Raft attention

I just cannot do it.  An arc that is gentle and calm that follows, I feel like a joiner, who sets down to work, and is immediately rejoicing and praising the knots of the wood and tracing each stroke and following every-path back and forth and some other direction, it would not serve well enough to delineate in such a path... you know?  One that is most sincere. 

On a thematic system of linguistic summation

You recently have approached me, on the street or a small, disused alley cut into a building by localized typhoon, regarding the matter of a book of poetry utilizing direct integer translation and story summation.

The concept evokes a good issue about symbolic language, that is the concept of numerical addition as a story is theoretically sound, but often illegible.  One story may be written as, using your example as A is 1,

I have walked downtown to see the parade.
9 8-1-22-5 23-1-12-11-5-4 4-15-23-14-20-15-23-14 20-15 19-5-5 20-8-5 16-1-18-1-4-5 
add
9+8+1+22+5+23+1+12+11+5+4+4+15+23+14+20+15+23+14+20+15+19+5+5+20+8+5+16+1+18+1+4+5

371

You may recognize this as similar to constructing sigils; the meaning is still there, and the experience is the key.  However, this story also coincides with another story:

We will swallow our eyes and bones.

23-5 23-9-12-12 19-23-1-12-12-15-23 15-21-18 5-25-5-19 1-14-4 2-15-14-5-19
 ->
23+5+23+9+12+12+19+23+1+12+12+15+23+15+21+18+5+25+5+19+1+14+4+2+15+14+5+19

371

If your story was "371" i don't know (?) how to translate this without other variables. there is a chance i will get it ?"right" and the experiential construct still remains, but it may not be "as you intended"

This is why i suggested matrix operations.  If the numbers are demarcated into a field

23	5	23	9	12
12	19	23	1	12
15	23	15	21	18
5	25	5	19	1
4	4	2	15	14
5	19	0	0	0

we have the capability of presenting any amount of operations to create a scalar, inasmuch as we may create matrices that allow operations to become another story-matrix, assuming they span a generating set.  However, this is only less vague, and would require at least two numbers as variables instead of the plain summation. 
The question "what do we do with the huge total" is, again, an issue because we don't know the field.  We can guess, but I cannot be certain the story is not the repetition of the letter 'A' 371 times.  There could be an implied field but that would, again, have to be understood to fully translate.  As fine as it would be to create a storybook of pure summation, there is not much a reader may do with the final number, concretely and "without" experiential translation in and of the abstract that formed the number - perhaps not to be confused with guessing, but your intuitive poetry book is unlike you. (Jokes)

Assuming an amount of works written in this integer order, it would be difficult without offering compromising variables or instructions.  Howsoever, there is another option - suppose instead the field is implied through the story itself.  One may take careful detail to use the same words over and over, and to have the sums imply a field; that is:

tiny boxes i love it
t i n y
b o x e
s i l o
v e i t
 20+9+14+25+2+15+24+5+19+9+12+15+22+5+9+20 = 225

clearly it is the square of 15, so with squares we might imply that the box is square. we could go further and only use squares of numbers, like an entire section for 'O' (15) which this falls under, or go simpler and just use the implication of squares.  That isn't enough! We need to repeat words.  How does this work?  If we repeat some part of a phrase that adds to 80, it could be another phrase that also adds to 80.  The size of the matrix and context limit the number of answers, but there are still possibilities.

However! we may go further.  rather than simply showing the numbers, we can draw the numbers in different ways, again, like sigils. 

Again, this is a bit esoteric and implied, so there will arguably "always" have to be some further variable, if one is to disregard a collective abstract and look at it through the essentialist lens of "this is a book".  How frightening! 

We could also, rather than summation, show a series of matrix transformations, but again, this would look like a system of instructions rather than one number, which is against the point again.
The joke, really, is the idea of a purity to transcend a system of instructions by one summation - what else?  That summation is already inherent in all things, but I digress heavily (further jokes).


So, say in the end we just have a bunch of numbers.  Maybe they're square, maybe not; the implications might not be readily available.  They do tell a story, of their own shape and their formation, and it is honestly fine that there are many translations.  The "final" methodology of telling the story is to make the book of numbers instructions on how to read it.  This could be done by further summing each story into one letter (to taste, double digits are extant) and explicitly writing the instructions on how to take apart each number, via backwards instruction, or the words each contain that would be helpful to take it apart - that is, if all stories are constructed of the same few words, then by explaining all of the words the story can be put together in some order, and perhaps the order of the words in each story may be explained by what section they are put in, perhaps the reason it isn't "i love it tiny boxes" is because the "tiny" section, as explained by the full summation and translation, comes before the "love" section. 

I'm rambling, is this close to what you want?  You wanted the big number to be split again into the small numbers, there are many doors; explicit instructions, elimination of variables, ciphers, matrix instructions, etc; but how do you like to go about this? each number has a taste, yes, but, funnily enough, we both have this same number presented and have arrived in different ways at it, our 371.  It's good poetry, but I don't know how you like it presented? let me know.

Thanbks,bkslblaebkja

i t had always been seedlike

lately or sohaveyou i've been working (re: becca: WORK) on a sort of aspect of conglomeration, inasmuch as the lengths of wire don't need to be so separate and may be together in order to cultivate a connected mindful state; why can't the same area house different tools, why take measures to cut pieces for inspection and integrity , the entire abstract is the integrity (integration) just as it is only rational in a whole.  The next project is inspired, i think, it will work

it will come (re: joyous orgasm)

shades thereof

wanderlust
bog beckons, "fertile, weak soil, 99¢/lb. great fruits of your labor, drown here"
mortal becomings frillop pointedly, catching near-shadow to arc blissfully on tattered framework, upward lightning brittly mimics, rending and jutting, tensile boughs to drop and wither, curling about with roots to chew in the harsh buzz of the swampy miͬͤth, grasping, "shiver outward, know the bargains, open your hands, thief"
 can
and you are brought into a wracking pit where the piercing insectile whine echoes between your teeth, and you are happy, you are joyous, the work provides you with a sputtering decay where you may toss fragrant petals into a blank-wavering maw touching end-over-end, which lilts the fray at mind-shadow, pressing your eyes, magnets drag across the tapes, fucking

Pardell tilted his paper and peered discerningly, studying the framework of his visitor.  "What ´¬ you tell me about this entry, Ulyv?" The words drifted, silt undercurrents weighed countless deaths.  "What color was this supposed to be? You've changed your mind about five times already, and I can see you're nervous, why are you even here today, this isn't you.  Ulyv, what were you doing last night?"
The visitor's eyes flitted towards the pyramid, crumpling in an organic motion to taste the surface.  Her mouth ran dry and coursed with teething remarks, adamant with a witless repose, summoning shrimp's wisdoms about the depths.  The office sank repeatedly, and the floor rang with cheerful buttons and whiny insectile hums, chancing service calls bump buzz thwipck thwipck thwipck

The shades marched, dragging with them a long paper sack, brimming with hot mulcheous gelatin and caterpillar parts, shrieking childhood storms and bricks and felt-fabric from far away lands and warped plastic and a noble quartz chime, stone from outside, going to fill the bog with these, come back later, sorry

so sorry, so glad, it's good

so good

oh, okay

i don't sing, but later i'll put on the music
and be very quiet

i've been thinking about mulch lately

then we have the methodology, we have to keep considering alternative methods of understanding even though we can't possibly understand them, because FOR ALL WE KNOW everything that we think and do creates the continuation of the universe, which while it may already be technically compleat, there may be perceptual consequences we cannot understand.  considering that we work on a derivation of these universal laws that create our perception, and we've learned the method of causality and understanding by experience, there may be some larger component of experience that the universe Suffers through attempts.

maybe

how blog

i always get like that in storms, you know
you thought it was stoic, maybe, it's more like a tree

my friends, they sing, you know, maybe like birds i keep them on my arms, branching
but where is the tree when you need shade or twigs for your nest

i must be selfish, all wrapped up in convenience of position, contrivance of ontological process
it's not really compassion if you don't conclude, or someth

conjecture

i have a good amount of spindle, i think

i keep a thread with me, it's true, that's just a statement

i dont know what colors are but i saw a flash on my eyes that was yellow and pinkred and the imprints of the leaves were on the imprints of my nerves and it was in the way of mutual imprinting or what have you

anything you want, you got it

i saw an old friend today

we talked about art, and what it means to be a human being, and ontology, and lsd

i met some new friends today

sometimes i wonder how i am already dead

i like the quiet resonances, *, the ones where the delimiters are arguable and token

jest but not really

it's weird how you're just doing nothing and then suddenly you're writing a book or something

scholarly as hell

professor grade my papers

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mellified_man tyler in 200 years

i don't know which ghosts are more frightening

i made some new radio friends today

☎☌☏

i get to do a cool thing today maybe

my life can be summed up like, "i am an imposter here"

my gentle bug mandibles

i hope i get to finish some of these projects

is it unethical to use the term 'thing' when the entire brain operates on fuzzy logic
is the attempt important?  perhaps the universe is discovering itself and the advent of logics within the spectrum is on the edge of modality, and any moral truth is an adjunct-> of retrocausality that becomes the core(or always was), any available truth, would that then mean there is an integral in compassion again

what can i touch, please

this is a dilemma, i shouted

please punch me until i am no longer complacent

today i spent a solid few minutes flicking imaginary darts at the walls because of the strobe effect on my fingers
i dont think i am done

sometimes i honestly try to shake myself out of the coma but then am afraid of the consequences

man let's listen to darkwave and reread old notes out loud, i made tea and there's rum in the cabinet

ok

not sure abt this one either ●

i'll just let entropy do art for me, or something

Last(?) (two nights ago?) (Last night?)  I was no it was definitely last night.  I was in bed and fever was messing with my brain, and the wind was blowing something reminiscent.  It felt and looked like i was back in my tent, braving a fragile storm.  I rushed to grab a magic card so i could hold it and feel the cardboard, recalling days spent.  Since i'm literally a child it was within reach. 

In other news, I remembered again how once I had a diorama of some undersea area for middle school, and it contained a lego diver.  I won't go into detail about whom I think stole it, though it is rather interesting to me.  But, the art without the artist, maybe, or not?  We'll see, but that rolls into the following:  I had forgotten something about this.  Let me back up, I'm not vindictive about this and I don't particularly miss the diver, though it bugged me at the time.  What I recalled in my fevered pitch is that the toy diver in this semi-static (fishing line) shoebox display of undersea life, was wielding a spear gun.  That detail was something I hadn't considered or felt was worth remembering.

A great man once told me to pay attention and stop playing with pillbugs.  I'm unemployed

there's this certain combination of colors that's like a green a white and a blue, but the white is more like a pale yellow and i can't tell where the blue is, that makes me taste this sort of area, i can't remember if this is related to a candy, it holds like a screen in front of my causal area and is spatially like a cloud of sharp distinct electrons or fragrances or some other faux-quanta. 

but imagine some sort of cloud that's simultaneously spherically a bubble around you with a draw-string into your nose, but it's flat when you look at it, and it's somehow gazing into my memories , or something.   evenly distributed some.  i don't actually know why it's important or why it makes me think of the military, but i hope its a rather impressive candy.

this also sort of reminds me of it, but not really.  For some reason it hearkens back to a certain time when I would have this toy with mechanical teeth, and I would feed it zebra-stripe bubble gum.  which does actually look a little similar.

the important details of my life are old gum chewed by an arguably inanimate friend

not really sure about juxtapositon

my love is like quietly fetching the corkscrew to not wake the house, making a noise, muttering "fuck:", tripping on /impaling self into corkscrew, maybe something further

and also

not very sure about the juxtaposition here, i feel like the text doesn't say what i felt i meant when i wrote it originally and felt it, but it is interesting now in an area
e: decided i actually dont like it at all but i guess i won't delete it
in fact

 here is this: specifically because i hope to invoke

foggy bears in a cyan river,
mellow lute
reflective screen shadow passes over
cloud blunder
tongue curve
arc shape
flimsy cardboard rhetoric underpinned with sediment like sugar after the cereal
gulf

Ｄ█－Ｉｎｇ Ｗｈａｔ Ｐｅｏｐｌｅ Ｄ█

experimental piece from another project

not sure about it

am i really dancing to "I can't go for that"

i

it was pleasant

i took my clock off of my wall because i couldnt stand the sound anymore, but i keep habitually glancing where it was

it was an hour ahead anyway

Zest Sum

●

can you love like this

I just want to catch you whispering

it's not even like an intention, or a want, any more than intention wants to be intentionality and the crawlspace wants to be crowded.
it's only that i'm quietly moving from a dangle-string high on some sort of leaf, it's not really even a dreamcatcher so much as it is any sort of crevasse and notch capable of reacting.

this is a hello, this is a post-apocryphal lick of static that sticks to daythoughts magnetically and so much like a wondrous object, wheeled in ambiguity.  can you just put-unravel thought materials into this lovely coalpile, crushed and ready for the train?  only prodding, i'd rather the fuel raw.

it's not when you put the words at the end of the brush and let anything, any old thing, cling,, like a discarded remnant or necessary facilitation to juxtaposition; this is that and only the need to row out and touch the pond to the maelstrom with a finger. 

can we remember the bath?  it's only that there was once a time when i was at most at one with anxiety, and could precisely feel the spread of insect wings under a thick shell.  no, start over.

this is a subtle scratch where none could catch, a weathered and feathered beast warbling sweetly and oh-so quietly smelling the feast where one would watch and sow vegetables for green, green rains of fluttering flashing, splashing and ever-so-slightly malformed touches on ruffled heads.  forming a circle, a still, it's, i, i gather the dew, the rain.
precipitating, participating, participle, part of this sickle is worn and tarnished from careful misuse.
perhaps even oxidized.

oh, to bring me the curtain, you have to tell me where it lies and reflect entirely off of it, diffusing and endlessly reusing the past.  oh, to outlast.

sometimes

hand literally covered in glowbugs reaches out to touch you/shake your hand/caress you/give you item/fix your glasses/help you read

∀the bored children

∃a cool bug

prettʯ̚er when flowinɠ, but only ʃwise

Slide closer

Still-winded as ever, setting down the marker for later reading.  slight metal scrape carries arcing static and familiar vibrat~echo on a plane where one could tip-toe; it is a flat field of flthin floss that carries a weight when needed and touches when necessary.  Pragmatically we draw an area and blanket. 

Offering this sweat-tinged crease on brutalist paper, perpendicular bend in proportion to conversation.  Lean in with a sigh, each tone harshly intermingles with that of the motion before it, like popping static from an unfamiliar peripheral corner in a known room.  Slightest amount or non-amount of metallic tinge on quelled surfaces, which had become numbed from misuse or familiarity. 

Wish to garment or degarment the abstract, garnering no strand of absolute distraction from disarming gallantry or transaction to aggrandize a tract; when to one the dip is to shorten the pool or let tides intermingle or tell apart the structure;; still then the other may say that is the other and tell un-apart the structure and length/cross/twicewidth-wise define it;;; these are the same process, and wonderful whether wearing or bleating and baying like doubled over moon-wrought animales in half-junes.

˫

Ｉ　ｗａｎｔ　ｔｏ　ｓｑｕｉｒｍ　ｉｎ　ｙｏｕｒ　ｍｏｕｔｈ　ｌｉｋｅ　ａ　ｄｙｉｎｇ　ａｎｉｍａｌ

”the　ｍａｃｈｉｎｅ　ｉｎｓｅｒｔｅｄ　ｔｈｅ　ＣＯＷ ＭＥＡＴ　ＤＩＳＣ．　　Ｆｒｏｍ　ｔｈｅ　ｐｒｉｓｏｎ　ｆａｃａｄｅ，　ｂｌｕｅｓ　ｍｕｓｉｃ　ｂｅｇａｎ　ｔｏ　ｐｌａｙ　ｏｎ　ａｎ　ｅｌｅｃｔｒｏｎｉｃ　ｈａｒｍｏｎｉｃａ　ｏｆ　ｓỜ█ｅ　ｓｏｒｔ．　Ｔｈｅ　ｔｒｉａThe machine inserted the COW MEAT DISC.  From the prison facade, blues music began to play on an electronic harmonica of some sort.  The trial began, and the creature was dragged into the machine-works ceremoniously, shouting grievances.  From a particular portal this could be accessed in the bottom of a toilet paper tube, filled with water, so said shamans of BROTHERSISTERHAUS.  From the roofhills I spotted the abode and set out to land.  I drifted lazily into the den and BROTHER I greeted me as I drolled flirtatiously; assuming I had broken in like some manner of petty thief or rogue.  I posed on the BED with a black wife-beater and a plastic pirate sword.  SISTER IV entered shortly after and discussed the DARK PLANS.  It was clearly MAGIC.  You prayed to the SHADOWS, and now the SHADOWS have answered.  I rewatched the reverie from across the street, revealing the cardboard prisoner's facade.  Metal men escorted the unending death to its visual chamber.  They looked like COWBOYS.”

Ｖｉｓｃｅｒａｌ　ｗｈｉｒｌｗｉｎｄｓ　ｏｆ　ｍｅａｔ　ａｒｅ　ｙｏｕ　ａｎｄ　ｙｏｕｒ　ｋｉｎ，　ｆｉｎｄ　ｍｅ　ｏｎ　ｔｈｅ　ｄｅａｔｈｓ　ｏｆ　ｙｏｕｒ　ｂｒｉｇａｎｄ；　ｓｔｏｎｅｓ　ｂｌｅｅｄｉｎｇ　ｉｎｔｏ　ｔｈｅ　ｓｉｄｅ　ｏｆ　ｔｈｅ　ｃａｎａｌ　ａｓ　ｉｆ　ｙｏｕｒ　ｃａｒｅｌｅｓｓ　ｌａｃｋ　ｏｆ　ｇｒａｃｅ　ｗｅｒｅ　ａ　ｒｕｓｔｅｄ　ｓｈｉｐ－ｈｕｌｌ　ｗｈａｔ　ｓｈｒｅｄｓ　ｔｈｅ　ｆｌｅｓｈ　ｏｆ　ｔｈｅ　ｂａｎｋｓ．　　Ｃａｎ’ｔ　ｙｏｕ　ｓｈｕｔ　ｕｐ．　　Ｉ　ａｍ　ａ　ｈａｕｎｔｅｄ　ｙａｋ－ｂａｋ　ｍａｃｈｉ－ｎｅ．　　Ｉ　ｗａｎｔ　ｔｈｏｓｅ　ｓｔｏｎｅｓ．　　Ｋｅｅｐ　ｔｈｅｍ　ｉｎ　ｆｉｎｅ　ｗｅａｔｈｅｒｅｄ　ｃｌｏｔｈｉｎｇ　ｏｆ　ｅｒｏｓｉｏｎ，　ｔｅｌｌ　ｅｖｅｒｙｏｎｅ　ｈｏｗ　ｗｅ　ｓｗａｍ　ｉｎ　ｔｈｅ　ｅｘｃｒｅｍｅｎｔ　ｏｆ　ａｎｃｅｓｔｏｒｓ　ａｎｄ　ｐｕｔ　ｔｈｅ　ｂｌａｄｅｓ　ａｓ　ｓｔｉｌｔｓ　ｏｎ　ｔｈｅ　ｔａｌｌ　ｇｒａｓｓ，　ｓｗｅｅｐｉｎｇ　ｎｏｉｓｉｌｙ　ｉｎ　ａｔ◙ｅｍｐｔ　ｔｏ　ｂｅ　ａｂｏｖｅ　ａｎ　ａｒｅａ　ｂｙ　ｄｅｌｉｍｉｔｉｎｇ　ｏｒ　ｅｘｔｅｎｓｉｏｎ．　　Ｂｒｅａｋ　ｙｏｕ　ｄｏｗｎ．

project: limiting:
small amounts of resources to strip.  data cutting,

how quickly we attempt to change our visceral appearance.
the deliberation behind the action,; a subtle nuance of emotion is not proportional to the calculation of the stroke
means keystroke

armored wayfarer

have you ever touched a pillbug

i mean like really touched one, when your scoutmaster was trying to tell you something important but there was a pillbug that required attention and algorithmically torn leaves for garnish

soup, bowl of nice things

is it cool with you that i see horrors out of my periphery sometimes and crackle with static is what i want to say to you in only a split second and there are outlines of shadow people that i can acknowledge but choose not to, is it cool with you because it's happening right now

i mean i'm happy about it so

touch, you, smoke and mirrors

press me like a bug
window pane covered with corpses
you drive slowly and aimlessly
you can't wake me up
the bug threw up hardcore
it was all over newsweek
i whispered for your approval
i think i wrote this
there was a paper here
this area is moldy now
retrocausality is this tiny fluttering
do you like wingbeats today

☸

to day i sw the sun set

howl about now

do you feel me

thinkin about bugs

same

☎soiree☏

From many years of practice, he knew what to do when the time came, moving with swift, premeditated strokes. The man collapsed at his feet. The message had been sent.

file titled "i lyrics.rtf"

dont know when i even made this thanks

storm cloud my children sun
come round the burning
no this is wishmasnter

hold on let me start over
fufk
let me get the shit together
ｉｔ’ｓ　ｌｉｋｅ
Bring me your children
Bring them to me, do it
I'm going to be the president
--intro
i come from a land where patience is a tree
and a large brown bush sat naked over me
i drink from the fountain of perilous disease
i want you to fuck me
i cant stop driving this goddamn boat off a fucking cliff into a sea of ashes and braindead people who listen when i speak and i want to erupt into locusts into their throats
*chrosu
put your hands inside me
writhe my fucking guts
i'm bringing home the
absolute of slime
slime of my guts
put your alien phallus inside of my head and feed me sweet death , callous my metaphysical soul in every sense of the word, convince me i am dead
i'm on the side of the road and i'm dead

but i need it in writing
**
bring me your childrens children
bring me your milton's milton
i'm breaking all of your bones and the bones of your clones and the jerks on the phone who call me at two in the fuck and i want to tell them no, i am not home i am in space with the astral dragons and if i had your location i would merge with a gps satellite and crash myself into you, bringing sweet merciful death upon the land
no
no i am not home
i am not home i have no phone i am a dragon dont fuck with me
i am a drtagon

bring to me your face
bring me your goddamn face i want to eat it
bring me to your place
bring your face from your place to my space / i am chilling in the ceiling with the dragons and the wizards and conflagrating lizards all up in the cold fucking blizzard of space space space / bring your fucking face / i'm going to fucking eat it / eat it / beef whizzard
i'm coming like a hurricane in the dead of night/ and i want you to tell me when i'm going to die
because i'm not
i exist on like twenty different planes of reality and all of them are going to eat your face
i am in motherfucking space
i breathe hate / and i care about you / it's not alraight / i want everything to be truly fucking erased and never seen ever again by any of my many omniscient forms that look down upon you fucking ants with your bullshit masteries of the elements and tall tales about the time you found an entire tribe of villagers who had no written language and worshipped a statuette of a shit receptacle and you torched them alive, tell me how you did it because i keep seeing it every night when i go to sleep i think i was one of them.  what did i write.  i will never know because of you.  you fuck

*chorus or something just freestlye*

clap my hands
clap, clap my hands
clap my hands in every dimension
i'm going to eat your face
if i find you i'm going to passive agressively turn you into my astral slave

peace

hello bloggle

i like lots of different kinds of music.  i think i'm going to make the blog look cool. i like doing that, i've planned out some things to type here but some will probably not be planned (?) (codependence)



 please stop making up new terrible things i've done so i can tell people later awkwardly, said the lich made out of bugs

someone showed me some music today that made me remember/smell this animal encyclopedia that i used to read when iw as young, it was cool
i've done some terrible things

i remember i used to swim for someone that i knew only pragmatically cared if i was swimming properly, who knows if i had drowned, maybe

i like to find places to make a lot of neat things for and then abandon them, like a terrible parent
i have lots of places where i submit content and interesting thoughts and i ama  piece of shit tht doesn't understand art. but i don't know how to share with my real friends so this is a cool blogge.

i call lots of animals cat
or doggle

i want to whisper so hard it breaks your skin
are you okay with that?
i used to have these dreams where i would have this tiny feeling between my index and thumb and i cant tell if i was squeeing it or if it was some sort of black hole but it felt like metal
 it was scary and i wish i could have those dreams again

 it has been many years

i think everything shrank somehow

i am a ghost

please, i'm like a theoretical repository.  a haunted yakback.  speak into me and something cool will come back.

i feel bad about taking compliments but i secretly like things that i do, probably more than i should

gonna just write more later

cool bug pics