Where to begin…with the good or the bad. I needed leadership. I needed the role of a dad to be leader. Financial supporter wasn’t enough. Bread winner wasn’t enough. The money created opportunities but look at how those opportunities were treated without leadership! I know we’re all just doing the best we can or could, but dad…he was absent, he was not the leader…there was no leader. Brother fell suit. Mom wore so many hats. Hats that couldn’t have ever fit. The role of the father is, as I’ve been reading, to the child & to the family, the leader. No greater opportunity of leadership will pass a man. For the child, for the family, no greater possible leadership figure will exist, compared to that of the dad. And like, all those hours I spent in my room sleeping. Sleeping off the time. Punished in there. Time traveling…Maybe it was good for me though. Maybe having no direction allowed the kind of room that no exists: spaceless, timeless, & unlimited-ness. All that sleep… All those games…. Both are still a part of my life though I’ve made conscious efforts to put a stop to it. The only game I play now is soldat.pl; sleep I still try. But its embedded. It’s removable. Maybe after lots of therapy. But like I almost mentioned…maybe there is good in it. The way the opportunities of childhood were blown off; the way those teachers had no influence. My creativity protected. My freedom internalized. No one to follow. No one to disagree with… it might have been a blessing. And we’re talking about myself too, now that I’m a Dad. Maybe the real blessing will be seen in my child. It will be irrefutable: the blessing. I don’t know completely how but I know why, where, when, & what. And it’s not about retribution. Or making anyone feel bad. It just is. Detached. I’ve forgiven. I’m just really trying to anticipate how. Because I know how important I’m about to be. And not to use my example as what not to do, but in terms of leadership…We shared moments though. Like when we would go to the charlotte checker’s games. How I’d fall asleep on the way home. The basketball games…But when I got cut from the 7th grade team where were you? Where was anyone? I don’t know the smallest things are so to big to the child. And the child needs that leader. I’m going to be that leader. I might not have money. I don’t. But I will have leadership. Of the house. For this is my house. And for me and my house, we will be spiritual, we will create, we will support each other, & we will advance our collective nest. Collaboration. Involvement. Trust. Creative outlets. Positivity. Intention. And who is to blame? I’ve haven’t asked but I bet that leaderless life began before me, before you became an adult. When you were a child. Did you have a father figure leader? I have never asked. I don’t blame you. It’s the chain. It happens to so many & it’s so hard to break. Generation after generation. But, maybe with all of the financial support, you created an opportunity for me to break the cycle when or if I recreated. You caused an awareness. You allowed that space. And what of the other 50%? Of my DNA. I’m whole brain dominant, that’s how you shaped the way I work, mechanically. To balance out that creativity with logic. It’s a real beauty of a blend. It’s hard sometimes to assimilate with society. And to follow the rules of others. To follow at all. To obey. I see it right through it. It’s taken time and lessons but I’ve learned how to do it. Because of the abundance. Now as we discussed I am much less the potential artist than mom. That’s because of the logic. But, again, as discussed, she chose something else. I’m not choosing something else. Creating, leading, inspiring through prolific abundance of words & visuals & family. Making magic out of thin air with our hands. And our voice. And the way we do things. It’s no one’s fault. I forgave a long time ago. I forgive. I forgive you. And I love you. I will always. I appreciate everything you’ve done & sacrificed. And how you tried your best. Thank you. Now it’s my turn. For the hive!
Antoine reaches for a smartphone from his back pocket. As he reaches and twists his right shoulder he says: “I don’t know why, I don’t know…why, but for the past ten minutes I’ve been thinking about survival…in a way I’ve never thought about it before.” And more so than the thought itself, Antoine, after sixty years, wonders where or why the thought never thought before took so long to be thought. All of a sudden; ten minutes ago. For the past ten minutes and for next 83021 hours he will think in this way about survival. A semi-permanent shift; until the next shift occurs. “Survival,” he says while reaching & twisting, “survival…for some people survival is food & water, meal to meal, and shelter. But for us, the highest privileged, survival is getting that time to read a new book… for the people who live in ready abundance, survival is the possession of infinite choices & not-talked-about-limited-time to spend however they like. In a way, a large population living right now has transcended the needs & requirements of life, because of the abundance, and will either live to advance the universe’s knowledge by creating or live to detract from the universe by dispersing their life’s energy over time through a short but full series of breaths in the pursuit of take take taking from the earth & each other for luxury & benefit by All The Things. Twisting, “It’s incredible, really..”
We don’t altogether have too much to say, but the form dictates it…”having lived out my life, once I am dead, my life goal will be seen as a simple thing. I did my best to aim for prolific production across many mediums. This is all. Yes on the day to day I grew to find positivity & joy, & reproduced, and did the things required of me. In the end though, once it is all done & said, I will have created intense depth by creating so much. And even when the struggle hits & the days pass without a word or line or drawn face, we had or have done or will or are doing the best we or I can to be prolific, to ruthlessly, sometimes blindly, put out there what it is that comes to us in the night, in the day, on the shitter, by the creek, at the brown desk, using the 700, poolside, in darkness & in light. And the search continues. I am thankful for 447s for giving my ambition at least one deadline per day, although we understand we must surpass even this level of output if we wish to ever have been considered prolific, when it is over, when the time has run out for us to create here on this place, at this time, at that time, for however long, as much as we can, on this day, on that, on those days, on the coming of days, to it all we pledge, at the least, our best despite it all!”
The most beautiful woman: “that’s mine,” she said. And he knew two things, perhaps three. The first is a question: “can we truthfully claim ownership of anything?” The second is a statement with feeling: “but nothing is ours.” And the third is this: “however, though we cannot claim truthfully, can we actually? As the law of Universi states, ‘I am a part of the Universe, thus I am Universal.’ So yes, if done right, we may take claim to everything & everyone if we accept ‘mine’ as the synonym for ‘universal’. To say that yes, this is mine, this is one, this is you, this is ours just as they & Justin have said time & time again, to each other, against each other, for each other, in all of all, all things being one.
During the move from there to here the k120 fell apart. The ‘Ctrl’ key, bottom left location, fell off & locked its ability into permanent engagement. Thus when I tap the letter A the k120 responds ‘CtrlA’. And I get it, I get what it’s saying & meaning. K120 knew I had backup keyboards: the 700 & T3A002. It knew of my attachment, to it, to k120, and it knew in such times of radical change–these times– control must be lost, & the one who forgoes control must be okay with losing it, must adapt. I’m not sure if the story of k120 has been written yet so I will go ahead & carve out this piece of non-fiction for the first or second time. So you understand. First, where does the name “k120” come from? It doesn’t come from being crazy. Sorry to disappoint. k120, as with most other things I name, is the model name. And so you know, for the other things when the model name doesn’t exist, or if the model name exists but it’s deemed unsuitable, I look for a sequence or pattern & create the name based on my findings. Sometimes there is a gap of interpretation. To mean I at times, with meaning, draw connections & make conclusions to bridge it, to, for example, notice a damaged corner unmasking the material underneath, then to draw the connection between the way the damage splinters in sections of 3, & then to complete the process by detecting the name through an intuitive, at times blind, tapping movement of finger ends against key heads. So, as it rests, k120 is the model name. It is printed in the top right hand corner. White letters against a black surface. Now how did k120 gain significance? Prior to August 2013 it was just a keyboard. No name, no significance. It had use & purpose, as a keyboard attached to my main computing rig, but this is all. It worked through The Chronicles and 44v1 and the things. I do not remember how it was acquired. Or when it was acquired. Now, for the significance piece, & I apologize I am running out of time. There’s only eight or so minutes left before I must put this down & abandon. Only three minutes now. The shower must be fast. The significance of k120: in middle school I acquired a flask of holy water. In the day of August, before I began the divine translation I opened the flask for the first time and dumped its holy contents onto & into the soul of k120. It was a direct pouring, right into the keys, & with an ecstatic euphoria the keyboard was blessed. And in blind style, I put my fingers down onto the wetness & viciously translated for minutes as the holy channel of god.
Jobe’s ears were constricted by a new pair of large headphones. Both lobes squished partly out the bottom, and the cartilage lining the tops of his ears reddened by the pressure of form & music. He lay on his bed with an open book face-down resting on a stomach breathing slowly, to the slow beats of his chosen music. The pain of his ears and the music of his device together gave him a freedom he would count on, day-after-day, many days & nights & mornings–whenever he could–to escape or assimilate or cope with the changing environment of his home & of his friends & of his body. “There is no control here–I have no control of anything, I never did…” Posters & magazine clippings, drawings & report cards, calendars & pictures of all sizes, of all sizes of everything, were carefully assembled with double-sided tape to hide the white walls underneath. Once put up, Jobe never took what he taped down. In a sense, there in his room with two focuses, legs crossed at the ankles, hands crossed & intertwined at his chest, open-book being temporarily finished rising & falling to a slow pattern of breath, he simultaneously existed in the accumulation of his past with a sharp pain in his lobes holding him hostage in the present, all to themed music, which he controlled with a flick of thumb. A barren, light brown desk vibrated to three computer fans, caked with years of dust, cooling a computer that hummed at its best & displayed graphic pornography at its worst. “To feel pleasure, to feel it now & now I do not want I do not know, I am in love but the girl does not love me back,” we hear from Jobe. He’s young. An older brother has grown past this stage of Jobe’s in a room adjacent, yet both are in their rooms, “for one’s own space is necessary,” Jobe’s older brother replied. And he too played music, from a stereo. His sounds rang out & vibrated & hummed against the painted walls, underneath the half-inch space between door & low-rise champagne carpet, into the hallway, down the kitchen, into bathrooms, into his brother Jobe’s room who had his own interests. The proof was there, on his walls, the words from his book, the way he crossed things together like his ankles & hands, his eyes when he shut them, pain & music thematically played to passionate, pulsing love heating his body for some current girl to ease the stiffening bone below, nothing more, but Jobe doesn’t know that yet, “he will,” his older brother replies. Somehow we’re all together in this, somehow.