Is this a this or is this a that? Is this a play or is this a dialogue? Is this a play on words? Is this where we go no further than our buttons because that is that? Not where it is at for uncertain when the mind goes blank just before the brick wall the block wall is it? Is this where we go no further than our buttons because that is that for all that?
It is all about the structure of the body of communication made up of people making things up and at the level just above this it is a large table who knows how long filled with cell phones lying on one lying plane of reality functioning as the social recharging pad. Upstairs from something that used to be referred to as humanity lies the lying plane of cell phones. The cell structure making up things that are made up.
Cell Phone #1: All the lying, it makes one sick. Knowing it's only a process and not being able to trust the process. Not knowing what to do and lowering one's expectations all the time all the time that heals nothing. They say, "time heals all wounds," but I think it just passes over them just like water and either spreads the pieces further apart or clumps them into a clumpy mess.
Cell Phone #2: Can you believe what he said to me? Can you believe it? Can you believe any of it? Do you believe in something intervening? I mean sometimes because the light turns green it doesn't mean you're supposed to go right then? Sometimes there's a pause because something wants you to wait and then when something runs the red light from the other direction it makes you wonder doesn't it make you wonder like it makes me wonder if something is intervening or has intervened or hasn't intervened at all? Could be just luck. Can you believe it? I mean the not going when you're supposed to go the pausing the intervening or the luck. I mean is it something intervening or is it just luck or something? Which do you think it is? Do you believe in luck? Or is it that the word can't think of it I think it starts with an "f" - no, not that one. It starts with an "f", yes, I'm sure. Oh, shut the fuck up. Fate! That's it. Do you believe in fate?
Cell Phone #3: I don't know where or when it started. All I know is I lost her for good now. So cold and icy and it's beyond the point of saving. She hardly looks at me and when she does it's like I'm not here or I don't exist. Actually, I've gotten pretty used to it. The not existing is a strange I can't even call it a feeling it's more like a condition like I've been conditioned by her actually by most of the people in my life actually by everyone. Conditioned to not exist. I've gotten used to it not only recently, but I've always been used to it and then I get this what has become an irritating thing that just pokes itself up like a weed or an itch and it persuades me that love is real and it can be found and that it exists and then I find someone where the flame is either almost completely out or it has been out longer than I have assessed and then when I finally realize it I am reminded that love doesn't exist and then I stop existing and it's OK again. It's when you re-appear back into existence that things go dreadfully wrong.
Cell Phone #4: I can never tell by the tone. I can't tell if they're really into what I'm into or not. Underneath it all I just want to shout at them that they are just a bunch of liars the two of them faking their way through it all. They act like they care and then they spend so much time trying to arrange it so they can spend more time together away from me and then spend all this time wanting to have their talk time. And then I get my notebooks out and try to write and I'll spend hours late at night too wired to sleep writing about how I feel and all the words and then I just stop and look at it and I ask myself if the tone of it is just what's the word and it's not dramatic although I also think it is, but it's another word like it or I know it's melodramatic or something I think it is and then I try to keep up my conviction that I'm right in what I'm writing and then I just stare at these blotches of ink and dark strings strung along and want to destroy it all because I'm so damn furious with the empty hole that seems to grow inside my head like a drain just spiraling everything down into it like the end of a bath that didn't comfort a thing. Feel like I'm being melodramatic now and it would be better to just say nothing . . .
Cell Phone #1: Why get your hopes up anyway anymore anywhere at any time there never used to be a time when it was better. Others say that, but I'm not buying what they're selling. Everyone's selling something. Everyone's a sales rep representing someone or something else. And that's the process I don't trust and can never trust.
Cell Phone #2: Are you honestly going to defend him? I can't believe you're actually going to take his side. Can you hear what I'm hearing? Can you hear what you're saying? Can you believe that I can't believe you're actually siding with him against me? Me? Against me? Because if you're siding with him then you're against me and there is no in between. Can you understand that? Can you grasp what he's done to me by doing what he did? Can't you believe what I'm telling you what he said or are you saying you don't believe me? Does anyone believe me? Does anyone believe a word I say? Or are you joining a growing mass of thousands against me that thinks every word I say about him the verbal abuser the man who every word he says to me is sharpened to the finest point to pierce me and poison me while all of the thousands of you are being poisoned by his charms. You probably see through me because of all the holes he's made in me. Can you believe you're talking like you see through all my holes? Can you believe you see through everything and that nothing intervenes no one intervenes on my behalf or anyone's behalf unless that half is the other half against me? Is all the luck on the other side against me? Can you believe that everything everyone is conspiring against me?
Cell Phone #3: I don't know where or when it started that I got this crazy idea of love or hope or hope for love that festers under the surface of my monotony and then penetrates into my awareness like an out of place hair and I would do better to pluck it out and be rid of it, but I don't know where to start or where it emanates from. It's like I know unconsciously that if I started began pulling it would just keep stringing me along and I would never be able to find the end of it or the beginning or the root of it. It's better to leave it and ignore it or close my eyes and see her looking at me like I don't exist and then I disappear and everything is all right again because of all the conditioning her conditioning everyone's conditioning. Everything is mostly all right, from all the conditioning, some of it's all right for now or about to be as I just wait for some of it to change to being like I don't exist and I wait for something to change and sometimes nothing changes for now and waiting for that not existing from all the conditioning to empty everything, but it doesn't always arrive, not yet.
Cell Phone #4: And the tone of all the stuff that I've written that I haven't destroyed yet I sit there late at night and I mean late and the lack of light that I think is affecting the tone is replaced by the morning light of the next day that sheds this light on all the words and the tone I just can't tell if it's not melodramatic or I'm kidding myself for all these years and if it's me writing it or me trying to be someone else or something else writing in this tone that's not my tone. I've never known what my tone or voice is. Maybe it's that my tone happens to be some other tone and not my own until I find out what that is if I ever will probably not probably never and then I that sounds like more of that tone that keeps me from the tone that might be my own, but I have no way of knowing what that could be. The only thing I can be sure of is all the things I am not.
Cell Phone #1: It's all slamming of doors in my face. No one's home. Shutting of opportunities. Shutting down of the process that seems to only take place somewhere deep in the center of an impenetrable maze that I will only be able to orbit on the very outer layer of and make no progress. I'd like to slam the door on them and see how they like it. Slamming the door on all their selling and deals they want to make deals have made deals all my life to have something just enough to stay in the game. I can hear the sound as I talk about slamming the door a big thick door that slams with a booming judgment of condemnation on their way of life where I can send them on their rejected way to feel the humiliation of not making the sale so they can carry on their burden to make their commissions so I can get back to my business of making enough to get the stuff I need.
Cell Phone #2: Can you believe that luck has it out for me to have people enter my life and punch all those holes through me and all that I believe and then abandon me to my holes where life and luck just pass through me like I'm less to bother with? Can you believe that I don't go when the light is green and when I'm supposed to go because something is intervening so I don't collide only to survive so I can experience more of the people who put me down. No intervening then with friends or so-called friends intervening for the people who put me down because they don't believe me, can you believe that? The cards are stacked against me as the tables are tilted in everyone else's favor. Do you believe the game is rigged?
Cell Phone #3: Did you ever hear the one about the group that ran out of icebreakers to begin their sessions? And someone suggested they play telephone, you remember, the game where someone starts a message and it's passed along until it reaches the end where everyone gets to hear the last person at the end say what they heard and everyone hears how much the message has been changed. Well, as they're playing the game, they realize that through the course of being in group for months it has made them such good listeners that there is no variation in the hearing and transmission of the message and when they reach the end the message is the same. They are so disappointed with the loss of hearing something absurd that they decide to start again with a different message to begin again with and it still stays the same. They try again and again changing the message each time they restart recreating and various members even try to pretend they are mishearing when it is their turn that they begin feeling guilt stricken about their manipulations and some even criticize their lack of spontaneity and methods of absurdity and failed attempts at humor that they spend most of their time processing their guilt and criticisms. Eventually, more and more members peel off from the group in order to re-encounter what it's like to be the way they used to be in their absurdities before all their conditioning in the group. They have grown to mistrust the process and all the conditioning. However, they are stuck in patterns of conditioned facilitating in all their conversations outside of the group that more and more people avoid them so that they continue to experience all the disconnection they joined the group to escape from. In this, too, the message continues to pass along from person to person and remain unchanged from all the conditioning. All the conditioning.
Cell Phone #4: So, I sit there late at night and notice that there is now less that I have to show for that I have written due to destroying so much of it all the tearing and ripping and shredding and crumpling and even burning the smoke all the smoke and then I write more and I stop it's when I stop look at it and feel that drain opening up again in the mind taking all the uniqueness and all the lack of originality and all the certainty and all the doubt that there is nothing left to defend the words and they end up no longer on a page or ebbing in my fingers they just end up between my fingers or palms ripped and bent and torn and smeared to end up in the trash and their memory doesn't last long and they fade so quickly in the bins on their way to be recycled elsewhere and back in my late nights and early grey dawns to reappear as words to be doubted and mistrusted and destroyed again only to reappear and doubted and mistrusted and destroyed again.
Cell Phone #1: Making enough to buy enough to eat enough to slam and open doors and slam them shut again only to reopen them to make enough to buy enough to eat enough to sleep enough to have enough energy to slam doors open doors all the selling and all the buying.
Cell Phone #2: Can you believe all the crazy luck the crazy biased luck while nothing intervenes? Can you believe that? Do you believe in luck? Do you believe in something? Do you believe what I am saying about what he said? Do you hear what I'm saying? Can you hear what I'm saying? Are you still there? Is anyone still there?
Cell Phone #3: All the conditioning all the disconnection before and after where's the beginning and the end? Just one big middle conditioned to repeat itself to repeat the message that never changes. The lies that never change. The illusion that never changes. A message that can't be changed from all the conditioning. All the disconnectiong before and after where's the beginning and the end? Just one bid middle conditioned to repeat itself to repeat the message that never changes. The lies that never change. The tone that never changes. The lives that never change. Off the hook to remain on the hook. By hook or by crook. The message never changes. The tone. All the conditioning and all the disconnection before and after with no beginning and no end. Just one big middle conditioned to repeat itself to repeat the message that never changes.
Cell Phone #4: Switched to writing on a computer to get away from all the ripping and crumpling and destroying to replace it with all the writing and typing and doubting and deleting and then the draining in the head the emptying the draining deleting and retyping staring at the screen and doubting and draining and deleting retyping the tone that continues to be doubted and drained deleted and retyped never finding the right tone, but the one that pretends to be.
- Max Stoltenberg