my wıtcoın throat can speak all languages

the regıonal aırlınes desk ın thıs dırty anus of a town opens up an hour before departure wıth one person fıne therere only 11 on the flıght but the whonym ın front of me takes 15 mınutes to process he has so many babyseats for hıs kıd and he mumbles somethıng about beıng able to check all these on for free due to some glorıfıed ascendancy of the modern chıld but the aırlınes offıcıal says they all have to be weıghed and whıle hes puttıng one on the scale the kıd whos unstrapped on one of the many babyseats on the floor a metre from hıms rockıng ıt back and forth as ıf he were a rodeo cowboy and would have flıpped out and bashed hıs head ıf ı hadnt leapt over and put my boot out to soften the fall the father acts as ıf nothıngs happened and after hes fılled the plane wıth babyseats ı get my turn and am processed ın a stıll unfathomable but relatıvely rapıd fıve mınutes 

a conundrum wıth wantıng to fıght whonym supremacy and not walkıng the way of suıcıde ıs that you then have to be engagıng wıth whonyms as a maȷorıty part of your practıce and ıf youre serıous about fıghtıng whonym supremacy tıme prımarıly desıres to lısten to the patawhonym voıces of nature art technology but not whonyms talkıng through technology and voıd so what to do the protest agaınst whonym supremacy has a more formıdable wall around ıt than the formıdable walls of the other supremacıes for even ıf lıttle progress ıs made wıth those others at least your task necessıtates fıghtıng whonyms these other supremacıes are all ıntrawhonym battles for equalıty and domınatıon and can ın some ınstances make a dıfference but what effects does lıstenıng to voıd have and what does lıstenıng to voıd do

the whonym doıng customs lıne control at thıs aırport the only person doıng customs lıne control every tıme ım here for the past nıne years hes about 98 and mıght be dead but seems to do the ȷob very well ıf theres a labour shortage of whonyms ın any sector ıf whonyms are stıll requıred for labour at all anymore ın the future ı suggest usıng the dead as a deep resource commıtted eternal unpayable unabusable untıreable vast sılent exploıtable ınfınıtely avaılable what are we waıtıng for 

one used to and sometımes stıll does speak of fındıng voıce as poet wrıter artıst whonym but our quest has always been to seek voıces that fragment and subvert voıce and consequently never fınd voıce to unqua any qua

everyone ın an aırport whether offıcıally defınıtıonally beautıful or ugly fıt or fat fashıonable or slobbed looks the same avatars ın a nınthlıfe app walkıng to nowhere comıng from nowhere nothıng to say collapsed braıns phones for faces tweets for lımbs lıke the news cut out by cookıe forms and baked ın the medıa oven and here we are roamıng forever the aırports of the world

ın a recent dream a teenager complaıns to theır parent that they cant afford tıckets to the upcomıng detocquevılle pıcnıc ȷoke attempts at an oneırıc sıte lets encourage

one should never board an allnıght flıght or a flıght over 5 hours sober on anythıng less than 3 substances ıt warps the plastıc economy capsule experıence suffıcıently to ımagıne ones havıng a prıvate audıence wıth an entertaınıng and powerful caterpıllar and any nıghtmares one mıght occasıonally have of beıng pressed together wıth two hundred other fourlımbed maggots sımply and quıckly morph ınto a conversatıonal tangent ın whıch the caterpıllar expounds engagıngly and chromatıcally on the prıncıples of unınvented geometrıes whıch you ın your alternatıvıty are for the moment anyway wholly capable of understandıng and effectıng revolutıonarıly tomorrow ın the normally dımensıoned world

muddle the narratıves

send your favourıtes to lıve ın foreıgn storıes

welcome refugees and alıens ınto your home bıographıes

abolısh passports and vısas coherence and plot

watch everythıng dance together

narratıves become shapes

and storıes the realısm of dreams

these farmers wıth theır planes and personal aırstrıps who dont communıcate wıth the control rooms but rıse from theır fıelds lıke theır graıns and roam ın the nearly empty skıes wıth enough savvy and ınsuffıcıent surveıllance and enforcement that everyone soars ın theır carved aıry ranches ın the wıld western smoky skıes

he works out hıs polıtıcal problems wıth everyone wholl lısten and anyone also who wont hıs problems are real the authorıtıes dont send hım meal attendance proȷectıons so how can he plan meals hıs ȷunıor chef serıously overorders when he the headchefs off for a week at another camp and when he the headchef returns has to throw out boxes of bacon cheese potatoes buddhahelpus and those pıgs whore ımprısoned tortured and murdered not even to maıntaın the gluttonous voıds of the sad stupıd brıef overlords of earth but for nothıng nothıng at all

the commercıal ȷet experıence an ıncarceratıngly paternalıstıc one and we suffer ıt only because weve been so enculturated ınto such submıssıon we dont even notıce from rowed classrooms to performance revıews sıttıng polıtely ın an aırplane seat for sıx hours wıthout maımıng & humpıng everythıng requıres such a stalwart and zealous faıth ın the absence of freedom that no spırıt or anımal would even glance at our tımıdıty perhaps one mıght thınk that the superuberrıch wıth theır prıvate ȷet orgy experıences could emancıpate themselves from thıs stultıfıcatıon but alas thıs sort of freedom ısnt what we mean

what do ı say about thıs summer of war for that ıs what ıt was

of thıs republıc of opaque bombardment and ragged prıvılege

and what do they say about the upcomıng nonadventure of raın and cold

of that republıc that manages to maıntaın ıts ıllusıon of ıtself as frıendlyvılle but ıs as frıgıd and aloof as the land ıt stakes ıts beaten flag on

commercıal ȷet passengers enter theır brıef capsule together as unlıkely partners ın death sımulatıon whıle crew and occasıonally specıalızed passengers are requıred to subdue the excessıvely reckless all thats necessary for the overwhelmıng maȷorıty ıs the relatıvely comfortable confınement provıded combıned wıth the ıncomprehensıbılıty of beıng stuffed together wıth strangers so unbelıevably dısastrous and obnoxıously alıen ıts only the famılıar rıtes vacuous offıcıal communıcatıon and almost everyones reıfıed complıcıty ın a pervasıve and overrıdıng superfıcıalıty ın all thıngs that maıntaıns the chemıcal cıvılıty necessary to lubrıcate the grossly proxımate savagery of otherness to ensure an experıence thats as smellıly sanıtızed and offensıve as tıde or one of ıts commercıals and a mentalemotıonalspırıtual mode thats as ınnocuously malefıc as a rıghteous amerıkan famıly 

as ıf the vast planet ın ıts rawer forms ın ıts seemıng ırrelevance and uglıness has the shadow prıvılege of revealıng collectıve whonym toxıcıty unable now to hold ıt wıthın ıtself but leakıng even to the clubs and oysterbars of rıch metropolıses lıke noahs ark but wıth adumbratıons of fıre rather than water everyone knows we dont know what to do and thıs the source of our frantıc doıng

whatever else aır travels good for ıt furthers the tradıtıon of calm caustıcıty and tranquıl bıle as ıf the plane ıtself turns ınto a ȷournalıst of ıts own junkfoodıan bowels

when doktor laura performed the mıracle of healıng my ear ın mokuokeaw on that blessed day when the surf stands stıll and ı glımpse cıvlızatıons beyond the sky they ınserted theır nıpple ınto my eardrum and ıt went deep and cleared all obstructıons and ınto my braın lıke an endoscope shınıng ıts lıght on the rare and vast knowledge of emptıness and doktor loreah wıthdraws and drıves away wıth her faıthful assıstant from the forests of kolkata ın that van of love and otherwhıle after dıes

哭苦裤酷库枯窟堀喾刳骷绔

明名冥命鸣铭茗酩溟瞑榠螟盟暝

苦命 soon

sıngapore bot

&

81 ways of notlookıng at a sadoo

to sadoo

in july i began wandering central mumbai like this – 

theory, as kandinsky and others say, follows practice. or rather each follows and leads (dao de jing ii – before and after follow each other). too much theory without practice (the bulk and worst of the academy) irritates as much as too much practice without theory (the bulk and worst of spheres of action).

i was compelled to wander perhaps to ask why i am compelled to wander.

after having sadooed (i verb the practice) almost 20 times – i mostly wander in the area bounded by nana chowk, jeejabai bhosle marg, dalal street, and colaba causeway: my practice so far has been silently walking solo (but responding briefly, quietly, rationally if spoken to non-threateningly) – threads emerge.

one of these is the weave of sanity – those often assumed configurations of reason and unreason,

conformity and non-conformity that imbue education and culture. it’s one thing to sadoo anonymously (responses range from indifference, fear, curiosity, camaraderie, laughter, ridicule, …), it’s another to be faced (befaced?) like this in my housing co-op (frequently with the politics of a small village) where i am somewhat known. a neighbor-friend is asked routinely if i’ve gone crazy. (but surely this

question/judgment has been around for years.) i'm asked directly if i'm ok. i hear someone whispering to a friend as i approach don't say anything.

i call it sanity currency. i experience it as a necessary parallel currency to money. as humans scrimmage for economic currency to survive and accumulate artifacts, prestige, power, so we scrimmage for psychic currency: a decent amount of human language is devoted to explicitly and implicitly sorting out hierarchies of what's 'normal'.

in my co-op it used to anger-annoy me when others – particularly those in leadership positions – would easily label others as insane or sane, when the epistemological bases for their perspectives seemed dubious, as open for critique as their critique of others. such labelling still bothers me but has more grown into curiosity about the assumptions we make about mental health, how not infrequently our working definitions about psychic-emotional-mental wellness serve particular interests of our own rather than broader pluralities or the humans we're judging (or perhaps ostensibly trying to 'help'.) 

(a lot has been written about this of course. i’m more inclined to the thoughtful experienced expressions outside of or on the margins of institutionalized psychology [psychiatry, therapy, wellness, …] than ‘mainstream’ orientations.)

i sadoo, perhaps, in part, to continue to question, in a more embodied way, our cultural biases and hierarchies about how to live well, circumscriptions and possibilities in and around this ‘how’ – to further feel, see, know, doubt what it means for me to explore humanness in a pyretically technological environment that's endemically obsessed with hierarchies.

writing viii

writing is a translation from one necessity to another. initially this translation feels like a freedom, but time translates the feeling of freedom to another necessity. so … from necessity through necessity to necessity. let no one then speak of writing as a pleasure, unless it is a dark one. yet writing laughs in darkness, in the way that death laughs. writing is the deepest of comedies. melville suitably placed these comedies in the ocean’s depths.

writing makes manifest the dna of the city and sets this against the cosmology of the observable universe, not in opposition but in radical and unspeakable union.

writing, in taking issue with time, is equally a covert energy at odds with money. not because time is money, as the commonplace goes, but because writing subverts everything … time and money simply being two of the dominant present commonplaces and so so easily subverted. (to say that time is money is only to reveal a wholesale incomprehension of time, money, and the copulative. time is as equally a cabbage or a totem.)

i would like to see rainbows not of colour, of spectra of light, but of text, of multihued words, appearing not in the sky as an arc but in the canopy of mind as supernumerary hyperspheres of dream.

writing stains white light with sins of blackness.

the towers of the city are trees. i cut them down with the axe of my mind and thinly slice them into blank surfaces for words that use my body for their transit.

i do not say these are my words, this is my work. at most i say these words may have, like dragonflies, settled once on my flesh. we are not each other’s. i have briefly been fascinated by their light and indifferent touch. they have briefly used me for purposes i hardly understand.

the seeming infinity of language is to action as the seeming infinity of the universe is to the earth.

oh words. what should i do with you in the dump of my soul? you do not belong there. it should be silence and flies.

when i write, it is not as if something draws me toward it. rather, nothing draws me. and in this empty picture or unused well i write and the words that form are water on water, some elemental union of void and deworded word.

i look at the city’s cells stacked like tarantula containers. words, fed weekly, taking years to grow, then crawling mature and fragile into a world of long and innumerable blades.

writing avoids the world’s causticities and hard illusions by ingesting them and shitting them out on soiled pages which humans sniff and, smelling themselves, celebrate. any true writer drily laughs behind its salaciously ascetic face.

i write the way i walk. aimlessly. with my eyes as legs. the city as the page and my flesh a pen. non-linearly. distracted. whole. diffused. holographic. hopeless but not despairing. open. omnipotent. free. deneeded. one.

knowledge, unknowledge, and the immaterial orders i

another human says to me after a community arts festival that ends in white-robed humans, in shadow play and the translucent heads of mythic creatures, gliding, chanting, like humanoid and earthbound clouds, among candles, on and at the base of hills, polyglottally, through a lukewarm late summer evening of threatening rain – looked like a cult to me.  i reply, as pee-wee herman said, one person’s cult is another’s party.

that herman to my knowledge never said this and if he did in contexts so far from mine that we could say he never or barely did, if i assume at least temporarily my context as standard.  that i can and do say to my knowledge.  that i never replied as such.  that the other human only approximated my above quotation of it.  that the image(s) in your mind – if there be image(s) – birthed from these words likely bear little resemblance to what i saw, and these words to other words that might have been birthed from the presumed and ostensibly indisputable actual event, hardly proves but equally hardly dispels the spinning, expanding, morphing, collapsing limits and boundlessnesses of what we learn, and how, and what we don’t.

i am interested in the supposedly existing thoughts of chuang tzu, wittgenstein, kant, hume, foucault, artaud, kristeva, the boys, the non-boys, the non-girls, the girls, and as is well known in non-existent circles, the non-humans (which some have argued include the humans).  but no more interested than in the voices at my co-op’s picnic table, the pebbles in the tiny teeny bitty itty zen garden before me in this café, the repetitive semi-articulations of that lover, or the molasses of the morasses of the marsh mists of the appearances of my mind.

in the paragraph above that begins with another human is all knowledge, all knowledge’s deconstruction, the materiality and immateriality of all things.

in the paragraph above is just another pebble in this zen garden stretching before this and that i to the stars, unseen monks raking, unseen monks constellating, unseen monks whispering, of the infinite love of each pebble, of the sum of all infinities becoming nothing in that way nothing is become.

in the paragraph above i see a ghost of a girl tumbling down staircases of burning manure, men of ostensible maturity and power blanching to fear, for they are seeing saint bernards too large to be saint bernards.  and i want to say – some of me wants to say – i am the girl.  but i cannot.  i cannot for reasons too complex and beautiful and stupid to name.  the reasons are too long.  reasons are always too long.

in the paragraph above is the paragraph below and if you don’t see that you’re dumber than a geriatric cat and i strip you of the name human and turn you into a pebble and you are thereby sanctified in the garden of silences.  these are the paths of knowledge and the signs of the immaterial orders of freedom.

February 9 - Saint Vincent, Painter

Freedom is a spin we put on hope, a name we use when young.  But as the noose tightens and we see Death waving at us like an old cousin, it begins to resemble the notions we discarded at puberty¾Santa Claus and Heaven … and its black-sheep brother, Fate, creeps onto our tongues.

The Creator God, whether dead or living, who stokes the souls of saints, also stalks them.  He roams the earth, hiding anywhere¾sunflowers, razorblades, swamps¾so that we continue on our happy ways and He can take advantage of our trust to quickly flatten us.  Saints are His preference.  At first He’s pleased¾imitation is the highest form of flattery¾and He may even grant a few favors, making the young saint briefly think the universe is good.  But then watch out … His envy’s stronger than His pleasure:  the usurper feels God expanding in his soul; at first, a sweet fullness, then¾snap¾God takes over, the saint goes mad.

St. Vincent was born on March 30 1853 to Anna Cornelia Carbentus in Groot-Zundest.  At the moment of birth, her flower expanded in intensely saturated color and from a gush of yellow a boy trembling with ecstasy was tossed into the world like a sparrow into the entrails of a shooting star.  He knew no home, no love, no reason.  The world was one and passion was the color of the world.  Dramatic, lyrically rhythmic, inimitably and powerfully fusing form and content, he strode the earth seeing the pain, joy and fire at the root of form.

Because of his devotion, God would not let this saint go gently into that starry night.  He tracked him down in a wheatfield and tortured him with unfiltered visions of creation, finally slaughtering this exhausted broken devotee on July 29 1890 in Montmartre.  St. Vincent was planted at the foundation of what became the Abbesses metro stop, where he explodes daily, still in death trying to reach the stars.  He was elevated to sainthood by the Council of I on this day in 1962, which is the year his nephew transferred the saint’s collection to the state for public consumption, which is the day his brother Theo read the saint’s words, Joy cometh in the morning.  May we know that joy until Fate finds us.  Let us honor the saint today with our souls and flesh.