HAKAMA
programmed for violence
there was a school I don't recall where, and I don't recall when. I remember the seating. it was in a large hall, hard wooden floors. like someone set up in a basketball court. the seating was arranged in a square U shape with long tables at the opening of the U a small table where lecturers would speak on various topics. all classes where held in that same room, all breaks where taken in that same room. we'd go in in the morning, and be there till dinner. it was intensive study. they taught in our native language at the beginning but quickly they transitioned to speaking a foreign language. there were other classes at this school, not just mine and each set of lectures was tailored to a specific set of skills and acquisition speed, even the time we would spend at the school was dependent on what we were being trained and how competent the learners. You might be forgiven for thinking the more competent would be there the shortest time and the least the longest. This is not how it was at all. They kept the least competent (or least willed) the shortest period, drilling in native language only, a few basic skills only reinforcing and closing gaps in what should have been previously acquired knowledge. essentially foundational information only. The most competent were held for the longest period, lessons in difficult alternative languages, covering that same foundational knowledge (i.e. things which they already knew in native language so crosslinking in new language would be easier) and highly technical knowledge on various topics in native language. sewing machine acquired. dyes acquired. pins, needles, scissors, thread. iron, fabric. the difficulty of finding these 'just so' steadily increasing in difficulty. so many opinions on machines, nuances clear and open, dyes transparent, pins and needles ubiquitous. clear dominant figures. thread subjectivity dependent, material space crowded by garbage which "works fine" for most. press, product space nearly completely filled with modern garbage. textiles. finding white, fully cotton twill in just the right thickness, with proper texture, and size, subjectivity oppressive. blends pervade. I cloak myself in the skirt of a priesthood of my own order. on a break from the school, over a "weekend" (we didn't have many, as lessons were held 6 days of the week, the seventh was more or less the same content, but generalized to the whole school, large sermons broadcast to the entire group all gathered together in massive auditorium to instill a sense of unity, and to make us each feel the power of communion with the All Of Us.) I remember visiting a store. There was a convention I was interested in near by but would not be permitted to attend, both for reasons of time requirement and an aloof "above it all" distain for the cultures of the low-bound. The store had many items which piqued my interest, but as we came as a group (each of us set as watchdog to the others when about the droll) I had to temper both my actions and emotions. aloof detachment. isn't that interesting? anyway what were we talking about? and moving on. No second look, eyes lingering only 20% longer than typical, surely not enough for others to have noticed. but if they could have heard the sudden single thump of my heart at that moment they would have certainly known my weakness, and turned on me like the dogs we all were. I write down the days to day, reflections from a distorted mirror now reflect back to their source which has permuted itself deltatime on deltatime. They are repulsive now. the canned phrases pervade the text only hints at the person who actually put pen to paper those long aeons past. rip and tear the lost cause sheets. notate the rest, commenting here and there of more accurate truths, of changed perspectives. And in moments of needed reflection toward the permutations yet to be, again here and now put pen and ink to paper, or as now plastic key to contact switch. Everything as bespoke as possible in the present. antecedent records penned on industrial pulp sheafs embedded with the quantum coupling of sameness as a million others, and the legal law of copywrite on all added information. The future owns those words I had scribed in times past, and so I look on that past as a stranger, too often (?) maybe it's just as well. I am unable to raise a tree with unowned genetic code. I am unable to process the fibers of that tree using processes and chemicals untainted by nanomachines owned by Alpha and Omega Corporation. I resent this. I make due with scraps. paper selected as precisely as possible for constrains of affordability on low mana reserves, and quality of ink spread. creating a tabula rasa of pixelated dots to have nanomachine particulate with black hue dithered on the surface at .5 cm spacing. i wonder if the grid can be used by the future to see the ink i bleed onto the page with my scratchings of metal and plastic. The pens themselves probably report their position, orientation, rotation, to the future through their electromagnetic fluctuations on Terra's field. The thread and glue i use to bind the pages as well, from sources i can't control, whose domain I can only speculate. Trapped by this line of reasoning. I don't even own my mind.
tags:
art chaos cult dreams language safe