THEE THROTTLE by Genesis P-Orridge T.O.P.Y. No fear, except thee fear of leaving. Death is like each other. Life has only dreams to recommend it, and thee security of being inside. To be part of a group, to be INSIDE, is to enter thee body and partake of sex. We thrive on violation. We attempt to recreate thee excitement of a first moment's intensity by deceptive means. Happiness can give you fear. Of course thee fear of it ending. Thee only real fear is fear of ending, and thee only joy is violation. Unhappiness gives insight cruelly, happness makes a death threat. As time passes thee addiction dwindles. Always a jolt of steel. Thee orchid and thee metal. Muscles, no longer as loose as childhood, ache in memoriam, stiffening with age before beauty. Age before lust, or love. Demand outstrips supply, we congeal, fixed in parables and fantasies. Thee past controls through people. Little girls becoum young ladies. They attract by their lack of experience, unaware of thee spell, more coumcerned with being inside than observation they accept thee host. They create a ghost that haunts forever. Thee ache for reclamtion. Perhaps, thee story goes, if you recreate that first moment, passed, you can travel back in time. Or by creating a stranger, replenish lust. Violation is a form of breaking thee rules, a necessary act to exist. Conscious deception and threat of oneself and one's security affirms existence, makes real. Sexuality, getting inside, makes real and once inside we can make anything happen. Eyes shut in a coffin, a world of darkness, we travel into that darkness to reconvene our emotions and listening hard we see every detail of every sexual act. Little girls masturbating about tomorrow. Every second losing intensity, creating thee need forever to go back inside and feel safe, to travel back and feel alive. It really is so difficult. What we have creates our need. Restrictions are removed like school uniforms, we discover eroticism in both manners. And manners maketh man, and woman. We enter our bodies. Inside is quiet, scarcely a solution in sight. Sharing a body is nothing. Sharing insight is everything. A fine balance maintained by neurosis. When we break rules, we becoum fools, driven by a desire for ignorance. Thee rules are created by a wound. We never escape them. We descend into them. Rats in a trap. All paranoia coums from thee past. It takes us like a rape and damages. But in thee morning, after thee night, we fall in love with thee light. the solution is, to touch skin, and stay safe, deep inside. Thee first step towards control is ownership. Thee foundation of ownership is understanding. Ownership of information is thee real system of control. To know a thing is to pssess it. To possess a thing is to be able to manipulate it. We see the manipulation of information through thee media of thee people. Search coumtinues. Control needs time. It's all a matter of time. Takes all kinds. Time is. Time was. Time is passed. Turning over thee ancient symbols used to weigh gold in Egypt we terminate dreams. Regular trips to the undercurrent display of coumfusion and precise detail. Thee effect is one of accuracy of purpose and description. Images sequenced to define thee exact nature of time and place. New York. Skeletal myth jaded and scared. No self-respect breeds cynical self-abuse. Never return to thee previous character. Always create a new one. What do you see from thee faded telephone box? Two sides of one street infecting each other like worms. Visions convinced and betrayed. We becoum what we condemn. We eat what starves us. We shit what sustains us. A litany common to all butter God's. Designed by spirits dead and erect. Projections making light of surface. Endless, endless sadness. Thee resumption of guilt threatens. Inside a shelter. Old men pissing on trees. Dogs turning circles of animals. Thee black sickly powder of fear. Speaking thee incantations aloud trapped in a lump of skin. Instinct breeding the final moves, thee infinite loves. We accept them on our sholders and leave you free. Then time ends. Eyes burn and close. Wounded. I wandered in that land. Making plans. Building strange concoctions of hope. Thee charm. Thee TV. Thee whiskey. Thee fur cellar as indecent as a beard. From cool to indifference. Visions convinced and betrayed. Looking from zero point there's all kinds of illusions. It takes all kinds of illusions, this death. Thee pains don't ease as you get older. Thee hatred doesn't melt. Thee brains get blocked. Thee drains stray across to bare flesh, groaning at Nature's trick. Coum daze are like drug abuse. Coum daze are like friendship. Routines pulling away from vision, step in and destroy thee direction of youth. Thee permutation of desire to outclass death. We are sentimental and quite capable of finding laughter. No iceberg this tension. Thee averted eyes of youth. And now it's finished. Process coumplete. Only thee corpse to sacrifice like a gangster. Thee special forces of rape. Here we see a principle, here we see a subject. Endless twigs on thee fire. Axle cracked by frost. Resting. Snow has crushed my camouflage, killed my garden. Thee shelter is still there. Time was. Thee dogs are now dogs. Still turning circles. Thee eyes still burn. Time is. Choice as hard as bone. Yet another dream couming into focus. Ice on soil. Dog resting at my back. Daylight of friendship cracked with shadow. In this dream it begins and ends in a park at zero point. Pointless passover. Time is past. Heat of breathing as a door shuts. Affirmation of existence. In they coum. "Nothing Here Now But The Recordings." says William S. Burroughs. 23 visions of light. Thee small room. Memories of blood and urine by thee medical box. Links of old senses in rope.... There were shadows pulling scales from young flesh. Quiet and hooded. Thee small hands played patterns on thee window. Fog in living rooms. Several old, old pages curling as dog barks spewed across night time light. Rope tightened making furrows. No sound. In the essential nature of legends. Thee Guardian secreted secrets from long utopias. Like alchemist parting mind from chemical as thee stones in a sexual cathedral drain steel from endless shadows of bureaucracy. Body shifting on wood, dog outside thee door. There is both truth and history, projection and dream. Flickering memories as trains manoeuvre in old mens eyes. Rope slashing back hard. It's all a matter of counting. Betrayal of simple agriculture. Thee lack of wild explosions like a code to rebuild every life. This time thee victim is desired and wet. These lives are stones, played in ancient dreams of slick young flesh. Quiet and hooded. Rituals of male. Many shapes tatooed in old buildings. Old key to old. Resting. Slight shifting. Feet deepening red. No sound. Across thee way a boy was grinning. Hard on obvious in old torn grey trousers. Inherited from an earlier victim of plague. Uniform remnants. Light of night filtering through where roof tiles slipped their tail and buggered old senile books across dreams. Nothing salvaging code. Thee same city we all used to pass away time in.... Each ritual makes demand. Slipping a wooden coil of expensive death under all those derelict lines. No engines anymore. No ghosts of death playing in thee grass. Just simple and banal, as you would expect. Terminus. Final flaw. If one could truly describe that light, of course it's grey, butter, that light, as images tumble, only eyes hurt from lack of focus. No physical sensations here. Limbo of stone. Men separated from brickwork. No polarity visible. Smiles of love from pitted carriages. Semen as thee corpse evolves into alchemy. Liquid sings of old religions. Hand smearing juice on cock, squeezing tight as it glides into unfaithfulness. Vanity of accounting. Pride of hindsight. Crinkling of skin against worn eyes. There is no need for light. Scanning ripples of boyish flesh used to pass away time in. Car crumpled, rain on moss. Crack of wood. Only a few see this code. Grey suit draped across street. Feet derelict. Looking from zero point there's all kind of truth. In thee wrong camouflage. Not 1984. Taxi making waves from red lights and green visions. A green magician perhaps. Takes all kinds. So there it was. From school to outhouse to dream to hands touching. Thee old theories. Many an alchemist died for less, or so they say.... We live in fragments. Coumfortable ones disturb as much as thee bad. Takes all kinds. Leaves falling, coumtimes snow. Collapsed my camouflage net this year. We sit with thee lights on, eyes closed. Thumbing through dictionaries to explain. What makes this difficult? Happiness paralysing suicide. Is there madness in this method? Steroids lead to addictive joys and rejective death. Does guilt lurk like physical weapons waiting to mug us no matter how late. It's all a matter of time. Visions without affirmation destroy our guts. Thee ultimate irony of nature's game. Content without content. We play it both ways. Weighing up thee results. Did you know you can kill thee strongest boy with hopelessness. Empty, pretending to still dream we becoum still... and die. A spectral Jim Jones forgetting thee white night. Choices so hard, like bone. Old myths die soft and paralyse ambitions. Responsibility DOES last forever. "Bad advice," says Monte Cazazza. Always focussed on essence and suffering. It's so silly. Soft in happiness we slumber. Raw in pain we feel hopeless and dead. Thee outcast can never relax. Caring is blood. Thereby hangs a thread. This is not about one thing. Does not belong to one person, one subject. these words belong to anything we think. It's not thee name anymore. No set piece battles. No solution turning acid. There is a system evolving whereby all these words apply to every situation with a minor re-adjustment once in awhile. It takes all kinds of words, this life. "Is this thee white path?" says Pociao. All these marvellous words, teasing us so close to existence. Then time ends. It's all a matter of time. Blurred self-image corrupting thee game. Dangerous. During a conference on tactics it was decided to terminate this mission with extreme prejudice. Butter who holds thee plan, who inherits thee game and is anyone in ownership. Sinking like a literary Titanic. This mission never existed. It originates in thee dark side of history. Getting thinner all thee time. Subject limited to a strip of one. A circle of animals. Motives replace products in our minds. Ideas replace writing. Objects are camouflage for ideas. It takes all kinds. Philosophy separates thee person from thee mass. Exit all legends, Enter thee laws of magick. In this world we entertain not audiences butter fantasies. We coumplete thee self-image, blurred or not. Search coumtinues for correct process of re-arranging. "Proclaim present time over," says Brion Gysin. Somewhere in thee secret cathedral small movements. Old movies dream conflict. Thee old, old, area in sheets of snow, reversible, lacking truth. Green fades. Breathing short as spunk coats a dismembered arm. Part of thee text on thee wall. Whenever thee dog turned thee night trembled. Shimmering like water moved by piss in a forest. Shadow moved in thee light. Peace of history. Marks of cold spray as thee material fades. Our appetite for miracles makes traps of time. Daze go by. Viciousness is not enough. Wooden pricks lubricated against dawn. Slow motion of exact formulae edging fear into spectres of old death. Key twisting sheet causing rivulets of blood and piss. Floor stained with patience. Only animals remain. No focus... "What do you want?" Next time thee dream whimpered. Who was counting back? Back of hand on kidneys. No need to define victims. Where do you hide terminus? Routine dreaming. Mirage that exists. Affirms wax of fur and bullet. In one dark corner thee exact dimensions concealed. And thee entrance danced to relive old histories plunging through boyish flesh to poor sore eyes. Lost in light of night, into that darkness. Always watched, all ways, relying on thee movement of least action. To wait. Always easy in this room. Small room. Chamber of conscience. Plaste flaking like love. Dreams contained in liquid. Sperm Wars in formulas. Drinking rain as trees expel thee emptiness of history. Thee temple of light. Butter he sees you. As he waits. He does not need thee light of night. Thee serene dream of time, thee flesh ideas are heir to. When all movement and thought stops we are awake. We are awake because we are empty and ANYthing at all merely serves to fill us again. Sad, E saw that game. On side near thee old house. Movement of rat in corner. Rustle of scales. Rubble crunching like snow, kicked aside like tin. He was grinning before he jumped. Nothing in particular. Dog shifting and sleeping. Oxygen short in thee air. Sound of breathing louder than old stone. Light of night twisted fading Sound playing across skin like fingers. Prickling hairs on thee cock. No way to identify. Empty as flesh. Inside thee box papers inscribed with time. Several days past. Thee gate remained closed. Shadows at attention marking time. Orders to thee last as vigils of death ponder flesh and all thee dogs crawl away. Car passes. Phone rings. Glass cracks. Did you see that? Black fingernails trapped to linen. Sound of steel beneath flesh, perhaps not deep enough still. Direction gone. Septic from piss. Line in around heel. Lack of nails cracked. Glass dreaming as thee doctor fell. Hiding his face they say. Dry noise in throat washing across winter as trains drift by. Counting. Noise of dreams at thee door. Huge tusks curved around thee gate. "Open, open!" For no reason. Just a small drawing, an old routine frozen before. Before Time. Defining fate and destiny. Thee traces remain. Thee sex scene over for now. Last night thee boy came. Open arms, black hair strong, empty pale face. A volunteer. Light behind in doorway. Fading painting. Slightly built, slightly tanned. Cock erect. Let dreams slide across floor of winter, splinters in foot. Gasps of blood. Feet stamping. Fingers jabbing in groin. Already empty. Drifting in history, no detail forgotten. No fact erased. Time trapped in a small room. He blinked. Looking up at thee ceiling, let out a tiny gasp. There were thee usual number of tiles laid out. Grey as photographs. Thee same cathedral we all used to pass away death in. Small baby smiled. Kicked. Such simple structures cascade from box in corner. Fear of self-hate. Lust of destruction. Loneliness of stolen trust. Coldness of loss. Just a small game. Light of night twisted. Fading several days past. Dogs crawl away. Slouch in their corner rustling. Car dumped near pile of earth. Flicker of knife in air. Responsibility cracked like focussed flesh. thee window slammed shut. Awake, always. Here we are. Drinking rain as leaves cover dreams. Our favorite tree. From thee window now, just lumps of flesh moving near water. A section of wall flaking like death. Dreams contained in liquid. They made ritual gestures and parted with no message spoken. Emptiness of history. Thee serene dream of time. Any flesh at all merely serves to spill us and then dies like spider underfoot. Cold draught and damp Wood of future placed near dying trees. Sound playing across skin like light fingers. Needle buried in images. No sound. Always thee same number. Body tensed on stomach, expression traced in blood. Night. Inside thee box papers inscribed with time. Pressure of guilt Paralysing. Eyes useless. Regret forlorn. Heat of tracks counted like withered grass. Twisted in old hair. Throat washing across winter as old routine drifts by. No dream forgotten. Links of old senses in rope. Knots of divinity. Aware of floor on flesh, tubes of water. No thoughts, the best type of mind. Empty vessel like room alchemy stored stone beside. Thee life moving. Time gripping tight like a lover's orgasm. Trees bending. Quiet and hooded. Small noises of rats next door. Cable raw, celibate. Fur trembling like light. Pulling scales clear of rustling senses. In thee essential nature of legends shadows steal from endless beams. Thee rest left open. Drifting... MUZAK-A CONCEPT IN HUMAN ENGINEERING Frequency and Pulsation are beginning to appear to be one of thee most crucial metabolic stabilisers as medical and biochemical knowledge increases. Thee Black Box which cures drug addiction without withdrawal symptoms in 10 days relies on frequency and pulsation. Small electrodes are attached above thee Mastoid nerve centres behind thee ears. A tiny electrical charge passes through thee brain sub-liminally releasing Endorphine, thee body's own natural "heroin/morphine", which drenches thee body, keeping it high. Thee "JUNK" drug is redundant, passes from thee body. Thee Endorphine prevents any withdrawal symptoms as it regulates thee metabolism and hormones. Once thee junk has gone, thee natural Endorphine goes too, not creating any withdrawel, bar slight sickness for a couple of days, an occasional, mild headache. So, you switch from INTRODUCED unnatural junk, to internally produced natural junk, this latter being no problem to the body at all. The Doctor who discovered this travelled through Tibet, thee Far East. Thee Black Box can be tuned to other Frequencies and Pulses to cure other illnesses and metabolic imbalances, e.g. Migraine, Periods, Asthma. In Tibet, Singing Bowls, Singing Bells, Thigh Bone Trumpets, Drums are used in, to westerners, non-logical combinations to cure Migraines, Mental Illness, and other metabolic imbalances. Thee language used is different. Thee heads of Demons are split asunder, Demons are exorcised from those possessed (could describe a junky in cold-turkey). In other ethnic cultures, trance states, visionary states are achieved by Rhythms and Frequencies. In New Guinea large Sacred Flutes vibrate thee air against itself causing mental revelatory states and precognition. In Morocco, thee Joujouka players use high Frequency pipes and drums to reach ecstatic states and conjour up Pan and effect Magick. In thee Mayan civilisation, there were strange unexplained "oil-lamps" which for a long time were merely trinkets in Museums, misunderstood objects. Then one day a young archaeologist happened to idly blow through one, hit a pure, very high pulsating note that sent him on a "trip". Throughout thee world, in all cultures therefore, primitive and technological, man has instinctively known that Frequency and Pulse coumbined had amazing effects on mind and body. Until recently, there was no language to adequately describe this interrelationship, and even now, Research is only slowly collating precise data on which frequency/pulse does what. Everyone has observed Tribal warriors whipping themselves into a trance for war, to feel no pain (that is of course Endorphine) or for "Magick", to have visions, see Demons, etc. (that is its visionary, hallucinogenic capacity). Yet two and two were never fully put together. A Bill Haley concert would end in frenzied vandalism, Bill Haley thinking it was because his music was so fantastically good and exciting AS MUSIC. In fact it was a coumbination of mass hysteria, as in Tribal dancing, and an actual drug-induced, metabolic explosion, totally unconscious and uncontrolled, triggered by thee inherent rhythms and Frequencies of sound. Because he was unaware of thee triggers he was dabbling with, thee very results were unpredictable, coumfused and uncontrolled. Funny enough, those Right-Wing journalists who condemned this "jungle music" were far closer to thee truth than their tiny minds could ever have envisaged. So music does PHYSICALLY reconstruct, ENGINEER, thee brain, its hormones, thee body, its hormones; its entire metabolic regulator system is tuned. There is a great deal of pressure upon thee inventors of thee Black Box to cease their research; or hand it over to thee Governments of USA and Britain. There is incredible pressure from thee huge drug corporations to prevent its widespread publicity and application too. Obviously they have a vested interest in making millions from drug-dependent human beings whilst simultaneously suppressing their visionary capabilities. Thee old story Burroughs got so right. This also explains thee kidnap of Rock music in thee Sixties by thee Governments and Media, aided by corporations and coumglomerates to defuse its radical abilities to restate thee tribal unification and ecstasy of primitive ritual music. Drugs suppress, commercial "easy listening" music suppresses, they quite literally addict and destroy thee potency of each metabolism they affect. It is a war, no two ways about it, and only now do we have thee information and technology needed to fight our own guerilla war back. One has to begin to construct one's music to short-circuit thee implants we've been conditioned into with commercial music. One has to avoid and reject thee drugs of control we've been conditioned to rely on in moments of defeat and self-hate. We need to discover and research, as scientifically as possible, methods to reach drug states that are useful without thee use of drugs. Sound, Frequency, Dreamachines are thee keys to that. Boy guerilla in a police station, questioned, under threat, no worries about blackmail through needing a fix, no cold turkey. He can use trained voice pitch to flip out his custodians, send them blind, make them vomit and walk out a free man stamping his feet in coded rhythm of control paranoia. Information suppressed by authorities and monopolised by big business is usually dangerous to their supremacy and useful to us, making them both impotent and redundant. When power is dispensable it is no longer power, it is pathetic posturing. Burroughs and Gysin chanced upon cut-ups, they had thee vision to see thee IMPLICATIONS. And discovering thee code of true implications is thee mark of real genius, really radical thought. Gysin hallucinated constructively whilst travelling on a bus through France. Thee sunlight flickering through regularly spaced trees on his closed eyelids pulsing at slightly different phased intervals being thee key, coumbined with a particular frequency. He understood thee IMPLICATIONS, and with Ian Sommerville built thee DREAMACHINE, probably thee most important and thee most neglected anti- control, anti-drug device ever invented by mankind. Permanent visions and perceptual revelations for an occasionally replenished light-bulb. With T.G. we openly declared our primary interest was METABOLIC music, and thee application of cut-up techniques with tape and sound to non-entertainment motivated music directed at deconditioning social restraints on thought and body. In PSYCHIC TV we intend to apply our research and new information to building an even more precise and useful Individual structure that consciously takes into account thee real effects of Frequency and Pulse butter propagandises them in a very deceptive and subliminal way. A distorted mirror reflecting muzak back on itself. An innocuous parody of style, tactic and structure that in fact contains, in code, thee seeds of its own destruction, and hopefully, thee structure that nurtures it. To appear deflowered yet to be totally potent. REFERENCES Thee language used in mysticism, quite rightly has been debunked. It has becoum a crutch of not-understanding that allows dogma to flourish. Our enemy must always use dogma. To ask "WHY?", to "NEVER ACCEPT" are crucial. Thee most crucial and stimulating of human capacities. However, one can recognize an intuitive grasp of thee real function of sound when, for example, Paramhansa Yogananda says: "I understand the explosive vibratory power in human speech could be wisely directed to free one's life from difficulties and thus operate without scar or rebuke." "Any word spoken with clear realization and deep concentration has a materialising value. Loud or silent repetition of words has been found effective in psychotherapy. The secret lies in the stepping-up of the mind's vibratory rate." PTV suggested that musick is like teeth. You keep probing around until you find holes and then you fill them in until you have a coumplete set. Industrial Music was a term coined by Monte Cazazza for our early research. We openly declared we should eventually like to invent an anti-muzak that, instead of cushioning thee sounds of a factory environment, made use of those very sounds to create rhythmic patterns and structures that incorporated thee liberating effects of music by unexpected means. This approach is diametrically opposed to thee position of official MUZAK, as supplied by thee MUZAK CORPORATION of AMERICA. Their intention is to disguise stress, to control and direct human activity to generate maximum productivity and minimum discontent in order to give large corporations and industrial coumplexes thee highest possible profit with thee least responsibility. At this point E quote direct from a book published by thee MUZAK CORPORATION for its employees only and which E was able to read sections of by nefarious means: Upon entering thee Headquarters of Muzak Corp., there is a marble tablet set into thee wall which reads 'MUZAK-A CONCEPT IN HUMAN ENGINEERING.' "One problem we face today is noise. We are going to have to protect people against noise pollution." Dr. Bill Wokoun-Director of Human Engineering. "Even banks have a noise problem, a sonic overload of chairs scraping/coughing/machines/high heels on vinyl/talking. It is becoming very evident that you have got to protect people who are working. They will have to wear ear-plugs or ear-muffs. But people don't LIKE to do this because it makes them feel violated. So we're experimenting with a way of making it more COMFORTABLE to wear headsets (be violated! - Ed.) by piping in muzak." Dr. B. Wokoun. Muzak is a PROGRAMMED ENVIRONMENT. The raw material of muzak is music. Muzak serves 43 of the top 50 largest Industrial companies. In ice-bound radar stations, muzak stimulates the men who man the DEW-Line, the Distant Early Warning Cordon, to warn of nuclear attack. Over 80 million people a day hear muzak. Muzak isn't music to LISTEN to, it is music to HEAR. Muzak is functional music. There are three main Muzak programmes, for Heavy Industry, Light Industry and the Basic, or Office programme. In each of these 15 minutes of music, or "sound- inmotion" as we call it, is followed by 15 minutes of silence. "The ironical thing is, we have no trouble in TOTALITARIAN countries. Mood control and crowd control is part of the work of the HUMAN FACTORS DIVISION. "The IRREDUCIBLE MINORITY are people who don't want or like muzak. A muzak transmission studio is a dream of 1984 automation." (From the Muzak Corp. Bulletin G.B.) "If muzak makes people happy and contented in their environment, like air-conditioning and a colour scheme, how can it NOT be good?" "MUZAK - SPECIALISTS IN THE PHYSIOLOGICAL AND PSYCHOLOGICAL EFFECTS AND APPLICATIONS OF MUSIC." Muzak is based on the theory of the ASCENDING CURVE. The initial observation was that production is inclined to slump in mid- morning and afternoon. Wyatt and Langon established 4 work-curves from utter fatigue to a subtler decline that occurs when the work is distasteful and the operative is severely bored. Dan O'Neill decided this monotony and its effects would be relieved by FUNCTIONAL MUSIC, i.e., boring work is made less boring by boring music (Muzak quote). Some titles of Muzak Corp. Reports and Research documents: Effects of Muzak on Industrial Efficiency. Effects of Muzak on Office Personnel. Application of Functional Music to Worker Efficiency. The "Hawthorne Effect" is "A change in employee productivity caused by an awareness that reactions to environmental changes are being observed." Research findings on the physiological and psychological effects of music and muzak: It increases the metabolism. Speeds up breathing, typing, writing, driving. Increases (or sometimes decreases) muscular energy. Reduces suggestability, (not proven at all, recent use of coded messages in muzak to prevent theft in supermarkets suggest the opposite and that Muzak Corp are lying) delays fatigue, facilitates attention, and produces marked, if rather variable effects on blood pressure and pulse. My note: People often put on records whilst trying to seduce someone for sex, this is an unconscious use of muzak effects and admission of thee physical controls of music. Addiction to playing music is a commonplace example of instintive use of functional music. By 1956 Dan O'Neill finally achieved workable "Muzak Programming and Stimulus Charts". Patterns with upwards scoops of sonic stimulus which exactly compensate for those dark quarter-hours when employee's residual energy is lowest. Music should embody a constant progression of BRIGHTNESS. This is done by analysing the separate segments into: Tempo, Rhythm, Instrumentation, and Tonal Mass. The reason you always get 15 minutes of muzak followed by 15 minutes of silence is because the maximum you should play in any working area is 1/2 the time the employee is there. That way the employee is unaware of being physically and mentally manipulated. Two big variables in music are Melody and Rhythm. Muzak are now hypothesising from observations made of hospital patients that htese may be related to the electrical activity of the nervous system. So that rhythmic music may stimulate the sympathetic system and melodic music may stimulate the para-sympathetic system e.g., Cardiac cases seem to respond better to melodic music. Peptic ulcer patients seem to respond better to rhythmic music. Muzak Corp. are researching this theory to achieve: "A total programme. We are not so much interested in what music we use as with the sequence that will achieve results." MUZAK IS HEARD RATHER THAN LISTENED TO. Although you are not necessarily conscious of it, it will still AFFECT you. This process is called COMPLETE EAR APPEAL. In the event of failure of our Basic Programme we do not panic. Muzak has an automatic sensing unit which will trigger a standby M4R Machine into operation after 4 minutes of Basic Programme failure (i.e. no audio). The sensing unit will automatically turn on the button number 3 M4R Machine which is taped in a pre-set condition. In the advent of nuclear war, Muzak have our own power generators to ensure no failure of the Basic Programme to those facilities still functioning and able to recieve our transmissions. "We were in a slaughterhouse recently. Apparently they were having problems. The animals' blood would clot. They say the blood flows freely now. The muzak relaxes them as they die." Muzak is not on pre-packaged cassettes and tapes. The only records of muzak are NOT on sale to the public, they are for internal research only. Muzak is transmitted by telephone cable and radio. In that way a monopoly can be ensured and complete adherence to the selected programme maintained. Bear in mind therefore that the innocuous music heard in many elevators, and supermarkets, offices and fast food chains is not true MUZAK. It is but a pale, unscientific reflection of thee potent human engineering material. There is no doubt that thee body metabolism functions primarily via a combination of electrical frequency, pulse rates, biochemical hormones and rhythms. Thee brain, a vaguely understood mystery, is dependant on input. There is no doubt that thee conglomerate forces that seek to maintain control over us all FOR ITS OWN SAKE, and to preserve their own vacuous position, are far more aware of these aspects than they admit. There is no doubt that muzak, drugs, suppressants of metabolic stimulation are used as weapons to ensure stability of an oppressive status quo. Each breakthrough is kidnapped from thee youth/radical culture and is emasculated, mutated and rendered impotent. Only then is it returned to us packaged and harmless to them, as commercial music, token rebellion and obvious yet useless anti-social behaviour that not only ensures thee continued existence of their omnipotence butter also generates increased incoum for their coumfort, security and future research into control. Music now must be aware of thee subtleties of its effects, its structure must take into account thee metabolic and neurological effects and power of music and harness them for its own, deconditioning, anarchic ends. Thee empty carrot of success and respect must be seen for thee transparent confidence trick that it is, drugs of addiction must be bypassed, thee REAL WAR must begin. Thee decoding is possible, our own code becoums more sophisticated and effective. Everything E say is discussion, nothing is ever finished.