saint antónio nogueira

on this most grand saintday,

let us celebrate the deathday of a great sadoo,

master of masks and vagrant in the city of identity

how he has taught us of the knowledge of the voids

and calmly, wittily shown the

root emptiness of the human,

the ways of dream

heresiarch hababala

durban, natalia

my biography

little has been said these long and secret years about the days and spaces of sadoo diaper – from whence farflung turds it arose, its innumerable flushings, the journeys of the scats, how it came to be numbered – if numbers are aspects of itself – among the sadoos, the incomprehensible ramblings of this blog itself, sadoo diaper’s relations with other sadoos and the non-sadoo community, its political positions, sexual preferences, and seminal influences, scholarly theories of its psychoaesthetics … all this has been left to the reader’s vivid or more likely mundane imagination.

no more.

fukky risotto, a hermaphrodite of little renown living happenstantially in the 13^th arrondissement, was not quite out of diapers when one cloudy day in february they felt a strange urging in the nether parts.

mommy, they say.

yes fukky dear, says mommy.

mommy, i have a strange feeling.

you have many strange feelings fukky.

this strange feeling is stranger cuz i’ve never had it before.

each feeling is new fukky, there’s never a feeling you’ve had before, that’s the beauty of feelings and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

don’t get philosophical on me mommy, not at a time like this.

oh fukky – always so dramatic.

mommy, it’s my diaper.

this is the fourth time today!

it’s not the caffeine, it’s something else.

have you been into the coconut water again?

it’s alive mommy.

what’s alive?

my turd.  it’s walking around in my diaper and saying things.

fukky, turds don’t talk.

maybe it’s not a turd.

but only turds come out of the asshole.  i mean – they’re the only things that come out that haven’t gone in first.

mommy you lie you lie.

of course i lie.

you said that all outputs are inputs and all inputs outputs, that the world is a great circle or sphere or hypersphere or something and that everything’s connected.

that’s true.  but that doesn’t discredit anything else i’ve said.  or rather it may discredit it but only in a way that credits.

… so whatever’s exploring my diaper now must have first gone in me … omigod i think it’s broken out …

… fucking jesus, i see a little hand print in your little trousers …

… get it out of me mommy, get it out …

… just pull down your pants and let’s see what happens …

fukky and their mommy were good to me, especially since they weren’t expecting a third mouth to feed and didn’t really have much money, being committed primarily to verbal play, speculative caprice, irrational fun, and composting the world’s evils by ignoring them.  fukky called me diaper and mommy called me doodoo and because i was a melancholic child she often called me sadoodoo.  when they enlisted me in school they gave my name as sadoodoo diaper, which got shortened to sadoo diaper, as these things do.

it wasn’t until much later that i realized there was a large class of sadoos – all of them crammed into india – and they misspelled their names.  being committed to retaining the proper spelling and origins of myself, i left – after much weeping and the promise of tweets and postcards – to go on a quest to find other true sadoos.  surely, i reasoned – and mommy if she taught me anything taught me reason – if i had been born into a diaper others must have been too.

the secular sadoo is the record of my quest, in a kind of code, that i know other sadoos with a little bit of work can decipher.  as to the fake sadoos and all those heaps of masses that aren’t even the fake ones, as fukky always says, who gives a fukky about them?

darkness iv

long have i stood at the doors of darkness, waiting for light to give me permission to enter, or even to push me through.  then one day i found myself – though i hadn’t moved – in darkness.  and i knew then that darkness roams, seeking, and if one wishes darkness all one has to do is wait.

darkness levels, equalizes, democratizes.  and so it is little wonder of the rarity of equality, the paucity of democracy, when darkness is equated with death.

darkness is doubt, and should doubt feel like death in this epoch of knowledge, isn’t this related in part to the ferocity and confidence of truth in its new linguistic clothes?

who hasn’t uttered upon noticing the preponderance of white on a page of text and yet it is the blackness that we read?

love, dissettled bird, sentimental sword, is of darkness and hides in light, and anyone who would love would first travel on this path of possessing and masking.

we have images of fire at the onset and demise of consciousness – at least that instilled to its present degree in humanity – as barriers of light between the darknesses of eternity and the darknesses of seeing, films of beginnings and endings hardly screened in the pitch of the universe’s vast and empty theatre.

i am a curious son of darkness, it has been said.  and – a curious son of light?  no.  a curious child is always of the seed of darkness.

i am necessarily indifferent to the sufferings of the world, unless they be prosthetics of my flesh.  should i confront this necessity with the only force capable of encountering it – hardly light – the prosthetics fall away and i become darkness, and my death is as indifferent as the world’s.

how beautiful is the nudity of darkness.  light clothes everything.

so darkness is the edenic dream, and light the fall into society’s bottomless analytic well.

darkness, rather than copulating with light, maintains a wardrobe of light’s fashions.  darkness copulates with nothing and light only with itself.

if darkness was once denial of flesh and is now flesh’s fulfillment, what is light’s trajectory?

everything interesting happens at night; day exists only as a place to tell night’s stories.

what is sex other than night seeking night through day, and failing.

there is always a darkness below (in, above, around) the opposition between light and darkness that is the same as light; the path to it though is a path of darkness.

when the nightmares of day are accomplished and i am permitted to return to my natural habitat of horizontality and darkness, i breathe with the breath of eternity, my true life of dreams commences, and the substances of hallucination are intravenously fed into the conglomerates of my flesh-soul.  time then is the joke it was meant to be, the ponderous politics of the human some rapidly dispelling flatulence, and money an annoying fly i just smacked on my face.

a human who inhabits darkness detaches itself from modes of production and there, away, becomes perpetually open to being created – form of formlessness and nothing manifesting but the open.

darkness is a human oriented with more or less equal measure to the languages that seem to emerge from within it and those that seem to confront it from without.  darkness could be said to be the confusion that results from a persistent uncertainty  about the source of the myriad languages.  does this darkness change, in some psychic alchemical sense perhaps, to light as one becomes comfortable with the confusion?  but if i become comfortable, am i listening, or has comfort become a dominant voice?  i remain in the doubt of myself – a doubt some might say is a dominance – and this is darkness.

darkness is the voices of form, its drought and flood.

i am in love with darkness.  the passages and shapes of light – its assertions – are to me dark’s rough categories, beckonings toward night.

darkness is the space that can be entered after use does not lose its use but rather takes its place in the domains of uselessness.

in darkness i work with whatever materials are at hand – weakness, wealth, poverty, power, betrayal, fragmentation, loyalty, unity – and darkness teaches me to be equally adept with all materials and tools, for the universe in its reaches knows no hierarchies – or rather, knows all hierarchies and knows that within this knowledge each subverts the other and is true to itself.  through the vastness of these truths, weakness and strength are equally powerful, impecuniousness and riches equally abundant.  darkness is democracy.

darkness iii

in the absence of visible darkness yet with its desire persistent, remnant, and present, with darkness having migrated from exteriority to interiority, our relations with it shift on psycho-mythic registers, and we seek for the unseen darkness in the human as we once sought the unseen light of god.  so the human disappears, while our seeking, while remaining infinite, turns toward our absent selves.

in the age of knowledge, with the human more tangibly and relatively omnipresent, omnipotent, and omniscient than god once was, darkness becomes the ungraspable, apocalypse the dream, disintegration the hope.

only flesh in its darkest knowledge can rise to look light in the eye.

to love darkness is to avoid in its entirety the statement – let there be light (and consequently let there be …, which is always and simply a variation) – and rather remain hovering on voids, exhorting nothing.  this is no statement of fate, any more than let there be light or money or love or knowledge be statements of fate, but of the indivisibility of fate and freedom and chance.  this indivisibility is darkness.

to exist on the margins – but rather, no:  to exist in places those with money and hierarchical social power name as outside the light, their light – and not attempt to move (or rather to move only among these places so named by such) is to subject one’s selves (oneselves) to visions that, in language, are given by and to darkness, but outside of language (or rather in languages other than language), and this outside given to a deeper darkness:  that of not knowing whether the visions are comprised of light or darkness.

to see, it is said, requires light.  and yet can we not say that the blind-from-birth see, yet through language.  words are dark eyes.  language has the capacity to bypass light and see.  this is its energy – energy that subverts the power of the beasts of the world and the screams and resentments they plod on.

and so when we say in the beginning was the word, we know the word existed before light, and the word was void, and vision was only the capacity to remain in relation to word.  so technology permits new paths of remaining in relation, new patterns of darkness, new visions of creating.

i take the lights of society and weave them – though weaving be now an art of industry – with the scattered skeins of my flesh’s black thread.  how do i know this weaving when its schools are destroyed and its masters dead?  i take my lessons in the night, i read the texts of void.  madness becomes my lover and emptiness my friend.

mysticism, as its more visible sibling, society, takes on darkness as root metaphor rather than light – for darkness is the present greater energy.

i am oriented to those without names in the world – not as any advocate to give them names or to protest their namelessness or even to judge the named in their greed for names and all that clambering entails or to become through advocacy or other means among the named – but as a naturalized citizen of the tribe of the anamed.  i recognize my kinspeople; we are those who find it difficult to breathe in the air of names; we are those whose rough and disturbing comfort is wandering in the darkness between creation and destruction, affirmation and protest, between the ruling and the ruled.  we are the nomads of darkness.  should we – through chance or fortune or talent or love – come too close to the republic of names, we cannot help but sabotage any process of citizenry that might be thrust upon us … neither through denial nor hate but an eyed and replete acceptance … and return to our people, the people of night and the impossible eternity of words, those who stumble, without object, objects, through the alleys in those dark regions that connect city and soul.