A Return to iKapa and…pixOverbal Dis–Juncture [retrospecular-dispatch no.VI]

The void between words and images can never be suspended. The two families are as disjunctive/ complementary/insubstitutable/juxtapositional as sols in the night sky, millions of light years apart, are. However tangible, real, animated their local circumstances, say iKapa, may be, maybe. This should be the cause for jubilation rather than desperation. Again, think of the pleasures of the Sternenhimmel.

Their rate of conversion, at present terrestrial valuation, is roughly the following: a picture is worth a thousand words / a good simile is worth approx an 8GB flash card. To give you an idea.


beginning of short story but real

I can see how the above will not have a detente with the below but I wonder what, more specifically, keeps me harping on and on about notebooks. They have bore me no ill will in the past but rather have been patient hosts of my incoherent long-hand.

When one/I write/s in long-hand instead of typing one/I become a different being, not just incoherent but frighteningly disjointed, something sprung from the undergrowth of incompetence and impending lunacy. I lose my human features. However, I only did it in the name of my true notebook, a mac, which I think has reached its dotage and must not be taxed by intercontinental travel.

One of those notorious inclines. I wish we had some over here. In the long run, they’ll shape ones legs into something wicked and leapy. Perhaps Bolt lived in some such place as Tamboerskloof.

As for backpacks: I still haven’t made it sufficiently clear to myself why people would go anywhere without them. This is where you put your books, your groceries and other means of survival, just in case.

left foot, right foot, up up up

The Great Shitini indeed! There is no specific reason to embarrass oneself via publication of journal. But the thought of all those letters just sitting there on paper, instead of buzzing around the cloud like a flock of disoriented starlings, was depressing.


The balls to stick w/ that name or the sheer carelessness. We didn’t meet the owner so it’s hard to tell. Still. The Colony! Jesus. We have a clothes store down by the Reuss by the same name. But at least its backwater Lucerne. If one has enough historical consciousness to see how f-ed-up it is one probably also has enough forgiveness in one. Not that it is anybody’s business to forgive.



There is a liberating aspect to how in writing you can completely “abseil” from reality. All this crabbed, crapped scribblature was done in the Tavern of the Seas. It seems I should’ve imbibed more rather than less. An interesting topic might have crossed my mind. Oh well, oh hell.

We savored divine VINO at The Speir [pictured] and Neetlingshof. I don’t know if we gulped down any VERITAS with it but the flavor alone was fantastic. The Speir was more of a democratic, open-house experience [minus the glowering lobbyists] and Neetlingshof was aristocratic but highly aesthetic. 500-l kegs squatting behind us in the dark.

Ending on an image, given pixOverbal dis–Juncture, seems more conciliatory. Cheers!

– – –


About tmabona

writer, reader [bolano, DW, bellow, deLillo], runner, badmintoneer
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