October 11, 2007

A Message from the Parallel

Dear Earth-bounded,
You have understood nothing so far, nothing of what we have tried so desperately to teach you. We leave a garbage bin in the sand and you call it a "pyramid" and bury dead bodies in it. Then you let it get all worn and ugly and remove the pretty gold top. How do expect it to work without the gold top? Then, once its all ruined and empty you guys think its suddenly really important and millions of people line up to look at it. What is wrong with you? Honestly...

From,
The Parallel

P.S.

October 07, 2007

Easily Confused With A Basketball


"What are they doing!" "What have they done?!" "Why?"

We all know the answer although we don't really want to acknowledge the reasons why. Acknowledging that would be close to suicide, at least mentally, if not physically, if not both. Maybe in non-western cultures looking at the cause and effect is different, but in this case we are looking at the west and so that is one less rock to hide under. Anyway it is. We all ask, "Why are we at war?" or, "Why did the Russians usher in the space age?" or, "Why are the ice caps melting?". The truth is that these are all consequences of the human spirit. The part of that spirit which embraces procrastination and denial. The part that loves to reaffirm its worth and shun its inadequacies. It is just too hard to not do these things because they are so neat and anyway who cares about the future consequences? Its not like the future is now, or now, or now, or now, or now or....

So let me impress upon you the full futility of time travel, being someone who has experienced it. You think you can change things, make the world better, be a time cop, make things worse, control things. Well, man, that is all just delusion. "Time" is a force, maybe a force that doesn't really exist, and a force dictated by the edicts of nature and nature looks at you and says that you are a part of it, not a master of it, man. It lays its firm, tendriled organic hand on you shoulder and says, "No matter what you do, I'm going to steam roll you. I'm going to keep you in your place. You may loose a little weight and feel great for a few months, but you're going to put the pounds back on. You may think you can rule the forces of time and space, and hell, maybe you can, but I'll find a way to beat you. Your buildings will be dust, your lives will yield to their ultimate fragility, you may think you're clever, but listen here, pay heed, I've got stuff that you can't even begin to fathom, so give it up dudes. Just live, like I tell you to, yeah." Nature will put it to you like that, in a condescending tone, pat you on the back, leave some sort of poo based ooze on your t-shirt, and lope along somewhere else and say the same thing to some alien or another that has grand ideas or ambitions.

So when we laud and retrospect over the launch of Sputnik into orbit, as we pick that event to shreds, think to yourself: "What's the point." Basically it just gave us all something to talk about, to regret, to idolize, to send us drunkenly through all the machinations of drama and emotion that is the ultimate natural purpose and technology of our human race. It is all so superficial.

Editorial: Grant Matthews

September 03, 2007

Carrier Pigeons From The Past

The castles are burning and the dark host is now at the gates. These people stink and are quite a bit uglier than films of the future depict them to be. Conquering the past to control the future may not be such a good idea after all. I hate to admit I was wrong but once you have accomplished time travel and survived the leap through the event horizon there isn't really much else you want to do. I mean, what more is there and why? Basically to get to this point - that is to get to the moment my followers and I are at now, which is to be about to conquer a great and mythical kingdom of fairy folk, we have had to overcome so much malaise. It has really been so tedious. We basically have flushed ourselves down a great intergalactic toilet (see illustration) and arrived amid the sinkers and floaters of the older earth - the shadowy realms of Centaurs and Minotaurs and guitars and glitter. It sucks. We're coming back, and we're less determined than ever.



Lord Elder Grant Matthews Of Dungbar Provence

August 26, 2007

A Synergy of Sorts

This is how it will happen: the hairy ones and the fake people will meet. Their knowledge and strengths will mingle. The dinosaurs will be tamed and the ghost people will be tricked into a permanent sleep state. The hairy-fake people will co-habitate in large abandoned houses in the suburbs and grow hydroponic gardens, organize crystals into time traveling devices and smoke whatever spices and herbs have been left in the kitchen.

One particularly intelligent hairy person, along with the help of an unusually diligent fake person will create a powerful and incredibly useful salve distilled from common ingredients used in processed foods. When applied to the palm of the hand, this salve eliminates all five senses allowing a person's mind to focus solely on the Psyche. Much like an intense dream, people who have experienced this sensory elimination escape the boundaries of physical reality and function in a new and equally real universe. These "dreamers" are called Parallel People and they have become very disruptive in this universe.

August 24, 2007

I'm Not Sad


More revolutions from reality, twerps. Let's think about it. For three or more years we have been out in the open about our designs; north, south, east, and west. And where are we now? The communications have petered out and the Walking Targets have driven themselves underground, hampered by their ideals, not recognizing the true power of their ineptitude. We once could have changed the world with science, space, idolatry, conspiracy, homeliness. And yet we are now reduced to our beginnings, whimpering once more in a primordial limbo of flux and tears, of maturity and mediocrity. The contributions of our core members and chapters have dwindled. Our once waxing empire now wanes - our greatest accomplishment to disseminate our breath inconspicuously. Recruiting has ceased. Civil war is on the horizon and our fantasies have moved inward. We are in the death throws of our existence - not to be dramatic or anything.

I for one will not let this thing die peacefully. What is the point of glorifying futility if you resign yourself to not engaging in the futile? I'm turning on the life support, reigniting the flame in the homunculus heart of the Walking Targets and getting the message out. I've found a new set of fascinations that will capture the imaginations of new members, new minds. I am taking things back to their origins to where science came from. Alchemy. Magic. Fantasy. Wizards. Goblins. UFOs. Unicorns. Hollow Earth. Yetis. Elves. Led Zeppelin! These are fertile beds of rhetoric and discussion. These are the myths and legends upon which modern society and modern archetypes are based. They are the soundtrack to our lives. Escapism refined and the opiate of the masses! I for one am grabbing these reigns to the past , hopping in my time machine, and by god, I'll rule the f*&%in' planet.

This is only a declaration of things to come, a warning shot across the bow of your flagship Complacency. The new Walking Targets are rising and all of you Carl Sagan dweebs better take note. Even if you don't understand.

Lord Elder Grant Matthews of Halgarth

August 17, 2007

Techniques of Parallel People

Here is a perfect example of how identities from similar but obviously distinct universes get away with plopping there trash here on earth. This is likely a kind of garbage bin that some parallel person has dumped on us and tried to mask as fancy modern architecture by surrounding it with some clever landscaping. Obviously they got the memo that earthlings love grass and shrubberies... Parallel bastards!

More to come,
P.S.

August 15, 2007

Procrasstination, the Final Frontier



Maybe at the far edge of space, out thier where time-space meets itself, it becomes obviouse that, like so much of what we do, space itself is only there as a distraction from what is realy meant to be happening. Perhaps, then, we are all an elaborate procrastination, procrastinating ourselves elaboratly through space as space itself avoids that other thing that no one is talking about.

-I.U.

August 09, 2007

ANOTHER SPACE MISSION TO SPACE


Endeavor successfully rode a plume of fire into a clear evening...or so we are told. I have a feeling though that the hopeful teacher and her accompaniment of fellow astronauts have plunged into a realm of disorientation and dementia. Their travels are all smoke and mirrors, a giant blanket tossed over a huge structure to simulate darkness and Christmas lights near the windows to make the stars shine. I don't mean to sound pessimistic. I am sure they are in space but what exactly is space or rather what is the space they are in? Those are the questions I must ask. And don't kid yourself bud, I'm not getting deep here. Don't pretend you just came in on a conversation half heard and claim you don't understand. You know exactly what I am talking about. You've known for a long time and I think it is time we all lived up to the truth of the matter. From the moment you are born you are in space. You got out of your spacecraft on day one and the space walk hasn't ended since. You're in free fall, weightless and floating. How high can you jump out here? Where is the nearest star? Why is my space station developing a leaky faucet? I think the solar shields need mowing again. Has the shuttle crew made dinner yet? I'm starving. I think I'll go to another universe.

Is this all too much for you? Where do you really think space begins and ends? It’s in your head and in your poop.

Don't deny it.

August 02, 2007

Why Have The Astronauts Gone Crazy?



I've heard lately that the astronauts (for NASA at least) have been going crazy. That they have been drinking and flying, that they have sought to vanquish their romantic rivals, that they have been ignoring their doctor's orders. I wonder what this means for the rest of us, for the future of humanity. Is this one of those moments in my life that ushers in a revelation? Like when I realized love was and yet was not at all like the romance described in popular songs? Are all of the science fiction stories I have ever read totally off the mark? Does space travel make people crazy? Or do those that engage in space travel have to be somewhat crazy? Up until recently I believed that space travel was a noble endeavor undertaken by the most sober, fastidious, scientific and respectable of the Earth's population. They are the people who see the risk and take it to better humanity. Yet now, I have my doubts. I'm not saying that I feel that the astronauts are bad people, far from it, but I do wonder if something more sinister is lurking behind the veil of space travel. Is it possible that these intrepid explorers are the resolved and conservative individuals my dreams would have them to be when they first board the space shuttle but then with their travels into the outer realms of human experience off the nurturing surface of their home world the undergo a psychological change that makes them more wild, more weirded than they originally would be had they not broken through the atmosphere? Is there something more to the magic of the Earth than what science can quantify? Are all the hopes of colonizing and terraforming other planets to suit our needs for survival being debunked by the irrational behavior of our nation's heroes? Are we actually not to see these intergalactic visions come to pass?

April 08, 2007

The South Will Rise Again: An Expose on the Proliferation and Condensation of Notorious Gang Walking Target's Southern Manifestation

It was a sweltering late summer day in 1996 when a new kind of menace was first loosed on the traditionally quiet suburbs of Atlanta. The excitement which engulfed the city during the Olympic Games had finally died down, the anomalous and disturbing outbreak of syphilis in upper-middle-class white teenagers in Rockdale County had been contained, and the whole metropolitan area was settling in for what would be the calm after the storm, the general malaise which inevitably follows great events, like the discovery of a dormant star on the edge of the Milky Way. However, brewing underneath the placid surface of the metropolis's demographic was a movement so subversive and so isolated that many casual observers would have passed it on as abysmally normal activities and yet something more was at work.

Madeline Horsheft, a career homemaker in Dekalb County was one of the first
witnesses to go on record as a witness to the strange behavior.

"Well, I was driving down our street, we live in a nice neighborhood, near the community church and not that far from the local science center, and I happened to see a young man standing quite casually in front of our neighborhood post box reading a rather large book. I thought it quite curious, you see, I didn't recognize the person from any of the church socials or community events so I assumed that he was lost or had arrived at the spot by some mistake or perhaps was waiting for the post man in order to inquire about something he may have dropped in the box by accident. The young man looked rather normal by all accounts, his clothing was of the same fashion I would buy for my boy if he were at that age, so I felt that he must be a respectable person and therefore approachable under the circumstance. As if to further bolster my confidence as I came closer I noticed the book he was reading was Vital Dust, a favorite of my husband’s, so I slowed my vehicle, rolled down the window and asked if he needed some assistance. Well, he looked at me for a moment and then very politely said 'No, thank you, I'm just loitering." He then smiles quite sincerely and I was so impressed by his courteous and reserved air that I wished him a good day. It was only as I was driving away that I found the whole exchange to be quite odd because, looking in my rear view mirror I saw the young man remove a camera from his pocket, make a hand gesture rather like an O.K. but with his index finger and thumb more tightly closed, and he took a picture of himself holding the book aloft with the hand that was not gesturing. The whole thing happened so fast I couldn't be quite sure what was going on. It didn't seem vulgar at all, just odd. As I think back on it though, it was such a random event that it kind of shook my confidence for a few days after in such a queer way. My predictable world seemed to be infiltrated by some thing rather, well, weird."

Descriptions similar to Mrs. Horsheft's became more and more prevalent in the
subsequent years culminating in what amounts to the current explosion of the
phenomenon in the South.

"We never took many of these complaints seriously until recent years, specifically 2003;" comments Fulton County deputy sheriff Scott Burnaby. "I mean, it is procedure to file reports on all formal complaints lodged to the department, but we don't aggressively pursue complaints concerning jay walking or loitering. Most of the time the person lodging the complaint can't even site any specific behavior about which to complain. The odd loitering is about the most serious offence. For the most part the behavior is only subtly bizarre. Once there was a vandalism complaint in the Gresham Terrace subdivision off of Ponce De Leon, some guy egging a house and taking pictures. When our patrol arrived the guy was still hanging around reading Isaac Asimov or something. We would have brought the guy in but as it turned out it was his own home he was egging and obviously he wasn't prepared to press charges against himself. We just wrote him off as an odd ball and many others until the state's county police departments' records were consolidated into one database in March of 2002. That's when the magnitude of these events really hit us. There were literally thousands of complaints. All were concerning what could be considered barely criminal activities, hard to trace or even string together. There were masses of loitering complaints and wanton jay walking, suspected breaking and entering charges where the perpetrator was actually breaking into his/her own house, driving under the speed limit on the freeway (only complaints are listed for that one – no moving violation was ever issued), and so on and so forth, these being only accounts of urban, Atlanta area reports; you get into the rural areas and you got even more peculiar activities involving grain elevators and such. All petty crimes on par with a parking ticket and none of these individually being of much interest, but then we started seeing the common denominators in an alarming bulk of these offenses. Science fiction, courteous, yet aloof behavior, an age range of approximately 24- 35, dominantly but not exclusively male, and what is most significant to me, the uniform presence of homemade clothing is in every complaint. That is when we saw that these activities were organized and deliberate and that is when the shock hit us that for seven years, maybe more, an organization had been strategically assaulting our system of order. It is almost as if they have found the vacuum in our justice system. The drug pushers, pimps, racketeers, and car thieves got nothing on these guys if you ask me. Sure the crimes are more severe, but the enormity of this group's activities outstrips them all and the man hours it takes to examine and compile these complaints is snowballing as we speak. Crime is hard enough to fight on its own, but it gets a lot harder when you have a bunch of borderline lunatic Einsteins bogging you down with the grog of the penal code."

Officer Burnaby's comments illuminate the epidemic that the south is now facing from this mysterious menace, twenty-something individuals with a penchant for astronomy and science fiction who commit minor crimes and make there own clothing.

Detective Curtis Jackson of the Atlanta Police Department offers further
embellishment:

"To be frank I didn't think much of the claims that these infractions amounted to much. All the talk of organized crime or gangs or conspiracy seemed like a lot of guff to me. That was until we got several consistent reports in which the clothing featured prominently in the witness’s description. It seems that in a number of cases the witness could not determine the dress of the perpetrators with any certainty. It was not that the clothing was unusual, kahki pants and oxford shirts seem to be the clothing of choice, but the witness could not specifically identify a recognizable brand name or cut to the clothing only that it was normal on first blush and then somewhat disconcerting in some vague way. That excited my interest. You see gangs as such have a certain dress code which identify themselves to other members, like head bands, or a manner of buttoning a shirt, or the way in my younger years you used to see the kids in leather and slick hair all James Dean-like, or the blacks and their satin jackets with embroidery all across the backs. Well, I was really puzzled as to how the clothing figured into all this until finally we got a big break; one of our witnesses, a long time employee of a Sue-Anne Fabrics store, testified with great conviction that the shirt and pants of the young man she saw assaulting himself with a rather large tome of the Epitome of Copernican Astronomy and Harmonies of the World were rather impressive renderings of Buttrick patterns 12-0093 and 31-7645, both featured in the company’s year 2000 line. After that we followed the clothing angle more closely. We signed on the previously mentioned individual because of her expertise identifying the origins of these clothes and we have set up quite a book of “mug shots” comprised of patters distributed by major do-it-yourself clothing companies from the last seven years. The results have been startling. Without exception the clothing in these cases has been of a style that is homemade, not manufactured. That, more than the fascination with space, was what convinced me that what we were dealing with was indeed a gang of some odd contrivance. Since these discoveries we have focused on trying to infiltrate the group and gain a better understanding of the motives and hierarchy present. So far we have run into a bog. The group seems to be completely nebulous and the vernacular of the members, if they can even be called such, is so cryptic that we can’t get our foot in the door. We tried bringing in some astronomy students from Emory and UGA as undercover informants but they were of no help, it was almost as if they were already part of the group and that their willing assistance was some sort of smoke screen. I tell you, the department is at a loss and we’re getting matching reports from further and further afield. We’ve had detectives from Mississippi, Alabama, Louisiana, Tennessee, and the Carolinas contacting us. The Feds claim that it is something out of the North, up New York way, and by God I believe them. I’ve never heard of such craziness as this coming from any God fearing Southern person.”

An anonymous FBI source offered the following brief synopsis of compiled data on
the subject:

“A “gang” on the Eastern Sea Board going by the moniker, Walking Target has gained prominence in recent years concerning itself with relatively petty crimes that individually are negligible but in mass amount to a rather significant but ambiguous threat to the nation. The origin of the organization is unknown, though it is suspected that the group was founded in the metropolitan New York area. In recent years bureaus in Southern states have witnessed a rash of Walking Target activities and have met little success in pin pointing the source or motive of the groups operations. The organization appears to be a highly dynamic and ever changing entity. No apparent hierarchy appears to be present. No uniform or rigid system of operation is apparent. The gang’s personality is highly influenced by the region in which it is observed making it a highly camouflaged in the overall criminal landscape. The gang’s activities seem to be unified only by the quality of crimes committed and the presence of literature heavily based on astronomy, physics, black holes, quarks, and other such varieties of astronomical phenomenon. The grasp of these concepts though do not seem to be essential or even understood by the group in their full scientific nature. Rather, they appear to be topics of some mystical or superstitious fascination to the group. Another defining characteristic of the organization is the wardrobe of exclusively hand made clothing. The precision of the clothing’s make varies from member to member depending on the number of years a person has been involved with the gang. The choice of fabric varies regionally but the patterns are consistent with those available in local fabric stores. Generally the colors and detailing of the clothing is not extraordinary; much of the more advanced member’s garments could easily be mistaken for an average department store’s blander fair. The choice of clothing makes the members of the gang extraordinarily hard to pick out of even the smallest grouping of citizens. Hand gestures and cryptic slang are components of the gang’s persona but the proverbial Rosetta Stone of these modes of communication have yet to be found. No arrest or interrogation of a member has ever been successfully conducted. No attempt at undercover infiltration has ever been successfully conducted. In light of the Administration’s focus on Homeland security and the threat of terrorism, Walking Target investigations have been place on a low level of importance and are considered by the Bureau to be concerns best dealt with by respective State authorities.”

Clearly the phenomenon of the Walking Target gang is one that eludes explanation by current knowledge. What is certain though is that it is a real, tangible example of the evolution of the modern gang and the inventive spirit that crime on all levels seems to inspire. While the motives and foundation of this group remains unclear, the impacts of its subtle, plodding actions are beginning to be felt in force in the South. The number of gang members in Georgia alone is suspected to be in the hundreds and climbing. The innocence of petty crime seems now to have been harnessed and no longer is even the most rural backwater town safe. Many people have begun to ask if this subversive movement is a kind of new interstellar confederacy, the vanguard of the South’s rise to power. The presence of the gang in the north discounts this, but what we are seeing may be something more disturbing – there are strangers in our midst, a group with questionable intent and even more questionable customs. They are the every-man and no-man simultaneously. Above all the members of this gang should be considered walking targets to all law-abiding citizens of this nation.

More installments of this expose will follow as more information is compiled
concerning Walking Target.

Submitted by Grant Matthews, Southern Regional Correspondent.

March 06, 2007


THE LETTER h EXCUSES TO CONTINUE

When we realized our chances of becoming famous were almost zero and our potential for obtaining wealth had been a dream, it was then that we became unintentionally banded together. We realize you are not paying attention and that we should probably give up our attempt for our ideas to be absorbed but some stubborn little nucleus of wishful thinking keeps our intentions afloat. Therefore we continue making excuses.

March 05, 2007

Nho Rheasohn Tho Chonthinhue....


Thhe hinphirhathion hhas lheft mhe and mhy lhifhe. Thhere his nho rheasohn tho chonthinhue. Whhat's thhe phoint hanwhay? When yhou whake hup hand hhave nho vhishion of whhat tho dho withh yhour lhifhe. Yhou dhon't shee thhe phoint hof dhohin' thhis hor thryhing thhat bhechause thhere his nho phoint. Hit's hall jhust bhusy whork fhor yhou tho dho bhefhore yhou dhie. Yhou'll nhevher bhe rhechognizhed fhor whhat yhou lhove tho dho. Yhou dhon't rheallhy hhave hany frhiends. Yhou fheel ahlhone, phathhethic, hand habhovhe hall thothally hand hhopllhesslhy mhedhihocrhe. Whhat hare yhou tho dho whhen yhou hare fhaced whith thhaht rhealhizhathion? Dho yhou charrhy hon? Dho yhou smhileh ehvhen thhoughh hit mhakes yhou fheel phhonhy hand mhore shad? Dho yhou gho shee ha shhrhink? Dho yhou thakhe drhugs hor dhrink mhore hr slheep ahrhouhnd? Dho yhou bhuy a fhanchy char? Hor dho yhou jhust churl hup hin bhed hat nhight hhathing yhouhrshelf, swhallhowhing yhour frhustrhathion fhor the nhext dhay tho chome hand hadd shome mhore? Has Hi shee hit, thhereh's nho rheashon tho chonthinhue hat hall.

February 28, 2007

kite

Ih Sphirahl Ouht Ohf Chontrhol

Mhy hheahd huhrts tohdhay. Ih hhahve bheen drhinkhing thoo mhuch. Mhy hhaihr anhd bheardh ahre grhowhing thoo lhongh. Ih hhate mhy jhob. It snhoes thoo mhuch hhere. ehvehrhythinghs nhot ghohing tho bhe ahlrhight. Ih lhove yhou ahll. Ih whill khiss yhour hheads aht nhight and hhold yhour hhands. Ih whill thake ohn yhour trhoubhles ahs mhy ohwn. Ih'll knhow hhow yhour ghardhen grhows. HHHHHHHHH

February 27, 2007

Kiss Me


I think everything is realy going to be OK. Maybe even better than that. There is a lot of change, and then again maybe things change just as much when they seem not to be. Perhaps it is just us ignoring the change, and then suddenly paying attention to it that makes the diffrence so abrupt.
I had cookies today that had only a little cocanut in them. They where not very good cookies.

Boris and Frank at the Event Horizon