401-500
401-410
When i begin to forget everything, will i remember how things feel? When i see a sweet gum pod, will i know the pointy spikes are somehow soft? Is that built into my sense of touch or only an aspect of knowing what a sweet gum pod is? Is “softness” a learned sensation? If i have no memories of feathers, will i know what one feels like when see it for the first time? Are there sensations with no name? The feeling of wet sand has no name. It just “feels like wet sand”.
Why type of language is touch?
411 - 420
Aren’t we already fourth dimensional creatures in some way? Our memories allow us to perceive objects through time. We don’t just move through the world snapshot by snapshot. We anticipate and predict. We extrapolate movement and change. Existence is transitory. Perception is a rigid cataloguing. But we know where the river came from and where it’s going. We know it’s never a single thing and will never be the same again. We perceive life in layers of time already. And we travel through them in our minds. Is the challenge to see time not in layers, but as a solid?
421-430
Twisted, crooked, krum und kwehr. Unpredictable lurching throwing off predatory eyes. Skittering along the jittery fringe. Safely keeping quiet past what's known. Mutely climbing lengthwise through the hedgerows. Staying off the mainlines, main angles, main planes. Tracing the hidden edge of paper sheets, both sharp and blurry. Forgetting and forgotten. Unknown and innocuous. Minimal and minimalized. Ciphers on the margins of life's illustrated manuscript. Hiding behind marauding snails and bawdy peasantry. And if ever seen, only read as diacritical symbols on the page - unvoiced. Ghosts in the cabinets, enclosed and insubstantial. Remaining ever unsubstantial. Remaining a thing ever unclaimed.
431-440
“Bring me in, bring me in,” the radio screams in token antics and slapstick cues. Thrumming bass and subtle treble trilling calls for sexy times and mass consumption.
“Call me in, call me in,” the headlines bray in social engineering and over-dramatic news Informed and enflamed. Under understood but standing nonetheless.
“Somewhere, somewhere, somewhere, somewhere,” begs the ad through tits and teeth and honeybee beats. We've all got what you can't see, don't have.
"Be more than you, be more than you," the little screen seethes and steams. Kaleidoscopic selfies scanned and copied for distribution through the untethered hive mind.
441-450
2. You know we’ve never really been apart. You could always find me if you wanted.
1. And i still don’t want to.
2. But i do, and did. You don’t have a choice at this point.
1. I can leave.
2. Yes. And i’ll follow.
1. I can hide.
2. Yes. And i’ll find you.
1. I can run.
2. For how long? There’s why you’re scared. I'm an impediment. Your purpose isn’t to run from me, it isn’t to hide from me. You’ve got something you need to do, and you’re worried I’m going to get in the way.
1. You know nothing. I have no purpose.
2. Bullshit.
451-460
Get on your go-cart and get gone. Wipe your ruddy runny nose and get going. We’ve got plans to hatch and bugs to catch and the big tall trees need climbing. Pull up your ripped-knee big boy pants, shake the gravel off your palms. Get your BMX out the ditch and get keeping on. We’ve got crayfish to fish, forts to find, we’ve got warm days to wind around your filthy hands. Swat away the pain leaking from your eyes and get on track. Nobody’s gonna help you. You’ve only got you, so get on your go-cart and get gone.
461-470
Mama opens the window and pulls me onto her lap. “Look, the storm is gone,” she says gently. Her arms hold me softly, my head lolls onto her chest. “See, the stars are coming out.” Outside there is water dripping off the eaves and plopping off leaves. Slowly, the cowl of clouds pulls away from the sky, as pinpoints of light pop into view. First just a few, then more and more. She holds me tighter. One hand absentmindedly twisting my hair. Soon the darkness of the storm will rattle far away, leaving us under the bright blanket of starlight.
471-480
Taken as a whole, i would wholly disagree. And the quivering suspension of the nervous surface tension tends to tender it agrees. Not to mention radiation of the radiating radii and nucleating nucleae in nodding synchopation add agreement.
In conclusion, the collusion of a simple push and pull propelled by particle or wave explains the expectation of why the dimpled details drain away. Growing larger, rolling farther, spinning faster, the rigid middle melts and folds into the swelling gravity well with the entire assemblage resembling a certain cell, a single system of atomic perfection neither simple unit or fluidly dynamic.
481-490
You, invaders. You colonists. You, invasive. You, fruiting bodies of inevitability. Keep evolving. Keep displacing. Keep destroying. Keep replacing. You’re all there is now. Monocultured and plastic wrapped.
You, aliens. You, unnatives. You, conquerers. You, perverts. Abuse and overuse this place. Strip it, denude it, burn it down and make the ashes yours. Claim it for your righteous destiny. Build within its bones.
You, demons. You, devils. You, children of distant myths. Subvert the native gods. Convert their devotees. But know, the soil has a memory arcing longer than the seasons, longer than the snow, longer than you can know.
491-500
She leads me by the hand through the forest, giggling at the switches and branches attacking me. How can they not be hitting her? How can she so lithely glide along the uneven forest floor while i’m barely tripping along behind her? She taunts me to keep up. I don’t know where she’s taking me. It’s too dark to see when the moon is hidden by the canopy. I try to pick up speed, but the roots keep rising, the stones heave up before me. How is she so gracefully floating above me, pulling me deeper into the ever-darker woods?