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 familiar.
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 corner.
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 channel changes.
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 the clock.
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 own.
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.
Sister Beatrice and the Cosmos
by Sara Dobbie
... The buzz of the tattoo gun causes her back to stiffen in anticipation ...
Death of a Beach Bum
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... Below, he had curled in a manger of seaweed, / having sprang from the prow to search // the soft bay floor ...