Digitaloveletter

The rediculosity rating of these things is on a scale which is measured in acres, and that's a metric acre! So when you find yourself fighting against each other on the same side in a cocktacular freakout it's not surprising that the dumbest guy in the room's last words were "what does this do?". PARK IT to the Cookie Cutter Queen, as she ACHES for the adventurous change promised over low flames and camping nylon! Beware the flotsam which greases the gears in this robot dating dance to madness; they have diamond tipped teeth and club shaped eyes, and their hearts are as black as spades, so don't call _me_ count darktacula, unless you're a chinatown bean curd babe, all rice-y nice and noodly good, expressing your needs in easily understood woo shoes dancing. . no time for the small talk of small minds, idiot ramblings from the left side of nowhere will do just fine in a pinch, and I GOT HANDFULS!

My vocabulary is ten times the size of the planet, and i have memory recall with wrong dip switches thrown. it makes one stray from the expected path during emotional aftermath, like the cold absence of a missing limb once the umbilical chord is struck. These expressions are meant for one, though viewable by many, and we're all extras playing fallout victims in documentaries about the future. So lets be done with the world, before it starts in on us. Our time is too short to squander on research and development, lets get right to product testing in this revisionist identity of prolonged suppression.

Once in a while you have to spend a month of sundays thinking about yesteryear and the times you thought tomorrow would bring, then shake your head at your shadow and wag a finger, because its times like this when taking stock of the Now is like bad investment advice from a talking dog. Building 7 was hubris.

Your mind is like a pickled leg, floating aimlessly in a form fitting stocking, the kind old people wear to keep the blood up and the doctors down. Your life sometimes feels like a beginning which has a short end but a middle that goes on forever, looking for fingers who snake across your skin like a band of hungry travelers crossing the desert, packing more than enough water but scant excuses for roots, their nuts run low and soon the camel will complain. It is not for my hands to feed the camel, (it will dine only on sand and dreams), for it is the grace of a windstorm which blows these tactile semaphores across the prairie of your flesh, while tectonic twitchings bring tendons taught and an airy chill crosses your chest. Hot DAMN! Soon enough the dimensional rifts will make themselves heard and our laughter will cackle cross the skies to the dupes down below, punctuated reminders that the fun wagon's full and the rest are on their own.

Friendulicious results from a poorly planned proof; it's a rotten morsel of bitter fruit when we harbour lost moments of our future and wind our way through streets long forgotten. Someone once looked at all this and said something particularly poignant and smart-allecky, but that's not what you're concerned with, are you? Furtive requests bring only scornful retests from the culture barons, and it's high time this town lost its cool and got on with it.

Slivers of positive work, building resistance through progress towards something a little better than the now, but maybe you have a better plan? Aerogel structures and buried bunkers sound good to me, but i'll settle for something that blends with fantastic surroundings. If you can help draw up the floorplans, i'd trust the foundation.

Walking your memories around the block a few times to ask them Important Questions, what do you find the question is all about? Somewhere along the way, did you and your memories start noticing many more mirrors in the myriad of morality which passes as hu/mankind™ (for now)? Was that a Big Cosmic Message, or crazy freak of happenstance? Regardless, there's something screwy going on and we're along for the alleged ride. Portly messengers of the mediocritants, the beautiful mutants hear the writing on the wall and look at each other with protective eyes.

Science is sexy, and spirituality is sensual, so with a nice balance, you become a good influence on those who could use the reminder, lest I become saucer fuel as our captors/saviours pull back from the solar system to get a good look at the damage. With at least 8 other dimentions to pitch wackyvibes through, the future plays like a skipping rock which makes waves as many times as it can muster before slipping below the surface. The wrong patterns follow this routine and we wind up with trailer parks, robson street, condoculture™, pandering to a public as dumb as the post, and the good hives are emptying at an alarming rate, do you have an answer you tell yourself?

I woke up yesterday 100% sure that there was no way I could ever be 110% sure of anything, and that set my mind at ease. All was right in the electromagnetic spectrum and the constants were holding their own. Laboratronic devices mixmatched with handcrafted connections, surrounding ones self in the detritus of our pastimes, hiking the trails to pack out what you pack in. Stilted at impressionable times, forgiven frugality with fantastic fortunes, the chi's been juiced and it's only a matter of time. Up for following dreams to nowhere, and not ending up in a ditch?

Just because we don't do it, doesn't mean it can't be done. But if you wake up one day to find you're the bass player for Hideous Boogertime And The Downtown Marauders, touring endlessly on a bus of madness to destinations both banal and tepid, then it's time to fly by the seat of your pants while wearing some sensible slacks. Weapons of mass construction are brought to bear, physical and psychological, the psyops bounce back and forth like a goat on greased ice.

Of course, this also reminded me of a dream i had, about a woman who smelled like giggles and tasted like fun, WAY better than a flying dream where all the rivers are made from chocolate tears of my enemies. Tarnation, that's some good sleeping, and the next day the luck plane was in my favour, zebra striped intersections where make believe's not forgotten and pedestrian crossing lights behave The Control Signals; guarded secrets passed down by the Illuminated Lodge of Ancients. Yeti brethren smile, and the forest trembles.

Piloted by your steady hand, our escape pod manouvers in and out of mediaforest mediocrity, RE/Searching pockets of protection where calm comes easier than a breath of fresh air. Will you inspire me to pitch a tent while you chop wood? A great man once said "The future is more of the same, but like it's never been before!", and History™ shows us this is true. But there's one thing that curiocitizens wonder about their representatives; which ones are the shapeshifting lizards? Sure, when we were kids this all seemed like so much jumping around in the playground opening scabs on our elbows, but tire swings were never a good design, and most people grow up to do food service at some point in their lives, becoming an Adult, and on that day (the moment when hope and wonder dim ever so slightly), you grin and realize just how much we still have in the tank.

The passions of moving water hold great capture on the lost sense of connection in the rivalry between man and nature, technology and mutation, the prevailing sense of cultural danger and security as commodity. You rolled up beside me and, a stranger, offered a lift. "Where are you going?" I asked, only half-curious, mind already made up. "Where we're headed.", and receiving that reply, I get into the Escape Saucer. Buildings roll by, cinderblock standardized industry, the character of dilapidated dreams deep in decay, strange accents and untraveled roads through fascinating dregs, i twist the map while your mastery of vector-tracking threat assessment dissolves long-standing phobias related to hurtling faster than my own legs can take me.

Glass towers in an earthquake zone never made much sense, but then neither does most of the mass culture movement of mob mentalities, our rented time in the trenches are a capricorny solution to a really bad joke that's gone on way too long. But off the clock, it's generative culturemoments and a lengthy flanneur which punch the button. Telemoronicitizens and The Excessively Happy™ need not apply, there's darkness in the day mediaguzzling can't deny, so why waste your taste on titular overload when a handful's more than enough?!?! Avarice! The lethargy's infectious though we're each other's innoculant temptation, and your smile is preventative medicine, while my laughter is accidental yoga.

Once in the woods, you stash the saucer, and I suss out the rain-tardent tie-downs for tent-peg tenaciousness. I own my own thermarest, and know how to use it. That said, I'm not about to lay down an elaborate series of nets and traps, finding us with a dinner to skin on anything more pain-aware than a pomegranate. I don't know how to maintain an alternative energy power generation system, but if you can teach me how, the next 23 pictures I draw would be named after you. Common sense must take random mutation into account, and i'm looking for a beautant.

Moisten the brow of a fired up frau and you'll have more than lingering smiles to think about the rest of the day (and into the future of your projected memories). Back when we were becoming who we'd no sooner be, I'd sit around the campfire, saying "Let's be done with the world, before it starts in on us, our time is too short to waste on research and development; let's get right to product testing!" and 'Pooter Fenderson would shift another log onto the fire while we watched a crackling wine bottle. In the passing flames I've worn my share of free suits given from friends, not for their price, but for their history, and when you've walked downtown in another man's jacket, the whole place smells of triumph. Does that happen with you and skirts?

Sometimes I wonder where to go looking for the lady who will put the end in girlfriend, perpendiculocated projections of her passions pointed my way, and mine do in turn, yet up 'til now we frustratedly flailed for signals and flares which told of each heart opening, when we would be ours and the careless misinformed minds of those around would matter less than negligent rumor. Giggling like familiar morons at one and others' abandoned weaknesses, we might not be the type, but our subtext makes all the sense in the world. Oversaturated notation in the music of lunatics, our tune fills each others heads like so much polenta thickening on the balcony of our fervent hearts. Are you humming along? I can't carry the tune alone.

But it's so quiet out there in Digitaland; you're tired of the tepid, or perhaps perturbed with pretense, online shopping turning your romantic hopes into absurd ideology. Perhaps your proactive gestures were previously misdirected, subsequent salaciousness squelched through inferior delusion. Special needs students realizing they don't need the rest of the class, just some refined focus.

"When I can't get what i want, I'll take what I can get." -Official Vancouver 2010™ slogan for 2008! We bribe our conscience and discover there's nothing like buckets of fish and a rolling log when you're riding the fraser current. Well, I'm paddling upstream, because the tide's coming in and the smell looks terrible. Still, the fanny bandits watch my wandering walk while ladies doubt my wandering talk, and those who seek adventure through employment find it's seldom the case, so I'd rather fall in love than save the world. Then I realized; falling in love with the world accomplishes both.

Did you play your part or do your job? In a locked down lovenest of a lascivious leviathan, to express desire is to make it inaccessible. Reverse-polarity manifestations where the mirage becomes all-too real, and our singular element is seen through infinitely divisional ways. Perhaps you've yet seen what you want, from the crowd of things you don't; communications which time out reconnecting, like a powerchordscrape on a fender neck with a three sided die in a time of role players. Hungadunga!

So i close this loveletter to damsels digitalicious and lucid ladies of lotusland, my time having been spent waving from the other side of the screen far too much to feel productive anymore. I was not convinced of the reasoning, but the rhymes were fun, and i hope you've had a good guffle spittled with loose grins and participant eyes, because we all have to be able to look ourselves in the face without lying, at least most of the time. When I feel like believing in tomorrow, i find today unimaginable, but will you come running when I pinwheel into traffic, will you be seeking the attentions of many men, or those of one? My focals are fairly fixed after friendliness falls to fornicating, old fashioned but firmly fun (as far as i figure), but finding our way there would be fraught with forethought, so find the time for fun or feel the flight of fortuity.

I await your saucer,
CHUPACABRA!!!!!

ART by olo J Milkman

TEXT by olo J Milkman