The old nadsat index of our mind spinning in-out of Huxley's dystopia like clockwork, o my droogies


18 July 2019> The medickle test of the day was a videonystagmogram (aka VNG)... felt like Alex in A Clockwork Orange. So some cheena (that smot + zvooked like the Russian spy Natasha from the Bullwinkle + Rocky Show) put goggley otchkies on us that tracked the old eye movements + then aksed us to perform tasks like viddy a red dot as it went back + froth or up + down-zee. Then she shook our gulliver round in her rookers + had us lay supine w/ a pillow under our back so we was slightly upside-down (witch makes us a bit bolnoy) + no, my brothers, it wasn't for the old in-out w/ Natasha but to track where our glazzballs viddied to see what causes our vertigo + slooshy-loss + ineditably what's gone baddiwad in our brainy mozg. Then the evil Natasha blew hot or cold air in our inner ooko + made us count backwoods or by 2s + she'd aks us trivial govoree veshch, like auto brands or names of animals (she got horrorshow guff when we inklewded humuns in the mix) while we had our gulliver cloaked in darkness... now we pony well the saying "i could see your mind spinning," my droogies, cuz when we was aksed these simple cognitive tasks weed reel off names of ptitsas or malchicks, like Mary + Sue or Bob + Bill, or types of insex like bees + praying mantii—when all in a sudden weed draw a blank + could feel our glazzballs rolling back into our gulliver involuntarily as if the eyes in i was looking for the antswear fizzically in our mozgy noggin. O my brothers, it made us quite dizzy + bolnoy to our stomache. Good thing we goolied there (we anticipated this) as at 1st we was stumbling around like we was pyahnitsa, in the height of DC sidewalk rush hour, which is definitely a thing yo, all the other go-getter lewdies on scooters w/ their gullivers lost in their dumbphones.

... above is a mixtape, my droogies, that we added as an afterthought to the last bad brains post, so we still compiling hit... capped by our own "Seasick," mos def written under the influenze of vertigo. Speaking of afterthought, we may halve mentioned how we're sub-titling our Textiloma, ": or, a post-modern Epimetheus" + how Epimetheus is the little-known brother to Prometheus, well my droogies, Epimetheus means "after-thinker" (whereas Prometheus means "fore-thinker")... witch charactorizes us to a T, perty much todo we write is afterthought. Also worth sseying (in light of our Textiloma) is that Dead'R'us (the Joycean equivalent to Telemachus + protagonist of Textiloma) was a maze builder whose labberinths bear an uncanny resemblants to the old mozg, as does our ooko (inner + outer) where we slooshy musick... unless you're our droogie Alex who's been conditioned to feel bolnoy whenever he slooshys Beethoven's 5th.

Dead'R'us' Labberinth

+ Dead'R'us was also pee to Icarus, who needs no introduction, my brothers... comes at a pivotal raz in our journel transcribing when we (as Dead'R'us) go to Mexico to vidy a solar eclipse exactly 1 year after we started our gap year trip around el moondough. How this plays out in Textiloma is yet to be detourmined...

23 July> Our bedder-½ zheena came back from Addis Ababa for a few days but now is on her way to Bangkok. This morning we rode in the rain to the hospital to get a CAT scan of our temporal bone (the 1 between our mozg + inner ooko), witch, my droogies, was a piece of cake compared to the MRI. Yesterday we went to McLean, Virginia where the CIA big-wigs live, to vidy a neurotologist who din't halve much insight into our condition, he just moved our gulliver around to make us dizzy + dislodge sum crystals he figured had formed in on our inner ooko. Weird. While we was there tho we went to town on sum of the old uni, flying fish roe, soft-shelled crab, etc. Utter then eating sushi + figgering out what's baddiwad w/ our brainy mozg we're back to writing + making music fool bore. Our mozg ain't bothering us as mush as our arm + pletcho... although we got 95% of our mobility back, still feeling sum pane, my droogies. We got a splinty stabilizer to spat with cuz we tend to crook our arm < 30° when we zasnoot... this way our arm will stay > 145° almost straight. Also, when we run we dangle our limbs down more sorta like that 1 shyknees cheena marathoner (Sun Yingjie) whereas before we cradled our rookers to our groody like how u spose to. And we doing more of the old weights/stretching + running + less elliptical + spin bike. Eating more seafood + less of the old sakar + salt. Taking subliminal B12 + D-fortified milk. Drinking less hooch + more kamboocha. We're even proud parents of a baby scoby (thx L!) so we can brew our own kambooch. While we're giving updates o my brothers, we're happy to report that weave shed about ~5 lbs since last we reveiled our vitals + when they measured our krovvy pressure yesterday it was 110/75... (as opposed to ~135/80) so ether we getting bedder or we just getting conditioned to seeing doctors + bean poked w/ niddles, witch we suspeck was causing our hypertension to begin with.

24 July> Today went to a neurosurgeon Dr. J in Georgetown, mostly to confirm that the arachnoid cyst in our mozg was nada to preoccupy ourselves with.... ∀ll signs still point to Ménière's disease as originully we messel, but ain't no way to dieagnose Ménière's except to rule out everything Ls. Dr. J went over our MRI images w/ us, witch no 1 Ls had done yet... we correctly guessed the white blob of the arachnoid cyst + guess the hole we was wondering about last post is the cavernoma, also B9 + nothing to worry about o my brothers:

the cavernous malformation in our mozg

25 July> Appy polly loggys for whining about our slooshy mozg problemas, wheel get on to the old regular programming soon. We ain't govoreet much about what weave been reading here, my droogies, witch used to be the primery foke us of ain't bin reading much, in part cuz our glazzes are fast deteriorating, maybe cuz of our cerebal woes or perhaps typickle sine of old age. Not sure where we picked it up—perhaps in a hotel back when we was in limbo, or 1 of them little free lieburys on the street—but we got us a copy of Brave New World by Aldous Huxley a few months ago. We snagged it cuz our bedder-½ hadn't red it but then we started rereading it cuz it's been a lifetime ago since we red hit, o my brothers. In the '80s every1 feared we'd end up in an Orwellian 1984 + yes (as we govoreet about here) perhaps big brother is watching, but censorship ain't a problema so much as general apathy... books don't need to be banned cuz nobody gives a shit about reading no more if it ain't on their phones. There ain't a lack of info so much as an overload of entropic dirt dat has turned us into passive + apathetic egosists. In Orwell's dystopia, the masses are controlled by fear, ultraviolence + the old torture, whereas in Huxley's moondough the masses are sedated by soma, in the same way lewdies now are controlled not just w/ drugs like prozac + pane-killers, but dumbphones + social media halve become drugs unlike inny udders that halve turned 99% of this brave new moondough into zombeed lewdies. The dystopia of Brave New World has more in commun w/A Clockwork Orange (witch we blogged about here), tho the psycho-logical conditioning ain't nearly as b9. In both dystopias, sewerside is the onelie way out (tho in A Clockwork Orange, our droogie Alex doesn't suckseed in checking out).

657 <( current)>  659 > A lathe of owls that tock like Peanuts parents during wanton dream/ body therapy in walking Wildwood
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