the leg biting the chair back

[Amos]

The newly working man needs a vent, for all of such, because of this and because of that, since not, well then, or rather now, thus. The newly working man is a robot, newly made, made of old parts. Metals, cables, liquids, sparks. He is a tower, a rocket, he stands on his mouth. This is where the fire falls out.

When it first began it was called a living, the tight possessing of a mean and ugly life. Or so the enlightened kettle laughingly recalls the pot. So the manuka does not know the seed except as windward child. Only know that only ghosts bemoan their bygone flesh. And so it wavered in the worldwind, damn slavering, slender youth. Woooooo.

The origin of a specist, lover of the alien self. A single stroke of type in a sea of slander, italicised limbs curling inwards, sinking back up to the center. He refuses to write like a sensible person, ostensibly, because all revelations are born from misunderstandings.

Darknesses within darknesses. Let me share with you a short tail: one hand in the sun is worth having both feet on a cloud.

[Amos]

Untitled

Sheep.
Sheep in fog
Sheep on log
Sheep on log in fog
Sheep sleep in fog on log
Bleat.

There are vampires
They prey upon the sheep
They prey upon the weak
They prey upon the wolves
They prey upon the fog
They prey upon vampires
They prey upon the preyed upon
They prey upon the preyed upon a log
They prey they prey they prey

I
I am not I
Form that is
I am not that form
I am not
I am form
Not formed
Unform
Bleat.

[Amos]

"On the shores of Brazil there is a species of tree that exhibits even more sentient and carnivorous traits than its near cousin, the venus fly-trap. But the most notable feature of this peculiar plant is not the flesh-eating, monkey-like growths protruding from its trunk; it is the fact that it can both fly and swim. This would be impossible of course if the tree was rooted in the ground like regular trees, but the Hovercraftian Fishlover, as it is known to regional scientists, has a rounded, rootless base, allowing it to rest in badger holes when immobile and sleeping, and move about during the day by means of levitation (the tree is of course nocturnal)."

Link To Original Article

[Amos]

She was the forgotten love-child of a Sumerian orchardist and his blind French mistress, passed on in her tenderest years to a notorious district in the notorious brothel district. She grew and grew until she was twelve foot five and her only customer paid in apricots because her distended stomach could tolerate nothing else. Her pregnancies were legion, yet her unrequited lust for canapés enhanced her awful beauty, and her nightly flights along the rooftops of Salvador de Bahia caused comment. Across the smoke-stacks and train-tracks traipsed this painted women; and where her dainty feet fell, marking the ground and sky alike with cream-coloured paw-prints, soon to follow were the inimitable multitude of monsterly creatures, her mutant spawn.

Mother you called her, plaintive by the battering seagrave til by came the humanchine, singularicurse mulitplicious of the racine philosophomus, dooming down the swallow shore. And borne into his forked limbs amerged you werecat, once brine now scree.

[Amos]

Sometimes it is better not to realize a potentiality, a feat or future of which you are capable, because it will be a hindrance in your quest for happiness and liberation from a life in bondage to suffering. What some people mean by "your potential" is in reality the number of burdens you can possibly bear before collapsing. Therefore it would be better, with ultimate peace in mind, to remain like the Original Substance: wholly oneself and together in one place, yet capable of any form or direction that you choose. In the writings of Haruhi Suzumiya we find frequent references to otherworldly beings, time travelers, and men and women with super-ordinary abilities. This longing for contact with the strange, the ethereal, and the unlikeliest manifestations in the universe indicated this one young girl's desire for a life free from the constraints of normalcy. A young girl who felt overwhelmed by the sheer ordinariness of an everyday existence, and out of that negative reaction was born the will and the focus to seek to change her dreary situation. From then on the slightest boredom or melancholy would produce in her symptoms of a reactionary nature that would build up until ultimately she would in a blaze of energy recreate and reinvent her universe. Thus her potential was limitless, in that it was shaped by her will, and not by the social forces around her, and at any moment could be reborn and renewed in her heart.

[Amos]

You have to stop being out;
be in.
Take the hopscotch jump-rope skip
from mind into no-mind.
Feel the loud silence within within.
This moment is a divine moment.
This moment you are a buddha.
Pin down your consciousness to this moment
And you can come back to life,
To new life,
Rivverun with new light,
Unpeel with new senses to feel,
With you new to understand.

[Amos]

fylgone the mindfuhrer, herdergirdler, insipidcider liar prodely bloating lurids speechified ~~~

"i would rather die than be in love"

<o>
+|+
_W_

[Amos]

Resonance occurs when the driving frequency
Approaches the natural frequency
Of free vibrations.
The moon has a vibration:
Be in tune with the moon.
Keep a bag of grass
In the glove compartment of your car
As an offering to Om,
Most holy of thieves.
Append to your néebones
Extwindle your inknots
And when swindigglers command jumps,
Dance, cows, life is short.

[Amos]

with feet on cloud, and his head in the sand of the universe
doldreaming of her: her love: moonsome, oceanly, a magma
beautiful and supple males garbed the naked fences, singing
in a high-pitched furor of the poetry of her thighs
she complained: vanity is the pettiness of love,
daybright pennies winking at the sun;
behold her, be held! by good your black beak crows at night

[Amos]

my stun and czar, my loon, my oun
not too soon sowed, not groan inert
teeth enjoined to guardened boons and bown
and minaret, where water swims as
wind is blown by one sweet bloom of petal,
as effervescent tuned from tube
thou walk en stalk, druid sack and sling,
to let nuns know what you have beamed
wit eyres a greened, o suspirillia,
my queen, my croon, my paraplegia
at the crook of streets we stewed
lacquered and prosed like two books
stranded, arracked, maids to marrow bliss
my gown of light, my crown, my adolesce

[Amos]

I'm going back to university. I simply cannot see where else there is to go. Yadda yadda blackness, misery etc. To the other side of the sky, Special Generation..

I hug you all. Anita who has no friends and a drunk for a boyfriend, Eyreplenh for being a hobo who only loves the imaginary horses of his drunken-hallucinations, Wendy because she will die anonymously in the streets of Bristol with a rose on her lips and a thorn in her heart, Lyle for going back to university because his life has become empty and directionless again, and everyone else whose existence is tragic, joyless and doomed. Let us all gather and thank Eris for booze, drugs, books, and drunken, drug-addled sex w/ books optional (sex not included). Ask about our installment plans.

For now, do not ask me anything. Thoughts I have had: none. This is the wasteland of the mind, the cataracts and brittle shores of it, and I look upon you all with an emptiness in my heart that is like a hole in heaven. O woe is me, my things and such betray me or something, wretched unassigned-attributes, plausible ailments, unrequited love, and other minor annoyances. I have the sense that none of this is true, that I have a dream of an incarnate hell that is the song of my suffering and whose eyes reflect only terror and joy. "How do you account for all of this?" I ask the ocean. A grey bird gnaws at my heart. "How has this come to pass like an unseasonal wind of interminable vexatiousness? Answer me, blurry mirror of my soul's face!"

Silence: nothing in his being stirs.

Wait for me, Chidori!

[Amos]

I can say what I want and make an attempt to understand the world better through my own littleness.

yes!

i look for familiar patterns more than new ones, and what pleases me most is to hear or see echoes of myself in the world. because i'm so blessedly simple i don't really see a lot, but that's okay. i have learned in the last few weeks to follow my heart, like i used to before the tyrant's reign of my mind. i have learned some other things too, but the translation is still in progress and i have to go home now. lectures in the morning and everything else. peace all

[Amos]

It's been a long time since I was really present here, at the Quill. A long time since I talked about myself (except in delirious code), a long time since I had anything resembling a dialogue with any of you. I get the impression that your lives have changed a lot (Jabb has a Jabette; NF has pink hair), but the place itself still seems the same, if considerably quieter. No one new has really made headway into our little circle of sages, lovers, and lunatics, and in a way I rather like that. I looked up my dictionary of symbols a few hours ago and it said that "the Quill is said to represent predestination." I have always felt that I was meant to come here, and that so was everybody else, even if I didn't like them, or if they liked prog. A sudden influx of strangers would make me feel like my concepts of destiny and rightness had been overturned, like waking up one day on an alien planet. Actually that would be kind of cool, but for a while I would find it a little shocking. Perhaps a little bit indecent, as if the Cosmos had shown her panties - but, since I'm not a moralist or a prude, not entirely unpleasant.

I confess that I haven't for some time really felt much compulsion to return here on a regular basis, which I think has something to do with some small cumulation of personal changes, as well as fluxes in, and alternative outlets for, my creativity. I am in solitude, when I possibly can be. Time well-spent contemplating, reading, writing, drawing, watching anime, and sleeping way too much. Being at university again though has woken me up a little. I spend more time walking aimlessly, haunting the bookstores, and I even go to lectures when the mood takes me. Long, late-night talking sessions with Lyle - in which all the histories of humankind, the philosophies of angels, the loves and tragedies of literature, and the musics of all possible worlds are discussed - are also becoming frequent, but then with him I would expect no less, even if I was mute. All these activities are causing me to gain momentum in some indefinable way, as if my soul was hurtling down a mountain (the metaphor is excessive, naturally), and I feel some need to be once again a part of a community where things are not so frantic and ill-advised, as the life of a student can often seem to a compulsive idolater.

I wont be so precocious as to make excessive promises, or even vague ones. There is a word that I snatched from the ether some few years ago that a few of you will remember, and which better defines me than any name or alias ever has. My understanding of this word, and therefore of my own nature, though sometimes subject to the vagaries of the word itself, allow me to suggest that the stronger my intended conviction is, the less likely I am to follow through with that conviction. Oscar Wilde said that “Every woman is a rebel, and usually in wild revolt against herself.” I guess I'm not a woman, but that's in keeping with the spirit of rebellion, and the quote totally applies. All this speechification is very self-indulgent anyway, and unnecessary if I didn't want to get back into the habit of reflecting. So I'll just go, leaving you with what reads like a riddle, rhymes in the manner of a poem, and has only one sentence which you can put any faith in.

There is no man down one road walking who
Nor up, nor across, in soft with single shoes
Not in black comes mourning blue
What with lies when eyes go through
This only knot can untie bliss
For world is world: no world is true.

[Amos]

I don't know if I really want to share my thoughts. Thoughts flit from flower to flower, from garden to hive, buzz with promise and die after a sting. My thoughts are bees? I don't want to share my bees? Precisely. But how can so many bees be kept track of. Such erractic flight patterns, tracing trajectories and curves whose algorithms confound the most mathematical of beekeepers.

Blast, my lovely bees are seceding.

Well it's been a long time since I anything. I forget how experience becomes symbols: what is the relationship between this moment, this day, these memories... and words? I once envisaged my life as an absurdist novella, written by a fool and edited by the incarnation of the colour green. But it was an underwhelming intellectual exercise, another improbable insect dead on the wing, graceless in it's ascent and soon disappearing into the lighter, foggier areas of my mind.

Untold bees are receding into the white.

Last night (it wasn't last night) my car windows were condensated, I could not see out, so I let them down (they were longing for it, like transparent dogs on taut, invisible leashes), first one, then in a flash of inspiration, all but the front and the back, which would or could not. It was one in the morning (closer to two really), the air was not warm but not indecently cold: I turned the heater full on anyway, directed towards my feet in their scanty brown sandals. I felt free somehow, and I sang (I lied). I tapped the steering wheel and stomped the floor, which proved problematic, but satisfying despite the unnerving changes in my destination and velocity. Wind is my element, I want for adrenalin.

The windows stayed down, like good dogs.

My brother's niece and I painted together under the summer sun, on the summer grass, with summer eyes and summer hands. My flowers were far from adequate: they had red stalks. Flowers have green stalks, according to the wise child, who at four has attained the perfection of mind and harmony of nature that took Buddha like, comparatively forever, poor old chap. Later she painted without interference and startled my tired summer eyes. I wanted with all my heart to keep this painting but dared not ask. it was too beautiful anyway. I tied it with a ribbon and it went with her into the unknown city. One day I dream that modern artists, more modern than ours even, will find it and toss, not without a certain gracefulness of hand, it into their museum of Found Art, alongside a bird's wing and the shadow from under a hobo's hat. This is before the time where art escapes all boundaries, all frames, and is universalized by the perceptions of most everybody, who wander loosely and joyfully like monks among the ruins of colleges, delighting in every chance combination of light and form, reveling in the immanence of beauty; when all things are won, and the world is my toaster.

Quick, say something whimsical - - - Pop

[Amos]

"Looking at the piece of paper, lying innocuously on the street, Miles suddenly realized that it was just as real as he was, no less, possibly more. In despair he looked to the heavens, appealing for some kind of sympathy. He looked down again. The paper was gone. Aha! he thought, triumphantly. The piece of paper wasn't as real as he was after all. He smiled, at peace with the world. When he turned to leave he saw the paper again, being blown down the street. He almost fell into despair again, until he realized that he had no way of proving that the piece of paper he was seeing now was the same as the last. In order to cement this fact, he decided to catch it and see what was printed on it, thus giving the "new" piece of paper a dimension that the "old" piece hadn't possessed. The "old" piece remained unknown and elusive, a chimera, whereas the "new" piece would be clearly defined and capable of being possessed or destroyed. He began to chase it down the street, but the wind blew it into the river before he could get his hands on it. Oh this was too much! How overwhelming life was!

Miles trudged home. It seemed to him that even the most trivial of objects and tasks embodied a terrible destiny that would overwhelm him completely. By the next morning the mere thought of shaving made him want to kill himself, which he may well have done were it not for the supreme effort of will it would have required. He gave up shaving, along with going to work, dressing, and tidying the house. Each morning, or early evening rather, he would rise with a groan and stumble to the sofa, only rising to eat once, relieve himself, then return to bed. When he inevitably ran out of food, Miles gave up even getting out of bed. The slightest movement was an insurmountable obstacle; and thought, too, the weightless act of having an idea or reflecting on something another, seemed to take on a physical dimension, every one of them being like a drop of poisonous lead in his mind. Instead of thinking he would sleep, made far easier by his complete dejection, and give himself up to the influence of dreams, which in his waking hours he sometimes saw as a remedy for the suffering that awareness imposed: something like death, but without the negative connotations of an afterlife or the complete extinction of consciousness, a kind of soft chariot that would carry him endlessly across the sky, far above the dreaded Labyrinth with it's demanding turns and pathways, and steered so as to avoid impact with any final destination. The truth of course was less idealistic, but Miles had by this point lost any faculty for critical thinking, which he had come to see as a burden in any case, one he gladly dropped (without smiling). He slipped into a comatose state, and it was this development, not unexpected from the outsider's point of view, that finally managed to inspire hope and purpose in his being. Confined to his imagination he experienced pure freedom and an energy that wasn't set against the world but in harmony with it."