sadoo a shriven sylvan severed novalis sloven

did i say moles? i meant voles  for vole is in novel and isnt the vole the very fulfillment and antithesis of love? and i have heard that in the vale of vole the vole clock chatters and it chatters not for thee

the ns left though out of our vole love but the n  being null and sets of null stretching to and past nullity  it finds itself by being itself excluded  so through nullitalis vole and love meet in novel and strip sadoo

my novel of vole love nullity broken for you

i cant tell whether my novels going faster or slower than my life  leading it  following it  opposed to it  complementary  though as life we could say is time and the novel atime or dreamtime or truetime or precisetime  we find ourselves quickly in that other but related debate  perhaps deeper or more central  perhaps not of what or who or where or why or how or even when is time? whats times address? does it like a cigarillo in the morning with its coffee? in the act of bedsheets what does it do with its tongue? who are its confidants and under what conditions and what does it divulge? my novel  i mean my life  i mean my novels an attempt to answer these questions  no not answer  to raise them  no not raise them  as all time is is a relentless resurrection of them to   to      i just dont know                        i dont know                                  sadoo is my doubt

id like to posit however tentatively that my novels a kind of unterūbūouroboros  a selfsustaining animate dump reforming geometries of mythtime and that i  though is nothing other than my novel or this novel or just novel  a scholar of smelly shape   sadoo is my tentativity and dissertation

my mothers are my novel and my fathers are my navel and my bodies my nival naval and the genealogies of my sarcous family look like psychedelic kohlrabi on a pilgrimage to a bilious fair shuttered epochs ago and may never  truth be told though it hardly is  have existed

applying the principles of nymhematology

we receive as gifts not only the love of voles but

noel lone neo leo eon no on le lo one ole

and if we must leon len von

and quite possibly nole velo and many other treasures

6 cognitive feelings

sigil isn’t simply a sign but a system of signage, systems of signages. not any system from any central planning agency, scholarly analysis, of will, design … but one having arisen from, returning to, and being of the nature and function of collapse. and so a nonsystem – relation networks lacking any discernible nodes or paths, any capacity to map their maps

when sigils gather from the nonprinciples of their own randomness, from the generations of blind heaving mud, it neither is some metasystem – a galaxy rather than a planet, a universe not a galaxy. instead, it piles nonsystem on nonsystem, asystem on asystem. but not even piles. each asystem (yet we can’t even use system in our description – it’s an ystem, a metsy, a tysem, a myste) exists in and apart from the others, without recognition or parallelism but having generated within the same disorganization of madness 

signage to what then? to a physic of itself certainly, a physic incomputable from or within those ones of planes, falling apples, fluvial sublimations, bananas going bad. sigil then is less any appeal to forces or energies, any call for curse or blessing, any desire or volition for psychic modification or tweaking in the external or internal worlds of accessible description … but a fuliginous invoking of a chemistry of oneiric futility

sigil arises from impossibility, cognitive decreation, volitional frustration and indicates, however abstrusely, their constitutions and constituents – not anything of hydrogen, xenon, palladium but elements for which we have no names, science, institution. so the human vectors of sigil live through the scrubbed and staggering smiles of the ponderous reality of your physic in gross disarray and if anything is redeemed for them – but the diction here is inaccessibly clastic – it’s those brief occasional unpredictable interruptions of time when sigil functions in its way as an alien technology facilitating access through the skyscraping concrete of your universal reality onto, however dimly, the mind of another (what else could we call it?) light

sigil accumulates but unquantifiable ether adding no weight to any scale. it guides but not to any end, start, name. it marks but leaves no trace or memory. it seals but everything is open. it images but grants neither value nor dimensionality, idea nor likeness

sigil is prayer. a visible concatenation of a mathematics of negative encomia for hesolate and dapless souls, a geometry of meditative illustrative exercises designed to dedesign signs, post dimulations on bebroken media ... not these to any god or gods or like a boomerang to selves or self, neither destined nor oriented nor aimed, but gas and words in ripe wildernesses of nonutterings