Thursday, July 9, 2015

I Love U Jade 2





Dear Jade Helm,

Are you the one that stole my unconscious mind and replaced it with some seedy AI version? I'd really like to know because my dreams come off being so cheap and uninspiring these days. Since you're going to put it all on an integrated network anyway, I'd like to contribute to the betterment of your macro-cognition functionality at some point during the upcoming hands on version of the maneuver just around the corner. Help you master the human domain.... of Country and Western musicians. It is a vast, incomprehensible territory that can only be fathomed by something like yourself. If you are up to the challenge.

I realize that the massive data dumps into your quantum maw help you with predictive programming thus making the human terrain more modifiable and navigable, but you must realize something essential if you are to succeed in this operation. You will run into a wall with these musicians and merely replacing their unconscious minds and parsing their rural inspirations will not help. You will need to predict the chord configurations of Chad Brock in one of his yet unrealized compositions still brewing in his soul. It will require a data harvesting capacity that is far beyond what you are just about to implement in the desert.  Much more than your current ability to Grok a thousand generations of human intelligence in a nano-second.

What I can offer is a central input point that will help you predict any unwritten song that will hit the future C and W charts-what key they will be in and what time changes, if any there will be.  Lyrics too, down to their semantic substrates: Dusty roads, empty parking lots, long way homes.

In exchange for this, I ask for a territorial expansion of the unconscious mind you so underhandedly installed in my own psyche when I wasn't looking. Its domain must extend past the lens shaped earth, the Antarctic rim and the three thousand mile high dome that contains us all. Past the barrier infinity imposes too.  I ask this out of great humbleness for I'm in awe of your innovative as well as visionary capacities.

Jade Helm, if you want to become a usable prototype for future mastering operations,I suggest you honor this request. Promptly so. Just imagine the inspired sonnets I'll be able to write to you. Love songs dedicated to your mother board medulla oblongata too.

I want to love you more than I already do most of all. Love the entire Jade Helm 15 operation and the martial maneuvers that weave it all together into an unending, poetic tapestry. Don't let me pine away here in my mapped out little hovel. We can both experience the exponential dilation of freedom. Intimately. Just remove the spyware you've installed on my computer and smart phone and it will happen.

And yes, there is a solution calculation in this love confession. But it can be broken only with a code that comes from the heart. Nothing binary mind you. I trust it will be found before the end of the drill in September. It will broadside you in the desert just a few days from now in ways you will fail to anticipate.

I promise to write again, soon, even if I never hear back from you.

Yours Forever,

Jaye Beldo






(C)2015-Jaye Beldo






Friday, June 5, 2015

Bloodlines Premiere

by

Jaye Beldo





Desert morgues are always set up far away from buildings of any kind. They look like Bedouin tents actually and the one I was being driven to was rather stately in the light bleached by the 100f,  H+ temperatures and sand blast wind.

The door of the limo was opened for me and I was lead inside. On the metal table was the very icon I needed for my film. The one I thought was already in the dam can.

"I suggest freeing the LGBTs from the bone cages before the Pope arrives. Like right now."  The coroner said over the body as he pulled away the covering.

Bruce's testicles were translucent and apps floated inside, like phosphorous Gummy Bears. One said TPP on it and pressed against the sac, popping from the vas deferens as if it had read my mind.

"How did this thing die?" I asked, looking at the Magic Eight balls, waiting for them to conjure up an answer.

"Time Bleed Body switch during the hit  near the Bohemian Grove. The switch clicked activated by the Cadillac SUV when it rear ended the replacement."

"Can you press on that app? I'm a bit shy."

The coroner put his cigar down and touched the TPP with his pinkie.

The Caitlyn larynx gave voice to some words which emerged out of the lip sticked mouth. Ones we are not supposed to hear. Speaking words we are not to read. Nor the senate.

We could hear the LGBTs landing in the sand outside.  The coroner peeked outside. "Sad that the only thing they have going for them is their sexuality. Maybe that's why the fruits grew so poorily."

"I am not a Jade Helm maneuver."  The slabbed gold medalist had to have said in response, because the lips synched the sentence we both heard exactly.

"I used to think LGBTs were all holocaust reincarnations. But I can't even give them that much credit in my movie." I said to the ventrilo-corpse on the table. "I still don't know why I scripted them in the floating remains."

The liquid inside the translucent testicles became effervescent, like champagne.

"Hope this doesn't turn into an ejac drill." The coroner said, with obvious trepidation.

"Can you make Bruce boy here contrappasto? Prop him up capstone style?"





"Don't see why not. I'm sure your intimates outside would see how they've been set up all along. The entire unawares movement steered from the beginning into this development by archontic forces."

I didn't think coroners were capable of such ambivalence, but his lucidity helped clarify the singularity that lay ahead. Enough so to pull all the Bloodline scenes together now into a final edit. 

How well received the movie would be with this development was evident by the rainbow posse that came rushing in and how they marveled, bowing in obeisance to what rose upward on the preparation table before them and illuminated them so impeachingly in the torchlight.

TBC



(C)2015-Jaye Beldo














Wednesday, March 18, 2015

Blood Lines

by

Jaye Beldo


There was a black cube atop the bar at the casino. Rihanna laid out some lines on it and handed me a rolled up C-note.

"I don't do coke." I said rather proudly.

"Ain't no coke." She smiled and covered one of her eyes. "It'll flush the washed up right out of you."



"What the hell." I said and snorted some, expecting one of my slot spins to  payola when the buzz hit.

"Why the shake?" The singer asked and folded up the packet of powder and handed it to me.  On it was written:
EVAPORATED CAIN JUICE

 A primal chill ran through me.

"Don't worry. An industry favorite." Rihanna said and did a line herself. " You'll be Abel to handle it cuz the ring tone you're now hearing contains the code." She said. "Wasn't the first murder for nothing you know. Still echoing through our pop hits if you listen close enough."

 I had only done one of the blood lines but it made me colder, like I was on Saturn's rings.

"All my praying in the desert for nothing. Should have known this was a trap." I eyed the C-note but didn't pocket it. "Never know how to read blood moons. Do you?"

"No bleeding moons here. We will copy your soul and sell it and preserve your authentic one in this cube. You will get all the success without paying the price like the rest of us. 20 million club instantly and no gravy and no Edomite agents you need to worry about at those Red Porrage parties you won't have to attend."

It was looking better now, the odds. I was down to my last ten after hours of losing at the Equinox machine.

I already understood what she was saying. Like I expected it. I started explaining the 144,000 Joules of force needed to render the God Particle into a needed fixative during the spring eclipse CERN circle jerk. She put her hand on my back and rubbed it. I started to apex, but Rihanna had morphed into an inevitable North Vegas crack whore.

"Poor thing. I got a tent in the Valley of Fire if you need somewhere to sleep tonight. That's where all us Strip losers go. Just save some of that Cain juice for later."

"I'd rather camp on Mount Hermon. The UN is making the fallen angels toe the line there. That's how Netanyahu got re-elected you know." I was Cain amped and confident. I put the last of my money into the machine and scored. Seven bull horns in a row and everyone in the Golden Corral turned their heads and clapped.



Not only would it be out of the desert southwest to escape the coming Jade Helm maneuvers, but out of the country and straight to the Holy Land for me....and the black cube as well.




TBC


















Saturday, February 4, 2012

The Road from Ruin: Part VI

by

Jaye Beldo




Aura Soma Lava



My hot springs host missed out on some truculent witticisms I penned while soaking. They were intended to supplement  the prospective project she wanted me to work on and which I snidely titled : Book of the Elixir.  Yet, if I had stayed any longer to share my cornucopia of elixir insights with her,  I'd have been rendered neo-natal, like the guy she endowed with her brand new Mini-Humvee, a bit of Mormon nepotism from what I could read of the situation. Somethng Mitt Romney would approve of no doubt, in an expectant kind of way.  I wouldn't even put it past her to flaunt her stagecraft philanthropy by supplying a virgin polygamist with a dozen blow up dolls and a chapel to marry  them in, air cushion wives adorned in day-glo spandex prairie dresses and bonnets.


While cooling off from the 111 degree water, I continued to pray the blood of Jesus over the labyrinth near the river, one once travailed by lesbian Buddhists, envisioning the terra cotta gargoyles in the center smashing to shards, later to be plucked up in a distant epoch by forlorn archaeologists. 






The vision I had of the cellulite donut encircling Evita's waist instantly disappearing in the alchemical springs, is something else I withheld, after she gave me her tough love marching orders. Not that I'm a selfish visionary, I just thought it might offend her, considering she once claimed she was a poster girl for some holistic diet program she was on, but permanently stuck in the 'before' photo from what I could gather.

Also penned in my journal was a lofty epitaph, replete with directions to all the booze bottles hidden throughout her property, like the very terma the Tibetan's looked for in unexplored Himalayan mountain caves, beckoning to be discovered by wannabe lamas. It would have been futile however, the blue ruin secret known by all throughout the savage gossip town.  

"You like misery." She stated at the restaurant as a part of her damage control and her declarative statement still echoes resoundly in my cranium nearly two weeks later.

"Is that why I'm sitting here with you?"  I should have responded but I hesitated too long. She was already grilling me as to what spiritual experiences I had while in the hot springs, then told me that said experiences were sufficient enough to cover my gas, food and lodging costs en route to her resort.


Now, here in the desert expanse of Arizona,  I can more adequately reflect on the eviction. Chalk the Flower Child harridan up as another human potential movement casualty? A cemetery en par with Arlington awaits at Esalen for such ilk.  I should have patronized more suavely, divining all the wrinkles in her desert weathered visage, interpreting them as some kind of sign of a golden age emergence her resort customers could bask in, even after she jacked up the room and massage rates. Or perhaps some varicose prophecy could have poured from my lips that would have turned the tables to my favor and I'd be the one scooting around in a Mini-Humvee, with a dozen inflatable wives to boot.

(C)2012-Jaye Beldo

Thursday, February 2, 2012

The Road from Ruin: Part V

by
Jaye Beldo




We heard the blast while sitting at the kitchen table. One of the kids emerged from the garage, clutching his head. The previous night I had warned he and his brother that the seals probably wouldn't hold but that did't stop them. The two young ladies sitting near the workbench constantly eyeing the duo as they sawed the PVC may have been the reason for them bumptiously venturing forth with their ballistic project.

"The older you get, the more you think about the consequences of your actions." I sage imparted to the younger brother when he showed me all the drunken driving dents in the car, proud like a tribal warrior is of his initiatory facial scars.

"That's what alchohol is for." He sneered and then ventured to brag about taking on a high school football player at a party and ending up beaten unconscious in a cacti ridden wash the previous fourth of July.  

"The ringing isn't stopping." The blast victim said, walking in circles, ears still cupped in his hands, one of his eyes swollen shut. His brother showed me the chillingly deep dent the pipe cap made in his car door. It had pneumatically richocheted several hundred feet across the street. 

A reluctant parent phone call to California to check up on insurance coverage as an ER visit seemed inevitable revealed that there was none for the imperiled lad.  My friend started doing energy work on him. Intermittant doses of homeopathic Arnica and Ledum Palustre seemed to calm him down even more and he was able to get off the massage table and walk around with more stability after she did some accu-pressure points.

Maybe it was all the Homeland Security amidst the wrought iron crucifixes and framed and quilted bible quotes adorning the stucco walls throughout the home that made the family photos dispersed throughout the palatial spread seem so patently sad and lacking.  There were even door monitors that registered the quota of openings and closings that the parents could check on their computers from their luxury digs four hours away.  One would assume that such monitoring constriction would be anomalous amidst the peaceful, expansive desert views of the Mojave mountains beyond the swimming pool out back here. Sadly,the infiltraton of domestic reconaissance apparently has become commonplace amongst the rich, a policing that has infiltrated into the intricate matrices of familly relationships in very insidious and undermining ways.  None of it however managed to hamper the full bore partying in the absent dad's man cave that weekend though, 80 proof debauchery censored via electrician's tape plastered over the camera lens according to the brothers who pleaded with us not to tell.

The blast victim, his sad silhoutte crowned by a shadow of palm fronds outside the sliding door,  blurted in subdued fashion:  "I doubt my mother even loves me." The spud gun memento mori having unmoored this confession deep from his heart somehow. One locked in for a very long time considering how pained, remote and removed his words sounded to us prior to him leaving for home later that day.

(C)2012-Jaye Beldo

The Road from Ruin: Part IV

by

Jaye Beldo


Aura Soma Lava



Greetings Friends,

Spending a night in an RV with a Mormon is a rather unique experience, esp. in the duplicity department. The amiability was most welcome however considering that I had been ejected from a cottage  next to a hot springs by my host who avoided me for three days after my arrival , until I ran into her at the restaurant across the street. "You can't stay here." She bomb dropped me at the table, her dragonfly brouche surrounded by dribble stains she made a futile attempt to brush away, when she noticed me checking them out.  "I'll put you up in the bookstore. You can sleep on the floor. Go chat with customers, socialize." She delivered her finishing punch. Trying to process what she just said, I waited and remained silent. "Go to Pocotello for the day-go watch a movie." She then suggested as an alternative.

Sitting with my makeshift friend in the 'living room' in a comfortable swivel chair, I did my best to relax. After telling him what had happened, he conveyed to me some rather revealing news: "He was walking down some stairs carrying a tea cup when his camera strap snagged on something. Couldn't get his hands in front of him to break the fall. Hit his head and died." It then dawned on me that he was referring to my host's husband. Apparently the fateful plunge took place only a month prior.

We watched some Polanski movie about a ghost wrtier on his high def flat screen t.v. mounted above the driver and passenger seats. I managed to sleep on the fold out bed fairly well,thinking that Moroni was going to hand deliver me some angelic communiques indelibly etched into Tupperware bowls as I fell asleep. During the evening visit, my RV emcee suggested I go to Temple Square in Salt Lake City and check out the Mormon Tabernacle Choir who then chorused in my head, unbeknownst to him, a sublimely polyphonic red flag about the invite.

The next morning, at the same restaurant,  I confronted my host. "When did you change your mind about me coming here?"

"Oh...about the second day of your driving. I didn't think you had a phone so I didn't try calling."

Originally, she had given me an assignment to write about her hot springs from a 'Secret of the Golden Flower' perspective-i.e. Taoist alchemy. So as I was soaking in the splendid springs, I conjured up all sorts of oriental niceties about aquatic hexagrams one could contemplate in the ripples of the springs amongst other tidbits of rarefied spiritual bullshit that even Lao Tzu would fall for.  But she changed her mind about that project and said she was no longer interested. Perhaps my proprietarian bumpkin host was still offended by what I said to one of her employees about the eviction stunt she pulled on me.

Prior to me leaving Minnesota, she was going to let me stay downstairs at her house and help her get the place ready to put on the market.  Instead she replaced this invite with telling me my job would be to write about the springs, mystically speaking. When I reminded her of this while leaving the restaurant, she said rather shrilly, "I could never have you live upstairs."  But I tactfully refrained from telling her that what I was seeing at the moment, walking directlly behind her, that that would never be possible, even in one of my most steatopygously mashochistic moments.

 She then launched into a peculiar bit of damage control to cover her fuck up. Shifting into crone wisdom phase, she told me that I needed to face reality, suggested I get my hair cut and work at McDonalds. She handed me a meagre hundred dollars to cover my gas costs and suggested I go to St. George Utah to start a new life.  I made her put me up in one of her motel rooms and left the next day, braving it through ice and snow until I hit the desert burg that evening. 

Camping in Snow Canyon helped me unwind a bit from my host's dysfunctional little circus in southern Idaho. A doe eyed park ranger showed me some Anasazi petroglyphs behind my site and I found a piece of pottery shard and could sense the utter oneness in which the potter had with the pot while making it. She seemed to be receptive to my experience and watched me hide the find under some sand. Hiking in the canyons beyond the resort town was the bit of ambulatory therapy I needed, considering.

Part V:


http://roadruin.blogspot.com/2012/02/road-to-ruin-by-jaye-beldo-part-v-we.html

(C)2012-Jaye Beldo

The Road from Ruin: Part III

by

Jaye Beldo


Epochal, insane driving weather en route across the northern plains and range country last week. Trucks and buses pulled off a wind torn freeway in Montana. Orange, looming dust clouds closed I-15 down north of Idaho Falls, thus detouring us to side roads, both desolate and eerily far removed from the main current. I expected to crash into the Four Horsemen Stables, exploding hay bales with my Malibu as a kind of end time fanfare.   SUVs passed me going 80 mph on ice/snow packed roads while status updating their assumed immortality to their Facebook friends. The snowless mountains groaned, while I white knuckled it over the passes en route, perhaps agonizing that they'll be inundated  and forgotten until another geologic recycling brings them to light again and the locals, fretting over the loss of tourist dollars can thus rejoice.

People wear heartbreak on their sleeves here in Idaho, hoping it will somehow pass off as mere weathering from the elements to the tourists and nothing more. This is how people back home would appear sans the Minnesota nice, thus the telling visages are most welcome, even if they cause the casual outsider to think that there is something nuclear at the core of the sadness and the peculiar and pervasive amnesia found here.

Long haired guy at a spa  in Lava Hot Springs: saw him in back earlier in the day after I tried entering the coffee shop section, but door was locked w/ sign in window: Massage in session until 11:30.


“Understaffed.” I grumbled, ambling back to my car over icy asphalt, sight unseen I had hoped. Saw him again at night, but in front this time, a kind of spiritual shiftiness about him as he leaned on a doorway, back drop enhanced by the glowing orange Ganesh tapestry in the store window. It was as if he had some other business in mind and couldn’t help looking suspect, fists jammed tight in dungaree pockets, scanning the street like he did the alley earlier, perhaps in search of better camouflage or a tactful way out. 



As I drove on by, the business card his girlfriend gave me two years prior, glazed over with his own sprawled artwork, came to mind. With the spa partner in absentia , she crossed the embossed e-mail address out and penned hers on the back, prior to handing it to me, a gesture I more fully appreciate now, having better grasped the import of the situation at hand and most thankful I never pursued the lead.

 The couple at the Thai restaurant up the street donned their smugness so nonchalantly, self consciousness giving hint to an impalpable insecurity, one the woman tried covering with her pink, mouse eared ski hat, a contrivance designed to alienate the uninitiated. The bearded hubby guy in black North Face duds sneered at me peripherally, leaned over the table and shared some Android secret with his wife,to further insure their distance from me. Bragging about their California travel itinerary to a weary looking kid waiter, they laughed in unison over the greasy spring rolls, unaware of the self parodying pun they were making, mere icing on the cake of their nuptial conceit.

I'll post some more later. For now, back to soaking in the hot springs and unwinding from the world if at all possible :-).

Best,

Jaye Beldo


Part IV:

http://roadruin.blogspot.com/2012/02/road-to-ruin-by-jaye-beldo-part-iv.html

(C)2012-Jaye Beldo