Saturday, May 28, 2016

for emphasis

[will have to suffice for emotional closure, and more for record keeping purposes than anything else.] Oh, that uncomfortable short-trip in the seats-two space-pod? Expected to summarize the flight? Or at least the conversation (or lack). That's tricuspid-wringing emotional territory. I emphasized that I wasn't a dancer (this point seems to get lost in the shuffle, frequently), I said that "that's very nice quasiperfection but in this tryptich of dreams, you were disinterested in the theta functions identity, and the capstone involved telling Thor to say my thank- yous to an anagram-abundant not-in-this-context while he was strengthening my hands, and probably the last definite moment of experiential ecstasy, so when, er, I wax poetic about the anagrams abundant, and/or those whose agency gets them high mass lucite hall passes, I do so having a fairly good idea of where high fidelity long range emotional harmonies are happening, and where the turbulence is. Between this and mscpllc... didn't get closure or (as predictable) an accurate reading of my emotions. The swirlier made sense, the Vulcan/Borg did not. " And then the space-pod trip is over. There's the whiff of uncomfortable homogeneity and/or isotropy, maybe something like caulk or mayonnaise: it's a wholly different way of responding to the world and we're glad to part company.

Friday, December 18, 2015

Foregones and Bygones and Zygons

Serihevwuoi glammered over the sileption "This will never do", stirring, amidst the copal plumes and other bedeckments. A phase diagram of language was scrawled in ochre and cinnabar on the rock face. Erapohge and Mihirrinamib exchanged bewildered glances at each other, clad in sky-orange vestments, great fatigue on their eyes, their fatigues unlaundered, with street-legal philately manuals. Erapohge's almost fluorescently crimson eyes muttering a look of -- what was it? Roiling around in the constituents and monomers of the assayers pipettes. Mihirrinamib's eyes were ebon blue lighted by a metallic iridescence and a perpetual inner vapor which wafted from some unspeakable internal biochemical processes. How Mihirrinamib sees is beyond the scope of this epistle. Erapohge gestured Serihevwuoi-wards, sculling-a-swervy. Mihirrinamib's visual sense-- well -- attention focused, understood, and then laughed uproariously amongst the pions of the long scarves and gaberdines hanging from the dry rack. Small pieces of iguana fruit had been pressed into them to stave off attack by microscopic political candidates. "Is that a ergativity aerosol in the bin?",... squints... "yeesha!" sez Mihirrinamib. "Nomenclatural Molds!", again indigestibles and indefatigables fail to commute, Mihirrinamib sighs, the conversation is diffracted, visible only through great distances and through many daisy-chained translations between one host context and another, from exotic to old-hat in fewer conceptual homomorphisms than you can shaken, not stirred, the entire GDP of Sevapaqua on... Erapohge tilts a picoradian toward Toronto, Mihirrinamib traces the marks ground in with dust and sweat on the phase diagram, looks at the tanks, the reaction vessels, her attention is focused on the one gourd shaped one about two stories tall. "Triple point, oh, oh," exclamatory, exultant, schadenfreude. With a viewing window and other instrumentation. Mihirrinamib whispers in Serihevwuoi's ear, "I'm listening", Serihevwuoi is really tired of these calls from Venirampolistani adverbial-particle inductor ring merchants, why is the signal so itinerant and spotty? Mihirrinamib: "first, go look at the molten material you have in the gourd", Serihevwuoi listens to the merchant talk about how their new adverbial-particle inductor ring is good to 80KHz, yadda, yadda, I've heard this before. Mihirrinamib: "secondly: don't go dissolve yourself in this assayer's process, go and swim in it", Serihevwuoi hears something about antelope polarity therapy. Mihirrnamib: "third: don't worry about ]exocontextual specifier[, just, yeah, and no, it probably wasn't your fault anyway". At about the point where Serihevwuoi notices that her cell phone is stowed, both Erapohge and Mihirrinamib have jumped into the gourd.

Thursday, June 18, 2015


Whence, whet, whents? Outland rime? Lime? Where they speak the language of the Frosted Sighs, the Argot of the Blurred Zephyr, the solvation of Wists in the countercurrents of the yestermorrow. Fears congeal, never crystallizing, when to open up, when to armor and protect, and how much of the latter is acceptable without constructing a rococo fragile carapace for the psyche, a single misstep and the chitin might injure. Stumble, thimble, meander, ache, where's that what binds with the prostaglandin receptors? Oh, I'd sally froth, but I'm no constructor. Lambda muon begrudgments sapping the edges of an algally populated tidal pool and hiding under the covers sounds like a good career move. Oh, yes, no, I don't know, do I, provident of something like a living bilita mpash and a drunk tardigrade saxophonist carefully dialing Tuscaloosa. But where the relationship narrative meanders into dangerously unbalanced, skedaddle, skedaddle. The metanarrative? Which manifest destiny to subvert? Which alchemical narrative to deconstruct into tropes and then subvert each one of those, and what to subhorizonize? I admit a persistent discomfort. Also: scatter filtering is mired in the star-dappled revenants of the underyesterday, but, whatever, I just wanted apple juice.

Monday, May 11, 2015

map position, outside the valley

The Scottish pathecardiast walrus Anchvauk slurped on an ollallieberry milkshake in the tidal pool. "I know what broke it, I know who tried to take credit for it, I know who (surreally) ensured it didn't shatter" I said, rolling the potato chip around in my mouth. "What I don't know, is what I should do: I haven't had the kind of in person conversation reaching that emotional altitude or subsurface depth for, oh, an aeon, and the two folks I would be immediately inclined to ask for advice inhabit totally alien and somewhat more politicised climates than I feel comfortable traversing the whatever-distance to" Anchvauk hums, one of those /thinking sagely about the matter at hand/ hums. "I am also not good with stories that involve messy syncopations of pushing and pulling -- be it a dance, what have you. I work on throws and catches: Chekhov's Species-Scale Empathy generator on the wall in the first act, that time I was listening to someone on the street trying to express a concept and then yakking at them 'comprehension activation energy enzymes', and then a 'thank you' in response. There I can function, in fact, soar: it's habitable. What substance is repetition? That's the idea that I recoil from most pungently: I happened to encounter some horrors early on that got crystallized in fairly fundamental fear-dressing, and I haven't particularly found a good curative for them: if traversing the roads and what have you I happen on the kind of interaction which cures without producing addiction, which jives and chimes and rhymes and is perforce of mutual and collaborative fortune I might then be persuaded to remain around. I have tried living in the valley amongst the field insects, and I know I can't operate that way. If by my devices that far-off perspective, you know, this amounts to meaningful and substantives which don't require dancers semantics, I will stay and build a cottage thereinst." Anchvauk: you're dizzy around your own barycenter! The farewells? "The wells? I knowst not what my obligations to whose heart requires zithers of higher order and indirect interaction to sate whateverso my own needs account. My art brings swirly immediacy: I know not of time, like irregular zebra stripes. Gone I can deal with. Not the tiny little lapping antimatter amoeba lapping at my hemoglobin sitting on my mitral valve." Anchvauk smokes a drag from the cinnagar, flops in the water to parts unknown.

Thursday, May 07, 2015

Story Tropes

Mistakes: There is more than one browser. Secondly, I am not logged in on the other. I was having one of these perpetual telephonic disasters with one of my (definitively-not-a-juggler)-biocontributor, at the end of the call, I see that the clouds of greenspun birds, I can neither see nor speak of. Thar's a raw ache. I printed and emplaced on my wall, a draft, with your eurythmy, the scars where the poem's paper was taped to the wall as well as the picture still adorn the wall. I'm not sure -- I wrote your nomen anuenue on the notebook page that I first wrote about torrential effervescence. As for breaking and cardiac persimmonery, that I can answer, I think, I'm not wholly sure, though, can't work out the direct product, everything is blurry: what's definite is that far before I could be given a chance to reasonably work out where I stood, I bothered taking what people said at face value, and then afterwards, I was misunderstood by triage, and now? The flocks of birds vanish. Maybe one of them vanishes. Tricky to reconcile the lack of a final proscenium with irregular regularity, falling into cosmic limit cycles, falling over. We made it about two thirds of the way through, associating between each label and the next, what were they labeled with: trees, rainbows, honeycombs, gluons, lattices, galaxies, hyperboloids, bismuth, butterflies, crashing waves, muons, thunderstorms, theta functions, seashells, cabin trunks, fungal gills, lichens, oxidative phosphorylation, CNO cycle, didgeridoo, cough drops, weaving, ginger ale, stroopwafels, froth or foam, iridescence, pizza, lambda calculus, juggling, water, green, fractals, typography, the ocean, sleep, dreams, love. As a result of the algorithm chosen to string the Euler circuit, after each run the last link returns to the last numbered node. The list above is in numerical order. I told a story I had to tell, I think, about letter isomers: that will keep me alive, at least. What do I do? I know not. Do I fret in wait? Will you reappear now only to disappear later, or to editorialize and self-censor so quickly to feel like dancing-make-me-nauseous? Twice? Thrice? Clock chimes? The marigolds twirling in the sunset, is this my emotional netflix? Talk to me sometime, not in delayed asciioscopy, but in phonemes. So, scar tissue? Triage wounds? What's cued? Who is blue and who was violet? Of brush and thresh and green and gerania and spackled gateways, and whatever burnished cast fundamental fear buttressed arches flying like swaying swans perhaps foresquawking futures reliant but marinated by bleary endorphins and incuprient byways blasting forth with, well, I paint the sky with ephemeral abstractions anyway, so dance I won't: if queasy hopes blear into inert contrails baked with ambiguity at 400 kelvin, I'll be having my pizza and doing mathematics where I can at least be assured that my heart, and perhaps yours, will remain uninjured.

Thursday, March 26, 2015

Wist Cavalcade

All I ever wanted (feels like Maslow's hierarchy and nitrogen narcosis collaborated on this radical new form of bitter and my claim that I had prior art was drowned in the scuffle) is someone over for pizza and to do math. Thunkthunkthunk. I method act through my own motivations -- I don't trust them insofar as they don't make sense and what else starts with 'lo', anyway? Have me pokin' around at at fossilized thesaurus trying to find closure or New Jersey or the Western Kettles or some other tropane collagen stork battle gimletting the waffle batter of the world, and amidst hoovering from glotip to mysterious nonmentions of fumarase deficiency (makes whatever aing-tii circulatory fluid I might have reach its triple point and then gap-junctioning through bleary rhombs of superannuated emotional supernatant (didn't really need any more incitement to personal paranoia or what have you, and without the desire to cast ingots of bitter and leave them in odd positions in my hippocampus, yes of course I miss! But what's a fastidious accountant of keta to do besides encourage more fermenting and fomenting of my wither-worn and winter-bleary spirit? No final proscenia? Vial of eggnog goes splat. Splut. Velar nasal pith strung against the mire, strung in spider-silk and week-old halvah and dizzyingly cantilevered against the cat tails, here's my hand (usual recitations), here's what I have to offer, smush, so and so forth, froth. With dream memories now that I can't make sense of and adumbrations on my time and attention which mired in a mixture of crestfallen and forlorn like some fastidious psychologist from Brussels in 1928, excuse me, psychoanalyst querulously demanding how I like my cheese stir-fried the Maillard reactions are quite fetching have you managed to get to the shore yet and other burgeoning-on-incomprehensible questions about how many molecules of adenosine triphosphate the mitochondria in my feet have synthesized since I last felt satisfying hygge of any sort, shoo away, shoo away anxious to escape these irritating and unobservant questions, and I feel like interjecting "if you were really paying apropos attention to my current fractious state and have suggested incitements to a waking bilita mpash, I might have listened, but otherwise this mockery of accounting is just more salt on my wounds" I wanted the gazebo in the country, the one where the sky is torrid and yellow with ozone and the rain is from a supercell thunderstorm, and you could smell the geraniums and the tang of tea or ice cream as the comedy played on the laptop with its remaining charge during the power outage. My isolation coping mechanisms have kind of returned with unanticipated ferocity: persist, yes. Thrive, certainly not. Ache: quite definitely: here's more lego using language with no flair or magic, stuck in the same repetends, not ethereal, drab, dry, and I'll ache. I don't know what you feel over there, of the frond, but I feel sadness now and again. Time for the neroli oil, the crushed leaves of sedra, oil of the kernel of the apricot, sage and comfrey while they are still warm, and pizza, and a whole lot else besides, and new math papers, and so many impossibly heartwarming anagrams of 'check a letter isomer: hug'.

Friday, March 13, 2015

Post (Gone)

Sinuses stuffy, the wind-salt strewn of the sea perorating as local dioramas -- microcosms of sand surf enjoying misarticulated relationships with one another: how long did the hermit crab spend looking for a new home this morning? There was a beetle on the beach which had an argument with an aluminum drink container: both of them came out on the losing side of that argument. Sand grains chirp to each other about the last time their silica was involved in volcanism. Sea-spray, bromine bromeliads, natural incense precessing around classical unities barycenters (some of them performing remarkably adroit Baryshnikov impressions in the delightful concert of the motion of centers of mass of various dynamical systems, interacting to and fro'). Whene'r I might inherit succour of any sort, I do so in some attempt to sing harmony with what cosmic song I can make out -- if only in a rudimentary way, from these dramas and trioramas, from these triremes and mythological scents ramified in my own mythopoeiome: the sungull, the sandcantilever, the Oxid, the Runnymiid and Balacthener, the Gatesneeper, the Mystereography. the Bedecked En, tales and context froth reference leaps whose epics the beach dramas only hint at: I have a thing to do, as they say, no religious encrustation of misguided deontic motivation, just the construction of a bespoke conveyance for the froth by my own delirious and somewhat essentially immiscible-with-brief-context-span epistemologies of the world: to me, the froth is zany, but I can never be assured that it will even pass the perception threshholds of others too invested in industries opaque to me: no bother, no need for any cognitive prescriptivism and its contrary-to-diversity approach. "I had coping mechanisms prior to, and now, well, I see they're functioning peachily. I tried to put as many of my cards on the table as possible (although I don't particularly like that metaphor, as I do entertain antipathy for unnecessary arbitraries conducted for their own transience, and not to any larger structures which might pass unto the ethereal outside the perception thresholds of the very wary), but I am a juggler, not a dancer: I persist on the basis of anticipated catches and throws, not of unpredictable sequences of pulls and pushes whose second and higher order derivatives resemble elf-Braille and are unfriendly to my eyes. Here is this thing, what does it mean to you? Or this other thing?..." the note trailed off. Did I wander down to the village and purchase a two asulnctoro postal voucher and have it posted to an address in the Sahefepan Prefecture? I can't say definitively.