"'Pac-Man was designed to be as simple as possible, to attract a wide audience. The limits of technology in 1980 made this a little easier to achieve.'" But, Iwatani says that he had originally "'...wanted to have a shelter and it would move up and down...When the ghost comes, the ghost would be pinched by the shelter which would disfigure the ghost.'"

this is a time exit. i'm the mess and i have helped perpetuate this mess. i get lost switching between channels and i get lost within a given channel. i guess it's because i want to know the chaos. but, maybe i'm really saying that i want to hold or pin down the chaos. perhaps that is what's truly being aired here. and, dust on our fingertips because we tried to familiarize ourselves with fragments of the other. we may be able to piece together, but there'll be no suturing. growth will be grotesque, but it will still happen. have we emerged as some hideous pulsating mass now? little white butterflies. now, come watch us expire.

yesterday, during a session of acupuncture, i felt little wings of electrical currents ripple flutter on either side of my chest, just below my shoulders. i knew my heart was beating at the back of my head. the fluttering slowly rolled to the center of my chest to pulsate as a single, irregular wingbeat that grew fainter in my mind's ear. have i grown so busy to not notice a displaced heart? suddenly, my fingertips, toes, knees; my veins, muscles, bones fill me with their own weight. a heart renested.

while reaching deep inside a feedbag my hand hit-split words, spilling sounds all over the inside of everywhere. i'm speaking slowage here, i know. my eager beaver ear.

give the sky time to let go to become its purest blue. when a storm won't take we can take comfort remembering that we're the ones imagining a relationship with the sky. a blue sky holds its own shield. we cannot cut ourselves into it.

language makes a country. a country is a non-place without language. a ghost. how strange that we can live in a place that does not exist because it has no one language to trace itself back upon, yet still it stands, still it exists in its own haunting, and still we have inherited some language, albeit, a language of exile (or an exiled language or a language birthed from exile) that is always on the outside, always speaking of home, always in search of the other. when we speak it, we always bear these things in mind. our language then, our shared language, can be anything-- if a book, then the book is our land or our homeland. but even when tied to an object, when tied to being a book, it is still a language of no place because books are mainly unseen or unheard by most and especially today-- they are silent by nature as well and silenced unnaturally by our nature. and if our shared language is one of love then it has no need for place at all. perhaps, then, we speak not to find our own language, our own home, but to chase after the absence of one, reveling in just the potential for encounter, creating roots in our refusal or inability to choose. how spiralific of us.

even that which is severed, that which is a non-place, has roots.

anything that feeds the bag fits the bill/anything that fits the bag fills the bill

compress-compress compress/compress compresscompress copress press (there you are therein)