i’d like to write sentences like today’s title. you’ll say i do. i did. but that’s not what i mean. i’d like to write or use them not as fact – here’s a sentence – but as a communicative device among tribes who’d understand me, with whom such a description could be spoken and my colleagues in language wouldn’t look at me as if i were insane or drunk but would respond in similar modes … and this continue until such time the conversation, like any, concluded through interruption, external necessity, or natural demise. instead these utterances crash into my solipsistic castle, which is vast but cold, then slink into the locked nothingnesses of its dungeons as quickly as they came
in the same spirit i’d like to begin a novel –
her name is fine. not fine, but myryl våårkt-ng or sometimes myryl värccit. she’s a covid gapitalist and wears her dofo like a dumpstream
if i could sustain this writing such an opening would rival literature’s great starts. but i can’t. strings of words – though some would say the diction here’s too generous – coalesce in my mind from the endless phoneme rubbish floating in my fluvial polluted cranium. all i do – all i can do – is fish out whatever coalescences are within reach – lurching for those that attract me, missing some or many – recording them for my nonexistent audience of the voided mad in the forgotten annals of sadoo. they sit alone on the park benches of narrative, going nowhere, staring blankly into the laughing continuity of passing conversation. of course even if i could go on and finish such a novel it would make no sense, at least in the usual sense of sense. but that sense’s sense isn’t mine and why i suppose i’ve turned out to be a hangnail of destiny
while i realize such utterances can easily be dismissed as nonsense or technical pedantry, they actually make as or more sense to me than the overwhelming majority of sentences spoken and written in society. and they're certainly far more beautiful, at least to a mind incapable of being habituated to expected discourse
theorizing of my instinctual orientations leads me to conclude that a core function of literature is to not say anything while pretending to say something. most of what’s called literature achieves this by maximizing the gap between the pretense and the nothing, a maximization commonly called abstraction. i’ve no objections to this approach – and have often greatly benefitted from it – except that by now we’ve had a sufficient sampling of this style, however manifoldly expressed, dominant and expected in art's conservative circles as all defined forms come to be, waiting for an aesthetic embryo to survive the barbarous assaults of convention, take shape, kick the old forms out of the way, and become that weary obese master that in its turn has to be attacked and murdered
while i have no hope of my embryo surviving much beyond the foetal stage, i immerse myself wholly in the opposite extreme – a grossly underexplored sector of literature and thus a hypothetical future : to minimize the gap so that the pretense is the nothing and the gap, ideally (even if this ideal might be impossible to achieve in practice), falls into itself and disappears. the samples of language i’ve given above and liberally share in sadoo and life indicate - however murkily, inchoately, falsely - what i'm vainly striving for
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pseudo recurrent covid simulation syndrome
prcss
can be pronounced process
(for those preferring vowels in their words)
definition : the disease inflicted on any creator for an hour or more (sometimes a day or longer) after it has to go into the infected universe to shop
example : fever, coughing, exhaustion, difficulty breathing … all these occur and heavily oppress without there being any evidence of them
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for the plasmatic, those inexorably of plasmatic consciousness – we, pyroclastic residue of the dead gods – all we can do in this overpriced buffoonery called life is attempt (though futilely) to keep up with the meteorological changes (however violent, however calm or nuanced) that blip and strike through our souls and whose energy and presence largely obliterate society, its processes and structures that define for almost all reality
i’m a failed meteorologist. a meteorologist as all i’m interested in are my internal weather systems. but a failed one both because it’s an unrecognized and thus wholly unpaid profession, with no accreditations, degrees, offices and collegial battles … lacking models, charts, predictive frameworks for what i study. weather happens and i write it down, but only fragments of scattered, small and random ecosystems of the circumferenceless madness that’s always swirling
not only this gross reduction, but a second one, as egregious and insane – for i translate the weather of my soul into words. and words were never designed to carry the weight of such translation. words and souls live in mutually exclusive universes. the former are products of the commons – designed to, however falteringly and flawed, transmit messages among those committed to quotidian human concerns, regardless of whether these concerns are emotional, pecuniary, political, sexual, transactional, intellectual, sensual, philosophical, religious. but we are what we are as josephus might have written and i run after my weather as an ant might after an elephant if it were carnivorous and could only eat elephants … which doesn’t make sense, but then neither do i
yet even to call myself a failed meteorologist is too elevated. in reality i’m a prisoner, chained to the winds, hail, lightning, fog, and relative humidity of my weather systems. if that chain sometimes feels long, as when i’m being pulled along through the patasphere by heavy gales, or sometimes short, as when impenetrable immobile fog pins me down … neither makes me less or more a prisoner. i'm chained to the stormy nothings of myself until death comes along with its efficient shears and snips a link
i don’t work, everything around me works. all i do is remove myself from work so as not to work and this removing some could say might be some sort of work. for example right now i watch tiny occasional bubbles in my cider pop on the surface. the cider works around me and i watch its working. i write the work of the cider and some would say this writing – which i call removing – might be some sort of work. but – no – i’ve never worked. i’m incapable of it
