Saturday, July 31, 2010
Friday, July 30, 2010
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Friday, July 23, 2010
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Monday, July 19, 2010
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Friday, July 16, 2010
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Monday, July 12, 2010
Non local
Reeks in here, and whatever magic I once associated with the coin operated bandito seems destined to a short shelf-life.
Until I make the call.
Micro-macro trickle down economics here, chitlins - moose head silver slivers the box and starts a mechancial supply and demand chain reaction from deep within. Metal to metal to electric signal to the switching station to point B and now as I hear her answer
I see four ladders stretching out from each side of the phone booth, right-angling up and converging like a great french braid; exploding in fanning filaments and
she's sending signals back now, signals *within* the signals; emotion through the electrical and
the filaments are awake and searching, spiralling upwards, sensing her movement
which is coming from letters now, ascii ghosts dancing the periphery between the physical and the sensed
And outward, looking down, it is a web now; filaments and letters entangled in an impossible wireframework; two lovers connected and the filaments are lit and there is esctasy and mystery not bound by space or time but by
the click of a receiver and a port sealing itself from the world.
tee-ha!
Until I make the call.
Micro-macro trickle down economics here, chitlins - moose head silver slivers the box and starts a mechancial supply and demand chain reaction from deep within. Metal to metal to electric signal to the switching station to point B and now as I hear her answer
I see four ladders stretching out from each side of the phone booth, right-angling up and converging like a great french braid; exploding in fanning filaments and
she's sending signals back now, signals *within* the signals; emotion through the electrical and
the filaments are awake and searching, spiralling upwards, sensing her movement
which is coming from letters now, ascii ghosts dancing the periphery between the physical and the sensed
And outward, looking down, it is a web now; filaments and letters entangled in an impossible wireframework; two lovers connected and the filaments are lit and there is esctasy and mystery not bound by space or time but by
the click of a receiver and a port sealing itself from the world.
tee-ha!
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Friday, July 9, 2010
4 kids vs. Jerry California kickball. Bring 'em on.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Why we put up with rain for the other 360 days of the year
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Monday, July 5, 2010
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Friday, July 2, 2010
Running as mantra
Fine towering firs to the right, harried line separating saline from sand to the left. Rhythmic padding below, lids dropped down from above. What is looking is hemmed to the looked by a blood red sash.
Imminent immanence, or that big bastard ball of string again?
It tendril-ed my ankle 8 kms back; thought winding in and around itself, looking for cause and effect. Baleful perseveration gave the first knots before fractal-ing into *the* Not - the final negative bearing down on me and vacuuming the space between like so much forgotten seawall grit.
And then, silence.
Sound, feeling, breath and movement become not-two. The question of the big bastard giving chase dissolves. There is no resolution; it is simply fully and utterly irrelevant.
There is only This: Space between the footfall; moment before the breath; fine towering firs to the right, harried line separating saline from sand to the left. Rhythmic padding below, lids dropped down from above. What is looking is hemmed to the looked by a blood red sash.
Imminent immanence, or that big bastard ball of string again?
It tendril-ed my ankle 8 kms back; thought winding in and around itself, looking for cause and effect. Baleful perseveration gave the first knots before fractal-ing into *the* Not - the final negative bearing down on me and vacuuming the space between like so much forgotten seawall grit.
And then, silence.
Sound, feeling, breath and movement become not-two. The question of the big bastard giving chase dissolves. There is no resolution; it is simply fully and utterly irrelevant.
There is only This: Space between the footfall; moment before the breath; fine towering firs to the right, harried line separating saline from sand to the left. Rhythmic padding below, lids dropped down from above. What is looking is hemmed to the looked by a blood red sash.
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