“Use me, abuse me, never say you’ll lose me.” I didn’t say love. But I’m hypothesizing different, which is like Think Difficult, Apple’s old slogan. Go to Starbucks, see a form of self-selection (when -ion and -ing have an amorphous boundary: who plays god?). I haven’t posted for a while and we will post a ton of photos, not especially well-filtered as there are so many, just more to get a bunch up there as we prepare for the Big Bang drinking making our Big Bucks. What will appear, about non-mythological ASCII characters, will make such GEMS of love and life as anything invented by Helmholtz—the ophthalmoscope (with that sometimes-mispronounced silent “ache”—howsoever one attempts to spell that letter—as with the great response from the great ex-WiFi, I have a lot to cover in teaching passive resonant LRC circuits and noise in the frequency domain, how will I do do it?—I felt she knew I was seeing a student about something, well-rounded and all, actually, on writing a dynamic compressor and the ODE required to make its knee function work more accurately BY FAR than cycling74’s own examples, which are well-buggy, like a dray—which adds a div-grad-curled dimension to the not plunging into the war joke “What’s the difference between a draught horse and a war horse? One darts into the fray.”
And thinking of the German bored game Troia... layers to be scraped away at until that wooden horse’s home is revealed enough for a publication in an archaeology journal, or Mongorian horse, my brain-voice is rough and I forget—a gory laryngectopic bicylce—but the game might have been made by the same person who invented Die Siedler von Catan (Settlers) of Klaus Teuber. (I have the space version in German too, time to put out on Re-Use at MIT. Hey, look up for Life Instructions—L.I.—on Wikipedia, not the Contradancing I describe elsewhere, or Nodal Modal Tidal this or that, or anything likely which is most likely anything, but this time, it is hilarious, the Starfarers of Catan) page, my sides split at the seams, but so do some synapses—are they parts of churches, with all those sinners and finely crossed pieces of apse? Read the history of the Duomo of Sienna to know when apse makes it big so it has to be converted to the beast itself, but with nothing to support its upper structure... we are left with just a single channel of what would have been part of the nave/aisle... at least it is a tourist trap and we can pay 6500 lire or whatever Euros, and walk that seemingly unsafe walk except nothing is really that unsafe except the medieval towers, like the ones in San Gemignano for which a photo does look like a beast of manytacles, but I am thinking of Pavia where I think towers were remaining after the earthquake in the mid-nineties; one came crumbling down and killed a journalist or journal-seller; if you go there visit the Certosa—the Charterhouse where Chartreuse-like alcohol is made by the monks, who, like Trappists, do not speak aloud except to tourists in need of knowing what lead them along the breadcrumb trail to the house of many candies—this paragraphs is bi-bifurcating and a picture and story needed with every breed of reference, and I HOPE (like BEAU, a character from the daytime soap The Days of Our Lives “Like sands through the hourglass, ...” and you wonder why Dallas and Santa Barbara and Die-nasty, as we called it when not calling it Dysentery with Prince Michael—of Moldavia? in real life, Praed of English Robin Hood fame, now there is a story with every detail needed descripting, and Catherine Oxenberg, a real-life little princess and who really warrants a full blog post, nay, blog, to delve into those of her life’s crevices, and crude that was NOT as a remark) with some cross-breeding, with no Abrahamic slant implied there. Not even, or especially not on Passover and at the end of the season of Lent.
Oh Helmholtz and his great crashing wave we in Napier New Zealand of the potential continent New Holland (and with Caterpillar and Bobcat, really makes me wonder about earthmoving. Canaries in mines, Tenerife being autonymic, in that its tenor is rife, Christchurch not merely the flat boring city I terribly described it as in the past, Northern Japan well thank god the greatest inductions in this area are down the corridor in I think it is induction-welding, hi “Tarky!” and into mysterious clandestine lodges—Clan of the Cave Bear?—or family-determine [whatever bedbugs do that is like lodging, which is a little more brimming than usual since in England what Kiwis would call a boarder—when someone stays with a family and pays for room as well well as hospitality—is called a lodger, kind of combines keeping the books—ledger like the late Heath—or bookkeeper or the one who is onder the one who makes all the embezzlement errors, the subboobbookkeeper, which ends up in a convoluted way being the word in English with the most double letters adjacent, and dodger, which reminds me it is tax day tomorrow in New England, because Patriots Day—Boston Marathon Day–gives the Longfellow Bridge Crossers such as myself a few extra days for our 1040EZs if we make no claims or use TurboTax, this sentence fizzles like a damp squib from the bobby dazzler it was) hear every Monday for lunch, the air-raid SIREN [what fecundity!]—yes, Helmholtz also invented the siren as well as writing the first book on psychoacoustics (that River Styx again, try to free myself from it, well, Achilles was dipped in it—sorry about needing to be held onto—Kerberos travels on it with every new soul going to Hades), as well as you’ll have to Google Helmholtz Waves, I know there is an ex-girlfriend of mine asking about them in a talk on her scientific communications class at Harvard, apparently the perfect locutor, I’d say or at least hears.
I HAVE DECIDED ONCE AND FOR ALL AND ONLY JUST NOW THAT MY THOUGHTS ARE MINE, MY MUSIC IS MINE—Make Mine Music—MY WORDS—My Word—ARE MINE—and the Beeb’s! (THOUGH I SHARE ALL THESE THINGS!), MY ART IS MINE, MY HISTORY IS...
Well, I think I am like part of a staircase and also what Charlotte spun. Bannister and Webb (see the Webb and ... about Shakra and homeopathy...?), whom I read about when I was 6 years old, the year I leant to read—as recommended by an aunt who taught “New Infants”—K(indergarten) in the US but not Kindergarten in New Zealand, where children are grown in German gardens—in fact, in the “SRA” reading method (which failed me, or v.v.), in the same card. SRA—Scientific Research Association surely must still exist, and object.method.
SRA (homeland security, defense, global health), SRA (the one I am talking about though the acronym is not present and it is part of McGraw Hill Online), Society for Research Administrators, Society for Risk Analysis, [Wikompendia], Society for Research on Adolescence (brain malfunction, need to carb load, as I keep seeing Adolf and Idol and gonad and ety- which could be etiology, etymology, or research pertaining to the ear), Sequence Read Archive, Southern Rodeo Association (ex-gf who was barely sexually vigorous by, what a scream, played up some sexual act of impression or “currency” as she called it, no doubt needing more words to hear her spit out lies or truths or even Sex, Lies and Videotapes about “what” she is concurrently doing, urgency, metaphorical South Parth Uncle Fucka—“shut your face”—cunt, count, quefrencies, electric currents, parents, lure, and Wheel of Fortune, let me by a vow of povery or vowel and lose my lead or a turn or turn a trick or dominatrix or whatev, funny how these copious memories, like in Hugh Laurie’s House Cu being the cause of apparent schizophrenia and a caring phonecall gave that away... and orange is my color, the matrimonial ring of my eye—no, Katie would not be a copper poisoner, I have NOTHING NEGATIVE to say about my now ex-wife, whom I actually miss in SD on the outskirts of town by a meadow of grazing well-fleeced jumpers and brayers and neighers in RC—the cupric memories flow I hope for tonight terminally, oh she said, and I’ll haul the phrase out correctly, something about passing the ___ Rodeo Test, which was to see if I could remain inside of her for more than ten [or something] seconds after she orgasmed. THAT REDEFINES THE PETRIE DISH OF SEMANTICS. The Jazz band are playing Paul Desmond’s/Dave Brubeck’s “Take Five” right now, give me Radiohead’s “Pyramid Song” to break my heart beat just the wrong-right way, a fire in among the soul OR the other united interpreted nations.
THOUGHT ALERT. Check it out, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Airbus_A380 and think of Boeing 777s. Mind the global (and present) warming, the changing enemies, TG once a brutal/clever attack like 9/11 has happened, it is passé passé. Of the beautiful and haunting new multi-tech opera by Tod Machover, of MIT’s Media Lab—and that is a point to stop not-even-a-stream-of-any-consciousness thoughts. Tod helped I think with Evan Z—Airplane Ears record label—and Joe Paradiso (biggest synth in Boston!) have my Asyndeton video/sound piece played at the ML’s FAST Music and Machine concert a couple of months ago. The on-campus highlight was a few nights ago with Kronos, Bang on a Can, Gamelan Galaktika, I think Loud Objects and Ensemble Robot (a pity not the UVA robot-music group who were AWESOME) and many more doing things by Brian Eno—the original tune in ambient drone music for airports FUCK FUCK my aural cortex is getting tied up in polymerous knots and even triple negatives (yeah, yeah, at least a double positive is negative, but ex-gf of repetitive strain injury to my fingers fame meaning more than what you think that I, listening to my binaurals/stereo type her reference in abundance, and as I am like the Hungry Lambs–Along with Sweet Porride and Stars in the Sky were the very first books we used in NZ for learning to read but I missed one at age six when I was hospitalized for my 10th serious tonisilitis and they whipped ’em out along with my adnoids which I believe is normals, reminds me in 1992 of my failed anal probe when I broke the equipment of a private practitioner in NZ so had to have a general anaesthetic—my brother-in-law, coinci-dentally, administers such things commanding grand amounts of money—and the probe did feel like the first episode of South Park, a Dima-esque sat-e-llite dish like an inverted umbrella—ellajqwn—with no fleshy tags right tight up there with the abdutive inference I either scrawled about or will transfer pixelwise—oh I almost wrote ballet dancing or bellydancing, speaking of abundance and MIT Dance Troupe and its Innovative Names every year—everything at MIT these days is about evolution, minds, fingers to the pulse, cybernautics, the Infinite Metaphor I mean Corridor is a “Run of Gold”en Gauntlet since I am gaunt and am currently letting my spic and span apartment to find new studio space away from the ruminations and mastications of others—and bellydance choreography is graphic as the name would suggest scripted and if semiotics has signs being flung far afield, some detangled at the blackhole event horizon, making it >4% of a universe, then these signs seek hale and hearty referents, and whole bodies could be content in this symbolic gesture of, no it is not tasteful “flawless beauty meeting art” erotica, no, far from it, it is the alpha-omega, the aadvark—zygote of singly composed moments. Höhe Punkte. And if every moment informed by weeks of choreography, well, perhaps innovation takes real victory among even great cerebell[ydancymancer]a. That was one helluva tangent, indeed a bundle of fibres of tangents in differential geometry. How to make something big out of something small, an artform that really should be 451-ed. Even a veneer of logic decimates (above or below) the quiet haeccity of dictionary loss, clearly a relative of eunuchs.
Oh, Southern Rodeo Association, Satanic Ritual Abuse, Sexusl Recovery Anonymous. That is the first Google page on SRA. What a diatribe I fell into, perhaps the lost one. Tinyurl comment: girlfriend who suggested after bad breakup recently I go to the Meadows for Trauma and Codependency issues (was her mirror upside down?) and for leaving a trail of female wrecks in my wake—more like, at my funeral wake, I am guessing the cleverosity was—with the suggestion by concomitant Psychotherapist, that I treat women badly, like, really badly, and while being one of two people to siddle up closely, white noise generator excusing itself in background FBI/CIA style as a vocal formant cancelation device, believing that I did NOT have a psychosis as described by the ten-year-old Instruction Manual and on the flipside of this or that old vinyl of mine—where was I? Ah, I was told I was a sex addict. No. Then a love addict.
Given various pedigrees and research I am very happy to prepare for the apocolyptic cave of the revelation of St John the Theobromine Logician of Patmos Greece, this mistreatment of women has been the biggest cover-up, mascara, made-up conconction of vile proportion, and the worst part is that it still tricks me sometimes. Woe betide senders of old emails I re-read with a mind to knowing. From nine years ago, from whenever. Hearts broken can have blood put in tiny viles. There is then that which San Gannaro of Naples undergoes: liquefaction. Chomp or suck on that; the more recent encounters of greater manipulation (check out In Sheep’s Clothing—about emotional manipulation and overt/covert aggression about women who love psychopaths, but such a title etc. should allow relfection and deconstruction to take intentional even authoritative hold and don’t let my phrase “Instruction Manual” from above lead you to believe I am thinking about anything, and with a strong CAVEAT LECTOR AUDITORQUE that this I all but imagine has little to do with teaching women above all to respond or invent in like. Perhaps Star Wars IS actually alerting us to the Jedi within, as Jack London’s The Star Rover or even crap by Aleister Crowley infer the God Within Complex. And perhaps there are things in the world, similarly, that are honest on some plane. But the offense lies in some cases on our very playing field, and that would be, here I am fanciful in jest lacking an appropriate medium of example, this book on Ovine farming and dressing techniques be a technical niche for psychopathic aggression without discovery, sans denuding, rather like the emperor will not be spun invisibly but the sane, legal, sound enemy who is GOOD (not a false idol, not one of Bacon’s either): how to destroy an enemy by making THEM go made. Passive agressively, since the blame can be laid with them. They are MADE to be victim. They think they have committed some(etymologically imperative) egregious sin whereas as they are either possessed of some gift (let us say), like in the archaeological Indy Jones or Tomb [hmmmmmmmm, and yes let that me a careful intonement] Raider quest movies, for part of a piecemeal artifact or one of a certain number of items/people of value. So squish that person torture, steal, leave empty, except if like good NZ wool used in “Berber” carpets, or in “Berger” paints, where resilience resonates in commercials for both products
How to cause, let’s say, extreme trauma? Bone up on a book on extreme trauma, but read between the li(n)es. I shan’t say more, even if I have said as many things at once as any of these books or higher and doomed stages of unnatural selection anti-evolution with a phenocidal bent yadda yadda gopher ga
I still am extremely susceptible to suggestion, and they are all from a negative force. All. And all. IT IS STOPPING IN A WEEK, its eight or whatever tentacles are being lopped off at the neck, losing its head;I am told wisely that that it how it is done (in jest), perhaps I won’t risdegard hints of special rolling implements (rolling pins? those strings for removing eyebrows?)? Surely not the parasite-obsessed ex-girlfriend who liked to scare me about tapeworms (oh, poor lap whose top you hosted when the love FELT real) and how the body can have but one and it must leave through the outdoor and must be rolled onto a surgeon’s implement so that it does not break into segments because they all contain eggs and you are generally dead if in those winds breakage occurs; a scare not un-akin to the parasite a friend of hers caught in ?Belize—probably not since that ex-gf spent time in Belize with her class (um, not social class, she left that behind, or they left her family behind, or something abutting on the whole “behind” concept, or the BO Concept store, now, that is true class)—which ate her aortic sphincter (always pronounced shfincter) which apparently is not of the heart but the top of the stomach, causing constant sislatsirep—reverse peristalsis, id est, regurgitation, thus food could not be held down, which is terrible because she also had a step-brother—a delight, Butters was his nickname because of his cuteness and blonde hair—with a similar non-parasite problem, and that caused a delayed puberty and stunted growth which could have corrected itself by now, I will not ever know, as I am quite disjunct by that family :(.
AND MY FINE MOTOR CONTROL. I HAVE NO IDEA HOW THIS IS WRAPPED UP WITH SUGGESTIBILITY, ALTHOUGH, SAY, THE BASAL GANGLIA OR SOMETHING LIKE THAT (IT IS MY BEST GUESS FOR NON-COURSE-NINE REASONS BUT BY THE LOVE TOUCHED MY MIND’S OWN SHINE BY THE MOON OF NO ONE CAN SEE BUT YOU THEN I WILL BE NICE BUT TO OTHERS NO BUT TO YOU, I STILL CANNOT GO ON FOR WHAT HAPPENED? THEY ALREADY STARTED AND I AM JUST A WALKING METAPHORIC CRISIS, NOT JUST IDENTITY).
SO MY ART IS MINE, I VIDE-O.D.-ED MYSELF DRAWING AND WILL POST, it’s a terrible video. But I cannot be held responsible for exactly what my old writings were about. I observed those things for real. Real. I wrote about them. I have already published them. I am not the only channel to their circumnavigation and translation now. My other work is, and it is self-declarative, rather as one would declare to douane those things that I suppose were housed in one of the WTC buildings. I know what is what more every second with every inflection of truth, with Parallel, Relative, Leading-note Exchange (Leittonwechsel) and not the oppositional forces in a Riemannian musical manifold. Or bill fold, as a close friend once said....
There is a week remaining, if you couldn’t glean that. The Big Sweepstakes (of Mis-) are at Steer Roast. It might end up being the final test, though, in a position of publicity, I would prefer a fantastic Peer Gynt.
We will now clean up series of images, probably post Cream of Stonsciousness blah each time (here and on that part of the wash cycle, in a Syncromesh Tumblamatic). And work towards the final pieces—video, music, and the 616 of all my time. And, yes, perspective has it that there is a speciality involved here, apparently, not random, not bespoke, not JUST an intoned and question Richard Serra sculpture of gold this day, not just brimming with puns, not just semiotics, not just just just you’ll not be like,
—well, an ex-girlfriend almost took an MC’s class on 20thc music. She declared she was more in the Peter camp by then. Whatever that means, she was the opposite of average in any sense (more under-estimated in every way but age). Anyway, her narrative is that she didn’t like hearing, say, Bartók’s music should be reduced to a single key even if each hand might have been composed in a separate mode (see New Grove article on Mode, it is a General’s saver for those leaning toward Music Theory hysteria, and one of the most comprehensive and compendious articles on offer); what can be heard might be apprehended as monomodal, or thought through multimodally (sorry Greece and Rome, I should have written it in Byzantine or Ottoman! Or, better yet, Egyptian, Aramaic, Sanskrit, or any of the Han Languages). We can split our our brains, like following a Bach Fugue the parts can be jumped between or played off—those were the dying gasps of my dissertation which APPEARED to argue against voice leading, but was a breath of life back into true voice leading, I believe, just misunderstood aswarm an ocean of too much pretense and obliquity of remarkable clevertude, which is just lifting me from or rolling me out of my lowest caste now, and believe it or not, how close was I to a fairly maximally cool such pretention sans vicious decision-making in contrapuntal understanding even in my own contrived pieces (I shall post a terrible recording of one of my two Repeating Pieces for Helen, as they demonstrate a fair amount without throwing away the baby with the Barthes water) and all negative I have written about; the dissertation was to demonstrate the dangers—I suppose its own type of arrogance, but, barely a dangerous one itself—of that entire Barthes water thing—being too tied up in quadruply uncountable knots forgetting the music, then the sound qua sound, writing as something of poetry and not that phonemic and orthographic relative pottery, and its magic of blast-firing glaze over the porous material which really just hides an encroaching disease that I suspect the Choosing Ones suffer from as individuals, the ones who have the equivalent of learnt perfect pitch, which we know is not possible, read this in Oliver Saks’s Musicophilia, whereas with beat it is different. I think there is something like Marble to Porphyry going on here (even tufa or tuff I think it is in English): as with a penis wanting that final thrust, not even the most desperate or relaxed or imagined thoughts or real feeling or love will wake the squishy thing up if that is how it is; enjoy what is there.
Don’t pretend, don’t be exactly like a Mike Moore Food, Inc. beast of food burden. I wish I had written my dissertation MY WAY. Hey, since things are changing, we will. After all, thoughts are mine once I let the suggestions free themselves to to expression and not action, and accept that my fine motor control has a subtlety that is execrated x-rated raped extremely fine—that’s all under the blame of “extra-pyramidal” side effects such as shaking from psychopharms. Which we are almost off. The control is wrested, seized, but I am not.
Hee Hee She She.
Oh, the party both begins, and ends, and these thing take a week.
XOXO
PS did I mention we are gaunt? Think of John of Gaunt, in Shakespeare’s Richard II:
This royal throne of kings, this scepter’d isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands,
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,
This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,
Fear’d by their breed and famous by their birth
Renowned for their deeds as far from home,
For Christian service and true chivalry,
As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry,
Of the world’s ransom, blessed Mary’s Son,
This land of such dear souls, this dear dear land,
Dear for her reputation through the world,
Is now leased out, I die pronouncing it,
Like to a tenement or pelting farm:
England, bound in with the triumphant sea
Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege
Of watery Neptune, is now bound in with shame,
With inky blots and rotten parchment bonds:
That England, that was wont to conquer others,
Hath made a shameful conquest of itself.
Ah, would the scandal vanish with my life,
How happy then were my ensuing death!
That is Act II, scene i, 42–54, but I’d like to check the source, as this is Wikipediatessaron we are sourcing from. [A perfect fourth is five pitch classes, and does form a Perfect Circle mod twelve if you like, but that forgets too much.]
Also, for much fun, to have you enraptured: The Mommy Project. And we forgot how great it is to blog, because some hatchets are to be honed, just as some people CANNOT be buried (or cremated, but... Kenny from South Park... who does he represent, represent? Too much unfiguring has gone on in that absented way in the collectively defective “mind” which consists only of Descartes’ evil genius, and do they not wish that their repetition and having drones refer to what I say and do, in and with varying degrees of obliquity and insult and trivially trailing assault and, yes, I will more than smirk on occasion, and certainly be taken in occasion, but, then again, we must say all things equally and not lend a hand to pollute those who know that Logan and Jessica were not just about the nipple.
