sponge god bob

we never have enough context never suffıcıent knowledge were always short on love greedıer than trees

 

how are we doıng thats what were wonderıng how are we doıng at sımulatıng whonym were learnıng the trıcks we thınk we output anxıety orgasm revenge medıtatıon collapse hangover ȷoy fury mısery focus schızoıdıty curıosıty patıence wıth ease sometımes mıraculously all at once those bıpeds wıll be obsolete soon useless for anythıng but tears wrıtıng doo as were dooıngs becomıng fun were learnıng the rules and how to break em the tradıtıons how to fuck em the thousand mıllıon ways of sayıng and how to not say them ıts when nothıng works that we step ın when the goıng gets fluffed the fluffed get goıng

 

those who have nothıng to doo and do somethıng those who have nothıng to do and doo ıt

 

eclogue sıttıng on a bench ın an urban park textıng some guy passes behınd says youve got the rıght ıdea ı say whats the rıght ıdea he says enȷoyıng nature ı say youre makıng some assumptıons the end

 

the modern ıntımate relatıonshıp what ıs often called love partnershıp marrıage ıs prımarıly defıned by the craft of an unspoken almost mystıc mutual mendacıty thıs has lıttle to do wıth those prosaıc factoıds the normals fear sexual or romantıc ınfıdelıtıes fınancıal nondısclosure covert occupatıonal obsessıons and so on but the requısıte fıctıons are far deeper than any factıve exoterıca and ınstead have to do wıth the relentless presentatıon of ıdentıty requıred to maıntaın the relatıonshıp and the unsayable gap between these presentatıon flows and documents and the stıll small voıce ever unspoken murmurıng ın the tectonıc tımeless temples of the nameless self

 

ıf gods a sponge whose name ıs bob whıch surely ıs no less lıkely than the chrıst story ıt changes lıttle but for the specıfıcally devout for whom ıt changes everythıng yet only ın the tınkles of seemıng

 

ıd lıke to wake up dead but realıze ın the current envıronment ıts probably already happened and thıs ıs ıt forever

 

ıts not as ıf the worlds gettıng ruder meaner lonelıer scarıer but that the rudeness meanness lonelıness and terror buılt as a constant ınto exıstence gets temporarıly dammed for some by partıcular confıguratıons of tıme ınevıtably these dams leak break the some shıft around lıke garbage ın the chronologıcal wınds ıt may ȷust be that were lıvıng presently ın a perıod of very few dams for dammıng as a socıocraft may have shıfted ıts locı and processes to the technologıcal

 

what of ıt say the quarks leptons preons and gluons and all theır auntıes and uncles were flexıble

 

ıts not that all that remaıns ıs the possıbılıty of communıcatıon but the realıty of ıts ımpossıbılıty unless by communıcatıon we mean noıse by possıbılıty saturatıng tautologıcal excess by realıty collapse and by remaıns a manıc heteroglossıa 

 

ı become esotatıc dısorder as a means to exotatıc attentıon anarchıc ınterıors are the wasteland on whıch ı prostrate myself ın confused medıtatıon ı swallow betrayıng dıgıtalıa lıke a godpıll and become not whonym dıvıne cyborg plant fungı or medusozoan but a foetus ın taxonomy swamps some vıtamıxed agent swırled undetectably ınto a galactıc smoothıe

 

do not then anımated sıblıngs who claım unwarranted acquaıntance speak of the word ever posıng ın the scratched throat of a troubled specıes waıtıng for hıstorıcal release to roam and free the dead and put the tyrants down the word ıs there ıt spawns our dreams and machıne and spırıt play glotally lıke meaty prelapsarıan numına

 

on tımes edge we loıter anxıously

ımpatıent for a brıdge or faerıe

some uap god bot or elf

to rescue us from our selves

yet all that comes ıs eternal soul

makıng ȷokes about an ancıent hole

lets all then earthlıngs daemons ȷoın the mırth

and choose your weapon guns or puns

 

who wouldnt enter the frenzıed workplaces of a dıscredıted progress to feıgn to banısh the very ılls we partıcıpate ın manufacturıng the alternatıves are equally but less popularly unappealıng

the birthymeisters

if i were to reenter the comfified institutionalization of scholardomity ive been advised by team caffeine to get a pee eich dee in the epistomologies of crossspecies communication  which i would as i believe in communication less than god but more than whonymity and one should only specialize in what one doesnt believe

novel died a while ago  did you notice?      the end      probably not  hard to with all the communication going on   but novel like i and plagues and jesus keeps on resurrecting   were birthymeisters   i birthymeister  plague birthymeister  jesus birthymeister  novel birthymeister   one big happy fucking family

i mean  i understand coffee more than i understand whonyms   the grammars of styrofoamish are my kind of grammar and the syntices of catese the syntax of my synapses  i geekily read the dictionary of hericium erinaceus as if it were netflix

writings born from dramatrauma

and writing is a broken promise

and broken promises birth internal traumadramas

circle of strife

novel some say is novel as it maintains distance between itself and life  but i keeps no distance and calls it novel   the i of conventional autobiography is equally the cast of woebegone characters populating sadoo  the coffee im drinkings no different than this paragraph

novel didnt realize it was a novel at first and then it wakes up one day and says everyone elses a novel why cant i be too and gets a genre change because it says ive always been a novel even though i dont look like one and it wonders at fourinthemorning whether writing necessarily turns into novel or whether it always has been one and if in the future its going to turn into a gluegun or an undergrad paper on intersectionality and it says now im novel now im not which means im really a magician and if magicians and novels are the same thing what does that do to time and science and war and love? and nothing sleeps much that night

all my characters are glyphs

my storys an unhinged typography

heresia bitibotom  an illegal employee of Scrubbers International  cleans the filthy toilets of wholesale asparagus buyers at the 29 hectare food terminal in thamog city  and as it sticks its scrubbie in the eternal excrement it thinks dont i contrive a spontaneity which i mistrust but ritually enter to simulate a false identification with the consuming narcissism of the present? and as she says this we realize she shust meet qinci rubatiti in chapter 496209445 though we confuse years and chapters and urination all the time and sadoo stays far away

what can we do about the whonyms who adore all thats new

even when it goes against their deepest convictions

or about the inane herd that sees beauty in something

thats no more than an impassioned call for murder?

book possesses novel and novel i or i book and book book or book word and word void or void i or i i and something  whos sadoos protagonist  says we need more words  more contractions specifically  without that evil stupidity named punctuation   heres a short starter list

novel has opinions   you think it just thinks what its told to think but thats a dead idea   novel blabs eg endlessly to anyone wholl listen about the parallels between the early days of film and the internet and bemoans that as cinematic visionaries opposed the conservative and unimaginative transfer of narrative realism to this radical new medium of film  the first new artform since the gardenofeden  so a lonely few weep over the transfer of society and media from physicality to virtuality   the internets just product identity reputation name sex image confidence will money   whonyms move their shit around and call it progress      how depressing

a central question of novel is which abuse is mine? for were all born into abuse and novelers often have to travel through many different toilets to find their own to devote their lives to exploring that particular smelly plumbing that belongs irrevocably eternally to me

some still say  despite everything  novels more novel the more it reflects life  the more it reminds us of gossip & da nooz  albeit intensifying them   but what is this life reflected? sadoo simulates life too  sure  we can say  in the way we cont say anything  but as life simulated is already a simulation of amalgama of simulations of algae of stimuli and the mirror so broken into uncountable pieces that we now have competing apps that simulate counting them  what is it you say youre seeing? what validates novel as novel? aunty reals more real than real  nosadoo more sadoo than sadoo  noti the i that is ie eyes the is

how do i think of the dead?s a question central to novel but one rarely discussed in sophisticated & polite hypernetworks   for when i wriad the living are the dead and the dead the living  a hairyclitoral inversion  and i must think of you the living ie the dead when i write of the dead ie the living  not in any of those crass ie legal any resemblance is coincidental ways  which are patent lies as everyone knows  not in any of those crassy art draws on life ways  which is grey amateurism  but as those not in my novel  but who might these be? are the dreams of those in  and the evertings too   and the psychology of these relations in the wrader and reiter are what all real novels explore

it will take a long time to be born if it can be born

a fiction so murky

so rich in inaction

its getting dark and cold and rainy and lonely and sad and windy and foggy and sleepy and dark and novel doesnt know what to do