the writer as a prophetic historian, among other things

a poor excuse for a renaissance man tapping out tunes on the virtual, original, unstrung Stradivarius I snuck off with 

on my way back from where I traveled in the time machine of fresco by Giotto 

is still one person wearing many hats, not the hat and leave it at that that is modern man.  It’s they not me who keep insisting they're non-existent, and nothing is or isn’t but thinking makes it so.  

That gives me quite a relative leg up.  Adht stands for Acronyms don’t help the… unforgivable sin of delighted hyper-capacity 

(directed to futurites with enough AI freed time on their hands to read it, but they might not get a chance to exist if my contemporaries don’t start digging around here for the name of the gnome, the key to a happy ending,

as there’s a critical screw loose in the foundations of everything that I deep sea dived to fix.  It depends though on deploying this novel species of the novel genre into which decades ago my art history dissertation melted.  

Unaware of the exiled mutant, the flailing pastiche of art history I notice is attempting integration in some highly personal and sensitive octopussy commentary on Instagram that swims very gracefully, but at the end of its tentacles emits the poison ink of moribund critical theory.  Tis a gift to be simple tis a gift to be free, tis a gift to come down where you ought to be, so, however incomprehensible and shockingly indecorous you presently sound when you do that, thank God this mutation finally happened, however presently exiled by the dehydrated horses too drunk to drink when led to water.  

History is in the making, this morning is already yesterday’s news, and you depend on us dowdy historians to make any sense of it all, however there’s always infinitely too much or infinitely too little data. And do we shrink from this mission impossible, humbly hopefully constantly erasing and redrawing, fully philosophically aware that all we know is that we know nothing, but we can think a little, unlike the whole world out there running around like a chicken with its head cut off.  You really need to fund us, especially the muck rakers within the system.

As “Giotto paints what the eye cannot see.” (Boccaccio), the mongrel discourse, a synchronistic symphonic synthetic synthesis of all genres, proves far more effective in restoring a historical work’s original lines and colors than the modern anachronistic method — either hardly getting the dust off or taking some paint with it. However you can never achieve the level of composers interpreting their own music — which you’ll get to hear below — my interpretation of Giotto’s music clearly followed the notes, was heart felt, and sensitively flowed, so my advisor was impressed, but still he admonished, — my dear, that’s very interesting and lovely, but you can’t do everything. You must leave something for us to do.  

Righto, it’s perfectly legitimate to say — my dear, you’ve invented Calculus, it’s very interesting and lovely, and I’m sorry that the music has stopped and you’re the one without a chair, but mathematicians are arithmeticians by definition.  

But if the music stops mathematics including arithmetic disappears, cries Einstein.  Get rid of these chairs, mathematics is a dance floor!  And he got away with it because they really needed an atomic bomb, just as we now really need to get that fusion reaction to work, which is really what musical mindfulness is is made for.  

So I take heart that necessity is the mother not just of inventions but their receptions, only the reception of receptors isn’t quite as good as that of inventors. Were the insights not so urgently needed, the delay of the signal would not be a cause for personal alarm, just for a case of hives.  Alas, I’ve an itchy scratchy suspicion, too, that my dear lovely mongrel discourse, like calculus, almost as soon as it’s received might turn around and end up a missing link.  Unless collectors of the heirloom useless, but beautiful buy the rights to that mathematical language and this verbal one and make a killing when they turn as useless as a French aristocrat in the dangerous dark days of the Enlightenment, and the price flies sky high.  We must teach AI how to smell that kind of deal.