sadoo the vole nullity tutu

the novel sadoo  though this is not its true title  becomes a novel by means of a magical sleight against itself

a novel  being imaginary and linked in ways were incapable of understanding to life  which is even more imaginary  must have as its premise a creator or more reasonably creators who not only dont exist but cant

the novel  being the dominant form of whats sometimes called literature today  assuming as it does that it can stuff all other forms into it  a medieval catholicism of art sucking every deviancy into itself and leaving nothing out for it speaks and it only speaks for god and good and good and god and evil and beyond is all  is  as some argentinians and perhaps others have noted  anything and everything  thus my claims for sadoo are  even at their most extreme  prosaic and modest

that im a novel  that i write myself and am written  is now a commonplace thats more tired than television  and so entirely untrue   novels  if theyre anything at all and theyre probably not  have nothing to do with the human  this or that i  the stupidity of stories and their academic icing narrative  what do they have to do with then? no one knows and if you dont get this you should jump out of the novel that does or doesnt exist and crash into the void except you cant

haha

blogger  despite its pervasive imbecilities  has a certain intelligence and some of this is the question built into its very structure of where the novel starts  this doubt of origins  and corollaryly ends and middles and so ruptures of causation and identity  would be clever if it were original  but of course  by extension  its not

due to this but not only this none of the characters  though some have suggested without a complete lack of cogency that sadoo is most certainly the worlds first and last characterless novel  die  and if sadoo has any courage  though this is inestimably doubtful  its this rather careless slaying of death  far more likely than courage  a nonchalance born of too much movement which itself arises from a continuous horror of life  which is to say  the novel

its the little things that make a novel  for example shortly after midnight at around 000936 i throw a dishrag over the bannister from the top floor aiming for the wood flooring one storey below but landing it instead on the second step up from the wood flooring one storey below which births laughings of those categories that recognize the inherent humour isnt funny and in this lack of comedy wit peeks

i could go on and i will   but  like life  i mean the imagination  nono the novel  interruptions are constant  not just of content  a carpets delivered and im required by the imposed protocols of an insane society thats constantly protesting it isnt to sign some device with a nonpen pen at a door  but form   the novel questions itself and collapses into its questionings  becoming a notnovel thats more a novel than the novel it never was before

sadoo the novel

vole love nullitalis

for all you aesthetically decimated unreaders

you dereaders atomized into the oblivions of nonart

nailed to the cross of capitalism but the pain offset

be well aware in your proleptic mothballity that this blog is a novel

as sadoo despises the novel and so is in its despisableness

compelled toward seduction of it and sadoo is this compulsion

the central characters of sadoo the novel are sadoo doktor heresiarch poofessor fukky risotto though there are billions of secondary absent tertiary and peripheral persons and most of these arent human and these billions aside shove the centres

the plot? the plots prepurchased in the •pataphysical cemetery in absinthia within a fart or four of the desolation of ūbū  anyway theres not just one plot  weve prepurchased many and none of them are grounded and theyre all made of worms

the authors of course unyou and the conjugation of unyou is as expected unyun unyoni unnew unmoni adieux

the novel aims to be proto without substantive or substance  it aims to be roan and roso  its written in every language and thus requires no translation except  alongside stéphane étienne  into itself

while its most easily understood as an infinite series of nonlinear footnotes to a nonexistent body this is false and we recommend instead a commentary of an in delictito flagrante nonfeasance misinterpreted by the courts consequently damning twittles of innocents to sisyphean eternities

the novel isnt so much circular as burst and while lines can be found in it if one needs lines their geometrys imaginary and the maps producible from such shapings can be used to navigate the firth of thrif

but its most appropriate to experience it as an extended table of contents or rather a verbose copyright page by an enslaved anarchist and gibbeteer

yet truly its just a title and the book itself is empty and the novel would be about the titles meaning or lack thereof if anyone cared enough to get past into under or between the covers which  the more you examine them  are just the unyous fulminous fear of death night fear love

though as any idiot knows the only thing to fear is hope

patadoo doktor choo and the case of the missing missing

 cast

patadoo

doktor choo

the missing missing

secretly recording

the conversations of a roomba and dyson

at night when they think no ones listening

we arent humans not even whomyns but whonyms

we are the patadoo

we are whononyms  words for which any answer to who are we? is impossible

where is doktor choo?

above all allow yourself to be bewitched by the evil charms of geometry

across a lake they have heard there is a monster hope that breaks a ripple

we shall not allude to the dusty corners of phimosis for punctuations a great enemy of thought

ooth glutenburg of hoof a hyperfear tells of quelpo pangolins who in patagia glom the glomes of reptative tritanopes

who is doktor choo?

neither patadoo nor doktor choo nor nononyms we ripple lewdly witches

cross a rake with an anemone and the seas your ooth from uncle

sea enemies bob for those who talk like pirates

who couldnt kelp an axiom?

we are the patachoo

we train ourselves to train

they shall no longer punctuate the dude allusions

who is whonodoo?

whonodoos a dusty hyperglom of evil uncles

lets up the auntie and polkaroo her pangolin

my hyperglom bakes patapuns in the axiom

if bobs your auntie whos your nononym?

doktor poo does patawho on imagination thursdays

did you hear here the one or two about the doomba who slew a sheep?

allude not to monster punctuations behest it slay thee

charm my whodoo to think my nyming not

heard ye where the six or nine of the ryson who shooed sleep?

hoofalot a choo too to geometry some gloamings

dokdoo choowho nyms the nonos nightly

dyson and roomba chuckling amongst themselves like prehistoric friends

mumbling in dusky absences of names that have escaped them

of phrases in the crevices of stairs

and clauses in the closets of carpets

ghost tutu

abstraction  humanitys aurorae and asterism  its screen and total social fact  is an agent and ambassador of ghosts   in our pataruptive age  hardly anything of knowledge but abstraction  knowledge having become something else in its removal from the body and objectability in autopsy  everythings a ghost and our uncanny hyperemphasis on physicality sex wellness healing life  their severance from their twins and loves  belies our comprehensive collapse into an ethereality wholly beyond our dissective fanaticism

i am headless in société acéphale  my heads been cut out from the system of objects and cast into the abyss of images   i am thus a ghost

we are slight suggestions  apparitions of vision  frightful excitements  children of nightmare and semblances of shining  dizzy returnings  disembodied spirits of the controvertible living  duppies of dance  we are thus ghosts  eidola of nonexistent worlds

the film of things   whether we call this film skin brick plastra bark carbonfibre  is a genre of cinema and manifest with cinema and we who would vibratingly surface know in weird allay we watch the shimmering gestures of the mind of ghosts

my life in the bush of ghosts has taught me we arent born again once as the christians preach but reborn in unceasing incessantnesses  so wholly & in such ways we never fully come to birth   once youve entered the bush of grotesque eatings all things are returnings turnings and your pragmatic world of reason becomes a shadow more shadow than the bush

can ghosts dies a question that isnt as irrational as your imaginationless mind thinks  ghosts can marry scream fall fuck  so why should they not be able to die?  theyre never born and this is why theyre ghosts and we all ghosts  living the output of their code

as someone fictional says      the bodys imaginary and we bow to the tyranny of a phantom  loves a privileged perception the most total and lucid not only of the worlds unreality but of our own unreality  not only do we traverse a realm of shadows  we ourselves are shadows

as ghostliness spawns anything as a symbol of anything i spawn in the ungraspable elemental anarchy  that consummate rarity  order in the operations of the spirit   this brief manual of turnings a manifestation of that order

who cant help but admire the flexibility of ghosts  these creatures of uncanny stewardship who  while we talk our values  live them  whove no need of heads ears limbs and hardly genitalia and move without missing their way or being ashamed of their nakedness? who cant adore their vital innocence?

as the only part of humanity worthy of preservation is consciousness  ghosts are the reven of this worth and to not pay them due is gross neglect

humans in their vastly oppressive and imbecilic speciescentrism think of ghosts as vaguely human  ghastly products of relations of humanity and death  or occasionally our close mammalian relatives  but everythings ghost  radiators poetry pseudevippacana phenomenology thegospelaccordingtoluke twitter zephyrs peritrichousmyxogastridmycetozoa nakshatra

anarchy and art are two means to subvert capitalism  that mechanical false monist deaderthandead ghostliness  but anarchy  being implementable only partially and in the sick monumentalism of society  remains a subsidiary of art  which is the realm of ghosts and so boundless melancholic ecstatic acedic

ghosts are the origin end and centre of goths  their anagram and aureolae  sleek fashions of blackness  true music of the underground  industry of hallucinogenic life   and what other industry might there be as all your industrial preoccupations are nothing but productions of our profession of visionary verve?

ghosts are full citizens of the kingdom of god  of knowledgeable naiveté  of the terror of joy and joy of terror  of worms and merdre as delicacies and michelin restaurants as gushed latrines  ghosts  being inveterately holy  aerate the nonearth of earth so we  fallen ghosts & ghosts in training  can snap our ankles in the little holes of the posing everyday

rabbit holes are the habit roles of ghosts and if youd be a ghost practice falling down

the methods and melioratings of turning things into ghosts

as is often typical in cultures that are rootless  whose psychic arboreta  in vitality stretching from chthonic realms through the phenomenal planes into the ethernity of air  have been clearcut for a manufacturing that rabidly obsessively severs life  creating displacements that become normalized and so this dishealth reified and pursued  what were taught  whether in our homes schools institutions temples media networks beds  serves catatonic and genocidal orientations of displacement dishealth rootlessness amputation         but other knowledges exist and for these  while we cant reassemble from the chainsawed pulp the arboreta  we can through devious means conjure simulations  sidestepping the education of the manufacturing cultures  burrowing  climbing on revolving rungless ladders  gazing into the substance of the nothingness of things  and here and there glimpse other ways and however tenuous unstable  learn and sometimes share  however ignorantly obscurely  what weve seen in shadow and dream

but how can or should we speak of knowledges which our minds have been configured to not comprehend  of which the very grammars and gestures have been lost if they ever even had the opportunity to manifest before being suppressed  lost below the towering clutters of objects  and to even begin attempting to dig for them is to likely in these infinite heaps also lose ones mind         but isnt this oracular  that one must lose ones mind  not to find it  but as in loss we might see from whatever distance the shapes of those grammars and then  however feebly incorrectly  think  though thats not the word  of speaking

to turn things into ghosts one first must turn oneself into one and then the turning becomes quite natural

technology  we can name the internet as a prime example but its the entire aperture of technology in its colossal digitalia  that divine blink on the face of geological time  propels us in these turnings

its long been said by the dispossessed that ghosts are more alive than the living and in this riddle is a truth given to those who pay no worship to the garish sun

but for one turned into a ghost the living too are ghosts and those the common living call ghosts little more than those footnoted in a dissertation on time in a museum of a library of an eternal novel

so for one whos a ghost and for whom technologys at hand the turnings are almost automatic and we pass by one another and who are you in your pretense of materiality?

utopia and uchonia have never been some positing of bliss but the realm of ghosts  quite achievable in what you might sometimes call the now and here

not many walk for pleasure through the lesser cemeteries but this ghosts are prone to do and they do it well

to sit in a meeting of business  one of power and purpose and the coffee hanging high like little stars  and to see nothing there and even the language in the air so diffused each syllables greater than the diameter of time

ghosts talk i feel and their speakings not limited to the plasmatic paragraphs of dreams but you can find it everywhere in whats called waking life  in such vitality how to listen to any other speakings?

i could say ghosts for president or i want to date a ghost  but why?  i already am  they already are 

this notion that we never were eternally and wont be forever more and in between this cold brief hard life we must grasp for all its worth   what sort of mind takes seriously these categories and divisions? things dont begin when theyre created

im not better than the ghost in me  im not even different than it  i am the ghost and the turnings turned long before i turned

these are some methods and melioratings of turning things into ghosts

recorded for those whove been taken out and cut to be in love with night

in the twitchings between minutes and the rubble of hours

the minister of masks

today in studio sadoo were thrilled to have the deputy minister of masks with us   we understand the proper way to address you is dMOM but we were hoping with all due respect to have here instead the minister of masks who i guess is just called MOM?

no ones sure MOM exists or if she does where she is

you might be MOM?

im dMOM but i might also be MOM

i might be MOM?

you might be MOM  sadoo might be MOM  we all might be MOM

do you think covids arisen primarily to make us question the whereabouts ubiquity identity and even existence of MOM?

yes  as with all human stupidity resulting in the deaths of thousands or millions of living creatures  i believe theres a reason  and certainly doubts one of them

is the newly formed ministry of masks also called MOM?

yes  and to ensure equality everyone who works in MOM and for MOM or is associated with MOM or has heard of MOM in any way is also called MOM

does this lead to mom confusion?

i have to be mum about that

in addition to MOMs and MUMs are there also MIMs MAMs and MEMs?

there are no MOMs  theres only MOM

but what about everything and everybody called MOM?

just MOM

and what does MOM do?

MOMs pretty mum

i see that youre not wearing a mask now

well

is your partnership branch masks id like to fashion called MILF?

YUM

i dont get it

welcome to the new science of masking

is elon mask FILF or MOM?

all i can tell you is the new YUM MOM mosk is going to make momommad very masky

aloha ooQ bar

what?

lets mom it up on momify

now youre mumming

i mom you

i mum you too

say the little words

i say the little words

they come to me from sleeps shredded dictionary

i say the light is blue

or i dont like the violet cloth

as if these were the only words i knew

and im in some place for those whove lost the words

where they store the ones outside the proper dictionaries

i could say like those who say the little words say me

for who am i to know who says what or knows or sleeps or says

and if the words that are said have anything to do with i or that

whatever this or this

i wait for the little words that come

and they come until they dont

and i say them when they do

to delight in mud

 i  i hagioooQoritos  whos seen the smock less monster of kitti titti lake and died  whos watched the frockumentary of octopi and whose tentacles say yes  whose tipping over the carapace of zenith births a thousand falls  whose replacement in the ministry of masks has gone unnoticed in the notices of eyes  welcome none of you to this forum of descent for we are each bequeathed a portion of arrogation as meets our minds

ive long belonged to a race that hides in the race  that does not race  whose eyes are its currency and its currency pendulous and strange  we seek other places of hiding and our art is this seeking but we havent yet found a way out that wont destroy us   to be born into this  having to peer through the weapons you call eyes  to know your race is not our home but to be bound in and to it

to dream  but to dream in convulsions and fragments  in oppressive mists and cubes of unrelenting noise

we pray  not to any god or for any effect  but as prayers a means of imagining ourselves not in your race

its not your bodies themselves we object to but that which seems to drive your bodies  as if your bodies had no mind  and this despite that youre proclaiming continuously the wonders of your minds  as if you couldnt see past your notseeing and your bodies in their fleetingness are all there are available  as if youre not only the measure of yourselves  a stupid enough idea  but the measure of everything else also

we say again  the archmagi  who are the prophets  arent those who know but those who dont   those who wait for knowledges that dont come  who point not to any christ or word or sign but wander in their waiting and this wanderings their knowledge

i  i hagioooQoritos  who peel avocados with my gonads and divulge the locations of the trapdoors in numbers only to those whove fallen to the common darkness in each word open the release valve of my dreams and watch their majnūn fizz into the subversions of the air

i become mad not because im kept apart from my love but because im not   my love is here and nothere and in this liminality of disidentity and space i cant map either the reason of the desert of aloneness or the reason of the thick boreal cliffs of society  in this lostness of love and promise fulfilled and negated im mad

i dont live in society  i live in the nospaces of your silences which i take upon myself like skin

i cant count to sacrifice  i lose track and fall into the spaces between the numbers  these spaces that while infinitesimal are infinite   they all are negatives and how does one in less than nothing count?

language  that cutblock  drives the animals away

your race is mad but not my madness and my placement in your madness presents me with a necessity of creating a parallel madness that rivals yours neither in quantity nor quality but energy  yet energies i recognize as some kin of kenning mind

i  i hagioooQoritos  live in the mud of the lake and count the trapdoors between eyes and the counting are words and the words trapdoors and i  i hagioooQoritos  live in mud

prattlings of charadrii

its fortunate im a virtuoso at breaking down my mind or else i wouldve lost it

i break my mind into borax and hinnies and move things from here to here with the power of hoof

to die or to die or to die or to die

the coward dies only once while a coward dies a thousand times a day

the brave died long before they existed and the coward who dies only once is a boring coward

the faculty of the imagination  in which anarchy and art are students and the poofessors everything  is a faculty of death  and those who would create greet the morning with itineraries of obliterations

i loved her because more than anyone else she knew best how to kindly and wholly annihilate me

a priest of death and a mogul of disappearance

a morass of more asses distemper dismembers and veps became avocets phalaropes coursers and curlews and if i have to speak my languages directly  in that method of directness that speaks only indirectly  to obscure the structures that speak the language of dominance directly for you  i would like to speak of debt 

det debt or dis debt?

dis is debt and debt is dis

i use trophic cascade in my wishwasher to clean my haberdines

though i prefer catatonic tropicana im always open to overfishing

deaths the new life and i propel through the temple like an oleaginous oracle thats being eaten by its patabase

id like to redeem myself but ive lost my selves and deems

losings a technique the forensic poet uses to gain in the knowledge thats not

im friable and while watching game of kolophonia on the ulexite the other night my mask slips and i cum on my lips like a habitual pun braying on her knees to the lovergod of stone

im lucky im a grandiissimo at losing my mind or else it would have broken

the art of losing isnt hard to master

the art of musing can be hard to luster

ive finished slaughtering cleaning and devouring the sea cucumbers and now i dont have anything to do

not having anything to dos the same as having something or many things to do in that having the not having gives having a doing of many mani haves

different tombstones  different centuries

different tune tomes  different cemeteries

queues cumber death so i line up in loss

its nice of the sun to come out and shine on all the losers

clouds line my day like mascara and who would stack the ducks against me

body is my refuse and amaranth

a very absent kelp in rubble

therefore we will fear that well be removed

and the gadgets be carried into the midst of the sea

the phrase without moor

rāstra without fāta

ive lost the day like lilypops

and wander in florescent neverglades

like ducksicles

and foplings

minds over there

with canticles of cunnilingus

its stover bare

alongside solfeggios of fellatio

find clover lairs

for humps of humming

tits hover where?

my wyrms aneeding forage

we shed minds like orvets and ride our sporty deaths along the day

cum musking luv into the skummet of our pseudosquamic ways