He needs them to imagine it as echoes, the audience. Uh, that is, he needs them to hear what he’s about to say as echoes; they’ll uh, hear the echoes, that is. Oh yeah. Money.
So he turns on the mic all cool like and says, “You imagine this is echoes…it echoes”. Now for some serious fucking spiritual exploration on a grand scale. Good lord, he was just visualizing electrical wiring where his nerves should be; or that his nerves ARE like, bio-genetic material! But so he’s like excited, this dude, Wesley, Wes, who is excited. Oh yeah, he’s higher than he’s ever been since last he had thought that, he’s primed, engine pumped, gas full, pistons of perrrception getting ready to burst and emit noxious fumes of wild imagery. Oh yeah, oh yeah, and ohhhh yeah.
“The body may not be kind, may not be kind
The body may not be kind, may not be kind
But let’s go further, let’s go further,
No flesh, no bone, to brain tissue”
Oh yeah, oh yea. There it is hey! Oh, he’s no longer speaking on the radio; he did repeat himself, not for the purpose of echo but because for its aesthetics it needed to be repeated. But damn, that needs some actual echo. He’s aware; it’s true. Jesus.
Oh god, there is for fuck’s sake; there’s a fucking pad- magic pad! Control panel of the Brain Plane. He finds it and says it again, the phrase.
Oh god his words, his thoughts, the electricity and chemical synapse are erupting into his microphone; synthesis of art and cognition for him, right? Maybe not, but like so he read somewhere that when you try to be creative your engaging in a light form, or at least an ‘acceptable’ form, of madness- like what, schizophrenia or something? But like, so then everyone is just as fucking crazy as you because they accept this wild thing as something admirable. What a thought for him. He likes it.
“Like, so then we don’t like bad art things because we know they’re not honest to the utter madness that art is? Or something like that? Or what, just me? I’m the only one who feels like having a song in your head means you’re hearing something that isn’t really there- you FUCKING LUNATICS!”
Oh God, he said that on air. Well, they should hear it anyway. Music is freaking him out, so disjointive: its wild Sun Ra and it sounds so sad and remorseful, but Sun Ra said his music was “joyous noise” like adulatory bits, songs of praise. But he’s not feeling that way.
“Say something wild? Uh, how about flesh made out of that synthesized rubber or whatever thing. So it would cling to your bones and musculature and all that; but if you added enough air, like, your flesh would expand and your organs would be, like, I guess floating? I’m not sure, actually, what the organs would do.”
“Man, this is a hell of a broadcast,” he thinks. Says…..good Lord.
Is there a better way to do what he’s doing? He’s not sure. However, he now begins to execute a glorious maneuver: fucking psychic projection: his brain into mp3, transmitter synapses, brain is a broadcast apperatus….and shit
“Jeeeeeeeezus,” he huffs. That’s a mildly threatening tone of voice his brain has taken on…or tone of thought. He’s starting to feel slightly overwhelmed, reflexive accusatory shit making him awful uneasy….