23 April, 2018 | Rome
> Well weave finely forged a sumwhat relyable connexion w/ u, dear Inurnet... gave up on corporet means uv cunnecting to the WWW, reakwiring a landline—una linea fissa—+ in sted opted 4 a wireless salution, via saddlelite or cell towers jay nay say pa, sum sorta waves dat prop a gate thru the air. Jaguar (our communecakeshuns totem) + i (a.I) spent the bedder part of a mourning positioning the modem nere varyus windows of our palazial attico 2 awkwire optimul coveridge... ~30 Mbps, not grate, but good enuff for stuff like streamin' KEXP or NetFlix. We also had to balants reseption w/ the modem's abillydad to reprop agate the WiFi signull thru-out our attico so we cd axess her at the varyus ends, dis palace bee so big! + even bedder = de fact we aint tied to no fix'd contrack, we can just top up mess-2-mess + hit's cheaper then the IperFibra opshun we've bin waiting on 2+ months to no avail... we doubt inny of u Inurnet dwellers gives a flying fuss bout all dis we sane, but on the off chants dare's sum por shmuck out dare dat jus moved to Rome or Italy reddy to luz dare shit cuz dey cant git dare Inurnet hook'd up, well dont fret yo! U got optshuns sides TIM, Vodaphone, FastWeb or flat-out sewerside, an optshun dat dont reakwire a technico to come install no fixed linea + lock u in2 sum 2-yr contract dey wont let u git out uv + dat day will send u a modem (u can pay cash even, to the courier) within 48 hrs + u just plug it in + bingo u tapped in + surfin.... well, dat option = Linkem (+no we aint gitting no kickback 4 sane so). So far aft'r a few dayz works like a charm + whats mo lets say we go sumwhere Ls (in Italy inny ways) we kin just bring hit w/ us, we aint tethered to 1 spot w/ a fixed line, we free-floating + libero to up + leaf it if we dont dig hit... boy dose dat change our outlook on life! now we can tell them Vodafone fuckers vafanculo.

optimal modem placement next to our communecakeshuns dorector (jaguar)

> So weave jus tapped INT. 1 of a zillion forms of electromagnetic waves flooding our attic nvironment, mind-boggling to think of all them wireless, wifi, telephone, radio, TV, etc. signulls circulating thru the air, Shirley all dis cuntinuous flood of EM radiation must half FX on us? Speakin of... a confluenze of forzes has maid us start to here voices this past week... 1) = dat our allergees have bin bad these past few weeks, day was never bad hear in Roma b4 so dont no watts goin' on, may-b all dis rain? 2) = dat weve bin recording/playin' back music w/our hedfones maxed out on volume 11. Or 3), perhaps we's goin' loco. The «voices» we here r a d-layed risponse to noizes in hour mediate nvironment, music, peephole tocking, seagulls, churchbells, fasciscts screamin' down in piazza venezia, etc. all jumbled + d-laid ½ a secund + a semitone or 2 lower + flattened, almost like dares liddle critters on hour rite sholder harmonizing thru a d-lay petal, wich = wierd cuz hits the x-act affect we often muster to a'cheve when we record guitar + in the a'proach we take w/ riding liarics we muster knot to interject melodee, but jus think/hum in our noggin a monotone vershun dat matches da rhythm. The writ hymn. Well, if the antswear = #3—dat we's goin cray cray—then dis blogject = a dogumeat of dat process, how we endid up in dis hear looney bin. How dose 1 no if they's goin' in sane inny weigh? From hour p.o.v. seams the rest of el moondough = certifiably loco. A raving lunatic = prezident of the countree we defected frum aft'r all, «leader of the free world». «What are u tryin' to say, I'm crazy?! When i went to Your schools... Your institutional learning facilities?» We hearing dat song amongst menny echoing in the jumbled mass of electromagnetic radiation floodin our noggin 24/7, aint no x-caping hit... when actshoally what we listening 2 = Chopin, on vinyl. Did we menshun we god a record playr the utter day @ porta portese? We also god a reel-2-reel thinkin' wed make sum loops (sum real 1s, not dem digitoll cop-outs) but cant git her 2 work. Bud weave maid a few cassette loops + halve bin using the turntable (spinnin' manuel w/ our mano) on sum of the new toons we's workin' on. We god almost an albumen wurth of new material laid down but not nearly reddy to share nun of dat, still godda cunvince our bedder-½ to sing our messedup liarics. Bud may-b wheel share hear a draft of sum of the liarics-in-progress cuz by the time she chants them shure shell halve to sing sumpin Ls. Here's a # we did the utter day, perhaps the loony toon dat started to make us hear voices:

No Famous Last Words

inland city skys full of seagulls
not even out to sea to breed
harboring a new paradigm
of bullies, cheats + greed

2 sides to every story
9 ways to skin a cat alive

solution to the conundrum
dissolves when u shake or stir
the revolution gets rerun
backwoods the turntables whirl

2 sides to every record
after 3¹/₃ cycles histery repeats

[next verse sung backwords]:
white lab rats dyed black to act as
wharfed rattus norvegicus
why, are we rolling? the director asks

rats hang from attic rafters
bats stand upright in the hull

[also backwards]:
in Herzog's take on vampires
so hellbent on recreating
the creation milks it's own sire

bats hang from attic rafters
rats stand upright in the hull

who knows true stories
that spawn wivestales to rust
magnetic suspension of disbelief
out the window + under the bus
hit your head on a ridge beam
6... feet... und-er... ground

no sound, u find a rind mined of
pine-tar + unkind words, so u
heard, rumors the ark was moored, in quarantine,
mired in sand, the Moroccan castle
seams, so caulk w/amber resin + lye, don't ask
why, no telling, in the forest of no re-
turn, u yell, TIM-BRRRR!

...
don't look for proof
the lone tree forms the mast
or holds up the roof

bats stand at the helm of the raft
rats roost upside down in a hole

if an unsound neck snaps
on the slopes of Fuji
or a cow kick-starts a fire
not a dent in the sea

a drop in the bucket of the human plague
desire keeps reseeding our own disease

[verse backwards, or not?]:
keeps bilging the fleece
bailing hand over hand
from Argonauts in Greece

to where goats climb argan trees
and birds swim in swirling, murmuring shoals

[backwards?]:
the lion's share goes to the whale
Statistics 101
to the cross sardines get nailed

+ rats and roaches will inherit the earth
besides the 1 fat fascist whose shit they eat

in a holding pattern
Skyharbor limbo
the Phoenix inscribes jet trails
on the wall of Jericho
low-riding on intuition
on the stake still burns Bruno

who knew the truth, for what its worth,
the skinny dirt, Giordano's hood,
hung still in bronze, from dusk to dawn,
on death row still, against god's will,
with Gallileo + Brahe's brass nose
+ Neruda's noose ... unearthed to no avail

the sails mizzened at ½-mast
despite no wind, you face the waving flag
cast from the gallows to an unmarked grave
save the date, any famous last words?
to carve in stone or camel bone
atone for the undead, scroll what's left unsaid

+ here's the chords, dat we rote down in case we shod forget:

Dat's the kind of junk we've bin riding lately, input-wise bin reading In The Realms of the Unreal : Insane Writings.

We god it mostly cuz we was looking for a copy of Henry Darger's 15,000 pg novel... not ez to come by bud this book—named for Darger's book actshoally—inklewds a short xcerpt... not dat Darger = certifiably insane like the rest of the folk in the book, at least knot dieagnosed as such. But he must of bin coo-coo for cocoa cocoa puffs to due what he did, rite? Intresting tho, the writings dat comes out of regalure crazy folk dat aint riding to bee famous, mustering to be «artists», but just a natural xpression of their mind-states deemed mentolly unfit by society standurds, but in alternate vu perhaps hyper-tuned to alturnet freakwindseas... sum of hit comes off a bit like xcerpts from sum looney bin workshop, wherein orderlies egged on the payshints to xpress themselfs thru writing for therapeutic reasons... specially the Amerikin sexion (the book gits divied by cuntree) they all seam to be payshints at the same nuthouse in Vermont. The utter cuntrees stuff tho much mo intresting then the Amerikins (xcept mayb Darger). Echo sum xcerpts dat stood out:

Adolf Wölfli... who b-sides being a great rider also painted + cumposed music (1 of the 1° brut artists)

Aimable Jayet

nada = none about this author xcept they went by pseudonym «Marmor»

by Hyacinth Baron Von Wieser (part of the Prinzhorn collection)

August Klett (also from Prinzhorn collection, need to git our hands on a copy of dat seminal book)

Godstuff.We git a lot mo xcited reading such txts by schizos then humdrum dribble churned out by run-of-the-mill MFA stewdents dat's fo shore + as an «outsider» hour self dat dint study art in shcool, feel mor in commune w/ these nutcases then L art moondough. May-b cuz we = crazy, hoo nose, we god the luckshorey of not living in fear of bean locked up, uv inhabiting a safe,conducive nvironment ware we = free 2 sumwatt function all we god todo is not burn down ill attico when we cook + cake tare of ourself + our bedder-½, wich may-b we aint so good at no mo (taking care of ourself) thawt may-b we was but sines of where + tear starting toshow (damnspacebarisstickingagainso really haveto pound hit to get aspace) like we wint to useour phone + discovered we =completely def in our rite ere! Can onelie here if we switch the phone to our left. Sumpin todo w/these allergees probly n ear infection, hopefooly hit gose aweigh on hits one a chord but scary momint nuntheless 2 discover u cant here shit in 1 ear. Our I-site alreadys goin to hell. Sew them echoes we hearing in our noggin probly the voxes travelling into our left ear +thru all the fluid collectin up dare, then reseived by the rite side. Weave had outtatownguests thisweekend so musterin' to act normule «normal», rite now 1 of them aksed if we was «working» + we risponded «guess u cd call hit dat». We was actshoally emailing w/1 uv the Calamari authors, who rode Gotham Grammarian (hola!) + perhaps the soul reader of dis hear blogject (d-spite hits awfool granmar witchwe make no apollogees 4 tho feelbad 4 hissake) + actshoally had a book publicked by 4W8W, the same folks (John Oakes) hoo publicked the aforemenshunned book of insane ridings. So guess u cd call dat «work» if we still wearing our Cal A. Mari hat but we not, now we riding as anon I'm us.... mo + mo Cal A. Mari = slipping aweigh from us, the publicker/editor mustering to monger books, we no longer halve hit in US. If inny 1 = out dare who kin help, who wands to take the rains, lettuce no. Udderwise the archive will cuntinue to spirel into a state of niglect,wich jus to bee clear dont mean nada = going out of print, hit just means we dont god the stomick no mo for hustling + promoting new books in the current state of el moondough. Feeline increasingly ungrounded + disconnected + we feel fine. We like not halving a «fixed line»... bean cumpleatly wireless. If onelie we cd be hands-free + speak int. sum voicerecognition thingas mo+ mo we canttype +our spacebaris jam'd+ we dont got paychants for spellcheckers ± filters + oureyesfailinso can't see what weriding + now ourears failing! Cant relay on nada no mo cept our bedder-½. What censes uv the 5 = left sides ourtastebuds? + we kin smell alright, perhaps too well in this crowded cheetah fool of smokers. But dont fret nun, wheel always be plenty fucktional tokeep calamari afloat at minimum... bud then again, how wd we no spose knot? Like how dose 1 know if they= n sane? Or in the process of goin' dare? To.B.C...