Controllable Git

One thing that happened the other day was the memorial, at which one found the issue in which one’s article on the other one recently passed was printed. Agh! I was blogging around trying to nosedive into ashes when I saw your site: I partied with the Nakas back in Swan Valley and totally mind-melded with their pets. I changed my name to as a different user. It pretty much covered destruction-of-God-related stuff.

There was also the other night with the video reading laced with empathy, resistance, Zidane, the wreckage of the pines, the taking of the photos of the sleeping men in their row, the cosmic interconnection of all things? Check. Futility of pain management as source of humour? Check. Controllable vices for purposes of a secondary level of interior life, echo of conscience trailing out? Check. A sense of time as discontinuous in its spread while expanding on a surface line that is only a reflection of a sense of line? Check. Total distrust of command but for the contradictory moments of necessity? Half-check. Digging the ecstasy of swinging? Yes. Laughing with the tree? Yes. Is the tree funny? Yes. Our ears act as instruments in responding to music, sounding their own tones in addition to the music in the room, like another instrument joining the orchestra.

Radioactive chalk on a wet post-portal playground was the yesterday excuse for meeting skipping. Help! I was frying some puppies on the stove when I thought I 'd start to sell them on a blog in halloween costumes! But then I found your site (great site, really informative), and now I think I'll sell surgical gloves made out of heroees. Thanks! Can I link to your blog? Can I buy goods from your friends and snort them? Not only is your blog pragmatic, it comes with a packet of silica gel (do not eat)! I like to make shapes in the head and in the ears, and I also like to make them in the room. Is there relation in the relation you relate to?

As lists go, to shatter the mindage of yea who built them, they may think of indolence in its softer terms, menu-like in its array of dreams in parti-colored favors: this brown face with those pink eyes cut out of these yellow cans, the artifice of neon whiskers, the textolatry of dirt in the form of specks riddling the dino-acts thinking through the objectification of feeling. So what if the rain is friendlier than your ever-slithering definition of work? What is most ordinary every day is defeating this desire to harden into respectable indifference.  I’m learning the characteristics of the space.

“So when I'm setting up I have to learn how to make the kind of shapes, the power of music that I want to generate in that place. I mix during performance only in one place, so I have to know the rest of the space by heard. It involves a tremendous amount of time, walking, listening, going back to the mixing-board, establishing levels and discovering what kind of world you want to make. In that sense you're even composing, because you haven't been in these spaces before. Do we perceive the sound in the room, in our head, a great distance away? Or do we experience these three dimensions at the same time? At Tokushima in these wonderful spaces it was even more possible to realize that. Or we perceive just enough to trigger patterns, melodies, created deep within our neural sensitivities, shaping some responses. Do we experience a sound dimension as though blocks away or very near, moving beside us, outside and around one ear only, do we feel melodies as they develop inside, within our ears, and we move our head, and we raise a hand to rub away a melody that's circling our nose, does the sound drift, or does it fall like rain, does it make such a clear shape in the air we seem to see it, in front of our eyes? There are so many ways. Do we continue to hear sound as our mind processes aftersound, or music perceived minutes ago? And that affects how structural changes in sound happen in music.”

And it was very good to hear Claudia Rankine and Mom read, and to think about the above on sound from Maryanne Amacher, and to feel like the fresco of a collage at George Schneeman’s memorial, and to see into the future for no good reason, and to subdue verification for an angular tremulous wish in fastidious contrast to simoom for Will Alexander, whose Exobiology As Goddess caused the writing of my object is an emptiness on which words appear, and, much as one bends, to chalk the strong present tense against all rumours of wrath past and to come.