Along the chilled chiseled rusticated ashlar
precipitation meets my cheek.
A gentle awakening as of a kiss from that universal lover unknown yet ever around and taken for granted.
Is the drop still whole when shǒu dāo’ed by the ulnar edge of a hand.
Tea drips down my throat. A drop of blood. Life drips the clock from edges of booked shelves.
Its mastery and peace remains; as eyes pass.
—animasuri’24
My hand, are you an extractive institution, the palpitator of the prohibited without consent, the weeder of functionality for the belly and urge you serve, the flattener of crosstalk, pushback, checks and spars. Are you the tentacle testing dryness of fertile soils fiddling futility. My hand, are you the conductor of fingers at sleep, slight of hands and sneaky Freudian slips, do you slide under tables fondling brown paper envelopes or stockings alike, protruding the questionable ever unanswerable in the shades and twilight of movements in largesse distracting from the emptiness of words. My hand, do you carry callouses as cradles to civilization building of master’s bate when imagining lands of others to caress yet ever care for by exploitation, hand-eye coordination and umping silences of labor unspeakable outside the gloss of design and architectured relations in empires handled by history. My hand, do you slap, slither, slit and slide. Do you hide in the palm and knuckles of a fist do you frequent trebles or bass or frequencies of grace. Are you daily an absolute beginner and touch the nascency of companionship with tender tips?
—animasuri’24
When Kafka types, bureaucrats look up. For a hint in time landscapers of paper, form and institute no longer rattle chains and gears for gates of chops bathed in ink-shaped access.
Shaping reds and blacks coloring moves.
Shaping steps of stairs. Shaping heights and polishing glass ceilings. Scraping pits for prescription gratings living lives here and here.
Just for a second a halt heralds a gaze. Readers could be more concerned with what the pencil pusher does, their acts are even less sexy than the words mythologized here.
Did Kafka push a pencil? Chopping heroes are distracting noises between worlds and words of whistling pedagogical battles. Literate noises as bureaucrats look up grooming worldly believes into submission: know this, not that.
Reiterative flows of taxes work sleepy workers waking work, work hard, make work, no love. The writer woks a meal for these meandering minds. Daily diversion from attention to connotations, to stipulations as punctuations.
depth and diverse conversations of listening companionships keeps the mind focused on escapisms to come. The stories that let us be sedated by mere lack of boredom are allowing grievances directed in a spittoon of a film.
criticism as a meme on a fleeing thread, is it. Threat. Excitement of reductions and slow simplicities, where you sit down with the other in silence and sense nerves flow outward in comfort: “It’s good sitting here with you ma’am, sir.” Waiting in line at the clerk’s.
It’s good not knowing you not having to catalogue as proud birds of paradise or roosters defending male hoods. Is it good sitting silently unbothered by the sectioned time lines guard-railed by raiders of open endings.
The ticket ticker tickles patience. When Kafka types on his pillow, accounting enumerates and bureaucrats take notice. “The numbers are mythic, sir. Just tell the next in line a good story,” directed the guidelines and standards.
It’s good waiting to be next in line.
—animasuri’24
It is in the abstraction I find liberation
to be lost in the all-telling nothingness
distancing love for turmoils of nuisances
from the entangled companionship
with the anecdotal other and their claws
disintegrating form, function and frivolities
a bloody scratch as a midway house to molecular absorption elsewhere well’s where any elsewhere some fare some more or less will dare drip, drop stingy scratch some more
nor some here there’s no more mass but masses of hair lost at sea of skin hairline fracture
fractured torn to wayward ways one once was a door, a carrot made of orange rope and a tuft ‘a’ green, dust, an explosion one once was
a while back in a galaxy beyond, a thread of hemp skinned from the plants potted to smoke
I pet Cat. One Once Was. That is, ‘r name.
One kettle, once clinging high pitched piercing
was as vibration onto the tympani osmosing
into the snail-like housed hairs triggering
electro-chemicals at a fraction
of not knowing yet changing: an ear, a brain
a sound sounds of an uncritical pedagogue
I no longer pet Cat. that is, f’r now.
abstraction morphs with awareness that
there is love in a cup of tea as well as
vulnerability to burn, lesions on the tongue
palms overheating and glasses fogging up
fingers slip and I am fulfilled with deep warmth
one that but temperature once was
one intercoursed with memory and embellishments of who introduced Cat to me
how fingertips touched when petting lips
that one time a cup with a rim
off hand-over-paw; sip: it’s blurry
little mouth drink cat tongue;
finger tip. tip trip trickle
I pet Cat, abstractly
then flees from me,
present under sofas,
absurdly slurp absentee
Cat once was one pet
away from teasing me
—animasuri’24
I garden. A place plays with blooms and grafts.
She flowers. As act defying pots to shards.
We tender. As biddings without compete.
It heeds. A time for decay’s decanting a lead.
As time’s bidding acts onto this place’s play.
Garden flowers tender for heeds.
Blooms defying without decay.
Grafts shard to compete and lead.
For with’s defying without
Decanting places blooming time
Leading gardens grafting heeds
Decay plays pots with tender
words ‘r’ weeds as a-pole-a-pad-a-leaf-as-paddle
for where the imaginary butterfly perched
evanescently phrasing a choreographed calligraphy
for a hovering mind to flutter a stanza anew.
—animasuri’24
Vlad sat down on that chair, with a sigh,
in what otherwise appeared to him
as eyeing a sightless single-person sofa
“So, I just asked myself,”
he cracked the silence,
“how many hours do I
approximately speak
every work week? Well,
I roughly calculated that
including two cats, two drivers,
two children, one life ‘s partner,
the sporadic delivery person,
a colleague here or there
and my own inner voice
that I speak
about 90 hours a work week.
While that might seem to justify
people stating that I speak too much,
and yet if I cut out my inner voice
it’s only about 6.5 hours a work week
of which about two hours
is spent on the cats,
resulting in about 4.5 hours worth
of human chatter other than with myself.
Of that time I speak
a little less than an hour
with my children per work week.
3.5 hours remain to be assigned.
I calculate a little less than an hour
with morning and evening drivers
and delivery people, in the evening, at times
on the phone with autonomous voices:
should I calculate talking to a phone?
That leaves 2.5 hours.
I speak a little less than an hour
a work week with my colleagues
of whom most I do not speak with
except then the daily warm hello and goodbye.
While with some not even that occurs.
1.5 hours endures the count
of which I spend listening, and replying in mind,
to you for a little less than an hour.
That means I speak about 30 minutes
with you per work week.
That’s around six minutes per work day.
Let’s make it count!” Time being up,
Vlad retreated into silence
with the exception of erecting a sigh
enabling a walk out of the room
voiced by squeaking shoes
and aging joints
—animasuri’24
RÓse blòssom RÉD BLÉD BLÉdius
insect toss’em to a distant radius
distracted by the critter’s crawl
as by sleight of hand ‘t was dè sting of thorn
that jettisoned the sly beetle’s downfall
Nearly healthy soil crumbs’ surfaces
clinging on memories of mist and droplets
of clouds confused and dampened to dew
tentacles wiggled with a weary whisker
or eyelash laid shed ‘n’ aged nearby
flowers as with snifter stems elongating calls
for intimacy and increased sense where tingly
feelings end in pain bellow the bubbly bloomy bouquet
testing roving noses and fidgeting fingertips
to eagerly miss crawlers ‘n’ prickles
with squeamish stomachs as creeping of sliding creatures
sounding an Ur alert for the gardened self to gush a blurt
as a burp releasing anciently held fears and tightness
“aaah,” relaxes the beetle to a sigh:
“sounds good”
—animasuri’24
“Traditions and ideas must be revisited and reworked, communicated and debated, entangled and disentangled. (Self)-critique can be carried out neither in narcissistic isolation nor in the silence of the ineffable. In the gap between acknowledging your echoing and refusing to echo, and the gap between one’s own pure voice and its simulacrum, critical educational theory of all persuasions struggles with words. Perhaps it is more critical when its loving words are addressed to others and when it harkens to their response, though in this case too, the teacher-pupil relation is one of articulation. For, to echo Derrida here, ‘a master who forbids himself the phrase would give nothing. He would have no disciples but only slaves’ (1995, p. 147).” —Papastephanou (2004)
Papastephanou, M. (2004). Educational Critique, Critical Thinking and the Critical Philosophical Traditions. Journal of Philosophy of Education, 38(3), 369–378. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.0309-8249.2004.00391.x
The 2024 Tsinghua Higher Education Forum 清华高等教育论坛 . Institute of Education, Tsinghua University 清华大学教育研究院. The Beijing Convention Center 北京会议中心. 30th August 2024,14:25 – 14:50 Prof. Holmes, Wayne: “AI and Education: A critical Studies Approach”
Derrida, J. (1995) Violence and Metaphysics, in: Writing and Difference (London, Routledge).
I can talk inside my head:
conversations and representations,
senses quasi unseeded by bio-electricity off of peripheral nerves,
yet ever streaming,
having vague vagaries letting me ask:
can I talk with your voice inside my head?
thinking your intonations,
thinking your frequencies, crinkling,
your overtones, timbres, raspiness, tremors,
thinking your idiosyncratic metalinguistics,
thinking your pauses and synchronous body
movements, and what about those offbeat signals;
introducing Doppler effects
in your voice’s pitch: is your voice a parasocial interaction
when entering my thoughts?
as a non-illusionary experience,
considering that my human cognition
is not only switched-on when stimulated, prodded, prompted:
I can’t let machinery voice thoughts ignoring kinds of knowledge,
as intelligentsia summarizing memories where meaning is instituted
as a voice disembodied recomposed
by imaginaries I hear your voice inside my head
while you have long gone, switched off, decalculated, seized to exist
except then on carrier waves
in metaphysical meaning within cranial ceilings.
I hear you
—animasuri’24
The artificial and its intelligences
if technological are a veil of the institutional.
in that space have you ever thought
we do not think in language and rather
—as the bird abstracts home by weaving a nest— we think in abstraction; as jiǎgǔwén thought by stick figure we weave meaning by incorrection
figuring humans to intellect as note taking;
as thought echoing across time. driving sticks and carvings: How do we deeply think love? How do we think companionship?
How do we think of the incomputable liminality when searing to ask: what has not been captured not by the frame of thought, knowledges and intelligences, yet carries meaning wordlessly and incalculably?
How does one think fairness for froth? but by Chaos as waiting room for paragraphs to be sentenced. When it is not ordered by thought in taught language as to educate to forget by authoritative reduction.
I think yet I do not need to language therefore I am: I think in colors when smelling the letters of the wrinkle ever small upon your skin on the side of your left eye: I think to know love is triggered there:
I think scraping dead skin as data does not tell my story but on surfaces of syntax as ripped covers from untouched drinks: you might get a taste quickly flushed and never toiled
and never needed to be told: if one does not think does one belief out of language?
—animasuri’24