Quipu Read Online Free
electrode. Though they are processed principally by his left hemisphere, which specializes in interpreting linguistic and logical material, they leave their mark in his right: that quivering hemisphere hungry for song, splashes of vivid hue in artful forms, love and hate in inchoate gusts.
“Jesus Christ,” Joseph mutters in the hot terrible summer daylight of 1983. “More Crushing Blows!”
if you’re not confused, you just don’t understand the situation
A decade earlier, one of the bitter lows of his life, when Joseph himself was publishing Mogadon Blues from Flat 11, 1121 Drummond St, his wretched friend Mike Murphy was finding True Love and falling from its grace like a demonstration of some faulty perpetual motion machine. Murphy was the first of the local high IQ belly openers, if Joseph’s truly crude childhood indiscretions in 1961 can be laid aside as an aberration without issue. Murphy told the quipu world his woes, showed them all his poor tattered heart, regaled the bright community with haunting and comical tales of the Crushing Blows dealt by fate, God, raw accident, the vulgarity of others, his own perfect ineptitude. If he was not desperately smitten by his best friend’s wife, it was a haughty waitress in a Carlton takeaway food bar. When the neighbors developed a passion for Argentinian dance and gave vent to their discovery at three in the morning, Mike Murphy’s reason would totter and the wistful bleats of pain dash from his fingers into the wires and springs of his old Remington, slashing wax from stencils; ink would pour and roll, paper whine from the duplicator. More Crushing Blows! The authentic pain of a sensibility trained by the Leavisites of Melbourne University’s English department, trained to concert pitch, here, on the quipu page, in editorials, answering critics and well-wishers, Crushing Blows rendered into concrete poetry, the words sent teeming forth into every English-speaking country of the world (and some where German or Polish was milk tongue! Murphy’s agony and hunger surpassing lexical boundaries!), provoking a decade of shameless display.
Yet here it is, 1983, and the same old crap is afflicting not just Joseph, in Melbourne, Australia (late summer and ghastly drought and sheep turning up their poor parched twisted little toes and half the beauty spots of Victoria and South Australia ablaze or powdered to white ash and black), not just Joseph Williams and Australia, but bloody Gareth Jones as well, of Britain, who, by a kind of seasonal circadian lag, has had this to say in the pages of SMART GENES 5 :
When my dentist leaves the broken root of my corrupted right second premolar interred in my jaw I am prepared to forgive him, for, as St. Cyril told us, not everyone has been blessed equally. My complaint began in earnest only when I found that the sod had managed this difficult task with the assistance of the adjacent quite healthy first molar, which he used as a fulcrum. I could have calculated the forces involved, had he asked, and warned against this course. As cauliflowers were once held to give an inaudible cry of grief when torn from the earth, my molar muttered a little lament to me and fell apart inside my head. ‘Oh shit,’ said my oral butcher, though he tried to laugh it off. I am planning to kill myself as soon as the swelling goes down.
Exhausted Joseph’s right hemisphere is buzzing with angry resonance. Wagner, you bastard, I will not be mocked.
It is not as if I really need full dentition. How many teeth does it take to get through a hamburger? It is the implications for my sex life that harrow me. Will women be prepared to thrust their tongues inside my mouth if they meet there from canine to uvular only an ossified ridge of gum?
In case I have activated your own oro-dental phobias, rest easy. I have been speaking in tongues of my quipu writing, my sudden summer bleakness at its damaged source, its vulgar impulse, all this chewing, this public
“Jesus Christ,” Joseph mutters in the hot terrible summer daylight of 1983. “More Crushing Blows!”
if you’re not confused, you just don’t understand the situation
A decade earlier, one of the bitter lows of his life, when Joseph himself was publishing Mogadon Blues from Flat 11, 1121 Drummond St, his wretched friend Mike Murphy was finding True Love and falling from its grace like a demonstration of some faulty perpetual motion machine. Murphy was the first of the local high IQ belly openers, if Joseph’s truly crude childhood indiscretions in 1961 can be laid aside as an aberration without issue. Murphy told the quipu world his woes, showed them all his poor tattered heart, regaled the bright community with haunting and comical tales of the Crushing Blows dealt by fate, God, raw accident, the vulgarity of others, his own perfect ineptitude. If he was not desperately smitten by his best friend’s wife, it was a haughty waitress in a Carlton takeaway food bar. When the neighbors developed a passion for Argentinian dance and gave vent to their discovery at three in the morning, Mike Murphy’s reason would totter and the wistful bleats of pain dash from his fingers into the wires and springs of his old Remington, slashing wax from stencils; ink would pour and roll, paper whine from the duplicator. More Crushing Blows! The authentic pain of a sensibility trained by the Leavisites of Melbourne University’s English department, trained to concert pitch, here, on the quipu page, in editorials, answering critics and well-wishers, Crushing Blows rendered into concrete poetry, the words sent teeming forth into every English-speaking country of the world (and some where German or Polish was milk tongue! Murphy’s agony and hunger surpassing lexical boundaries!), provoking a decade of shameless display.
Yet here it is, 1983, and the same old crap is afflicting not just Joseph, in Melbourne, Australia (late summer and ghastly drought and sheep turning up their poor parched twisted little toes and half the beauty spots of Victoria and South Australia ablaze or powdered to white ash and black), not just Joseph Williams and Australia, but bloody Gareth Jones as well, of Britain, who, by a kind of seasonal circadian lag, has had this to say in the pages of SMART GENES 5 :
When my dentist leaves the broken root of my corrupted right second premolar interred in my jaw I am prepared to forgive him, for, as St. Cyril told us, not everyone has been blessed equally. My complaint began in earnest only when I found that the sod had managed this difficult task with the assistance of the adjacent quite healthy first molar, which he used as a fulcrum. I could have calculated the forces involved, had he asked, and warned against this course. As cauliflowers were once held to give an inaudible cry of grief when torn from the earth, my molar muttered a little lament to me and fell apart inside my head. ‘Oh shit,’ said my oral butcher, though he tried to laugh it off. I am planning to kill myself as soon as the swelling goes down.
Exhausted Joseph’s right hemisphere is buzzing with angry resonance. Wagner, you bastard, I will not be mocked.
It is not as if I really need full dentition. How many teeth does it take to get through a hamburger? It is the implications for my sex life that harrow me. Will women be prepared to thrust their tongues inside my mouth if they meet there from canine to uvular only an ossified ridge of gum?
In case I have activated your own oro-dental phobias, rest easy. I have been speaking in tongues of my quipu writing, my sudden summer bleakness at its damaged source, its vulgar impulse, all this chewing, this public
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