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!