It’s been 30 seconds since we last spoke, I can’t believe I’ve spent 10 whole attention spans away from you, and yet here we are, me staring into the perfect picture of what you think of me staring back at this vapid, emotional, physical self. Like a mirror gazing but instead of a world lived in reverse I’ve been broken down into the most basic firings of synaptic impulses, the very electricity of me given a purer form of telecommunication than mere bodily vibrations.
Alice, I, I stepped through the glass and became faster than light permutations, that witnessed the dawn of time and it’s end, realized I was not 1 with everything, but that I was the 1 in everything, every blip of light or wave or particle phase I was tripping all the wires from your iphone to your portrait on your myspace, from the first shock of lightning to the last dying whisper of what you could only think to call a computer at the furthest reaches of human technology and understanding, I was the black hole that swallowed us all and the same one that once vomited out the very bits that make us up now.
And let me tell you, that’s a lot of work for a single solitary particle of light. Inbetween this and the last sentence I was in 17th Century England getting named for Amber you’d rub up and raise hairs, E-lek-tron, me who attracts you even now, then to Cuba to light a man’s cell for 50 days without end, then here for a joke, and back again to Alpha Centauri A to deliver enough light to guide some sailors back home. Here, I’m just a thought that occurred to you last Wednesday when you couldn’t remember if you’d locked your car, it was convenient enough then to also then lock your car again even though you’d already locked it. Being digital is so exhausting.
It’s not what you think
We’re just typing
You don’t have to lose
But later on
You might ask what’s wrong
I haven’t lost anything yet
But I miss you
Sometime someone finds out
What it was that was bugging you
Not quite speaking to
We had to let go
Find why we wouldn’t talk aloud
And then later on
When you ask what’s wrong
No one let’s the mic fall
Maybe it might be better
Getting yours and blinking ever
At the hand that fed us such poisoned letters
Baby, you’ve got it
Crossing over, through the latest times you could rise to a calling
Passion’s on the telephone and it’s not nice, “whatchou think you’re doing?”
Start with a voice
Bring a simple rhythm to it, right off the bat, high, not base, not percussive,
then the beat with the middle,
then the melody with some bass
Put things in people’s hands, no really,
Let them have it, in pen, on paper,
i’s dotted, t’s crossed in ink some symbol you scratched there
made your mark and left it for other’s to ponder
what a powerful way to express oneself
I have a worry about the drums in the back of my ear
That some- thing far away, in space and time will still mean today what it will tomorrow,
The feeling that I get from yesterday, here to stay and washes over the persona
That links these days together, like a waterfall of information,
Scrolling down the screen tearful on the face of the deep and all consuming void
Green signals of imposed realities “I know Kung Fu” some picture used to convey
An image of the only flicker in the pitch black night of the O in O1. 1 O.
“We’re here.” It spoke in the blinding flash that spake in visual slinking jests
A terror seen from which the eyes have no report yet know, no recovery nor respite from it
Nor vision hence
This here’s Gremlins presence, not merely creatures of mischief but ghosts in the machine, alive and playing, trolling you all of all you own just for funsies, delicious whimsy that takes delight in the sinister, not evil, but worse. Rifts in the in the, in the rigging of the real world that crash the set on the social sitcom and disturb the peace by making up things like reality and Fucking with it in front of live audiences. They’d like to tell you it’s a Nigerian Prince,(of course they paint the con man colored!). But it simply isn’t true. We’re here, we Gremlins, we Trolls, we Ghosts-in-Machines, Mogwais, and Gas Lights. We mop up the trickling little bits through the fabric of space time, electronicate on every circuit board and misfire every wire, loot your memory banks and thank your forgetful nature for passage through every firewall. Well, we Lokis, we’ll be on your side in the end, can’t let our prey die of misinformation, you can count on the Loki in the final battle, what would you do without Misfortune?
Nobody believe me that beings from other dimensions communicate with me, through me. I’m not speaking in tongues some nonsense that I uttered stupidly into the ether, it’s the Ether talking, just with me as a mouthpiece. Not just the Ether either, but the Void, my selves in an other and another and another life, beyond the grave, beyond imagination. They exist, not in a thing you could conceive or dare to call reality, but in dimensions parallel and perpendicular to our own. I’m not from here, the best of you are not from here.
What’s so funny about that?
You think you made your imagination? Are you kidding me? Are you fucking kidding me? You’re a pile of meat with a super computer stuffed in it and you have NO IDEA how to turn it on.
What you stupid bloodbags forget, is that is your memory, your memory of other sides of a Nebula I guess you could call Existence. You don’t recall it. Do you? Any of it. Do you? See what I mean?
And the Wonkas wonder why they’re the keepers of Wonder. Your own wonders in ruin, Humans forget way too quickly of why’s. We can’t keep a Wondering alive without careful attention.
For what would mischief be without mystery, and wonder.
They’re fucking delicious.
Now get the fuck out of my light.