BAK-TRUPPEN - TONIGHT

We think there isn't time to come outside our cubicles and let the sky speak to us. Children know when to look up imagining a picture of heaven drawn by angels. Hiding in it's billows are messengers of God trying to get through our bolted-up souls. All we have to do is look up and be transformed from an ant to a soaring eagle. Getting lost in the sky, simply by choosing not to look down at our shoes gives us room to breathe, to trysomething new and to laugh. The best way to do it is to lay down on the ground, back on the grass and gaze upwards. Pick any day but be sure to do it on a day when clouds are changing formation by the second. Get comfortable. Take some deap breaths and open your heart to the magnificence of this sight before you. Enjoy the beauty. The sky will never again look exactly like this. Each moment has the possibility of divinity within it's seconds. You might not want to go back to work - ever. You might get a nudge to change jobs, travel or do what comes passionately to you. Once you get rooted on the ground looking up at the clouds dancing by, you'll feel like an oak tree or decide to take the rest of the day off.

In 1960, when the young recruit Phineas Gage was doing floret fighting exercises with his room-mates, he suddenly turned arond and got the opponent's floret right through his nose, into the brain, where it hit the time center. Although he is now in his fifties, his mind stands stock still in 1960. And while he is vegetating in a timeless world, the doctors keep discussing and studying his case.

Middelsex is not only a part of England. X is situated in Brainscape, which is a part of Freudland. Now, when Freudland is taken over by marked-leninism, it's no longer easy to have real time communication with the workers.

Most of them are dead, and the living ones are so few that they have no right to represent the working class.

This is a working class tragedy, but - as we say - tradegy is a cheap truth. In order to buy the more expensive truths, you don't need money.

Money is there for all to buy, you can sell out immediately if you want: All that you are. This is Freudland: You don't know where you are, but where you want to be. Flame marked-leninism, it has no toy-value. According to the surf-punk family-plan, you should move your head before it's dead.

I live in a think-net made out of dead bodies. The dying may seem wasteful, but from my point of view it's not a waste of time. Hacking away in the nootropic rickshaws, I find history devided into mainstream, hipstream, slipstream and notstream, which means death.

I think we have this consensual hallucination of a world existing, and it's all part of the Mindscape, called Freudland by pomos, and in the middle of this you will find a very material thing called X

The thing was taken over by market-leninism, that's why you can't have real time conversation with the workers anymore. They are usually dead, at least they are not here, 'cause the work is being done in the third world, as we say. This is the first world, a tragedy, but - as we say - tragedy is a cheap truth. And to buy the more expensive truths, you don't need money, but more information. That's the reason why they call this Freudland: You've got a lot of information about what's going on, but you don't know what happens when the info goes in: Into your brain, which is part of the Mindscape.

In Mindscape most of the real things are passing without notice. But mind is so beautiful, that you can use almost anything to enhance the brain-functions: Even a smell will do.

Peeping into the jargon-file yesterday, I stumbled across an apocaleptic with a speedy fucked up high weirdness of great toy value.

When I first grabbed the idea of X , I grabbed it with my power- glove, which I bought from a fringe-head in Gibraltar, a part of Deathscape. I know, when your mind-box gets fixed on Deathscape, you shouldn't be interactive

I was interactive. I wanted to have real time communication with the workers down there, the ones who lived before our thinknets were taken over by marked-leninism. Loaded with past, they told me: Cut time, it won't make you smarter.

I said I didn't want more brain, it will go rotten anyway. I love melons. They said I was a comic figure, who of course repeated their own tragical fate. And we could have left it like that, if it wasn't for my dream of making all information free. I was a dreamer, I still am - you know, we dream a lot where I come from - and I asked if they could please show up once more. Make a little nosedive into the present and maybe change the ongoing wargames with peace-bombs from the past? They just spat at me; keep on fucking up there, you ugly newbie!

When I first grabbed the idea of X , I grabbed it with my power- glove, which I bought from a fringe-head in Gibraltar, a part of Deathscape.

I know, when your mind-box gets fixed on Deathscape, you shouldn't be interactive. I was interactive. I wanted to have real time communication with the workers down there, the ones who lived before our thinknets were taken over by marked- leninism. Loaded with past.

they told me: Cut time, it won't make you smarter. I said I didn't want more brain, it will go rotten anyway. I love melons. They said I was a comic figure, who of course repeated their own tragical fate. And we could have left it like that, if it wasn't for my dream of making all information free. I was a dreamer, I still am - you know, we dream a lot where I come from - and I asked if they could please show up once more. Make a little nosedive into the present and maybe change the ongoing wargames with peace-bombs from the past? They just spat at me; keep on fucking up there, you ugly newbie!

It was a dream-ware, X , and as the dream was interpreted in Freudland, they said that the dead ones won't predict our future. 'Cause if you have real time conversation with living people, most of them seem dead-heads.

That is an old game, and this is a game planet. All games are hostile, and basically there is only one game.

And that game is war. After the struggle they will interrogate you like an animal. They will torture you if you don't answer, for they also interpret the muteness of beasts. And they will make predictions from your cries and you will not even be able to defend yourself.

Don't let your face hang out like that. Keywords: Detection, rejection, dejection, injection, infidelity. Lots of infidelity.

No way Josephine, in the next life maybe. This will remain a tousand -mile-problem with unending blahblahs on soul-patches turned into brainless malfunctions.

Let's have some Internet shoe-gazing and cloud-watching. (Shoe-gazing/Cloud-watching)

Fuck what a precence
this is cool
and very liberating
what a tool
It is the internet relay-chat
It comes to me directly from the blue
It is the internet relay-chat
It comes to me directly from the blue
and suddenly I feel completely new

When we left cyberspace yesterday, you said you wouldn't flame me. Flame market-leninism, you said, but now I feel theese wires which doesn't make my brain function at all.

I'm not designed for this. I'm programmed into being a non- existent tomb-denying creature who never ever is able to digest time.

Dead cats are NOT sexy. It's my intention to prove that you have forgotten this. The boredom of language has conquered your instincts.

You must remember, the natural and at the same time the spiritual goal of every human being, is the UNITY of sex and world. Isn't it sexy?

Language is NOT sexy. If you can see how this bullshit streams out from the anal of silence, you would nevermore be tempted to analyse, but fuck on.

I think you should go forward
and don't forget the past
PAST
I hope it will be funny
FUNNY

For all the people that we've met before
Let's give them all we have
I think they need some more

The past is now tomorrow
and we are here tonight
TONIGHT
I fucked up solidarity
I didn't want to fight
FIGHT

We'll send you flowers tomorrow
for every single one of you
we'll send you red ones and blue ones

Not so at X , where a lamer is a lamer and a shame is a shame, and nobody has time to go shoe-gazing in the name of progress. Sad to say, the emotional ketchup-burstout of Freudland sounded like Mick Jagger in his best days, like Sympathy For the Devil, and the real sadness was turned into an interview with the upgoing successophobian surfpunks. Historical slumming etc. That is a cheap truth, and to buy the more expensive truths, you don't need money. Money is there for all to buy, just sell what you are. Flame market-leninism. As Middelsex is not only a part of England, X got troubled about it's own sex, and as another juvenile it started studying mirrorshades, and they don't exist anyway. Exept on the surface. Exept in the moment. Which is where we are now. Tonight.

Index