What's in a name

Upon asking "What could be a greater insult to Christianity than to substitute Christ with an X," Mike Geary informed that he

> sent him a note while he was broadcasting

which opens up for a number of interrogations:

1. Does Mike still correspond?
2. Is Christ still broadcasting?
3. Did Christ call hisself chris(t!) and does he (still)?
3a. In the case that he didn't, how come it would be an insult (to him)?
3b. In the case that he did, what would be his riposte?

phatic,
Down under

Presentation, check one

http://home.no.net/torgfje/utopos/images/healer(s).ppt

Chewed Moons

(After Tor Ulven)

Heaven is an indifferent moan

Joy's torturous instruments make every day bearable
Fishes walk on water 'cause they're tired of swimming
Pine trees root in your nails' dirt
as language roots in your mouth's swamp

The foot is simply a neutral joint
between the kick and the mutilated face
the ungoverned foot limping along
to restlessness' encounter

Feverish musicians play instruments of reality
on seductive violins of innumerable noses

But music causes ears to deform
And evil has wings

*

Tor Ulven:
Avgnagde måner

Himmelen er et gjesp av likegyldighet
Gledens torturinstrumenter gjør hverdagen utholdelig
Fiskene går på vannet fordi de er trette av å svømme
Grantrærne slår rot i skitten under neglene
slik språket slår rot i munnens sump
Foten er bare et nøytralt forbindelsesledd
mellom sparket og det kvestede ansiktet
den herreløse foten som halter avsted
til møtet med rastløsheten
Feberfantasiens musikere spiller på virkelighetens instrument
på dine utallige nesers smektende fioliner
Men musikk fører til misdannelser i ørene
og onde mennesker har vinger

(from Skyggen av urfuglen (The shadow of the original bird), 1977, repr. Samlede dikt, 2001, p. 22)

paper scissors rock
paper scissors rock
rock scissors paper
paper scissors rock

rock paper paper rock
scissors scissors scissors scissors
paper rock paper scissors scissors
scissors rock paper scissors scissors
scissors scissors scissors scissors scissors

roll rock roll rock
scissor paper
roll rock
roll roll

paper scissors rock
paper scissors

rock

We have reached a conjunction and
we have reached a conjunction or
we have reached a conjunction but
we have reached a conjunction if
we have reached a conjunction then
we have reached a conjunction so
we have reached a conjunction because
we have reached a conjunction.

script

http://home.no.net/torgfje/utopos/script.html

GO!

Emerge into the abyss, the heart of this eternal
City as it rises on the slopes of its inhabitants'
Mediaeval imagination, horned and rusty and
Drunk with stupor, unwittingly causing its own
Demise, returning

Step out of this cleavage, take the steam
Train across the ocean, land somewhere in the
Carribean, on a cricket pitch or at some stage of
The never-ending revolutions of Jamaica.

The sun descends slowly on this blue-green ball as
It revolves around itself and around the big ball of fire
Fuelling the machine connecting fingertips to
Eyeballs

Leave your locality -- only to return, an endless
Coming-back to the site of your
Emergence

from lit-id (http://www.andreas.com/faq-lit-ideas.html)

On 1 Aug 2004 at 18:57, Mike Geary wrote:

> WOE!
>
> by Czeslaw Milosz
>
>
> It is true, our tribe is similar to the bees.
> It gathers honey of wisdom, carries it, stores it in honeycombs.
> I am able to roam for hours
> Through the labyrinth of the main library, floor to floor.
> But yesterday, looking for the words of masters and prophets
> I wandered into high regions
> That are visited by practically no one.
> I would open a book and could decipher nothing
> For letters faded and disappeared from the pages.
> Woe! I exclaimed -- so it comes to this?
> Where are you, venerable ones, with your beards and wigs,
> Your nights spent by a candle, griefs of your wives?
> So a message saving the world is silenced forever?
>
> At your home it was the day of making preserves.
> And your dog, sleeping by the fire, would wake up,
> Yawn and look at you -- as if knowing.
>
> * * * * * *
>
>
> GAUDE!
>
> by Mike Geary
>
> I don't know how wasps find their nests.
> and I can't even imagine the nose maps of dogs,
> or how willow roots know in dark dirt where water is.
> There's an explanation for these things I know,
> for nothing happens but Law allows it.
>
> A missile rises out of the sea and sails
> a thousand miles to it's target,
> a sudden end to everything therein.
> No mystery here. We've a calculus for this.
> All the world should be as advanced as us.
>
> I don't know what 'knowing 'means.
> Quite unexpectedly my heart races,
> my breath deepens, I feel confused --
> all at the sight of you. I don't know why,
> but my body must. Mind is body shouting: "Gaude!"