Saturday, September 4, 2010

Creativity Nil

Blog post # 106:

Sorry, people. No art today. As a matter of fact, I am thinking about completely quitting the creation of computer art. And I don't think I will make any other kind of art, either. I have very poor artistic technique when I try to draw. That's why I liked Photoshop. Because with it I could finally draw a straight line or a perfect circle. But I realized long ago that creating Photoshop art was unacceptable. Because if I use a computer program, then my art is no longer of my soul, but is heavily influenced by the computer program itself. So, no more of that computer art BS. I don't even like computer art! Why am I making it?


A simple puzzle (some of you have already seen this puzzle):

Okay, Joe is ambidextrous. All day Sunday Joe writes with his right hand. The next day, all day, he writes with his left hand. Joe continues, writing all day each day with one hand, and every other day switching which hand he uses. Which hand is he writing with on the first Saturday after the Sunday mentioned above?

By the way: He is not writing with no hand. And he is not writing with both hands. The answer is either his left hand or his right hand, so don't try being too clever.


I tried to anagram "Two Thousand Twelve", since that is supposed to be the "end of the world". And there must be a secret message in there somewhere.

But the best I could do is:

"Thud. We wove not salt."

What does it mean!?... Is it a sign!?


There are both water pipes carrying cold water and water pipes carrying hot water, and there is "piping-hot" water. So, why isn't there such a thing as piping-cold water?...


Okay, a poem I wrote a few days ago:

Cursive Made

Cursive made from amber -- amber plagiarized from
Thoughts -- thoughts seen within my liquid -- liquid
Drawn from images of cursive -- of cursive curled
And intermittent and postulated and inconsistent.

Oh, inconsistently, the cursive's thicknesses vary.
This winding twine loops once as a strap,
Then reflects and twists into a wire, looping
Again in its course, completing its oscillation,
Then existing not but upon its exit. And
The cursive spells a letter of such dreams,
Of such an un-alphabetized alphabet. It is
Drawn upon placid paper, yes. But this page
Is wrinkled and wiggled. And the ink
Is aromatic, and yet it is strange. Yes, this
Fluid stinks of froth, of fruition. But
Its impairment completes the scrawl so
Truthfully. Yes, the cursive, this knot, is made
From quite a translucent sap. But its
Beauty is designed via the angry hand.
And this hand suffocates upon that writing.

For, the cursive is acidic and conforming.
But it is, however, dripped onto its
Smoldering. And, indeed, it portrays us all
As literate, as human flesh contained
Inside paper's flatness crumpled theatrically.



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