New contest: Try to decipher our new audio greeting - cuz we can't! Lmao...we just know it's naughty.



sluts

Nanoseconds make instants.
If ever we are to walk too far away, every work we are in progress,
And barter sunsets for spells of matter

Staring absently into cameras.
Instants make moments
What compilation is, there they are
There they go – then those outermost parameters must remain

As always, unbent.
Yet imagine them wavering
As must also moments make seconds eternally ripple.
Our big hurry is that we are temporal and tardy
With so much to do, and grow tired.

Crazy then, how: Short the spans of our attention
Readily we seek distraction
Acquiesce preoccupation
Even medicate for numbness.
And seconds make minutes we choose to make measured
(Watch the sun, watch the sun).

There was a container that held a crystal
In some vaguely similar fashion,
A crystal that held the light

Rests now but in the pallor of the same light
Two hours ante meridiem
And lidless, contemplates what was held

Striking, how these things that seem
To unconsciously seek reunion
Unwittingly embody representation

These relationships of time to space
And both, between
(Here and then, there and now)
Causal nonetheless in their natures
Are divided, multiplied
Into colors
Move then supposedly onward from this point
Outward in
Distinctive waves
Sometimes particles

Though not really

Thus we go
In some vaguely similar fashion,
Contemplating what was held

What we listen to:

Ben Folds, Ben Folds Five
Tool
Ben Harper
Phish
Jamiroquai
Paula Cole, Paula Cole Band
Live
Soundgarden
Tori Amos
James Taylor
Jack Johnson
Steely Dan
Imogen Heap
Fleetwood Mac
Miles Davis
John Coltrane...John Coltrane...John Coltrane
John Mayer
Dave Matthews Band
Nickel Creek
Eliot Smith
Nick Drake


...and we keep stumbling across this John Travolta cd (circa 1971) in the used CD store...

"Bug" - Phish

There've been times when I wondered
And times when I don't
Concepts I'll ponder
And concepts I won't ever see

God isn't one of these
Former or latter
Which did you think I meant?
It doesn't matter to me

Bug, it doesn't matter (Don't need it)
Bug, it doesn't matter (Don't eat it)
Bug, it doesn't matter (Thought you'd need it)
It doesn't matter (Overrated)

Gold in my hand
In a country pool
Standing and waving
The rain, wind on the runway

Spending or saving
Credit or debt
Which did you think I meant?
Nothing I see can be taken from me

...I wasn't planning on posting today, but after thumbing through the varying blog accounts of near-fatal withdrawals, heart attacks and other cataclysms symptomatic of the loss of our beloved newbienudes.com server yesterday, I thought it may help to post the addy of the New Zealand server (which ran seamlessly throughout the day), in the event of another such recurrence:

newbienudes.co.nz


Cheers!

"White, Discussion" - Live

I talk of freedom, you talk of the flag
I talk of revolution, you'd much rather brag
And as the decibels of this disenchanting discourse
Continue to dampen the day
The coin flips again and again, and again, and again
As our sanity walks away

All this discussion, though politically correct
Is dead beyond destruction, though it leaves me quite erect
And as the final sunset rolls behind the earth
And the clock is finally dead
I'll look at you, you'll look at me and we'll cry a lot
And this will be what we said
This will be what we said








































Look where all this talking got us, baby...

...My morning trek through the interworld finds me discovering an interpretation by one of my favorite painters of a work by one of my favorite poets; neither of which was I heretofore familiar with. In short, my first words of the day: "Fuuuuuuuuccccckkkkk....."

!


La Belle Dame Sans Merci, by John Williams Waterhouse (1893):




La Belle Dame Sans Merci, by John Keats (1812):

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done

I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful - a faery's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.

I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery's song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said -
'I love the true'.

She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.

And there she lulled me asleep
And there I dreamed - Ah! woe betide! -
The latest dream I ever dreamt
On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried - 'La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!'

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill's side.

And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.



Gyod, I love the imagery and the deliberately awkward pentameter he creates...I am yet again fascinated by this poet, who deigned to leave us with such a volume of amazing work in such a short period. ("whos name was writ in water..."

Sigh.


Happy browsing,
- Mr. S.

electricsheep.org/archive/generation-198/471/0.jpg" class="embedded-image" >


"...Thinking this he wondered if Mozart had had any intuition that the future did not exist, that he had already used up his little time. Maybe I have, too, he thought as he watched the rehearsal move along. The rehearsal will end, the performance will end, the singers will die, eventually the last score of the music will be destroyed in one way or another; finally the name 'Mozart' will vanish, the dust will have won. If not on this planet then another. We can evade it awhile. As the androids can evade me and exist a finite stretch longer. But I get them or some other bounty hunter gets them. In a way, he realized, I'm part of the form-destroying process of entropy. The Rozen Association creates and I unmake. Or anyhow it must seem to them.

On the stage Papageno and Pamina engaged in a dialogue. He stopped his introspection to listen.

Papageno: 'My child, what should we now say?'
Pamina: 'The truth. That's what we will now say.'"


- from Phillip K. Dick's novel, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?

See the kick-ass fractal project borrowing its name from this book at electricsheep.org.

I’m fine with the rain on my skin
Is a lie
Perplexed by
The abstraction of form
Myriad image in repetition of emphasis
The same ancient moon
Light the same empty hills.

And we do consider these things
In each, our individuations unique
Yet, ubiquitous
Just as these perspectives pervade
His concern redrawn to the unseen cliff –
With each rotation’s return,
Become increasingly plausible
They could be more than simply lost.

Dies
Shadows
And nets are cast

Catch them up, mold and guide them to Path
As again, we hurl toward that angst,
That largest of shades
Inconspicuous,
More distant than slight.
Do we not tread for some time
Before we deteriorate?
Even then, soon enough our footsteps are forgone
Less than forgotten.
We speak, sing, and seek
Simply to be heard.
In the end, we find only what we set out with
And that
Our songs are lost beyond our own atmosphere.

Remain:
Though vantage may change,
The same ancient moon relaying
That still empty light to these hills
Betraying
No unturned stone.

None are left alone.
He believes to himself.
I’m fine with the rain on my skin.