Rainbow Body by Barrett Avner
Seven Story Hotel ***LEAKED***
Seven Story Hotel ***LEAKED***
“We’ll all go together.”
I hate these functions, but it sure beats what I usually do: work, eat alone, and watch my sac soften gently into the twilight of my 30s.
“Ok, we have the address. It’s at this blown-out corporate headquarters in the Arts District. They converted one of the open office spaces into a stucco Dionysian fuck palace, equipped with Day-Glo lights and vaporized pornography chambers. It says so here on the flier. It’s been faux distressed using tried-and-true techniques from Adobe web tutorials.”
I really hate this shit, but if I’m paying top dollar to live in this city, I might as well take advantage of bodies-becoming-meaningless; they evaporate everything I know and love.
We get in the car. I’m sober, so I’m the driver. My gay friend procures a bag of ketamine and I want it. I have a feeling tonight will be a nadir for electronic music: A new low for a rotting cadaver that has already been skull-fucked into oblivion.
Everything in the world is exactly the same: Big universe becoming solemn; cracking universe, the existence of form becomes impoverished.
We approach the front gate. A large man of offensive lineman stock checks our IDs and says we’re good to go. As we walk past, into the repurposed slave-labor garment facility’s entrance, a guy bumps into me. He’s got on one fingerless leather glove, which is all anyone really needs to know about him. I try to pretend I’ve never met him before because he wants women to think he’s not the type of guy to finger-blast them while they’re sleeping. (He is.)
The night ends as if it were all the same, as if nothing even happened. There are birds: They sound like car alarm rhythms alien to human sameness.
Later I dreamed and thought of the 20th century, and how industrialization and the natural sciences had, as Latour said, disenchanted the world. This pervades what we know as the human. Cascading cracks at dawn seem hazy, simulated, out of focus. Politics have failed; capitalism, communism, fascism, socialism: All have failed. The ground on which we stand can only be conquered through Jalü, or ‘rainbow body’: a final meditation, on the brink of Absolute Eclipse.
Consciousness is stored in the body. Your body is not a kaleidoscope; your body is a wonderland, and wonderlands make themselves meaningless. The wretched of the earth are messengers of an extraordinary state unknown to us. We are in the business of decapitation, and the results are none of our business. Neither God nor World.
You think it’d a big joke, the idea of making your mom cum, but literally anything is possible within the mighty and powerful Etheric Plane. You can wage a psychic war, psychicrusade against your mom free of egoic ressentiement and id. This is where infinite cardinality resides, flowing within a woman of unknown origin. The Negative One beyond the capture of cosmic prisons: We feel tics throughout life like infinite kisses, but none exist here. This is beneath the dark cellars in which we summon knowledge, which is a great big lie. The Negative One is the only way to access the infidimensional and pandimensional planes of all possibilities in contrast to the standard linear time that one experiences when entering a state of ketamine bliss.
There’s this one tree I return to in the wooded area of my grandparents’ backyard in Alaska in the subfreezing twilight of December. In these winter months, the dead branches crystalize perfectly. So incredibly perfect that they replicate low-res digital JPEGs when I photograph them with a smartphone. You can feel each, as they drop on your head, so empty and calm, and you become one with the emptiness of icicles as nostril fluids cascade upon cold sores.
Nothing can break these chains of imposed cosmic restriction. You see, people leave the internet all the time. No matter what their contribution, everything they’ve done gets immediately forgotten. It’s like they’re just dead, and our greatest crisis is one of forgetting.