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.
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