y782

even among intelligent whonyms one doesnt converse about anything important anymore  if you try to talk about anything important whoever youre talking with quickly changes the conversation to sports or politics or gossip or the weather  some variation of da nooz   but everyones interiority has to stay locked up and the jailors society  for the soul  or what used to be called the soul  like what used to be called reality  is too much for the people to bearbare  so they can only talk about the denials of the soul  these effects of its repression  as it seeps ineluctably through thick old walls and forms the artifacts and procedures were forced to live within  though they live in purer and more potent form within us  and all our training and educations oriented toward learning how to converse about the repressions and make more repressions and have no idea how to relate to the forms of vital seething   of course you can pay 150 an hour for a shrink  you can whore it up like that and call it wellness  a little voyeured psychic orgasm in a strangers office  you can persist in talking with the whonyms after they try to shut you up and be deemed mad pretty quickly  you can go nuts and get locked up or drugged  you can suicide  that relief  you can carry on imaginary conversations more real than those other ones people call real or more real  with the few others whove managed to survive for a bit and write about this condition and whose words have survived and whose words youve found in the vast library of dumpster of book  and write some of these conversations down  which are typically ignored or if theyre not disdained   and all this it takes you a while to learn

take eg a magazine called frigid in which some idiot calling itself weal clown disdains h michaux who experiments his entire life with sniffing languages  in words and paint  for the universes of his interiority   does mish^oh succeed? thats not a question of the interior thats a question of your world  and all clown  who naturallys some young white prick  does of course is call mish oh a sadly disabled old man   but even the most incoherent babbling of the one who explores the interior smells is far more beautiful than the most coherent product of your chiseled enforced exterior  sterile dumps

 

infinitys a construct of mind and as mind exists and infinity exists in it so infinity exists and i orient myself toward these infinities and write about them   sadoo is this orientation

 

ı look in the mirror and know ım nuts  ı know ım nuts and that you havent caught ı yet  ım pleased by these two facts  two of the few facts ı think about that are worthy of meditation   its never been a question for ı not to be nuts   to believe in soul and to be obsessed with thinking and talking about soul is to be nuts   sadoos my nuts

novel without organs

including bonus novel bottomless novel

 

you see

 

theres that pesky see again

 

see again

 

theres that pesky see again again

 

novel doesnt see  it doesnt see or show or tell  what does novel do then? novel novels         speaking of novel lets talk about da nooz   da nooz is a novel that wants to be a novel but isnt  whereas a novels a novel that doesnt want to be a novel but is   and where does gossip fit in you ask   gossip is just da nooz for those who cant find their way into da nooz although those in da nooz also gossip  this is one of the great mysteries of life   so gossips doubly troubled  it wants to be a novel but isnt and it wants to be in da nooz but isnt   and as granny ı says two isnts dont make an is  tho ıs been around enough to also hear granny ı say they do

 

very important note about granny ı

due to blogger being a foetus among foeti in terms of typographical possibility there are many tricks and routines we want to perform but cant or its too awkward or were lazy and instead we have to omit them or resort to stupid techniques like taking a screenpic of the desired effect and bringing the pic into the foetus   clunky   so sometimes with granny ı   granny ı should always look like this

granny ı

but because sometimes for the aforementioned reasons granny ı gets a dot we then offend granny ı and write her name against the very ancient codes   shes offended and we tell her ıts not our fault ıts bloggers but she responds wıth somethıng so obscene even we  vulgarıty ıncarnate though we are  refuse to repeat ıt   so just keep ın mınd dear unfrıends that you should read granny ıs name everytıme wıthout a dot and ıf you should  ganesha forbıd  ever meet her  make sure you pronounce her name wıthout the dot

 

why doesnt novel see? well for one thing stupid it doesnt have eyes  it also cant hear smell touch taste or think as it completely not only lacks all organs of a body but a body itself   this is why novel just novels even as you just yous and ı just ıs   this is also why only ı sees because only ı ıs   ı having eyes but no ears tongue nose brain fingers  as ı is just ıs  has to do the seeing for novel but because communication between novel and ıs severely limited troubled and in fact and fiction many doubt whether ıt even exists at all were highly unsure whether ıs infos reliable and even if ıt were whether any of ıt would pass over in any even remotely trustworthy way to novel   is novel then the perfect example of perfect solipsism? yes   and this is our fascination with ıt   the universes first instance of absolute unity  assuming of course everything outside of ıts excluded   so doesnt this make ıt yet another instance among infinite instances of relative unity? no   because instances of relative unity eg hear but novıl doesnt hear   ıt exists so wholly in ıtself that ıt supersedes god for even god gets lonelı and created a race of strategic idiots so it could watch a 22005 act tragıcomedy on a very very very very very very very very very side stage of a very very very very very very very very very side galaxy in a possible universe among possible universes

 

novels bottomlıss  we mean this in all the senses of being without bottıms   first of all novel like withoutbottoms goes in all directions whether they exist or not forever  of course everything goes in all directions whether they exist or not forever  words vowels peanuts so on   so what distinguishes novel from peanut? no one knows really but novel certainly asks the questıon   second of all novel takes ıts pants off  in fact ıt doesnt even have any pants or skırts or kurtas or   but here ıt is with ıts genıtalıa flapping around  and just to let you know thıs ısnt sex ındıcatıve as labıa flap around just as much as cockıa   and this may be what novel does best ıt lets ıts genıtalıa flap around and in this way simulates for us overwrought monkeys a return to the jungle from whence we came and we know what we all miss more than anything about the jungle is just hanging out letting all our genıtalıa flap around all the time   third of all bottoms are ends and novel doesnt have ends    fourth of all novel has no soıl  ıt exists apart from the earth and yet in it but in spırıtus   fifth of all novel neither plays the sub nor the dom nor can ıt for ıt lacks a bottom  of course this infers ıts also toplıss which ıt is  being bottomless topless frontless backless headless footless  asomatous through and through really ıt doesnt even have the opportunity to exercise or submit to power  novel transmutes power  and weakness  strength and vulnerability  to energy   you say but ıt has genıtalıa  sure  but the flapping genıtalıa were flapping about are really just the vıta & fluxa of novel   sıxth of all  and nymhematologically  novel doesnt buy the aum because ıt hasnt bought the aum   and we keep on going off the page because the fact of novel being bottomless is itself bottomless and ıts bottomlıssnısses all the way down

 

but isnt whonym bottomless too?

 

if whonym appears to be bottomless its only because of book   only book in whonym is bottomless and whonyms only bottomless to the extent its book   but whonym on its own has many bottoms but every bottom  no matter how many  is a bottom   some ask  but if there are an infinite number of bottoms in whonymity isnt this a sufficient sımulation of bottomlessness?   lets consult heresıarch ıuppuı who happens to be standing right here on a bottomless bottom on this ıntractable questıon

 

but heresıarch ıuppuı says

 

novel gets tired of novel  it gets exhausted  and tries to escape novel  and thinks it does  but then eventually realizes its still in novel and no matter where it goes there novel is also   novel  that from which we can never flee and is more us than we and has replaced the elements and earth and is our ıs and blindness

 

and we say

 

but heresıarch ıuppuı  you havent addressed our questıon

 

and heresıarch ıuppuı says

 

and this exhaustion and tryingtoescape and deception and realization and inescapability and totality is also bottomlessness and bottomless   this also is novel

 

and we dıe yet agaın

yon

sadoo ate n*v*l n*v*l eats sadoo

i lack the linear sequencing module required to think or write or act or live in your culture  someone was drunk on the assembly line and dropped my module into a urinal  one of those with a mothpuck that doesnt flush properly and is filled with weekold piss and cigarette butts and the bibbertippler thinks no onell notice and in exchange he substitutes a few random beta plasmatic polypolar postanarchic diffeohomeomorphoglomean modules that never went into production that he happens to have down his wretched underwear  but i do

when is time? may be the central question of time  the question that unites clock or technological or bureaucratic or shapebound time and dreamtime or wordtime or wyrmtime or merdetime

this isnt a novel  its a devastation  a soul inversion and arid turning  a hurlyburlywhirlytwirly  a dinner party of inmate warden psychiatrist custodian inspector chef anthropologist journalist corpse arborist consultant  which degenerates and apotheosizes simultaneously as the courses of drinking surpass the sum of their own fluidity   theres a formula for this

whys sadoo a novel? because everythings a novel  because you tell me nothings real unless its a novel   heres a silly jism

      sadoo is a novel

      i is a sadoo

      therefore i is a novel

everything complicates and is complicated  even the things intended to simplify complicate  thus i fit sadoo into modern times which  despite chucky spencer  is always not then but now  and you criticize me of being mad  im just the outside mad you are inside  but for me this is the way of things  sadoo isnt representative of reality or an escape from it  it is reality but reality thats found outside reality by going into reality so far one falls into   into what?   well         novel

is the novel a book? or in more accurate language is novel book? its said now in the better or at least more forceful circles books dont exist  but if book exists is it greater or lesser than novel? ie is it a hypo or hypernym? all novels are books but that all books are novels  though not as readily said  is no less true

is book a subset of dream or dream book?

does knowledge cascade after failure or failure knowledge?

which follows which  before or after?

love or doubt? whos the mother?

and dont say this is like asking which is bigger  magenta or justice? everythings analogous belowandabove enfolded deadandalive vision and follow and zorb and book   sadoo is this everything   everythings askable   sadoos this askability

metamorphosis without end

i made a bed for myself of books and slept on it. it was 3 meters high and 2 meters wide and 2 meters long and i used

no sheets but slept on the books directly. i built a staircase of books to climb up and i learned to influence my dreams by the placement and relation of books, their proximity to different parts of my body. i let no one see my bed and no one slept with me for i had become tired of love.

i no longer read. after decades of voracious reading, after

being overcome by books so much the world in its dimensionality became ugly, clichéd, with neither grace nor vision, human society a risible heap of battling bugs insanely proclaiming its grandeur and supremacy, i stopped. i had lost the ability to absorb books through sight and reason, through the act of cognitively and imaginatively interpreting text – these weary servants of a wearier culture, of a sickened literacy. i needed a different way to bring books inside me, i wanted a new relation with them. what better way than having full bodily contact and absorbing them more directly, during sleep. for the best books are written as though in a dream and surely the best way to read them is to take them in through our skin as we’re dreaming. using our cognitive capacities while we’re awake is an obviously inferior method, a legacy from the primitive age of knowledge, and i grew excited again about encountering my favourite books in ways i never had before.

i dreamt new dreams – sprawling phantasmagoria. colours rewired and dripping down architectures that redefined

science. narratives so disturbing, coherent, irrational, seductive i woke up with the top layer of books drenched and would have to carefully dry the affected volumes out.

i began building a house of books to house my bed. a modest affair. bathroom, kitchen, bedroom, a common area for eating and hanging out and working, a sunroom for whatever. everything of books. the sinks, toilet, bathtub, furniture, trinkets and decorations, bookshelves. books are all.

in time – the reader will have expected it – i became a book.

like gregor. i lived by myself so there was no external drama. i lived grounded in the totality of books so there was no internal drama.  there was no story. this is the story.

book

b^oo_kb_o^okb^ookb_ook^b_oo^kb^ookbo^okb_o^okboooooooooo^k

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 ...