Jim Leftwich, Everything But A Shortcut
Jim Leftwich
Everything But A Shortcut
If writing entangles thought in quantifiable slipknot, then asemic writing must unknot the ideas at their axes.
If writing entwines the dendrites, then asemic writing should unknot the axons.
No quipu, no qubit. Or: if qubits, then quipu.
Even the axles of Event are unevenly temporal.
In the geological stratifications of human consciousness there is only juxtaposition, in one direction or many. Nearby, as if draped over human consciousness like a blanket made of stardusts, reside the ripples and convulsions of concocted time.
Between the signifier and the signified lies the absent sign, the eternally and infinitely nonexistent center of all things semiotic, spewing an incessant spray of semes and antisemes, like an aerosolized essence of sense for all of human existence.
Ben Brubaker -- "The qubit is an electrical circuit and putting the tardigrade next to it affects it through the laws of electromagnetism we've known about for more than 150 years. Putting a speck of dust next to the qubit would have a similar effect."
I have been thinking about subjective reality ever since I remember being given no choice in the matter.
You don't seep beribbons
Nor cult as sure as shoes
Your eyes bespeak / Thy will be done
On willows where we weep
Once upon a time, which was now, as then: we hardly know how to embrace it as belief. Once the absurd becomes predictable, it is no longer the absurd, it is only a disinterested style of misguided nostalgia.
So, yes, asemic writing does indeed lurch and stumble towards the sun, the sun in the sky around which our Earth revolves, and also the Sun in its Alembic, around which our Minds evolve.
On the journey of The Poet, asemic writing is little more than a Hastings Cutoff for the soul. It is everything but a shortcut. Cannibals await inside us. Either way, write or be written, eat or be eaten, steam rises from the mud, snow settles on the slopes, streams flow to the sea. Consciousness leaks through the fontanel like baby angels ascending William Blake's Ladder to The Moon.
Asemic writing will take us on a wide, winding walk through a long, windy desert, where some of us will dream of napping in a hammock beside a pool, while others among us awaken to the doubled dream of dust, with one foot on a rattlesnake and a tongue to taste the sky.
December 26, 2021
Roanoke VA USA
If writing entangles thought in quantifiable slipknot, then asemic writing must unknot the ideas at their axes.
If writing entwines the dendrites, then asemic writing should unknot the axons.
No quipu, no qubit. Or: if qubits, then quipu.
Even the axles of Event are unevenly temporal.
In the geological stratifications of human consciousness there is only juxtaposition, in one direction or many. Nearby, as if draped over human consciousness like a blanket made of stardusts, reside the ripples and convulsions of concocted time.
Between the signifier and the signified lies the absent sign, the eternally and infinitely nonexistent center of all things semiotic, spewing an incessant spray of semes and antisemes, like an aerosolized essence of sense for all of human existence.
Ben Brubaker -- "The qubit is an electrical circuit and putting the tardigrade next to it affects it through the laws of electromagnetism we've known about for more than 150 years. Putting a speck of dust next to the qubit would have a similar effect."
I have been thinking about subjective reality ever since I remember being given no choice in the matter.
You don't seep beribbons
Nor cult as sure as shoes
Your eyes bespeak / Thy will be done
On willows where we weep
Once upon a time, which was now, as then: we hardly know how to embrace it as belief. Once the absurd becomes predictable, it is no longer the absurd, it is only a disinterested style of misguided nostalgia.
So, yes, asemic writing does indeed lurch and stumble towards the sun, the sun in the sky around which our Earth revolves, and also the Sun in its Alembic, around which our Minds evolve.
On the journey of The Poet, asemic writing is little more than a Hastings Cutoff for the soul. It is everything but a shortcut. Cannibals await inside us. Either way, write or be written, eat or be eaten, steam rises from the mud, snow settles on the slopes, streams flow to the sea. Consciousness leaks through the fontanel like baby angels ascending William Blake's Ladder to The Moon.
Asemic writing will take us on a wide, winding walk through a long, windy desert, where some of us will dream of napping in a hammock beside a pool, while others among us awaken to the doubled dream of dust, with one foot on a rattlesnake and a tongue to taste the sky.
December 26, 2021
Roanoke VA USA
posted by jim leftwich at 11:51 AM
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