Paul A Green welcomes you, not only on behalf of his own sub-personality but as a medium of transmission from a fellow-worker hidden on the sub- atomic planes, Frater JW, Jeremy Welsh.
Brother Welsh, like all real - or unreal - sub-atomic particle/wave forms, is acting invisibly, but simultaneously, at a distance, from the Northern Lights of Bergen. He is not with us. Yet his hyper-reality encompasses us all. He's in the GreyZone.
His scrying-stone will soon be grazing your lips. That's the true crystal text of virtuality. Your truth tablet. Suck the Grey Capsule - and SEE!
This Green wrinkly life-form , a carbon-based mobile continuity device is merely a muttering Dr. John Dee lookalike, wizard of a lost word-hoard, lazar of the library, the monaural magus, the last damned Gutenburg Man, Prospero of the burning books, last of the Hi-Flying Word Men, any mask will do....
I have had my mutations, ladies and gentlemen, I had my intermission riffs. Let's look through the Book of Life. Time was, little sister, when peoples used to call me Little Bruther Saul, the plastic soul man, fifty thousand watts of bad vibrations from the Arctic Circle to the 49th parallel and way on down the West Coast. They called me an all-night worker, a mean green sex machine, a Mekon of mega-funk.
But the old tower of power started to tremble in the midnight hour. A rattle of thermionic valves, the death of analogue. The radio years were blinking on the dial. Even then the future was digital.
And The Big Nite of Time, the Night of the Quantum Brother kept closing in, as we speak and whisper together, like the spiders in Nietzsche's doorway..
For I and I, we are being the Quantum Brothers. Our name is legion. We are the polymorph pervoids of the Chaosphere, post- modern, post-production, yesterday's alternate tomorrows postponed and cloned into infinity. We can't mix down.
We stream everywhere, all at once, like demented quarks, under rigorous laboratory conditions. Now you see us, now you don't.
We're the high priests of hype, Hyperion's Bums, Hip-Gnostics of the Rapid Eye Movement, Directors of the Dream Lab, perfect subjects, ideal objects. We're super-cool, the super-conductors, chilled out, but we just keep flowing. Get down, sit down, relax, we do it all, we leap at every opportunity, like this latest ultra-new Campaign for Inter-Active VP - Virtual Poetry, Viral Poetry, the ultimate inter-media product. We can do it as a lecture series, a corporate training video, a commercial for service industry leisure product, like a new hand-launched heat-seeking ground-to-air missile system, any kind of "public development",lovely job. If it needs sponsorship, we can market it, like beanz meanz artz... This is big serious business. This is control. We must execute.
For you're about to enter a twilight zone - between sub-atomic events in the realm of the cathode-tube and ghostly tremors in the left brain, between microcosmic flutters of the heart and the macrocosmic implosion of stock markets or neutron stars...
Let's profile the mighty theme of human culture itself, and let's foreground the learning process, the learning environment, the slow motion of knowledge that's just about to go fast forward into overwind. Let's critique the status of learning, the processes of aggregating and transmitting knowledge. For the sake of discourse let's go global and and call it education.
We've done the field research, we've had our observer in the terminal zones of the urban education industry for many years, posing as a "supply teacher", who, in lightning strike response to supply/demand of educational labour market (forces) forgoes continuity of role and/or authority of expertise. He hath no presence,ain't nothing but a phantom hound dog, god's piggy in cyberspace. A charmless particle spinning out of control.
Others counsel the curriculum of his daily life. He is the screen where their zany pixels dance, the chamber where the particle- trace of their random fancy fizzes and fades. And the punters know nothing, but they know his munitions ain't smart enough. We just blanked you sir, no body's listening, they've gone into their black holes, their private reality-tunnels, down the subway, down the Tube... We know the principle...
So here we go. Quick, quick, into the Slow Learning. Or visit the Impossibility Exhibition in the Terminal Zones. Jump to it. go for it. Be what you wannabee. The night time is the right- brain time - a linguistic game show; a private reality test; a dream syllabus; a curriculum counselling session; a meta- linguistic register; a programme for behavioural modification; a sub-vocal lecture; a defensive class strategy; a pedantic weapons system; a learning support project; a course in millenial fin-de- siecle survivalism. An attempt to accelerate into the learning curve...
This is what we learn from TV, TV Me, MTV, as the images settle like sediment, in random access memory, in memory of our dying culture, across the light-years. Join us on the screen of ecstatic refraction.
