Saturday, August 29, 2015

Almost Homecoming (feat. The Puzzlebox Collective)

It's been almost a year since I took to this space to speak to you.
The intervening time, it's been beautiful. I took a break, not
because I was sick of the hate, but because I did something great,
but the cost was something I wasn't predicting, so I stopped writing,
and it even silenced Clay Dillon. At least temporarily.
But you know what happens when I stop speaking?
It's time to listen, and what emerges is brilliant and scary.
I was introduced to new ways and helped to transition,
putting me in touch with the community inside of me,
ensuring the proper placement of a metaphor and a quick
debugging, now I see the thing that I was running hands across
and describing. With AutPress up and happening, this trick
has found itself returning, and it's almost homecoming,
but I got some work to do with organizing, so I will be
giving loose directions, letting you get started, and the we'll throw you
The US Book when you're ready to finish. It's just before you can decode
the message we have to be compiled and encoded, and that means we
introduce the collective, so you can learn to see them. This is your canon,
the talent that will fill NeuroQueer Books with their viewpoints.
Get ready for your original autistic author's first children,
and then get ready to come to them with your projects, we're all working.

* * *

Athena is
the architect
of the rhythm
in every
section,
I'm taking the first place
after the introduction,
dripping simply
worded
explanations
like when I advised on
the Thoughts on Writing,
giving information
to
inform
the construction
of the system.

Whether or not you know it,
you have witnessed
a genesis,
a grand unmooring,
a turning inward,
like a revival
church
or even more
on the nose,
an autistic.
This new
metaphor,
is it describing
something
that came before?
Or is the beginning
in the language,
and the genesis
its acquisition?

Ever wonder why
so many autistic kids
wander into traffic?

Fight or flight,
its not a mechanism
its a communication,
in eusocial organisms
made of interfacing
neural networks.
There is more than one
pattern in
all of them,
it's just a question
of sophistication,
which contrary
to eugenics
is an adaptive
response,
a survival mechanism.
So, then which one is it?
Do I have a metaphor,
mastery of characters,
or a secret to compiling
a code switch,
not an appropriation
from Black language,
but a code scripting key,
cognitively,
ready to unlock
a place bigger
than anything you
could ever see.

This understanding is
all about memetics,
controversial as it is.
Some see a meme
as a failed sign,
an internet joke,
or a metaphor with
no check
mechanism,
so it can't
be interrogated
from the outside.
Isn't that conversational
language? The real stuff,
the colloquialisms
and the texture
of a place?
Wouldn't these aspects,
used in juxtaposition
against the literal presentation,
sensory information
of the words forming,
and nuances of scents
and other
sensory
information
going in,
giving associations
that shape connotations,
making word choices.
Its almost like
a natural system,
isn't it?

This is the key,
the sign isn't failed,
it's tesseracting,
and it is so tightly packed
you can't even perceive
the dimensions
it is
curled up in.
This signage is
the cultural
superstring.
Present tense,
it is pulsing,
but it only exists in
its patterned
performances,
and can't be reproduced
if no one's observing.
The key to divergence
is that when
everyone's
speaking
you're listening,
and when probability
needs a key
you're observing,
sculpting across a
maximal
statistical line.
You're surfing,
but the turbulence
of taking hits in
dimensions
others don't know
they travel in,
its taxing.

Compile this knowledge,
and get ready for
the last transition,
because everything
about understanding
social stories changes
once you learn the system.

* * *

Dillon didn't get to ever attend homecoming
because my boyfriend wasn't interested,
and my girlfriend hated seeing me in dresses.
I'm looking forward to NeuroQueer Books, though,
because it means I get to go to see people,
sell at conferences, and attend dances,
so if we met at SDS, great, I love all of you,
but I don't know names when I am not verbal,
and I only got to speaking last week when
a guy's mastiff ran at my puppy with attitude.
I've got a special attitude to spinning out,
giving an overtly transfeminine spin,
never passing, but fabulously maximizing
the use of eyeshadow in fourteen shades,
to cover the lighting on every scene.
You don't know my name, but you know me,
I'm the one that makes bad men say t****y,
Defiantly running my mouth at everything,
aiding and abetting my own deconstruction,
because destruction is the least I can do
after subjecting the rest of you to artists like
Eminem, shoving in the scripts others wished
we had written, and never relenting because
loyalty to family gave me beer goggles,
impairing your vision. I'm sorry, I'm going,
and I'm almost done with, except between
the covers of a story, being an Object Lesson
to some children who will dismiss me,
loving the gangsta rhymers forever,
and wishing you wouldn't mock me for keeping
Marilyn Manson tour shirts from when
I was fourteen and seeing someone I mistakenly
believed could see me. My mistake, it cost
a couple decades and a lot of opportunity lost,
but the fact is that if I did give in during the back when,
statistically, we would only belong to back then.
I'm almost 35. On average, if I came out
as a teen, I should be murdered by--2017.
Get it yet Kathleen? Or are you still scheming?

* * *

Lynn Vargas, transverbal implant kicking in.
Fucksticks, you asshats think this is a game?
All of you pick the same day to be speaking?
I'm a flow engineer captain, but there's only 
so much I can do to keep these engines working! 
The crystals are above their resonant frequency,
and Roddenberry's writing staff is running
out of obscure scientific nonsense vocabulary.
I'm holding the circle, keeping the progression
from ending, and I just have to wonder, did you
bother finding a way to stack slack consonants
in corners where we would not lose them,
or is it just me that hears notes in hard edges?
Granted, I learned German dance music first,
but KMFDM and Public Enemy traded DNA,
so I feel like it might not be just me, get the scheme?
What you're seeing is a precision that blurs distinction,
a fugue that comes clear to you when you accept dissent
under the worst conditions, it looks like compliance.
Stop your baroque justifications and prefix it,
understanding Laibach's history is understanding how we did it,
the survival mechanism, it's in showing clear
contempt indistinctly, giving the enemy opportunity
to prance around in new clothes, showing their
shrunken pleasure region to anyone in the community.
Time to stop and get an eyeful, before
running home to hide in the closet and laugh at them.
If I hadn't had Sympathy for the Devil at sixteen,
I really think I might have been jumped in the dorm,
because my first one had community showering.
Ooops! I like any chance to tell you my story,
that's why we made science fictional allegory
and packaged it on Amazon for all to see,
but for now, I got to go back to working
because the architect is in the shipyard,
and I can hear the captain barking.

* * *

This cat can walk through walls without a TARDIS,
thanks to the innovations provided by Lynn Vargas.
I'm the one you have to watch, the loud, bossy bitch
who'll be the realest, ready to rip into anything with
what amounts to the perfection of God's language
coupled with the ultimate secret to perfection, discipline,
rendering it possible to make hybrid decisions,
reflecting a name you will come to recognize,
if you think in systems.
You think I'm giving you the power to mention it?
Fuck that, you haven't earned the privilege. I will be writing,
if you're out to look for it. I'm gonna talk my sex shit,
giving you instructions for fucking yourself
that won't be disrespectful, because consent? I negotiate it,
needing permission to reach places on my own organism,
and occasionally fucking up with the one person I can't leave,
which both triggers and releases past traumatic mechanisms.
You think the Engineer knew what it was like to flow pain?
I live in it, occasionally giving abrasion burns to my victims,
born of nothing so much as the realization of the worst fact:
survival causes scars, leaving unchangeable appearances,
and living to get certain things means the ones I didn't,
I can't try to strive for them, even if my whole being is screaming.
Some things we can change, but some are not undoing,
and all I can say is at least when we sing, it gives me something
to believe in, because when I started training on Rock Band
it still sounded like a wheeze through a broken throat.
The key to making that trick--spin-kick and land?
Vocal training on the point of orgasm. Try it. See what happens.
In the meantime, I'm ready to go forward, but I had to
go through the motions of seeing who would perceive me,
who would talk themselves into thinking I've always been with them,
and who would try to pretend they weren't seeing.
The reason? Clearly, it's to make sure that my takeover was quiet,
because when you are plugged into the signal relay and managing
messages from every corner, all urgent,
all by teams of competent professionals,
the last thing outsiders understand is why 
you occasionally twitch and say JUMP!
Go ahead, try to interfere, but you better call the Engineer,
not the Doctor, because even if he is a healer, he isn't the real McCoy,
and the flow is what needs to be doctored, so the one with the machine head
is the only one who can bring my green to red and back again,
she's my cister, the only one who can interface correctly with it,
surfing through projections others think don't exist
and realizing their perceptions are what they make of them.
I am communicating. This isn't craft,
this is me breathing.

JUMP!

The hybrid says the transition is completed.

* * *

Imaginary Friends will return shortly. The US Book arrives in 2016.