23.10.12

Dictionary of Modern Times - intro and possible title page


The Sadoo wishes to slowly publish--at will (whatever that means) and at random (which seems more the will)--a dictionary of language as it might be written by a visitor from another world.  Here, in honour of a certain past visitor, might be the title page.

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DICTIONARY
of
Modern Times:

in which
The WORDS are deduced from their FLEETING CONTEXTS,
and
ILLUSTRATED in their DIFFERENT SIGNIFICATIONS
by
NARRATIONS and other MEANS from the best IMAGINATIONS.
To which are prefixed,
A BRIEF HISTORY of the DICTIONARY,
and A NOTE ON METHOD.
Assembled by The Consortium of Consortionists,
of many degrees and inclinations
In VIRTUAL Volumes
in the early third millennium in the republic of the internet 

14.10.12

yap clackity worm


faces yap the human news
yap yappity yap yap yappity yap
europe gives europe a prize for its virtue
yap yappity yap yap yappity yap
punching killing winning losing
yap yappity yap yap yappity yap
meanwhile trains do their thing
click clackity clack click clackity clack
going nowhere must be on time
click clackity clack click clackity clack
and worms and bees keep the world going on
buzz buzzity worm buzz buzzity worm
so that faces can yap and trains go clack
buzz buzzity worm buzz buzzity worm
and one day soon not long from now
the yaps will stop and so will the clacks
and all therell be on the face of the earth
buzz buzzity worm  buzz     buzzity       worm
                      buzz                buzzity                worm           buzz                                                           buzzity                
worm

13.10.12

self-exile and exile

self-exile         a misnomer, for all exile is a transtextual dialogue of no’s.
self-exile         an attempt to again glimpse art through society’s arsenal.
self-exile         an i ching of terrorisms.
self-exile         to demonstrate the exile that has already taken place.
self-exile         for exile is becoming obsolete and the window for self-exile itself is only open until the psyche assumes the state’s attributes—bureaucratic, average, mechanical, powerless, indebted, fully prosthetized, incessantly intermeshed, intradatabased, planetary.
self-exile         the dream of exile being the sufficient substitute for exile.
self-exile         nothing left to be exiled from, nowhere to be exiled to.

exile       for the pop and shame of culture, for the lightness and plonk of being human.
exile       for the glory of peculiar movement.
exile       in celebration of homelessness, dispossession, transience.
exile       to subvert the brute necessities of biology and state.
exile       to wean new forms from the teats of the familiar.
exile       because anomie must be made incarnate.
exile       for the dream and memory of exile, to maintain a tradition.
exile       no need, for it’s already happened.
exile       not a bad kid’s name.

ganesh postcard forest


rabelais


His one sentence will ... I have nothing, I owe a great deal, and the rest I leave to the poor.

His last words ... I go to seek a Great Perhaps.

sublimation


The sadoo is faintly embarrassed by its earlier post, the one on politics.  Not that it isn't embarrassed by its other earlier posts.  But, as frank zappa sang, what's embarrassing yesterday is lunch tomorrow.

To compensate--though there's no such thing as compensation--he offers a little titty ditty recently found inside a turtle's stomach in the titanic by dr. herbefa h. h. h. permalink, rabelais scholar, of the university of ridgely's delight at cylburn.  Dr. h. h. h. permalink, in her article "rabelais and the turtle under the sea:  rhetoric and fornication as parallels to freud and testudines" in bawdy studies (254:IX), claims that the poem ("sublimation") is a lost fragment from rabelais' seminal work, gargantua and pantagruel.  (Her claim has been hotly disputed by rabelais scholars around the world.) Written in greek, french, and latin, the poem was translated by iffy f♨üüf, one of dr. h. h. h. permalink's doctoral students.



sublimation

Take off thy mask, my slutty lass,
And slip your yoni hither.
Time is not time unless we join
Our genitals together.

I saw you winking yesterday
At that big cheese called Ingram.
But come instead inside my bed
And lick my meaty lingam.

What are skirts for but lifting up
And tossing panties yonder?
Your clam awaits, basting, baked,
For my hungry salamander.

Your titties aren’t for tots to suck
Or be jailed in a pricey teddy,
But to bounce unhindered, wantonly,
As you ride my stick and hump me.

Yet. There you are. Masked, aloof,
Like Sheba in her gloaming.
And here I am, hard as Zeus,
Doomed to fuck by writing.

12.10.12

a joke

This sadoo tends to find it best to avoid any direct comment on what is typically called the political activities of homo sapiens sapiens, preferring art--which, to be art, in contradistinction to the proclivities of the day, must avoid politics in any non-foucaultian sense--to state its non-statements in its unstated way.  Politics is only useful to the creator in the form of the extreme self-parody it not infrequently provides (a berlusconi).  (Politics self-parodies routinely of course; this is one of the functions of the news and why the news is tedious:  it's at best a mediocre joke ... whereas a berlusconi intuitively understands what politics is about:  the pure incarnate absurdity of barely mitigated exploitation).

Yet the largest public joke of the third millennium has just taken place!  Europe has given itself the nobel peace prize.  One of the most powerful entities on earth rewards itself for virtue--an act requiring a lobotomy so large one is rather astonished that any physical structure remains to support the gargantuan bureaucratic virtuality of its delusions.  (That jagland is both secretary general of the council of europe and chairman of the norwegian nobel committee, responsible for awarding the peace prize, consummates the joke.)  Colonialism hasn't diminished; it's simply changed its forms.

Who will celebrate this other than a few mandarins in luxembourg & brussels and a few doddering scandinavians?


I suggest europe's institutions and citizens immediately follow its example, rewarding themselves for philanthropy, humanitarianism, humility, restraint, and general beneficence to humans and animals throughout time and space.  Monuments to banks should be erected outside of banks.  Household shrines to the household should be established.

Shouldn't we award the peace prize to worms and bees?

HERE AND THERE


Going green the melons go along the boulevards
Competing with the parasols who like to have their way.
We could think as some do that it’s not worth the fight:
Melons are just melons ... and, rain, that’s so passé ...

But once was lunch and now is cow so what are we to do
But go along the boulevards competing every day?
And even those who question worth still question from somewhere—
But where exactly is that space i can’t exactly say.

10.10.12

identity i


genesis

Down by the bay.  Where the water faeries grow.  Back to my ...                    the womb is an infinite ikea, bouncing colors, reliable swedes, wee packages of sugar expectations ...                                     and the lord god said hey skank you wombat you  slug of slugs and scat of scats  come out and i came out and yea there were finite ikeas and bouncing swedes and reliable sugar and expected colors and machines of love ...                                                                     mrs mcgregor whacked me with her holey paddle, barbaric badge and edgy-cation, grade six, three years running, as she was whacked, the whacker whacked, before the whacked whacker whacking also whacks and whackers brief history of time that’s a lie we shall find god in hawks and hope ...
                                         so there was the scrimmage of marriage and the firth of birth, the faucets and drains of money and verily there’s justice for they balance, the ins and wins the outs and pouts, the frozen corn, ½ cup of kalamatas (the olives not the neighbours), the crashes and bashes, the winking grave, gin and gin (barristers and solicitors), the lists, the lists, the lists of lists, the lists of cysts of lists, the pissed of Lyst, all the lost in Lyst are pissed, the pissed were kissed but the cost was lists ...             

5.10.12

Nosespotting


I remember that smell.  What is it?  Camp and carrots boiling slow in brown sugar.  Little boys like artichokes running everywhere, farting in the forest, looking for bears.  Deep in my nose, older than grandparents, the smell runs too in the forest, lightly then now weighty, that ancient incense, like the urge to piss in temples.  I lie in bed, on the silent koans of the sheets.  The stars fry outside like a mexican sunset.  Burnt lentils and barley, mortar in my fingernails.  Gramma, wrinkled like love, comes crawling down my nose with cookies and vodka, a chariot of twinkies abducts her, takes her straight to her charbroiled destiny.  5 smells like cocoa, i’m told, 7 like watermelon lollipops, 43 like juniper lemongrass, π’s confusing, 0’s a mess.  I lie in bed, pingpong balls leaping like marshmallows, the moon frozen in the hot wok of the night.  Worms in spring smell different than worms in fall, every dying candle knows that.  Waft of crypts, acrylics of cum.  Grampa comes, covered in mulch and foreskins, with his ax of silence, chops the worms, goes down in relief to the leaves.  The cold reek of mirrors, reeking of acidrain lakes, those mechanical perfections.  The cold reek of wires, cough syrup and puke.  You.  Wilted on our spontaneous disaster, served dishabille, rotten seaweed on the beach.  I lie in bed, lit matches in my anus, spiders toking on the ceilings, the sun burnt out in the distance like a god, mintleaf boats on breastmilk rapids coursing down to heads-on-sticks & kurtz, candyfloss & stickysmiles & countryfairs.

But it was only that woman as she passed on the platform.  I think it was her.  I remember that smell.

2.10.12

Letting Go of the Money Tree III & IV


sadoo deeply regrets that the technical limitations of booger or the technical ignorance or indolence of this sadoo or some combination of the two or some other factor or combinations of factors not herein mentioned, and/or herein mentioned, and/or not necessarily thought, herein or therein, prevent them from posting the third and final portions of Letting Go of the Money Tree, named, respectively, Quaternities and Emptiness:  the Sequel, at least in any form even vaguely resembling the incarnate aesthetic vision in which the sadoo received them

The Spleen of I


The dozen or so anti-abortionists at Yonge&Bloor yesterday, scattered around each corner.  Why are they always so horribly dressed … and ugly?  Their signs argue against abortion but their fashion and faces argue for it.

Recently I’m lounging around Nathan Phillips Square, somewhat slovenly.  A horde of Christians (over 80 of them) descend, offering brown bag lunches to the homeless, a group in which I seem to be temporarily included.  They all look as if they have just been bused in from Iowa or Alberta.  Scrubbed and stupid.  Hay still in their asses, James Dobson on their phones.  One line from Pascal would kill them.  I almost take a bag (I’m smoking a Montecristo for crissake) from spite (I’m offered 4 lunches, from various Scrubbies) but can’t even rouse enough emotion to extend my hand.  I watch my smoke curl up to heaven, like a prayer.


POST-TRAUMATIC STRESS OF AN AESTHETIC KIND

The Christian’s antagonism toward evolution became clear to me recently ... and, in becoming clear, became necessary also.  For there are antagonisms built into the universe’s marrow that are so central to it if they were to go missing, our worlds would have no choice but to collapse.  There are a few antagonisms factory-woven into the wet towel of existence that they must become a meditation for those of us given to futilely care about what we seem to be.

What, then, is the Christian’s fatal objection to the migration of humans from simians?  Why the angst and spittle?  Why not laughter?

It is this.  The Christian objects to the visible expression of the negation of itself.  (It lacks the imagination to see its negation prior to its visible expression.)  This lack is one of the reasons for its objection and also for its being a Christian.

This visible expression could not become visible—at least to the Christian—until a certain mass had developed.  And what mass is required before the Christian can see!

The mass in this case is the widespread acceptance of science-based evolutionary theory which, at its spiritual core, reveals the possibility of the evolution of consciousness, which is also to say the evolution of god.  The Christian looks at the possibility of the human—even sees or reads about the partial incarnation of such possibility—and speedily retreats to its defense of creation … but a creation by an externalized other—breeding guilt and war on internalized creation (the internalized other):  most importantly, refusing the possibility of placing creation in its proper place:  a place without locus, neither external nor internal, without nameable or visible source—forcing the human into maintaining itself as creature.  (None of this is new of course:  20th and late 19th century [and before, in various modes] thought and art are riddled with variations of these themes.)

This is the crux, though:  the Christian opposes evolution in order to maintain its denial of the human and the advocacy of the simian.  Christianity is a gargantuan comic edifice erected to perpetuate the human as ape.  Religion, in this case, is the social and verbal construct necessary to maintain and grow the Christian’s fear of light—which is to say, of thought, imagination, and beauty.

The Christian, as that which strives to be the consummate ape, violently opposes any idea that might pull itself out of itself, that might suggest the possibility of being something other than ape, the reek and howl of nature, the limits of a puerile imagination.

So the Christian (and by Christian we must mean the majority of secularists today, who have taken on the deep values of the Christian while denying its superficial artifacts, who even assume the doctrine of evolution (as they have been effectively, dumbly, enculturated into its acceptance while opposing, in practice, evolution’s central mantras and orientations) and the artist have become opposed—the one devoted to maintenance and land, the other to vision and water.

But all this is saying nothing more than Baudelaire, Blake, or Kierkegaard.  Or, for that matter, Heraclitus, if he could have.


THE AGNOSTICISM OF SPIRIT & FLESH

So the day is here that artists are persecuted and die for art—which is to say, the vision of their psyches (collectively, the emerging vision of the human psyche, our aesthetic DNA, our mapping of the divine)—even as the religious once died for their god (and why psychology is religion’s paltry replacement).  Yet the present persecution is more subtle than the past one.  The persecutors have learned.  They no longer waste their time killing those they fear (they have learned that they prefer their killing virtual); rather, they structure the home in which the artists have to live (society) in such a way as to suffocate the artists, allowing some random ones to breathe long enough to produce sufficient current product to use for their amusement, even as the Coliseum’s slaughters were used for the Romans’ amusement.  They have learned.  And yet they haven’t.  (Naturally.  Always this dual movement.)  What they haven’t learned—what they never can—is the primordial power of the Spirit as it hovers on the waters,  perhaps present—and this is surely the base of human hope—even when what we presently call humans are not.


SYMBOLEZE


The aesthetic language is Symboleze.  It stands, distinctive, in its own family within the larger family of the groups of languages people speak.  It stands alone, but in a different dimension.  A Symboleze speaker does not need to translate Symboleze into other languages for internal understanding; she or he only needs to do so when communicating with non-Symboleze speakers (the majority).  But this translation can involve much effort.  (So, however, is building a country called Symbol, dominated by Symboleze speakers.  Wouldn’t this be the new Palestine, the new Jerusalem?  Could it be a physical republic?  Might this be the core war of the upcoming millennia?  Or will it fatefully be a virtual land, dispersed through time and space, almost disregarding them, its citizens united through their common exile.)

The dictionary of Symboleze is art itself.  Most of what is called art simply builds on and explores existing definitions.  But now and then a symbol is added, modified, removed.  This act of significant addition, subtraction, division, multiplication (the mathematics of Symboleze, the geometry of art) is what I call art.  The fiddling with what exists I call craft (including the reference to the cunning and politic inherent in the necessity of craft, which remains wedded to society in ways art cannot.  [Art rather flings and swoops.])

The artist’s desire is to communicate in Symboleze as much as possible; efforts in other languages (efforts which are unfortunately required to obtain money, to feed and clothe and shelter oneself, but these just to once again communicate in Symboleze) quickly become exhausting.

I greatly desire to speak Symboleze and speak about speaking Symboleze.  It is my first tongue.  My aesthetic work orbits around the seeking of a word, the word, word … a word to describe my condition of being a citizen of Symbol.  If I say Theodore Wallace has Asperger’s, people say, Ah!, and adapt (or don’t adapt, but have the opportunity to).  I would (perhaps) like to self-identify as having a condition also.  You’ll have to excuse me, I’ve been diagnosed with Existence.  There, see, see, it’s a real condition, it’s been validated by the experts, it’s on page 4,723 of DSM-17.

But.  My aesthetic work orbits equally around resisting the finding of a word, the word, word.  Around resisting a label, a condition.  For if the center is named, it falls apart.  The fish must not be allowed to leave the deep.  Symbol must not become a physical republic, must not be brought to earth.  Exile is the artist’s natural home.  The aesthetic diaspora is the same as the Fall.

Meanwhile, the insecure, afraid and inexperienced label me labels for their convenience, to enable them to proceed with the bolstering, the solidifying, of the name “normal” to their diseases, to enable them to mask their inability to speak Symboleze, to ennoble their pride in not being exiled, for belonging fully on earth.


RANDOM CHEESIES FOR THE URBAN SLUG

Švankmajer’s Spiklenci Slasti (Conspirators of Pleasure, 1996).  A riveting exuberant litany of human kink.  Fittingly filtered through the master’s peculiarly transcendent comic-horror lens.  A visual metaphor of our very individual absurd existential circumscriptions, which we inevitably take so seriously.

Apply a poetic principle to politics:  the good politician would minimize adjectives, using primarily verbs and nouns …

Emotional unintelligence.  Accessing my heart/emotions is no different in major respects than accessing my body.  I give permission to whomever I give permission to, based on their ability to possess and wield the right keys in combination with the present configuration of my doors and locks.  Some people are sexual sluts, sharing their bodies liberally; others are emotional sluts, liberally sharing their hearts.  At least I can receive certain pleasures from the sexual slut.  But the emotional slut is typically a bore, expecting me to join it in an orgy of tedious thought-splaying and heart-humping … though it has shown almost no tact, wit, intelligence, technique, or talent.  As for me, I shall be emotionally seduced by those who have the capacity to emotionally seduce me.  I shall not assume their paltry names or be swayed by their emotional tyrannies.

The tao:  seeming as being, fragmentation as health, detachment as compassion, no-action as action,    silence as communication, regress as progress, no-desire as desire.

[And, to conclude, as some other lunatic and liar said, there are also many other things which I did and thought that if they should all be written even the world itself could not contain the books.  Amen.]

1.10.12

Letting Go of the Money Tree II


The Normalization Thesis

So Dr. Tooty-freudy comes to me and says (something like), Hey Jude, want me to throw a couple of projections in with your next session? This one’s on the mouse.  And i say, Hey doc, never hurts.  And that’s the way it goes.  Squeak squeak.  That’s the way it goes, squeak squeak that’s the way it goes squeak squea ...

The people say choose choose the finite is all there is ... you have to be something you have to be something you have to be something ... be an adult be a man be an ape ... god is dead but he who said god is dead chose his not-choosing, no-chose his choosing, like a god ... you always want someone to crack through, to see the unseeable you think you see, to say it the way you think you do, that person with the key
            the one who jabs and jabs and fucks that narnian witch like what the froggies did
to the algerians, it’s all good, it’s all right, you’re gonna sleep tonight like a baby-o and dream

(Which dream is your cloud and chain?  Families of dreams, like languages:  the romantic, the germanic, the tectonic, the blondiebeastie, the indie-european, the fruttitutti, the fresh&wild, the lone&eddied, the khoi-san, the neetcheenatzhee, the burushaski, the langwij sanwich, the glossoh!lalia, the ...)

Here are the problems of identity.  If one wishes to maintain a cohesive identity, one has to sacrifice reality (though one calls this sacrifice something like maturity, responsibility, sanity).  If one wishes reality continuously, one dies.  If one wishes some compromise between reality and identity, between spirit and flesh, between consciousness and mortality, between dreams and potato chips, if one wishes some semblance of reality, one’s identity morphs, partially and at times seemingly wholly, into whatever objects present themselves to one’s so-called identity.  With such compromise, one either travels into undesirable places and has partial or little support for such travels, resulting generally and specifically in mayhem, or one fabricates (that is, one arts), which is the same as the aforementioned except for the fabrication.

The problems of identity are not problems other than for those who require and/or acquire them as problems.in through the bonking glass, out through the viewing glass, abiit ad plures vixit mortuos plango cuntus obnoxicus prickus objectionicus fungi4allofus amen

That’ll be $200 please.  And your kids and your gonads for the projections.

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as various visual effects,
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