oh ever given

our evergiven strandedness

our evergiven stuckness

our evergiven diagionality

our evergiven fuckingthingsup

our evergiven fuckingothersthingsupz

our evergiven evergivenness

our evergiven impassability

our evergiven collisionaliteez

our evergiven longestisishnesses

our evergiven trafficjamitionologeez

our evergiven blownbythewindescence

our evergiven windoffityz

our evergiven tv eh tions

ow|r

evrgvn

weightooobeeeeeeeeeg

with respect ...

with respect to madness language is always somewhere else

literature – from poetry to philosophy to its consummate present example, the novel – has become the story : exploration through narrative, typically human narrative. it has relegated madness - literature’s precarious soul - to the inaccessible, the autistic, mentally ill, deranged, the solipsistic, the virus …   but these – regardless of whatever names they might appear to be attached to – have always been literature’s true home. and the definitionmongers, the rationalists, the prize and list people, the storyists in their infinite discomforts do what the spiritually insecure have always done – use force of whatever quality to displace their insecurities far from the sterile spaces they inhabit, even as the privileged displace garbage and pollution as far as possible from them geographically : onto the poor, unheard, inhuman

story was mad insofar as it was born from the placed derangement (a derangement that because of its place had real range, range of touchable knowable unknowable divine land) of the tribe, but as story’s become separated from this tribal ecstasy it becomes formulaic, conventional, conformist, expected … and so not literature

so those called to remain committed to literature in these darks ages of the word – when madness is still manifest in the garrets and cellars of music and film for reasons primarily technological – the exploration of madness and the exploration of literature become effectively the same. so psychology – not the academic laboratory variety that dominates in lit and official corridors but the kind that oozes like pus from the psyche itself – and word become bound, psychology and psychologies of word and words literature’s practice. the mental illness of the word, its dysfunctions and taboos, schizophrenias and pharmaceuticals, shunned babblings, urological rants ... these are literature's narrative. the writer takes each word to the couch even as each word takes the writer. not to any effect. effect is academic psychology’s domain. literature in effect is the record of word and writer taking each other there … to noplace (the utopia that is no utopia … not just noplace but no noplace – and the no’s as affixes may be stacked like turtles on the back of a collapsed universe, universes of places of diaspora, exile, apophatic mappedness) of the empty question

how then does literature dissolve its identity through technology in the way (but in its own way and ways) that music has done. (we discount film for film’s born of technology whereas music, ancient and fleshy, comprehensively tedious and weary by 1912, had to break through [we set aside all those for now seductive pathways of film as nature filtered through preexistent but previously underused dimensions, music as first technology, literature as cosmic babel, ... all pathways dreamt, all arguments made.].) music has accomplished its recreation, its identities and doubts, drones and genre asylums through the synthesizer – the ability to patch everything onto everything, anything onto anything, all nothings on nothings … through enabling sonic life as music. when i walk down a helhi street and hear honkings, harassments, dogs barking, sun screeching ... it's as if to me i’m sitting in my sunroom listening to an lp. you can say – but literature is this. not in its common talk and trade but on its edges. even a name like dfw does this. and he was mad. he suicided after all and that’s a good sign. sure, but sterne was edgy, mad too and didn’t suicide. (madness now’s more mad. or rather madness now has farther to travel to reach literature even as literature has farther to travel to reach madness. they need more patches, infinities, more nothings ... they need to forget society, themselves. and this takes so much ... effort ...)

literature craves to be unrecognizable, lusts after anonymity (art's altar and eucharist) in these polluted seas of name refuse. literature should be so much ourselves we don’t see ourselves. the uncanniness is too present. we shall seem to be wholly absent and in this hole we are here. dfw and his family are recognizable, his fragmented stories the shapes and blabs of our currency

atonal literature, astory literature, areason literature, aliterature literature, literature defying currency, written by the cthulhu ... for the cthulhu aren't the hideous other but the hideous us. organic life! love and hate! human passions, conditions, standards! one only needs to travel well into the soul that hoards toilet paper in our increasingly visible species narcissistic times to see this usotherness. this travel and need is literature. not as fact but horror

i don’t hear you

i don’t see you

i hardly understand

i can’t read

the word through its endless interrogations reanimates. rejoins, reintroduces thing and name, renatures language. each word is spirit in infinite language forests. not one spirit but countless. and as spirits amorphously drift, each word (most alchemically, most mystically) drifts into all others. each word’s in each word and for the writer, as the writer’s just another word, in it. not as god or christ is in the christian. this is hierarchical, separate. but as gods in gods, mycelium in trees, air in fire, water in dream. so as academic psychology attempts to effect identity (and effecting transgressive identity still follows the conventional path of identity effecting) for social relation (even if this relation is protest, rebellion, shock), the psychology of literature (hardly any different than the literature of psychology) enters the identity of word to travel to identity’s dissolution. while this journey is paramount, literature appears as the writer as journalist depicts as closely as possible the effects of the movings into words’ identity’s dissolution on its inveterate physicality, the wholesale range and limits of its sensations. as journalist. (though we must acknowledge it should be obvious that our journalist is as different from the common one – no matter how noble, influential, sacrificial, perspicacious – as our psychologists and scholars are different than those pedigreed among fluorescent peers and gowns and lecterns)

with respect to language language is always somewhere else

with respect to madness …

with respect to respect …

with respect to somewhere else …

with disrespect to …
without disrespect ...

without language …

without without    

!--[if gte mso 9]> 0 0 1 285 1631 janus inc corp esq 13 3 1913 14.0 {![endif]--

[i], …

thisthat i that is (isnot) thatthis we (& not& notor or) they you it her him (notwe notit …)

turned to death like avocados

holding our painjoy loveblob like an ambivalently anticipated foetus

                  {so many negations}

i am not the iota and the zeta

i am an iota

                  {has this growing heap of maps made any difference?}

aside from common base animal survivalist functions which mindlessly tyrannically inform us our preservation is essential – though reason knows it isn’t and consciousness may suggest our annihilation is essential or at least more necessary than its perpetuation  – what of this species we’re cast into is worthy of continuance and can this worth (if it exists) be fostered without what has seemed to this point to be its inevitable violent and oppressive corollaries?

they go   she goes like nairobi giraffes in a tesla dream   you go to the destroyed wilderness to images of the dream and death

  world whose mute noise struts a random script

  words whose laughter hides a bloody game

  time that bit of celery stuck between some teeth

  offending doctors in a dream

but dreams (these horrors speaking grammars incompatible)

offend themselves in nests no bird would nest

what are the measures of a culture’s robustness and security?

and we (cards in shuffling decks) ourselves

seem unoffended by offense’s defense

he (but is it he?) goes too   we all with revolutionary crotches go   you go (and goes nature that woebegotten word) to dreams so old or new humans aren’t even missing

its choreography of the voices of the othervoiced?

so this is that and it is she or zeta’s death and mute the bird

or not (but who can tell?)

{science like a myth portends to tell}

{the merriment you hear is false  it is not genuine  it is empty}

that nutribullet’s waiting for me like an armistice

and visions like an outhouse being dug

the unmeasurable?

… continue in that way of uncontinuing unways of sadoo

SCIENCE ALWAYS RHYMES BUT DOESNT ALWAYS SCIENCE

a sonnet* of science

orthodoxeas have never pleased mii

nor have those heterodoxeas just wannabii orthodoxeas

uu transuranic coshitizens uv instabilitii!

uu sifficult dynthetic halflites!!

you deta becay accelerators – technetium promethium astatine francium unites!!!

uu cacroscopic montroverseas!!!!

ⁱ am $60000000/grum

ⁱ am sadoolium atomic number 810

ⁱ am umumumumumumumium 24997Bk+5022Ti→299119Uue*→296119Uue+310n24997Bk+5022Ti→299119Uue*→29119Uue+410nium
10^−12ium

isotopic nuclidium hypernucleiiiium

…

arent wii seconds from the singularitii

arent wii always arent wii arent wii

         

       ^sadoo diaper thx heresiarch uflufia 4 reformattings

              +da poetry wii steps ins not das poe tree wii stands in

*  using the sadoolian sonnet –
            abac cbdx dddd aa

--> -->

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 …

-->

a genealogy of the immanent comedy

(or human history for the time-starved)
...

mama
   dada
          pata
                      data
                        mada
                                    nada
                                                 mama

                                                           ...