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Garden Planet 1st 3 Chapters-Spacerex

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#spacerex Garden Planet

Garden Planet 1#spacerex LoftBall, Garden Planet

The entire basement is filled with a syrupy protoplasm that slurs against the joists of the first floor and makes a vague sucking sound when the building changes direction. Bubbles of cinnamon-scented gas rise up from the deep and break the surface. Blop, glug, slurp. It’s like living on a floating dock. The entire building, with an ice cream scoop of downtown Los Angeles street beneath it (encompassing the 4 story parking structure), is encased in an egg-shaped plasma bubble. Shimmering in the light of of our terrestrial star, our SafeDome 6 security system, whose robotic protocol, “secure those within,” coupled and compounded by my mother’s, amazing intellect and instinctive protectiveness, maintains air and gravity within. On the outside, in the vacuum of space, our egg-shaped home has enough of a gravitational pull to carry along various satellites, effluence-sicles and frozen corpses, that have accumulated or which have, through unfortunate miscalculations, been sucked from our sanctum into the vacuum of space–grisly reminders to keep our hands and feet inside the bubble.

We have been broadcasting a distress signal for several months and only recently were answered by what we took to be fellow survivors of the apocalypse. That they turn out to be members of our grandparents’ generation, living in the past and utterly ignorant of the cataclysm that awaits them, explains the sometimes-pedantic tone I will adopt for those unfamiliar with the past hundred years–or the future hundred years, depending on your perspective. It’s a long story and I will warn you in advance that you will not find out any time soon how I ended up in space orbiting a dead earth.

These days, in the hive mind, with the personal memories, and, indeed, the very people who remember them alive in the sentient protoplasm beneath my feet and the public, police, news and covert ops recondroid footage, complete with GPS and timestamps, readily accessible in the mass of living goop, I can replay the past twenty years in living color, sound and smell from as many noosgnats, droids, and surveillance cams as were rolling at any time, as well as the imperfect recollections of humans and animals that were involved–which are always the best. With the human propensity for capturing things they might otherwise just sit and enjoy and the corporate and government paranoia of terrorists and spies, there is a LOT to go through, and it’s mostly dreck.

The story of the planet’s biology as a whole is even more important than the history of it’s penultimate surviving species– which, for you dummies, means “the second-to-last species to survive.” Also housed in the murky depths of my parking garage are the memories and the genetic blueprints of what was left of our ecosystem since we started melting everything down to ship it to PBR12. I haven’t done an exhaustive inventory, but I believe that there might be enough diverse terrestrial plants, bacteria, fungus, arthropods, small animals and crustaceans to recreate a viable system, if we find a way to get to the edge of the solar system and through the wormhole to PBR12. That is the long-term goal. If I could get Mom to stop sulking and make some calculations, we might get this red brick and dirt-based starship pointed in the right direction.

#spacerex Garden Planet

THE WORLD THAT WAS AND WILL BE 2

Call me Rex. When I was just a boy my mother, who was short on money and depressed at the prospect of living through another recession, sold her body to Fat Baby Food LTD’s genetic research division. With the money from my mother’s retirement, I was able to study genetic engineering at her alma mater in the hope that I might one day find a way to get my mother back from Fat Baby Food LTD. I took a job in a lab, as my father, Ullyses Flynder, and my mother, Kali Flynder, had done before me, and became one small cog in an immense machine whose alleged goal it was curb the growth of various poorly engineered hybrids struck from extra-terrestrial dna–which, among other things, turned people into stupid biting disease vectors we called ghouls. A ghoul, like the fictional zombie, fully embodies the misery loves company attitude, seeking single-mindedly to spread it’s infection to the uninfected. But, unlike the fictional zombie, a ghoul has a chance of getting cured. But we will get back to that.

There were two main rivals, Fat Baby Food LTD® (FBF), in America, and Gongsi Bang Ji® (GBJ) in China. Their name translates from chinese to “Smart/excellent Flesh Corporation.” There was also a host of international players like Utter Whiteball®, a conglomerate of smaller british and australian corporations, Sheeghrata Lagligt®, an indian and swedish conglomerate, Kuanguo Yumi Lu® (KYL Corp), whose name means “Multinational Corn Syrup Company” in chinese– though their enterprises span food, space exploration, weapons of mass destruction and retirement facilities, YouXian Gongsi American Dan®(YGAD), another semi-feudal chinese vertical monopoly, Spooner Botco®, the multinational hardware giant, and countless smaller specialty vendors who were forever negotiating the fragile détente between the rest of them. I worked at one of these smaller companies in the United States, which was comprised of what was left of NASA after the privatization of space exploration. It was called Bellefore®, after the USS Belleforest, the ill-fated, yet-glorious last NASA mission through the wormhole.

Because they shared the charade of a noble goal, feeding, clothing and curing the survivors of the various natural and man made disasters of the past and present, a certain level of cooperation existed between the Corporations. If you looked behind this cooperation you’d see the unfinished plywood and steel jacks of a stage set, but appearances are, as they say, something. We used to jokingly call it co-opt-eration.

The earliest forays into genetic engineering and epidemiology, in the wake of the second world war, ran quickly into the hard fact that one cannot separate the knowledge gained in the study
of cures from the knowledge of it’s opposite number. One need only tweak the intention to take what is achieved toward one and use it for the other. You could even argue that the first dickhead to think of catapulting a plague infected corpse over a stone escarpment or selling TB-infected blankets to American Indians laid the foundations. Good scientists have been baited and switched since the before the advent of the lab coat by evil plutocrats who would bring such wonders into the world as plague-infected rodent fleas dropped from airplanes over china in the 1940s, anthrax bombs, antibiotic resistant smallpox designed for aerosolized delivery during the cold war, and, our own proud contribution, Aicorn®, a ghoul-vector self-sowing, roundup-ready invasive corn plant. Why settle for killing them when you can turn them into feed?

The profit motive for finding cures, and their opposite number, were well beyond the dreams of Avarice and corporate espionage, sabotage, hostile takeover bids, and murder were as plentiful as the food was scarce. God help you if you weren’t an employee of one of the big multinationals, if you were one of what the americans used to call “The Ninety Nine Point Nine Percent,” and lived outside the bubble where the constantly mutating invasive protoplasms (we were allegedly trying wipe out) were still gnawing away at the planet’s biosphere. The problem with the alien dna that we used so liberally in our constantly evolving bio-tech was that it tended to sequester oxygen–which means “oxygen went in and didn’t come out.”

I’ve never liked those rollicking, family dramas, usually written by Mexican or Colombian novelists that start with “to understand my story I will have to tell you about my grandfather…” but in this case, as the light reaching your retinas is ancient history, and, while I may be omniscient and time may have no meaning to me anymore, I must conform to your idea of chronological history, if only, ultimately, to defenestrate it–which means “throw it out the window.” So I will start at the beginning.  Lucky for you, I’ll go back just one generation. There will be no steamer ships laden with family furniture from the old world or horse drawn prams or spanish moss-draped mansions at the edge of the woods, but magic realism does come into it. Though it’s mostly scientific.

#spacerex Garden Planet

ULLY ON EARTH 3

Little Dick, that was me, (I’ll get back to why I changed my name later) was way more trouble than my father had ever bargained for. I was an undernourished and colicky baby. Suddenly, and for what seemed like the longest year of his life, he was thrown into a life of shit, interrupted sleep cycles, food lines, and my heartrending, incessant, throat clacking cries. And motherhood had turned his wife toxic. Human milk, pinnacle of planet earth’s food cycle and the product of all hers and half of his food ration, was both nutrient and toxin-rich. It was the allergies I had to the toxins in the rations she ate that set me screaming, and, ironically, the only thing that would shut me up again. Clean baby formula was far beyond their means and her nipples became a painful and constant reminder of everything she hated about her current predicament.

As if the hooded figure of Death, stooped over his infant’s crib, skeletal hands poised, empty sockets burning hungrily, weren’t enough, in the tiny bed beside him, in their stack-able student housing container, my mother, a sleepy arm’s movement away, kept her lactation-grade breasts strictly off-limits. The brief respites between my screaming and feeding were fraught with sexual frustration and resentment. Toxic. Her breast milk was the least of it. She blamed my father for everything.

But then hope returned, briefly, when an opportunity arrived for both of them to save the world and launch their careers aboard the most incredible ship ever built.

star child, spacerex transmission
early transmission, Spacerex.com

Rats returning from distant galaxies, inexplicably smarter than they were when they left, with pictures and biological samples of alien life forms that both of them were uniquely suited to study?

A conference that required their combined expertise?

A chance to work with the legendary Frederick Tilton?

Their ship had literally come in.

The playback from the wormhole mission stunned the world. A planetary system with PBR12, (I think the publicist was in the toilet when they named it) that had, as it’s sole inhabitants, huge primitive organisms that hoarded, within their fruiting bodies and mycelium, enough oxygen, nitrogen and other trace elements to create an earth-like atmosphere around the otherwise inhospitable planet. A panel of earth’s greatest scientists, including Kali and Ulysses Flynder, my parents, was convened to study these fascinating organisms and devise a safe, efficient and cost- effective way to kill them.

The USS Belleforest, a genetic research lab and terraforming vessel was prepared and launched before the scientists had figured out exactly how to free the life-sustaining elements within the PBR12 organism into the atmosphere and create a rich topsoil for the new Earth out of their rotting biomass. Time was of the essence. The team was divided between the earthside and the Belleforest and each team of scientists would maintain constant contact while the Belleforest lumbered toward the edge of the solar system. The most sophisticated equipment on earth was built into the ship, but the plan to terraform PBR12 required resources well beyond the onboard lab. They would have three years to collaborate before the Belleforest nosed into the far side of the universe and lost contact for another twelve and a half years.

My mother, whose intellect may well have surpassed that of my father, was asked to stay behind and figure out how to grow the primitive alien organisms on terrestrial mediums so that the terraforming invasives could be tested on an endless supply of living alien tissue. She was very good at it, and quickly became indispensable. No one said it out loud, but she was also likely chosen to stay behind because she had a small child who was too sickly to suffer the rigors of a three year space flight. My father, who had become increasingly distant from his wife, despite improved rations and lodging, was glad to be tapped as lead biotechnician aboard the outbound Belleforest. He was simultaneously supporting us, leaving her and saving the world. It was the end of my nuclear family and the last I’d see of my father. The mission to PBR12 was to be a disaster.

Garden Planet and spacerex are copyrighted by Bryan Root.

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Pardon Our Appearance

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We are hunted night and day by agents of the Consortium of Multinational Corporate Spooks working [in conjunction] with Federal Law Enforcement. Online we are subject to the constant assaults of the pernicious Fat Baby Food spiders and robots whose only function is to disrupt our links and delete our postings wherever they can find them.SPA_CHE_301

That you are reading this is a testament to our tireless effort, awesome firewall and the almighty intervention of God.

Please check back periodically.

Thanks. Will Dailyrest

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The Why Go On? Koan.

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dog with shadow of manEscaping the dark vignetting down wooded lanes behind my dog, with my bag, past graveyards and ponds so black and still they drain the sky. I’ve been with myself for fifty years and I still don’t understand me. Then he puts his whole head down a rabbit hole.

Sometimes laughs and food and the friction of soft skin are all that keeps the light on. There. There. There. Yesss. The engine of dreams and rewards, a pedal-powered lightbulb in my mind. Love is all and I and I are hopped up on gratitude in the pleasure dome.

lichen on gravestone
graveyard

“How and why do I do this?” I ask the crowd of my grandpas and grandmas, ghosting in the gloaming by thousands. Transparent shadows and points of light for eyes. No one speaks. Every one of them stood here asking the same pesky question. But they are only here to see me breath.

I clap one hand to my forehead and hear the answer: The sound. So obvious! “Like two hands clapping—but one is holding a coconut!” Cheap laughs in the Temple. The Abbot doesn’t smile. But the lightbulb throbs and my dog and I make light. The dark closes behind us and it’s alright. It’s alright.The Benefactor movie by Bryan Root and Will Dailyrest

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The view from America

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Moderate hip hop beat

Give me liberty or death in the key of demented half pipe skateboard antics. Midland waste. Boyz with cheap guns thumbing gangs signs. But they don’t mean it. What a tubal ligation means to a deadbeat’s daughter in the coming correction. Nasty bits. Population implosion and the lost ark of providence at cross purpose.

Body surfing through the slick on the left coast. Fog horn. Lapping waves on greasy shorebirds bleached white. Watch your step. Regards to the avatar, calling bright green shells down on anyone deaf or dumb enough to still be home.  Cone of fire. Collateral hopscotch soccer ball. Wingman clanging bombay dingbat. Chewing gum diplomacy in the wake of Armageddon at the oasis. We are your democracy. Kiss the ring.

Arm chair mothers blanch at heaped bodies and hollow eyed shopkeepers smoking acrid hand-rolled something, scraped up from the floor of a crashed helicopter. Flickering ancestral cave fire packed in a handheld nickelodeon. Can’t look away.

Lady Liberty falling through an antique skylight in slow motion. Shards of falling far far far to the tweed and mahogany halls of higher calling. These are not the facts you are looking for. This is the blood in your head and the news of the world. Where’s my goddamned martini? Who cares if it’s a particle or a wave when it’s burning flesh to the bone? Someone is having a worse day than I am.

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Were, Wanted and Will Be

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I have gone against Julia Cameron’s advice and shared some of my morning pages here (heavily edited). Julia’s book, “The Artist’s Way” is very helpful if you suffering from thwarted creativity. “These daily morning meanderings are not meant to be art. Or even Writing. I stress that point to reassure the non-writers working with this book. Pages are meant to be, simply, the act of moving the hand across the page and writing WHATEVER comes to mind.” –Julia Cameron, The Artist’s Way. 


New Years Day 2014

The duct work needs to be rerouted so I get rich and not the other way around. Basic tools and ridiculous toys. Never mind the grass that finally stopped growing and the misremembered flotsam of my past Christmas tragedy. Stacked and tossed into lines to fill some empty time. I trip the light mediocre. I sing the body rheumatic.

Little did I know, shoving off with my David Smith wannabe steel welding goggles, that I’d end up with the thespians behind the velvet curtains. A cog in the dream factory.

Most art leads to a microphone and a spotlight and a gloved stage hand on the catwalk looking down–unimpressed. You can’t pleas’m all so picture great things in the compost of forgotten moments. Past, present and future ghosts, flying off an unfinished exit on the Tarnation Highway. Paved with the melted fat of those who couldn’t make the grade. Deathbed comedy and the slow rise of the hillbillies. Shooting star.

We’re just trying to get to the bottom of the page here. Moving the little steel ball, the dirty black point of my weapon across these virginal pages. Scribble scribble scribble. Toil. Drivel. Be water and flow my tears downstream. Can I find the time I lost? Legacy, retirement, and the dirt nap? Is that all there is? Wake up. Smell some coffee. Buy a new car and dream of what you were and wanted and will be. A little dream on me. And now…

 

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Tilton on PBR12 Garden Planet

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Frederick Learned Tilton–lead scientist, USS Belleforest [First] Terraforming Mission on PBR12 (a.k.a)”Garden Planet.”

That his American benefactors lacked the vision to capitalize on the panoply of opportunities that this planet presented only caused those opportunities to bloom in the mind that had been delivered here as Frederick Learned Tilton.

Peering into the surveillance screen, it suddenly occurs to Tilton that Kyshtym Korsikov and Aurelie Beers are, and have been, lovers for some time. Or were, and were lovers, as they are, at this moment, dying. He picks up on their dirty little secret in the one-last-time way that Kysh is holding Aurie and kissing her. They are and have been, or were and were, Tilton’s friends and partners here in their orbiting genetics lab. Kysh was a fine statistician, drinking problem notwithstanding. And Beers, well, he has to admit that this late discovery of her intimacy with Kysh is causing him a little pang of – what? No! Look at her she’s just an old rag.

Tilton gets a little erotic jolt, despite himself, watching the lovers melting into each other’s embrace. He zooms in with the remote camera. He is reminded of Noguchi’s Kiss: two people face-to-face carved out of one block of stone. Except, in this case, it’s transparent skin and fat and ridiculously fast arterial development. And yes, there definitely is a little alpha-male animosity here. “Kysh, I should kill you,” he thinks, “I AM killing you, I would have anyway, but here’s another good solid tribal reason for it.”

Tilton is aware that he thinks of all the women as chattel, and, while he’s too professional to rut among his team as such, he likes to maintain the hypothetical dominance that his title implies. “Surely,” he tells himself, sucking the uncontaminated air of his compartment into his cleanly-shaved nostrils, “she must have been thinking of me and settling for him. It goes without saying that all the women want the lead scientist.”

“And isn’t that funny, a lush, falling Aurelie Beers.”

Agro Planet: It’s Self-Defense

He thinks “Maybe I’ll go by my middle name from now on, Learned Tilton.” He’s firing on every synapse now, he can see it all, time has ceased and left a million-facetted gemstone at the center of his mind. Learned Tilton. He need only turn his head, his EYE, to see past, present and future, to pull strings and see the effects of his manipulation ripple through time and history. What is a little secret affair? What is a little jealousy? It’s nothing. It’s everything. It’s all connected. His cock, his mind, the alien dna unspooling the core of his being, respooling him into a god.

He sees his nobility, his frailty; they are all one. He loves and accepts himself, warts and all.MossWound160130 Garden Planet #spacerex

“The infection is really getting a hold now. ” He says aloud, for the benefit of the computer which is recording this. “Look at that, the two of them are just melting into one another, like cell division in reverse.” Onscreen Kyshtym and Auralie Beer’s clothes are slipping away like a pile of rags thrown onto too big of a mess. The protoplasm seems to be pushing them off like the hair and other non-living tissue. “It’s like the ARK process, and like what happened to Pieter, only much faster. The living tissue will probably ooze toward someplace dark and warm.”

As the six hundred other crew members aboard the Belleforest die similar deaths, and become the stuff of dreams, Tilton thinks, “I don’t have to worry anymore about who is fucking who,” he snorts, “and I think it’s pretty clear who fucked who in the end.” and that thought stirs him. Having evacuated the hallways and sterilized the air, Tilton left the bridge, stepping over the body of Blimnel and taking a dirt car down to the common room.

Apart from the unfortunate necessity of shooting Blimnel, Tilton’s plan is going off without a hitch. The terrified crew members who had made it as far as the airlock, had boarded the escape pod before succumbing to the air-born infection. Now Tilton will sit on a bench in front of the big bay window in the common room and watch the penultimate phase of his operation, the launching of the infected crew members to Earth.

Though no one aboard her is in any condition to navigate, like a good pigeon, the escape pod knows just how to get home. At the other end of her twelve and a half-year trip the passengers will be unrecognizable. But Tilton’s communique will reach Earth well-ahead of Pod 9, explaining what they are carrying: the genetic equivalent of Promethean fire.

When the tiny craft arcs away from the glowing white bulk of the USS Belleforest, Tilton, feeling an odd mix of loneliness and light-headed self-satisfaction, walks up to the glass so the window fills his field of view.

The crew had worked hard on this project. Tilton was fairly sure that a few of them might have understood the steps that needed to be taken, but he could take no chances. This was too important. Sentimental humanism could sink the whole enterprise. Evolution was not a democratic process and had always been carried out by individuals who displayed superior fitness in the face of mounting environmental hostility.

The vast organism that had held PBR12 hostage for millions of years lay dying, effervescing like a salted slug, leaking oxygen, nitrogen other trace elements. Steam and ice erupted out the ground, billowing miles into the sky, forming clouds and weather systems that shrouded the writhing beast below.Contagion160131a, Garden Planet, #spacerex

There are some dead pixels in his prescience around the Pod, some facets he can’t see into. He worries about his little ark of protoplasm. He has to make some alternate plans, but he is so tired. He’s not young anymore. His body is aching with the stress of carrying out this terrible mission. Aching with the vision, with the possession. “I will sleep,” he tells himself, “for a thousand years as soon as I deliver the final payload, the peis de resistance, to the primeval planet below me.”

The Pod burns it’s way through the gravitational pull of PBR12, and fades into the deep black belly of space. He presses his hand against the window. “Good Bye” he says quietly, feeling through the thick transparent polymer, the frozen vacuum into which so much of… “what?” must ride. “And Godspeed.” He chuckles and turns back to his dirt car, instantly forgetting what he was just thinking. Because…

In his lifetime, he’s gone from the clumsy cloning of mammals in some shitty terrestrial laboratory, to this! “It was all in the PBR12 Telomeres!” he thinks “The Rosetta stone, the missing link. It had been on earth before, I’m sure of it now. In the very beginning. But it lost it’s essence. It became slow and rigid over millions and millions of years and eventually forgot its purpose. That’s why Earth is dying! That’s why I had to send it back. It’s beautiful! It’s beautiful! It’s beautiful” 

Tears stream out and blow back over his cheeks toward his earlobes. The knobby tires thrum against the steel deck as he speeds through the uncontaminated central corridor of the enormous ship, past intersections, closed on both sides, warning lights flashing. He has the ship to himself now. He could disrobe and walk these giant hallways naked, like some latter-day Adam, and no one but he and his new God would have anything to say about it. There is a rhythmic “whump” as recessed doors kick back the wind of his speeding dirt car. “vermiculture… whump, ” “compost… whump, ” “insect ecology… whump, ” “mycology… whump” an orbiting terraforming vessel, complete with night clubs and racket ball courts.

Garden Planet. Two hours later:Contagion160131 Garden Planet, #spacerex

The infection has entered its dormant phase within it’s human hosts, their chromosomes have finished  their giddy protoplasmic victory dance, having plundering the very stuff of it’s would-be invaders.

Even as the PBR12’s indigenous lifeform is transformed into a loamy topsoil for the seeds of a new Earth, here, on the ship, it is triumphant.

These human crew–scientists,  farmers, cooks, artists and janitors will all sleep together in soupy puddles of cellular potential, flowing slowly toward the low spots and the drains in the floor, waiting patiently for further instructions, instructions that he, Learned Tilton, would be giving. 

The hallway stinks, as always, with the earthy smells of compost and animal husbandry, but Tilton catches a hint of something different now, beyond the obvious antiseptic spray. Is it the final breath of two hundred crew members who would never exhale again? Never see the glorious end of all their efforts? Is it some human pheromone? Fear? Perspiration?

At the far end of the hallway, he hears the hum of machinery. He pulls his dirtcar up close to the wall and drives very quietly. He stops just before he gets to the melting chamber, grabs his pistol and rolls out of his seat. He tiptoes up to and pressed his back up against the door to the melting chamber. Yes, the melting pot is running. That is actually good, there is a chance that whoever is in there wouldn’t have heard him coming.

He evacuated this area earlier, prior to releasing the invasive into the ventilation system, but it’s possible that someone stayed behind. And because he has intentionally not infected this part of the ship, it is possible that he could be coming up against healthy human resistance here.

Garden Planet, copyright Bryan Root. For more information about Garden Planet or Spacerex, contact us.

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Cytostrux® Debacle

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Rex's Memoir -- Garden Planet, ©Bryan Root.
Dermoplaster®, Biolume®, Cytostrux®, and other self-healing biotechnological building materials

Pretty simple really. Essentially a redux of the now-extinct sea coral, which formed huge reefs over thousands of years off the coasts of various continents and gave home to hundreds of thousands and possibly millions of equally extinct sea critters. They crossed it with some extra-terrestrial protoplasm and passed it under the noses of a few hundred architects and engineers, gave it a nearly-lethal dose of amphetamines and “voila!” CYTOSTRUX®. It sounds like grinding glass while it’s growing–a high-frequency whine that could have been the microscopic screams of tiny monsters becoming self-aware and not-at-all happy. SPA_CHE_301And it was so prevalent you could hear it from space.

“Why wait for a construction company when you can design your building, dig a foundation, dump in a couple million gallons of CAD-seeded Cytostrux® starter, amphetamines and a slow drip of effluence and sit back and watch your dreams become real? And it literally lives on human waste!”

With radiation levels being what they were after Space War One and the ten year blackout, there was a big demand for airtight, photosynthetic structures all over the world. It was a no-brainer. The face of the planet changed completely in a period of ten years. Space stations, condominiums, sky scrapers, retirement facilities, airships, space elevators, wireless phones and furniture–the biotech age made it all possible with just a few little hiccups:

A pernicious disease, we called it “creeping death” attacked the bio-engineered building materials and spread very quickly.

Cytostrux Incorporated went belly up. Whole city blocks collapsed.  Space stations lost pressure and people died. Ten years of massive global growth was at stake. But then Fat BabyFood LTD came to the rescue with their amazing Cyto Remedy®–a fiercely guarded proprietary formula that you could only buy from them.

A politician named Charlie Widenour claimed he had evidence that Fat Baby’s own engineers had developed the Creeping Death and it’s remedy side-by side, in a successful bid to monopolize the biotech market. Wasn’t there Sino-American Occupational Commanders involved? Gordon Upick? Secretary Overshaught? Some sort of back room deal? Can anyone remember? No? Me neither.

But we do remember the last memerec of Charlie Widenour,  whose star was rising out of the Cytostrux® debacle, hurrying through a throng of reporters with his head down, making a bee line for his limousine after the extra-marital sexual and financial allegations were made. We remember him proclaiming his innocence. But the Consortium of Multinational Corporate Spooks’ hit job had marginalized him, like THAT and it was just a matter of disappearing him and his junior secretary to Bogota or Buenas Aires—who remembers which? — to an implicated retreat into adulterous, homo-erotic sin and a quick fade-out of the public eye.

“Now waitaminute!” you said, “What HAPPENED with that Cytostrux® scandal?” and  “OH SHIT, I’m late for work!” Hurry hurry hurry!

We had all long since given up politics in favor of maintaining our personal status quo. The multinationals were brilliant at keeping some, if not all of the people, running after prosperity long after they should have dug in their heels and said “Enough!” It was the special power of the Quango’s then-chairman Sum Chat Fat, to promote an idea of prosperity that was directly proportional to the American capacity to forget.

With layoffs and foreclosures yawning like sinkholes in the old neighborhood, who’s got time to ponder poor old Charlie Widenour?

And what if he really is just holed up down there in Butt Fuck City like they said? It’s not like we were paying particular attention back then either. Who would we believe? How long would it take to get the facts for ourselves? And what if, after we fact checked the whole story, at a tremendous expense to ourselves and at the possible risk of our status quo, we discover that there IS no answer? Maybe the facts are just not there? It’s possible that there is NO STORY.

Contagion160130People die, they move on, they fall into big holes and get extruded elsewhere. The whole planet is a living breathing single organism that is just starting to get aware of itself – us people are just the messengers, the RNA, the enzymes, the little buggernuts that fizz through the tiny tubes we build ourselves, never really knowing why or what it all means. Meanwhile there’s new worm holes opening up in space, and the far eastern creationist suicide bombers, and a new single by Dick Taytor that you can’t stop humming…

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Fat Baby Food LTD logo

Deep down, we all knew Charlie Widenour was dead. And his little dog too. So was the civil suit, so was the popular vote. So, it would seem, was American Democracy. A year later Fat Baby Food LTD took over and the American Quango became a what it is today: a ventriloquist dummy with Sum Chat Fat’s iron fist up it’s backside, working it.

–Richard (Rex) Flynder.

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Origins of Spacerex

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Don’t meteors fall? Space Rex, Space Wrecks, Spacerex.

The term “meteoric rise” very accurately describes mine and Bryan Root’s filmmaking career in 1991.

Will Dailyrest, Space Rex entrepreneur.
Will Dailyrest in 1999

He was accepted into the very prestigious and competitive directing program at the American Film Institute in Los Angeles, based on The Benefactor, a short film we started at the Tyler School of Art in 1986.

After years of working in obscurity, collecting 16mm film equipment, building sound studios and working as housepainters and a sculptor’s assistants, Bryan and I were suddenly in Hollywood, he as one of 28 directors to be chosen from over a thousand other applicants–to direct the projects of other film students in different disciplines, I as his non-matriculating collaborator–working while he slept and sleeping while he was in class.

We made 3 films in the 1991-92 school year and he was accepted into the even-more prestigious Master of Fine Arts program at AFI in 1993 (at the time only 8 of 28 directors were chosen).

That summer, back to Philadelphia clearing out his storage space, Bryan came down with what he took to be the deep and terrible beginnings of The World’s Worst Hemorrhoid. Embarrassed to discuss his most-private with anyone, or admit to such a middle-aged malady, he suffered in private for several days before breaking out in a rash that ran up the back of his left thigh, across his buttock and bisected, as if drawn with a straight-edge, the left half of his penis.

For the first 2 weeks he had a pain that came in waves, cresting every five minutes or so “like someone pounding a 6 foot icicle up my ass with a heavy mallet.” The weepy rash on Bryan’s skin was just the outward excrescence of a nerve path that must have looked much the same where it connected to his brainstem. He had an advanced case of shingles.

He had not yet started writing his master’s thesis and he still had shingles when he handed it in 6 weeks later.

Space Rex, Space Wrecks, This was the birth of Spacerex.

Man In Spacea sci-fi kung fu script loosely based on The Old Testament, On the Origin of Species and Huckleberry Finn was a high-concept work of pure genius, albeit a little violent and not unlike a cinematic and philosophical case of shingles, which, along with the marijuana he smoked to dull the pain, shaped the very fabric of the narrative.

The head the Center for Advanced Film and Television Studies at AFI, Dezso Magyar, described the script as “a piece of shit” and counseled Bryan to “throw it away.”

The committee which decided which of the 16 submitted scripts would get green lighted for production, rejected Man In Space as well. He ended up directing Laura Sobers the script by his writer/producer friend, Wayne Reynolds, which the school liked better. 

I thought, and still think, that Man in Space was a worthy enterprise.

That Bryan and I have fallen out, he pursuing a career in real estate and procrastination and only getting drawn intoSpace Rex, Space Wrecks, Spacerex when I push it forward and then only to sabotage it, speaks to the meteoric falling of Bryan’s career. It’s a shame, really. He had so much going for him. Laura Sobers took Bryan away from Spacerex. He has taken to “gritty contemporary,” shelving our project in 2003 to write and direct Dirty Habit  which was well received by the underground film festivals, but failed to perform in the marketplace and has been a disappointment to everyone involved (I was the editor). Bryan seems to have given up on ever making another film and I’m continuing on with my own solo projects.Benefactor, from Space rex

Since the lawsuit between Bryan and I, Space Rex, Space Wrecks, Spacerex has gone through a complex evolution. It was called Loft in Space for a time, became a rock band, but always took a back seat to Bryan’s more pragmatic enterprises like union set dressing careers, family life and real estate ventures. It has finally truly become mine and Spatz Curtis‘ project, if we ever find him, and, while we struggle to stay one step ahead of the robots and spiders of the future white collar crime syndicate,  Fat Baby Food, we plan on making a movie and a record. I hope you find it interesting.

Thanks,

Will Dailyrest

Space Rex, Space Wrecks, Spacerex.com

 

 

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