Jock,
That bit about all you need is stuff, stuff, stuff - stuff is all we
need - yea yea yea - was so good it almost made the rest worth it, but
noooooot quiiiiiiiiite.
Say happy christmas to Desmond for me, if you see him that is - you
might not, I understand.
All the cheery best
Tim A.
On 2 Dec 2009, at 11:07, Jock McKmemeez wrote:
> That was the month that is, November 2009. So much happened in the
> scenes
> and distilleries of verbal magic. So many people came and went. All
> of us
> here writing and reading, we achieved so little and yet, so much.
> Across the
> spectrum in all its back-water of still side-pools and wells in a
> torrent of
> up-gushing filíocht, we spoke and spun us dealers of whatever
> appears in an
> application which delivers the literature and letters.
>
> Torqued by a 'technology of the intellect' rendered compliant,
> broadcasting
> our quarrel with the self that is poetry and rhetoric made into a
> global
> business: our market two to three million. The one percent of
> everyone alive
> with some level of proficiency with and in this language not of our
> forebears, rendered compliant by another's language not their own -
> ours now
> - sown within at brutal cost, the thwacking anglo-saxon hammer in
> Latin,
> full span across the spectrum, a Language that binds and divides us,
> the 2
> billion with a smattering of English.
>
> A two to three hundred million customer potential, the one percent
> of 'us':
> just being born now - not then - offers an advantage because of this
> linqua
> franca, universal european representitive of a west-world ethic,
> race reared
> on the tv technologies by invisible gods, absent ones alive to all
> but most,
> as what image?
>
> Ourselves, 'us', bored to the bone, bad right through, full time
> appalled,
> always looking out to knee you in the balls, gnawed gone to that
> nothingness
> in the current competitive state of being on a scene so sealed by
> wearing a
> shirt for self-first, 'me' and me the imaginary anonymous anyone and
> unborn
> dead yet to ventriliquze us once the race is run: us and 'them',
> we're all
> very much the same, identical in every single aspect of importance -
> two
> legs, arms, hands, ear, nose, a container of the lens that is us with
> consciousness - manifesting vibrational energies into ..this looking
> phantom
> visible whole made into our show, with what technology of the
> intellect we
> possess.
>
> Language it is 'us' 'here' in this space, huddle, self-help symbol and
> support of one another as haters, lovers, rivals and, ultimately -
> performers.
>
> What a performance thus far and it only early in December. There's
> plenty of
> time for us to start a row, have a big scene swapping letters of
> outrage and
> taking issue, agreement, smoothing the way for a read-through at the
> recital, advertising in this corner where sophistication haunts the
> very
> walls and doors, drains and bridges, all you need is stuff, stuff,
> stuff -
> stuff is all we need,
>
> yeah yeah yeah.
>
> The party time is nearly upon us, and i was just gonna ask if y'all
> wanna
> Xmas do, for the favourite few of you who I respect as mental
> patients in
> therapy here where it's all so very very experimental, hey, dearest
> deserters from the one wrong till, tallying it all so very forward
> edge, so
> very worthwhile and not a little unexpensive, if such a scene exists
> - where
> is it now, please, if not right here now, right, sheeple?
>
> ~
>
> Take no notice of my lunacy - tis been a strange month. Last
> Septmeber, i
> imagined to have hit ollamh, but with the conscious and unconscious
> realm
> divided by quarterly periods and moon-cycles, the quarrel within
> with Self,
> though we cross rubicons and arrive at platforms where the life-long
> light
> of Learning first came on, in the early part of the year it was
> before the
> ollamh woke first to consciousness, after the six month catch up.
> Though I
> guessed it in Spetember, this was only an intuitive knowing. The
> latest in a
> guessing game of hocus pocus and supernatural business end of what
> it is,
> the quarrel within our own Self, the technology of the intellect, both
> process and self-wrought ironing van, staple to heart and head, a
> mass of
> many things that is, everything perhaps, in that binary focus the
> knowing-ones were taught in the schools and whose live within the
> annals as
> blue-print how-to guide for us in the guild of verbal magicians
> being oh so
> very foreward edge, guessing what will come before it happens, being a
> magician in print, keeping the eye fixed on what quarrel's
> outpouring from
> within, reflection of the universe, olfactory 'n aural, sight and
> speech,
> hear that sound anew, the new sound system for poetic belief, from the
> regular poetry ecetera members, keeping it real, teaching, spreading
> belief
> and oh so very forward, exciting, ready to back each other up when our
> reputation's discussed behind open citadel doors, scurrying across
> to what
> chief knowers instruct us to make, luvvie luvvie.
>
> Crazy times.
>
> Desmond Swords Normal Illinois.
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