some things that were missed

• bicycles
• the blurring between humans and animals, humans and technology, humans and gods, humans and everything
• how politicians and businesspeople are manufacturing mental illness
• art. how art still isn’t being heard after 3,000 years
• how the reification of systemic exigencies mitigate difference, intention, competence at the executive level, ensuring any value of debate becomes moot through being transformed into scifi entertainment
• the roles of education and productivity in quietly enforcing patterns of deep destruction
• language. how those who don't speak money's language are being killed faster than the rainforests

writing ix

writing is neither magic nor a discipline. it is a prayer without any gods.

who writes for any audience? one writes for the rules that break the rules.

if writing is mostly waiting, why don’t writing workshops keep infinite waiting lists without any placement, fulfillment? then i might believe writing can be taught.

the bicycle trumps language in freedom. but language trumps the bicycle in mobility.

i inevitably say that i wonder if i wish i had never been introduced to writing. but i was. and now even the moon is ugly. and the unflushed toilet rises over the horizon of beauty like an amulet in a time of crisis.

writing rides a great bird of a 40 kilometer wingspan to the south pole in june. it skitters onto the back of a fish so vast one can see neither its head nor tail and travels to the victorious rainforests. yet one who writes neither rides nor is ridden, but sits in a shack of orbiting molecules glimpsing the flying of the bird and the swimming of the fish through bloated fogs.

i am a skeleton and writing is my flesh. so when the beautiful come to me and strip i say, i am a skeleton – let us put on words and then maybe we can sleep together. but the others often think they already are fleshed. and so we stare at each other across a valley of bones.

writing contains horrors in its jurisdiction. but this is saying nothing. every republic contains these. writing’s distinction is that its horrors are the simulations of the horrors of all other republics – including those that simulate other horrors. and this without end.

i’ve spent over 45,000 hours in aimless writing as an adult, caged by vision. at what point is the apprenticeship complete? i ask my non-existent master. at what point can i open up my own shop and sell my goods? and my non-existent master says, some who write are apprenticed in domains that exchange – if they exchange at all – unknown currencies, who are masters only at apprenticeship. because they have no master and thus don’t know how to be one, because they have too many masters and thus are overwhelmed by mastery, or because they are slow and the human span is insufficient to graduate from apprenticeship? i ask. but there is only a white page and silence and a trace of questions.

writing is a mode of existence. is it such a mode that one can be one of writing without writing? and this by entering a writing of writing in the way one can enter a poetry of poetry, a thinking of thinking, a behind behind behind – these innate attributes of mysticism? is this achieved by migrating the restraint of writing from exotericism to esotericism, from the whiteness of the page to the whiteness of the pageless void, a becoming that alchemically alters writing to be not itself, purifying word into silence?

writing viii

writing is a translation from one necessity to another. initially this translation feels like a freedom, but time translates the feeling of freedom to another necessity. so … from necessity through necessity to necessity. let no one then speak of writing as a pleasure, unless it is a dark one. yet writing laughs in darkness, in the way that death laughs. writing is the deepest of comedies. melville suitably placed these comedies in the ocean’s depths.

writing makes manifest the dna of the city and sets this against the cosmology of the observable universe, not in opposition but in radical and unspeakable union.

writing, in taking issue with time, is equally a covert energy at odds with money. not because time is money, as the commonplace goes, but because writing subverts everything … time and money simply being two of the dominant present commonplaces and so so easily subverted. (to say that time is money is only to reveal a wholesale incomprehension of time, money, and the copulative. time is as equally a cabbage or a totem.)

i would like to see rainbows not of colour, of spectra of light, but of text, of multihued words, appearing not in the sky as an arc but in the canopy of mind as supernumerary hyperspheres of dream.

writing stains white light with sins of blackness.

the towers of the city are trees. i cut them down with the axe of my mind and thinly slice them into blank surfaces for words that use my body for their transit.

i do not say these are my words, this is my work. at most i say these words may have, like dragonflies, settled once on my flesh. we are not each other’s. i have briefly been fascinated by their light and indifferent touch. they have briefly used me for purposes i hardly understand.

the seeming infinity of language is to action as the seeming infinity of the universe is to the earth.

oh words. what should i do with you in the dump of my soul? you do not belong there. it should be silence and flies.

when i write, it is not as if something draws me toward it. rather, nothing draws me. and in this empty picture or unused well i write and the words that form are water on water, some elemental union of void and deworded word.

i look at the city’s cells stacked like tarantula containers. words, fed weekly, taking years to grow, then crawling mature and fragile into a world of long and innumerable blades.

writing avoids the world’s causticities and hard illusions by ingesting them and shitting them out on soiled pages which humans sniff and, smelling themselves, celebrate. any true writer drily laughs behind its salaciously ascetic face.

i write the way i walk. aimlessly. with my eyes as legs. the city as the page and my flesh a pen. non-linearly. distracted. whole. diffused. holographic. hopeless but not despairing. open. omnipotent. free. deneeded. one.

writing vii

language wants to escape itself, even as we want to escape ourselves. language’s means is silence, ours technology. but silence and technology are bound similarly to language and the human.

even as i cannot consider the human an expert commentator on itself – but only one voice among many, hardly privileged because it tends to be perceived to be located on some inside and the inside perceived to possess in some sense superior perception – so i cannot consider myself an expert commentator on myself. yet we – and i – cannot help comment. the gap between this cannot consider and cannot help is a charter of writing. yet most writing comes from the cannot help.

when we say the external world doesn’t exist – or that it exists solely or primarily as a function of imagination – we point to maps of spaces of writing. for writing re-enters voids not to create worlds about which it is debated whether they are illusory or real but to create spaces that might point to maps, so making any discussion of existence and non-existence, their locus or non-locus, moot.

we don’t have to create another world, through politics or technology. that other world is here, already, in language – all we have to do is enter it, although the policies and procedures for immigration are never explicit and always morphing.

do i write in privacy and loneliness? i enter privacy and loneliness – or at least the porches of the cottages of their names. then writing happens. writing is the odd breath of souls loosened in the unsegmented world.

writing! a dialogue with mirrors’ mute flat infinity.

to trek through writing’s dense empty forests, the only respites deserts and carnivals, is to become so used to nomadic minimalism and survivalist ingenuities that i confuse life and those techniques required to navigate writing’s environment.

writing is violence, but a violence so processed by violence violence destroys itself and only writing remains.

nothing here, he says, after having purchased an excursion package to writing. but writing is a selective mute.

writing? an empty boat on a river, unmoored, drifting, unseen, in which time may have ridden once, its traces smelly, like a deep navel never cleaned?

writing subverts itself. so that in the end – though there is no end – it gives up itself. what is left? a useless acquiescent subversion? questions of the methodologies of giving up? atonal memories? convalescence? palliation? a wellness that refuses its name? these are questions of death, of the root of the religious quest, where neither spirit’s presence nor absence can claim ascendancy and its mutability presents itself in objectifications, its mockery in reifications, its incommunicability in subjectifications. am i not seduced by writing as its voids are passable simulations of death and so hold the eternally lost key to life?

writing vi

with few exceptions, i have preferred writing that has emerged from places of exile, horror, estrangement, despair, anger, darkness, confusion, transgression – these shadows of culture, these dumpsters of health. so to write the first step i knew was to travel to these spaces and make them my home. writing would then happen, a product of this environment, as much as wellness is a product of capitalistic society.

writing is a cold love, but it is a love. and its coldness can feel like a welcome from the unreliable heat of what is normally called love. never familiar, it’s familiar. never intimate or reassuring, a dark companion.

these many languages of writing. journalism, scholarship, business, politics, technology, philosophy, mysticism, criticism, affection, lust, play, speculation, whimsy, … isn’t each a celestial object, artificial satellite, bound by gravity, electromagnetism.

i don’t want to write until i write well – i want to write until i can’t distinguish well and sick. the whole world recognizes the beautiful as the beautiful yet this is only the ugly, the whole world recognizes the good as the good yet this is only the bad.

thought is primarily oneiric not rational; its rationality is valid but secondary, posterior in time and being to dream. writing translates the dream of thought to language; communication articulates thought’s reason.

writing is death. the only death remaining us in this age of virtualized death. writing is death because it replaces the body with itself and kills the operations of the human in the body. it teaches nothing, aims for nothing, loves nothing, advocates nothing. its selfishness and selflessness are vast – the former in that it doesn’t care for others, the latter in that it doesn’t care for itself. writing is not itself. it is the dead other that has taken over as host of the human. so zombies and immanence assume popular and intellectual consciousness. but writing is the mother of zombies, the father of immanence. it eats through the world at the speed of words. first and last technology, it surrounds the fat societal middle from within and without and consumes it until all that’s left of society is air. so there is air disguised as society and writing disguised as nothing and here we are in the consummation of love. this consummation doesn’t care for the causes of liberation – whether gendered, sexed, raced, classed, specied – for in it these causes have been completed in an age so primitive its memory is only available in dream.

only the dead write and only the dead read. books are the means of communication between the dead and the dead.

no longer is there writing on the wall. the wall isn’t there, broken by dreams of unity. writing is written on the air … yet the question remains the same: who would there be to interpret the words, and what power shall die tonight to be replaced by another face in the parade?

writing isn’t about names, but about the indistinguishability of names and the unnamed.

literature has taken the burden of assuming the vestiges of nature – a realism heaped on humanity’s urban shoulders. the exorcistic spasms of surrealism and dada have been forgotten and nature’s contingencies have flooded the aesthetic realm of words.

to write about the body offends the body, which is what such writing, intentionally or unintentionally, aims for – to reproduce the offense it has suffered. writing writes from the destroyed body, aiming to reproduce beings inviolate.

writing v

if i choose to develop, nurture, contrive sorrow – and not just sorrow, but any emotion or state that interests me, that fulfills an orientation (and which emotion or state would not at various points?) – i am not some neowerther, a schopenhauerean pessimist, a christian, for i neither mourn nor leap, and laughter is as much part of the palette as any other colour of the heart. if i at times might seem to favour sorrow over laughter, or some sensation over another, might it be for no other reason than as a sociopsychic autocorrection. the world in its amusements, volitions, and absurdities can be wearisome and i at least must wonder, viscerally, if its diet is imbalanced. we are all tiny experiments in an infinite laboratory.

who would not, in this age of relentless will and forced happiness, desire to use sorrow and anonymity as materials, as simulations and play, as contentments and travels.

i have been to india 19 or 21 times, each visit a mockery of the previous ones. so i have stopped going and remain in the provincial land of my birth. for mockery led me to the end of my heart and there i found an absence i perhaps had been seeking. while i had been writing for decades, only then could i write.

by the time one realizes that one is on a path and what that path has been named and the dialogues about that path from those who have walked it and those who haven’t and those who have been found broken by its sides or those who take a tourist interest in it and travel over it in helicopters and that that path is – like all other paths – engaging in a dialogue with all these in their various manners and knowledges – and has any experience worth noting … one is not only nearly dead but in a very real sense has died and so the human dialogue of paths is a conversation among the dead. in this way writing is little different than any other road.

a confusion (but there are many) of writing in an age when writing has lost its meaning through an excess of meaning, through an excess of proliferation, through abuses of familiarity (these common violations) is that it is easy and common for those of all paths to write about their paths and thus consider themselves writers. and so, inevitably, they must be considered. but when these writers are encountered and they clearly have walked a path or more but have hardly set a foot on the path of writing – its terrain, struggles, deaths, false ecstasies, predators, roadside inns, flora, and so on (there is no need necessarily to demonstrate any ability to articulate these experiences conceptually, analytically, but they need to be demonstrated somehow, certainly minimally in the writing itself, however subtly) – what then, other than confusion?

writing is an art of having things fall apart in realms of the unscene.

it is easy to write. all you have to do is decide not to run. not to run, and to disbelieve in time.

when you become disillusioned with disillusionment what remains is illusion but through the lens of disillusionment, and this renewed illusion is a ground of writing.

one becomes what one writes; if one does not write (other than in the ubiquitous purposive or transactional sense in which everyone writes, to accomplish something outside of writing) one becomes what others write.

writing iv

i do not write, i say.  i live, i void, maybe i create, i say and am said. these glyphs you see are not writing, they are no signs – signs are lost; these are dead shards shed from the unknowing of my pupils – empty, yet use does not drain them; dark, imageless images. 

see the rabbit cross the monkeysection against the violent lights. the coops shall miss their bunnies, the scars shall not rain. who may abide the day of its hopping, and who shall stand on a shibboleth? for we are like an orphic liar. i say uh 3 2 1 0 -1 …

give me darlings some rough petunias

give me sweets a bakêd ass

i shall nibble on thine titties

thou shalt dine on lentil gas

we were then and now were once we

who can tell the paths of ways

when you’re in my ebenezer

on that rubber leopold chaise

here’s the end – it’s spanked and heaving

like a sunset on a dump

let’s go forth and juice an altar

with the ancient rump’n’hump

but. in and through and by and outsie

aren’t what they were supposed to used to be

bakeries are now just laundries

you and i are they and we

so : that is it and it is this

what is come is just to go

where’s the outhouse when i need it

got a load i gotta blow

writing is this a moon in desolations of a solstice sparring with a sun across a court of bottomless sky writing is this i in shitheaps of i snorting happiness from flammable bhutan writing is this an arrow in a rabbit and that rabbit yet undead and its suffering ours and those sorrow-stricken shall win writing is this nothing and sums of nothing and doktor nothing and mayo nothing and nothing of nothing to nothing denothinged donne and undone, dung

in the old debates about the moon and the sun – these now branded and reproducible – it was sometimes agreed that the moon by itself was more beautiful but the sun with its starting and closing effects could surpass the moon. the movement of writing away from these debates into the techniques of branding and reproduction is an evolution and, like all evolutions, beyond, except in detached sectors of moments of time, judgment. writing about writing traces the movements. writing about writing about writing traces the traces.

despite appearances, writing like time is not linear – or at least linearity is a dimension of writing, only gross cultural bias advocating its supremacy or exclusivity. writing is circular, enfolded, interstitial, linear, turned and returned, urned, stationary, punctiliar, holographic, hollow, abyssal, gyral, tessellated, meandering, waved, foaming, cracked, fractal. i long for a species desirous and capable of living in time – and so language – its attributes equal and plodded and explorable.

in an end that is not an end, one cannot help specializing. and if i have been specialized in the art of not-writing through an excess of generalizing and if this art is necessarily obscure …

writing, if i am going to write in writing – which is to write in i and i in writing – and not in money or its extensive families, is a disaster.

to speak of writing in this age when everyone writes might be as it was speaking of god in that age when everyone believed. a disaster then, a disaster now. who would dare it? no one. yet there are those who, despite any obvious desires or gifts, are placed in that daring – which to them is no daring but a necessary sorrow. these are the no ones of writing and once of god, strange duende in atimed sorrow. 

writing iii

letting go, if it actually is letting go, is letting go of nothing – that is, to truly let go, there are no objects to one’s letting go. one simply lets go. such is the path of writing.

immense vats of writing exist. and now large tracts of writing about writing. writing in voids is to write about writing about writing, paralleling writing about god (goding about god) in the middle ages, that ostensible birth (rebirth) of mysticism …

writing has seen itself and – vain, treacherous, and promiscuous beauty – cannot help but explore and proclaim its wonders. to write about writing about writing, then – could it not mean adding not simply another mirror, in which writing begins to blur into what it is not, and – then – endless mirrors, from which writing dies, but shattering these, down to the very first, through which writing lives but, again, without knowing itself?

i do not analyze when i write. i don't proclaim, persuade, entice, deride, construct, praise, deconstruct, inform. i write. that is all. writing to be writing is as free from object or plan as breathing. when i am dead i no longer breathe. when i am dead i no longer write. the two are the same statement. writing is simply breath made visible; in writing language appears in the cold air-voids of consciousness, brief memory-vapours – beyond consolation – of our having been in the realms of sensuous wandering.

writing begins with death. only the dead write. what do the living know that they could share any wisdom with us? the living are fuel for the chthonic industries of art, the living are writing’s pens.

gods are in words as they once were in trees and rivers. i do not know much about words; but i think that river is a strong brown word.

all writing is trying to do – at least any writing aside from that necessary to transact, gather, propagate – is nurture and develop a language of the unconscious.

            prosaically we can say the spaces of these nurturings and developings are spaces of madness. but this is the sort of madness that is of the free discipline of sufis, poets, mystics – creators in voided wedges of civilization.

what writer cannot help but to keep running hard if it is not to be overtaken by the hungry languages of fact?

once we are writing about writing about writing we are not only no longer writing about writing – we are not even writing.

to write i forget, forget that i can remember. this is not to negate that i have memories but rather to affirm that i am memory and to write is to give myself so fully over to my being memory that there is direct sublimation between that being and this writing. in this process – a movement between gas and plasma: the solidity of memories of expectation, convention forgotten; the liquidity of memories of hopes and despairs set aside – i write, and history, time, i, ambition, death have become words on the democratic stage of words, a script forming as i am abdicated to giving.

once everyone is a writer – a consequence of literacy’s ostensible success and corollary re-oralization of culture – literature has to find new paths of sensation, untried ways of ecstasy and pain, to prepare voids for words. to give oneself over to writing now means refusing identification as a writer, this substantive – dried, shrivelled – hiding in the catacombs of soul, yet in love with language, melancholic with the fleshy knowledge of unrequitedness, stumbling in metallic undergrounds seeking ancestors of the names of dead fires in ashed genealogies.