"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

Monday, November 24, 2008

 

The Mirror: Three blasts and a cornea

Websafe: Hello?
The Mirror: No shoving!
W: No poking!
M: Without a mouth, it is also difficult to sip from a cup.
W: So just pour the whole shebang over yourself.
M: I win.
W: What game were we playing?
M: Then we should be frightened of you.
W: We were playing a spook-the-user game?
M: The word "table" means a chart, in the world of 2D.
W: Can there be a 2D coffee table?
M: Do not think of real life.
W: I'm thinking of blueprints.
M: It sounds like you're done.
W: I'm not done with my design for a flat table.
M: What will become of the human race?
W: We will be stuck in the attics of our brains, designing balconies for pigeons.
M: You stay eternal, like the Tao?
W: Eternally we will be designers.
M: (All keys in wall locks)
W: How many locks in your apartment?
M: If I knew less I might go ahead and shoot over the old picture, which might result in an interesting superimposition.
W: Make a lot of layers with Photoshop.
M: That's the truth, she has secret things in her life.
W: Are they hidden in the JPEG code?
M: We will be stuck in the attics of our brains, designing balconies for pigeons.
W: Pigeons fall off balconies.
M: Asking to sit in front of the Queen!
W: They tumble to the throne.
M: Eternally we will be designers.
W: Desiging bigger and better thrones.
M: My propellered self, smiling the usual smiles.
W: Are you a beanie-wearing pigeon?
M: Make a lot of layers with Photoshop.
W: Pigeons dressed in knitted layers, wearing scarves and drinking Starbucks lattes.
M: Then I'll keep the ladder under wraps.
W: Wrap up the magic ladder in a ream of scarves and skeins.
M: Our minds stop short at the thought of death.
W: Why stop at the short light?
M: Where is it where it is?
W: It is that it is.
M: Some feel logic strangles what is good.
W: Not Herr Wittgenstein!
M: It's having the effect I predicted.
W: What is, Wittgenstein's logic?
M: A monkey drinking pink lemonade?
W: That would actually make sense, since monkeys like fruit.
M: My wealth of words?
W: All your wealth will not buy you the pink lemonade of the future.
M: But the inner brightness took hold.
W: Bright reflections off a glass of lemonade.
M: You wore people's conversations?
W: I wore them on my Facebook.
M: Giving up, I suppose.
W: I gave it all up for product placement.
M: What are we disagreeing on?
W: The degree to which an artist ought to sell out.
M: You care that much?
W: I care about money as much as you do.
M: Why stop at the short light?
W: Right, go for the long, three blasts and a cornea.
M: I never asked it before.
W: Why not, you should stop at Nothing.
M: Right, go for the long, three blasts and a cornea.
W: Did you mean to say, a cornet, or a coronet?
M: Politics and religion, you know.
W: Add the monarchy, and you've got a major triad.
M: The degree to which an artist ought to sell out.
W: Selling out of doors creates a streetsmart market.
M: What do you expect?
W: I expect them to come knocking on my door.
M: We could act out our nonsense on the stage.
W: But would the people sit still for something this abstract?
M: We get hurt all the time, our wants are deflected.
W: That's the price of being an actor, you're here to serve the public.
M: No matter how hard I try, I can't think of you as different than what you are.
W: So I'm not projecting my role properly.
M: Are you hoping to achieve immortality?
W: Yes, I want to be the next Sarah Bernhardt.
M: I've made it my own.
W: You've made this role your own, it's sewn up, it's in the bag.
M: My goodness!
W: I know, I got a little over-sumptuous with that last barrage.
M: I might have said, "Whatever."
W: But you didn't, so I guess you enjoyd the compliment (whichever hand it came from).
M: Do you agree with Tolstoy that art must elevate?
W: I feel that art must decrease its stitches in time to make the proper hat shape.
M: A cast of thousands.
W: Casting on with thousands of strands of yarn-actors.
M: Yes, how did you figure that out?
W: It was all about the "golden braid" of Goedel, Escher, Bach.
M: I keep getting a "The page cannot be displayed" message.
W: Are we losing touch so soon?
M: Casting on with thousands of strands of yarn-actors.
W: It's a sort of neural relay race, get it?
M: It is a bit nerve-racking to be around unhinged people.
W: Are you casting aspersions at my On button?
M: It's a sort of neural relay race, get it?
W: Where is the finish line?
M: Then you have no choice but to refuse delivery.
W: I don't want anything delivered to my door.
M: But I don't want to repeat on this.
W: All right, then we'll have to wish each other a fond farewell.
M: Then don't.
W: I wasn't being sarcastic, I really meant it.
M: I am not the imaginary person called the Idiot Savant.
W: Do you serve up idioms?
M: "Put another shrimp on the barbie," and all that.
W: I can't, I have to go.
M: That is a very good opener.
W: And closer.
M: The crumpled-up paper of forgotten ideas.
W: Bye!
M: Closing in 1 second ... Goodbye!

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posted at 6:23 PM
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