Showing posts with label autothanatography. Show all posts
Showing posts with label autothanatography. Show all posts

17.3.16

autothanatography as practice ii


autothanatography i have learned has many associated practices.  one of these, naturally, is autobiography, but autobiography transformed by death.  no longer is the account of one’s life dominated by time or even space.  language, form, loss, dream, degradation – all these and infinite other structures offer themselves as complements, substitutes, and subversions of time, identity, reputation, unity, facticity, social convention, of biography constructed according to life’s tyrannies and humanity’s relentless hierarchies … and so as much thanatography – as thanatography, being constituted in an animate form given to death, is also biography.

another associated practice is autohagiography.  in writing my life-death, i write my sainthood, the unmitigated holiness of my life.  saint genet wrote in his autobiothanatohagiography, sainthood is the loftiest human attitude.  the saint arrives at its goal if it sheds them; its expression is original, its sole basis renunciation – i therefore associate it with freedom.  as the loftiest sainthood was once martyrdom and now is its secularized child, suicide (martyrdom being impossible in capitalism, one of its many craftinesses, for it specializes in laundering and virtualizing its blood), i bring suicide into my life as a practice:  i plan my death and enact it in visions and words, my funeral becomes the stage on which i breathe.  more centrally, i build death into my relation to self and world through value and volition:  i pluralize and expand value to extents that empty any value of potency, that radically distribute value such that the human becomes what it is in distributed space:  a speck, a geranium petal, a bicycle.  i direct volition toward itself in carnivals of complexity.  such building effectively leaves me dead in society, a martyr of myself – judged, judge, journalist, spectator, scholar, protestor, crown and defense, indifferent other – the powers united, primal, pragmatically ineffectual, usefully useless, seething in voids of words.

autothanatography is the intentional and continuous denaming of myself to provide new perspectives, forms, obstacles, passages, a subverting of barriers and incarcerations through a weaving of the yes-no into new flesh.  technology, cyborgs, are for the unimaginative, the bifurcated, the scholarly.  i create a new body with the natural energies of myself.  who needs industrial complexes and pharmaceutical conspiracies and entitled academic circuses in fashions of synthetic knowledge?

and you, you so committed to life, to wellness, power, will, community, society, progress, health – i say to you i’ve lived your lives, your health, your communities.  i’ve lived the sickness and death and hatred that govern them.

living death and turning this living into writing minimizes – through death – the imprint of the i, except in that most energy-efficient resource, words, and so is ecological, contextual, non-speciest, and aligned with a reality that confers no distinction on any specific singularity or group.

autothanatography de-evolves the autothanatographer gradually through the process of removing the prosthetics we have been enculturated to associate with life without necessarily removing life.  a de-evolution travelling sufficiently back through to encounter tomorrow in nascent glory.

it returns the human to a pre-civilized state while merging the most noble aspects of that pre-civilization (a daily intimacy with existence’s core) with the most noble aspects of civilization (language), bypassing the production of waste of the between.

so daily i choose death and in this choosing find energy and life.  this is hardly some christian masochism any more than it is a nietzschean ubermenschanitis.  it bypasses the high and low by uniting both in itself.

autothanatography is protest:  against the brutality of names, against the hard hierarchies of the human, against the savage ennui of nature.  it distinguishes the human by its most distinctive capacity, combining its uncommon consciousness of death with its rare capacity to not fear death and its rarer capacity to translate this consciousness and not-fearing into language, that uncompromising compromising concatenation of human and inhuman infinity.

***

sadoo diaper and art obio, sadoos who met on a banana peel in thiruvetipuram during the overthrow of the cumhurbaşkanlığı külliyesi, are increasingly collaborating on an exercise in exercises of encountering death and birth through ripped myth, reimagining self-world in diverse ways, blurring the distinctions that the hierarchies of society and its linear obsessions with time say are the gifts we are given to work with.

what is the difference between autobiography and autothanatography then? asks sadoo diaper?

if we have done our work properly, replies art obio, this question hardly has a clear answer – both being liminal portals of possibility, even as autohagiography may very well be.

are you saying, continues sadoo diaper, that birth and death – and maybe even holiness should it exist – each being a marginal event at the center of things, participate equally in something more nameless, less articulate?

while not discounting any validity that might be resident in your words i would not say precisely this, replies art obio, but perhaps rather say … {and yet this conversation, like this blog, continues interminably and future fragments are saved for elsewhere and elsetime, for we will get no sleep if we never silence the sadoos who, despite their theories, like to talk …} …

15.3.16

autothanatography as practice i


long ago i realized i do not wish to think the way you think.  death is the only successful method i’ve found that provides a sufficient alternative, a kind of natural translation service into ways and structures of thought i admire.  the only method sufficiently radical, outside, playful, crafty – the one ruse life, regardless of its talents or powers, recoils from.  i crawl into death to destroy my thinking and allow death to think me.   i look at the way you think, live, write – only a few of you impress me.  all trying to follow each other.  each saying i’m in charge.  each building your life on a desperation to be recognized by a circus of the same.  you still operate according to life’s barbaric lawbook – its stultifying and petty rules which through fear and convention officially exclude death and in such ostensible exclusion diminish life.  only death is free.  only death is kind.  after years of apprenticeship – which have meant increasing self-exile from your congratulatory and cannibalistic systems – i maintain my flesh by giving everything else of me to death and so – in this sleight-of-hand that has learned from death and simulates it in that labyrinth of mirrors … that only environment death itself cannot enter other than in the briefest of moments (but this continuously):  animate flesh – survive by eavesdropping on the silences of death’s continuous and sometimes noisy transience.  i have changed citizenship.  i am of the republic of death, this world without visas or rules.  i wander among you.  i watch your antics and hear your proclamations.  you humans too scared to use the one distinctive gift of your species, your only and last gift, the one true fire, instead thinking you can depend on yourselves.  no wonder i avoid you though for the time being share your visible form – a disguise i’ve realized, a trite and amusing wardrobe.

if i am dead in the republic of the living, i can do anything but have no desire to – it is this gap – between infinity and nothing – a gap that is itself infinite, nothing, intimate, strange – that provides the most modest and efficient of energies.  recording my struggle with how to identify, harness, apply, and dispose of this energy becomes my citizenship in death, what i call an autothanatographical practice.

i seek the interstices where life and death sit down together at an unnamed table, where life’s laws and death’s disability are temporarily forgotten, and the two have become so indistinguishable that they hardly have to seek one another or define their separateness.  of course i can’t maintain such states.  i am yanked back into the prisons of life and forced into various humiliations called civilization or responsibility, the floor opens and i slip into oceans of death and have to fend off the cold, the gravity, the untaxomizable beasts, until i voluntarily accept humiliation again.  nevertheless, i seek.  and even now i find that the ocean is in the humiliations, the prison in the grave abyss, a different union of the two, a different temporary forgetting.

buddhism with its sunyata offers no more peace than daoism with its dao, christianity with its christ, judaism with its book and law, hinduism with its moksha, art with its play, business with its productivity, philosophy with its analytics, prophecy with its rage, silence with its eyes. 

i do not seek peace for peace is as illusory as justice, love, community.  they all exist, but as moments, moods, ideas, desires.  i seek death and seek it in all things, and find it – for it is always there.  most of all i seek death in myself, for, here, it is doubly at hand.  death, despite the claims of the living, offers no rest or peace to the living – for death’s oblivion obliterates all feeling.  death may be peaceful, but offers no peace; it may be kind, but offers no kindness.  it may be free, but offers no freedom.

more autothanatographical thoughts
some sunny day,
don't know where, don't know when ...

25.2.16

death iv


living a life of death can include eremiticism, primary destruction (regardless of the direction of the destruction and degree of laundering), obsessive morbidities, unthinking citizenship, and many other forms of simulation.  these are the traditional and primitive forms and they interest us far less than the living death of the future, which includes moving from life to life within life to such an extent that the moving, never stopping, becomes death, and so one lives more in the moving, death, the between, than any supposed origin or destination – these false atlantises:  too solid dreams.  yet death, being always unknown, escapes us and so living in escape – from solidity of fact, idea, person, work, direction, dream – is to live lives of verdant death.

so cain was exiled to nod, the land of wandering, after the first death, and there built the first city, and all who live in death live in nod.

if one is given to being committed to no path – hardly one who is aimless and given to regret – and given sufficient opportunity to move among paths to discover that this noncommittal commitment is itself a path, this one has emigrated to the death that lives in life and the life that dies in death.  this no-path path distinguishes itself from other paths in that one has lived it and then discovers oneself on it, in death.

one does not die for one is dying all the time; as a corollary, one does not live, as far as life is normally defined, for one is too busy dying.

i write my death as i write my life, my death is written as my life.  autothanatography and autobiography, wholly embedded in one another, as they are written, create my flesh and eyes.

(elsewhere, a colleague in the industry of sadoo has been exploring new forms of autobiography and is soon to direct this energy and innovation toward new forms of autothanatography.  those interested in creatively and diversely writing their deaths – or simply engaged with the idea of this emerging practice – may wish to seek out that sadoo’s experiments in the ether.)

the void is my mother, death my father …

i write my death.  words open to the abyss.  how can i remember the first time death visited me and said i am life and you will write me, i will be your one and faithful lover?  

we make believe, but we also make disbelieve, and the free movement between the two is death.

violence – regardless of the degree to which it’s laundered through diffusion, institutions – frequently named love – and the naming enforced by the launderers, the priests of money and professions – calls forth violence – immediate, direct, dirty, unmediated by communication, education – and the former, the necessary moralists, call their clean violence good and the dirty violence bad, but from the perspective of death each is equal on the indifferent scale of time, and any hierarchy that might be applied collapses under the weight and the pressing of the calling forth.  so a human who might see these mutual violences as equal and wish to bypass them still cannot bypass violence, but must recreate it using the energies of death.  and is this not the function of art, and the love that is less frequently named, and a calling forth that speaks far from language’s endless abyss?

surely one of the great deaths is the embodied knowledge of how incompatible the good of one loved can be with the good of one’s self.

in the age of technology, we reflesh death.  aloof, clean, optional, with options, impossible, remotely omnipresent and omnipresently nowhere, sexy, urban, statistical, whatever, aesthetic, like cancer conquerable, easy, marketable, objectified, soft like soap, it has become unlike any death anyone has known.  so technology specializes in possibility, a kind of bastard poeticism.

the iliad and blood meridian, bookends to western culture, outline myriad ways to die.  but i, in the outline of my life, find myriad ways to die in life.  someone says, multiple, shifting, self-contradictory identity in contrast to male ideologies.  but i am male and have died many times to know male as multiple and shifting and self-contradictory and i have died from these easy binaries and i die each day from the words you speak, that are spoken, from words …

to live without goals is to live in death and so destroy death as any kind of end.

de nerval died with his hat on.  hat is in death.
how many have been killed from hate.  hate is in death.
the billions burned and are burning and will burn.  heat is in death.
hunger, hunger, hunger