prewonder

a longterm project of sadoo diaper

(and which project isn’t longterm?

causing it to frequently wonder what among the everythings at all is brief)

is sadook sabook

its slow fetus slowly fleshing

stretching through the sadoo’s subterranes

its first cuticles and eyes beginning to appear in the holes through which such things appear.

sadook sabook

has countless and morphing pieces before itself –

some of these so scattered among and after that some

(but who are these some?)

have asked if it is nothing but these pieces –

which in a book

a piece of technology

are none or few and named factory names like

introduction, preamble, foreword, preface.

sadook sabook

has these factory pieces too.

(diaper has nothing more against or less for the factory

than much or many else yet knows the factory is nothing

but a necessary and forceful squalor in an infinite babel of forms.)

but it also has a

preramble, pregamble, prebramble, prestroll, pretroll, pretoll, presaunter, presanders, prewander, prewonder, prepromenade ultrapseudopropreantepenultimate, prewalk, prewort, prewyrt, prewart, preforeintrowort

and many more here unnamed and even more than one of each in cases.

little agreement is discernible.

each is placed itself among complements

subversions

and sometimes condiments

to not aid in those professional objectives of conciseness and clarity.

here’s a taste (an a- or anti- or otherprefix-taste no doubt for most) –

technology doesn’t change the book for the book is technology. it may add or subtract pages, modify their size, colour, texture, smell, cast it among varied screens, dimensions, formats, substances, scramble, merge, split it. the more i fully live in technology the more i enter the book and the book (as i) becomes redundant, for technology ontologically and historically precedes the book on the spheres of counting and living. in this way the city is the consummation of the book and its end.

the only way to change the book is for the human to enter nature – that is its flesh – and birth book from there. and there (it will be asked!) – in the way it has been asked whether music is still music, (film still film, silence silence,) dance dance, painting painting, god god, thinking thinking and loving loving – after flesh has had its way whether book is still book. ask. the question is yours, not book’s.

that book is – and this only through flesh, rebirth – only now entering the possibilities of abstraction is a concern and smile of sadook sabook. for while it has simulated abstraction through playing with its makeup, its flesh is still its flesh. that book has resisted any comprehensive alterations shouldn’t surprise us – it has been around in names (its presumed environment) longer than its siblings in art’s gross and dysfunctional family and so (especially with everything else happening around) would have developed more resistances to rebeing itself.

we are hardly speaking of philosophical abstraction, which abounds, which attempts abstraction through bypassing flesh, by severing it like meat cuts from a pig. philosophers (the western academic type surely!) are carnivores, butchers of themselves.

we are interested in removing literature from its degree of dependence on referents in social life, but remaining (indeed, returning to!) in flesh so that book is reborn as something from flesh and foreign to it. we have no logic of perspective, no illusions of reproducing illusions of what people call reality. we wish to bear no trace of any reference to anything recognizable other than – as in abstract painting, dance … – that which is most recognizable: that which walks with many names but could be called breath, being, soul, vision, god, consciousness, spirit, truth, sensation, body. that this most recognizable thing is so elusive in the realm of names is another reason why literature has been so successful for so long at avoiding abstraction, being (again) ostensibly the art of the realm of names.

abstraction is just a use of flesh and technology, an ambivalence of words and time.

in literature, abstraction is simply microscoping into the yoctoguts of words, telescoping out to their yottanebulae, to enable appearing geometries. these geometries are what we write. that most are writing words as they appear on the street, human-scale, the size of money and genitalia, this realism ... is an aberration unworthy of the scales of the city we find ourselves in.

that technology has brought us here cannot escape us. it brings us here, but cannot bring us through. only we ourselves can do this in the vermiculous horrors of our bodies, their smirking exuberances, in their radical indistinguishabilities and separations, the severe and proximate abstraction of birth itself. this what-we-can-do-only-ourselves is sadook sabook.

the systems of doctors tarr and professors fether

all the usual values – teamwork, stewardship, excellence, innovation, cooperation – imbecilic. excellence eg. anwar congo maintained it in killing through the mid-60s and – in the 2012 film the act of killing an odder excellence (for excellence in killing is as tediously common and desired as excellence in business, manipulation, and schadenfreude) in aesthetically simulating killing. christopher edward wollaston mackenzie geidt maintains excellence at establishment strategic defense and offence {{{{{{{{{{😀that game😀}}}}}}}}}}. elizabeth bishop at poetry. if i admire excellence – and how could i not? – i admire congo, geidt, bishop, and the million other dictators, murderers, general managers, and poets who have whatever combination of tenacity, volition, opportunity, and skill to do what can and probably should be called success in a specific segment of human endeavour

true, a formal value typically is placed in a smallish list – that which can often be found these valued days in institutions – the ostensible intent being that each metaphysical member counsels and balances the others. (sadoo diaper attempts, perversely, subterranely this very thing, this poly-appendaged teetertotter of energies, in its various writings on its council of i.) take a major global bank’s values: trust, teamwork, accountability. nowhere do we find competitiveness, cunning, avarice, mistrust, deception – these additional attributes required for successful management and perhaps for surviving life (the cooperative housing complex i live in is the least cooperative institution i’ve been involved with – exacerbated in part because of its relative impecuniousness and so proximity to the exigencies of the anthill. [but also its embodied and so impractical diversity, its ...])

a cinematic bookend is slowly arriving from the director
of one of the world’s premier debut features
(něco z alenkye 1988) – his last (hmyz 2018) –

humans are more like insects

this civilization more like an anthill

like his neighbor, be tar (who directed his stated last in 2011)
both having lived inescapably through the anthill
transforming it, using very different means in film
into dark comedies, obscure redemptions of the human

none of this is saying much beyond what’s nascent in heraclitus and developed with increasing complexity and parallel inefficacy across the aesthetic and philosophic subsidiaries of time. but value – which sadoo r die f rich reflung into vocabulary, now, like all glories, commercialized and stupiditized by fawning insects – this substantive, walks among the adjectives quite democratically (even willful!), dreaming of becoming verbs

ayahuasca and middleclass capitalism –

focusing one’s fragmented and inchoate desires on

growing the weed of the human?

fear after a time ... is narcotic

it can lull one by fatigue into sleep

but apprehension nags at the nerves gently and inescapably

apprehension, anxiety –

drugs of the age, manufactured by the

pfizer ink in our souls

snails and lasers for mpp or ph or cm

i choose to live alone because my imagination functions better when I don't have to speak with people,

nihil sapientiae odiosius acumine nimio

i’m here to apply for the position of dog-walker

oh great. a few questions then

sure

tell me about your history with dogs, your love for them, …

i don’t like dogs, they seem too much like humans

i’m not sure how comfortable i am having someone walk fifi who doesn’t like dogs

i like plants

bujja needs her plants walked!

i’ve liked a few dogs in my life who seem like plants  – why don’t you put fifi on the windowsill and i’ll tell you if i like it

she’s a she … fifi … fifi ... fifi ... oh fifi my little ball of fluff, my darling, oh sweetsipie, oh my chubbawoofpoo, my …

yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap

oh no i don’t like it. in fact i wholly detest it

yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap

it’s out of the question then. you can’t walk fifi

i’d like to walk it

look – i must have someone who minimally tolerates dogs, who at least can pretend to like fifi. i know she can be annoying but all of us can be, and she had a difficult puppyhood and we’ve grown up together really and now – it sounds a bit silly i know – but she’s my closest friend, i shouldn't admit this but we cuddle at nights, sometimes quite intimately …

yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap

i must walk it, give it to me now

i’m sorry, i’ll have to ask you to leave or i’m going to call the police

i will leave, but only with fifi

i’m calling the police

yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap

fifi bites the owner and runs out the open door

with the dog-walker, who

– along with fifi – is never seen again

m.d.

the feeling that comes with aging … feels like nostalgia but isn’t, lacking its reduced colour, its need to experience certain configurations of time and identity as superior (or inferior – as regret, bitterness).

nevertheless, with accumulation of losses, a feeling visits in relation to these accumulations, these assets, that feels as if it has something to do with time. but, when explored, has more to do with the nature of dream.

my experience of dreaming has increased and it is this – oneirocompetence – that i would name this feeling, and nothing sentimental ... experience that skirts deftly around the scrimmage of opinions, the tedium of politics, the oppositions of feeling, and a false pretense of language toward knowing.