GAMES FOR MAY 2016 / MYSTERY GAMES

WAY MAY DAY / GAMES FOR MAY 2016 / THE MYSTERY GAMES

SHALO P / TELEVISION FOR GHOSTS surely don't operate like most. 

Our stories are scattered across five corners of the accursed inter-web.

Only select bookstores, run by deranged mutant acolytes of cinema / literature, house SHALO P books like rowdy inmates in a Heartbreak Hotel / Jailhouse Rock / Caged Heat crossover starring Freddy Mercury.

Our previous indifference to internet representation had left us somewhat incomplete, 
a sort of fill-in-the-blank artist supplemented by nuanced interviews.



The truth is just a hop skip n' a jump
into the desert of the unreal.

We're just voices of reason here, focused through SHALO P / TELEVISION FOR GHOST's fine medusa-shaped prism, currently being an odd "appendices to a single room", representing various new refurbished natural philosophies to demolish them old shitty ones. 

FROM THE DESK OF SHALO P :

I'd stamp a Chuck Close painting to death to make room for a Jack Kirby any ole' day, or for a stream of Peter Greenaway / Michael Nyman cinematic compositions, the brilliance of Shana Moulton - it might suffice to have Orlan's lovely face left hanging on the wall like a mask, but straight bizness can keep its bordomz bliss to itself.

Frankly, The Underground is an incoherent term, now that everything's allegedly a click away - sorta. And yet The Counterculture is still surprisingly standing arms wide - fancy that.

Reality's still only skin-deep, in this regard - SEVEN LAYERS OF HEAVEN - plenty enough degrees for slowly separating the baking from oven.

So, it seems that we may as well come clean that we keep a lot of stuff off the internet.

It's practically another Universe to me, in a sense, a myriad of soft spaces, lost spaces, information, and unbridled pornography. Yeah, we can rely on it, but only Nothing is rock-solid, 'cept our principles, rocks, and our thrillz.

FROM THE DESK OF BB :

The Television For Ghosts library will never be completely online. It just can't. I tried and the computer vomited, nearly dying, and needed, like, a thousand back rubs to recuperate.

FROM THE DESK OF DORDERY MARKS :

Look, let's figure that folks these days seem to favor handy little typewriters, and the streets are aplumb with phony walkers bumping into people like inconvenient clouds, buffering spaces like it's a peripheral game of "walking is so easy I can do it blind-folded". This isn't going away - WHATEVER - but playing TVG off a "lil" fucking phone just isn't our sort of cinema. It sounds fucking gross. We do theatres, grand ballrooms, vibrant spaces, basements, tremulous innerspaces. Where's that ringing coming from? Hands up!!!

You're dealing with one of the smartest teams fucking EVER fucking ever fuckin.. wha... huh... uh... Where were we again? Who am I kiddin'?

Be our friend and let's assuage the aches and traumas of total information for a more palatable discourse on inter-dimensional travel through the membranes of culture and the arts in conceptual video, literature, and smarty comic strip funnies interpolating all manner of COSMIC ENDEAVOUR.

We'll have products soon to complete this discourse economically. Right now it's just a cool chat between pals, right?

The wheels are in motion, and the gears are oiled by the blood of patriots.

Let's figure this phase of the internet age as the The School of Thought period.

Folk have many beliefs and ideas. We're practically prone.

Certain ideas draw lines across lines over the horizon upon the horizon (on the horizon). 

An idea's innate beauty can be extrapolated to shatter "mind-forged manacles".

Let's keep striving for higher ideas, and keep talking to our fellow humans, when being offline means turning on and flipping out.

We're just here as your substitute to
everything else in The Universe.

hep hep,

sp