: a posthumun autobiopsychogeography of anon I’m us
3 : PROPAGATION OF EARHORROR IN OUR BABELING DADASTREAM
> we was always good @ math but never new Y or 2 what end. we knew the antswears but knot the questshuns. Σum teachers tot us dat technology drove production, created jobs, etc. other adults said technology took jobs away from humuns. from our vantage as a tot in the backseat we saw the val-U of cars, how they cd get us faster from point A to pt B, how they cd transport our I-balls along the landscape 4 to see. but @ the same time v-uckles are maiming + killing humuns, by axident U might say, but still... is dare such thing as axident or coinsidedance?
> both our father + brother will end up dying in parked cars, F.Y.I... dont get us rong, we aint anti-technology, we just wonder who's driving who? we know plenty about sighence to know parrosites dont want to kill dare hosts. IT follows dat v-uckles dont want to kill drivers.
> our dad chain-smoked Vantage cigarettes while he drove, w/ windows rolled up. when we dint have our nose buried in the crack of the backseat we used to stair @ the packaging wondering how come our dad dint see the blatant target, a rip-off a Lucky Strike. was this the same as the pozole spoon in the last chapter?
> + the man comes on the raydio + sings:
+ the man comes on the raydio
+ he's telling me mo + mo
about some useless information
supposed to fire my imagination
> + our father changes the dial to news about the oil crysis + how only those w/ odd # license plates could get gas on odd # dayz + even #s on even dayz + our older brother leans from the backseat to switch the dial back:
well he can't be a man cuz he doesn't smoke
the same cigarettes as me
> + our father switches IT back + says we shouldn't listen to dis man on the raydio + our brother says x-actly, dat's what Mick's trying to say + pleads his case to change IT back + kicks us to pipe in but our modus operandus is 2 listen + not speak. input = our onely concern. the hole point = to let our sense oregons travel around amassing data. what we said about cars applies to our one bodies. our I-balls invented our Bw/Odies to move our I's around gathering information, intell to inform our bean. likewise our ears process aural communeacakeshun, our nose olfactory dada, our tongue taste + our fingers tactile dada points.
> in 2nd grade we were told dat by 3rd grade we had to memarize the times tables, a 9x9 grid of multiplicative equations w/ diffrent permutations of 1 thru 9. B4 the teacher even handid us the assignment we filled out this grid on a sheet of blank paper:
01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09
02 04 06 08 10 12 14 16 18
03 06 09 12 15 18 21 24 27
04 08 12 16 20 24 28 32 36
05 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45
06 12 18 24 30 36 42 48 54
07 14 21 28 35 42 49 56 63
08 16 24 32 40 48 56 64 72
09 18 27 36 45 54 63 72 81
> + when s/he handid us the assignment we turned in our cumpleated grid. s/he aksed how we memarized IT so fast + we said cuz we din't memarize IT, we calculated IT + s/he asked where + we said in our noggin'. a kid next to us whispered «what's yr secret?» + we said the rows + colums = the same + in the 9th row/col the 2 digits always add up to 9 so right off the bat u know the edges, ox.
01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09
09 18 27 36 45 54 63 72 81
> sew IT = like a jigsaw puzzle.
a few months has passed since we startid this chapter, emurging strait from a global pandemic to the civil unrest + K-OS around Black Lives Matter, so hard 2 member where we was. weave also bin working on a new Sound ƒuries album + Σ um visual art (see Corona Casalingo series) cobballaged from re-psychled mattereals + we still got a bunch of ½- finished pieces + IT god us to thinking dat rather then make art 2 hang on walls these might B bedder off bound (hand-sewn) in a book, like an originul 1-of-a- kind art book not 4 duplication + what wood the libro be a bout we thought, we needid an overarching dadastream as glue to keep IT together + then figured Y knot use the tXt of thriver meme since this project is the opposit in affect, no?
while we was hunting around on our machene for dadastreams to self-cannonballize we ℝ ealized we got lodes of unfinished tXts dat weave never publiched... we're tocking dozens of stories + novels, a few of witch = 200+ pgs + what's the point just halving these on our harddrive? invisible $ trings ( 2 humun Is) of 0 s + 1 s etched in sillycone dat onely dis machene can read + OK, a backup in a cloud Σumwhere dat spose Σ um 1 cd hack + read or reproduce bud who in dare right mind wood wand 2, these tXts = garbage collection 4 the most part @ least in there current form bud weed take them + repurpiss them 4 thriver meme + dis 1-of-a- kind tXt/ img book project dat we dont god a name 4 yet tho y'erday we was toying w/ the IDea of « 4ier X- forms» cuz we dig the hollowgraphic IDea of how inny waveform can brake down into a finite # of sine + cosine waves per Euler:
e2πiθ = cos(2πθ) + i⋅sin(2πθ)
weave also accumulated a lot of leftover tXts from writing Sound ƒuries liarics... the onely weigh we no to rite is to keep jotting down what comes to mined in a disoregonized dadastream dat we think eventually wheel use bud seams these cesspools we draw from keep building mo + mo + when we write where the flashing curser is — what we intend to make public — Σ um times we pool from dis pull bud more often than knot Σ umping L s is on the tip of our tongue dat needs sane. hit's like how we keep feeding food into our mouths to stay alive + our bodies filter out what they need + the rest gets shat out — think of dis tXt feed in dis sense. current thinking is wheel combine ∀ ll these dispirate reservoirs of unused tXt into 1 running dadastream to draw from, to repsychle in the same ¢ ents we repsychle cardbored, paper + whatever L s junk into the above-mentioned collages, but digitoll repsychling, not analog. muster as we might to right inny other way dis = the onely way we know, sorta like the monkey on the typewriter on pg 50 of A Raft Manifest:
yes, wheel probly bust out the typewriters + might rehash pgs from A Raft Manifest ( thriver meme = the seekwill after ∀ ll) as well as Ark Codex ± 0 + other works we wrote under other guises, if anything to erase over, to repurpiss as new journihilistic litterasure. de todos modos, enough tocking of what we will do, let's get cracking! 4 the mane baysis of our input dadastream (4 now innyway) we're gunna use an unpubliched novel we called Propagation of Error + this 1st chapter we titled «Immaculate Preconception». most of these tXts are so old we cant even open 'em, @ least not in MS Word, sew it's probly a good thing we're going thru this exorcise utterwise these tXts might be lost to oblivion, unrecoverable. as IT is we gotta change the extension to .txt + then ⌘+C/⌘+V into this HTML + there's a lot of jibberish tXt we gotta weed out, dat (temptid as we R by the FX of such tXts) we cant even paste hear to demonstrait cuz they seam to be special charactors recognized sole by whatever program we originully word processed these in (Claris MacWrite or Quark Xpress)... same hoops we gotta jump thru to put our dream + ℝeel-moondough journulls online, tho the journulls we're currently transcribing (1993) date back to before we had a computer so we got to decipher our handwriting.
> this «Immaculate Preconception» chapter of Propagation of Error pre-dates where we're @ in thriver meme, delving back to the misguided fumblings of our pairunts, b4 we was even born. hear's how IT goes in our one originul words:
It started as a possibility that was never realized.
"Cal? Is that you?" mom yells over the shower she's taking.
"Who else would it be?" says dad, throwing his keys and briefcase full of life insurance policies onto the bed.
"The drain's clogged again."
> @ witch point our dad aks Y our mom is taking a shower to begin cuz she just took 1 dat morning + she says she wants 2 bee clean 4 hym + we describe the d-tales of what she looks like cuz IT seamed dat's what u was sposed to do (if u wantid to be a writer), charactor devilipment + ∀ll dat. then outta the blue we rote "Maya was impregnated by she [sic] spray of an elephant in the armpit that gave birth to Buddha" witch seams rather randumb + expository, probly Y we never bothered to finish the story. in the overblown descryption we make our mom out to be like Shelley Duvall's charactor in The Shining, when in fact our mom wasn't ℝeelly like dat + our dad (in the story) is sort of a pig, suspicious of Y she's dirty. he starts groping @ her like a horny juvenile butt she's still cumplaining about the drain so he yanks his tie off, rolls up his sleeves + busts the plunger out. we go on @ length about the plunger + what's under the sink witch seams excessive so wheel omit. then:
Dad sits on the edge of the tub and puts the suction end of the plunger over the drain. The plunger squelches and farts, churning the foamy water full of soap, dead skin and hair. Dad stares at the bath tub ring left behind, watching his hands as he plunges, in a lucid trance.
"When you do that you pump water into the toilet," mom says, gazing in. As she bends over the towel creeps up the back of her legs, exposing the bottom creases of her ass. Dad peaks the towel up with the blunt handle of the plunger.
"Damn it Calvin!" mom yells, slapping the plunger away and adjusting the towel. "I'm being serious, this pipework is all interconnected. Bath water is coming up through the toilet."
> then she tries to flush the toilet. the water swirls + rises, but "anticipation sours" we rote (for what it's worth), "like a tide that rises never to fall." the water reaches the porcelain rim + swirls to a stop. dad plunges the toilet but then water starts rising up thru the drain in the sink. he needs a beer to cope w/ this sew goes to the kitchen only to discover gray sewage water coming up thru the garbage disposal. he tries plunging from various sinks but IT only diverts the issue to another drain Ls-where in the house. we describe this in bloody d-tale over the course of a page or 2, their bickering + how he tries drain-O, wich does nothing except release a toxic blue vapor, heat the pipes + start to burn the rubber O-rings. the only conclusion is dat IT must be the septic tank, 2 full to accomodate any more waste water.
> w/ bowed heads our pairunts stair @ the frothy backed-up hogwah. dad retraces the pipes in the house dat mom's father's left her. we ain't even born yet bud when our pairunts gaze into the day-glo scum water, they think of ∀ll the me's dat could halve bin. "Their lives up to this point have been abortions and we're their last gasp to make up for it."