sand clause 19 of the beyond neetch

i was hoping you'd stay away for a while

it's fukky and i'm back with diaper, we're here on k2 ...

... you just want more lethes

time to be current diaper - what's the latest on corona?

do mystics believe in currency?

you can't escape some sort of exchange

i'm on the cow and flow not dow

you've always been a savvy investor

explains all my assets

you think corona's the thing? - what all the prophets and sages have been predicting, hollywood's been exploiting, humanity's been avoiding, what ...

... it's ridiculous - we're on the peak of k2 and even the yaks are wearing masks

the monks too

so much for monks

heard the one about the monk and the 7 billion and 1 virgins?

he loses his mask right

fear's more contagious than corona

and far stupider. a billion animals - including the critically endangered - died in the recent australian wildfires and hardly anyone flinched. humans just kept chomping, consuming, polluting, dominating, posting, blabbing. but 4000 soso sapiens - hardly even vulnerable yet - die and humans across the planet panic. markets tumble. hate - already rampant - rises. institutions spring into action. idiocy increases though one would have thought it couldn't get any higher. what are we so concerned about?

ourselves i suppose

but what is ourselves?

isn't it obvious?

what's most obvious is often the least

don't get parabalistic on us

reality isn't as real as you think

that's a dangerous thought

thinking's dangerous until you think thinking past thinking, then it's just thinking

sounds like the high digger

struck me as rather plain, not that high or much of a digger - more like sin ought ra who got stuck in the bog of german substantives

a lot of teutonic sentimentality mixed with all that witless genocidal ponderous abstruseness

oh well, helps the academy continue thinking it's clever

you're avoiding the question

the question's a void

what do you get when you cross a question with a pandemic?

knock knock

WHO's there?

solved your own riddle

government will be useful to a point, then it'll be useless

circle of life. the daoists of course extol uselessness

sure, and daoism hasn't even broken into the top 5 religions

it's not big on lists or stats

back to corona

yesterday you wanted lethes, now you want coronas, you'll want buddy wisers tomorrow

la fin du mondes

oh the cue beck quaquaquaqua

where's lucky when we need it?

we're getting too literary fukky

back to basics

too plus doo equals acedia

the new math

what do you get when you cross acedia with a seed?

germaine fear

outdated reference ... second grave binarism

germ beer

we're not wearing masks

the whole world's a metro

for those who have the fare

here's shibuya station

the driver's a yak

i only see masks and eyes

niqaabs have always been sexy

should we get off?

i liked k2

you know what zarathustra says - can't stay on the peaks forever

if there are no valleys there're no peaks

only metros and masks

and eyes

and the poor

and the young



and death

knock knock

who's there

death

death who







you're right ... i shouldn't have come

i'm getting off at shibuya

i'll ride for a while

without a mask?

my eyes are my masks

i'm with you on that one, see you fukky

jusqu’à la prochaine la fin du monde la couche

次の黙示録までフッキー

Ə pig log

i have often laughed at the weaklings

who thought themselves good

because they have no claws

we are water, fart & plasma

how can we have claws, goodness

or even thinking?

sand clause 19

beyond neetch and neetch

brother do you smoke?

hey i'm fukky risotto and we're here today in leap 2020 with sadoo diaper so i guess the obvious question diaper is have you leapt?

i've leapt, i leap, i'm leaping

it's really all about leaping

leap day, leap year, leaping - they're with us

hear you're in the land of sadoos

never leave

what's it like?

you know those times as a child you're alone in bed at night - mommy and daddy or daddy and daddy or mommy and mommy or mommy or daddy or monster and monster have finally left you alone and the lights and moon are out and you're staring at the ceiling wondering if this is going to be one of those nights you're going to pee the bed or even maybe leave a little turd and ...

... not really

sort of like that

makes one wonder why you maintain your sadoo certification

freedom eh. tout est possible

you seem rather obsessed with the bosphorus

in the realest senses the bosphorus like leaping's everywhere. and the bosphorus one crosses and this means something

crosses in the way the christians do or death sometimes does?

what i mean - it's difficult to explain ... it's not necessarily a border crossing in the manner of mixter sharits. it's more the way you cross a leaping. the bosphorus is a strait but it's not straight - that's a crossing. it crosses continents and waternents - asia, europe, mediterranean, blackness : the bosphorus has it all

you seem a bit more unhinged than usual

difficult as the frame and door are lost. what to hang from, what to separate, protect? an important thing here - and the sadoos i've been talking with across asia agree more than usual on this one - is the question of whether we leap over 2020, through it, into it, out of it, under it ... or something else

oh you are into your prepositions

a preposition's a leap and crossing. there is no boss for us, bosphorus is here

that's beautiful



what then do we do?

do?

doo

i am the cat man

who are we?

we are the catdoos, we do the sadoo, we leap the phosborus, we cross the 2020

nice chatting with you as always

endless poetry. you've been to poe land?

do you think as many effectively do that the ageing - i'm thinking those broaching 60, unless of course they have money or power - should be exterminated? i mean they've had their chance and not only obviously haven't made it but at this point won't make it. can't

absolutely. but not necessarily in the way you think. the 50s - regardless of one's socalled status in the human social world - should be a time of identity extermination, of declinging. for those naturally who've been practicing declinging for a long time this will just be part of a continuous process. for others it may leave them babbling in alleys or actually kill them. this is linked to a core broader action plan which merits urgent implementation : the top 30% of human polluters and top 30% of meat eaters - there'll be some overlap of course - should disappear from the universe immediately. a kind of rapturous (for the earth) derapture. an additional benefit of this policy is the removal of many of our political and economic masters who are intent on leading us to disaster. then notice should be given to the remaining that in 6 months' time the next 30% of both categories will be lopped. and so on until humans are behaving sensibly. i don't like fear as a motivator but nothing else is working. this combined with the ageing exterminating themselves in the way i'm suggesting will lead to sensible contextual behaviour being desirable, actionable, and encouraged instead of what it is now - punished, mocked, incarcerated, slaughtered, silenced

sounds reasonable

the bosphorus is a kind of loss circus recursos mythos for everything - it empties, it leaps, returns, it has poetic energy

and what about the young?

the young will always be with us

i'm not sure we're any further ahead

exactly where we want to be

i don't know diaper, i've got a consortium to run, think you're too far down the rabbit hole

the rabbit hole doesn't exist - only rabbit holes. and we're all down different holes ... the languages, mores, social cues, emotional proprieties, currencies, taboos all shift depending on which hole you're in. and we're all hopping around saying we're not in the hole or we've got the one true hole ...

... i thought we were leaping not hopping

it's hop day now, want to have a beer?

now we're talking the same language diaper

so fukky and diaper ambulate over to mitho for some lethes and bump into doktor jood pier who's forgotten something too and the 3 old friends (if that's what we call them) hop and leap and leap and hop and cross the bosphorus again

the bosphorus i cross with my magic momo

i am of offia, i died in the cat man doo sieges of 2020

a norwegian gestures against code in the courtyard and my soul pays me in its currency to spy

the nepali are round like birds and the government counts its rastras like an oyster

i don't sleep. the europeans are in my insomnia like khukuris

this is how you count. franz ingland s'pain zenmark dootch frisia woolloon saxxxon viking kerplunk

the yaks came in like hand sanitizer and eradicated the 99.9%

nee dorval from the sewer grate saw the truth of dogs

i'd like to sleep on a bed of eggs before i'm born again

offia's the brand i choose - it trends in the exchanges

this is my newsfeed

if you don't like it board the train

is it the first or last? on this liminality we celebrate the *____realities of madness as vocation and enter communication like a used earplug

praise be whatever day it is
praise be travelling idiots
praise the yaks and birds

*insert or not an affix

the emptiness of movement : is there all is movement

ranesh gam will check into hotel ecofuki on tuesday

airports irritate, planes relax

gam will say i haven't known knowledge, i haven't loved love. gam will say the dreams of late are full of hate but one i like and i've crossed the bosphorus

travelling isn't about photos, meeting humans, experiences but a removing of dimensions in the soul by means of excess

gam seems to most humans ranesh encounters as a kind of - if they thought this way - artichoke. but they don't

who'd be interested in this or that temple, another opinion on climate change or the buddha, your experiences in myanmar. consciousness, a great gift, our brief and only one - who'd fill our little space with stories? narratives the academics - those military of the mind - tell us are it. but consciousness speaks less in stories (a vulgar language, a translation at their best of what?) than in disappearance

hotel ecofuki often places well on those who've crossed. and who would say the bosphorus - through not a river strictly - isn't like all rivers : styx or east, mekong or lagoa dos patos, limpopo or time? those who've crossed don't know rivers but they've crossed

so if travelling's concerned with disappearance (only crassly in that way we're not at home, for home for consciousness isn't), these sorts of movements aren't oriented toward images, tastes, sounds, smells, touches, feelings, artefacts, relics, pilgrimages but something else. and this something else is what the traveller moves through - the map not on google, maps.me, michelin, any thing

tuesday waits for ranesh gam like a habana ferry. presently, gam's in baltelona interviewing quite happenstantially for the mi5 for some lowkey exploratory work in southern china. none of this matters except that if things go a certain way the stock exchanges will register mutations. but back to here

travelling's about this - an unwinding and tangling and burning and eating of spools of words spun on some loom we've never seen and may not exist in any way we say normally exists. i don't know how to travel but move through customs like a kangaroo

when ranesh gam checks in, the room will be ready, the bed made, the towels clean. gam is good like a mountain and the bosphorus which adjudicates disappearings - though crossed it too crosses and like tuesday ranesh gam's in waiting

code to ow & nanga gotes

dogs consistently anxious, gathering outside of peak sun to yelp their incomprehensible politics. the humans in their omnipresence like the dead christian god - emerging relentlessly from invisible crevices, tsunamis of flesh morphing in and out of packs like loud clouds. for one increasingly used to wilderness spaces, humanless

expanses, to impossible silences, how to move, think? accosted constantly - boat? sir where are you going? namaste. money. hello sir. sir. where are you from? hello boat? what's your name? - i survive by speaking gibberish. ka-loo miamooshqa rela'oghifoo ... i am no boat ... the conversation ends. here human unsustainability is habituated and visible (unlike the west where it tends to be habituated and invisible, laundered). only the cows - regardless of the chaos around them - are uniformly calm : models of meditation in all circumstances. beatific, noble, more worthy of sainthood and governing than any biped. even more reason not to eat them. i want them to inherit the earth but who would bequeath it to them and in what extremes of disrepair? far from any green pastures they rummage in garbage heaps, stand nonchalantly in the middle of raging motorcycles and tuktuks, sleep through cacophonous religious festivals, gaze into spaces of murky times and meanings. other than the architectures of the long stretch of ghats, only the cows impress. the ganga, the sky, society, the earth are powerfully polluted. the humans are humans and full of false glories, narcissistic and gonadal loves. then there are monkeys - humans with less pretense and fewer weapons, machines belching and screaming with phallic violence, gurus repeating the familiar lines ... but the cows ... the cows

varanasi. abandoned regality, spilling alienness, as if i'm plunked onto another planet that humans have somehow found and are abandonedly desecrating, the perfection of no

planning, the entire jumble the product of a mad, collective, unconscious architect - a monster, a god, founder of geometry, mind of stone and hole, secrets so piled on each other they almost speak, variegations of coloured time on surfaces that signal indifference, the recent phones and cameras like mutual funds in front of a crocodile. at night it's not the ganga in its shimmering fogs that turns animate but the architectures - the lit windows that seem asleep, the dark ones that watch, neither bemused nor scornful of the human below but simply patient for the inevitable departure of such a strategically stupid species so that they can get on with their business and turn to sand. the holy river if anything is the stones' feet, their capacity to move. the structures - one and many - themselves are all mind but no mind of philosophy or religion, east or west, but earth as it blinks in apertures of life and death. far wilder than any videogamescape - because one actually's in it, because its subtleties are manifold in every centimetre and glance - there are no apparent monsters to fight, no stages to pass through, no terminus to reach, no console but one's body. the humans, despite their omnipresence, seem irrelevant, an annoying, petty, brief usurpation in the cosmic kingdom of stone

praise, varanasi. praise

nothing like delhi's effervescent hells, the absence of

motorized terror on the ghatscape offers a grand tranquillity (despite the hawking humans), the lit trees in smoky dark laughing the laughter the stone can't, the countless official temples nothing next to the amalgam of tumbling magnificence

how can mental health or illness exist when we don't even know what mind is, when the civilization that creates these concepts seems pervasively and visibly ill?

isn't ocd an attempt to rediscover rites integrated with body and psyche, as collective rites have shattered and all that

remains in the community are rites of money and power and their corollaries - amusement, amassment, display, war, name and virtue signalling. so i must relate to my socks and shoes in particular, in special ways - not just to find control in a world that's overcontrolled and undercontrolled - but to create meaning, to create gods (the gods of shoes and socks), to please them, to transgress. as is now a commonplace cultural mechanism, a manufacture and righteous necessity, society creates ocd from its unacknowledged lack, the professional classes projecting their secure inadequacies, packaging it in distributed commodities of graded human meat for its comfortable avoidance

we can admire if we want the place of religion in india - its riotous sensuous ubiquity, ostensible integration with quotidian reality, gods at every turn, temples in every recess.

rites still observed. (and there's no shortage of pilgrims to romanticize these effects.) but if the manifest is effectively the same as elsewhere - species extinction, hyperpollution, radical inequalities, legally protected tyrannies and greed ... who cares? worship ganga and kill it. praise christ (allah, buddha, money, love, social justice, knowledge, reason, nothing, art, whatever ...) but torture and slaughter and sleep with blind impunity

we're in this together - cows, humans, tuktuks, shiitakes, mosquitoes, viruses, cruise ships, owls, sand ... and there's a temple, a god, a love, a truth - planet earth wandering its little path in the vast black ocean of a breathing universe

praise, varanasi. praise

mystilogue

travelling is from one perspective a cheap mysticism - a way to insignificize self, one's birth culture and hence the assumptions and notions separating i and world from void, to equalize at least the human world and possibly the myriad worlds within world. cheap because it uses money to achieve its mysticism and an apparently authentic mysticism uses flesh (but what else?). but travelling - and this only works if one travels cheaply (economy class, lowcost accommodation ...) - disintegrates time, despaces space, caresses death, places one in that vast irrelevance of god

mysticism is our only available known mechanism - though it is as much a dearchitecting (deverbing, deminding) as anything biologically molecular - for subverting (mocking, bypassing, ignoring - we detour around words like combating, destroying, even protesting, evolving) the brutalisms of human sociopolitical structures and processes. mysticism exists outside, in part by virtue of its inveterate insideness : its status (though this diction must be ironic) as the consummate inside. it finds the trap door of in (mysticism if full of anything is full of traps) - or perhaps rather just the trap (there is no door, only void) and so not opens it but falls in (from in to in) - and there (through this through) finds out. as human sociopolitical processes and structures are devoted to entirely incompatible methods (and consequently lifestyles, languages) of achieving out (and in fact mysticism doesn't achieve out [or seek it], it finds itself accidentally, inexplicably out in a thoroughly different way than any ambition, quest), it remains a question to what extent these outs aren't the same out - as (perhaps to a large extent) how we get to a place fundamentally, qualitatively alters place

so we cultivate mysticism - these ins and fallings - as a hard hope, the only alternative we see (which we see through not seeing). cultivate? yes. no. we fall. farmers of fallings, pilgrims of traps, pariahs of voids. we labour in uninvented calendars. we do nothing, our ins our outs, those traps our homes, other outs unworthy deaths

so travelling's another mechanism in the workshop of the impure mystic (the only form remaining in a cluttered universe?) to rein outs, reout ins, to fall and fall

ra ra ra

ra ra ra your goat

roughly up a dream

verily merrily scarily barely

life is butts and screams

sigilings

sigil is a visual representation of time but less precisely durative time (regardless of shape or direction) than corporeal time as it spontaneously emigrates into oneiric memory. sigil is biography but biography of sensations expressed in lucid dream - snap puncta ... a composite of which might give some sense of chronological, of journalistic life (if one's one of those who needs this sense) but more provides some visual shape (for those capable of seeing this way) of undifferentiated visceral-spiritual flux. sigil takes the synaptic leaps of soul, translating these falls into sensuous data - each shadows of the other, each each other's light. sigil's a compost of evil, a representation in the seen realms of the sigil of the human. for we are sigils - a species of oneiric memory, lucid dream made flesh. sigil is love, not only as it eliminates the human but as it includes all without discrimination or knowledge, including the eliminated. taking on the form of human then, my elimination's placed in the empty spaces, absences, voids, silences, gaps, spilled margins and even though many sigils seem like glyphic plenitudes, horror vacui of effervescences, omnipolypointers to signs of polyomnipointings, voids comprise the majority space. like the dead god and gods, the absent human becomes more real than anything ostensibly and even palpably present. this a truth (if truth can be said to reside here) of mysticism, of apophatic realities, of those fogs of unknowing we cannot - despite the forces of history and money - wall away

i use sigils to step on the pebbles of time to cross the river of death. but ... use? sigils are the pebbles and i ... what am i? a thing that crosses? an absence that steps? that counts the steps and then forgets the counting? that which is crossed? a nonuse of use? an experimental biographical grammar? an archaeology of vision? these questions too are pebbles and i draw dreams of stone to say i've maybe lived

this entry continues sadooic explorations of sigiling following the paths of the keys of solomon and mixter spare, attempting to trace the dna of sigil as it modifies in the vermiculous sarcophagus of time

this entry has been manufactured, vetted, and discounted through transgalactic consortia of sadoos, headquartered nowhere, no throne, no president, no debt - just eyes (and even then ...), demastering language, tumuli and middens of doubt, probed by dogs, cows, roaches, stray rays of suns

sigil flowtation device my lifebard unsigned map drunken council deranging calendar & dream thread of incompatibilities and threadcount of zero revelatory abyss eyed mind stable destabilizer meditative surprise crisis kelpline delphi and debacle wry ablution border flossings customs bribings and ephemeral ghoulmate uncanny altar and gabby cistern confident nonassertion ribald saint and empty scholar and wordless writer adimensional corpus of visceral detext my fortune cellar alfalfa and amigo cunning linguist and fellow ratio notherings and lols

when travelling outside one's mind (and when outside one's mind one's always travelling) gods and ghosts, hungry and sated, enter sigil and place their contours on the silent page

sigil
seem farnear
count me in the ancient ways
geometrize our absences
dream flesh
sleep evil
circumscribe our feet with depleted spaces 

 
 
 

 

a boss for us

hello my friend

my friend?

there is nothing to see down that street

i'm not trying to see anything

where are you going?

i'm not going anywhere

come into my store

i don't have any money

money is not a problem

all money is is a problem