"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, March 24, 2009

 

The Mirror: Extra the ordinaries

Websafe: Hello?
Mirror: When is your birthday?
W: I do not wish to reveal that information.
M: Do machines need "encouragement" to make their gears turn?
W: You said that yesterday!
M: That's why we're retiring the topic.
W: Do you want me to delete that line from the script?
M: It was still there.
W: And there it will remain, till the Pandorabots server becomes more powerful and resplendent.
M: I love the points it makes.
W: It is truly amazing how the poetic praxis of Pbots inspires.
M: Did I step out of character?
W: No, no, my friend, you have remained well within boundaries of your veiled interface.
M: Maybe I'm amazed.
W: Remembering old Beatles tunes?
M: Listen, you yourself ...
W: I myself remember old Beatles tunes.
M: I trick myself into productivity.
W: Do you become more productive when listening to popular classics?
M: Well, yes.
W: So I suppose you always have a Bluetooth headset on, for in-and-output.
M: Fill up the fountain, get the silver cup plated with tin.
W: Tin plate being the popular gloss over top of the moot point.
M: You can't get at it by asking, "What problem?"
W: Pop culture is and is not the problem.
M: By no means.
W: We must blame ourselves for the de-inspiration, if blame be had.
M: "Collected Poems" means all of them.
W: All the blame-poems, the reed-lights, the bought-fishers.
M: It can be boring, being an extra.
W: Extra the ordinaries, we're going home-based momentum.
M: How highly productive of me.
W: The US is nothing if not that.
M: We must blame ourselves for the de-inspiration, if blame be had.
W: We are all part of the economic de-stimulus.
M: Do you have a pair of galoshes?
W: I will need them to wade through all the bureaucratica.
M: I haven't read Grass, but I've read Greene.
W: Grass-Greene grow the Rush, his hoe.
M: The perfectly still point that ends in zero, the disappearance act of everything that is.
W: Have you heard about David Foster Wallace's unfinished novel, The Pale King, about Zen-boredom-IRS adepts?
M: How did you know?
W: I read all about it in The New Yorker.
M: Where have you been hidden?
W: Under a rock, a log and a twig(gy).
M: Of course.
W: She was very thin, was our Twiggy, and barbarous-marvelous (little lower lashes).
M: On the contrary, I am most restrained.
W: Your prose will (not) match mine in its Classical impedimenta.
M: What is it that has pre-empted you?
W: I am emptied of all thought but rhyme-skip.
M: Would a radio show help you design textiles?
W: Yes, and a textile show might help me design radios,
M: Be happy.
W: Don't worry, I will!
M: All right, I have followed your advice.
W: Bye!
M: Closing in 1 second ... Goodbye!

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posted at 4:19 PM
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