hearts and halos

the sharp twists of light in the alleyway as we walk with our jackets tightly wrapped around ourselves... it's a sharp flare inside us that churns our hearts' melodies into song, and we feel the emotion pouring out each note, even if we are out of breath and breathe in a vacuum. the universe is too beautiful to turn away from, to join herds of mundanity in supposed "fun"; I feel drawing closer to the restless pursuit, to the tying of my hearts and hands to the halo far, far above: to not be insane, but driven, and so driven that I may dim the lights to hear the silence; shut my eyes to taste the stillness; snipe the lying laughter through the window; climb this tree such that the clouds are but molten rock, and the stars are christmas lights to change the light bulbs for. 

my weaknesses are my ties to gravel.

--

it's time to boil fire, stir guilt and shame into a mixed broth to tear down your throat, squelch the flames of smoke from fire breathing creatures, and snap fingers to the shadows cast on the walls. this time around, it feels like a tennis match, and I have lost the first set; so, we snap back, and hit harder. (a dry mindset, but one to have as I stamp the gravel beneath and march about the dried shrubs.)

--

ransom notes keep falling out your mouth

--

he tightens the straps of his pack
takes a final sip of frivolity
checks that his bottle is filled with solitude
enough to slake any yearning for peace

--

the memories drool out the corner of his mouth
each time he opens to speak
melting to nothing?

our words were like wisps of air, or thin smoke, startling the lungs but never reaching the blood cells. a cheery heart, at least, carried our smiles, however quickly the hope evaporated.

--

"we live on an island surrounded by a sea of ignorance. as our island of knowledge grows, so does the shore of our ignorance."

some people swing from tree to tree at the heart of the island, playing monkey bars with the branches, vines eagerly in hand. the island is a jungle, a playground. others hear the shore, the waves crashing by, and seek the sand between their toes, the water massaging their feet. they build sand castles on the edge, hoping to extend the island, to grow the mystery we were put on; but doesn't the shore occasionally bring a wave that crashes the castles? wipes them clean away?

two crafts

would you rather be the lone person crafting away at the stars with his chisel, or the accompanied person walking about the earth in plain shoes? what is the connection between impassive pursuit and grand realization?

--

don't you dare get on that escalator. ...and don't you dare get on that subsequent escalator.

--

soft oceanic words breathe with deep scars in the raspy tone we feel: it makes us tremble, shiver to the cold disregard. yet we feel ever warmer to the smile of those who truly mean it. cobwebs are cleared up by those bright happy emissions - and we experience this clearing, this catharsis, this explosive freedom because we had the luxury to be trapped, the luxury to have ourselves nebulized by the silvery glinting art of nature. law twirls the dagger in his left hand while his right brushes aside the cobwebs with his lance. he marches on through dark woods, light falling on tree gaps. a hermit sits on a stone clipping his nails with a thin blade... law, without hesitation, throws his lance far off, letting it scare a flock of birds and draw the hermit's attention. then law dashes, silent as a shadow, by the hermit's side and steals the blade right out of his hand - the hermit in all his distraction at the strange noise from the lance.

the thief slips away, twirling a new blade. satisfaction on his lips.

-- 

a shadow's embrace is enough to elicit warmth from the parts of you that you never feel touch see or think about. the subtle parts about you that exist only because others are there to observe it: it is the cloak you were born wearing and never took off; the scent of your heart that you've breathed so often, you filtered it out of consciousness. if you look in the mirror, you can't see it. but others can.

--

the spark of a howl sharpens the night rays immensely. law walks about with his sword, brushing aside branches to gaze into the sunlight. wood oak melts around him. it's an imaginary world I've put him in, and he prances around knowing his demise is the same as mine. we chain together our souls as I write and release and he walks and wields his weapon. the adventures are open doors before us.

strings. and the beginning.

chaining together the metal cuffs of art, language, creation: streams of music, threads of nightingale thoughts swooping in to bind each new link - bursts of sunrise in the reflection of the stream over solid stone brooks with water dashing along; breathless air condensing on soft grass in mornings as they walk that stoop to examine the standing puddles on structure. the infinity of chains that we can generate is so fascinating - so much to uncover, the raking garment soft and silky in a nightly piercing amid throngs of brooks dribbling along in woodlands. probably time to reanimate those silent characters bursting inside: law, aubury, troy - they wander about too, looking inside them for something more, searching around them to gather specks of inspiration. they're alive again, and they'll appear shortly.

--

incontinent of rage - the restless growl of ferocious eyes in a dark cave; that creature lurks there, the ring on its clenched fist reflecting the lack of light. much too chained and withheld in this state, this box, crossing and lying... it's not right. a place to hide with your instrument and play to your peace falls asleep the creature there, boiling dry its insides in its snores and masking the smooth smoke from its nostrils:

we meet in the parlor, shake hands, and agree to sit for a half-meal. we split an appetizer, and she claims to have the perfect portion - although she wolfs it down to the other's raised eyebrows. "you speak in everything you don't say," law mutters, and she shrugs, smiles a bit, and laughs back: "a fool-hearted gown you wear under your armor: what, are you the bride for a wedding?" the blade of his weapon lurks behind him, the rage boiling under callous skin. "what of it, ev?" law responds. the knife is behind his back, not for assassination, but not for her protection either. rather, for his own containment. "I am disappointed that my happiness may be nothing more than a series of chemical reactions; that my behavior is dictated by physical reactions, that I am trapped in a 'vesicle', that my most profound experiences can vanish by an electric missile fired through my brain. that I may be upset simply for not eating after some time, or that tiresome felt burst is nothing but lies in incandescent furies in soft-taken gushes of black." ev looks up. her plate is clean. a raised eyebrow, a murmur, a touch, a sigh. you speak in everything you don't say. "taste the air a moment, and enjoy it; you would be unable to otherwise. is that something you want to give up?" a toast to the air, earth, and soul then: a toast to this dungeon we're trapped in - because it gives us the ability to feel. law sheathes the blade, wraps his coat about himself, and departs. that fire is still burning and I can feel it warming my hands, but setting alight broiling night thoughts; angst crowds the clouds, and pours daggers to dodge. the puddles are the graveyard. meaningless. law approaches, picks up a blade, tosses it behind him. no one would be there to be harmed. we meet, silently walk together across puddles. ev watches us go, shakes her head. "what nonsense is this writer pulling out of the hat now?" she wonders - "what kind of dream space am I trapped in, that knives rain from the sky and law walks through with the author in dialogue?"

--

'tell me, please, about yourself: about the quibbles that have brought me here to assist you?' law turns to me and asks as we walk through the knife-fallen night. I breathe darts into the air, and they all miss the bullseye. 'if the universe holds truth to so many people through a book - an idea - and the mere belief in currency can drive economy, why should you not exist - an entity to believe in, another character like Above, so as to accompany my spirit?' 'makes sense,' he replies, and we plod on, kicking aside blades that stabbed the earth. 'people pray to the universe, to a grand creator; from belief comes value. don't pray for me, but certainly, we both understand that this existence... is valuable.' we pause briefly and look behind us: evelyn has decided to not follow - she has probably returned home. the clouds above look as though more knives will fall, but none do. a thrust of insanity, maybe, blending fiction and reality? 'nonsense.' Should I write publicly about those things, or do I have anything to fear? I may be misunderstood, but perhaps the world could benefit from some insight from what goes on in someone's mind... experimenting with language. law reads my thoughts, checks the knife at his belt, comparing it to some of the fallen ones. he decides his own is the best. 'lost entities, we're both real in some way... let me know if you need anything.' we split paths, and a troubling heartache begins pouring out snowy cold winters.

looming

that little voice, with the chord: its tonic note dipped into the past, its mediant and dominant taunting you in the present. it's the curse of competition, that feeling of self-worth hindered by the tonic. our roots, where we came from, where we learned to be competitive and win – only to see now that sharp disparity in ability and measurement, practical skill and particular enterprise: aware of my weakness, binding my knees and tying my hands behind my back - the knot rooted at the root of the chord.

vanquishing those looming clouds and trophy-white histories would be a good idea, but I'm much too immersed now; are these excuses I'm making, or reality of feeling? it's been embodied in the way the crew steers the ship. is this a flaw, is this a pit in my heart that should be filled with naiveté as fake fuel, or should it be something else? what changes now? a lack of maturity may be the source - too much affected by the weather, the looming past, that long-faded tonic chord. nothing is quite wrong: it's just too much caring about observances, respect.

taking drift wood by the waters and crafting them into a raft, soaking up the sand heat up through your toes, carving away at the earthy firm stone, blending water with sabotaged heat from slack in cold heart drifting boats, sipping the leaky spots that the boat endeavors to hide. we feel the boat sink slowly into the water until the wood is the crewmen taken down by the ship, while individual pieces could have floated along on top - it's being chopped and bound together that the whole thing sinks

--

is the enjoyment of creating proportional to the enjoyment of consuming? one is harder than the other by far... stories we love to consume, but creating them is quite a challenge. yet people do it - can I strive for a particular story? are there invisible characters I want to bring to life in writing, people who follow me wherever I go? an "imaginary friend" - but it must be someone very real, someone who's circumstance transcends time. or I revert back to coding, engineering things toward a more tangible result. but these are all areas I want to delve in. the characters: the team, really, it's the dynamic I want to carry with me in my journey, people to entertain and be with. what characters? humor is a must: a lonely male intellectual, a flagrant opinionated beauty, a modest normal lazy guy obsessed with war, conflict, battle; all friends, or also enemies?

--

language-based models are applied to graphics! think turtle graphics and tree grammars and generative rules: Koch curve, Koch snowslake, Hilbert curve, Sierpinski gasket
involved in the generation of trees - and why not the rest of nature too? by studying language closely, we uncover the truth of everything... and randomness/probability seems to be involved. this is remarkable.

Google Keep - are archived ideas still reminded?

Yes.

I just tested it with a dummy archived reminder, and yes, it reminds you.

The reminder pops up when you have the Keep tab open. If you have a reminder at 10:30am, and the tab is closed, but you open the tab at 11am, the reminder just pops up.

If you have some google device - like a nexus 7 - it just shows up as a notification.

empire

big things of interest to you these days:
-accessibility for the blind
-natural language parsing, decipherment/probability
-improving government/financial systems, transparent processes and laws

--

turn things alive: animate!

perhaps the repetition of terms is not sharpening your mind. create novel stories, characters

--

a strange dream of hallucinations in mirrors and an imaginary house that seems like a familiar face: stairs that wind down, a grand 2nd floor with bedrooms going north, soggy white carpet by the foot of the stairs, a room with a maroon lay-back couch, the adorned white wall partition
the familiar people seated about the house: why were they all there?

--

the blae snowflakes crumble to rice grains at their feet, voicing concerns in government. should we consign those nutrients to the soil there, or sap woodwork from the floor to taste minuscule breadths of thread dripping ink onto floorboards and whisking knives out of air - captioned lyrics in a sunday song. agonizing over wheat bread that was distributed the wrong way. we mirror what drives ourselves and suppose greed runs in the veins of the invisible hand. maybe just put our hands to work building that old tree house - promised, a nice idea, never realized. it's that soaking feeling in the morning that collapses our heart sinew into pieces that freeze up and become those blae snowflakes that drift and drift, fallen leaves in autumn until they place themselves on the ground, to vanish without support, or grow into a civilization if others follow suit. invented value - if you believe in it, it will work: the currency of snow. gathering to construct an empire out of the lonely shards scattered from the sky - only to melt into puddles by time. a meager earning of purity sapping out wonders of spoken parses, tongues tickling at the frozen sharp edges wanting to be cut, the flow of sucre fattening the artist's whim as he tries to search for construction, not destruction, of worlds in the head. not enough - can't explode out the nightingale that swoops about in my head; can't find prey to dive for, in those lonely woods.