unbuttoning

“Have you ever met a bashful punk?” he asks me.

I tap the skin covering his sternum with my index finger.

“Do you alternate between two complimentary psychological archetypes to reconcile them?” I ask, alluding to his question without directly answering it.

He traces the double u spelled by the curves of the underside of my breasts.

“We are all dealing with the transient eternity of the arrow of time,” he speculates.

{space only has meaning for matter}

“Let me show you that you are the congruence of the meaningfulness of the universe?” I request.

“How?”

I begin undoing his buttons.

Concretising methodology.

Parçigal Waxes for Æ

A man I pass every morning told me, yesterday: you must be a native, dressed like that.

I wore a pallet of grey, black, and brown.

I assumed it was these colors that made him say such a thing.

Then, I saw myself.

A native alien in this strange land,

but four hundred years before now.

An imposter amongst the indigenous.

A civilized lady gone native.

A warrior savage with hunters who fall with her.

And, now, I see that

the Sound is water and sky together.

A point of infinity from whence we cannot distinguish air from liquid.

And, now, dearheart, night became itself.

The moon waxes nearly full,

jumping from one side of the street to the other,

as I snake around two city blocks. And,

even clearer now does the tower

with twenty seven windows crumble before mine eyes.

I built those eleven steps to its front door two decades ago.

Where many may think: what has become of my work?

I think: that old thing is still standing?! Didn’t Æ cry “to dispose of this” as the Philistines yelled at Daniel in a Lion’s den.

But, see,

I know: a lioness does well in a lion’s den.

Before the autumnal fall of Artemis the Archer

Before sound, there was vibration

with no auricular structure to perceive it.

Before these trinities came dualities.

Before syncretism came juxtaposition.

Before leverage moved mountains

and swept us off our feet,

the mechanical principle

existed unnamed.

All awaiting discovery

in this hollow solidity.

happy birthday, Monster.

I’m a bulldog for R.E.M being recognized for the amazing punks they are.

Southern Gothic Punk.

The album Monster turned 25 years old the other day.

What’s the Frequency, Kenneth?

/I was brain-dead, locked out, numb, not up to speed
I thought I’d pegged you an idiot’s dream…/

Yeah, /I never understood tha frequency (uh hum)/ either.

/Richard said, “Withdrawal in disgust is not the same as apathy”…

I couldn’t understand/

‘Til recently.

Well, the last time I saw Richard was Detroit in ’68.

And he told me: all romantics meet the same fate.

What’s the Frequency, Kenneth? Remaster. Given as a present to listeners,

along with a delightful, contextualization presented by original and remaster producer Scott Linn.

An awesome, quick interview.

He wanted “to take another crack at it.”

I dig both.

Re: Strange Currencies

David Foster Wallace really dug it during one particular book tour.

Read all about from the words of (a very thoughtful) other.

I.e. read it in many fewer words than DFW would have described it in, with hardly any footnotes. Giggle.

This particular anecdote is my favorite from the entire book.

/I don’t know why you’re mean to me./

/The fool might be my middle name./

/Take you there and make you mine./

/These words will be mine./

/I tripped and fell./

/I wanna feel it now./

/You know with love comes strange currencies; and here is my appeal:

I need a chance. A second chance. A third chance. A fourth chance…

[Insert magical, hard to decipher words here]

To catch myself and make it real./

Everything and more.

I howled last night while dreaming!

Highly excited about this dreaming experience.

Regular readers (thank you!) probably have noticed howl much I dig using [howl] in my writing. I say it in my daily life as well. I bellow it, in silence, at night. (You have to be quiet it the flat where I stay, see.)

I have lucid dreamed since being a young child. I realize I am dreaming quite quickly in the dream state.

Sometimes this realization empowers me to change the dream consciously. Sometimes, I realize I am dreaming but do not realize I may be able to alter the dream state. (But, howl. Why change a new experience for what you assume would be better? The idea does not occur unless I feel real suffering.)

Many times, dreams feel like another plane of reality upon which I have landed, where, the best I can do, upon realizing I am dreaming, is to choose to try to wake myself up.

I am overly familiar with the sensation of sleep paralysis. Of becoming mentally conscious before being able to move my body. It is a weird feeling, but I have never felt the terror others describe when experiencing the sensation. No aliens. No demons. Just a simple inconvenience.

“Oh, howl. I gotta sit here and think, ‘wiggle your big toe. wiggle your big toe,’ ” for what seems like an eternity.

Eventually, my big toe actually wiggles.

Enough context.

Here is the dream.

I stand at the top of several flights of stairs.

Wooden floors.

An old, antebellum-style home.

Southern gothic.

Crown molding with runners.

There are no lights and

“It was a rainy night.”

A strike of lightning flashes. I see a very, strangely, white child appear on a bench, below. Situated upon the first landing, one flight of stairs, below.

Right before the stairs cut around to the next segment of their spiral.

He looks up, directly at me.

His eyes go wide.

Yawning like mouths.

Too wide.

I do not want to be here. It hurts more than it needs to.

Instead of thinking: wiggle your big toe,

I say, softly,: howl.

I know that I am dreaming. I cannot change the dream.

I want to wake up.

I start bellowing out:

HOOOOOWL.

Lightning strikes again. It illuminates the same bench.

Now, there are ten more children, with yawning eyes, where there had previously been only one.

I howl myself awake.

Serendipitously, “howl” took over and took care of me.

Disambiguation…

The line is not: You pay for what you get.


The steganographia is not the encryption is not the transcryption,

Nor is it the ostensible coding.


Encoding=scribing.


The poison is the dose.

The doz>s>e is the poison.

The map is not the region.

“Here I do have a theory: Perhaps we got across because we sailed on the ocean and not on a map.”

THE RA EXPEDITIONS

Thor Heyerdahl

DOUBLEDAY publishing

Page (ostensibly) 341 aka M(42)

Imagine that ( x ) = x in subSCRIPT

Here you find (sub)SCrypçione


The lyric is: you get what you pay for.

Exceptional rule

All rules have exceptions.

All rules are exceptional;

The rule without exception is thus exceptional.

You will die a voodoo death because everyone expects you to.

The tragedy of the commons is that there is nothing anyone cares to do.

Contagions of group expectations afflict your field of view.

A cursed question put on you: would you still die if no one thought you would?

Authority instructs you to confront mortality.

You and yours fantasize your finality.

You will die and Jesus loves you and this you know because a great big ole’ book told your parents so. But where is your existential subjective experience of this?

You are part of the totality, but, individually, you are also a triviality.

What you are is a value of a binary threshold function.

Is was another day.

The sun shied back into the woods, partially concealed behind a cloak of mist and residual angular trajectory.

It gave the morning a quintessence of allure and glamour, even including that tinge of melancholy which the Vested feel.

I suppose nostalgia may be a more apt descriptor than melancholy.

Then again, I guess both words are completely right & dexter yet, simulateously, inappropriate.

The sun tests the boundary condition between night and day; everyday it rises.

I test the boundary condition within to see how supple and malleable I be without shattering into infinity just yet.

Watch “Iggy Pop – The Passenger” on YouTube

Dont own rights, but iggy owns rights to US punk verbe.

This has been reincarnated, to my limited experience, twice ( ala Michael Hutchence < of INXS, RIP > and the miraculous Deftones and MJK).

Listen to this track on great headphones and hear so much additional quintessence.

Work to live or live to work.

I told my sister I live to work and she said gross.

She misunderstands. We all work all the time.

We all move from a place we could call motivation to action.

Do you know yours? If so, what it is and how does it change?

How does it make your garden grow? Does it feel glad in the rain and sun and cold or heat?

How do you balance the swinging pendulum that becomes time’s arrow’s trajectory?

How do you know when to flee the vital activa for that which is its polar opponent?

Can you tell if you’re moving with no mirror to see?

Painfully lonely, not so much.

Suspensed in waiting for manifestation. Arouses my want for love, flesh, desire.

Dealing with TimeS shifting arrow

Incorrect to assume that time is one dimensional.

Let’s imagine 2D time in the pic below

Vector. Precession. Equinox.

Circadian. Cellular time.

Astronomy

*rotation of fixed stars (!) and precession of the equinoxes

, seasons on the planet, circadian rhythms of daylight and darkness, evidenced by cellular time.

Here we encounter the challenge of extrapolating between these two dimensions.

Eventually may we reconcile our eternal being with our transiency.

>the Mind bypasses its middle range, dismisses the conditioning it has been subjected to.

Eternal being : transciency?

Seed : plant?

Seeds: DNA remains constant, mutating very slowly if at all.

Plants: which unfolds the seed in an incomparably faster time sequence.

I try to imagine absorbing cosmic energy on inhale, as

–converging inward–

by repeating space inverted in a vacuum inside.

Space only has meaning for matter.

Perhaps at transcendent levels of our thinking-space is irrelevant.

A gradual transitions between extremes and expectations