|Spooky Stole My Noodle
scanning the floor for leftover appendages.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
They Don't Make Forks Like They Used ToHow, exactly, did that happen?
It's been EXACTLY. Possibly almost to the date, though it's hard to tell.
And what's happened, between? Nearly removed my finger in a freak spin chair accident. Lies on file. Dead things against the wall, propped by a board. You ask and won't tell. Hear that siren.
(Except, I see, the dates are off. There's a missed timezone somewhere, a controvening impingence. Call me Harold Argument.) posted by Kingo Sleemer | 2:39 AM (0) comments
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
This is going to be difficult. Some things may have to change, while you're sitting there warming up your fingers against the heat dissipating unit.
I keep drifting across the center line, except that here, where I am, the center line does mean the same thing as there, where your metaphor lies. In fact there are more than two sides of this center line, it's not in the two dimensions you imagined, unless you sat without imagining waiting for me to finish my thought.
Have I finished my thought?
There are spheres of occupation that draw me in, held together with something like gravity. I've thought I was holding a lot of these balls in the air and was getting proud of the fact until I realized I was just rolling them on a flat surface. When the center of mass shifts everything tumbles every which way and I look like the biggest fool in the world even trying to catch any of them.
Drift back across the center line.
I'm not even sure I was ever actually covering my tracks. Of course I played at it, but there was nothing testing that anything was actually working, and those habits became second nature until now I've no idea if I were ever doing anything in any way that could even remotely accomplish what I was trying to accomplish.
What was I trying to accomplish? It's hard to say. It's hard to say whether or not I'm still trying to accomplish it. The way things change, always like a car accident. It's all in slow motion, from the moment you see the inevitibility of the collision to the moment you realize you're at least still breathing and you start trying to make sure you've still got all your fingers. Life is a violent collision where time stops making sense. From within your frame of reference it's impossible to tell that some of these things that you think are sitting right there with you are actually careening off in some other direction, and while you're waving you're trying to lift your arms against the forces pinning them to the seat you don't even see what direction they've shot off in.
You're left with a cell phone wedged beneath the brake pedal and your glasses on the other side of the dashboard, you can't see anything clearly and nobody's where you could've sworn they were before all this happened.
Did I hit a tree?
You wake up one day and someone you used to think you used to know is hurtling through your windshield and landing all bloodied somewhere outside your car. Who the fuck IS that?
Some things will have to change. Somehow I'll have to stop trying to figure out if anyone's going to see my face when I drop the mask so I can see where the hell I'm going. posted by Kingo Sleemer | 11:35 PM (0) comments
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Dear Salivated Geritol:
Last week, you can get a sample case of our product, Salivated Geritol (same as name you!) for just a dollar a can! There are 12 cans in a case, and 50 Salivated Geritol Tablets per can, which is more than 500 Salivated Geritol Tablets for more than a dollar! That's how many if you take advantage of this offer last weeks only!
And, because you are named the same as, we are offering you a hat that says, "Salivated Geritol," and you can wear it! Friends will come to you to say, "Is that hat your name or are you?" and you will say, "THIS IS GREAT!"
Our labratory experimentists have constructed Salivated Geritol to the most restricted of standard.
Thursday, November 18, 2004
Spood and Co.:
But let me rebuke. Allow me a moment.
There's a figurative pause here, for effect. It's not to be taken as any sort of indication of failure or weakness; likewise it's not an excuse for you to get up to take a piss or get that can of chips you were thinking about or to drive out to the coast to see a little bit of the way the water looks when the sun's getting this kind of attention from the press. This is a figurative pause with dramatic intent, and so is for my purposes only, not yours. Do not tread dangerously down this embankment, it turns into an abuttment, and then abruptly falls away into a stinking hole. You don't want to go there.
Pause accomplished. The tendancy of the group dynamic to change in a downward trending slope is obvious, if overstated. When viewed from a vantage point outside the scope of the project, (i.e. the way the general public might see it,) the overall direction of the data points is chaotic at best. Somewhere, you'll remember, there's a data point, a single, solitary data point, that represents the beginning of the work about which we're speaking. The thing you have to remember; the thing that you ignore at your own peril, is that that data point lies OUTSIDE THE SCOPE OF THE PROJECT. We, and the theoretical outside spectator, does not know where that data point is. The very definition of our endeavor guarantees the validity of that statement. There is a single data point that can represent the beginning of the arc of the thing, but that point lies beyond the y-axis.
It could also be beyond the x-axis. Though that's absurd to even consider at first glance, it's also quite possible. The existence of a time that falls before the beginning of time is mathematically viable.
Given then that the trendlines here are difficult to comprehend when seen from any perspective, and given that we are of course human and so, quite excusably, we look at the thing from as close to it as we are, it is understandable that we'd have taken a view of the thing which is counter to its actual dimensions. From the perspective of N members of the set, where all of those N members occupy point (a, b) on the graph, (that point being a representation of this particular missive, here, and of course being within poking distance of the point or points at time X - 1, and probably within poking distance also of the point or points at time X + 1), the outlook for the subsequent direction of the project looks very grim indeed. From the proximity of this point at time X, datapoints come further and further apart.
Of course there's no logic to following this pattern to the conclusion to which you're following it. As you stated, we didn't know the parameters of this thing when we got into it. We didn't even consider, ridiculously enough, the possible repercussions of any slight changes in the physical environments of the members. We did not in fact include in the definition of the thing any concrete explanation of who even constitutes a member. Or of what a member is constituted. It is therefore not beyond question that a member could be made up entirely of unwashed table cloths.
Because we do not, to this day, have a finite working definition of the task, it is impossible for us to verify the validity of any conclusions drawn based on the previously mentioned graph, which is itself representative only of those points that fit the unclear definition we have put together based on no definition at all. We have generated this graph from whole-cloth. This graph is really a tool to use in showing outsiders what we do here. Inside, we've got no reason to trust that it means anything whatever.
This graph is a fucking whore.
I'm not arguing with you that the direction that you feel this enclave has been taking is disappointing. I'm not arguing that your interpretation is erroneous. What I am arguing is that you are possibly mistaken in attempting to make an interpretation at all.
So where we are in regards to this proposal, vis a vis the gentle fading of this great combination into the bald, faceless night, is nowhere. There are no conclusions to be drawn about any of this. There is no reason whatever to assume that changing someone's appointment calender bookback sandbucket heartmurmer salad spoon nut cracker spirit whistle plate spinner rod comb over board clipper address will do anything whatever to this dreadful ship someone isn't steering directly into anything at all other than to have done what it is already seeing seen to have being done already which is to introduce a point of discussion in opposite directions that are exactly like while wholly unlike any previous discussions held about any aspect of this very thing.
It's like I can see the back of my head right in front of my face.
If you've got any questions about this, I'll be standing here for the next minutes(X) + k minutes with my thumb in the spindle and my beverage firmly just out of reach. I'd be glad to continue.
- Helmset T. Emphaticallydenieseverything
Bundle, Bee posted by Kingo Sleemer | 10:04 PM (0) comments
in the past, but it was to no avail, and thats why I'm reticent now. Also, this new proposal is far far bigger than anything I could ever have conceived of on my own. What is being discussed here is absolutely without precedence in this realm. Lets face it folks, the fucking realm is without precedence, so lets not forget how far out on a limb we already are with all this stuff. I find this proposition more than a little daunting. To my mind there are certain ethical issues to consider before we just start messing blindly on this level. I don't even agree with the big fees project, and I never liked the auto stuff either, despite its apparent effectiveness in jump starting some basic exchanges for a while. Ultimately we caused some distress and acheived no long term benefits. To repeat that kind of tactic knowing its futile would seem to me to be teetering on the sadistic.
Thursday, November 11, 2004
So Hell's Oh, again?Spooky:
It's been a long time since we've talked. I mean really talked.
It's also been a long time since we've posted anything here. i mean really posted anything here. According to some numbers I don't understand the meaning of, it's been since the pre-dawn of history era.
The doctors say everything's going to be fine, so long as we don't pick at it.
posted by Kingo Sleemer | 7:40 PM (0) comments
Wednesday, February 04, 2004
Halaka Scores a Bonecrunching Victory in the Michigan Demopublican PrimaryHenry, Danny, and the Astonishing Bun Juggler Brigade:
The weather is slightly different, today. Do you carton that? It's just a slight elevation, the way a slightly puffy pastry is just slightly better than a flat one. Better, I mean, it's slightly better. There's some tint in the sunlight, through the blinds in the dentist's office or the blanket, hung like a curtain with thumbtacks over the big glass doors, here. Outside the air has a texture like light feedback over orange static. Melting chinese women are sampled for later and re-applied in generous banners stretching across the stairwell.
It remembers me as to what sometimes was what was enjoyable about some times. For me, I mean, not to be pre-emptively striking so as to negate your own possible feelings to the contrarian. (Shelves and stacks love my toys.)
That windless cold-enough air has leant me a hot pepper: I think we need a rebirded halkaa lahaak haalka ahakal, with our fluttery selves. "Honey, you don't have any pants, we don't let you wear any pants. How many times do I have to tell you?" That whole rat is speaking through his little, tiny pecker. "He put it in his mouth."
It's a proofed fakch that we are physiologically incapable of formulating a working set of instructions that might lead us to some sort of arrangement for having a session wherein we do anything with the musty old stack of bread, cheese, PVC tubes and cassette tapes that is hal's sacka. I'm not inviting that we should do such a thing as that, as such; we are, after all, a fluid in a meat tube, always ready to wash off the motors and speak to idols somewhere in Washing's Buns, B.E. We flow like a sausage, really, and passport butts abound (one of you even may have recently constituted one in your gullet!)
What this is, however, is a clap of the erasers out on the roof of the school. If 87% of what I mean when I say I want to do a pile is that I always miss what's already happened, this is about the other 12 or so percent. Perhaps what's next down the road is thing. I don't know, but. If we're just waiting until the thaws come out and poo, sometime when it's summer of 2017, then that's what we're waiting for. However, just so it's expressed, I am grandly ready, having smelt this collection of presence that is the way things are just now, outside and around and in here, to get everyone together and do whatever it is we do sometimes, whenever it is that we actually do it. The rods in my flesh are startlingly clear in their insistence that nothing's even vaguely familiar around here, and that's as it should be, at least when the weather's not subjugating me, unbeknownst, beneath its sickening, invisible weight. My finger sucked through the small hole, shot out
somewhere on the other side, and maybe I see it over there, under that tree. Which might turn out to be a plant after all.
This is an invitation to discussion.
-- D. M. Gumstretcher
April 12, 1943
from a wheelchair on the Serengetti posted by Kingo Sleemer | 10:05 PM (0) comments
g d arb trugeThe stacks are towering and inundating down here. Spooky's been learning a new archetype.
Ever get the feeling that Spooky's a ghost, and so am I? It's a strange feeling to have in the middle of the deadnight, waking up and seeing lines of light and playing games in your head. I'm always playing games like that in the halfsleep, searching around on the bed for something, tracing the outlines that don't make sense so that they do make sense only as something other. The feelings from that different consciousness linger.
Spooky's not a ghost, he's not haunting around here anymore. Perhaps he moved to the light, out in space past Mars and those crafts. Dangerous out there with no air. posted by Kingo Sleemer | 6:26 PM (0) comments
this is teh fat bobbeh posted by Kingo Sleemer | 4:30 PM (0) comments
Wednesday, January 28, 2004
windshieldsNot right now, can't. Sorry there's this cookie crumble layer of ice, under the snow on the windshield. There's this, not cookie, it doesn't cookie, it's not sugary sweet. There's this brittle candy, hard-tack layer of ice under the snow on the windshield. On the side windows. Across the expanse of the whole vehicle.
Not right now. There's nothing like consensual ignorance to lighten up the weight pressing on the brain. There's a limited amount of surface area there. You could argue that it's fractal, that really it's unlimited, that surface area. But either way it's all contained in that same small volume of fluidity, floating there, yet resting solid against that stem.
The soda can sprayed its contents all over. The thing was less than half full at the time, and just pulled itself through my hand to smack, hard, on the surface of the desk. Contents on my sleeve, on the screen, on the trackball. Didn't tip over, just shot skyward and failed to reach whatever goal it probably had in mind. Such is the life of a beverage, caught forever in a composite can, forever until the light comes in after that piercing hiss of the opening tab. Then it works together to find a way to pull the can to the surface, hard, attack the thing like a bomb, exploding out in a groundless faith. A beverage won't ever reach the sky that way, not in a billion trillion lifetimes, but no drink can know that, there is no proof.
Not right now, just this. The damp sleeve wants some closure. This cassette came in the mail with this Edward Gray on it, and in the ice or snow or. The tubes that deposit the liquid onto the windhshield are disconnected from the wipers, both of them. The mist from the surface being torn away and left to land on countless windshields just sticks there, all morning, and the liquid in those tubes launches wild away from the direction of travel. A small section of clean but a larger section of worse-for-it, so I'm hunched over peering just above the wheel never seeing potholes that jump from the surface and try to tear the suspension out from underneath me. Hold me down under near freezing water's surface and I won't drown, the cold lowers the heart rate the brain really doesn't need oxygen in absolute zero. Finite surface or no there're worlds afloat in that amniosis.
He sang near falsetto some lines about small consolations. There are scraps of paper in the envelope, too much tape. I scratched and pulled until it all spilled out to play me isolation beneath the opacity of the crusted, cracked windshield. How my fingers twitch
and twist the string around the insides of that car. Anything spectral, any sequence accepted. You could have an infinity of patterns of movement of one point starting anywhere inside there and proceeding in steps to only other adjoining points. Yet that infinity is smaller than another.
On the sides of the highway are hazard lights flashing and men with fists pounding glass, frustrated that they cannot see to move ahead. The air freezes anything on the surface upon which it lands. We stay still and frozen and watching one another working our way through never repeating patterns but always ending up in the same place.
The soda is flat now in that can, having expended all of its energy in that pitiful attempt to escape gravity. posted by Kingo Sleemer | 2:27 PM (0) comments