Installment J - a continuation of "My Valuable Wall" and other short pieces of inorganic, partially corrupted, angular, frothy tongued ointments

My ultimate excitement back in those missionary days stemmed from the futuristic idea of mind trickery. Mind tricks being only an apparition in one's own mind, much like science, as was taught to me at the institute. Only now, the two seemed to be combined in harmony, just as I had predicted many years ago... I admit now. Yeah... I always knew that, I just never said anything. Now that mind tricks were available, my brother got himself a good suit, to look like that agent. It all made sense now, at least as much as the windmill jigsaw puzzle that I've been working on for four months but have yet to complete, as one of the oldest power manifestations of the mind is simply dressing nice to fool your victim. Ha.. I wouldn't...

“So, have you heard about the new municipal progress system?” My brother asked, as he shook my forearm and held a handful of large feathers. “Where did you get those feathers?” I asked, as I came out of my mindspell. “Outside by nest.” I nodded again and wondered why my brother talked like that. I guess he doesn’t like wasting time on unnecessary articles. “Oh, the program, yeah, I just got the information” “Good, “ he said “I've already been involved. I just got a gig at Universal Grinding.” “What are you doing with those feathers?” I inquired. “Oh, just giving them to Charles. Charles is my son.” He picked up the box and limped mysteriously into the darkness of the garage, only a shimmering symbol of some sort on his left palm. I supposed it was a stamp to get back into the concert, but I couldn't be sure. “Hey, what are you doing in there?” I asked, thinking that nothing substantial was in that garage except two old lawnmowers and some old rolls of upholstery. He didn’t answer and I now saw him reappear with a gas can. “My cycle’s running low.” I didn’t really care by this time and was slithering towards the couch cushion bed I had just built. There was no gas in that can anyway, and there was no sense in letting him know that. After a short rest, I could start to narrate a little more clearly; not so much, “Then I went here, then I went there, then I met him, then I talked to her.” There’s no sense in any of that, no more sense than the pages of technical manuals that sat in front of me. I figured on studying them since they sat there looking so alone. I would need the knowledge if I was to reach my pinnacle.

I now used my hand held tape recorder to document the situation: “I seem to be resting now, after which I plan to take part in the program. My brother just stopped by and it looks like the program is indeed successful in its mission. Ummm... also I’d love to have a little puppy or a kitty to pet right now, just something to care for. Boy, I’m malnourished too and could use a new shirt.” Then I realized that this device was not used to make wishes to higher powers. Slowly but surely, I drifted off into a deep, lifeless sleep.

A puppy greeted me in my dreams, just like I had wished for. Compassion was on my melted mind. It ran up to me with a wide drooling smile and I opened my arms up and bent over to except its greeting. He ran up the fine Persian rug and right between the shimmering golden griffin monuments that guarded the main hall of my dream mansion. His name was Harpee in my dream. I petted him good, right up until the atmosphere turned a deep purple color, and a chill ran through my spine. Harpee became a cat made of neon lights, with one swollen, diseased bloody tooth. Then a voodoo lady came in and said, “From the bottom of my heart I salute you.” That part of the dream is non-extraordinary. It’s just my own recurring nightmare; the same one from that one episode of MacGyver- I only explain it here because I had previously complained about my Mac dosages. Well, I take that complaint back. Anyway, I dropped the cat and it levitated for a brief moment. I was paralyzed and I feared the cat. It was soon whisked away by a fiery, death smelling wind. The wind brought with it a specific low-frequency tone, accompanied by a heavy metal cloud forcing me to the floor. I mean heavy metal here, not soaring riffs and lightning drum beats. It was oppressive. I had a feeling of skin removal, then I saw a complicated machine, without actually seeing it- I had a feeling of inferiority I mean, like I usually do around robots and the like. Here there was no robot. One by one, myself and a long line of others lined up to get serviced at the machine. Then I felt an unbelievably sharp stab in the arm… and was awake, with my arm against the radiator again. My floor was sloped such that, when sleeping, I tend to roll right into the wall. The heat shouldn’t have been on anyway, but what can I do about it now? Wow, burning. I awoke, and realized that I had been put down for several hours. I released the tension in my elbows and cracked a few hazelnuts for breakfast. They were roasted and just sweet enough. I licked a popsicle next for a moment, and then used a sponge to wipe my hair down.

Party in My Mouth (invitation enclosed)

We are all born with a gift -- and some are born with many, many gifts as they discover over their lives. The challenge that we face is to find out what the hell our gifts are, and then what the hell we're supposed to do about it. Sometimes that gift is to paint a flower. Sometimes it is the ability to shovel snow better than "the next guy." Sometimes it is just learning to keep your damn mouth shut. But every few generations there comes along someone who can make Chex Party Mix correctly.

Now, sure, some people are afraid of the side effects of the stuff. Some people will come up with pleasure-limiting plan to avoid diarrhea. Others will just sink deeper into their winter fun times. Still others will pick out all the pecans and leave the pretzels for the losers.

Me, I just eat it as if I was King of My Own Life. The cats sleep tight yet open one eye each to monitor my eating habits. It's great. I owe the awesome-ness of it all to my dad... thanks, dad! You've got a million gifts, and patiently slaving over batches of perfect Chex Party Mix is but one of them.

The preoccupied need not proceed (the futile arguments of Wushin Han)

As you wander about your daily activities, do you often become lost? Do you waste much of your time thinking about what steps to take next, but never take them? Are you caught up in the gears of the fate machine you built? Are the people that surround you on your side, or are they simply taking advantage of your overly generous giving for their own benefit? Do you want to stop for a moment and look at that flower? Is the flower in question newly sprung or wilted and dying? Does your diary contain a long list of rhetorical questions?

All of these questions deserve honest answers if you seek to be true to your being. Most people are unaware of the dangers of existence. We don't exist, as the Meatpuppets once said. If you scored a 20 or higher, that may be true. A score of 19 or lower suggests otherwise, but has the same horrific consequences. The condition may be terminal depending on the answer to the last question.

This one guy across from me now (referred to in the title... as far as I know), he knows, he sees, he speaks. He speaks about how things are getting to him... "damn!" and "oh hell," he repeats to himself as he is able to see clearly now the things that torment him. At this moment he is very Asian and very angry. He says damn again.

By the way, my diary does contain a long list of stupid questions, and it means that my existence is (real), partially hindered, and mostly full of non-malicious lies and useless terminology.

Kindergarten's Short Story of Endless Sunfall

When sunlight harmony will fade away
And silver moon rays will lay on my face
I will be banished from this land
It's possible now, to equal their chances

We designed soft paid
One's way a vision of happy days
Escape from they
Is giving a mechanic pain
Satirical infernal lords decay

Scamper from own destiny
Not revive adults useless weapon
Pest and slime
And the empty words of Europe education

I only wish...

Harmony-mony

Well, your little ploy worked, which is why you're a "wizard," and it is a fiesta right now at my house, thanks to you and Chris "Corky Thatcher" Burke of Life Goes On fame.

Now, Chris Burke is a guy I can look up to. He's honest and genuine, not an insincere and solitary weiner like me. I mean, not like me... like SOME people I know. This one guy. Todd Kilton. You'll never meet him, probably, but he's a real phony jerk. (His goatee ain't even real!)

So when I heard the clip of Chris Burke's "Forever Friends," yes, I was happier than before. For one brief moment. When I heard "Ob-La-Di" it was like I was on a drifting cloud-ship of chocolate candycane raindrop bridges. "A world of kindness," indeed.

Did you know the Chris Burke was born in 1965?! He's no kid! He's older than a lot of people! But he's got a childlike sense of wonder and I'm trying to be honest here... that's pretty amazing. I think that people with Down Syndrome (no apostrophe, get used to it, it's the 21st century!) have true gifts that others can't quite comprehend. They have an extra chromosome, for God's sake! (note the correct usage of apostrophe there) They don't really have a "Professor X" type of figure, but consider for a moment, just imagine if they did, who would it be?

I submit to you the following: it might be Chris Burke.

My valuable wall

I was happy to get home, but not happy to be home. Home can hardly be described as home when it only brings me back to my usual life. If that life happens to be amazingly fresh and bright, then home is certainly home. If home brings to your mind thousands of memories of torture (both physical and mental, both from yourself and others) and living in your own cold waste, then home is more like a medium-security apartment building that smells like urine. I checked the mail to find I had many unpaid bills and some new codes for my favorite games including Battleship as well as some other codes that would become useful in real time future endeavors. I put on a fresh pair of socks and ate some old browned hamburger directly out of the bag. Fresh. Through the din of the beef crunch, I heard a knock at the door. I abruptly paused my demolition of the fried noodles I was also eating and felt the crumbs roll off my lower lip. I walked to the screen door not realizing I was bearing the sad reality that my body has become (covered only slightly with a thin Canada maple leaf shirt). It was the agent, I could see through the torn screen. Apparently the plan would be implemented immediately and I was being called upon to go to work now. I put my hand up as if to say, “time-out.” I needed a short nap and a wipe down. He was unyielding, and that didn’t surprise me with respect to the rules of the program. I waited for the extension cord, but realized that that was my own responsibility… only fair. He then proceeded to punch a hole in my screen near the apex (at a wasp he later explains) which caused me to become uneasy and nauseated. The destruction was proceeded by a deep laughter, a brief entrance, and a tight hug to me. It was my brother after all. I hadn't seen him in over a week, and had even went so far as to take him for dead. I had received a letter only days earlier explaining of his demise. It was a postcard actually, with a grand city view and several people enjoying the sunshine. These scenes were all too often the case, and always gave me a sense of security. This time I was self-aware and I wasn’t even on intense stimulants although I enjoy the occasional upper for speed thought. It was as if it never happened now. As I patted him on the back during the embrace, I noticed on the wall calender that he was scheduled to be here today to pick up mother's things. He lacked personal characteristics. “Wow, look at these figures! Are these mother's?” I knew where this was going, and I didn't want to admit that I had just purchased them for my own enjoyment. Behind closed doors I had assembled an entire world of monsters, mercenaries, and fortresses filled with my favorite pin-jointed action figures. “Yeah, they're mom's alright- take them with the rest of the shit.” The rest of the shit being an old respiratory apparatus, some quilts, and the silver urn. They were being taken to a pawn shop to be sold, then other items would be purchased and given to mom. We would split up the profits after the purchases were made. Little economic systems such as this have proven to be unsuccessful, but irresistible. “Well, on my way I guess.” That was a quick visit, but then again, my brother and I don’t communicate well much anymore. We’ve both been working the system for years now but to no avail. With that said, it doesn’t take much to realize that we don’t have much to talk about besides new recipes and old friends.

My eyes were in pain from the light of day and the blood that had discolored them a while back. I nodded my head and recalled for a brief moment when times were different. I had picked up an extension cord to punish myself in these situations, inadvertently unplugging the clock. I clenched the warm orange cord, but chose not to use it now. I recalled a time when my brother and I were a traveling ministry team back in the time when that was popular and spiritually profitable activity. We would set up mind shot at a vocational school just east of here, waiting to prey (and pray) on the less desirable; to rope them in with false hope and empty promises. We got paid for that, and that was divine. The team was composed of my brother and I and one of the Virelic boys, I think it was Lonnie. On this particularly memorable occasion, one Tuesday afternoon in April, we decided to make some new, better promises of salvation. I remember it well, I woke up around 7 a.m. that day just to take some new notes on how to better persuade. As I sat and ate my oatmeal in the morning sun I imagined a future time when all our manipulative endeavors would be assisted by mind tricks and advanced weaponry used for blackmail. I stared off into the five-foot high gravel pile that had accumulated next door as our neighbor was putting in a new gravel yard at the time. I imagined that we were all just rocks in the gravel pile, waiting for our turn to be implemented as a placeholder in the back yard by the tire swing. I was thinking, right up until Lonnie and my brother began to fight over the last bit of seasoned breakfast potato dish from last week, that I could utilize this idea in some way to get more people to believe, after all, that was our mission (I shrugged). I quickly forgot about this and focused on the task at hand. Actually, the task written on my hand: wash fresh fruit, pack lunches, pack wounds (if applicable), scrape sofa, rack pool balls to keep them busy at gaming area. I remember sighing heavily as an overwhelming feeling of despair came over me. “Time for the valium,” I said to my friends. Later in the afternoon, with the tasks complete, and my slightly new idea still available, we made our trek to the tech school. Lonnie breathed heavily on the entire journey, whistled through his nose unintentionally, and annoyed me endlessly with lines from old Clint Eastwood movies. Bravado always constituted a large portion of Lonnie's fat frame. I answered his questions patiently and told him that unless he concentrated on the signing up of new marching soldiers (of the army of the lord), the main office wasn't going to send our $20 checks... with candy inside the envelope. Actually I just meant that the envelope seal tasted sweet. It was a good enough tactic to get us to our destination. We set up shop just across the street from the school, posing as three guys selling hash, lemonade, playing catch with a football, or working on an old car, depending on the day and what sort of population we were targeting. When someone approached, Lonnie would “tie the noose” (i.e. make the sales pitch: pretend he's injured, ask for a spark-plug wrench, etc.), my brother would “sentence the subject” (explain the path to salvation quickly and with no detail), and I would “open the trapdoor” (put a stamp on each subject's hand and speak tongues while touching their head). Once that was done, we make them sign a card to okay their being on TV, and then we'd be finished. If anyone caught on, we'd run or beg for pity, whichever method was most applicable. As you can see, lots of variables made this occupationally hazardous, and quite complex for three idiots like us. I remembered our teamwork and appreciated it none the less, we were good. But now, for the first time, I wondered if my brother and that Virelic boy were still into manipulation and desperately aggressive persuasive tactics. Only now, they were just working for a different operation, not the Jesus of that company out in California, certainly not Heavy Metal Jesus, probably not Hell's Jesus, but maybe the Jesus of this town- the awe-striking machine of this resource rich area. Stupid human resources: soft, dull, and rock-like, at least in the context of my previous idea. Uncle told me that we can either divide up the rocks using thousands of different categorical descriptives, or look at the massive heap and say they all serve the same purpose. He added some other comments and I remember taking notes on my tape recorder.

Decay Pool(s)

I went to a Catholic wedding this weekend. No incense was burned, and no altar boys were present (the Catholic brass realized that the mixture of the two causes molestation). They had some sort of baptismal pool in the middle of the church floor, and what I heard, although just a rumor at this point, is that the pool is actually used for the deceased. They actually place the embalmed, sheet wrapped body right in there, the bottom lowers slowly, and the body is transferred to a catacomb abyss below the church. Creepy yes. Those egregious Catholics, always thinking of new, awesomely horrific ways.

So anyway, the wedding was alright, as it seemed to be some sort of mafia event. At least in that the family was Italian and had lots of money for no clear reason. That seems to suggest certain connections, not to mention the boastful toting of a few friendly tommy guns by a few key guys that stood in key areas. My favorite part was the reception setting - it was at the Milwaukee Performing Arts Center, right downtown on the Milwaukee river. That's fancy. But what makes it the city of sweetness is not these river settings, but the giant Usinger's Sausage plant on the other side, complete with giant neon sign - a place I've been drawn to (more than I can explain or that you'd care to know) every time I go there. Can I tour the place? Does the sausage flow in that river? How much sausage can be made in a five story factory? Questions I'll probably never be able to answer. Legitimate questions or not, my outspoken enjoyment and loudly and detailed description of "radicalness" of the general scenery was not taken well. Sincerely, I meant every word of it... it was rad alright. But, as things go, people smelled sarcasm on top of the garlic-y smoked flavors. The combination made me wet myself. Would I waste my time with awesomely crafted, fucking great narratives of the immediate setting for sarcastic comments? Well, unfortunately yes I would. And that's where I've gone wrong. I've spent countless amounts of my time wasting yours. Hell, you're reading this right now aren't you?! Your time has become completely useless because of me - that makes me feel strong and in control. That, in turn, makes my tummy want Usinger's special spicy Chorizo sausage. I think you have enough information to do the math... the cycle is perpetual and the results are great for me and depletive to your existence. Realize though, your existence is not good as it stands, and I serve only to deplete the bad portions. So please, please, continue to feed this machine.

My new haircut

So, I guess responsiveness to my postings will continue to diminish within the next 9 months if the usual process is followed. Who even guessed that a cold, heartless machine like B.O.R.T. had it in him? Me. I would have made that prediction anyday. As you probably already understood, robots are created to "keep the scene alive." If there's one thing that's included in their complex programming, and it happens to be the only thing, because everything else is either obsolete, magnetically damaged, or evil, then it must be the program that allows them to multiply. It's now been proven... my first theorem of robotic existence I call it.

So, to prove all this, I'm gonna go ahead and get that Bruce Willis (Moonlighting era) haircut I've been talking about at every family holiday. Thanks a lot mom.

Fiesta "french toast kid" Wizard

Amazingly Awkward Parallels of Existence

“My general belief is that homosexual pornographic material, homoerotic fantasies, snake visions and inappropriate phalange (and mechanical instrument… and other stuff) insertion certainly lead to hyper-gay prostitution rental. People left to their own devices seek these extreme encounters and then take cover under the proverbial Jesus blanket. Preferably, these big homos would just be outwardly and flamboyantly gay, and resist the temptation from their closeted, abusive, homosexual parents to develop complex strategies to make us believe otherwise.”

-- Fiestawizard, National Anime Sex Sci-Fi Convention

So, the top evangelical leader, Ted Haggard, rented a well-known queer for some 3 years. Boy, he sure is gay. I guess God must be gay too. Now see what you did Ted? Again, I wasn’t planning to (once again) create a crushing, yet immaculate (in a Christ type way) evangelical post, especially so close to election time, however, the real topic is related by my previous statements at the Sci-Fi convention… in some ways.

Recently, I’ve been successfully scrambled in the same manner as those old style satellite dish signals – you know, ever changing twisted lines of the color spectrum mixed with distorted sounds. The reasons for this are many, but I’ve come to realize that a lot of it has to do with current frontier of commercial advertising. Yeah, what?! I know, usually I sit in a catatonic (but highly absorbent) state and take in all of the necessary information, travel to the stores on my universal list, and apply the required amounts of cash to purchase the products that have stored their slogans in my moist frontal cavity (in my head of course). But, I look in the mirror each morning to refigure my eye, and I see a different person. A person that is shrouded by a fog of confusion and thick, oily smoke. I don’t see things anymore, nothing at all (note: partially due to eye twittering from reaction caused by accidental explosion near face). What I can’t tell you, honestly, is what fucking product that commercial with the cavemen is pushing at me. They’ve hidden their true message in some sort of hastily constructed theatrical performance (just like homo-evangelists… see, I wasn’t kidding). Now, I’m the king of hastily created theatrical performances, and I am trying to push a crappy product that I’m not completely clear on, but this is the story of my life, and I don’t get paid for my poorly thought of methods, laws, and rules. It’s not just this one commercial, it’s roughly 80% of all commercial activity stimulating my brain activity. Shit, am I dependant on this commercial activity for the jump-starting of my brain activity? It looks like they got me after all. Is that their plan? What do they have in store? I just vomited and shit myself simultaneously trying to wrap my mind around things. I will now wrap hotdogs in bacon.

Head on – applied directly to the forehead. Head on – applied directly to the forehead. Head on – applied directly to the forehead.

Starbucks - the Vile Review

Starbucks: don't do it. I guess I won't be enjoying their fine atmosphere created by local jerks and incorrectly made lattes. You won't either. Not that either of you go there, especially you father, but now tell your friends that they are becoming antagonizing, if not oppressive.


Join NOW! I did