ESCHATO PARADIGM OF SECRETIVENESS. PRO/LOG/IN
The first texts were written at the turn of 2022 and 2023. The photos were taken in 2022/23 and prepared in May 2024, before leaving Poland, as the jour/ney was described in the Limousine parts 11-24.
PROLOGIN
You’re looking at N’City. It’s been 30 years, but it feels like I arrived just yesterday. The city blurs time and hides its true N’architecture. No one wants you here; no one likes it. It’s as if you were interrupting a sado-N’masochistic sex/relation in which roles and goals have long since blurred. But that’s what it’s all about, after all… The structure had been taking shape for some time, and you fit in here like a fist in a half-closed eye. Unfortunately, someone somewhere messed something up, and it happened. You were sucked in like a speck of dust into a vacuum cleaner or, to put it simply, like a line of comeCaine into a N’ose. You ended up in N’City. The Capital of Filth. Dirt, stench, and poverty is like to say N’othing. Depending on your skills, there are rats up to sleeves—or N’one at all. That’s The N’City it IS.
You look around, but it’s already too late. There’s no longer any deceptive hope clinging to the gray concrete walls. You’re just now remembering how, much later, you proposed a form of illusion for a promotional spot on N’tv: when numbers “appear” in various shots of the city’s architecture under a certain light. Admittedly, back then it was about the number one. But he had all the others in mind as well. — His hacker friends blocked all the trains for him so that this very event could take place. On this Earth. Does it start with one? Or with zero? Better with zero—maybe then it won’t end there.
Kidnapped day/diary from memories—how did it happen?: “Go, son; you can always come back here. When I piece together the words from the beginning… It was an analogy! That’s what he meant.” “That story of yours… It was the last story father read by the kerosene lamp… He, too, wasn’t aware of exactly what N’City is. What it holds.”
Wake up. Have you gotten used to seeing in the dark? We’re all spies. This is no time for surprise. You’ve arrived. Ruthlessness—the ultimate finish line of secrecy. You’ve been chosen to handle this moment however you want. This, of course, is the waiting room. Shuffle yourself, if you can. If you can face yourself. Others won’t be so lucky. Save something for yourself; throw something away.
A world programmed not to awaken. Epidemic around epicdemonic all around Death. People in ignorance are constantly dying. This is your own, personal enlightenment. Without your knowledge, you were summoned to a black mass of secrecy. Without your will, you appeared. – Didn’t you know this was possible? This conversation with you is taking place beyond your awareness. The truth has been established. Our satisfaction has no right to disturb you.
– Maybe they’ll accept you into the family… No, they won’t. It’s easier to humiliate you. To keep you on standby and take satisfaction in your willingness or/of ignorance. In your life in the shadows. In your secret service. You don’t have that blood in you. – Don’t forget to always stand up. They steal everywhere. Relativism is an attack. You’ll recognize it by the search for a potential equivalent of meaning. By money… Secretiveness is the artificial elite’s favorite filter… favorite SIEVE… FAVORITE SCREEN.
Kidnapped day/diary from memory—how was it? —Secrecy is like a thin veil of dark matter. It wraps around you quietly and calmly. It kills. The sea washes you ashore one last time. —I need to catch my breath, take off my dirty clothes… Awaken the memory process. Another pivot. A pastiche. All forms of movement are in play. Water is best. You’ll avoid resentment. They’re always watching. Eyes empty, hungry, demanding. Like out of ghostwriters’ books. Even the deceived content longs for form. There will be no form. A pack of moans of cosmic disappointment at the upcoming verdict. Eternal N’othingness. Who wouldn’t be screaming…
I swam across a million seas and a tunnel of shit through all of N’city… They couldn’t strip down enough. They were becoming alike for a moment, for a day, a year. Like a bad movie. Like a curse… That’s how they look at you. Like merchandise, a means to an end without purpose. The fear of humiliation is worse than the fear of physical pain. It’s enough to sell a human being… Once a holy idiot – when needed, once a machine – when needed. Artsyfacial intelligence. That’s exactly how parasites behave. They expect a behavioral pattern they can manipulate. Artful imposture. Vipers… They possess neither restraint nor perspective… If you want to destroy someone, convince them they’re the chosen one… Take off that stinking shirt already. Breathe.
I can see… I see… The Tissue IS FORMing… I won’t tell them anything… I will tell them N’othing…
OBLIVION
Maybe it’s a beach. You fall over, delete the vision. Maybe a fallout. You fall over again. Now dust. Corpses. And again. Plastic. Newspapers. A trashplace. And so on, endlessly. The gamble of the future. Go deeper. You get up. White sand blinds your eyes. Your face begins to tense. A radioactive waste dump stretching to the horizon. It’s not sand—it’s SUGAR. Breathe. Sugar everywhere. All the way up to the crimson sky. It crunches. So artificial it’s choking. It’s sticky. Ah, this is precisely the side effect of their secretiveness… It kills the air. Reused to infect, penetrate, and destroy. Oh, sweet truthshit! For years he fed them, modified them. Bred them in crypto-labs. A sugar mill. An obedient tribe. Until the Goddess of Syrup saturated the vision. Behold the concentrated solution of secrecy. Behold the Temple of the Forum CryptoBelfegorum… Take some black cotton and stuff it into every orifice. Cut off the horns, and they’ll sprout from the ground. Try to stop feeling it. N’othing will change in N’City. Breathe… It’s been thirty years now in the N’CryptoSpiral of the penal colony.
You can’t afford a house. A place of your own. Your own plot of land… You live in a rental, in someone else’s space. In line. In limbo. It’s not yours. You’re waiting for the next hand to be dealt, the next verdict. All around, secretiveness casts a dark filter. A billowing blacky veil before your eyes. You rent a car. A convertible. The veil still with you. Won’t leave you. The wind whistles and lies. A YelloWing Sky. You press the gas pedal. Suddenly, in a spectacle, the CITY rises from the ground. Someone is steadily pushing the form up from below; the black veil of the underlying matter swirls picturesquely like smoke in a jar. There’s more and more of it. But this thickening blackness can’t fit in there. It’s heating up. It’s taking on its N’Form. It’s swelling like a maggot. Это ракета. It’s about to burst. A green glow of flesh keeps watch over the orderly line. As if it wanted to sweep everyone up with its long arms. They stand along the road, holding stolen receivers in front of them. Turned on. But you can’t fool the inside. Everything is visible. Something is hidden somewhere; someone is cursing somewhere. Here, pride of their own; there, programmed pride. The color on the receiver won’t light up. Drama. They’re crying. Breathe. Thirty years in the N’CryptoSpiral of the penal colony! You’re entering the underground. Spacious, rusty, and strangely quiet. Dry air with the scent of N’othing familiar. Like from a virtual world. Announcements from all sides that “Artsyfacial air is necessary for real life!”. Admire the multi-level parking garages. You enter this way, you exit that way. And you’re back in the same place again. Everything is the N’Cryptospiral…
The N’Crypto-owner’s satellites have woven a web. They’re tuning in again. Getting ready for a lick-announcement. They speak as if you don’t remember a thing. They made you believe in a donkey in a sheep’s clothing. If you grab it by the tail, it’ll let IT go… They see money everywhere. Your body rebels, rejecting this vision. They’re afraid you’re ABove it all. That immediately exposes them. They won’t go any further. You can’t stick another dimension to IT. True memory will eventually get in the way.
This isn’t a dream anymore. Memory was always… IS their enemy. Listen CARE FULL Y.
BASELINE
I remember driving through N’city at the beginning, stopping to see an underground springY musical of 1991. Young people went underground to speak freely in their own voices. They found their place at the metro station amid smoke and lasers. A local success. He didn’t want to sell out as much as she did, and he committed a bitter act of defiance against the train. The story, of course, drew on reality—or perhaps the other way around… On my way back, I visited those who tried samhaw speak their minds, stayed a long time, and then ran like a hero too. Admittedly, in the opposite direction, after the train. But I didn’t catch up. In Jupiter’s cryptoresort receiver, the tele Wheel of Fortune in the waiting/sleeping room of the platform at Warsaw Central Station, the riddle “_es_s was in the garden, _es_s was finally greeting” was playing at that very moment. I understand… And suddenly… ALREADY logged in/out… WITHOUT A HOME, a dream un/fulfilled. The PRose of Life. And on top of that, in the Heart of Traffic Control. Rats deceive the traps and multiply right before your eyes. Well… You’ve got to FIGURE OUT this place. Business is always booming. Junkies and thieves go about/around their lines. Their repetitive antics, boring to the point of pain, their disTricks, their eStates. “There’s no one more sly than a Varsovian.” Teenage boys drool over their idol. Oh, a famous director casts boyZN’blondes. Knees on knEEs on kneeZZ. Dirty black sOOt. It stinks of foreign sweat everywhere, like in an enchanted cartoon. It’s that iron-rich water of theirs from out of N’City. It’s the Iron Man’s Will, Chopin’s birth place. What you can do. Get used to it. Like the N’Rai’N. A black Volga pulls up next to a homeless man rummaging through a dumpster. “This isn’t your turf.” The dark window, inevitably closing on black evil eyes, reflects N’City.
My legs ache, and the imagination needs more and more help to hold the ground. There are fewer and fewer chairs outside. Suddenly, two baggage gravediggers come out and, pointing at a skyscraper with a green glow, whisper hoarsely: “That’s where the old tribesman sits at his desk with the cash box. He lets the borrowed horses run.” The green Moloch has rotted away and blended into the blackness of N’City. Its shadows are as incongruous as they can be. Exhaustion finally forced me to hunt for a spot in the platform waiting room. The bench’s slats are uncomfortable. The dolphin isn’t picky. One eye open, then the other… The mind rests intently. Well, at some point, I sense N’Shadow in the sea whispering to no one in particular: “This isn’t your place.” No one stirred. Secretiveness is a tough game. Finally, one person gets up and leaves. The wind whistles through the tunnel. The knifepines bend over. As if nothing had happened. And so it goes until morning. Until the first return tRAIn.
Night says, let’s treat this as a “zero” night’s stay. I rub my eyes, breathing in the draft from the approaching train. It carries that distinctive smell of the homeless from between the tunnels. Suddenly, Indian performers run onto the platform and sing their movie. N’City is parasitizing, and the host is dying. That’s for sure.
January 2023
