Tuesday, March 22, 2005

Damaged life forms have multiple life spans, it's a universal law.

Top of the morning gents,

Just got back from the Post Office this morning.

Killer shit dudes; my folks mailed me 5 large boxes of all my slides, photos, and negs from Washington, the NANA Region circa the late 80's, and a shit load from my adventures overseas touring with the Shoreline Symphony Orchestra.

Big whoop ya say?

Grab yer mud flaps and grease yer speed bumps (groinulars and hemorrhoids) cuz you'll shit yer pants.

I've got pictures from firewood theft missions with deceased roommates, live show pics of Cully's Neuroshima band all over Seattle, photos of the Old AC Marina on front street, and pics of my house remodel jobs in Kotzebue and Willow.

I also have some pictures of gorillas swinging on rope swings, taking bong tokes in little cabins, and some lab ware in use at the infamous Hash House #1. You'll recognize the names and crimes, but not the faces. I'm lying.

Most of you sons of fucks are in these pics. I cackled at one with Columbo posing menacingly with my old Coupe De Ville. Fucker looks more like a mobster brandishing a weapon than my supervisor and narc handler.

Despite my rants and raves against the insane culture I married into, I admire a few aspects of IceNegroInsanity. Really, I do. I'm amazed at yer attachment to old photos of vapor kin, fast moving shadow children, and shrunken head Inukuns.

Besides an extraordinarily photogenic gal and a classy fucking broad, the Mrs. thoroughly enjoys faces of little kids and old ladies no longer breathing God's air. I even have a shit load of pictures of prepping and thawing her frozen uncle before his funeral up in Selawik.

Us monkeys are transfixed by images of dead people cuz we detect life and energy captured in my unwelcome photographs. That instant I snap a picture of dirty Selawikmutes with snotty noses, I truly believe my camera kyped a little bit of their daily electromagnetic output minus the phlegm, sinus syrup, and butt spray.

Ya see, just like an anomalous photographer possessing skills in stealing souls, my equipment has been tweaked also.

My mother rightly feared my 5 boxes of photos were haunted and responsible for raising a fucking ruckus downstairs in the old Richmond Beach Mansion, and upstairs in the far recesses of your tremendously fertile and adventurous collective memories.

Think about it. I capitalize on stolen souls and memories. Do you really think I was ever present during most of the tales I write?

I found some distorted photos of drinking with you thugs, shooting stray dogs from yer kitchen window, with a fully suppressed automatic. Think hard retard. For legal reasons arising from self-incrimination, none of us were ever there.

As with all things a thief owns. I stole them.

I have a picture of Dallas Hannah puttering down Front Street on his (and his murder victims) last day on Earth. I also have pictures of crooks and criminals partying with Troy, Higman, Nay, Jewell, Blanchard, and Stensland, faces long buried but vibrantly alive from the combined energy of all your memories.

Some real estate collects souls, and memories. Hash House #1 and Lem's Mortuary and Crack House have all night bars, cigarette machines that don't require coinage, vending machines full of beer, and assortment of devices and lab ware to assemble chemicals easier than a Lego Set.

All hominid life forms are agitated and disturbed due to engaging in violence for sex and sport. All life forms frenzy for a hierarchy of needs: food and shelter ain't needed hereafter, but good drink, smoke and company are a premium.

When any of you enter such premises, we'll hook you up with metaphoric chill pills, take your picture and freeze a backup copy of you for this particular life and universe.

That's how it works mates. More than comfort foods are served. We offer green beer and green toke, nicotine and strong drink, and most valued; cognition of all you lads.

After the next one of us bites the iron site, commits to long-term dirt sleep, or jumps into an urn full of resins, stems, and ashes, we’ll have a copy of all yer scripts and screenplays. I’m pleased to announce you all have certainly passed yer auditions.

I get to fuck with you, bullshit with you, and party with you; now and afterwards. Bonus dudes.

For the rest of your lives, we'll always recognize each and every one of you chaps. After the end of your lives, we'll forever be cognizant of your cursed souls, and the wreckage you've left behind for us dumb asses to clean up.

Ain't nothing to fret. Ya got no unfinished last business to tend to. You have forever to exist in the hearts and minds of the folks y'all fucked with.

Piece by piece, I'll scan and email tasty images from all yer past lives and deaths to help fill in the gaps in your memories. Trust me, after revisiting some ancient photos of body parts we called friends, you'll be stunned.

Callahan was right, all us numb nut mother fuckers have had strokes. You just didn't know it.

With the help of my brilliant lab assistant Kudra, whose nom de plume is a multifaceted alias, I should be able to do some repairs on your long-term recall via visual stimuli and memory retrieval by achieving of a chemically agreeable singularity.

Rerouting scarred train set switches and dodgy electrics merely serves to enhance compensatory skills. I have to excavate the disk space between your memory gaps, improving recall performance analogous to Tinitis, the single damaged nerve singing louder than it’s functioning counterparts. All achieved by viewing dead pals and reading fictional tales completely based in fact. Still with me?

What hasn’t killed you has only made you stronger, yet damaged; nothing a good spray of WD-40 into your rusty pan-pots won’t cure (panoramic potentiometers), and all yer gun toting mates sticking tight to hold yer hand, and yer drink.

Human life recycles just like the universes created within your imaginations and memories. Some of the neurotransmitter chemicals douching around in your brains took a long time to materialize, thus delaying brain development in humans for a fucking billion years.

The rare metals required for healthy brain function have taken numerous and divine processes to allow for us to steal a brief lifetime aboard these tweaked monkey platforms. Without these divine and horrific procedures, we'd be stuck with the old Reptilian model, structure and function. I'm tired of haunting Crustaceous life forms.

The Amphibious and Mammalian upgrades would've been stalled and on hold with us animated spooks deprived of decent craniums, thus stuck hanging about north of 70 lat. for fucking forever.

Don't believe me? Of the alphabet soup of metals required to build your retarded neurotransmitters, we had to wait through the slow ass processes required for our solar system to create them.

Few of you know your way around an element chart, but a lot of the rare conductive metals dissolved with the decaying LSD in yer brains require a couple solar life spans for their existence.

Here's an easy one for all you Alaskan maggots.

*Gold can only be made during a star super nova.

Yup. We live on a recycled planet and solar system that are debris from a previously exhausted and exploded 2-star system.

I chose Gold for illustrative purposes; some even more rare metals you've incorporated in the structure of your nervous system require multiple expansions and collapses of entire universes. We're on big bang expansion #11.

One of my smoking partners told me so. I agreed because of my inherent understanding, and aced his entire physical and cultural anthropology science curriculum.

Professor Lou Tarrant speculates through pipe smoke and beard that our habitually bipedal ancestry was forced to wait numerous solar life spans for the correct composite materials to emerge before the subsequent explosions in hominid brain mass and volume occurred.

The next time you have a thought, say a prayer for the random luck, or divine guidance that expanded and collapsed our universe like a fucking accordion numerous times merely to yield rare and highly conductive metals including Gold. Conductive metals needed to build a brain more complex than any other biological structure in this universe. On this expansion.

Since we're all masticating monkeys with a propensity for masturbation and recollection, I'll start adding photos of road kill, and house kill to stimulate the memories you lost from all your strokes.

What the hell. Beats jerking off to pictures of guns.

Some day we'll get free of these stinky bodies, and all the corroded switches and dodgy electrics within the confines of our failing brains.

The human body and our universe are more fascinating from far away.

We'll all know when yer dead, but you won't.

But don’t worry, samples and backup files have been kyped and stored in tales, reports and stories in the badly damaged minds of sick fucks we call friends.

Immortality within a turd.

That's us mates.


Karl.

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