Each leaf in my schematic has been thoroughly photosynthesized. Red coursing commencement traversal, it's blood, let's face it. It's blood. (Type) Oh shit. B&A! No one gets it. Too much time. Anyway I don't want to get all economological (even though I'm surrounded by girls on the pill) and shit, but seriously, the branches get shorter as they extend from the root, and at the root we have a cause. The cause doesn't have to be environmental but I think it works here especially well, given the 3.333 (bar) tree.
The old man knows what I'm talking about, he's been here since the tree got itself up from the Piazza di Porta Capena and moved across the Circo Massimo to that little nook where Via S. Gregorio bends magnetic north (erection).
Circo Massimo.
Mothers massage the limbs. It's blood. Crooked blue to red in the leaf veins. Let's discuss the specifics of the golden halo around each leaf, pretty pretty please. The grades, the doors, lay down. It was a track, there was a chalice, there was Nero! The thick Augustinian air surrounds white marble tourists. Powerwash the marble and autopop the gold plating. Get in line! Get. Set. Vertex. Return. Compare. Retrieve. Perceive. It rains there, no more.
I like when girls where white tank tops. I like when they're leaves with golden halos. I really love it when the gold glows bright bold yellow, and when the old man burnt little nubs of white marble onto roots, predicting their weightless brilliance. Those are the breathtaking ones. There's not even a semblance of frequency/amplitude modulation on that magnetic tape. Back then it was about corrugated speechless devices.
Green village.
Back, back, back...It's blood, or is it chloroform? I need to meet the rest of my leaves. Hopefully one of them will be wearing a white tank top and be bold-gold halo'd. Clean and concise on average, never oppressive. Don't tell me to protect the leaves, stick to tangible global issues or you will lose your halo. You'll lose your halo if you're too pointy. Your halo will tarnish if you don't follow the old man's marble engraving.
Friday, April 21, 2006
Sunday, April 16, 2006
The Life of ICam Picorniviridae
Out in the open against the frontier he stood, a bold, newly formed man. Over his shoulder and across his back rested a gunny sack from St. Mark's. Placed carefully in the leather bag was one of those white medic kits with the snake logo thing. Talk about arbitrary! The next thing for Cameron to do was inch closer to the edge of the cliff d'Avignon, blow his rhis, and stop. He remembered his childhood, sitting in the middle of the second row (his instructor was a contrarian through and through), being admonished, "Cameron P., take your fingers out of your mouth!" Cameron knew he'd get his revenge, like Eddie Adams, but not in the same way. Cam waited for the day when all the lights would be off and he could shine all alone. What a guy! Not particularly skilled at arithmetic (he didn't need to be), he left himself alone for most of the days, sucking on his finger or blowing his then-deformed rhis.
Cameron hated obnoxious displays of homosexuality. He wasn't a homophobe he just didn't want to participate in those over-the-top liberal activities. Cam may have been gay himself, frankly, but that wasn't the point. You can be a cool cat, a well-respected guy, and a true rock star without asking people to bring flavored condoms and a hidden talent to a courtyard at midnight. Cameron was a cool cat, let's get that straight.
The children of the current generation were plagued by television, it single-handedly disseminated intelligence, and did so as unevenly as Cameron's outer membrane before he jumped off that cliff. For the next generation, portable devices will be equally dangerous. The intelligent child will be the one who follows a very specific regimen of traditional and synthetically-devised overnourishment. Imagine the two paths that confronted you as a child. There was the tube and there was the novel. In the future, there will be faux-enriching programming at every turn, but the television won't be the only instrument of destruction. We love to exaggerate and we love to stuff conduits of information until angioplasty. That software is like LDLc for your child's brain.
The leaders of tomorrow's tomorrow, on the other hand, will go on pre-school visits as infants, and the slightly-older tour guides will crawl backwards and abashedly request, "pwease say stop if my swipper gets stuck on the cornah." They will score in the .7-.9 range (even in the future, new standardized tests will come up with ridiculous scoring scales that will be as commonly known in upper-class households as the login/password for Select.com) on their VYAATs, and they will know how to integrate in three planes. They will know about television, but will scoff at it. Their parents will teach them that little [2] and [2.5] will not be very successful because all they do is sit around all day and submit to faux-enriching programming. But they'll also have manners, gargantuan-sized manners. They'll have traveled the world and seen all the artwork that their bedroom's curator had selected for them five days a week (on the other two days, the children will have pulled all-nighters studying foreign languages).
It's like a tight-rope walk with these chosen children. There's a net for all you Saltimbanques out there, there's a glorious, tightly-bound safety net. Clearly there's no way to get back up to the tight-rope if you fall, but if you walk it long enough the cheers from the crowd will probably last close to your life expectancy anyway. Beneath the net are all the generation-behind people. In America we call them the lower class. Moving from beneath the net to the tight rope would be as easy as running at full speed for 10 years then jumping onto a trampoline, hurdling towards the rope, landing it on two feet, and keeping your balance. In America we call this the athletic scholarship.
Cameron jumped off the--frailty! seething powers say, "Across the chasm in the darkness there's a small bright light, in the ocean, it's gone, it's gone." Then I fell asleep. Strung-high in the fern-pillowed cure. Dynastic power shift cycle, cycle, cycle, lemming! You're a lemming, Cameron is a lemming. Across the chasm in the darkness there's a small bright light, in the ocean, it's gone, it's gone. Flinch, flinch, frailty! Hey wouldn't it be cool if we just, "wheeeeee!" or if we pivoted, blindfolded, and, "wheeeeee!" or if we fell backwards in the head-first ice. Droves, seething in the darkness. I am gone. "Wheeeeeeee! suicide!" It's not in, it's not out, it's across the chasm in the darkness. See my identification and believe what I say, or what the plastic says, I mean if you don't that's fine but next time I come here I'm going to strap a bomb to my ass and take you down. Not up, not across the chasm in the darkness. We're going downtown, shuffling, like an American girl. Oh no! You forgot the stanza, you forgot everything it was the best I promise we'll go to Asia. I promise we'll go as long as I get to stand on the triangularized cliff and stop, blow my rhis, and take it all in, in to my gunny sack that I got at St. Mark's place. It's epic and it's not going to stop. I'm going to walk that tight rope, I'm going to work out and gain the strength to walk on it. See when I was falling to the safety net, I hung on to the rope with both my legs. They are the strongest part of my body. I shook that rope a little didn't I? Yeah all the other cruisers with the good balance got a little fucked up when I fell but hung on. That rope is mine.
When Cameron's body impaled itself on the sceptor, he turned around and realized that his pale purple ass was indeed exposed to the bronze statue, and he giggled softly. The authorities attempted to draw a chalk outline but it's difficult in three planes, it's difficult because he had his fingers in his mouth, and it's difficult because the last time Cameron had anything to eat was in nought-five. The sun had set a long long time ago and the moon was brand new. Cameron was all alone on that sceptor, and he was shining.
Cameron hated obnoxious displays of homosexuality. He wasn't a homophobe he just didn't want to participate in those over-the-top liberal activities. Cam may have been gay himself, frankly, but that wasn't the point. You can be a cool cat, a well-respected guy, and a true rock star without asking people to bring flavored condoms and a hidden talent to a courtyard at midnight. Cameron was a cool cat, let's get that straight.
The children of the current generation were plagued by television, it single-handedly disseminated intelligence, and did so as unevenly as Cameron's outer membrane before he jumped off that cliff. For the next generation, portable devices will be equally dangerous. The intelligent child will be the one who follows a very specific regimen of traditional and synthetically-devised overnourishment. Imagine the two paths that confronted you as a child. There was the tube and there was the novel. In the future, there will be faux-enriching programming at every turn, but the television won't be the only instrument of destruction. We love to exaggerate and we love to stuff conduits of information until angioplasty. That software is like LDLc for your child's brain.
The leaders of tomorrow's tomorrow, on the other hand, will go on pre-school visits as infants, and the slightly-older tour guides will crawl backwards and abashedly request, "pwease say stop if my swipper gets stuck on the cornah." They will score in the .7-.9 range (even in the future, new standardized tests will come up with ridiculous scoring scales that will be as commonly known in upper-class households as the login/password for Select.com) on their VYAATs, and they will know how to integrate in three planes. They will know about television, but will scoff at it. Their parents will teach them that little [2] and [2.5] will not be very successful because all they do is sit around all day and submit to faux-enriching programming. But they'll also have manners, gargantuan-sized manners. They'll have traveled the world and seen all the artwork that their bedroom's curator had selected for them five days a week (on the other two days, the children will have pulled all-nighters studying foreign languages).
It's like a tight-rope walk with these chosen children. There's a net for all you Saltimbanques out there, there's a glorious, tightly-bound safety net. Clearly there's no way to get back up to the tight-rope if you fall, but if you walk it long enough the cheers from the crowd will probably last close to your life expectancy anyway. Beneath the net are all the generation-behind people. In America we call them the lower class. Moving from beneath the net to the tight rope would be as easy as running at full speed for 10 years then jumping onto a trampoline, hurdling towards the rope, landing it on two feet, and keeping your balance. In America we call this the athletic scholarship.
Cameron jumped off the--frailty! seething powers say, "Across the chasm in the darkness there's a small bright light, in the ocean, it's gone, it's gone." Then I fell asleep. Strung-high in the fern-pillowed cure. Dynastic power shift cycle, cycle, cycle, lemming! You're a lemming, Cameron is a lemming. Across the chasm in the darkness there's a small bright light, in the ocean, it's gone, it's gone. Flinch, flinch, frailty! Hey wouldn't it be cool if we just, "wheeeeee!" or if we pivoted, blindfolded, and, "wheeeeee!" or if we fell backwards in the head-first ice. Droves, seething in the darkness. I am gone. "Wheeeeeeee! suicide!" It's not in, it's not out, it's across the chasm in the darkness. See my identification and believe what I say, or what the plastic says, I mean if you don't that's fine but next time I come here I'm going to strap a bomb to my ass and take you down. Not up, not across the chasm in the darkness. We're going downtown, shuffling, like an American girl. Oh no! You forgot the stanza, you forgot everything it was the best I promise we'll go to Asia. I promise we'll go as long as I get to stand on the triangularized cliff and stop, blow my rhis, and take it all in, in to my gunny sack that I got at St. Mark's place. It's epic and it's not going to stop. I'm going to walk that tight rope, I'm going to work out and gain the strength to walk on it. See when I was falling to the safety net, I hung on to the rope with both my legs. They are the strongest part of my body. I shook that rope a little didn't I? Yeah all the other cruisers with the good balance got a little fucked up when I fell but hung on. That rope is mine.
When Cameron's body impaled itself on the sceptor, he turned around and realized that his pale purple ass was indeed exposed to the bronze statue, and he giggled softly. The authorities attempted to draw a chalk outline but it's difficult in three planes, it's difficult because he had his fingers in his mouth, and it's difficult because the last time Cameron had anything to eat was in nought-five. The sun had set a long long time ago and the moon was brand new. Cameron was all alone on that sceptor, and he was shining.
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