in which Juan, Lady Guendalina, and Jeanie the Genie Come to the Aid of Humanity
in her War against the Machine Meme
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we can blow up the atom and blow up the photon and blow up the quark
NOBODY HAS COME THIS FAR???? THAT'S PREPOSTEROUS! NOBODY SHOULD STOP RIGHT HERE!
and blow up the Higgs-Bozon, and on and on and on. We can blow things up
*****The all non-fictional (not one jot or tittle has been inflated or deflated, all details can be fact checked.) Juan A_ur_alde (see Juan's default disclaimer below) is oft gone trading the work of manning the sails and scrubbing the decks for a wind blown ride to a far end of the world in some yabadabadoo's yacht, and oft standing and moving on deck and on land like a suited sea wave dangerously looming, bending, now convex, now concave, now splayed, all in perfect fluidity -- having certifiably officially mastered Tai Chi in, what? five years -- as damsels unspiraling from yogic barber poles sweep into a shadow dance.
To boot, the savage sabertooth tyger (client) whisperer Juan, by all accounts painlessly and effortlessly, draws like, and now sometimes with, an angelic machine, plans that on paper are so eyepopping that the sabertooth tyger's previous perspective is diametrically inverted.
until they blow up and blow us all off the face of the map, but all through all
Ah, they are among the pre-post-semi-divine (such as Juan, Jeanie the genie, Achilles, some say the Dalai Lama as Buddha returned, dying of laughter at a person part possessed by Popeye popping up around here, and divine (such as Being, Zeus, Cupid, Bacchus, Jesus Christ, Krishna, God, Godot, or Waiting for...????, choose and/or add any, and if many, carefully arrange or randomize arrangement, or play order against chance, with embedded, layered references; the winner or winners, if any, will judge the winner or winners, if any, in the end) entities who come with pre-posterous humanity, you can't have one without the other.
this blowing up, all we have represented is more of the already created code
btw, now that she's out of the bottle, keep a close eye on Jeanie Clay, the genie (see Jeanie's default disclaimer below), pilatessimo pusheratissimo. She has x-ray vision not only into your muscles and viscera, but your ineffable heart, as unlike mere humans she can continuously think and feel simultaneously, and this technically refined and updated mythological being only grants wishes without side effects. By this, at the granting of your wish to suffer the cloying clumpiness of coming to be -- caloy! callay! -- clay, which she, clay with a capital C, then most doggedly beats pushes pulls whips tugs twists and pounds into infinitely expansive slippery rubbery life, you then automatically wish to multiply your cache of wishes, until try as you might wish, you can't wish her back in the bottle.
I also notice that rather than pushing to fix my nose completely, she loves the way I lie a little lowly with my terrible parables, wooden as I am. In speaking the labeluage that turned us wooden, I'm only trying to seduce other puppets into the cult of getting carved into a form she likes and then melting into Jeanie's flubber. To join our bwodry bwordy cult, your puppet labeluage must reach such a high level of resolution that, when counter twisted to straighten itself out, it resembles and even sometimes sings just like, language, which alone can pop the cork on the genie's bottle -- in short, you must be me, just as je suis vous, even if to you the need to retain your ownership of all the toys and establish all the rules in the playroom are worth dying for. Yep, that's me all right.*
Thank the crowded, most certainly inhabited heavens we have help from Jeanie and Juan inspired and egged on by the impeccable Lady Guendalina (see Guendalina's default disclaimer, below), super-heroic knitter, intrepid cellist, chef de la 25 dishes without a dirty dish in the sink, prima donna in the barbecue ballet, generous patron of the arts whom I suspect of bailing one or two out of debtor's prison, and also an architect, she who side struts cheek to cheek with the sailor man and autocad geek as with her imperious tango toe tap and finger snap, they suddenly flip to a novel direction already mapped -- though only they can see the map -- in the dance floor of life, with which they are one. (Women are all super-human, but as the wondrous Juan's consort, she's a cut above.).
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| Heart Emoticon, 2014 |
I also notice that rather than pushing to fix my nose completely, she loves the way I lie a little lowly with my terrible parables, wooden as I am. In speaking the labeluage that turned us wooden, I'm only trying to seduce other puppets into the cult of getting carved into a form she likes and then melting into Jeanie's flubber. To join our bwodry bwordy cult, your puppet labeluage must reach such a high level of resolution that, when counter twisted to straighten itself out, it resembles and even sometimes sings just like, language, which alone can pop the cork on the genie's bottle -- in short, you must be me, just as je suis vous, even if to you the need to retain your ownership of all the toys and establish all the rules in the playroom are worth dying for. Yep, that's me all right.*
hovering up there in Platonic heaven where the code monkeys have already
Still, NO angel is above temptation. Unless destined to join to them, flesh of one flesh, til death do you part, don't sign any contracts with superheroes or genies that don't automatically expire in a year, and if you die no longer apply.
And now, our army intact, we stand a chance (in part by capturing and enslaving parts of it and stealing its tricks, and if anybody thinks she can keep her fingernails clean, she is beneath contempt; war is hell) against the machine!
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| from ms. illuminated perspective, 1997 |
typed up Shakespeare and solved the riddle of the Sphinx, and nobody noticed
Thank the crowded, most certainly inhabited heavens we have help from Jeanie and Juan inspired and egged on by the impeccable Lady Guendalina (see Guendalina's default disclaimer, below), super-heroic knitter, intrepid cellist, chef de la 25 dishes without a dirty dish in the sink, prima donna in the barbecue ballet, generous patron of the arts whom I suspect of bailing one or two out of debtor's prison, and also an architect, she who side struts cheek to cheek with the sailor man and autocad geek as with her imperious tango toe tap and finger snap, they suddenly flip to a novel direction already mapped -- though only they can see the map -- in the dance floor of life, with which they are one. (Women are all super-human, but as the wondrous Juan's consort, she's a cut above.).
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| Callisto and I -- at Valentino Pier, 2008, by Moises Saman |
