A text that can be read






(Why cut this down at all? Leave it ALL in. It’s a document.)


Rock — the rocks I sit on, stand on — I’m always on rocks, you know. Ain’t much else to this planet to stand on but for rocks. 

I am the whispers, puppy.

     Whispers — if we whisper to not be heard, do we always want to be heard and overheard and heard too much otherwise?

PeachSunshine — neutral 

neural neural nyooral — new rails. Neural — sounds as gray as a brain. 

Peach shine — peach juice. Peachy keen. Kean, Michael Kean, actor, director, triple threat. 

Do any of us realize how unimportant we are? If I die, they fill my job with some other conscious person who will move the puppet strings — wait, or is the new teacher the actual puppet? No, that’s not a great metaphor, partly because all metaphors suck. Or, they are inadequate. Which is OK — ALL language is inadequate. I can make a great metaphor, I can fully describe a situation — which, it turns out, doesn’t solve the situation at all. Telling a freshman that they’re immature doesn’t get them to change. Or it doesn’t fully, anyway. That’s because language fails with an F. It hails with an F.

Every Qiss begins with Q. 

Every Hug begins with “hhh”

And so much brain-crap in my brain. … SOOO much brain-crap in my brain. I think it’s good to throw out (or ignore) what brainstuff I don’t need. I’ve forgotten so much of what was taught to me in college and that’s mostly OK, you know? I’m not actually sure what college is for, other than, well, to let us mature. Don’t tell us to mature — send us to college and let us mature. 

Professors are babysitters. They must be supplied an audience. I know this is cynical but also isn’t it kinda silly to be a professor? I mean, why don’t they get to just, you know, profess, without having to grade? But we can’t grade on anything except what we state that we’re going to grade on — what would a true pop quiz look like?

Pop Quiz. 

Popping a Quiz. Propping up a quiz because it’s as helpless as an 83-year-old man who lives with me and is nearly helpless. 

Helpless man needs help. Helped man still needs help. Why can’t he get enough help to keep him satisfied? 

cunning. Decorous standards. Tongue-nails. What is your tongue nailed to the floor?

The cool ones don’t need their own beauty. They give it away to …

Have your own symbology — make your own signs, sigh-ns, Signs, sighns, everywhere the sines, funkin’ up the scenery. I’d like to let my mind relax and read. Ah, the scholars write for the studnets to read. Why DON’T I use my own typographical system? Why have the writer’s name only in the beginning, or at the end — let’s put it in the middle to remind people they’re still reading something I (bolded I) wrote. It turns out that people who write books in order to sell them are, mostly, selling things people don’t actually need. Imagine the publishing industry as, oh, as necessary as a flower — that is, kinda necessary, but also, you know, not. 

Ask him, you goon!

I see purple

summer old you to hold morning’s sail.

Teacher adventure: 

dinosaur falls. Dinner’s something there.

She poles the repulsive mad garden. 

So now I’ve added things. Now let’s take away things. Let’s … you now, aim to mess readers up. Screw annotations, man. Let them figure things out. This is the age of Google, after all — all allusions are no longer clever. 

Allusions for Machines. 

(this is a chapter heading and I’m gonna leave the period there like this is an 1800s newspaper). 

(I’m gonna run a commentary — oh, multiple voices — mere cleverness! Don’t be merely clever!)

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