possible coin

for the sake of sharing the past

2011-12-21T21:41:00.000+01:00

Filled with the inumerous vestiges that mark the hollow from the polite play. As the ambient speak. The walls froth. The pavement sparks. The cobble marks the fold of a sprain. The bloodline warms, and problems lay bare. Exposed by the play. Sometimes I imagine that they are created by my own imaginary world for the sake of them being creatively solved by the iterated thoughts. Some of the inumerous certainly are, some certainly reciprocate at the moment of thought, mutated.

"As long as you can find yourself, you'll never starve."

http://duchesse-2-guermante.deviantart.com/

the weaver and his tiptoes

2011-11-06T22:49:00.000+01:00

The gestures of two world.

The weaver with his double entendre

and inexorable disaffiliated tiptoes.

Stretched happy.

"And the heart is hard to translate
It has a language of its own
It talks and turns and courts sighs and present proclamations
In the grand days of great men and the smallest of gestures
And short shallow gasps"

by http://aceshearts.deviantart.com/

energy imprints in a storybook

2011-10-27T00:30:00.000+02:00

In an everyday storybook life proceeds without stops, like the process of stones would not exist, like there would be no sacrifices. In parallel the cosmopolitan transmits her intermitted pauses to something conversations would use as anvils: adaptable in their obnubilations.

We return to the storybook, far from sober, disembodied with the forlorn sleep, with an unreasonable feeling that we belong before. Shelved in an Eocene era. And as stars pop into place in this emerald waters we are abseiled into a life were statues are the most sacred forms of mobile life we can comprehend. And I love you, and I love the unobstructed by inner thoughts where we should never go. Because no railway has ever turned to stone, and before we turn to stone, life we will take a closer look on this book. Before we turn to stone.

http://milky78.deviantart.com/

creatures

2011-10-19T23:12:00.003+02:00

Undirected and obstinately holding the epicenter of a pre-historic indigence. As if we were humans. The creatures of the daily life that plunges into the platitudes of the diurnal, and suddenly in the fast interim, gasp and discern something oblivious lost. As if we were humans. ‘We are living in another world. Our having bodies is a farce, an anachronism.’

Stars trickle and like the legs of spider they tic and toe till they, the final spine combine. As if, they were humans. With the thoughtful mainstreams collapse and fine the corporate officer of the mind. And the roaming of the tree top castle tunnels your vision to the life of the sinister.

But in real life the imaginary is far more terrible than reality at hand as it takes place in the void and remains, as Nin notes, untestable. Sewn together loosely to dance and to be more testable to shed ardor. As if we were humans.

http://bsium.deviantart.com/

dragon

2011-09-25T23:19:00.000+02:00

No bearers wield what mighty walls voice and textures insist to endear; to see clearer, and to watch out for dissipations in them tiny dales. Unruly perceptions are among these constants that are cyclical with the moon’s route, that structure and demonstrate sudden confidence and call by an ancient goddess resurrected, to devote and last. And with the fierce of fire prowess, “that which flashes and gleams”, it reconciles my wow.

I believe everyone needs the eternal. But many search the sempiternal. Why this blatant use of a line? God forbidden. The escape from something god-like have further yielded that many neglects them both. The true temporal is in many ways unfathomable and is often confused by mere experiences. The experience of past, present and future is the phenomena to withdraw, by eternity, from the temporal axis, even though it presupposes her sibling, sempiternity, to extract from, unconsciously. The latter: another realm of happiness.

In bed, scrape the fragments of olfactory significance, to tangle to the cloaked particles of the everlasting battle between the dissolved and the engendering. The infatuated and her graveness. A safe distance and its heedlessness. This is always. Drinking a cup of tea with the thieved sword balanced in handle, ready to be slayed by the archangel. To see. This is always, the dragon for this life.

http://lwc71.deviantart.com/

luminal and liminal time

2011-09-22T22:33:00.000+02:00

I seem to fall within zones of vexation, drying the sacrosanct of people and beings while nothingness, well-behaved, lie waiting for this indecent sloth to end; the kind of sloth that with its aspiration of relaxation die by its own hand because of the subtleness and turbulence of more or less protruding ideas. But it isn’t like this apathy draws her energy from this essence of her beingness, this sloth, it is more like it is in his very mind to solve this muddle of vagaries, to try behave angelic, like death could never come, and life in this world is nothing for us to form…

where you remain lingering in liminal time between worlds and possibilities.

http://madscroach.deviantart.com/

ifs and musts

2011-09-06T23:39:00.000+02:00

Where something must be there, where never to abandon with speech or thought, where it must be the supreme in darkness of the abyss. As if my ghost stand corrected, questioned to what extent one can surpass, to where one have a place in thy keep.

Plunged in the splinter at this darkness of insurmountable sleep I concoct a velvet fury outside cordiality. You must be there. That is what come anigh and what I must realize.

http://duchesse-2-guermante.deviantart.com/

currents passing

2011-09-05T23:55:00.000+02:00

“The imagination is far better at inventing tortures than life because the imagination is a demon within us and it knows where to strike, where it hurts. It knows the vulnerable spot, and life does not, our friends and lovers do not, because seldom do they have the imagination equal to the task.” (p.106)

But when they do, this frivolously current pass and one catch the tides and seize every drop of this stream of watered thoughts; they become realized in this present rain audition on my window ledge. When one must exist to pronounce the drops as they are, ineffaceable laws and worlds in themselves, we spit and salute the idea of changing days. In the depth, far away from the opulence of the daily self, among the monstrous water particles, the kinesthetic nerve, by a gentle sinuosity of evasion, erodes this play with difficulties. As light transpires through the regularities of diagonal gaps a body exposes its iridescence of his nature. Hiding behind a latticework seldom repudiates the sense of emotive regularities that this underwater colossus espouse. The orphan left to face the world alone created this suspended garden to evict everything that would not live up to the mirth: a condemnation of everyone cerebrating partition of ideas, people, love and life. Delighted for what tickles when what was seized will likely remain in the avenir of everyday might, giving fuel for vicissitudes to be in love with the little and the vast. At the same time ashamed of abdications of something unrelated, a prosperous momentum that indeed thrived. A scalp that constituted the baptism of watery adventures that sitting on patio being washed over with delectable currents could never postpone. In the depth lied the split personality no one can figure, that no one dares to conceive - the inconceivable appetence- dovetail that arrives by nightfall.

“I had chosen as an answer to the dream this pursuit of the dream without memory. Yet I left behind a web of memory which wove itself inexorably and slowed up my walking and dreaming… The dream was always running ahead of one. To catch up, to live for a moment in unison with it, that was the miracle. The life on the stage, the life of the legend dovetailed with the daylight, and out of this marriage sparked the great birds of divinity, the eternal moments.” (p.last)

Wake of the dream by http://lwc71.deviantart.com/

world coquetries, Nïn and hold me moments

2011-08-28T23:32:00.001+02:00

“We three belong to the Middle Ages. We have this need of heroism, and there is no place for such feelings in modern life. That is our tragedy. […] I am not living on earth. Neither are my brothers. We are dead. We reached such heights in love that I made us want to die altogether with the loved one, and so we died. We are living in another world. Our having bodies is a farce, an anachronism. We were never even born.”

A stance wrapped in plastics of affinity, but something prevails in this oratory mold – something of prosperous acts or plain stupidities. Likely it is how it should be. Clashing words of social weights, one from the roots where future phone lines is as if they were necessities of the present, and one from the purport present where I should act as the entanglement of righteous ideas. Meanwhile, at the other side of the world disc, the world appear quaint from undiscovered lands, from artifice cobwebs that exist among colorful spheres of soap-like minds and plants, of the sanguine scars my dear. News report, from this side of the world, that life is winnowed through cities, appended to the physical structures like the viscid net I’ve heard about. Occasionally whispers trickle forth from the previous side of the world to pretend to be news from a third side. This is when reality transpires, to merge, occasionally harmoniously and sometimes as rupture. I want this sanguine heart to lucid emotions across the lands, they must to answer for the emptiness of days, to behave as they are, my verbose purpose.

But here we are with this people threads, construed pieces on a five-dimensional chessboard. Where hollow vehement tingles, that says that I have come to ponder obligingly about, to gossip, to document. Sarcastically this come to forcefully question yourself, to use other words, other sentiments to belong, to remain where the parts are as important as they must and thusly with embodied sweep understand the labyrinth, like Mirror mirror told me without words. As the words die subliminal acts fulfill consolidated worlds by a classic play known as decisive coquetries. Beautiful traces of searches.

“I was walking up a stairway of words. The words repeated themselves. […] When the word was the same, it did not move, nor did my feet. The word died.”

crystalline by http://ultramaryna.deviantart.com/

a finished lunch under a ‘bat out of hell’ and a half ‘rocket man’ session

2011-07-21T13:37:00.001+02:00

"I plant into deserts conquered from Chaos and Nothing and see the darkness receding on the limits of the horizon."

-Emerson, 1900

You give while you live; the disconcerted need for stretch till the end. The things is that some have harnessed their body with the world more than others and such instances can be counted as years, The triage has proved valuable in worth and love, such values can be a fulcrum of coming generation.

–The epitome of happiness in a slippery water bulb –

– Starting slow, coming fast in curves, ending immaculately evanescent –

The cultural problem of this is the generation of the self that should be seen distinguished from fate’s tower of threading. Forever young is impossible in such thinking. Such has been the course of Van Diemen ’s Land and the Stygian water. It is about how we picture. And it is by the pessimistic view I end up happy. Call it ignorance of what not.

–Honor with all its translations must be the most overrated word in the world –

– No other word has stupefied the reality in such grandeur –

In this raiment of lust I cross path with the enmity of a butterfly collector trying to urge cerates on this cicatrice of a wonted life by veil. Contentment can be seen as a form of compensation for something bad or it could be the observed good. In the moment it can be rendered as indifference by the observer. As Emerson I have learned to be content in the situation, silently propagating change in other ways. As Emerson I sometimes furiously agree that “the doctrine of compensation is not the doctrine of indifference”. Contentment for me is a way of stay curious, a motivation for beauty in the diminutive.

"Like curiosity, beauty is a motivational force, an emotional reaction not to the perfect or the complete, but to the imperfect and incomplete. We know just enough to know that we want to know more; there is something here, we just don’t know what. That’s why we call it beautiful." –Lehrer, 2011

King of a day by http://aegis-strife.deviantart.com

irresolutionary fairfolds

2011-07-12T23:39:00.000+02:00

The restless generation pretense its daily bread of sensitivity for restive tongues. Far from the aesthesia of gloomy studio by fair-fold want. The emergency room blockage is the wistful desiderata of voice far away, and customs, I do not read, because I believe them being ambages for the doldrums state without sail. The irresolutionary hope for rock ditches in sunset.

http://duchesse-2-guermante.deviantart.com/

Meditation of a tunnel

2011-07-11T22:51:00.000+02:00

In some way this way of goal-oriented thinking disfigure my time frame of zestfulness. I need to structure to unstructure which is not within the ordinary vicinity. The residue is by granddad ‘black & white’, autocratic condone of a pinpricked sky and a longing for a delightful neck.

I see why prodromes never are the advection that marks the face with a gusty cue. Sub-harboured of nothing; dictated by a corrupt need to finish. My sincerest thoughts of execration to this lack of bacchanalian thoughts. My sincerest notion of perdition to this unbalanced ascendency of a world and a living of idiocy.

I have learned that I am vested with a pipeline that can carry all the pain in the world; the ultracrepidate of a sealed retrospective leakage. But such meditation comes with costs, the incredulous lot. I find conscientiousness in the esoteric ways of life. Lists like a languid heartbeat drops small fruits of musical thoughts and I buoyantly sin, innocent as a damnesian washing crimson hands by the river. Be my, behold and be intrinsic, thusly bodily love.

frame up your life by http://silvestru.deviantart.com/

Primum non nocere

2011-07-07T12:21:00.000+02:00

Want goes around comes around… la… la…

James asked: “Let the latter dream of the death of a certain man, and let the man simultaneously die. Is the dream a mere coincidence, or a veritable cognition of the death?”

Live like Arcadians with the bucolic chain of freedom and die like a castle servant with diamond Sinatras and like a ballerina we will lay. I believe in the objective treadmill plateau and it’s where it starts. First, do no harm, then listen to the acquainted wind of prosperous with its subjective nymphs. First then, listen to the balloons of thoughts that take your mind and wander with the ingenious idea of you standing over the gunwale delightfully nauseated, hideously gobbing at the text of stigmas and leniently glancing at the bourgeois in contempt but with notable abditive thoughts.

http://climx.deviantart.com/

big bang therapy

2011-06-08T23:13:00.000+02:00

Some smiles do come easily by the waltz.

And I can’t help the split of turns to fall in folds with circuits. By the tree my heart is tethered by deracinated minds and still I waltz with the unallayed roe. These walls are why reveries are but clouds and never fix.

Some waltz smile for the daunting boy to mind in the reverie.

In the vaults of vision strengths masks and seeds them phosphors. Many astronomical bodies scintillate in choreography with earthly roes and what is a tree if not something to hug?

Some reveries are complex, some are daunting, and some waltz in between.

http://partiallyhere.deviantart.com/

malice

2011-06-05T01:22:00.001+02:00

“Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendor”

By the origin of universal or whole, by might my paradigm, my bole.

Turned irate, simply my soul migrates, my strain.

Why should I be guileless, why console.

“Leave all thoughts of the world you knew before”

http://aquasixio.deviantart.com/

aspire, hush

2011-06-03T15:03:00.001+02:00

Like knots and bowls of moist and ghost man blots and fowls.

Given that he has the stance to change whenever it is explicitly that he is in a category defined, does he know that he changed or remained silently bemoaned behind a wall? Some try to push themselves a category they can’t comprehend. Bend in knots. Some climb the illusionary staircase, unaware of them gaps between; stretch, with no recollection of strain; fall, with no trace of void-bruises. They distend till someone cut their umbilical for the life they know or burst for something they didn’t know.

The swaggering of the contemporary:

“Lumbering it with heavy-duty computational and individualist baggage which a more dynamical, fleet-footed, improvisatory, collaborative conception of the psychological can jettison… Temporally-embedded set of contextual factors mediated by collaborative cognition.”

And I’m personally trapped within the modern scientific point of view of nothing. If everything is temporary, nothing is graspable. If everything is context, I am lost in the texture. If everything is mediated, I better stop think. If everything is collaborative, I am lost in me. If everything is dynamical, we must behave thusly. If everything is fleet-footed, I easily slip. If everything is improvisatory, I stop being nervous.

Like figments bemoan, even though the strand he pulls is not made of yarn, a silver lining lies in the prospect of the dark.

http://neo-innov.deviantart.com/

headlong for the ship Orion

2011-04-25T01:02:00.001+02:00

“He endeavored to collect his thoughts, but did not succeed. At those hours especially when we have sorest need of grasping the sharp realities of life do the threads of thought snap off in the brain.” In the place where they deliberate and decide. Where men are islands of themselves.

“Nobody knows where they are. You search, but can find nothing. Such people, when they are not mud, are dust.” No man is an island/entire of itself, the subjective truth. I just wish, a man, an island could bring to deliberate realities of her scent. By the torch you are temporarily alone and so I curse thee, my elderly. And for that inverted affine: “he always fell back upon this sharp dilemma which was at the bottom of his thought. To remain in paradise and there become a demon! To re-enter into hell and there become an angel!” Some things ain’t there to scratch, with the anguish of blue eyes I reciprocate what I mustn’t, I heed what I shouldn’t. But still…

http://agnes-cecile.deviantart.com/

asylum

2011-04-17T00:56:00.002+02:00

Dreams and thoughts you go around thinking about but without them being there. There but not. Not so thought. A sinus-wave with every heartbeat in mind.

And the truth is I don’t like coffee.

Or less pretentious: It’s the fork in the fart as some indigenous movie just described. And they even made the process point of everything. Good fart-movie anyway.

Now, coffee and moon.

“Nature sometime joins her effects and her appearances to our acts with a sort of serious and intelligent appropriateness, as if she would compel us to reflect.” (p.29)

http://agnes-cecile.deviantart.com/

void virtues

2011-04-16T18:43:00.000+02:00

Imaginary world play bouncing against the walls, squeezing and elongating. The sweet party-incitement with the surly asphyxiation tries to create exceptions and inceptions in midst of this quandary. Cacoethes oh mermaid, ambition steals serenity when my fantasies mend (Dorothea Bart).

http://agnes-cecile.deviantart.com/

virtues to the lost contemporaries

2011-04-15T19:42:00.000+02:00

The cover of Glasvegas new album is perfect.

“talks expensive and subtleties ring blind
don't let bad timing be the cost of our love lost
our crippling shyness butchering love all the time
please please god pull the stars to align
lets not leave it to another time”

A sense of reminiscence. A feeling of instant remembering. Destined to the behaviour of sitting still, trying to write a minor book of everything. No pictures or words, just the feeling attached to clusters – rather than specifics – of memories. A cluster of memories occasionally set to times or eras. But as soon as they appear they disappear and I hate to not being able to track the origin in the current setting I’m in. What the fuck in a library context reminds me of distal experiences I can’t comprehend? And what feeling has the right of invidiously occur without introducing itself; and upon that leave the taste of vertiginous minds in the hopeful memory?

You live many lives, some overlap some distract. If a marked barrier between lives merge and are blurred into a common whole you easily instantiate in the presence: but them specifics are the point of take off. They die - why is that?

I draw to shamelessly reorient myself to the toothbrushes that lie together. Mentally bitchslap my curtness of thinking; oh dear. “The struggle of maturity is to recover the seriousness of the child at play.”, someone close said. A sudden struck of these pale derangements and I’m serious again.

Like blurred spot in time. The spot is unclear and the surroundings are less clear. And the serious child at play forms the eclipse and polychromize the world from its worst and its best side.

”Prophets and preachers to make sense of the signs – every secret untold is planet aligned.“

http://agnes-cecile.deviantart.com/

as one

2011-04-04T23:33:00.000+02:00

As dots forms evening sober bacchanalia-like tinkering - as the singular always does. As majesties proclaim their dominion – as dots tinsel smeared on this mind map of made up truth. As the abiding weavers sidelife of claywork by the evening clock sits threading. As this mental Art Nouveau of dots defines insomnia – as the lucency of experiences transcends the dots by the need of abiding.

As the dot speak to the next dot with contradictions. As to violate your own identity is to the ‘required’ as the shadow is to the creature – as the universe is to the curse – as conditions are to time. Namely, there to change – as the trial always does.

“You will be required to do wrong no matter where you go. It is the basic condition of life, to be required to violate your own identity. At some time, every creature which lives must do so. It is the ultimate shadow, the defeat of creation; this is the curse at work, the curse that feeds on all life. Everywhere in the universe.”

http://vil-painter.deviantart.com/

electric memory

2011-04-02T18:56:00.000+02:00

“This rehearsal will end, the performance will end, the singers will die, eventually the last score of the music will be destroyed in one way or another; finally the name “Mozart” will vanish, the dust will have won. […] I’m part of the form-destroying process of entropy.”

Memory to time is like tears to rain. You can feel it but can’t be capsulated. The once default end

The anachronisitic and the attractive experienced – relationship changed

The deplorable positive prospect of the nested tear – undeletable

Rain is vertical, time is horizontal - memory and tears chiefly plotted upon them both

“She seemed more externally composed, now. But still fundamentally frantic and tense. Yet, the dark fire waned; the life force oozed out of her, as he had so often witnessed before with other androids. The classic resignation. Mechanical, intellectual acceptance of that which a genuine organism – with two billion years of the pressure to live and evolve hagriding it – could never have reconciled itself to.”

http://hellwoman.deviantart.com/

shuttlecock

2011-03-31T01:30:00.002+02:00

Humans are generally said to have three options:

(1) adopt, (2) migrate or (3) adapt the environment

This postulates actions far from the contemporary inertia that I experience. Itches its external vehicle and neglect to what purpose except from the internal circle of veridical truth of whether “you gonna be sane – or not lonely”.

It remains lingered; not cohesive with its internal vehicle.

The extension remains incomplete.

The fractured land marks the passing of statements of everything being dull, not purposeful, the concrete instantiation of tiny black holes in our blood to drink from. But you know what – I think Ian Hacking seize the prospects of a dimly night and coming days when he reads from his letter about the extraordinary of the fact that we hands, and fingers and note that:

“we even have toes, which we tend to forget, because we wear shoes.”

So you can at least take off your shoes and admit that this environment migrated here; and please adopt by acting or adapt by migrating you adoption to adapt. Three options with different sizes that eventually will merge, otherwise I wouldn’t hold my hand as high.

http://dim-baida.deviantart.com/

notas escritas

2011-03-27T16:40:00.000+02:00

The crying orifice depart.

The norm of threshes and chestnuts as the only(!) guide for social interaction. Suddenly my mind easily wanders for anything that serves my memory architect better; an instinct of survival – a thing that I believe the evolutionary conductor will in a couple of hundred years will walk through the administration-chain. For now I leave it by the notes of observations.

A Bob Dylan-copy by the side of Port Veil. I regret my mistake of not buying his cd but still linger in bubble of genuine attractors in the middle of touts and gaps between the visibly and the veil of pollution; the easily caught detractors. The arty and the beautiful are sayings interlocated and sometimes hard to demarcate in a city by the look.

Return for my three-fold utopian passion; the imaginative cloud-like spot of focus.

http://pink-promise.deviantart.com/

bodily perimeter

2011-03-22T12:33:00.002+01:00

“Accursed may he be, the one with useless dreams

Who in stupidity, promoting to the world

A sterile condundrum, impossible to solve”

Left-handers relation to life expectancy, dyslexia, schizophrenia et cetera is nature’s little experiment. The code is to be found on the continuum. And whether I die or go barking about in the clouds is a flux, hopefully it is not understood in what I do with my right; god pray’d I’d picked the right activity asymmetrically. But also, the thing is that the rate is constant which means that you mustn’t be a Darwinian to realize its evolutionary benefits.

And embodiment go circling in the air once more, trips on the possible coin and wake’s up the morning after, hungover, with the shrink on the right-hand side.

“I would obliterate myself upon your throat”

http://philipbrunner.deviantart.com/

the behavioral time-space

2011-03-08T23:59:00.000+01:00

Through time any analysis froth and even if we view ourselves as constants me move through time; and even if we have a healthy view of the subjective change we’re still prone for the constant path, viewing objects as constant. Change has been a behavioral necessity but time is for the physics to mend. And next to Paris sewers lies the bowl of nighttime ice-cream entrapped in the situation when the mental indigence reaches for the Lycan gospel. And through these constant encirclements of nesting retros pertain to the constant.

“he's a boy who never ages.
rides a goat around the lake
he's a friend who never falters
to change my circling fate.

he said dance across the battle
but punch straight through that wall
though your knuckles may be bleeding
they'll be healed before the fall.”

http://xxxjappanerdiexxx.deviantart.com/

spellbind, rescind

2011-02-25T01:07:00.000+01:00

Day. The difference and relation between the expert and the novice has been around for some time. Coming in various forms – the master and the apprentice – it scorches the skin of education till the brick of progress reveals itself as evident. The apprentice and the master are different but their relations are plenty-fold explained. No idea, no fact – just the threading of the purple till the purple ball is. The different perception of how and why.

I like floor space. The woman in front me rather prefer outer space I presume. She is investigating the possibility of possible worlds; and star trek are about to realize in conclusion. I try to work my prejudices. I investigate the possibility of floor space where I can trek for conclusions.

Night. And adventure – mad vociferator – mocks my healthy mind.

Mocks its night till the adventure is apprentice of any kind.

http://loganart.deviantart.com/

the fridge and his correlations

2011-02-19T19:26:00.003+01:00

A mix between two scientific papers…:

Posterior hippocampus and sexual frequency with this weeks quote: “the two outliers who had sex every day (or nearly every day) could be driving the correlation."
Whether emotional influence-abilities should be fitted within the emotional intelligence framework. It think, occasionally it is fitted within the sociopathy-framework. But I don’t even know how to frame the work.

…and a glas of over-fermented fridge wine.

http://divadlo.deviantart.com/

in search for the collective

2011-02-16T18:11:00.002+01:00

I venture: from floating in the void between a smattering computer and two fever-moistened cushions, reiterating syndicalism; to marketing the essence of two days naked in the snow under a tree. It is the difference between Darcy and Hank I believe: the ever be-thoughful library window to my right telling me that the life outside is but reflected dark with its shadows hurrying home from somewhere to something, nothing or anything; and the ever to be knowledge of patterns of experience that break the window to my right and blur the minds upon this circle of solitude, trying to mark the border between individuals and collectives. It is certainly about what we done and what know we’ve done. I adour the nowness.

Lovely note on how we should look upon differences and treatments of such differences: it is about “patterns of experience, rather than questions about essential differences…” Like the light in this photo.

http://darkgomo.deviantart.com

forgetful epiphany

2011-02-08T18:13:00.001+01:00

It may be addressed towards a subject, idea, person, or object and somewhere among the lines of thought is the choice if being observer or author, idea or person. To Mar comes with double intention, like the sudden shock of change, ‘like it never happened’. Living by the essence and searching among the epiphanies of breath, where shock is about the past rather than the present and where physicality is proof for something more than structure. Are we trying to make a clock out of a cloud? I need to listen more than once my dear Kafka. Offence and point of views may not be judged by its worth, like this picture that picture the idea of exogenesis, where logic is a symphony of charcoal.

http://myiu14.deviantart.com/

2011-02-06T23:15:00.000+01:00

http://loganart.deviantart.com/

The iniquitous moralist tries to work himself out. ‘Numbers come with partners’ Sherlock proclaimed and my centre is where there isn’t one self. The self-indulgent self-lie. Why is commotion located in irregular motions of myogenic contractions? Like mitosis would hurt. And the sleepless stalk elk down the damp canyon forest…

from stuff to fabric

2011-02-04T18:03:00.000+01:00

‘There’s atoms, which is things that is too small to see, that’s what we’re all made of. And there’s things that’s smaller than atoms, and that’s Particle Physics.’ Bod nodded and decided that Scarlett’s father was probably interested in imaginary things. – the Graveyard Book, N. Gaiman

We are probably made of imaginary things Bod concludes and accepts it is relentlessly so. What are imaginary things but the importance of staying ingenious with the reality-mirror. A simple state of mind that is far from discrete, with the desire of changing the fabric of thoughts. A former Egyptian leader said that ‘he who cannot change the very fabric of his thought will never be able to change reality’. Scarlett’s father is weird, and so Bod concludes, but Bod is raised by ghosts (imaginary things), that is also weird, but the weirdness is irrelevant. The imaginary is relevant because that’s what runs through the fabric you see.

Entitled tot by my old lady. Alone together is how we act as mirrors. As imaginaries we fracture and form realities that is made of the same stuff that is brought with the fabric of my received socks. Over and out.

“It has been given many names. Each inlet and bay and stream has been classified as if it were discrete. But it is one thing, where borders are absurd. It fills the spaces between stones and sand, curling around coastlines and filling trenches between the continents.” – The Scar, C. Miévillle

http://ssuunnddeeww.deviantart.com/

duality

2011-01-18T17:30:00.001+01:00

Splintered lights in euphoric crossings; we spit and fall like drops, the wet tissue of the drop splints to the cluster lasers and the dancing in the corner is to the mind as the drop is to the air. It appears as if they never remain; never remain as they are. The wired ghost nods. And in my uttermost fragileness, with my pulsating temple indignation I end up at sooth with the present.

Acoustic or not, the strobe recommends such awareness and instead of fighting arms towards the sky at the end of the bridge it could be the most convincing crossing to an everyday refrain as it could be. The versions are neither right nor wrong; they exist simultaneously but they never remain as they are, always changing its interpretation of what it is; but still exist in parallel as the duality of light on a floor; and I love it.

http://mariankretschmer.deviantart.com/

from Luria to stardust

2011-01-13T15:59:00.001+01:00

The struggle between what is and the infinite is remembering reconsidered. As Tristan finds the nowness in the particulars and the skyness of the infinite my whole being is stretched till it is simply detained in a simple piano melody. In my abstract room of nowness I bounce against my artificial walls, I do not count the number of walls, it is pointless in the flow of the bounce.

The star fall to the simple particulars of earth and Kierkegaard’s struggle of living in the moment performs its dance. Even if evolutionary it is about the future, a temporal must, it turns out being something else. An evolutionary offspring - an anomaly. It is pointless recalling it as insufficient. Luria tells the story of Sherashevsky that was in the particular a wonder; but were not able to grasp metaphors. The road to understanding is infinitely long if we are to stop at every particular; every once in awhile a star must fall or be dated in the clouds. But it must be a struggle, for Gaiman tells the story of a star that didn’t fall, but was hit.

My physically pathworked grandmother says she is finished with the earthly bounds of life because you no longer need to tell your name; all you need to do to is to utter your social security number. The infinite meets the particular. Another, mentally lost, relative asks where she is. Her daughter reminds her that she is where is she always is, at home. She answers: “to what extent does that help me?” The particulars were in need of the infinite.

…they were dancers, stately and graceful, performing a dance almost infinite in its complexity. He imagined he could see the very faces of the stars; pale, they were, and smiling gently, as if they had spent so much time above the world, watching the scrambling and the joy and the pain of the people below them, that they could not help being amused every time another little human believed itself the center of its world, as each of us does. (p.96)

I can’t help taking the particulars to the stars and back, a necessity, a disease my dear Kierkegaard? I think not, neither thinks he; I think. This difference between the particulars remembered and the infinite is not something new. It has been documented in the third deck of an ocean liner, a soundtrack I feel myself in dept to. Because it was so easily brought to the masses, everyone could feel it; and it was there I ended my bus journey a couple of days ago; in the particulars of the everlasting struggle where the tiniest things are infinite and the dance of the stars are brought to earth in a most physical form. The book ends differently from the film, in favor of the book. And I admit myself guilty to my first spoiler. It is stretched like strings around my face:

“She says nothing at all, but simply stares upward into the dark sky and watches, with sad eyes, the slow dance of the infinite stars.” (p. last)

http://vampire-zombie.deviantart.com/

the bed-forgetfulness of a pavement girl

2011-01-05T21:50:00.000+01:00

In the dying remnants of apartment chronicles we detach. Words are in themselves abstractions so whether they touch upon the reality is nowhere to be acknowledged in this situation; the ungraspable. It’s immense. Someone says they will not return, humans affliction for the immense void.

Several fireflies circle in the dark void of walls. Beautiful. You are left, remain watching, I would be nowhere else. In the right light they light, in the right void they twitch, in the right angle they turn. To the fireflies my Joycean machine cracks and I light, twitch and turn.

My dear Peter Pan was found behind the other, awake to as the fridge poetry declared: “unique whispering free”. “He had ecstasies innumerable that other children can never know, but he was looking through the window at the one joy from which be must be for ever barred.” (p. 171)

“go watch the TV-room long” “why are you so nice and hot” “shall nurture scent” “girl enjoys between early morning sex” “strange sweat meet”

As the pirates they never opt for oblivion I cleared the front and a random word fell and said “illusion”. And that is sometimes how it feels like when comparing the immense with the reality.

Through the chronicles of a lost apartment to the incineration of the last and lost sandal continent; the words nowadays come out in pairs:

“special illusion” “illuminated shadow” “love cries” “unique diet” “tired kiss” “why lagom” “important scent” “bed-forgetful” “laughter picture” “pavement girl” “strange autumn” “peculiar membrane”.

Sometimes I like astronomer’s descriptions of the behavior of stars. Because they appear as perfect metaphors for biological behavior and because they are in size what the orbital memory is. It’s all about energy and the move of the fireflies: “…if a binary star – two stars orbiting each other - ventured too close to Sgr A*, one star of the pair could fall toward the black hole and go into a tighter orbit around it, thereby losing enormous amount of energy. Since the laws of physics dictate that energy be conserved, the other star would gain an equally large energy boost, flying away at tremendous speed.” (National Geographic).

http://kevissimo.deviantart.com/

beings and happenings

2010-12-19T00:03:00.000+01:00

A frost-shimmering night where we walk through time perspectives, the ever frost motley dressed actor of the mind injects the feeling of recurring thoughts in your Cartesian theater. You learn enough of a world and you never return because you are to be happy in reality with your collected experiences, your moments upon ten-fold moments from the world next to you. A mind using cannibalism on itself. A simple act of porting psychology on others, while forgetting that it is the situation that plays itself out. Learning is more about reminding and changing. Courage to behave in a certain way is not about courage, it is about practice. So we return to the world next an Aslan says “the same thing never happen twice”. Spektor ends in the back of the beginning by saying “just because everything changing doesn’t mean it never been this way before”. A noble contradiction in the rearview shaking the stars. Beings and Happenings are not the same but it does not mean they never been the same before.

http://hassmework.deviantart.com/

Children of the blurred bottled pictures

2010-12-11T18:43:00.000+01:00

The search of the feeling of monochromatic life beneath life. Twisting with the physical life, I end up scratching its surface while sleeping. As always, the (in mirror) left eye corner. Life erosion meander as the past is always changing and the bodied crypt says that polemics are not persuasive. Wade Davis is afraid of a narrower modality of thought and the sudden awaking of lost possibilities. Awe springs from the sudden neural burst of the realization of a monochromatic synthetic truth.

“Cryptic words meander. Now there is a song beneath the song. One day you'll learn. You'll soon discern its true meaning. An interesting detachment. A listless poem of love sincere. Desire, despair. Overlapping melodies. Oh now the roots are reminiscing. Recurring dreams of minor chords. Metred time. Muted chimes find the beat. And in the pulse there lies conviction. A steady push and pull routine. The cymbals swell. High notes flail into reach.” – M. Taylor

And as the refrain mend like a truthful Puckian: “it is not about love”. I wake up: the scratching mind bears fruit with its as always bloodied line, always in the same narrow spot. Are we the children in the conspiracy of blurred bottled pictures?

http://m0thyyku.deviantart.com/

terms of a spell

2010-12-06T12:14:00.002+01:00

In living memory a snowdrop explores its focal point with the wit of the opaque wraith. And see, the terms of the spell are not to be concluded if the cloud is not to be forgotten.

While dancing with its’ edges partly lit

The line of time, a clock flickering

The sudden moments, a cloud, I admit

http://jolsariella.deviantart.com/

a bridgy bridge

2010-11-27T14:11:00.001+01:00

A dot with an arrow pointing outwards is withdrawn from circle. Reading about synaesthetes: they can be divided between projectors (external) and associators (internal); perceptual cross-activation in the external world or such experience in the mind’s eye.

Circle implodes and associates projectors till chemical cocktail is re-wired. On a bridge reaching for a woody climbing liane.

“And though our parts are slightly used
New ones are slave labor you can keep
We're living in a den of thieves
Rummaging for answers in the pages”

http://gate-to-nowhere.deviantart.com/

RSVP

2010-11-25T18:59:00.000+01:00

Poppers idea that someone who works on a problem can seldom say clearly what his problem is unless he has found a solution is applicable. Of course it is possible to have ideas about possible problems in the possibility sphere were truth stands against disassociation. So my dear Yeats, where’s that balloon of mind?

“Hands, do what you’re bid:
Bring the balloon of the mind
That bellies and drags in the wind
Into its narrow shed.”

Or my dear Dave King, where’s that closure of the gnat society?

“So you drank with the lost souls
For too many years
Tied to their ankles now crippled with fear
Never been righteous though seldom were wrong.”

Flat roof manor turning its leaf and I have no intention taking sides, that’s what I struggle against. A simple grape in the mind of clouds and clocks. The clock cracks, irrevocable for its cloudy intentions.

http://jarrod343.deviantart.com/

saved by science and the future is now

2010-11-23T11:04:00.001+01:00

With peremptory denuded voice his fractal poltergeist turned physical and crashed against the light polluted and snow shimmering night sky. The difference would just be an Aubade with a subtle knife if in a scepter’s monochromic shifting hand. Now it is just necessary. The pollution does the dance with the shimmering winter crystals; symbiotically life is projected on something luminary and I simply need some G-factor on the situation. In this ferocious state of mind I just ask if saved by science and the future is now can explain why I am so in love with half the album of a Idol-celebrity. Is it because poets died for poetry and the beat; or am I stupid? …”monochrome city the color’s fading…” simple and penetrating. Something I can chew to solve neural loops rather than implode.

”And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth”

http://gloredel.deviantart.com/

standing on the epitomes of moments

2010-11-18T18:39:00.001+01:00

Like a drunk pretending to walk a straight line in a dark room with a gale-force wind blowing through it. Like a stranger to his own environment. You are stunned but professionally so my dear Agar: “He has a strong sense of increased possibilities, and is overwhelmed by perceptual chaos”. Studies in a café makes me plunder my concentration just so if only if a silently thinking five year old walks in with his mother and a screaming one year old. Not only if but also if another evolve through his or her self-regulating system of emotive moments in the daily work.

Bubbles attract each other; gas merging with gas through the liquid medium surrounding it. Antibubbles will on the other bounce with every object they encounter. But still they find stars on the tip of the tongue and their moments are a fractal poltergeist rushing through them once in a while.

http://gottfriedhelnwein.deviantart.com/

here and there

2010-11-01T11:40:00.002+01:00

“It is so much simpler to bury reality than it is to dispose of dreams.” -Don DeLillo

There are several benefits of winning over the external environment but it challenges every plunge into textures you are to pursue. A late discussion in an industrialized square; a discussion we told each other to be easily remembered but I did not. Partly blurred through the illusion of being sober in a context were it would be impossible. Weird poetical ideas by a cycle stand and every instance of reality as performance, as life, as make-up while up there and as colors imbues the different modes of your life seems like a like a cloud rather than a clock. It is not easily substantiated what is supposed to be reality and fiction. And I enjoy every part of it, despite of its contrasting elements wringing my mind within the control of ammunition. Sometimes my awe stems from the need to understand everyone so much I forget to ask. Our mental consanguinity, our law.

http://czar1259.deviantart.com/

perspectives

2010-10-25T20:53:00.001+02:00

Gazing up at the sky.

Constellating grandeurs of movements of a tiny stage. The work of the still pictures leaves me thick and awe. I have the whimsical idea that the experience of light pollution is a non-experience that leaves you without a perspective you never lost. The dread of the day when children ask what a constellation is. Because I believe it is about taking perspectives and when the imperative source is gone an ignorant mind is left ‘lone. To ask what a star is. No stars, no lines to draw, no furious movements of life.

Getting warmed up for opening on Saturday and I could still frame the tiny moments of stars. If I could just pause and have the all-seeing eye of opinion I would point out the spots of synapses sparking life on stage. Getting fluid and sentient.

By the way, loved Bering’s end in his last blog post (if you are just slightly blue):

“If there is one thing that I’ve learned since those very dark days of my suicidal years, it’s that scientific knowledge changes perspective. And perspective changes everything. Everything.

And, as I mentioned at the start, always remember: You’re going to die soon enough anyway; even if it’s a hundred years from now, that’s still the blink of a cosmic eye. In the meantime, live like a scientist—even a controversial one with only an ally or two in all the world—and treat life as a grand experiment, blood, sweat, tears and all. Bear in mind that there's no such thing as a failed experiment—only data.”

And as I change perspectives, nothing but a child dancing.

http://kannagara.deviantart.com/

interstices of life

2010-10-16T23:23:00.001+02:00

Life in a box of chocolate

Life in a bubble of fluids

Life in a cloud of synapses.

The bubble burst, land on the synapses creating recumbent felines by the sparks. And the box of chocolate is left for this episode of play. Dancing, dancing and a greek tale is depicted by tiny beautiful animates moving and standing through dense molecules; weight transfer, counter balance and you look at those cavemen go. There is a constant attention delay and dynamics between the moving and the speaking. The peculiarities motivate me and I turn flashbulb childish with an ever-shifting attention. I do enjoy the re-wiring. I press the like-button of the between upside-down moments.

Any strong sensation whatever produces accommodation of the organs which perceive it, and absolute oblivion, for the time being, of the task in hand. […] It never is overcome in some people, whose work, to the end of life, gets done in the interstices of their mind-wandering. –William James

http://sophie0305.deviantart.com/

paper ships under a dress

2010-10-05T09:30:00.000+02:00

Reading Bloom’s book about pleasure.

”…very being of anything, whereby it is what it is. And thus the real internal, but generally… unknown constitution of things, whereon their discoverable qualities depend, may be called their essence,” – Locke

The essentialist nature of attraction; it is what you think with the mind as Shakespeare minded. It speaks eloquent with the perception of paper ships under a dress.

http://slawekgruca.deviantart.com/

the funfair orchestra

2010-09-29T23:37:00.001+02:00

“The greatest enemy of any one of our truths may be the rest of our truths.” -James

I’m slumped away in this spotless glaring room. I remember when my favorite word was to ‘evaporate’. For me it was a sort of feeling, opposite to opinion-spotlight. I have many of them. But they are woven fine, the long term resemblances of a singular life, and they accept mirror images against each other that create a depth of repetitions. They never disappear but they are added to a hall of mirrors reflecting everything that ever was in a humorous dance of you. Someone you thought you knew; you. But it is part of the journey I presume. Hopefully I laugh out of the rest of the truths in this castle of absolute monarchy.

“Common sense and a sense of humor are the same thing, moving at different speeds. A sense of humor is just common sense, dancing.” -James

Starchild by http://nondani.deviantart.com/

lantern

2010-09-24T00:08:00.001+02:00

I have no spotlight ability of attention as theory prelude. I have a lantern, a diffuse sense of texture, a bulb of present memories. I attend whatever I can see. It works according to Gopnik if you are in a position to figure out a chaotic world. It works for children as a necessity. They see everything. But in some subworlds, were harmony reign, a lantern leaves you blind. Either the harmony is an illusion or you are too visually oriented.

”The greatest enemy of any one of our truths may be the rest of our truths.” – William James

http://ladytwiglet.deviantart.com/

khyber yearning

2010-09-18T00:39:00.001+02:00

Stretching my naked limbs involuntary.

Beauteously turning with the poignant chilling of random air molecules. I thrive this illusion.

Recommended reading: http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2009/06/what-makes-us-happy/7439/

“But you called yourself happy. When you were 74, the questionnaire asked: “Have you ever felt so down in the dumps that nothing could cheer you up?” and gave the options “All of the time, some of the time, none of the time.” You circled “None of the time.” “Have you felt calm and peaceful?” You circled “All of the time.” Two years later, the study asked: “Many people hope to become wiser as they grow older. Would you give an example of a bit of wisdom you acquired and how you came by it?” You wrote that, after having polio and diphtheria in childhood, “I never gave up hope that I could compete again. Never expect you will fail. Don’t cry, if you do.””

http://zimtkoernchen.deviantart.com/

where eye gaze is painful

2010-09-09T11:17:00.001+02:00

Yesterdays lecture about imitation to interact with people with autism by Zeedyk ended with a “off the topic” thought provoking idea; that the increasing numbers of autism in the world could partly be due to the increasing complexity of the socio-technical world. Not empirically conclusive and the details could be misinterpreted by me ‘cause I didn’t write it down. True or not I believe it is a good point. One of the main points of the lecture was that autism is basically a sensory disorder rather than a cognitive. Further, Lehrer* about the future of digital books is worried that modern society trading away understanding for perception. Something shimmer but the sentence is quickly forgotten. I like: “Why do I only notice my mistakes after they’re printed on dead trees?”

Even if humans are perceptual visual beings we are far from good at handling extremes like that and we need some sort of understanding. Be it the social life, the fact of consumerism in society, the design of Donald duck covers or the extracting of emotions through motion.

The method of working around the fact that people find the world terrible - and they being anxious about it – with the simple idea of imitating them were something from the stars.

Where eyes gaze is painful and the world is just chaotic without symmetry or pattern. Honestly I believe everyone can relate to that. If not, I could guide you through any larger city and present the chaos for you. My partner even if she’s born in a larger city finds it itching to plunge through the chaos of irregular people with the narrow capability of a blinded race horse while she’s trying to incorporate the benefits of the cultural overflow. And the only reason I manage it is because I compensate and picture the eye of a tornado and try to force everyone dreaded to smile, but in fact I “die” later dreaded with flickering memory traces of everyone out there and try to make sense of it writing something dopey like this.

Back to the lecture: eye gaze is painful for someone with autism and I think everyone can learn something from that. I would not suggest that we are to avoid each other’s eye gaze but you could also pay attention to the body and the vocal language. If you are to understand something you could start being it – it could be for the reason of love, the reason of persuading or changing. This also works on a larger scale, my design book says: “if you are going to break something, including a tradition, the more you understand it, the better job you can do”. And there is no better understanding than being.

This entry was about everything. Hail the embodied ;-)

*http://www.wired.com/wiredscience/2010/09/the-future-of-reading-2/

http://felilly.deviantart.com/

Ariadne meets Shade

2010-09-07T09:23:00.000+02:00

Extracting from my design-book, projecting on reality.

So if the greatest pains of all is the pain of a new idea; what about the old ones? Are they lingering in their Jungian archetypes? I build a maze, I follow the Ariadne-thread and it would be stupid to study the quality of the thread if its function is to pattern towards the ball of twine. Tonight we will spin till the fire-man appears blurry and the risk of getting burned is within the passionated range.

Today’s self-critique comes from Confucius: “Tell me, and I will forget. Show me, and I may remember. Involve me, and I will understand”. Autosave.

http://soyismyhomeboy.deviantart.com/

iberis

2010-09-02T20:55:00.002+02:00

Like a leaf pressed against the water and reality I build a screened castle. A slow paced gasp towards the highway. You build a castle by the details. Not by its structure. Are we to explain the phenomena ‘star constellation’ - we who are the dots?

Why are stars beautiful?

"Conversely, the viewers must remain open to the potential in the painting and not foreclose on what might otherwise be an enchanting experience. These observations lead us to question what constitutes the depth of the painting and how to get such depth in an interactive system." - McCarthy, 2006

http://strany.deviantart.com/

i am one

2010-08-29T15:51:00.001+02:00

http://fiixx.deviantart.com/

In the Hollywood drama the idea of spiders and their spider webs and cobwebs starts. Spiders arrogations of friends are depending on the level you know them – on the level of your submerging. Everyone are constantly moving about and changing like a spider in the social network. But constructing a web is an energetically costly process…”due to the large amount of protein required, in the form of silk. In addition, after a time the silk will lose its stickiness and thus become inefficient at capturing prey. It is not uncommon for spiders to eat their own web daily to recoup some of the energy used in spinning. The silk proteins are thus recycled.”

Never be never are what never enlace and never feel and know. The paradox starts when the spider believes that it is a breakthrough of having exocentric ideas based on the ego solely, and forgets to recoup. The disassociation of the Silk Road.

tree junkies

2010-08-27T23:51:00.003+02:00

Through the din of cacophonic encapsulating moments we walk prosperous. And tomorrow we go back being tree junkies; once in a while tumbling forward. A pill taken with a chopstick while looking right in a mirror through the lens of a bottle plantation I will find trees.

http://meisterdeszirkuss.deviantart.com/

the frogs in the pot

2010-08-23T12:06:00.001+02:00

Mentally catching up. In parallel marginalization a whiskey-soaked monotone while processing the heating of previously frozen crystals of neuronal activity. Reroute. My language gets stuck in your lower eyelid.

The western world - especially the US - receives some critique by a recent UNICEF-study. I also watched a Jamie Oliver TV-episode about US-children and parents lacking knowledge of the food eaten at school and its impact on child-rearing. The terrifying irony starts when you realize that they are to one day - and do - inherit a military, highly powerful and hierarchy-driven country. Read the critique about the moral knowledge and empathic ability in school children. You could also read RANT or anything by Palahniuk for insight. Psychology Today’s epilogue on the matter:

“Perhaps the greatest challenge is that many of us were raised in less-than-ideal conditions and we think we turned out just fine. We are the frogs in the pot that started out in cold water. Now that the water is hot, we can't jump out.”

http://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/moral-landscapes/201008/the-decline-children-and-the-moral-sense

http://felilly.deviantart.com/gallery/

derma

2010-08-14T00:55:00.003+02:00

From the medieval evoked, in the upstairs setting through a cobblestone-gutter viewing window. Hot evening with moist in air. A slight flicker of the index finger, a twitch by the left leg in the midst of a total exhaustion of profund sleep. The smell of lavender. Magnetic derma doing a diagonal blossom and I blush.

http://the96th.deviantart.com/

childish diatribe

2010-08-06T14:51:00.001+02:00

It is like she said: “Rome is burning”

The reason it evolves to some sort of diatribe I can’t tell but I figure it has something to do with the problem to picture the difference of the fierce moment of progress and decline. Crawling inside each other for the desperate need to feel something at this edge of western civilization. I inversely bitch-slap my face and encounter a sudden blush – down in the sewer system in a knee-high level of plots - where whiskey-soaked feelings are everchanging but lingering.

http://kannagara.deviantart.com/

the fly

2010-08-04T11:01:00.003+02:00

What about the unconscious. What about levels of unconscious.

Trying to understand yourself - trying to understand anyone. It is like trying to catch the essence of the self. But at the moment you get close it slips away. It is like catching a fly, or a worried cat.

Either you aim at the side, where you know it is going or you accept the fact you can’t catch and that you may at least try to herd it towards the right direction.

I think why it is hard to catch is because it is dynamic, in the sense that at the moment you get close you also move the parts about. When you try to catch the fly you move the air around before getting close and the fly realize it before being caught. But you do not understand the whirlwinds created by your moving hand. That is the clumsy ingenious truth, the resilience of the system. It is beautiful in the sense that at the moment we understand something about ourselves we have already changed. But the hard bit is to accept that change and leave the fly to its seemingly “chaos” of navigation. Just for a while. We don’t always have to catch ourselves – because the fly is doing that for us.

That is why I have a hard time accepting the elevator-metaphor. But I am still fond of levels of unconscious.

A fly just appeared on the side of my laptop. Apparently escaping my thesis.

http://violator3.deviantart.com/

astronaut

2010-08-02T21:10:00.001+02:00

The astronaut walks his moon. Like an aqua-alien moistening the depths of the sea. Frothing together his paper wings with tiny clods imagined forth by his mouth. His mouth only. No mind.

Like the man in the white horse. Hidden behind stars at the rim of the Milky way. Tiny bits of dreams flickers behind my eyelid and it’s not linear I see.

Blaming Wallin Peréz doing it with the seriousness of a head on tilt I sometimes practice. Penetrating.

The human astronaut, alien on the moon. Threading the dots of craters.

http://mervecan.deviantart.com/

ideas again

2010-07-29T22:34:00.003+02:00

“All memory is a cat’s cradle of strings and intricate connections”

The three-fold utopian concept stares at you. Inception was the idea of planting ideas. I once wrote an entry about this idea of the idea. Someone asks why it must be about love? Is it because it is the ultimate idea? Is it because Freud receives royalties for every level? Level 3! The thing is that the idea of memory is the most delicate kind of ideas and the idea of love is that memories are rarely so attuned to grasp the essence of every aspect of ideas. But still it doesn’t work. Therefore, this time, it must be about love. Therefore, to architect your life from your memory is an hard-working inception in itself and is hard to figure out without understanding the purpose of the idea. Therefore I know why I for seconds in my everyday miss the idea, because it is level 48 and it feels like forever.

“Look at you. You're just a shade, a shade of my real wife. How could I capture all your beauty, your complexity, your perfection, your imperfection, in a dream? Yes, you're the best that I can do. But, I'm sorry, you're just not good enough.”

http://andrewfphoto.deviantart.com/

white apples

2010-07-25T01:15:00.001+02:00

Finished white apples.

It walks you across several meadows. Across several cattle-grids and even hover above to move beyond what you call gorgonian. Occasionally so terrible that the fecund deep natural smell of the soaked world around you becomes your understanding and essence.

“They speak odd languages but make no attempt to translate for you. They cook strange meals in your heart that leave odd tastes and smells. When they finally go, are you happy or miserable? Patience is always left holding the broom.”

Like photos may be stillborns depending on the memorial context some parts are about the quarter made of broken glass that you would walk barefoot across; picking up the bits eating them for the sake of the other quarters. I can’t help it but page 32 does pick the essence out of all the chaos.

“There is always something terrible urgent I need to tell you about. Something always important.”

The hard part is to explain and the answer is vaguely touchable but hopefully slightly embraceable

“Telling what I’ve learned would be like trying to explain something while you were having an orgasm. It’s true. It’s the difference between the calm clearness that comes just after sex, and being in the middle of an orgasm.”

The almond eyes are “the kind of minor cherub lost in the corner of a fresco in an Italian country church. I do lose myself there and escape throughout some bemused orifice.

“I though life was supposed to be a cabaret. Now you’re telling me it’s an orgasm?”

Life is an orgasm and what about chaos to all this?

-Because theirs is a real love story, honey, and real love is always chaotic. You lose control; you lose perspective. You lose the ability to protect yourself. The greater the love, the greater the chaos. It’s a given and that’s the secret.

-Love is chaos, you’re right. But is not only chaos. Yes you do lose control – your control. One person. Singular… Together you’ve created something new, a third thing.

-Chaos creates nothing – it only destroys. That’s why it hates people – because they’re always creating things, whether it’s great love or castles…

So let’s eat this chaos. I’m back as a child again and I don’t believe in hope - just the third thing.

http://kenmeyerjr.deviantart.com/

the anomaly is choice

2010-07-20T14:48:00.001+02:00

…as the famous matrix-scene spoke. Humans have never had better opportunity to destroy themselves. Death and misery have never been more up to the partaking of ourselves.

http://www.wired.co.uk/wired-magazine/archive/2010/08/start/dan-ariely

And the truth is that this actually a kick in the stomach for many people and a slap in the face for everyone in the western society. Think about the evolutionary consequence of the results presented in this article. It could be that the survival of the fittest actually in some obscure way kicks in. It could be that the survival of the fittest shift from being biological to intellectual, aware and self-restraint. I knock my head into the closest brick-wall and watch American Beauty with crimson face.

Confiscate the awe of the future.

“What this means is that instead of relying on external factors to keep us alive and healthy for longer, we can (and must) learn to rely on our decision-making skills in order to reduce the number of stupid and costly mistakes that we make.”

http://laurawilde.deviantart.com/

white rose

2010-07-17T01:02:00.001+02:00

They can’t reach me when I turn towards that alley-path. It’s not that I’m indifferent, not even insincere, slightly blue but up for leap. Re-collecting rosebuds for fortune in suit, rip my clothes into matrixes, return with a single white rose. I have tiny bits that instantly panic in my brain while others yield; together they constellate my amicability for life and rose. Tiny bits of panic are what words create and words are what panic yield. Bits are around I can tell.

In this eternity-bubble I blush because my jaundice of my thoughts.

http://sarachmet.deviantart.com/

find the world to save it

2010-07-14T11:32:00.001+02:00

Up for election this year and we could at least challenge the divine mockery of ourselves. If it helps, put on a purple glove and pretend it is someone else touching and wrinkle the malarkey of argumentation. Political dissonance.

“We now associate political interest with partisan blowhards on cable TV, these pundits and consultants and former politicians who trade facile talking points. Instead of engaging with contrary facts, the discourse has become one big study in cognitive dissonance. And this is why the predictions of pundits are so consistently inaccurate.”

http://scienceblogs.com/cortex/2010/07/political_dissonance.php

Pundits arguing of ideal views without touching the contradictions in their views are tiresome. Why is it that we need at least two people arguing of political fluff and absolutes and not two people arguing about inconsistencies in their own arguments? Political theatre is tiresome because today’s politics are not that much absolutes in reality, in practice, but suddenly, up for election everyone put on their stupidity mask and starts to argue in simple forms so the common will understand or at least not understands the pros and cons of every idea. I am just tired that every argument for an idea must be wrapped in a package so neat that the common does not know where to pull the string. The cognitive systems engineering-view proclaims that the interface should be as complex as the complex system requires. Something to consider politically. But merging science and politics have never been on the prone-side.

“Look at you heroes. So tangled up in your own crap, you can’t even find the world to save it”

http://andrewfphoto.deviantart.com/

in the collective jar of hearts by Perri

2010-07-08T23:29:00.001+02:00

Even if my state of mind fits nowhere near what this mainstream song propels I can’t help the need and pleasure of movements. Wine for life. A chance to clash the floor with my hands. A moment to strike the air with determination. Whisk my arms. Creating new air-constellations. For the sake of channel poignant anger and indignation about the behavior of others. All of you could try that once. Tranquilize the self without cushion the need to evoke emotions. It’s all in the arteries and veins.

“You’re gonna catch a cold from the ice inside your soul.”

http://t0x1c-d0lly.deviantart.com/

gap between yesterday and tomorrow

2010-07-06T23:46:00.002+02:00

Strolling through the sinuating feelings of the doors - it opens and Morrison says:

“Do you know the warm progress under the stars? Do you know we exist? Filled with green death. We have assembled inside this ancient & insane theatre.”

Careless color experience in this insane orifice theatre. Tomorrow is up for trashy blondes and a palm-less beach in cavorting minds.

http://quiddityboom.deviantart.com/

meeting points

2010-07-05T23:18:00.002+02:00

All these terrible lives I so much suppressed. Forgotten for something bigger, naively so. Their nights never gets them anywhere and I can’t even tell if there is chaos to be found in them, I can’t, I see just the stillness of anger. A void not moving, anywhere, not even everywhere. Because it is nothing. Chaos would at least be something. Just the catch of a fucking clock they can’t render. This is just a future reminder for me to never forget why I live and love. If my mist turn lump please use my ears and touch in its uttermost form. If the sound is just cacophonic please transform to a visual god of angles of sight. Overanxious minds do not belong in a home that embodies every side of that anxiety. Some visits were at least chaos and some were harmony among millions of objects and emotions. Thrusting.

At the same time the home healthcare do give me apprehension of the life of humans it do drag me across every side of it, ruthless. Thinking stops here. Narcotic sleep in the eye and the missing of Eve.

Nighttime sharpens.

http://t0x1c-d0lly.deviantart.com/

vampires pretending to be humans pretending to be vampires

2010-07-05T00:22:00.001+02:00

As the lights go out, by hand, so effortless and effortful, in every room, undetermined by place. By purpose my unintended prey.

Our love for the darker colours has nothing to do with immaturity of our adulthood but with the truth or the taste of light. Like a nematode we sense by the presence of embodiment. Gloominess is there to be scent, not watched nor followed. Absentees are there to wither. With our hands we unravel the taste of desire, the desire for taste and our taste of carnal virtue. Instant living in dreams prospecting the future through the blood - like the old days. Bite. Through the lustre of vividly aware. Savoring the stains of our blood intravenously. Bite. I marvel by the insincerity of every side. Touching and pondering. Licking the blood running through my mental cobblestones. Bite

“He did not start forward to seize on my slightest pause, to assert an understanding of something before the thought was finished, or to argue with a swift, irresistible impulse -- the things which often make dialogue impossible…” – Anne Rice

http://ctrl-alt-aubrey.deviantart.com/

back to liminality

2010-06-27T00:27:00.002+02:00

Welcome my wicked. My wicked staying awake gaslighting through musical entries. Can’t sleep. So just for the symmetrical vascular circularity back to the liminality of time consumption. My longing that beg me to mentally gallivant myself offshore. So I will wait on the edges in between. “gracefully on the chin… the bandages inside the pen”.

“Touch influence social judgment”. Yes Sherlock, and embodiment is victorious once again. It works even when the tasks are completely unrelated. Sherlock definitely think it works when the tasks are related, I’ve tried that. Sherlock also think it works when the tasks are somewhat unrelated. Me tried that as well; but not significantly.

My left hand forward, my right hand forward. Grabbing the spire mid-high. Run it through backwards. Electrocuted shakings. Touch influence me and I fall to the floor. The flick of a butterfly urging with glasses, blindly pondering about the sea. The difference between seeing the preferred sex as marvels instead of challenges is that punishing liquid run through the coronary artery and transpires the blood throughout when you marvel. You can’t distance yourself. It’s this flux between – stretching. “I seem to coming out of my skin”. Or we could do this the wikipedia-way:

“Wounds are liminal in that a wound is in constant flux, either getting better or getting worse. It is a site of healing or infection (or both, simultaneously). Menstruation is a condition in which (like a wound) the boundary between the inside of the body and the outside of the body is broken. Sex is a liminal act.”

All this blind craziness. I see why it is blind.

http://ctrl-alt-aubrey.deviantart.com/

lure

2010-06-24T16:55:00.005+02:00

‘The resistance of key-operated controls should be 1 to 6 inch-pounds’

Together with the slightly erotic-tense band the Big Pink I rolled down the day of café-sitting control room complexia. And despite the abysm of pondering this morning about the song and the valley of the dead by the Cloud Cult Bering kept me going on the quotes of erotic.

You know, in the lyrical lure of thought you can even find quotes from the nuclear-world erotic.

“And so I’m left wondering …in a world where sexual fantasy in the form of mental representation has become obsolete, where hallucinatory images of dancing genitalia, lusty lesbians and sadomasochistic strangers have been replaced by a veritable online smorgasbord of real people doing things our grandparents couldn’t have dreamt up even in their wettest of dreams, where randy teenagers no longer close their eyes and lose themselves to the oblivion and bliss but instead crack open their thousand-dollar laptops and conjure up a real live porn actress, what, in a general sense, are the consequences of liquidating our erotic mental representational skills for our species’ sexuality? Is the next generation going to be so intellectually lazy in their sexual fantasies that their creativity in other domains is also affected? Will their marriages be more likely to end because they lack the representational experience and masturbatory fantasy training to picture their husbands and wives during intercourse as the person or thing they really desire?”

http://sophie0305.deviantart.com/

stairs and squares

2010-06-19T16:06:00.001+02:00

In this drop of solitude of a pulsating hungover head

A seminal fringe - falling slowly towards the element of flesh

Consume, absorb, ponder. Camel, lion. childhood

We do the stage-philosophy in circles

Once in a while we return to our chocolate-covered flesh

There is no such thing as sadness in this drop of solitude

The bottom-lines formed as squares

In this drop of solitude squares and strictures are absorbed

Once in a while we lick the chocolate of our flesh

Once in a while this Cinderella side of this drop of solitude

Wonder enter the house of Patience

They dance - outside this drop of solitude

In this drop of solitude we understand each other,

outside the realm of realization

http://thetragictruth-of-me.deviantart.com/

love

2010-06-18T14:19:00.000+02:00

Best from yesterday: ‘She got down on hands and knees one ear against the ground, holding her breath to hear something, but the dirt made not a sound tonight…’. Lyrical about Mcllrath voice - throbs through the dimensions. Inspire, respire.

Systalic numb in a few neural constellation. Sliding through the ‘…arms of titans, geniuses and adventurers…’. Few argue against that emotions are bodily expressed. Some argue against thoughts are bodily expressed. I love crossing borders, merging with my present concupiscence. My body works through the cracks. Cupid empoisoned. Consciously lost I admit.

island of reil

2010-06-13T01:12:00.001+02:00

Duchenne’s smile stand oblivious to contractions and the questions on why we scream is an atomic perversion on why we gutter to the winsome island of Reil. ‘How do I love thee’ E. B. Browning asks. And the Narnia-inspired Spektator screams ‘just because everythings changing…’ and I planning to inebriate-salivate my cushion now. Drunk. ‘the history books forgot about us, and the bible didn’t mention us.’ Energetic numb.

http://quiddityboom.deviantart.com/

clock or cloud

2010-06-10T23:45:00.001+02:00

Not even a steampunk suggestion arrives to the conclusion of the clockwork. Clouds are foggy. Tiny particles cavorting like harlots; and my nature is deliberation till the irrevocable emotive concludes. I admit, a bit astray and dislocated anywhere of my social induction. Tiny eruptions of bubbles in my once so bubbly bath.

Apply scientific thoughts of my startling network. ‘We live in a universe not of clocks but of cloudsclock.’ I believe that’s why I yield to the material.

And it says to me: “This, Madame, is Versailles.” I say: “The sepals of a flower?”

http://ursylla.deviantart.com/

http://scienceblogs.com/cortex/2010/06/clocks_and_clouds.php

three threads

2010-06-07T20:51:00.003+02:00

I will for this summer pretend memory does not exist. They are just epiphanatic moments of the particular. Our minds are occasionally indifferent to the contrast between events that we believe to be real versus those that seem to be real. Also known as alief.

Based on the assumption that there is one single thought in my mind at the moment, that with a hardwire cable adhere to my facial expression. That would explain what I really feel at any given moment. I could just film myself and make sense of myself. Perfect. I more likely think that the occurrence of facial expression is more a fluctuation of dynamic movements in the brain. Yes indeed what goes on in my mind, but to think that there is one thing going on up there - e.g. lie lie lie – is simplistic. We don’t solely base our ideas about others on one attribute or a couple of lines on a 3d-skin. Certainly more distributed and allocated. I do enjoy smiling though.

The word ‘however’ in scientific papers must be the cockiest word; and at the same time the most humble word on the market because it does not turn down the previous statement it just add to it with a humble bow. I say something, derived from myself or someone else and produce an intellectual turning point by stating my superiority of myself or someone else with the word ‘however’. However, based on my smile being fluctuating seemingly randomly assigned I feel a slight gut feeling of it being directed.

Testing my alief turning points; testing my taste for memories of the future. I will remember my future.

http://nondani.deviantart.com/

psychotropic tendencies

2010-05-27T23:10:00.002+02:00

Life is complex Lehrer suggest and just because we can’t measure something doesn’t mean it isn’t important. Quantifiable versus intangible – pleasure versus meaning. I can’t tell the difference. A way to dance dear Kite. It affects my mind vividly I see. Through tropism it push boundaries. Chemotropism, phototropism, thermotropism, neurotropism. Thermotropism and psychotropism are winsome evident. Real life is complex, intangible and olfactory dramatic. I inhale.

Unrelated note about eurovision: how is it possible that a country like denmark with a scenic presence equivalent to a dead fridge with an ABBA-cloned karaoke-song get more votes than sweden? I’m not patriotically curt, just baffled.

a panoramic scene

2010-05-24T00:17:00.001+02:00

Evaporated re-tells and unfurls. It’s about pouring out your heart from your chest - letting it evaporate; vaporization leaving a more concentrated residue and you walk barefoot down the road in the condition of flow, total immersion in more than an Updike-sense. Seeing groups of stars as a constellation is the act of imagination. The imagination as a persona orchestrates a subtle tale. Sparks.

An evaporated heart with a lost mind, end up being happy, ticklish and serious.

Blind man on a canyon's edge of a panoramic scene or maybe I'm a kite that's flying high and random dangling a string. –Ben Folds

http://indiae.deviantart.com/

The Nash Equilibrium

2010-05-21T00:00:00.003+02:00

‘And someone sing us a song. That makes us feel like the dead are breathing birthday balloons. And they blow and they blow and they blow.’

It is not the flying of the mind. It more feels like the fat metal bird voluptuously moving about. The utility function is a mess my dear Nash. Feels like hardly reaching the troposphere; even though it does. Scribbled veins rumble and we crash against the cobblestone; bleeding we wonder why we travel among these networks.

‘When out of sight of land, Micronesian navigators imagine that their canoe is stationary under the dome of the sky and that the islands move past them.’

What does that tell us about our social networking? Stars are seen; suddenly imagine seeing other constellations, to be able to travel among them.

Occasionally I hate my metaphors. But I still travel. ‘…are the tragic young born again when the world’s not looking?’

And I end up being tired, teary to the verge and at the same time happy for a dead cobblestone drenching my face. ’The deaf girl’s song’ by cloud cult is my refuge for now. It do let go of things. If we could just shut up for a second we might actually hear.

'Did you hear about the deaf girl. The one who sang a silent song. Although it's totally quiet. You can't help but hum along.'

http://incredi.deviantart.com/

erratic changeableness

2010-05-16T00:43:00.002+02:00

A tickle

So prejudicially unjust. The invisible beam. In the panoramic scene - life focus its fickle

Just, by coincidence?

http://phatpuppy.deviantart.com

“By definition coincidences have no pattern”

That is wrong. A definition is just hypothetical, and brings only as much explanatory power as to what extent it justifies what it tries to explain. By definition, every coincidence certainly has a whit of pattern as every pattern incubates a slight wedge of coincidence. Anything else is just perceptual illusion. When someone uses the phrase “it was just plain coincidence this happened” it establishes a fact outside the space of possibilities and offers nothing but the metal of the coin to be tossed. Importantly though is how you psychologically deal with the idea of coincidences and patterns. The anomaly is choice (as always theatrically spoken). Where do choices extract? Arguably it derives from ideas of us in the context of reality. In ‘the hours’ one character retell: “I had an idea of our happiness!” That idea is so important, perhaps the very essence of that characters life that it survives to be reality. The happiness is the idea of happiness; and the choice to live as you do is very simple; perhaps not even a choice. Simple choices - as of ideas - could be the skullduggery of life as the idea eradicate the dynamics of life*. No one unfolds that better than Virginia Woolf. The upcoming movie ‘the inception’ answers the thought-provoking question: “What is the most resilient parasite? An idea”. This does not mean you should elude your idea of happiness; it is simply necessary for many human beings. No one has to do it the Virginia-way; I naively so hardly cling to (speaking about ideas). But when the idea is resilient; when the idea alone transforms the world and rewrites all the rules; that is where the love of life - and even life as the physical embodiment of people close - go astray. The upcoming movie-solution:

“Never recreate from your memory always remember new places.”

I starting to feel a tickle, a tiny twitch of curiosity circulate my painting. So unjust and just at the same time. An invisible beam by coincidence.

*’Dynamics’ could easily be exchanged for ‘love’

the Pagan and his Tephra

2010-05-15T16:22:00.002+02:00

Taking away the ability to drive a car from elderly people I’ve experienced being incredibly hard for them. The car not only symbolized their freedom – it actually was their freedom. The point is, as soon as you internalize a functional symbol in your life it will actually be your functional ability. Most of the time that is a good thing; it is how humans develop their life, how they shape their life according to their values and the notion of a free nostalgia. But dependence and internalization can arrive with complications. Are they necessary, or is it just an illusion of dependence? If your freedom is based on one(!) form of transportation I believe you have an issue. My father’s parents didn’t have a car. I never perceived that odd. My mother’s parents had. I never found that odd either. But thusly I realize - as a grandchild - they “served” different functions as grandparents. They both had and have their issues of life; they lived different lives, differently happy, differently sad. They’ve explicitly and implicitly taught me different values of life. What do be and what not to be. And the car - as well as the un-car - had absolutely nothing to do with what they were and are. Occasionally I believe elderly people (and young people) forget that. It’s like a mist of pity interrupting the nebulous flow of experience.

That’s why I think an ash-cloud over Europe is a good solvent for this god-forsaken mist. I believe I am not the only one experiencing that. Like a Pagan back to the gratitude of Tephra.

C'est la vie!

http://monislawa.deviantart.com/

channeling

2010-05-11T22:55:00.001+02:00

http://felilly.deviantart.com/

Even though I find the plot in avatar shallow with dramaturgic incompetence it always brings a deep rod of penetration.

Do you ever feel that sudden craziness? Feeling the erupt panic of pleasure sparkling from the centre-core stretching out prospecting for escapist-moisture. Every bubble is a dream that you collect by bursting it. You take your folded balloons and fly away, no need to subtract a single panic. No need to argue; no need to overclock your left dorso. You live by the coincidences you so hardly pulling the strings of. The shackles cannot ignore that.

The green connectionist within is affectionate and I learn about myself to sense the non-sentient. I could be devious for such. My network of nerves abound with impetus movements of electricity; circuiting throughout the spectrum of emotions; occasionally channeling through trees. The literary famous psychopath Jack Abbot once said:

“There are emotions – a whole spectrum of them – that I know only through words, through reading and in my immature imagination. I can imagine I feel these emotions (know, therefore, what they are), but I do not.”

I only feel what I cannot imagine. I cannot cognitively imagine that I feel these emotions. I can only scent. With mental scent I see through walls. The spectrum I know I can only partially write; but I do need to channel. Know, therefore, what they are, but I do not. It is too beautifully distributed oh immature imagination. In skill there is a difference between knowing and mastering. And they do not need to come in a specific order. I am a conductor.

the anagogic gent

2010-05-09T22:53:00.001+02:00

Some trashy blonde and some Venetian waltz. Shane McGowan repeat.

I'm not singing for the future
I'm not dreaming of the past
I'm not talking of the first time
I never think about the last

Four times four and you admit to your trashy highness that dalliance is beauteous; and the bite-sharp epiphany rearrange the particles of stellar mist. The white-praying bosomy, the anagogic gent.

http://celashan.deviantart.com/

I’m not singing for the first time

I’m not dreaming about the last

I’m not talking about the future

I never dream about the past

to Clotho

2010-05-04T23:42:00.000+02:00

Oh dear Clotho

You wire till the distal limits crack. The imperative sickness of the indigence cycle. Like the closeness of the star Naos I need the treasure hunts for the pent up-side of myself. The subterranean creativity lies with the core of opposites and with the slow instillation of a dissolving agent. Opposites are illusory due to us not being a blind man by a panoramic scene and indulge dysnomic in the hurried misattribution of reality. The act of Prometheus was not to be punished and my Amphitritian nerve dindle - I long for that vastness of my head on a stranger’s knee when reading with the Knife of Oneiroi.

Dear Clotho, I am smitten with a stance of castling in past and juxtaposed time. I am smitten in the virtue of Lord Jim’s notion of Amphitrite. This is where my dysnomia spring in the white sea of eyes.

Over and out.

Endorphines. Guru Guru Wahe Guru, Guru Ram Das Guru.

http://mcdbrd.deviantart.com/

Love of the non-common common people

2010-04-26T23:39:00.002+02:00

I honestly indulge and titillate for the common.

Cucumber Concombre: This bottle is pretty special. Why? Because it’s made from 100% post-consumer recycled plastic. It doesn’t end there…reducing our impact on the planet. Naturally, we think it’s a great idea. Group hug anyone? Feel as cool as a cucumber with a cleaner that refreshes and lightly moisturises. Now with Community Trade organically grown soya oil.

Sweet Lemon shower gel: Our luscious lemon oil is extracted from seeds left over from the fruit processing industry.

Mandarin Orchid: Community Trade honey: Evocative fragrance that makes you feel free, radiant and head-to-toe happy.

Bath Soak: Decadent detoxing with purifying Epsom salts, Amazonian clay & ricegrass extracts.

Lotus Petal Body Lotion… Wheatgrass Fixing Gel…

The journey never ends does it?

http://sarachmet.deviantart.com/

White trashy state-space

2010-04-19T23:43:00.002+02:00

LIFE A FOUNTAIN SPURTING OVER THAT GLARING, HIDEOUSLY DIFFICULT WHITE SPACE.

Combining A. Bird, V. Wolf and my neurotic cortices playfulness for the space between.

‘I could have played mahjong. And I just can’t remember which way the east wind blows.’ I move badly according to winds. That’s why I loose with a 7-hundred or so. But the company could have been worse I imagine. ‘I took the stars from our eyes and then I made a map.’ - Still nothing to do with Asian bricks in combination with trying to encompass a sophisticated discussion about porn and its kinesthetic constituents. With my map made of eyes I end up losing by a thousand before summer. Frolicsome squelch the notion of losing.

http://emeraldiris.deviantart.com/

I like the old-looking blurriness in the background. I like the cliché-working butterfly that does nothing for the nuisance of making it unique. The caption says ‘butterflies and hurricanes’. The description says ‘change everything you are’ according the Muse reference. Analysis says butterflies represent change but the fake artificial look just makes it… corny… no… just perfect because you got to be the best, you got to project hurricanes through your eyes. Happiness ravishes my nightly plot.

If you can spot the hurricane in this picture I believe in attraction. Just the electrostatic rain and nostrils scores high.

Week’s schedule: biobabble versus psychobabble

Week’s song: cosmic love

asterisms of my networking

2010-04-13T00:00:00.002+02:00

"The definition is always partial; the door at the far end is always open for something else to happen, for redefinition. 'My love is like a red, red rose,' wrote the poet Robert Burns. […] Partial resemblance, because metaphor takes us only so far; then we must travel by other means." Locked Horns by Rebecca Solnit

http://miss-deathwish.deviantart.com/

Yesterday I logged on to my Lunarstorm account. It still existed(!) and it involved some serious weirdness and rewiring of my subterranean parts. I tried to understand and realize what messages meant with its very much curt bubble-romantic content. “I like the transfer from body-fluids to cold and further to alone.” And I also read peculiar references to whatnot - about constellation Orion and his belt. Easier found on earth I see and I still see everyday. “But ‘least I found Little Bear, something you showed me”.

I now know that Little Bear once was called the Dragon’s Wing and therefore part of a mighty dragon. A glimpse of a dragon I endorsed so vividly. In Greek mythology Little Bear is part of a sad tale about a Son killing his nymph-mother by mistake. In Hungarian mythology the constellation is about a great shaman of knowledge that no one saw dying. His body disappeared among the stars.

The end result is my mind working subconscious, drawing new connections or constellations without raising a hand. Daydreaming is the key (http://scienceblogs.com/cortex/2010/04/classroom_creativity.php). And I can’t help noticing the date on entries. My earlier stratified mind do the shuffling and I realize consciously what strata is and never should become. Metaphor only take me so far, then traveling must be done with other means.

On the other hand my quote from my last entry did also reminded me of my facebook network:

"Chemical reactions in these clouds occur on timescales of years and individual molecules can travel for miles without encountering even as much as a stray hydrogen atom. That Bok globule may be 50 times the mass of the Sun. To us though, it's mostly made of nothing at all. Look again at that image, and take a moment to think about that.”

Both me and the cat wonder: where did the receipt go? To Athenry?

among dust

2010-04-07T00:38:00.001+02:00

Trying to channelize my issues: http://invaderxan.livejournal.com/119639.html

“A small clump of dense gas and dust, slowly collapsing into stars. It's illuminated from behind by red light; light from hydrogen atoms being ionised by newly born stars. Take a look at all of those patches around it. All of the clumps and fine filaments. Here and there, you can see stars whose light is shining through the globule. Their light appears redder than the others, because of the blue wavelengths of light being absorbed or scattered, unable to penetrate through the cloud. The process is known as extinction…"

"Chemical reactions in these clouds occur on timescales of years and individual molecules can travel for miles without encountering even as much as a stray hydrogen atom. That Bok globule may be 50 times the mass of the Sun. To us though, it's mostly made of nothing at all. Look again at that image, and take a moment to think about that.”

We put so much faith in the individual mind that we mutilate and use the trust of other. How the made of nothing at all could breed words as extinction among stars is a misrepresentation. “Look again” is a neonatal idea. I neither feel alone nor deprive my being to extinction but the concept of aloneness still nail me to the cross. Bleeding.

… it is impossible to convey the life-sensation of any given epoch of one’s existence – that which makes its truth, its meaning – its subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. We live, as we dream – alone. –Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness

the serpent's gift

2010-04-05T01:31:00.003+02:00

http://monislawa.deviantart.com

If lines and arrows would be the conclusion I would stop minding the gap between the train and the platform. I would gladly fall between. But it’s false, that’s why I’m sad and contending. No lines explain this.

My mind has been/is so attentive to a close grievous loss that I over and over meet with my own bubble. The weekend has been so dual in that sense. One side prosperous and reuniting - one side reuniting but concrete clouds.

Through my education I have learned about arrows. Lines telling about the flow of information, the flow of might, flow of hierarchy. They are specific. Mostly telling: abstract the might of the cogwheel to within. I agree on the idea that extension from the mind does not exist, just naïve constellation. I don’t want to argue against the melt of entities, the perfect ideological match of mind and world because it’s mostly functionally there. But the gap is so evident when the match isn’t there, it’s simply confusion in iteration and you arrive nowhere. Pulsating inwards. Mental implosion.

The “normal” are generally bad at arriving to any understanding for the experience of chaos. Within the chaos exist very salient feelings any chaos could never eradicate. They have nothing to do with attention, but everything to do with consciousness; they are just there like metal rods in your mind, cutting through like a concrete sky from above. Clouds turn concrete. Sharp tears without dynamic, just dynamic content, something you can’t spot. ‘I’m no longer in command, and people say I’m off solid ground… But they don’t understand. People never do. It’s confusing. I don’t expect them to.’ Every other solution is nothing but blur. The ability to parse reality so that it makes just a little bit more sense doesn’t hinder you to arrive to a million different conclusions. With consciousness comes the need for explanation and action.

“But the serpent said to the woman, ‘You will not die. For God knows that when you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.’… Then the eyes of both were opened, and they knew they were naked”.

Society is a desert and what are we to do about that? The answer is not to be found at the Asphodel Meadows. Think we need to look towards the western margin of conclusion.

warm colors, warm socks

2010-03-31T23:27:00.003+02:00

http://scarabuss.deviantart.com/

The only rational thing to do is to turn Lauper and decide a decision never gets cold because the impulsive pulsification always pulse. Little bit of paper magic and voila I realize…

I love the pattering on a window-pane early spring, early summer, late summer and early autumn. I mentally put on my tarpaulin and call it the beginning of adventure. The call for adventure is common among mythological characterizing of a starting hero. And that - I am very convinced of - are to be found in the pattering of rain and the act of mentally putting on a tarpaulin. Although Wikipedia note, an adventurer is something of the following: 1. One whose travels are unusual and often exotic, though not so unique as to qualify as exploration. 2. One who lives by their wits. 3. One who takes part in a risky or speculative course of action for profit or position.

Let’s start backwards. You could say I’m unconsciously working on the “…for profit or position”-part, at its best. At least I socially score on the speculative. Number two - call it wits or what’s it is definitely thinking and perception in a rapid eye movement. But this so called wit would every once in a while be scurvy calling it universally clever. Let’s call it speculative wits. Not explorative wits, ‘cause that would disqualify me for number one. It’s just forced speculations without a purpose other than Goffman-dramaturgy. Number one – unique but not too unique, unusual but not too unusual. You must have heard of the dragon before traveling there, otherwise you walking in the dark and die as many explorers have in history. Adventurers never die. Even though you now about the dragon it’s not the sole purpose of the adventure. You know about the illusion of purpose, you masterly weaving the web like the spider. You must show the wit of purpose but not deterministic purpose. Unusual because I do it backwards, and according to the lunar cycle it also turns exotic. Backwards it is.

I teleport myself far far away and slay the emerald dragon, at once. Then I trace myself home not knowing the trail that I in the straight-forward-universe would have walked. Tracing backwards not knowing where you could have been is genuine because breaking the line of Chronos enacts the unleashing of sparklingly twisted stars that the cacoethic subject crave. Adore.

That is a usual state. Waking up anytime and suddenly being anywhere but here and you must trace yourself backwards into future. But it is also the unusual state and my epiphany of need that occurs according to the lunar or menstrual cycle (or something). And suddenly teleportation and emerald dragons are physical. Cassidy does the Lauper-impression…”the drum beats out of time… the second hand unwind…”

http://syncaidia.deviantart.com/

Now you know everything about decomposing the patter of rain; every drop has an undetermined purpose only wit may illuminate. Is this why we dream? Finally a quote from a wonderful entry elsewhere (http://scienceblogs.com/cortex/2010/03/why_we_dream.php)

“While Freud would certainly celebrate this research -- as he predicted, dreams have "a psychological structure ... which may be assigned to a specific place in the psychic activities of the waking state" -- it's worth pointing out that the stories we invent while sleeping are much more practical than he imagined. For the most part, they don't reflect the unleashed id, full of unfulfilled sexual desires. Instead, we dream about what we think about: the mazes and mysteries of everyday life.

All this knowledge about the important roles dreams play in our waking lives is fascinating. But it doesn't make me feel better about my insomnia. Obviously, my old consolation -- dreams are nothing but useless melodramas -- is clearly false. And though I eventually do fall asleep, lapsing into what I imagine is a rushed state of R.E.M., I can't help but be jealous of my wife's twitching eyelids at 2 a.m. She is busy remembering, processing, refreshing --and I am merely awake.”

Marvel-definiton: Adventurer = superhero!

semi-situated

2010-03-21T22:32:00.001+01:00

http://bosniak.deviantart.com/

Endorphines floating in the cracks of bruises in the land of thousand stances. An unusual social ecology appear in a room where everyone and some repeating inaudible words to motions. The many theories of their minds are fruits of the cognitive effort of being in a larger group patterning embodiment. I guess that’s where my chimeric appetence starts.

I locate, fixate and get lost in others peculiarities, get lost in the cracks between. If you fold in and out of entities in your surroundings you eventually merge. I like that – colliding with constellations – that’s how galaxies are born.

If you would call it a disease I would refrain from any nosological effort. If you would name it sempiternal I would define the beginning of gravity.