[Probably a zillion errors, this was pumped out, like an everted tire.]
This is a Quake I™ (yes “I” am trademarked up) map designed by history. It is the weapon of choice for some people, the grenade pin remover, which is required after a vodou attack. It is the insertion of the funny annoying thing that probably clicks found in E1M1, the Slipgate Complex and those are for real, for clever stupid real, real chic. My friend “Uncle_Monty” and I have spend many loving hours gulping down slime and riding each others’ rockets—Uncle Monty of course is the sleazy fat old geezer from Withnail and I (1987).
And my friend, Jonno, is indeed from Montreal, as his name would suggest. More still, of course, to come, but such complexities and complacencies and complaints and replacemencies and relationshipwrecksinseas and complicities and who is your friend, girlfriend, father, these days, as a Professor Jeanne Bamberger used to say when we were neighbors at MIT, “amorphous boundaries.” Or my voice leading ideas on voice misleading or missed-voice leading. I was briefly just called “Snake,” for lack of something witty, but Jonno can barely be outdone and was brieftly “Uncle_Mongoose.” Ach, we creatures, great ones, small ones, edible and gullible and bury my head in the sand, sinking of course, or at least scuppering.
Okay, on a different note, I wonder about about people I know, what they really were in my life. I have concluded is that Twin Peaks nailed it: “The owls are not what they seem.” And every day I lose connection further with what I though my various types of relationship were. I cannot get myself to talk to some people I was close to; that includes a number of people fake in my life, and people who have told the big lies to me. Jonno is not one. Sorry to name names. Like, it’s his real name.... I will mention my most recent ex-girlfriend in that fake context. No one knows of this brief relationship.
Yuck. The National’s “Apartment Story” from Boxer reminds me of earthquake drill in Napier New Zealand, or boyscout camp. Why not just pass me a post-apoplectic instruction manual? Or, for that matter (plasma even), I am beconfusedandincediary (is like when you expose yourself naked?—immolate) because I am understand everything as a commentary on now and plans and not ?weightlifting and on ?conservation family valleys and warm tactile feelings and I do like it that the want everything to be right, because wrong is bad, right? And what’s left when all is said and done? Naturally I cannot believe anyone with eyes, ears, brains, and who has lived in a few countries and enjoyed them thoroughly could not be Marxist to some decent orthodox extent, and hate the political far-right and anything of privilege. I should have smelt that rat like it was made of aluminum when I heard these “lefties” being encouraged to get more bourgeois jibs because the “organization,” which I thought was a small leftist propaganda group, needed money money money not really that funny. Conservative, yeah, fear enough. Honest. The most honed, perhaps. (I had a flashback to Rotorua in a our funny little hotel and I am left sad, lonely, angry, and whatever. Her major loss.) But I am very very tired; teaching composition to 33 students and running an electronic music studio is a harder job than it sounds. Ha. (But fun, of course.) Very very draining, especially as I have mammoth projects to do, not in the least this scoobydooing what I is doing, and that is swimming the Baring Sea because the Ice Age cometh. The blogs and videos and visual art are my main thing, though I am writing a four-part-chord non-repeating Vexation of sorts. It is algorithmic, but in a very careful aesthetic sense. Tonight a few of us—including some students, which was awesome because it would have been an ear-opener, and they are just very very excellent students, it sort of made it seem more worthwhile that the few who could make it did, braving the cold of Boston tonight—Boulez’s golden hammer and Stockhausen’s downloadable mantric ringtones.
So that was a real pleasure in this world I absolutely hate. No, I do remain alive of course and just mentally throw up (on fools and their highness and immature partial edification, wear Borges categorical analog passive filters in which trying to change the things bandpassing not the inductor/capacitor f and Q determinants is plain futile. I have a strange a video found on my computer during the “bad” times when someone was tormenting my life to craziness, I jest not, I’d almost like to be arrested for some weird trumped-up charge so I can write more than a blog. I’m patient, so very patient; and were I committed as one as I am a Veronica Mars (she knows how to dress so excellently). In a single old-fashioned ewer of milk (especially pronounced the Belfast way, ”milik“), in how many wheys can your thoughts be curdled? Not just skimming the surface, but not taking it to a lab? Since love and war and dreaming and nonsense and reading and getting lost ack, I have gone over this crying-over-spoilt-milk with its white impure, which is like s-impure (pronounced Italianishly since it is an Italian thing) when an initial s is followed by a consonant, so lo would be the masculine definite article of that very singular variety. My mind is awash with too many ideas trying to account for a bad break-up and strange media files appearing on my computer, and where am I? Salvaged from my second madness which are self-consistent, and this time I can say for sure, REAl absolutely revoltingly true. Mythology surrounding the first was a little whacky, but that is hardly the point: I was accounting for a weirdness in a limited capacity to be Velma. But this time, it all accords with my instruction manuals and with my Psychotic Scrawls—I must put them all up; there is a copyright issue with iii as I used the singing bells of Benjamnin Iobst and I haven’t successfully sought permission—tried with no response but I will try hard. ii is up here or on Tumblr already (all these blogs and other sites are accessible from http://anonymous-infinity.com because they all spell Amf.’s name differently, as she is both real and unreal, plus it is time for major mirroring and distribution and caching has been happening all the time by my including very attractive keywords all along, in every post, just to make sure, and so much is told already in one of only a couple of ways of getting this screenplay past the censors, and that one way mentioned is the best way of all, which is to have something dense in information, in some fairly unique style and not some kind of common, say, acrostic. That is like the Magic Eye image you can find. But the clever-ish thing is the very subjects, or exact quotes/angles chosen. Who would spot that in such randomness, and it is not something I really need to think about a whole lot, since my mind has kept a journal of randomness, perhaps scrapbooks, since I was a kid. It is like the repeated pattern of a Magic Eye Image, the thing you can actually see, but not think is significant as it is medium for communicating something else deeper. Oh well. I feel silly. Oh, that’s right, I don’t feel silly. The censorial supressor-wannabes must. “Asleep on a Sunbeam,” so happy by B&S from Dear Catastrophe Waitress. Is there a turn of that phrase “Catastrophe Student”?
So that map is also something dental, ocular, aural, all insertion like an earring or earwig or ringing ear or ringworm or wormhole or holier-than-thou, or thousands of wholes turning into parts, or in this map, whares (M&amacron;aori meeting houses) and ramparts, in one of the battles of the great Totikowaru, one of the greatest M&amacron;ori warriors ever, which means one of the greatest warriors of the world ever. His fifty men could keep at bay over a thousand Pakeha goons. He himself was amazing. This map is either in the Taranaki Province of New Zealand where his final battles took place, or in the Hudson River, with Lincoln Logs (or Napier Bones?) and stumps and Well-Tempered Clavier partly cleared ground-basses (more passacaglie) and Trenton trench warfare in Taranaki with parapet palisades despite being on the TASman, and Major Hunter killed (like, that was a name, like, say, Henry Hudson, or is it, like, someone who hunted who was important, and so EVERYTHING IN THIS SICK FASCIST-BECOMING WORLD IS AND I DO NOT MEAN CURRENT REGIMES. I AM SICK SICK SICK OF WHAT FEELS LIKE A CULT OF SELF-ASSUREDNESS WITH NO EXPERIENCE—HENCE A CULT REPLETE WITH REWARD PROMISE AND EXTREME REJECTION—HI PETER HOW DOES IT FEEL BEING SQUASHED—JUST FINE THANK YOU BECAUSE I AM ALREADY A FAIRLY MARROW PERSON, PHYSICALLY, BUT I DON’T PUMPKIN OR ANYTHING ELSE ODDLY SELECTIVELY IN THAT BREAD-RAISING YEAST INVECTIVE WHEY—AND THE GUARDIAN SURE TOOK THE SHEEN OFF ALL SEMBLANCE OF INTELLIGENCE AND APPRECIATION FOR ENGLISH HUMOR—FOR IT WAS STACKED BY LONDONERS I KNEW AND GORMLESS FOOLS HERE OF UTTER PREDICTABILITY WHERE ABILITY IS A HIGHLY EXAGGERATED SUFFIX. BUT SHOULD I GO THROUGH THAT SHEENLESS CIF AND ANALYZE REFERENCES, AND HAVE A DEEP STAB AT EVERY NAME BECAUSE, AS WITH UNCLES—KIN AND FRIEND, ADAPT IT, YOU DISIN-GENIUS FOOLS LYING IN THE GENTLE BREEZE—A GENTLE BREEZE SAY AT TE MATA OR FLAT ROCK I LOVED MORE THAN ANYTHING UNTIL I THOUGHT IT WAS RAPED FROM ME BY AN INFERIOR LITTLE ALWAYS-TARDY-TO-SCHOOL-THEREFORE-LATE BEASTIE OR WORSE YET
oh this screenplay is boring me to tears, boring me to death which (1) suggests potential necrophilia, and (2) more broadly, a sad end to humankind due to the arrogance of pretenders to the heir to throne of unselfishness whereas they should be thrown to the air of their complete unexpressed selfishness (for it is ineffable, but I’ve done what I have been able to, to f it over. And what a bad fit).
Yeah, forget this screenplay, I’ll go for the one where girlfriends and friends and the other f words are for real, honest or at least with no malice by intention or by willing misguidance accompanied by smugness with sacred official oh-so-turned-away righteousness of headiness of hanging ten, even one in ten would decimate or at least tithe if it were income. Yeah, I‘ll switch my screenplay completely around, to something happy. Like I will post
ugh. Went to Tumblr instead. Bye bye, sasasasasasasasa.
