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

ra ra ra

ra ra ra your goat

roughly up a dream

verily merrily scarily barely

life is butts and screams

the impropriety of a hand of bananas

it takes centuries for words to separate themselves from the human that produced them, from the accidents of the living body, and become free.  So our judgements of contemporary writers are unstable and we must leave it to the yet-to-be-born to see the words apart from flesh’s faults.

heresiarch uzasoz

hallucination is a form of biographical transformation

                  why don’t you write sensible books that people can understand?

            ill-informed anyone who would announce himself his own contemporary

the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars, and in the middle, you see the blue center-light pop …

my drawings inspire, and are not to be defined. They place us, as does music, in the ambiguous realm of the undetermined.

i can’t understand why people are frightened of new forms. I’m frightened of the old ones.

it is the pen which dreams

apologia

Do i need an apology for the pieces that will follow?  No, of course not.  Creation, like its destructive twin, doesn’t apologize.  It presents.
 
I do not need one, but one is required, so please accept this disingenuousness authentically, as we do the endless artifices we live within.  A caprice on my part does not have to be a caprice on yours, for those on opposite sides of what is pleasantly called the communication chasm rarely share intent, aspect, or effect, but only signs.  Signs, and a certain mood.

Some nine years ago, in one of many fits of madness, i envisioned an intricately structured collection of 81 pieces entitled mirror mirror; they were to be radical excessive even garish experiments in language, most of them starring an elusive franz von vemeer, an urban dilettante of unknown origin, a disbeliever in mirrors.  They were, if nothing else, tectonically-rupturing descents into language, into grammars of barely contained intelligibility (or barely contained unintelligibility—on the edge i work, it makes little difference).  I completed slightly over half of these, at which point i stopped—as sometimes happens, even the fragmentation began fragmenting, the sovereignty of icy exploration began seeking its impoverishment and death, producing a continent of silence, and i left the collection, wandering in other kingdoms, until the wind that evoked mirror mirror blew me back to its malefic bounds.  As the mirror is bottomless (or, rather, its bottom is not discernible), i expected the requisite forces to converge at some point, enabling me to complete the work. 

This re-convergence began happening, as is not unusual, before i began recognizing it.  And once the recognition had begun, the forms were so different (the kingdom had so changed)—and yet shared such a deep geological structure (certain distinctive linguistic-cultural proclivities)—that, if not delighted, i was at least motivated to stay a while and see what happened.

So i placed the new forms (of which there are about a dozen so far) in the second half of mirror mirror.  But due to their difference, the inevitable changes, i felt they needed a name (or a sub-name) of their own; it became obvious that this must be exercises in saying nothing.  A work called mirror mirror should exit very differently than it enters, similar to the difference between how we approach a mirror when examining our face and how we leave.  Here are but a few (too many french, it’s true [but have not the french excelled beyond other races in saying nothing?]) of its influences (the well-read among my readers, if there are any remaining these hashtag days, can easily name more)—

erasmus’ copia (chapter 33 particularly)
queneau’s exercices de style
baudelaire’s le spleen de paris
foucault’s sexuality and solitude
bataille’s literature and evil
chevrier’s l’hallucination artistique
wood’s beyond the simulacrum of religion versus secularism:  modernist aesthetic “mysticism” (in religion and literature)
de lautréamont’s les chants de maldoror and poems
 

Here are but a few of its intents—

1. to proclaim my passionate unshatterable love for the detached compassionate capricious divinity coursing through human flesh—tappable, growable, limitless, renewable—and my faith in its ability to transform devouring flesh (not its mortal attributes but its fear of the infinite finite mortalities), not primarily through technology (though using it), but through itself.
2. to create forms that go nowhere, surprised, surprising; dramas that emerge from outside routine human drama, from these things themselves, from their forms—forms of the marrow of language:  not of us, our marrow, our gains and losses, the palpitations of our hearts, but of language’s anxieties, its holiday gatherings, family dysfunctions, its incests and love affairs and lonelinesses, quests and deserts, madnesses and laboratories, prizes and ecstasies, drugs and highs and suicides, its laughter … not about inhumans, aliens, but about humans – to modify the dominance of the human.
3. to map a land without borders, names or technologies:  uninhabitable, uninhabited, infinite and beautiful and eternally empty; to map quests for maps for such a land.
4. to build language pieces as abstract paintings, building them up with layers, achieving an effect, a mood, a collectivity of sensations and ideas, a loose confederate of images:  for all art is abstract, abstraction simply being the aesthetic term for interiority—or the perception of lived experience.
5. to attempt to reflectively sound out what most societal sounds (which we euphemistically call communication) sound like to me.
6. to describe the process by which we are forced to accept the process by which we are forced to accept living within ourselves …
7. to be frustrating pieces to learn to read, in the way that the goldberg variations are frustrating pieces to learn to play.  One might say, Well, with the gv at least once one has learned to play them they at least sound good but your exercises—they clunk like nepalese trucks falling off the mahendra highway.  But this is not true.  You have just not learned to read.  Even if you learn to read, you may yet say, Well, ok, i have learned to read, but, still, i don’t know what it means.  Sure.  But what do the goldberg variations mean?
8. one could say i’ve sought a space that is uncrowded, undesirable – desserts of deserts.
9. isn’t it at some point less that we care about ending life and more that we care about joining the dead—that’s where the action is?

Here are but a few of its titles—

the difference between a tylenol 500, a gerund, and glory

            hanaϡelah and the chair

            the story of of

            haar lof and the space and twējē

At HP, we don't just believe in the power of technology, we believe in the power of people when technology works for you. We believe in applying new thinking and ideas to improve the way our customers live and work.

If you are going to do something, Make it Matter

(or [or and] ‘the fifty-move rule’)

            (or athpwe)

            hallibl and molok

            ulica lutk

            wawn wakes up

my əld leigh goshe

            andre the giant and the strawberry

            gilberta tedeschi eats her man

Here are but a few excerpts from its reviews—

1. The positive central idea of exercises is that the human psyche, or soul, really believes in itself, and in nothing else.
2. The author is simultaneously a terrorist of the plastic soul and a supervisor in its factories.
3. These nothing stories find resolution in different keys, at different pitches, than routine narratives, resolution revealing itself when sufficient pointers have begun pointing, when a sufficient web has been spun for literary spiders to run across and catch prosaic prey.
4. I cannot help but be reminded of rimbaud’s the poet makes himself a seer by a long, immense and reasoned unsettling of all the senses and mallarme’s i have no wish to pander to a reader’s need for simplification.
5. Much of this would have to do with the grammar of hiding, of hiding in itself, and of hiding in hiding.  Communicating in poetic caesuras, executive falters, journalistic gaffes, sleeps of the tongue, these exercises are prophetic—the only future grammar is a grammar of hiding. 
6. At best, a clandestine subjectivity; at worst, turds in a boardroom – as if lou gehrig’s disease had become spiritualized in the author.
7. During the late second and early third millennia, the task of interpreting the psyche and art through the written word was restricted to professional technocrats (the spiritual descendants of medieval patriarchy), specifically sanctioned as scholars, therapists and psychiatrists; to interpret the psyche and art through the senses and the body became the domain of artists.  Artists (the spiritual descendants of medieval female mystics) directly experienced the psyche and art in three classical ways: first, bodily visions, meaning to be aware with one's senses—sight, sound, or others; second, ghostly visions, such as spiritual visions and sayings directly imparted to the soul; and lastly, intellectual enlightenment, where one’s mind came into a new understanding of itself and so world.  These exercises belong to all three categories and transgress in the way that all mystics transgress when they futilely attempt to translate mystic experience into language.
8. Whitman’s song of myself has been changed to sign of myself – to what end? to what sign? to what self? to what song?
9. I see these exercises as exercises in saying it is as if—
   1. It is as if the author is translating from, say, ancient Hebrew to modern English, but trying to keep the grammar and cadences of the former.
   2. It is as if the author were given a set of random rules for each piece to establish a game inside a game inside a game – matryoshka dolls of language.
   3. It is as if Bobby Fischer came to me for advice, I certainly would not discourage him—as if anyone could—but I would try to make it positively clear that he will never have any money from chess, live a monk-like existence and know more rejection than any artist ever has, struggling to be known and accepted.
   4. It is as if the author is an unidentified thief in a global mall, in which all the stores sell language, in which a theft has not happened for ages, stealing willy-nilly, hiding his goods in the sable reaches of the night.
      

      
10. These nothing pieces are obviously attempts to translate communicative human experiences—superficially common but emotionally bizarre—into a precise emotional language, avoiding (while pointing to) the emotional shorthand which is expected.  These are rupturous rapturous expressions which stuff emotional clichés where they belong—in toilet tanks in museums.
11. The irony being that what is said in society that is supposed to say something says nothing and these exercises which appear to say nothing (and about which it is said they say nothing and may very well say nothing) say something.  What do they say?  They say that a formalism that says that language is not the servant of thought but thought the servant of language is not necessarily a formalism.

I shall post these pieces, at whimsy, over time.  But the reader should be warned that my intent, as always, is not to communicate (if by communication we mean anything like participate in the common transactions of the heart and mind).  But if we mean by communicate—work toward the failure of communication so that communication can be glimpsed— … well … that is another story.