The Radio and The Internet

Phones revealed what has been wrong with people for a very,  very long time. Every overeager, understimulated, needy,  first-world complaint of people so utterly surrounded by  convenience, their collective response has been to press  themselves to every inconvenience they can imagine.  Before phones, I never rented an apartment from  anyone who composed a monologue of 30 pounds of  bullshit in a 2 lb. canister, rattling her concentrated  gibberish like some desperate refugee from a country that  doesn't exist anymore, then playing the recorded message  to my bewildered, worried face like some nonagenarian  virgin who's only just discovered that vibrators are real.  Before phones (as we know them) there were no multi- billion dollar technology companies creating zillions of  unfuckable adbots for millions of un-wanted users like some David Lynch rip-off nightmares mixed with  lazy/bullshit John Waters "impersonations"...

The fact of Charles Anthony Jung's illegitimate birth is fitting, if harrowing, enough of a place to begin if one were so inclined, regardless of such inclination being vigilant or circumspect, serious or whimsical. By at least one considered viewpoint, he is a weapon: the offspring of something that should never have even remotely tasted existence yet by definite, seemingly unpredictable yet inevitable in the bare presence of themselves, shot thru fate fashion into time & place as to where it could not be reversed from that course.  He was, if you will, born to exact noble, liberating revenge on his sinful creator. Charles Anthony Jung stood on a bridge between two western (likely California) cities of an evening in early August, 2036. He had creditcards with at least half a dozen different names on them. He didn't carry social security cards, of any sort: he memorized a select list for those rare occasions when such a dummy was necessary or useful. He had three or four fa...

 

The dim metal pang of something camouflaged by its obscurment in the enormous, broken shadow of the room. The sad, mean dust of pain etched into his sinuses and synapses. Peter Nicholas Levanarskie. White t.v. glow humming like fluorescent mold in the borrowed window to the borrowed city street out there in the cheap, in the indifferent night, every word lost, every word uncertain.  *Time exists in a great many ways. There are as many forms of time as dirt can be molded into bricks or various clay shapes or really any shape at all. If you think that the greatest talent of the universe is to exist, to fling itself out of a hollow, seemingly spaceless nothingness, you are mistaken, you have underestimated the universe. To keep the point of this going: Time is the imaginary machine that any given thing that would benefit in even the least way to a reference of itself has as a right of its very, simple presence.  Doctor Milo Gollander understood (1987-) had a terrifyingly keen und...

 https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/8158680913636509372/1346711379165356213 Up is the the poem I wrote in Beacon. See it as some prototype for a "small" book in History of Writing. Likely, 5th or 6th.  *5-7/? would likely be some Sullivan Broca story dealing with warehouses, smuggling, illegal/illicit trade.  God, again... God Among the Natives: first appearance of She Who Runs With The Wolves At Night.   https://tobedeleted00.blogspot.com/2023/06/god-among-natives.html God's journey and hallucination.  https://tobedeleted00.blogspot.com/2023/10/ingredients-precisely.html All as of January 2025. 

 2033 to 2035  Think, like Hap and Leonard  Bobby Western...anywhere  ....tangential to Randall Fincher and  Sisyphus in recovery center  Samantha Grows Younger  Charles Anthony Jung is looking for Samantha, indirectly  Milo Gollander is looking for self-emancipated name-changing son  As THOUGH in general 4  corporations were trying to merge into one and the last one wasn't having it....  Then, suddenly: plagues. 

Premonition bleeds into insomnia deftly as a mouse surveying a stone floor of some anonymous building when, where 'Troy' opened his halfnumb eyes where he lay in the bed beside Samantha, Samantha sleeping. His nude body tolerably stiff in the vacancy of the bedclothes and the quiet room. Brooklyn everywhere without expiration.  In the week before that death, the dockworkers, machinists, engineers had arrived, collectively, at the sobering & final understanding that the careful, accommodating   approach they'd thus far maintained as the spearhead of their persuasion for better pay, healthier environs and reasonable working conditions had arrived at some natural apogee (in so many words) and some do-or-die atavistic gesture was all that would satisfy their position if any further progress was to be regarded seriously.  They were going to rally & protest. They were less than 200 men, total, a pithy fraction for such a thing by today's standards. In each one's m...