apophatic machine munchies

there are the young and boring, and there are the old and boring. the young and boring i can sometimes tolerate for 3 or 9 minutes. the old and boring i can't tolerate at all. why is this if they're equally boring?

an indifference to self is in direct proportion to an apophatic immersion in self

the young exploit this knowledge mercilessly. this is their innocent vanity and antidote to the preposterous wealth of the establishment

the orthodoxy that there's only one world, this world. and thus i must adapt to it. bullshit. no art (or much of anything else) would exist in such a spiritual-aesthetic straightjacket. consciousness, imagination, wit, subversion, play, creation - they're all of other worlds

the hello boat? of veri nici shifts to the smoke hashish? of cat human sadoo. and so my response changes from my name is not boat to a robust you bet i do - which in its enthusiastic explicitness shuts the merchants up

i too am ageist. i shun the old - not because they're more boring than the young ... but it's this quality of the notold - the power to believe in things (which if it lingers in the old just seems stupid) in the oceanic nothingness of their bodies - that i suck on like a perpetually reincarnated planet on the teats of the universe. (there are tricks for maintaining and even increasing this quality along the biological path. they're in code, not much in words, and seekers after them must learn the dark languages light speaks

when i'm open to conversation with tourists while travelling i stay in hostels. but in cat human sadoo i intentionally stay in a comfortable quiet guest house whose clientele primarily consists of the old and boring. this grants me the abyss of undistraction. i ensure i look as crazy as possible so that no one talks to me. their overheard conversations - which i tolerate to a point before putting my headphones on - are hideous

mary got a new french bulldog

but the skillset of doctors ...

just terrible what's happening in china

i read that churchill said that fear ...

don't forget to use your hand sanitizer

thailand's just lovely

a recent issue of partynepal magazine has young beautiful nepali saying the same things as the young and beautiful in magazines everywhere. come on. young and beautiful and magazined. surprise me

dat cat can moo

and matt can do

in kathmandu

and you?

another trope i've begun using is to say i'm from jupiter when asked of my domesticity, that i've come to earth because we've heard humans aren't taking good care of it and we jupiterians are concerned. i've got engaged in numerous lengthy conversations with this as a starting point. some seem, especially by the end, unsure whether to believe me

a related mythology i've developed - in response to the now routine offers of hash - is that where i'm from our kitchen sinks have nine faucets - for water, absinthe, psilocybin, ayahuasca, mdma, lsd, caffeine, hash, tobacco. on my planet starschmucks offers bhanguccinos and hash lattes. etc etc

at swayambhunath stupa a local engages me and we talk for half an hour about ecology, consciousness, politics. then the expected happens - he hawks holiness on me and tries to sell himself as my guru. i laugh and say i don't believe in holiness, at least in humans. maybe in mycelium. the conversation ends. capitalism again announces itself as the only cataphatic religion left on earth

to the carnivorous religious - you've been a {christian, buddhist, moslem, jew, hindu, ...} for how long and you're still obsessed with stuffing? (how quickly kenosis becomes forgotten, ... turns into concept, abstraction, disembodied knowledge)

the walls are thin in the guest house and the couple next door after conversing tediously for an hour have if possible even more tedious sex. 4 little moans from her, that's it. then someone goes to the bathroom. then she pukes all night. i want to see what they look like, i don't want to see what they look like

eye ear u doodoo

the middleaged european male tourists here - gross, beefy, jowly, like loudly talking statues reciting scripts that should never have been thought let alone written. like wax sculptures in the colonial archives, with an 8-track on infinite loop playing, made of their own earwax, the dumps, hoards & anys, balls'n'arrows of a meaty overcooked stegosaurus with too much sugary testosterone sauce. someone needs to spraypaint them pink, put arsenic on their testicles, wildflowers in their maws

why is kooba so much more difficult than asia?

no english no wifi no food

gote noats

the proprietor of a guest house says he plays the tabla. i ask him if he plays out anywhere, in public. no, i only play for god. probably doesn’t tweet either.

the night lit loggias of bundi cornea of aravalli, sockets of worms, apertures onto the days when junglī suar wandered protected on a greener, less regulated, and three-dimensionally more vicious earth.

the 5-hour bus from jaipur to bundi in its 49 numbered seats holds 71 passengers, 8 on top, 9 goats, obese sacs of produce heaped mercilessly in the aisles, 3 employees (driver, bus manager, ticket operator), no washroom or a/c – it’s midday and 34°. deluxe, the agent had told me. my body doesn’t fit anywhere, only hindi’s spoken, no shocks on this bitch and the road’s all hole ... i’m a conscious turd flushed onto the laughing dirt when the receptacle of hadoti finally welcomes.

i had hardly believed him.

the celebrations, festivities, pan-coloured noise, parades occur multiple times daily. gods, death, marriage, birth (and what’s the bloody difference?). some ridiculous-looking male dressed in a silver suit and flowers is plunked on a horse that’s so weighted in decoration how can no one laugh or protest (where’s friedrich when you need him ... maybe b. tarr can direct the bundi horse)? a few dudes beat relentlessly on big drums for 30 minutes before the procession – which includes the requisite 20 following females and blaring tuktuk – begins to jolt and belch its way eastward. it’s all religion and it’s all the time.

a bordeaux man – almost comically friendly, pulls up a small stool to sit and chat to me, misses the stool falling on the floor (feel like i’m in a chaplin skit) – asks me how long the flight is home. about 15 hours i say. i thought it wouldn’t be much longer than paris he says – isn’t there a way you can just zip over the arctic?

in my homeland i never say i’m a writer. in that world of privilege as language and language as privilege such a designation is too pretentious, wearied, photocopied, easy, meaningless ... lumping me with gangling cheese strings of humans i have no affinity with, embarrassments to language, no-cost writing, bud lights of Word. but here i use it as an efficient conversation-ending explanation for why i don’t do tourist things but sit stupidly around staring into space like an incarnation of the god Vapid. everyone (europeans, indians) seems satisfied, asks no further questions.

 

the second night in rajasthan i ascend to the rooftop terrace of my guesthouse and a young french couple is dimly fucking on a chair. is clearing my throat sufficient international language? should i pull up a chair and watch, yank my dick out and cum on their faces? i go to a table, pull out my notebook and begin writing.