an affair with frances yates

while there may not be any outsides  and isnt this knowledge the truth of esotaticism  there are many insides  seemingly infinite  and some of these speak  however falsely  of outsides

but all there are are outsides

i dont speak of those outsides  i speak of the other ones

there is no esotaticism  esotericism itself is just a recent invention and doesnt exist other than as a forced unity in the minds of a few scholars  so if esotericisms a fiction esotaticisms a fiction of a fiction

i have proof for you

what proof

a song

a song isnt a proof

all a song is is a proof

many once upon a times ago

a sorcerer called urmario

lost in a uruguayan barrio

ate a magic radicchio

and went his merry wayio

thats not a proof or a song

everythings a song or a proof  and most things are both

im not a song or a proof

if theres no esotericism theres also no exotericism or exotaticism  all thered be would be the notwithin and notwithout  and what is that space

a proof or a song

the important thing to remember here is that nothing cleans your kitchen counters like minute maid

if medieval heretics werent being killed for science but for something else  what does that tell us

it tells us that that something else still exists

because we cant name it?

didnt she name it?

how could she name something that cant be named  whose remoteness she couldnt eliminate?

she did

she didnt

she did and didnt

all we ever do

is do and dont

id like to make a case for myself being an adept

ill let you make a case for yourself being a case

id like to adopt an adept to adapt an apt ad to opt an upped id  

you dont want to be an ipsissimus or magusaronimo

not that kind of adept  i want to be a transcendent  a hagiography

a genetian saint?

venetians are blind  tourism & cameras obliterate vision

the more senses youre lacking the more chance you have

a xian  an immortal  a 仙

youll burn

ill escape by means of a simulated corpse

only in your texts

you mean reality?

a proper xians rooted in the earth not texts

the earths supported by a text and a text a text

its texts all the way down

speaking of  im working on a bunch of polyptyxts

sounds carcinogenic

some of the materials are toxic

you mean polyptychs with text

i mean thwarted tessellated polyptychs with text   polyptyxts

does esotericism become esotaticism when its hermetism is hermed

whats the difference between biking and a bikini

a third eye

youve read 101 occult jokes to make you levitate too

whats going on here is that the urge to hagiographize is a textual one

do you largely agree with the statement that as everything gets distorted  sect becomes church  passion becomes marriage  enthusiasm becomes scepticism  curiosity becomes comfort  xian becomes dexianed

neither of us believe in immortality  enlightenment  magic  ideals  saints

which is exactly why we believe in them

do dont

did didnt

doo dao

a xian is one who doesnt xian

holiness is full of holes

holiness is a hole

there is nothing to pursue

other than texts

which is why i want to be adept

but youre so inadept

i want to be an inadept

i think youre there

look ma  no pursuits

you want to be in an inadept

doesnt ga hung say you must fuck a lot to be in an inadept?

go hung says a lot

and its all just textual

hagiographical

so here we are outside and inside  singing and notsinging  proving and disproving

sainting and notsainting  texting and nottexting  fucking and notfucking

but they still will burn you

some things never change

whats the word for that?

fire?

dao?

texts?

仙?

propreantepenultimate

the dogs wake me every morning between 0300 and 0400 for their scheduled street fight – their sorting the day’s hierarchy? a requisite sacrifice, maiming, exile? as if hundreds of canine demons are auctioning their souls on the block of eternal hunger, an experimental band barely clinging to the cliffs of sound jamming on that nearby abandoned rooftop. institutional and community life without their euphemisms, a polycacophonous rooster birthing the corruption of the day. i sit on my bed of camels for the hour’s free concert – war eventually exhausting itself (jabes writes within the human moral realm even evil must sleep) – this audio textbook of history, resting afterwards on the grass of dreams.

while this town is softer, gentler than many in northern india, it inevitably has its aggressions. only here have motorcycles and tuktuks aimed for and hit me – though lightly, as they stopped – always young men thinking it a joke. others – of the same tribe – sneer as they pass, spitting at my feet. less subtle than the routine aggressions of my home culture. pros and cons.

though tourists are here, they’re relatively few and disappear once out of town on the rural roads. there i’m a sufficient novelty that the contents of every fifth motorcycle are compelled to say hello, a decent percentage of these pulling alongside, i guess to fully manifest the exchange, ensure the white man knows the indian exists.

one gaggle of 3 boys (they all look 12 but the driver says he’s 18), initially amusing, circle back to me so many times, take uncountable selfies with me, ask me to record phrases in their phone then laugh outrageously, that i finally get annoyed and tell them to go home and watch porn.

this is a town of bands. bandi. i’ve lost track of the number that have passed below – led by 6 or 7 male uniformed brass- and drum-players, followed by colourful females carrying jars. looks like pt barnum should emerge, with a topper and dancing elephants. (as music, i prefer the dogs fighting.) the animals as usual are insouciant, though the monkeys and humans watch, bound in camaraderie by their eyes.

cows, despite being holy here, survive on plastic bag scraps and wire. their indifference to all manner of proximate abuse, noise, traffic is almost admirable. the dogs and wild boars too – the former often curled sleeping on the road during the day while vehicles go racing by honking loudly centimetres from their dreams. what trust! or, rather, what enculturation.

the guest house i’m staying at is run by a family whose living area is the lobby. sometimes i enter and 9 adult humans and 5 children are congregated, tv on, the tumbled troupe all gossip and screaming. i keep probiotics in their freezer and as i obtain a pill one morning an adult asks me what is your disease?

the proprietor’s son who does the cooking says you write too much. (that’s a new one.) reminds me of a recent paternalistic email from a bureaucrat in the housing co-op i live in – all power to the imagination! he hypocritically closes. these inane expressions of conformists, who are given residence in the house of language, born into the temple of imagination, growing to use their habitats, their birthrights, as walls and missiles. endearing in a sense i suppose. but the zoo after a few visits loses its appeal and one seeks possibility outside the societal cages of virtuous enforcement and obeisant commonplaces.

 

for some reason i’m reminded – consciousness even yet sprouts through the hard soil of ubiquitous establishment and cliché – of bruno schultz, who knew his uselessness, and used it, despite the variegations of human force and treachery, to colour life’s long night.