Weird Fiction

Electronic heralds from a discontinued future, or electro-toxins seeking entrance to our world?  At any rate there is visionary hype emmanating from the data lairs of uncertain engines, unmanned vessels and perhaps yesterday’s Vanguard.

Or so it would seem from the flood of  info-projectiles and theory objects beaming into our atmosphere presently, encapsulated in the guise of off-world oracles. First impressions, first thousand impressions, click frauds, counter narratives and all!

A ruse, a ruse—all business as usual for the galaxies of networked beings for whom such mental transmission could be described as benevolent only to the extent that it is unconsconscious— a by-product of daydreaming.  With dreams come responsibility my friends, no one has time enough to stare blankly into ephemeral, if iridescent, data fields!  Trains of thought must contain information to be of value these days!

Data and sludge are always swirling around us, but those who have hacked their own sensory awareness, information addicts or other entities who, as self-inflicted auto-ectropians (optimistic if doomed), are coping with torrents of input unaided by even the most primordial of spam-filters!

Increasingly, retrograde remediation in the form of avian escorts, cybernetically enhanced flocks fitted with flashdrive strap-ons, dodge hertzian currents to assure swift arrival of information the old fashioned way.

Bring it down to Earth.

Although much data sludge will burn up in the noosphere, larger theory objects can reach the fleshy minds of mammals intact and present a risk.  Greater peril still:  material memories of failed utopias that come crashing as derelict space craft. Uncanny and alien, these calcified instantiations of visionary thought-forms are mistaken as alien implants.  A mis-perception coddled by  interdimensional entities –so called mental vampires—and possibly the obliterati. Stealth operatives who are crafting dialectical deposits–for example, placing advertisements for dental work, surgery and x-ray technology on a webpage with pictures of fallen space debris.  Vagaries of scale and proximity are commonplace in external memory palaces permeated with space-time transience and the pervasiveness of network realism, making these realms ripe for exploitation.

Sharpening of cine-molecular machetes, grooming of andalusian dogs and QWERTY keyboard at hand typing blindly as fast as you can, as fast as you can press the buttons, visual projectiles go careening into the crowd…or so it is written on the whisps of a Hertzian currrent:

20 S.E. 8th, Portland, Earth

I want to tell you a little story, because it makes me warm inside.  A little conjecture for hertzian space in the aftermath of the DTV “transition.”  A humanoid is cajoled into purchasing a “revolutionary” box, connected to her television,  it promises to deliver peace and democracy instantaneously under the auspices of picture clarity and throngs of new programming. Well…the device doesn’t help her receive normal, let alone utopian, images or sounds. But she does  get “something” out of all those incoming cubo-futurist projectiles, compelled as she isn’t to fidget with the auto-scan functions.

Plagued by nightmares and searing pain in her head, all at 3:04 in the morning, culminating in intensity on the morning of June 12th, 2009 when she begins furiously writing in binary code.  Perhaps the binary code’s, 0’s and 1’s might be able to be translated? Indeed! It just so happens that a temporary autonomous clone, in the guise of an astrophysicist  forced  to work as a janitor, enters the code into his iPhone to decode the message.  A picture coalesces:

Some day, we’ll look back and laugh…

Emanating into as-of-yet unseen Hertzian climes, piping out of the piles of precarious and soon to be outmoded electronics a fearsome fable foams. A Hertzian Tale for today’s somambulent meanderthals, those blackburied alive.  Those wired up in real-time but unattuned to the churning…a long-running rumbling redolent of forgotten deros!  On 12 June the inane chatter of the airwaves’  occupation will be reduced to a maligned whisper.  But listen closely to this whisper, a faint hum, nay, a pattern or fractal-like revelation of many micronarratives.  A triumphant whisper that will creep swiftly into a crescendo as the backdrop of static electricity takes center stage!

Of so many possible poems emanating from the dawn of time, take with you this tale now—of the sleeping giant, yet noisome in so many ways, a devilish sort who in fact crafted or co-conspired the coffin into which Vaudeville descended. The final nail for those poor vaudevillians, I’m sorry to say.  Sorrier to say that this message repeats— that the subject of this tome, this tomb, is a detrimental robot who also reaches the end of its useful existence, arrived, as all creatures flesh and tech are fated to do!! Gravely, this life has been too sinful for a heavenly uplink or jolt of tech-immortality; and yet even the Devil won’t settle for anything less than high-def ! And so this derelectroid is barred from hell as well.

Nowhere to go at the end of transmission.  The dastardly Devil mockingly tossed out some phantom limbs, tingling intangibles that,  glowing weirdly within flames of hell, were remediated in retrogradations by the anxious and abandoned dero on its perhaps doomed (tele)vision quest. Attaching these horn-like protrusions to a procession of analog residuals plentiful–even now–along the banks of the river Willamette, this fearsome foe began endlessly wandering the e-wasteland called Earth, endlessly auto-scanning for a wandering signal, an empty channel a glimmer of hope.