a slight flutter. wind. wings. fingers. i am not sure. it is so vague. so far away. tonight is here again. blind witness to the crimes of my life. the silent watcher of the broken pleasures that make up what passes as my life. these one sided conversations between me and my keyboard. tonight is here again. it is a sin.
i write. you read. is this communication? seriously. the keys caress me back. no. they dont. just in case, i self medicate. i whisper. the television is on mute. the traffic outside bears witness to life. the life of others. i whisper. silence answers. i whisper. take your share. just in case. i whisper a prayer for the lost.
does god think it is prideful, greedy, to pray for yourself? i wonder wander. i remember the smell of fall after the rain. i remember show and tell. i remember so many things. all useless here. i am a chaser of ghost paper.

what is ghost paper? i think maybe ideals, but i am not sure. ghost paper,i think is what is left after you have read a page. politics, religion, science, romance. i found out that j g ballard died last month. i cried. "crash" is one of my favourite books. the movie is brilliant. "empire of the sun" is also amazing and "highrise ". i have put off reading "memories of the space age" because i always felt i had already lived it, now, in honor of his death, i will have to read it. he was so amazing. joy division used him in their work. "atrocity exhibition" is one of his works, gary numan hinted at him in "down in the park" and the song "warm leatherette" by the normal is based on his novel "crash". with the money daniel miller made from that single he formed mute records and we have "depeche mode", all thanks to j g ballard. and the top ten discs to take into space has to include "metamatic" by john foxx, again inspired by j g ballard. the music swirls around me and i grasp. the chaser of ghost paper. i grasp socialism, pop culture references in john lennons photo in the white album, the sound of women crying in goverment tents on what once were soccer fields, colors changing on the map of the world as the biohazard explodes and cnn has a logo for it and special theme music. i unfold my hand and let it flutter. wind. wings. fingers. i dont know. all i know for sure, as the saline solution drips, is that 13 percent of the population is not. is not what, i dont know. the nurse asked how i am feeling and i smile because i am too tired to bare my teeth all the way. it works, she leaves.

i am going under for the third time. will no one swim out here? i swallow jet fuel and go under again. and i see the ghost of skylab below me, shimmering in the dark sea. and i drift. in the late 1970's, my punk band days, skylab was coming back to us. back to it's creators. all it was doing was coming home. like me, in a decaying orbit. i remembered those giant buttons i saw in pictures when the beatles came to america. they said "welcome the beatles". so i had giant buttons made that said "welcome skylab" and all of friends and i wore them everywhere. i remember people staring at me on the bus like i was crazy. welcome skylab? it was just the beginning of what we call celebrity now, it was being a chaser of ghost paper. so here i am 30 plus years later, locked in my apartment, at stupid o'clock in the morning. wondering how i can waste this day. i found if you let go of the importance of every moment, it loses its pain, it numbs the tears into making toast or staring at the television with the sound off. if its not special, its just more skin being made into dust and if you dont clean, then you dont know thats the place is dirty and if you...whatever. its a circle too big for me to get my dirty mouth around. salt water and jet fuel. i feel like i am in the bathtub in the backroom of the boot camp in san francisco again. its the late 70's and the world is full of ghost paper that hasnt hit the ground yet and i lay, mouth open to catch the dna snowflakes. where did i leave my cheekbones, my taunt flesh, my desire to do more than this. i dont know. its all too groovy when you self medicate. flutters. burning lamps in the bedrooms. blood against the wall and ceiling. emails from friends. memories. flutter. flutter. flutter like flies to butter flutter. i wish i was here. but i am not. i am busy chasing ghost paper.

musical interlude.

for the last couple of weeks, i have had "sounds of the universe" by depeche mode (which brings us back to j g ballard) on my headsets on the commuter train. there is a particular portion that was kept me chasing their ghost paper. it goes like this.

"Wasted all my time ,
In another world ,
in another place ,
I could use a little company ,
A little kindness can go a long way .

Weeks turn into months ...
Months turn into years ...
Reaching the same conclusions...
Living the same delusions"

backwards piano. i look at my watch at the train station and its moving backwards. people seem to be leaving, instead of coming. im confused. chasing ghost paper (no matter of what your ideal of beauty is, be it politcal, spiritual, intellectual or flesh driven) its still all ghost paper. it only exists in your reality. your mind and/or soul is going to keep you hungry, searching. give me drunk and dead. i am tired. i am tired of remembering. i am tired of chasing ghost paper. the train pulls up and i am the only one on the platform. i get in and see the train is empty. the doors close and the automated voice on the speaker says "three minutes from heaven". i smile, for the first time in years. i look at my watch and it stops spinning backwards and burns my wrist. i take it off and its at that moment, i hear connie francis on the speakers. okay, i admit it, now i'm scared.

*(i wont have this on my main site until tomorrow night as foxfire is not letting me update my site.)

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disclaimer
(this is an odd entry for me. i use this section to get you to visit my site to see the completed installation (all the panels and text) by posting the text here as a journal entry. this has been installed since last weekend, but there is no link on the index page to the completed piece. you will see from the text below that i have put (deleted) in certain parts. those of you who know my work process know that i install all the panels and then just start writing the text all at one time, non stop, until i feel its done. the next day i read what i wrote and was very uncomfortable with some of it. so i may not ever link it to the main page. i dont believe in censoring myself, it defeats the purpose of what im trying to do. next weekend, when "chaser of ghost paper" is done, i may or may not link it.)




heaven unfolds, explodes, implodes. revolution orbits orbital. digital signal citations cypher and suffer. i wonder wander. beneath me is sky, above me is lie. shiny metal wings caress and shred the sky, in the blink of an eye. i blink again. and again. soon all this will be mine. all this and heaven too. the overture begins to play, but it is playing backwards. so does that make it the underture? i listen, a glass of stoli and holy water in my empty hand. the strings make me remember. and i freezeframe the thought.

(deleted)

im on the southbound 4:45 out of seattle and i open my briefcase. i pull it out, carefully, and lay it on the wi-fi ready table in front of me. the body of christ sketchbook. i look at it, carefully, and i imagine that i am pulling out my ghost pencils. the holy ghost of lead brilliance shimmers in my empty hand and i realize i'm just at home, on my couch. looking into my glass of stoli and holy water. and then i hear it. what i thought was the rumble of train on track, was just rain. the rain of shredded sky falls softly as the feathers of shiny metal wings, against my windows. clink, clink, clink. i am listening from where i have been hiding for nine years. my personal heaven, my padded room with a view.

(deleted)

revolutions are just that, revolutions around a dying star. a measure of time made up by us because it takes a certain amount of time to circle our star. and somehow, we apply this meaninglessness to the universe. and we say we know heaven. and we say we know science. and we say we know the future. and we say that we can change the future with revolution. and that revolution is based on our circle around our dying star. son of dog is barking, but we just turn the television (the facebook, the my space, the twitter) up louder to block him out. none of this matters to me of course. i have a glass of stoli and holy water in my hand and

(deleted).

life is good.

i hear the angels laughing. they know, sin is the wind inside my soul. without sin, what would the son of dog have to bark at? the music is still backwards, so this must be the beginning music? i dont know. i am just a bow without a present. a firework of love shot into the shredded daylight of a sky. a dream without a sleeper. such is the life of karma. flossing with pubic hair found in public restrooms. we must atone for the unknown sins, i miss john lennon. he made all of this so much easier for me. and kurt cobain. and ian curtis. and all my dead friends, all 200 plus of them. (though i think i've become too flacid. they very rarely visit anymore). so i toast tonight with a glass of stoli and holy water in my empty hand.

*(subtext) underneath me is sky, below is lie. please. take me. take me soon. it hurts, these backwards sunsets and grinding face lies i paint every morning. is this it?

(deleted)

i sit up, on the couch. i havent slept in my bedroom for over four years now. and i think of brian jones. and i know i'm not alone. i have all the memory that has been able to sustain me for the last 24 years. i can continue to live here in the memoryworld and be just fine. just as long as i have my stoli and holy water, i can self medicate myself into writing more shit like this.

(deleted)

lets call it revolution! let's have another stoli and holy water! me and my imaginary friends!)

george harrison was right. it is all inside your mind. (he died of a brain tumor. need i say more?)

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slowly. the grinder grinds. slowly. the rain rains. slowly. the release releases. and i lay here. in the cream of the crop circles. slowly. the water circles the shower drain. slowly. the sin sins. slowly. the play plays itself out. slowly. the song sings. my heart is full. my life is emply. empty as the bathtub i lay in. slowly. the folds unfold. slowly. the blossom blossoms. sunday was dark. no sun on sunday. somewhere it is bright. i move toward the light. i find myself. slowly. the kiss kisses. as i kiss the rings of saturn. and i think of you. out here among the ice and dark. searching for light. slowly. the search searches. such is the life of the son of dog. if ignorance is bliss, then blinded by the light is better. around me. slowly. ice collides with ice. darkness collides with darkness. and i am fearless. slowly. i write my name on the steam covered bathroom mirror and smile, sacrilege.

i open my eyes. i still see stars. i close my eyes and smile with hope. i open my eyes. i still see stars. we are all made of stardust. everything that exists is made of on a submolecular level of the same thing. stardust. i am one with god. i am one with myself. and i know. slowly. the know knows. the objects of desire is here. nothing can stop me. nothing ever could. i am part of every desire i have ever had. slowly. the desire desires. and yet, i sit here. drunk. and wait. slowly. the wait waits. resisting temptation by staying drunk is something i learned early on. disrupt the signal. confuse the pleasure program. insert tab into engine. insert the holy ghost into toast. confuse and conform. slowly. the norm norms. and i am crying. quietly. so that no one i live with will hear me, as i live alone. or so i thought. slowly. the thought thinks.
i hear a clatter of metal in the kitchen. i want to run, but i want to know more, so slowly, i undo the ropes and creep toward the kitchen. i smell smoke and hold my breath. and there she is. the virgin mary is in my kitchen, burning toast. no doubt to insert the holy ghost. i pull my pants up and slowly creep toward the front door. slowly. the creep creeps.

the sky flickers. near to the end of the reel. i pull at the door. the projection booth is locked. i hold my breath (as though i need to breathe. being the son of dog has it advantages.) i am bait. i am master baiter. i am a lure. i am allure. i look at my waterproof watch and watch the moments slide, circular, down the drain of the tub. art is not a choice. it is a reason. slowly. the reason reasons. and it loses. the televsion crackles back on and caresses me. "12 new sins! operators are standing by!". i will be honest. i am scared. hold my hand. i dont want to face this by myself. and slowly, i grasp my own hand, waiting for the world to end. and i feel the tickle. the tickle of hope and its groovy.

i am not scared to be by myself here, in the world of meaningless. i am lying, why am i here, son of dog? i dont understand. why am i here? the ground smells old. the ground smells sound. but i am scared. it smells like a bodybag of tricks. the book. the songbook of sores, the hymnbook of whores says i am beautiful. i dance and no one gets it. i sing sonic and they cry. blood from the ears wont stop me. i am a song. listen. i am sorry it hurts, but dog made me beautiful, please stop crying and listen. i am beautiful. maybe not in the way you think, but trust me, i can sing songs that you cant dream of. slowly. the listen listens.

so here i am. what is the shelf life of a soul? slowly. coins fall into slot machines. being the son of dog, i understand the power of a well placed lie. if you lie with dogs, you will get fleas.

*(feel free to reverse the obvious dog to god and see if feel any less itchy or used. please be my guest. you like it from behind, right?)

to see the complete installation of this piece, kneel here >>> [link]

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my name is mangina. born of science. built for speed. over engineered. escaped wreckage from the pleasure factory. broken boy toy. corrupted streams of desire and data flow and loop endlessly. i could have been a bird. i could have sung. i could have flown. i could have been the deputy minister of traffic. i could have been over engineered. over thought. over wrought. over the rainbow. instead i am over this altogether over this altogether over this altogether ovrt hsall o g*ne 301 1101101001

i want you to love me. i want you to love me like brigitte bardot. brigitte bardot saved the face of french art. i want you to love me like that. i rewind and say it again. this time i move my lips in sequence with the word clusters. insert tab into engine. im sorry. im not sure why i said that. maybe an unattended file is opening somewhere. im sorry. the rain here is so circular. the closer it comes the darker it gets. isnt rain supposed to come from above? not from around? are we still aboveground? insert tab into engine. excuse me, i need to check on that.
while recompiling my life, i came across a new prayer for the broken hearted. would you like to hear it? i wrote it myself (it says on the key). i cant. everytime i try to open it, all i get are the fourth quarter figures for the royal bank of scotland. not my idea of a new prayer for the broken hearted. i smile hopefully, maybe you are a banker? i think maybe not.
i get so confused, being a crime against science. over engineered. unzip your lips and kiss me. i am willing to be whatever you want me to be. some long forgotten song trembles inside my hand. i forget. i open and close my hands. i open and close my eyes. i open and close my lips. i open and close my files. hi. hello. nice to meet you. my name is...my name is...my name is...excuse me please.

i dont care, i dont remember when i did, shivering in the shadow if the nixon regan bush, i was so cold. no big hair, no big tits, no short skirts, no high heels to keep me warm in that age of darkness. sing me something warm. oh, sorry. maybe you're not programed to sing. that was rude of me to ask. but maybe if i smile again you could try? let me pull that one up. okay, open your eyes, im smiling. and susan atkins says hi. did you know susan atkins? im sorry, im just a little confused. your name isnt charlie or tex is it? the word "queen" keeps scrolling across my eyescreen. are you related to royalty?

im standing in an airport holding a ticket. i didnt know i was going anywhere, let alone where i am in the first place. i look at the destination screen and it says "sunrise of the heart". i play a smile on my face and hope thats not the name of a resort, but a new program. im ready. open up your hearts and let the sun data stream in.

then i hear the angels. the choir of disembodied choir program. i have the catholic school program loaded. i have the charity program loaded. shit, i even have the mercy fuck program loaded, why am i hearing angels? and then the pain starts. the angels begin to leave me. wingburn. the angels (leave my asshole) soar. all i can think of is john lennon signing "because".
"because the sky is blue it makes me cry" and he was murdered so someone could tell jodie foster that he "loved" her. my love program must not being working correctly, "because" i dont understand. i must be over engineered for this world. i dont understand how americans spend billions of dollars on their pets, while eating hamburgers. it hurts, but i think the wingburn is from the angels not wanting to be here anymore. i will follow them, "because" i understand now.


i order a cup of coffee. i light a cigarette, i think of you and get a cigarrection. i always do. i pull up my hip coffee drinking consumer face and hide. i wonder where you are. and then between a drag off my cig and a sip of coffee, i realize that i dont even know who you are. you were a client. and im just a broken boy toy. over engineered. actually i cant even remember your face.
you could here, in this cybercafe and i wouldnt know. its the same reason i dont look in the mirror in the bathroom after ive pissed you out of my system, because i never recognize the face in the mirror. its like an old rendition of me. i take another pill while pretending to fix my eyeliner, my body gauge says 54, but my mind gauge says 23.
over engineered is a pain in the ass. i dont do this for money anymore. i feel like everything i do, is like the emperors new art, it doesnt exist. why isnt my pleasure program working? im mensa smart, im talented, im a great lay and im a loyal friend. yet im stuck in this apartment set wishing i hadnt sold my gun, so i could put it in my mouth.
witness the witless. talent doesnt mean youre good. sucessful doesnt mean happy. future doesnt mean you have one. all i know for sure, is that i was over engineered for here. im tired of playing dumb. actualy im tired of playing. actualy im just fucking tired. im going to put the opening piano chords of "you never give me your money" by the beatles on repeat and close down.
"oh that magic feeling, where did it go" as they sing in the song. thats the question. yet i am too over engineered to realize what it means. welcome to heaven.

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