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FROST WARNING #02 A STORMWATCH INFORMATION FRONT PUBLICATION
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"BORN UNDERGROUND"
[Jeff Weston]
<Haruspx@aol.com>
Chicago, Il - USA
[ July 8, 1997 ]
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[S.I.F. -- Frost Warning Contact Information:]
WWW: http://www.cryogen.com/acidrain
E-mail: <acidrain@cryogen.com>
[PGP Key Available on Request]
REDISTRIBUTE/REPUBLISH FREELY IN UNMODIFIED FORM
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Stormwatch Frost Warnings -- G-Files for the dawn of the 21st Century
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[Note from Jake Century: Order from Chaos - repeat that to yourself. Jeff
Weston is a freelance writer from the Windy City with a unique abstract
writing approach that makes you wonder if you're reading the back of a Dylan
album, listening to a Frank Zappa song, or deep in the throes of a Syd Barrett
scribbling. How does one come to write about "underground shoes which walk
down into the inner earth where things are backwards...?" In his words, "Went
to art school then gave it up for bars and books." One doesn't merely read
something like this, one must EXPERIMENT with it in ways which annoy the
government and parents' groups.]
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IN dreams GHEDE is receiving messages from the underground. They come
in bundles wrapped with string. They are written in crayon, they've got cheese
stains in the corner, and are impossible to read in bright light cuz the words
get scared and run off. GHEDE's got underground pants, he's got underground
shoes which walk down into the inner earth where things are backwards. He
counts his change thinking of the good days when we had wars together and fired
guns into the air in celebration. Imagine a long counter, made of stainless
steel, where a dozen horse's heads are lined up for inspection. That's the
feeling GHEDE gets. He pictures Godzilla marching through Tokyo in high heels.
He sees a carnival in the universe, except he wasn't invited. The underground
isn't exactly the universe. It's down, down; where worms go, a million city
miles of pipes and cracked cement.
Here's how he dreamt at night: First there is a long thin line, it
gets darker on the sides and finally grows, like a TV dot, into a firm leg.
The leg leads upward, to jungle-ish hair framing lumps of uncertain genitalia.
Penises, not quite, not balls not labia, nor a forest of clits, (that
mysterious pleasure button.) He moves up in swinging cars, with the roof down
to his gut; bumping over a distended liver. "The chest reveals secrets about
climbing. The chin beckons." says the car, smarmy and self content. It's a
swoop, and GHEDE is diving into the long slippery tunnel of the mouth. He is
making friends with the glands. He is struggling to learn about teeth.
Admittedly he knows this gives you no idea of what people in the Underground
look like. GHEDE thinks he could dig out old medical encyclopedias with those
seductive acetate pages that show a layer of the body at a time, and piled on
top of one another make a whole person. That's a start in explaining. He'd
love to be stripped down like that, peeled away.
Underground people are poor. They steal light bulbs from the office and
are stacking up boxes of macaroni & cheese for survival after Armageddon.
They've got 10 billion pounds of mail order catalogs heaped up on their backs,
making them crouch nearer to the ground. And they're using salt of the earth on
humble pie. GHEDE sees them with cases of Pabst Blue Ribbon balanced
precariously-as if a scale of justice were weighing in each hand. Underground
people are potato people, are root persons; Underground folk have antennae that
reach up into the outer earth. Underground folk are full of brain bombs and
take pipes to make big BOOMing crashes. They've got orders, and they live like
soldiers, carrying their things in small bags and never taking off their shoes
in case of attack. It's a plan. It's the outside coming in, without knowing.
Antennae point towards the hive: and this hive buzzes like buckets of one-
celled things dying to get their hot little nuclear DNA into a fresh egg. The
cells are information, the hive is an idea, and the underground folk cry at
night that they haven't been let in on the joke. GHEDE remembers years ago when
Kreepy told him that the whole thing was like a mold -- mushroom sex; fungus;
reproduction -- and then he mentioned Malthus in the same breath as if we
carried around a tiny atlas in our heads with these obscure bits of drivel. And
Kreepy said, "The body grows on, but the mind has no function." And GHEDE said,
suspiciously, "Why Kreepy bones, what do you mean by that, are you making
bombs in your basement or something?" So Kreepy winked and said out of the
corner of the mouth, "Sex is no longer for reproduction, but an act of trust."
GHEDE was brought down by this. That is why Kreepy is creepy. You know those
guys with the heavy brows contemplating the swoosh of the mental ocean as if it
were a continual washing machine of human dirty laundry. There is a stop watch
punched at the start. GHEDE was told that Underground they have all of the
answers. That's why hes set up a relay station. The body is work, and the
body communicates. Take the engine and twist the crank until an interior spring
has enough tension to drive the motor to create movement. Transmission from
the underground: satellites of inner earth broadcast religious doctrines through caves in Tibet. Mohammed heard a wayward signal in rocks & fissures.
All progress is made by hyperbole. GHEDE is faking UFO photographs so that
GHEDE may believe.
IN dream violence, and its simultaneous brooding prophetic color, he
remembers Kreepy said, "That muthafucka's dead." He kicked his boot into cold
meat. Twisted his leather strapped watch as he stared, and ants made a home in
the dead muthafucka's armpit, in a Dali-esque gesture of typical dream
symbolism. It's true that they would commit crimes, this dream crime in no way
particular.
GHEDE sees the bodies as tiny buildings, and buildings as large bodies.
His neighbor was torn down. The dead body stretches, floor boards creak, chairs
are tipped over. Flames erupt from a tilting fireplace; the body glows red,
eyes are windows, or windows are eyes, seen flickering from cars that drive by
on their way to painfully abstract parties and all night diners. The body looks
out onto the road, spitting up lawn chairs and potted plants. That body
crouches, sick with guilt on a trimmed green bed cluttered with lawn gnomes and
automated sprinklers. Lights are activated by remote control; doors to the ass
are operated by radio waves so that smaller versions of the body may come and
go as they please. Excreta, motorized turds clog arteries; arteries clog byways
and flat planes spiral into crater-like bellybuttons. Chattering teeth of
monuments get cavities and are capped with cement. Gnashing intestines process
and refine oil. From the overlap flab of skin a weed sprouts. If the porch is a
lower jaw the cupola is an overbite. Maybe this is incorrect. The body yawns,
wide open and virulent, ready to assert itself and reproduce. It's a sharp
nerve, throbbing, from top to bottom, in the wires of a building, the cables,
the ganglia; to circle back from the eye to the hand. The eye receives, the
hand directs. The hand is a banner, declaring war. And the tongue tricks the
hand into believing it says what the hand desires. It's a long red carpet,
occasionally draped outdoors. The occupants don't realize the hand waits,
beside the body, branching upward and inward, roots intruding into basements.
It is quiet, and peaceful, because the tongue's words are written on the walls,
and the nerve is waiting for a signal The baton comes down with a muffled
crack, steel toe boots are launched, bone to bones -- there's a thick steel
tub of a flashlight turned to bash and bludgeon. Elbows produce tight specific
bruises, and knees seek groins -- fingers are like Stooges yearning to poke
eyeballs. It's a Hive war; good ants against bad ants, bad ants gainst good
ants. Kreepy says, we've done what we've had to.
GHEDE walks in through the back door, which is unlocked. It's
a summer door whose screen is loose and torn in places. There is a tiny latch
on the inside and he hooks it's snaking metal curve into the hole of the
receiver. He's not sure why he does this, since it won't realistically keep
anyone out -- but it gives him a feeling of security nonetheless. GHEDE is
proud of his illogic. He gets satisfaction from its peculiarly comforting
unpredictability.
From the kitchen he walks forward through a hall. In the dark GHEDE
can vaguely make out framed prints on either side of me. There is a door to my
left, and although pitch black, he can faintly hear a trickle of water from
the tank of a toilet. He also hears, he notices, a gentle flap of curtain
ahead. It sounds like soft lazy sex. GHEDE hears a buzzing as well; presumably
from the refrigerator behind him. GHEDE's taken it for granted that this house
is alive and has a distinct personality. He walks as if treading lightly on
skin. In the living room he moves towards the shape of a standing lamp. There
is moon light through the front windows, but not enough to illuminate the
entire room. He gropes the stalk of the lamp, feeling upward, until he touches
a dangling chain. And then he's awake, and GHEDE's waiting for orders again.
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FROST WARNINGS: (!) 1997 AD Jake Century / S.I.F.
All info contained within is the responsibility of the individual author.
All copyrights on texts are held by the original author.
Greetings to our readers in the future: 2007, 2017, 2027, etc.!
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