The Selfcleaning World

stories & images from a world on the edge..

Tag: drawing

Is this Social?

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They want your image  they want your soul  as much as you can give  they’ll take it all

They want information   they want consent   monetizing us   down to the last cent

Like we’re just products lined up on a shelf   a piece of meat   cut and paste yourself

Inside out   we’ve been swallowed whole   identities merging   we’re getting sold


Feeding the machines  replacing skin with glass  we’re raising imitations  Is this social?

How many friends   can you pretend to have   and what’s your status   Is this social?


Reject their probing eyes   their sucking needle lies   keep some of it inside


They’re tracking tendencies averaging us out if we could disappear we’d find a way out

Consuming the consumers   the pitchman is fake

he swallows his own tail   he is a walking snake


Eyes stapled to a screen  their minds all gone   do you want that   just another Replicon

Manufacturing a sense of belonging   but we don’t need them to tell us who we are


Listen to the song ‘Is this Social’ by Destroy Clocks here:

DestroyClocks art 4

Destroy Clocks

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Destroy Clocks.  Abolish time.  Break the chains of causality.  Really, how badly do you need time?  For precise social order, for appointments?  Peel off the temporal dimension.

Destroy Clocks is my new band and I’m stoked to be playing shows and sharing the recording of our 6 song EP.  Stream or download it for free from our bandcamp page:

Destroy Clocks crashes the barricades, spills through walls and pushes exploration to the brink with hypnotic and arousing jams.  Drawing from shoegaze, jazz, doom, hardcore and psychedelia among other inspirations, the group’s free form mind will draw you in and turn you out.  Fusing ambient keyboards, volatile guitar and propulsive rhythms the trio calls forth bewitching grooves from the percolating chaos.


A fleeting shape at the corner of my eye and an earthy smell like ferns.  I turn to see a liquidy movement of limbs pouring forth.  The thing speaks as it walks on hands and then feet, words that are like packed dirt, a baritone filling my ears like mud.

“Ah child of the sun, come.. come.  Tell me the width of your day, the depth of your night.”

The words are visible like a brown mist of hieroglyphs seeping from its mouth before dissolving, its breath smelling of curry, swamp gas, and burnt insects. It is Yogatron.


The Calculix , Part 1

The Calculix

There are people who claim to have been through the rift, a transient crease in time’s pace that assembles events in random configurations, often with bizarre consequences.  The only way it’s possible is if the Calculix is real.

It’s not any crazier than believing the laws of the universe are true and have had their way with us, evolving us into these strange physical forms.

Time’s silent soldiers – seconds, minutes, hours – march over the planet in precision and perfect resolve.  Or so we thought.

“Time,” declared renegade researcher Dr. Wolfgang LeVram, “can be thought of as a continuous beam between receptors at all points.  Everything – objects, people, whales – are suspended in the intervening jelly.  With sufficient know-how this beaming can be controlled, or at least influenced.”

I remember sneaking into his lectures.  I wasn’t majoring in physics but I was fascinated by his story and reputation.  Disparaging comments from his rivals and the media only increased the appeal.  Dr. LeVram touted his Calculix, sixteen years in the making, as a device possessed of the ability to control time.  The problem was that no one could confirm whether it worked and to what extent, as everything and everybody is embedded in time and so detecting its effects were difficult.

It was easy to dismiss it all as crack pottery.  But I know people who claim first hand experience with its power, bright young students involved in the research who now live on the streets, their reality shattered, and I need to know why.

[This is Part 1 of The Calculix Series]


A work in progress with coloured pencil…  Attempting to capture an ephemeral vision, like trying to nail down a cloud.

Passenger Seven

With time I’ve gained perspective and realize that she would have been there for me if only I could have opened up.  Instead, distracted, I ignored her and everyone in going into myself, a rodent obsessed with finding the eternal cheese of perpetuity in a maze that is fractal and therefore endless.  Now I recoil at the knowledge I lusted after and allowed to consume me to near extinguishment.

Alone, aghast, I exist only in the present now, a condensed bubble in a heavy sea, tethers atrophied and anchors cut away, released to a societal Brownian motion.  Living strange dreams that aren’t dreams but something more visceral.  Convoluted possibilities.

Would I do the things that led me here the same way if given another chance?  The answer is no, which makes me a different person now.  How many people have I been?  The long-held notion of the self as continuous, as an unbroken line across time from birth to eventual death, has been shattered.  Our bodies are not static anchors; memories are lost and the past gradually falls apart.

I have shed successive selves.  Entered new phases as cleanly as birth.  This body has been used by a progression of others for decades, related to each other only in that they’ve shared the same central nervous system.  I feel only remotely connected to whoever inhabited this body mere years ago.

I believe that I am passenger number 7 in this body.

The selves undergo important discoveries.  There are the sexual growth spurts, like the first time a mysterious fluid was expelled in excited pants after a make-out session.  I didn’t know a goddamned thing walking around that party with a badge of honor up near the belt.

A further self discovered more from the fluid body of an older woman, mother-well of female wisdom.  She had known the sensual deeply, was she willing to share this arcane knowledge?  She wasn’t, and my juvenile form could not have handled such emotional depths.  But it got me to thinking.

I’ve caught up to myself.  Thoughts written down years ago make only rough sense when I read them now (the scrawlings of Passenger 5 partially understood by Passenger 7).  I pore over these notes, making notes on top of notes in attempting to link events or patterns of events in order to solve the puzzle.

Will my present form, this configuration of cells and tissues and thought, follow a previously mapped course to where it seems to point?  And as I gradually regenerate yet again, who will I pass the bar to?

I can only be sure of one thing: that I’m at this place, in my present situation, because my prior selves willed it.  The path leading here was taken by those answering to a certain name, the name I answer to now.  They ran at time’s pace in sequence, gave their best efforts, and forwarded their momentum on to me.  The bar has been passed in this relay.  I’m holding it, looking at it, but what’s the finish line?