Interruption moment seven. Chalking in secrets speak devil food's tongue. And
so on. BB lives on a flat in room seven, surrounded by tears. She's ten ages
behind on her math. That's what you learn after the other two R's you know.
She's everything. She shouldn't write this down till everyone's patting
someone else's buttocks. Year you were born indeed. Now where's she off to
you ask yourself. Off to this vacation cottage of swish cheese and bric-a-brac
that's where. Only you wanna call it art. Ok.
Tortured soul that I am I'm going leave the above, after having erased the
second two. Sorry, can't deal with that much random Brandt samples. So you
say I might be posted to the bitter end train station, nowhere to leave my
keys. As if my thoughts were made of shattered skies in rainbow colors, how
sad, and me without my genuine lambs wool jacket. I guess it was enough of a
weekend for me already. Need time to reflect. Don't get much of that.
Working out in the barn is like a stiff. I cut through the crafty bullshit of
an ornament I could sell, but then its as if I've already built it, and frankly
its boring. I don't like it, I'm not positive there's a receptive enough
audience (willing to pay?!), and so I hold off. Meanwhile there's another
candle holder implement that came out today with an image of flammable looking
leaves and grasses surrounding a flame. How weird is that?
Not weird enough evidently as here I sit writing instead. Scale. I
can't imagine around it. Scale is this substitute for learning, a bridge
across which lies a substance in our thinking that is missing, for our learning
is like a hard surface, stone or metal or a block of wood—solid in our hand but
thirsty. The water absorbed by a piece of wood fills in tiny voids, we call it
porous, its nature made. Those holes, voids really, may be flooded with
moisture, but when they are not, there's nothing there. Hence the infinite
sadness around assuming an impossible world, what your kind sometimes call a
suspension of disbelief. For it may indeed be that our science will never
inherently be able to unlock all the doors in existence, for existence isn't
known for her generosity only; but also for her dismissals.
So what to make next is of course the comic. The one thing I've spent the day
not doing. I'll be back.
