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schemata substrata mutilata [Jul. 16th, 2012|05:16 am]

ave maria & the host of ninehouse
the days there had been strange & even strangely strange, with each day's weirdness different from the preceding one, up to the last. the marked day. one needn't even be told, it was intuitable; the nausea node so pressed even as it begun, confusingly enough. for all the comfort, all the days had been a travail rather than any respite. last days are always different. differently different.

a stiff and solemn conference decorum laid throughout & all the barest thoughts were treated equally, with respect & given dignity. hospitality taken to art, as if sun groves demeanors enhanced in a highly tutored state, as if produced by some refined ancient culture, contrasting greatly to the furnishings of heavy oaken timbers bound by iron clasps mottled and rough, almost pointedly.
    ultimately, there was something vaguely wrong in all the good.

discordancy. the painted wood of metal rafters. identical clouds in separate windows. the tranquil beauty of a room belying it's thickly intricate technical underskin within the walls & floors. a subtle sense of the thick electric presence of it, subconsciously intuited. still air quietude without, delicately tasteful, with an acute aesthetic. flowers on the table, a pencil, tin cup. tablecloth. discordancy. it sets you on edge. leaves you wondering. subconsciously.
    EMF sanitization leaves a slight tang of ozone in the air...
    we picked up our books & canvas rucksacks & split. no celphones, no tablets or laptops. not even so much as a watch or a radio. radio...

all was in accord.
    looking back i saw the flowers wafting in the dead wind. i saw the light wisps of black ember, the streaks of lightened color, the girls dancing on the roof, their scarlet scarves hovering frozen in the air for the photographer. i saw too the approaching dim plume down the opposite road.

our road turned eventually. we could forget who filled our bellies and replenished our backs. we could try to forget the programs.
    we could only ignore the programming itself. the road seemed innocuous enough -they always do. one can easily take analogs for real. it may well be often the case even.

whatever died back there died the small death of a falling leaf, a burnt out bulb. it was nothing but one node. there's yet a million left to go...
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schemata substrata mutilata [Jul. 16th, 2012|05:14 am]

tin ears to golden silence
discomfited in the khaki. conscious of the shifting weight. attention caught by details; wrinkles in my shirt, how my right boot feels, the pebbles in the road to be likewise sidestepped lest their crushing marks our passage.
    it's all mixed in.

we'd now too long a diet of silence, of beans & franks.
    it had dumbed us down. made dullards of us all, even the sharpest among us.
    head clamor. when all is shattered new, putting much held as knowledge to an early grave in great surprise. when sighs are louder than the rumbling thunder in the seeming constant background one paints down deep unknowingly. when for days we all looked at each other with 'did you hear that?' glances that more truly were did you feel what i felt? when the things that used to be thoughts had long become more like bubbles, and when they began popping were more like soft firecrakers and just as unnerving.
    one becomes familiarized with it unconsciously, if not exactly accustomed or used to it. it's stressful and depressing, like a prolonged freeze inevitably becomes, but if it weren't for winter, there would be no spring.
    rather the chirp of bird than the hush of snow.

we didn't hear the traffic in the wires. we didn't hear the bit trail flow. one may easily always imagine it as static, but in truth it's an ethereal wind -quite lovely if one allows. the sort of thing meant to be easily missed.
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schemata substrata mutilata [Jul. 16th, 2012|05:12 am]

lest there be contact at once (in the wild)
can one still use a cat's whisker? purchase copper wire? hard enough to assemble any transmitter but if receivers elsewhere cannot even possibly be constructed, there's no point.

sidestepping the grid gets trickier every second. the greater thing, the decimation of any wild at all, becomes peripheral.

there's the grid and there's everything en toto. what's within reach will always grasp. the formal structure of industrialized civilization had come full circle, becoming uncivilized. no more gate against the horde. the butterfly effect is the central truth of every being, but rather than any Original Sin, it's the glory of every mutant. imprint. constant update. one needn't even pay attention or bother to analyze. one can be discerning by default.

we went the way forward in that manner. as quietly as the sun rose.

schemata substrata mutilata [Jul. 16th, 2012|05:10 am]

bechtel analogs of perception
setting out, ever setting out, it is all that anything ever really does, for good or ill. offshoots, fractal offspring, even death is seen that way. all things start, but go to spin off in another line. each son and daughter continuing the deathlessness of their parents, but none begets the children of their siblings.
    so it is among the regained. without differences, there'd be no word for tribe.
    without setting out, there'd be no getting lost, that exquisite mystery: lost from what? are we not here? you can't ask, but are expected to follow one's own way together.

it's hard to check one's attitude about big things. something about relative sizes suggests native rules. one is as singular as one can get, prompting many to simply become a bigger one -but one does begin from one's own singularity. ego so roused to birth says aha, and so itself too sets out accordingly, knowing this: steal a little and they put you in jail, steal a lot and they make you king.

schemata substrata mutilata [Jul. 16th, 2012|05:07 am]

the gordian naught tautly humming
nature doesn't so much assert itself as be. we were as water, helplessly conforming to nature's own accomodation of our relative perverse consequence. is everything helpless to all else? what alternative can be imagined? void universes as much empirical as any grain of sand? we could only flow together if together at all. ever inland from the beach, this is too crudely basic to even say. it's banal to note, on it's own, but comes to mind and so noted. every birth a leave-taking of the amniotic ocean.

we had little sense of ourselves as such, but that we were alive. in the natural sense. -organic nature that is.
    the waterdrop is only seen as such from the outside.

we signal each other, at base. when the methodology is physical, we call it something else, but it always amounts to the same thing; the transmutation of executable code -or it's termination. EOF.
    ...some signals must be sliced, scattered, slaughtered. thrown in the air for the necessary occasional random factor.

we no longer had any input, no news -the cessation of that constant drone felt too good to be questioned -or even spoken of at all. nobody mentioned it as far as it went. or so it seemed -i wasn't as preoccupied with the last dispatch as i perhaps should've been. perhaps deliberately. or characteristically. who knows whom is privy to what? there's no telling any longer and hasn't been in years. it's now a given, a dangerous or foolish given, but some presumptions must necessarily be made.
    ...and then cut, as able.
    the last dispatch suggested a game afoot. others saw it differently, very much so. twas ever thus, and so ever does the idea of separateness among things continue. -and that of the difference of personage. even among those together -or perhaps even especially so. the closer we are, the greater the differences maybe...

some hide their difference. always ineffectually, of course. that which is hidden shall be known to be hidden. it's the tell-tale hump in the rug. another sort of signal to be sliced: the unintended sort.
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schemata substrata mutilata [Jul. 16th, 2012|04:51 am]

the last dispatch
for each message there are a hundred interpretations.
    some well-reasoned, others well-felt, and others quite loopy.
    my own categorical rhetoric stops there. for each line there are a hundred interpretations.

no further message. that always draws a crowd. what else is there but time and attention? the stuff of ecstasy, free of crisis -it's own antithesis even perhaps...

over a period of some time we gathered yonder and so it was curious when it somehow became apparent we were all there. curious too in that that was the same notion to each, but there it was.
    to be sure, we'd all had enough of fish by then, no matter how good, but still...

wind blew, waves echoed, water sheen glinted sunlight. each day, the birth of earth itself seemed as virgin as ever. a tall woman among us obliquely said, "i know nothing of such things." that caught my mind's attention and sent it to musing upon the difficulty of any real objectivity, of refusing to interpret. it's hard. takes strong spirit.

we are curious beings. being curious beings we accumulate our answers, and being never satisfied, analyze them. endless curiosity has it's life, and it's own fractal arc, curious about even itself. it becomes a knotty situation. reference points become arcane, mystical. like seeks out like, ever looking. given a good trail, we'll go it. to come around full circle is the only regret...

rest in peace, jeffrey catherine jones [May. 20th, 2011|01:13 am]


40 years ago, i spoke with jeffrey catherine jones when i took the photo above at the 1971 Seuling Convention in NYC. i wanted to converse at length but discerned a polite hesitancy and didn't pursue it. the impression i had was that jones was a fairly private individual, and notably polite about it.

jones' influence on my work has always been there but ever greater over time... thank you JCJ, for those few minutes of talk and all your works.

...better late than never -i should have added my jones stash url when i originally posted this...

addendum2, from sidebarnation:
Podcast Episode 155: A Discussion on the Life, Art and Recent Passing of JEFFREY CATHERINE JONES (1944 - 2011)


"The artist does not see things as they are, but as he or she is." - Alfred Tonnelle

Since hearing the news that Jeffrey Catherine Jones passed away yesterday (May 19, 2011), I keep coming back to one thing; I'll never again be able to refer to her as "my favorite living painter". That's a change I never thought I'd have to make. A simple one, but still tough.

I will miss Jeffrey greatly. Her life's work awakened something wonderous in me many years ago, and I owe her a debt of gratitude.

Marvin Gaye said, and I'm paraphrasing the hell out of it, "If one is a true artist, their singular goal is to open the minds of men and women". With Jeff, we've most certainly witnessed the passing of a true artist.

That's all I got for now, I guess. The real stuff is in the show. And trust when I say Dwight's story is the one. Listen for that! I envy him for having that brief, but moving exchange with Jones. And at the same time, since it happened to my man, I get to share in it, too. So really, I'm good.

Bye, Jeff. Sleep peacefully, rest easy...


The 2004 Sequential Tart interview with Jeffrey Catherine Jones conducted by Laurie J. Anderson.

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plus from frequencyclear.tv: 4 pages [Dec. 28th, 2010|12:19 am]

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This Century, I Promise [Nov. 17th, 2010|06:03 pm]

yanaklink, barandash, my friend mavinga, yttj(bjorn), & so many others; you all have been doing tremendous work. i miss you all & greet you all. i'm alive & well & busy as hell etc. i haven't posted in over a year, true, & this hardly suffices as a return. but. hi. will be returning soon. this century, i promise.

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with a fresh page, one recreates the world entirely [Sep. 19th, 2010|08:30 am]

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heart of the flower [Aug. 19th, 2010|08:30 am]

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