stately, droop the hollow dicks in yellow plunder

 

thanks to lewis carroll (chapter six of looking glass), virginia woolf (her lecture in the bbc series words fail me) and mitzi hanover (her recent rhetorical analysis)

 

 

THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A TYLENOL 500, A GERUND, AND GLORY

at the café, in that part of the patio the sun had found, near the cracked flowerpot that held nothing, around the wobbly table, its ceramic top chipped and worn so that its pattern of herbs and weeds was barely discernible, sat a Tylenol 500, a gerund, and glory, each sipping a caffeinated beverage, as was their custom, together, to make the transition from sleep to consciousness more palatable.  The Tylenol 500 preferred a naked bold venti half-caf no-foam non-fat vanilla soy latte, with a shot of white chocolate and four pumps peppermint, the gerund the remainings of drippings, which some might in certain moods call something resembling a turkish coffee, and glory a double short americano, which is called a danny devito at this café.

the three friends were conversing, as they tended to do, about the general and specific decline of language, how it was succumbing to the binary and barbaric protocols of technology (something robots would have invented! just look at texting!), precipitating the obvious moral, intellectual, and spiritual decline that presently inflicts all sentient and insentient beings, threatening to debilitate them and the planet to the point of absolute inertia or apocalypse or both.  They agreed on little but on this they agreed, as if they were one mind and one of the kind given far more to homogeneity than contradiction.

look, said the Tylenol 500, as we all know, if we set aside various primitivisms such as fire and the wheel, writing was the first technology and it should have remained the only one of any significance.  The advent of the printing press, which forcefully spewed its seed through the centuries to beget the Internet, has ultimately usurped the alphabet and all its natural attributes—thought, freedom, love, courage, nobility, art and even God.  Progress may seem like progress but if those to whom it seems so are in fact themselves regressions, what sort of authenticity does such a judgment have?

 

without doubt, said the gerund.  I remember when i was vacationing on the italian riviera, in ventimiglia as i recall, an unusually attractive woman approached me and, wearing only impeccable english, asked whether i might do her laundry.  Those certainly were the days.   

surely, said glory, our collective melancholy shall lead to a point at which language turns back on itself and humans are reduced to acronyms and emoticons little different than the grunts and yelps we attribute to our distant ancestors.  Machines will assume the regulation and enforcement of words, much in the same way the french government does today, and we will all speak—or probably transact—the same language, we will all be understood, but that language will be utterly without vitality and that understanding wholly without love.      

 

indubitably, said the gerund.  It wasn’t long ago when, as portugal’s ambassador to ceylon, i was hiking up pidurutalagala, thinking of eggs and love in proportionate semblance, when three nuns of little reputation and even fewer textiles swooped from behind some burning shrubbery and questioned whether i was capable of action.  Before i knew it—how time disintegrates in the face of such memories!—all four of us were …

… but, said the Tylenol 500, this has already happened!  The turning point was 1889, the place was turin, the great tongue of humankind became cancerous, and we tipped over the precipice of decadence on our spiritual toboggans, accelerating ever since toward those ragged boulders of linguistic doom awaiting us in the inevitable valley.  True, we sit here, sipping our distinguished beverages, our overworked smartphones at our sides, our syntactic configurations not in wretched disrepair, filled with the glory of our own discourse even as we argue, quite rightly, that glory itself has fallen and language stumbles to its inglorious and imminent death at the non-existent hands of our creation.  Although we once thought that we would one day be glorified—without stain or blemish, purified by the light of words, the enlightenment of reason through language—we now realize that despite all these accoutrements (here the gerund waved its appendages around the table), we will instead be stripped of the glory we have only imagined and be left as we were—dumb beasts, mindless, striving only after sex and food and domination.  For glory has become not what we thought it would become—a shining star for humanity and the entire cosmos—but what it was always destined to be—a worm, a bug, in an infinite loop in a closed system in a cold metal cube in forgotten space.

 

the sun had by now moved on to other things, the caffeinated beverages of the friends were nearing their drunken close, the table wobbled as was its tendency, and the cracked flowerpot held nothing.  But glory neither twitched nor recoiled for glory was not glory but just a word.

Communication

What does communication do?  It does itself, but assiduously avoids anything beyond this that humans claim of it.  In doing itself, it balks, in the manner of things doing themselves, and in its balking overdoes itself, and falls.  How much more well-positioned on the evolutionary path to avoid communication or—as necessary—committing it but not believing in it, as one might take a bath without taking the bath.  That is, one’s approach to communication should be the same as one’s approach to god, justice, love, or anything supposedly grand and impossible:  engage with it as necessary, but infuse its spirit and action with not-knowing (as to intent, substance, effect, essence).  Communication, like god etc., draws one toward its negation and through its negation to its fulfillment.  Like love etc., we do not do communication, communication does us, and in its doing we fall sway to the routine interpretation of interpreting our being overwhelmed as our overwhelming.  What one overwhelms in communication—and what one claims to overwhelm—however, is far less than clear.  So we are spoken and in being spoken we claim to speak.  With human numbers now overcrowding themselves so that each feels like an infinity, our claiming has become almost all we claim and our being spoken almost all we are.

Communication is like a brightly painted carousel with flashing lights and happy music with a creepy undertone, but we rather wish it were a train that kept to German schedules and moved at Japanese speeds, taking us … where else? … to happy theme parks with brightly painted carousels and flashing lights.

 

Communication—that pet dragon—we suspect wishes to escape its hospitable human home but stays put, not from any lack of capability to migrate to freedom and live in its natural habitat of unbounded ahumanity, but from patience, knowing it is far more spiritually efficient to pretend to be sleeping, waiting until its home implodes from excess saturated care for its pet.

  

minnie downed to baton rouge, waffling about love

    little ditties ‘bout god (or somethin

g) [maybe] {uh} : — : — : — :

isn’t god the image of ourselves that we shatter upon, becoming not whole or healed but uncountable pieces of glass under an electric sun?

            we gather ourselves into transient unities through wisps of language, ineffable reflections of our fragmentation.

god is a word i use to describe the chasm in words, the chasm between desire and desire.

death stabs us.  This stabbing while we continue living i call god.

it isn’t so much god we miss in a secular age but the shadows truth once cast, protecting us from perpetual light.

if misery is a butterfly, is god a caterpillar?

            wouldn’t god, though, be a sanctuary for those with wings in a flat and gravity-bound world?

i once thought that god, grounded as it seemed to be in darkness, would spell the sacred word at the end of time.  But i saw in a dream that time, unlike humanity, is eternal and we are the sacred word which cannot spell itself.

little, said god one day under the bonsai tree it favoured, is born from tears and blood, even as little is born from their absence.

            and the bonsai tree withered upon god’s speaking these words and god was silent.

if god must pitch its tent in a poet for poetry to exist and god is dead, do we not write from a residence of death and a throne of dust?

            but hasn’t language always been dust’s tongue and poetry its bloody pen?

the golden irides of god are dimly visible in the smog of our souls, through the gutted monsters of our wounds.

            as we spot them (staring at what? surely not us! staring at staring itself?), a certain death is inevitable (who does not seek this death in the act of gutting? in slaying the hungry heads of those wounds?):  we cannot help but become the blurred reflection of those thousand eyes.
                        the endless deaths in life:  with each one added, life and death begin to resemble each other, like a dog and its human.  (but which is which?)  (with each addition of death, divisions are subtracted …)
                                    heresiarch ramarooroo said, from death’s perspective, all of life is a failure.  And i said, yes.  But isn’t it equally true that from death’s perspective, all of life is a success? (and doesn’t, ^now, ^{the golden flappy now}, ^{tolle’s cheap toll}, chuang tzu’s butterfly poke its pesky head over language’s cliffs, laughing like a banshee munching avocados on a teetertotter on a raft in the Pacific?)
                                                (and from life’s perspective [from those perspectives] what is life? might it be language precariously stuffed into human form? and when humanity ends there still may be life but …)

might god be the amorphousness in the eye of each word, making the hebrew scribes right:  the holy name cannot be written?  It would be english’s crassness—our requirement to express subtlety in syntactic convolutions, the directness we claim in our grammar, the mask of honesty we demand in our art and our love—to plunk the shapeless shape in a clunky one-syllable word, with a hint of its essence in the vowel at its hollow center.

              
isn’t my melancholy that art, like god or time, has no end, no goal, no definition, no f ^ac ^e … only a fluidity polluted (flowered?) with past ends?

one must speak of god (if one must speak of god) in ways that barely resemble ways that resemble.  (and who would be so mad to speak of god unless one must?)

although there are other claimants, we prefer the gods who crouch at the edges of thoroughfares, drooling a bit perhaps, though not infrequently from caprice, day-old french fries in a paper bag, sartorial holes worn comfortably, quarreling with death as if the quarrel were a lover, dreaming of a night of love to down the horny world, seeing themselves not as saviors or losers or members of the virtuous merchant class or artists (those usurpers!), not particularly seeing themselves, humming off-tune tunes, not having had a martini in seven weeks or bermuda … these gods of smells and dirty fingernails, those claimants no more true than others, yet more true through our preferring.

i use god in the way you use waffle or project or agent or fuck me—not in any final sense or sense existing outside of what presently is inside, but in the sense of picnics and candy floss and rhino poop.  God is simply the empty set of words that impossibly claims to hold the infinity of other empty sets.

the endless compelling compulsive exhausting irrevocable exuberant leaping need for the tongue to move in the mouth, celebrating sound, feeling itself wiggle, wiggling, wiggled, in that cavity buttressed by carnivorous teeth and salacious lips, madly, softly, sweetly, bleeding, reaching through the void for the clanging stars … this need … isn’t it god?
 
which is greater—language or god? heresiarch wollenmatova asked one woolly bedtime as gramma tucked her in to hums of bygone nights.  Language, gramma spontaneously answered.  No, god, she corrected herself.  No no, that’s incorrect, it’s surely language.  No, forgive me, it’s god.  Language—i remember, i got the answer wrong, it was #98—is it, i know now.  But … i can’t forget that moment in the backseat of the chevy … without a doubt, god is right.  And so it went until heresiarch wollenmatova fell asleep and gramma died from the exhaustion of indecision, sucked into the gyres of memory.
            and love? you (& paul & aldous) ask, from a perch of posited perennialism.  Love, said heresiarch munchawuffle, i have heard it said that love is but one of the trillion children spawned by language and god, wee hindu-ish divinities wobbling it out in the living dictionary of life.
                        love! said will burr-brrrrrr and his wiffles.  Love is a meme stuck on the forehead of my self-proclaimed integration and enlightenment, a plank in the eye of my transpersonal taxonomies.
                                    love, said the kamut flakes, is an emo orgy on a bed of blooming almond milk, the jets we fly to paradise.
                                                love, said sappho and sade, that salad of limbs and eyes …
                                                            love, said aristophabooble, that cloven sphere …
                                                                   love, said Love, as it may have always had, which makes it maybe just like us,—…:  dunno what i am.

god is every word in every past, present and future language.  Not just every word, but every object and concept that that word points to, every textual and oral discourse (thought and feeling) about that word, the object(s) and concept(s) it points to.  Not just these, but the end-to-end experiences of that word.  For example, god includes the word ‘potato,’ the object potato (in all its varieties and states), all words and concepts (ontological, scientific, theological etc.), thoughts and feelings about potatoes, and the actual lived experience of modifying, growing, marketing, selling, preparing, cooking, using, wasting potatoes in all possible circumstances, with all possible methods, in all possible states.  Until the human has entered into each word in all languages this way, entered until each word has collapsed under its own weight and become the night below all words, it does not know god.  This radical limit to knowing we might call the humility we resist in order to sidestep reality’s confinement, the humility we must resist in order to speak at all.

 
if god was absence before it died, does it not become after its death not amortized absence but the absence of absence, which is not presence (which would immediately destroy us) but something more problematic—the lack of lack, the silence of silence?
            god becomes the copy of itself—itself by definition itself copying (god bless you please, mr. benjamin)
                        in dying, god expands its infinity, takes on more of eternity.  God always gains through death.  We always lose.  But in god’s dyings (which are endless), we become more distant from our center, requiring more substances (things, noises, images, movements, orgasms, money) to bridge ourselves, attempting to compensate for god’s expanding infinities through prosthetic innovation, to which society must increasingly devote itself; this activity inevitably becoming the sacred (the task of compensating for the absence of absence:  the perpetual sacred).  [the three sacreds:  the above task of compensation, the task of detouring around the above task, the task of bridging compensating and detouring]
                                    it is humanity’s inefficient energy to transform the divine losses we are granted into processes we are compelled to call gains.
                                                isn’t this compulsion the cooperative task between heaven and earth, that old alliance (to refer to heraclitus) between delight and mud?
                                                            (daodejing xlii:  thus a thing is sometimes added to by being diminished and diminished by being added to …)

the body is the way that gets in the way

the body is the way and the body gets in the way

the body is the way that gets in the way of the body, in the body of the way

the body is the way of the body of the way

            heresiarch ramarooroo

 

god i take to be the inexplicable incommunicable infinite resource i draw from to attempt to describe the quantumly human (what feels at times like a siege of twinkies).

 
grey is the god of the city, who slips on its vomit in the back of taxis, who leaps before trains from a pedestal of pills, who rides elevators, prime past prime, until light itself snaps and the god forgets its names.
            grey is the god of the city, who has forgotten the energy of unconsummated desire, the fomenting pit of silence, who races up the steps of the future without faltering or looking back at the pillar of love.
                        grey is the god of the city, grey and pricked and sated and beautiful and doomed.
 
it has long been known that god is a failed alchemist and we its confused apprentices.

the urban streets are god’s neurons, its intersections its synapses.  We inhabit the divine cranium to explore our resilience in new environments, to explore new explorings, to trace circumferences on night’s unblinking canvas (the arctic, everest, the congo were nothing next to this critically acclaimed [and popular!!!] choreography of the unseen and seen!).  The visions of the Apocalypse are fulfilled, and we stumble along heaven’s alleys and boulevards (where the sun is no longer necessary! finally!), not (of course) according to anyone’s expectations, as is the nature of visions, wily to the squiggles in their vast and microscopic core.
            this mind incarnate we inhabit:

• our collective flesh turned inside out and hammered into shapes of certain dreams?
• the essence of a substance of a shadow ^{(dream’s definition?)} shoved through time’s leathery funnel, splatting architectures on the shaved and antiseptic earth?
• our lusty tongues, strung out on themselves, drooling patterns we barely understand, the woven spit of history?
• the imago of a race neither won nor lost and maybe hardly run?

 
doesn’t god wait for me in darkness, less like a lover, somewhat like a corpse, more like a word dropped into a bottomless desert well?
 
what drives us to god?  The bricks of knowledge, the mockery of consciousness, betrayal, envy and small-mindedness and the arrogance that pretends it’s not, the cruelty and aggressiveness at the heart of the good, the greed that disguises itself as cooperation and the cooperation that disguises itself as greed, …  what drives us away?  The bricks of knowledge, the mockery of consciousness, betrayal, envy …
            and of these other things:  tenderness, understanding, friendship, care, forgiveness … do they not drive us to the human … or, rather, do they not drive?
                        those who would call the driving evil or ignorant or otiose or tired but gladly accept its effects (planes, trains, automobiles, yoga, to name just a few) … what do we call them? might we call them unjust?
 
texting is a bridge from god to nothingness, from the nothingness of god to the nothingness of god … god, simply, was insufficient as a bridge (at least it learns on its śūnyatā designer couch!); we need aids:  two thousand years ago it gave us Christ the Word, now it gives us texting—the ultimate instant communion, oh bouncy host!
 
one doesn’t oppose society and god (other than in that particular way, the scrubless plain on which things legitimately confront one another in the joy and desolations of themselves), one doesn’t unite them either (other than in that other particular way, on the supersonic planes of the air show of ourselves).  But one can perhaps, in some geometric spinozean vertiginous calm, listen faintly to a dialogue between them, not without meaning not dissimilar to the feeling of glimpsing a silent mob under a night clear rural sky. 

haiku on the trans-siberian at three a.m.

dazed, god speeds down the

miles of its deadlines, which it

would confuse with visions but

for the treasure in

its impermanent lantern

like virginia, with her waves and rocks, i refuse to watch art kneel before psychology, vision before analysis, enthusiasm before pragmatism, spirit before money.  This refusal i could call god.
           (you call my divisions false, my refusal puerile, my methods dubious?  Do i not also?  [But what shall we call the calling?]  I appeal, in part, in the broken pitch, from the whispers of stone, to the uncarved block of the dao, lay my oily fingers on its surfaces, cling to muddled images of murkiness and turning back and vacancy and the ancestors of beginnings—the project of the unnaming of names, beyond death’s caress, life’s claws.)

house of disputes

^house  _o    f     ^{d i s p u t e s}

do we not spurn the common successes not from spite, some backdoor hope, misery or ignorance (those spiders!), daydreams of novelty, but to seek the fertile desolation of empty days, airy flowers, to tend to wounded words on urban avenues, to scrape dead ones from beneath tires, form them into oracles, trampled tongues of the dead, mutant ears of the future, and so those other things become like noisy monuments, sepulchres of time?

 

heresiarch bāāt-em

 

 

i shall call modern the art which devotes its "petit technique," as diderot used to say, to present the fact that the unpresentable exists.

to resist self-identifying with self:  is this act of resistance not the act of writing?

on a bus’s external ad:

some discoveries just can’t be made in a lab

to take refuge in language from life’s onslaughts is like hiding in a mirror to take refuge from mirrors.  It seems efficacious in the movement of taking refuge; and language, it is true, in its commodious indifference, its endless theatrics, can take on the appearance of welcoming.  And in all this movement and taking refuge and appearances of welcoming, the shadow of a dialogue appears—art, alone, talking to itself …

 

on toronto island’s carousel, a father is taking a picture of his son while the latter swoops up and down on his pink piggy.  The child’s name is miles.  smile miles, the father says.

in this photographic age, who would name a child such a thing?  Better to have named the kid smile, thus making its function as camera accessory and petit dieu in the family shrine explicit.

the condition for writing (exile, vacancy, absence; what has in various traditions been called god) yields equally religion, art, apocalypse.

            the inherent and repeating risk, however, of trying to create—or, more truly, recreate, in our atmosphere of creation’s impossibility—this condition is that the only yield will be the condition.

                        isn’t this risk humanity’s unspoken wager?

beauty and truth have outlived their evolutionary usefulness; this doesn’t mean, however, that the time has come for ugliness and falsehood, which would simply be to reinstate beauty and truth in new clothes.  The time has come, if it has come (if time ever comes) for their indistinguishability.

            yet philosophical daoism says that they have never been useful (or that they are only available for use which, for daoism, is saying the same thing).

if freedom is having nothing left to lose, condoland is transfreedom, anti-freedom:  it’s having nothing left to gain ...

            the banality of the comment at what surely must be my last dinner party:  freedom’s overrated.  Such glib inane comments obsess me for days.

                        the non-banality of the comment in sans soleil:  “I've been round the world several times and now only banality still interests me. On this trip I've tracked it with the relentlessness of a bounty hunter.”

… youth are just the emerging old guard …

that psycho-, sociopaths, schizophrenics—the whole range of convenient labels and madnesses—are created as much by society as by the individuals so labelled is something of a progressive truism.  The not-so-labelled

individuals absolve themselves of responsibility of the creation of this range, this creation, while the individuals so labelled assume it.  Is it not this discrepancy in process—how creation is distributed across perceived singularities—that distinguishes?

the tedious hilarity of leos carax at the lightbox q&a after mauvais sang the other day:  what surprises me slightly is not that the interviewer and audience behave exactly as i expect them to but that carax does also.

as artist, the script is questioned; as human, it’s fulfilled.

(another reason to begin assuming that the creator doesn’t exist in art even as we have realized it doesn’t in nature:  only existing seems to be a moderately ineffable complex of complexes [bypassing while using names, surfaces, divisions] transforming itself [themselves] to another moderately ineffable complex of complexes.  That we call the first complex of complexes i [in the past, god], the second complex of complexes art [in the past, nature] and the process of migration from the first to the second creation [but could we not call it prayer or technology?] is a convenience, perhaps a necessity, but even more yet another complex.)

                        we attempt to transform ourselves into something better than ourselves using something worse than ourselves.

now, having been over three years since i have been saying a fairly consistent and initially volatile no to certain dominant routines of money, love, work, time etc., my desire for them hasn’t diminished but my rootedness in a different way of relating to them has grown, modifying the nature of the desire.

the road of knowledge is rounder than an apple …

that the apple took millennia to resymbolize (from garden to city, from eden to cupertino) …

the accumulation of symbols in our souls, like oil spills in the ocean …

the new yorker, the walrus, harper’s:  what are these but costco’s of the mind, walmarts of the soul?

^t_he ^a_c^t _of ^ki^llin_g

            yields no new knowledge of human barbarism, the hypocrisies of power, the timelessness of injustice, the misnomers of the law.  So why does it softly shock?  I could say by combining high camp with brutality.  True, but insufficient.  Central to the film—to the title (is it the act of killing or the art of killing?)—is the unity of three darknesses (or, if you will, a darkness that spawns three spheres, orbiting, juggled, perhaps, by some gravitational force between them):  of nature, of art, of compassion (in other terms, of the sinner, the creator, the saint [I want to also draw parallels with zarathustra's lion, child, camel]).  That the film successfully blends

them (the high camp element would suggest into a harsh smoothie), requiring the participation of the viewer to complete the trinity, is what shocks.  We cannot simply be voyeurs here, as in much of art’s vast gallery.

the triple simulation that reoccurs in the act of killing (we watching anwar watching his memories, even as we may be watching our own memories, our own greed and lack of empathy in our daily First World laundering of barbarism and blood [obama’s brief tv appearance is surely ironic] — for the film is a disturbed and disturbing reflection not just on the unity of light in darkness but on memory, limits, ego, guilt …).  The effort required to break th

rough all this simulation, an effort not only doomed but simultaneously regrettably and thankfully doomed (or at least delayed), disorients us even as we are disoriented by our random placement in time and space whenever the solidity of names begins to melt.

 

and this is the act of killing’s strength:  a forced reflection, a simulated shattering of simulation, a polished funhouse of reflected horror, a disorientation in an age of disorientation …

… our souls have become like soap opera actors 

            ^{coming         soon}

_quantum   |   ^spirituality

we are not mandated to produce art that bears any relation to the way we perceive the world at large …

… in any way that bears any relation to the way we perceive the ways of art at large …

                        to seek the subatomic particles of the psyche, a language of the psyche below and around the languages we speak; to then flesh out a psychic periodic table of elements—the only question, restated in so many ways since humanity crawled into language, is the relation between this table and the one of helium and zinc.

as we construct a society of eyes, a flesh of vision, doesn’t mind seep as a vapour into the mansion of the infinite, gradually abdicating its usurped throne and artifactual clutter, becoming the breathing of sight?

 

heresiarch ברידינג אויגן

 

i feel time pouring through my body, time’s funnel

i think summons what is not being thought

i am seeks its dissolution through the circulation of all statements

i seem seems the image that doesn’t seek my reflection

            i feel what i am what i seem what i think what i seem what i feel what i think what i am what i feel what i what what i i …

            i verb verbs lined with nouns’ shadowy wings …

 

heresiarch satchidananda

 

we are, quite naturally and almost inexplicably, the accumulation of our losses—we become spheres of vacancy, waiting for the natal to replenish, their losses still embryonic, nascent:  embryos and nascence the newly natal call hope.  to give the word despair to the transference of hope to vacancy is possible, easy, but not what we would do, who see rather that hope was misnamed and in its renaming despair also.  What then do we call hope now, from the standpoint of accumulation of empty spaces?  Has it not been seen as itself the first emptiness, and so holds every name?

 

heresiarch vermicular