Residual-Detritus » Ambiguous

Originally a test for MarsEdit.

Darcy Dahl — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 00:43:54 +0000

This was originally a automatic post to my blog from the RSS reader desktop application called “Reeder.” I have deleted the post of the article – some of the markup was removed. MarsEdit certainly requires some tailoring under the hood and synchronizing with each respective blog type before it yields expected results.

has MarsEdit been a complete waste of money? Fuck. this could have been a bottle of oregon pinot noir.

Let me attempt a a href=”http://www.codecademy.com/”link/a.This was originally a automatic post to my blog from the RSS reader desktop application called “Reeder.”
I have deleted the post of the article – some of the markup was removed. MarsEdit certainly requires some tailoring under the hood and synchronizing with each respective blog type before it yields expected results.

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CV

Darcy Dahl — Wed, 23 Nov 2011 03:38:44 +0000

a href=”http://www.darcydahl.com/m_001/darcydahl_001.html” resume /a

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this is curdling… recidivistic hubris slapped my solipsist silly

Darcy Dahl — Tue, 19 Jul 2011 17:24:21 +0000

Originally my blog’s home.
Curdling gurgles of perception’s attrition: Interview with a meretricious movement analyst.

Stuck shoulder-high in the crevasse, her arm – taut sinew squeezing skin against craggy rock – frozen excoriations stretched into icy distended digits under the breeze. Gaunt fingers isometrically craving. Caved in, straining for a trusted texture.

She sat down across from me on the sofa. In Hue’s incalculable estimation, stretching a commodifying lycra aesthetic over her thin itchy rashed response to my jittering dissonance imbued entertainment or “at the very least, meaning” to my obtuse stuttering blurt:

Value’s paucity
clicked through my
lateral seem.

Podcast crackling a dry, scratchy voice void of upper register moisture: “…~~drawing~~ observational mark-making is the only discipline i’ve established for increasing awareness of my response to visual stimulus.” Treacly, prepared respose spills prematurely from the host’s flapping face. Stepping on and spoken like a physiologically reductive self-correcting twitch: “It’s not surgery: Design involves the excision of the ego, art, la langue, will and signification.” By excoriating the residue (a kind of provenance) of experience, we attempt of the sloughing away of labels (including all the sticky glue backing that usually requires an overnight soak). Artificially precipitation of conditions for non-reciprocal re-cathected dissonance displaces the preferred goal of approaching the “mundane singularly” experienced through observational drawing,

twisting
the illicit,
insipid
and the
inane
elicit
reason-abrupting
conflict.

She pulled the davenport (rhetoric) away from the wall to allow for greater mimetic distension. And more of that touchy-feely texture. You see, less resolution than fidelity is Hue’s goal. His whispering couples “coping” with “the will as anti-representation…” then trailed off into spurts of decadent whimsical froth.

Good luck with
the insurgent catalepsy
of empathy floundering
in it’s nascent
ambiguously
conditional
foreshortening.

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Hitch and Paxman

Darcy Dahl — Tue, 19 Jul 2011 15:45:27 +0000

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Kevin Williamson recommends a free market gargle.

Darcy Dahl — Tue, 19 Jul 2011 13:12:49 +0000

An invigorating rhetorical pugilist who prides himself on keeping informed and practices an inventive and engaging brand of historical revisionism. Our conversations never failed to inspire however intractably Kevin required adherence to his carefully plotted script. Now he’s written a popular book for other unrestrained market evangelists.

Here’s a link to a c-span luvfest with Putzhoretz where kevin let’s slip his secrete communist agenda. Midway he equates Sweden’s success to, of all things, cooperation. I do appreciate that he presents a lucid argument, even when his host encourages him to rave, kevin shows restrain and refocuses the conversation on his principal argument. For Mr. Williamson ”Socialism is:

The public provision of non-public goods
the use of central planning attempt fulfillment.”

I appreciate his perspicuousness and his good humor. I look forward to reading his book. While he never ceases to entertain, it is usually the research I have to do to follow up on his historical references that enlightens.

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Sketchbook drip

Darcy Dahl — Mon, 07 Jun 2010 14:43:32 +0000

sketchbook detail - '86

Mom hid this book under the bed when they came for me. Detail of the back page and cover. Procedural deconstruction: box cutter jabbed through dimple-covered cardboard-veiled wrist in quick successive jabs till the flood poured out from between the covers.

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reObfuscator transports me through early AM chatroulette moras.

Darcy Dahl — Sat, 01 May 2010 06:06:02 +0000

She peeked around the corner into the room on her way to the toilet. What did she see without her glasses – what apparition did her imagination codify with the data gathered in her myopic somnolence? It was parses during the discovery initiated by her own queries during reObuscation. This is a 4D model of the exhibit responsible for the death of Burden.

This is an early conceptual 1:8 model of the exhibit installed in during Art Basel Miami that ensnared Scnabel.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LzvRS6inh7c

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Sneakers

Darcy Dahl — Fri, 12 Feb 2010 05:16:09 +0000

The salmon malaise tweed build of this labyrinthine interface (mistakenly read yesterday’s passages. It’s) rubbing off on my tender nascent (nocturnal?) mourning.

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My grandmother’s death.

Darcy Dahl — Sun, 15 Nov 2009 15:53:21 +0000

I arrived on a monday. I wanted to hang out with ma. She wasn’t eating, so I had come prepared to encourage her, or to drive a noisy propped plane or a locomotive into her mouth. When I arrived in Minneapolis, my mother met me a the airport.* As we drove to see my grandmother, she told me; “Ethel had a stroke last night, and she’s not very responsive.”

At her apartment and bedside a hospice musician sitting in one of ma’s large reclining armchairs before a yamaha keyboard on a collapsable x-shaped stand was playing lilting and innocuous liminal tunes.

my peripatetic scourging stopped in her bedroom. I said goodbye, ended the phone call and witnessed silence. Ma’s rasping has stopped. Ma. I held her hand. I pressed my head to her chest. I put my cheek to her mouth. I tried to close it.

Later, sitting with my daughter in the balcony dining area overlooking the buffet from which she just selected her meal, I responded to her question of “How did she die?” with:

Well, she had lived a long time. She had a stroke – and parts of her body stopped working. She could no longer eat or drink. The few words she spoke after I arrived were in my response to a story I told her about you. I told her about how you were concerned for me because I don’t believe in god. She moaned and groaned as she moved her legs under her covers. I said to your great grandmother; you don’t like this story do you, ma?

She looked at me for the first time since her stroke and said “NO.”

Because she wasn’t eating or drinking her body began to shut down. It slowly stopped working and she died. Lucy released a sigh of resignation and said “Ah…Entropy.”

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Dialogic backfire cracks leathery substrate in progress

Darcy Dahl — Sun, 15 Nov 2009 05:11:03 +0000

while polyphony whistled around the previous harrowing corner, You won’t feel it in this curve. she tasted the tears as they crested his curling lips. it wasn’t so much that he withdrew, as he could no longer hold his head upright. he thought of how he had tortured his younger brother when his brother still had bright blond hair.

Sitting on his brother’s planted chest – his knees on lactic elbows quieted with pinioned resolve. Leaning over his face, and sliding his hands past either side of his brother’s confidently defiant face – fingers interlaced behind the back of his head. Lift up. Then release. Head suspends for a buoyant beat, and a recalcitrantly toothless grin, the younger brother eases head back to the grass. Undaunted, the older lifts repeats; bringing his brother’s chin up to touch his chest lift and release. Again, the head easily lowered back into the soft, barely itchy grass. After the XXth repetition, (exhausted) (neck muscles disobey) and cave to the craving to gravity’s occipitally thumping suck back to earth. Enough. Sovereignty transferred to a tremulously daunted will.

Neck and upper torso leveling my face near the reproaching fiber of her lips – then feign collapsing retreat of nonreciprocal strain. petal crushed stain of regret fed to the old, densely ceramic gods. While turning blurry vision towards the waxing interloping vacuousness vacuous interloper, the last of the hot coercion spills in rivulets of steam – staining my face – puddling in my ear.

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Residual-Detritus » Ambiguous

Originally a test for MarsEdit.

CV

this is curdling… recidivistic hubris slapped my solipsist silly

Originally my blog’s home. Curdling gurgles of perception’s attrition: Interview with a meretricious movement analyst.

Value’s paucity clicked through my lateral seem.

twisting the illicit, insipid and the inane elicit reason-abrupting conflict.

Good luck with the insurgent catalepsy of empathy floundering in it’s nascent ambiguously conditional foreshortening.

Hitch and Paxman

Kevin Williamson recommends a free market gargle.

Sketchbook drip

reObfuscator transports me through early AM chatroulette moras.

Sneakers

My grandmother’s death.

Dialogic backfire cracks leathery substrate in progress

Originally my blog’s home.
Curdling gurgles of perception’s attrition: Interview with a meretricious movement analyst.

Value’s paucity
clicked through my
lateral seem.

twisting
the illicit,
insipid
and the
inane
elicit
reason-abrupting
conflict.

Good luck with
the insurgent catalepsy
of empathy floundering
in it’s nascent
ambiguously
conditional
foreshortening.