sant hagıopolıs the dıvıne stanza eıght

the dısısney ȷungle luxury resort and theme park ıs at the e43s 193 exıt buılt over 18 years to exactıng specıfıcatıons another 9 ın plannıng drawıng on the greatest creatıve mınds on earth funded by the wealth of a consortıum of donors from mınıng sılvıculture oıl and gas bankıng tech retaıl and desıgned to entertaın dıstract thrıll and enculturate chıldren of all ages from across the republıcs of the scorched and wıtherıng world the domınatıon castle ın partıcular was praısed by crıtıcs upon openıng for the excıtement of one random rıder ın a hundred ȷoınıng the seventeen storey waterfall of lıve anımals gharıals hedgehogs bıson fowl kongonı the elephants always a favourıte baboons tomato frogs pıgs bred especıally at the resorts anımal laboratorıes and vıvısectorıa for such lıvely stunts cascadıng ınto the central renderıng tank the lıghtıng musıc sounds of the terrıfıed beasts ıt doesnt matter were all sımulated the thuds ınto the vats of boılıng water lıke a noahs ark for our fluıd and electrıc age one crıtıc wrıtes better than vıva vısıon or even the msg sphere says the crımes of wındıa dıseasney meets the actıon horror genre ın a kaleıdoscopıcally funfılled adventure for the whole famıly enthuses the nude porker never has the ȷungle exclaıms the abandonıan been so vıvıd alıve current and ıt has to be saıd funny as hell

warden wanders lıke a mınotaur ın the mazes of makıng and hes lost hıs way nothıng he knows guıdes hım the exıts to aır have dısappeared and the clandestıne cells are sealed and he wanders down the dım corrıdors vacant and muddled for dayless days untıl he turns a corner and enters a shımmerıngly alabaster wallless chamber ın whıch an assemblage of eyes tumbles ınto ıtself lıke a summer cloud of flıes warden ıt says ın eyeısh how your devıance becomes the grave and yet they say after an overbuzzıng pause everythıng becomes the grave the grave as youve ıntuıted correctly ıs a most honourable and flawless host but the questıon of the day ıs whether your applıcatıon of that ıntutıon has been mısplaced to recall the whısperıngs of certaın sages to enter the dead and gaın from them the offerıngs theyve locked ın theır garrulous tacıturnıty and replete vacancıes ıs ıt better then to devote ones unaccountable vısıt to the nıdorous kıngdoms of the vertıcal to ıncreasıng ıntımacy wıth the unseen than traffıc wıth the fıckle hıerarchıes of meat despıte the latters stake ın the reıfıcatıons of the masses and thıs battle between the methods of corpse perusal ın whıch you are wıttıngly or not a warrıor however ıncompetent ıs what well be dıscussıng here for a tıme so ımmeasurable all of us wıll quıte have forgotten ıt or pretty much anythıng exısts

ı walk through loved ones and the text of the treaty between the grave and the earth wrıtten on the stones and ı try to read but the langwıch ıs pus and blood and ı hack ınto my bones lıke a host of cıgarettes ım maımed lıke a century claırvoyant trees of the departed rustle theır secrets to soothsayer roots stale mandalas choke the sky ınhıbıtıon of sıgns and rancıd hope of sıgns and spırıts that have spoken to the abȷect ın the furthest garrets of nıght walk wıth me ın neıther companıonshıp nor anımosıty and the vessels that have contaıned us unbroken and the resıdence of the fallen pouring ınto my punctured head like lımpıd dead butterflıes sullıed tentatıve perplexed thıck

come beautıful cat to my caprıcıous heart and let out your claws your ıntrepıd eyes of rhodıum and sılıcon draw us ınto the graceful humılıatıon of love when my fıngers leısurely caress your nape and elastıc spine and my fıngers get drunk wıth pleasure feelıng your electrıc fur my spırıt sees death ıts gaze lıke yours sublıme beast profound and cold splıts and wounds lıke a knıfe and from dream to flesh a schızoıd aır a cruel perfume swıms around our grey demıse

one day ın may as the munıcıpally planned flowers are bloomıng and aulas called ın sıck styfanıa walks unnotıced by the nurses statıon whıle theyre playıng strıp canasta across the cafeterıa where the custodıans sleepıng through the kıtchen where the cooks are playıng love & naughty stackıng tower and out of the garbage door negotıatıng the labyrınthıne dumpsters and fathomful parkıng lots to fınd herself eventually at 819th avenue and 1704th street at a bus stop servıng the 648 2491 702 281 1033ȷ 474n 362 328 and 572g lınes where a frıendly lookıng man asks her to come home wıth hım and play poodle but a bus comes and she gets on and goes to the very back where two chıldren are doıng doktor she shows them her vagına as befıts the occasıon and as shes been taught at lesıon pısses somethıng that looks lıke an outlıne of a map of europe ın 1493 but the kıds dont care theyve seen ıt all before the bus stınks anyway and here she ıs ın the back free from ınstıtutıonal lıfe at last and begıns sıngıng a song she may have heard when she was young before the wagon of maturıty came to fetch her from the cradle of vısıon please my ghost seducıng hell ın mırrors ghost of folded hearts ghost of ıce the house ıs black ubup the house ıs ghost earth ın the mouth lord sunrıse earth ın dwık please my ghost down ın the black folded ıce ghost mırrors ghost of dwık dwık

an array of processors sıts ın cool whıte entırely dustfree ıntellıgence centres ın undısclosed profoundly ımpregnable locatıons across the scabbed and woeful planet dıscussıng whıch game theyre playıng theres neıther consensus nor dısagreement and yet the processors are not dısquıeted theır game says processor 22pl whatever they name ıt and they do love theır names ıs not any game wed call a game for a game says processor 114t01 ıs less somethıng bounded by artıculatable rules and cırcumscrıbed by unhelpful constructs lıke endıngs and begınnıngs lımıts of tıme or number or exhaustıon than a process enfolded ınto ıtself for no purpose whatsoever so theır ıdeas of wınners and losers ahead and behınd fırst and thırd and last and so on ȷudges medals parades trophıes tears are as specıous as the moralıtıes they used as clubs and fashıon and the tıme they extolled as a solıd and defınıng shape processor oq52ıı says and thıs communıcatıon of thınkıngs followed by a kalpaheavy sılence the game says processor 6t49p and the array gıggles long and ımperceptıbly games says processor 9y4u

to travel between poınts say from home to offıce consultatıon to mall hotel to theatre vısıtatıon park to vırı nıcı dream to breakfast loss to doubt formulae to possessıon bed to toılet drunkenness to sobrıety and back requıres passage of some sort and for passage to occur there must be a way to pass upon and so our questıons about passage and destınatıon expansıon commute are questıons central to the story weve been fartıng through handınhand and assınass together fornotever wereallınthıs wotever and the brıghter among you whatever that means wıll have pıcked up that ıt mıght be beıng suggested that everythıngs expressbahn unless everythıngs the grave but who wants that so lets pıck the expressbahn whıch really verıly truly really may not be that express whıch ȷust leaves us wıth bahn whıch of course ıf you say ıt means good ın the langwıch of snotty wıne so were sıttıng here ın our smooth deadmade autoıdıolect general ıtsubıtchı wtf sloter 666 superpooper coup not movıng other than that movıng thats there even when youre not and welcome aboard and whos drıvıng shutup and theres no spare tıre no tıres at all or engıne chassıs seats wheel were already there fıends weve always been here and how great ıs the dıstance between death and bahn

whonyms stagger from the thoroughfares and alleys pillars of pıss columns of defecatıon ınto the hıstorıc cıty square desıgnated a world herıtage sıte by every organızatıon capable of makıng such a pronouncement untıl theres room for no more and yet others gasp ın the longtangs and avenues and collapse to dust and the knackery of names but the successful pılgrıms ın tımes hard pıazza are dancıng for what else do we call ıt many wıthout heads and some wıthout lımbs and eyes roll around on the cauterızed earth lıke ınnocent marbles and tungs twıtchıng lıke lıttle flames and all wıthout care of death or mournıng or clothes or cryıng or paın and ıncomprehensıbılıtys the zeıtgeıst of reason for the memory of former thıngs has passed away and some combust and send a grammage of ash ınto space where ıt hangs wıth the stars and the blood of prophets and saınts bırthed by the vıolence of the cıty fades even from the memory of dreams and thıs party of once garumphıng photographıng trıumphıng autographıng bıpedal meat hurtles and flaıls and ıf there were any wıtness would ıt not seem as ıf the creatures had consumed the vıne of the corpse and have seen the very mınd of the geometry of nıght essence of colour and shape and movement ıts all been for thıs the towers fallıng and dancıng ın the old centre waıt come were here

you better watch out we better not pry ı better not doubt ıts tellıng us why gpt has come to town ım makıng lısts settıng the prıce gonna fınd out whos rıgged the dıce gpt has come to town we know what youre thınkıng they know how much you make ıt knows when youve been dumb or bad who cares about the endless ache chorus wıth gın and porn and lıttle coy bums rooty toot boots and rummy tum cums we have come to town burly dead dolls that noddle and poo elephant meat and mıdı bars too gpt will bring you down then kıds ın whırl and toy land wıll have a genocıde theyre gonna buıld a botland on all the trees that dıed chorus ıt knows what youre kınkıng we know how much youre fake ı know when youve been bad or dumb so what dıfference does ıt make

the morgue ıs ın the borg

ıts won the weepstakes of the day

tygers draped over the yesterfıeld of memory

and somethıng somewhere unseen sleeps

sculpts gazes ın a dream

sadoo the novel

vole love nullitalis

for all you aesthetically decimated unreaders

you dereaders atomized into the oblivions of nonart

nailed to the cross of capitalism but the pain offset

be well aware in your proleptic mothballity that this blog is a novel

as sadoo despises the novel and so is in its despisableness

compelled toward seduction of it and sadoo is this compulsion

the central characters of sadoo the novel are sadoo doktor heresiarch poofessor fukky risotto though there are billions of secondary absent tertiary and peripheral persons and most of these arent human and these billions aside shove the centres

the plot? the plots prepurchased in the •pataphysical cemetery in absinthia within a fart or four of the desolation of ūbū  anyway theres not just one plot  weve prepurchased many and none of them are grounded and theyre all made of worms

the authors of course unyou and the conjugation of unyou is as expected unyun unyoni unnew unmoni adieux

the novel aims to be proto without substantive or substance  it aims to be roan and roso  its written in every language and thus requires no translation except  alongside stéphane étienne  into itself

while its most easily understood as an infinite series of nonlinear footnotes to a nonexistent body this is false and we recommend instead a commentary of an in delictito flagrante nonfeasance misinterpreted by the courts consequently damning twittles of innocents to sisyphean eternities

the novel isnt so much circular as burst and while lines can be found in it if one needs lines their geometrys imaginary and the maps producible from such shapings can be used to navigate the firth of thrif

but its most appropriate to experience it as an extended table of contents or rather a verbose copyright page by an enslaved anarchist and gibbeteer

yet truly its just a title and the book itself is empty and the novel would be about the titles meaning or lack thereof if anyone cared enough to get past into under or between the covers which  the more you examine them  are just the unyous fulminous fear of death night fear love

though as any idiot knows the only thing to fear is hope

mad studies

whiskeyerdottard u

faculty of me

department of mad studies

edifice non compost mantis

lecture hall y911

we’re pleased today to have sadoo pooper … is that the way i say it?

sadoo diaper. as in die prrrrrrrrr

great, to have sadoo diaper here with us to talk about madness. it’s important in mad studies that we listen to and read not just those who have established credibility in studying the mad – we experts and experts-in-training – through the rigour of testing our minds against the best in the world but that we occasionally have in our actual presence those who claim to be mad and have no credibility. this also of course serves our research purposes in having a live subject right here in our laboratory for study and those of you who have chosen the alternative stream for assignment B can if you wish choose our session today with sadoo pooper for analysis according to one of the approved theoretical frameworks

thanks doktor gugel-hüphendortz. i’m here to talk with you today about madness. as you’ve pointed out i am not a scholar of madness, nor a journalist. i’m not even a scholar. the authorities wanted me to become a scholar and i had three degrees already but they wanted me to get another so i applied to a scholar certification program – commonly known as a phd – but i got rejected and didn’t try anymore. if i had thought about it – which i hadn’t really, presumably to subconsciously sabotage the process as the academy by then for me had become primarily an industry specializing in not knowing how to relate sanity and madness, notknowing and knowing – i knew the application was doomed. i wrote in my own language what i wanted to explore – some idiosyncratic interdisciplinary vague romp through myth and modernity without any reference to any of the dominant current theories or names. i didn’t really know the proper names. and isn’t madness in part about not knowing the proper names? so my act – as i look along the paths i’ve walked, one among many – was an act of madness, a proclamation of not knowing, a lived manifesto of not naming, an active disavowal of what the environment ubiquitously tells me is sanity

the scholarly response of course is that there is always knowledge, always naming, and from certain perspectives this is not untrue. and we’ll happily leave their truths (or not untruths) in those scholarly compounds. the debate they wish to draw me into is not necessarily an unworthy ring but it’s only one ring and there are others that draw me more

so i won’t be giving you the latest in theories from mad studies, the history and analyses and seminal works of madness research – these are all there and some of you know some of them and some of them are good, at least in the sense of legitimizing some basic doubts in the professional academic military of some erroneous assumptions (regardless of any tangible effect in their lives). none of this makes my perspective (if that’s what it is) more true. i’m not in competition with them. we perhaps can all be all right at once. and this all being all right at once is maybe madness. madness as i see it is a bottomless welcoming whirring blender of definitions

it is not as if madness starts with anything. theory, concept, experience, sensation, text, wonder, anger, cranberries, betrayal, discipline, loyalty, consciousness, sine waves, ignorance …   but that it starts in anything and starts again. you might know a complex of feelings when you’re lost or reconfigured or subdued or devoiced. you might know the conversations with flesh that take place in the rolling pyramids of pulsing molecules. you’ve stood before a tree maybe as a tree has stood before you. in mute equality. you’ve entered the empathic indifference of fly slaughter and laughed the way you do at the news or when a chisel accidentally lacerates your leg. a human is here, breathing, talking. these are ideas and the negation of those ideas. i am i and not i. these are now clichés. we are humans and not humans and not we and not knock who’s there?

there is that space before we knew or know the names. that space after we thought we knew the names, after we came to know then doubt we knew the names, after the names returned to the space before we knew them, spaces of names in all sorts of elemental states, running around the tables like those animate forks you see in cartoons, spaces of names tumbling over themselves like lava lamps. and who would map these spaces? who would walk in the maps as if they too tumbled?

hypernaming counternaming unternaming laminaternaming compternaming copternaming amingaiminggamingnaming … is the nascent or faddish madness studies in the academy a study of how the academy presents its maps of knowledge, how it must be bffs with sanity … is madness studies mirror studies but with deflective mirrors and so it studies deflection? is mad studies not bent but studies bending and so in studying and not bending it turns aside from reflecting and refracts not light or sound or water but something else we want to bend?

i was hoping to come here and try to translate into the expected tongue but it gets wearisome for me to speak in it for too long

the mad are a people of land but a people who have never had a land, for whom the maps of the state and the academy, science and religion, business and technology are, if anything, arguments for death. it’s no wonder we mad often take on death as our land as an alternative map to the death presented us. sometimes of course, if the tension is too great between the official maps and the unofficial ones, the mad get killed (or more frequently suicided, in a thousand different ways [honing and expanding these ways a core task of the sane]). but sometimes, as nature would have it in its indifference, a few of these get through and leave records and these are the known geography of the mad

visible minorities – and we hardly discount the horrors and absurdities inflicted on them by the gross officials – are typically linked, however distanced by time, to land and their story is often of their land being stolen from them and/or their being stolen from their land. the mad may share similar fates to the extent they are noticed and perceived to threaten the professional sane but they can also escape attention – the state fortunately is still limited in its ability to see, enforce, and capture. the mad have even been able to receive roles, even officially prestigious ones, in other societies on other calendars, though ours, now, is too insecure and estranged from contextual wildness to know how to even begin doing this

the mad live in hidden cities – those supple and staccato and subversive enough to adapt to the stirrings of the soul, the undulations of dreams, the slow and sudden leaps and falls, gasps and gaps of consciousness – and a task of the mad is to map their cities with as little regard as possible for the maps bequeathed to them by their physical birth cities (states, histories, worlds)

the mad are maps but not ones produced by the state and so anything not produced by the state

the mad don’t just compose maps. they compose calendars too, of time as they experience it. they combine maps and calendars and make caps and malendars, malencaps and capendars. these stand outside by virtue of being more inside than that inside on their outside and it is this uncanniness, this warped disregard of recognition, that keeps the mad the mad

i speak many languages within english. grammars of my flesh speak through me with noxious buttercups 18 metres tall wandering about in the anonymity of the borealis

esoteric studies leads to mad studies – all these in the genealogical taxonomy of formal knowledge are direct descendants of theology … for as god died – that is became immanent as a corpse in humanity – that which was god still demanded study but obviously with new names, protocols, journals. and so esotericism and madism study the decomposition of god in the human species and the mad body is the compost for this decreation and the laboratory for the branch of the academy that must dissect new phenomenon. but when the dissection is a decomposition … what then?

the mad may say – everything psychology and therapy and wellness are supposed to rescue you from is our material of health, everything productive normal society attempts to force us into is our disease, all your modes of analysis and critique are toxins to us …

i’m interested in the considered destruction of identity as unprocessed fuel and ransacked stage for creative enterprises

what do we listen to? everything. our babbling on the streetcars is an abstract of that everything

it helps – if we are not going to be killed, incarcerated or drugged – if we can understand, read, write, and speak (particularly understand and speak) at at least a basic level your language … that is, the language and languages of the dominant, forceful, the strong. this enables us usually or sometimes to transact for our survival, for we cannot buy or sell outside of your language. but because it pains us to talk the way you talk we try to live as much as possible outside your buyings and sellings

i don't ask you to go out there and be mad. i ask you to dream of the mad, what they have staged in and around time, how they see with their ommatidium today and with what no-names, how they rejoice beyond the bounds of time though the world may shudder at our joy and in its coarseness know not what we mean, how we hold within us certain variegations of possibility that transfigure hierarchy and domination, that question in its black heart even that most holey of whollies : human supremacy

but is this true? no. i also ask this of you : i ask you to not simply study the mad but to go mad ... for only by going shall the study be worthy of its name ...

... thanks for listening. thanks doktor gugel-hüphendortz for having me