DaDa Freitag: Sporn den jungen Held an!

Wie du mir, so ich dir: Der Geistesknüppel

Kāle Ke Āge Chirāg Nahīń Jaltā: Beware the Words of Naga

Amethyst Vas Methysménos: Cue for the Visions

Filament in purple glass on the ceiling warms in strength. Minor key heartbeat of the nocturne pulses through the small, furnished shed. This dim prelude is to frame fragments of memory.

• Trudging through snow to Blumenfeld to return the borrowed folio.

• A trek across the Bäckerinhügel, past sledgers to retreat under quilt, shaking off the cold from the hardwood floor.

• Slouching through the Vieux Carré to sidle up to the Taverne Vide, a mope and a beer with Brenda Lee warbling on the jukebox.

• Leaving the Lodgemaster to rendezvous with the inamorata falsely in durance vile; now freed, mitigating the ordeal with hearty tongue and brew.

• Limbs entwine at Bad Greiferfuß, warm water rippling under that same purple murk.

The nocturne winds to a halt and the light is doused, revealing a phosphorescent ceiling of stars.

Carpe noctem, ad astra per lux

Trans-Chroma: Todo del día espectro

• Sunlight hitting the dashboard crossing Las Cruces at dawn

Melting Creamsicle™ on naugahyde -- a blinding visual flavour

• Looking down from the mesa over Cortez at high noon

Dusty maize-hued scape baking under light of white gold

• Double rainbow over the Jicarilla Rez

Spectra framed by brooding violet clouds and swaying grass of electric green

• Tumbleweeds crossing 94 near Medora

A panorama with the hues of white klieg lights gleaming off a tarnished Zildjian

• Town lights shimmering at midnight in the river at Salida

Diamond pinpricks smear and ripple through black water beside the roadway

Sleep beckons, and there... there is a roadside motel.

De amanecer a la oscuridad, cielo a conectar a tierra... a güebo...
...Ahí nos vemos.

Friday Night Diqqat: Who needs to see?

Signal integrity diminishing, unwanted noise increasing.
An intermittent connection with no increase in conductivity.
The solution didn’t involve the application of solventless corrosion inhibitors.
The solution didn’t involve deoxidizing the potentiometers.

What was the solution?
What do you think?


“Shumo chi mikuned?”
“Hamash naghz... Hech gap ne...”

Singes de Style: Epigones Élégant and the Road to Thanatos

Down the sidewalk comes the parade, with all the pageantry of a baby elephant walk. A train of hipster chimps (chimpsters?) shuffling forward with a loping gait, each clutching the scarf of the ape in front of him.
And where does this caravan lead? To Pain & Blunder’s Hangout, where their Vespas are parked in a row, conspicuous in attentive fashion.

Man invented the wheel, it must be agreed, but what are the consequences of these creations that we hand down to our bipedal brethren?
Let us focus upon one average member of this troop...

Professor John Gutts: “A creature of concise inanities, the subject preens in front of the picture window, conscious of the eyes of passers-by. Attracted by a glint from the superfluous array of mirrors on his motorised bike, he scampers over and hops aboard. The mirrors act as catalyst for the self-grooming instinct: The subject immediately hunches forward, gazing at self-image and ‘checks his style.’ Accidently kicking the parking brake free, the scooter rolls forward while the unknowing chimp’s trendy and way-too-long scarf gets caught in the wheel...”

So, we see (a) the gift of the wheel, coupled with (b) the scarf...

Prof. Gutts: “What was once an innocent fashion accessory becomes a sinister instrument in the bitter struggle between style and death...”

...along with the Compound Coagment Factor itself, (c) the desire for style.

Prof. Gutts: “The appetible hunger for a sense of style within a collective is an irony of ironies, as ‘rebellious manifestations’ counterproductively bolster tribal attitudes instead of girding the autolatry of ‘The Individual’ (Yeah, scare quotes there cos ‘tis a Hipster Paradox).”

So... when ’style’ is simply a recursive means towards its own ends, freely embraced by the Culturati along with a wink-n-nod postmodern excuse slip, should it be any surprise where it all leads?

Prof. Gutts: “Voluntary ironic detachment... begets passionless art... begets a lack of cultural contribution... A discursive roundabout manoeuvre resulting in a terminal free-fall into Niche CultureDeath.”

Monkeys struggling to free themselves from the sub-kitsch noose of their own making, gurgling their final words, “I’ll get noticed if it kills me...”