Cucurbit Mosaic, Book Five: Shanan Fearth, "Knecht Ruprecht's Suspension of Disbelief"

BOOK SIX


KNECHT RUPRECHT’S WALPURGIS-
NIGHT AND HIS TENDER WOES























“WONDER TOES”


PART ONE:


A THEORETICALLY POSSIBLE
AUTO-BIOGRAPHY BY YOURS,
TRULY, FROM THEN UNTIL
TODAYISH, SOMETIME






Being frozen solid in liquid that would like nothing more than to escape into a more cozy state of being makes me feel uncommonly like a duck swimming while it sleeps. It puts a damper on my personalized ice age.
My single service infinity. My very own wet bar of forever and ever and ever. A bed buttered with liquid nitrogen, my body served cold.
Maybe I am just fooling myself. I am really a frozen pizza in a super market that gained consciousness and is acting out the only way it knows how. I feel as suspended in language as I do in liquid nitrogen.
Remember when it was only cold outside? I can’t feel my toes.












EXPLICATION, OR BACKGROUND INFO

I was taken to go see counselors in middle school, when my homunculus and I began to show signs of anti-social behavior; this of course only exacerbated any anti-social tendencies my homunculus and I may have had. What were the ‘anti-social tendencies? We skipped school and smoked marijuana.
“What the fuck is a homunculus”, you may be asking yourself as you read these very words, instead of caring whether the homunculus and I smoked some ‘killer weed’. Well, this particular homunculus is the little man that lives in my head. There is room in there for more than one I am sure, but this homunculus is what some people may call the ‘main motherfucker’; my perennial bloom of Id.
We used to go into the woods around our neighborhood that was called Nagasaki, which, we come to find out later was named after a battle in WWII, which really wasn’t a battle but a genocide. Who would name a neighborhood after a ‘genocide’ from the so-called ‘good war’? I’ll tell you: the army. That is what my father did, he was in the army; and we lived in the south, well, North Carolina. It’s no lime tea and cookies memory, trust my homunculus and me (the royal ‘we’), on that one. My father wasn’t a murderer though, I think the only thing he may have ever killed was a fish to eat it. He hated guns.
We, of course, never joined the army, on moral grounds, “we’re a lover not a fighter,” we believe the saying goes, well not a great lover, but on the lover/fighter scale were ‘they’ to have one would easily place us over and onto the ‘lover’ side of things. Who joins the army any ways? We’ll tell you: Two kinds: Jocks and bullies who had to join after they got out of high school; so they would feel like they were still in it’s hierarchy of dopamine free class systems--Only now it was called ‘the army’, “Hoo-Ah,” as the army-trained murders say, when something pleases. The second type: ‘Boy Scouts’: who for some reason or another, decided they hated communists while in college. I was in the Boy Scouts. But in college I decided I didn’t give a shit if anyone was communist.
We don’t know how to categorize Dad, perhaps a Boy Scout, though he never spoke ill of communism.
We did skip school and smoke marijuana, moving back to a more interesting subject. But that’s not all we smoked. Actually, thinking back, my homunculus didn’t arrive until well after I, was forty. So, any memories, pre-homunculus, should be remembered as ‘I’.
I skipped school and smoked marijuana, sometimes with other anti-social types, but mostly alone. Now, one of these other anti-social people and me were talking one day about how we both liked smoking marijuana, but we called it ‘Satan’s Pubes’.
“I really love this joint of Satan’s Pubes, tastes like skunk pussy,” my anti-social type friend said.
“Me too,” I said back, “great devil’s pubes.”























SMOKING TAMPONS INSTEAD OF DEVIL PUBES

For: I. A. B.

We smoked tampons instead of devil’s pubes when my friend, with anti-social tendencies apparent to any public school guidance counselor and/or free-clinic psychoanalyst, came to visit me when I was living in the middle of the USA, in a state named Kansas, which should really be called ‘Satan’s Bumgut’.
It was in the summer and he came to visit, we hung out, like two anti-social types might, around malls dressed in black and frowning at all the happy shoppers or in the woods with devil’s pubes. He was telling me how when he ran out of Beelzebub pubes out in Colorado, he started smoking cinnamon sticks and powdered star anise. I asked him if he ever smoked a tampon. He said no and made as if to smile, thinking it a joke.
I pulled a tampon out of my pocket and asked him to do the honors. He asked me, “where did you got that tampon from?” I told him I shop lifted it without reason and was carrying it around in my pocket to see what it would be like to secretly be carrying a tampon around in my pocket. He seemed fascinated with the idea of actually smoking a tampon, but said that he had a natural fear of ‘toxic shock syndrome’. He was probably right.
Now, it is extremely hard for two teenagers who do not smoke cigarettes to walk after smoking an entire stick of cinnamon. It feels as if gravity has doubled locally, and instead of feet one has jellyfish, trying to adapt biologically to suffocating out of water.
We were near a golf course and decided to sit and smoke the tampon.
I lit it up and inhaled slowly.
Burnt plastic tampons taste of stale horse shit, dipped in chocolate.
Bleck – eck – eck.
Breck – a –keck.






































A NOTE TO MY INNER CHILD
FROM THE ‘HOMUNCULUS’, IN
FULL, AS FOUND ON THE
COFFEE TABLE ON MAY 17, 2007


To: Shanan’s inner child:
“Hey, dick head; watch yer ass!!: you scruffy bitch!”
“Pick me up some grapes while yer dumb ass is out.”
“\ Makin’ money for the little MAN. > ”/<> <> O
-- Affectionately, the homunculus

P.S.: Sorry for calling you a ‘bitch’,
Daddy just gets passionate sometimes.
Send my love to the ‘true self’. Peace.




























SECRETS TOLD IN THE DARK



An extremely antisocial friend of mine at the time had bought a large amount of Pernod, or aqua vitae, made from anise. It is basically absinthe minus wormwood and is pretty good by itself; it was made in France when absinthe became illegal. But my friend, with tendencies aforementioned, took some Hooch O’ Pernod and added some wormwood essential oils and then put some fresh wormwood leaves in a tea filter and let it steep in the bottle for 40 days. At which time he had an absinthe party. I was maybe fifteen, and could hardly hold my excitement over the novelty of such a historically fascinating beverage that may or may not cause blindness. Absinthe tastes of horse shit, dipped in chocolate and licorice flavored swimming pool water, with a pinch of aromatic Martian piss. No wonder all those Parisians used to melt sugar into it!
I asked my friend if there was some sugar I could melt into my drink; and he being so anti-social, pretended not to hear me and continued peeing off his front porch, through the screen and into the roses.
Into the kitchen, I went, in search of sugar. Only I found a young lady, perhaps 18. We began talking and I asked if she per chance knew of a good place to get some sugar. She smiled real big and said she did, all I had to do was follow her down the block a little ways and she had some at her house. “Do you have your own place?” I asked; thinking her my age and wondering why I hadn’t seen her at school.
“No,” I live with my parents, but they are never home.
We walked down the block a little ways, she was skipping a little and I was trying to keep up with her while carrying my absinthe, in a glass with a picture of a flower and a bee on it. Balancing the glass ever so, so as not to spill a drop of the precious vitriol of the Symbolist poets.
Her house was a Kansas classic, old and wooden, but painted some god-awful green color. Being night, I was spared a truly tasteless lime in pig vomit experience of the house’s exterior. When we were inside she said that she likes to keep the sugar in a bowl, and if I would like to see it.
Her name was to be kept secret, or just said very quietly. She had beautiful, long brown hair and these molasses dark eyes, and, of course, she always smelled of patchouli and sandalwood, which I have already told you about. But what I remember most was the secrets she whispered to me in the dark and how I listened to her quiet voice without moving or saying a word.
I can’t tell you the secrets because they were told to (me) -- after a very intimate moment, by her. And besides I promised never to even mention them, let alone tell them to anyone. To Kelly wherever you are I am still keeping your secrets and thank you for whispering them to me in the dark.

































AND NOW THE POEM,
INSPIRED BY KELLY;
WHOM HELPED ME
NAME MY PENIS THAT
VERY SAME NIGHT


Smile, Young
UPTON
SINCLAIR;
Over yonder,
You are one of
Us, now.
You braved the
Jungle,
Making us all
Very proud.





























HERE WAITS: SHANAN FEARTH

Todayish: My homunculus and I have no idea whatsoever what year it actually is. Here in the present tense all we do is wait. Perhaps it would be more relevant to say: “ Here in the present tense all we DEW is wait.”
We had our body set in liquid nitrogen in the year 2079; we are cryogenically preserved somewhere out near what used to be Clearwater, Florida; the old epicenter of Scientology International.
We are Cryonauts, not Scientologists, to be sure. We never really understood if Scientologists had an ethos, other than wearing different color-coded outfits to match their level of dedication to the Dianetic Dogmas. They used to walk all over downtown Clearwater in those color-coded clothes en masse. We asked several members questions about their religious practices to end up right back where we started. At one point the homunculus was so curious to see a Scientology ceremony that he had us try and convert, if that’s what it is even called. The inner-child quickly took issue with us and the matter was dropped.

…Certainly, we are glad you asked…but we don’t really know why it was that we had our body preserved, as such…perhaps it just seemed to be the right thing to ‘dew’. Any ways, it’s too late to get out of it now. We don’t know if technology caught up with us yet.
Our first guess was that there would be some miracle cure for the disease that killed us. The homunculus said not to tell you what disease it was: that that was a secret.
Secretly I hoped for a machine that could reconstitute quark patterns to be invented that could just analyze what our body’s frequency was, then duplicate it. It’s very simple quantum physics, ultimately.
Oh yeah…why was ‘dew’ appropriate to say; well…we are currently residing in a dewar, like they make alcohol in. That’s the machine they use to preserve cryonauts (our word for those who live in cryogenic fluids). On the outside of our dewar is inscribed, in gold: HERE WAITS: SHANAN FEARTH.
The homunculus did not want to be mentioned on the inscription for fear of not being taken care of while we wait it out. That someone would pull the plug on our suspended body.

This is how one went about becoming cryonically preserved at the time of our untimely end: First you have to die, then you get taken to a facility where part one, of the cryonic surgeries, is performed. People know to do this because there is a plastic bracelet the people to be frozen are supposed to wear to let doctors, or whoever, know that you need ‘special treatment’. The surgery is simple enough. They drain all your blood (because when it freezes it expands) and replace it with glycerin (which does not expand in cryogenic temperatures). Then your body is slipped into a sleeping bag, for reasons unknown, and then placed in the hangman’s position into a dewar. Then, one just waits. Nothing to ‘dew’.
























MESSAGE ON A SIGN,
IN THE GRASS, NEAR BY,
THAT WAS WRITTEN BY
PROTESTERS A LONG
TIME AGO: CIRCA 2089

THIS IS NOT THE LIFTED LORAX,
NOR IS IT A MEMORIAL TO LIFE,
AFTER THIS, WHAT NEXT? ZERO.
THIS IS A REALLY STUPID JOKE,
DESTROY ALL SELF-FULFILLING
PROPHECIES OR YOU ARE NEXT!




























THE MYSTERIOUS WAYS OF THE DOGMA I LABORATORIES

For: “****”
The Dogma I Laboratories truly works in mysterious ways.
Dogma I was an organization of poets my buddy of anti-social fame and I created as kids.
Originally it was just for fun, but it became serious rather quickly.
My friend wishes his name to be kept secret, so he asked that I refer to him as “****”.
I do not mean what I write.
I, Shanan Fearth, was a poet in the twenty first century who wrote mostly extremely onanistic poems, mostly love poems to my self, and eventually to my homunculus, my other self.
As a poet, I was considered very eccentric. “By who?” Blue Spotted Establishment Junkies and the North American Common Yuppie who took over the culture like a global wide biological invasion of rabid money hungry blue-green algae. Okay: I did really crazy shit all the time; I was constantly ‘grand-standing’, and proclaiming my love for myself in overly long drawn out sonnets that lasted three volumes. I even did a porno film where all I did was masturbate while reciting poems I wrote to myself, by candlelight. I loved the spotlight.
But this was all after the homunculus turned me into an asshole.
Before the homunculus I was a nice person. I loved and was loved. I kissed children. I held hands. I knew friend’s middle names and birthdays. I openly wept once or twice. I even went out dancing.
Anyhow – my homunculus and I didn’t really understand our chances for revival at a later date, and truthfully we really didn't care, or think it even possible.
I was an atheist when I was alive, I guess we still are. The homunculus told me he was god one night. I tried to tell him about Dogma I Laboratories and how if you read it backwards it said the same thing and that I heard a million other people declare that they, too, were god; some with great solemnity and authority. He was not moved nor deterred in anyway.
One time, after being arrested for masturbating in a theater in New York, I told the cop that I was god and he should unhand me if he knew what was good for him. He told me, “God works in mysterious ways. You sir were caught jacking it in a theater. Everyone knows how to jack it. You sick motherfucker, you were choking the sausage during Sleeping Beauty, one of the best and most wholesome of Disney movies of all time.”
The homunculus had crossed the line by playing old Mr. Libido like that. We were out of control.
Nobody I knew would bail me out. Not, even, any other people from the Dogma I Labs.
But…
It was true Sleeping Beauty was a very wholesome film, I do not know what came over me other than semen. As a side note Walt Disney is a fellow cryonaut – though I am prone to call him a ‘sleeping beauty’.
I heard once that Walt Disney whispered something into a friend’s ear on his deathbed, and when that friend was asked what was told to him, he said it was a secret. Beats me.
In a manner of speaking.
The Dogma I laboratories, i.e. my anti-social friend and my self, took it upon ourselves one day to write a book. This book was to be kept a secret, and then placed where no one could find it. But, mainly I am remembering it, verbatim. It was fifteen writings, in short, compromising a page, each. There were also illustrations, but I do not know how to remember them very well.
To keep our names a secret the book was written under nom de plumes. He was ‘Altus Yin’ and I was ‘Magaphon Yang’. Keeping with our belief in our own pseudo-psycho-aesthetic verisimilitude. We may have even been too young to fully comprehend pseudonymic duality. We swam in our own insanities, respectively, and the water was fine.
And that is what we did: we composed several small amounts of writing, and buried it at an undisclosed location, the locus mutus. That location, being aforementioned as a secret, on a need to know basis only.


























The word ‘MOOF’ was created by the evil genius of the sewers under the name Sir Yin, the incredible. What was funny thing about this was that he was my slave, like French toast and scrambled eggs. He created the word by joining the letters M and O to the word ‘of’. Quite brilliant as if, a horse-shoe. We were running below ground attempting a cattle-prod. “It did not work correctly,” assumed Yin, wiping the dried remnants of a cereal-fart from his pointed strawberry chin. We began our running that we had been doing since five thirty that morning. We were not tires of course: well, cucumbers. We entered into the secret layer of the mad scientist who had created the word, “MOOF.” “What are you doing you stick in the duck?” I muttered under my breath, as loud as I could, trying to get my point across, that I did not desire to communicate with the likes of him ever again. At that precise moment an anvil no bigger and no larger than grated butterscotch fell and squashed our poor mad scientist, whose name was Glee-Guy, to death forever, again and again. He died. He is most assuredly dead, without a trace, gone. Yin looked at me licking his lips as if to eat the body. “Nope,” I saideth towardseth himself. “Well, lets go home, our work here is most well done.” And we ran away into the bagelish moonlight never to be heard from against. Amen, amen and tomorrow amen, amen. ***














































Once there was a pack of rabbits that attacked cities and ransacked convenience stores. One day as the rabbits pillaged new yolk they found a nuclear reactor and made off with a bushel of plutonium. They took the plutonium to their bio-lab and fused it with some campbell’s genetic soup to produce an enormous rabbit capable of destroying entire cities just by smashing them with its anvil-shaped whiskers. They took the large rabbit and wrapped it in a wooden horse and presented it to the city of new yolk as an apology. Then during the middle of the night the huge rabbit snuck out of the wooden horse. The huge rabbit moved so quickly that it traveled backwards in time, to the day when the rabbits were ransacking old new yolk, and he carried out his duty and pulverised everything in a flurry of furious whisker movement, as soon as he destroyed the hare league he rendered his own existence impossible; he had destroyed his creators (and the plutonium). However, he continued to exist, although unhappily. ****













































it was Whitman
who said
i have no armpits
in this
vast sea of
defferens. ***
















































Yang and I made our way through the dark alley towards the centre of town. The air was cold and thick with the sound of falling rain. “Yang,” I said. After a while we came to the theatre. Two chairs were the only signs of life. We sat on them. After fourteen minutes the curtains rolled back and the lights around us dimmed as the stage was bathed in the burning white of eight spotlights. In the centre of the stage lay a hammer. Neither of us were man enough not to avert our eyes. I looked at the floor for the next three hours. My will had been conquered by the introduction of the inexplicable, and I knew I would never be the same. It was no comfort to hear Yang’s shallow breathing over the silence. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that his posture was the same as mine. After the three hours passed, the curtains, with a faint rustling, closed, relieving our eyes from the inscrutable enigma that is art. Without a word, we rose and walked out. Back in the night air, with the rain heavy and warm, my soul felt a bit smaller. I would forever strive from that point forward never to confront the vacuum that in the heart of my soul. ****














































“PAGE where in Yang and Yin make a baby”
Yin’s breath is getting heavier as he is running behind me. Why we are running is still undetermined. I cannot help but laugh, as I stand and pick the barnacles out of my armpit. It is humorous how Yin persists in wrapping himself erotically around the cactuses. By the look on his face, he is almost done. Now he is walking towards me. “I have the information you desired, master,” the blue-feathered inkling shrieked with an umbrella in his hand. “Very well Yin,” I demanded of him. The tears rolling down his cheeks accompanied by the lack of calcium got to me. I embraced him and licked away the tears, the said, “don’t worry, the eggs have boiled.” ***









































1. the big rock candy mountains turned out to be a lot bigger than Goolgoth said
2. they’d be. there were 6 of them, standing fine and tall and glittery in the desert sun.
3. as we climbed we frequently stopped to lick the sweet crystals of the mountain
4. face, the colour of which ran the span of the rainbow. there were little mole circuses
5. every hundred feet or so, and we always felt like stopping to watch the little cuties
6. but they wouldn’t let us --- they insisted that we climb on, to the “wondrous pleasures”
7. that awaited us at the top. after about 7 hours we were smoked, or at least Goolgoth
8. was. i could have gone on for 2 or 3 more hours before my battery wore down.
9. we stopped in a shady recess that afforded some shelter form the elements, or the
10. element, that is, the sun. (those italics are a bit too slanted) as we set up camp,
11. we joked about the way things were turning out and how our mothers had laughed at
12. us. poor mother --- all charged up with no place to fry? but enough of that stuff.
13. suddenly, a little hammer stepped out from behind a cotton candy cactus that was
14. wilting next to the mountain wall. it was a shy little tool. “hi there, fella,” screamed
15. Goolgoth. his breath smelled like a flaming micro-elephant. the baby hammer
16. nustled up to his head and promptly knocked him out. Quickly, i grabbed the tent spike
17. i had hidden behind my ear as Goolgoth was picking his nose and shoved it into
18. the left side of his chest. it sunk deep into his furry copper bosom, and out welled fresh,
19. celery-coloured blood. the hammer giggled and started to approach me, i think it
20. wanted a kiss, but I gave it a smart kick in the peen and sent it hurtling down
21. the mountain. “Ooooooooooooohhhhhhhhh, baby!” i screamed. my nose was on fire.
22. Goolgoth lay there and quietly bled, in a casual sort of way. right then, i knew,
23. Everything would be alright, Goolgoth would recover form the awful accident that had
24. Befallen him, and within a few days we would continue our journey. i wept with joy.
25. “Goolgoth, i’m glad you’re my slave.” i whispered fiercely. ****






























Bothered rotted bludgeoned pear
i ate the toasted fiber-rich ear
lost in the orbit about the lint
summoned to the summit aboard care
drenched clouds crawling for curses
sky glorified vegetable stalling ,
mammoths and eels talking on the phone
ying (my mother) baked your hippopotamus.

“Taste’s like olives” exclaimed Gabriel.
For once upon a time there was a
feathered whale who hiked to Mt.
St. Vernon (by boat), on the journey
he periled and plundered and wore
on his head (underwear.) He crucified
oysters on the moon’s telephone poles.
For spring is here again, as the
Enigma of the wafers from
the Dogma I Laboratory radiate. ***




















THE MANNER
AND METHODS OF MY
SUBMERSION INTO
CRYOGENIC FLUIDS


I kept the year of my death a secret, and will continue to do so. I was determined to-be preserved, in style; so I had a long ceremony written out, in detail, mapping out how I wanted things handled. Now, when that time finally came there was confusion, as to what my last will and testament may have actually meant. Well I’ll tell you: I was all crazy from the homunculus and had it (the last will and testament) officially written in a stupor, of sorts, how I wanted my body presented at the funeral, and what to do afterwards.
You see, at the time of my death I was poet in residence at the Manifest Infinity Life Extension Foundation. It was probably the only job I ever had that I really liked. As poet in residence I was given a free dewer for myself, for when the time came. Honestly, they gave me the job, because I was making their little company get quite a bit of publicity every time I published a book of my work. I had a little office and a desk, a filing cabinet and I just hung out listening to those machines hum all day.
This is what my last will and testament said:

DETAILS FOR THE HUGGER-MUGGER OF THE SUB-SUB ROSA INCOGNITO:
Excerpts from the poetical work of the same name are to be splayed at ten-foot intervals between here and tomorrow. I am most likely ‘dead’, now; or in a redefined state thereof.
I want my body taken to the Manifest Infinity Life Extension Foundation. They will know what to do with my body, cryonically and cryogenically speaking of course. I am in good hands, they are not ‘god’. When I am submerged I want a piece of coprolite fitted into my mouth, a rose placed in my left hand, and a cockroach in my right hand, fisted up. There is a portable energy device specially equipped for me that I want taken with my body to this location to be set on the hill like a statue to watch over the hollowed land.
For my epitaph: say whatever comes to mind, it won’t bother me. All of my possessions and finances have already been taken care of by the Manifest Infinity Life Extension Foundation, in my specialty Mneumonotechnic Devices; they will be kept safe in a near-by location.
I never liked any of you very much so…why don’t you all eat shit.

Now, what is coprolite? Okay, it is fossilized human shit. Archeologists have found it in the mouths of mummies found in the Andes Mountains, where it is a total mystery why a body was buried with shit in it’s mouth. I thought this gesture to be beautiful; others however did not. Eventually, a family member acquired a piece and had it placed in my mouth. When they found the location I had described by giving aerial coordinates, they came upon a landfill. This was another gesture towards the world that I am still not too sure why I made. I have been here ever since. Now there’s a lot, of natural coprolite deposits around my kingdom. The garbage around me has also started into the fossilization process.
I remember hearing once that in the seventeenth century people used to eat the flesh of Egyptian mummies as a cure for diseases and such. I wanted to leave a portion of my body for buffet consumption, like at ancient-ancient wakes. I was really angry when I was dying. Now, I don’t really give a fuck about any of those old problems I had. I just feel sorry about how I acted…sometimes.
The Hugger-Mugger of the Sub-Sub-Rosa incognito is the name and the first line of, probably, my best known work. It, of course, refers to me as a psycho-pomp of the arcane. Teenagers actually had to study it in high school at one point. Which is funny to me now, for some reason I can’t remember. Oh, yeah…okay…it was because I heard a father, of a fellow student, complain to my tenth grade teacher about our required reading list for the year. He said, “these kids are all white, Ms. Brown, that IS their culture! There is only one white male on the reading list for them. And it’s Oscar Wilde! I don’t want my boy reading that faggotty-assed shit, anyway; let alone thinking that Oscar Wilde is the only voice for white males out there!”
Ms. Brown didn’t know what to say to this man, other than that John Wayne didn’t write poetry.













A POEM WRITTEN FOR THE
FATHER, WHO FELT OSACR
WILDE UNSUITABLE FOR
TEENAGE LITERARY
CONSUMPTION, AN ANTI-ODE

You, Sir—
are a bigger
DICKHEAD,
than me,
after the
homunculus
arrived—
please eat
shit now.
































THE HOMUNCULUS, MORE THOUGHTS ON

I don’t even remember how much of anything that happened, was just the homunculus acting out. He used to drudge on forever about how he wanted to join with the sea to have an actual birth like in Goethe’s Faust. I remember I used to tell him that that idea was dumb as shit. Then he used to say, “I’ll show you dumb as shit.” That’s kind of funny now. Perhaps the coprolite and my teeth have formed a symbiotic relationship, and if we are ever revived, we’ll always have to keep it in there.
I guess now is as good a time as any, to tell you about when I met the homunculus. Well…I had him emailed to me. I know it sounds stupid, but it is true. I was filling out a form that would diagram out a psychosomatic humanoid form based on the shape of my brain and my motor sensory connections. This was measured against my particular abilities at all the various motor and/or mental skills. The moment the image was sent back to me the homunculus said hello. But he said it like this:
“Hey, you dumb motherfucker, get me a snickers bar, and quick or I’ll stick a sharpened pencil up yer ass!”
That was not the beginning of a beautiful relationship.
He really isn’t so bad once you get to know him.
But he did turn me into an asshole. I was forty-two. I was not previously an asshole up to that point, believe you me.
He is really small, he doesn’t have a real ‘body’; it’s more like a series of neural connections in a specific order, like memes. Perhaps he could be described as a neural-biological meme. He won’t go away, believe me I have asked him many a time.
It’s not some sort of multiple personality bit, or like he is some aspect of my personality trying to get out. Imagine a violent drunk who is able to swim around in your head like it’s a swimming pool and whisper into all your brain’s hiding spaces where the secret thoughts are kept. It is an abusive relationship, but after someone, or something, knows you that intimately—it becomes harder and harder to part ways.






























YOU MAY BE WONDERING
HOW WE ARE WRITING
THIS THEORETICAL
AUTO-BIOGRAPHY

We have been stuck inside the bitter cold recesses of this dewer for quite a while now: enough to explore the extents of our ‘life’, though ‘existence’ would be a better term. We don’t necessarily know how to describe what parts of me are alive. We do not believe it is my soul, nor a spirit of any real kind. It seemed like perhaps I was a ghost at one point because, I could project my thoughts out at people who were in a certain vicinity of my bower. How we knew people were close by, I do not know for sure. My guess at all of this is something like Tielhard de Cardin’s ‘noosphere’; that is an ectoplasmic layer around the earth that holds all the thoughts of all the people in the world. Its how he explained that humans in very different parts of the world all came up with the same things at the same time: like the advent of fire, wheels and agriculture. Then it goes a step further into creative processes, so, say two artists how have no idea of the other come up with similar works of art, simultaneously: the zeitgeist.
I never really understood all that shit any ways. Cause that is exactly what it is -- bullshit. Like the coprolite in my mouth. I always thought that knowledge and/or the creative processes were very much dependent on environment; books, for example read differently depending on when and where one is reading them. Say one keeps War and Peace near the john and only reads during bathroom time. Or then again, there could be another kind of quasi-phenomenon: whenever I picked up a book I knew very little about, I always felt an impulse to guess how the book went and then referenced the book to check to see if I was right or not.
I found a copy of Huckleberry Finn in Eugene, Oregon back in the twenty-first century. I guessed that the first words were “My name is Huckleberry Finn.” They weren’t. But once I found a copy of Swann’s Way, by Proust and I guessed every word, every sentence, correctly, and then checked my work. I have not been able to repeat that most eventful event since; not that anybody believed me, any ways, since it was originally written in French. And that something was lost in the translation. I called this an act of ‘unbridled libermancy’.
In a quick summation, in a way, that is how I am conveying this present tale. I am divinating it to another self, on the quantum universe directly one world over from this one. In that world the only thing that is different from ours is that the homunculus never came into my brain and ruined the entire universe. But more especially, I died a testator. Like if Schroedinger’s cat was able to see itself in heaven, from hell.
Okay, what I am doing is that I am whispering this story to myself, one world over, quantum mechanically speaking; and he thinks it is just some sort of inspiration for a story. I am just telling him what it was like to have a brain-sucking homunculus turn us into a blatant asshole and ruin the whole cosmos with our putrid slime filth and sour sauce. Popping a cap in the ass of another self’s fail-safe mind, where all the memes go to bed early. I am only able to do this because I paid enough attention to what I think is the ‘noosphere’.
Now, I believe, most humans are gone or living so differently that I can’t tap into there extra-somatic discharges; if that is what they are anymore. I know there haven’t been any archeological digs in this area for at least a century or two. But I have no way to know for sure, unless they resurrect me. But I wouldn’t count on that any more.
I would be a theoretically memetic Nagasaki.







ABSOLUTE SENSORY
THRESHOLDS FOR:
A TESTATOR

In normal humans, there are five senses that seem to encapsulate most of human experience in one way or another. Like how you are reading now. You may be picturing several various images that together weave a series of events coherently into a narrative of some sort. Or you place yourself into the story, soaking up all the smells and sounds of the places described.
What absolute thresholds are-are the bounds to these senses: the white picket fence to the yards of our sensory experience. Most of these senses are different ways of perceiving the same forces in the universe: usually electromagnetism. Colors, sounds, et cetera are just various frequencies of the electromagnetic field. The human threshold for sound is a tick of a watch at twenty feet away. Try it sometime. Beyond twenty feet is the non-human realm of hearing saved for dogs and their ilk.
The thresholds become very poetic after a certain level: the absolute threshold for sight is a candle flame at thirty miles on a clear night. I once heard science described as a candle in the dark. I would say life in a dewer would be greatly benefited from candlelight in this infinite expanse of dark, what I look like is a secret to me. What the outside world looks like is even more of a secret. I bet my skin is blue, or measuring towards the violets on the electromagnetic scale of visible light.
These colors, these senses are comical now, all I do is cogitate and reiterate. That may be all I have left; going over and over what I already know. I am not really learning anything new. It is all just a guess what is going on outside of this dewer. What my homunculus is telling me: that hundreds of years have gone by might just be my brain winding down and petering out into the nothingness that is all I can see right now.
I remember once, I found an old second hand copy of Impressions of Africa by Raymond Roussel; I swore I was going to be able to guess that novel, word for word, as I read it or ‘checked my work’. I guessed every twentieth word correctly. I know that there is a good possibility of doing that any ways, but given the nature of the stories that compose that work, I felt I had accomplishes something truly revolutionary. That perhaps I had secretly and quite preconsciously developed a sixth sense. That was pish-posh, seriously. My senses were the same during my whole moving life.
By far my favorite absolute threshold is for touch: A bee wing falling onto one’s cheek from one centimeter. How anyone ever thought to pick a bee wing as the medium, I will never know. Perhaps I like it better that way, the anonymity of it.
My thresholds now are different though, because I can make the series of electrical impulses that are my mind leave the dewer. A long time ago I haunted this area, it was my preternatural bower, so to speak. But the senses past the fifth, and there are many senses past the fifth, are all cerebrally linked. Perception truly is a bitch, as an antisocial friend of mine once told me. As far as ultra-violet is from violet the sixth sense is from the fifth.
The threshold for the sixth sense is the exactitude of balance in a rain cloud at thirty-five mega-parsecs. For the seventh: two falling eight-dimensional objects, from the edge, of the opposite of the solar system at the length of the solar wind. Then there is a secret sense called the Gnirbian sense, that I will not talk about, it is a secret. And the last I know of, called the last sense; whose absolute threshold: one candied apple with a worm eating the core from the ergosphere of a rotating blackhole, with both hands tied thoroughly behind one’s back at a rate of ten to ninety-eight million and one.
But these are just rough estimates, though. We haven’t had a field trip, out of the dewer, to test out our absolutisms of sensory perception, since the blue-green algae that mutated and suffocated most of the earth happened.













EULOGIC POEM FOR
AN UNKNOWN GRAVE:

A bee wing falling,
on one’s cheek –
from one centimeter. ***
































AN OPEN LETTER TO WALT DISNEY
(It’s a small world after all --- after all.)

Dear Walt,
(mind if I call you Walt?)

…okay…
Dear Mr. Walt Disney?
Huh? …Sure...

Mr. Disney:

Fellow cryonaut, I applaud you in your slumber! "I wish I had taken the time to get to know your work better -- it seems so genuine and up-frontish. Please forgive the trespasses, our father full of grace…you dumb ass bitch—I can’t believe they let you out of the museum with that stupid assed hat on. Your penis is a small world after all. I’m a homunculus and I have a bigger cock, like big."

Sleep well, dear friend. Good night, sweet prince of spagyracists.
























AND NOW, IF YOU WILL, IN MEMORIUM OF THAT PARTICULARLY UNSAVORY MOMENT: A POEM I WROTE, SEVERAL YEARS PRIOR, AFTER CONSUMING AN UNHEALTHY PORTION OF LSD:

Mindblock OK iS I
Okay
is if am not able
to try and
frawnp
fraw
fr
au
m
pet
red in between
the
gumdrops like
great godlike gumtrackle
tackles my
snickerB
snickeRed
BotLur
Rudolph tempertantrum ***




























MY DEATH FANTASY FROM THE UPPER AGORAPHOBIC ERA

As you may well know the earth, in a particularly unsavory moment was consumed nearly all the way by a genetically mutated version of blue-green algae. It just got into the water supply and took most of the life on earth with it. Or, that is the best I can guess from conferring with the homunculus and the inner child. We are pretty sure a global calamity of that magnitude and character took over the planet, in what we are calling the upper agoraphoibic era.
We are calling this era the upper agoraphobic era because we are done venturing out of the sanctorum of these cryogenic fluids that is our freezer-womb. We are done exploring and spelunking about.
In collaboration with the homunculus, we began composing open letters to various cryonauts to attempt a symposium style discussion about our particular predicament(s).






































THE COLD GROUND AND ME:
A LOVE STORY IN GRAY

For Jessica J.

We are cold and grumpy, but I remember a time when I was able to stay warm all night outside, in the middle of winte, in Alaska. It was way back before the little son-of-a-bitch homunculus began whispering sweet nothings in my secret places. It was winter and cold, but outside of a dewer there are things that fix the cold, like coffee and cocoa.
There is no coffee for cryonauts.
I spent most of my adult life in the Pacific Northwest, mostly in Oregon and Alaska. The lands of the overnight mushrooms and blackberries in the midnight Sunday.
I had a lover named Jessica who wrote poetry. Really dark and demented poetry with lots of fore-shadowing and post-shadowing. Black. Books of shadows.
Every time I saw the sun shine on her I wondered why she didn’t turn gray.
We used to drink coffee, naked, at midnight and stay real warm telling each other our deepest darkest secrets. I told her everything.





































MY DARK, DARK POEM
FOR JESSICA AND
HER LEITMOTIV:


Dear---
I had a
Medical
Need for my
Heart---
Now it is black---
Like your
Poems.




































AN OPEN LETTER TO F. M. 2030


(Do transhumanists dream of cryonic sheep?)




Dearest FM 2030,

Where ever, ever, ever can you be now?
“We are just two lost souls swimming in this fish bowl.” -- Pink Floyd
All the other species on Earth may theoretically be extinct now. What do you think about that?
Blue-green algae. I wish I died with it all, just suffocated up into blue-green hell.
All gone -- Forever, I know you understand forever.
Sorry that all that negative shit had to go down – I have got the Homunculus into the sub-conscious for a few moments, please respond ASAP! He is on the ropes!!

What do you count to fall asleep at night?
I can’t count sheep anymore. I never will do it again. Maybe next I will try humpback whales or giant squids.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7…you know?

With fondest affectations,
(and before the homunculus wakes up!)

---- Shanan Fearth, Clearwater, Florida, 2003, (just one world over)




(All *** in these sections were written by the Meme-Rider still under the auspices of Lord Kevin, the Uncanny, circa 1994, Fort Bragg, North Carolina.)
(All **** in these sections were written by the Meme-Rider formerly known as Caesar Baagerah of somewhere near Charlotte, North Carolina, sometime around 1993)