Saturday, April 11, 2015



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?

You relax in the egg-shaped luxury of your HypnoBooth,
a drug-enhancement brainwash bubble for the sophisticated sensualist.
You fondle and contemplate the wrapper your dose of HYPNOZINE is nestled in.
A five-petalled lotus in harsh black and white, abstracted into an icon.
The ingredients are mysterious.  The side effects are fascinating.
An epiphany in every tab.  Guaranteed.  When used as directed.
The booth enwombs you 
and massive holophonic headphones enclose your lobes and contain your headspace.
The HypnoSystem mothers you and opens your puzzle-box head to receive the transmission.
Pure and clean and complete.

Then there's this very book, this HYPNOZINE:FIRST OF ONE.
It's a story you can swim in.  Like a bunch of living lovesongs, it feels like YOUR story.
You read the incantations aloud as you listen, more and more in sync with the unreliable narrator.
You meditate on the images as you listen, 
         these stained glass windows in some cancelled future's doomsday church of cartoon paranoia.
There's a symbol system at work here, pushing buttons in your brainmeat,
a mythology revealed in code those who know.
The microfictions conjure a psychedelic surveillance opera,
seen through screens from every possible angle.
Scenes flash-frozen and reframed as schizoid loveletters
and solarized posters for impossible movies.

Tear the wrapper delicately.  With reverence.
You're about to interface with a story that changes you inside 
                     when you memorize its moments and movements.
HYPNOZINE is a cathedral of twisted mirrors that unfolds like geometry on three frequencies of being:
The HypnoGlyphic.  The HypnoSonic.  And the HypnoDelic.
The magazine.  The spoken word slideshow.  The chemical.
The first transmission from HYPNOKOMIX.
You can see it, read it, hear it, taste it for hours and hours until the next dose is ready.
New mysteries and symmetries are disclosed with every immersion.
When you finally feel like it's all about YOU,
When you're a HypnoKid, you are not who you are.

More living images and narcotic narratives
will burst forth and unfold and become sacramental habits in the months to come.
Four more frequencies of HYPNO SATISFACTION.
The Aeon of HYPNO is already in play.
Start playing HERE.
And BE enjoyed.
HYPNO is happening.
It's happening to YOU.
And YOU are not who you ARE.

There's great unrest in the city tonight.  
A great electricity in the flux and muddle of things, 
a building static cling to things that anticipates disaster.
 Our hero (for lack of a better word) is careening through the 2D streets like a bad memory, seeing to it that all the stars are aligned and all the machineries of destiny are geared to bring bliss to his beloved.  
Up until tonight, it's been easy to live in his bubble of love, to pretend that his slivering self perished only for her, that all things hinge on her happiness, that he was meant to protect her as a spectral presence from beyond the page.  
But it isn't all about Kylie Butler (though she may fit crucially into the big jigsaw).  
There are things afoot in the gutters and clubs and cubicles that belong to a higher wavelength of urgency.  
Minds you can read by passing through them (derailing trains of thought if you're not very very graceful), minds all alike in culty clusters, a gang growing out every attitude.  
Psychic slaves of several secret societies, moving through bubbling black rainbows, motion ghosts fried by splashing searchlights.  
Agendas hidden and not so hidden, extending in webs as far as the mind's eye can see.  
Tonight will be crucial.  
Nothing routine.  
Each moment swollen with significance.  
So many plans hatching, all at once, adding up to an intimate apocalypse.  
It's YOUR world ending tonight.  
Be the Peter Pan while you can.  
The floorboards creak and the tabloids shriek and something heavy is happening in a room only two people know about.  
Something is happening.  
Then it happens again. 
Is it you, or are all the airplanes plummeting as if snuffed by an electromagnetic pulse? 
 Every crash and napalm bouquet is a celebration of the impending end of all that is and the advent of something that should not be.  
Kafka Kids and Luvkraft Kids are fighting in the street.  
Not just a friction between dark and light, tonight, but between even different gradations of darkness.  Is there a single citizen left who isn't melting into fantasy?  
Is it you, or is the very architecture of this city shifting in sympathy and complicity with the strange hungers of its occupants?  
Is your will to live (for Kylie or yourself or whoever) more powerful than some squid Kaligula's will to power?  
Is your hunger for experience more persuasive than a fashionable hunger for oblivion?  
Are you ready not just to fight for your life, but to fight for life itself?  
If only Kylie were awake to see all this.  
The end of everything is so pretty when you aren't reading the minds of its casualties.

Behold, all the logos that are my life.  
The icons that add up to my identity.  
All the shadowy forces and memetic epidemics whose feeding frenzy of incorporation and assimilation define the language and the world i think in. 
Their sigils and hieroglyphs festoon and vampirize my inside and my outside.  
When was the last time i had a thought that was my own? 
 Even this soliloquy is a kind of ad for HYPNOZINE: the book, the show, the drug, the dance, the details, the design, the way of seeing.  
Even my stream of consciousness feeds the sweet machine and lubricates the grinding gears of its insidious agenda.  
The screens that eat these streets expose the realtime hijinks of my bloodstream.  
Pills like little eggs, going to pieces inside me, their particles bursting into crooked vegetic curves like lilies blooming in absinthe.  
An amoebic invader that bonds with my tightly coiled DNA, growing five strands of serpent where once there were two, opening my vectors and constricting my chakras so ferociously that they implode into astral black holes.  
The street signs show me fifty different ways to go nowhere.  
The towers spew caustic communiques and toxic clouds of infoplasm, dumbing the populace like pollen dumbs the bug. 
The eye of She who became my world hangs outside each tableau like an invisible moon. 
I abstracted her into omniscience.  
Would I have slipped inside her head so completely if i knew her head was so broken?  
And so densely overpopulated...with disco demons and wormhole merchants and rippling pyramids where they harvest the big mirage.  
My name means "no name".   
By "no name" i mean "every name".  
By going nowhere and being there, I have evolved into the very alphabet all names are made of.  
I'm laying eggs in your head as you read me. 
Did you think you were the only one?
The only one who'd broken through?
That must have felt fantastic, to imagine that you're a freak of nature who by chance and charm happened to unpuzzle the drug and achieve HYPGNOSIS.  First time ever.  Congratulations.  Ah, to be young and Untitled!
How you must have scrambled and shrieked through the lovesick streets this morning, peeling yourself free from the collage complex where your half-life happens, where Kylie coils foetally in a big hamster cage and laps milk from a saucer like a kitten, tubes in her latex hypnoskin keeping her blissed, like pureed samadhi through a Giger I.V.  
Too special, too "chosen", too sure of yourself to make much of the shiny black Barracuda angling into a space across the street from your brownstone bower of bliss. 
You were more about the vibrations.  
The colors that music makes in the headspace of those who hear it.  
The pretty girls prowling down the ad-splashed cobblestones, talking like scientists (angelic and complex), walking like leopards (all spotty glamour and animal grace).  
The sound of ivy creeping up dead walls and into living rooms.  
You've seen a few tomorrows where all the modern spaces are upholstered by moss.  
Did you fight any "crime" today?
Did you have any "visions"?
What new frontier of boredom finally drove you home to feed the kitty like your body did before the Fall?  
The Barracuda is still here.  
The blinds are drawn.  
Something in that building knows what you are and it won't let you in, it won't let you in until it's too late.  
You had no past.  
Now you have no future.  
And your "NOW" is in serious trouble.
It's darker now, isn't it?
The devil came and left a mess.
The mess was once the woman you love.
Now all the bystanders look like police, palms greasy and eyes peeled for a shakedown.
The pretty young girls have mutated into desperate middle-aged businessmen.  
The fairy bulbs have burst.  They stand revealed as moth abattoirs.  Art nouveau bell jars full of brittle little corpses. 
The You you never knew has bad debts or some piper to pay, apparently.
Despite the antic innocence of your hypno harlequinade, some very serious people want to break the things you love.
The moon won't move or wane or go away.  It gets brighter the blacker the sun gets and its face is tattooed with the seal of Krishna Kaligula, whose simuloid minions slither through every gallery and arcade and crossroads, mindless and faceless, doing his dirty work wherever it takes them.
In a squid-shaped airship.
In a snakeskinned bullet-train.
In a black barracuda.
The Doctor was with them.
His lingering cologne is a mist of nasty flashbacks.

When boys play one game too many, they buy their own lies and go seven kinds of crazy, all at once.
Mad as he is (tight and violent in the dreamskin of a fractured avatar, casting several cartoon shadows with appetites and agendas and arsenals of their own), he comes on like a gateway god.  
His promethean instrument might just smash the glass skin that shivers between yesterday and tomorrow.  
In a sudden act of sublime brutality, "now" can equal "forever". 
Notice the liminal logo, the timespace tattoo of the corporate killer cult that branded him.  
They planted a product where his soul should be.
Notice the 4d shades, the ceremonial truncheon, the getaway car made of sound.
When the moment is broken, the future leaks through, and ways of seeing yet unborn can extend their tendrils backwards through the viscera of history.  
The Hypno Ninja throws a star of the mind.  
Sometimes he throws a thousand.  
A constellation of serrated supernovas that strike before he throws them.  
When a star breaks, its pieces could be anywhen.
Airplanes in a sky like this are spectral delusions.  
No one gets out of this city alive except by force and fire.  
A new world can only bloom from the neutralized guts of an old one.  
No window, no screen, no mirror will be left unbroken by the big black nothing inside you.
They call it HYPNOVISION.  It's a trick you can pull, when you know the codes.  When you're "experienced".
Let's say you're a Zer0 Boy and you're tripping hard inside a pharmaceutical fantasia of fetishized violence.
Psychoprogrammed by shadowy technicians.
DADDY made you his killing machine and you like it.
Stroboscopic flashes of a grey doctor walking towards you across opaque black and white tiles.  The clack of his wingtips like typewriter keys, like gunshots when you speed up the tape.
That sort of thing.
Like a vandalism loop, glass breaking over and over.
You're sick with all the training, but this is your first grisly frolic in the field.  Your first KILL, or it would be.
But the crimescene's on pause and the very air is rippling into perfect circles, shadows falling from now into then, the eyes of love opening everywhere.
In a place behind the eyes where ideas are born to die, you can study the moment from outside, as if it's a film that you can tamper with before slipping back in.  
Go ahead.  Activate that Hypnovision and for just a few big moments, you can see the silhouette of the killer you'll be if you cross this threshold, if you do what you're told.  You can see a whole evening, a whole unfolding menu of ultraviolent espionage scenarios.  And you've played them all before.
They're in your wetware.  You've metabolized the templates.
But choose NOT to kill and use those killing skills to go missing, then the possible plotlines bifurcate and flourish like jungles.
Here, at this crossroads and others just like it,
jungles of unplayed game erupting through cracks and ripples in a chessboard.
Knowing this, you can disconnect from the Hypnovision feature and BE the screen again.
Unbreak the glass.
Let the target live on.
A new game with a new flavor is growing in these zones.
The chemistry and design of your simulation is shifting and boiling already.
You ARE the fourth wall and you're shattering into lacerating clouds of pixie-dust and deja-vu is just that nausea that comes when you've slipped back in to resume play and your eye still retains eidetic echoes of the gameboard(z).

There's that nausea that hits you when you step into the foyer of a hypnoparlor.  
It's beyond the typical anxiety that butterflies inside amongst the common shocks and hook-ups one's metroflesh is heir to.  
It's not just your heart or your bank or your hymen that might get broken here.  
The HYPNO experience might smash your paradigms.  
Who you were before you entered might get shredded in the storm of lives you will come to know in the booths and on the dancefloor before the night moves through you, leaving you utterly transformed and loose in a daybreak that isn't as kind to revelations spun from fairydust as are the cavernous confines of THE PEREGRINE.  
But you get over it.  
Except when you don't.
When you get there already lost and your nerves are raw.  
Past the vestibule, suddenly scoured and chafed by harsh telepathine wavelengths.
Some nights you're not ready for this.  You shouldn't be here.
The tendrils of your nervous system are vibrating like fractalized tuning forks.  You've fallen out of touch with the latest enthusiasms.
You're unsettled by all this lushness, that once bloomed only for you.
Guns and cloaks and daggers of danger are aimed at you always, cocked and hidden like symbols amongst the whispers and the ripples and the flashing lights.  
Sometimes you can catch a wave of thinking or feeling and re-enter the "flow".  
Except when you can't.
When you haven't done enough HYPNOZINE to fully enter the communal headspace.  
When you're wearing a self that isn't infinitely mutable.
These zones dissolve into pure design.  
It all goes 2d, cartoon layers projected on infinitely receding screens.  
Pages.  Frames.  Bubbles.  
Maybe you score but you go home and you do it alone and you can't decide if you're Kylie or Kylie's cat or the sound Kylie's windchimes make.
And that weird week when your life was charmed and it all seemed to be taking shape of its own volition, outrageous wildlife and sexy danger everywhere, it seems like a lifetime ago.  
It was the week before last.  
You slipped somehow and no one would tell you what you'd done wrong.  
Your angel lost its footing.  
Your genius left the building.
All the Hypgnostic gossip is just gibberish to you now.  
The lingo is more liquid.  
The simuloids and godstars the new kids worship are unfamiliar.  
You're not getting the references.
Funny how the beats that seemed as big as worlds at the height of your delirium are thin as tinfoil in the thick of your despair.

No matter how well you hide yourself, no matter how completely you disappear, no matter how complete your life is, with fresh memories blooming retroactively and all your blanks getting filled with precision.
No matter how human you become.
No matter how much you manage to forget.
Sooner or later, there'll always be a grey man at your door with an evocative cologne, a DADDY gone bad who knows all your codes, the post-hypnotic passwords that hold your head together.
He might stand with perfect stillness on your doorstep like he's an evangelist or he's running for office or he's a friend of the family, waiting with a wry smile for the door to open
So he can say the words that expose your motherboard and make you susceptible to deep manipulations.
He's one of those men your mother warned you about.  He always knows just what to say and JUST how to say it.
But there's no trace of mother in the weather today.  
No curves.  No moisture.  No balmy breezes.
Is today the end of the line?  
When you see his spindly, slept-in silhouette through the frosted glass and you hear him clearing his throat, will you know when he's at last found the formula that will break you and see that you stay broken?
Or will you remember the jar of marbles like you always do, the one memory in your repertoire that you know is yours?  
The echo you cling to, the un-mangled moment that gets you through.  
Not a happy place.  
Happy places ripple and shift.  
But a REAL place. 
The jar of marbles. 
Your most precious moment.  
It has a higher emotional resolution than the others.  
It's the only clue you have to who and what you are.
Unless the Doctor put it there and tinted it with love.  
Unless that's how he gets in.
In which case, you're a slave no one can set free.

How nice it is that you've put all the mad days and nights behind you.  
You haven't felt the urge to climb into that girl-sized hamster cage for six weeks and counting.  
You haven't been to any of the usual unusual places.  
You haven't taken HYPNOZINE for five months.  
Four days.  
Eleven hours.  
And counting.
You'd think your life would settle into some kind of normal, wouldn't you?
Off the drugs and away from the strangelings, you'd think the forms would stop warping and wavering.  
You'd think the hiss of black static would recede or stop suddenly.
But it's worse than it was, let's face it.
Even at rest, between the scenes of your reconstructed life, reading this magazine or a menu in the Pharmacopia cafe.
You can feel your thoughts being watched, your memories molested.  
You know how delicate the machineries of consciousness can be.
Now every conversation feels like surgery.  
And you're never the Doctor.  
Never the nurse.  
Not anymore.
When I last haunted you like the imaginary friend you never wanted, I left something on the key table by the door.
It's a token that will get you one ceremonial dose of HYPNOZINE from that antique dispenser outside the suicide salon on Traducity Street.
You weren't up for that last metamorphosis, and I forgive you.  
But know that your pain doesn't come from going there.  
It comes from not going far enough.  
Don't go to work.  
Don't go anywhere but into the Hypno Zone.  
Take the token.  
Everything depends on that stupid little coin.  
I'm waiting, like always, behind your every mirror.
Leave a note for those sweet police.  
Tell them we took the drug to find each other.

The kids are digesting some bizarre strains of media these days.
The boys have their Adam Zer0 killing kits and moonstone decoder rings.
The average lad knows sixteen ways to kill you with an index card and a paper clip.  Zer0-boys possess a repertoire of techniques designed to brutalize the body, the brain, and the spirit.  
They study the methods of infamous killers like boys of a bygone age would study the stats of athletes or the moves of pop-stars.  
A Great Beast with a thousand bodies.  
Generation Zer0, a sentient subculture, omnivorous and always hungry.  
The girls, on the other hand, are attending clandestine charm schools and reading softcore hentai and receiving instruction in the science of seduction.  
They're using ancient tricks of bewitchment and deliciously disposable personas to woo and enslave the slavemasters.  
A web of illusion, extortion and espionage is being woven as we speak by these vicious teenage spider queens.  In the corridors of power.  
Every kind of power.  
There's a bubblegum hurricane rattling the foundations and moistening the surfaces of every church, every skyscraper, every house of government and palace of privilege. 
Through their network of seduction and subjugation, they would engineer a tomorrow that suits them...a hot pink holocaust that need never end.  
The Zer0-Boys are just thugs, in the end. 
 Zer0-Girls are a more novel and complex kind of menace. 
They know how to make you fall in love with them.  
They know how to make you want to die.  
They do it with make-up and kisses and malevolent telepathy.  
They're everywhere and they always win.  
They already own us.  
And we love it.

Here's the thing about Hypnozine, the thing that enmeshes us and keeps us coming back for more, lifetime after lifetime after lifetime.
Its illusions are so immersive and so detailed that they make reality suspect.  Sustained use of the sacrament instills this kind of dissociative vertigo, where you've lived so many lives to the fullest and within those lives you've played games and taken drugs that evoke the life you started with, and you keep waking up in another dream and what was a chemical crisis is suddenly cosmic, in its implications and its cascading sensations.  
After you've tasted Hypnozine, after you've tasted HYPGNOSIS, you're forever twisted.  On or off the substance, you're conscious of your life as a narrative.  
A mythopoetic symphony of the spheres or a grim morality tale or a kitchen sink sitcom.  That's up to you.  But it's mostly all of the above.  
When you can divine the arc of a particular plot thread or intuit the significance of a recurring motif or experience each cluster of moments as a scene to be played to its fullest, you start seeing between the scenes.  
You can turn pages backwards and forwards and pop into thought bubbles.  
You can read someone's backstory and the images they're made of.  
You can hover above the page it's all played on and read the glyphs and dive back in...
 like your life story is a liquid that the whole world wants to drink.  
And it's obvious, in the design of things, when you are passing from one volume to another.  When an inciting incident has occurred, when a climax approaches, what shape the resolution might take, and when a chapter is closing.  
When the revels are ended.  What we see here is the transmogrified hero, destroyed and reborn in the unfolding of his mythic adventure, only to find that his saga has merely been an educational phase, and that the real adventure is about to begin, beyond the zones he knows.  
Avatars who have been killed or who have receded from the main warp and weft of the narrative have taken their bows and decomposed into holoplasmic pixels.  
Now he's looking at the dramatis personae of storylines he has yet to live, the cruel and deranged gangster chieftans of cults yet unborn, extras and bit players who apparently have more to do in phase two (suddenly charged with the intensity of multiple sub-plots), arch-villains who will test and change him and reflect his inner demons from every angle.  
They're so much more exotic than the paranoiac neo-noir monsters he's used to dealing with.  
This is a new breed, born into different physics.  
As bloody and turgid and operatic as the games and nightmares ahead may be for all concerned, they're anxious to play with him.  And against him.  
They're welcoming him to the next level, where his struggles will achieve a higher degree of novelty, complexity, and hardboiled HYPNO horror.  
This is what it feels like to be serialized, "to be continued" ad infinitum.  
All the lovely tulpas to come welcome you to a feast unknown.  
You are the host, the guest of honor and, in a sense, the entree. be continued...

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