nesath

nesath is a pretty well known giant in knot.  amoung all the loom giants he is probably the only one really known at all.  knitting leagues of batting at a time, tatting stray notions, and folding over those sides of cloud that have lost their comfort; nesath is the main representative of the loom he only partly contributes maintenance to.

today i want to share some abstract photographic sketches i created as a tribute to this well-liked but immensely daunting being.

the loom giants have their ancient ways of things, but one thing they do well, by design or as byproduct, is that they recycle and mend and keep the loom together.  in knot, for most, this is the central entryway.  it is generally where most people find themselves in knot, though most do not realize it. 
because of that innocent state, most are vulnerable to those that would exploit the essence or energy present in the loom.

the loom giants do not stop this exploitation, but they do keep the loom intact through all the "amendments" that occur from all those who visit as well as the endless contacts between the boog and the chizarro.

the loom, usually manifesting as clouds or fog, is a delightful place on it's own.  one could get lost in the dreams of others in that place.  but it is the boog who spoil such indulgences; at least, ones of any length.  maybe some of us who overindulge should thank the boog.  however, i don't think it's a good idea to support something negative like that in favour of your own shortcomings.

besides, the boog love the lazy, the weak, the unfulfilled.

i'll share more soon.  for now~     i fly!

batt

i cannot remember what they called it, but i went to the pitherie and picked up a batt(pillow) form to try out.  they had "off-the-shelf" models to choose from but i was more enamoured by the blank forms or lasts that they had.

the batt form that i picked up is used to begin the process of finding one's rhythm with knot.  perhaps it is a level of belief, mainly in one's self, but ultimately it is a level of connection one has with knot.  the traditions of the pitheries began as a practice lent by the chizarro to help to accent or nuture one's own "belief" in or connection to knot.
over time, the process of batt pithing has come to be a very elegant and exacting one. the batts created in a pitherie reflect the individual they are made for.  what may seem to be embellishment is not for decoration.  what may seem like plainness is not for minimalism or economy.  there is no purpose or designs on the look of a batt.  it is a matching of manifested elements to one's rhythm or connection in knot.

i also learned that, over time, or through experience the batts themselves will change their own appearance, matching who they were made for. once made they require no mending or additional sizing.

for me, however, i just wanted one of the forms. something about them seemed to need me.  or perhaps i needed them.  maybe it wasn't a matter of need at all, rather an event that occured that most might call a moment in destiny.

i cannot remember the sizing jargon, but i picked out a nice medium-weighted batt in what looks equal to a queen-size pillow.  it moves well and seems to have a nice pairing with the level of strata i am familiar with.

the last (or form) lasts indefinitely.  it is difficult to wrap my head around this aspect, but in that is why the batt was developed by the chizarro and shared with those in knot.  to help one's own belief or acceptance of what is possible in knot; to find that unhindered open channel to the energy of knot and realize it's full potential in you.

dust battles in the asthmatica primes

my journey through the clogged corridors continues.

i have had some narrow escapes from croomb’s nasty iron toast. it never gets old with that beast.
i am not as strong as i once was, and so, i have to – i must keep note of my atrophy.
i have no problem acknowledging it, but to right myself in the way i must, i have to keep it in mind.
it is not something so easily thought away.

my skills and ability to wield them are strong, but they are somewhat undermined by that same atrophy; perhaps “diminished” is a better word.
but i feel stronger all the time. brighter. i continue.

croomb is an unrelenting creature however. and so i have to keep my momentum at high levels. even when i am stronger it will require great integrity on my part to keep it in that quilted state of befuddlement that i’ve been able to manage.

let’s hope the sooch doesn’t show up anytime soon.

bcet cotsy t gan

[gan battles couch]
{b}set kawt’see t{eh} {c}hwan

the above does not follow any articulatory phonetic standards or semiotic alignments. basically the {b} is silent or like the “m” in mnemonic. the “t” with the {eh} is pretty much like a grade-schooler sounding out the letter “t.” and {c}hwan is a sort of back of the throat sound or swallowed sound like the “g” in argentina or like the “ch” in chava.

the knot’ch (knotish) language is a funny one. it started out as “gibberish” (as my aunt put it in my preteens – they call it “tweens” now) but has developed over the years into what i simply call “knot” or “that twist of language parts.” i love english/american, but there are so many cool parts and tongue out there. i tend to work them all in along with my own ingredients. and poof!

but the “battle” . . .

after a few errands early on i set back into the front; on the battle lines; whooping artifact and coin for that longed-freedom. it’s going well. lost some soldiers but more arrive every day for the cause.
it is a sight to see- cumulonimbus on whorled fire. it is awe striking.

the thing about the imagination: if you set it to task, it is unrelenting. because the stuff behind imagination is infinite. and for me, perhaps especially so since i have an over saturated state of it. so there’s no shortage of mental resources.

the cotsy, however, are infinite. why? because they come from all people, and once established they multiply even when devoid of a source of imagination. it is said they feed on hope and ambition. but not a malicious feeding, it’s just their nature.
so it can be a real bugger to face them head-on.

a note to m.

"oh, crap ~ i'm the mirror!"  {12:58pm 10 the 19 2011 - realizing that the mirror that separates ott and too (characters from my knot story) is, in fact, me.

this stuff is happening more and more to me now that i am actively pursuing my dynamic properties.  my ideas for story and tangible artistic expression have never and never stop accumulating - occurring.  but to be able to articulate them, to have those combinations collide and create new ones - it reminds me of my hometown:  phoenix.

i like where my creations take me.  they show me all kinds of thing.

wanderers in the fall

today, earlier, i was driving with my daughter and we spied a discarded end table by the dumpster.  i wasn't sure at first but it looked like it was trying to not get noticed by us or the other passing cars; waiting for the chance to make it's getaway.  my daughter said maybe it was going to run for the nearby woods; that maybe it was sad and wasn't doing to well as an end table and that's why it was thrown out; and that now it wanted to be happy again and be with it's loved ones again.

it must of got cold feet because when we came back it was still there.  i suspect it is waiting for nightfall and then it'll make it's move well before the garbage men arrive.

my daughter added later on october 10, as it was getting dark and we were leaving, "he better head for midnight." after i mentioned that the table was still there and maybe it was waiting for it to (both of us together) "get dark."

the pillow makers

". . . in their shop one can find the finest menner-batts and caterpillar leathers for leagues around. you can find your fittes quickly and take flight in the later-ons.  they are swift and precise and have a great tier to befriend any pocket book."


[gloz.]
menner-batts:  famous (pillow) fillings by the master, menner family.
caterpillar leather:  just like what it sounds like, virgan trappers cut and cure the finest.
fitte:  a kind of rhythm or tone that one has with everything they interact with. for pillow tailoring this regards the selection and choice of the constructing materials.

a skein of knot

i told a story once, of my magic uncle, but in the telling of the fascine fable the grounds loosed and nimbusly-adrift we found our station. uncles like that should warn you that, in the telling of their tales, you may find yourself stitched in the clouds.

and not too many people find it so easily recieved, their being amidst the virga at sefen tousand feets.

apostrophe

the princess once asked the carapaced doter proof of his once claimed prizes and curse. so for 26 nights of the tree he sheltered by, built the antler-gires by claw and clamour.

the princess enabled, she hesitated to touch the present statements that once caused such dire outcomes. but her love for the crab gave wisdom and trust to her senses.

and the sincerity of her touch befuddled the stars' malicious alignments, forever gifting them with the grace of wish and dandle upon those below.

the knower

shadowed. a slight lisp of patience.

but gifting, spoiling- a job worth waiting for... in the bureau, in the behind.

protecting of the sensitive elements destroyed by common momentum. attention lacking, gaps filled; but not too much. or maybe so.

at a time when his charges are bewildered by their own floods, minds aswirl, intensely saturate wonder and amazement... he must not over do what he is meant to do. he cannot.

lost in a never-ended fringe of bittersweet segment, he stirs the air of discovery and imagination for all his charges. he is not discriminate. but he cannot accommodate more than he is allowed. he would like to. he would like to stir the air wildly to create whirlpools that catch the depths of all understanding. but he cannot.
few find his air. and slowly. and one-by-one. and heartbreakingly so. and with his position firmly anchored. he watches the many and all that leave his influence. most with no taking gift, and others few with frail remnants.

borough on the edge of pickles and onions

sill-sat, the boy pondered his uniqueness in the states, of mind, or was that "inkling?" in the rates of continued thoughts, his sentiment wandered back to the plating isolatic imagery painted across mediums and peripheral perceptions. static now alive; organicism victories of token layer. could he eat this paintings? maybe just a taste? wonderfully and richly concentrate didactics of isobaric presence. ' overwhelming fire-to-fire of synapse and sense.
in his ritual wake, his uniform uniquity, this boy feels his earthly return in synonym with his nodded departures.
his mind
knows that he knows that he knows that he knows. a reciprocal turban of seemingly endless exponent.
a letter in the armpit. funk on the bit, and holes in his pockets...
this boy awares his connection.
no purpose is purpose without purpose is connection. existence will hold his hand.

a fly a way to slapper his sensement to the acquilege of his chums, his fellow funktions.

the concrete zipper sows his interpretations deep into the seems of the social batting. fringe finally finding center weaves of decorate origins. the foundation was nice to meet if only briefly. indeed, the boy appreciates the smells of the entire but aunt foundation’s moth mints were not as appetizing as idealized. still a wonderland, still a roots, just not so well olfactored.



"acquilege" is a souped word using these ingredients: acquire + privilege
"concrete zipper" ~ an urban-set sidewalk.

fallen drawers

into the layers of mattress and pillte posumae we dived. mattress batting us about the knob; falling, falling. where does it stop?
the philtered light comes from around, no source discovered no matter found. but we fall to it, all abound. astounded that we can be in this falling state, amoung bedded wares and nightdream bares.

and with a swipe or two of our cottong-knit seems we land to the bottom of a fiber-mill stream.

mzococucacu

the off-white eyeless
covers itself
in black
hides its crumb-and-partial
within the blend of reality
the warmth of real
its thoughts
dissipate under mud
befuddled and bag
so it dons a
dicer that jumps saturate notions
unmolested balanced thinkings
until full
these impassioned coverings
hold reason and purpose from
obliterating the eyeless’ balance
a filter of sorts, preventing
nonsense from overtaking