Saturday, April 18, 2015

HYPNOZINE #2 (second of one): text by JASON SQUAMATA / art by ANDREW Mc KENZIE

(more HYPNOZINE can be accessed by clicking HERE


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.

The world as you knew it just isn’t much of a world anymore.

None of the angles are as sharp as they used to be.

Even the curves have gone all fuzzy at their edges.

The faces and the spaces you behold outside the ceremony don’t seem to contain enough information.  Things seem to have more pixels, on the Other side.

More colors. More texture. More expressive possibilities.

The fourth time in just isn’t the same, or it’s too much of the same.

Maybe you just need to let it settle and sink in and fill in all your blanks.

Or maybe you need to get fixed more fiendishly with a more sustainable epiphany.

Is HYPNOCULTURE just a deranged pulp writer’s fantasy?

It clearly induces a new way of seeing, but deeply in its codes and contours,

does it not suggest a new way of BEING?

When you know the text like it’s a voice in your head

and you can keep the collage of it suspended in your psyche as you contemplate

and rhapsodize each of its pieces.

You need to know. You need to know if it all comes true, if there’s a myth that

makes sense of what’s happening to you. As we speak. As I speak. As you listen.

So you go looking for HYPNO, don’t you?

Half-hoping HYPNO will find YOU, that its fractured angels and avatars will meet you half-way at some crossroads between your reality and its eternity, knowing you by name and leaving you with a briefcase full of hissing silver secrets.

You do the obvious thing.

You go to all the bookstores, all the music dispensaries, all the consumer cathedrals, searching the webs for your spider.

There’s plenty of HYPNO product, on the streets and in progress.

KOMIX and alien objects of art and lush soundtracks to imaginary movies too vivid to ever be filmed.

The Surrealist pulp frenzy of “OTHERMAN & THE ORAKULOIDS”.

The jingoistic hardboiled superspy psychosis of “AMERIKAN ZER0!”.

The HyperGoth beach movie romance of “TEENAGE LUVKRAFT”.

The fairy-tale philosophical horror of “SILVER MEAT SUITE”.

The flashy and vicious supernatural decadence of “ACE OF RAZORS”.

The Kabuki sci-fi fetish opera of “PSYCHEDELIKA SEXUALIS”.

And so on. And so on. All these worlds, so alive on their own terms, each with its own physics and ambience, mingling their delicate tendrils almost imperceptibly to form a sentient tapestry of HypGnostic narrative.

You buy it all. And your mind has never been so utterly aflame with alien ideas.

But you keep coming back to HYPNOZINE, like it’s the key harmonic around which these many pantheons revolve. Or like it grows in the spaces between them.

These multiplying mythologies have a richness that competes with life, at times threatening to replace it, but it never does. Not completely. Not completely enough for your strange tastes, which are getting stranger by the second. Art is only art. But this feeling that all this art refers to something real is unshakeable. Art invading life, exposing life as more of the same.

If it’s all Art, then Art is EVERYTHING.

You make cautious inquiries amongst the others who follow these beings, these imaginary superstars. You want someone to tell you that it’s all true, like you knew it would be, and that they believe it, too. How do you ask fundamental questions like that without seeming schizoid or becoming so in the act of asking?

They all dismiss your questions as comedy, sometimes a little too defensively.

It feels like something bigger than time has been hidden from you, like it’s known and imbibed by all these consumers of Hypno shit, like you haven’t been initiated. Like you forgot your magic word. You will come to find that some of those consumers did indeed taste Tomorrow, and it was all too much for them. They went skittering back to the by-products, trying to forget the truth of things, or the lack thereof.

Like Three Dollar Billy, who runs an alternative culture boutique called Chapel Perilous. You’ve been going there a lot. He knows you on sight, not because you’re popular in these circles, but because he knows that hungry look all to well. The look of the seeker, hungry for revealtion. Billy’s been there. He’s been lots of places. His clothes are so future that they’re never in fashion. His figure has known more chemicals than nutrients. His eyes are the censored screens of a cracked astronaut. But he flew too high above the labyrinth, he says. Too close to the hot white Nothing of absolute consciousness. His plumage burned up in re-entry. He crashed in the backwash of life as we know it and grew roots at the scene, neuroligically excluded, now, from the futuristic revels of yesterday.

When you ring the bell of entry to his den and skitter sheepishy past the still-buzzing clublings who pollute it (kids who would be pure Hypno hooligans if such things could ever be), finally sick of all the obfuscation, walking right up to 3DB, who was once spun from the stuff of legend, you lay it on the line. He knows you’re up to date. He’s sold you all the HYPNO product there is, thus far. That you know of, anyway. You remember the magic words now because you’re at last too desperate to keep on forgetting.

“Do you have anything…stronger?”

He smiles like Devils smile when the contract is signed. He recedes into back-room shadows and returns with a sealed silver bag, with something soft inside that vibrates, slightly. Like something astronauts would eat, if they let space change them like it wants to. No need to be discreet. Every egghead is cracked in here, or scrambled altogether. He gives you yet another set of directions. And another episode of HYPNOZINE. An address where more sounds and prayers and invocations can be collected. The drug is different, now. It’s the fruit of a more abstract garden, or a wilder one. You ask him what you “do” with this stuff.

“You PLAY it”, he says. “You eat the menu, turn the page, and you PLAY the fucker.”


Some worlds we go frolicking in are just TOO "realistic".
The physics aren't loose enough to allow for the impossible.
On wavelengths where HYPNOCULTURE does not exist, it behooves us to invent it.
The technology will cohere around our rituals, if our mantic, fanatical flame burns brightly enough.

Fake it.  Make it.  And break on through, until your life attains the texture of your dreaming.

It's often a rough approximation at first.  
A closet or a showerstall or a phonebooth or a derelict sportscar will have to do for a makeshift HypnoBooth.
You just cover its openings with tinfoil or sequins or fabrics made of little mirrors.  
Or blown-up images from your godspelled periodicals.
You make a seat of sorts, some pillowing upon which you can scribe the raw code of your Ganeshatech.
You load up the soundscape.  You don the headphones that enwomb you in Otherness.
Perhaps something stroboscopic in the lightbulb department.
True illumination is never static.  It strikes like lightning.  Over and over again.
Because your headspace is never the same place twice.
And a seizure is a small price to pay for a brain-ticket into this game you play.

It comes on hard and it comes on fast.  Silhouettes and iconic abstractions of ghosts you've known forever.

The hissing hardboiled hologrammar of a serpent loose in the gamey gardens of your undermind.
Dioramic moments and synthetic memories scrambled and coming at you in pieces, in clusters, in a miasma of synaesthetic overlap and overload.  The Overmind engaged.  Inhale the toilet and gasoline stink of an abandoned summercamp.  
The perfumed foyer of a spectral hotel.  The sweatslick skin of a killer who is programmed to love you.
A plague escaping the delirium vats of a haunted laboratory.  Telepathine cooked up by magi in rented rooms.

Wallpaper landscapes growing characters and happenings.   
Taste that sinister Silver Meat.  If lightning grew skin, it would taste like this..

A whole continuum gone 2d and slivering like sheets of stained glass through your blissed-out brainmeat, 
backwards ballads echoing in the beached cathedral engines that bruise the edge of your forever.


the chaos of the game as a whole resolve itself into an interstitial space, where tactility is engaged and you forget the world you're dreaming in.  There are so many angles through which you can experience the world and the wars and the love affairs and the pentecostal infernos of HYPNOZINE.  Choose a you and slither through, Jugador.

the game of Dr. Greenbaum.  Nicotine and pure metallic greed and pharmaceuticals unknown to science.  Experience Greenbaum's youth: a Jewish kid, son of a Cabbalastic scholar...a social climber in a concentration camp.  Assume the behaviors and attitudes of your oppressor.  Steal his identity when the Reich goes to pieces.  Slip through the Vatican into the brave new world of espionage and domestic intelligence.  Pursue the agendas of whichever government gives your experiments the greatest license.  Perfect technologies of mind control and social programming that turn identity and the human soul into a dirty joke, a swarm of robots, little ones and zeroes, little yesses and little no's.  Invent the Adam Zer0 virus and plant it in the violent mind of a generation.  Grow lone nut psychos in a place called Camp Summerland and turn them loose to do your bidding.  get militant and meaner than usual when your world-warping technology is leaked, and societry takes to the streets.  Stare directly into the apocalypse to come and figure out how best to turn it all to your advantage.

the life of Kylie Butler, wherein you're a party girl who's going to pieces, an inner life so big and complex it could pass for a cosmos, but running away from what's in you by being anyone, everyone, everything BUT Kylie Butler, sometimes all at once.  Go swimming in mirrors, so effortlessly fetching, with an alluring telluric sing-song slang of your very own that all the HypnoKids start using like they just can't help it.  Experience the early days of HYPNOCULTURE, the spots of sacred significance.  Explore your Pharmacopeia and your libraries and Looking Glass Hotels and of course the Peregrine, where universes bloom every evening and die screaming well before dawn.  Try to get your head together and keep it that way.  There's a boy down the hall who loves you, and he's such a natural jugador and doesn't quite know it, and you could fall all the way into him as another escape route, except your deja voodoo kicks in when he kisses you and you know he'll be the death of you and he doesn't know his nature like you do and maybe his bullet or the scissors of his Doctor add up to all you really want.

the scars and stripes of consciousness itself as Demetri Quinn, the Greenbaum baby, the Zero Boy who just said "no" to his objective. Let your preprogrammed victim live, flexing the will against all odds.  Proving through a fluke and a freakish fit of compassion that there's a core of humanity that the Doctor's mandibles will never touch, can never sever.  Feel your head full of manufactured moments melting together as your palace of memory starts losing its psychetecture.  Feel the new aptitudes blooming in a mental space that can only be madness.  Choose your own objective.  Choose Kylie.  Make protecting her as urgent a mission as killing whoever was, back in the day.  Remember Kylie as the meaning of it all when all that hardcore knowledge, all those easter eggs and cheat codes, burst forth from the sub-basements of the house in your head that Greenbaum built.  Schooled by the Beyond, and oozing from the matter of Quinn into the mind of Yiming.  

each of these games again (and again) through the careening of Yiming.  Young and untitled.  Learn at last to play every game at once, Kakodelphia and its season of Hypno spied through the eyes of its every citizen and remembered in unison, so the fractured dream can be whole again, whole again, like you would be, or relieved of this hole in you that makes your soul so hungry.  The game is here to feed you.  And you are everyone.  And no one.  You are not who you are.  HYPNOCRACY NOW!

Whoever's skin and psyche you wear, begin at the beginning or therabouts.  The blood and thunder was hushed for a time.  Greenbaum went missing and Kylie went to pieces and Demetri unfolded into Yiming in a time of savage beauty.  The science of seduction was the new Buddhism.  Fabulousness was a spiritual precept.  Charm was a weapon, as dangerous as the atom bomb when employed by a virtuoso.  HYPNO surfaced in earnest in the Summer of the Hot Pink Zeroes.
Behold the lethal beauties of a lost generation.
After the rise and fall of the celebutante, after the fashion shoots and the surgeries, after the bulimia and the brutal boyfriends and the three-week benders and the three-picture deals, the Succubots rose, all majestic, from the feeding frenzy to effortlessly take their place in the penthouse of Hotel Darwin.  Natural Selection favors the bold, and now it's all about survival of the fabulous.  Only the glamorous will be allowed to breed, and they prefer not to.  The future fashionista will replicate memetically.  Her brand will become symbolic of something everybody wants and can't ever have, so we'll keep going broke as we buy buy buy the sequins and gauze she sloughs in her biblical sashay down the catwalk.
The new girls have hotwired brains, the meat festooned with chips that access virtual schools for scandal, style, and seduction.  They know just what kind of victim you are and what kind of seductrixes they'll need to be to consume you.  They can bewitch the strongest, most incorruptible men and women into seizures of obsessive envy, adoration, and acquiescence.
Every Alpha organism is bitched into Beta by the Hot pink Zer0es.
Their shaved scalps are studded with nanofactories.  They can grow the hair you want to breathe in a style that evokes your dirtiest dream.  They intuit the skin tone that suits you and assume the proper pigments imperceptibly. Through supplemental glands, they emit psychoactive pheremones that give their ambience the flavor of erotic hallucination.
Their brothers in the Zer0 see with the eye of Horus, lord of force and fire, crowned and conquering child of an apocalyptic aeon.
The Sisters see with the eye of Cleopatra (so like Isis), which does not stare until bloodshot.  It winks languorously with a heavy, glittery lid and prehensile lashes.  It will only close when it knows it owns you.
They have Psi-Fi receptors woven into their nervous systems.  They invite the masses to jack into their neural networks and taste their adventures through the vectors of their seven senses.  The more people watch them, feel them, KNOW them, the more euphoric and buzzed they become, like a chain reaction of orgasmic micro-hiroshimas are going off in ripples across the sculpted surfaces of their irresistible skins.  They can feel their fame metabolically. 1000 hits when she says something clever and deep and vicious.  5000 hits when she can taste her target's tongue.  10,000 hits for every princess when a spidery strategem comes together, and these women (who reprogram and objectify themselves for the delight of destroying you) are that much closer to their Utopia of Mirrors.  Their Tyranny of the Beautiful.
It's Orwell on ecstasy.
 "The future is a white vinyl go-go boot stamping on a dancefloor made of human faces...forever."
We love Little Sister...a little too much.
There's an apartment complex in Kakodelphia, six blocks west of the Pharmacopaeia and three blocks north of the Peregrine.
Seven floors up there are games in play.
Five units, five masquerades in a state of perpetual motion.
Boy in Unit 7A.  Sleeps on an army cot, listens to static, will rotate three outfits forever.  No-one from nowhere, staring into spaces unknown to science, waiting for the story he's in to begin.
Girl in Unit 7B, once ensconced in affordable elegance, now on a few too many blues and pinks and yellows and reds.  Losing the lineaments of her identity.  Melting into the kitchenette and the cat and the wallpaper daisies, oozing into a filigreed feline swoon to escape the pain of being human.
Surveillance artists in Unit 7C, documenting and dissecting the boy's every twitch and the girl's bloody flood of oracular gibberish.  Reporting back to the shadowy forces that employ them.  As if The System owns the mind.  As if falling in love is a crime.
And who lurks, what coagulates in 7D and 7E?
There are mysteries some secret door is likely to disclose in the unfolding fever of future episodes.

This is where it happens.
This is where it comes to pass.
In these rooms on level seven that you knew so well in life (and better still since your transfiguration).
Now you flit between the scenes of the Girl you love and Her complex life, a sentient silhouette, divorced from the form that cast you, a shape made of echoes, a face composed of question marks.
You fancied yourself Her guardian angel.  As it turns out, you're quite the opposite.  Today the bruises your presence makes in the skin of timespace have led the hounds of hell to Her very bedroom.
She's never been broken in so many places.  Not that Her psychetecture was very solid to start with, but whoever She was is just dust, now, Her personality pulverized by the expert manipulations of some wicked scientific company man straight from central casting.
While your chessboard soul is careening through zones of pure concept where one dreaming mind bleeds into every Other, this Doctor is isolating the softest spots in your Beloved's psychology and injecting Her there, syringes athrob and then emptied of liquid despair.
It's happening right now.
What you would use as an altar, a colder intellect might use as a toilet.
While your body coils in a freakshow contortionist twist on the lotus position, as your quicksilver hypnoskin achieves samadhi factor 9 and your 3rd eye goes 5d and sees EVERYTHING, does it see this?
While you're off dancing like a dervish in the nowhere places between places, Kylie Butler's soul is in pieces on a carpet the color of static.
Whose hero are you, exactly?
It happened here.  It happened today.

You don't see any of your old friends anymore.
But you see their progeny everywhere.
You were a crucial component of that first wave, when every Kid had such a LOOK.  Every Hypno-harlot and Hypno-hustler was a world unto itself.
Since you crashed and prized yourself "free" from the substance and the game and the wreckage it left you in, it seems like all your peers and pawns and rivals from that chaotic summer have fractalized into cults and cabals and corporations.
Gangs of vision-hungry hooligans who dress like black collar Kaligulas and worship a godform that "feels" like an octopus.
Marie Guillotine retro-revolutionary future chic with filigreed tentacles of its own, loose like a school of electric eels in the meme-pools of fashion and the emerging HYPNOCRACY.
Frolik Happenstance twinned and multiplied as a faculty of elfin, go-getting Mercury Men, gingerly taking hold of the big wheel, the time/life control calendar that churns and harvests the images we dream with.
All of them.  The Zer0 Boys and the Zer0 Girls.  Kafka Kids and Tomorrow People.  Orakuloids and Simuloids.  Beyonders and Glitch-Babies. Every old school Hypnokid has shattered into holographic fragments, and every jagged refraction contains the whole.
Except you.  You only ever wanted to be one person.  You just couldn't decide which person to be.  Until you had no choice.
And Yming.  No one like Yming around, except that he's sort of everywhere.  And nowhere.  He casts a long shadow from wherever he disappeared to.  It falls on you at all hours and darkens every little thing you do.

How well do you know this Kylie Butler?
What possessed you to accept her invitation and step out with her and a gaggle of her highly intelligent, weirdly glamorous, and vaguely wicked girlfriends?  What are you doing here and now in her apartment as the embryonic queens of hypno preen themselves and prepare shifting shapes to face the strangelings they might meet?  They're playing that song over and over again, the hypnokid song that's all over every radio, the first mainstream ripple of this thing you're doing, this sacrament.
Hypno has barely made its flashy way from the underground covens and secret salons and already it's a commodified happy meal.
But who are you to judge?  You've only just started hearing about these hypnokids.  Just started noticing that alien nimbus that Kylie has when she staggers in from everywhere, fractured rainbows arcing through her radius, burning so brightly like a colored bulb does, so high still you can catch the remnants of her hallucinations from about five feet away.  Mumbling some lullaby to herself, fumbling for the keys, so pretty through your peephole.  And then the chance encounter and it turns out that's what she does, when she's not queen of catalogues at the Pharmacopia.  She goes to places like THE PEREGRINE and CHAPEL PERILOUS and THE GLITCH-HOUSE to take radical modern substances that turn life into art without any effort.
Tonight it's the Peregrine.  The ladies are dressed as themselves, but turned up to thirteen.  Kylie says OPEN and you do.  The pill was silver, you think.  It can't be coming on already, can it?  If not, than any minute now.  Into the cool evening air of careening Kakodelphia with an entourage of mutant beauties, en route to a space designed to celebrate these chemical mysteries.  She says she hopes you make it.  You're not sure what she means.  

What song will be playing when everything changes?
"Hypnokid".  First single issued by some showbiz supervillain's Diva Engineering System.  Top 40 pop pandemic.  A faberge bubblegum protein coating for a concept cluster that wants to change your chemistry.  666 tracks of sluicing strings and icepick rhythms and mutilated angels, singing sideways.  The subtitle:("Infection Vectors of a Hypervirus").
Soon the DJs will have to preface every song with a list of its possible side effects.
It's playing at the PEREGRINE for the seventh time tonight.  Always, new synaesthetic riches are disclosed between the notes.
It goes like THIS:

make-up on. what will you be tonight?
boy, girl, or god? the skin you're in's too tight.
The you you knew's gone. you're turning into light.
Stare at the wall.  Scare a spectrum out of the white.

let's see everything. until we know too much.
let's coalesce long enough for us to touch.
i see straight through to your secret identities.
i'll die for you if you promise to kill for me.

millions now dreaming may never wake.
come play out five million fates before daybreak
let's make a mess. make every mistake.
your head's a dead eden. your soul is the snake.
you're so much more than the sum of your scars.
hypnokids. you are not who you are.

play me backwards. listen deep in the dark
i'll show you a sound that will tear you apart.
the world's burning down but no one world can touch me.
mirrors twist when they kiss in this hypnocracy.

Hypnokid. you are not who you are.
you're a swift eclipse. Burning up like a godstar.
Hypnokid. Malevolent telepathy.
shoot me up with synthetic memories.
hypnokid.  assimilate your enemies.
do what you did when you ate my reality.
you are not who you are.

This is what it's like for her, in between lives.
At the Peregrine.  At Chapel Perilous.  At the Glitch-House.
Wherever she is, there's always a room like this, a mirrored cube, a prismatic powder room, an interstitial space where she collects her selves before she has another go at the mental tapestries and emotional vortices and metabolic frenzies of the HYPNOZINE experience.
The residue of these skins she's spun and sloughed in rapid succession (since the sacred stuff first kicked in) is collaged on her aura, the maculated but mostly golden egg of essence that she emanates for those with eyes to see.
Tonight she's been a faerie queen and a simuloid movie star and an office maggot and a teen pope and a zombie killer and a doomed showgirl and a leather nurse and the Orphan Empress of the Pornoverse.  She's been someone like you, reading komix or wandering through a gallery, where all the moments of her life are fixed and framed and pinned and mounted like black and white butterflies.
      And that's when things get meta or go macro, when artworks and adverts inside the trip start picturing the myth you're living, living for real on the outside.  then you wake up and the media miasma speaks to who you were in a dream you had, then it's ALL true and your body knows it (like bodies do) and you melt, with a swoon, into HYPGNOSIS.
Despite the existential exhaustion that creeps in amidst the diaphanous downloads and the caustic cascade of hi-res synthetic memories...
despite the blur that comes when you can't remember which world you should wake up in...
despite the collateral ego damage that afflicts this jewelled web (which she plays like a trick, like a harp, like a game)...
she lives for this.
And there are so many Kylies she has and hasn't been, each more "HYPNO" than the last.

Boy in 7A gets so worried about Girl in 7B.  She's still maintaining the lifestyle and lineaments of an elegant, somewhat sophisticated young woman, but they're fraying at the edges and she's out until dawn more often than not and her apartment is frequented by dubious characters at all hours of the night and day.  And the Boy thinks he used to be a superspy or something or a sketch of a superspy and he just wants to be a good neighbor and she seems like such a nice girl.  So almost as a reflex, he ghost-walks into her place when she isn't there and exudes a perfume of nano-cams.  Catching her routines from every side, from under and above, processing a flurry of careless poses and intimate gestures through the coral reef of screens that festoon the inner vaults of his Hypno-Zone.  Sometimes she won't be there for days at a time and the Boy will spend hours studying dustmotes as they collect almost imperceptibly on her antiseptic tiles or he watches them whirling and pooling and teeming in shafts of accidental sunlight.  Does she ever wonder how it is that the cat hasn't died, that it's always fed?  Boy wants closer shots of Kylie sleeping.  He spikes a saucer of milk and sedates the cat and delicately plants a microcam inside its left eyeball.  Now he knows that little popping sound she makes with her mouth at each exhale when she's deeply dreaming.  Does he ever wonder if this is weird"?  The government ghouls in 7C think the whole arangement is hilarious.  They're watching everyone in the building, but these two especially.  They suspect she suspects something.  She listens at their door from time to time, still a little bit psycho from her night or day or week at The Peregrine.  They're watching him watch her watching them.  And no one's seeing anyone clearly.  Must be the feedback loops.  The eye plays tricks on itself.  The cumulative dissonance of eternal vigilance.

What drugs are the dictators taking this year?
These fashions ripple through the ruling class, and for a season or two, there'll be a sameness to the latest mutations.  A symptomatic similarity.  Like one substance is twisting all our monsters in one direction that cannot be pointed to.  Sometimes a Mad Emperor of Love, like this Krishna Kaligula (mangled mastermind behind the Church of Simulacra), will take too much of some illustrious substance, like that NASA kick that mutates the junkie into a biomorphic spaceship, a kind of octopus built to breathe a big abyss that's filthy with life-forms like the abyss below, if you can just grow the eyes you need to see them and the feelers you need to navigate through those whirlpools and waves that stain the element of space.  The only space he cares about is headspace, but he takes the treatments for pleasure and the advantages this wicked stuff affords in terms of perspective and psychic sensitivity.  The squid within (the crystal cephalopod) extends its tentacles into his past and his future, molesting his memories and sculpting his possibilities, until he was always this.  Perched atop the arches of a major metropolitan bridge, sinuous antennae stroking the ambience languorously, almost lasciviously, harvesting hallucinations and whipping daydreams into primal screams.  His transfigured brain casts a massive shadow on the boiling sky.  His gaze triangulates the essence of his enemy, fracturing the fool into desperate motion ghosts and gymnastic parabolas of impact.  These things always end badly for the conquering worm.  Tyranny generates a fresh revolution with every flex of its industrial muscles.  The cult leader was just a cocoon.  His amniotic residue will come off in the shower.  What's left is a horror that can grow its own totality from a fragment as minute as a chunk of calamari, studded with pearly circuits.  A world unto itself chewing like a cancer through the tissue of this one, consuming all that is from within.

The point is THIS, for Kylie Butler.
Beneath and beyond the strange adventures and the weird tales and the amazing stories...
the traumas and the tremors, the break-ups and the break-downs, the dissipations and the epiphanies...
there's a quiet place.  A REAL place.  Like your jar of marbles.
A winter landscape of absolute clarity where a shift in position can unleash crackling echoes for a mile in every direction.
So you don't move.  You stand perfectly still and you don't even think.  You just SEE.
It's a place she went to once, so long ago that its details have melted into a matrix of symbols.
But she remembers the ease of it, the verb she was.
This is the point no doctor can reach, however clever he may be.
She can go there whenever she wants to.  Lacework in the curtains and wallpaper patterns and pictures in books resolve themselves like rorschach cartoons into the trees and the sun and the snow and the crystalline complex simplicity of everything.
She can go there through the tiniest fissure in the ceiling plaster in a secret room where her game might be over but the operations are ongoing.
The brilliant view through this crack in her grey cage implodes into a luminous molecule of knowing.
Like an old TV when it's been suddenly switched off.
Every point is a line waiting to happen.  And every line is a horizon.
Crossing it, stepping through and staying there (eternally elsewhere) is the art of it, the science, the essence, the object.  The point of it, really.

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