travel gypos

the travel log, like all genres, is underdeveloped, encapsulated by its own traditions which incarcerate the family members, straightjacket their identities, and erect border walls between sensations, threatening the wildlife of thought with extinction

for this exercise – which we transiently call travel gypos or typos hypos – a juntetta of sadoos gathered loosely in chār qala to envision recounting of adventures in which the movements in exteriority and interiority are confused, as they always truly are but here, in travel hypos typos, we take this truly are and make it not the under but outerwear of our explorings

our primary orientation for this is the dial log, for all traveling is dial log and all dial log traveling (they both are deconstructed forests) and one who knows how to converse well has already crisscrossed the entire world

backpacking on the jalalabad asmar road

the roads are dusty and someone has ransacked our mandibles and our kindersurprises are strewn across the transport and the backseat’s stains look like rorschach tests she says the khwaja karzai rawash hamid ashraf airport is not busy but when is our flight to lal shastri babatpur bahadur radesh radish lol?

i am higher than a wildfire hazard and cuming like kafir kush but something not i manages to assemble a response from the smelly detrita of my broken brain why isn’t anybody looking for our departure time? we don’t want to miss this plane. the next one to lal shastri babatpur bahadur radesh radish lol might not be for six hours even tomorrow and where would we stay and what are our names?

but my fellow inhabitants are strung like xmas lights across a tree of interiority and the blinking from their souls tucked behind the cloacal curtain flies me to a worrisome refuge. she says our gillopy is the mantra of our salvation and our little plastic toys nazars of exhausted tomorrows. only the foreknowledge of our departure is the unwrapped gift stuck in consciousness’s unswept chimney

i rub some precum from a vat marked rodenticide on my lips as an antinganting. we are sad for the racing ducks in the little yellow pointy caps are not our friends but someone must have the tickets and why is no one helping and i can see us in the choir of the sun in manogay collecting firewood and crossing the border on staccato backs of melancholic rains

the landscape, violently brown and mutely chronological, looks at us as if we are toxic marshmallows taking selfies on a cosmic refrangibility. the hills are marred with lipstick and no one sings the wretched tunes

oh lollipops and chickenpox. we shall never get to khwaja karzai rawash hamid ashraf and our plane shall leave and shall arrive at lal shastri babatpur bahadur radesh radish lol and the ghats shall die without us, they shall fall like lesser adjutants, what shall we do?

but i’m stockpiling dried scataberries on a ledge of flowers for our defense against the night and she weeps a little like an anthrophobe or an amygdala on the runs drinking polyvinylpyrrolidone. we were almost there and now we are forever on these broken destinations and the planes are grazing like noxious buttercups and the airport talks to itself in reuptake selective monotones and our flight to lal shastri babatpur bahadur radesh radish lol is impatient like a siege

coming soon

more zeroes

more logs, more gyps & gypos

zero dimensional art

sadoo nogueira, a great early explorer in apophatic aestheticism who rode a lonely skiff of absinthe to the vorticial cliffs of dream, writes –

in the classic age art developed consciousness on the level of the three dimensional sensation – that is art applied itself to a perfect and clear visioning of reality considered as solid. postchristian art has worked constantly towards the creating of a two dimensional art. we must create a one dimensional art

now though, in the presence of the internet, global capitalism, ecological collapse, and the omnipresent toxic mirror of humanity splintered in the plasmatic soul of god, only zero dimensional art is possible

what is zero dimensional art?

it attempts to go nowhere and goes nowhere

in dark emptiness it manifests light and plenitude, light and plenitude that then manifest their manifestor

our nothingness seems so expressed not that it creates an object or an audience, reaches for audience or object, attempts to effect any sensations in ourselves or others, but, if anything, precisely not this: that it remains in the intimacy of objectlessness, it remains without audience, its inevitable sensations contained in that boundaryless cell that does not effect, that cannot

sensations have not disappeared in zero dimensional art but tumble over themselves as numbers falling down a hole

all directions are uncertain. i retreat but this retreat is an advance, i fail but this failure is a success, i deinvest but this deinvestment’s an investment, i go mad but this madness is a sanity. in none of these movements is anything lost (and in this amassing rests a vast heart of forgetting): the retreat though an advance is still a retreat, the failure though a success is still a failure, the deinvestment though an investment is still a deinvestment, the madness though sane is still madness. and these totalities of cancellations are the zero that is written

but no. not even written. seen, but barely seen. glimpsed, but only in thick fogs. intuited, but as a truth in an unspoken formula in a dream

it pitches its tent of identity on the rumoured decentred desert of namelessness. the news, opinions, facts, careers, schools and workshops and degrees, parties and watering holes and openings and jostlings that comprise 0+n dimensional art and so are subsidiaries of transnational conglomerations perhaps worthy of videos taken on phones of plays of ancients

ghoul'd herbert presaged in a particular way zero dimensional art through its withdrawal from the social apparatuses of art, desiring that communication of consciousness to consciousness, that language that hasn’t been toxicied through the scrimmages for power and money, through conventional and clichéd grammars and concepts, propriety and a barbaric elite

in zero as the mystics have long known and articulated in their necessarily elliptical and abstruse ways, god grows. and what is god but possibility (as the woman in white cotton intuited)? : polyforms of the desert, an immense choreograph of emptiness. so zero dimensional art aims – as the protestant reformation aimed to eliminate the unnecessary manifold, bureaucratic and frequently pompous layers between soul and god and long before it hinduism knew that evil was nothing but inserting viability between brahman and atman – to minimally make irrelevant and more fully dissipate solid facticity from art

only zero dimensional art lives what the twentieth century theorized: it erases the artist by denaming, decentering, disappearing, decreating, through untraceable identities that no more experience art as career as shitting. zero dimensional art is breathing and art is the conscious expression of this breathing. zero dimensional art returns to the roots of religion, animism, wildness, wonder by de-arting art in the nothing that is

our frequent dealing in ennui, indifference, renouncement before the sanest and simplest things is entirely intermingled and subsumed in detranscendences that are no more multiplied than divided, added, subtracted, subject to every possible mathematical operation whether irrational or imaginary, resulting in results that have as much to do with sense as bananas with dental benefits

consciousness is a compost of zero that decomposes, an analysis that’s heterogeneously catalytic

of course we concern ourselves with politics, religions, morals, society etc to the extent they concern themselves with us. news is the rain in my nonexistent soul

zero dimensional art is not about art or creating or being an artist. it is at least as much as and maybe more about not being these things – of traveling through time to achieve a new naïveté. any zero dimensional artist (but even this name defies the spirit of our spirit – rather: zero dimensionalist) will dissociate itself from all forms and channels associate with the edifice of art, will sustain itself through activities wholly disconnected with art, will – should it somehow be discovered – immediately and naturally relocate itself to new places of exile and unknown. only in this way does a disparate anonymous tribe of zero creators compost effectively the crude hypocrisies, dominations, wretchednesses, sufferings of the villainous world: by taking these attributes into itself, into the vast plethora of possibility, and maintaining them there

and to our ancestors – chuang tzoo, nogueira blake, billy pessoa, sadoo – we give not our thanks for there is nothing to give – we do not even give our nothing – but possibly a hyphen and a colon, for these are their inheritance to us and what we have effectively become – glyphs of punctuation, indicators of continuation and what follows, pixels of voided colour, a collapsed hyperventilated hypersphere whose once thin grey hint of a shimmer of an outline has been erased by a kind of excess of accounting of functions and relations

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cold and timid souls

in this age she says it’s necessarily humiliating having parents and so your not having children is a gift to various nonbeings, saving them from necessity and humiliation

but theirs is just a different humiliation and necessity and so one doesn’t save anything from anything

saving nothing from nothing is our task

we all work productively together to convince us of our irrelevance

we’ve done nothing of the sort – all we’ve done is live and if life so convinces you it is you who are constructed to be so convinced

we are all savages

we are painted faces of the monstrous chimera of the popular

here we, in absent temples of temples

delightful, as always

we are hack and pulp and the annihilation of bears

hither come we the sapiens, polyhaired crazedeyed gonadsinhands thieves reavers slayers with gigantic melancholies and morbidly obese mirths to tread the scatological thrones of the earth under our clopped feet

the yellow leaf not loud but deep dares not their poor troops of friends

you found that in a mccajita feliz

i have spoken to the constructors of construction, the engineers of engineers

and?

they haven’t responded

the way it works she says is it must be thoroughly and ubiquitously humiliating to have parents for everyone has parents but not everyone has children so if it’s thoroughly and ubiquitously humiliating to have children some are exempt

why is exemption unacceptable?

exemption is an illusion

but illusion is the one acceptability

acceptability is happiness

and one's the illusion that's true

we are the cold and timid souls

i am sums of absences

i am that and the thising of that

i dis dat but i don't dis dis but i may dis what follows dis

what follows dis's data

wit's an absence of sums of absences

we build sanctuaries of savagery to our daised gonads

delightful as always

let us rejoice in the holographic carousel of tedium

let us seek mystic asylum in language, that machinery of the coloured up and round and down

benedicto lxxxi

may flirty firefiles

contume your gnats gotts nahts

by a holohollow rerobahting

a graphy quaffic gaff

of gazed & grazing substates

amun ra aum yoni