Sunday, June 03, 2007
a new series of howard love/ theo rez journal prose entries should come about as soon as i get wasted enough
until then soak meninge and get girlfriend strap-on
Thursday, May 25, 2006
It was 6.03 a.m. A ferrous tang spiked the mist. The remaining stars were extinguished and butternut sun engulfed all. Light effect spattered all dainty across How's bedroom. The fungal aroma of carpet, dank matress and tobacco cooked in the morning warmth. The sci-fi thriller in How's brain was drawing to a close, his other-worldly spasms subsiding as waking state conciousness drew nearer. Always a disappointment, to be brought back. But not today! This was to be a very important day! It was pay day - yes - but not just any pay day -it was real money this time. James and Lorraine had granted How a fund of $12 million euros, and today How had actual physical access to it. Cryo-funds given heat and a heart-beat. A punch in the presidents face. Actual tangible ACCESS. The ATM bent in submission: the sleek fingers and mat-black glossy card layered in nano-sized spines. And no, skimming would not be required this day, for the money was legit!
How exploded out of bed and draped himself in whatever cotton he could find. Kicking through bric-a-brac gunk and spent consumables he picked up the phone and dialled the bank. The electronic teller spelt it out with that inorganic aloof sheen only a robot could convey.
"The-account-balance-for--0330-4505 - 006-00---Mr H.B.Love IS.....Twenty Four Million, Five Hundred and Fifty Three Thousand, Seven Hundred and Twenty Two New Zealand Dollars"
A thousand joyous exclamations congregate within that skull. What was dream could now be acted upon - decisions made and realized. The stuff to be exhanged for anything else. The power of money is a contentious issue. Can happiness be bought? What happens to ones neurology as one spends? And the endocrine system - surely it is a high? These questions were now able to be investigated by How. How was now rich. And his next few decisions would be the weightiest of his life.
How decided to play it smooth. Perhaps a walk, perhaps I go for a coffee...
Suddenly.......a static chortle .........
"What to do first, eh How?" , a pixellated, invasive voice stabbed the air.
How turned, seeking it's source.
How scanned further. Drawing his attention to the window, he finally made it out - a shimmering, scrambled digital phantom obscured by the external light. It was a hologram.
"You recieved funds today? Yes or No."
"whhha..." How stammered.
"The funds are through,,,yes?" the voice was compressed and crystalline, like an low-bit feed from a journalist in a war zone.
How's hand cut through the hologram with infantile complusion. It appeared to be a man in his late 30's or 40's, an anaemic looking androgyne, white hair, sharp, almost opiated blue eyes , shifting hue with the digital stream.
"Please respond....you received funds today?"
How eyed the hologram. Arcane familiarity swelled within.
Before he could say anything more, the transmission assumed a cone shaped appearance - heat and light intensifying within and around it.
It buckled, folded in on itself and then disappeared with a strange organic popping sound.
The transition from pauper to multi-millionaire would prove to be an dynamic one. Old habits die hard. How took public transport, and today would be no exception, cash injection or no. How slouched in the stained booth, eyes boring into road. Cars would whir across his field of cognition, mechanical profanities and curses slaking from engines, further public hatred exclaimed from within each vehicle. Each vehicle popping past his carcass had a name for him. Cunt. Drunk. Faggot. and the pedestrians weren't no different.! A 40 something professor passed , soaked up How's being and told him to 'shut up'. Other simply flinched and looked immediately to the footpath. Public life par excellence.
Saturday, April 29, 2006
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
"Absolute encarceration. The New Zealand day. A subconcious clot. Ordinary New Zealanders' faces buckle. Worry lines and pavlova. Dairy hearts , sheeps brains. Absolute closure. The 'cunt' and 'faggot' of the ordinary New Zealander. Optionless thursdays and mainstreams of mediocre blood and rugby piss. The finger pointed, the clod of beef firmly rooted, the righteous and the real of New Zealand. The vein thickly coated, the posteur bent in submission, the face homogenous and avoidant. The voice slurred and mumbling, ne'er lording it about. Never a smart cunt. Never a wanker. Fate sealed and finances assigned. Options and options. Skills and experience. Never a wanker though, a good man. The clod of beef firmly placed. Flatmate fathers and mothers and flecks of vegemite and the arts. Brats raised on butter get what they want. Better stock get the good jobs. This was his 11th year on a benefit. This was a personal failure. He would record adventurous types of music and sometimes individuals from other countries would order titles. Sometimes he would find a good domestic client. Their favourite quote would be 'there is no depression in New Zealand'. No, this is no longer the early ninetees. There are shitloads of jobs out there. Take off the blinkers, mate. "
"Would someone just wire him ten grand. We know what we like and we'll support him %100. Come back to our property in Central Otago. Bring a friend, bring your collection. You've done all this work while living on a slap in the face piece of shit wage. You are to be commended. Look, I won't lie to you, we're stinking rich. Anything you want, money is simply no object. We understand your needs and trust your decisions. We know how you work, and we want your work to thrive. "
You could see the hate and loneliness in his puppy fat. The anger and resentment was something he had been collecting, item by item, quietly and consistently.
"I knew my place. If I was going to get nothing out of this, when the populace would look on, knowing full well of my situation only to do nothing - perhaps a grimace or sneer or one of those 'i hear you man' half smiles - then, why not expose them?"
" Understandable - fairly selfish though. A naieve outlook".
"Did you write this drivel?"
The well dressed couple simultaneously lit up a second cigarette. James lazily regarded the loose-leaf manuscript on the couch.
"What are you trying to acheive with this" James asked, gently pushing the well-drawn smoke out of his mouth, his eyes sitting tightly in his sockets.
" Linear deconstruction. Displacement of subject. "
"Windows, really, small paintings badly arranged and marketed poorly. "
" Absolute meaning in the mess."
James lightly brushed Lorraines' shoulder. "Like I said How, come back to our property in central Otago. Bring a friend. We'll support you 100%. what do you need? Equipment - a technical crew? We can fully furnish your every whim How. whatever work method you use, we'll respect. You need days, weeks of down-time to recharge the creative engine - take as much time as you need. The cult of youth is a farce. Be old, don't be afriad to move slowly. Take your ease - we repsect the vision within How. Any transport issues are now non-issues. We own a string of studios in 26 cities worldwide. Whatever you want to do - just tell us what you need. "
"Perhaps a personal allowance could be set up for me? "
"Sure, just name a figure.
"Okay, to fully activate my ideas, to satiate corporeal needs and pay the bills - would $1,000 PW be fair?"
"Thats nothing, How."
Saturday, February 25, 2006
This hiss. I had copied and pasted this mantra from sacred space and post-modernized it. And why not - the owner of the voice would've probably liked it - he was an egomaniac after all. So this work of mine continues, that's right, copying, pasting, IP's worst E-enemy , last priveledge, the last freedom of the keyboard warriors. Pens, mightier than fists, mightier than diseases - perhaps the cure - a cure-all tonic - brazen and blood-red against the night sky. What is this machine I must engage? This chug and whir - not music no - it's a bloody machine, meta-technology maybe - propping up what lies dormant - compensation for lack of money-making skill, yeah...psycho-masturbation - feeding, always feeding something -
sound-as-nutrient - a program - a code, a code without a key. Black choppers of the sub-concsious throbbing against amyloid - plaquing them all up nice and tight - work on,,,work on...
Lock on bud, crack open that case and feast yer eyes. Soiled, not slate. Dressed in a nice carbon nano-tube netting. It's beyond me, the flaming psycho masturbator. Each 'song' is a scene - a setting - a stupid stupid landscape. Chopper fetish and synthetic vvvvinds!
Scene 1.loss of energy through wasted and inefficient travel decisions.
Scene 2. Humiliation through 'being seen' to be immobile, unfit, and broke.
Scene 3.single-bed, and little metallic speakers to entertain ourselves.
Scene 4. as we scratched through week to week to week, the populace would look on, knowing full well of our under-utilization, knowing full well of our pathetic and embarrasing weekly incomes.
Scene 5. Always seen blowing our money on booze, publicly drunk.
Scene 6. and then people started bringin' over gifts, money, alcohol, food, love and good times. all the time.
Scene 7.hopeless projectile : projectile learned savvy saving on thrust and gust inward tranquil and heavy - 20 and 30 or more and its heaving hells and tiered levels and terrains of gothic hue and triffid loves hang just in execution gardens.
Scene 8. Being something quite easy to handle, being something with which to place a magnet unto.
Scene 9. constantly under attack by a barrage of angry fellow citizens, angry voices of disapproval by the righteous and real of the land
Scene 10. And so, the psychic action ----------well, basically, reading his document is enough at this stage.
Magneto! Magneto! Magneto! Magneto! Magneto!
Is this your need - your portion?
On hills and in gardens - told quiet and made bare -
Will lord of naught leave us be
And make your afflictions clear?
Saturday, January 21, 2006
death crystal/ raro sunset
"They all gots a name fer me. Each vee-hickla poppin' past my scrawny carcass whistles out A different name. Namin' theory eight-o-two, catagorize the deviant or you've lost control. In these parts a 'faggot' is any male who ain't ugly. In these parts a 'cunt' is anyone who is smilin'. In these parts a wanker is anyone who gots ambition. In these parts a 'fed' is anyone who know how to talks to folk online. In these parts the sun burns harder than in your parts. "
So I ruffle ma neo-school-boy shirt and reinforce that uggers beige retro photography bag o'er ma feminyne shoulder.
Big town draws nearer, clearer, shinier, promise in the air, the plastic odours of cards and stu-dent loans and ay-tee-em groans, transaction after transaction, declined/accepted: eftpos ballet, budget shoppin', lil' jobs, ol' staffy/high street righteous squadron squeeze claims of 'fraud' my way, tourists give me the 'sealed lips' signal, shaggy haired bogans look at me angrily, i've busted their very existance with my very existance, piss trails greet me, the shop is open!!
A labourer stares into me, turns slowly to his colleague, darts back, mocking and sarcastic admiration his expression:
"Something stinks" , the phrase exudes from his creul lips,all gaseous and whisp, inculcating both drop-in-centre member and dvd-cam bearing tourist alike..
Howard Love withdraws the a greasy bank notes from the ATM machine, turns with a sense of accomplishment toward the camera and begins his soliloquy:
"If entertainment of oneself be precosity, then whim and wham have fine times on hand. Applying there betters and never looking back, our jesters and jounglers in erudite embraces, heave and crunch of biped glues, crystal blooms and hues of vermillion jarring not the caustic airs. Oh yod, babel, thou art null and foetid statements in a rand pile south of Calcutta, tumourous trials and filial duties and swill, full ink blot tests were his lot. Major fury- these gardens need looking after - oh snobbish ruse, snobbish ruse and control, snobbish ruse and juries, lurid fantasmigoric hallowed eves and adams and carrion claws, rouge-ruddy cheek-choke and feral, moist bubbles - chemical soaps raking and scraping filth from thy limbs, never let them boast!
never let them roast!!
For your lack of duty is but a gel!
Your limits dictated by your bank balance, and so power to do is aligned and assorted. POWER is not governance, power is freedom. And that is not freedom of choice, master. Freedom of choice is still not freedom. when there are no choices, one is free, for one has transceneded the concept of selection forever. Selection can only be finite for this world is finite. How then can freedom of choice be regarded as freedom? "
And so it was. Howard buys himself a well earned loooong black.
Thursday, September 29, 2005
bogan self talk
. Whip it. Kiss the dying air. Paradise, my man Friday. Worker moves by, waddles down George Street. Kids diffuse and scatter, pocket moneys blackmailed away by the smarter, slicker pubescents. Cackles and dead winding mundane lines of action. Why look. Look up, yer insane, look down, your pants and stupid cheap shoes. Streams of ugly expense threaten to cut my benefit. I is priveledged. But there is no denying it - this is paradise. There are hills here adorned with native trees that sparkle with a radiant life energy you just do not get in the northern hemisphere. I do love that. I have no intention to leave. This is paradise. This is safety. This is natural beauty. If only the socioeconomic culture mirrored this luminous divinity. Why is the culture so short-sighted, seemingly self-loathing ? why are only certain types of art 'let through'? Who has the hand in the cookie jar, and why? Why is the sky very much a limit?
The internet preceeds psychic communication. Walk the streets - society here trembles with fear when it considers the implications. Deflect and diffuse. Don't look. Buy a pair of very dark sunglasses. Grey eye black. Black holes. Self bogan talk on nerves sensing my approach .Get prick,all nose and asses. Lock Narc, like dodgy. He's you the faggots. Praise you, business. Know my commie fight - fuck mainstream one. Hacker might cunt. why a commie: something sooner, cunt. A mouth he dick - but Dunedin ain't! "
Grab what you want, say a small choc bar. Go to counter, make sure the person in front is taking their time. Consume you item as if it was your. when you get to the counter, say you've changed your mind, and leave. Download as much music as you can, and burn cds. Its growing very quickly and consistently in Asia. Asian capability. 150 people. Sale - technical people. Biopharmaceuticals. Europe slowed us up.Nazi cop web addict. Line of business. Primary segments. Earlier slide.
They walk past, he holds the electricity from their passing between the shoulders, deflects it into trash cans and get paid at ATM.