Welcome to the block!

Block of what you ask? Everything imaginable- you possess a small pixel/ particle/ trace of everything imaginable… and yet it is inaccessible. The latest thing to be dug up from the ancient internet is that people used to be able to use 20% of their brain capacity. This day and age you’ll be lucky to unlock a measly 10%.

How invigorating it is to know my potential- But my greatest fear is that I won’t ever come close to fulfilling it. I sense the magnificent thoughts build up in the deep corridors of my mind. And these magnificent thoughts calmly refuse to give anything away to the scurrying imbecilic nerve cells- that stare at the magnificent thoughts in the face with a pen and pad, write half of the message down and of course leave out the important parts. These determined & perfunctory nerve cells recoil back to me with nothing more to say than “URRRM THE MAGNIFICENT IDEA SAID HE WANTS TO TALK TO THE MANAGER”

It is no doubt that when these nerve cells do everyone a great big favour and fuck off- I am at my up-most best. When the magnificent idea and I are conjoined the sedateness has never been so beautiful- I, my pen, and my mind are moulded together. But as if me and my pen were iron and the magnificent idea was sand- what happens always happens the magnetised world sucks it all up. These wanderlust thoughts shrink without occasion. And leave me hoping that it will replicate the activity of a supernova… There is just too much activity up there to keep track of.

No doubt my mind has been contaminated with commodities, but I can’t quite work out which one- could it be the money? Could it be the whores? Perhaps it is the drugs? There must be side effects that have been left un-mentioned… now it is hard to tell how much time I’ve wasted speculating the go-inbetween of my brain and body. But I am now too tired to touch the project- I will only grope around & most likely cause a stir of vibrations that will avalanche the peak I have worked so hard to build. And so instead I grope around the obscured room for my panel, after a couple minutes of rustling and soft swearing the panel is found nested under the used empty shell drug programmes- the cartridges clatter and spill to either side of the smudged and unlaundered panel- it’s been a while since I’ve left my room to take my old automobile for a cruise.

The feel of my tires gripped to the road is a humbling one- I do not envy the middle class passaging from A to B high off the ground. It may oppress others but I have money- I am the palaeontologist who discovered the ancient internet. This car is on the ground & it has character.

There are three levels here in this world- the controllers- the controlled- and the underworld… by grid I am in the underworld (outcast-working class)… by wealth I am parallel to the controlled (working-middle class). If I conformed I would however be the guy that all the soccer dads & brown noses in an office compare themselves to- my money could make me very covetable to some. Traffic jams, loud music, open expression, drug saturation, is the habitat I choose- and a cruise like this leaves me prying just why I haven’t cruised like this in so long- when I love it so much. I have had a recent rediscovery in music since the whole ancient internet thing, and so I am fixated on a band called the Police who defied all logic of the name and created their own genre “reggae rock” and it works as a charm in turning heads in these streets. The fusion of symbols of my individuality approbates respect down here- it is embraced and variation is encouraged. The best thing about these cruises with no set destination is they always result in me visualise some kind of progress.

It just occurred to me that my mail has been untouched & left piling for some weeks now- and so I now have a destination. The mail rooms here heavily strike similar to the laundrettes of the past with storage compartments instead of big tumblers of course- but the exterior- interior are parallel and as are the security. It is always some Asian woman who is never present, her pivotal business is next door and she claims to keep an eye on the mail room (laundrette). This security is useless but it is somehow enough to assure us.

The tinned glass door releases a “chink” and then a “clink” at my entry- I enter the mailroom. The room is cosy as I’d imagine a “Laundrette” to be, and drones an ever-present “MMVVVE” sound that again I would imagine a Laundrette to subsume. These surroundings feel natural to bask in- so when I take my letters in a handful I subside to parking my arse on one of the gym-style benches that look as though they’ve been rescued from a junk-compressing area… I forget the technical name but you get the idea. Two further liaisons the extinct laundrettes and the mail rooms share are;

One- they both bear an impression of a happening. Maybe it is because they are both places that store plebeians personal substances, and so you hunch a thousand or more stories conspiring in this one drone of a room.

And two- Their beauty is unexplored & they are passed by and unobserved daily.

I snap out of this day dream I often get carried away to & drop my head to face my letters. I push the tin seal case ones without thought- they can only be government ones or some associate that works for the government and trying to save the penny’s by using government postage in any case they have nothing important to say to me. And with crinkle-crease popping at my fingertips I push the tea-stained letter to the front- it is addressed Leonard Milvus and I get a chill every time I receive anything that she has curved my name on… It has been a long awaited reply I thought I would have to send out an awkward second letter- beginning with “hey urmm maybe you didn’t get my last message- lost in the mail or something but anyway…” How beautiful awkwardness used to be.

This mail room is beautiful but at the same time makes me insecure to leak my personal information- all these swarming stories could easily pick it up and burst my personal information into all four corners of the room. So my night is set- the crickled letter is brushed into the inside-pocket of my columbo jacket. And I set off- I think a trip to the café will be the first pitt-stop, grab a nice CHEESEBURGER and FRIES with a COCA-COLA with ICE- sit at my favourite table- which is the least popular in the café and order another personal favourite Julien Vartigo’s new trip he titled Silver lining. And once the CHEESEBURGER and FRIES of course with the COCA-COLA to wash it down- hits the spot and I feel accomplished and firm with my stomach and cravings, I will spend the night by the Lava-place and read over this letter. On average I would ingest her letters with my first read… let it marinate… and then re-read it to devise an entire dissimilar message- read it over nine more times. And on the eleventh read I’ll know precisely what she has told me to do.