one
says sometimes that to enter oblivion all traces from all instances of memory
have been lost, all links to one’s name and image annihilated. and when one
says that sometimes one usually also means by memory not just those ethereal
presences in organic substances such as human brains but also in those
prosthetics often called technology, whether of now rather old-fashioned texts
or the increasingly pervasive kingdom of the digital – the purpose of the
latter often seeming to be a protest, even if a last-gasp one, against the
overwhelming evidence of oblivion’s immutable potencies
yet
memory in all of this – and so oblivion – is being defined in ways oblivion
might not share, being seemingly more flexible than those who sometimes are
found saying
when
i am lost to the memory of myself, when i am evened out in the odd odds of the
game, when i am ground down to those sticky wisps humans spray with their
convenience, when i am rubbed out my dust distributed through molecular
calendars uncelebrated by societies of the seen, is there any thoroughness or
finality, any guarantee i’m not obliviated now?
to remove a face is to find a face
oblivion
becomes you she says. what do you mean?
you become more yourself the more you don’t exist, you’re the negative sum of all
effacements
it is
in the asylum i had built for myself over years of solitude that i meet her. i
build according to a blueprint that takes into equal account the structure’s two
primary definitions – as a fortress for the mad, to keep these madnesses of an
unruly i far away from the world, and as a refuge from the mad, a space of comprehensive
architectures in which the world’s mad, what are often called citizens or the
people, do not enter, not because they are forbidden but because the ways to
the asylum are unmapped and even should one accidentally find oneself at its
blurry, unmarked and indistinguishable nidi of entry that will be about it, for
the asylum is cleverly overlain on what are called the real call reality and so
they will neither know nor see
the
trees surely won’t remember us and what has seized too many faces shall have
none
i
meet her and she smears words across my slimy smoothness. this forgetting she
says affirms endless nots of defacings. she says her name is dauby mud and i
say i have no faces left to give her. but there are always faces left for faces
always lost and oblivion just another. whether that the digital pretends to
overcome or this the text that’s been erased they are the same
slime
too sees
in
the asylum in the porch of my face i draw maps of the temples of the mad.
rambling affairs that neither point to any forms of transcendence nor offer
praise as a viable currency
the
oblivions are no more or less obliviated than any others. there are just
different protocols and rites
in
the asylum of my fallen destiny and risen void plasma is a material of choice.
our architects and engineers don’t go to your schools. we are made of mud and
creepy crawly things and the nonchalance of bears
all
one has to do for training is to open a trapdoor in any word and climb down
down
to
the broken garrets of contradiction where oblivion is obliviated and the
overlays of perception don garbs of garbage and irony is consummated
irony?
slime
too knows
to
delight in the asylum of the asylum
here
we follow a mudocracy. our gods and sport are mud
in
slime are i’m and me and is
oblivion
sometimes is just a language that isn’t spoken by those who use the word
oblivion
why
would anyone want to know they’re alive? far better to doubt
the
accumulated debris of history turns the art of simulating oblivion into a
vocation of exile
oblivion.
ioio blnv. boil vino bio liv on
