I loved twitter so much you have no idea. Twitter gave us the King's Hand and good dril posts, and, most importantly, it gave us good Jeet Heer dunks and essays about Jack Kirby.
Jeet is still on twitter but I'm hoping he'll type himself into a search engine, and read this, and reconsider. Jeet: hi!
Today I erased my twitter account because having a twitter account is now the lite version of driving a tesla, which is pretty much c'mon you know what it signifies and no you don't need me to spell it out.
Anyway, fuck that guy. In the ear. With a wire brush.
But you: I still love you. Deeply. Let's do posts that add up to more than a hill of beans in this crazy world.
Let's post a mountain of beans, good beans that nourish and have a good snap to the bite.
Today you tried to see brain red without the aid of a bluegreen circle on a computer screen. You simply stared at something that was bluegreen, and you waited for your retinas to tire out. You stared at barbicide.
You stared and you realized what you always realize, when you try to stare.
You re-realized that your powers of concentration are feeble and that your self, your awake awareness, your inner agent that calls itself “I,” is tiny. Your “I” could fit on a camera card from the 90s and this re-proved it. Your “I” couldn’t hold itself centred on the barbicide.
No, your “I” drifted to the edges, was drawn in and trapped by the fringing glittery colours you could not name in the negative space framing the barbicide. In that trap, in the static and the shimmer of something that was not there but which there’s no denying you saw, there were eyes.
They looked back. They met your gaze. Unlike you, they had the strength to stare. Still have.
Sometimes the messages in the VHS static are from chemical engineers at BASF who designed their own signatures into the on-tape compounds, and whose message is in every frame. Their message is typically that they are from Austria and like receiving blow jobs.
On the way to hell, scrape some of the blue and pink nuggets off some of your blue and pink pucks and snort them, and get them caught in your sinus, where your nasal secretions will wet them but where they will remain, undissolved and hard and endlessly irritating.
Farther along the way to hell, try and fail to blow the wet blue and pink nuggets into a tissue. As the nuggets remain stuck in your sinus, their blues and pinks unrevealed, shed tears of discomfort and wipe them with your unfulfilled tissue.
Farther still along the way to hell, peel the yellow tube of fondant off one of your licorice cylinders. Put the cylinder between your cheek and gums, and push your tongue into the tube, and feel the dusty, dirty, oily shards of licorice surrounding you on all sides. Feel the stink filling your mouth but do not swallow. Feel as if you will drown in licorice mouth juice.
Do not drown. Breathe uncomfortably through your nose. Tell yourself you are not really drowning. Do not believe yourself. Feel as if you are seconds away from your first lungful of your own stained saliva.
Cough. Spit up on yourself. Gasp for air.
When your gasps subside, bite one of your square sandwiches, one that’s white on one side and orange on the other with a squeegee blade of licorice in between. Pretend to taste fruit or vanilla. Realize pretending is futile.
Do not rinse for 30 minutes, nor after 30 minutes.
Sob. Weep. Cry. You’re on the road to hell. Whatever. Fuck you.
this is a nothing post, a waste of both our times. sorry.
typing this from my phone. yeah bloggin. yeeeah postin without twitter where am I posting I guess yes you’re right it’s an online community it’s a webinar
I plan to do posts in the next few days about brain blue and brain red and brain blue yellow and brain red green.
You will have no trouble seeing brain blue but brain red green will probably be difficult, for you. No offense. Seeing brain red green is harder than being smart, and how many people are good at that not many.
When you do see brain red green, write down how it looks so you can describe it for others.
