18 May 2005

Mystery Currents Lost in the Squamous Ampullas

All the hearts that touch your cheek
How they jump they move they embarrass
They make no sense, no sense, no sense

You wake up on a Saturday that sure as hell feels like a Tuesday, every Tuesday, last Tuesday, this Tuesday. The day never changes. It still is Tuesday, and your fingers when they stand up in front of your face to wipe away the sleep webs that form from dead and dying dreams, look more spongeiform, more spindly and strained with age. They rake with this phenomena, creasing the brow and cheek, slicing into the last shred of dimple that dotted the wells below the eye. I think haggard is the word [concavity]. Ten books make up your entire consciousness, thankfully not one is that biblioformaic of olden day traditional storytelling, ten books that tell you what morality isn't in its existence, and strength brews acridly, sniping at the very convention of consciousness, its appaling taste and smell, the skin drenching cold from open window rushing up and back. Like a split lip spitting blood tacky to the tongue tip, it bounces like a trampoline, a water fed-inflated bulb of a swllen finger tip waiting to rupture cos as long as its open it stays.
Ten books, and a few words elaborate the extent of ennui [ennui] of the yawn. Curious fact. The universe is pi, that is π [pie]. Random, irrational, and most likely really big, really really really really big. Huge. Underlying that pi is purported to have a pattern, and it would seem so does the universe.
Think of it as a magic eightball. A big black piece of plastic that tells you the future, or something along that line. The eightball would seem completely random for the most part, but in fact it is completely ordered and merely built to appear random. The little triangles are only random in that their lighter densities are all comparable but not exact, they're more numerous in some situations and not in others. Mere probability that a prediction will come up.
That seems to be a bit reverse-engineered, backwards [yar] from π.
Bobbert is a seemingly nice fellow, like us in make up, at least in a comparable way. Below the atomic level the quorks are nearly impossible to describe and predict, etc. Step back, refocus and suddenly there's order to some extent, neutrons and protons in a formed nucleus, with electrons flying around in a way oddly like the ultimate question and its answer. As one pans back, molecules are formed, then organelles, cells, tissues, organs, organ systems, complex beings, families, neighborhoods, societies, worlds, and on and on. In fact, that is exactly what bobbert is made of, but to the nth degree, where as we are kinda microscopic to him, because Bobbert is really just the universe. He's π, he's a fucking magic eightball. From randomness everything forms a singularity that then expands as it acts into randomness. The dual nature of all that was.
Silly thought. Simple cannot describe the universe, tho the principle itself is at the tip of the iceberg. The trouble seems to lie in the fact that at such a level, the idea of simplicity becomes so complex, both to swallow and to explain, it becomes baffling, when in fact it should be the exact opposite. It should be a null spot, a sort of great big sigh [ah]. The kind of hum that I hum when I see that Θ is π. The word simple itself would seem to defeat the point of simplicity to the point that maybe, just maybe, we need a new word, something that reminds of the warm pi on the window sill cooling in the evening, the bobbling black 8 getting tipsy with flipping, the slow shuffling of Bobbert munching on crisps spilling the crumbs into fractals. Maybe its time for no words at all. [just *sigh*]

9 May 2005

On the Rail, the Cardboard Houses Swagger

And I feel the way that every child should
Sit and listen
Sit and listen

Slippered angels go ghastly pale on the hallway walking paths, dragging gurneys beneath them in a solitary stride through flourescent tunneled lights. There may be a hand to hold them, a god to greet them in the morgue. But it would seem that once they made for the door they flared their horns and rocked off their sashes of grace for brimstone canes and crooked legs. I know i would rather walk hell before i see heaven, crack skulls and savor pain just to know the heavy weight of bliss. The gated crossroads of white-shoed, scrub-washed people seems bustled to breaking, all distended and immune to the plague of living running through the courses. White hoods, white paper feet, white walls, white hair. A shock of black running through the eyes of each one, the ears pricking on the sunken corners of their smiles hiding wolf teeth wrenching at the covers, coveting for the pastey usher that should wheel them out the rooms in the dark.
Honey gold lacquer fills up this pool, tinny in its dripping sound, lapping at the toes and running cool to the knee, bending, mending. Clarity comes in the white noise reflection, a pallor of yellow slapped across the wilting limbs. It drifts across vision in a throbbing plaque reading DON'T PANIC JUST YET, after all, ends are very much the beginnings as well. Tricks of the mind, a speed which none of us have traveled before is a speed at which we cannot perceive ageing. The moment we achieve light, the slender pace of infinite tandem trotting, we are as old as the universe, as young as the most primordial idea still being conceived, yet to be dreamed, yet to be dreamed of being dreamed.
Placement is everything, must be put in the exact spot through which it all travels, but that means moving from where everything else that does not exist travels. Catch-22, 23, 24.
Slipper shuffles make that sneaker squeak-scuff sound like whispers on a humming chimney, a bit like languid tidings of the leaving and gone, tossing care off to the homeward breezes and clasping onto the switches merely to say "sleep sweet". "Sleep sweet."

4 May 2005

Oxtail Pollywogs Doodlin' on the Day

And did I hear you sing
That we exist without existing
Or did I hear you sing
That we'll land where we begin

When we were kids someone should have shaken us into a fit and screamed. I would've loved to have known that if I was going to go in search of a true education, I was going to have to give up the idea of being taught by real people with real laughter and real passion. I should've been told that it would have meant failing at all the things that everyone may find important or good for you. I should've surmised this all for myself, but I was always a gullible child looking for the good will. Yeah, I was 19 before they told me Will just happened to live 500 miles away and died 50 years before I was born... that helped. A lot.
Does anyone still have their copy of life's instruction manual, because mine happened to slap me last week and walk off down Crow Road. I just have a couple things to look up, such as, who the hell thought this was a brilliant friggin idea anyway? I'm lookin' in your direction, Zero Mostel. That's right, you fat, funny bastard. You wanted it, well here it is.
Contrary to old men in porn booths, there's a lot to be said about the 80 something crowd that's gathered in my head to exchange the last relics of mellowed flare and passion and gaze, crouching on the sofas, huddled over their knees in delight as expounding leads to extrapolating, to flying free. It's all chainlink quizzes guided round the soft handled curves.
Jade ichor is a tipsy sort of phrase
pair of them in facttt[two t's]
A sharp contrast to the didactic matter at hand and eye. Comprehension becoming a massive visage of hopelessness when memorisation is all that is needed to bubble-in a boble pie.
Sure it's still dripping out a bit rusty and rustic, overripe and well past sane. What can I say in a useless daytime bore? I have much more to do that has nothing to do with anything human kind values.