Adele

It’s been awhile since I’ve putcomputed. Here are some things I’ve thought about but haven’t blogged about.

• Genrefication.
• Difference tones.
• Screaming yeast cells.
• There is no need to enjoy.
• It’s nice to be arbitrarily chosen.
• What’s a good way for a listener to be?
• My companion says they write like a termite.
• The wanderer, the solitary, the poet, the pastor.
• I’m teaching now, which makes me feel like an evangelist.
• Asignifying vocalizations – coughs, laughs, screams, hums, growls, etc.

Riddle Poem

There is a riddle in this treatment.
All processes dictate their subject-matter.
“Overthinking,” said the objector.
Bits over the monumental.
Arming me with cerebral racketeers.
Like my lover, quite a formalist.
Containing a rather baffling message.
Old veracity, now a spectator senior.
Right that I write these things from a place of trustworthiness.
To write is a strange conundrum.
My symphony for solitary drumset.
Down that pipeline.
My casket with a beautiful textile.
Be there, for the body not breathing is meaningless.
On to the crooks in the nightstand.
Straight so all can see the fallout.
With the old, in comes the psychological.
Reasons aren’t a product of the spirited.
Dying into the riverside.
Ways of triumphant.
Goes marching order.
Up one with everything on the sidelights.
Beam to the riddle’s solver, wonderful beautiful euphony.
Chants the ever-attentive choir.

Click for the solution.

The Mystic or Mathematician – Part IV, finale

When the group reached the enclosure, Magda and the six people who had accompanied her were greeted by hundreds of strangers.
Old, young, in every color and size a human being could come in, they walked stonily toward the open door and when the old woman stepped out first, they began cheering.
It was an eerie sound; none of them were smiling but their collective voice was ecstatic.
A few of the closest hands reached out to touch her scarred face and arms.
The old woman let them touch her, her expression fixed.
She walked deliberately toward the platform standing behind the crowd.

The Mystic or Mathematician – Part III

When she was returned to her cell a fresh line was running down the front of her from her throat to her navel.
She understood why her memories were lost.
For some reason they had spoken to her like she knew something.
They had called her The Prophet.
But that was impossible, she couldn’t be…

The Mystic or Mathematician – Part II

All at once a war was simmering low in the back of her mind.
Magda coughed and the hazy imagery swam, dissipating before she could get a good look at it.
Lowering the hand holding the cigarette, she closed her eyes, concentrating.
She held onto the dreamlike memory as gently as she could, allowing it to swell and shrink, not wanting to force it into a false solidity.
Slowly she saw the war stretch red and smoking before her.