a small anecdote of utter unimportance

figure A: toward a theory of soap (1)

personally, i find foam much less intimidating than soap. perhaps not quite spiritual, but certainly pleasing. on the other hand, i have some concept that it is altogether fake and therefore not to be trusted. when i have encountered foamy things in nature, i tend to also think that they are unnatural--faux-mold and faux-mushrooms, cheaply made, placed by the invisible armies of civilization to make the forest experience more photo-friendly. (the same armies who are responsible for mobilizing bird to move from tree to tree and slowly plucking leaves from trees to preserve the illusion of autumn.)

i suppose there's something in the idea that people relate to their own dirtiness differently based on the soap they choose (or avoid).

mostly i would like
to fill your mouth
with my foam
and your foamy saliva
inject with my lips-o-suction
until we are dry
and curseless
and all of the jargon is gone,
replaced by oooooooooooze.
(say it say it do it do it)

and preemptively, expectantly i will add: corey where are you? are you here yet?

oh and also, i hope ev's last post can create some reallife conversations here at the bao...i'd rather tackle feelings in realtime sometimes rather than commenting on posts, but i think we can collectively agree that we are all in the habit of seeing/reading/consuming more than we can acknowledge or are expected to/expect ourselves to engage with. the blog is perhaps the closest place i've seen on the web to some kind of reciprocity. and i like how it weaves in and out of conversation and life. so i'm glad you posted ev and i hope it can be a bridge between webworld and the living room to have some kind of further conversation or something.
< / meta-mediation-of-mediatedness >

back to the paperbox, bye!

1. internet, the. "useful knowledge for useful people or psychoanalytic queries into banality or !!!???)0()(;;;;!!!." baohaus living room: "roland barthes on dirt," google search engine, MILK TIME and republished at the end of the world. link to full exploration of the luxuriousness of foam here.

2. at right, figure B. "foam or shit?" from "the abbreviated index of poor materials for sharpening giant pencils" (2)

My life is the empty set.

SCRIBBLERS IN THE LIBRARY WILL TELL YOU THAT LIFE IS THE EMPTY SET. DO NOT BELIEVE THESE CHARLATANS.

Your life is all reals - a ring of candy wrappers, ash, abandoned castanets, unrecognizable late nights, stolen and donated pages, text messages, sideward glances, encrusted dishes, unintentional monolouging, space rides through wormholes, howling, remixes of remixes (i.e. f(g(x))) and things that are sometimes so nice it makes you a little sad. Your life includes the damnable SQUARE ROOT OF TWO.

STAND UP TO THESE LIARS.

Tell them - identities I'll take, but you can keep your inverses because I don't believe in Opposites. I don't need to be added to or multiplied by to get some other set of numbers. Especially not if those numbers are air conditioning, ties, the Sunday New York Times, cosmetic dentistry, Lysol, pre-distressed clothes, flags fluttering, or that sourpuss expression you've got on your face. I SIMPLY DO NOT WANT WHAT YOU ARE SELLING. YOU CAN SELL IT AS HARD AS YOU LIKE, BUT I AM NOT BUYING. I'm not even in the market for what you've got.

Tell them you've got everything you need in your little ring, then chew up the advertisements they've shoved into your hands and spit them back on their faces.

Gabe's Ballad: Balmy Summer Nights

Frankenstein appeared on the river and he leapt into a pile of smoldering leaves. He turned and saw the herd of oxen bearing down on him. "I'm really not that artistic, but like BAOOOOAHHHAOOOHAHHHHH," and scarred for life in the best way ever, the boy leapt down the rocks and pummeled to his death. But an old woman found his shoe sticking out of the junkyard of life. She unwrapped her shawl and filled the shoe with her spit. Pass, she threw it to the leapard that had appeared in drag on the rocks. The leapord adjusted his polka dotted tophat and smiled with a devious grin. "My my, what have we here." I'm just listening to this, but I'm bored BAOOHHHHAAOOWWOWWW. I think I see the development of a crazy cat woman. The woman drenched herself with the loafer-spit and laughed manically. My head is empty! said the leapard. No, that's what they said. Fake fishing. I'm leaving this room, BAAAAHHAWWOWWW. Now stop a moment, fuckwad, let's backtrack.
Frankenstein, looking for meaning in his life, decided to teach the leapard to dance. The leapard stretched out his elegantly painted claws to flip the switch on his stereo which began to blast songs of the old ages. She stood on one paw, her whiskers quivering in the moonlight. They meet a dolphin that can walk on land. It teaches them techno. They entered into a romance, all three of them, that will go down in the annals of polyamory. But their love affair did not last long. It shone brilliantly like a star, and then burnt out. That is all. Shortly thereafter, and only briefly before the apocalypse, there was a festival of mammoth proportions. Hamsters on a wheel, a human ferris wheel. They were celebrating the coming apocalypse and engaging in orgiastic raving. Religious leaders commanded them to eat 300 clementines each and glues the skins to their skin. Unfortunately, the jubilant people could not find enough women named Clementine. Many many miles away a woman named Clementine rode through the ocean in a small boat filled with marshmallows. Clemetine was omnilingual, she spoke all languages, including the language of the ocean and the trees and the wind. But when deprived of marhsmallows, alas, she was deaf and dumb. BAAAOOOAAAOWWWOWW. She ate all her marshamallows, called the apocalypse, but didn't hear it, so she survived. Vegan marshmallows will not save you on a boat. Don't eat marshallows because the apocalypse will get you.

I have a dream

I dream of open aggression without any passivity at all.
I dream of spit and fart.
I sail upon the unspent charge of revelry, cavalry.

In a tick, like a blooming time-rose, a spindly swish will wipe away polite. How can I be so sure, you ask?
I guess it's just a dream.