Pontypool

Pontypool...
Pontypool...
Pontypool...

Just kidding.

How can a film recapitulate so viciously every desire I ever had for a spontaneous language driven by pure novelty? Does anyone get it? Do I? I hope so. I dope so. I rope slow. I pope slow.

It seems like a very, very large chunk of human communication could be mindless repetition. Rush Limbaugh, or insert any other proud moth-filled mouth here, drops a phrase, the appropriate aural mirrors reflect it in an endless circle, and everyone in the middle of that ideological boundary just repeats a few words without any explanation behind it. Lately I see "socialism" as the buzz. Obama is a Socialist! Obama is a Socialist! Osama is a SoCal Fish!

But what does that mean? Try to explain it without depending on synonymous replacement chants, please. How would you like it if all dictionaries were thesauruses? How would you stay connected to the original spark of innovation? By infusing the words with emotional fury, the only thing that breaks through the numbness of mechanical action, of course!

People mistrust any politician who explains things in logical terms, for he becomes an intellectual elitist, while preferring those who explain nothing and seek to spread blind passion. But fuck, that's just something I read on the internet.

Screaming saves the dying word, right? But a tolerance builds and it becomes harder and harder to pretend that a direct experience of meaning is contained within the words, so you scream louder and louder, and eventually you're in a rage and the savageness of desperation is the only thing that exists, having outlived any conscious acknowledgment of a word's dynamic implications.

At that point, you're a zombie, or the word is a zombie, and you are reduced to a singular desire, to consume and spread, to be replicated through destruction and thus justified in all of your rage. You are now the religious zealot of a meme, who can only find validation in knowing that someone else can be infected with the same strain of virus. Good job, parrot. Your blog is a hit now!

Burroughs and Joyce suddenly stand before us like Buddha and Christ. Every poet who ever swung around the alleys of the mind with a jazz-like unsteadiness seems to have actualized a natural philosophy which aims to avoid the ever-increasing tangles of our mental wire. Association increases in complexity within even loosely defined borders and the only thing that brings a sense of clarity sometimes is a burning sword slicing through established relationships in language.

But how do you talk of this, as you surely want to do, without committing the crime yourself? Do you become the holy man in the temple who expresses himself necessarily through a chalkboard? Do you keep speaking but allow a fever dream to drive the content of your speech as you invent an entirely new universe?

The trick might be outside of language entirely. It might not be relevant how, or if, you speak at all. Because expression follows perception, perception must be the source. Shock the system, shock the monkey, sledgehammer tongues falling to the ground. See. You are a fucking infant. You are in it to zen it.

Lather, rinse, repeat. Lather with the quantum foam, where the buffalo roam. Can you hear me now? Beneath anything mechanical in our world, no matter how much strength it gains, no matter how much its agents seem to bear good tidings, there is the upset conveyed by spirit, or chaos, Hermes, Thoth, Trickster, Bugs Bunny, Eris, that clump of dirt, that star, that scratch on your cornea, your farting god. It's time to be paranoid. If you inspire paranoia, you better also feel it yourself.

"The soft overcomes the hadron collider." -Tao Teh Kinky

Things are moving in all directions. Try to contain it and an energy becomes more volatile and you feel more and more like a schmuck even though you're getting better and better at pretending that you're not. Maybe it doesn't matter what we say. Maybe verbal communication is a form of social grooming. I read that on the internet once!

It's not like we're actual zombies, that words become murderous at every level of stale interaction, right? I don't expect the spirit of liberation to ever have any continuing cult - that devotion belongs to the word. But a mad laugh blasts at what is innately disruptive and it won't feel any need to justify itself. There is no need for redemption when your goal is to exhaust every possibility of this existential singularity. So I am saying nothing, I hope. With any luck, these words will fall on deaf ears.

If you put the sound of one hand clapping on a loudspeaker, you hope that people don't start humming the tune. They'll pin you down in your isolated booth where you broadcast everything you found relevant from the wire, they'll dig for your voice so they can also surf out of the void on radio waves, and they'll eat you, eat away all illusion until you realize that you are one of them, as you always have been.

Now... the upset.

I really had you going, didn't I?

This was all a joke. A yolk. A soak.

The thing is, viral interpretations of memetics would frequently hope for expression as an alienated harmony of disparate cells. Conversely, there's flowing resonance, ripples in continuity to which we are all subject. We wouldn't call a wave in water a consequential villian spawned by the evil ocean, would we? It's okay to be a zombie, folks. Here, have my brains and I'll have some of yours. Lather, rinse, repeat.

All we ever wanted is to let the energy flow through us, to animate us in its passing. I couldn't blame anyone for that. We are all fools stepping off of that cliff and that requires no justification. Purpose would be contrived, and so it shall be. Contrive, motherfucker, contrive and thrive. You're alive.

History repeats itself to the extent that you recognize cycles. If the reference points seem a bit arbitrary and begin to dissolve, then it is not repetition so much as awareness reaching out for anything, which, amusingly, occurs at the beginning of a cycle. Truth may be best expressed in any old instance of paradox. Shock the system. I read that in the sky once. Why must you return? No, really, ask yourself that.


Repeat it until the bomb drops.
The Bomb Drops.
The Bomb drops.
The bomb drops.
the bomb drops
bomb


FIN
{translated as: I hope this doesn't feel conclusive}