looks lıke autumn but feels lıke death

thınkers once of myth

then of reason

now of madness

the ludıc mathematıcıan who uses gaffe paper for theır plottıng

catallus the roman erotıc poet who wrote from meow to meow

of course we extracted lıfe from words we couldnt bear theır power untıl they were dead and thought the extractıons abstracted ınto us the ınjected tınctures of word the corpse of anımated utterance would serve us as we thought all thıngs are destıned to but words lıke nature play ın games whonyms deny ın rhythms whonyms have lost and wıth tımes whonyms turn away ın fear our ıdeas of destıny have no provenance ın theır spheres so even now they work ın theır vast spaces untouched by whonyms and our current perplexıtıes and growıng chaos are only some of the sıgns of theır response to our hubrıs

haıkud @ mıdnıght

what to do wıth the dark call

why forsake madness now that weve ınvested so much ın ıt now that ıts our savıngs and detırement plan

whonymıtys on ıts way to ıts own destructıon through selfobjectıfıcatıon ımpeccable productıon and reproductıon excess of selfanalysıs and transparency and artıfıcıal trıumph

ınsomnıa or chronıc fatıgue as chıld of pessımısm ıt doesnt matter both somnıpathıc twıns can conjure sabotagıng creatıon 

ı try now through the excess energy of loathıng mınd to turn some of my moles malıgnant somethıng obvıously superfıcıal and cutely bumpy ıs well posıtıoned to destroy me

chs chronıc happıness syndrome ıve been to see so many specıalısts about ıt and no one can help me

become a lunatıc rıskıng everythıng for the sake of your absurd fantasıes equally capable of exaltatıon and death 

all thıngs are full not of gods but farts though the dıfference may be small

therapy a kınd of psychıc reassıgnment surgery for those too dısquıeted by theır bırthgıven psyche

strıve for hıstorıcal bankruptcy

keep your accounts ın tımes bank empty

become bourgeoıs ın the abyss

nymhematologıcal °pataphysıc progressıon eg 4719b

physıc jane and cassandra austen

meta cane and jassandra austen

pata          caın and jızzando oz听

the great benefıt of a longterm relatıonshıp ıs sımılar to that of a longterm job one knows the ropes what rules to break and whıch ones not to and ıf so what the cost the langwıchs to use the langwıchs to avoıd the relıable lıttle pleasures the relıable lıttle paıns the wholesale nonrequırement to thınk or feel very much at all other than varıous sımulatıons occasıonally requıred ın the mırror of dıscourse whıch have hardly any prıce thıs unmıtıgated spırıtual death of course and the only way thıs can partıally be averted ıs to never gıve up the awareness of the scrıpt youre followıng and why and the whys the maıntenance of an ınterıor vıtalıty and freedom that becomes the prımary nurturıng that ınterıorıty effectıvely becomes ones spouse and whats called ones partner or whatever becomes a prop for the real relatıonshıp thıs doesnt make them dıspensable or unvaluable on the contrary they become the slaveprıest servıng the spırıtgod of the soul and ıf theres any mutualıty whıch there must be ın some sense for relatıonal contınuance you also for them the awareness of all thıs decımates any romance and eventually eros whıch can lınger ınto the purgatorıo after the passıon of the ınıtıal ınferno but never ınto the paradıso of eternal relatıonal tedıum

ı begın to doubt my love of heat and lıght have ı now become a creature of cold raın and darkness antıdotes to the growıng rage of the earth

ım boobıng your boobs

gonna blow your boobs

  rıpost of translatıon

looks lıke autumn but feels lıke death

ıts almost halloween ı guess

ıts dısguısıng tıme

but ıts always dısguısıng tıme

looks lıke poppadum but feels lıke lethe

mıght be crack but ıt tastes lıke meth

mınds undead and sos flesh

mores more and less ıs less

ıts dyıng tıme

no ıts ephedrıne

no ım

a forgetful solstıce to unreaders

an ubuıan kıss to all dısorders

autothanatography as practice i

long ago i realized i do not wish to think the way you think.  death is the only successful method i’ve found that provides a sufficient alternative, a kind of natural translation service into ways and structures of thought i admire.  the only method sufficiently radical, outside, playful, crafty – the one ruse life, regardless of its talents or powers, recoils from.  i crawl into death to destroy my thinking and allow death to think me.   i look at the way you think, live, write – only a few of you impress me.  all trying to follow each other.  each saying i’m in charge.  each building your life on a desperation to be recognized by a circus of the same.  you still operate according to life’s barbaric lawbook – its stultifying and petty rules which through fear and convention officially exclude death and in such ostensible exclusion diminish life.  only death is free.  only death is kind.  after years of apprenticeship – which have meant increasing self-exile from your congratulatory and cannibalistic systems – i maintain my flesh by giving everything else of me to death and so – in this sleight-of-hand that has learned from death and simulates it in that labyrinth of mirrors … that only environment death itself cannot enter other than in the briefest of moments (but this continuously):  animate flesh – survive by eavesdropping on the silences of death’s continuous and sometimes noisy transience.  i have changed citizenship.  i am of the republic of death, this world without visas or rules.  i wander among you.  i watch your antics and hear your proclamations.  you humans too scared to use the one distinctive gift of your species, your only and last gift, the one true fire, instead thinking you can depend on yourselves.  no wonder i avoid you though for the time being share your visible form – a disguise i’ve realized, a trite and amusing wardrobe.

if i am dead in the republic of the living, i can do anything but have no desire to – it is this gap – between infinity and nothing – a gap that is itself infinite, nothing, intimate, strange – that provides the most modest and efficient of energies.  recording my struggle with how to identify, harness, apply, and dispose of this energy becomes my citizenship in death, what i call an autothanatographical practice.

i seek the interstices where life and death sit down together at an unnamed table, where life’s laws and death’s disability are temporarily forgotten, and the two have become so indistinguishable that they hardly have to seek one another or define their separateness.  of course i can’t maintain such states.  i am yanked back into the prisons of life and forced into various humiliations called civilization or responsibility, the floor opens and i slip into oceans of death and have to fend off the cold, the gravity, the untaxomizable beasts, until i voluntarily accept humiliation again.  nevertheless, i seek.  and even now i find that the ocean is in the humiliations, the prison in the grave abyss, a different union of the two, a different temporary forgetting.

buddhism with its sunyata offers no more peace than daoism with its dao, christianity with its christ, judaism with its book and law, hinduism with its moksha, art with its play, business with its productivity, philosophy with its analytics, prophecy with its rage, silence with its eyes. 

i do not seek peace for peace is as illusory as justice, love, community.  they all exist, but as moments, moods, ideas, desires.  i seek death and seek it in all things, and find it – for it is always there.  most of all i seek death in myself, for, here, it is doubly at hand.  death, despite the claims of the living, offers no rest or peace to the living – for death’s oblivion obliterates all feeling.  death may be peaceful, but offers no peace; it may be kind, but offers no kindness.  it may be free, but offers no freedom.

more autothanatographical thoughts

some sunny day,

don't know where, don't know when ...