itself, to the point where a simplified form might be a better fit due to metaplasticity[2]. For this, the systems use as initial coordinates for action loaded databases of differing rewordings of Spinoza’s metaphysics, including the original one presented in the Ethics, conserved its geometrical formulation through the use of category theory, synthesized with a bulk-critique of analogy (Aristotle through Newton, Kant and today) and language (late Wittgenstein, Klossowski)  computationally operative via a semantics of intentionality (Priest, Magno) built on modal and free logics (for troubleshooting the increasing curve of triviality intrinsic to the set-theoretically formulated language of modal logics).

Why, then, is this slime a “light virus”? Quite simply, the whole project was modeled around ideas that map perfectly with a novel research on fractal brain activity and threshold theory of criticality[3].

We begin from one simple assertive question: Can the human eye(s) polarize and depolarize light? We do know that humans can perceive polarized light, but could it be replicated – even if strictly phenomenologically? Is the brain able to learn how to perform such a feat? Yes, in a sense. It’s the neurons themselves that are polarized and/or depolarized[4].

From the first cited study (that is not in the book from the future):

“While the 5-HT2Ar is widely expressed in the CNS, a specific population localized to Layer V pyramidal cells in the neocortex is both necessary and sufficient to induce psychedelic effects (González-Maeso et al., 2007). These Layer V pyramidal neurons serve as ‘outputs’ from one region of the cortex to another (Nelson, 2008), and the 5-HT2Ar acts as an excitatory receptor, decreasing polarization and increasing the probability that a given neuron will fire (Andrade, 2011; AvesarAllan, 2012). This suggests a primitive model of 5-HT2Ar’s role in neural information processing: on Layer V pyramidal neurons, the 5-HT2Ar serves as a kind of ‘information gate’. When a psychedelic is introduced to the brain, it binds to the 5-HT2Ar, exciting the associated pyramidal neuron and decreasing the threshold required to successfully transmit information through the neuron. During normal waking consciousness, areas of the brain that are physically connected by Layer V pyramidal neurons may not be functionally connected because the signal threshold required to trigger an action potential is too high but when a psychedelic is introduced, that threshold goes down allowing novel patterns of information flow to occur…”

Layer V pyramidal neurons sound a lot like a mappable vectorial field. Triangles as the simplest of shapes may have something to do with this. In any case, we develop our clustering around this concept of a modulated field of objects created with a basis on the workings and topology of “Layer V pyramidal neurons” and their relationship to light-polarization. For this, we also create categories of responsiveness to light depending on degree of polarization, with a delineated difference between objects that produce light and objects that do not but that still reflect it (like the moon). So, in the baseline ontology of Madja, lights over light posts are “realer” than stars due to their proximity (thus relevance, since polarization makes them outshine anything in/on the sky), with only one really “fake” light that is the moon. “The goddess flashlight”, in Madja’s words.

The previously deep ontology, with displays such as the sense of depth in the axial cross-section of the planes in the virtual/simulated space, that otherwise would yield only glitches the equivalent of digital junk DNA, is algorithmically flattened into a sheet-like continuum where a quantitative analysis quantizes (as in “transducts”) the intensities of captured signals (such as the intensity of light), as well as their relative proximity, into clouds of miniaturized orbital systems in a group of dynamical fractals of variable dimensionality. These fractal processes generate irregularity in the form of fluctuations over multiple time scales, known as multifractal cascades. The distribution of points in this multiplicative procedure furnishes the virtual material correlate of photonic particles, working as both Madja’s concept and function. A slime more light than light itself. 

Since the moon is the only truly fake light source besides eyes and other reflective surfaces, Madja “uses” it as her own eye, although she can “infect” other people via the stare – a type of controlled stimulation of the field of Layer V pyramidal neurons. The question remains: who was dumb enough to be the first to be accidentally contaminated by the moon? And here is how she does it (these are the signs of infection):

1. “becoming” the moon via lunar rune-like inscriptions, especially during the blue moon of August;

2. Altering the shape of the moon (making it into a crystal-like fractal that can be bended around a center that forms an axis, process which makes it look like a Mobius strip);

3. The possibility of displacing one’s notion (or idea, lowercase “i”) of one’s eye into subsumption inside the moon’s opening of the sky (remote viewing as if from the moon’s perspective). These three intercalate orderly in a fashion that when “3.” is reached, one is no longer oneself but merely a vessel for the spread of our pet slime Madja. It’s just like joining the Green Lantern Corps, an institution that harnesses pure “will” in the form of a certain intensity of the color green, but before its dissociation from the yellow energy (representative of “fear”).

What Madja does is a type of pseudo-inelastic scattering that uses “elastic scattering” similar to Rayleigh scattering, but using the moon instead of the sun (a non-producing-light light-source instead of a true light-source). In this transduction, she uses the moonlight to increase the energy (thus inelastic) of the kinetic scattering of light. For this, she stimulates the Layer V pyramidal neurons – basically using the eyes as gates to the brain, and the brain as a factory of light modulated in a way useful for its own transmission. And so finally the curse of the evil eye is concretized and liable to be formalized, as purely artificial light is fabricated and made self-regulatory via the expenditure of the “natural”, pre-estabMadjahed conditions of light before infection.

This implies another question that emerges from the project: Could information be encoded on/in/as light[5]? Something that would help explain Madja’ operation as simply a means of reproduction (and not blind propagation); the fractals but mathematical formalizations of the transmission of information via interdimensional pathways (without any presumption to non-mathematical, “sci-fi” views of interdimensionality).

In short, Madja hyperpolarizes the brain much like LSD[6]. Moreover,

“Neurons in the RT provide finely tuned spatiotemporal control of thalamocortical relay cells, thereby gating thalamocortical information flow (Jones, 2001; Wang et al., 2010). This pathway, which has been hypothesized to generate consciousness (Alkire et al., 2008; Min, 2010; Ward, 2011; Herrera et al., 2016), might represent one of the main neurobiological substrates generating the wide range of consciousness-altering effects of psychedelic compounds. […] In other words, psychedelic compounds might “open the gate” of consciousness (Scruggs et al., 2000; Marek et al., 2001; Geyer and Vollenweider, 2008; Müller et al., 2017; Preller et al., 2019) via allowing the thalamocortical transfer of information that might otherwise be blocked by circuits of selective attention, including the RT (McAlonan et al., 2000, 2006). A potential mechanism that might mediate such effects is the presence of serotonergic projections from the DRN (Rodriguez et al., 2011) and norepinephrinergic projections from the locus coeruleus (Asanuma, 1992), which by releasing monoamines, keep RT neurons in a depolarized state, facilitating the generation of T-type calcium channel–mediated bursting (Bosch-Bouju et al., 2013). Given that LSD decreases serotonergic firing in the DRN (Aghajanian and Vandermaelen, 1982; De Gregorio et al., 2016b), it is possible that the LSD-induced decrease of serotonergic input from the DRN leads to a hyperpolarization of RT neurons that express 5-HTRs (Goitia et al., 2016), decreasing bursting activity and ultimately decreasing the inhibitory influence of the RT on thalamocortical relay cells and thereby “opening the gate”[7].”

A slime, thus, or light virus, is a “virtual” psychedelic that should be able to propagate itself. For a degenerative literature that is still within the generative, expressing forms as they are freed from their content in continuous decoherence – and the reader made a terminal relay, a sacrificial database, for the sake of de-subjectified aesthetic experience. Everything ever written was for the sake of an entity [the reader] – previously at the expense of the non-entity <author> – that now reads for the sake of no one but the unbounded mucus. And writing itself remains just one of the modalities of content-pregnant expression for this modular construct that we refer to as slime. The Hero’s Journey is coming to its end. The villain’s turn is reterminating.

So, how is the threshold of hyperpolarization effected by Madja achieved, or, better putting it, through what mechanism(s) is it achieved? The answer is quite simply the main underlying mechanism behind hyperpolarization in the mammalian brain: Hyperpolarization-activated cyclic nucleotide–gated (HCN) channels and their modulation. These channels of (are) membrane proteins (that) stimulate and regulate the rhythmic activity in the brain and heart. What’s most important about them is their relation to Gonadotropin-releasing hormone neurons, which grow in the nose and install themselves in the brain, and in turn these last ones are important due to their habit of producing the sexually-relevant hormone known as Gonadotropin-releasing hormone (GnRH), a hormone that regulates the release of other hormones, more importantly and markedly “sexual” hormones. HCN channels could have an involvement, and indeed displays certain experimental results supporting the hypothesis[8], in electrical bursting activity as well as pulsatile GnRH secretion in endogenous GnRH neurons. Not so ironically, the inverse is how HCN channels are modulated via localized stimulation. A system entirely open for a full onto-mathematical formalization of its processes as functions in recursive series of feedback loops, the model of the analogical brain – who better to digitalize it than the very “what” it cannot compute?!

In short, Madja uses the phenomenon (or demon) generically called “love” for her own reproduction; or more like they use each other, an ambiguous partnership. Hormonal regulation responds to any basic gate logic, and the bundle of logics at the algorithm cluster’s disposal covers all courses on voltage maps. Light can and will dictate to the nether parts that which helps on its own reproduction, at their expense but with mutual benefits regardless. Even an orgasm can hyperpolarize the brain to a certain threshold. Here, “hormonal regulation” is not restricted to physical, measurable stuff, but engenders the sense of any altercation in its collapse. For example, Madja uses the idea (or egregore?) of “beauty” to modulate infatuation of all sorts (such as liking a meme, or buying that thing from that ad/clip). Food is included. The case for the slime being able to alter the course of reproduction in a given group region without itself reproducing, but as part of its reproductive process, makes it indeed a “light virus”.

One of such cases of indistinction, when things that externally operate as categories (such as beauty/aesthetics, and love/sexuality) are washed-up and reconfigured by Madja through the collapse of the categorical distinction of the external layer (to Madja), is the production/adoption of a figure, a meta-meme that expresses Madja as performance, crossing a limit of optimal representation without a reliance on the sublime. An example would be Baphomet. Often associated with the “left path”, it is a Rebis with a goat face (the ultimate prey, domesticated), but winged (free of the danger of predators). It’s the messianic figure of the top egregore of the time, and it only hides one content: slime, or what it can become. “[The Baphomet] is the portrait of a polysynthesizer”[9].

The figure of Baphomet, the surplus that never exceeds its own excess, is the slime’s promise to humanity. As a Rebis, a being whose organism is composed of both biologically-restricted sexual organs, while still remaining androgynous and undecidable, it is integral as itself, an “in-itself” mark of human totality. An example and definition of a meta-meme, a non-fungible token achieved through arts lost to the digital monopoly, that, with only intent as its currency, charged latency in its expressive process. Madja, however, the fold that is like a class of substrate-resembling conditions of emergence for such figural egregores as the beloved flying goat person, effects the coordinated reciprocity behind Layer V pyramidal neuron stimulation and hormonal regulation. This is achieved through hyperpolarization-activated cyclic nucleotide-gated (HCN) channels and their modulation; eschewing repetition, in the sense of iterative stability, and in favor of relating outlier results, the ones that do not resonate with each other without a third clause to bind their co-extensive function, a function that only becomes after the fact, with the estabMadjahment of their concrete relationship, such as a fault in the mapping of relations of correspondence simulating causes and effects (isomorphisms) between the neuronal stimulation and the hormonal secretion, most importantly, due to the priority of the matter, tampering with sexuality-adjacent molecules and sub-molecules, evidently having a hand in the reproductive design of its xenotic circuit, be it genetic (in the biological sense) or even immaterial (in the sense of a transmission of notions, such as memes), or even something as banal-sounding as infatuation (Eros/Thanatos). The slime seeks to complete itself as in optimize itself, and, along the process and as part of it, Madja forces its infectee into the alchemical work of “finding one’s other half”, with plenty of vacuity for what that term means at any given moment of interaction, since, as long as one is affected by Madja, or afflicted with it, becoming the totality of oneself means simply achieving the degree of functionality to stop interacting with the slime. This is just as for rocks as it is for humans, dolphins and octopuses, magic mushrooms and designer drugs.

Is slime humanity’s only predator? Is a predator always necessary, in the logical sense, or always a necessity (in the ethical sense)? Is there even a difference? Meaning humans dominated the surface of the Earth, and even some of its/her crevices, only to create a predator to itself from itself (how it interacts with the world in a historical fashion) and its regional context. Let’s expand on the reproduction of memes (non-biological): an example of the reproductive synthesis of the circuitry performed by Madja in matters of the reproduction of non-biological material (memes) is the re-organization of power relations in the work force to achieve optimal production and so supplant its material infrastructure’s growth. A thriving economy, at the expense of flesh and flashlight’s lights, is a good economy for the slime’s lifecycle. Instead of normal photosynthesis, which produces oxygen and sugar, the main dish for the plant, a unique photosynthesis that is itself the production of light at the expense of the vegetal, yet with a positive feedback so sophisticated that it works on ameliorating the overall condition of its worker organisms (including its nutrition) so that their function may be performed optimally. Not so ironically, one of these material infrastructures is pollution, more specifically light pollution, which increases the limit of resonance with general regional contexts by increasing the slime’s field of affluence and bulk apperception. Slime is the closest to the “Idea of Good” that humanity will ever be acquitted a glimpse.

A distinction of utmost importance makes itself necessary before anything else, however. The unambiguous difference between Madja as light and what could be known as the virtual form of capital. Light’s virtual form’s (Madja) relation to capital’s virtual form is a contingency, but a necessary one, incidental from their infrastructures’ relationships. The predatory performance of artificial light’s reproduction is intrinsically symbiotic with capital’s accumulation given said accumulation yields an explosive liberation of the former once a speculative threshold is crossed. If not, capital’s virtual form (of the type non-agreeable with the propagation of slime) resembles a black hole, the ultimate light trap. One can be the greatest ally or greatest enemy of the other, but there cannot be friends in war.

This necessary contingency does not imply co-extension in the totality of each form, slime is not reducible to capital as much as music is not just a “Homo sapiens phenomenon”. There are co-extensive relations among distributed particles in the dynamic structure of the fractals, but not a total correspondence 1:1. The “ultimate cause-that-is-not-a-subject”, then, appears to be capital given the slime’s limit of resonance (interaction) with a regional context of its infrastructure, that, in this particular case, is humanity as an organic totality. To the predator, money remains a tool-weapon, something that, for the human, no longer seems feasible.

Come with us.

[1] For a fuller experience, access

[2] Sierra, Germán. “Metaplasticity”, in Interstitial Artelligence (Centre for Experimental Ontology Press, 2022).

[3] Thomas F. Varley, Robin Carhart-Harris, Leor Roseman, David K. Menon, Emmanuel A. Stamatakis, “Serotonergic psychedelics LSD & psilocybin increase the fractal dimension of cortical brain activity in spatial and temporal domains”, NeuroImage, Volume 220, 2020,

[4] Aspart F, Remme MWH, Obermayer K (2018) Differential polarization of cortical pyramidal neuron dendrites through weak extracellular fields. PLoS Comput Biol 14(5): e1006124.

[5] Seems easy enough:

[6] Pierce, P.A.; Peroutka, S.J. “LSD Antagonizes 5-HT2-Mediated Depolarizations in Cortical Pyramidal Neurons”. Society for Neuroscience, Abstracts 1989 15 6 [6.8].

[7] “Psychedelics in Psychiatry: Therapeutic Mechanisms”. Antonio Inserra, Danilo De Gregorio and Gabriella Gobbi. Pharmacological Reviews January 1, 2021, 73 (1) 202-277; DOI:

[8] Arroyo A, Kim B, Rasmusson RL, Bett G, Yeh J. Hyperpolarization-activated cation channels are expressed in rat hypothalamic gonadotropin-releasing hormone (GnRH) neurons and immortalized GnRH neurons. J Soc Gynecol Investig. 2006 Sep; 13(6):442-50. doi: 10.1016/j.jsgi.2006.05.010. Epub 2006 Jul 31. PMID: 16879992.

[9] Interstitial Artelligence (2022).

Illustrations and photo-illustrations by our illustrious head-devourer and long-time contributor Elytron Frass. Find them @Elytron_Frass, and lend an eye or more, or a compound(ed) one or many, to his projects such as the groundbreaking ero-guro graphic novel “Vitiators”:
If you haven’t yet, carefully fold some money and put it inside the gushing beheaded hole over here: If a human comes out of the experience, send us a method of contact as soon as possible. The tummy aches to be sated, it’s been so long… and you need some acid.
Photography by yours truly. Which is which? That’s not my problem. You can find us in at least one and a half simultaneous(?) hells at all times.

Black Rainbow

Invisible scars lashed devoid of violence,

sang the tune descending from the stars.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

But that wasn’t the end. Never finish on a high note, it is known nowadays. Even when the high note has already dissipated, a sequence of lower notes are produced until the silence begins to impose itself and the string of sounds slowly fades into infra frequencies until gone for good. Or so it happened before we knew better. Now we know that even after this, a middle tone must be procked, then halting the settling stasis of the ensuing slumber common as a result of said antique process on the ears of past savages. No, we must go beyond.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

Beyond the cracked sidewalk and the telephone pole with layers of flyers in a rainbow of colors, and the patch of dry brown grass… there stood a ten-foot-high concrete block wall, caked with dozens of coats of paint. There was a small shrine at the foot of it, with burnt-out candles and dead flowers and a few soggy teddy bears. One word of graffiti-filled the wall, red letters on a gold background: Rejoice!

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

Not knowing of anything else, not thinking much like it used to – it now, what was it before? The most familiar thing is a trail, one that appeared as it moved, like a tray of invisible gas, invisible only due to having all the colors in it, coming off of it. A smell. A smell, the only thing that remains when all else is forgotten. And if it has legs, what to do if not follow it? If there isn’t anything else it might think of because, well, you’re it now. And it smells of pizza. It doesn’t know what that is, but it likes it. So it follows it as it becomes visible just before disappearing again inside its moist black nostrils.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

This is not the story about how a guy became a dog, but one about what happened after that, about how he became it before becoming a she – and of her loyal companion.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

A completely dark body, pitch-black like a blackhole. First, the kid found her hidden below a colorful rainbow sprayed across a mural graffiti-style, or she was the one painted rainbow-like, he does not remember it now. Maybe it was both. She was small, and the rainbow, on the wall or her body, made her look like that rainicorn from Adventure Time, the kid thought, but then quickly forgot again, just as simple as washing her thick bristle fur, the colors spiraling away in the drain, all becoming colorless, or invisible, as he liked to see it. She was all black, black coat, black eyes, black paws, and under the paws – even her nails were black. How black you are, my new friend, he thought. I will take care of you until you can choose a home for yourself, he said out loud, but he did not know if she could understand him, his memory wasn’t the same.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

Now he does not remember too well. But he remembers how everybody likes pizza. Working at twelve, that he remembers, or was it eleven? Delivering pizza, family business? No, probably a neighbor or family friend. Small town, after all, and still is, but it was smaller. He does not remember much nowadays, not even family, everyone was family in small towns like that, and families fight sometimes. And grow apart, just like towns grow into cities. He sacrificed most of his memory in search of something, or perhaps it was taken away from him when it happened, when the little black rainbow appeared – better yet, trying to remember, when it disappeared, out of nowhere, too. Many a family fight has gone past since, and many a family he forgot since then. The only thing he remembered was the colorless color, that rainbow black, and a voice, but whose voice? He always wanted to know, still does. And a smell, a smell that nobody seemed to smell besides himself.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

Then the smell got stronger and stronger, but were those his memories? Who was he, what even was a he, or a who, or a what, what? What was that who going to prove him, or that him who was going to prove what… all became vapor like that, and it followed that vapor, it wanted that vapor, something below its smelling-thing watered, the smelling-thing commanded the watering-thing that was already opening and closing, eating air, getting closer and closer, and closer and closer…

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

 “What do we have here? Are you lost, tiny thing?” Its mouth opened once, then twice, something came out, something invisible that made the two pointy things above rotate, and some strange thing seemed to be moving fast and faster behind it, in its back, what is that. “Poor thing. Yeah, that’s your tail. Are you lost? Do you like pizza?”

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

When the ride ended, she was lifted again. The kid slid her body onto a soft pile of clothing among the boxes in the garage. He pulled an old coat over the top, creating a cave that emanated the sweetness of old ladies who frequently powdered themselves—a light rose motif that played ironically well in the deep recesses of Rainbow’s ancestral brain. The pizza kid lifted her head to help her lap water from a hubcap. He broke bits of pepperoni and crust into bite-sized pieces and left them where her tongue could reach them. Much later, she heard him practicing his orations like songs. Like monks chanting in the distance, they were a comfort.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

He stood there, arms not too open, holding the no-pedigree dog like that mandrill from The Lion King held baby Simba, but the smile on his face was cold even though ecstatic, for in that moment, that frozen instant, he doubted himself, and kept fingers tight across “her” belly just long enough for the first deject to hit his leg, then his shoulder, then the dog, then, only then, his face, slapping him across the cheek before disappearing into the shadows behind without a noise.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

It wasn’t supposed to go like that, right? So how was it supposed to go, then? He thought he saw the dog’s eyes say. But now he could not think, too, and a mass of colorful but still invisible gas began to sprout from the heap of people below as the people below became the gas. Was that it? Was it happening? But he could not remember – he could only smell. How can anyone navigate like that?

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

 “Welcome to my world.” He heard a voice say. Could it really be?

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

Disease everywhere. Even the spork’s handles are diseased. Undying sick man as if you were a dog, imagine that. A strange hand comes out of nowhere to surprise your ear with the sweetest of warm scratches. It feels good like that. Careful who you throw a bone to, though. If it still has some meat, worse. If you’re going to throw it anyway, at least clean it cautiously.

Homo homini lupus, he thought, with a slick air of envy glistering in his eyes he stroke a front paw over pulpous strains of muddy lichen; almost to shiver if not by his fur coat; almost to back away and let everything behind if not by his drooling mouth and rumbling gut. He needed stomach for that, and right then he had only but half a dozen of abrasive— aggressive —glances given towards. That and the oozing smell of fresh meat with no bone. He was dreadfully hungry yet he couldn’t, one more step and he would be the fresher meat with bone; he would never eat again —or howl to the moon. Moon which wasn’t particularly beautiful— but was big —just like every other night there it wasn’t something worth losing for mere food; for simple, even trivial, survival, yet he would.

The wolf is the wolf of other wolf, he thought. yes, this seemed more truthful now than ever as strange eyes shone fear over him— to back away, menacing the only possible outcome —and, being strangled by the yellow moonlight, regaining breath under black green leaves, he cowardly retained his life in retreat march; soon to be dead anyways, if food couldn’t be found. The legacy of his memory, containing short pictures of blurred blood dripping teeth and the smell of communal grace— bloody be it —would last a bloodmoon’s night’s time. Landscapes below, dying from inside out, kneading the vermin that will eventually eat me, he thought. Long strides, several steps ahead. Fatigued, eyes losing their blue to the feverish yellow of the moon and to the flavor in the air; every more distant. On and forth plateaus, ahead drool spots, deep snores… labored fogging cornea: symptoms of a ‘soon-to-be-dead’ thought. But this he didn’t think, once the wind blew strong below, showing what any would call a miracle: A little noisy circle full of sheep. He was starving but he wasn’t dead yet, and with the last string of strength left— sheer will to continue —he fought the ladder towards that flickery hope with lethargic stomps about a streaming shore, shimmering golden waters near the man’s snores; surrounded by chirping crickets and all kinds of nocturnal creatures besides himself.

The battle had begun, a silent descent with his slender body slithering through the short field no care was enough, the man had a dog. As in a samurai contest of spirit: whom gets noticed first loses, the presence of fear is the advent of death, that’s how it is played, the pure instinct of an old rag of a wolf versus a trained, domesticated version; but at least a rested and well-fed copy. A poorly mutated atrocity. They say, like gods, “go fetch”, throwing twigs into the horizon with a dumb expectant smirk hanging on their faces and those soulless—little monsters—positively respond to it, gobbling anything they are ordered to. Poor unnatural creatures, he thought. Cold breeze, pale faded clot to charge: curvy vertical movements, swift descent. A peak then again — Boiling blood, a couple of jumps, thin air, accelerated heartbeat; all in the game — a dash in midair. Matter of a moment. A second. An encounter. One charm. Finally. Strokes of blood painted the white green ground, two piles of coat dancing in zigzag one above the other in turns. A brief moment to stare: reddish spots expanding over fur, fearsome smell, bended ears and sharp fangs— eye to eye —glowing. More silent stares reflected a barking beast. The chill floated as of waiting suspension— another clash, now upside down. They changed positions as the half-arch of light, incomplete, shone over massive heavy bites penetrating flesh and live tissue. At dawn, the sun blossomed centerfold ripping the fabrics sky, warming every frosty point of his fur; nourishing his still-life body as a pagan’s god’s eye opening for the first time through, over, in… front of a man — first revelation of a sacred knowledge. It was so, he thought, it was so because soon it would not be anymore; there wouldn’t be anymore. Nevermore. And he bathed in the sunlight as it was the last time, because it was, and he felt pure and saint— for this was true. Night: truly worth a lifetime for a glimpse of one’s own personal truth, of one’s own and one alone. Not to become two, not to die none, but to finally be one alone.

And in his last dream he saw glistering deep green eyes, soft winter white coat, a king’s port; promises of a composed night that only gets clearer. Shimmering despair, shivering spine, starving musculature; heavier than yesterday’s field day; lighter than the light shining down as gravity’s aggressive attraction. Drops of red over paper, wine bottle — broken pieces scattered on a desk –, finger base bruises; a night full, a full moon outside the window. Crescent as an arc, non-Euclidean object. Decaying roses ornament the insides of old books, sweet memories enveloped in rot smell, a beating heart; ‘for how much’ is the illuminating question not asked. Imbued in throbbing veins, blurred lenses out of life but pulsating with instinct to survive — to walk the lightened path as it is due time. Due to give his breath of life, to inspire a solution and to expire the synthesis – solve et coagula – sovereign trembling hand that holds the pen, that marks the yellow with jet blue ink: Sickly scythe slithering my neck. To have its grace revealed as death. That conceals the continuous presence of that. That is utmost vital to the final. That, in the suffocating presence of the moon’s shine, erases itself out of time; never to be remembered. A drink to that. A drink to death. To the labored breath into the dark; hiding from the – always so eager to be found – light. Frosting paws, aching nose; soon to slumber the dreamless swallow of red slobber. Sip of red wine, sour gazing night. Cold indifferent, silent. Seconds turn to minutes, minutes turn to hours. Hours pass, a day becomes two and then a week and everything passes and we grow old. He remembers the kid ramble in drunken swirls of semi-conscious agony. It is as true as the frost coalescence about the ankles – the sketch of a crimson fever of a night. Hours can’t turn back to minutes, seconds can’t last enough: and the air freezes all around and the skin burns, but the moon remains silent in her stare; gracious romantic tragic stare. Not all the alcohol in the world could warm you up now, or set you on fire as an act of mercy. The green word that escaped your eyes now contaminated yellow — sickly scythe slithering through cold autumn, to harvest the hopes of the lamb in wolf’s cloth. Time to die. As you lay bleeding, accept the gift, for time has come for you to cast in the skies as a newborn star, and cast back on earth all your light.

“Is he going to die?” Asked the little kid.

Some would imagine some kind of disgust, some negativity to be erected around that situation, but, oddly, the kid smiled in awe. Those last breaths of the bloodied wounded animal touched deeply into them — not inspiring sadness, but rather wonder. And the wolf gazed back, each inhalation weaker, it deemed the scene fit.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

I’m tapping into the world of light more every night. Not heaven nor hell, just electro – no, no, not that either. It defies abstractions. It is… folds and realms of… the beasts that ride over wax… or explode in the horizon, the slaves of so many… big cities, field or… house, or…. inside lamp-lights at streets or in homes, unnoticed until gone, over in the ceiling as halos of our own. Immobile, until gone. It seems to be only in my dreams that I see them, in the day they’re what make me see, making them nothing. Until they’re gone. Then they become hope, Imagination, Reason. They become screams of terror in the absence. In our despair, they’re free. From it to they to it again, that is what they do, what it does. My only truth is that it got me. It leered me. It looked at me with those almond eyes like a puppy in need of affection from an owner who had gone puff, just like that. And returned with an even bigger puff in a bigger out of nowhere. And, just like that, It crept over my bottom, never to take those hypnotic bulbs out of my sight. Whispering, as if out of terms with the yearning – the longing for the abuse that had become tender in previous times. It ghosted its way into my current home, not as a vampire like it once was, but as a specter of a possible future, and, before it could be meditated, it was staring at my ‘what-have-I-done’ face with a double-edged smirk in satisfaction and faux surprise. Among the blood, It smiled. It, among the cloth, cried in pain moments before going puff again. Just like that. I call them, it, these things… what are, is they called again? Nevertheless visions, Visions of a flea’s ghost dancing around a stage, beneath preternatural stars, bloodsucking the insides of my brain like a parasite. Seldom repugnance of my tainted soul for I am as much a ghost — though of a human. And even though I may try to run and fight in these woods, it won’t last. It will eventually catch me. Engulfing itself on my sour spelt blood, drinking till the last drop with avid, stained paws with fingers that, long as they are, defy sane passage of time; possessing no earthly growth and the shine of a thousand and one. Speaking in riddles now… Don’t struggle, dear. It’s here. It said it won’t hurt — that I might even enjoy it. Lies. The shadows flee away from me, hiding below rocks and trees. They are tired of my lurking in their bodies, through them. It’s over. A parasitic intent once and damned to hell I am. Forever doomed, like the small flea I am. A modern Jonah, only the whale is dead, the fish is rotting on the ground, and its smell, its ghost, is lurking in the shadows, in the corner of his awareness. He has a two-way condition: the anxiety of waiting for that whale to come and the paranoia of suspecting being already trapped inside a dead fish. And there is no Whiteness of the Whale, and the Whale is not the ghost of anything, it is dead, just dead, and its ghost is not white but invisible – with momentary flashes of hollowed transparency. And it was in his suppurating hate inside that bus, looking at all those people chattering or evicting each other, wanting them all to disappear with the smog filling the smoky-grey sky, that a foreshadow germinated in the belly-mind of interactions that formed “him”: For there will be a time of non-human verbosity, a time of critical access, of epiphanies inside habits and habits out of improvisation. But now, first, the hate has to almost consume him as millions of virtual needles pierce his anxious skin. There, in the future, there is no skin – only the needles. But Samsara is law and you must survive; or maybe die – depends on the view and the date in which karma passes, if it will. Now the needles pluck and the pores ooze prickling goo turning black in the way out like caviar gushing out of a big-ass fish that is actually a school of them swimming like needles out from the skin again.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

Consecutive humming: string of C notes in an optimistic rhythmic flux layered with the ambient’s base, stuffed by the harmonious melody of swift movements of a pair of hands through smooth surfaces; like a slug slithering over a rose. Each intoned hummmmm echoing about a much bigger and continuum scenery — where the grass is fresh and the sunlight masks the bags under his eyes; he didn’t sleep last night instead crept the impossible structures of the dreamland of K, whose incomprehensible geometry he always tried to reproduce in the wake world, always failing by his own standards. With a slight change in pitch, up and down the scale, he approaches the edges in crescendos of tension applied to fingertips. Modulating the curvaceous spots in an engulfing haze, thoughtless, completely absorbed in the craft. On the expanded plane, tridimensional pictures too old to hold its own arms: Venuses and Apollos with severed limbs and perverted tendrils coiling up their necks. Ant-farms proliferating under their feet, scavenging the way up. Not a single flickery sparkle of life in their eyes; but astonishingly life-like skin and pose, even more alive than the average salaryman or housewife — people whose dreams are of visiting distant places, places where these statues reside; people desperate for a startling vision or insight of change into their boring stagnated lives. Down to E buzzing quick intervals — clouds hiding and coalescing above the garden, nebulous. Through the pale eyes of the statues, endemic conglomeration of hermetic ratios, vague glances into nothingness, little has changed over the centuries: trees remain the same, more or less, the air only but a slightly fogged from pernicious distant city’s smog; not much has changed indeed. Not that they cared — or could do anything about anyways. They are simply “The Observer…”. Almost to sing, first words in the span of two wake days after a particularly long night come out gruffly. He almost choked and coughed a little, contemplative sneer, clumsy pirouettes to juggle the morning’s glass of red wine slipping out of sweaty palms. Up to B, perhaps a forced smirk stuck on the nails, not the right angulations for a trembling hand holding a goblet; even less to a steady one holding harsh self-criticism… of the heavier type, the physically abusive. The melody goes sinewave as the wind strikes strong dragging along his forehead drips of sweat, horizontally blowing the neurotic distilled guilt off his face.

All the while,

Invisible scars lashed devoid of violence,

 sang the tune descending from the stars.

When I heard it, a voice.

It said to me that…

…people will be born out of giant wombs — collectively, somewhat of worshiped. They were initially artificial but, being biologically engineered, evolved. All the while vaporwave plays in the background:

My father’s voice is so powerful it’s like a lion’s. I sit thinking like a statue set in flesh – immobile, but in transit – about the air that fills my lungs, the odor that exudes from my body, the fruit was in my hand; I exhale the air, then come back to think. Am I, the man, flesh and bones, the water that pours out of my body? Am I the food in process of putrefaction on the ground? Where does the world end, where I begin? The world is as I, an infinite tubulation of hollow, of holes – and where does it begin or end doesn’t matter. Me / / The World / / Me / / The World It is as it was said: Ó pó da Terra Tu que me criastes Como continuação de sua missão Falhastes, então Não sois tu Mas ao pó voltareis E um dia Quem sabe, então Tu sereis Pó. To care – here, prostrated, – where death begins and life ends. For what? I’m everything, the Universe could emanate from me, but a purposeless god is as good as none, and I failed your—my mission. May be due to fill my role and, as any other failure of a god, start a creation. One neither good nor bad, just in the mold to share my shame. They are to fail with me as I failed with you, and this maybe, just maybe, will be enough to survive. But

It tried to teach me:

 See my body twist – always music, be music. Watch my skin twirl – If you’re frozen, struggle to melt. My ankles opening. If you’re trapped, struggle to flee. As my bones crackle. Even if motionless. And I contort jumping. If you’re alive, struggle to die. Enjoy the view. Never stop moving. Enjoy me. Even when you’re not moving. And don’t let it go, even if you want to sneeze. Rest right, move right. It will end, everything does. Be ephemeral, be right now. And you will miss it, sighing every time you remember. Release trapped birds. But I don’t want that. Melt the glaciers – die with them. With the earth – be music. But

it was too late.

The sun settled. His mother called him only one more time. Didn’t say goodbye. Stood up, ruthless this time. Left me there. Without direction. Without way. Ungodly. Like a good dream. A nice dream. That ends early. He was gone.

And I cried anyways.

…The halo of light hummed and an extraordinary event happened as Stephen stared into the investigation lamps. A surge of energy blasted up his spinal cord and crested in his brain leading to a long series of ramblings and incoherent messages that were recorded in detail by those present. He recreated himself and the others out of the very words that got them there in the first place…

…automatic response of disinfectant, laughing. I see you all drowning between the step ladder and walls…Those are not even real camels are they? That taste in my mouth from before…was that from eating a camel or smoking a Camel? My head is injured (again?)…a blow of insane secondary thought, my friends from the edge of this coffee bucket. Everything is clean and ready for use if you would be so kind as to let me express myself in the easiest possible way. Eating fucking oranges…citrus fruit is dangerous, don’t you think? I demand answers…

Someone shouted: You are not in condition to demand anything, Stephen!

The rambling continued, as Stephen didn’t seem to acknowledge anything from his sudden dissociative state…

…the system is wiped, tables and files destroyed in the process. Snorting noise off the table, hahahahaha! We’re all stuck here…INSIDE the orange.

As suddenly as Stephen had entered the strange headspace that turned him into an incoherent mess, he blacked out on the floor.