Dollygdrazyllika: Part Two

[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.