This piece was originally performed at the Jade Lounge in 2015, at an event called MindMeld with Mark Savage. Everything was green.
by Jason Squamata
My name is Jason S.
And I have a serious problem.
I’m a recovering accomplice. A belly-flashing beta dog. A compulsive sidekick.
been three months and eighteen days since I last wore the tights, did
the flips, threw kung-fu moves at deformed gangsters and their bumbling
My fists no longer smash your screen in explosions of pop art onomatopeia.
I no longer instinctively leap into some kind of action when the
corporate logo of my old mentor stains the sky like an angry omen.
It’s been four months, one week, and two days since I was last tortured
by a maniac, which used to happen all the time, sometimes…consensually.
It’s been two years, eleven months, and twelve days
since I last traveled through time and kissed a robot princess with
silver feathers on the dark side of her moon.
I haven’t facilitated the saving of the world.
I haven’t punished the guilty to somehow save the soul of a city.
I haven’t piloted a giant robot with desperate finesse to rescue a dying god who called me friend.
I’ve just been getting by, mostly.
And let me tell you, after all my fetish-dipped mind-bending
adventures, up past my bed-time in strange outfits with spooky older
men, the quaintly constrictive physics of the quotidian day by day have
shown me a different kind of wonder, a story as rich in its quiet way as
the myths I used to live. This sober, adventure-free life is truly the
last alien planet. That’s what I tell myself.
what they tell us to tell ourselves, we who have the syndrome, but it
isn’t really true, is it?
Sunday, August 30, 2015
It was the year 2000 or thenabouts.
I was younger, then.
I was living in a nondescript Massachusetts suburb.
I was a faux bohemian filling notebooks with gibberish and showing them to no one, calling myself a writer, working at a coffee shop (like you do), sharing the shadowy basement of a funny little ranch house on the edge of a cemetery with a good-hearted but dangerous quasi-criminal friend named Jim Grimm.
We'd worked on a film together, in that neighborhood and in the wilds of New Hampshire. The rest of the cast and crew had run off to LA, the film was in limbo, and me and Jim were languishing in the wake of it, under a house owned by his Aunt Betty, living without purpose and sleeping off our benders next to a garage filled with garish prop vehicles left over from the shoot. A volkswagen painted to look like a bumblebee with big wings that moved if you could get it started. A permanently inert yellow Chrysler K-car, like a souped-up plastic golfcart with dragon fins.
Jim himself drove a little baby blue and hot pink pick up truck with a portrait of a laughing cartoon transvestite named Monchichi stenciled on its hood. It ran pretty well and he had no shame about it. Jim had built these cars by hand with the film's director. He was proud to have worked on the film, even though it seemed, then. that no one would ever see it. He came from the kind of family where you work all summer at your Uncle's shady salvage yard, that Uncle it helps you to know if you ever go to prison. Jim thought the film would be a way to put that world behind him, but without the daily business of the shoot to give his life a certain structure, the crime in his blood and an unquenchable thirst for cheap beer would kick in and that good heart would get a little bit lost in his hunger for trouble.
Thursday, August 27, 2015
The following sketches and teaser texts are promotional items from a Jason Squamata serialized pulp fantasy entitled ARGENTEUM ASTRUM. The first episode is still available for purchase at Professor 100's magnificent PULP IMPOSSIBLE website. Click HERE.
Seven whole notebooks in The Squamata Collection seem to be devoted to ARGENTEUM ASTRUM. Some large chunks of text therein seem to describe happenings in Episodes as far along as #13. Whether Squamata ever brought the project to a state of coherent completion, in notebooks or otherwise, is unknown, but unlikely. When the excavations are complete, The Squamata Foundation will provide you with all material pertaining to this project, except insofar as posting is prohibited for legal reasons.
In the interests of preserving the little mind-mumbles made by a strange being who moved much too swiftly and a little too silently through the din of human history, The Squamata Foundation will be using this blog as a museum for whatever fragments we can salvage from the voluminous unpublished and mostly illegible scribblings of Jason Squamata (a.k.a. Orji Walflauer, Krishna Kaligula, Jason Squidd, Joe Nothing, Jason Matthew Lucia, Jason Malcolm Lucifer. etc.).
In this installment, we find lyrics from a series of aborted pop albums, featuring various musical collaborators and secret chanteuses. This is allegedly just a fraction of the material Squamata generated for these projects. More lyrics will be posted as we unearth them, along with recordings of the songs in question if we can post them without danger of litigation.
Wednesday, July 29, 2015
volume ONE: “Oneiric Memoir”
“In my dream,...”
I'm a professional oneiric confessional artiste.
I work the secret salons and supperclubs of a darkly dreaming demimonde in the black light district of a city slashed by spindly bridges and whispering rivers.
I spend my days sleeping and cutting up my dream journals in a seedy residential hotel, scissoring out the juiciest bits and preparing my routines, my urgent nocturnal transmissions.
Because every night I get up here and I clutch the mic and I immerse a piss elegant audience in communiques from my war torn inner life.
I dream at all hours in a million colors so you don't have to.
Saturday, April 18, 2015
(more HYPNOZINE can be accessed by clicking HERE)
HYPNO KOMIX COMMUNIQUE #2:
HYPNO KOMIX COMMUNIQUE #2:
Okay. So you’ve had the experience.
You engaged the alchemical conjunction of image, text, soundscape, and sacrament.
You lipped along with the incantations.
The glyphs and graphs and grids unfolded into doorways and staircase spirals and anamorphic Escherplexes.
And you fell in a bit, didn’t you? Maybe it felt like entertainment, mostly,
but the Beast at work within this feast unknown, it bit you.
So you did it again. You needed to be sure.
You needed to know that recipe for an epiphany was religious, made of actual Otherness, and not some sleight of mind.
That second time, or maybe the third
(magazine. soundscape. sacrament. magazine. soundscape. sacrament.),
you realized that it WAS a trick.
And that it doesn’t matter. It’s ALL a trick.
Matter is obviously MADE of the friction between conflicting funhouse refractions.
A vision is a vision is a vision, by any other name.
And now there’s a need in you.
Saturday, April 11, 2015
HYPNOKOMIX COMMUNIQUE #1:
Good evening, true believers.
Wherever, whenever you are...let it be evening.
Let a twilight come and move through you into darkness.
A darkness that teaches us to see.
I invite you now to taste the vices of a lifestyle yet unborn.
You've been playing some role in the workaday world, i'll bet.
That was then. Right know you are who you are when you're alone.
You're off the grid tonight. This is your idea of fun.
But you've always been a strange one, deep down, haven't you?