death ii

processes and techniques of death –

• hardly protest, argument, objection.  rather – using death as a tool of one’s self to continually eradicate what one thinks the self is.

• a chief art of death is anonymity, one that may be critical for the human to craftily use for its collective survival.  for does not a refusal to use names as root – an essence of anonymity – entail abdicating the supremacy of anything human … and this subversion, this unnaturalness which may be a simulated naturalness more central than technology’s simulations, an unparalleled energy (and this rather than a power) that evokes fear initially, for its vastness, its perceived darkness … and this collective entwining, this seemingly dissipating choice of setting alongside the hyena and termite and hydrant and hookah, an experiencing language for what it is and not some pretty tyranny, some gift of dead or living gods?

• i have always learned far more by not being myself than being myself.  first by not knowing myself sufficiently to not know i was not being myself.  subsequently by not knowing what a self was to an extent that i didn’t know what it was to not be or be myself.  in all cases – the learning, the first not knowing, and the subsequent not knowing – death at the center:  as technique, as question, as energy, as self and selves.

• as it takes a great deal of desire to desire to not-desire, so it takes a great deal of life to live in death.

• that we read the textures of life based on the parameters of death may be obvious, but that we read the textures of death – present to us in life as black glyphs on infinite seas of white – and in this other reading are commonly illiterate is hardly seen.

• a new form of death – a redirecting of death’s energies from their present primary outlets of war and love – would be if the majority of human communication were in art rather than functional, animalistic, or even capricious social discourse.

the human world, curved into itself, itself gravitation and objects, cooperation and enmity more ubiquitous than air, the city now the inescapable environment, objectives raised by the slough of groups and science fumbling enchantment’s ancient sphere, mysticism – being endlessly solitary, silent, of many environments equally (interiorally and exteriorally) but of any single one not at all – may be unable to survive in the present and coming urban and mass technology, it may be the only thing with the subversive skills to survive, or it may – as it has been – amble along, carrying quietly the torch of death through life, so that those who inexplicably find themselves cast from their accustomed environment may have help knowing the selfsame thread that winds through all – whether time, environments, technologies, names, cultures – without distinction. 

writing is easy.  what’s difficult is placing and maintaining one’s self in the spaces of death that make writing possible.

as once could happen with god and nature and no longer, so now one can enter consciousness to leave it, can enter thought to leave it, can enter passion to leave it – this leaving before force forces the leaving (what is colloquially known as death and what is technically a manner of death, a transition of a physical singularity into new forms) is an entering into death to life in certain modes.  so, too, perhaps, this can happen with technology and art and time.

death is the distance that enables life, the distance that is here, on the tram, in your wallet, smiling through a closet of masks, the void of words and the rave of solitude, the clickity-clack of time on the punctual and shiny rails of your brain.  death, like life or jesus or the future, is no friend, not friendly, but an environment, an ecology of turning and returning form.  death is neither darkness nor light, peace nor war, but a way that navigates all without mentioning any.  indifferent to creating names, this energy that trumps and fashions life, that assumes disguises like the sky, it flies, vast across the earth, atonal, lacking purpose, acquainted, limpid, hardly counted, nested, the architecture of galaxies and the technology of insects, enough.

death i

i am of the sects of hamartia and planē, these gods of the order of death.  i establish shrines for them in the houses of my words.  for to devote one’s life to wandering, to the mastery of masks and the supremacy of void, is to err in the institutions of life that enforce life as supreme, distinguishable, standard and plaque, as artifact and station, but in the open air of the dying sea, for those born of movement and theatre and night, it is to breathe.

in the world each hierarchy – even though a hierarchy of an i – is incessantly being questioned by all other hierarchies, a process of death pettily delayed in small measures of time by each hierarchy bolstering itself – this bolstering the hierarchies agree in calling life, an agreement more essential than the competitive bolstering.

a dreamer once said a coward dies a thousand deaths before its death but the valiant taste of death but once.  but i say a coward only dies once and the valiant die a thousand times.  for the valiant are not afraid of death and so die as a matter of routine, because they like it.  it seems to me most strange that humans, seeing that death, a necessary change, comes when it comes, don’t integrate such necessity into their daily lives, dying thousands of deaths and so creating what we now call death as just another one.

the key, they said, is to become so intimate with death that one can use death’s techniques against it.

but then isn’t life also subverted by means of that same intimacy?

a double subversion, they said, an experiment in the laboratory of the soul.

a key, though, without a door.

the only worthy key.

becoming posthumous – …

birth and death, being our passages, present themselves singly as the aporia of life.

death is everywhere but everywhere life is devoted to placing death in small boxes to suit its small purposes.  yet death is large and hardly confined to cemeteries and movies, coffins and dictionaries.  it rides trams through crowded urbanscapes, presides at policy task forces, seduces you in bars, lectures you in ecobiology.   death is not some once and final act, a silencing, but endless flowing. 

i write for the people of the void and so use the methods of the void and the language hardly a language of those people.

living as i have in decades of eros – which only became explicitly named such as we moved away, an inexorable migration into thanatos:  that distance, sensing initially … now i will have lived in both spheres fully, beginning as seems appropriate in eros and closing in thanatos – followed by a shaded dawning that this life of death contains no less energy than that life of life and so, as all the poets have known and written:  eros is as in thanatos as thanatos in eros:  we live dying as we dying live.

forgetting iv

forgetting precedes and follows acquiring.  all possession lives in a forever womb of forgetfulness.

a newborn’s cry is a cry of forgetting, an immediate visceral recognition of loss, a scream of unmitigated authenticity, an audioholograph of life.  yet so also its laugh.  the socialized adult’s cry and laugh are but memories of this primal forgetting, melancholic replicas, brief resort vacations in the long winter of culture.

a master of the art of forgetting is given to accusations – expert, populist, arcane, articulate, pompous, ignorant – of heresy, obnoxiousness, socio- and psychopathologies, vast dysfunctions, diseases, all sorts, puerility, insanity, irrationality, sadomasochism, and others too numerous to name.  yet forgetting is the art that births the arts that renew the world.

what could we say of forgetting other than it is hardly the inverse of remembering but the very stuff of vitality, the highlighting, union, and diffusion of opposites, blurred and blurring hearts?

forgetting is the living art of death and if one would begin an apprenticeship of forgetting one would begin with the techniques, materials, subterfuges, nature, and functions of death, even as an itamae must spend years mastering rice.

those experienced in forgetting are desolate, though not from any specific condition or event – this less because they have forgotten, more because forgetting grows most naturally and verdantly in the desert.

forgetting is nothing permanent, as one must also forget forgetting.  so forgetting is a primary technique of subversion, refusing all supremacies, refusing any whole, any end or ends, platform, settling, comfort, but for a time:  as it, serving or amusing, accepts each.

just as one cannot be truly polygamous – we are presently physiologically constructed to permit ingress only between two at a time – so we are manufactured to remember (though we may remember less than we demember, metamember, para and ‘patamember) a concatenated and transient one, forgetting infinite other ones.  forgetting is our natural and perpetual state.

art is the sector of life that uses memory to present, represent, master, and remaster forgetting.

whether forgetting or memory comprise the greater part of love is a knowing that if ever known has been forgotten.

forgetting is the art of using illusion to subvert illusion.  forgetting is memory fulfilled, a primary means of celebration without lights, desolate affirmation, plays of infinite deserts.

when chuang tzu says to hui shi – look, when you asked me how i knew the fish were happy, you already knew that i knew the fish were happy … i knew it from my feelings standing on this bridge – he advocates forgetting – not any forgetting that absolutely forgets events, experiences, names, but a forgetting that forgets all the apparati (reason, logic as conclusive realms) that solidify apparati on these events, experiences, names and so remove us from these events, experiences, names in the radiance of drift and doubt, this radiance that illuminates forgetting.

forgetting iii

all true language is incomprehensible, like the chatter of beggars' teeth.  so forgetting is the only path to truth, the only portal to the unspeakable.

of one being given over to being written, can it not be said, it is on the margins of the texts the human writes, passed over by the vast apparati of productive literacies … that it is an artifact of forgetting?

the arts of forgetting develop with time in ways not dissimilar to an advance of dreams, vision futures on some hallucinogenic exchange.

yes, there is a sort of stock exchange of forgetting, through which we, shareholders of obscure investments, trade our losses to unaccounted gain.

the hierarchies with which the bulk of humans move and speak perhaps are countered by the non-hierarchies of forgetting, unstaged dramas of the eternal new.

between memory and forgetting how much distance is there?  this gap – whatever it might be – and its exploration are the stuff of the question of the human.

forgetting is abdicating the confident memories of a civilization.  before this abdication may come another – of the memories of one’s self – and after yet another – of the memories of one’s species.  forgetting is a growing, infectious, and immense doubt that assumes different shapes of knowledge … assumes altered shapes less to evolve and more to continue moving.

i forget civilization (morality, culture) not to become savage (immoral, uncultured) but to forge new unknowns in spaces of nowhere.

forgetting is a misnomer for substituting – one memory for another, one artifact or name or object for another, one purpose for another, one forgetting for another.

forgetting – a set of relations, processes, techniques and movements between opposites (visible, invisible; female, male; beast, god; life, death; nature, technology; rich, poor) – has a manual for its operations held in liminal spaces, these spaces prime real estate of desire.

forgetting the future is easier than forgetting the past, which is why we simultaneously neglect and romanticize it.  such ease is not for the apparent and false reason – that the future hasn’t ostensibly occurred – but because the future is more comprised of forgetting.  forgetting advances with time.  how can it not, with time so addicted to obese purposes?

the relations of forgetting and movement are hardly explicated.  to devote one’s life to moving is to forget even forgetting, and the well-enculturated old are unable to forget forgetting for they hardly move and thus are mired in memory, which is to say – fens of forgetting.

as a sage once said, one hardly has to stir to know the world.  yet to have once said this with any substance one must have first used mind’s immensity to travel extensively.  and a core technology of such use is incarnate forgetting as a practice.

forgetting ii

homo sapiens is not a machine or device for producing recognitions of the human, but instead a machine or device for producing modalities of not recognizing – it is (as far as we can tell) the first fleshed modality of forgetting.

the web expresses the paradoxical coincidence of reciprocal blindness.  technology as ecstatic trance.  the created as a forgetting to remember.

technology is mysticism – mysticism commonized, globalized, reflected, affordable, redeemed through metal, sleepless, improvable, systematized, visible, accepted and acceptable, light, sensuous.  in short, a sleight of hand, for mysticism does not appear as these things.  mysticism does not appear.  technology is a collective magic trick of a species, a longed-for ruse.

technology is a collective human creation to remember forgetting.

if mysticism is the void behind poetry, poetry the void behind language, language the void behind the human, and the human the void behind mysticism, what is technology?  might it be the movement of this circle, the circle itself, expansions and contractions of the circle to a sphere through ruach, the sphere itself?  might technology be the machine of forgetting what is behind and the drive to expand the circle so as to prolong the meeting ahead of what has been forgotten?

it is not as if memory is simply being increasingly externalized beyond sarcous surfaces, but that its diameter is being stretched while it is equally being internalized within such surfaces:  at one point – the unseen collective black hole of interiority; at the other – vast diffused exteriority; in between – the elasticity – the human.  interiority the lost and sought memory of origins, of myth and time now recycled through factories and apparati of historical reconstructions, recreations, resuscitations; exteriority the relational facticities of which the internet and its techno-meteorological formations are the most obvious.  and so of the human?  isn’t the human neither point nor point, but an experiment in cosmological pliability, the between among points of opaque, infinite, and gaseous memories?   the human may hold nothing itself, but may only be this stretching.  memory may be a function of divine interiority and technological exteriority, the human only necessary to provide currency – that is, transmission – for it.  so from plato’s alphabetic fears to our modern post-apocalyptic dramas, there has been no necessary devolution in human capacity:  it has always and equally depended on centers and extremities, interiorities and exteriorities – the only issue being the mass the human negotiates (regardless of its loci).  what sort of risks does this bulk – its possible increase – present to the human?  this rephrasing (recontextualization) of plato’s concern, made possible by technology, shifts the ground from the qualitative to quantitative concerns … through the shifting, the tectonic linguistic-cultural disasters and displacements, the negotiations and fears, the human clings to its betweens:  the human, which may be nothing more than incarnate forgetting, this eternal between.

forgetting i

forgetting is not the opposite of memory, but memory’s vitality and operations.

we say a primary function of technology is to help us remember – but, truly, its far greater function is to help us forget.

a crisis of humanity is its historic overdependence on natality to perform its chief creative – and so intelligent – function:  forgetting.

forgetting is directly proportional to truth in a similar manner to truth being directly proportional to loss and darkness.

forgetting and time are less related through death, as humanity has been inclined, and more through emptiness, of which death is but a simulation.

forgetting is a primary portal of truth – hardly of words, hardly even of knowledge, for truth’s portals are misnamed in the marketplace and one passes by means of the arts of diminishment.

forgetting is not an act of denial – which is a counterbalance and force of memory – but an ascent of affirmation, an ascent of neither balance nor force.

are you running away again? a neighbor asks me as i head out.  i never run away but only towards, i say.  such is a call and response of forgetting.

forgetting, like unlearning, like love or art, is a path forward that seems to lead backwards.

time is a child of forgetting and volition; let go of volition to forget blood’s thorny strictures and pour into one’s empty self.

time changes, but not readily.  so the migration from solar-lunar time to digital-clock time has been bumpy, slow, bloody, with the sun and moon still there, awkwardly, in the artificial sky.  forgetting in a technological age is digital.

analog forgetting is magical but digital forgetting is factual; nevertheless, each is an equal mode of time, with its own possibilities and limits.

collective forgetting embraces and is embraced by – an embrace of living death, eros’ animate skeleton – individual forgetting.  in this embrace, original and reproduction transmogrify into one another, authenticity and simulation, being and seeming, forgetting and returning.

forgetting is an oubliette, a secret dungeon reached only through a trapdoor.  the seen stage is public and sanctioned memory, but the purchased and articulate drama is sustained by the powers of forgetting, that which is often called negligence or irresponsibility by the ostensible powers.

a given society’s configuration of memory and forgetting reveals more about concentrations of energy than any worth that might have become sacred in these configurations.

forgetting is a letting go of grasping, an un-getting, a slipping of named power, a losing from and of mind, a failing of force and story.  forgetting is renewal, protest, a way out.

forgetting is the oblivion we distantly remember, the newness, fear and awe that are a periodic table of alchemical elements of our desire.

i no longer remember – i allow emptiness to remember on my behalf:  more efficient, yes, but also – more precise.

today's topic

today our topic is language.  again.  i realize our topic was language the day before and the day before that and the one before the day before that and the one before the one, the one twice before the one, and thrice, and so on past numbers into the realm of infinite words, a realm that has been rumoured to be mythical but has not yet been proven by scientists and others given to proving or trying to prove or seeming to prove to be so or wholly so.  now in all these lessons in language – which consume our days to such an extent that we could say our days are nothing but these lessons – in all this time – which could be said to be such a continual consumption that it subverts itself and is hardly time but far more words – have we learned anything?  that we even have to ask the question is disturbing and this feeling too we wonder about – wonder many things, but as an instance, whether the disturbing nature of this question is in some manner related (and, if so, how) to time … and, since time is only numbers and numbers only words, more fundamentally to words:  in other words, whether language, though seeming to teach, actually doesn’t.  but this could be a difficult thought – perhaps the most difficult – as haven’t we devoted history (and its associates:  civilization, culture, war, government) to developing language to teach, as a sort of replacement for nature, as nature seemed not to teach anything (or at least anything we liked).  so language, in offering the possibility of teaching something (or at least something we liked), is turning out to teach us nothing and nature (though who among us could speak authoritatively of nature now, since nature too has simply become another word) is turning out (at least as fully in memory as language is in hope) to have offered us something to be taught.  but all this seems simultaneously too binary and confused to coalesce into anything we might rightly call a lesson.  yet we began by not calling this a lesson but a topic and this is an important distinction.  a lesson aims to teach us something, while a topic is simply a topic and has no aims other than itself, which is to say no aims.  perhaps this is the frustration – we want language to be a lesson while all it has the capacity for is being a topic.  or is it the topic?  to speak so definitively seems problematic, raising a grammatical issue of whether the definite article is appropriate in matters outside the specific, sensuous, and prosaic.  we can obviously say – see the cat over there – without raising too many issues.  but as soon as we ask whether language is a topic or the topic, whether that is a point or the point, the’s inadequacies reveal themselves.  which should not stop us from asking, some of you might say, even as others might say these problems and limits and questions have already been discussed and yet we still are here, we still go on, language still is language.  so what can we conclude?  nothing, certainly.  but perhaps something, just to give us a little morsel to chew provocatively even if it should give us some digestive issues or make us throw up or possibly kill us.  or if something is a possibility, are not all possibilities possible and so we could say nothing certainly and everything possibly and something not at all.  but this is hardly satisfying.  don’t we want something?  yes, we could say, with perhaps almost as much certainty as nothing.  and so here it is:  this something, which has already been offered, and is here again today, with our barely even having noticed.

saint antónio nogueira

on this most grand saintday,

let us celebrate the deathday of a great sadoo,

master of masks and vagrant in the city of identity

how he has taught us of the knowledge of the voids

and calmly, wittily shown the

root emptiness of the human,

the ways of dream

heresiarch hababala

durban, natalia

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?