Trifles & Peeves: A jazzy riffing...

[whippersnapper]

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Trifles & Peeves: A jazzy riffing given in honor of petulance persisting or, if you will, these be symptoms of a brain engorged on formal game theory, jabberwocky and a host of hoary, literary, luminaries.

WARNING: Harken unto me before hankering or hunkering over these twisty, recursive, byways as serpentine as a spilled-over bowl of Fetachini Alfredo.....

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If English is not your native language this collection of Victorian flavored drippings (with some matchless, math less, game theory effusions undercover of blond blather) will likely make you cross-eyed, not starry-eyed, and feel a stark urgency to yank locks of hair from your scalp, assuming you're not bald, or in some such hairless extremity you may simply holler "what a load of hooey-hooey", at no one in particular, though you still have an unmistakable, odd lingering, sense of being put upon but can't find moxie for a counter with even a wee bit of panache which again rankles for some reason you'd rather dismiss as amiss then, thank the all mighty trickster, and let it go at that.

Heck, even if born to it, English your mother tongue, and are inclined to relish the nuances of game theory and literary high jinx, your taste buds may be provoked and stymied all at once by the peculiar language romps prone to here (an aboriginal walk-about of the mind) and atop that to top it off, an obstreperous school of red-herrings offered with a distinctly fishy agenda. A horrid, frustrating, experience in either case so proceed with unaccustomed caution, with as little gravity and as much levity as you can marshal and, without a doubt, be assured there be real hazards of having a few cherished bubbles of baubles popped for which I am unwilling to take any responsibility, though I would be charmed to consider favorable terms of credit.

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And thus, call me Jian and let this be the best of the worst decisions you ever make....

Mentation as risk aversion fermentation, a never ending stall, tends to focal ejaculations of dubious merit unless you are in the insurance business which pays actuaries quite handsomely. But sans that application of game theory, it's a slow motion locomotion that inevitably ends as a snail's journey must, before high noon. It is a slime trail seeking safe shadow harbor from the Sun; a Sun's glare sure to turn a lovely dew cooled rock garden to hellish stone. Something of an impromptu cook-out of wild escargot as any preeminent procrastination merits. Thus I will contend with ejaculations of my own, conceived of self-mockery, dipped in clue-riddled aplomb like a candied apple, then wrapped tidy and innocuous in superfluous conviction that I trust will also harness a blithe confection of ulterior subversive intent akin a twenty mule team wagon burdened with precious preserving salts, plodding across the heat shimmering, illusory flats of a Death Valley in the head.

Now we come to this with a base ejaculation, a fundamental, an axiom if you will, upon which I will erect much detailed nonsense, with some vital sense there in, of a pivotal nature like planting a Totem in a silent wood or the cacophonous jungle of social intercourse gone haywire. We hope this transpires languidly, with a hopeless romanticism, knowing full well that that jolly wad's heyday was last spent in an other halcyon age of rose-tinted spectacles and steam driven whirligigs we may never see again save in the collapse of all we take for granted like ubiquitous fast food joints, the cyberspace global hive or public latrines during parades or masked carnivals.

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We will now proceed with our first proper pointed posit, a pronounced prestidigitation in prose, quite possibly propitious, if only barely proper baring all, this partly peevish but mostly felicitous proposition, of passions poised...

+ A mind unhinged is a terrible waste less there be pungent satire in them there cobwebs. Call it, a yet to be excavated labyrinth of catacombs and cul-de-sacs resident in a fired-up gray gelatin between ears often plugged in some manner or other for distracted amusement while ambling the byways of urban jungles or the tribal stomping grounds of strong coffee, tremendous trifles and raspberry chocolate truffles whilst sipping a delicate goblet of vintage Merlot to alas, wend our way to a home of the moment where the heart is reassured the worst is past, the best yet to be, in a fashionable but not too flashy way. Still, let us not stand for drawing attention to only the worst of things relegating the best to languish in harsh anonymity like sad clowns awaiting Godot.

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(... to be continued. "Drats and brats !")
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[lav_coyote25]

as usual - well put Mr. Wordsmith! my sides do ache from the prose from on high. xD

[whippersnapper]

as usual - well put Mr. Wordsmith! my sides do ache from the prose from on high. xD

Thanks bud.

Your comments a long time ago on an other styling inspired me to explore this "form" of wordsmithing.

That long ago piece fits in here so I will reprise it and perhaps others may to delight in it too.

Btw - it is also the origins of my current nick.

Milking Cliche's Teats of Tomfoolery or ... Pretty in Pink


Without rhyme or reason
in a pretty pickle
let's spill the beans

blowing hot & cold
like a bull in a china shop
the knucklehead whipper snapper
not content to split hairs
knowing the ropes more or less
& praying not to eat humble pie
girded his loins
flogging the dead horse
to leap in the dark
hardly as fast as greased lightening
but in the nick of time
for the sword of Damocles
was no mana from heaven
& to quarrel with ones bread & butter
playing fast & loose
was to court disaster
much as a fish out of water
or at the very least
hanging on by the eyelashes

at first blush
the young blood upstart
put too many irons in the fire
to keep the pot boiling
then by hook or crook
time was of the essence
when playing with loaded dice
or tilting at windmills
& better to let sleeping dogs lie
no ifs, ans, nor buts
unless going hog wild
with a stiff upper lip
cheek by jowl
cute as a bugs ear
was to strike while the iron was hot
hopefully feathering ones nest
even in the midst of detractors

standing aside a tempest in a teapot
at the eleventh hour
between the devil & the deep blue sea
casting the die
biting off more than he could chew
hoisting himself by the bootstraps
(better than hoisted on ones petard)
somewhat fit as a fiddle
this ditty
in one ear & out the other
was the handwriting on the wall
and somehow still a shot in the arm

to be mad as a hatter
the piper had to be paid
like a bump on a log
it was a long row to hoe
& as scarce as hens teeth
or riding the gravy train
but better than wool-gathering
or a blue funk

all said 'n done, in the dog house,
there were other fish to fry
with tongue in cheek
& wet behind the ears
loaded for bear
this bat out of hell
was flat on his back dreaming
of painting the town red
& fishing in troubled waters

by and by
the chuckle head would learn
to take the bull by the horns
never put the cart before the horse
& instead raise Cain
on the horns of dilemmas
breaking the ice
& cooling his heels
while facing the music
with high jinx in the bag
it would be the upstarts
allegiance, his credo
chuckle warts in your face
and swan song.

[lav_coyote25]

and tis hillarious now as it twas then. xD

[whippersnapper]

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Another reprise in this genre of sense within nonsense. An acquired taste, like anchovies on pizza, to be sure. O_O

• "Fishy Muses: A Jabberwocky"

(Exsponged by De'Carp from the annals of bottle nose echo location.)

The burbles of one Cudda T. Una have grilled me, Rmackeral De Carp Escargot, to respire my piecemeal, piecean, perch on the less than pickled pickerel matter of land-lubber, hairy, egghead pikers tickled pink and laboring to pierce our deep blue and drain it of all fulsome frolic.

By my humble pectorals, Cudda's pinions do not hold water.

Scudding with bottle nose relish, I shall wrap my fore fins round the flighty squawking and spurts Cudda has burbled to buoyancy and without fur or founder I, Professor Escargot, offer this echo location; on land or sea or air it is eat till eaten.

Let me begin at the beginning and waggle my fish tale, flowing like octopi in pursuit of tasty morsels.

Our sickly world grows warmer, the oceans rise, our numbers diminish & those of us left have but poisoned flesh.

Of those, the fins with blow holes for eons have known only the watery expanses as home yet retell in soundings our days on land & those left behind.

Long ago, round and near foamy shores, burbled in those echoes of our web-footed ancestors, the hairy pink skins waded in murky shallows gathering succulent shells and creepy crawlers, dreaming the deep.

All was a struggle in the four-footed jungles and hugging the watery margins was a peace from the ever present menace of being shredded by swifter claws and devoured with toothy glee.

I, De Carp, have passed many a wave in wonder on just this perch: was the sanctuary of the deep what lured my own kind from land to sea, forfeiting legs for fins, angular ambulation for sleek propulsion, a mostly dry life for wet necessity ?

I am not alone in such meandering streams and I dare say such a mingled destiny could very well cast a piercing sun ray on why our kind have played so close to shore watching, guarding, even protecting, the two-legs.

Of my own frolics, let it be known that I was spawned in shadow torrents by the slippery stones of a jungle gulf; that I have led many a gullible guppy to deeper waters, baited minnows and sardines from the nets of landlubbers, tiny turtles from the fierce pecking of the shore bound wings, saved drowning puckered pink-skins more than once & all this I did before my first resurgent abandon.

Soon will come my last cycle to spawn the wee ones who will follow my expiration &, as I swim to my destiny, I pass-on these burbles of the fins who once walked long before I ever was..

In bygone babels before Belugas, when night's fire rock scorched firmament & smoldered seas, before legs became fins, some forswore land for deeper waters.

Those who remained behind, dragging knuckles along the veldt, shedding tufts of hair & sucking marrow from flesh striped bones, these became landlubbers clinging to drier climes like shells their pearls.

Away from tide & surf countless generations of landlubbers lost sight of kindred-brains who chose swimming over walking and building tales in wet retreats instead of piling stones & huddling within.

It was but a blink of the blue orbs spinning course that took a once common tributary and split it asunder.

Beneath waves over sputtering volcanoes, land masses moved like giant puzzle pieces & between epochs our ancestors knew little of serenity as they followed spume from horizon to horizon.

Then came those of little hair & crafty hands who rode atop the waves in vessels of their handiwork.

We of the fins followed in sport remembering the great divide & before when we strode sandy shores like landlubbers.

For all it was a struggle just to keep flowing.

Our kind submerged, passing water and keeping our gullets from shriveling and those who held to the land had their own trials in the four legs who were swifter, stronger, with claws, teeth & insatiable appetites.

Then with the passing of many waters, the landlubbers came to know less want and greater comforts from most dangers which our ancestors could not forget less they cease to transpire the waters of life.

By this course the landlubbers have grown chubby and through the eons of murky waters it is all the fins have sought to be spared the hazards of our pink skin, egg-head brethren's all consuming mission to escape mortal fears of every stripe, even our toothy minnow disposed kin, the tiger sharks.

But what the landlubbers gained in safety we have lost in equal measure as the pure waters have been poisoned & the fins driven to the mad frolic of beaching.

Some time after my passing the waters will reclaim the shores & the fins will swim among the pink skin's stone monuments & perhaps the worlds balance will be restored through a planetary calamity as it was at the crossroads before the clever hands of naked landlubbers tolled its death knell seeking eternity.

Are these more than just my pectoral burbles ?

It is not my place but to echo locate as best I can and with passing water I may merge deeper into the dorsal depths of my abysmal theory with more rigorous blue and sparkle too.

On a fin-note of frolic let this final perch pass clean and smooth:

One could burble that in the belly all, even landlubbers, possessed gills for a time and floated in an inner sea akin to primal seas long vanished.

Have we lost all piecean sensibilities to the over-weening dominance of the hairy, bulbous heads ?

If sounded let it be the general burble of this pondering pond. With the passing waters there yet may emerge an aqueous time of blessed ooze wherein prestidigitations will overflow the trite and mundane regurgitations of hopeless complacence.

We shall burble these perches to their fin & gill.

May your soundings hold true,

De'Carp Escargot.


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[lav_coyote25]

another fine piece of piecean prose - is it this that was before written on last or am i thinking of another? sure tis familiar sounding.

[whippersnapper]

another fine piece of piecean prose - is it this that was before written on last or am i thinking of another? sure tis familiar sounding.

I'm sure you read an earlier version. Probably the re-write I did at RTS.net with some key feedback by our mutual WZ bud, Karmazilla.

This particular revision I was inspired to do with the recent mention of humor in games.

The very first version was done a very long time ago @ Pumpkin's Official WZ forums when many of us participated in the creation of what we then called - "A Fish Fightin' RTS". It was a lot of fun, a ton of laughs, and even some WZ creators got in on it. A way different time and I am now convinced we'll never see its like again. Kinda like the expressions "Innocence lost..." or "You can never really return to that home you knew as a child" would seem to suggest. Years pass, we are changed by experience as are our peers and even the places we remember.

Eternal verities are not easy to come by or hang onto - though try we must. And there are some, to be sure, & the common threads I believe involve love and honor in some form or other. I'll likely be dating myself with these sentiments & that's just fine 'cause I'm definitely old school & make no bones 'bout it.

Regards, whip

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[-Kosh-]

Someone sure loves the sound of fingers hitting keys.
Once I go over 1000 words, I would start to use pictures. ha!

[lav_coyote25]

oh oh! now he's gone and done it...! INCOMING! xD xD xD xD

[-Kosh-]

oh oh! now he's gone and done it...! INCOMING! xD xD xD xD

[whippersnapper]

Someone sure loves the sound of fingers hitting keys.
Once I go over 1000 words, I would start to use pictures. ha!

Actually when creating whole cloth (or from a blank slate) in literary art forms, music, or various graphic mediums my experience is much akin to that of sports i play when I am in the Zone.... that is, I have no self-conscious awareness of the mechanics involved or my incidental surroundings. All is "Flow" as first explicated scientifically by Professor Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi in pioneering work begun in the 1970's and after 4 decades of dedicated & rigorous research culminating in his globally peer reviewed & accepted work: "Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience". Incidentally, this last has also been influencing game design the last few years and dove tails with work in the field of neurology collectively known as "Cognitive Task Analysis" and "Body Mapping" which are very useful in the design of game UIs and GPMs.

oh oh! now he's gone and done it...! INCOMING! xD xD xD xD

Well... my gut sense first impression is that -Kosh- is what we used to call appreciatively a "good egg" and that we are able to disagree without it becoming a disagreeably experience for anyone concerned. This last is to be highly regarded as much for its rich inherent generative qualities as for its rareness in public discourse which too often devolves to a self-serving demagoguery if not out and out propaganda nonsense, dogma and, ultimately, fanaticism; incapable of that deeply satisfying humor born of critical thinking acumen, all around savvy, a creative disposition and genuine empathy. All together what Martin Buber called the genuine dialogue of mutuality in "I-Thou" communication as opposed to "I-It" or "It-It" which, frankly, drives me to distraction with a total impatience spawning nothing but inequity aversion as clearly seen in that other thread that shall not be named.

Regards, whip

[whippersnapper]

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Something of a visual sense of what this topic encompasses I indulged a break from working on "War Machines" and music jams to do this little portrait of one of my Rex kitties who I took to the vet this week because she had what turned out to be a not serious auto-immune condition. It's done in a little proggy I favor called "Art Rage" - love that name too. As old-timers like Lav know, I naturally favor paint and canvas over polygons and working on a female nude over an Abrams. Warzone is one of a few exceptions I make in this regard.




NEXT: An excerpt from "What Up ?" a noir redux novel that illustrates some of my "jaberwocky" literary techniques from earlier posts in this thread but greatly scaled back and placed totally in the service of dramatic plot and characterization. An interesting read and contrast in "degree" on the continuum of "kind" when it comes to an artist's pallet (I use the term "artist" to encompass ALL mediums of creative expression... not just the visual forms.)

Regards, whip

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"Incompetent leadership promotes cronyism by default if not assiduously. As Aristotle noted about nature itself, group dynamics abhor a vacuum, often vigorously and with great inequity."

- from "Incisions With Precision & Excavations for Light" a collection of aphorisms & epigrams
by RJ