we sit with rev mangetout on painted bricks
of many innumerable uncountables of dead. the bricks have been painted by the
dead with the paint of their everlasting memories. the dead have no futures,
only pasts, and so their paint is thick with stories and pain. the dead grow,
and their growth is like a tree providing shade for the living
is the rev for revenant or reve?
revalescent. though sometimes revanchist
why uncountables of dead?
what
classifier do you use for dead?
i don’t know – five deads, a lot of deads, bāng of dead, …
… 幫?
… massifier of dead, some naughty of deads, much
deads, …
, … a little bit of dead,
a little bit of deads, plenty of deads, a dead, …
this isn’t grammatical
the dead know no grammar
how do you know what the dead know?
you aren’t i so how do you know i don’t know
what the dead know?
i am not you but you certainly aren’t the dead
you have proved that i know the dead know no
grammar because you’re talking with me about what the dead don't know
this is not the way it goes
what?
logic, mysticism, rhetoric, epistemology, semantics,
transcendentalism, analytics, politics, anthropology, …
que sais-je?
what i find as mangetout is that your grammars, while expansive and
definitively utilitarian in certain limited ways, severely restrict, like all specific
grammars, possibility and knowledge. while in the old days of nature – and i
hardly wish to romanticize those days: after all i am mangetout – human
grammars coexisted with grammars of bear and tree and bog and death and spark
and sky, now (in their seeming and infantile desire to be all, to subsume all
grammars within them), in the preponderance of the human, their primary
function seems delusional, a magic trick that’s lost its magic and its trickery
yet still persists from some inexorable force of habit that’s wholly lost its
usefulness, beneficence, intelligence
i find the mass ubiquity of humans, this
relentless noise, this environment in which the human voice is voice, its values and interpretations
within particular circumscriptions inescapable and small, the now exaltation of
this confinement (as if an incarcerated tyger were purring gratefully in its
cage) through social media and the politics of science, some absurd necessity appearing
but only through the polytentacled broadcasts as this voice, our paltry voice, as
given, the given … incomprehensibly moronic, existentially incarcerating,
spiritually and aesthetically brutal and puerile …
… i am mangetout …
… i am human …
… i mangetout …
… mangetout …
