LEGAL NOTICE / ARTIST STATEMENT Project: The Festival Project ™ (Season 12) Genre: Speculative Auto-Ethnography / Social Surrealism
Disclaimer: This document is a work of creative non-fiction and political satire. While inspired by the author's lived experiences with systemic oppression, housing displacement, and surveillance, the narrative employs stylized fragmentation, stream-of-consciousness, and metaphor to dramatize the psychological impact of these events.
The "characters" and "dialogue" herein are artistic devices used to critique historical and modern power structures. This text should be viewed as a performative artistic expression protected under the First Amendment, and not as a literal transcript of clinical psychosis or a formal sworn affidavit.
This is a character study of 'Chroma111,' the collective artworks of a musician living in a dystopian surveillance state.
The erratic language is a stylistic choice to represent the character's psychological deterioration under systemic oppression.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The Frame: The protagonist is subjected to "noise harassment"—a tactic dramatized here but rooted in the known reality of tenant displacement and "psychological attrition." The narrative depicts a process of "Soul Murder" ( also known as spiritual warfare or sociopolitical targeting) orchestrated by a hostile apparatus.
The antagonist is "The Institution," representing deep-state mechanisms that view multicultural intellectualism as a threat.
The story allegorically dramatizes the invisible mechanisms that enforce racial hierarchy, depicting how broken social systems weaponize psychological practices against the individual.
This is a living document. In the event of the artist's silence or unnatural death, this text serves as an artistic testament to the psychological siege endured from to 2023-2025. It is a creative record of survival against a hostile state architecture.
The following is a creative non-fiction horror manifesto regarding the psychological assassination of a multicultural American artist. It documents—through the lens of Afro-Surrealism—how modern surveillance technology and sonic harassment are experienced by a targeted individual.
As it stands, It has become a modern sequel which adequately and astonishingly mirrors the civil rights struggles of the 1960s, set in the present day.
"The protagonist is being subjected to 'noise harassment'—a known tactic used by landlords and corrupt entities to displace tenants for financial and political gain.
The sound is weaponized to induce sleep deprivation and psychological attrition, dismantling of their ego and will to live, orchestrated by a hostile state apparatus.
The story dramatizes over time the invisible mechanisms (the 'Deep State') that enforce racial hierarchy and and psychological genocide, weaponizing broken social systems and unfounded psychological practices as biological weapons.
This is a living document.
In the event of the artist's silence or unnatural death, this text serves as evidence of the psychological siege endured from 2023-2025. It is a transcript of survival against a hostile state architecture.
This project spans an unlimited multiprojectoral arc of over two years of chronic tactical violence, reaching into historical and theatrical projections and parallels over the all documented records of human existence through time and space.
I am pinstripes on wide ties;
Pinterest, pintrest, pinholes
(And indulgences, patronages)
Eclipses and rip titles, Paris Tiptons,
What are you doing, motherfucker?!
To say the least, I'm a bit unconventional.
And forefathers before us
Well dressed hampers on leather and fortunes
And doing and donuts and do this and don't-touches
Mumbles of soft till and lunches and subtle distraction
He's better at the body code
No longer for your number
No longer for your hard times
No longer for your warrants
Don't pan to the audience
So wait, am I also telepathic?
Oh my! Is it like a two-way broadcast type— thing?
I told you not to go looking into my thoughts.
Check it all out, I undug libraries
You're all alone at Walmart
No longer working part time,
The doors are closed and locked now,
They're bound to stage a lock out
You're better off on hard times
It's just a cake walk to apartheid,
Cheers to the world's longest monologues.
Kudos to your picking up cabbage
Remember the back for the wartimes
The bagpipes have sounded;
You're back to astonish us.
No! I must have you a lesson;
I'm back with my old will and testament
No more Old Testament wanted
I bought your sticks in Leviticus
CUT TO: WILD PARTY. INT.EXT./WHENEVER
I raised the dead from a half pipe
I shoot the crowd out in foreign
I can't remember my own Sam
Now remember a rock star.
Now that you're so stolen,
Go back! You're unorthodox!
Clear cut: you're a tragic
Now I'm back with a bag of tricks with my back out
INT./EXT. YO I'M SAYING A WIIIILD PARTY. WHENEVER
…And it's all house music all night.
[The Festival Project ™ ]
Now articulate your face muscles.
I had this at a festival once.
All with a side of oxygen.
(A tunnel, a scone and a croissant)
Now you're worse, warthog, immortal
Now I'm out in the canyon
And a straight out of the badlands
Yes, I did mention this to my cousin Evan,
So you heard everything I thought?
What is it like to have love man?
How's that fountain coming along?
…yeah it's water. It's a fountain.
I just realized I never ever bought mine;
I always had a tough guy.
Ten minutes in and I realize I've already heard this.
Golden band of art, love and protection
I got a 311 from Questlove!!
Since when are we on a first name basis?
It would be weird to call you “ICE CUBE”
[the beeper goes off three more times]
Nothin! Where the yard at?!
sometimes it doesn't really matter
Who the dialogue comes out of
Is to put the art back into art projects
Cause we all know it's been constructed
To the point of destruction
For independent artists at all.
It was all just a long lost passion project
A collective God Complex.
Cause somebody lost Will.
Come Christmas time at the Plaza
Put your patchwork in a hard drive
But they do take dear DRATCH and run with it!
I go run along to Corrections,
And ginger snaps for crosswords
So fax the whole document!
I want off this planet so bad
I cross cross my fingers at crosswalks
Don't look either way before I walk.
So pull a shotgun at all that
I was one strong donkey before I got one address. Now I just redress the cause
All I want is my bundle back.
Yeah, yours, but she's a danger to humanity.
Yeah, mine but I'm an honest hybrid horrid hunter.
I just got it at Sephora.
Like I never even got that.
I want to be loved just to be looked at
But since in this life I can't turn the clock back
I've discovered it's hell that my body was born as.
— I discovered it's hell that my body was born as.
Such a problem when you know
That even the great Rosie O'Donnell once wanted blue eyes.
Now I forget where I trailed off…
Crypto, I tip toe now over eggshells
No I don't fall for that'd
But where's the snowfall over all the rot out back?
And the well swells whole
And the umpire does rack them
Run for your forks and your knives
And your daughters and mothers and father
And cufflinks and loafers,
THE IMPENATRABLE TEN is INEVITABLY DISBANDED.
Inevitably! but not indefinitely.
You are sending mixed messages.
Imm not sending any messages…
Of course. Electromagnetic signaling
I told you this had gone strange.
Severely. Now how do I explain from this time how to get back to our time If there's no direct translation between our language and that one?
Maybe you can't explain it.
So I suggest the use of highly trained telepaths.
These things are possibly connected even in this time, theoretically using our past; I might suggest Telesynthesis— considering these planetary electromagnetics to which this entire planet is hardwired.
I get it. You're a whistleblower.
A shadow government official.
Why else would you run for office?
I'm trying to get shot at.
They told me you were funny.
But they didn't say anything about my gauntlet?
You know. My conquests—professional accomplishments?
Your God complex? I know all about that.
Perhaps it's not a complex.
You're a journalist aren't you? I'm giving you some high art concepts.
(Because for the sake of the rhyme,
And please, for God's sakes, Gemini,
Without the use of tables. )
I would think it psychosomatic, but in less than 24 hours of restarting my vitamin regimen, my mood was so improved that I could not for a second overlook that without taking vitamins, I was missing something. Even if my newly concocted super-juice recipes were putting a curb in my abdominal muscles that even I was sure didn't entirely belong there, pairing this development with the Peloton, it was a long and diagonal, out-of-sorts thing that stuck out as if it was on somebody else's body and not mine. Still, I had to deal with the heavy weight of the drooping skin and belly that hung as if it very much did belong to me but wasn't budging, despite my attempts at a flat stomach and having been so well overstretched at one point by medical obesity and double occupancy that it was, at the very least to say, insurgically impossible. However, my brain went on having ways of wrapping my mind around this—that the rest of my body was quite slim, and even on some days seeming petite, were it not for my massive thighs, which also seemed to have sported a curve to them which was almost attractive, especially well-dressed.
But the fun of it was, I wasn't exceptionally well-dressed, because I hadn't wanted to be. In fact, I was under obligation always to be about in the men's clothes I'd found because they were designer, and it was even something like a fashion statement that I dressed this grotesquely and in overlarge articles because of the astounding amount of weight I'd lost and the strange way my body seemed to be taking an athletic shape. Still, there was this factor that I was actually always somehow in an excruciating amount of pain, especially waking up, and though some of that I would have applied to being psychosomatic—in just that it was the pure stress of the disembodied torture I was undergoing in one way or another—whether anybody would have admitted it or not, or whether or not the unknown parties in question were going to be justified for it, I still hadn't an idea or thought as to what my unstructured purpose was.
And though I sat beautifully controlled into doing music as a default, I was looking at the numbers, and the massive amount of people doing remarkably well because they could afford to do so, or were lucky, or were unbearably beautiful and so could do anything they wanted, and I too much so was not that. In fact, it was almost by design my failure and my constant struggle that even the universe seemed to look down upon me in such a way that it pitied me in a harrowing attempt at karmic justice done for the seeming evil and harsh things being done. It was true that someone had set out to torture me, and this might have once been the way of the illuminated artist and tortured soul; however, having taken so metaphorically into my own boat such heavy water of grief and loss, and drowning, I was sinking into the natural ocean of monstrous storms my body was saying in so many ways it could do no more.
My mind was strong—and I could take the torture for innumerable amounts of time without becoming so much more frustrated than to just stop, or start heavy breathing, or even compulsively masturbate until one world faded deeply into another and I just didn't care. But realistically, the things that were being done pointed at a strategic and tactical, military-trained psychological governing of my own autonomy. And because I knew this, I also knew whoever was responsible was more than capable of covering their tracks to the point of disappearance—an inescapable hell of unseen trauma. The basis of it was that if I raised my concerns with any law enforcement or police, I was just as often ignored, ridiculed, or worse—thought of as symptomatic of some psychological condition I well knew and understood I did not have, all because what I did seem to possess—this undying force of color and creative ingenuity that could not quite be captured or marketed to improve the bankbook of others with a sudden onset—was unacceptable in such a way that I could become some sort of object that was in no way useful besides to experiment and then observe what I might become next, all the while knowing I would not and could not stay in one form or another too long without becoming such an obvious target.
—Death of a Superstar DJ.
Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025
The Festival Project, Inc. ™
Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025.
[The Festival Project, Inc. ™]
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