diaper dialogues xii

do i doubt night, home of doubt?

day doubts night, i let day doubt through me

your pride is my shame, your modesty my abandon

you look like a mad scientist

what do you mean? – i am a mad scientist

everyone hides in themselves, like memories in dreams. we’re nested vapours

more like vipers

most like diapers

it glides between irrational conceptual tyrannies and impossible tolerances

these extensive resources – variously biased and prescriptive – for myriad professionally dictated conditions. the available resources for aesthetic mystics, however, are only in the expressions of the condition itself – apophatic art, direct expressions of unknowns

that’s some manual

science is a codification of poetry for those uncomfortable with ambiguity

science is a present necessity presenting as prescience

our nescience is our science

what did the mad hatter say to alice?

had matter mared the pater killer a hinge of carts dreamt budder dreams

reality’s lost reality

it’s not only the center that cannot hold

is the mirror really only one direction?

too late

i was feeling masochistic and wanted a dose of your intellectual violence

what you name so glibly superciliousness is rather an undiscovered species of humility

the kalacakra tantra prophesies that when the world declines into war and greed, and all is lost, the 25th kalki will emerge from shambhala to vanquish dark forces and usher in a worldwide golden age

i had persimmon banana almond sunflowerseed driedcranberry sproutedgoldenflaxseedmeal maplesyrup garbanzomilk chia oats for breakfast today

i’m autotelic, hypnopompic, and apophatic – show me a job requiring those skills

i explore the interstitial gyres in the nidi of consciousness and society. having thrived in banking, information technology, communication, pedagogy and curricula, community arts, strategic planning, and policy development, attention is now turned to synthesizing years of research using integral posttraditional methods of analysis and language delivery. knowledge – polyphonic, contradictory, barely human – requires novel ways of derepresentation in this age of the increasing incapacity, destruction, and force of judeochristiancapitalism

want parmesan garlic potato chips

we have conversed

yes, we have conversed

communication is the new nothing

we vibrate in quintessent zeropoint radiation to frequencies of phantom vacuum energy

quintoms for all!

-->

my biography

little has been said these long and secret years about the days and spaces of sadoo diaper – from whence farflung turds it arose, its innumerable flushings, the journeys of the scats, how it came to be numbered – if numbers are aspects of itself – among the sadoos, the incomprehensible ramblings of this blog itself, sadoo diaper’s relations with other sadoos and the non-sadoo community, its political positions, sexual preferences, and seminal influences, scholarly theories of its psychoaesthetics … all this has been left to the reader’s vivid or more likely mundane imagination.

no more.

fukky risotto, a hermaphrodite of little renown living happenstantially in the 13^th arrondissement, was not quite out of diapers when one cloudy day in february they felt a strange urging in the nether parts.

mommy, they say.

yes fukky dear, says mommy.

mommy, i have a strange feeling.

you have many strange feelings fukky.

this strange feeling is stranger cuz i’ve never had it before.

each feeling is new fukky, there’s never a feeling you’ve had before, that’s the beauty of feelings and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

don’t get philosophical on me mommy, not at a time like this.

oh fukky – always so dramatic.

mommy, it’s my diaper.

this is the fourth time today!

it’s not the caffeine, it’s something else.

have you been into the coconut water again?

it’s alive mommy.

what’s alive?

my turd.  it’s walking around in my diaper and saying things.

fukky, turds don’t talk.

maybe it’s not a turd.

but only turds come out of the asshole.  i mean – they’re the only things that come out that haven’t gone in first.

mommy you lie you lie.

of course i lie.

you said that all outputs are inputs and all inputs outputs, that the world is a great circle or sphere or hypersphere or something and that everything’s connected.

that’s true.  but that doesn’t discredit anything else i’ve said.  or rather it may discredit it but only in a way that credits.

… so whatever’s exploring my diaper now must have first gone in me … omigod i think it’s broken out …

… fucking jesus, i see a little hand print in your little trousers …

… get it out of me mommy, get it out …

… just pull down your pants and let’s see what happens …

fukky and their mommy were good to me, especially since they weren’t expecting a third mouth to feed and didn’t really have much money, being committed primarily to verbal play, speculative caprice, irrational fun, and composting the world’s evils by ignoring them.  fukky called me diaper and mommy called me doodoo and because i was a melancholic child she often called me sadoodoo.  when they enlisted me in school they gave my name as sadoodoo diaper, which got shortened to sadoo diaper, as these things do.

it wasn’t until much later that i realized there was a large class of sadoos – all of them crammed into india – and they misspelled their names.  being committed to retaining the proper spelling and origins of myself, i left – after much weeping and the promise of tweets and postcards – to go on a quest to find other true sadoos.  surely, i reasoned – and mommy if she taught me anything taught me reason – if i had been born into a diaper others must have been too.

the secular sadoo is the record of my quest, in a kind of code, that i know other sadoos with a little bit of work can decipher.  as to the fake sadoos and all those heaps of masses that aren’t even the fake ones, as fukky always says, who gives a fukky about them?