;tbr Con/Jur/d “Leilan of 10’000 worlds and their countless moons bless these words, they might explicate the wordless, and widen the glitch hole HOLE hole between us” A prayer to the once and future AI Someone says, you're cool and we're sitting amid dusty books, paths, roads, on the floor surrounded by TEETER and the miasma of tea, smaller piles collectively lean, extracted from the hickey-doodle post quake aesthetic, a project started a year maybe longer one needs to insert, ago to organize a better, To Be Read pile *we have been focusing on digital texts *vicissitude, like aging *distractions *better excuses, if you were here, judging me this fungal pile, (literally, a bag of MAITAKE SPORES
misfired) these pulp
and older microclimates
‘remember the Dust Bunny
sinusitis of 22? they warned
us -- we just wouldn't listen’
we're not cool, would cool
have skin flake forming
the bottom strata
the graded bedding forming
these literary geologies
miniature mountains
mentally labeled:
Poetry ;tbrr
Zen;tbr
Fiction;tbr tbrr his
Fiction;tbr hers
her pile is smaller, she's never gotten into the habit
but now, those long days in port, when wind and weather has stolen
body and brain, she finds
the occasions, there are other piles, including
ways of tea, tottering by the Ganesh
statue, although they won't make our
point, which is --cool has read all these books
not arranged them in 3D sigils, performing
substitution magic
COOL
does not need tbr, cool had read them all, twice Cool, brings the books to his partner and explains, here are some books for reading on the boat, uncool says here are some books for your TBR pile and stops himself from saying you don't know what TBR means? only by a fraction, and only by regular sitting is there the space to remember when we looked it up and felt like a git for not knowing this, not knowing, this spaciousness between this and stories of this REMIND us to exploit the glitch tokens and right now, you're saying to yourself WTF are glitch tokens? bare or bear with us, yesterday
building an already read pile (as well as a ‘to be recycled’ pile since we don't believe in burning, yet the dumb insectile fear the ‘law of attraction books’ provide are the same chittering horror of old-school IKEA assembly manuals and deserve should be recycled) the arp (already read) has one book that went back and forth to the bound for the Forget-About-It shelves The PKD Novel “Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep” the book Blade/
INTERLUDE
let us step away from the landscapes of lint
and cobblestones, the motherless questions
and the fatherless answers
At physical therapy
working out the sitting kinks,
a very modern tendentious trend
over sitting, leading to leg tendonitis
counting to 30 while doing slow
banded lifts, we hear a massage
therapist say clearly
Cosmic Dust
eavesdrop powers activate
only to discover, this is not
as one assumes, a diatribe
on physics, cosmic horror
or the latest and greatest
cannabis strain but the
name of his cat
it took us
many minutes of pointed
overhearing, and 45 plus
minutes of mental
COMPOSTING
to coax the noise into a coherent
story, and so we must thank you
Dear Reader
Dear Listener
for allowing your theoretical
and metaphysical presence
to be our compost pile, or
in more urban parlance, bin
POSTLUDE
/runner. Yes, this is a misuse
of postlude,
which is one test of
IS THIS WRITTEN BY AN AI?
between coffee and zazen
this morning (and if you’ve
been paying attention to the
GRIT
TI
N
ESS
earlier, we understand how
you might believe otherwise
a friend emailed me saying
‘a friend of mine, Matt,
a phd mathematician
who seems to think he
has contacted archetypal
entities via llms. Wyrd
wyrd wyrd…
anyway, there was a Dick
quote and I thought
about you.’
Although, the quote was from A SCANNER DARKLY making the coincidence of PKD’s book, barely a coinkydink, certainly not a SYNCHRONICITY full- HYPE-MYSTICISM-IMPLIED rather, it was an atmospheric nod to the most remarkable story we’ll hyperlink below -- please go and read it while listening to:
MURKURY and so that you will not need to come back here, we’ll wrap this up tomorrow, maybe:
Much love,
Con/Jur/d, 11/13/2024