Basher: I could not sympathize more with the weary fella…But my frustration is of a different character. To be more precise, I’ve been stigmatized as an arrogantly ignorant, badly-styled offender of everybody and everything else--sometimes intentionally, at times inexplicably misreading their words, emotions, and thoughts. Here it’s worth mentioning that I moved to this country as an adult and, for that reason, was more familiar with acquisition of language than with learning it…In any case, the point I’m trying to make is that such a situation made of me a handicapped person forever excluded from the club of indigenous lovers of a good laugh. You may wonder why. I’d hardly swallow the last bite of my favorite cookie and the lightening ’ld hit you, opening your eyes to the sad truth that the reason is another form of deprivation: (in this particular case) of the ability (mind you, not the right!) to enjoy the benefits of good pun. One does what one can…some things are just to be accepted. That’s sad destiny of a non-native speaker, innit? Going back to the theme of accusation, I must admit that it’s not so hard, though, to bear the stigma…as it is to explain that all the guilt results from my inability to either remember or understand my own history. Why? You may want to know. Rightly so. Because it is written at once, starting and ending in a zerolike statement. What could be more bewildering? How to think of geography shaped by such history? How to know one’s own date of birth? How to produce a decent epigraph? How to learn the alphabet that includes numbers? How to count when the first and the last number in the string are zerolike? How not to be weary? I’m asking you.
Truly moving…Puts my lousy verbal capacities to shame. In such situations I always turn to what has already been said about the topic in question. Many people have articulated thoughts about it much better than I can. Furthermore, as someone who suffers from the same ocassional memory blocks, I usually slip into other people’s diaries because, if nothing else, they keep exact record of time. I even tend to stick to a sample and take it as a recuring pattern of my own thinking. Here’s one of them…Stay tuned to WELD/Program. Awm.
Medical Profession: I’m honored to be part of this remix. My only concern is (how astonishingly in tune with the sentiment of your recurring diarist pattern, me-ms-ess-ta--DJ …sadly so)…anxiety some would dub it…that there is little I can contribute to it. My imagination is inhibited, my mind operates at a pace normally associated with the kinetics of lower species such as snails…my spirit is crippled, my vocabulary repetitive, limited…my ideas uninteresting, my heart hollow, my soul shallow, and my body…nonexisting. When I think about the ways that might…perhaps reanimate my being, transforming me into a potential contributor, I see no way…All I see is an indigo world, spreading a curtain over the roof of the Milky Way. It’s a dripping world. What from here looks, or, may be imagined as either an atmosphere or vacuum is, actually, a rich blue ocean. When I am not engaged in devising tactics for reanimating my slumberous soul, I am a surfer — a rider of ultramarine oceanic waves. When I come back from across the curtain divide, I bring on my torso ink droplets. I don’t wash them away. Instead, I let them dry…Slowly. It’s a dripping world. I don’t know how long it takes for one micropond to evaporate from my skin, but while it’s happening, I am not more alive than I was before I went surfing. That makes me think that surfing is not quite the best reanimating tactics. I spent many an hour brining people back to life. I’m a doctor. But I need another fella-of-the-trade to recreate me. My name is Alle. If there’s anybody among the participants worthy of the title, please find my contact info on http://www.WELD/Program. Awm and DO NOT hesitate to get in touch.
Working Class Standpoint: I was patient enough, waiting to see if there would be light at the end of the tunnel…of this infinitely nonsensical logorrhea. You either have no philosophical gift, or, you are so hopelessly in love with being manipulated by plagiarizing your own thoughts. No wonder you live your life like s*it when the content of your “philosophizing” is platitudes. Not that it’s not worth thinking once in a while, but how you do it certainly does not problematize it in a way sufficiently inspiring to be food for other philosophers (proper at that!!!). Also, your poetic potential is on the level and of the scope of a three year old child. “Damp leaves,” “window pane,” curtains everywhere…milk galore…life of ultramarine affinities…drizzling…dripping…dr…NO BIG DEAL!!! I am a businessman. I work. Have neither time no inclination for kindergarten poetry and chicken-brain theory. I work. Do YOU?
Stupid Perspective: I don’t. I’m a rascal. An edgy bastard. A provoking poseur. I pose a lot. I take no opinion as well-intended advice. I find it offensive when my pose is criticized for being too provocative. Then I become vengeful. Blood-thirsty. I take no offence. I will have no novice telling me what style is. I’m bad-styling. And I bite. Back. Now, YOU, Mr. Busy…were you talking to me? Wait for your response I shall not. Rather, I’d revenge right-da-phunkie way. You scum…bad-styling you call me…HUH???!!!! Feel free to find my contact info on http://www.WELD/Program. Awm and DO NOT hesitate to get in phunkie touch, so we can “TALK” OFF phunkie line!!! Poets of desire, philosophers of architecture, painters of replicas, walking bulls, sitting foots, photographers of time, salesmen of other people’s grandparents, couch-comforters…you know where you can find me. Don’t let me wait too long to taste the odd droplet from your jugular…CHEERIO!!!
Domestic Perspective: Anybody in need of style cramping? I have no hope that theory can ever be improved as long as it is writ in ink. Desolate and overpowered I AM faced with the bleakness of the conversation. Truly discouraging. A kind of revenge as disparaging may be, I am deeply ashamed by the vulgarity of your motives, me dear participants. Not that I expected noble spirits among you. Can’t even say that my aspirations reached any height…I never had a slightest trace of a thought that compassion could be at stake. But this is below the lowest threshold of dignity.
Scholarly Perspective:
Education It’s the school days that turned out to be the greatest source of inspiration for such a sudden urge to re-enact the state rather different from what one knows now. For one, there was no need to worry about tuition fees. But then, neither was it there when one was in college. How strangely mutably-invariable. In comparison to what it is now. Anyway, not having to be concerned about mindbending maneuvering in order to make ends meet and still get some education, one was pretty much disburdened and could navigate the lifescape with astoundingly immense (for some characters) ease.one was frequently asked: what is thy phunkie problem going to be? one would answer: oronot. one was again asked: how do thou imagine thy future career-phunkie-job? one would answer: dunno the difference between ye idea and ye yeme. one was told: how do thou think thou sceolde live if thou has no vision of site? one would answer: don’t give a s*it about your introgation. one was told: that’s not how people speak—thou spake no good runian poetry. one would respond: don’t care how you say *sameGAbri* in etruscan; ich says *bite this one lucky Bastard*
On more than one occasion one would be challenged to defend the provocativeness of the jungle-mess which sometimes passed for essays. One would answer: All the power that anyone can ascribe to destabilizing techniques does and does not exist at the same time; all the power attached to the effect of the demand for plausibility melts like towers of dust on a sandy beach when confronted with the dispeller of the approximately following context: ich been the creatore in possession of a bottomless wellspring of mindless bulls*iteering—incomprehensibly incomprehendable at that. One was secretly pitied for having such murky prospects ahead of oneself.
One was a lucky bastard. And so were a couple of similar characters in one’s class, V.
Work More than once, one was either accused/condemned of, or, fired because of seriously threatening the existence of a considerable number of people and students. If what has just been said sounds to you like a chant coming from a deranged shamanistic liver at noon of an August day in Sahara, it is because there is an insurmountable problem with translating lexical meaning of etrurian phonology into the morphology of any language imaginable to a human kidney. If not, who cares…In any case, such a professional history presents, or, more precisely, could present an impediment to one’s successfully climbing the social ladder—!upwards! Alternately, one gets hired at the institute for queer-twisting remixology of retro-fungi under the auspices of the society for damage-minded saharian thinkers amusing themselves with enchanting sand in the interregnum between two beaches at the tower. Lucky bastard.
: :Cheers! Honorable listeners / participators, we are going to take a short break and hear from our correspondent who is conveying heated discussions currently partaking at the friendly battlefield of ideas on Half Floral Avenue. Yo!
