Bomb Thrown MNDSGN...Archy Doubs Tech

Hollowing Starsievations: Mars Volta, Gemini Feeds, Sell-o-Phane, Buy the Numbers

When it's literals and symbols around the neck....get the mirror...tonight in the spotlight HE LIVES (SHE DIES)...fire on the ship, reflections among the water...Killing Moon shines atop a flowing, slowing distance...Hold up, let's count the glints and lightning strikes, add it up into a flat-line reciprocal, set it off like fireworks from a pulpit...the echoes have it...spastic plastic static electricity strikes, alive, like a game of perfection. Arriving on a Gemini feed...ready for that inspection...mechanicals to make meniacals, everything go POP synthesize, incrimini on that family plan circle KKK, the half lucky strikes have it.  If the addition works out, (w)holes to haves, cup o' flows and NoDoz for ZZZ Tops. Counting the literals, like ass stick on lip stick, Animal fat on Crisco cross.  Rave party rage for a daylight body cam, REO Speedwagon, sin dragon, just a cell full of mirrors and limbs tied with strings. Living the glory framed on that shehellbythesheshucks, she's out of luck. Bazooka bread in the oven, bananas on the stove. She's a Venus in furs staged, red carpet, stern light, like fire and steaks, she's half-shelled, pearled, like onions for clotted cream. Baked like drug casserole, dolled up for razor tazor major blazer grids. Subconscious flows, no, know, no? know, no, know? know, know, know? Repeat after me, the literals upon a foundation for all understanding, have understated the complexities, and have IT. She's on deck, locked into their mirroring words, at a loss, as they search and discover, she's undercover, even as she's uncovered. Paper bags turning inside out, a refresh, with shit stains on the mouthpiece, rorschvach Mickey spots in the light tonight. Headed to the line, believers of a moonlighting wave, believe the sea, for what you see. It's like a tree without roots, a snake without a slither. The limbs have it! The fire is made, and here it is, the now, she can have her steak and eat it too. She's sieved, like a spiraling star down a golden corral cornucopia. Hollowings sound off. She's got a choice among the optics, freedom among the synthetics. Sell-o-phane's the word, transparent as the glint among the smother.  She's freezing, shit-stained paper bag inverse infinity has it on the runs, cover-to-cover on the cover, KKK, Holes to Haves, Nautical knots to Umbilical cords.  Buy the numbers.    The ocean floor is hidden from your viewing lens A depth perception languished in the night All my life, I've been sewing the wounds But the seeds sprout a lachrymal cloud

...Bridge...

Bridge and Tolls... So much back and forth, this wear and tear... was she ever able to make it A-cross?... London Bridge is falling down, Tumblingdown, falling down, London Bridge is falling down, My fair lady.... Who has stole my watch and chain, Watch and chain, watch and chain; Who has stole my watch and chain, My fair lady? Off to prison you must go, You must go, you must go; Off to prison you must go, My fair lady.

... a ferry go-round of sorts... Mary is riding the horse of course... It's in that..."it's so big" tetralogy... Tetra-grammies running a tron grid special... gorey and drab... IT is... majesty before grace... just don't leave a trace...

She'll keep hope alive! One more time.... Two, the end, can't seem to make it to the end, so maybe that's the end? Peace... for a piece of mind?

On and On my friend... neverending... a beginning and an end... oh no, On and On, friend... affiliations, memberships and trends? Where to hang a scratchcard lanyard? Is that for backstage or on-stage? A worldwide tour? To question IT? Knowing can be flowing, I'd imagine? Ice, the new tap(s) water, is IT? Red Line(s) & a Tea Party in the Harbor? The changing light?Déjà vu? Girl you know it's true? A quick run from the stage? It just kept skipping? Round and round? Possibly a malfunction? Ventriloquist Killer? Doll Magic? Here are the lines, repeat after me... the closure we need, no? A-cross?!

... some sandboxes are more fun than others... it's a sobering affair... okay, crossing-over to A.. R'.. T... Cap T, ART, TART, no head rest, goes POP... smooches.... gun was on loan, no worries...it's all A.T.t. amper-sand ON-the-LINE

Chances from...Take the A-Grade....

Plato (how can a culture forget him/her? Oh TWO, THE END, shadows have it, the ancient order veiled and yet not gone...). Eleusinian Mysteries, That cave wall, Abba at the Abbey...that light, that sun...give yourself to him....overboard....just keep swimming...echo and the bunnymen...killing moon...Gimmme...It's just disco right...just a murder party...no ancient tradition just bubblegum (dog) POP (here I come Constantinople) culture. Family Portrait. Blood Orgy for Georgie...Pennywise's Penny Candy for Alice & the Black Hole Superette. How's the bridge holding up? Making the grade, did the lights change?

...Tipsy...Ripsy...Roses R'...

 The table is set, said cobra 1. Be blessed, said cobra 2. She was only 17.  About Face. 

A WILD Strawberry dipped in GoDIVEaaaahh Chocolate, a factory of sorts. 

Red Rose -------- White Rose

Da' Bridge, that crossing

And to kneel before a...always offering one lump or two

Tea Time

Goblin...Golden Showers....Dance Magic Dance....

#WORKTHEFOLLOW-JUSTBELIEVE #ONTHEMAP

TO THE END

Solve, Resolve, Point, Window Pains, Walking Dead...when it's no time for subconscious space...when it's always in the know...when she's on the rise...arms to kill for flowers to steal...posie pockets hollowing out...ashes ashes...to be at the top...those smiling faces...it's love at first fright...PASSSSSSS....... 

Finger I down...Finger I down...It's like may day, even though spring showers wouldn't bring mayflowers...no safe ships for me please. Dead on the escalator curious about reaching the top isn't my thing. I appreciate the unsolicited concerns though (it's likely from a good place, in the sense of a happy house with blood running under the door, but still, I follow the caring intent at the disco murder party), but the writings work in relation to a mathematical model, that unless you have that background, you know, I know, you know; And that isn't disrespect, hate, or anything else, other than just call it. If it's your thing okay, but it's not. What it all means, too soon to tell really. The bridge though, hits on that transition phase along with calling out the...let's place a claim on her, this innovator, as Marilyn Monroe...you know failing the test of say...attempted elevations among a network. Pass. Not my thing. Already known, so why that hit? Finger I Down...Finger I down....F.I.D. F.I.D. F.I.D. Window Pains, out the door. F.I.D.D.L.E. M.C.G.R.I.D.D.L.E. Flow to a different tune...artspaces...among these fine places...to the end...subconscious spinning, colors mixing...the elegant decay set ins, of time plays that can't be played...like the time before we had a language...like the time we die, living or not...Two, the end, can't seem to make it to the end. It all could be failure, but when the arrangement takes on unexpected and different flavors...it works...it's a lesson straight from the originators of Hip-Hop...Strobing the Emerald City Lights...A different pacing....Like Matrix Slow Motion...Catching the form lapsing as paper bag to paper bag....she's covered up now...so make those moves, then flip the switch again...only instead of strobing...paint over the flyentology pamplets with non-literals underlying the acts of subconscious spaces...It's not on the page...it's never among the lights, but it's there...Two, the end, can't seem to make it to the end, so maybe that's the end? 

Peace! 

Folk Art

Which this is the other half of my more "commercial" design play, which again means I'm striving to be Marilyn Monroe, at least I have observed that is the need...and yet, I just like creating, innovating, and the like. For a while, socially speaking, it was okay...and then somewhere along the lines...doing the same thing, and yet, we went from keep it up, this is interesting...to...um...tune into the nightly news...let folks caught up and they don't even get how it all went down, even as they are responsible for what went down explain...

So yeah, unlike the other projects that want to engage conscious spaces, this will be more about subconscious spaces...the folk art stuff. I want it too, to work from a foundational embrace of Kara Walker...and it's not attempting to slide onto coattails or anything like that. She plays with the silhouette and highlights that polar play, of even how the happiest place on earth would even come about...for those still not getting it...there's a trail of blood all cleaned up...And the strife is presented as a clean cut dichotomy with nothing in-between, but that isn't how the poor dears, aka calico cat of love are gunned down. Rather, they are sandwiched between the clean cut dichotomy, taht will even play it up victim in relation to the poor dear, to act like they are offended that you know, a mind doesn't subscribe to an indoctrinating struggle that is merely the KKK veil hustling the bleeding hearts blood all caught up as both sides spin the intelligence and gun with the controversy, massaging the way toward violence, and dolling up for the cameo in the mirror with a candlelight vigil. The voices experiencing this...most tucked away. Their stores, never so clean cut, never without being caught up in-between. And like many of the artists I like that are on that institutional plan, don't go for the clean and safe. Tap into subjects that are...difficult, even if it isn't such a literal form...

So the founder of Piggly Wiggly, in summation, interested me...because it isn't an easy story. His father fought for the confederates...he was "southern," like it or not. After the war, according to the wiki, P.G. was still a kid, 11 years old I think, and he worked on one of the plantations as a laborer. Something like that. He didn't have a formal education, and there is a claim he became a book worm of sorts, my condolences. He wasn't from a great story, the background had him ass up, so yeah, okay me, from what life experiences already have shown...what that means for a certain crew you know, looking to give folks their opportunity, mirror mirror...killing at the disco play...So he's on that opportunity plan. Emerald City Lights fucks him up, but of course, it was completely a mishappening. No families could possibly have the measures to move the market, and yet, they can. Shhh. It's not in the news kids so forget about it. Then, he dies of heart failure. 

The innovation part, seemed like it was going to be the most important part, where P.G. setup a new relationship between American Citizens and consumption, of establishing the self-service model of grocery shopping. The innovation though, when I think about the layering of a life lived, for a momentary lapse at least, falls to the wayside. I look at that pink marble mansion, and I just don't find it to be all that great...meaning when the cards are scattered all over the table and you can follow the game at play...and the reaper over the table btw...so it's more of the same. Wrong side of the tracks, on that escalator of success as a lively looking corpse...making a deal to the top...that's stealing something, but you can't quite put your finger on it...and when the supply store is self-service?

It's the majority of people...At least among the homeless or the grid makers who aren't at all concerned about access...there's hope. Most in-between...I'd rather not say. But yeah, okay P.G. It's cute like Mickey...but holds closer association to being dead in a barrel. Maybe like dead flesh, but more like a bullet, like lightning bolts in a Pegasus bag. It's like the more studious version of a magic kingdom. Still on the bowie dance magic dance routine...but among the politically correct form of klan play...think IT's reflections in a balloon, go pop with all that blood...P.G. at least offers a glimpse, including the backstory...I think of this as a figurine...I can make out a bloody leg shown under a figure caught up, seems to be a soaked red dress...maybe bugs bunny bloodied up in a red dress...not so sure...it's hard to see as the figurine resides within one of IT's balloons. The gloss of the mirror...it does something...the psychology at play when the signage is so pristine.

When I was a kid we shopped there frequently. The pig was always cute and uplifting, even if it was on leather face's mask, soon to come for a bleeding heart like me. I mean when you are a sweat heart...you are indeed, a sweat heart.  

Folk art!  It doesn't really need to go anywhere, even in terms of ebb and flow. I paint in a lot of different styles, but this...and likely a return to watercolor, only among a loose play that doesn't involve pretty little thing aesthetics...will be that gravitational pull, of how this all finishes up. Again, did it with music and academics, from working structural conventions, to then pushing boundaries and pushing those structures in a manner that intends on building up while falling apart. The folk style, gets into a play of elegant decay, that works in relation to the brick-by-brick presentations of commerical stuff, so it's that structural play. The watercolor, of a loose style, not to be pretty but in the moment, too I get more into, as it's a lot like experimental music projects...subconsious flow...messing around in a way that disrupts the silo-head-institutional play.  

I just don't think P.G. followed what was at play and what he did, in relation to transforming American life. When the consumption consumes...so many ways to experience...a way of preoccupying if you will...a happening...an understanding...when there is a needed play of psychology...among a layered past....and lady liberty is the new kid on the block...chop, chop....the convenience of take out...Happy Birthday Mr. President...Emerald City Lights gets it...but sadly the blood trail will not. It's dead flesh in a barrel, of which the barrel takes a variety of forms, even if lively. Pop, pop...pow, pow... What else would need to be said of that? The fingers have it, like a widow maker out of a lunch bag....food for thought?...like espresso macchiato. 

Tick Tock, Tick Tock, Tick Tock....throttle up...bottle up...serving it up yourself...fast car plan...pick a lane...any lane...this light is for you...the array of colors...So many options to relate to...we are building a brands and we are reworking the way in which we relate...the finger has it...it's right there. E.T. Entertainment Tonight phone home...

mmm....bagged up...smells so good...smells like baby back ribs...Is that what's on the menu?

So it's that hand off to a newer site...Folk Art...I'm not sure if I'd write on that one...it's likely just, presentation, coupled with maybe memories, or if there isn't a memory, maybe a quick background...not really sure...I could run interplay like this...but it's the psychology at play...then it's back to emphasizing that power play among cconscious spaces...it misses the relation with what I do with art...so... Piggly Wiggly for now...Barreling...of course, when it's this kind of interplay...out of the bag...

When the informatic layer pulls everything together as everything falls apart...it's a consistent behavior...no surprises for those who hold the proper rigor in relation to me, which means, we were running through similar halls of learning...or in the dive bars or hip hop nights/whatever the hell those nights were...running experimental flows like Captain Beefheart on that off the UFO prototype plan...Meaning injecting something with creativity and interplay...holding foundation like an orbital being, rather than a headstone tipped over...Kind of like cow tipping...only headstones...somebody gets it...like pigs out of a 9mm barrel...flying pigs happen all the time...you didn't know? It's electric Iggy Wiggy Wiggy Wiggy Wiggy...Oh, that lightning. Come and ride it today...It's not a lightning purse, it's a satchel...book worms penetrate potato heads...pulled out of the dirt, dolled up...fats, salts, seasonings, cooled to temp, spread out, sandwiched...all is well that ends well...

It does end, among that...flowing...there's that swirling type of flow...and then that flow that's like Alka-Seltzer without the fizz....plop plop...smooth like a belly buster...coke without the bubbles...syrupy sweet nothing infecting everything...maybe it will come once you die...when it's all still looking alive...wait for it...universal by the hour play...she's still on that death fold plan...

Any which way baby...H.E.L.P. Beatles rolling up like Beetle Juice...Beetle Truce...Beetle Spruce....all over that red rose...ringing around...pockets full...posie plans....black gold...Texas T...Ya'll come back now you hear...or is it, you here...The Beverly Hill-Grillies...she's been skewered...A-men...kill it like Rin Tin Tin...It will end...screenplay on any given day...it will end...

The End...will send...only to begin again...my friend...opening doors...like hellraiser on Broadway...SCATS...solve and resolve...clean the stage...rinse and reheat...WEST-TURNS galore...FRONT-TIERS...PECK...INGERS...Ordering...Pointing the way...like scarecrow giving directions...in the end...like a kitty woo woo sah flow on a ho...like a virgin airliner chilling on the killing moon....the ongoing end will end....

To The End!

Next up...new site for art..subconscious spaces...different from power packing in consciousville...

My contribution to this scam...

 It's like botched acrobatics between a binary...

It's not actually botched, but it's that play, of mirror mirror mind, and those minds that aren't in the mrirror at all, needing something more than the obvious...it's attempting to mean, without there being such a plan that it reads as...expected....It's sometimes even a few glasses in simply to make the effort to flow among the subconscious, sometimes in a way that mortifies in the beginning, but then brings laughter and joy after multiple rounds in. I think as I am setting up the art space...it's not a confusing matter at all...among plastic pyramids, head stones, and all on their way up, looking alive, entirely fucked, and yet, most will never make that connection...and I'm not asserting I'm better than...not my style, nor do I go there...It's not that...It's just this animated graveyard of sorts...among which, I even have certain personalities at work, I sense their sense...which might not make any sense, lol, but I think it does. We just aren't so inclined to play it up sugar and milk, on the espresso machiato routhine. Sure there are bills to be paid...if you got a family, that's a thing to. We have choices we make, and the options for life follow...Sometimes it's what we want, and sometimes it's not, but we all have some kind of get in, even if we might not fit in. It's not a puzzle game, this life. There are a lot that think it is...and they do take hammers and glue to piece it all together for a particular peace of mind. It's not real, even if it does all to be real. My contribution? Unlike piecing puzzles, I simply connect to the music I love. The stuff that seems like it's coming together and yet falling apart at the same time. I played music for 20 plus years, so in all things I do this. I'll start with conventional structures, like in school and music, and then push those structures into something that seems more inclined to fall apart than stay together and yet it holds. Jazz experimental is my sweet spot for music. Academics...it went from being pitch perfect and micro-detailed, to this...no spell checks...watering the writing style...folks running algorithms in relation (superficial as fuck crowed) will gun...embracing memory as it is, of a constructive basis as research has established...it's never this little box holding static phtographs, which doesn't work so well for the one playing it up puzzlemaker life. No judgement, no hate...to face the cracks in the sidewalk...the kudzu running over rusted industrial nothing...it's not warm and fuzzy, nor is it comfortable...and a lot want the crib with the mickey toys. So, many likely to walk the other way, and I'm not here to be better than. I get it. Sometimes, that's what people need. I'm just on a different flavor. So, falling apart holding togther...something where we can never really be sure of a contribution, or even a deconstruct. A form where there is always something happening, even upon distant...encounters. What is a contribution with so many eyes and minds? We all got this type of way of connecting, among our complexities and layers. All of us have that. The oddity and interest for me, is the fact that even among folks I work with, who they are layered and complex...I just think our culture is geared to deflect that matter a lot. It's not bad per se, but it's just the way our system works, and the rhythm we have. So...yeah. There is a contribution somewhere, but I wouldn't set out to mark that...there is a layering, a complexity, a community...somewhere, somehow, it comes together. I think upon various readiings and studies, what I have found, among some kind of foundation, is that it never comes together if you never overproduce. And there is a lot of non-productions, adorned with what our culture likes to do...doll everything up...it's an East Atlanta Village...a Littel 5 points...a Vigina Highlands...Hells Kitchen...East Village...a Tokyo Bouncy Ball...London Bouncy Ball...Dinosaurs with guns type of thing...always wanting law of averages in play...So everything could be entirely dried up, but you are looking more fluid in the mirror than anyone else. That murder at the disco shit. It's all around...and dried up got games...and what I'm getting at, is even among matters of community, it's not really something that isn't gunned down where I'm from...so it's a generational spread....a lag...among drips and drops coming in...unenthused with what a paycheck can do for you...sifting through the comics...searching out dusty records....looking for homemade books...etc...that's what I mean. Which I like these odd microcosms of cultural oooze...like the gifted rhymes...not playing it up too conscious...on that subconscious play...it's why I drummed for so long...I like the space...but to use that space in relation to a play on someting designed to erase that....it's that raw paly with power always gunning for blood...it's cool. This is a blog...like a book...it's not likely cool. It doesn't read like opposite forces in the night...It can have more layers....It can disquise with qualities that are more lackluster...it can go completely random without any concern for audience...I think for something easy, a contribution would be some cohesion, easily shoveled, like shit. Good cultural form dances around, like ink into water, keeping the movement without ever succumbing to the osmosis type of thing...it's never uniform. It's like a ballerina without a complete form. When it's happening, like say, Bitches Brew Sessions, that's a mark. To invoke a skill that no longer upholds the master of structure but simply fucks with the structures continuously...and the dance goes on....until the lights are out...and someone else picks it up and notes the ink in water...and they hold this rigor of interactivity too...and they start fucking with these structures as well...and go on and on...overproducing to hand off to someone else...getting through something they were never intended to get through. Between the mirrors, these types of ballerinas, these discordant dancers, where it's all falling apart and yet holding together, among those desiring a safe and sound static electrcity blast, upon the machinery...thrown off, agitated among this group, who aren't making the kind of sense that needs to be their sense. I mean, to be normal among the mirror mirror play...It means something I guess...just completely different things to those of different designs. And the contribution flows on...bitches brew...firing up headstone inc...always in the mirror maze looking for her...swirling about...fluid reflections about...at a loss. Somewhere there's a contribution...it will come about somehow...I just wouldn't worry about it. Subconsious spaces are better anyhow. Of course when the basis of understanding, even the institutional form, just demands and praises all who run with the indoctrination that requires colonial differentiation...and to sip on that shit without question...dial up Kara Walker please...When all it all makes so much sense...when the empowered arrive after universals by the hour...when it reads like a love boat porno ride...animatronic meat machines inc...when it's the small world after all finish line and you got it all down...sandbox swansong type of shit...what would make it out...I just think of smoke on the water...Deep purple stuff...the minds have it...and then some minds left it a long time ago...A network can gun and play it asphalt...but the cracks and crevices, the undergrowth, the overgrowth...she's on her way...play it pretend all day...shine in that way...the stone is grinding...it's in the background...it's among the pulsations on the death bed...she's having to you...set the reflections upon the balloon...play it blood money for laundering for such lucrative terms...tuck it away behind the reflections...then walk down that brick road...yellow, red, magenta, cyan...hansa...color it in every detail...miles and miles...a victorious feat...and that undergrowth reaches through...like smoke through sand...something changes...the cards...the existence before the words...What's a knower to know, even if they know they don't know?...It's still the same bullshit any which way you go with it...but the ways in which matters interact...the way movement can be found between the colorful bricks...maybe we clock a contribution, but we can follow the proximities of where that contribution will be found...again, between the bricks...after the game is done...the hands holding the cards are gone...paint chipping away...and that growth between...that kind of story...

And face spaces are brick by brick play. It's just that. Nothing more, nothing less. The sweet spot of life is somewhere else...some catch on...others...I just wonder. I mean the window -pains- fuck everything up anyhow...pick a quadrant, any quadrant...run that cartesian sieve...it's fucking you up, even if you like what you see. It's the same for romance and relation...seems like there's the cultural promotion of be you know...paired up and the method...window love...Hollywood romance...maybe it works? In that, brick by brick sense. I see some bricks ooze into something cool...Others just hold out and up out of fear...they expected brick love but that doesn't even exist. The hollywood movie says it's the case...but it's not...we look right in the mirror, but shit dried up and now we are holding up for what? Sandbox swansong type of song...I don't like it, but it's there. And I mean, when you are clocked as being the most colorful brick on the block, all eyes, I mean that's fucked. It's like brick by brick squared. It's like you did nothing to deserve this, but no time for silences, subconscious space, no time for anything other than cartesian sieve love, like a tourniquet on a mickey dick. It looks all exciting and shit, but the methods of connection = no fucking connection at all. It's not even a choice, it's the entire setup, like still acceptance resides on a foundation of death, for those of a particular design. No victims or anything...but it's like making it to the magic kingdom for the david bowie special...like all the rides are animatronic porns...like the Team America sex scene..and there's always that surveil...which I'm all about playing into...you want to monitor my private domain...you want to play it up addiction...and yet, what does that assume? So okay, I'll drop it all day long...and there you are...all up in that shit...what does it mean...I mean the method use to obtain, no problem there right. Walk into someone elses room and go through all their shit...totally fine...and of course, you got the baby monitor on the monitoring ops, the asshole disrespecting your place...what to do...fuck with that shit...drop mags, receipts, toys...lotion all over the bed...because the needed focus...I mean, what about water addictions. That framing of deficit...that play...you don't like when she bleeds...Babys are blessings, not byproducts of fucking...got it. When you are normall, dolled up in the mirror, a happy face with blood on the chops...brick by brick...again sandbox swansong type of shit...interested in solidifying to escape, as they require the other bricks to juxtapose with...The aim to ease the fear, place the brick road on top of desert sands...no vegetation...no life....no undergrowth...no juices...no stank...just sanitary nothings understanding with a minfuck that came into play after the fact...again there was an existence before a language...catch it on the elegant decay the city official wants to paint over incessantly...catch it with the vegetation between the bricks, your normal friend calls weeds...catch it among the artists studio that doesn't read like an instagram shot...droplets of paint and stains everywhere...

And these words are bricks...categorical splits...brick by brick...and I even said my contribution wouldn't be found among the brick by brick play...and that means the basis of understanding would reside among the informatic method.  We can think among colonial terms, and that's everyone, considering I am and hopefully at some point, was the first to do this...so dynamic arrangements of language involving the informatic...not exactly eyes to the surface friendly, even though the visual is still there...So yeah, the brick by brick, sandbox swansong isn't going to like it. I'm not after them, I'm just among the overgrowths and undergrowths...interacting...rolling botched acrobatics that inevitably comes through, regardless of how many times we repaint bricks and spray out signs of dynamic life...It's there. It's not going away...and my relationship to the language itself, unlike anything anyone has ever wittnessed before, by design, not colonial argument. So we can play it mirror, mirror this process as a hollowing body, disengage the activity and frame as a network pleases...but the design of this form, which is of an institutional form...it's not going to work..at all. It's not a one-up or an other to other type of play. Bricks aren't in this equation, and my focus isn't on disrupting, even if it does...

So when it's a wrap up...art time...it's back to the beginning, of that begin again type of affair...I will take the various avenues that I posted in...under different addresses and eventually pour it back into the original site. I will still model informatically...it's coming...but it is going to work in relation to a desired form of art, of say folk/rustic presentation contrasting with choics phrases in relation to the informatic. 

Links broken for the trial models...basically I run the informatics method among all writings....meaning this is not a blog nor a website....though visually it looks like it but the method is the informatic,of the earliest formations of dynamic arranging forms of language....it just something not even on the books....it is an informatic....the meaning not even on stage just yet....the next site shows a completed method run over works of the western canon....the flows, the words words words were used to develop the informatics method.....this bridge....I will model it but it is not that...it is bridging projects and interplaying with a push that wants to play me out like Monroe even after I did the thing....that in relation to school was needed....didn't just fall out of the sky...I had a trajectory and I carried it out in terms of networked need...but it is all lost in translation....and this is so new....Who knows?  Still, what I like...I can run the words in abandon....as the informatics arranges and organizes all that is brewing up and flowing out....experimental, wrong, right, anything goes.....throw it onto the colonial informatics layer, run the method that's sets the informatics language....again, not on the books....entirely new...the new institutional form that will takeover inevitably....

Clicketh the image if you dare...a subconscious flowing while running the informatic trials...I expect everyone just to read it like writing on the page, but under the hood, the stuff you can't see...there is a lot more to the story and there are snippets in relation to the method pages given...and also there is the informatic modeling of the western canon that flips the script entirely in ways that will be beyond any individual...Now for me, a certain group, not being forthright at all, want to play all of this up, like I'm on a quest to be Marilyn Monroe...diamonds are a girls best friend type of shit...why that can happen, who knows, especially considering certain groupings would already know by method design...it doesn't add up, and yet that needs to be the assertion....of course when we consider a family unit spinning the intelligence all caught up, and if a certain group finds out how they were deceived, it would be a fight to cover the ass...maybe it's that?  I don't know, don't really care at this point...it's the dynamic arrangement of the language, this project below...it's the challenge to the existing institutional form that isn't going way, of a newer design that has greater capacity then the given foundations of our existing western culture...It's not my quest...this is what came about from aol discs during my highs school days, to 45 minute youtube loadings in undergrad, to that complete caught off guard moment at Edinburgh...Marilyn Monroe is for Hollywood...this isn't Hollywood...and it is pretty obvious I'm not Dorothy skipping down a yellow brick road either...so what's up with that play? Over and over again?

And sure, the greed and hatred among the mirror that looks so angelic, doesn't want to acknowledge and will do all to smile and disengage at all costs, and I expected that...It's why I set forth different avenues of narrative in relation to deflect and deconstruct that effort, that intended on justifying that play, of the one who is attempting to elevate, the one who is there to grab the table set...as if I'm not among a grouping that would be on the inside of this anyhow, granted there's arrogance among that grouping that I don't respect, and games that involved people that aren't exactly the type to turn the other way when you subject them. The oddity is, that anyone who understands what would go into something like this...would already know it's not even possible to be superficial to engage in a process like this...and I don't think anyone connecting in terms of actual developments for a society, wouldn't really care to delve into this anecdote play, of which the larger lots have a different challenge among these social groupings...it's the smiling angel with a hand out type of thing...and for the mini lots, it's the leather face chainsaw massacre type of disposition, even if we are smiling, the aggression comes  in direct...but the lots are superficial, and yes the behaviors require different strategies, but we are among this way of tracing to handle it regardless...but that in-between play...the interests that turn off the instagram and face space apparatuses to hone in on something far away from the plastic pyramid play....and to the plastic pyramid play, aka sandbox swansong, aka brick by brick, aka prying eyes on that smiling disrespect plan...informatic method is over your head...and I'm okay with that, but when can't even acknowledge that...yeah, it's problem, not for me, but certain families trying to take note of this peculiar behavior right now. It doesn't matter what someone has done, where they have been, we are all just the same in the mirror, and the one looking the best part and using folks to portray is now in the drivers seat...My interests don't really cross lines with this...but it's happening and I can tell...in terms of what's expected among those holding the actual power...it doesn't end well, so it's not all well. It's something that, at work, you have certain personalities who catch a rhythm and make things happen, and yet, others attempt to throw people under the bus and smear them. As for what they are doing, their contribution to this scam, it's not found among the mirror mirror play, and once upon a time, those in power, did their job, dug in a bit deeper, to take note of the behaviors in relation to the context, of the environmental setup. It's not easy, but if that's your job...no? When it's all mirror play, it's some minutes on a presentation, because we practiced that at school, I did too, then the rest is performative...and as for what's between the brick by brick play...

It's not this teleological matter to me...Much like the relation between writings and informatic method isn't seeking a finality...it's this chrysalis type of matter...it's just this way of interacting...that another generation can pick up...then another...and another...is it from me...I mean brick by brick we can say that...but I didn't even know what informatics was until I got to Edinburgh, and even then, none of us were really using the internet in highschool...there were no smartphones...we had AOL discs...so it's not like anyone, like myself, would have approached this in the same manner that one would approach any other academic subject of convention. There is no convention to this, and even that, I call out the downplay. Anything new goes through that. It's belittled in the beginning, until the mirror play wants to elevate it into stardom, which the founders of any movement, note of the irony, and make clear, frame it all day, play it brick by brick, but you will never find us there...it's something dynamic...it rolls...it's not really assigned to a brick...but it will come about among a brick vicinity of sorts...it's not gunning for categorical anything...it's flowing....

It's flowing...