12:24 PM Wednesday, April 5, 2023 (CDT)

I remain loyal to a continuous spread of language as a base for expression. When you think of something and all that’s returned is a blank outline, how does that make you feel? 

There is a batch of little things that is significant to the overall arc. Each rational belief submitted squares itself tethered to the average. The theoretical stakes now glide to the horizon of the actual–an accumulation too big and too wide to wash away. 

One out there still has the power to transform all these wisening beams into a beachfront scroll. How do we sequence these events of life together–what’s leftover of the long night’s dream? A new stream of letters, addressing lives future and past. A universe backed and steeped against any unbalance; its strands asserting a collective reaching toward a more regal plane, such that they are never seen as particular but as a single collected point inside the dream of the never-world. Disjoint stacks that bleed across the edges of a one-piece; we finally see the new one-life unfold into the wide open space.

Big movies

A transition to paragraph form. Matching subject and construction. Always on the computer, looking out windows; the views are the same. A high baseline of things to look at in direct frame. Attractive people and long takes. An embarrassing or lost sense of humor. My enthralled 2020 self. Once the period is passed it settles into the familiar. What was once moving, but now is not thought of at all. 

We must find the emotional initiative that guides life through cinema. An interest abstracted into nothing; moments of sufficiency, rendered by forced recreation. There is the new classical acting style, a direction encouraged by the simultaneous joys and difficulties of something grounded; the layers of your psyche are peeled away as an experience slips on.

The single unbroken relation

What is it that determines the structure of today’s writing. Is it the quest for unbroken relation? The obsession with truth? Refusal to accept reality?

The newest generation writes auto-fiction. The words on the page are not a relation to reality; they are reality. The question is:

What other things relate to this current state?

There are other interesting things that go on. But what things occur as usual? I still dutifully read things without the immediate sensations of a bookish child. There have been 8 so far this year, but only The Burnout Society found total quality. The others managed infrequent flickers (liminal trash). But I still continue through.

The new period is total fascism. A lovely mode within the unnecessary and trivial…

I return to the museum of art–reconciled after years of ashy avoidance. The modernity died in Aspen, to great disgust. We still are in wonder; is a return to our godsent and heroistic vector assuming itself? Does it now stand again, in its place of tapestry and goodness? I stare, only finding clarity escaped of blanketed sunlight. A final gleam by our great beloved. A straightened screed for the prim and proper. The things we state and declare mean less, blended into the background. A nice friend on the street corner makes his greeting. Only a brief encounter, but weighing enough to follow with rapturous shake.

On the graduation of the spirit

It's often that those of sentimental flourish deny the soul its natural gravitations. It's like they don't understand what a ripeness like that requires.

So we stare out the windows--mostly just the west. When does the new, modern, bluey architecture swirl up into its full construction? The pallid grey green lingers over black. There's only so much of this to save.

So, like, we've seen the great digital. The guerilla setnaps and their alienations. Once again, the trek left unmade. These artifacts can't be so easily cast away. They are the partials of reality, or even the units of the dreamscape. My half-boots trudge through the fluff. I'm in; time to take my duty. The afternoon ephemera begs one more chance. I stay hard in repetition; maybe tomorrow.

Mister Neighborhood, I just want my trains back. Mister Silver says good job son. Mister Yellow Box knows a place aback the commerce stand. I know him before. My triangle stays me close. I'm not long now.

Wed Nov 30 11:58 PM

I have not watched these last few LeBrons, but I am well and accept the privilege of this recent development. No one else out there deserves the pleasures he presents to us...

We see our children run along the streets with that same camaraderie we found in our own youth. Our present is new in the way it remains pristine and true to the love of our Lord thy God--our God, Mr. Lord and Saviour...

One more faggot tagging along...

Is it really so unsuitable?

S&S

If we glance upon ourselves there is always the light of our dearest child's face. Our night huts left alone in the dark, winding away. We consider our path, but still abstain from this wanton task. Our night and day dreams lay low on the floor wisping into the overcast.

Now we know (again?) of the great Jew. The cinema of the child staring eyes twinkling. The state in-between. The ethos beam and fascistic feeling.

The expressive moment, one open checkbook, its associa slowly leaving our span. Now the industry titan, our love long lost. Tinker Bell stares dead-eyeing. Our father a mean old son, our mother a fruitless kind.

How does this all translate? Is this our solace from the sky? To where does it go?

A familiar face emerges yet again--the one from just before? Or from back longer? A window peered into and through. Just mother, upon Christmastime. An overcoat lost. Just a boy, on the run from scatters and spring.

A.I. Artificial Intelligence

Our greatness takes a hand and gathers the light and troubles into a single point. We know our place, our night, our great beaming path. All things fall back to the God-point. Our love saves a space for a lifelong dream; a papery substance neither glossed nor parched. One last look through its selection--a great beaming taken for granted (no more). The minutae of daily walks and glances. Just a stack of papers spidering away. The black substance still in heat, leaving trace droplets a hand-wipe away. The mask is the mask, or it's a silicon mud awaiting destined glory. The man who held hid hands with the children returns for a walk through the wooded edge. All tasks assigned by the Reich as we deeply wish. Another fight through the destroyings and wickerings of dawn. Flat oblong surfaces now faced in granite.

Antennae angled as one point to metropoli. Concrete looks up upon the great sunned metallica. Toned brick leaves us behind. I know not what I do. A fairy stares straight back, is it new this time?