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By Jim Meirose

It wasn’t supposed to start this way, but since you insisted, here are your team’s assigned purposes. Nyah, nyah; get, from the kitchen, a raritangle of chopped bosnias served on a belch of kleenex on a clean plate toward each paying customer—who will be labeled as such—because, Das Minotour, risen in off the sea, told each quite clearly; here it is, citizens; Pacha’ pounded on, pounding, pounding out with, but ended up nonetheless shouting, like always, Everybody! All of you! Come here, get this drip; anyphase, after my establishblink up Back City, they said what d’we do for foodie and drankdowns, but—they are stupid. With rare exception—always very stupid. And, even though the big senior class mathematically specialized finals are over, but, still, always; yes, always. No egg’sathrecisation! Plus, my God, ‘s being me ‘ly myself, of course, as usual, it’s spilled out all over here. At exactly the next six p.m., like all of you do once a day. All of you, ‘cause of you. 

Spill it all out over here once a day!  

Jesus Christ! Swear to God! As D’ Spanish Tyrant’s big Rant’n Rave! Why must it take this to teach you? Why? Why? So? What the ‘uck?  

But. 

Even so, we’re confident the more robust among you, your quietly solid core of noncomplainants, will crisply start over, as, new fresh; so; so-o, this; so-o-o he, new fresh; as’d this; and as’d ‘it off-gain; so-o-o, and this restart’s well-advised at this juncture, partly because two time signatures are normally used in this kind of attempt, yas yas, so-o, to provide a satisfying end for each and every listener with no sexteptions.  

Hip!  

Fat hooey.  

You should not find this necessity surprising, since we all swore to God, then, that ess, God hun-self had made it so-so, guvvernmendt men thrust f’um his bush, stating, We know your plight, we are here to help, like all’s of those always react, of course. That’s their reason—though it seems most laborious, twisty and non-intuitiviteed. And, most of you already may know what we said, what they said, back then, that, Your Back City is speckulumly unicornique, and muss’ be hairy-served, often as daily r’ hourly or more, so—you need to know, eh, new fresh; got to know, eck eh, new fresh; will be told, rip, ‘cause that’s my mission. This swamp’s a devil; does not want you here; strains to—no, no, look into the black greenie face of the solidified stinking rotmass o’ Back City swamp and we won’t need to tell you, you’ll see for yourself, that it’s coming. It and all its big stink of a past implies, entails, or—quite simply, means. For God’s sake, insurer. You’ve a brain, you will see; day and night, it strives to take you. New fresh. It’s coming. Sure as knot soup. New fresh. Take you. Take you. What hard words these; it comes to take you. 

That simple. Simple as; 

‘m new lin-n’geries, to b-bail!  

Yope. 

As this’s-ll perfectly circular and intentavittebelle right now, contact local law enforcement immediately local law immediate-hic local enforcement. Local. Hic. Of the law. 

Yes! I said! Enforcement! With an e! Because, if Das Minotour risen in off the sea comes up to save, but can’t never, if that’s ‘t, all’s done for. You, too. Run fast now. 

What?    

Run fast. Right now—buh huh, wuss; huh. New fresh. Uh! B-b’, s’ ‘ot soo f’st; so what, ess, ‘s, so. Move over there just a tiny ‘fore you go, though, would you? I need to reach those things over there. Sure. But, I may not go. I really do feel good, but—someplace down deeper, I’m not glad I do. You know?  

Not really. 

You know? You know? You— 

Han’ d’ d’ palmup! 

Okay, Willy. Stop. Calm down. Der booster’s widdyu, okay? Now, anyway; so since you’re too stubborn to take the easy way out, gi’in that, then so, know that much like you, struggling Pachasandrim pushed on relentlessly with that very same shriek-type, waving down all the while; ‘cause it sank into her there’s a sea on the tipside, and a swamp on the glandside. If they press together, she might just canc-l-null downdyflop. Abracadabra! And so, then imagine, if their deeply elemental untiring strive to engulf Back City crashed together right ‘top your great big central city hall, and whirlwring yo’ round themselves big and tight, you’ll all engulf each other, and all you two ‘s well, transforming most instantly into multiple deep flows of peagreen calm slush! 

Oh—like slap? 

Yep! Like slap! And then, like probably, this Big One Production operation will, then, ‘ig its vacuum t’ rush in takin’ your surviving crowd, if any, down a murmur or two; here or there. Or partial, if s’. But—hope’s her-e, and hey. Read that off that tallyscroll up there. It says;  

Current denizens. Do it now. S’create non-account. 

S’create non-account. S’create it now. All current denizens. 

All currently registered denizens use “TFFKJXC376BQM24K37M89KMWM” to s’create your non-account now, or, yes be denied, yes, be denied, yes be-ee-e-e-e, denie—d-d-d-d— 

New fresh. 

What? Phooey! 

Schratcha-count newly cr-reated! Gosh oh gee. So jot down these details. Oop. Where’s my sharpened das yellowish pinckle? An m’ blankiedink’d-papro? There—one of those—of those nonessential kinds. That whole stack can be wasted without a worry. Write that down. That code’ll always get you in, but, my God, again. It’s spilled out all over here, again; what the ‘uc’? Oh, hokay. Blue bumble, by gosh, I always— 

Calm down. Sit that slap-panel. 

What? There? Why? 

Because. Do not always run off with yourself—stop! Bad habit. Here, do not worry. By use of your own fully exact unique key, regardless of your tote or your styles, you’ll always be let back in. 

Sure? 

Yas, see. See? Do you see? 

Of maybe, but. 

Oh, come on; what I mean, Martin. Get it up. Think a little. 

But; why? They said Das Minotour’s risen in off the sea. 

It’s—nah, nah. But hey. My God it spilled out all over here; what the ‘u’? That happens every single time. Don’t you care? Yes, of course; that happening every single time’s why we the guvernoir-mente hass com to bail from you. New fresh. ‘cause, Das terrible Minotour’s risen in off the sea. Eighteen-sixteen for the—wait, oh mosh, we need to survive, eh, but we just hit the bricks, eh, ahhhhhhh, ahhhhhhhhhh! Das terrible! Oh, Minotour’s mosh risen in we just off the t’ hit the sea bricks, ahhhhhhh. Too weak! Too weak! Why does this happen again and again? 

Who’s to blame? 

Oof! 

Y’ know. But—poor Martin. Good God, he ought of got it. Knew better. Y’ know? 

Yes. But not all can always be saved. 

‘n the truth. New fresh. Tube. Poor Martin indeed. But he’s only the first. When the killer which cuts its own arms with its knife makes long wet red lines down its forearms, it’s time then to immediately call the police. But, yet; it’s funny how I feel that’d also be—wrong. 

Overkill? That, you mean? 

Yep. The first. 

Nah. Nonsense. No one’s ever that simple; only Begobah. 

New fresh. New fresh. 

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By Laurence Raphael Brothers 

For a long time, I used to go to bed early…. 

I shut the book. The opening of Swann’s Way was so familiar that I could summon an image of the first page from memory. There was hardly any point to reading the printed words. 

“Hey,” said the woman. “I was in the middle of that.” 

She was reading over my shoulder in bed. I realized this was a dream, one of the sort that Proust wrote about on the first page of his great work. Marcel (not Proust!) describes how he used to summon imaginary women into his dreams as a sickly youth. 

Having realized I was dreaming, I took stock of my situation. The linen undersheet was cool and smooth, and the white quilted comforter which covered the two of us was even more pleasant. I could feel her breath in my ear. I didn’t know who the woman was. I didn’t want to turn to face her. I was afraid of what I might see. 

“Hey!” She poked me in the side, not hard, though. “The book,” she said. “Open the book.” 

“What?” This was more initiative than I was used to from people in dreams. 

“I was in the middle,” she said. “Open it back up and let me read it.” 

The book’s gilt-edged pages gleamed in the dim candlelight. It was heavy for its size, with maroon leather covers chased in gold. There was no title or other printing on the cover or spine, but I knew it was mine and that I’d had it for a long time. 

I felt a little uneasy about the situation, so I temporized. “Why do you want to read it? There’s no way we’re getting through even a single volume of Proust in one night.” 

“But we were reading together,” she said. “Please.” She moved her hand to my shoulder. It felt nice, but I hesitated anyway. 

Maybe she sensed my reluctance because she sighed. “It’s not really Proust. But it’s got all of Proust in it that you remember, and all of every other book you remember too. And more besides.” 

“And you want me to give it to you.” 

“No!” she cried. “You mustn’t do that!” 

“What? First you say you want it, then you don’t.” 

“I want to read it with you. You could guide me through it.” 

“Please,” I said. “Give me a hint, at least. I don’t understand at all.” Talking over my shoulder at her was annoying, but I had the feeling I shouldn’t turn toward her. It was a very strong feeling. 

“Look,” she said, “if you have an infinite thing and you give it to me, you won’t have infinity yourself anymore. You wouldn’t like that. It would be bad for you.” 

“That’s kind of you, I guess, but I still don’t know why you want to read it.” 

“All I know is I’ve lost something. And I think maybe you can help me find it again.” 

“Lost something? Like a memory? That’s the only thing you can find in a book.” 

She hugged me then and laughed in delight. 

“Yes! Now I remember. I don’t have a book of my own. I lost it, somehow.” 

“I get it,” I said. “Proust is all about recalling lost memories. The madeleine. His mother’s kiss goodnight. Gilberte; Mademoiselle Swann. And if you read the book–” 

“If I read your book. Everyone has a book that contains all the things they know, all the things they care about. Well, almost everyone. I guess I lost mine. But I bet your book has lots about memory and stuff like that in it. Because you love Proust so much. And if I read it–” 

“You can find your own book again?” 

“I hope so.” 

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s read it together.” 

She scooched up to better look over my shoulder, and I moved the book to where she could read it more easily. And then I felt it happening. The dream was coming to an end. Things were already turning gray and fuzzy. Soon I’d lose her and she’d lose me and the book too. 

I turned to face her and I had no problem doing that, but my vision had deteriorated to the point I could barely make her out; just a vague silhouette. And yet I thought I knew her. I thought I remembered her from a time long gone. From when I was young, perhaps. I held the book out to her. 

“Quick! Take it!” 

“But–” 

“I know! Just do it! This could be your only chance!” 

She reached out and I let her take the book…. Her fingers brushed against mine, and we fell away from one another into darkness. 

I awoke in my own real bed, alone, with no woman, and no– what? I couldn’t remember. I managed to get to my feet despite the gaping hole in my head where things I’d treasured had once resided. As I rose the dream faded and I could barely recall it at all. Something to do with Proust…. I fumbled for my copy of Swann’s Way there on the nightstand. It seemed I’d never read the final page before. Tears ran down my face and I didn’t know why. I blinked them away and the last line came clear in my vision. 

…remembrance of a particular form is but regret for a particular moment; and houses, roads, avenues are as fugitive, alas, as the years. 

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In the CEO Zonetology project, zones have previously been described in three basic modes:

1 Spatial -This place is actually connected to an exterior power e.g. another dimension etc.

2 Temporal -This particular time brings this other kind of world/influence closer e.g. twilight.

3 Projected -The otherworldly effect is contingent upon the being of awareness e.g. pneuminous accretive theory.

The possibility we wish to look at here is that the zone is better understood in a more fluid sense than this admittedly heuristic taxonomy suggests. This more fluid conception though, may free the zone up from its slightly parochial usage to something much closer to the transcendental (in the Kantian sense).

We begin by suggesting that zonal instances are primordially affective. The zone is a feeling. The feeling is one of a certain alien/other-worldness. The zonal theory (as found in various zonetology writings) that the withdrawal of the accretions (the human concepts that covered the region) and the creation of a vacuum into which alien accretions are drawn is an explanation of the feeling, but it is not a description of the zone per se -unless we want the zone to be a very restricted concept.

The affective feeling of the zone suggests an ontology other than the one of the everyday world (at least for most people). Even if you ‘believe’ in weird occurrences, their actual happening still supplies a moment of strangeness. This is true also for rationalists, the difference being that the rationalist (as I use the term here) is an agent for the solid continuous world idea and discrete psychology. This means they have answers to paranormal oddities; they can be amazed by them but nevertheless explain them. Whereas agents for anomalies as anomalies have no clear answers, the above mentioned accretive theory is an attempt to supply a quasi rational answer that pares away all specific religions and magickal systems, but no matter how rational pneuminous accretive theory might be it still has none of the force of the explanations of the solid world model.

The agnostic disjunction points out that anomalous experiences as anomalous (contra the rationalist) have a fundamental epistemic equivalence to their rational counterparts. However despite this, the ability to give a more easily accessible looking answer (coincidence, hallucination) still gives the rationalist an apparent edge of explanatory power.

The modified zonal idea here is that the zone can be considered the space (in broad sense of the term) before alliance is made with either anomaly or rationality. So for instance when the synchronicity/coincidence occurs, the null state or ‘vector region‘ of the event can be considered the zone. The interpretive apparatus of the organism goes to work on the event and depending on what accretions (conceptual entities) are dominant in the organism, an interpretive decision will be made about its ontological status (rational or anomalous). In general this will be pre-determined by the accretive set up in the organism, though of course an extremely powerful zone might sway a previously rational agent to consider the anomalous possibility.

This raises an important structure of zonal dynamics: the zone only tends one way —towards anomaly. This is obviously true when you think about it, as an event or place that tends strongly towards normality is just, well, normal. However because rational explanation is much clearer (on an Ockham’s razor type principle) than anomalous explanation, the rational tendency of explanation is more powerful than the anomalous. Ultimately though, neither version can totally overpower the other.

How then do we assimilate both synchronicitous type phenomena and more spatial ones (like the eerie derelict) under the zonal? The answer to this lies in the affective nature of both. That is, both are constituted by a feeling of anomaly. Any vector region that gives criteria for being interpreted as anomalous can be defined as zonal. Thus the derelict car park that has the other-worldy look to it, does so by feeling. This is the zonal appearance of anomaly; the rational discourse says that this is just an appearance generated by the emptiness and unused appearance, whereas the anomalous discourse says that there really is something other-worldy about the car park —yet is unable to furnish you with any way in which this is so. In this (to reiterate) we see the above described double motion of the zone. It suggests anomaly by appearance and begs explanation by rational cognition more than by occult system.

The recent Castaneda investigations make for an interesting correlate or even extension of this idea. In these writings much is often made of ‘illusory’ phenomena. For instance, we get a description of how Castaneda perceives a dry branch for some time as an incredible creature. After Castaneda loses this image he discovers it was ‘really’ a branch. Don Juan (the shaman type figure) tells Castaneda that the branch had ‘power’ in it and that he has wasted an opportunity. The same zonal idea can be applied. The ambiguous branch that looks like the creature is the zonal phenomenon, suggesting the anomaly. For a while Castaneda sees the creature only and is spellbound —the zonal anomaly is in charge. Then he discovers the branch and has understanding of the ‘reality’ of the situation. This ‘reality’ is, especially in this instance, so overpoweringly tempting that it overcomes him immediately and he is relieved no such creature was there. But Don Juan will not yield to this ontological reduction, for him the zone was there and now it has gone —and it was Castaneda that sent it away. Even though one side has an explanation and the other has none, yet both are real on their own terms. This is the zonal logic: non-explanation does not count to deny the phenomenon.

Don Juan often refers to part of the practice of sorcery as ‘hunting for power’. ‘Power’ is these ontologically ambiguous opportunities that should be seized upon to extract the maximum anomalous interpretation from them. Given our connecting line between zone and power we cannot help but feel the echo of a related hunt in Twin Peaks i.e. William Hastings ‘Search for the Zone’. This ill fated ‘hunt for power’ contained classic zonal elements of dereliction and anomaly —though in a much stronger sense. It also suggested the strong draw that the zone has upon people. This maybe highlights another dynamic of desire related to the zone.

The zone is attractive, as people want reality to be mysterious, yet as soon as mystery turns into real anomaly the mystery might become terrifying and needs the rational mode to ‘explain’ it. ‘Explain’ here though is not about the desire to comprehend, it is about repression. Curiously this repressive explanation comes with the hope of inverted magick. That is, though the anomaly may have been terrifying, the explaining in rational terms seeks to mend reality, to normalise it, to erase the anomaly: it is the desire for the solid rational worldto reassert itself. Under all this though, the zone remains, for the zone is not the anomaly the zone is the ambiguous space that is its condition of possibility.

Many thanks to Bec Lambert (@LadyLiminal1) for the zonal image.

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The extremely long awaited Parasol 4 is now available for viewing. The issue largely concerns a project run by the University of Lincoln Architecture dept and the CEO and features the following pieces of writing:

THESES ON THE SHIP OF THESEUS (GRAHAM FREETONE)

SHIP OF THESEUS, SHIP OF FOOLS (GEOFF MATTHEWS)

THE THESEUS’ CITY: GDAŃSK (MARCIN KOŁAKOWSKI)

THE VESSEL (KENNETH N. T. SMITH)

THE SHIP OF THESEUS: A PARADOX FIT FOR THE MASTER OF ARCHITECTURE STUDENTS (DOINA CARTER AND MARCIN KOŁAKOWSKI)

The issue can be read here.

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An Attempt at a Hitchhike (Part 2)

Jim Meirose

The bug quashed. The short rewired. The pipes rerouted. The rooves reshingled and the matter agreed to being resolved, which agreement must be fully documented in two perfectly-matched Times New Roman single-spaced documents no less than three reams thick, respectively—and word for word manually matched and certified identical, then! Then stamped thusly.

—twice the distance to here as well, hippo; con hippo con sweet sweet she maintained her verbal headlock on the Kevin, to keep him within range of her perceptions of the law; but all was half-formed re her—while all round re Kevin was full-formed by tradition, so. Being a hitchhacker the big square chrome grille shed the last shimmer of distance, and its hazy aspect became all sharp “Horse”’s truck, though Kevin could not know this; his wigglin’ thumbnub grasped down “Horse”’s quickdriverin’ eye as what had been all chrome grille just became it pulled clean one feature of “Horse”’s all-truck, and over, and in got Kevin and it pulled—

Then and only then! May the rest of the checklist checkover be resumed, until be resumed until finally. Yes, be resumed, until finally. Yes, finally. Finally.

—pulled clean finally over after pulling down the latch.

Ho!

Yes, finally.

It pulled clean over clicking phatooey into the Ms.’ Face, and and, she recoiled—he sprang out her in got Kevin she recoiled—he sprang out her and in one blur-up sucked himself after into the truck, slammed the door, and told “Horse”, Hell—as Ms. VonderLee stood out there—thanks for the lift, to which “Horse” said, No problemo, threw ‘er in gear, clutched her out, this time thwarted but trailed by the ranks of her ‘men and ‘menettes rolling gassed her down from whom one or two clipboards sank unused to their clerks’ trouserthighs—but but but but—the transfer from one over into the other maybe done using the muscle of the entire gathered gang of ‘men and ‘menettes. Phew.

Ho.

So! Then, Kevin—do you now agree to these procedures?

Hey man, said “Horse”, as they rounded up sixty. Where you off to? But—

This driver stopped thinking twice about boldly stating what may be too much to the hitchhacker Kevin, who sat back breathing in hard, but after all out, soft, having cleareared his nostrilholes of the glistening slimecoat it had been six hours eh; ‘men where what we’re alone but “Horse” seemed to see on the road so far about the bigs body but yet soon to be seven after all it had been six hours on the road so far on the road eh; after three pails of ice water’s started in first gasping, then spitting, and; Hey, man, you look like you’ve been through it, my ‘menettes where what why we’re alone after all, but but like you’ve been through something but no matter really no matter at all—then now, thank God, free breathing flowed easy yes ‘s it might even get eight yet easier still oxygen all and soon to be seven on the road might even get eight nine all twenty—sodden straw under, eh, eh—but no forty yet no forty yet no no forty yet no forty yet no not even close yet, though each and every moment looks just like every other day—regardless of the sodden straw stench and the rudely boarded overbuilt nature of your unexpected cabtype, all around—but safe, nonetheless—as the Lent truck stop waitress had said of that biblical Samaritan—so Ms. Brucie-Yon VonderLee sat on her stones, flipped open her sturdy plasticized all-weather emergency sheaves, and made reading left to right down and left to right again, in whatever order desired—do not judge harshly who’s been placed in your path, to aid and comfort—to find how’d her very first day get off from her and hers, so. But so, he sat past it flowing down the road. Yes, the day’d flowed so far through a sauce much different from the others.

Do not judge harshly no.

But, so, he set past it flowing ‘tlast toward July morning.

Hey so. How far you headed?

I, uh. What?

Snakey footchains snaked forward, pulling ‘way under the strawgrassed seemingly properly rubberized footpads—so why?

How far? Where you headed out to?

The hazy winterbreath curling ‘round the barebulbed hanging lamps cleared away, as as if though maybe has been sucked to nothing by “Horse”’s question, which sounded. Yes yes, which sounded. Up clear from down his short-term memory, just in time.

Oh, sorry. Yah. About a state away—and, after having told “Horse” the town name, and milepost number, he’d researched ‘fore leaving, he added, I’m meeting friends for the July morning festival. You know about that?

I, uh—“Horse” then got hit by knowing the answer, which he said this way.

I sure do. At midnight on July first of each year, people gather around fires, play music, and wait for the sunrise on the Black Sea shoreline of Bulgaria.

 Kevin brightened fully—easing the fears of the observers beyond he and “Horse”’s confines, that the struggle to board for transport may have been too much for him—they withdrew as he blurted, Eh, ah—you know all about it, then. That’s great! You’re the first I’ve encountered that has heard of July morning.

Sure, yes—I also was told that Uriah Heep’s July Morning is the main refrain.

 Kevin turned left, and said fast, Told? Who told you about it?

—mayhaps someonce else may have crossed paths with this trucker, and and if it was on this veryroute, there may be a larger gang of friends a’waiting for when he gets there; more revelers equals more reveling equals—

I got the paperwork a few miles back.

—equals but huh what eh—

Paperwork? What paperwork?

Kind of like—I guess like a bill of lading. But—it’s to tell me I can expect to encounter such as you, within five miles of docu-receipt. And so, here we are. I found the concept of this July morning fascinating. So—there’s no such tradition in other parts of the world, eh? And you plan on taking part, eh? But, tell me. This is not Bulgaria. Is the information I was given inaccurate?  You better let me know right now, because if I was given a flawed document, we have to stop, and then—and then—we will throw the eggs into neutral—no matter how many or few dozens of fractions thereof may be involved in the what’s my cargo question—and then the top-drawer on-call executive staff men of each regime or regimes will meet regardless—they need to provide contact men on beepercall twenty-four-seven excluding in the middle of ceremonial turkey dinners involving over thirty revelers, or—

Ho!

Pop!

Instantly—back down the shoulder’s behind, Kevin’s eyes popped as he knew yes knew more actually realized, he’d blown it. The truck’s potent backwind waked over him, where he stood on the shoulder, still surrounded et et, still unboarded. Surrounded by the Brucie-Yon VonderLee and her ‘men hic ‘menettes hic hic and a downwave of terrified heatered down his front back and sides instantly tempered by relief all at once, but at seeing his bulged over travelpack instantly tempered by, tempered by, relief at seeing his bulged over travelpack by the edge of the shoulder which he had forgotten if he had actually been by the edge of the shoulder up the truck he’d of forgotten and if he’d forgotten which he had forgotten if he had actually been up the truck, all’d have ‘come to be disaster, so. He was grateful to her he was grateful to her and her men he was grateful to her and her men and ‘menettes which swarmed over him her ‘menettes and her men and ‘menettes swarmed swarming him over in his own warmth. In the warmth of their buh buh buh warmth of their relief. Better to have a chance to try again, than to have lost forever. But then chainy snaking out ‘neath the strawgrassed rubbery footpads that she and hers stood on. All readying.