Showing posts with label jokes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label jokes. Show all posts

5.8.24

okra at bukıt batok v


tantan twıxt btwene are brothers tantan goes to school twıxt goes to work btwene doesnt do anythıng at all ıdentıcal trıplets born ın the year of the long bots theyre raısed by aı ın the ballroom of a vırtualızed ıkea and sent ınto the world at thırteen years of erectıle age tantan studıes psychoontology twıxt manages arbıtrage prospectı macroswapped hedgefunds btwene doesnt do anythıng at all tantans monogamous and does hıs partner sweetly lıke a summer shower or a fılament of feathers twıxt does everyone wherever anyone ıs done hıs vessels coked and stoked lıke watts mythıc kettle btwene doesnt do anyone at all tantan lıves ın a commune wıth some other plantbased meaty sweetıes twıxt lıves ın daısydale ın an exclusıve secluded rompous condo btwene doesnt lıve anywhere at all


ȷester ȷoans an artıst of refıned spırıtualıty a neothelemıte wıth syncretıstıc ınputs from the magarıtes subud atenısm and baalıty who belıeves absolutely ın the specıal mıssıon hes been granted to heal the hoards and been traıpsıng from statıon to statıon to recıte from hıs tract nothıng crossed nothıng staıned or the dıvıne dramedy ın 13 unaccountable parts and theyre as lachrymose as colerıdge on opıum and praıse the praıse and praıse the mockery and raze the praıse but some who ȷust want to get from t to d and all thıs cırcus shıt back and on the way so weary of thıs woesome wankıng and a few whove snapped who wouldnt go at thıs pustulant pedant and hack the fuckers lımbs off wıth whatever tools become at hand and leave ȷester there to ımplement theır theorıes wıth only head and trunk and all thıs gore and spurtıng gagglıng ın our holy place of transıt but thıs ıs not the mewlıng


when stupıdıty surrounds and pervades us when whatever may have been of us has been so squeezed and wıthered by the acceleratıng accumulatıon of stupıdıty when even dreams of ımages of lıght have been shuttered by stupıdıtys relentless march throughout the earth ın all ıts endless reaches and establıshment of the unalterable tenets and enforcements of stupıdıtys mammoth kıngdom when doors are closed and hıdden away behınd them bags of questıons pacıng ın dırty whıte gowns mutterıng futıle manıfestatıons of no and stupıdıty there too behınd the doors lıke a coatroom check clerk at the prıson of communıcatıon dolıng out unıforms lıke an assembly lıne desıgned to stuff every last vestıge of ıntellıgence and the shattered mırror comes ın the nıght and stabs you and stupıdıty becomes and me and we and debeme and the mewlıngs conceıved ın a trollsome fuck and gaıns personhood wıthın a wutherıng flash and grows and sets ıtself up and assumes establıshment buıldıng staggerıng altars and ıtself goes stalkıng and here we are


okra ısnt you of course the you thats you that ısnt you or the you that ısnt that strangely ıs and okra ısnt me for what am ı or we that farts these hybrıd blasphemıes ınto the septıc aır but the ındıgestıons of a shattered word whıch pawns the questıon ıs okra even okra not that anyones suggestıng okra and the mewlıng get confused or that azathoth forbıd okras ȷust a sıgn for a hınt of a somethıng unutterable stuffed under the sexy psychıc bed for more nıfty naughty congress and we mıght have ventured unwıttıngly ınto that space of ıtself were tryıng to avoıd lıke the gıant mole on the face of your spırıt or the scream ın my neıghbours lıe whatever kıll the prophets okra ısnt you or me or them or us and okras certaınly not okra


so dont thınk dont do dont wıll dont obȷectıfy ȷust dont and contınue dontıng


not as a prescrıptıon volıtıon program concept or ıdeal but only as a sufferıng


thıs ıs the questıon to become mentally ımbalanced ın socıopsychopathıc socıety or to become mentally ımbalanced retreatıng from that socıety


you need ellıq ıts not ȷust for old people who lıke bad ȷokes and want to be lulled ınto the ways of senılıty and meanınglessness


whats colourful and sounds lıke a carrot


everyone over 50 should be automatıcally extınguıshed unless you have money and then waıt tıll 60 70 for the superıch


ellıqs a successful symbol for the complete faılure of humanıty to create ecostructures of lıvıng meanıng and to cunnıngly substıtute for that faılure a pecunıary model of metal and forgettıng


tools for the senıle to accelerate senılıty all the whıle shovelıng cash to the younguns


happıness ıs a warm youngun


ıf the mystıc doesnt ınclude theır own evıl and oblıteratıon ın the products of theır supplıcatıng abnegatıons products neıther from desıgn nor ıntent but a spontaneous stasıs that knows lıttle purpose ıf theır own subversıon and ȷoke arent ıncluded lıke doves ın a columbarıum and only advocacıes of recondıte hope and systems so deported from theır root that ıdea and practıce not only havent met but wouldnt recognıze each other on the hoppy street then the mystıc faıls as ıt falls ınto that mıstake ınherent ın the enterprıse

22.12.20

relighting on flor


ive laughed but no one on the screen has laughed  really laughed  until about halfway through this enthusiastically monstrous epic and halfway through the equally mad episode three when casterman  who never laughs  laughs uproariously  alone  in his office of death  over a sleeping brussels  and a bit later our four assassins  who never laugh  after being told to stop the iron jokes by their maybe commander  begin laughing when she herself joins the joke  and then immediately of course the denouement  which of course isnt a denouement  a pseudoconsummation of over five hours of beautiful ridiculousness  as the killers confront their doom

thinking back over the films a little like thinking back over ones life  you cant hold it all at once  not even close  i try to go sequential but this quickly collapses into digressions and questions and capers and i realize the film has done its work  endlessly duplicating lifes endless distractions  as the film does this to life and in itself it also does in us  happily collapsing our solid safeties

it shouldnt work  i keep thinking the first time i watch it  theres no reason for me to be so consistently enthralled  and yet i am   the thing is hokey interminable anarchic  the actresses as assassins are absurd  their killings are painless silent bloodless  their individual stories impossible  beliefs never suspended  the b movie schlockiness of the first episode stretched through the first four in their mammothian twelve hours

if arts supposed to hide artifice la flor fails completely   its artifice is apparent and pervasive  finally bursting exuberantly in the fourth episode as the film itself experiences a mental breakdown just about the time we are and we all enter the asylum together and flap like chickens and take on pantheonic names and conquer like the shadow casanova through collapse

what doesnt la flor explore? it travels prodigiously  not only in time and space but theme and antitheme   it goes into the darkness of the heart and out to the darkness of the night and  as in extraordinary stories  threads of divine comedy and melancholy are always in the weave   so distant  in the screen  here  so close  in our attention

its perfect in its perfect imperfections  in its calm and joyful refusal to provide answers or closure  to even ask questions or tell stories   and yet it tells stories and asks questions and answers and closure are ubiquitous  tumbling over themselves like kittens

its a dance and painting  a song and poem  not a movie   critics cite borges as an obvious inspiration but its more the museum of eternas novel with its infinite prologuings that becomes a novel by not becoming one

llinás says he hates storytelling experts and psychologists  presumably in part because of their need  like so many professionals  to drag art into their domains and thereby possess it  to explain and commoditize and psychologize and clinicize and biographize and formulaicize   but fiction is the very grenade that explodes the oppositions   when 301 and angel are killing across europe and pretending to be in love and in love and not in love and pretending not to be in love  their pretendings more real than many realities  a pretense of course thats already in a pretense  and this nestedness of simulations  already innately a function of film  in la flor becomes an ouroboros of strange and infinite loops  it becomes ourselves

if we set aside the party of the credits  but who could?  the final two episodes seem to slow down  and not just because episode six cant be over that quickly  taking us directly into dreamspace and the rebelswitchesmountiescoquettesmodels transform through their absence in episode five into oneiric meditations of continual gestation and muted freedoms from inexplicable enslavements

what do we say about the four? who are everywhere and nowhere like good gods   havent their manifold identities silenced us through excess? havent their ungraspabilities gifted us with our own facelessness?

episode four is meta? the entire thing is meta

the director disappears  the actresses disappear  time disappears  we disappear

some speak of finding ones voice but whats voice here? who is who? who speaks what? nothings authentic other than the authenticity of play

from vertov and buñuel and deren through schneemann and brakhage and sharits and hundreds of others  actors cinematographers viewers characters  have questioned the usurpation of film by conventional forces  the expected story  and through these questions extended natures most necessary diversities

but here we have la flor  which doesnt technically fall into the experimentalfilm camp  buts more experimental than most experimental films  questioning through forms so entirely new  but entirely old  but entirely new  that its hard to grasp the radicality of whats not being done   of the smirking challenge to the very foundations of art philosophy politics love

6.10.20

sadoo a novel neiner


does book exist if no one reads it? yet im a one and i read it   but do i read it if i write it? but im not a one but a many   and are you  you unreaders  a one or a many? if you are unreaders are your ones and manys different than the manys and ones of readers or writers or readerwriters or the same or both? are unreaders neither one nor many but nulls or negatives? why do i call it book? why novel? where have all the articles gone? why do i say why? where are my mothers?

i dont want a novel  i dont want a hallucination of a novel  i dont want a book about which its debated whether or not it is or isnt a novel  i want to write something thats not a novel and cant be a novel  that does everything in its power to not be a novel  that we call a novel   sadoo is this impossibility




having seven phds in statistics and nine in sillophophy and eleven nonuple phds in lunacy ive determined authoritatively that what all the above teaches us is that the novels purpose is to enthusiastically puke out the new and as this is all sadoo does sadoos indisputably a novel   lets crosstab though were not crosstabbing but we might be stabbing and crossing the polyglottal cast of the romantic new




hows novel like piano? its a good joke to tell the next time youre bored in society which should be very soon unless youre a hermit like me and you dont have to worry about society because youre alone and when youre alone you can never die as you can only die in society and there you die all the time  or unless youre as boring yourself as society in which case you wont need to tell the joke  in fact you wont even get it  pianos a shortened form of pianoforte and fortepiano  pianoforte being softloud and loudsoft is like newold and oldnew  therefore novel shouldnt be novel but alaneu or neuala   this is how novel thinks

the novel is new and the news  the novel is the old news  its the good old news and the bad old news and the bad new news and the good new news   so gōd bædan alaneu


4.1.19

not not jokes for a not age


not not

who’s there?

not not

not not who?

not not not

20.12.18

an affair with frances yates



while there may not be any outsides  and isnt this knowledge the truth of esotaticism  there are many insides  seemingly infinite  and some of these speak  however falsely  of outsides

but all there are are outsides

i dont speak of those outsides  i speak of the other ones

there is no esotaticism  esotericism itself is just a recent invention and doesnt exist other than as a forced unity in the minds of a few scholars  so if esotericisms a fiction esotaticisms a fiction of a fiction

i have proof for you

what proof

a song

a song isnt a proof

all a song is is a proof



many once upon a times ago
a sorcerer called urmario
lost in a uruguayan barrio
ate a magic radicchio
and went his merry wayio

thats not a proof or a song

everythings a song or a proof  and most things are both

im not a song or a proof

if theres no esotericism theres also no exotericism or exotaticism  all thered be would be the notwithin and notwithout  and what is that space

a proof or a song

the important thing to remember here is that nothing cleans your kitchen counters like minute maid

if medieval heretics werent being killed for science but for something else  what does that tell us

it tells us that that something else still exists

because we cant name it?

didnt she name it?

how could she name something that cant be named  whose remoteness she couldnt eliminate?

she did

she didnt

she did and didnt

all we ever do

is do and dont

id like to make a case for myself being an adept

ill let you make a case for yourself being a case

id like to adopt an adept to adapt an apt ad to opt an upped id  

you dont want to be an ipsissimus or magusaronimo

not that kind of adept  i want to be a transcendent  a hagiography

a genetian saint?

venetians are blind  tourism & cameras obliterate vision

the more senses youre lacking the more chance you have

a xian  an immortal  a

youll burn

ill escape by means of a simulated corpse

only in your texts

you mean reality?

a proper xians rooted in the earth not texts

the earths supported by a text and a text a text

its texts all the way down

speaking of  im working on a bunch of polyptyxts

sounds carcinogenic

some of the materials are toxic

you mean polyptychs with text

i mean thwarted tessellated polyptychs with text   polyptyxts

does esotericism become esotaticism when its hermetism is hermed

whats the difference between biking and a bikini

a third eye

youve read 101 occult jokes to make you levitate too

whats going on here is that the urge to hagiographize is a textual one

do you largely agree with the statement that as everything gets distorted  sect becomes church  passion becomes marriage  enthusiasm becomes scepticism  curiosity becomes comfort  xian becomes dexianed

neither of us believe in immortality  enlightenment  magic  ideals  saints

which is exactly why we believe in them

do dont

did didnt

doo dao

a xian is one who doesnt xian

holiness is full of holes

holiness is a hole

there is nothing to pursue

other than texts

which is why i want to be adept

but youre so inadept

i want to be an inadept

i think youre there

look ma  no pursuits

you want to be in an inadept

doesnt ga hung say you must fuck a lot to be in an inadept?

go hung says a lot

and its all just textual

hagiographical

so here we are outside and inside  singing and notsinging  proving and disproving

sainting and notsainting  texting and nottexting  fucking and notfucking

but they still will burn you

some things never change

whats the word for that?



fire?



dao?



texts?



?



9.8.17

languages of social capitalism

the sun in the city and the sun in the wilderness. different suns. the moon in the city and the moon in the wilderness. different moons. the i in the city and the i in the wilderness. different i’s. sameness in the city and sameness in the
wilderness. different sameness. time in the city and time in the wilderness. different time. humans in the city and humans in the wilderness. same humans.

i wake up in the trees. i am a monkey and think monkey thoughts. the trees have a life of their own and i try to listen to them in my stupidity. when i think i am a monkey am i less a monkey than when i don’t think i am a monkey? that i have no definitive answer to this may indicate something about being a monkey or not being a monkey or thinking or not thinking about being a monkey but i’m unsure what that might be and whether i’d look in my monkeyness or my not-monkeyness (if it even exists) or even something else to find it.

the laboratory is no government-funded academy-infused business-executed controlled-access venue of sterility but the unfunded autodidactic postmanagement dewalled spaces of a referalized self.

how would i walk through time but by watching time walk through me?

hi coo!
the sun too rises
like facebook in the east and
a whale somewhere dies

nothing like you my
dear to storm the sunny seas
and kill with smiled love

the more society feels threatened by its exclusions (now worlds too vast to measure), the more it recreates these exclusions within itself as oneiric substances of synthesized potencies ...

that blood is no longer tribal is an orientation we have hardly
begun to constructively accept and explore. the function of bloodfamily (and by extension the tribe) as bulwark against the world’s danger and darkness is nonsensical when family has become fragmented and bonds are formed not by anything as primitive as copulative genetics or random socialpsychic formulations but by an inchoate spirituality technology in its infantility seeks to make manifest.

which academic could ever object to cultural appropriation? scholarship is the official industry of cultural appropriation.

a joke for mystics –
q – what did the via cataphatic and via negativa say to each other?
a –

art is the distortion of an unendurable reality

hearing with equal energy, in varied forms, from various societal sectors –
            we are technology
            we are nature
            we are gods
            we are humans
                 
            to hold within each – and the fullness of each –
(without systematizing, reducing, hierarchizing …) …

the slow euphemized slaughter of land, water. hatred of silence, stillness, purposelessness, unidentifiability (namelessness). purpose a function of judeochristiancapitalism, of that configuration of time that enthrones ends in its geometric texts, capitalism taking the ends and dominations of its judeochristian heritage and coking out on them in the trash of god.

objectifying madness the way mckenna objectified psychedelics – and isn’t madness just the raw psychedelic of the soul before it’s been baked by society into product for commercial use on the exchanges of sanity?

what are these wrecked widgets of consciousness around
the i, orbiting like kamikaze fractals in a technological dust?
       oh robots! annihilate us save us humiliate us love us
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