ComPlex by JamesNN

1:08:40-59

1:08:40 Agitated and restless before the hacker meeting I logged on to Lotte's page for a quick ejaculation over my Yucca palm, and wondered what came first, the rhythm of the senses, or the rhythm of the phrase. It all comes down to seeing beyond the visuals, listening to what the surrounding sounds carries with them, sensing the meaning in the string of connections on a deeper level, said a luscious voice from the server. You might as well ask what those people are doing here. What does these electric thoughts really mean? What hides behind them, what has the nature to say, the weather, the insects, traces, codes that shows themselves all the time to those able to take the signals in, every moment.

1:08:41 The small, round camera lay ready for lust on my desk, and Lotte accepted the connection while I unbuttoned my fly. Now, finally I begin to act truefully. Whatever answer I get from the higher dimensions, where even the smallest sensations are pursued in non interference, I could not see her. She had no camera, she claimed, but I could hear my half sisters enthusiastic shouts: "Hi, please show me your micro-perceptions". Let the cock expand and associations grow until they carve independent tracks in the text. Answers those who remember what they asked for, and who where willing to thank, in reverence, for the answer beforehand.

1:08:42 I thought about showing her some of her own rubbish while my mind raced around the conceptual emotions of parent-child, brother-sister relationships. The tricky part is to transform the weary, un-polarized, idea- and language-less wave information from the fifth dimension, into three- or two-dimensional structured information. You stopped writing, folded your hands and rested your chin on the braided fingers. Calm down a little, you pledged. Subordinate clauses upon subordinate clause leads me (and the reader) into a game of eye movement and query of the mind again and again. This even implies the question of what is right and wrong on an even deeper, more appropriate level.

1:08:43 My physical boundaries dissolve when I have an orgasm; fade into the containers complexes, the streets, park life and traffic. I trust God with all my heart and try to recall the colors of the cars passing. I meet several foes (and a friend), all while thinking about quibblers, liquorice, an artists tragic death and some anonymous burials. I can have an orgasm throughout the body or only in one organ, while observing the four elements in full display around me. My brain can have an orgasm while I type these words. I can't lean on my own understanding. How would I know whether I had an orgasm in my cervix, my womb, ass or clitoris if my brain didn't have an orgasm as well? You know, I said and interrupted the flow of purpose. I surrender to him. If the omniscient subconscious intent (if such a thing can even have an intent, that is) was to help me out of this series in the best possible way, with my honor intact, the red door may have been just precise. God may have a completely different agenda connected to any performance or situation in our life. His ego-insults are often contrary to what we would expect or think was the best, and he will make our paths straight.

1:08:44 The morning you left me, took my car and ran off after hitting me over the nose, I stopped and listened to my Yucca. I pulled down my pants and glanced at a photo of you and the Commander, smiling on Datasafes opening day. A text message beeped in on the hand-technopist between the breath and the leaves. I can't talk to you now, you wrote. Everything is just chaos. I read this while Lotte cheered me on. I need a respite from you. Don't try to find me, OK? There was nothing spiritual over the subsequent self-lusting in the office. In the other end, where the gaga packets from my camera were put together and displayed as moving images on Lotte's screen, someone saw how I showered my office plant with salty penis tears.

1:08:45 One trick is to decide in advance whether you like or don't like the person you're playing against, you said and resumed writing. I must admit that it provoked me. My self love didn't help me out of apathy, helplessness, grief over lost opportunities and spilt life in Inn-Freezonia. Those same patterns seem to repeat themselves again and again. Only this book, a great book, a brutally honest and maybe beautiful book can repair me, I thought, and continued my dictation. I can't reach under the skin of lust, can't make the energy circulate between us, have no real intimate contact with you.