mixed signals

I had an office in the "radon corridor" of the McCosh building at Princeton, where they kept professors they weren't sure about. The doors had big radon warnings on them that we ignored with the bravado and derring-do mentality of the untenured.

Given what I just learned from reading a Norman James article on how radon’s not the problem and the wiring is, we probably should have had stickers showing where all the wiring was. Cage schematics. You are here [arrows point underneath Princeton like we're in Tartaria]. Enter the cage. Two men enter, one man leaves. Publish or perish.

I suppose arrows pointing upwards could have shown us which direction we needed to drift to get tenure. Test positive. I mean think positive. My main handler at Princeton died of AIDS, if any. If you catch my drift. My dissertation on his desk.

Now I'm a drifter living in a van the dog and I are hoping to drive to a volcano in El Salvador (easy on the clutch, Willie!), but for a year, thanks to the generosity of my catholic cousin, I'm in a basement of a 1960s home built into river stones (rounded gravel). Photograph at beginning of article shows our allotment gardens nearby. Garlic in foreground. A welter of signal-receiving and (lord help us all) transmitting paraphernalia in the mid-ground, and the meltiest part of the mountains in the background. For all I know the garlic is also transmitting into the ether. And downloading ether wealth. Ether ore.

Terrace B.C. The time, the place. An ice wall rings the town and already I can only vaguely remember humping the ice wall to get here. Or have I always been here? Streams tumble down from the snow and swell the huge Skeena River here near Alaska or wherever we are. The river skids round a corner and half of it skitters under the house. Skid skitter. Forty feet down, thirty feet down, rising. I feel like water sliding on stones could make static electricity or something. Don’t take the hairs out of your nose because the mechanical action of air dragging across them makes nitrous oxide which strengthens erections, is what I’m learning from DIY videos. Skid skitter. Air hair. The house is the last thing on a dead end rife with symbolism and is surrounded by trees and the clamor of crows pretending to be ravens. Hear here.

The Skeena in flood! Ice walls!

Almost perfect wilderness. Just add Walmart. Behold the corner of a Walmart a hundred-twenty feet away and high-tension wires the same distance the other way. Mixed signals! [visuals of Star Wars zappery]

Folks here are tough and fretting about dirty electricity is for pussies.

The pit bull sort of came with the apartment like a test parakeet in a mine and his tumor grew visibly and exploded and I got the Rockefeller surgeon to cut it out and I don't tell her that I'm not really applying the steroids she gave me because I have mixed feelings about them. I’m also not really not applying them. Her truck has an alarmingly three-dimensional icon of a snake on a crucifix superimposed on a giant V. Mixed signal or what. [V-lady joke deleted here]

I have mixed feelings about everything. Shake and serve! I walk barefoot on the concrete floor down here above the subterranean river in a helter-skelter clash of electricity and Earth tones. Bonggggg. Resident resonance. Boom bang! Mixed signals!

Only last week, perhaps because of you, Norman James [a comment to this Norman morphs into an article to you lot]…only last week did I start turning off the Elon Musk skylink at night. No satellites crashed into the mountains when I flipped the switch. Are satellites even real?

Musk’s skynet is the unholy link I now signal to you with. It's glancing [banging] off my third eye as I da-dit-da with my Morse code keyboard thingie. Faint whiff of sulfur as I attempt to spell sulfur. As I peer into the blue light my plasma-sabered mitochondria are smoking--smoke signals! All signals are always mixed because the on-off is how frequency works. What isn’t dancing with what is. Da dit. Reality is one big mixed signal. Dual. Smoking guns.

The pit bull and I have been wandering around town since January offending local sensibilities and trying to position our paws on the ground in shafts of sunlight. You know the routine: away from wires and as close to the river as possible. Me occasionally doing Wim Hof huff-puffery. Mixed social signals! Keep hands clearly visible so they don’t think you’re doing something else with your greatcoat open to the low-slung sub-arctic luminary orb. I’m not staring into your living room—the noonday sun is sitting on your roof.

Sometimes I wander with one shoe on for protection and one for grounding, but since I typically balance boxes on my head Nigeria-style, the villagers might not notice the mixed-footwear motif. A woman told me that my aura is the biggest she ever saw, true story, and I sometimes carry two boxes up there to hide my aura from others while I’m waiting to see it myself. She wanted to kiss me, then didn’t. Didn’t want or didn’t do? Mixed singles. Signals. Other people seeing your aura when you can’t is like being the only nude at a clothing-optional beach. [does David pose, left hand with jean jacket over shoulder like it’s casual-dress Friday at the office] [all nonchalant but marble is hard] [not a chiseled look—the Tartarians formed that with 3D printers] [or not]

And here's an ultimate mixed signal: perhaps you, Norman James, perhaps some other Norman, has or have informed me that Walmart may have cheap little machines that can tell me how many death-rays people are shooting me with.

[edges closer to Walmart, holds boomer cash in the air to demonstrate solvency. Closer...closer...]

—Dave in Terrace, B.C.

[picture below is me cobra-weaving in the wind up from the Tartarian chasm in Niagara last September] [ancient robot returns the camera’s stare]