@ammonitetestpatterns - Tumblr Blog

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when the bolt most illegible to memory in my psychic motor is loosened, the envelope of my life feels most gravid with the substance of the future. looking outside, across strands of nostalgia for the start of covid lent in fragile cultural signifiers, infirm commongrounds, i've felt weary, short of breath over the blink of a lifetime and the brevity of all culture to the effluvium of its experience, the feeling of those posthumous consequences that are mostly constrained to the energetic distribution, reconsolidation and mass genetic memory of matter enjoined to personalizing spirit, a relationally animating metaxic medium, the uncontained khoric matrix for social germination, signification and moral accordance, dyadic internesting, pulleys and weights grazed between ocular volley to the propulsive spume of the highest order judgment. a single mind's inlet to intersubjectivity feels like the condensation of a karman vortex street spinning with thin sliced information, an invisible deoxyribonucleic hand lifting vapors over the field of history, itself the movement of stormy waves recirculating the weight of fathomless leagues below. the ladder, a metaphor salvaged from cryptomnesiac fishery, a gift. the consciousness of a living human is a soluble prism skipped across the surface, ceasing to refract and illuminate the vapors as the eddies are shed completely. from above, these lives look like a mass of blue field entoptic alearivulets, vertically motived pins of shrapnel, movement as falsified stillness. i don't know who can mount a seamless standpoint to offer any tractable appraisal of their linklost choices in life. would it take an intelligence untethered to step in, vacuuming spoke of spaceskin, pulling zippers and reinsulating the threadbare wires, upper limits wheeling field notes back to sol spring, something indestructible about the self left to leap under the bespoke

#text #germ of the thing always within but you can't parse it from its accomplices past the essence silence of a shell that speaks unsidedly

the highest form of self protection is mercy, haplotes amidst an atmospheric death, a tear in the arrangement of circumstances that enclothe a life, audits of friction and unfolding, vehicles of exchange. it sends the softest shockwave to the sensing foot of the clearing you soar through like a sunstone intact under a lazurite stork's tongue, leaving behind reaccordances in fortune. an unreadable future perfect sterilizes its suture, afterword fuses to atomwende exhailed in the acausal. an externality, one by one. if the pitch of blood boils horizontal, its plasma coils are put back to the shalott shuttle of facial law, one enworlded whorling in one. if it holds to the vertical, keys of glass may be blown, and from your tastebud's stars icing. their fall tarps the offset but if not turned in time, these frozen bulbs thaw to an algol algae bloom. the virgin substance remains unchanged, tensions undo themselves in its wake, the good attracts itself to itself

#text #fragile balance under vitreous rain #mallarmé's saint john the baptist #crossbirthed and surfacing from glacial acetic acid #dried with the just intervals of actionable self concept where it comports the benevolence of a simplifying repertoire to social life #treat yourself as you believe the image of the human ought to be treated

weathering the weather is to bear through yourself the collision of diffuse syntheses from an essential division in incarnation, resulting in flights of socialized ideasthesia, the logos commuted out of identity, tempering the impressions of lives taken through standstill flashes of rotary totems we are all tasked with living in and up to, the magnetic reconnection event of birth chorded down to the minute, an atmospheric orange squeeze or the cuttingbox for a sugarloaf of light cone coordinates.

you weather it so as to bear its cacophony and you amplify the vapors in turn, riding the wave backwards, like natura naturans is nature naturing. i am not sure if weathering it and staying incarnate is more of a jesuslike sacrifice than dying, i guess it's instantial, dependent on the demands of a life and its patterns of standing waves, how much clearance you can have to rechoreograph it, how well you can keep up and improvise, knowing kairotically when to dovetail and break flock. there is the implication that weather is impermanent, it passes and goes through decoherence like all of our fallible bodies, the fallible that is the only pathfinder we are equipped with from birth.

clouds across the skin sting with sudden insights, almost acousmatic pitch glides, thunders of smooth muscle and thrums of cartilage, wishbones to jam a word from exposing the register of its negatives, all an alkyd lace. do you weather it until you are absorbed past a centrifugal navel, the khoric omphalion corridor of your littrow crater, far side balmed and python backed, wet stones and drums out of intestinal ribbing, a tissue sense for ajar roosts, invisible if only for the limited range of the eyes but doubtlessly in motion, like the acheulean arcana gaze of fouquet's stephen bleeding scalpside? does it look like a mirror of stations, reflection's narration rinsed in mercury curves of river meuse, are you reduced to a mosaic cross eye of apollinaris arced in classe? you accept that you know no thing

#text #people see your interface and they know at once its purity #synchronal metol wash of your lifelapse catches the spores of the presymbolic #even in the shrapnel's glint of the meonically known grazes of lives molding anew of you #wings aren't broken

vel17

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Happy Jawbone Family Band - I Should Never Have Died Alone

#audio #i am a stranger i won't tread where my feet have no place #but you were all around i felt your tone hairs blown #maybe the world had no right to be catching you for the time it did #but i am sure it was better for it #rest in peace

borderepisteme-deactivated20260

Movement is contagious.

Before assembling a collection of my poems I would like to assemble a collection of my actions.

The action of morphine.

What does it put to sleep?

What does it consist of?

To deduce, in this way, what the soul might be?

[…]

To live in exile—to sculpt clouds.

José Martí, Notebooks

#ink is redolent amor fati #what is the great difference

i'm not sure if curation is a moral failing, but i'm always offering myself as a host for its rewritten gene, mending the ensigned body. is abstraction a virtuous refinement of the "soul," truly preparation for dying … is it a thorn beading artifice from your thumb, often misunderstood in itself and moralized so headily, or the ikebana of personality, light music floating in from the fullness of the material, islands mooring your heart … you fish for the private life of objects then think to uphold their wish for movement, you build yourself into the vessel for playtime buoyancy, enrhythmed naïf and curving the world. aesthetic specialization may be our noose. we have to tighten it further and tie the arc of history. still, inspiration is sweetening and justifies itself effortlessly, it's endless. there will always be more to learn, that is where the fun of it lies, aleatory seedpods blown to a different aerial pattern from the longevity of exchange, communal diffusion. you are laid down at the heels of the other, emptied of pretense or expectation, diligent to pass over to knowledge and remember what is unfastened there, a cavalcade of references and lacunae, all you continuously do not know, the daunting task ahead to congeal out of nothing, the stasis whose secret is always transported through a trellispulse of silent formation, the dreamwork of latencies, which is maybe where the most vivid luminosities are waiting. the experience of art is the motion of this remembrance, loosening something unknowingly buried in the nerves, preworded softness coming in with the immersion of all that is uncontained. potential beckons best as it remains unparsed. cloudthreads through bluegold, the shrouded wake of a winter sky. we are all together and already dead at some indeterminate, interminal point. it never can be morally or even noetically constrained, differentiation is the law of life, a rumination of swallows. you will know it when they call to you, wanting for it to be through

#text

cary loren

#destroy all monsters

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compiled on tumbao cuban classics in 1997.

#audio #son cubano #sexteto occidente #perspires proserpine #round by serpentiform air #smolder smaragdine

wrotten

Schellenberger Eishoehle/Ice Cave Berchtesgaden Alps, Germany

#lunar orphism #tarnish oracle coulisse #calico kallisti #ovarial chrysalis

souvenirglace

Wild parrots

#sky jewelry

louise labé, translated by annie finch

#louise labé

hey, may i ask where's your profile photo from? I like the art

for a while i've tried prying for it, i haven't been able to pin its source. i do remember cropping it from a scan of what may have been either a japanese periodical or flier multiple years ago. it was likely published in the eighties, possibly earlier. i found the file for the icon itself, but no identifying information in its filename, and no other leads. i'll be sure to furnish an update for you if i'm able to find it

#text