: : B R I D G E : : : Pounding...lol-a....

LOLA...L.O.L.A...SOULA....

OMG don't cry for me ARG...EN...TINA.....of pirates, of walls...IT-A, IT-A, EH, EH...

Comedic binary play? To be with Jerusalm...oooh, la la....that Star of David Bling....Money, Money, Money....I'm to be (or not to be) wet....categorical splits upon a colonial medium...and that would bring about an understanding....shhhh....there there...

This wouldn't be a stretch, possibly of imagination, and yet, when there are so many opportunities to consume... Butt, rather a recollection of that very expensive Star of David at the banana table, Peachtree City, coupled with that expression...burr it's cold, like the cobra man video...There wouldn't be antagonism or hatred (much like there wouldn't be an Epstein list naturally, nor camera footage of the death, surprise), or even false love in relation to the consideration...to be a toddler, with a matriarch hugging you while jerking your hair back as hard as she can...always...to be in-need of this being residing upstairs, among a particular design...flowers in the attic any one....Alice McBaise...Other Voices Other Rooms...or finding out the uncles and likely the father figure fucking the sister figure at such a young age....all they way to that fine moment of an abortion....this was before debute as the Elton John opening at the Omni, 70s, of course...to take note of those odd moments, of a clown, who said nothing upon greeting...Mesopotamia and ancient water...no initiate of the process of languge needed, and yet, by all means, please do read...there is this matter of the map...but when something is entirely off the map...It would be nice for folks to understand but few will...which isn't an exclusive reward...quite the opposite...I take note of the ordinary life and remain mesmerized...Why this, even as IT is? Let us all pretend...

And to be clear, oh deer, there wouldn't be notions of ill-will, but rather curiosities among the puzzle games that a group of us like to play...It's like a hand & hand session, not so much a circle jerk, but rather spinning among, blurring lines surround, as the rest simply do all to keep from being swept up, like a cornucopia of chaos uprooting all that make their way toward this path...I guess there is no place like home...Sure...there's a puzzlebox somewhere around here, just for her needs...a curious cat indeed...That's what I mean. It's not an easy world or life...it's an ancient hell...so it's not this matter of...disregard or disrespect...rather something else would be involved...like a pair of fingers in the mouth...Twos for the Tows of a split...Fours, like fore...G.O.L.F....Road Bow(e)ling Corks...wheels spinning...A machinery that simply follows through among those on the line...few could excite among this dance on the line...but to be on that line...among plenty who never make it...of course sitting pretty isn't all that pretty either...granted the windows do have a red rose colored tint to them...but when we follow the cost of all the pretty little things, and one is made to look so pretty...it's internalized fire at best...there's always foraging and taking chances in the wild...Seems to be a bit less beastly than the civilized forms of survival...

Considerations...and in relation to the art I am developing, which will be relating to the notion of cultural memory...within the context of Western civilization...but that part is being left out...Meaning...the light has shifted again..the context of this writing has changed entirely, but it's something that isn't followed, unless one does have an insight on what I am currently doing, of which I can think of someone who does have that insight...

It's not much a diffult matter to follow...we have these splits, like hot and cold, good and evil, of which the contradictions are inevitable and those contradictions collapse among this institutional form...it's a lot of paths and it's a lot of that matter...leave in silenec type of affair considering Depeche mode...then throw in the informatic, which is worthwhile and different...but even with that said...culture has been my interests...throughout, even before formal academics, though it wouldn't be so interesting if it were upon a foundation of categorical splits such as this. Rather, it's this notion of cultural memory, like paintings juxtaposing with the formations of a cave wall, indicating...like that of a symbolic impression more so than a literal flat-line...The hustle bones matter is always in play incessantly, now that we have the internet...It's a lot of bubblegum POP....Like waves crashing into a hum....so there isn't this intention for anyone to hold any sense of a bearing to matters, which makes sense, otherwishe if not one experieincing the getting racked guillotine, then the white rose is at the guillotine...it's a given, so that's even what I mean, when I say my focus isn't on this other, of which I am in-need...I like my bohemian mess...it's a better way of living...Much like I wish I could rent a dormitory rather than an apartment...I like the dynamic of privacy and commune, of something that ads more value than an entirely private living quarters. There's less value in that, and yet, it's promoted as the way to go, and it sucks. It's the F.R.E.E world with limited options as usual. But I do like the Tragic and Comic focus of life...even if we were before a murder scene, even if we were sitting pretty among the Western appratus designed to transform all that take an interest into road kill...simply imagining designer luxury with a spew of roadkill blood all over the windows....and upon festival...simply a quick stop at the drive-in car wash to wave to the smiling periphery through rose-tinted blood stained glass...giving no indication of the cost of these niceties...Something like that...Tragic and Comic, is something that is relatable among all walks of life. I think that is why I gravitate toward this...It is this pounding laughter, among a disturbing juxtaposition of everything...and I don't think memory would be so conscious...all we be forgotten first...and on record, at best an afterimage not an image, in regards to matters that sustain, matters even worthwhile in terms of matters institutional. As for what is developed, much like something on a cave wall...the originatting webs surrounding the cultural morsel, wouldn't remain. Generations glimpse at the entrails of something...cultural it might not be, it could simply be a cooking recipe, say, for bull nut soup...you never could be sure of that, but in relation to arranging patterrns of a particular consistency among the entrails...and then to interact between, to synthesize, to stream the consciousness, as subconscious affair...to break the ego of siloing knowledge, and simply to allow the patterns to run through, without a need to hold stern to any sense of significance. The interactivity between, the subconscious play among, seems to indicate that motioning from afterimage, from an exposure, into a cultural development that offers something memorable, that isn't something merely left behind. For a given time though, there isn't like the possibility of preserving anything cultural, as that requires a layering among the records over a duration greater than a span of singular lived experience. The institutions can provide the cultural as one archives the entrails, and yet, the entrails, the way in which such entrails are preserved would be worthwhile, considering how that will embed into a potential for something cultural. To me, it's why I think an interest in culture and to put forth the time and energy into exploring these matters is a failure in the tragic comic sense, which is a success, like the notion of nothing failing like a success and nothing succeeding like failure, of some full-circle affair that upon notions of critial discourse like Baudrillard transform into a mobius split as one attempts to distinguish the authentic from presentation, of a splitting as we compare continuous, into distortions that offer an emergence of DNA play, to code machines in such a way, like decoded flows. There wouldn't be this Teleo grasp among the process...it's like floors caving inward, as if a stabilizing nesting will form as we reach some level of saturation, and yet, until one is throughly enmeshed in a way where that notion subsides...where the water flows in a way that isn't dancing aroud many silos any longer...the interactivity is running through uninhibited or less inhibited. This would be more likely the space for cultural memory, as again, there is a layering of record, an arranging interactivity among these consistencies, developing from the afterimages of entrails. This sharply contrasts with metalities embracing matters of the era that are common paths, like achieving some sort of plastic pyramid existence. There is, for the culturalist, not commercialist, this differing way of living, not of a capitalization of dirt empire, but rather a capitalization of some type of tragic comic deprivation, and despite matters at the surface, this motioning of sorts, is't so good at reflecting an discernible image, but rather, offers matters, of a particular dynamic that slower waters reflecting, or ice shining, couldn't understand, of which the knower, the all knowing, the universal, the silo, is the very basis of a disconnect from cultural memory. There isn't much to say other than buying and consuming at that point, which to each their own. I'm not so concerned with the normatives,seems like a lot of differences make the world work out for everyone, but if one is into culture, creating and squandering seems sound in relation to such an interest. Of course, the pounding of LOL-A, will still be had. Few are going to opt into a life of cultural exploration over commercial exploration. It's not something that I disregard. I respect that path as well and there are benefits I get in relation to these differences. I'm grateful for that. Even with that said though, few would really believe there is something genuine in relation to a differing path such as this. It's the ego on the silo plan, of which that tragic comic life lived, that pounding, among the Lol-IT-A-grade reflections, stories to tell requiring the clear-veiew mirror, will always aim at siezing the day. Waters that move faster than a clear view, do find easy ridicule, and it to is something that has to be accepted at some point. The framing of such a choice, such an emphasis, to gravitate toward something cultural rather than commercial, will find mockery, even if it isn't intended to deliver outright disrespect, there will be at almost all times, from experience, a flippancy toward the life lived. At best, one is like that of a cute little child-like mind, rather than involved in any matter so serious as the silos and the stern reflections of ice and slow form reflections. Again though, that's not culture, but rather a webbing, like cold static distortion. There isn't much to be said of that even as everything is being said. It really is this pounding...like people at the dinner table laughing and all the blood rushing to ones head where everything simply freezed in-frame, and yet the sounds keep moving, the conversation continues, and one takes that in, but the image remains still...it doesn't move, the eyes will not let the visual sync with the sound anylonger, a malfunction, a psychological state of sorts...the head and face are pulsating, tensioning, frame frozen, sound moving on, disconnecting, along with a trauma that forgot what was in motion among the afterimage etched...curious to understand as waves of interactivity move in-between, arranging, synthesizing, among a webbing, and yet, moving in relation to a webbing lost. Meaning, I think when among these considerations of culture, something consciously understood isn't so important, rather it's the fluid interactivity, the relentless play among streams, subconscious interplay, that are willing to be at a loss, considering cultural memory involves forgetting to remember. Even these traditions that are aiming for their members to be found, are at a loss with the culturalist, as the knowledge running through would be the emphasis not the silo of understanding for the egos contentment. Again, it's not a universal or superior way that I am asserting, but rather a way among the many ways we all live, of corresponding in relation to matters that possibly inspire, or simply fit in relation to our flows...some will emphasize in a way where the imagery deflects. That's not the majority, but regardless, by the very nature of our dynamic design, there will be that existence, of which the insecurity in relation, wouldn't understand. How can ice understand the brush of a rapid, unless one is somehow transformed by the interaction. Most of the time, it's simply a passing by, as the motioning remains in the given lane, among the given design. All can be well, though rapids among ice wouldn't be likely graceful and rapids among slow water isn't possible. Again, there is an impasse by design, and there is this flippant sense among the reflections of shadow show thinking. The forms aren't among a hierarchy unless we do require such delusions. It's just, that impasse, that pounding, as the difference asserts that impasse.