Thursday, January 29, 2015

Ahengmoia, beyond, await, Arrivalist

Of course, I have no idea about the next few bars, all a bit blurry and foggy. I think my paranoia's been a little on the heavy, lumbering, ponderous side of late. Maybe a marimba or a xylophone -- the phrase 'bus station marimba metal' always meant a happy point of departure to fanswerving distant sea-eroded piers with ice cream sellers and on-the-spot bearded algebraic topologists (one of the three is definitively artifice: either they're not actually bearded, or they're not actually algebraic, or they're not topologists) willing to sell you a gouda toroid inscribed with math glyphs dusted with paprika

A Maslow wag proffered "But do you lo..", and I interrupted: "Do you know that thing about parallel intents? We shared music: we saw the same things, without prompting, without having to tab-complete years of emotional dialogue about buying the wrong brand of continent or of sneezing out of tune, or rooting for the Blefescu Argumentum-Ad-Authoritarians instead of the Laputan Circumstantial-Ad-Hominems, but I could never get into sports be painful, and no, I didn't play Ferdinand. I wanted to be the Boatswain but got cast as Lord Francisco instead and was unhappy about it. No relationship is perfect, then again, playing that dice game involving cosmic songs played out in microcosm and being mysterious only really works when you don't have so many cards to put on the table, and that form of, ergh 'courting', seems very disingenous: "For I am the Duke of Flaaghai, fated from my origin to be the second worst Slowly-Emplace-Catnip-in-The-Jar-of-Pasta sauce artisan this side of the Orinoco", I usually ache when I hear people voluntarily backing into such life-narratives. "Did you roar?" I'll ask. "Could you be singing more harmoniously your part of the cosmic song?" I'll kvetch. Sure, we've all those messy stone ruins in one's psyche where the life course went topsy turvy hither and thither, but for us? When?.. when we couldn't tell where one of our inner narratives left off and the others narrative started."

Sunday, January 18, 2015

saddle promontories fungibilizing their creaking gleam

Can't bring peace, can't bring war, dry gray fronds scatter in the
scintilla of the other-sun, the other story, the aching bringing peace,
whose authorship? Whose story? Lives aren't stories, where does this begin?
Which central drama thus enacted is the distributed collection of
thematic prosodies for which future entanglements are scarred, scorred,
embalmed in love letters and tripthongs and uncertainties about intent and resource providences: I don't know, that calculus eludes me in a 'will you stay around, I've got Rust-and-Abbadonment issues to somehow apply the apropos mix of WD-(n+1) and I think my mimicry of a collection of newspapers rotting in the mud requiring tonics and ichors is becoming somewhat annealed' which I've just past the energy to engage in conversation about. Being direct? Being indirect? Being misdirected? Being misread? Can I close read the text and determine the motivations of the participlants? Or are they particifungal? Or particular? Or grammatical particles being accelerated at astonishing semantic velocities in a linguistic collider? Xenia and hygge scant, scattered to West-Green wind and my emotional accountants are currently being subpoena'd by some (n)-cameral legislative assembly. The honorable Tempublicratic representive from Noshoeno province is convinced that there's emotional self-embezzelment going on and wants those aforesaid accountants to confess their changing a '3' to a 2' on line 2109 of the Galactic Emotional Register, and the accountants, for whom the GER is a vaporous plume, have no idea what the representative is talking about. At least there's no great concern about the muon solenoids in the previously mentioned accelerator: the line items for that would induce a mantis shrimp go to their visual perception allergist and demand a large gray square some eighty meters on a side and guaranteed to be of homogenous color in one part of 10^17th. If I lean against a wall, I'll fall over, and I've been too close to shattering for a very long time: fortunately living situation is improved, and despite, (looks at the Eigenculture and bemoans that it's not 402,091 years in the future), I don't entertain any desire
to fall over and fragment. Alas and alack, light and color and strange patterns are easier for me to cope with than this 'what are your intentions, desires, preferred self-actualization navigation plans for the top of Maslow's hierarchy' shuffle. That kind of attritive flight-planning "one day we had clearance to go to Mynotta, and the next day we had to rehash the language about paragraph 130 of the flight plan about the diet of the symbiotic octagons our conveyance was carrying because the director thought they needed just fourteen more calcium atoms a day and that disrupted the rest of the computations, and the next day we were halfway to Plortmon" drives me to some combination of apoplexy and bonkers.

Tuesday, January 13, 2015

Gone, Present, Ochre, Salt, Alluvials

Hang my shoulders, my sinews, against the starfish coast?
Och, perorating and cacophanations? This story or that other
story, or some other agglomeration of tropes quickly appears,
occasionally persists, sometimes vanishes, bringing questions,
recriminations, malfeasances, defenestrations, acrimonies,
requests-for-disambiguation to the local Fluid Dynamics Guild
(chapter 490), each of their number equipped with frothy considerations for Courette flow, Reynolds Number Wrap (tiny aluminum particles), and then,
what, dialogues and constructs and wishes and collapsars bridged, bridled,
washed away in the Great Thundereddy of the Year of the Unpolarized Pirahna? Or was that the Ambiguous Storm of the Year of the Defrocked Ichneumon Wasp? My record keeping hasn't been double-entry for a while. I subtract
from the first and add to the second and, no, I haven't been emotionally self-embezzeling. Every meteorological event of significance demanding the local weather station give the storm a name and some customized graphical identity accumulates into a mishmash of memories of their bespoke graphical identities:
I keep confusing the Wood Road Hailstorm with the Attacking Bewildered Tardigrades blizzard of 409,401LE. The Fluid Dynamics guild types just offer me bits of stilton and say "it's just the flux and flow, here, find yourself a good vortex sheet", or some other pithy remark I'm not inclined to follow, and then get all huffy when I proclaim: "I talk to you and you bring up these abstractions, little dizzy teacups, or broken clocks, or wombat machines, but if I go talk to the folk at the weather station, they talk about the interpersonal dynamics of their weather team and how they just purchased Namsalthai-Praihexl Lumbago Graphics 4000 boxes and that their niece's family just had its first thukdam. I don't like these narratives and each of you usually assumes I'm with the other, so, er, cryptic?" and they look at me like I have a tortoise and just continue on.
And what, rattles out predictions for the next star-cycle for my Maslow hierarchy? Every time I've been inclined to divest just a little energy in conventionally sensible strategies, I appear to get met with responses whose nature appears to be that of essential cognitive dissonance: large scale coherence is a hard sell, apparently, bewilderingly, despite its ability to make the universe more transparent and easy to apprehend.

Shore oarred oak rhythms, phalangeal fingerings,
functions on the complex plane, now boarding, have
you been through secur-- scurrity? Mise-en-mouse, drag,
scrabbled, fell, so, no major realignment of belief-structure
inventory (can cope with that), just have to possibly
stretch the pathologies of the already pathological. (I need
to have a word with the author, already), another lime rhyme,
prepared to broadcast the antecedants in hegemony morse code
down the beach. Whenever, wherever, whoever, and however
tranquility might next be availed, meh, where were those
paranoia-generating granules to be emplaced into the
locomotive's engine? Under the potato... I have seven potatos,
and it's under the third.