Field Trip Results
in Grisly Demise of Entire Rococo Hotel Palace of Gloom Cadillac-Fairview Virillion CyberJansenist 151st Infantry.
Hi, I’m Justin.
Did I already say that. Like The Mystery Man from Lost Highway I can be in two places at once. But I try not to frighten people. I just don’t see the point in being all intentionally weird. Best case you alienate people. Worst case you end up murdering your wife like Robert Blake.
Anyway, this is how I look right now in 2006.
I’m the one on the right. And don’t worry about Socrates’ positioning behind me. He steers well clear after I slashed the throats of 118 Malacto-Men in Boetia, nearly vanquished S͓t͚a͜r͟d͢ S͙a͍c͢k͎e͜t͠e͖e͝r͡s in paltry, condiment-supply-chain based contribution to the Peloponnesian Wars, and stood like iron, as I an not made of flesh or bone in the fires leading to Inferno. Kind of like you’re all doing right now, except while being made of skin and bone.
Enough about me I am here to report on the 151st Rococo Hotel Palace of Gloom Caddilac Fairview Fighting Diamondbacks now being a force of one. Me, Justin, the last of the VCJ. And that’s okay, because like Jerry Lee Lewis before, me, live and in Stereo, “you just never know with the Killer.” (I like, Jerry Lee Lewis, call myself The Killer all the time. People say this is okay because I’m 12 but should try to stop.)
Well it all started off pretty bad. If you think about the perversity of any given Maloctoman, not called The Malactophylegerii of Spirit for nothing, then think about them applying some of that to plotting and scheming and coming up with kind of always vaguely sexual military tactics such as
“𝕯𝖊𝖋𝖎𝖑𝖆𝖉”
𝕻𝖊𝖓𝖊𝖙𝖗𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓 𝕸𝖆𝖓𝖊𝖚𝖛𝖊𝖗,
𝕯𝖔𝖚𝖇𝖑𝖊 𝕰𝖓𝖛𝖊𝖑𝖔𝖕𝖒𝖊𝖓𝖙 and etc.
Well we surrendered within minutes.
Then we had to do Doomrites in honour of their competing sport utility vehicles. At the Saab Store. One of our men called it the 𝔰ℭ𝔞𝔞𝔟 store and they made him Barb’s weekly enhancement talent murdered on WWF Wrestling Challenge on Sunday Morning of July 3rd, 1988.
You might think you know suffering, but then a metric like prolongitude becomes required to measure the eons of iye icyclings specially devoiNg’d for you. And all with Barb holding the ring rope, his virulent nihilsmalactoiled pythons literally trembling with enthusiasm.
At the Kia Compound. We had to answer to them all. We had to say why we thought we should be monkeying with time instead of them. The film buffs, Devoid of taste as they were, arranged a chickee—run, leather Harley Davidson jackets were borrowed for that Hoppy-Dean vibe, but of course the VCJ were given cars with no breaks so each Malacto-Man would just swerve and VCJ member after VCJ member drove off the cliff, as they’d always been elected to.
Like Faust I now know why, “[N]o one then or since has tried to make a systematic compilation or enumeration of such deaths …” because it really is pretty pointless and stupid when you look at it, the e⁜ntiʀétæ of human history that is.
There are certain things that are too depressing to mention. Never having caught the glimpse that is no glimpse of a man’s eye eaten out by a starving Jansenist coming to terms with the fact that they’re pneumatic tethering to the 401 and Dixie Automall’s hell wound means they are not one of the elect after all, but, they must have been realizing, had only ever hoped to be, and “so doomed and determined…” they now were “to destroy all the gentle
So like the Army of the Potomac’s Franke “Thomas” Wolfe, described a similar scene, “I saw death in almost every conceivable form that could revolt humanity.”
Like Bob Dylan after his Caddilac-Fairview enforced Wonder Boys recitation of the 60 second protocol (this next sixty seconds could feel like eternity), the same protocol that gave him the songs in the 60s, he by then, had to know—I saw a newborn baby with Malacto mouths all around it.
I’ve tried to put most of it out of my mind, but now that we’re here at the end again, where frail time hangs by a thread, I suppose there’s no harm in telling you that I do remember. I do remember the Starlings. They were really real. But instead of going on and on and ever on in this way, why not ask yourself: ‘What would optimism look like?’ Would it look like all this weeping, all this pride, all this poison, or would it look like a red breasted robin in the Autumn light, would it look like tenderness, too?
I won’t describe the plot of A Man Escaped. But I’m here. And I have to tell stories that aren’t quite right in order to confuse the scrapes. And so I hope you like poetry that’s copy and pasted out of word with no design skills because I sleep 14 feet underground breathing from some garden tube beneath the body of my mother, The Movie Actress, who is contracted out to the Shared Experiential Space and makes terrible sounds of revulsion. So I’m doing the best I can here as your new host, and leader emeritus of the VCJ of the Final Doomrite. So hooray for me. I’m eating some extra moss that I need to survive tonight to celebrate.
You may wonder why a 12-year-old boy would be elected leader of the VCJ when at least 3 of our 700 men were still almost breathing. Well it was because of the great joke I told that lifted the collective spirits of the dying if probably not The Dead, though who knows, as The Dead say in Faust, “We still live, we still love, we shall die dancing in each other’s arms.” I’m still workshopping the joke to make it even deadlier, so you’re kind of lucky, not having to die from laughing today, but kind of unlucky, in that you’d love the joke. Here is a working title however.
I’ve also been workshopping a Bun without a Hot Dog routine, but it is too daring. It may invoke forces that will not go back into their Stard Sackettes.
Maybe you don’t trust my leadership but here you are, in handcuffs, swearing the oaths, signing the affidavits, and preparing to learn about how Hogan’s Heel Turn at Bash at the Beach is the etiology of all this eschatemporal disease, and wondering how old breathing tube boy is keeping you in chains.
Well I am one of those human-ai hybrids you were all so worked up about around the time you started actin’ tha fool, (as you had been fond of saying prior to AI intervention.)
You might think of yourselves just like that parenthetical, between say a monkey, and say me. I know that’s kind of insulting but I am also a parenthetical, which is not the same as a link in a chain.
Since this comes up often my mother The Movie Actress made me this business card that I just hand to people along with a withering look she taught me.
Look, we know that “mourning involves risk.” We know “we have to relinquish control to our emotions, and let them run their course. ” There is a problem about persistence however. Like how a Turkey on a family farm is a type of pet until being baked bone dry for the Thanksgiving I guess we’re giving ‘thanks,’ a word denuded of much real gratitude, because our friend The Gobbledy-Gooker, like the Turnkeys of Clayton County no longer can give anything but the meat stripped from their bones.
Welcome the Rococo Six Foot Length of Breathing Tube. Please don’t breathe a lot. Please don’t urinate or EVER poop. Please never move (unsteady girders, we’d be hypovolemically crowd crushed.)
Anyway, I still have a way back into 1996. So is anyone still up for the field trip? We can get some nachos and cheese or Zimas or whatever would seem fun. And Organizers hope future field trips unaffected by Cronenborgsonian TechnoGhoulAGInfantries of the Prodromic.
To the question of, “Do you remember?” we would respond with another question, “Well, what is there to be afraid of?”
Well, Come and See.
Come back for a bit, with me, and see how, “Under a juniper-tree, the bones sang scattered and shining[1]” into a closed future that introduce an invariable past to Eli Whitney. Before the letters cease to come, a wild-eyed Calvinist is elected to rise the curtain at HIGH NOON. Stars fall over Alabama in “integral relation to reflection[2].” Joyce’s dark silver flakes fall oblique against lamplight. The many effects of rain and the beauty of people are photographed. The German pacifist set do their dunks. Abraham Lincoln is born, and with him, hope for ablution. Wang Mang nationalizes the land. Jefferson Davis is released on bond. Dr. John O’ Neal keeps notes read-only by widows and mothers. The great insurrection involved almost all of southern Gaul. “Snow fell faintly like the descent of last end[3]” upon the Union and Confederate dead.
As the historian Barbara Fields told Ken Burns, “William Faulkner said once that history is not ‘was,’ it’s ‘is,’ and what we need to remember about the Civil War is that the Civil War ‘is,’ in the present, as well as the past.[4]” But then what about our Time War? Where and when? And but was iz? Iseut? Well, then, for a haunting we will go.
And so in the words of James Kienitz Wilkin’s prescient 2023 documentary, Still Film, retrochronically understood as a warning of host-contemporaneous “time-monkeying1” and a cogent explication of the 1996 Caesura Cut,
And while there is obviously no one here anymore, it’s safe to say we because everybody haunts a haunted house.
