---------------------------------------------------------------- FROST WARNING #02 A STORMWATCH INFORMATION FRONT PUBLICATION ---------------------------------------------------------------- "BORN UNDERGROUND" [Jeff Weston] Chicago, Il - USA [ July 8, 1997 ] ---------------------------------------------------------------- [S.I.F. -- Frost Warning Contact Information:] WWW: http://www.cryogen.com/acidrain E-mail: [PGP Key Available on Request] REDISTRIBUTE/REPUBLISH FREELY IN UNMODIFIED FORM ---------------------------------------------------------------- Stormwatch Frost Warnings: G-Files for the dawn of the 21st Century ---------------------------------------------------------------- [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.] ---------------------------------------------------------------- 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 he’s 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. ================================================================ 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.! ================================================================