Storystyling

The book from which chapters were previously published here can be found at https://www.lulu.com/shop/nikolina-nedeljkov/storystyling/ebook/product-74pg2z.html?page=1&pageSize=4

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!

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!

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.

 

 

 

 

Storystyling : Readin from the Boox (six / six)

subtonic

--?!***#...@$$$<<< / >>>{&}%[&]!?

--?!***#...@$$$<<< / >>>{&}%[&]!?

 : There was a time when he’d wake up into a dream of her. His nights were the days she was stubbornly inhabiting. The space was her shadow that encompassed his floating through the memory of her.

                                        She was so persistently present, and yet, so impossible to detect. Her presence occupied his whole being, and yet, he did not know where she was. He couldn’t even identify her in the memory of her, since as much as she dwelled in it, so did he.

                                        Over time, he was becoming increasingly aware of his own presence within those quirky fluctuations. He was waking up into a clearing vision of his dream. He knew that the night was over, and the sun was rising. Sunsparks were showering his world. Bathing him with an insight into the dream, the air, her, himself, and the language in which that story was told to him. He started telling it to the others. He still does.

So can you. It’s called the poetics of the remix.

 : On How To ReadWriteRemix (øøøø) offers an instance of the debate concerning the thematic in question [what thematic?!]. It refers to the work of the scientist cum social entrepreneur by the name of Vincencio Gustro de la CrystalCoprofeel who, as early as the mid seventeenth century, discovered the invention of a dream gene. The discovery was kept secret for nearly two odd centuries due to the threats from linguistic inquisition. In addition, a sage like CrystalCoprofeel wouldn’t miss the opportunity to ride the wave splashing the whole world with contagious sparkles and spreading the infection worldwide. The virus in question was called exactism and it became known in the history of science and social entrepreneurship as the school of thought attracting acolytes across generations and other culturally conditioned categories.

              CrystalCoprofeel’s view on dreams that resonates with the then current tendencies in the industry dealing with manufacturing feather filters for oneirscape. Those filters were swallowed, and the dreams were vomited in an logorrheic stream of imagery lava sprinkling fine silverdust over the sedentary mountains, torpid valleys, idle hills, and sleepy grass. CrystalCoprofeel’s seminal treatise entitled “Resist Instantaneity – Dream the Moment” provides an exhaustive, painstakingly precise account of his impeccable methodology, succinct expert elaboration of marvelously immaculate data processing, and a gripping mode of statistically disguised symbolic.

               It is the epitome of the idea premising the whole approach [what approach?!]. The self-sustaining mechanism was demonstrated through the publishing strategy. Namely, while intentionally postponing the publication in print format, the discussion was being carried over from one interlocutor to another in the form of oral history. The tradition allowed for adjusting the shared content to the genre. Words ruled. The listeners zealously served the flow by fervently finetuning their sonic sense. The orators humbly excelled in playing with voice in the service of the signal transmission in the communication channel. The story was carried through the circuit engendered by ions. Two odd centuries on, the print version immortalized the endeavor. Nowadays, it is praised for its consistency and perseverance. Its scientific merit remains unrivaled. Its socio-entrepreneurial aspect is still held among scholars and laypersons alike as the alphabet of desire. It’s called Delay Rox : And So Does Roll. It endures.

--hows abt pulling yo fucking self 2gether, ha!

: for fuck sake, ha!

--senses will you come to fucking yo, ha!

: manners first!

Like phunk!

***

Somebody once told a story about music. And not just any kind of music. Nor was it about music in general. The music the story was dedicated to was said to be specific, and not just specific in any kind of sense. I was not familiar with that genre, but I thought I’d love it. Why? I thought I might love it because it was supposedly distinctive primarily with regard to the way it could correlate with some deep emotional structures, or some such shit.

Supposedly, its signature vibe was the sadness that like the seabed anchored each and every note constitutive of the whole. It was rolling like an undercurrent of the flow weaving harmonic tapestry spilled across the universe. It was sparkling like a kiss of crystals twitching random melodic appearances in that celestial tissue. It was pumping like the jugular of that photonized giant of rhythm.

Time passed. I got to know the music I’d been told about. I was assured of my guesses. I loved its travesty. I loved my tricking myself into de-rationalizing my awareness about those hidden layers. I indulged cheating in that extravaganza of faked naiveté. I’d just drift on the wings of that anchoring current. Sometimes I’d cry.

Time passed. I was told something I could and could not believe. Allegedly, there was another level underneath that what I’d thought were the cornerstones of that music vernacular. I was like, “whadafuck я tho talking abt?” (that’s exactly how i put it.) Little did i know. Yet, sooner rather than later, I realized that, indeed, there was something going on beneath those heavily rolling pillars of that sonic marvel.

I listened fervently. I’d laboriously dig those deep trajectories smiling at me with a wink of recognition. “like whadashit!” I’d utter, expressing my utter astonishment, awe, and dis-trust. Or, some such shit in that or different order.

(--like phunkiemafotherphinkie phunk!)

(--totally with you on that one!)

At that point, I did not know what exactly it was that spoke to me in such a mellifluously fiverish manner. Later I did.  Just as I do now. Sometimes I talk about it. But I cannot tell the whole story about it.

Neither can you.

/

I know a person. He doesn’t talk much. When he does, most people either turn their heads in disappointment, resentment, dissatisfaction or stare in disgust. Why? Because they find it—guess what!—boring. Ha!

He speaks in a rather monosyllabic manner. His deep voice stirs the interlocutor with the vibrations that remind them of their secret fears that they are—guess what!—boring. Ha!

His word choice gives them chills. Why? Because the words he uses intrigue them, scandalize them, and scare them. Why? Because they fear that they may inspire them.

They cannot stand his indifference. No, rather, they cannot stand not being intriguing. No, more precisely, they cannot stand not being provocative. Irrelevant. His aloofness tantalizes them. His detachment horrifies them. His scarce facial expression is a blasphemy to their eye. It’s so minimal that they can hardly detect it. It’s nearly frozen. In their fantasy, it reminds them of a picture, glass, mirror.

When he speaks, the river rolls like it was never as heavy before. Between his words, breaths dance a cosmic waltz. His exhalations are the ellipses nobody sees. Because they can’t read his lips. His vowels are like the ink that saturates interstellar spaces. His fricatives are like the f-words on the n^th potency. His palatal consonants like a piece of chocolate cake smudged across his mouth. His nasal semi-vowels like the bass saxophone quietly carrying the thoughts through the vastness of the night.

When he speaks, stars spark from the eyes of the invisible listener. His sentences are either laconic or baroque. But, many people cannot bear to endure his act of speaking. Because he is nothing like their TV shows, their social networks heroes, their gossips, their gaudy dramas, noisy, yet hollow, songs that make their everyday feel like an elevator, like airports. People find him boring because he is indifferent. Because there is something oneiric about his voice, and people find it too otherworldly for their dynamic tastes. I don’t.

He has a pair of dark eyes that sing simultaneously with the sound flowing from his mouth cavity. His look is as sparse as his speech. As scarce as his facial expression. His whole being is like the secret layer snaking underneath the current of dry tears.

Like phunk!

Storystyling : Readin from the Boox (six / five)

Three times eight equals one

When I tell stories about myself as a three letter old youngster, I refer to myself so not because now I am this-or-that-number-of-letters older. Nor do I suppose that the number of letters have been reduced. The number of letters plays a very little, almost NO,  role in that situation. The number of letters is of very little, almost NO, significance in that context. What’s at stake, however, is the occurrences from which my telling stories about myself as a three letter old youngster results.

When I dreamed of a forest kissing into my eyes a swarm of sparks, I felt as if smoke had been flowing through my veins. I felt as if my whole being had breathed the dreamy kiss of smoke. My whole being was vibrating with the rhythm of the unsmoked book, as I was becoming to sense the smoke carrying the flow, keeping the flow. On the wings of the wind. I thought I was a one letter old lass/dd-ie. I think it was a one letter unsmoked book. I’ve had too many such ones to unsmoke. Neither significant nor insignificant, and certainly not crucial, the letter is.

When I dipped in the darkest of summer nights, my heart met the song sung by the universe. The notes were veiling my feelers, like neurotransmitters fill receptors, the way that made me think my whole being was showered with the two letter unsmoked book. That I thought saturated each nanometer of the vessels carrying the flow. Keeping the flow. On the wings of the wind. I thought I was a two letter old kiddie. It was a two letter unsmoked book. The letter itself is neither important nor unimportatnt. It’s certainly not crucial. The unsmoked book—one of those that I have had too many to unsmoke. 

like phunk!

When trees were still ornamented with naked branches, and buds were the future hibernated under the cold movements of the air brush, I was like “hey-ya-three-letter-old looking, wheredoUthinkyou’rephunkiegoing! whatchathinkUarephunkiedoing!” I was laughing my ass off at the site of those who saw in my eyes the reflection of the constellations. And their verbal counterparts. I was almost turning into the three-letter-old unsmoked book—one of those that I have had too many to unsmoke. The trees were still sketches of their palephotonized selves. I was not an unsmoked book. The letters were tools. The numbers didn’t count.  In a way, it is still so now. I have had too many unsmoked books to unsmoke.  Like a three letter old youngster. l

ike phunk!

 

: why dontcha come to yo fucking senses, for fuck sake.

--language, not letters!

--like phunk!

A spark licked the glossy surface of the oak pillar. The contact. Connectedness. Exchange of glistening packages travelling along purpleorange trajectories. Reflection. Bouncing further across the microvastness of the universe of the mighty stately castle. Orbits cruise. Galaxies float. Black holes vacuum. Constellations smile. Your dreams are like stars. They are everywhere.

The spark keeps flashing the velvety wrap of the interstellar spaces. Sunshowering the hissing foam brewing along the rims of the screens. The tablecloth whirling with shimmering waves moonoiled by the milky warmth bathing the imagery with a sonic kiss. Unheard of. On the wings of the wind (language, not letters). Your dreams are like stars. They are everywhere.

 

: On How To Phunkie ReadWriteRemix (øøøø), ha?

-- like phunk, ha!

The foam is a bustling effervescent circuit of ones & zeros. They are mingling along the curvy, snaking pathways spreading along the shimmering surface of the screens. Each titillation stirs the glassy screenface with a crumbling pixelstorm. The pieces reintegrating and solidifying into an ocean of words. Coral web, holding the structure of the seabed, anchors the cobweb lingering heavily above the mischievous sparkling crust surfing on the wings of the wind.

Once upon a time, stories were being told, just as they are told nowadays. Those who told them believed in their virtuality, just as those who listened held them to be virtual. They called them histories. They believed so much in the virtual character of those stories that no gap in that boisterous exchange was left for imagining alternative scenarios. No nanocog in the cognitive apparatus was mobilized in the service of contemplating, suspecting the nature of the events portrayed, heroes glorified, adventures celebrated, emotions magnified.

They reveled with all the might their being was capable of engendering, as they followed the unfolding of the achievements of the characters they admired. They mourned from the bottom of their hugely engaged selves, as the wind was drying their uncried tears at the site of the cosmic romance falling apart. They’d dive into the lingering clouds out of joy, as the hero was saving the fragile lady from the gluttonous  jaws of the monster. As they kiss. As the indigo empire puts an ink blanket over their bodies exhausted by cosmic journeys. Looks they share. They marveled at the poised power driving the dynamic of the storyline with each beat of their passion gifted hearts. They humbly prided the battles won, brave conquest of the faraway exotic lands. Lives imagined and believed. They called them histories.

They knew no metashit to spoil the excitement of storytelling. They cared not about the distance that supposedly helps one figure out levels and types of virtuality. Steering  the helm as one navigates those quirky realms where the vurtual appears clad in virtual garments. Where fictitious is but a kind of a bodily sensation. Where the river sings a lullaby to the stars. Where dreams are like the web shielding the incessant, indefatigable current – of that what spreads.

Nowadays, they say, that capacity to immerse oneself fully in the vibrant smoky maps of the mighty storytelling waters is a long forgotten, atavistic inclination. They say remapping is way too anachronistic. It is gone, they say, just as the affinity for the intensity ridden poetic groove is…well, history.

One is prone to highly doubt that assumption.

Like phunk.

/

She lived in a building on a tree lined street. The rooms of her apartment were like the interior of the  intestines of a shadow. The eerie vacuity heavily floating through the spacious chambers was like a mirror image of her eyes. They hardly ever spoke. She was a recluse hiding from her own universe in black holes of some other, if not necessarily somebody else’s, galaxies. By contrast, her son was a vivacious child. Perpetually energized by the vigor of his own movements, feeding on the ingredients his play filled his orbit with. He wondered if she ever saw him. She probably did. (the river told me a story.) But he couldn’t be assured of that. He would play with diverse toys. Sometimes, no toys at all. He generated situations, immersed himself in multi-role playing, sang like the rain was kissing the leaves swishing against their windows. He ran like the toys were transforming from one symbol to another. He played with a lot of kids. He knew a lot of youngsters with whom he’d explore the wilderness of growing up. Somehow, along the way, he got to know figures. He started collecting them. He became a figure collector. Like an art dealer, only slightly different. He became a dedicated worshipper of them. Now, he is sitting on a bar stool.

or, so i imagine it.

His parents loved airplanes. Model airplanes, big, fat flying birds, fire spitters, drone droppers…u name it. He liked to fly when they took him on their adventurous explorations of the heights ungraspable. At least, he thought he liked it. He has no emotional reaction to that phenomenon nowadays. He is indifferent. But, back then, he (thought) he liked it. He knew, however, that he liked making sand sculptures. But, he could only do it on rare occasions when the chosen destination of their trip would provide him with the necessary environment, material, mood, and company. When those unlikely circumstances coincided and all the required conditions were satisfied, boy, did he enjoy. (the river told me a story.) But, noone in his family seemed to share the propensity the kid full-bloodedly indulged. He was wearing those sculptures in his dreams like a gown protecting him from the cold the planes were dashing through. A girl with the sand skin became his haunting fantasy throughout his chilly adolescent years. Until he discovered suits. He started wearing them like his dreams nestled deep in the memory coloring his whole being the shade of the clouds that were buffering his growing up. Now, he is his suits. On his way to that point, he became a dedicated worshipper of his suits. His parents still frequently fly. They hardly ever speak.

or, so i imagine it.

/

She was a happy child gifted with the parents who showered her with presents all the time. They’d buy her toys, dolls, balls, blocks, puzzles, dresses, shirts, skirts, shoes. She loved playing with toys, taking care of delicate dolls, cracking the codes that hid the picture the jigsaw puzzle created. She loved herself in those wonderful dresses, dolls wearing those expensive shirts and skirts. But, most of all, she liked shoes. She still does. (the river told me a story.) Only, she is a dedicated worshipper of steps. In anything else, she is uninterested. Her steps are her stars, her moon, and the sun. Her parents are still gifted with gifting. She is totally unaware of the river flowing amid her dedicated worshipping of her own steps.

or, so i imagine it.

i am vegan. my vegan imagination fuels and is galvanized by the vegan fractal imagery generator.  i like it. and i don’t. but, i don’t know why. who cares…

Like phunk!

***

kessenem / pleazy.

Verily.