Reacquainted With Eons

Blog post # 141:

I made both of these pictures today.
(I don't really like to make two pictures in one day. But I did on this date.)

Swallowed And Swallowing


Diagonally Opaque


(One really colorful. One not so colorful. Yes, indeed.)

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All of the following in today's post, except the two poems at the end, was written years ago.

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If women are attracted to men in power, then why aren't they attracted to nonconformity in men? For, there is almost nothing else that makes someone as powerless as much as conformity does, almost nothing else that makes one as powerless as not having control over one's own soul.

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Unoriginal pick-up line:
"Hey, baby. I know they don't allow you into government buildings...
Because you are smokin'.."

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When humanity's scientists finally create that black hole that swallows us all, even this will not be the worst thing humanity has done to itself.

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Oxymorons:
Wis-Dumb, Affect-Shun-Ate, Stray-t.

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A poser is a ... hipster-crite..

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I am such a nonconformist that I want an irregular heartbeat. Why would I want a REGULAR heartbeat?
No, I want a razzmatazz tom-tom-beatin' heartbeat..

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The cochlea of the inner ear: With the possibly only other example being the eye (with its colorful concentric circles), there is no other bodily organ that is so beautiful from a mathematical point of view. Sure, breasts and other parts of the female anatomy are beautiful, but only in a subjective sense, not so much mathematically as is the cochlea. The cochleae, with their tubes twisted into curving spirals, are some of the very few pieces of evidence that there indeed might be a god-creator. For, it seems that the cochlea was designed by a conscious intellect. With visible body-features, sexual-selection can explain their beauty. But the cochlea is hidden, an obscure form of beauty.

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This reality I obsess over seems to have denied its own existence.
It itself knows not its own secrets.

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To believe that there is any good at all in this world
is the height of the absurdity of optimism.

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Singles ad: "Gen-X XY looking for Gen-Y XX".

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The purpose of life = death?

They say all tends towards disorder -- entropy.
I would say that death itself is one of the greatest examples of tending towards disorder. For, death is the big fade into whitenoise.

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The worst thing, aside from the deaths of animals or people, is the destruction of art. For, the willful destruction of art should be considered a crime against (a) humanity.

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If one uses idiotic arguments to try to prove a point, then they are using... "flaw-gic"..

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Women hate me because I am ugly.
God hates me because I don't believe in Him.
Americans hate me because I am a liberal.
Foreigners hate me because I am American.
I hate myself because everyone hates me.

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Pick-up line: "Oo baby. Someone call the cops, 'cause you're legged and dangerous."

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Why do they call it an answering-machine, when it basically ASKS you what you want?...

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Okay, the poems I wrote yesterday and today:

A Landscape Both Sharp
And Thorned
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Unwritten are the juts
of a landscape both
Sharp and thorned.
Yet this matter of
Such plexiform spaces,
it is as the very shards
That we once shattered
as they shattered us.
And the spikes and spires
grasp at these
Atoms within that
glassy air, ha. For,
The mountainous weirdness
before me is
Made from only
amorphous upheaval. It
Is shaped then into
the conjured games
Of astrophysics and
meteorology destructively
Placed in this
diagonal world. Yes, those
Tactile stones exist
in reality's cleaving.
But dreams of
erosive corrosion deny
Such rust. Oh,
into the autocracy of angry
Madness expressed lyrically,
all the earth
Is shredded by its
own pathos. And it
Bleeds of silt and resentment,
despite its
Salve. Yes, its eternities are
surely sharp
And thorned, are
agonizingly reverberant
And are
hypothetically entropic,
hypocritically
Malformed yet scalene
yet scathing yet sick.

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Awash
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Awash in my forgetfulness,
such preponderances
Of wetness...
That ellipsoid weirdly scalene,
It is awash in this fluid
(a fulfilling salve),
In this dampness above it,
below it, upon which
It is swallowed and
swallowing. Oh, it is
Encased by that water
flowing diagonally,
Robustly, forth and
rightward and downwardly.

And underneath this
glassy drop, the liquids
Puddle and pool.
Yet they too rise within
Our distance, then fall
to the uneasy exterior
Of a crystalline globule
itself not of rain. Oh,
awash is the flood, is that
Blob of solidity
otherwise transparent,
Otherwise beautiful
in its opaqueness. But
The thing is not of amber,
nor is it
Of its ironic drink. Ah,
it is only awash
In this convection
of gasses somewhat
Hardened.
And it is enclosed then partially
Exposed, partially expressed,
as the syrup
Unjustly false,
unjustly cowardly, and
Deservedly soaked by breath,
by broth
Refracted but not to be
hidden amongst these
Immaterial symmetries
succumbing.

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Leroy