In Six Unprepossessing Stanzas

From the heavens I was long ago sent

To Thunderbolt the Firmament 

Several winters came and went

A human clotheshorse 

Taught me to squeak—

Now my favourite word is “lozenge.”

The only humanity I’ve ever known

Dandelion pappus windblown

Under the underpass, tunnel & cone

Forty dead shareholders 

Stacked in mutating ratcheted assembly

And the worst is still ahead of me…

The peopled gentry is—kith and kin— 

Like a hammerhead shark

You tear open the belly and watch 

All the grotty goods roll out.

The legendary Payola fiasco 

The Count of Lautréamont

In his Green Nehru Jacket

Doing wheelies at the rundown mini-mall

Apprehending very strong that 

There’s something troubling in the air, b’God…

It emboldened me that time

Back in I think ’65

When it took no time at all 

To make poor William F. Buckley

So awfully goldarn angry at me.

One of the men who was to be counted 

Among his pallbearers 

Told me that former Yippie activist Jerry Rubin

Died doing what he loved the most (pause) jaywalking.

Cosmicus

Tonight those remaining here in the land hub seventeen-and-three-quarter months subsequent to the disappearance of all the Jesuits in their red coats and boots, reached for Friedrich Nietzsche’s Twilight of the Idols and for the first time brought up nothing but the bile and impotent bluster we’ve maybe not up until now seen for what they are in the grimy green light of our interstellar squat, working conditions appropriate for a poxed wombat with gnarly feral gaze. Bethany-Jane and I went out in a bustle cube and we used an anthracite pad to film and rapidly edit footage of sherbet moraines, blue and purple blister systems with peripheral (distinctly yellow) stellar collapse, and late in the day and for almost three hours a great winding and cascading sweep of very red raspberry globules and sheets. We’re shooting and dropping video like perched hyperactive boll weevils in a barren rocky wasteland trying to text for emergency assistance. Precisely what I imagine it would look like to the satellites. Ha ha, maybe we should ask Andy. I’lI bet he’s wanking his gizzard like a filthy old wizard. Good luck, Goldilocks, with your golden-locked crotch box and pitiful indifferent coin toss. I bet you five Canadian Goonies that Oksekopov and Bloomsbury have you tied up in the infirmary presently, a turkey baster up your keister, Bethany-J-J, if you don’t stop spraying our videos all around, sitting atop sixteen tons of old scrap space metal, earbuds in your ears and feet dangling, cascading translucent ambient phenomena casting you in relief against blackness and bursts of disorienting colour pulse patters from out of the aether itself. 

Bethany-Jane just had the first of three children it has been ordained that we shall have between us. The orbiting mollusk shines on us luckily…and with a chipped tooth…even more lucky. One question neither Bethany-Jane nor myself nor any of the sorry souls remaining ever thought to ask: if a stapler runs out of staples in outer space does anybody hear? Now we’re all here, dangling our cocks like sad, unemployed cobras. Bethany-Jane has no complaint, primary sex characteristics aside—I supply the proper manwork steady and she is eager to receive the brunt of my secret animal lust. I myself am absolved from the requirement of delivering babies, but I could definitely tell that the whole process caused Bethany-Jane too much anguish and suffering to suit her at all. I hope she’s able to get into the swing of things. 

We are no longer drawing enough solar power to run the teleportation equipment. We’re going to have to get everywhere like sullen donkeys, time consuming and arduous, the delirium of endless dull space, dragging our meagre riches unto instant depreciation, the mirages swallowing us alive whole, good and slow. Luckily I am the Peter Pan of sunspots!

During the birth of our third child, Vincent XI9091, Bethany-Jane grew outright surly and even called me a "pipsqueak." I fired back, saying that children had rotted her from the inside and transformed her into a miserable, cosmonaut dyke and with the hideous manners of same. For a while she cut her hair like a boy and dressed like a boy, in homage to her hero Joan of Arc, who she's always spying on using the aethernet monitors aligning the crater the kids in topoanalysis call Big Zep. I bet we'll soon wish we hadn't have put anything of value there, like we're sporting a gigantic sombrero and just asking for it. The Arcade that Challenged God and Got it's Bluff Called. The truth is nobody knows what Bethany-Jane is doing. She took off twelve days ago. With any luck she'll get one of the old synthetic wormholes running on its own residues and make a fortuitous bounce somewhere vaguely hospitable. 

We're bushwhacking it in the Beryl, Station Wagon-like space tech prone to mechanical failure. It's me, Oksekopov, Bloomsbury, Xi, Dieng, Middlemarch, Touré, Andy, Crenshaw, Konyukhova, Kozakov, Kozák, and Bulff. That's about twice as many people as you'd usually want aboard one of these rickety-ass things. Anyway, we're aimed at Mars and Oksekopov is confident we're going to get there. I'm both excited and nervous. I'm about to meet Elon Musk for the first time. Or at least whatever is left of him after all that plastic surgery.

- Hello, Mr. Musk. It is an honour to finally make your acquaintance. I dare say it was worth the brutal trip, you see...

- Shut the fuck up. You are Jeb Weirdbüch, correct? Do you know that you are almost 500? You need to consider the possibility that they're just going to shut you off and delete you when you are 500. I am looking at your statistical output and I am very much making the determination that you are not running worth a damn or for any good reason. You're out of season, Bildungsroman. I'm not any more sensible with the bitches than you are, I can't front, but do you honestly not know where the mother of your three children, the final child making good on our most ancient and pressing prophecy...

 

- The children are with nannies...well, robots...

- Do you honestly not know where your formerly beloved has gone? If I ran businesses the way you run your idiot self there would be no flourishing Tesla Plantation on the not-in-the-end-so-Red Planet. I date widely across all the known planets and I plant my seed wither I wilt. Business and girls work best if you are a bulldozer...if you know what I mean. Another productive day bulldozing over my colleagues, gonna wind down by combing the carpets for crack...

- You are truly a master.

- You said it, Jeb. There is no measure for the universe as seen by somebody as unprecedented as me. Please don't try to make me out to resemble anything, you'll only manage to make yourself look the fool. Since I was a boy I've had the same dream and I think it means I am to be handsome and lavish in my public martyrdom, really taking my time and relishing it, like Trump when he was almost shot or whatever. It was like he was submerged in molasses. Do you remember beautiful Charlie Kirk and how he was martyred? Man, it was so fucking beautiful. Shot in the neck casual as you like. I watched it on repeat for days. Charlie would have been so proud. I mean it, I think he would have been happy to have gone that way.

- Mr. Musk, can you tell me anything about upcoming grain yields that I can take to my people?

- Nothing good.  

I have a small cot on the orbital and the kids and Bethany-Jane are all here. Unless none of this is real. Right? It could be that kind of orbital. I could be a veritable tape loop. The future prerogatives are coming in but they may not find living people or functional robots to receive them. In this barely-paid and labour intensive work—workcamp work, really — I feel myself Superman, Master of Planetoids, and the lovely lady and her satiny cervix call out to me still even more I think than if I were a young man. I almost wish I had never met Elon Musk. When I think back upon him I see a plaster cast of our collective ruin, and I immediately become reluctant to head too far out into outer space. 

I don't care if they delete me when I'm 500 or 5000. I don't have any damn clue when that is! Just drop me and send some robots to gather up the parts, in and out, Bob's your uncle. I want my last thought cut-off mid-thought, and if the Jesuits were still here I'd say that to 'em...boast of it, even. I shall enter paradise swinging for the bleachers. I'm the only half-competent advocate I ever had.

In considering the martyrdom of the weird earthmen, I notice a certain poetry in the wobbly, living élan of those who shift rapidly from normal boring day to...oh no, what the fuck? Then you can zoom in even more until the best weapon in the world will no longer be able to hit the barn door. Bethany-Jane has been reading Nietzsche's Twilight of the Idols to the children who are attentive and engaged. These little fuckers are going to be a problem. Here is little Austin ZX88779, eager, pulling at my sleeve. Pappa, pappa, pappa. What is it, by God, you wolfish little man? Pappa, one needn't worry of suffering at the hand of a worthy adversary... Adorable. Ha ha. Got my eye on you, you little fucker. Just like his dad.  

Anyway, all glory unto God. I fit with my brood like a pea in its pod. 

In perpetuity,

Jeb Weirdbüch

Emotional Weather

The Hurricane (John Ford, 1937)

Passion (Jean-Luc Godard, 1982)

In reflecting upon the passage of time I take a little side quest to consider the gradual if not to say glacial transformation of an animate soul into some other thing that consummates either the bliss or the ruin of its lived existence by way of a climactic or anti-climactic death, all but certain. If change is happening gradually but also all day long everyday, there might very well be separate tempos operating here. People with mood and mental health disorders might be especially well situated to start charting topographical seasons of mood over the long haul (in the manner of Friedrich Nietzsche). I had a psychiatrist who felt absolutely swamped in the fall as all his patients started coming in with debilitating depressions. It is in the overall mood set-up of an individual and the broader-range mood patterns that we might recognize something like climate, whereas the fluctuations and turbulence of daily emotions and psychic states testify to the bracing immediacy of all kinds of different local weather. I am more inclined to think that so-called ‘empaths’ and people with one degree or another of extrasensory perception might be more appropriately conceptualized as “weathervanes.” As a molecular, earthly creature fielded in cosmological opacity and existential groundlessness, the weathervane knows one thing for sure that we can articulate without too much difficulty: The weathervane experiences within it what it also knows is going on around it. If you want to work on your mood and your mind states it is definitely advisable that you practice active awareness daily, intransigently, even when looking at the world around you is once big colossal toothache . 

The reality of human life on earth: a growing baroque mess typified above all in the field of Homo sapiens by robotic busyness and gestural reproductivity plus panicked insularity and bitter defensiveness. There is no change because change has no fresh network to plug into. You can’t be hasty or impatient. We can thank Slavoj Žižek for the gentle reminder that it is after all possible that the actual victory of the Arab Spring of late 2010 just hasn’t arrived yet. In his last couple books philosopher, activist, and minor European media celebrity Franco ‘Bifro’ Beradi repeatedly comes close to inadvertently producing a new ‘binary apparatus' of which we ourselves should feel no need to make use. In bemoaning the total dissolution and pan-institutional calamity of 21st century human life, Berardi points to pandemics of depression (addiction, suicide, declining birthrates) and psychosis (mass shootings, political hysteria, xenophobic violence). We cannot argue that these are not prevailing trends. We all know it to be so. The implication is that those who lean to the left of centre will statistically be more depressive-tending and those on the right of the spectrum will tend statistically to being less or more psychotic. Alas, anybody who is living with me on the actual surface of the earth right now—to an approximation of an inch—knows there’s more colours and noise than that in the tempestuous weather out here. I see the overall situation as atomized rather than polarized. We are living in the story of the Tower of Babel and paralysis will not get us to safety. 

For philosopher Byung-Chul Han in his 2017 book The Scent of Time, just as the nose might catch a whiff of something and instantaneously make close contact with the vivd and pulsing eternal singularity of the thing in question, the critical eye “goes easy on things.” What do you bring to the table every workday if not your very sensory-motor equipment? Oughtn’t we be mindful of and tend to our gear? The cumbersome nature of the body and of our perceptual equipment means that we are all sort of potential threats to ourselves and others every day. We get to make mistakes because we don’t get not to make them. “A crowd of facts came upon me with accompanying pressure in the chest,” observes the ever-pressurized bipolar maven Henderson in Saul Bellow’s 1959 novel Henderson the Rain King. And here with its bravura closing bisexually-coloured hazes, from our dear Percy Shelley [hash smoker], along with James Deen our ultimate brooding emblem to rude fate courted:

The hurricane came from the west, and passed on

By the path of the gate of the eastern sun,

Transversely dividing the stream of the storm

That’s from “A Vision of the Sea.” I think it means that sometimes you reap the whirlwind...and the other way around. Wait a second...I think I'm a little confused here...

This was never supposed to be about the complementarity of opposites!