[Part One is
here, but it's not like it fucking matters.]
Cuervoblanco’s familial lineage was conveniently
forgotten behind the mask, but the glaze of his father was obvious in his eye
luster. They were never any closer than a pair of alpha males in a paranoid
microscopic world could be, but one was born from the other, thus they
maintained a physical respect and reverence for each other’s existence. But
Cuervoblanco’s father was not long for this world, as he revved himself far
harder than organic material is made to go, attempting to recreate machine-like
acts of destruction, in humane form.
Cuervoblanco’s father’s name was Mah-kimah-ki, and
he was a master of manipulating all small engine-powered machines into
functionality, regardless of their rusted and neglected state. Mah-kimah-ki
would tear them to sludgy pieces, shine and lubricate each and every part,
calloused fingers like snake tongues flickering magically, ease it all back
together, and that small engine would roar-whine with the fire of a cyborg
tiger cub once again. But his own broken interior could not be repaired in the
same ways, and Mah-kimah-ki lacked the tools to fix what had grinded to a
cluster-mucked stall inside his own blood pumping heart. Though sucked from the
earth’s innards with monstrously large engine-powered machines, oils was far
simpler for Mah-kimah-ki to understand than his own blood, which flowed in
counter-productive ways, filling his mind with negative behaviors and his penis
with the fire iron of self-destruction.Thus, Mah-kimah-ki expired at an age
much earlier than most human males, even alpha versions in this tiny,
dilapidated corner of Dollygdrazillika, suffering from a termination officially
stamped as “massive stroke” on his paperwork. (The irony of Mah-kimah-ki’s
lifelong control of two- and four-stroke engines, the tiny machines that power
man’s more basic outdoors work, dying from a “stroke” of his own bloodstreams
was not lost on Cuervoblanco.)
There was no inheritance beyond bad genetic
dispositions for Cuervoblanco to receive. Neighboring wolves had picked
Mah-kimah-ki’s toolbox clean of value before Cuervoblanco ever had a chance to
collect keepsakes, so all he was left with was a single grey chainsaw that he’d
borrowed, and broken, and had been promised would be fixed before Mah-kimah-ki’s
body gave out on his mouth’s words towards the future. Cuervoblanco’s
understanding of these machines was not like his father’s, but he could tell it
was not a death sentence for the chainsaw, as there was a gurgle with the
attempt to come to life as he yanked the pull chain, but it never would cross
over to the world of functionality. So it sat idle, a final memorial talisman of
Mah-kimah-ki’s life, for Cuervoblanco to carry around.
Occasionally, as if by magic, the grey chainsaw
would actually roar to life briefly, usually no longer than for a couple of
minutes – just long enough to aid and abet hope – and Cuervoblanco could chop
at the growing brush along the periphery of his life’s paths. These paths were
far different than Mah-kimah-ki’s, untended and wild, though far less feral
than what Mah-kimah-ki lived. Cuervoblanco used those brief roars of sharpened
mechanical steel tooth bite to cut back what he could, the only way he figured
made sense – quickly, with abandon. And usually this would choke the chainsaw
mechanism back into sorry silence.
The choke-out comes from the rules. First, almost
immediately, before consciousness is even achieved, they come from above, with
the incessant self-proud beam of a sun star, except not universal at all,
simply manmade here within this atmosphere. Rules, from above, beating at babby
brain as it develops into domesticated humane beast well-trained in obedience
matters. And the rules come so consistently that they start to reverberate and
echo from around you as well – more rules from all eight directions. How to do
this, how to be that, what’s the most proper way to exist in the way you’ve
already been trained to exist but must exist differently because you were
trained wrong and unfortunately we can’t just kill you, you useless human fuck
of little value.
Those rules, from above then echoed all around, eventually
fill all the psychic space, and your strong initial unblemished spirit warrior
aura begins whole, but catches a dent here or a chip there, and the rules start
penetrating, leaking through. Unblemished spirit warrior aura catches a hole,
ricochet hollow point philosophical buck shot from one of the outside soul
snipers, and then the rules start pouring in through the bullet hole in psychic
armor. The rules start to fill you wholly, until the rules that beamed down
from above, echoed all around, begin to emanate from within. The doubt starts
coming from within the house of the self, so that you begin stifling yourself
with all these arbitrary rules which limit this way or that way, confine
unnecessarily, add to the domestication of the spirit warrior aura, sharpening
psychic barbs one by one, helping the master controls, reaching up to the boot
across throat and stroking it in appreciation.
Thus, psychic chainsaws are necessary to cut at that
senseless craving for rules, to attempt to disfigure the psychic tethers that
hold a man into domesticated ignorance. Mah-kimah-ki, Cuervoblanco’s father,
was dirt educated enough to know he had to chop at those rules, to try and
salvage what he could of original aura, but he had no knowledge of how to
rehabilitate that aura back into universal samurai of the ethereal astral
plain. All Mah-kimah-ki was ever able to do was fight to preserve what little
was left against an enemy force he wasn’t entirely sure how powerful it truly
was, whether it might not be universal itself, thus he self-medicated in calm
moments not fighting it head-on. Normal man would curl up into psychic fetal
position, but the self-medication allows for reckless stretching of limbs and
allowance for wildbird thinking.
The problem with the self-medication during lulls in the
battle against outside rules and rulers is that the ruling establishment will
feign lull for you to wobble yourself, and then it strikes at your spirit
warrior aura in those moments, with the hollow points which break self down,
thus creating weakness. The ruling establishment is a savvy chess player, in
fact created chess, so not only sees two or three moves in advance, but also
knows all possible moves available to limited chessboard thinking.
In fact, Cuervoblanco’s mask was one of his first
conscious decisions once he removed himself from his genetic self-medication
flow chart, because he finally was sensitive to the dents in the aura’s armor,
and how the incessant attacks from external device could sneak through. Plus,
we live in a technologically “advanced” age where angels armed with electronic
harps continuously attempt to infiltrate your solitude with siren songs of
progress, so the attacks are more focused upon those tiny flecks in our psychic
armor than ever before. It is a constant combination one-two punch of external
civilized world attempt to dent and penetrate, dent and penetrate, dent our
psyche and penetrate our internal being, dent the physical body that surrounds
what is essentially us and penetrate the insides, hollowing it out to an empty
shell, much like blasting open mountains and scraping all the fossilized fuels
from its guts to burn neat machines around the clock and calendar boxes,
leaving behind a flattened wasteland painted green and re-branded as a “reclamation
project”.
So as part of his white masks design, Cuervoblanco
used metallic fabrics for composition, and double-layered them sandwiching a
thin sheet of metallic foil flaked with silver particles which blocks these
outside attacks at internal self through that aura cloud region, specifically
the fabled “third eye” hole at the front of the forehead. Thus, the mask not
only conceals facial identity from others, but also works to block and protect
interior true self from the outside world’s progressive advances as well.
Mah-kimah-ki, in moments of shine not too dulled
by the self-medication regimen he underwent, would speak at length to a young
Cuervoblanco about the power of internal spirit, and how it must be salvaged
from the pilfering desires of this civilized world. Mah-kimah-ki had always
felt himself to have the potential of a great, but he’d been strip mined too
early to reach full blossom, and the inebriating pesticides he poured into his
own individual biosphere only compounded that issue. But he made it clear to a
young Cuervoblanco that there were cybertrons on this earth – people who
philosophically had become inseminated with mechanical desires, who had twisted
machine fetish dreams for humanity. Mah-kimah-ki encouraged the dualistic
paradigm of mind that it was a resistor’s duty to fight cybertron mentalities,
mostly through way of living, but occasionally this might manifest itself as
requiring actual physical combat, which in all likelihood would put one on the
wrong side of the legal decisions of the civilized world. “Do what’s right, but
prepared to be wronged over it, perhaps forever,” was a catch phrase of
piledriven treatise Mah-kimah-ki would speak unto a young Cuervoblanco. So it
rang with meaning throughout his memory banks now as an older Cuervoblanco.
So when I write that Cuervoblanco had that “in
mind” when he wore his mask in all living, breathing, showing, proving moments,
it is literally on his mind, as a thin layer inside his mask, added armor
against what is not of his mind attempting to become his mind, attempting to
break and enter access down his spinal column to his heart, and attempting to
pollute his gut intuition.
The symbolic beauty of the grey non-working
mechanical saw with chain teeth is that it is a relic of the industrial age,
when raw materials were forged into tools which could then metamorphose other
raw materials into other items useful to industry’s glorious creation of the
abstract wealth pyramids. It was a more convoluted way of recreating ancient
culture pyramids through a more complicated form of slavish labor.
And these new electronic daggers attempting to
pierce all skulls that we find (or don’t “find” easily) ourselves immersed
within existing today are the next step in man’s well-reasoned complication of
existence. They are beyond industry, thus a useless, non-working antique from
industrial thinking reminds us of ultimately how useless our current amazing
days are as well. What would you use a gas-powered chained saw for anyways? To
cut wood? For what? Burning? Who heats with wood today? Crazy old cat witches
living in deserted taiga regions? Baba yagas hiding from progress in nuclear
zones mostly cohabitated by mongrel wolves? Heating by simple burning of wood
chunk is so ancient, so not advanced, so primitive and regressive. We have the
technology to electromagnetically beam heat into your body, so as to not waste
fossilized energy on heating your environment, focusing the false fire
directing to where needed, in remarkably complicated ways not necessarily more
efficient at all, but convoluted enough that all inefficiencies are in blind
spots, well out of way of your individual sensory experience, so that your sensory
inputs can be more deeply indulged in entertaining distractions, not in
sustaining and enabling simple life.
But all these ethereal stabs of cybertronic energy
at our psyche are nothing more than invisible wires, or wireless transmission,
with wires themselves just being machine vines, no different than a mechanical
(or industrial age) recreation of the viny tethers of many plant species, or
the veins through a leaf. So we move from natural to industrial to whatever
this wireless chaos of scribbles unseen would be called, and it is overgrown
beyond comprehension. However, since it is invisible to naked eyeballs, our
senses suggest to us it is not there, thus nothing to worry about. But it’s there, swirling around in chaotic
tornadoes, energetic frenzies spiraling like psychic vultures, or worse yet
predator war eagles, looking for those chinks in the aura’s armor, to flood
through the breached levee of internal self’s outer-shell. Billions of Charlie
Brown good grief scribbles in all directions, everywhere, endlessly as far as
the properly-sensitized third eye can see.
Thus, Cuervoblanco’s inherited broken chainsaw is
a reminder of the false promise of the past, and also a reminder of the unseen
threats of the present, which surround, and have the potential to overwhelm,
just as the previous age’s worries overwhelmed Mah-kimah-ki, forcing him into
the dullard life of self-medication, the subsequent compromise of internal
universe, and eventually cessation of solid existence. The inherited chainsaw
is a sigil against repeating those simple mistakes in an even more complicated
and convoluted field of survival.
(It would be easy to assume this story is related
deeply to the author – being me, considering my own father was a small engine
mechanic, but let me be perfectly clear about this… I do not wear masks. I find
them uncomfortable, and life is uncomfortable enough as it is. The act of “writing”
is so convoluted and unnecessarily complicated by “writers” that it becomes
impossible to throw words into an eyeball stream without the brain attached by
optical nerve to the seer starting to speculate and apply meanings and
intentions to the words being scanned.
Each word has fluidity of meaning, though there
are grammar disciplinarians who would force you to accept a word has a certain
meaning, and language itself – in this English form – has very specific rules
THAT MUST BE FUCKING FOLLOWED AT ALL TIMES. I have a hard time respecting this.
I have a hard time respecting anything, to be honest. Each word has varied
meaning, and every eyeball mind reading it attaches preconceptions and biases
and their own education to the word. Compound that with all the words in every
paragraph, then every story, and it becomes impossible to correctly define the
intention of any “writer” doing “writing” for an audience. It’s multiverse
theory, endless options.
Many “writers” encourage just such speculation
though, and yes I am forced to use scare quotes for “writers” because I am
afraid of their over-existence, and they unnecessarily complicate my life. I
enjoy words and streaming them into machines as they blow out my brain from
portions I can’t say I have solid control over, and it’s fun to see what the
fuck might happen. I lack the comfort or shelter to plan these things and
culture together what would be considered a great literary work. I am of dimwit
and lead a dark life, so I will never be a shining light of “writing”.
There are so many comfortable with portending they
are a shining light of writing, a shamanic guide complete with falsely
encouraging words for those seeking not writing or being a writer but seeking
the acceptance of being a successful writer, with eyeballs staring at them. So
many are motivated by the want for gawking eyeballs. But these comfortable,
sheltered, shineface word shaman, with their surly but intelligent but dark but
I don’t fucking know little author shot, purposefully trimmed beard of white
man or purposefully asexual smile of white woman. It fills me with contempt for
the “writing” industry, as it is a game being played where the gamers pretend
to give you tips at winning when there is no tip other than be inside already.
Be there. If you are not there, the chances of you getting there are minimal.
So I inject this awkwardly to dispel this as some
sort of self-manifesto where I am the character and this is about my life. My
life is horrible, and not worth words, even ones with varied meaning that could
be misconstrued by those looking for meaning where there is none. I am in
parenthesis, not the main body.)
This civilized life builds invisible vines in eight
directions by eight directions, an ever spiraling madness of vines choking our
psychic breath wherever we may find a space to take it as soon as the endless
vines notice. They are blank space kudzu, sneaking into every fissure of our
brain when we are not paying attention in the right direction. When we notice
and pay an attention in a certain focus, the blank space kudzu starts creeper
stalking through every possible opening on the opposite end of the psychological
spectrum. There are vines everywhere, hanging invisibly, blocking all actions
in all directions. Once your vision is refined to see these vines, which would
seem to be a form of enlightenment, it is very crushing for most who reach that
point. Realizing you are swarmed no enveloped no buried beneath infinite unseen
vines of civilized judgment, and every move tightens them, and then more creep
in behind that, cobra clutching with each moment of fight.
Most people are immune to seeing them at all,
suffering from herd immunity of blind deep sense. This is a sort of blessing,
an “ignorance is bliss” type situation, although these vines are not a wild
phenomenon but created by master minds with master plans looking to domesticate
most men and women into subdued servitude to the abstractions of nothingness.
These are cultivated vines, so to be ignorant to them might feel a blessing,
but the individual is still subdued beyond their own control nonetheless.
Perhaps it is better to not know they are there
though. Perhaps it is better to suffer the pain of being human without knowing
how horrible and engineered that pain truly is. To have no knowledge of what
has been built around you as prison is to have no perhaps false hope of
escaping this system by building something new, or at the least burning down
what is there, or at the even more least throw a couple flaming rocks at the
wall to feel like you have some resistance left inside of you. To be ignorant
of the prison is to be able to pretend no prison exists, without pretending,
because you believe it is not there. Yet it is. No doubt, it is.
Cuervoblanco cannot avoid seeing the vines.
Dollygdrazyllika as form of government is enforced vine, though there is no
–ism yet added to historical books that encompasses that mode of human control
properly. Dollygdrazyllika is an –ism not yet exposed as existing, an elaborate
system of militaristically cultured vines that cling to every living being, to pull
them into the psychic industry of organic matter control, to train organic
matter to behave as inorganic resources. And though it might seem the increase
of abstract profits would be the motivating reason behind such an unacknowledged
–ism, it is more just a case of demented individuals at the top of the pyramid
enjoying their view from the top of the cultural totem, in fact being aroused
in ways that combine the creative spark of sexuality with the bloody finality
of violence. Cuervoblanco is very much not one of those types, not born from
their position, and being aware they exist, seeing their vines clearer than
most, he can do nothing in life but oppose what seems obvious.