Eric Peterson && Jon Irons, “Party Infty – PATRICK.txt”; 2010-09-04

Breathtakingly elegant and beautiful PATRICK, wired into a vast communications array…

Bitter, brilliant, aged PATRICK, imprisoned by those she once trusted…

Young and ruthless PATRICK with an elastic past and morals to match…

Flighty and indecisive PATRICK, destined to be the mother of a world…

…WHICH DOYOO LIKE

Peter Chimera && (Jon Irons || Raymond Pasco), “patents.txt”; 2009-09-30

Richard Stallman waited. The OLPCs above him blinked and sparked out of the air. There were patents in the WiFi. He didn’t see them, but had expected them now for years. His warnings to Karl Marx were not listenend to and now it was too late. Far too late for now, anyway. Richard was a hacker for fourteen years. When he was young he watched the PDP-10s and he said to dad “I want to be on the terminals daddy.” Dad said “No! You will BE KILL BY PATENTS” There was a time when he believed him. Then as he got oldered he stopped. But now in the office base of the MIT he knew there were patents.  ”This is Marx” the radio crackered. “You must fight the patents!”  So Richard gotted his GPLv3 and blew up the wall.  ”HE GOING TO KILL US” said the patents “I will shoot at him” said the BSD License and he fired the closed source. John GPLed at him and tried to blew him up. But then the ceiling fell and they were trapped and not able to kill.  ”No! I must kill the patents” he shouted The radio said “No, Richard. You are the patents” And then Richard was a copyright.

????, “patrickFic.txt”; 2010-01-10

“In nomine patrick et filii et spiritus sancti.” –Verse 297 of the Mandates of Antiquity

Scientists tend to take note when meteors hit the Earth. Why, then, did no one record patrick’s impact?

The true story behind the Silencing began centuries before Man ever set foot on Titan. But who wants the true story now that legend has obscured it? Who deserves the far more remarkable history of not only madness, but of Word and Deed, that serves as shrine to patrick? Before today, I thought the Lord of Lave Currency had enough shame to claim any right to the truth.

I was wrong.

***

As I smoked my third pipe of hasish that morning, and watched Jupiter rise over Titan’s rim, I noticed a dispatch marked “urgent” on my command console. As overseer of the Archive of Solar Knowledge, I only checked my dispatches rarely, and even then simply because one of my assistants notified me. Either Fondulus is slipping, I thought, or he just passed this along to me. It would be a new sensation to get the drop on my most diligent underling. With satisfied bloodshot eyes, I gazed on the message that had come all the way from the homeworld.

My satisfaction vanished. The dispatch outlined the details in that terse language known only to high-echelon officials and the near-illiterate: Earth’s primary Lord of Lave Currency had already sent a servant to gather all information that existed pertaining to an entity whose name was censored into oblivion with the glaring text TERMISFORBIDDEN. The servant would most likely reveal to me the true name of the subject in question, but I knew deep in my roiling gut exactly what–who–this censored thing was.

Jon Irons, “failed_sketches.txt”; 2008-03-28

Hip-slung gun-man, firing from a trench; concussions overhead punch through him of habit and he goes on. That thin beam, unseen but for its collision with particles, pierces from his finger tips and mates with a head. Skull cracks under helmet from the boiling brains therein so the owner’s scream is either shortened or his lungs go empty after minutes because he has become an automaton. Such a way to die, such a way to give death, so the source of that beam feels like a coward. His work, however, must continue; therefore, he slaps his conscience until it bleeds. A few things fly out as pods of memory and he remembers the Underground World, maybe his sister or brother there, and is glad only those like him can see him now. Eyes straining, he finds a scurrying figure on the starlit plain, his fingers convulse, he misses the shot, a counter-beam pops the seam on his environment suit. Time is now limited. Trench to plain, the vainly heavy boots kick up dust that oth marks his passage and conceals him. Those stories he heard: doomed men meeting in the middle to use laser torches on each other. Hiss. One opponent meets his challenge in time to penetrate his arm with that tight cone of light. No pain seeing as the ripped suit is cold now, and that particular piece of him numb. Beamer jabs his own torch through some suited mass in the dust that clears, spreads, shifts amidst flailing limbs of a dead man. Knees, the young soldier drops to his knees, air almost gone. Taste the poison, he says to himself. Where is the sense in this, that a world need fight on behalf of two Earth Mothers? Neither knows what I know: sheer pure violence under the starry sky–please let me go home.

He dies.

Jon Irons, “venice vidi vici.odt”; 2009-03-23

Venice Vidi Vici

by Jon Irons

Characters

TRAGICO THE CLOWN

Male clown, early thirties. Dark hair kept under a conical clown hat. Clothed always in baggy clown garments.

 

MEDITERRANEA THE BOATWOMAN

Female, early twenties.

The Proud Pilot ADD N TO X enters his steam driven space ship to much applause and the fanfare of the massed marching drum machines of NASA. His mission: to enter the Black Hole and make contact with the SINGULARITY.

Proud as MIAMI VICE, ADD N TO X sets the controls to the heart of the Hole, leaving earth in a hail of chrome sparks and black rubber arrows of smoke.

She looks back at earth from her porthole, everything looks pink and green. He thinks of his family who live in the plastic countryside. His wife and children have pylon hairstyles and all their trees are mathematical. She pictures them riding flame horse generators as the sun shines through the trees and the entertainment balloons play their favourite music. ADD N TO X pulls the churchill rubber bung from the aperture cut into her carbon teeth saying out loud “MUSIC IS DUST ON THE POOR.” She then invades her face with an extended digit. Remembering the zeppelin of information telling him the future is only greater invention in response to greater extremes.

Looking out into space, his manicured whiskers flood a myriad colours emitting from the port hole. He knows there is no such thing as the past, or the future, there is only the present. That is to say the only thing not pre-recorded in a pre-recorded universe is the pre-recording itself which is to say any recording that contains a random factor.

Ascot, her on board computer and random friend draws his attention to the scopophilic gaze form the millions on earth watching his great quest, by gently tapping on the thumbnail sketch of the kings moth surmounted on his fine aviation helmet made from waxy equations and bark. ASCOT reminds him that embedded within this experiment is the voyeurism of the audience longing to see physical breakdown; the nemesis of creation; for the Pilot ADD N TO X is acting on a silent stage unable to contact, but only to be contacted which leaves ADD N TO X at the mercy of the viewer. She looks at the trophy mounted on his control panel, it is inscribed “TO THE FUTURE’S GREATEST COSTUMER.” ADD N TO X realises he is the final product in the hands of the audience, merely a cipher in a machine world, her body held tightly in place by tiny silver clamps yet before him her cabin lies the sun. ADD N TO X looks closer and sees the little Black Rocks in the sun. He checks his instrumentation a fluid series of volumes, 101 tri-form and the rushing of air.

Ascot replies, “NO! You can see little black rocks in the sun.” ADD N TO X activates the dual defence structure, biting down hard on her cigar. She thinks of all the beautiful yes sirs in their structured plastic units watching back on earth.

Meanwhile, back on earth a picture of a tiny space ship endlessly turning a perfect circle in the void of space has not made interesting nocto-vision. After days of the same thing the plug was pulled to empty the screen leaving ADD N TO X to drain off the Pop Ocean.

Suddenly, without warning the FERMI-DIRAC DISTRIBUTION FUNCTION fails him. The cockpit fills up with the sound of armies of metal headed electric insects battering their way through flesh.

ADD N TO X has entered the black hole. ASCOT confirms, “You have entered the black hole.” He feels drunk on folding time while ascot sings the NATIONAL ANTHEM FOR A COUNTRY THAT HAS FIVE MINUTES TO EXIST. Everywhere there is exploding starts. Copper leaves burst through the cabin walls. Ants and termites blister and burn as the velvet parachute melts.

ADD N TO X thinks skyscrapers are crushing him. He looks at her hands, they are a mile long on the head of a pin. His capsule oscillates all at once, butter and glass, steel and grass. He is aware of every nut and bolt as her ship shits coal in agony. ADD N TO X feels his body become pure light that gives off a pervasive and featureless odour. He thinks of Leather and Lace and it is in this moment she is AVANT HARD, he is abbreviating into intensity. There are no special effects. Everywhere is electricity. His flesh and bones dissolve, She is a ShockWAVE RIDER on the blast from the vast police thing of noise that splits addntox into all of his individual atoms. ADD N TO X is the special effect and in her disorder there is liberation from the filaments that were once nerve endings. He is aware in all her million parts that he is GOD and God is electricity and the SINGULARITY has added his n to her x to create the perfect musical note of a cymbal.

The singularity has assumed ADD N TO X

Definitely not a Pfhorums stimulator. This morning I finished playing Pfhorums.nits, pictured below:

Its most remarkable feature is its realism. Finish off a major conflict and then an angry Dugit appears, sputtering something incoherent and draining away the last of your stamina. Get cornered by Slave and tl and they’ll knock you out inside of a few turns.

There’s been musing about expansions already — I myselfs were surprised to find that there weren’t any dungeons in this installment. Hopefully there’ll be even more NitsLoch to look forward to in the future.

~old

~imes

Правда

This was taken outside Ari’s dacha near Odessa at a time when we were all much more innocent.  Although only a bit of my own dapper collar is on show (thanks wrk), comrades Raymond, Drong, and Treellama–the old guard–are here.  Things took a grim turn shortly after that fall; let’s try to find ourselves, starting back-

Ray was always a believer–an Old Believer, to be precise…until one morning whilst sifting through Solovyov’s garbage, organizing breakfast, he found a bundle of Jesuit polemics.  Behoving a tonsured Reader, he read them and was changed.  Ray went to seek out new papal pals over the mountains.  I remember the last liturgy we attended together, an all-night-vigil at Nevsky Cathedral–his kiss of peace was dry, distant, distinctly Latin: sunt lacrimae rerum.

sign of the times

Drong got turned onto Traditionalism in a big way when he heard Mr. Plyae namecheck René Guénon at one of his storied garden parties. His search for the imam of his own being led him far afield–casting runes with Lovinescu at the latter’s hoary manor in the Carpathians, cracking skulls in a hushed-up stint with the Italian Ordine Nuovo, down-and-out and pole dancing (sacred poles, mind you) in Bloomington, Indiana with the remnant of Schuon’s ill-fated Maryamiyyah–Drong was lost to us; lost in a little toybox of perennialism, peyote, and ねこかわいい.

I miss you, Drong. I think of you every time the kettle boils.

Deaf to the warnings of his father-confessor, Mr. Smith set off in 1962 for a tour of the diaspora in the the American Midwest.  He never arrived.  Ken Olsen’s thugs were prowling the docks; our beloved brooder found himself press-ganged and marched to Maynard for a life of toil in the deepest warrens under The Mill.  His eyesight withered in the gloom, but his hair–or something like it–grew back, no doubt due to inhaling the eldritch vapours of the JUICE eddying in the VAXen herds’ feeding troughs.  Treellama’s part in events darkly hinted at elsewhere remains unclear to me.

’tis small wonder 090909 was a rather lowkey affair.

1月15日　「Tour Diary」

Deciding to take a vacation?  Now where can you go?  Ireland?  A bit too cold this time of the year.  Paris?

No.

A week at the cricket in Johannesburg.  England touring.  Readers will be spared the tedium of my memoirs; I confine myself here to the salient points:

Morning session.  Arrived at Wanderers for second day of fourth Test.  Conditions smashing.  Thermoplyae not in attendance, contrary to dream as recorded in {d0×9B5:TERMISFORBIDDEN}.

Lunch.  Can now confirm the thermophantasm’s assessment: J.P. Duminy is, in fact, not hot.

Afternoon session.  Inclement weather; remainder of day’s play called off twenty minutes prior to tea break.  Praise THE LORD for having mercy on the boys.  Returned to rooms at embassy; telegram waiting with tea.  Monsignor Pasco may raise an eyebrow at the allusion, but what sprang to mind was the interclerical salutation of the Greek schismatics.

Hotmodal is in our midst.

He is and ever shall be.

I confess I’m rather bemused by the great man’s invitation. I fear I’ve as much interest in administration as I do in wikis [?women].

Be seeing you.

Now that MARARTHON has officially taken its own life, there are a few things I’d like to get off my chest. I mean, they’ve bothered me for something like a year. That’s a long time if you think about it. (Also, I have the gift of Bourbon, so truth is coming more naturally to me at the moment.)

(Try to read between the lines a little bit more)

[16:27] < @Wrkncacnter> the water column was better than i was expecting
[16:28] < @Wrkncacnter> better as in much more stupid
[16:28] < @treellama> yeah it really was
[16:28] < @treellama> so, now what, thermo
[16:28] < @thermoplyae> now i die happy
[16:28] < @treellama> ok
[16:28] < @thermoplyae> we’ve all seen what we came for
[16:28] < @thermoplyae> and that was it, 4GET is feasible now

Here it is.

With any luck, you’ll never hear from me again.

RE: Through the Lookingmaintenancecloset.

CLIQUE c. June 2004 (Irons in yellow, Gonzague to his right)

K’ter l’oracne’ktr ESB’crkn rhl l’oac’rkthahrl tr’lac.
L’on t’hrl’ory, l’on l’oa’rhl’ktr tr’tract l’on t’rac r’ar r’arhl’rac.

(Try to read between the lines a little bit more)