tosf - kali que lipzo

the online sadoo family – #5

It’s Your Mommy - kali que lipzo
http://itsyourmommy.blogspot.ca/2016/07/its-your-mommy.html

I carried a dead child wrapped in ribbons along the river between my mother's place of birth and my father's place of birth. That child was me.

I took refuge in the woods, streams, fields with animals to escape the nuisance of humans. I went through green places, blue places, white places, indeterminate places where only nature in its indifference is present. I watered those places with my cum, my blood and my shit.

I am a negentropivore. I have gone to the end of poetry as to the end of myself, where the only light is the light of bowels. Repay the island of the dead. This ruderal mise en abîme in the field of the immeasurable defeat of art in front of reality.

I absorb the world, I'm reshaped by the duende of words.

           

sadoo next - art obio

tosf - idia møme

the online sadoo family – #4

idia møme – idia møme
http://idiamome.blogspot.ca/

idia møme is silly. is idia møme silly only in contrast to the seriousness with which most treat themselves, a seriousness idia itself views as silly? is it silly because it doesn’t believe in because, because idia is the ablative feminine first person plural form of idiot and møme the infrahortative transgendered nil person post-numbered form of meme, because it’s born in dialogue in villa atamisqui and dies outside, because i’s a reality, a convention, a delusion, and a party?

øøøøøøøøøøøøøøøøøøøøøøøøøøøøøøøøøøøøø

sadoo møme is a toothpick among toothpicks translating the questions among toothpicks to questions among us. if it believes in anything it believes everything talks to everything endlessly and the task of listening to this endless everything talking is a primary task of the human. since sadoo idia’s a toothpick among toothpicks it talks, and leaves listening, that distinction, to us.

sadoo next - kali que lipzo

writing xi

as technology increases so writing, but whereas writing once had to negotiate spheres apart from technology to enter itself, now its negotiations are those within. we trek into the traced tracing unknowns of interior madnesses (no madnesses though, but reflecting unreflectings), seeking what we imagine as memories of those spheres apart, but might rather be the principles of the operations of technology itself.

writing’s dialogue with emptiness is more a waiting in a plenitude of voices until they don’t cancel each other out but become so accustomed to plurality and seeming contradictoriness that no-place (hardly a utopia, hardly dystopian) becomes a ground and this ground (or rather a seeming lack) becomes a dialogue (or rather dialogues) without resolution or resolve. emptiness is a never-ending deluge of names, writing its film.

that writing and waiting are a letter apart – and this the difference between a soft consonant and a diphthongian vowel – is a mark of history:  messiah never comes, nor the antichrist, not equality or analogical collapse, not love or peace except in measures of indifference and strife … but waiting and with it signs, signs of waiting.

i have said in the darkness – and said too in the light that darkness wears – that saying is looking through an unelectric window onto orange clouds in canopies of infinitely nested canopies. (but in the darkness saying looks at many things.)

i do not write. my body writes. and my body – this i that other bodies call an i but at most seems some placeholder for the collapse and choreography of innumerable i’s – is written by the non-sum of confusions of these callings. so what is sometimes called activity and passivity, i and us, flesh and word, calling and looking, in writing lose distinction, and this losing seems what writing is or becomes or writes.

non sum qualis eram

that humans seem ancillary to writing, that the book (in that other language) seems of origins or placement, and all this as otherness, as writing and even humans seem ancillary to themselves could be (for those who write anyway) not much … not much … if it weren’t for these words rooted in a soiled heart.

the universe is made of words, not photons, higgs bosons, waves, or whatever the physicists sing to us in their incomprehensible and cloned ballads. or rather – the universe is made of photons but these no more than pitayas or windmills. words are the elementary particles and scientists just those who’ve deluded bulky followers into accepting the false supremacy of their tiny dictionaries.

writing, it’s been written, at least of a certain quality, is honest, attaining an honesty unachievable in society’s discourse, love’s rhetoric, the academy’s presumed mathematics, and it might be this unachievability it achieves – through a ruse not quite believable – that the writer becomes addicted to. (addicted? if so, an addiction so incorporated into corporeality that it can’t be classified as such without a destruction of the classifiers.) the writer, though – if it’s of this uncertain quality – doesn’t particularly feel it has attained any distinction but is moved in configurations that from the perches of other discourses, rhetorics, mathematics, could be called almost anything.

in other words, the writer’s speaking from society’s non-speaking plays less on axes of truth and falsehood, more along, through circuits of non-speaking

… this writing of non-speaking a lipless smirk, an unwept tear

the writer’s distance, if it be a distance, is of such a function as to be an equivalence of the within it’s distant from

no no works like a good yes, no yes like a no beyond

how is anyone in this house to find its way back to life if the dreams never cease offering invitations to join their dance?

one has to stay current and while i’m in the current am not current, my only currency the thousand thousand things flowing around. currency is never mine but the totality of the environments i find myself in.

language – so often experienced and believed to be a human commodity, creation. i cannot say with much confidence it is. for language has created us as much if not more than we it, and so to work in language is to enter spaces that question the human even to the point of ignoring it. in this ignorance silence and language mingle, and the knowledge we say emerges from language and its children (thought, technology), once one has mingled with this mingling, seems of a lesser relevance, of too much urgency, of a certainty without weight or lightness.

increasingly i can only talk in society on drugs (though i do not define here drugs (or even on, those prepositions) – the word and concept themselves best seen for now as a configuration of time); otherwise i hardly understand its protocols. drugs remind me, although occasionally reminding me so well of the grammar of those protocols that i must stop conversing, migrating again to solitude just to engage with the force of those grammars. when the grammar, however, doesn’t demand primary attention – drama twit that it is – drugs provide almost an automatic easefulness of words … it’s not as if i speak but society speaks through me what is required.

if a writer spends most of its time in society, it writes about society – its ambitions, scrimmages, critiques; but if it is of the class of writers that doesn’t, what does it write about? it writes about this doesn’t.

society naturally prefers reading about itself rather than the doesn’t, yet the doesn’t somehow still gets written and read (doesn't is vitally present). that the doesn’t does is no negation of negation but a yes inside a yes, society’s matryoshka doll – and so, this way, nested and affirmative, we understand the does.

surrealism revealed the madness within ‘normality,’ disturbing our understanding of ‘sanity.’ (these endless withins) it suggested that hysteria is by no means a pathological symptom but can in every way be considered a supreme form of expression. it spawned the term dry schizophrenia, where a person is able to control its surroundings and yet be ‘crazy’ at the same time.

what has happened to these revealings? where are the refuges of adventure outside of money’s panopticon?

oh … in a yes of no a no of yes, minglings and grammars, doesn’t and dolls, a does, some dry suggestings …

writing x

only one thing remains reachable, close and secure amid all losses: language. yes, language. in spite of everything, it remains secure against loss. but it has to go through its own lack of answers, through terrifying silence, through the thousand darknesses of murderous speech. it goes through. it gives me no words for what is happening, but goes through it

hardly any time between then and now has passed that i have not unfolded within myself

as christ has died and been resurrected, diffused, with increased powers in capitalism … so literature has died and been resurrected, diffused, with increased powers in communication

once – desert fathers and mothers

now – dessert authors and others

the book talks with the book, why would i talk with you?

you’re a writer?

   music plays me

so you’re an instrument of music?

   words are the notation system i use to manifest the sensations music creates in me

the body uses less energy than action; this greater efficiency is a circuit of writing

the writer as receiver (and what else is writing?) seems not to do much of anything, this unproductivity its productivity

everything has to go slower as it requires more time to keep up with the increasing pace of everything. the clocks are not in unison. writing is staying in these multiplicities of time

travelling is aesthetic foraging foragry forgery and aesthetic forgery is writing

only as i leave the book behind does it appear

writing transforms shit to words, words to shit, through an alchemical ecosystem tucked in history’s folds, time’s genitalia

dream is root and writing its flower

i exile myself in language to simulate apophatic affirmation, this hiding yes, to seek deserts i can no longer know except on the denudation of the page and the evolution of my feet on the city’s empty calendar

tosf - tilda tilde

the online sadoo family – #3

tilda tilde – ~.~

http://tildadottilde.blogspot.ca/

tilda was born in a tilde, in an act of a fact, gazes of gaza, the gauze of a geisha. was she born? yes, we can say this. not as a fact or even an act but a story. not as a story or even a narrative but an effusion. does this mean she is a gushing forth … a diarrhea? not impossibly – she is an entrails juice – but more a casting, an among.

is she then born of a negation or some negation’s equivalency? perhaps. yet feeling no compulsion to identify herself with her birth or any birth but maybe birth or rather all births, she is a strength of water, a new kind, an old kind, not unkind and not-kind, a class of kindling.

this flow is what she sometimes calls a fiction, a fiction what she sometimes calls a life.

sadoo next – idia møme

tosf - fallabalist a.

the online sadoo family – #2

fallabalist a. – ataraxia

http://ataraxiast.blogspot.ca/

falla rax, as she’s known by her friends, was sadoo rad phenoma in the 1970s but two cele elec strokes while she was tripping on a neovariophone synthesized her into sadoo fallabalist a. previously what she’d been had included sadoo rad eula ebi, sadoo rat wel, sadoo en-rhug.

basing herself presently in london, she wanders the cities of the earth as if they’re one for, indeed, they are. exploring the between between the we-ness of her i-ness and the i-ness of the city’s we-ness, falla rax (for sadoo diaper is a friend) uses her body as a set of translation technologies between the aforementioned between between and language, itself the or a (or the and a) between of betweens.

giving herself over to the animism of the city, attempting to see what time would see if it could see, sensing the city as her mind-body complex distributed like a disheveled map, knowing the city as a lover hard and beautiful and dark and faithless, loving the city in its polydimensionalities, its vehicular and cloacal creepings across the dreaming earth, its pecuniary and glassy hands flung in wanton praise toward the impossible heavens, some incorporated pentecost, caught in its thingness like a vast fish in the internet of god, she walks. walking walks walkingly, walks. and the city becomes for her what it is and may not be – a death and a hope, a perfection and scream.

she keeps a diary, sadoo fallabalist a. does. and ataraxia is her diary. a diary of a truth of a between.

sadoo next - tilda tilde

tosf - fukky risotto

the online sadoo family – #1

fukky risotto – sadoos

http://sadoos.blogspot.ca/

fukky is the self-proclaimed worldwide administrator of sadoos – posting interviews, essays, and clumsy upsets of knowledge. fukky is skeptical of the exterior world, doubtful of the interior one, and often confused about which is which.

fukky ghost-wrote some early entries in the secular sadoo, speaking contumeliously of temptation, incorporation, historical precedence, mats and other dreaming devices, flaneuring as meditative exuberance, before embarking on its own site to further explore modern sadooing practices across the waning globe.

fukky lives and was born in tenarunga, traveling the world listening to sadoos, this due to the benevolence of uth zar razu and a great deal of rhizomatous randomness. whether fukky itself is a sadoo fukky itself doesn’t know and others question. it lost its head during a water ride at a dream theme park in outremont but little has changed; its head is kept in a jar on a sill of marie cinq-mars and used annually for obscure and unmentionable purposes.

sadoo next - fallabalist a.

are you willing to bring a melon to the king of hell?

we have two homelands:  the one given to us at birth and the one we create through negation

the artist is not properly a creator but a site where words and visual forms inscribe or install themselves

so an autobiography should not show the creator but rather the sensations that occur on the site the creator occupies

the ego cannot occupy the place where the world should be; the creator’s task is to make room for the world … asking questions of the i that came somehow to ensconce itself on the undignified dais of interiority becomes a method for this making room 

gifts bounce around, never unrequited, never simply reciprocal, but promiscuously shared puncta of pain 

any culture that separates dream and root manufactures itself to fall into the defile between them

the creatings of artists, thinkers, activists, mystics are aesthetic food, available for entering digestion, necessary nutrients getting absorbed, integrated into molecular structure, the rest expelled … and from this modified body, these renewed energies, expressions emerge, as naturally as breath, becoming creatings for further ingestings …
    ... this clonal body, pando of art

overheard from a 6-year-old in a montréal café – my mother’s a monster and my babysitter’s a vampire

all art is found art

no necessary angel has fallen like necessity

aesthetics is for artists what ornithology is for birds

i become concrete on a level that is not that on which the world is planned, i obtain myself in the concretely possible that exists within abstraction

knowledge is not a means to intimidate, as among the common tyrant classes of thinkers and workers, but a movement toward joyful unknowing

philosophy lingers at the brink of the unknown while hoping to domesticate this threshold as a habitus for thought

the earth has lost a tenth of its wilderness in the last two decades … but … humans? … haven’t they lost almost all theirs, or canned it in cinematic coitus and war? mental illness rises as a necessary simulation for the wilderness we’ve destroyed with the tedious clubs of our insanities. so all exploring now is of interiority – the poles, icescapes, passes of ourselves, the modern explorer setting off from shore, as always, without maps, guides, certainties, and about return only memories, with limited supplies and infinite destinations, the voyage    the voyage

are you willing to bring a melon to the king of hell?