what can i write about?

i cant write about that because im this

cant write about there because im here

cant write about you because im i

cant write about then because im now

cant write about reason because im mad

cant write about magenta because im fuchsia

cant write about fucking because im celibate

cant write about rich because im not

cant write about fungi because im whonym

cant write about i because im noti

cant write about noti because its noti

cant write about god because it doesnt exist

cant write about what i know best because i dont know anything best

cant write about what i know because i dont know if i know anything

cant write about cant write about because i cant write about it

but here i am

doing it

day 48

i find myself in a dark room with a tiny green luminescent dot and a thin large partial rectangular frame of white light behind which i know are a group of the sexually insane   i am shitting but without that great satisfaction of a full void   my cat is near but unwith me

i think selfpreservation while seemingly eminently sensible is a fundamentally idiotic principle by which to live and until whonyms realize this they continue accelerating along a rickety pier toward a precipice of unmitigating horrors

i receive more satisfaction from this thought than my shit and to avoid meeting the group i climb into a bathtub and wash the remaining fecal matter from my asshole  applying soap and fomenting up the hole with my right index finger drawing out some stubborn clods clinging to the hot home of the anal cavity and draining the brown froth down

the members are at different stages of arousal and they differ also in their proficiencies and all these factors comprise sonics that  if one appreciates atonality and disjunction  befit my present rites

the lakes let down like hair and speaks in the tongues of untrained angels and i think nowhere have the sophomores of semaphores been more than halfwise in their fallen dormitories  but i prefer another thought and tell them so and sadly realize resentment is the only omnipresence and war the only god

some heirloom makes me want to join them but a little turdette not quite drained speaks from its selective mutism and makes a case i shouldnt disconsider  i ask it to join forces with me and we briefly form a theatre in the service of the unmentionable

the sexually insane are really going at it now and i want to leave the dark room with the little lights and the talking scat and the memory of a disappointing void but fear the heaps of meat i must negotiate   i want to see the cat who blinks at me and whose desire to join with the lake stands between us inhibiting our intimacy

a plane passes over full of hacking whonyms on its way to a sterilized morgue and i know im accused of the abominable and the limbs outside drag me into their unspeakable orgies and ill not find myself again

the destinies of humans and images are parallel

imagination abducted me in normalstorg when i was two  as language enters  and being held captive all these decades has made me love and justify its tyrannies

should the human heart be taken seriously? if the myriad battling peoples agree on anything its yes! from musicians to entrepreneurs to correctionofficers to legalassistants to members of the angolafarm gatedcommunity   but a few of times deranged dingleberries are uncertain  chang doos uncertain  doo takes it seriously to the extent it acknowledges its there  like artichokes or spaceheaters or confinement or flatology  but everythings there  or here  hard to say exactly  but another way to state the question is  how wittys the abyss? what are the masks it wears over its wit? what are the passwords to access the wit? how seriously should that access be taken and how the passwords distributed?

going against the advice of almost all the inside voices i go to an official centre for the clinical diagnosis by the normals of a notnormal and after waiting for seven hours and paying nineteen hundred dollars and being prodded by pokers and sceptres which jab out of very white walls and filling out 316 pages of forms and questionnaires and providing two litres of blood and having my fingerprints taken and my retinæ scanned i receive an output that lists my illnesses as

palilalia

graphorrhea

phonological disorder

paragraphia

schizophasia

unspecified communication disorder

dyscalculia

pervasive developmental disorder

logorrhea

paraphasia

apraxia dysprosody

phonemic collapse disorder

mixed expressive receptive language disorder

semantic pragmatic disorder

hyperlexia

para supraalexithymia

pancluttering

unspecified disorders

dysgraphia

anomicaphasia

specific language impairment

general language disorder

it says page one of twentytwo but the other twentyone pages dont show and i ask for twentyonetwentytwoth of my money and time back but a hyperroomba sucks me up and spits me out giving thanks profusely and sodomizes me with an attachment

the novel i step in is not the novel i stand in

primitive  weird  odd  even  semiperfect  perfect  abundant  quasiperfect  friendly  deficient  composite  highlyabundant  superabundant  highlycomposite  superiorhighlycomposite  excessive  natural  untouchable  amicable  sociable  lychrel  cardinal  ordinal  nominal  whole  rational  complex  real  prime  positive  negative  abstract  linguistic  naïve  seed  kin  palindromic  rational  complex  hypercomplex  irrational  transcendental  constructible  algebraic  computable  recursive  transfinite  hyperreal  infinite  finite  aleph  beth  concrete  imaginary  superreal  surreal  infinitesimal  deterministic  noncomputable  nominal  counting  complete  spherical  topological  fuliginous  random  cyclical  projective  definable  delusional  principal  perpendicular  unified  robust  collapsed  smooth  inverted

dear mathematics   oh greatest unity of reality and abstraction  oh apparent order and film of logic  oh complexified accumulation and mystifying gargantuanity  oh conjectures of amphetamines   we in novel seek  through arcane voids  to emulate your pancosmic attributes and  like labourers in judge holdens epilogue  implement also holes in the infinite desert of holes for yea we ourselves are deserts and made of holes and in nothing we in novel and you are one

tokamak symplegma

always having suspected that i was one of those of the missing and having found myself solidly halfway through life and still not missing and not wanting to miss my fate – at least not absolutely – i began migrating down a path of simulating being one of the missing and i would like to write about this migration but haven’t yet found the right language and so all the writing i’ve done is a kind of attempt to write about wanting to write about it

we decreate our way to ungreatness – to paraphrase a fortune 100 executive who paraphrased a management guru who no doubt paraphrased someone else. in my case this means learning the obscure arts of babbling, acedia, hallucination, and a calm franticness (which is not as much a contradiction as you might think) … not as anything to fear or scorn but as a lifestyle as legitimate as the rich and famous, the common bourgeois, or the common activist

the discipline of this learning is i admit a peculiar study and practice. to learn to experience these typically shunned arts as normal, good, desirable, even progressive requires a complex rewiring of the brain that no therapeutic advocacy or pharmaceutical aid could accomplish, as these aids and advocacies are most frequently designed to happyize (how else do we describe our novel culture of Smile except to conjure a verb from an almost enforced obsession?) active willing participation in the production of names … which is the religious orthodoxy of the day : the requirement to be seen. that is, to not be missing

a side benefit of this discipline is that it introduces (or reintroduces for those who believe in some sort of original face, core identity or soul – the language is less important than the orientation) us to some externally-contextually unreachable timespace of our i (our plurality or pluralities of i) … those languages and mores our interiority would find naturally compelling were they to exist in externality … where we would find our true place, that spiritual-physical home of dream and desire where, as some greek philosopher prayed, the inner and outer would be one

unfortunately these sorts of practices can’t be taught – even speaking about them in the way i’m doing lends itself to interdisciplinary quackery. every instance we see of these principles and movements being systemized and communicated for emulation (regardless of how sophisticated or earnest any student or teacher might be) the enterprise quickly turns into a parody of itself and the rationalists are right to shamelessly mock. for the time being and perhaps always we strange pupils resort to actualizing only in aspects of desolation, incommunicability … those spaces between the interior and exterior realms that reach for both but never touch either

edentino

i give myself over to the hallucination of the day

the technological trees are teaching english

i see into the souls of things

and what i see is what is not

in this age of tired irony and tired innocence

whatever energies are left humanity

in this jumble of wire and posts

though they cannot be prayed to

i pray

(though what is prayed cannot be known)

even my coffee sings another language

and dreams of dead birds crawl on the windows