prewonder

a longterm project of sadoo diaper

(and which project isn’t longterm?

causing it to frequently wonder what among the everythings at all is brief)

is sadook sabook

its slow fetus slowly fleshing

stretching through the sadoo’s subterranes

its first cuticles and eyes beginning to appear in the holes through which such things appear.

sadook sabook

has countless and morphing pieces before itself –

some of these so scattered among and after that some

(but who are these some?)

have asked if it is nothing but these pieces –

which in a book

a piece of technology

are none or few and named factory names like

introduction, preamble, foreword, preface.

sadook sabook

has these factory pieces too.

(diaper has nothing more against or less for the factory

than much or many else yet knows the factory is nothing

but a necessary and forceful squalor in an infinite babel of forms.)

but it also has a

preramble, pregamble, prebramble, prestroll, pretroll, pretoll, presaunter, presanders, prewander, prewonder, prepromenade ultrapseudopropreantepenultimate, prewalk, prewort, prewyrt, prewart, preforeintrowort

and many more here unnamed and even more than one of each in cases.

little agreement is discernible.

each is placed itself among complements

subversions

and sometimes condiments

to not aid in those professional objectives of conciseness and clarity.

here’s a taste (an a- or anti- or otherprefix-taste no doubt for most) –

technology doesn’t change the book for the book is technology. it may add or subtract pages, modify their size, colour, texture, smell, cast it among varied screens, dimensions, formats, substances, scramble, merge, split it. the more i fully live in technology the more i enter the book and the book (as i) becomes redundant, for technology ontologically and historically precedes the book on the spheres of counting and living. in this way the city is the consummation of the book and its end.

the only way to change the book is for the human to enter nature – that is its flesh – and birth book from there. and there (it will be asked!) – in the way it has been asked whether music is still music, (film still film, silence silence,) dance dance, painting painting, god god, thinking thinking and loving loving – after flesh has had its way whether book is still book. ask. the question is yours, not book’s.

that book is – and this only through flesh, rebirth – only now entering the possibilities of abstraction is a concern and smile of sadook sabook. for while it has simulated abstraction through playing with its makeup, its flesh is still its flesh. that book has resisted any comprehensive alterations shouldn’t surprise us – it has been around in names (its presumed environment) longer than its siblings in art’s gross and dysfunctional family and so (especially with everything else happening around) would have developed more resistances to rebeing itself.

we are hardly speaking of philosophical abstraction, which abounds, which attempts abstraction through bypassing flesh, by severing it like meat cuts from a pig. philosophers (the western academic type surely!) are carnivores, butchers of themselves.

we are interested in removing literature from its degree of dependence on referents in social life, but remaining (indeed, returning to!) in flesh so that book is reborn as something from flesh and foreign to it. we have no logic of perspective, no illusions of reproducing illusions of what people call reality. we wish to bear no trace of any reference to anything recognizable other than – as in abstract painting, dance … – that which is most recognizable: that which walks with many names but could be called breath, being, soul, vision, god, consciousness, spirit, truth, sensation, body. that this most recognizable thing is so elusive in the realm of names is another reason why literature has been so successful for so long at avoiding abstraction, being (again) ostensibly the art of the realm of names.

abstraction is just a use of flesh and technology, an ambivalence of words and time.

in literature, abstraction is simply microscoping into the yoctoguts of words, telescoping out to their yottanebulae, to enable appearing geometries. these geometries are what we write. that most are writing words as they appear on the street, human-scale, the size of money and genitalia, this realism ... is an aberration unworthy of the scales of the city we find ourselves in.

that technology has brought us here cannot escape us. it brings us here, but cannot bring us through. only we ourselves can do this in the vermiculous horrors of our bodies, their smirking exuberances, in their radical indistinguishabilities and separations, the severe and proximate abstraction of birth itself. this what-we-can-do-only-ourselves is sadook sabook.

the systems of doctors tarr and professors fether

all the usual values – teamwork, stewardship, excellence, innovation, cooperation – imbecilic. excellence eg. anwar congo maintained it in killing through the mid-60s and – in the 2012 film the act of killing an odder excellence (for excellence in killing is as tediously common and desired as excellence in business, manipulation, and schadenfreude) in aesthetically simulating killing. christopher edward wollaston mackenzie geidt maintains excellence at establishment strategic defense and offence {{{{{{{{{{😀that game😀}}}}}}}}}}. elizabeth bishop at poetry. if i admire excellence – and how could i not? – i admire congo, geidt, bishop, and the million other dictators, murderers, general managers, and poets who have whatever combination of tenacity, volition, opportunity, and skill to do what can and probably should be called success in a specific segment of human endeavour

true, a formal value typically is placed in a smallish list – that which can often be found these valued days in institutions – the ostensible intent being that each metaphysical member counsels and balances the others. (sadoo diaper attempts, perversely, subterranely this very thing, this poly-appendaged teetertotter of energies, in its various writings on its council of i.) take a major global bank’s values: trust, teamwork, accountability. nowhere do we find competitiveness, cunning, avarice, mistrust, deception – these additional attributes required for successful management and perhaps for surviving life (the cooperative housing complex i live in is the least cooperative institution i’ve been involved with – exacerbated in part because of its relative impecuniousness and so proximity to the exigencies of the anthill. [but also its embodied and so impractical diversity, its ...])

a cinematic bookend is slowly arriving from the director
of one of the world’s premier debut features
(něco z alenkye 1988) – his last (hmyz 2018) –

humans are more like insects

this civilization more like an anthill

like his neighbor, be tar (who directed his stated last in 2011)
both having lived inescapably through the anthill
transforming it, using very different means in film
into dark comedies, obscure redemptions of the human

none of this is saying much beyond what’s nascent in heraclitus and developed with increasing complexity and parallel inefficacy across the aesthetic and philosophic subsidiaries of time. but value – which sadoo r die f rich reflung into vocabulary, now, like all glories, commercialized and stupiditized by fawning insects – this substantive, walks among the adjectives quite democratically (even willful!), dreaming of becoming verbs

ayahuasca and middleclass capitalism –

focusing one’s fragmented and inchoate desires on

growing the weed of the human?

fear after a time ... is narcotic

it can lull one by fatigue into sleep

but apprehension nags at the nerves gently and inescapably

apprehension, anxiety –

drugs of the age, manufactured by the

pfizer ink in our souls

snails and lasers for mpp or ph or cm

i choose to live alone because my imagination functions better when I don't have to speak with people,

nihil sapientiae odiosius acumine nimio

i’m here to apply for the position of dog-walker

oh great. a few questions then

sure

tell me about your history with dogs, your love for them, …

i don’t like dogs, they seem too much like humans

i’m not sure how comfortable i am having someone walk fifi who doesn’t like dogs

i like plants

bujja needs her plants walked!

i’ve liked a few dogs in my life who seem like plants  – why don’t you put fifi on the windowsill and i’ll tell you if i like it

she’s a she … fifi … fifi ... fifi ... oh fifi my little ball of fluff, my darling, oh sweetsipie, oh my chubbawoofpoo, my …

yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap

oh no i don’t like it. in fact i wholly detest it

yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap

it’s out of the question then. you can’t walk fifi

i’d like to walk it

look – i must have someone who minimally tolerates dogs, who at least can pretend to like fifi. i know she can be annoying but all of us can be, and she had a difficult puppyhood and we’ve grown up together really and now – it sounds a bit silly i know – but she’s my closest friend, i shouldn't admit this but we cuddle at nights, sometimes quite intimately …

yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap

i must walk it, give it to me now

i’m sorry, i’ll have to ask you to leave or i’m going to call the police

i will leave, but only with fifi

i’m calling the police

yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap

fifi bites the owner and runs out the open door

with the dog-walker, who

– along with fifi – is never seen again

m.d.

the feeling that comes with aging … feels like nostalgia but isn’t, lacking its reduced colour, its need to experience certain configurations of time and identity as superior (or inferior – as regret, bitterness).

nevertheless, with accumulation of losses, a feeling visits in relation to these accumulations, these assets, that feels as if it has something to do with time. but, when explored, has more to do with the nature of dream.

my experience of dreaming has increased and it is this – oneirocompetence – that i would name this feeling, and nothing sentimental ... experience that skirts deftly around the scrimmage of opinions, the tedium of politics, the oppositions of feeling, and a false pretense of language toward knowing.

sauerkraut in india

fukky risotto and a sadoo are riding the marudhar express when a tourist across the way says – look, there’s the taj mahal. the sadoo says no that’s the mona lisa. the tourist looks confused and annoyed, says it’s obviously the taj mahal. the sadoo says you obviously know nothing about signs.

the air india attendant at narita asks to weigh my carry-on – limit 7kg. i know it’s over because of the food. so i take out the food, put it on the floor and weigh my bag without it: 6.5kg. take the bag off the scale, return my food, leave.

a german, a swede, and a canadian

are sitting on the rooftop of a guest house ...

why travel? –

• to record humanity in its dusty dusk
• to re-savour the wilderness
• to hear the silent song of the plant
• to keep the bow taut (for contrast, for the sameness of things)
• to see the moon and sun
• to trip over time’s mirrors
• to reanimate death
• to ask this question
• to have the eyes scrubbed and the body bodied
• to virtualize nature and skin the internet
• to re-eroticize absence and presence
• to participate, however tentatively and disdainfully, in my fellow species’ orthodoxy – money
• to immerse myself in that film about flesh, the common human plot – and there plot that plot in words
• to put poetry in its place and replace place
• to glorify unpasteurized organic sauerkraut

 

varanasi and jerusalem – coital spirit partners in the production of religious babies (with astounding longevity)

you see, in this world, there is one awful thing, and that is that everyone has his reasons

if you don't know the rules, you are crushed; but if you do know the rules you are cut off from your own nature

so simple and so labyrinthine, so guileless and so angry, so innocent and so dangerous ...

depicting the failure of love, the failure of society, and the failure of humans to rise above the ridiculous

do indians get sick when they visit the west because it's too hygienic?

everyone on these long-haul international flights just sleeps or watches movies – don’t they have minds to use during their brief transit through life?

whoever has learned to be anxious in the right way has learned the ultimate

                but we have a drug for this!

i see the world is mad

if i tell the truth they rush to beat me

if i lie they trust me

  keep the slanderer near you, build it a hut in your courtyard –

  for, without soap or water, it will scrub your character clean

gote noats

the proprietor of a guest house says he plays the tabla. i ask him if he plays out anywhere, in public. no, i only play for god. probably doesn’t tweet either.

the night lit loggias of bundi cornea of aravalli, sockets of worms, apertures onto the days when junglī suar wandered protected on a greener, less regulated, and three-dimensionally more vicious earth.

the 5-hour bus from jaipur to bundi in its 49 numbered seats holds 71 passengers, 8 on top, 9 goats, obese sacs of produce heaped mercilessly in the aisles, 3 employees (driver, bus manager, ticket operator), no washroom or a/c – it’s midday and 34°. deluxe, the agent had told me. my body doesn’t fit anywhere, only hindi’s spoken, no shocks on this bitch and the road’s all hole ... i’m a conscious turd flushed onto the laughing dirt when the receptacle of hadoti finally welcomes.

i had hardly believed him.

the celebrations, festivities, pan-coloured noise, parades occur multiple times daily. gods, death, marriage, birth (and what’s the bloody difference?). some ridiculous-looking male dressed in a silver suit and flowers is plunked on a horse that’s so weighted in decoration how can no one laugh or protest (where’s friedrich when you need him ... maybe b. tarr can direct the bundi horse)? a few dudes beat relentlessly on big drums for 30 minutes before the procession – which includes the requisite 20 following females and blaring tuktuk – begins to jolt and belch its way eastward. it’s all religion and it’s all the time.

a bordeaux man – almost comically friendly, pulls up a small stool to sit and chat to me, misses the stool falling on the floor (feel like i’m in a chaplin skit) – asks me how long the flight is home. about 15 hours i say. i thought it wouldn’t be much longer than paris he says – isn’t there a way you can just zip over the arctic?

in my homeland i never say i’m a writer. in that world of privilege as language and language as privilege such a designation is too pretentious, wearied, photocopied, easy, meaningless ... lumping me with gangling cheese strings of humans i have no affinity with, embarrassments to language, no-cost writing, bud lights of Word. but here i use it as an efficient conversation-ending explanation for why i don’t do tourist things but sit stupidly around staring into space like an incarnation of the god Vapid. everyone (europeans, indians) seems satisfied, asks no further questions.

 

the second night in rajasthan i ascend to the rooftop terrace of my guesthouse and a young french couple is dimly fucking on a chair. is clearing my throat sufficient international language? should i pull up a chair and watch, yank my dick out and cum on their faces? i go to a table, pull out my notebook and begin writing.

taragarh fort

the taragarh fort is the only place i can go here where people are thoroughly absent, where i’m actually alone. no eyes. 700 years old and unmaintained, a glory pervades the place, which was made – like most of civilization’s structures – for killing. crumbling staircases and paintings (a place made by goblins kipling commented), weedy courtyards, algae and guano stepwells, room and turret enfolding in nested surprise (this place could never be public in the west – it's too full of litigation potential!), i meet no one in my 4 hours wandering this monstrous beauty. it was made for this – failure, dilapidation, emptiness. monkeys and me are the only sign of mammalian life. the honks and bands of bundi are silent, the sleepy omnipresent activity which hangs from every aperture like laundry tucked away, endless religion shuts up, the dead mughals are almost likeable in their deadness.

structures are not built for their stated purposes but for what they become after their purposes have left. in the first silence i’ve had since the brief interludes i had in hawai’i i understand why things are built, this human rabidity – for the invested humans to die, their memory to be lost, their visions forgotten, their sufferings and killings made irrelevant, and something to emerge from the uninhabited spaces that speaks of a vigorous purity, a meditative integration directly unachievable by a species so committed to compartmentalization, mono-narrative, destruction.

a ruinous fort teaches me this, and why human society has become for me the noise of a broken muffler collapsing down a mountainside.

in losing purpose, purpose is found.

propreantepenultimate

the dogs wake me every morning between 0300 and 0400 for their scheduled street fight – their sorting the day’s hierarchy? a requisite sacrifice, maiming, exile? as if hundreds of canine demons are auctioning their souls on the block of eternal hunger, an experimental band barely clinging to the cliffs of sound jamming on that nearby abandoned rooftop. institutional and community life without their euphemisms, a polycacophonous rooster birthing the corruption of the day. i sit on my bed of camels for the hour’s free concert – war eventually exhausting itself (jabes writes within the human moral realm even evil must sleep) – this audio textbook of history, resting afterwards on the grass of dreams.

while this town is softer, gentler than many in northern india, it inevitably has its aggressions. only here have motorcycles and tuktuks aimed for and hit me – though lightly, as they stopped – always young men thinking it a joke. others – of the same tribe – sneer as they pass, spitting at my feet. less subtle than the routine aggressions of my home culture. pros and cons.

though tourists are here, they’re relatively few and disappear once out of town on the rural roads. there i’m a sufficient novelty that the contents of every fifth motorcycle are compelled to say hello, a decent percentage of these pulling alongside, i guess to fully manifest the exchange, ensure the white man knows the indian exists.

one gaggle of 3 boys (they all look 12 but the driver says he’s 18), initially amusing, circle back to me so many times, take uncountable selfies with me, ask me to record phrases in their phone then laugh outrageously, that i finally get annoyed and tell them to go home and watch porn.

this is a town of bands. bandi. i’ve lost track of the number that have passed below – led by 6 or 7 male uniformed brass- and drum-players, followed by colourful females carrying jars. looks like pt barnum should emerge, with a topper and dancing elephants. (as music, i prefer the dogs fighting.) the animals as usual are insouciant, though the monkeys and humans watch, bound in camaraderie by their eyes.

cows, despite being holy here, survive on plastic bag scraps and wire. their indifference to all manner of proximate abuse, noise, traffic is almost admirable. the dogs and wild boars too – the former often curled sleeping on the road during the day while vehicles go racing by honking loudly centimetres from their dreams. what trust! or, rather, what enculturation.

the guest house i’m staying at is run by a family whose living area is the lobby. sometimes i enter and 9 adult humans and 5 children are congregated, tv on, the tumbled troupe all gossip and screaming. i keep probiotics in their freezer and as i obtain a pill one morning an adult asks me what is your disease?

the proprietor’s son who does the cooking says you write too much. (that’s a new one.) reminds me of a recent paternalistic email from a bureaucrat in the housing co-op i live in – all power to the imagination! he hypocritically closes. these inane expressions of conformists, who are given residence in the house of language, born into the temple of imagination, growing to use their habitats, their birthrights, as walls and missiles. endearing in a sense i suppose. but the zoo after a few visits loses its appeal and one seeks possibility outside the societal cages of virtuous enforcement and obeisant commonplaces.

 

for some reason i’m reminded – consciousness even yet sprouts through the hard soil of ubiquitous establishment and cliché – of bruno schultz, who knew his uselessness, and used it, despite the variegations of human force and treachery, to colour life’s long night.

indira gandhi airport

what no one tells you is that the best place to hang out if you’ve got time to kill in the domestic area of t3 is the mcdonalds. no one’s there (is any indian stupid enough to pay ₹170 for a spicy mcchicken?), the eating area is spacious, clean, with large windows overlooking a plane-taxiing area. of course it’s the only time i feel slightly nauseous. i recover from mcgut with the most expensive g&t i’ve ever ordered but also a deliriously delicious one. i imagine the quinine killing all the malaria i contracted from the filthy ganga mosquitoes in varanasi, who are silent, small, and deadly ... like a good fart.

an equally chipper spot – and no nausea – is by gate d62 – an immense vacant bright space right by the runways. only distant humans visible. a superb place for frisbee.

this is a silent airport – there will be no flight announcements

is posted around. but bad music is piped everywhere.

there are prayer rooms, divided by the sexes; both are empty.

                right next to these is a medication room; perhaps – as the signs are only in english – everyone’s praying in it.

ubiquitous signage –

caring for mother nature

                                clean airport

                                clean india

have the signage people ever left the airport?

there’s more soap in this terminal than the rest of india combined ... why don't you export some to indian rail?

this has been awarded the best airport in the world 2 years in a row?

what makes it the best is that it smoothly instils happiness and gratitude in me despite or for being ripped off ... holy motherfucking ganesha, after surviving varanasi gandhi’s the blessed brilliant best for giving me the opportunity to pay ₹1,250 for a drink.

parallel travel notes –

a tuktuk driver thinks i’m japanese. i guess all non-indians look alike.

it’s not that air travel necessarily saves that much time over its land competition – certainly the former’s more suspect fiscally and ecologically – but air’s modes are more stimulating. getting from varanasi to bundi by train would have cost me $35 and taken 22 – 32 hours (1,000km), whereas plane+bus takes me 17 and costs 270 (not including the money i blow at airports and staying overnight in jaipur). but on the train i’m in a coffin-sized compartment, by air i have multiple stopping points, interstices of exploration. even in the sarcophagus of the plane cabin i’m relaxed, creative, amused, energetic. in the train-tomb i feel claustrophobic, numb, irritable, prehistoric. worth the extra $350? i’m working on the cost-benefit analysis that takes into account the psychic-aesthetic ledgers.

the dude in front of me on the flight to jaipur reeks so badly of cologne i assume he’s dying of some noxious disease and has to use a potent olfactory tactic to mask it. such autism, in endlessly diverse manifestations, everywhere. i continue to develop my brand and smell, having become indifferent to others branding their autism sanity ... intelligence ... virtue ... power ...

the contrast between the short skinny indian man (a ubiquitous type) and the tall enormous kind (not uncommon) is astounding (the female spread looks smaller) – the gap seems larger than other ethnicities, as if 8 or 9 of the skinny sort could fit in the enormous one. reminds me of the pharoah’s dream in the torah about the cows.

the amusements in indian railway stations – hindi, followed by a colonial female brit english voice – train 54639 to allahamabad has been cancelled. any inconvenience is deeply regretted.

                my asshairs it is

what do the 17,829 indians who have been waiting on platform 12 for 7 hours do now?

indians always seem to be almost walking into each other – aiming for other bodies. this isn’t simply that there are so many bodies – when there are obvious spaces for circumnavigation the other bodies still almost walk into me, avoiding my flesh at the last nanosecond (same with motorcycles and tuktuks). maybe it’s analogous to people clumping together in a largely empty theatre, a weird way to deal with our kenophobia.

i’d rather die in a plane crash than a train. in the latter i’d be mangled, tortured, severed, taking hours or days to die. a plane would be a few seconds or minutes. (i read recently of a united flight taking off from honolulu that blew a door and a bunch of passengers were sucked out with their seats [still strapped in] over the pacific – now that’s a good curtain, a ride worth the admission price.)

i picture the plane going down, some malfunction, some seed of genealogies of litigations, padding the otiose pads of lawyers, my colleagues in wisdom screaming, frantic – i’d be calm, even laughing, like major kong at the end of dr. strangelove.

taking off from delhi the western horizon at dusk looks like the earth’s smoking in a hammock of industry hanging from trees of forgetting. the sun drinks a bloody mary while the last metallic birds drop their young into time’s embers.

                like liner on god’s dark eyeball

                lava from lilith’s pussy at the cliffs of her mons