Be Here Now. ∆ Track 05. to be continued.

Speak now, or forever hold your peace. Damn. Patrick is one cold ass motherfucker. It was all still rumbling around in my head somewhere… How could i forget something like that. Why even come to the ceremony if you were going to make a big scene like that I didn't. Why even show up? Appearances. Are you serious? –it would look bad if I didn't. It looked bad that you did and then exited during the ceremony. –the end of the ceremony. Specifically at the objections. –I wasn't paying attention. You stood up! I had to use the restroom. As an objection? Merely a coincidence. You don't believe in coincidences. I don't believe in marriages, either. Oh, please. I begged you. That's your excuse. It's not an excuse. Is it an objection? And if it was? I got married anyway. –So it wouldn't matter. Thanks for the toaster oven. –I didn't get you a toaster oven. Yes you did. Uh–no, I didn't. Then what did you get us? Nothing, I forgot. Well, the card was from you. Hm Maybe you forgot to forget. Maybe. Thank you, anyway. –Congratulations. There's leftover cake. Where? Everywhere. __ LATER. Hazel is practicing her guitar; her glasses rest at the edge of her nose, as she focuses on the instrument, almost as if her father in the doorway is a shadow, or an afterthought. She carefully tunes the strings as he leans into her bedroom. Hazel. Hm. Did you buy Esha and Mark a toaster oven with my credit card? She stops for a moment and peers over the brim of her glasses briefly addressing her father. –I knew you'd forget. Oh. I–I did. I know. Thank you. You're welcome. He pauses for a moment before making his departure, turning into the hallway. There's leftover cake. She seems genuinely excited. There is? Where? [beat] …everywhere. Ugh. This show blows my mind. Yeah. Sometimes almost literally. Happiness is a warm gun. You're the Hatter, and the rabbit, Alice and The Cheshire! You're The Rabbit, The Hatter, The Cheshire, and Alice! Did I ever write that scene about the liquor store? Maybe, probably. I don't know. Now every time i go to the store where I saw that scene, I see it again–although not quite as clearly, and I can't help but wonder if I ever wrote it down, or, like so much of whatever and somesuch–it was all just in my head. No, Patrick exists. Clearly. I had been fasting for an extraneous amount of time, though for how long i couldn't say. And the words repeated over and over in my head for me to fetch a book from the cabinet I had been interested in by its cover alone, but had put away weeks ago. I had stopped reading, and had become more focused on creating something that could generate revenue. I needed money, almost desperately enough to sell my already outdated DJ equipment and some of my studio gear, and yet–there was still work to be done. There wasn't much that I could do with my aged equipment, but there wasn't much I could do without it, either. Luckily, winter was coming forward faster, with heavy enough rain throughout the week that it kept some of the cyclists at bay, however, the same evil energy seems to have moved inward; now the doors just outside of my own slammed continuously throughout the day, without any logical explanation as to why; there were only six apartments on the floor, and most of the other people on the floor used the elevator to go about their tasks, so I couldn't much understand the constant door slamming–and though I had put in a maintenance request, being well aware that the doors could be fixed not to slam, my request had been ignored. It seemed as though the property manager had grown tired of my requests, but I had grown tired of having to make them. THe neighbors were inconsiderate, and I desperately wanted to move to a cleaner and quieter neighborhood–and though I knew by New York city standards what I had was a blessing–the noise had become depressing, and so had being followed by the same group of people during my gym regimen–enough so that I avoided nearly all human contact. People seemed to be increasingly toxic, in such a way that I intended to find a suitable enough position that I could save money and be able to one day escape. New York was not a clean, quiet, and friendly place. I disliked my newfound bitterness, hostility, and anger which the city had characteristically put into its place. My creativity meant nothing–I would need to earn money to be respected, or even well liked– Not that I cared much for being accepted or admired, however, in the way Californians upheld high standards of vanity, New York never overlooked the value of a dollar; it was a money game, and so far, I was losing. ‘Guncle. Guncle.' A faraway voice seemed to say. ‘Uh, okay.' I continued about my ritualistic deep cleaning, which always seemed to automatically take place towards the end of a fast. ‘GUNCLE!' The voice was loud this time, almost as if it was being yelled. “Jesus Christ, alright.” I reached up onto the high shelf where the book was stored and retrieved the book; I had almost forgotten the pink and blue letters which had drawn me to it in the first place. I had figured the colors to be some sort of code, as they were often used in media–but I wasn't sure besides what meaning I had assigned to it all my own what it was supposed to mean, besides being somewhere along the right path– ‘G U N C L E' I had no idea what the book was about, but flipped to the middle as I often did to get a glimpse at what the book might fortell. Low and behold, there it was– Not a massive sign, but a sign at least. I myself no longer believed in coincidences, especially while fasting, and all incidences of a certain nature lately seemed in fact to be somewhat Divine; I opened up to find that the main character of the book was named Patrick– And of course, He was some kind of actor– A television personality. I had nearly abandoned The Television people with Fallon and his–whatever-he-was– and being entirely honest with myself, I wasn't sure. What I was certain was, though, was that he was whatever I was, and whatever I was, was dangerous, volatile, prone to both implotsions and explosions and a little bit whimsical–I'd have liked to think, some sort of artist, or creative, however, Obviously not vibrating at the speed of celebrity status, at least not consistently– And, of course, remarkably tamed, for the kind of creature in my nature to have stumbled upon quite a discovery so ‘casually.' But there was really nothing so casual about it– it was formally divination, this specific puzzle piece, in that I had been fasting for no reason or purpose at all with no end in sight until being directed with such pertinence to pick up this book, only to find that the first word my eyes would see, was not at all just a word, but a name. I couldn't remember why he was Pat Kirkpartrick, at first, at all; then I remembered that for some reason–there was some kind of teaching i was supposed to have remembered about these people–the television people–and the Irish, especially; but then, there were also, strangely with some of the same ties, the Greeks, the…. Suddenly the back of my neck cause a warm wind, which I always thought to be strange sitting in the middle of my apartment with no air conditioning on at all. I had been fasting on this day as well and had gotten a second wind after eating, completing as many instrumentals as i could before continuing to look for a normal ‘slave job' so that I could earn money to travel and visit my loved ones. I didn't want for much else, not that I wanted to be normal, because I knew already at this point that I couldn't–but I needed to be paid in money I could choose what and where to spend on things I needed without relying on anything or anyone else. I couldn't keep taking my chances in entertainment; I was aging, and growing tired, and wary of the whitewashed and over-politically correct world that was sure to be pursuing entertainment anymore, especially television–I thought that perhaps I was best suited for desk work at a gym which would motivate me to show up every day; otherwise, I would probably quit or be fired almost immediately. It was time to retire to bed, with protective stones strapped to my chest to protect myself against whatever that awful, evil thing was–now that it was rainy for motorcycles, the doors slammed all day long and ached in my bones as if someone were hitting me; I knew that this thing only wanted to hurt me–it could be no other force but the force of evil that continued to lurk around me whatever way that it could–whether I meditated or prayed, fasted or exercise, ate or didn't–there was always someone or something unpeaceful happening; something which allowed me to understand that perhaps I was in a world that I could leave sooner than later. Often my wrists ached with the throbbing sensation of a dreary and thoughful wish for freedom; a suicide which would end all things once and for all–but–I also knew there was more art to leave behind than I had made, and so for that, I continued to be; I let the motorcycles and slamming doors stand as a reminder that all things that would seek to harm me would also be harmed in doing so–not in the least a calming sense of knowing, but a sense of something known nonetheless. Damn I keep forgetting Trevor Noah. How do you do? How do I do what? Fuck man, America is so fucking racist. It's like, We'll kind of almost fuck with South Africa– But only cause it's dominated by white culture; And the prominent blacks that come from south Africa are light skinned And have accents, so they're not as scary. “Oh, South Africa” “Right. How's the water? That ought to tip your elections in the right direction. “I'll say!” (Ours too.) The only time racists accept anything colored is if its beautiful, (read:flawless) Or overly accomplished. I've realized that if you're either one or the other, You can eventually be both. Anything else with color is basically just for entertainment purposes. Or general warfare. “Multi-use niggas” White people are like: “Entertain me; Or else you're a threat.” “Yessir” Yo. The late night guys are mad weird. Somehow, the hosts of late night television have all mysteriously been locked into an unfamiliar mansion, without their suits—and pants—unable to find an exit. All of the doorways are blocked—and all of the windows have been altered—they do not open, nor can anyone see out of them; in fact, they are doctored with the same illusionary backdrops that can be seen on the sets of their own shows—the televisions, which, have seemingly been programmed to only play reruns of their own shows. Why— why aren't you wearing pants!? I don't know. Where's your suit? You should be wearing a suit! I know, right?! Who the fuck even are you?! Depends whose asking. YO, CONAN. WOAH. You're not a late night host! Thank God! That seems like an awful job—your demographic fucking sucks. My demographic does suck. But to counter that— I'm a Republican. Who knew?! Not my demographic. Okay, everybody calm down. (Everybody was already calm, but for the most part just confused, and pant less; most of them wear the same classic boxers, though in different patterns/ slightly varying colors—but of course, nothing too crazy, while only one host sports boxer briefs, and one (I'll let you guess who) ladies panties.) At least we all have our own rooms. I don't! I'm stuck in a twin bed and Leno has the other. Before: JAY LENO Good Morning, bright eyes. CUT BACK TO: Aren't you retired? I do moonlighting. LENO and FALLON seem somewhat comfortable and non-biased (read: unbothered entirely) over the morning paper and coffee at opposite ends of the large breakfast table, a continental style breakfast of croissants, seasonal fruit, with an assortment of cereals arranged in the kitchen. FALLON occasionally looks up from his paper to laugh at himself on the television, playing in the kitchen. The other hosts squint with allied disgruntlement of FALLON'S nonchalance and slightly narcissistic egotism. FALLON (reading paper, watching self; eating croissant, sipping coffee) Haha. Nobody has pants, and as the hosts will soon discover—this is with purpose. They have been trapped here as part of an experimental game show, in which the unrecognized and uninformed guest will host, as part of a test shoot aimed at the demographic of the late night hosts combined audience, to test whether or not this demographic will be positively receptive to a late night host who is also a woman of color (read: black) —without a white male counterpart co-host to soften the blow. Really? This is why they're doing this? Who is “they?!” The network. We all work for different networks! I'm pretty sure the only reason I have a demographic is because of my accent. It's true. They accept you. Right. Where are the women. An overhead voice: (They are coming) Oh, so I will have co-hosts. Guest co-hosts; they will vary and change from episode to episode. Oh. Thank Goodness. Don't thank me yet. Uh, okay—overhead voice… Let's just say I'm the narrorator.. Narrorator for what [this is also a movie] Uh. In what genre? [a host opens the cabinet to a bloody chuckie- like doll, which pops out from a mechanical arm with a high pitched scream; the host lets out a squeal, abandoning his coffee— we see a hidden camera pov from the camera's perspective, and then slow-motion replay footage of the host's reaction— he runs frantically pantless into a corner and then up the stairs. —Depends on the host. FALLON, who has been sitting at the table behind him, is still unaffected/unmoved. Himself makes a joke on the TV screen above— he giggles at himself, sipping coffee and looking back to his newspaper the other hosts groan; LENO shrugs and continues, delightfully finishing smearing a bagel and biting into it— he trades FALLON the comics he's been reading for the RELIGION section he's been scoping under the magified lenses of his readers, quietly and sweetly, like an old married couple, without even exchanging a glance or speaking to one another. Ugh. Suddenly, from the floor above. OH DEAR GOD. CRAIG FURGUSEN has just realized his worse nightmare. The hosts still standing at the bottom floor in the kitchen all look up, wide eyed. [Cursing in unintelligible Scottish] ———- They said that you were one of us, but you're not one of us. But you're not one of us. Of course not, I'm not a comic— I studied philosophy in college. That should be funny, but it's not. I would repeat what I just said, but I don't want to. Still not funny. What if I farted? Bubbles—water—maybe— some potential. But probably not. Shame. What are you reading? I'm not, I'm having banter with a crazy-eyed late night host in a bathrobe. Well how's this for a book mark? He opens his robe. (Unimpressed) Aren't you married? Arent we all? I digress. Embarrassed and nervous, he quickly closes his robe. Yes. To a blonde. Congratulations. Where should I send the card. I'm not giving you my address! Creepy fan—stand up, wanna be… He frustratedly begins to exit You're the one standing, technically —And I'll be the last one standing. At the end of the week, it's gonna be me in those pants! Me! Clearly, this show of affection has all been an attempt to bribe “CC”, into being persuaded into awarding this particular host “The Pants”. The hosts will compete for “The Pants” at the end of the first week of challenges I want them gone. But sir. Out. starting Monday; and I want you out of my office, starting now. Now, get Troublemaker on the line so I can finish my breakfast in agony, like the red blooded American I'm supposed to be. Sir. Troublemaker is the top secret code name assigned to the President of the United States; the true President of the United States, the only surviving member of the cabinet after a series of successful infiltrations and assassinations by the enemy, after a covert mission revealed that the succession of the US presidents had been predetermined; not chosen by “The People”, but descendants of a Royal bloodline. Pinocchio the code name for the senator chosen as the stand in— the face to America's eyes and ears, listens intently to the President's every move, daily happenings, and assertions, as to best convey the ideas as his own; meanwhile, the Secret President is heavily guarded, controlled, and is acclimated using a series of secret codes and messages and decoded, including several secret languages and symbology hidden within her daily routines, which become more challenging and versatile, adapting her to her role as Commander In Chief of the United States armed forces, and consequently, the world around her, as the US forces seek to broaden their horizon as the a world superpower, to a Global entity, which powers and controls the heavily overpopulated planet which lies in imminent demise by like likes of war, plague, and diminishing resources. The actual President of the United States must remain hidden as so, as to remain safe until the intercontinental breech has been sealed, and national security has been restored. Viewer indescretion is advised It's not ME. Okay, okay: I'm not the president! I'm not running for president I don't even know who the president is. The president is dead. GOOD . Madame… I mean—not good. You— No. So like—- It's automatically racist to just outright say that the migrants are for the most part not well behaved or orderly—- They leave trash everywhere and don't even watch their kids! Some of them. I think they're just assuming this is okay?! IS THIS OKAY?! No! What the fuck! That is racist. Have you seen it from where I stand? The strength is in numbers! Look, I don't hate human beings. Are they— Yes they're humans. They're just. Our imminent demise is in allowing this to continue to happen. I hope you realize that from how high up you are. I know you can't see it from up in your shiny townhouses or from the blacked out windows of your town cars, but... They're good people. SOME of them I mean a lot of these 3rd world people are very primitive thinkers. Don't count on them being brought up to speed in consciousness and morality when they're basically brought here as luxury slaves. That's putting it nicely. Well, if you're not going to pay Americans living wages, you're going to have to counter it somehow. I can't have three jobs. Oh, that's nice. The terrorists are attacking their own people. For what purpose is any of this, actually? Check it out. I found the leak. Alert the mayor. He's on the Mayor's books. What in the actual fuck. Gross. Is there not a screening process for this? Too late: anchor babies. “The Secret President” So you just dropped like 2 million pregnant 3rd world— You realize that. There must be some kind of compromise. Yeah. Send them back. Ew, fucking gross. I don't understand— What you don't understand! [A SAGA] What don't you understand? My land is your land!? Yeah, and now the economy's in the trashcan. I figure that's an upgrade from a black hole! You don't understand that we're like leaking— —like bleeding—- Money! Half of this money's not even being recirculated into the United States! Send for uncle Juan, Camilla, and all of my pregnant nieces. Dalè. ARRIVA STORM THE GATES. Yo, lady. What the fuckz At least put shoes on the baby. PUT THE DIAPER IN THE TRASHCAN. Where's your mother? I am my mother. Goddamn! What is the United States?! Racists! Trust me I'd rather die than not Either way, I'll love you all the same It's unfortunate The wicked ones Atop us, with the fortunes With no one to love But piles of bodies, Power plays and flaccid phalic Valid fantasies and tragic Dissatisfaction All those bottles And all those bodies And all those models You still can't mount a horse. All that power And all that money And you don't want me But she doesn't do much But want to love Pity no one up there seems to know what is does Love, is for us The ugly under you Trust me, I'd rather die tonight Than wake up alone Foaming in the mouth With no one there to froth with Trust me I'd rather die than not Either way, I'll love you all the same I guess I'm slag bro Another attack It's fine; I'm just not attractive Not even fit for his Side piece of ass How's that go? What's that life Just take a knife to my back Cause I can't go back bro I went black bro Flatline He caught my eye, Then I went flat broke If I could draw a line up my spine And unwind the entire world I would, though If I could tie a knot to the knot in my back And then just jump rope Off a long rope From a strong pole Here's hoping {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.