For a time, before I started posting to EphEff again and before I realized you could turn on Captcha to weed out the non-humans, most of my time on my blogging platform, Typepad, was spent quashing spam comments like so many mosquitoes. Even though I hadn't posted anything new for months, I'd get an email from Typepad that someone, or something, had posted something on EphEff, usually vaguely commercial gibberish in which the only readable words involved Vuitton bags, prescription medicine, or soccer jerseys. I'd have to go into Typepad, mark the comment as spam, confirm that I wanted to mark the comment as spam, and then delete the email from my inbox. Sometimes the spam came in once or twice a day, sometimes it came in by the dozens or hundreds. It was annoying.
And it was only a little interesting. It was a little interesting (and a lot depressing) to get a glimpse every so often of the cynical, subterranean 'bot hordes that must be held at bay at all times. But although I'm firmly of the this-world-has-many-inadvertent-beauties school of aesthetics, there was almost nothing interesting in the content of the messages. Almost nowhere, in all that word salad, was there anything inadvertently funny or evocative, unless, like Bret Easton Ellis, you find the mere repetition of "Ugg boots" and "Gucci" to be funny or evocative.
I say "almost" because out of the monkeys-with-typewriters slush pile there did float one keeper, a message whose pleasures were substantial enough that I couldn't quite bear to delete it and was finally driven to create my first Firmament in many dozen fortnights. To celebrate the apparent eradication of these messages from my life (and also the return of the Fortnightly Firmaments), I offer you this comment, posted on April 13 of this year by "DrimiJamTrigh" in response to my Fortnightly Firmament #7: Fun Facts from Periodic Tales:
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I would love to see the algorithm that came up with this: it seems to have a near-human sense of grammar, and to have been tuned to extract words of particular emotional resonance. (Or maybe any word, when placed randomly next to 100 mgs of viagra, becomes emotionally resonant.) You may find your own favorite shards of chance meaning in the above, but here are mine, ten phrases (if that's not too strong a word) that to me carry the potential dramatic mystery of a good short story, or at least of a Guided by Voices song.
- "last slow viagra": So bittersweet it just about makes you want to cry. It was the one time when four hours didn't seem like enough.
- "controlling up the motionless resolve": Sometimes stillness requires more strength than action.
- "guessing at the hand intensity": That feeling: it's so close but yet so distant; it's graspable but not guessable.
- "A viagra slid out but in": "Out and in," well, that's what viagras do. "Out but in"? Therein lies drama.
- "doing a familiar memory": The sheer claustrophobia of it, doomed to repetition!
- "her sand was pressed on its": Why is "her sand" so compelling? "Her" is alive and desiring (not to mention pressing), but "sand" is dry and ephemeral, leaving her with nothing more substantial than that empty "its".
- "100mg made feeling at the 100 mg, compromising her": Is that the same her? How was she compromised by the milligrams?
- "telephone crackpot higher into the robot": A phrase that would only be sub-Robert Pollard nonsense, except for that disturbing preposition. "Into the robot"? The machine has been violated!
- "submersible of a head": Almost disappointingly clear. Nevertheless, heads should not be submersible.
- "A saw meteoric": A suitably Pynchonian scream across the sky to begin this weird hive of near-meaning.
And now comes the final gesture in honoring this bit of ephemera: having enshrined it here, I can mark it as spam too.
Divine post, Mr. Nissley. (Staged a reading this morning, looking out over the Sound.)
"telephone crackpot higher into the robot" is either a lyric from David Bowie's Aladinsane ... or from the Teenage Machine Age 9th grade single, "I, Zombie" ...
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