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Frost Warning 02
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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 its 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 moonlight 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 copyrights on texts are held by the original author.
Authors are responsible for their own content.
Greetings to our readers in the future : 2007, 2017, 2027, etc.!
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