"'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)

experts warn u.s. must take space storms more seriously

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/41685166/ns/technology_and_science-space/

the u.s.? (you mean us or the united states?)

experts? (you mean tom cruise?)

space? seriously? (how do you take hold of anything in space?)

oh, i get it! this is one of the new iphone apps, right? (what? i assumed everything was.)

sound incorporates and sight isolates

here's to an art that for the moment we will pretend it neither to be struggling on the bottom of the ocean nor on the surface, but a wave that's coming, ever rolling in to play its part.

sound encounter for the day:

the metal of a quoin as it grinds open in its extension to push against and then compress a tower or crossbow of wood against and into lines of lead type until it all begins to creak or squeak.

sound bearing?

a feeling. a feeling of lead softening wood or wood softening lead. the idea is virtual, yes. but, you can now feel a tenderization of language, can you not? now words can take on the properties of wood and lead and metal if they need to.

because they bear the scent of texture.

letterMpress: a virtual letterpress on your ipad

http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/821242145/lettermpress-a-virtual-letterpress-on-your-ipad

now you can help graphic design truly confuse the place of printing presses in the world today!

now you can help contribute to one person's personal scheming endeavor to acquire tons of free and rare type that you will never have access to touch!

now you can help dim the light on a young printer's desire to seek out working on a press and wear a T-shirt that helps you commemorate it!

call it looking for night in darkness. call it the virtual experience to leave hands empty, fingers calling, screaming forth at the tips.

what if the sloth took to rolling to get somewhere faster?

measure the slowness of something by the spiraling pattern it embodies

clouds slow the sky together. the sky now above below within. a nefarious, nimbostratus, neptuneous sky lies in wait. a storm catches our breath as it drops. does it fill us with sadness to be unable to trace the drops back up into their blue pinholes of origin? the rain will not allow us to name it. the sky is a steady downpour of what we want to be and where we have come from. the sky will not allow us to name ourselves.

Why do we always use the phrase "in our world" when this "world" we speak of is always a purely subjective one seeing as how each world we speak of is personalized, and one that's personalized based on where we live on this planet and additionally by our own experiences. The world as Earth is, I think, truly two different things for us all. The Earth is actually more inclusive-- more real than the "world" we speak of. What's odd (and also adds to our innate need to separate Earth from world) is how we always try to pin our slowness or frailty on the "world" when we are actually referring to world as Earth; meanwhile, Earth as Earth is continuing to spin around at its own natural speed, unaware of what we are doing. It just keeps moving. I often think we are jealous of our own planet in its ability to continue spinning at a pace it needs to move at given its relationship to the sun. We have no definite relationship to the sun like Earth does (or to ground it a bit more-- like a dog has with its owner), in a sense, we pretend or model our relationship to Earth as Earth has by nature with the sun. Of course, this doesn't exactly pay off for us as human beings since that darn sun of ours just won't call or text us back. Does this mean that as creatures, we crave to be governed by something larger than ourselves? Are we craving slowness or a way to be slowed down? What a secret humbling that would be to see unfold. A dog is the Earth we want to concede becoming.

The Internet is a vomit-able mess- a bulimic bodiless body of compressed and mixed information and suppressed and chaotic emotions. It is both a sloppy communal trough and a wastebasket, spitjar, and toilet bowl that we both binge from and purge into every single day.

Slowness is an object, a trophy that I choose often. Once I hold it in my hands, I don't exactly know what to do with it except put it up on a high shelf or mantel to use at a later date.

We are inherently slow creatures. Although we live in a world that is being rebuilt for routine speed on a daily basis, and although our brains are wired for speed, our bodies are not. Therein lies the balance, or rather, the handicap, that we are constantly trying to overcome through technological advances. Our bodies slow us down. If we listen to them more, if we begin from our bodies' needs each day in a truer, more genuinely attentive way, then we might have a chance to really thwart so many rapid actions or reactions we feel compelled to adhere to-- to keep from feeling the need to tend to every single second of the day. So, how to slow down without being left behind? Perhaps I can lessen my asking of what I will do with each day (or, how I'm going to fill it) and allow more of the day to simply just do something with me. I've allowed the culprit of mis-prioritizing into my life-- the Way of the Internet-- the true god-like omnipotent figure that I constantly seem to worship relentlessly and on a daily basis. Yes, I have outlets to slow me down, but for all my slow-me-down activities, they are still all framed by the amount of time I spend on the Internet or on the computer in general, making them a kind of reward or elective-- a dessert I indulge in after a hard day's work of not actually being in the day.

"the voice of closed eyes is slow, heavy... a voice like the slow rising, the slow opening of the dark."

-e. jabes

field work. 537 clay street is now 475 sansome. city park officially subsumes the site for the 1st location of the women's cooperative printing office of san francisco that ran the women's printing union. where clay meets leidesdorff street, a bronze plaque on one hidden corner of city park is dedicated to james sloan hutchinson, a banker who spoke up about animal cruelty after having watched a hog or boar being dragged out into the street in 1868. but, no mentioning of the women's printing union as having begun here before being relocated. emily pitts stevens ran the union's printing affairs here until 1869. she probably knew hutchinson after that event or perhaps she or some of her female printers happened to glance out the window from the 3rd floor and see it all unfold. but this is all untold. forgotten. subsumed. built over. forget that her fledgling printing operations led to other historical points in women's history in printing. forget how her operations were handed over to people like amanda slocum, another printer and spiritualist. never mind that spiritualism was a movement that helped jump start the women's suffrage movement. forget that women like emily pitts stevens organized the only public speaking event in san francisco on women's rights that susan b. anthony and elizabeth cady stanton came to lecture for in 1871. now, this is all built over by a city park parking lot structure so large that it must devour several former addresses to keep all under one level of shared concrete. now, this is all compressed between meager records of male markings by otherwise unknown men such as hutchinson and leidesdorff (even though he is credited with being san francisco's earliest prominent black citizen). so, do these ghosts support each other in spirit now? how a city buries itself over and over. how a city builds and thrives on what isn't there.

open wide the meridians

spitjar poetics. we are muzzled with feed. letters chewed for their sound for new sound. cud poetics. words spell fragrant when nuzzled under the nose for pastures grazed over time. our hands as hooves unable to muzzle such feed. always the need to feed at gallop speed. come now. let us rest in the air beneath our gait.

itwasalwaysonelineotypeuntilwecutitintowords

who knew that a netbook would streamline finger movement as though the tips were mimicking the act of reading? the smaller the technology, the more invisible our gestures. the smaller the technology, the more conscious we become of our hands and the need to fetter them within a fixed space. the smaller the technology, the slower we must type or give in to the type. the smaller the technology, the more corners of words get cut at first with sympathy and then with acceptance. the smaller the technology, the more we appear as mad conjurers signing or orchestrating a language lost in the vast space around our bodies.

"hi radio shack person; i'd like to use my replacement plan to get a new pair of earphone buds because one of the buds has a short in it." "ok, so what you have to do to use your plan is buy another pair first and then we'll send you a rebate in the mail and then you can come back into our store with that and we'll give you your money back. "uh..." "so, is this your mailing address?" "almost. you're missing the apartment number." "wait. so you can't get mail without the apartment number?" "no, it just goes back to where it came from. it's happened to me before." "shit." "(thinking to myself: 'the radio shack person just said 'shit'; hmm...')" "so, i have to call it in because i can't manually change a customer's address from a store. this is going to take a few minutes." "huh?" "hi. yes, so i'm working with a customer who's got this replacement plan that she wants to use to get some product called earbud-something." (thinking to myself: the radio shack person just said 'earbud something' and revealed my gender to the wizard behind the curtain.)" "the customer's e-mail? it's k as in kite, r as in red, n as in nancy, underscore, h as in house, double n as in nancy, and h as in house at yahoo dot com. yes. two n's. (heavy sigh by radio shack person) again? ok, so, it's k as in kite, r as in red, n as in nancy, underscore, h as in house, n as in nancy, n as in nancy, and h as in house. yeah." "um..." "so, we can also just e-mail the rebate coupon to the customer and not mail it? ok. ok, miss, so we can e-mail the rebate coupon to you, but your address has been updated. so, when you get home, check your e-mail and you'll find your rebate coupon. just print it out or send it to your phone and then come back to our store and show us the e-mail on your phone and we'll give you your money back. while i'm waiting on the confirmation number for your order, can i upgrade your phone for you?" "huh?! no, i have a phone. it works." "yes, but you can upgrade it." "(thinking to myself: 'so that it turns into what?') no thank you." "ok. so can i interest you in our 2 year or 3 year replacement plan in case your earphone buds get a short in them again?" "(thinking to myself: 'the radio shack person just called my product by its product god-given name. and also, 'buddy, are you kidding me?') i,..uh...No." "no?" "No." "uhh..."

how a horse's clopping hooves down a paved street rattle cobblestones beneath and echo throughout a city's buildings like walls the echo bounces back pulling ears to windows as if the hour on a clock in some piazza were striking with the weight of time in a way we have never heard.

sonoma city was named the first cittaslow city in the country. slowness has roots.

we wonder where language goes less and less. for example, it makes us worry to wonder where a letter is on its journey. it makes us nostalgic for places it goes that we have been to. it makes us lonesome to think of it waiting in transit overnight in the back of a dark cold post office it is unfamiliar with. it makes us envious for all the places it will continue to go, for all the involuntary stops it will make. it makes us regretful for not having listened closer when it was here with us young and eager to speak. we have let e-mails save us. now we need not wonder about the journey that language takes because it is a virtually untraceable one. to click send is to let go of our parental concerns. we figure it is someone else's journey now. not ours. not language's.

do we breathe beyond our lungs' needs?

has our kid curiosity with albumizing our mythical roots to claim as family from different parts of history been overplanted with our voyeuristic obsession of growing family relations based on reality tv characters?

has the tracking of ups packages surpassed the tracking of family ancestry in america?

set a line of type in a cold composing stick. see how it traces along your palm, along your forearm. know that it enters the bloodstream by running alongside your veins. the lead lets you give in to language. each lead or slug gives weight to language. the residue of a word is evidencing itself upon your fingertips. the structural sound of a word clicks into a space as if always reserved for this place. it is disorienting to leave language so quietly.

clock kick. calendar switch. snip it. time sickness. uvatiarru. hold time out. how is it new to you?