Four short prose pieces: Chris Jones


Four short prose pieces

It is raining fish
The wild melons growing in summer over the black soil plains of north west New South Wales are called paddy melons. I once told some of my Sydney friends how it rains fish out here in the violent late summer, late afternoon thunderstorms. They refused to believe me. No bullshit, fair dinkum, it rains little fish, about a quarter to half an inch long, sucked up from waterholes which have not dried out in the hot sun with strong updrafts to be dropped again into puddles and waterholes, squiggling and drying out in the small and medium sized puddles to become fish emulsion fertilizer and surviving in the larger lagoons to again be sucked up and fall with the rain down onto the plains. Bobby cod, they are called, and that is how fish spread across the plains. A cowboy has left a note for me to meet him in the beat across the road from where I live. We leave our felt tip truths on toilet walls. That is how we meet. There is nothing as sensual, as erotic as making love to a cowboy in the swishing black mud as the late afternoon summer storms belt heavy fish rain onto our wet bodies.
welcome to my transcendental operating system
you looking at operating system computer screen cathode rays or lcd flat panel (should that be lsd) is it micro $oft windows macintosh redhat linux bluecurve with look and feel desktop graphic user interface on graphic representation transcendental surface words typeface letters graphic semiotic information and this representation caught on surface effect abstract expressionist collage and pseudo airbrush cutups application and repetition repeating repeating repeating repeating yesterday repeating you with sad passion on graphic desktops on this surface on the way to hack to break through to get at code always petulantly fighting your computer transcendental code generations generations generations to break through the operating system doing what has to do to fit into doing what it can do imposing reading procedure on writing notes to get inside the system and hack a smoother way to code to step on a console ascii text will this be source code shell scripts and configuration files not really believing the source is there compiling yet another transcendental surface in ascii typeface console user interface representation computer screen in your face graphics and text console in so far as you can talk about narrative structure it is a process of hacking
I must confess
I really must confess to having somewhat of a criminal nature. You see, a time ago I needed to read the cards so as to proceed with this undertaking yet had with me no such cards. As chance would have it with my wanders I found myself in a large city, Brisbane, in Queensland, Australia, and knowing that tarot cards could be purchased in almost any bookshop for a few dollars I set about searching the Brisbane bookshops. Bookshop after bookshop I went into asking for cards and none would admit that they stocked such items. Finally, finally, I came to a large chain of bookshops; actually a small bookshop in an out of the way suburban shopping centre. Well, I found a book on tarot cards with images of the cards so I again asked if they stocked tarot cards. The sales assistant, himself an obvious illegal in Queensland (I could tell by the way he looked at me queer like) pulled from the beneath the counter a single pack of cards, which he hid from the other customers with his hands and quickly placed into a brown paper bag. He then rang the price up, twenty dollars for the cards and two dollars for the book. Little did I know that buying or selling cards was quite illegal in Queensland, as was using them. It came under the law against practicing witchcraft. Anyway, I took the cards to where I was staying and began the laying out. I must confess that Osama Bin Laden is not my real name. It is the initials, you see, CJ, and the recorded date of my origin bears the number 666. I am AntiChrist, by police determinations with dialectical antithesis; I am the God of all hackers writing malicious code, a mega worm that will spread virus after virus all over the World Wide Web and bring the Internet crashing down faster then you can say blue screen of death. A perilous journey made to the land of black moonless nights filled with the frightening sounds of marsupial primates and night birds. I watch Gemini, the twin stars, rise in the western sky and higher to the north, Venus shines bright and then the shimmering glow of the Milky Way. In the morning wild horses come down from the mountains to drink quietly at the billabong and produce chemically mutated genes.
I am GOD!
You begin your journey on the transcendental plane arranging and re-arranging affects. Taking a tool to the job, a Kantian critical scalpel, you slice away in a formalist way at the job in hand, dissecting form, arranging and re-arranging the face's registered semiotic signs of affect's trauma event's alien contact. You don't know but it happens anyway to leave the wounds and still the scalpel slices looking for affective cause, Platonic measures of truth, the alien in your face. Kant does not see, does not know his scalpel is dirty. Swarming with germs, HIV/AIDS, Hepatitis C, you name it, infected faculties infect definite concepts and the economic relation between the definite concept and demonology succumbs to become all is demonology. Through black hole territory you travel across the face coming upon the event horizon of a huge and terrible black hole. A powerful extremely violent black hole, evil in-itself. Calling on all the forces of anti-gravity you can muster, clinging to the event horizon laid out as a plane, step by step you go, battling illusions everywhere. Illusions which if invested in, believed in too heavily, plunge you in an instant into this evil pulverising black hole. Finally, having survived the event horizon, finding a way out of this illusionary maze of affect registered as past emotion, you arrive in the future, on a plane of immanence. The cards turn as black as the ace of spades. There is no form here, only indifferent elements without form or function. A new face to be made where the genetic code which makes up a face is written. Genetic engineering which is no longer human. Nature is future smarter then you are. Writing with the hand of God. God exists but will I believe in him? You see, Mr. Policeman: I am God.

Chris Jones