The type of art that has appealed to me since my days living parched and shackled in a hovel in West Texas has always been the art of the outlier. The origin of this affinity is only semi-clear. I obviously had no love for my shackles. I obviously had no love for the conservative bubble my parents constructed around me. I obviously had no love for the lack of preforations in that bubble. There were a few preforations, however. I didn't consciously turn to outlier art, and especially outlier music. It seeme...
A friendship only on one of the participants terms isn't a friendship at all, actually, but more like a business contract. Anyone familiar with my blog entries will know that I am not the biggest fan of **business contracts**. They reek of artificiality. They are the stagnant film on the surface of relationship's pond. Fuck um. As I grow ancient, I notice more and more **friendships** that edge closer and closer to said contracts. My initial impressions of reasons edge towards knowing people becoming more ...
I am on a plane that spans the vector spaces of Bilbao and Brussels. I'm listening to Nektar. The latter is far more important. I *spoke* to Christián earlier (and I use the word *speak* in a very idiomic sense) about art. Or it is always a possibility that I interpreted our convetsation as one about art. He could have interpreted it as a mini epic about the default settings of the multiverse. I cannot know. The quote I wish to reference is thus: > i always end up back to the idea that art is the nexus o...
I should mention, since the subject may not be very clear, that *yo soy un pesado*, or at least that's what people tell me. Roughly translated, this means that I am a type of small, tropical fish that lives off one of those so-called *beautiful* islets west of Galicia, the playground of stunted men. I woke up as this *pesado*, or small, tropical fish, one morting after an unrelenting dream about an old, fat ex-friend named Hana. Hanička had lost her corporeal being. I'll mention once again that she was we...
> I would imagine that the evolution of your ancestors involved some sort of microbe that feasted on fermented material, extracting sugar from it that other microbes could not, such as a high alcohol tolerant yeast. I could see your great great grandparents being single celled organisms that evolved around petroleum geysers at the bottom of the sea. It would also account for your hatred of sunlight, and your sexual preference for albino brine shrimp. According to my [Promethease report](http://thinklikeami...
I told Miki earlier via *Facebook Chat* (a bane, itself, to existence). And we have just now decided to instead use either Whatsapp or Viber or, confusingly, both simultaneously since *Facebook Chat* is a bane to anyone's existence. In fact, the existence of one who uses *Facebook Chat* is mottled with decay. These fraught souls wither before others. I, too, am afflicted, obviously, but am stronger in *hara* and *spirit* than social wallowing ilk. Anyone reading even slightly closely has noticed that I use...
The current music singing in my ears is *Dogshit on the Shoulders of Giants* by **Upsilon Acrux**. It's not first date music. Perhaps it could be second date music. My guess is that it'd be music more suited to a dismembering party. That being ascertained, I remind everyone for the first time that *Shambal Brambel* actually conducted a dismembering party once upon a time. Unfortunately, the foci of the entertainment were already deceased. Shambal had grown tired of one peculiar *arm* of his Spanish family....
I'm slightly surprised that my livejournal still exists. Its last entry is from 2008 and it is incredibly generic. I posted a photo of myself by recommendation of Aimee Estes, a person best left to push up the poppies. Furthering a fruition of opium is something beneficial that her useless bag of flesh could do for humanity. Anyhow, I began going through an entry from *Christmas Day* 2005 entitled *100 Things About Me* a month or so ago. This evening, I am on number **13**, which reads > In general, I like...
I began the *specifications* of a new piece of music a few days ago and it crept into my dreams during the subsequent nights. Out of these somnambulant encounters came a clear structure. This one will be under four minutes, I promise, dear Demi-God of musical composition who forms a dome over me of inquiet, resonant, conscious chambers. As I have been wont to do since my distant past, out from my hara sprang a sort of chord progression. Initially, it was simple, but then morphed. I am considering now to le...
I decided to *re-read* the *Foundation* books by Isaac Asimov. I half jokingly write *re-read* because I don't believe I have ever read even the initial trilogy in its entirety. Following a suggestion by Isaac himself somewhere near the aorta of the internet, I begun *Prelude to Foundation* a few days back. It's puttering along quite nicely. Psychohistory is it its infancy. Or, rather, psychohistory has been *conceived* and its gestation will crescend during the curve of the story. Or that is what I predict...
Before Shambal knew with any clarity he'd be sessile for centuries, he was a man of ephemera. He'd still be were it not for the condition keeping him tied to a hovel in a wasted land. His own waste continues to churn beneath him to create power and a superficial luxury. Robotic apparati scuttle, clunking here and there, often even tidying up and bringing him required quantities of comestibles. The quantity is immense. In order to excrete enough to power his small hovel, including the ancient batteries on wh...
