The BUDDHACRAT
It was as if the doctor was finally in the house.
He was ON a mission.
He was IN remission, aesthetic remission.
He was missionary.
An unconsciously motivated free-form trajectory IN commission WITH compassion swerving into discovery.
Discovery of just how MACHINIC he truly was.
How networked he was.
How peripatetic he was.
How paratactically symbiotic he was while perambulating the rolling landscape of his thunderous dreams throwing bolts of lightening like liquid javelins into the hearts of lovers populating the planet he absolutely refused to establish permanent residency in.
What does it mean to establish residency?
He was virtually networked falling into and out of states of presence but never really here.
That is to say, he was neither here nor there.
By not being here, by not being part of this world but living the dream of living in a world INSIDE the dream, he was becoming something like waves of music, undulating, tiding things over IN the UNDERworld.
These in-and-out states of presence the doctor roamed as a transient glow flickering his light form into shape-shifting sculptural space, demanded his patience as he slowly kept moving into yet Higher Phases of Experience.
Losing melting something like Identity, he was phrasing his outgoing riffs as if parsing psychogeographical drifts that fed into his micro-edited mashups of reincarnated forms of both prior and still-to-be-born existences, a multi-layered timeline of parallel lives clustered in 4D media spaces tripping through timeless time, long and light, The Devourer of Images consuming every experience in its way, a liberated mechanism of unlimited force finally emptied of all obstacles so that he can once and for all plant his head deep inside the womb-matrix and swallow it whole.
That's where he was now at.
That's where he could take himself when making.
When making doing becoming mining his own fate.
How do you mine your own fate?
And what creative ore do you expect to extract from the mining process?
These were the kinds of questions you could expect him to ask as soon as he entered the room and began his soul searching.
He wasn't searching for his own soul.
THAT he had already researched to the point of no return.
No, when he now entered the room the soul he was searching for was YOURS and the only way he would be able to access it was if you unconsciously opened up your source code to him.
"What is the source of creativity?" he would start each session and then, after a pause, "what is YOUR source of creativity?"
"What is it - and WHERE is it located?"
The room would inevitably go dead silent as the meta-mediums of artists past permeated the room.
"This is what you can learn from me" (he would say, as he introduced himself to the small group of followers who tapped into his distributed, psychospherical stream).
He never presented himself as the Guru or the Buddha or the Ganja Gandhi gainly employing himself via motivational new age speak.
That isn't to say that he wasn't THAT TOO but there was never any question that he was MUCH MORE than that.
He was a poet, an open sorcerer, a reckless renegade of erotic splendor, the reincarnation of a post-retinal artist transcoding ideas into what he playfully referred to as IMAGE ÉCRITURE.
This image écriture was the script he flipped when scratching his vice into verse, and vice versa.
The trick was to amplify his presence as if he really WERE there.
As if he were really HERE.
A presence.
A permanent resident.
But his guest appearances took on the hue of a ghost appearance, desert apparition of a dream in situ.
As if his tendency toward virtual visitations were all part of the performance, the artist-medium trance-porting unconscious creative energy through the networked space of flows.
Was this performance really nothing more than a 21st century version of the illuminated and illuminating Ghost in the Machine?
He identified himself to the group as both a pataphysician AND auto-affective machine.
After a pause, he would say "Imagine the pataphysician AS machine and imagine what it is you must first BECOME in order to operate this machine."
He was inviting people in the room to tweak his settings so that he would shape-shift into a different version of his persona with each subsequent performance.
"I had a marvelous art-making machine" -- he quoted a famous woman artist who he dreamt was his long time lover -- "my personas. I never knew where it would go."
"What I want to teach you," he would say, but then start over: "What I want you to teach yourself, is how to unconsciously generate solutions to the endless bombardment of problems that you must accept do not really exist."
[transitional sounds]
He said he was a BUDDHACRAT, that Zen-like flow of positive energy who had come to accept his total impermanence in the flux of life itself while recognizing that the devil was always in the details.
It required micro-editing the timeline of existence in order to trick the definitive system into recalibrating its definitiveness.
The idea of being a trickster, one who tricks the definitive system so that it unknowingly recalibrates its definitiveness, coincides with his self-referential tendency to identify himself as a pataphysician, a pataphysician AS machine.
Machine as in MACHINA, the Latin word meaning trickery, that is to say, a device that deceives.
This is also what it means to be a hacker, a player, a gamer who thrives on the will-to-aestheticize.
The doctor was all of these things at once, and this is what fed into his role-playing persona as a substantially present BUDDHACRAT deceiving the definitive system.
"The BUDDHACRAT," he would say, "is incontrovertible evidence of the existence of an unlimited force of aesthetic energy whose job it is to deceive."
"But the doctor," he would say, putting himself back into the third person, far removed from anything close to a falsely rendered "I" -- "the doctor is more than a BUDDHACRAT."
He then quoted himself at length:
He was ON a mission.
He was IN remission, aesthetic remission.
He was missionary.
An unconsciously motivated free-form trajectory IN commission WITH compassion swerving into discovery.
Discovery of just how MACHINIC he truly was.
How networked he was.
How peripatetic he was.
How paratactically symbiotic he was while perambulating the rolling landscape of his thunderous dreams throwing bolts of lightening like liquid javelins into the hearts of lovers populating the planet he absolutely refused to establish permanent residency in.
What does it mean to establish residency?
He was virtually networked falling into and out of states of presence but never really here.
That is to say, he was neither here nor there.
By not being here, by not being part of this world but living the dream of living in a world INSIDE the dream, he was becoming something like waves of music, undulating, tiding things over IN the UNDERworld.
These in-and-out states of presence the doctor roamed as a transient glow flickering his light form into shape-shifting sculptural space, demanded his patience as he slowly kept moving into yet Higher Phases of Experience.
Losing melting something like Identity, he was phrasing his outgoing riffs as if parsing psychogeographical drifts that fed into his micro-edited mashups of reincarnated forms of both prior and still-to-be-born existences, a multi-layered timeline of parallel lives clustered in 4D media spaces tripping through timeless time, long and light, The Devourer of Images consuming every experience in its way, a liberated mechanism of unlimited force finally emptied of all obstacles so that he can once and for all plant his head deep inside the womb-matrix and swallow it whole.
That's where he was now at.
That's where he could take himself when making.
When making doing becoming mining his own fate.
How do you mine your own fate?
And what creative ore do you expect to extract from the mining process?
These were the kinds of questions you could expect him to ask as soon as he entered the room and began his soul searching.
He wasn't searching for his own soul.
THAT he had already researched to the point of no return.
No, when he now entered the room the soul he was searching for was YOURS and the only way he would be able to access it was if you unconsciously opened up your source code to him.
"What is the source of creativity?" he would start each session and then, after a pause, "what is YOUR source of creativity?"
"What is it - and WHERE is it located?"
The room would inevitably go dead silent as the meta-mediums of artists past permeated the room.
"This is what you can learn from me" (he would say, as he introduced himself to the small group of followers who tapped into his distributed, psychospherical stream).
He never presented himself as the Guru or the Buddha or the Ganja Gandhi gainly employing himself via motivational new age speak.
That isn't to say that he wasn't THAT TOO but there was never any question that he was MUCH MORE than that.
He was a poet, an open sorcerer, a reckless renegade of erotic splendor, the reincarnation of a post-retinal artist transcoding ideas into what he playfully referred to as IMAGE ÉCRITURE.
This image écriture was the script he flipped when scratching his vice into verse, and vice versa.
The trick was to amplify his presence as if he really WERE there.
As if he were really HERE.
A presence.
A permanent resident.
But his guest appearances took on the hue of a ghost appearance, desert apparition of a dream in situ.
As if his tendency toward virtual visitations were all part of the performance, the artist-medium trance-porting unconscious creative energy through the networked space of flows.
Was this performance really nothing more than a 21st century version of the illuminated and illuminating Ghost in the Machine?
He identified himself to the group as both a pataphysician AND auto-affective machine.
After a pause, he would say "Imagine the pataphysician AS machine and imagine what it is you must first BECOME in order to operate this machine."
He was inviting people in the room to tweak his settings so that he would shape-shift into a different version of his persona with each subsequent performance.
"I had a marvelous art-making machine" -- he quoted a famous woman artist who he dreamt was his long time lover -- "my personas. I never knew where it would go."
"What I want to teach you," he would say, but then start over: "What I want you to teach yourself, is how to unconsciously generate solutions to the endless bombardment of problems that you must accept do not really exist."
[transitional sounds]
He said he was a BUDDHACRAT, that Zen-like flow of positive energy who had come to accept his total impermanence in the flux of life itself while recognizing that the devil was always in the details.
It required micro-editing the timeline of existence in order to trick the definitive system into recalibrating its definitiveness.
The idea of being a trickster, one who tricks the definitive system so that it unknowingly recalibrates its definitiveness, coincides with his self-referential tendency to identify himself as a pataphysician, a pataphysician AS machine.
Machine as in MACHINA, the Latin word meaning trickery, that is to say, a device that deceives.
This is also what it means to be a hacker, a player, a gamer who thrives on the will-to-aestheticize.
The doctor was all of these things at once, and this is what fed into his role-playing persona as a substantially present BUDDHACRAT deceiving the definitive system.
"The BUDDHACRAT," he would say, "is incontrovertible evidence of the existence of an unlimited force of aesthetic energy whose job it is to deceive."
"But the doctor," he would say, putting himself back into the third person, far removed from anything close to a falsely rendered "I" -- "the doctor is more than a BUDDHACRAT."
He then quoted himself at length:
The doctor is also a medium.In less than five minutes he would be talking about success and this is when everyone in the small group would come out of the haze of language they had been swimming in and begin focusing their attention on what appeared to be his bodily presence.
A simulated form of presence hacking The Now.
And when this simulated form of presence hacking The Now is operating at its highest state of efficiency, when every part of its body is working to unconsciously generate a continuous flow of metamediumistic energy via an optimum ECONOMY OF MOTION, this is when you know you are on your way to the ultimate form of success.
The ultimate form of success.
Success is why we're here, so let's talk about success.
Success.
This is what we want now, isn't it?
Is this not what we truly want to find ourselves experiencing?
The ultimate form of success.
Let's talk about what that really means and how we create these abstract concepts that then feed into the way we structure our goals so that we can experience an ongoing stream of satisfactory feelings in pursuit of more complex and fulfilling layers of feeling that make us FEEL successful.
Success cannot be measured numerically.
Success is not a material manifestation of great numerical substance.
Success is not an abstract process of achieving a self-fulfilling prophesy cleverly camouflaging an inevitable endgame.
The masquerade is what must end.
The layers of mascara masking this "sky's the limit" irrational exuberance is the game that must end.
Success [and here he paused, barefoot and pregnant with meaning] -- success can only be experienced as a feeling.
A deep and complex SET of feelings processed by you, the one who EMBODIES these feelings, who embodies these feelings AS success.
They are successive feelings that grow over time and that emerge into Higher Phases of Experience which are then felt as the ultimate form of success.
Do these Higher Phases of Experience which are then felt as the ultimate form of success represent what it means to live in a utopia?
Is it really that simple?
Do you really think that utopia can be sustained for any duration whatsoever?
How long?
And how do you know you've made it?
Made it where?
There?
Here?
It's neither here nor there.
Utopia -- it's all about You, isn't it?
A place like no other, where this deep and complex set of feelings forming into successive states of living INSIDE these Higher Phases of Experience translates into the optimum economy of motion.
The optimum economy of motion.
That reminds me: motion is e-motion.
I'll say it again: motion is e-motion.
A fluctuation of form AS feeling layering itself on top of / in between / deep into other layers of formal feeling creating even more complex modes of experiencing.
You see, feelings form out of formlessness WHILE forming, WHILE leaving the mere traces of success behind for others to inherit and transform into yet MORE feelings of success.
Does this feel good?
What I am saying is that we are all programmed and we are programmed to become feeling machines.
In fact, you could say that we have been SUCCESSFULLY programmed to become feeling machines.
Good job -- whoever wrote that script.
We are programmed to become feeling machines who tap into our unconscious creative potential so that we may trick the scene and in tricking the scene, force the definite system to recalibrate its definitiveness and when we get really good at this, then the mundane media may very well refer to us as a "success story" even though we ourselves know we are something much more valuable than that.
Our goal is not to become a success story.
Our goal is to become an optimally networked feeling machine that uses its embedded algorithms to trick the definitive system into recalibrating its definitiveness even as WE know our enlightened impermanence requires us to disappear altogether.
Do you follow me?
Do you follow me?
Do you follow me?
[Am I still here? …]
Keywords: Mark Amerika, fiction, remixthebook bonus track
posted by Professor VJ at 7:12 PM
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