Writing this while my feet are in pain.
'Will continue writing until it gets boring or I fall into a slump.
A new town is unfolded."02/13/2012" Gregorian doofus- time" The flow of idea comes quicker than the ability to spell unlike a rabid-dunce at times(especially now,) but that can be worked out! Urge of creative excitement glibbels out faster than proper structure and format can catch up. This is what has managed so far:
(Update: Read the parts below and not this part. You're still reading this part, read the part that starts with 'Warning:' You're still reading this? Okay: This squeezes into other fragments of a story. The characters listed at the end are from other cities which add up when other figments are revealed. She fell so nobody saw her hit the ground. This is a quick, one-time-edited shot but even if it's TLDR or only read by myself, posting it at least gives me the urgency to continue writing and connecting bits to it even more.
Being under the mid 20s-and having never gotten anyone pregnant to fix the financial crisis a story must be birthed, instead!!
The full version will reveal: Inner-tubes! A man named DOCK the ski-mask man who drives a shattered truck seeking far too much havoc for any antagonist but gets away with it because he smokes Kents! There is Hazel that mythical redhead in the straw hat: finally come to life (see her in many drawings!! Her fire of hair her eyes of disk!) Ralph's cat: He brings back wallets through the cat door. Sex, roof-tops, hypothermia!!
Note books full of "that goes here, not here," made up words, jumping snails, Earth-crust inhabitants, and a guy who has rats strung from his ears hung by dental floss.
WARNING:
This following prose may or may not have been written by a woman hanging from the thread between her fingers from atop a satellite dish propped sixty stories about the urban wilderland. These words may be a broiled and contagiously luring remnant of a woman's story before falling to a bellow below, below.
She was a valentine sent from an island unsunk to Greysville Central, the land of windy muck.
Actually, before revealing that crumpled up letter, let us first relish in the scenery:
A place where croutons were bred near salad companies with buildings sky-scraper high.
Highest of all in Muckville, Greyton.. Sabbath of lit up nights,
Highest of all was the Neckbrace corporation.
Outsiders would peep upward and upward until the crack of bending a glance in curiosity's name would
reveal FLECKO NECK BRACE MANUFACTURE.
It was a great way to pull in customers, wondering just what those tiny letters did spell out at ninety-eight stories high.
She fell with a grace that would have freckled a moo's face.
There were playgrounds of course, but adults were only aloud to watch.
Men to the golf course, and women to the gym.
Men to the golf course, and women to the gym.
Buy her fancy decor'e,
and a Gillete for him.
"Men to the golf course, and women to the gym.
Men to the golf course, and women to the gym.
Buy her fancy decor'e,
and a Gillete for him."
you would hear thought rally in unison, a mantra bleeping high from the
umpteenth story.
Just yesterday there was a defacement near the alleyway where winds would blow ziplock bags
and cats would piss and emptied styrofoam 'doggiebag' containers of leftovers would have been
licked clean by scavengers teen weeks before.
"WINDY MUCK SUCKS EIGHT FUCKS"
it said, in cursive written in an arch that led to the lip of the wall where SHOE FACTORY stood bold and plump.
Scrawling: gone today, but the styrofoam was still dormant, occasionally blowing up against a corner as
a miniature twister of wind would motion against the brick wall or try and love hug the leg of a passing
pedestrian.
She fell with a grace that would rebirth an Ageusiac's taste.
There were always pedestrians, it seemed. This place was like a glopfest of an architect's wet dream
if this designer of spaces had a certain fetish for stacking things en infinitium as a possible result
of a massive Jenga influx in younger years as behavioral patterns were being formed (That which would have
turned up into some bloody news story if he or she didn't have the outlet of architecture to express such
desire.)
This city was just as you may imagine the cultural testing of a Dubai mixed with the tourism gander of Las Vegas fruitful with the smells and sounds of New York City's five burroughs crammed into a bagel that was gigantic and smooth as chalk sort of smeared all over every cresent of shine and hardness that was Greysville: Windy Muck.
The entire city was under a dome which made it rather difficult for any of the tourists to really figure out.
Always passing, Always passing
would you see the same face twice?
Never driving means never crashing
This is the game board, you are the dice.
Outside of the dome, or should it be 'domes' because it was a triple bubble of domes that all sort of meshed together as one.. Think of an atom or a rubber ball like in the game of Jax morphing but not completely accumulating into one...
Outside of this dome of three were bridges like the golden gate that expanded to towns much more normal in living and testing, like the towns you and I find ourselves when we aren't asleep.
Windy Muck is what the 'outsiders' would call it.. Outsiders like the one's from these smaller, more normal towns from across the bridges.. People who write in cursive with aerosol about how the domed city sucks eight, to be exact,
fucks.
There was no traffic in Windy Muck, or Greysville, whichever you do prefer. There was no traffic but walking space the same size and setup as streetways were laid out because the populace was that enormous. Yet instead of road instructionals (the white lines and boundaries for an automobile) there were self-service centers where people could log in to find out just where they have been or where they are going. Often confusion is led to... due to the vast greatness in the amount of shops and places you could go.....; !^&$&dotdot
It was very, very easy to feel displaced.
There would be a note.
This place has a secret.
We get all excited about secrets.
Sometimes they whizzle our boo,
really they do:
These things
called secrets.
Reminisce in a space where there was a secret in place
and imagine someone's whizzle becoming slumped.
This whizzle was ruined only because it was learned,
not because this person was stumped!!
What that amounts to, if you are unfamiliar of a whizzle, is that often a secret is more exciting when being
guessed, especially by the inhabitants of Greyville. If a mystery is kept as that carrot on the stick...
Well, just look at ghost stories, the bigfoot rage and people who scowel about "The man stickin' it to em, biatch!!"
A numnin' may friddle at the power of the core when the limelight is faced and the guessin's no more.
Other than that, there were really no signs of visible 'management' when it came to the streets of Greyville, Windy Muck.
There were subways below, and just as high high high to the skies up up up they did go as many layers down it all went no-body did know.
Many may have become lost but the legs kept on moving.
If knees were trees and you saw as a bee then as you buzzed around you would be humming around with the view of flying around between a forest of knees.
But bees hardly ever entered the suck-pockets of Greyville, Windy Muck, whichever you prefer.
Her note was written beautiful but the pen was so bold that being written front and back some of the words bled through, but we can see it bleeding as if blood was black so unless pens were inked red first I think zebras may have a problem.
When it was unfolded through those fingers it was a chilling state to realize that such a long fall could have given the time to write it all out while in descent: Maybe it was.
Who talked to who? We never saw anybody speak....But there were sounds.
Though we were just slugs, stuck to the side of a building.. Minding our own.
This place was built around us.. Us slugs.
It started out as a Zip'N'Go
then the Zip'N'Go morphed into an Out'N'Up
and then the Out'N'Up become a Snagglers.
At that moment right there the Snagglers just kept getting taller and taller, wider and wider but not growing as only just a Snagglers but with many other attachments growing and pulsating from it.
Snagglers met Snooglies
and Snooglies was then below a Shloepenstine's Sandwich Customization chamber where sandwiches could be formed to the specialization of a customer's preferred attributes.. Or that is how it was worded by the Sandwich customization counter-lady, anyhow..
I'm just a snail, I don't eat sandwiches all that much.
It, This mutating-thing, started to bleep and blink after a while. I don't like disco and this did not amuse me.
My amigo snails, Battle Royale and the others were frantic and shit-startled but there was this pea-pod we stuffed ourselves into within a quick-pulse.
We bundled up and stuck like a whole group of gummyworms in a sealed pack until all that noise was over.
Given our ability to stay entertained like an ant in an ice cream box and thanks to our extra-special snail life duration we camped out in that pea-pod like a woodsie at a bonfire but the secretion situations were not worth reiterating so I won't.
Anyhow, it just kept getting bigger and bigger.
Shit, we thought it was just an Isle of peace and mind-our-own but it was like somebody just happened to drop the H-Bomb of tourist culture onto us and all our morphing moose friends went VANISH and all the coco-trees went VANISH and it's still all too sudden to wonder what happened to the rest and that floater guy, but me and my snail pals are all here still somehow.
Now I value pea-pods much more and my friend Battle Royale, Little Margaret and the rest can at least stick to the walls, drink slurpees and avoid getting stepped on until we figure something out.
Anyhow ||Shrilp shrilp shrilp|| (Sorry, I do that sometimes.. I'm a snail)
(Note: The definition of shrilping has been exiled from revelation due to it's offensive suggestion to readers. Seek the X-Rated version at the catologue near the Index for complete disclosure.)
The distant lands were visible, still.. though very far as hazy blobs they were still visible, even for a snail.
A bridge worked it's way out of the wonder of HUHHHHH and before anyone could figure all of that out this Bubble-like-Bubble-thing was over us.. A trisecta of bubble.. Three in one bubble. I wouldnt know how to explain it, the closest thing I have seen to this bubble was the shape of dome that resided upon the chest of the mooso women: The antlered Island Godesses, yet there were only two of those on each chest. Definitely a shape of the feminine, though.
||Shrilp Shrilp Shrilp|| Sorry.
The loudness is a muteness where it all morphs from off the walls. But I'm a snail, and I can hear the textures and feel the blinks of those lights that look like Smokin' Joe Camel coughed up a neon lung ball that stuck into each window of every story of descending and rising sale-space and that lung piece just started to blink.
"I have been here with the others and have not spoken in 79 years
Long before these connectors brought legs that did not cease
and stacks of concrete barriers, I have resided in a land where
visual and physical age did not progress and wisdom was well off.
The others and I took shapes..."
A great CRASHHHHHHHH sound as the note was first unfolded, after filing between the many and squeezing out into a thin alley of semi-privacy between that swing of windfront.
Tulsey crashed a plane. Jeff, are you going insane? Hazel is from the isle. Dock Yawner's crooked smile.
Nestor finds some slugs. Hayden floats to shores. Leon narrates. Aimee's power: to cure.
Under a bridge much, much smaller than to the isle there is still that smell of pancakes and Samuel's day rotates on and off from wild fire and crisp leaves.
Monday, February 13, 2012
Sunday, February 12, 2012
what the heck is a gaga
Note:This article will not be interesting to any person in which is the owner of at least one or a set of eyeballs.
What the hell is a Ga-Ga?
A blunder of name relations speculates another ability for words to symbolize media hypes.
The source of influence that culture shock has on the public perspective can be tuned in on with an example such as this:
An up and coming pop sensation can, overnight, mind you, regard a tuna sandwich as a lethal proponent of influence and amazement: Hip and sexy - The Tuna Sandwhich.
By the very next day millions I tell you (Millions!) Will be talking and raving about tuna sandwiches.
T-shirts and slogans and tuna sandwich sexual references.
Okay, there are better examples out there.. Such as sun symbols from the Hopi being seemingly eternally blasphemed into a symbol associated with hate.
I watermarked far too many darn images to be associated to a term that can be defined to a media delusion so I will remain neutral rather than going in to find out just what a ga-ga is, for the impulses of cringing seem far too certain!
All I can really say is that there is hardly a difference between the generations of pop icons. One gets switched out when aging endures and sexual 'provocativity' recedes and another is replaced with the same minimizing mental fatigue, usually doing a rendition of a tarnished, corrupted Virgin/Goddess figure.
Cease participation of what you do not desire. History does not stop repeating unless you break the repetition.
There is an absolutely tuna rant done by Papa Joe Mama in this hour of slack podcast from the Indevival 2002 here . Give it a listen!
After a couple of years of this song sitting around, thinking to itself that it was finished, a few touch ups were completed and the 'Half of It' song is in it's finished state. This was one where 'Soil Finn' played rhythm guitar. You don't want to hear about the editing process really plus I've already blabbered about that before ('Pocket Moths' link for that and the video.)
& This is also finished which I found to be soothing to keep on repeat to focus the mind on images. You can probably click on the song name to read a small portion about that.
Lately cartoon imagery (which may mistakenly be claimed to be drawn opposite handed) has been a vast inspiration so I doodled some very quick accompaniments of draft images to sub-stories of a bunch of min-sub stories which all link to a larger culmination of many other miniature stories that kind of turn into one story.
Someday (some day some day) they'll all be ironed out with music and images to go with all of them, images more than just quick sketches. And to have video pieces of scenery (no characters, just scenery) to add with the music and writings is desirable but this computer... all of this equipment is sluggish and nightmarish. (Yes, black market, I'm talking to YOU to donate, generously, a laptop.(The entire market is a black market that considers itself the main market. I see what you're on to!))
Here is a sample of the writing:
"...the..."
So in summary: Directly below: Hectic noise! I am not yet a 'ga-ga' tribute band.. I have not yet pee'd on a ga-ga, Lots of editing!!
A name cannot be owned
You can ride and identity with it
but you can't climb inside of it
much like a symbol, you can merely make it related
to reshape interpretation but it's form will not shift
Priestess Nubia birth flight with Earth's might
Planetery explorations break through concrete mutations
Through merely being, beings merge towards Sudan
Sudden holographics break free from traumatics
Deja Vu in the day clouds, la dee da within the chime
Non-explicit nakedness reaps it's rewards
The taste of peaches are mighty fine
Hearing these words now you are Free and Flealess
assuming you had fleas before those words
you are also FEE-less assuming a price tag resides!
What the hell is a Ga-Ga?
A blunder of name relations speculates another ability for words to symbolize media hypes.
The source of influence that culture shock has on the public perspective can be tuned in on with an example such as this:
An up and coming pop sensation can, overnight, mind you, regard a tuna sandwich as a lethal proponent of influence and amazement: Hip and sexy - The Tuna Sandwhich.
By the very next day millions I tell you (Millions!) Will be talking and raving about tuna sandwiches.
T-shirts and slogans and tuna sandwich sexual references.
Okay, there are better examples out there.. Such as sun symbols from the Hopi being seemingly eternally blasphemed into a symbol associated with hate.
I watermarked far too many darn images to be associated to a term that can be defined to a media delusion so I will remain neutral rather than going in to find out just what a ga-ga is, for the impulses of cringing seem far too certain!
All I can really say is that there is hardly a difference between the generations of pop icons. One gets switched out when aging endures and sexual 'provocativity' recedes and another is replaced with the same minimizing mental fatigue, usually doing a rendition of a tarnished, corrupted Virgin/Goddess figure.
Cease participation of what you do not desire. History does not stop repeating unless you break the repetition.
There is an absolutely tuna rant done by Papa Joe Mama in this hour of slack podcast from the Indevival 2002 here . Give it a listen!
After a couple of years of this song sitting around, thinking to itself that it was finished, a few touch ups were completed and the 'Half of It' song is in it's finished state. This was one where 'Soil Finn' played rhythm guitar. You don't want to hear about the editing process really plus I've already blabbered about that before ('Pocket Moths' link for that and the video.)
& This is also finished which I found to be soothing to keep on repeat to focus the mind on images. You can probably click on the song name to read a small portion about that.
 |
| Here is a peek of a short story that will soon be posted. |
Lately cartoon imagery (which may mistakenly be claimed to be drawn opposite handed) has been a vast inspiration so I doodled some very quick accompaniments of draft images to sub-stories of a bunch of min-sub stories which all link to a larger culmination of many other miniature stories that kind of turn into one story.
Someday (some day some day) they'll all be ironed out with music and images to go with all of them, images more than just quick sketches. And to have video pieces of scenery (no characters, just scenery) to add with the music and writings is desirable but this computer... all of this equipment is sluggish and nightmarish. (Yes, black market, I'm talking to YOU to donate, generously, a laptop.(The entire market is a black market that considers itself the main market. I see what you're on to!))
Here is a sample of the writing:
"...the..."
So in summary: Directly below: Hectic noise! I am not yet a 'ga-ga' tribute band.. I have not yet pee'd on a ga-ga, Lots of editing!!
A name cannot be owned
You can ride and identity with it
but you can't climb inside of it
much like a symbol, you can merely make it related
to reshape interpretation but it's form will not shift
Priestess Nubia birth flight with Earth's might
Planetery explorations break through concrete mutations
Through merely being, beings merge towards Sudan
Sudden holographics break free from traumatics
Deja Vu in the day clouds, la dee da within the chime
Non-explicit nakedness reaps it's rewards
The taste of peaches are mighty fine
Hearing these words now you are Free and Flealess
assuming you had fleas before those words
you are also FEE-less assuming a price tag resides!
Friday, February 10, 2012
Waterbabies Hypnotize My Status Update
You're recommended to put your headphones on for this one... to get the full experience.
(Lengthy writing removed)
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
900 Cat Ass-town Riot
I'll see if this embed thing works.
Okay, it.. appears to... work.
GO BALLISTIC!
It's The 900 Cat Ass-town Riot!!
900 Cats Reclaim Their Pension!
Groove dig the big-bam,
It's an all out rampage.
Also recorded: Return Of The Inner City Jumping Snails and Wooliebear Parachutes.
(Only in premature form/02.08.2012, levels all mushy.. for the sake of fun/cartoon music.(2nd Quadrant, self defensive excuses.))
Ass-town, Like Blitzberg, Shitsville and Butt-town, is an American ideal of contemporary of standardized mish-mosh...
Piling over each other in over coats, creating a living, moving ladder of the ability to obtain, the frame morphs to a cartoon atmosphere.
900, 1000, then 1000 and more! The chaos of the situation is situated: crafted with a mainframe.
Glass bottles of milk swing side to side. .. Don't know how to play it? Just hit it!
Spine Of The Stream
Spine Of The Stream
I saw a one armed man count his sorrows on one hand and it wasn't his dominant one.
Try not to wave to the one-armed motorcycle rider.
Blessings came early on, not even four minutes after leaving the residence.
Then again, how a blessing is deciphered or realized comes upon that tool of measuring that is the human perceive-r.
This blessing was merely approached as a quick glance that caused curiosity.
A blessing is a tattered pair of blue jeans squashed up against a stream stone near a creek that eventually, 13 miles eventually, inlets into the lake.
Wandering eyes hook into and bring back scenes of misplacement.
Noticing crows that don't fly away but merely step beyond the white highway line and highway walkers that may enjoy, immensely, every given step or possibly loathe and cuss at the motion of every vehicle that speeds by, it is the new and wandering sights that congratulate arising from out of blandness.
How did the pants get there?
Is there a bare-bottomed stream victim wandering around someplace?
From a quick motion, you pass by quickly in that blur and there is wonder.
Walking, with snail-grace, the opportunity to investigate takes it's fortune.
I walked, on and on and on.
It was delightful at first, upon the dirt roads with a breath of youth.. Feeling as a character of straw-hat wandering emerging out of a book and into the life not with pages but with wilder beasts yowling through the hilltops at night and men in gym shorts holding hoses watering their AstroTurf passing through the 'quiet towns'. There are even places you could scream as loud as you will and only creatures not of your own ilk would listen, or scatter.
Later came the highway. As the smell of pines vanished the scents of molten beer carcass lamb discourse bellied into an aroma that urged a blending with each car whooshing by at a violent interval.
I came upon the sight of a pair of jeans in a stream, which I knew eventually leads towards the lake.. The direction I inevitably walk one torn shoe at a time.
It was strange how close this crow allowed me to approach before it did as natural and flew off in respect to it's own safety measurement.
Dropping down the bank I knew I'd be emptying the pebbles out from either sneaker once I continued back on trail of the garbage-heap highway route, permitted I don't just walk the rest of the stream down taking a more musing, 7 mile, adventurous path.
Taking the shoes off anyhow, pant legs rolled up, I waded towards that pair of jeans... Funny how nobody else may have noticed them, they must not have been there that long
(Actually, very few had eyes which strayed from the lines and you were the only one on foot, thus willing and with enough time to further something that would be nothing, garbage, to most anybody else.)
I wonder how somebody would lose a pair of pants within the stream.
They washed down, I bet.. and, is there some bare-bottomed wander wondering just....
well, I'm down here already anyhow.. and it's been hours of walking those roadsides.
Splashing face with this stream water, then lifting..
A coiled snake HISSES then leaps, if you could use that action regarding a snake, off towards the opposite bank.. A snake from from under those jeans, down the spine of the stream and gone.
Fuck. Okay, okay.
There's a wallet, there's a belt, there is money.
I once was a human, I once had skin, well, of flesh.
It was a strange thing, becoming reshaped.
I still do have skin, but now I can breath through it like every scale is like a doorway.
The multitude of vision appears as I am armless, legless, interpreting each sound as vibration and every color as a weight to be measured and known by movement.
Somebody had pulled the cloth from my stillness.
What, do I say, reason of communication is astonishing in it's limit.
I jump, the opposite way, looking up.
My wallet, form of identity, is in the hands.. For days, days, being here.
We stop the car.. from residence to the lake shore, here we are for an entire day.
See the willow trees like African haircuts sweeping as a weather vain, roots as the vein, winds as the indicator. These trees have age and this lake has lips. They say "o!"
The line between crows and seagulls separate in the possibilities of tourism.
If there's the possibility of tourists then crows just don't want to be there. I can understand that, in a way.
That's where the seagulls come forth.
The seagulls can be pretty goofy but I like them anyhow.. With their freckles or dalmatian spots. The crows tend to reside in places where their echoes will sweep just as well as where the willows will grow near the shore.
I sit down with the sun hanging from the roof, nearby the shore.
I see an item near the waves, outward, caught on a tree branch further up shore along the lake-lip..
It is fuzzy blue, soft looking.
I get up and start walking towards it...
A scattered t-shirt, when I get to it, is what I discover.
Depending on your hunger, your response of action, etc, etc, justifications are dealt with in several ways.
If it were money floating down the stream in singularity, it would be mine for the keeping.
What we have here is a situation that could have been me. What we have here is a situation that could involved injury, amnesia, trouble, somebody in a screwed situation etc, etc.
I decide to further walk down the stream... Leaving the jeans, carrying the wallet with identity and cash, maybe I will find more further walking down.
I wish not to be SQUASHED!
I've been well able,well enough at least, to learn how to steer this newer body. Part of me knows I'll be SQUISHED or run from if I am made out...
This one, this person, what are the odds of this, a person coming through this way from the highway and then continuing to walk further down the creek?
First came the terror, confusion, being turned into... This!
Then came the oddity of a shrew being slowly and horrifically gulleted down my gullet.
After the nightmarish congestion of this situation there was the boredom of the whole damn thing.
Counts of time, kept as something of another planet entirely, and all of the slithering..
But now, I don't know how, If I follow this person...
And what happened to the others?
I saw a one armed man count his sorrows on one hand and it wasn't his dominant one.
Try not to wave to the one-armed motorcycle rider.
Blessings came early on, not even four minutes after leaving the residence.
Then again, how a blessing is deciphered or realized comes upon that tool of measuring that is the human perceive-r.
This blessing was merely approached as a quick glance that caused curiosity.
A blessing is a tattered pair of blue jeans squashed up against a stream stone near a creek that eventually, 13 miles eventually, inlets into the lake.
Wandering eyes hook into and bring back scenes of misplacement.
Noticing crows that don't fly away but merely step beyond the white highway line and highway walkers that may enjoy, immensely, every given step or possibly loathe and cuss at the motion of every vehicle that speeds by, it is the new and wandering sights that congratulate arising from out of blandness.
How did the pants get there?
Is there a bare-bottomed stream victim wandering around someplace?
From a quick motion, you pass by quickly in that blur and there is wonder.
Walking, with snail-grace, the opportunity to investigate takes it's fortune.
I walked, on and on and on.
It was delightful at first, upon the dirt roads with a breath of youth.. Feeling as a character of straw-hat wandering emerging out of a book and into the life not with pages but with wilder beasts yowling through the hilltops at night and men in gym shorts holding hoses watering their AstroTurf passing through the 'quiet towns'. There are even places you could scream as loud as you will and only creatures not of your own ilk would listen, or scatter.
Later came the highway. As the smell of pines vanished the scents of molten beer carcass lamb discourse bellied into an aroma that urged a blending with each car whooshing by at a violent interval.
I came upon the sight of a pair of jeans in a stream, which I knew eventually leads towards the lake.. The direction I inevitably walk one torn shoe at a time.
It was strange how close this crow allowed me to approach before it did as natural and flew off in respect to it's own safety measurement.
Dropping down the bank I knew I'd be emptying the pebbles out from either sneaker once I continued back on trail of the garbage-heap highway route, permitted I don't just walk the rest of the stream down taking a more musing, 7 mile, adventurous path.
Taking the shoes off anyhow, pant legs rolled up, I waded towards that pair of jeans... Funny how nobody else may have noticed them, they must not have been there that long
(Actually, very few had eyes which strayed from the lines and you were the only one on foot, thus willing and with enough time to further something that would be nothing, garbage, to most anybody else.)
I wonder how somebody would lose a pair of pants within the stream.
They washed down, I bet.. and, is there some bare-bottomed wander wondering just....
well, I'm down here already anyhow.. and it's been hours of walking those roadsides.
Splashing face with this stream water, then lifting..
A coiled snake HISSES then leaps, if you could use that action regarding a snake, off towards the opposite bank.. A snake from from under those jeans, down the spine of the stream and gone.
Fuck. Okay, okay.
There's a wallet, there's a belt, there is money.
I once was a human, I once had skin, well, of flesh.
It was a strange thing, becoming reshaped.
I still do have skin, but now I can breath through it like every scale is like a doorway.
The multitude of vision appears as I am armless, legless, interpreting each sound as vibration and every color as a weight to be measured and known by movement.
Somebody had pulled the cloth from my stillness.
What, do I say, reason of communication is astonishing in it's limit.
I jump, the opposite way, looking up.
My wallet, form of identity, is in the hands.. For days, days, being here.
We stop the car.. from residence to the lake shore, here we are for an entire day.
See the willow trees like African haircuts sweeping as a weather vain, roots as the vein, winds as the indicator. These trees have age and this lake has lips. They say "o!"
The line between crows and seagulls separate in the possibilities of tourism.
If there's the possibility of tourists then crows just don't want to be there. I can understand that, in a way.
That's where the seagulls come forth.
The seagulls can be pretty goofy but I like them anyhow.. With their freckles or dalmatian spots. The crows tend to reside in places where their echoes will sweep just as well as where the willows will grow near the shore.
I sit down with the sun hanging from the roof, nearby the shore.
I see an item near the waves, outward, caught on a tree branch further up shore along the lake-lip..
It is fuzzy blue, soft looking.
I get up and start walking towards it...
A scattered t-shirt, when I get to it, is what I discover.
Depending on your hunger, your response of action, etc, etc, justifications are dealt with in several ways.
If it were money floating down the stream in singularity, it would be mine for the keeping.
What we have here is a situation that could have been me. What we have here is a situation that could involved injury, amnesia, trouble, somebody in a screwed situation etc, etc.
I decide to further walk down the stream... Leaving the jeans, carrying the wallet with identity and cash, maybe I will find more further walking down.
I wish not to be SQUASHED!
I've been well able,well enough at least, to learn how to steer this newer body. Part of me knows I'll be SQUISHED or run from if I am made out...
This one, this person, what are the odds of this, a person coming through this way from the highway and then continuing to walk further down the creek?
First came the terror, confusion, being turned into... This!
Then came the oddity of a shrew being slowly and horrifically gulleted down my gullet.
After the nightmarish congestion of this situation there was the boredom of the whole damn thing.
Counts of time, kept as something of another planet entirely, and all of the slithering..
But now, I don't know how, If I follow this person...
And what happened to the others?
The Sage At The Lemonade Stand
The Sage At The Lemonade Stand
I met a sage at the lemonade stand.
He kept saying 'I'm a sage I'm a sage I'm a sage!'
I said 'You are no sage!'
He said 'I'm a sage I'm a sage I'm a sage!'
I bought lemonade and he was a sage.1
There was a man who kept getting hit with a brick.
Bricks would fall
Where the heck did they come from?
I'm not so sure anybody could answer that
aside from maybe a person who resides on top of the building that the bricks were coming from.
Was some heathen throwing bricks? Well, we're not sure.
The man would keep diving his head under the bricks.
'This is normal this is normal this is normal.'
I cringed... That really looked like it hurt.
But...
!!Brick sound, smashing on the guy's head.!!
"This is normal this is normal this is normal"
he kept shouting.
"Look at that victim!!!" A traumatized women with her baby carriage by her side had stopped by the street side after seeing this.
"Lady, that man is no victim" a pick pocket had told her... He too, having just stopped amongst the site of this incident.
!!Brick sound, smashing on the guy's head!!
'This is normal this is normal this is normal!'
'That poor--- Hey!!! Where's my purse!'
'Lady, you are the victim!' the baby said, peeking his head from out of the carriage.
A man with a barrel of bricks plummets from the building top..
The brick-headed man below moves out of the way in a fierce instant.
'Hey, I ain't that stupid!' he quipped.
1 Repetitive conditioning.
I met a sage at the lemonade stand.
He kept saying 'I'm a sage I'm a sage I'm a sage!'
I said 'You are no sage!'
He said 'I'm a sage I'm a sage I'm a sage!'
I bought lemonade and he was a sage.1
There was a man who kept getting hit with a brick.
Bricks would fall
Where the heck did they come from?
I'm not so sure anybody could answer that
aside from maybe a person who resides on top of the building that the bricks were coming from.
Was some heathen throwing bricks? Well, we're not sure.
The man would keep diving his head under the bricks.
'This is normal this is normal this is normal.'
I cringed... That really looked like it hurt.
But...
!!Brick sound, smashing on the guy's head.!!
"This is normal this is normal this is normal"
he kept shouting.
"Look at that victim!!!" A traumatized women with her baby carriage by her side had stopped by the street side after seeing this.
"Lady, that man is no victim" a pick pocket had told her... He too, having just stopped amongst the site of this incident.
!!Brick sound, smashing on the guy's head!!
'This is normal this is normal this is normal!'
'That poor--- Hey!!! Where's my purse!'
'Lady, you are the victim!' the baby said, peeking his head from out of the carriage.
A man with a barrel of bricks plummets from the building top..
The brick-headed man below moves out of the way in a fierce instant.
'Hey, I ain't that stupid!' he quipped.
1 Repetitive conditioning.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Old bad sketches and new bad sketches and one good one
Old bad sketches and new bad sketches and one good one
Some umm moments.
I reached down into my childhood and remembered a friend who stuffed a small red fuzzball up his nose. It was elementary school. The ambulance was called.
 |
| "I didn't mean to be so remarkably unoriginal, but that's okay. I didn't even know. Subconscious screw." ~2005/06 |
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Revisit-Planet
One day there will be no blogs, just like the time before there were blogs.. And all of this could have been more time outside taking photographs like this.. But one day there will be no photographs, just like the time when all some had to do were to create statements like this that really did not need to become material at all. People would read things like that seriously, Really.
Avoid pop culture for several years then re-emerge back into society.. Take two Tylenol or one Aleve, Proceed.
I didn't realize I was saying 'thingisms' until I read P.K.D's Lies Inc.
Some things are just inherent and it should not be too much of a drag to feel lessoned in an individual or original approach.. much like "original" referring to Organic, or to the root (referring base point.) Hell, even that observation was lifted from somebody else.
Avoid pop culture for several years then re-emerge back into society.. Take two Tylenol or one Aleve, Proceed.
I am my own worst critic.. But I've never received any reviews, really.  | |
| Rebuild |
Wreck rebuild destroy fulfill
Rebuild wreck destroy fulfill
Destroy fulfill wreck rebuild
Fulfill wreck rebuild destroy
and it all came back.It always does
to create rather than suppress.
Rebuild wreck destroy fulfill
Destroy fulfill wreck rebuild
Fulfill wreck rebuild destroy
and it all came back.It always does
to create rather than suppress.
 |
| Revisit PLANET |
 |
| Uillie |
Regain patience, it gives moment for perception.
 |
| Life Body |
 | |
| Snarkled Chandeliers |
The endless pit of inspiration never ends.
That is why it is endless.. because, well, there is no end.
(It sounds much more convincing depending on how you say it.)
De-program, clarify.. Make up a new word.. Stick an 'L' in the word WORD.
The endless pit of inspiration never ceases neither in melancholy or joy
Chandeliers hovered from silver warbly clouds
they clankered and they clanged
They rattled and they danggg'ed
Then they fell down,
So ducks had to watch their feet for a while.
 | |
| Blooood Puuuumper |
The human body is a factory. The mind and the outside, organic in production. Thought pumps possibility.. Denial seems the fear of ability to imagine. Fear not patterns that caused pain in the past, nothing is more painful than avoiding new situations.
Patience invites focus, and interpretation. Seeing the same scene a million ways with one new perception every day. Never-get-bored.
My own life work will ensure my death
Death to the category and death to the death of things
and death to saying death to the death of things
and death to the category!
and death to saying death to the death of things
and death to the category!
And life to those daring to live life focused upon life without regards to preparing for the death of things.
Hermit curse: Appreciate the stillness.
Mantras of productivity.
'I Am' is not egotistical.
Recognizing power of the self is not egotistical or narcissistic.
Had levels of steadiness been morphed to assume we are feeble..
The prime stillness to act as if ordinary mindset is to be stagnate..
Mantras of productivity.
'I Am' is not egotistical.
Recognizing power of the self is not egotistical or narcissistic.
Had levels of steadiness been morphed to assume we are feeble..
The prime stillness to act as if ordinary mindset is to be stagnate..
Rubber bands and hair ties held the camera to the tripod.. the screw mount slipped. This camera is a survivor. Dropped and mucked yet it still operates when it can. Ghetto technology needs that extra oomph of wanting to get things done. It's a joy and torture. It's beauty and a bitch. The word oompth looks like 00 MPH. Pretty slow.
Treat every woman as a Goddess and creator every man as a brother and lord. If you enjoy being ripped off and screwed and spit on so be it but dammmmnn if it does not seem natural or just: Participation is the will and creation of rhythm. (This is just a note to self and not some dogmatic entry of pish posh.)
Snails hold the missing key. Slugs, trees, hills of dirt hold the key.
Jokers and lunatics seem, to jokers and lunatics, to be more stable than some willingly enough to reside in (a) stable
Snails hold the missing key. Slugs, trees, hills of dirt hold the key.
Jokers and lunatics seem, to jokers and lunatics, to be more stable than some willingly enough to reside in (a) stable
An abstract metronome beats the head of measurements.
Editeditediteditedit lifetimes of editing is it beautiful is it horrible, a far off refuge filled with soul-gunk vision to an eyeless one. "More people write poetry than read it... More people write poetry than read it." G.Carlin.
If dicks are evil, birth is a half-sinister process and if nudity is shameful, birth is fully sinister.
I actually like that one. if I got assraped by a media executive maybe there would be a chance for that phrase to be in some little book where little fragmented phrases make up the entirety of an individual like Bob Marley posters sold at frat stores. But there is optimism. There are no reasons for record companies now, nor religion, really..
That last paragraph will be regretted, at a later point, but the chance to say something regrettable to learn from will not be taken in shame!
Judge not n'les ye be judged by a judge who is taking bribes.
If dicks are evil, birth is a half-sinister process and if nudity is shameful, birth is fully sinister.
I actually like that one. if I got assraped by a media executive maybe there would be a chance for that phrase to be in some little book where little fragmented phrases make up the entirety of an individual like Bob Marley posters sold at frat stores. But there is optimism. There are no reasons for record companies now, nor religion, really..
That last paragraph will be regretted, at a later point, but the chance to say something regrettable to learn from will not be taken in shame!
Judge not n'les ye be judged by a judge who is taking bribes.
 |
| Fear not love means trust love if you read it right. Does believing love seem backwards. REVERSE. |
You start to have ideas that are shunned, ideas that are not systemic. Analyzing or at least attempting to in as honest a way as you can by capturing the process of belief system, by going deeper to the root, causes measure to shred out of the skin of old identity . Finding your own answers: It puts you further and further away from that system to where your own truths become absurd to the grand game, and the grand game's ideas of limitation or presence act as ridiculous to you.
Between delusion and belief, imagination and limits it becomes almost a just outlook that our inherent truths are seemingly agreed delusions, like the delusions of fear or skepticism to somebody else's dreams. If somebody's dreams do not harm another human being then how is it ridiculous.
Reverse, growing backwards, wisdom grows to childishness.
Circulate the forms, The rise of Priestess swings
Slipping through the matter outside of walls and chains
The Jackal sits nearby waiting for any moment to protect
The alter is a state, The state is Soul and Mind
Arising is from within rather than calling others blind.
The Arc of covenant from your ass on up
If thought inside is tipsy, the world out mirrors corrupt
Recognize ability, there are no idle thoughts
Manifest positivity, The physical that thought has brought.
Slipping through the matter outside of walls and chains
The Jackal sits nearby waiting for any moment to protect
The alter is a state, The state is Soul and Mind
Arising is from within rather than calling others blind.
The Arc of covenant from your ass on up
If thought inside is tipsy, the world out mirrors corrupt
Recognize ability, there are no idle thoughts
Manifest positivity, The physical that thought has brought.
We're all still itty bitty children.
 | |||
| Ideal Living situations |
 |
| Consensus Island: Absurdity, myth, folklore Fact: 100% of all stated facts will at one point be proven fraudulent. Fact: 100% of all stated facts will at one point be proven fraudulent. Fact: 100% of all stated facts will at one point be proven fraudulent. Fact: 100% of all stated facts will at one point be proven fraudulent. |
Some things are just inherent and it should not be too much of a drag to feel lessoned in an individual or original approach.. much like "original" referring to Organic, or to the root (referring base point.) Hell, even that observation was lifted from somebody else.
Automatically Entered
A saying:
I slept like an Anglo.
&
Then there's this.
It's funny because it makes sense.
I slept like an Anglo.
&
Then there's this.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)