I know I ran out of the number allowed about fifty metaphors ago, but I simply can't resist this one...
kill your babies, teach the writing instructors, in quest of yet more hemmed in Hemingways, as if any human could get through more than a very small slice of thousands of humble pies that are out there -- no no thank you, very palatable indeed, but that's all for me, I'm on a diet diet -- glad they didn't get their hands on Proust! Luckily you can't really kill your evil, too beautiful writing babies, those delicious hot fudge sundae sentences, only melting a little, cry out from toxic waste dumps where they're trapped in the "deleted" files* in the discarded laptops, built for obsolescence, and they all rose up on the night of the living dead, and heeding a heart rending call from my alien content in quest of a form, my concept from outer space in quest of a percept, but too kind for body snatching. It seemed all the chairs were taken when the music stopped, and then my content heard them calling from the garbage dump and cried -- just what I need! -- whooshed over to my place, rushed into my active laptop, ink bottles, and into my head through all the holes in it, and then all these divinely inspired, ruthlessly abandoned, gifted and talented sentences paragraphs and essays tucked and snipped and collaborated in my great performance, spilling out not just here, but on my Instagram page and in the comment section of others, the mongrel discourse ..
the thing being said seemingly infinitely deferred in the telling of it, but eventually found in the vortex of the telling as it spirals in on itself eventually to crystallize in an image spawning many, the spiraling strands cohering in the image corresponding to those that join in a double helix to create life aware of a present translucent to its becoming and evanescing, so life is allied to an image, invisible or visible. To a blind amoeba "I see." means I recognize myself in the world, I know I exist. I feel the image. I read it, if I cannot yet see it. Knowing or cognition in the gut, sensory sight being higher intelligence, a thing you really need a brain for.
*beware, whatever the judge's ruling, the testimony once heard cannot be completely stricken from the record kept in the brain of whomsoever heard it, without giving the hearer, in this case, your laptop, a lobotomy; short of that, whatever you ever "deleted" is still stored somewhere deep within the ulterior brain, the sprawling labyrinthine, Kafkaesque castle of wiring tangled up under the keys.
to gain access to all posts, eventually, begin, if you not already done so, at themongreldiscourse.blogspot.com. The Previous Post list above and to the right always shows up to ten most recently posted posts previous to the opened one, the posts in this list reversing the chronological order of their appearance, the last appearing first. By continually clicking on the one at the bottom of the list, you gain access to more posts until you have reviewed the whole index. (I have, though, falsified some dates in the program, but not on the page, as this order is not always the order in which I choose to present the posts.)
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