ADITYA PANDE

TIME LAG IS A PLANETARY CONDITION

TIME LAG IS THE CONDITION THAT DEFINES THE RELATIONSHIP OF THE COLONY TO ITS METROPOLE

TIME LAG IS A MEDIATIC REALITY

[2011, Single Channel Video installation, B/W CRTV + DVD + Turntable + Stoneware + Mirror. Variable Dimensions]

<<Video Loop of morph between images of Dandi Salt March and Man on the Moon, revolving to the tune of Doordarshan’s original broadcast signature>>

© Aditya Pande, 2023

Words by AE Reifff

It’s the colony oof failing naught if you have choice. Johan flailing up the beach, Jonah called the neighbors in, Johan with a second breath like two halves of Isaiah get.

Three boys among the axeheads float the sacrificers of men made idols of their own understanding to kiss the calves. Ephraim made altars to sin, altars shall be his sin. cannot tell if I am waiting for someone to kill me or for

Master Mouse he will go forth.

Baby shall rattle when Daddy comes home and angels breathe in the face.

I am waiting for someone to turn on the light. Bridle and saddle these things to detail the escritoire idol written, dust crushed, whipped and ridden , through the rest who need an acre of land in Gilead.

Bullocks in Gilgal?

Where have these not penetrated?

Every element in reassembly shrouds.

Sir, may I not sail with you?

Think how large your tooth when the dentist drills.

Both of us cry, distort our face.

The wireless between our bodies feels in the head when the other bites multiplied to billions.

Of course survivors baffle each huge storehouse, industrial stores and exiles unguarded, ingress and egress above and below.

The main huge poster of spiritual resistance is the Will.

First a huge clapboard in colonia, larger and abandoned after visits mon pere, je m’accuse. People crammed in small spaces in the dream yard of roof lots, shacks never improved or locked.

Kiss if you must, kiss me three times! Vagrants, migrants, gypsies, tenants, homeless squatters, working men, blacksmiths, set up tables under the eaves. The shops turn to bazaar as the numbers swell. Various authorities demand documentation. Papers of refugees from the black briefcase, doors open and closed, close for good. Escape uncertain to the right piece of paper enable exit. A frog he would a-wooing go, discern that figure of a salvific lure, another huge warehouse unsecured. I promyse you it had a shrewde smell.

I went down to see the stuff and smell and ended up on my belly cutting black bags of wall, scissoring out red insulation dripping from the Wailing, prying out cracks between concrete, metal and wood. Sometimes mice droppings would fall from the smell, mouse or rot musk as I push up, balance, ease down a yard, feet sticking out among stones. Sighs of breath give up a blast which leaves me feeling pretty good. Not thinking at all to dismantle the word machine, I saw a fishpond on fire. By now you must see it too. You must; my pain is my pain and your pain is yours. It was raining when lightning struck. That year the dead from rays, an average per year when the fatalities added, hit by lightning they could no longer do and people know it is so. A 21-year-old and a man of 58 had to be hospitalized in that province,--altogether 55 and 60 million, rising to 70 while the moon gives light. Truth, elevating commodity through entertainment, whistled in the dark.

I thanke God that ye have taryed so longe

Now set eche of you on this rodde his honde.

The Great Wall Will separates Gloster from its planes, caught in the middle of a freeway rush. It adds to the unseen. Engineer with his hole in Foxy’s wall, the mirror psychiatrist who deconstructs the human form to merrie Mouse in the Mill. The telos purpose of earth not mass suggest, reports all toys in the backyard last day lit. Puddy ride being Saved From the End of the World. I told them they didn’t need me. Exercise the Power, Sons!

“Sothli if a strongere comynge above overcome him, he schal tak a wey alle his armeris, in which he tristide, and schal dele abrood his spuylis.” When the man in linen with the writing kit came round I wanted “the mark on my forehead of those who grieve and lament over all the detestable things” --I Marked, those lives chosen, redeemed and forfeit before the beginning of the world, knew the beginning and end of armaments, went into battle with harpists and a chorus.

Some say its a wall of iron and steel that will bend and break. Some say it’s a bridge of the mind, an auld lang syne, Brubaker up against the wall, the will. One, a bridge, and Brubake a wall, all to which bumbo was therefore written, and also everything was therefore not written. Drink this stuff with gin. This second part is precisely the most important, little wat-like laddies on a train could also be a fish in a lake, organ molecules. Public sense data is not private to one’s self. If someone else had a part of the body in common, Brubaker’s hand for instance, and say that hand got stung or got held up, I would feel the pain in the same place. In the same lumpy body as much as the pilots who bomb cities feel the death below and walls rip up their edges, bones in embryo are birthed. I fall to my knees in Amsterdam. Destruction swirls. That’s a leap.

Jin and Faery up and down this humble-dum Group plane dreaming run.

A gaping wide-mouthed waddling frog, nerd pixie dust down Captain Beefheart’s Mother Ship into myth-be-fact.

Crack at the end of every precession not in Aristotle, but on popkin CNN, reincarnation hierarchies of the Medieval Renn.

Rolly Powley, pudding and pie, back to higher lower worlds away.

The tickling at your knee pretends we have to study the Mysteries. There is truth in doing. I won’t make a stew whether writing small metaphysical.

When you join a colony and retire by the pool with silk amid the horns of the moon that reach up from the ground, London Bridge must be rebuilt so you can wane.

By the light of the lava you cool.

By Lethe town, it’s difficult to get in, whereabouts being unseen. Spelunkers line up to chance the Dulce, rappel down comfortable dark holes, but nada iron and steel will bend and break, ceaseless must be rebuilt.

Fly away Jack, fly away Gill. At the Colony she converts. Each ‘Anthropocene’ epoch subverts attention:

Mistress Wren sent her Queen unto Spain, that woman of sin, who opened the door and let her in.

For if thee saveryth lyke a knave this creates as many insoluble conflicts as possible and always aggravates existing conflicts. Basic Nova *technoique in the training Hege gave Snowden. Tolerance of evil brings in good money. Jack boy try to drown poot cat. Mouthful toleration of systematic brainwashing of the populace is the essence of tolerance to perpetuate struggle. Creating destructive tolerance to form benevolent neutrality toward its own culture of subversion and dingle doosey.

Under the bridge, under the wall, there is a pit, there is a cave!

Through the cable strands, through the cordage, telepathy of wires, one bridge of fire. Anyone who dares laugh says colonials need more nitrogen and phosphorus and that explains it. Microbiologists killed for phosphorus are like photophosphoric mice, which exercise extraterrestrial flags. Fly up, Columbus in the upper case empire groove. He cracked his throat with crowing.

“Timing, timing,” Mr. O’Gorman said in his Thanksgiving Address at Invention, but no matter what facts are prevented in amnesia, oh where or where can they be, the announcement and analysis has a party line, its ears cut short, its tail cut long.

J.D. Salinger was an early surgical napkin in the herd of fictitious Buggeers and Prawns. Comfort the five wits Master Humanyte, Syr. By your leve, I wer ryght loth you to greve. Anthropos science makes that swill. You may say technological subversion and conversion of natives for social, political, commercial end. These “Indians” need to shape shift skins for Caucasoid sraum and other sas-age ish goot, bolo-nie of course.

Pynchon said in ‘73: “Laszlo Jamf decreases to zero the stimulus he conditioned on Tyrone Slothrop as an infant, but “there can still be a silent extinction beyond the zero.” So launched a psychic state even less conditioned than a mind wipe. Can we build it up again? Build with iron and steel. Build Brooklyn with silver and gold. Cowslip and shad blow, said one dog to the other. If you don’t talk I must.

In the twenty years before high carillon of Pynchon Nazi hook, line, sinker to every western gov in guise, the best little donkey that ever was born, in Russia and Europe, Babylon and Rome, America was ready, means or not, wudna I wollup him? stuff him wi’ nuts, make him go with ‘is teal cock’d up?

Egypt and Sumer inhabited by gods. How do you go from free scientif to mind annihilation? What has my poor prisoner done?

Refinements commend depatterning and amnesifying. Two players form a bridge with uplifted arms. The others pass through in a line, each holding onto the one in front and hurrying, fearing they will be

caught by the descending arms.

With combined sleep-shock these heroes: CIA Allan Memorial Institute and Dr. D. Ewen Cameron, (American Psych Ass HeAD) accelerated the new world negative driving. In America the game often ends with a tug of war. to placate the river the bridge cannot be made. The bridge founded on a layer of children’s skulls. A felt back loop OVER drugged, to get the nuts to crack, and sensory dep at the Society InvestigatIn London Bridge. Human Ecology broken down led inexorably to black outs, or as comics say, John Lilly flushed. Not quite as many tanked as later swam. He was a dolphin-man, burning. That’s how the bridge was kept from falling down before direct access to outsider myriads of psychedelic repos many drugs.

A bridge from here to there. A bridge to the stars, From Boston to Philadelphia and New York. A balcony around Saturn where onlookers play scrabble without reading the book. Blue book say somebody had a little part of our body in common down there. Gravel and stone will wash away, dance over them Laddie away. Buried to keep the bridge from falling down, buried with a candle in one hand and piece of bread in the other. Food and light. He made merry work. This was imperfectly done because the Minneapolis collapsed. We was going o’er London Bridge and heard a crack. Wee Willie Winkle ran through town, called it Universal amplitude

A natural sway is coming to increase the Colonist’s step over Gog’s bespelder’d floor.

All is One had given her eggs to sell. Body electric piezo electric em rads hardend eggs in girls. Brubake said moving targets absorb less EM, but this human energy harvesting, generated from eyelids, venous return, arterial pulse, footsteps, motion of walking, loose clothing fitted with nano batteries, male conditioned females with estrogen, incomplete males, post gender, non reproductive, human neuters, take over repro to make the worker bee. The Resonance, waukrife laddie, that wana fa’ some sleep, takes a wisdom crowd to node. Synchronous lateral excitation. Two objects touch, vibrate to increase and we’re a’ dry wi’ o’t.

Other heroes of sacrifice were the Ultra Wolff, Precedent of the Neurolog and Mr. Hinkle who made Gittinger Assessment tinkle the army to ferret its ops. Here goes my lord a trot, my lady a canter, my master jock itch and here sits Lord Mayor with all his men. The pocketed icons Kesey, Ginsburg, Jerry Garcia, Burroughs, Leary, Chomsky on the payroll of the NLP of new control. Illumination was away from what was done.

Butter, lather, bony strike, hair cut, froth neck, we go wack.

They buried Terrance McKenna, they buried poor T. K, they buried poor Terr Kenna down.

[this in bold was excerpted and sent from Jerusalem. The Man Who Disappeared, as if unable to speak, applied nut to crack, does not imply the absence of thought,--yet without speech where is thought,-- in the dance resolved, those utterance in silence, not separate from the primal source--it took him by the left leg. Three times I’ve changed his name, Heavenly man not separate from

Spirit man and the truth of the Perfect man. Indeed five gnostics of the ancient Tzu give Sagey man and Superior man, not withdrawn from time and place to an Imperial Court far away, real or unreal abstracted mist, or if you like discovery red lanterns shining through the fog. Twenty seven different wigs in That Land That Appeared, Disappeared, Reappeared, cannot be seen or traveled to or touched without risking all, a place of orpheans. While he ran, they certify. They say your love and the silver rays will surely bring you home. Like men gone to plough so far from the present that this history has turned, supernatural receding to fabulous, the archaic wide, riddledy ro.

Now listed as Missing, literal bow-wows that cease making sound, but retranslatable a new one out. In all versions the arm with the sword reaches up, versions of which history too, depend on who tells it, whether from inside the belly or outside the armadoes of carracks that ballast its nose. I was so vexed I broke it in half, which left me all the following years to understand why. This hen of victimhood where all the characters are victims gets pushed around, except I would not for a Guinea evoke the ironic portion of their appeal. How many chickens have you got? Everybody loves a weakling Rabbit.

Kark Half Horse allows for these typos which critics blame for calling him a negro, Idyllaus Oklahamas to change the state, the modern mechanized technocrat serve. Steel bands, button pushers, but since ye think’t an easy thing, horns and satanic consequences unveiled as if the clock offended the myth, conscripted time to say dance what ye have done, this mechanism, this job specialization of hell mass produced factory cogs of Sudetenland and Parkersburg above the moon, an insurance adjustor in miniature, where a hard mole has to pretend.

These cracks began finishing out the golden age of a thousand faces. Ten thousand faces before the surge, the fantastic imperial court apprehended by sense, the government of heaven attained its earth again. Which we recover, for who does not long for peace in the midst, many holes in a skimmer, except adrenalin relics of this future who speak prophetically to anyone who stakes everything on the throw,

Ziccoty, diccoty, one cast of faith

How that appeals, loving the particular, to take it by force, as the evangel says, the cat’s in a flurry, Elijah to come, as opposed to some transparent ground. Grace by spontaneous and irresistible being, not achieved through coercion or renunciation of life, but a gallop untouched by the contrary between freedom and necessity all the ages waiting. Take the Todaelde! A direct assault to reach by fierce troths of the race--what John and Elijah said in the appearing, the refiner whose Return they meet like calves released from the stall, trample the ashes under foot so many tales are told.

At least four people died by lightning strikes. All they had to offer was a screen to cover retreat from the colony...travel arrangements made, then blow the place up behind. Offer a body forever. For this they sold their sons, come weal, come woe, sold out the unborn, wasna that a dentie coo? a Garden of Delight, Kitty Bairdie immortality.

It’s pretty much beyond words so we make up non words, add faces and places and clothes and sea and any manner of likeness. We explore the world and then forget ourselves and give it away for kissing, for clapping, for loving, for proving. It is all thrown back the outer world, the gifts of life...what’s left, not the party lines we go our way without. A man returning after years of absence would know the place with his eyes closed by the rhythm of it, which wouldn’t matter even if he only imagined he was a moidert ass, who could hear the one great rhythmic clap.

People are left to wonder how they could not know to kick the usurper off his throne. Life among the culpable, sorry to admit, always blames another because it blames itself. Three children slid on the ice, freedom, freedom, mock and throw, the culpable fasts for the death of three deares, and the inculpable lays naked. One person in the crowd, loosed, runs in the street that they all did fall in. How could you know when you spend every day chasing the thing you sleep beside and see in the world in front, a tale in the sky, and smell in the air, that heart feeling controls?

Teach them at home! The ducks in the river are swimming away. Twice, Noah, Daniel, Job, the wise King of Tyre, symbol of that star. It’s like you precede them when you follow and live in a fall of

Jerusalem that leads captive those who know. They know....

To speak of the first to doubt this in its verbal text, La foi de la loi, a Langnedoc chant, some editor in the language of deportation, as if he were an author who stood among three hundred jars of post exilic oil would pretend to write of worlds of colley birds and a part of a juniper tree. Ruins from the new song and dance of tabrets and pipes of those who walk among stones of fire. Blue clothes and embroidered promises of abundance killed stout stiff the azure pure spirituality finicky so conceived, merchants of all sorts, blue as Tarshish ships, dressed in blue to turn the spit. They delivered their gorgeous horses to bruise her teats, then took away her nose and ears, to speak of incorporated Maccabean notes, epigonous redactions of text, preludes to cut-up theology assembling layers. Here’s my awl and wax and thread.

Redactors dye satire on the head.

It is time to consider the last inevitable rupture and collapse of empire. Some branch of physics most plain, if single life doth grieve. Superposition. Alternate states in verse, possible selves in the billions. They chirrup digges and drackes, red-shonckes roninge, chickle, shackle, where all the choices made and not made lead to the not not made; settte up youer saile and rowe fourth, computer chips in the heel of the genome back to stone. You thought it was the head, but it’s the heel but you should find the shoe. Beyond which we forever live.

I will oute of this towne, head bound the problem of the known. Alternative histories speculate. A shippe sone thou shall make thee. Their physics is an endless wheelbarrow beside red chickens. But what if someone said “I can assure you I feel the visual image to be two inches behind the bridge of my nose?” History Alice phantastes, no minority view. “I feel in my hand that the water is three feet under ground” explains unnatural war being lost along side winning the war it lost, the best of all possible worlds, censored for national secures. Oh no said the sparrow I won’t make a stew, these platitudes deny the heart of the little fish that caught its blood. History to this Trojan horse is hide. Who’ll make the shroud? this great conspiracy at the hands of the unknown cause. Oh do not ask what time to visit.

The thrush will sing, the bull will pull the bell. Meanwhile eat. I heard on Radio Zen rule eight, diverse, but his giblets make a nice pie too. Whitehead and Russell, Albert and Bertrand, su garganta, said:

Diversity Is The Negation Of Identity

so I went to the antique mall and walked naked among the dealers and folk singing fidell-didell, tooteloo, feedle three alternative histories, all true.

Ask the cuckoo, stork and pee-wit scholar. Ask the cheek teeth of a lion.

Oh! what comes to the blessed Jerusalem to refresh the syght and felynge of all creaturs alyv? Our Jerusalem, hope of Whitman not Dario. Washington, Solomon, Roosevelt made war on the dogs on their money walks, miles of the desert past the blooming white cache. What I cannot see contrary you will see full necessary. Maybelline and Jack were high, raced to the pueblos to take the oath. Who knows but the words come out of the ground from some spring of Erebus, bitter water or clean, so clean it makes us see? But quien s’ha muerto? the wretched Beccotorto was upside down, fingers moving.

That’s why we lost the war, the orchids consuming old and young, narcotic unresisted, a hundred year drunk the only way old ways survive. We were too drunk for the colony and efforts to acclimatize, failed drunk. Pig-hog wilt thou be mine? Goldchaber! They say the orchids cannot be removed, they say we have grown dependent upon them. For centuries people faced the orchids, saw strange clouds, felt something seize their bodies they did not understand, died painful and surprising deaths. Felt the heel on their necks. And not given in or up. So by metaphor you know the Himmelskuchlichen is dead drunk while the machines take over the rest, the sixty worthy yeomen of the west. Would they had mastered anesthetic, not blindly welcome M. H+.

Your house is on fire, your children are gone. We had to kill the thing we love ourselves to prove our love...We had to sacrifice our women to prove our love—so many one-breasted ambling around as testimony to our adoration. Kill the thing we love. That is our legend. Dein Haus brennt, mutilation of the cooks of Colebrook, little cow, bitter Tod, forbidden she wadna be, your children will burn, nobody can say why fish have sores in the gulf, two semi-circles on a perpendicular meet, or autism rockets.

Our favority epithet of all, everything but GNP fell, dein Hauschen brennt, dein muttershen flennt. I knew not where so I made a list here, Pray It Not Strange. Let down her milk in links, back links, vids, arts, potheads fliege among the gold. We have achieved our Historical Absolute like Doktor Hegel said long ago. We have made our nation reservation.

I was enumerating sleep hours, Miss Mouse, hiding kidneys in plain sight under a wonderfully made city of dreams, sitting to spin. The solar system weighed me down, planets and moons. They were all merry. Antares a bother and Betelgeuse, tweedle, deedle twino, the weight pressing on my head. Man they cannot decide when all is done whether In Cancer Laniakea, Virgo Rosh Hoshana, Capricorn Rome or Pagan Aries. Every memory, not all weight, one transcendent, some good dreams, present helps, so I like Adam.

The list is long. How did he sustain his teeth? I like Noah do not hope. He felt the press down, linkum a leerie. I am like Jonah of national repentance. No problem with the circumcision of texts, lives like, to witness the dissolve, make the long walk, Babylon, Rome, Britain, America, but here I am, gaping, widemouthed. Here I am is what Isaiah said, here I am, send me.

The cuckoo comes in April, she sings a song in May, in June she beats a drum and then away. But just sober, with no vocation, no mantle. But a sober mind! following dreams and trails of the mountain history pressed down. Down and down. I found out this descent. A little fishy. That’s what they call the I can Abel pressed down Adam and Eve. I Isaac and Ishmael pressed down Abraham. I Jacob and Esau pressed down Issac. Backtrack forward. Up, Down, up, when the pize ails ‘em, that sober.

Cherubim and palm trees and every two faced man, young lion eating o’ pollywigs, doors with two leaves and thick planks, three stories guaranteed. To walk the vision I did not see where they put away the carcasses of kings. Looking east from the house and the law of the house, to measure the pattern, the way of the gate where the prince shall enter in linen peace, spirit, no wine, difference between the holy and profane.

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