Mind into matter. The Motel was a syntactical structure bio-socially
engineered to facilitate the metaphormical logisticational narrative
process that would cohere Johnny Storyhead with the premises, premised
on the terms of the human constitution, its nature. The Motel was a
model whose geometry was arranged to gather resonances, an interactive
zone for information patterns to converge. The Motel was a glamorous
analogical interface configured to tell it what it was, to conclude its
ahistoricity. It was a temple and a template for literalization. A
topological manifold for begetting. A sympathetic machine for creating
human awareness and transducing linguistical capability. For reversing
the fall of man through immersion in hypercontextuality and …
Blahblahblah—this and a thousand clauses, subclauses, and
techno-theological claims could be found in its 493-page patent. It was
an object for creating a subject, simply. It screamed for noise and
compelled it and used it. To put words on something flesh-ish.
The towering pillars at the Motel’s front entrance were like giant
wings/ears, one of many correspondences between inorganic (mostly)
building materials and corpo-reality, one entering into the lobby by way
of the two eye-shaped doors, a thing constructed on a foundation of
great personal and transpersonal sacrifice, embedded in the city’s
infrastructure, the sheets of that embedding made of the social fabric,
laundered in the spin cycle of The News; a basin for attraction that
intercoursed with the attentional flow of what was trending,
synchronized with the memetic hubbub of Panglossiad’s culture
in-formation, the swirling chaotic patterns in the carpet strangely
Its rates were the best in town. The coffee was worth writing home
about. The scones, my God, the scones …
So yeah thus the Motel was something like an ecology of a certain
mindfulness. The Motel literally minded its business. An intellectual
property for emerging intellectualizing properties. A pro-visional place
of articulation. A novel place of manifestation, infesting a kind of
spirit/mood, its ratios designed to develop ratiocination, a most
reasonable place to spend the night, in this Tower of Babel, this …
The Boniface calls him Johnny. Johnny’s like a weird tuning fork. A
tuning fork & knife. Well-honed and vigilant cutlery, watching the
guests’ sleep-faces, vacancies liberated briefly from the need to be
anything, a return to who they were before they checked in to
themselves, all personal maintenance work returned to the body whose
recyclical systems were animated in the wake of ego’s dissolution.
Johnny’s attached by an umbilicus, a tether, as it moves in the
labyrinth above the guest rooms, moving on blind instinct to whichever
room generates the most passionate hum in its body, whosever dreams are
the most collective, primordial.
Johnny’s made from the stuff of the world, incepted words. The miracle
was their replication into meaning, spooling into reality through an
info-generating process of synonym and antonym. Into a human capacity.
Tonight is its birthday. For 9 months Johnny has been watching the
guests, drawn by the chaotic attunements in his sheath, an antenna
signaling what he should watch, where he should put his attention, a
dowsing rod for the universal coagulant, a dreamcatcher for deliverance.
Now, compelled by the hatching hum blooming in his sacrum, the most
resonant it has yet felt, Johnny watches the guest watch TV. He watches
him turn it off. Never has Johnny been compelled to watch a guest who
was not asleep. This is kinky, his umbilicus literally kinked around the
As the guest wriggles and writhes into his sleep’s nest, sloughing off
the day’s skin, something hot begins to twist and slink up Johnny’s
spine as it gazes into the wide-open eyes of the guest who is now
asleep, the TV still on. And then it happens. Johnny sees what it was
created to see, a perspective that consummates its creator’s vision. In
its creator’s eyes, all of history is redeemed.
The sheath glows an auroral goblin green, quivers, and rises to point to
Johnny’s head. Johnny bends down close to look at it and its meatus
dilates, spasms, and ejaculates on Johnny’s impassive face, shooting a
be-coming bolt of Promethean jizzmatic fire into its brain, a load of
logistics, fertilizing its mind with the stimulating make-believe stuff
of the world. Johnny sees his own reflection for the first time. The
Nocturnal transmission. Here and now the proverbial luciferic light came
on. When he saw himself in the glassy black eyes of this guest sleeping
with eyes open, fully clothed, TV on in the background, his hands
crossed on his chest like a vampire or pharoah. He watched until dawn
when the guest became aroused with a strangling noise himself and left.
Johnny descends by the umbilicus into the guest’s vacated room. The TV
is still on. On the side table he finds a gathering of loose-leaf
papers, filled with words whose meanings had yet to be fulfilled. With
these Johnny covers his nakedness, aware now of how his sheathed penis
would look to the rest of the world. Different. Lunatic. Blasphemous.
Threatening. The watcher is now aware of being watched. Johnny is now on
Alit by the radiant spew of a novel dawn, Johnny embraces the Boniface,
a first, and tells him he loves him, a last. The Boniface cuts the cord.
Though some would say that it was just a complex set of algorithms and
memes; that it was just a gimmick intelligence interfacing with altered
carbon, silicon, and a pathetic resin with a history of intrigue and
colonial vampirism behind it. Regardless, he was learning, and learning
to learn. He was thinking about his thoughts, aware of his own
awareness, and he understood your perspective and how it related his its
His eyes were fully human looking, as scanned the horizon for the
Sacrament. He is a living plot device. Designed to self-construct upon
reading. Off to re-enact the primal scene, to find a mate.
Chase Dayton lives in Texas with himself and others.