Crack Skull Bob – A Blowfish

In a lifetime of speculation, it has never occurred to me that I would ever draw a blowfish. Actually, there’s a limitless number of activities it has never occurred to me that I would ever do, and for all but a tiny fraction of them, my not-occurring assumptions have been right on the mark.

From Crack Skull Bob.

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From bookfrag.com: Forget post-literacy. I prefer post-complexity. (Ah, but for a niggling doubt.)

Perhaps only once, on one blue planet, consciousness may emerge. Why? Was it worth the trouble? In any system, growing in complexity, falling apart as it must, there is a moment of emergence, maintained only by increasing energy and work. Is it worth it? I confess that I find consciousness, if nothing else, irresistibly interesting.

From bookfrag.com.

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Via Negativa: from “Ten Simple Songs”

Three years after that, I was
a guest in your London home,
though like a tortoise
I brought my own
sturdy carapace.
Your house buzzed with
so much activity, both
joyful & clamorous, that soon
my shell began to hum.

From Via Negativa.

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Passages: from box elder

Not only did we share it with the butterflies of upturned empty mussel shells, colonies of living ones, casings of spider crabs, groups of gulls, and lonely egrets, and troupes of turnstones, sanderlings and knots, the last whose running back and forth, chiding the waves progression, earned them their name, etymologically the same as that of King Canute, but also even with a few other members of the human species.

From box elder.

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Passages: “Quigley Canyon” on thus

If I said, “Today the sky was blue,” I’d have to find a different word for blue, one that didn’t simply represent the color: that was how blue the sky was today. So blue, all other skies I’ve seen seem to have merely stood for the color like a word, whereas today the sky was the color itself, the signified free of representation. If only that could be said, somehow, without being a fallacy by nature.

From thus.

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mole

Sometimes, after an illness, I have a similar sense of impatience with appearances, impatience with having my instincts trifled with.

From mole

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Soulfool

A woman is slathering pomade on my scalp. It is a curious feeling; I imagine a snail crawling, leaving behind it a trail of something glistening and sticky. The insides of the woman’s fingers are filled with a substance—flakes of dried dandruffy laughter, and limp, buttery dust motes, and the dribbly sounds of tadpoles gurgling in a muddy creek.

From Soulfool.

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