L. Edgar Otto 02 May, 2012
Somehow, subjectively, focused in the mirror of absent mindedness, distractions yet able to multitask, make the same old love while watching Jimmy Kimble, in theory if not in the flesh, so much worry and effort seems to be the energy and concern of friends as puppets of some vague idea of family, gender, and replication and I don't want to get drunk with them and do not feel it an insult if I do not. In any case I seem to get much more done not caught up in the drama although like said of fishing time spent doing it is added to life. My hours of listening to their sober confidences does not detract from my time and if anything enhances, makes my observation of people much keener.
Yet what good does it do to just talk about it? For some the hell on this earth is other people, for others it is the fear of isolation. In the coffee shop I have become fluent in the underlying languages like Prozac, or Riddlin, but I take what people say at face value without trying to look deeply into them, I mean what are breasts after six children but efficient milk bottles at just the right temperature? But through the eyes of others I recall their fascination and there cloaks some present as if not knowing it the whale tail or the tramp stamp as they sit high on the stools of the coffee bar. I cannot recall whom are really C cup unless I have once wondered what Doug was looking at and followed his eyes.
But in the Beach L'mare where the denizens there mix their drinks and prescription drugs (and life itself is a powerful drug) I have a hard time translating their language which occurs to make bridges as they tell me the same thing again or tell themselves or add to their indifferent social worlds some token of emotions that are its own misinterpretations and real thereby by bridges burned. One long lost day until the dawn of their achievements or lack of them in their life spans.
You believe in reincarnation, my friend, loopy in your preoccupation with desires and ego as where is your chance to find love and not be the forty year old virgin? Karma too, you think the world cares if you have done wrong or right and expect your just reward for the doing of good, for your evils?
We string along or handcuff others in the stealth games of romance and on what side of the iron curtain of lace panties holds you back from the risk that's worth it for love in this world. You are obviously punished by natures balances in herself and your soul for generations of whoring around. But even here the borders are not real so as to exclude someone from the crossing and access by accident of birth for you have been a citizen of this this state before and now find yourself immature and third world thinking life here better.
So your stringly, loopy, wider concepts of the bigger pictures and even lack of curiosity to pick up the maps of our anatomy or find details on the street at a safe anonymous distance, experiment with what she may have never seen herself for we assume our forms are the default before the assault of breasts and hair of which we can become entangled in, or lose, be entrapped or enticed while there is no reality but the passing of time with difficulty to remain human for forgotten wisdom learned in the cloisters of escape and rituals for your depth of faith, that so easily vanished as if a wearing down of inoculations and the persistent new adventure in the recurrence of disease.
The cold half working reason, or reasonable logic of it all does build bridges between us as if made of stone or for the masses in bloom or fallen leaves crinkling in the wind as if they were still alive making a wake of music, startling me a little like some small animal from my contemplations always favorable on my walks from and too the coffee shop for new ideas or music, that sort of learning there for the recall as if saved and not lost on the back burner.
But having not much to say about theory and the various languages same one small illustration I cannot expect anyone to analyze or understand if they choose to look beyond what may be but a pretty picture or a what is wrong with this picture question I have to ask what is the point of these sideways and distracted right angle T-bone collisions that somehow reverse the world and sends us sideways through the symmetries. I think this is pretty much a sort of Mobius operation where in the end there is the only one side of things described by two faces of some region without volume. Yet my friend says to me confused as to looking for romance or relief in the flesh of some imagined other, when will he have a family or a partner in this world to become one again as if the myth of our broken one soul?
Despite the language and the notation and symbols making sense in matters of replication in the Multiverse and many worlds what was changed for whom is now the caretakers or guardians as if musical chairs, the children being the only constant, it is hardly intelligible that such bridges are there or not in reality or artificial name only as the complexity of nature does the square dance and confuses the names of the children as if all of them but clones or twins with all the tension of multiple wives or in some 'Braidy' bunch... that too a matter of loopy lives and a stage of puppets each tied only to each other it made of strings and sometimes tangles, sometimes our casting to the river of time brings us back only old shoes or bits of driftwood if we can face the killing and cleaning and frying the fish in the unforeseen reality of catching one in the sea of plenty of fish already wounded by the catch and release, with our without a license.
Anyway, in the illustration I rotated things at a right angle to see the result of the subsymmetry. I find eight things to make for a notation... the interplay of the yellows and blues and greens and magenta's, the up and down or right and left, and vertical or horizontal as if a hidden quilting pattern. It is a casual and vague first dream, but surely these symmetries are important in the scheme of things too.
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