disconnected.

everyday thought: "and it all goes downhill from here..."

threshold crossed and door closed, steel jigsaw teeth penetrate along the receptive edges of the lock's tumbler mechanism. the key turns, bolt slamming into place along the reinforced doorframe.

time distortion.

in five footsteps, the door is reached, buzzer pressed. front door personnel recognize the presented human form in a circular mirror reflecting around the corner of the hallway through heavy security glass.

the buzzer screeches. access granted, the door opens.

everyday thought: "smile. they're paying you..."

experience is the best teacher? tests before lessons, tuition calculated at the cost of a lifetime. experience is a simulator without a manual, an off switch or an exit.

what happens when the student outwits the professor? experience itself is no longer a reliable indicator... loss of perspective. confusion, fear, alienation. of course, it is a blissful purgatory, one that is quickly burned away to expose the mettle of that which lies beneath.

confusion forms identities, either from an internal source or external ones. a forced decision to reject the structures imposed from outside, or accept them. to reject is to fashion an external appearance that bears little resemblance to the internal reality.

the problem of personal rebellion is internalized dissonance. changing the outward signs is not enough, as psychosomatic manifestations arise. irregular sleeping patterns, violent dreams... unspecified illness that culminates in an episode of blood vomiting that emergency room staff cannot explain. consciousness as embodied phenomenon: the story is written at the corners of the eyes, along the hairline, within the resting tonus of musculature, foretold by the functions of the digestive system.

even then the lesson is not completely learned.

splitting tension headaches sometimes followed by nosebleeds, a sense of isolation from the everyday world. a turning point... meditation and martial arts training for up to sixteen hours per week, two to three hours per day. the study of cognitive science, self-hypnosis, guided imagery. as well as ways of dealing with the external world as three years become four.

in time, varying degress of control: in rare moments, anticipation of the words and actions of others. it takes so much effort... unless it is buried in a double meaning, the world still recoils at the touch of this self-concept. and of course, who is listening anyway? they simply wait for their turn... every day that the automatic doors buzz open, the occupants inside know nearly nothing about the individual who is so warmly welcomed into their confidence, although, paradoxically, this is the safest course to travel. characterization at the level of cordiality and common courtesy it is to remain at the level of barely socialized survival.

time distortion.

six fifteen in the evening, into the quiet semidarkness of the city street. embraced by the muted sounds of automobile engines and tires rushing along the avenue, this non-reality of engineered perceptions seems to exert a gravitational pull unto itself. the continuum of feedback from the world is perceptibly wrong. it feels like a trap. a trap that can require an entire lifetime to understand, day after day, the boundaries of which may only become clear as the result of dissipated energy and time.

the tension headaches are coming back. funny though, now they only attend certain thoughts, dutifully receding as the subject changes. it is an amusing trick, to give oneself amnesia.

audio: ficta . eli

eyes open, three hundred and sixty options rotate into focus. a complex system of internal representation and negative feedback divides each fifth of a second into a single snapshot of possibility. a compass has no history, and has no use for memory, as it always points toward magnetic north. the human eye, as a direct interface to the brain, also directly interacts with the outside world, touching the visual spectrum and filtering millions of bits of information per second that must be sorted, reassembled, interpreted against past data, parsed and at long last, understood in the context of position, movement and eventual destination.

which way is up, which way is out

tapping along in a steady rhythm, he had become an accomplished creator of his own kinesthetic map radiating outward five feet at a time. his left hand released the hand rail as he regained equilibrium at the foot of the stairway. the room was a regular rectangle, strewn with everyday obstacles; a phone booth, a vending machine, a bench. although i looked beyond the tinted lenses and into his eyes, he could not see me from my vantage fifteen feet away at an oblique angle, perched on a chair in the corner. he tapped past me in a tentatively confident manner, extending his reality step by step in the darkness of his publically private world.

he seemed to turn ever so slightly. as he turned, his radius of awareness also adjusted to a minute degree. a bit more. he was no longer walking in a forward direction. still further, and he suddenly detected a columnar object in his path. maneuvering calmly around it, he continued along his new trajectory. his cadence increased, seeking more feedback from the environment in order to compensate for his unexpected new bearings. beginning now to walk along diagonals, hoping to gather more input and perhaps restore his previous direction, he soon found himself utterly lost. wandering past a man with his daughter who stared dumbly on, he tapped and turned, tapped and turned, finding only more obstacles and eventually moving as if completely boxed into a nine-foot by nine-foot area. if only he could have seen the fact that the obstacles were actually nothing more than supports for the structure of an otherwise open, sunlit room.

an apparently homeless man intervened in a few minutes' time, himself wandering in an equally unguided way toward an uncertain, yet seemly ill-fated destination. aided by sight, the homeless man possessed a sensory capacity, but lacked a deeper sense... as they began to interact, finding agreement on a common purpose, both men moved in a tentative unison toward the door.

audio: global underground | shangai . nick warren . sorry to be rude

INDIVIDUALISM IS TRENDY
A slice taken directly from the lives of two gloriously self-actualized, young American women.

---

Here, look at this, it's all the rage. Antique, or something.

(running her fingers over the letters, as if written in Braille) T-h-e... F-o-untain..-h-ead..? Is it anything like US Weekly?

They say that if you carry it in your bag for a week, you'll get smarter. Just don't look inside, I got the worst migraine for like, two days last week.

"Howard Roark laughed". Is he hot, like Kevin was? *Gasp* *Bursts into tears*

Not again. Here, throw that away. Let's go shopping!

(immediately ecstatic) I love you Paris!

(evil smile) I use... er... love you too, Britney.

Eyes are about ready to bleed from fatigue. Saru, pain is not an indication of success.

In transit, business casual. Even stride across carefully poured concrete skin, concealing the soil and earth beneath it with a crudely simplistic elegance.

Indications of class status in posture, elocution, style. Of course, these gestures are in a way, manufactured, contrived, as they always are: they level the playing field. To become adaptable. Gay, straight, poor, affluent, prole, top class, sensual, professional. All of these categories contain their own terminologies, mannerisms and power dynamics. And quite often, one identity structure contains undercurrents of the others.

Today:
"Close your ears, I'm about to talk trash about straight boys," Boy1 says. The girls laugh.
"Don't worry, you won't be talking about me anyway," I say quietly, almost under my breath.
Pause.
"Straight boys' skin is _always_ so dry. They don't give a shit about their skin... ugh."
"I always carry a small bottle of lotion in my bag," I reply. "So I guess that, by your logic, that means that I'm... not straight...?"
"Or you have reaally rough skin!" GirlNumberZero chimes in.
"Or my skin is silky smooth," I counter, looking directly into her eyes. Pause.
Suddenly everyone is quiet for a moment. "...Next!" I say with a smile, bringing energy back to the conversation. Boy1 opens a new topic as if on command.

Two Days Ago:
"I'm gonna put you in business," he says. He's my Sly Old Fox, the tightfisted millionaire client who I've been courting for the past two years. Finally, he has opened up -- wants to partner in a new venture. From Sly Old Fox to Angel Investor... why the switch? I realize that he has no access to his emotions. The key is his wife. She is his pulse, his connection to other people. He is a machin, a flesh-and-bones mechanical turk. The homunculus who pulls the levers on the inside of his reality is actually the woman who stands beside him through thick and thin.

Oftentimes, the key is not what is said. How does his state of mind shift as he interacts with those close to him? How does he tell his stories? When does he suddenly transition from logic to an emotional frame? What are the physical indicators of his emotional state?

Everyone has a thumbscrew. Pleasure and pain can be used in their proper turns. The only problem is knowing when not to use technique; to simply relax into the interaction and flirt with the possibilities that lie hidden beneath the words. Yes, it is a game, and everyone plays. To ignore the rules is to play badly. To master its principles, on the other hand, can become quite amusing, especially to recognize that each person has developed their own skillset -- and is trying to use it with every word that falls from his or her lips.

There are no victims and ultimately, no winners. What is the purpose of this game? I do not know. Happiness does not emerge from proficiency in this turning of the screws and massaging of intimate mental structures; yet, to play badly is to ensure misfortune. Perhaps it is best to be content with a "volitional morality" of sorts -- acknowledge the rules, and break them when necessary.

Halloween:
She wears high-heeled knee-height boots, a laced corset and carries a small whip. The bondage collar is smooth to the touch and warms quickly to the pulse of my jugular vein and carotid artery... Until tonight, I didn't realise that she likes to play. Tonight, though, things are a bit different.

Yesterday:
"Want to see how the other side lives?" I said, smirking with _you can't handle it_ in my eyes.
She leans close. "I want to see... how the other side fucks," she breathes. I lean back and look across the table. My other friend is becoming visibly upset... the game begins.

audio: karen overtone . your loving arms

mr. oh is back.

note to self: link him.