Storystyling : Readin from the Boox (six / two)

in-di-re-c(i)t(e)

 : like my grandma used to utter--boy, could he recite from memory! and you can learn from those triumphant fishing/storytelling excavations of memory caves. i have. i’ve learned about the time when fishing was passion…commitment…as much as it was a guerilla book club, so to speak. you’d use a fishing rod to conceal a trochee, a bait to smuggle a metaphor, and a boat as a disguise for allegory. or, some such shit. who knows…i certainly don’t…i don’t even know when that time was. i cannot. because the world itself couldn’t know it, being blindly subordinated to the dictum of speed that could not know itself, having disposed of both distance and time. weird times…who cares!

                                    anyways, immersing ourselves in the magical rhythm of the nanowaves swaying the boat, bathed in the pale lilac dome spiked with a mischievous hybrid of gentle orange and mellow pink nuances, we would stare at that thread dipped in the gigantic bath, like a periscope or a telescope investigating the vastness of space. granddad would camouflage his literary showcase in that imagery of the sport, hobby…passion…that hid fugitives such as the pieces he shared with me, taught me, presented me with. One of such crappy-crystal things was the piece i learned, having also learned how to recite from memory—in the order that still tricks me. it is of the approximately following content:

                                    you hide, and you are sought /

                                    you travel long ways / you reverberate.

                                    you speak & you are spoken / listened to & listen.

                                    you spread.

                                    you are words.

                                    / i hide underneath your frequencies.

                                    / i dream your voice.

                                    / i know your valences.

                                    fancy. / fantasy. / phantasmagorize.

                                    Hard.

                                    Your dreams are like stars : they are everywhere.

: I learned from those verses about a specific type of aversion to symbolics, hostility toward subtlety, animosity toward the figurative. I learned from those verses about peculiar insensitivity to soft spoken trajectories drawn across the thinning ink veil…pixelated indigo ruler dissolving as the air kisses the crest of the river with tears of freshness. I learned from those verses about those who despised them, expelled them from the communication flows. I learned about that very particular form of exile—language within language. I am endlessly thankful for the lesson my granddad delivered more than once.

                                    Those who executed that ruthlessly barbaric act abhor indirect signification, and yet their world is nothing but virtually established meanings on which they base what they blasphemously dare to call communication. They are a weird species. They are disciples of the divinity called self-righteousness. They worship at the shrines of self-esteem. Acolytes of self-assurance, devotees of self-affirmation. They invest in certainty, boast of decisiveness, pride themselves of firmness. They never question. Nor do they thank. Too much doubt can be harmful. So can absence thereof.

: So, i figured that such a degree and kind of assertiveness must have been anchored in some solid shit. And it was. This sensor that explores the cavities of spatiotemporality seeks signals to detect in the most unlikely of sites. It smells them in creeks, decodes them in the intersections in interstices. It follows the signal, investigates the routes. Deep down. It finds the anchorage of theirs. It is the kingdom of slime. Its atmosphere is cobweb stretching as wide as the fantasy of figures can reach. Down its low lingering yarns drip mucous dollops ready to blob themselves into muddy puddles covered with a layer of thick, grey foam…burping like brew primordial. amoebae budding in  that boiling amalgamation are gargoyles vomited from a galaxy of sewers, meteor storm catapulted from constipated intestines of an alligator, a snot-laser-jet from a dinosaur’s fart, a sulphurous echo from a cyclone eye.

                                   

i dig that. so can you. it’s been taught and learned through…ehem, unsmoked books.

one of them, like my folks claim to know, is On How To ReadWriteRemix (øøøø). It’s poetics of sorts. The kind you recite from memory.

like my granddad used to. like my grandma used to utter.

Like phunk!