plasmatic
existence in a commoditized world is an expression of realized oblivion
to be
a solo wilderness lookout observer is to establish – or rather observe –
relations of oblivion. observe rather
than establish for these relations
are always present but largely unmanifest, fashioned by routine and the commons
and the comfortable distances maintained from dream. those relations too though
are fashioned in these other places, places of desolation and voidic voices,
where depression is not some clinical condition designed to be overcome by
promoters of a false wellness (false because falsely severed from its sickness)
but an asylum of valleys from the great plains and peaks of news’ tsunamis
oblivion
is a facet of insignificance. oblivion can never be eliminated or even reduced,
only its appearances temporarily reconfigured, so in the city – that environment
of procuring faces – oblivion’s role is hardly diminished but perhaps increased
through the hard dialectic established by means of the city’s dark ecstatic
rabidity. in the city oblivion hunters and gatherers abound in gross diversity
and they, while lacking official designation, are critical to the city’s
glittered successes
naked
oblivion – or rather nearly naked – is unacceptable to our dominant time, and
clothing it, almost to the point of suffocation, is the prime task of culture.
art, that now official rascal of the state and capitalism, almost their mascot,
has as its core role to strip oblivion to its voidic essence but in modes that
can be traded according to the currencies of society’s limited palate. this
requires a radical separation of oblivion’s orientations and the excesses,
disciplines, promotions and politics of art’s wobbly tap-dance with itself
relations
with a stripped oblivion are an opportunity for regeometricization – of psyche,
cognition, language, behavior, societal engagement, time and calendar, destiny
and objectives. we all are warped post-euclidians
when other
flowers predominantly as dandelion and mosquito and oblivion, accustomed in its
other to the human, nascently balks, what does the accustomizing one do but
manufacture untold copies of love … and whether their laughter and caresses are
simulations of what is commonly taken to be love or the inverse, who would know
or even strive to know, in the enfolded darknesses of bug and weed?
oblivion
includes a wraithicization of substance – humans as equal partners as siffleux
or ox-eyed daisies in this process of the onericization of truth (or,
conversely and simulatedly, the sarcousization of god)
life,
as everyone at least secretly knows, is just a distraction from death and the
sensible human gets involved as little as possible in life in order to truly
live – which is to be undistracted by death
that
social-legal-political-fiscal identity oversignifiedly circumscribes identity
affronts oblivion. this affront might
say the human is our potency and
intelligence. but other personas loiter in the infinite mall of dreams
the
weather is oblivion. not the weather with all its massive conglomerated
weightiness of reporters and analyses, as a cheap filler of the soul, coloured
graphs and mitigated risks … but the raw uncertainty of fire wind precipitation
… their indifference to conglomerated bipedian solidities
madness
of course is a great protocol of oblivion, and the human who would be wielded
by it lives – if it lives at all – in eulenlochs of time’s rodent-ridden barnyard
oblivion
– but only as a facet of insignificance (that is, not as a facet of death) – is
a manifest of caprice and so we of the disunited states of oblivion list our
lists with an uncanny ardor
and
you would cast down on me vague and pecuniary chastisements for applying
oblivion to the languagescape as a child might a white crayon to a mausoleum?
cast away, though your lines have no hooks and we are not anyway any kind of
ichthus that would fit in your gullet
look.
oblivion sits right here, beside me. we talk as strangers in a familiar spot,
bamboo slips they give birth to water and here we sit, you and i, in one
another’s masks, not unappointed, silently talking, like friends or wine or slime
