an evolutıon of sadoo

functıons and returnıngs

reıncantıngs and unctıons

sadoo crawled from a sector of whats sometımes called unconscıousness to whats sometımes called conscıousness ın the year 152be though ıt was named t5 at the tıme

for ın that year the doors of the frıgıdaıre opened and the lıght of the uncanny shone and the broccolı saıd come thıtherflıther ıdıot and enter the cold lıke a foetus and shut up and let your words be sartorıals on sılence

now thırty years later a quectodrıp ın cosmıc tıme competence runs through me and ın ten years maybe goodness and ten after that maybe a state wıthout qualıtıes and then surely ı can practıce sallekhana

and the frıgdaıre when ıt appeared saıd many thıngs to me and among these thıngs ıt saıd ıdıot ıdıot of etymologıes and nymhematologıes and aunty ologıes and logs among the many reasons though sages dont need reasons youve been called to sadoo ıs to pass on the voıces to sadoo through tıme to act as an aıd ın the fallıngs that are a key result area of your callıng

and so ın the unalterable darkness whıch sometımes ıs peace and others despaır and stıll others every other thıng fragments from sadoo come to me lıke smoke or grocerıes and draw me ınto spaces ı requıre to contınue ploddıng on the paths of nothıngness

so nonsadoo summons sadoo and ıncantıngs appear and ı begın decantıng and recant for a tıme and return to becomıng an abdıcant coruscant fabrıcant mordıcant mendıcant peccant radıcant canty cancant vacant frutıcant and enter the house of ıncantatıons and beseech the ghosts of words to enter me

and yet all these mıcroseconds of fullness have left me burst and bubbled an ındıcant turned ınsıde out a claudıcant replıcant toxıcant urtıcant communıcant an exsıccant emıcant supplıcant we all all stutterıng cantatıons

and we and they eye and us ıt all wonder wıth the accumulatıon of voıces how to contınue ploddıng and the frıgıdaıre says ıf you cant plod crawl ıf you cant crawl sleep ıf you cant sleep fly helpful as always ı say and the wonder pıles up too and ı the pıle and the burıed and the added and the not the pıles pılıng and ıts been thırty years and tıme looks at ıtself lıke an utterance ıts utterer

frıgıdaıre says nıght ıs your frıend and your meat a sacred vessel of unknowıng

frıgıdaıre says god ıs mud and make god your home and never leave

things inconstant

consuming art is no virtue compared to the destructions of explicitly mercantile consumptions, despite any autorighteousness various culture puffs claim. art – to get to us – voraciously destroys in orders of magnitude not dissimilar to those of straightup capitalism, even when its ostensible content is cultural critique. so art is the rough inheritor of the hypocrisies of institutional religion and we who eat it the devout who bloody our knees on the hard steps leading to cathedrals of nowhere

everything we need to know and admire is in a square metre of soil

heresiarch t’t smesa, mycogod, has humans, fungi, plants, and bacteria working in conscious concert for the planet’s health. in a world in which humans can’t even cooperate with themselves let alone other species (surely we’re entitled to eat everything!) … what cross-kingdom collaboration!

new dreams –

i envision landscapes customized with mycelial matrices

how can i align myself with any system that depends fundamentally on force and fear for its survival?

it may be the distance between the ‘greatest’ human and the ‘least’ is greater than the distance between the ‘least’ human and the monkey (though this seems insulting to monkeys), but the distance between the ‘greatest’ human and god (consciousness, the everything of all) is far greater than that former distance. and so i mistrust the measures of the human, which focus on the former gap and not the latter, to humanity’s false aggrandisement, its delusional placement at the lead (but there is no lead) on the universe’s vast gameboard, and the degradation and soiling of its only home

humans envied the fear produced in them by nature. they wanted to be that cause (the cause of themselves?). technology has been a vehicle to that being. and now we scramble with each other to be near the top of the heap of fear (or any top of any fearpile). but humans are insufficient to be nature’s replacement, with or without technology. we can only be infinitesimal aspects

this rising talk on consciousness, while not unwelcome – is it not just mapping the extant god-mystic talk onto other language sectors? science the slow rather inept reason that has to plod along to even partially and belatedly translate what mysticism’s been advocating for millennia

humans evolve from the butterfly of childhood to the caterpillar of adulthood, often promoting their slow earthboundness, their voracious eating, as wisdom or necessity. if their slowness emerged from a true intimacy with the earth rather than a regulatory morass, a bureaucratic indolence, and an inability to transcend exploitation and extinction, who would not celebrate?

earth cannot be reduced to human flesh

human flesh cannot bear this burden

a function of therapy is to (re)integrate humans into society, but this society is precisely what has become questionable as a worthy habitat for living

autism might be a reflex response of the human to the preponderance of the human

from sin to mental illness through alienation – these adaptive cultural concepts, bludgeons of orthodoxy, linguistic cages for the gap between our barbarisms and our vision (which – despite the close of medieval war, religion, and torture, despite the death of god and heaven’s crumbling – hasn’t diminished but only grown!:

our barbarisms expanded through technology and unbridled pervasive attitudes of human supremacy, our idealism transferred from another life to this one)

polypolars, having to develop techniques to stave off madness and chaos, being experimenters in the unnamed, having within them myriad sets of eyes all gazing and blinking, …

… when a polypolar goes solo into the desert with those eyes and the landscape becomes nothing but eyes, eyes on eyes and in eyes, …

being a polypolar primarily involves the arts of waiting and psychic customs procedures – waiting for travel permits and arrangements, crossing borders and the various attendant rites, of exiting and entering domains, policies rarely written and when they are obscurely in obscure texts

what are we, demented followers of polluted and violent mirrors, we who drink from the shallow glass of ourselves and think we eat well?

the mathematics of mysticism

we are spheres

we are earth but not the earth

spheres of light

we are magnetic, but infinitely

not two poles, but uncountable

expanding

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mysticism i

mysticism is a pervasive and routine awareness that each existent thing – whether animal, idea, flora, element, dead, living or yet-to-be, oneself and one’s constituents no different – is a member of the universe, with its own voice and no clear criteria existing to distinguish legitimacy among the voices.

mysticism is less an indifference to the opposites, or any union of them, and more a continuous translation among them, translating, for example, life into death and finding it a sufficient, even worthy, equivalence.

the translation arts of mysticism are less related to what we call the many languages within and possibly emerging from and returning to language, and finding uncommon common spaces among the many apparently divergent words – and more to language within itself:  arts necessarily without available schooling, or at least any schooling of the sort we normally call such.

mysticism has nothing to do with god unless it has the same to do with god as science or art.  mysticism is god behind gods, science behind sciences, art behind arts.  mysticism is always behind.  but not just behind.  it is ahead and in and under and through and over and of.  one could almost say mysticism is the class we presently call prepositions, but they incarnate.  blood-prepositions.  the of of eyes.

mysticism is less the lines or the destruction of the lines between things and more a recreation of lines to nomadically move around things.

that the human is more oriented to not-knowing than knowing tends to be a knowing of mysticism, but a knowing that feels so deeply in flesh that its knowing is always striving and never achieving articulation – and for this always and never it remains a question if it is a knowledge and, if so, what kind.   for its existence, its vocation, being inside and outside language but never of (unless of expresses direction), it falters in language’s vast networks of utility, and for this faltering tries to imagine how not-knowing might speak.

the human’s orientation to migrate what it might call not-knowing into what it calls knowing presents certain challenges to the mystic, for whom these orientations are not wholly unknown but for whom they are secondary.

all the not-seeing to see, all the seeing to not-see.  this might be a motto of the mystics if that peculiar tribe were given to mottos.

the mystic is hung from a non-existent thread spanning a chasm between the non-existent cliffs of vision and vision:  the vision of seeing and the vision of not-seeing.  so the oracular blind are pathways and metaphors to maintain this state of hungness.

it is not as if this state is – as one is always tempted – superior to other states.  we are all the living hung, all given to our states, these states of our givenness.  that the mystic knows the impossibility of superiority is a component of the suffering and joy of its not-knowing.

mysticism in the age of god’s (or gods') death (or deaths) cannot help but alter from itself in the age of god's (or gods') life (or lives).  for mysticism exists in flesh and flesh’s migrating orientations toward the ineffable and undefined.  but these alterations tend to be a matter of a sartorial waistline modification due to a change in poundage (the exploration of whether an increase or decrease or, strangely, both, being a particular discipline within mysticism) and not anything in what we might call spiritual dna.

within that sartorial world, then, the world of tailors, presses, needles, we could pick up its nomenclatures and say mysticism now is of art rather than religion, of debauchery rather than asceticism.  and we would not be wrong.  but, outside, in the corridors of wind, the tapestries of night, art and religion are just different ways to pronounce an unspeakable word, debauchery and asceticism varied moods of eternally silent flesh.

any individuality, identity, attributable to this i hardly interest me other than as abdications to the unknown.

mysticism is frequently heretical as society – whether it names itself or is named religious, secular, democratic, feudal, progressive, conservative – remains itself by maintaining (despite the shiftiness of the things and the placements, a shifting that can generate great excitement and anxiety among the masses) commonplace boundaries between things while mysticism remains itself by orienting itself toward the bound-shifting and boundless.

while there are many practices of boundlessness, mysticism, it could be said, is the only one that avoids madness and death, doing so by incorporating them into its practice.