What are you writing?

Chris

fractured oscillations
some cool stuff in there. didn't get too far in yet because of to time contraints, but pretty interesting

but honestly luka, you really seem to be fixated on this idea of stalking/monitering people, attempting to manipulate them, mischaracterizing them, "breaking" them, etc. it's like you're not even trying to hide it anymore.
 

Chris

fractured oscillations
pretty much did. all that 'monitering people stuff'. you know I know what you're doing here.

don't know whose idea, whose grudge, it was first that got you and so-and-so to start acting like creeps towards me, attempting to make an enemy of me when I had no issue with anyone, but whatever the case, go fuck yourselves. I'm on the verge of pressing charges for this shit.
 

luka

Well-known member
assuming evereything i write on a blog is about you suggests some paranoid tendencies, particularly given we dont know each other and our only communications were prompted by an email you sent me accusing me of orchestrating a plot to destroy you.
i dont know how you would go about pressing charges under those circumstances.
 

Chris

fractured oscillations
from what little I read, I wouldn't say that any of it would be about anyone in particular (but of course, try to tie me to your incoherent, paranoid jibberish - nice wording). couldn't imagine that stuff resembling anything in the real world. I just suggested that you seem to be interested in stalking and such as a theme.

also I don't recall saying anything about "your orchestrating a plot to destroy me" (wow), that's quite over-the-top, I just called out the fact that you have been stalking me and that it's, well, not cool.

this was, as you may remember, after I had come on here to finally pm you about it - and after having typed out my message - and decided *not* to send it after all - I get a message from you saying "what was in the letter?" smart move there guy.

and of course you're going to play the paranoid card, you've been breaking the law here, and part of the reason I never brought this out is because how does one address a problem like this? (and besides, I figured it was just a creepy nerd being immature and it would eventually blow over) but, ugh, these things do happen sometimes, and I'm telling you you need to cool it.

all I have to say.
 

luka

Well-known member
i have broken no law and entertained no malice towards you ever at any point in my life. i have not stalked you or harrassed you or been part of any conspiracy to do so. i cant tll you any clearer than that. i dont know if youre mad or if you are the victim of some weird plot and are mistakn mistaken only in the identity of th perepetrator..... dunno, weird....
 

Sick Boy

All about pride and egos
Either this man is clearly as mad as he comes across, or else he is a particularly gifted and devious troll. Luka, please don't be out-trolled! This is not your style!
 

you

Well-known member
luka - could you clear your inbox please? I have burning questions from the Wire Lost Worlds Thread.
 

luka

Well-known member
ghost bridge floats over the red river. squalid babylon.
Outreach workers on the river bank, and the moon on the river. Looks like another pea-souper, Pat.
UFOs under the fog. blinking. sadly observing. interplanetary craft. very lonely.
I wrote a book, detailing Sir Issac Newton's contact with advanced interstellar voyagers. Although it garnered little if any critical attention on publication I have reason to believe its time will come. Many radical theories are like gifted children, they take a while to find their feet in the world.
eating a kebab at the bus stop. leaning foward, as if peering over a precipice, that way any sauce or stray lettuce will fall onto the pavement, for the rats and pigeons, and not on my nice new shirt. gobshite. Oleander and Clematis. Fuck! Tomato on me loafers, it's alright, napkin, wipe it off, pretend it never happened.
I am making mushroom vol-u-vants for th church fete. The following games and amusements will be available:
lucky dip, guess how many licorice allsorts are in the giant licorice allsorts jar, coconut shy, bouncy castle, meat tray raffle, and one i invented, the kids (or the parents!) have to jump up in the air and try and grab a sausage with their teeth. the sausage is suspended by a clothes peg from a cord we can raise or lower depending on the height of the child. we try to put it just fractionally out of reach. for 50p you get 3 jumps.
it's very funny watching them jump up, jaws snapping! and the sausage dangling there, just out of reach
 

luka

Well-known member
naturally i have no idea how many licorice allsorts are actually in the giant licorice allsorts jar, i shall pick a number out of thin air, and the more extravagant the better.
 

luka

Well-known member
I am writing an historical novel based on the fortunes of the suffragette movement. it is a revisionist account in a literary style.

Suffragettes in the park at dawn. grey clouds. weary air prodded into life by a wakening sun. they have been up all night and appear somewhat bedraggled. som sit on benchs puffing hungrily on cigerettes. others fall asleep in th gazebo, demure piles of lace petticoats, pinafores and skirts. the events of the night before have given bloody birth to a new day. the curtain of the night has lifted not upon yesterdays dreary stage set, worn with use and undermined by neglect, but instead we see a world transformed and radiant with possibility.
they smile whenever they meet the eye of another, spontaneous, conspiratorial smiles which take the face by happy suprise.
To Act in the World is to Change it.
Fire in the cave mouth.
The mannequin they had spent many laborious months constructing had fooled everyone. those many miserable hours of painstaking toil had been worth it. they had evn cut off all of Emily's hair to sew on to the head of the dummy to make it as lifelike as possible. By now Emily would be in Patagonia fighting for workers rights with a cadre of jujutsu-trained female bodyguards, screened for ideological integrity
 

Mr. Tea

Let's Talk About Ceps
Can anyone say 'Tesco Value Gibson/Burroughs'...?

…I don’t know how long this has been going on and it’s hard to recall when it started. I know I’m driving down the highway connecting the outer ring road to the city’s core. Lights stream by, becoming uninterrupted luminous streams in my vision, harsh against the velvet darkness. Fuck knows how fast I’m going – the figures on the speedo have become unintelligible cyphers and I deactivated the onboard nav some time ago – I now have my own onboard nav; where it’s taking me I don’t know either but there seems little point in resisting at this juncture. I feel in my shirt pocket for the baggie: good, still a fair bit left – not that that’s so critical, in light of what I’ve noticed recently about the dosage.

Not even sure what day it is. Normally I’d be worried about driving while this unaware but this is different – actually I’m totally aware, hyperaware even, just not of mundane things like the time or my location. My mind has been shifted into a gear I’ve never used before even while it’s ever more dissociated from what I can sense externally. This is surely the most perfect dissociative there ever was…

The city has become a grid, more explicitly than ever. The more I look, the more the materials that structures are made from becomes insignificant, even invisible. All that’s left is the pure structure itself, naked and unsullied by matter, abstracted. Structure, function, potentiality, systems…that’s what I see now. It appears as vision but it’s almost like it enters my eyes only by convention, or out of force of habit. Now everything is approaching wireframe, one-dimensional lines delineating 2-D surfaces enclosing 3-D volumes, themselves embedded in higher-dimension structures…but then I blink and it’s back to normal. For now. There’s a patina of unreality to everything that gets a little stronger each time this happens.

Sense of time comes back to me, a little. I think it’s been about three weeks now. Started with that nutter Carson, for me anyway – another night round his flat, sampling whatever it was he’d got this time. Some fucking ibogaine analogue, wasn’t it – ten minutes of hyperspace, then spend the next four hours thinking you’re five different people, two of whom are dead. Jesus, not my idea of fun. But he also had that stuff, that black stuff…still don’t know what to call it. But that’s what we do call it, ‘the stuff’…too new even to have a name. Turn off the highway onto a slip road, now round the grimy estates that line the flyover…grey concrete washed a flat dirty yellow by the sodium glare…a crude simulation of a settlement. But it was black, which was weird for a start, I mean anything in a powder is usually white, especially for something new on the market. And Carson didn’t want any money for it, said that would come later…still haven’t given anyone a cent for it. Come to think of it I still owe Carson fifty euro for that other time, but he didn’t seem to care. Had that glazed look…guess I’ve probably got that now.

Out of the estates now and along a road that edges the industrial park. Empty now of course, but the lights are still on at the tops of the cranes and other structures. I pass under some heavy overhead cables, also lit up at intervals for some reason. The lights form a matrix that remains in my field of vision when I blink and eventually look away. I feel confident I could close my eyes and still drive and navigate perfectly, so completely does the car’s response mesh with my nervous system. And it meshes on a level that’s more and more bypassing my consciousness.

So anyway: the stuff. It’s a kind of junk, that’s for sure – you know you need more of it, but you’re damned if you can say why. You’re not high, you’re not stoned, it’s not what you could call enjoyable…it’s not even like you crave it, it’s more like your autonomic systems steer you towards it without you even being really aware of what’s happening. Other weird things about it: dose is immaterial, as is ROA. Take less than about 20 em gees and it does nothing; above that and the effect is the same no matter how much you take. And that’s whether you bomb it, snort it, smoke it – weird gnarly black smoke, same dense blackness as the powder – probably be the same if you slammed it or stuck it up your arse. I’m starting to get the impression you don’t even need to physically ingest the stuff, like it would work eventually if you just kept it in your hand or in your breast pocket, like I’m doing now. It would affect you eventually.

Back onto a main artery heading into the centre again. Traffic is uniform, neither dense nor sparse for the time of night (whatever that is). Wonder where all these people are headed at this time, whether any of them are in a similar state to me. Road straight now, dual carriageway, lights once more forming unbroken corridors, staring at the red dots ahead of me, white dots oncoming to my right. Hypnotic enough even when you’re straight. Pylons march by, parallel with the road – part of the city’s musculature – its nervous system of course buried under the roads.

There was that report on pravda.ru last week about the stuff, or at least it sounded like the same gear. Some chemists at a government poisons lab did tests on it and couldn’t find anything. I mean no molecular structure at all, couldn’t even detect any carbon in the damn stuff. What the fuck is this substance? Then I realised: it’s a placeholder, nothing more. A passive, inert symbol for something else. Like a pointer to a memory address. Pointing where and to what…well, the ping just doesn’t come back. Some people in my circle spoke of a factory in central Asia somewhere, but whether there was any truth in that, or if true, whether it was just a distribution point from somewhere else…no idea.

Traffic slows and I slow with it, not even noticing it consciously and suddenly we’re at a standstill. Endless corridors of lights to either side, ahead and behind. This is truly a global drug though, reports in the official media few and far between but everyone knows someone who knows something, or has read something on a messageboard or in a tweet…it’s coming up in Vancouver, LA, Shanghai, Tokyo, Rio, Cape Town, Beirut, Moscow, Marseille. Virtually simultaneously, we hear a rumour of it appearing in a new city every other day now, often hundreds or thousands of miles from the last hotspot. And everyone says the same thing: you don’t get ‘high’, at first it seems to do almost nothing in fact, but you can’t help but keep taking it. Has everyone else been receiving it for free, too? Can’t recall anyone talking about prices. I’ve met Carson for top-ups three – no, four times now – but didn’t some appear in my mailbox in a plain envelope a few days ago? Christ, my memory…what is it doing to me?

Traffic’s moving again now. I see we’re now heading due east, into the heart of the city. Buildings tall now, glass-encased, endoskeletons of steel and concrete. Street lights glitter on the reflective surfaces, shop signs still illuminated hours after businesses have shut for the night. Electricity spent profligately, extravagantly. How much longer will this go on? Russia turning down the gas taps a fraction with each passing winter…AGW can’t happen fast enough for the old and the poor with fuel credits out the window. On an impulse that I’m sure has its origin outside me I reach down into my breast pocket with my left hand as I steer automatically with my right, dip fingertip in the open baggie, raise it to my tongue. The texture is dusty, the taste unplaceable, entirely neutral but distinct and alien nonetheless. Nothing tastes like this – but this stuff does. I know I’ve got enough for now, and at least you can’t OD on it. Sensation of all the nerves in my body lighting up like this damn street, starting at point of contact on my tongue and spreading…fungal hyphae infiltrating the xylem of a host tree…I am a host to this junk now, that’s for sure. Cannot begin to imagine what its agenda is.

Glance out the window. Physical substance recedes still further, now I can see electricity and optical pulses coursing through the office buildings as the workers sleep…current supply for power, merely brute musculature, runs parallel with the subtle nerve impulses in ethernet cables as computers talk to each other, keeping up a silent colloquy throughout the night. Plotting, scheming perhaps…but by now I feel so far removed from humanity myself that I can’t even muster up any paranoia. The great city continues to breathe, hum, vibrate with occult potential – truly an organism in its own right, more alive now than the fleshy bags of tissue and electrolyte that scurry through it each day. Capital’s myrmidons.
 
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Mr. Tea

Let's Talk About Ceps
The thought strikes me that this stuff has come from the same place cities come from – not of this Earth, a parasitic form from elsewhere. Conjecture, of course, and you’d be justified in thinking me a little strange if you heard me talking this way – ‘strange’ and ‘normal’ have pretty much lost meaning for me by now.

Glance out again, and up. All I see now is information. Matter replaced by data. Great streams of it, encoded in a thousand different protocols, analogue and digital…the latest from the Dow Jones and the Nikkei, oil prices, exchange rates…an amorous email between lovers, data packets connecting some kid with his comrades and enemies in a capture-the-flag mission hosted on a server on another continent, streamed TV shows, insomniacs chatting the night away or checking a rolling newscast of some unfolding disaster. I can feel it all around me, sense it flowing through me at 2.4GHz. The volume of data traffic is almost perceptibly increasing just as I drive…total information saturation can’t be far off.

Traffic has come to a standstill again. I’m snapped out of my reverie by the sudden appearance of a spidery figure darting here and there among the stationary vehicles. A beggar I guess, from his jerky, furtive movements and ragged clothes. So many of them these days, more even than in the early years following the Crash. He approaches my car, hands held out in wordless supplication. His race is impossible to determine, grimed as he is from living rough and with scarred, discoloured skin. Poor fucker, probably been PassiGassed a couple too many times by the cops or some of the myriad private security contractors that operate in the city – to the extent that there’s even a difference any more. That shit’ll leave you looking like a burns victim if you don’t get immediate medical attention, and a lot of working people – never mind the homeless – can’t afford a hospital trip these days.

I don’t have any cash on me and even if I did, it’s hard to see how it could benefit this man other than to prolong his misery, so I’m glad when the car in front pulls away and, again without conscious volition on my part, I slip into gear and glide away. The figure rapidly disappears from sight in the rearview and once again there is a total dearth of visible humanity. All the private cars now have tinted windows, it seems. A reaction to the CCTV or just a trend in imitation of Russian gangsters and Saudi oil tycoons? Seems to fit society’s general vibe, anyhow.
 
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