diaper dialogues ix (hao happiness?)

we sit with rev mangetout on painted bricks of many innumerable uncountables of dead. the bricks have been painted by the dead with the paint of their everlasting memories. the dead have no futures, only pasts, and so their paint is thick with stories and pain. the dead grow, and their growth is like a tree providing shade for the living

is the rev for revenant or reve?

revalescent. though sometimes revanchist

why uncountables of dead?

 what classifier do you use for dead?

i don’t know – five deads, a lot of deads, bāng of dead, …

… 幫?

… massifier of dead, some naughty of deads, much deads, …

, … a little bit of dead, a little bit of deads, plenty of deads, a dead, …

this isn’t grammatical

the dead know no grammar

how do you know what the dead know?

you aren’t i so how do you know i don’t know what the dead know?

i am not you but you certainly aren’t the dead

you have proved that i know the dead know no grammar because you’re talking with me about what the dead don't know

this is not the way it goes

what?

logic, mysticism, rhetoric, epistemology, semantics, transcendentalism, analytics, politics, anthropology, …

que sais-je?

what i find as mangetout is that your grammars, while expansive and definitively utilitarian in certain limited ways, severely restrict, like all specific grammars, possibility and knowledge. while in the old days of nature – and i hardly wish to romanticize those days: after all i am mangetout – human grammars coexisted with grammars of bear and tree and bog and death and spark and sky, now (in their seeming and infantile desire to be all, to subsume all grammars within them), in the preponderance of the human, their primary function seems delusional, a magic trick that’s lost its magic and its trickery yet still persists from some inexorable force of habit that’s wholly lost its usefulness, beneficence, intelligence

i find the mass ubiquity of humans, this relentless noise, this environment in which the human voice is voice, its values and interpretations within particular circumscriptions inescapable and small, the now exaltation of this confinement (as if an incarcerated tyger were purring gratefully in its cage) through social media and the politics of science, some absurd necessity appearing but only through the polytentacled broadcasts as this voice, our paltry voice, as given, the given … incomprehensibly moronic, existentially incarcerating, spiritually and aesthetically brutal and puerile …

… i am mangetout …

… i am human …

… i mangetout …

… mangetout …

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