 |
| fig.02.210) harmless baffle |
Brushing the hair away from her eye's hotly. She exhales meanly and stands up quickly. Emke turns to leave the kitchen. This is how the world ends. The End.
Chapter: The Next, To Begin!
I adore the smell of quick perfume and whatever you have in your pockets. Back when kids roamed Paris and their pistols were loaded up and as bright as new teeth, this one had just invented rope and it was holding their pants like magic. A taut length of hemp that also could be used to describe logic. That is, if it were caught inside of a squirrel trap with piles of throwing dice all around it.
Something like this has happened before. The moon was low and quiet. There was still change in these pockets, first in the robe made of loose tears but then in the fuzzy that's crumpled in the pocket's at my side. My crown of buckets is long gone. The votes from all of our affairs are in the pool, where Montana is pissing with gusto. When he's finished we'll go for tacos, water god be damned.
Leaning over to whisper in the phone. I check and I check again. Calling down to the front desk, "She's out of town, why aren't you?" They ask if I'm going to down León. Until then, I'm just here. In the backroom stealing dusty coats.
The other long distant phone calls I've made, Europe and then Minsk, that's just me on the party line.
It would be better if the ones introducing Myko's adolescence to punk being something more than just a style among styles, were sometimes present. After all, the modern era is already trying to throttle our humanist perspective. It's economic and political apparatus are contracting and squeezing us into ever smaller rooms with even more dicks hanging from the walls. The object of object history, keep the dicks in the doorway. If they were here, maybe things would be different.
It would be better if the ones introducing Myko's adolescence to punk being something more than just a style among styles, were sometimes present. After all, the modern era is already trying to throttle our humanist perspective. It's economic and political apparatus are contracting and squeezing us into ever smaller rooms with even more dicks hanging from the walls. The object of object history, keep the dicks in the doorway. If they were here, maybe things would be different.
Instead, the 3 Standard Stoppages is still being read as an instance wherein Marcel Duchamp stepped away from empiricism, particularly as it was being applied to painting. The ongoing engagement between the artist and the medium was being challenged with the advent of relatively inexpensive and easily accessible photography equipment. This was also happening at a time when industrial processes spurred by modern advances in technology and engineering were altering the way in which painters engage the paint itself. Mediums, colors and packaging for paint was becoming standardized and commercially available to casual painters in the middle class for the first time. Along with the social and economic changes to the social structure that France had been undergoing since the revolution's beginning back in 1789, this meant that the academy system, the Beaux-Arts and all of the salons that were the standard bearers for what constituted definable or rigorous work of artistic merit were also evolving under duress as they to adapted to the concepts of modernity in the west. This is when the French moved to Canada.
"You're as indecipherable as a another world hiding under a rug. Maybe something's squished you up inside, but in a good way? It's like you're transparent! But that invisible isn't nothing, it's more like a mirror. It's invisible you can see."
"No, it's just my arms. They feel awkward still."
"They have too many bones, don't they champ?"
"Maybe, I don't know," she says, trying hard not to measure her life using just the numbers. Rubbing her elbow, looking for a little cancer, she uses some of the landmarks and a few of the brighter buttons too. They offer something that's soft and subtle at the edges. There's more warmth than utility, but somehow it seems basically accurate still.
Looking around for an aspirin or just the right amount gin. Trying to fill in any blank spots my absent people have left empty. There's a sort of candy colored, cream corn ululation, a long talk describing big things happening in real time. Culturally, this novel seems to be lost in the spasm somewhere between the 70's with the 80's. But it's borrowed the tone that it feels from the filing cabinets and office furnishing once found beside touch-tone phones inside of the Jet Propulsion Laboratories of our minds.
Places like this are where our fears of nuclear annihilation, body dysmorphia and punk rock are collectively swapped for KC look a likes that are supposed to prevent the melt down of Greenland by assembling a team of Post Docs with a few wild ideas about post-hippy culture reverse polluting the atmosphere with quantum sized thoughts of utopia. This is where KSR happens to live. Structurally, KSR owes a great debt to RH, it's just that the RH that he's paying homage too is a sanitized facsimile of the weirdo that roamed the earth decades ago. His RH is the guy who spends two pages describing trajectory equations inside of a young adult novel rather than the other one that writes too many novels about why incest is acceptable.
I like KSR, his template doesn't need to be very bold or sexy because, as mentioned his ideas are engaging, they're deliberate. There's a deep sense that while a rocket pack future isn't on our horizon, it really wasn't necessary because rocket packs wouldn't save the Antarctic Ice Shelf. But science will and the people who can use science are also not Elon Musk or the kids in a Twilight Novel. They're actually, awkward Post Docs with novel approaches to working in basements with drop ceilings. They save us and then go play frisbee in a forest preserve, because people living good lives don't need shepherds with sticks.
"If you're serving the right lamb, every lion will want to see what you're doing," a slice of green magic warms me in my eye. I feel betrayed in it's reflection from the cool enamel sink under our window. Trash bag organza, shower curtains and rubber bands comingle, dancing a wicked fandango in the ticks between her other thoughts. Myko remembers finding a ton of junk culture and her missing staplers beside the card catalog before coming outside.
"You're as indecipherable as a another world hiding under a rug. Maybe something's squished you up inside, but in a good way? It's like you're transparent! But that invisible isn't nothing, it's more like a mirror. It's invisible you can see."
"No, it's just my arms. They feel awkward still."
"They have too many bones, don't they champ?"
"Maybe, I don't know," she says, trying hard not to measure her life using just the numbers. Rubbing her elbow, looking for a little cancer, she uses some of the landmarks and a few of the brighter buttons too. They offer something that's soft and subtle at the edges. There's more warmth than utility, but somehow it seems basically accurate still.
Looking around for an aspirin or just the right amount gin. Trying to fill in any blank spots my absent people have left empty. There's a sort of candy colored, cream corn ululation, a long talk describing big things happening in real time. Culturally, this novel seems to be lost in the spasm somewhere between the 70's with the 80's. But it's borrowed the tone that it feels from the filing cabinets and office furnishing once found beside touch-tone phones inside of the Jet Propulsion Laboratories of our minds.
Places like this are where our fears of nuclear annihilation, body dysmorphia and punk rock are collectively swapped for KC look a likes that are supposed to prevent the melt down of Greenland by assembling a team of Post Docs with a few wild ideas about post-hippy culture reverse polluting the atmosphere with quantum sized thoughts of utopia. This is where KSR happens to live. Structurally, KSR owes a great debt to RH, it's just that the RH that he's paying homage too is a sanitized facsimile of the weirdo that roamed the earth decades ago. His RH is the guy who spends two pages describing trajectory equations inside of a young adult novel rather than the other one that writes too many novels about why incest is acceptable.
I like KSR, his template doesn't need to be very bold or sexy because, as mentioned his ideas are engaging, they're deliberate. There's a deep sense that while a rocket pack future isn't on our horizon, it really wasn't necessary because rocket packs wouldn't save the Antarctic Ice Shelf. But science will and the people who can use science are also not Elon Musk or the kids in a Twilight Novel. They're actually, awkward Post Docs with novel approaches to working in basements with drop ceilings. They save us and then go play frisbee in a forest preserve, because people living good lives don't need shepherds with sticks.
"If you're serving the right lamb, every lion will want to see what you're doing," a slice of green magic warms me in my eye. I feel betrayed in it's reflection from the cool enamel sink under our window. Trash bag organza, shower curtains and rubber bands comingle, dancing a wicked fandango in the ticks between her other thoughts. Myko remembers finding a ton of junk culture and her missing staplers beside the card catalog before coming outside.
Chapter: This Is The End
Comments