Mobile app.

To test to try out test drive the capabilities of mobile app and also speech recognition which would be very nice from the band containers of 20 alphabeth only certain kinds of archaic language ah non functional and non representation artifacts cloud drifting by doing something

right left to your own freakin advices

not that i could even remember or figured up the total distance start to finish as a spotlight passing across the desert only illuminating the present moment the each time anxious about loosing the thread and that, I guess, is the point of the exercise. Passing by or next to it assumes the objective which is clearly not the case of many cases. Just in cases we installed the fire escap-es. Going down is almost always right and what did diddid we think that living so high we'd not get burned. It's go a nack for climbing. Since it was little. Since it began. Makes me wonder how hell is still below. I'd guess the treetops by know. NOW I mean now, now. Pesky thoughts repeat and remind me of the dirty stories of origin forsaken. I'll forsake the story and runa burn up a long rope that disappears behind me. Follow. Stand back. I'll dive into the powder and pow. Wick, I guess. It's alright to imagine. It's alright to a lot of things.

Ah ha time to refresh the blog and the the dry time's is high time we we got to the subject of the the things that must be true. Any anxiety surrounding a strategy or implementation indicates something SOMETHING...deos it not. If someone will say that the noise level of the emotional response corresponds to the value of some intrinsic quality...not unless you have and engine that runs on the raising of the voice. Not a bad idea really...reminds me of that "bottling their energy" bull-s. Cars that are powered by overstimulated anxiety generators. Bad fuel and toxic byproducts. Hahaha.

Well, there is a try and I'm out of practice but you got to start somewhere over the rainbow connection synonyms without and the last thing is it's not to move back and forth in time. Just flip back a few pages...or forward.

Sun

Guise me to foreshortened horizons. Seemed the sunset was so close and falling. Hard falling sun on the river I drifted on and all around my head and shoulders like that legendary beating. The beating sun. Should life be like drifting, like in the sun and like late in the day. There is only so much a symbol can hold even when correctly spelled and hot under the falling dusk.

Of course imagination offers infinite in forms and in the mist. Is mist so different from matter...but now I'm trying to make a meaning again and it's late. In the day and in the sun long gone but still beating if you think of it. Like your heart, it's beating, down, inside and on the other side. That continuity and that abstract knowledge that came into the boat in childhood. The sun remains and returns even when it's not there. Sunrise and I could quote the time based on another thing I've not yet seen but know of. There is so much for us in the mist and dusk and in the night.

CHOMP CHOMP

Mindcrunchingsolutionstoproblems. Most of the time is it as if we are at the mercy of some master. Sinister or benevolent. Looking for a place to rest or rage. Resist or surrender. It is not possible for you to understand this writing but you still do and the more clearly I where to explain it and the more understanding you gain the less you practice the content. And if the text seeks to confuse is it not best understood through the experience of confusion. Mispelled. IS IT?

Musings

Is it possible not to know what one is doing. Of course. Without a context what one does is just a part of the stream of sense events hurtling down like asteroids. An weak correlation between desire and feedback. The nebulous violence of blind intent.
Then there is the other thing. The place where every event is connected with doers. The doers involve themselves in the story as a way of organizing themselves. At any moment all the doers are seeing and abstracting the actions of the other doers and their abstractions as well. Weaving it all into intentionality and motion. One generated moment to the next. History can belong to us all but we have to become a part of it.

Musings on Beauty

You know those moments or days or lifetimes when everything in the world is beautiful enough you could almost make a world out of just experiencing it. Out on the frontiers of my consciousness there is word being sent of a New World. Just as true as any truth can be we all have known the bitterness of disillusionment but now a new and beautiful interpretation begins to sink...in. Of course certainty and understanding describe states of mind and not always states of being. The oscillation is the rhythm of consciousness and the basis for movement and growth. Praise be and no end in sight. Fear no more, loves.

Another long paws. Pa-ews. Huge Pause. Imagine billions of fibers suddenly loosening like cheap bubble gum can after prolonged chewing. Some shift in body chemistry or the nature of matter...instant al-chemistrial changes effecting large numbers of cells synchronisiously. Deliciously, like melting chocolate bunnies at Easter time or the sugar covered yellow marshmallow ducks or rabbits too, turning my stomach. And the stomachs of millions on that day. An orgy of glucose. The grand sweet meltdown of billions of connective units. I see the brain, that if it can be said to be, is spread out into the habitual tendencies of the whole social matrix. The wisping smoke ring vortexes in and out of existence like subatomic particles. Voices with watches could make an impression with a co-ordinated hush, a sudden unified silence. But we are reassured by the familiar sounds of our own arguments. What of us if our sounds where silent. Silent night. Holy.

Back In Action

It has been a long time. And me thinking about what it might be worth while to say, and all. With the criterion crisis in full swing now the tide turns on its own masters. The sailors who tamed it, now lamed by time rigging the sails. All the time I'm wondering what to say and all the time laughing at the idea that it matters. Of course,,,it,,,does. What else could. And if it didn't then how would you know. That argument must have a limited context and I wouldn't be ashamed to leave out the fact that it's my own. Verbal inertia. Mass and vector. Of course a world without motion is somehow different that a motionless world with movement implied. But how? Not everything has to be explained. But so much can be.

Man of the House

This kids Dad is working in the states. That makes him the man of the house at eleven years old. He is hilling his family potato field by himself. The soils look beautiful to me but there is a bag of synthetic fertilizer next to Cruzs sister. Perhaps it is some micro-nutrient deficiency that disallows the crops to yield like they used to. They told me that they like to eat the greens off the potato plant; which surprised me. But only the "crioyo", or heiloom/local varieties. This confused me and needs more attention. Why not eat the greens from the new varieties? It is my understanding that the nightshade family potato plant is poison; excepting the tubers.
I've had bean greens and squash tip greens so far on this trip and they where both delicious. It is good to be out in the world seeing a bit of whats new and old.

Honduran Whackyfruit

This impossible and delicious beauty is grown in Honduras, costs fifteen cents Amarican, and looks like a page from Doctor Suess. It's like a grape who's skin turned into a deep sea creature. I forget the name but there you have It. The Honduran Whackyfruit.

Not Much

Is life then not full of the things that are not. At the limit, as the amount of nothing approaches infinity, don't we begin to get something. From here we write a letter to no one. No one is listening. Philosophy is for fun and tricks for kids so get into your barrel and ride, mad man ride.
Ride, mad
man, ride
mad, man.
Being that there is no limit to the potential of any given set of circumstances before they are given and in the case that they are. And being that a thing is as it is. Being, being, being. Then what? Well, whatever can be then. It would seem that we know a trick or two. Show me then, what you know, friend. I'll not hold you to my particular:
Miss
-understanding of it.
So much stupid beauty. It can only be loved and cried over. Can a world be made with foolishness and beauty? Defended with marshmallow bullets and strawberry jam bombs. I for one, do not believe it can. This tips me off that the idea may have potential. But how can I say since I think it worthless. I will persue it, down a thousand roads at once.

Charlotte. I have to laugh at myself for being afraid of the very thing that could be the thing. I'm looking over my own shoulder again. Not back over it... Seems not too functional but what was it that's so important to get done anyhow. There is an amazing and very pregnant woman at the gate here, her belly stretching into an old tee shirt. Traveling momma
to be.
Soft TSA messages on the intercom .
"Each passenger is allowed one piece of carry on."?!
Here we go. Into the tin house in the sky.

Post

As the rain falls I'm reminded of talk on dreams a few nights past. Thankfully not the usual, down the tube, recital of a particular myth perspective; but an honest to goodness look at the mythmaking process itself. The water returns to the soil and the coincident rise in creeks and streams flows through a vision of myself wading Senica creek with my pack on my head. Is there any way that this process of noticing might be focused into a forward motion? I'll head up the mountain tomorrow, if the rain lets up, or if the forecast die comes up sun.

Imagine the gap between chance and plan. The breath that sees and the breath that moves. I'm sure the motion of the rocking boat and the stomachs aboard translates well and is the same over a large domain. Remind me that when a thing seems clear, it is often a reflection in the surface. The depths may be, by definition, unknown. How would knowing change them? And what of their place? And function.

No thing that may not be. Why then any one in particular? It is the thing itself. It is an answer to a question; or a question.

Puzz

Are we really such good materialists? Remember that the strength of the language has to do with the democratic principal of the number of voters who will go to the polls. And this on a further principal which has to do with the feeding of those voters. The domain of the function takes in to a count the inputs that produce rational outputs/comes. What I mean is that to make the simplest statement (that is heard) may require permissions and consentions in the millions. Like a third world bureaucracy; a slow long trail. None the less or perhaps because of the fact it has been a convention to think of things as being out there. Strange puzzle.

Courage Friends

I'm digging in the dirt today. Soil. And a little swirl of wind walks by. Up the path of straw and through some leaves by the compost pile. That reminds me somehow of that little snake I photographed earlier. How he smiled in the spring sun: on last years dead dry grass. I miss that sun now and the snake too, now that the night hides them like the grass when the snake slid off into it.

Now it all has to mean something; and can again, since we've given up on that it must. The sweat drops fell from my face after what seems like a long perspiration free winter. There was a time when they tended towards a globe as they fell. Like raindrops to the soil. If anyone asks you why, just smile sweetly and close your mouth against the secret. To bluff is what we can offer. But it's a real bluff, eh?

Know the Thrill

Repeated application of the same method, both homogenizes and clarifies the referent qualities: whos presence is the resulting organization of the methods application. There are many ways for a process to be carried out on the language. Sometimes repetition increases the desired effect, others not. To take out every letter, one at a time, and shine it up with a terry cloth till it sparkles in the sun. Use a screwdriver to scrape the gunk out of the tight spaces in ws, ys, ks, xs and vs. Once the text is all cleaned up the words could be mounted on white oak shields, stained, polyurethaned and hung over the mantel like deer head trophies. Why not? I'm not so sure that it's not important that the text be molded and fired in terra cotta clay. This way the meaning would be more solid and the words have more weight. These words might be used as Christmas gifts and produce brief discomfortable pauses and later unsure action. They could read "What I always wanted". They could be. What they said?

There is a part of the process that settles dust on the spiderweb. It is rendered useless on account of its sticky being all filled up but now we know where it is and can mention it's describable parts. So we can say some verifiable things about what was.

The spider somewhere spins
What will tomorrow thrill
A connoisseur's on pins
And needles someday kills

Lego logic and a thought seed

So then, it's hard to say. And everyone knows that writing has its own inertia and therefore has to be worked out on paper. There is a tendency toward a lincoln logs or lego style application. There are the way the shapes fit together and the overall shape that they are fit into. So then each text unit can be perceived as a single unit or as a conglomerate but the perception determines in the subjective observer the nature of the unit and therefore colors the overall experience. Something perceived as a single unit is different, in perception, than something percieved as a conglomerate. The idea of an atomistic construction is itself a construction and exists no place in reality except the reality of the subject that observes it. Where else could it exist.
Setting aside for a moment the rejection of the objective on grounds that it is an impossible perspective, which is its own discussion, we turn our view to the function and form of that which we call the objective view. What are the characteristics of such a view and what do they afford us as viewers. In this way I would hope to access and integrate information from multiple perspectives without overwhelming internal interference.

"When or how the sky in it's blackened brightness wanting. Believe. Waiting for true misunderstanding, knowing only what I feel with my eyes, it is difficult not to surmise. This chair still holds the pattern of my weight. Being gone now, not looking back. I can taste the color of your thoughts."

-unaccounted for

A Case For/Of Non-Rep

I've got this image of throwing paint onto a transparent structure. You see the paint and that shows you where the thing is and what shape it is. Could the creative process be accelerated to the point where once it had been created its value was already obsolete. No more Middle Aged secrets. Where control of the static and still was the theater of the dramatic politics of the inanimate. The words stick to parts of the living thing, they light it up by the way its movement smears the language in luminescent streaking shapes. Sparklers and glow stick words. Photoplankton on sea waves and sandy footfalls. The shape of the light tells a story of the object in the words that stuck. What makes them stick and what glow though, calls for another round. So toss it up. A text then is like a can of paint. A reader sloshes it onto an object and experiences the text as the movements of the object that has fallen under the expression of the words. It animates the traceable bits of glowing meaning that are the symbols of the language. So behind the language is the living object that is its animator. Not in the historical dimension but in the spacial one. Its motion and its medium.