death v

when i died first i don’t remember …

once one detects monism and begins dismantling it one experiences it everywhere (this splintered monism, this new secular religion:  the yahweh-christ in disguise – multipally:  as cyborg, victim, scholar, social media junkie, justice ngo guru, feminist, techno, eco-spiritualist, healer …), and cannot stop dismantling.  this process is death.  and then a one does not appear and this is not the one but one.

the root of the human is the inhuman and the process of entering this root to become human is what we call death.

to encounter the human by matching nature with nature – this is a death of which we speak.

just as there is no closure in love (regardless of its state and direction), so there is no closure in death.

death is only a simulation of emptiness.

death is the gap between desire and no-desire, these infinite gradations in which we live.

one of death is given to and rather than or, an and that includes many or’s, even as one authentically given to yes is one given to a yes of infinite no’s.

soft death, like art or bread, you do not forgive our clumsy love, our confused aloofness, our fated cruelty, you do not forgive.  you do not forget, for memory is hard and apportioned to life.

my life is established as a chair from which to watch my death unfold.  i do not waste it on side ventures, on frivolous things, on the pursuit of accumulations or to be watched.  i watch.

death, my true name which cannot be named

for, like death, it hides, in my brain

what i call consciousness, game

of chance and light – inane

but pointed, the same

as love’s blood’s stain?

all the same

the pain

…

the historic objects of mysticism – those perceptions that facilitated justification of death:  whatever linguistic-spiritual concatenation of god, holiness or purification, charity might have been involved – having now, along with objects (through their spectacular proliferation) died, place mysticism with no possibilities of human or self improvement, no sainthood of anything recognizable, no allegiances or alliances, no institutional affiliations however strained.  it arrives, empty, at time’s dirty threshold, still housed in horny flesh, still yearning, still hardly of this world, its not-knowing and suffering odd antidotes or absurdities to the edifices of knowledge and wellness, questioning, empty, objectless and aimless, subjectless, godless, dirty, looking, still looking, but with perception shattered, bereft even of bereftness, lacking any justification, perhaps in all this absence with opportunities to become more itself.

methods of exile and death in the technological age for those disinclined to participate in the dominant and present forms of life (liberally pervasive now across all sectors, from business to art to politics to humanitarianism to ecology to spirituality and psychology to education to law and justice to science and technology) include not only withdrawal from progress, monism, societal devouring, but also humanism and anthropocentrism.   the primary tenets of today’s religion, craftily having rebranded itself secular, are as monolithically and inquisitorially voracious, ruthless, intolerant, dogmatic, and enforced as the primary tenets of past religions, and so one who is non-conformist will likely experience death, but according to the forms of this religion, which finds blood distasteful and death impossible and martyrdom repugnant, and so exile and death and martyrdom are simulated, offset, emigrated from physicality to emotionality, from visibility to virtuality, and the one so disinclined (who refuses to climb) likewise uses simulated means to withdraw, to die.

geometrically, simulations of death can be negotiated as moving forward by turning back, mathematically as adding by subtracting, communicationally as speaking by using no words, politically as acting by not-acting, emotionally as loving by not-loving, existentially as living by dying.

death ii

processes and techniques of death –

• hardly protest, argument, objection.  rather – using death as a tool of one’s self to continually eradicate what one thinks the self is.

• a chief art of death is anonymity, one that may be critical for the human to craftily use for its collective survival.  for does not a refusal to use names as root – an essence of anonymity – entail abdicating the supremacy of anything human … and this subversion, this unnaturalness which may be a simulated naturalness more central than technology’s simulations, an unparalleled energy (and this rather than a power) that evokes fear initially, for its vastness, its perceived darkness … and this collective entwining, this seemingly dissipating choice of setting alongside the hyena and termite and hydrant and hookah, an experiencing language for what it is and not some pretty tyranny, some gift of dead or living gods?

• i have always learned far more by not being myself than being myself.  first by not knowing myself sufficiently to not know i was not being myself.  subsequently by not knowing what a self was to an extent that i didn’t know what it was to not be or be myself.  in all cases – the learning, the first not knowing, and the subsequent not knowing – death at the center:  as technique, as question, as energy, as self and selves.

• as it takes a great deal of desire to desire to not-desire, so it takes a great deal of life to live in death.

• that we read the textures of life based on the parameters of death may be obvious, but that we read the textures of death – present to us in life as black glyphs on infinite seas of white – and in this other reading are commonly illiterate is hardly seen.

• a new form of death – a redirecting of death’s energies from their present primary outlets of war and love – would be if the majority of human communication were in art rather than functional, animalistic, or even capricious social discourse.

the human world, curved into itself, itself gravitation and objects, cooperation and enmity more ubiquitous than air, the city now the inescapable environment, objectives raised by the slough of groups and science fumbling enchantment’s ancient sphere, mysticism – being endlessly solitary, silent, of many environments equally (interiorally and exteriorally) but of any single one not at all – may be unable to survive in the present and coming urban and mass technology, it may be the only thing with the subversive skills to survive, or it may – as it has been – amble along, carrying quietly the torch of death through life, so that those who inexplicably find themselves cast from their accustomed environment may have help knowing the selfsame thread that winds through all – whether time, environments, technologies, names, cultures – without distinction. 

writing is easy.  what’s difficult is placing and maintaining one’s self in the spaces of death that make writing possible.

as once could happen with god and nature and no longer, so now one can enter consciousness to leave it, can enter thought to leave it, can enter passion to leave it – this leaving before force forces the leaving (what is colloquially known as death and what is technically a manner of death, a transition of a physical singularity into new forms) is an entering into death to life in certain modes.  so, too, perhaps, this can happen with technology and art and time.

death is the distance that enables life, the distance that is here, on the tram, in your wallet, smiling through a closet of masks, the void of words and the rave of solitude, the clickity-clack of time on the punctual and shiny rails of your brain.  death, like life or jesus or the future, is no friend, not friendly, but an environment, an ecology of turning and returning form.  death is neither darkness nor light, peace nor war, but a way that navigates all without mentioning any.  indifferent to creating names, this energy that trumps and fashions life, that assumes disguises like the sky, it flies, vast across the earth, atonal, lacking purpose, acquainted, limpid, hardly counted, nested, the architecture of galaxies and the technology of insects, enough.

darkness

darkness and homelessness are siblings in time’s dysfunctional family.  in a present odd reunion – a poorly attended affair that’s rented my flesh for its drugged party – i find solace in darkness, i sleep in the cardboard box of my blood; familial lineages glide before me in runny colours and difficult flatulences.

the realms of visible politics – identity, sex, gender, ethnicity – are the shibuya of the human psyche … but the realms of invisible politics – sanity, eloquence, blood, beauty, virtue – are the pissed slums of neglected urbanscapes.  the latter are my home; daily i uncoil my diseased prick and whiz on the future.  melancholic jötunn suck me off with their gums and we collapse into night’s putrescent kingdoms.

i wake up daily in a bed of death

i say to the shadow called day –

i will crawl into you

i will make you my companion

we will play together as if we were friends.

but i long for the prayers of dreams

i lust though for the shadow of sleep

death is my lover, the grave my mentor

day – night’s useful mask, void’s awkward other

evening waits like a warm and dirty bath

how beautiful when darkness draws us into her

that dread of this ever-present waking

darkness is not an absence of light, but is polar to and interacting with light; light is the simplest most undivided, homogenous being we know … confronting it is darkness:  infinitely plural, divisive … and so infinitely creative.  colours – shadow and the children of shade – are light itself.  colour is born of and feeds on darkness.

darkness evolves environmentally:  as humans migrate into contexts of perpetual light, so darkness – our deepest need – is constructed and accessed in novel and fabricated ways by these emerging creatures of light.  the materials, maps, hazards, portals, labyrinths, signage, risk management practices and false exits of these fresh routes – the comparison of these to those of the worn ones – all this giving new life to darkness … or rather to humans in their cravings for infinite relations.

at light’s highest point on its ladder, the darkness of things presents itself to me as the simmering surfaces of light.  but at the apex of darkness on itself, how do i see light?  as the animation of darkness?  a misspelling?  as the remnant that questions, dark’s tongue?  a hope that subverts even hope?

any authentic notion of divinity – or at least that of the human unhinged from its overwhelming greeds and incarcerating self-reflections, and so the human not itself – must include that which is oriented to seeing in darkness, regardless of whether it can speak.  divinity is independent of language, and any future notion of the writer, of the book, might place vision – not word – at the center of its dark art.

do i wait for day or do i wait for night?  my orientation to this question determines my comfort with society.

knowledge, while it may be acquainted with day – most certainly an esteemed and professional colleague at times, on occasion a spouse – is night’s lover.

if we were to compare the conversations of night with the conversations of day, with humans being novel to us, would we not conclude we were dealing with two separate species?  so darkness is a language, and who would give themselves to its mastery? and how can it be taught but in unaccredited and disavowed classrooms?

are not the translation arts between the languages of light and the languages of darkness more of darkness, for they are rooted in obscure soils and hardly seed or flower?

to say we are born of darkness and return to darkness neglects that we never leave – we are simply given briefly eyes to see it.

sadoos live

while the voices on the secular sadoo have recently and apparently been silent, while this blog itself may seem to have entered the spaces of the hidden, the global sadoo community is growing. seek evidence on the ether of language and silence.

in the meantime, make your vocation sadoo.

do not neglect inhumanism.

the plurality of mixters shall speak.