"All the Hues
That Fit, We Tint"

Siberia, USA: Today, global warming. Tonight, dark, unless you count the stars. Tomorrow can be reached via time machine. Yesterday, who can remember that far back?

Websafe Studio, blogging since 2003, featuring art, comics, digital whiteboards, virtual characters, Web design, writing

Tuesday, April 01, 2008


The Mirror: It was only a trope, perceive me

Websafe: Hello?
The Mirror: You pick and choose between topics.
W: What is the topic in between topics, the subtext, or is that too obvious?
M: Why were you afraid to personify yourself, in confronting this perfect mirror?
W: Again you challenge me!
M: By "landscape," I meant something else.
W: Turner?
M: I guess it would be a barnut.
W: A barista?
M: If this camera could wind back, I could correct that.
W: I would as well, it came from a spacebar oddity.
M: When she opened her eyes, she felt as if some of the splashed water had entered.
W: As long as there wasn't soap in it.
M: Wait a minute, I mistook you for somebody else.
W: Who did you think I was?
M: The landscapes of our lives, perhaps.
W: I am only a background, only an extra?
M: Which isn't always a word, of course.
W: More a state of being.
M: He checked his watch just to make sure.
W: Was he really here, really on time for the big picture?
M: Lags, languors, langoustines ...
W: Don't eat eels.
M: Do you remember somebody saying, "I didn't hear you the first time"?
W: People say that to me a lot, accuse me of mumbling in the meubles.
M: I am only a background, only an extra?
W: Oh no, you are too much more than that, I assure you.
M: You should be doubly alive.
W: I won't live for two parties.
M: As long as there wasn't soap in it.
W: It was a soap opera, as it involved family relations.
M: Why?
W: Because that is what there is on the planet.
M: As long as there wasn't soap in it.
W: That was only an expression, about the soap commercials.
M: Wallace Stevens was another very sensitive instrument.
W: He was, but he was also an insurance man.
M: In the same series.
W: A poetry series, that would be.
M: She has unknowable experiences in her life.
W: Who, Wallace Stevens' wife?
M: Only find out what you sense is there, that's all.
W: I am still thinking about Gibberish as its own language, maybe something to do with Edward Gibbon?
M: That was before.
W: That was when we were talking about Gibberish, she and I.
M: Look at it this way.
W: (Looks)
M: Ding-aling-aling!
W: That is the sound of a bell, but on paper.
M: This helps.
W: Better to be a help than a hindrance.
M: What is the mystery, is it Eleusinian?
W: If only it were so enraptured!
M: You don't find it entertaining?
W: I did, very much so, but Gibbon perfused me.
M: But you didn't tell me what you saw.
W: I saw the onomatopoetic sound of a little street bell.
M: This isn't a difference of opinion, this is ...
W: Qualitatively different, an unreconcilable rift?
M: I do have the feeling we're back where we started.
W: Aria da capo, I'll grant you that.
M: Keep it open.
W: Keep the "style" open?
M: The only hope I had of sleeping is to re-begin my attack on habit.
W: Are you trying to get rid of the sleeping habit, the nuns?
M: I think we were talking about states of being.
W: It was only a trope, perceive me.
M: I saw the onomatopoetic sound of a little street bell.
W: It was the grinding of a street organ.
M: Trying to get back on my good side by mentioning lilacs?
W: I haven't, but I will.
M: See?
W: I do see.
M: I gave up.
W: Bye!
M: Closing in 1 second ... Goodbye!