Clogging Frankenstein

Waning wash of melatonin, like a dose of fifty-thousandths of a measure of something else that'd have you taking back shit you hadn't stolen if you weren't bathing paralyzed in a sweaty bed of uncertainty,  like the anesthesia'd worn off where one can feel a residual soreness unsure if it'd been administered to hide; maybe it's a pain brought on by nature's painkiller. Pain killer. Pain driller. Liminal paranoia perhaps, but captivating either way. Both ways. Ineffably this symbology has come to the threshold of the word just to tease the senses abreast of the sensation.

So much can be done to a nervous system. So much can go wrong among one of bazillion blips in certain allegiance headed right. You don't think under your exhaustion; don't think you're exhausted because of the ceaseless struggle underground to maintain attendance along your current wavelength. No, think that. Then think something else. Then think things through.

Re. +49301785853304

Short answer (text-like version) in the 1st of the following sentences: No, I don't. As a matter of fact, to begin the comprehensive explanation, I let it lapse only relatively recently after the pre-paid SIM card I had been using since my arrival in 2002 had its Terms of Use amended to limit using the minimum loadable amount of €15 within six months instead of what had been for over fifteen years a year-&-a-half. Ironically enough, the only chargeable offense I used the phone for was to write texts, which were 30 cents a piece, so the fifteen euros had over all those fifteen years lasted at least through a couple of terms just inside the entirety of their eighteen months.

Now one might ask (and, trust me, more than one has) why I never just purchased a contract, thereby enabling a more frequent use at a reasonable price, much more convenience, etc., etc. This question crucifies itself upon the assumption that I would have used my phone more if I could have. But it was precisely the way I was using it that led to the realisation that I not only didn't need it but simply didn't want it.

Nevertheless on 29 September 2017 at 1:49pm, I was loathe to load an additional €15 to prolong the first new expiry and to avoid losing the 15+ that was already on it. 'Use it or lose it' was the agitated cogitation until on 29 March of this year when I lost that entire thirty-something because I didn't want to prolong the anti-ecological cliché any longer. Obviously I wasn't using it to make many calls or write a significant number of texts. That last time it served an emergency is in a cloud of forgotten memories.

I have a landline. I won't go so far as to make the hereditary affirmation that if it were up to me I wouldn't even have that. It is at least partly up to me, it comes with the Net, and I wouldn't have it otherwise. My ability to tele-connect makes the expenditure of both the fiat transfer and cognitive tax justifiable. The sometimes inconvenient convenience remains worthwhile. I am all-too aware that the industry I therewith support is manufacturing a world into which I will no longer be able to venture if I don't change my immobile ways. So be it.

The sole subsequent mobile telephone that I purchased as a replacement of the first one (solely because the former's display no longer displayed legible lettering) and into which I stuck the SIM card — which was what I'd really purchased on that summer day at a flea market — has become anyway little more than a camera, albeit digital and of quality quite limited, the bulk of primary evidence of which can be found in the hover images here.

The longer background (should this be (or remain) of any interest) is that basically I bought my first mobile telephone used at Boxhagener Platz Flohmarkt, not because I wanted it, but because the first guy I wanted to book T & me grimaced when I said, "No, but I got an email address." I got the phone. We got the gig.

The most interesting tidbit of this tale only occurred to me as recently as a couple of days ago when I turned on my one-time to me embarrassingly chic flip-phone for its other primary purpose — to be able to track the time for the three hours that followed. A new message appeared. "SIM nicht registriert". This displayed so prominently for so long that I actually almost wondered if I'd ever be able to see the clock again.

So from 29 March of this year, when my moola minima vaporised into an un-spendable pun, to apparently exactly two months later, I was nevertheless able to receive calls and texts. Now, the final expiry of expiration must have been last Tuesday, I'd wager, 1:49pm. I hadn't turned it on from the previous Friday until Wednesday so I make this assumption based on the always accurate carrying out of the Terms which this time, seemingly arbitrarily, granted me an additional two months' passive use. I'm sure in that time I would not have received those few texts in tact... but for some goddess' grace period.

What occurred to me between Wednesday and now is that the SIM card was never really registered, at least not to me. Having bought it used, I even had to have its digital lock picked by the kind of pro who can do such things. Not that I hadn't been trackable all this time, but at least in the court of law, I'd've had a better chance than someone who'd signed their name along a bottom line. Or I might've had the least of lesser chances and been locked up for purchasing a stolen phone and going so far as to assist in the achievement of its unlawful unlocking and, not least of worst, evading the law that says you're not allowed to use your devices without allowing your being traced & tracked by name & number. At any rate, as far as I can tell, +49301785853304 is over & out.

The machine that houses it, however, remains reusable. Indeed. The following corresponding hover image comes by way of an inadvisable shimmy to the depth of this one-time riverside swimmery (I wudn't walkin' that plank, palms & knees for me) and the use of that former courtesy phone of persisting paltry pixelation. Quite conversely, it is only the row of postal addresses of the rooftops in the background that remain from this photograph:

"111" - Osthafen, Berlin-Friedrichshain - 1907/2018

Der Parkbank Pinkler: Rücklaufsabruch

glkjögdlkjgsdlökjgdlkgflkj = Diese Sammelei von Erfahrungen

./

Dass nun professionelle Redensart von mir erwartet wird, biete ich nur noch prospektiv die von mir eines Tages eventuell bei Ihnen weit und breit angesammelten Erfahrungen. Wobei Sie sich schon gut vorstellen dürften, wie ich nach einer Zeitreise hin und wieder zurück in unsre Gegenwart Ihnen über all diese fließend bunt und spannend erzählen könnte. Die von mir bis dato gesammelten Erfahrungen interessiert kein Schwein, auch nicht das professionelle, im Stall auf den Tod wartend... nichts für ungut!

„Bis dato“ ist ein formeller Begriff, oder?

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Kapitel IIX << -- >> Kapitel ??

A Distraction from Too Much Work to Work or be Worked

From the email sent to Sibling the Eldester, whereby the therein named distraction is being ongone as here typed:

First, the run-on:
Among the massive amount of data bouncing around my brain, for which this email is the required distraction (albeit hardly qualifiable as such), comes the non-native E-speaking dough scent, i.e. Jermine l'eh d'preaux Fessor with whom I'm splitting a course and who I only this very morning, several weeks in, discovered had made available to the group a table intended to explain in engrossing detail the form & forming of that mode of expression dubbed Passive, and, which, along with other peculiarities, had featured throughout the repeated use of intransitive words of action, which, as you may know, are not used in that voice in any becoming sense. I swear to you the example "was/were went" was displayed in this collation, and be me trusted when you're told it ain't got nuttin' to do with an amusingly instructive riff on the Cisco Kid or a more sophisticated or archaic connotation or phrasally coupled variety of the verb "to go".

And now:
Let it be sufficed to be said that said document is being massively reworked as is currently being addressed, with the temptation barely being avoided to be it provided such nuggets as:

Let dog be eaten by you!

Corpses in the Courtyard, 1, 2, 3: ascensionem columbæ

The assumption would have been alone by way of the stumps on the one end and the felled lying about on the other had I not seen for myself the red-robed ultimate arbiters of arbor taking to their task. What I had happened upon appeared by my interpretation — as accurate an estimation allowed by my years of experience about this abode (as well as one of those profound, coincidental catching of a moment where the caught caught my having caught them) — to be precisely when they had realized they were ill-equipped to literally uproot these nesting quarters. Therewith would the hacking commence.

These days or not, experts are not engaged. There are no experts. There are bidders who send their promised cheapest to accomplish things deemed necessary by someone or another who would rather not spend more, making an already needlessly terminal arrangement more malignant.

What I assumed (in spite of contrarian ken) was that it was to be just the one tree that would be coming down — the oblique one, which had come to be so as a result of the last time cheap labor'd been loosed in the yard, erecting and de-erecting the scaffolding. During those assemblies this one tree ironically had become a convenient resting place, a brace for the heavy parts of the support system built for the next cheaply subcontracted wave of labor. The heavy bars and battens would lean against that once not leaning tree, if only temporarily, to, if not damage, permanently disfigure it.

Where my assumption'd lain false by a third I discovered upon my return. It was a visceral visual assessment, for sure, but it was not until the following morning that the implications of the three felled trees would ascend to the auditory cortex by way of the vacancy of the Columbiform'ed cooing.

__

Let me not be the purveyor of the false assumption of so many, that the big bad Other is, as monolithic lone-wolf, alone rapaciously irresponsible. Time is money. The way I spend my time, too, has an effect on who can live where and for how long. It is how cheaply I increasingly desperately seek my sleep.

While I'm not a believer, I do believe that money in whatever currency is the root of this evil. These values afford the wicked abuse of the accumulation of wealth. The hierarchical structure is indeed unfair.

But if your care is too expensive, there is a practitioner whose time is too precious to care. There is a relatively fair-waged technician who won't spend his free time scanning for your ill spots that would need to be uprooted. This is the dirt out of which these conditions flourish. And if this were not enough as we speak, it is I who am not out comforting the uncomfortable in favor of forcing my metaphor on you the afflicted.

So it is in the tradition of the Assumption of the Christ that I pronounce unto you by way of the rhythm & melody of that sequence of coos, now ascended out of "my courtyard" to find a home, I hope, in another one:

"We all are guilty. We all are guilty. We all are guilty. W—"

Courtyard Crucifix - 2018

„Es gibt kein richtiges Leben im falschen.“ —Adorno

Kam von drüben ab.

Zug trauer Knecht lieb - Petersburger Straße, Berlin-Friedrichshain 1900/2018