the bosphorus i cross with my magic momo

i am of offia, i died in the cat man doo sieges of 2020

a norwegian gestures against code in the courtyard and my soul pays me in its currency to spy

the nepali are round like birds and the government counts its rastras like an oyster

i don't sleep. the europeans are in my insomnia like khukuris

this is how you count. franz ingland s'pain zenmark dootch frisia woolloon saxxxon viking kerplunk

the yaks came in like hand sanitizer and eradicated the 99.9%

nee dorval from the sewer grate saw the truth of dogs

i'd like to sleep on a bed of eggs before i'm born again

offia's the brand i choose - it trends in the exchanges

this is my newsfeed

if you don't like it board the train

is it the first or last? on this liminality we celebrate the *____realities of madness as vocation and enter communication like a used earplug

praise be whatever day it is
praise be travelling idiots
praise the yaks and birds

*insert or not an affix

the emptiness of movement : is there all is movement

ranesh gam will check into hotel ecofuki on tuesday

airports irritate, planes relax

gam will say i haven't known knowledge, i haven't loved love. gam will say the dreams of late are full of hate but one i like and i've crossed the bosphorus

travelling isn't about photos, meeting humans, experiences but a removing of dimensions in the soul by means of excess

gam seems to most humans ranesh encounters as a kind of - if they thought this way - artichoke. but they don't

who'd be interested in this or that temple, another opinion on climate change or the buddha, your experiences in myanmar. consciousness, a great gift, our brief and only one - who'd fill our little space with stories? narratives the academics - those military of the mind - tell us are it. but consciousness speaks less in stories (a vulgar language, a translation at their best of what?) than in disappearance

hotel ecofuki often places well on those who've crossed. and who would say the bosphorus - through not a river strictly - isn't like all rivers : styx or east, mekong or lagoa dos patos, limpopo or time? those who've crossed don't know rivers but they've crossed

so if travelling's concerned with disappearance (only crassly in that way we're not at home, for home for consciousness isn't), these sorts of movements aren't oriented toward images, tastes, sounds, smells, touches, feelings, artefacts, relics, pilgrimages but something else. and this something else is what the traveller moves through - the map not on google, maps.me, michelin, any thing

tuesday waits for ranesh gam like a habana ferry. presently, gam's in baltelona interviewing quite happenstantially for the mi5 for some lowkey exploratory work in southern china. none of this matters except that if things go a certain way the stock exchanges will register mutations. but back to here

travelling's about this - an unwinding and tangling and burning and eating of spools of words spun on some loom we've never seen and may not exist in any way we say normally exists. i don't know how to travel but move through customs like a kangaroo

when ranesh gam checks in, the room will be ready, the bed made, the towels clean. gam is good like a mountain and the bosphorus which adjudicates disappearings - though crossed it too crosses and like tuesday ranesh gam's in waiting

code to ow & nanga gotes

dogs consistently anxious, gathering outside of peak sun to yelp their incomprehensible politics. the humans in their omnipresence like the dead christian god - emerging relentlessly from invisible crevices, tsunamis of flesh morphing in and out of packs like loud clouds. for one increasingly used to wilderness spaces, humanless

expanses, to impossible silences, how to move, think? accosted constantly - boat? sir where are you going? namaste. money. hello sir. sir. where are you from? hello boat? what's your name? - i survive by speaking gibberish. ka-loo miamooshqa rela'oghifoo ... i am no boat ... the conversation ends. here human unsustainability is habituated and visible (unlike the west where it tends to be habituated and invisible, laundered). only the cows - regardless of the chaos around them - are uniformly calm : models of meditation in all circumstances. beatific, noble, more worthy of sainthood and governing than any biped. even more reason not to eat them. i want them to inherit the earth but who would bequeath it to them and in what extremes of disrepair? far from any green pastures they rummage in garbage heaps, stand nonchalantly in the middle of raging motorcycles and tuktuks, sleep through cacophonous religious festivals, gaze into spaces of murky times and meanings. other than the architectures of the long stretch of ghats, only the cows impress. the ganga, the sky, society, the earth are powerfully polluted. the humans are humans and full of false glories, narcissistic and gonadal loves. then there are monkeys - humans with less pretense and fewer weapons, machines belching and screaming with phallic violence, gurus repeating the familiar lines ... but the cows ... the cows

varanasi. abandoned regality, spilling alienness, as if i'm plunked onto another planet that humans have somehow found and are abandonedly desecrating, the perfection of no

planning, the entire jumble the product of a mad, collective, unconscious architect - a monster, a god, founder of geometry, mind of stone and hole, secrets so piled on each other they almost speak, variegations of coloured time on surfaces that signal indifference, the recent phones and cameras like mutual funds in front of a crocodile. at night it's not the ganga in its shimmering fogs that turns animate but the architectures - the lit windows that seem asleep, the dark ones that watch, neither bemused nor scornful of the human below but simply patient for the inevitable departure of such a strategically stupid species so that they can get on with their business and turn to sand. the holy river if anything is the stones' feet, their capacity to move. the structures - one and many - themselves are all mind but no mind of philosophy or religion, east or west, but earth as it blinks in apertures of life and death. far wilder than any videogamescape - because one actually's in it, because its subtleties are manifold in every centimetre and glance - there are no apparent monsters to fight, no stages to pass through, no terminus to reach, no console but one's body. the humans, despite their omnipresence, seem irrelevant, an annoying, petty, brief usurpation in the cosmic kingdom of stone

praise, varanasi. praise

nothing like delhi's effervescent hells, the absence of

motorized terror on the ghatscape offers a grand tranquillity (despite the hawking humans), the lit trees in smoky dark laughing the laughter the stone can't, the countless official temples nothing next to the amalgam of tumbling magnificence

how can mental health or illness exist when we don't even know what mind is, when the civilization that creates these concepts seems pervasively and visibly ill?

isn't ocd an attempt to rediscover rites integrated with body and psyche, as collective rites have shattered and all that

remains in the community are rites of money and power and their corollaries - amusement, amassment, display, war, name and virtue signalling. so i must relate to my socks and shoes in particular, in special ways - not just to find control in a world that's overcontrolled and undercontrolled - but to create meaning, to create gods (the gods of shoes and socks), to please them, to transgress. as is now a commonplace cultural mechanism, a manufacture and righteous necessity, society creates ocd from its unacknowledged lack, the professional classes projecting their secure inadequacies, packaging it in distributed commodities of graded human meat for its comfortable avoidance

we can admire if we want the place of religion in india - its riotous sensuous ubiquity, ostensible integration with quotidian reality, gods at every turn, temples in every recess.

rites still observed. (and there's no shortage of pilgrims to romanticize these effects.) but if the manifest is effectively the same as elsewhere - species extinction, hyperpollution, radical inequalities, legally protected tyrannies and greed ... who cares? worship ganga and kill it. praise christ (allah, buddha, money, love, social justice, knowledge, reason, nothing, art, whatever ...) but torture and slaughter and sleep with blind impunity

we're in this together - cows, humans, tuktuks, shiitakes, mosquitoes, viruses, cruise ships, owls, sand ... and there's a temple, a god, a love, a truth - planet earth wandering its little path in the vast black ocean of a breathing universe

praise, varanasi. praise

mystilogue

travelling is from one perspective a cheap mysticism - a way to insignificize self, one's birth culture and hence the assumptions and notions separating i and world from void, to equalize at least the human world and possibly the myriad worlds within world. cheap because it uses money to achieve its mysticism and an apparently authentic mysticism uses flesh (but what else?). but travelling - and this only works if one travels cheaply (economy class, lowcost accommodation ...) - disintegrates time, despaces space, caresses death, places one in that vast irrelevance of god

mysticism is our only available known mechanism - though it is as much a dearchitecting (deverbing, deminding) as anything biologically molecular - for subverting (mocking, bypassing, ignoring - we detour around words like combating, destroying, even protesting, evolving) the brutalisms of human sociopolitical structures and processes. mysticism exists outside, in part by virtue of its inveterate insideness : its status (though this diction must be ironic) as the consummate inside. it finds the trap door of in (mysticism if full of anything is full of traps) - or perhaps rather just the trap (there is no door, only void) and so not opens it but falls in (from in to in) - and there (through this through) finds out. as human sociopolitical processes and structures are devoted to entirely incompatible methods (and consequently lifestyles, languages) of achieving out (and in fact mysticism doesn't achieve out [or seek it], it finds itself accidentally, inexplicably out in a thoroughly different way than any ambition, quest), it remains a question to what extent these outs aren't the same out - as (perhaps to a large extent) how we get to a place fundamentally, qualitatively alters place

so we cultivate mysticism - these ins and fallings - as a hard hope, the only alternative we see (which we see through not seeing). cultivate? yes. no. we fall. farmers of fallings, pilgrims of traps, pariahs of voids. we labour in uninvented calendars. we do nothing, our ins our outs, those traps our homes, other outs unworthy deaths

so travelling's another mechanism in the workshop of the impure mystic (the only form remaining in a cluttered universe?) to rein outs, reout ins, to fall and fall

ra ra ra

ra ra ra your goat

roughly up a dream

verily merrily scarily barely

life is butts and screams

sigilings

sigil is a visual representation of time but less precisely durative time (regardless of shape or direction) than corporeal time as it spontaneously emigrates into oneiric memory. sigil is biography but biography of sensations expressed in lucid dream - snap puncta ... a composite of which might give some sense of chronological, of journalistic life (if one's one of those who needs this sense) but more provides some visual shape (for those capable of seeing this way) of undifferentiated visceral-spiritual flux. sigil takes the synaptic leaps of soul, translating these falls into sensuous data - each shadows of the other, each each other's light. sigil's a compost of evil, a representation in the seen realms of the sigil of the human. for we are sigils - a species of oneiric memory, lucid dream made flesh. sigil is love, not only as it eliminates the human but as it includes all without discrimination or knowledge, including the eliminated. taking on the form of human then, my elimination's placed in the empty spaces, absences, voids, silences, gaps, spilled margins and even though many sigils seem like glyphic plenitudes, horror vacui of effervescences, omnipolypointers to signs of polyomnipointings, voids comprise the majority space. like the dead god and gods, the absent human becomes more real than anything ostensibly and even palpably present. this a truth (if truth can be said to reside here) of mysticism, of apophatic realities, of those fogs of unknowing we cannot - despite the forces of history and money - wall away

i use sigils to step on the pebbles of time to cross the river of death. but ... use? sigils are the pebbles and i ... what am i? a thing that crosses? an absence that steps? that counts the steps and then forgets the counting? that which is crossed? a nonuse of use? an experimental biographical grammar? an archaeology of vision? these questions too are pebbles and i draw dreams of stone to say i've maybe lived

this entry continues sadooic explorations of sigiling following the paths of the keys of solomon and mixter spare, attempting to trace the dna of sigil as it modifies in the vermiculous sarcophagus of time

this entry has been manufactured, vetted, and discounted through transgalactic consortia of sadoos, headquartered nowhere, no throne, no president, no debt - just eyes (and even then ...), demastering language, tumuli and middens of doubt, probed by dogs, cows, roaches, stray rays of suns

sigil flowtation device my lifebard unsigned map drunken council deranging calendar & dream thread of incompatibilities and threadcount of zero revelatory abyss eyed mind stable destabilizer meditative surprise crisis kelpline delphi and debacle wry ablution border flossings customs bribings and ephemeral ghoulmate uncanny altar and gabby cistern confident nonassertion ribald saint and empty scholar and wordless writer adimensional corpus of visceral detext my fortune cellar alfalfa and amigo cunning linguist and fellow ratio notherings and lols

when travelling outside one's mind (and when outside one's mind one's always travelling) gods and ghosts, hungry and sated, enter sigil and place their contours on the silent page

sigil
seem farnear
count me in the ancient ways
geometrize our absences
dream flesh
sleep evil
circumscribe our feet with depleted spaces 

 
 
 

 

a boss for us

hello my friend

my friend?

there is nothing to see down that street

i'm not trying to see anything

where are you going?

i'm not going anywhere

come into my store

i don't have any money

money is not a problem

all money is is a problem