Nikolina Nedeljkov: HC4HY
Sunday, November 19, 2023
Storystyling
Monday, May 30, 2022
Storystyling : hark yo voice, ha! (1 / 7)
wiered 2 desire
Invisible knots were releasing packages of heat and
humidity colonizing the atmosphere with heaviness looming like a venomous wave
of paralyzing burden. The visible white nodes were roaming slowly, barely
moving through that moist haze. Each movement steals a shade of whiteness and
breathes into the fluffy drifters a darker nuance of grey. The contrast between
them and the bright blue background is decreasing, as the steely flakes imbue
into it a kiss of grey.
Fine slates of chill were thinning the oversaturated,
congested airy passages. Somewhere, far away, a gigantic monolith detached
itself from the mountain whose peak was a small hill in the valleys of clouds.
It started its way down the steep mountain slope. It started rolling. It was
the sound of cohorts of thousands rams galloping in a wild tornado of their
vehement stampede conquest of wide open spaces.
A strobelightlike wink spilled a dazzling hiss
across the scenery. An instant of electrifying luminous jolt devoured all it
cast photons on. Everything was like a psychedelic x ray image. Exposing the
hidden, revealing the shadows slouching in the torpor of their dripping
reflections. No fauna was caught in that cosmic spotlight. Only, a split second
after the photons temporarily receded, withdrawing into the flash cave--poised
in the quiet of inactivity--the sound spread like a myriad of galaxies in a
fervent conversation. It was thunder. The clouds vomited a river of dry tears
whose phantom presence still veils the barks.
--if nature gifted you with a scientific gene, you
most certainly possess the potential to calculate the world and its quirky
meanderings. You may be able to fact based suppose what the bends you cannot
see look like. You can assume with some precision how weird unfoldings will
present themselves at the moments that will have looked from history at the
chronological chunk ahead of them. You can even say that you can predict stuff.
Appropriately taking advantage of that capacity, more often than not, would
mean enabling the likely beneficial prospect and/or preventing the harmful
threat from instantiation. But, you can also fantasize.
--there was a time in history when humanity conjured
up a social system and devised a revolution to smash its corrosive impact on
fellow travelers. Only, it turned out that there had never been a society that
they feared (perhaps elsewhere). They falsely grounded their future anxieties
in the then present, thereby screwing up the time axes and…well, pretty much
themselves.
--if you are a born dreamer, your passion is larger
than the constraints the everyday imposes on your oneirscape. Your nights are
fiery processing of the impressions gathered during the day. Your days are
surfing on a wave of imagination as high as a mountain. You cherish your joy,
and you fear having it uprooted from the alternating cycles of swimming in
moonlight and bathing in sunny glow. You imagine the anchor of your ecstasy
being removed from the epicenter of your volcanic being. You are determined not
to let it. You act accordingly.
--there are fellow travelers who are like those
revolutionaries: their imagining seems like a prediction to them, and they act
promptly to sever the undesirable outcome of the desired situation that
they—alas!—tricked themselves into believing to be the actual one. By so doing,
they screw up the euphoria, crack the excitement, sabotage the entertainment, and…well,
bewilder themselves.
It’s called a
leap of asynchronicity & dislocation, but NOT (a)synchronous dislocation.
To calculate is
not to fantasize is not to imagine is not to dream is not to act. Words mean.
Actions speak. Desire rules. Language wieres.
--if you are an artist by birth, and know calculus,
you may have recollections of the moments while you, as a wee hoodlum, were
looking at the moon for hours on end until it opened its sleepy eyes and flashed
you a gaze hosting the reflection of the river. Later, you’d create a painting
of that quirky encounter. You’d paint an upward moving billow of the riverbed
vomit. When it reached the optimal heights in the atmosphere, it started
descending, all the while leaving behind itself
tracks of dew. You created a picture of the moon in your own image. It
frowned, yawned, and…winked. You thought it was good. Later, you designed a
digital version of the dream the image had:
Every morning, it went to the mountain brook and
washed its face with fresh water. At noon, it bathed its face in sunshower. It
started to melt. You liked it and went on to design the memory of the moon in the
mirror that bounced back the reflection on its face. The memory emerged like a
small river snaking down the mountain chest. You calculated the speed needed to
get to the level in the atmosphere where oneir-fractals condensed and generated
images in no time. You captured that
moment, summoned up visual energies, and stored it in your own gallery space. In
the evening, it slept there. You thought it was good.
When you came of age, you had an idea. You didn’t
say “Eureka” because you learned that was outdated, and the modern meaning of
the word had to do with the name of the place in a strange land where live
people who cry moonlight when they laugh. You thought it was cool and went on
to design a robot. It was good. It served you tea. You dusted it. It never
thirsted. You liked it.
One day, you saw a man passing by your window. You
smelled his thought and sat up aghast: he thought that robots dreamed; he
thought that robots drank rivervomit and that their thirst smelled of human
reflection. You started vomiting stars and the window pane was soon encrusted
with crystallized dew of the dry tears whose phantom presence still veils the
barks. You slump against the feather cloud. Sinking into its rainy smell, you
continue to phantasmagorize hard. you like it.
Like phunk!
Monday, June 7, 2021
Storystyling : Readin from Boox (6/8)
How
do ya…?
I know a café. It’s not easy to find it. Coz it’s
kinda hidden. It’s always almost totally empty. I don’t mean empty empty, just
that you can hardly ever find anyone sitting there. Let alone standing. Unless
you count yourself. Which you most certainly do. That’s why I say almost.
That’s also why I say almost always. And also, almost always empty.
You can scarcely see anything when you are there. I
mean, that’s an overstatement. Sure, you can. But what you see is mostly the
showers of pearly currents that keep pouring from the ceiling, down the walls,
around the legs of the tables, over the chairs, across the floor. But you can
hardly see the whitish flow, let alone the beads. Coz everything is smudged by
that liquid cornucopia. It makes it the zone of the grey rain.
There’s this persistent swishing sound that makes
you think that you are dreaming and that your dreams are a superfine cobweb
dangling above the tables, messing with the dim light diffused throughout the
place. There’s a persistent swishing sound that makes you think you are
dreaming and that your dreams are the net covering the seabed like an anchor
holding the reflection of the smiling constellations. Makes you think they are
everywhere.
What’s specific about that café is that when you are
there, you only think about it. If you try thinking about something else…you
can’t. You may think it’s frustrating, but, actually it’s so damn fucking
helpful.
When you are there, you think that the swishing
sound is the noise virtual cards make when swiped on crypto-fiscal machines.
But, it’s not. When you are there, you think that the swishing sound is the
noise suits make when moving through space. But, it’s not. He never thanks. Nor
does she cry. How do they smile? One would like to know.
I know a café. It’s not easy to find it. Coz it’s
kinda hidden. It’s surrounded by shops, which it is not. Coz it’s a café. And
it’s not about buying. I
don’t.
So can you. Not to.
Palephotonized rain that rains there is like the
music whispering from memory. It whispers dreams of the kiss carried on the
wings of the wind. It envelops the trees with the cobweb that breathes. They
are like the pillars holding a building whose glassy façade tells a tale about
the city whose oceanic avenues are a web of the colors of dusk. They flow into
the night. The night darker than the eclipse of saturn. Yet brighter than the
moon’s dazzling leakage. sunshowered.
like
phunk!
Verily.
***
When I think
about it, I feel the current bringing mild chills even to the most remote
corner of my being. The thought of the café is like the air veiling the city on
a summer afternoon with steamy haze, almost static. It’s heavy. It lingers
above the urban giant like a thought of the place unlike other places, unlike
stores. Occasionally, it stirs almost unnoticeably. Almost static. (hey, yo—three letter looking / wassup!) Those nanomovements poke the
steely background with a pinlike prick. It creates a nanoscopic peephole
through which patches of dazzlingly bright sky can be seen, as if magnified by
virtue of that imaginary device. As it were. (gotta good book to read, ha? / sure
thing—it’s called…) The
city--like an enchanted colossus oblivious of space, indifferent to time—blind
to the fluffy grey formations, ever so persistently withdraws into a self-generating
reverie. Blue patches sporadically spill glow over its torpid aura. Invisible
spells of shimmering kisses pour over the city’s dormant face. Unaware of the subliminal
packages of radiance. (you know…was just going to remind you, ha! / melikes yo sense of memory—it’s evocative!) Only tiny windows on a
building send the reflection into the slowly swaying conglomerate messing with
the unhindered flow. The blue patches defrost. The reflection crystallizes the
muted hissing. Milkish gloss spreads. The window pane is being palephotonized.
Crackling gives away the circuit being re-established and the cohorts of
zeros’n’ones stabilizing the pace. The face of the monitor like a relief rising
from the white tablecloth. Defrosted windowpane leaks into the steady flow. The
gray giant overarching the exchange. Its shadow colors the corridors of the
castle ye mighty/stately. It smells of the pearly cobweb smeared across the seabed.
Smiling gently. Anchoring the reflection.
Your
dreams are like stars. They are everywhere. got something from On How To Phunkie ReadWriteRemix (øøøø)
/ gotcha…was just going to mention / like bring to awareness, ha? / kinda… to
attention or something… / so u did… / nah, get away… / я tho desensitized to
jokin’ or what the fuck is the matter with u, ha?! / like what the fuck do you
think you are doing, ha?...chill the fuck out and come 2 yo fuckin senses,
wontcha! / mannerz first 4 fuck sake! / mannerz first for fuck sake!
Like phunk?
Like phunk.
***
-- how
do you know you’re in the café, ha?
-- staticky foam washes seaweed off of the pebbles…
-- how do you distinguish (“)pearly(“) from
(“)pearl(”), ha?
-- glassy facades steep, oceanic avenue surfer
paradise…
-- how can you see the seabed?
-- sparks against the inky background can dazzle,
but burn they cannot…
-- how can a patch leak into the current?
-- that what flows is shimmering, moonoiling rocks…
: If you reflect on it hard, you inhabit the softest of universes. If you entertain the idea of it hard, fun is all yours. If you meditate upon it hard, a forestry fantasy melts into your dreams (they are everywhere).
Should you wish to
consolidate those impressionistic epistemological experiences, do revisit On How To Phunkie ReadWriteRemix (øøøø). Should you wish to solidify your
aesthetically based ontology, do revisit On
How To Phunkie ReadWriteRemix (øøøø).
Should you wish to fortify your lyric hermeneutics, do revisit On How To Phunkie ReadWriteRemix (øøøø).
You’d be surprised how
scarce input addressing those realms is. You’d be stunned by the void echoing
the shadows of those areas. You’d be flabbergasted by the sparseness of the
information about the issues in questions (they
ride the billow on the river’s crest).
On How To Phunkie ReadWriteRemix (øøøø) looks at the epochal scholarly voices
dedicated to the exploration of the notion of slime. The texts deployed for the
purpose of the analytical approach to feathers & petals is Paul McStain’s theoretical
collage entitled Do You Have a Problem
with Meandering Narration? and a critical archipelago written in response
to Dr. McStain’s piece. It is called Sir,
Come! Look at the Cushion! and it was written by Samuel Barowisch. Dr.
McStain is a leading authority in rockit science. At the University of
Glimmering Sensations, he teaches a course about saturnalian launches of ideas
that become dwellers of the cosmic halo once their own aura saturates the
surrounding. He coordinates the collaborative project of research fellows at
the Core Research HQ. Dr. Barowisch, the mastermind and the principal
investigator of the project that led to the emergence of an antifoundationalist
guide through a murky labyrinth of the tyranny of essences, is one of the
world’s finest experts specializing in beta chemistry. He is the director of
the Center for Che/mEe/caL Thinking at the University of Atomization of
Civilization Flows. He teaches a course
that focuses on valences as the new antibabylonian currency.
In
his study, McStain argues that misinterpretation is a subconsciously
intentional subversion of one’s cultural capital dominated by the supremacy of
linearity. Barowisch, on the other hand, proposes an angle from which
intentionality appears to be an impossibility, just as its subconscious
subversion seems to be. Their respective trajectories intersect at the point of
denial. The point exposes harmful effects of the hegemony of linearity. The
former capitalizes on that early on in the book contending:”Ever tried to avoid
curvy cognitive journeys? Try again. Harder” (Do You Have a Problem with Meandering Narration? 798). The latter,
however, makes a statement once all the potential counterarguments have been refuted,
smashed, shattered, swept from the theoretical horizon, regardless how bent it
may be:”Go from this very point in space to its chronological twin mirror image
and meet your fantasy of demythologized anticurvism at the estuary of the
narrative” (Sir, Come! Look at the
Cushion! 7811).
They both deeply
respect and highly invest in the ideas of the progenitor of photonized petals
& feathers, Johnny G. Clark. His writings are referenced as the
inexhaustible source of inspiration, energies, and thought. Throughout both
books, homage is being paid and respect shown within an ongoing expression of
appreciation.
/
Common
wisdom has it that these as well as the writings of the acolytes and the
authors of akin affinities--generally, the body of work constitutive of the
discipleship regardless of chronological classification—have been inspired by
the thought of the man who walked the earth fifty zillion light years ago. He
strode through the wind sweeping dust from the barren scenery. He wrapped
himself in the cloud protecting him from the raging whirlwinds whipping the air
with spells of chill. He ate nectar conjured up from crystallized traces of his
dreams and drank melted dry tears dribbling from shielding barks.
Once
he thirsted no more and his hunger was satiated, he’d spit a droplet into the
pool of rippling dust, stir it thoroughly, grab a handful, cup his hands, clasp
them, and mold the lump. He made mud cupcakes cosmically recognized for their extravagant
artisanal shape and the unbeatable feel gotten from the contact between their
semi-soft texture and hypersensitized glands hidden and spread like sensors all
over the mouth cavity. You needed to give them a good half an hour of chewing
till they almost totally dissolved, and then mobilize an alternate function of
glands to release the processed pulp in the form of soothing, gentle liquid.
He’d spit and spit till it turned into vomit.
Once
the stable flow had been established, he’d let the jet pour till it ensured the
amount that could mix with dust and merge into a slimy pond in which he’d lie
and roll till his skin was encrusted and he could walk on in that state-of-the-arts
armor. He walked further as if there had been something to reach, as if there
had been a goal to obtain, as if there had been a destination and a time when
one should find oneself there. He walked on chased no more by the harsh strokes
of the wind, haunting fantasy of frostbites, and dust swarms raiding his eyes.
He walked on, nevertheless. Against the wind, toward the countercurrent. Mild
layer of saliva lacing his palate. Thin, delicate cocoon of dried mud veiling
his body. Memory of the fudge of crystallized virtual chunks fueling the
machine constantly regenerating his dreams. He stashed them in his heartbeat.
He kissed the air.
Once
the hard work had been done, he’d sit on the rock like a meteorite blob. Dust
rose like a wild billow ready to accommodate a surfboard and carry it through
interstellar passages. Ripples of sand lulling the man into a
chill-the-fuck-out / cool-the-fuck-down state of mind. He’d light a cigarette
made of the finest tobacco (who cares that none of those things had been
invented yet) and spend the following fifty zillion of such years…well,
inspiring.
: universe knows that one is an anarchist at heart, but the state still calls for some respect!
Like
phunk!
Wednesday, November 4, 2020
Storystyling : Readin from Boox (six / 7)
long paths, easy ways
--hey,
thou three letter looking! don’t you know that there’s been an age long dispute
about the nature of the perception of self?
--thou
wha?!! I don’t give a fuck about centuries of babbling, mindless argument, and
senseless fight for the winning idiocy that morons devise in order to convince
themselves that they exist, let alone figure out who they are, not to mention
the otherz.
--why
don’t u pull yoself the-fucking-gither and be as reasonable as the topic
requires tho to be! listen here: the crux of the debate revolves around the
question whether becoming aware of oneself precedes the recognition of others
or if by perceiving others one consolidates a sense of the self by virtue of
distinction.
--bullshit!!!
It takes a fucking minute—NOT eons—to realize that it is by virtue of
distinctions either way.
--here’s
the thing: there is no either way option, okay?
--now,
that ‘s yet another in the series of annoying moments history keeps treating
one to. I don’t give a fuck about the implied refutation of the antimanichean
logic or some such shit. i do not even take into consideration a possibility to
object to the rigidity of choices—that would mean agreeing to be “rational”
when being “rational” is a trap.
--hey,
thou three letter looking! gotcha…sure—no surrender to devious maneuvering into
speaking in a tongue colliding with the words of one’s own. Look here: there’s
a good book that has a word or two to say on that and related topix, alrajt?
--huh, I
guess…all ears.
--the
title of the book…
--is On How To Phunkie ReadWrite Remix (øøøø)…
--and it
offers a case study that reveals what civilization has experienced as a
consequence of…
--(a) the
burden of dichotomy & (b) the ramifications of each option…
--respectively.
As for (a), the author named Malcolm Jones accentuates the significance of the
fact that there are two hemispheres, two eyes, left and right side, east and
west, and a whole bunch of other examples proving…
--that
the bullshit called polarity is innate.
--The
essay in which Dr. Jones explores (and self-indulgently believes to be
exposing) the reality of opposites is entitled…
--“Just
As There Is a Third Eye Somewhere, So There Is an Absence of Numbers Elsewhere”
and it looks at the complexity the mind confronts in the encounter with the
question…
--“Do I
first detect what I am not…
--and by
means of exclusion figure out my identity…
--or do
I recognize myself first…
--and
then make a distinction between that and (this)…
--I mean
everything else?”
--hey,
tho three letter looking, why the fuck do you use quotation marks when you are
not fucking quoting?
--yo,
coz that’s a direct question, but i’m not actually asking you, see…yeah, i know
it’s weird…?
--I
guess…
--Now,
back to the book…
--and
the (b) aspect of the dilemma…
--that
underscores the primacy of the perception from within as opposed to that from
without…
--and/or
vice versa.
--An
interesting point made there is that each option can be converted into a
scenario that reveals: (1) a hyperinflated sense of the self & (2)
annihilation of that concept altogether.
--These
turn out to converge in the narrative that offers a solution to those that find
themselves featuring in these tales of identity.
--It is
a corner of this globe in a dark pocket of urban jungles…
--underneath
a knot of highways, overpasses, underpasses, viaducts, and transversals…
--that
functions as a gigantic waste depot, junk yard, stench depository, slime
sewers…
--grease
stash, puke bank, discharge tanks, excrement treasure chest.
-- shit,
man! I mean whadaphunkiemafotherphunkiephunk!
--yeah,
I know…There go those who suffer from the consequences of disorderly sequencing
the instances of the perception of self.
--yeah,
I know…The article notes the remark made by a passerby overlooking the scene
and murmuring that the world is worryingly overpopulated anyway.
--S/he
added that even the desert s/he is forced to call his/her habitat…
--feels
eerily crammed.
--Needless
to say, the observation reverberates…
--with
the prevalent insight into the polymorphous nature of spatiality…
--and
amorphous character of temporality.
--Clearly,
this reinstates the question of self-perception, introspection...
--as
well as other instances of—reflection.
: like phunk!
Like phunk!
kessenem / pleazy.
/
How many
eons does it take to dive all the way to the place where that mirror can be
found? Sometimes, it takes a nanosecond. Sometimes, it can go on
for-who-knows-what-chunks-of-chronos-empire on end. At times, it eludes those
patterns that divide what we do into the lumps dubbed 60 seconds or precisely
the same number of minutes: it could feel like the ethereal monolith that
separates the current moment from the dawn of man, and yet, the fact of the
matter is recorded as the passage of a couple of hours; conversely, days may be
piling up like numberless beads on an endless string, while the feel is that of
a split second.
How does
one cope with such paradox? Sometimes, one really needs to be reminded that
labels are nothing but, that tags are just that, that names are…well, names.
Once time resists being marked, there’s no paradox.
But, there’s a feel of it.
How long
is it advisable to remain in the state of mind that silences clanking tags,
fluttering labels, naming of names? Sometimes, it continues long after packing
time into measurement boxes is resumed. Like a guerilla fighter in the service
of silence, those patterns off pattern are infiltrated into the dominant code.
Everything
is quantified—except for quantification itself. And the silent subversive
threads woven in the torrential clutches of the molds that press, squeeze, crunch,
crumble, scatter, disperse…dissolve. Like noise.
And the sense of it remains.
How long
does it take to know how to look from that paradox free island at the stirring
flows of steps, fluffing of sleeves, legs, collars, as suits keep carrying
themselves through the shadow of the distant constellations…how long to distill
the rain from the fantasy of their blending with strings of figures…to cry raindrops
into the river…to have them dried by the kiss of its moonoiled crest…to flash a
sparkle to the silver spillage covering the dreams of sunshowered smiles?
Clouds
parted. The sun poured silver rain over the cobweb of desire. It’s still
dripping, as the yarns are lingering heavily on the wings of the wind. As the
river dries them…as one looks at the mirror. Reflection.
Like phunk.