Author: shawn

(or should I say yurt?)
once we (the two(?) parts of me) got together, hatched a plan and sprung forth out of the brain. (adeena at delphia or some apollonistickal… are we thinking of?) fullybrained, like a wonderchicken.
there’s no ulcer like the forebrain, or cancelling all the cannibalistic tendencies and pernastities.

so, ahoy, gulliver! i’m in a world where springs of fulsome tragedians are um hitting their bladders with sticks. or i’m sorry: so to speak, some other striking their bladders for them (inflated bladders don’cha). so if i’m remembering: Laputans. (not lilliputians you saucy clavichords! i actually read the whole d*** book!)

who can speak without a bladderstriker and whatsit to you if they don’t?

If any are wondering, I have returned from my frazzling trip. Airports become more and more tiring all the time. I am losing the thread of this thing.

My initial experiment in journalizing likeso:

The right side would be for the jumbled and incomprehensible word/images which foible and hopscotch through my brain all the time. (As my main concern regarding them has always been, how and in what way would be the best way to capture and snapshot those flitting brainpatterns.) I had been writing in that fashion for quite some time (as you can see by the archives), when I realized that a part of me (the rational?)–the part that can(?) write in quasi-legible fashion–was being neglected.

Hence, this Left side of things. It occurred to me that it would be nice to have an outlet where I might be able to construct word-fragments which would be immediately decipherable to whomever. (Believe me, I’m as certain of the frustrating nature of my writing as the next person.) The trouble is that I find that I have less to say over here. I’m not really interested in tapping away about the day-to-day hummdrummities. Plenty of people do that anyhow.

can’t the bones of daisy may be resting? can’t the hardley-bardleigh rest in shade tonight? it’s all about the bits of words on nothingtoast or qabbalistic mutterincks (yo, cobbleheaded man! read out to us yer words of lore. methinks ye’ve gotta find the loo! ya)

so, there you have it, la. can’t even squak for a dimestore muffin…

maybe my entire yahso is wrongo?

well, only a week. Me to L.A.

My great uncle was a librarian who specialized in ancient Middle Eastern manuscraipts. He was also a very vocal advocate for the Lebanese and Palestinian peoples… There he is with his luggage.

I like this image a lot. It makes me want to go to Turkey. (Well, not right now…)

whoosh!

The New York Review of Books: The Way We Live Now by Tony Judt

if wishes were horses…

ya, whar’s my self-taught monkey? and when’s he goin’ to? sprinting outwardly. or vice verso, you cold shoulder. when the aesthetics please, what then, and when does anything…

*note* look in public domaincicle. *note*

under the new coat of paint, where’s the rust now?

Tranced out in the weekend silo: keeping up with the worldy and watching things spiral like a mad dream. there’s something crawling.

“The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.”

fearfully disjointed and weakend by slow lunar cycles. can we all laugh at escalators anymore? jacob dreaming of them. where all the angels tread the stair. listen to the hissing of the cold cream. my bruises are there for all to see. mon oncle, ya, he’s got his own despair. crackling in the silent deeps of space. (when we will fly to mars again? or maybe when the steppes and plains of neptune explode in countless orgies of splintering desire? eats his childers? will he? or will the stones be sewed inside his thigh, or something?)

if i had to pick a monsoon season, it wouldn’t be now. but when things were done too quick, might not a rain of heaven seem like the thing to muddy the works and make things slow?

to be sure: who ever appears the way you want them to? there’s some kind of cracked mirror. ya. mired in selfspec.