Monday, May 11, 2015
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
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.