for want of a preamble:

only the other day I turned around to a friend and said “i want to be the next female james bond” then collapsed into silence.

instead of ruminating upon a possible celluloid debut i was shocked at my own ability to deliver non-sequitors.

i’ve had this sneaking suspicion for a while now that i have been reporgamming myself with the kinds of media i deal with, and the concoction is deadly. social death.

if you are currently engaging in modern conversation, you are led to believe that you can get away with anything. non-continous modes of argument, useless and random fact dropping. soft-voiced contemplation of a seemingly inconsequential details. these are considered to be alternate modes of communication.

however, being a secret agent, and possibly a double one at that, my personal philosophy has been to encrypt the thing i want to say and believe that the person or persons to whom this message is destined will have the foresight to look at everything i have said globally, see the key and commence with decryption.

this take on meta-crytpion is relatively PC in the secret agent modus operandi as it does not damage the environment and does not necessitate any expensive gadgets or toys .it is also literally a weight off an agent’s shoulders as he/she does not have to carry tonnes of use-only-once equipment secreted away in rings, belts, keys, watches, heels, computers, suitcases, cars, airplanes, phones etc etc. no-one knows exaclty what the figure for federal agent chiropracty is but i tell you, its in 7 figures.

this is what i got when i looked up the rom-diary of agent 007 active in the late 20ths: -------------------------- my first secret mission came under the category of industrial espionage. i was to place a bug in someone’s office and then collect it five days later before it was sweeped. this was in the late eighties. i was young and therefore not terribly confident. several years later i joined lambdamoo. a virtual space inhabiteted by a large number of players in entering a consensual hallucination that focused around a serority building. at that time there was a kind of radio that existed in an outside cafe where you could communicate with a group of programmers with large egos. (justifiably so, they had created a gateway from one parallel universe to another). there was also, as there is now, a facility to @spy, @sweep, @locate, @look and smoke. these are all secret agent activities that many players of moo (depending on player class) take for granted. remote evaluation of the status of another player, what they look like, who there pals and roomates are, where they are at present and what it looks like, the last time they logged in and for how long, how old they are in moo-years and so on. now there are things called puppets. like secret ears dressed as dogs or toys or a plastic tray, they listen on your behalf to the goings on in a particular room. if you ar e inclined to use the @paranoid features, you can also trace which puppet said what and who it belongs to and where they are. have your character change into a bikini, with a knife at the hip and you can be the next Jane Bond. -------------------------------------------------

the secret service training video:

we open with a vista over a cold winter beach: we are waiting for the arrival of client *, a boring shot over the bank and the waves in the distance. when suddenly::: a seagul flies into the lens.

character witness:

HEADLINE: ROACH MAN MAKES DOCUMENTARY he's a dumb animal you know a dumb animal filming dumb animals except the dumb animals aren't as dumb as he is. man - you know he was filming these cockroaches and they all escaped so he had to go out and buy a new set.

dumb brick's not switched on. oh here we go:

coords: 93/333/xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx an irrational date: let's have a number of them. the fragmented cyborg self appears xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx. she's walking through the urban landscape of xxxxxxxxxx. night is falling and shadows have disappeared: this is a flat world of parallel surfaces xxxxxxxxxxxxxshot through the electronic cyborg eyes> the shrubery beyond a standstone wall reminds her of another city and the meaning is transposed. various kinds of information are displayed as a soup of morphic folliage/stone edifices/orange street lamps. the relationship to the landscape is blurred as the body moves to existence in this and other time frames. the image is fragmenting, dividing into blocks of unsubstantiated information that pulse in space to no known rhythmn. and since it is a split second since it began an infinity passes and we see that she is simultaneously sitting nowehre with hands over ears and in a room twitching in spastic motion and walking in the street and the sound is a composite of every sound that there ever was...but most of all it is human and the image is brought back into focus before it is processed and there is a will but we are not privellaged to its origins. the focused eyes are examining fruit. two dollars for a bag of clementines. money is exchanged, we are back in a familiar systemxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

hack backwards:

long since lost the machine: and i smell the blood of a thousand ruin tumbling over word gone before gone before (behind backwards) and the big nose twitches because it can't smell but i can smell the blood of angry in my eye. and it smells like cooking like a thousand of a thousand of a thousand rotting wires coiled around the slumber. the sharp quick saw logs weekly into the core drowning drowning in the anti (here is the were forever) the joyous concubine. in the silver shower the tumbles of forbidden mute plotting checking accessing alone the body looking: it's a way out. and obdurate in meaning the geysers of exits chroma in their hallucinogenic pleasures make a promise fulfilled: you will not eat me i will infect you. and dinner is served.

recollections from a secret.op:

a shack somewhere in the middle of nowhere with the only public telephone in timor. waiting for a call with the guys playing cards and chewing nuts, it took a while. the trees in the night green or is it nostalgia that makes the floor chalky and white.

" i want to look beautiful for posterity "
you say to the MI5 camera lens
beyond the window
dead on the floor

½¹·¯µ¼ºþ¹$º»

yes i will meet you in the space between two pages in the gap between two edits in the time to go from one www page to another in half the time it takes for a bullet to reach its target on the line between two telephones i will be waiting u

sometimes i like to believe:

that i'm on chesil beach counting the stones behind a wind cheater.