the quantum of speech add-Actions




Appositive : the second noun explains the [risk of asserting] the first one.
Aporia : a passage to an impasse; a false pass. Anaporic = pointing back. The caesura : breath thought gap pause the vehicle of empty space, is what we cautiously analyze for meaning in nothing. The literary ‘voice’ is a sound suggesting a vocal utterance, perhaps highlighting the immensity of silence preceding and following it. A foot is the group of syllables forming a basic unit of verse meter, or metrics, which is of, relating to, or composed in meaning. The ‘conceit’ of any writing piece is a central theme, as opposed to a trope, which is the use of a word or concept, in a blanket figurative sense. A metaphor is a compressed simile, asserting identity without like or as; and an epigram is a short witty poem or saying.


"Luxfantilized isn’t a word, but it should be." Victoria said I get gems folding advertisements
against themselves, and reading what arrives from it. We’re in the ‘rock star booth’ in Luna Park on two hours of sleep, and the menu is swimming. No origami gymnastics necessary, eyes crossed from exhaustion, we draw the seductive curtain, and scheme what trouble we’ll brew. Shall we strip naked, and see what they do? My brother laughs. Perhaps we should switch clothing, and hold a seance. It’s amazing a how a curtained booth extracts previously unseen possibilities. Are those people next to us having sex? The wood divider was being bumped rhythmically. How about a few lines of blow right on the table? That’s bold, and decadent too. Think the wait staff would approve? Shit man, look at them run to and from the kitchen ... it ain’t minimum wage that’s driving them. The leather-clad monocycle racer reaches into the knee pouch reserved for kevlar pucks, and extracts a small white package. Whoa! I didn’t realize you were serious! I’m o serious dude, she smiles. I loved the idea of a line in the hoytie-toytee restaurant, though I don’t care much for coke. She shit seems to be everywhere lately ... what’s up with the global snowstorm? It’s the new caffeine, she said. "Starts a hangover and cures it." I remember the line from somewhere, so to speak. But we realize it’s better to keep the powder there, vaguely covered, while we eat. NO point killing the appetite early, she mentioned, but I think it’s kid-like to flaunt the flake openly, barely veiled. Usually the anticipating is the best thing. When has sex been better than its leadup? I suddenly exclaim. When you’re in a relationship already, we decide. The noise from the neighboring booth has abated; why do you think they put us back here? Because they could tell. They’re no dummies, being like us themselves. I didn’t even know this corridor of booths existed! The sea bass and mussels were screaming their short ghostly lives, as we rolled some bills, and got to work.

Sometimes you do things, just to experience the thirst for the thrill of what comes next. At nine am the sun sliced the crutch of the curtains to bits, and the question sex asked lay torturously short of sleep, pushing the limits of a cheap cell phone camera on a carved bar table. It asks for a grand frame, I mutter, examining the scrawl knifes bled by patrons hands through the years. The pro camera I possess in another dimension, is making me money right now. Beside me is the brochure for it, a moon rocket for the artistic mega-rich. I contemplate how to fake images, to appear as if they came from its ten thousand dollar fluorite capped maw. A metonymy is an aspect of something which creates a vision of the whole experience. "The theater." says a lot, in the Shakespearian sense of things. The table is another example; I could buy it now, unbolt it, and hang it in a modern art museum. My head felt like a melon on a spindly stick, a bit too heavy, and not measurably sentient. The early drinkers are replacing the last dregs of the late ones; occasionally one slides into the other. ‘Bad Drunks’ channel angers they’ve unnaturally suppressed, leaving spent, and arriving filled elsewhere. I think about coke and alcohol, caffeine and rest.

There was a pre-"drugs are evil" opium mania which subscribed the receptor sites Hippocrates’ labeling unveiled. For treatment of "hysterical suffocation" ingest or smoke opiates well before the word addiction existed. Drugs are amplified natural conditions, and overuse was a slap to the Gods who served such blessings to mortals. Concatenation : A series of connected like links in a chain. I like that. I like that. Rhyme : A combination of assonance
and consonance.

(for the rest of this, return to the Blog called Change)

heather


Children bring hope and despair, embrace and revulsion.
Every person is thousands of variations of themselves we’ll never have time to derive.
One of the essential differences we wore in our world, was the way we attached to change.
I Pour hours into individuals she shuns,
to defuse the future damage they would surely become.
I once typed : What was yet to manifest and the machine, for no reason, the machine chimed
‘nothing’.
Longer thinking (and shorter too) concentrated on kids, the coming generations would solve what we’re afraid to.
Here today, come and gone tomorrow, one little car crash or nuclear bomb. But this didn’t affect the level we need children. Not the paternal pattern, but the unseen magical domain; children are more powerful than we acknowledge, they’re ‘un-evolved’ cells speaking to their elders and telling them the whims our spirit winds select. I told Max I saw this video about death; haw. How cells commit careful acts of euphemism\killing euthanasia. They are the quantum biological equivalent of particles we’re wan to admit, are more complex than we are; i.e. they are on our scheme of complexity. The part he didn’t understand consciously was how the street musician who was lying drunk in the fucking gutter he exhibited, was going overboard unto the occasion he understood. Simple to creosote, hard to strip into its reality. He answered what he asked, and wanted to understand—get it? He waned to what she offered, and flipped poles. It’s as natural as seasons’ antsy, feeling chill or warmth in the airs. But the essential problem is always love, even when it’s hate. Men cairn their thoughts looking at women, who project their thoughts into perfection, without a nasty hangover, or emotional backlash? We have no idea why events occur, being quick to judge their outcomes, and apparent deceits with a painfully-limited understanding.

[excerpt from The Mammalian Snafu]

THANKING the ANKLE (Cont.)

Knowledge may have its purposes
but guessing is more fun than knowing.
Auden


Along Innerstate 42, a number of casualties exit their paths, for the express reminders they need, in casts bedecked with secret messages penned by friends and admirers, or perhaps a hospital stay. Spring flowers’ slippery rain spattered pavement slides care through stop signs, into bone-breaking sentiments, the symbols of which preceded the race to the crash, some wake into, or evaporate bloodlessly from, as others spill to the mottled woods. Being from is existing away, walking the frameworks cars pass, filled with expectations, a wind and rustle of leaves, flowing sidewards into your feet ... ah, of all things, we freeze, time trails and drags us ... onwards? Or benignly? Max was folding bar napkins intricately, as origami, scribing patterns to the shifting matrix of lines, expressing his subconscious, in an intriguing translucent medium of double-sided conjoinment, as they approached, I could tell, lessons sought edifice through mutual events. Our eyes met, with obvious pleasure. Brian! Mike! I point as nonchalantly as possible, at his aviator’s skullcap. On or off when you hit? Off, he said by mid-sentence to can’t think about it now; still fresh in it, you know? The Sopwith Camel swooped across the fractals spread like doilies next to me, as they settled into their foamy brews, and let the outside world slide off. Slowly, it dawned on me this was told to us, in a hazy yesterday, when at the café Brain then worked at, Mike bullnosed his brilliant red striking Guzi against our curb. It’s exhaust note was so sexy, I bolted from my talk, to stand next to it. Holy shit man, this thing is illegal. What possessed you to do it? As a joke of course, if you have the dough, better uses are few and far between. I folded a napkin and began to draw, marveling at the infinity it contained.


Shrill sounds of brakes, missing the stop sign Shrill sounds of brakes, missing the stop sign. I swear, the thought concentrated the reality outside; this accident was fated to happen; I saw it that night ... and Brian swilled his truth serum, which obliterated as it opened his mind. I saw that he knows more than he can contain; his commiseration is a tacit tightrope stretched taut, fundamentally braking for stop lights others miss, in dire nicks of time. I unfold, and re-fold the puzzle piece, remembering somebody having given me one, on a strip of line, I tied to my belt. How odd. He’s pulling it out from under his hat, cut from a giant canvas and colored in turn ... here, he motioned. For you. This was empowering, and ominous, the napkin was becoming what I sought to free my concentration from. Laconically, Mike begins his story, relating the catheter, and the blood. The opium pump piqued attention, the before became the hereafter and Brian orders a round. He looks at me like, should I tell him? I don’t want to know myself. Alcohol : for greatness of forfeiting and remembering. He knows I know he has the ability to convey something to a friend he himself needs to acknowledge; tequila shot are intimately shutting down and opening up in a single well-timed package. Items for note : Mike could be our fate. I’d just fallen down an embankment walking a trail at night, lost my attention for only a second ... like the driver ... and the stop sign ... and the way typhoons swirl ... not to mention the way ... he looked over, and missed the sign impact drove him through.


The pattern’s complexity was stupefying; all parts suffered in solidarity and solitude; Max’s caricatures swam across conversations, altering and altered by what we spoke. I paged through my manual, painstakingly simplified to arrest you into possibility, instead of stop you dead, at the first page of the actual article, at nine hundred pages long. That must be an expensive program, a barfly comments. How so? The manual is so thin. I thought about that. Like Abraham Lincoln’s speech-making rule of thumb. You need to give me three weeks for a two minute speech, but a two hour one, I’ll undertake spontaneously, don’t quote me on that, the general idea, you know ... less is more. More is less. Closing time secretly approached; the savvy bartender exerted her powers to slow it, magic sought to manifest throughly that night, unbeholden to limits which corral us. The simple complexity began to increase; each statement slowed its following connection to me, embracing more than a normally overloaded consciousness can hold. I found myself emptied and full; the universe of cause and effect bloomed around us; each subtle gesture weighed with beauty, wound its tendrils though me, into us ... the graphics embalmed to the clothing we wore, furthered threads of mystique exploding to tales quivering with anticipation to get told. Like the moments before supernatural occurrences, the seduction becomes the exploitation once we’re transfixed with the explanation.


This is utterly fascinating, I whisper to not one soul in sight. Not assembly-requited! The lack of answer exploded into facets of answers apportioned to each person’s account ... Brian has to tell Mike what he sees, to see it further. I need to watch my need to express what Mike can’t hear from me fully, to understand. The epicenter buzzed with concise expectations I deployed, to arrest further ways to perceive each situation. The shield of wanting to know defeats its own process; a certain perfection exists in the fractured bits and pieces, before they’re assembled into opinion, for they interact in inexplicable ways, the individual needs to parse, to feel its truth. The bartender inevitably shuttles us to the door, where the contagious assembly of facts continues. Brian reaches into his pocket to fuss with something, as Mike’s shirt fairly screams some answer I resist accosting, realizing it isn’t mine to do so. What’s that I ask him. Earplugs, she says, having to check what they were, his consciousness caught off-guard. Even better than alcohol, I retort. Which he gets, but doesn’t think through to what Mike needs, as related to what we manage to hear. I shake my head, astounded at the complexity of this. The massive shot of tequila had lodged in my brain, hampering normal reactions of conclusions. The wide night sky held interminable clues, I didn’t need to assemble. In seeing them, they continue to propagate, and exit and enter the stage.


I thought about that for quite some time, while the bed slowly rotated around. Judgment or conclusions occlude perception, which is now looking to validate specifics, rather than remain open-ended. The contrived becomes itself, for mirrors facet moments of what lies before them. Conclusions of brilliant red motorcycles impacted by bodies are seldom asked; matter is devoid of ‘knowledge’, or so we think. Then I think of Degala, who I learned was extinguished today. Blew a stop sign, died instantly hit from the side ... foretold her death, but thought she had longer. Told her daughter if I die ... and the next day ... whammo. That’s weird. But not so. It’s connected.