Cryonic Think Tank

Conehead Suspension

2007-09-22T10:10:00.000-07:00

The Conehead, a neurosuspension deivce was fabricated in New Brunswick, New Jersey this summer (2007), from a very rough design I made a few years ago. It shaves ice and makes snow cones and is big enough for one frozen human head. During the run of the group show it was part of I offered free East-Asian themed snow cones (halo-halo especially).

The 2487 Brainfreeze Gets a Cryonaut

2007-04-04T08:33:00.000-07:00

Last month, on Mrach 23, 2007: the 2487 Brainfreeze, while in the offices of the the Tampa Bay Meme-Rider Media Team, did get a last minute cryonaut. A man, who wishes to remain anonymous has donated his body to the Manifest Infinity Life Extension Foundation, and more specifically to the 2487 Brainfreeze, which was designed to be a neurosuspension vitrification dewar, which also makes ice cream with the wasted liquid nitrogen. The autopsy image is the one taken by Meme-Rider Shawn Cheatham, and was approved by the cryonauts' family.

Nathan Shafer's Personal Account of the Manifest Infinity Life Extension Foundation

2007-04-04T08:09:00.000-07:00

The Manifest Infinity Life Extension Foundation

The (x) mass of 1999, Joelle and I were visiting our family who had moved back to the Lower-48 (that’s what we call the rest of the US from Alaska, where I was living at the time). On a ride from Knoxville, TN to Chattanooga, TN my mother asked me a very personal question, one that took me for quite a ride.
“What do you want done with your body when you die?”
It was that time in my life, when everyone I knew was discussing the practicalities of their ultimate, unavoidable and impending death(s). It was also an awkward moment, for me to discuss this with my mother because I had to come out of the closet as a transhumanist. To my pleasant surprise, mother dearest was not displeased by this news, though she was rather startled (we were raised Mormon after all). I told her I wanted my body to be placed in cryonic suspension, because that is one of the things transhumanists do is ‘life extension and cryonic suspension’ as Kevin Rabelaisman, who later changed his name to Lord Kevin, the Uncanny used to say (he is now in cryonic suspension at the Manifest Infinity Life Extension Foundation).
“That’s when they freeze you after you die, then maybe, if the brain makes it out okay…a long, long time from now, I can live forever,” I told my mother.
My mother and I talked for a little bit about the possibility of living forever in an afterlife, as opposed to a thermos filled with liquid nitrogen. She seemed to just not to want to talk practically about my body being put into cryonic suspension. I got this bright idea to cushion the uncomfortable image of her dead son frozen in a container for a couple hundred years by telling her that I wanted to make an art piece out of it. I wanted a large tank to be filled with those plastic balls from fast food indoor playgrounds, then placed over top of my frozen body, so kids could play there and I wouldn’t be hogging up space. Then maybe it would seem like my “suspension would be more like recess and less like decaying.”
My mother laughed and we got to Chattanooga without having to get much more involved with it than that.
But when (x) mass was over, Joelle and myself were back home in Anchorage, I realized what a great idea that would be not to waste space like that. So I brought it up with this group I was a member of Alaskan Transhumanists, and boom, they thought it was a good idea too.
Before too long, I brought it up with the art organization I had just started working with, the Meme-Rider Media Team (also transhumanists) and they liked it.
There was one problem, however, there were no life extension or cryonics facilities in Anchorage at that time. The nearest cryonics facility was in Vancouver, Canada, a little too long of a drive to actually be a realistic option.
The Alaskan Transhumanists decided to build a state-of-the-art cryonics facility in Alaska. We had a bit of an issue raising the money for a facility, but an anonymous British oil company loaned one of the members of the Alaskan Transhumanists some start up money and a small, rather simple facility was set up on Fifth Avenue in the downtown section of Anchorage, near Cyrano’s Playhouse and Coffee Shop.
The Manifest Infinity Life Extension Foundation was officially formed, as a non-profit organization to “assist in the immediate cryonics needs of people who wished to have their bodies suspended after their deaths” was what we said.
At the time of its inception, its original members included: Kevin Rabelaisman, 58, poet and ‘Alaskan Bush’ adventurer, former member of the Situationist International; Cassandra Platzmanck, 44, pediatric physician, former mayor of the Township of Unalaska, Alaska from 1995-1997 (Green Party); Hayley Numbaum, 30, small business owner, book enthusiast; Otto Tiknik, 75, civil rights activist, local community theater actor; Nathan Shafer (me), 21, bricoleur, tactical imagineer, media art student, University of Alaska Anchorage; Portia de Numeria, 26, barista, mother of 1, transfeminist, post-structuralist, grad student in the creative writing program, University of Alaska Anchorage; Kendra Talles, 39, mother of 1, architect for the Geodesic Dyson Sphere Project on Elmendorf Air Force Base; Paul Rychoones, 55, science fiction author of “Saucer & Milk Mysteries, Inc.”, Assistant Professor in Literary Studies, Alaska Pacific University; Henry Toggs, 23, semiotician, chemistry student, Alaska Pacific University; Alice Kendall, 33, transhumanist, performance artist, mother of 2 beautiful children; Rebecca Monsaintclaire, 61, ‘pataphysician, Professor II of Biology, Anchorage Polytechnic Institute for Engineering and Applied Sciences, mother of 3, grandmother of 5; Bert Colbert, 45, father, insurance salesman, art collector, ceramicist; Gerry Senugetuk, 25, technophile, painter, art student, University of Alaska Anchorage; F. Austin Love, 32, high school guidance counselor, poetic terrorist; Chandra Khundalhi, 29, environmentalist, activist, gardener and student of physics, University of Alaska Anchorage.
After a few months, several new members and a real-life secretary later, we bought ten Bigfoot dewars (that is the name of the big cryogenic thermoses they keep frozen people in) and I got quite fond of the way those tanks looked. A Bigfoot dewar is an enormous piece of equipment, it is sort of like family style housing for the cryonic suspended. It can hold four full human bodies, and eight human heads, although the first three suspensions performed at the Manifest Infinity Life Extension Foundation were animals: Woof Teegar, a husky; Porkpie, a tuxedo cat; and Sophie Darling, a tortoise.
After dealing with the Bigfoots (Bigfeet?) for a few months, I began to understand how they were made, had a few of the more technical parts fabricated and was cooking with chemistry before too long, all the while thinking, cryonic dewars would be kick ass sculptures. The problem was that they are not the type of thing ones sees everyday or would expect to be what frozen people are actually kept in with liquid nitrogen. The movies are partially to blame. For one, dewars aren’t made of glass, and they are not see-thru. It is a big steel tank on rollers. Dewars aren’t particularly whimsical machines either, they don’t plug into the wall. Dewars are just big, glorified thermoses. It is silvered glass inside fiberglass and metal with airtight lids.
And that is when we got the news that the transhumanist mathematician Epoh Gnirb had died in Norway.
In the autumn of 1998, the Alaskan Transhumanists attended a lecture given by Epoh Gnirb at the University of Alaska Anchorage. She had just published a book about a mathematical formula she had worked out for zepto-metric systems analysis. Zepto-metric systems are the size of electrons. One of her conclusions was a paradox in the definition of integers in extremely small systems. She stated that numbers as we use them are really only good for describing the immediate world we are part of, but they break down in very big systems, very small systems and in parallel (extra-dimensional) systems. Epoh was working with very small systems. The paradox she found was that an integer between the integers 6 and 7 would begin to appear during zepto-metric calculations. She referred to this integer as the ‘homunculus integer’, after the alchemical principle of the homunculus, an artificial human the alchemist Paracelsus claimed to have created from blood, semen and vegetal tissues. This was one of the coolest things I had ever heard.
Epoh Gnirb also talked about her transhumanism, and how she thought that for humans to evolve past the various singularities they will encounter as technology evolves, we must be ready to evolve past being humanity in its strictest sense.
The news of her death was unfathomable. She died tragically in a boating accident off the coast of Norway, during a relaxing fishing trip with her husband, the noted ethnographer and photojournalist Svenska Brenskvisky. Epoh’s body was never found, but her husband was saved, tough with a broken collar bone, three broken ribs, he lost most oh his teeth and was in deep hypothermia, which lead to him having three toes and five fingers amputated.
He recovered after several months in the hospital. Apparently the boat broke after on ninety-foot swell in the water. Noam had survived only because his body was luckily thrown into the starboard side rowboat during the crash.
The poetic irony of Epoh Gnirb’s transhumanism was in her untimely death in ice-cold Norwegian water. The Meme-Rider Media Team collaboratively built a cryonic suspension device in memoriam for Epoh Gnirb called, ‘Dislocation Eulogium and First Cryogenic Supplement’. It was displayed inside an architectural glass structure in downtown Anchorage near the MILE Foundation office at a gallery then called the Decker-Morris Annex Gallery.
During the run of the show we bred homunculi using the old alchemical recipe: “an Arcanum of spagyric substances” (Paracelsus) is distilled in a cucurbit for forty days and forty nights in a bath of composting horse dung. It was a nice poetic tie-in between Gnirb’s homunculus integer, a single serving full body cryonic suspension device and the actual alchemical legend of homuncular cryptogenesis. All these delicious ways of bringing things back to life.
More or less, this is the point when the Manifest Infinity Life Extension Foundation became half a speculative art media organization and half a cryonics/transhumanist foundation. Several sub-departments and research groups were designed to supplement the cryonics work, providing research and aesthetic developments, we called these researchers ‘tactical imagineers’.
The ‘Cryonic Think Tank’ was established, a loose collection of people discussing the memetic implications of transhumanism and cryonics. Ettinger House in Fairbanks, Alaska was founded in 2001. A sub-group formed a tactical committee called the Committee for Tactical Investigation of Claims of the Cryopathic, to research neural stimulation and semiotic communication during cryonic suspension. It developed a program based on the movie Demolition Man starring Sylvester Stallone and Wesley Snipes, where frozen people can have information downloaded straight into their minds. This program was called ‘The Snowflake Program’.
Another program I was involved in creating with fellow Meme-Rider, Isaac Boatright was the ‘Fauster & Fauster Program’. We used another mathematical paradox, this one called the Banach-Tarski Paradox that deals with the problems of the definition of volume, it states that when matter is capable of being infinitely reduced, using rigid motions, one can dissect a pea and reassemble it into a sphere the size of our sun. We used this method to construct multiples of cryopatient’s souls, to be sold as works of art. We sold them on e-bay for a few years, making enough money to keep the cryopatients in fresh liquid nitrogen for decades.
And the rest, as they say is on ice.

The Riverrun Series: The First Line of Cryonic Suspension Devices from the MILE Foundation

2006-05-23T17:29:00.000-07:00

The Manifest Infinity Life Extension Foundation has announced its first 'new' line of cryonic suspension devices under the auspices of 2007 Riverrun Model Series Line.

They will be:

Apeiron (a luxury line full body suspension device)

Yeti (a standard line full body suspension device)

Soporia (a luxury line neurosuspension/vitrification device)

Muskeg (a standard line neurosuspension/vitrification device)

Pococurante (a luxury line cell/gamete preservation device)

Siesta (a standard line cell/gamete preservation device)

There have been no images yet from the Riverrun Project within the MILE Foundation, but they are going to be priced to sell cryonic suspension devices. Riverrun is of course the first word from James Joyce's enigmatic novel "Finnegan's Wake".

The Riverrun Project has been a secret project within the MILE Foundation without much information available to be shared by those who have left the foundation within the last few years. Various members of the Meme-Rider Media Team have talked privately about helping to design some of the products, but suggested that the works were going to be available as artworks and not lines of cryonic multiples available for mass consumption.

The devices will be traditionally designed cryonic dewers, with fiberglass bodies designed at the MILE Foundation Riverrun Laboratories in Portland, Oregon.

The line was announced Tuesday the 23rd of May via the internet by Bert Colbert of the MILE Foundation during an online interview with Maxim journalist Aeshied Jamouque for an issue about retro-future trends, fads and fashions. Look for that issue of Maxim late next year.

Back to the Retro-Future: A Message From Benjamin Franklin, Steampunk

2006-05-23T06:29:00.000-07:00

London, April 1773.

To Jacques Dubourg.

Your observations on the causes of death, and the experiments which you propose for recalling to life those who appear to be killed by lightning, demonstrate equally your sagacity and your humanity. It appears that the doctrine of life and death in general is yet but little understood...

I wish it were possible... to invent a method of embalming drowned persons, in such a manner that they might be recalled to life at any period, however distant; for having a very ardent desire to see and observe the state of America a hundred years hence, I should prefer to an ordinary death, being immersed with a few friends in a cask of Madeira, until that time, then to be recalled to life by the solar warmth of my dear country! But... in all probability, we live in a century too little advanced, and too near the infancy of science, to see such an art brought in our time to its perfection...

I am, etc.

- B. FRANKLIN.

The Fauster & Fauster Program

2006-04-26T17:14:00.000-07:00

This is an e-bay post, I am selling all of the cryopatient's souls I had leftover from my years in the MILE Foundation. The Fauster & Fauster Program was a program the Meme Team started at the MILE Foundation. It is a way of paying for the upkeep of the cryopatients by selling their souls as works of art. We were able to do this using a mathematical paradox called the Banach-Tarski Paradox. It states that using a series of rigid motions it is possible to dissect a ball into equidecomposible sections and reassemble them together into two balls of the same size and mass of the original. So, the souls could be sold as works of art to collectors ad infinitum.

The Snowflake Program

2006-04-20T12:02:00.000-07:00

The MILE Foundation has an internal program called the Snowflake Program. The idea for the program was designed by Nathan Shafer, based in the movie Demolition Man. The basic program is simple, as cryopatients are suspended information is downloaded into thier vitrified brains, seeing as how vitrified brains aren't frozen, and the cells are just dramatically slowed down until they are virtually immobile. The exact information that is downloaded is dependent on what the cryopatients want. But the cost is staggering and no one is sure what any after effects of this program may be.

Cold Brains Cool Memory: Flavors from the Cryopunk Gelatoree

2006-04-13T13:41:00.000-07:00

Cold Brains Cool Memories
(DIY Cryonics Style Liquid Nitrogen Gelato)

Flavors:

Vanilla Sky
A classic vanilla bean ice cream, inspired by the movie but like out of
a dream!

Chocolate Hazelnut
A real Italian style chocolate hazelnut gelato, malto freezo!

New York Egg Cream
Custard flavor ice cream with a bit of seltzer, a bit of good chocolate syrup and you eat it with a spoon!

Pistachio Cream Cheese
Cream cheese and pistachio ice creams with pistachio meats, the
perfect combo of nutmeats and cheese, a must!

Steampunk Root Beer Fountain Cult Classic
A soda jerk/steampunk classic root beer ice cream with vanilla
marshmallow swirl, tossed into an infinity of pleasure, served in either sundae or float form!

Irineo’s Green Tea Mango
Irineo’s famous green tea and mango flavored ice cream with real flecks of mango, serving in a cup or in a cone!

Zombie Outbreak Oatmeal Mania
The zombie powered vanilla ice cream with bits of anarchist oatmeal delight cookies, suspended in the very middle!

‘Pataphysical Protoplasm Praline
Using the powers of protoplasm, we take a vanilla bean ice cream and suspend living water bears inside, imitating the living parts of the cell, served with whipped cream and a cherry!

Cyberpunk Spumoni
Fruit and nut ice cream with cherries and cashews, the hybrid ice
cream from the future with all the flavors of the Sprawl!

Agutuk (Alaskan Ice Cream)
Shortening ice cream with blackberries, served with smoked salmon,
if you haven’t tried it your life isn’t worth living!

New York Apple Pie and Cheddar Cheese
Vanilla ice cream with apple pie crumbles, served with shredded
cheddar cheese, a New York classic!

Jim Bob’s Jalapeño Strawberry
Jim Bob has done it again with the fiery burn and soothing pleasure of strawberry ice cream infused with jalapeños!

Cryopunk Sundae
Almond ice cream with suspended pieces of marzipan, butterscotch swirl, served with hot fudge and sprinkles, it’s waiting for you!

Kaladi Red Goat (Alaskan Coffee Ice Cream)
Inspired by the artist’s life and loves in Anchorage! Alaska’s best
roaster, Kaladi makes the best coffee ice cream you have ever
even thought of, kicks frozen ass!

The Big Space Fuck (Spaghetti Ice)
Our immortal specialty, inspired by the artist’s youth in Europe and
named after the short story about cryonics by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., it is
all of our awesome flavors pushed through a ricer, creating spaghetti ice cream, served with whipped cream and a cherry!

2487: What Memories Real?

2006-04-13T09:39:00.000-07:00

Meme-Riders Nathan Shafer and Shawn Cheatham recently did a show for the Smithsonian Museum of the Cryopunk, entitled "2487: What Memories Real?" This show initiated the Brainfreeze, which is a cryonic neurosuspension device/ ice cream maker, there were three movies made for the show, and liquid nitrogen ice cream was made by a team of DIY soda jerks.

The End of an Oeuvre: Why I am here...Buck Rogers and Me

2006-04-13T06:35:00.000-07:00

(For Michael Moore in the 25th Century)

Lyrics to Suspension Theme
vocals by Kipp Lennon

"Far beyond the world I've known,
Far beyond my time
What am I, who am I, what will I be?
Where am I going, and what will I see?
Searching my mind for some truth to reveal
What parts are fantasy, what memories real?
Long before this life of mine,
Long before this time
What was there, who cared to make it begin?
Is it forever, or will it all end?
Searching my past for things that I've seen
Is it my life, or something I've dreamed?
Far beyond this world I've known,
Far beyond my time
What kind of world am I going to find?
Will it be real, or just all in my mind?
What am I, who am I, what will I be?
Where am I going, and what will I see?"

Memetic Lexicon

2006-03-29T08:48:00.000-08:00

This is a lexicon of terminology used in memetic theories,
the Meme-Rider Media Team uses many of these strategies to
create their projects, sometimes they are works of art, sometimes
they are works of culture, or kulturwerks.

Mission Statement for Pata-Memetic Scouting

2006-03-02T18:13:00.000-08:00

The following is the mission statement for 'pata-memetic scouting' according to its originators at the Meme-Rider Media Team World Headquarters:

Pata-Memetic Scouting is a contraction of several notions, one is a 'pataphysical meta-meme. A meta-meme is a meme about memes. A pata-meme, then using the definition of 'pataphysics, which is the science of imaginary solutions extending as far beyond metaphysics as metaphysics extends beyond physics; extends as far beyond meta-memes as meta-memes extend beyond memes. And scouting is a memetic strategy using merit based or otherwise award driven social/ political/ semiotic/ cultural/ artistic indoctrination. Scouting is a way of making others use memes according to the well-established norms and mores a 'scoutmaster' would hold true.

Alternating and non-hierarchical positions for pata-memetic scouts:

*Scoutmaster
*Maven
*Meme-Rider
*Patrol Leader
*Quartermaster
*Bricoleur/eusse
*Flaneur/eusse
*Defensive End
*Pataphysician
*Steampunk
*Cyberpunk
*Cryopunk
*Up-Winger
*Transhumanist
*Other, etc

and optionally for those under the age of 8

*Water Bear
*Sea Monkey
*Other, etc.

Pata-memetic scouts form autonomous scouting outfits that can be:

*Sleeper Cells
*Think Tanks
*Media Societies
*Adventure Squads
*Defense Leagues
*Other, etc.

'Pataphysical Robo-Chubbic Crew

2006-02-25T10:42:00.000-08:00

I just got news of a group in Iowa called the 'Pataphyscial Robo-Chubbic Crew.

Cryonic Filmography

2005-12-25T12:38:00.000-08:00

Below is a list of movies and television shows where cryonics or some form of suspended animation is visually depicted, I am working on compiling more anime and films from other cultures:

2001: A Space Odyssey (1968) directed by Stanley Kubrick

2010: The Year We Make Contact (1984) directed by Peter Hyams

2040: Possibilities by Edward de Bono (1995) directed by Edward de Bono

Able Edwards (2004) directed by Graham Robertson

Abre los Ojos or Open Your Eyes (1997) directed by Alejandro Amenábar

Aelita: Queen of Mars (1924) directed by Yakov Protazanov

Alien (1979) directed by Ridley Scott

Alien: Resurrection (1997) directed by Jean-Pierre Jeunet

Aliens (1986) directed by James Cameron

Alien 3 (1992) directed by David Fincher

The Arctic Giant (1942) directed by Dave Fleischer

Artificial Intelligence (2001) directed by Steven Spielberg

Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery (1997) directed by Jay Roach

Austin Powers II: The Spy Who Shagged Me (1999) directed by Jay Roach

Batman and Robin (1997) directed by Joel Schumacher

Blade Runner (1982) directed by Ridley Scott

Buck Rogers (1939, then editted again in 1977) directed by Ford Beebe and Saul A. Goodkind

Buck Rogers of the 25th Century (television show)

Chiller (1985) directed by Wes Craven

The Chilling (1989) directed by Jack A. Sunseri

Cinq gars pour Singapour (1967) directed by Bernard Toublanc-Michel

Dark Star (1974) directed by John Carpenter

Demolition Man (1993) directed by Marco Brambilla

Dr. Phibes Rises Again (1972) directed by Robert Fuest

Eight Heads in a Duffel Bag (1997) directed by Tom Schulman

Empire Strikes Back (1980) directed by Irvin Kershner

Encino Man (1992) directed by Les Mayfield

E.T., The Extraterrestrial (1982) directed by Steven Spielberg

Event Horizon (1997) directed by Paul WS Anderson

Final (2001) directed by Campbell Scott

Firefly (2002) (television series)

Forbidden World (1982) directed by Allan Holzman

Forever Young (1992) directed by Steve Miner

Frozen Alive (1966) directed by Bernard Knowles

The Frozen Dead (1966) directed by Herbert J Leder

Frozen Scream (1975) directed by Frank Roach

Futurama (television show) (1999-?)

Genesis II (television pilot)(1973) directed by John Llewellyn Moxey

The Great Mystic (1946) directed by Phil Rosen

Galaxina (1980) directed by William Sachs

Ice Pirates (1984) directed by Stewart Raffill

Idiocracy (2006) directed by Mike Judge (in production)

In Like Flint (1967) directed by Gordon Douglas

Jason X (2001) directed by James Isaac

Kama Sutra (1991) directed by Chihata Miyazaki and Masayuki Ozeki

Late for Dinner (1991) directed by WJ Richter

Lost in Space (1998) directed by Stephen Hopkins

The Man with Nine Lives (1940) directed by Nick Grinde

Matthew Blackheart: Monster Smasher (2002) directed by Eric Canuel

Night of the Creeps (1986) directed by Fred Dekker

The Oblong Box (1969) directed by Gordon Hessler

Open Your Eyes or Abre los Ojos (1997) directed by Alejandro Amenábar

Paris qui dort (1925) directed by René Clair

Planet of the Apes (1968) directed by Franklin J Shaffner

Planet Earth (tv pilot) (1974) directed by Marc Daniels

Planet Outlaws (1953) directed by Harry Revier

Project: Metalbeast (1995) directed by Alessandro De Gaetano

Return of the Ape Man (1944) directed by Phil Rosen

The Return of Captain Nemo (television) (1978)

Return of the Jedi (1983) directed by Richard Marquand

Rude Awakening (1989) directed by David Greenwalt and Aaron Russo

The Second Hundred Years (television) (1967-68)

Seventy-Seven Below (2004) directed by Aina Abiodun

Sherlock Holmes Returns (television pilot) (1993)

Sleeper (1973) directed by Woody Allen

Spoiler (1998) directed by Jeff Burr

Star Trek (television show)(1966-69)

Universal Soldier: The Return (1999) directed by Mic Rodgers

Urusei Yatsura 1: Onri yû (1983)directed by Mamoru Oshii

Urusei Yatsura 2: Byûtifuru dorîmâ (1984)directed by Mamoru Oshii

Vanilla Sky (2001) directed by Cameron Crowe

"VR.5" (1995) [TV-Series]

The X-Files: Fight the Future (1998) Directed by Rob Bowman

Zathura: A Space Adventure (2005) directed by Jon Favreau

E-Mail from F. Austin Love concerning an online interview with fantasy author, Piers Anthony, part of an ongoing series in a meme-scout troop

2005-11-18T03:37:00.000-08:00

Meme-Rider Scout Motto:
“A Meme-Rider Scout is a culture-jacker.”

Fausitnlovewrote

Hello Mr. Anthony,
My name is Frederick Austin Love. I live in Knoxville, TN. My family is down in Tampa, FL visiting my Aunt Dee Dee for X-Mass. She goes to USF. She also works at CVS. She is married to a cool guy named Raymond I just met. He has a tatoo of a Tanooki Mario and has his eyebrow pierced, but he is still totally nice and likes playing football with me outside. Sorry I have to say that my Aunt Dee Dee sent me A Spell For Chameleon last X-Mass and I read it all. I like your books a lot! I have read them all up to Ogre, Ogre. It is pretty good so far. I skipped ahead and read Isle of View. Jenny is awesome! I want to be a writer too. I was reading Ogre, Ogre as my family drove to Tampa from Knoxville. Then it hit me that Florida is Xanth! My trip was much better then! It was a long drive! Any ways, my Aunt Dee Dee and me were imagining puns and we came up with a good one, she said you sometimes let people give you puns and then you put them in your Xanth books, so we figured, here is a good chance we could impress you with one! Hopefully you like it, here it is...
An Object of Dee's Ire
My Aunt helped me with it, she said you would think it is funny. It sounds cool.
But I can't imagine how to use it in a story. My Dad helped me with an email address and I can send emails to my friends at school and my Pappy who lives in Chatanooga, TN. Any ways, thanks for writing cool books and making my riding from Knoxville to Tampa better. I bet I can read them all, because I am learning to read super fast, like my Aunt Dee Dee does. But then I would run out of your books and I don't know what I would do then! Thanks for letting fans write you emails, you are the first famous person I wrote an email to.
Happy Holidays,
Frederick Love

hipiers wrote:
At 05:13 PM 12/19/2005 -0800, you wrote:
>>>>
<<<<<<<<
Thanks for your note. We have printed it for Piers Anthony. He
appreciates hearing from you.

Piers Anthony asked us to add:

The demons of Xanth typically have names prefaced by D. So one is D.
Sire, a sexy female demon. Someone might want to look her up, as men can
be stupid about that sort of thing, only she's not D. Sire, but an angry
anonymous demon. So he becomes an object of D's ire. I'll make a note.

Piers Anthony

Meme-Rider Scout Credo:
“Navigate humbug, or the meme will buck.”

faustinlovewrote:

Hello Mr. Anthony,
Thanks for sending me a message!
I have a question about your books. My Aunt Dee Dee and me ate rice crispies this morning and we tried to write down what the rice crispies said when we added the milk and we put our ears near them. We thought it would be cool if we could perform magic spells like the demons by listening to the rice crispies. When you wrote back to me earlier, you had talked about demons, so Aunt Dee Dee and me went and bought Demons Don't Dream, which I am going to read when we drive home to Knoxville, TN. Maybe the dreams of demons or something can be heard in the rice crispies, or the demons use the rice crispies to do stuff. Listening to rice crispies seems magical too. Aunt Dee Dee says that sometimes evil crazy people say that they hurt people because a voice told them to do it, maybe a voice from the rice crispies can tell a demon to do something?
Thanks for reading again!
Frederick Love

hipiers wrote:
At 08:40 AM 12/31/2005 -0800, you wrote:

>>>>

<<<<<<<<

Thank you for your note. We have printed it for Piers Anthony, and he
gave us the following answer for you:

I suspect that demons don't listen to rice crispies. But demons might
speak to people that way. Demons could tell people to do awful things,
and the people might do them, not knowing that the demons are just trying
to make trouble.

Piers Anthony

Meme-Rider Scout Oath

2005-11-18T01:45:00.000-08:00

Meme-Rider Scout Oath

A Meme-Rider Scout
Rides memes,
Is autonomous, secular, co-ed, non-hierarchical,
Anti-authoritarian, transhuman and uncanny;
A willing contributor in ‘pataphysical mischief,
Mayhem, hullabaloo, disruption, bedlam,
Monkey shines, tomfoolery and shenanigans.
Will expose the unkempt pubes of big culture,
Fights corporate freedom-jacking
And religious fear-jacking.

A Meme-Rider Scout
Travels throughout time and space,
Goes in between the pedestals skipping,
Orders from the drive thru of direct action,
Follows the “Code of the Cyberpunk” and the
“Laws of the Anarchist”.

A Meme-Rider Scout
Laughs, loves and pokes fun,
Changes the world by any media assumed,
Is an army of everything and
A believer in nothing,
Das ding an sich...

And also believes in unicorns.

The Makrolab Connection

2005-07-07T07:26:00.000-07:00

I just got email from one of the Meme-Riders, Isaac Boatright to be precise, that pointed to one of the real identities of one of the 'Elders' in the Meme-Rider Media Team. Isaac noticed a voice in a video by Makrolab shot in Antarctica, which he claims is the same voice as Sir Froon, the Almighty. Isaac wouldn't say which video or give any examples, but Makrolab has been to Antarctica, and there is only a certain amount video archived from that project. I have added a link to the Makrolab website, so people could maybe make a guess as to what Sir Froon, the Almighty's true identity may really be!

Internal Memo of the Delta India Yankee Cryopunk League: Cryonic Mythologies

2004-09-19T06:20:00.000-07:00

Cryonic Mythologies:
The Soon-to-be Gospel According to Matt Groening’s Futurama; Or Stelarc and a Strange Argument for Cybernetic Misprision

by F. Austin Love
for the Delta India Yankee Cryopunk League Internal Audit of Semiotic Scrutiny

“REDESIGNING THE BODY
It is no longer meaningful to see the body as a sight for the psyche or the social, but rather as a structure to be monitored and modified—the body not as a subject but as an object—NOT AN OBJECT OF DESIRE BUT AN OBJECT FOR DESIGNING.

The psycho-social period was characterized by the body circling itself, orbiting itself, illuminating and inspecting itself by physical prodding and metaphysical contemplation.

But having confronted this image of obsolescence, the body is traumatized to split from the realm of subjectivity and consider the necessity of re-examining and possibly redesigning its very structure. ALTERING THE ARCHITECTURE OF THE BODY RESULTS IN ADJUSTING AND EXTENDING ITS AWARENESS OF THE WORLD.

As an object, the body can be amplified and accelerated, attaining planetary escape velocity. It becomes a post-evolutionary projectile, departing and diversifying in form and function.”

--Stelarc, 2000

Cryonic super-folk are just around the corner, the wave of the future, the pitiful obsolescence of their body-objects ala Stelarc, will be ultra-modified and cured by eons of scientific learning. Frozen in time, suspended animation, life extension, reanimated life—all of these clichés play down to a certain sense of both mind-numbing wonder and the most inelegant metaphysical usurpations of our best clever rationality. We are now, today, at this very moment, living in a world where our mythologies exist literally in the spheres of media experience, both ‘hot’ and ‘cool’ . Cryonics is a real viable death option, and a stereotypical subject of science fiction plots, making the whole of cryonics an Umberto Eco-like ‘hyper reality’ . It is the subject of serious scientific scrutinizing and the fleeting fancy of wannabe trans-human cyberpunks.
The mythology of cryonics is essentially a resurrection myth. History is replete with resurrection tales from Osiris and Jesus, to Rip Van Wrinkle and the entire cast of All My Children . New developments in resurrection mythologizing: Christians now have a sleek, polished Hollywood thunder ‘mocumentary’ of the Passion of Christ, knee-jerked and tear-jerked for them by the quintessential king of post-Bogart action stars: Mel Gibson . Reality was never interpreted and brought back to life better.
As divine pre-destiny would have it, our beloved Mel Gibson makes a guest appearance in the history of cryonic lore as Captain Daniel McCormick from the 1992 movie Forever Young, directed by Steve Miner. It is about a man who thinks he lost his one true love, depressed he seeks Socratic nothingness in a vessel of liquid nitrogen. He is revived 50 years later to find out that not only his former love is still alive and available, but that his body is making up for frozen time by aging itself the fifty years it was suspended. The former couple is back together. They happily grow older with each other, into the credits, hugging and kissing, looking out over the majestic ocean.
Cryonics in a Barthesian mythological sign system takes all of cryonic information— fiction and non-fiction—as one large sign, consisting of an equivalent group of signs that correlate significances with and with-in each other . The signs for say, the business of cryonic suspension in the fictional movie Vanilla Sky, can be found as a bizarre trans-humanist corporation , or the signifiers that mean literal cryonic suspension as a form of time elapsing in the television show Futurama, as Pop parodies of H.G. Wells Time Machine. Non-fiction: trans-humanists are really suspended at the Alcor Life Extension Foundation in Arizona right now, no fooling. Matt Groening’s T.V. show Futurama is broadcast all over the world, portraying the misadventures of a Cryonic ‘defrostee’ , named Philip J. Fry, a 20th century human, who unwittingly became a cryonaut, 1000 years go by, his home of New York evolves into New New York and he is defrosted only to start life over again working as an interplanetary delivery boy in the year 3000, with a Cyclops woman named Leela, and an alcoholic robot named Bender .
Remembering Stelarc’s website I opened this paper with, it is significant to realize that one of the most famous cryonauts in history is a cartoon character: Philip J. Fry. Fry is an artificial person, a phantom body, which is a perfect Stelarc-like dilemma, illustrating one of his central issues, “the capabilities of being a body are constrained, by having a body.” He champions the notion of art performed around the object of the body, inside as with his Stomach Sculptures, and outside of the body, creating cyborg hybrids like his Amplified Body.
In the short history of cryonic mythology, there have been famous persons, who were said to have entered cryonic suspension: Walt Disney (who died two years before cryogenic science knew about cryonic suspension), Timothy Leary (who was set to be frozen, but decided to have his ashes launched into orbit last minute), and Ted Williams (who is the only one of these three celebrities to be frozen; his head was set in liquid nitrogen by the Alcor Foundation). It is notable that Disney and Leary are mythologized in absentia. The stories, over the facts, become just as significant in the Pop understanding of cryonics. The significance of cryonics is absent in Stelarc’s work. Perhaps it is significant because of its absenteeism.
Stelarc does not work in the medium of cryonics, yet all of his work seems to address life extension, albeit in a mostly cybernetic or cyborg fashion. And he is serious about it. He does not make fun of himself as a component of his own aesthetic system. This may sway his work towards a more camp aesthetic in the future, but as Sontag noted of why most of the Pop artists cannot be considered as pure camp, “Pop art is more flat and more dry, more serious, more detached, ultimately nihilistic.” Stelarc’s work may one day very well be a kind of pure camp, for its failed seriousness, its ambitions of redefining an aesthetic system by ignoring its previous elements of style and taste, but it may just be too direct to ever be laughed at. It is not ‘nihilistic’ by any extension of the imagination.
Two rules Stelarc’s artworks are invented, executed and motivated by create a nice conundrum, “The Body is obsolete,” and “Bodies are both Zombies and Cyborgs.” So the body has evolved beyond its own pragmatism and usefulness, and human bodies are at all times, at once composed of dead, decaying material and all purpose artificial material integrated by the living matter of the body, into itself to aid in survival and the menial tasks of existence .
This brings up the vital issue of trans-humanism. As a Pop philosophy it has its headquarters in Los Angeles at the Extropy Institute, run by a performance artist named Natasha-Vita More. Their tenants are silly and poorly rationalized. They host many websites and discussion groups, preaching a message of peaceful liberation through innovation and cybernetic symbiosis, a kind of technography. Vita-More’s contributions to cryonic mythology consist mostly of an essay she wrote for the institute in 1995 called “Cryonics—A Smart Safety Net”, where she doesn’t discuss the aesthetic significance of cryonics, but rather the conceptual frameworks of cryonics as a medical extension of the human body, that cryonics is simply a redefinition of death. These ideas of course were already discussed at length by the harbinger of the cryonic movement, Robert C.W. Ettinger, in his book, The Prospect of Immortality, from 1964. The book had amazing Pop success, and was even featured as a book-of-the-month in Reader’s Digest , but like many other half-baked science books it never garnered academic success. One thing it did do was start the debate of new critical thinking about cryonics, which ultimately led to the creation of Life Extension foundations, knowing they are use obsolete and archaic science before it has even been discovered or understood. No matter what they use as science it will be ancient in the future.
There is a misprision in the extension of human knowledge created by this gap in our ability to creatively address a problem of the future, in this case cryonic suspension. While we are conscious of our inabilities to understand our preconscious knowledge of the problem, we understand a simulacrum of things to come. And as Debord points out, “time is a necessary alienation, being the medium in which the subject realizes himself while losing himself, becomes other in order to become truly himself.” And as Stelarc has pointed out that the body-object is no longer the space for the social. This social alienation becomes “the alienation that has forbidden and petrified the possibilities of a living alienation within time.”
But the rub of the trans-humanists and pseudo-scientists like Ettinger, is that they see their scientific philosophies as a natural extension of scientific evolution, more in line with the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence, or SETI, than numerology and astrology. But as any skeptic would tell you, Ettinger’s work is more like religious malefeasance than science. A more recent issue of Christianity Today had an article warning Christians of the dangers of ‘techno sapiens’ as they called trans-humanists. The author, C. Christopher Hook warns his followers at the end of his essay that Christians must not be ‘techno dystopians’, but rather ‘techno-realists’.
In an issue of Free Inquiry magazine around the same time, I found an article by Beth Birnbaum on what she dubbed ‘cartoon religion’, “Religious references abound in almost every past and current cartoon series.” Among them she lists The Flintstones, The Jetsons, The Simpsons, Veggie Tales; and bemoans that Scooby Doo is the only cartoon populated by skeptics. She then called dibs on the rights to the gospel according to South Park. She didn’t mention Futurama, so I took it and ran.
The debate is a good one, religious fundamentalism, though not on the rise, is certainly being televised more than people really believe in this media age. But as McLuhan has suggested, “the medium is the message” , and “Myth means putting on the audience, putting on one’s environment.”
In The Prospect of Immortality, Ettinger states:
Human life has always been based largely on fanatic lies and
self-deception, a consequence of the endless struggle to solve
the unsolvable, reconcile the irreconcilable, scrutinize the ins-
crutable. Most of us have always preferred make-believe to
frustration. But now at last it will be safe to go sane—at least
partly.

The essayist/ novelist F.M. Esfandiary took these ideas and ran with them. He created an entire world of ideas he called ‘trans-humanism’ , the political beliefs of these trans-humanists was neither left wing nor right wing, but up wing. The early trans-humanists referred to themselves, as Up-wingers, based mostly on the book Esfandiary wrote by the same name. Eventually as his writing began evolving Esfandiary changed his name to FM-2030 and became the ‘Saul’ of the cryonicist movement.
This was from the 60s to the 00s, an age that also bore the world of cyberpunk. Cyberpunk is the moniker normally saved for addressing the science fiction works of William Gibson, whose novel Neuromancer, literally changed the science fiction world with its descriptions of the mythological sign of cyberspace which would find a correlation in the real world as the thing signified: the world wide web. This is more of the fictive world that Stelarc is influenced by. Trans-humanism has its place, but it is the aesthetic world, such as all the exotic cyberneticism and cyberculture Case is about in Neuromancer. Stelarc would work well, as an artist, living in the Sprawl of Neuromancer.
Another New York moment of cryonic mythology occurs in Cameron Crowe’s 2001 movie Vanilla Sky starring the extra-ordinary and unflappable Tom Cruise (fig. 4). Tom Cruise is a millionaire who thinks he lost his chance at true love. Depressed, he seeks Socratic nothingness in a vessel of liquid nitrogen, that old chestnut. This is the cyclical hero’s journey of the cryonaut, a zeitgeist of science fiction films, involving cryonic suspension. Vanilla Sky witnesses the birth of ‘cryotainment’, where rather than be frozen in a coma-like state virtual reality makes an appearance and entertains the cryonaut during their eons of cold storage. Half of Vanilla Sky’s storyline is part of what they call ‘LUCID DREAM’, in the movie, which involves sequences of appropriations and fabrications from Pop culture, mass media and personal experience.
Campy? Only time will tell. ‘Cryonics’ as a whole may very well be camp. It is certainly not conscious enough of itself as a pseudo-science to be ‘too serious’ as Sontag would say. Humans now have the ability to save sperm and eggs in liquid nitrogen, even fetuses up to a point can be kept on ice, and used later. Shelf life is an issue. But look at Ted Williams, he was a legendary baseball player, veteran of WWII, infamous bass fisherman, but in the long run, he may end up just a discorporate head in a cryonic dewar at the Alcor Foundation in Arizona. He even has the Ted Williams Tunnel in Boston named after him, a tunnel completely submerged underwater. But he is literally a frozen head now.
Futurama however will never be camp. Groening did work about cryonics well before he began Futurama. The illustration from Life in Hell (fig. 5), Groening’s comic strip, is a humorous work about cryonics. It is fully aware of itself as both science fiction and parody. There is even a sense of semiotic significance within the illustrated humor, where the thing signified (cryonic suspension) is in cybernetic misprision with the sign itself (a highly stylized cartoon of an advertisement for a fake company specializing in cryonic suspension: Cryonics Hut).
Even Fry from Futurama follows the stringent cryonaut hero’s journey. In episode 101, we see Fry in 1999, his girlfriend dumps him, he has a bad new year’s delivering a pizza for a bogus order to a place called ‘Applied Cryogenics’, so he cracks a brew and accidentally finds Socratic nothingness for 1000 years, by falling backwards into the open door of a cryonic suspension unit.
Perhaps the worst film in the cryonic sub-genre is Encino Man, directed by Les Mayfield in 1992, starring Brendan Fraser, Sean Astin and Pauly Shore. Fraser plays a caveman who was consumed with his cave lady in a freak glacier accident while merrily going about his blissful existence during the Upper-Neolithic era. Two boys (Astin and Shore) unearth him in the early 90s and take him to high school to help make them ‘cool’ too. The cryonaut adjusts and saves the day just in time, before his girlfriend defrosts.
Pauly Shore would return to the history of cryonic mythology in Futurama, episode 219: “The Cryonic Woman”, as himself, as the actor from Encino Man. In said episode, Fry is confronted with the fact that a few years after he was frozen, his former girlfriend, Michelle, underwent the same fate. She comes back into his life and proceeds to fuck it up proper with the constant nagging and controlling behavior. One thing leads to another and she dumps Fry for Pauly Shore in Los Angeles during a freak time/space travel/ cryonic mishap. In the end Fry is happy with his life in the future and prefers to not have his past with him. A cryonic lesson learned from the school of hard knocks, it would seem.
But Fry represents something of the way we feel now about our future. FM-2030 spoke about it often, “I am a 21st century person who was accidentally launched into the 20th. I have a deep nostalgia for the future.” This is something of a futurist orientalism, a generation dysphoria. ‘A deep nostalgia for the future’, is part of the cybernetic misprision of our understanding of ourselves, we are not time travelers. Some of us have redefined our death processes and hope to travel to the future where scientists know the answers to everything, but that is it.
Our extreme aesthetic behaviors are starting to fall into a virtual mimesis with our intellectual surroundings, adapting and re-coupling every few years. Virtual reality and virtual experience are not a thing of the past now, they are valid and efficient ways of relating performative events, as Stelarc’s work virtually attests to. And as McLuhan had stated over and over of our media and media systems, “all media are extensions of some human faculty—psychic or physical.” Cybernetic misprision of cryonics is a definite way to ensure a future for the history of cryonic mythology as both signifier and signified.

Bibliography:

Barthes, Roland, Mythologies, (Hill and Wang: New York), 1957, translated 1972
Birnbaum, Beth, “Cartoon Religion”, Free Inquiry, December 2003/ January 2004, vol. 24, no. 1
Crowe, Cameron, Vanilla Sky, (Warner Brothers Home Entertainment), 2001
Debord, Guy, Comments on The Society of the Spectacle, no copyrights
Debord, Guy, The Society of the Spectacle, no copyrights
Eco, Umberto, Travels in Hyper Reality, (Harcourt Brace Jovanovich: San Diego), 1990, c. 1986
Eco, Umberto, Misreadings, (Harcourt Brace and Company: San Diego, New York, London), 1963, translated 1993
Esfandiary, F.M., Optimism One: the Emerging Radicalism, (Norton: New York), 1970
Esfandiary, F.M., Up-wingers, (John Day Co.: New York), 1973
Ettinger, Robert, C.W., The Prospect of Immortality, (Doubleday: New York), 1964
FM-2030, Are You a Transhuman?, (Warner Books: New York), 1989
Groening, Matt, Futurama, Seasons 1, 2, & 3, (30th Century Fox Home Entertainment), 1999-2003
Hook, C. Christopher, “The Techno Sapiens Are Coming”, Christianity Today, vol. 48, no. 1, Jan. 2004
Mayfield, Les, Encino Man, (Warner Movies), 1992
McLuhan, Marshall, The Mechanical Bride: Folklore of Industrial Man, (Beacon Press: Boston), 1967, c. 1951
McLuhan, Marshall, The Medium is the Massage: An Inventory of Effects,(Gingko Press Inc: Corte Madera), 1967
Miner, Steve, Forever Young, (Warner Home Video), 1992
Shermer, Michael, “Nano Nonsense and Cryonics”, Scientific American, special issue, September 2001
Sheskin, Arlene, Cryonics, (Irvington/ Halsted: New York), 1979
Sontag, Susan, “Notes on Camp”, Against Interpretation, and Other Essays, (Dell: New York), 1966
Stelarc, “Redesigning the Body”, http://www.stelarc.va.com.au.html, 2000
Vita-More, Natasha, “Cryonics—a Smart Safety Net”, Extropy Institute, http://www.extropy.com.htm, http://www.natasha.cc/cryonics.htm, 1995
Zylinska, Joanna, The Cyborg Experiments: Extensions in the Media Age, (Contimuum: London, New York), 2002

Transmissions from WZMB Free Radio Zombie

2004-02-13T22:19:00.000-08:00

THE PETTING ZOO AT 6:31 A.M.

(from, Enter Starbreath):
(Also being lyrics from “The Moor, the Terrorist, His Knife and the Other”.)
Based on The Final Heartfelt Transmissions of WZMB Radio Zombie by the Meme-Rider formerly known as Sir Froon, the Almighty of Eugene, Oregon circa 2001

Video culture:

Music is played from a candle lit canopy near side the immense cracker fortress. The music is calm and soothing the way waiting rooms anesthetize the very air. Somnambulistic shadow puppets appear and slip away under the covers of feed and hay. Brays, whispers, and hiding laughter filters under the crack of the door. It percolates in our midst and evaporates into breath.

Meme culture:

Whether Petri dish or petting zoo? An afterlife of consumable detritus. Bed bugs. Hearing aids. Prosthetic thumbs. Cushioned hard drives. Perfect and obsolete, in a dumpster. On top of boxes and unopened containers, docile in their intention and becoming rigorous.

Weather culture:

The way we figured out how to make grain alcohol from forgotten memes. Clouds in their meaning bask over top of our ceiling cover. Wood and plaster, meant to withstand just about anything. I was meaning to come to terms with the underbelly of the future, but I only ended up angry at the weather.

The Afterlife of GMOs:

The undead by comparison are never angry. They merely react to their environmental constraints. They are not conscious of what they want as much as they are what they want. Their sanguinary lust and their understanding of the universe are exactly the same. Need is not in play, neither is desire. A zombie will walk all night in familiar patterns dictated by all the dèrive of existence they can accumulate. Following the city from starlight to streetlight. Not so much walking and somnambulating as following alone with purpose and intention neither proceeding each other or acknowledging themselves. Not hunting, not looking. No ‘in search of feral humans’. No tracking prey. No prayer. Moonlight and gaslight. The ancient rays of satellites too far away to come to terms with and close enough to spit interstellar dust on push the undead through shopping malls, shoe stores, alleyways and bus stations. Tears are their pretty bones.

A Foul Rag and Bone Shoppe:

It glistens in the sun shower. Sleek as buckshot. From a tree house hurdles fall into a riverbed and gush rivulets of glycerin. The ‘corpsicles’ dangle unexpectedly in the tube of hope. An afterlife pushed to extremes, or possibly taken in out of the rain, grips hold of your leg as you step accordingly by. The shock is enough to make sweat dollop on your forehead. Leaning over the candelabra is a chair with no one in it.

WZMB Radio Zombie

August 19 at 6:47 P.M.:

Avery:
Hello folks. This is Avery, the Toxic Rocket, and you are listening to the DIY Zombie Resistance Hour on 99.6 WZMB Radio Zombie, give us a call. It is 1-800-222-9016. We have a few prizes to give away. Two litters of gasoline for the tenth caller and a pack of tupelo cigarettes for the first caller to know the answer to today’s trivia question. “What is the function of the cerebral cortex in invertebrates?”

My co-host, David didn’t make it after the recent wave of undead pestilence, so later in the show we are going to have a moment of silence for him, who is survived by his young daughter, Nadine. The endless fighting aside, it is good to be back after a few days off the air. Tracking the storm out there, high winds, and not too many low-pressure areas. Traffic is still frozen and unmanned out on 275. So all you folks commuting home take care and avoid Exit 45. We have a great show today, an international expert on zombies and zombie eradication is here! Reggie, zombie hunter point five-eight with the Rolling Stone Shockwave Militia, is joining us in the studio today.

Reggie:
Hello.

Avery:
He is back from a vacation in the Galapagos Islands where some of the most intense fighting has been going on. The undead in the southern hemispheres have been in perpetual states of natural selection and simultaneous deterioration. Can you talk with us about Galapagos Reggie?

Reggie:
Glad to Avery…well as many of your listeners out there know several squadrons of the living have been sent into the Galapagos Islands to quell the uprising dead. The undead have been swimming to the islands down there because of the Deep Darwin Subsonic Beacon, or DDSB, as some call it. It is a super low frequency beacon that summons the undead by registering in their fetid brains as the smell of blood, what some scientists have been calling the ‘sanguinary lust’. These things only know blood. They want it. “They smell brains. Ooooohhhh!!! Aaaagghhh!!!” That kind of thing, you know, it just goes around and around. But when Dr. Quine invented the frequency beacon it was a good thing, like we may actually squash the living dead and get back to our normal lives without having to kill our undead children that are trying to eat our brains, or our next-door neighbors who want nothing more than to rip our children’s intestines out of their bellies and slurp it up, like horror soup. We are sick of fending off and killing off!

Avery:
Well it sounds like you are feeling optimistic about this.

Reggie:
Oh and I am truly. It is phenomenal. After a few weeks down there I killed maybe 230 of those things. Headshots. Their rotten brains spraying back into the ocean mist they just swam out of, horrible monsters that they are. Never thought as a child that this was going to be my life.

Avery:
Why don’t you tell us about your childhood, maybe a normal story or some sort of fond memory you have of yesteryear. Something nice.

Reggie:
Well I grew up in Detroit. Father was a surgeon. Pediatrics. Mother was a peace activist. Mostly global warming type stuff, pretty standard upstate liberal type thing. Bar Mitzvah was standard, whirling dervishes and gypsy music. Fell in love at eighteen to a brunette named Anna Doyle. Married four years later. No kids. She went a year ago right after ‘the surge’. Did her self after a bite.

Avery:
Wow, Detroit, huh? That was a nice town, the place where it all began. Of course all our listeners know the story of the Motown Zombie Virus.

Reggie:
Reanimation of the dead via viral memes. Music.

Avery:
Motown.

Reggie:
They just wanted to dance.

Avery:
That isn’t all they wanted.

Reggie:
Right, well, you know how it went. They followed the music to the brain. Gulp, gulp. Like a goddamned nightmare on 8 Mile, we tried to quarantine them. Put up that fence around the 8 Mile Highway, let them boogie down until they ran out of food, thought they would just die out. But they were already dead. You really can’t kill them, only eliminate their afterlives.

Avery:
I remember the day it happened. Where were you Reggie?

Reggie:
In the thick of it. Me and the Mrs., were downtown Detroit, at a charity auction for the militia group. Sitting at a table, sipping Chardonnay, and this thing walks into the ballroom, dancing. But dancing wrong, you know. You know how they dance, sort of slow electric slide on peg legs. It sat down at the table and started eating Mrs. Vanderhoff’s shoulder. We thought it was just some drunk guy. But the blood was real, then the bone and then Mrs. Vanderhoff was just like it, dancing all wrong and biting the air.

Avery:
Some night. Did you stay there and fight?

Reggie:
Well, like I said it was a charity ball for a militia group. Everyone was packing. We looked outside and the city was getting overrun. We grabbed our gear, formed squads and boarded up the ballroom. We had plenty of food and water and liquor. Just had to get those rotten flesh-eating whatnots either dead again, or into the street. It was like, “Boom! Boom!” Then the bodies were being dragged to the roof, where we just dumped them into the street below.

Avery:
Well, let’s take some calls. Caller your on the air.

Caller:
Hi, is this Avery the Toxic Rocket?

Avery:
Yes. Go ahead.

Caller:
Yeah, well, I just want to say that I love your show and I listen to it all the time. And I just wanted to ask about this problem I have.

Reggie:
What seems to be the problem young lady?

Caller:
Actually, my name is Denny. I am a male.

Reggie:
My humblest, please forgive me.

Avery:
Yes, Denny. How can we help you?

Denny:
My uncle Roger went two months ago and my auntie, who I live with tied him to his Lazy Boy Chair, so that he could spend Christmas with us, but Christmas was two weeks ago and she still has him tied to the Lazy Boy. What do I do?

Avery:
Well, you need to kill your uncle Denny. He is no longer the uncle you may have loved at—

Denny:
Actually I always hated him.

Avery:
But, you must see that there is only one way to fix the problem.

Denny:
Well, I tried to bash his head in while my auntie was making breakfast yesterday.

Reggie:
What were you using?

Denny:
A hair dryer, it was all I could find.

Reggie:
A hair dryer?

Denny:
Yeah, I was whacking him on his head as hard as I could but he just kept staring at me, with his mouth open and biting the air. Moaning and such, then my auntie came in with breakfast. She said for me to cut it out and leave him alone, he isn’t hurting any one.

Avery:
You said Christmas? She wanted that thing to spend Christmas with you guys?

Denny:
Oh, yeah, it was weird. She gave him presents and put them in his lap. He couldn’t open them. It was like he didn’t even know he was holding them. She ended up opening them for him and putting the new socks on his feet. He is all stinky now though. It is a sick gross smell, like I want to puke. She feeds him gerbils and he eats them. It is gross and he smacks his lips all gross when he eats them.

Avery:
Sounds like she has ZDD, zombie denial disorder. She won’t accept the fact that her husband is now a zombie, incapable of love. If she keeps it up Denny, you are going to have to kill her too.

Denny:
Yeah, I know, but…

Reggie:
But nothing son, you kill it! You stop this thing, no more boogie down on the flesh of the living. You can’t quarantine them. You can’t encapsulate and keep them. Anything, anyone gets in your way of survival and the freedoms of living alive, you kill. Headshot. Bang! Lose this worry about pleasing your auntie, tell her flat out, “I am going to kill it. It is not your husband. If you won’t let me kill it, I will kill you, then I will kill it. And should you turn into one of them I will kill your undead stinking corpse again!”

Denny:
But she is my auntie! She raised me after my Mom died. I was only a baby.

Avery:
Reggie is right Denny. It is the only way. Thank you for calling.

Reggie:
Yes, young Denny. Blow its fucking brains out.

Denny:
Well I love your show. Thanks.

Avery:
Thank you, goodbye.

Denny:
Goodbye.

Click.

Reggie:
Breaks my heart every time. But the fight is real, you know.

Avery:
Absolutely, next caller, hello you are on the air.

Nathan Shafer's "Oucryopo: A Workshop for Potential Cryonics"

2003-05-31T08:10:00.000-07:00

In May of 2003, Nathan Shafer displayed some two hundred of his designs from his two years as artist-in-residence at the Manifest Infinity Life Extension Foundation, these are a few of the images from the show.

Memo from Lady Rebecca, the Intangible

2003-05-21T06:13:00.000-07:00

ATTENTION:

CONCERNING OUR NEW EMBASSY BUILDING AT THE NORTH POLE

Lord Kevin the Uncanny has commissioned the new Meme-Rider Media Team Embassy at Cryotopia, the North Pole, in Biosphere Eight.

It was set in the former Abominable Snow Monster Embassy, seeing as how the Abominable Snow Monsters no longer wish to do business there, and have moved into the uncharted territories around the North Pole. It is a sub-sub-embassy, so all those who wish to visit our new offices must arrive at the shrinking booth prior to visit at Biosphere Eight. We will keep ten homunculi on staff there indefinitely.

This new embassy will function as the liaison, for the Meme-Riders with most all of the registered forms of artificial or semi-artificial life in Cryotopia’s infamous « Sub-Sub- Embassy Row ».

Congratulations to the Meme-Scouts Clarkson, Emerity and Dobbes for engineering the reconstruction effort of the embassy building. Maven Awards are to be given for their outstanding work and their induction ceremonies to be held next season. Be sure to give them warm congratulations and welcome them into the Meme-Riders.

Memetically yours,

Lady Rebecca the Intangible

Cucurbit Mosaic, Book Five: Shanan Fearth, "Knecht Ruprecht's Suspension of Disbelief"

2003-04-13T08:19:00.000-07:00

BOOK SIX

KNECHT RUPRECHT’S WALPURGIS-
NIGHT AND HIS TENDER WOES

“WONDER TOES”

PART ONE:

A THEORETICALLY POSSIBLE
AUTO-BIOGRAPHY BY YOURS,
TRULY, FROM THEN UNTIL
TODAYISH, SOMETIME

Being frozen solid in liquid that would like nothing more than to escape into a more cozy state of being makes me feel uncommonly like a duck swimming while it sleeps. It puts a damper on my personalized ice age.
My single service infinity. My very own wet bar of forever and ever and ever. A bed buttered with liquid nitrogen, my body served cold.
Maybe I am just fooling myself. I am really a frozen pizza in a super market that gained consciousness and is acting out the only way it knows how. I feel as suspended in language as I do in liquid nitrogen.
Remember when it was only cold outside? I can’t feel my toes.

EXPLICATION, OR BACKGROUND INFO

I was taken to go see counselors in middle school, when my homunculus and I began to show signs of anti-social behavior; this of course only exacerbated any anti-social tendencies my homunculus and I may have had. What were the ‘anti-social tendencies? We skipped school and smoked marijuana.
“What the fuck is a homunculus”, you may be asking yourself as you read these very words, instead of caring whether the homunculus and I smoked some ‘killer weed’. Well, this particular homunculus is the little man that lives in my head. There is room in there for more than one I am sure, but this homunculus is what some people may call the ‘main motherfucker’; my perennial bloom of Id.
We used to go into the woods around our neighborhood that was called Nagasaki, which, we come to find out later was named after a battle in WWII, which really wasn’t a battle but a genocide. Who would name a neighborhood after a ‘genocide’ from the so-called ‘good war’? I’ll tell you: the army. That is what my father did, he was in the army; and we lived in the south, well, North Carolina. It’s no lime tea and cookies memory, trust my homunculus and me (the royal ‘we’), on that one. My father wasn’t a murderer though, I think the only thing he may have ever killed was a fish to eat it. He hated guns.
We, of course, never joined the army, on moral grounds, “we’re a lover not a fighter,” we believe the saying goes, well not a great lover, but on the lover/fighter scale were ‘they’ to have one would easily place us over and onto the ‘lover’ side of things. Who joins the army any ways? We’ll tell you: Two kinds: Jocks and bullies who had to join after they got out of high school; so they would feel like they were still in it’s hierarchy of dopamine free class systems--Only now it was called ‘the army’, “Hoo-Ah,” as the army-trained murders say, when something pleases. The second type: ‘Boy Scouts’: who for some reason or another, decided they hated communists while in college. I was in the Boy Scouts. But in college I decided I didn’t give a shit if anyone was communist.
We don’t know how to categorize Dad, perhaps a Boy Scout, though he never spoke ill of communism.
We did skip school and smoke marijuana, moving back to a more interesting subject. But that’s not all we smoked. Actually, thinking back, my homunculus didn’t arrive until well after I, was forty. So, any memories, pre-homunculus, should be remembered as ‘I’.
I skipped school and smoked marijuana, sometimes with other anti-social types, but mostly alone. Now, one of these other anti-social people and me were talking one day about how we both liked smoking marijuana, but we called it ‘Satan’s Pubes’.
“I really love this joint of Satan’s Pubes, tastes like skunk pussy,” my anti-social type friend said.
“Me too,” I said back, “great devil’s pubes.”

SMOKING TAMPONS INSTEAD OF DEVIL PUBES

For: I. A. B.

We smoked tampons instead of devil’s pubes when my friend, with anti-social tendencies apparent to any public school guidance counselor and/or free-clinic psychoanalyst, came to visit me when I was living in the middle of the USA, in a state named Kansas, which should really be called ‘Satan’s Bumgut’.
It was in the summer and he came to visit, we hung out, like two anti-social types might, around malls dressed in black and frowning at all the happy shoppers or in the woods with devil’s pubes. He was telling me how when he ran out of Beelzebub pubes out in Colorado, he started smoking cinnamon sticks and powdered star anise. I asked him if he ever smoked a tampon. He said no and made as if to smile, thinking it a joke.
I pulled a tampon out of my pocket and asked him to do the honors. He asked me, “where did you got that tampon from?” I told him I shop lifted it without reason and was carrying it around in my pocket to see what it would be like to secretly be carrying a tampon around in my pocket. He seemed fascinated with the idea of actually smoking a tampon, but said that he had a natural fear of ‘toxic shock syndrome’. He was probably right.
Now, it is extremely hard for two teenagers who do not smoke cigarettes to walk after smoking an entire stick of cinnamon. It feels as if gravity has doubled locally, and instead of feet one has jellyfish, trying to adapt biologically to suffocating out of water.
We were near a golf course and decided to sit and smoke the tampon.
I lit it up and inhaled slowly.
Burnt plastic tampons taste of stale horse shit, dipped in chocolate.
Bleck – eck – eck.
Breck – a –keck.

A NOTE TO MY INNER CHILD
FROM THE ‘HOMUNCULUS’, IN
FULL, AS FOUND ON THE
COFFEE TABLE ON MAY 17, 2007

To: Shanan’s inner child:
“Hey, dick head; watch yer ass!!: you scruffy bitch!”
“Pick me up some grapes while yer dumb ass is out.”
“\ Makin’ money for the little MAN. > ”/<> <> O
-- Affectionately, the homunculus

P.S.: Sorry for calling you a ‘bitch’,
Daddy just gets passionate sometimes.
Send my love to the ‘true self’. Peace.

SECRETS TOLD IN THE DARK

An extremely antisocial friend of mine at the time had bought a large amount of Pernod, or aqua vitae, made from anise. It is basically absinthe minus wormwood and is pretty good by itself; it was made in France when absinthe became illegal. But my friend, with tendencies aforementioned, took some Hooch O’ Pernod and added some wormwood essential oils and then put some fresh wormwood leaves in a tea filter and let it steep in the bottle for 40 days. At which time he had an absinthe party. I was maybe fifteen, and could hardly hold my excitement over the novelty of such a historically fascinating beverage that may or may not cause blindness. Absinthe tastes of horse shit, dipped in chocolate and licorice flavored swimming pool water, with a pinch of aromatic Martian piss. No wonder all those Parisians used to melt sugar into it!
I asked my friend if there was some sugar I could melt into my drink; and he being so anti-social, pretended not to hear me and continued peeing off his front porch, through the screen and into the roses.
Into the kitchen, I went, in search of sugar. Only I found a young lady, perhaps 18. We began talking and I asked if she per chance knew of a good place to get some sugar. She smiled real big and said she did, all I had to do was follow her down the block a little ways and she had some at her house. “Do you have your own place?” I asked; thinking her my age and wondering why I hadn’t seen her at school.
“No,” I live with my parents, but they are never home.
We walked down the block a little ways, she was skipping a little and I was trying to keep up with her while carrying my absinthe, in a glass with a picture of a flower and a bee on it. Balancing the glass ever so, so as not to spill a drop of the precious vitriol of the Symbolist poets.
Her house was a Kansas classic, old and wooden, but painted some god-awful green color. Being night, I was spared a truly tasteless lime in pig vomit experience of the house’s exterior. When we were inside she said that she likes to keep the sugar in a bowl, and if I would like to see it.
Her name was to be kept secret, or just said very quietly. She had beautiful, long brown hair and these molasses dark eyes, and, of course, she always smelled of patchouli and sandalwood, which I have already told you about. But what I remember most was the secrets she whispered to me in the dark and how I listened to her quiet voice without moving or saying a word.
I can’t tell you the secrets because they were told to (me) -- after a very intimate moment, by her. And besides I promised never to even mention them, let alone tell them to anyone. To Kelly wherever you are I am still keeping your secrets and thank you for whispering them to me in the dark.

AND NOW THE POEM,
INSPIRED BY KELLY;
WHOM HELPED ME
NAME MY PENIS THAT
VERY SAME NIGHT

Smile, Young
UPTON
SINCLAIR;
Over yonder,
You are one of
Us, now.
You braved the
Jungle,
Making us all
Very proud.

HERE WAITS: SHANAN FEARTH

Todayish: My homunculus and I have no idea whatsoever what year it actually is. Here in the present tense all we do is wait. Perhaps it would be more relevant to say: “ Here in the present tense all we DEW is wait.”
We had our body set in liquid nitrogen in the year 2079; we are cryogenically preserved somewhere out near what used to be Clearwater, Florida; the old epicenter of Scientology International.
We are Cryonauts, not Scientologists, to be sure. We never really understood if Scientologists had an ethos, other than wearing different color-coded outfits to match their level of dedication to the Dianetic Dogmas. They used to walk all over downtown Clearwater in those color-coded clothes en masse. We asked several members questions about their religious practices to end up right back where we started. At one point the homunculus was so curious to see a Scientology ceremony that he had us try and convert, if that’s what it is even called. The inner-child quickly took issue with us and the matter was dropped.

…Certainly, we are glad you asked…but we don’t really know why it was that we had our body preserved, as such…perhaps it just seemed to be the right thing to ‘dew’. Any ways, it’s too late to get out of it now. We don’t know if technology caught up with us yet.
Our first guess was that there would be some miracle cure for the disease that killed us. The homunculus said not to tell you what disease it was: that that was a secret.
Secretly I hoped for a machine that could reconstitute quark patterns to be invented that could just analyze what our body’s frequency was, then duplicate it. It’s very simple quantum physics, ultimately.
Oh yeah…why was ‘dew’ appropriate to say; well…we are currently residing in a dewar, like they make alcohol in. That’s the machine they use to preserve cryonauts (our word for those who live in cryogenic fluids). On the outside of our dewar is inscribed, in gold: HERE WAITS: SHANAN FEARTH.
The homunculus did not want to be mentioned on the inscription for fear of not being taken care of while we wait it out. That someone would pull the plug on our suspended body.

This is how one went about becoming cryonically preserved at the time of our untimely end: First you have to die, then you get taken to a facility where part one, of the cryonic surgeries, is performed. People know to do this because there is a plastic bracelet the people to be frozen are supposed to wear to let doctors, or whoever, know that you need ‘special treatment’. The surgery is simple enough. They drain all your blood (because when it freezes it expands) and replace it with glycerin (which does not expand in cryogenic temperatures). Then your body is slipped into a sleeping bag, for reasons unknown, and then placed in the hangman’s position into a dewar. Then, one just waits. Nothing to ‘dew’.

MESSAGE ON A SIGN,
IN THE GRASS, NEAR BY,
THAT WAS WRITTEN BY
PROTESTERS A LONG
TIME AGO: CIRCA 2089

THIS IS NOT THE LIFTED LORAX,
NOR IS IT A MEMORIAL TO LIFE,
AFTER THIS, WHAT NEXT? ZERO.
THIS IS A REALLY STUPID JOKE,
DESTROY ALL SELF-FULFILLING
PROPHECIES OR YOU ARE NEXT!

THE MYSTERIOUS WAYS OF THE DOGMA I LABORATORIES

For: “****”
The Dogma I Laboratories truly works in mysterious ways.
Dogma I was an organization of poets my buddy of anti-social fame and I created as kids.
Originally it was just for fun, but it became serious rather quickly.
My friend wishes his name to be kept secret, so he asked that I refer to him as “****”.
I do not mean what I write.
I, Shanan Fearth, was a poet in the twenty first century who wrote mostly extremely onanistic poems, mostly love poems to my self, and eventually to my homunculus, my other self.
As a poet, I was considered very eccentric. “By who?” Blue Spotted Establishment Junkies and the North American Common Yuppie who took over the culture like a global wide biological invasion of rabid money hungry blue-green algae. Okay: I did really crazy shit all the time; I was constantly ‘grand-standing’, and proclaiming my love for myself in overly long drawn out sonnets that lasted three volumes. I even did a porno film where all I did was masturbate while reciting poems I wrote to myself, by candlelight. I loved the spotlight.
But this was all after the homunculus turned me into an asshole.
Before the homunculus I was a nice person. I loved and was loved. I kissed children. I held hands. I knew friend’s middle names and birthdays. I openly wept once or twice. I even went out dancing.
Anyhow – my homunculus and I didn’t really understand our chances for revival at a later date, and truthfully we really didn't care, or think it even possible.
I was an atheist when I was alive, I guess we still are. The homunculus told me he was god one night. I tried to tell him about Dogma I Laboratories and how if you read it backwards it said the same thing and that I heard a million other people declare that they, too, were god; some with great solemnity and authority. He was not moved nor deterred in anyway.
One time, after being arrested for masturbating in a theater in New York, I told the cop that I was god and he should unhand me if he knew what was good for him. He told me, “God works in mysterious ways. You sir were caught jacking it in a theater. Everyone knows how to jack it. You sick motherfucker, you were choking the sausage during Sleeping Beauty, one of the best and most wholesome of Disney movies of all time.”
The homunculus had crossed the line by playing old Mr. Libido like that. We were out of control.
Nobody I knew would bail me out. Not, even, any other people from the Dogma I Labs.
But…
It was true Sleeping Beauty was a very wholesome film, I do not know what came over me other than semen. As a side note Walt Disney is a fellow cryonaut – though I am prone to call him a ‘sleeping beauty’.
I heard once that Walt Disney whispered something into a friend’s ear on his deathbed, and when that friend was asked what was told to him, he said it was a secret. Beats me.
In a manner of speaking.
The Dogma I laboratories, i.e. my anti-social friend and my self, took it upon ourselves one day to write a book. This book was to be kept a secret, and then placed where no one could find it. But, mainly I am remembering it, verbatim. It was fifteen writings, in short, compromising a page, each. There were also illustrations, but I do not know how to remember them very well.
To keep our names a secret the book was written under nom de plumes. He was ‘Altus Yin’ and I was ‘Magaphon Yang’. Keeping with our belief in our own pseudo-psycho-aesthetic verisimilitude. We may have even been too young to fully comprehend pseudonymic duality. We swam in our own insanities, respectively, and the water was fine.
And that is what we did: we composed several small amounts of writing, and buried it at an undisclosed location, the locus mutus. That location, being aforementioned as a secret, on a need to know basis only.

The word ‘MOOF’ was created by the evil genius of the sewers under the name Sir Yin, the incredible. What was funny thing about this was that he was my slave, like French toast and scrambled eggs. He created the word by joining the letters M and O to the word ‘of’. Quite brilliant as if, a horse-shoe. We were running below ground attempting a cattle-prod. “It did not work correctly,” assumed Yin, wiping the dried remnants of a cereal-fart from his pointed strawberry chin. We began our running that we had been doing since five thirty that morning. We were not tires of course: well, cucumbers. We entered into the secret layer of the mad scientist who had created the word, “MOOF.” “What are you doing you stick in the duck?” I muttered under my breath, as loud as I could, trying to get my point across, that I did not desire to communicate with the likes of him ever again. At that precise moment an anvil no bigger and no larger than grated butterscotch fell and squashed our poor mad scientist, whose name was Glee-Guy, to death forever, again and again. He died. He is most assuredly dead, without a trace, gone. Yin looked at me licking his lips as if to eat the body. “Nope,” I saideth towardseth himself. “Well, lets go home, our work here is most well done.” And we ran away into the bagelish moonlight never to be heard from against. Amen, amen and tomorrow amen, amen. ***

Once there was a pack of rabbits that attacked cities and ransacked convenience stores. One day as the rabbits pillaged new yolk they found a nuclear reactor and made off with a bushel of plutonium. They took the plutonium to their bio-lab and fused it with some campbell’s genetic soup to produce an enormous rabbit capable of destroying entire cities just by smashing them with its anvil-shaped whiskers. They took the large rabbit and wrapped it in a wooden horse and presented it to the city of new yolk as an apology. Then during the middle of the night the huge rabbit snuck out of the wooden horse. The huge rabbit moved so quickly that it traveled backwards in time, to the day when the rabbits were ransacking old new yolk, and he carried out his duty and pulverised everything in a flurry of furious whisker movement, as soon as he destroyed the hare league he rendered his own existence impossible; he had destroyed his creators (and the plutonium). However, he continued to exist, although unhappily. ****

it was Whitman
who said
i have no armpits
in this
vast sea of
defferens. ***

Yang and I made our way through the dark alley towards the centre of town. The air was cold and thick with the sound of falling rain. “Yang,” I said. After a while we came to the theatre. Two chairs were the only signs of life. We sat on them. After fourteen minutes the curtains rolled back and the lights around us dimmed as the stage was bathed in the burning white of eight spotlights. In the centre of the stage lay a hammer. Neither of us were man enough not to avert our eyes. I looked at the floor for the next three hours. My will had been conquered by the introduction of the inexplicable, and I knew I would never be the same. It was no comfort to hear Yang’s shallow breathing over the silence. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that his posture was the same as mine. After the three hours passed, the curtains, with a faint rustling, closed, relieving our eyes from the inscrutable enigma that is art. Without a word, we rose and walked out. Back in the night air, with the rain heavy and warm, my soul felt a bit smaller. I would forever strive from that point forward never to confront the vacuum that in the heart of my soul. ****

“PAGE where in Yang and Yin make a baby”
Yin’s breath is getting heavier as he is running behind me. Why we are running is still undetermined. I cannot help but laugh, as I stand and pick the barnacles out of my armpit. It is humorous how Yin persists in wrapping himself erotically around the cactuses. By the look on his face, he is almost done. Now he is walking towards me. “I have the information you desired, master,” the blue-feathered inkling shrieked with an umbrella in his hand. “Very well Yin,” I demanded of him. The tears rolling down his cheeks accompanied by the lack of calcium got to me. I embraced him and licked away the tears, the said, “don’t worry, the eggs have boiled.” ***

1. the big rock candy mountains turned out to be a lot bigger than Goolgoth said
2. they’d be. there were 6 of them, standing fine and tall and glittery in the desert sun.
3. as we climbed we frequently stopped to lick the sweet crystals of the mountain
4. face, the colour of which ran the span of the rainbow. there were little mole circuses
5. every hundred feet or so, and we always felt like stopping to watch the little cuties
6. but they wouldn’t let us --- they insisted that we climb on, to the “wondrous pleasures”
7. that awaited us at the top. after about 7 hours we were smoked, or at least Goolgoth
8. was. i could have gone on for 2 or 3 more hours before my battery wore down.
9. we stopped in a shady recess that afforded some shelter form the elements, or the
10. element, that is, the sun. (those italics are a bit too slanted) as we set up camp,
11. we joked about the way things were turning out and how our mothers had laughed at
12. us. poor mother --- all charged up with no place to fry? but enough of that stuff.
13. suddenly, a little hammer stepped out from behind a cotton candy cactus that was
14. wilting next to the mountain wall. it was a shy little tool. “hi there, fella,” screamed
15. Goolgoth. his breath smelled like a flaming micro-elephant. the baby hammer
16. nustled up to his head and promptly knocked him out. Quickly, i grabbed the tent spike
17. i had hidden behind my ear as Goolgoth was picking his nose and shoved it into
18. the left side of his chest. it sunk deep into his furry copper bosom, and out welled fresh,
19. celery-coloured blood. the hammer giggled and started to approach me, i think it
20. wanted a kiss, but I gave it a smart kick in the peen and sent it hurtling down
21. the mountain. “Ooooooooooooohhhhhhhhh, baby!” i screamed. my nose was on fire.
22. Goolgoth lay there and quietly bled, in a casual sort of way. right then, i knew,
23. Everything would be alright, Goolgoth would recover form the awful accident that had
24. Befallen him, and within a few days we would continue our journey. i wept with joy.
25. “Goolgoth, i’m glad you’re my slave.” i whispered fiercely. ****

Bothered rotted bludgeoned pear
i ate the toasted fiber-rich ear
lost in the orbit about the lint
summoned to the summit aboard care
drenched clouds crawling for curses
sky glorified vegetable stalling ,
mammoths and eels talking on the phone
ying (my mother) baked your hippopotamus.

“Taste’s like olives” exclaimed Gabriel.
For once upon a time there was a
feathered whale who hiked to Mt.
St. Vernon (by boat), on the journey
he periled and plundered and wore
on his head (underwear.) He crucified
oysters on the moon’s telephone poles.
For spring is here again, as the
Enigma of the wafers from
the Dogma I Laboratory radiate. ***

THE MANNER
AND METHODS OF MY
SUBMERSION INTO
CRYOGENIC FLUIDS

I kept the year of my death a secret, and will continue to do so. I was determined to-be preserved, in style; so I had a long ceremony written out, in detail, mapping out how I wanted things handled. Now, when that time finally came there was confusion, as to what my last will and testament may have actually meant. Well I’ll tell you: I was all crazy from the homunculus and had it (the last will and testament) officially written in a stupor, of sorts, how I wanted my body presented at the funeral, and what to do afterwards.
You see, at the time of my death I was poet in residence at the Manifest Infinity Life Extension Foundation. It was probably the only job I ever had that I really liked. As poet in residence I was given a free dewer for myself, for when the time came. Honestly, they gave me the job, because I was making their little company get quite a bit of publicity every time I published a book of my work. I had a little office and a desk, a filing cabinet and I just hung out listening to those machines hum all day.
This is what my last will and testament said:

DETAILS FOR THE HUGGER-MUGGER OF THE SUB-SUB ROSA INCOGNITO:
Excerpts from the poetical work of the same name are to be splayed at ten-foot intervals between here and tomorrow. I am most likely ‘dead’, now; or in a redefined state thereof.
I want my body taken to the Manifest Infinity Life Extension Foundation. They will know what to do with my body, cryonically and cryogenically speaking of course. I am in good hands, they are not ‘god’. When I am submerged I want a piece of coprolite fitted into my mouth, a rose placed in my left hand, and a cockroach in my right hand, fisted up. There is a portable energy device specially equipped for me that I want taken with my body to this location to be set on the hill like a statue to watch over the hollowed land.
For my epitaph: say whatever comes to mind, it won’t bother me. All of my possessions and finances have already been taken care of by the Manifest Infinity Life Extension Foundation, in my specialty Mneumonotechnic Devices; they will be kept safe in a near-by location.
I never liked any of you very much so…why don’t you all eat shit.

Now, what is coprolite? Okay, it is fossilized human shit. Archeologists have found it in the mouths of mummies found in the Andes Mountains, where it is a total mystery why a body was buried with shit in it’s mouth. I thought this gesture to be beautiful; others however did not. Eventually, a family member acquired a piece and had it placed in my mouth. When they found the location I had described by giving aerial coordinates, they came upon a landfill. This was another gesture towards the world that I am still not too sure why I made. I have been here ever since. Now there’s a lot, of natural coprolite deposits around my kingdom. The garbage around me has also started into the fossilization process.
I remember hearing once that in the seventeenth century people used to eat the flesh of Egyptian mummies as a cure for diseases and such. I wanted to leave a portion of my body for buffet consumption, like at ancient-ancient wakes. I was really angry when I was dying. Now, I don’t really give a fuck about any of those old problems I had. I just feel sorry about how I acted…sometimes.
The Hugger-Mugger of the Sub-Sub-Rosa incognito is the name and the first line of, probably, my best known work. It, of course, refers to me as a psycho-pomp of the arcane. Teenagers actually had to study it in high school at one point. Which is funny to me now, for some reason I can’t remember. Oh, yeah…okay…it was because I heard a father, of a fellow student, complain to my tenth grade teacher about our required reading list for the year. He said, “these kids are all white, Ms. Brown, that IS their culture! There is only one white male on the reading list for them. And it’s Oscar Wilde! I don’t want my boy reading that faggotty-assed shit, anyway; let alone thinking that Oscar Wilde is the only voice for white males out there!”
Ms. Brown didn’t know what to say to this man, other than that John Wayne didn’t write poetry.

A POEM WRITTEN FOR THE
FATHER, WHO FELT OSACR
WILDE UNSUITABLE FOR
TEENAGE LITERARY
CONSUMPTION, AN ANTI-ODE

You, Sir—
are a bigger
DICKHEAD,
than me,
after the
homunculus
arrived—
please eat
shit now.

THE HOMUNCULUS, MORE THOUGHTS ON

I don’t even remember how much of anything that happened, was just the homunculus acting out. He used to drudge on forever about how he wanted to join with the sea to have an actual birth like in Goethe’s Faust. I remember I used to tell him that that idea was dumb as shit. Then he used to say, “I’ll show you dumb as shit.” That’s kind of funny now. Perhaps the coprolite and my teeth have formed a symbiotic relationship, and if we are ever revived, we’ll always have to keep it in there.
I guess now is as good a time as any, to tell you about when I met the homunculus. Well…I had him emailed to me. I know it sounds stupid, but it is true. I was filling out a form that would diagram out a psychosomatic humanoid form based on the shape of my brain and my motor sensory connections. This was measured against my particular abilities at all the various motor and/or mental skills. The moment the image was sent back to me the homunculus said hello. But he said it like this:
“Hey, you dumb motherfucker, get me a snickers bar, and quick or I’ll stick a sharpened pencil up yer ass!”
That was not the beginning of a beautiful relationship.
He really isn’t so bad once you get to know him.
But he did turn me into an asshole. I was forty-two. I was not previously an asshole up to that point, believe you me.
He is really small, he doesn’t have a real ‘body’; it’s more like a series of neural connections in a specific order, like memes. Perhaps he could be described as a neural-biological meme. He won’t go away, believe me I have asked him many a time.
It’s not some sort of multiple personality bit, or like he is some aspect of my personality trying to get out. Imagine a violent drunk who is able to swim around in your head like it’s a swimming pool and whisper into all your brain’s hiding spaces where the secret thoughts are kept. It is an abusive relationship, but after someone, or something, knows you that intimately—it becomes harder and harder to part ways.

YOU MAY BE WONDERING
HOW WE ARE WRITING
THIS THEORETICAL
AUTO-BIOGRAPHY

We have been stuck inside the bitter cold recesses of this dewer for quite a while now: enough to explore the extents of our ‘life’, though ‘existence’ would be a better term. We don’t necessarily know how to describe what parts of me are alive. We do not believe it is my soul, nor a spirit of any real kind. It seemed like perhaps I was a ghost at one point because, I could project my thoughts out at people who were in a certain vicinity of my bower. How we knew people were close by, I do not know for sure. My guess at all of this is something like Tielhard de Cardin’s ‘noosphere’; that is an ectoplasmic layer around the earth that holds all the thoughts of all the people in the world. Its how he explained that humans in very different parts of the world all came up with the same things at the same time: like the advent of fire, wheels and agriculture. Then it goes a step further into creative processes, so, say two artists how have no idea of the other come up with similar works of art, simultaneously: the zeitgeist.
I never really understood all that shit any ways. Cause that is exactly what it is -- bullshit. Like the coprolite in my mouth. I always thought that knowledge and/or the creative processes were very much dependent on environment; books, for example read differently depending on when and where one is reading them. Say one keeps War and Peace near the john and only reads during bathroom time. Or then again, there could be another kind of quasi-phenomenon: whenever I picked up a book I knew very little about, I always felt an impulse to guess how the book went and then referenced the book to check to see if I was right or not.
I found a copy of Huckleberry Finn in Eugene, Oregon back in the twenty-first century. I guessed that the first words were “My name is Huckleberry Finn.” They weren’t. But once I found a copy of Swann’s Way, by Proust and I guessed every word, every sentence, correctly, and then checked my work. I have not been able to repeat that most eventful event since; not that anybody believed me, any ways, since it was originally written in French. And that something was lost in the translation. I called this an act of ‘unbridled libermancy’.
In a quick summation, in a way, that is how I am conveying this present tale. I am divinating it to another self, on the quantum universe directly one world over from this one. In that world the only thing that is different from ours is that the homunculus never came into my brain and ruined the entire universe. But more especially, I died a testator. Like if Schroedinger’s cat was able to see itself in heaven, from hell.
Okay, what I am doing is that I am whispering this story to myself, one world over, quantum mechanically speaking; and he thinks it is just some sort of inspiration for a story. I am just telling him what it was like to have a brain-sucking homunculus turn us into a blatant asshole and ruin the whole cosmos with our putrid slime filth and sour sauce. Popping a cap in the ass of another self’s fail-safe mind, where all the memes go to bed early. I am only able to do this because I paid enough attention to what I think is the ‘noosphere’.
Now, I believe, most humans are gone or living so differently that I can’t tap into there extra-somatic discharges; if that is what they are anymore. I know there haven’t been any archeological digs in this area for at least a century or two. But I have no way to know for sure, unless they resurrect me. But I wouldn’t count on that any more.
I would be a theoretically memetic Nagasaki.

ABSOLUTE SENSORY
THRESHOLDS FOR:
A TESTATOR

In normal humans, there are five senses that seem to encapsulate most of human experience in one way or another. Like how you are reading now. You may be picturing several various images that together weave a series of events coherently into a narrative of some sort. Or you place yourself into the story, soaking up all the smells and sounds of the places described.
What absolute thresholds are-are the bounds to these senses: the white picket fence to the yards of our sensory experience. Most of these senses are different ways of perceiving the same forces in the universe: usually electromagnetism. Colors, sounds, et cetera are just various frequencies of the electromagnetic field. The human threshold for sound is a tick of a watch at twenty feet away. Try it sometime. Beyond twenty feet is the non-human realm of hearing saved for dogs and their ilk.
The thresholds become very poetic after a certain level: the absolute threshold for sight is a candle flame at thirty miles on a clear night. I once heard science described as a candle in the dark. I would say life in a dewer would be greatly benefited from candlelight in this infinite expanse of dark, what I look like is a secret to me. What the outside world looks like is even more of a secret. I bet my skin is blue, or measuring towards the violets on the electromagnetic scale of visible light.
These colors, these senses are comical now, all I do is cogitate and reiterate. That may be all I have left; going over and over what I already know. I am not really learning anything new. It is all just a guess what is going on outside of this dewer. What my homunculus is telling me: that hundreds of years have gone by might just be my brain winding down and petering out into the nothingness that is all I can see right now.
I remember once, I found an old second hand copy of Impressions of Africa by Raymond Roussel; I swore I was going to be able to guess that novel, word for word, as I read it or ‘checked my work’. I guessed every twentieth word correctly. I know that there is a good possibility of doing that any ways, but given the nature of the stories that compose that work, I felt I had accomplishes something truly revolutionary. That perhaps I had secretly and quite preconsciously developed a sixth sense. That was pish-posh, seriously. My senses were the same during my whole moving life.
By far my favorite absolute threshold is for touch: A bee wing falling onto one’s cheek from one centimeter. How anyone ever thought to pick a bee wing as the medium, I will never know. Perhaps I like it better that way, the anonymity of it.
My thresholds now are different though, because I can make the series of electrical impulses that are my mind leave the dewer. A long time ago I haunted this area, it was my preternatural bower, so to speak. But the senses past the fifth, and there are many senses past the fifth, are all cerebrally linked. Perception truly is a bitch, as an antisocial friend of mine once told me. As far as ultra-violet is from violet the sixth sense is from the fifth.
The threshold for the sixth sense is the exactitude of balance in a rain cloud at thirty-five mega-parsecs. For the seventh: two falling eight-dimensional objects, from the edge, of the opposite of the solar system at the length of the solar wind. Then there is a secret sense called the Gnirbian sense, that I will not talk about, it is a secret. And the last I know of, called the last sense; whose absolute threshold: one candied apple with a worm eating the core from the ergosphere of a rotating blackhole, with both hands tied thoroughly behind one’s back at a rate of ten to ninety-eight million and one.
But these are just rough estimates, though. We haven’t had a field trip, out of the dewer, to test out our absolutisms of sensory perception, since the blue-green algae that mutated and suffocated most of the earth happened.

EULOGIC POEM FOR
AN UNKNOWN GRAVE:

A bee wing falling,
on one’s cheek –
from one centimeter. ***

AN OPEN LETTER TO WALT DISNEY
(It’s a small world after all --- after all.)

Dear Walt,
(mind if I call you Walt?)

…okay…
Dear Mr. Walt Disney?
Huh? …Sure...

Mr. Disney:

Fellow cryonaut, I applaud you in your slumber! "I wish I had taken the time to get to know your work better -- it seems so genuine and up-frontish. Please forgive the trespasses, our father full of grace…you dumb ass bitch—I can’t believe they let you out of the museum with that stupid assed hat on. Your penis is a small world after all. I’m a homunculus and I have a bigger cock, like big."

Sleep well, dear friend. Good night, sweet prince of spagyracists.

AND NOW, IF YOU WILL, IN MEMORIUM OF THAT PARTICULARLY UNSAVORY MOMENT: A POEM I WROTE, SEVERAL YEARS PRIOR, AFTER CONSUMING AN UNHEALTHY PORTION OF LSD:

Mindblock OK iS I
Okay
is if am not able
to try and
frawnp
fraw
fr
au
m
pet
red in between
the
gumdrops like
great godlike gumtrackle
tackles my
snickerB
snickeRed
BotLur
Rudolph tempertantrum ***

MY DEATH FANTASY FROM THE UPPER AGORAPHOBIC ERA

As you may well know the earth, in a particularly unsavory moment was consumed nearly all the way by a genetically mutated version of blue-green algae. It just got into the water supply and took most of the life on earth with it. Or, that is the best I can guess from conferring with the homunculus and the inner child. We are pretty sure a global calamity of that magnitude and character took over the planet, in what we are calling the upper agoraphoibic era.
We are calling this era the upper agoraphobic era because we are done venturing out of the sanctorum of these cryogenic fluids that is our freezer-womb. We are done exploring and spelunking about.
In collaboration with the homunculus, we began composing open letters to various cryonauts to attempt a symposium style discussion about our particular predicament(s).

THE COLD GROUND AND ME:
A LOVE STORY IN GRAY

For Jessica J.

We are cold and grumpy, but I remember a time when I was able to stay warm all night outside, in the middle of winte, in Alaska. It was way back before the little son-of-a-bitch homunculus began whispering sweet nothings in my secret places. It was winter and cold, but outside of a dewer there are things that fix the cold, like coffee and cocoa.
There is no coffee for cryonauts.
I spent most of my adult life in the Pacific Northwest, mostly in Oregon and Alaska. The lands of the overnight mushrooms and blackberries in the midnight Sunday.
I had a lover named Jessica who wrote poetry. Really dark and demented poetry with lots of fore-shadowing and post-shadowing. Black. Books of shadows.
Every time I saw the sun shine on her I wondered why she didn’t turn gray.
We used to drink coffee, naked, at midnight and stay real warm telling each other our deepest darkest secrets. I told her everything.

MY DARK, DARK POEM
FOR JESSICA AND
HER LEITMOTIV:

Dear---
I had a
Medical
Need for my
Heart---
Now it is black---
Like your
Poems.

AN OPEN LETTER TO F. M. 2030

(Do transhumanists dream of cryonic sheep?)

Dearest FM 2030,

Where ever, ever, ever can you be now?
“We are just two lost souls swimming in this fish bowl.” -- Pink Floyd
All the other species on Earth may theoretically be extinct now. What do you think about that?
Blue-green algae. I wish I died with it all, just suffocated up into blue-green hell.
All gone -- Forever, I know you understand forever.
Sorry that all that negative shit had to go down – I have got the Homunculus into the sub-conscious for a few moments, please respond ASAP! He is on the ropes!!

What do you count to fall asleep at night?
I can’t count sheep anymore. I never will do it again. Maybe next I will try humpback whales or giant squids.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7…you know?

With fondest affectations,
(and before the homunculus wakes up!)

---- Shanan Fearth, Clearwater, Florida, 2003, (just one world over)

(All *** in these sections were written by the Meme-Rider still under the auspices of Lord Kevin, the Uncanny, circa 1994, Fort Bragg, North Carolina.)
(All **** in these sections were written by the Meme-Rider formerly known as Caesar Baagerah of somewhere near Charlotte, North Carolina, sometime around 1993)

Cucurbit Mosaic Book Two: Liquid Nitrogen is Chicken Soup for the Faustian Soul, by Hannah Faster

2002-12-22T19:44:00.000-08:00

CRYOTOPIA,
Forgiven Viruses from Front to Back and in Between

This snail shell has afforded me many swell hiding places, over the last few centuries, I am happy to say that recently I have acquired, as per regular, a taste for diesel fuel and church-bingo. That is B-I-N-G-o. I live about eighteen miles down the road from a homunculus bar, were several diminutive people get together every weekend and ‘hop the twig.’ They mostly drink wood alcohol, but on recent occasions they have been serving a peppermint-flavored beer, that is reminiscent of distilled puke. The world we inhabit is cold, as in sub-sub-zero. I am a sub-sub librarian to her majesty, the sub-sub-queen mum’s the word, virus, almighty, mighty. She is great. We all love her because we pay taxes to love her. It is called the privilege to love you tax. We all pay gladly. She is real pretty, too, a homunculus aflame with rubies for eyes and down-feather goose pimples for skin. Hair the color of moonlight. She is bar-none. I tell you what. She rides a bicycle that looks like a pissing contest between unicycles. She wears underwear on her hands and pantyhose over her face in public, so no homunculus will recognize her. Her voice sounds like a cooing dove masturbating a watch ticking at thirty miles on a clear night. She is insatiable entropy; she is butterfat from the cup of life. She froths. She bubbles, she giggles rain-drops, gum-drops and sub-sub-drop-drops. I love her with all of my heart and most of my lungs, she does not get any love from the following: my pancreas, liver, kidneys, nor spleen. My nervous system says, “she is alright.” My brain cannot stop thinking about her. Most other homunculi feel the same as me, about her, pancreases varying. Last week I went down to the homunculus bar, to play a little church-bingo and drink some sub-sub-absinthe with some buddies of mine from work, fellow sub-subs. One of them began telling us about how one day a couple of months ago he had the occasion to meet her royal smallness in an anti-gravity chamber pot, to discuss further expansions of the extra-somatic system to the royal court. And then over a cup of fresh rainwater they began ‘making out, the old fashioned way’ (his words, not mine). Blah, blah, blah…one thing leads to another and they begin the act of homuncular coitus, the new fashionable way (with sticks and stones). We all started laughing because we knew he was full of shit. He is gay, by the way, a little gay homunculus that hangs out with me and my girlfriends, he is pretty much the only male we hang out with. Male homunculi can be so alchemical and dependent on arcana all the time. I like to just take her easy, if you catch my drift. No reason, to get all flippant about sulphur and mercury all the time, just sit back and enjoy the Alembix, that is what I say. The Alembix is the name of our Cryotopia, our city; our country of the diminutive. But like I was saying, he was telling us that he was having new fashionable sex with her highness, the royal sub-sub-petite. And we were laughing because he was lying, and because he doesn’t know how to have sex with females, even if he wanted to. And we drank more alcohol and became intoxicated on the fermented enemata of the fluidium prima; (it is like an egg nog made out of eagle’s ember). Well, okay, the story doesn’t end there. That was when one of my girlfriends, named Justina, began this story about the homunculus that got away, the one with the corncob pipe, that is not a pipe, and a button nose, of whom, knows a nose, with two eyes made out of Cole Porter. Any ways, to make that long story short, because it is a friend of a friend of a friend sort of story: the sub-sub-shit-unit hit the sub-sub-fan-unit, and all the sub-subs were called upon to bring order back to the Cryotopia by sun down tomorrow, or else. We just did as we were told and stayed underground for the next couple of seasons, then when we were told it was now safe to re-emerge. We all thawed out and had a drink down at the homunculus sub-sub-pub. Hot cocoa and black hole juices were poured quite liberally all over existence, and I thought it was good. Good to the last drop.

ABDUCTIO,
Or The Secret and Most Quarrelsome Life of Pond Scum

Listen to this: HEY ANY OF YOU DOWN THERE! CAN YOU HEAR ME?

IT IS RUTTING SEASON IN SUB-SUB-CREATION!

“WITHOUT a fore ward glance I was able to maneuver my squalid discontented ass out of the parlance of the rowing boat of good fortune. I have been near, here and far, for the last pleasantly portentous decade; and it is terrific to be back again. Ready to shed these turtle wax memories from the age of ABDUCTIO and HONEY.”

--- SAL AMMONIA, from his Memoirs of Sub-Sub-Walden Pond

(Sub-Sub-Walden Pond, somewhere in history, most forgotten.) The size of the bath tub. A super-symmetrical bathtub fashioned from the larvae of Peruvian Deciduous Espresso Bugs. Black water in a bathtub near critical mass. Half smoked cigarettes, rolled from scratch, and toenails, freshly dismembered from a slight man-beast, float menacingly in the water. Ready to pounce most fearsomely on any and all. A ghost of the memory of the past hides behind the claw-footed tub as it sits like Seraphim. (In the archway of false cherubic light.) The two eyes of the ghost, now called Mimidae, then by something else; may be all that is left of this ‘left-over-food-in-a-pneumamaterial-prima-refrigerator’ soul, a teenage child, now in a false limbo; an artificial after-life. Where artificial things go when they die.
Fishing from the banks, I swam to the shore. Inside of the water all one thinks of is burnt algae. The ghost cups some water in her hands and drinks. Refreshing to the last sip. No fish; only abducted scales and two or three ribcages.
(The size of a sub-sub-tadpole.) We are here now to level out the playing fields. And the fountains of artificial blood now so prevalent in shopping malls: (ARCANUM SAGUINIS HOMINIS AD ABSURDUM): not our bathtub earth.
At the end of the long tunnel, choked with rowboats and sub-sub-flotsam, the cherubic light pretends to shine. Green, florescent ooze slobbers over our faces as we attempt to smile and be warmed by its presence. There is no laughter in the middle of this feeding frenzy of the saguinis drip-drip. In all good horror flicks the light bulbs always end up bleeding, so they do here as well, only they bleed towards magnetic sub-sub-north, not the other way around the crack. We totter back and forth to project our thoughts on the matter. We are too mad to pretend. All we can do now is have faith and believe.

HERMEGENETICUM,
Public ‘Our Rubber’ Fountains in the Age of the Tooth

“Rosa Tartar, pass the salt.”
“Don’t think that this isn’t the juice of Bach.”
“Assume nothing.”
“Just pass the fucking salt.”
“Already?”

--- Baalerina from Nursing Poisonous Frogs

Looking back now, I would say that I enjoyed my job as the sub-sub-tooth hunter. It wasn’t an exceptionally hard job, but it was definitely one of mystery and intrigue. I worked for the diminutive corporation Wisdom Teeth, as a freelance tooth hunter. I actually worked directly under the original tooth hunter, the glorious winged homunculus named Rosa Tartar, you may have heard of her as the ‘TOOTH FAIRY’, but she is a winged homunculus, not a fairy, believe me. She taught me the ropes: tooth sensory and detection, inconspicuous dentistry, extra-dimensional molar extraction, and the retrieval and collection of baby teeth.

But I don’t really want to talk about tooth hunting. I am retired now for a reason, a tooth gathering homunculus no longer. Rather, I want to tell you about the ‘Public ‘Our Rubber’ Fountain’; of whom, is really a bed-ridden soothsayer the size of a thimble, (which is gargantuan to us homunculi). Her name is Liquid Nitrogena and she lives at ground zero of Cryotopia, that is the intersection of Arcanum Avenue and Cucurbit Way, right near the black hole juice shop, Latte Freakin’ Da. She lives in the park there, Spagyric Park. About 20 years ago she was just a regular, old, butyrumantic soothsayer, or alchemical fountain: a divine wet nurse. People would come to her to partake of her breast milk, which she provided in a myriad of flavors from strawberry and chocolate to pistachio and ginger. She was a virtuoso butyrumantic wet nurse, so to speak.
The problem with career wet nurses like her is that their breasts increase in size slightly with each divine nursing. She eventually became the bed- ridden soothsayer she is today. Her breasts are now almost eighteen times the size of her original body, which is almost the size of a thimble.
Most homunculi who partook of her milk were posed with a riddle or some diminutive form of divination. Some had visions, others died directly. Some never experienced any form of milky bliss. Some could not even taste the virginal milk. Some, like me, tasted dreams. I knew some one who claimed to have tasted dark matter and strange quarks, with a hint of citrus.
The bed she lived on was fashioned from the down feathers of an abandoned couch and a coat hanger bent into an art nouveau like swirl of branches and spirals. Her pillows were cornhusks and marshmallows, the quilt, which would have covered her several times over, could she actually wrap it around herself; was stitched together from the clothes of all those who died after drinking her milk. Around her were various offerings from travelers and pilgrims who had come many a long, lost winter’s night to drink of her healing liquid.
Now, Liquid Nitrogena would always allow anyone the opportunity to drink from her breasts; but she always stated that it was at their own risk.

I was assigned a special mission one night to hunt some very peculiar teeth from the mouth of crocodile named Lutembi En Soph. So, I asked Liquid Nitrogena if I could take a small phial-frog of her ‘our rubber’ with me on my trip.
She agreed because we had recently become girlfriends.
She is a very sexual creature but never truly explored sex because of her desire to stay a virgin, so as to keep on producing her spectacular ‘our rubber’. I didn’t know it would happen, but after we became lovers her milk began tasting even better. And not just to me, every homunculus in Cryotopia was talking about it. But they didn’t know it was because we were making love all the time.
No one knew we were having sex because no one could see us.
It went like this: I would find her face and body inside all of the boobs and squeeze in between her breasts. It was a very private affair no matter how many homunculi were around. We soon fell deeply in love.

THE PENCIL BOXER,
Whispering, “I Love You,” Upwind.

With a newly acquired phial-frog of ‘our rubber’ I headed out to go extract crocodile teeth. Her milk still tasted of dreams to me, but there was more substance and flavor to them. A little liquid Liquid Nitrogena for the road.
What makes her milk so sub-sub-grand is that it is swarming with things called Hermegenes, even smaller homunculi than our selves. They are the size of bacteria. They are delicious. Liquid Nitrogena is often referred to as the Hermegenticum, because of the vast amounts of colonies of Hermegenes that live in her. We sometimes make alcohol-like drinks with them, because when one gives them blood or sperm they expunge a substance very similar to alcohol, but more potent. We call this arcanahol, and drink it on special occasions.
I gave Liquid Nitrogena some very special oral pleasures for the milk for my tooth-hunting quest. She whispered, “I love you,” into my ear before I left. I kissed her on her mouth and told her I loved her too.
I got lost on my way leaving the Alembix and never found the crocodile. I have one last drop of Liquid Nitrogena’s ‘our rubber’ that I am saving for when I get really sad. I don’t know how I got so lost out here in the Alembix. I have not seen another homunculus in years. I am subsiding off of my own tears and mushrooms I pick from around an oak tree about two miles from an abandoned pencil box I have been sleeping in.
Every night I pretend that pencil box is my coffin. Last night I dreamt that I drank the last of the milk and that my pencil box turned into an oven and I was resurrected.

HOPS‘O MY THUMBILICUS,
Two Viral Memes Walk in to a Bar, the First One says…

“DO YOU SERVE ARCANAHOL?”
--- Viral Meme, One

HAVE A VERY CONJOINED X-MASS

1)
I am joined to my twin sister through an umbilicus protruding from our navels and by way of our thumbs. The thumbs we separated long ago, when Cryotopia was just a tiny village full of inbred homunculi. We have yet to cut our umbilicus, for fear of death.
We never leave room 40 (the North Pole Suite), at the grandest, most illustrious hotel in Cryotopia, Splendor Solis Inn. “We are completely mortified of being made fun of in the streets by normal looking homunculi.” (So we order everything in. (Food, water and what ever utilities.)) “Thanks to the Internet and the thrills of cyberspace we can explore the world through alternative means.”
We are not agoraphobic, nor are we adept at mercurial wringing.

2)
My twin brother and I were conjoined at birth in two places: by the thumbs, and by an umbilical chord that runs from both of our stomachs, into one another. Our birthing process killed our mother, Rosa Tartar, who possessed the secret on how she was able to feed us while we were growing in her womb, (without proper channels). (A special blend of milk and cookies.)
Doctors used to tell us that it involved special butyrumantic sessions with Liquid Nitrogena during winter solstices. Something called the non-specific periodicity of lupal orifices. She nursed us, IN UTERO, through cloacal sub-sub-pores that were located BETWIXT her mammary glands; (we are not truly mammals).

3)
My name is Remy Las Luna. My brother’s name is Romy Les Sol. We are conjoined homunculi of opposite sexes. It is quite possible that we have different fathers, and concurrently possible that we have different mothers; it takes a village, right? But, seriously, it sucks being conjoined to someone, you are not even sure you are related to…so…
We began working for the Distilled Spirit of X-Mass about twenty years ago. He does the shipping; I do the receiving.

LUPIS LAZULI

Last night we crept out of the hotel under cover of darkness and partook of the breasts of Liquid Nitrogena, simultaneously, while she lay crying. She has been crying for five years now, and not a soul has any idea why.
Her ‘our rubber’ tasted of the tears of all tomorrow’s sadness (es).
They have begun harvesting her tears in thimbles, and selling them at Roadside stands, by the droplet, as the Undeniably Lupine Tears of Liquid Nitrogena, (we hear they cure chicken pocks and scurvy).

(It made us howl at the moon until we bled from our eyes.)

How Santa Claus is in Actuality, an Ancient Alchemist, From Old Rome, and All the Elves, Homunculi, and the North Pole, a Hotel Room in Cryotopia; and, How Everyone Lives Off Of Dark Matter Soup and the Letters Kids Write to Santa:

Well, that pretty much covers everything but the reindeer, which is a total fabrication of down right pernicious intention. Once a journalist tried to describe us as an ‘Island of Doctor Pernod’. We disagree without pretense.

LUPIS LAZULI, Baalerina 12” (p) re-mix

The North Pole is located in room 41, of the Splendor Solis Hotel in Cryotopia. Santa’s workshop is really a closet with a few coat hangers and a ‘do not disturb’ sign, which smells like breath mints for snails. Santa is the remote control nailed to the shrine of Gideon’s Bible. The elves are the germs left by a junkie shooting up on the table and the residuals of coitus between hookers and johns. Rudolph does not live here.

Stockings have been left by the chimney; forgotten by winter travelers eager to get home.

There is milk on the bathroom floor, where Liquid Nitrogena left it spilt the night before.

They have moved her in, out of the cold.

She is still crying tears of lupis lazuli.

They crystallize and form sub-sub-precious stones.

She keeps them in a pair of shoes near the door.

Her Hermegenes are screaming for love, crying the long, cold symphonies of the night trade winds.

She wants to be back outside, but she can’t move -- for her breasts are too large for auto-mobility.

I have come to drink ‘our rubber’, and am currently doing so, while giving dictation to the stenographer at the polar right of you, right now.

ALCHEMICVS ROMANVS CLAVS

“I BET YOU ARE WONDERING HOW I GOT HERE.” --- X-Mass

<> PUT TO THE TEST

Simple Emboitement:

I was pre-formed here, in room 41, pre-consciously, by my self, from my Laboratory in Old Rome. I formed a sub-sub-black hole during some experiments with my work in the Theater of Terrestrial Astronomy, in a small cucurbit.

Quantum Non-Non-Recurrents:

I am only observing myself from another time and space and forgot to go back. I can’t because the technology hasn’t been invented yet. One day it will just happen: and all will be back to normal.

Aurum Divergens:

I currently reside at the state mental institution as a flaw in the mind of an attendant. I keep on being reincarnated as the song he gets stuck in his head several times through out the day. My life spans are now as long as he keeps the songs in his head. I have an extremely strong will to survive. I have been reincarnated almost five thousand times as Madonna’s Like A Virgin, and almost one hundred times as Dolly Parton’s A Hard Candy Christmas. Once I came back as U Can’t Touch This.

Butyrumantic Theory of Sub-Sub-Non-Local Reciprocity:

I am in a penatorium, of sorts. I must perform massive amounts of penance (x). I have been given the power to fly, like Simon Maggot, to transport drugs from one world, to the next. In some former life I really fucked up and am paying for it now. This really depresses me, but I am suppressing it. Which explains my unquenchable cravings for comfort foods like cookies and milk. Each act of penance is met non-locally as an act of zepto-metric bricolage: i.e. the appearance of presence, under trees.

CUCURBITIERS,
Little White Homuncu-Lies Don’t Really Hurt Anyone

I

She wiped the dried lupis lazuli from her face and looked under the tree, to see what the spiritus mundi of X-Mass left, incognito. Blended in with the pine needles were soft waxy lips. Beneath an endless supply of artificially colored sub-sub-lights hung gallant anagrams of weeping willow trees.
No coal, no lover, no poems for the pudding.
With no thoughts towards sorrow, Liquid Nitrogena went back to sleep, where the minions of cucurbitiers danced in her head. Starry sub-sub-nights in the sub-sub-zero range, the invalid sleeps tonight in a pool of her own design.

II

Outside the hotel, parceled into the aqua-vitae-ducts, hid the sub-sub-species of the diminutive, cucurbitiers. I am one of them, a sidekick to the sub-sub-meme-plex, herself, Sbaalerinonina. (The super-symmetrical, (as in sixth dimensional) sub-sub-Baalerina), she is leading this operation. Well, I don’t know if that is the right word for it, she is in charge of psychological operations; we have declared war on the diminutive homunculi of Cryotopia and all the rest of Alembix. They really piss us off; walking around all swish and shit all the time; acting so fucking gay. Plus, they are irreligious blasphemers of the holy mute books. They bath in spagyric substances on the Sap-bath. They even drink saguinis mundi before high noon.
We have been summoned by the Lord of Hostesses and Hosts (proper), (seeing as how we are all viral parasites to his or her black or white holiness), to destroy all the unbelievers, blasphemers and Cryotopians. The Lord-Up-Above-the-Cucurbit, is on our side, ready to bite and pinch and rape and pummel all of the unbelievers, blasphemers and fornicating naughty ones.
They will all burn in hell, in the retort, and we will be laughing from our spissatusai, drinking the sub-sub-blood of the diminutive.

fin

--- Hannah Faster, Eugene, Oregon, 2002

Who the hell is Lord Kevin, the Uncanny?

2002-09-03T23:18:00.000-07:00

The Meme-Rider Media Team is first and foremost a loose collection of artists, writers and thinkers, who collectively describe themselves as autonomous meme-riders, or "those who take the power back from memes and ride culture the way Fremen ride sand worms," as Lord Kevin, the Uncanny recently said in an interview I had with him over the phone.

He is currently living in London, working on a project about the ancient abbies and monasteries of the Upper Rabelasian Period.

He was a member of the Situationist International, but under an auspice different than the one he uses now. Since going under the monicker of Lord Kevin, the Uncanny, his photo has not been released. what I can say for sure though, is that his English is spoken with a Norwegian-type accent. His voice is very soft and gentle, even when speaking of horror and atrocities. He sounds old, as would be fitting seeing as how he is a glorified elder of the Meme Team, though he has never directly participated in any of their antics.

He has designed a Limbo Mobile, which the DIY Cryopunk League is currently building in the Parisian Sprawl.

Asking my friends things about Lord Kevin, the Uncanny, all I got was crazy stories about a man who breeds chimpanzees for the the white-collar zoo trade, then infultrates the zoo and chimp-naps them, usually setting them free in the city. I asked him about these stories in our phone interview, and he denied the stories, saying they were "posh memes, meant to be virally spread as gossip destroyers on program memes. I would never breed primates!"

Anyways, Lord Kevin, the Uncanny was really fun to talk to, and I look forward to being able to phone interview him again soon, for what I want to be a permanent series of online chats and interviews with Meme-Riders for this blog site.

Willard the Cryopunk

Liquid Nitrogen Fantasies from the M.I.L.E. Foundation

2002-06-23T12:30:00.000-07:00

From the Group who brought you Endless Chatter in the Ten Gallons of Stardust

“Come on in, the liquid nitrogen is fine.”

Monte Crisco and the Dank Mausoleum of Hot Spit:

(Fluxus Alaska, Spandex Moonlighting Crew, version 9.0003) A scene where the Green Candle sets fire to a bulb of garlic to prove once and for all to the Matrix Maiden that light is neither a particle nor a wave and that the graviton is in fact simply an extension of the afterlife.

Green Candle: Ho, ho, ho…what be this izish?
Matrix Maiden: the tell tale part where you get a motherfucking life.

Frozen in Time:

This old movie was the impetus for many a fore lane chandelier of pure imagination. The scene where that guy weaves a napkin out of an old hammock and glues gingerbread men to the ceiling all while whistling Dixie to the rhythm of the night. And the rhythm made me cry tears of dumb nostalgia for sandman relics.

Putrid by Design, Immaculate by Consumption:

Okay, so as it goes, the end credits for the foster project; “Go and Get Tiger, Tiger!” jackknifed on the red carpet runway leading from here to eternity in the merry, merry afterlife. We walked up the corridor paying particular attention to the throngs of drinking ghosts and foreshortened imps, dancing like so many snowflakes on the desert like puddles of goose liver casserole, also called “Quiche Wellington”, or provincially known as “Bert’s Yummy Blog Pepper Pot”.

Get’cher, Get’cher, One, Two, Three:

Back in Portland we entertained ideas of having breakfast, as it manifested, two slivers of sausage chowder tingling in our midst; you had the melon balls, I had the pumpkin butter. We both had water to drink and agreed that it was fine.

Baron Duck Butter Extracts Revenge From a Bucket of Lukewarm Gelatin, Claiming Reparations for Indentured Servitude During the Crimean and Utilitarian War of 2487:

Not many folk know this, but Buck Rogers was half black. If a black future month were conceivable at this moment in history, there may be a boulevard or street, or park, or school named after him. So quietly into the void, Ranger Three, gently glides like a stone in a glacier, slowly, casually, purposefully and without orientation, past the Telemundo Galaxy, beyond the Wikipedia Cluster, far, far beyond the Land of Forgotten Fairies, into the end of the game, where the Dark Lord Habermas awaits on the frontiers of Frankfurt. Babylonian scores of flocked migrant workers clamor into the ship, each squealing for equal rights, voting opportunities and the freedom of speech. We, that is you and me, we just blister in the quasar pulse.

Notes Taken During the Run of the Black Hole Invitational:

Leonard Valkyrie here, not but chilling in my Speedo fed glee; here at the run of the Black Hole Invitational, where the girls dress like huntsmen and the kids eat free. And it is Raknod, the Developer ahead by eight on the first leg of the roundabout, followed by Norvin, the Terrible and Reelium, the Gnostic. As I sit here and watch the folly hoppers piss on by at the speed of light, I can’t help but wonder why I am here. Is there a purpose for my existence? Is there a god? Does it love me? Do I have a soul? Do trees have souls? And all of a sudden, it is Reelium, the Gnostic overtaken by Beriwove, the Vaginally Shorn by a third leg in the night. Oh, and here is Branyclump, the Portentous in second, by a stroke of unidentifiable flying spryness. When really, I find I don’t care one way or the other if there is a god, if I have a soul, if love is real, or if purpose just means I don’t want to be unhappy.

Quest for Sir Rhymes-a-Lot and his Basket of Eggy Eggy Dreg Dregs, One Shot Boy-ee:

Melvin reins the rest of the elfish dear-dogs, as I make camp. I start a fire with my dark magic breath. “Ernie, where is the spandex?” Melvin asks.
“Near the cat food in the quasi-hamper, your bag. Not mine!”
“Oh, here it is!”
Melvin is such a little shit. I hate him like you wouldn’t believe. I want to kill him in his sleep, stab him in the face, or in the ear, that way he can watch me laugh at him as he bleeds to death in my arms, but fuck if we don’t need a goddamn elf on a magical quest!

I Hold Melvin as He Bleeds from the Mouth, Singing Sweetly “Who am I, What am I, What Will I Be?”

“Put me in the liquid nitrogen Ernie, I am fading…”
“Not a chance fat Melvin, not a fucking chance in hell you little fuck. Who am I, what am I, what will I be…”
“I want to live forever Ernie, I want to live!”
“You are going to be dead forever, forever and more Mevin, forever and more!”

File, save as “Liquid Nitrogen Fantasies”

Cucurbit Mosaic, Book Nine: F. Austin Love: "Psycho-Pomps of a New Generation"

2001-12-28T07:16:00.000-08:00

THE SHORT, SHORT SHORTY OF THE MISADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FAUST:

This tale comes from a book I have been writing and in a constant struggle to amend and reinvent; it is about some young children of the Mississippi Delta (the river itself the children believe to be ‘Mrs. Sippy’s Delta’).
Our scene is set on the river proper, as the group of travelers come into the unfavorable architecture of a pentomino raft, made totally from solidified bismuth, pfefferneusseum molecules and scrap cardboard. Invaders deck the raft and begin sending pirate flags up the makeshift flagpole, which was fashioned out of organic plutonium, an old broom and rubber chicken wire.

“OUR HOMUNCULUS ABROAD” “Give my regards to the alembic.”

I
LEMMINGS

“FUCK YOU ISHMAEL. Some tears ago--never mind how far back they might be—having zero to nil in my purse, and nothing far from vehicular to transport me once overboard, I thought I would set to pout a spittle and soak in the watery heart of the world.” Pchooey!
This is what our captain, the esteemed Ducasse dictated to me as I attempted to take notation though most of my time was spent wiping the spittle of his impassioned speech from my face and arms. Ducasse stayed to the front of our small pentomino raft-meanwhile me and the stowaway, Huckleberry Faust, kept up the rear end, so as not to tip the boat—our esteemed Ducasse being a total and complete Thunder Lizard. (With Primatic tendencies, of an all-consuming frog-appetite behavior type—i.e. a totally ravenous glutton of a beached, on our raft, whale, he was a whale; pure and simple.) There are his love handles, there is his spout.
Huckleberry (pronounced HUK-LAY-BREE) was poling in a Venetian style, as if our raft were a goddamned gondola—smiling and whistling all the while like a fucking mockingbird. But I never put stock in fucking mockingbirds anyway. Ducasse calls me by my Christian name, Mimidae, while our whistling inverted pole-vaulter calls me MIMI. I have no preferences on this matter.
The nefarious Ishmael is Ducasse’s aside, his footnote. Ishmael was once a man, of that; I am sure, but next to our colleague, Mr. Ducasse, he is a bipedal lamprey. I don’t watch them interacting with one another for fear of vomiting in my young voyeuristic reposing disgust. The same goes for Huckleberry, though he doesn’t gag as audibly as I do. Ho hum.
“KNOW, KNOW, KNOW YOUR BOAT GENTLY TOWARDS THE BRAIN, VERILY, VERILY, LIFE IS BUT A MEME.” We drift in and out of daytime and nighttime we don’t dream for fear of being killed in our sleep by Ducasse and his despicable clownfish, Ishmael. All we risk is a daydream here and there; which all turn into nightmares, quick as lightning; making it tenebristic gloomy, powerful tenebristic gloomy. And he just continues dictating, his memoirs (pronounced MEME WARS):

“For a long time I used to sleep a lot, that is I would endeavor to retire for the evening early.
Sleeping was my pastime, my narcoleptic business. And for a long time all I did was dream.
Dream of early retirement—the American dream of waking up a billionaire, without being a
fugitive from justice. At large in a world of small fishes—I retain the most water. To the
vacuum, go the spills.”

“Raise the flag of the MORTAL & PESTER,” quote the ravenous glutton-head, the beached whale. It was raised. Upon the raising of this most curious Piratic flag, a change, subtle like glissandoing impiety or grapefruit beer, in Huckleberry began to commence. He clutched at his stomach and lowered his head moaning ever so like a dying rabbit. At once he was running over the surface of the water and jumped into the arms of a man who was wade fishing with his two children nearer the bank.
Huckleberry began cooing and purring, making as if to cuddle.
“Is your boy alright?” inquired the neo-pseudo-suckling fisherman.
“Indeed he is. Caught a bout of the Cucurbit Mosaic, though,” responded Ducasse as he cast anchor starboard side.
“Culture to a beck, what?”
“Cucurbit Mosaic, actually. He’s homunculizing as we speak, I’d step back sir,” Ducasse holed.
As Ducasse spoke these very words, a noise, deafening in its volume and brain squeezing in subsonic force, exploded like a fart reaching critical mass in our midst. It was in the rhythm of a nursing child complete with delicate gulps for air coming from Huckleberry, as he was now open mouth and teeth to the violently bleeding neck of the curious and inquisitive fisherman. It sounded as if two low rider cars, with pounding woofers, were ‘bumping uglies’, pardon the expression, by the light of a recumbent moon. Two low riders, intertwined, muffler to muffler, fucking to the gentle breezes of the night trade winds and the ever genteel whispers of El Niño: (Foggy windows, fuzzy dice and hydraulic drop top dash board plastic Jesai). He with a tattoo of flames down his sides, orange, red and green; she with a bumper sticker reading, “IN CASE OF RAPTURE, THIS CAR WILL BE UNMANNED.” What a delicate drag race these automobilic fancies, be!
Huckleberry however imbibed nearly all the blood this poor fisherman had coursing through his veins. He sprang out of his embrace.
“Lower, the flag of the MORTAL & PESTER.”
“Huckleberry, a vampire?” I gasped.
“Far from it my young Mimidae, that-there is the early stages of homunculization. Vampires, feeding hours, are regulated by the ever waxing and waning moon, that semi-luminous orbital. Spagyric necronauts may feast by the lights of any hour.”

FROM THE LIBRARY
OF DEAD ZEAL:

After the flag was lowered and appropriately folded, it was taken with quite the pomp and circumstance to the two surviving children of our most recently dearly departed by Ishmael while Ducasse hummed the National Anthem:
“Insane in the meme-brain, that Swann’s birdly rights. That our legs were nair hair.” In that vein it went and then Huckleberry returned to poling as if nothing had occurred, and in fact he had no recollection of those events when I asked him later over lime tea and cookies. Ducasse continued his lurid and tumultuous dictation well into the night and the next morning. I sat shivering, not daring to sleep and scribbling as fast as I could to keep in pace with our fearless and ubiquitous orator.

“You don’t know me without you have read a book by the name of Mimus and Polyglottos, but that ain’t no matter. That book was writ by Mr. Knecht Ruprecht, and he told the truth, mainly. There was things which he stretched, but mainly he told the truth.”
-- Huckleberry Faust, Mrs. Sippy’s Delta, 2003

RECIPE FOR THE WORLD’S
BEST MUD PIE: EVER

Cancel your subscriptions to any magazines that may make the monthly, weekly, bimonthly or annual cycles to your house(s) right now! This is the best, goddamned recipe for Mud Pie you will ever find!
Take all. Enter the sandbox and wait for a terrific excuse to blow up the spot. Add dirt. Eat with an apple. Surely Sally sells seagulls down bye-bye birdie to, then before. And then again, it really could be happening. Alien abduction is a pain in the dairy airy, airy, airy air. To the sky, so easily and where the clouds can’t even hide. I see you floating. Enter the spacecraft.
So this is what aliens look like, I was skeptically expecting non-anthropomorphic sentient creatures of peace and knowledge. But now I know that the others were right. Fuck Venus, dude.
Mars, the bringer of meme-wars says, “I love you.” Words of such great import that cupid shits itself when drunk on the winish distillation of penultimate Angel hole Eros: H 2 (the Mother-fucking) O.

Reasons why Venus is better than Mars (as compiled by the sub-sub-librarian to the great Martian corporation: Anal Probe, Inc.):
1. Women are ecclesiastically more thoughtful in speech and appearance of character than are men.
2. Red is the color of some kidney beans and all Christmas stockings. True love’s hair.
3. Men don’t look that great in the sheep’s clothing of ironic discourse. No, really?
4. Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwiches are not the same thing, in much the same way that alpha-male is an oxymoron.

4
martians are from venus at hotmail dot com

Listen, as one of your kind, I would just like to say, “What the fuck?” Ennui, go, over the rainbow, somehow.

“Boo boo boo boob oooboooboobooboboboboboboboboboboboboboboboboboboboboboooboo.”
The ghosts that haunt the stairways and biways of the attic of your mind, they lyin’, sleeps tonight.
The man behind the couch says keep it real and all you can do is express yourself like a lemon peel like shrimp. Do it your self. GIVE UP THE GHOST, WILL ‘YA? >>
Martian Fubar:

CANDY ASS ANAL PROBES ALL.

VARIOUS NOTES FROM
A RANDOM WAITING
ROOM IN NORTH-AMERICA:

Somewhere under the Brooklyn bridge./// not trolls, Lilliputians, nor Extra-terrestrials.))))////(((((
A different shade of breakfast: let them squeak brakes.
It came one night from the bathroom mirror. I mean window. It came into the bedroom and took him right up and out off the bed leaving her in a state of disbelief. She would talk, never again, forever. He returns from a brisk trip to Alpha-Centauri. No X-Mass presents though, all the way to the other side of the galaxy and not even a lousy Tea Party.
From demons, to goblins, to angels, to Martians, you know little green men. Not environmentalists, their skins be green.
Why do we never speak of little green women, for surely races of more than at least one gender patrol the far reaches of outer space. What if there was a race, of extra-terrestrials, with no less than 203 genders among themselves?

What if it did not seem unreasonable to spin a space yarn of ‘little green women.))))))))
=THE SUMPTUOUS AND EXAGERATTED TALE OF LITTLE GREEN WOMEN.==
X marks the spot.

X

LITTLE GREEN WOMEN
Or
(1.Meg, 2.Jo, 3.Beth 4.and 5.Amy)
+
(Get Abducted By Aliens & Live, To Tell Their Tale)

A WHODUNNIT

PART FIRST:

CHAPTER I

1: “GREMLINS WON’T BE GREMLINS WITHOUT ANY PRESENCE,” grumbled Jo, playing with the pug.
Wing dwellers, the proverbial aerodynamonauts nightmares and Christmases are made of.
“Divine intervention is a sometime thing from outer space.” She said, and not too suddenly.
It is inconceivable to believe too far into Outer Space. “Tufk, tufky, toorah.”
Outer, O, Out there, “forgive the interruption, pardon the intrusion, may I borrow a cup of sugar, some flour and an anise probe (bulb) for the flying saucer (of milk maybe), I said, me and the old man are going to Outer Space for a little experimental vacation. We ain’t gonna be sleeping in those muddy cages this time though, we’re going as ambassadors for this spaceship Earth. This wayward vessel.”

2: Too sweet for this world. Spending the late nights and early morning hours of life writing horror novels about sinister monsters of who travel with the wind and drink the blood from farm animals and little children who don’t obey their parents.
She obsessed a mountain of despair into the pudding-like Neanderthal mind(s) of the other captives, cuddling in the spoon position.
And in that corner of the mind say eye and/or cage, that is the frames of the ship, sleeping, now at least forever and a day. Amen.

3: Our MAIDEN VOYAGE, to an interplanetary system caddy-corner to the Mandrake event horizon, over yonder, went according to schedule.

4: DAY ONE: Turbulence. By night I sit and look out of my window. The air is thick with heat and the crew is beginning to get restless. I fear mutiny. My suspicions were confirmed earlier this evening, and I say evening on a guess, time is meaningless here. Three more days of this rather opalescent journey then, there, will be no more fears of an on board uprising. Our navigator, Dr. Huckleberry Faust says, “Non-butt, our shelves, can see our behinds.” He may be on that plank to the 4th dimension very soon. Mornings aboard this ship bring toast and eggs, mostly desirable, mostly edible. We steady and await further instructions.

5: DAY TWO: Rain. Us girls stayed to the main hull today discussing our favorite passages from the Sci-Fi Sub-Sub-Book of the Dead. This as we drank quite remarkable and memorable lime tea and ate cucumber sandwiches; as has been our custom every Sundae since my birth; I being the youngest of the four children. My name is, either: Meg, Jo, Beth or Amy, I never remember; this week I am calling myself Meg. Beth called me Jo this morning and Jo had to remind her that I was Meg; which confused her because Amy was calling herself Meg this morning while they were brushing their teeth. She thinks she owns everything.
As it happens we do speak Farcey rather well, for it not being our native tongue. Our Farcey instructor says we have Ergospheric accents, when speaking Farcey; which coincidentally will be to our benefit since the natives of the Mandrake E.H., speak Farcey with a bit of a lisp and pinch of salt. Inconsistent Trans-chaotic Metaphors of Indeterminate, Specificity, libel the pug.
Specifically, the Itch, the Rash and Toe Jam.

6: DAY THREE: X-Mass. X-Morning. We made our way down the stairs for Christmas breakfast. What a wonder it was to see all those sausages splayed about amongst the breads and butters, jams and royal jellies. It was bliss, I tell you, impermanent and most wondrous bliss. The galley was filled with the screams of darker skinned types of whom we are selling to the Father-ship in the Mandrake event horizon. Actually, we aren’t selling them; we are a liberal and pious family, who do not believe in slavery, we sell fruits and vegetables, things of splendid green, not damned pink. The slaves are sold by weight by the life insurance agents who represent the remaining Americans from the old planet: Earthy worth.
Jo said, “Maybe the slaves down in the galley want our bread.” And they did, too.

7: DAY FOUR: 4:20 AM. Huckleberry has freed the slaves, damn his soul-less eyes. Set them loose in Outer Space. We arrive, unscathed, passing thru the great gates of ‘ourladyofthepulsarversusourladyoftheneutrinostar’…we arrive safe and soundlessly; as sound does not, truly travel in the blackness of space, proper.

8: DAY FIVE: On the long ride over Lakshmi Planum we arrive at the final resting-place of the ‘VENUS of PHOBOS’, in Ishtar Terra. Near Walden Pond, where we keep winter quarters. Mother goes out and does Henry’s wash every week in hopes of keeping his (distilled) spirits up. On a planet where none but women are revered? Not a fucking chance, you testicle garnished asshole. On Walden Pond the little green women still do the clothes.
By the way, why Ishtar that there be green inhabitants on Mars? Why the complimentary color of the inhabitants to the planet? By this logic, Earthlings need be orange and some are, trust me on this one Cisco, you little, green jug. Orange U glad, hole?
On a yellow planet, purple people eaters? Not a fucking chance, boy.

9: DAY SIX: Wholesome family goodness, frock! One of us was to die today, Jo Beth, I presume. The doctor, being a man and full of wisdom that excludes knowing how to wash clothes, began bleeding her at the elbows. She was nearer to dying than the Barom Samdi’s bride on their honeymoons over Miami, Florida, 4:29 A.M.

10: DAY SEVEN: Aboard the Mother Ship. We were abducted last night in our dreams. “God bless us, everyone!” she is screaming it, haiku style, eternal night, a thousand and one anal probe knights. They have us in our paces, we are fed through slots and under doors; we sleep huddled together, drinking wine from the same jug, swapping germs, a regular German swap meet (swamp meat). (Laying in our own filth and grumbling lyrically in the cold dark air.) “God bless us, everyone, goddamn it!” God bless U.S.; every war. Darker then that and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. Grow corn in the cold to catch it and keep it in ajar. Stomach grown candy corn of the mighty delta. Animals in cages go crazy. Dogs on leashes are not friendly, are they not? Shit, everywhere and tomorrow is shit, retched, fetid shit. God bless, that: Like this and like that and uh…ugh, ugh. Yea-ah boy-ee!
“This shit isn’t scaring me you dumb ass little red mother-ship-fuckers!” One brave young woman announced, most desperately.
“Sure it does.” Over the loud speaker, with almost a Farcey accent, “it scares the shit out of you.”

PART SECOND: COURTESANS, ALL, ABROAD ON THE MOTHERSHIP

The courtesans sit round the elongated tableaux: Essex and Langenberry side, in ad side; fucking, sequentially. The outrager spat, Huckleberry-Esque of the mid-milky way stew. In an elevator booth, perfect for appropriating and appropriate for perfecting an over-piracy; these high-space outlaw(s), schemes of courting “love”…in a fallen sense: the deity reigns.
At supper: “Arse those sausages?!!1, Real live sausages?!!!”
“Indeed they are madam (e); ouiselle…they are indeed sausages>…”
“Isn’t Butter on fresh bread the most divine of all! And on an X-Mass, 2!”
Divination through buttering bread; i.e. reading butter on bread to predict the future: butyrumancy

INTERLUDE, FOR AN
EXPLICATION ON BUTYRUMANCY:
“EAGLE’S EMBER” & “OUR RUBBER”

{The Butyrumancer speaks: “You have buttered your bed, now divinate with it.””””””””””””}
The religion, or spiritual practice, corresponding to Butyrumancy, involves a churning ceremony incorporating up to 385 persons (alive and dead), the prayer and dance of ‘Virgin Emulsification’ and a sacrament of, you guessed it: bread and butter.
The reason humans say, “bread and butter” when keeping together, though taking alternate routes has its roots in butyrumancy. Like this, say: a young married couple is walking downtown and they are walking on 5th street together, holding hands, and all…they happen upon a telephone pole. Now, they do not want to break hand-lock, nor do they wish to reduce the speed of their stroll, so they temporarily release hands as they pass around the telephone pole, saying “bread and butter”, so as not to lose contact spiritually. Thus preventing an almost certain fate of hell and eternal torture for not holding hands correctly on the goddamn Sabbath.
Butyrumancer parlance: “{better, butter, batter, hey batter, swing butter.}”
There were several practices by butyrumancers that the rest of society, for some god-forsaken reason, found unsuitable and unlawful. The first of these was the making of dairy products, not from cow or goat milk but from ‘the milk of man’; that is the milk of WOMAN (butyrumancy was begun in the eras of the over-masculinization of anything and everything not considered woman’s work.)

The Star Stuff Chalk Circle

From THE FIRST EPISTLE OF TOM THUMBELLINA:

“THOU SHALT NEVER, HENCEFORTH AND FOREVER, CREATE, OR FASHION, IN ANY WAY, PRODUCTS OF DAIRY FROM ANY BEAST LESS NOBLE THAN MAN. THE MILK OF MAN BE ALL THY DRINK OR ELSE THEIR BE FAMINE AND DAMNED BEASTIALITY IN THE LAND OF MILK AND HONEY. AS SUCH THE MILK OF THE VIRGIN (ULTRA-LACTATA) IS THE MOST DIVINE OF ALL.”

Just between you and me they milk them like cows, twenty virgins (their version of a nunnery) all lined up in troughs with antibiotic drips and suction machines on their breasts, fucking wrong.
Cheese made from the breast of man (although men, for the most part, do not lactate) is called: tyroshomo, which roughly translates as: ‘human cheese’. There were several different ways of preparing and curing the tyroshomo; the most popular of which were a type of feta-style cheese (eagle’s ember) and a sub-sub-type of blue cheese (our rubber).

The Tyroshomo Drive-Thru on a Drunk Dial

In the religion, proper; there are many bizarre stories involving milk, such as the tales of ‘LACTATA’, or spontaneous lactation of the super-devout, mostly from their ears, eyes, nipples, noses, and mouths; almost always accompanied by sexual orgasm. The story of Venus of Phobos, the mystical progenitor of SWEET CREAM, or their messiah, a kindly child who, “drank not of the milk, from the mammary glands of man’s breast; but partook of the milk, of God’s mind. A milk more fortified with vitamins and minerals than any mammal of the ground may concoct within the cavities and glands of the their animate temples.” He was born to a virgin named Mary, who actually didn’t birth him, since Mary was a man; but that is how the story went. I suppose part of the miracle of his birth was focused around how a man can give a ‘virgin birth’. Mary also sprouted “the blessed tits of wonder and joy that wrung forth the holy milk of God’s holy mind-tit; which was good like sunlight and thick as emulsified cream.” He died a most horrible death at the hands of his oppressors, the ‘Cattlemen’…they “churned this mother out”, that is they churned him to death in a public venue, and after he died they covered him with whipped cream “from the cursed udder of bovine subterfuge” and a cherry. (Representing blood of the golden calf and color it should be served at). He lay there for three days until people got sick of the smell (The lactose intolerant.) Our Mean Mister Magus did not rise again; he rotted like everything else.
One can easily understand the taboo, it is sort of strange that we only drink the milk from other mammals. Other mammals whose bodies only make the milk for their young. Butyrumancers saw milk from the human breast as prayer, as communication with their god. They saw taking milk from other mammals as an act of beastiality. “Human milk be beatific liquid.” Or so they say.
On the other hand early cults of this religion also practiced a form of cannibalism that mimed Hassidic Kosher standards: “the eating and partaking of the flesh and fat of Man is proper in the context of the sacred feast of the Lunar Eclipse. But the preparations of such things shall never involve the combination of the flesh of Man and the milk of Man. Let not the child be cooked in the milk of the mother.” So, they could eat human flesh and drink human milk and/or eat tyroshomo, but never together: no tyroshomo cheeseburgers, in a manner of speaking.
{All quotes from THE FIRST EPISTLE OF TOM THUMBELLINA.}

THE POSSIBLE CONCOCTED AUSPICES OF EPOH GNIRB:
1) She went back to school and became an astronaut.
2) She faked her own death to avoid obscurity as an unrecognized genius.
3) She is now a proprietor of a coffee shop named Latte Freakin’ Da.
4) She makes pornographic films under assumed names like Hannah Faster.
5) She went home and no-body noticed because she does not answer the phone or her door and subsides off of rainwater and the mites that live on her eyelashes.
6) She was surfing and found Laputa or Lilliput and has not returned yet from her travels.
7) She lost track of time and died of old age before her time.
#) She is the reincarnation of Pythagoras, she realized this and formed a cult based on ‘free love and the . semi-non-organic shapes that clouds make’.
8) She found a black hole in the Sea of Norway, went through it and came out of the other side reassembled into a leather bound edition of the complete works of Marcel Proust; just like Stephen Hawking predicted would happen.
9) You are Epoh Gnirb.
10) She became a figment of somebody else’s imagination besides the image you hold of what you believe her to look like in your mind at this very moment.
11) She works at a wax museum as an ‘Events Coordinator’ named Cassandra.

Baalerina & Sal Ammonia, abducted:
“OUR RUBBER ABROAD”
PLATE ELEVEN

The Ballad of Baalerina and Sal Ammonia begins in a waiting room. There is a gray carpet and some army green wallpaper that has been in the process of peeling off the wall for probably two years. Sal Ammonia stands next to coffeepot, which he calls the ‘cucurbit’. Noticing Baalerina standing near the donuts he offers her a cup, “May I get you a cup of this delicious black hole juice? It’s freshly squeezed!” She just nods and grabs herself a crueler.
“You see, I call coffee, black hole juice, because when it percolates, it is dripping from a funnel in the shape of a singularity into a reversed image of that same funnel. (…) Well, it would seem to be a good example of what it may taste like to fall through a black hole; do you believe in black holes?”
“I thought scientists have already proven their existence,” Baalerina, knowing more than him.
“Well, I simply meant that there may be religious or spiritual implications from black holes.”
“Like what a new version of the Vedic Scriptures are going to fall through one?”
“I guess I was speaking more philosophically, what IMPLICATIONS may be made from a universe where gravity can suck things away forever and all, makes one wonder if it may be a literal HELL HOLE.”
“I don’t think so.”

AUTHOR’S MAXIMIZING EXPLANATION OF PLATE ELEVEN:

The contents of the cucurbit have now reached a point of the deepest depths of a bottomless photon bucket. There is no more energy to borrow to make the light. There is only black hole radiation, the universe is crumbling at the speed of a cockroach in heat, when it reaches the other side, all will be for not. Sal Ammonia and Baalerina are two wanderers that did happen to become abducted and while aboard the ship, fall through a black hole. Metaphorically, of course, for they are stories told by butyrumancers…they are characters in their holy tales; they are the PSYCHO-POMPS OF A NEW GENERATION. The rest of the parable is about Baalerina’s brilliant idea on how to survive falling through the black hole: OUR RUBBER. She jimmied a ‘condom-a-ton device’ out of virgin’s milk, she wove this together with Sal Ammonia’s rather obscene armpit hair into super strings and knitted these into a wet blanket par excellence. Hence the legendary ‘WET BLANKET OF BAALERINA’ or ‘OUR RUBBER’. Their seed was spared from death in the white hole and they lived to butter another day.

VOYAGE TO EPOHDUNGNIRB

ANAMNESIS ON THE FURIOUS VESSEL KNOWN, NON-LOCALLY, AS THE
‘SUB-HOMINO RAFT’ AND ITS CREW: BAD INFINITUM; THE GENUFLECTORS OF FEAR, SONS OF NEITHER ETHER NOR EITHER AND PROTECTORS OF THE HIDDEN INTEGER

PRIMUM MOBILE

HENRY AVERY, LORD OF THE KEYS TO ZERO-HOOD, (ESQ.); swabs the deck of the awe-inspiring ‘Sub-Homino Raft’ made exclusively from an arcanum of human portions; literal flotsam. This raft, a floating hyper-bower of pedantic gore, sails westward like a delinquent sun from the universe’s kung-fu grip of saltwater and nitrogen. Dogs are not stowing away; neither are the seagulls that avoid the raft as a nun would a bad habit. Smoking a cigarette, rolled from the skin of a rattlesnake, Henry Avery looked out over the flat ocean world surrounding--it would seem--the whole cosmos, and remembers quite synchronically, before the Fludd; before the rivers of boiling blood and piss and shit pockmarked the world like wafers in a lily pond. Before the end was the middle, and before that, something a bit more profound and reveling about our rocking chair Earth. Something that not even uttered under one’s breath meant much of nothing at all: it was the last thought Henry Avery thought before life in the coke-bottle recesses of his personal savior’s mindless soul cogitated the equilibrium of our watery planet goodbye. He thought, “Why come I can’t remember what I can’t think of a forehand?” It was more true than beautiful, and less interesting than specifically radical, as a simple and pure thought: the putridity of the raft floating up and through his nostrils, up into the deepest secrets of his brain. Henry wept for several hours after, held aloof by visions of an arbitrary spissatus, the cirrus of his dreams.

Just a thought, fruitcake…

DIVINE ABDUCTION, ALIEN-LIKE ABDUCTION BY MR. AND MRS. GOD

(SKETCH FOR A TELEVISION SHOW)
Pt. 1, Dr. Funk and Stein up ‘yer rectal pie. Et al.

They were sleeping in their bedroom and then he just vanished…disappeared. Like that.

Mr. God: Look what I just abducted Mrs. God!

Mrs. God: Oh, you don’t know were that thing has been, just wash it before you bring it in.

Mr. God: I sanitized it before I took it out of its sleeping bag on earth. It’s fine. Just get those enclosures ready. This one is going to make it I think. Like Moses, then we’ll just send it back home like nothing happened. I want some water, caviar and the divine probing unit.

Mrs. God: As you wish, lord up above.

Mr. God: Just get my equipment ready, we have a long night of tedious experimenting to do.

Mrs. God: I’ll put a pot of black hole juice on the boil.

Mr. God: Here. (Putting the human in the enclosure.) Now administer the holy anal probe.

Mrs. God: Where are the assholes on these creatures again? I swear I never can remember. That obsession you have for putting so many openings and orifices on things. Do you know any other gods that waste so much time on openings?

Mr. God: There, on the backside towards the top of the legs. Go slow at first, then just glide along gently, we don’t want to break any more than absolutely necessary.

Mrs. God: Administering the sacred anal probe of Jahweh!

Mr. God: Amen to that my dear. Hold it, let me take readings, got to get these calculations spot on, if in you know what I mean!

Mrs. God: You are such a rotten old meme-plex, god, how did I ever let you out of the bedroom long enough to create the earth, in what was it, seven days?

Mr. God: Just kiss me while you calibrate that ass my dear.

(The anal probe was administered.)

Now, young human, look at me. Let me see those teeth. Yes, you should go see a dentist. How do you ever expect to mate with a mouth like that? Now, seriously, I want you, when I take you back to earth, to tell every one on the planet about me. Tell them how wonderful and loving and devoted I am. Tell them my love is infinite and that they are worthless compared to their benevolent creator. Tell them to prostrate themselves, everyday, as an offering of their dignity and pride and rationality. Every day! Tell them to do this, for my wrath is awesome. Tell them the apocalypse is coming and that I have a holy army of winged motherfuckers with anal probes and 666 stickers, yo-yos and flaming swords of truth. Ready to get a little mean. Put the Dr. Funk and Stein back up their rectal pies. Turn this little bitch into a backyard BBQ. Tell them that the message I bring is one of love, unless they don’t believe you, then my message is one of death, and total, absolute genocide. I am peace. I am charity. I am love, manifestering.

Mrs. God: Hallelujah! The voice of the one true god! Praise Sal Ammonia!

Mr. God: I told you never to say his name around me again. He does not exist to me anymore.

Mrs. God: He is your son!

Mr. God: No son of mine would go around the universe wearing his mother’s underwear and saying that he has come to rid the cosmos of unnecessary orifices.

The human: A salmon did what now?

Mr. God: Silence!

(Mr. God pushes the anal probe a little deeper into the human. He falls asleep.)

Mrs. God: Careful honey-balls, he is only a human!

Mr. God: Why does he do it?

Mrs. God: He’s probably a little scared and confused and wants to be back on earth…oh, right, well. The chosen one loves you and he is doing what he feels is right.

Mr. God: I never should have slept with her.

Mrs. God: It was an experiment. How were you to know that mating was possible? Now we know to use anal probes instead. I mean we got to get the data from them somehow.

Mr. God: I didn’t love her. I was thinking of you the whole time. It was an experiment. I was harvesting data from her rectal pie. I was a true professional the whole time. I promise.

Mrs. God: You know I performed an experiment or two on her myself, back in the day.

Mr. God: You didn’t! You little fox! Well…

Mrs. God: I was young and going through a really experimental time and wanted some answers to questions about certain feelings I had. I saw young Mary, when you had her in the enclosure, performing your first round of experiments on humans from earth. She saw me and told me she would do anything if I would help her escape. She was so beautiful, and vivacious, I just couldn’t resist.

Mr. God: What do you say, if we drop this earthling back on it’s rock and go neck in the back of our spaceship; maybe I’ll show you my divining rod and matching anal probe?

Mrs. God: Mr. God, you dog, you!
FIN

--F. AUSTIN LOVE, PORTLAND, OREGON, 2001

New Project: Cucurbit Mosaic, a book by the Meme-Rider Media Team, first installment by Nathan Shafer, "The Homunculus Witness"

2001-08-30T19:50:00.000-07:00

THE HOMUNCULUS WITNESS: OR THE DIASPORA OF MADAMADAM

PART ONE: CRYOLOGICAL PEDAGOGY

Adam was, according to recent mythology, the original man, homo uno. As the forefather of cryogenic sports, Adam sits alone, the apeiron in the trees, our arboreal forefather, thee ancestor/incestor par excellence. He inseminated the world through our beloved lady of the Genetic River (homo house), Mitachondrial EVE, metachondrial Eve, if you will but allow. This insemination filtered from womb to womb until finally great panacea split leaving our great legacy relegated to the history books of our extra-somatic overlord, Mr. Freeze.
A snowman par excellence our friend, the cryptozoologicl Mr. Freeze, was left to roam the mountains of Tibet and portions of the Rocky Mountains. An ardent anarchist and practitioner of neo-voodoo, Mr. Freeze began concocting hair-brained schemes, from his shack in the mountains, to replace all the governments of all the nations of all the world with tennis rackets, supreme. Again as his döppleganger, the aenphallable Mr. Hide.(ALL HAIL!)
THE END

His plots of course were thwarted and he was left to fade away into obscurity and disbelief. (Ibid #7.8001)
THE END
One summer morning several years later a letter arrived from a PO box in...
THE END

As soon as those events had curtailed and sputtered, the sky began to clear enough for all the world to see, from the eyes of a frog. “What a pedantic bore you are you rotted apple core of a ghost!” she said with just a little too much relish.

So are the ways of us homunculi. We have been living underground for some time and wish to return to the surface and once again breath the air and let the sun drop down on our faces like blankets. But alas it is only a pipe (bomb).

THE END

PART TWO: THE DISRATIONALIST INTOXICATIVE

There are “dialectic numerical digestion agents” within the functioning hierarchy along certain points above a distopian aleph, of a marginal prostheticism; namely the pantropic ether, the P.E.
Now ether can be ingested in a manner of ways, but the most prominent of all is the ether supplement, called the disrationalist intoxicative, D.I., for those who aren’t down with current lingo of our current four-dimensionality.
It is consumed via transpacific osmosis; a real group effort, a true collaboration on the part of several highly skilled individuals who collectively call themselves: M.O.O.F....
M.O.O.F., being an arcanum/arcanomium/anarcronym for something, anything. There was a legendary internet monster named "Moof", who was infamous years ago for disconnecting cyber-travelers from their selected sites; this was known as being "moofed". Retain pre-consistency.

These legends really don’t hold much water though they do know where the bananas are.
THE END

PART FOUR AND FIVE: THE FIRST EVIDENCES OF PROVINCIAL LIFE ON THE SUBATOMIC LEVEL VIA QUANTUM TELEKINESIS

No matter how micro-biotic and benign they apeiron, these little fuckers are the life blood of a great many subatomic plots on the domestic throne of the first inter-spatial event horizon summit, ala the worm hole to your right; that’s my left to you.

When Gargantua had originally decided to meditate on what would make the greatest arse-wipe of all time he used a swan in a way that would make Leda blush.

“I say is there anybody done there? I say is there a living soul among any of you?” So said Mr. Hide, ripe with the olive juices dripping off his forehead like so much sweat does on a hot summer day in Gondwanaland. (See part 2)

PART SEVEN, EIGHT, NINE AND ELEVEN: DELIVERY OF A PIZZA IN THE FORM OF A DOVE TO MR. AND MRS. HIDE ON THEIR WEDDING NIGHT, EVEN

High above the earth in what appears to be a chocolate covered woman is something called an ‘Eros Matrix’, now me and the boys caught a portion of it, when that meteor hit it, and took it down to the lab for colonization. We poked and prodded the successive layers of dust that had accumulated under its translucent epidermis.
The results turned up inconclusive. It was like fucking a toothbrush with a particle accelerator.

THE END

Then, there was a small, faint, rather monotonous knock on the door. Mrs. Hide jumped out of bed immediately and ran to the door; knocking the antique clock off of the nightstand in the process. It was a stupid looking clock any ways. So fuck it, right? 1) Time equals baby love or T = BABY LOVE.
It was ten o’clock.

(You could smell that pizza from a mile away, everyone in a one-mile vicinity came to their motel door to inquire about what kind of pizza it was.) The time now is 7:15 P.M.
It took a solid hour for Mrs. Hide to tell all of them that there was only enough pizza for (her + her) = (her) husband; who was in the shower washing himself, and someone just like himself, like a rosebush, auto-pruning itself/himself, utter thing-ness. For thirty-five minutes of the hour that she spent. (On and on.) (Das ding an sich.)

And then came the good part.
THE END
It was apparent that something "fowl was a foot" when Mr. Hide burped and a dove flew out of his mouth at top speed and right into the window, as is any bird’s custom when visiting humans, killing itself in one fatal swoop.
They had sex two more times and then fell asleep in each other’s arms, guilt free.

PART EIGHT: THE NON-LOCAL AFFECTS OF USING ONE’S SHITTER

There is a long distance that keeps all butterflies from any sort of Gael force winds and close range de-rationalization systems used especially in the in (and out) breeding of in (and out) animate objects ‘du chode. That is there isn’t much of an un-literal connection, it just goes to show all the time. (na na na)
But that isn’t much of a thought to anyone in the situation, which just unfolded before the very large and obsidian eyes of death that-that particular particle just did.

Before long, and with an amazing amount of equanimity he was able to exacerbate the particular situation even farther, which he did.
And it wasn’t at a small cost to the non-locals. They would be swimming in those flood waters for months to come trying to do their daily chores with five to six feet of water at every turn. Just imagine what the costs would be to non-residents in a non-local universe! There would be…
THE END

There was always some book right next to the toilet bowl that seemed to keep everything in order there. Funny thing was he couldn’t ever remember what book it was that he had there and every time he went and picked up the book it seemed like it was a new one. (It probably was, but who is to say.)
So one day he decided to host/hostess a little experiment.
He went into the bathroom and picked up the book and gave it a good look over. It was a black book with gold lettering and one of those little tassels that kids have on their graduation caps. He remembered his childhood and how he didn’t have one of those tassels on his cap. In fact, he never had a cap.
He was (1)illiterate to the point(2) of not being able to(3) read sufficiently other than to(4) spell his name.
He felt more invertebrated by the nanosecond. He wept into his hairy palms.(5)
He wondered what the book was called, he named off the letters (he picked up letters as a child and he could spell H-I-S N-A-M-E):

“M-O-O-F,” he said, each letter leaving his lips like tobacco spit, “the fuck is that?”
THE END(6)

PART THREE AND TWENTY-NINE: THE RELIGIOUS IMPLICATIONS OF HAVING “AEMEATH” TATTOOED ACROSS YOUR FOREHEAD

Now, before there was enough oxygen in the lower rungs of the Earth’s atmosphere for humans, and other various lower life forms, like giraffes or wiener dogs, or their cryptozoological hybrid, the wieneraffe*, there was dirt. Dirt may not have always been here, but it is definitely going to be there for you when you die. And dirt is just a fancy word for “clay”.
“Clay”, used by humans, for eons, to make various useful things like some of man’s earliest forms of slaves: golems.
Golems, as you know, are perfect for all those things that nobody wants to do. They do them with intolerable equanimity and a level of happy-go-luckiness that makes my skin curdle. Even things like self-applying make up to their eyeballs to test for safety is done by golems with the most deplorable of cheery smiles on their smarmy, little, “clay” and “DNA” string faces.
THE END
Perpetual multiplicity (or inexact consistency): A young girl, perhaps a hermaphrodite.
THE END
Actually, it was about five o’clock when I first noticed that it was raining when I thought to myself, “Hey, I’ll just go out for a little walk in the rain. I can sing those little songs I’ve been making up, about that cute guy I see in school, to myself so nobody will hear me.”
So, I was just walking out near the stream and singing, and doing this little dance that involves this sort of frog hop side-step thing, when there, right in front of me was this tall shadow. Now, I don’t mean tall like human tall, I mean tall, like skyscrapers. It was just standing there, shadowing, or whatever it is that they do.
So, I started throwing little pebbles at it. Nothing happened, so I figured I would try bigger stones and nothing happened. So that’s when I started throwing the really big rocks at it. Eventually, I couldn’t pick up the rocks I wanted to throw at the shadow; so I just threw myself at it, and I promised myself that I would never do that again. So then I did it again and again and again. When finally that big, tall shadow was just eating out of my hand. The key is that you can’t let it know you are scared of it. You gotta show those little sumbitches who is boss, and I don’t mean them, if you know what I mêmê. (7)

PART SIX: CONCERNING THE SUPERSTRINGS UNDERNEATH THE CLOAK OF MR. HIDE, AND MRS. HIDE ON THEIR WEDDING NIGHT, UNEVEN

The reconstitution of imaginary (hidden, in cryptozoological terms) things, including things that never even existed can be drawn up and reconstituted in any amount of completedness or disfinishedness, thereof. There is a popular meme floating around right now that states that anything closely resembling anything can, in all actuality, be nothing and then be re-implicated as something in a nothingness accelerator, if not.

Mr. Hide lifted up his skirt.
He or she could see his bulging sex-pack spelunking the plank, in the deep shadows, of his underpants. His udder was the color of excited garlic and it smelled of “love gasoline” in the sunlight.
Quark file patter on the hostess subject #19.0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000 00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000015634875634321:
A proclivity to rectal hair/hare and…other such remedial devices used in foreplay.
THE END
PART THREE: ON WHY THE GUY WAS NUTS, SO I ATE HIM

THE END (3)
THE END (3)
THE END (3)

PART THREE: THE ALEMBIX ARCANUM ARCANORUM, PART TWO(8)

THE END
My mother told me once never to trust anything that laid eggs, and that included anything that didn’t lay eggs.

Cannibalism runs very rampant in these parts come wintertime. And for a small fee I can make sure that your body will not become part of someone else’. I myself have only eaten the flesh of other humans when it was absolutely necessary, and it has helped me out of many a jam. ($)
A Special Announcement:
As everyone is very well aware, golems and homunculai, though pleasant to lick when thirsty, are not suitable to eat, being neither vegetable nor protein. There have been several recent reports of children eating loose golems and homunculai. Please try to keep them locked up in their closets. This is the last time I want to talk about this.
“Sure, sex and cannibalism can go hand in hand. Though it’s usually the other way around.”
(Tongue in cheek.)

(Sex in hand.)(9)
PART THREE: THE PHYSIOLOGICAL DELICACY

“It is imperative to remember, when working within the confines of tesseracts (nature morte), that you should never put your hands out of a moving vehicle. You may not get it back for another twenty years or so.” Those were the last words my father said to me before he finally checked out of this aluminum foil. I never quite realized what they meant, until recently.
They mean that everything has a price value attached to it (in this case, $27.13), and that our jobs as salesmen is to make sure that the customers don’t realize the eternal implications of what it is they are buying from us. It means that we are some of the good guys and that it doesn’t matter what happens to this person or that person along the way. It means that everything in life is a semantic judgment on our parts, and that every one of those motherfuckers deserved it. I mean they were asking for it. Dressing up like women and all; acting so swish, it would make snails horny. (Suicide by auto-homunculization.)
A deliberate exuberance, sometimes dove like, but never “dovely”.
Never was there a prizefighter like him. He was a machine.
What you want to look for when butchering the brain is a tiny little thing called the pituitary gland. Don’t eat that. That’s the little devil in the brain. Might as well wash it down with a tall, cool glass of mercury; call it even, meme.

“It’s the reason that having sex in automobiles is so fun though. It’s like you really are in a ‘spaceship’ and that the two of you need to ‘get it on, a a very serious and meaningful way, because it is up to you to replenish the Earth. The two of you are the only ones left. All future humans will be our little whiskers and kicks. And it feels that way every time I make love and then I am pregnant again (Freudian night slips)…I mean she’s pregnant (not pungent) again; and there you have it.”
“I only decipher (Laurasian Ur languages) and then...only more so.” (Tap dancing is quiet now.)
“Oh…”
“But, please continue, Mr. Hide, going on and on. I find it fascinating and I am about to come.”
“Well, I had this one dream where I am at a funeral and there is this lady there (the widow), who I really find quite amusing and I start making out with the body (French kissing, like Lautremount) and I just start…”
THE END

PART THREE: A LITTLE BRUNCH MUSIC FOR ONE HUNDRED LOBSTERS

“Bottle of beer on the wall.”
“I used to just sit and stare at the lobsters in the big fish tank at grocery stores when I was a child. I would try to name all of them before my mother finished buying the groceries, but I would always lose track of which ones were which. I still, to this day, have never eaten lobster because I know that somehow paddling back up our genetic waters I am going to find where our family tree breaks off with their family tree and there they will be having a nice English style breakfast, better than being boiled alive though.”
Anyways, there were enough lobsters in those days to skin a rat. Obscene, really.

They are called the cockroaches of the sea. And that is not to be taken lightly; they can easily as kill a man as sleep with their daughters. These things are down right pernicious. I had my first “experience” with one a while back. Went by the name of ‘Frog Lips’. He was tall and handsome, and he always had a few bucks to spare…
THE END

PART EIGHT: A RETURN TO THE SCENE OF THE PRIME PENUMBRA, 1938

Hibernation, and pantaphobia. (Dyslexic crytptozoology) (10)
I stayed wrapped up in a blanket for three weeks trying to pretend that I was somewhere else. Nothing seemed to work. I played house, but I couldn’t imagine what my kids would look like so I played tea party instead, the whole time I am shivering and trying not to let my face peek out of the blanket. “More tea, Mr. Freeze?” I asked. But there was no reply.
I breathed out and the cold air turned my breath into a butterfly.
I shivered and made a little moan.
I looked out over the mountains, my new home. “I will learn to be part of these mountains and I will take on the way of the non-locals and become their king,”(11) I thought to myself. Thank you.
“I will haunt this mountain side. I will eat the children of all who dare to conquer this peak.”

“I have always wanted to eat children anyways.”

PART THREE: A REFERENCE TO DETERMINISTIC REALITIES

There are many-worlds of which we humans take part in; there is an infinite number any way you look. Up, down, left, right. These transfinite, ironic postulates don’t apply to our universe. We live in a beer bottle. We are (not) the reason for dis-reason in an anything goes situation (you are).
Giving enough respects to Pre-Cambrian ecolytes and faber tooth tigers, we are the immortal constructs of spiritual Lilliputianism. That is, we are Zarathustra’s monocles. (Dip that in your tea and eat it.)

With time the world will bow to its knees. We will murder the universe fetal alcohol style *.

And there was super-luminous light.
With the hour near approaching for a tender morsel to be fetched from the kitchen, our Mrs. Hide was packing her bags and heading out the door to the taxicab that just pulled up.

And so was the nig(12)ht…
THE END
And with that the rain began (2) fall. And it rained for forty (40) days; which coincidentally is as long as it takes to house the homunculus in their bottle, in the horse dung before feeding them on the Arcanum of human blood for forty (40) weeks.

His name was Adam, part homunculus, part the homunculus I love.

PART TWENTY-TWO: HOW MANY PHOTONS DOES IT TAKE TO “TURN ON” A LIGHT BULB?

It was particularly sunny that long, lost winter’s day.
I remembered that on account of this string I tied around Adam’s finger some forty years ago.
His finger just fell off. I don’t know what it is about his hands that I always thought was so appealing, but they just always had that thing to them-you know?

Adam was trying to fuck a light socket, that’s how he lost the finger. Got to be careful these days with all those new fangled gadgetries and whatnots.

I was just watching.

PART TWENTY-THREE: A MANUAL APHRODISIAC FOR CUCUMBERS

In an argument over the possibilities of actual hybridization work done manually between humans and vegetables I set out to forever change the face of cryptozoology.

Hypothesis: It is possible to impregnate a cucumber with human sperm and to carry that “vegetablean fetis” to term naturally, or without the use of illeatoric "gene machines", in the actual conception process.

(Day one: I bought today a package of cucumber seeds and planted them in hydroponics.)
THE END

Today, the cucumbers are large enough to begin mating with. I picked the second to largest cucumber in the greenhouse and began to caress its outer portions.
THE END

Since that day I have mated with a cucumber several times a day to no avail.
There is a certain enthrallment in the process of making love to a cucumber, but not much in the way of an aftermath (aemeath).
Occasionally I would feel like there was something wrong with me, or the way I was doing it. I knew that they knew I loved them, but I wanted them to “feel” it too. I wanted my love to manifest itself in the form of a child. Romance was an issue, but it is surprising how little time there is for the wining and dining vegetables.

I began over-flattering the cucumbers, to the point of conspicuous lies. Saying things like, “I love the greenness of your skin, it is more than the sun, the moon and the stars to me.” (See section 78.00005)

Another problem was that one cucumber after another died, of natural causes, in time that is too quick for regular human conception and delivery. It is quite a blow to your nervous system, losing sexual partners like that.

So, I constructed this large walk-in freezer/love nest/ happy home area where my cucumbers could stay crisp and fresh for me. I became conspicuous in seeing more than one of them at a time.

When I went walking down the street people began treating me like a person worthy of owning a harem, even though I know that they were jealous of my successes with the vegetable kingdom.
There began to develop large secret societies whose common objectives focused around their jealousies of me. It was actually quite flattering.
“Let them rot!” I said, “Let them rot!”

After a while I found that I was able to please more than one of my precious cucumbers at a time. That’s when I began my serious study of the Arcana Sutra. To say I “ was the greatest lover that vegetables have ever known, ” would be an understatement of gargantuan proportions.
The sounds emitted from the pores of the cucumbers’ bodies when they are moved to orgasm are the most wonderful sounds I had ever heard, like rainbows frolicking hot shit out of their proverbial arses.
I began to experiment with the taboos of vegetable society, exploring the depths of their sexuality, trying to learn the secret aphrodisiac that would unlock the secret chastity of their pre-conscious ovaries; in hopes of finally impregnating a cucumber with my own human breed-spunk.
Vegetables are sadists of the highest caliber. I began to give them love marks on their ripe young bodies as I made love to them.
Soon, I was taking small bites out of them as they were climaxing. One thing led to another and the next thing you know I am eating whole cucumbers in front of other cucumbers to drive their pre-conscious veggie-libidos wild.
Then, a radiant and glorious success, one of the cucumbers began to show.
THE END

Now, I had already placed my own pre-sperm cells in the egg shells I personally harvested from willing cucumbers, to see how long the offspring needed to gestate for, and to check for the stability of such creatures in our non-local environment.
I had learned early on that cucumbers, when pregnant, are not the most pleasant of organisms to be around. They are infinitely cranky and always complaining, because they grow about thirty extra pounds; mostly from skin tissue that builds up around they walls of their stems where pre-conscious semi-vaginal organs begin to take form.
This really wasn't the aphrodisiac that I had been looking for. I am still uncertain as to whether it was even an aphrodisiac at all for them (the cucumbers). It was apotropaic intercourse, to say the least.

PART TWENTY-FOUR: HOW VEGETABLEAN PREGNANCY CAUSES THE FIRST IN A SERIES OF NATURAL ABOMINATIONS, NAMELY THAT OF “PICKLED CANNIBALISM”

She was only pregnant for a few hours before she started craving pickles.
Reluctantly, I went out to the store and bought her some.

PART TWENTY-FIVE: THE BIRTH OF A HERMAPHRODITIC CUCUMBER/HUMAN HYBRID, WHO WAS MY FIRST-BORN SON/DAUGHTER

In two weeks time the cucumber delivered a beautiful, three ounce hermaphroditic cucumber/human hybrid, who was my first born son/daughter.
I quickly circumcised the male portions of my child's anatomy and tattooed "AEMEATH" across its forehead.
I named him/her Adamada, after the ancient story of the first hermaphrodite in history. There was a certain “zing” to that old tale that I felt may expound on my child's life non-locally, here in ??Elsewhere??.

Adamada, as I am sure you are well aware is a palindrome. So, another way of pronouncing it would be adamadA, or even adAmada, or even still adamAda.

The next day I put Adamada into an illeatoric "gene machine" and had his/her quarks identified. (As follows:)

Transfinite quark code # 1.00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000
0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000001.

This was very interesting to see appear. Though it is an abbreviation for a longer quark code that can theoretically go on ad infinitum, it was a palindromatic numeration. Adamada, also a palindromatic cryptozoological hybrid was also, in the context of transfinite quark identification, a palindrome.

PART NINETEEN: WHAT THE PRE-CONSCIOUS ENTAILS AND WHY IT IS USUALLY ILLEGIBLE OR HOW TO NOT GET FOOLED BY THE DEATH OF RATIONAL UNICORNS

Cryptozoology, which is the study of imaginary animals, should really be called the study of pre-conscious animals. Animals manifest themselves in a variety of ways. Some prefer to remain hidden from a homocentric view of the world. Others, though fond of homocentrism, are too far removed from consciousness to manifest themselves in a timely or decipherable manner.
The good thing about the cryptozoological implications of a branch of quantum mechanics (called the many-worlds hypothesis) is that the construction of pre-conscious animals (including humans) is possible. It is only a matter of determining the appropriate quark patterns that would coincide with the existence of such a thing.
THE END
Or on the other end of the scale there is a whole world open for the possibilities of hedonism as a language of ecto-plasmic orgasms and endo-plasmic noirgasms.*

PART TWENTY: THE NATURAL EVOLUTION OF PLASTIC NOIRGASMS

Noirgasmophilia, in the world of the non-local or the living pre-conscious is a subject of much controversy. If something never existed and is now in the process of copulating with other non-local or non-existent entities, what are the calculable manifestations of their emotions and/or their general feelings on the subject?
They started in the early part of the century with the explorations of Mr. Aemeath Hide.

Mr. Aemeath Hide was an arcanist, that is, he possessed the secret knowledge of clay, especially that of the secrets associated with the irrational disposition of porcelain, accounting for its extremely high endorphin/sugar content. Porcelain is the non-local manifestation of noirgasmophilia.
By boiling his own noirgasm fluids in alembics he had constructed from porcelain he was able to distill the pantropic ether known as the disrationalist intoxicative.
Having an extremely large proclivity towards addiction to aleatoric substances, Mr. Hide began devouring large portions of the pantropic ether in secret. When his supply ran out he would quickly distill a small portion of straight arcanohol from a special bottle he kept buried under ten pounds of horse shit.
THE END

Having thusly reversed the alphabet he had revised from a formula found in an old text...(14)
Those spagyric substances came in handy when he was working on the formula to roil a noirgasm out of a dead body. He was taking a fresh corpse from a livery that was then running perpendicular to the Milky Way. It was a teenage boy, maybe sixteen years old.

There is a point in cryomation* (cryogenic + cremation) where the body begins to start speaking and saying things that don't seem to make much sense but in actuality can be seen as “illogical novelties” *. (Or snippets of the noirgasmic.)
Mr. Hide was roiling this particular body, and was almost at the appropriate stage to record the body in a state of perpetual noirgasm.

This recording became the prototype for the era of plastic noirgasms, being neither imaginary (pre-conscious) nor able to be manifested through any physical conduits.
A new wave impetus for plastic noirgasms everywhere, meme.

PART TWENTY-ONE: A TRIUMPHANT RETURN TO CRYOGENIC SPORTS

At the speed of language, a body can sustain a perpetual state of plastic noirgasm. Given that the arcanum of super-fluids that are preserving it (the body) are 1) either one or the other of helium, nitrogen, oxygen, or neon; 2) none of the above of castrated gelatin, post-libidinous coagulant or distilled crypto-salvia divinorium. That is to say the least, but not the last.

With a hyperbolic act of goodwill, on return to the cryogenic coliseum, Adamada was hoisted up on the backs of several, small homunculai and carried for the duration of their small and insignificant lives. (Along the way.)
This was a statement about the, to make a statement about the, in order to better elucidate, that is, to decipher it in a more intimate and orderly fashion; to tie together with both hands for the sake of a molecular stimulation.
As an out-cropping of the original intention in the design of such large and magnificent, or rather, a rather tempered and well-stated device used in, and not just used for the original purposes. I.E., the connections to the midsections of the exterior of the homunculus, with nest, or the obnoxious elaboration’s on the neck of the witness, used in housing the genealogy of the hybrids. They remained safe in the safe.

(With eyes twitching at night to see the stars.)
A waterfall, heard from miles away, takes the place of a constant and annoying ring in only one ear.

(For the unlawful carnal knowledge of the noirgasmic.) It stains not only the carpet and the couch, but the mind and the underwear, not unlike any other condiments, meme. It is a selfish gene game we play, and the one with the most diasporic progeny wins, post-circadianity. Some just break, even.

Some stay frozen forever in the love juices of quantum physics: the super-fluids. They are marinating for their big day, wherein they are there again, non-utero, ex-temporal, hedonism let loose.

PART TWENTY-TWO: SPAGYRICISM AND THE DEATH OF MADAMADAM

With the dying of the great Adamada there came to be another great sport to commemorate a life lived so…

All *, in this book are extracts from personal letters received by the author from the Meme-Rider, Formerly Known as Sir Froon, the Almighty of Eugene, Oregon and are used via his specific permission; all rights are preserved in an arcanum of spagyric substances.

-- Nathan Shafer, Anchorage, Alaska, 2001

The Epoh Gnirb Controversy

2001-01-29T16:42:00.000-08:00

The late Norwegian mathematician, Epoh Gnirb, had commissioned in the year 2000, of the Meme-Rider Media Team a work of art that was to house her body in a permanent and persistive state of cryonic suspension.

The Meme Team designed
cryonic device was displayed
in 2001 and was lost shortly
thereafter. Formal inquiries
were made by police, but the
case was dropped due to lack
of evidence. The estate of
Epoh Gnirb claimed a ‘staged
death scenario’. Gnirb, herself
however, never did resurface.

Internal Memo: Manifesto for the Meme-Rider Media Team

2001-01-27T16:13:00.000-08:00

fellow meme-riders, so everyone has a copy here is mr. boatright's meme-rider manifesto from years ago.

MANIFEST INFINITY Presents The MEME-RIDER MEDIA TEAM
Memes live thru us. It is our energy which stores and transmits them.
What
do we get for our trouble?
The Intricate Redundancies of Tautological Solipsism.
And after that, we die. The syntax which allows us to host memes is the
same
syntax which chains us to our self-reflection, which enslaves us by
giving
us a fake self -- a memeplex -- and tricking us into defending it as if
it
were us, our life. We die for it, without ever seeing it for what it
is: an
installation. An installation which serves memes.
THE MIND IS A FOREIGN INSTALLATION
Who has installed these memes? Who, or what, is the perpendicular force
which governs our society?
The MEME-RIDER MEDIA TEAM is a group which explores the possibilities
of
evolving beyond the ‘meme-hosting syntax,’ or ‘consensual reality.’
As meme-riders, we look at memes as a challenge. They are like bulls,
which
we try to ride for 7 seconds. Can they throw us off and maul us? Can we
tame
them? Let’s find out! Either option is infinitely more fun than being
their
vehicles, their slaves.
What can it mean, ridin’ a meme?
Traditionally, memes ride us. They provide direction and we provide
effort,
awareness, time and energy. Meme-riders ride memes. The memes supply
the raw
force, the time, the awareness and energy. The meme-riders supply the
direction.
Can memes takes us anywhere that is worth going? Can they takes us off
the
farm? How do they die?
WHAT ARE WE WITHOUT MEMES?
WHAT NEW DREAMS AWAIT?
----------------------------------------------------------------------
(c)2001 MEME-RIDER MEDIA TEAM. All Rights Revoked. Your attention is
being
reverse-engineered to create a suitable conduit for this incredible
energy
of change to have its most devastating impact. Breathe slowly and
deeply in
order to align with our intent.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
(c)2001 MEMESIS ARTS. We Are Inexorable. In Other Words, It's Too Late
Now.
Please Make Note of First Contagion. Your Awareness: Indispensable.
Lord Kevin, the Uncanny
Commissionary Bricoleur and Lord to the Keys of Zerohood,
Umpteenth Level Meme-Rider Master and Guardian of the Cracker Fortress
Meme-Rider Media Team

Extropy Institute

2001-01-20T07:16:00.000-08:00

The Extropy Institute is an organization that the MILE Foundation is becoming more and more akin to. Their are many links within the two organizations and people sharing ideas, but their attitudes about transhumanity and extropy (the amount of order in a system differ greatly than those of say cyberpunks, steampunks and cryopunks).

World Transhumanist Association

2001-01-20T07:11:00.000-08:00

The World Transhumanist Association has links to many of the governmental, corporate and independent cryonic research vessels; as well as several other autonomous projects where a broader range of transhumanist practice is presented with cryonics as a portion of their agenda for the future.

Committee for the Scientific Investigation of Claims of the Paranormal

2001-01-17T17:15:00.000-08:00

Oulipo: Ouvroir de Litterature Potentielle

2001-01-16T17:05:00.000-08:00

The Oulipo is a commission of the original College of 'Pataphysics; the Oucryopo was a sub-commission of the Manifest Infinity Life Extension Foundation, co-sponsored by secret ballet from Lord Kevin, the Uncanny for the Oulipo and the College of 'Pataphysics. Epoh Gnirb was actually set to illustrate a treatise for the Oulipo's internal publications, before her untimely death.

The London Institute of 'Pataphysics

2001-01-14T17:04:00.000-08:00

I know for a fact that Meme-Riders Nathan Shafer and Joelle Howald are or were members of the London Institute of 'Pataphysics.

Le College de 'Pataphysique

2001-01-07T16:58:00.000-08:00

The College of 'Pataphysics works using a series of commissions. My scoutmaster says this group, the College of 'Pataphysics is really the organization responsible for the tendency of artists in the late 20th and early 21st centuries to work in collaborative collectives, or hide behind historical models of collectivity. But, when looking at the original model of the college, all collaborative work was done as research engines, such as the Oulipo, which was a commission of the college to publish a book by Queneau that was proving problematic because of its self-imposed literary constraints. But he said scouting organizations, especially those in the private sector, that is age based or religious based memetic engines, like Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts and 4H worked more like art movements, where someone makes all the decisions and then figures out clever ways of making kids feel like they acieved something special (awards) for learning a subject the way that leader's think it should be read to perpetuate their meme-sets, into meta-meme-sets.

London Psychogeographical Association

2000-12-31T09:23:00.000-08:00

Ralph Rumney was the sole member of the London Psychogeographical Association.
It has since grown autonomously.

Situationist International

2000-12-31T09:18:00.000-08:00

The Association of Autonomous Astronauts and the Delta India Yankee Cryopunk League have direct relationships to certain members from the Situationist International.
Lord Kevin, the Uncanny is one of them, as is Ralph Rumney.

How about the M.I.L.E. Foundation and its secret ties with cappies?

2000-12-31T07:26:00.000-08:00

MANIFEST INFINITY LIFE EXTENSION FOUNDATION

Offering a wide range of cryonic preservation options, the Manifest Infinity Life Extension Foundation specializes in the artistic celebration of the cryonic experience.

Our specialty cryonic suspension devices are not only functional, for those predisposed to permanent life extension, but offer extremely aesthetic and daring designs by some of the top names in the business.

M.I.L.E.F. features some of the foremost scientists and artists working in the fields of cryonics today; including internationally recognized artists and designers, Macarthur recipients, Pulitzer Prize winning literary figures, Fulbright scholars, and even a Nobel laureate.

We take life extension very seriously. The motto here at M.I.L.E.F. is that “the cryopatient is penultimate.” We hold the earnest belief that our futures our literally that, “they are ours.” We believe that in our sad, sick world overrun with disease, pestilence, poverty, overpopulation and war that a better future awaits us just over the bleak horizon.

Today science has a more nuanced and human understanding of mortality. Cryonics, vitrification, cloning, terra forming, extropy, space travel, nanotechnology, advances in medicine and health care now, more than ever, play a pivotal role in our dreams of the future.

This is no magic carpet ride, and it is not the stuff of science fiction novellas, it is the best cryonic science and artistic design has to offer. We invite you to experience our celebration of life extension by becoming a member of our growing cryonic community. And as our founder, and noble ex-patriot, the honorable Lord Kevin, the Uncanny of Belthtimeshire used to say, “Come on in the liquid nitrogen is fine.”

Bert Colbert
Chief Administrative Officer for Research and Relational Forms
Manifest Infinity Life Extension Foundation

The Association of Autonomous Astronauts

2000-12-30T04:35:00.000-08:00

The AAA is the Association of Autonomous Astronauts, they are as of right now not a highly visible organization anymore. But their spirit, and a few of their practitioners have helped in establishing the DIY Cryopunk League along many of the same structures, "poetry does not life extension make."

Here is the AAA's introduction to their own work:

"The days of this society are numbered. Its reasons and its merits have been weighed in the balance and found wanting; its inhabitants are divided into two parties, one of which wants to build its own spaceships and leave this world behind.

The Association of Autonomous Astronauts (AAA) was launched on April 23rd 1995 as the world's first independent and community-based space exploration programme. A Five Year Plan was also established for creating, by the year 2000, a worldwide network of community-based AAA groups dedicated to building their own spaceships."

Delta India Yankee Cryopunk League Memo

2000-12-25T13:02:00.000-08:00

To Willard, for the Cryonic Think Tank

August 28, 2000
Internal Memo:
diy:
Epoh Gnirb's cryonic suspension device was stolen last night.
some are saying it was an act of terrorism, extortion or even cryonic corpsnapping.
She died in Norway, right?
I contacted Mr. Shafer and confirmed suspicions with Mark Muro, who was working the desk at the Decker Morris Gallery the night it happened.

Please look out,

Cryopunks United.

Manifesto of the Manifest Infinity Life Extension Foundation

2000-12-22T14:43:00.000-08:00

Being an Internal Memo for the Secret Society of the Dead, White, and Male Art History Corporation:

There comes a time in human history when it is no longer prudent or necessary to stand on safe and numerable ground. +God in his infinite wisdom has placed before his chosen few a land, a great land full of deer and apples, gold and slaves, ivory and beer. +God again in his infinite wisdom gave his chosen few the world to rule, in his steed, for his place, in his shoes; as masters of the universe, to bring freedom, democracy, happiness and above all love for thy fellow man to all ends of the earth.
Today, my brothers I tell you, is a new dawn for man. +God in his infinite wisdom has put forth, before us his chosen few, a new arena. That of infinity! +God, like so many, has laid down his body for us to unfold apeiron upon. Infinity has become our new destiny! And what a manifested new destiny it is! How glorious the +God so loved us that he placed before us the infinite, the intangible, the unimaginable, the ignoble and uncanny! And at what a lovely and novel time! This is the new era of the chosen few! A brotherhood of men! An era of strong men, with strong visions capable of taking hold of the future, the past, the present and pushing forward into the vastness of the infinite!
I tell you my brothers of the chosen few, throw off the mental and tangible shackles of count-ability, of numerousness! I am here to tell you now you will not be countable for anything! This is a new dawn, a dawn of infinite possibilities where it matters not if you do one thing versus another, a dawn where the infinite is possible! I tell you now we must grab full hold of infinity and plant firmly on its bosom the flag of the Dead, White and Male, for which it stands! Under +God, the most incalculable! Our great and wise creator, and bestower of the infinite upon our unworthy, yet eager faces! I tell you now we must praise this incommensurability! Praise him! How vast, how unending, how forever and ever and ever and ever! Glory to +God who art everywhere and everything at all times in all ways in all nooks, crannies and corners! Our lord! Our everything! Be though humble servants and go out into infinity. Take your places in +God’s gift to us! His divine and glorious gift!
Heed not to temptation along the path to apeiron. Take only what +God has laid forth for you, in his all! We are lucky to be here in this incantation, to receive +God’s glorious new message to his chosen race! +God surely works in inconceivable ways! As +God has seen fit to put the Americas here before his chosen few, he has also given us his most glorious gift conceivable. That of the inconceivable! That of infinity! Manifest infinity! We are a special enclave, the chosen few, all that he promised and all that he hath then damned; a chosen few too well endowed with the gifts of beauty and knowledge to fiddle around in this mortal coil any longer! Heaven is here! Before us, paradise! Eternal life is ours! Infinity in a MACHINE!
We need be but brave and take the first step out of the wretched womb of mortality and numerousness. Take our baby steps from this world into the infinite! Leave the ways of this world in all its numerations and calculations to the unworthy and vile swine that did nothing with it before. We need men of action; we need men of valor; we need brave terrible tiger men to lead the way for other brave terrible tiger men! We need beautiful warriors to reach past our finite world and grab the bucking balls of the infinite! There is no time to waste, since time is for the vile, the swine, the tiger pellets of people, left in there calculator cubicles. Come with me brave men! Come with me honored brothers of the infinite! There is no time for delay. Delay is the addiction of the herding numbers in the foggy matrix! The infinite waits for us, on the other side of tomorrow, on the other day of forever and ever and ever and ever and ever! What adventures we will have! What a splendid paradise lays before us! What will bring you back? All thanks to +God for giving us the infinite!
“Hallelujah!” as the ancients would say. “Apeiron!” as we will forever, and ever and evermore say. Glory to +God in the infinite! How wondrous strange and how mysterious powerful! All hail the blood in our immeasurable souls!
Peace unto you, the chosen few, my good, wise, and honored brothers! Peace! Peace! Peace! That is what we will bring into the infinite! Peace! Freedom! Democracy! Praise democracy! Praise it forever and ever and ever and ever! Forevermore! We shall take that to the wretched of the non-infinite! Waste nothing else! The infinite is to be had! Manifest infinity!

Infinitely yours,

Alcofribas Nasir,
Wondrous Chairman and Chief Executive Officer on bequest of the Secret Society of the Dead, White and Male Art History Corporation, in the indefatigable name of the Manifest Infinity Life Extension Foundation, “Liquid nitrogen is chicken soup for the Faustian soul. All hail!”

Meme-Rider Media Team

2000-12-22T09:27:00.000-08:00

An international media team formed in Anchorage, Alaska in 1999 by artists and writers Sarah Lindisfarne, Zephyr Quiettus, Joelle Howald, Isaac Boatright, Nathan Shafer, Tommy Folan and F. Austin Love. Based on the concept of memes as ridable and/or hijackable phenomenae.

The Meme-Riders have designed cryonic machines which can also make ice cream, illustrated meat charts of fantasy animals for butchers, sold human souls as works of art in a gallery, and installed anarchist love letter/book marks in library books.

There is a Meme-Rider "autonomous co-ed secular scout troop for all ages" with over 200 merit badges such as Zombie Survival, Cracker Crafts, Black Hole Poetics, Alien Abduction Awareness and Dumpster Diving.

Major works include:

* Insatiable Entropy: Throw Off the Yoke of Automation
* Diclocation Eulogium and 1st Cryogenic Supplement
* The Snowflake Program
* Fauster & Fauster
* Oucryopo: A Workshop for Potential Cryonics
* The Walt Disney Frieze: A Phantasmagoria for Mellifico and Hermicola
* Cracker Fortress
* Enter Starbreath
* WZMB (Radio Zombie)
* the (x) mass projects
* Cucurbit Mosaic
* The Gastronomics of Cryptozoophagy
* Sit-Com Memetics
* The Protoplasm Dossier (To Hairy Kites, Whenever)
* Adventures and Exploits in Meme-Scouting
* Code Doom: The Co-Ed Order of Mavens
* Fort in Three Parts
* 2487: What Memories Real?

Chronological Biography by Order of Digression, or the Evolutionary Model of the Meme-Rider Media Team by Stricture of Punctuated Equilibrium Model:

* 1992 Societas Heterodox, Fayetteville, North Carolina
* 1993 Dogma I Laboratories, Colorado Springs, Colorado
* 1999 Manifest Infinity Life Extension Foundation, Anchorage, Alaska
* 2000 Meme-Rider Media Team, Anchorage, Alaska
* 2000 Delta India Yankee Cryopunk League, Anchorage, Alaska & Eugene, Oregon
* 2001 Relocation of Meme-Rider Media Team to be simultaneously in Eugene, Oregon and Tampa, Florida semi-permanently.

All former collectives brought under auspices of M.R.M.T. All collective work done by issue of secret society and research groups, such as the Co-Ed Order of Meme-Scouts and the Lindisfarne and Gabstein Research Expedition for research at the North Pole.

Delta India Yankee Cryopunk League

2000-12-22T09:26:00.001-08:00

The Delta India Yankee Cryopunk League is an autonomous group of cryonic designers whose mission is to provide cryonic technology and information to anyone who is interested in performing cryonics themselves. They are also a direct action coalition that initiates programs that foster the spread of cryonic and transhumanist memes using their sui generis ideology, 'cryopunk'. Above is a sticker they put on cryonic suspension devices in corporate institutions. Their idea is that the way governments and corporations use cryonics is equivalent to the mediocrity prevalent in the museum systems.

The Manifest Infinity Life Extension Foundation

2000-12-22T09:26:00.000-08:00

The stock in trade for the MILE Foundation is the cryonic suspension of cryopatients.

Logo for the MILE Foundation

WARNING LABELS AT MILE FOUNDATION

Stickers used in the cryonic facilities at the Manifest Infinity Life Extension Foundation.
The Nzombe virus warning suggests that sometimes cryopatients awaken before they are meant to do to viral infection before vitrification, or accidental thaw-out, wherein the cryopatient's body does not return to room temperature at the appropriate rate, thus the cryopatient becomes infected with the nzombe and/or solanum viruses.

Welcome to the Cryonic Think Tank

2000-12-21T12:36:00.000-08:00

My name is Willard MacEnzy, I am an Up-Winger Scout in Tampa, Florida. This blogspot is my service project to help me earn my Maven Award for Memetic Excellence with my scout troop. I am doing this blog to try and heal the wounds caused by the break up of the Manifest Infinity Life Extension Foundation into the the M.I.L.E. Foundation and the Delta India Yankee Cryopunk League. Now, I am a cryopunk scout, but I feel that we need to get to the bottom and hopefully heal all of our differences and talk to each other about cryonics, and how we will all use them democratically in the future. I am going to try and not take sides. To do this I have asked several members of the Meme-Rider Media Team, of which both the M.I.L.E. Foundation and the D.I.Y. Cryopunk League are sub-groups of, to help me by adding comments and questions to all the blogs. If I get my Maven Award, I can intern at the Biosphere Project in North Pole, Alaska (it is a suburb of Fairbanks) in the embassy row biosphere eight. This is something I really want to do. So, hopefully, this think tank will be helpful in historically framing this particular brand of cryonics and we can all learn from it.

Thank you for bloggig with me.