the act of translation

dead astronauts collecting on the windscreen. time buckles and some unknown agreement retracts the laws of physics. he is in notional space and the atmosphere is a little strange; doesn’t seem to work the same way as navigating physical space. some days it is like flying through the heart of a remixed scrapbook … some brion gysin, lee ‘scratch’ perry dub session version of reality. somewhere in the distance augustus pablo, recast as a god, chuckles as he coughs out huge clouds of cannabis creation.

when he set off in HMS headfuck he, for some reason, hadn’t expected it to be quite this strange. he had slipped under the semiotic skin of the universe and he was finding the syllogistic logic broken and the syntax coming on like some glossolalia cut-up equivalent of cognitive dissonance. jenny looked kind of happy – like she had managed to plug into william burroughs head and now she had become a walking talking orgone generator.

what were they hoping to get to? well, the idea was that they were going to find their way between the apparently sane surface of text universe and seemingly insane subtext; the context engines were propelled through the space in their act of translation – which served to get them where they wanted to go and explained to them where they had been.

three days into the more extreme symptoms and memory started to leak; cognition started to curdle, and neither of them really recognised the other. what could they do? there was no way to input the data they needed to control the situation – the terminal was broken. or it wasn’t. just maybe it wasn’t. something was happening – maybe the something they had been looking for. time stretched, space collapsed, and they found new meaning.

it would take some time to understand it all. or maybe it wouldn’t.

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