time for a new time

it’s time  on apocalypse's cusp  after 2173 years of weary domination of the romanjuliangregorian calendar  all its attendant societalcultural horrors we euphemistically call civilization  these days with the sun and moon as irrelevant as horned combat helmets and everything lit up like gonads during froshweek  with 0 finally having wormed its way from the mudbottoms of the cesspools of fear into the most truthful formulae that rule society  with physicists and mystics equally confused about what time is whether it exists and if it does what shape or shapes it assumes even as we measure this thing we’re more ignorant of than ever with a thoroughly embarrassing precision  in the midst of a global confusion and genocide so vast we inanely cling to our phones as if they were rosaries  with the clock so molecularly integrated into our viscera we can’t stop talking and productivity though we don’t know what it means enshrined on the wasted altars of our littered souls like a vomitorium of gargoyles  for a new calendar

fortunately the unun (the deprivation of the UN through an anarchist disassembly under an onion patch somewhere in the fourth world) has shakily commissioned such a venture and this consortium of sadoos has seized it like a dissonance of ghouls exiled from unreliable deserts

while sadoos aren't known for agreeing (or disagreeing) on much other than asparagus4fungigarlicrisotto a draft set of principles has emerged (its methods veracity basis all possibly suspect though its implementability true and sound) for discussion purposes. now’s your unique chance to provide input to humanity’s next method of organizing days designed with reality – and much less – in mind

here’s your chance to be heard in new time. provide feedback to sadoo while they waft in stochastic deliberation 2001 metres past the eryanghuagoubanpodafengdong entrance of the shuanghedong system. bring absinthe acid psilocybin samichlaus ayahuasca hash mdma sextoys cubancigars coffee sprulpas mastabas podoms atziluts

1. all acknowledgement of  references or relations to  groundings in historic and traditional lunar and/or solar realities are to be strictly omitted : these cycles were relevant to an agrarian society in which humans as meat wandered earth and knew the skies as well as their wechuges but have become irrelevant and shameful in this era of perpetual light and technological orbit
2. with the human clearly now at the center of the universe and each human ego with similar clarity at the center of the human  the subjectivity of each i must be fully integrated with time’s tracking. a subcommittee's been struck to envision this integration and enact a proof of concept with early discussions suggesting a key input to the calendar being an amalgam of nine identity markers  some of these being themselves amalgamata … the specifications for this input alone are expected to be substantial and alliances to this end have been forged with certain task forces of the uniso
3. with each advance it becomes more obvious how ignorant humans are – this ignorance increasing in direct proportion to a matter's importance – including our increasing inability to have any idea what time is … so any calendar will build into itself our ignorance and not just this but it increasing
4. upon examination of the scores of calendars in past or present existence the tedious sameness of them all becomes readily apparent. while there are scattered minor exceptions (islam mayan dreamspell russian attic frenchrevolution bahá'í muisca javanese) the only exception of note is the pawukon which consequently informs our calendar to the extent of its brilliance. we strive for cycles that are endless unanchored unaccountable climaxless disaccumulating unconsumable  minimizing calendars that retain the primary structural clichés or only innovate in names (pataphysical nisga’a) using the latter for nomenclature play but not for structural inspiration
5. the new calendar should align itself with the complexity of our present lives  incorporating for example sufficient swathes of the world that it should on average take at least a day to figure out what the calendar for that day looks like
6. 0  so absent from previous representations of moving time  presents itself and those historic 1s through 9s (so stolidly dominant) begin to share with their oldyoung relative of consummate absence : womb of imaginative verve and dark deplosions
7. diversity and polypolarity  while largely virtuesignalling in society  become manifest and embodied in our calendar such that if there are weeks and days and/or other cycles of whatever names (for surely there are no months or years) there shall be hardly one of each but many. time comprises myriad ways and we fragments of time shall in our pathetically nanominiscule condition have at least an occasional sensation of an illusion of semblance of freedom in all our endless pervasive incarcerations
8. following from 7 and overlapping with it but sufficiently distinct to merit its own principle : the interplay of volition (order) chance (disorder) and fate (anaorder) will play this calendar’s play
9. each human shall be provided by its central government a visual polydimensional construction of the human’s new calendar at no cost to the individual unless it makes more than the equivalent of $100000 then it shall be forced to pay $10000 – a prototype of which is presently being developed – which shall be used as the game of calendar and in figuring out where time is (for we know now we don’t and can’t know what it is)
10. our calendar avoids social religious commercial administrative purposes  creating purposelessness as the capital of its geography … raising a core point that any viable calendar must just be space (see 9)
11. calendar now avoids calling out  whether for debt or just for calling (and hardly yelling). there's no settlement no books no register no collection no account no reckoning. it's less a kalend calō – any solemnity summon cry – than a callooh callay and so it may be named not calendar but calloohar  each unit therein a callayday or just a chortle or kahlua or a jab

my biography

little has been said these long and secret years about the days and spaces of sadoo diaper – from whence farflung turds it arose, its innumerable flushings, the journeys of the scats, how it came to be numbered – if numbers are aspects of itself – among the sadoos, the incomprehensible ramblings of this blog itself, sadoo diaper’s relations with other sadoos and the non-sadoo community, its political positions, sexual preferences, and seminal influences, scholarly theories of its psychoaesthetics … all this has been left to the reader’s vivid or more likely mundane imagination.

no more.

fukky risotto, a hermaphrodite of little renown living happenstantially in the 13^th arrondissement, was not quite out of diapers when one cloudy day in february they felt a strange urging in the nether parts.

mommy, they say.

yes fukky dear, says mommy.

mommy, i have a strange feeling.

you have many strange feelings fukky.

this strange feeling is stranger cuz i’ve never had it before.

each feeling is new fukky, there’s never a feeling you’ve had before, that’s the beauty of feelings and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

don’t get philosophical on me mommy, not at a time like this.

oh fukky – always so dramatic.

mommy, it’s my diaper.

this is the fourth time today!

it’s not the caffeine, it’s something else.

have you been into the coconut water again?

it’s alive mommy.

what’s alive?

my turd.  it’s walking around in my diaper and saying things.

fukky, turds don’t talk.

maybe it’s not a turd.

but only turds come out of the asshole.  i mean – they’re the only things that come out that haven’t gone in first.

mommy you lie you lie.

of course i lie.

you said that all outputs are inputs and all inputs outputs, that the world is a great circle or sphere or hypersphere or something and that everything’s connected.

that’s true.  but that doesn’t discredit anything else i’ve said.  or rather it may discredit it but only in a way that credits.

… so whatever’s exploring my diaper now must have first gone in me … omigod i think it’s broken out …

… fucking jesus, i see a little hand print in your little trousers …

… get it out of me mommy, get it out …

… just pull down your pants and let’s see what happens …

fukky and their mommy were good to me, especially since they weren’t expecting a third mouth to feed and didn’t really have much money, being committed primarily to verbal play, speculative caprice, irrational fun, and composting the world’s evils by ignoring them.  fukky called me diaper and mommy called me doodoo and because i was a melancholic child she often called me sadoodoo.  when they enlisted me in school they gave my name as sadoodoo diaper, which got shortened to sadoo diaper, as these things do.

it wasn’t until much later that i realized there was a large class of sadoos – all of them crammed into india – and they misspelled their names.  being committed to retaining the proper spelling and origins of myself, i left – after much weeping and the promise of tweets and postcards – to go on a quest to find other true sadoos.  surely, i reasoned – and mommy if she taught me anything taught me reason – if i had been born into a diaper others must have been too.

the secular sadoo is the record of my quest, in a kind of code, that i know other sadoos with a little bit of work can decipher.  as to the fake sadoos and all those heaps of masses that aren’t even the fake ones, as fukky always says, who gives a fukky about them?