Saturday, November 5, 2011

Assault on the Three Bridges


Excerpt from a stolen communique, fragment 19:

... and this will bring about the full assault on the Three Bridges: techno, social, semi-divine. It is our intention to rebrand a new scientific paradigm, to create a new theory and a new mode of full philosophizing. Silence only in death and only then from an anthropocentric view of the sonic. History is written with (and into) fictional narrative paradigms, philosophy and theory must follow suit. Reality is what you can get away with. Perception (pace ...


It can safely be assumed that nothing is stable any longer. Change then shall be our guide, our friendly inconstant. The wave has once again crested. There is naught to do by ride it out and make for whatever shore becomes available. Any port in the store. Straight on and strive for tone.


- Posted from my φάρμακον.

Location:Lone Pine Dr,Palm Beach Gardens,United States

Friday, November 4, 2011

"1 2 3. 4, 5 6. 9. ... Go!"

Mushrooms growing from the stump in the corner of the courtyard, that bit that can't keep it's grass. 7 skies h3 blending with the wind and the neighbors patriotic windchimes. Dogs are barking. The harsh cry of the neighbor kid; skinned knee.

And his Baby Einstein branded kickball.
Ours is just green.

English breakfast tea - black gone cold. Trying to read Noise, in fragments. Figments.
Hour and a half. Wash the feet.

Remembering the tasks for the day, those left unfinished. The music drifts with me as I fade in and out. An argument for synthetic/synthesized/syncretic/synchronicity. The number 23.

"Fast running! Daddy, chase me! 1 2 3. 4, 5 6. 9. ... Go!"

- Posted from my φάρμακον.

Location:Sorrento Cir,Winter Park,United States

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

Wear Your Own Hat.

spitting lines of straight forward progeny
bricoleur bile and death's head monotony
ramblin' rhymes mediocre melody
I sing of the depths; misdemeanor.


Look. It's Monday. We can keep forward keeping on, tales of orca and dragons. Breath, breathe, fire. I could stand tall, pissing off mountains, high hills, strangers. Potentiality is no longer a measure. Everything retains potential energy. These days the measure is not potential but jobs Jobs JOBS. Give me a coherent and calculable measure of the ineffable or give up. There is nothing that cannot be measured, reduced to bits/bytes, and streamed. And if there is, well there won't be once we finally standardize the form and eliminate analog analogues for good. One last 7" (I was in a pool!)

The fact is, the chain of influence, impotence, relevance, & association is inevitable, infinite. I can associate William Jefferson Clinton with William the Conquer, Thomas Jefferson, and George Clinton should I choose (one hell of a band that trio would make). I can associate George Walker Bush with Curious George, Walker Texas Ranger, and that band that I never really listened to much, glycerine. Of course, it isn't really a choice of association. Association is a function of language, narrative structure, and human thought processes. That which is is only by relation to that which it is not. The endless chain (and play) of signification. Could I further overdetermine a reference? Certainly. Hyperlinks. Title data. [a related project is in the works for one of my current classes]. Though overdetermination of data does not inherently signify anything any more or less meaningful than any other chosen chain of meaning and signification. We hack our own ways through the desert/jungle of reality and human relations. Enough of this. 140bmp. Skip scratch and fade the record.

Our courtyard is grassy and there is a climbing tree that Finn is too little to and terribly impatient to climb. He confides to me that the tree has too many secrets. I cannot but agree. Fast running! Daddy, chase me. There is no thinking in a vacuum. There is no think tank that is not biased towards or poisoned by the experiential reality of its "thinkers".

The Milliner Research Foundation says: "Wear Your Own Hat."

Monday, October 31, 2011

dark lines

i lost a post last week. Fully formed. Submitted. There was an error. and the screed, the ramble about words and ink and life and ennui and rebellion was lost. The world remains the same. None cried.

Regardless.

1. The Story. (i read books. it seemed enough. foregoing sleep. a woman. a chair. something about the music. too loud? the flight home. lost luggage. sleep. mischief.)

2. The Song. (the is a chanting or a droning in the background. perhaps it is religious. perhaps it is feedback from an audio system. perhaps it is. that which will be will be. so it goes. amen amen it shall be so.)

3. The Situation. (_)
4. The Solution. (go on then. salute.)
5.

***
On another day, perhaps we are in the woods now and maybe it is a Wednesday or Thursday but regardless those involved are neither skipping work nor unemployed, so a holiday maybe or just one of those long weekends or a vacation or whatever:
Let's skinny dip!
OK!
I am aroused from all this consensual nudity. Let us have consensual sexual relations.
OK!
Now let us go our separate ways without guilt or shame despite societal proclivities and expectations to the same.
OK!
my headphones are broken. shame. that. i suppose i shall need to obtain (purchase) new ones. such. then. the same.


it's late. I need sleep. the semicolons need sleep. let us ;;;;;;;;;:

Monday, July 18, 2011

I often catch myself twisting my beard but it hasn't gotten me to stop or shave (speculative memoir)




I'd like to spend more time meditating.
He thought about the lizard. He was just trying to catch it, put in the the cup, and take it outside. Catch and release. They couldn't have a lizard in the house. No matter how tiny - less than an inch tongue to tail. How he caught it with the plastic take out tub. Caught it on it's throat on the wall up and to the right of the tv, above the amplifier and the geisha. And then there was no choice but to kill it. To crush it's little body against the wall, behead the poor bastard in a brown smear and then get a pile of Kleenex to clean off the wall. At least that stain could be removed. He had just wanted to shoo it out of the house.
I sprained my ankle in the ocean. Water was waist deep or so and the waves were coming on strong because of some tropical storm or another. High for the Atlantic, high for the summer. And the floor was distinctly uneven. And I was running. Probably should have chosen to dive earlier but I didn't have my goggles on and I wanted to delay the dull insistent burn of salt water on the contact lenses. Not a bad sprain but on my good ankle. Or a least it was.
The Master asks the Acolyte: "What is Jesus?"
Answer: "Three bearded cats."
I leave my shoes near the door. Sandals mostly. Almost exclusively. I like my toes to wiggle, my feet to be free and to stretch. It is debilitating. I over-pronate and should restrict myself to sturdy shoes with custom built orthotics. I should brush my teeth twice a day and refrain from cussing at children. Fitter. Happier. More productive.


Location:Anchorage Dr,North Palm Beach,United States

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

The carpet had the fewest stains


Karl Gómez dreamed of a window, of having a window. The fan on the ceiling groaned but kept it's slow widdershins. He had been told to keep an account, the three notebooks now yellowed, full of nearly illegible chicken scratch in blue bic typical. Numbers, dates, accounts. Shopping lists, book catalogues, stray thoughts. He could never tell what was important. But he hadn't been hired to think. Just the notes.
"The facts, ma'am, and a slice of that cherry pie I saw coming in."

Poor humor had always been his defense mechanism of choice.

Karl Gómez changed into his spare shirt. If he was to meet the big man, he couldn't go in a drenched wifebeater and stained khakis. The suit was tight around his gut so he left it unbuttoned. They would be sitting most of the meeting, surely. Near a window. Mr. Jones certainly had a window. Probably windows. With views.

Karl Gómez put the notebooks in his backpack. It didn't match the suit, but it couldn't be helped. The advance had run dry weeks ago and he still didn't know if he had anything to show for it. Who could say what he had been looking for in that overheated basement "office"? Numbers, number stations, quotes from popular newspapers and magazines, street signs, bits of doggerel. He had even found one poem written above a urinal in a turnpike truckstop. He didn't know how it was relevant but he had feeling, a queer sort of sixth sense certainty.

Karl Gómez turned off the radio in the middle of a Thirteen Faces song (it was all the place these days, does that make it was good) and headed for the subway.



Location:Anchorage Dr,North Palm Beach,United States

He stole water from the moon.


...like forcing a wet mop through a keyhole. All I get is the rank rot of decay and a slow trickle of grey water. Welcome to the Marketplace of the Soul!

Johnny Marag crooned menacingly, spittle forming on his lips, flying into the black of the audience. Bright lights, sweating stage. Ram's horns curled up over his dripping black hair and with his legs wrapped in curly black wool he was the very picture of a modern satyr. Satyr with a ebony Gibson Les Paul Custom. Baa baa, black sheep, fork my whorish tongue.

Pan Io. Io. Io. Pan Io. Pangenitor. Panphage. Io Pan. Pan Io.

***

The opening band had been something of a disappointment.
Hi! Hello there. We are the Skinflint Berrypickers. Enjoy. Ready, boys? And a 1. 2. 3. 4.

A trio of fat boys: black overalls, black bow ties, & guyliner. Bluegrass metal.
"Froggie went a courting and he did ride. Uh huh. Froggie went a courting and he did ride. Uh huh. All the way to Frankenstein's hall, stole himself a bride. Uh huh."

L'ironie est mort.

The next set was a conventional set of outoftowners that were in tune (if nothing else). Must find that van comfortable. Couldn't say why Mr. Jones would have booked them. Maybe they put out.

Then Marag took the stage, already glistening. The emo chicks creamed, the shoegazers gazed at their shoes, and the planets did align.
"Ladies and Gentlemen and drunk fuckups of all ages:
THIRTEEN FACES OF THE GIBBOUS MOON!!!!!"

Dmi9

Vive l'ironie.

Location:Anchorage Dr,North Palm Beach,United States