Eratosthenes is up, and Aristotle is down. Ahura
Mazda listens to Chubby’s love story. Her beloved
ancestor was called beta by his enemies. Aristotle
believed that the world was divided in Greeks and
barbarians, while the chief geographer’s belief is
that there is good and bad in every tribe. So Chubby
sets out to calculate the diameter of the ubi-verse
while listening to Ottorino Respighi mixed with
Жар-птица. Perhaps I loved you, Athenian School.
Things fall. How? Finnegan, Adam, butter scraped
over too much bread, and of course… water. At the
interplay between night and day, across the river of
Hel, across the Abyss, over to you, Pato Donald. In
Hades, there is a gravitropism when Chubby falls
in the museyroom, all excited because it is the
place where ubiverse turns black hole. Well, not
that mensch from the outside, but inside it’s got
“far other galaxies and other bacteria”. Chubby
knows that there is another place beside this
transient rainy (titanic) shadow-sand.
People roll purposeless. Cum, inside the paint
ings. Forever in action, there are heroines and
heroes from all ages who challenge the test of
hubris by defying the jokes and becoming im
mortal. All is portrayed doing something
sooper duper like sitting on the grass sipping
tea, or fighting the G-force or even smashing
a temple. The gallery is a place of the mind
and wave length. Paintings are glued to the wall
like heaven and hell. Noxious motions are ways
for that eternal leap. Pain Artists and Gods,
weavers of other worlds. Now open a window
on the past, the present, the immortal, the fuck
allure, and the archaic den of the human spirit.
Perseus (e.g.) is standing in grand embarassment
torn apart by pretty flowers. Fearless legs sore.
Heroic blue, he is the dude and the villain at the
same time. Fortune Lobo has come inside the
black hole himself, all comatose and merging with
Perseuswolf, preying on the listless soldiers,
waving the head of the Gorgon like a ghost in
pain, as if it was a memory card or one of those
work badges to wave around in the tube. Self
right, an artist of the soul. If (dearReader) you
dare fight your own putrified self, please find the
time to avert your face from the picture of your
insanity. This is the face that we show to other
people. Enemies are turned into stone in a strange
strangulation of fear. A cross-fire of artistic
perspective and aggravation. Our weakest (and
strongest) enemy is the image of death. Courage
cost us our life. The rest is a muted entangle
ment of particles, writhing at the first hint of
eternal immobility. So blackhole vision of the
Temeraire is brutuality in approaching voices.
Yggdrasil tempered by the cool light of the night.
A pool of sunset in the ocean stream counterpoint
to white-crested billows, insinuating on the shores.
The moon is laugh-tearing the decaying sun. Ahura
Mazda, this is the end of the line. The ancient cons
truct is in ruin (due to bad debt). The new construct
seeks Antonio Gramsci’s memories in gaol. Inspired
motion, drawing from the eternal spiritual reservoir,
or the night’s tartly shadows. The orange steam states
that a new order has taken place. Hope, symbolised
by a mild blue light, is compressed between two
worlds. This is the transition between the world
of waking and the world of dreams. Forgotten
dreams are watered down as the sun proceeds
in its funeral march, the city has swallowed it.
From the depth of the abyss, a white light
emerges, it is the reflection of the moon.
All is quiet in the world of surrender. Yet
the waves ripple and create quiet, Temeraire
is coming home. The dead soldier slithers.
Storm is gathering, the clouds are dense.
quartzgolden skull is uploaded memory for
the dead. The fits of Hel open up, the pitch is
broiling in the foreground. The light is still
pulsating, yet the body of painting sighs. A
yellowish skin is all that is left of heroism.
All for nothing, the flesh has fallen, and a bree
ze is putting a seal on it. The night of eternal
damnation is going to be long. Doctor, doctor,
doctor. Don’t save any one. I hate you.
Through these fountains of light I have
walked through dimensional gates, but now
just the door attendant. Firebird. The door is
locked and don’t know what to do. If all of
this has a meaning, if someone has a key…
but right am torn by a whirlwind of images.
feel am different from the flames that sur
round. am burning alive yet do not feel pain.
can see the footsteps of an old vampire on the
beach. listen to the sound of footsteps of those
walking shadows who, like used to do, listen
to the morning clarion holding a last
sceptre of silence. There are still people
trying to climb the earth, some get lost in the
cement pits that pave the streets. Hel is layer
ed with asphalt. Taken aback, find self trying
to rummage the memories, trying to find at
least one good reason to keep on living. have
left the land of stone, have left the bulrush
plagued city of marble. gave self completely
to a red rose who lied under the scorching sun.
It came back to life with blue petals. But right
then a dream. On a the deck of a ship life and
love been prophesied to be des’ Troyed. dream,
like others, beenfore telling the sunset to cum,
a tragedy so foretold, planned and then seen
again. room the women come and go .
chapter one, one, segment one of the veil
nebula echoes with Don Giovanni being
sung. Rainbow-hued gas density shifts
and does not haunt her heart, Ariadne
cries. She knows that a discussion on
the sick thoughts of planets does nothing
for the ubi-verse. The Laconian school
docet. That’s a dying group of ideas.
In Hades, in the black hole.
Δέδυκε μὲν ἀ σελάννα
καὶ Πληίαδες µέσαι δὲ
νύκτες, πάρα δ᾿ ἔρχετ ὤρα·
ἔγω δὲ μόνα κατεύδω
The moon has set. And
the Pleiades. It is the middle
of the night. Time passes,
time passes. And I lie alone.
cross the waterfall, seminal
idea in the stars. Premonition
of myth. Kerberos meets us.
A sweet protocol. A fellow
ship of characters cannot
go through fire. Burn, mother.
Only the bravest poissonages
can withstand the petrifying
gaze of the headless sphix.
Ariadne leads the merry band
of black hole pirates through
the mouth of Ὠκεανός, the
divine personification of the
sea, an enormous river
encircling the world
strictly speaking a Titan
son of Uranus and Gaia
picture in the museyroom
the upper body of a muscle
man with a long beard and
horn-claws of a crab and
the lower body of a Typhon
serpent. Due to lack of gravity
they all fall off the edge of the
world into the missing
Rabbit roadrunning with Z.
Desert Storm fallows.
her crop is a young budrose
and a novel showmind
Fortune Lobo carries
the apparition of faces in
The Grim is doublebill
in broken mirror im spiegel.
Limping SeanC, Ahura
Mazda and Chubby complete.
Hel assembles the potion from
under the ash tree. Heimdall
cannot see. Gawain and Monkey
friend, seek life at the origin
of the black hole, studying
the curvature of light. So
Rabbit’s gone missing.
The ego boundary is an open
window. So much fear and
Sean C is settin’ up his computer,
wired into consciousness and memory,
which enables his terminal to log on
the ubi-verse mega galactic computadora
oploading electron microscopy
to the digital polymorphic frame;
his fooling idea is to rewrite the past.
Now Ariadne reclines her head,
she is very much like a cloud
and the sunset grows wider and
wider from nothingness to the
shape all space and time. Memories
laid to rest long ago come alive
lights are awakened to the east, the
whole ubi-verse hums and oscillates.
A cloud is like a flower, and time
comes to a stop (finally)
roses multiply, Ariadnes multiply.
the black hole is quiet, it is now.
from over the shore, the ebb flows
back, and the tide grows, Sea of Faith.
This is a time in the past and the future
when (forgeddabout the egalitarian plateaux)
black hole lies bend all the possible dimensions.
At the same time, in a rewritten dimension,
the cursor blinks on Sean C’s black terminal
window, the shell of computer science’s disputes.
The flow is totally lost half way
if the dearReader cannot focus [ on it ]
what is it
log in for a head ache, log out for depression.
Sean C is setting up his computer, wired into
the ubiverse, memory and debateable data on
consciousness. Op-loading cellular activity to
the digital polymorphic frame, he doesn’t
have a clue about what he is doing. He is
just messing around with his computer.
Still, very accidentally he found a code
(written in Etruscan) that enables his
colourful techno-painting program to
interact with his own cellular memory,
twisting and bending all that dioxyribo
nucleic acid for download, exploration,
manipulation and absorption into the X.
It is highly debatable that there is a code.
That’s such an engineer thing to say. Any
way. This dioxyribonucleic acid (together
with all the interactoidome) is a mystified
code that supposedly was written by Poly
phemus (or was it his opponent), I forget
his name. Ariadne spun it when she was
a spider (spider-weaving in Etruscan is
so much easier). There is no code, let’s
call it The Thing, in honour of Sean Carp
enter. Well The Thing is talked about in
the book ‘The Perennial Philosophy’. It
is perpetual (does that mean eternal?),
though it metamorphoses in an object-
oriented manner as the ubi-verse evolves.
There is also another script (apparently
written by asynonymous, or was it Rifat)
which is the ubi-verse Pheistos disc. This
impermanent thing is protected (you wouldn’t
want to mess with God). Sean C doesn’t really
know what he is doing, but he lets his computer
take over and jerk off all those thoughts. There
is a mental block setting (boundaries after
boundaries of imagined conventions) which
prevent half-humans like Sean C from access
ing the Pheistos code, which is ubi-versal and
grandiose. Once The Thing is understood
(i.e. why proteins are pretty and why RNA
dances and why DNA likes to metaphormose)
then the ubi-verse will open and Sean X
will get some cookie. There is a fractal setting
here in that the deeper Sean X looks at his own
code (the thing that we call The Thing) the more
he sees the code of the ubiverse. Everyday milli
ons of his cells apoptose and millions are created
in some controlled way through autophagy. Same
stuff happens with the ubiverse. Millions of stars
die and millions of supernovas are generated. So.
The code for both The Thing and the Pheistos disc
is a function of time. The lowest level of code changes
the event handlers. The parameters that pass through
the event handlers change much like quantum physics.
This is the change that drives the morphosis or evolution
of the code both at the Sean X level and the ubiverse he
is (was) living in (before he fell into a black hole along
with almost all the other characters of this story). Now
Sean X hacks into his own code and finds some left
over parameters from the past, coz some are corrupted
due to bad coding procedures (hence God invented the
Republicans). Sean X tries to correct the code but at
times his whole being crashes as the bad code is so
embedded into his being that the change has to be slow.
This is all so very bad aesthetics. Look dearReader, this
is very novel idea, it is not matrix and not tron. It is
actually how we and the universe maintain entropy.
There has to be a program in this and for our own
sanity maybe the created put a level of protection on
the code so you can only access or understand the
higher code once you understand your own code.
But the code keeps changing over time so if you
can use that concept and dig deep into your past
you can have some very novel idea here. Because
in ten years time more genetic data will be avail
able but people will have no idea what it means.
Renunciation through knowledge. A novel algo
dance for the precise calculation of the maximal
information coefficient. We’d like to know every
thing, and we would like to manipulate everything.
Cicciotta disapproves. So does Ahura Mazda and
Artemis. Let the sleeping dogs lie, dirty sciensticks.
Inside the black hole, there is peace. Ab initio
molecular orbital theory. We’d like to orbit what
ever possible, and the characters are compressed
into gravitational desire, fear and anger, and all
the other demotions. Mainstream chemists have
now embraced computation. Potential energy
surfaces, torsion of angel, two minima of this
story. There is a plot of energy vs narrative torsion.
That sucks. Cecco is screaming inside the mirror
inside the mirror inside the black hole inside the
story that is being re-written as Sean C has become
Sean X that is now recoding his own DNA and
making a mess of it while Cicciotta looks on
in amazement. Total electron density is a function
of coordinates and the number of poetics inside
a small volume which we call NeverEnder. That
is absolute cheekiness. I thought the NeverEnder
was a space sheep, exploring the void, the power
of imagination fuels her. She is a she like the moon.
I don’t need to quote Walt Whitman to state that
(asynonymous) am tired of astronomy, and that
do declare that poetry is a beefier soup than Yin
Yang. The Laconian school is nearly dead. The
last bastion of iffy thought has been conquered
by the ravenousness of the Athenian school.
Scholars memorian and oblivian from all corners
of the ubi-verse gather to honour the casket of
Miyazakisan, and the incredible tide. If you don’t
get all the references (says Umberto Eco, famous
for his humility), it is because (he or I) respect
the reader so much that (he or I) half-expects him
or her to catch all the narrative breadcrums and
swallow. Gulp. There is so much to swallow in
this ubi-verse. So much shit is force-fed into our
half-human mouths. ‘Give us the shit, mangia,
mangia’. ‘Hark, fast by the window The rushing
winds go, To the ice-cumber’d gorges, The vast
seas of snow.’ I refuse to de-code the dioxyribose
Thing. Sorry. Sean X has his computer plug pulled
by Cicciotta. She is a Goddess of Egypt and Greece.
Tragedy is a celebration of the Truth. It is not
a victory, but a resignation. “Not milder is the
general lot Because our spirits have forgot, In
action’s dizzying eddy whirl’d The something
that infects the world.” Shiva brings dissolution
to the black hole. So we are all going back to
God. So there is entropy, nothing is destroyed.
When remedy is exhausted, so is grief.
Sean X is looking for a MacGuffin, and
only finds empty air, the dramatic goal
cannot be more generic than this. Please
fill in this black with your problem: ___
(A bit more space if you need it: ____
Sorry, that is about it. The power of the
dramatist is in the ability of not standing
in the way of the problem. Whachyoogot?
In the black hole, we find lots of colour.
There, the aqua permanens, which in 16th
century alchemia stood for the quinta essentia.
Hence solutio is either chemical or problematic.
Pneuma is the water of philosophers, and so
we listen to Carl, whose animistic archetype
narrates of a volatile liquid, of disappearance
and reappearance, and of “the soul that
becomes water”, the invisible pneuma of
Heraclitus. In the black hole, this principle
has become pluralized by being multiplica
ted. Here, the alchemy seeks to “free
the soul in chains”. So where did it
spring from, this creature of the abyss
that scatters the hope of dancing souls?
Then it feeds on their sloth, it foments
their fears. Over the blue sea, shining
with the ebullient eyes. It is veiled
with a hazy notion of brazen youth.
Breathing fire, we see her through the gauze
of the waters, brimming with anger, singing
ferocious chants. So it splits you in two.
Silence on the inert blue, the wave always
rising on the table of the mediterranean.
the hole is open, and a still born child is
image in a mirror with a green mouth,
gurgling in breathlessness and stupor.
innocence at the mouth of hell, a vortex of
limblessness; on the ship whose prow is
embroidering the abyssal rocks, the sound of
a hissing voice. it is the lure of the chain, a
desire to explore the lower realm. Enchanting
in its mocking dance. Its folds and echoes
linger. Some bewitching spell for a
perennial nocturnal walk, celebrating
some kind of awakening stuck in the throat.
The prow of the ship rising from the blue
tells me from this particular side of the
black hole that ‘the unconscious can
no longer be treated as if it were causally
dependent on consciousness’ (hence
Sean X is spending pointless time trying
to hack the code of the code to get the
Code). Unconsciousness possesses
qualities which are not under conscious
control. The rounded wholeness of the
mandala comes shining down on Ilford
Golders Green and Penge in the shape
of the NeverEnder, newly built in
cavorite, controlled by its own
intelligence, very eager to continue
exploring the ubi-verse and ignoring
the slings and arrows of outrageous
waterways. Cosmic affinities. A
particle of the world soul (cosmos)
and hence a microcosm, a reflection
of the macrocosm (hence Sean X
is struggling with the fractal parameter)
Leibniz’s Monadology (not to be
confused with Mona-logoues) is
very much like this. Sunset over
Jung’s bright yellow. Destiny of
temptation. Switch over to tragedy,
and the long lost brain circuit
where the action potential collectively
describes the prow of the sunk ship
and falls behind the sun on the hori
zon. The Helios God is so miserable,
so sad, so tired. From here to there
is a distance far too long, even as we
like to spin in and around this black
hole. The journey is the essence of
the chromoflower, which shall never
be revealed. In this moment of sorrow,
the swallows fly high and low in the
dramatic azure sky. The celestial folds
are like wrinkles of old age. Darker,
redder dunes in the atmosphere.
Opaque, thick destiny is swarming.
Such mystery can only be hinted to,
if understood at all, but not known.
Hubris is upon us. My life is brief.
Two swallows fly parallel, east-bound.
the sun (like the ship) has sunk.
Cicciotta looks on, immobile. Half
way under the broiling waves the
star has collapsed onto the southern
sea. I can still see its white dwarf
status, and the black hole memory
of this sunset will be remembered
in a dream on ufos, and analysed
by Doctor QuackSilver, Mr Hg,
and our old friend Carl. The purpose
of my trip is over. I am home,
I smell this air again, I
I am nobody, who
are you? are you
the sick rose has
flown away in the
Sean X has deconstructed
his own code, and the cell
lies open like a chinese box.
inside, the cat is alive and
dead, and there is no end
to our suffering. For this
reason, Chubby is considering
a further rewrite, and a further
slip into the black hole, and
a further waterphilosophical
debate with Ahura Mazda
about the nature of division,
and why the Caterpillar is
always right. The electrons
have been counted. There
is little energy left. The code
of the Etruscans can only
be read in Volterra, and that
is a settlement far and away
on the planet Fear or was it
Fortune Lobo exits the
black hole and meets Monkey;
the two are Andromeda-bound.
They are still searching for the
MacGuffin, that thing which
gives them the right to resist.
That is not to say that they
do not carry the talisman still.
They do. Their purpose in this
narrative has been preserved.