PatPro – Space Energy

PatPro practices a special kind of prophecy, one tied to both science fiction  and at the same time a kind of anti-neurotypical black mysticism. A possible label might be “schizofuturism”. Here we encounter the stark and categorical imperatives of the overmind, the proxy, the zoid, characteristics and characters, and simultaneously, mental states with mechanized and biomorphic underpinnings. It is a reflexive world, where the the constant swallowing of the dream resets, and precise intervals, the coordinates of reality and memory. Revelation comes in the form of disorienting tropes, tropes which lose themselves quickly in the void of linguistic play. PatPro is a geometry of what will be, from the point of view of its own shadow.

-Jason Abdelhadi

*

img_4735-1

Space energy:

Slaves slaves you are all slaves you and I mean we are slaves cannot loose ourselves from that which is a Certainty in which we all Define that we can’t control our minds because the evil controls this part of sub reality a parody of laughter for the gods really really help free me!!! Bring me through to the over-minded… And tell me tell me tell me please just tell me what space are you from are you ready for my fury mwhahaha…

Droid:

Our ship has come to attention of our new space anomaly a sub dimensional craft in our vicinity, we must prepare to boarded by unknown species but somehow the above the air locks has over rid our real time energy Flux security systems that is all I can do. Sorry captain we are now being boarded…

Proxy:

Activate the defense drones and you should take careful countermeasures do not have the intent to kill just sedate and a restrain only…We want to obtain as much information from these entities if possible let’s find out what they’re made of and why they’re from this other dimension…

Entity:

Kill me kill me now kill me soon kill me a quick kill me when it’s been calling me to kill

Proxy

Goes to the ship entrance to meet up with the entity

It as a strange orange ball of yarn like energy that possibly radiating within itself, it seems impossible that this would be alive somehow but it was indeed conscient… and it seemed to be yearning to die..

The entity floated in front of my face, Too much energy too much misery please take my energy take it..

img_4736

Patpro.ca

Watch out for his upcoming sci-fi novel

And send inquiries to

proxyzoids@gmail.com

Advertisements

What’s on the other side of the forest?

LIVE ACTION IRRATIONAL ENLARGEMENT OF A PAINTING FOR SALE AT A COFFEE SHOP

Q: Who built the building?

PP/SH: A Mormon from east-middle school, St. Petersburg, Ohio, who worships consciousness.

Q: Where does the river flow?

SH: Out of a mouthpiece of a giant helmet, which is itself made of water. An ice-helmet.

PP: A wormhole of matter.

Q: What colour is the grass at night?

JA: The colour of a maniac’s wet dream.

SH: It pulses with the iridescent tips of penises.

PP: Midway remnants of the Sun.

Q: What lives under the bridge?

SH/PP: An insane Castilian with a mop who is continuously mopping the river and straining it out into a bucket of emptiness while his wife twirls like a dervish beside him.

Q: Who lives in the castle?

JA/PP: Sa’ad (SH)’s doppelgänger, with chrome teeth and a patch on his eye.

SH: A slippery eel made from the wax of a child’s tears.

Q: If the river is not water, what is it?

PP: A viscous fluid of anthropomorphic immeasurability.

JA: The cotton candy that comes out of processed nightmares.

SH: An out of control gay orgy where the sweat and semen are so sparkling with unfulfilled lust that it turns blue.

Q: Describe the rocks.

SH: The buttocks of ashen maidens sticking out of the water so that sailors can look and say “no thanks.”

JA: Whatever they are, they are hungry.

Q: What’s on the other side of the forest?

PP: A penitentiary for mentally ill children born in the castle and deemed unfathomably radioactive.

SH: A prism made from irises of such unbelievable complexity that all light beams refract inside it in ever newer patterns, and never escape.

Q: Describe the smell of the air.

SH: Like harsh bleach and the howling of disrespective housewives.

JA: Like frequent tigers.

PP: And mist like an elephant’s trumpet.

Q: What happens to this scene at the end of time?

PP: The earth erupts under its foundations.

SH: A man with unbearable OCD is asked a very difficult question and he smooths the whole thing away with his worrying hands.

PP: It turns out he’s an alien, and he had a spaceship in the cellar. He takes off into the sky.

-January 31 2019.

No More Fattening Frogs for Snakes!

[The following text will appear in print in the 2019 edition of Oystercatcher, and will be distributed at various gatherings and actions in support of the Wet’suwet’en.]

It took me a long time to find out my mistakes

But I’m not fattenin’ no more frogs for snakes.

Sonny Boy Williamson

 The Unist’ot’en are the Big Frog clan of the Wet’suwet’en nation. They defiantly croak at the colonizer’s yoke without reservation. They are hungry for decolonization. We honor their spirited resistance to colonial authority and offer our wholehearted solidarity.

That the Canadian government would like to fatten indigenous peoples up for the kill should come as no surprise. One aspect of colonial policy has always been to “fatten frogs for snakes”, either by cajolery, bribery or by the deadening domestication of the feedlot. In this case, the snakes are the extractive tentacles of the fossil fuel industry whose serpentine form is the pipeline. That venomous symbol is the opposite of the lifegiving phallus of Eros. It is the phallus of death and destruction. Destruction of the land and death to the people of the land.

The autonomy of the Unist’ot’en frog pond is in danger as their un-ceded territory outside the confines of the reserve is threatened by TransCanada (TC Energy)/Coastal GasLink predators. “Why not just cut your losses and fatten up at the corporate trough,” say the colonizers with a wink? But the hereditary chiefs have refused to allow the living body of the land to be carved up without a fight. They yearn for long-term sustenance rather than the empty calories of fast-food trickery. In contrast, the reservation band councils have signed on with the LNG industry for the chance to get a piece of the pie after having so long been restricted to the meager crumbs from the colonial table. But the whole frackin’ pie is rotten! It has been (half)baked by the same people who came to these lands from Europe over 150 years ago with a bible in one hand and a gun in the other. They were the missionaries of cultural genocide who sought to colonize the minds of the next generation in the residential schools.

And the colonial drive for assimilation is not dead yet. Take your pick says the latest, Great White Father, Justin “Sunny Ways” Trudeau:  the bureaucratic carrot of government-sponsored “reconciliation” or the military stick of RCMP invasion. These are the current faces of the ongoing Canadian policy of assimilation which often amounts to little more than guilt-ridden calls for “healing” on the part of the descendants of the settlers while the “hurting” still goes on in relation to indigenous communities. While bewildered settlers, hypocritical politicians and smug media talking heads arrogantly presume that strawman “consultations” are enough to smooth over historic antagonisms, the colonizers relentlessly continue to drain the pond of its nutrients and pollute the groundwater of life that still flows in the veins of the land.

We stand with those traditional chiefs responsible for the health of the land in their opposition to the toxic pipeline and its world. Proudly they proclaim the sovereign basis for their actions in protecting their own territory: “We are not protestors. We are Wet’suwet’en!”.

As surrealists opposed to the institutional violence of the Canadian state and the physical violence of the RCMP’s war on the Unist’ot’en land defenders, we dream of a mighty “rain of frogs” to cleanse the Earth!

A Joint Declaration

by Amphibians for Decolonization

 Inner Island Surrealist Group (K’ómoks/Pentlatch territory)

Ottawa Surrealist Group

(Algonquin Anishnaabeg territory)

Let’s All Drink Blood Together

I

Amid the banal repertoire of daily media aggression and the terrorism of the usual scandal cycle (the true terrorism of our day) one recent news story from Polk County Florida caught our attention as worthy of some Halloween reflection:

Two middle school girls allegedly showed up to school with butcher knives on Tuesday planning to kill “as many students as possible,” drink their blood, and scatter their bodies at the entrance to the building, a plot the cops say had something to do with being self-described “Satan worshippers,”.

The girls, aged 11 and 12, were armed with four knives, a sharpener, and a pizza-cutter. Like so many of us, they came up with their inspirational idea after a weekend of horror films.

“They told us they were Satan worshipers. They did make comments that they were willing to drink blood, and possibly eat flesh,” says an affidavit from the police department.

Folie à deux?

How sadly the adults shake their heads. How bitterly they bite their tongues as they spew out (with no small secret delight) the word they’ve been champing at the bit to mouth for so long: “Satanists”. To think what would have happened to all of those bright young things—potential lawyers, doctors, supreme court justices! Or would it have been such a crime to drain those creatures of vitality, whose lives are threatened anyway by the litany of imminent environmental disasters, war, and economic crises?

We think the state is as usual jealous; wants the flesh for itself. Inspirational?
It may be shocking to say we see something good in such bloodthirsty honesty, but as surrealists we think it is entirely justified to point out the hypocrisy in arresting these two while letting the vast majority of corporate and state official US blood drinkers run free, and to assume two probably hopeless young girls are more righteous in their satanism than most Americans in their stay at home self-satisfied turpitude and moral nonexistence.

In a world like that, like this, demonic activity is not only experimentally sound, it approaches the boundary of the morally justifiable.

Is it necessary to point out that we demand the immediate release of these two? Is it necessary to point out the hypocrisy of this bloodthirsty state power where the lives of so many women are threatened daily by the state apparatus, its misogynistic laws and culture? There is an entire superstructure dedicated to crushing women, girls, and the gender rebellious–an infrastructure whose epicenter could very well be Republican Florida. The same also pursue a sister quest of destroying the potential of youth before it even has a chance to fight back—whether through the destruction of the environment or the default impoverishment through varieties of debt (educational, medical, emotional…)

And yet they fear teenage Satanists! Rather, we declare that have much to learn from them. Let’s give them, instead of life in prison, a lecture tour, and a podcast. We would also be very interested to read their complete affidavit, and to hear more from them on the world according to their dark insights. We suspect there is much in common between us.

And finally, we wish to remind the world that there are far more nasty creatures than Satanists in our midst.

Who are really the bloodthirsty ones?

Officials, parents, churchgoers, concerned members of the community…by the power of Amtor the Unspeakable—whose true name is known only in the place which is not a place—we demand:

Release the Satanists!

(and)

Offer your throats!

For the devoration of all and sundry and the commencement of a vampiric age…

II: (As If Muttered Under The Breath)

…What are they teaching children these days if not how to engage in ritual human sacrifice? What is school if not ritual sacrifice? A sacrifice of generations of children who might otherwise have hopes, dreams, and enjoyment of freedom other than a gross desire to crush their fellow minorities under a marble statue of despair and crystallised smegma. What is a classroom, but the spiritual flaying alive? What is the essay but abusive relationship gaslighting? What is tea time to a Satanist? Is it the cup? So different than a coffee mug? And the maple syrup on my pancakes. There’s no god there either. I want to cut my penis right down the middle till I have two halves waggling around independently. That sounds like a sacrifice. I’d tie them in a pretzel for Beelzebub. Then I’d pull it back towards my ass cheeks and shit through it. And with this consecrated shit in my hand I’d storm the west coast and bury their universities. Cal Arts? What the hell is that? You call that cartoons? Redrawings of redrawings of redrawings of Disney’s angry old men till only the construction remains? Perhaps, these too will one day simplify into a pentagram with a middle finger in the center of it shoved up the asshole of simultaneously shitting god with an anus made of necrotic, gangrene flesh. Or, I could pull a wrestler’s skeleton apart and find the wimp trapped inside the rib cage to rape, for days until they beg to be let out of the clown suit and punching bag. The ring. The ring’s a fine place for a ritual. Isn’t MMA already gladiatorial combat? – the successor of some knuckle-dragging Etruscan’s funeral sport? And there you have it. Not only is it the oppressed in every society accused of witchcraft, the sacrificed are also its slaves, though we stick the knives in each other’s hands. And in the throat. And the eye. And the asshole. A hundred fucking times in the asshole till their bowels fall out their pelvic bone like it was a culvert of an abattoir. How incredibly wrong it is that we kill so many animals every day WITHOUT ritually dedicating their blood to demons.

MARK MY WORDS!!! THE FARM OF THE FUTURE WILL SACRIFICE EACH AND EVERY ANIMAL MUTILATION TO DEMONS AND ADVERTISE IT IN IT’S MARKETING. Invest now! Do it like I say! You’re the animal! You and your fucking fur coat! I want one! I want one!

-The Ottawa Surrealist Group, Halloween 2018

Pertinent Questions

Questions breed questions…

What do you want your tombstone to look like?

What do you fear from the reaper?

Does a very long sickle resemble a rope?

Isn’t a noose a legitimate farm-tool in today’s farms?

Isn’t suicide a kind of organic produce?

What dangles in the produce aisle?

What do we identify as the lintels in a grocery structure?

What is the foundation of hunter-gatherer folksong?

Does physics and its laws harmonize in the cherry-picked mind?

Is there physical determinism present in the structure of a dirty, guilty, sexual fantasy?

Are there forms of fantasy which relate only to root vegetables?

Can a fattened lip be boiled in a witches cauldron?

Is a yeti-lipped vagina a socio-sexual liability?
-JA, LL, SH, October 4 2018

The Catoblapas Roars

Selected Characters

We’ve met some interesting people recently…

 

The Gentleman Thief

Without any stop of the maker’s hand

Who makes ligature from his skin

For Queen and Country.

 

This disrobing escort

Without fear of the consequences

Who overcomplicates

For his aptitude of folding nothing.

 

The theorem

Without constraints to its birth

Which makes good on a promise

For the great burden of existence.

MM, JA, SH, PPAugust 22 2018

Notes Towards an Endemic Critique

“Est-ce que c’est le Parlement?”

“Non, c’est Canadian Tire.”

Snappy answers to stupid questions overheard on Parliament HillOttawaThere is a certain satisfaction in seeing the confusion on people’s faces. If this is what’s oozing out of Ottawa, just what is happening to your average mediocre city? A spontaneous and unexpected outbreak of tropical hysteria in a cold, boring, early-to-bed bureaucratic monocrop of a town. Stories of new mind-mush: it’s getting hotter every year. Perhaps we’re just some random itinerant students at the universities, passing through a radical phase? Or an infection of external rebels living here by circumstance from certain known centers of revolt (Montreal, perhaps to a lesser extent Toronto, which is at least large enough to be plausible?) What puzzles to the point of numbness is that many of our group are actually from Ottawa (and the true Ottawa, of course, its suburbs). Of those that have come here from elsewhere, it is usually from even smaller, even more boring places.*

It could be said that our critique of the city is therefore endemic.

Ottawa is one of those odd New World administrative-capital cities which are often explicitly distinct from the centres of culture (Montreal, Toronto, New York etc). Sitting stupidly on-top of sacred indigenous sites at the crossing of the rivers and the Chaudière falls, its capacity to crush its own mythic loci is astounding. And then, during its colonial existence, Bytowne was an actually pretty wild frontier spot with some interesting mythological implications (the giant Big Joe Mufferaw…Devil along the Kitchissippi in search of an onion sandwich…The Witches of Luskville… The Haunted Lake of Fairies).

But this was a separate life on the same spot, a totally different town, and has had no real impact on the present mindset of the city. This negation is the result of a series of specific, massive colonial and then Federal projects surrounding its capitalization, such as the Rideau Canal, the Copy-Pasted Parliament Buildings, or the Victoria Island paper mill, and then, a century later, the Gerber Plan. They have built indiscriminately on top of the interesting, the indigenous, and the poor, as usual. And now, for example, a massive new condo project being developed on-top of the old poisoned industrial site built on-top of a sacred Algonquin island. We must be onto our third or fourth layer of outrage, now?

And he pointed out a sort of Nuremburg toy planted on a hill top. This toy with its polychrome architecture resembled the House of Parliament in London much as the Montreal cathedral resembles St. Peter’s at Rome. But that was of no consequence; there could be no doubt it was Ottawa.

-Jules Verne, Robur the Conqueror

The blossoming of the fatberg.

It is well known that a fatberg is a congealed lump in a sewer system formed by the combination of non-biodegradable solid matter such as wet wipes with grease or cooking fat. Fatbergs may also contain other items which do not break down when flushed into a toilet, such as sanitary napkins, cotton buds, needles and condoms, as well as food waste washed down sinks. The resulting lumps of congealed fat can be as strong as concrete, and require specialist equipment to remove. Such are our problems.

In some ways the fatberg is too adorable to hate. It’s not unique in its style of mediocrity, and that’s the whole point.

Of course there is a typical banalization of life itself emanating from the most dominant presence in the city i.e. at present, boring middle aged and mostly white bureaucrats who moonlight as hockeydad paterfamiliases. And with them the standard level of racism and fascist-nurturing as expected, dog-whistle attacks on black music from our local radio stations who insist only on “real rock” and the nuanced suppression of the indigenous, immigrants, people of colour, workers, and the homeless.

What’s worse, in recent years the fatberg macro-culture has itself developed a bad-conscience. The functionaries themselves feel the need to justify themselves by deriding their own status, and pursuing the sweet “spice of life” activities on the side. Thus the rather pathetic proliferation of “Ottawa at Night” or “Ottawa Underground” documentaries, the promotion of a local pseudopoetry or pseudo-radical arts scene (Scotiabank Presents Nuit Blanche!) or other abortive attempts to make amends for its own mediocrity.

Meanwhile, out in the suburbs, a new spirit forms from the angry kids and the misfits of the fatberg ideal. They simply allowed some of us too much freedom to watch old cartoons and to play in the forest. It is from the magical lots of old quarries and abandoned factories that the sludge of the Chimera originally crawled into the gullets of a few maniacal teenagers who never blossomed as they aged.

Perhaps the one redeeming feature of how the city “looks” in its official capacity is its penchant for the neo-gothic architecture. Well then. Maybe these are our houses, and we’re the neo-goths?

We know our forebears. We know what you are on the inside. We speak from the insider’s experience of an unintentional mediocrity of life to an explicit mediocrity in the eyes of the service economy, on the trail of the phantom carriage.

So.

At the outskirts of the utilitarian city we might recreate ourselves as:

A centre of gravity for uselessness

Sexual and gender multiplication tables

An outlet for misfits, the poor, the mad (who often join us at our park bench, and play along)

Nonconformists, absolutely, but also underconformists, sideconformists, etc.

An experimental farm for chance

A greenbelt of antagonism

A provocation for the eclectic productives and cool parents

Ignorers of initiatives

The next step for activists who are too angry

Collectors of the detritus of Old Hull

Fangirls of the Wendigo, the Loup-Garou, the ghost of the Lac des Fées

The spirit of revenge against the personality-market of that sponsorship scandal masquerading as an arts and poetry scene.

All of the above items remain as hypotheses or as temporary scaffolding to try out, in group life. We have tried on the masks we saw hanging out of reach on the walls of the museum of our childhood, but we’re not done playing with them yet.

We’re here to poison the happy families. Obliteration everywhere for all pseudotropolises.

*But after all, is it all that odd? Paris and London/SLAG, of course, but it’s Leeds that has the longest running surrealist group in the history of the UK. Chicago is also, as the Rosemonts have pointed out, an alternative reality to the more central literary culture of New York. Even Stockholm, it seems, is not exactly a radical effervescent centre (either now, or in the 80s?). And others. Perhaps there is a sweetspot of alienation, social pressure, population density and radical unimportance that favours the growth of surrealist fungi.