What in my life pulls me when all else has silenced down
The Soil
Not the digital, not the keys; networked
Not the social, not the likes; belonged
The Soil
When life has not adjourned, with irises; withered When lists as lazy resemblances of urgency; quieted
The Soil
Not the bride nor the groom; acknowledged
Not the accounting, not scores unsettled; washed
The Soil
When hands are pointing downward; strengthened
When sculpting clay, compost, mud, adobe; adored
The Soil
grounded in peaceful togetherness of solitudes; loved
and freeing openness, and celestial orbiting, and futures long; told
The dark Soil beckons, not pulls me, when all else has had; silenced for it is not a question answering an invitation for self-reflection For The Soil, I am soil.
The unforeseen mushroom sprouted wing side the salvaged avocado shoot
Who ever can not seek it sees nothing
The Hookah-smoking Heraclitus sat as a father of peace on the puss-colored pedestaled mycelial fruit
The threat of the symbolically unknown curves from the furtive dark, thready soil: fertility points at futures and stories to be told
life as a potted plant cracks open the wall and espies the impasse of the known
You are born now, behold.
—animasuri’22
perverted note-taking of search functions and autocorrection, imaginatively following a quote assigned to Heraclitus and a mushroom assigned to Absolem.
I welcome my child’s doodling; or myself scribbling words: “look daddy your grandson made this”
I welcome a bee making a choreography or a primate swirling in the water: “that will make for a funny gif”
I welcome that bonus for a “job well done” scratching my way through the ceiling: “look honey I have a title, a truck and ownership”.
I welcome a whale blowing air bubbles in the ocean making ephemeral golden ratio-like shapes while singing their aesthetic anesthetic song: “oh an audio-video clip to attract most likes”
I welcome the sports person or adventurer reaching the top; breaking a leg; getting that peak: “I want to be just like you one day”
I welcome an AI design writing an artwork: visual, textual, sonic or mathematical. I welcome its poem or painting indistinguishable from that child’s, mine, that expert, that genius: “can I be you, robot, please?”
However, dear, as with Jazz or Mathematics or Poetry or climbing the Everest, or that hill with that tree on top, as your last trip, at the age of ninety two and a half:
it’s not about the poem, the number, the note, or the right result. It’s the journey, the aesthetic, the laboring, the sweat, the doubt, the insecurity and most of all the dialog
before; the dialog during and the dialog long, long after the tangibles or measurable, the simple analytics of the act; long after the creator is gone
“how are you with that, my welcomed and dearest AI?”
This is the playground for the serious at heart
Play and scaffold your giggle with depth, profundity, reflection, and wit
let the sciences, semiotics, ontology, epistemology, post, pre, peri play, play
play, imaginary friends
ah the thrill of the adventure, the excavation
the symbolically measured and the looking into the spaces in-between
that liminal that is only metaphorically segregating: let nonsense befriend Apollo, rising into quicksands Let Dionysus enjoy fasting; he secretly craves
the controlled, the stoic, the pure,
come and lie down spread out arms onto the fresh meadow calculating the circular movements of drops visually bending the branches
Let the surreal be real for the artificial shan’t grasp its quick shifts in meaning eloping the censors of the established, excommunicated denotations
Rise and sit at the table, break bread and slide For it is the universe that looks into itself you are its expression and birthing of thought you are its commune
—animasuri’22
header visual: digital photo edited analog paper, pencil . “Artificially Not There” . —animasuri’22
It’s time slinger
Let the song end
Let the slung go
Catapult you-selves
out of here into the future
Utterly unknown
Drop the belt
‘n’ fold the greyed wife-beater
drop. the. belt. or else you say?
Nah, muscle up the tonality
of your compassion
show off its sexy six pack
Bend is not break bro
Brothel of the insecure yo
Brethren of the Ronin
Masterless slaves
Become at peace with the new code
be breathing breaches of air
You Awesome, Me Tarzan
you sister me handsome
You mother me hand some
listen here
silence fellow man silence
lend her your ear
—animasuri’22
(for Mother’s Day)
for Katarina
Header visual: digitally photo-edited pencil on paper fold . “Trickery of the Eye, message of the medium” . —animasuri’22
