When your creativity is flourishing, brain-limbs flailing in an ecstatic and/or orgasmic grasp of lucid inner connectivity, allow others to call you “weird”. Heck, let ‘em say that so much that it becomes “normal”. Then what? You gonna keep moving to new territory in your United States of Higher Consciousness? I’d reckon so.

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Distinguish between those who don’t understand and those who won’t — the former simply need ingest a cocktail of curiosity and time, whereas the latter resort to auto-cannibalism of the soul.

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Eventually, you learn that dancing in rain is best done when your internal soundtrack (diegetic or otherwise) matches the pitter-patter of the extra-heavy raindrops — and if you have a companion beneath the inversed seas, may their clock sync to yours so the frogs provide a palpable backing band (but be aware they may demand royalties if this becomes a trend).

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"An old British justice named Glover
Once murdered his wife and her lover.
A clue was then found:
His wig on the ground!
But you can’t book a judge by his cover."

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Often preoccupied with worries of when magic technology winds up in insufficiently advanced hands; Tron-like taiko drums mutating an archiplegic folkmusic, neon lines infesting the tribal facepaint, all sunsets semi-synthetic from this bar on, beats approaching and deaccelerating from a rigid-body state of contemptuous, quixotic quantization.

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Survived by clones

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Hitchhiker’s Guide was right about towels — and they’d be double-right upon acquisition of an Ergodyne Chill-Its, for its superior, space-age moisture absorption (compared to cotton and other conventionals).

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CAUTION: REMOVING THE PARASITE KILLS THE HOST

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Maybe you can relate to things I think that more people think but do not say, let alone do. When I make an art, it is like one of those game shows where they give you 60 seconds to dash madly through a store and stuff your cart with as many appealing objects as possible. You never quite get them all in and sacrifices must be made, but “most of what I wanted” is better than “none at all”. And maybe you’ll be invited back on the show as a repeat contestant — or defending champion!

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The white box asks, “How has your day been, Torley?” Thus I vote to answer as follows: ▓▒░ — COSMIC BLENDER OF YUMMY EXISTENTIALISM.txt ░▒▓ , I sat, reclined really, after the marvelous (and I did not choose that sparingly) lady at the beach leaned over with the display rack tied behind her back, all blue eyes-a-flutter and bird’s crown in her asymmetrical brunette locks, encouraging me to consume the sample of Amish popcorn. And I reversed, memories melting like cotton candy, back to a colorful shadow of hours ago (about 6 or 7 to be semi-precise — wait no 8), finding myself entrenched in a florid cold sweat after realizing my salaryman’s due solving problems in dreams had been punctuated by my snuggle-buddy, big black cat. (Monsieur Sushi.) But here — here I transported, reckoning as I tipped my tete in that recliner a la Max Headroom-meets-Maxwell ad amidst a glorious pilfering of fidelity by way of proto-glitch art 80s VHS tapes tracking and tracing signals of home movies, public access broadcasts, and MTV (when it, as a million other voices will jest ya, still played music). And still. I need to empty to refill. I need a nap after this intensity. This is how we transport now, not just through an airline seat but the simple pleasures of reading. That’s the advice I siphoned from yonder-underrated Dr. Lin: never read a book you can’t enjoy, because the words might as well be telegraphed on EXCREaTE™ and you won’t be able to judge it by that either. But what of the brightly colored snacks and this micro-popcorn (again, hails from Amish — God’s — county) bequeathed from the beach? And what of the gay palettes and startling festivities whereupon I’d want to encapsulate all this panorama-smashing beauty into a bowl-sized mini-beach? Complete with ball and chair. Then it’s a trigger. Then every time I glance upon it, I’m reminded: like Shell Beach. (Dangya, automatic writing… there’s me lampshading the works and preempting what I knew — oh there, HERE it is a’gain!” I shudder as I remember the sweat. As I rewind, this time to a few days before a superior towel experience. Wrestling (with great pain, mind you) with the punchy notion of why computers have exponentially magnified in their power, yet we still put up with inferior household items that haven’t moved further en masse. Need to dry faster. Keep moving. Serene tho. This reminds of internal debacles I have over better ways to control music, and while multi-touch has proliferated due to its bigger-picture market uses (hey! For the kids!), many alternative approaches remain locked in some ouroborian death-trap of “Can’t get funding, can’t benefit humanity.” Your business model is anorexic, Sir. Yet it seems obscene that we are enslaved by our own creations, and by this I do not mean machines in the to-be-autonomous sense. I refer to money and the need to make a living, and the absurdity that entails if you really let yourself get bored and your mind drifts about it. (The internal debate of how much of you is really you vs. your parents/upbringing or whatever else you’ve been inspired by. That continuum ‘tween inspiration and influence, or being a unique voice, not a derivative copycat. Criticism will keep it standing still like a hummingbird trapped in the feeder; your place is to move, move, then pause at your own pace. You’ve used words like the Mars lander, not a pea-shooter to where nine chains gets us, thankee Bucky.) There’s these disconnects, curious as they may. The hardship of coming up with brilliance in the shower — which I figure is a fairly common experience — but then, so few will admit to deliberately finding better ways to capture it. I tried with a dictaphone once, and the thrashing water was too noisy. Like an inverse-earworm, however, the harder you hold some thoughts, the easier they transmute to brittle mind-matter and crumble. The lamentation of forgetting something meaningful and it never recurs, to be punctuated by the very reel-real suffering of Alzheimer-by-proxy loved ones. The loss of self not through the evident failure of physical form, but the disappearance of memories core to one’s identity, the black orphans stalking a labyrinth where one is repeatedly demanded to “TEST YOUR MIGHT” with no tools to show for it. Making life worse for yourself by sharing a problem with someone you care about, only to be rejected. That’s another common experience, sure your fears will come true on occasion, just like you will get lucky — “What are you talking about?” the reactor-mind burbles, genuflecting that this may point to something in my personal experience. But empathic as I may be growing into, the trouble surfaces when I leech onto other stories — like vines, they grow, like vines, they entangle, like true vines they endure for more than sex seconds — and realize that while anecdotes do not equal data, there are many of these disturbances in living that are felt, perhaps exaggerated by how often we see and share those impression, like all the murders and tornadoes on the news. This of course dates where this mental ball of twine came from. Before it was unbounded. The unparalleled clutch of the so-called human imagination to rest, as I do, with a stack of books to the left and candy to the right, writing with an almost-floating screen, the proverbial amber terminal by way of iPad, wireless keyboard sending each letter and character into the ether and onto the warm, pseudo-orange glow. I relate to things. Things like non sequiturs, and yes, the absurdist movement when it mates with leaving the right things undone. I wish I could type faster. But I like typing slower. And I fancy typing less, especially as my hands buckle in these fingerless gloves (look up the trope on that) and I know, in this tent with simulated sweet-smoke-scent zollifying the air, I found noise in my limbs as silence graced the spaces between the notes. So you wanted a setup. You had the gear and assembled it in various configurations to make this happen. You re-arranged and remixed the room — WHITE ROOM MINIMALIST CINEMATIC STILL NEEDS A FEW THINGS TO FEEL HOMEY! — I blank out and see the overlay of phosphor-whetted scrollians trickling down like binary rain. I muse about two words — or three even — that generally don’t go together but have chosen to team up for this particular occasion. And maybe ongoing, if there’s a beautiful intersection they can keep driving through. I can tap the down arrow, or I can drag-scroll with fingertips. The choices aren’t mutually exclusive, and it’ll be an accursed day for human-computer interaction if they ever are! Cue the music. The sounds of modernist cuisine attuned into pitched lead synths, swaggering through subspace, pendulous in their curiosity, heaving towards a staggered swing-time, then locking to groove. That thought passes. And another, like buses. Like myself getting off of one in the Fatherland, or remembering an automat I’ve never been to. Of looking in books from musty ages past and finding those who resemble my ancestry, not in visage but in textual tone. Of twilight theatres dipping into cycles and the sci-fi provisio of “Yup, happened before — gonna happen again.” Still, (leit)motifs. Purging of ideas so new ones can cohabit. Or at least, old ones have moved onto mind-university (and not mind-jail), where they’re rapidly on their way to becoming tenured professors of Cerebral College, yet they’d hate a static education system not fit for the actual world. There are parallels here, y’see. Of cut-ups and mani-kins, of divining linear paths through angular accidents, the neondrome pulsates and unfurls a core of goopy grimoires, slading into stained glass resembling not a religious work — but a depiction of a life you lived well, even if you didn’t remember it that way. Sure, this simulated/virtual reality, this damned holographic universe, has flaws, I rationed and rationalized. But I think I can live with that, until I die of it. And then be re-rezzed/booted/imagined again — ! — to live many lifetimes as one.

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His jaw was unhinged, angular like a marketing campaign for ice: “Why drink water when you can eat it?”

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I reckon it’s time for us to dance like animatronic dinosaurs in need of dire maintenance.

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"For after surveying the field of Chinese literature and philosophy, I come to the conclusion that the highest ideal of Chinese culture has always been a man with a sense detachment (takuan) toward life based on a sense of wise disenchantment. From this detachment comes high-mindedness (kuanghuai), a high-mindedness which enable one to go through life with tolerant irony and escape the temptations of fame and wealth and achievement, and eventually makes him take what comes. And from this detachment arise also his sense of freedom, his love of vagabondage and his pride and nonchalance. It is only with this sense of freedom and nonchalance that one eventually arrives at the keen and intense joy of living."

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