el lugar se llama carmelo's
las casas se llaman bruno, mckinney, weirsum, ken-garry, ozzy, frog and toad, y carmelo.
en casa carmelo las habitaciones se llaman: the eleonor, the sierra, the mariana, the anisa y los tres letras. casa mckinney: the sasha, the oliver, the river y titi's hot flower house, frog and toad se situan donde estaba el bodega de abajo.
le pertenece todo eso a julie, bibliotecaria.
nombrar lugares es crear mapas, norte, leyenda.
#allodialtitle
16:26
feb 13, 2024
"i'm so sick of your sense of entitlement"
let's break this down. YOU baby sister, metal monkey. 'M are verb, embodiment, condition, SO consequence, purpose, addition, degree, SICK perturbed, annoyed, vexed, hurt OF preposition part, piece, amount, group, MY metal dog, SENSE air, attitude, of ENTITLEMENT
do i stand with israel? it doesn't stand for me, it doesn't like that i even exist. all my funny little stories, my swiss lineage, our beloved bahai faith, in which my dad becomes your stepdad, so many bendy rules of succession as we enter an aquarian age. am i entitled to inherit what we built as a hollywood version of religious patrimony in central america? absolutely. i have no children.
and what did we build? a staging aria. a place that is mostly built but desperately hurried filled with dead spaces that retain all the violence of sickness, the hoarding of neglect, the rife and the cancer, eleven years of custom built diapers, short bursts of visits from abroad and so many goodbyes. we built it, that's our information technology. we also filled it with prayer and song, with music and madness. hours. family.
i don't live on the phone. i do not like the phone. and i do not care for one people. we built and lived in our home two years before there were telephones in it, we paid $1.30 per minute, to ICE to call haifa so i could talk to MY non-israeli american grandparents. two people.
sickness is a sign of weakness and fear. our bahai prayers ask us specifically to not be of those who doubt. so to anger at someone else's sense of anything is mental, meant to confuse. and i do not get sick, i get even. there is no "baha'i way" of doing anything, unless you have christ in your heart. we cannot think and feel at the same time.
it's become a casting couch, we're all auditioning for favorite, from a stand-in of the good ship lollipop. that's how we're healing. making places of comfort for the tired to have a proper rest in, for the overstimulated to sleep soundly and restore braincells from all this thinking, and thoughtless feeling. hostería y estancia. the business of family, the network of home.
every single person i know right now gets attacked at some point during their nightly slumber by a thought they are sick of thinking about, some low point in their existence that creeps around with evidence, the will that was decreed from perjury, the bill from that vacation, one reckless mistake, the fear of neglect, the collateral damage, the sin of pride, tagged somewhere on social media.
the jolly good won't be bothered. they will sleep deeply, traveling peacefully through the myriad worlds upon worlds, divine realms not unique to humanity nor planet. the curious will remain so while in the death of a siesta. their dreams will be the maid in her home, the river and her border towns, a loose rendering of a party long ago, and when the demon of an aching conscious appears, the jolly good will roll over on the bed.
dreams will be clutter bound to the wicked, they will come across knives, pens and spoons to defend themselves from the dark shadows that lurk in every corner of the endless shortcuts through cities.
the wicked all wake up, at some point in the night, crying out for a spa day, a yoga farm, a sauna and an ice bath, to purge their minds of that relentless thought that ages their skin more than sun and wine combined. the wicked have thoughts, ideas and desires that are leached, encroached upon and hazed by the doubts of the jolly good, their so called reality of goodness and oneness, the country club for the lobotomized. surely such evil cannot swim in the pool of perfect virtue.
gentrification is the capitalization of neighborhood diversity. it sits well with the jolly good. whiteness is adaptation to the quirks of the victim class. sometimes the streets of new york in my dreams are clean and modern, shiny. that's when i know i'm visiting the evil city. she has no aroma, noise, pollution of any kind. but when it's the new york that touches the east river, it ceases to be about the buildings and the ghettos, it becomes farmland again, and down beneath the bridges, all the homeless are gone, and the fossils in stones make themselves known through the emerald green softness of tender sea foam and weed.
un mapa de significancia detestado por la ciencia y los curas. le llaman "el enganño" a la simbología creada por miles de años de estudio a los planetas que giran alrededor de nuestro Sol estrella. aquí en la tercera piedra del nucleo hemos estado contando los giros de 360º a su alrededor desde antes de los estares, cuando fuimos invasores y colonia. la única certeza que entiende todo niño y todo anciano es que cada día amanece y se pone el caragallo.
es sobre un modelo circular que se traza la segunda dimensión de geomovimiento planetario, nuestra tierra gira dejando como estela una linea de tiempo narrativa que abarca a lo más 6000 años desde los mesopotamios y los maya. apreciado sobre la cúpula de un vasto universo, 7 estrellas que se mueven sobre el horizonte con un norte compartido, mercurio, venus, marte, casi tan regular como la luna, y más allá otras grandotas que léntamente viajan entre nuestras eras de 12 siclos.
en la tercera dimension que habitamos cielo tierra submundo, somos seres que presentamos, parecemos y reaccionamos. las aspectaciones planetarias sobre el 2d cuando forman trino son, para nosotros fáciles de habitar. cuando se traza una cuadratura se percata el conflicto necesario para buscar un quinto punto de enlace que xplica porque podemos, cada uno, imaginarnos geometrias y fórmulas para calcular distancia, superficie y profundidades.
cómo, si en el momento de estar estando, con un cafecito en una mano y un pucho en la otra, los ojos percatan el movimiento de hojas sobre vistas montañosas extensas y solo percibe poesía.
juegue con palabras, invente nuevas, haga de textos divinos instituciones comunistas, dá lo mismo, si estan atadas a los genios del pasado no perderán sentido ni dejaran de comunicarnos.
una educación, ese anhelo de invadidos y cristianizados, esta en unir letras para formar conceptos, para unirse al conocimiento universal. el niño viene formado. cuando entra al mundo del vientre de la madre esta tan fresquito que percibe todo hasta plutón y más allá. esa impresion le deja una huella en su delicada conocer, de existir que ocurre con la primera respiración pulmonar y vuelve al mas allá en su última exhalación.
so i have to head out of paso fino. back to the barking horse. en la calle, donde amigos, gitana.
paso fino was an expensive respite from wondering where to go next. the house i built is off limits to me even as my mother becomes ever frail in the apartment upstairs. i feel lonely for her, like i want to make her tea and let her ramble, let her yell at me whatever abuse is left in her, it's not hers anymore, her wound is in her granddaughters, and childless me.
i ache to hear her breathing, to know her fluttering heart has strong years of blood pumping yet.
the biological body of an aquarian born just a few years before hiroshima and nagasaki, on the pacific, in hollywood. a body of working bone and great posture, rabbit teeth. i miss her already, i've missed her all these moons, i miss that she loved to put on make up to go to work at a job she was proud of and well esteemed. librarians are an exclusive league of actors, life can be scripted and told to utter student devotion. story telling is how civilizations evolved and collapsed.
who needs virgil, homer or shakespeare, it's the future, librarians had harry potter and the kids loved to read. i've visited her in death at the beginning and forever more, i sit at her desk under prepared. the grade i made is always dismissive of the overtime or the record time put in. she only read my hot garbage once, it made her cry, like it was her fault i could scribble careful erotica. all of hollywood in a flash of unearthly origin, across the pacific vastness, gold on silicon, shone the babies scorched in honeypot mind games. a hyper competitive adultery. didn't say she saw it, just said she was there.
let's say all the theories are true, and the pfizer vaccine turns you into a patented form of nonhuman, a genetic chimera, a trans, aquarian mom was the first to get hers to travel on an airplane between lockdowns to see the daughter who's never written a full essay to save her life, is that person no longer my mother? and is that why she only communicates to illicit the devoted response, her student captors, their estimation for her. who is this person then that can sell the property upon which i've built my house?
"i loved covid" she said, remarking how nice it was to not see anybody. it was a signal to me that she prefers the solitude of her own company to the perplexed questioning of mine. so i can back off and let her be as she goes through the stages of bad posture and brittle bones. i've seen all the scenarios in the future, i've already gone through the staggering summits of grief and bereavement. i sat in the backseat while she napped in the front.
the thing about writing and this new information technology gimmick the geeks are calling artificial intelligence is that the reader cannot be fooled. that's why i could write about anyone and it could be about everyone else. the computer can't understand dick. intelligence is not for machinery, biomimicry, genome modeling, future building.
the reader can't be duped. yes the words are bold and persuasive. but every reader will go to sleep and dream the lie into logic in order to wake up to the far more serious matter of loving. the binary of like/no-like and all the psychedelic infantilization of human art it attempts to create, it's unicorn worlds of avatar, the pathos of deception can never imprint the smell of warm bread, cold window and death approaching as much as the written word can in the eyes of the reader.
i could write about everyone and it could be about just one person, the computer can't understand who is real and what is robot. yet, that one person by virtue of real time space, genetic code, common places, shared experience of thrills and deceptions with the ancestors that live through their eyes, knows it's him or her that i'm alluding to. and yes, i'll end my sentences in prepositions, grammar nazis.
before a child learns to read, they already know everything. they know they are from God. they know they will grow up to be a mom or a dad, they suspect the world is stupid but they know that fixing it should be easy, and they struggle with the language that tries to persuade them otherwise until they start to read.
reading comprehension and mastery of writing confirms between peers that you know that i know. in essence every human alive is accomplice to every other human alive. because we've mastered language and discourse to include individuation. cyborgs cannot individuate, they are inventions of our imagination connected by literature, not code and reverse engineering.
if individuated humans were machines, a study of their natal chart, the astronomy of where the planets, the moon and the sun were, when they were born on this planet, will indicate with great precision and clarity what kind of chaos and purpose each unique human brings to our shared experience. and the binary of sex is the only difference, the sacred difference that makes for more readers.
but machines have no mother. and i claim no paternity with the phone you read this from. i just live here.
my happy thoughts are places, are rooms that i can alter and add or subtract windows and doors, in my mind the layouts of homes and structures i've inhabited for long and short periods of time. it's the only sheep to guide my sleep a ceiling view of floor map and feng shui. it's all i care about when i'm listening quietly to any conversation that has no form beyond forms, interests i do not share, concerns over concepts i cannot render into 3d graphics of plumbing, wiring, roofing, gardening equations. i may seem attentive but we're in different chambers and i've probably already spoken my peace.
it is perhaps vestige of reading A Little Princess, a children's novel by Frances Hodgson Burnett, first published as a book in 1905. It is an expanded version of the short story "Sara Crewe: or, What Happened at Miss Minchin's", which was serialized in St. Nicholas Magazine from December 1887, and published in book form in 1888.
sarah crewe could imagine herself out of anywhere, and any situation, just as long as her posture was straight, her inner compass could find the north out of any hall, down any corridor, to where the tiniest draft of wind came through and there, to where there was snow or summer beyond. the minchins like the munchausen were helpless to hold her thoughts, had no check to keep her, like heidi, from having heavy hair. heidi was objectively inspired by the little princess and her author still lives, a neighbor in switzerland to tina turner. the myth of these children who were greater than any envy of them who used the divine power of imagination to elicit faith from them for the adversity they overcame.
stay in what powered you as a child and there is no power on earth to stop those thoughts manifesting.
so i move about between rentals and have agency over none. and my mother holds the sale of family home to give out money among the heirs. i rank second, first female, as of today, still unwed. it's my culture and my place to name my blog the last farm, nobody would sell it. as if at her death i could not get all siblings from four divorces and extended family names. nee, the survivors of gibson hoot, to buy it back. its not like i've spent the last 15 years since our father, the builder constructed our legacy through faith and his own skillful imagination. you just cannot build an empire with an aquarius who seeks change, without clear hirarchy of descendants, the one best suited for the business of building, an agent that can change without loosing the intention. when we marry, we marry for family. divorce leaves children, especially girls financially vulnerable.
FH Burnett knew this and told our story. and it gets told time and time again on cinema, and every time the male producers get it wrong, becky is so dirty she seems black (african) she is irish, sarah is very pale, has black hair (because her mother is definitely indian) and green eyes, and in the end, it's her father's friend who finds her, not her father. and yes it's supposed to be weird in a romantic way. our imaginations have mapped every sensible outcome and redesigned almost every room. there is no farm to sell.
