oblivion

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plasmatic existence in a commoditized world is an expression of realized oblivion

to be a solo wilderness lookout observer is to establish – or rather observe – relations of oblivion. observe rather than establish for these relations are always present but largely unmanifest, fashioned by routine and the commons and the comfortable distances maintained from dream. those relations too though are fashioned in these other places, places of desolation and voidic voices, where depression is not some clinical condition designed to be overcome by promoters of a false wellness (false because falsely severed from its sickness) but an asylum of valleys from the great plains and peaks of news’ tsunamis

oblivion is a facet of insignificance. oblivion can never be eliminated or even reduced, only its appearances temporarily reconfigured, so in the city – that environment of procuring faces – oblivion’s role is hardly diminished but perhaps increased through the hard dialectic established by means of the city’s dark ecstatic rabidity. in the city oblivion hunters and gatherers abound in gross diversity and they, while lacking official designation, are critical to the city’s glittered successes

naked oblivion – or rather nearly naked – is unacceptable to our dominant time, and clothing it, almost to the point of suffocation, is the prime task of culture. art, that now official rascal of the state and capitalism, almost their mascot, has as its core role to strip oblivion to its voidic essence but in modes that can be traded according to the currencies of society’s limited palate. this requires a radical separation of oblivion’s orientations and the excesses, disciplines, promotions and politics of art’s wobbly tap-dance with itself

relations with a stripped oblivion are an opportunity for regeometricization – of psyche, cognition, language, behavior, societal engagement, time and calendar, destiny and objectives. we all are warped post-euclidians

when other flowers predominantly as dandelion and mosquito and oblivion, accustomed in its other to the human, nascently balks, what does the accustomizing one do but manufacture untold copies of love … and whether their laughter and caresses are simulations of what is commonly taken to be love or the inverse, who would know or even strive to know, in the enfolded darknesses of bug and weed?

oblivion includes a wraithicization of substance – humans as equal partners as siffleux or ox-eyed daisies in this process of the onericization of truth (or, conversely and simulatedly, the sarcousization of god)

life, as everyone at least secretly knows, is just a distraction from death and the sensible human gets involved as little as possible in life in order to truly live – which is to be undistracted by death

that social-legal-political-fiscal identity oversignifiedly circumscribes identity affronts oblivion. this affront might say the human is our potency and intelligence. but other personas loiter in the infinite mall of dreams

the weather is oblivion. not the weather with all its massive conglomerated weightiness of reporters and analyses, as a cheap filler of the soul, coloured graphs and mitigated risks … but the raw uncertainty of fire wind precipitation … their indifference to conglomerated bipedian solidities

madness of course is a great protocol of oblivion, and the human who would be wielded by it lives – if it lives at all – in eulenlochs of time’s rodent-ridden barnyard

oblivion – but only as a facet of insignificance (that is, not as a facet of death) – is a manifest of caprice and so we of the disunited states of oblivion list our lists with an uncanny ardor

and you would cast down on me vague and pecuniary chastisements for applying oblivion to the languagescape as a child might a white crayon to a mausoleum? cast away, though your lines have no hooks and we are not anyway any kind of ichthus that would fit in your gullet

look. oblivion sits right here, beside me. we talk as strangers in a familiar spot, bamboo slips they give birth to water and here we sit, you and i, in one another’s masks, not unappointed, silently talking, like friends or wine or slime