Category: Writing

Watch “The Folk Implosion – Insinuation ( Album Version )” on YouTube

A slick little number from a favorite of my mine.

I sat awake all night listening to this album at age 17.

Working my tail off to prepare Girl State campaign propaganda. It is a rather eerie patriotic program. Two gals picked from each public and private school in the state.

To this day, I do not know how I was selected. A bit clandestine. I returned from my lunch period (the effing latest one of all— major drag) to find a printed invitation on my desk. I’d ask the Randall family: publishing impresarios. Highest of royalty that I have ever met in the South.

Underdog was my theme. My goal: Sanitation Engineer (garbage pick up, yo).

Hotly uncontested. Responsibilities included: making sure the dorm rooms, where us Girl’s State occupants stayed, received regular trash pick up.

That’s right. I didn’t even pick up. A paid grown up did. So, I spent the days unencumbered. Bored until night fall. A swarm of white moths would descend upon the light outside my window. Dizzying numbers. Vertigo.

My 17 year old self did not micromanage the paid adult. I did put a big black garbage bag, sloppy outside the door of my and dorm mate’s (she was not impressed) suite.

It has a formal sign next to it, bearing Underdog’s image.

It read:

1. Please do not remove; this is not trash.

2. Please file complaints about your garbage service on paper and put in trash bag.

it gained me friends and foes.
we ended up overthrowing the elections through a write-in campaign,
instead of voting for the winners of the primaries, like good gals.

the most qualified candidate for a top position did not make it thru the primaries.
so, we waged a covert campaign. messages were passed through the obnoxious, yet seemingly innocuous garbage bag.

one must not underestimate the aversion most southern ladies experience when it comes to the idea of poking about in a trash bag. even if they knew it is clean. this was a big, industrial bag. you had to shove your head and arms into it to get the paper notes. it sat loose on the ground. no supportive structures to help hold it up while you lean in.

underdogs and insinuations. make change happen.
giggle

The Summer Sphere

Set amongst a group of a dozen bystanders,

I watched the boat burst into flames

Ten yards into the bay.

A man runs to the lapping shore.

Drives his body deeper, diving into a falling wave.

We were not sure why.

No one was aboard.

The sopping wet man returns to say:

I’ve ruined my phone.

While coming ashore.

Fire twirls on the water table worktop.

Contradicting.

Through an oil burning medium.

The invisible lucifermatch

White stick.

Head struck and aflame.

Hum.

The nearest bystander to my right:

Wow!

I continue saying nothing.

Again: Wow!

Again: nothing continued

Can you believe it, he said?

Well, I’m seeing it, but the question of that reality requires a lot of words.

Maybe we should get a coffee and watch this fire burnout? He asked.

How kind, of you. Metaphysically speaking, as we would be, it is arguable that we will if we have not already done so. So, in this timeline I decline, kindly.

There are whispers that Klingsor’s summer and spear is near.

Descriptive Despotism.

Scant and off-standish. I confuse for oscillation.

Busied with nothing, they are.

Ashade & alee, ally & algæ.

Predicated upon such a predicament.

Do what, now…

In/Transitive verbs. Inert momentum gave the other dog the upper leg.

I asked the CAT scan tech:

Can you have electric without magnetic?

Field/ed/ naught.

He grinned; I passed out.

Suzie Q got graham crackers.

She can still write in cursive correct.

They do not teach it anymore.

Skills being disvalued.

After being discounted

Only creating future demand.

We are no orthodox sun-dwellers, dear.

Such is a sweet thrill.

Pity the would-be achievers; they will never enjoy their achievements

Until they learn to love strangers.

My apprehension now apprehended.

Eyes narrowed and lips

Pursed. Spawning focus.

Now, your lips purse, pucker up, as you

Awaken into a dream, falling into sleep.

My sweet Poliphilio.

Your own right hand pressed to your cheek. The scratchy friction of just a bit of beard to the back of your hand.

Your fingers curl slowly.

Except your pointer. It alone rests atop the left shoulder, too.

A top,

The bend of a knuckle, the one next to the nail.

Holding until held.

Pucker ampersand purse. Your lips. Again. Deeper you fall.

Twitching tap of that

Pointer fingertip to clavicle.

Across pectoral, sternum, and pectoral.

I start my next sentence but we idle in the æyther and I recognize.

In our idyll. The approach.

An image, but not one of whom I recognize.

Encircled and fuzzy in capture.

Encapturing the same arm

To the same shoulder.

It will not be long now. This will drop.

My brow and focus unfurrows and

Then uplifts in honest realization and disappointed resignation to the moment.

My eyes no longer two half moons.

Becoming oval saucers.

Serving platters for huge dinner parties,

Big enough to hold the head of John the Baptist (aka the Revelator).

And, at the feast,

I see the eyes and hear the hush of the hushed. They peer in on this meal with faces stoic and smug.

Held in their voluntary vanity

That holds their faces involuntarily so.

I asked the Old Man. The who no one ever done met:

Does your mountain happen to be Sugar or Magic?

He grinned

And asked:

Have you heard of The Mountains of Madness?

I nod. I know. I read and read. Now.

Knotting and loosening.

Hand in hand.

No juxtapositing but aligning and allying periodicities.

The sacrosanct of a reluctant headliner.

He said: now you know a secret; man can fail.

I said: that’s only a revelation to your men.

Morgan saw detail.

Meredith saw the night sky.

Rachel saw in between.

Portrait. Picture perfect.

The day the aerobarges arrived

The robbers hasten their liquor store evacuation, the day the sky barges arrived. Turns out, there was no need.

《》

Effie was aset at the burled wooden desk, plate of blackberries, the culprits bleeding on her fingers. The barges drifted past. She heard them before she saw them. The cat had been fretting all morning. This reduced her surprise at the surprising.

She heard old music. Old timey. Pressed for phonograph. Tinny music. The kind men in fur coats would Charleston to, while drinking: alumnus attending the homecoming game of his alma mater. Girls twirl like it is the 1920’s. Reservedly untoward. The dance is all in the eyes.

This flashes in her mind, a daydream of orientation. Her curiosity piqued, she makes for the front room, with its huge picture windows, framed by newly painted, unadorned white walls.

Picturesque, but now the Douglas firs partially obscure her view of the aerostrocities. They move at a painfully slow knots per hour.

Ima grab those blackberries. They are not in rush and I’m hungry as eff.

She pops them ala popcorn into her mouth, watching. Her neighbors begin to venture outside. Some voluntary evacuation necessitated by a craving for speculation. The steely comfort of hearing someone else acknowledge the surprising, and then say, “I think it must be…”

Their words crackled like burning logs, the freezing air making every word they spoke become the smoke. Hazy veil from the heat source warming their fear. Tirefire.

Effie watched them, too. Actors on the stage.

To call a stone panther.

The braches on boughs broke.

Lying lifeless. Casualties of the white out.

Lost soldiers, abandoned by their unit.

Under the weight they could not withstand.

Only now revealed

Sheets melted.

Perfect circle encircling more circle.

Inside.

There is a blackstone panther, she re-enlivens each night

A path of sprawling

Stalking prowl.

The little girl awaiting her bus told me so.

She tugged my coat and pointed as I passed: I see her at night.

Does she have a name, I ask?

She just nods and waves.

Passing,

I smile and turnaway.

Exhausting Dreams

I’ve been consistently sweating in my sleep.
Dreams in the same neighborhood as the swaying structures
Only now we are not pedestrians.

Nor roof top runners.

The vans return.
Mass panic.
Drunk, drunk rednecks.
And, disenfranchised swarming points of public services.
No one seems rich.
Or perhaps the rich are unseen.
Alee and safe from our strife.
The previous night, the riots/disaster broke out.
Some truth revealed of which I discovered myself involved in
Through familial inheritance. clandestine.
Unaware until that moment.
Strange feeling of alienation.
Now that I know my involvement, my allegiance, must change.
My family has implicitly caused the suffering of many. With at least a bit of awareness.
<With too much intoxication?>
We leave a keg party in the woods.
A young man, Hunter

I went to high school with this blonde

Son of a politician [in the dream].
We were not friends.
He was in a higher clique, multiple levels.
That said. he was always kind.
I am by far the sober one.
But have the deepest of dread about driving the
Super drunken party.
As in, if we get pulled over by the cops (sic. American cops midst a crisis….DANGEROUS) it is more important for me to ditch the carload and make for this public center. That looks like the Tuscaloosa Library

(ed. note: before ‘tuscaloosa’, it was called Druid City. Point in case, the biggest hospital is known formally as DCH- Druid City Hospital. Quite magical considering the Magic City is only 45 min. NE.)

Hunter offers, kindly yet foolishly to drive us in his huge red truck.
Within two minutes we are clearly going to crash and hit a metal solid post. I think:
1. Hunter’s father has the sway and motive to save his son and the party to the crime. That is if we/they ever make it to trial. Which is questionable. The state of AL is in shoot first question later mode.
2. I will bail from the truck before impact IF impact is inevitable. I have great confidence in my ability to time and gauge this.
3. Amy is the only one in the truck I feel loyal obligation to. I fill with dread. We have not spoken in years, and she feels like dead weight that I am responsible for. And I intuit she may feel the same way about my own prescence.
People begin to reach up and try to snatch the wheel. This is ok by me.

Somehow we avoid crashing.

Amy bails.
I bail.
We freeze

And look at each other. We did not plan to bail together.

We apparently were just similar minded in how to handle the problem.
I indicate with eyes: I’m going my way. Do you want to come or go?
She crosses the road towards me.
Before she finishes, I’ve started running toward my destination.
She cannot keep up.
She arrives later and is pivotal in assisting me help the people my family

tacitly, indirectly, hurt.
(Ed. Note: she loves her family. They have never truly hurt her or even let her down in waking life).
We save the day after a protracted dance of:
She distracts and alludes the vanmen outside through camp.
I evade them inside while finding and sneaking people.
From this multiple story structure that winds horizontally.
It seems to grow ampersand sprawl.
The people often resent my help.
Some refuse it.
An armed faction of the people I’m trying to get outside decide me a hostile enemy.
Complicating my evasive action.
They change forms. An elite force.
At one point, í beat a crow to death, over and over it came at me, with a tennis racquet. When I looked on its lifeless body, felled upon the second step of a staircase, I fill with dread.
I killed it in fear it was a transformed enemy. In retrospect, I cannot be sure that I had not just beaten a confused, agitated bird to deæth. Maybe it was just a bird. Then the whole question stops making sense. I feel confused but on the run. Time, survival.
end: successful but incomplete.

Cut to last night.

Same place, same time.
Only, I embrace the role of driver.
My car.
Interstates flooded with water and cars.0
I dodge and weave impeccably.
But, I feel exhausted and stressed.
Then, I know when/that I should/ to

pull over and rest.

The panic inside me ceases.

The disarray outside continues.

I drive people in and out of the city all night
(I would not describe it as a nightmare. Not even as a bad dream.

Just a tiring, surprisingly self re-affirming dream)

*

I Tense My Neck

With back straight,

Í asked you, “do you try hard too?”

The snow reduced me to pencil,

#2

Bleeding out my pens proper.

Wondering about that table of six í auto-gratted

in the Tavern five years prior.

My lead cracks.

Mark darker.

And then í find,

one pen left in my fold.

Shortstop

Between run and go.

A dash of dalliance

Unconcerned with with prose that came before

Or wilt

Would be.

Her hands would shake?

Ledges are not only

but also for leaping.

They told me “no.” Which is always within rights, but í was left confused.

Í cannot remember asking anything

Lend a

Hand, right?

Play your vinyl

Remove the album sleeve.

Put your diamond down, glasscutter.

45 rpm.

I see none involving nengk.

I feel like a chemist when I boil water.

Astood upon three toes.

Oops

now four.

And the sky matches the ground.

He told me we ought to blow it up.

The snow.

Cuz of the moon.

An allotment of the ailment is being carried

By wagonmasters & confronters.

I pay attention to your punctuation.

Sometimes my teeth bend but don’t break in my bad dreams.

Of getting ready for Gertrude’s party

That never happens.

Disproportionate response.

Unreeving.

Receive the rowen.

We worked double overtime.

And looked into your mother’s eyes.

She could not smile then but she does now.

As assiduous as inexorable is

My final defenses are indeafsible.

A prerogative disinclined toward extravagance,

As much as the silver sliver of

The new moon is caustic

And the lurdan lurid.

The succubus and incubus work in tandem.

One pulls rope and the other gathering eggs.

No small surprise they work in sleep’s misty revue.

A dæmon to a dreamed of demon that never derived from the proper diabolical.

A small child born.

A mom and dad.

And suddenly you stroke your chin,

And I miss my train

Of thought again.

Scraps of yellow bits scatter my room

And I sit indian style.

Crossed.

Bow drawn. Arrows all a’quiver.

Quivered and quivering.

Set asleep amongst the Ingessana Hills.

Children recover souls they did not know

They missed.

We are the doctor-diviners with a sleepy second sight.

We dream the dreams the sleepers cannot fathom

Until awakening.

There is no need to fear.

I see none involving nengk.

A Concealment of Collective Nouns

Morbid effery from the monkeyed,

Landed gentry.

Luxurious as late night coffee with heavy cream.

Laden.

All the crawfish fixing to get boiled.

Cloves of garlic

Resting on claws

Coalescing correlations.

Corrections to iterations

Deshelled and /de/tailed

Consumption.

Silver eyes against armor-alled all red

Whiskers a’faced to

Terraced tails.

Rampant mud and bug

With a dropped bouquet.

The slow crawl of the limited engagement

Leaves above my head.

Shining.

Í will make you look up and remember the sky.

You forget your breath

(Ampersand)

You lose a life.

I forged injunctions

Duplicitous & with steely reinforcement.

Silversmithing.

The pleasure of the written word. Consummate.

The change in our handwriting over time.

Fingering out your new font

Of pen scratch.

Scrawled.

Sprawling.

And my rhythm dictates a tempo for our saraband.

Shorthand.

You should always carry a handkerchief.

Cotton is fine. Print or naught.

It is not you that will use it

Anyhow.

So remove from that top drawer.

Overly ajar.

《》

A black rectangle

Framed in an indigo field. Ræching.

《》

What do we know of destruction?

Or why the paper need be canary.

Elongation in enunciation is

A mispronunciation.

Two blankets for the two ankles outside

Tonight.

Headed stones of fuzzy beasts

Sette

Atop footed cherrywood.

Vascular knotted circuitry

(<subterranean>)

A slip of the hips,

a flick of fingers.

Full affront of the suites

Merely one of a sort of resorts available

To your privy.

The pluck of pages.

Should they dissuade?

Is it prey to the præter-?

They said some really mean things about some really mean people. What do you suppose that means?

Felled and befell.

Sometimes it is hard to tell an l from I from a 1.

But no one ever mentions this.

A notice noticed. Even if misunderstood.

I drank the coffee to stay

Sharp in my sleep.

I sleep with a steno

Padded

Petrified enfossil.

A sordid seizure of a hardened fruit pit.

Dishollowed.

Where countenance meets disposition.

Heavy like

Wet denim.

cassette à fleur

I shift shoulders,

Crackly, a’tængled.

Naught not knotted.

Capacity and current

Contained by my spine.

Contracting.

Runs amok until

Corrected to both

convex & concave

Context.

Back braced

And arching.

Bending

Bow

To arrow.

Column of my chord.

Given immobility put to good use

In postures

Not posturing.

Posing but no poser.

Calf cramps

Paces inside

In sides.

Sidling as slides.

Sliding the sphere of my cəntər

Recanter.

And əntərs.

My abdomen to

My solar plexus

through

To my head.

Red , Terracotta , orange

Yellow , Green, Indigo.

Amid

White

Black.

All then red.

When cultivating a rose, they account for size, form, color,

Substance

Stem & Foliage

Balance

&

Proportion

(but wə can turn anything into a competition, I’d wager)

An ugly rose?

Hum

Birds and bees do not notice.

Lao Tzu or The American Rose Association Rule Book.

Misnamed. Mislabeled.

!

Dont let the roses pick up on that vibe.

Or the glass embracing it might break.

The rose and the vase.

This translates to a title.

Watch “INXS – Never Tear Us Apart” on YouTube

A recent conversation left me reexamining my mental (re)collection of the 1980’s music scene. I came from an acoustic, Martin, early 1960’s to gritty 1970’s household, ya see.

Now, I was a young `un during the `80s, not even alive for the full decade. I write from sloppy memory & unresearched timelines.

To wit. viz. My first memories of favorite songs (years before-gasp-receiving my first cd/tape player boombox) include:

1. Phil Collins (solo, post Genesis); Groovy Kind of Love

2. The Beach Boys (see Surf’s Up not Pet Sounds. Giggle); Kokomo

3. Don Henley (solo, stag de La Eagles); All She Wants to do is Dance

My radio cassette player allowed me to record radio to cassette tape. I took great advantage of such a Tape OP.

The draped-on drum production kinda kills me.

Insta-musical carbon dating.

Not necessarily standing the test of time.

Remaining revolutionary.

But hindsight blahblahblah.

I know I’ll take Tears for Fears, INXS, and George Michael (see also The New Radicals 1990’s) most days.

But I thought real hard about what song with which to start a Pressed review.

The 1980’s have some spectacular introductory pieces (ala Fleetwood Mac’s The Chain).

Songs that mesmerize you before they truly begin.

Donnie Darko previously re-popularized Tears for Fears Head Over Heels. Same band, Sowing the Seeds of Love continued a pop sentiment that trickled down to Oasis, Space Hog. REM.

But, as far as knock out 1980’s intros that I can immediately recall, I had to land here with INXS. Vaguely Antish?

P.s. an exemplar par excellence of the use of a 1980’s sax. Too often wrecking a track.

.

Awhite awit. De-lis

Whirling padded fan blades

Belt around in circles.

Encircling.

Edifying eddies of easy breezes

Above me.

Pink & blue light

Nearly a wishing sky meandering on my wall.

Reflected

Then

Transposed.

Everyday reaching one more yard.

Poised.

Discomposed.

A’teeter

Totter.

Topple.

Someone fell down?

Afront.

In front ampersand behind.

(All a front for)

A’cold

Front

A’coming

Font.

Red rocks the remain

chilled & a’cold

/Des-/In spite constant sunshine.

To spite.

Spritely

Bell Rock

Pealing.

Bells.

Belle appealing.

Upturned. Un toward.

A forward.

A’front.

Word afore

A nameless, unspoken

Fleur

Pressto

The server dropped the tray of glasses

Right after saying, “Don’t worry I’m a professional.”

Rushy.

Could not out plates down fast enough

Before picking up new ones.

Meritoriously.

Feet bones cracklin

Pork ears

The following morning

IT sent an email.

Meanwhile, the coil leaked.

And my hair sits flat today.

And I smile.

At a memory.

You said noodles used to be tradeable.

(Funk & Wagner photo)

Phosphul

Alight.

A light

A’lit.

Alit.

A bit lit.

Branches bumble and shake snow on me.

Wet, excited dogs preparing to come in after a romp.

I slip about on tip toes.

Inside ampersand outside.

Hamhocks hog tie knots.

Due to recent disuse.

I disabuse them of their notion of stiffness.

To remind.

Renew.

A sun barely seen still strikes the sheets

Too brightly.

So much light.

A sun pokes through

My appendenages blanch the blankets.

My duvet is a pacific northwestern grey sky.

I wore it in my flip flop dance of toss and turn all night.

Third pillow fastned tight between legs and arms.

A downy company warmed then warming.

Vigil in anticipation.

Of the bed not being an ocean, but perhaps a sea.

The release of tides of sheets leaves me drenched

In cold morning. I do not mind.

Flitting.

Humming.

The cat begs attention and food.

Stalking her way into my awareness.

The snow play of last night is a black and white still.

Outside my window.

I replay it in my mind’s eye.

Then a sun appears

And everything shimmers.

Shivers of strings

Of colors falling

On blanketed.

Nearly

On pointe

With winged feet. Mercurial.

Disbalance.

Balanced unbalance.

Balanchine.

Bodies made by and into ratios

On pointes of feathered circles.

You

Pointed.

(Indignant and tall)

<Contained by pieces nearly too small>

Letters

The chain letter of et al. saluted the Dear Gentleperson.

Lines of lives that move as

lilt, lag, loll.

Silicon sand and office rebrands.

We measured the sheets of snow in ankles,

While the neighbors line stood-up dominoes in rows.

And we all leveled latitudes,

gauged by arcing sways.

Hard to describe dream

Time was askew and this manifested in the way I viewed things.

Things moved too slowly. I moved faster than the flow of the world.

Intermittent whiteouts/color bursts of vision only to return and have missed a few scenes.

I was caring for a young boy of about ten. There were no words exchanged.

He looked sallow, yellowish skin from poor nutrition.

Deep set, big dark saucer eyes.

It was an informal, novel arrangement for the short term.

He asked me there for the night?

His mother. His mother was aweful and possibly maleficent.

He lived in a trailer home, that connected to others like an aluminum apartment complex.

One story.

My cat kept plying at doors, as always.

The door to the connecting abode. She kept opening it and running inside.

I kept sneaking inside to retrieve her. Worried I’d get the boy in trouble with his neighbors.

I finally met the daughter girl of the neighbors. She was about 20 years old. Beautiful.

Suddenly, I’m her age too.

We attend school. We are friends, but it is hard and dangerous to have friends in this place, so we are very quiet.

Her home is immaculate and in the Thai decorative style.

Her mother wears very traditional almost ceremonial garb.

The mother watches me and her daughter but says nothing to me.

Never formally acknowledging me, but I feel comforted by this. Welcomed nonetheless.

The mother talks in mutters to her husband in a language, presumeably Thai, that I do not understand.

Those are the only words.

Me and the daughter never speak.

We draw geometric figures on the hardwood floor with chalk.

I notice a discoloration that is dried urine on the floor.

I worry my cat did this.

She writes, “my brother.”

I never meet him.

It stays grey outside, but now it is darker.

I return to the boy.

He and I take off running into the night.

Frenetic, nervous. Running. Like animals nervous before a storm.

We run for hours through meadows in dim moonlight.

Sparse trees here and there.

Everything is an aqua teal green.

You can feel a building electricity.

Like the accumulation of major internal static charges.

The boy stops. Freezes.

I’m running so hard I almost do not notice.

I stop, turn heel, and tear ass to be at his side again.

I make it to his immediate proximity.

The earth tremors. Isolated to the area immediately in front of us.

The earth tears open like a ripple over water.

A slight scar forming.

It is his mother.

Aweful. Pure force and energy. Intuited.

The boy is now catatonic, stood upright behind me.

There is a surge of fear followed by the security of knowing exactly what you are supposed to do.

Even if you have no idea how to do it.

Just do not let the boy touch anything.

The mom comes up from the ground in colors and consistency the like of a nebula and the root structure of an old tree. Explosions in the air like fireworks.

I just watch. The task is easy, if you do not panic.

~

It may snow today.

Textuality

Metatext (analogue ; tape ; printed to paper)

Light falls upon pages.

Back light shines from digital pages.

Labyrinthal Laboratory Conditionals

Knecht leapt years ago into the black water of the river.

A leap of faith made in the face of a numinous bemusement.

A mæstro professing the art of conduction.

Cantos ; stanzas ; quatrains ; sections ; headings ; chapters ;

The function of any value such as x wilt result in a set of potential solutions.

f(x) : {set}, {set of the set}

yields Sentence G.

Godel’s lyric.

Taken from a song called Settes.

Cantos: sections dividing long poems.

– ORIGIN C16: from Ital., lit. ‘song’, from L. cantus

Dante sang poems in one hundred cantos.

The infernal first album of nine is the only one that hit the record charts.

Bemusing that he still writes lyrics and songs after his exile from Florence.

The courters and patrons of knightly chivalry frenzied in feigned, immodest outrage at the song of attack (quite poorly executed too, it is said) that

he played his Lady.

But he keeps on playing.

A fine equestrian he would have made.

Socrates and his diatribe will be with Dante shortly

Cursing Odsyyeus again, malifacent Man in Black: agent of injustice to Ajax.

The fellow-temple servants redeemed Parceval just yesterday.

Maestro Virgil’s rock n’ rolling opera

Nine lines feed nine recorders.

Eight channels receive live feed.

Three mixers temper.

A music master architects.

The 1 audits the confluence of the Take Stream.

The 1 who will stop the band,

called And the Band Played On,
only long enough to

allow them to listen.

Players eager to hear themselves.

Impetuous.

Feedback looping.

The impetus of the 1.

The effect of showing the parts their whole.

Any system aware that is under observation is changed by the very act of being observed.

An axiom accepted and admitted to be a theoretical, not practical, concern.

In theory the results may be nullified.

The axiom is ad hoc. Improperly derived.

Invalid even if accurate.

As Wittgenstein’s Mistress, it behooves me to ask this

Question for the Vienna Circle:

Now that you have observed that the act of observation changes the observed,

Do you ever worry for the assured changes in your method, institutions, experiments, results, or selves?

As you observe the knowledge of this observation affecting your observations and that which you observe?

Or is that just another theoretical problem too?

~

Just an observation from this lovesome dummy.