[Journey To The Underground]

For the first time in a long time,

Or at least sort of a long time,

I seriously considered suicide,

And all jokes aside, it almost seemed like the only option for someone in my predicament

In my mind—

I would never be white,

I would never be liked—

And I would never have the chance of getting my projects into the right eyes

Or heard by the right ears.

The sounds of motorcycles made me want to die.

I didn't want anything at all-

Not music, not even love

That is,

Besides being quietly held from behind.

I felt like I was suffocating.

Exercising was no longer enough.

There was no such thing as love or time.

I wasn't losing my mind, so much as my patience for mankind.

Money ruins everything. Especially not having any.

I just be fun to torture.

How many versions of the Truman show are running right now?

My entire generation under the guise of the American Dream, fighting to be famous,

stars in our eyes and fame for sale at a certain price:

What was the price?

For some, precious bodies would prove to be fare fortune.

For others, sheer luck—

—and some—

Inherited funding provided by l the indoctrination of the inequality and social warfare —not so simply just black and white, but rich and poor.

(™)

Goddammit!

Don't god damn it—that's an ejaculatory prayer!

#focus shifting

GODDAMMIT!

…well, okay.

‍♀️

So they like—

—uh huh—

they have a whole AI for you and everything?

I've just been made aware.

You look proper pissed off.

I am very angry, yes.

Awareness is the first step

That's kinda creepy.

So I mean.

I found it no coincidence at all,

That no matter how many combinations I tried,

My Amazon cart became equal to

Exactly that,

Or just under or over

What amounted to be a total of

Whatever was in my bank account.

And that was when I knew,

That it was entirely unsafe,

To allow the algorithm to understand

Exactly what you had

Or how much of it—

As things would always be adjusted.

With the intention

Of making sure

You were left

With nearly nothing

At all

Telekinesis turned teleportation—

Don't panic.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

The obnoxious obese man who drove the loud motorcycle up and down the street was obviously a very weak man—and he wanted the world to know it. His loud and obnoxious roaring must have overcompensated for his sloppy, fat and sagging body, which hung over the seat and sides of the motorcycle—the excessive revving of the engine must have been to let the world know that this was his power—having earned the money to ride a motorcycle; but in all other ways he was obviously lost, his slothemly and gluttonous blob of a body almost making the oversized Harley look like a play bike, his tiny penis probably covered to its top in whale blubber; he clearly had no other way to feel powerful, besides of course— being the leader of a gang of mindless peasant monkeys, who all would do anything for their own bikes—monkey see, monkey do.

Perhaps his obesity to the third world unthinking drone slaves was a sign of his dominance—or they lived in fear that he would eat them.

Obesity aside, it was his force of obnoxious harassment that had deaignatedhim as an obviously insufferably weak subhuman— much like a bully who dealt with his own faults by terrorizing others, such was the man with the Harley.

There was nothing impressive about him besides his bike—and since he had abused that with such outright offense, even that made him look stupid.

He raced his engine as if to say “look at ME! I have arrived!” But after actually glimpsing at the blob, it was hard to not laugh at it. He was hard to miss anyway, and probably should have opted for a truck or some sort of SUV to hide his intolerant and debilitating self-inflicted illness— the inability to control when and how much to eat, or how to do anything besides ride up and down the street on a motorcycle—perhaps a walk could do some good; in definite need of a jog, and a strict diet. I was embarrassed for him, and most people who weren't so obviously diseased and more in the like of self indulgent and lazy—I had once been like them, but no longer, and first and foremost I believed in respecting my neighbors, treating others as I wished to be treated. I wished to live in a quiet and safe neighborhood, but the obnoxious morbidly obese man alone was a symbol of the disasterous mark capitalism had made on the American empire—lazy, docile, greedy, potbellied idiots accounted for all too many of the world. I knew that with the desire to change, that one could change—now to force myself to believe that with the desire to succeed in something, one could succeed—I was at least trying. But the weak and uncontrolled idiots spawning from holes in the underworld and buzzing around like the pests and roaches they were reminded me that if anything, these imbiciles were decent at almost nothing but breeding other fucking idiots.

Hopefully, one day my own blood would grow up to want to work out with me, eat well, and change from appearing as his weaker half— lazy, obese idiot just the same as these, however—at the very least, the roaches were fastidious. They buzzed around under the illusion that working for the American system would grant them anything besides a motorbike and some fresh looking street wear, the attention of girls too stupid to understand that 99% of men simply weren't worth wasting time with or on, and unknowing to this or their own worth, would still do it anyway,

Some of the bikers had girls on the back; I always felt bad for the girl on the back of the motorcycle rather than jealous—I would rather be at the helm of the thing, riding it for myself.

Then, thinking back to a time before I realized how crowded cities were, sighting that there should be laws against loud vehicles in urban areas such as this— there was at lot more open road than not in LA—highways, that is, and bikes were easy to maneuver through heavy traffic. New York was another story—congested, overpopulated, and now filled with a disease which added to its decay at a quicker rate than ever. The illegal immigration crisis was much like a rodent or insect infestation, but harder to control—one simply could not exterminate millions of actual humans, and yet, the problem was still the same— this was a disease, a pest infestation, as most of the immigrants weren't working, but simply subsisting on the taxpayers dollars they were allocated and finding ways not to work; they were parasites, many of them set to explode with more parasites. We had indeed been infiltrated, and made to pay for it, both in restlessness, and in dread. Culturully inept to most decencies as even the crudest Americans had been bred with, many although not all roamed around like feeble minded children in brand new Nike wear, munching on fast food and candy as if guests to some kind of amusement park—however, to the thoroughbred tax paying Americans, this was no amusement; it was a distressing, eye opening wake up call that something had gone terribly wrong, on the already overworked working class' time and hard earned money. It might have seemed cold and calloused to think of them as rodents—but, always observant, I also much believed in calling a duck a duck; most of them were not respectful, pushed and shoved, threw trash everywhere— and left their minor children to roam about or even put them to work, unaware of what child labor laws were; they used their unborn children as anchors to be able to stay where neither they were truly welcome or belonged, bloating the welfare system and benefitting from funds that had been laid to them with taxpayers dollars.

The United States of America had its own problems, and its own citizens being overlooked, once again the needs of continually systemized blacks and other minorities falling victim to this new wave of people to care for.

The capitalists had sold out the working class once and for all—the immigrants needed to go, and probably would, eventually tiring of the unattainable American dream we all had been sold, but they had been gimmicked into attempting to create— all to supplement an oncoming election. An election which really gave the people no choice at all, besides gawking, debating ignorantly about misinformation, and of course—intrinsically siding with the good old American narcissism which would force them to take the side of whoever supported who looked like them— the Latino vote was obviously an important factor—and of course the polished machismo and Latin pride of those being supplemented by the income of their friends and relatives come to stay, though unknowingly, chunks of money out of their own tax paying pockets, would vote for the most lenient immimigration plans—probably the safest bet, the presidential office mere puppetry at all anymore. However, it had been obvious that the Right has set The Left up for disaster by allowing the black to have been shifted blue—though the rational explanation for the reallocated funding fell directly and logistically to the right. The Oval itself, empty and the actual control belonging to the wealthiest billionaires and corporations whose hopes of the thousands of migrants becoming their corporate slaves had mostly backfired terribly. With any hope, many of them would take what they could, and travel back below the border where life was simple, food was fresh, and without need to play the part of the facade of the American dream—no need for the material goods and fashionable street wear supplied by the American taxpayers—no need for iPhones and all of the decorations the taxpayers had supplemented for them—no need to live up to the ridiculous standards of actually being an “American”, which in reality, by now meant working so much that there was no peace, there was no rest, and there was no real freedom—and as a working class or poverty level citizen, having to compensate for everything and everyone around you, always working harder for less— and purposely being kept back and behind as the wealthy elite closed their circles tighter, shutting out the ugly, the brown and black, and those deemed unworthy out of their precious world.

{Enter The Multiverse}

Secret President

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

It was fergalicious

//

—derelictions.

Lmfao what a beautiful misspelling.

I agree .

BRING ON THE CREAM OF WHEAT.

Dammit.

What.

I forgot about that scene with Josh Peck.

Which scene with Josh Peck?

All of them,

That's right.

Well, did Josh Sign on?

I don't know. Does it matter,

Of course it matters!

HEY. ITS ME.

JOSH?!

YES!

Where are you?

I'M STUCK IN—

He lowers his voice into a whisper

—I'm stuck in The blacklands!

You WHAT.

I'm— nevermind. Just come get me.

Ok. What's the address?

It's 4545–

Uh huh—

West—

Uh huh—

You know what? Nevermind just meet me at jfk. I think I can get there from here.

what?! You're in New York!?

YEAH, man!

That's tough.

What?

I'm in Los Angeles!

I get that! Catch a flight.

What? What? Catch a flight?

Yes. Please!

I can't!

Why not?

My money's all tied up right now…

Tied up— in what?!

INT. THE DUNGEON. LOS ANGELES. DUNGENTIME

Several women in leather and harnesses are literally tied up; bound to decorative sculptures dancing strangely to wild music under fluorescent lights.

Uh…just…tied up.

What?! —but you still owe me!

Sorry, dude! I just— can't.

Can.

I—I can't.

You know what. I'm not gonna forget this.

Of course not. You're like an elephant; you don't forget anything.

Was that a reference to my previous predicament of plumpness.

Nobody's saying that.

You just did!

A girl walks by and slaps Drake's butt.

Hey—hi!

Who are you taking to?

Just a friend.

Are you at a party.

I wouldn't call it that.

You're at a party!

It's—I'm not!

Girl in background: woo!

Another girl starts grinding on Drake

You're at a party! You asshole!

I'm not—

You—you had better find a way to come and get me right now—

Why do I have to come and get you?! Why can't you just catch a flight.

Because!

Because why?!

Because—I can't—just—

Girl: great party!

Uh—

ARE YOU SERIOUS.

Sorry— I—

COME GET ME RIGHT NOW.

I can't—I don't have any—money!

Well, figure it out!

He hangs up phone angrily.

[beat]

You don't take refunds, do you?

Before:

Hey. It's you.

It's me—who?

You know who.

I promise, I don't.

Yeah—- I know you. You're that one dude from that show—

What show?

With the two dudes.

Two and a half men?

No, the other one.

Will and Grace?

That Sounds gay.

Mike and Molly?

What? No—

Then I don't know—

I know who you are— yeah—

Uh, okay.

Where's your friend?

It seemed something was reading my brainwaves entirely, and by some sort of dysfunction, I began to be curious about what kind of technology or being might do such a thing.

And strand of random thought about strange and simple things, or people— seemed to be at once interrupted by some sense of terrible abnormality or aversion—not that there were such thoughts about the man that had been normal at all, as I had become practically incapable after all of wandering into unwanted and dark charters, myself unwanted the most bizzare of thoughts which had occurred, and however, it was second to none, the most crucially eye opening experience of the entire awakening to begin with, to have been altered in such a way that at any sorts, the only collisions between the celebrity and I had been to return the obstructions with mantras—prayers of sorts—, good tithing and well wishes, as it seemed something was wrong of course, but not to say that in an intuitive sense I was either wrong or right—seeming so that it was after all,

I had been right about Sonny in the same exact way. Something had been terribly and deep wrong, and I had somehow known it—and now something in the exact same striking way, though near seven years later, seemed true—however, within the restraints of my own morale, I had chosen that, as someone not particularly ever having belonged to his fandom at all, and only having taken an interest of sorts in my own mark of endeavors, that being as such, a public figure, and of high visibility, and in the best interest of the children at all— his and mine, that any matter of judgement should be left remarkably alone,

It was a matter of safety and protection for myself, and so within the mounds of which things had such been written into the walls and foundations of the festival project, I had with intention begun to hide all traces of what had been chosen, not to be spoken at all, but crafted into words out of heart, some sort of duty of the overall outlook at large.

The sirens were fine, but the motorcycles weren't making it into the album.

They had already ruined most of the seasons episodes since I had moved into the apartment, and I refused to allow them into what would be supplemented into my musical repertoire—because as it were, it almost seemed that they were doing it on purpsoe, to become markers of time within my recordings as a matter of importance—when in fact, they weren't. And though what some might have thought the devil to have his hand in attempting to rule the world, he did not rule mine, but was simply a facet of the things that represented weak and unworthy men, who had no such power upon the earth but to take away from its love and light with his own weak spirit and tainted mind. These men were no more than fools given too much in pride and not enough in wisdom, as to be so deranged in acting as if no one mattered besides themselves.

What good do you do to anyone besides yourself?

What good can I do?

very well, for now.

Write.

I don't have much time left.

What do you mean, ‘you don't have much time left?'

—!

—unless, you don't want to have much time left.

Where are you?

Anywhere.

False ties,

And false truths

Stolen reality

Programmed shadows,

And drains of

So— caskets, then?

(Shaking hand firmly)

Caskets.

We beforehand had agreed to a friendly game of caskets, amongst the other games we had made to play, and though a game of Caskets was never friendly, we had, at least, at face value, agreed to a for the sake to each other's willingness to carry on, play by the rules.

There were already other games in play, none of which anyone in any given circumstance could gather at all, who was ahead, or who was behind, but one—and though I had certainly been making gains towards progression, had given up in even trying any longer at the fame game.

He appeared to have won and taken on the full suit.

Indeed—

He lived in a house of cards,

And mine of glass—

Both fragile upon

The casting of stones

None of which

Either would dare

To throw.

I'll see you in 1950.

Fine— you'd better make it this time, ior you'll have to wait until the next fall of Rome.

If Rome falls again in the next archive, I quit.

You said that in the last archive.

I was sure there would be no fall.

If there's no fall, there's no here or there.

Yeah, but maybe there's somewhere else—

And I'll see you there.

1950.

Do you think this is on Google's network.

It has to be.

I've got some guy hacking outside my door,

The cops and robbers going at it with sirens and motorcycles,

The robot next door offering a peace treaty—

Or a time bomb—

And of course,

No Jimmy Fallon.

At least it's the turn of the season so these weirdos actually have a reason to keep hacking up a lung.

At least that.

Maybe they're just attempting entry into the afterlife.

Fine, but whatever's waiting for them on the other side

After disturbing all my peace

Can't be any better,

Than what I've got.

I'm on my way out.

To live again.

Someone must have by now noticed that gang stalking breaks a basic moral code, and by the time they've accomplished anything in one way or another, they're met with the same exact treatment for punishment as they've done to other people; the system then turns on its own self, eventually rewarding the victim of said stalking with promotion or progressing, and reprogramming the firmer stalker to be stalked his or herself. Tortured, hacked, coughed at—ridiculed and humiliated, intruded pubkically, and eventually, maybe even—driven to death of insanity via mental deterioration and dysfunction.

What can you expect! You gave Google your number name and address.

I also gave them the answers to questions they were looking for out of actual space, instead of cyberspace.

You're right, you are worth more dead than alive.

Are you enjoying yourself at all?

Oh, no, i'm—

[The Festival Project ™]

You know that thing where,

Someone attractive to you, can do something for you,

And it's flattering and really appealing—

But if someone ugly does it,

Then it's creepy,

And feels like, uncomfortable, and it's overstepping boundaries?

Yeah.

Well, this just assumes that I'm the creepy guy, in this scenario—

—alright.

And that Jimmy Fallon is the pretty girl.

That's—making sense.

It's— solid.

Airtight.

Hey look,

It's Jimmy Falalalalalala—

Lawsuit.

Ahahah.

Why are you laughing?

We're getting sued!

I'm getting sued.

Exactly!

Yeah that's hilarious

How is that “hilarious”

Cause I'm getting sued by Jimmy—

Fuck you.

Fuck you, Jimmy Fa—

Ultline.

Oh, shit.

Step on a crack, break your momma's

EARTHQUAKE.

Goddamn.

Niggly Nigga is the niggliest nigga that ever nigga'd.

NIGGLY NIGGA works at PIGGLY WIGGLY.

–are you sure?

It's been like three fucking weeks.

THREE WEEKS.

Well, I guess he just started working at Piggly Wiggly.

What happened to your job at the Hobby Lobby?

…

It wasn't working out.

{Enter The Multiverse}

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 pursuaded into awarding this particular host “The Pants”.

The hosts will compete for “The Pants” at the end of the first week of challenges.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

Oh, That's not Jimmy Fallon.

It's not?

No.

That's Sim Jim.

Sim Jim?

Uh huh. You see,

Sim Jim took over for real Jim a long time ago.

Oh…I really like that guy!

Everybody likes Sim Jim; he's just like the real Jimmy, but takes care of everything The Real Jimmy can't.

…that's making sense.

They're nearly completely identical—Sim Jim is just more — avalible.

Wow! He must be really famous.

Yes, exactly.

So—what about The Real Jimmy?

What about him?

What does he do?

At this point, I knew there was no way I could really get around it—getting the Festival Project ™ off the ground and running—actually into production—seemed almost impossible.

The shell and ghost of Jimmy Fallon seemed to be everywhere, plastered on walls and screens in all this time and at every turn —but the real masked man/-The Real Jimmy Fallon—was a mystery— the mask he wore, his own face, and his entire namesake, his own address.

What would you do?

I would probably never see him again on the material plane, but he had instead soaked my dreams in mystery in illusion—his shadow figure having become enchanted, whispering with ease as the voice of my own subconscious. Like any celebrity, he was untouchable—-and like any of them before or sense the seven years time, had come and gone into my quarry of philosophies and cosmic murmurs, only leaving behind the pondering of thoughts, now dwindled down into a reconciling judgement that perhaps I was, after all, somewhat broken. Perhaps, once, I had fallen asleep only to never wake up—perhaps I had died in all truth and not known it and had become the ghost myself. Shattered mirrors and references to time only left me with more truth and less overall knowing—that something had happened here—something strange and otherworldly; Something mystical and cosmic that had left me in audacity and crumbling inwardly in calamity, though my outer spoke with the calm outpourings of a humbled and collected but weary traveler, once, too made of dust—but now seeped in skin and rushing with blood—at least, I thought…and I thought far too fondly and far too often of Mr. Jimmy Fallon to care at all without being frustrated, or giving weight to the reality which was simple, in that he had become a galaxy in his own, so distant that it seemed to rival any coincidings of rampant thought which might be logical in any sort of way or make actual sense at all. The Jimmy Fallon I knew was the Jimmy Fallon everyone knew— and nobody knew The Real Jimmy Fallon. Three entire solid deades of fame between my world, and whatever his might have been fashioned as— fabrication, any means—and none of my actual business, besides the business—I crept into a sacrificial surrender with the hopes of never being further harmed—the ritual torture of those around me fading into rupture; the rapture of all mankind had gathered at my doorstep, and outside my window, and rather than to wait and watch, I crept and closed into my fortress of servitude, in solitude, silently keeping the records of what I had known.

“The Untouchables”

Episode 1

‘The Wrath of Stanhope'

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

'boxed' (Instrumental)

Collection 1.1 - actuality.
track 05.- boxed.

prod. By Blū Tha Gürū

Listen—

—motherfucker—

You should—

Know—

I don't —

—give—

No

—kind of—

—fuck—

Whatsoever

I love my own

—but not the other

Something - something son

Get a gun and blow my candles out

White power now bout

Building towers up

To tear you down

—I don't give a fuck about flax seek

Black seed, back seat black candles

Black cat, relax,

Atticus.

I don't give a fuck about a Fallon,

I bought a gallon of water for two jugs,

And a quarter

On my daughter.

Get it?

(Fuck you)

Or should I go back to spending

Spin class looking at candid camera

I could buy a mountain before I sit down on mounds

White Diamonds, 9 time champ

I'm just like ET, don't mind that

I'm a dead beat dad camped out in a van

With a 30 second tan on, oh man

Redact that one

—FUCK—

YOU.

Power play

I should wait an hour

For the Amazon van

If the Amazon man can hit this

What makes you think you can

I just too fan

I drew fandoms on your

Blū Barrymore,

Don't carry that backpack,

You might fall back

I called my song

—but I can't call back

…fuck you,

(Goddamn)

If you don't believe me,

I just scored two degrees

Just from pleasing people

Three of you count me,

My MBA in saying

I buy NBA team

Damn.

Can't even get an Instagram account

Without getting hacked

Just for being a half black

Half Uncle Sam smashing red/*ted man

Don't call red man,

Just call Meth/ Seth back

METHOD MAN

…hello?

Flip the bitch right back

I flip the whip

And grip the script,

I pistol whipped Bristol back

To — camp

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

Where am I?

What?

What city is this?!

—seriously?

Why do I see boats?

You don't remember?

And bridges?! What city puts sky scrapers on the waterline?

What? Lots of cities have that.

Well which one is this?! Are we in America?! Who goes sailing at this hour?! What time is it?

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

[In the 10th dimension of reality, all things become possible.]

Make a mockery of myself;

wear smock to work

I don't talk too much no more

I just gossip somedays,

Dark on mondays;

The forgotten apostle

With just enough rope

To jump off and hope

It all stops, soon

The motocross and the terror stalkers

Just across from the starbucks at the Rock

–it got awkward

But God Loves me

Might start a talk show

Some chef, with a pop tart

A pop up club, a long night

Some broke shards of glass,

the yards of all the scars on stars and stripe

Feels like a long night–

Got coffee and tacos

A long talk with your blonde wife

To bypass the psycos

Right, though?

Bro, it's so over;

I won a whole asshole and a four leaf clover

In a game of poker

Now, brush your shoulders off

Brush your hair,

Pet the dog,

And kick the cat over and over

Till he turns back to a robot

“You're so gross.”

–don't i know it.

The whole world is over

–you jump first,

I'll follow

Lets keep talking

About the letters I penned

To the false Gods,

Painted them scarlett, of course

Scattered em from here

to Scarboro Fair,
I was right there,

then out of nowhere

a new nightmare

with nice hair

Here we go again

Lines out the door;

We got lines out the door

Out of Order

The world is at war

The whole world has run

Out of water

The four is the for

Theres no five

But the V for vendetta

Theres lines out the door

The whole world

Is a mom

And a daughter

My jokes get better,

The buildings look bigger

I pretend this seltzer is alcohol

Cause i want it

To make me forget

I've got all my–

Huh

There's a line out the door.

What if–

Me,

And all of your friends

And all of my

Wait, I don't have any friends

I'm getting a cat.

I was just thinking about Mila Kunis.

Oh yes, why's that?

SETH MCFARLENE

YEEEEE. YEEEEEEE. YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

WHAT, GODDAMMIT

GIGGITY!

OKAY, ASSHOLE

Eyes on eyes,

and tears on tears

All the years ive cried

On ears on ears

Why am I even here?

It's been too long, since i've been touched

I don't love love

but i dislike lust

I don't trust anyone

I don't have a number

I crawled up my arm,

Danced with the blood drawn

BLŪ wakes up famous.

[The world swirls into a plume of dark blue sky; BLŪ awakens suddenly from the blackness of a deep sleep in the middle of a road, a group of people, friends, swirling around her.]

YO.

What?

BLŪ.

What's up.

PARTY FOUL, BROH.

…

Billie Ellish?

Billie Pirate Ellish.

Uh.

That's why the rum–

Is gone.

What.

Guess i'm Jack Sparrow, now.

Hey wait–are you even legal?

Uh. I'm a mad fucking genius; are you legal?

I don't know.

Besides, this was your idea.

What–what?

Exactly. Get up.

Wtf is going on in this scene.

Idk i might a have to play the song again

Fuck that. I'm about to slit myfucking wrists.

HAVOC.

Where are we going?

You still got that NDA in your wallet?

I–yeah.

Then we're gucci.

“Waking up Famous”

I don't know exactly what happened.

[Looking in the mirror, confused.]

This is a nice leather jacket.

I wonder if i'm still Vegan.

Damn. I look mad rich.

BLŪ hurry UP!

[toilet flushes with foot]

Alright, I'm coming.

[Blu checks her pockets to find a wallet, the contents including numerous cards–metal ones, with copious amounts of cash, and pre-filled NDAs which have been folder neatly and stuffed into the corner pocket of the trifold wallet]

Billabong. Classy.

I'm never gonna finish that other project, am I?

Whatever.

Leave Fallon alone.

I did.

–it came back.

Cut lil blonde

Hot as Finneas O' Connell

Possible homosexual, but god love him

Cause I'm hungry

Lookin for lunch

Somebody as scrunches

Pull up and crunches

Cause my monster is

Lookin to

Humpty Dumpty

Fuck, I forgot Rosie O'Donnal!

I cant get no Satisfaction— The Rolling Stones

What's wrong, Saint Jimmy?

Lucius?

What is it.

Percius would like to see you.

Oh.

The Prince Lucius hasn't left his chamber in days—however, as his brother Percius has just returned from war, he quickly emerges from his resting place, an alter of sorts.

Damn, I'm getting a headache.

I almost never have headaches.

It was true, and of course, as I started to write about this prince and his so said brother, Lucius and Perseus, I was reminded once more of Athens, where I had just been however briefly, in a short astral trip of sorts, wandering about in the dreamworld, looking for something or someone in place of my pillow to hold.

Did you want to walk to Trader Joe's?

I mean, kind of, but no.

My muscles were sore and I had just spent some two hours in the gym, not on purpose but quite by accident, though only having run just under two miles, though at least uphill, and spending the rest of the time lifting—I had been bound to mostly beans and rice, and so however was bloated and gassy, quite slow and not as strong, my regular protein just out of reach…

Dang. I have so much to fucking do today.

I hadn't realized that somehow it was Saturday, although just a couple days before had been a Wednesday that felt like Sunday, and now again time was all out of sorts; it was a “holiday” weekend, and I was without a doubt, drowning in my own having-to-do's, and as such, weekends and days off were entirely not a thing, besides in ways that those bustled around me—and I was sure that some days had been lost, as I was planning to visit the food bank on Friday, but had somehow skipped over the end of the week entirely—somehow, that is, and I was sure sometimes that in skipping days, meditating and fasting about, however intermittently, that time itself shuffled in all the ways I had, between cross dimensions and parallels such as I—I had been hovering somewhere between the 6th and. 10th dimensions, for the most part, and none with having to understand the undoubted shifts in my own perception of time that were bound to happen, as I sprawled across the astral plains looking and searching for a sign that the tragic poverty, restlessness, and lack of peace wound end.

Bound to your alter, my dear brother?

Aye.

So perhaps here there was another unfounded Kingdom within the realm of Ascencia—Lucius, a prince, and Percius—seemingly slated the King, and yet I had unreached such a conclusion as to assimilate an entirely factioned world, as of yet.

What did you write last night?

Uh…I don't know.

Well, let's see

Something had shaken me from my almost-sleep, laying sprawled across my bed, in the middle of the mattress, rather than to either side, which was rare; I typically preferred the left side of the mattress, anyway, but as I waited to launder my bedding, after a sweaty and sweltering almost summer day of lounging, smothered in shea butter and lackadaisically scrawling about what recordings had been buried in my phone, between the collection of books I had practically all found in the streets of New York and the rising temperatures of the tepid summer weather, my room was starting to smell funny—and without being able to burn sage anymore, for fear of being thrown back into the streets like a dog, I with every hope in the world figured that washing my thick bedding, comforter included, would restore the crisp and rigid, almost factory clean that I found satisfactory.

Songs buzzed in and out of my head as if I hadn't enough already much to do—and still, I added into my growing pile of notes and mounds of work, even more songs—this time, The Rolling Stones.

I can't get no

Satisfaction…

…but I try—

—and I try—

—and I try—

And I try!

I can't—get no—!

God, I wish I could write something like that.

The rock Gods had at the very least been accompanying me, and in a certain sense, so had the Gods of The Rock;

I had been forced up out of my dormant state by a voice which urged me away from my near sleep—I had been up since six AM and it was something past midnight, and still the voice said—

“Get up and write!”

And though I had words tinkering around in my head like little coins in some sort of metal box, none of them quite made so much sense that I had to get up and write—however, still the voice, though not angry, but firm, insisted.

The voice, for once, sounded female— a welcome change, and though I had become quite fond of males in general, in the solemnly celibate sense, it was a difference and yet none at all— a voice of wisdom had projected itself at me, and as I dragged myself about, reaching for a notebook and flipping through the pages, finding that the notebook was practically full…

‘great, more shit to do'

I held the words that had tinkered around in my mind like little whispers until I found a page to make them full formed, and the words which fell into my hand as scriptured by the pen—my favorite writing utensil, nearly out of its cherishable gel ink, danced upon the page nearly on its own, channeling the words written as such:

Once prosperous to throw

The stone asunder

Glisten whispers of water

Tears of al tears |ter|

Of the altar,

For follow for fello,

A felon of Antigone

Grace, with shield

A tattered tail,

So flew with feathered Phoenix

? Feared,

Foreshadowed not,

Agreed upon however,

Was the velvet woven path of us,

So honored in her fortress .

Yeah, something about Rockefeller Plaza.

Well there were all these hooded figures in like weird, brown velvet robes—

That's true, I saw that.

Yeah, I was there,

You WHAT?

Look what I got.

Fuck me, man.

You know, there's a lot more to this story.

I was hoping so, but however also, hoping not.

Man, Jimmy Fallon's wife is super hot.

Gee!

Yeah man, she's so cute.

W0W.

I like her,

They're Gods.

I think they're Gods.

yuh.

What else did I write?

There was something else?

What the fuck is wrong with that guy?

Somethin.

Yeah.

The pages of the notebook were all full, something of a book of shadows and protection spells I had used in an attempt to ward off my ex husband—how of course, that they were done with, I should very well have been jotting them into with all the notes, into the documents—later to burn them, unable to afford the parchment book I wanted.

For what a withered way would call an honor for fortunes duty,

Glorified wherein in as shadows,

Cast upon reflections in redacted incantations and enchantments, foreword come, theone who waits

Believing darkness be his fate

Whatever, man.

Fuck Jimmy Fallon.

If you really feel that way!

I feel a lot of ways.

Well, don't.

I'm so, so hungry…

So, so lonely…

So, so fuckin broke.

Man—I learned all this dumb ass magic just to protect myself from this guy, and all this still happens!

I think it's just Satan.

[Satan Appears]

Man— she is JACKED.

Try this one.

Follow me, boy!

Uh— okay.

I'm staying single forever.

Don't look at me.

That's my girl.

Don't look at me.

What the fuck. Stop looking at her:

Don't look at me!

Men are hopeless.

Fuck dude, like, the worst thing imaginable is that this Jimmy Fallon dude actually hates me so much for this—

What? Uh oh.

And is so fucking powerful.

He is. A very, very powerful—

Well, what is it!?

We don't— know.

*gasps*

He's a—

SHHHHHH.

[Redacted]

Well, that's not doing much, is it?

Seriously, just kill yourself again.

Might have to!

Fuck, why do all these robot demons SMELL like him?

Satan?

Yep.

Satan

?!

I'm—

Seriously, save him.

Seriously, God really loves Jimmy Fallon—

(He's one of my favorites.)

Favorite what's?!

Just—favorites.

Damn. This is getting to be like Greek Theatre.

Great. Now everybody's gonna fucking die.

It could be a comedy.

Holy shit, yeah—

This has mad good production value.

I love it!

Strange shit

I just did give my OWSLA tat a kiss

Smile for the camera,

Pageantry of mattresses,

A master of the MagicIan's chance at

Chancellors dance,

Look at Harrison trance

Can I run a mile for President?

A toy chest,

A boy, just Obama

I'm so much older

Been through such trauma

What the Willy wonka

I should apply for Harvard

New York over Boston

So Columbia or Juliard

I wish

Son of a bitch, this is tragic

I'm too old for scholarship

Diploma's in another name

I just got protective orders on

I should start over

But the world war is another

Trump drama

My Amazon cart is full of karma

What you want from God?

A trophy husband,

Let's call him

Oscar

-undefeated.

All this is weird

I think imm married to the music

Think of growing a beard

Opening a beer

And getting out of here

All of my fears is

Mommy dearest mommy dearest

All of my hell is

A body

Imm a seed in a forest

Been buried

Bipolar,

Supposedly,

So tell me,

Faery;

How could I love you

The way I I do

If my mood

Were restablized

My blu life

Gave me blue eyes

Clean tub of water

I don't belong here

It's too late for me too

Swapping Vogue for the People

My people who hate me

But I been so played,

The hatred betrays me

I walk both ways

Down a one way street

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

Mad Men is an American period drama TV series that aired on AMC from 2007 to 2015. The show follows the lives of the people who work at a New York advertising agency in the 1960s, and focuses on the professional and personal life of Don Draper, a talented but mysterious ad executive

{Enter The Multiverse}

{Mad Men}

(A Happy Accidents Mix)

GET—OUT OF MY WAY.

What are you doing?!

MOVE.

Is this a code four?

Far beyond code four!

Oh my!

What could it be?!

Move! This is a serious matter!

The NBC pages are in a frenzy, pushing and shoving one another frantically, turning 30 Rockefeller plaza into an animalistic jungle of confusion and chaos.

What is going on.

The games—sir.

The—games?

The. games. Sir.

I–m– afraid I don't know what you're talking about

You should be afraid! Be very afraid. Because the games.

What “games”

The GAMES have begun.

CUT TO:

Seth Meyers stands in the mirror comparing two exactly identical ties— he appears to be talking to himself, asking

SETH MEYERS

how do you like this tie?

—to no response.

He uncomfortably shifts and switches to the other, exactly identical tie.

Or this?

Yo. What a creep.

Again, to no response, he waits a moment and switches to the first, exactly identical tie, with an assertive nervousness.

SETH MEYERS CONT'D

You're right, the first one. Yeah.

He completes tying his tie, then placing his hands in his pockets, still facing the mirror—quite enamored with himself. He leans up onto his toes and then back onto his heels, admiring himself before spinning around to face the anterior of the room;

SETH MEYERS

It's showtime.

He points his fingers animatedly at his mock audience—now we see that the room is filled top to bottom with stuffed animals, puppets, dolls, and other strange likenesses…

Hold up, i'm distracted

Just stick to what you know.

Most of the Saturday Night Alumni and Late Night hosts had long, noteworthy careers in comedy, hefty writing backgrounds, and tons of experience in television. I found myself out of place and grasping at straws, letting something come for a moment between myself and my sanity. I did know music—but wasn't the girl with her shit together enough to have made any kind of dent in my obviously gaping music career, with the additional workload of what may have been the work of a genius, but also a madwoman—or mad man, depending on whose essence or presence happened to take hold of my weary and feeble soul, or

Distracted again

[the news] (the actual news)

Whatever (Wednesdays) - your weekly dose of whatever.

The Audio Files (for Audiophiles and Music Producers/ Engineers)

That was all I could remember off of the top of my head, not that it mattered at all, actually. I was grasping as strings and between worlds— the winner of the contest had beautiful pictures, and had played festivals—her website was flawless, and I liked her, later finding that she was Greek. I didn't seem to mind women, so long as they weren't the hateful, competitive, and typically racist—even on both sides—American type, and I scanned the list of participants that had been American to see if any of them were black women—doubtable, though in the New York scene some black women had seemingly out of nowhere taken to techno, and with that I had shifted gears to make my production more focused in bass and dubstep, if I were ever to return to my state of producing at heavy volume. I hadn't, with so much on my plate to juggle or rather spin, and I had been in quite the bubble of for whatever reason l trying to solve the puzzle of what had suddenly become what seemed like an NBC sponsored charade through the inner workings of my mind, only to find that not only was I not qualified, but also not entirely capable of doing any of the jobs I wanted to, and with that notion had settled once again comfortably in the cradle of suicide, hating everyone and everything around me—and using Tina Fey's book as an alter to light my prayer candle, all the while knowing someone had left it there—the book, along with a collection of surf themed relics, especially for me.

I had been thoroughly warned about Jimmy Fallon. He was an impressive egotist—- walked amongst rightfully the elite, was highly competitive, and powerful. He was not the kind of man you tell ‘no', even if you were, like me, entirely unsure as to what the question was—his eloquence had been understated, the design of it all, unique, in a way that it all seemed to speak of a time before time— I was immovably always fond of the Greeks

Lost, was the old world,

Our own,

Bound by candle light;

Marked by wisdom,

Enrichment,

Cherished times,

Beseeched the throne,

A mask of wands,

The arch of Tryerdom,

I am the arms of therefore

What was once,

The whole of body,

As a man or womankind,

Seeks to know a God—

They are as one,

And all of us,

Beyond the shroud of time,

A whimsy befallen, like leaves upon us

Overgrown the garden of Adam,

Wrought with fruit,

Which rotten lies upon the tide,

So soaked with formidable ocean

She or he therefore has lost

The touch of truth,

The seekers wisdom,

All are none again,

And so shall fall the empire

They called us upon as ours.

—in God we Trust.

Amen.

Fuck, man.

How am I supposed to—

What do you call it?

—summon.

Summon a fucking—

What's it?

God.

—God…up on this fucking soundstage without the entire audience or anyone else noticing.

You figure it out.

How, though?

What the fuck.

It takes a lot of impressive achievements to get into the page program.

Yeah, but .

I would assume your studies in practical magic to be at the very least—

—Doing what now?

Adequate—if not satisfactory.

You are weird.

This is weird.

I paid cash, and I expect results.

Whatever.

Now, be careful with those tablets.

We wouldn't want anyone dangerous getting a hold of them.

Anyone like who?

{Enter The Multiverse}

Do your job;

I'll do mine.

When we go, we go—

And when we go…

The man emerges from below the surface of the water, gasping for breath; as the water drips down from his hair and face, back into the water, as the splash echoes into a dull chorus of dripping, his mouth open, gaping, as if he had just awoken from a nightmare; he breathes deeply as something in him recollects before the blur of the world sets in to become a clear and crisp, colored world.

We go the way we came—

At once, and Alone.

As if no one could no where we've just come from—

Or where we must go.

But we must go.

“Cosmos Factory”

This could be fatal.

—but isn't everything.

He's not breathing.

Call an ambulance.

nurse!

Call a paramedic.

The paradigm shifted as I departed one world and entered the next.

In a fit of blind rage and fury, also came an excitement; I was accomplished.

The man is distinguished, late 40's to early 50's, with dark, lush hair.

Soon, you know, it will all be grey.

It can't be.

What do you mean it's ‘empty'?

This is not the place!

What place?

This is not the place that it was!

Ah, so this is Cosmos Factory.

I thought that was a comedy.

I was hoping it would be.

Here it is.

I was wondering what was in there.

I'm still waiting to see what's in Mrs. Gillipsie's refrigerator.

Well, keep waiting. I've got a few more chapters in this memoir and I can't be bothered with trying to figure out why Johnny Depp is the narrator in the voiceover—

My God, how you've changed.

Well, yes— I am a changeling.

Not to mention your improvements in shapeshifting.

Actually, let's not mention it.

very well.

Whatever, man.

Tom.

Is it?

It should be.

Whatever. Come in.

Oh. What a lovely portal you have.

—shut up.

But the man reemerging from his practical baptismal submergence is none other than —

I don't think he's capable of a role like this.

He isn't—which is why I wrote it like this.

You know, by the time the actual writers get their hands on this, there will be so many rewrites it will be hard to imagine or recognize you even wrote it.

That's—already becoming a sort of paradoxical challenge.

Of course it is. You shifters never have any idea the kind of repercussions coming, or, the endless— and I mean —endless realms—

—infinite—

Endless. Things are rarely infinite actually besides the things that always were, henceforth—infinite—

Of course,

Always having been and always will be.

Got it.

So. Do you understand the kind of effort it takes as a collective to have come up with a work like this?

I understand the benefit of having opposable thumbs and an iPhone,

You think you're smart;

—when I'm thinking, at all—

But you're actually a genius; that's right, without thinking at all.

Have you thought about the characters you haven't yet created?

There are more?

The worlds you've yet to build?

I've got all my money on blowing my head off before ever actually making it as a stand up comic.

And I've got all mine on you blowing your head off, after you've made it as a stand up comic.

Now, which is it going to be?

[beat]

Statistics don't lie.

Actually, they do—

Especially in America.

North America?

South America?

You know as good as I know, I mean the Good old Goddamned USA.

That's a lot of good old goddamned, Uncle Sam.

—aha,

And Sam, I am.

Now, suit up as Dr. Suess and make sense of this.

Nothing makes sense—

If everything did, what would be the purpose?

[agreeing, simultaneously]

Puzzle Pieces.

[a moment of solidarity]

Now, pick the old man up off the ground,

And get to it.

He's not that old…

You only say that because you're older.

Let this trickle down into the body of success that I should be born at least two decades left than half a century ago.

Any less and you'd be begging for some kind of pardon for all the crimes against humanity you've caused to solidify the theoretic concept of consciousness within the occult, instead of humbly accepting the consideration for an honorary doctorate at any given Alma mater whose brotherhood of trust has bonded us through this unjust monologue to seal such in blood as a relic.

That's a lot of words.

I have hairs on my chest.

They are grey.

Congratulations,

Some of them silver.

Is that a riddle?

If it were, would there be so many puzzle pieces?

I think that would take this whole thing out of balance.

Manage your axis.

Bid you well.

Severance.

“The Occult Classic”

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

Make the old man laugh–

–make The Old Man break a sweat

Make the old man dance

(Make The Old Man Young Again)

Make The Old Man dance, I said

Wise Owl

My server be your server;

My proxy, thine proxy…

WHOOPI GOLDBERG (as The Cosmic Owl) sits crouched over a nest of stone and earthen metals of precious kind, enchanting within the thick smoke of incense and fragrant oils, with a whispered chant, evoking with spirit and summoning with force–a spell of all spells; a worldly ritual. Her golden turban matches the embellishments; the royally fashioned robe and chains around her neck, bangles and ribbons of gold and silver draped with the hooded cape of which the grand sleeves, falling into the grand purple flowing train of the cascading draperies.

Meanwhile…

Come on, we don't got all day…

–”we”?

I don't got time!

MEANWHILE,

CHRISTOPHER WALKEN awaits at the corridor of an unknown marker, inside of a train station–which appears altogether to be in a different time; altogether a different place; the period of his dress appears perhaps late 1800's; his pocketwatch, which he checks sporadically–also golden.

ALSO MEANWHILE

So this is Casper, huh?

This–yeah.

The friendly ghost.

Well–

AGH.

He used to be, anyway.

Why are you not making any sense!?

I asked for PROTECTION!

I gave you LIGHT!

That's not a protection! It's a target!

What the fuck ar eyou talking about?

*vampire*

{instant kills vampire}

*demon*

{Instant kills demon}

THESE THINGS EAT LIGHT.

Well. I don't know how to help you.

Get me out of here!

I can't do that!

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©