She was convinced in recent months
she was the test-subject in mind-
control experiments /
When she read books, she hallucinated that smaller books were emerging from the text with secret messages for her.
"I am on a trajectory that will eventually see me and my once captive alter system free. The rest of you are becoming more and more conscripted."
111,111,111 x 111,111,111 = 12,345,678,987,654,321
-- amazing how everyone sits forcefully (by the furniture) slouching like they are being tipped backward down a tube like a throat, to be digested, but before digestion! a little chatting, debate &c -- irrepressible poets of 20th century
~ parley / parlay : as yet undecided re: title of 5th little book, though as it is made to occur for the reader somewhat randomly, in the manner of a series of wandering monster tables, perhaps this element (random) can persist in the very title
it is, after all (after all) the 21st century, some section of it, elongating.
. . . only a small specialised thing -- a benign cancer! -an aeronautical appendage, something in space to explore but well enough tied to the world of the body to suffer.
I cannot articulate, to my satisfaction (my head being broken) what, for example, is so fascinating about the manga "I am a Hero" yet I can share a little find, that has furthered mystery (a main component of this manga's appeal) . . . without further ado:
|from chapter 47 (volume 5)|
|from chapter 136 (volume 12)|
posit(s): hand position of the man suggest this is significant; they as a couple have travelled, after infection probably at temple in vicinity of mount fuji, to end up in saitama suburb (I think in less than a week, possibly a matter of four or less days, must check timeline); suggests a Kurusu-type directive force from early on, assembling infected for specific as-yet undisclosed purpose(s) / (note applauding infected in-between the recurred couple) / to act as witness to birth of new half-infected? A precise system, plan, is behind all this apparent chaos?
~ also all so vaguely reminded of the sinister elderly couple in bardot intervention movie "mulholland drive"
Later will reveal some thoughts re: trees, possibly very very big trees, in mysterious comic "I am a Hero"
Cesium top-ups, among, brill, bobby-johns survival pathway, glimpsed w.aphid (we think those green things are aphids)(?)
eventual survival evidence shows of bobby-johns ... family,? or,? species,? in any event, a persist.
Give enough window.
Don't things take time? there's so much waiting "involved" they say that's what war is but at least you have the opportunity to kill someone, or two or more than, and/or be so yourself, and those, your opponents, were waiting also, unless there is some asymmetry involved, but in any case everyone had something to do, and "got something out of" the experience, weaponry, trauma, bonds. ("writers" should at least be given, by the policy-commitee-horde of wealthy graphic and web "designers"who lurk behind all walls tending to their influence machines, hardy headwear, thick and long socks, and one pewter cup)
-- I don't have malnourished children in this particular text, and I can't find anything about the rites - innarestingly it seems christian missionary "work" has smothered most trace of original culture, funerary or otherwise - innarestingally, too, recall reading of the stillborn being interred inside trees, special trees perhaps, that have an appropriate space and/or growth mechanism, for the for the, for that kind of thingpractise. I think it's a good thingpractise. Let's put it into practise.
2/ a response wherein 6 slips were to be found, "response slips" and each had been edited by all the editors, so one slip the response, edited by further 5 "editors", perhaps then further, it was passed around, and edited again, why stop really? and so probably not slips, but like proust's manuscripts, annotated appearance /of the responses, of the respondees, collated to form the most full, over-complete (replete) rejection !
(rejection ! that has not arrived, it takes time, I was feeling "Oh, I don't know what to do" -was feeling despondent, forlorn, and other of those droopy words, sigh, etc -- NOW, probably, speaking within-the-real, the envelope did not reach what we hoped would be "destination" - not so unlikely, I've had bad luck with international post since I first tried it out, ordering "appleseed volume one" (the manga, not the great John Clute novel) from the "sheffield space centre"for example, circa er 1993/4 -- and that wasn't even international post, so post in general, we do not get on
Let me return. I have been low on morale. What I must do, I thought, is fashion an enquiry letter, but I have been lacking the guts. I thought, I will make an enquiry, I think I mean inquiry, electric letter, on the March 10, as that is "mario day" (MAR10) I thought, on that day, there shall be a bounciness, to give me the gut, raise my morale, make the inquiry shuttle forth like mario leaping in the Z-button far leap of latter-day mario games.
But that date passed and I didn't.
I thought the very next day, being March 11th, being now a sombre day, may well do it. The sadness of such days can sometimes bypass flaws in the self-brain+guts in an unexpected jouissance , but not this time, it wasn't to be, and if you consult your calender you may see I haven't yet made my move. It is not there is no hope, but the tangible sink, sunk, and I couldn't think of further useful dates.
I hadn't much morale to start with. Easily routed. Now I have lost touch with, lost grip on, the "submission process" - it's funny, that we say "to submit", to the mighty master publishers - now there are "submission fees" even; the scene extends further into paid-for sex fetish services, and a publication database recently decided it requires "paid subscription" - adult contact listings. The system lists, it has become: wrong-way-round.
We must invert all glasses of drink, spaghetti dinners, all cake.
In allways, anycase, there is no total lack of hopes.
Now shall list some reasonable pleasant things related to the situation/un-situation harried/ un-harried, perfectly isolate, as described (somewhat, hardly) in the missive(s) compounded composed, above, comprised of, as I said, un-situation, the non-action, in (un-)response to, my meagre, so frail it's hardly there, attempt, or was it even that, I can no longer say
LIST of some related BOONS:
1/ wait, this is no boon, it's a bad review (!) (or is it only baddish?) of my elderly story text "the cat-dead party" good or bad it is nice to see these things pop up
2/ birkensnake has assumed its rightful place among the wikipedia arena of "entries" after a previous failed attempt. maybe the editors (of wikipedia) have become less pernickety, or there was exodus of them (editors) or the time has come, in time there is a settling, all things to their rightful positions.
3/ also the birkensnake is undergoing a fundraising momentum for the collossal 6 (+1(=7)) birkensnake #sixes warping the space-time weave even in my little dreaming I mentioned above (..."a response wherein 6 slips &c ...")
4/ new genre magazine finds its spot on.in among the online sf encyclopedia I recall reading the tun-of-brix sized printed volume in a library and made several lists of authors/books, after refinding good attitude in sf after reading appleseed by john clute who so happens to be one of if not the main editor/s of said encyclopedia off and on-line, in print and in electric monitor shimmer
& 5/ then if mark scroggins the zukofsky biographer/scholar didn't just recently write a review of said SF text "appleseed" and he did just that so things may assume the pathshapes of circle ("descry") reasonable, well
-- and hence there's solace in some glimpse, half I suppose make-believe, but of forward momentum, halfly or so's
Thinking back where the (un)loss of key takes me back, to one time of actual loss of key, I was but a schoolboy -- and a meagre schoolboy at that, inefficient, uncrushed -- and in fact the key was still with me, in my schoolboy garments, specifically the "blazer", a kind of "jacket", there was a hole in my jacket, specifically the pocket of the jacket, the "breast pocket", it being close to my nipple, one of them, perhaps the left, where the key was stored five days a week, it (key) had slipped into the lining, through the hole, in the left breast pocket of the jacket of the school uniform, which is a prelude to "work-wear", if you can't help it.
Perhaps my teenage nipple had been transmitting phantom hormonal particles and contributed to "wear and tear" in the proximity.
I did not know about the hole in the pocket. Otherwise I would have not had a problem with losing the key, I would know to look for it past the pocket hole. Past the pocket hole is the "lining". But if the key was not there then I would panic. Would panic further. Sometimes I think that's all the future is. Or "entails".
Therefore, to all "intents and purposes" I had certainly lost my key. It was lost through the hole in my pocket. It was in the lining of the jacket called "blazer". I did not know that. The lining of things like those clothes gives me an upset queasy feeling.
(contemplation of an afterlife spent forever and all alone between two infinite sheets, a little tension beneath enough to crawl on, above hangs down droops drapes over as a little interference to your crawling wherever you go for however long the same situation inescapable, the sheets unrippable, no flame at hand, you would wish to burn yourself and the always-there sheets, all of this afterlife world but you can't)
I make an anxious bad tailor.
I maybe never properly lost a key, this makes me embarrassed
the ground floor old man found me sitting outside (perhaps there were two keys, we were living in a sort of old people home appartment zone, with I am sure some security features, ie, a communal door locked for starters) it was during wimbledon. He made me a cup of tea and taught me how to pronounce the name of the tennis player "ivanisovich" : "ivan is a witch" with necessary consonant flattenings etc taken in to um consideration. But I think I already knew how to pronounce that etc. Tennis is OK to watch for a while, then it becomes highly boring. That is why the audience like to eat strawberries. The olympics is very very boring, very soon after the initial Oh this may be interesting, passing moment.
wow, I seem to be bleeding from the ears, how cool is that . . . is it both ears, let me check . . . it is the right ear that is most afflicted as regards the bleeding
I have almost always enjoyed emanations from the ear, far more than such from the nose, for example. Once found a patch of grit-type packed substance, about where the lobe-proximal skin meets the sensual curve of the side-neck, somewhat adjacent to the angular jar thing-line . . .
speaking of ears, I woke nauseuous one morning and glared into the little mirror positioned in the manner of one half a trestle table, like so: /| propped, I find I can't do the slash the other way, some keyboard this is, some sorry effort I make, for reasons of minus attributes * * well, it's not complex, I saw a line vertical on the ear my right, I had never noted it. The left shows no such. What do we know of all the body bits, you may well have a dead face, of a wannabe sibling, on small of your back. It collects the littlest, anciently, excresence, of womb atmospherics, still linger. At the back.
Ah but now, I must stop, speaking of the matter of, the ear, ears, &
only now do I understand, after 33 years, some of them of course less vocational than others, and many dreary, and with an understandably seductive amount of cheap eggs, in the retail, and the very idea all about, in the western tarnished world, only then, only now, does it all come together, and I realise I do not like the OMLETTE
I was always making omlette with reasonable fervour, and, as I would like to think it, bonny attitude, but the end result (the resulting omlette) always made me forlorn, and sometimes a bit angry
something wrong with my construction of the omlette, I naturally always thought, but it is not necessarily the case that upon successfuly constructing a meal-food-item, one will enjoy that food, in the mouth, gullet, further tubes and nutrient-poaching caverns and conveyors to the expell-zones -- it does not necessarilly follow that foods are enjoyable for all bodies; or even for the mouth maybe, but not the further bits of the bodies.