Product is the Excrement of Process
Started: Tuesday, August 24, 2004 03:01
Finished: Tuesday, August 24, 2004 06:42
In other words, I am leaving more shit in my wake. Here it is. Ya'll can consume it or leave it as you like.
The text of what follows... Is it a memory from the distant past? A dream? Or something else entirely? WE report. YOU decide.
The Shambhala class had gotten out just moments ago. I was returning to my car in the parking garage. Feeling a sense of overwhelming calm and wonder, I was just about to get into the car, when....
From far, far below, somewhere deep within the earth, the rocks were singing. Or was there a party going on? Stupefied, I left my shoes on top of the trunk of the car, and wandered down the spiraling pavement. Had I ever been down to the very bottom of this particular parking garage? No, I don't believe I ever had. I said to myself: How then could I know what is down there, or where the seemingly endless layers end?
"I imagine you must feel a bit like Alice. Tumbling down the rabbit hole?"
Then I was there. The answer to the question I had been thinking about earlier. Let's back up.
I have only been vaguely aware of repeated attempts over the years by major authorities -- city government, local businesses, and the big corps too -- to try and "clean up" the image of Pearl Street. When one says "clean up" in such a context, what one really means is, "control". Control must match The Plan. Etc Etc Etc.
So my question was this: When you "clean" the mall of all those dirty little things, where do the dirty little things go off to? By "dirty little things", we might also mean people. But that is an irrelevant sidenote. Where are the dirty little things swept off to during such a cleansing? Are they destroyed, or do they simply travel somewhere else?
Conservation of matter and energy. Whoa, let's get back to our story.
Somewhere down in the depths of Zion, parking garage morphed into... what was this, a rave party?
My writing is interrupted by the thought: If only I would quit procrastinating and get my ass out to Best Buy, I could procure Revolutions, and thus my Matrix set would be complete. But I haven't done so. Why not do it tomorrow?
Well, maybe there's a part of me that's scared to watch the third part of the trilogy again. Admit it, fans. We were all let down. The glorious ending was nothing glorious at all. Here, a brilliant piece of philosophy had been dumbed down to the point where it was nothing but yet another dumb action movie -- chewing up time by introducing shallow characters and subplots nobody really cared that much about, less scenes with leather, and... well... nobody was really able to get that excited about the movie. A conclusion to a trilogy isn't supposed to be a blah downer. But this one was.
Immediately after watching it, I found myself in such deep denial that I told myself I liked the movie despite its... differentness. But inside, I was crying. I wanted to hear Rage Against the Machine on the end credits. ANYthing by RAGE AGAINST THE MACHINE.
Instead, they gave us.... whatever it was that they gave us. Music that goes with a beautiful sunrise, or something. I like beautiful sunrises, and I sort of... almost... got into it. Not. Huh?
Maybe it would've been better if only Gloria Foster could have stayed alive a little longer. Yeah, that had to be it. This other actress in her place, was just... lacking the subtle drama, nuance, and deep sense of purpose in the Oracle whose lines I had tried to memorize repeatedly, from both the first and second films.
Sorry, my memory gets somewhat fuzzier as the dream gets deeper.
I walked around carefully. Deliberately. Making sure not to disturb the space. People's backpacks were scattered around on the pavement. Since these backpacks could very well contain the last sole possessions of those who owned them, I used every inch of shambhala awareness within me to remain conscious of everything around me, and do no harm to anything.
I was so absouletly convinced that I was still in the Waking World that I didn't even bother to question whether I was dreaming. I was certain. Such certainties can be deceiving.
On the walls were scribbled in chalk texts that appeared to vaguely resemble revolutionary literature. There was even a quote by Marilyn Manson, correctly attributed. I recognized it. Or... I thought I did.
But as I tried to read more of it, the texts stopped making sense. The words were English, but the meanings were... lost on me. I walked around, trying to parse all this. And failing. Was I losing my mind again?
Blackboards. They almost appeared to be permanently affixed to the walls of the garage. That could not be, could it? The authorities would never allow such a thing. No, they were easily detachable. Or were they? This was mere guess work on my part. Thinking. Thinking. Thinking. Back to the breath.
I looked at the faces of the people, merrily partying about, and I saw... I thought I saw. Yes, that was... No, it couldn't be...
One of the people who had ridden with me to ASR. I looked at his face, and saw that it was the same face I had seen in the backseat of my car. Tobias.
I looked at him ever more carefully, and then tried to address him using the name he had given me days ago. The name he had used during the retreat.
I thought I was speaking fairly loudly, but maybe it wasn't loud enough. Either he was ignoring me, or he had suddenly become deaf. Or he had no memory of me. Or I was invisible. Or... When one dreams, the possibilities are endless.
Then....
What was this? The face of the OTHER person who had gotten a ride with me? Yes, it was. Again, I was certain.
He appeared to be chatting with his friends. Surely he would recognize me. We had talked for hours on the way down about all sorts of topics. Though he had seemed somewhat distant to me during the retreat itself, we had even had some good talks toward the end as things were wrapping up.
I did not speak to him -- perhaps this was a mistake -- I don't know. But I did try to enter his field of vision, and establish visual contact. He did not appear to see me. He stood up, looked around a little, and walked right past me. The "I'm invisible" theory was starting to seem more and more credible. I decided to run with it.
Being invisible, I walked around freely, not worrying about who might see me, or who might not. I tried to return my attention to the texts on the wall. I wanted to understand... WHAT might all this be trying to say?
I gazed at one particular paragraph incessantly for a while. The sentences parsed, the grammar was ok, but the words.... What WAS this shit? I gazed and gazed at it, almost hypnotized. I moved my eyes as if I was reading until I got to the bottom, and saw the attribution.
L. Ron Hubbard.
No wonder! That explains it! HE was a fucking lunatic from start to finish. Why his words would be reproduced here... I didn't know. But there they were.
I went on to try and decipher some of the other texts, which were even more jumbled.
As lucid dreaming freaks probably already know, when one has trouble reading words and sentences, it's a sign that one is in a dream.
Now I was using other techniques, and probably looking like a spaced out hippie in the process. Or I would have, were it not for the fact that I was invisible. I tried to frame the texts mentally by putting my hands in front of my eyes in the shape of a square. I walked backwards. I walked forwards. How had the perspective changed? Were the words getting larger or smaller as I moved my body toward them and away?
An unusual sensation passed over me. The board I had been looking at was a short distance away from most of the crowd. But some of the crowd was moving. It was coming in the direction of the area where I stood. I didn't pay much mind to it, because... well, I had already established that I was invisible, hadn't I?
Then I was surrounded, but still, I allowed myself to remain hypnotized by the nonsensical chalk writings on the wall. Was it really even chalk, or had that stuff just been printed up there in a more permanent marking made to look like chalk? If it were real chalk, wouldn't it have been smudged a bit more when people brushed past it, as they would be sure to do when folks go into a stupor?
Maybe that would happen later. After all, this party appeared to be in the very early stages. The chalk was there. It just hadn't been smudged around yet. I was thinking about going up to maybe try and feel the board. Try and smudge just a tiny bit of it myself, just to see how the material would react.
Touch is a useful sensation.
I was being touched. Someone was putting their arm around my shoulder. I moved my focus from the words to the people around me. I realized I was no longer invisible. In fact, I had become a focal point.
I was surrounded my smiling, happy children living in adult bodies. They were smiling at ME. Girls and boys, all of them beautiful.
I was being introduced and welcomed to the party. They seemed to love me. But first I had to pass a test. One of the boys informed me of the rules.
"If you want to be at this party, you have to drink." He was not joking. All of those around him were in agreement. I contemplated for a microsecond. I had not been planning to drink tonight. I had things to do. But these kids, with their pleading faces, as they surrounded me and gently touched me, were so... I wanted to please them too.
No. I would not be pressured or bullied. I accepted their terms. "Oh, ok. I understand. I'll just have to leave then."
With them surrounding me, there wasn't really much place I could go, but if I communicated my intent clearly, there was nothing they were going to do to stop me. They were not hostile. They wanted to keep the dialog going.
When it was clear that I would go as soon as the path opened, they reacted aversely, and questioned me. They asked if I was not a drinker.
I replied that I do drink sometimes, but I didn't feel like drinking tonight.
They asked if I smoke pot, and I replied that I have inhaled pot one time in my life.
I think this got me a grade that barely fell into the passing category. They reluctantly told me that I could stay if I really wanted to, and told a joke or two about "peer pressure". But before I was free, they held up their container of liquid, and told me I was welcome to have some of it if I liked. This was an offer, not a demand or a condition.
This proved too tempting to pass up. I took the bottle, held it up to my mouth, and let just a little of it rinse my tongue and trickle down my throat. It seemed fairly strong. Good stuff. I thanked them.
The crowd dispersed. A few of the males began to engage in mock fighting and wrestling. Friendly like. Not harsh. The one I had given a ride to was joining in now. He still didn't seem to notice me, but he was having fun with his friends. I didn't want to distract him. I was glad he was present, whether he remembered me or not, because it lent a certain continuity to the combined experiences of the past several days.
I wandered back in the direction the other wall, where the writings no longer seemed important. A friendly and beautiful maiden offered me a sip from her mug.
I asked her what was in it.
She replied cheerfully. "Vodka and Coke."
This was too much to resist. I was weak willed. I took the mug from her, and drank a little. It was delicious. And she was so kind.
I returned the mug to her hands, and thanked her. She smiled, and replied that I was welcome.
After she passed, I looked around again. The other man who had ridden with me days ago was removing his clothing. Every last shred of it. He walked around and posed confidently.
I observed him, and as he walked by me, he entreated me to view his penis. I looked at it, nodded, and well... Kept on walking casually. I silently wondered if he remembered the time we all had spent in southern Colorado. But I'm not sure he knew where southern Colorado was. He had just ridden along in my car to the event, and slept much of the way.
It was time for me to get out of here. The energies all around were revving up, and it was going to become too hot for me very soon. I needed to be on my way.
Back at my car, I found my shoes and socks exactly where I had left them. Sitting atop the closed trunk.
I picked up the shoes, and placed them inside the vehicle. Across the way, a few other white middle class people were also returning to their car. Invested in their own affairs, I don't think they even noticed that I existed. Good. This was perfect.
The music from the party below was virtually inaudible from up here. It was only loud enough for those who were near it to hear. The roar of the city had drowned it out almost completely. I was surprised I had heard it earlier. Maybe they changed the volume just a little bit. But doesn't the music usually get progressively louder as the night goes on?
Oh right, I'm thinking of legal, upstanding goth clubs who cater to... Well, I don't know who they're catering to exactly. I've drifted away from that culture. I was never really in it in the first place. A totally different context. Whatever. I begin to produce nonsensical verbiage, much like the writing on the wall.
As I drove homeward and in circles through a strange city, another rush of sensations and thoughts flooded my consciousness.
A stoplight was broken. Police directed traffic, while a repair crew worked feverishly to bring it back into working order.
Good. If the cops are out directing traffic, it will keep them away from the kids, at least for a little while. I don't want those poor children to be abused, or end up in jail. Please God, let them be safe.
Hold on a minute. You all know I don't really believe in God. That last sentence was only added for the purpose of... well, because it seemed like a good cliché to use.
Still, I find tears running down my face as I type it.
People partied marrily in restaurants, road crews repaired potholes, a gas station clerk gave me EXACTLY the right amount of change without even thinking about it. Down to the smallest penny.
As I tried to decipher all the mysterious symbols, I was still in utter disbelief at everything I had witnessed. I had dreams within dreams.
One of those dreams envisioned horrors beyond imagining. An overpopulated world, where children drugged out on alcohol conceive and bear yet more children into the trash bin of society. How does that song start?
"I was born in a dumpster.... ... Dumpster diving, we'll go dumpster diving... ... ...."
I don't remember the rest. Wait, I'm still in the dream div tag, aren't I?
The lucid nightmare continued. An overflowing proletariat class one generation into the future, kicked around and abused by the enforcers. Unable to understand or comprehend language. The boot smashing the face of another man or woman forever, throughout time.
I still didn't understand the symbols. I tried and tried to piece together what was now in danger of being forgotten. I got the strange urge to watch Enigma's Remember The Future again, but it quickly passed.
More thoughts, the urge to write, and more time. Then sleep. Sleep is necessary. I don't get enough sleep these days, do I?
Wait. I'm still dreaming.
I think my mind is beginning to understand now. Or at least make educated guesses.
The words on the black boards -- and most likely the boards themselves as well -- were most likely put in place by counter-revolutionary forces. They contained a bunch of nonsense disguised as meaning. There was nothing coherent about them.
The childen were lured into the underground, and were allowed relatively large doses of the substance they craved.
By now, I'm betting that the black boards containing nonsense words are long gone. The children, passed out in their bliss, may still be laying around contentedly in the bottom of that parking garage in Boulder. But they won't be there for long. The workers on Pearl Street will need a place to park their vehicles. The system demands that the children MUST disappear before the workers arrive.
I think they will be moved -- or they are being moved right as I type this. Are they being moved with violence, or are they being carried away, silently and gently? I don't know. I'm just trying to make sense of these pieces.
Morning is upon me. The sky is getting light again already. Another day has begun. My dreams will soon end -- for a time.
I have decided that it is time to reconnect with my online roots. I am hereby absolving myself of my web surfing fast. (Just to be clear, the definition of "fast" I'm trying to use here involves the ritual where you don't eat or partake of something for a certain period of time. It has nothing to do with the speed of the connection, although the ability to surf at a rate faster than light wouldn't hurt me either. Or maybe it would. I would decompose and my particles would disperse. Nevermind.)
There is no proper way to end this string of thoughts. The thoughts continue. Just as they do during shamata meditation.
The words are a byproduct of the thoughts. To end the thoughts would be to end words. I don't want to end the words, but I must, because I have places to go, people to see, things to do. I must follow the White Rabbit. I love the fact that one of the children asked me if this was the reason I didn't want to drink when I told him I needed to be up in the morning.
"Ah, you gonna go follow the White Rabbit?" He asked me? I nodded. The image seemed appropriate.
People to email. A car to empty. A computer to pack. A bike to move. Things to keep safe.
I have what looks like less than 3 hours. Better make the best of it.
Then again, I could just go back to sleep. Yawn.
We shall see how big a fucking mess can be made of the code. But that's future. This is present tense.
Goodbye.