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.

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