With and Without Those Rites

Once accused of dubious practices on the fringes of the cityscape, the gang of everything but onlookers couldn’t help but dig deeper into the allegedly obfuscating  techniques of rendering redundant common wisdom that saw such elated activities as evidence of (1) plurality of the mind; (2) instrumental mind. The reason for such a response on behalf of the notorious kids was to say Fuck off! to whatever acted as an invitation to justify righteousness of their actions, simultaneously transfiguring the original Яάscall vocabulary into a socially pleasing statement about technology as the pioneering force of moral advancement.

The Kids detected conspiracy in the seemingly well-intentioned provocations. They dug that the condemnations addressing the obscurity of their collaborative artistic mathematics were nothing but parasitic philosophizing. It was a different way of saying: ”Should you agree to negative the signal in the communication channel, not only will you do a favor to your good selves, but also win a voice of support of the public majority.” To that the Kids replied: ”Fuck off freaks! Even if it turns out that our practice contradicts your views, that will happen because we think what we think! Because we do what is right—not because it was a righteous response to your fucking challenge. Further, if you are so short-sighted as not to be able to see a very simple fact that to say that there is electricity in brain, but also an experience lived out differently from what the electric current is, does not necessarily entail a presumption about schizoid being. 

Also, if you—sorry attempts at proving the truth of a human being being a thinking animal—self-righteously claim that what one does cannot be divorced from what one wants/desires, etc., then you are sadly right to imagine that such a standpoint can lead anywhere. More precisely, to perceive intention to be as inevitable as holding a value-charged opinion is in your case a sorrowfully misleading pattern of mentally processing input from the external world. Seen from there, certain phenomena seem to be describable solely by the means available within that territory. That leaves you hopelessly confined within a hallucination of being immaculately rational, while failing to see the very critical angle from which that rationality can be suspected. Unless, i.e., you turn out to be intolerant to cultish exclusion and…well…decide to, ehem, dive in! Bloodsuckers…Revengeful  mind is unlikely…Apologetic tongue unknown…Numberless motives imaginable. Until then, fuck off  creeps and amuse yourselves testing amongst your ghastly lowliest selves falsifiability of your somnambulism and make our fucking day by, actually, proving corrosive effects of a denial / lack / absence of the gift for metaphorical thinking.”

In other words, they kept gathering inside the ruinous factory walls and, constantly raided by severe winds, persevered in keeping the tradition created within such tiny space of time charged and alive. They would assemble at around 4 PM every day in front of the former factory. The comrades would first strategize the operation. That would take circa half an hour. It was necessary to have a precise plan of action in order to sneak into the abutting backyard unnoticed . They crawled in order to reach the green area that from above looked as if fine yellow dust had been spilled over it. The effect was made thanks to the optical deviation of the central part of its flower seen from above.

Having had all the stages carefully elaborated, they’d tiptoe along the driveway till they’d get to the heart of the action. Then, the tiny, yet skillful fingers would engage in picking up the flowers and lay them on each other’s palms. Then each of them would stuff as many flowers as possible in one’s pocket. They’d rush out of the garden, back to the factory. They spent the rest of the afternoon submerged in the depths of the remaining part of the ritual. First they’d  pour some water in a pot, let it boil, throw the herbs in, and watch it simmer for a couple of seconds. Following this was the act of putting a lid over the pot’s opening. They’d allow it to steep for about fifteen minutes. Then they’d drink it. The rest is…childhood.

They knew the name of the herb was chamomile. They knew that they were, actually, not stealing it. They are not criminals. Because crime is not possible. Because everything has been legalized. Everything is allowed. And nothing is free. It was available to them and free to be taken and consumed at one’s leisure. Alternatively, one could also buy it in a store at a price not higher than that of a candy or something…But, for some reason, they wouldn’t give up on the customs. Somehow it felt right to continue doing it the way they did. Because that’s the way we do it. Because ceremony is highly praised. Because the infusion made from the herbs obtained from somebody else’s backyard is good. Because stuff from a store suX. In fact, they tried getting it from a store. Brewing it was somewhat similar to watching one’s image in a curved mirror. It felt creepy! Bizarre. Because distorted mirror images threat’n 2 stay imprinted in the deepest areas of one’s psyche. And it’s not fucking funny.

Instead, fun was to be had by means of persistent ritualing. Whose opening was of the approximately following content: The Kids, holding each other’s hands, forming in circle, close their eyes and in unison recite  from memory verses written in the unwritten manual:

XXh--ale Sylvan Souls!

And then a splash of golden on a beige canvass and then a dollop of ketch up on one’s nose and then handful of soil smeared over one’s cheex and then a snotty slap across one’s forehead and then hazy crimson mucus dripping into one’s nostrils and then sticky drops trickling along one’s earlobes and then a melting eyeball devouring the mouth and then cherry-picking gore-coated hair and then peeling encrusted edema till it starts spurting a gelatinous geyser and then the jet lavishly watering the desert and then a fountain of transcellular fluid stream knocking down pitiable obstacle and then the wild, high-velocity liquid hose snaking through the pores drilling a miniscule hole in the cranium abundantly aired at the moment the gliding flow penetrates the cerebral cortex breathlessly speeding deeper towards the temporal lobe syncopated heart beat of a locomotive approaching the soft tissue further towards cerebellum hissing sound announcing the arrival of the train long due…Staring  from the micro slide at the scientist’s eye.