INTO SLEEP’s BENTHOS AND DEEPER. A SLANDER THAT THE DEEPEST parts are lightless. There are moments of phosphor with animal movement. Somatic glimmers, and in this trench of sleep those lights were tiny dreams.
A long time sleep, and blinks of vision. Awe, not fear.
Billy might surface and for a moment open his flesh eyelids not his dream ones, and two or three times saw people looking down at him. he heard always only the close-up swirl of water, except in deep dream once through muffling miles of sea a woman said, “When’ll he wake?”
He was night-krill was what he was, a single miniscule eye, looking at absence specked with presence. Plankton-Billy saw an instant’s symmetry. A flower of limbflesh outreaching. Slivers of fin on a mantle. Red rubber meat. That much he knew already.
He saw something small or in the distance. Then black after black, then it came back closer. Straight-edged, hard-lined. An anomaly of angles in that curved vorago.
It was the specimen. It was his kraken, his giant squid quite still — still in suspension in its tank, the tank and its motionless dead-thing contents adrift in deep. Sinking toward where there is no below. The once-squid going home.
One last thing, that might have announced itself as such, the finality was so unequivocal. Something beneath the descending tank, at which from way agove though already deep in pitch tiny Billy-ness stared.
Under the tank was something utter and dark and moving, something so slowly rising, and endless.
JR – Kipple is useless objects, like junk mail or match folders after you use the last match or gum wrappers of yesterday’s homeopape. When nobody’s around, kipple reproduces itself. For instance, if you go to bed leaving any kipple around your apartment, when you wake up the next morning there’s twice as much of it. It always gets more and more.
Pris- I see.
JR – There’s the First Law of Kipple, “Kipple drives out nonkipple.” Like Gresham’s law about bad money. And in these apartments there’s been nobody there to fight the kipple.
Pris – So it has taken over completely. Now I understand.
JR – Your place, here, this apartment you’ve picked – it’s too kipple-ized to live in. We can roll the kipple-factor back; we can do like I said, raid the other apartments. But -
Pris – But what?
JR – We can’t win.
Pris – Why not?
JR – No one can win against kipple, except temporarily and maybe in one spot, like in my apartment I’ve sort of created a stasis between the pressure of kipple and nonkipple, for the time being. But eventually I’ll die or go away, and then the kipple will again take over. It’s a universal principle operating throughout the universe; the entire universe is moving toward a final state of total, absolute kippleization.
from ‘do androids dream of electric sheep?’ by philip k. dick
missed out on Bloomday yesterday, ah well, hats off to you, leopold, and your crazy beautiful streamofconsciousness narrative as you wander the streets of dublin thinking to yourself about death, walking past dedalus, going to funerals and horse races, eating your cheese sandwiches, walking past dedalus again, thinking of better days long gone with molly, oh, is that a pretty bar maid, watch out for the cyclops, oh, now you’re drinking with dedalus, who am i, who are you, who is he, good night, what is molly thinking about? it is just another day leopold bloom, even when it is told by homer.
The opening band, Parachutes, was fronted by Alex, the significant other of Sigur Ros’ lead singer. Not too surprisingly, they played fairly similar music. That’s not to say it wasn’t gorgeous music, though. I loved the band and found a couple of their songs on myspace and have been listening to them ever since.
On our way back from the National concert with Erika and I, Shaun mentioned that he had actually seen a video of Parachutes doing an acoustic version of one of their songs on youtube. While looking it up, I made a couple of discoveries:
that Parachutes has disbanded
that they uploaded ALL of their back music to the internet for free download
I’ve been listening to it over the course of last night and this morning. It’s beautiful stuff — haunting and ambient, quiet and still. If you like Sigur Ros or Mum, I’d highly recommend it.
I was looking through my spam folder today and had my attention caught by a particularly goofy name from whom “this completely legitimate email” came from: Dingman Mylam.
It made me take a second to go through and look at the names of other spam senders. The list is pretty funny — an almost poetic collection of concatenated last names and random words:
Dingman Mylam
Buckles Thiogest
Astorga Ahylton
Ann Eliza Tony Zounde
Alazard Ursula
Skerkavich Dalan
Platt Jayde
Zehrung Jake
Koonse Janessa
Mentzer Cyril
Verdugo Jolene
Boron Gus
Hastie-Stueland Bufford
the spammers that post messages to wordpress are clearly derived from a different name generation technique:
xnsggv
naquillity
small business grants
prostate cancer symptoms
ultrasound technician
In reality, I know that these names come from various random name generation techniques like:
