allowing for a two part volume
of Proust's À la recherche du temps perdu...
is unforgiving... it's asking a meat-head
to read such a body like exploring a woman's...
a gay-man's psyche is pretty much a woman...
or what a woman thinks in secret,
gay men merely vocalise what a woman does
not say... and yes, that a with a diacritical
mark... that grave above the a? the à?
it works like a comma... à! a surprise kindred
an eureka that's not really original,
an: ah! and then you say the rest of the title...
iconic pause: in search of lost time...
it took me about five minutes to figure
that one out... lost time, but occupied a space...
and so much political vanity is consecrated
upon the reverse.. ineffective space:
thus gained time... for all that protests are worth.
i know i go on about this a lot, surprise surprise,
i'm actually engaging in systematisation...
once you enjoy writing as much as walking
you get to reach a systematisation,
it's a painful process, i'd never do the editing process
of a Hemingway... write something: shoot some
camels and reindeer and go back and revise a piece
of writing: drink a *death in the afternoon -
a shot of absinthe inside a champagne glug
or the modern: shot of Jägermeister inside a glass
of red bull... (yay-gay-mr.) -
or how do you make snakebite?
half a láger half a çíder - and a head of blackcurrant
squash... scoot meine good look.
but diacritical marks are what punctuation marks
are... it's only that they've become elevated,
and unlike punctuation marks governing paragraphs
and sentences... they govern the words,
they are syllable incision indicators...
i mean: i don't revise something i've already written,
unless it's a spelling mistake... i just write
something new... it's sadistic in my mind's eye to
revise and revise a single effort of writing...
i'd rather centralise a theme of the paradox
of re-, in the year 2018 i will still experience
the tetratempus - containing four seasons -
and i will never return toward making a piece
of writing become a morbidly corrected statue...
what's done is done, let us move toward another
circumstance of being able to acquire a new kind
of observation... i can't be a sadist in terms of also
being a perfectionist... i break a leg, i break a leg...
if i write a ****** poem, i'll write a ****** poem...
but i won't be bothered like human history has been
by preoccupying itself in forwarding the drama
on Golgotha Street...
the newest addition to the vogue scene is a corset
paired with a waistcoat...
the snooker championships are taking place,
and i says to my father: 'a bit like chess, ain't it?'
'sure is', he replies, 'you have to think 3 moves ahead.'
and it is... a smart sport, actually the most intelligent
sport there is... ****** boring obviously,
unless you fake the boredom and think about angles
and triangles and Newton...
and cover the game with such congestions of
pretending to hallucinate it all...
or take to thinking about rebellious
Saturn spinning out of orbit and doing a Mike Tyson
to Jupiter...
but it's very much like chess...
it's sporty chess... snooker is chess...
and it definitely ain't pool...
you could actually have a ******* on a snooker table...
while either doggy or missionary positioning on
the snooker table... so what are the odds?!
but i'll tell you one thing... snooker beats golf...
i don't know why... but once colour televisions came into
existence: it made much more sense for both
spectator and commentator... and how dare you
not cling to the 20th century if you were born in it
to translate to the 21st androids how we experienced
an evolution of technology, that made much more sense
after what i just heard...
so there's this woman in the U.S., and this is before
president-elect and whatnot...
and she's 22, and it's all over vice news,
and she's scared, and she's a mother of a 1 year old...
and then this picture emerges
(don't worry, it's not anything like playing the Sims
and moving your Sim to play computer games
and seeing a wormhole, or the infinity mirror effect)...
and there's a scene when she's talking Donald Duck
to the child... there are no meaningful words being
said... merely sounds... onomatopoeias...
and yes... this makes perfectly good sense when
stressed as a cut-off capsule...
because Darwinism doesn't really provide much
history... Darwinism is a historical erasure:
the past 2000 years could have happened,
but not really...
but it just fascinated me...
when did we learn or who did we learn it from
given we were placed at so many different
plots of the globe and became convergent -
anyway - the woman is teaching the child
words via the onomatopoeia of a hoarse quacking
of a duck! i probably will not find an answer
(primarily because i'm not supposed to,
if i am to perpetuate what Aristotle taught, i.e.:
be wrong and continually circumstance being in awe,
given the mundanity that nonetheless
everything keeps repeating itself over and over again,
for sustenance, and you are not sustenance bound
as corrected by your language deficiency to
ever merge into an unconsciously organised module
that might also argue an ego) -
but i wonder how difficult it must have been
to extract something beyond the minimalism of animals
that identifies a duck with a quack, a cow with a moo,
an serpent with a sss... a cat with a meow, a dog with a bark...
i cannot conceive how difficult this explanation
will be... but given the timeframe, i'm more awe-stricken
by this than merely being awe-bound by the time-scale...
which becomes the least affordable option of being
struck by awe, because one becomes merely awe-bound
by it, and therefore apathetic towards such a time-scale.
how did we suddenly extract an understanding
of an onomatopoeia to distinguish our own ontological
basis for making a sound by infusing a sound that
doesn't resemble us? when did the first ape bark like
a dog? but then again, looking at the canvas already
apparent to us... what was the point of such an adventure?
hippy culture says: monkey accidently ate a mushroom,
monkey suddenly was blown away and reasoned of
a higher purpose other than a tree and a coconut...
mudvayne quotes the guy on l.d. 50...
what's the guys name... uggh! not Timothy Leary...
ah ****! Terence McKenna! that's it!
am i high? nope... my respectability of argument
comes from the mystical properties of... whiskey.
hmm... that rarely happens to people.
it's what's called being earthbound, or gravity
prone... sink like a skipping pebble across the lake...
and like a tonne of lard.
tomorrow i'll wake once more and still
think about how we encouraged the discovery of
onomatopoeia to teach our children the multiplicity of
sounds, and later deconstruct such a multiplicity to
create meaningful words that go beyond knock knock! jokes
and grunts and barking...
but i will never know the man who
created the fermentation process from potatoes to make
*****...
or the guy who brewed the first pint...
or the guy that smoked the first marijuana bush ensemble
while clearing the land for a place to harvest wheat...
all the fame that exists is simply scholastic...
schoolboy fame... which is why so much attention
goes into becoming famous in school...
but still that woman teaching her child how
to speak by going down into the blobby-gurgling
tongue of the toddler, stiffening it,
and tightening the **** and bladder too...
by talking Donald Duck to it...
i probably could have had a family myself...
but can you imagine someone writing this load of
******* and having a family? there wouldn't be any time!
still (god, what a need to repeat!)
how did we progress from saying ape-****?
surely if we started to imitate other animals they'd join us
in our need to usurp those ******* lions!
lo and behold... we managed to pet dogs (so they were
in on it all along)... and cats (who came from Japan,
if **** sapiens came from Africa... cats came from Japan...
bonsai frocked and all) -
but you have to admit...
from what is written history, to what is history and
a gap in history going back to a similitude of form -
you can write as much historical fiction as you want...
and you'll never have to write a bestseller about
some centurion in the Roman Empire...
or a quo vadis by Sienkiewicz (nobel prize winner)
for the depiction of emperor Nero...
******* Sesame St. giggles...
still, the question beckons... if animals can behave in
an ultra-intuitive way as if fashioned by a telepathy...
then telepathy can only exist upon a very simple,
atomic, terse vocalisation of an identity...
a dog barks... a man can bark too...
but we have completely lost our
intuitive talent (if it can be called that)...
to have sacrificed intuition is to have created
cults or counter-intuitive hierarchies...
so a 1000 blah blahs later i still prefer to write what
i like... than write what people "might" understand
and talk to a girl about...
a bit like a woman discovering
you faked writing a poem 20 years into a marriage...
obviously the setbacks to boot...
dyslexia is an optical dimension...
no one dyslexic says a word they don't understand
a meaning of... dyslexia seemingly came from
finally having enshrined the "secret" to the monopoly
of writing sounds...
nonetheless... at the end of the day...
it's just too much history... there's too much of it...
there was never going to be a world
where carpe diem ruled it...
it was a question how we clung to
certain things, within a framework of
salmon dye omni:
sure sure... piglet pink and innocent for the rest
of our lives... once Darwinism pointed at the ape,
and once physicists dropped the bomb and the bang...
no day has had any significance at all...
+ the 24h news channels... snuggle up to a hog
and say: fog over Heathrow... all flights are grounded.