CXXXI
Form follows conjunction
Global swarming
The push-pull of the vestibular system
In(cr)edible!
Lenticularity, mon amour
Counting the carburetors on the New Jersey Turnpike
Counting the carbs: 1 Dunkin + 1 Mickey D + 1 Friendly’s + 1 Dunkin…
Counting the carcinogens on the NJTP
Through a lentil, darkly
Once, in the land of Peritonea…
Michigan seems like a dream to me now
Oy, such mishigas!
Seems so extreme to me now
You go first, Indran.
No, no, Sahib, you first.
Indran, I insist. You first.
Oh no no no…
No heart feelings
Tympanzees and Monobos
Endless windlass
Sub-discontinental drift
Fuck Hamilton, gimme a Grant.
Better yet a Franklin. Or, what’s his name on the G-spot? Cleveland? Shit.
Wassup wit Hamilton, yo?
Haven’t seen him lately.
B(u)rrrr: nowz the winter of our discontentinental drift
And Jackson, he’s too tense
See the current?
Current see?
More zeroes!
Or xerox®
A vacuum stands, upright, near the corner of 21st Street and 9th Avenue for two days. Then it’s gone with the arrival of plein printemps.
Nature absorbs? Absconds? Abstracts?
Rapturz?
A canticle of birdz?
Eight miles, why?
A ton of Hamils
A canticle of Burrs
Two bricks shy of a load
A thousand dolores, Dolores, doloroso
el oh el eh LOLA
OMG, we’ve reared up a world trade centaur!
Zirma, La Belle Charmeuse
Game of over thrones
Sportin’ live gives way to Spartan life
Sharp practice, mon amour
A degree of difference between a négligée and a negligent, though not so wide a spread as one would inmagine
Habilitate, habitus, clothe, house, inhabit, inhabitable, rehabilitate
As in remake livable one’s native climb
Or find a transplantation zone of habitability
And clothe oneself therein
Habilis (homo) handy or skillful (with stones)
Gong fu: skills acquired by diligent application over time
Crafty
Chips, chips
Off the old block
Veelblefetzer cracked? Better call Skizziks…
To be out of one’s body is to be out of one’s mind
BodyMind the gap
What are you doing O rug-weaver?
Notting much
I mullioned over going into the window-washing business, but then came the great defenestration and bang, just like that, a job was out of me!
Whatever do we do with our immense reserve fund of ignorance?
For it can never be reconverted to innocence.
We smashed the presses and destroyed the plates of that currency.
Who is this Fay Ling?
If the chickens are coming home to roost this time, then goodnight, and good pluck
The age of as if
You’re the ink in my octopus…
One morning, in the preternaturally warm and early spring of 20**, the parrocchiani of the West Village, particularly those living in the vicinity of Washington Square Park were awakened by, or awoke to, a peculiar, unpleasant and charnel odor permeating the air.
Nor was it long before the source was discovered: a huge, furry and rapidly decomposing body of a quadruped, its forepaws furnished with a set of formidable claws was found lying on its side on one of the park’s lawns, the one to the southwest of the arch, where folks are wont to sunbathe or practice martial or circus arts in the balmy weather.
The immense carcass, it turned out, was of a giant tree sloth – one could readily see the damage to the trees in that part of the park. It had made itself quite free with the limbs of several gingkoes before, well, before what? For among other mysteries, beyond that of how a long extinct proto-mammal had come to visit Washington Square Park in the first place, was what had caused it to die, apparently, some time in the night.
The city, ever resourceful in such matters, found – don’t ask me how – a refrigeration unit large enough to compass the beast and a post-mortem was duly performed, the results of which were inconclusive. The sloth’s viscera were, indeed, gorged with tree matter, but there had been no ruptures of any organs, and tests showed that it had not eaten anyhing sufficiently toxic to have caused its death.
Lost, or at any rate downplayed in the drama, was the question of the accelerated rate of the animal’s decomposition. The sloth had not been there yesterday, dead or alive, yet the condition in which it was found suggested it had been rotting for perhaps a week. Which led to speculation that it had died elsewhere and somehow been transported to the park, by agents or agencies unknown. In which case the damaged trees in the vicinity were simply a naïve attempt at a cover-up.
Ten years have passed since this incident occurred. And for plenty of good reasons, no one has been particularly zealous in ferreting out the truth of what happened. In fact, it surprises me that I thought about it today at all. Perhaps it was the preternaturally early spring that incited the memory of a moment for which there is, historically, no ready slot. Nor, now that I come to think about it, is there any reason not to let it, like a rank and transient smell, simply fade from the senses.
Seven gay adventurists
Who is this Ninah Levin?
We decided the cure for bad ideas was not to have any ideas at all
You get out the way you got in: little by little
Baroque art: I don’t care a vaggio about it!
The door opened with Astarte
Health’s Kitchen
I was an Eighteenth Dynasty for the FBI
Who Killed Van Kull?
I awoke with Astarte, or rather next to her, for she continued sleeping – innocently, I was going to say, but we both know that’s not true.
It had been a hard night, a nuit blanche, and by the time we hit the hay I was dead on my dogs. But I was here alibi, and my nose told me she’d need a good one.
A Canary Island of the mind.
Immersed in his work, Shterer, because of the one thing coming slowly into existence, did not see other things; he lived past the facts accumulating around his three windows. The word “war,” lost at first in the fine print, had gradually enlarged its type to fill all the headlines in all the papers. The word caught Shterer’s eye for a second or two only because of its resemblance to another word: “warp” (as in “time warp”). The three letters skimmed over his retina then left the way they had come, and for the next few days he continued to substantiate his exquisitely conceived trap for catching time.
[Krzhizhanovsky, op. cit., p. 157]
I’ll give you three Rolands for your four Olivers – take it or leave it.
No deal! [sotto voce] I’m holding out for three and a half plus an oliphant.
Perhaps it was the war that, having scored the globe with fronts, had forced him to realize the enmity, the conflict between time and space. “In the classic ‘Raum und Zeit,’”
Shterer would later report, “I investigated the und and saw that time, since it appears as an annex to space, invariably lags behind and doesn’t manage, owing to a sort of friction of seconds against inches, to harmoniously correspond, to be correlative to its space.” In Shterer’s terminology, this means that “events lag behind things,” making for a general discordance in the world’s design. This discordance manifests itself, incidentally, in the unattainability of so-called happinesses, which are possible only when ideal time and real time coincide. Wars and other cataclysms, says this theory, come of an increase in the friction of time against space. [Krzhizhanovsky, op. cit., p. 162]
Song of the divided self.
Krzhizhanovsky and the anti-dao!
Merrily merrily merrily merrily
Zeit is but a Geist
(or vice versa)
