Movement: the Depth of Space between Adjectives
Dec 29, 06:45 PM
[Brainstorm: V1 Edited 10:27 PM 04/01/07]
[Hasty edited V2 10:33]
[Published to Emphastic.com on December 29, 2009]
-------indie 03-21-2007 11:08 AM--------
One of my online friends once asked me why I have so many blogs and journals all over the Internet. Thinking about it, I realized I like to keep strict separation controls on my writing, building a barrier of contextualization with which I can do free-writing and association for certain types of writing: some serious, some for fun, some experimental, some that I might as well, or have been, gushing blood or sweat or tears or potentially broken bones during composition.
Anyway.
Aside from my online journals, I have (rather had) a notebook journal that was gifted to me via a "Secret Santa" thing that from an online writing forum I frequented in the early 00's, when started using "indiejade" as my online pseudonym for writing and coding. This notebook/journal has been stolen/lost. I think about it sometimes, like . . maybe somebody has read it, all my secret private thoughts and such -- makes me very uncomfortable.
This digital gypsy has a new muse these days; the depth of space between adjectives.
-------indie 04-01-2007 10:27 PM-------
Balancing
Don't know why I'm in a mad-typing mood tonight.
It's as though even the tiniest reminder of the distant past . . . rage and anger can dissipate and be diffused long enough to quell. And then a wee bit of sorrow/regret: a wee bit of fire cooled by a wee bit of ice. Just like comets do. But the distant past does not matter. No use in expending energy on that rage. So why do I? And what of dust?
Sublimination; skipping states: from gas to solid, without the delta in between. Gas to solid, as a single fragile soap-bubble hovering over a rugged surrealscape of ice and does not know; poised above, but not yet joined with the invisible lattice, it is. The diffusion of light and color over that bubble -- the oils and patterns and reflections, all so beautiful and strange, apt to explode at any moment. . . given in fate to be either eternally frozen in time or high-fiving the sky.
And just like the pendulum swings or oscillates, the tip of its center of gravity might nudge or be apt to form or make intricacies in the finest grains of sand. . . or even as a marker over paper to move and shake, spreading ink thick and refined.
Another sip held on the tongue, a curious diffusion and nothing numb.
[Hasty edited V2 10:33]
[Published to Emphastic.com on December 29, 2009]
-------indie 03-21-2007 11:08 AM--------
One of my online friends once asked me why I have so many blogs and journals all over the Internet. Thinking about it, I realized I like to keep strict separation controls on my writing, building a barrier of contextualization with which I can do free-writing and association for certain types of writing: some serious, some for fun, some experimental, some that I might as well, or have been, gushing blood or sweat or tears or potentially broken bones during composition.
Anyway.
Aside from my online journals, I have (rather had) a notebook journal that was gifted to me via a "Secret Santa" thing that from an online writing forum I frequented in the early 00's, when started using "indiejade" as my online pseudonym for writing and coding. This notebook/journal has been stolen/lost. I think about it sometimes, like . . maybe somebody has read it, all my secret private thoughts and such -- makes me very uncomfortable.
This digital gypsy has a new muse these days; the depth of space between adjectives.
-------indie 04-01-2007 10:27 PM-------
Balancing
Don't know why I'm in a mad-typing mood tonight.
It's as though even the tiniest reminder of the distant past . . . rage and anger can dissipate and be diffused long enough to quell. And then a wee bit of sorrow/regret: a wee bit of fire cooled by a wee bit of ice. Just like comets do. But the distant past does not matter. No use in expending energy on that rage. So why do I? And what of dust?
Sublimination; skipping states: from gas to solid, without the delta in between. Gas to solid, as a single fragile soap-bubble hovering over a rugged surrealscape of ice and does not know; poised above, but not yet joined with the invisible lattice, it is. The diffusion of light and color over that bubble -- the oils and patterns and reflections, all so beautiful and strange, apt to explode at any moment. . . given in fate to be either eternally frozen in time or high-fiving the sky.
And just like the pendulum swings or oscillates, the tip of its center of gravity might nudge or be apt to form or make intricacies in the finest grains of sand. . . or even as a marker over paper to move and shake, spreading ink thick and refined.
Another sip held on the tongue, a curious diffusion and nothing numb.
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