wow, you are the first stranger to write a textwall to me
Better Lift
not their contents
One of the birds shoots out of the tree.
propensity within someone
to work in time to get to the timeless, perfection thru chaos
Sun, 23 Nov 2025 10:37:17
your feed looks like my tumblr
lol yea
i believe search always should be immersive, because whatever is pre planned and non consuming (what you are looking for is total engulfment by the spectre of the real), a joyous intensity, a flow of virtue
She closes the window. I wasn't paying attention anyway, I'm getting cold, and the birds are nowhere to be seen. I go inside.
yeah
i struggle with building a personal technical architecture for storing media, both curation and creation. instead i bookmark everything
all that is to say
Wed, 11 Nov 2025 21:12:41
isaac newton
She says something that isn't really right but isn't really wrong. I'm not taking in their words any more, just their voices, trying to get a feel for whatever is going on between them. I'm imagining what it's like for them in this delicate situation, what I would say if it were me. She has that perfect upper-class accent, and she's using whatever upper-class tact that comes with it to navigate this. Style. They can't be together, but their voices are betraying them.
so at the end
like magnets
we can only engage in such a way
is everyoneback on tumblr now
I wonder if the birds knew I was watching?
and the fake qualifier
whats your name?
there is a distinction between western-modern pedagogical systems that's like text-based as in a legal method but there is an idea of "pathshala" or "guru shissho"/ "porompora" i mean how masters relayed knowledge to the student by (oral) transmission often by memorising books. so what was taught was always interactive. knowledge was interactive, you spoke with people rather than read texts.
i guess imagine a multimedia obsidian or notion that behaves according to some insane arcane rules that you can't ever really determine
mazelike/rhizomatic/immanent/emergent are not antithetical to a transcendent real but its very manifestation
My inability to confront the old racist failed actor is distracting me. I decide not to tell her about it.
He was a proper old-fashioned London geezer (cringe word, hate it, can't think of a better one, worst of all it's the correct word), kind of East Endy, kind of Real London, the kind you don't really meet but if you do it always feels like an uncanny immersive theatre experience. They're anachronistic. They only belong in the London collectively imagined by people who don't spend any time in it.