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What should we call it?
What good is a glossary when we truly do not know inside from outside, this side from the other, or even where there’s a door; when we would not know our ass from our elbows if we could not reliably locate our head firmly lodged up one of those? More words. Words, which get us close but eventually send us careening off the slick circumference that surrounds the thing itself—like the cell wall fuzz of a mold spore. We apply more words in hopes of a secure hold. But instead of a firm handshake the results are usually just surplus grease on the heel.
It was words and their reception that turned Nimrod—a mighty hunter before God—into Elmer Fudd. It was words and one delirious cartoon.
But what of the self itself, and all that still under the rose? The self spreads, makes contacts. Of the self is the self. Tendrils: they float just below the surface; they swim, and flail and coil and spill and touch. Some kiss, and taste what? Phantom limbs—some call it quits and commit suicide at a cellular level, which resembles something akin to shore erosion. Some armor-up. Some recover and want to tell you their story. Some sing together in jubilant counterpoint. Some dance callous through our days. Others caress all through the night. For well or ill, some fasten. Expand-and-contract. Contact. Speed-up-and-slow-down. Tendrils; curled lashes encounter the burn; seize ice; all the temperatures between.
We get closer and closer to the map; words crowd the margins. But there are territories that cartographers can never retire. Moments are movements: a series of soft collisions with the apparatus of arithmetic and of alphabet—we play—meat and bone and beating breast and milk and downpour and blood and beauty and beast and bread and circus and soil and sincerity and catch and kiss and jealous and catch and kiss and release and catch and kiss and taste what?—a whole vessel for familiar games…all this & perhaps a bit of all that.
We share secrets.
If a man love me, he will keep my words.
We fondle nymphs, larvae, while awaiting the imago. Words. Words are sound. —Words— Words are vision. —Words and sound and vision—Words—Words and perception—Words—Words and perception and memory—Words and perception and memory and attention—Words and perception and memory and attention and intelligence. All these cognitive functions—ideological assumptions you just cannot be sure of. It all started with words, at least some say.
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the
Word was God.
That word was neither an apology nor a demand for one.
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A MOUTHFUL OF PENNIES PRESENTS: DENDRITES (VOL. 4)
- (police cars and dogs) – Eat The Document soundtrack
- The Ghost Of Tom Joad – Rage Against The Machine (Bruce Springsteen cover)
- Close Your Eyes (And Count To Fuck) – Run The Jewels (ft. Zack De La Rocha)
- Out & About – Richard Swift
- Love Game – Eminem (ft. Kendrick Lamar)
- Down On The Farm – Big Al Downing
- Long Time Gone – Billie Joe Armstrong & Norah Jones
- Razor Tongue – Martina Topley-Bird
- My Ruins – Jim Carroll
- Feeling Alright – Warpaint
- Hooch – Kelis
- When I Get This Feeling – Bobby Moore & the Rhythm Aces
- Two Weeks – FKA Twigs
- Endeavors For Never (The Last Time We Spoke You Said You Were Not Here; I Saw You Though.) – Shabazz Palaces
- All Mine – Portishead
- Makes Me Wanna Die – Tricky (ft. Martina Topley-Bird)
- Chameleon/Death Trip – Steve Harley & Cockney Rebel
- Bi-Polar Bear – Stone Temple Pilots
- Scumbag – Jobriath
- Left Hand Luke and The Beggar Boys – T.Rex
- It’s Serious – Cooly G (ft. Karizma)
- Outro – Martina Topley-Bird
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