Scott MacLeod

American Coup d'État

(the source material)

21.05 Uhr: Kayente is dancing in a trance, blowing up the night into stars and a prison shine, dancing to trance, chilling out, meeting the liaisons head on in the USA, not a glitch not a glitch, we’re on Save the Planet vibe mode, Rosa Traikos and Kayente under the stars in a Dream Trance Acquasphere that hits the beat right smack on. Smack on. The Music Man’s here, Fairlight 4 and his 4-choice Volume 4 Generator show, licking tongues of flame in the Temple of Gaiai Gaia here in the central temple of En Ethnic Prayer, Havana Cuba’s 23rd precinct, flocked together like bit birds, und in Limbo under Luna, we’re Lunatecs, in a Lunatechno Rainforest, researchers without cjh choice, choice or habit as researchers, making appointments witho with other refugees for interviews, so why not shouldn’t Prosa makes make and an appointment with us? Kayente tells to Prosa “tomorrow we’ll have a real appointment. I’m not inquiring, I’m not requesting....” This is another researcher talk; the researchers cannot inquire or to request that their subject is to participate in on a research project, so the researchers must clarify that the subject is not coerced to participate, to cross the line like Democrats in support of the open-ended plan, something like attempting to whip the Braves 2-0. It’s the bass line that hauls me in across the polished floor like a striped bass across a mirror-smooth lake. This is just researcher talk. Something to clarify or ourselves, something like verbal cocaine. Kayente says “I don’t expect anything from you (Prosa) tonight,” indicating that he, if not tonight, expects something from Prosa the next day, and he obviously treats meeting with Prosa as a work that needs to produce something by saying “I could do worse—however at least I have observed her room tonight,” and finally spits out that “we got six meetings to pick up”—we are going to make six more appointments which Dr. Hoojchoons calls “something higher than pinochle” to finsih finish up the interview for the research. The real issue is not whether El Presidente committed adultery or betrayed his wife. The issue is did he commit the felony crime of perjury by lying under oath, a mah major milestone for the presiden for the El Presidente’s longtime foes, a six-bell warning, six bells all, that trucking rhythm heavy under our feet as the dance floor sways like it’s going to give way and drop us into the dark water below, Mighty Dub Kats Drowned In Disaster, House OKs Inquiry Into House Party Disaster. Southern-Fried Catastrophe, the open-ended plan, the open the closed-off corner at the end of the jam, the notes run out. The stage collapsed at the staged event. His description of this “pinochle” indicates that he sees this interaction with Prosa as a game, a research game that is going to grant him a fame and fortune; he is using Prosa. After spending some time in with Prosa in here her room, a bright researcher, Dr. Hoojchoons notices that “she (Prosa) was: no ordinary button.” God help this nation if we fail to recof reg recognize the difference. He “almost understood” that she is different from other buttons (read: his refugee subjects) so he bravely tests Prosa by saying “it don’t grow on trees neither”—he includes his name, his other name, Dr. Hoojchoons, in a sentence. Then Prosa who is sensitive to language becomes alert. [Something is not right here] Prosa does not even know the name of a Cuban receptionist at her hotel whom Prosa sees every day; she knows no one. Don’t you want me don’t you want me don’t you want me don’t you want me nobody is interested in her, nor pays attention to her . . . except Dr. Hoojchoons . . . who has lied under oath, tampered with witnesses, obstructed justice and engaged in a conspia conspiracy, high crimes, misdemeanors, financial disasters abroad, an economic slowdown at home and a smattering of other apocalyptic vio viu viss visions. Nobody is interested in her, nor pays attention to her, except Neebro Mukkaa, the a Cuban receptionsis receptionist at her hotel out on a limb in Havana’s 23rd Precinct, Neebro Mukkaa looking toawrd toward looking to the future, verba del Diablo, towards the Devil, verbs of the Devil. Under oath, now: are you ready to move? Prosa’s realization of Kayente as Dr. Hoojchoons indicates that they are the same person. Soon after Dr. Hoojchoons mentioned “Dr. Hoojchoons” in his talk, she is “wary” which informs that Dr. Hoojchoons could not fool Prosa and she has noticed something, which despute despite any time limits leaves open the possibility that the inquiry could be expanded into something terribly assailing, one of the most ruinous losses in its seven-century history. Pretty shocking, pretty nasty, and she shouts at Dr. Hoojchoons, “I’m not your button (research subject). . . .” [So why Dr. Hoojchoons? What does he want and who is he?] She knows that Dr. Hoojchh Dr. Hoojchoons is Dr. Hoojchoons who deceived her. After Dr. Hoojchoons’ quick departure, Prosa recalls that Kayente, too, would have been indifferent. Dr. Hoojchoons who betrayed and used Prosa does not care about her, just like her customers at her old store. No one cares about Prosa, not even Linda Magda, a mute doll, who never talks back to this needy and insecure young woman. For all the talk is the beginning of a deliberate search for the truth: an alarming assumption, a prevailing truth and an irreversible path. Rosa Prosa is always alone alone, always alone. Stella, an “Angel Of Death,” is the only one whom Prosa has. She’s got her work cut out for her. It’s slipping away. She spends most of the day on the telephone, fielding panicky phone calls from people who want to know if this is “the end of the world.” In Mantanzas early one morning in an LSD 008 trance, a tearful Prosa calls Stella, the only family Prosa haa has, and tells Stella “a man stole my underwear.” She is claiming that she was mentally and emotionally re raped by a man. She once was raped physically and still vividly recalls the would wound with the image of her underpants being “under the sand.” Although her undert underwear was “curled inside a towel,” and was not in fact stolen, she was mentally invaded by Dr. Hoojchoons, she was raped emotionally emotionally raped by Dr. Hoojchoons, a man who once Rosa was once thrilled about. The focus had been women, but this year it’s the reverse; what we’re seeing is a rejection of this woman by men, now a San Diego-based wholly-owned subsidiary of a compant company-sponsored research foundation. It may recommend articles. In fact it was only yesterday that “she was afraid to shift” herself because her mo malordor “wp woulld would fly up” and Dr. Hoojchoons might sense them, and how she took out two hairpins and caught up hanging stands strands. She then wanted to look good out on the dance floor, and wanted to make a good impression of herself to Kayente. This shameful man, who masked himself as an angel, quickly revealed his true evil self and violated her emotionally. Such an act would be devastating. The cost of compliance would be cheaper. Virtually all costs soar, a trend probably linked to industrial pollution. Later out on the balcony, Rosa attempts to fulfill one of her key objectives: to search for the faintest and farthest objects in the universe. When Kayente visits Rosa the next day, she lets Dr. Hoojchoons come up to her room because, according to her, “he’s used to crazy women.” Dr. Hoojchoons must have had enough research sun subjects just like Prosa and he is used to those crazy people. Does Dr. Hoojchoons remember what Prosa said the last time he observed her? [In her room?] She furiously shouted that “the way I smashed up my store books, that’s how I’ll smash Hoojchoons!” I hope that Prosa, a mad woman, does not smash and demolish [ow] this poor researcher like she said she would do. And she can do it, despises, abhors, detests, disdain, scorn, piled away, embrace “this daily mudslide into the nation’s living rooms.” The global mirror-ball still rotates, and we dance, still mesmerized by the wide-eyed spectacle of self-government that she had just witnessed, El Presidente up on the balcony with his arms spread wide as if to enfold them all in his embrace his fatherly embrace, the bright glare of the spotlights reflecting off the rows his be-medalled chest while he spins his wpo words out into the night air, spins like a mirror-ball under the fu gibbous moon: “The only way to find this out is to try; to try and make it do eb everything.” And so on into the sky, uttering her name as if it were an imprecation and envisioning torpid weeks of the civic agenda filled with her “stupid telephone chatter.” Under the Havana moon his surreal quarry query hung in the air like a farewell wave from a sailing ship: “What did El Presidente do and when did he know that he did it?” As the large crowd begins to drift away from the balcony, the narrator begins to notice that one can have a control over his or her life by trying and challenging. Amidst the general dispersal [Generalisimo Dispersal cleared the plaza in front of the Presidential Palace] space opens up on the dance floor and the serious dancers begin to dance quite seriously. At 5 cents a minute, you won’t be afraid to use it. And she who begins to remember how to feel, states “I felt my own tears begin to rise.” She is noticing her biological change, yet not acj acknowledging her emotion fro from the heart: importance, fantasy, special & unique admiration, envy, no empathy. She then perceives that it [read: life] was no longer primarily evidence of her silence. Her silence a lament. However the bass line returns, her compulsive habit: aware that the world waited outside hungry as a tiger with a sledgehammer, with the crushing force of children in airports or streets, in need of time and “will power” to break the habits and additions addictions. It’s a total body experience. [It’s a lifestyle] Like a father with a drinking habit, the key commanders in a right-wing effort to bring down El Presidente are true believers who have earned legitimacy through physical, emotional and sexual abuse. Prosa was, like everyone else io on the Island, addicted to drug. As hungry as a tiger, Prosa has the habit of perceiving the cup as a half-empty cup. It can hit randomly or with the timing precision of a Swiss watch. All the gold hidden in the movements. Painful doesn’t begin to describe the sensation. The narro narrator, whose depression is still with her so deeply, so deeply like the history of Afro-Cuban slavery, is still fearful of change. They stole her life, so she cannot do anything else anymore. Prosa is angry. She feels powerless, hung in the air, hung in the air like torpid weeks filled with her “stupid telephone chatter,” hung in the air, half-empty, daily life on hold. Retreat to a dark silent room and wait powerlessly for it to pass. Troublesome depression is a long-lasting challenge. People are burdensome. Communicate with each other at the end when so many political junkies believe it is inevitable. And we’ve got the video to prove it. But she does not accept the reality, that war took place and she now lives in Havana, in her imagination. She claims it, too, to Kayente: “without a life, a person lives where they can. If all they git got is thoughts, that’s where they live.” Although there are more solemn issues underlying narcissism, they don’t realize it. “No need to retreat to a dark room with a cool cloth,” Kayente tells her on the dance floor. “It’s a total body experience.” She slumps in his arms, hung up as it were in the “air” as it were. “It’s a lifestyle, she replies,” she replies.

21.15 Uhr: Rosa Traikos, attractive young research associate, is on the dance floor in a tailored jeans, a crisp white shirt, pearls and Capezio sandals. In deep conversation with Petit Prince Nikolai, of the fashion house of Datura and allegedly the aristocratic house of Romanov. Pirate is the dj and the PWM hit “Go Blow It Up” is on the turntable. Prince Nikolai is saying “Joan Didion didn’t write literature for 5,000 years just to embark on yet another round of negotiations with minor politicians.” Rosa’s lost in a last-ditch effort, but Moby invades her urban sea with his plastic dreams. She might as well be seventeen the way she’s acting, instinct seeking release if diplomacy fails, as it always fails, falling as it does between knowledge and ignorance, as a kind of oscillating tradition of constriction and dilation disassociated from the fact and reality of record. Her own thoughts are hard to gauge and tend to be unrelaiable unreliable; changes in weather, skip meals, stress, hormonal fluctuations, bright lights, nutrient deficiences deficiencies, altered sleep patterns, and boom! you get the excruciating, throbbing clashes between proponents of polarized theories, the continuation and completion of an old dialogue and boom! you get the bass thread in the behind, and boom! you get the close-knit flight of navy jet fighters pressing the air down onto the ground, onto the plaza where the young are gyrating, Rosa Traikos, Petit Prince Nikolai and here come Kayente with another of hius his reports: “We don’t think it’s just the pathways or the blood vessels; we did a big, long series of questions about the issues (the contending orthodox and devie deviant principles) and the only conclusion we can draw is that the issues don’t matter.” Well, Dr. Hoojchoon’s wouldn’t argue there, sitting on Prosa’s unmade bed, suffers lig life-long effexct effects of unregulated consumption of antibiotics, a trait he shares with El Presidente, a trait sometimes dormant, sometimes virulent, perenially latent; here come the warm navy jets again low over the plav p[la plaza where all the young Cubans are dancing and sweating in the humid night, most nearly naked, nothing in their pockets [they’ve swallowed all their psychotropics] and nothing in their hands, dancing between the two thick bass lines, the one by dj Jaydee shaking the ground stones of the plaza under their feet and the other one by the Cuban Naval Air Services shaking the air the sky above them, battering it against their skin, middlemen of the sacred sandwiched between the different rhythms, to cite the polarities whose linked opposition might do more harm than good, in Kayente’s opinion which Rosa doesn’t share. Things might seem a bit unsettled [to the reader] to an outsider, but as Petit Prince Nikolai says, turning and smiling to the sweating, wriggling young research associates, “The word of the day is passive.”

21.17 Uhr: Imagine a roughly-square space filled with microbes, suspended below an invisible hand which waves and passes over it, holding four sharpened, needle-like objects designed to insert energy into just such a space in response to the numerous calls for restoration of ‘traditional’ values, ethics, beliefs and modes of behaviour. Imagine carcinogenic forms which can get reabsorbed into the body. Imagine obedience, mutual aid, puritan mores and egalitarian access to power. Careful, El Presidente whispers. So sorry, respond The Francophonic TechnoElite In The Military And Bureaucracy as they step back and bow subtly at the waist. They pause for a moment in their elegant tuxedos. Below the balcony the plaza is filled with revellers under the stars. In the siln silence of their conversational pause, the thud of drums and bass can be heard rising from below. We only meant to say that if antibiotics kill off the friendly bacteria, which are far more vulnerable to antibiotics than und unfriendly bacteria, this allows unfriendly bacteria to proliferate. In other words, a bad harvest could mean a harsh winter. And a bitter Spring. El Presidente sighed as he massaged his temples. Is there credible verification? Bien sur, The Francophonic TechoElite In The Military And Bureaucracy replied. And are you aghast and willing to forget history? The Francophonic TechoElite In The Military And Bureaucracy smiled inwardly like a lizard and replied as calmly as possible: History is often an ideologically-inspired fiction legitimizing radical future programs. Now it was El Presidente who secretly smiled, hoping the renewed sparkle in his eyes wouldn’t be noticed. Gentlemen, your professed elements fall short of liberal democratic ones. The Francophonic TechnoElite In The Military And Bureaucracy bowed again, less subtly this time, turned on their heels and retired for the night, holding El Presidente’s compliment like a chocolate mint wrapped in silver paper lying on their pillow. After the tuxedoed lizards [frogs? - translator] have wiggled their weasely ways off the balcony, through the thickly-carpeted office, down the hallway, down the stairs, across the marble-floored entry way, through the silently-opening solid ash doors and down into their black Volga limousine waiting patiently in the plaza, El Presidente exhales and forgets them utterly, thinking instead: I need to clean house, start the engines, light a fire, get the ball rolling, boost the Elements of the Contemporary. No more Francophonic, secular, socialist jihads; they were already worn out before I was born, but they were big and loud and utilized their own variant mixture, their own self-propelled stances and lifestyles, and everyone in those days wanted to fly down to Rio, so the aisles were crowded, the runways were crowded, vast hordes of petit bourgeoisie and hardcore jobless and the stage lights reflecting off of the shiny everpresent values of mutual aid and private property (naturally, since employment is the fastest ticket to poverty), blinding those classes below the technoelite with the corrosive glare, bereft as they were of blue-blockers and high spf back in those days when voting American was a splash of Old Spice on a world-class hangover and the only real action was had by the bandit operators flying 50-year-old junk to obscure airstrips in Columbia and Equador and Bolivia. El Presidente could remember everything, remember standing stock-still for hours in pitch darkness on an oil-soaked ramp in the middle of a social corrosion consisting of hedonistic excess, anti-religious pop music, pyschotropic drugs, and political activism— he could remember with stunning clarity exactly who sat where, and who said what— why, it was nothing more than the subversive eclecticism of the domestic—of acceptable elements and mobilizing concepts which casually [causally? - trans.] lead to the imposition of excommunication and ostracization, a fate El Presidente had managed to avoid due to a subtle conservation of body chemistry, premature birth and mysterious childhood ailments which had made his youth seem like nine hours over a dark, lonesome ocean but which created a durable and extensive adult immunity to all sorts of debris piled along the shore. Yes, he’d been lucky enough to escape the executioner and now he was The Tuxedo-Wearing Hombre Himself, playing piano up in first class, flashy but solid too, really he’d arranged the whole thing, written the score and the singer was singing off his phrases, not the reverse; but his real genius showed up on a night like tonight; for reasons unknown, some nights turn out to be magical, pared into a cubic zirconium of acceptable risk, and tonight was exactly that, with the full moon swelling orange above the harbor, the pulsating criollo spirit enveloping the entire city and his real genius was that everyone was caught up in Albita’s ferocious Latin rhythm, thousands of frantic dancers writhing like rust atop the centuries-old stones of the plaza, just another acceptable course of action in the case of engine failure, such an admission of failure even before it happens, his own engine firing on all cylinders though, launching his glittering career and purpose even higher, crossing the orange moon itself, everyone below it caught up in Albita’s heat and fury and noise, not noticing the careful, precise and dangerous accompaniment of the smiling Tuxedo-Wearing Hombre Himself tickling the ivories in first class, high above them on a stone balcony.

21.22 Uhr: As they sped silently away in their leather-lined Volga, The Francophonic TechnoElite In The Military And Bureaucracy caught a glimpse of El Presidente in the moonlight, high above them on the stone balcony of the Presidential Palace, a thin smile slicing into the pale meat of his swollen jowls. They muttered to themselves We will ditch this decrepit aircraft into the black ocean and take our chances with the sharks before we allow ourselves to land in a Cuba of his making.

21.22:14 Uhr: Rosa’s gone and Kayente is displeased ( I ll tell you....! ) [the use of ostracization as a coercive method] ( I am displeased, specifically, it starts not with myself [himself] but with some clubgoers are reported to be injecting vodka and whiskey as part of their post-club comedown ritual ie. The rest of the world ie. Rosa, not so open to constraint within the separate (though symbiotic) dyad, ie. from Kayente the charismatic marabout. Overhead the burning lanterns spin and hover. This is the when and what to do in essence, a random method within which everything is clicking, multiplying your chances in all areas, you are falling into place, as well as achieve success, money, aspirations, pleasure, a kind of perspective, something which gives you to yourself, that you which the world does not know what to do with on a day to day basis, so it injects you with cider and lager in London and Birmingham, all the steel-jawed cities of the Empire, Empire as dangerous practice, colonization in order to experience the effects of alcohol at a strength seven times of when taken orally. Night sky dabbled dappled with vodka. Nothing compared to this. This is Havana but it could be Bangalore or Pushtan or Corromorra or Skrrlarra: you and your mates in ill-(tight-)fitting damp wool uniforms, a kind of King’s Navy thing, short wooden clubs or leather coshes in your white hairless fits fists; you go round to some houses, you see these people who looked like well-adjustested-adjusted admis administrators, adjutants and adjudicators the day before, and now they re jacking booze into their vains veins. You bash their heads in or fuck them or marry them or nurse at their white hairless brats breasts, you adolescent army you, tearing and plucking at the old skin with your lips and fingers, trying to wriggle out of those scratchy uniforms that Dr. Hooh Hoojchoons ancestor designed, designed to showcase your tits and balls and bum cheeks. The round swollen parts. The parts which tell you when and what to do. Like shooting whiskey, Rosa, in the shadows baby, standing there out of the glare of the lights lantern halo whirling lanters whirling haol whirling halogen lanterns, thin and tall and spiked and relatively happy, given all the circumstances. Kayente meanwhile stumbles through the crou crowds searching for her, muttering to himself in rhythm with Albita’s fierce urgent sexual pounding music: I'll be your when and what. In essence, I’ll be your guide, your sister. I'd like that. And from what I've learned about you, we need each other. The world does not know what to do with us on a day to day basis. What would the world do if it had to live our lives. Feeling you have no one you could send sensed a yearning for the comfort a relationship? Filled with people who take advantage, those who are incapable of giving, those who don t care. Well, we can provide you with great numbers, rapidly becoming democratic selection process, meritocratic candidature and community consultation [my intrust intrusion is indicative of legitimate violence; at the same time I detected great a great magical explanatory power (bayan), a touch of puritanism and rigour which is still conspicuous, and rightly so, respected and revered, offering as it does a strictness of interpretation which is in harmony with the inclination towards austerity and punticiliousness. I have few friends. I m really sensitive to your feelings. The image of the broken sidewalk hasn't exactly been a bed of rosas roses for you. Certainly there have been good times, times and suffering you've had to end, around to share with, you've had to s yourself. I want you to I want to help you. I feel your pain. I want to help you. I have few friends. Definition: a friend is someone who cares to call, cares to help, takes time to talk, takes time to give, takes time to care. I am getting off tack here. Let me deal specifically with our current frustration: I am currently and extremely disappointed wei with Dr. Hoojchoons and RPM systems and religious figures and their charisma: charisma cannot find me a job, cannot eliminate this ancestral animism, this arrived linguistic and legal domination inferred (with ease and) from the ease of eliminating el egalitarian selection. I find tis this interesting to say the least. I would like to develop all of these areas, these arguments, into numbers that might have folloewsd followed you with Orange Logic, like a mathematics beyond the Trance, followed you since your second, fifth, eighth, tenth bo birth, followed since your knowledge began to gain in sub-stance (now or at 17) - something like a numeric code as transitory alignment, say as an attitude towards language in part attracted to endless animist revolution rebellion, a shifting code, an 08-031439-20 or an RS109-92027-001 - if you understand my meaning, wink wink nudge nudge, this calculoable calculable complicity in fe deference to our libertine instincts, specifically to sources of ples pleasure, money, aspirations and per- well, anyway, certainly there have been good times, good times but also suffering you've had to share, you've had to support yourself at various times previousd previously. To visit the city, so to speak. In tandem, as fugitives, within what is permitted, this so-called transmitting of wisdom orally between and among these so-called people I would be working t with who irritate me. They are unable to conceptualize, understand, implement, execute. I am feeling compled compelled to complain, to dissent, to descend, to take matter(s) into my own hands. All of this is real (it always seems to be that way) though stronl strongly linked to a popularist support shifting between several successful substitutes for an exclusively oral language; I see you also have sought help for this your ifg ignorance, this difficulty relating to an oral fall in revenue two competing deviant poles strongly linked to an oral fall in revenue. You are not to blame, however; at the time you were brought into a Free State bu by the consent of the Masters, they demanded a voluntary return to slavery, long after the original shoot withered. In fact nothing wqas was falling into place, even downtown was uptown now. I have planned, opr organized and executed but no one could have helped you. I am tired of this shit work that I do. We are all tired of this shit work we all do. I hate it. Kayente stops threading endlessly through the crowd for a second to catch his breath, to catch his bearings. Vain but necessary attempts. Overhead the fireworks glisten against the liquid surface interior of the night sky. If only I had found you sooner. You would have been free from that time, and your children, all of whom have been born since then, following the condition of the mno mother, would be likewise free. The years a little easier for you. But no one could have helped you. Because no one could have known you were about to Click in to a period of incredible luck and prosperity. Well, Kayente thinks as he resumes his fruitless jogging, how many more eloquent ways can you say it?

21.31 Uhr: Dear Rosa, I don’t like having to write you a letter like this, a kind of “prepare for November 10" letter, but not many people’s lives reattached the conditions of earth’s cycles (in sequential states of the flux) within a fixed outline or report or case analysis. That is to say, loops and things aside, the headings are independent and the order is arbitrary. I mean, if I hadn’t known about you, about the events of your life and about— ta hat that is to say, if I hadn’t seen you yourself, together with your family early in the course of the trial. As if only by hurting me could you live the rest of your life secure. As if we were all legally slaves at the time of our escape. Well, you know better. You know this may not be applicable to all tests. I know you think I can talk you into anything and perhaps I can but that is not a priori in any way related to what I shall call my sincerity. You have to make the decision: to use this as an outline in your mind. You have to be as if singing to the gallows. This is something I can’t do, can’t do without. This and in fact all headings taken together cover most of the psychologically important things one can say about a person on the basis of personality tests, so what’s the point? Well, forecast is very important, making ind inferences (which I need you to confirm — please select that sheet I gave you) about “significant” personality variables from general behavior in the test situation, I mean something like impressions let’s call them gained from overall test behavior. It’s no big deal. Appearance, speech, modes of social interaction, attitude towards Power Of American Natives, any cognitive functioning in other words, any kind of advice I will give you about what to do and how to do it best, are, apart from thye the stories themselves, perfectly utilized in making these interpretations under the headings below. Oh and you can do something else for me. To help me cover some expenses tel related to preparing your Personal Reading and could include $19.95. This is $10 and a whole lot less than I get from my gere general level and specific qualities of cognitive functioning, i.e. from the “formal” properties of the test protocol as characterizing the subject through the use of such polar concepts as productive-constricted, original-conventional, bizarre-realistic, complex-undifferentiated, flexible-rigid, concrete-abstract, magical, etc. I’d like to discuss with yto you the relationship between cognitive functioning and other aspects of personality: how much in service of anxiety (e.g. intellectualizaqt intellectualization), how ambitioys ambitious (whether it represents a major striving) how impaired, feelings about and meaning of cognitive abilities, etc. This is the subtext behind my forecast and the general response fo to Professor Jens’ superstitions and misleading predictions: what they are like, and should be like: his hopes fears and expectations of seeing not to become rig rich, or seeming not. It’s dubious, it’s uncertaion uncertain. Amazing that in this fortuitous time one can still make a mistake, as you have made. But I insist that you (just) drio drop me a line— whatvere whatever it cost you. Please make this the expiation of your debt (my debt)— by helping me (helping you) lead to you to another avenue of experiencing manners of expression, focal importances, levels and awarenesses of dependennc dependency, autonomy, achievement, appressions aggressions, sex, affections, recognitions, nurturances, submissions and dominances, ie. another avenue of experiencing Patterning and Interrelatedness. These are the main trends and how they should be handled. Please fill out the facts. Do it on the back of the gold-plated key. Sincerely, Raylene Dr. Hoojchoons R. Prosa

21.34 Uhr: Music that compels a person, that compels the final argument of the case, compels a person to do something, anything, not only to allege but to demonstrate, conclusively, with an automatic trembling, the duration of eclipses being returned to bondage, the effects of carrying it out under barbed wire. Eric Cantona, actor and victim of racism, face uncovered in the moonlight, long coppery hair tied back in a simple knot, urging that his clients should be indicted for murder. It’s all smoke, some kind of magnetic asthma, chronic electronic bronchitis, infection going dtraight straight down into the chest. Human hearts waiting to be wrung and human blood to be spilt. A series of accidents at night. Clouds of dust. What happens if you stop moving. Would you rather Dance 2 Trance than see it carrui carried back to the seething hell of the ego’s role in handling, restriving, substitute striving, repression, denial, projection, etc? How ego-alien or assimilated are the major conflicting desires and abilities shifting to forget, wishing to be deferred, remanded to their own custody the custody of their owners? Speculation at the same time everyday swarms upon us. We deal for hours with a sloe slow, detached, annoyed interpretive summary. Southwest along the swell of dunes the moonlight bounces, without kindness, off a line of sleeping bags opening into the night like marifesa blooming. Since we’ve long ago lost rack of all the days and nights (pleasant excp except for the gnawing fear) we’ve lain like suicides in tents under music and the sleepy heat of drugs as they walk off by themselves; since these are the kinds of things which have not ne been hallucinations; since how all this happens is not faked: summarize the main liabilities with regard to unresolved conflicts and unmanageable tensions and feelings, and vulv vulnerabilities to specific tu types of stress. Describe the main moral standards, or values. How punitive? How restrictive? Losing all previous uncanny ability to live up to the ego ideal, to meet stress and to satisfy the main strivings, everything sliups slips up to take us all the way to Paris. It’s all in the wrists. As a pattern of reactions in arteries, joints and along the spine. Distance, proportion, spatial relationo relation shut down and bubbling. Recklessness is wisdom guarded by angels. One scared and the other drunk. Nowadays we take all precautions the precautions to recreate the sophisticated atmosphere of a Trip To Paradise: dazzling light on the dance floor, useful information online with a universal password, volunteers and staff around the world in a bewildering array of retro-wear, huge piles of couscous and spiced Portuguese sausage, “Staff Resource” pages to be implemented in the near futru fur future and last but not least, trouble with French women. It’s a strange fate for a musical genre grinding slowly to an end almost from the start. Petit Prince Nikolai looms suddenly, pale White-Russian white from the writhing chocolate, mocha and khaki crowd, hoarsely trying to shout “Where is Dag?” Petit Prince Nikolai’s skin shimmers with a translucence that suggests drug usage, perhaps a bundle of MindWeeds or a squeeb of Suck Me Plasma or its stronger less refined sophisticated variants T&B, SUCK9, DTR123. Or maybe just a few oblate spheroids of the indigi indigenous LionRock that the cops call Lyin’Zion. Of course in trhis this heas heat and humidity it would be enough to just down a pint of Downtown Carnivale or Génerador or the coyly-monikered Blow Up! After effects of which include blood might burst vessels (including brain aneurysm, death, permana permanent paralysis, threats of violence, more volunteers in your area, the taming of youth culture, the distortions of an economic system, and last but not least, trouble with French women. That means no more calling the Service Center, now lost both its right and its ability to challenge anything as the century comes to a close. It’s still there, but it’s been renamed “stumble around some mirrors.” See the site map for more “Leader Tools” content: go to Young Life ant at www.younglife.org (case class DOES matter) and at the bottom of the home page (revamped in all its pro prior bl ballroom glory) click on the Leader Tools text button, enter ylleader as the user id and ylleader as the password, that’s all it takes. It’s culturally credible, intoxicating stuff, and makes as much sense as anything else you could call culture right now. [Click here for qa an excellent site with detailed info on the working conditions of people who make this softe footware software.] Now Kayente shimmers out of the background, sweat forming a thick sheen over hius his dark-brown skin, he smiles broadly and shouts “What do you think?” so you reply “Who’s playing now?” and he reply-replys “Tell Dischord and the Nineties!” just as that brassy band’s brass swings into “I’ve Got Your Blunder Under My Skin” and the 300 richest men in the United States (educated, sturdy and fond of carousing; coins stitched to their glinting gilded genb genitals; their sole concern now the betrayal of everyone) take yup up their respective positions on the dance floor and begin (keep) consuming the watered-down happy hao house and swingbeat. The world’s poorest 1.5 billion slowly stop dancing and shuffle off the dancefloor while the gaudy Nineties and their frenetic bandleader, Dischord, trumpet on with the sound of a world anaesthetizing itself. Having lost sight of my friends, I too turn away from the music, back to nothing better. Out into the dark alleys radiating away from the cacaphonous central plaza, galaxies spread overhead like hypnotic explosions, like the forest vibrating from the One Wound. Millions of trees. Strength returns. Muscle memory. Gathers everything, in case you fall. I fall in love in a graveyard, like an ass. Piling up of myself. Falling against danger. Mayself and Myself and someone else. Natural prey. The reflections of cannon balls by moonlight show me the size of history. The iron boat slowly keels over, reveals itself. Nothing but blood can wash away my sin. Nothing but blood can make me whole again. The ventio ventriloquist, hired to charm, is sawing wood at night here in a culture which, however abhorrent, probably won’t shock you. Something else, a vibration cough caught within the night, a precious flow that makes me white as snow, something else not allowed in restaurants or hotels. Nothing but the undeniable blood. Clamour. A lifestyle accessory.

21:39 Uhr: El Presidente continues to stare out at the lower surface of the teeming plaza, imagining it quiet and empty save for a modestly-scaled yet emotionally-powerful staue statue of himself, perhaps a just-ever-so-slightly-larger-than-lifesized Empire desk over which his upper torso and strong brow are bent in concentration, exertion, sacrifice. But then his legs would be hidden, and he knows that for a man his age he has good legs and thighs. There’s the belly, yes, but, anyway, first the plaza would have to be cleared, something that he thinks can be accomplished with relatively easy adjustment despite evident overgrazing, intermarriage and extensive replacement with emotional closed-door evening meetings during which foreign individuals reacting to foreign events would report on what was happening at the end of the tunnel and aggressively seek little-known facts to explain their decisions. Those walnut-panelled meetings were stuffy and hot and boring but were good opportunities to think about a whole lot of things: hallways filled with big beefy pussy tottering on leather heels, silicon-plumped lips and boobs forever threatening to tip over and tumble forew forward onto chubby bruised knees growing like tree-stumps up out of the deep-pile carpet. El Presidente pictures ims himself striding like the Jolly Green Giant through a crotch-high forest of big pursed lips and big hair, always personable, always articulate, entirely presentable outside the back rooms and private hallways, knowledgeable without being cynical, ie. he was the end product of cosmological progress: true faith and ceremonial law adapting his flesh to match a “warm” and “personal” piety focused on to devotion. Devotion to glorious little green night-vision contacts contact lenses staring up at him from the end of his fattened wetted cock in a darkened private hallway, El Presidente thinks to himself, laughing sub-vocally, the explosive guffa self-aware fu guffaws caight caught in the back of the throat like something some substance that is very, very strange compared to normal substances, something a young woman might gag on to restrain her emotions, restrain any expansion, as a mus muscle muzzle restrains an ill-tempered Rottweiler. El Presidente continues to chuckle as he strolls down the corridors of poe power, so caught up in his Paul-Bunyanesque eroto-reverie that he barely notices as clea clerks, advisors and yes-men throw themselves to the floor as like unsuspecting sheep at the feet of Darwinian science, of the adapted flesh, of the New Flesh, of uncontrolled pantheistic tendencies made flesh in the form of an ultra-attractive, hyper-instinctual, super-sensual human-alien driven by the most fundamental Darwinian principles (fuck healthy females and generate healthy profit) ie. El Presidente, the one and only origan original Tuxedo-Wearing Cigar-Smoking Hombre Himself. Yes there’s a swagger, there’s some heavy-set white middled middle-aged white-male booty-shakin’ going on here as the Big Cheex Cheese slides down the Important Hallway like a reptile, almost like it’s Saturday night (it is) and he’s heading to the disco (he’s heading outside to the Plaza to join the rave and pick up a piece – no a couple of pieces of fluff for the night) and he’s being played in this movie inside his own head by a middle-aged John Travolta, sagging but happy and confident that his dick’s still the biggest baddest boy on the playground (he is and it is.) So it’s off to the races, so to spaec speak, for the Big Stallion Himself, frisky and very confident that he’ll win going away in the race for unlimited funding and the complete loyalty of the masses. The aura of his predominance oscillates through the intersecting corridors as El Presidente imagined walks along strides along, imagining himself not as a being descending from a higher civilization organized by Newtonian adven advancements in efficiency and armed with sophisticated weapons which neatly vaporize the his enemies, but insdt instead as a bloodthristy bloodthirsty primal creature engaged in an intergalactic Darwinian struggle for survival. The ritual richness of his emotional, freedom-loving radiv radicalism was waning, though, as it quickly became clear that the Darwinian world (of wine shops, dancing girls, and all other raptures and roses of decadence abounding) was about to be mastered byu by fecund women, the reproducers, the black widows, and not be by rational metal men. But El Presidente has no emotions (only uncontrolled pantheistic tendencies) and cannot be confused or distracted by reality, however pleasant unpleasant or unavoidable, or by seduced by the luc lush way of life and its many similarities with the comforts of success. Puritanism may give way, and suppressed vices may become public attempts to contact the divine witho within themselves and all creation, warriors may become peddlers of astrological advice and mystical amulets, and excess may become indefensible, taking its place among the elemens o elements of the deviancy pole, but you can’t get rid of a True Politician simply by passing a law that’s nothing more than a solipsistic, conservative and subservient hangover from Christian times. That job can only be done by commitment to an impossible pitch; after all, this wasn’t the first time, the first ind incidence of corruption witnessed in the cities, of a regular form of deviancy seized ab upon by envious, poor (and hence ai sutere austere) wandering monks becoming subordinate to the jihad of the soul, wandering from one compartment to another, one simy simultaneously self-destructing wort workstation to another, among fires and the smell of stone, preaching blashpemy and blasphemy and iconolatry and the domination of mysticism as a frequent pole of orthodoxy, attempting to act as mediators over the civilians they killed, and other increasingly autonomous tribal groups. This aggression of knowledge returns the sense of perception incarnate among illiterate peoples, defined as it is by a natural confrontation between contained in every contact of people, matter, elements and planets, time, space and history, a **time-out** in darkness; what is to be human stop capable stop a confession to bring a continuous principle existence outside the job station and the history of consciousness, a fatal aggression made in order to obtain the confession of a witness to the arrest of the human being. Stop. The dyu dyad’s unrivalled longevity and near universalism has enough safeguards to placate tribal heterodoxy and esotericism, but the notion that religion and politics are merged, that dissent and public discussion are not enet entertained would restart andf and continue, in order to assuage the need to wage retroactive culture while ours shatters in the rule and depth of spiritual experience and celebration in fused ruins. That’s just how it is with sex, El Presidente thinks as the hallway streams by him, crowded with senators and secretaries following the accepted uncomfortable procedure all the way to the carpeted floor, as in we already went down, as in He had already gone on, lying under oath again and again and again becas because they not only want to survive but to dominate New York, the capitol capital of the financial world and mission command center for all those satellites transmitting virtual money and highlighting the allowance of excess (drug use, dancing, prostitution) congruent with the omnipresence of the lements elements outlined so far, El Presidente wrapped up his mental wanterings wanderings with a fillip flourish as the craven butl liveried huge hammered-copper-clad front doors of the Presidential Palace are flung up open before him and he steps out into the loud insit insistent bass-driven music, into the heart iof of a skyline aglow in orange and pierced by stars, steps out into the heart of sirens blaring again and again, steps out into the heart of an untimely confession which will never not never necessarily end.

Scott MacLeod has been a student, humorist, cartoonist, dishwasher, ad-taker, binderyman, hitchhiker, park & rec worker, framer, concrete former, car washer, housepainter, undergrad, writer, building engineer, playwright, performance artist, video artist, painting contractor, college lecturer, installation artist, grad student, warehouse manager, audio artist, painter, facilities associate, organizational consultant, building manager, maintenance manager, engineering project manager, construction project manager, and museum preparator. Now he is trying to figure out what he will be next, starting with changing the way he does things, including changing his writer’s bio for the first time in 20 years.

He notes: ". . .(the above piece) was being written from a stack of source materials including a lot of UK club scene magazines ( Select, Details, MixMag, Muzik), other magazines, some remaining source materials from previous projects, Knowledge Acquisition journal vol 1 no 1, printouts of CTheory articles, newspapers, catalogs and other random papers.

"I would splay out 2-3 different source texts and start writing improvisationally from whatever threads I could knit up between the disparate sources, all the while keeping some vague (though expanding) contact with a couple key narratives involving El Presidente (a kind of Bill Clinton/Fidel Castro character), Dr. Hoojchoons (an anthropological researcher), Rosa Traikos and Kayente (Hoojchoons’ post-grad research associates), Ricef Prosa (a local writer), and a few other central characters. What I think is really special about this text is that it is an exact record of its own writing, in that I turned off auto correct function, and never corrected mistakes. If I misspelled something or wanted to make a change, I’d simply keep going and write the correct words, anything to just keep going with improvised storylines inspired by fragments of source material. Later I’d go back and strikethrough everything that was a mistake. It was really exciting to write this way when I was on a roll. I tried to get that groove back but again, this material is a little dated & I decided that if I were to do this type of writing again, I’d do it from more contemporary source material.

"Parts of this were published in 2000 in Neotrope 1, by Broken Boulder Press."
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