Art is the rabid inner necessity, at the cost of anything, of composing an emotional language that precisely describes one’s experience in the world.
The evolution of art is proportional to expanding ripples of subversion.
No real errors exist anymore—only simulated errors.
The word, being dead or at least in the earth reconstituting itself, murmurs in shaky archetypes, and those of us, revenants of the word, grasp at hearing while the world around builds its stratagems of noise.
Life, if you’re lucky, is an enjoyable disaster.
Sipped absinthe and chomped chocolate chips, while listening to Dreyblatt and The Books: sometimes life is perfect.
Necessities are tedious, irritating, distracting; necessity is seductive and, like all true seductions, deadly. The artist is always battling necessities to confront necessity, always seeking the inaccessible singular behind (?) the omnipresent plural.
Christ in the gospels casts “Legion” out of the “madman” into the pigs; the madman then presumably reintegrates into society, gets a job, a spouse, some kids. Yet today, would we not rather say that Legion must remain within: not only is there no place to cast them into but I do not desire to be exorcised. The irreducible plurality and contradictoriness within is our fuel and we use this inner ineffable divinity to refute Christ and all in society that are his silent inheritors. Legio mihi nomen est, quia multi sumus.
Those of us whose souls are formed of many centuries should be able to assemble (cafeteria-style) our own custom time-based century from our own internal psychic one. Kafka: the clocks are not in unison.
In the First World, money is a subsidiary of the imagination; in the Third World, neither money nor imagination exist, other than as subsidiaries of necessity.
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