tosf - art obio

the online sadoo family – #6

autoarto:artoauto - Art Obio
http://artobio.blogspot.ca/

1. we’re born from oneness and die to it, live between in hapless fragmentings
2. life, our lives, are unities we can’t directly see but can be felt in rare or occasional moments, what some call mysticism, romance, friendship, war, work, love, fucking, art, god, nature, sport, …
3. integration, wholeness are experiences, attitudes we can orient ourselves to fully and joyfully, this consummate light, omega puncta, noosphere of noospheres
4. unity in any form other than the transient and ephemeral body is a monist illusion, a hangover from some more primitive and less knowledgeable age, an old and tired language
5. i am one and not-one, not-one and many, null and three and seventy-eight
6. stories are pushed from my mind’s sphincter not to decry my past, not to delude any truth, not to fulfill individuation or will, not to satisfy some story-making dna, not to drown in bouncy joy, nor to dance nor drown
7. i make my death as i do my birth. i make my sainthood as my vileness
8. my body is my autobiography (my autobodography), ever unwritten (unless breath be word)
9. the autobiographies i write are more my life than my life; this more becomes their writing
10. the autobiographies i write are less my life than my life; this less becomes their writing
11. who are you in your eyes to join me in this more and less? who are we in our blindness to play at becoming alongside?

i am always becoming born and my death – so it goes – is just another birth

art obio was written to write about the writing of becoming born

art puts up dick pics – why?

not for some mapplethorpean porn-cum-art magic show (hey – that’s being done by maplecorp – visit 1380 sherbrooke o), not to primly show half of what we’re born from, not because he likes his, not to play with batteries, not for statements, not to not to … oh, you make up the reason(s) …

art obio is a citizen of the tundra of the soul, tirelessly works in the non-profit industry. it awakens in horizonless whiteness, sleeps on footstools of ice. its passport is its penis, its government the stories of its sphincter

when we say art is the only reality, the rest imagination, reversing (in that peculiar politics – language) the brutal substantiality of daily life, is this but an upgrade (downgrade? sidegrade?) on those geriatric patriarchal paternalistic white-washed eurocentric myths?

art? art doesn’t know

sadoo next - el-spet clitia

gravity doesn't exist (but grace, simone?)

four humans/strangers tell me this past week they know someone who looks like me. one of my sons used to call me standard face based on my telling him i would periodically be asked, for example, where the toothpaste was at the drugstore, as if i had one of those toothpaste-knowledge-whereabouts faces.

naturally, i conclude i’m being cloned or am one. i feel indifferent about this knowledge. raises those tired doubts about consciousness.

what makes all this slightly more engaging is that these reminders of my facial genericism occur as i read that it’s realistic to expect that by 2050 we’ll be able to have satisfying and reasonably simulated sex with robots. a clone and robot getting it on. i’ll try to stay alive until i can see how if at all that sort of fling differs from the old-fashioned chaos and boredom of presumed flesh with presumed flesh.

janis – freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose

janus – nothing left to lose, but freedom

i’m out of the closet as a vaguely polygamist celibate aromantic, protesting (with similar vagaries) amatonormativity –

http://everydayfeminism.com/2016/04/amatonormativity-expectations/

my social housing co-op governance like an antibiotic – gets rid of the bad stuff (through antibiotic force, here the law) … but equally the good stuff too; consequently, the entire system – its vitality – has gradually weakened through a continual barrage on productive bacteria

art, a mode of play, wants to be played

one of myriad methods i use is watching movies to alternative audio:

recently i play sfumato (a painterly film about a painter) to the story of moondog followed by evangelista’s boy; then cremaster 2 (bjork's ex's uberstylissimo dandypiece) to esmerine’s dalmak followed by subotnick’s silver apples of the moon

            contrapuntalities emerge, unintentional intentionalities, definitions and meaning as weather, i chings of art

   age gracefully?

i’ll age with the same turmoil, adrenalin, order, doubt, disdain, acceptance, horror, ecstasy as i’ve always aged, the body manifesting in gross recurrence without adjectives

   sure, call it grace 

mystical landscapes

visiting toronto from mumbai recently, i treated myself to the mystical landscapes exhibit at the art gallery of ontario. aside from any specific surprises, disappointments or expected delights, some more general impressions:

canada’s troupe (including carr and the group of seven) plunge into god as well or better than most of the rest of that presented world

the extra-thick crowds around van gogh, while not unjustified (the represented starry night is powerful) and not as wholesale an absurdity as the gaggling routine camera competition around the louvre’s mona lisa, remind of something mostly to be forgotten

humans (and other animals) – while thick as art voyeurs on the exhibit floor – are almost entirely absent from the art. yes, we can say this emerges partially from the period – mostly a century ago, the selection process, in which a certain strain of artists struggled with the increasing potency and pervasiveness of a technocapitalistic society by withdrawing from its human and industrial faces. but it is not just this (and related factors)

the divine vision – almost however we define it, palpably elusive in definition though it must be – places the human alongside the myriad creatures, without ascendancy … and how then can it appear in greater proportion than the entirety of creation – almost [but not quite] nothing, an aspect among teeming aspects of the creator, oneness, the universe, thingness, irreducible and vast complexity, love (call it what you want)

starry night has, for example, some humans, blurred individuals, hardly individuals, forms of sorts really, in the foreground, but small, more like re-shaped stars … and those other stars (the original ones, our likely destiny), those popping out like thoughts in god’s universal mind are the backdrop and centerpiece of the drama, the settlements and affairs of earth like icharus rippling into the sea in auden’s poem or bruegel’s painting … a reality to be sure, but one like a shutter being closed or opened on some lane in a village beside drying laundry in dusty-sunny air, clouds working nonchalantly as they do on their important projects

and now? a century later? 6 billion more humans, the urbanized percentage having risen from 13 to 58%,12 cities with more than 1,000,000 humans leaping to over 400, technology our skin and consciousness, god in an unmarked grave, capitalism like nero in an rpg of rpgs, art a useless caboose, a used tampon, a credit limit of vision, a dream journal, a cosmic rosary, a desert song … now … where are the mystic landscapes and those who paint them? with the soul made of garbage rather than numinous emptiness, how shall we ascend descend migrate to the forbidden light?

around the time nietzsche went mad, georges-albert aurier wrote – and this quote is prominent in the ago’s exhibit –

we must become mystics again. mysticism is what we need today; only mysticism can save our society from brutalization, sensualism and utilitarianism. the noblest faculties of our soul are atrophying … we must react.

is this sentiment even translatable in 2016?

(the journalistic reports on the exhibit in the dailies suggest in their expected prose thudding lightly across pragmatic landscapes that mysticism isn’t for everyone – a little out of place really – but that they’re glad at least the results exist even if the origins seem somewhat off to the orthodox)

does the more contemporary reel-unreel short shot in kabul (on the ago’s 5^th floor presently) hold hints?  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3IuEM4w7Gbc

do the films on https://vimeo.com/videovectors ?

the paintings in http://bernardlegay.fr/ ?

the sounds on https://thenidus.bandcamp.com/ ?

the dancing dead, holding hands across the waking world?

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