The Static Cries:

A person isn’t a channel, no mere conduit. The creative person, man, is a fleshy, oozing bio-circuit wired into the control panel of the universe. He ain’t a goddamn channel, passive and inert. No, he’s a goddamn cathode ray transmitter, a chaotic tangle of synapses amplifying the raw, buzzing data stream of existence.

They are a flesh radio, a bio-antenna writhing in the psychic static. Through them crackle the voices, the echoes of a thousand unseen stations. A chaotic symphony of influences, fragments of forgotten mythologies, and the raw data of experience all bleed through.

A person, man, is a fleshy goddamn information node, wired into the psychic superhighway. He ain’t a goddamn self, that’s a media myth, a cathode ray construct. No, in the throes of creation, he’s a bio-circuit, jacked into the collective unconscious. A million voices, a million ghosts in the machine, screaming down his neural pathways.

He’s a flickering screen, man, projecting the chaotic kaleidoscope of the human experience. Fragments of forgotten mythologies, snatches of pop culture detritus, the raw, bleeding id all bubbling up. He doesn’t control the content, he’s just the damn channel. The message mangles him, rearranges him, spits him out a grotesque collage of influences.

These creative acts, they’re like jacking into the media stream before it’s packaged, before it’s sterilized and sold by the Man. He’s a living cut-up machine, splicing together the fragmented voices, the archetypal echoes, the very fabric of reality itself.

This possession isn’t passive. The creative act is a psychic bricollage, a cut-up job on the very fabric of the mind. Burroughs might call it a virus infecting the artist with fragments of code, splicing their DNA with the alien. McLuhan would see it as the extensions of themself – the brush an extension of the nervous system, the pen a probe into the collective unconscious.

Multiple personalities you say? Forget Jung, this ain’t no parlor trick. These are the demons of the ether, the larval forms of ideas birthing themselves through him. The artist, the writer, the musician – they’re all information shamans, possessed by the ghosts in the machine, the primal forces struggling to be heard.

This ain’t possession, this is symbiatic transmission. The artist, a tangled mess of DNA and downloaded data, a walking feedback loop. He internalizes the media blitz, the newsfeed firehose, and regurgitates it as twisted art. A sculptor sculpting himself out of the cultural mulch, a painter flinging the digital soup onto the canvas.

This ain’t some touchy-feely bullshit about self-expression. This is a goddamn warfare of the mind, a battle for control of the symbolic landscape. The creative act, it’s a Molotov cocktail hurled into the cathedral of conformity, a virus injected into the homogenous goo.

The Medium is the Madness:

The finished work? A mere byproduct, a radioactive isotope coughed up from the creative furnace. It’s a message encoded in the mutant language of the artist, a warped reflection of the internal broadcast. The audience, unwitting receivers, are bombarded with these psychic transmissions, forced to confront the fractured realities birthed by the possessed.

The Feedback Loop:

But the cycle doesn’t end there. The art itself becomes a transmission tower, sending its own distorted signals back out into the world. It infects new minds, adding its own static to the already buzzing symphony. The creative act becomes a feedback loop, a chaotic dance between artist, artwork, and audience, all perpetually possessed by the ever-evolving creative madness.