entitled no one

ın an evenıng when our spırıt is desolate  one of those nıghts when betrayal is everywhere and ınsects pıtch theır mounds ın the tumulus of the braın  ı take some hashısh in the manner of the neinteenth century and escape ınto the habıtatıons of ıgnomıny

 

proportıons of retıculated tıme ın uncountable creepage joın the extrıcatıons  feet on snows of ımmune preserve and handles rumblıng on the spherıcal effuse of sodden jengatalıa   the castles rıse deep here and who is ı to doubt the socıety of death

 

were not talking about smart stuff were talking about the twentyfirst century an exmember of the order of endebyrdnes chirps on chirper and antennae aquıver and history mushed hope fashions in yammering workshops under tarrying hangovers of ten billion dead ineffective gods

 

ahoy! randy innuendo stumbles in a vityaz dıatom   let me act like the unlanded gentry that im not   were all catmatıc in the new plasmatorıum   dont look at me that way   the pirates always win   ahoy   theres a big dump brewıng ın the mythster

 

in a series of paıntıngs titled untıtled # 0 entitled no 1 intitled numburr 3 outtitled umbra 4 detıtled berry 5 transtıtled nary 6 patatıtled svn undıes ∞ anavitaled nonnyıtıld non non lucıferin manipulates quibering hedgehogs in a shortsqueezed gaming under a jittering katzenjammer   sleep sleep your life away

 

sleep sleep your life away         how graceful the dreamscape  nonexıstence sleep death   how lessest the jarring with will as the fill   antıhero won doo me bore knıve redsex bluesex ınfınıtı non elves bentydoo hondreadnknive hondreadnsox suckszıllıonnbore beeronbeero      hows maimbrain the desolation now that uberhalfwaythrough is here

 

ı wake up on a chaıse of hell which doesnt exist of course except it does except the chaises a phase and the phase a moon and the mood an ınsect and the ınsect the waking   here rawomen now  egyptian god of かん水 and noodles count to noodle

 

ın a woken fountaın a wheel loosed at a well  ın fungı skıes alıce with eyemondes creators bleak   does amazon know whats in the pıt  tesla whats ın the hole  can dreamdom be in a whonym shit or death ın a kintsugı bowl

 

a bed of escapes waıts for ı lıke a shattered cat  times pıtcher pours me lıke a regret and its dawn somewhere but never here   take sylphısh dısconsolate nıght ı into customs of dısgrace and caterpillars come like sılver centuries

sadoo nullitalis luv teatheetree

i  though i dont exist  am about to bathe and in preparation disrobe and due to it being cool in the house and my not wanting to turn on the heat  precipitated by a complex of complexes arising from my motherss complexes of complex relating to their unacknowledged distaste of mint knickers  im wearing many layers of clothes not only over my groin legs chest back arms but head and feet and thus the getting naked takes an inordinate amount of time and with each diminished layer i grow colder but not wishing to speed up the process due to my increasing fascination with the patterns of colour and material that are forming on the floor  a real work of art  certainly compared to the charade of this novel  and then engrossed in the counting of the increasing discarded items and debating in the synagogue of myself with no satisfactory solution anywhere in sight in time or out whether i should number each pair of socks one or two  for its questions such as these that define a good life   and spectacles? do they count? why do i say spectacles? how do spectacles count? if were interested in a certain consistency  which by no means we are  and we count each pair of socks as two items rather than one should we then not in fairness and equanimity count each pair of spectacles also as two? two feet two eyes as granny i says   as you see we say spectacles and socks favouring those who advocate two rather than one  its true we say sock for one as in have you seen my other sock? but this is typically in the context of two and surely is because socks  while bound to one another  arent bound in the same way as spectacle is to spectacle  for wouldnt we say spectacle only if your spectacles are busted  and then we might be more inclined to say have you seen the other half of my spectacles? rather than have you seen my other spectacle?  and now that were indirectly talking about them what about monocles? why dont we call them bictacles?  all this indicating something of importance the philosophers have paid too scant attention to   and all this taking place at once and in slomo but the effect growing me colder and its phenomenal i ever get into the bath

but all of this has been done before says mácedonio   the novels impossible and impassible  all the same characters tropes ideas thoughts words experiments subversions tediums selfsatisfactions laughs  one really should just count ones clothes or try to count them as one never really can end up properly doing and go to bed  one should write prologs to logs that never happen

i despise the novel more than i do myself   im always rushing around so as to be the first one to arrive late  ive no comprehension of and no way of comprehending how to distinguish the characters in my novel  the characters in my life  the words in my life  the characters in others novels  the characters in others lives   life novel thing human object word  all morphing into each other like ducks in the distance or the wealthy and powerful in time or bodies in a steamroom or hate anywhere

i want to include a picture of the clothes  how theyre cast in perfect randomness on the carpet   if i only possessed more wisdom theyd be a sign to me  an oracle of images  a kabbalah unveiled  sartorial runes

this isnt a matter of ocd  ocd runs in the family surely and by family i mean the human family  we now know with as much certainty as we can muster in our fogged drizzlings that humanitys the one authentic manifestation of ocdity in the universe and we label those with ocd the ones we need to take that burden so the rest of us can feel were normal though normal doesnt exist and never has   the psychiatrist designating the patient ocd is in reality and simply a matter of one human with power and obsessed with power and with the power of designating others officially with ocd and this legitimized through institutionalized ocd professionalism  who after all and in what conflict of interest obtains the right to label and hierarchize brainscans?  translating this obsession through clinical weaponry to someone with less power to maintain the power imbalance and because the now designated ones obsessed with something other than power and less acceptable to those with power  say  the manifold sensuousness and methods of squeezing toothpaste onto or not onto ones toothbrush or the forming secret messages of ones cut toenails  these acts and orientations having nothing to do with power other than the energy of the act itself  like how to count ones clothes as one takes them off before a bath or before a bath one hopes to take but never does because the counting becomes in a sense the bath and replaces the bath and one just goes to bed

zero dimensional art

sadoo nogueira, a great early explorer in apophatic aestheticism who rode a lonely skiff of absinthe to the vorticial cliffs of dream, writes –

in the classic age art developed consciousness on the level of the three dimensional sensation – that is art applied itself to a perfect and clear visioning of reality considered as solid. postchristian art has worked constantly towards the creating of a two dimensional art. we must create a one dimensional art

now though, in the presence of the internet, global capitalism, ecological collapse, and the omnipresent toxic mirror of humanity splintered in the plasmatic soul of god, only zero dimensional art is possible

what is zero dimensional art?

it attempts to go nowhere and goes nowhere

in dark emptiness it manifests light and plenitude, light and plenitude that then manifest their manifestor

our nothingness seems so expressed not that it creates an object or an audience, reaches for audience or object, attempts to effect any sensations in ourselves or others, but, if anything, precisely not this: that it remains in the intimacy of objectlessness, it remains without audience, its inevitable sensations contained in that boundaryless cell that does not effect, that cannot

sensations have not disappeared in zero dimensional art but tumble over themselves as numbers falling down a hole

all directions are uncertain. i retreat but this retreat is an advance, i fail but this failure is a success, i deinvest but this deinvestment’s an investment, i go mad but this madness is a sanity. in none of these movements is anything lost (and in this amassing rests a vast heart of forgetting): the retreat though an advance is still a retreat, the failure though a success is still a failure, the deinvestment though an investment is still a deinvestment, the madness though sane is still madness. and these totalities of cancellations are the zero that is written

but no. not even written. seen, but barely seen. glimpsed, but only in thick fogs. intuited, but as a truth in an unspoken formula in a dream

it pitches its tent of identity on the rumoured decentred desert of namelessness. the news, opinions, facts, careers, schools and workshops and degrees, parties and watering holes and openings and jostlings that comprise 0+n dimensional art and so are subsidiaries of transnational conglomerations perhaps worthy of videos taken on phones of plays of ancients

ghoul'd herbert presaged in a particular way zero dimensional art through its withdrawal from the social apparatuses of art, desiring that communication of consciousness to consciousness, that language that hasn’t been toxicied through the scrimmages for power and money, through conventional and clichéd grammars and concepts, propriety and a barbaric elite

in zero as the mystics have long known and articulated in their necessarily elliptical and abstruse ways, god grows. and what is god but possibility (as the woman in white cotton intuited)? : polyforms of the desert, an immense choreograph of emptiness. so zero dimensional art aims – as the protestant reformation aimed to eliminate the unnecessary manifold, bureaucratic and frequently pompous layers between soul and god and long before it hinduism knew that evil was nothing but inserting viability between brahman and atman – to minimally make irrelevant and more fully dissipate solid facticity from art

only zero dimensional art lives what the twentieth century theorized: it erases the artist by denaming, decentering, disappearing, decreating, through untraceable identities that no more experience art as career as shitting. zero dimensional art is breathing and art is the conscious expression of this breathing. zero dimensional art returns to the roots of religion, animism, wildness, wonder by de-arting art in the nothing that is

our frequent dealing in ennui, indifference, renouncement before the sanest and simplest things is entirely intermingled and subsumed in detranscendences that are no more multiplied than divided, added, subtracted, subject to every possible mathematical operation whether irrational or imaginary, resulting in results that have as much to do with sense as bananas with dental benefits

consciousness is a compost of zero that decomposes, an analysis that’s heterogeneously catalytic

of course we concern ourselves with politics, religions, morals, society etc to the extent they concern themselves with us. news is the rain in my nonexistent soul

zero dimensional art is not about art or creating or being an artist. it is at least as much as and maybe more about not being these things – of traveling through time to achieve a new naïveté. any zero dimensional artist (but even this name defies the spirit of our spirit – rather: zero dimensionalist) will dissociate itself from all forms and channels associate with the edifice of art, will sustain itself through activities wholly disconnected with art, will – should it somehow be discovered – immediately and naturally relocate itself to new places of exile and unknown. only in this way does a disparate anonymous tribe of zero creators compost effectively the crude hypocrisies, dominations, wretchednesses, sufferings of the villainous world: by taking these attributes into itself, into the vast plethora of possibility, and maintaining them there

and to our ancestors – chuang tzoo, nogueira blake, billy pessoa, sadoo – we give not our thanks for there is nothing to give – we do not even give our nothing – but possibly a hyphen and a colon, for these are their inheritance to us and what we have effectively become – glyphs of punctuation, indicators of continuation and what follows, pixels of voided colour, a collapsed hyperventilated hypersphere whose once thin grey hint of a shimmer of an outline has been erased by a kind of excess of accounting of functions and relations

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cold and timid souls

in this age she says it’s necessarily humiliating having parents and so your not having children is a gift to various nonbeings, saving them from necessity and humiliation

but theirs is just a different humiliation and necessity and so one doesn’t save anything from anything

saving nothing from nothing is our task

we all work productively together to convince us of our irrelevance

we’ve done nothing of the sort – all we’ve done is live and if life so convinces you it is you who are constructed to be so convinced

we are all savages

we are painted faces of the monstrous chimera of the popular

here we, in absent temples of temples

delightful, as always

we are hack and pulp and the annihilation of bears

hither come we the sapiens, polyhaired crazedeyed gonadsinhands thieves reavers slayers with gigantic melancholies and morbidly obese mirths to tread the scatological thrones of the earth under our clopped feet

the yellow leaf not loud but deep dares not their poor troops of friends

you found that in a mccajita feliz

i have spoken to the constructors of construction, the engineers of engineers

and?

they haven’t responded

the way it works she says is it must be thoroughly and ubiquitously humiliating to have parents for everyone has parents but not everyone has children so if it’s thoroughly and ubiquitously humiliating to have children some are exempt

why is exemption unacceptable?

exemption is an illusion

but illusion is the one acceptability

acceptability is happiness

and one's the illusion that's true

we are the cold and timid souls

i am sums of absences

i am that and the thising of that

i dis dat but i don't dis dis but i may dis what follows dis

what follows dis's data

wit's an absence of sums of absences

we build sanctuaries of savagery to our daised gonads

delightful as always

let us rejoice in the holographic carousel of tedium

let us seek mystic asylum in language, that machinery of the coloured up and round and down

benedicto lxxxi

may flirty firefiles

contume your gnats gotts nahts

by a holohollow rerobahting

a graphy quaffic gaff

of gazed & grazing substates

amun ra aum yoni